Julian Bashir had no idea how long he'd been unconscious this time. He awoke to darkness. Complete darkness. He wasn't even sure he was conscious, except that he could feel the pain again in his shoulders, especially the left. He couldn't feel his right arm at all. And then he realized that he was laying on it. He tried to move it, so that he could sit up. But when he did, the pain flared again in his left shoulder, and he had to fight to stay conscious. He wasn't sure it was worth it.

Somewhere in his mind though, the doctor in him reminded him that he had to reduce the dislocation. The shoulder muscles had already begun to spasm. The longer he waited the worse it was going to get, both in pain and difficulty. Taking a deep breath, Bashir braced himself and rolled over toward the right. Just as his right arm was free, his left brushed against the wall. Searing pain shot from his shoulder down his arm, up to his neck and across his back. Ignoring the discomfort of the pins and needles, he drew his right arm up quickly to grasp his left. He curled himself into a tighter position, his head and knees pressed against the wall, and gulped for breath as he waited for the flare of pain to die down.

Whether or not he lost consciousness again, he wasn't aware, but the pain did die down, back to the constant agony he felt when his arm was perfectly still. He took another deep breath, and this time he used the wall for support, pushing against it with his back until he was in a sitting position. Panting from the effort, he forced himself to stay conscious.

He imagined he was back in medical school, and that his professor had just asked him to diagnose a patient. Skipping over whatever symptoms of malnutrition he might have, he went straight to the effects of "the patient's" hanging. He still couldn't see anything through the darkness in the room. He would have to use his hands, or hand rather, and try to visualize the damage.

The hardest part was releasing his grip. It felt as though his whole arm would fall off if he let go. We're waiting, Mr. Bashir, he heard the professor say. He let go of the arm and felt it drop slightly. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the professor's voice. After a few moments, he gingerly moved his right hand up to the shoulder, feeling for the angle, the misplacement of the bone.

Patient is experiencing severe pain, Bashir the doctor thought to the professor. Probably dislocation.

I could have told you that! Bashir the patient scoffed.

He slid his hand gently down his arm, mentally picturing the angle of the arm. His elbow hung outward away from his body and his forearm was turned in, putting his palm face down on the cold cement floor.

What is your prognosis? the professor asked.

Well, the muscles have spasmed, he replied, which will make the reduction more difficult. We should sedate the patient.

Unfortunately, we are fresh out of sedatives today, the professor commented in a strange, sing-song voice. Let's begin. Kocher's maneuver would be best, don't you think?

Gritting his teeth, Bashir gripped his arm tightly again, just above the elbow, and forced the elbow to bend, laying the hand on his lap. The patient nearly fainted, and, with him, the doctor. But the professor clucked at him disapprovingly, and Bashir knew he had to prove himself to the man. He took a deep breath and tensed his body, readying himself for the pain. Then he pulled down on the elbow. He clenched his teeth in order not to cry out.

He had to move quickly, the doctor knew, or the patient would lose consciousness, and the arm would never go back into place. The second step required him to rotate the arm outward. The hand rolled over until it was lying face up near his knee. Quickly then he performed the third step as well, drawing the elbow into toward the patient's heaving chest.

He froze there, in that position, feeling the pull against his shoulder but afraid to move again. It was unbearable, the pain he felt. He needed help.

It is not a difficult procedure, Mr. Bashir, the professor admonished.

Then why don't you do it? he screamed back at him.

Because I will not always be there every time you have a dislocation to reduce, the professor replied matter-of-factly. The fourth step. What is it? Bashir bit his lip and shook his head. He couldn't do it. It hurt too much already. You must do it, the professor insisted. Now what is the fourth step?

He can't do it, a new voice said. It was a familiar voice, one that had occasionally haunted his dreams. Altovar. The Lethian had nearly killed him with his telepathic coma. Or he won't. He's not strong enough. He never was. When things get too hard he just gives up like he always has. Isn't that right, Doctor? It's not going to get any easier, you know.

Yes, he can do it, another voice said, and Bashir began to wonder if he was losing his mind. He tried telling himself it was just shock. The new voice was soft and gentle, yet low and strong. It spoke with confidence. He can do it, because he has to. Come on, Julian, it encouraged. You can't get back to us until you first get past this. We still need you.

It was Captain Sisko's voice, and it heartened him. Sisko had confidence in him. He did not want to let him down. Pressing the back of his head against the hard, cold wall, he rotated his arm again, pulling his left hand across his body. He could no longer hear the voices, not even his own as he screamed, waiting for the joint to slip finally back into place. When it finally did, he found he still couldn't let go of his throbbing arm. He felt himself falling over onto his right side and did nothing to stop it.

Just before he lost consciousness again, he thought he heard Sisko's voice. I told you he could do it.

When he awoke again, the room was still dark, and again, he wasn't sure if he was really awake at all. His head felt fuzzy and sweat dripped into his eyes. His breathing was rapid, but he felt like he couldn't get a good breath. He struggled to sit up again and found it even harder than the time before. Every muscle ached from stiffness. And his left shoulder protested the movement as usual. He was disappointed, though not surprised, to find it still full of pain.

He forced himself to move though. He had to know more about where he was. He tucked his left arm into his shirt so that it worked as a makeshift sling. Then he braced his back against the wall and pushed with his legs. Very stiffly, he slid up the wall until he was standing. It made him dizzy, but he leaned against the wall for support. Slowly he walked around the room, feeling the walls for an opening, a window, an air duct, anything at all.

Still no one had told him why he'd been taken from the barracks. He only knew that it had something to do with his English heritage. He hadn't spoken to any of the Germans, so the only reason they could have known that he was English was from the changeling. He was sure that this punishment, or whatever it was, was her doing.

He reached another wall after only a few steps. He turned and followed that wall as well.

Bashir admitted he was scared of the changeling. How could he not be? She was right, in this place, because she chose the form of an SS officer, she had the power of life and death over him. There was no way to fight her, no way to resist that would not end in his death. All that he had left was survival.

Whatever they were going to do to him, he had to survive. If he could live long enough, the Defiant would come for him. Then he could tell them where to find the changeling. Another wall. He turned again.

He thought back to when he had been in the alternate universe with Kira. Odo had been the overseer in charge of ore processing where he was made to work, and he had already expressed his intent to kill him. But an explosion caused a diversion, and Bashir had grabbed a phaser from one of the Bajoran guards. Odo saw this and was just about to fire his own phaser, but Bashir was faster. He fired and the changeling had exploded. He wanted to do the same to the one here.

Part of him felt guilty about that, about wishing harm and death on another sentient being, but it was only part of him. The rest felt justified by hunger, by pain, by cold, by cruelty, by having to stand by and watch others being killed and being unable to stop it. She'd chosen this place for him. It was not an accident that he had ended up in Poland. She'd chosen it to cause him the most pain, the most torment. He hated her.

This time when he reached the next wall, he felt a crack, long and straight. He ran his finger along it as far as he could reach without bending over or stretching his arm up too high. It ran vertically up the wall, and he was tall enough to reach the point where it became horizontal. It had to be a door or a window. But he could feel no draft coming from the crack, and he knew that it was cold outside. He lowered his hand, feeling the area enclosed by the crack. It was cold, like the wall, but metal. A door. There was no handle on this side.

He decided that he was in a cell. But why so dark? he wondered. What time was it anyway? Was it still night? He thought that it must be morning by now. But there was no light from any window. Perhaps there was no window at all. He moved on, feeling the last remaining wall until he reached what he assumed was the place he had started. No windows. No furniture, no fixtures of any kind. Only a door that opened from the outside.

The walking had made him light-headed, so he slid back down the wall. He hadn't eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours—at least that long. He was starting to miss the soup from the other barracks. How long would they keep him in here? he wondered. Would they just let him starve to death?

He waited for what seemed to him like an hour, cradling his arm to his chest. No one came to the door. No one yelled through it. The only sound he heard was his own shallow breath until he fell asleep again.

Benjamin Sisko was having trouble sleeping again and not even Mozart was helping. It nagged at him that they'd only been able to reach two of the missing crewmen and still, seven had not been found. The second had been Ensign Wu. He was holding out in the Serengeti, mostly because a group of Massai warriors had found him while they were out hunting. They had taken him back to the village and were treating him well. It had been hard telling both him and Salerno that they couldn't transport them back to the ship right away. But at least he knew that they were alive, and the crew would be able to find them again as soon as the transporter was functional. The other seven were still completely lost. Were their communicators damaged, or was it more than that?

Bashir worried him more than the others because he knew Bashir had been singled out, abducted from the crowded sickbay. Sisko valued Bashir, as a part of the crew, and as a friend. He was often the voice of reason or conscience in the many staff meetings they held, counteracting Worf's more aggressive nature. His personality always made him seem younger than he was, and yet, many times, Sisko had been surprised by his wisdom. Bashir was, in short, someone Sisko did not want to lose, not that he wanted to lose any of the missing crewmen. And he did not intend to leave this century until all of them were back on board the Defiant.

It was not so much the door opening. To be honest, he hadn't heard that at all. It was, instead, the sudden rush of air into the room that woke Bashir. He hadn't realized it because he had lost consciousness, but the room had been completely sealed, not only sealing the light outside, but the air as well. And while the new air was not exactly fresh and clean, it was a welcome addition to the room. His aching lungs filled themselves with deep full breaths for the first time in hours.

The light on the other hand was not as welcome. Compared to the darkness in the room, the light from the door was blinding. Bashir shielded his eyes weakly with his right hand and tried to see past the door. But the brightness obscured everything. He could make out a silhouette in the doorway. A man. He bent over and placed something on the floor. Bashir could hear the sound of metal as the object touched the cement. The man stepped back and the door closed, plunging the room again into utter darkness.

The fact that he could breathe again bolstered him and gave him strength. His light-headedness began to clear, though that had the unfortunate side effect of bringing the pain in his shoulder and muscles back into focus. Still he thought he could smell something in the air, and it probably had something to do with the object that had been placed on the floor near the door.

He still felt dizzy and didn't really want to try and stand again. Instead, still cradling his arm he scooted across the floor toward where he remembered the door to be. In doing so, he kicked the thing on the floor, and the metal screeched against the cement. He leaned forward, stretching out his good arm toward his feet.

He was surprised when he touched it. It was warm and it was a plate. It was shaped more like a pie pan, but he didn't really care. He could smell the food on it. He could feel the heat, though there wasn't much of it, emanating from the food. His mouth watered. It had been over a week since he'd eaten hot food. He resisted the urge to grab it and start eating. He had no idea what was on the plate. It was as if he'd gone blind.

Still, he told himself, it is food. And besides, he had eaten the soup. This, he could smell, was better than the soup. And anything was better than starving to death. He crossed his legs in front of him and picked up the plate, setting it carefully in his lap so that it wouldn't tilt over and spill the food. He spread his fingers and slowly lowered his hand over the plate until he felt something. It was hard, but lukewarm to the touch. He picked it up and smelled it. It might have been some kind of bread. He put it back down and felt around the rest of the plate. There was something wet at one corner, and he had to lick it off his finger. It tasted like the soup from the other camp except that it was thicker. To one side of the plate was something else. He guessed meat and thought that he must be hallucinating. It was a small portion and it was very nearly cold, but it was meat.

As he began eating, he had a vague thought of bacteria and even parasites that could be in the meat if it wasn't properly cooked. He thought about the fact that he had not washed his hands in over a week either, and he was using one of them in lieu of utensils. But he quickly pushed the thought away. It had been the same with the soup. He had to eat it. He didn't have a choice. Besides, there was only a possibility of bacteria or parasites or other dangers from eating the food. Not eating the food was a guaranteed way to endanger his health.

The bread was very hard, but he found it softened a bit when he soaked it in the thickened soup. Within minutes he had eaten half of each food item on the plate. He remembered what the Chief had said about the implanted memories he had of the Agrathi prison. He had always saved half of his food, hiding it away behind a loose rock in his cell, just in case the guards decided to stop feeding him for a while.

But where was Bashir to hide it? The cell was nothing but a cement square with an airtight metal door on one side. There were no loose rocks, no nooks, no cracks to hide the food in. The man was sure to come back and take the plate away. Better to eat it now, he thought, and build up my strength.

He finished it quickly and placed the plate back on the floor. Then he scooted back again to his spot by the wall. It felt good to have eaten something. It was a better meal than what he had been getting in the barracks. Back on the station, he probably wouldn't have even called what was on that plate food. But he was not on the station anymore. It was different here. He hadn't eaten a full meal in over a week, nor had he showered in that time, or even washed his hands with soap. The only time he had changed clothes was when they gave him the camp uniform to wear. He wondered if he'd even recognize himself if he saw his reflection in a mirror. That thought brought a new worry to mind. Would the Defiant crew recognize him when they came to look for him?

He tried to push the thought away. He had enough to worry about. Breathing, for one thing. He knew now that the cell was completely sealed, and therefore, airtight. He had no idea when they would let him out or even open the door again. He would have to conserve his air and not move around too much. The latter was fairly easy, since all his muscles ached and his shoulder throbbed. But it was hard not to take a deep breath when his lungs wanted it so badly.

The familiar shape of the European continent was displayed on the viewscreen above the transporter's control console. It looked just the same as the Europe he had grown up with. He could make out a portion of England at the top edge just past France and beyond that, just the slightest glimpse of the southern coast of the Emerald Isle itself—Ireland.

Chief O'Brien focused on the continent for the moment though. He had been working on the transporter for nearly eight hours straight, and he had stood up to stretch his legs a bit. Seeing the continent there, the long boot of Italy, the Spanish peninsula, the slight hint of the British Isles, it was almost like they'd come back to Earth for a visit.

From this high in orbit, there was little difference between the two Europes four centuries apart. The land itself had changed little, only the structures on the land had adjusted with time, and, in Europe, that had only been some of the structures. Europe, even in the twenty-fourth century, valued its history and sense of the ancient. There were castles in Europe that had been standing for nearly a millennium. Not even the World Wars had knocked them down.

There was a large transparent circle over the surface of the continent on the viewscreen, and O'Brien knew it was to show the sensor and communications ranges. But there were no other points of light. No comm signals. O'Brien sighed. He had hoped they would have found more by now. The sensors, though still weak, had improved. No comm signals meant simply that no crewmembers were down there.

It saddened him that they still hadn't found all the crewmembers. Julian was one of the ones still unaccounted for. It would take several hours before they passed over Europe completely and could scan a new area, and O'Brien was going off duty in two hours. They would be over the Atlantic by then.

But he was also glad that no signals had been found. While the picture on the viewscreen looked calm and peaceful, he had paid attention in history class—and he'd spent enough hours in the holosuites with Bashir, fighting off the German incursions across the channel—to know what was going on down there. Ensign Thomas had, of course, briefed the senior staff on the basics of the war. Europe was the war, well, half of it anyway.

There on the screen was a Europe under occupation by the Third Reich. By 1943, they would have had nearly the whole continent under their control. O'Brien stared at the screen harder. And it made him angry. The sun was shining brightly and the sky was clear. O'Brien could even see the mountains, the Alps and the Pyreněes. It was wrong. It was perhaps Europe's darkest hours, and yet, it still looked like paradise.

The burst of air woke Bashir again, and the light from outside again hurt his eyes. He hadn't remembered falling asleep. This time there were several silhouettes against the light. He couldn't tell how many. He heard a very authoritative voice say something, in German, of course, and then one of the men stepped into the room. His body blocked the door so that the brightness faded and Bashir could see again. He wore a uniform like the SS officers, but he didn't look like the one the changeling had been impersonating that first night.

Bashir braced his back against the wall again and pushed with his legs until he was standing. It was easier this time, since his muscles had had a little time to relax, but he felt dizzy once he was up all the way. A second man stepped into the room. Bashir fought with his own body to show no reaction, but he felt his legs begin to shake. He was afraid. Afraid that they would hang him on the post again, or worse. They had brought him here for a reason. They were not going to just let him go now.

The two men moved quickly and each took one of Bashir's arms. Bashir had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He felt his knees turning to rubber and tried to brace them again. But they were moving too fast. The two men were pulling him toward the door. Bashir didn't want them to know about his shoulder. They might exploit such a weakness. So he stepped ahead quickly, ignoring the dizziness, the pain, and the instability of his own legs. He wanted to stay even with them and not let them pull on his arms.

The light in the hallway was still too bright for Bashir's eyes which had grown accustomed to the severe darkness of the cell. He could not make out any details of the corridor because he had to squint against the light, but he could feel the closeness of the two men. Apparently the passageway was rather thin. Bashir was thankful when the one on the left released his arm and moved to walk behind him rather than at the side. The man on the right tightened his grip, and his own arm kept brushing against Bashir's.

At each step the light became more bearable, and Bashir could make out the numbers on the doors he passed. Other cells. He could also hear some of the prisoners inside them, groaning softly or crying out. He also thought he heard a rhythmic chant, perhaps a Jewish prayer, behind one of the doors he passed.

They took him up some stairs and down another, wider hallway. There were no cells here and the light was different, more natural. He was led into a small, brightly lit room. There was a window there and Bashir could see the sun shining into the yard. He saw the wooden wall and three posts. He shuddered. Three men were hanging there.

There were two men already in the room in the room. One sat, while the other stood stiffly against the wall. They weren't SS. Bashir wasn't sure what they were, but they were not wearing the same uniforms as the others. Instead of the gray and black of the SS, they each had on a long brown leather coat. It was buttoned up high to conceal most of their other clothes, but it looked as though they were wearing regular suits underneath.

There was another chair in the center of the room. One of the guards hurried in to push it off to the side near the only other furniture there. A table stood near one wall. A clear glass pitcher of water sat upon it, with two glasses. There was also a plate of food. Real food, not like that in the camp or even what he'd been given in the cell. It looked like turkey or chicken and potatoes.

Bashir felt his stomach tighten, and his mouth started to water. But more than the food, he wanted the water. He hadn't had water in several days. He knew he was dehydrating. There was also a clock on one wall. It was nearly 2:30.

The other guard led him to the center of the room where the chair had been and then stepped away. The sitting man watched him closely, a half-smile gracing his round face. The man beside him, took a small step forward. "Zieh Dich aus!" he commanded.

Bashir did not know what to do. The man had spoken in German. They knew he was English. He wondered why they didn't find anyone to translate like the SS man in the barracks. He hesitated a moment and then spoke, "I don't understand." He said it very quietly, just loud enough to be heard.

The sitting man lifted his chin slightly, and the guards came back to him. Very roughly, they began to undress him, stripping off his shirt first. Fearing for his shoulder more than his pride, Bashir helped them, trying to guide the shirt off without pulling on his left arm. Even still, the movement was enough to cause his whole left side to erupt in pain. His sight began to blur. He bit his lip again, swallowing any sound he might make. They stripped away his pants last and then pressed down on his shoulders until he was kneeling naked before them in the center of the room.

The room seemed to be spinning, and Bashir tasted blood from where his teeth were digging into his lip. But he didn't fall, and after a few minutes, his sight returned to him as well. His shoulder still hurt, since now he couldn't support it at all without giving away his injury. But he was thankful it had not dislocated again. The air in the room was cool on his skin, and he began to shiver.

The two guards left then, and the standing man walked slowly in a circle around Bashir. Bashir watched him as well as he could without turning his head.

"Wie heißt du?" the sitting man asked, in a gentle voice.

Bashir was afraid to speak. Had the undressing been a punishment for speaking before or simply normal procedure?

"Wie heißt du?" the second man repeated into Bashir's ear. His voice was louder and definitely more menacing.

"Warum bist du hier?" the sitting man said. He still spoke lightly. "Was machen Sie in Polen?"

"I don't understand," Bashir finally breathed again.

"Ich weiß, daß Du das verstehst!" came the harsh words in his ear.

The sitting man smiled then, a full smile. He stood and walked over to the small table. He stood to one side so that he did not block Bashir's view as he slowly poured a glass of water. He sat down again, and, still smiling, he sipped the water. "Sind Sie durstig? Möchten Sie etwas Wasser?"

"Zeigen Sie uns, daß Sie uns verstehen, dann bekommen Sie Wasser."

Bashir stared from one to the other, his brows furrowed in confusion. He couldn't understand them. They just kept talking, one with his quiet voice between sips of apparently delicious water, and the other more threateningly from behind him or to either side. The sitting man eventually drained his glass and went to place it back on the table. This time he took a pinch of food and tucked it into his mouth. He licked off his fingers afterwards.

"Sie Sind wahrscheinlich auch hungrig, nicht wahr? Dann sagen Sie es mir einfach," he said. "Sagen Sie es mir und sie können etwas zum Essen haben. Wie lange ist es her, daß Sie eine richtige Mahlzeit hatten? Sie zittern ja. Sie frieren bestimmt. Möchten Sie Ihre Kleider zurück haben? Sie müssen es nur sagen, dann gehören Sie wieder Ihnen."

Bashir's knees felt weak. The room had grown darker. Outside the sun had set. He glanced again at the clock. The long hand was just about to touch the twelve. It was five o'clock. He glanced at the empty chair and then back to the table of food. He could understand now what the man was doing, tempting him with food and drink. But to what end? What did they want to know?

"Ah! Ihre Beine werde müde!" the sitting man's smile widened into a grin. "Das ist ein sehr bequemer Stuhl. Gehen sie hin, setzen Sie sich."

The door opened and another man, dressed the same, stepped in. He was a very tall man, with handsome features and a glint in his eye. He said nothing but walked to the corner of the room and stood there against the wall. The other two men had turned to watch him as well, and Bashir got the idea that this new man was their superior.

The man nodded and the two men continued. The one sat down again and the other continued his pacing. It was making Bashir dizzy, either that or it was simply weakness and the need to sit down. The door remained open and Bashir could hear footsteps coming.

The two guards appeared in the doorway then, carrying another small table and a chair. The tall man directed them over to a corner near the window. They set the table down and left. Another person entered, dressed differently than all the others. It took Bashir a moment to realize that it was a woman. She wore stripes, like Bashir, but on a dress and coat rather than shirt or pants. Her head was shaved, leaving only dark stubble. She was emaciated, but she moved quickly, her eyes never looking up from the floor. She was carrying a tray with more plates and another glass. She moved to the new table and set it with two places. Then she went to the other table and removed the plate of food that was there. She set another down in its place, and Bashir could see the steam rising off of it. She shuffled quickly out of the room again. The two guards followed her and closed the door behind them.

The air in the room now began to fill with the smell of the food. Potatoes again and meat, but this time it was pork. It appeared to be breaded. There were also several slices of dark brown bread. It looked soft. There was even a small plate of butter to go with it.

The harsh man stopped pacing and pulled the new chair up to the table near the window. He sat down and smiled, picking up his fork and knife. The sitting man turned to look at the tall man who was sitting now as well—though Bashir couldn't remember them bringing in another chair. The empty chair still sat near the table with the water. The tall man nodded and the sitting man pulled his own chair over to the table. "Sind Sie sicher, daß Sie sich nicht zu uns setzen möchten?" he asked, looking at Bashir with a snicker. Then he turned to his place, and the two men began eating.

Greenland, Sisko thought angrily. What could live in Greenland? Two more signals had been found there earlier in the day. The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became. He finally had to leave the bridge and return to his quarters so that his mood would not infect the crew.

He was starting to get an idea of what the shapeshifter had done. Wu and Salerno were the exception, something gone wrong. Survivors only by accident. The Atacama, the Serengeti, Galapagos, K2? No one was supposed to survive there. The changeling had beamed the crewmembers to their deaths. Greenland was a wasteland of ice. Starfleet uniforms couldn't possibly protect someone from the cold there. The two crewmen had not answered their comm signals, and Sisko hadn't expected them to. They had frozen to death, probably within hours of their transports.

Only the command crew, and a few others on Kira's team, knew of the locations of the signals at this point, and Sisko decided it must stay that way. Even Kira, who had no reason to be familiar with Earth geography, had not rejoiced at finding the signals. The sensors were continuing to improve. She could read the conditions on the island. She knew they were dead as well.

There was a small chirp and then Kira's voice came over the comm system. "Kira to Sisko."

Sisko counted to three in order to calm down a bit before answering. "Sisko here. What is it, Major?"

"Two more, sir. This time in, um, North America."

North America? There was a chance there. Perhaps another exception like Salerno and Wu. "Where in North America, Major?"

"I'll patch the sensors through to your quarters, sir. Just a moment."

There was a pause and Sisko pictured Kira up on the bridge fighting to get the computer to cooperate and allow power to his viewscreen. He felt his pulse pick up and knew he was getting his hopes up. He tried to tell himself that he shouldn't, but it was too late. Finally the blank screen came to life. A map of North America came into view with two small pinpricks of light in the general area of the Northwest Territories. In his own time, Sisko knew the area to be fairly evenly populated with large tracts of forests and wildlife preserves as well. But this was the twentieth century and he just wasn't sure. "Can you show me population centers, Major, on the northern part of the continent?"

"Give me a second, Captain," Kira answered.

A moment later the new map showed up, this time marked with cities. Some areas, especially in the south were heavily dotted while the area of the signals was clear for miles. "Who are they, Major?"

Kira lowered her voice. "Nohtsu and Fellini."

Wonderful, Sisko thought. Nohtsu was not human. On the one hand, that made him glad she was in a sparsley populated area, but on the other hand, it lessened the chances of her survival. "Did they answer our hails?"

"In a way, sir."

Sisko had been sitting on his bunk, leaning back against the wall, but now he sat up, carefully ducking under the bed above him so as not to hit his head. "Explain."

"I'd rather come to your quarters, sir," she replied. She apparently didn't want the bridge crew to overhear.

"Fine."

Sisko was surprised though when she appeared at his door so quickly. It was barely two minutes before his door buzzed. He stood and called her in. Kira stepped inside, her features tight, not revealing anything.

"I made the calls from my quarters," she explained once the door had closed, "just in case. We got nothing from Fellini, but it seemed that Nohtsu was opening and closing the channel. Apparently she can't speak. We worked out a signal of sorts. I've explained the situation to her. She's wounded, sir, but she's managed to find some shelter. Fellini is dead. She saw his body."

"Has anyone seen her?" Sisko asked.

"No," Kira answered, "nor has she seen anyone else."

Sisko nodded, not knowing what else to say. "How many does that leave? Four?"

Kira gave a swift nod. "If we count the changeling."

"I doubt we'll be lucky enough to find a comm signal for the changeling," Sisko remarked, sitting back down on the bunk. "Where are we not looking?"

Kira pulled up the stool to sit as well. "Well, the ice caps and the open oceans. We've covered all the land masses."

Sisko sighed. "I hate to say it, but maybe we should sweep the oceans and the poles."

Kira nodded, but said, "I don't think we should stop scanning the continents, though. One of them might have a damaged communicator. They might be able to repair it and then the signal would show up."

Sisko smiled. "Julian did say he took engineering extension courses."

The language had changed, but the situation hadn't. It was now seven o'clock and very dark outside. The guards and the woman prisoner had come back an hour before to take away the table and chair near the window and to replace the lone plate of food on the other table. A new, fresh pitcher of water replaced the other half-empty one. And then the pacing and questioning had begun again. This time it was in Polish, or Czech. Bashir could not tell the difference.

The tall man was standing again, but Bashir could not see the chair he left in order to do so. He didn't give it much thought. Perhaps the guards had taken it out as well. The one empty chair still sat by the table with the water pitcher, and Bashir longed for it even more. He needed the chair, the food, the water. His mouth was too dry. His tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. He was so hungry he felt nauseous, but then he was growing accustomed to that feeling.

His legs were quickly becoming the center of attention. It was harder than roll call, he decided. Roll call hadn't lasted for four hours, at least not since he had been in the camp. Two, maybe even three, but not four and a half. His calves and feet had fallen asleep, but his knees ached from the pressure. He wished that he could stand. He wished he was at roll call.

He couldn't even shift his position. He had tried it once and received for his trouble a sharp blow to the groin. He'd fallen forward, doubled over in pain, only to be kicked in the ribs repeatedly while the pacing man was screaming "schnell" at him and gesturing for him to get up.

It was the first time they'd hit him since he was brought to this room, the first time either of them had lost his composure. They were growing frustrated. The sitting man continued to speak kindly, tempting him with the water and food. But the pacing man was much more vocal now, spitting threats in German that Bashir couldn't understand. The tall man merely watched and never said a word.

"Mit wem arbeitest Du? Wer ist Dein Kontaktmann draußen?" the pacing man shouted into his ear. "Was meinst Du, was Dir das bringt?"