"I told you," Bashir gasped through clenched teeth, "I was a tennis player." He didn't look at the men anymore, any of them. Instead he stared at the ends of his outstretched and shaking fingers. Each one was bloody from where his fingernails had been ripped out.

Ironically, it was the sitting man—who was no longer sitting—who had done it. He had been the 'good cop.' Apparently he also liked inflicting pain on others. And it was an incredible amount of pain, too, considering the amount of nerve endings in the finger. It didn't help that the sitting man had taken his time, shoving the blade beneath each of his fingernails and slowly tearing them loose one by one. Bashir had clenched his teeth so hard to keep from screaming that he thought his jaw would break.

"Poland was conquered nearly four years ago. Why would a tennis player come here?" The pacing man asked, still walking in circles around Bashir. It was making him dizzy.

Sticking to Garak's sage advice, Bashir told the truth. "I got stuck here."

"How did you come here?"

"Professional tennis players travel," he told him. "I've been many places. Paris, Budapest, Johannesburg, San Francisco. . . ."

"Why would you come to Poland in the middle of a war?"

"Bad timing," Julian whispered. Of course, he knew he shouldn't have said it. But he didn't know what else to say. He could not tell them the real truth. That would get him killed, either for getting smart with his captors or for being a lunatic.

The pacing man lost his patience. He grabbed the back of Bashir's head by the hair and yanked it back until Bashir could almost see the wall behind him. "Who are you working with?" he asked again. He had probably asked that question fifteen times already.

"I'm not working with anyone," Julian answered with effort. "I'm not a spy."

The third man, the changeling, stood up from his chair—this time the chair itself remained—and walked over to stand in front of Bashir. "Tennis players," he said, stressing each heavily-accented word, "need their hands, don't they?"

The pacing man released Bashir's hair, and Julian looked up at the changeling, meeting his gaze. He forgot about the pain in his fingers and even his shoulder. All that was only temporary. The changeling had something else in mind. Doctors needed their hands, too.

"Tell me, are you right or left-handed?"

Now would be a good time to begin lying, Garak's voice sounded inside Julian's mind. But he found his mouth was dry and he couldn't answer.

"Right or left?" The changeling repeated. The sitting man, the torturer, stepped forward, his white lab coat specked with drops of red. This time, he was holding a hammer in his hands.

Bashir looked away, back to his hands. He needed his hands. Both of them. He couldn't be a surgeon without his hands. The arms of the chair were so flat. His hands would be crushed.

"If you don't answer, I will choose for you."

Bashir swallowed and tried to think. If he said right, would they break it? Or would they think he was lying and break the other? Then he looked up again, right into the changeling's gleaming eyes. She was enjoying this. She—or he—cocked his head slightly with just the hint of smile. "Links," he said.

Bashir was frozen. He could do little more than shake his head and ball his hand into a fist. But he was weak, from hunger and from the recent torment, and the sitting man did not seem to have a problem with flattening his hand against the arm of the chair.

This time, clenching his teeth didn't help, and Bashir's screams woke some of the prisoners in the cellar below. Eventually they tuned it out and went back to sleep. It was nothing they hadn't heard before.

Captain Sisko pushed away the fatigue he felt. He was not going to miss a transport, even if it meant missing another hour of sleep. Kira, beside him, felt the same way. She'd already expressed her displeasure at not being woken up for the first transports.

"Ready to transport, sir," O'Brien reported.

"He won't be seen?" Sisko asked as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. It was nearly dawn in the Massai village. The villagers would be rising soon.

"No, sir. He's clear."

"Energize." Sisko watched the form appear on the platform. Though he knew that Wu had been taken in by the Massai, he still was not prepared for the crewman's appearance. It should not have been surprising that he was out of uniform, but the traditional Massai dress was still unexpected. Even more so was the orange clay that covered the lieutenant from head to toe.

As Wu stepped, barefoot, off the platform, Sisko held out his hand. "Welcome back, Lieutenant," he said.

Wu had to shift the staff he was carrying to his left hand in order the shake the captain's proffered hand. "Good to be back, Captain," he replied with a grin. He shook Kira's hand as well.

"Are you alright?" Sisko asked.

"Fine, sir," Wu answered though he now looked a little nervous. "Just a bit homesick, I guess. It'll be nice to get back in uniform."

"I've got a lock on Nitzsche," O'Brien interrupted.

Sisko, realizing he'd been smiling, stopped and turned back to the Chief. "No chance of him being seen?"

"Sensors aren't very accurate, but I'm not picking up any other readings."

Sisko nodded and turned to Wu. "Report to sickbay. Let Nurse Baines check you out. If she says you're okay, you can return to your quarters."

Wu seemed to be paying more attention to the Chief and the transporter platform than to his captain though. But apparently, he had been listening. "I'd rather stay, sir."

Sisko wasn't sure if he should allow it. He had his doubts about Nitzsche. But he finally nodded his approval. O'Brien caught the nod as well and began the next transport.

This time, no human form appeared on the platform. Instead the sparkling lights of the transporter effect only deposited a small scattering of white bones and torn fabric. Nitzsche's comm badge lay near a few of the rib bones—some still in position—its surface smudged with dark, dried blood. Nitzsche's skull stared blankly up toward the ceiling.

The nurse hesitated a moment before visibly steeling himself to move forward with his tricorder. "I'm picking up residual traces of mammalian DNA, Captain. Feline. Lion perhaps."

That would explain the skeleton, Sisko thought, feeling the fatigue rush over him again. Hell of a way for a Starfleet officer to go—eaten by lions before mankind ever left the atmosphere.

Kira's expression never wavered, but she turned away.

"I, um," Wu began, obviously quite uncomfortable, "guess I should go to sickbay now. Permission to leave, Captain?"

Sisko could not take his eyes off the skeleton before him. "Granted."

Julian Bashir couldn't really see anymore. His tormentors, the room, the world swam around him in a blur of pain. But he could hear. Both of the Germans had left him when the door opened. They were talking now with the changeling. He couldn't understand them. They were not speaking English. None of them sounded happy, but Bashir didn't care about that. They were not touching him. That was all that mattered. He let his head fall back against the chair, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his breathing.

But it was only a momentary respite. The unhappy speaking stopped, and the Germans returned to him. Bashir opened his eyes, expecting to see them preparing some new torture for him. Instead the pacing man was untying his hands. A white form hovered near the floor; the other German was untying his ankles. They were releasing him.

The changeling stood in front of him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if knowing that Bashir would have a hard time listening. "The Gestapo has decided," he said, still using a German accent, "that you are not worth our time. Bring ihn nach unten."

The last part was lost on Bashir, but the Germans understood. The sitting man in his red-speckled lab coat, gripped Bashir's right arm and began to pull him to his feet. The other man stepped toward his other side. Somewhere in his mind, Julian remembered his shoulder. He did not want to have to put it back in place again. He did his best to stand on his own. The room spun faster around him, but he managed to remain upright. The sitting man did not release his arm but began to lead him, not gently, towards the door.

The steps were harder to negotiate now, and he nearly fell several times before reaching the bottom. But the sitting man's grip was firm, and they both made it to the floor on their feet.

It was becoming easier to focus, and Bashir thought that he was being returned to his cell. As bad as it had been, with its darkness and lack of air, he yearned for the solitude, the quiet and even the darkness. He also thought he could remember the way and so was confused when they passed a familiar doorway.

The sitting man kept leading him down the hallway. Against one wall sat an odd-looking, waist-high, wooden table. When they reached it, the sitting man pushed Bashir harshly over the top of it. The other German stepped up and pulled Bashir's wrists out toward the other end of the table so that he couldn't straighten back up. Darkness threatened to overcome the bright overhead lighting as the man grasped his left wrist and pulled against his left shoulder. Bashir involuntarily cried out as the pain erupted anew in his injured arm.

"We are going to teach you," the changeling said behind him, "how to count in German."

Bashir couldn't work out what he meant. Count?

"Eins."

Bashir heard the crack just before he felt it, but only a heartbeat before. Searing, stinging pain forced a ragged cry from his already parched throat. His knees buckled and he sagged against the table.

"Eins," the changeling said again, this time more forcefully.

Another crack and then another bolt of pain sliced through Bashir's back.

"It is always eins until you repeat. EINS!"

Another crack, but Bashir was beginning to understand. "Eins," he choked. He had only time to gasp for a breath before the changeling spoke again.

"ZWEI!" The crack of the whip followed, and Bashir learned to count in German. He passed out before he had reached fifteen, or fünfzehn, but they dashed his face with water and made him start again from ten—zehn.

By the time he had reached zwanzig—twenty—he could no longer scream. The number came out in a whisper. The whip ceased its assault, though by then Bashir's back was criss-crossed with ribbons of red, bleeding welts.

"Laßt ihn." The changeling's voice sounded so distant. "Ihr könnt gehen."

The changeling waited for the others to leave and then walked over to Bashir's limp form. She could have killed him. She realized that. All she had to do was order it. She almost had. She knelt down in a fluid movement and untied his hands. She was satisfied, for now.

Bashir tried to look up at her, but he was unable to raise his head. No matter. She gripped him firmly around the waist and lifted him from the floor. For his part, he did attempt to walk but he couldn't keep his feet beneath him very well. The door to his cell was open, and she dropped him inside. He rolled onto his stomach, carefully leaving his left hand exposed beside him, and lay still.

"I'll have a doctor come look at you this afternoon," she said in the voice of the Gestapo man whose form she held. Then she closed and locked the door. She had to get to Birkenau. Scharführer Heiler was due to report for duty in an hour.

Jadzia Dax checked the readings on her console again and wished she could increase speed. It was nearly time to end her shift, but they were still nearly two hours from reaching Greenland and the next set of comm signals. On the bottom edge of the viewscreen she could just make out the coast of Norway. Or was it Sweden? It was difficult remembering. Historical geography was hardly her main focus at the academy. She could remember stuff like that about her own world, but Earth was different. She had visited too many planets, lived in too many cultures to remember every detail about them all.

"Commander!"

Dax turned to see who had called, even though she knew the call was for Worf. He had the bridge after all.

"What is it, Ensign?" There was impatience in Worf's voice. He probably was not too pleased with the outburst, but he did nothing more to show it.

"I'm picking up two more signals, sir!" the red-haired ensign reported excitedly, though he made an effort to keep his voice low. "It's Amitai and Ephraim."

Worf stood and walked to the man's console. "Where?" he asked more quietly, all annoyance gone.

"Here, sir." The man pointed to his screen, but Dax couldn't see anything from her seat at the helm. For his part, Worf stood ramrod stiff and showed no emotion, nothing to give her any indication of good news or bad.

"Hail them," Worf ordered.

The man's voice dropped to a whisper when he answered, and Dax couldn't make it out. She turned back to her console, knowing that she should be minding her duty, but she still strained to hear.

"Dax," Worf said, so suddenly she nearly jumped. She nodded to Lieutenant Jordan, who would relieve her at the helm, and met Worf near the console. She could see, then, the coordinates of the signals. One was stationary and weak, but oddly, the second was moving. "Set course and then go below and wake the captain. Tell Chief O'Brien to prepare for transport."

Dax nodded. She returned to the helm and reached over Jordan's shoulder to set the new course. He did not object. Then she turned for the turbolift. Moving. What could it mean? Could one of them be swimming?

Sisko looked so tired when he answered the door chime, that Dax almost felt sorry for waking him. He'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. "We've found Ephraim and Amitai, Benjamin." She took a deep breath and then told him the rest. "They're in the water, and they don't answer our hails."

Dax had thought it impossible, but Sisko's face actually fell. "Where are we, Old Man?"

"Off the northern coast of Norway or Sweden."

He pounded his fist on the door frame and then turned back into his quarters. "Inform Major Kira and get the medical team ready to meet me in the transporter room, Dax."

Dax nodded and left him to get dressed. She didn't tell him that the scans had shown the water temperature to be well below tolerable levels for humans. He was much better at Earth geography than she was. He probably already knew.

The transporter room was crowded with people when they entered, though she noticed that it was much cleaner now. Sisko looked grim, but he kept his tone neutral. "Do we have a lock, Chief?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien acknowledged, "It's Ephraim, but it's weak. If we're going to do it, we need to do it now."

Sisko nodded and the transporter started up with a slight whine. Still needed work. It was understandable given the amount of damage the changeling had caused. It probably wouldn't be back to specs until it had been completely overhauled at the nearest spacedock—which was a couple hundred years away at present.

The form that emerged on the platform was much too small to be Ephraim, and much too flat. There was only a black pile of wet fabric. Kira stepped forward first. She turned back a few of the folds, revealing a swatch of yellow, and found Ephraim's comm badge. She handed it to Sisko and then flexed her fingers. The nurse took over and scanned the fabric for human remains. She didn't say anything. The uniform dripped when she picked up. She too flexed her fingers as she dropped the fabric into the waiting container.

"I've got Amitai now, sir," O'Brien said quietly.

Sisko waited for the techs to clear the pad. "Energize."

This time the form that emerged from the transporter effect was indeed large enough to be a human. Larger, in fact. Several large chunks of ice had been beamed up with Amitai's body. He'd apparently crawled onto a floating slab of ice. That would have explained the movement.

Sisko sighed. "How long to Greenland, Old Man?"

"Another hour and a half," Dax answered as she watched the med-techs extricate the corpse from the ice.

Sisko heard the footsteps in the hall before he heard the door chime. He'd very diligently kept his eyes closed since he had returned to his quarters, but it was no use. He hadn't slept at all. He knew that he should. He would be on duty in less than three hours, and he wouldn't have another chance to sleep for sixteen hours after that. But telling himself that over and over hadn't helped either. It only made him feel worse.

He'd had a stomachache since Nepal. Smith and Syra frozen, Nietzsche torn apart by lions, Ephraim and Amitai. All of them dead. Fellini, too. There were still six others who were not answering their comm signals. And Bashir. They hadn't been able to find Bashir yet.

He thought about altering course. Pick up the survivors first. They were waiting, most likely injured, in hostile surroundings. But he knew he couldn't do that. The ship would not go any faster than it was going right now anyway, not until the engines were fully repaired. And what if, by some chance, his stomachache was wrong? What if even one of them was still alive, but unable to answer?

When the door chimed, Sisko stood quickly, still dressed, and met Kira at the door. "Any answer from them, Major?"

She let her glance fall to the floor. "No, sir. No life signs either, but the sensors. . . ."

Sisko stopped her. "I know."

They didn't say anything else as they headed toward the transporter room. "Just coming into range, Captain," O'Brien reported as the door slid open. The medical team was already there, waiting.

"Energize as soon as you have a lock, Chief," Sisko ordered quietly.

The result was no different than it had been over Nepal. Two crewmembers, frozen to death. They were beamed up together this time. They had obviously held each other for warmth. But time had been against them. They might have even lasted an hour, perhaps, but it had taken more than a week before the Defiant was capable of rescuing them. They couldn't have survived. Shavatt and Pelt. Seven out of eight.

Sisko looked to Kira. "What's our flight plan, Major?"

"That depends," she replied as she walked around the med-techs to reach the computer screen. She pressed a few controls, and a map of the western hemisphere appeared. "We've got people on both continents and just off the coast. If we go for Nohtsu now, which would be a shorter trip, we'd risk night by going back for Salerno and the others. We'd have to wait until we came around again."

Sisko nodded. "I don't think Salerno would appreciate that."

"No, I don't think he would." She pressed another key and a line formed on the map, showing the Defiant's path to South America and the Galapagos. "We could go to the southern continent first, and we could swing north afterwards."

"But Nohtsu is injured," Sisko finished for her. She nodded. He thought about it silently for a few moments. Nohtsu had been patient thus far, despite her injury and the inclimate weather. She would only be waiting a few hours more. Salerno would be waiting a whole day if they went for Canada first. And there were the three others in Atacama to think of as well. In spite of his stomachache, he could not completely discount the possibility of their survival.

"South first, Major."

Kira nodded curtly and called the bridge with the new course. "We should reach the western coast within five hours," she informed him.

Sisko nodded and then left for his quarters. He still had a couple of hours to lay with his eyes closed. His stomachache showed no sign of fading.

Five hours. It was going to be a long day.

Two hours later, Sisko was back on the bridge and the Defiant was passing over Nova Scotia. The crew was quiet, most by now having gotten the word that the crewmates that had been rescued had not survived, with the exception, of course, of Wu, who, true to his word, was in fine shape. After a night's rest, he'd added his name to the duty roster and his hands to the repairs.

Atacama proved something of a surprise. As Sisko had suspected, all three crewmembers arrived on the ship as lifeless carcasses. That they'd been dead awhile was evident by the degree to which they had been scavenged. Even the medical team, who was supposed to be able to handle some pretty nasty wounds, were left queasy from the sight.

But, remembering the blood in the transporter room, Sisko ordered an autopsy on Keller anyway. Without the doctor, there was no one really qualified to provide an autopsy, but Nurse Baines solemnly volunteered to autopsy all three—to the best of her ability. Sisko assured her that any information she might discover would be helpful.

And it was, at least in answering some questions. Keller, indeed, had not died from the desert. A small incision was found in his chest. He had been stabbed through the heart. The changeling had killed him in order to gain control of the transporter.

Wieland was too far gone to provide any real answers, but Armand was more helpful. Her neck had been snapped. The changeling had killed her too, to gain control of Engineering. Since Wieland had been in Engineering as well, it was a safe assumption that all three crewmen had been killed before they ever left the ship.

The Galapagos were not far away, so once again, Sisko found himself in the transporter room backed up by Kira and the medical team. Salerno was contacted. He'd been doing better the last couple of days, catching some small lizards to eat and finding some plants. But he was anxious to return to the ship. This time, Sisko didn't have to disappoint him. "Energize."

"Aye, sir," O'Brien replied and then turned back to the controls. In a few seconds, Salerno's form began to materialize on the platform. He looked pale and swayed slightly when the effect left him, and Sisko realized he must be weak from his ordeal. He stepped forward to offer a steadying hand.

"It's good to see you again, Captain," Salerno said, grinning, as he took hold of Sisko's arm.

"Good to have you back, Ensign," Sisko smiled in return. "You didn't happen to see Lieutenant Sopok since we last spoke?"

"No, sir."

Sisko waited until he had been lead out of the room. "Any readings on Sopok?"

"I am getting another signal, Captain," O'Brien said, though he didn't seem too sure, "but it's weak."

"Can you get a lock?" Kira asked.

"Yes, sir, I think so." Both he and Kira looked to the Captain, waiting for his signal.

Sisko nodded and turned again to face the platform. He prepared himself inwardly, as well as he could, for Sopok's body to materialize. A shimmering form appeared, lying horizontal on the pad. But it was too big. Much too big. As it took shape, it began to be apparent that they hadn't beamed up Sopok after all, but it was over before anyone was able to react. As the shimmering faded, fins became visible and large, white teeth.

As the transporter effect drained away, the shark came back to life, thrashing wildly on the platform. Kira, who had been standing closest to the pad jumped back fearfully. Sisko didn't blame her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the pad as he stepped back himself. "Send it back, Chief!" he yelled.

"I'm trying, sir!" O'Brien yelled back. "We hadn't planned on sending anything back down."

The shark, probably a good three and a half meters in length, was whipping about so violently that it was in danger of slipping off the pad altogether. Sisko pulled out his phaser. Kira took his lead and unholstered hers as well. "Set to stun, Major."

"What is that thing?" she asked as she took aim. "I thought Earth was paradise. You never told me you had sea monsters."

Sisko fired with her and held the beam until the shark lay still. Well, nearly still. It still gasped for air that it couldn't breathe. Sisko let out his breath. He turned to the nurse. "Scan it." Then he turned back to Kira as the nurse pulled out his tricorder and stepped cautiously toward the shark. "It's not a sea monster. It's a shark. And that's a relatively small one."

"I'm definitely reading the comm signal, Captain," the nurse called. He looked up, his face grim. "And I'm reading Vulcan genetic material."

"Got it, sir!" O'Brien declared triumphantly. The nurse stepped away.

Sisko hesitated before he asked the next question. He was afraid of the answer. "What about human remains?" Kira looked at him hard. She knew what he was asking. Bashir was the only one not accounted for now, with the exception of the changeling.

The nurse checked the tricorder again and then shook his head. "No, sir. No human remains."

Sisko sighed again, relieved. If Bashir was still just 'missing,' there was still grounds for hope. Unfortunately, that was not the case for Lieutenant Sopok. "Send it back, Chief, before it suffocates."

Max carefully removed the wooden shoes from his feet. His toes and heels were red and sore. The shoes were too small. They cut into his feet, but he did not dare go without them. He'd already seen some of the other prisoners with frostbite. As painful as the shoes were, he would rather wear them than stand barefoot in the cold and mud during roll call.

Especially given how long the roll calls were lasting. Though he had only been in the camp a few days, maybe a week,—he had already lost track—he could tell that something had gone wrong. The count wasn't right. The numbers weren't adding up. So the Germans kept counting and the prisoners kept dying as they did so.

"Do you think he's dead?" Vláďa asked from behind his hands. He was always blowing into his hands to try and keep them warm.

Max put his shoes back on and then looked at the boy. "The doctor? I don't know." And he really didn't. But he didn't want Vláďa to think the worst anyway, not until they knew for sure. Things were bad enough already. "They took him because he was English. Maybe they took him to a camp for prisoners of war."

"They probably had him shot," someone said from below. He was speaking Yiddish. Vláďa leaned over the edge to see who had spoken. Max did as well. "I heard the guards say he was a spy."

"A Nazi spy more likely," someone else added angrily, this time from across the room. "Why do you think he still has hair when the rest of us were shaved?"

"He can't even speak German," Vláďa countered. "How can he be a spy for them?"

"Why would the Nazis want to spy on us?" the first agreed. "They already have us."

"Maybe they just consider English Jews better than Slavic Jews," a third suggested.

Soon the whole front end of the barracks was arguing over whether or not Bashir was being treated with privilege or hanged with piano wire. Max didn't know the answer. He only knew that Bashir had been kind to him for the three days they were together and he was protective of Vláďa. He was quiet and rarely spoke. When he did, it was in English and appeared to be more for his own comfort than any real communication. When he really wanted to say something, he used his hands, gesturing to convey his meaning.

Though they'd only met on the train, Vláďa seemed genuinely worried about him. When the argument erupted, he had backed up quietly to lean against the wall. Eventually, the Blockälteste decided that there was too much noise and threatened to beat the next one who spoke.

Max joined Vláďa at the wall, and they sat in silence. Vláďa, no doubt, was thinking of Bashir or perhaps his cousin. Max thought of his wife and daughter. Every thought, every memory brought their faces back into sight. He tried to tell himself that at least they'd been spared the torture of starvation and cold that threatened him every hour of every day. But it did not make it hurt any less.

By 2000 hours Fellini and Nohtsu were back on board the Defiant—Nohtsu in sickbay with Salerno, and Fellini in a damaged shuttle bay that was serving as a temporary morgue. Still unable to speak, Nohtsu had written up a brief report. She and Fellini had been in the turbolift on their way to Engineering when the transporter took them. As they rematerialized, they were quite shocked to see that there was nothing beneath their feet.

Judging from her rate of fall, Nohtsu estimated that they had materialized over 3,000 feet in the air. Sisko wasn't sure how she survived, but he'd heard stories when he was younger of people who had been skydiving and had fallen thousands of feet only to bounce. Some were injured. Some had gotten up and walked away. Fellini had not been so lucky. His neck had broken on impact along with most of his other bones. Nohtsu had stayed by him, trying to ward off the scavengers, but she was wounded herself. Fellini was in poor shape when he rematerialized on the transporter pad.

Sisko let the hand that held Nohtsu's report drop to his side as he surveyed the shuttle bay. Eleven shiny black casings held them. Some with bodies, some with scraps of uniform. There was nothing for Sopok; he was the twelfth. Twelve was too many. But at least they'd been found—most of them. He sighed. Fifteen comm signals and fifteen crewmembers. He felt relieved of at least a portion of his anxiety. But the stomachache had grown worse.

There was some half-hearted grumbling on the ship, rumors that some of the crew wanted to go back now. They had looked for their missing people for over a week now. They had found all they were going to find. They were tired and the ship was damaged. It was time to go home.

But Sisko knew it wasn't. It couldn't be. Even if it wasn't Julian. And he knew his crew knew it, too. Starfleet Temporal Policy was clear. They could not leave the missing crewman there unless and until they knew there was no threat of changing the timeline. In other words, they would have to know that Julian was dead. There was no other way they could leave him—or any other of their crew.

And the changeling was an even bigger worry. If, by some unforeseen circumstance, they had to leave Bashir behind, Sisko could trust that Julian would do his best to leave the timeline intact. But the changeling could be actively attempting to change it. The easiest way he and the others, with Thomas's input, had decided was to influence the war going on below. Novels had been written about the concept. What if Hitler and the Nazis had won the war? They weren't cheerful books. What would the consequences be to the 24th century?

Julian Bashir awoke thankful for the darkness and the silence inside his cell. Even thankful for the thinness of the air. He could live with that. Just as long as no one touched him. The changeling had kept her word about the doctor. One had come to see him hours before, and the stinging in his back was just now slowly ebbing away. Iodine. That was all the doctor had done, perhaps all he could do with the Germans watching his every move.

The star sewn on his striped uniform had not escaped Bashir's notice. He was a Jewish doctor and a prisoner himself. He could only do as he was told and no more. The doctor had entered silently, his face drawn and grave. He'd seemed tired and pained himself, and no doubt he was. Bashir had felt sorry for him, at least until he had applied the iodine. All sympathy and feelings he had for others had melted again as the antiseptic liquid seeped into the welts and cuts that cris-crossed his back. He had barely heard the laughter of the guards as he had faded once again to unconsciousness.

But now as he awoke again, it was the pain that had faded—at least as long as he didn't move. He didn't ever want to move again.

But just then the door opened and a figure stood in the doorway, his hands full of gray and blue striped fabric. As he stepped inside, Bashir was able to recognize the SS officer from his first few hours here. It had to be the changeling. "Here are your clothes," he said, using a heavy German accent, perhaps to fool the guards. He tossed the fabric at Bashir. "Someone will be here for you in thirty minutes. I suggest you be ready for him when he comes." He stepped back and the door shut again.

It took the full thirty minutes to get dressed. Every movement stirred up pain and threatened unconsciousness. But even if he'd been well, dressing in the dark would've been difficult. He had to fumble around to find the pants, the shirt. And there was more this time. Something big and heavy made of the same material as the pants. Bashir leaned his good shoulder against the wall and tried to figure it out. It had buttons, and when he finally held it right, he discovered it had sleeves as well. A coat. The changeling had given him a coat.

This time when the door opened, he was sitting up, propped against the wall and dressed. He felt warm, at least for now, and for that he could live with the material on his burning back. Besides, if he tucked his arm between the buttons of the coat, it could act as a makeshift sling.

The changeling, again as the SS officer, stood in the door, but he wasn't alone. Another guard stood with him. The changeling said something to him in German. Bashir recognized "Birkenau" again, but he was still not sure what it meant.

The guard did know, however, and he nodded briskly before stepping into the cell. "Steh' auf!" he ordered.

Bashir didn't understand but he could guess. Using his legs and pushing against the wall, he slowly got to his feet. The walls started to spin and the changeling in the doorway to blur, but he managed to hold on to his consciousness despite the pain and rapid movement. At least until the guard spun him around forcibly by grabbing his left arm. It was overwhelming. The cell again went black and Julian's knees nearly buckled, but he remained on his feet and didn't faint, even as his arms were wrenched behind him and tied at the wrists.

And then they were walking. Out of the cell, up the stairs—slowly—and out of the building into the biting wind and cold of winter. Bashir was glad for the coat, but it wasn't enough to protect against the icy wind. It was night again, or still, Bashir was not sure which. Going down the stairs, he had nearly fallen, but he got back to his feet and walked again in a daze. They went past the guards that stood at the gate and past the long brick buildings and even the iron sign. Soon they were out in the open fields, and Bashir could see the stars above his head. Why can't you find me? he thought to the Defiant up there somewhere. But he knew the answer. With no comm badge, he was just another human. Are you even looking anymore?

They walked on, the guard occasionally exhorting Bashir to go faster, sometimes with only his voice, other times with a push from the butt of his gun. Bashir wasn't sure how long they'd walked but as the sky turned from black to a dull gray, he began to see the outlines of the big camp with fence posts standing like candy canes. They kept walking and the sky brightened with every few steps, little by little.

Sunrise again, Bashir mused vaguely and then could not remember why he would find that funny. The guard prodded him with his gun, and Bashir lurched over in pain. He wanted to turn around and yell at the man. Hurting him only slowed him down. But he knew he didn't have the strength either to turn around or to yell. Every bit of energy he had was focused into walking in front of the guard.

For the second time since his arrival, he was amazed at the workings of his legs. As they neared the large camp, he wondered how they'd managed to carry him this far. They passed under the large central watch tower Bashir remembered from when he'd been taken out. He couldn't think how long ago it was. It was hard enough to think of not falling down as his legs moved step by step forward with the prodding of the guard. He felt relieved to be returning. Anything was better than where he'd been.

As he passed on the other side of the guard tower that stood above the gate, he glanced upward and was surprised to still see a few stars there. The wind was swift and it kept the smoke at bay enough to let a few pinpricks of light shine through. As he watched one of them shimmered and wavered and then disappeared altogether as if it had just gone under cloak. His heart leapt and he forgot all about his legs which carried him with much greater ease now. He dared to hope that it was the Defiant, cloaking so as not to be seen in the night sky.

They'll come for me soon, you'll see, he thought, as if to argue with the guard who even now was prodding him again. It was too much this time and he fell forward, catching himself on his knees. His back had hurt enough without any help from the guard's gun. He tried to get to his feet again before the guard became more impatient. I will not die here! he screamed in his mind. I will not die here!

Behind him, the guard cursed loudly and then grabbed the back of Bashir's collar, hauling him to his feet. His legs, faithful as ever, kept carrying him, though his thoughts were beginning to be grow fuzzy again from the fire he felt on his back.

The guard stopped him in front of one of the large wooden barracks. The guard stepped around him to open the door, and Bashir saw hundreds of oval faces turn to look at him. Was this my barracks? he wondered. He hoped it was. He felt his wrists behind him being untied. A blaze of pain shot through his arm as the guard's hands brushed his own, and then his arms fell free to his sides. He started to take a step inside, hoping that his legs would not fail him after coming all this way. He wanted to get away from the guard, to lose himself again in the multitude of inmates in his barracks and in this camp.

Max looked up when the door opened. Everyone looked up. Bashir was standing in the doorway. Just standing there. He had an odd look on his face, like he was not really there. There was a German guard behind him. He untied Bashir's hands and then shoved him forward. A small cry escaped from the Englishman as he fell forward, his right arm twisted up behind him.

He tried to catch himself with his other arm before he hit the ground. As soon as his fingers touched the dirt floor, he cried out again and brought his hand up close to his chest, letting himself fall the rest of the way. He sat like that for several moments, his knees tucked up under him and his shoulders and face resting on the ground. He panted hard, obviously in pain, but didn't otherwise move.

Some of the other prisoners began to taunt him, saying that he certainly was getting special treatment. Max was glad now that Bashir couldn't understand them. Vláďa tapped his shoulder and then jumped down from the bunk, beckoning for him to follow. They hurried over to Bashir and knelt down on either side of him.

"Let's get him up," Max told the boy. He started to touch Bashir's shoulder, but Bashir recoiled in pain once more, biting back another cry. Max pulled his hands away. Something was wrong with the shoulder as well.

Max nodded to Vláďa and then tried again, this time very gently slipping his hands between Bashir's arm and his ribs. Vláďa did the same at the other side, but both were surprised when Bashir took his hand and tried to sit up on his own. Vláďa looked down at Bashir's hand. His fingers were red with blood. His fingernails were gone.

They managed to get him to his feet and walk him over to their bunk. He placed his good—better—hand on the bunk and started to step up, but stopped. The far away look in his eyes was gone. In its place, Max saw exhaustion and pain. Max stood for a moment transfixed by those eyes and then sent Vláďa up to the bunk ahead of him. Then he and Vláďa pushed and pulled as Bashir gave as much effort as he had.

Bashir made it to the bunk and then collapsed, face down on the rough wood, his right arm lying along his side. His left arm was brought up close by his shoulder. He breathed hard and unevenly, and his whole body shook with cold. In less than a minute though he was unconscious.

Benjamin Sisko started to choke back the yawn he felt emerging from his throat and then decided it was a futile attempt. Stevens, the head engineer while the Chief was off duty, didn't seem to take it the wrong way.

"Should work now," Stevens was saying.

Sisko almost smiled but then thought better of it. It might not work at all. "We're ready to try then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, "prepare to engage cloaking device."

"Aye, sir," the Klingon acknowledged. There was a moment's pause as he keyed in the commands. "Ready, Captain."

"Engage cloak."

Sisko held his breath, as did the rest of the bridge crew. It was becoming a tradition. They'd all done the same thing when they waited to see if communications or the transporters were really going to work. Nothing happened and Sisko was about to release the air in his lungs when the lights began to slowly dim. "Mr. Stevens?"

"It's working, sir!" Stevens reported excitedly. "We're cloaking!"

Finally the lights stabilized, basking the bridge in the familiar subdued lighting of the cloaked Defiant. Worf confirmed it. "The cloak is functioning at one hundred percent, Captain."

Stevens' smile swelled with pride.

"Good work," Sisko nodded to him. "What's next?"

Stevens' smile faded. He turned somberly and headed for the turbolift.

Sisko leaned back again in his chair and thought about Bashir. They had nearly circled the globe again after picking up Nohtsu and Fellini and still had no signal from Bashir. But now with the cloak, they didn't have to constrain their search to the daylight side of the planet. A more systematic search plan could be utilized, leaving no area of the planet uncovered. A doubt remained, however. If Bashir's comm badge was disabled, they still wouldn't be able to find it.

No room for doubts, Sisko told himself. He had to show confidence in his crew. "Major," he said and waited for her to join him at his chair. "Work with the helm. Set a course that will cover every square inch of this planet in the least time. And if moving in closer will increase the sensor range, do it."

Kira nodded, but didn't turn away immediately. Her eyes looked troubled. "Do you think he's still alive?" she whispered. She lowered her eyes. "All the others. . . ."

"Not all," Sisko reminded her, his voice low and gentle. "And I have to believe he's still alive. We all do."

Kira nodded and regained her full amount of composure. She and Dax moved away to the table in the rear of the bridge to discuss the new course.

Max watched Bashir carefully, thinking it ironic that he was playing doctor while the doctor was being a patient. Vláďa had proven himself to be quite innovative. He'd managed to find a somewhat clean shirt to use for bandages. Max didn't bother to ask where he had gotten it. Vláďa had washed it as well as possible by finding a pile of snow unmarred as of yet by muddy feet and general grime. Then he'd laid it out across his legs as he sat on the ground outside, moving around to take advantage of the few rays of sunlight that filtered in through smoke that filled the camp. It had taken all day, but the shirt was nearly dry, though it was still cold and stiff from the frigid air.

To be honest, Max had thoroughly expected Bashir to die before the next roll call, but the Englishman had stubbornly held on to life. He'd been only half-conscious when Max and Vláďa had left him to go out for drills. The SS were staying away due to a typhus epidemic, and Bashir could stay in the barracks with the other sick and dying prisoners. Amazingly, he regained consciousness somewhere around noon, and with help, had even sat up, leaning sideways with his right shoulder against the barracks wall. He hadn't said a word or asked for anything. Max wasn't sure if that was from shock or the realization of the futility of speaking when no one understood his language. Still, it was disconcerting.

The doctor's back, once they'd managed to remove his coat and blood-stained shirt, was riddled with an ugly pattern of red and bleeding welts and cuts. Max tore the front of the extra shirt into strips that could be used for bandages, and then draped the rest of it across Bashir's back. Bashir had winced a little at the pain, but still kept quiet.

Bashir regained his authority as the doctor when it came to his left arm. Using his other hand, he had directed Max in the most effective way to support his shoulder and bandaged his own bent and broken hand. Shortly after, he'd fallen asleep again, still sitting against the wall. He had only awoken when Vláďa brought him some of the black bread and sausage to eat. Bashir ate it hungrily, and Max realized that he probably hadn't eaten since they had taken him away. Evening came and with it another roll call. It took a long time, and a lot of help from Vláďa, for Bashir to stand again. Even the sick had to go to roll call. The Blockälteste yelled at them for being slow, but luckily did not threaten them physically.

The three of them were the last to leave the courtyard, but they were not far behind the others. The wind was strong, but the smoke was heavy and was replaced almost as quickly as it was blown away. The walk to the Appellplatz was difficult, but Bashir kept up. Vláďa held on to his good arm to steady him.

When they lined up, Max pushed to find a place for them in the center of the row. He did not want to be on the outside. Bashir's condition would certainly draw attention, and after a week in this hell, Max had learned that that was one thing you never wanted to do here. Max also realized that with Bashir, being inconspicuous was nearly impossible. Even buried in the middle of three hundred men, his height made him stand out. And his full head of hair finished the job. Though Max himself had resented the shaving of his own hair, he now appreciated the uniformity it provided.

Every few minutes, Max would dart his eyes toward Bashir, not daring to turn his head. The doctor stared silently at the feet of the man in front of him, his head bowed. His shoulders swayed slightly with the wind, but he remained on his feet.

For Julian, the roll call was an exercise of contradictions. He felt nothing and he felt pain. He was cold and he felt that he would burn up. He was tired but he could not close his eyes. He stood and yet he could not feel the ground beneath his feet. He longed to go back inside, and yet wished never to move again. His coat felt the brush of the wind that shook the body that was oblivious to it. The world was a dream with no reality at all.

As if they were sounding in his own mind, he heard the SS counting. He knew what they were saying, understood their numbers, though he knew he didn't speak German. Fifty, fifty-five, they were saying. Sixty. They kept counting. One hundred, one hundred and five. On and on they counted, until the numbers again became incomprehensible to him. Unsatisfied with their numbers they started again. Five, ten, fifteen.

Three rows up and to the right, a man dropped to his knees and then fell to the ground. The SS officer who'd been counting this particular section of the prisoners, stopped his counting and swiftly came over to the man, his club raised. Bashir watched it as if it was a dream, half pitying the man and half unable to believe that it was really happening. The SS beat him slowly, as if moving in slow motion. The man cried out, and it echoed in Julian's ears. Then his cries stopped. He stopped moving. The SS, sweating from the effort of the beating, drew away and resumed his dispassionate counting right where he left off. Seventy-five, eighty.

A small gallows was erected in the Appellplatz. Bashir hadn't remembered seeing it before. One of the Germans, an SS who obviously commanded the respect of all the other guards, addressed the gathering. His voice boomed with anger and loathing. Bashir didn't understand what was being said, and Max could not even attempt to explain it during the roll call, not even to Vláďa who would have understood a Czech translation.

But after a few minutes of the German's ranting, Bashir saw that a translation was unnecessary. He still did not know the details as the three men were marched out toward the gallows. They could barely stand. All three of them were bruised and battered and bleeding. Bashir thought it a wonder that they could even walk. Then he vaguely wondered if he looked as bad as they did. They'd apparently been punished severely, perhaps even tortured like himself. And now they were going to hang.

Then there was a sound, an odd sound at a time when there was only supposed to be counting. Short, uneven taps sounded through the forest of prisoners. Bashir didn't dare turn his head to see what it was. It would undoubtedly come into focus given enough time. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure that he cared what the sound was.

The sound drew closer until a procession emerged between two groups of prisoners. At the head was a man, barely able to stand himself. He wore a sign with German writing and carried a drum which he tapped raggedly as the German guards behind him prodded him forward. He was wearing street clothes, not the dull stripes of the prisoners. But Bashir could see by his shaved head and gaunt face that he had belonged to Auschwitz. He had escaped.

Only now he'd been caught. The respected SS was once again speaking, yelling so that all could hear him. The three were lined up in front of the gallows on what looked like a bench. The nooses were around their necks. Only one remained empty. They looked at the drummer with eyes dulled by pain. He looked back at them and dropped his shoulders a little closer to the ground. They were friends. The bench was removed and the three dropped. It was only a few inches, so their necks didn't break. They dangled there, jerking and writhing as they slowly strangled to death from their own weight. It began to snow.

Bashir watched it all from afar, as if it were only a dream. Yet somewhere in his mind, he knew that these were real men with real lives now ended. He closed his eyes against the wind and the snow and against the sight of the bodies twitching there. When he opened them again, the three were still, but the drummer was being put on the bench. The noose was tightened around his neck. The bench was again removed, and he joined the three in death.