Why had they let him go? he wondered. Major Kira had acted as if she knew he had set the bomb, as if she'd known all along. She had caught him in his mistakes. But then she had let him go. And the shapeshifter. He had been sitting there the whole time. Odo could be following him now, he thought. He glanced around. Odo could be anything. The wall, the floor, the railing in the turbolift.

The turbolift stopped and Theel stepped out. He turned around so he could watch the doors close behind him. When he did not see anything follow him out, he told himself to be calm and continued toward his quarters. Behind him a golden liquid seeped out from under the turbolift doors. As it spread out, it changed color to match the black floor. Then it silently rolled forward, always melding imperceptibly with the floor.

Theel's door was locked, but the computer recognized him and the door opened. Theel turned and glanced all around the corridor before he entered. The black liquid froze in place until Theel had disappeared behind the door. Then it moved forward again, thinned itself out further and slipped under the door. It stopped at the edge of the door and checked to see if Theel was watching. When Theel's back was turned, the liquid seeped upward, taking on the gray color of the door.

Odo could see Theel from the door. Theel was making a call. He stood in front of a black panel on the wall and waited for his call to be connected. But the call didn't go through. A circular viewscreen did light up on the panel, and a message appeared. Odo was too far away to read it, but he could see Theel's reaction.

Theel's face fell. He was disheartened. He covered his face with his hands, and Odo thought he even started to cry. Then Theel knelt on the floor and began to call on the Prophets for their guidance and assistance. Odo waited.

It had nearly been just as hard for Chief O'Brien to enter Runabout Pad C as it had to get direct access to the central computer. The door had refused to open. The terrorists, it seemed, had already thought of this possibility. But, in this case, O'Brien had managed to bypass the door's locking mechanism and open it manually. But it didn't get any easier.

To begin with, the Rio Grande's power reserves had been completely emptied. O'Brien and Lieutenant Mir had to restore power before they could even open the cockpit door. Once they were in, things seemed to cooperate. The runabout's onboard computer came online without a hitch. Major Kira joined them and Lieutenant Mir was ordered back to Ops to monitor their progress from there.

While they worked, Kira filled O'Brien in on the case against Stirad. Odo was following him in the hopes of finding more tangible evidence to link him to the bombing in Cargo Bay Seven. She hadn't heard from him for several hours. O'Brien admitted that he didn't really know Stirad. He was a new technician. He'd only been on the station for about four months. He was polite enough, but he seemed to keep to himself as many of the Bajorans did.

He wondered, too, without saying anything to Kira, if there was anyone else in the crew who couldn't be trusted. Not Kira herself, of course. She'd proven herself many times from the beginning. She often disagreed with the Federation and her provisional government, but she always thought about what was best for the station as well as for her own people. O'Brien felt he understood Kira, at least in part. He had fought against the Cardassians as well. He knew what they were like, why she hated them.

But many of the other Bajorans were just crew members, just names on the roster. They also kept to themselves and did not seem interested in getting to know their Federation crewmates. Were they just antisocial, or weary of entanglements with other races? Or were they covering up an ulterior motive? How many more were like Stirad? Like Neela had been. Was Mir?

But then it became time. The runabout was ready, but the overhead doors were tightly secured, and the pad refused to lift. They were unable to launch. O'Brien grumbled as he left the runabout. It seemed he'd been on his hands and knees for the last two days. And he'd have to be again. He had to get those doors open.

Dr. Bashir stood over Captain Gerin with his tricorder, scanning his body once again. There had to be something missing. He hoped for an increased concentration of chemicals or precipitant that might have indicated how the poison was introduced, but the Gidari chemical had carried the poison from the blood stream directly into the cells themselves. There was an equal concentration throughout his body. There was no way to know if the poison was ingested or injected or even absorbed through the skin.

And deciding even when the poisoning took place was just as uncertain. Stenacine, the main contributor to Gerin's death, normally acted very quickly, within seconds of injection. But when mixed with other chemicals or compounds, its effects could be delayed or weakened or strengthened. It was volatile and unproducable without a medical or pharmaceutical license.

The Gidari chemical, when Bashir and Dax had analyzed it the night before, had proven to be volatile as well. If mixed with the other Gidari chemical, the one Dax had been given, it had become deadly. It was still a mystery in many ways. What reaction would it have when mixed with the already altered stenacine? The evidence showed that Gerin's brain and nervous system shut down in response to the large dosage of stenacine Gerin was given. But there was no lasting evidence of damage caused by the Gidari chemical itself.

It was a risk. The stenacine itself was sufficient to cause death. The stimulant, delactovine, delayed the death, making it harder to pinpoint the time of poisoning and, therefore, the killer. But the Gidari chemical was an unknown to everyone, except the Gidari themselves. It could have weakened the effects of the stenacine, merely putting Gerin in a coma for a time. Or it could have caused him to drop dead right on the spot.

"Someone was experimenting," Bashir said suddenly. He turned away from the body, and Nurse Jabara covered again it with a blanket.

"What do you mean, Julian?" Dax asked. She was sitting at the computer running simulations of each compound with its reaction to all the others.

"It couldn't have been the Gidari. If it was the Gidari, and they wanted to kill him, they wouldn't have let him walk around. They would have waited to destroy the body, like they did with Tsingras. It's not them," Bashir stated. He walked back to where Dax was and leaned over the back of her chair. "But they're the only ones who could have known, for certain, what that chemical would have done with stenacine."

Dax nodded and thought for a moment. "He had to have access to medical or scientific computers," she added. "He couldn't have worked out all the reactions himself."

"Right," Bashir agreed. "He didn't work this out from the comfort of his own quarters. And he couldn't have replicated the stenacine without the proper clearance. So it's got to be medical personnel and not some retired nurse or med-tech from the camps."

"Unless it's one who has control of the computer," Dax argued. "You have a list of seventeen left-handed suspects with medical experience. The majority of those are Bajoran. Maybe it is our terrorists. They have complete access to the computers. And they've flouted every other security clearance. Why not a medical one?"

Bashir nodded and sat down beside her. That was true. They had bypassed security features that required his authorization in order to kill Targo Hern in the detention cell. They could get the stenacine easily. But how could they have administered it? "But did they have the opportunity to poison the captain?"

Dax leaned back in her chair and thought about it. "They could have when they beamed onto the Ranger after taking our computer down," she suggested.

Bashir shook his head. "Gerin would have reported seeing an intruder. He was alive and well for long enough after it happened. It had to be done when he wasn't looking or expecting it. It could have been in his food. What about the replicators?"

Dax checked the captain's schedule for the last three days. Sisko had provided the schedule. Compliments of Commander Lairton, the new acting commander of the USS Ranger. "He did put in a request to have it serviced," she noted.

"The replicator still needs repair, but there's no sign of tampering or poison."

Dax and Bashir both swung their chairs around to see who had spoken. A Bolian male stood in the Infirmary doorway. He wore a gold Starfleet uniform from the Ranger. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Commander Merot, Head of Security. Then he continued with his report on the replicator. "We have replicated every meal the captain had eaten from there for the last week. All tests for the chemicals mentioned in your report were negative."

"Has he eaten anywhere else?" Bashir asked.

"He has eaten four meals on this station," Merot related. "And he had dinner, in your presence, with Doctor Grant two nights ago. Grant's replicator, as well as all others on the Ranger, checks out."

"So someone would have had to put it directly into his food," Bashir concluded, "which rules out terrorists beaming onto the Ranger."

"But not necessarily those on the station," Dax added. "And look at this, Julian." She pointed to the screen that held the captain's schedule. "He was treated for a fractured hand yesterday. Doctor Maylon treated him and reported giving him condrofen."

"I didn't find any traces of condrofen in the body," Bashir said, looking at the records. "But it was a rather long period of time. Condrofen is a local anesthetic. It might not appear so late."

"A murderer would not be above falsifying medical records," Merot pointed out. "You knew Doctor Maylon previously," he said, addressing Bashir. "Did he have any psychological disorders that you are aware of?"

"Not really," Bashir answered. "But I'm not a psychologist, and that was several years ago." Maylon was moody, introverted and strange, but was he a murderer? And what about Dr. Grant? He'd had ample opportunity to put the poison in Gerin's plate before anyone arrived for dinner. Bashir remembered Grant's wandering, bloodshot eyes that night. If he was taking something . . . but he was a doctor. He would know better. Perhaps, Bashir thought, I am letting my personal feelings get in the way. "But that means we still have a long list of suspects," he added. "Maylon had the opportunity in sickbay, and Grant had it at dinner."

"And any number of Bajorans had opportunity here on the station," Dax finished for him.

"You were both also present at dinner in Doctor Grant's quarters two nights ago," Merot hinted dispassionately.

Bashir almost laughed. The Bolian was intimating that they had the opportunity as well. "But we were not present at the three other murders," Bashir pointed out. "And the evidence points logically to the conclusion that the murders, not including the bombings and the ritual death of Ensign Tsingras, were all carried out by the same individual. Now, take the Ferengi for an example. I was here, in the Infirmary, treating a patient when he had his throat slit."

"And I was in Ops," Dax joined in. "And both of us have witnesses."

"I'm not even left-handed" Bashir added. "You need to talk to Security. Ask for the reports on the other three victims. But I'd ask nicely if I were you." Bashir knew, as did most of the crew, how Odo did not like Starfleet personnel trying to take over his investigations. Sisko had had to talk him out of resigning several times in the last two years.

"I will do that," Merot said. He turned and disappeared out the door.

The door opened again, and a Bajoran couple came in. The man was supporting the woman, who held her stomach and grimaced in pain. "Doctor," the man said, "you've got to help my wife."

"Of course." Bashir jumped up from his chair. "Bring her here." He led them to a biobed. The husband lifted his wife and laid her down. She could not lay flat on her back because of the pain, and she turned onto her side, pulling her legs toward her chest. She held weakly to her husband's arm with one hand and still clutched her stomach with the other.

The biobed lit up when she was laid down. Her pulse and blood pressure were low. And her blood was laced with Dax's Gidari chemical, along with a high dosage of stenacine and delactovine. She'd been poisoned. But this time, it was in the blood. They had a chance. "Nurse, let's start a transfusion."

Finally the overhead doors opened, and the runabout was cleared for launch. Kira waited for O'Brien to return, and the pad began to lift. She raised the Rio Grande smoothly off the pad and put her into position two hundred meters from the station.

"Okay," she said. "Let's see what we can do from up here." She activated the sensors and began a scan of the station. But a scan wasn't even necessary. O'Brien could see with his own eyes, through the main viewscreen, the explosion on the habitat ring. A viewport on level three flared a bright red and orange before it dulled and smoldered there.

"Deep Space Nine to Rio Grande," Mir's hurried voice broke through the silence as O'Brien watched.

Kira answered the call. "Lieutenant. Report. What happened down there?"

"No time for that, Major," Mir dismissed her. "Someone's taken over remote control of the runabout."

It was true. The Rio Grande had been holding position, but now, it began to move. It turned away from the station. Kira reached for the controls to block any signals from the station. But it was too late. O'Brien felt the calm tingling of the transporter and saw the transporter's shimmering curtain fall over Kira as well. The ability to move freely left him, and he watched Kira and the bright interior of the runabout disappear. And then through the glistening effect, he glimpsed the black, Cardassian corridors of the station they had just left.

Theel held the bomb as he appeared to pray to the Prophets. It was better this way, he thought, quick and painless, than to suffocate in the detention cell as Targo had done. And safer, too. Theel was not sure of his own strength. Would he talk? Would he tell them where to find Inara if they promised to save him? He'd always thought he would be strong enough, but now he wasn't sure.

But the bomb took all question of his courage away. He would not survive the blast. He could be sure of that. Arming the bomb and setting it to explode in five minutes, he forced his mind to turn away from his death and to look toward the Prophets. His life was over. He needed to find his center before the end came. He needed to be at peace.

As he found it, his sense of time faded away. It didn't matter anymore. Four minutes. Four seconds. It was all the same. Life. Death. There was no real difference. There was no sound, no sight, except the red blinking light that was visible through his closed eyelids. He could almost feel the presence of the Prophets with him there in the room. It comforted him. He would see them soon enough. The light became a solid red. The presence of the Prophets was nearer. It was time.

And in one instant, the bomb was thrown from his hands. Something like a blanket of water surrounded him. The bomb exploded, and Theel felt the fire, welcomed it. It would take him to the Prophets. So this is death, he thought. He'd hardly felt the pain. His body tingled, and his thoughts ceased.

But only for that instant. The tingling stopped, and the pain and burning returned. The blanket fell away and he opened his eyes to find himself kneeling not in the celestial temple with the Prophets, but in a brightly lit infirmary. His hands were burned nearly black. A form began to rise from the floor. As it rose, it took on a humanoid shape until Odo was standing in front of him. Small pieces of the bomb's casing lay at his feet.

It wasn't working. The transfusion wasn't helping the Bajoran woman. Her husband stood nearby, a pained and worried expression frozen on his face as he watched. His wife was dying. She had slipped into a coma soon after her husband had brought her in. Three other Bajorans and a human had arrived after her, all holding their abdomens. The last had barely been able to stand when he came to the door. All of them had the same symptoms. All of them had been poisoned, and all were now unconscious, slipping closer and closer to death.

Dr. Bashir was sure this time that the poison had been ingested. When two Klingons staggered into the Infirmary with the same diagnosis, Bashir began to suspect just where the poisoning had taken place. Bashir turned away from the computer to face the Bajoran woman's husband. "Where did you have lunch?" he asked.

The man didn't seem to hear. He was lost in his anxiety for his wife. Finally, the question seemed to sink in. He started, then answered, "Here, on the Promenade," as if he couldn't understand why the doctor had asked. "The Klingon place."

That made sense, since the two Klingons were sharing the woman's fate. But Bashir needed more information. "What did you eat?"

"Pipius claw," the man replied, "but only a little. I didn't like it. I was just trying it, something new."

"And your wife?" Dax asked.

"Gagh," he answered, making a face. "She loved it. But I can't eat something that's still moving."

"I'll go," Dax offered, reading Bashir's mind.

"Check everything," Bashir called after her as she ran out the door.

"Doctor?" the man asked, looking at Bashir for the first time since he brought his wife in, "she's going to be alright, isn't she?"

That's the one thing Bashir hated about being a doctor. How could he tell this man that his wife would die? He couldn't. "I'll do everything I can," he answered. At least that was an honest answer.

He just wasn't sure there was anything more he could do. Every simulation he ran through the computer came up negative. Stenacine, by its nature, was a rather dominant drug. Stimulants were unable to counteract it. Every treatment he could think of had no effect. The only hope was that the victims could outlast the effects. He needed to somehow keep them alive long enough for the stenacine to wear off. And with the amount they each had ingested, that would take days.

Meanwhile the monitors above the biobeds noted the slow but constant drop in neural activity. The neural stimulator caused a slight and only temporary rise in brain functioning. Thirty seconds later they were back where they started. Slowly shutting down. Dying.

A glimmering ghost of colored light manifested itself in the middle of the floor, and Bashir watched the apparition appear. As the transporter effect faded, a semi-transparent, golden liquid, like a curtain half the height of a man became visible. Odo. As soon as the transporter released them, Odo melted to the floor, and reformed, standing beside the kneeling man he uncovered.

The man was Bajoran, and he looked up with surprise, holding his burned hands in front of him as if he'd just been praying. His face was burned as well. "There's been another bomb," Odo said with obvious annoyance. "This man set it."

Bashir sighed. He didn't have time to deal with this. "And I've had six more poisonings," Bashir returned, hauling the frightened Bajoran to his feet. He sat him on a biobed and ran a scan for other injuries. The burns on his hands were bad, third-degree, those on his face were less serious. "Are you alright?" he asked Odo over his shoulder.

"I believe so. He's not to leave the Infirmary," Odo said, indicating the man. Then he called for a security officer to guard him. "Don't include him in your log for now, either. If he has accomplices, I don't want them to know he's here." A security officer entered, and Odo left without another word.

"What about my wife?" the husband asked. His face was a blend of worry, astonishment, and anger. "He's a terrorist. My wife is dying. He might have even done this to her."

"Mr. Jube, please," Bashir sighed. He was too tired for this. "I'm the only doctor on this station. I have to do my best for all the patients that come in here. No matter who they are or what they've done." Bashir said this even as he was treating the man's more serious burns. The man was lucky; he'd been brought here quickly. His skin could heal.

"Dax to Bashir."

Bashir touched his comm badge to answer the call. "Yes, Jadzia? Did you find it?"

"Yes, Julian. It's in the gagh. It's all dead now, Julian. I've checked everything else here, and talked to the proprietor. The two Klingons you've got did eat here, as well as the other Bajorans and Ensign Fromme. They all ate the gagh."

"Bring some of it to the Infirmary," Bashir suggested. "It might help." It can't make it any worse, he thought. Bashir left the terrorist to his nurse and returned to the computer.

He thought about the husband. He was tortured, standing there by his wife, waiting for her to get better. As much as Bashir wanted to console him, he needed to know the truth, to prepare for it. "Mr. Jube," he began, meeting him by the biobed, "I am going to do everything I can, but I think you need to know what we're up against." He took a breath and thought for a moment. He wanted to say this the right way and not sound cold or too exhausted to care. "Your wife has ingested four cc's of a drug called stenacine. It's an anesthetic. Four cc's is too much. Under normal circustances, Mr. Jube, she wouldn't have survived the first three minutes. She also ingested another drug which slows down the flow of blood. This is why she's still alive. It's slowed down the stenacine. This much stenacine has always proven fatal in someone with your wife's metabolism. But I'm going to do everything I can to change that."

Jube went back to his shocked and worried silence. He nodded but didn't say anything. Perhaps he felt that speaking would make it true, and he didn't want to believe that it was true. He didn't want to face that.

Dr. Grant sat on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa. He was wrapped in a blanket against the cold. His quarters weren't cold; he was. He had the chills. Maylon was right. Stenacine was addictive, and Dr. Grant knew that better than anyone. But he could no longer think about it objectively. The stenacine pushed the memories away. That was more important than anything else now. More important than his career and more important than his life.

He was ashamed. He had made a mess of his life. It was all too apparent now. That station, the dark, imposing, sinister-looking station had made it clear to him. Because on that station was everything he'd tried to hide or forget or run away from for the last quarter of a century. His son. And his son would not forgive him. Why should he?

Those memories haunted him, tortured him when he slept. The hypospray blocked out the memories and let him sleep in peaceful blackness. But being here, at this station, seeing his son, the memories had come to him even in the day. They seeped into his mind, taking over until he could no longer see the present. And then he needed the hypospray to push them away again. But that was getting dangerously close to an overdose. It didn't matter to him now.

Grant was beginning to feel everything slip away. He worried that he would lose everything he had. His career would be ruined, because of the legal problems that most likely would arise. He could lose his medical license because of his addiction. His children would abandon him out of anger and hurt. He would be a disgrace to his family. He could not imagine living that way. It was better to die, remembered as a loving father, a famous scientist, a good doctor. That was better than living as a disgrace.

But if Bashir would forgive him, release him from his guilt, he wouldn't be a disgrace. He could put it behind him. He had to call the children, tell them the truth. Then he would talk to Bashir again and try to make him understand what had happened, that it really wasn't his fault. He hadn't acted rationally, or even sanely, after the fire. There had been a rage inside him, not even so much at the boy, but at death. Death had taken Helen away from him. But the boy had lived.

It was not a trade Grant would have made voluntarily. If they had both died there in the house, everything would have been different. He could have grieved for them both without shame or guilt. And if Helen had not gone into the house after the boy, it could have been almost perfect. They would have been sad for a time, but they would have gotten through it. Together. That was the way it should have been, if one of them had had to die. Better, of course, if it had never happened at all.

If it had never happened, they'd all still be together. There'd be no grief, no sadness, no guilt, or shame. That would have been perfect. But now there was all of those things, and so many more. They were heavy things to carry around for so many years. And one way or another, they had to go.

Sisko watched stoically as the Teldarian ambassador stabbed the control in front of her, cutting off the transmission. Then he took a deep breath and braced himself for the next call. When it didn't come, he relaxed just a bit and rolled the baseball in his hands. Its round surface pressing against his palms and fingers had at least a slightly soothing effect. But he was still quite tense.

Twenty people dead in the last thirty-six hours. Six poisoning victims dying in the Infirmary. And the danger wasn't over. Two terrorists were among the dead. Another had been taken into custody. But O'Brien seemed sure that there was at least one more. The one who had the computer at his disposal. And the murders. The terrorist boy and four Bajorans in the Infirmary apparently confirmed Bashir's hypothesis that the murderer was not one of the Bajoran terrorists. But they were still no closer to catching him.

Calls had been pouring in since lunch from the Teldarians, the Klingons, the Bajoran provisional government. The Teldarians complained of the inadequate security on the station. The Bajorans wanted to know why Bajoran citizens were not being better protected. The Klingons, furious as they were over their crewmates poisoning, at least had had the consideration to aim their anger at the proper target. The Nej's captain had offered to help find the terrorists and/or the murderer and string them up on the Promenade as a deterent to others who might have similar ideas. Sisko had declined. He believed in his crew. They could defend this station. They would find the answers.

"Commander," a voice said over the comm line, "Captian Sanglin Nardek of the Gindarin insists that he speak to you."

What does he want? Sisko wondered. The Gidari had caused too much trouble themselves to bother with insisting on anything. "Put him through," Sisko said, putting the baseball back down on his desk. He sat up straighter and prepared himself for the next onslaught of accusations and demands.

Kira was surprised the hull had held together. The walls in Stirad's quarters were no longer there. They had been ripped apart by the blast, exposing the raw hull along the back. The quarters to the sides were both visible through the pieces of metal that hung from the torn ceiling. The viewport had been cracked, but it too had held. O'Brien had it sealed before anyone was allowed to enter the area.

The bomb Stirad had held in his hand was only one of several that were hidden in the quarters. That one caused the others to explode putting holes in the floors and ceiling and destroying everything Stirad and Lieutenant Mesil, the other occupant, had owned. Mesil was fortunately on duty. He wouldn't have survived if he'd been home. Stirad himself was only saved by Odo and the quick reflexes of Lieutenant Mir on the transporter. Kira hoped no one else had been home.

Kira wrinkled her nose. The smell of smoke was strong in the blackened room. She was turning black as well, crouching down toward the charred floor. Debris crunched under her feet whenever she shifted her balance. She was collecting fragments from the bombs.

"Major!" one of the officers called from the next room, if it could still be called that. It had been the quarters of Stirad's neighbors. The urgency in the woman's voice pulled Kira to her feet.

Kira stepped carefully but quickly across the floor toward where the officer was standing. Her boot got caught in a weak spot on the floor, and she twisted her ankle. The officer, a human, was looking frantically around the room. She held a tricorder in her hand. "I've got life-signs," she said.

Someone had been home. "Where?" Kira asked.

The woman studied the tricorder for a moment later and then answered, "There." She was pointing to a large lump of broken, burnt furniture, jagged metal, bits of walls and glass. Light rained down from the hole in the ceiling just above. "It's very faint."

Kira didn't have to say anything. They both ran toward the pile and began to throw the debris away. The officer set the tricorder on the floor. Kira could hear it beeping slowly and irregularly with the pulse of whoever was underneath the mess.

"My God!" the woman breathed. One soot-covered hand covered her mouth. "It's a child," she said. A small foot protruded from the mound. It twitched. She returned to her work, tossing the rubble aside.

The beeping from the tricorder came faster. The life-signs were stronger. Kira's anger was building as her hands dug into the still-warm debris. A child. How could they justify hurting children? It was so selfish. Stirad, if that was really his name, had been so intent on his own suicide. He didn't think what it would do to those around him. He wouldn't have even cared.

The pulse was too fast. It was racing. Kira tried to count it as she worked, but she lost her concentration. She could see the purple material of a little girl's dress. They were getting close. Then the beeping stopped. They froze, waiting to hear another beat. The tricorder was silent.

"We've got to get her out," the officer pleaded.

Kira nodded. They worked harder, uncovering an arm, a leg, the body. She was Bajoran and she was dead. She looked to be about seven years old.

The woman flopped down onto the floor and rested her head on one hand. She stared at the little girl, bloody and dirty, lying there among the rubble. "I have a little girl," she said.

Kira didn't say anything. She couldn't say anything. The human woman was shocked, saddened. Kira was furious and even more determined to find Stirad's partners. Stirad would pay for this. She tapped her comm badge. It chirped open. She leaned over the mess and gently lifted the girl up in her arms. "Two to transport," she said, "to the Infirmary." As she and the girl disappeared, she saw the human woman still staring at the place where the girl had lain.

Inara heard the whispers as she walked down the Promenade to the turbolift. Another bomb. On the habitat ring. Theel had been caught. It was the only explanation. He was about to be caught and took the quick way out. Her first thought was to think him a fool again. But maybe he was right in choosing that method over the security cell. The bomb probably destroyed any evidence that could tie him to her or the Elders. To the Prophets, Theel Vind, she thought, but you're still a fool.

The turbolift stopped, and she hurried to her quarters. She sighed and stretched her arms. It had been a long day at work. And boring too. There weren't that many customers after all that had happened. The poisonings after lunch had driven all but the most die-hard Promenade perusers back into their quarters behind locked doors.

Inara sat down and pulled the computer from its hiding place under her bed. When she switched it on, a message flashed on the screen telling her that the prefix code for the runabout Rio Grande had been accessed and utilized. So they'd tried the runabout. It was about time. She was surprised they hadn't tried it sooner.

But, of course, it was futile. She had thought of it first. The minute the pad began to lift, it triggered a simple batch file that would enter the prefix code that Theel had bought for whichever runabout was taken out. Once it had the prefix code, the computer would have control of its counterpart on the runabout. Any command for the station's tractor beam would be locked into a loop that would not be broken until the onboard crew was transported back to the station and the runabout was out of range. The runabout would be left derelict, orbiting the planet.

And it had all worked according to plan. Now to see about that bomb, Inara thought as she pulled up a display of the security files. Security estimated that at least four bombs had gone off in Lieutenant Stirad Vind's quarters destroying it and several neighboring quarters as well. Two deaths were reported. Stirad Vind was one of them. "To the Prophets," she repeated aloud.

But one disturbing thing remained. Theel had made a call before he set the bomb. He'd contacted those on the planet's surface. He was a fool. Odo had already traced the transmission. Inara doubted now that there would be anyone left to fight for by morning. The Elders themselves were in danger. They would follow Targo Kob's example. They would not betray their cause. The cause would die with them.

Inara felt the end of everything pulling close to her. Her quarters seemed cold and damp, but she knew that was just a reflection of what she was feeling on the inside. She felt sure then that she, too, would not be alive by morning. She felt alone. The end was coming, and she was alone. So be it. She would find Liian's killer, and she would end it, alone.

Theel Vind sat on the edge of the biobed, dangling his feet off the side. It was the only piece of furniture in the cubicle to sit on. In fact, there was nothing else in the cubicle at all. He held his hands gingerly in his lap. He was afraid to move them, afraid they might still hurt.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. He had failed. Odo had followed him after all. He was alive, and everything was in jeopardy. Oh, but what does it matter now? he thought. The Elders were gone. Targo Kob had died in custody, fulfilling his duty as his brother Hern had done here on the station. His wife, Dain, had followed him to the Prophets. That was the message he'd received in his quarters. The Movement was gone. Without the Elders to lead them, there was nothing left.

Nothing left but a life in prison. From his cubicle, Theel could see the security guard that stood at attention beside the door. He could also see the medical staff packing up another body, a Bajoran man. He saw Major Kira beam in with a little girl in her arms. The girl's arms hung limply toward the floor. Kira saw him, too. She looked at him angrily after she laid the girl down on a biobed. The doctor shook his head. The girl's skin was black with soot and smoke. Her dress was torn. The girl must have been dead. The doctor deactivated the biobed.

Theel waited to see if Kira would come to him. She talked to the doctor for a few moments. She was furious. But when she looked at him again, Theel thought she looked confident and maybe even triumphant. Why not? he thought. They had him. And there was nothing he could do. He had failed. And he was afraid. What would they do to him to make him talk? Would he talk? Would he betray Inara? She was the only hope now. She could still carry out their mission. The Elders may have been gone, but the Prophets were not. Bajor was not.

Kira walked toward him, and the door to his cubicle opened, allowing the sounds of the Infirmary to sweep in for a moment. A man was crying softly somewhere. The door closed, and the sound was abruptly cut off. Kira faced him from the door. "What's your name?"

Did she have to be so direct? he thought. She wasted no time. But he should have been moved to Security. "You know my name," he said, disappointed in his voice. It shook just a little. She would see his anxiety.

"For you, it's over," Kira stated, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want your real name."

Stall. He had to stall. They couldn't keep him in the Infirmary. His hands were better. They had to take him to Security. The program would take over then, and the poison would finish what Odo had interrupted. "What's over?" he asked, trying to appear confused.

She wasn't buying it. Her cool expression slipped, and her anger began to show again. "Give it up. Odo followed you to your quarters. We found the remains of four bombs in there. A Bajoran girl died because of those bombs. Did the Prophets tell you to kill that girl?"

"No," he said. And then he regretted it. He'd practically confessed with that one word. But then she was right. Odo had followed him. They already knew about him. Maybe it would be better if he did talk, but only about certain things. "They told me to kill myself," he admitted.

"How convenient," she snapped. "Your name."

That couldn't hurt. He'd be convicted of terrorism with or without his real name. "Theel."

Kira relaxed slightly. "Theel what?"

"Theel Vind."

"Who are you working with, Theel Vind?"

That would hurt. "No one," he said. It was the first answer he could think of. Sacrifice was what the bomb and the poison had been about. Perhaps he could sacrifice himself in a different way.

"Wrong answer."

"I work alone," he insisted, putting on his own confident air. Inside he trembled and hoped that she believed him.

"Wrong again." She turned away and paced a few steps along the cubicle's wall. "Let's start from the beginning. Which bombs did you set?"

"All of them," Theel held.

"Refresh my memory, please," Kira turned on him. Sarcasm sparked in her eyes and mocked him from her smile.

"I don't understand." He was stalling again, trying to make time to think of all the bombs.

"The first bomb," Kira clarified. "Where was it?"

Theel wanted to answer quickly, boldly. But he had to think, and it seemed to him a horribly long silence as he did so. "Uh . . . in Finley's quarters."

"When?"

"Two nights ago," Theel answered. He remembered seeing the reports on that one in Ops in the morning. He became more assured. He could remember them all. "The second and third were on the docking ring last night. The Teldarian ship at Docking Port 4. The fourth was here on the Promenade. I took out the Cardassian's shop. Then the cargo bay, the one with the bodies, this morning before lunchtime. Any other questions?"

"Yes," Kira answered, not impressed or shocked in the least. "If you set all the bombs, who was the boy we found dead in the Cardassian's shop yesterday morning with one of your bombs?"

The boy. He'd forgotten the boy. He had to be careful. "Just a boy. He had tried to stop me," Theel answered.

"And you killed him," Kira concluded. Theel nodded, and she asked, "With what?"

Theel didn't know. His breath stopped as he searched desparately in his memory for how Fin had been killed. Inara hadn't said. He hadn't seen the medical reports. He was only a technician. "A knife," he answered finally, thinking of the Ferengi. Everyone knew he'd been killed with a knife. But now he could be blamed for those murders as well.

"What kind of knife?"

"Huh?" Theel was confused.

"What kind of knife?" Kira repeated. "A knife for food, or a weapon? Was it ordinary or ceremonial? Klingon or Bajoran? What kind of knife?"

"A normal one," Theel said slowly. He didn't know. The Ferengi was killed at Quark's. Maybe it was a steak knife. "For food."

"The boy was not killed with a knife," Kira stated. "Try again. Who was he?"

Plan B? He had to think of a plan B. He had an idea. Kira had been in the resistance as well. She knew how such groups worked. "You're right. I wasn't working alone," he admitted. "The boy was with me. His name was Fin Liian. And Targo, too. You should know, Major, that we work in threes. Targo set the first bomb. The others were mine."

"And the computer?"

"I know my way around computers, Major," Theel replied arrogantly.

She didn't sound convinced. "Then how did you get security clearance?"

"Anything can be bought on this station," he said with contempt. That at least had been the truth. This was going too far though. If he wasn't careful, he'd give everything away, including Inara. He had to stop it. He had to get to Security. "If you plan to charge me with something, Major," he finally said, "then take me into custody properly. You can't keep me here. I have rights. And I want an advocate."

"An advocate can't help you now," she told him. "What about the Ferengi? Did you kill him?"

Theel opened his mouth to say no, but caught himself. "I won't say anything more to you without an advocate and proper charges."

"The Gidari? The captain of the Ranger?" She pointed to the Infirmary where a human woman was being put into a plastic bag and loaded onto a stretcher. "What about them? Did you poison them?"

Theel clenched his jaw tight. He had to keep quiet even if she thought he had done it. Bajorans had been killed by the poison. He wouldn't have done that. The little girl was an accident. Those things happened in the struggle for freedom. It was regrettable, but it really wasn't his fault.

Kira's jaws clenched, too. Then she said, "You will be charged. With terrorism, destruction of property, and murder. You'll be in detention soon enough." She turned on her heels and slipped out before the door had completely hissed open.

Theel blew his breath out and relaxed. His shoulders ached from the tension. He had sat so still, so rigidly, that his muscles ached. At least she was gone. Kira would return, he was sure. But for now Inara was safe to carry out their mission with or without the Elders for guidance.