Kira stood in front of a black screen. So far, she'd not had much luck. The security forces on the planet had picked up Targo Kob, but he'd died within thirty minutes. He had poisoned himself. Kira turned her attention to other things as she waited. "So what did he say?" she asked. There was only one other person in Ops at the moment, so she didn't bother to lower her voice.

"He got angry with me," Dax replied. "I don't think I had ever seen him angry like that. It shocked me. He was defensive and, well, mean. He said he didn't need my help or my concern."

"I think you're both right," Kira stated. "He is lying about Grant, but you're worrying about him too much. He's nearly thirty years old. He's old enough to live his own life. Besides," she said, "if you leave it alone, he'll probably come to you and then you won't have to worry anymore."

Just then her screen lit up brilliantly with words and a colorful picture of the young Bajoran they had found dead in Garak's shop that morning. "Got it!" she exclaimed.

Dax came over and stood beside Kira. "Fin Liian," Kira read aloud. She paraphrased the rest. "Age sixteen. Parents are dead. Last known residence: the Kendra Valley. No wonder he became a terrorist."

Dax nodded, and Kira continued. "And we have him registered here as Byela Liian living on Chamber 273 habitat level H3. He came to the station just two weeks ago. Well, let's inform his roommate of his death and see who we come up with."

She pressed a few colored lights on the console and a new face appeared on her screen. She read out the information there. "Fareed Taleyn. Age twenty-six. Blond hair, brown eyes. Arrived on the station four months ago. What's she doing living with a sixteen-year-old boy?"

"Are they related?" Dax suggested.

"Could be. They arrived separately, three and a half months apart. So they registered separately. Let's see." Kira tapped a few more colored panels on her console and pulled up more information. "Fareed requested living quarters. When Fin arrived, she requested that he share her quarters. They could be related. They've obviously known each other. If they are related, perhaps she's in on the attacks. We'll see when we talk to her."

The autopsy had taken much longer than the previous two. The victim was a sixteen-year-old boy with no known family. There was no one to object to a thorough examination, and the examination yielded a great deal more useful evidence than that of either the Ferengi or the Gidari. To start with, the body was about six and a half hours old. He had died approximately twenty minutes after the computer was shut down.

This time there had been a struggle, and Bashir was then able to more accurately piece together the events that led to the boy's death. The victim's face was bruised and his lip cut. His right knee was bruised front and back. Its tendons were stretched suggesting hyper-extension, which would explain the peculiar angle it had been lying in. The left knee was also bruised, but less seriously so. His back also bore several large bruises and one other, in the same position as the boy's twisted arm.

From that evidence, Bashir determined that the boy had been hit in the face and perhaps knocked to the ground by a blow to the knee. He had fought back, bruising his own knee in the process. But in the end, he had ended up face down with his arm twisted behind him and pushed down hard on his back. The murderer had perhaps been kneeling on the boy's back.

But the knife wound from that position was not likely. It would have been brought down onto the victim's neck. As it was, it was inserted into the brain, under the skull, from a point just below and in front of the left ear. The knife's wide blade had made a long wide wound such as one would expect from a stabbing. But the direction of the wound--diagonally up and to the right--and the force that would have needed to be applied suggested that the murderer had been positioned above the victim's head and had pulled the knife back toward himself. The boy had already been dead.

By closer examination of the knife wound, Bashir found a triangular swath of burned flesh and brain matter. The burn-line reached into the brain at roughly the same direction as the knife but about four inches farther. At one edge of the burn, a razor-thin, perfectly straight line of scorched matter was evident, stretching the entire nine inches and to the laceration on the boy's right temple. But from the point at the neck the burn widened and ended in an arc of 2.7 inches.

Bashir thought for a moment, puzzling over the evidence. But it only took him a minute. The answer lay just within his reach. Literally. Laser scalpel. A laser scalpel would have cut precisely, and, at a high enough intensity, would have burned the flesh and brain as it did so. It could be limited to a given length, in this case, nine inches. This explained the nine-inch line at the edge of the burn. The widening of the burn suggested that the scalpel was tilted, creating an arc, after insertion. The less serious burn here meant that it was a quick movement, a mere flick of the wrist. The left wrist if the murder was positioned on the victim's back.

Bashir was convinced that there was only one murderer, discounting, of course, Tsingras's death. The Gidari had been strangled, his knife stolen and used to kill the Ferengi. The same knife had then been used in an attempt to disguise the real cause of the Bajoran's death. But there was no real connection between the victims except the circumstances of their murders. There was no known motive. The murderer was, it seemed, a psychopath. But the laser scalpel and the steady hand that had held it, that was even worse. The murderer knew medicine.

Bashir felt betrayed. Medicine was his life, his reason for being. It was a part of him. It disgusted him to think that someone else didn't take it as seriously as himself. Someone else, vowed to uphold its values same as he was, had committed three meaningless murders. Someone else had ended lives he should have been sworn to protect.

The identity of the murderer was still not quite within reach. There were fifteen medical personnel assigned to the station. There were certainly a number on board the USS Ranger. There was also others on board the station who were not crew-members who had medical experience and perhaps access to medical equipment. In addition there were possible suspects on the various ships docked at the station.

Further examination of the body and clothes of the victim produced no further evidence. Bashir assumed the murderer was wearing gloves again and possibly the stolen Gidari cloak as well.

It had been discovered that all of the added Security had been recalled from their posts on the Promenade, probably by the Bajorans. The Bajoran terrorists, by interfering, had inadvertently aided in their comrade's death. That is, if they hadn't wanted him dead.

Inara just couldn't go out. She knew she should. She should not appear to be waiting for news of Liian. It had been a mistake, she decided now--though she'd known it before--to share quarters with him. She'd tapped into Security's computer and knew they'd found him. She knew they had found his real name. Strange that the records on the planet hadn't been changed. They knew he was one of the "radicals" that were attacking the station. And if she were found here, worrying and pacing the floor, she could be linked to his activities and the whole thing could fall apart. If, of course, he hadn't already told them.

At that moment the door chimed to announce visitors. Security, she thought, and a wave of panic rushed through her body. Then she laughed. She laughed hard, a laugh that comes from deep inside the spirit. It didn't last long, but it refreshed her, removed the wrinkles from her forehead. Then she answered the door.

Two people stood on the other side of the door. One was a woman, stern and serious, with short red hair. The other was a man, tall and without defined features. He looked like a clay sculpture of a man, and she knew right off who he was. Everyone knew that the head of Security for the station was a shapeshifter. Inara smiled the wide, natural smile that is left over from laughter.

"Fareed Taleyn?" the woman asked.

Inara let her smile fade. The woman's voice was as serious as her expression. He's dead, she thought. But she wouldn't let herself feel the pain, not yet. She had to play her part. She filled her mind with confusion, wrinkling her forehead just slightly again. "Yes," she said, and the word was long and drawn out, providing as much a question as an answer. "Please come in." She was smiling again, but this was the smile of a hostess, not the spontaneous smile of laughter.

Inara turned, and the two followed her into her quarters. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you," the woman answered. "Miss Fareed," she began, "I'm Major Kira, and this is Chief of Security Odo." She held out a data PADD. "Do you know this man?"

Inara took the PADD and looked at the picture. It was Liian, but she felt nothing. She would wait. "Yes," she answered. "He lives here. His name is Fin Liian. Why do you ask?"

The major looked just a little shocked. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Our records contain a different name."

"Yes, I'm sure," Inara stated confidently. "I've known him for nearly six years. Why would he be listed under a different name? Has he done something wrong? Has something happened to him?"

"He's been killed," the shapeshifter spoke. "How did you know him?"

The answer didn't touch her. That would come later, as well. "Killed?" She sat down. "I met him in the camps," she said. "He was so young and confused. His parents had been killed. He had no family. He was stubborn and independent. But I made sure he didn't starve. I guess, I wanted something to take care of. It was important to me then, when it seemed we had control over nothing in our own lives. What happened?"

"We are investigating that now," the woman said. "We can only reveal that information to family."

Inara nodded, but didn't allow the confusion to fall from her countenance. "Can I see him?"

"I'm afraid not. We're conducting an autopsy to try to find who did this."

Inara nodded again and stood, handing the data PADD back to the major. "Can you tell me," she asked, "if he was one of them?" She carried a hint of naive enthusiasm in the last word.

"One of them?" Major Kira asked as they walked out the door.

"One of the terrorists."

"I can't tell you anything at the moment."

The turbolift that Dr. Bashir had taken had jerked to a stop once along the way, and he had been greatly relieved when it moved again after only a few seconds. But he stepped off quickly before it had completely stopped level with the floor in Ops. Ops was just as noisy as his Infirmary had been earlier that morning. Engineers in various uniforms were working at nearly every station, trying to repair all the systems and keep them up.

Dax looked up at him and smiled, causing a wave of guilt to flash through Bashir's body for the way he'd treated her the night before. "Is Commander Sisko in?" he asked.

She didn't answer but nodded before returning to her work. Bashir stepped up toward the prefect's office that overlooked the rest of Ops and pressed a pad that should have alerted Sisko to his presence outside the door. But it didn't ring, so he knocked. The door opened.

Sisko sat behind his large desk. Kira and Odo stood in front of it. All looked at him expectantly. "I've got the autopsy report," Bashir said, letting the doors close behind him.

Sisko nodded but held up a hand to tell the doctor to wait.

Kira continued, "Her story checks out. She was a nurse at the Koalin Sin Orphanage that was destroyed during the occupation. All of the children were sent to the mines. She ended up in the camps."

"A nurse?" Bashir asked. "Who?"

Sisko ignored his interruption but his eyes showed his displeasure. "What is she doing on the station?" Sisko asked.

"She's an assistant in a jewelry shop," Odo answered. "She has no prior record and is well-recommended by her employer."

Sisko leaned back in his chair. His face was sour. "O'Brien thinks he can tag the terrorists when they connect to the computer."

"Yes," Kira answered. It was their best hope yet in catching the Bajorans. "They shouldn't be able to detect it. We'll have to let them take the computer down, though. And we know they must be residents on the station as Fin Liian was. There was a turbolift operational for one hour last night, and it ran to the habitat ring."

Sisko nodded. "Doctor?" he asked, impatiently.

"The Bajoran wasn't killed by the knife." Bashir handed him a PADD. "It was only meant to look that way. He was already dead by then." Bashir took a deep breath and added, "He was killed by a laser scalpel inserted into the brain."

Sisko had been scanning the PADD for information, but he looked up at the doctor then. "Whose technology?"

"I can't be sure without seeing the instrument itself."

"None were found at the scene. Is anything missing from the Infirmary?"

Bashir shook his head. But that didn't rule out his own staff. He would not normally have suspected them, but they'd all learned something from Chief O'Brien's former assistant Neela. Religious faith could be a stronger tie than professianalism or even friendship. A scalpel could have been used and replaced. The whole situation made him feel sick. He actually felt guilty. It was as if he'd discovered that a member of his fraternity had committed a horrible crime. Medical personnel, especially doctors, were a fraternity of sorts. They were linked together by the demanding job they did and the commitment to help the sick.

"Could someone have gotten access to medical equipment during the Bajoran attacks on the station?" Sisko pressed.

"No, I don't think so. Except for my staff. The Infirmary is always manned." Bashir realized that he didn't sound very confident. But Kira seemed to agree.

"Even the Infirmary's doors were malfunctioning this morning. Only the terrorists themselves seem to have been able to move about freely during those times."

"And it's unlikely that they would have killed their own man," Sisko agreed, "just before he was about to carry out his duty. So we're looking at medical personnel."

It hurt just the hear it. "Perhaps," Bashir said. "But there's also the possibility of others with prior medical experience."

"Like former nurses," Sisko concluded. "I want a list of everyone with medical experience who has been on this station in the last four days," Sisko said with an air of finality. Kira started to turn for the door.

"It's there," Bashir said, pointing at the PADD. Kira returned to the desk. "I've also asked the Ranger's Chief of Security for information on their crew."

"How many people are we talking about?" Kira asked.

"Twenty-six registered as residents or visitors of the station," Bashir answered, "plus those aboard the Ranger. Also there are eighteen on the various other ships docked since the first Bajoran attack."

"Well that's narrowed it down at least." Sisko looked down at the PADD again.

"I think we can narrow it down a little more," Bashir suggested. "The evidence indicates a left-handed person. And a left-hander also killed the Ferengi with the Gidari's knife and cloak."

"That'll help. We still can't rule out the terrorists," Kira said. "Perhaps they felt the boy couldn't be trusted. By killing him before the bomb went off, and by placing the note at the scene, they could have made him look like the victim of vigilantes."

Sisko nodded without looking up. "Doctor, you could help Security check out these names. Find out who they are, where they got their experience, what their records are, and if they're left-handed." He looked up. "Major, you might want to take a closer look at Miss Fareed. And patch me through to Starfleet Command."

Maylon stepped lightly through the doors of the sickbay, and Dr. Pynar looked up at him from the terminal where she sat. But Maylon didn't see her. He was deep in thought, and her voice startled him.

"Where did you go for lunch?"

"Uh, Quark's, on the station," he answered. "But I don't know if you can really call it lunch. It's still quite early. Perhaps brunch is a better word. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, I just thought you might find it safer here on the ship," she said, and Maylon knew she was referring to the damage wreaked by the Bajorans on the station during the night.

"Oh, I don't know," Maylon replied. "They were here last night, too, and they've done something. We just don't know what. Maybe they've contaminated our replicators. Who knows?"

Pynar didn't speak for a moment, and Maylon felt that maybe he'd spooked her. "Well," he added, "they could have done the same to the station. And I haven't heard of anyone dying yet. There haven't even been any patients."

Pynar was quiet when she spoke again. "I don't understand why they didn't bomb us last night. We're the ones they warned about their temple."

"Maybe they're still planning it. Or maybe they can't. That was just one bomb last night, and it was too small to do much to us. And we have guards at the airlock."

"They don't do much good, do they? They have to be using transporters to get on and off like they do."

After more silence, Maylon spoke up, "Well, you should go and get something to eat. Don't worry about it. Let Security do that. Just be careful."

Pynar nodded and rose from her chair. "I don't think I'll go to the station though."

Maylon smiled and watched her leave, taking the seat she'd left. He didn't want to tell her what he'd found out from the Ferengi boy. She wouldn't have wanted to hear about the murders. Two more during the night, and one was a terrorist. He'd had a bomb. Some of the Bajorans suspected the Cardassian clothier. But the Ferengi boy's uncle believed otherwise. The boy seemed to put a lot of stock in what his uncle thought.

There was also a rumor that the Gidari had carried out the other murder, by poisoning. Maylon marvelled at the Ferengi's ability to gather such detailed information. And it made him despise them even more. The boy had not seemed overly concerned about the deaths of the two station residents, but was only worried about the money he received for his services. And, no doubt, his access to such information was not wholly of a legal nature. But Maylon didn't ask those questions.

Maylon had looked for the Bajoran woman, Taleyn. Inara Taleyn. She'd lied about her name. Just like them, he thought with a smirk. They're so untrusting, those Bajorans. And untrustworthy. She hadn't shown up at Quark's during his break. He decided he'd check again in when he was off duty.

The medical computer, as all the others, seemed unaffected by their unwelcome visit the night before. Maylon used the computer to run simulations on the reactions of certain drugs on the systems of different species. Stenacine was first on his list. He'd found Grant's hypospray in the scientist's quarters after his collapse at dinner.

Grant had been one of a team of scientists who had developed it in 2353 as a universal anesthetic. It was quite potent. Undiluted, it was also quite dangerous. It could, with a large dose, effectively shut down the cognitive functions of the human brain in two point seven minutes, inducing a permanent comatose condition and, eventually, death. But given in smaller concentrations, it had proven useful and safe in surgery and as a calming agent for violent mental patients. And its effects dropped off in efficiency when mixed with other drugs. At seven micrograms, added to the morning medication, an unsuspecting mental patient would fall asleep peacefully in the evening, nearly thirteen hours later.

The dosage and concentrations Grant had last used was enough to induce a dreamless sleep in three and a half minutes. It was harmless . . . if used only once or twice. But from Maylon's examination of Dr. Grant, he could tell that the scientist had become addicted, raising his tolerance level. The last dose had been taken in the afternoon and Grant was awake for dinner. The effects, which should have had a duration of seven hours, had only lasted three. Using this as a guide, Maylon determined that Grant had been using the stenacine for nearly five years.

Stenacine did have side effects for a very small percentage of people, as well, approximately one-tenth of one percent. These people might suffer hallucinations and black outs. One reported case, after being given a dose half the amount of Grant's, had gone to sleep in New York City on Earth. When he awoke, he found himself in a prison in Kansas City, half a continent away, accused of rape and murder.

The door opened, and when Maylon saw who entered, he instinctively arose and stood at attention. "Good morning, Captain," he said. If this is some kind of inspection . . ., he thought. Maylon hadn't liked the captain since Gerin had dressed him down his first day on duty for not coming to attention when he entered and for eating while on duty in an empty sickbay. Gerin ran what was commonly called a tight ship, and Maylon didn't relish the idea of spending the next five years with him in the Gamma Quadrant. And Maylon hated the idea that Starfleet had had the audacity to promote an Ekosian to such a high rank, considering the past of his race.

The captain didn't answer but nodded. His eyebrows were drawn together over his eyes and his lips were set tightly. His left hand firmly held his right. But his voice did not reveal his pain. "I think I've broken my hand, Doctor."

Maylon relaxed his stiff posture and led Captain Gerin to one of the biobeds and began to examine his hand. It was indeed broken. There were two fractures, the first right behind the knuckle of his little finger. The side of his hand was badly bruised, too. "How did this happen?" Maylon asked, and added, as an afterthought, "sir."

"I became angry," the captain answered.

"At who?" Maylon's voice was quiet, and he hadn't meant for the captain to hear him. But the captain's eyes raised from his injured hand to meet the doctor's. There was steel in his gaze. Maylon flushed and turned all his attention to his work.

"At the replicator in my office," Gerin replied. "It wasn't working properly and became very annoying."

Maylon looked up. "The replicator? Do you think the Bajorans tampered with it?"

"That is a matter for Engineering to fix and Security to find out. It is not a concern of yours." There was a hard edge in the captain's voice, too. But when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "All other replicators have checked out. You have nothing to worry about."

Maylon nodded and continued his work. When he had set the bones and knitted them back together again, he told the captain to wait and he'd give him something for the pain. A very light dosage would suffice, and his hand would be as good as new in a day or two. "Until then," he said, placing a hypospray to the captain's shoulder, "go easy on that hand."

"Thank you, Doctor," Gerin said as he stood up.

Maylon sighed when he had gone and sat down carefully into his chair. His hand shook just slightly as he reached forward to record the treatment in the Medical Log.

Commander Sisko stared hard at the communications viewscreen on his desk. "You mean we're just going to let them go?"

"Commander, this is a very delicate situation." Admiral Nechayev stated. The admiral was a stern woman with a strong face and graying hair. "In the first place, it was a religious ritual. We cannot interfere with that."

"Not even when it kills our crewmen?" Sisko interrupted her angrily.

"Secondly," she began again, more firmly, "they are an unknown. We don't know their strengths, their weaknesses, anything about them. Is it worth insulting them and risking a war by trying to put them on trial? And are you willing to risk another member of your crew?"

Sisko was silent.

"Who would you put on trial? The only way you could single anyone out would be to admit that your doctor saw them. If they killed Ensign Tsingras for finding a dead Gidari, what would they do to your doctor for seeing four live ones and their most sacred ritual?"

She didn't wait for Sisko to answer. "We cannot risk a war with an unknown foe at this time. As it is we have the Maquis problem in your area as well as the Romulans and Cardassians."

Her voice softened. "I am sorry about your Ensign. And I don't envy you your duty in informing his family. But the fact remains. The Gidari are not to be prosecuted. Make them leave the station and tell them they are not welcome in Federation territory at this time, if you wish. But let Tsingras go."

Sisko swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Nechayev out."

The screen went blank, and Sisko leaned back in his chair. He took the baseball from his desk and rolled it in his hands. Then he stood and walked to the door. It opened smoothly before him, but he didn't even notice. "Major," he said and waited for Kira to look up. "Contact Captain Nardek, on screen."

Kira nodded and after a delay of nearly thirty seconds, the Gidari captain's hooded head appeared on the viewscreen.

"Commander," Nardek acknowledged.

"Captain." Sisko tried to keep his voice even, covering up the anger he felt and the shame. "Starfleet Command has decided, in the interest of our continued relations, not to proceed with the investigation of Ensign Tsingras's death."

Nardek did not speak.

"However," Sisko continued, "I will have to insist that your ship leave the station."

"We are not yet prepared to leave. As you said before, 'the matter is not over.' We cannot leave our crewman behind on your station."

Sisko was confused. "What crewman?"

"Harglin Nastrof."

"Mr. Nastrof's remains were returned to you," Sisko returned.

"We cannot leave any part of our crewman behind. There is still the matter of the genetic material. We will leave when we have all of Nastrof's remains and not before." The captain abruptly ended the communication.

Kira had kept silent during the communication, but Sisko could see that she was fuming. "They're just going to let them kill one of your crewmen and fly away like it was nothing?"

Sisko didn't face her. "Major," he snapped, "it is necessary to think of more than just Ensign Tsingras. A conflict with the Gidari is something this station is not ready for and something the Federation is not willing to risk. I have my orders. The Gidari are not to be prosecuted at this time. Please, make sure that Doctor Bashir gets that information." He turned to walk back to the solitude of his office. But he would find no comfort there either. "And get me through on subspace to Tsingras's family."

Kira nodded, and Sisko disappeared behind his office doors. There were also half a dozen calls waiting for him from the ships docked at the station. Sisko wouldn't be in a good mood today.

Doctor Alexander Grant wrung his hands continually as he walked down the bright corridors of the Ranger. His heart raced and sweat dripped into his eyes from his forehead. He almost turned around when he stepped into the gloomy airlock of Deep Space Nine. But there were guards there at the door watching him. Besides, he had decided to go, good or bad. He said, "Good morning," and stepped by as calmly as possible.

He was going to talk to his son. He still half-hoped that he was wrong and that Dr. Bashir was just an antisocial young doctor who felt threatened by Grant's celebrity. He'd checked the adoption records in the morning though, and he knew he was right. The other half of him desperately clung to that and to the idea that his son would forgive him for what he'd done.

Grant got in the turbolift and was about to announce his destination, when he realized he didn't know where Bashir would be. Most likely the sickbay. No, he had called it the Infirmary. "Take me to the Infirmary, please."

The computer's voice calmly replied, "The Infirmary is not a proper destination. Please supply a proper destination."

"Where is the Infirmary?"

"The Infirmary is located on the Promenade."

"Then take me to the Promenade, please." Grant was pleased when the turbolift began to move. It was slower than the lifts on the Ranger, and Grant paced the floor as he waited for it to come to a stop. The doors opened on a bright and busy shopping area. He began to walk, not knowing in which direction to find the Infirmary. He passed shop windows lined with jewelry, pottery, and clothes. There were kiosks and restaurants selling everything from Bajoran foods to Klingon. But he didn't find an Infirmary.

Grant had also noticed the presence of security officers, some dressed in the black and gold of Starfleet, others in beige Bajoran uniforms. They stood like statues at intervals of one hundred meters, suspiciously eyeing everyone who crossed their paths. Grant stopped next to one. "In which direction might I find the Infirmary?"

The Bajoran officer looked at him, his steely gaze melting into concern. "Are you sick? Do you need assistance?" he asked.

"No, no. I'm fine," Grant answered, nearly stammering. His nervousness had grown more acute because of the delay. "I just wish to speak to the doctor."

"You don't need any help?" the officer asked. His voice carried suspicion, and Grant grew more nervous, causing more suspicion on the part of the officer.

"No," Grant tried to assure him. "I'm a doctor myself. I merely wish to speak with my colleague."

The officer continued to look at him in a disbelieving way, but then pointed off to the left, in the direction Grant had been going. "It's about seventy meters down on your left."

Julian Bashir again sat alone in the Infirmary, and he was glad of the quiet there. He had been reading names of medical personnel and medical schools for the last hour, cross-referencing them with criminal records and psychological examinations. He had received the information on the Ranger's crew and added seven more names to his list. So now he had a total of sixty-one names, including members of his own staff. So he had been tying up the subspace lines, now that subspace was fully operational, calling medical schools all over Alpha Quadrant checking credentials.

One had particularly caught his attention for the simple reason that he was so hard to track down. It was a Bajoran man, eighty-eight years of age, named Figin Hern. His records indicated that he had attended, before the Cardassian occupation, a medical school that no longer existed. All records were seemingly irretrievable. But Bashir had managed to find the president of the medical school, an old man nearly 120 years old. And the old man had had books. Books!

They were real paper and binding books, like one would see in museums back on Earth, ones like Bashir's mother had read to him so long ago. These books had been buried under the old man's house. After the liberation, he had them dug up again in the hopes of re-opening the school. They were yearbooks containing all the names of all the students of the school. The old man had promised to call back when he'd found Figin's name.

Bashir was about to take a break for lunch when the door opened. He turned to see Dr. Grant standing in the doorway. For a moment, Bashir didn't move. He'd gotten so wrapped up in the murders that he had let himself forget about Grant and the dinner the night before.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Grant asked.

Bashir recovered and took in the man's appearance, remembering the collapse after dinner. Grant's eyes were bloodshot. He was sweating and clutching his hands together. "Are you feeling well?" Bashir asked, ignoring Grant's question. "Did Maylon let you go?"

"Yes," Grant answered. His voice was not the confident, self-assured voice of the Grant that had been at the Replimat the day before. "I'm fine. I . . . I wanted to speak to you."

Warning signals sounded in Bashir's head. "Well, I was about to go--"

"Please," Grant implored. "Please, I need to talk to you. I need to ask for your forgiveness."

Fire flared in Bashir's heart at that. He stood. Damn right you do, he thought. But he played dumb, hoping that Grant would give up and leave. "Forgiveness?" he asked, filling his voice with innocence. "You became ill last night. That's nothing that requires forgiveness." He turned away, pretending he had work to do.

Grant looked crest-fallen, but he didn't leave. "You're my son," he blurted out, and the suddenness and directness of the statement took Bashir by surprise.

He didn't know how to respond. He wanted to deny it.

But Grant didn't bother to wait for a response. He stepped out of the doorway, letting the door close behind him. "I know who you are. I know why you've behaved so badly towards me. You're my son. You were born in November, twenty-nine years ago. It was a rainy day. Your name is Julian Grant."

Bashir turned around slowly. There was acid in his quiet, even voice when he spoke. "My name," he said, "is Julian Bashir."

"I know who you are!" Grant repeated. "I'm your father."

"You are not my father," Julian seethed, giving in. "You stopped being my father twenty-five years ago."

"I know." Grant let his eyes fall toward the ground in shame. "What I did was wrong. I know that now. But I can explain."

"Explain?! You took my life away, and you can explain?!"

"I didn't!" Grant denied. "You've had a good life. I saw to that, and then your new family did. You went to the best schools. You were adopted by good people. You became a doctor."

"But it shouldn't have happened. I should have had your family. I should have grown up with my brother and sister. I should have known my grandparents. You took all that away."

"You were so young, you can't remember what it was like. Your mother died--"

"I remember," Julian said, interrupting Grant, "my mother died trying to save me. And you threw away what she gave her life for."

"If she hadn't gone back. . . ." Grant stopped mid-sentence. His face flushed and he turned away. He didn't speak for a moment. When he turned back to face Bashir, his voice was quieter. "I . . . I couldn't think right after it happened. I was at the hospital with you, and I just decided--I don't know why--to tell everyone that you'd died, too."

But Julian had heard only the first part. "If she hadn't gone back, what?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"If she hadn't gone back, what?" Bashir insisted.

"I didn't mean that," Grant cowered. He stepped back until he bumped into the computer console. His eyes darted from one side to the other, like a trapped animal.

"WHAT?" Julian pressed.

"I'd still have her!" Grant screamed back, but then his eyes dropped to the floor in shame. He lowered his voice again. "The way it stands, I lost you both."

"You blame me for her death?" Julian asked. It was surprising, but then, that made more sense than anything.

"No."

"You do." Bashir was indignant, but he kept his composure. "You blame me."

"I did blame you," Grant explained. "I don't anymore."

"I was four years old. How could you blame me?"

"I just couldn't think straight, not about you. Losing her, I thought I'd lost everything."

"But if I burned to death, that was alright?" Julian retorted, without raising his voice.

"No," Grant replied. "No, it was not alright. I can't explain it to you. When she went back into the house, I just snapped. You were too young to remember, but--"

But he did remember. He remembered too much sometimes. "I remember the pain. I remember your hands squeezing my arms, shaking me. I remember your face, your eyes, the hatred in your voice. I remember everything."

Grant couldn't speak. "How can I say I'm sorry?" he asked finally.

"You can't," Julian answered.

"Please, I . . . I just snapped," Grant pleaded. "After a while I realized what I'd done, that I'd been wrong. I need your forgiveness. It has been torturing me for years. I can't sleep at night without seeing your mother, without seeing you, without wondering about your life."

"That isn't my fault," Bashir said coldly. "You brought that on yourself."

"If I could change it all, I would," begged Grant. "It was too late, even then. I didn't know where to find you. And--"

"You didn't look hard enough." Bashir accused.

"And," Grant continued. "I couldn't just tell everyone the truth. It hadn't been easy for them either. They thought you had died all those years ago. I thought you'd forget, too. You were so young."

"I have an exceptional memory," Bashir replied. He wanted to end this. "You want my forgiveness? Then you tell my brother and sister what you've done. You give me back my family. Give me back my life." He knew it was too much to ask. And he wasn't even sure he could forgive Grant if he did tell George and Elizabeth the truth.

"I can't do that." Grant was nearly crying. "It took years for George to recover from the shock completely. He has a family now. And Elizabeth? Elizabeth's never known you. I can't tell her now."

"Then I can't forgive you."

"Please," Grant implored, "you can't ask that of me. I'd lose everything."

"I already have," Bashir contended. "You want my forgiveness, so you can have your happy life back. But I get nothing. The same as before. Well, the answer's no. You're a selfish old man, and I hope it tortures you forever."

"I beg you, don't do this to me, please."

"To you?" Julian was incredulous, but it felt good to watch Grant cower weakly. "I'm doing this to you?"

"Please, you're my son. I love you."

"You don't even know me!"

"I'm your father." Grant was practically groveling.

"You're not!" Bashir argued.

"I am. I was there the day you were born. I was there when you first learned to walk, when you said your first word. I was so proud of you. I'm proud of you now."

"You have no right!" Bashir thundered, and the weight and power of his voice froze even Grant's breath. Everything seemed to rush out of him in a torrent. "You have no right to be proud of me. Everything I've done has been without you. I grew up without you. I graduated from school without you. I got into the Academy without you and medical school without you. And I became a doctor without you. Those are my accomplishments. They are mine! You have no claim to them! They are mine! You gave all that up a long time ago.

"I waited for you," he continued. "I waited for you for weeks to come and get me at the hospital or to come visit me at school. I waited for years. But you didn't come. You never came."

"I wanted to," Grant said meekly.

"That's not enough!"

"It's all I have," Grant insisted. "You loved me before. Isn't there any of that left?"

"Anything I felt for you died the day you buried me!" Julian accused, pointing at Grant. He was consumed with anger, with hatred, with everything he'd ever felt about Grant. His whole body shook with it.

"Y-you know?" Grant stuttered. Grant shook for other reasons. He was broken, merely a shell of himself. He had become a weak, old man. "I'm sorry," was all he could manage to say, but even then it was just a whisper.

"You're a liar," Bashir pressed. "You always were. I want nothing more to do with you. Get out of my Infirmary."

Grant stood for a moment, visibly searching for words, but he could no longer face Bashir's anger. He turned to go, his shoulders hunched. In his haste to leave he ran into Jake Sisko and nearly knocked the boy down.

Julian sat down, buried his face in his hands, and tried to calm himself down. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the heat in his face. He took a deep breath and then stood up again to face the boy. Jake stood in the doorway with his eyes wide and questioning.

"What's wrong, Jake?"

"Uh, nothing," Jake answered as he glanced back out the door. "I was supposed to come back. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just tired. You were supposed to come back?" Bashir honestly couldn't remember.

"My elbow?" Jake hinted. "The nurse said to come back."

"Oh yes," Bashir said, remembering Jake's cut and Nog's predicament after their adventure in the lower levels. "I'm sorry, Jake. I didn't mean to forget. It's been rather crazy around here. Come sit down, and let's have a look." He led the boy to a biobed.

Jake hopped up and raised his sleeve. Bashir scanned his elbow. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"Fine now," Jake answered. "It kind of hurt last night though when Dad made me do my homework."

Julian let himself chuckle just a little at that. It felt good to smile, to feel his muscles relax a little. "I'll bet. But that was probably writer's cramp. It looks fine."

Jake pulled his sleeve back down and slipped off the biobed. "Who was that man? Was he sick?"

"He was no one," Julian replied. "Don't hang around on the Promenade today, okay? It's not safe."

Jake still looked puzzled but he nodded. When the door opened for him to leave, Julian could see Nog waiting on the other side of the corridor.

Inara's cheeks were streaked with red and her eyes swollen when Targo Hern came to her door. "You've been crying," he said, stepping inside. There was compassion in his voice. "They've found him?"

Inara's answer was direct. "He's dead." Her tears were gone, but an emptiness remained inside her stomach. It was a familiar feeling. She'd felt it for weeks when she'd lost her parents and for months when she'd lost her brother. Liian's death left her feeling drained and alone. And angry.

Targo did not openly react. His face was carved in stone. He sat down at the table. "Did they examine the body?"

"Why? Are you afraid they'd find something?" Inara was aware of the accusing tone she used, but she couldn't stop it. "Yes, they examined the body. And they've found his real name. How did they find that?"

Inara hoped to see some reaction in the old man. Offended dignity, defensive surprise, anything that would prove to her that he didn't have something to do with Liian's death. But his face remained calm, his eyes held hers steadily. "I don't know," he answered. "The records should have been changed."

"Well, they weren't. That could have jeopardized everything." She turned away from him, escaping his searching gaze.

"Your living with him could've jeopardized everything," Targo argued.

"I know that." She matched his quietness in her reply.

"We still have work to do," he said. It was a reminder, as if she'd forgotten.

She could no longer hold back. She turned to face him. "I have given my life to our cause, everything I have! Do the Elders doubt my devotion as well?"

"Of course not. But we cannot let our grief delay our operations. Liian is in the hands of the Prophets. We must look forward, not back."

Inara took a deep breath and sat down across from him at the table. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry." But, she thought, if you caused his death, I'll send you to the Prophets to meet him.

"Ops to Doctor Bashir." Kira's voice interrupted Julian's thoughts. To try to put his mind back on his job he'd been sorting out the right-handed and left-handed people on his list of suspects. Left-handers were a minority, which left him with only seventeen names, including two of his med-techs, Nurse Jabara, Maylon, Doctor Pynar, Doctor Grant, and Figin Hern among others.

"Bashir here."

"There's a communication for you from the planet from Doctor Jara Rune."

"Thank you." In a moment the old man's face appeared on Bashir's communications viewscreen. "Hello Doctor Jara," he said, smiling politely. "Thank you for calling."

"Well, I'm afraid I may not be able to help you much." The old man's voice was still strong and youthful. "There's been no Figin Hern."

That peaked Julian's interest. Figin Hern must have falsified his records. The old man was opening one of the old books. Its cover was torn and dusty, and the pages were threatening to fall out.

"I did find a picture though," Dr. Jara continued. He held up the book. "Does this look like your man? I realize he'd be much older now."

"Just a moment," Bashir said and reached for the console of his computer. He pulled up the current picture of Figin Hern from the station's records. "What year is that book from?" he asked.

"Sixty-four years ago."

Bashir turned away to work at the computer, changing the picture from the files to erase the last sixty-four years. The computer was slow still, but Bashir was glad that it was at least cooperating. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor," he said, turning back to the viewscreen. "I'm running a simulation to see if the pictures match. Our computer is a bit slow today."

"Task complete," the computer spoke. The picture that remained on the computer screen was of a young Bajoran man in his early twenties. He had brown hair and dark eyes. And he matched almost perfectly the picture in the yearbook that Dr. Jara held up.

"That's him." Bashir said. "I'm sure of it. But if his name isn't Figin Hern, what is it?"

"Targo Hern. He was one of our best students that year. But he didn't graduate. He left school quite suddenly without giving an explanation."

"Interesting. Thank you for your help, Doctor Jara. I wish you luck in re-opening your school. If you ever need some assistance, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Thank you, Doctor." With that the viewscreen went blank.

Bashir sat back confused. His stomach growled, and he decided he'd put off lunch for long enough. He turned off the computer, told the nurse on duty that he was leaving, and headed for the door.

The crowds on the Promenade were finally beginning to thin after four murders and the bomb in the habitat ring. Those that were out were Bajorans, who considered themselves safe from the terrorists, and angry ships' crews trying to keep themselves occupied. The Replimat, too, was much less crowded than at lunch the day before. Julian Bashir was still agitated from his confrontation with Dr. Grant, and confused about Mr. Figin Hern, but he was thankful to see Kira and O'Brien sitting at one of the tables.

"May I join you?" he asked and was surprised at how drained his voice sounded.

O'Brien nodded, and Bashir sat down. "You sound tired."

Bashir sighed. "It's been a long day." A waiter appeared and Bashir ordered half-heartedly.

"Any visits from the Gidari?" Kira inquired playfully.

"Not yet, thank God," Bashir answered. "If they want what's left of Nastrof, I can't give it to them. It was destroyed. But they haven't even called to ask."

"Well, be careful, just the same," Kira said. Then she asked casually, "Any luck with our murder suspects?"

"Well, we're down to seventeen known left-handed suspects," he said. "One was interesting. It seems Byela Liian wasn't the only one to lie about his name."

"Who have you got?" O'Brien asked.

"He was registered as Figin Hern. But when I checked his medical credentials on the planet, we found him under the name Targo Hern."

Kira looked up. "Targo?"

Bashir was surprised at her interest. "Yes," he replied.

Kira turned abruptly away from Bashir and addressed O'Brien. "Targo bought the coupling on the planet," she said. "Targo Kob. Perhaps the two know each other."

"Well, then you need to have a talk with Mr. Figin," O'Brien stated. Both began to rise. "Sorry to abandon you, Julian. I've got to try to catch our computer people."

"I hope I helped," Bashir said. He sighed again when they were gone and stared blankly at his food. He wasn't so terribly hungry. He was lonely. The murders of the last two days and the Bajoran attacks had kept him busy, with little time to think about himself and his problems with Dr. Grant. But when Grant had come to the Infirmary, it had opened up something within him. Now he didn't want to be alone.

Dr. Trayla Pynar returned from lunch to a quiet sickbay. There were no patients, thankfully, and little of necessity that needed to be done. Maylon was sitting quietly at a computer console running simulations of some sort. He seemed quite absorbed in his work and didn't bother to look up when she entered.

Pynar said nothing and went to her office to sit down. She felt safer here. The Bajorans worried her. She just couldn't understand why they didn't see that the Federation was trying to help them, not occupy them as the Cardassians did. And they'd been on the Ranger at least twice. The first time, they left a complicated virus as a calling card. No one knew yet what they had done the second time. That worried her even more.

She was almost afraid to touch anything, especially the computers. She'd even used her tricorder to scan her lunch before she ate it. But it was fine. Everything was fine, it seemed. She also knew that the medical computer had not been connected to the main computer since the virus. So she really had nothing to worry about in sickbay. Perhaps that's why she felt safer there.

Silently saying a short prayer, she turned on the computer and brought up the Medical Log. It indicated that one patient had received treatment during her absence. Opening the file, she was surprised to find Captain Gerin's name. He had come in with a fractured hand. Maylon had treated him, setting and knitting the bones. And he'd given him condrofen for the pain. Maylon was only a year out of Starfleet Medical, but he seemed to have a good grasp of medicine. It was his attitude that kept him from being given more responsibility.

There was something about Maylon that Dr. Pynar just did not understand. But she'd spoken to him often in the last month and decided it must be a conflict of philosophies. Growing up on Ahmossa IV would mean that he was socialized into a different set of values and mores than most members of Starfleet. But the fact that he'd run away from there meant that he'd refuted at least some of those values. It all left him with a mix of philosophies, so to speak. And Pynar and Starfleet Medical were not quite sure where he stood.

He did appear quite dedicated to medicine and the use of it to save lives. The lack of it on Ahmossa IV had angered him the most. His best friend, Maylon had told Pynar, had died of influenza when he was seventeen. Influenza had ceased to be a fatal illness for young people on Earth in the twentieth century. But Ahmossa IV had also been a religious colony, and Maylon, while he didn't subscribe to the religious beliefs of his parents, was not happy with the humanist philosophies of the majority of Starfleet officers.

He was friendly, and yet it seemed like he was always holding something back. He smiled and joked often and spoke with others easily and almost always informally. He had a harder time being formal. That had caused a rub with the captain on his first day on duty.

The captain liked formality. Maylon did not, and he'd complained to her on that first day. Pynar, as she had told him, did not like it at all times either, but she had accepted long ago that on-duty time was not hers to spend as she wished. Rather it was time to serve the ship, and the captain had every right to determine how that ship should be served. Starfleet did not take the promotion of captains lightly.

Maylon had been surprised at her acceptance of Captain Gerin as well. He was fully aware of the history of their two races. The Ekosians, under an experiment of sorts, had been transformed into the image of the Nazis from twentieth century Earth. They had then set out to exterminate her own people, the Zeons. Maylon found it more difficult to realize that it had been a century ago. Besides, by joining Starfleet, all races and species agreed to become part of the same team. Captain Gerin had made that agreement. She, herself, had made that agreement, and Maylon had made it as well.

She could see him working from her desk. He was bent over the console, poring over the data that appeared on his screen. Pynar felt a little sorry for him. He didn't even know yet quite how precarious his situation was. He'd been transferred from his last assignment on a Galaxy class vessel after being repeatedly reprimanded for insubordination. He was not given a choice in his next assignment, and in all reality, a vessel the size of the Ranger, generally carried only one doctor. He was an extra.

Pynar did not relish the position she was in. Maylon, one could say, was on probation, and she was his probation officer. Their five-year mission to the Gamma Quadrant was an extended residency, where she was to supervise and check nearly everything he did. And at the end of the five years, or any time in between, she was to decide if his license to practice medicine was to be revoked. She knew how much medicine meant to her, and she didn't want to be the one to tell Maylon he couldn't be a doctor anymore. She was determined, therefore, to help Maylon succeed.