Bormann was still staring at the empty hooks when the others around him, except Garulos, began to move. A body brushed between them. "Take these and follow me."

Bormann looked to the voice and opened his hand. A red patch of cloth was placed there and a thin man gestured that they should follow quickly.

They were led to a barrack building, very much like all the ones Bormann had cleaned throughout the day. There was a door on one end that slipped up into the ceiling and little else besides. Already the building was crowded with prisoners, all men, and all sitting or lying on the hard dirt floor. The corner just to the left of the door was empty of people and stank. Bormann had cleaned enough barracks to know why. He had not once seen any waste reclamation units or latrines. Like animals, the prisoners were made to live with their filth. But like men, they scraped together as much dignity as they could manage and kept it to one place.

The prisoner they were following led them to the back corner. "Do you think the Commander's here, Lieutenant?" Garulos asked beside him.

"I hope so," Bormann replied. He looked to the left and the right, scanning each face they passed, and realized there were already more than a hundred prisoners in this tight space. But he did not see Commander Riker.

The man stopped near the back and pointed to two empty spots on either side of a prisoner sitting hunched against the wall. Only then did Bormann realize who the prisoner was. "Simmons!"

Instead of raising his head, Simmons ducked it. Garulos sat down beside him. "We heard Jordan last night, sir. They took your tongue?"

Simmons didn't look up, but he nodded. Bormann couldn't think of any consoling words so he just put a hand on Simmons' shoulder. He sat down on Simmons' other side. While Garulos asked if he had seen Commander Riker, Bormann finished his scan of the barracks. He saw only one other familiar face. Jordan was sitting with a group in the far corner. They sat in a tight circle and spoke quietly amongst themselves. Then one stood in the center of the circle and the others reached forward to touch his legs. They all bowed their heads and finally, Bormann realized what was going on. They were praying.

Bormann realized it, but he didn't understand it. Praying was something from the past, when humans believed in deities who were greater than themselves. He wondered which one of those deities this group of prisoners were praying to, and why they bothered. No deity had stopped the lottery that night. None had stopped it in all the other days and nights of this camp. Praying, he supposed, was a crutch, something to give them false hope.

He heard the "amen" and then the group broke up. The prisoner who had led Bormann and Garulos to their spot tapped Jordan on the shoulder and pointed toward them. Jordan smiled and moved over to them.

"What were you doing?" Garulos asked, nodding his head to where the group had been.

"Bible Study," Jordan answered. "You're welcome to join us. We meet every evening. Today, we were blessing Ensign Morales. He's volunteered to be a missionary."

Bormann wouldn't have asked, but since Garulos had, he was curious. "Missionary?"

Jordan nodded. "He is going to take Psalm 139 to the other barracks. We have no Bible. We rely upon memorization. Each barrack dedicates a new missionary, who will change barracks each day, rotating to all the barracks in the men's camp until he returns to his first barracks, as Jafhe did tonight."

Garulos grunted, though Bormann knew that was a sign of confusion. "What happens when you run out of memorization?"

Jordan shrugged at that. "A genuine concern, so each night we pray that the Holy Spirit will continue to give us Scripture so that we don't run out. I'm Jordan, Lieutenant, by the way. I don't believe we were properly introduced."

"Bormann," Bormann replied. "Also a liuetenant." He touched Simmons' shoulder again. "As is Mr. Simmons, here. And our associate is Crewman Garulos. Have you seen Commander Riker, by any chance?"

Jordan's smile evaporated. "No, but nice to meet you all the same. I would suspect the Commander had an appointment with our Commandant. Doctor Bashir, though, will arrive later. So, your turn for questions." At that, every head in the barracks turned their way and other prisoners inched closer. "What can you tell us about the state of things outside this camp?"

Three hours later, Bormann's throat was hoarse, and the door to the barracks opened once again.

It was a long walk back to the crematorium, but this time Bashir did not have to carry the bodies. In fact, Schlacter had hit him twice for trying to help one of the condemned prisoners who was struggling with a body bigger than herself. Once they reached the crematorium, though, the bodies were dropped onto a stack and left to Bashir. One by one, he carried them inside and placed them on the table. Their clothes went into the bin near the door. The table was lifted into place and the crematorium did its work. The fifth body though, was more than a body. It wasn't until he had picked him up that Bashir realized the man was still alive. He hadn't moved, but his pulse and breath were hard to ignore.

As was his voice. "Please," he begged, as Bashir placed him on the table. "Not the oven."

"I have to," Bashir told him. "I'm sorry."

"Not alive," the man argued. "You put corpses in there. I'm not dead. Not yet. Not the oven."

Bashir realized then that the man wasn't asking to live. Rather he was asking that he not be burned alive. He wrestled with himself. Would it be ethical to put the man into the crematorium alive, just so Bashir could say he hadn't killed him? Would it be euthanasia to kill the man quickly before burning his body? Would it be murder? He would die anyway, but painfully.

"It's fast," he told the man, hoping the man would take the burden from his shoulders.

Two thumps landed on the door and Bashir looked up. The kapos. The door opened. "Why do you delay?" one of them barked.

"He--he's not dead," Bashir stammered.

"Shoot me!" the man cried.

"Burn him," Schlachter ordered.

It would be as much murder to burn the man alive as to kill him before he was burned. Bashir had never taken a life outside of combat before--or outside of being forced. He was being forced here as well. He could not win. In that case, he would give the man the least painful death. He began to undress the man, taking off his shirt. The kapos, thinking he was complying, stepped back out the door. As Bashir pulled the shirt over the man's face, the man pleaded with him again. "Shh," Bashir told him. "You won't burn." He held the man's face, still covered by his shirt, in both his hands, and then he twisted as hard as he could. The bones in the man's neck snapped and his breathing hitched. His body relaxed and released the last of his breath. Bashir felt for a pulse and finding none, he continued removing the man's clothes. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

As the body dissolved in the flames, he shuddered and leaned into the wall. There were ten more bodies outside and the crematorium was quick. He had no time to ponder the morality of his situation. Merciful, he told himself. Murder, he argued back.

Fortunately, the other ten were already dead. He processed them as quickly as he could. He was anxious to go back to living people. When he had finished, he stepped outside to the waiting kapos and the kommando of condemned prisoners. They began the march back, and as they passed the main gate, two other kapos took the women from the line and marched them away. The men were deposited in their respective barracks until Bashir was once again alone with the Jem'Hadar. He was stopped in front of one long building, and one of the kapos handed him a small patch of cloth and two bars of pasty rations. "These are your barracks," he said. The other one opened the door and shoved him inside.

Once inside, the door slammed into the ground behind him, and he had to grab a wall with one hand just to keep from falling. All around him he saw the sunken faces of starving men. They stared at him from the ground and from the wooden slats that served as bunks. Those closest put their hands to their faces and looked away. Several got up and moved. Bashir knew why they did.

He stank. He was covered in filth and blood from the bodies of V'dara and the night's lottery winners. He had not had an opportunity to change clothes or even to wash his hands from the night's work. The ration bars he held were contaminated now because he'd touched them. He wasn't hungry anyway, but he might have given them away to someone. He dropped them there by the door. If someone took them, it wouldn't be his doing. Someone did, and he brushed them off on his pant legs before eating one. Bashir looked away and swallowed the bile that was inching its way up from his stomach. He had been there once. He knew what it was like to starve.

He stepped further in, looking for an empty place. The bunks, he saw, were full, which left only the ground for sleeping, and the ground was where the rats would come. Unless he could find Max.

"He's of the Five!" someone called out. "Like V'dara. Show some respect." That sent a flurry of whispers coursing through the building.

Nearly all the men on the floor stood up and about a dozen began moving towards him. "Tell us about the camp," one said.

"I heard it was on an asteroid," said another. That one had a French accent, but he didn't look like Henri.

"Did you really make a transmitter out of the ventilation system?"

Bashir looked from face to face but he couldn't answer. There was no ventilation system beyond the gaps in the wooden walls. There was no place to move. Too many people pressed around him, nearly pushing him into the bunks.

"Leave him be," another voice chided. "It's his first day and he has a harder job than any of you."

Bashir recognized his voice and his face when it appeared beside him. "Jordan."

Jordan smiled and took his arm. "This way. Your crewmates from the Enterprise are here. We'll get Commander Riker, too, as soon as he's released into the system."

Riker. He remembered now. The runabout, the Jem'Hadar, Deyos. The bunks disappeared and he could see that everyone would be sleeping on the floor. He followed Jordan to the rear of the building and found three other faces he remembered, but not Riker's. They covered their noses, too, and everyone around them made room on the floor for Bashir to sit.

"What job is that?" Garulos asked, wrinkling his nose.

"The Sonderkommando," Bashir replied as he leaned into the wall and stared at his left hand. It was whole and unbroken, but as he watched, it bent and twisted and the bunks came back. There had to be a thousand men in that one building and the press of all those bodies made it hard to breathe.

"Disposing of the bodies," Jordan explained. "V'dara had that honor as well. Doctor?"

"I need to go outside," Bashir told him. "I can't breathe."

"You can't go outside," Jordan said, touching his arm again. "They lock the doors. Just relax. This is our free time, the only freedom we have. Just sit back and enjoy it. Get some sleep. Mornings come fast here."

Commander William T. Riker repeated his name and rank over and over again in a whisper. His voice had given out long ago. The monotonous push of his breath through his lips gave him an anchor, something to hang onto so he wouldn't fall. Falling gave his knees a momentary reprieve, but the beatings he received caused more acute pain over larger parts of his body and further threatened his stability when, once again, he was back on his knees.

It was cold. The burning, bright sunlight of day had turned into a black night with no warmth. The Jem'Hadar hovering over him did not shiver, but Riker found himself unable to stop. His teeth rattled and his whole body shook, causing him to teeter on his knees. His legs were numb from lack of heat and circulation, but his knees were in constant pain.

Jem'Hadar didn't sleep either. They had received their tubes of ketracel-white after the screams of the lottery losers had quieted. Riker received nothing and his hunger added to his instability. His vision, diminished by the darkness, swam in waves of motion. The wind whispered to him. Lie down, sleep.

"Riker," he breathed, trying to drown out the wind, "William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the USS Enterprise. Riker, William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the USS Enterprise."

Formenos lay in her bed, covered by a thin blanket. She had a small pillow under her head and a real mattress beneath her body. But she could not sleep. She ran the day through her memory searching for clues, trying to remember everything that Pfenner had said, every expression on his face. He had pleaded with her. Carl was lost in the experiment, and Pfenner had pleaded with her to understand the urgency of the project. He said he didn't want to waste the forty-two that were left. There was such pain in his voice when he said it. She believed him. Pfenner was no traitor, not in the literal sense. Nor was he a collaborator as they were usually thought of. He didn't even do it for the science. He didn't work for the Dominion because he wanted to. He was forced to, in a more subtle way. The Dominion hadn't used force with him. No torture, no threats. They used guilt. For every failed experiment, another pilot was lost. And he felt himself to blame.

But he wasn't to blame. The Dominion was, and she had to convince Pfenner of it. He was close to success and success would cost millions, even billions, of lives. The pilots were expendable, though she felt awful even thinking it. But it was the truth and the pilots themselves would likely understand that. They were prisoners of the Dominion; they knew what Dominion victory would mean for the Federation. Pfenner was a precious thing in war time: a compassionate man. But there was a reason compassion was curbed in wartime. Pfenner was too nice, too hurt by the loss of the pilots, to see that he was leading the Dominion to victory, and that that cost was higher.

She had to convince him. He had more freedom than anyone else in the camp. And he had the knowledge. He could sabotage the project, corrupt the data. And if he couldn't be convinced, she would have to curb her compassion, and make sure that the project, and its creator, were destroyed.

"Captain Sisko," Picard began. "It's good to see you again, though I wasn't aware the Defiant was assigned to this fleet." His countenance matched his words. He smiled amicably, but his tone was clipped and formal. The Enterprise was being readied for battle even as they waited for the fleet to assemble.

"Good to see you, as well," Sisko returned. "We haven't been assigned to the fleet, but it seems our missions have intersected. I have a runabout I'd like to talk to you about. But not over the comm." The fleet was converging near the Garhua Nebula in an attemp to avoid Dominion sensors, but Sisko knew the Dominion wasn't the only organization that might be listening.

Picard apparently knew that, too, because his smile never wavered. "Understandable," he said. "Would you care to meet in my Ready Room?"

"That would be fine," Sisko replied. "I'd like to bring a few of my senior staff if you don't mind."

"Not at all. I was going to invite a few of mine as well. When would be convenient for you?."

"Now, if you're not overly busy."

Picard's smile widened. "That would be fine. I'll have Mr. Data meet you in Transporter Room Two."

Sisko nodded and Picard's image winked out. "Dax, Chief, you're with me," he ordered, standing up. "Mr. Worf, you have the bridge."

Worf took the captain's chair while Dax and O'Brien followed Sisko to the turbolift.

"What will we tell them?" Dax asked, catching up with him.

"The truth," Sisko replied. But then he stopped and grabbed her lightly by the arm. He held her gaze until she nodded. There was some truth that could never be told. That settled, they went on.

When they materialized on the Enterprise, Commander Data was waiting for them. "Welcome aboard," he said in greeting, smiling lightly. "The Captain is waiting in his Ready Room."

"Lead the way," Sisko replied, smiling back.

They walked down the corridors in comfortable silence. Data only spoke again to order the turbolift's destination. When they reached the Bridge, Deanna Troi rose from the captain's chair and joined them.

"Can I get you some tea?" Picard asked as he stood and offered his hand.

"No, thank you," Sisko replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. Behind him, the door swished closed.

"Mr. Data?" Picard said, looking to the android.

Data opened a tricorder and scanned the room. "Secure, sir," he reported.

Picard nodded and pulled down on his jacket. "Good. Please, have a seat." He gestured toward a sofa and some chairs and sat himself. "I believe we've all met, so we can skip the introductions. What can you tell me about my runabout?"

Captain Sisko met his gaze, deciding to get right to the point. "We have it."

Picard's eyebrows lifted. Counselor Troi looked just as surprised. Data simply cocked his head slightly. "Her crew?" Picard asked.

"We don't have them," Sisko replied, "but we have an idea who does. We were able to trace the runabout from the Faeros system. It had been cloaked. When we found it, its logs had been wiped, and there was no one and no cloaking equipment on board. We did, however, find Doctor Bashir's civilian clothes in one of the lockers."

"Doctor Bashir?" Picard asked, clearly confused.

"Civilian?" Troi added.

"He gave me his resignation a few days ago. I haven't submitted it. As far as Starfleet is concerned, he's still an officer. He left the station on a transport shuttle early that morning but disappeared in less than an hour."

Picard leaned back in his chair. "You think it's Section 31."

Sisko nodded. "I know it's Section 31. It's the only way to explain the cloak and Bashir's presence aboard your runabout."

"He didn't leave to join them," Dax spoke up. "He left . . . ."

"He left so they would kill him," O'Brien finished for her. "He told me the night before that he was jealous of Vláďa, one of his friends in Auschwitz, because Vláďa had the strength to commit suicide and he didn't. He wanted Section 31 to take him and kill him."

Troi paled and her mouth opened slightly, but she didn't speak.

"He fooled you," Sisko told her. "He fooled all of you. He's not well."

"I forced him," Dax admitted. "I took him off duty until he could open up to me. I pushed him too far and took away his one refuge."

"If he was unstable, he shouldn't have been on duty anyway, Lieutenant," Picard assured her. "But he was awfully good at that deception, wasn't he?"

"That part wasn't a deception," Dax said, defending Bashir. "He was perfectly capable in the Infirmary."

"Doctor Crusher would agree with you," Troi finally said. "He's remarkable. I've never met a human who could block my senses."

"He's in trouble," Sisko said, bringing the conversation back to the main issue. "And so is your runabout crew."

Chief O'Brien took up the report from there. "We found two warp trails near the runabout. They led us here, to D'Nexi."

"Behind the lines," Sisko added, "to be exact. I think we can assume the Dominion has them."

Picard and Troi were struck by that news. Data, however, remained stoic. "Is there any reason to think that Section 31 is here? Or perhaps they thought Dominion capture would be a more appropriate punishment for Doctor Bashir and our runabout was an unfortunate bystander."

Sisko shook his head. "I don't think it's either of those. We were sent to find the runabout. But before that, our assignment was to find Pfenner and uncover the Dominion's plot."

Picard nodded. "Riker's team's mission was to find Pfenner. There had been a report that he was in the Faeros system. Admiral Necheyev authorized the mission and insisted on the inclusion of one Lieutenant Dayton. She was the only one on the team I didn't know."

"She was probably a plant," Sisko concluded.

Picard tugged on his uniform jacket again. "It wouldn't surprise me if Admiral Necheyev was involved with Section 31."

"They want to find Pfenner as much as we do," Sisko told them all. "I think they know where Pfenner is, and they set up the capture of your runabout, with our doctor aboard, in order to get to Pfenner."

"So they are prisoners of war," Picard surmised. "Do you think they have a plan to get them back?"

The barracks had been quiet and dark for at least a few hours when Deyos returned to him. Riker vaguely worried that he'd be questioned again. He was too tired, too dazed, too beaten to come up with good lies. He could barely even lift his head. But Deyos surprised him.

"I've decided to give you a kommando all your own," the Vorta said. "Stand him up."

The Jem'Hadar on either side of Riker, grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. But Riker's feet were numb and his knees cramped. His legs refused to hold him, and he fell to the ground again. He would have liked to stay there, to close his eyes and let sleep take him, but Deyos had other plans.

"Keep him up," Deyos ordered. "He has work to do."

The Jem'Hadar lifted him again and this time they kept their hold, which caused his shoulders to ache.

"I'm giving you a rather light assignment," Deyos said in mock sincerety. "A cleaning detail. You should thank me. We've even gathered all the necessary supplies at your work site. You have it easy compared to some." He wagged his finger at the Jem'Hadar and then started walking. The Jem'Hadar followed, dragging Riker between them. His legs were regaining their feeling and now were beseiged by the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of a million and a half pins and needles.

Even more uncomfortable was the smell as they drew near the work site. Slaughter site was a more accurate term, Riker decided. He had heard the screams earlier in the evening. As they rounded the corner of the building, Riker held his hand up against the light and the putrid smell. He saw a bucket and brush standing by the wall and realized that this was what Deyos expected him to clean. He dared a glance at the hooks, expecting three bodies to still be hung there. But they were empty. The walls behind them and the floor below them were smeared with blood and filth from the gruesome, painful deaths the hooks had provided to fifteen souls that evening. And they would kill fifteen more in the morning.

"If it's not clean by the morning roll call," Deyos warned, "the names won't be chosen randomly. Your crew will be next."

Riker was too busy staring at the blood. He didn't see Deyos turn to leave, or the gesture that ordered the Jem'Hadar to drop him. Unfortunately, his legs weren't quite ready to hold him upright, and he landed on the sticky floor in another puddle of blood and detritus away from the hooks. "Clean," one of the Jem'Hadar ordered, kicking him in the ribs to make sure he'd heard. Riker had to swallow the bile he'd been fighting to keep down. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and tried to stand. But his legs were still assailed by those pins and needles, though less of them now, so he was forced to crawl through the muck to reach the bucket of tepid, soapy water.

Jordan woke when the light hit his face. He was used to it by now, but it still annoyed him. His father used to wake him up like that. He'd come into the bedroom and turn on the lights while shouting "Wakey, wakey" as if it were some funny joke. What it was was blinding. Jordan sighed. He missed his dad. His parents probably thought he was dead, thanks to that clone.

Jordan quickly stuffed those thoughts back down into the dark corners of his mind. He turned to his right and found Bashir lying still and staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he was reminded of The Lord of the Rings, a book his mother had read to him over and over as a child. Legolas, the lone Elf of the Fellowship, could sleep with his eyes open. Well, at least that was the simplified way his mother had explained it. But Bashir didn't look like an Elf. He looked all too much like a broken man, and it seemed likely that he hadn't slept at all.

On his other side, Bormann and Simmons began to stir. Garulos was already standing. His orange hair looked fire-bright in the harsh overhead lighting. All around the barracks, men were moving, stretching, helping each other to stand. Jordan touched Bashir on the shoulder, and Bashir bolted up to a sitting position. "Good morning," Jordan offered. "Sleep well?" Bashir didn't answer, but he did turn his head to meet Jordan's gaze. "Roll call is in fifteen minutes," Jordan informed him and the others from the runabout. "That's not a lot of time for the hundreds packed into this barracks. There will be ration bars outside. One per man. Don't take more than that. Some of the hungriest ones try to take more. They are beaten for it. Not by the Jem'Hadar." He paused to make sure they were all paying attention. "They are beaten by us. No man is allowed to take the life of another. Leave that to the Dominion."

Bormann and others nodded, and Jordan looked to Bashir to make sure he heard. He still didn't speak, but his eyes looked more alive than the night before. He seemed to be lucid.

Garulos offered Jordan his hand, and Jordan gladly took the help. His limbs were stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. "There will be another lottery," Garulos said, and his accent made it hard for Jordan to determine if he were making a statement or asking a question. So he just nodded. "Why do the chosen go so quietly?" Garulos went on, and this time Jordan could hear the inflection to know it was a question. "Why don't they resist?"

Jordan sighed. "Because they know the consequences. No one will get rations for a week. The last time someone resisted, two hundred of us starved to death. I've never been so hungry in my life."

Garulos nodded and cast his gaze to the floor. "I see. It is noble then, to sacrifice one's will to fight so that others may live."

"It's not easy though," Jordan quietly told him, leaning close. "It's a struggle each of us hopes to never face."

The door opened and the melee began. The hungriest ones had lost their decorum and pushed hard to get through the doors to their meager ration bar. The others were hungry, too, and refused to let them through. Jordan and the others of the Bible Study stayed to the back. The runabout's crew did as well. Jordan touched Simmons on the shoulder. "You'll have your breakfast at the plant, same as lunch. Something you can drink."

Simmons's head bobbed in what might have been a nod. By the time they got out of the door, only two dozen ration bars remained. Just enough. There were no chosen in the barracks the night before.

Rations were eaten on the way to roll call, and the walk, therefore was usually quiet. Also, the knowledge of what they'd witness again that morning kept the chatter to a minimum. Two Jem'Hadar, including the Third, met Bashir as he entered the roll call grounds and escorted him to the front where another prisoner stood with Deyos. "Commander?" Bormann whispered, and Jordan looked again. Yes, it was Riker underneath the bloody, striped uniform and mussed hair.

When everyone was lined up, the counting began. Jordan concentrated on the sunrise, watching the hues of the sky change from dark blue to brilliant white. And he prayed and sang songs in his head. Two hours passed and he hardly noticed. The Jem'Hadar stopped buzzing around the prisoners, and he knew that counting was over. The lottery would begin.

It was no surprise whose numbers would be called. They were chosen the night before. But Deyos did like to mix the order, keeping the condemned in suspense and on edge. In front of him, two people to the right, Jordan spotted one of them. His shoulders shook in little movements, and a trickle of urine made a puddle at his feet. Jordan looked away.

The first three were called, and the man one row up and two over didn't move. You have a few minutes yet, Jordan thought to him. He had seen more of these lotteries than he could count, but he'd never been able to decide if it was better, once chosen, to die first and not suffer the waiting, or to have that one last hour of life, agonizing as it may be.

The screams of the victims beat against him more than any Jem'Hadar fist had ever done. They wore on his spirit and nearly drowned his hope in despair. I have Jesus, he told himself. I am and will be redeemed. Over an over he repeated those two phrases and the last of the screams died out.

A stifling silence seized the gathered prisoners, as if they were all afraid to breathe. Deyos's voice rang out against the morning sky, and none of the numbers he read were Jordan's. But at least one of them was familiar, and Jafhe moved foward. As he passed, Jordan heard him whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

Jordan add his own whisper. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures."

Another voice joined, soft and low. "He leadeth me beside the still waters."

And it became a soft sea, a wave of whispers, carrying the Psalm as other believers joined in. "He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake." Jordan felt a chill slide up his legs into his spine, right up to the top of his head.

Then a tide. The voices rose, loud and full of faith. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."

Jafhe stopped in front of Deyos and finished the Psalm with just his own voice, unwavering and strong. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

Deyos looked on with disinterest. "Why do you pray to a god you cannot see or hear?" he asked.

"I feel Him," Jafhe replied. "I hear His voice. I feel His love, and I see Him in the eyes of my brothers and sisters."

"You will feel the hook soon enough," Deyos replied. "No amount of chanting will change that."

"It needn't change," Jafhe said. "There is life beyond the hook. A better life than you can even imagine."

Deyos's face hardened. "To work!" he shouted, ending the confrontation, the roll call, and the day's lottery. Jordan only hoped he could be so strong when his own number was called. Jafhe knelt to lift one of the dead ones, and he joined the convoy that led away to the crematoria. Oddly, Riker stayed behind with Deyos, and only now did Jordan realize that the walls had been clean before the morning's lottery began.

The siren woke her. That and the light. And the cold air streaming through the ventilation duct high on the wall. Formenos yawned and sat up, stretching her arms high above her head. Then she shook as a chill reached up her spine to the top of her head.

Her clothes lay over a lone chair that sat next to a nearly bare white table. She quickly threw off the striped camp dress she'd used as a nightgown and put on the pants and jacket she'd been given by Pfenner. She heard a knock at her door as she splashed her face with water from a basin on the table. She grabbed the striped dress again to dry her face and keyed the door open.

Dr. Pfenner stood on the other side. "Good morning, Eline," he said. "May I call you Eline? I wanted to invite you to breakfast."

Formenos felt a twinge of self-consciousness. She touched her head, feeling the short bristles of her hair. Why had Pfenner singled her out anyway? Simmons would have understood the project better. But regardless of Pfenner's motives, she was hungry. "Thank you. And what shall I call you?"

"Wilhelm is my given name," he answered, smiling. "If you're ready then, follow me." He led her just one door down, and when the door opened, she was even more suspicious. Where her room was infinitely better than the dirt-floored barracks, it was Spartan in comparison to this. She had a bed, the chair and table with its basin of water, and little else. "They think the bigger quarters and comforts will entice me to work on their project," Pfenner explained, blushing, and for a moment Formenos wondered if it had worked.

Where her walls were stark white, Pfenner's walls were a comforting blue. They stood in the entry room which opened into a dining room, and she could see the table set with fruits and bread through the doorway. There were two other doors and Formenos guessed they led to a bedroom and a lavatory. His rooms also didn't seem to be as cold as hers. Compared to every other non-Dominion person in this camp, Pfenner lived in the lap of luxury.

"This way, please," Pfenner said when she didn't respond. He put a hand on her back and gently encouraged her in the direction of the dining room. He even pulled a chair out for her and pushed it in when she had sat. "It's not exactly like home," he said, taking a slice of bread from one of the platters on the table, "but it's better than those pasty ration bars."

Formenos chose a fruit that at least resembled an apple, though the orange color was a bit odd. It turned out to be much sweeter than an apple, too. "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm really not sure," he replied. "They leave the platters here every morning. It's nothing from Earth or any of the other planets I'm familiar with. It might be indigenous to this moon, I suppose."

"It's a moon?" Formenos forced her mind off the fruit. "Do you know where we are?"

"The Quarron System." Pfenner chose an oblong blue fruit. "The third moon of the fourth planet, Quaray. Not far from the D'Nexi Lines, which has the Dominion on edge. They are getting impatient."

"Let them," Formenos said, testing him.

Pfenner put the fruit down and dropped his head. "I wish I could," he said. "I'd give up my life to keep this technology from the Dominion." He looked up again, and met her gaze. "But it's not my life the failures take." There was pain in his eyes and in his voice, and she knew he was sincere.

"The pilots?" she asked.

"There used to be so many of them," Pfenner said, snatching up the fruit again. "Now there's hardly a handful. Gone. Lost to oblivion. Either destroyed or left to starve to death in some other layer of subspace with no way to contact our layer or return." He shuddered. "I can't stop imagining it. Their cold, blank stare facing me from within their EV suit, unmoving and ghostly pale. Every day we deliver one or more of them to oblivion."

The siren sounded again, but there was no blast of cold air. "Back to work," Pfenner said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. As he stood, he pocketed a few pieces of fruit and bread. He didn't look to be starving, and they had received two meals the day before, so Formenos was unsure why he'd be stashing food away. Nevertheless, she followed his example, wrapped a napkin around a piece of bread and stuffed it into one of her pockets.

They left Pfenner's quarters and took a turbolift to the lowest level of the habitat. They went down another corridor to a barred door, which Pfenner opened by keying in a code. Formenos had not seen this area before. When they'd returned to the habitat at the end of the day, they'd gone right to quarters.

The next corridor was lined with cells. These had no furniture beyond a waste reclamator, and even their walls were transparent, so that the inhabitants could not expect any privacy. Pfenner walked in front of her, with his head down and his finger pointing to each cell on the left as if he were counting. The guant-faced prisoners in the cells moved forward as they passed, watching Pfenner hopefully. Many of the cells were empty, and Formenos now knew who the prisoners were. The pilots.

They'd walked half the corridor when Pfenner stopped, and Formenos could now see a small gap in the security field near the floor of each cell. Pfenner stopped and passed the fruit to the three prisoners who occupied the cell on his right, and the bread to those on the left. The prisoners in those cells squatted to snatch up the food, which they hungrily ate. Pfenner looked into the next cells down on either side. "Four for tomorrow," he whispered. Formenos only had one piece of bread, not enough for even one cell, so she didn't even take it from her pocket.

Formenos looked up and saw that there was another level with yet more cells, and she wondered how many other blocks there were in the habitat. And how many were empty now. Pfenner turned and once again touched her back, guiding her back toward the door. "Wilhelm?" she said as they stepped into the turbolift again.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Stop the lift." He regarded her with confusion but did as she had requested. She touched his arm. "You have to let them go."

Pfenner shook his head. "I don't understand."

"The pilots," Formenos explained, looking deep into his eyes. "You have to let the pilots go. The Dominion can't have K-Layer Subspace Concealment. The project must never succeed."

"What?" he whispered, trying to look away.

She touched his face, bringing his eyes back to hers. "They will win the war, Wilhelm. Think for a moment. Imagine it. Do you want them to win, to dominate the Alpha Quadrant? And what do you think they will do to their enemies, who dared to stand in their way. How many will die, Wilhelm, if you succeed?"

"I have thought of all that," he breathed, and he brought his hands up to grip her shoulders firmly. "I tried. I sabotaged the code in the navigational system. One of the ships--" He took a deep breath. "We could see it. Like a ghost image. But the sensors showed it had intersected with a chroniton wave. The ship kept appearing and dissappearing for days. I could see her, the pilot, burning, but the ship never blew up. Over and over it happened. The Vorta finally ordered that the base be turned forty-five degrees so it wouldn't be visible from the launch bay. That pilot is still out there somewhere. Mtingwa. That was her name."

Formenos knew the name. She'd read the report. But when Doctor Bashir wrote the report, he didn't know what actually happened to her when she reverted back to the time of her ship's explosion. Formenos closed her eyes and hoped that Mtingwa wasn't conscious of the temporal loop she was stuck in. Pfenner released her and moved away. The turbolift began to move again.

"I can't get that image out of my head," Pfenner admitted softly. "She haunts my dreams. I can't try that again. I can't keep sending them out there to die. Or worse. If the project succeeds, they will come back."

"But what will they come back to?" Formenos asked. "You have to look beyond Mtingwa to what she was fighting for."

"I can't," he breathed as the door opened onto the lab.

They were all dead this time. And fairly fresh. Gore and filth and blood didn't smell good, but rotting flesh smelled infinitely worse. And part of Doctor Julian Bashir was shocked that he could be so cynical. Each of the bodies he incinerated had been a person. A real, whole person. Somewhere they had families who missed them, families who would grieve their deaths if they ever recieved the news. They had hobbies and careers, dreams and personalities. And only his escape from Camp 371 kept him from being eligible for such a death as each of them had received.

But he found himself wondering if these bodies weren't the lucky ones. Their deaths had been long and brutal, but in the end, the torture was over. They were gone. They felt no fear, no pain, no betrayal, and he wondered why, time and time again, fate had intervened to make sure his own life continued, even if he could no longer find anything to live for.

There is life beyond the hook, that one prisoner had said, and Bashir wondered what he meant. He was aware that there were still some believers among the human population of the present, but that prisoner wasn't human and he hadn't been alone. Dozens of voices had joined him in his recitation. Did they really believe in the heaven of Judeo-Christian religion? Did he? He wasn't sure. He would have said he didn't believe in ghosts, but Riker had heard Vláďa speak. And, with that acknowledgment, he realized none had come to him in this place. He saw images and people from the past, but none of them spoke to him, not like his hallucinations usually did. Well, either way, that one prisoner would find out if there was life after death this evening when he took his turn at the hook.

The Jem'Hadar kapos didn't care about philosophical ruminations, so he worked as he pondered that morning's lottery, carrying the victims to the table and dumping them into the crematorium. Each body seemed heavier than the one before, and, by the tenth, his arms were shaking from the strain. He told himself that next time he'd save the women for last. They generally weighed less. He opened the crematorium door, dumped the ashes, and went to get the next body.

By the last, he could no longer lift it, even though it was thin and frail. He hooked his arms under the man's shouders and dragged him into the small room. He practically had to climb onto the table himself in order to get the corpse up there. A thought danced in his head for a moment. He could roll himself into the incinerator. But of course, he'd have no way to lift the table to seal it. He got down and lifted the table, sealing the corpse inside the incinerator. In thirty seconds that man, who had a family and dreams and hope, was reduced to ash, and Bashir was allowed, in small ways, to be a doctor again.

Commander William Thomas Riker was finding himself jealous of Doctor Bashir's insomnia. He hadn't slept a wink all night and he felt it. Bashir, on the other hand, he was sure, had not so much as closed his eyes all night, but his only apparent symptoms were mental. Physically, Bashir looked no different than the day he left Enterprise.

Riker's body was bruised and sore from the beatings he received during the night. He hadn't eaten since the runabout, so he was very hungry. But his bout with the elements the day before and all night long, made him feel clammy and feverish. And his present assignment was pushing his stomach right over the edge. He'd dry heaved at least a dozen times.

After the heinous "lottery" Bashir was sent to deal with the bodies, and Riker was, once again, left to clean up what they left behind. Only now the blood was fresh, and he'd been on hand to watch the victims die. Of course, he'd already seen it with V'dara, so the surprise was gone. But that didn't lessen the horror of watching it happen over and over again.

After the last, fifteen new numbers were called, and Riker watched each face as they came forward. Some were pale and shocked, realizing only then that this would be their last day of life. Some faced the Vorta with stoic defiance. Two cried openly. And one came forward reciting a psalm and his expression was peaceful. It was almost enough to calm Riker's roiling stomach. But then they had left with Bashir, and Deyos ordered him to clean the building. All of it.

The wall was left in its raised position, open to the roll call plaza. Because of that, Riker could find little shade, and the burning sunlight cooked the blood and debris onto the walls and floor. He'd gone through three buckets of soapy water already, and his hands were stained red from wringing out the brush and mop. Sweat damped his striped uniform and dripped into his eyes.

He was allowed a short break when the temperature was at its highest. He was given two ration bars that tasted like clay. He hadn't eaten since well before their capture, but the stench of the building and the filth on his hands kept him from eating more than a bite. He was hungry but he didn't feel his stomach could handle it.

What he really wanted was a drink of water. The only water available, however, was that in his bucket, and even when it was fresh, it was soapy.

As he scrubbed, he thought of the Enterprise and Deanna. And he thought of his crew. None of them had come forward in the lottery at least. Simmons worried him, as did Formenos. He knew nothing of her fate since they had been separated. In fact, the only one of his crew he'd seen since that first morning was Bashir, who wasn't even officially part of his crew.

He tried thinking about Pfenner and the mission, but he also hadn't slept in more than a day. His mind swam from one thought to the next, from rational to irrational. He dreamed even while he worked, eyes open and body moving. But always his mind came back around to the nightmare of having a hook buried in his back.

Formenos found that her new status as a willing scientist gave her an added benefit beyond the retention of her tongue: freedom of movement. It wasn't complete freedom. There were still Jem'Hadar keeping watch, but they didn't try to stop her from leaving one room to get to another. Apparently being a scientist on the K-Layer project carried a high status.

Pfenner knew she wasn't really a scientist, and he didn't assign her any tasks beyond what she might have learned in her flight training. Nominally, she was put in charge of ship design. In reality, she made very few suggesions to the present design. It seemed that Pfenner had taken an interest in her even before they'd met.

Once, when they were alone in the lab, she had asked him how he knew her name and he showed her. He went to a computer terminal and logged in. Once he was in the system, he showed her how he'd hacked into more restricted areas, including the Dominion's list of prisoners of war. Formenos watched him very carefully, memorizing everything and asking questions anywhere she was confused. In the end he showed her her own file and she wasn't surprised to see a list of degrees she had never earned. Pfenner had not only viewed her records, he had changed them.

And that had given her an idea. Pfenner left to relieve himself, and Formenos followed his actions to hack into the system. Besides prisoner records, Pfenner had access to nearly everything in the plant: power relays, ventilation systems, matter resequencers, transporter controls, scrap inventory, etc. She thought about simply deleting every record about the K-Layer project, but decided there were probably backups on the orbital base.

She could change the code in some small way to ensure continued failure, but she didn't want a result like Mtingwa's purgatory. She needed something that would stop the experiments altogether. She needed to destroy the plant, its computers and the orbital base. It was a tall order, and she wasn't sure how to fill it.

She heard footsteps and quickly logged out. Pfenner returned and, as she pretended to work, she pondered the problem. She had freedom of movement, but she couldn't just stroll through the plant setting explosives here and there.

"Would you do me the honor," Pfenner asked, coming up behind her, "of joining me for dinner?"

Was it that time already? Her stomach rumbled in answer. In spite of what he was doing, she liked Pfenner. Still, the war--the Federation--mattered more. She turned and looked him right in the eyes. "I have a friend here. I want to talk to him."

Pfenner's eyes dropped, but he didn't seem angry or jealous. "He can't talk to you, Eline. They took his tongue."

"I know," she said, "but they didn't take mine." She smiled. "Thanks to you."

Pfenner took in a big breath. "Twenty minutes. And be discreet. They may trust me to a certain extent, but they are only taking you on my word."

Formenos nodded. "He's a crewmate. I just want to check on him, ask if he's seen Commander Riker or the others."

Pfenner nodded. "Hurry back."

Formenos didn't wait for a second invitation. She moved past him and out the door.

She found Simmons where she'd seen him before, and, though the Jem'Hadar watched her closely, they did not stop her from approaching him. He looked up with wide, questioning eyes.

"Are you alright?" she asked, not bothering to raise her voice. "I mean besides. . . ." She touched her throat.

Simmons shrugged, but offered her a slight smile. His eyes brightened when she took his hand and he felt the bread between their palms.

"You go back to the camp in the evenings?" she asked, careful to stick to 'yes or no' questions. He nodded his reply. "Then you've seen the commander?"

He shook his head and then nodded and ended with a shrug. He put one finger to his eye and nodded then touched his mouth while shaking his head. Formenos guessed what that might mean. "You've only seen him, not talked with him? So he's not in the same barracks." Simmons shrugged again. "What about the others?"

Simmons nodded and Formenos sighed. Maybe she could get some help. Four minds were better than one. She couldn't count Riker if he had no interaction with Simmons, and she wasn't at all sure of Bashir's mind. She leaned against the ship Simmons was working on, putting it and her back to the Jem'Hadar. "The target is here," she whispered. "You saw him yesterday. This is where the project is. We need to stop it. I have access to the computer. You have access to the others. I need to know how to destroy the plant and the orbital platform where they launch."

Simmons had realized she was revealing a confidence and ducked back to work as he listened. He gave the shortest of nods to show he understood. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, speaking up again so the Jem'Hadar could hear. She touched his shoulder lightly and then left him to his work.

Jafhe went in silence. He did not scream or protest. His serene expression never left his face. Jordan considered himself a man of faith, but he couldn't fathom how Jafhe had pulled that off with a hook in his back. Despite the usual horror of the lottery, the surviving prisoners might have gone back to their barracks with some hope because of Jafhe's manner of passing. But Jafhe's death was overshadowed, and they left with dread instead.

Unfortunately, Jordan had found himself in the front line of the evening's lottery and so he'd had a perfect vantage point for up-close viewing. Except for the triggering incident. One man farther back decided he didn't want to die in the morning. As illogical as it was, he tried to run. Not that he had anywhere to run to. The camp was vast and the fences electrified. No one had yet escaped and it was very unlikely a single prisoner, with nothing but the clothes on his back, would do any better. Of course, he was caught.

Just in case it wasn't bad enough that the punishment for resistance was a week without rations for the entire camp, Deyos gave them a choice. Actually, he gave the choice to Bashir, who stood alone now that Riker had been put with the rest of the camp. One week without rations for the entire camp, or the man would be stoned to death.

"A historical form of capital punishment from your Earth, I believe," Deyos had said. "One stone for each man and woman in this camp, and if even one person doesn't throw it, you will forfeit our agreement. Which shall it be, Doctor?"

And so once again, Bashir had to choose to kill someone. If a man could die and yet keep breathing, Deyos had accomplished it with Bashir. To make matters worse, the Jem'Hadar brought the whimpering escapee to stand in front of him so that Bashir could get a good look. He pleaded, and Bashir froze. From back in the gathered camp, the chant began, "Stone, stone, stone." Jordan understood that, and he chanted along, because he knew Bashir didn't understand. He'd need the help. One man for two hundred.

Julian Bashir stood in front of the quivering prisoner. Tears ran down the man's face; he'd lost control of his bladder in his fear. "Please," he begged. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

Deyos raised a hand to dismiss him and stepped between them. "The choice is no longer yours. That privilege is for our reknowned Doctor Bashir. One week without rations, or stoning. Yours will, of course, be the first stone."

Noch nicht, Bashir heard, once again seeing Scharführer Heiler before him. "Und du nicht."

"Stone, stone, stone," the crowd droned. A week without rations. Bashir looked at their faces: gaunt, pale, starving. They'd starve.

"Oh, it's not that easy, Herr Engländer." Heiler had a gun and she turned it from his temple to face the crowd. "I will shoot one of them."

"Choose," ordered Heiler. Or was it Deyos? "How many will die in one week, do you think?"

She pulled the trigger and Piotr collapsed to the ground. Bashir collapsed, too, and fell to his knees. "Stone," he breathed.

"I'm sorry," Heiler said, above him. "I didn't hear you."

Another shot rang out and another man fell. "Stone!" Bashir choked out. "Stone him."