There are times, Riker thought, when people could be so naive. Things got bad and they would think, 'Well, this is the worst it could be.' And then someone somewhere would come along with a cruel streak and show them their folly. Riker had thought he'd seen horror. He'd seen the Borg and what they could do to a sentient being. He'd seen murder. He'd seen thousands of corpses rotting in an underground cave. He'd seen people dying slowly, three at a time, in the lottery. He had thought it couldn't get any worse.

Tomorrow he would help to stone a man.

Jordan himself had found Riker in the aftermath of the lottery and led him to the barracks. "He made the right choice," he said. Riker had just looked at him. He couldn't speak. "I know it doesn't feel good, but he did the right thing. It's one man. Hundreds more could have died without rations for a week."

Riker nodded his agreement, on both counts. It didn't feel good. It felt horrible. But looking at the faces around him, he knew the prisoners were barely surviving on the rations they had.

"That is why they don't resist," Garulos said. He was leaning against the wall next to Riker. They were waiting for Simmons and Bormann. Jordan left them to sit with a group in the corner after telling him that Bashir would be back later.

"Bible study," Garulos said, nodding toward the group in the corner. "The calm one was a missionary."

"Missionary?" Riker asked, but he didn't really care for an answer. Garulos didn't bother giving one.

"Why does it always seem they choose the guy standing next to me?" Bormann asked as he found them. Simmons was with him.

Riker stood up to offer them a place to sit. Bormann looked alright. Simmons, though, had a reddish brown stain on the front of his shirt. "Did they?" he asked.

Simmons nodded. Then he pushed Riker back to make room on the floor. He put his finger into the dirt, and Riker could barely make out what he wrote as there wasn't a lot of light.

'Plant,' his fingers spelled. He brushed that away and wrote again. 'Pf,' and then 'Formenos'.

Returning one's mind to a mission had a way of distracting one from unpleasant circumstances, and this was no exception. 'Destroy' wrote Simmons before he wiped it away. 'K,' 'plant,' 'orbital,' 'help Form.'

Formenos had been assigned to the plant. Pfenner was there, working on K-Layer, and Formenos needed help to destroy the plant and an orbital station.

"That's a tall order," Riker told him. "How do you know? How did she talk to you?"

Simmons pointed to his mouth. 'Pf's pet,' he wrote on the ground. 'Access,' 'computer.'

"She has computer access?!" Bormann exclaimed, but only in a whisper. "How'd she manage that in just two days?"

Riker held up a hand to dismiss the question. It didn't matter how she had the access. They needed to do what she asked.

"I don't suppose it's possible to sneak explosives in?" Garulos asked.

'From?' Simmons asked.

"Good point," Riker replied. "We don't have anything to offer except our minds."

"And one of our best minds is rotting in the crematorium right now," Bormann put in.

"I don't know that I'd categorize it as rotting, Lieutenant," Riker corrected.

Bormann dropped his eyes. "Sorry, sir."

"I don't think he was entirely stable when they put him aboard our runabout," Riker admitted. "And I think Deyos is doing everything he can to push him over the edge. But maybe we can help him and Formenos at the same time. Maybe we can get him to focus on this dilemma."

"Sir," Garulos said. "What is going on with him? I can understand not telling us on Enterprise, but I think here we should know."

Riker sighed and rubbed his chin. The stubble growing there scratched at his filthy hands. "He was at Auschwitz once. I'll keep it simple and say he did not have a good time. This place looks like Auschwitz. There are a lot of similarities."

"I take it you're not talking about the museum," Bormann suggested. "So he's having flashbacks?"

Riker nodded. "And that group we discussed on the runabout, they abducted him on multiple occasions, tried to recruit him, and manipulated him into doing what they wanted. They marooned him. We found him a few weeks back."

"Six months of solitary confinement," Garulos said, nodding himself. "And considering how this group has treated us, setting us up for capture. . . ." He let those thoughts trail off.

"Well, he has one advantage now," Bormann said, smiling wickedly.

"What's that?" Riker asked.

"He's not the worse smelling prisoner anymore," Bormann replied. "Sir."

Riker smirked himself. "Very funny. Now let's look into Formenos's problem so we have something to present to him when he returns."

Bashir lifted the man onto the table and began to strip the clothes from him. The last one had been alive, like before. Snapping his neck was easier this time. Killing was getting easier and it frightened him. This one was the believer. And as Bashir looked at his face, he noticed that he was no longer gaunt. His cheeks were full, his limbs well-muscled. If not for the trickle of blood from his lips, Bashir would have thought the man alive.

"You know now," he told the man, knowing he couldn't hear. "So is it true?"

The man, of course, didn't answer, and Bashir lifted the table and sealed the crematoria door. In a few seconds, the man's body was gone.

Beyond that, he had no other thoughts. Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it. Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it. Over and over. He didn't smell the stench of their blood. He didn't feel the weight of the corpses. He only moved. Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it. He'd been here before, and somehow, in the years and months between he'd managed to think there was a reason to live again. Heiler laughed at him from the corner of the room.

Cloak or no cloak, the Defiant could not get behind the D'Nexi Lines. She could only go through them. And to go through them, she had to fight. About six hundred Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan ships had reached the D'Nexi Lines today to reinforce the Klingon forces that had been holding the Lines for the last two weeks. The Dominion had been ready for them. Not a half hour after the fleet arrived, eight hundred Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships swooped in to face them, and the battle had been raging ever since with barely a let up. Each cubic meter of space was fought over, ship for ship.

Barrage after barrage slammed into the Defiant, but the shields and the armor below them held. Casualty reports were streaming in. The Defiant had taken two casualties so far, both wounded, none dead. She was lucky. The Allied fleet had lost seventeen ships already, and the battle had only started a few hours before. The Dominion, thankfully, had lost twenty. But the odds were still tight. Starfleet Command was already trying to divert more ships to the Lines, but there weren't enough ships around to divert. That said, the Lines were holding and the allies were even managing to push them back a bit.

Jordan finished the Bible Study just as Bashir entered the barracks. As he had done the night before, he pushed his way to the front to guide him back to his crewmates. Bashir had looked wildly around the room last night. Tonight he didn't raise his eyes from the floor as he let Jordan lead him to the others. Riker stood when they arrived.

"Doctor?" he asked. Bashir didn't move or raise his eyes. Riker grabbed his shoulders with both hands. "Julian, look at me." It took a little shake but Bashir did finally look up. "That's better," Riker said as he released the doctor. "We need your help." He pointed to the ground in front of Simmons. "Sit here. Mr. Jordan, we could probably use your help as well."

They all sat in a tight circle and Riker laid out the problem. The last crewmate, a woman named Formenos had been assigned to the plant. But someone named Pfenner there took her on as a favorite. She kept her tongue and had somehow gained access to a computer. The plant was developing a dangerous new technology, and Formenos wanted to stop it. She just didn't know how.

As bad as the evening had been, Jordan relished the thought of a mission to stimulate his mind--and perhaps damage the enemy's war efforts. They conspired half the night and came up with a brilliant plan: a virus. If only they could carry it out. Right now they didn't even know how to tell Formenos their plan, let alone the details on how to carry it out. Simmons had smuggled a napkin out of the plant, but none of them could imagine how they would write on it. In the end, knowing morning would come soon and a long day would follow it, Riker ordered them to get some sleep.

Riker and Jordan were asleep on either side of him, but Bashir couldn't sleep. Not that he didn't want to. He even tried closing his eyes, resigning himself to whatever should come in the night. Still, he could not rid himself of the condemned man's face. He could already feel the weight of the stone in his hand.

He opened his eyes when he felt the soft tingle of a transport near his feet. He was surprised to see a young a woman with short, dark hair smiling down at him. She was dressed in black just as Sloan often wore. As he sat up, she knelt down and a bit of hair fell onto her forehead. She brushed it back then pointed to the napkin by Riker's head.

Bashir picked it up but was wary of giving it to her. She was either a changeling or Section 31. There was nothing on the napkin, however, as they'd yet to decide how they might compose a virus onto it. She motioned that he should give it to her. He passied it over and she placed another napkin in his hand. It was very dark, but he could just make out some dark figures on its fold.

"You know, things didn't quite turn out as we planned," she whispered. She gave him a sad smile. "We thought they'd put that mind of yours to work. Still the mission is going well in other fronts." She nodded toward the napkin and then stood. The transport took her almost immediately.

Bashir held up the napkin, trying to turn it into one of the wan shafts of light from outside. He knew now who the woman was. He didn't close his eyes again for the rest of the night.

When Riker woke up, Bashir showed him the napkin with its tiny print detailing a virus that would do everything they'd planned the night before.

"How did you. . . ?" Riker tried to ask, looking at the small square of paper in his hands.

"I didn't," Bashir admitted. "We had a visitor last night. Thirty-one."

"I'd say so," Riker said, "but if they could do this, why would they need you?"

Bashir just shrugged. "They underestimated the Dominion. Thought they'd put me to work with Pfenner."

They didn't speak for a few minutes, and Riker was surprised by Bashir's next question. "Do you still think I'm arrogant?"

Riker watched him, looking for any suggestion of aggression on his face. He didn't find it. "You care what I think?

"It's not that I didn't before," Bashir replied. "It didn't matter. You were temporary. I was going back to DS9."

Riker nodded. "I wouldn't be your commanding officer." He leaned back and thought about Bashir's question for a moment. "No. I don't think you're arrogant."

"Arrogant means you think of yourself more than others," Bashir said. "I'm more arrogant now than I ever was before. People thought I was arrogant before, but I thought of myself as less than all of them."

"And now?" Riker wanted to keep him talking. And he really wanted to know how Bashir thought of himself. He didn't think he'd heard this many words from Bashir since they came to this camp.

"And now," Bashir went on, "I'm all that there is. I'm the only one I can really trust because I'm the only one I can control. Everyone else has the potential to betray. They are unpredictable."

That was heavy but it had an amount of logic to it. "To a certain extent," Riker countered, "you should be able to predict based on previous actions and a person's character."

"Like with Captain Sisko and the order he gave?" Bashir challenged. His voice, however, remained calm and somewhat distant. "And Starfleet Command who backed him up? The Federation Council which turns a blind eye to Section 31? Like a certain admiral who lied to me, used me?"

"Good point," Riker conceded. "Makes it hard to trust, I suppose. But you trusted Data."

Bashir nodded and rested his head against the wall again. "Data is a machine. A wondrous machine, but a machine. He's programmed to be moral. And barring someone tampering with that programming, he'll do the right thing."

Riker felt he needed to counter that, both for Bashir and for Data. Data could base a lot of his personality and choices on programming, but not everything could come down to 1's and 0's. He had his ethical dilemmas from time to time. Bashir needed to know that. "There was this man, Kivas Fajo," he said, "a collector of unique things. He captured Data and kept him by threatening to harm someone else with a very painful weapon. Data eventually convinced Fajo's assistant to help him escape, but Fajo used that weapon on her. Data took the weapon from him, but Fajo taunted him with his programming. He knew Data couldn't kill him. Data had to decide then: Could he kill Fajo or stay and let Fajo continue threatening and killing people to keep him there? He was saved from that choice by the transporter, but Geordi caught the discharging weapon in the beam and deactivated it. Data did not say that he had fired it. He let us believe it was a malfunction but I have my doubts."

Bashir looked thoughtful then closed his eyes. "I had a choice once. I could take the whip and beat this poor man who'd been caught doing something or I could watch as every man in my kommando was shot in the head. I thought the world would have to come to end, the universe would have to rip itself apart. It was an impossible choice. But I made it."

He opened his eyes again and turned to face Riker. "I'm not proud of beating him, certainly not of killing him. It ripped a piece of my soul from me. I would have died myself but she wouldn't turn the gun on me. Given those two horrible choices--to obey and kill a man, or to disobey and let twenty, thirty die--I made the right one. So did Data."

Riker nodded, "I agree, but I don't think it had anything to do with his programming."

Bashir turned his face to the crowded room again and was quiet for awhile. Riker wondered what he was thinking.

Finally he spoke. "I learned something in Auschwitz: Dying is easy. Living is hard."

Riker didn't believe that, not even here. Life was not always easy but it was better than death. Bashir had been trying to die before he was transported onto the runabout, but he wasn't dead yet. Death was obviously harder than he thought.

"Once this war is over," he told him, "we should have a drink and discuss that again. I think your perspective may change a bit." Bashir didn't answer and Riker guessed he was still being morose. "Did you eat anything yesterday?" he asked.

"When?" Bashir asked in return.

"Breakfast or lunch," Riker answered. "You need to eat. The ration bars taste awful, but at least they're something."

The door opened and Bashir was saved from having to reply by the gruesome reality of what was to come.

On the one hand, Riker was thankful for Section 31's gift. They could accomplish their mission--and more--and maybe get out of this camp. But on the other, having the puzzle solved for them had lost them the opportunity to reach Bashir. For a moment he had been coherent, and Riker had tried to take advantage of that moment of lucidity to get him to eat. He was sure Bashir had neither slept nor eaten since he had left DS Nine. Bashir's enhancements were likely a factor in his endurance, but even now his hands were beginning to shake and his face was taking on an unhealthy pallor.

As the prisoners stood, Riker realized he was using Bashir as a way to cope. He could practically hear Deanna's voice telling him as much. If he worried about Bashir, he didn't have to worry about what was going to happen this morning.

Deyos himself stepped through the door flanked by Bashir's near-constant shadows: the Jem'Hadar Third and his nondescript companion. They pushed their way through the crowd to Bashir's side, took his arms, and pulled him toward the door.

Though he didn't relish the idea of stoning a man to death, Riker hurried after them. When Bashir and his escorts reached Deyos, the Vorta spun on his heels and led them outside. Instead of piles of ration bars waiting on the ground, there were only stones this morning.

"Need I remind you not to try any tricks, Doctor?" Deyos asked. "You could kill him with one stone and a sufficient knowledge of anatomy. But that would rob your colleagues of their usefulness. If he dies too quickly, I can still cut rations."

Bashir didn't say anything, even when Deyos handed him one of the larger stones in the pile. He didn't even look up. Deyos smirked and Riker found himself fantasing about killing that Vorta in a slow and extremely painful way. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Jordan behind him.

"He's not just punishing Bashir," he whispered. "He's trying to break us all."

Garulos was with him. "No prisoner is allowed to take the life of another."

Jordan nodded. "And until today, that code has not been broken."

Riker nodded and picked up his own stone and joined the line that was forming behind Deyos and Bashir. "And if we all should accidentally miss?"

"Don't underestimate Deyos," Jordan warned. "He hasn't bluffed yet. I don't think he's bluffing now. He could starve half this camp in a week."

Deyos himself led them to the far side of the roll call grounds where the condemned prisoner was tied between two posts. Jem'Hadar guards formed everyone into lines. Unlike other days, there was no chatter among the prisoners. The women were marched in and put in a line just beside the men. Riker looked for Formenos but couldn't see her. He knew the plant workers stood together at roll call, but he couldn't tell this morning who was assigned to the plant and who was not.

"After throwing your stone," Deyos announced to the gathered prisoners, "proceed to roll call. Now the good Doctor Bashir will grace us with the first stone."

Past Bashir's shoulder, Riker could see the poor man who was about to die pull hard against his bonds. He wept and shook his head. Bashir, with so blank an expression he might have been a robot, stepped forward one step and held his stone up toward the man, like a baseball player on a pitcher's mound. He pulled his arm back and threw, catching the man directly in the throat. So hard was the shot that the man fell backwards and only the ropes on his wrist kept him upright. He coughed and gasped for breath as a trickle of bright red blood trailed down his neck.

Deyos stopped Bashir from walking away. "I thought we discussed this," he said. "I can still cut their rations. How many will die, do you think, because of your pity?"

"He isn't dead," Bashir replied.

Coughing blood between his lips, the condemned man stood again.

"How fortunate," Deyos retorted, stepping out of the way. He turned to the first woman in line. "Madam, if you will. And make sure you hit him."

She threw her stone, hitting the man in the leg. He stumbled but choked out a cry of pain. Riker was next, and he just couldn't do it. Bashir, he could understand. Bashir wasn't in his right mind anymore. Yet still, it was obvious that the stone to the throat was meant to kill the man quickly, though not immediately. Bashir had that knowledge of anatomy. He knew just where to throw. Riker didn't have that advantage.

"Throw it, Commander," Deyos ordered. "Throw it or you can join him and I'll still cut their rations."

Riker felt his knees begin to buckle. This was impossible. And yet he couldn't let all the prisoners suffer for this one man's very understandable wish to live.

"We're waiting," Deyos said, stepping closer.

Telling himself he only held a snowball, Riker threw, and his stone contacted solidly with the man's stomach. The man hunched forward as he began coughing again. His chin and chest were red from the blood.

Feeling rather nauseous and suddenly exhausted, Riker turned away from the man and followed after Bashir. They were led back to the roll call grounds and lined up in the usual ranks. Riker felt every thunk of stone against the man behind him. He kept walking, trying to concentrate on the napkin that Simmons carried and not what he'd just done. Jordan joined them, with Garulos not far behind. Simmons came next and stood between Garulos and Bormann. So even the plant workers were part of the stoning.

It took two hours for the stoning to end, though the victim's cries had turned to whimpers within the first hour. Riker's legs were already numb by the time the last man was lined up for roll call. Deyos, however, did not appear interested in altering the routine any more than he already had. The count went on, and so did the lottery. Fifteen people hung--one to replace the stoned man--and fifteen new prisoners were chosen to die that evening. And Bormann was one of them.

Formenos waited anxiously for the prisoners from the camp to arrive. She went with Pfenner to the lift and tried not to look as if she was anxious. She worried the Vorta or Jem'Hadar there would see through her deception. Only Pfenner knew she was not who she claimed to be.

The workers finally began to stream in. "Deyos kept you longer than usual," the Vorta said. "You're behind schedule. There will be no meal breaks today. You'll need those to make your quota."

The group, already looking forlorn, didn't so much as groan. And of course, no one spoke to tell why they were late. One by one, they opened their mouths, showing their lack of tongues to ensure that no other prisoners had infiltrated their ranks. Pfenner walked behind the Vorta, and Formenos walked behind him. Simmons turned his eyes to her as the Vorta examined him, and when the Vorta moved on, he nodded once. Formenos only hoped that nod was meant for her.

With the simple inspection finished, the lift began to rise. Simmons moved another prisoner aside so that his side of the rank was nearest to her. The lift stopped and the workers filed out. Simmons was too close however and ran into Formenos. And Formenos had the sense to fall.

Simmons frantically held out a hand to say he was sorry, and used the other to grab her arm and help her up. One finger tapped against the inside of her arm, and Formenos clamped her arm hard to her side. Once she was on her feet, one of the Jem'Hadar guards grabbed Simmons and clubbed him to the ground.

"He can't work," Pfenner snapped, joining in the scene, "if you knock him senseless. You're fine, aren't you, Eline?"

That last question to her was softer, as if he sincerely cared. "Yes, I'm fine," she confirmed. "Accidents happen."

One of the other workers helped Simmons up, and they went on to their stations. Pfenner and Formenos left the Vorta behind and took another lift to the lab. Pfenner went to his console and began to work. Formenos excused herself, telling him that she needed to use the lavatory. Once there she lifted her arm and found the napkin that had held the bread she'd given to Simmons. Only what it held now was worth far more than a piece of bread. She didn't understand it all, but she knew what to do with it. It was a program. She had to get to a terminal, somewhere where not even Pfenner would see her work. Everything she needed was laid out on that small bit of soft paper in impossibly fine print. She tucked the napkin into a pocket and hurried back to the lab.

Pfenner grabbed her by the arms as soon as she entered. "Eline!" he exclaimed. "I think I've found it!"

Formenos shook her head. "Found what?"

"The K-Layer!" he said, pulling her over to his console. "I was nearly there last time. . . ."

He rattled on for another twenty minutes but Formenos barely heard. Not today, she thought. Not today! She had a plan, yes, but no guarantee she could pull it off. She didn't know if she could get a terminal. Now all she had was today. Today, they would test the K-Layer again. And if it proved successful, the Dominion would spread the technology to all their forces in the Alpha Quadrant. She had only this one day to stop them.

". . . test scheduled for 1800 hours," Pfenner was saying. "We have a thousand calculations and simulations to run before then, but I'm sure it will work. The pilot will come home this time." Then he stopped short, and really looked at her for the first time that day. "You don't share my enthusiasm," he surmised.

"This isn't home," she told him. "That pilot will never see home, whether he makes it back here or not."

Pfenner rubbed his chin as he nodded. "But he'll be alive, Eline. There will be no more blood on my hands."

There will be so much, you'll never wash away the stain, she thought. She couldn't let that happen. Not to him, and not to the Federation. She had taken an oath when she joined Starfleet.

"I'll need your help on the simulations," Pfenner told her. "I know you don't approve of this. But it's the only choice we've got right now."

And they'll kill you when they have what they want, she thought again. She nodded though, trying hard to appear resigned and not determined. Simulations were run from a terminal.

Bormann couldn't feel his legs. He stumbled against the weight of the body he was carrying. That, and the realization that this was his last day to live. Three days. They'd only been in the camp three days, and, still, his number had come up. He felt trapped in a nightmare and kept hoping he'd wake up.

Sticky blood ran down his shirt and smeared his cheek, but he hardly noticed. By the end of the day, someone else would be carrying him. Before that, he would be impaled upon a large metal hook in front of his fellow prisoners.

Bashir walked alongside the line of body-carriers like some kind of automaton, head down, feet barely lifting. Bormann thought he looked defeated, and he finally understood. Maybe Bashir was better off that way, lost in something other than this dreadful reality. Then he remembered what Riker had said. It was no happy place where the doctor was. But Bormann had to wonder if it was worse than what they faced now.

They were led to a part of camp Bormann had never seen, past an electrified gate. The Jem'Hadar directed them to stack the bodies against a short building. As Bormann dropped his load, he felt a hand on his arm to help him up.

"I'd trade you places if I could," Bashir whispered.

Bormann just nodded as the Jem'Hadar led him away. He believed him. Bashir was defeated, ready to leave this life behind.

Bormann's heart pounded hard in his chest. He wasn't ready. Every instinct he had said to fight, to run. No surrender. But he'd seen all too well what that could mean. Stoning sounded worse than the hook. And if Deyos was into ancient Earth capital punishments, he might choose something even more agonizing and slow.

It was not fair, not right. How could this have happened? If Section 31 got them captured, why didn't they get them out before this happened? They orchestrated everything else so well. How could they just sit and watch Federation prisoners killed day after day in this place?

The Jem'Hadar deposited him in front of the first building he was meant to clean. Barlu was waiting there with supplies. He'd seen Barlu in the kommando before, but he hadn't actually worked with him yet.

"Bormann, isn't it?" Barlu asked, as he handed him a bucket and rag.

Bormann just nodded. He didn't feel like talking.

Barlu, though, apparently did. "I imagine it's a hard time for you. They do that on purpose. Put you through the wringer up here--" He pointed to his head. "--before they hurt you physically."

Bormann nodded again.

"So are you going to let them?"

Bormann stopped scrubbing and faced the older man. "What?" he asked, utterly perplexed. "It's not like I have a choice. You saw what happened this morning."

"You do have a choice," Barlu said, stopping his work, too. "Not about the hook, but about the wringer."

"What are you talking about?" Bormann challenged. Barlu's eyes met his and though it felt unusual to really look at someone eye to eye, Bormann couldn't look away.

"You have less than a day to live, Mr. Bormann," Barlu said. "How are you going to live it? Are you going to die slowly though self-pity? Or are you going to spend this time looking back on the joys of your life?"

Bormann's breath quickened but he still couldn't let go of those eyes. "I'm scared," he confessed. "I don't want to die."

Barlu put his hand on Bormann's shoulder. "We are all going to die. Some in peace and some in pain. Some in war. Some in murder. Or accidents or suicides. We all die. Death is just one part of life. You only have a few hours left. Maybe I only have a day or only a minute. I'm not going to spend my time wallowing in death. What do you want to do with yours?"

They killed him, Bashir told himself, repeating words Kira had once told him. They killed him. They just used our hands.

But looking down at the bruised and misshapen body in front of him, he couldn't make himself believe it. Heiler had known how to make him suffer. She had made him beat a man to death. Deyos, apparently, knew it, too. He was a doctor, sworn to heal and not to harm. By his nature, he fought death and now he was made to serve it. And he did so without struggle. He didn't fight it. He did what he was told.

Fighting it was impossible. He learned that from Heiler. Evil had no boundaries, no rules of right and wrong. And it was all around him. It was winning.

He lifted the door and incinerated the body, and again he thought about climbing in himself. He had meant what he said to Bormann. Almost. While he would welcome death, he did not want to die like the victims of the lottery. Pain and suffering were two of the main reasons he wanted out of this life. Avoiding pain as best he could had become his only reason to keep on living.

But pain had become a constant. It had hurt to stone that man. Deyos had counted on that just as much as Heiler had. His back and arms ached from the strain of lifting the bodies. Every breath hurt.

And he was tired. He was tired of fighting, tired of thinking, tired of breathing. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and leave this and all worlds far behind. Riker chided at him to sleep and eat, but he couldn't do either. His stomach ached but he could not bring himself to eat even one ration bar. Nor could he close his eyes and rest his mind for more than a few seconds at a time.

He returned to the pile of bodies, under the watchful eyes of his kapos. Five more to go, he thought and wished he would stop thinking altogether.

Riker struggled to keep the bile in his stomach. The gore around him was no more than during other days, but on other days his crew were not chosen to die. Riker had found it easy, in these last few days, to think his crewmen were safe enough. Given, Bashir's sanity was falling into question and Simmons had lost his tongue, but otherwise no one had been physically threatened. Their work details, while demanding, were not overly dangerous and the lottery had passed them by.

Riker knew Section 31 had led them to this place, but despite what Bashir had said about them, he had still had faith that, if they had sent them to get captured, they would get them out once their mission was accomplished. It nearly was accomplished. Section 31 had even helped in that. Why then would they allow the Dominion to kill Bormann?

Maybe there was still hope. Formenos had the virus. If she initiated it soon, Section 31 could still whisk them away before the evening's lottery.

But where would that leave all these other prisoners? They were no less worthy of rescue than Riker and his crew. It was just too overwhelming to think of the thousands of prisoners held here. It threatened to push him to the edge--like Bashir. All he could manage to hold onto were those closest to him here: his crew and Bashir. And Jordan. He had only known Jordan for three days, but he had become, in a way, their guide in this abyss. He had no more guarantee of survival than anyone else, less even than Bashir. He simply knew the way and cared enough to share it with them. That made six. He could handle six.

Too soon he'd have only five. Death was a part of war and, while it still hurt, it was at least expected that some would die in battle. But this wasn't war. In battle, Bormann would have a chance, even if only a small one. This was murder, brutal and slow, with the added torture of having to wait, knowing it was coming.

Not even war was supposed to be like this.

Something knocked him hard in the back and Riker's face was pushed into the bloody wall. "Work, human!" a voice snarled behind him. "This room must be clean by roll call!"

Riker had to bite back the bile in his throat again. Using his sleeve, he wiped some of the grime from his face and then bent back to his work, realizing that he was being naive again. He had thought that nothing could be worse than the stoning. He had to stop thinking things like that.

Formenos finished entering the data just before lunch. She prayed to whatever might be listening that the virus would work. That's what it was. She realized it as she entered the data. A virus. It would take over the environmental systems, flooding the entire plant with icarin gas. A single spark would then set off an enormous explosion. And of course, before all that happened, the virus would upload itself to the orbital platform and do the same there. Icarin gas was odorless and colorless, but highly flammable. A part of her shuddered to think about the pilots and other prisoner workers who might die in the explosions, but she was firm in her convictions. It was more important to stop the project or millions would die. Still, she herself had to get out. She couldn't warn any others without raising suspicions but she wanted to report back to Commander Riker before she was found and punished. And she was sure she would be found and punished. There really wasn't anywhere to run.

Their mission was to find out if Pfenner was a traitor, and she wanted the record to be straight on that account. He, like the others would die in the explosion, and she felt he deserved to not have his memory marred by accusations of treason. He wasn't treasonous, just soft-hearted. He was punishing himself for Mtingwa and the others. He couldn't see that the project's success meant the loss of the war. So he helped the Dominion because his conscience wouldn't let those pilots die for nothing.

Tonight, they would all die. But not for nothing.

Barlu listened to him all day as he droned on and on about his family, his sister, his graduation from Starfleet Academy, his childhood pets. He recounted his life, the happy times. Barlu was right. That was how he wanted to spend his last hours. Living instead of dying. Before Barlu had cornered him with that question, his death had loomed so large that he could see nothing else. Now the sky was getting darker. There were only two building left to clean. His time was running out.

"That hook isn't the end of things, you know."

Bormann smiled and shook his head. He'd known that was coming. Before he might have been offended, but not now. Barlu had been there for him, a total stranger. He owed him. What could it hurt to listen? "You believe in an afterlife," he stated.

Barlu nodded. "For all of us. Even the Dominion."

"Why would you want an afterlife with them?" Bormann asked as he dipped his rag and started washing the wall.

"It's not about wanting it," Barlu answered. "We all get an afterlife whether we want one or not. Some of us are going to have a pleasant one. Some of us not."

"Hell?" Bormann asked, dropping the rag back into the bucket. "Isn't that what this is?"

Barlu didn't back down. "This is a picnic by comparison."

"You really believe that? What is it, a lake of fire?"

"Yes, I really believe it." Barlu bent down and picked up his own bucket. "And you should, too. What have you got to lose?"

"Dignity, maybe." Bormann thought about what the others would think if he suddenly announced he believed in this Christian stuff.

"Do you think Jafhe died without it?"

Jafhe. The missionary. Bormann shook his head. "He was all dignity."

"Yes, and do you know why?"

Bormann thought about that. What had made Jafhe so dignified? "No fear," he said. "He had no fear."

"And you know why he wasn't afraid."

Bormann nodded. "He believed he was going to heaven."

Barlu nodded. "The afterlife. The pleasant one. He had faith. And that faith didn't fail him. You saw that."

"But why?" Bormann asked as he went back to work. "Why would you believe all that? Most humans left that stuff behind centuries ago."

"I know." Barlu crossed over to the opposite wall and dipped his rag again. "It's some of the things Jesus commanded that sealed the deal for me. I mean, if I was going to make up a religion so convincing that millions would convert to it for centuries--even millenia--I'd make it a little easier, something everyone could do. But He commanded things that go against our nature: 'Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.' Now who in their right minds would want to love their enemies? Love the Jem'Hadar? Or our head Vorta? That tells me these twelve guys didn't just sit down around a fire and concoct a religion out of thin air."

Bormann's brow furrowed at that. Barlu had a point. "So how do you do it? How do you love the Jem'Hadar?"

"With difficulty," Barlu answered quickly, chuckling a bit. "Really, I guess I just try to look at them as God sees them. They were his creatures once. They were taken and corrupted, genetically engineered to take away their freedom of choice. They have no choice but to worship the Founders. It's not their fault they are the way they are. Just think, we are prisoners here. They take our freedom and even our lives. But the one thing they are never able to take away is choice. We can choose to believe whatever we want. The Jem'Hadar can't. The Founders have condemned them.

"And think about our commandant. He's a Vorta. They helped the changlings once, and, in their gratitude, the Founders took not only their ability to choose but their ability to taste, to see and appreciate beauty, even to be unique. If something happens to this Deyos, there's another one in a can somewhere. Can you imagine it? He'll never hear a symphony and get lost in the harmony and melody. He'll never taste Idanian spice pudding. He'll never fall in love. And if he dies, no one will bother with his memory. They'll just replace him and be done with it. No one misses a Vorta. No one misses a Jem'Hadar. In that, my friend, we are rich."

Bormann paused in his cleaning. "I've never thought of it like that."

"Because it's not in our nature to do so," Barlu said. "That's why I believe. I can think of it like that because for all my faults, God looks at me like that. He thought I was worth dying for."

Worth dying for. Bormann knew with certainty that he was going to die, but he wondered now what he had that was worth dying for. He had his family but they were safe enough at home now. There was the war, but he wouldn't be dying in battle or in a heroic rescue of others. What was he dying for?

The clinic was busy. A lot of hands had been cut on the stones. Doctor Bashir cleaned them as best he could and bandaged them up before sending their owners back out to work. There were a few more serious injuries: chemical burns, sprained joints, tool cuts. It was a much more relaxing and rewarding task to patch them up than it was to burn their bodies. But he resented it. It was another ploy to lure him back to life. Heiler had done it. He had given up and she put him in the hospital, let him bandage some wounds, let him feel--in some small way--like a doctor again. It felt good, and he didn't want to feel good. He didn't want to feel.

A woman came in holding her left arm in her right hand. Blood slipped between her fingers to drip onto the floor. Bashir sat her down and poured water over her cut. It wasn't even sterile water. He was hardly saving her from infection, considering the filth they all had to work in. It was a wonder he hadn't seen any gangrene yet. And what did it matter anyway? He would probably be burning her corpse in the next day or two.

She was the last one. The sun was setting outside, and the kapos pounded the door. He stood up and stretched his back for a moment and stared at his hands. The hands of a healer once, but they'd be burning Bormann tonight.

He found Riker at the front of the lines, as usual. He never had to go far to roll call. The hanging room was stark white again, a tribute to his kapos more than to him. Riker looked pale in the darkening light. Bashir couldn't see Bormann. He didn't want to see Bormann.

By the time the kapos had finished counting, Bashir's legs had gone numb and his back was aching again. Deyos called out three numbers, and the first victims were put on the hooks. Bashir tried to tune out the sound of the hook passing through flesh, the cries of the dying. The next three were called, and they removed the first from the hooks only to be placed on them themselves. Bashir noticed that one of the bodies was still twitching. Another neck to break if she didn't die by the time they reached the crematoria.

The next three numbers were called, and this time Bormann stepped forward from somewhere near the back. Bashir watched him as he waited for his turn to die. His whole body quivered, but his eyes were closed and his lips moved in small movements. When it was time to take down the body, he moved forward without shaking. He pulled the body down and placed it into the pile near Bashir. "Don't let them kill your spirit, Doctor," he whispered. "You still have choice." Then he stepped back and was lifted by two Jem'Hadar onto the hook. Bashir couldn't tune out the sounds then. Bormann clenched his teeth in an effort not to scream, but the sound was ripped from him regardless. "Jesus!" he cried. "I choose Jesus!"

And at that the chanting started again, though it was too quiet for Bashir to hear the words. Bormann had become a believer. Twenty minutes dragged by, and still he didn't die. He cried out his hurt, but kept saying "Jesus" over and over again. And then he did something odd. He looked out at the gathered prisoners before him and held out his hand. And he smiled. His hand and head dropped and he stopped moving altogether.

The next three stepped up and took him and the other two down. Then they went up, and the cycle continued, until the morning's victims were chosen and the Jem'Hadar led Bashir away in a procession of death.

Pfenner pressed the panel again. The test hadn't worked. Another pilot had been lost. It tore at him, but he knew he was close. Very close. And once he had it, no more pilots would die because of him. He knew Eline didn't see eye to eye with him on this, but he hadn't thought she'd refuse him her company at dinner. Despite their few priveleges, they were both still prisoners. A place of privelege was lonely.

Still there was no answer at her door. He was getting impatient. He had not had a good day and he didn't feel well. Pfenner decided to open it anyway. Privelege also had its benefits. He pressed his code into the panel and the door opened, but Formenos was not there.

"Eline," he called, listening closely for an answer. All he heard was wind.

Wind? There were no windows in this complex. As the wind grew louder, he stepped back into the corridor. Then he stumbled backwards, eyes wide and full of fear. Fire. The air was turning into fire. And just as his mind put that thought together, fire roared through the corridor and poured into the room.

Pfenner couldn't breathe. He felt the heat, but was too shocked to feel the pain. What he felt was a tingle moving through his body. Then his ears registered a horrendously loud explosion, and the floor crumbled away beneath him.