Jordan tried to stay near the front. That got easier as each barrack was emptied and the prisoners were marched to the ship. It was a simple cargo vessel. Cardassian construction originally, but the Dominion had modified it with their own technology. And unlike most cargo vessels, this one lacked compartments. The hold consisted of one large space jerry-rigged into three decks. The decks, however, did not extend the entire length from back to front. The forward twenty meters were open, with no railings to prevent falls from the upper decks. The forward wall of the hold was fitted with a large viewscreen.

Jordan was on the second deck, just behind the Jem'Hadar guards and only a yard back from the edge. Of the fifty that had escorted them to the ship only ten remained on each deck. Two stood guard at the ladders, the only method of transit between decks. The other eight stood on the forward edge.

The decks themselves were not solid but made of a hard titanium mesh so that Jordan could see through the ceiling above him and the floor below. He had enlisted Barlu and Compton to scan the deck below. Cortran and Ledora were doing their best to scan the upper deck from below, and Ka'man and Detrilekan were wandering the second deck. Jordan himself stayed put at the front where he could see the cargo lift and each group of some two hundred prisoners arrive.

He had lost count of how many many times he had seen those doors open. At least ten Jem'Hadar were with them, and one single Vorta checked that load off on a PADD and directed traffic into the hold. The earliest arrivals had filled the upper deck first. Jordan and his barracks were directed to the center deck where already some one thousand prisoners were milling. More came after them. Lastly, the lowest level was being filled. And Jordan had yet to see Bashir among the prisoners.

Riker and Garulos were also missing, and Jordan reminded himself that they were in as much danger as Bashir. There was just something different about Bashir. He was crew. Jordan's crew. Even after two years with the Dominion, he had not forgotten that his post was on Deep Space Nine. There were no other prisoners on this ship that could understand--especially under present circumstances--how that Cardassian monstrosity could be called home. Bashir could.

And beyond that was a little bit of disappointment. Not just in Bashir, but also in himself. He had risked his own life to save Bashir from the Nazis, and, not only had Bashir gone back to Auschwitz, but now he was a prisoner again and losing his mind to boot. Was that the life he'd sacrificed to save? But then, Jordan himself had been a part of that decline. If he hadn't been so careless, he might never have been captured. His capture led to an experiment that had nearly killed Bashir. What had that done to Bashir's mind?

But he had also had a lot of time to think in those two years and to learn wisdom. Those were fleeting thoughts, self-pity and blame. They were not truth, not really. The present and the future were what mattered now. The past was just that: past.

Riker was sore, tired, and uncomfortable. He was sure, however, that Garulos was worse on all three accounts. Deyos had not come for them again. Instead, the Jem'Hadar First had come in and thrown the two uniforms down onto the floor. Bashir, who had just spent the previous hour doing nothing but staring at the wall, had actually seemed somewhat lucid. While Riker pulled his trousers on, Bashir had gone over to Garulos to help him dress. Riker watched as he did so, out of concern for Garulos and curious about Bashir's sudden switch in behavior. Bashir looked like the doctor Riker remembered from Carello Neru. He was professional, even strong, but also gentle. He didn't make Garulos move anymore than was absolutely necessary, but did most of the work himself, even buttoning the front of Garulos's shirt. Garulos, normally a stern, independent crewman, did not protest or even try to help more than Bashir made him. That worried Riker. Whatever they'd done to Garulos was many times worse than what they had done to him.

So here they were, Bashir and he, marching out of the camp and into the dusty horizon holding Garulos between them. And Riker could tell that Bashir was holding more of the weight. Those must have been some enhancements, he thought to himself, but wondered why they hadn't bolstered his mental fortitude. While there was no doubt that Bashir's intellect had been enhanced, his ability to fight the insanity that the Dominion and Section 31 foisted upon him was no stronger than what any human might have. Riker couldn't say it was less. He'd had questionable times himself. Fortunately, he'd had Deanna to get him through. Bashir had had Deanna, too, and he must indeed have been enhanced to fool her.

Garulos stiffened with each step, but he kept his feet moving, trying to help somewhat in his own transport. Riker honestly didn't know if Sarpen would survive. Bashir wouldn't discuss it, nor had he tried to treat Garulos's wounds during their hours in the cell. Of course, there was nothing Bashir could have treated him with, so Riker didn't fault him. He also didn't know if, even were his body healed, Garulos would be any better off than Bashir right now. He was scarred, in more ways than one.

Bashir was just one step away from the edge, Riker thought, and leaning forward. Starfleet and the Federation would lose an incredible mind and caring physician one way or the other. The Dominion would either kill him or drive him over that edge.

But right now what they were driving them to was a ship. A very large Cardassian cargo ship. Two Jem'Hadar and one Vorta had accompanied them, not allowing them to slow or stop for rest. Still it had taken an hour, at Riker's guess, to reach the ship. Their escorts did nothing to help them aboard either. They nudged he and Bashir with the butts of their rifles. Thankfully, though, they didn't touch Garulos. They entered through two large cargo doors into what Riker assumed was a cargo lift, as they were well below the level of the hold. The lift rose about ten meters and stopped. Two doors opened on the other side, and he and Bashir were pushed out.

The hold was immense. Rather than having separate storage compartments, the whole thing was opened up into one three-tiered area. Riker couldn't even see the aft bulkhead as there were thousands of prisoners crowded into all three decks that he could see. Looking up, he noticed Jordan watching from the second deck.

There was another Vorta in the open area in front of the decks. "Low deck," he said, pointing without even looking up from his PADD. "Except for Bashir. Wait here. You are to supervise the facilities for Dr. Formenos."

Riker gave Bashir one last look as he let go of Garulos. Riker nearly fell from the weight, but Garulos put more effort into standing and together they made it the twenty yards to the lowest crowd of prisoners, just behind a row of Jem'Hadar guards.

Formenos. So she was still alive. Riker couldn't quite imagine what she might look like without a face. Bashir might have been delusional when he said it. Riker hoped so, for her sake, but then, if they needed Bashir to supervise the facilities, she must have been in very bad shape. Riker even spared a thought for Dayton, if for no other reason than that she knew their mission and might give away what, so far, none of his crew had.

Deyos arrived shortly after Riker took Garulos into the crowds on the lower deck. Bashir had watched as the prisoners crowded a little closer together to give Garulos room to lie down on the floor. Garulos wouldn't survive much longer, not without treatment. Deyos led him back to the lift, which rose again another four meters. "Follow me," was all he said. They went down a narrow corridor, across a long catwalk, past four doors on either side, and made a right turn. Bashir tried to memorize the path. He felt it might somehow be important later. He wanted to go back to the other prisoners with Riker and Garulos.

They turned right again and headed aft. They only went two doors before Deyos stopped. He pressed his hand to a panel next to the door on the right and the door opened. "She will be arriving here by transporter," Deyos said as they entered. "My previous order still stands. Make sure she survives, nothing more." Then he turned and left.

He was alone. No guards, no kapos, no prisoners, no Vorta. No one. He leaned back against the wall and let his body relax for the first time in what seemed like months. He knew it wouldn't last, but it felt good for at least that moment. The air began to shimmer around him and he felt the tension return to his shoulders. Instruments appeared. A cabinet with hyposprays. A table. A pole with IV equipment. And finally Formenos herself. He could tell they'd used the antiseptic. Her face looked cleaner now, though it was still bleeding. And now the skin of her hands had been taken away as well. She held her fingers flexed above the metal table. Her eyes were red and dull. She turned them toward him, and he wondered how well she could see now.

He moved to the side of her table and touched her arm gently again. As he pushed the first IV needle into her arm, he was surprised to hear her voice. "Kill me," she begged.

Bashir closed his eyes and felt his own heart beg the same thing. This existence was too cruel, too ugly, too painful to continue. "They won't let me," he whispered to her. And to himself.

The door opened behind them, and Bashir turned to see Deyos had returned with two other Vorta. The two others went to the cabinet and began filling hyposprays. Deyos kept his eyes on Bashir. "Come with me, Doctor."

Bashir followed, expecting to be returned to the rest of the prisoners, but instead of turning left out the door, they turned right. They continued aft for perhaps twenty meters before Deyos opened another door on the right. This was a bigger room, and Schlachter and three other Jem'Hadar were waiting inside.

"Activate the comm channel," Deyos said as he led Bashir to a platform in the center of the room. Bashir couldn't see any viewscreens in the room and Deyos was not wearing a headset. He wondered what comm channel he was referring to. And he wondered what the platform was for. It wasn't big enough to be called a table as it was perhaps only half a meter square on top. There was, however, a strap on it much like those that held Formenos's arms and legs to the table. "Tell me, Doctor," Deyos asked, "are you right-handed or left-handed?"

Two Jem'Hadar grabbed hold of his arms, and Bashir knew the platform was for him. And he knew what they would do. Heiler, in the guise of the Gestapo had asked him the same question. He couldn't answer then and he was afraid to answer now.

"If you don't answer, I'll have to choose for you," Deyos said.

Bashir couldn't answer. He was right-handed and he knew Deyos knew that. The other Vortas had seen him put in the IV. He needed his right hand. But his left was still new. He looked at his hand and saw it mangled and discolored. He felt the pain shooting up his arm.

Deyos didn't give him long to decide. "Left then," the Vorta ordered.

Bashir tried to pull his arm away, but the Jem'Hadar were too strong. The one on the left pressed Bashir's hand to the platform and secured it with the strap. Bashir tried to pull his hand out but the strap was too tight. Schlachter still held his other arm. "What--I don't know what you want from me," Bashir pleaded. He didn't care anymore about appearances or dignity. "I didn't do anything. I've done everything you said."

"Yes," Deyos agreed calmly, "but Commander Riker has not." He turned away from Bashir and clasped his hands behind his back.

Riker had settled Garulos on the deck well within the crowd of prisoners, hoping that he would be forgotten by Deyos and his irrelevant search for truth. He'd been thinking about that. There really was no logical reason to torture any of them, except perhaps Dayton, once the plant had exploded. Not even Formenos. She was guilty and known to be so. Finding ways to make himself or Garulos talk would not rebuild the camp or restore their K Layer project. Riker didn't like the idea of the transport, as it was very likely to take them deeper into Dominion held territory, but at least Deyos had released them back to the prison population. Maybe the transport had made Deyos reevaluate his priorities.

"Tell me, Doctor," Deyos's voice began, causing Riker to look back over his shoulder. "Are you right-handed or left-handed?" Bashir. Bashir had not been released to the rest of the prisoners. He'd gone to prepare a place for Formenos. Riker had expected he'd be back after that.

The crowd on the lower deck was immense and tighty packed, a fact that worked to Garulos's advantage, but slowed Riker's progress as he pushed to the front.

Deyos was on the viewscreen. Bashir, framed by Jem'Hadar was behind him. His face paled and he was shaking his head. Riker didn't understand why Deyos would go after Bashir now when he hadn't before.

When Bashir didn't answer, Deyos spoke again. "If you don't answer, I'll have to choose for you."

Bashir open his left hand and his eyes widened. His hand shook.

"Left then," Deyos decided. The Jem'Hadar did not hesitate. The Third held Bashir's right arm while the other secured Bashir's hand to a small raised platform. Riker was glad it wasn't a table or whatever they used to torture Garulos. As it was, they hadn't even made Bashir strip.

But Bashir looked as if he recognized what they were going to do, and he panicked. He didn't have use of his right arm, so he just tried to pull his hand free or break the strap. When neither worked, he resorted to begging. "What--," he started to say. "I don't know what you want from me. I didn't do anything. I've done everything you said."

And with those words, the only sound in the whole cargo hold was a collective gasp. That was not how a Starfleet Officer reacted to a threat of pain or even death for what he believed. That was the reaction of a broken man.

Deyos hardly reacted at all, except to turn away, toward the comm system. "Yes," he said, "but Commander Riker has not."

Riker knew now what Deyos was up to. "He refuses to tell me what his mission was," Deyos went on, addressing Bashir, but talking to Riker. "He won't explain to me his involvement in the destruction of the plant. He and Crewman Garulos have been quite recalcitrant. Even Formenos is telling the same lies. But I know they are lies. I've tried to convince them to tell the truth, Doctor, but they refused. They would sacrifice themselves for those lies. But I've been watching you humans. You Federationers. You hold tight to your ideals. You would sacrifice yourself for your people. Or to protect someone else."

Deyos had already hurt Riker's crew, but he'd not made him watch before. He still hadn't seen Formenos, and he'd only seen Garulos after it was done. He'd watched Bormann and Simmons die, but somehow that was different. He couldn't do anything to stop those. Here, he could.

"So, Doctor," Deyos said. "Why don't you ask him? Commander Riker can see and hear you now. Ask him what his mission is. He can tell the Vorta in the hold and you will be released."

Bashir shook where he stood. His eyes plead with Deyos, whose back was still turned to him. But he didn't answer.

Riker could keep the pain from him, just that easily, but it would likely mean his and Garulos's death. Bashir's, too, maybe. And it was intelligence the Dominion did not need to know the Federation had.

"Ask him," Deyos ordered again.

Bashir clenched his fist under the strap. "No," he said, so quietly that his voice broke. Deyos heard it though, as did everyone watching the viewscreen.

Deyos turned back to him and raised his hand. The Jem'Hadar that had strapped Bashir's hand down now lifted his rifle and brought it slamming down onto Bashir's fist. Under the scream Bashir let out, Riker could hear the cracking of bones. Bashir dropped to the ground, and the Third let him, releasing his right arm. He was still strapped to the platform and couldn't go far. He collapsed over himself as he choked on the pain.

Deyos turned back to the comm system. "Will you tell me your mission, Commander, or shall I continue?"

Bashir couldn't see. There was only pain. No light, no dark, no up, no down. Just pain, and the memory of pain. Someone opened his broken fingers, laid them flat on the platform, and he felt nauseous and dizzy as the pain washed over him. It would never stop. This was life, one torture after another, pain upon pain.

He didn't hear any words, not from the Vorta or Jem'Hadar in the room, but from the German pacing around him, speaking gibberish he didn't understand. The hammer came down again and pain flashed like lightning in front of his eyes.

His vision cleared and he saw the legs of Jem'Hadar around him, the changeling kneeling in front of him, laughing. His chest began to burn and he hated her. He hated the Jem'Hadar, the Vorta, the Nazis, the Federation, Starfleet, Section 31, anyone and everyone who had ever hurt him.

The hammer came down again and, if he screamed, he did not hear it. He hardly even felt it, so strong was that fire in his chest. He only knew it was pain and it had to stop. He would stop it, and no one would hurt him again.

The fire roared in his ears, and he became acutely aware of everything around him. The changeling and all visions of the past vanished, and he could see Deyos and the four Jem'Hadar. One of the Jem'Hadar on either side of him, and two near the door. The Vorta stood near the wall, watching. He could see them and he could see the mistake they had made. A handle protruded from the boot of the Jem'Hadar on his right. The handle of a knife.

He didn't feel it when the rifle came down on his hand, but he did feel the solidity of the knife's handle beneath his fingers when he drew it from the sheath. He felt the give of fabric and tendon parting beneath the blade as he sliced behind Schlachter's knee. The blood was hot on his hand. At Schachter's pained shout, the other came towards his fallen comrade, and Bashir lunged upward with the knife, slitting the second Jem'Hadar's throat and turning, even as his enemy fell, to cut the strap that bound his broken hand to the platform.

"Stop him!" Deyos yelled to the two Jem'Hadar by the door. But there was no stopping him. His hand now free, he slit Schlachter's throat and stood to meet the oncoming threat. The third Jem'Hadar reached him, thrusting the blade on the muzzle of his rifle toward Bashir's chest. But his feet were slightly unsteady on the blood-soaked deck. Bashir's bare feet had better traction. He spun, putting his back to the harmless side of the rifle. He brought his good hand around and slipped the point of the blade between the Jem'Hadar's seventh and eight vertebrae. The Jem'Hadar dropped like a rag doll. That left only one. And Deyos.

Jordan cringed with each stroke of the rifle. They must have hidden a microphone in the platform because Bashir's screams were horrendously loud, but not loud enough to cover the sound of Bashir's fingers breaking. Jordan remembered seeing that hand after Auschwitz, how it had ceased to resemble a hand at all. He remembered his own arm breaking from a kapos truncheon and how he'd had to carry that pain for hours before he could beam back to the Defiant.

But then he saw something he thought he'd never see. Bashir's face filled with unlimited fury. The first Jem'Hadar fell and then the second. It happened so fast and was so unexpected that even the Jem'Hadar in the hold turned in curiosity. Another one fell on the screen.

Jordan caught Riker's eye below. "No more!" he shouted and attacked the guard in front of him.

Riker could barely believe what he was seeing, though in some ways it worried him more than watching the doctor's hand being broken. Bashir had finally lost his mind. It was awesome and terrible.

Three Jem'Hadar were down before Riker could tear his gaze from that screen. Bashir had lost his mind but had provided an unparalleled opportunity. And Commander Riker did not mean to waste it. He looked up and found Jordan on the next deck looking as shocked as Riker felt. Riker hoped he would seize the chance. Bashir, however inadvertantly, had given them a diversion.

The Jem'Hadar guards had turned, distracted, toward the viewscreen. They had weapons in their favor, but the prisoners had numbers. "No more!" Riker shouted, and then he charged, grabbing the Jem'Hadar in front of him by the neck and hoping Jordan and the other prisoners would join the rebellion.

He wasn't disappointed. Jem'Hadar began to rain down from the decks above. Riker pulled his foe back into the crowd and the men and women there swarmed upon him. The guard struggled, but he couldn't get off a shot. Riker yanked the white tube from his neck and let the prisoners push him down into the deck. They pulled his rifle free and shot him in the face.

Riker found a hand weapon in a holster at the dead Jem'Hadar's waist. He heard weapons fire near the ladder and pushed his way in that direction. If they at all hoped for success they had to get out of the hold and overwhelm the whole ship quickly. The ladders were the only access for the prisoners on the upper decks. There were several muffled cries as prisoners were shot but Riker could see the guards at the ladder fall under the weight of prisoners pressing them from all sides.

Riker saw Jordan as he swung down the ladder, kicking one of the guards in the back of the head. "We've got to get to the Bridge, Engineering, every deck on this ship!" he yelled over the din of six thousand angry prisoners.

Jordan looked to the viewscreen, and Riker followed his gaze. Bashir threw the knife he'd fought with and Deyos slumped to the ground. The hold erupted in cheers. Bashir, however, couldn't hear them and collapsed to the floor, tucking his injured hand close to his chest. "Get up," Riker urged him. The Jem'Hadar had had more than knives. They had rifles. Bashir could take one and join the fight.

"He's dead," Jordan said, finally reaching him. "If no one gets to him soon, the Jem'Hadar will."

"We've got to try and organize these people," Riker replied. "But we don't have time for anything elaborate."

Jordan nodded, then he put his thumb and middle finger to either side of his mouth and whistled. The noise died down, though not entirely. Not all the Jem'Hadar were subdued yet. The Vorta, though, Riker noted, was lying in a heap near the cargo lift doors.

"This is a ship!" Jordan yelled. "We have to take it or they'll kill us all. We are Starfleet officers! We are trained for ships! This is our ship now, find your stations and take them!"

Another cheer went up and Riker nodded. It was a good plan. Engineers would fight for Engineering and so forth. "What's your station?" he asked Jordan.

Jordan smiled. "I'm a starship pilot," he answered. "You?"

"The Bridge then, Lieutenant," Riker ordered with a smile.

Jordan grinned. "Aye, sir!"

It was over. It had stopped. There was still pain but it wasn't new pain. There was no one left in the room to cause it. They were dead. They were dead and he had killed them. It was over, but he was left with the nightmare.

Julian felt like someone else had taken over his body, someone who was capable of things he'd never dreamed. Someone who could kill four Jem'Hadar and a Vorta with only a Klingon knife and a broken hand. Someone that could butcher another sentient being without so much as a thought. That someone wasn't him. He was a doctor. He was a protector of life. He was a soldier, too. He could kill at need, but this wasn't just need. This was a bloodbath. It couldn't be him.

And yet, there it was. They were dead and he was free of the platform, cradling his broken, throbbing hand. He felt nauseous. From the pain, from the smell of blood that overwhelmed the room, from the someone inside himself. He was a monster. They were enemies, but he hadn't killed them in battle. It went even beyond self-defense. A murderer lived inside him. A butcher. He retched, but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit. He let his head fall to the cool floor and tried to still his writhing stomach.

It was over. Or it would be soon. There were more than four Jem'Hadar on the ship. They would find him. He couldn't kill anymore. He couldn't live anymore. He didn't want it and he didn't deserve it, not after what he'd become. Life would just mean more pain, and he was done with it. Done with it all. They would come and he would die. It was over.

Two hundred prisoners could fit on the lift at one time. Two thousand or more had been on the lower level and these moved out already, leaving their dead and the Jem'Hadar behind. A few stayed to care for the wounded, but well away from the ladders where four thousand more prisoners poured from the decks above. Riker and Jordan were in the front group, racing for the bridge. They met some resistance but their numbers worked in their favor. The Jem'Hader were outnumbered sixty to one. Jordan felt like part of an army, an unstoppable wave. The Jem'Hadar had weapons where most of the prisoners did not, but at close range, energy weapons were less practical and the Jem'Hadar drew their knives. There would be more wounded, and Jordan didn't doubt that he'd be wounded himself before this was over. It would be worth it. He could taste freedom in the stale, recycled air.

The Bridge was not even locked, and Jordan guessed Deyos had not bothered to broadcast the exhibition to the Bridge. Riker pressed the panel and the doors hissed open. The prisoners instantly ducked down as phaser blasts hit the bulkhead behind them. One prisoner was hit, but Jordan didn't recognize him. The rest were safe and those with energy weapons had come to the front. They laid down cover fire while the others fanned out to either side. Jordan peeked around the edge of the door and saw one Vorta and seven Jem'Hadar. The Vorta was wearing a headset. Before Jordan could lift his rifle, Riker had leaned in and fired with his handgun. The Vorta was hit in the chest and fell against one of the Jem'Hadar soldiers.

"Careful of the instruments," Riker ordered quietly. "We're going to need to fly this thing." He took a breath. "On three."

Jordan nodded and saw others doing the same. "One," Riker counted. Jordan took a deep breath. "Two." He let it out. "Three!"

They stood and ran through the door two at a time, spreading out on either side. The Jem'Hadar scored another four hits but Jordan and Riker made it through unscathed and soon these Jem'Hadar, too, were overwhelmed.

Riker stood in the center of the Bridge and removed the headset from the still gasping Vorta. Loris had moved to the comm station. "This part's still Cardassian," she reported. "No transmissions since we left orbit."

"How many in communications range?" Riker asked.

"I'm not all that familiar with Cardassian technology," Loris admitted. "Fifty at least."

Jordan looked over her shoulder and pressed a few controls, widening the display. And his heart sank. "Three hundred, sir," he reported. "We may take the ship, but we won't take the convoy."

"One thing at a time," Riker reminded. He pointed to five people, Loris and Jordan included. "You five are Bridge Officers for the time being. You stay here. Take one weapon and dispose of these bodies. The rest are to organize yourselves in groups of two. I want every part of this ship searched. We need to find Bashir and Formenos and any Jem'Hadar, Vorta, or changeling that might be on this ship. We'll take the ship. Then we'll worry about the convoy."

"I'd rather go out fighting anyway, sir," Festino said, "if I have to go out. No more lottery."

Riker nodded. "No more lottery. We all go together now." Festino saluted and led the others out.

The Bridge became infinitely less crowded as the others left, and only six people remained. "What are your names?" Riker asked.

Loris was the first. "Loris, sir."

Riker nodded. "I know Jordan. You?" He nodded to k'Ruhn who was firing his weapon at a Jem'Hadar at the rear of the Bridge.

k'Rhun looked up and gave his name. Oripic and Cairn followed.

"I'm Commander Riker, if you hadn't gathered that already," Riker said, introducing himself. "Is there another prisoner of a higher rank?"

Jordan shook his head. V'dara had been a Subcommander, but she was gone now.

"Alright then," Riker said, smiling. "I hereby claim this vessel for the Federation. Jordan, you were stationed on DS9, so you know Cardassian technology better than anyone else here, I take it."

Jordan nodded. There were other prisoners that were familiar with Cardassian systems but they weren't among the five Riker had picked.

"Good. Communications is Cardassian, but this helm looks Dominion to me," Riker stated, holding out a hand toward the columns that rose up from behind. "Is anyone we know familiar with Dominion technology?"

Jordan pulled up every face he could remember from his time in the camp. He didn't know the specialties of most of them. But there was one, it just wasn't likely he'd be much help. When Loris and the others didn't offer any names, Jordan spoke up. "We captured a ship once. A Jem'Hadar attack ship. Before the war. But I remember Harkins once saying that the Federation used it at the beginning of the war. Took out a white facility. It wasn't common knowledge. Only one crew was trained to man it."

"Which crew?" Riker asked, and Jordan could tell he was anticipating his answer.

"The Defiant's senior staff with only a handful of others," Jordan replied.

"Am I right in assuming that Bashir is the only one of that crew who is on this ship?"

Jordan nodded. "Yes, sir. If they haven't killed him already." He hoped Riker would order him to find him, but he also knew that others had been given that assignment.

Riker blew out a breath and looked around. "What do we have besides Communications?"

Jordan moved away from the Communications console to the only other station he could recognize. "Sensors and Tactical."

"Tactical sounds promising," Riker commented. He put the headset on and adjusted the panel in front of his eye. "Let me see what we have."

"We don't have much," Jordan reported. He pulled up shield schematics and weapons and ported them to the main viewport, which, of course, had been replaced by that one headset Riker was wearing. "Phasers, limited range and output. Shielding is good, though. This must have once carried some pretty volatile cargo."

Riker grinned. "She's still carrying volatile cargo. You're a pilot. You think you can learn to fly this death trap?"

Jordan met him by the helm and those four upright columns. The colors and shapes on each one meant nothing to him. He couldn't tell which control was propulsion, which was navigation, which was thurst. "Maybe if I had a month and a translation grid." He looked up and met Riker's gaze. "We're going to need Bashir."

Riker found himself pacing the deck and immediately stopped, but it was a bit maddening waiting without even a chair to sit in. He'd taken the headset off after only half an hour and his head was still pounding. Jordan was wearing it now. He'd managed to get the internal sensors online and was running a scan for Jem'Hadar and Vorta. They could only hope there were no changelings on board. This ship, as near as they could tell, was lagging to the rear of a convoy of nearly three hundred Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships. Jordan's sensors had found traces of carbon deposits and other evidence of battle damage. They were heading away from the area of the D'Nexi Lines further into Dominion territory. They would be within range of the Dominion-occupied Kepaolo system within three hours. The Dominion was retreating, but it was taking its prisoners along.

Jordan smacked his hand on the console which spun Riker's attention to him. He was surprised to find Jordan smiling.

"No Jem'Hadar or Vorta lifesigns!" Jordan exclaimed. "However, I am seeing six thousand one hundred and seventeen lifesigns. Federation species and Romulans."

"No Klingons?" Riker asked while he did the math in his head.

"We had one for awhile," k'Rhun replied. "The Lottery got her. The others found no honor in being taken alive."

Riker nodded. "Three hundred sixty lost then. Can you find Bashir or Formenos with that?"

"I can only see species, Commander," Jordan answered. "And part of this ship seems to be shielded from sensors. There might even be Jem'Hadar there."

The door to the Bridge opened and Festino entered with six others. "I'd like to report the ship has been secured, Commander," Festino reported.

That felt good. "Good work," Riker offered. "Did you find our missing people?"

Festino shook his head. "No, sir. Though we did find Bashir. I don't think he's alive, sir. He wasn't moving. We found another room, with a surgical table and medical instruments. There was blood on the table, especially near the head and the sides, but there was no one in the room."

Riker really wanted that chair now. The surgical table had to be Formenos. She had no face, according to Bashir. She'd be bleeding from the head. "What about another woman, dark red hair, dressed in black?"

"No one else, sir."

Riker nodded. Dayton was gone. Not too terribly surprising. He just wished he knew how she did it. And if she'd taken Formenos with her. That only left one then. "Did you check Bashir?"

Festino shifted his feet and looked to one of the others. "He wasn't moving," Festino repeated.

"He's not dead," one of the others near the back said, in a heavily accented voice.

"How do you know?" Riker asked, stepping around Festino to get a better look at the speaker. He was frighteningly thin and pale and his clothing looked older, tattered with faded stripes.

"We watched," Festino admitted, sounding confused. "Two or three minutes. We couldn't even see him breathe."

Riker looked back to Festino. He hadn't heard.

"I will take you to him," the accented one said.

Still confused, and a bit suspicious, Riker dismissed Festino's group, ordering them to gather the wounded and anyone with medical experience in the area of the surgical table. It was the place he knew that was stocked with at least a few medical supplies. Festino left, but the accented one stayed. "What is your name?" Riker asked.

"Who, sir?" Loris asked.

Riker looked back at her and then the figure near the door. He was there. Riker would bet his life on it. There were even shadows on the wall. "You don't see him?" he asked Loris.

"I do," Jordan stated. He took off the headset and walked over to stand by Riker. "And I think I've seen him before."

"It was a long time ago," the accented one said. "You can call me Szymon. If you want the Engländer, follow me."

"Loris," Riker said. "You have the Bridge. Mr. Jordan, you're with me."

Szymon said nothing as they dutifully followed him down the corridors. "I saw him die," Jordan whispered.

"Auschwitz?" Riker whispered back. Jordan nodded.

Riker remembered Bashir talking about seeing Vláďa on Carello Neru. Riker had thought him a hallucination, but later he'd heard the boy's voice. He wasn't sure anymore what Vláďa or Szymon were. And he still didn't quite trust them. Vláďa had led them to a changeling impersonating a child. Riker kept his hand on his stolen gun and his eyes on the back of Szymon's head.

Szymon stopped in front of a door and stood to one side. Watching him, Riker pressed the panel beside the door. The door opened and he waited for Szymon to enter first. Szymon complied and took up the same spot he'd had on the bridge, just to the right of the door. He had to step over a body to get there.

Riker stood in the door and surveyed the room for a moment. One Jem'Hadar was dead near the doorway. Deyos lay face up on the floor near the comm system, a knife handle protruding from his forehead. Three other Jem'Hadar were scattered around the platform. There was blood on the platform, the floor, and even the walls. And Bashir lay curled forward over his knees in the middle of it. The floor beneath him and around him was relatively clean. None of the blood was his.

Riker could understand why Festino had hesitated. They'd all seen Bashir on the screen. He had been a fury, frighteningly deadly. His movements had been so quick, the comm system could hardly keep up. He'd become a berserker.

But now he was quiet and, as Festino had reported, unmoving. He was the man Riker had found in the meeting hall surrounded by corpses. He was broken. But he was alive, just as Szymon had said. Riker saw his back rise and fall slightly as Bashir took a breath.

Riker took a deep breath and stepped inside. The floor was slick so he went slowly, stepping over the corpses that stood in the way. "Julian," he said, as he neared the doctor. "It's over. You can get up now." He knelt and touched Bashir's shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" Bashir growled, tensing under Riker's hand. Riker drew back and nearly fell backwards in surprise. "Go away!"

"I won't go away," Riker replied, keeping his voice calm and soft. Bashir may have been broken, but he was still volatile. "You need help and we're here to help you."

"I don't want help!" Bashir hissed without even picking his head up from the floor. "Leave me alone. It's over. They'll come for me."

Riker looked back at Szymon, but the apparition--or whatever he was--did not speak or even change his disinterested expression. Jordan just shrugged. "Who will come for you?"

"Anyone!" Bashir snapped angrily. "Just go away!"

Did it matter really? Bashir could be thinking of the Nazis, Section 31, or the Dominion. "You have to get up," Riker said, allowing himself to be a bit more stern. "That's an order."

"You're not my commanding officer," Bashir argued, and Riker wished he would at least lift his head and face him. "I resigned! You're always telling me what I've got to do. I've got to listen to the ground; I've got to go to the other airlock; I've got to put on the uniform; I've got to get up. But I don't want to listen anymore. It's all lies. I won't listen. I want to die here. Just go."

"I don't think any of your wounds are life-threatening," Riker told him. "Fine. I won't order you. I'll ask you. Please get up. You're a prisoner in here. But out there--" He pointed to the door. "Out there, the prisoners have taken control of the ship. Out there we aren't prisoners anymore. We're free. You could be free."

"There's no such thing," Bashir breathed and there was no anger in his voice. Just anguish.

At that moment, another head poked in the door. "Excuse me, sir," the man there said. "Loris sent me to find you. She said we're two hours out from Kepaolo."

"Thank you," Riker said, dismissing him. If they didn't get this ship away from the convoy Bashir would be right.

Jordan touched Riker on the shoulder. "Let me try, sir." Riker nodded. He didn't kneel or stoop down but stayed standing and his voice was stern. "Doctor Julian Bashir, I did not risk my life in Auschwitz for you do to lie here in a stupor. Half the crew of the Defiant went to that hell-hole to look for you." He paused for a minute, taking a deep breath, and Riker remembered him saying something along those lines when they'd first met. "They went as Germans. I went as a prisoner. I was counted and starved and beaten. But I found you. I saved you." His jaw was tense as he took another breath. "We all saved you. Your life was bought with a price. You can't just throw it away."

To Riker's surprise, Bashir's head lifted off the floor and he sat up. His left hand was close to his chest, held in a white-knuckled grip by his right. But his face. . . . He wasn't angry so much as confused. "I don't even know you," he said, shaking his head slightly.

Jordan nodded and his voice softened. "And you're just someone who gave me a physical once. That has nothing to do with it. This place is no good. What's out there could be better. It has to be."

"So go there if you want to," Bashir told him. "Try it. You don't know. You think you've been to Auschwitz. For what?" he spat, growing angry again. "A few days? Mornings and evenings? You went home to the ship during the day, back to your comfy bunk and your three meals a day and water any time you wanted it! I would have thought you would have learned after two years in this place. There is no better! It's just one place like this after another. Everything in between is just temporary. A phantom that lulls you into false comfort and security. The world didn't stop hating the Jews after World War II, and none of us are any safer outside this room than in it."

"Are you saying you lied to me?"

Julian knew that voice, that accent, that disdainful tone. He looked past Riker to see Szymon standing by the door. Julian dropped his eyes and turned his head away.

"You said the world wasn't finished," Szymon said. "You said it wouldn't last. You said it gets better."

He remembered. Szymon eyes had grown hopeful, but his body had become weak. He fell and Julian caught him and held him with his good arm. 'One day,' he'd told him, 'the whole world will be at peace. Paradise, they'll call it, and there'll be no hungry people, no poor. And we'll travel to the stars, Szymon, farther and faster than you can even dream. And we'll meet other people there, from different worlds.'

'How is it . . .,' Szymon had asked, his voice barely more than a whisper as he stared at the smoke-filled sky, '. . . in the stars?'

'It's beautiful, Szymon,' he'd whispered back, leaning in close so Szymon could hear. "Like traveling among diamonds."

"So did you lie?" Szymon asked, now kneeling beside him, and Julian realized he'd said that last bit out loud. "Is it not beautiful?"

Julian turned and met Szymon's eyes. They were strong and healthy, not the eyes of the dying man he remembered. "Does it get better, Engländer? Or does it just go from worse to worse? Did you lie to me?" Szymon's eyes knew the answer, and they were the kindest Julian had ever seen them. He didn't even look hungry or sick anymore.

Julian shook his head, and Szymon slowly reached for him. Instinctively, Julian tried to back away, but he couldn't the way he was kneeling. Szymon touched his arms and Julian, still frightened, let Szymon take his broken hand from his good one. Szymon slowly pulled it away from Julian's chest. "Did you lie to me?" he asked again.

Julian fought the sob that wanted to give way in his chest. Not his hand. Not again. He shook his head. "I didn't lie," he pleaded.

Szymon nodded and placed his his other hand on Julian's. Bashir's eyes clenched shut and his lungs froze in anticipation of the pain. But there wasn't any. "I know you didn't lie, Bashir," Szymon said. "Open your eyes."

Risking a breath, Julian opened them and looked at his hand now whole and straight. Szymon stood and held his hand to him. Jordan and Riker both gasped and stayed back. Bashir just stared at his hand. He turned it over, closed his fingers. They didn't hurt. They weren't broken. "How?"

Szymon took his hand and raised him up to stand. He placed his other hand on Bashir's shoulder and smiled a secretive smile. "Faith," he said. "Go. Be free."

Bashir still wasn't sure. "We may have the ship," he said, looking to Riker for confirmation. "But it's not the only ship. Is it?"

Riker shook his head. "No."

"A death march," Bashir guessed. He again turned to Szymon. "How?"

Szymon still smiled and his answer hadn't changed. "Faith. Believe, Engländer, or they will all die." And then he was gone and Bashir was left staring at the wall.

"I've lost my mind," he said to Riker and Jordan, "haven't I?"

"I don't know," Jordan replied. "I think you may have found it."

Riker wasn't sure he hadn't lost his along with Bashir, but Jordan seemed to be right. Bashir looked confused, but no longer shell-shocked or maniacal. He seemed to have found his. Riker had watched his hand reshape itself within Szymon's grip. He'd seen Szymon vanish without the slightest hint of a transporter. But then again, he hadn't seen Vláďa that day either. He'd only heard him.

They all three left that room together and passed a corridor filling up with wounded men and women. Bashir wanted to stop, but Jordan said he was needed on the Bridge more. "Please tell me you know how to fly a Dominion ship," Riker said, clapping Bashir on the shoulder.

"We were cross-trained," Bashir confirmed. "I don't suppose this ship has a chair."

Riker laughed. "No." They were nearly to the Bridge. "So who was that one?" he asked. "One of your friends?"

"Szymon?" Bashir asked in return, but he shook his head as he stepped through the door. "Szymon never really did like me."

Riker was surprised to see not three but more than twenty prisoners--ex-prisoners--filling the Bridge.

"What will we do, sir?" one of them asked.

Riker took a breath and looked at Bashir. "We're going to fly this ship."

Festino's eyebrows came together in doubt above his eyes. "I want to be free as much as anyone, sir, but we aren't going to just turn this hulk around and fly the other way."

"No, we aren't," Bashir said. He walked to the helm and stood before the columns. He looked once more at his restored hand and then placed it on the screen in front of him. "I am." His face became serious as he worked the controls. "Some of you are Christians?"

"Aye, Captain," Jordan said, drawing a glance from Riker. Well, it fit. Riker couldn't command this ship. Whatever Szymon was, he'd healed Bashir's hand and maybe his spirit, and he had said Bashir was the one to save the ship. Captain, indeed.

"Well," Bashir said. "You might want to start praying. Coming about."

Riker felt the pull on the deckplates as the big ship turned. Unwittingly, he found himself praying that the huge cargo ship wouldn't knick any of the others as she turned. And that none of the others would care that they were leaving the convoy.

Loris called out from Communications. "They're hailing!"

Bashir looked up from the Helm. "Commander, do you think you could. . . ."

"Stall them?" Riker asked.

Bashir laughed. "Well, I was thinking of disabling the console, but if you want to try--"

Riker felt a lift in his own mood. Either Bashir was still insane, or this just might work. "Disabling sounds good to me," he replied, "Captain." He turned to Loris, who was looking a bit shell-shocked herself. "Mr. Loris, would you mind stepping away from the console."

"Oh, dear heavenly Father," he heard Jordan pray, in a not-very-pious tone, behind him, "Give us courage and, please, give us faith."