"Perhaps," the man acquiesced, and Bashir could hear him smiling. Just like him to smile. "I've come to make you an offer."

Bashir sat up and looked at him, noting also that there was one guard in the room. Sloan was sitting on the other bench, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled on his knee. The picture of calm, still smiling. "You tried that before," Bashir told him. "I wasn't interested, remember?"

Sloan's smile broadened. "Well, I think this time you might be."

Bashir allowed him a patronizing smile of his own. "Well, then, why don't you go ahead and tell me so I'll refuse again."

"You won't refuse," Sloan said. He appeared certain. "You're not made for confinement. You've had too many cells already. You need space and freedom. You need people. People who will talk with you and not just to you. You need people who appreciate you for your talents."

"And you're all of that?" Bashir wasn't convinced. "I thought you didn't trust me."

"I'm a good judge of character," Sloan held. "I knew you'd try something just as I knew you'd try to stop Koval's murder. You still saw things too much in black and white. You needed a little time is all."

"And you think six months changed my mind about you?" Bashir almost laughed. "You are warped, you know that, don't you? I couldn't loathe you more. Before it was moral, now it's personal."

Sloan did laugh. "Be that as it may, your choices are a bit limited."

"How so?" Bashir asked. "Seems to me that outside the cave, the choices are endless."

"You're in a cell," Sloan pointed out, spreading his arms to take in the small area. "You could come out of the cell, or you can spend the rest of your life in one."

"Oh," Bashir said, nodding. "I see. Those are the choices you've left for me. Face the charges now that you've had time to destroy the evidence or come quietly with you."

"No more cells," Sloan offered, trying to sell it. "Think of the freedom. You could even be a doctor again. Section 31 needs doctors, too."

"Sounds inviting," Bashir admitted, "but only in contrast to the alternative you stated."

"It's the only alternative," Sloan maintained. "We've made sure of it."

Enough of the game. "As I said before," Bashir told him, dropping any pretense of pleasantries, "you're slipping. You used to be so clever. Your threat's no good. I will be released."

Sloan smirked again. "We'll talk again later." He stood and walked right out the door, leaving Bashir to wonder if the forcefield was still active. He stepped forward and he could feel it prickle his skin. It was still there. But Sloan was not.

Commander Riker and Counselor Troi stood with Captain Picard in the transporter room. They seemed relaxed enough. Troi was smiling, probably looking forward to seeing Chief O'Brien and Worf again, even if only for a short while. Riker stood with a completely neutral expression, giving nothing away. Picard himself had been captain long enough to smile when he didn't feel like smiling. Like now. He didn't know what to expect. He knew Sisko to be an exceptional officer, and he respected him as a man and fellow captain. But if one believed Bashir--and Picard found that he did--Sisko had handed over a large amount of an extremely dangerous substance to someone of unknown reputation.

Three glowing figures appeared on the pad and coalesced within seconds into Captain Sisko, Chief O'Brien, and a lieutenant Picard didn't recognize. She was a short young woman, a Trill with dark hair and spritely eyes.

"Captain," Picard said, smiling and extending his hand. "It's good to see you again."

"And you," Sisko responded, taking his hand but not returning the smile. Picard thought first of the initial hostility Sisko had held when they first met. But that had changed between them, and Sisko gripped his hand firmly, without malice. His words were those of concern. "How is he?"

It was going to be complex then, between this man and Bashir. "Things could be better," Picard replied, trying to be truthful without making them think the worst. "Your visit will, I hope, speed circumstances in that direction."

One of the charges had already been dropped, thanks to Crusher and the science team. The timeline was wrong and it would have taken 125 liters of gel to produce the destruction on Deyon III. There was only the release of gel to be dealt with.

Sisko picked up on the need for privacy and stepped back to introduce his crew. "You know Chief O'Brien, of course," he said. Then he indicated the young woman. "This is Lieutenant Dax, Ship's Counselor."

Good choice, Picard decided. He nodded and began his own introductions, for the sake of Dax at least. "Commander William Riker and Counselor Deanna Troi." The counselors took each other's hands warmly as colleagues. Riker offered his hand to O'Brien and finally let loose his neutrality to smile as he greeted his friend.

"Well," Picard said, bringing everyone back to the business at hand, "let's get to it then. Captain, if you would come with me to my Ready Room, I'll explain the situation."

Deanna split off with Dax, one assumed to discuss Bashir's mental and emotional state.

"Captain?" Picard and Sisko both turned to answer, but it was Picard that O'Brien was addressing. "Can I see him?"

Picard took a breath. He was hoping he could get Bashir cleared and out of the brig quickly enough, but what else was O'Brien to do? Sisko was watching for his answer. "Of course," he said finally. "Commander Riker will take you to him." That finally ruffled Riker, who would have to try and explain to O'Brien why Bashir was in a cell. Well, so be it. There was work to be done. "Meet us in the Ready Room with Commander Martin, Number One," he added.

"Yes, sir," Riker replied. He stepped toward the door. "This way, Chief."

"You're Worf's wife?" Deanna Troi asked as she guided Dax to her office. In truth, Deanna thought she looked too young.

Dax seemed uncomfortable with the question. She'd winced just a bit, and Troi felt a mixture of emotions emanating from her. Trills were always an interesting sensation. "Um, no," she answered. "That was Jadzia, my previous host. I'm Ezri Dax. I don't suppose Julian's mentioned me?"

That explained some of those emotions. Sympathy, love, embarrassment, sadness, and a touch of horror, probably brought on by the symbiont's memory of Jadzia's death. "No, he hasn't talked much about anyone on DS9 really. I'm sorry for the confusion."

"That's alright," Ezri assured her, smiling. "It's still fairly new to me, too." She waited until they were inside the office and then became very focused. Troi could feel the strength in that. Two minds, one purpose. "How is he?"

Very direct. Troi gave her a light smile and invited her to sit. "To be honest, I'm worried about him."

Concern flared up in the young woman. Compassion, sympathy, and perhaps even love. They must have been good friends, perhaps more. But she kept her voice steady. "In what way?"

Troi took a deep breath and tried to order her thoughts. "He's somewhat paranoid and quite pessimistic."

Relief. "I might guess that was to be expected."

Troi nodded. "Me, too, under the circumstances. But he's too calm, too rational, and yet I suspect he's severely depressed."

"Do you think he's insane?" Hopeful skepticism there. Though Troi did not have to sense that from her. She could read it all in the woman's face.

"No," Troi admitted, "unstable perhaps. But his instability isn't mental, at any rate. It's emotional."

"Because of the paranoia and depression?" Dax asked, still skeptical. Troi decided not to take it as a professional slight. "Surely he's been traumatized. And to be honest, everyone is out to get him, it seems." There was the dichotomy of symbiont and host. Dax was still quite serious. Troi felt that, but the girl's face in front of her was smiling.

Troi returned the smile, but mirrored the seriousness within herself. "Not everyone," she said. "But, yes, it would seem to be a natural reaction to the trauma he's faced. And if I were any other counselor, that's exactly what I'd chalk it up to. But I'm a Betazoid counselor, half-Betazoid anyway. I can read emotions, but I can't read his. He doesn't have any." She sighed and stood to pace a few steps. "He does, of course, but not at the right levels. A traumatized person--someone in his position--would have sharp peaks, hitting one extreme and then another. Elation at being found and released. Depression from the memories, the loneliness, the darkness. Fear. But he doesn't have any of those. With the exception of his first recognition of Commander Data, he's flat."

She felt Dax accept that even as the other woman collapsed back against the couch. She didn't say anything, but Troi could sense she was trying to find the right words. Troi didn't wait for her. She hadn't given up on Bashir yet. "What was he like before this?" she asked. "We know he hid his enhancements for several decades. Was he closed off, unapproachable?"

Dax chuckled, sitting up again. "Oh, no," she stated, shaking her head. "Quite the opposite. He's kind, compassionate, and you can read his emotions in his eyes. He's friendly and funny. He has the most comforting bedside manner of any doctor I've met, and I've had eight lifetimes of doctors. He was very open," she added, slipping back into past tense and losing her smile, "and if you ask me, that only helped him hide the enhancements. No one would have suspected he had anything to hide."

Troi sat down again wondering what he had to hide this time. She knew the charges. But she also knew that the captain and Data were acting as his advocates. They believed in him, and she respected their judgement.

"Maybe he just needs familiar surroundings," Dax offered, breaking the silence and the train of Troi's thoughts.

"He is anxious to return to Deep Space Nine," Troi conceded, "but I don't think that would be best just yet. It's not even certain he'll be allowed to."

"Has he been transferred? I mean, now that they know he's alive?"

Deanna hadn't wanted to answer that question. Captain Picard thought Bashir could be cleared. But in the meantime, the truth was still the truth. "He's been charged," Troi told her, trying to deliver the news gently. "He's being held pending an investigation."

O'Brien stopped right there in the corridor. "The brig?" he asked, raising his voice. "Why the brig?"

Riker looked uncomfortable, but he squared his chin and answered with conviction. "He's being held pending an investigation."

The Chief had to control himself to keep from yelling. They just found him, and he was in the brig. That just wasn't right. "On what grounds?"

Riker was still stiff. "Illegal release of biomemetic gel to an unknown recipient, with some possibly very serious results." He relaxed his shoulders a bit. "How well did you know him, Chief?"

"I still know him," O'Brien corrected. "And I know him very well. He's my best friend. And he would never just release that stuff. He nearly died a few years ago because a Lethean asked to buy some. He wouldn't just give the stuff away."

Riker blew out a breath and started walking again. "I'm not saying he did. Bashir claims it was ordered and that he protested the orders. Captain Picard is standing in as his advocate. If what he says is true, Captain Sisko should be able to clear him of that charge."

That charge. O'Brien hadn't missed that, but he decided to let it go for now. Captain Sisko was talking with Captain Picard. They'd sort things out. For right now, he just wanted to see Julian, especially now that he knew Julian was in the brig. He probably needed a friend, maybe some cheering up.

They rounded a corner and came to the brig. There was a man standing out in the corridor. "Lieutenant Daniels," Riker said, by way of introduction, "our Chief of Security." Then he addressed the lieutenant. "This is Chief Miles O'Brien of Deep Space Nine. He used to be with us though. He's here to visit the doctor."

Daniels nodded, but he pulled Riker off to one side. O'Brien still heard what the man said. "He hasn't slept, sir. He didn't so much as close his eyes the whole night. And he still says he isn't hungry. I half expected him to melt or something." Now O'Brien was starting to worry about just that.

Riker shook his head. "He's not a changeling. Doctor Crusher is certain about that. Just keep an eye on him. If he looks ill, call Doctor Crusher." Not a changeling. But O'Brien still worried, more perhaps now, because it meant his friend wasn't well.

Daniels nodded, and turned back to O'Brien who was trying to pretend that he hadn't been listening in. "Right this way, Chief," he said.

"Stay as long as you like, Chief," Riker added as he backed toward the door. "But don't leave without saying goodbye. I want to hear about the wife and kids."

O'Brien managed a smile, despite his worries. "I could go on for hours," he warned playfully. Riker smiled, too, and then left. O'Brien followed Daniels through the door into a very dark holding area. Daniels pulled him forward until the door closed behind him, shutting out what light there was from the outer room. There were several cells, and none of them seemed to be in use.

"Give your eyes a minute to adjust," Daniels told him. "He's in cell three."

"Why is it so dark?" O'Brien asked.

"Miles?" Julian's voice.

"He can't take the light," Daniels explained. "It's not nearly as dark as it was yesterday though. Straight ahead." He backed away, O'Brien assumed, because the door opened again. Once it closed, leaving him alone with Julian, O'Brien let his eyes start to adjust as he stepped cautiously forward into the darkness. How could anyone tell that Julian hadn't slept? It was too dark to see.

"You'll want to stop now," Julian told him. "Another two steps and you'll hit the forcefield."

"I'd say it's good to see you," O'Brien told him, stopping as advised, "but I can't see you just yet."

"It's not that dark," Julian teased. "I can see you."

O'Brien was starting to see him, too. With each second, his eyes registered more details. It wasn't really that dark in here after all. No darker than night on the station. It was just the contrast from the brightly lit corridor. Julian was sitting on one of the benches in the cell. He wasn't in uniform. O'Brien remembered coming to see Julian after his escape from the Jem'Hadar camp. He'd teased him and upset him. He decided this time it was better to be serious. Besides, he felt serious. This time he had known Julian was gone. He had thought he was dead, and now he was back. "I've missed you," was all he finally said.

Julian's voice was quiet when he answered. "Me, too."

It was hard seeing him in the cell. O'Brien wanted to hug him--or at least to shake his hand. He wanted to know for sure that his friend was real. Six months without him had been hard. "I wish I could say I've come to get you out of here."

Julian stood up from the bench and walked toward the unlit forcefield. "It will either happen or it won't," he replied, sitting down on the floor. "I know there isn't a chair, but I'd feel better if you sat. It's too formal with both of us standing there. How are you? How are Keiko and the kids? Did she throw Chester out yet?"

O'Brien grinned and sat down cross-legged on the floor. "The kids won't let her," he answered, glad to move on to more pleasant areas of conversation. "Molly is growing like a weed, and Yoshi is a handful. Keiko says he's into everything he can get his hands on."

"The 'terrible twos' strike again," Julian joked lightly. He just didn't seem like his usual self, though O'Brien wasn't sure what he expected. It was bad enough he'd been gone for six months--he still wasn't sure just where, though it was someplace dark from the looks of things. But now he was in a cell. What was there to be overly cheerful about? "Where were you, Julian?"

"Beyat system, as near as I can figure," Julian replied. "In a cave. That's why it's dark. I was marooned there."

O'Brien felt something familiar about that. He still had his memories of the Agrathi prison. It wasn't a cave, but it had its similarities. Rock walls, dirt floor. No furniture or amenities. Of course, caves were also dark and wet and usually contained jagged stalactites and stalagmites. There could also be bats or other subterranean creatures. All in all, not a pleasant place to live. "How did you survive six months there?"

"They left me a replicator," he answered. O'Brien watched him as he spoke. He was also sitting with his legs crossed. His head was down as if he were looking at his shoes. "I wasn't hungry until just toward the end."

O'Brien wondered what happened then, but there was something more important to ask since the subject of food had been brought up. "Are you hungry now? The Security Chief said you weren't eating. Is it because you're in the cell?"

Bashir sighed and met O'Brien's eyes. "It's because I'm not hungry. Please Miles, I have enough counseling with Deanna Troi."

O'Brien didn't want to drop it. He wanted to help his friend, even if his friend couldn't see he needed the help. But he knew he couldn't push too hard either. "I remember you nagging me a bit when our places were reversed."

Bashir's eyes narrowed a bit. "You weren't in a cell."

O'Brien smiled lightly, nodding his agreement. "No, but I was relieved of duty. I think the advice works either way. You give good advice, you know. I'll have some breakfast with you, if you like."

Bashir looked down again. "Maybe later."

Captain Sisko sat in a chair just opposite Captain Picard. It was a comfortable chair, but he didn't feel comfortable in it. He was just reading over the charge on which Bashir was being held. Somewhere in the back of his mind, ever since Bashir had warned him, Sisko had been expecting the gel to come back and haunt him. He'd always thought he'd be prepared to take the consequences though. He hadn't expected Bashir to have to pay for it. He couldn't let Bashir take the blame, so he had to say something, but he had to be careful. He shook his head and set the PADD back on Picard's desk. "I ordered it," he stated, not letting his feelings show. There was still a lot riding on what he said here.

Picard stared at him silently for a moment. "Why?" he asked finally. "Do you even know who it was given to?"

"I had orders from Starfleet Command," Sisko told him, ignoring the second question. "I showed the orders to Doctor Bashir and ordered that he carry them out."

"Why would Starfleet Command issue the release of so much gel?" Picard asked.

Sisko stood. "Captain, I am sorry that I cannot answer all of your questions. It was, and continues to be, a very delicate matter which could determine the outcome of this war. I can tell you that Bashir released the gel only under orders. I can tell you that he demanded to see the orders in writing and that he formally protested the orders before carrying them out at my insistence. I cannot, however, divulge the details of those orders. His protest should be a matter of record."

Picard's jaw stiffened, but he stood, too. "There is no record of his protest. He claims it was deleted. Can you officially verify that the protest was recorded?"

Deleted. Perhaps Kira was right and it was Section 31. "I read it myself and made sure it was filed. He's being framed."

Picard nodded his agreement. "It would seem so. According to Lieutenant Commander Martin, he's already been convicted in absentia for it. I didn't recognize any of the names on the official record of the court martial, however. I can't find a record of them with Starfleet Command."

Just then the chime sounded. Just the man we need to see, Picard thought. "Come," he ordered. The door opened to reveal Commander Riker and Martin. "Any word from Data?" Picard asked Riker before getting down to business.

"He's docking as we speak," Riker replied, letting the door shut behind him.

Good. Picard didn't like the implications to the big picture, but things were looking up for Bashir. Martin took one look at Sisko and his face grew a degree or two more pale. "Captain Sisko, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Martin," Picard said, making introductions, "Internal Affairs. Captain Sisko of Deep Space Nine and the USS Defiant."

"It's an honor to meet you, Captain," Martin offered his hand and smiled warmly.

Picard leaned forward, bracing his arms against the desk. "Commander, Captain Sisko has just confirmed the orders releasing the gel and Doctor Bashir's protest. Our science team has already ruled out any other charges as well. I'm going to release Bashir and recommend him for duty as soon as he is well. Furthermore, I'm going to contact Admiral Necheyev and request that she investigate this trumped up court martial and those presiding. Bashir's record will be cleared. But I'm not so sure about yours."

Riker, for his part, hid well his crestfallen expression, but Picard had known him long enough to pick up such subtleties. Martin tried hard to look confused. "I don't know what you mean, Captain?"

The door chimed again. Data. "Come."

Data had come straight from the shuttle apparently as there was mud on his trousers. He had changed his shoes however, one would assume to spare the floors. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at finding such an audience. "Captain," he offered Sisko in greeting. He turned next to Picard. "I have found something interesting," he said. "If I could please be indulged in a demonstration?"

Picard nodded. This could very well be interesting.

"I would ask please," Data began, speaking to the group, "if everyone in this room would state his name and rank for the record. Computer, begin recording."

"Working," the computer intoned.

Picard started, since it was his ship and he was the ranking officer. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise." He nodded to Riker. It was his ship, too.

"Commander William T. Riker, First Officer, USS Enterprise."

Data would have been next, but he was running things, so he deferred to Sisko.

"Captain Benjamin Sisko, USS Defiant and Starbase Deep Space Nine."

Picard noticed that he was moving around the room as each person spoke, coming to Martin's side when it was his turn to speak.

Martin watched Data carefully as he spoke. "Lieutenant Commander Peter Martin, Starfleet Internal Affairs."

Data nodded. "Lieutenant Commander Data, Second Officer, USS Enterprise." He did not, however, ask the computer to stop recording. He was carrying a bag and he opened it now, drawing out a muddied PADD. Martin's face paled as Data pressed one of the PADD's controls. A voice began to emanate from it. The voice was familiar.

"Welcome to your new home," the voice said. "I can't recommend the accommodations, but you betrayed us. There's a replicator, if you can find it. It will only produce one thing. You'll just have to live with that. I'm sure you can find water if you try hard. You asked once, what would have happened if we didn't find you trustworthy. I admit, this is more creative than we usually get, but you get the general idea. You're an intelligent man, after all."

"Computer," Data ordered, "end recording."

"Record complete."

"Begin a comparative analysis of all voice patterns."

"Working."

All eyes were on Martin. They didn't need the computer to tell them it was him. Bashir had been framed. Deleted records and sham courts martial didn't matter. Not now. He had some evidence on his side. Martin tried to move away, but Data blocked him.

"I don't know what you are getting at," Martin held.

"Analysis complete," the computer announced.

Riker and Picard both looked at the screen where the data was projected. But Sisko and Data both had their eyes locked onto Martin. Data was as serene and passionless as a Vulcan. Sisko's jaws were clenched tight, and his eyes burned like they were about to boil.

"One match." The data was unmistakable. A perfect match.

"You're Sloan?!" Sisko accused, barely controlling his fury. Apparently, he'd heard about Section 31, too.

Martin--or Sloan--regained his color and his confidence. "Sometimes," he replied with a hint of arrogance.

"Commander Riker," Picard ordered, "will you please escort Mr. Sloan to the brig, and Doctor Bashir out of it."

If Riker was angry at having chosen the wrong villain, he didn't show it. "I'd be happy to, sir." He took Sloan's arm.

"I took the liberty of assigning two security officers outside the door," Data added.

Good thinking, Picard thought. They might be needed. "Mr. Data," Picard said, nodding toward the PADD. "Please put that in a secure location. I don't want it to disappear as easily as Doctor Bashir's protest."

Data nodded. "Of course, sir."

Bashir was still sitting on the floor of the cell just opposite Chief O'Brien when the doors opened. He had relaxed somewhat in his friend's presence, though he still felt entirely too keyed up. He should have been exhausted from lack of sleep. And given the lack of entertainment in the brig, he should have been bored enough to sleep the night before. But his mind had refused to quiet down. There was so much to think about, so much to calculate, to try and anticipate, that he couldn't even manage to keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds. Sleep never came.

Both he and the Chief stood up when the three men walked into the room. Bashir didn't recognize one of them except to know who it wasn't. He wasn't Dolson. The other men were Commander Riker and Bashir's personal nemesis, Sloan. Sloan held his head high and carried a defiant look in his eye--or at least Bashir imagined that defiance--as Riker led him into one of the cells to Bashir's right. Data must have found the PADD.

"Sorry about the light, Doctor," the third man called as he activated the forcefield. Bashir squinted against the sudden brightness around Sloan's cell.

"He can beam out of there, you know," Bashir warned them.

Sloan glared at him, and Bashir didn't have to guess about that, lit as he was by the lights. Sloan said nothing and probably would continue to say nothing. It was almost anti-climactic. Though Bashir knew better than to hope for climactic. Life just didn't work that way.

"He beamed in just last night," Bashir added, watching Sloan, not the man to whom he was speaking.

"What's going on?" O'Brien whispered.

"They've arrested Sloan," Bashir whispered back. "He's the one who had me marooned."

Riker was walking toward them now. "Release the doctor," he ordered the other man.

Almost instantly the constant tingle that had reminded him of the forcefield's presence vanished. Bashir felt the lack of it like a sudden gust of wind, like the door opening on his cell in Block 11. He reached one foot over the line to step down and suddenly felt dizzy. He had to hold the wall to keep from falling over. O'Brien saw that and caught him by the other arm. "I could use that breakfast now," Julian teased, trying to dispel any undue concern. However he managed it, he was across the line, full-body into freedom. And back in the fire.

"What you could use," O'Brien joined in with a grin, "is a haircut."

"One of those, too."

"Perhaps you should go to Sickbay, sir," the third man suggested.

"I'll be fine," Bashir told him. "Am I free to return to my quarters, or better yet to DS9?"

"Quarters," Riker replied. "DS9 is up to Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher. The lights will be dimmed in the corridors along your path. If you see light, you'll know you're going the wrong way."

"Thank you," Bashir told him, not sensing now the deep-seated hostility the man had previously radiated. He turned to leave with the Chief, thankful to find that the lighting in the corridor was actually darker than the room he was in.

"And Doctor," Riker called before he made it through the door. Bashir turned and waited. Riker kept his back straight, his shoulders squared, and his hands behind his back. When he did speak, it was slow and deliberate, as if the words were hard for him. "I apologize for the cell. I allowed myself to give in to assumptions, which is just what Mr. Sloan was counting on. You were right about that. I assumed you were guilty and expected you to have to prove otherwise. I am sorry."

Bashir wasn't sure if Riker now expected forgiveness or not. He also wasn't sure if he was willing to grant forgiveness or not. So he offered something more abstract. "Apology accepted."

O'Brien had thought Julian would be relieved to have been released, or happy, or something. But he was no different. Except that now he was hungry. They had a large breakfast in Bashir's guest quarters. It was large in that it had many different dishes. For Julian, the portions were still small. Still he seemed to be enjoying what he had. Scrambled eggs, bacon, scones. While they ate, O'Brien told Julian about what had happened back in the Bajoran sector while he was gone. Or at least he told him the good things. Ezri and Worf had returned unharmed for the most part. Damar was leading a rebellion against the Dominion on Cardassia. Julian told O'Brien about Sloan, and the Chief found himself with no appetite. "How'd you get out?" he asked after Julian had come back around to the end of the story: the cave.

"I converted the replicator into a transmitter and transmitted a low-level pulse which Data would hear."

He said it so easily that it almost sounded an easy thing to do. But O'Brien was an engineer and he knew better. It was just barely possible, but very difficult and it would render the replicator useless as a source of anything else. Those must have been some extension courses. And to do it in the dark, no less. Still, that didn't explain everything. "How did you know he'd be anywhere nearby to receive the signal?"

Julian didn't even bother to look up from his plate. "I didn't," he said, before taking another bite of his eggs. "I just chanced it. I would have died in the cave if I never tried it, or I would have died in the cave if I tried it to no avail. The difference was only a matter of decades."

"Sisko to O'Brien," O'Brien's comm badge chirped and Sisko's voice emanated from it.

The chief tapped his badge to acknowledge the call. "O'Brien here, sir."

"We just got orders, Chief," Sisko said. "We're leaving. Meet Dax and Counselor Troi in Transporter Room Three to prep the Defiant."

"Julian's not coming with us?" O'Brien asked, looking across the table at his friend. Julian had frozen as soon as the call came in. He still held his fork halfway to the now empty plate before him.

"Not just yet," Sisko replied. "Sisko out."

Bashir's fork dropped to the table. "It's not a surprise, Miles. I have to be checked out. As you already mentioned, I relieved you of duty until you'd had time to adjust. It's the same with me."

"Wouldn't you adjust better back on DS9 with us?" O'Brien argued.

"I think so," Julian admitted, "but it's not my decision to make."

"Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher," O'Brien conceded, remembering what Riker had said. "Well, it could be worse. The Enterprise has a great crew. Try and enjoy yourself. We'll see you again soon."

"Of course," Bashir said, still not sounding either displeased or pleased at the prospects.

"I guess Deanna's going to visit Worf while we prepare the ship," O'Brien surmised aloud. "I'd like to see Data, myself. You know, he introduced Keiko and me."

Julian allowed a smile. "He told me. Perhaps he can visit while you prepare the ship, too."

That wasn't a bad idea. "I'll ask him." The chief stood up to leave. "I'll see ya, Julian. Call me once in awhile."

"Send my love to everyone," Bashir said. He stood as well and came around the table. He extended his hand and O'Brien shook it.

"Oh hell," he said, pulling Bashir toward him for a hug. "Don't ever do that to us again," he said. When he let him go, O'Brien could see that he shocked the younger man quite thoroughly with his unaccustomed show of sincerity. O'Brien grinned. His friend was real and he was alive.

"I'll try," was all Julian said, when he could finally speak.

"See ya around, Julian."

Bashir waited for him to leave and then cleared the table. With that squared away, he laid himself down on the couch and tried to close his eyes. Sisko was leaving. There was no Troi. She'd be on the Defiant. No visitors--he hoped. He could finally just let himself relax, even if it was only for an hour. Maybe now he could sleep.

The door chimed and Bashir kicked the arm of the couch with one foot at the intrusion during his short respite. He sat up and took a deep breath to calm himself. If it was the captain or Crusher, he'd still have to be on guard. "Come in," he said finally, feeling the walls come up around him, protecting him, closing him in.

The door opened and allowed light to spill in through the door. It closed again and Bashir could see who had entered. The walls tumbled away.

Neither one said anything at first. Sisko looked around him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After a few minutes, he could see Julian standing by the couch. He wondered why he didn't say anything. And he wondered about the lights. "Mind if I turn up the lights?" Sisko finally asked.

"No!" Bashir nearly shouted in panic. Sisko felt he was getting a glimpse of why Troi wanted him to remain on the Enterprise for a time. When he spoke again, he was decidedly calmer. "It hurts my eyes," he explained.

Just where had he been? Sisko wondered. And he chided himself for not asking Captain Picard when he'd had the chance. Either Sloan did something to his eyes, or he'd been in a very dark place these last six months. Sisko just hoped he still knew the man. He didn't want to find him broken or beyond redemption. Still, he was alive, and that was something. He could recover from this, whatever it was. He couldn't recover from being dead.

The silence was deafening, and having it there in the darkness only exacerbated the awkwardness between them. A hello would be nice, Sisko thought. So he decided he should step forward and offer one. "It's good to see you, Julian."

"Is it?" the younger man asked. His tone was plain and quiet, carrying no hint of what he meant by such a question.

Sisko decided to take it literally until Bashir gave him any reason to do otherwise. "Of course it is. We thought you were dead. We were all concerned, of course, happy but concerned, when we heard--"

"Not all," Bashir said slowly, hitting the sharp 't" between the words particularly hard.

This time there was no mistaking the touch of venom in Bashir's quiet British accent. Sisko didn't understand it, but continuing to take Bashir literally, he understood that it was directed at himself. "I was concerned," he held.

"I never even crossed your mind." That was harsh and deliberate. Something was building and Sisko was sure he wouldn't like it.

He couldn't find any words. What had drawn Bashir to that conclusion? What had made him think that Sisko hated him? He knew that there was a distance between them before he'd left, but they'd managed to bridge it once in awhile. Things weren't like they were before the war, but there was a war, after all. It got in the way of such things, but it never, ever made Sisko stop caring about his crew, and that included Bashir.

"Julian," he tried, stepping forward.

Bashir backed away, into the couch. "Don't call me that," he ordered, stumbling around the furniture to keep the distance between himself and Sisko.

This was not at all what Sisko had expected. Forgetting diplomacy, or giving up on it, Sisko tried asking him outright, "What's wrong?"

"You are!" Bashir accused. "You're wrong." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Images and memories and feelings were all swirling around in his head in a dizzying manner. Only Sisko was steady. Sisko. The reason for it all.

Sisko stood still, only a meter from the door. Bashir could see him so clearly. He didn't understand. He still didn't see what he had done. How could he? He had to think first. He had to think about one man when the whole war was distracting him. He couldn't do that and so he couldn't understand. Sisko's voice was a whisper when he spoke again. "What did he do to you?"

"He who?" Bashir knew who, but the blame was misplaced. "You did this to me. Sloan was only being who he is, doing what he does. He could have killed me, but he didn't, so I guess you could say he was even being lenient. But if it hadn't been for you, he wouldn't have done anything at all."

Even as he said it, he never thought he'd stand up in defense of Sloan, but there it was. Sloan had only behaved according to his nature. It was Sisko who had changed his nature. It was Sisko who had betrayed him, finally tearing down the pillars of everything he had believed in. Because he had believed in Sisko. "You're the reason this happened. You!" he accused, stepping forward and pointing his finger at his former commanding officer. He could barely control his own body. It was as if something inside him was propelling him forward. "You ordered it." His voice dropped back. "You want to know what they did to me? Clinically, it's called psychological torture. I may have had worse, but it's still torture. They played with my sense of reality, made me think that everyone was turning against me, made me question my own sanity and loyalty, all without sleep or food. And you ordered me to go with them. My torturers! Even after the Romulan incident!"

The anger had built up in him like a ball of fire in his chest. He could feel it physically, burning into his ribs and lungs.

They were face to face now. "I thought--" Sisko stammered, stepping back and away from the doctor closing in on him.

Bashir didn't give him time to finish. "You didn't think!" he screamed. His arms pushed out with the words and Sisko went flying into the bulkhead a few feet behind him. Having used up that burst of energy, he could no longer move.

Sisko sat up, rubbing his head where he'd hit the wall, and Bashir just stood shaking. His voice was softer, but no less calm. "You certainly didn't think about me. You wanted proof. You wanted evidence. 'Something tangible,' you said. I didn't matter to you at all." It was almost hard to breathe. It was certainly hard to stand, but he couldn't move his legs. "There were hundreds of them. Did you think I could just undo them like that? They've been doing this for two centuries or more. Did you expect me to just waltz in and expose them and cause their downfall?"

Sisko didn't answer. He couldn't, not without saying that that was exactly what he thought, if he thought at all. "They could have made me disappear before," Bashir continued. "They certainly had the ability. They kidnapped me right off the station without so much as a trace. But you thought I could bring them down single-handedly."

"I had faith in you," Sisko tried to say, but it came out only just above a whisper. Even in the dim light, his eyes showed fear.

"And what do you think that is worth?" Bashir threw back in anger. "Did you think they would just let me in?"

Sisko's mouth was open, as if he would speak, but he said nothing. He just stared in wonder and confusion back at Bashir, who continued to berate him. For so many years, he had kept so much in. He forgot to even worry about the Betazoid and what she would sense from him. Sisko had to be made to listen. "I had to prove myself to them, why I'd had such a change of heart. I couldn't do what they wanted me to do. I couldn't become one of them. I couldn't be like them. Like you. I refused, worked against them. For that they sent me away to that god-forsaken cave. Six months I was alone, with not one single person to speak to. The only animals were blind little fish in the stream I drank from. And that's all your fault."

Sisko shook his head, not really denying what Julian was saying, but out of shock and a sudden sense of guilt. This is not how he imagined things at all. He'd never seen Bashir so angry, never seen him lose his temper. Not like this. And he would have bet the war that Julian would never strike him. But it had happened, and he had the bruises to show for it. He couldn't bring himself to strike back, though.

He wanted to deny what Bashir was saying, but he couldn't find the words to make at least some of it true. He hadn't thought about what had happened as torture. He hadn't thought about what it must have been like for Bashir. There was only the mystery, the subversive group within Starfleet, kidnapping Starfleet officers. Kidnapping Bashir. He didn't see it that way before. He saw Bashir as an opportunity, not as a victim. He saw him as strong, not as vulnerable. He thought of Julian's enhancements, of his genius, and assumed he could outsmart Sloan. But it wasn't just Sloan. It was a whole group that had been in existence for centuries.

"You only think of yourself," Bashir went on. It was like he was a flood that couldn't be held back. His eyes were wide with anger, and his hands shook at his sides. "You think you, the almighty Emissary, alone can save the Bajorans. You think you're fighting the war all by yourself. It's easy for you to give orders. You don't have to suffer the consequences like the rest of us. I couldn't sleep for weeks. I had nightmares about what they'd do to me, what they'd already done. You ordered me to go back to them, and I was willing to obey because I believed in you! I believed that you would be there for me, somehow. That you wouldn't order me into it and then just leave me to die out there. But you didn't even stay. Jadzia died and you ran away because it was too much for you! For you!" he repeated, incredulousness seeping in his tone. "You weren't captured by the Jem'Hadar. You weren't replaced. You weren't singled out by the Dominion. You weren't kidnapped by your own government. You weren't manipulated into betraying an ally. And it was too much for you?!"

He said it with such venom, such hatred. Bashir's face was contorted like a mask of pure evil. Sisko shook his head, and that caused the pain in the back of his skull to flare up. "I didn't run away," he argued in his own defense. He had to raise his voice to match the intensity in the room that Julian had caused. Was he even Julian anymore? "I had to think, to find a way to contact the Prophets."

"For three months?!" Bashir cried, and Sisko jerked back involuntarily in fear at his reaction. But Julian didn't touch him; he didn't even try. He actually turned away, throwing his hands up in wonder. "We were dying out there, and you," he turned back, "were sitting at home cleaning clams! And not even a word from you! We didn't know if you were even coming back! They could have come for me at any time. And you wouldn't have even known I was gone."

Sisko wanted to deny the doctor's words, but he couldn't. It was true. He'd been so wrapped in his own despair, not just about Jadzia, but about the Prophets and the Pagh Wraiths, that it had blocked out everything else. In those three months, he'd not once thought about the war, not about the crew, not about his orders to Julian. He hadn't thought about those orders at all really, not until Kira had suggested Section 31 after Bashir was found alive.

Bashir was perhaps guilty of blowing it out of proportion, but he was right. And considering that he'd only been rescued two days before and he was seriously traumatized--that much was obvious--Sisko could understand the blowing it out of proportion.

"I trusted you," Bashir said, out of breath, but seeming to calm down. "But you're no better than Sloan. You're worse."

Sisko wouldn't fight him back, and he understood what was happening with Julian, but he was going too far. "I am not like Sloan," he held, his voice full and firm. This had to end. "I am definitely not worse."

Bashir shook his head and squatted down until he was eye-level with Sisko. "I know," he said, full of contempt. It didn't sound like he was agreeing. It sounded conspiratorial. He continued, dropping his voice. "They told me. They told me so I would know the truth and stop trusting you. I might not have believed them before, but I know it's true."

Know what's true? Sisko thought. He didn't say it. He was afraid he already knew.

Bashir bent closer to his ear and whispered, "I know why the Romulans joined the war."

Now Sisko found it hard to breathe. Not that. No one was supposed to know about that. If it got out, the Romulans would break the alliance. The war would be lost. And it wouldn't be just self-respect that Sisko had lost. He shook his head, unable to speak at the horror playing in his mind.

"Did you even know where that gel was going?" Bashir asked, still whispering, no longer shaking. He had the power now, as if he were the captain and Sisko the lieutenant. "Did you even bother to find out who was getting it after you ordered me to deliver it to the cargo bay?"

Sisko remembered Julian's warnings that day. He could hear them echoing again in his head. "In the wrong hands, it could be used to make biogenic weapons, or for illegal replication experiments, or to develop organic explosives. . . ."

"They got it," Bashir told him. "The Dominion. Eighty-five liters. And with it they wiped out an entire world."

The breath ripped itself from Sisko's lungs. The Dominion? A world? He tried to stand, but his legs were rubber; they wouldn't hold him. He braced himself on his arms as Bashir continued to whisper in his ear. "Six million, five hundred twenty-one thousand, three hundred and seventy two people. Every animal, every plant. Nothing lives on Deyon III. And you have yourself to thank for that."

Sisko felt the bile rising up in his throat. Six million. A whole world. Dead. Because of what he'd done. He couldn't even see Bashir anymore, but he felt him back away.

Bashir's voice was quieter, calm and cold when he spoke again. "I trusted you once," the younger man said, chastising himself. The fire within him had died down. "I respected you. I looked up to you, admired you. I believed you when you said it was our job to make sure we never had to find out what would happen if we were pushed too far, whether we'd lose everything we stood for, all our principles. And then you threw them all away. You became like Sloan and then you became like the Dominion. You're a murderer and a liar. I expect as much from Garak; it's in his nature. But not from you."

Sisko looked up at him, saw him turn away and face the viewports and the stars beyond. "There's Section 31," he continued "and there's you. There's the Dominion and the Cardassians, too. There's not a place to stand between you. There's nothing left." His voice was hollow. "The universe is destroying itself. We can't let the Dominion win, but we'll lose ourselves if we win. We've already lost, if you're any judge. There's nothing left worth fighting for, worth living for, not really.

"I used to believe that we were better, that we believed in things and upheld those things, good things. But we don't, do we? We say we do and then we throw them away. I had faith in you. I've no faith left. It's all gone. You killed it when you killed those people."

He didn't say anything else, and he didn't turn back from the viewports. Sisko assumed then that he was finished. His head and shoulders didn't hurt near as much as the knot twisted into his stomach. He struggled to his feet. Fortunately, the door wasn't far. He thought about saying good-bye, but how could he do that now? No words were appropriate. Sisko left him behind, hoping that Bashir could get help. He needed help. He'd been broken, and Sisko realized now that it was himself, not the Dominion, not Sloan, but himself who had accomplished it. He had betrayed the trust Bashir had in him.

And he had crossed the line. He had sold his soul to get the Romulans into the war. It was a price he was willing to pay. But he hadn't read the fine print. He had only thought of the cost to himself. He had been angry to find out Garak had placed a bomb on Senator Vreenak's shuttle. He'd called him a murderer. But he'd done worse, and millions were dead.

Several Enterprise crewmembers eyed him curiously as he lurched down the corridors, holding the wall for support. He didn't care. He didn't even see them. He found the transporter room almost by accident. He managed to straighten himself up before he got to the door though. He couldn't explain to anyone what was wrong. Section 31 knew, but they hadn't made it public yet. They had told Bashir, but he had also said that the Dominion can't win the war. He wouldn't tell. Even traumatized and half-crazed, he was smart enough to know the consequences of that. He had wanted to punish Sisko. He wouldn't make the whole quadrant pay for it. So Sisko had to hide it, just like he'd hid it for the last year and a half. No one could know. Not about the gel and not about Bashir.

He stopped just outside the door to the transporter room and instead made his way to a turbolift. "Sickbay," he ordered.

"What happened to you, Captain?" the nurse asked when he walked in. She was a young woman of Asian ethnicity. She smiled brightly as she worked on his bruises.

"I backed into a bulkhead," Sisko lied. He didn't want anyone to think that Bashir was violent. If they thought he was, he might be institutionalized, which in Bashir's mind would likely be no different than prison. And he would only blame Sisko for that as well. Besides, Sisko felt he was a special case to Bashir, the one person he'd really lash out at. O'Brien hadn't sounded stressed or fearful when he'd called, and he'd been visiting Bashir since he arrived on the ship. And Picard or Troi would have informed him if he had displayed violent behavior with them. No, there was no point in slowing down Julian's recovery by accusations of violence.

The nurse chuckled. "How did you manage that?" She finished tending his head and moved on to his shoulder.

"The corridors were dimmed for Doctor Bashir."

"Oh," she nodded. "That explains it. That shouldn't last too long though. Doctor Crusher estimates another three days before he's up to normal lighting. All done."

"So it's not permanent then?" Sisko asked as she put away her instruments.

She helped him pull his shirt back over his shoulder. "No," she assured him. "He was just in the dark too long. It's temporary."

"Thank you." Sisko picked up his jacket. "I need to get back to my ship. Take care of him for us."

Her smile widened and her eyes twinkled. "We will." It was so unusual to see such a bright face these days. How did she manage when there was a war going on?

Sisko nodded and left her and Sickbay. O'Brien and Dax were waiting for him when he transported back to the Defiant. Neither of them looked particularly happy at leaving Bashir behind. Troi was there, too, but she was waiting to transport back to the Enterprise.

Bashir waited for him to leave before he turned around again. His quarters were empty. "Computer," he ordered softly, "no visitors. Where is Counselor Troi?"

"Counselor Troi is not on board," the computer replied.

Bashir let out a long breath and dropped himself onto the couch. He covered his face in his hands and tried to think just how he'd let things get so out of control. He'd actually hit Sisko. He hit his commanding officer. What if Sisko didn't let him back on DS9? And it couldn't be good if Troi should find out, or anyone else for that matter. He had to get control before she arrived. Sisko's presence had caused him to crack. All the things he'd thought in the last six months, or longer, had come rushing back to the fore. All the hurt, the anger, the betrayal, not just of himself, but of all he believed. Sisko had lied, cheated, fabricated evidence, and participated in murder so that the Romulans would join the war and die by the thousands fighting the Dominion.

Of course, it was good to have another ally, but Captain Sisko didn't have the right to choose for a whole civilization like that. If they ever found out what he did, with Garak's help, they'd pull out and perhaps sign a separate peace with the Dominion. The Federation-Klingon alliance would lose the war, and the Alpha Quadrant would be enslaved. Bashir wished Sloan had never told him these things. Or he wished Sisko had told him they weren't true. Sisko had lied and Sloan had told the truth.

He wasn't able to think when Sisko was here. Everything had just swirled and boiled inside him. But now, he was calm and able to think things through. But he knew even that would show to the Betazoid. He had to get past it, push it down, and concentrate on something else. He went back to the game. He started with the replicator. It was easy. He'd already done a portable unit for real. This was larger, but the basic components were still the same. It took an hour, but by then he'd found his balance. He even thought he could sleep.

Troi did come though, as he knew she would. She asked him about his feelings now that he'd seen his friends. He answered with what she wanted to hear. It was good to see them again. He'd missed them. He regretted not seeing Dax or Kira. It was all true, if one discounted Sisko. And he did. He had put Sisko out of his mind so that his thoughts and emotions wouldn't be polluted by the thought of him. Without Sisko, there was balance.

And Troi didn't bring him up, which led Bashir to believe that Sisko hadn't mentioned the incident to her. All the easier then to not think of him.

"Starfleet Medical has concluded the investigation of your identity," Troi said, finally changing the subject. Or maybe she was just changing tactics. "The body they found has been identified."

"Who was he?" Bashir asked, positive that she would not give his own name.

"His name was Edoard Hussein," she replied. "He disappeared eight months ago from his business on New Sidney. He went to lunch and didn't return. He left a wife and three children."

"Do we know why?" Bashir asked. There was a knot in his stomach, and he hoped the man wasn't killed just for his resemblance to himself.

"He was a weapons manufacturer," Troi explained. "Starfleet Intelligence had suspected him of leaking secrets to the Dominion. They began an investigation almost a year ago. In fact, they thought he had caught on to them and fled."

So it wasn't a tragedy then. Not for the man anyway. It was just a fortunate coincidence in Section 31's perspective. A traitor was found, picked up, convicted, and executed. And oh, look! He looks a bit like our good friend the doctor! Two birds, one stone. "So that's done then," Bashir concluded with a measure of relief if not joy. "I'm me and I'm not a criminal. Perhaps, then, I can be a doctor again."

Troi smiled at him. "You're already a doctor."

He wasn't going to let her off with friendly smiles and platitudes. "You know what I mean."

She did; her smile faded. She looked him in the eye. "I don't think you're ready," she admitted. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled again. "You can't even see yet."

True enough. One needed eyes and plenty of light to properly treat patients. "When I can see," he asked, knowing that his lack of light tolerance was really just an easy way out for her, "will you reevaluate your assessment?"

She matched his seriousness: one healer to another. "I'm always reevaluating my assessment."

He sighed and stood up. She was still avoiding the issue. "My sight isn't the problem," he said, walking a little way away. "I can handle whatever you have to say."

"But would it help?" Troi challenged, much to his surprise. "If I told you my assessment, would it help you? Or would you only to try and 'fix' whatever you think I think is wrong?"

He had to give her credit. Either her Betazoid half was stronger than he'd supposed or she had a fair sense of judgment beyond her empathic abilities. He was sure she had sensed nothing emotional to draw that conclusion. "I want my life back," he repeated, still not willing to break down for her, "and that doesn't mean just pacifying you. I would not want a psychologically deficient doctor working under me, treating patients. And I wouldn't dare to put people at risk if I thought I was a danger to them. I understand that." He felt his face flush and was glad for the relative darkness. He turned away from her. "I am a doctor," he added in a whisper, now facing the viewports and the distant stars beyond. "I will do no harm."

"I believe you." Her voice was soft, though not a whisper. He heard her take a deep breath and then she was beside him at the viewports. "I am concerned," she admitted now. "I can't sense you. Not as I should."

He faced her, raising an eyebrow. "Because of you or because of me?"

She smiled a little but didn't turn her head. "I sense everyone else, so it must be you."

Bashir faced the stars again. "I see," he said. He knew this point was going to come. Still, he had hoped to avoid it. Hell, he had hoped for a non-empathic counselor altogether. But here it was, and he had planned for it. "I have a theory about that."

"Oh?"

"Equilibrium." It was simple and made a lot of sense the way he saw it. But there was often a gap between theory and practice.

"Equilibrium?" she repeated, turning to look at him. She seemed genuinely interested. There was no hint of smile, no patronization or amusement. She was willing to hear him out.

"Everything is equal," he explained, "in the end. Any one thing has the potential to be good or bad or neutral, or any degree therein. Should I be ecstatic at my rescue, for instance? Yes, I'm rescued, out of the cave and the damp and the cold. I'm even beginning to see again. But I'm also in danger again, as you saw. They tried to frame me. There's still a war on, too. In the cave, I was miserable, but at least I was safe. Happiness is cancelled out by the lack of security, leaving nothing but a neutral state. It's either that or exaggerated mood swings. Mood swings are a waste of energy and a loss of control. They quite often do more harm than good. So I chose neutrality. I chose control."

She didn't say anything, though she hadn't really changed her expression either.

"Let me give you an example you can perhaps relate to, with only one emotion and one object. Fear and changelings. We're all paranoid that they're hiding around us, deceiving us, being something other than themselves. They can be the floor you stand on, the chair you sit in, the blanket with which you cover yourself at night. They can be your shoes, your clothes, or even your best friend. You can't tell. Anything in this room, or anyone on this ship, could be a changeling and we wouldn't know it until that changeling slipped up.

"So what do we do?" he continued. "Do we live our lives in fear, hiding under the bed that could very well be a changeling? Do we cower and break out into cold sweats? I'm terrified of them, you know, except for Odo. There was one, she did things to me that I wouldn't wish on Sloan. I had nightmares for months on end. But I couldn't function if I let that define my life. If everything holds the same potential for fear--the bed, the floor, the wall--then there's no more fear in one place or circumstance than in another. It equals out, normalizes, leaving only life behind. It's either that or madness. So I don't act afraid and you don't sense fear."

She still said nothing, though her expression had definitely changed. Her eyes had turned away, dropping down to stare into nothing as she digested what he had said. She stepped away. "That's why you're flat," she whispered, probably to herself. But he had heard, regardless of her intentions. He had been successful. He could keep her out. "I don't think that's the best thing for you," she said, more loudly, "for anyone."

"What else is there but lies?" he asked. "Would you rather I pretend to be happy, ignoring the unhappiness I feel, even though they are of equal strength? Would that be any healthier?"

"No, not if it were acting," she conceded, facing him again with her back to the couch. "What about when Chief O'Brien came by. Was it still equal then?"

"A momentary fluctuation perhaps," he admitted, "but for all the relief at seeing him again there was the loss of all I'd missed. Six months. Six months of war. People I knew had died. His children had grown. Things had changed. This isn't new, you know. And I don't think it's entirely unique. When I escaped from the Jem'Hadar prison, I wasn't any happier. Relieved perhaps. Not to say that I wasn't happy, but I was also disturbed. I felt violated. I had been replaced. No one even knew that I'd been gone. Another man had been living in my quarters, performing my duties, eating lunch with my friends. Captain Sisko had visions and required extensive neural surgery, which that changeling performed. Odo became a changeling again and Kira had the O'Briens' baby and I wasn't there. I wasn't even missed. To not acknowledge all that would be denial."

It surprised him that he had brought that previous incident up. He hadn't thought of it when he'd come up with his theory. But it fit. Good and bad. One package. Just like he'd told Data.

"You're right." He hadn't expected to hear that from her. "It would be denial. And denial isn't healthy. I'm still concerned though."

That was acceptable, even expected. "I'd be questioning your credentials if you weren't," he told her. There was a moment of silence as each tried to decide what to say next. Nothing seemed to come naturally from where they'd left off. Silence was fine, Bashir decided, when one was alone, but it was an annoyance when someone was with you, especially someone who's job was to evaluate you. "What about research?" he finally said, startling her with the blunt change of topic.

"Research?" She shook her head.

"Seeing patients is one thing," he explained. "You have to be absolutely certain. I understand that. But there's no reason I can't do research. I was working on several long-term projects before they came for me: my prion project, the cure for the Blight. I'd like to continue my work."

"Of course," she nodded, even smiling. She probably thought it would help him to recover if he got back to some of his normal routines. Fine. He hoped it would, too. "I'll try to find the records. Will the work station be too uncomfortable for you?"

She was referring to the light. It probably still seemed really dark to her. "The light is increasing at nearly twice the speed it was yesterday at this time," he told her. "My eyes are improving rapidly. I'll be fine. I'd like something to work on."

"Okay," she replied, her smile widening. "I'll get you the access you need."

It was Dax who called the meeting. Sisko would have avoided it, using the mission for an excuse. But since she called it and not him, he didn't have an excuse. There were several hours before the Defiant would be in range of the Dominion outpost. Worf could handle the bridge and the Defiant could do without O'Brien for a little while, too. So the three of them were gathered in Sisko's quarters, and Sisko was faced with lying to his oldest and dearest friend. That he'd never seen Dax look as young as Ezri Dax didn't help.

"He seemed fine, considering," O'Brien said, and Sisko thought he was speaking from experience. "I overheard that he wasn't eating or sleeping while he was in the brig. He kept saying he wasn't hungry, but he ate quite a bit once he got out."

Dax nodded, thoughtful. "He probably didn't even realize he was doing it. Being incarcerated is probably traumatic for him no matter how well he's treated. What about emotionally? I wish I could have seen him."

O'Brien replied, repeating his earlier assessment, "He seemed fine. We talked about the war and what's he's missed during the last six months. He seemed happy to be back. He was disappointed that he couldn't come back with us though he understood the reasoning. If anything, he was maybe too calm."

It was the exact opposite of Sisko's assessment of Bashir. He couldn't tell them that, though. Luckily, Dax was watching O'Brien when he spoke.

But then Ezri turned to him and he had to think quickly. "What about you, Ben? What did the two of you talk about."

Me, mostly, he thought. "Pretty much the same thing," he lied. "I think this is all rather hard on him."

"Troi said he was too calm, too," Dax shared with them. "Almost as if he were unemotional."

No wonder Picard hadn't said anything about Julian being possibly violent. It never occurred to them. Julian's ire was only for him, Sisko realized, and the realization fit with everything Bashir had said to him.

"What's wrong, Ben?" Ezri asked, breaking Sisko's internal thoughts.

"Nothing," he told her. "It's just not what I expected or wanted." Half-truths could be very useful. "He was dead and now he's not. I'm not sure what I expected."

"He was only dead to us," Dax corrected. "To himself, he was alive, and alone, the whole time."

Captain Picard felt a sense of relief as he watched the stars streak by through the main viewscreen. Bashir had been cleared and released and could now concentrate on healing. Sloan--if that was his real name--was in custody and would be turned over to Starfleet Security at Starbase 368. And there were no Dominion ships in the area. He was relieved, but he couldn't relax. Section 31 was a secret organization within the Federation. Picard had always looked down on organizations like the Obsidian Order, who used fear to control and police their own people. To know that there was such an organization, though one which used secrecy instead of fear, in the Federation was hard to take in. The Federation was supposed to be benevolent. It was supposed to be voluntary, an organization that people wanted to be a part of. They were supposed to be free, refined, and good. There should be no need for such an organization as Section 31.

Of course, he knew that just because one played by the rules, it didn't mean that others did. That's why Starfleet Intelligence had to exist at all. And he knew that even Starfleet Intelligence had been involved in questionable activities. He'd assumed that that was what MacKenzie Calhoun had been involved in before being given command of the Excalibur. Somehow, it had been easier to swallow when he thought of such activities as the purview of Starfleet Intelligence. Starfleet Intelligence had rules and policies and oversight, so Picard didn't question too deeply what those activities were. He trusted that Starfleet Intelligence wouldn't cross the line.

Maybe that's why Section 31 bothered him. The lack of trust, the crossing of the line. If what Bashir said was true, there were no rules, no oversight. There was hardly even any knowledge of the organization, and their treatment of Bashir showed a definite lack of trust from the organization. Were they always there, looking over the shoulder of Starfleet and citizens alike, waiting for a slip-up, a suggestion of possible subterfuge? The Federation wasn't supposed to be like that.

"Daniels to the Bridge," a call came in. The Security Chief sounded hurried, even angry.

"Bridge," Picard said, acknowledging the call.

"He's gone, sir," Daniels explained. "Sloan. It's like he just disappeared. He must have beamed out."

Geordi was on the Bridge and he had overheard. "He couldn't have beamed off the ship," he supplied. "The shields are up and there's no place to beam to even if he could get past the shields."

"Yellow alert," Picard commanded. "Search the ship and keep an eye on the sensors in case there's a cloaked ship out there."

Troi had come through. Bashir now had access to the ship's computer and medical database. Deep Space Nine had saved his notes, and Kira had sent them over as soon as she'd received his request. She even tacked on a little message. A prayer, in Bajoran, thanking the Prophets for their kindness in the return of a friend. It was from Irlo Bron's first and only prophecy. She'd gone through a lot of trouble to find such an obscure reference.

Even more important than the database and the records was Data. He'd come through, too, and Bashir now wore the freshly cleaned shoes he'd worn for the last six months. Together with the computer access, he'd found his mind sufficiently occupied as to lose track of time and the brightening of the light. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even hear the yellow alert or the door to his quarters opening.

"Back to work already?" Sloan asked.

Julian smiled, and without looking up, pressed the key, finishing the project he'd been working on. "Complete," the computer intoned.

"Don't tell me you thought up a cure for the Blight while you down there," Sloan quipped.

Bashir turned to look at him. Sloan was once again dressed in his customary black. He was smiling, too, trying to be playful, perhaps. Julian's own smile widened. "No," he said leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs on the computer console. The sparse light in the room was enough to shine on the toes of his shoes. At least he thought so. "I've thought up a cure for you."

Sloan didn't speak and Bashir saw with great satisfaction that he'd confused the poor man. Sloan didn't know what to say. All the better.

"I suppose you've come to say good-bye," Julian said, bringing his feet back to the floor, "or that you were hoping I'd go with you."

Sloan nodded, still smiling as he almost always did. "You're too public to come just now."

Bashir dropped his smile and his pretense. "I won't be coming at all."

"Oh, I think--" Sloan began, still smug.

"I think better," Bashir interrupted, correcting him. "And probably more often. I really must thank you for that. You gave me six months of very little distraction. I had to put my mind to good use."

Sloan's own smile was fading, "What use?"

Bashir leaned forward and slipped off his left shoe. Then he replaced both of his feet on the floor. He stood, allowing Sloan full view of his project, not that there was much to see. At least, there was not much that he would allow the man to see. A small device, black and box-like, sat at one side of the console. Bashir lifted a slender tool from beside the device and pried loose the sole of his shoe where it met the arch. A small disk slipped out and into his hand.

Sloan smirked, "I was curious about the shoes."

"You were lax not to have checked them," Bashir corrected again. "But you wouldn't have found it if you had. It wasn't in the shoe then."

Sloan waved a hand, dismissing the shoe. His smile was back, though not as broad. "What is it?" His eyes reminded Bashir of Garak when the Cardassian fancied himself Bashir's mentor. There was a hint of pride in his face. His pupil had learned to conceal things from him.

"It's my insurance," Bashir answered, holding the little disk up. It was quite small, barely the size of his finger. "You might have checked for isolinear chips or data rods, but you wouldn't have thought of compact disks, archaic form of data storage as they are. You played me so well on Romulus, I thought I should return the favor."

The pride slipped and Sloan's countenance took on an air of annoyance, something Bashir had had a lot of experience recognizing, he mused. "What data?" Sloan asked simply, no longer the eloquent spy of his previous visits.

"Every kind imaginable," Bashir answered, allowing himself some pride. "Operative assignments and aliases, shield configurations, resonance frequencies, warp engine calibrations, transport pattern encryptions. . . ." He let the list trail off.

"You're bluffing."

"But you know me to be such an honest man," Bashir teased. Still, he wasn't against a little show to prove his honesty. He placed the disk in the little device, which promptly swallowed it up. He pressed a tab on the console and one on the device simultaneously. "Computer," he ordered, 'display Sample: Sloan."

"Working," the computer replied. A beam of blue light emitted from the small device and expanded into a holographic display. Data began to scroll slowly across it. Names and aliases. The data ceased and blinked away to reveal a galactic map with sparkling lights clustered at one end. The view began to zoom inward toward the cluster and finally through it until only two lights were visible. The coordinates were clearly marked. "You," Bashir narrated, "and your man Dolson." The sample spent, the viewscreen collapsed again into a beam and then winked out of existence altogether.

Sloan didn't smile. Bashir even thought perhaps he had gone slightly pale. It was hard to tell though. "And this is supposed to scare me?"

Bashir cocked his head to one side and let his tone slip into sarcasm. "Scare you? I didn't think that was possible. You have nothing to fear from me."

"Then what is the disk for?" He was very direct now, and Julian sensed Sloan's power shifting to him. Julian held the cards and Sloan had to wait to see what was played.

"The disk is nothing," Bashir told him, "a catalyst at best. It's gone beyond the disk now. But still, you needn't worry."

"Then why show me at all?"

"To simply make you aware," Bashir replied, waving his hand over the device, "as you now have a vested interest in my welfare and security."

Sloan smirked again, trying to take the power back. "Are you trying to blackmail Section 31?"

Bashir shook his head sadly. "My dear Sloan, it's more complicated than that. And more simple. Blackmail would be a threat to do something if you did not do that which I asked of you. I'm not going to do anything. I don't have to. I only have to not do something if you should do that which I asked you not to."

Sloan raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn't comment.

"Once in every twenty-six hour period," Bashir continued, spelling it out, "I shall enter an encryption code. If I don't, the information will be broadcast on a secure channel to every Starfleet officer and crewman and every member of the Federation Council. In short, the secret will be out, and all its components exposed." He didn't think it necessary to add that the encryption code would automatically update itself according to a complex mathematical equation which he would have to calculate everyday in order to enter the proper code.

"Doctor," Sloan tried again, sighing, "I've already told you. You are a member of Section 31. Whether you like it or not, we're not your enemy. And breaking codes is something we do every day."

"Not my code," Bashir corrected. "Six months, remember. If I am not where I choose to be," Bashir went on, "I will not enter the code. It's that simple."

Sloan opened his mouth, probably to assure Bashir that there were ways of making him give up the code. But Bashir didn't give him time. "And you should know that there's nothing you can do to me to make me give up the code. It wouldn't matter anyway. You could take me away, even perhaps take the device away, but I couldn't enter the code even if you made me want to. It requires both simultaneous local and remote access. In other words, I have to be where I want to be. If I'm not, the code doesn't get entered and the secret is out."

Sloan was starting to understand that Bashir had thought of all the options. He had to be. He did look pale. "What if you're captured by the Dominion?"

Bashir had foreseen that possibility, too. He had contingencies, but most of all, he had Section 31. "Then we should hope that that doesn't happen. I'm sure they could find the code long before you could. They were able to get all my memories and medical knowledge last time."

"And if you were to die?"

"Are you threatening?" Bashir asked in return.

Sloan held up a hand and his tone matched the sincerity of that night he'd told Bashir it was an honor to know him. "No, Doctor, I am not threatening," he said. "But there is a war on, and you will be going back to active duty, I take it."

"There is always a risk, yes," Bashir conceded, "but if I die, I won't care one way or the other whether the information is released. Still, I'm sure, given sufficient time, I can come up with a workable solution, perhaps even one that reverts the information to you should I die. But then, that's already happened, hasn't it? My death, I mean."

Sloan dropped his eyes. "An opportunity presented itself. It was thought that you'd be more amenable to your membership in Section 31 if you had no other obligations. You weren't supposed to call Commander Data."

"Oh, you were going to come back for me?" Bashir posed. "May I ask when?"

"It really doesn't matter now, does it?" Sloan threw another hand up. "Well, I did say I enjoyed being wrong, didn't I?"

"Wrong about me?" Bashir felt the victory. Sloan was going to back down. "You didn't predict this, did you? Not like everything else."

"It doesn't mean we won't find a way around this," Sloan countered, trying to salvage something from the situation.

"I can't stop you from trying," Bashir admitted. "But I will stop you from succeeding."

"To the challenge then," Sloan offered. "I'll miss you, Doctor."

"I'm sure you will," Bashir returned without reciprocating. "Your ship is waiting."

Sloan's mouth turned up on one side. "What ship?"

Bashir turned and pointed out his viewport toward a patch of empty space. "That one," he said. He heard no response, so he turned back around. Sloan was gone.

The door chimed. "Security, Doctor," someone called. "We'll need to search your quarters."

Bashir sat down in the chair again and covered the little device. "Of course," he replied, and the door slid open.

"Has anyone entered your quarters?" It was Daniels, the Security Chief. As he spoke, two other officers spread out with lighted rifles.

"You mean Sloan?" Bashir asked. "I told you he'd escape. You might ask Mr. Dolson. I'm sure he knows where to find Sloan."

Daniels lowered his weapon toward the floor. "Dolson? Why him?"

"I overheard them talking one night from the cell. He's Section 31."

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" Daniels asked, stepping forward.

"Would you have believed me?" Bashir asked in return. "You thought I was a criminal."

Daniels rested one hand on the console. "I didn't," he replied. "I was following orders. You're going to be with us for awhile, I hear. We're your crew. And we're a good crew. You have to trust us. You can trust us."

Bashir regarded him for a few moments. He seemed sincere enough, but he was also young. Young and naive. Trust was something too often broken. Best not to expect too much than to be disappointed later. "I'll give that some thought, Lieutenant. Thank you."

"Clear, sir," one of the other officers reported.

"He's not on the ship anymore, is he?" Daniels asked Bashir.

Bashir shook his head. He saw no reason not to tell the truth. Besides, he liked Daniels' forthrightness. "No. He beamed away just before you entered."

Daniels frowned, but he kept his voice calm. "And you didn't call Security?"

"With him standing right here? No."

"He couldn't have beamed off the ship," Daniels tried to argue. "The shields are up."

"He beamed into my cell last night, too," Bashir offered, not contradicting him, but leading him in the right direction.

The two officers behind Daniels were waiting for him, shifting their weight and shouldering their weapons. But Bashir had Daniels' attention. "Past the forcefield?" he asked, incredulous. Bashir nodded, and Daniels shook his head. "If they've got technology like that, why aren't they sharing with those of us who are fighting this war?" he asked, voicing a thought Bashir had had first had over a year before.

"They like to think they're fighting it, too," Bashir guessed. "Or they like to think they are the only ones fighting the only war that is truly important."