"Why do they need a doctor for that?" O'Brien asked.

Dax spoke up. "He isn't a medical doctor. He's a subspace theorist." When everyone turned to look at her, she blushed. "Jadzia read some of his work."

Kira shook her head. "Why a subspace theorist if they're trying to spy on us?"

"Old Man, do you remember what Doctor Pfenner was working on?"

"He'd proposed a new model of subspace communicators," Ezri replied. "It wasn't that spectacular. But that was a year ago. He'd finished the book. He was probably on to something else by the time they got him."

"The head of Aranus Institute reported that Doctor Pfenner had been on sabbatical, researching. He hadn't said what he was researching," Worf explained. He'd spent the night investigating on orders from Sisko. "When he returned four months ago, he began working on a three dimensional subspace model. The Institute assumed that that had been the subject of his research. But some of his colleagues felt it was 'too simple' for Doctor Pfenner's enthusiasm for theoretics."

Bashir summed up the situation. "So we don't know what he was really working on before the Dominion got him."

"Only that it has something to do with subspace," Sisko replied, noting that, yet again, Bashir had managed to avoid any eye contact.

It was a new wrinkle, hopefully a clue to help them solve the puzzle of the Dominion's latest experiment. Would subspace be the piece that made the rest of the clues come together? "Old Man," Sisko said, deciding on his orders, "I know you're not the science officer anymore, but you've got the memories. I'd like you to dig back into Pfenner's work. See if you can find anything helpful. Doctor, you still have Mtingwa--"

"For a few more hours," Bashir interrupted.

Sisko didn't take offense. Mtingwa was dying. Bashir had never taken a dying patient easily. "Is there anything you can do for her?"

Bashir shook his head. "Same things I did for Bareil. Maybe. In the end, it won't help."

Sisko nodded, even though he knew Bashir wouldn't see it. He felt bad for Mtingwa, but there was still work to be done. "Mr. Worf, anything from Enterprise?"

"Not much, sir," Worf grumbled. "They have traced several attacking ships' warp signatures back to the Erilli sector. However, that sector is well behind enemy lines. Their scans cannot penetrate without drawing unwanted attention."

Sisko nodded at that as well. "Chief?"

"I sent Commander LaForge some scanning results from the ship. While I couldn't put my finger on what was different about the wreckage, I was hoping he could. It's breaking down, just as the dilithium did. It's going to crumble to pieces, sir, right in the docking bay, given enough time."

Bashir dipped his head at that, closing his eyes. Perhaps there was some correlation with Mtingwa's condition. Sisko didn't want to think about that. "What does that tell us?"

"Nothing in particular," O'Brien admitted, "except that something phenomenal happened to that vessel. They're messing with something big, sir."

The rest of the meeting was rather ordinary--extraordinary in wartime--with each department head offering reports that varied little from day to day. Supplies were needed, guests needed quartering, energy consumption had increased by two percent over last month, etc. When the meeting ended, the main thing on everyone's agenda was still the Dominion's mystery experiment.

And Bashir. Ezri continued to see him. Everyone else continued to not see him. And Sisko had continued to avoid him. Not this time, he told himself.

As the others stood and moved toward the door, Sisko called out as casually as he could, "Doctor, could you stay for a moment?"

Bashir froze and visibly tensed, but he turned, expressionless, away from the door. Sisko waited until the others had left before he spoke. Bashir however, only moved far enough from the door to allow it to close.

"I'm sorry about Mtingwa," Sisko said, hoping to break the ice with talk of his patient.

"I'm sure she'll appreciate the sympathy," Bashir replied, and Sisko couldn't tell if he meant it to be a sincere remark or a bit of subtle sarcasm.

He didn't really want to talk about Mtingwa anyway. He wanted to see if being on the station had taken away some of Bashir's rancor. "You seem to have settled back into your duties nicely."

"Thank you, sir." Clipped, formal. Nothing further than business.

"What about your free time?" Sisko asked. "Settling in there?"

"My free time isn't your concern." There was a hint of harshness in that. Bashir kept his eyes on the table, not on Sisko. He was trying to control it, Sisko could tell, the anger that Sisko had seen before.

"We were friends once," Sisko tried.

Bashir didn't reply.

"If I could change the past," Sisko went on, "I would. If I could undo what I did and find a better way, I would. But I can't do that. We have to find a way to coexist here. I can't change what I did, but I'm working on changing what I do. I'm not focussing on the war so much that I'm losing sight of my people. Of you. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice."

Now Bashir looked up. "Are you so sure?" he asked, regaining some of the venom he'd had on the Enterprise. "You meant what you said in the sanctuary district. And yet, you didn't live up to those words, did you? You may even mean what you say now, but there's a lull in the war. What happens when the fighting gets heavy again, when the casualty lists start growing, when ships disappear and systems are occupied? What then? And what about when Sloan breaks my code and comes for me? Will you even notice? Or will you order me to go with him?"

Sisko didn't know what code Bashir was talking about, but he didn't figure that was the important issue here. Bashir had a point. He could say he would try, but he couldn't be sure of the future. "I can say I'll do my best," he finally said. "I don't know what else I can say."

"You can't say anything," Bashir said, calmer now. "You can't change what you did. And you can't guarantee what you will do. You can't be trusted."

Sisko smacked a hand down on his desk. He wanted to do more, to break something but he didn't want to act out in front of Bashir. "That's not fair! I'm not the only one who makes mistakes. And it was a mistake. It was a huge, horrendous mistake, I'll give you that, but it was a mistake nonetheless. You've made them. Am I to assume that you aren't to be trusted?"

Bashir stepped forward, anger clearly visible in his eyes. His voice was low though, almost a whisper. "I won't break my principles to suit my mistakes. I won't bend."

Sisko closed his eyes. He couldn't remember a time when Bashir had bent. "Why did you come here?" he asked finally. "You knew I'd be here."

"I wanted my life back," Bashir replied. "This was my post, not just yours. Why should I have to give up what I had because of what you did?"

"You shouldn't," Sisko agreed. "But you can't go on like this. Have you told any of this to Ezri? To Troi?"

"And what should I tell them?" Bashir asked. "Should I tell them how I lost my faith in everything I used to believe in? Should I tell them about you? Should I make Dax an accessory, too?"

God, no. Jadzia had been the closest to know what he'd done. She knew he wanted to convince the Romulans, but he never told her how he'd accomplished it. He hadn't wanted to implicate anyone else. Section 31 implicated Julian, forcing him to become part of the cover-up. Sisko didn't want it to go any further. And neither he nor Bashir wanted word to get back to the Romulans. "So I'm the only one who knows how you truly feel?"

Bashir turned his back but didn't leave the room. Sisko knew he'd hit something there.

"And you know that I can't tell Dax either," he continued. "So where do we go from here? I'm the captain and you're the Chief Medical Officer. We're going to run into each other from time to time."

Bashir didn't respond. Sisko had won the point. Bashir didn't have an answer. He'd known Sisko would be on the station but he hadn't dwelt on it. He wanted his life back. He ignored the fact that Sisko would be a part of it.

"I suppose we could keep to business, duty and nothing else," Sisko suggested, and Bashir found himself nodding. It was all they could do, wasn't it? Sisko couldn't be counted on for anything more.

Sisko wasn't finished. "But it's not just me, is it? I saw you with Admiral Ross. You have something against him, too. Romulus, I'm guessing, though you never gave me the details."

He waited but Bashir still couldn't speak. Yes, of course, it was Romulus. And what good were the details? It was just another case of sacrificing Bashir to the god of war.

"You won't spend time with O'Brien. No one sees you when you're off duty. You haven't gotten your life back."

Bashir felt his stomach drop. His legs felt weak, but they held him up. He didn't want to have to sit down and display his weakness to Sisko. Riker's words about Tom Riker came back to him. But he couldn't get his life back. He couldn't just pick up where he left off.

"Don't you trust them?" Sisko asked. "Did they betray you, too?"

Bashir closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to be there anymore, not wanting to hear anymore. But he shook his head in answer. But they could, he thought. "I didn't think you would either," he whispered.

Sisko was silent a moment, but Bashir couldn't turn to look at him. Finally, he spoke again. "So you've got nothing left. That's what you said. You came back here hoping to find something but you can't trust anyone."

"I trust me," Bashir blurted, wanting desperately for Sisko to be wrong.

"Do you? You left Quark's very quickly last night."

The darts. No, he could trust. He could control his own choices. The darts were different. That wasn't the same as making a choice.

"What can I do besides say I'm sorry?" Sisko asked again. "I'm human, just like you. Humans make mistakes. I made a terrible one. I can only try to do better in the future. How can I make it easier for you?"

Bashir's hand shook as he reached out to lean on the back of a chair. He didn't know. He wished none of this had ever happened because he couldn't see how it could ever be put right. He couldn't stay any longer. He had to get back to the Infirmary. His answer was so quiet, he wasn't sure he'd even said it out loud. "Restore my faith."

"I don't know how," Sisko admitted.

Bashir turned and left the room before he could say any more.

Kira looked up when the turbolift stopped. Captain Sisko got off and headed right for his office. He didn't so much as acknowledge her presence. Or anyone else's for that matter. His jaw was set tight and his hands were balled into fists. Had the doors to his office not been electric, Kira was sure he would have slammed them shut. Bashir again. Somehow.

Kira decided to go see him. She knew Sisko wasn't likely to talk. Bashir, though, had seemed more like his old self at the meeting. He was down about his patient, but that wasn't uncommon. He'd been that way before. He cared.

She logged off her station and motioned over another officer to take her place. She stepped onto the turbolift and told the computer to take her to the Promenade.

There was a moderate bustle of people that morning, and it took her a moment to exit the turbolift as she waited for a group of off-duty Starfleet crewmen to pass. She looked down the Promenade toward her destination, but her eye was caught by something out of place. Or someone. Just in the doorway to Quark's. A man in a striped suit and hat. She'd seen such an outfit before. On Bashir, and on the men that shared his barracks. The man disappeared inside the bar.

Kira pushed her way past a Bajoran couple and made for the bar. But when she got to the door, the man was gone. Quark was washing glasses behind the bar. "Kind of early, isn't it, Colonel?"

"Did you see someone come in here?" she asked him.

"Lots of people come in here," Quark told her, smirking. "You looking for someone in particular?"

"I saw someone," she said, still looking around. "A striped suit. It was strange."

"Striped?" Quark asked, repeating her words. "No, didn't see any stripes."

Kira was almost ignoring him, though she found it odd that Quark hadn't seen the man when he'd walked right through the main level door. She nodded and moved a bit farther into the room. She scanned the upper levels.

He was looking back at her. He was leaning on the railing above, and he was looking right at her. His face was dark, but also pale, unhealthy pale. His cheekbones protruded prominently under the skin on his face and his eyes. . . . She felt their gaze. The sounds of the bar became muffled to her ears until she heard the hum of the station itself. The man nodded once and turned toward the upper level exit.

"Colonel?" Quark asked behind her. "Maybe you need a drink after all."

Kira shook off the eerie feeling the man's eyes had left her with, and the bar sounds once again filled her ears. She ignored Quark and hurried back out to the Promenade. She looked up, expecting to see him passing the rails on the upper level. He was quick though and she just barely saw him step into the turbolift.

Kira ran to the turbolift shaft on the lower level and called for the lift. It arrived, but when the doors opened, the car was empty. A destination, however, had already been entered. Kira felt uneasy, but she also felt she had to see this through. She checked the charge on her phaser and told the computer to proceed to the destination.

As the turbolift lowered, and kept lowering, she thought of the possibility that the man could be a changeling and that she could be walking into a trap. But it didn't make a whole lot of sense. Why her? The man seemed to want her to follow. A changeling on the station could find a lot more damaging things to do than leading the first officer into the lower levels. Of course, it could be out to replace her, and that could be devastating to DS Nine, just as it nearly had been when one replaced Bashir. But why the outfit? It was conspicuous on the Promenade. Why would a changeling want to be conspicuous?

Finally, the lift stopped and Kira edged out, phaser drawn. The corridor was dimly lit by emergency lights. This was one of the last levels before the unused sections just above Reactor Four. She heard a sound to her left and spun around just in time to see the striped cap disappear down a shaft. The man was going lower.

Kira thought maybe she should call someone to let them know where she was going, what she was doing, but she didn't. She didn't know why she didn't. She just didn't. Something about that man's eyes had caught her, and she wasn't ready to be let go or even distracted. She would follow.

She peered down the shaft and caught a flash of material about two decks down. She wasn't sure how she saw it. There was no light down there, and she didn't have a palm beacon. Deciding on a little bit of caution at least, she pulled the phaser from its holster. Then she began the climb down.

She climbed slowly though she felt her heartbeat quicken in her chest. She feared she would lose him in the darkness and the time it took to reach the level he was on. She wasn't even sure how far she'd gone. She could see up the shaft to the light she'd left, but below her was only darkness. She counted each rung of the ladder and when she estimated she'd gone two levels, she reached out a foot to test for a landing. When she didn't find one below her, she used one hand to test above. She moved down three more rungs and tried again with her foot. This time, she found the floor.

Cautiously, she stepped off the ladder onto the darkened level where she'd last seen the man in stripes. The darkness was oppressive, heavy on her shoulders and cold on her arms. She kept her phaser in front of her with one hand and followed the wall with the other. She searched her memories of the camp, of the night she beamed down to Auschwitz to look for Bashir. She'd gone into his barracks, seen the faces of the many of the men there. One in particular, high on one of the slats they used for beds. But it wasn't this man. She thought for sure she would have recognized those eyes.

From around a corner, up ahead and to the right, he emerged. And Kira knew he wasn't a changeling then. There was still no light, no reason why she should have seen him, but there he was. She didn't know what he was, maybe a vision, maybe a Prophet? She lowered the phaser and he motioned to her to follow him still. He slipped back around the corner and there was, once again, nothing to see.

She kept her steps short and didn't pick her feet up off the ground very high. This area of the station had been ransacked by the Cardassians and never really repaired. Pieces of equipment had been cannibalized here and there to repair other, more necessary parts of the station. She knew there could be debris on the floor and didn't want to risk falling. She reached the point where the man had disappeared again and her hand found the corner. She turned and saw him up ahead. This time, there was light though she could not see any source for it. The man himself seemed to be the source as the light played out in a circle around him, reaching no further than a meter in any direction. He was perhaps fifty meters down the corridor ahead of her. This time, he didn't move or turn a corner. He just stood, waiting.

She stood, too, uncertain of her approach. Who was he? Or what was he? The Prophets, she knew from Captain Sisko's descriptions, spoke in cryptic riddles. But at least they spoke. This man had yet to say a word. Other things didn't fit. She was on the station, her station. Of that, she was certain. Prophet visions we never so stable as her trek to this level had been. A vision would have transported her from one dream-like rendition of a familiar place to another and back again. And Prophets usually assumed the appearance of someone a person knew. She had not seen this man before. She'd seen men like him, but she was sure she didn't remember his face from her one night in that camp.

She'd already ruled out changeling. Changelings didn't emit light when taking the form of a human. And Quark hadn't seen him. Changelings could change their shape, but they couldn't appear as one thing to one person and something else--or nothing at all--to another at the very same time. So what did that leave? An hallucination? She had no reason to be hallucinating. She hadn't fallen or hit her head; she wasn't ill. And why a man from Auschwitz? Why not someone from her own experience? An apparition? Humans didn't like to admit that such things existed, but Bajorans weren't as closed-minded on the topic. Kira didn't discount the notion. But she didn't put the phaser away either.

The man beckoned her forward with his hand. He kept glancing at the wall to his right. His circle of light didn't reach far enough to let her see what he was looking at. She took a breath and stepped forward. She still walked slowly, but the man waited patiently, still casting wary glances at the wall. As she approached, he stepped closer, so that his light illuminated the lower section of the wall. He knelt down and touched what she could now see was a power transfer conduit cover. Then he stood again and stepped back a bit, giving her room. The light, however, stayed on the conduit cover, though he remained visible.

She was close to him now, just barely farther than her arms could reach. She thought of trying to touch him, to see if he was touchable. But she couldn't think of an excuse to do so that didn't sound awkward. And she still couldn't bring herself to break the silence that had existed between them.

He nodded to her again and she knelt down where he had been. She expected maybe sabotage. This spirit or vision or whatever he was was warning her of some impending danger. It was the only plausible reason she could think of for pointing out this conduit. Like all the others in this section, it was unusable, destroyed by the Cardassians during their retreat. She looked back at him. His eyes told her to open the cover. She wasn't sure how he conveyed that message; she just knew that that was what he wanted. Her mind whirled with the possibilities of what she could find there. A bomb. Parasitic devices like the Dominion used on the Defiant. A vole's nest. She wasn't sure she wanted to open it. If it were a threat, she should call O'Brien down there with the appropriate gear to deal with it. She hadn't even brought a palm beacon. How could she hope to be prepared?

Still, she felt she could trust him, and again, she had no rational reason why. Maybe because he had been a prisoner in that awful place, a fellow sufferer of unspeakable oppression. Or he at least took the form of one.

She held her phaser tightly and gripped the top edge of the cover. She pulled and the cover slipped off. But there was no threat. No explosives, no colorful, worm-like devices, no voles. Just a conduit. A perfect conduit. There were no loose wires, no shards of metal alloy, no spent rods. Had the usually detail-oriented Cardassians missed one when they were ransacking this level? No, there was one thing missing.

Dust. There was no dust. She looked at the floor before her knees. No dust there either. She turned her head and found seven years' worth of dust around her. But not in this place. This was recent. Someone had repaired the conduit. But why? And why did it matter to this glowing apparition? She decided to ask him, to break the silence. But when she turned her head, the light winked out and she was left in darkness. Alone.

Bashir had found his center back in the Infirmary. He could push Sisko and his words aside and concentrate only on his patient. He looked down at Mtingwa who was sleeping fitfully on the biobed. She'd worsened during the night, but not enough that Girani had felt the need to disturb him. She looked different to him somehow. Lighter, but not in a sense of weight. He'd been running scan after scan to try and pinpoint the problem. He kept the word "subspace" in the back of his mind.

He read over Girani's report from the night shift. There was nothing unexpected there. Mtingwa's condition had worsened. She was on life-support now. Her lungs had ceased to function on their own. Her pulse was steady but very weak. Her blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. She was dying. Bashir didn't expect her to last the rest of the day. And there was nothing he could do to help her.

"How is she?" a voice said, startling Bashir.

Bashir spun around to find Garak standing behind him. He nodded to the biobed. "Will she live?"

Bashir resented the intrusion. And he didn't want to voice his pessimistic prognosis in front if his patient, unconscious or not. She might be able to hear. "Can I help you with something?" he asked instead.

"Why, lunch, Doctor!" Garak exclaimed, though he kept his voice respectfully low. "You haven't forgotten again?"

"Garak--," Bashir started to protest.

"Now, I'll have no excuses, Doctor," Garak insisted. He reached out, took Bashir's arm, and began pulling him toward the door. "You do have to eat. Your patient is sleeping. She's not going anywhere. I'm sure your staff will notify you immediately if you're needed. You cannot sacrifice your own health."

Bashir shook his arm free. Garak had never been that forceful before. It was odd. Still, he couldn't just get out of lunch. He was hungry, and it was their habit to share lunch once a week. He hadn't told Garak he wasn't willing to do so anymore. He wasn't even sure he wasn't willing to do so anymore.

"Jabara," Bashir called out. "I'll be in the Replimat. Call me if anything changes."

"Yes, Doctor," Jabara replied, coming to the door. "Have a nice lunch."

Garak seemed to be in a particularly good mood as they strolled down the Promenade toward the restaurant. Bashir wasn't sure why they were walking so slowly. Garak knew he had a patient to get back to.

"You reacted strangely," Garak suddenly said, "to our luncheon last week. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It--" Bashir began, unsure of how to proceed. He didn't want to talk about last week. He didn't want to go to the Replimat either, for that matter. "It's nothing."

"Oh, I doubt that," Garak said. "I doubt that very much. It's quite something. However, I'm not sure what to expect from it."

Bashir's legs stopped moving. He hadn't meant to stop. His heartbeat began to pound in his ears.

Garak noticed and moved back to him. "Come, Doctor. People will wonder what it is that has upset you. And people can't know that, can they?"

Bashir shook his head. No, they couldn't. But still, he couldn't move. The Promenade began to swim around him.

Garak just nodded. "So what will you do about it?"

"I can't do anything," Bashir breathed.

"And what about me?" Garak asked. "What do you think of me?"

Bashir thought about that. He'd told Sisko that Garak was just following his nature. It was true. Garak had done many terrible things and still Bashir had befriended him. He'd been a spy, an assassin. He'd tried to commit genocide against the changelings. What he'd done with Sisko was nothing new. And nothing immoral in Garak's Cardassian code of ethics. But did that make it right? Yes, for Garak, but what about for him? How could Sisko be guilty and Garak be innocent of the crime that both had committed? Garak had found the forger. Garak had found the data rod. Garak had killed the forger and planted the bomb on the senator's ship. Garak had done the killing. But he'd killed before. He'd killed before and Bashir had still stood by him as a friend. He'd even forgiven him. He'd visited him when he'd been sentenced to six months for his attempt against the Founders. He'd never once broken off his lunch engagement. But did that make it right?

"Well?" Garak prompted.

"I don't know!" Bashir blurted, which stopped the Promenade from spinning. "I don't know how to take you."

Garak watched him for a moment. "Now that wasn't too hard, was it?" he said. "Come, the Replimat will be full if we don't hurry."

Garak walked on and after a few seconds, Bashir followed. He knew less how to take Garak than he did two minutes before. Then he realized that was a familiar feeling when it came to Garak.

Garak didn't speak again until they reached the Replimat. Strangely, he ordered an onion. Nothing else. Bashir ordered a salad and they found a table.

Garak still didn't speak after they'd sat down, and Bashir was at a loss. He took a bite of his salad and waited.

Garak didn't disappoint him. "The onion is a very interesting vegetable, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

This was their old game. The game that had started the day they met. Garak wasn't interested in the onion. He was passing information. Of course, these days, it was what was expected of him. He had no reason to hide anything. Bashir suspected Garak meant it purely for his own amusement. Fair enough. "Well, it does have some medicinal value," he said, playing along. "Though not much."

Garak smiled and began to peel off the outer skin. "Some vegetables are merely two dimensional: outside and in. But this. . . ." He peeled off a layer of the onion and set it aside. "This has layer upon layer."

Bashir puzzled over it for a moment, but the answer simply wouldn't come to him. What had the onion to do with anything? Mtingwa? No, nothing seemed to correlate there. The war? Well, no. This sector had been quiet recently. The Dominion's experiment and Doctor Pfenner?

Garak offered a hint. "I intercepted an interesting message today. It appears to have been a bit delayed as it was sent the day before yesterday from somewhere in the Brayat system. It was intended for the Millani system."

That had to be Pfenner. But what did the onion have to do with it?

Garak peeled back another layer.

Pfenner--or his changeling counterpart--had been working on a three dimensional model of subspace. Garak had mentioned dimensions. "Layers!" Bashir said, suddenly understanding. Onions had layers, and so did subspace! That must have been what Pfenner was onto. Bashir pushed back from the table, forgetting the salad. "Thank you for the lunch, Garak."

When he reached the Infirmary, he immediately put a call through to the Aranus Institute. A gray-haired man answered, "To whom may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to speak to the director, please."

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

Bashir tried to hide his impatience, but his fingers drummed rapidly on the desk. "Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Office of Starbase Deep Space Nine."

"Just a moment."

He glanced over to his patient while he waited. She seemed lighter still. He walked over to her bed and noted the display above her head. He tapped a few controls and her weight was displayed. She'd lost over ten kilograms. She didn't look any lighter in the sense of weight. She just seemed, well, less there.

"I have the director for you, Doctor," the man called out. "Are you still there?"

Bashir returned to the communications console. "Yes, put her through, please."

The picture changed and the director, a Millanine female, appeared. "How can I help you, Doctor?" Her voice quivered a bit and Bashir wasn't sure if that was due to her species or her age. He'd never met a Millanine.

"I'd like a copy of Doctor Pfenner's recent work," Bashir told her.

"Your Lieutenant Dax already requested copies of Doctor Pfenner's notes."

Of course. Dax had been assigned to Pfenner's work. Still, he wanted more than notes. He wanted the onion. "But I don't believe she requested the model itself." He had no idea if Dax had or not, but the moment was here and he didn't want to wait to ask her.

"No, she didn't," the director confirmed. "But why would you want that? That was the changeling's work."

"It would help immensely," Bashir tried. "Could you send it over?"

"Well, yes, I don't see why not."

"Thank you," Bashir told her, grinning. "I'll be waiting for it."

The director nodded. "Good day, Doctor."

The screen went blank and Bashir called Jabara over and told her to contact him when it arrived.

O'Brien went over the scan again. How could the fragment have decreased in mass in the last four hours? He knew it was disintegrating slowly, but it still looked the same. It hadn't moved since the night before. It was just a fragment of metal, a shard. The thought had occured to him, when he first noticed the weight had changed, that it could somehow be a changeling, but it had been left alone all night without incident. One would think a changeling would be bored sitting in a little glass dish in a lab. Besides, he'd cut off a part of it, and it had not changed. Just metal. Only lighter now than it was before.

O'Brien's communicator chirped. He tapped it once to acknowledge the call. "Chief," Bashir's voice, a lot more like O'Brien remembered, came over the line, "can you meet me at Quark's?"

"Now?" O'Brien asked. It was lunchtime, yes, but Bashir was supposed to be eating with Garak right now. What was he doing in Quark's?

"Yes," Bashir replied. "I think I'm on to something. Please hurry. And if you see Dax, bring her along."

Dax? This was no darts game. "Alright. I'll be right there." O'Brien recorded again the fragment's weight and the time at which it was taken. He'd be checking that again when he returned. He secured the lab and headed for Quark's. He called Ezri on the way.

"What's wrong, Chief?"

"Nothing," O'Brien reassured her. "At least I don't think anything's wrong. Julian said he was on to something."

"How did he sound?" she asked.

"Like he was on to something," O'Brien replied. "I think that's worth looking into."

"Well, yes," Ezri agreed. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

Quark's was busy, but Bashir was waiting by the door. "Did you see Ezri?" he asked, not even bothering to say hello.

"I'm right here," she called out as she came up behind them. "What's all the excitement about?"

"An onion," Bashir said, and then he turned into the bar. "Quark, I need a holosuite."

Onion? O'Brien worried that his friend had finally cracked. He shared a confused look with Ezri and then followed Bashir.

"They're all booked up," Quark told them. "You'll need to make a reservation."

"No time," Bashir said. "We'll have to borrow Vic's." Then he was off up the stairs.

Ezri followed still in a blur. O'Brien's call had come not three minutes earlier. Julian certainly did seem to be on to something. The crowd in the bar didn't seem to phase him at all. He looked energized even. He rushed up the steps two at a time and barely slowed as he approached the holosuite.

The doors to Vic's opened, and Vic waved from the stage. The three of them went to the bar to wait for the end of the song. For his part, Vic wrapped it up quickly and then told the band to take five.

"They might need to take more than five," Bashir said, but he gave no further explanation for what they were doing. 'Onion' hadn't told her much.

"Julian!" Vic exclaimed. "Man, are you a sight for sore eyes!" He grabbed Julian's shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

Julian pushed back. "Thank you, Vic, really, but I don't have time right now. I haven't come for a visit. I need to borrow your bar."

"My bar?"

"Something about onions," O'Brien offered, tossing up his hands.

"Onions?"

Julian's badge chirped. One of his nurse's spoke. "The file has arrived, Doctor."

Julian sighed. "I need to run a simulation--"

"Of an onion?" Vic added.

Julian shook his head. "That was just the inspiration. Please, all of the other holosuites are taken. You're welcome to stay. I just need to borrow it."

Vic looked to Ezri and his expression asked if Julian was sane. Ezri shrugged and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Okay," Vic decided. Suddenly the lights in the bar blinked out. The crowd began to panic. "It's alright, folks. Power's out. Nothing to worry about. The engineers think it'll be an hour or two before they can get us up and running. If you'll just follow the emergency exit signs, you'll all be fine."

Ezri turned to Julian while the crowd filtered out. "Okay, what's with the onion?"

"Garak," he told her. "He was trying to tell me something."

"Well, it's not like we don't know he's cracking those transmissions," O'Brien interjected. "Why the use of vegetables?"

"He likes being cryptic," Julian offered as an explanation.

Well, that was certainly true. But it didn't explain the onion. "So," Ezri prompted. "Onion?"

"You'll see," he said. And then quieter, "I hope."

Finally, the crowd was gone. "Okay, pallie," Vic said, rejoining them. "The place is all yours."

"Thank you," Julian said. Then he tapped his comm badge. "Please route it to this holosuite. I'll run it from here."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied.

Vic's bar winked out of existence and another simulation took its place. Ezri found herself standing on nothing.

"Whoa, pallie!" Vic exclaimed. "Where's the floor?"

Black space surrounded Ezri and the others, reaching out in every direction. There were stars. "Space," she said.

"This is what space is like?" Vic had grabbed hold of O'Brien's shoulder, but his voice was filled more with wonder now than fear.

"Subspace," Julian corrected, and Ezri realized now that this had something to do with Pfenner.

"Where's the onion?" Vic asked.

Julian shook his head. "I've never seen this before," he said. "We'll just have to wait and see."

They didn't have to wait long. Translucent blue lines formed around them in concentric circles expanding outward.

Another set of lines materialized, intersecting the blue ones at several points. "Okay, that I recognize," Ezri called out. "Chroniton waves."

"Layers!" Julian exclaimed. "We only assumed it was the changeling who was working on the model. What if it was Pfenner, himself? What if they took him because of the model?"

"Very good, Doctor." Everyone spun around to find Garak in the doorway. "I knew you'd work it out."

"What did the message say, Garak?" Julian asked. "What was it about the layers?"

"Well, it was a bit garbled," Garak began.

"But what did it say?" Ezri asked, growing impatient herself. They were on to something.

"'Nearly successful,'" Garak recited, "subspace . . . distorted signal . . . unknown layer . . . aborted'"

"Nearly successful," Julian repeated, turning back to the model.

"The experiments?" O'Brien suggested. "Like with Mtingwa. They sent her ship off somewhere, maybe to one of these layers. The ship was supposed to send a signal back to its base or receive one from it. That would explain the comm system. But it didn't work. So it was set to self-destruct."

"Only it didn't," Julian added. "But I think you're right. Layers would work. They could be sitting right beside us and we'd never know."

"But it would have to be the right layer," Ezri said. She was starting to understand. "Mtingwa said she saw the base, but as if it was transparent. She was in a different layer, just not the right one. Her ship tried to self-destruct. The transmission didn't go through."

"So which one is the right one?" Julian asked. "And which one did she hit?"

"Chroniton waves!" O'Brien blurted. "Good God! Science lab." He turned and headed out before anyone could question him. Ezri and Garak followed.

"Thank you, Vic," Julian threw back as they left the holosuite. "You can have your bar back now."

They reassembled back in the science lab, where O'Brien was analyzing the shard from the ship. "It's lost weight again," the Chief said.

"What?" Bashir hadn't expected that at all. "What do you mean it's lost weight?"

"Just sitting here," O'Brien said. "It lost mass. It's the same size. There's just less of it here."

Where he'd been rather elated by their discoveries, he now felt the floor had fallen out from beneath his feet. He had to sit down. "What about the chroniton waves?" he asked, hoping O'Brien had different thoughts than the ones he was having.

"I think Mtingwa's ship hit one of the intersections," O'Brien explained. "There were some chroniton particles here when I first analyzed the fragment. But they've dropped off. They're gone. And now the fragment is going, too."

Ezri came around to stand in front of Bashir. "Are you alright, Julian?"

"Mtingwa lost weight," he told her. "I thought she looked lighter. Lighter, not smaller. There was just less of her."

"They're going back," Garak surmised, and Bashir realized he'd forgotten the Cardassian had come along. "The ship did self-destruct. The chroniton wave only delayed it."

Bashir shook his head, not wanting that answer. "But she's there, in the Infirmary. It's been days, a week or more since she was found."

O'Brien sat down beside him. "I'm sorry. I only thought about the ship, the metal."

It made sense. It made terrible sense. Mtingwa was dying because she died in her ship when it self-destructed. "What's the rate of decay?" he asked, and his voice felt hollow in his head.

"It's increased," O'Brien answered softly. "I figure the whole thing will be gone in five or six hours."

By evening, Caldia Mtingwa would be gone. Would he even remember? Would any of them? Would they forget then what they'd just learned? Her ship, her experiences helped them to put the pieces together. Would her death be in vain? Did she have to die? "Can we stop it?"

"I wouldn't know how," O'Brien admitted. "She was never really here."

"That's how she burned," Bashir said, letting his thoughts out. "She burned inside the suit. Because the ship blew up." The mystery's excitement had left him. Now there was just his patient. Caldia Mtingwa, a person, with memories and thoughts and loved ones. "I need to return to my patient." With that, he left them to deal with subspace layers and Doctor Pfenner. He didn't have to solve the whole puzzle. He only had to be a doctor.

Ezri watched him go. She felt for him. Jadzia had, too. When he lost a patient, he lost a bit of himself, if only for a time. Sometimes it was just that he put too much pressure on himself to save even the ones that couldn't be saved. That became clear to her after his enhancements were revealed. But sometimes it was just that he cared that much.

"Are you sure?" she asked the Chief, though the part of her that held Jadzia's memories felt sure of it as well.

"There's one way to be certain," O'Brien suggested, not sounding any happier than Julian had. "The Potemkin found her. They could go back and look again."

"To see if there's debris," she finished for him. "More than there was before."

"I figure it would take them at least a day to get back there," O'Brien said. "By then, there should be enough to detect."

Bashir sat and watched her sleep. He'd done everything he could for Mtingwa. Everything except tell her the truth. There was still a little more time for that. She had to be awake to hear it. She'd been moved to one of the rooms at the back of the Infirmary, a quieter place with less traffic than the main room. It was more obvious now. She was less opaque than before. Bashir could almost make out the shape of the biobed beneath her.

It was so pointless. Life. Breathing. What good had it done Mtingwa to be found only to die? What good had it done for him to be found? So now he had light. And with light he'd seen death. Death on the Enterprise, death on Carello Neru, and now death on DS Nine. So now he had people around him. People who betrayed him, people who couldn't be trusted to live up to their principles, people who looked to him for help he couldn't give, people who died. What good was that? For every breath he took in freedom, his heart received another reason to hurt. Or another potential reason.

Even here. Even in his Infirmary. This was his refuge, the last vestige of who he used to be, the universe he used to live happily in. And it was just as painful as the world beyond it.

Mtingwa stirred and opened her eyes. She drew in a labored breath and then brought one hand up to rub at her eyes. "I can't see you," she said, with more breath than voice. "Not clearly."

"It's not your eyes," Bashir told her, taking her hand. She felt solid enough. "What else do you see?"

She turned her head, looking around the room. "Black, like it's hiding behind the walls."

Space, he thought. He had to clear his own throat to speak again. "What about your ship?"

She looked at him, her eyebrows drawn down in confusion. Then she dropped her eyes lower to her side and they widened. She looked down toward her feet and reached her other hand out as if to touch something. "It's there," she said, and she gripped his hand tighter. "Why am I seeing that?"

Bashir took a deep breath, as if that would help anything. It wouldn't help her. It wouldn't help him, not really. He didn't feel any better having taken it. "I--" he began and found that he couldn't start there. "We found something, something to explain your condition."

She looked at him, at his eyes. "Explain it," she said, "not cure it."

"I can't cure it," he admitted. "It's not a disease. It's not even an injury to heal. I wish it were."

"I'm dying?" Her voice broke. "How?"

She deserved to know. "When the Dominion put you in that ship and sent you off, they were trying to reach a particular layer of subspace. One where they could see and contact this layer. They got close with you. You could see the base. But the ship was supposed to exchange a signal with the base. The ship was programmed to self-destruct if the signal didn't go through."

"But it didn't destruct," she pleaded. "I survived."

The display above her head began to beep. Her heart rate and respiration were too high. Still he couldn't not tell her. "It did," Bashir said. "The layer you reached intersected with a chroniton wave. You've been suspended in time. You're really still there, in that one moment before the ship destroyed itself."

A tear slipped from her eye and ran down toward her ear. "And now? I'm seeing the ship around me, space beyond--"

"Because you're going back there." The beeping grew more insistant. He reached for a hypospray beside the bed.

"No!" she cried. "Don't sedate me."

Bashir shook his head. "It will only calm you."

"I'm going to explode," she argued, "why should I be calm?"

"Because your lungs can't take it, and neither can your heart."

"Wouldn't it be better to die here?" she asked.

"I'd have to try and revive you," he told her. "This way you have a little time."

Her heart rate began to slow, not by much though. "Time for what?"

Bashir pulled over the portable comm panel. "To say good-bye. We can call your family, or you can record something."

"How long?" she asked. The panel still beeped but the beeps were coming farther apart.

"A few more hours." He held up the hypospray again. She nodded and he administered the drug. Her heart rate slowed immediately and her breath came more evenly. But the tears flowed faster now.

"I'd like to be alone," she told him, nodding toward the comm panel.

"Of course," he said, standing. He moved to the door. "If you need anything. . . ."

"Will you be there?" she asked just as he'd reached the door. "When. . . ."

Bashir nodded and left.

Sisko sat back and let the others discuss O'Brien's report. Sometimes it was easier not being in command. Admirals outranked captains. He'd let them sort it out. He'd already accepted it. It made sense. How many pilots, like Mtingwa, had been lost out there, one layer away from what they knew as reality? Or more. Pfenner hadn't finished his model. They didn't know how many layers there were.

If it wasn't for Mtingwa, they might never have discovered what the Dominion was up to. Her ship, her story, was the key. Without her, they'd still be trying to figure out why the Dominion wanted all that dilithium and they might not have had any reason to connect that mystery to Pfenner's disappearance. And she was just a fluke. She was never meant to survive. She never really had.

Temporal Investigations had had to be brought in on this one. Was she here? Was she not here? Would anyone remember her once she'd reverted back to the point where time, for her, was suspended? Without her, would they remember anything they'd discovered? Would they be unable then, to stop the Dominion from testing it on more and more pilots?

K-Layer Subspace Concealment. That's what they were calling it now. Now that they had solved the puzzle, intelligence on the theory was popping up all over the place. The Cardassians had dreamed this up during the Klingon wars, though they had lacked the resources to even test it. Why that hadn't come out until now, Sisko wasn't sure. Though he did have a suspicion. Section 31 could perhaps have been interested in the technology themselves. By keeping it quiet, they kept others from catching on. It was obvious they had advanced technology they didn't share with the rest of the Federation. They were able to beam Bashir away even though the station's shields had been up. It wouldn't be beyond them to want to keep K-layer concealment to themselves.

But would they let the Dominion come so close to getting it? He didn't know the answer to that one. He'd never actually dealt with them himself, except for that brief moment on the Enterprise when they'd captured Sloan. He really only knew about them through Bashir.

Bashir. Always his thoughts came back to Bashir. Damn it. Enough! Sisko had spent the last three weeks wallowing in guilt, kicking himself for what he'd done to Bashir and the Romulans and Deyon III. He'd let it distract him from his duties and from his family. That was enough. Yes, he'd done wrong. But punishing himself over and over wasn't going to change anything. The past was the past. He could only try to make up for the past. He had to live with the present and work toward the future.

And Bashir would have to learn to live with that as well. Traumatized or not, he had a job to do, and his job included being under Sisko's command. Sisko made up his mind to have another talk with Bashir once the admirals had decided what to do with K-Layer Subspace Concealment.

Ezri thought they were having a good, productive session. Julian had been glum when he came in. He was still glum. She didn't expect that would change. Mtingwa would be dying soon. He had that to carry with him. Still, they'd talked about a lot of things, things he'd never really talked about before. Auschwitz, for example. It had seemed he was afraid to discuss that after he was rescued. Maybe he thought the Dominion would hear about it and use it. He said the changeling had told him they could learn from the place. That was reason enough to try and keep it quiet. But it hadn't helped him. He talked about the cave and how he'd occupied his mind taking apart walls and machines.

And he talked about the Dominion camp, 371. She'd heard about it from Worf, of course, but he'd only been there a short time. Bashir had been there a month. And he'd just been released from solitary confinement when Worf was captured. She knew he carried too much pain around with him. He kept too much to himself.

She chuckled a bit, finally understanding. "You don't even know you're doing it, do you?" She let her voice become serious. "Or maybe you do."

He didn't admit to either. "Doing what?"

She hadn't really thought he would. "The same thing you've been doing all your life." She sat back in her chair and brought her hands together on her knees. "You're really quite brilliant," she said, meaning it. She was impressed. "It's no wonder Garak was upset after the enhancements came out. He was jealous."

His face was a mask of confusion now, but she knew she had him. "What are you talking about?"

Maybe he really didn't know he was doing it. Or maybe he was still doing it, hoping to throw her off. "You're so much better at keeping secrets than him," she explained, letting him know she wouldn't be misdirected. "He builds his life around being an enigma, but you--you hid your enhancements for nearly thirty years."

Anger flashed behind those dark, expressive eyes of his, and hurt. "Twenty," he corrected. "I didn't know about them until I was fifteen."

Ezri tossed up a hand. "That's still impressive. You've been doing it so long it's ingrained." She leaned forward again. "Either that or you see it as a tried and true method. Worked before, why not try it again?"

Confusion, anger, hurt. They were all there. And frustration, too. He repeated his earlier question. "What are you talking about?"

She didn't answer. Not directly. "A year ago you wouldn't say anything about Auschwitz. The only time you described the Jem'Hadar camp was in your report. I've never seen you so open."

He raised his voice. "Isn't that what you want?"

She ignored the outburst, unusual though it was. "When you first came here, people said you talked too much. About yourself. You were arrogant." It hurt to push him so hard, but he needed the pushing if he was ever going to let her help him. "You talked about yourself so much no one would have ever suspected you were hiding anything. Brilliant! Garak should take lessons."

"You think I'm hiding something now?" he asked, indignant. He stood up. "You want me to talk about things. I've been talking about them. Do you want me to be difficult?"

She stayed seated, but matched his intensity. "Yes! Yes, because Julian Bashir would be difficult."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not Julian Bashir?"

"I'm insinuating that you've changed."

"You've changed, Dax," he threw back. "Things happen. People change."

Now they were moving in the right direction. "And that's what I want to talk about."

He threw up his hands and turned his back to her. "That's what we've been talking about. Auschwitz, Three Seven One, the cave, it's all part of that. Those are the things that happened."

She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. "But not the changes. You will talk about the events, but not about you. Not really you."

"Well, then, I don't know what you want to hear!" he pleaded. This was hard for him; she knew that.

"I don't want to hear what I want to hear," she told him, softening her voice.

Now he chuckled. "And you think I have problems." A defense mechanism. She recognized it as such.

She laughed with him. "Yes! I think I have problems, too. I think we all have problems."

He didn't share the humor. "But me in particular."

She stepped around him so she could see his face. "You haven't been the same since you returned, Julian."

"Why should I be the same?" he breathed. "The universe isn't the same."

That was the honesty she'd hoped to provoke. "Because you're not happy the way you are."

Incredulous wonder lit his face. "There's a war on. People are dying. People are killing. After all that's happened to me, what do you suppose I should be happy about?"

He had something there. It was hard to tell people not to be depressed when depressing things happened. But there was always something positive to point to, even here. "You were rescued."

"I rescued myself," he said with some pride. "And I am happy I'm not still stuck in that cave."

Ezri shook her head. "Relieved maybe, but not happy." She took his hand, made him look at her. "Julian, you don't have to be happy all the time. But something's not right if you're never happy."

"I'm not 'never happy,'" he held, pulling free of her touch. "When I'm in the Infirmary, it's like everything falls away. All of it. I'm happy there."

"That's good," she said, glad he had something. "But what falls away? What's there before you walk into the Infirmary. That's what I want to talk about, Julian. That's what you need to face."

He turned away again, not saying anything. She waited, giving him time. He would talk. She knew it. But still, he said nothing. "Is it something that would keep you out of the Infirmary?" she asked, hoping to prompt him, but realizing that could be the fear that kept him from talking. "Is that why you won't talk about it?"

Julian's comm badge chirped. He turned back to her, but tapped it. "Bashir here."

Jabara's voice came over the other end. "I believe it's time, Doctor."

He might have been happy to be saved from his present ordeal, but she could tell by his face that wasn't so. She knew what time it was. Mtingwa was dying. She nodded, letting him go. "We'll talk later," she said.

Bashir took a few deep breaths--out of habit, he supposed--and entered the room. Mtingwa was actually transparent now. She looked like someone caught in the middle of a transport: there and not there at the same time. No, not caught. She was being beamed away in slow motion. It probably didn't even take genetically enhanced eyes to see the changes now. She was fading. The display above her head had been turned off before he met with Ezri. The instruments had gotten quite confused.

She smiled at him, though her lips quivered. "I had a good talk with my sister." Her voice was so quiet, Bashir doubted a natural human could have heard it. "My family hadn't had any news about me since I was captured. They didn't know if they'd ever see me again. She had a baby, my sister. And her two older children are in school now. They're twins. She says they look like me."

Bashir smiled and stepped further into the room. He pulled up a stool and sat beside her bed. "Then they must be beautiful children."

She smiled again. "You're a charmer," she teased. Then she grew serious. "I'm sorry about before. You were right. I'm glad I had the time. I'd wanted to talk to her so many times when I was a prisoner. I would talk to her anyway, just in my head. That helped."

Bashir understood that. "I took apart walls," he told her. "Walls and machinery, replicators, transmitters, transporters, everything I could think of."

She nodded. Then she drew in a long, shaky breath. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her there was no need, that everything would be fine. But it wouldn't. They both knew that. "I'm here," was all he could say. "I won't leave."

She faced him, but she squinted her eyes. "I can't see you anymore."

He picked up her hand, surprised to find it still felt solid. "I'm still here."

She squeezed his hand, and he could feel the pressure, the desperation. "Can you hold me?" Tears spilled past her eyes and ears to the pillow but left no wet spot there. "Is there enough of me left?"

His throat hurt and his own eyes stung. He helped her to sit up and sat beside her on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her and felt her arms lightly on his back. He could feel her heart beat as he held her, though it seemed he was holding air more than a woman. Her shoulders shook as she cried.

She didn't say anything for several minutes. Then suddenly, she pleaded with him. "Will you remember me?"

He still hadn't worked that out. "I'll try," he said. And then she was gone. His arms fell to the bed. There was nothing left.

But he did remember.

******

Caldia Mtingwa frantically searched the cockpit for something to shut off the countdown. Self-destruct. They'd thrown her out here to self-destruct. Out where? She wasn't sure where she was. She could see the base outside the ship, but it wasn't right. It was like a ghost image.

Fifteen seconds. The cockpit was nearly empty. No piloting controls, no operations console or tactical display. The only thing in there was the remote control receiver and a small communications console. She'd tried that already.

Five seconds. Her pulse pounded in her chest. She didn't want to die. Not like this. Not out here. Not anywhere. Damn them! she thought. Is this where all the others had gone?

Three, two. . . . The ship rocked violently and she threw up her hands, instinctively trying to shield her face from the fire. But there was no fire. Not yet. The cockpit became chaos. Lights flashed around her, inside the cockpit and out. Then darkness. She couldn't see anything, but she thought her bones would rattle right out of the EV suit they'd put her in. The lights in the cockpit came back on. She tried to brace herself against the fuselage but she couldn't keep her arms up. The ship's nose seemed to waver and ripple, like liquid. Then came the fire. It engulfed her, and she screamed. She had the suit, but she could still feel the heat. She took a breath and the air burned her throat and lungs.

And then suddenly, it stopped. The fire dissipated, leaving her coughing. Each breath she drew in was hot and caustic. It smelled rotten, metallic. But it was all she had. She hurt, but she was still alive. The countdown had stopped. She hadn't even noticed the silence until she could stop coughing long enough to look outside the cockpit. No base, ghost image or not. There was nothing out there but stars.

She didn't care now that it hurt so much to breathe or move. She was alive. She waited to see if the Dominion would bring her back by remote control, but the ship didn't move. She was free. She'd take that. She could live with the pain.

She forced her fingers to move and reached for the communications console. It took her two hours, but she finally altered the signal to something resembling a Federation distress call. She hoped it resembled it enough.

She waited. She hoped the Dominion or its allies wouldn't pick up the signal. She didn't want to have to go back. Not after this. If she could just get to a nice, clean Federation ship. . . . Or even a cold, dark, harsh Klingon one. It didn't matter. She closed her eyes. She was tired, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

She awoke when the tingle hit her. For that briefest of moments, all her pain went away. Then she was whole again and the pain was with her. But she was a in a bright room, on a soft bed. She'd made it. A face leaned over her, removed her helmet. "You're awake," the face said.

"Where am I?" she croaked out.

"You're on the Potemkin."