Ensign Thomas had returned to the ship that night before Jordan left for the camp. So for once, Jordan was there when the report was given. Doctor Bashir had been alive as late as the fifteenth of February. The Gestapo files recorded that he was detained for three days under suspicion of espionage before being returned to Birkenau. Unfortunately, the files made no mention of his prisoner number, his barracks, or the work detail he was assigned to. So, while the crew was a little more hopeful, they were no closer to actually finding him.

Jordan beamed back down and quickly joined with the next group of men. He was trying to make a systematic sweep of the barracks, working his way in rows from south to north a section at a time. He had begun in the southwestern corner, nearest to the construction site of the twin crematoria. He could see the tall chimney of the nearest one from where he stood. It looked finished, but the flames had not yet begun to shoot from its top. But Jordan knew, like they all knew, that eventually all four new crematoria would be finished, and then the slaughter would increase.

It would be so easy, he thought, to walk over there and blow the whole thing up and then just beam away. But he didn't know what consequences such an act would have in the years and centuries to come. It might change everything. It might make it better. Or it might make it worse. The only future they knew of for certain was their own past, and, like it or not, that past included the Holocaust and too many other horrors to count. So in the coming weeks, that chimney would learn to glow, and a million people would pass through this hell on their way to destruction.

Julian, the voice called to him.

Go away, he thought. He knew the voice would not be able to hear him, but he couldn't make the words come out. All he could do, it seemed, was breathe.

I'm not going away, Julian, the voice stated evenly. You need me.

Julian opened his eyes to see who had spoken. O'Brien was kneeling beside him. I did need you, Julian corrected, but you've gone home. No one can help me now.

You're wrong, Julian, O'Brien said, taking a seat on the floor. You can help you. And I'll stay here until you don't need me anymore. Now get up off the floor.

Julian managed a hoarse whisper, "I can't."

Yes, you can, O'Brien argued. You've done it before. I've watched you. You always get back up. Haven't you noticed?

Those two words had been very hard for Bashir, and, since he knew it wasn't really O'Brien he was speaking to, he stopped. O'Brien was just a thought he was having, so he answered in a thought. Maybe if I don't get up, she won't knock me down again.

Maybe not, O'Brien conceded, smiling a little, but you'll be trampled when everyone comes back after roll call. And they'll probably beat you to death for being in the wrong barracks. Please, Julian, get up.

Julian couldn't argue with his reasoning. But at least when getting trampled, one only got hit on the outside. Julian closed his eyes, trying not to remember what it felt like to have that strand squirming around inside him.

No, Julian, O'Brien admonished. Even with his eyes closed, Julian could see him. The Irishman leaned over to touch his shoulder, but of course, it didn't work. His hand passed right through. O'Brien was a ghost, or Julian was. Only one was real, and Julian felt unlucky in that he suspected it was himself. But O'Brien wouldn't simply go away just because he'd been called an apparition. You have to get up. Now, Julian, get up!

Julian decided that perhaps negotiation was in order. If I get up, he offered, will you stop bothering me?

Only when you're safe again.

But I'll never be safe again, Julian told him, rolling over. Can't you see that? "She'll kill me eventually," he whispered as he gasped for air.

You've got to believe, Julian, O'Brien encouraged as Bashir lifted himself onto his knees with his good arm. The other hung loosely beside him. It ached and weighed at his side like a pendulum, but it hadn't dislocated this time. The bandages had held. That's it! Keep going!

Bashir could no longer argue, even in his mind. He was too busy trying to stand. The whole room seemed to wobble and shake, but he found the bunks with his hand and climbed his way back onto his feet. O'Brien hadn't left, and he smiled up at Bashir, clapping his hands together. I knew you could do it, Julian.

Max had watched Bashir go that morning more confident this time that he would return relatively unharmed. Szymon was more of a concern. But he was a veteran of such selections, and he managed to hide his sickness from the doctors. For once, it was in the prisoners' favor that they only made a cursory inspection of one's health and physical condition. Szymon was dying. Max could tell even though he was no doctor at all.

Max had hoped to get some extra food during the day, thinking that a double-ration of bread would give Szymon strength. But the Blocksperre had kept him away from the trains, and Max knew by now that strength was something you lost in Auschwitz. It was not something to regain. When night came, Szymon was coughing again, and Bashir had still not returned.

Just before curfew, Max heard the lock fall away from the door. Once again, he looked up to see Bashir standing in the doorway. It looked nearly the same as the night he returned from Block 11, when Vlad'a and he had had to pick Bashir up off the floor. Bashir walked slowly, but not with his usual, careful gait. He stumbled and, several times, nearly tripped on a hand or head on the floor. When he reached the bunk, Max reached down to help him climb. Bashir's eyes were unfocused, and his breathing seemed wrong. He was shaking when he finally climbed over the top railing and collapsed onto the bunk just as he had before. He didn't even take his shoes off.

Max leaned over to look at him. He could see no obvious injuries beyond what he'd had before. But he could see that Bashir's eyes were still opened. He stared straight ahead and hardly blinked. The days of rest he'd gotten in the hospital were used up. Bashir was a Muselman again. Max looked over at Szymon, his other dying friend, and found that Szymon had been watching the whole time. He met Max's gaze and then sighed, which started him coughing again. He laid back down and once again, Max was alone.

Thomas had, at first, decided against Novak. He would be searching the Sonderkommando tomorrow. He didn't need her problems. Dax though, like the other women, was finished searching. There was nowhere left for the women to go where they wouldn't be questioned. It was up to the men now. Thomas was glad to be back in her Starfleet uniform. Tomorrow, she and the others would rejoin the duty roster. But tonight they could sleep.

But the duty roster also showed that Commander Worf was off duty. By tomorrow, Dax's shift and his would be incompatible. They only had this one night, and Thomas knew they would be together. She couldn't disturb them. So she kept her dreams and memories for one more day and went to bed. As sleep took her, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd broken a promise.

Novak beamed down early; he wanted to try and prepare himself. The ship would have been more comfortable, but he wanted more solitude than its corridors of tiny quarters could provide. It was never night there, either, not in the real sense. Night was a construction. And so there was no real morning either, and Novak wanted to be with the morning. He remembered how his grandmother used to rise early and begin baking bread even before the sun would rise. It was comforting to smell it baking while he was still under the warm feather comforter with the cat curled at his feet. He always felt serene there, at peace. And that was what he needed now, before he went to search the Sonderkommando.

But it wasn't quite the same. From where he stood, on the edge of the camp, he could just see the light beginning to rise on the horizon. But it dissipated quickly in the smoke that hung overhead. There was no warm blanket. He turned up his collar to the cold breeze which stung at his nose and cheeks. The sweet, awful smell of burning flesh hung in the air too heavy to be moved by the breeze. There was no serenity to be found, no way to prepare.

The rest of the camp was just beginning to rise, but the Sonderkommando was already busy at work. They were kept in a different part of the camp, separate from the other prisoners. They worked in shifts, right through the night and all day long, burning the bodies of the dead. Novak headed toward them and tried not to look at the bodies. He kept his eyes off the ground and only looked at the faces of the prisoners.

Like the others, their faces were gaunt, their cheeks sunken from hunger. But there was a difference born of their merciless work. Many of them dared to look right at him as he passed. There was no fear left in their eyes, and no hatred. Their eyes were cold, devoid of feeling. They had been forced beyond the boundary of decent men. They went about their work methodically, scarcely noting the people the bodies used to be. They pulled gold teeth from the mouths of men and cut the hair from women. Children, who used to play, were piled onto the fire with little effort. But their eyes told Novak that they saw everything. They felt everything and they knew that they would be made to walk into the gas as well. In a few months, someone else would be pulling their teeth and lifting them onto the fire.

Julian was still awake when Max shook him to wake him up. He had stayed awake the whole night, listening as O'Brien talked of his children, of the future, of the life Bashir might have lived. And with the first rustlings of the other prisoners rising, he'd watched O'Brien walk away. Time for dreaming is over, Julian, he had said. Now it's time to live. But Bashir knew what he really meant. It was time to work, time to get up and eat a bird's rations and stand in the cold for three or four hours while, all around, men dropped dead. It was time to meet Heiler and let her beat him for working too slow. The initial pain of what she'd done was gone, leaving only a dull ache in his chest. He would be able to do all those things. But it wasn't life. Life was something that O'Brien could return to, but that Bashir never would.

Still, he got up. He joined the line for bread and ate it when it was given to him. He ignored Max and his looks of concern. He was beyond the need for concern, and Max's friendship could only end in the end of Max. Instead, Bashir looked for the man whose face the changeling had worn the day before. He kept his eye on him as he ate and followed him when he went to the latrine for fear of losing him in the crowd. He saw him come back out again just as the Blockälteste began to herd them all toward the Appellplatz.

"Where are you going?" a raspy voice asked from behind.

Bashir turned only part way, he didn't want to lose sight of the other man. Szymon had asked the question. He was leaning on Max, kind Max, who helped the sick and condemned as if they were still in a normal world. "A new kommando," Bashir whispered to him. He didn't feel like speaking out loud. Bashir answered him because Szymon was sick. He knew that Szymon would die on his own with or without friendship from Bashir.

"What did Heiler do to you?" Szymon asked.

Nothing I could tell you about, Bashir thought in answer. "What about you?" he asked in return. "The selection."

"We are still here," he answered, "Max and I."

"Try to stay warm, Szymon," Bashir suggested. "And get a good place in line for soup." Szymon smiled at him. Bashir didn't smile back. He wanted to tell him not to die today, but the words were too much. He turned to look toward the Appellplatz, but the man was gone. He'd have to try and find him again after roll call.

"Los, los, zum Appellplatz!" the Blockälteste screamed, and the three of them ran to catch up to the block and join the ranks.

Jordan watched the others leave and ducked back inside the barracks. He slid under one of the bunks and hid there until he heard the block elder leave. He was just about to climb back out when he noticed another pair of eyes watching him from the end of the room closest to the door. They were young eyes, full of fear, but surrounded by the face of an old man. This place will do that to you, Jordan thought. He couldn't beam out as long as that young man was there.

Both of them lay there, silently watching each other for perhaps half an hour before the boy spoke. "I can't go out there," the boy told him. He didn't have to speak loudly, Jordan could hear. "I can't."

Jordan didn't know what to say. He certainly wasn't going to squeal on the kid. He was hiding himself. The world outside was insane and brutal.

"They killed my father, you know," the boy said. "Yesterday, right in front of me. He was supposed to be in the next barracks. He came to give me an extra bit of bread. The block elder beat him, smashed his face in. Right in front of me."

"Shh," Jordan said. The boy was half-crazed and was beginning to speak louder. "They'll hear you." Still Jordan's stomach turned at what he had heard. He doubted the boy's sanity; he didn't doubt that he was telling the truth.

"And he took the bread," the boy nearly shouted. "Ate it with my father's blood still on his hands. They made me carry him outside. Did you see him last night, lying in the snow?"

Jordan shook his head. He couldn't tell the young man that he'd been in a different barracks the night before.

"Now there's no one," he said, quiet again. "My mother and my sisters are gone. They were too young. They went to the smoke. Now there is only me." He stopped and a gloomy silence filled the spaces beneath the bunks.

It was filled again by the sound of shouting and of feet running, slapping and slurping in the mud. The door burst open quickly and the boy froze. Jordan did too, though he reached his hand slowly into his pocket. They found the boy first and grabbed his feet. He screamed as they pulled him out. "Help me!" he shouted. "They'll kill me like they killed my father!" He tried to hold on to the bunk, but there were two pairs of legs that Jordan could see. The boy wouldn't be strong enough. They pulled him free, and Jordan could hear the thump when they hit him.

"There's someone else!" he cried from where he was sprawled on the floor. "There!" He pointed right to where Jordan lay under the bunks.

"There was only one missing number," one of them argued, bending down to lift the boy. He struck him and again the boy fell.

"But he's there!" he choked out with obvious effort. A leather-booted foot caught him in the ribs.

"Go see," the leader sighed, and Jordan watched the other set of legs move down the barracks toward him. They still couldn't see him, not until they bent down. It was dangerous to try and beam out with them in the room, but there was no choice. All the second man had to do was bend over and look under the bunks. Jordan would be dragged out and beaten just like the boy. Of course, unlike the boy, he still had strength enough to fight back, but it would only cause more commotion, more attention, and he'd still be unable to beam back to the ship.

The boots came to the end of Jordan's bunk and stopped. Jordan tapped the comm badge in his pocket four times. When the man bent down to look underneath, he saw nothing. He snorted once. "It was some sort of trick," he called to the other man. "There's no one there." He returned to the other man and helped him to drag the barely conscious young man to the Appellplatz to be counted with the others.

The more he walked among them, the more Novak found his eyes drawn to the bodies. He couldn't help it. Bashir might be one of them, too. But even the children drew his eyes. Their motionless forms shouted for his attention and broke his heart. He wanted to shout with them. Children were supposed to play, to laugh and learn. They were supposed to grow up, to become someone. They were the future and here they were slaughtered, being put into the fire. It was wrong and Novak silently, secretly raged against it.

He was glad when he could finally leave them, though he felt guilty for it. He felt he had betrayed them by keeping silent, even though he knew his one voice would not stop the killing. He was sure he would see their faces for the rest of his life. But for now, he left them and the sad men who burned them and moved on to crematoria. Only two of them were nearing completion. Number IV would be done within days, and its ovens were already being tested. The Sonderkommando would work here as well, firing the ovens to test them for defects. Once the engineers were satisfied, the body-burning would start to take place inside, and the infamous chimneys of Auschwitz would spill forth their smoke, filled with the ash of the children Novak had seen outside.

It was hot inside the building, and haunted, though no one had been gassed there yet. Novak wondered why the Nazis didn't feel it. Didn't the dead voices of the children follow them to bed at night? Didn't the screams of the women pierce their hearts, the choking of the men foul their stomachs, the stench of the dead burn their lungs? Were they not at all human anymore? Sometimes, when they weren't watching, he looked at them, trying to see the difference between himself and them. They looked so normal, just like men. It made no sense.

Prisoners inside the building had removed their coats or simply not worn them at all. They shoveled fuel into the ovens while the SS and the engineers watched. Novak could hear them talking. There were problems with Crematoria II. Novak would be searching that one after lunchtime. It was supposed to be finished by now and processing transports. Novak couldn't understand when they discussed the actual problems. They were too far away, and the words were too technical, words he had never learned.

The prisoners here didn't even look up when he passed them. He pretended to be checking the ovens as they worked so that he could get a look at their faces. They worked fearfully, and just as somberly as the men outside. They were aware of his presence, but they didn't acknowledge it. They all looked old, with their haggard faces, though Novak could tell that some of them were still quite young. For some, the stubbly hair that showed beneath their caps had turned gray. The work had aged them. Mud caked on their wooden clogs showed that they had worked outside. They knew what would burn in the ovens they were testing. These were the poorest of men.

The ache in Bashir's chest had increased during the morning. All his aches and pains had increased, and he was glad for the chance to sit and drink the murky soup that was his lunch. The work here was harder than what he'd been doing at the crematoria. This kommando was building barracks, and Bashir had to work with lumber. He was constantly lifting and hammering. His whole body had to work, and many parts of his body didn't have the strength.

The kapo, too, made the work harder. He was a brutal man, and he would beat his fellow prisoners whether or not the SS were watching. He wore a green triangle on his uniform. Red was for communists, pink for homosexuals. Green, if Bashir understood it properly, was for criminals. Three men were dead before lunch, and a fourth was beaten into a coma. Bashir didn't doubt that the man had been a murderer in his previous existence in the world beyond Auschwitz. He was one of the few who hadn't had to change his vocation upon entering the camp.

Heiler kept his distance, letting the kapo keep the prisoners in line. Whenever Bashir caught sight of him, he was conferring with the other SS. He wasn't completely preoccupied however. One of the dead belonged to him, and Bashir suspected that he was proving his worth to his new coworkers and reemphasizing a point with Bashir. The man he had killed was the one Bashir had followed to work after roll call. There would be more room in the bunk when he returned tonight, though he was sure he'd be too sore and too exhausted to appreciate it.

When the kapo decided they'd had enough time for eating, he began to yell again, kicking prisoners in the back until they poured the rest of their soup out on the ground. Bashir poured his out voluntarily, before the man reached where he was sitting. His life was already forfeit. A few milliliters of lukewarm water wouldn't make a difference. Pain would. He had more than enough already. He wondered why Heiler had chosen this kommando for him. He doubted he would last long here.

Bashir returned to the lumber pile and lifted one of the boards with his right hand. He lifted his leg and let the board rest against his knee while he wrapped the warped and crooked fingers of his left hand around it. He did it quickly, not wanting to give the kapo a reason to watch him. His hand was numb so he didn't feel pain, but he also didn't feel the wood. He couldn't grip the board well, and it often tried to slide from his grasp. He had to hold most of the weight with his right hand which had also lost its feeling. It was only by sheer luck that he made it to the partially-built barracks every time without dropping it into the mud.

But luck hadn't been with him since he was abducted from the ship, and the board began to slip from his fingers. He couldn't catch it with his left hand, the broken fingers wouldn't move the ways he needed them to. He tried to hold it with his right, but it fell, catching him on the shin of his bruised leg. He didn't have time to contemplate that explosion of pain however. Another one had erupted on his back.

The blow came so quickly and so powerfully that it drove him instantly to his knees. The second was just as hard, punctuated by the kapo's crazed screams. "Ungeschicktes Judenschwein! Heb es auf! Heb es sofort auf!"

Bashir's left arm wouldn't hold him, and he fell over, rolling on his back. He could see his attacker now, and the two-by-four he was using to beat him. He was also in a position to see the man choke. It was amazing. In the middle of one of his tirades, just as he swung the board around again, a long strand of leather had wrapped itself expertly around his throat. Bashir followed it back to the whip handle in Heiler's grip. The changeling pulled hard, and the board simply fell out of the kapo's hand. "Das ist mein Jude," Heiler said calmly, releasing the whip. "Wenn irgendjemand ihn verprügelt, dann ich!"

The kapo, still gritting his teeth and rubbing his neck, nodded his assurances and even bowed, cowering before the SS. Heiler must have been satisfied, because he turned his back on the kapo and returned to wherever he had been. "Steh' auf!" the kapo growled at Bashir, scowling. "Zurück zur Arbeit!" He walked away without so much as a kick, leaving Bashir to pick himself up out of the mud.

He felt dizzy and he couldn't stand up straight, but he could see the glares of the other prisoners. Heiler had showed favor with him, saving him from a beating that might have killed him. But it appeared she had also set him up as a favored prisoner, a traitor of sorts to the others in the kommando. They would hate him. Bashir couldn't really complain. They wouldn't dare touch him. They feared the SS more than anything, and he wouldn't make any friends.

Novak approached the construction site with a little surprise. Crematoria IV and V had had a rather innocent appearance, looking like brick boxes with chimneys, but the two he approached looked like nice houses or small country mills. They didn't look like killing factories, and yet these two would 'process' even more people than the two near the pyres. The first one he came across was a flurry of activity. They were still laying bricks there and digging into the mud for the underground cellars where the people would die. There was months of work left to do.

There was less going on at the farthest one, Crematoria II. A construction kommando was still working there, but only on the final touches. It was for the most part, finished. But there were problems. The SS had been complaining about it. The ovens weren't right, or the door to the chamber didn't seal. Something was holding it up. Crematoria IV would open first. The Sonderkommando might still be inside though, training themselves or testing the ovens. Novak stayed at the unfinished one for several hours, watching the prisoners, looking for Bashir among them. The ovens there weren't fully installed yet. It didn't have the menacing look that the others did. He wasn't in a hurry to see the ovens of Crematoria II, but he knew that he had to go there. From where he was, he couldn't see any other SS guarding the prisoners, but he knew they had to be around. He could see the kapo, and hear him haranguing the prisoners on the construction squad. The kapo had his back to Novak, and didn't see him approaching. Novak watched as he grabbed a passing prisoner and cringed inwardly when he realized the man was about to be beaten.

But the kapo didn't beat him. He even stopped yelling. He was talking to the man. Stevens, on the engineering staff, had been showing his particular brand of genius lately and had designed little gadgets to aid the away team in their search. Novak pulled out such a gadget from his inner breast pocket now. It was very small, slightly larger than a pea. It looked like one of the hearing aids Novak's grandmother had worn after her hearing had started to go. She wouldn't go to the doctor for surgery. She was stubborn that way. He placed the device in his ear now, and the sound of the construction became a roaring din. But equally as loud was the conversation between the kapo and the worker.

"The Englishman isn't here today," the kapo was saying.

"A different kommando," the worker said, and amazingly, his voice didn't sound fearful. He did sound hoarse though. He coughed once and then added, "Heiler went that way, too."

"Good for us," sighed the kapo. "You should work before they see you." He tapped the worker on the shoulder and then went back to screaming at the prisoners. Novak didn't bother approaching. The conversation had just saved him another look at the Sonderkommando. But more importantly, it let him know that Bashir was alive that morning, provided he was the Englishman they spoke of.

My God, Novak thought. He was right here. He needed to contact the Defiant. Novak turned around, removed the device, and walked away from the construction site. It was too bad they hadn't said which kommando the Englishman had gone with.

Sisko was finding it harder to sit still now that they knew where Bashir was. When it was all still up for grabs, he could keep himself calm, focus on other things. But now, with the ship almost as repaired as they could get it, and Bashir somewhere in the camp below them, he was antsy. It was doubly hard sitting still while the away team went down day after day looking for him. He had traded shifts with Worf so that he could see them off in the morning. Then he just waited all day for them to return so he could hear what they had found. He knew they were doing a good job, making a thorough search. But that didn't shake the irrational feeling that he could do it better. He would really just feel more useful if he could be there, searching with his own eyes.

He had told the crew to assume that Bashir was alive until they had proof otherwise. But now he was beginning to doubt his own order. Every day that went by put them farther behind Bashir and put Bashir closer to death—if he had still been alive to start with. He knew that others in the crew felt that way, too, but they wisely kept it to themselves. The away team surprised him though. They were the ones that faced the horror day after day, yet they were the most optimistic. They were very determined that they would keep going back until they'd searched every inch of the camp if that was what it took. He was proud of them. He had already filled out the paper work for commendations. He just had nowhere to file them at the moment.

"Captain," Kira called from the helm. "We're receiving an urgent signal from Lieutenant Novak."

"Beam him aboard," Sisko ordered, coming up behind her.

"He wants to stay, actually," she told him.

Strange, Sisko thought. The away team usually didn't call unless they needed transport. "Put him through." Kira pressed the control and then nodded that the connection was established. "What is it, Lieutenant?" Sisko asked.

"I heard two people talking, sir. The kapo and a worker from a construction detail. The worker told the kapo that 'the Englishman' had a different kommando today. Just changed. Apparently he was there the day before, sir."

Sisko froze. He didn't mean to. He just stopped moving. He even stopped breathing for a moment.

When there was no reply, Novak spoke again. "I'm going to stay and keep looking, Captain. It's got to be him."

Sisko nodded, though, of course, the Lieutenant couldn't see it. "Yes, do that." And then he regained his composure. He was the captain after all. He couldn't to go into shock at every piece of news. Good news. He smiled. "Good work, Lieutenant. We'll let the others know. Defiant out."

Kira was smiling, too. In fact, the whole bridge crew was on the verge of cheering. All the others had been found. Bashir had been their focus for almost a month. And he was alive.

Bashir was exhausted by the time evening roll call came. He wanted nothing more than to rest his legs and his back. The kapo must have knocked one or more of his vertebrae out of place. A nerve was pinched, and it sent a spark of pain down his right leg with every step. While he stood, the pain was a constant throbbing down his back and past his thigh to the back of his knee. The changeling had lived up to her promise. She had saved his life, but his days were filled with pain. Everything hurt now, even his right arm ached from simple fatigue. But before he could rest, he had to stand and be counted.

The wind had died down, but it was still cold. Julian, after falling down earlier, had gotten mud all over his coat. It was wet and, of course, had not dried during the day. It had become stiff, and the cold had soaked in through his shirt right to his skin. It actually felt good against his back, but he knew it wouldn't be good for his health. Not that it mattered. The changeling had made her pronouncement. He would never be healthy again.

Two and a half hours later, the roll call broke up, and the prisoners were allowed to go back to their barracks. There were few workers from this kommando who shared Bashir's barracks and he was glad. While he wasn't worried about the kommando, he didn't want rumors floating around the barracks. It was the closest thing he had to refuge, and he didn't want everyone there hating him or thinking that he was a spy for the SS.

Without the wind, the smoke hung in place over the camp, obscuring all the stars. Bashir watched the sky anyway while he chewed his stale portion of bread. He used to live there. It all seemed so far away to him. He smiled. It was so far away. Light years, centuries. His smile faded. He noticed that all the other prisoners gave him room. None of them came near him and his spot by the wall. Szymon came close. He stood off to the side and watched for a few moments. He looked up to see what Bashir was looking at then shook his head and went inside.

They think I'm a Muselman, Bashir thought. Let them. Safer that way. But the Muselman had an advantage. His worries were over. They no longer mattered to him. His thoughts were gone. He was impervious. Bashir was still very much able to think. He thought too much. Another thing the changeling had kept her word on. His days were filled with pain and the memory of all that had been torn from him.

The next day, right after the revelation of Bashir's survival, came as a letdown. There were no work kommandos that day. With the exception of Jordan, the away team couldn't get close enough to the prisoners. Only the Sonderkommando continued to work as usual. All the other blocks were engaged in rigorous calisthenics and cleaning. The away team kept their distance and watched for about an hour before returning to the ship. Between the dozen or so men on the team, they counted one hundred dead from the exercises. Healthy men would have been hard-pressed to keep up with the pace. But the prisoners were starving, sick, and exhausted.

After returning, they had all changed back into their Starfleet uniforms and offered their services to the continuing repairs. It was the first chance Thomas had. She found Novak in one of the Jefferies tubes. He was working alone. She pulled open the hatch and crawled in.

He was far enough down the tube that she couldn't see him, but his comm signal confirmed that he was there. She kept crawling and eventually saw him. His hands looked to be buried inside the communications panel where he was working. He looked engrossed in his work so she cleared her throat to let him know that she was there.

He looked up quickly and then went right back to work. "Is there something I can help you with, Ensign?" he asked.

Thomas hesitated for a moment. He sounded awful. The things he had seen had had an effect on him, pulling him down. Maybe it was too much of a bother. Still, she was plagued with the dreams. They even occasionally came to her when she was awake. "Yes, sir." Still it was a hard thing to ask about. Something upsetting had happened or she wouldn't be this preoccupied with it. "It's. . . . Before I. . . ." He was watching her now, waiting for a coherent sentence. "I need to know what I've forgotten, sir."

Novak sighed and put down his tools. "We thought you'd remember eventually," he admitted, turning to look at her. "Have a seat." He sighed again. Apparently, this was as hard for him to talk about as it was for her. "We weren't trying to keep it from you, really. You were just so upset before—" He touched his head indicating her attack.

"You were afraid it would interfere with my duties?" Thomas asked. She knew the answer. Novak only confirmed it by nodding. "It's interfering with my duties now. I have dreams about it. I see this man, and it's like I know him. He calls me names and says that I betrayed him."

Novak looked down at the floor. "I suppose you did. We all did. But it was necessary."

"Then he's real?"

Novak was full of sighs, it seemed. "Yes. We needed you, you know. You know more about what's going on than any of us. We needed you and you were so zoned out on guilt. When we found you," he said, meeting her eyes, "we thought you had hanged yourself. It was that bad."

Thomas was still on her hands and knees from crawling, but she sat down now, cross-legged like Novak. She had it easier than him. Her head didn't hit the ceiling. He had to hunch over a bit. "What did I do to feel guilty for? I promise not to let it interfere with my duties. Besides you all know just about as much as me now anyway."

Novak shook his head. "We know like witnesses know. You know like a historian. You know the big picture and little details that we miss. We just know the horror we see. But I'll tell you, because you deserve to know." He looked her directly in the eyes again. "But you have to promise to remember that you couldn't have done any differently, and you probably made little difference in that big picture. Okay?"

Thomas felt her stomach drop. This was it, the source of her dreams, and it was bad. She nodded. "Okay."

"We needed information on the transports from the Judenrat. But they were stubborn and stalled us every chance they could get." He smiled a tiny smile when he said that. He was proud of them. "You met a man, someone who worked for the council. He said he would get the information."

"But I had to promise him something," Thomas concluded, looking at the floor. She wasn't seeing the floor though. She was seeing an old pharmacy counter, a door that led into the back.

"You promised to save his family," Novak supplied. He let that hang for a moment and didn't say anything more.

Thomas felt the bottom drop right out from under her, and she was glad she was sitting. She would have fallen otherwise. The air had rushed out of the tube and she felt lightheaded. She shook her head. "I couldn't."

Novak's voice was gentle, as was the hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't. It probably made no difference, you know. He might live, he might die, but no SS woman promised to save his family the first time around. In the end, nothing's changed."

Except that I gave him hope, Thomas thought even as she nodded, and then I betrayed him.

Jordan beamed back down the next morning. The day before had been routine for him, and went off without any mishaps. He still hadn't seen Bashir. But he hadn't been caught either, and he was back on the ship before the calisthenics began. He heard about it when he returned and saw the effects of it back on the planet that night. Everyone was exhausted, and there were empty places in the bunks. Fewer men were sleeping on the floor. There were still plenty down there though, and Jordan hadn't wanted to stick around, waiting for the rats. He had made it back out the door before it closed and had beamed away without anyone being the wiser.

Today was different. Today, he couldn't find a solitary place. Everywhere he went there was a prisoner. He tried the room just off the main room in the barracks, but he heard voices in there. He assumed it was the block elder and some of his staff. Who else would have a private room? When the block elder emerged from the room, Jordan knew his time was running out. He hid under one of the bunks and hoped this time that no one else was hiding there as well.

Everyone began to file out of the barracks for roll call, and it seemed like he'd finally have a chance to transport. He waited for the last of them to leave and listened for the sound of the door closing. Finally, they were gone, and he crawled out from underneath the bunk. He was just about to tap his badge when the door to that one little room opened. The block elder smiled an evil grin and rushed out at Jordan. He smacked him hard across the face before he could react. Jordan went sprawling and hit his head on the brick-walled flue in the center of the room. "Get up! If you're late for roll call, I'll kill you myself!" the block elder screamed, kicking Jordan in the ribs.

Jordan had eaten the day before, and all the days before that. He wasn't weak and hungry like the other prisoners, and, though he was dizzy and his head ached, he scrambled quickly to his feet. He was clear-headed enough, as the block elder shoved him out the door, to realize that he'd really screwed up. The counts would be off today and someone would die.

Szymon was in terrible shape that morning. He could hardly get out of bed. He'd spent the whole night coughing. His neighbors in his bunk had stayed close to him during the night, because his fever had kept them warm. Bashir gave up his silence that morning. He felt Szymon's head. It was burning. "Szymon, go to the hospital," he advised. "Just for today. If there's a selection, you can run away."

Szymon shook his head. "They will lock me away. I will be fine. I will go for soup. The kapo will send me for soup."

Bashir nodded. The hospital was dangerous and probably couldn't help anyway. But still, he had wanted to try. He knew Szymon would die, but it was hard watching it. At least Piotr had gone quickly. He probably hadn't even felt the bullet. But Szymon was slowly wasting away, and after all his months of surviving. It wasn't fair.

Szymon had been unable to get breakfast, so Bashir shared his. Max spotted them in the crowd and pushed his way through, dragging someone with him. He was smiling. The guest, though, looked bewildered. About thirty new prisoners, fresh from quarantine had descended on the barracks the night before. Most of them had spent the night on the floor with the rats. Bashir had heard them, too, in the night. This one was very shabbily dressed with thin civilian clothes. A stripe of paint on the back would still identify him as a prisoner.

"Das ist Leo," Max told Szymon, "Er ist der Schwager."

Szymon turned back to Bashir, amusement shined in his eyes, but also pity. Still, he made the introduction. "This is Leo," he said. "He is the brother of Max's wife."

Bashir didn't want the introduction. No more friends, he thought. It was too dangerous. He didn't smile. He didn't even look up when Max introduced him, telling him that he was an English doctor.

The young man drew in a breath. "Die anderen sagen, er sei ein Spion," he said. "Einer von der SS beschützt ihn."

Szymon laughed, which, of course, made him cough. "He thinks," he choked out, "that you are a spy." He switched back to German to argue with the newcomer. Bashir put a hand on his arm, trying to stop him, but it was too late. "Er ist kein Spion. Wenn er ein Spion ist, er ist ein Spion für die Engländer." He laughed again, and Bashir wondered just what he was saying that was so amusing. "Aber er ist ein sehr schlechter—er spricht kein Deutsch."

Max laughed, too, but only a short, soft chuckle. The Blockälteste began to yell, and they all got up for roll call. Bashir helped Szymon up with his one good arm though it pulled at that nerve in his back. He felt it was his last chance to say good-bye. Roll call proved to be blessedly short that morning, which was actually only a mixed blessing. The work day would begin sooner for it. He was surprised though when Leo followed him to the barrack-building kommando. The count came out even, however, and the line moved forward. Bashir hoped Leo wouldn't die his first day on the job.

Jordan nearly held his breath through the whole roll call. He tried to tell himself it was just like the Academy. Just drilling. Standing at attention. It was no different. But he'd never been made to stand at attention for an hour. He'd seen enough of these roll calls, though, to know that this was short. The numbers came out. He was astonished, but he was glad to be alive, just the same. He had managed to tap his comm badge a few times to let the Defiant know that he was not clear for beam out. At least they would still be able to track him. He wouldn't disappear like Bashir, unless someone killed him. It was a frightening thought.

He tried to sneak away when the ranks broke up, but a kapo spotted him. "One more!" he yelled, grabbing Jordan by the arm. "Are you afraid of work, Jew? Get in line." And Jordan found himself in a kommando, marching off at double-time to somewhere.

They left that section of the camp and moved out onto a muddy road. Jordan nearly fell when his feet slipped, but he caught himself and soon managed to find an appropriate way to set his feet. He could keep up. The man beside him was having a worse time. He coughed occasionally without opening his mouth. He fell once, but before the kapo or SS could see, Jordan picked him up off the ground. He held him up as they ran the last of the distance. He could see where they were headed now. The chimneys of Crematoria II were in front of them. That was where Novak had heard of Bashir. Maybe he could ask the kapo where he had gone. Or maybe he could find that one prisoner. But they turned at the intersection of the road and moved over to Crematoria III.

Sisko slammed his fist down on the table. He had been having some coffee with Dax in the mess hall. She was just getting off duty and would be meeting Worf soon. That was another reason why Sisko had switched shifts. They had really had little time together in the last month and even before that. She had invited him to accompany her to dinner though when her shift ended. They had spent the whole time talking about Julian and sharing their new-found optimism that he'd be found. The message from the bridge had interrupted the cheerful mood. Thomas had come in person to tell him.

Jordan was late. He hadn't called for transport before the Appell. "Have we heard from him at all?" Sisko asked her.

Thomas nodded. "Yes, sir. He sent a signal a few minutes ago. He's not clear for transport."

"Damn," Sisko exclaimed. "I knew it was too dangerous to go as a prisoner."

Dax put her hand on his arm. "He's probably fine, Benjamin," she said. "He sent the signal. That means they haven't caught him."

"He probably just couldn't get free and got caught up in the roll call," Thomas added, trying to help.

It didn't help. "Wouldn't that mess up the numbers? There would be an extra number. What would the Nazis do then?"

"Apparently there wasn't," Thomas reported. "The roll call only lasted an hour. That's pretty quick for an Appell. Someone else was probably absent. It happened all the time. They'd search for the man, find him hiding or in the latrine or something. But this time the numbers came out, so they didn't bother to find the missing man. Jordan probably just got his place."

Sisko felt a little better. But only a little. One man down there was enough. Now there were two. And it didn't matter that Jordan was healthy. All he had to do was look at an SS the wrong way, and he wouldn't be coming back to the ship at all. "We can track him, right?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas confirmed. "He still has his badge."

"Have one of our people keep an eye on him," he ordered. "I don't want to lose him."

Thomas turned to leave. But Dax met her at the door. "Are you alright, Mylea? Novak told me that you asked." Sisko assumed it was about the ghetto.

Thomas met her eyes and Sisko could see that she was lying when she said that she was fine. "It's just sad," she added.

"I know," Dax said, placing her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "But we wouldn't have gotten this close without it. You did your duty."

Thomas nodded. "Yes, sir. I should be getting to the bridge."

Dax nodded and let the ensign go. She waited until the door closed again before she sat back down at the table. "Do you think she's angry that we didn't tell her?"

"She doesn't look angry, Old Man," Sisko told her. "She looks sad, just like she said. She's got a heavy weight to carry around. I better get back to the bridge myself. I want to keep my eye on Lieutenant Jordan today." He stood up.

Dax smiled and nodded, but didn't look completely convinced. She had a weight to carry, too, Sisko decided. He placed a hand on her shoulder as she had for Thomas. "See you later, Old Man. Get some sleep."

If Leo still needed convincing, beyond Szymon's word, that Bashir was not a spy for the Nazis, he got it that day at work. Heiler was in one of her moods. She never strayed far from him, taunting him for working too slowly, or beating him for dropping a board or nail. She even tripped him once, so that she could beat him for falling. Unlike the kapo, Heiler only used his hand to do this, but what the others couldn't see was that his hand was not always made of flesh. Sometimes it was as hard as wood, others as heavy as iron. It left bruises even through his coat.

She didn't even leave him alone for the midday meal. She tripped him again after he left the line, spilling his soup into the mud. The other SS laughed at Heiler's antics, and the kapo watched with amusement as well. By mid-afternoon, Bashir felt like he could hardly move. The last round of blows had landed on his left arm. The bandaging held, but the shoulder was pulled, and it felt nearly the same as if it had dislocated. Then Heiler put him to roofing and had a hearty laugh watching him try to climb up to the roof with broken bones and mud-caked shoes.

The day was an eternity, and Bashir finally began to feel like a Muselman. All thought was ripped from his head by his demanding body. His arm, his back, his legs, his hand all ached terribly, and beyond all that his stomach felt like a black hole sucking the life out of him for lack of food. He was too preoccupied with trying to work to worry about Leo or the kapo or even Heiler. He just wanted to get through the day. If he could just make it to roll call, he thought, but he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Now you know how to work, eh, Jew?" the kapo called jokingly to Jordan as he set the wheelbarrow down. He stopped smiling long enough to snarl. "Keep working!" One of the SS kept a close eye and nodded. Jordan recognized him. Salerno. He couldn't interfere at all, Jordan knew, but it was at least a comfort to know that the Defiant knew where he was.

Jordan felt ill and sore all over, but he obeyed. He'd already learned what happened if the kapo thought you didn't know how to work. The kapo carried a short club with him, and he used it with a particular flair. Most often it came down on a prisoner's head. But when he'd decided Jordan didn't use the proper method for laying brick, he had caught Jordan with it right across the arm. Unused to such punishment, Jordan had cried out, grabbing his arm. He had felt it crack under the force of the blow. The kapo though, had not liked the sound of his voice, and hit him at least five more times across the back and the head. Jordan had spent the rest of the day dizzy from the blows. His hand and arm had swollen so much that the sleeve of his coat became tight. And this was how he had to lay brick and push a wheelbarrow.

Jordan used to be in construction before joining Starfleet. He had helped to build houses for new colonies in the Federation interior. But he could bet that in three months he never worked as hard as he had in this one day. He looked in utter amazement at the other veteran prisoners. They were hungry. They were sick. And they did this day after day. Jordan felt sure he would die if he had to continue this tomorrow. He would find the solitude he needed tonight, and he would beam back up to the Defiant. He wasn't planning to come back down the next day either, at least not while wearing the stripes.

The call to line up at the end of the day came as such a relief that Jordan found his second wind. He joined the ranks gratefully. As the kapo counted them, he whacked anyone who wasn't properly lined up with that club of his. Jordan had learned to march though, back in the Academy, and so he lined himself up perfectly with the leader of the line. The kapo pulled him out of the line anyway, along with the man beside him.

"Carry that," he ordered, pointing with the club to one of the bodies lying beside the ranks. There were two of them. Jordan recognized one of them as the man who had coughed on the way out there. Perhaps he'd coughed on duty. Blood had spilled out the back of his head onto the snow. Jordan, ignoring his own pain and thinking of his partner, tired and starving, took the man's shoulders, holding on with his elbows more than his hands. The other man got the feet, and they rejoined the group. The kapo conscripted two other men for the other corpse, and the kommando began marching back, again at a double-time.

The roll call turned out to be grueling and lasted for nearly three hours. Jordan had left Salerno at the gate so he tapped his comm badge again, signaling that he still couldn't get away. He had a lot of time to think about it as he stood there shivering and wishing for an amputation. He could call for transport as soon as he got free from roll call, or he could move to the next barracks on his list and look for the doctor. For himself, he wanted to go back to the ship. He wanted to lie down on one of the biobeds and let the nurses in sickbay magically take all his pain away. Then he wanted to sleep until at least noon the next day. But something in the whole day still made him think outside himself. Bashir, wherever he was, had been in this place for weeks, working for weeks, eating that awful, rancid water they dared to call soup. He was probably just as anxious to go home, and he deserved it more. Jordan decided to stay.

Julian began walking back to the barracks and was surprised when Leo showed up beside him. The young man took his arm, his right arm, and helped him to walk. Max was already there, waiting at the edge of the crowd for them as they returned. He was visibly relieved to see Leo again. Julian asked about Szymon and was certain that Max would tell him that Szymon was dead. "Szymon?"

Max nodded and pointed inside the barracks. "Ich habe Brot," he whispered, "aber Szymon will es einfach nicht essen." He used his hands to demonstrate what he'd said, shaking his head and pointing to his mouth. Julian knew the word "Brot,"and when Max said he had bread, it was usually real bread, not the camp clay that was passed out as rations. Something was very wrong if Szymon wasn't eating that.

Julian nodded and went inside. He ignored the men on the floor and his own aching back. He went right to the foot of Szymon's bunk and began to climb up. It was almost as hard as it had been after the changeling had reached into his chest. He shook that memory away and continued to climb. One of Szymon's fellow bunkmates protested loudly, trying to push Bashir away, but he didn't feel like taking any more abuse tonight. He had to help Szymon. Bashir pushed the man back and pulled himself over the edge. Szymon was laying down. He looked awful and he clutched his coat to him for warmth. Bashir checked him for fever. It had not gone down at all.

"Szymon, you need to eat," he told him. He looked back to the edge. Max was there holding out the bread.

"Go away," Szymon implored, closing his eyes. "You cannot be a doctor here."

"No," Bashir admitted, putting the bread into Szymon's hand, "but I can be a friend. Sit up." Bashir tried to lift him, but of course, it was impossible. "You're only hurting me, Szymon. Please help me."

Szymon opened his eyes. "You eat it, Bashir," he said. "You know it will not help me. You need to eat. Go get food for yourself."

Bashir tried for five more minutes, but he knew he would not get his rations if he waited longer. And Szymon was right, the food wouldn't help him now. He was dying. Max sat with him while Bashir and Leo got their rations. Max gave them each an extra sliver of the good bread he had found, and Bashir went outside, figuring he only had perhaps a quarter of an hour before curfew.

Jordan hung back as the others went inside. He watched each face as they passed him and then walked around the building. He didn't want the block elder to come out looking for him. He looked back toward the tall chimneys where he had worked today and reached for his pocket. Something made him stop though. A lone figure was still outside at the barracks across the way. Jordan couldn't see it clearly, but he could tell it was definitely a prisoner, the gray stripes stood out slightly against the dark night. He appeared to be looking up at the sky. Jordan looked up, too, but only saw smoke. Still he couldn't beam out with that man there. He might look over. He started to walk away but he stopped again when he heard a voice. It was quiet, coming from near that man over there, and the translator didn't pick it up. Another figure had appeared. Jordan didn't need the translator. He couldn't make out all the words, but he recognized the language. The voice had spoken English.

The smoke was heavy, and he couldn't see a single star. It was the perfect ending to an awful day. Szymon was dying and the sky was hidden. Not for the first time, Julian thought perhaps he was crazy for coming out in the cold. Not that it was much warmer inside, but at least there was a measure of shelter from the wind. But he couldn't sleep without coming.

All the others had already gone in. Bashir could hear the door shut around the other side of the building. But there was no call for lights out. He still had time. He heard a shoe shuffle on the ground behind him and froze. Slowly he turned, expecting the shapeshifter, in one form or another. Instead he saw Szymon. He had a far-away look in his eyes and it scared Julian. "You should be inside, in bed," he told Szymon.

"There are not beds here," Szymon countered in almost a monotone. He stumbled a few steps further around the corner. "Why do you come here?"

Bashir regarded him carefully, clinically, diagnosing him with his eyes. Szymon was dying. Not in a day or in an hour. He was dying now. "I come," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice even, "to look at the stars."

Szymon took a few steps further and nearly fell. Bashir hurried to catch him, but Szymon brushed his hand away. "You cannot see stars."

Bashir looked back up at the stars. The smoke had not gone away. "But I still know they're there."

Szymon shook his head slowly. "The world is finished," he said before dropping to his knees in the snow. His head dropped to his chest.

It was the first thing Szymon had said with emotion in weeks. That ripped at Bashir's heart. He shook his head and relaxed his legs until he was kneeling, too. He ignored the cold as his pant legs grew wet from the snow. "No," he said in a low but firm voice. "No, it's just going through a bad spot."

Szymon looked up at him, his eyes filled with pain, but also wonder. "Can you not see it?" he asked.

"I see it, Szymon," Bashir said, "but it won't last."

Szymon looked down again and nodded, slowly rocking himself back and forth. "But we will all be finished."

Bashir moved around until he was kneeling in front of Szymon. He took hold of his shoulder until Szymon looked him in the eye. "No," he said again. "They will be finished." You can't tell him that, Julian's mind warned. Temporal displacement—

He's dying, he argued back. What will it change besides giving him an ounce of peace? He waited for a counter-argument, but one didn't come. Good, that's settled then.

He focused his attention back on Szymon. Szymon was looking at him in confusion, like he'd finally gone insane. "The Nazis will lose the war," Bashir told him straight out, and waited for an objection from his mind.

Szymon's eyes bore through his own, and Bashir watched the emotions played out there. Disbelief, fear, and then understanding. "You don't belong here."

Bashir's eyes wavered for a moment. But then he looked Szymon full in the face again. He'd made up his mind. Szymon wasn't going to die here, in this hell. "No, Szymon," he stated, "I don't belong here."

Szymon had taken on a knowing look, like a wise man a hundred years old. "From the stars."

That surprised Julian. Did people in this time believe in aliens from other worlds? "No," he smiled. "I'm from England." He took a breath, still holding Szymon's gaze with his own. "I'm from another time." He waited to see Szymon's reaction. His eyes didn't change. "A long time from now," he added. "It gets better, Szymon. All this. . . ." He waved his broken hand behind him to the camp and the barbed wire, beyond the distant chimneys where the smoke billowed up. "All this ends."

Szymon didn't say anything, but his eyes hungered for more.

"The Nazis will lose the war," Bashir went on happily. It felt so good to tell one of these people, to show them a light in all their suffering. "In two years, they will liberate this camp, and the Nazis will be punished for what they've done here."

Szymon's eyes held a far-away hope. He grew weaker in Bashir's grip and nearly fell over. Bashir caught him and cradled him with his good arm. "One day, the whole world will be at peace." He could feel Szymon slipping away even as the memories came to him of bright green fields of grass and blooming flowers, sunshine in San Francisco, the clean, beautiful streets of London. "'Paradise,' they'll call it, and there'll be no hungry people, no poor.

"And we'll travel to the stars, Szymon, farther and faster than you can even dream. And we'll meet other people there, from different worlds." He thought of Jadzia, then, and Kira and Odo and even Quark.

"How is it . . .," Szymon breathed weakly as he stared at the smoke-filled sky, ". . . in the stars?" His eyes had ceased to focus. He was no longer seeing this time and place.

"It's beautiful, Szymon," Julian whispered, leaning close so Szymon could hear. "Like traveling among diamonds."

"I can see it," Szymon sighed, full of wonder. And then his whole body relaxed, and his head lolled to one side.

Bashir had been smiling at the things he remembered, but his smile faded as Szymon died. If it had been another time, he could have saved him. He could have saved them all. Henri, Piotr, all the others. Bashir felt his throat constrict in pain and tears welled up in his eyes. He had thought he couldn't cry anymore, but it wasn't true. He held Szymon's body close to him and closed his eyes with his left hand. "I'm sorry, Szymon," he whispered as he placed his forehead to Szymon's, still warm from the fever.

Julian held him that way for a few minutes more and then raised up. He took one deep breath and then laid Szymon's body down in the snow and began to remove his clothes. Szymon wouldn't need them anymore.

The one man was dead, Jordan could see that where he stood. He had heard the whole thing, thanks to the hearing device Stevens had made. It was him. Bashir was alive and he was sitting not twenty meters away. Jordan started to walk towards him, but Bashir didn't notice. His back was to the lieutenant. Jordan didn't want to call out. Someone else might hear. But Bashir got up and went inside before he could reach him. Numbly, Jordan reached for his comm badge. He checked around him to see that he was obscured from the sight of the watchtowers and called for transport.