"Doctor Bashir had told me to leave the samples out," Nurse Hausmann said, her words still a little muffled from the sedative she'd been given. She'd been blood-screened three different times since waking up just to be sure she was really Nurse Hausmann. "Someone was messing with them. A security officer. I asked if she needed help." The nurse looked confused as she tried to remember. "When I approached her, this . . . thing came through her chest. It was holding a hypospray. She was a changeling. She grabbed me before I could call for help and then used the hypospray. I don't remember anything after that."

"It appears," Sisko began calmly, "that you've been in stasis for the last five days."

"What's happened to the ship?" the nurse asked. "Where's Doctor Bashir?"

"The changeling sabotaged the ship. Doctor Bashir is missing." Sisko didn't want to worry her or the other crewmembers too much just yet. "Do you remember which crewmember she was? Do you know her name?"

The nurse looked thoughtful for a few moments. "No, but I could find her in the medical records."

"I think I can call up the records, Benjamin," Dax said. She walked over to the computer and began working. "Are you sure she was security?" she asked the nurse.

"Well, security or engineering," she answered. The nurse looked back at the captain. "She was wearing gold. And she was human," she called back to Dax, but then decided she needed to correct herself. "Well, not human, but she looked like a human."

Sisko nodded.

"Here we go." Dax called their attention to the computer. "I've narrowed it down to human females in security and engineering."

The nurse went to stand beside her and began flipping through pictures. She finally stopped on an attractive, young lieutenant with dark brown hair. "Lieutenant Julie Whaley," Dax read.

"That's her."

Sisko half-knew what the computer's answer would be before he asked. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Whaley."

"Lieutenant Whaley is no longer on board."

"Still twenty-seven, Old Man?" Sisko asked, starting to feel just a touch of relief.

Dax nodded and gave him one of her small smiles. "Twenty-seven. I think she's gone, Benjamin."

That was one less thing to worry about. But they still had plenty of others. "Call a meeting, Dax. I want everyone still on this vessel in the mess hall in twenty minutes. O'Brien and whoever is with him can keep working, but I want them on an open comm line."

The gun lowered. "Take him to the truck," the loud one ordered.

Something hit him hard from behind. A fist or a handgun, Bashir couldn't tell. But it hurt. He stumbled forward, clasping his hand to his neck. "Move!" another soldier yelled, pushing him in the back with a rifle.

As they stepped out into the street, Bashir was surprised to see so few people there. There had been so many just a few minutes before. But now there were only the hopeless people and those the Germans had taken to the truck.

The soldier behind him shoved the butt of his rifle into Bashir's back again, causing him to lurch forward. The cobblestone street was slick, but he caught himself and didn't fall. Ahead was the truck, a big, plain truck, already half-filled with fearful people. They cried out that they had their papers, just upstairs, in the flat, if only they could go get it. The Germans ignored them or hit them with their guns.

Julian's mind raced as he neared that truck. He couldn't escape. He didn't know the city, and there were too many Nazis with guns. They might be primitive, compared to the phasers and disruptors he was used to, but he knew they were no less fatal. And if he left this place, it would be harder for the captain and the others to find him. Besides, he knew what happened to those people in the trucks. Every student in school learned about the camps. Places like Auschwitz. He'd even toured there once with his father when he was very young, seen the rooms full of shoes and human hair. But he was being pushed closer and closer to the truck. There was nothing he could do.

They reached the truck. There were other people there, so Bashir had to wait his turn. There was a woman beside him. She was young and pretty despite the dirtiness of her face and clothes. She wore rags and an old, torn coat that was too small for her. She had a wild, terrified look in her eyes, though one of panic, searching for hope. And then they lit up. They'd found the hope.

"Tenia!" a man's voice shouted. Bashir followed her gaze to the young man who was running toward them, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand as he held it out for everyone to see. "Tenia, I have it!" he screamed. "I have her Ausweis! You can't take her! I have it!"

Tenia tried to turn and go to him, but another soldier prevented it, holding her around the waist and laughing as she strained against him. She stopped struggling and tried logic. "He has it," she told the soldier. "He has it there." She pointed to the young man. And just as she did there was the sound of a gunshot, and the young man fell to the ground still with the Ausweis in his hand.

The woman, Tenia, screamed and struggled hard again against the soldier holding her back. She was crazy now, in shock. Bashir was right beside her, and he reached for her, too, knowing the danger she was in. She still had a chance, if he could stop her. She was young and still relatively healthy. She wouldn't be gassed right away.

"He's gone," Bashir told her as he tried to pull her away from the soldier. "Get in the truck. It's all we can do." The soldier let her go, and she began to calm down. She didn't face Bashir at first, but she let him lead her to the truck. "I'll help you."

Bashir pulled himself into the truck and turned to help her. She was looking at him now, but her eyes were blank. The tears had stopped. And then there was a handgun beside her head. "No!" he shouted but the sound was lost amid the eruption of the gun and the woman's head. The projectile broke out through her face in a torrent of blood and bone, and the woman's hand slipped from his own. Someone else screamed behind him, but Bashir couldn't move.

Bashir could not believe it. He knew what the Nazis were capable of. He had read it. He knew what they thought of Jews. But to see it, to experience it here was far more than his head could have taken in with mere words on a screen or even pictures. The woman was dead. This was reality, a reality he was in the middle of. He wanted to shout out to them they didn't have to do that, to shoot her in the head. She was coming, getting into the truck. But his mouth, thankfully, knew better than to move.

Other people were pushed into the truck in a more hurried fashion, forcing Bashir back from the edge where he'd watched her die. and slowly, then, his mind began to take hold of him again. Someone else had screamed.

There was a muffled, crying sound still. Bashir looked around. The sound was coming from a man, perhaps in his forties. A stain of red was advancing down his pant leg. The bullet had hit him. Several arms held him, kept him from falling. A hand covered his mouth, keeping him quiet. Bashir's first thought was that it was cruel, but his second thought was that it was right. He had to be kept quiet. Tenia had not stayed quiet.

"Put pressure on it," Bashir finally said, keeping his voice low. The truck was getting crowded, but he pushed his way over through the crowd there. An older woman beside the injured man took off her head scarf and pressed it onto his wound. Bashir clawed at the sleeve of his own uniform until it finally began to come loose. When he reached the man, he wrapped the sleeve around the man's leg, pulling it tight above the bullet hold while the man screamed into the hand that covered his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Julian said, as he tied the make-shift tourniquet, "but we have to stop the bleeding." There were no instruments with which to take the bullet out and nothing to give the man for the pain. But he soon lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor of the already crowded truck. There was also no water for cleaning the wound, and Bashir was sure, with the lack of sanitation in the ghetto, that it would soon be infected.

The man would die. If he didn't die now because of this, then he would die when they reached whatever camp they were going to. He wouldn't be fit for work. The only thing he could really do for the man was try and make him comfortable, which wasn't easy when there was no more room in the truck. At least the press of people on every side kept him relatively warm. Maybe he wouldn't go into shock.

"You there, Chief?" Sisko asked.

O'Brien's voice came back to him over the comm line. "We're listening, sir. And we've just about got a handle on these parasites. That should give us a few systems back."

"Good." Sisko made his way to the front of the room to where Dax and the other senior officers were waiting. Except Bashir. It nagged at him that the doctor was missing. It nagged at him that sixteen members of his crew were missing. The remaining twenty-one members of the Defiant's crew milled around, mumbling. They were confused and, he had to admit, scared.

"May I have your attention?" Sisko spoke. He didn't raise his voice, but kept it low and calm. Every eye turned to him and the room became quiet. "A lot of things have happened in the last hour or two," he continued. "It's going to take all of us to get to the bottom of it.

"First, there has been a saboteur on board the ship." The quiet became silence as that sank in. "A changeling. We believe the changeling came on board under the guise of Lieutenant Whaley."

Someone spoke what they were probably all wondering, "What about the blood screening?"

Sisko let Dax field that one. Bashir had talked to her about it after all. "She passed. The blood sample taken from her was human blood. Doctor Bashir had noted a slight deviation in viscosity and oxygen content. In hindsight, that would be consistent with the blood of a recently deceased human."

Sisko didn't want them to dwell on that. "Commander Worf will be heading up the investigation of the changeling. If any of you saw Lieutenant Whaley or have any information about her activities on this voyage, please speak to Commander Worf after you're dismissed."

Sisko took a deep breath and then moved on to the next topic. "Before we discuss the physical damage to the ship," he said, and then he stopped. He wasn't quite sure of the best way to do this. He started again. "We believe that the changeling is no longer on this ship. We don't know if it was destroyed or if it transported away. However, it appears that the changeling removed sixteen of our fellow crewmen before departing."

There was silence as he looked out at their faces. They weren't scared anymore. They were worried, of course, but they were also angry. "I intend to get them back," he said sternly, determination filling his voice. "Major Kira will be leading that investigation. It may be that our crewmen were transported to the planet's surface. If any of you have any expertise in twentieth-century Earth history, please let the major know.

"Now, there has been a significant amount of damage to this ship." Sisko turned to the easiest part of the meeting. "Besides the parasitic devices that are affecting the diagnostic and navigational systems and external sensors, we have extensive physical damage to the warp and impulse drives, weapons, shields, the transporter, external communications. And of course, main power is still offline.

"You should all know by now that we are not in our own century. We can't return until this ship is functional and our crewmen are found. All remaining engineers will concentrate on repairs. We'll begin with the most essential systems and the systems we need to get our people back. See Commander Dax for your assignments once you're dismissed. Anyone with any engineering background may be called on to assist.

"Commander Worf will choose a team to help investigate the changeling. All other security officers will assist Major Kira in tracking down our missing crewmen. We will have a briefing of all security personnel on the bridge in one hour. Help out where you can until then.

"Everyone else remain behind, and we will work out shifts and rotations for your duty stations. Be prepared to do whatever is necessary. We've lost a lot of people and a lot of time here. It's going to take all of us, working overtime, to get back home." He waited a few seconds, looking from face to face. "Dismissed."

The truck finally jerked and began to move forward. The buildings rushed by in a gray blur. Bashir held his arm, rubbing it with his other hand to try and keep it warm.

"You're dressed strange," someone said, tapping him on the shoulder. "You're not Polish. Are you an American?"

Bashir didn't quite know how to answer. So this is Poland, he thought. He turned to see the wrinkled face of the woman who'd given her scarf to cover the bleeding man's wound. "No, I'm not American." He decided it was probably best to stick to his original excuse for his strange attire and hope that the matter would be dropped. "It's all I have."

"Can't be very warm," the woman said.

Others were observing, staring at his uniform. He could feel them watching. One woman reached out to touch the fabric on his remaining sleeve. "No," Bashir replied truthfully, "it isn't very warm."

"Are you a doctor?"

Bashir didn't even turn to see who had asked. He opened his mouth to answer, but then thought that it might not be a good idea to be a doctor just now. He couldn't do anything to help the man on the floor. Could he help anyone in the camps? Would that be interfering, changing the timeline?

"You act like a doctor," the voice answered itself.

"How did you get here?" came another question.

"It hardly matters," a dark-haired man retorted angrily. Everyone forgot Bashir's uniform and turned toward the man. He was young, about Bashir's age, with a defiant set to his eyes. Or was it angry resignation? Bashir couldn't tell which. "It doesn't matter how he got here. We're all leaving, remember?"

Julian almost wished for the questioning, because the man's words had sparked off a torrent of worried questions that no one could answer. Where were they being taken? What would happen there? Was it really a resettlement camp like the Germans had said? The young man raised his voice to be heard over them. "The Germans don't need us. They just want us gone."

"How will they get rid of us?" asked an old man. "They can't kill us all." The entire truck voiced its agreement. All except Bashir and the angry, young man.

"I don't see anyone stopping them," the young man said.

Julian tried to focus his attention on the wounded man, but there was no more he could do for him now than he could have done five minutes ago. He didn't want to listen to the debate in the truck. He knew the answers. The Germans would try to kill them all, but yes, there was someone trying to stop them. The other side would win the war and liberate the camps. But that was not for several more years, if he remembered right. And that would be an eternity for these people. Telling them that was out of the question.

They were still arguing. He wanted to tell the young man to be quiet. He only succeeded in scaring the others, but then the other side of himself told him it was good for them to know what was happening, that they should know the truth. But they weren't listening to the truth anyway. They couldn't accept it. They had to have hope.

It frustrated the young man, too, but before he could start again the truck jerked to a stop nearly toppling them all over. The wounded man groaned when someone stumbled and kicked his leg. Julian tried to tighten his tourniquet, but he didn't have the time.

"Everyone out!" the soldiers were shouting. "Into the train! Move!" They had opened the back of the truck and were pulling people out, throwing them onto the ground. A few didn't make it back to their feet in time. Others were thrown down on top of them. This only caused the soldiers to curse at them more for holding up the line.

Bashir and some of the others took the wounded man's shoulders and dragged him toward the open back of the truck. The angry man, who'd grown silent when the truck stopped, stooped over, and picked up the man's feet. A younger man beside him tried to help.

"Why are you carrying that man?" one of the soldiers asked.

The soldier had asked so straightforwardly that Bashir thought he almost deserved an answer. "He is injured. He needs medical attention."

The soldier smiled then. It was a gracious smile, but evil. It sent a shiver up Bashir's spine that was not from the cold. He could see the amusement in the soldier's eyes. "Well, we'll make sure he gets special attention when you arrive at your destination."

Another soldier grabbed Julian's shoulder and pulled him backwards from the truck. He couldn't get his feet under him fast enough, and he fell hard onto the cold ground. The breath was knocked from his chest in a cloud of vapor, and his back stung from the impact. Still he forced himself to sit up. The wounded man had fallen out on top of him, covering his legs. The others, especially the angry young man, were quick to lift him up though. Bashir had managed to get to his knees when he one of the soldiers kicked him in the ribs, sending him back to the ground. Damn the timeline, he thought, and every nerve in him screamed at him to turn and kill that soldier with his bare hands. But he knew they would shoot him in an instant if he even made a move in that direction. So he stood as quickly as he could and moved toward the line of people climbing into the train.

"They would have killed you if you tried," the angry man was waiting for him.

Julian was still angry and his words came out sharply. "Do you read minds?"

"I don't need to." The man answered. "I can see it in your eyes." Strangely, now that they were out of the truck he didn't look angry anymore. Bashir couldn't think how to describe it. Apprehensive perhaps, and cynical, but the rage in his eyes was gone now. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Julian." There was no point in lying. He wouldn't be able to convince them he was Polish anyway.

"Hmph. You're not Polish. And you are dressed strange." He stepped up awkwardly into the train car and extended his hand to help Bashir up.

"What's yours?"

"Andrzej. Nice to meet you."

Once they were inside, they each forgot the other's presence. Neither one spoke as they surveyed their new surroundings. It's not much for comfort, Bashir thought, trying to lighten his own mood just a little. It was a plain boxcar with no compartments or seats. It had four small windows near the ceiling but they were barred and lined with barbed wire. Little wisps of straw lay scattered on the otherwise bare, wooden floor.

The door abruptly slammed shut behind them, and they could hear the lock falling into place. The car grew dim, with the only light coming from the windows and the cracks between the slats of wood making up the walls and ceilings. Those windows and cracks also let the cold air in, but offered no good view of the world beyond. Julian was tall enough to see out the windows, but all that was visible were the top floors of a row of buildings and the dull, gray, winter sky.

No one made a sound as they waited for the reality of it to sink in. They stood like animals, afraid to move, eyeing the ceiling, the windows, the locked door, ready to pounce on any way out that showed itself. But none did. Andrzej was the first to speak, stating the obvious, "It's a cattle car."

"Do they think we're animals?" someone else challenged.

"Of course, they do," Andrzej replied, but without the anger he had before. In its place was a sense of wonder tempered with foreboding. "Haven't you heard their rhetoric? We're vermin, pests polluting their perfect race."

"Where will they take us?" a girl asked. She stood there shaking with her hands tucked under her arms. Her eyes pleaded for an answer, some reassurance.

No one answered and, again, everyone fell to silence. But they did begin to move. Each began to prowl the car. The first to act headed for the corners and sat down forlornly. Others, those with friends, huddled together in groups as they sat, using each other for added warmth. Slowly a murmur arose as each group settled down and tried to determine their destination.

Bashir remembered the wounded man and looked around for him. The older woman who had given up her head scarf was tending him in one corner. A few others were there as well, sitting close beside him as they tried to keep him warm. It won't do any good, Bashir thought and hated the callousness he felt in himself. He had felt the same way with Tain before he'd died of heart failure in the Jem'Hadar camp. Bashir had had nothing with which to help him, and the guards wouldn't give him access to any medical equipment. It was the same situation now. The man would die. They wouldn't be able to keep him warm enough. There were no heaters or blankets. And he was still losing blood. It was better for him, Bashir thought, to die here, quickly from shock, than to suffocate in the Nazis' gas.

Andrzej had seemed to have a good idea as to where they were going. He called Julian over, but Julian waved him off. "In a moment. I just want to look out." He needed a little time to himself, and it was impossible here. But the car wasn't even half full yet and the train wasn't moving. Bashir suspected that the Nazis would bring more, so it was better to try his communicator here with fewer witnesses. He walked to the window and looked out.

Bashir knew where they were headed, again perhaps not the exact location, but he knew what awaited them there: a camp, slavery, and very likely, death. He also knew that they'd lose everything they had, especially things of value. And his communicator was made of gold. It would probably be pocketed by some SS guard or taken back to Germany. Either way, it could not be taken intact. Bashir couldn't let the comm badge, with its advanced technology, end up in Nazi hands. But before he disabled it, he wanted to give it one last try.

Facing the window, with his back to everyone else, he slipped the communicator from the inside of his uniform and cupped it in his hands to muffle any sound. He held it up to his ear and pressed it, activating the communicator. But it made a sound reminiscent of electronic glass breaking and would not open a channel. Whoever sent him to this place, he reasoned, must have tampered with other systems as well.

That was it then. He'd have to disable the communicator now, while the car still wasn't full. If he waited, someone might see it. But the comm badge also housed his universal communicator, and he worried how he would explain to Andrzej why he could no longer speak Polish. He wished now that he hadn't said anything to anyone. It was going to be awkward now. If the people were suspicious before because of his appearance, they'd be doubly so when he ceased his ability to communicate with them.

But he didn't want to disable it just yet. Sisko might still be looking for him. Just because communications were out didn't mean the sensors would be. He decided to wait. He could disable it in the night while the others slept or break it with his boot heel before they got off the train at whatever camp they came to.

Bashir tucked the comm badge back into his uniform and zipped up the collar. The cold was really beginning to bother him. And with one sleeve torn off, it was even worse. The others at least had coats, as ragged as they were. But he hadn't planned on beaming down to the surface and definitely not into an unheated cattle car surrounded by Nazi SS soldiers.

Sisko waited for his senior officers—except Bashir—to take their seats on the bridge. "What did you find, Major?"

"The shuttle has been completely destroyed, Captain," Kira began, letting her frustration show. "There was nothing left of the changeling . . . or the transporter. There's enough large pieces that we might be able to get something back from the computer. But that's going to take a lot of work."

"I might be able to recover something," O'Brien suggested. "We might still get the transporter logs."

Transporter logs would help him find his people. But there were other things just as important that needed the chief's attention. "How many engineers do we have left?" Sisko asked.

O'Brien looked crest-fallen. "Three," he admitted, "including myself."

Sisko nodded wearily. "Dax can work on the shuttle. We need you elsewhere, Chief. It won't do much good if we can find our people without being able to talk to them or transport them back here."

"We can't scan outside for them?" Kira asked, but her eyes told him that she knew the answer already.

"No external sensors," Dax answered. "The changeling modified a probe to blow up in the launcher. The forward sensors are gone, literally."

"The parasites took out the rest though," O'Brien stated optimistically, "so once we have main power back on line we should have the laterals at least."

"Well that's something," Sisko sighed. But something else was on his mind. That changeling would have been aboard the shuttle. There were no more incidents of sabotage since the shuttle exploded. No sign of the changeling aboard the ship, though they weren't taking chances. So the changeling either died in the blast—unlikely with the planet in transporter range—or beamed down to the planet. Which is just what the Defiant had been trying to prevent in the first place. One changeling could still change the course of history. He looked up when the security officers began to file onto the bridge for their briefing.

One young woman with a red-trimmed uniform stepped to the front of them. She stood at attention. "Ensign Mylea Thomas, sir. I studied history, sir, before I went to the Academy. Mid-twentieth century is my specialty."

Andrzej was waiting for him at one end of the car. "This is my cousin, Vláďa," he said, introducing the boy beside him. He was perhaps eighteen, by Bashir's estimate and definitely scared, though he was trying hard to hide it. "He doesn't speak Polish, but Czech is similar, so he understands. Vláďa's family came here after the Nazis took Prague. Didn't do much good, though. Nazis came here next."

Bashir wished now that he'd gone ahead and disabled his communicator. If he spoke, Andrzej and Vláďa would both understand him, each in their own languages. And that would take even more explaining. He wished he could set the translator for specific languages, but it just didn't work that way, at least not without proper equipment to alter it. It was designed for a completely different century, one where hundreds of different cultures interacted without the luxury of a single common language.

Well, Bashir thought to himself, we'll just have to try not talking at all. Smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he held out his hand to Vláďa. Vláďa took it and gave it a half-hearted shake.

"Where are you from, anyway?" Andrzej asked.

Damn, Bashir cursed silently. That was not a yes or no question. He would have to answer. He sincerely hoped that the answer he gave was similar enough in the two languages that neither one of the others would notice. Keeping it short, he simply said, "England." It wasn't exactly a lie.

Neither of his companions seemed to notice. But Andrzej's countenance actually dropped. "Then how did you get here?"

Bashir shrugged. That one was easier. Nothing to say. And he was still telling the truth.

"But if you're here," Vláďa began, "then does that mean the Allies are losing?"

Bashir pretended that he didn't understand and looked to Andrzej for translation. It also gave him a little time to try and decide how best to answer. He couldn't give the future away, but telling them that they were not losing wouldn't change anything, except perhaps that it might give them a little bit more hope.

"Are the Allies losing the war?" Andrzej interpreted Vláďa's question.

"No," Bashir stated flatly. Since both Polish and Czech shared the same Slavic base, he was sure he could get away with something as simple as that. But he was worried that the conversation would only continue and become riskier by the minute.

Andrzej only nodded though and stared sadly at the ground. "But they're still not in Bialystok. There's no one to stop the Nazis from taking us. I've heard, from others, about a place. A place where they take Jews."

Bashir half wished that he would stop there, for Vláďa's sake. He was scared enough. But he was glad for the change of topic away from himself. He couldn't keep it up. They'd eventually notice that something wasn't quite right about him.

As they waited there, the light began to fade. And with the light went what little heat they'd had. Andrzej and his cousin had stopped asking questions and turned to huddle together for warmth. Vláďa, in particular, seemed very near panic. Andrzej, who'd earlier been reminding everyone of their fate, was now consoling his cousin, reassuring him that if they were strong and had faith, they would get through it. They would survive. Vláďa didn't seem so sure.

Julian, for his part, didn't feel too sure either. He knew he was in excellent health and stood a good chance of surviving. But he was also aware that it was only a chance. The Nazis had set out to annihilate the Jewish population in Europe. Whether he lived or died depended as much on their whims as it did on his health going in. And his new companions were not nearly as healthy. It would be even harder for them. At least they have each other, he thought.

Julian had no one. That was more apparent to him in the cold. He thought about that time when the Defiant had been damaged by the Jem'Hadar. He and Jadzia had been trapped in a turbolift. It had been this cold then. Probably colder. But they'd held each other, sharing whatever warmth they'd had. It was nice that it was Jadzia that time, but now he would settle for just about anyone.

Starfleet uniforms were great, on the whole, and very adaptable. But they couldn't adapt to extremes of cold or heat. And it was downright frigid in the railroad car. His breath came out in a puff of vapor when he exhaled, and it was hard to keep from shivering. He found that if he relaxed his whole body, the shaking would stop. But he couldn't keep that still. He envied the others their coats and rags, no matter how tattered they were. At least they were something.

He could feel his comm badge against his chest, and he wondered if he should try again to contact the ship. Surely, by now, they would've realized he was missing. Of course, he knew there was most likely sabotage, and many systems, like communications, might be out. And even if they did find him, he wasn't sure how he'd get out of this. Locked in this cattle car, there was no way to transport him out without being seen. Maybe they realized that, he thought. Maybe that's why they haven't called. It was not a comforting thought, but he could understand.

He thought that perhaps he should go ahead and disable his communicator. Actually he wasn't quite sure how to do it. He didn't have any tools with him. Simply breaking it was out of the question, at least for now. The car was too quiet. Someone would hear. And he still didn't know what to do about Andrzej.

Someone had been inside the stasis unit, he said to himself as his thoughts returned to the ship. But who? It didn't make any sense. Unless . . . unless someone did not want that person to be found. The readouts were tampered with so that he wouldn't know the drawer was activated. He thought about the strange Klingon vessel, the vial of blood that was not quite right. A changeling! The person in the drawer was the person the changeling replaced. Was it Whaley? It was her blood. But that's just it, he thought. It was her blood. It was human blood. How did the changeling manage that?

It was growing darker still, but Julian thought he glimpsed new snow falling outside the windows. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast on the Defiant. But then he thought about the others in the car. They'd probably had even less to eat. All of them had looked thin and malnourished.

One thing he did worry about, though, was frostbite. His ears had long since grown numb, and he was losing the feeling in his hands, even though they were tucked beneath his arms. People were starting to lay down on the floor and go to sleep. Julian didn't think he could. He was just too cold. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hard wooden wall. Risa, he thought, lounging on the beach with the sun warming my skin. It didn't help. He was still freezing.

Kira stood up and stretched her arms behind her back, trying to work out the kink that had settled on her spine. She and a few others had been sifting through the wreckage of the shuttle, trying to find traces of . . . well, just about anything. Her back still ached. I may have to have Julian look at it, she thought and then stopped herself. Julian wasn't there. Through the force-field, she could see the stars and Earth's one moon past the outer hull, but not the sun. Night. She hoped he was down on that planet somewhere and not lost among those stars.

As much as he'd annoyed her at times—and he really did annoy her at times—Kira had to admit that the doctor had grown on her. He could be exasperating, egotistical, and completely tactless, but he could also be like he was when Bareil died: dedicated, caring, and sensitive. He could be sweet. At first, she had hated that. She hadn't seen much sweet on Bajor most of her life. It was pointless and got in the way. Sweet could get you killed.

Now, he reminded her of what she could have been, what billions of Bajorans could have been, if they'd been able to grow up in peace and freedom. He had what they had lost, what the Cardassians had taken from them. He still had it, even after the Jem'Hadar internment. It had hardened him, she could tell, but it hadn't completely erased that quality he had. And she didn't want him to lose it now.

She knelt down amid the debris again and scanned it with her tricorder. Bashir was not the only one missing.

A soft murmur of whispering voices found its way to Julian's ears from across the car where the wounded man had been. They grew louder and his translator was able to translate what the voices were saying. "He's dead." At that point, all voices stopped. Even those that had been talking among themselves, not about the man at all, froze in their conversations. Bashir's first thought was to rush over there and check for a pulse, but his fingers were numb. He wouldn't even be able to feel it. He couldn't bring himself to move his legs from their curled-up position. And he knew there was still nothing he could do for the man.

Finally, someone spoke up. "What will we do with him? The door is locked. We can't put him out."

In the darkness, Bashir could make out a form still moving over the man. As he watched a gust of cold air blew in through the windows, and a light dusting of snow landed on his left knee. It melted almost as soon as he saw it. He didn't want to see it. It only made it feel worse. He pulled his legs in closer to his chest and lowered his head onto his knees.

"Not for me," he heard the old woman say. "For him."

"Why him?" someone argued. "He's a stranger. He hasn't had to live in the ghetto."

"He's a Jew," she countered. "He's in this as much as we are. Besides he has nothing. You have a coat."

Bashir was so lost in the cold that he didn't realize they were talking about him until the woman tapped lightly on his knee. "Put these on," she said, when Bashir lifted his head. "You'll be warmer."

He looked past her to the corner where the man had been. He could see him there, even in the dim light. The white flesh of the man's torso stood out against the dark walls. Trying not to shake, Bashir reached out and took the clothes that she offered. They were dirty and they smelled bad, but he didn't mind. The woman was right. They would keep him warmer. He opened his mouth to thank her, but remembered that he probably shouldn't speak. His lips were numb anyway. He just nodded to her and hugged the clothes to his chest. Her mouth curled up into a little smile, and Bashir thought as she walked away, that she must be someone's grandmother. She just had that quality about her.

Setting the clothes beside him, Julian began to sort through them. It wasn't easy without light, but he found several shirts. The man had been wearing layers against the cold. But Julian thought it odd that there were no pants. So he took one of shirts, the thickest one, and wrapped it around his legs, tucking it around tight. Then he took the others and put them on, one by one. They were just a bit short in the sleeves and too big everywhere else. But that hardly mattered. Each one felt like an extra barrier against the pervasive cold.

There was a coat, too, that the woman had put at his feet. It was as old and torn as Andrzej's, but it felt so much warmer to slip it on. He wrapped that around his torso and fumbled around for the pockets. He found them and plunged his hands inside. Almost immediately, his hands began to ache. It was a normal reaction, he knew, and a good sign, but he closed his eyes again to wait for it to end.

The maneuvering thrusters worked. Well, that's one thing, Sisko thought wryly. At least it will lessen our chances of being seen. Luckily 1943 was too early for humans to be exploring space. But they did have telescopes. It was better, therefore, to stay on the lighted side of the planet. But using the thrusters now, while they were on the night side, would only make them more visible. They would have to stay put until dawn. Then they'd be safe to move again before the next nightfall.

Sisko worried about his people. External sensors were still out, but he'd had every available officer check out every viewport to see if anyone could be seen. He'd been relieved when none of the missing crewmen had been spotted. It was still possible that they were transported into space, but beyond what was visible to the naked eye. Sisko decided he'd rather concentrate on the possibility that they'd been transported to the planet.

Sisko sighed and checked the time. It had been nearly ten hours since Bashir's disappearance, when they first began to realize that they'd had a saboteur on board the ship. Ten hours. Too much could go wrong in that time. None of the crewmen were prepared to beam down to the planet in this time. Just as when Bashir, Dax, and he had accidentally transported into the twenty-first century during the Bell riots in San Francisco, their uniforms would cause them to stand out when what they really needed to do was blend in. Every hour they spent in that time carried more danger, for themselves and for history. Some little, seemingly insignificant action could change the timeline.

An even worse thought was that the changeling was probably down there, too. It would be nearly impossible to find, even with sensors. If it was portraying a human, the sensors would only register a human, among billions of other humans. It made Sisko angry to think that it had already been walking around on his ship, impersonating not one but two members of his crew for the last week.

Sisko stood up and stretched his back. O'Brien had protested at first when he had told him that he would be working on the transporter. The Irishman could be quite protective of this ship. But one quick reminder of who'd designed this ship in the first place had quieted the chief down. Sisko hadn't expected nearly the amount of damage he'd found though. The platform had been physically torn up and key parts removed. The phase transition coils were missing and the targeting scanners, since they were linked to the external sensor arrays, were useless as well.

Deciding that he needed to stretch his legs, Sisko started walking around the room. It was a small room, so it didn't take long to reach the back wall. Most of the screens and readouts here were blank, since a non-functional transporter was not an essential system, but Sisko couldn't help but feel a little claustrophobic without the usual sounds and lights and the shining stars from a viewport.

Without thinking, he had let his eyes drift down to the floor, following the line of the wall where it met the carpet. He was tired. The remaining crew, including the senior staff, was pulling double-shifts now, keeping the posts covered and effecting repairs, as well as running investigations. Kira had returned to her quarters nearly two hours ago to get some sleep, before she started back on her next two shifts. In another two, Sisko would be free to rest. But he wasn't sure he wanted to rest. He wanted to get his ship running again so he could find his crew and take them home.

Something caught his eye. There was a reddish-brown spot on the floor below the transporter controls. Sisko knelt down to get a better look at it, but there wasn't enough light to see. He almost called for lights, but remembered that wouldn't help. Main power was still offline. Emergency lights were all they had to work with. Forgetting the lights, he returned to the platform where he'd been working and retrieved the tricorder that lay there with the other tools. He already had a sinking suspicion what that spot was.

He knelt again beside the spot and scanned the area with the tricorder. Just as he thought. It was blood. Human blood. Sisko made a mental note to check the duty roster. His optimism—what little he'd had—was beginning to slip away. Maybe he wouldn't find his crewmen alive at all.