Max waited in shame for his turn to be shaved. He was humiliated, standing before these people naked and powerless. But more so, he thought of Sofie. His beautiful, shy Sofie. Would they shave her, too, and cut her long blond braids? How could she bear that? She would bear it, he tried to tell himself, ignoring the scissors and the man holding them. It didn't matter what they did to him. What was hair anyway? It would grow again. Sofie would think the same. She would bear it and say it is nothing, because other things were much more important than hair and humiliation. She would bear it, and so he would bear it, too. And he would see her again in the camp.

He was both pushed and pulled with the crowd. He simply let them and his legs carry him wherever they were going. Out into the cold again. The air stung him, forced him to pay attention. He closed his eyes and tried to see their faces. Sofie sobbing as she clung to Hanna. Hanna, sweet little, Hanna. She would turn three next month. So young and yet she already knew fear and hunger. It was so wrong. When she was born, he was so proud. He would have given her the world had she but asked for it. It only stung more when she had asked for bread and he had none to give.

He opened his eyes again when he felt the water on his shoulder. A shower. He hadn't had a chance to really bathe in days or even weeks. But the water here was scalding. Some tried to run back out but were beaten back by the guards. Max was sandwiched between too many people and was forced to endure the burning water. Then the crowd was pushing and pulling him again, back out into the cold on the icy camp streets. Dawn was just beginning to break, he saw, or was it just the camp's lights reflected by the smoke that hung over the buildings and smelled sickening and sweet?

Someone pushed something at him. It was one of the camp uniforms—a striped shirt, a pair of brown pants and a thin coat marked on the back by a large red patch. The clothes didn't look clean, and they didn't fit right, but at least they were something to wear. He could cover himself, and they provided some protection from the cold. There was a striped cap and some hard wooden shoes as well. He dressed quickly and moved on with the crowd, still in a daze, still waiting for the world to right itself.

That's enough of that, Julian, Bashir scolded himself, trying to break free of his depression. You have to find Vláďa. It was not just because of his promise to Andrzej. Finding Vláďa would give him someone else to worry about. And that would get his mind off of his own troubles. He scanned the men around him again, but couldn't see the boy.

The clothes he'd been given did not fit at all right, and he thought about what Garak would think of his new fashion statement. "Hardly flattering, my dear doctor," he'd say. And the vertical blue and gray stripes would only make him look taller and thinner. At least it was only the pants. Still, he sighed at that thought. He'd definitely be losing weight on this trip. The pants were too short, but he was somewhat more fortunate with the shirt. It was too big. He could pull the sleeves down part of the way over his hands. It was terribly thin, however, compared with the pants. But it felt good to put something on, even if it wasn't clean and wouldn't keep him warm.

You can do this, Julian, he told himself. It may be hard, but you can get through it. You managed a month with the Jem'Hadar. Surely you can manage this. The others will find you. But he was never very good at giving himself pep talks, and this time was no exception. Would the others find him? Had the changeling really killed Sisko? He sighed and hoped that the changeling had been lying to break his spirit. And you let her do it, too, he chided. He'd done exactly what she wanted, lost his hope. He would have to try harder in the future.

He staggered along with the others, following a guard deeper into the camp. He felt dizzy and chalked that up to not having eaten anything but a few icicles in the last three days—or was it four? His jaw ached and he fingered it gently. Bruised. From where the changeling had hit him. She wasn't going to make things easy. And it would be hard enough even if he only had the Nazis to deal with.

One of the others, a younger man, maybe Jake's age, was pushing his way back through the crowd. It took a moment for Bashir to recognize that it was Vláďa. His hair was gone and his eyes were wide and panicked. Bashir waved him over toward him and looked around to see if the guards had noticed him. Vláďa looked relieved to have found him, and Bashir grabbed his arm so that they wouldn't be separated again. He looked him over quickly in the dim light as they walked. He seemed to be alright, or rather, no worse off than he was before.

They were led into another building. Again, the group slowed and Bashir couldn't see what was happening at the front. He heard some short screams though and muffled crying. Vláďa grew more afraid and clung to Bashir's arm. After perhaps half an hour, he and the boy were at the front. Several prisoners there were working with the new arrivals. One of them handed Vláďa a slip of paper. Further up, another prisoner was pressing a needle to the arm of one of the men from the train. The SS guard, the changeling, had appeared again, standing not far from that. He began to move forward as Bashir was given a similar sheet of paper. It was a form of some sort, but Bashir could not read it.

"You don't read German?" the changeling asked loudly in a deep accent. Then he explained each of the lines as Bashir filled in information, some of which he made up. He couldn't exactly say his address was Deep Space Nine after all. He was pushed forward to the next table. Vláďa was waiting for him on the other side, but he got shoved out the door. Another prisoner at the table took the card Bashir still held and grabbed his left arm, twisting it and pushing up the sleeve so that his forearm was bared. Using quick motions he began stabbing Bashir with the needle he'd seen earlier. Bashir's arm stung with each jab, but he held his tongue, knowing that there were worse things in this camp than a number tattooed on his arm. He was handed a couple of patches with the same number and four cloth triangles.

They were led to a long building but were forced to wait outside of it and lined up in rows of five. Another prisoner began to count, in German. An SS officer, though not the one the changeling had been impersonating, stood nearby watching. It took several minutes for the man to finish, but when he did he approached the SS and gave him a report of the number of prisoners. The wind had picked up, and Bashir noticed that some of the newcomers had received coats with their clothes. Both he and Vláďa were forced to do without.

Finally, the counting done, they were led inside. This building was quite different from the others. There was a walkway down the middle with what looked like a short, wide, brick wall running the length of it. Bashir thought he felt a little heat coming from it. It was not enough to heat the room. On either side were wooden bunks, three high and without mattresses or blankets. They were crooked and slanted and didn't look very sturdy.

One man, a leader of some sort who wore a slightly different uniform, started pointing to the bunks and counting off five people. Bashir and Vláďa were allocated to one near the door, a middle bunk, with three other people who didn't seem to know each other. Julian helped Vláďa up onto the bunk and then climbed up himself. There was barely enough room for all of them to sit on the planks. Julian's shoulders brushed the bottom of the bunk above him.

Bashir looked at Vláďa and sighed again. "How am I going to talk to you?" he asked, knowing the boy wouldn't understand.

Vláďa looked back at him blankly and shook his head slightly. "Kde je Ondřej?"

Bashir caught the name and realized what he must be asking. Where was his cousin? But how could he tell Vláďa that Andrzej had been killed? Even if they'd had a common language between them, Julian wasn't sure he wanted to be the one to break that to anyone.

"Ty jsi Čech?" one of the men on the bunk asked excitedly, grabbing Vláďa by the arm. He was thin and looked to be about the same age as Bashir was, maybe a little older. Otherwise there was little to distinguish the man from any of the others.

"Jo," Vláďa answered, nodding his head.

The other man looked only slightly relieved. Something else was clearly on his mind, and his eyes kept darting back around the room as he listened to the other conversations going on. "Jmenuji se Max," he said finally. "Max Zeidl. Před válkou jsem žil v Teplicích."

"Vláďa Ščerbak," Vláďa replied, and Bashir realized they were doing introductions. "Z Prahy. A tady je. . . ." He hesitated looking toward Bashir.

"Julian Bashir," Julian supplied, extending his hand.

Max took it and shook quickly. He eyed Bashir for a moment with a look of both curiosity and a bit of suspicion. In fact, Bashir was getting that from a lot of their fellow prisoners. But Max turned back to Vláďa. "Angličan?" he asked.

Vláďa nodded. "Můj bratranec a já jsme ho potkali ve vlaku. Měl na sobě nějaké divné oblečení, ale Ondřej si myslí že je doktor."

"On nemluví česky?"

Vláďa shook his head. "Ne."

Max turned back to Bashir, and Bashir wondered what they'd been talking about. "Sprechen Sie deutsch?" he asked slowly.

Bashir shook his head. "No, English." And then he quickly added, "and French. Parlez-vous français?"

Max dropped his eyes and his shoulders sagged. "Nein."

Great, Bashir thought, sarcastically. There was an awkward silence between them, but he really didn't know what he could do about it. Neither of them could understand him.

Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax rubbed her eyes and then checked the chronometer. 0800. Her shift was over. She yawned and then checked the computer again. It was beginning to make sense of the bits and pieces of data they'd managed to recover from the debris of the shuttle. Nothing concrete yet, but she could see that some of the fragments were from the transporter logs. If they could get even partial coordinates from the logs, they would have a better chance of finding Julian and the other missing crewmen.

Dax ordered the computer to keep working and to notify her of any results and then headed for the turbolift. She sighed as the lift began to move. She knew she cared for Julian and treasured his friendship, but she was still surprised at how much she missed him now. He'd been away before on various missions, some of them quite dangerous. He'd even once been reported dead. She had attended his memorial service. She had thought she would never miss him as much as then. But she did now.

She missed him more. He always had a bright smile for her, was always kind. He would go out of his way for her, do anything for her. He had even risked his life to save her. Not every friend would do that. And she knew he would do that for just about anyone. He was a special kind of person. She'd known that for some time now. He was intelligent and handsome, seemingly arrogant to those who didn't know him and yet insecure, naive at times and wise at others. He was sweet and kind, almost fragile. And yet he was strong and determined and very protective of patients, fearless when they were threatened. He was, in many ways, a contradiction. She liked that about him.

The turbolift stopped and she stepped out, passing other crewmen just coming on to their shifts. She yawned again. Continuous double shifts were hard on a body. And the days were shorter here, which didn't help. She had gotten used to the twenty-six hour days on Deep Space Nine. Twenty-four didn't leave much time for anything but sleeping and eating in between sixteen hours of duty.

The days went by faster, and she wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, it kept her busy, leaving less time to worry and think about Julian and the others. And it would be that much sooner to the day when the Defiant was repaired. But she also knew that it was still the same amount of time, whether or not it was the same number of days that went by. Each day was one more that Julian was not on board the ship. He'd been gone more than three days already.

And each day was another day that the changeling could be tampering with Earth's history, and thereby, the Federation's. She had talked with Ensign Thomas about this time. This was, in many ways, a pivotal point in Earth's history. A massive planetary war was being fought. And when it ended the balance of power would have shifted from Europe to North America and the Soviet Union. And within just a few years, the first nuclear weapon would be released ushering in a nuclear age.

As bad as it all sounded, Dax knew that it would give way to better things. Zephram Cochran would use a discarded nuclear weapon to invent the first warp ship. And the Federation would spring from that little point in history. She had seen it many times in her eight lives' worth of memories. The good is tied up with the bad in a delicate balance. It would not take much for the changeling to tip the scales one way or the other.

Her quarters were dark when she reached them, and she didn't bother turning on the lights. She slipped off the outer layers of her uniform and then laid down on the lower bunk. She ordered the computer to wake her at 1500 hours and fell asleep.

The leader, the one in the different uniform, was speaking now. Or rather, he was yelling. He seemed to be engaged in an angry tirade, and he beat upon the bunks with a small, hard, rubber club as he walked past them. But, of course, Julian Bashir could understand very little of what was being said. He caught a few words, simply because of the similarity of some German words to their English counterparts. "Konzentrationslager" was "concentration camp". He already knew the name, so "Auschwitz" was familiar to him, too, though the man said it in combination with another word he didn't know, "Birkenau." "Morgen" and "Nacht" he understood as "morning" and "night", but could not understand what was said about them.

All of the prisoners sat listening in stunned silence. Their eyes followed the leader, who had identified himself as a Blockälteste, as he paced disgustedly from one end of the long building to the other. Bashir counted the bunks as he passed and was shocked to realize that there had to be over four hundred men in just this one block. How many other blocks were there? The scale of the camp staggered him.

Max listened intently to the man, so intently that Bashir thought he might fall over the end of the bunk and land right on the floor in front of him. But instead, he seemed frozen there, precariously perched over the narrow walkway.

One man, toward the center of the row of bunks on the opposite side of the building interrupted the Blockälteste, standing up in front of him in a daring display of dignity and courage. "Wo sind unsere Familien?" he asked.

Julian recognized the reference to family. Max moved then, and peered farther out into the walkway, obviously very interested in the answer. Vláďa, too, moved farther toward the end of the bunk.

In answer the Blockälteste raised his club and smashed it down on the man's shoulder, bringing him instantly to his knees. Three more blows left him cringing on the floor. Bashir watched in horror. The Blockälteste laughed in the face of his own cruelty. "Hast du den Rauch nicht gesehen?" he asked loudly, kicking the fallen man in the side. "Da ist deine familie und da wirst du auch bald landen!"

No one dared to move to help the man. Bashir had to fight his own instincts to stop himself from jumping down and moving to his side. Max though, had gone pale, and he mumbled something over and over. "Was meint er bloss? Rauch? Was meint er damit?"

"Co říkal?" Vláďa asked, tugging on Max's sleeve.

"Říkal, že všichni skončíme v kouří," Max translated, though he still only whispered and his eyes never met Vláďa's. "Jak je to možné? Jak mužou být v kouří?" The skin around his eyes began to swell and then a tear fell down his face. And his breathing became more rapid.

He knows, Julian thought. He wondered if the Blockälteste had shouted it out then, told them that their families had been killed, but the rest of the block seemed to be lost still in shock and confusion. Vláďa didn't show any signs of the shock and grief that were becoming more and more apparent in Max's face.

Max switched from Czech back to German, still muttering to himself, only now he was becoming louder. The Blockälteste had moved to the far end of the building. "Hat noch jemand irgendetwas zu sagen?" he bellowed. His stance conveyed a definite threat.

"Wie können sie im Rauch sein?" Max asked, working himself into a panic. "Wo sind meine Sofie und meine kleine Hanna? Wie können sie im Rauch sein?"

"Ticho!" Vláďa whispered urgently.

Max ignored him and kept repeating himself. He fidgeted now and Bashir thought perhaps he would jump down from the bunk. He looked down the walkway, hoping the Blockälteste hadn't heard. The man was making his way again to their end of the barracks, still thumping his club against the wooden beams of the bunks. The man he'd beaten still lay motionless on the floor. The Blockälteste stepped over him as if he were no more than a wrinkle in a carpet.

"Wie können sie im Rauch sein?" Max challenged. The Blockälteste stopped in his tracks.

He's going to get himself killed, Bashir thought and he knew he couldn't sit by and watch it happen.

"Wie—" Max began again, but Bashir moved quickly to get behind him. He slapped a hand over Max's mouth and pulled him back from the edge of the bunk. Max struggled and tried to kick his feet, but Vláďa threw himself over his legs. Bashir was thankful for the help. He kept a close watch on the Blockälteste. He didn't seem to know where the outburst had come from and had resumed his tirade.

Max's hands clawed at Bashir's, but Julian refused to let him go. Max's body was rigid as he struggled, but then he seemed to melt, relaxing his muscles and falling into Bashir. His body convulsed then, and Bashir realized he was sobbing. He released his hold on Max's face and wrapped his arms around him, holding him while he wept. Sophia and Hannah, he'd said, Bashir recalled. Wife and child, perhaps? Or sisters?

He glanced at Vláďa, wondering if he now understood, too, where his cousin had gone. Vláďa still held Max's legs which had given up kicking him away. He was doubled up with his face buried against Max's knees. He knew, too.

*********

"Captain!" Kira said, her voice carrying excitement and urgency. She turned to face him, nearly beaming. "I've got a signal."

The whole bridge erupted in a cheer, and Sisko found himself smiling as well, though he knew that any celebrations were premature. Still after six days of searching, it was good news. "On screen, Major."

The viewscreen came to life. This time there was no need for the computer to enhance the image. O'Brien and his teams had managed to get the starboard sensors up to half-strength. The viewscreen showed a much wider area than before, and Sisko could clearly identify the area shown as the western coast of South America, bordered on one side by the Pacific and the other by the Andes Mountains.

One pinpoint of light glowed toward the bottom edge of the screen. As they watched another light appeared not far from the first and then another nearer the coast. The only problem was, Sisko had studied his geography. The three signals were located in a desert. The Atacama to be precise, and it was still just as arid in the twenty-fourth century as it was in the twentieth.

"Communications?" Sisko asked, knowing the answer, but hoping that perhaps he had grossly underestimated his crew.

"Not yet, Benjamin," Dax replied sadly.

He knew the transporter was still out as well. "Well, let's try and keep some sort of lock on them," Sisko decided. "As soon as we've got communications, we want to get word to them. Can we tell who they are?"

Kira ran her hands over her controls. "Crewmen Wieland," she read, "Armand, and Keller."

Sisko lowered his voice, knowing that the next question he asked wouldn't be taken well by his crew. "Lifesigns?"

Kira shook her head. "Sensors are just too weak to make that out at this range."

Sisko sighed. At least that wasn't bad news. It was possible to survive in the desert, just not easy. And finding them told him something else as well. "Major, let's not limit the search to populated areas. We'll need to scan every inch of the planet's surface."

The noise level on the bridge had dropped considerably, and Sisko knew morale was being tested by the long shifts, slow repairs, and worries over missing crewmates. They'd just had a high point, but the inability to aid the three crewmembers they'd just found took the joy out of finding them. It was time for a show of support from the captain. He stood. "All hands," Sisko began, knowing the computer would instantly open the comm line so that every member of the crew would hear what he was about to say, "I'd like to express my appreciation for all the hard work that this crew has been doing.

"I realize that the last week has been a great strain on all of us, and it's not about to let up. Just a few moments ago, sensors were able to locate three of our missing crewmembers. As yet we cannot speak with them or transport them back aboard the ship, but every day, every shift we are closer to doing that. Your hard work is paying off. Let's keep working and bring our people home."

The first time he'd seen the soup, he was sure he did not want to eat it. It looked like little more than dirty water with things floating in it. The things floating were not necessarily of much food value at all. He'd even found a button in it once, perhaps fallen off the cook's shirt. But after several days of eating nothing but a few icicles, he was hungry enough to try anything. And since the soup was the only thing allowed him, he drank it, and subsequently vomited. Vláďa had, too, and Max. They all did at first. But the next day came, and they were even hungrier. Then the soup stayed down.

He had thought that they would be made slaves in the camp, but they had yet to leave the courtyard of the barracks except to be taken in groups to toilet blocks or to attend the roll calls. And yet staying was proving bad enough. Each morning they were chased out of the barracks while it was still dark outside. After roll call, they were led back to the courtyard, but not allowed inside.

The Blockälteste drilled them incessantly, forcing them to lie down and then jump back up repeatedly and delivering blows to anyone who didn't seem to catch on fast enough. Bashir had received a few himself, and his arms still ached from it. The Germans called this "sport" and laughed as they watched the exhausted prisoners drop to the ground and then get up and run in place to the commands of the Blockälteste. Julian didn't find it too hard at first. He was fit and could manage the exercises. But his hunger was making it harder. Several prisoners dropped and never moved again. The Blockälteste ignored them and shouted his orders even louder and faster. They were also taught German marching songs and how to report to the SS in German. They got a meager ration of soup at midday and then had to endure another roll call in the evening.

The roll calls were horrendous, much more so than he would have imagined. They weren't so much roll calls though. No names were called. Twice each day, the prisoners simply stood in rows as the SS guards counted them. There were thousands of prisoners, even in just this part of the camp, and often they would have to count a second time or third. For hours the prisoners would have to stand motionless in the icy wind while their captors counted and recounted.

The rest of the evening, they just sat around the courtyard talking quietly in groups and tried not to get caught by the SS Blockführer or beaten by the Blockälteste and his assistants. Any complaint or question was seen as an infraction and reasonable provocation for a beating. In the last two days, thirty-seven men had died just from Bashir's barracks, from beatings or starvation or sickness. One of them had shared the bunk with Bashir and the two Czechs. Bashir wasn't even sure of his specific cause of death. They just woke up in the morning and he didn't move. Max and he had been forced to carry the body out for roll call.

Suddenly the door burst open. All movement in the barracks stopped as two SS officers stepped inside the door. Neither of them was the Blockführer. Their faces were stern and their noses turned up in disgust. The Blockälteste had frozen, too, when the door opened, but now he was a flurry of movement, shouting orders and clubbing anyone who did not move fast enough.

Max, who'd taken the role of interpreter of sorts, quickly relayed the orders to Vláďa. Bashir watched them and followed their movements. Everyone jumped down from the bunks. Julian did so as well and felt a wave of dizziness at the sudden movement. He forced it away though. Max removed his cap. Julian and Vláďa repeated the movement.

Within seconds the room was silent again. The Blockälteste watched the SS nervously, cringing himself. The SS had waited for the prisoners to line up, but now they moved down the block, each to one side of the 'oven', as Bashir called it to himself. The brick structure that ran down the middle of the barracks was not used to cook anything, though it made a pretense at heating the building. The SS seemed to be surveying the prisoners.

Bashir's bunk was the fourth from the door, and it did not take long for the SS to reach it. They walked with slow methodical steps, stomping loudly with their shiny, black boots. Bashir forced himself to remain perfectly still and held his breath until the SS had passed. The thought that one of them might be the changeling ran through his mind, but he didn't dare look up to see if he recognized them. The changeling had warned him about that.

The SS said nothing as they passed, but simply kept walking, and Bashir realized they were simply trying to intimidate. It was working. Bashir knew what the SS were capable of. He was relieved when they reached the end of the block without incident. The Blockälteste cringed some more as they stopped in front of him, and Bashir smiled slightly to himself. He reminded him of a Ferengi.

The SS turned smartly and began walking back up the block, this time moving at a normal pace. The Blockälteste straightened up behind their backs, obviously relieved as well that the SS were leaving. Bashir held his breath again as they approached his bunk. Two more steps and they would be beyond him.

But the one on his side of the oven stopped right in front of him. He was so close that Bashir could see his own reflection in the toes of the other man's boots. "Hier ist der Engländer," he said slowly, his tone filled with disdain. The second SS joined him.

Bashir slowly blew out the breath he was holding and tried to remain calm. It was no use, however, and he could feel his pulse quicken in his chest. He clenched his fists as he tensed up, expecting blows or a quick bullet to the head. But neither of them drew their weapons. Why had they singled him out? He tried to come up with a reason that would not necessarily entail his own death.

"Komm her!" the first one barked.

Bashir hoped that didn't mean what it sounded like. He didn't want to go anywhere with the German. He figured it had to be safer being part of the crowd. He felt his knees begin to shake and willed them to remain steady.

When Bashir didn't move, the second man came over. "What's the matter, Jew?" he began, his tone mocking, but his words were in heavily accented English. "Can you not understand?" His voice rose. "Step out!" he screamed, grabbing Bashir by the shoulder and forcing him forward. "Out," he ordered, pointing toward the door.

For all its overcrowded filthiness and the cruelty of the Blockälteste, Bashir now did not want to leave the barracks. Whatever chances it offered for punishment and death, he felt his chances were better inside it than out.

He hesitated just for the briefest of moments, but found that it was too long. "Out!" the SS repeated, pulling his weapon. Julian began to move.

Chief O'Brien yawned before he stepped out into the corridor. His shift had just ended four hours ago. He had four hours before the next one started. But a staff meeting was a staff meeting, and this time, he knew, there was good news to report. Luckily the captain's quarters were not too far from his own, and Sisko had promised to keep it brief.

"Come on in, Chief," Sisko said, offering him the only place to sit besides the bunks. "Sorry to wake you up."

"That's alright, sir," O'Brien said, stifling another yawn. Four hours of sleep just wasn't enough. "I heard the good news."

Worf was the last one to arrive. He looked uncomfortable as he stepped into the room. But then, O'Brien knew him well enough to know that he almost always looked uncomfortable. It was one reason that made it so easy to tease Worf. But that wasn't quite as much fun now that Julian wasn't around. Julian was great at it. He had the perfect innocent face. O'Brien wouldn't have thought, several years ago, that Bashir would be such a good liar. Maybe it was something he picked up from Garak. But then again, it could have come from all that enhancement business. He'd kept that quiet for nearly twenty years.

Quarters on the Defiant were small to begin with and really were not made to accommodate staff meetings. But, unfortunately, neither was any place else, at the moment, except the mess hall. But this was a shift change. One third of the remaining crew would be heading there for a meal before turning in. Given the little time they had to do so, Sisko had offered to have the meeting here and keep the mess hall open.

As it was, there weren't enough places for everyone to sit. Sisko himself had opted for the floor, allowing Kira and Dax to share the lower bunk. Worf stood by the door.

"Well, as the Chief said," Sisko began, "there's been some good news. But there's also been some not-so-good news. Let's start with the good.

"I assume you all heard the announcement. Chief, you'll be happy to know that two of your engineers were among the signals found. Armand and Wieland, to be exact. Crewman Keller seems to have been transported nearby."

"Why only three, Benjamin?" Dax asked. "The transporter can handle two at a time."

Sisko did not have an answer for her. Instead he had another question. "Where was Keller stationed last?"

Kira checked a PADD and then gave the answer. "He was in the transporter room."

O'Brien's heart sank. Sisko had found blood in that room.

Sisko sighed. "I don't know how familiar you are with Earth geography. What I'm about to say shouldn't leave this room." He waited for everyone to nod and then continued. "The signals were found in the Atacama Desert."

"You don't think they survived."

There were times that O'Brien appreciated Worf's bluntness, and others when it really annoyed him. This was one of the latter. The Chief thought that maybe Sisko felt that way too, but the captain had a lot of restraint.

Sisko stared at the Klingon for a moment before replying. "I think it's still possible that they are alive. It would be difficult, but not impossible, to survive there."

O'Brien thought about what Kira had said. "If Keller was in the transporter room," he said, "then he was one of the first." He looked to Sisko for confirmation. When the captain nodded, he continued. "Armand and Wieland were in the Engine Room. They were after him."

"Do you think they may all be there?" Dax asked.

Kira shook her head though. "I know the sensors are weak, but I scoured that area. There were no other signals there."

Sisko agreed. "We can't assume they're all there. What we need to decide is whether or not to divulge the names of the three to the crew."

"Why wouldn't we?" O'Brien asked. He felt like maybe he knew the answer, but he was really too tired now to figure it out on his own.

"Because we can't talk to them or beam them up," Sisko answered patiently. "And because they are in a desert."

"Might get their hopes up," Kira assessed.

"Exactly," Sisko confirmed. "I don't want to assume the worst, but I did find blood on the floor of the transporter room. Besides, I want to concentrate on getting everyone back. I don't want the crew thinking of this friend or that friend. I want them thinking of the 'crew.'"

Sisko sat quietly for a few moments. "Chief, how soon can we have communications?"

O'Brien dreaded questions like this. With a full engineering team, modern equipment, the necessary tools, and a starbase to dock at, they could have had the ship back to top form in two weeks, tops. But they were short on all of those things, especially the starbase. There was nowhere to get new parts. They had to replicate nearly everything they needed, and main power still was not up to full strength. It was a lot like the first time he had set eyes on Deep Space Nine. There were a lot of systems needing repairs, too few people to repair them, and not enough parts. It could be fixed. It was just going to take awhile.

Finally he answered. "We should have something in a few days, Captain, maybe by tomorrow, though it would be very limited. The changeling destroyed our antennae. We'll probably be out of range with the surface. We're going to have to get closer."

"And the transporter?"

"You've seen it yourself, sir," O'Brien apologized. "It's torn to pieces."

Sisko nodded. At least he was being patient—more patient than O'Brien felt. The majority of his people were down there somewhere. And so was Julian, and Julian was his best friend. He only hoped he wasn't letting it show too much to his new team of makeshift engineers. Their jobs were hard enough without him riding rough-shod all over them.

"I think we've been going about this all wrong," Sisko continued, "by assuming that the changeling would beam our people into the more heavily populated areas. The Atacama certainly isn't heavily populated. So the other crewmembers might be somewhere equally as obscure."

"And equally as hostile," Worf added.

"Which is all the more reason to find them."

Bashir was surprised when the SS officers walked away. They had given some orders to the other guard that had been standing outside the barracks door. He was dressed differently from the SS, and Bashir decided that he was probably not an officer. He was even more surprised when the guard marched him right out of the camp.

A truck was waiting there, with six armed soldiers in the back. The guard said nothing to him, but he prodded with his gun to get him in the truck. The guard climbed in as well. The other soldiers all eyed him nervously, their hands on their guns, fingers near the triggers. What did they think of him, Bashir wondered, that it required so many guards to watch him?

He tried to ignore them and looked out the back of the truck. He could see the immensity of the camp they'd just left and the curved, cane-like posts that held the barbed wire. The whole countryside beyond was desolate, and it did not even occur to Bashir that it was an effect of winter. He could not imagine this place in springtime. It just didn't seem right.

The ride was a short one, no more than a few kilometers he guessed. The truck stopped and the guard shoved him out and then jumped down himself. He was led through a metal gate into another camp. It looked to him almost like a small town with nice brick buildings and pebble-covered streets lined with trees. The guard walked behind him. Bashir could hear his gun rattling as he walked.

The sun had set, which cast the camp in shadows and dim light. Julian tried to keep track of the buildings they passed, the path they walked to wherever he was being taken. It had been a long walk already, and his legs ached from the strain. He couldn't see the other camp anymore, the one where Vláďa and Max were, but he could still see the haze of smoke from the fires just beyond.

The guard stopped him at another gate, this one set into a brick wall between two buildings. The gate opened and Bashir was pushed inside. A guard there questioned his guard for a few moments and then motioned them into the yard.

It was a plain, open area, walled again at the opposite end. A smaller wooden wall was placed in front of that one, its sides flared inward toward the yard. The windows on the building to the left were boarded up so that Bashir couldn't see inside. There were a few wooden posts along that side as well that reached nearly as high as the tops of the windows. Bashir couldn't decide what they were for, since they were set wide apart from each other and did not seem to support anything. Another guard was standing there. The building on the other side was rather nondescript by comparison. A few steps led up to a door about halfway between the gate and the wooden wall at the other end.

The guard pushed him to the left though, toward the boarded building and one of the tall posts. The man waiting there smiled as they approached. Maybe that's the changeling, Julian thought. He still didn't know why he'd been taken from the barracks in the other camp and brought to this one. None of the guards had yet said anything to him about it, in German or otherwise.

The man at the posts grabbed Bashir by the shoulders and spun him around to face the first guard, the one who had brought him here. That one looked on impassively as Bashir's hands were tied behind him. At first, Bashir thought they were going to tie him to the post but he realized his arms hadn't been brought around the post. He tried to show no reaction when the ropes were pulled tight against his wrists, but he worried about the circulation if he should be tied that way for long.

The man behind him then began to lift Bashir's arms high behind his back, causing him to bend over toward the ground. Again, he tried to keep his face even. He clenched his teeth as his arms were lifted even higher. His shoulders and back began to protest, and the other guard had to actually lift him up. By the time he was secured to the post his feet were dangling just above the ground. The ropes began to bite into his wrists, and finally the guards backed away, leaving him hanging on the post.

So that's what they're for, he thought, trying to ignore the pain. It's not that bad, he told himself. It's more discomfort than pain. But as the night deepened, he was not fully convinced of his own argument.

It most assuredly was pain, in his shoulders and in his chest. He found it difficult to breathe in that position. His arms were going numb, both from the cold and from the lack of circulation. His legs felt the same way.

He'd never thought that a simple post, such as this one, could be such an effective punishment device. Whatever it was he had done to deserve his hours of torment hanging from it, Bashir decided he was very sorry and would endeavor not to do it again, provided someone told him what his crime had been. He'd hoped they would come back for him when morning broke, but when the guards arrived, they had another prisoner with them, whom they hung on the post to Bashir's left.

Another hour went by and he tried to concentrate on something besides the pain and the numbness in his hands and feet. He tried reciting poems or singing songs in his head, but he found he couldn't remember the words and verses. He couldn't concentrate. He tried then recounting the names of his crewmates, starting with the senior staff and everything he knew about each of them.

He thought of Sisko and Jake and baseball, of Kira and the resistance, of Dax and tried to name all of her previous hosts. But he couldn't remember if Audrid had come before Emony. He moved on to O'Brien and then gave up. It wasn't working. They had to come for him soon.

Major Kira Nerys sipped her raktajino as she read the report Dax had left for her. It showed the first positive results they'd gotten from the remains of the shuttle. The report contained coordinates and pieces of transporter logs, but little that was complete. The records also showed the command for self-destruct and that the authorization for such a measure had been by-passed.

Kira already had people trying to match up the coordinates with the planet they were orbiting. But coordinates worked in specific ways. To mark any particular point on the globe, you need two sets of coordinates, one for latitude and one for longitude. Unfortunately, the report contained only fourteen sets of numbers. Only by the fact that some of the numbers ranged higher than ninety could one tell that they were longitudinal coordinates and not those of latitude. So for a coordinate of 20 degrees there were four possible locations, one in each hemisphere and each one a ring around the entire planet.

For some, a time index was also included which made it possible to determine which two crewmen were beamed to which coordinates, but it had already been decided that that information would remain confidential. Knowing that the last two to be transported were Bashir and the changeling itself, Kira checked the time index. None of the coordinates matched that time.

She sighed. Since they'd found the three signals in the desert, they had found two more in the vicinity of a small island group off the coast of the South American continent. Salerno and Sopok, a Vulcan. Luckily it looked as if that particular island group was not inhabited by humans at this time.

Kira thought it was getting easier to get out of bed each morning now that they were making some progress. The ship was coming along quicker now. Each day, it seemed another system came on line. And now they were finding the missing crewmembers. They would be passing over another continent soon. Asia. With any luck, they would find some more.

It was sometime before noon when his shoulder dislocated. He had felt the pressure building in both arms for hours and had known it was not only highly possible, but highly likely, that one or both of his shoulders would come out of their sockets. But he hadn't quite been prepared for the amount of pain it would entail.

It had started with a crunching sound and then a jolt as his shoulder refused to support his weight any longer. The left side of his body fell a few inches closer to the ground, and his now dislocated shoulder was twisted up even higher behind his back. Adding to the initial burst of agony was the continuing pain of hanging against that arm and the even more awkward position it left his right shoulder in. He'd screamed when it happened. He couldn't help it. The sound had just ripped itself from his lungs. There were several guards in the yard by then, and he could vaguely hear them laughing. And then all was blackness.

Several times he had woken again. He stared at his shadow lying beneath his useless feet dangling from his useless legs. His whole body felt useless, a source of nothing but pain and torment. Useless. He felt he would give anything just to be taken down from there. And then he would pass out again.

When he came to again, his shadow had all but disappeared. He thought it strange and worried about losing it. He was unable to conceive of the real reason it had gone, that the sun was straight overhead.

The door opened in the building across from him, and he tried to lift his head to see. He dared to hope that they were coming to release him. But his head was too heavy and fell back again, hanging ineffectually from his neck. He could see the feet of the soldiers who exited the building though and the prisoners they brought with them. If he could have remembered how to count at that point, he would have realized that there were six of them, all naked with their heads bent low, and the guards were too busy with them to cut him down from the pole.

In fact, they never came near him. They marched the six to Bashir's left toward the brick wall between the two buildings. One of the guards lined the prisoners up against the wooden wall, while the other held back. Bashir could see them from the corner of his eye, and somehow his mind was able to form a thought. The six men were being executed. He felt a flash of jealousy. Their deaths would be quick.

No, he found the strength to argue with himself, I don't want to die. I'm not even supposed to be here. He heard a few commands shouted in German and then the even staccato beat of six gunshots. He turned his head slightly and saw the six men fall. He wondered what they had done to deserve death.

He never saw the six taken away. When he woke up again they were simply gone. The man hanging beside him was whimpering now and struggling against the rope. Bashir felt as if his legs and arms no longer existed. There was nothing left but his shoulders, which were very much alive with pain, and his chest which ached at every breath. His shadow hung once again below his feet and stretched out far toward the wall. The yard was becoming darker, though he was not sure if that was from the time of day or because his eyes were failing him. He closed them.

He opened them again when he felt a stab of pain at the top of his head. His head lifted and he could see an arm holding it up. The arm was attached to a oddly-dressed soldier. He reminded Bashir of the Battle of Britain in the holosuites with the Chief. The man let go of his hair and Bashir's head dropped again. He could no longer see his shadow.

He heard voices around him, speaking a language he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember where he was or why he was in so much pain. He couldn't understand why they were laughing at him. And then he felt the pressure in his shoulders disappear. The ground rose up fast to meet him until he rested his face upon its cold surface. His shoulders still blazed in pain, but he could feel they were no longer wrenched high behind him. They had cut him down. The blackness overcame him again, and he was unaware of being dragged up the steps and into the door across the yard.

True to his word, O'Brien and his teams had the communications system running, and it had only been twenty-five hours since the staff meeting. "We don't have much range, sir," Stevens reminded him. The Chief had gone off duty late that afternoon. He would be pleasantly surprised when he woke up later that night.

"Major, where are our people?" Sisko asked, allowing a bit of excitement to creep into his voice. He knew it was still a long shot. Without the antenna, their signal would not carry very far and would be susceptible to interference, both atmospheric and artificial.

The now-familiar map replaced the picture on the viewscreen with four wide circles pointing to the areas where comm badge signals had been picked up. During the last twenty-four hours, four more had been found, two in the Serengeti Desert and two in the general area of Nepal.

A slightly larger, transparent red circle was also displayed on the map. Kira had anticipated his next question and had provided a display of the Defiant's current communications range. The red circle intersected with a portion of the one in Chile. Those were the ones they could reach, if all went well.

The bridge crew became silent, waiting for him to give the order. Sisko watched the viewscreen. "Major, see if they can hear us."

He glanced her way and saw her nod sharply. Then she turned back to her console, calling up the proper commands. "Defiant to Armand," she called.

Sisko found himself holding his breath as he waited for an answer.

"Defiant to Armand," Kira repeated. She waited a few moments and then called the second name. "Defiant to Keller."

Kira repeated the hail again. In front of him, Sisko saw Dax's shoulders fall. It was perhaps only a centimeter, barely noticeable, but he had known her a long time. Besides, he felt the same way, though to be truthful, he really hadn't expect an answer from Keller.

"Defiant to Wieland." Still there was silence. "Defiant to Wieland."

Kira turned to him. Though her face was passive, the disappointment showed in her eyes. Sisko waited a moment and then spoke, hoping to console his crew. "Major, keep trying as we come into range with the others. The engineers warned us the signal would be weak. We'll drop altitude once we have the cloak."

Kira nodded and turned away again, probably to get ready for the Galapagos. Two signals had originated from there as well.

The bridge was unusually quiet for the next hour as they waited for the earth to turn, bringing them into the best possible position for reaching Lieutenant Sopok and Ensign Salerno. Kira turned her chair around to face the captain and waited for his signal.

Sisko only nodded in return.

She turned back to her station. "Defiant to Sopok," Kira hailed as once again the bridge crew held its breath. She felt the urge to smash her fist against the console when there was no answer. "Defiant to Sopok."

Still, silence met them on the comm line. Kira pressed her controls and tried again, this time trying to reach the ensign. "Defiant to Salerno." She stopped, took a deep breath and then tried again. "Defiant to Salerno."

She listened, hoping to hear something, but the only sounds were those of the computer equipment around her. And then, softly, she heard a voice. "Defiant?" it called weakly. The next sound she heard was the collective intake of breath by everyone on the bridge.

Knowing that their comm signal could have been interrupted by radio signals originating on the planet, Kira didn't allow herself to get her hopes up just yet. She could have reached a local. "Ensign Salerno, do you read?"

"This is Salerno. Major, is that you?" The voice still sounded weak, and Kira wasn't sure if it was because of the signal or the man himself.

But it was enough. Kira could not keep the smile from forming on her face any longer. And the bridge crew apparently could not keep still. They all cheered. Sisko, smiling as well, held up a hand to stop them. "Ensign, this is Captain Sisko."

"Oh, am I glad to hear from you, sir!" the ensign responded, the relief audible in his voice. "I don't know what happened, sir, but I'm certainly ready to beam up."

Kira watched Sisko sigh. "Ensign," he began, using a formal but delicate tone, "a changeling managed to infiltrate the crew. The Defiant was severely sabotaged, and you and several other crewmen were transported off the ship. I'm afraid the transporter is not yet functional. As soon as it is, we will transport you back to the ship."

There was quiet on the line for a few moments and then desperation. "What about the shuttle, sir?" Salerno asked quickly.

"The changeling used the shuttle's transporter to beam you off, Ensign, and then set the shuttle for self-destruct. There is no shuttle. Are you alright, Ensign?"

Again he was quiet. When he spoke again, there was a slight stutter in his speech. "I . . . I f-found a cave, sir. I found some plants to eat, and I've tried to catch some of the animals. . . ."

"Do the best you can, Ensign," Sisko replied gently. "Have you seen Lieutenant Sopok?"

This time, there was no silence, and Salerno's voice came through stronger. "No, sir, not since we were on board the Defiant." His voice began to crackle near the end, and Kira turned back to her station. They were moving out of range.

"Ensign, I'm going to have to break contact," Sisko said. "We will call again whenever we are in range."

Salerno was quiet again, but, finally, he replied. His voice was steady. "Aye, sir. Salerno out."