Vláďa, still avoiding Max's gaze, had sat down cross-legged, tucking his feet beneath his legs, but not before Max noticed the shoes, real shoes, he was wearing now. "Děkuji," Max thanked the boy. It's nothing, he told himself. It really wasn't any of his business anyway where Vláďa 'found' his extra food and shoes. I should just be thankful. It was probably all that was keeping the three of them from being carried out of the barracks in the morning with the corpses.

Julian Bashir looked at the bread that Vláďa had given him. It was brown, not gray or black, like the bread they usually got. And it was softer, too. He thought that maybe he should save it, like Max did with a portion of his food every evening. But then, it would end up stale and hard, and most likely moldy, like the bread they usually received. He did not want to waste this new 'good' bread. So he took a bite of it and watched Vláďa. The piece was only big enough for a few bites anyway. He wanted to thank him, but he also didn't want to speak. How would Vláďa understand, anyway?

Vláďa still sat cross-legged at the end of the bunk that faced the aisle. He kept his head lowered and would not meet Max's eyes. For a moment, Max looked worried, but then he said something to Vláďa, probably thanking him for the bread. And he, too, began to eat.

Vláďa finished his own small bit of bread and then laid down across the end of the bunk. Bashir thought that was unusual. The three of them always slept side by side, with Bashir always on the left, so that he could sleep on his side and protect his injured shoulder. Vláďa took the middle spot with his head at the opposite end from Bashir and Max. It was a relatively good arrangement considering their confined quarters. It provided some warmth, while also allowing ample, though still quite limited, space for sleeping. And it made it easier to share the one thin blanket they had. Perhaps Vláďa would move later. As he was, he left very little room for Julian's long frame.

The Blockälteste began to yell and pound on people with his club. Curfew. Julian finished the last of his bread, and slowly scooted away from the wall. With Max's help, he removed his coat, and shoes, wrapping them up to use as a headrest. It was much colder without them, but it was apparently the rule. He'd seen the Blockälteste pull men from the bunks and beat them for breaking the rules. Carefully, he lowered himself down, tucking his left arm beside him. Vláďa didn't move though. He stayed at the end of the bunk with his back to Bashir. Julian had to curl himself up into a near-fetal position which was not at all comfortable on the hard wood bunks.

Max looked like he was about to say something, but he turned to Julian instead. They shared a glance of concern and confusion, but then Max lay down too, a little closer to Bashir, spreading the blanket over the two of them. It took him a minute before he settled into his spot, because he also tried to stretch the blanket to cover Vláďa as well. He finally gave up and lay still. Bashir was already asleep.

He woke up several times during the night, as he had every night since he was taken to the other camp. It was the pain that woke him. It might have been that Vláďa or Max had brushed against his arm or that he'd merely shifted his position in his sleep. Either was enough to wake him. It would always take several minutes for the pain to fade back to a tolerable level. As he waited he could hear things. Snoring was a constant, but beyond that he sometimes heard yelling or crying or the moaning of the sick. And below all that, he could hear skittering.

He wasn't sure at first what the sound was. But two nights ago, he'd seen them. Rats. Huge rats, about three times the size of the largest vole he'd seen on the station. They skittered across the floor in the middle of the night, nibbling for any crumb that might have been dropped. There were at least four of them in the barracks now. Three of them ranged out of Bashir's limited range of sight, scavenging for food. The fourth stayed near the door. It didn't appear as hungry as the others.

Someone at the far end of the barracks screamed. Bashir could not see who it was or why he had screamed. He couldn't move more than he had already. He turned back to look at the door. The rat there sat up on its haunches and turned its head until it was looking right back at him. And then it smiled.

Bashir laid back down quickly and closed his eyes, trying to figure out if he had just hallucinated or if the rat really had just smiled. There was a rational explanation, he knew. Odo had often taken the form of a rodent to listen in on clandestine conversations. There was no reason to assume that the changeling here could not do the same thing. He lifted himself up again, slowly, and looked toward the door. The rat was gone. The man who had screamed earlier had apparently decided that it wasn't worth the effort. All was relatively quiet again. Still it took over an hour for Bashir to fall back asleep.

When he was awakened the next morning by the camp's whistle and the Blockälteste's assistant,—Stubenälteste, Max called him—Vláďa was already gone. "Vláďo!" Max called in a whisper. He obviously didn't want to arouse the Stubenälteste's anger. He looked around for the boy as he helped Bashir to sit up and dress. Once up, Julian was able to crawl down off the bunk on his own. It had apparently surprised Max though. He stopped calling for Vláďa and just watched before he climbed down himself. It was several minutes before Vláďa appeared from somewhere near the back of the barracks. He had more bread in his hand, and he again shared it with the two of them as they waited for the Stubenälteste to unlock the barracks door.

But he did not unlock it right away. Instead he blocked the door and yelled at everyone until they became quiet. It took a few blows before everyone got the message, but eventually the room quieted down. Then the Blockälteste began to speak. He had hardly opened his mouth, however, before someone pounded on the outside of the door. The Stubenälteste hadn't expected it, apparently. He stood still for a moment, looking to the Blockälteste for advice or permission to open the door. The Blockälteste also looked taken aback, but he yelled for the Stubenälteste to open it.

An SS officer stood on the other side of the door. Bashir thought he looked a little familiar, but he didn't have a clear memory of every SS officer he'd seen, especially since his time in the other camp. All the prisoners immediately lined up in front of their bunks and took their hats off. Anyone who was slow received a blow from the Blockälteste.

"Wo ist der Engländer?" the SS asked, his voice calm and almost friendly.

Bashir heard him and froze. All he could think about was the other camp. I can't go back there, he thought. He didn't take his eyes off the man. He was not one of the ones who had come for him before. The Stubenälteste pointed to Bashir. Everyone else stood perfectly still. The SS came over to stand right in front of Bashir.

"Good to see you again," he said, his accent heavy. Julian did not dare look up at him, but he recognized the voice. It was the same as the SS who had greeted him upon entering the camp, and also of the Gestapo agent that had given him the lesson in German numbering. "Come with me," the changeling commanded, not unkindly. She turned smartly and started for the door. She stopped to bark some order to the Stubenälteste. Bashir did not want to follow, but he had no choice. He glanced sideways at Max and then stepped cautiously out of the line. He hadn't walked in a couple of days except to use the 'facilities,' the buckets that stood at the back of the barracks. The changeling was walking too fast, and he had to hurry to keep up. As he stepped out the door, he felt the cuts on his back stretch and open up again. It was snowing, but there was very little wind. The door slammed shut behind him. More SS were heading toward the barracks, one wearing a long, white lab coat.

"It's a selection," the changeling said without turning around. She was using Whaley's voice now, and it sounded strange coming from the male body in front of him. "So what are we going to do with you?"

Max only worried about Bashir for a short time. He was too busy worrying about himself. The Stubenälteste had bolted the door behind the SS and the doctor. He seemed relieved that they were gone, but then, in an instant, removed all traces of emotion from his expression. The Blockälteste forced everyone to keep their places. Max thought about his wife and his daughter, and he was sure the Germans were going to kill him now. The door opened and SS came in. They shouted angrily for everyone to move into the room at the back of the barracks. He glanced at Vláďa who stood to his left. For the first time since Max had met him, the boy did not seem afraid. He pushed his way confidently toward the back, dragging Max with him.

"Try not to look afraid," the boy whispered. "They're going to take out the sick ones, ones who can't work. We have to look healthy."

"How do you know this?" Max asked, but Vláďa didn't answer. He did not lose his confident air, however, and Max suspected it had something to do with where he got the new shoes. Max decided to trust him. He'd shared the extra bread, and he seemed to know what was going on. Max wasn't going to complain, not if the boy could save his life. Changing the subject, he asked about the doctor. "He's not healthy enough to work."

Vláďa looked pained by that question, but again didn't have an answer. "I don't know. The SS took him."

He didn't say anything else, but Max got the feeling that they were thinking alike. The Englishman would not be coming back this time. Neither had time to ponder his death, however. Once inside the smaller room, they were ordered to turn and go back out. Only now, they were to run out one at a time. Max and Vláďa anxiously waited their turn. Max really did not know what to do. He could not look healthy. It was impossible. After two weeks, he had lost weight. He was thin, too thin, in places, and swollen in others. He hadn't had an opportunity to bathe or to shave.

Before he had time to really think, his turn came. The Stubenälteste ordered him to run. The SS, especially the doctor, eyed him coldly, looking for any blemish or other excuse to sentence him to death. It was both the longest and the shortest run of his life. Long in apprehension, and yet short in that it was over within seconds, it seemed. He was told to turn around. He did. He was asked his number. He told them. A white piece of paper was placed to one side on a pile. And then he was out the door, lined up with the others who had gone before him. Vláďa followed soon after. In a few minutes, the entire barracks was emptied. The SS left and the Stubenälteste ordered everyone to the latrine.

It usually happened that there was a mad rush for the building. Thousands of men converged there, at the same time, since they were all expected at roll call soon after. There was yelling and arguing and accusations of taking too much time. Some men tried to bribe others to take their places. But today it was different. The other men from other barracks were already gone off to roll call. No one yelled or argued. No one really talked, except in hushed whispers.

"Where'd he put your paper?"

"What do you think they'll do with us?"

Still, the Stubenälteste gave them little time before ordering them back to the barracks. When they returned, they were given their breakfast, consisting of the same clay-like bread and brown water which served as coffee. The door was bolted again. They didn't even go to roll call. And the Englishman had not returned.

Julian was not quite sure where the changeling was leading him, but it wasn't to the other camp. They had walked away from the main guard tower. He was thankful for that, at least. But he didn't allow himself to feel too grateful. She could just as easily torture or kill him in Birkenau. She was SS, as far as the rest of the camp was concerned, and he was a Jew. Who would stop her?

The changeling stopped in front of another barracks building and opened the door. "After you," she said, with a slight bow and a mocking smile.

Bashir stepped inside. The building was not very different from the barracks he'd just left, nor from the others he'd seen on the way. But this one was empty. Of course, it was still early in the morning. Everyone was probably still at roll call.

"Welcome to your new block, Doctor," the changeling said, transforming herself as she stepped through the door. "I do hope you feel at home here."

Bashir stood still and didn't answer. He tried to show no expression at all. He did not want to give her any excuse to punish him. He was sure he wouldn't survive it.

"Please," she said, this time in a friendly, almost sincere tone, "sit down."

Bashir looked at her, at her chin, Whaley's chin. But he did not meet her eyes. She had warned him about that. He could still just barely feel the bruise she'd given him. She was leaning against the 'oven' and indicating one of the lower bunks with her hand. Bashir didn't know whether or not to obey.

She noticed his uncertainty. "Go on," she urged. "I didn't bring you here to kill you. I could have done that last night."

Still unsure, Bashir moved slowly to the bunk she indicated and sat down. It wasn't comfortable, but it was less tiring than standing. He leaned his good shoulder on the post and tried not to look like he was in as much pain as he felt.

The changeling just stared at him for a few moments and then rolled her eyes up, taking in the ceiling and then the walls and finally the floor. "This really is a dismal history you have here. Killing each other over such petty differences, and on such a scale. Have you any idea how many humans were gassed yesterday? Or who simply dropped dead during the Appell? I'm quite surprised you haven't killed each other off already." She stood and crossed over to the bunks.

She seemed to be waiting for a response. Bashir hadn't really spoke at all in the last couple of days, and he wasn't sure he could count on his voice for the reply she wanted. "The war will end," he said. His voice was rough, and he tried to steady it. "We learn from our mistakes."

She sat down beside him and regarded him with concerned eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? What about the sanctuary districts? You've seen those yourself. They were ghettos, not too unlike the one you so briefly visited a couple weeks ago. Do you know how many the Germans set up? Thousands of humans died before they ever made it to one of these camps. Why didn't your people learn from that?"

Bashir remembered the sanctuary districts she spoke of. He and Captain Sisko—only a commander then—had been taken to one after a transporter malfunction deposited them in the twenty-first century by mistake. Thousands of people forced to live in a 20-square block area. Though the authorities had claimed that the sanctuary districts were for the benefit of the residents—for their own good—the district had walls, the guards had guns, and the residents were not allowed to leave. It had disgusted him to see people forced to live that way.

"I suppose we forgot," he whispered, still not looking at her. "But you are no different."

"You solids kill yourselves," she retorted, though not violently. "Until Odo, no changeling had ever harmed another."

Bashir took a deep breath. She might kill him for what he was about to say, but he couldn't keep his tongue any longer. "But you harm others all the time."

She shook her head. "The solids took it upon themselves to harm us first."

"Which solids?" Bashir asked, hoping she would clarify. He wasn't sure exactly why he felt the need to press his point. She was not likely to change her opinion or her goals. He had not expected, however, the response he received. Faster than he could see it, her hand—or a tentacle of some sort—shot out and contacted with his jaw, sending him flying backward onto the bunk. His back erupted into an inferno of pain, and his mouth began to bleed.

She was completely calm when she spoke. "I feel it's important to be consistent. Otherwise you'll only be confused about our relationship. But in reply to the question you shouldn't have asked, I'd say that it doesn't really matter which ones. You of all people should understand, Doctor, prevention saves lives. By bringing order to the solids, we prevent the persecution of our people."

Bashir did not answer this time. He was too busy trying to force the pain to die down again. The changeling also didn't speak for a while. Then she reached out and grabbed him by the arm—his right arm, thankfully. Once she had him sitting up again, she pulled him to his feet, pushing him back against the boards that held the bunks up. She kept one hand on his chest, pinning him to the bunks. She seemed to study his face for a moment and then declared, "That really just doesn't look right on you."

Bashir had no idea what she was talking about. But he didn't ask for clarification. He didn't need it really. As soon as she had said it, she transformed her other hand into a long, sharp blade. "Hold still now," she warned as it reached toward his neck.

"You have the bridge, Major." Worf said by way of greeting as Kira stepped onto the bridge. Kira barely had time to nod before he brushed passed her into the turbolift. She wondered why he'd had the bridge. His shift had ended four hours earlier.

Kira looked to O'Brien, who was standing next to the command chair. "Good news, Major!" he called brightly.

Kira stopped mid-yawn. "You found him?" she asked hurriedly, rushing over to the sensor console.

The chief's face fell. "Not that good," he replied quietly. He waited for Kira to regain her composure.

She straightened up and went to the replicator in back for a raktajino. "Sorry, Chief," she apologized. "I guess I spoiled your news. What have you got?"

"Navigation." He smiled again. "She's up and running."

"Well, that should make the pilot happy," Kira quipped.

Dax heard her and smiled. "Very happy. Of course, it had to come only after my sixteen-hour shift was over," she teased. "I hope you enjoy it, Ensign." The last remark was directed toward the aft turbolift.

"Enjoy what, sir?" Ensign Thomas asked as she stifled a yawn of her own.

In answer, Dax stood up, and with a flourish of her hand, indicated the helm console.

Thomas took the seat offered and looked at the console. For a moment she did not see anything. She was still too tired. The double-shifts were getting to her, just as they were everyone else. Then it hit her. "Navigation!" she exclaimed with a sense of awe. "I love you, Chief."

O'Brien grinned and turned not a light shade of red. "Don't let my wife hear you say that." He gave a slight nod of his head to Kira and then left with Dax to go below.

"Where are we, Ensign?" Kira asked, checking her own consoles.

Thomas leaned over the helm, checking a few readouts. Then she directed the main viewscreen to show the now familiar sensor-map of the planet's surface. This time it showed a large expanse of blue water and the edge of a small land mass. "We should be directly above the Philippines in about six minutes, Major."

Kira shook her head and tried to remember the Philippines. She had thought that she could pass any Earth geography test someone wanted to give her by now, but she realized that some of it must still have slipped by her. "Where are the Philippines?"

Thomas pressed a few controls and widened the map beyond the confines of the sensor's optimum range. "Pacific Ocean," she pointed out. "Just ten degrees or so above the equator and not too far from the lower edge of Asia."

"Asia, I remember," Kira said. Nepal, to be exact, she thought. "I take it we haven't picked up any signals."

"None, sir."

Kira sighed. They'd covered nearly half the planet's surface, both land masses and oceans, and there still was no sign of Doctor Bashir. Then she sat up, leaning forward in the chair. "What about those transporter logs? We can eliminate some of the fragments by considering the comm signals we found earlier." She turned to her own consoles then, pulling up the information they had managed to salvage from the shuttle's transporter logs. "Ensign, let's see the entire planet." She waited for Thomas to make the necessary changes to the viewscreen's display. "Now superimpose the transport locations of the missing crewmen. Maybe there will only be a few possibilities left."

The screen abruptly changed and Kira applied the data from the transporter logs herself. It was still a longshot. They didn't have enough fragments to account for all of the transports initiated by the changeling, and they still had the problem of not knowing whether each piece of data referred to latitude or longitude. They would just have to try all the possibilities and see how close they got.

The changeling had left him there in the empty barracks, his new block, all day. He'd had nothing to eat or even a chance to relieve himself. Bashir, his freshly shaved face bruised from the blow she'd given him, had wedged himself into a corner and slept with his head against the wall. He had woken up periodically, but still no one had entered the block. The door remained bolted. He even missed the evening roll call. Despite his hunger, discomfort, and shivering, he was glad for the respite from that.

But he was confused by the whole thing. She had treated him almost as if he were a human. Almost. The way she had spoken to him, as if she deplored what was happening in the camp. And yet only a few days—How many?—before, she had told the Gestapo to torture him. But he also knew that she had saved his life today. It was not hard to understand the selections. Anyone not fit for work would be killed, probably gassed. He was not really sure. And he knew that he, himself, was not really fit for work. If the SS doctors, or selectors, or whoever they were, had seen him, they would have selected him for death. She had taken him out of the barracks before the selection and was assigning him to a work detail, a Kommando, as she called it, though she had not said what kind of work he would be doing. He couldn't help thinking of Max and Vláďa. He was pretty sure he would never see them again, and they were the closest things he had here to friends.

It was already dark out when the door opened. He heard it open, and began the slow process of standing up. The first thing he saw were the high jackboots the SS wore. It was Scharführer Heiler, the SS identity the changeling had taken on, who entered. He closed the door behind him, but did not bother to change into Whaley's form. "Good, you're up," Heiler said, without his usual German accent. "Come with me." He didn't wait for Bashir to follow, but merely opened the door and stepped out again.

Of course, Bashir knew he would follow. What choice did he have? If he stayed, she would only come back for him and force him to go. So, mustering his strength, he shuffled out the door. He was glad when she took him to a latrine. It really was not much more than a barracks building with two short, wide walls running the length of it. Two rows of holes were cut into the top of each of the walls. The place reeked, though Heiler didn't seem to mind. But then, Bashir thought, she doesn't have a sense of smell. He thought perhaps this, and the other latrines, were the only places in the camp where one could not smell the smoke.

"You have two minutes," Heiler ordered, reforming into Whaley.

She did not leave him any privacy, but by now, Bashir didn't care about modesty. He had no doubt that she would enforce her time limit. So he hurried to finish before his two minutes were up. He barely had time to button his trousers—not an easy thing to do with one arm—before they were back out into the cold. As they walked, he tried to ease his hand back into the pocket that performed a double function. It kept his hand warm, but also served as a sling, supporting the weight of his arm. She was walking faster now, and it was hard to keep up. Each step was difficult and seemed to pull on a different muscle in his back. His wooden shoes kept wanting to slide or stick in the snow and slush. She led him back to his new block, only now it was filling up with people.

"Du! Komm her!" Heiler screamed to one of the prisoners, and Bashir realized he hadn't even noticed her changing.

Bashir could see by the red triangle he wore that the prisoner was not a Jewish prisoner. Jews wore the star. The Blockälteste in his old block had worn a green triangle. Bashir still didn't know what the different colors meant. But he could tell that not having a star gave them a higher status. Bashir guessed that this one was also a Blockälteste.

"Du hast einen neuen Gast," Heiler continued. "Wenn er stirbt, dann durch meine Hand. Ist das klar?"

"Jawohl, Herr Scharführer," the Blockälteste affirmed, his head still bowed and his hat in his hand.

"Morgen früh kommt er unter mein Kommando," the changeling told him. "Sieh zu, daß er seinen Weg zu mir findet!" With that she turned and left. She seemed to be in a hurry, and Bashir suspected it was nearly time to regenerate.

"Warum sorgt er sich bloß so um Dich?" the Blockälteste snarled as he turned to Bashir. He replaced his cap and waited for Bashir to answer. The other prisoners were milling about noisily, but a few of them had taken notice of the new arrival.

Bashir had no idea what he had been asked. He didn't even really care now. He was tired and hungry and only wanted to go to sleep.

"Wenn ich dich etwas frage, dann antworte gefälligst!" the Blockälteste yelled angrily.

Bashir faced him now. He stood nearly a head taller than the man. "I don't speak German," he said quietly.

The Blockälteste seemed surprised by the response. "Was war das?" he asked, the venom gone from his tone. "Englisch?"

Bashir nodded. "English."

All of a sudden, the Blockälteste appeared tired. He removed his hat and rubbed his short, stubby hair. "Englisch," he sighed. Then he turned to the prisoners, most of whom were now openly staring at the two of them. "Gibt es hier jemanden, der Englisch spricht?"

One prisoner, very thin—like all the others—eyed Bashir suspiciously then took a step forward. Beside him, another prisoner grabbed his arm. "Nie! Pewnie doniesie do SS," he warned in a whisper.

The first prisoner hesitated for a moment and then shrugged off his friend's arm. He stepped forward again. "I speak English," he said.

Sisko leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at the main viewscreen, as if looking harder would increase the sensor output. They had nearly completed their scan of Earth, and there was still no sign of Bashir or the changeling. Fortunately, there was also no sign of any major change in the time line. Ensign Thomas had been assigned to monitor radio signals and the course of events down below. Major Kira, who was due to go off duty in a little over an hour, was tackling the fragmented transporter logs again. She'd eliminated several possible coordinates. But she still had a formidable task. She hoped to have the list narrowed down by the time she went off duty.

"Benjamin!" Dax called from the helm. "Mr. Stevens reports that impulse engines are now functioning." She turned around to smile at him. "He recommends against trying to break any speed records though."

Sisko nodded, allowing a slight upturn of the lips to show his amusement. "Duly noted," he said. "Will it help us with the scan?"

Dax shook her head, turning serious again. "Not really. The sensors need the time to do a thorough scan. If we go fast, we're likely to miss something."

Sisko sighed and stood. He needed some coffee. Two weeks already. Every day they were looking, they were less likely to find him. With proper sensors, they might have been able to detect the transporter traces on the planet or chroniton particles on the missing crewmembers. But the changeling had been thorough in its sabotage. By now, any remaining particles or traces would have dissipated. The only way to track the changeling was to scan for it in its gelatinous state while it was regenerating. At any other time, it would only scan as what it was portraying. The chances that the Defiant would be overhead the exact location where the changeling was regenerating were, of course, very slim. And Bashir would always read as just another human. The only way to find him was to find the comm badge he had when he left the ship.

Kira met him at the table at the back of the bridge. She didn't look overly enthusiastic. "Captain, I've managed to eliminate all but one coordinate." In fact, she only looked tired.

"One coordinate," Sisko repeated. "Not one set of coordinates."

Kira shook her head. "If it's a complete coordinate," she explained, "that still leaves us with four different orbits around the planet to scan."

Sisko took a long sip of his coffee and looked at the PADD she handed him. She was right. Fifty-three degrees, as near as they could figure it. They would have to circle the Earth on both 53 degrees north and south latitude and east and west longitude to cover every possible location. But it was still better than continuing on as they were. "Good work, Major. As soon as we've finished the scan, we'll change course." He studied her face a moment. "Go get some sleep, Major."

"My shift isn't over," she argued. Sisko was about to insist; he could see she was exhausted. "We're all tired," she countered before he could say anything, "We all pull double shifts, remember? Unless you're going to give everyone an extra hour off, I won't be taking one."

Sisko decided not to argue. She could be stubborn, but to be honest, he felt the same way. He nodded and let her return to her station to draw up the course changes.

The Blockälteste appointed the English-speaker as Bashir's guardian of sorts. And the man didn't seem to appreciate it much. As soon as the Blockälteste walked away, the prisoner had looked Bashir over with distrust and obvious distaste. When after several minutes, he'd said nothing else, Bashir felt he should break the ice. It had been so refreshing just to hear those three words, "I speak English," spoken by another prisoner, he had almost forgotten about the cold and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. "I'm Julian. Julian Bashir," he said, extending his right hand forward.

The prisoner glanced at Bashir's hand, but made no move to take it. "What is an English doing here?" he asked roughly. His friend hovered close by, watching the exchange, and probably waiting for a translation.

"Same as you," Julian replied, noticing the six-pointed star on the prisoner's uniform. "Do you have a name?"

The prisoner snorted. "Here, we have only numbers."

"No," Bashir stated, "we still have names." He was starting to feel the cold again and his hand was throbbing. He waited to see if the prisoner would say anything.

But it was his friend that finally took the cue. "Piotr," he said simply. He pointed to himself as he said it. And he, in turn, held his hand out to Bashir. The first prisoner rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.

Bashir took it and smiled. "To jest Szymon," Piotr continued, pointing to his companion.

Bashir tried again to be polite. "Nice to meet you, Szymon. I wish it were under better circumstances."

"I don't know this word," Szymon snapped.

"A better time and a better place," Bashir tried to explain. "I wish we were not here."

"I look at you," Szymon said, now smiling just a little, "and I think you will not be here long." And then, just to be polite, he translated what he had said into something that sounded almost like German, so that all the other prisoners who were still staring could share the joke.

Bashir wasn't laughing. "How long have you been here?"

"I was here in October."

"That's a long time."

The Blockälteste began yelling. "Zehn Minuten!" And the prisoners began scrambling inside. Bashir didn't want to be crushed in the crowd, so he hung back, even as Piotr and Szymon went in. There were more prisoners here than in his old block, so he went around the corner of the building and knelt down. His legs were tired of standing. He looked up and noticed a star peeking through a small break in the cloud of smoke that hung over the camp. It was soon covered up again, but Bashir found he couldn't take his eyes off that spot. Szymon's right, he thought, I won't be here long. They'll find me.

The melee at the front of the barracks began to die down, so he rose from his spot and hurried toward the door. He didn't want to get locked out or beaten for being slow. When he stepped inside he was amazed. There was hardly room to stand. Men filled each of the bunks, and yet more men were struggling to climb into them. There was some fighting as people struggled for the best spots. The stronger ones seemed to find a place at the top. The weakest ones tried to get a space on the lowest bunks, though many were forced by shear crowding to crawl under the bunks and lay there. Bashir searched in vain for an open spot, but there simply was no room. Each of the men lay head to foot, six men or more per bunk.

Szymon caught his eye from the top bunk. His head was near the aisle. Piotr was sitting behind him. "You can sleep on the floor," Szymon said, trying to sound gracious. The whistle blew again and the door to the barracks was locked.

Until the Blockälteste called for silence, there had been much discussion about the days event. Who had been selected? Would they be sent to the gas? By now there had been many rumors. After the selection, the entire barracks had been under Blocksperre, or block arrest. The prisoners weren't even allowed to go out in the courtyard. In a way, Max didn't mind. It was warmer, at least a little, indoors, out of the wind. There was no 'sport' and they hadn't had to participate in the roll call. But it was also fairly crowded.

Vláďa had disappeared again after their meager morning meal. He returned again just as the Blockälteste called for lights out. "We don't have to worry," he whispered as he climbed up to the bunk. "We're on the good list."

"How do you know?" Max asked him.

Vláďa shook his head, still not meeting Max's gaze. "That doesn't matter. I don't know what happened to Bashir though."

"QUIET!" someone screamed. Max knew it would have to be the Blockälteste, but he turned to look anyway. All whispering stopped immediately. Everyone laid down and the lights were put out. Just before the room fell dark, Max turned back to Vláďa. But the boy seemed already to be asleep.

The floor was filthy, worse even than his old barracks, though to be honest, he hadn't spent much time paying attention to the floor there. He couldn't help it here. The two other men under the bunk where Bashir lay had only grudgingly moved over to give him room. It hadn't been easy for them. There was no room to turn over, and both of the men were so weak they could barely slide themselves over. Their bare legs, with no blanket to cover them, looked as if they were stripped of all muscle, leaving only tightly stretched skin to cover the bones. They also had sores and cuts on their legs and hands and faces. Bashir realized that some of it could be caused by malnutrition and the lack of sanitation, but that still didn't account for all their problems.

One of the men slept with his hands inside his wooden clogs. The other didn't even have the clogs. His bare feet were missing some of their toes. Bashir, himself, had managed to slide under the bunk once they'd made room. He laid on his stomach with his coat wrapped tightly around his shoes and his injured hand resting on the floor beside him. He, too, had no blanket, and the air was frigid.

It didn't take long in this barracks for the noise to die down. Within minutes the prisoners, exhausted from their long day at work, were all asleep. Bashir, remembering the skittering sounds and the rats he'd seen in the other barracks, tried to stay awake, but the pain and exhaustion were too great.

It was sometime towards morning when they came. The sounds of struggling first came from those near the door. But it was only when one of the men beside him screamed that Bashir woke up. He was unable to turn to see what was happening. But he could hear them. There was a loud "thwack!" and something large and furry fell against Bashir's leg. Instantly, though, it moved, twisting and scratching to right itself. It had to be one of the rats.

Since he couldn't sit up or even turn over, Bashir decided that he'd have to move. Using his good arm, which had been tucked underneath him, he clawed the floor to his left and tried to pull himself out from under the bed. He felt a sharp pain in one of his calves which caused him to twist instinctively toward his attacker. But the first bunk was too close to the ground and his left shoulder hit it hard. Sinking down again, Bashir clutched his shoulder and tried not to lose consciousness again. Another bite sunk into his calf. He imagined himself getting eaten by giant rats. It was not how he had expected to die, even in this place.

Forcing himself to release his shoulder, he tried again to pull himself out into the small aisle. The rat attacking him still wouldn't let go. Its claws dug into the leg it was biting while its huge body lay across the other. Still, Bashir pulled and managed to slide his torso free from the bunk. Then he could twist himself over, forcing the rat to release his leg. Still, it didn't give up so easily and came at him to bite him again. Bashir could see now the man under the bunk. He clubbed at them incessantly with the clogs he had on his hands until, frustrated, they moved on to some other, less defensive, target.

Bashir's clogs were still wrapped in his coat under the bunk. And now, his only good arm was supporting his body, keeping him from falling backward into the wall behind him. But the rat was voracious, and though he kicked with his feet, it wouldn't stop coming back at him. Biting back a scream himself, Bashir reached his left arm, burning with pain so that it blocked even his sight, toward the bundle of stripes just under the edge. His hand brushed against them and his whole arm began to throb, from the tips of his broken fingers all the way to his back. He very nearly forgot the rat and his reason for wanting the bundle. His good arm lost its grip on the floor and he fell back into the wall, sending flames through his torn back.

It was too much. Let it eat me, he thought, as he heard the voices.

There's not much left of him, Captain, Kira was saying. She made a disgusted sound.

That is not an honorable way to die, Worf added disapprovingly.

It's not like he could help it, Worf, O'Brien challenged angrily, defending the honor of his friend. You saw what they did to him. He spoke quieter now. Managed for quite a while, I'd say, considering. . . . He let the last remark hang in the air. No one offered to finish it for him.

"Stop gawking and help me!" he shouted to them in his mind, not realizing that the words were in fact audible.

"If you insist," a female voice quietly answered.

He looked at her as if through a mist. He could almost see the stunned faces of his crewmates as they turned to see the intruder. Whaley, hair shorn close and in striped camp uniform, knelt before him. She flung one arm out faster than Bashir could even see and snatched the rat's tail. Whipping it away, she snapped hard, letting its head smack into the wooden bunk.

"Now," she whispered in a seductive tone, "you best get some rest. It's only a few hours until reveille. If you don't sleep, you won't be ready for work. And if you're not ready for work, I'll put a bullet through your brain myself. Sweet dreams, Doctor." Leaving the dead rat's carcass lying beside his feet, she transformed herself into a cat, black as midnight, and silently jumped over Bashir's head onto the wall and scampered away.

Praying a small prayer that there were no more rats, Bashir used his feet to pull the bundle to him and then closed his eyes where he lay, letting the darkness fall over him. Can't figure that one out at all, O'Brien was saying.

Captain Sisko watched the sensor readout as they finished up the scan. He was almost relieved that they hadn't found Bashir toward the end. Considering the other transport points, he wouldn't have been surprised to find Bashir in Antarctica. As it was, without a signal, there was still some reason to hope.

But now that the scan was over, a new course had to be set. Kira had gone off duty three hours ago. She hadn't given a preference for which orbit to try first, and there was really no way to tell which one would be a better choice. So Sisko chose one at random. Longitude would make more sense, considering they were orbiting over the South Pole. "Set course to orbit the Earth at 53 degrees east longitude, Old Man."

Dax, who was looking less like her serene self every day, merely nodded. The image on the viewscreen immediately began to spin as the Defiant turned. Sisko sat back down in his chair and watched the viewscreen as he cradled his cup. It was tea this time, decaffeinated. He would go off duty in one hour and he didn't want to be kept awake. It left him with too much to think about.

Morning came quickly, and with it, another roll call. Max climbed down from the bunk, secure in the knowledge that he and Vláďa had been put in the 'good' pile. But also, he felt guilty. The piles of paper, when he had seen them, seemed very unequal. He had no way of knowing which was the good pile and which the bad. But knowing the Germans, and hearing the rumors—rumors that Max now was sure were more true than not—about the gassings, Max was certain the larger pile was for those who would die. How many of the faces he was seeing now, as he prepared—as much as was possible—for morning roll call, would not be alive by evening?

The Blockälteste was more vocal even than usual. "It has to be spotless! You filthy pigs! Move your carcasses. Faster!" For reasons unknown, the barracks had to be cleaned. The barracks had to be cleaned every morning, to ridiculous standards given the conditions they were forced to live in. But this time was different. The block's staff seemed especially curt and offensive today.

There was a lull in the yelling for a moment, and Max looked toward the back of the barracks where the Blockälteste had been. He was still there. He was talking to someone, but there were too many people in the way for Max to see. He wasn't sure why he felt he needed to see who it was, but still, he couldn't turn his eyes away. The Blockälteste seemed almost friendly in the way he was putting his hand on his companion's shoulder. He shook his head and patted the shoulder of the man he was speaking to. He reached into his pocket and handed the man something. The bodies blocking Max's view moved, and he could now see who it was. The Blockälteste touched Vláďa's face almost affectionately. The boy turned away, and so did Max. He thought about the crust of bread he still had stashed in his pocket. What had it cost the boy?

Time was running out. The Blockälteste left Vláďa and returned to beating anyone who moved too slowly. Max turned back to his work. There would be no food until the Blockälteste was satisfied that the barracks were clean. Finally, the doors opened and they were herded out into the dark, chill morning. Each man jostled to get to the front of the group, so that there might be time to use the latrine before roll call. Max was torn between his need to relieve himself and his rampant hunger. He'd even been dreaming about food lately. But the decision was made for him. It had taken too long to clean the barracks, and the pushing and shoving was too great. He would never even make it into the latrine in time. He did have time, though, to get his meager ration before the whistle called him to roll call.

Vláďa caught up to him there. "I think he went in the bad pile," he said. He seemed quite saddened by the thought, and Max thought it odd that he'd developed such an attachment for the doctor, especially when they'd never even had a conversation.

Roll call ended in chaos. Bashir had glimpsed it before from his place in line with his old barracks. But now, he was a part of it. As soon as the order was given, the straight rows and lines of five broke away in a mad rush to a dozen different places around the assembly ground. More than a dozen. Bashir couldn't see them all, and he certainly didn't have time to count them. "Follow me," Szymon ordered and then took off at a run. Bashir had a hard time keeping up and nearly lost him in the pandemonium of striped suits and shaven heads. But Piotr lagged just behind and motioned to him with his hand. Clear on the other side of the assembly ground, another group was forming lines five abreast. Szymon took a place in one of the lines and waved for Piotr to hurry and take a spot. Bashir was left to the outside. He hardly had time to get into line before the line began to move.

They marched at a jarring double-time, while another prisoner-leader led them in much the same manner as the Blockälteste had, with blows and angry yelling. Two SS officers came along as well. Bashir recognized one as he ran past, easily keeping pace with his line. It was Heiler. "Good morning, Doctor," he said as he jogged alongside. He was grinning, a cold, evil smile that made lies of all his words. "I trust you had a good night's sleep."

Bashir didn't answer. He tried not to even look at him. It wasn't hard really. He had a lot to think about. Walking had been painful and awkward for him, given the injury to his back, but running at double-time was even worse. Each step threatened to tear his back open again and jarred his shoulder. It also took a tremendous amount of effort. His legs felt heavy and uncooperative, though they still strove to obey him. The wooden clogs on his feet felt like cement blocks. He had no energy and his stomach growled. He'd missed breakfast. It had taken an inordinate amount of time to dress himself with only one arm.

The other SS officer held the reins of a large dog which growled menacingly and lunged at the prisoners. They ran past a barbed-wire gate onto a road of sorts, also lined with wire. Bashir noted at least three more rows of the long barrack buildings, then an area of smaller buildings set wider apart. To his right he could see more buildings, rows upon rows of them, maybe more than a hundred with others being built. A construction site lay ahead of them, on either side of the road.

Bashir couldn't tell what it was they were building. From what he knew of historic architecture, which wasn't much, it looked like an ordinary brick building. There were men dressed in civilian clothes there, too, and the Germans weren't mistreating them at all. They had to be civilians, but Bashir didn't know why they would be working in a camp like this. "An die Arbeit, du dreckiges Schwein!" Heiler screamed, jarring him back to attention.

Piotr grabbed Julian's arm and pulled him through the snow to another area. Thin bands of iron criss-crossed a long rectangular area on the ground. More of the wire lay piled up to the side. "We make the top," Szymon grudgingly explained.

Before Bashir could puzzle out just what the man had said, Szymon pushed one end of the wire at him. It was cold, having sat out all night under the snow. Piotr and Szymon lifted the wire farther down, and they all dragged it to the rectangle marked out in the snow. Some other men were beginning to mix cement, and Bashir realized what they must be trying to do. The iron wire was reinforcement of some kind. They were laying it down in the rectangle on the ground to make "the top," as Szymon had said: a ceiling. But the ceiling to what? Bashir took another look at the building and noted a tall, thick chimney rising from the back of it.

Trying to move his left hand as little as possible, Bashir did his part to lay the wire. It was difficult. To lay it properly, the prisoners had to stand in the rectangle amongst the wire that was already lain. Bashir's wooden clogs kept slipping and getting caught in the mesh of it. Still, he didn't want to be beaten for not working, and he didn't want Szymon to think that he wasn't doing his share. He needed Szymon.

Once in place, they used smaller bits of wire to twist around the thicker iron rebar to hold it in place. The ceiling to whatever they were building was quite wide, but much longer, and it took a long time to twist the little wires, which were as thick as nails. And he had to do it bent over, reaching down, while trying to keep his balance. His back flared in pain from it. His shoulder hurt from the change of attitude, with gravity now pulling it a different way. Only his hand seemed not to protest too much. The cold wire mixed with the wind was making it numb. It was hard to see from behind all that pain, and the other Nazi guard kept yelling at him to move faster.

But it was Heiler who spoke to him. Bashir hadn't even heard him come over. He nearly fell over when he saw the boots suddenly standing there. The still shiny, black boots stepped gently onto the wire framework they were laying. "It's quite an ambitious project really," he said when he didn't think the others would hear, "building four crematoria to burn humans more efficiently. They've been using a farmhouse to kill them. It's messy. This will be much more orderly. You have to admire them for that."

A crematorium. Bashir had guessed it once he saw the chimney. But what was he to do? If he refused to work, they'd kill him. And he didn't expect that Heiler would allow him to change. She obviously wanted to keep him where she could keep a closer eye on him.

"This will be the undressing room," she explained. "You're standing on it. How many humans can fit in this room, do you think?"

Bashir was nearing the end of the wire, and he could see that Szymon and Piotr had finished too. They were going for another long piece. Bashir straightened to go after them, but it was too difficult now that he was bent over. His knees couldn't take the shift in weight and he fell. The hard wire bit into his kneecaps, and only his right arm reaching out in front of him kept him from going all the way down.

Heiler above him, looked to see if anyone had noticed. The dog barked somewhere nearby. "Steh' auf!" he yelled, bringing his foot down on Bashir's back. Bashir's hand slipped through the wire and he crashed down against it. There was no protecting his left hand this time. It was caught between his body and the wire. "Steh' auf!" Heiler yelled again.

Bashir hardly heard him, struggling as he was to free himself of the wire without losing consciousness. He was afraid he'd never wake up if that happened. She kicked him again, but he tried to crawl to the side off the ceiling they were making and out of the wire mesh.

After roll call, those whose numbers had landed in the bad pile were called out and taken away. Several of them cried, others tried to prove that they were healthy and asked loudly to be given another chance. Max lowered his eyes. He couldn't bear to see them part. They were going to die. When they were gone, the Blockälteste continued on with the drilling as if nothing had happened.

By 1300, they were back again at the southern tip of the planet. And still, the sensors had picked up nothing. Kira sat again in the command chair. She had hoped to have something better to report to the captain when he returned to duty. Instead, all she had was a change of course. This time, they would take the west line, 53 degrees, and circle the planet again.

Kira sipped the raktajino she held in her hand and read the morning's status reports. No new progress in Engineering, though the crew still had a lot of work to do to get the ship into shape to make the trip back to the twenty-fourth century. Medical had requested immediate restoration of power to at least one stasis chamber. Ensign Nohtsu was bleeding internally, and without Julian, they were unable to help her. Kira had approved the request as soon as she received it. Security was turning up a lot of new evidence from the changeling, showing how it had traveled from system to system within the walls and conduits to sabotage the ship. Worf, though not an expert in engineering was working on the computer in Whaley's quarters. He was trying to figure out what information the changeling had accessed while it was on board. It might give some sort of clue as to what its plan was or where it sent the doctor.

She realized now that it was exactly fourteen days since he'd disappeared. Two weeks. And still there was no sign of him. It was strange really. All the other comm badges had registered on the sensors as soon as they were within range. Kira was starting to see now what Sisko meant when he said the changeling had singled him out. And it made her all that much more determined to find him. She'd even begun praying about it, hoping that the Prophets would still hear her all the way out here in this foreign time and place. Still, she had a feeling, a strangely calming feeling, that they wouldn't find him today.

The rest of the day proceeded much like the morning had. Heiler constantly shadowed Bashir, looking for any opportunity to torment him. The only respite had been a short break for the mid-day meal. Bashir had decided he couldn't dignify it by calling it lunch. Given his condition, he could not fight to get a better place in line and ended up very near the end of the line completely. When it came his turn for soup, the large can was nearly empty. A few spoonfuls of the thin liquid were all that he got before he had to go back to work again. By the time the sun began to set, his hands, both of them, were bleeding and his face bruised. He could barely stand. The prisoner-leader—kapo, Szymon had explained to him during the meal—yelled at them to fall into line and Bashir gladly obeyed. He was exhausted and only wished to return to the barracks and sleep. More than that though, he wanted to eat. Even the rotten meat and stale bread would be good enough by this time.

Szymon had a measure of pity on him this time after watching his ordeal with Heiler all day. He moved over to let Bashir have the center place in the line. The kapo spent several minutes counting them before he yelled again. The line began to move, again at double-time retracing its steps back the way it had come. It was even harder returning to the camp. Bashir could feel the warm liquid oozing from his back, and his legs threatened to abandon him at every step. He didn't notice the new buildings this time as he passed. He concentrated as much as possible on the ground directly in front of him where his feet would have to go. He felt dizziness somewhere just below the pain and found it hard even to focus on the ground.

But he had forgotten about roll call. They reached the camp and were even within sight of the barracks when the kapo called for them to stop. Panting for breath, Bashir wanted to drop to his knees, to sit down, or to lay down, but with the Germans watching, he knew it was impossible. Several others from the kommando fell and were placed beside the two dead men they had carried back from the work site. Still the counting went on. The sky, when he could glimpse it beyond the smoke and lights of the camp, was dark, but still the counting continued.

Snow began to fall again, lightly dusting the shoulders of the men around him. He didn't feel it. His vision blurred and doubled and his body swayed slightly to the side though he tried to stand perfectly still. And then the whistle blew. The lines broke up and the prisoners began to work their way to the barracks. Szymon stopped to look at him for a moment. Bashir didn't see it. He was still trying just to stay on his feet. "You must eat," Szymon said, and Bashir thought it was the kindest thing he'd said to him yet. But he still couldn't move. He couldn't trust his legs to carry him. "Fine, stay and . . . " Frustrated, Szymon searched for the right word. "Stay and don't eat. It's not my caring." He trudged away into the crowd.

But Piotr stayed behind. He turned Bashir by his shoulder in the direction of the barracks. Bashir wobbled, but he didn't fall and he found that his legs would work after all. And Szymon was right: He needed to eat. Piotr helped him this time, to get to a better place in line. He received his ration and hungrily ate the sausage. His hand shook as he held the bread, but he ignored it. Some of the others were fighting to get into the latrine. Bashir resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't satisfy every biological need and found a corner of the building to sit against as he ate. The snow stopped and the wind parted the smoke above him until he could count five dim stars in the heavens.

He almost fell asleep there, but a touch on his shoulder woke him with a stabbing pain. A prisoner, one he didn't recognize, stood above him. He motioned for him to go inside. Then he turned and left Bashir alone. He stuffed the last of his bread into his coat and tried to stand. It took nearly five minutes just to get upright again.

The block was just as full as it had been the night before, with the exception of the men who had died during the day. Still, he was not able to find a bunk. But he couldn't bear sleeping underneath them again. The bunks had trapped him before, so that he was defenseless against the huge rats. He found his corner, the one he had curled into the day before, when the changeling had first brought him here. It was empty. Just before the Blockälteste called for lights out, he wedged himself down inside again, keeping his shoes and coat near him. Despite the cold and his lack of blanket, he was asleep in minutes.

He didn't get to sleep for long. The rats came earlier than the previous night, and the screaming, crying and groaning of the men being attacked woke him. Again, since he was on the floor, Bashir was approached by one of the rodents, but he was not as vulnerable as before when he'd been pinned underneath the bunks. He kept his legs pulled up close to his chest, but still the rat charged his toes. He clutched his heavy wooden clogs now as he'd seen the other man do and beat at the rat when it came near. He missed a few times as the rat backed away quickly and hit his own toes. He decided, though, that it was better than being eaten.

The changeling didn't come again this night, or at least he wasn't aware of her if she had. But the rats didn't go away until nearly morning, and, exhausted, Bashir let his head fall again against the wall. He closed his eyes and let the dreamless sleep come. He was awoken soon after by the Blockälteste's voice. Morning again.

He was still exhausted, but he was determined this time to get to the latrine and receive his morning rations. He didn't think he could possibly survive the day of work with so little sleep and so little food. He noticed as he got dressed that at least a dozen prisoners were carried outside. The dead. They would be counted with the rest at roll call and then taken out to be burned or buried. Bashir watched them coldly, feeling little of anything for them, but thinking that he should. But as they left the barracks for the last time, his mind was preoccupied with their former sleeping arrangements. Their lives, sadly, were over. They wouldn't be needing the bunks anymore. Perhaps he could get a place on one in the evening and maybe get a little bit of sleep.

The day proceeded much like the previous one, except that he did procure his breakfast. He wasn't sure how today he had managed when before he hadn't. But the morning roll call relieved him of whatever burst of energy he'd had in the morning. He'd very nearly decided to join the men lying at the side. Some were the dead. Others were the ones who fell during roll call or who were too sick to move. Bashir felt that he could move, painful as it may be, but standing still in the cold air was nearly as much torture as he'd already been subjected to. As they stood, he watched the morning sun take over the darkened sky until it shined brightly, adding only a tint of warmth with its rays. Still, they stood.

He tried sleeping, while still standing, but it wasn't a deep sleep, and he was always afraid of falling or having a kapo catch him at it. He could do little more than close his eyes anyway before he felt dizzy and nearly lost his balance. He itched from the lice that had invaded his filthy clothes and his unshorn hair, but knew he couldn't scratch anything. He had heard a word spoken among the block leaders and the German guards, one he could recognize. Typhus. And it was carried by lice and thrived in the horrible sanitary conditions in which the prisoners were forced to live. It was another thing to worry about, but also something he couldn't control. He couldn't even wash his hands properly, let alone take a shower and keep clean. He ate his food, what little there was of it, out of the same foul bowl every day and wore the same smelly, disgusting clothes that he'd been handed before leaving the other camp.

Finally, the Germans were satisfied with the count, and the lines broke up to form their work groups. Dragging his legs with difficulty, Bashir found Szymon and Piotr and followed them to his kommando. As he began the march, he wondered if he'd be alive to march back to roll call in the evening.

The west longitude scan was no more successful than the east longitude or even the spiraling scan had been. There was still no signal from Bashir's comm badge, and as yet, the crew had been unable to come up with another method for finding the doctor. Any trace of the transport on the planet's surface had dissipated before the lateral sensors had even come on line. And Bashir himself would simply blend in with the rest of the planet's population. The badge was still their only method. O'Brien and a few of his team were now working on a way to boost the sensors to detect the actual communicator badge, not just its signal. There were specific alloys and components not accessible or still undiscovered in this time. But comm badges were small. They could easily fit in the palm of one hand, a small hand. The sensors would have to be very sensitive to locate such small quantities of the target alloys. The forward sensors were still, and would remain, unusable, and the laterals were still not up to full specs. O'Brien had not looked hopeful when asked if they could be improved. He had thought that maybe he could coax a ten percent increase in their strength and scanning sensitivity, but he wasn't sure if it would be enough.

Still, they couldn't stand still and wait for the signal. With the Defiant's low sensor range, they might miss it entirely. So when Dax returned to duty, she was ordered to change course to follow an orbit at fifty-three degrees south latitude, a course that only crossed land once at the southern tip of South America with the exception of a few small islands. Lieutenant Jordan had been "relieved to be relieved," as he put it. He suppressed another yawn and headed for the mess hall for a bite to eat before he slept. Dax knew just how he felt. Every day, the rest period seemed shorter even though the actual number of hours never changed. Sixteen hours was a long shift to pull. She'd done it often enough that she hadn't thought it a big deal when they'd first begun to look for the missing crewmembers. But this was her sixteenth day of consecutive duty, not counting the shifts before the Defiant went back in time. It was a long time. And it didn't look to be getting any shorter.

She was also slightly annoyed that she never got to see Worf anymore except while on duty. His shift ended at 2000, while she was off from 0800 to 1600. Sometimes when she was really tired she'd even found herself angry at Julian for being missing, and it made her feel guilty. She knew it wasn't his fault, and, wherever he was, he was probably no happier about the situation than she was. So she always made a conscious effort to shift her anger back onto the changeling that had infiltrated the ship and caused the deaths of thirteen people already.

Worf never even said anything to her about it. She knew he wouldn't though. His Klingon honor would not let him admit in the presence of others his frustration at not seeing her. He spoke to her only in a business-like manner that concerned their duties. That frustrated her, too, but she knew there was really nothing she could do about it. He wouldn't change, and under other circumstances, or a shorter duration of double shifts, she probably would never expect him to. But the time and tension were catching up to her.

The only respite she felt was the breaks. Every few hours, the bridge crew got a break. It was staggered so that no system was ever left unmanned, but it did allow for a little bit of socializing during the overlap moments. Dax tried to arrange her first break to coincide with the end of Worf's final break before he went off duty. She shared the others generally with Kira or Benjamin.

Other times she was left alone at the table at the back of the bridge. It was then that she missed Julian. She remembered the many times before Worf came to the station—and even some after—that she had shared a table with him on the Promenade, sipping raktajino after a long day's work. Even when he had been chasing her, and so much more once he'd stopped, he was a wonderful companion. She had to admit, Worf was somewhat boring when it came to sitting and sipping—though he excelled in other areas. But Julian was pleasant and always interested in what she had to say. He understood her when she spoke of science and was always willing to sit and listen to her talk about Worf, though she knew he really wasn't that interested. He was too polite to tell her so. He was a good listener and a good friend. And she couldn't help feeling that he was gone now, and he wouldn't be coming back.