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Pain of Memory
A story by
Gabrielle Lawson
Cover art and illustrations by Deborah Roper
Audio copy: You can listen to this story on my podcast: There Are Three of Me. It is read in S1E4 and in S4E1-6. You can find There Are Three of Me on Spotify and Spotify Podcasters.
Acknowledgements As always, I thank God for giving me the ability to write and Paramount for putting Deep Space Nine on the air. I'd also like to thank Siddig El Fadil. Without his portrayal to bring Dr. Julian Bashir to life, there wouldn't have been a story to write at all.
Historian's Note: This story takes place toward the beginning of the seventh season
I dedicate this story to my grandparents: Marjorie Lawson, Alzheimers; Guernie Lawson, Parkinsons; and Charles Bath, Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. And also to Edward Richardson.
With the generous help of Jo Burgess
I'd like to thank Jo Burgess and Valerie Shearer for their generous help as test readers and idea/discussers. Jo especially helped me to hash our the hard spots. This was the hardest story I've written, and Jo really helped me past the writer's block on numerous ocassions.
Part One
His head did not reach the pillow. A sharp pain convulsed his body forward as a bright light crackled about his eyes and filled his ears. Electric tendrils reached out to him from the wall, fingering his face and neck, running down his spine. His body jerked involuntarily, and for the one second that he could still think, he thought about crying for help. But his voice was locked in his throat. No sound escaped his lips.
In less than fifteen seconds, it was over. The tendrils removed themselves from his temples and dissipated. Julian Bashir fell motionless back onto his mattress. One leg fell off the bunk entirely and was left hanging over the side.
"0600 hours," the computer intoned. "You have one message." When no acknowledgment answered it, the computer waited patiently. Five minutes later, it tried again. At 0610, its calm female voice did not reveal any frustration. "0615 hours. You have two messages."
"Huh?" came a mumbled reply.
Dutifully, the computer repeated itself without complaint. "0615 hours. You have two messages." Apparently thankful for a response, it even offered more detailed information. "Most recent message from Chief Miles O'Brien received at 0612 hours."
0612! Late! Bashir sat up so quickly that he hit his head on the ceiling above him. He rubbed his forehead and threw his legs over the side. Actually, he only threw one of them over. He was surprised to find one of them already there. "Play most recent message," he muttered as he jumped down.
"Julian!" O'Brien's voice teased. "I'm surprised at you! If you don't hurry, you won't have time for breakfast."
Julian yawned, leaning back against the bunk. "Computer, delete last message and tell me what time it is."
"The time is 0616 hours," the computer stated. "Message deleted."
That's odd, Bashir thought to himself. He'd overslept. But he felt almost as if he hadn't slept at all. Almost. He remembered having dreamed. He shook his head swiftly and forced his eyes open. He didn't have time to stand there working it out. He was running late.
O'Brien looked up at the door again. Ten minutes already. "He's usually here waiting for us," he told Worf.
"He did have patients last night, Chief," Worf reminded him. "He is the only doctor." He took another bite of his breakfast. "But if he doesn't hurry, his food will get cold."
O'Brien turned toward the door again and saw Julian pushing past the other crewmembers to the table. "Well, you made it," O'Brien teased, "and with six whole minutes to spare."
"I overslept," he offered as an excuse, though he didn't appear satisfied with it either. He covered a yawn as O'Brien slid the plate he'd prepared for him over to him. O'Brien gave him a mug of tea as well.
"Obviously," he said, smiling. "You look tired. Late night?"
Bashir shook his head. "Not really. Feels like it though."
O'Brien noticed he wasn't speaking in full sentences. Of course, he was too busy trying to inhale his breakfast. After a few minutes, he stopped and set his fork down. "Do you ever feel anything while you're dreaming?" Julian asked before taking another bite. He had tried to make it sound like a casual question, but his uncharacteristically furrowed brow went a way toward undermining his intentions.
Worf eyed him suspiciously. "What kind of things?"
"Oh, anything," Julian replied. "I once--when I was a child-- dreamt that I had an ice cream cone. I could actually feel it in my hand. When I woke up, I even had a fist like I'd been holding it." He was holding one hand up to demonstrate.
"I've dreamt I was falling before," O'Brien supplied. "I could feel the weightlessness, the pull of gravity, even the air rushing past me."
Worf nodded, his eyes almost glazing over. "I have dreamt of battle and felt my wounds as if they were real. I could even feel the heat of my opponent's blood as it dripped from my fingers." All around them came the sound of silverware and glasses being hurriedly placed onto trays. Worf looked around him almost sheepishly as at least seven crewmen got up to return their trays.
"Actually, that's not far off," Julian muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular. Then he finished the rest of his tea.
It was 0630 and There was a briefing to get to. "What did you dream last night?" O'Brien asked Bashir as they all stood.
Julian's tone didn't change. "That I was being electrocuted."
That night, after his shift was over and he'd had dinner with the Chief and the other senior officers, he went straight back to his quarters. He was determined not to have another day like that one. He'd dragged himself through the morning. Only concern for his patients was able to bring him out of the fog of fatigue that followed him nearly the whole day. He'd perked up a bit at lunch, thanks to some lively conversation with Ensign Walker. But by late afternoon, he was yawning again. His temper had shortened, too, and he'd snapped at Nurse Hausmann before leaving for the day. He apologized once he realized he'd done it, but he still felt bad. He didn't want to be an ogre. He just wanted to sleep.
To relax himself, he decided to take a shower and do some reading. He turned up the heat in his quarters a few more degrees, and climbed into the upper bunk where he normally slept. He dimmed all the lights except the one in the bunk. He chose one of Shoggath's Enigma Tales Garak had given him a few years back. He found them predictable and boring. Just the thing to send him off to sleep.
Just as he was about to nod off, he heard it. The whine began softly with a high-pitch. Bashir made a mental note to ask O'Brien to send someone to look into it in the morning. It stopped by itself, so he turned back to the book. The first shock caused him to jerk so forcefully that the PADD was thrown from his hand.
"0615" the computer droned, reaching into his emerging consciousness. "You have two messages."
"0615" the computer droned, reaching into his emerging consciousness. "You have two messages."
Bashir's eyes flew open and then promptly shut themselves again. Still, it was too long. The sudden influx of light had already started a headache behind his eyes. He groaned and rolled off the bed. "Why did you turn on the light?" he asked the computer.
"Please restate the question."
"The light," Bashir repeated, yawning. "In my bunk. It's on. Why?"
"The light was turned on at 2100 hours as ordered," the computer answered.
2100 hours. Forget it, Julian,, Bashir told himself. You're late. He stumbled toward the shower and nearly tripped when he stepped on something. Looking down, he saw an activated PADD on the floor. He picked it up. It displayed the first page of the second chapter of a Cardassian Enigma Tale. Strange, he thought. He had stopped reading those a couple of years ago, insisting that Garak give him something less predictable and more interesting to read.
"Late again," O'Brien teased when he entered the mess hall. "Your breakfast is waiting."
"What would I do without you?" Bashir offered with a smile he didn't really feel. He felt tired. Only tired. And hungry.
"Nightmares again," O'Brien asked.
Bashir turned his head sharply in surprise. He immediately regretted it. It sent an equally sharp burst of pain through his head. It went away quickly though. "Who said anything about nightmares?" he asked, hoping to sound nonchalant. He hadn't told anyone about the nightmares
"You did," O'Brien pointed out, as he took a bite of his own breakfast. "Electrocution," he added, still chewing.
"Oh." Bashir smiled again, relieved. "Yeah, same one. And I'm just as tired this morning. More tired, actually. Like I haven't slept at all. But that doesn't make much sense. I was so tired yesterday, I apparently fell asleep with the light on. It was still on this morning."
"End Medical Log," Bashir said, touching a control to end the recording. He covered his mouth as he felt another yawn coming. His eyes watered and his eyelids felt heavy. But it was only 1500 hours. The day wasn't over yet.
As if to emphasize that point, the deck suddenly shifted beneath him, sending at least two of his staff to the floor. The klaxon went off right after, and the lights changed, indicating Red Alert. "We're under attack," Bashir surmised, just as a second volley struck the Defiant. Still, he managed to get out of his seat and help one of the nurses to his feet. A few others stumbled through the door. Nurse Baines already had the kits out. Many of the medical staff now kept med kits in their quarters as Bashir did. They wouldn't have to report to Sickbay. But some were on duty in other areas of the ship.
Casualty and damage reports began to pour in with the next round of torpedoes. Bashir sent his staff out to the various parts of the ship. He checked the contents of his own med kit and then headed for the bridge.
Exhausted, Bashir didn't even bother to undress. It was nearly midnight. Kicking off his shoes, he climbed up to his bunk and collapsed onto the pillow. "Computer," he mumbled and waited for the computer to chirp its acknowledgment. "Wake me up at 0600 hours." In minutes he was asleep.
Twenty-six minutes after he lay down, the whine began. But he was too asleep, too exhausted even to hear it. His body tensed as the first tendril reached out to touch his temple. At that his eyes flew open, but then the electricity hit full-force, sending his body into convulsions and locking his mind into one single thought: pain.
Each convulsion threatened to drop him off the side of the bunk, and it was gravity that eventually broke the connection. The tendrils lashed out in vain, searching for him. But he was beyond their reach, unconscious on the floor.
"0620" the computer intoned. "You have six messages."
Bashir stirred, and then winced. Instinctively, his hand reached for his temple, the source of the pain. He opened his eyes quickly after that. His index finger had felt the irregularity of a scab there. Before he could investigate, however, he was surprised to find that he was not in his bunk. A spot of red on the carpet beneath his face confirmed the scab. He'd been bleeding.
"How many messages?" he asked, his voice still muffled by the morning. Late again. Very late.
"You have six messages," the computer answered. "Most recent from Chief Miles O'Brien."
Bashir was about to have the computer delete them, since he knew what they would say. But his door chimed before he could order it. "Who is it?" he asked, standing. If it was the captain, he'd have to get dressed.
"It's me, Julian," the Chief called from the other side of the door. "You up?"
Bashir let out a sigh of relief. "Yeah," he answered, trying to keep from yawning. "I'm up." Then he noticed he was already dressed. But the stubble on his chin told him he hadn't shaved. It was all rather strange. Waking up on the floor, dressed, but not shaved. He didn't remember any of it. Just the dream. So real, that dream. He shook it off. "Come on in, Miles."
The door opened and O'Brien entered. "You look like hell, Julian."
"Good morning," Bashir muttered back. "I've just got to shave. I'll be ready in a minute." Julian left him in the main room while he went to shave.
"You had breakfast?" O'Brien asked, already moving to the replicator. "Tarkalian tea and a glazed donut," he ordered. "It's not much, but you haven't got time for anything else. Trouble sleeping again?"
Julian emerged from the other room, clean shaven, but still with dark shadows under his eyes. "I really don't know," he admitted. "I remember the dream, but I feel so drained."
O'Brien handed him the donut, but held the tea while Julian pulled on his shoes. "Maybe you should run some tests. Something's wrong. I've never known you to oversleep like this."
"I've never been this tired either." Julian took a bite and then rethought his last remark. "Well, maybe, but that was a while ago. Circumstances couldn't be more different."
O'Brien waited for him to finish the donut and then handed him the tea as they stepped out into the corridor. "It's probably just stress," he suggested. "War time, and all. You've been through a lot. It's bound to get to you eventually."
The Defiant, having completed its mission, spent the rest of the day heading back to the station. There were no more reports of Dominion or Cardassian ships in the area. No new anomalies to keep the crew's attention. It was a slow day. O'Brien hadn't minded though. He and his engineering teams had needed the time to repair the ship. The battle the day before had blown out the impulse engines and the forward shields.
The Defiant docked at the station at 1900 hours. O'Brien's shift was over, so he assigned work crews to continue the repairs on the Defiant and invited Doctor Bashir over for dinner. Keiko was away with the children for the weekend. "I'm feeling Italian, tonight," he told Bashir as they entered his quarters. "How about you?"
"I'm open to anything," Bashir sighed. "Do you need any help?"
"No, it's alright," O'Brien replied. "Just have a seat." Chester, having heard the door open, ran from the bedroom and collided softly with O'Brien's shin. O'Brien could already hear him purring. "I suppose you want dinner, too." But Chester responded by turning his back on O'Brien to investigate the guest who had sat down on the sofa. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
O'Brien left Bashir with the cat and walked over to the replicator. "Fettuccini alfredo," he ordered. "Two servings." Lights began to swirl inside the opening of the replicator until two steaming plates of pasta appeared there. O'Brien reached in to remove them and then turned to set them on the table. "What do you want to go with it?" he asked Bashir.
When Bashir didn't answer, he looked up. Bashir was leaning on the arm of the sofa, his arm propped under his head like a pillow. His eyes were closed. Chester had found a nice spot in the nook made by Bashir's hip, since the doctor's legs were still over the side. His eyes were closed, too, at least as far as O'Brien could see. The cat was curled into a tight, furry ball, with one paw placed over his nose.
O'Brien smiled. "Good job, Chester," he whispered and put one plate back in the replicator.
The sun was just beginning to dip beneath the lower branches of the pine trees around him. It had been a beautiful day and a beautiful sunset, with the colors of blue and pink firelite beneath the rolling clouds. But now the sun was past the trees, about to dip beneath the land. The sky above the treetops was dark and looming, while the firelight was hidden by branches and pine needles.
The wind picked up and he found himself beside a lake. The first echoes of thunder met his ear, and the tranquility of the forest lake left him. He was afraid of the thunder. He had to find shelter. There was a flash of light, reflected eerily across the strangely still glassy surface of the water. The thunder boomed loud and fast behind the light. It would catch him.
There, up ahead, but still across the lake, was a cabin. Lightning reflected in the windows and thunder shook the ground. He almost slipped in the mud beside the banks. The wind picked up until he felt it wanted to push him into the lake. Firelight glowed in the windows of the cabin, welcoming him. Smoke billowed up from the chimney. He tried to run, but the mud was slippery. Rain poured down, drowning his view of the cabin.
And then the light and sound were one. With blinding, deafening force, he was thrown from his feet into the icy water of the lake. But he didn't feel the cold. The fire and energy still coursed through him. Liquid fire surrounded him, licked at his skin, poured down his throat, burned in his lungs. And in the strange consciousness that dreaming allows, he wasn't sure if he was drowning or dying of electrocution.
Bashir woke with a start, gasping for breath as droplets of water fell from his forehead into his eyes. They stung. He was sweating. Just a dream, he told himself, like before. It was dark and he felt pricks against his chest. Now that he thought about it, he felt weight against his chest. Then he heard the rumble, and his eyes began to adjust. "Chester," he whispered, realizing that he must still be in O'Brien's quarters.
The cat responded by stretching one of his front paws out to touch Bashir's face. His sharp claws gently pricked his chin. He purred louder and then snuggled back into a ball and went back to sleep.
Trying not to disturb the cat, he checked the time. 0230. Still late at night. It was the first time since the dreams had started that he woke up before morning. But he was still tired, and there was something hypnotic about watching a cat sleep. His eyelids began to drop, and, despite the lightning waiting for him in his dreams, he let them close. The vibrations of Chester's purr were soothing, and he soon fell asleep again.
Part Two
Two Weeks Later
"Well, Doctor," Captain Sisko said as O'Brien and Bashir entered the room. "Sleep well?" They were the first to arrive.
Bashir blushed but apparently couldn't find a good answer. "Yes, sir."
Sisko felt a little guilty. He'd only meant it as a teasing remark, but Bashir had taken it as a sort of rebuke. "That wasn't a criticism." Bashir hadn't complained in the last couple of weeks, but it was obvious to everyone that he was exhausted. The casualties that had been trickling in from other ships had kept him busy, while the rest of the crew had been able to enjoy the lull in Dominion activity around the station. His eyes had taken on a shadowed look, he yawned almost uncontrollably, and he had occasionally snapped at his nurses. He had been quiet, too, not offering his usual insights into the briefings and happenings of the war. That, however, was not so unusual anymore. But Sisko had even noted the way his eyes had almost crossed during one of the briefings the week before. To his credit--and O'Brien's elbow--he kept them open, but Sisko could tell he was drained. "Take a seat, gentlemen."
Worf and Nog were the next to enter, though Kira and Odo weren't far behind. Ezri Dax was the last. She yawned and took her seat. "We just got a new mission," Sisko told everyone, opening the briefing. "At 0600 hours this morning, the Vesmir reported sighting a lone Cardassian ship patrolling the Badlands," Sisko began. He pressed some controls and a map appeared on the viewscreen at one end of the room. "They picked up some unusual readings from their sensors as well." Sisko handed a PADD to O'Brien, who let Nog, who was at the briefing by virtue of his being the Defiant's helmsman, look on with him.
"Galor-class, by the looks of it," Nog concluded.
"Except the energy output from their impulse engines are all wrong," O'Brien added.
"The Vesmir's science officer concurred," Sisko agreed. "But they didn't have long to ponder the situation. The Cardassian ship exploded at 0610, taking the Vesmir with it."
Bashir shook his head, looking at the viewscreen. "But they were nowhere near that ship," Bashir stated. "They were at the limits of the Vesmir's long-range sensors. Even a warp core breach wouldn't have hit them."
Sisko nodded, relieved to see that Bashir was still on top of the game. "Which is why we're discussing the Vesmir this morning."
"Vesmir," Ezri repeated. "Isn't that a private ship?"
Sisko nodded. "From Nova Czeska colony."
"So what were they doing all the way out by the Badlands?" Kira asked. Nova Czeska was an old Earth colony, well within the Federation borders.
"Nova Czeska is the only Federation planet with permission to trade with the Gidari homeworld," Sisko explained. He'd had to do his homework this morning. He'd asked the same questions. The Gidari were a secretive race whom some mistakenly termed xenophobic. The Gidari weren't afraid of other races, and they certainly didn't want to be isolated from them. They enjoyed trade almost as much as Ferengi, but they deemed themselves quite superior to any other sentient lifeforms they'd come in contact with. They didn't care to be polluted by other cultures or to have their own culture open to examination by others. At least that was the best interpretation Starfleet had yet put on their behavior. And Sisko, having had only one experience with the Gidari in all his years in Starfleet, had found no reason yet to disagree.
"They have to run a preset, meandering, course," he continued, "no deviations. Our best estimate of the location of the Gidari homeworld puts them six days out from Bajor at warp 7. It would have taken the Vesmir twice that long. But it also means it put them within sensor range of the Badlands and our doomed Cardassian friends."
"How many Czechs were on the Vesmir, Captain?" Bashir asked, biting back another yawn.
Sisko forgot the Cardassian ship and took a moment to remember the Vesmir's loss. "New Prague reports a crew manifest of fifty-eight, Doctor, under Captain Neumannova. She trained with me at the Academy. Anthropology and Astrophysics. Couldn't help but remember such a combination. She resigned from the fleet at the request of New Prague when they got the Gidari contract." But there was a war on and time for reminiscing was scarce. "New Prague wants to know why their ship was destroyed. And Starfleet wants to know why the Cardassian ship exploded. So, we're the logical choice to investigate."
"Shouldn't take long," O'Brien commented dryly. "There's not much left of either of them."
O'Brien was right. The investigation had taken no more than three hours but had still to offer up any answers. The Vesmir left the sensors little to work with beyond their earlier transmission. There were no survivors, and there weren't even any large fragments of the ship. There was even less of the Cardassians, though their debris field still gave off odd sensor readings. Worf was given the task of deciphering them.
The Defiant returned nearly empty-handed to the station, with no explanation to offer the Czechs or Starfleet. Starfleet did have information to offer, however. Action near the Klingon border. It was far enough away from DS9 that the Defiant was not ordered to join the battle. The station was close enough though, that the casualties would still be coming their way. Sisko sighed and relayed the information to Bashir.
"Good morning," Sisko said, welcoming his officers to the next morning's briefing.
"Where's Julian?" O'Brien asked as he surveyed the room.
Kira answered his question. "Working. The Venture docked at 0300 with casualties. Their medical staff was glad for the help. I'm sure their engineering crew would be, too."
O'Brien nodded. It would be a busy day. "Where were they when they were hit?" he asked. "Things have been relatively quiet around here."
"Near the Klingon border," Kira supplied. "With the fighting there, we were the safest port to come to."
"How bad was it?" The Chief was trying to make mental notes on how many engineers he could spare.
"Shouldn't take you more than a week, Chief," Sisko broke in. "In the meantime, we still have a Cardassian ship to think about. Anything there, Mr. Worf?"
"Nothing in our records matches the sensor readings from the debris," Worf replied. He put the readings up on the main viewscreen in the room.
"But some of those readings are vaguely familiar," Dax jumped in.
"To you, but not to the computer?" Kira didn't understand. She didn't see anything familiar there.
"Well, the computer might have thought it familiar a few years ago, before certain records were purged." Odo added, looking both angry and proud, like he'd solved the mystery already but wasn't thrilled with the solution.
"Gidari," Ezri exclaimed. They all remembered the Gidari's last visit. They were not the most polite of people.
Odo shot her a sideways look. But then he continued. "The records were purged at their request." His tone on the last word indicated that it hadn't been a simple request. In fact, the Gidari had ordered the records purged to protect their overzealous secrecy.
Kira nodded, remembering now. "We had one of their knives."
Odo explained, "When Dax scanned it for DNA traces, the metal was also scanned. It had the same sort of sensor spikes as the debris."
O'Brien stood up and walked to the screen, taking a closer look. He remembered the knife, and how Dax had been fascinated by the readings she got from it, hoping it was a clue to the Gidari or their homeworld. "About the only thing I can tell you definitively about the knife is that the metal had been exposed to massive amounts of ultraviolet and infrared radiation. And that's all I can definitively say about the debris from the Cardassian ship." He returned to his seat.
"So they were carrying something Gidari," Sisko worked out. "They were within sensor range of the Vesmir."
"Could the Gidari have infiltrated the Cardassian ship?" Kira posed.
"Not likely," Odo answered, though he didn't elaborate.
Dax agreed. "They wouldn't fit in. The Gidari never go anywhere unnoticed. The hoods make them conspicuous, and Julian said they were blue under the hoods."
"So are Bolians," Kira countered. "Besides, if Bashir can make Odo or you into Klingons, why couldn't they do Cardassians?"
Sisko thought about it but still rejected the idea. "It's possible, but they'd probably never lower themselves to either the deception or the target species. In Gidari eyes, they're all inferior. But let's not belabor the point. Let's assume the Cardassians or their Dominion allies brought a Gidari substance on board. How did they get it, and what was it supposed to do?"
"Could they have taken it from the Vesmir?" Worf suggested.
O'Brien shook his head. "Too far. Their last known positions were as close as those two ships ever got."
Kira had been pensive for the last few moments. "The Gidari were able to get through all of our defenses. They beamed through our shields and broke out of our tractor beam with little effort."
"I remember," Ezri said.
O'Brien remembered, too. They all did. "Fortunately for us, they weren't overtly hostile at the time."
"The Dominion could use technology like that," Kira finished.
"Those were my thoughts," Sisko admitted.
"Then we were lucky they blew up," O'Brien decided.
Julian Bashir finally returned to the station at 1230 hours. His stomach had been growling for the last five hours and was growing more insistent every minute. He could have eaten on the Venture, but the critical patients were in good hands and today was Wednesday. Bashir had lunch with Garak on Wednesdays.
"You look terrible," Garak said in greeting as Bashir neared the table at the Replimat.
Bashir dropped himself into the waiting chair. "Thank you for noticing."
"Really, Doctor, you must insist on getting more sleep," Garak scolded. "Your health is as important as any on this station. Shall I order for you?"
"That would be very helpful," Julian decided. "Thank you." While Garak got up to go to the replicator, Bashir rubbed his tired eyes. He was tempted to call off lunch altogether and catch a nap, but his stomach was still empty. He'd had no breakfast.
"A busy morning, I take it." Garak had returned with a light but nutritious and filling meal. A Bajoran meal, in fact, with Tarkalian tea.
Bashir removed his hand. "My eyelids hurt," he sighed. "Yes, very busy. They had lost seven people before they reached the station. We lost four more while I was there."
Garak looked up surreptitiously from his food. "Yes, the Cardassians are touting the 'victory' over the Venture back home."
Bashir knew that tone. He ignored his stomach, forgot his eyelids, and focused all of his attention on the clothier across the table. "Really?"
"Oh, yes. The valiant crew of the Enirak is being honored for their heroic sacrifice." Garak waved his hand with a flourish as he spoke. "It appears the crippling blow they delivered to the Venture was also their last. The ship was lost with all hands."
That didn't fit, and Garak knew it. Some of the patients had talked, and the staff had filled him in on the rest. The Venture had been attacked by a Dominion vessel. There were no Cardassian ships in the area.
"I'm sure," Garak added, "Captain Sisko will want to fill you in on this morning's briefing which you missed. After you finish eating, of course."
Bashir ate quickly, drawing a scolding glance from Garak, but he ignored it. Duty first. He listened politely as Garak continued his thoughts from their previous lunch about the latest book he wanted to recommend. "After I finish the last one," Bashir promised. "I'm sorry, Garak, but I really must run." His tray was now empty.
Garak nodded his understanding, and Bashir excused himself from the table. He returned his tray to the replicator and turned to leave. His path to exit took him right by Garak's table again. Garak caught his arm. "Fifty-seven souls. It really is a tragedy."
His arm released, Bashir continued out the door. He found Sisko in his office in Ops.
"How are the patients, Doctor?" Sisko asked in greeting.
"Eleven dead," Bashir answered, still standing in front of Sisko's desk. "Fourteen stable but critical, and thirty-three lesser injuries. It's been a very busy morning."
"I can see that." Sisko gestured for Bashir to sit. "Do you think they can do without you for the rest of the day?"
Bashir hesitated to sit. "Why?" he asked, alarmed. "What's happened?"
Sisko chuckled. "Sit down. Nothing's happened. I just think you need a break. You look terrible."
The alarm faded and Bashir sat. "So I've been told. I had lunch with Mr. Garak today."
Sisko leaned back in his chair, a knowing and slightly amused look crossed his face. "More literature?"
"Of course," Bashir remarked. "But I think he also related the name of our mysterious Cardassian ship."
Doctor Bashir had gladly accepted the captain's advice and had taken the rest of the day off, spending most of it in bed asleep. He returned to the Venture the next morning, hoping to see that all the patients were doing well. He was greeted by a tired, but cheerful Dr. Marin as she led Bashir to the patients. "Good to see you again," she said. "I can't thank you enough for your help yesterday."
Bashir smiled. "It's what I do. I was glad to help."
Marin smiled, too. "I've downgraded all but two of the patients to stable," she reported. "Hansen and Jarofana are still critical, but I'm optimistic." As she talked, she led Bashir over to the biobeds where the two critical patients were. She handed him a PADD.
Bashir looked over the PADD as Marin ran through the readings on the biobeds. "Jarofana, you'll remember, was our burn victim," she said as she neared the last bed.
"Fifty-five percent third degree, I believe," Bashir answered, nodding.
"Fluids have helped, along with the synthetic skin," Marin continued. "But we're having a bit more trouble fighting the infection. We've got her on corophizine. But we'll gladly take suggestions."
Bashir checked the readings on the bed. Marin's prognosis was logical and corophizine was a sufficient antibiotic. "Sounds good," he said. "She'll need cosmetic surgery once she recovers sufficiently."
Marin just nodded. "If she recovers sufficiently. We'll keep her and Hansen under close observation."
"I hope they both do well," Bashir commented sincerely. "But it looks like you have things well in hand for now."
Marin nodded, putting the PADD way. "And since we've got repairs," Marin added, "we should be here a little while. That will give us all time to rest up a bit. Thank you again for your help, Doctor."
The Venture remained for two more days, and when she left, O'Brien breathed a sigh of relief. The war had increased his workload three-fold, but it had also kept him so busy that routine repairs and maintenance went undone. Now that the Dominion had backed off from this sector--for whatever reasons they had done so--the maintenance and repair schedule was enough to keep a crew four times as large as O'Brien's engineering staff occupied. The Venture had only added to that.
But now the Venture was gone, the Defiant was docked, and all but two of the runabouts were out on maneuvers. All of which left only the station to deal with, and that was still a very large job. But, for now, it was the job of the night shift. For the Chief of Operations, the day was over. He'd already reserved a holosuite from Quark so he headed for the bar. O'Brien knew he'd meet Julian there, if he hadn't gotten tied up with patients in the Infirmary.
Quark's was crowded, which was no surprise. Martok's ship had docked the day before, so there were several Klingons in view. He didn't really have to see them though. They had a distinct smell to them when too many were in a relatively small area. A Tarkalian eyed O'Brien suspiciously from the bar, but O'Brien ignored him. He remembered the man as the one Molly had attacked. But the man had not given him any trouble since, so O'Brien didn't seek any out.
Bashir was already there, at the end of the bar. As O'Brien approached, he threw one of the darts he held in his hands. O'Brien, noting how close Bashir was standing to the board--the standard distance-- expected to see the dart fly effortlessly into the bull's-eye. But it didn't happen. The dart barely made it onto the board at all. It landed less than two inches from the outside of the board. There was another dart already on the board, just to the right of center, perhaps an inch and a half off its mark. Bashir didn't seem to notice that anyone was watching and threw the last of his darts. This one was better, just clearing the outer edge of the bull's-eye. Not a bad shot for a normal person. But Bashir wasn't normal. O'Brien had been making him shoot from farther back since he found out that Julian's genetic enhancements had also improved his hand- eye coordination. At the standard distance, Bashir normally couldn't miss.
"Something wrong?" O'Brien asked, startling the doctor as he returned from the board. "Or are you planning on hustling someone?" His mouth turned up in a grin.
"Oh, hi," Bashir said in greeting. After a moment, he smiled, too. "I was just practicing. Feel like a game."
"From the looks of things, you don't," O'Brien joked. "Besides, we have a reservation. What's it to be tonight? The Alamo? Falcon versus Bashir?"
Bashir shook his head, as they each took a seat on a bar stool. "Oh, not that."
Quark met them at their seats. "Synthale," O'Brien ordered. He instantly forgot the Ferengi and turned back to Bashir. "Why not? I thought you liked those. Felix writes them just for you."
Bashir looked down at his own drink on the bar and shook his head again. "I just don't."
"You haven't," O'Brien said, "not since. . . . Well, you know. You could use the practice."
Bashir let his drink fall back onto the bar. "But it's not real, Miles. Those programs are set up to give me every advantage."
"Only when your adversaries are holograms," O'Brien countered. "I don't give you every advantage. Besides, you still have to think them out, outsmart the program."
"I don't think it will help me when the time comes." He took a long drink. "I'd rather do something a little more relaxing."
"And losing at darts is more relaxing?" O'Brien asked. "You didn't look so relaxed a minute ago when you nearly missed the board. And you were standing close. What was that all about?"
"I don't know. Aim was off?"
O'Brien studied his friend. A lot had happened to Bashir over the years, but he'd rarely ever been so dull. "You know what I think?"
"What do you think?"
"I think the war is getting to you." He set his drink down hard on the bar as if to punctuate his thought. "You keep too much inside, Julian." Bashir put his own drink down and faced him with a look of wide-eyed wonder. O'Brien felt more confident. He'd gotten to him. "Bad things happen to you, and you don't talk about them. You go on as if everything's the same. But it's not. If you don't do something about it little by little, it will eventually wear you down. And right now, you look worn down."
Bashir turned back to his drink without saying anything. Not that he didn't try. He actually opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it again. O'Brien grinned on the inside. Bashir was speechless. "Maybe," O'Brien went on, not really knowing if he was pushing too far or not, "you got so good at keeping certain things a secret that you got used to keeping everything in. You need to relieve some stress, my friend."
Bashir shrugged, non-committal. "What do you suggest?"
"I hate to do it," O'Brien said, smiling, "but seeing as you're my friend and all, I suggest a game or two of racquetball."
Bashir smiled. "You're sure your ego can take that? I'll win."
Now O'Brien shrugged as he finished off his synthale. "Maybe not. We haven't played for several years now. You might at least be out of practice."
Bashir laughed. "Alright. I need to go back to my court and change. I'll meet you in, say, fifteen minutes."
O'Brien wasn't sure he heard that right. "What?"
Bashir finished his own drink and slid off the barstool. "I said I'd have to go to my quarters and change."
"See, you are stressed." O'Brien stepped down, too.
"What did you think I said?" Julian asked as they both headed for the door, threading their way through the crowd.
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