PROLOGUE

He was running.

Driven only by the sheer terror of imminent capture, Dr. Julian Bashir ran for his life.

I have to get to the runabout, he told himself over and over again. I have to make it; everything's riding on me getting the calvary out here.

His thoughts wandered as he was bombarded by after-images...Chief O'Brien shot by the attacking troops, beat into submission, and carried away. We were only investigating a distress signal. I thought this godforsaken chunk of rock was supposed to be uninhabited anyway!

Curiosity gained the upperhand and Bashir peeked over his shoulder; he immediately wished he hadn't. Good Lord, don't they ever get tired?

Suddenly, he was wrenched off his feet and sent plowing into the ground. The next thing he knew, he was being yanked to his feet and shackled with chains. "What the..."

"Silence, slave!" the commanding officer ordered.

"But..."

"I said silence!" he gruffly demanded, then backhanded the doctor in the mouth for added emphasis.

Bashir, struggling to free himself,  was rewarded with a sharp knee to the groin. Gasping in agony, he collapsed to the ground.

"Don't try my patience, boy!" Jerking the young man back to his feet, he shoved him forward. "Now move it!"

Still short of breath, the Starfleet doctor reluctantly complied with the command. This has got to be the worst trip I have ever had in my life, Bashir silently complained. Way to go, Chief. This is one helluva mess you've gotten us into now. He prayed that O'Brien survived the vicious attack and that he hadn't been seriously injured...or killed. Angrily shaking his bound hands, Julian cursed himself for allowing his friend to stay behind while he dashed for cover. Dammit, Chief! If those bastards didn't kill you, I will!

Landing the runabout behind a smattering of massive boulders, Bashir and O'Brien walked down the ramp and glanced around.

"Chief, are you sure this is the right place? I don't see anything but rocks and more rocks," the doctor pointed out.

"The tricorder indicates that the distress signal is coming from just over that hill."

"In that case, we better get a move on before it gets dark."

Soon they were huffing and puffing as they scrambled up the side of the earthen wall. "Chief, I thought you said this was a hill, not a mountain."

"Would you stop griping and complaining? We're almost at the summit."

Standing upright at the top of the mound, Bashir grimly looked around. "Chief..." he hesitantly called.

"What now?" he asked, brushing off his uniform, coming to stand beside the doctor.

"I thought you said this planet was uninhabited."

"It is. There probably hasn't been anyone here for the past 200 years..." His voice trailed off as he followed the doctor's gaze. "Bloody hell..."

"My thoughts exactly." Bashir replied staring down at the mass of armed soldiers lining the bottom of the hill.

"Doctor?" O'Brien prompted.

"Yeah, Chief?" he asked, never taking his eyes off the men gather below.

"RUN..." he shouted, grabbing the physician by his arm and pulling him back down the other side.

Almost immediately, a loud yell emanated from the band of soldiers behind them as they scurried up the hill after them.

Ducking behind a couple of rocks, O'Brien pulled out his phaser. "Go to the runabout. I'll cover you!"

"Are you crazy, Chief? They'll kill you then come after me."

"Not if I can hold them off long enough for you to get there," he argued.

"I'm not going to leave you."

"Doctor, you don't have a choice. If they catch us here, we'll be dead for sure. But if you can get to the runabout..."

"Yeah, if I can get there. But what would I do afterwards? The transporters don't work," he reminded.

"Shoot them for all I care, but you better hurry up and decide because here they come!"

That was all the encouragement he needed. "Dammit; cover me!" he shouted back just as the army came into full view.

And that's exactly what O'Brien did. He was doing quite well for himself too until the militia overcame him, but not without a fight. Just as he cleared a path through the angry soldiers, one of the men opened fire.

He was struck in the chest close to his right shoulder, but that didn't stop the Irishman. Not by a long shot. Still he tried to get away, but was eventually forced into submission when several of the soldiers began to pummel him with their rifle butts.

Bashir watched helplessly as his best friend was dragged away. 

"Hold up, slave; we're here."

Looking around, he asked in confusion, "Here? Where the hell is here? I don't see a damn thing but rocks, much less a gate to this wonderful city of yours."

"Shut-up!" he guard growled, slinging Bashir toward a rather large boulder just to his left.

Bracing for impact, Julian expected to collide with the mammoth rock looming before him, but instead of a bone-jarring crash, he simply stumbled to a wooden floor with a dull thump. Scrambling upright, he glanced around. "Hey what gives? Where are we?"

The soldier replied neutrally. "This is your new home."

The decor leaves a lot to be desired, he mused as he was led to another portion of this hell beneath the earth. Where's O'Brien hiding? Another rough shove against his shoulder blade with the butt of the gun encouraged Bashir to lenghten his strides, hasten his steps. Apparently he just couldn't please his escorts for once more the gun crashed into his kidney. He fell to his knees.

"Slow down, slave."

"Make up your mind, goober." He was hit again. They know what a goober is? he thought as he was yanked to his feet once more. "Leave the arm in the socket if it isn't too much trouble." He steadied himself for a blow which never came. Don't stop now; you're on a roll, fellas.

They rounded a dark corner and Bashir came face to face with his fallen comrade. O'Brien unconscious, lying on a shelf behind the red glow of a forcefield; blood seeped from a wound to the upper right quadrant of his chest and from a blow to the head.

"Drop the field!" the doctor frantically slurred. "Can't you see that he needs help?"

The forcefield was lowered. Bashir rushed in and leaned over the injured man, surveying the extent of his injuries, noting the pallor of his face even in the dimly lighted room. With a steady hand, Julian reached for O'Brien's neck, searching for the beating pulse that coursed through it. He found it...but it was a lot faster, more thready than it should have been. The chief's breathing was also sharp and irregular.

Bashir turned to his captors, begging that he be allowed access to their medical facility so that he could treat his wounded companion. "Please," he appealed to them, "this man needs immediate medical attention or he will die."

Three of them laughed and walked away. The fourth turned his back on the Starfleet officer and started to leave. Then stopped.

Bashir noticed his indecision and called out to him. "You have to help me. My friend will die if the bleeding is not stopped soon. At least give me my medkit so I can try to save him."

The guard faced him once more, stared at the man lying on the small bed, then walked away.

Bashir dejectedly returned to the chief's bedside. "Well, it seems that nobody around here gives a damn whether you live or die. Nobody except me. And I don't plan on letting you go without a fight."

He sat down beside O'Brien and gently unzipped his patient's uniform down to the waist. Slipping the constrictive clothing over the man's shoulders and easing his arms out of the sleeves, the doctor then proceeded to remove his undershirt to get a better look at the gunshot wound. "This looked at lot better covered up, Chief."

Looking around the sparcely decorated room, he searched for anything he could use to help stop the blood flow. He grabbed the discarded T-shirt lying on the floor beside him, folded it up and pressed in into the wound. O'Brien groaned in pain.

"Shhh...it's all right," Bashir whispered soothingly as he lifted the chief's eyelids. Dilated pupils, extensive blood loss, rapid weak pulse, labored breathing. All the signs of shock. I wish I had a blanket or something to keep him from getting chilled. A warm, sticky wettness seeping through the make-shift bandage pulled his attention back to the work at hand. Great, I wish it would hurry up and clot.

Pulling his hand away, he quickly shed his own undershirt , placed it on top of the other, and began pressing down on the wound once more. "At this rate, we'll both be in our underwear by the time they decide to come back," he joked, trying to relieve some tension.

Still keeping constant pressure on the shoulder wound, he gingerly felt along O'Brien's ribcage, which elicited a soft moan from him. Doesn't feel like anything's broken. Probably just bruised pretty badly. I wish I could say the same about this head wound though. The bleeding's stopped, but that doesn't mean a thing. You could have a skull fracture or even some sort of internal bleeding. The last thing I need on my hands right now is a subdural hematoma.

Bashir smiled slightly; the bleeding was finally slowing. Holding the bandages in place, he managed to slide the chief's arms back into the sleeves of his uniform. Pulling some of the stuffing out of a slit in the dilapidated mattress he was lying on, the doctor added it to the bloody mass and zipped O'Brien's uniform up partially, just enough to hold the bandaging in place. There, that should do for a while.

Exhausted from the day's travel, Bashir walked across the room and crawled onto the flimsy mattress. He looked once more at the unconscious form, then drifted off into restless sleep.

The guard had just passed the newcomers' cell when he heard something that immediately grabbed his attention. He stopped and listened.

There is was again.

Walking back toward the noice, he stopped in front of the newest acquisions' doorway and looked in.

The dark haired one was asleep on one of the bunks while the hurt man tossed and turned on the other, apparently delirious from pain and shock.

Lowering the forcefield, the guard walked over to the injured man and felt his forehead; he was burning up with fever. And he was bleeding once again.

"To hell with my superior," he whispered, then turned and walked out, reactivating the field.

Bashir awoke with a start to the sound of someone calling his name. Bolting upright, he thought for a second that he was back onboard the station, that is until he took a good look around his surroundings. Sighing, "Oh, well, I guess it was just a dream...and a lot of wishful thinking." He slid off the bed, stood up and stretched. That was when he noticed the bundle lying on the floor close to the forcefield. As he moved closer to it, he gaped in surprise. There on the floor was a blanket, several rolls of bandages, a bowl of water, a hypospray with several ampoules of drugs, and a note.

The letter read: I thought you might need these. I will return later tonight to take you to the infirmary. Be ready.

"Thank you, whoever you are," he whispered in prayer.

Gathering up the bundle a little at a time, he walked over to the bed where O'Brien was lying...and knew immediately something was wrong. The chief was drenched with sweat and there was a fresh pool of blood gathering beneath him, dripping from his fingertips. I knew it. Just a soon as I decide to take a break, this has to happens.

Setting everything aside, he unzipped O'Brien's uniform completely and as gently as he could, slipped it off. His hands immersed in the bowl, soaking several of the bandages to use as swabs, Bashir studied his patient, frustration and concern in his eyes.

At first, the contact brought relief to the chief, even a soothing pleasantness as Bashir cleansed him, but as he worked around the wound, the sheer agony of his very touch caused the chief to groan in pain.

The doctor heard his cry and paused before continuing with a lightness of touch that might have surprised him had he been conscious.

The hardest part completed, Bashir dressed O'Brien's wounds and drew the blanket up over his chest. Looking through the viles of medication, he chose a painkiller and something to fight the shock, loaded them into the hypospray and pressed it to his neck.

Within moments, the pain hardened features of the Irishman softened, and Bashir relaxed as well. "Rest easy, Miles." I know I won't.

The doctor once again climbed onto his bunk...watching...waiting... 

He was just about to doze off when he heard the soft cry for help from the chief. Immediately rushing to his side, the doctor gripped his companion's hand, trying to comfort him.

"Run...Julian...try to get to the runabout...I'll cover you..."

"I tried, Chief," Julian whispered, brushing the sweat dampened hair from the engineer's forehead.

"You have to go...they'll kill us both..."

"It's okay, Miles. You're safe now." Bashir was just about to give O'Brien another hypospray, when a guard appeared outside the cell and deactivated the forcefield blocking the entrance.

"Hurry. Follow me; you do not have much time," he beckoned to them, glancing nervously up and down the hallway.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bashir wrapped the blanket securely around his companion, hoisted the crumpled body into his arms, and obediently followed his mysterious savior down the darkened corridor, stopping outside a locked door at the far end. Damn, Chief! As soon as we get back, you're going on a diet.

"I will stand watch for you, but I will not accept responsibility for your actions," he whispered. "I will kill you first before I am blamed for what you are doing."

"Understood," Bashir replied in agreement with the terms.

Looking both ways down the hall, the soldier made absolutely sure that no one was around before he unlocked the door and allowed Bashir to enter. Then, as he promised, he waited...

Carefully, the doctor laid O'Brien down on top of the examining table. Rummaging through one of the drawers that lined a counter on the other side of the room, Bashir managed to locate a device that sort of resembled an older version of a Federation tricorder. It's worth a shot, he mumbled to himself, picking up the instrument and walking back over to his patient.

He ran the tricorder sensor over the still form, studying the blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate, and a number of trauma readings that were displayed. Besides the shoulder wound, you have a mild concussion, badly bruised ribs and left kidney.

Searching through a few more drawers and cabinets, Bashir found a medical kit similar to his own and a healthy supply of bandages. Popping the latch on the small container, he pulled out a bottle of antiseptic. He then lifted the edge of the blanket, and removed the soiled dressings. Silently, he cleansed the open wound as softly as he could, pausing every now and then when the pain because too great for his patient. Then he gently bandaged the wound and wrapped O'Brien's ribs before once again covering him with the blanket. He found and administered something for shock, an antibiotic, something to help speed clotting, and a hefty dose of neural blockers.

Just as he was about to finish cleaning up, he heard voices from directly outside the door. Straining to hear exactly what was going on, he managed to pick up bits and pieces from the conversation, and it wasn't good. Looking around the small room, he hunted desperately for a place to hide, but he found no such luck. Then he spotted it. A suit exactly like the one all the other guards he had encountered were wearing, helmet and all. Okay, Julian, it's now or never. Either put on the suit or risk being shot yourself.

He chose the suit, and not a moment too soon. 

"I was about to ask you the same thing, Lieutenant. You're supposed to be watching the newcomers; why aren't you?" he asked, his arms crossed awaiting an answer.

"I...I am, sir."

"Really. Then where are they? I don't see them standing around here anywhere. Or are they inside?" he asked in curiosity, then pushed his way past his subordinate and opened the door to the infirmary. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" he asked the uniformed man inside.

"Uh..." Bashir hesitated, trying not to blow his cover.

"He was treating the injured newcomer, just like I ordered him to," the guard interjected. "He is a skilled technician, an engineer where he came from. The last man we had died a couple of days ago, but this one can be saved."

"Are you sure of this information?" the supervisor asked in uncertainty.

"Yes, sir. I am positive."

"Can this one be saved as the lieutenant has said?" he asked, directing this question to Bashir.

He nodded once in reply to the inquiry.

"Very well. You will make damn sure this individual survives, or I will have your head served on a silver platter." With this closing remark, he turned and walked out, leaving the three men alone in the infirmary.

Bashir pulled off the helmet and sighed in relief.

"You saved our lives. I am in your debt, doctor."

"Yes, but you disobeyed orders by allowing me to treat Chief O'Brien."

"In that case, I guess we could call it even." Glancing down at the motionless form lying on the table, he asked, "Will he live?"

"Yeah, he'll make it. He's a tough old goat," Bashir added with a smile.

"You said his name was O'Brien."

"Yeah. Miles O'Brien."

"Miles," the guard replied, testing the new name.

"My name is Bashir. Julian Bashir. How about you?"

"Darius."

"Nice to meet you, Darius, and thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving a damn..."

Bashir reclined back against the wall. From his bed he could tell that O'Brien was sleeping peacefully. For the first time since they had arrived, he wasn't tossing and turning restlessly. Just about every hour on the first night, the doctor was awakened from his light slumber to answer the chief's heart-rending cries. After that, he had completely given up on sleeping. He was too intent on nurturing the spark of life that still burned in his patient to feel fatigued.

"If I had of just shut my mouth and listened to you in the first place, we wouldn't be in this mess now," Bashir chatised himself. "And you," he glanced over at the resting form, "wouldn't be lying there now. " I could have made it to the runabout; I had plenty of time to get there. But no. I had to open my big mouth and wait until they were almost on top of us before I started to run. If only I had ran faster, I would have made it. Why couldn't I have ran faster? You had the only phaser, our only weapon against them, and I dilly-dallied around until it ran out of energy. Why did I look back? Why? I just had to turn around, one last time, and that was when it happened. Your phaser fizzled out, then they shot you, beat you into unconsciousness.. I should have just kept right on running, but I didn't. "When I saw them dragging you off like that, I wanted to rush right back down there and..." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, desperately trying to hold himself together.

"When they brought me in here...and I saw you lying on that...that shelf...I really thought that...you were dead. All I could think of was...why?  It should have been me! I was the one who failed! You were depending on me to reach the runabout...and I failed you! Now look who's paying the price."

He could no longer control the emotional turmoil rising to a fever pitch within him. All the anger, saddness, and frustration that had developed over the past three days was finally surfacing. He could feel the tears escaping his eyes, and he allowed them to flow. Pulling his knees up to his chest , he buried his face behind them and cried.

Miles stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to regain consciousness. He had heard the muffled sobs and began moving towards them through the terrible darkness, a spiraling tunnel of pain and confusion.

And half an eternity later, he opened his eyes.

Moaning softly, the doctor's features blurred before him, fading in and out of focus, as he squinted to make out his surroundings. He tried to speak, but the words were barely a whisper. O'Brien turned towards the figure, his tongue wetting his parched lips as he shifted his head to get a better view of the weeping man. "Julian..." he murmured as the image gradually cleared.

Lifting his head and using the palms of his hands to dry his eyes, Bashir slid off the bed and walked over to his companion. "Chief, you're awake!" he replied in unbridled joy. "Oh, God, I can't belive it! Miles, you're okay!"

"What happened...? How long...?"

We've been here for three days; you've been unconscious the entire time. You were shot with some sort of projectile weapon, and you have a mild concussion, badly bruised ribs and left kidney."

"Gee, is that all..." he answered weakly.

"I'm so happy to have you back, Miles. I really thought I was going to lose you for a while there."

"There's one thing I just have to ask."

"What's that?"

"Where is my uniform?"

"Oh, that. You noticed?" Bashir asked in surprise.

"Yes. It was rather...unexpected to find myself only clothed with a blanket and a pair of boxers."

"I really love those piggy shorts. Where on earth did you get them?" the doctor asked with a broad smile.

"You were admiring my boxer shorts while I was lying here on my deathbed?" O'Brien asked, getting more perturbed by the minute.

"Chief, you were bleeding to death. What was I supposed to do without removing your uniform?" Bashir retorted.

"Well, you didn't have to look at my underwear to do an examination! Besides, they were a gift from Molly for my birthday!"

"I'm sure," he sarcastically replied.

Miles looked up at him in complete disgust. "All right, Doctor, I have another question for you. How could you let them capture you?" he muttered.

For once, Bashir was speechless. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to answer the man, or just flat out knock the hell out of him. "Well excuse me if I left my pixie dust at home, Chief! I just saved your pathetic little hide from dying and you're upset that I got caught! I wasn't exactly planning on running for my life when we set off on this little adventure or I would have brought better shoes for it! And as for your boxer shorts, I don't care if you have polka-dotted cows on them!" He paused for a moment watching the chief's reaction before continuing. "Your life is more important to me than any silly piece of clothing your daughter buys you for your birthday. I've been awake for more than forty-eight hours, sitting by your side, praying that you wouldn't die during the night. Over and over again, I keep thinking that maybe if I had of done something differently, you wouldn't be lying there now. I'm sorry that what I've done for you doesn't meet your approval. But I'll be damned if I'm going to sit here and listen to another second of your whining."

With those closing remarks, Bashir turned and stalked away, back to his side of the cramped quarters, and laid down.

"Julian..." Miles prompted, but he simply shrugged him off.

O'Brien was stunned. He had never seen the doctor so angry before in his life, not even after losing a patient. Gritting his teeth and using his good elbow as a lever, he tried to sit up. Wave after wave of nauseating pain beat against him, but he refused to give in. Moment by moment, the agonizing torture grew worse as he struggled, panting and crying out with every centimeter gained.

Bashir immediately lept to his feet. "Chief, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, easing the hurting man back down to the mattress.

"...What the hell am I doing...? You refused to come to me...so I decided to go to you..." he replied in a mixture of pain and bull-headedness.

"Chief, all you did was hurt yourself more," he argued.

"Well at least something got your attention..."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're so caught up in blaming yourself for what happened...and yelling at me...that you seem to have forgotten one thing..."

"And what's that?"

"I wouldn't be carrying on this conversation with you now if you had of made it to the runabout. I'm sorry...if I led you to believe...that I wasn't grateful...for everything you've done. But...there's no sense in blaming yourself..." he breathed in exhaustion, his eyes closing involuntarily.

Sighing aloud, Bashir tiredly rubbed his throbbing temples. "You're right, Miles. I guess I did go a little overboard. And I'm the one that should be apologizing, not you. You did everything you could, short of giving me a good swift kick in the rear, to get me to go."

"Try...get some sleep...Jules. One of us...got to be...in tip-top shape...to even think about...escaping..." he replied, slipping deeper into joyous oblivion.

"Don't worry; I will." Now that I know you're going to be okay. He crawled onto the make-shift bunk and laid down. "Pleasant dreams, Chief."

Sometime later, he drifted off into peaceful, worry-free sleep.

"Strip."

Two human mouths hit the floor. "Uh...excuse me?" Bashir questioned, giving his companion a nervous glance.

"Strip. Processing has been delayed long enough," one of the guards replied again.

"We've only been here four days," the doctor interjected.

"Four days too many. Processing is usually completed the first day, one hour after you arrive."

"Well, it isn't my fault that one of your men has an ichy trigger finger," O'Brien replied in defense.

"Silence, both of you!" the soldier hissed, leveling his weapon.

"Watch where you're pointing that thing, or you'll have to delay processing another four days," Bashir warned.

The guard stepped forward, raising the weapon above his head. Julian put up an arm in a defensive posture.

O'Brien clamped his hand over the doctor's mouth. "We get the message. There's no need to get violent." Swallowing hard, "Are we to...strip here?" he asked with obvious distaste.

"No. You will go in there," Darius responded, pointing to a door immediately behind them.

Releasing his hold on Bashir, they turned around. "In there," O'Brien replied in confirmation.

The guard nodded.

Without warning, the air was suddenly punctuated by shrill, inhuman screams of torture. The shrieks died within a few moments, only to be replaced by a tirade of curses and other obscenities. This, however, did not last very long, for it was soon deathly silent once again.

A door further down the cooridor opened to reveal two armed men pushing a gurney out into the passageway. A body, covered by a dark shroud, was on top.

"What happened?" Darius asked in curiosity.

"Neural mataphasic shock. Her master became overly zealous when she refused his sexual advances," one of the soldiers offered.

Peeking under the cover, the other guard shook his head. "Pity. What a waste of perfectly good breeding stock."

As the guards continued on their way, the bubble-head returned his attention to his charges. Ramming the butt of his rifle into the kidney of Chief O'Brien, he ordered, "Okay, move it slaves! No time for sight-seeing! It is time for processing!"

Dropping to his knees, the human suppressed a loud moan. Diligently rising to his feet, he staggered against the nearest wall, and collapsed back to the floor. Groaning softly, he closed his eyes as a wave of vertigo washed over him.

The guard readied his gun for another strike, but Bashir stepped in between the two gentlemen to ward off the blow. "Can't you guys go for a second without hitting someone! This man is still weak from his previous beating, not to mention from being shot! I think he deserves a break!"

"I'll show you a beating..." he replied, slamming the weapon against the doctor's head, knocking him to the floor as well.

"Touch him, and I'll give you a beating you'll never forget," Darius said, shoving his companion out of the way. "Then, I'll have you shipped to the mines to work off some of that frustration. Is that understood, Malcolm?"

He glared back at the lieutenant for a moment, then curtly nodded.

"Good. I'm glad that we thoroughly understand each other now." Turning to Bashir, "Is he okay?"

The doctor looked over at O'Brien. "I'm all right," he gasped through tightly clenched teeth. Helping the Irishman to his feet, Bashir opened the iron door and they walked into the darkened room. The door slammed shut behind them.

Oh shit! Bashir thought to himself. We are going to die!

The lights snapped on.

"Bloody hell!"

Bashir turned, his mouth suddenly seeming full of cotton; he had trouble forcing air into his lungs.

The room smelled of death, tickling his nostils with the familiar odor of decaying flesh and stale blood. Beside him he heard O'Brien stifle the urge to gag. "Shallow breaths, Chief, and remember, it's only a dead body. It can't hurt you." The man shot him him a startled glance, his lips moving but no sound escaping.

The young physician assessed the corpse clinically. "Male of indeterminate species. Multiple trauma, extensive blood loss from numerous projectile wounds. Death was not instantaneous." To the guard he didn't know, "An example?" The bubble-head merely nodded and adjusted his hold on the weapon.

After a moment, "Strip."

The two humans exchanged an uneasy glance before complying. Bashir began to neatly fold his uniform out of reflex before realizing it didn't matter and let it simply collect in a pile on the floor. O'Brien did the same.

Another portal swished open, and flourescent lights luminated a chamber. It was small, and Bashir couldn't help but take note of the rusty stains painting the clear plastic and dull metal. He guessed it was blood.

Jerking his domed head toward the chamber, "The young one's first."

I thought it was age before beauty, Bashir thought as he was ushered into the claustrophobic confines. He could feel O'Brien's gaze boring a hole straight through his head and squared his shoulders as he crossed the threshold. The dome closed behind him, encasing him inside a cylinder of high tech metal and plastic. There're so many domed surfaces. Is this a theme here, or what?

"Turn around," a disembodied voice commanded.

So you want to see the fear in my eyes? He pivoted about, locked gazes with his fellow inmate. The chief's concern was palpable, and Bashir extended a quirky little smile to try to cut through the tension. Around him lights began to pulse, multi-colored shades cocooning his skin, swirling and writhing like some hellish laser-light show.

A queer tingling sensation erupted throughout the entirety of his body, not that painful but uncomfortable nevertheless. The brightness flared again, and Bashir's eyes slipped shut. Here goes nothing... Once more a disembodied command filtered to his ears, and the human braced his hands against smooth plastic.

The scrape of metal against metal cut straight through him, and he fought the impulse to open his eyes. And then, all at once, he found that he couldn't force them to part; he tried to pry apart his eyelids, but his muscles revolted, welding them shut as tightly as a coffin lid.

Panic loomed at the edges of his awareness, threatening, for the first time since his capture, to escape and run rampant throughout his system. His breath came in bellows as Julian Bashir imagined himself forever encased in this metal and plastic casket, his features distorted with fear for any passers-by to view through the clear lid. A shiver hovered just at the bottom of his spine, attempting to climb up the slim ladder of vertebrae and cartilage but unable to reach the first rung before the physician's muscles locked with yet another sensation: gut-wrenching agony.

O'Brien stared onward in horror, watching the tiny metal projection shoot up through the man's nasal passage, imagined he heard a slight pop in his own head. Abruptly a silent cry cut through the Irishman's bones like a shrill winter wind, and his heart skipped a measured beat as blood flew forth from his companion's noise and mouth.

As if an invisible forcefield had cut off, Bashir slumped forward, his face colliding with the transparent film of scarlet, sliding downward and smearing the ozone-scented liquid. He flopped to the floor like a lifeless rag doll, and Miles couldn't help but rush forward and call out his name.

Leather-clad fingers bit painfully into his skin, yanking sharply on his upper arms. Another one of those blasted dome-heads was holding him back, barking some nonsensical command into his ear. He barely heard the voice or felt the sudden pain lance through his shoulder, instead he focused on the unmoving form being dragged out of the blood-splattered chamber, hauled out of his sight. Miles fought the urge to call back those pall bearers because to his eyes, Bashir was dead.

"Go on, get in there, slave." A rough shove and the chief put out his hand to catch himself, felt a sticky warmth there and on his feet too. He tried not to focus on what that wetness was. Instead he reminisced on his life, his love, his baby girl...

Light began to pulsate about him, and Miles O'Brien closed his eyes on a smile.

Cool. The soft cloth skimming gently over his aching face was so incredibly cool, and he gurgled a nonsensical noise of contentment deep in his throat. Even softer was the bedding supporting his bruised and aching body, and the man snuggled deeper into the folds.

"Julian," a concerned voice whispered against his ear.

He opened his eyes---or rather tried to. His right eye was swollen shut.

One of those dome helmets waivered into focus, and Bashir squinted against its glare. "Darius?" he hissed, more out of the fact that his throat hurt than he being worried about being overheard.

The helmet bobbed. "You swallowed an awful lot of blood." Presently he returned to washing off the dried substance from Julian's face and neck. "How do you feel?"

"Ghastly," he replied, lying back and letting the guard continue. "Where's O'Brien?"

"In medical. My superiors wished for him to be monitored until he regained consciousness." Bashir nodded. "I volunteered to monitor you."

Julian blinked, a bit taken aback. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Darius shook his head. "There is no need for thanks. I owed you one."

"I thought we were even," Bashir reminded.

"Just a little more even," Darius said. A sigh arose, and it was audible to his companion even through the helmet. "I must go now. Do not worry, Julian. When your friend is returned, I will bring both of you more...appropriate attire." The dark black plate obscured the gaze which drifted over Bashir's sheet.

He moved to the forcefield, nodded a farewell, and left.

Julian was alone. He drew up his knees, resting his elbows there and his face in his hands. He drew a deep breath, held it for ten seconds,and let it out in a sigh. A disparaging perusal of his cell drew another sigh from him.

Well he had a mattress on a concrete slab for a bed. Another one adorned the adjacent wall. That was it as far as he could tell from his present vantage point.

Bashir drew the sheet around himself and commenced to exploring.

A small alcove turned out to be the lavatory. A basin, a tub, and a toilet. No handles, not even a faucet, just a series of buttons. Bashir pressed one. The water level in the sink rose, nearly splashing over onto the counter. Ah, so that was how everything worked: transporters.

He proceeded examining the floor, the forcefields, the walls, even the ceiling as best as he could. The entire thing was concrete, every last centimeter.

At the head of his bed Bashir discovered a grated vent. It would have been useful... If it hadn't been smaller than his hand!

Julian whimpered in defeat, laid his head against the cool floor.

And heard what surely must have been a dream.

The voice was sweetly humming a somewhat familiar melody, and when the first word sprung from her lips he recognized it. The tune was an old Earth song sung by a young girl who'd lost her way.

As Somewhere Over the Rainbow lulled him to sleep, Julian Bashir pondered what it meant...

He and O'Brien were not alone.

"Hi, Jules!" Miles slurred, waving at the doctor as he walked in.

Bashir perched on the edge of the bed, watching intently as Darius helped O'Brien, who was wrapped up like a mummy in a sheet, stagger to his own bunk. "What happened to him?" the doctor asked in concern. "He looks like a drunk raccoon."

"Thank you, Julian," the chief breathed, wincing from a terrible headache. "You don't look too hot yourself."

"Ah...that's the Miles O'Brien I know," he replied, feeling the large bruise on his cheek that matched the one around his eye. "Seriously, Chief, what happened? You were gone for so long that I was starting to get worried."

"It's seems that these bozos around here need a...uh...mechanic, and I'm the only one available at the moment."

"They want you to hurry up and get well so they can put you to work. Lucky you."

"Lucky me? I could use some luck right about now. After getting...getting...uh... shot and being beaten to a pulp, I thought my luck couldn't get any worse than that...I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Closing his eyes, he tried to clear the fog clouding his mind at the moment. Shaking his head in defeat, he motioned towards Darius. "Maybe he should tell you. My heads killing me, and they've got me so doped up I can barely remember my name, much less...ah...never mind, you know what I'm talking about."

"Darius, what's O'Brien jabbering about now?"

"His first implant was malfunctioning, so..."

"First implant?" Bashir interrupted.

"Yes. His first implant malfuctioned and it had to be replaced."

"Those sick bastards put him in that godawful machine again?"

"No. The second was done manually. It is also the most painful way. That is why he is so heavily drugged, to make the procedure more bearable for the patient."

O'Brien started to chuckle, his aching ribs screaming out in protest to the movement. "Bearable? It hurt like hell. The only thing I can remember clearly about the whole bloody process is screaming...before, during, and after they finished."

"So that's why you look like a drunk raccoon."

"Darius, shoot him," O'Brien responded in annoyment.

"Okay, Miles, I can take a hint," Bashir raised his hands in surrender. "But tell me one thing, what happened to your piggy boxers?"

"That's it; you're going to get it now!" O'Brien shouted, shoving Darius out of the way, as he jumped up from his bed. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Crying out in pain, he clutched his ribs as the other two men manhandled him back to the padded slab.

"Take it easy, Chief. I should have quit while I was ahead."

O'Brien just glared up at him.

"I really am sorry, Chief. I was just trying to ease the tension a little," Bashir genuinely apologized.

"I know. Just don't do it again," he warned the physician, a slight smile crossing his pained features.

"You can count on it. As long as we're here, I won't make anymore jokes about your raccoon eyes...or your piggy boxers," the doctor promised, returning the smile.

"If you two gentlemen are finished arguing for the time being, then I have a little surprise for you," Darius said stepping outside for a moment. When he returned, he was carrying a bundle of clothes.

"My, god, can it really be?" Bashir asked playfully.

"What the hell are you talking about, Doctor?" Miles asked in confusion.

"It is!" he exclaimed in excitement as the guard laid the pile on the floor before them. "It's clothes!"

"Julian, I think they damaged your brain when they shoved that thing up your nose."

"Don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Chief. This sheet is fine if you're Roman, but I'm British, and where I come from, you'd be arrested if you came out looking like this," Bashir replied, sorting through the clump of wadded up clothes.

What he came up with was a dull grey jumpsuit that zipped up the front, with spots of a rust color here and there, which Bashir presumed to be blood stains. Neat little holes, possibly made by gun fire, were covered with patches of the same material. Over all, they were basically what the doctor expected, workclothes. "It's not exactly my color, but I guess it'll do for now."

"Quit complaining and throw me one," O'Brien hissed as he struggled to sit up. "I don't plan on lying here with nothing but a flimsy sheet on."

Bashir flung one back to him as he dropped his own cover, stepped into the drab coveralls, and zipped them up.

"My, aren't we the modest one," Miles replied sarcastically.

The doctor simply rolled his eyes, then looked over at Darius who was eyeing the two of them as he stood watch by the entrance. "Hey, Darius, do you know anything about a woman on the other side of that vent?" he asked, pointing at the tiny opening. "I heard her singing while I was waiting on O'Brien."

"Woman? I know nothing about a woman," he answered hesitantly.

"How long have you been here?" Bashir asked in curiosity.

"I have always been here."

"You mean you were born here," the doctor confirmed.

"Born? What is born?" Darius asked in confusion.

"You know, birth. You were delivered from the womb of your mother."

"Mother?"

Bashir sighed in exasperation. "The female counterpart of your father?"

"Julian, I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"Darius, what do you know?" O'Brien questioned him.

"I know that I have always been here, although I am not quite sure why or where here is."

"But..."

"I am sorry; I must leave now. I will return tomorrow morning."

As he was leaving, O'Brien turned to Bashir, "What was that all about? And what's this business about a woman you heard singing through the vent? Have you completely lost your mind, Doctor?"

"No, Chief, and I did here a woman singing. In fact it was a human female."

"And what makes you such an expert?"

"She was singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

"Now I know you're crazy. Did they hit you over the head or something while I was away?"

"Chief, I'm not lying! I did hear a woman singing through the vent, and she was human I tell you!"

"Don't get your drawers all in a wad; I didn't say you were lying. I just find it hard to believe what your saying."

"Oh shut-up and go to bed. You're one of the most talkative individuals high on drugs that I have ever seen," Bashir commented as he crawled onto his bed and laid down.

"I'm not sure how I should take that, but thank you anyway."

"Goodnight, Chief!"

Sighing in amusement, O'Brien tossed the sheet he had been wearing aside and quickly put on the grey jumpsuit, careful not to disturb the fresh bandage on his shoulder. Lying down, he glanced back over to his friend who was already sound asleep, sound asleep. Can't you snore any louder, Julian? Pulling his pillow over his head, Miles drifted off into dreamland.

By early morning, it was Bashir who had to eventually cover his head with his pillow. "Chief, can't you snore any quieter?" he shouted for the upteenth time. "How is a man supposed to get any sleep around here with all that racket?" Sliding off the bed he marched right up to O'Brien's bedside and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Chief, wake up."

Miles muttered something incomprehensible and swung at the doctor with his good arm.

"Whoa...!" Bashir exclaimed in surprise.

O'Brien rolled onto his right side and moaned softly as the sudden movement gave rise to a short surge of pain.

Well, at least he's not snoring anymore. But...I can't have him lying there in pain the rest of the night. "Chief, if you can hear a word I'm saying, please, don't kill me." He gently tugged on O'Brien's arm trying to roll him over to the other side, but all he got was a hand slapped across his face. "Come on, Big Guy, I'm only trying to help. Now would you please cooperate with me here?"

Without any help at all from the doctor, Miles rolled over onto his left side, pushing Bashir out of the way in the process.

"Why do I even try?" Julian said, throwing his hands up in the air. "At least you're getting some sleep. Wish I could say the same about myself though. At that moment, a familiar tune drifted once again through the ventilation shaft. "It's her! She's singing again!" Bashir cried out in joy. "Miles, get up!" he shouted, vigorously shaking the sleeping man. "Chief, get your lazy butt in gear! It's her! It's the woman I told you about!"

"Huh...what...Julian, what the hell are you screaming about!?" O'Brien demanded as he glared at the young man in obvious contempt.

"Miles, it's her, the woman I told you about; she's singing again!"

"Would you please shut-up with singing this woman nonsense!"

"Chief, just listen for moment!"

O'Brien sighed impatiently, then sat still for a few seconds, listening for the doctor's mystery woman. Just as he was about to slap the hell out of Bashir for waking him, he heard a voice, as sweet and beautiful as can be, coming from the tiny opening in the corner. Somewhere Over the Rainbow once again filled the cramped confines of the cell as Miles O'Brien shook his head in utter amazement.

"Well I'll be... You weren't hallucinating."

"I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen."

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and say it."

"Say what?" Bashir asked blinking his eyes in innocense.

"Just say it and hurry up and get it over with!"

"Told you so," he grinned tauntingly.

"All right, Mr. Smarty Pants, how is this supposed to help us get out of here?"

"Well...I really haven't thought about that."

"That's what I thought."

"What's that supposed to mean, Chief?"

"Nothing."

"Oh come on."

"Julian, you and that guard, Darius, seem to have something...uh...going on between the two of you," O'Brien stated, trying to change the subject.

"So?"

"Well, why don't you see if he can help you find this mysterious lady?" Before you drive me absolutely nuts.

"I tried, but you see where that got me."

"Oh yeah," O'Brien commented, remembering the conversation they had last night. I think the poor guy is missing more than a few screws. "Then why don't you try a different approach. Try explaining it to him like he was a five year old."

"Oh boy. Sure, Chief, great idea."

"It was only a suggestion."

"I've got a better idea."

I don't like the sound of that. "And that is?"

"Why don't we try to make contact with her ourselves?"

"How?" O'Brien asked, not sure if he was going to like the response.

"We'll sing back to her."

"Are you crazy? I'm not singing into a vent in hopes that this woman of yours will hear us and understand what we're trying to do."

"Oh come on, Chief. She'll understand, if we sing the right song."

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"If I Only Had a Brain."

"NO! Absolutely not! There is no way in hell or on earth I'm going to sing to a woman I have never met!"

"Suit yourself then." Bashir climbed onto his bed, leaned close to the ventilation duct, and began to sing the first stanza of the song.

I can't believe he's actually doing it. God, I must be crazy for even thinking about it. As the doctor finished with the first part, O'Brien reluctantly joined in with him on the chorus. Somebody shoot me before I make a fool out of myself.

Too late.

Miles scrambled on top of the bed with the doctor and together, they sang.

"Why did I let you talk me into this?" O'Brien asked. It had been hours after they finished the song and there was still no response from the other side.

"I don't know. I guess I really was hearing things."

"I was kinda hoping she wasn't a figment of your libido."

"Bashir was so depressed, he didn't even notice the insult. "Me too."

"Well, I guess we were both wrong." At that moment, a sound wafted from the vent, causing the two men to stop and listen.

If I Only Had a Heart floated down from the small passage.

Contact established.

O'Brien tossed for the sixty-eighth time; he'd kept count. He knew what was wrong. The form he was so used to nestling against was absent, and it would take a helluva lot longer than three hours to get to her.

A sound strummed past his ears, faint and muffled. He strained to make sense of it, the effort and frustration shooing away the last few remnants of sleep. Once fully awake it was easily recognizable. "Molly...?" he murmured, forgetting for a second his daughter wasn't there.

Then whom?

Bashir. He was crying!

The chief scurried across the darkened cell to investigate. No, the young physician was sleeping soundly, his features calm, serene.

The vent woman? He couldn't tell. He always had been lousy at the discern direction from a voice game. He needed a partner. "Hey, Julian," he called with a corresponding shoulder shake. "Wake up."

Bashir grumbled, shot his companion a threatening curse. O'Brien shook once more; Julian jerked his shoulder away. "Wake up, Doctor," he whispered against the man's ear. "We have a medical emergency."

That got the desired effect all right. Bashir's eyes popped open, and he sat up, eerily reminiscent to a rebooting android Miles knew. "Status report."

"Status report?" he inquired, perplexed.

"The patient, Chief. Who, where, how, why, and what?" he demanded impatiently.

That cherub face twisted in a bit of reluctance. "Well, I don't exactly know." Bashir's expression transformed from practiced medical patience to annoyance in a heartbeat. "I kinda need your help to determine that." Bashir's mouth opened to respond, but O'Brien shushed him. "Listen."

Julian's eyes darted sideways then back to the chief. "Someone's crying in the next cell," he murmured. O'Brien nodded.

"He is being punished."

Both men jumped at the voice. "Darius," Bashir said as he let go of a relieved breath. The helmet bobbed. "Punished," the young human repeated as he arose and approached the forcefield. "Whatever for?"

"He was careless," Darius informed them with a noncommittal shrug. "He must suffer the consequences as a reminder." Bashir's eyebrow raised in inquiry. "He will be more careful next time."

O'Brien and his companion shared a startled glance. "Neglect will not make him more careful. It will only serve as a reminder that he is being held against his will and mistreated which will breed contempt." Bashir's voice held a quiet fury. "No sentient being should be allowed to suffer intentionally."

Darius studied the man before him, the stance of proud defiance, the relentless gaze of those normally soft brown eyes. "It was not my decision. I did not condemn him to this."

"But you're doing nothing to stop it, and that makes you just as guilty." The doctor's voice was all quiet resolve. Those words pierced the guard's heart like a blade. Bashir pivoted sharply toward the bed.

The sound of the descending field reaching his ears a millisecond after. Julian set astonished eyes on Darius. "Help him," was all he said, moving back and gesturing for the Starfleet lieutenant to follow.

O'Brien urged him on, and Julian joined the sentinel beyond the cell's confines.

The man receiving punishment was no man. Bashir could tell that even as he stood outside the cell, awaiting for Darius to drop the barrier and allow entrance. The small form huddled on the bed let out a pathetic whimper, scurried closer to the wall as the field disengaged.

His back was to them. He didn't want to see what was coming.

Bashir entered the cell which was a replica of his own, looked back at Darius when he lingered. "I will remain out here," he whispered. The field went up once more.

Julian closed the distance, sat down on the bed's edge. The small figure stiffened, drew a sharp intake of breath. Bashir winced in sympathy; the pain must have been excruciating. He placed a reassuring hand on his patient's shoulder.

The tiny figure recoiled from the physician's touch, shouting alien pleas. Bashir blinked in shock, man-handled the struggling person onto his back. Frightened eyes bracketed Bajoran ridges. "Shhh," placing a finger to his lips. He whispered a Bajoran reassurance he'd learned since his posting at DS9.

The boy was no more than eleven years, but those eyes were the eyes of an elderly man, at least in experience. The terror was purely that of a child. "I'm going to help you," Bashir assured the boy as much as himself. "I'm from Deep Space Nine." The boy didn't seem to recognize the name. "Federation-administered Terok Nor," he amended. The boy grabbed hold of his arm with surprising strength. Bashir smiled at the hope which kindled in those eyes. "Show me where you're hurt."

The boy shifted, bit his lip against the whimper of pain the movement incited. Bashir inhaled sharply as that tiny arm became visible, tried to keep the worry off his face. Bone had broken through the skin. A compound fracture and swelling was already well-progressed. Setting the injury would hurt like hell.

"What's your name?"

"Patra Subi, sir," the boy obediently answered.

"Subi," his voice calm and quiet, "your arm is broken." The child nodded. "I'm going to have to realign the bones, but it will be tricky."

"Will it hurt?" he asked, catching Bashir off-guard with the child-like naivete.

"Yes," Julian informed him honestly. "I'm afraid it will." The boy sighed, reached behind with his good arm and extracted the pillow from beneath his head.

"So the bad man won't hear," he explained to Bashir.

"Who is this bad man, Subi?"

"The regular night guard," the boy whispered, as if the man would appear if he spoke too loud. "He likes to...he likes to make me scream."

"He's abusing you?" Julian's expression darkened. The boys eyes went wild for a moment until he cast him a reassuring smile.

"He takes me away and hits me," the boy admitted matter-of-factly. "Can you fix my arm? It hurts real bad."

Bashir snapped out of his internal musings, recalled his reasons for being there. And did his best to heal this child. After setting the limb properly he held the sobbing boy, rocking back and forth, swaying in harmony with the lullabye arising from his throat.

The Bajoran's story intermingled with the tears, how he and his mother had been diverted fromtheir trip to New Bajor by a distress call. How his mother had been taken away.

He escaped one hell by stepping into another, Julian thought, recalling the colony's massacre by the Jem'Hadar.

Eventually dreamland lured the boy back. Still Bashir was reluctant to leave, to put the boy back into bed. It seemed that if he held this one child he could spare him all the pain and suffering of this world, make it all go away.

Until Darius' voice broke through that safe cocoon. "We must go, Julian."

Bashir stared at him, registered the forlorn quality of his voice as Darius noted the reluctance in Julian's eyes. He settled the child back onto the bed. "Pleasant dreams, Subi." And kissed the child's forehead before walking out.

He didn't look back.

Darius didn't immediately drop the cell's barrier, stood studying Bashir for a long moment. "Do not worry about the guard," he finally murmured. "He will never be allowed to hurt the boy again."

Bashir blinked at the statement. "Thank you." Darius nodded and ushered the human back into his cubbyhole.

For the first time in a long while, Julian slept soundly.

He stretched one of those stretches of the lazy feline variety. He'd let himself sleep late, but no matter how tempting it was to remain in bed, he knew he couldn't. After all, his patient needed him.

Julian drew a hefty breath into his lungs and opened his eyes. To be met by a lovely view of the ceiling just like every other morning. Instead of the dark Cardassian metal he so wished it to be it was drab concrete. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe the sleep from his features, and yawned.

Then rolled out of bed. "Morning, Chief," came the ritual greeting. He shuffled past his companion's bed and froze mid-stride.

It was empty. O'Brien never beat him up. Never.

But then again, there always was a first.

Bashir walked to the bathroom, pressed his ear against the closed door and called out to his companion. Inside, the room was silent. Julian knocked. "Chief, are you in there?"

"No."

Bashir nearly jumped from his skin. He could picture himself latched onto the ceiling like one of those old-fashioned cartoons, a heart-shaped object bounding from his chest. "Darius, must you do that?"

"Do what?" inquired the guard.

"Sneak."

Behind the mask he blinked. "I was unaware I did so."

"Trust me," Julian assured, "you do."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his gaze falling.

The physician smiled. Darius had such a sensitive ego. "It's okay. I haven't exactly been all taht observant lately." His worried gaze roamed over the empty bed. "Now where is O'Brien?"

"Working." He didn't elaborate, and Bashir had to nod him on. "Some machinery malfunctioned. He is to fix it."

"You're not very mechanically inclined are you?" That domed head shook a negative. The smile fled from Bashir's face, chased away by anxiety. "He's not well enough to return to work," Bashir snarled to himself.

"The needs of the institution come first, Doctor." Darius' soft tones drifted through the shimmering field.

He seemed such a kind soul. "You don't belong here," Bashir blurted before he could bite his tongue on the remark.

The helmeted head cocked. "Excuse me?" Bewilderment popped up on his features, but Julian didn't need to see the expression to know he'd baffled the man.

He dismissed it with a shake of his head, a wave of his hand. "Never mind." A reesigned sigh followed shortly after. "Now have you discovered what's on the other side of the vent, where the woman is located?"

"We come back to this woman." It still eluded the sentry. "Julian," his tone hesitant, curious, "what is a woman?"

Bashir exhaled sharply. "You sure do know how to ask them, don't ya." He drifted back to his bed, sat down. "A woman is...well, the counterpart to a man." It was funny: Julian Bashir....groping for words. A woman was....well, a woman. "Myth of my planet says God made man in His image, and when man became lonely, He made woman."

"How?"

It was like trying to explain creation to a child. So many questions. "From man's rib." He could almost see those eyes darting back and forth in thought. "Man and woman were menat to be companions, company to one another."

"And exactly what are these companions?"

"Our better half," Julian declared, his tone humorously honest. "Women are exquisite creatures. They can be compassionate and strong. Loving yet spiteful. Women defy description." He laughed lightly. "In medical school a friend of mine----a woman who ended up taking my place as valedictorian, but that's another story----used to say that man was the prototype and woman the perfected product."

During his explanation Darius had dropped the field, settled on O'Brien's bed. Julian turned serious again. "If you look at Earth's history, it seems that women are the glue which held humanity together. Man would conquer, rebell, go off to war, destroy people and places in his disputes. And woman would pick up the pieces again and again. Our mothers and daughters and wives were always left to man the store when man was out chasing his shadow. Or rebuild after it was all destroyed."

Bashir sighed at the sheer magnitude of this task. "I can't explain women," he confessed. "Men have been trying to do it since the beginning of time, and we haven't gained any insights except what they tell us." His eyes kindled with excitement. "But maybe I can show you."

"How?"

His eyes shot to the vent. "Take me to her." Darius started shaking his head. "I have to talk with her, Darius. She's one of us, a human. I have," he paused, "I have to make sure she isn't just in my head."

Darius saw the uncertainty, the self-doubt in those normally confident eyes. He arose, pressed aginst the field until it zapped. "I'll..." He shut his eyes, cursed himself for being unable to deny his friend anything. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," he heard the physician murmur. Darius left without saying a word, unsure he could trust himself not to ruin the only friendship he'd ever had.

Darius returned four hours later. It had been four hours of endless pacing by Bashir, who at the sight of his friend, eagerly approached the field, the questionwritten in his gaze. "Yes," Darius answered, watched as Julian's features lit with unbridled enthusiasm. "But we can not venture out until tonight, after lights out."

"Great," Julian lightly responded, "O'Brien can come along."

"No!" Bashir stared at him, perplexed by the outburst. "His injury would slow us down. He would not---could not make the trip."

The human eyed him warily. "I don't like the way you said that," he informed him, a reluctance in his voice. "Exactly how are we going to get there? I need to know." Darius reached out with a finger, would have placed it against Julian's lips if not for the barrier.

"Tonight," he breathed.

On the outside Bashir had appeared calm, serious. Inwardly he was a batch of exposed nerves jumping and popping with exhuberance. He nodded. "Tonight."

Upon his return, Bashir had brought O'Brien up to speed and then retired to bed in prepation for the night's excursion. Miles soon followed, the expenditure of his energy on even today's simple tasks exhausting him. By the time Darius reappeared their cell had been quiet and still for hours.

The zap of the dropping field seemed thunderous in that stillness, causing Darius to inhale sharply. There were no shouts or thunks of running feet, only O'Brien's soft snoring. He entered, scurried to Julian's bed across the dimly lit room.

Shadows wrapped the human like a security blanket, and Darius paused his urgent pace to study the serene countenance below him. He reached out.

And Julian's eyes popped open on a gasp. Fear filled those eyes unfocesd by the vestiges of deep sleep as the shadow looming over him drew closer. Something warm and moist brushed against his ear. Lips. Bashir jerked away from the touch.

"Julian." A voice emerged from the inky darkness. "It is time."

Time, he thought, still unable to shake off the last of his dreams. Time for what?

"Hurry," the man insisted. "The trip will be difficult, and our time is limited."

"Darius?" he asked, the name slurred and muffled.

"Yes," the guard hissed. "Get up."

He nodded, struggled to make his lethargic muscles cooperate. Julian managed to sit up, blinked as a wave of vertigo washed through his brain. The blurred features above him transformed with concern. "Are you all right?"

Bashir nodded, despite his thoughts to the contrary. "Give me a minute." Darius' hand on his arm gave him an anchor, a point of concentration. Reality waivered into focus. He got to his feet. "Lead the way."

Darius lingered, hesitant and uncertain. "Look," Bashir leveled with the man, "I'm a doctor. If I were sick, I'd let someone know. Trust me, I'm fine," he insisted.

The guard lead him away from the cell, quiet throughout the entire trip, but Julian noticed the surreptitious glances of worry shot his way. He made the journey without one ounce of trouble, even when he had to shimmy along that line over a pit.

An hour later he stood outside a cell identical to his own. Well, almost. This ine held the owner of one of the most beautiful voices he'd ever heard. He couldn't help but wonder if her face were equally stunning.

"Okay, Darius," he licked his dry lips, wiped his sweaty palms against his thighs. He was nervous. "Drop the field," he urged. Once that was done Julian slipped inside and to the covered bundle on the concrete slab impersonating a bed. "Can we turn on the lights? I don't want to scare her." And it would be nice to see her.

Darius complied with the wish, and afterwards, the officer bent down and whistled a few notes into her ear. She would probably be estatic.

That thought ran through his brain.

A mere second before he found hmself roughly rolled to the hard floor with a knee ramming his groin. And after that he couldn't have formed a coherent thought if his life depended on it.

Someone jerked the weight from him. Darius, he supposed. And he heard a startled voice over the pounding rush of blood in his ears. He managed a nod in response to her question. Yes, he was human. And yes, he was one of her fellow singers. And yes, he was definately in a lot of pain.

Julian felt hands tugging at his arms, pulling him out of his fetal crouch and placing him onto the bed. After an eternity the agony began to abate. He could breathe once more. That was good; oxygen was good.

A shadow fell upon him, blocking the harsdh glare of the overhead light. He looked up. Up into the most exquisite gray eyes framed by a halo of hair, dark hair nearly the same shade as his. An angel with eyes so gray they were clear and hair the same color as his. His angel. "My guardian angel," he murmured.

"I've joked about men's brains being in their pants, but I'd no idea it was true." A voice broke into his muzzy world, sharp and acrid. "Did you hit your head, buddy? Cause I sure as hell ain't no angel." How could such a lovely voice make that statement? It had the same effect as if a person who regularly ate glass had spoken.

Actually it annoyed him, grated on his nerves in the worst way. Angels didn't annoy people. At least he'd never heard of one that did. "No kidding," he wheezed. An angel also wouldn't have tried her hardest to make him sterile either.

"Listen, I'm sorry about...greeting you like that, but you should know better than to sneak into a woman's bedroom."

"And you got onto me about sneaking," Darius muttered.

Julian ignored the remark. "How---how did you get here?" He was finally able to come up with a complete sentence again.

"A tornado," came the sarcastic reply. His lips pinched together in annoyance. The woman raked her fingers through her disheveled hair. "The wormhole. About four months after its discovery I decided to have a look at the Gamma Quadrant so I took my ship and my crew on a little jaunt." A sigh drifted to his ears. "I haven't seen the Alpha Quadrant since."

Julian sat up finally, drew a shaky breath of relief. "We received a distress signal. Is that what drew you here as well?"

"Yeah, the kind from an old Constitution class ship, said it had a medical emergency, no doctor and all. I thought you guys at least updated the distress signals if not the old buckets of rust themselves."

Bashir absorbed her statement but didn't really respond to it. "You're lucky that my friend and I went missing then."

"I've been here nearly two and a hlaf years. No one's looked for me. Why should you be any different?"

"My companion and I are Starfleet officers." She didn't seem impressed, not even a smidgen. "You see, a lot of ships have disappeared in the Gamma Quadrant. We began to assume the Dominion had destroyed them."

Finally, something that got her attention. "The what?"

"The Dominion. It's an, well, alliance isn't exactly the most accurate term, but it'll do. They're very powerful and not exactly welcome to visitors," he explained. "Now, what happened to your ship and crew?"

The question brought pain to those clear eyes, a pain so intense Bashir almost wished he hadn't asked. "When I realized we were being overrun by the bubble boys here, I wasn't exactly sure how much technology they possessed. I was thinking the Borg all over again. Anyway, the crew compliment could be counted on your fingers, and together we decided to lay a trap.

"We used remote transponders so we could be locked onto and transported away." She paused, her eyes welding shut. She looked like she was about to be sick.

"And?" he prompted.

Her eyes opened; they seemed to bore into his brain. "And we iniated a warp core breach." Bashir swore softly. "We didn't know about the interferences with the transporter, didn't really have time to fully scan the planet's atmosphere."

"How many of you made it?"

"My chief engineer and I got out safely. My chief medical officer..." her breath caught on a sob. "Robert ddin't rematerialize properly."

She's going to cry, Julian realized. But she didn't. Within a moment the grief contorting her features was gone, erased as if it had never been there. "No one else?" She responded negatively. "What happened to your chief engineer?"

A humorless chuckle collected in her throat. "We became cellmates. We weren't exactly happy, but we managed." Julian nodded; he understood the predicament all too well. "The warden took...an interest in us. Sinya was scheduled for experimentation."

"Of what type?"

"All of the children here are bred by artificial means. Many times the warden will use them as a bargaining chip for the parents' cooperation. He decided he wished to see the natural process at work." Her eyes lost focus; she was in the past now. "I saw him when the medical personnel came for Sinya. They wanted her to carry the child of a monster." Julian requested her to describe this monster.

Across the way he paled. "Dear God," swept past his lips. The concept was infathomable. "They wanted her to breed with a Jem'Hadar," he said, more to allow the concept to be incorporated by his own brain than his companion's. "They're created by genetic engineering. They're killers not lovers." Her eyes slipped shut on a groan and a nod.

When they reopened there was a new emotion in them. Loathing. And it was directed toward him. It sent a shiver along the length og his spine. "I haven't even introduced myself yet," he mumbled, trying to put a lightness in his voice that he didn't feel. He stammered, groped for words for a moment. Vocabulary, Julian, he chided.

"My friend is Miles O'Brien, Chief of Operations for Deep Space Nine." She gained her feet, stood facing hte wall, her arms crossed protectively over her heart. "And my name is Bashir. Dr. Julian Bashir."

She whirled at the title. The coldness in her eyes had the same effect as if he'd been plunged into pure ice. "I'm---I'm Chief Medical Officer," he muttered. She merely stood there, glaring at him with those clear ice bergs. "And your name?"

"Tristian Sinclair," she responded tersely.

"Well, Tristian---"

"Capt. Sinclair."

He faltered. The hostility was papable. "Of course."

"Julian." Two gazes shot to the new conversationalist. "It is time to go."

He nodded. "I'll get back to you, Captain."

"About what?"

"An escape attempt."

The laugh was full and throaty. He would have found it pleasant had it not been directed at him. "I've been here nearly three years, Doctor," she said, placing a disdainful emphasis on his professional title as if doctors had no business planning jail breaks. "You can't escape." More than anything, even gaining freedom, he wanted to prove her wrong and wipe that smug expression off those pouty lips.

He moved until they were nearly touching, his lips a mere inch from hers. "One way or another, Tristian, we are getting out of here. I give you my word...as a physician."

The soft moan drifted throughout the quiet cell, as thunderous as a firing cannon. Miles O'Brien grumbled, tossed a pillow at his cohabitant. "Shut up, will you," he growled. "Lousy time for an erotic dream, buddy. Some of us would like to get some rest." He reached to adjust his pillow, realized it wasn't there.

If he were pyrokinetic, his cell mate would have been a marshmallow at that point. A discontented noise rumbled in the back of his throat as he sprang out of bed. Presently he debated whether or not to smother Bashir with that pillow after retrieving it.

Miles shuffled over to Julian's bunk, yanked up the forsaken pillow, and cast the man a glance. He skidded to a halt. His breath caught.

O'Brien dropped to one knee beside the physician, laid a hand on his forehead. "You're burning up," he uttered, sinking to rest against cold concrete and running a hand over the lower half of his face. "How in the world did you get sick? And more importantly, what in the hell do you have?"

"I'm---I'm not sick." The engineer jolted as an accented voice croaked behind him. "I'm the doctor, I can't be sick."

Miles took a moment to gather himself before replying. "And that gives you some special immunity? You must save a helluva lot on insurance."

"That's not what I mean," Julian remarked with as much exasperation as he could muster. "You're hurt. You still need me."

O'Brien couldn't help but acknowledge the truth of that statement. "And it looks like you need me now, Julian." Bashir shivered and ineffectually attempted to stifle a grunt of discomfort. "And I'm going to start by doing something to lower that fever." Bashir nodded, fought to keep his eyes from slipping shut. "No, no," O'Brien dissuaded. "You go ahead and rest. Leave everything to me."

"Looks like I don't have much of a choice," he slurred before sleep drew its thick, gauzy veil over him.

"No," Miles muttered. "I guess you don't." And then went to retrieve a wet cloth from the bathroom.

Miles O'Brien wiped that fevered brow once more, wishing to alleviate Julian's discomfort in what little way he could.

"No," Bashir plead amid his delirium. "Don't say that," he groaned. But O'Brien knew the entreaty had fallen on deaf ears. He could already guess the outcome of the conversation. "You said you'd come with me, Palis. You promised!"

"Well she lied, kid."

"Palis!" That haggard voice cried out one last time before switching to less audible whimpers. A tongue thrust out across dry and cracked lips.

Apparently Bashir had finally settled down. It would be safe to leave him for a few moments. O'Brien was late for a pressing appointment with a tooth brush.

"Julian," he hissed, found himself unable to voice another syllable.

His state seemed so miserable. The physician huddled beneath the meager sheet, trembled as if he were being buffeted by an arctic wind. Yet at the same moment he lay drenched in sweat.

Darius had never seen a person ill before. Shot, beaten, bruised, even maimed, but not ill.

He ran a hand over the man's cheek. "Ah, my poor Julian," he sighed. Bashir's lips moved. Darius lifted up the face plate, leaned in.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The face plate came down so fast it scraped Bashir's nose. Darius bolted upright as if a fire had sprung up beneath him. "He was whispering. I was---I was---"

"Damned near impossible to understand him," chuckled Miles. "He's been like this for about...probably the last four hours."

"What can you do for him?" Concern was evident in his voice.

"Not a whole lot," admitted the human. "Try to bring down his fever and keep him from dehydrating." O'Brien relinquished the cool, moist cloth to the sentry, heaved a sigh as he plopped down on his own bunk. "Not that that's going to be all that easy."

Behind the mask Darius' gaze shot up in alarm. "What do you need?"

"More towels. And ice if it's possible."

"Ice?" he inquired.

"Frozen water," Miles elaborated in case the man was unfamiliar with the term. "Cubes and chips." Miles arose, recovered the spent cloth to rewet it. "And a basin to melt the ice in so we can really lay siege to that fever."

Darius nodded once. "It will be done." He paused a moment, mulling over his thoughts. "I was supposed to take you to work," he confessed. "I think I can stall until this afternoon. Afterwards, if he is still no better, I will take over his care." O'Brien's gaze held a bit of suspicion. It made Darius feel exposed. He cleared his throat. "I shall return shortly." He made his farewell and was gone.

Miles turned back to Bashir and moistened those parched and ceaselessly murmuring lips.

"Here," Darius thrust the bundle into O'Brien's arms. He seemed a bit frazzled. "I'll be back later."

"What? What's wrong?"

"My superior has summoned me." O'Brien clearly detected the dread barely held in check.

Darius turned to leave, felt a hand wrap around his wrist. He followed that arm with his eyes, up past the elbow, over the shoulder, and finally settled on that cherub face clouded with anxiousness. "Be careful. Keep your head," Miles advised.

Behind the face plate the sentry smiled at the human's concern, nodded, and no matter how much he would prefer to stay, went off to his meeting.

He was waved absently to a chair, tried not to fidget. "Take off that silly helmet."

Darius started, actually jumped before complying to the order. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Those cold blue eyes darted his way for an instant, then returned to the file in his hand. "Yes, Darius. I would like your...viewpoint on an idea I've been toying with." He paused a moment, settled that cruel gaze squarely on the guard who shivered beneath that frigid stare. "It concerns the newest conquest. A man named...." Darius swallowed the lump in his htroat while the man searched his memory. "Bashir."

"The physician," he heard himself say.

"Yes, the physician." The man rose, ambled aimlessly about the office. He suspended his movement to brush a speck of dust from the plaque adorning the wall. "I have an experiment. Biological as well as anthropological in nature."

"It concerns this physician?"

"He is the experiment, Darius. Along with another subject, that is," he ammended. "What do you think of him, this physician?"

Darius blinked as if caught off-guard by the question. He was skirting a thin line and knew it. "He seems intelligent. The welfare of others weighs greatly on his mind."

A pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders; Darius fought the urge to shrink away from the touch, a touch which seemed to gradually seep every bit of warmth from him. "Yes, doesn't it." The insinious threads of alarm began to spread inside him, like tributaries from a great ocean. "I want him moved, Darius. I am preparing a new home for him."

A way out! "He is ill, sir. Perhaps it would be wise to allow him sufficient time to regain his strength."

Those eyes scrutinized him, a noticable gleam in their chilly depths. "Yes, an amicable idea, Darius." He leaned in until a warm breath whisked past the guard's ear. "Then I suggest, my dear fellow, that you see to him." He backed away, went back behind his desk, and leaned in close tot heunderling from there. "I shall make him your personal responsibility, Darius, your...cause."

"I will do my best not to disappoint you, sir."

The warden smiled, a smile that almost appeared spontaneous. But Darius knew better. The man never smiled in approval of a person. A death perhaps, but never for achievement. "See to that, Darius," he said with pleasure. A sinister pleasure, it seemed to the sentry. He leaned back, resumed scanning his files. "You are dismissed, my boy."

Darius arose and walked from the room on wooden legs, positive if cast into water at taht very point he'd surely sink. And not too uncertain that he wouldn't welcome it.

Miles O'Brien's face lit up in sheer jubilation as he ebtered the cubical. He hopped to his feet and slapped Darius heartily on the back. "The supplies did it; his fever's broken!" Even without the benefit of facial expressions Miles knew the news had staggered the guard as effectively as a sharp blow to the gut. "Why does that come as bad news to you?" he inquired cautiously.

"Darius, bring him!" O'Brien then noticed the second soldier, who seemed a little less than friendly.

Darius nodded him on. "You are being collected for work detail."

"But what about Julian?" he protested even as Darius dragged him by the arm toward his counterpart. "He still needs tending."

"I have been assigned," Darius whispered, almost harshly. He didn't want the other man to know. "Don't worry." O'Brien could feel the concentrated gaze practically boring a hole through his skull. He acquiesced without a fuss. This was Darius; Bashir was in good hands.

The guard approached hte bed like one approaches a coffin, a fearful hesitance piqued with an overwhelming, almost morbid curiosity. He wanted to see Julian, to look upon those boyish features more than anything. And yet he had an impulse to run away and never gaze upon those soft brown eyes again, never witness the twinkle of laughter in them, the way his lips would twitch in the barest flicker of a smile.

He didn't run, couldn't muster up the courage to. Darius halted by the rectangular shelf, looking down on the prone form. Julian coughed lightly, turned from his side to his beack, wiggled until comfortable. He coughed again, more harshly this time around.

His face pinched with annoyance as the hacking persisted, and finally it succeeded in forcing him awake. He propped up on an elbow, a hand clutching his chest. Darius reached for a nearby glass, brought it to the doctor's lips. "Here, drink this," he urged although Julian needed no urging. He finished off the glass within moments.

"More," he rasped. Darius filled the glass again; Julian gulped it down with the eagerness of a man stranded in the desert who'd just found an oasis. A sigh flitted past his lips as he laid back against the meager cushion of the pillow. "Where's O'Brien?" he finally asked.

"Working."

Julian nodded, rubbed his face vigorously. The beard that had popped up there was itchy. "Ech, I must look like there's a dead wolverine on my face."

Darius' lips twitched in amusement. "Better than your friend. His is the type of face not meant to sport facial hair."

"Well we wouldn't have to if given access to razors or even something to trim them," complained the young man. "I haven't had this much hair on my face since the time I went camping with my father. I didn't like it then, and I still don't." Darius studied him for a moment then broke down and chuckled slightly; Julian joined him.

"I hear you're to thank for the supplies." Darius shrugged humbly. Julian shook his head, utterly amazed. "You help us so much without a single thought to yourself, and you're modest about it!" Bashir linked his fingers together, rested his hands against his abdomen. "And you want nothing in return."

"Julian, I...I have a confession to make," his eyes were downcast; Julian could tell from the way his head hung. He seemed, well, almost ashamed of himself.

It disturbed Bashir; he sat up in concern. "What?"

"I've been helping you because of...an ulterior motive." He paused to take a steadying breath, gather his thoughts, calm his mile a minute pulse. "Julian, I've never met a person like you before. Your selfless concern for others, your intelligence, and your innately perceptive awareness of people---those things don't exist here. When I see the tenderness in your eyes, I would willingly drown in them. And I must admit...the things I dream about you make me blush." Under the protection of the darkened face plate his cheeks reddened.

"You're in love with me." The quiet realization shook him. When he'd wondered about the possible origin behind Darius' generosity that had never been a motive he'd mulled over.

Darius continued. "I overheard your conversation with O'Brien about the woman, and I must disagree. Yours is the face to launch a thousand ships, not hers." A palm flattened against that scratchy cheek. "It started like a tiny pinprick to my heart, but soon I was drowning in feelings I never knew existed. Because of you, my dear sweet Julian. Because of you."

Bashir blinked, scooted off the bed to stand a little ways from the guard; so close to him he'd felt a bit smothered. "I don't know what to say," he blurted and fought the urge to roll his eyes. How cliched can you get, Julian?

Darius sat eagerly on the bed's edge, watched Bashir's relentless pacing. "Tell me you feel the same."

The wistfulness in that voice made Bashir feel like an absolute heel. "Darius." He turned back. The least he could do was look at the man while breaking that fragile bubble of hope. "I think we've gotten our signals crossed here." He continued leaning forward in anticipation; Bashir was his first love so he had never been let down before. He wouldn't get the point until the words passed Julian's lips. He sighed and said it as sympathetically as he could.

"I don't share your feelings."

The news shattered Darius as easily a fragile glass-blown figurine. He managed to etch out, "What?" before his throat locked from misery.

"You're a wonderful friend," Julian consoled although he himself knew how much men hated those words, how it hurt as much as a wooden stake through the heart. "And I cherish our friendship. It's the only pleasant part of this entire experience. However, I'm afraid I am not in love with you."

"Give it a little time," Darius suggested, pleaded. The resiged shake of bashir's head sent him plunging into despair. That flame which had sprung up so recently snuffed out of existence, a thin wisp of smoke the only evidence it ever was there.

He walked to the filed on stilted legs. "Good bye, Julian." There was a finality in his tone.

"Darius," Bashir called after the hastily retreating form. "Darius!" But the man didn't retrun, and Bashir plopped down on his bed, thoroughly disgusted with himself. "Way to go, Julian," he muttered. "Way to go."

The night watchman strolled warily down the darkened corridor, tightening his grip on his weapon with each passing minute. He hated the evening shift with a passion, always expecting someone to rush from the shadows and jump him from behind. But tonight was even worse than usual, tonight he had two slaves, O'Brien and an elderly Tallarian gentleman the chief had met at work, to escort to their cells before he could go off duty.

As they neared the first set of prison blocks, O'Brien could tell that their captor was becoming more agitated by the second, his knuckles white from the hold he had on his rifle. He received a rough nudge from the guard, signifying him to pick up the pace a bit, and Miles lengthened his stride accordingly as did the other fella.

Approaching the next group of containment receptacles, the older man of the three stumbled to the floor, desperately in need of rest. O'Brien, being the kind and somewhat stupid soul he was, stopped and gently helped the poor guy to his feet.

Malcolm growled disapprovingly from behind and gave both of them a shove. "Move it! I don't have all day!" They stopped in front of the third cell entrance on the right. Lowering the forcefield, the guard grabbed the chief's companion and slung him into the room, causing him to tumble to the floor. He smiled sadistically as he pulled a black box from his belt, pointed it at the man lying on the floor and pressed the small red button in the middle of the device.

The Tallarian grasped his head in agony as the implant was activated. He drew himself into a ball, helpless against the fierceness of the pain that assaulted him. Even as the soldier released the button and put away the terrible instrument of punishment, the man still remained on the floor unable to move because of its almost paralyzing effect on the brain.

O'Brien had watched in shock and awe at the amount of pain the handheld device had caused to the poor tallarian. As he was led away to his own cell, he hoped that he would never have to experience what he had just seen.

They stopped in front of the chief's cell, but Malcolm did not drop the forcefield immediately. Instead, he slammed O'Brien into the wall beside the control panel and rammed his fist several times into the officer's left side. Spinning him around, he twisted the chief's injured arm behind his back, deactivated the field and threw him into the room.

Miles landed on his wounded shoulder as he fell to the cold concrete floor. Holding his throbbing ribs, he gasped for breath as Bashir slid from his bed and rushed to his friend's side.

"Don't ever let me catch you touching another slave while you are under my care! Is that understood?" the guard angrily inquired.

O'Brien nodded weakly.

"And you, what do you think you're doing?" Malcolm asked of the doctor. "Did I order you to do anything?"

"No. But you didn't order me not to either," Bashir quickly retorted.

"Smart off at me will you!" He pulled out the black box once more, aimed it at Julian and pressed the button.

The doctor fell over in excrutiating pain, clutching the sides of his head as he cried out.

"You slaves will learn there is no use in arguing with me. I will not tolerate disobedience from the likes of you. If Darius has a problem with that, then he can take it up with me. He will succumb just as easily as you." Malcolm restored the forcefield, laughing triumphantly as he walked back down the hallway, unaware of the dark figure following him in the shadows.

O'Brien slowly sat up, still grasping his side, as the pain gradually subsided to a dull ache. "Julian?" he asked in concern, crawling over to the doctor who was still curled up, moaning in anguish. Gently rolling him over, he peered down at his buddy. "Hey, are you going to be okay?"

Bashir opened his eyes, stared up at his companion's worried face. "I think I'll live," he breathed. "How about you?"

"He punched me in the ribs a few of times and I landed on my shoulder pretty hard, but other than that, I'm just peachy."

The doctor sat up immediately, wincing from the headache that accompanied him. "He didn't injure you did he?"

"No, I'll be okay. My side's hurting a bit, but I'll be fine."

"Same here. I've got a headache the size of this planet, but it'll go away after a while."

"He used that thing on another guy, a Tallarian, just a few minutes ago. I guess it's got something to do with those implants they shoved in our head. Probably used as some form of punishment," O'Brien suggested.

"Punishment? For what? I didn't do anything."

"You helped me, just like I helped that Tallarian fella. He zapped that guy for falling, beat me for helping him up, and zapped you for coming to my aid. Does that make any sense?"

"Uh...sure...in a weird, sadistic way."

"Yeah. So what's new around here? Anything interesting happen while I was at work?"

"Interesting?" Bashir asked, his pitch higher than usual.

"Oh, by the way, you're looking a lot better than you did this morning."

"I'm feeling a lot better, thank you. Darius brought some medication by, and it seems to have done the trick."

"I'm glad to hear that. So, how about it?"

"How about what?" Bashir asked, trying to avoid the question.

"You know, did anything happen while I was gone?"

"Well...uh...yeah, I guess you could say something happened while you were away."

"Great! You can tell me all about it while I wash up," O'Brien replied, rising to his feet and heading for the bath area.

Bashir slowly rose to his own feet, walked back over to his bed and sat down, unsure of how to tell the eagerly awaiting man what had transpired between Darius and himself. "Well, uh...Chief, I don't know exactly how to explain this to you. It was rather surprising to say the least."

Miles listened intently while he stripped out of his workclothes and took a quick bath. As he was drying off, he pressed one of the buttons above the basin, and immediately a clean jumpsuit was transported in the lavatory. Bashir was mentioning something about letting Darius down easy as he quickly slipped into the uniform and zipped it up.

Stepping out into the doorway, O'Brien cocked his head in confusion. "Julian, what the hell are you talking about? You keep rambling on about Darius and how you didn't want to hurt his feelings and all. If I didn't know better, I'd say that he was in love with you." He shook his head and smiled, laughing slightly. "But we both know better than that, don't we?"

Bashir didn't answer right away. Instead, he lowered his head and sighed aloud. "You're right, Chief."

"I'm right? About what?" Miles asked in bewilderment. Julian looked him straight in the eyes. "Wait a minute. You mean...he really...he really is in love with you?"

The doctor nodded.

"Darius is in love with you," O'Brien stated in confirmation, desperately trying not to laugh.

"Yes, Chief! Do I have to spell it out for you? Yes, Darius is deeply in love with me!"

Miles burst out into a side-splitting fit of laughter, falling onto his bed, then onto the floor.

"That's right, Chief, laugh all you want. Go ahead, get it all out of your system."

Grabbing hold of his left side in pain, "Oh, God, this hurts so bad," O'Brien remarked, still snickering in amusement. "But it's worth every bit of it just to see the expression on your face right now, Julian." He closed his eyes, his body still shaking uncontrollably, and started giggling again.

"Miles Edward O'Brien, who do you think you are making fun of Darius like that! It's not his fault that he's never seen a woman before! And you shouldn't ridicule him just because he is in love with me, another guy!"

"I'm not laughing at him, Julian. I'm laughing at you."

"I hope you bust a gut, Chief! This is not a laughing matter! I may have just ran off our only friend in this entire facility and you're laughing about it!" He smacked the wall with his right hand, cursing himself for not trying to understand what his friend was going through. "Brilliant! Just fan-bloody-tastic!"

O'Brien eased himself up onto his bed, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, trying to regain some control. He hadn't meant to hurt his companion's feelings, but still he did get a good laugh. "Julian?"

"Go away, Chief! Leave me alone!"

He looked around the cramped cell. "I wish I could, but I don't think that is an option available at the moment."

"Just leave me the hell alone, then!"

"Fine. I'm too tired to argue with you anyway." O'Brien laid down on the padded slab, moaning softly as he rubbed his still aching left side.

"Wait, Chief. Have you changed your bandage yet?"

"No, I was waiting on you to do it. But since you don't want me bothering you anymore, I decided it could wait till morning."

"No it can't wait till morning. You don't want it to get infected now, do you? Hold on and I'll get the water and some clean dressings."

Miles smiled. Gotcha.

Bashir kneeled down beside the chief, unzipped his coveralls partially, and gently removed the soiled bandages. "You were hoping this little ploy would get my attention, weren't you?"

"Now why would I do that?" O'Brien asked sheepishly. The doctor glared at him. "Oh, all right. Yes, I planned this whole thing. I just wanted to apologize, that's all. We've both been here in this tiny room far too long, and we're already starting to snap at each other. I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you. You've helped me more than I can ever repay, and I just thought that it was about time I returned the favor."

"He left here so heart-broken, so devestated I don't know if we'll ever see him again. And it was all my fault."

"How so? You didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh yes I did. I was so caught up in the absurdity of the idea that he could possibly love me, that I didn't give an ounce of thought to what he must have been feeling when I rejected him."

"You did the only thing you could do. It's never easy when someone you love doesn't share those same feelings with you. I was one of the lucky ones, but there are still those who will never experience the special kind of relationship a man and a woman or even a man and another man share together."

"You're right. There are just some of us who are meant to be single for the rest of our lives, I guess."

"Oh, come on, Julian. You'll meet the right woman, or man eventually."

"Don't you start that again, or you'll have to finish this yourself," Bashir warned.

"Just hurry it up. I'm really tired."

He finished wrapping the shoulder and taped the bandage in place. "Goodnight, Chief. And thanks."

His reply was met with deaf ears as O'Brien nodded off to sleep.

Julian walked back to the bathroom and emptied the small bowl before hitting the sack himself. He peered over at the resting form and smiled. "Thanks, buddy. I needed that." He rolled over onto his side as blissfull slumber claimed him once again.

The next morning O'Brien was retrieved before Julian awoke.

He got up and made himself presentable, although it really didn't matter a hill of beans, after all he would be alone almost all day.

Alone. By himself. This heel of a man.

He shuffled out of the bathroom, intently watching his feet move across drab concrete; there was a crack about three feet from the lavatory's door. He followed its spidery-webbing trail with his eyes as well as his steps.

He didn't see the man until he was practically on top of him. "Darius, thank God! I thought you were gone for good," he said in a gush of breath and slurred syllables.

"You are being moved," was all he said.

"What? Why? What about O'Brien?"

"You have been chosen by the warden for experimentation." The statement knocked the wind from Bashir. "I am to take you to your new home."

"I don't want to go," he heard himself whimper. Not out there, not into the unknown...at least not alone. "Where---what are they going to do to me?"

Darius shook his head. "I do not know, Julian. I wish I did for the allayment of my fears as well as yours." He motioned toward the field, to the awaiting corridor. "Come, we must go."

Bashir looked back at the tiny confinement he had called home for the last few days; he had a feeling he would never see it again. He walked beside the sentinel but his mind, his awareness was miles away.

He was a physician as well as a very imaginative man. He had enough knowledge to make that walk, that anticipation into a living hell.

"Do something for me," he finally requested. Darius paused a moment, looked into those somber eyes. "Take care of O'Brien. That guard's got it in for him. Do what you can to run interference."

Darius nodded, continued toward Bashir's new dwelling. "It is done," he consoled. "I took care of Malcolm personally." Bashir stopped dead in his tracks, studied the guard with sheer disbelief. "He was the night guard, you know. No more will he be allowed to harm another living soul."

Bashir was gaping at him. "I didn't tell you to kill him!" he screeched in the barest whisper.

"I know, Julian. You would never do such a thing, no matter how much he may have deservered that very fate." Darius pointed ahead, ushered him along.

"Subi is finally rid of that monster at least," Julian said. The man beside him stiffened. "What did they do to the boy?" he asked, already knowing the answer, vehemently praying to any god listening that he was wrong.

"Your help was not requested, Julian. Later as a lesson to you, to show you your place, they were going to make you help bury the child."

Julian stopped, leaned heavily against the wall for support. It's all so damned senseless. If they didn't want me to help, I shouldn't have been placed in a situation of suffering. They just should have killed me from the start. "It would have been a hell of a lot less painful." Darius aproached, and Julian waved off the confused concern. "Let's get this over with," he spit out through gritted teeth, marching past the guard in sure and steady strides.

Within five hundred feet Darius stopped. They were at their destination. "Will you be able to visit?" The guard shrugged. Julian couldn't blame him; after all, he wasn't so sure if there would be anyone or anything to visit. "Tell O'Brien something for me?" He paused, wondered what would be appropriate. What did you say before facing death? "Tell him...tell the old goat to redress that shoulder every day or I'll kill him."

The guard nodded, turned away. "And Darius," he paused, "tell him it's been sheer hell playing roomies," he said gruffly. A smile tickled the corners of his lips. "And I wouldn't have had it any other way."

Darius started to leave again. Again Julian stopped him. "And, Darius, you've been a real pal. If you ever make it to the Alpha Quadrant, drop by Earth, look for a guy named Jake Bashir, my cousin. You two would make a great couple."

The guard afforded him a smile he couldn't see. "Take care, Julian."

"You too, buddy. And if O'Brien asks, I'm off to see the Wizard."

"What wizard?"

"He'll know." Bashir studied the area, the texture of the wall against his back, the perculiar taste of the air, the dim and sputtering light above. And went through the door.

He just hoped the next door he entered didn't have Saint Peter as the doorman.

O'Brien angrily limped into the room, his soggy boot in one hand, the other limb wrapped around Darius' neck. The guard eased him down onto his bed, careful not to disturb his swollen ankle.

"I'll be back in a few minutes with your ice. In the meantime, you should change into some drier clothes," Darius commented.

Miles threw the drenched shoe at the forcefield just after the soldier left. The field flared up slightly as the boot fell to the floor. "I'm going to kill the idiot who opened the sewage valve during the night." Right after I kill the bastard who left his toolbox sitting in the middle of the floor.

O'Brien rose to his feet and hobbled into the bathroom. Quickly shedding his soaking wet uniform, he had some water beamed into the sink to try and wash off the gunk and grime that caked his body. He was especially careful to cleanse his shoulder, just to please the doctor. Speaking of Bashir, where the hell was he, Miles wondered. I think I'll ask Darius when he gets back. He should know. Finishing up his bath, he dried off and rewrapped his shoulder. There, that should do it. He ordered some clean clothes and was just about to put them on when Darius returned.

Hurriedly zipping it up, he stepped out into the doorway and the guard helped him back to his bed.

"Here's the ice you wanted, and a hypospray I managed to sneak out of medical. I hope it helps."

Miles took the instrument and the vile of medication. "Yep, this'll do just fine," he replied, recognizing the name of the drug scrawled on the side. Gathering some of the ice into a small hand towel, O'Brien gently laid it on top of the enlarged joint. "Ah, much better," he breathed in relief, the coolness washing away most of the pain. After a few moments, the chief looked up at the man watching him so intently. "Where did Julian go?" he asked.

"He's been moved to a different cell...for experimentation."

The chief almost leapt to his feet. "WHAT? When?" he demanded.

"Early this morning, after you left for work."

"What sort of experimentation are we talking about?"

"I don't know, but I wish I did," he replied.

O'Brien tried to shake the horrible thoughts running through his mind, but couldn't. Experimentation? Julian, what the hell are they doing to you? Images of three-headed monsters, severed limbs, severe physical and psychological trauma assaulted him. Dear God, no! Please, don't do this to him. He doesn't deserve to die like that.

"I will try to find out something for you. I have a friend that owes me a couple of favors and I think it's about time I collected my dues."

"I'd appreciate that, very much."

"Don't worry; I won't allow him to be harmed. That, I promise."

"I'm sure you'll try your best." If it's not already too late...

The last thing he'd expected to see was an angel. "Capt. Sinclair."

"Dr. Bashit," she said, admonishing him with a disdainful glance.

"Bashir," he corrected.

"Whatever."

He joined her on the sofa. "What are we here for?" he inquired.

One of those naturally arched eyebrows cocked. "You don't know?" He shook his head. "Why we're here to make babies, Doctor."

And Bashir stared at her as if she were more strange than the little people in Munchken land. Oh he would give anything to be able to click his heels three times and be home. Instead of a pair of ruby slippers the wicked witch wanted something else: his sperm.

Where was a stray house when you needed one?

It was dark, the floors, the walls, the very air around him. So very, very dark. He felt his throat go dry, his heart beat accelerate with fear.

Shadows writhed and cavorted in a perverse fashion, in perfect rhythm with the symphony of screams. Something dark and fluidic flowed from beneath a door to his right. It touched the edge of his toes, stuck to his bare skin. He took a little hop back.

The pool of blood spread, reaching out with greedy scarlet fingers. Miles O'Brien pivoted sharply and ran. But it chased him, the fear, the blood, the shrieks of pain. They all followed him. They licked at his heels like a rabid canine, attempting to draw him back.

The claustrophobic tunnel drew to an end just beyond a doorway. The loud clang of slamming metal struck his ears.

Attempting to draw him back...or lure him into a trap.

The room was square, no more than three feet by three feet. Three of the walls were constructed of the same drab concrete as his cell. The forth, instead of a forcefield, was a giant pane of glass. Beyond it lay an all-encompassing darkness. And from that inky black pool emerged the sounds of harsh breathing and shrill whimpers.

"What is this?" he muttered below his breath, startled by the sheer volume of his own voice in such a small area. Below him, beyond that glass wall, a light erupted. It bathed the room beyond with glares, for its walls were mirrors, the room was mirrors.

And Miles was standing beyond one of those two-way barriers, spying on the scenes below like some voyeur. His eyes grew accustomed to the bright illumination, and what he saw below forced the breath out of his lungs more easily than a blow.

Julian Bashir, hanging from a metal rod which was secured on either side of the cavernous room. Naked, bleeding, and nearly unconscious. His head lolled on his shoulder, a shoulder which was purple and bruised, not able to withstand supporting the entirety of his weight for much longer. His wrists were bleeding, ropes digging into his flesh.

Miles focused on that handsome young face; a face which had been hit by a fist---if not something more substantial---so many times that it sported a busted lip, a right eye bleeding and swollen shut, and what appeared to be a fractured cheek bone. That along with what appeared to be numerous bruises which connected and formed one giant one to cover the entirety of his face.

His chest had been cut with something, a diagonal slash which was clean and still oozing small amounts of blood to add to the scarlet shirt he wore. The mirrors allowed him to view his friend from nearly every conceivable angle, discern most of his injuries. More slashes zig-zagged across his back, less accurate and far more numerous. They were swollen and red, as if the injury were older than the one on his chest.

Miles felt bile rise up in his throat, had to fight the urge to vomit on his shoes---or rather bare feet. He'd lost his shoes somewhere along the way apparently. He took a deep breath to steady himself, nearly gagged on the omnipresent ozone smell which glided down his esophagus, along his nasal passages.

"And how is my little treasure feeling?"

The voice was female, from down below, but Miles had to fight the shudder it sent up his spine. The ice he'd heard in it, the pleasure and patronizing air. That was not a pleasant voice to wake up to. Below, a female lifted up Julian's drooping head, looked into those battered features. She pressed her lips to that ruined mouth, laughed when he tried to pull away.

"Is that any way to be, my dear sweet Julian?" it whispered against his bleeding chest, planting butterfly kisses along the still bleeding gash. Bashir whimpered, stiffened from the pain, or maybe the humiliation. Miles couldn't be certain of which. He still couldn't make out the features of the mystery guest, and he wished she would sign in already.

She purred something to Julian, a message Miles couldn't make out, but he did see her pull something from her belt. Blood glistened along the knife's keen edge, and she caressed his skin with it with the softness of a lover's touch. She was going to cut him again, Miles knew it as surely as his own name. He screamed at her, demanded she leave his friend the hell alone, even beat on the mirror lightly. She either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore his pleas. Like she chose to ignore the pathetic pleas of the man below.

"I said leave him alone!" he bellowed, crashing his forearms into the glass barrier. It shattered, slashing his skin, raining down upon the occupants below. The woman finally looked up, acknowledged him with a sadistic smile. "Dear God," he breathed, staring into those familiar features that had transformed into a nearly unrecognizable beast.

"Hello, Miles," Kira told him. "So glad you could join the party." And then the glass magically reformed before him, unbreakable this time no matter how hard he rammed into it. "Just sit back and enjoy the show, old boy. I know I certainly will." She reached out, pinched Julian's lips together. "Isn't that right, little Jules?" She planted another peck against those lips.

That blade was drawn across the unscathed portion of his chest. Miles turned away, clamped his hands over his ears, desperately wishing to block out those screams. Eventually it turned quiet again, except for the whimpers coming from Bashir. Miles ventured a look again.

Kira stood back, admiring her handy work like a painter examining a canvas. She placed the knife on the blood-drenched floor, stood back and watched it reform into the person he knew as Constable Odo.

Miles just stood there shaking his head dumbly, his mouth open on nothing but air. "Kira!" another female voice shouted from a darkened corner. A voice Miles knew. Dax. She would save Julian, she was his best friend besides Miles himself. The Trill emerged from the shadows. "How could you?" she breathed, her voice filled with repugnance.

She walked over to Bashir, eyed him up and down. "You were supposed to wait for me," she scolded. Miles' mouth opened further, nearly hit the glass strewn floor. She glided with her usual grace over to a tiny round table, poured a glass of water from a pitcher set there. She returned to the ornament she knew as Julian Bashir. "Why hello there, my love. You must be very thirsty..."

He nodded, murmured the words Miles would have in his place. "I suppose you'd like a tiny little gulp of this wet, cool liquid to flow down that parched dry throat of yours, wouldn't you?" she whispered against his ear, her moist lips tickling his skin. He nodded, pleaded with her to do that for him.

She took a hearty swallow of the water into her mouth, brought her lips to his. Then she moved lower. The spray of water cascaded over Bashir's throat, a stray drop or two finding his chin, but none landing on his lips. He closed his eyes in defeat as Dax fluttered away with birdlike laughter echoing from her uniquely spotted throat.

"Batting practice, my dear doctor." Miles shook his head as Ben Sisko approached the helpless form, a wooden stick gripped in his hands so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"No," Miles babbled, did so over and over again. The word poured over his lips like a mantra with each shake his head and accompanying prayer that he could take the young man's place, take away his pain. Sisko readied to swing, connected, and Miles bit his lip savagely as the crunch of bone reached his ears. His vision began to blur with the approach of tears.

"My turn, Commander."

The voice drew his gaze in an instant. Those familiar features looked up at him as the bat was taken, its weight tested. "For you," the form mouthed. "Let's see how many games you can win now," Miles O'Brien challenged. He aimed for Julian's knee and swung.

"No!" Miles shrieked, clamping his eyes shut and covering his ears. He wouldn't look, couldn't bear another second. It couldn't be happening, couldn't be real.

The scent of blood lessened as Bashir's scream echoed into nothingness. A soft gentle breeze swept over his skin, chilling the sweat on his flesh. He ventured a peek at his surroundings. He was no longer in the observation tower. The scene had switched, reminding Miles of a holographic program gone berzerk.

Now he was in a meadow, complete with wild flowers and prancing bunnies. A blanket lay beneath him, a picnic spread out over its patch-work designs.

Thirty feet from him Julian tossed a ball; a romping golden retriever bounded after it, catching the blood red sphere mid-flight. The physician yelled the dog's name, calling him back to continue the game of fetch the bouncy ball.

"Julian," Miles cried. The man turned toward him, his features wrinkling in confusion in response to the panic and joy in O'Brien's voice. "Come over here," he demanded.

Julian studied him with concern for several moments, allowing the animal time to return. O'Brien could see the dog jumping the physician, sinking those teeth savagely into the soft contours of a human throat. But the canine didn't, merely stood by Bashir's side thumping his leg with that wagging tail. Julian petted the animal, commenced to trot toward his companion.

O'Brien held his breath in anticipation, waiting, expecting Julian never to make it to him. But he did so, and O'Brien waited some more for the bomb to go off, for Bashir to die.

Nothing happened other than the dog trying to stick that cold wet nose into the potato salad. Julian threw the ball, sent him chasing after it into a patch of trees. "Okay, Chief," he said, "I'll eat now if you're going to be so spastic about it."

The young man folded his legs beneath him, settled down across from the engineer. "Well don't just sit there," he chided. "Pass the chicken." O'Brien studied the doctor warily, not fully believing what his eyes were telling him. "What?" Bashir finally asked, a bit defensive.

"Where are we?"

Bashir looked at him like he'd grown a third eye. "Bajor, you ding-bat. Where else would we be?"

"The prison," Miles suggested.

Bashir regarded him incredulously. Then it dawned on him. "I warned you about sleeping out in the sun, Chief. You must have had one doosey of a dream."

A slow smile spread over his face. A dream. "Yeah, I guess I did," he agreed. He reached out and touched the man across from him, to make sure he was real, was there. Bashir shook his head at the bizarre antics and dug into the food on his plate. Miles joined him.

At first he'd believed the whole scene to be a bit strange, a tad bit ridiculous, but the longer he ate, the more at ease Julian put him, the more natural it all began to feel. They spoke of the goings on aboard the station, chit-chatted about the weather, but mostly filled their mouths with food. Real food, not the sterile type that DS9's replicators concocted. He hadn't had such a good meal since he was a boy.

Bashir sighed, wiped a stray bit of chocolate from his lips, and placed his plate back on the ground. "That was delicious. I think I'm going to pop." Miles chuckled, tossed a bit of the pie's crust at the young man, who easily dodged it. Julian threw a lump of sugar at him, hit his mark. "Tea time," he said, reaching into the basket at his side and pulling out this daintly looking tea service.

Miles frowned. It reminded him of something like the one Molly used to play hostess. He'd drank enough tea out of those tiny cups to float the Titanic. But here was Julian Bashir, far too old to be playing tea party, pouring liquid into two of those tiny cups, passing one over to Miles.

Steam rolled up in tiny wisps and plumes, spreading throughout the air instead of disappating. Julian didn't even notice it, that pleasant grin still painting his lips.

Miles prepared the tea to his liking, his gaze on the ground for no more than ten seconds before it shifted back up to his companion. He didn't even have a chance to draw enough breath for the warning. The guard had appeared from no where, one of those dreaded projectile weapons aimed directly at the picnicers. The man fired. Point blank.

Julian's chest exlpoded; Miles threw up his arms, felt the sickening wetness of warm blood spray over him in a crimson tide, the jagged shrapnel of bone slivers embedding in his skin. He raised his head, saw a dollop of blood drop from Julian's mouth and into the still warm tea. The brown liquid splashed ourt over his fingers, washing away a bit of ruined tissue.

The look in those brown eyes. He was aware. He knew. Julian knew what had happened to him, knew he was about to die. He managed to stay upright for about four seconds; he tumbled to the blanket, his face nearly hitting the pie there.

Miles scurried over to the man, rolled him into his arms; there was a bit of whip cream dotting his cheek. There was no awareness in those eyes, no pulse in his neck. Of course there isn't a pulse; he doesn't have a heart any more, Miles thought.

O'Brien felt the sting of tears in his eyes, watched as one fell to slide down Bashir's face. It was drawn to a halt by Julian's upper lip. He stared at that tear for such a long time. That lip began to quiver. "Miles," a garbled voice whispered.

Bashir's voice. But that was impossible, Bashir was dead. He found himself leaning toward that weak voice anyway. "Yes, Julian, tell me what to do."

"You..." Miles encouraged him on. "Your...fault..."

"No," he murmured. Bashir slumped once more in his arms, but those words continued to echo throughout his head, throughout the trees. "No!" he screamed with all his might...

Bursting upright in the darkened room, sweat pouring from his form like the torrent of tears washing his face. Miles O'Brien sat there, trembling in the darkness, sucking quivering gulfs of air into his aching lungs. The familiar outline of his cell began to form in his blurred line of vision.

He was safe. It had just been a dream. The whole damn thing.

He closed his eyes. Safe and secure.

But he couldn't say the same about Julian. He sat there the remainder of the night, trying to block out the sound of distant screams.

"Why all the fuss?" he asked as he luxuriated in the plump contours of his new bed.

"Conducive to romance would be my guess." She plopped down on the silken comforter, cross-legged, and placed a pillow in her lap. "So, where are you going to sleep, Doctor?"

He turned, regarded her with an expression which said, excuse me? "Here, on the bed," he answered.

She thought it over a moment and shook her head. "No, I'm sleeping on the bed."

"Oh, really?" He leaned down, entrapping her with arms propped on either side of her thighs. "And what makes you so special?"

"The fact that I've been sleeping on those slabs for two and a half years," she replied in a sugar-laced voice. "Now why don't you run along to the sofa like a good little boy?"

That sweet smile on her face made him want to smack her. But he didn't. Julian Bashir never hit women, no matter how provocated. "For tonight, Tristian." Her lips tightened at the use of her first name. It annoyed her; just like he'd wanted it to. "We'll take turns. That's democratic."

She snorted. "Democracy's overrated if you ask me. And I thought you were a gentleman..."

"To a lady, but the one here seems to be hiding behind the mask of a---"

She cut him off. "Go to bed, Doctor!" Her voice softened. "Please." He could see the exhaustion in her gaze.

He let go of the breath he'd been holding and gave in. "Pleasant dreams, Captain."

"You too, Doctor."

He took the sheet and pillow she'd offered and retreated to the couch. It would have been comfortable if it weren't so short. He'd make do though. He shifted, jabbed the pillow a couple times in annoyance, and settled down. Time to retreat into that movie theater in his head.

The sofa moved abruptly, dropping Julian flat on concrete.

Capt. Sinclair appeared in the doorway, drawn by the startled curse. She sighed in defeat.

"What kind of wacko designs a disappearing sofa?" he exclaimed.

"A wacko who wants babies." She turned back toward the bedroom. "Come on. But if you don't keep those hands to yourself, you'll wake up a soprano."

He had gotten better invitations to bed, but at the moment it was all he had. He would accept. And everything would be okay. As long as she kept her hands to herself.

Julian shuffled off to bed.

He dreamed he was home, back on the station, sharing a friendly dinner with a Trill he knew. It had been simple, and ever so pleasant in its simplicity. When he awoke shortly afterwards it left a void in him, a void which could only be filled by friendship.

Julian Bashir was definitely a people person. And without contact with another being he'd slowly go insane. He knew that.

And the only prospect was a young woman who was more bitter than Kira when he'd first encountered her, carrying a chip bigger than the Alpha Quadrant itself. The task of befriending her would not be an easy one.

But given that his choices were limited he would. Whether she wanted it or not.

So in the morning he arose early, dressed in the clothing he found in the closet after a quick shower. It was far more flattering than the drab one piece coverall he'd tossed to the floor, and a hell of a lot more comfortable. Now came the task of trying to get on the captain's good side. He was sure she had one, somewhere...buried deep inside that heart shrunken three sizes too small.

Every woman liked breakfast in bed. It was one constant about women he knew for a fact...his mother had explained it to him as a boy when he'd done the same for her on her birthday. And she'd even stomached that breakfast from hell as he watched on with proud eyes. Now that was love.

The fare which came from the food dispenser was much more appetizing than the usual for this place...more appetizing than what his mom had scarfed down. Romance again, he surmised. He even found a flower bud and vase to add a bit of color to the tray. This warden was supplying them with all the ingredients but one. Love.

When he reentered the bedroom she was stretching the kinks from her body, yawning away the last remnants of sleep. "Good morning," he beamed, settling the tray across her lap.

"What's this?" she asked, wary, suspicious, and a bit appreciative all at once. Her eyes watched him like he were a deadly insect. She was trying to figure out his motive, guess his next move. Relationships, at times, seemed so much like a chess match.

"Breakfast. You know, the first and most important meal of the day."

"I know that," she breathed, exasperated. "What I don't know is why."

"Because, after going for such an extended period of time, even at rest, without nutrients-- "

"Why did you bring me breakfast in bed?" she demanded.

He turned serious. "We got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I did this in hopes of calling a truce, of trying to make the best out of a bad situation by attempting to be friends."

"I don't need any friends, Doctor. I've made it this long without any attachments, and your overture is not welcomed." She placed the tray back in his hands. "And I'm more than capable of feeding myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like a shower."

"But the food..."

Just before the door slammed in his face she growled, "You eat it."

Bashir looked at the door, at the congealing food in his hands, then heavenward. He heaved a sigh. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.

The sofa had magically reappeared with the coming of morning. Julian had been a bit hesitant to test it out at first---his hip was still sore from smashing against the unforgiving concrete surface---but supposed it would be there until night returned. And if not, well his other hip would have a matching bruise.

Presently he was attempting to entertain himself; so far he hadn't had much luck. He missed O'Brien. He missed Darius. He missed his infirmary, his quarters, the Replimat, Quark's even. Most of all he missed conversation.

Across the way, Tristian was humming as she ran a pencil across a pad. It had been given to her by the warden. Apparently she was special. The object of her sketch was the bowl of fruit on the table separating them.

"How are you doing?" he asked. Her eyes darted up for a second; she didn't reply. "There's no need to be rude."

"I'm trying to concentrate here," she responded in annoyance. "Do you mind?"

"You'd think you were performing experimental brain surgery over there," he remarked. Nothing to do had a tendency to make him irritable.

"Well not all of us enjoy rooting around inside people's guts," she hissed back. "This is one of the few pleasures I'm allowed, my escape as it were. I suggest you find a similar activity before this sedentary life drives you looney tunes." She returned to her escape.

He studied her a moment, chewed on his lower lip. "Tristian," he ventured hesitantly. Her head shot up, an impatient glare locking on him faster than DS9's phasers. "Could you spare a piece of that paper and an extra pencil perhaps?" He was fishing in dangerous waters.

The expression in her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips almost, almost, turned upward. She sacrificed the pad. "I'm finished. Have a ball."

"I---I can't take this."

"Like the bed. We'll share," she explained matter-of-factly. "Feel free to look at my previous works. It's been a while since I've had an audience." She disappeared into the bedroom.

Julian watched her go, stared at the blank page for a moment, and finally began to sketch.

Three hours later she wandered back into the living room. Bashir hadn't moved since he'd seen her last. "How's it going?" she inquired.

It caught him off guard. Wasn't this the woman who didn't need friends, didn't need conversation, and most of all, didn't need him. "Well..." His expression scrunched up as he turned a critical eye back to the image. "Could I have your honest opinion on this?"

She burst into laugher; he'd been right earlier. It was pleasant indeed. "That's a hoot. Someone actually asking me to be blunt." He shared the smile, the lightness in the room. "Okay, let's see it." He handed her the pad, watched nervously as her expression became serious.

She sat down heavily beside him, turned to lay wide eyes on him. Abruptly he received a smack on the arm. "You're better at this than me," she said, as if it were an accusation of some heinous crime.

"Your still life is wonderful," he began.

"But you can do portraits!" Her annoyance seeped away as she gazed at his work. "Who is this precious little creature?" She was in love.

"Molly O'Brien. My friend's daughter," he explained with a slight grin. One couldn't help but smile when talking about that adorable little elf of a girl. "And that's his wife, Keiko. I was hoping if Darius returned he could take that as a gift. Miles could use a good surprise," mused the physician, recalling the numerous array of bad ones over the last few days.

"That's very thoughtful," she whispered softly. "You really do care a hell of a lot about others, don't you." It was a statement more than a question. He shrugged slightly, attempting humility. Not exactly a normal attribute of Julian Bashir's personality. She stared until he began to squirm. "Tell me a little about yourself, Dr. Julian Bashir..."

She'd torn down that fortress around her heart. She'd laughed and talked about the meaning of life and absolute drivel. She'd taken to calling him Julian. She'd taken to let him call her Tristian. She'd taken to him.

And in that one evening Julian's stay in the abysmal prison took a turn for the better. Tristian had retreated to their shared bedroom, left him to draw another picture. He was working on Dax's spots when he was interrupted by the familiar noise of a clearing throat. He looked up.

Tristian stood in the doorway, one arm raised and draped against the door panel, the other with a hand on her hip. Bashir's mouth dropped.

He couldn't do anything but stare, gaze at the tight slinky concoction wrapped about her form, follow the plunging neckline to the gentle swell of feminine breasts, climb up that scandalous length of leg exposed by the long skirt's slit well up her thigh.

Finally he could form a sentence. "My grandmother had a dress like that," he heard himself sputter, wondered if he'd gone insane. A gorgeous woman is about to offer herself to you, and you compare her to your grandmother! "I mean, I saw a picture of her in that exact same dress as a kid. I wondered how grandmothers could ever have been beautiful if they were grandmothers."

"You don't think I would make a beautiful grandmother?"

He watched as she slinked toward him, settled on his lap. He swallowed hard as one of those warm sweet breaths whisked past his throat. "Ask me in forty years." One of those lithe arms snaked about his neck. "What---what brought about this?" he ventured. She was so close the end of her nose brushed against his face as she moved her head. Presently a finger tip was dancing along the edge of his jaw.

"Well, I was thinking there's no reason why we shouldn't take advantage of our predicament. If it's babies the warden wants, we'll try to make him happy."

Julian's eyes widened almost comically. "Now wait a minute, I'm no where near ready for that responsibility!"

"There's no need to worry. Science has taken care of that for us. Right before the crash I had my extended course of birth control renewed. It's good for...I'd guess another two or three years."

"Two or three years, you say?" She nodded, traced his lower lip with her gaze. He smiled. "O'Brien will have us out of here long before then." He let his lips mold over hers. "Remind me to thank the doctor who discovered that lovely little prescription," he rasped.

"Remind me to thank the warden for this little experiment," Tristian replied.

Within minutes the couple was engrossed in research.

Darius found permission to visit the man of his dreams once more. The excitement was nearly too much to contain.

He was whistling the alien tune Julian had taught him as he strolled through the empty corridors, a skip to his step. He rounded that corner which Julian had disappeared around a few days earlier and stepped into the posh living room. It was darkened, shadows obscuring the luxurious array of textures and colors. Bashir was no where in sight. Darius continued to investigate.

The sentry strolled toward the arch of a doorway, peeked into the inky blackness. There was no movement, no filter of light inside. There was also no form which remotely resembled a humanoid form.

He heard a tiny noise to his left; it drew him toward that section of the room, where a door was firmly shut. A sliver of light showed from beneath it. Darius opened that door.

Julian was inside all right.

His arms were wrapped about that thing he'd called a woman. His lips were on her neck. He was facing the other way so he had no idea that Darius was there. Until Darius stumbled back and fell over the unweilding form of a chair.

Bashir pulled back from his companion, startlement on his features. "What was that?"

Tristian wrapped her tower closer to her still damp form. "It's the man's job to check out dangerous and ominious noises in the dark," she said.

"What happened to women's lib?"

"It took a vacation."

He grabbed a robe, slipped into it, and ventured out into the dimly lit bedroom. He saw a bubble-head sprawled there, descended upon him in a flash. "Who the hell are you?"

"Julian," the man breathed, hurt etched into his words, "how could you?"

"Oh, uh, hi, Darius." Such a man of words you are, Julian! Why he's been boggled by the sheer extravaganza you're putting on here. "So they let you visit, huh?"

"Julian?" Tristian's hesitant voice drifted from her spot inside the lavatory's doorway.

Darius shot up and dashed out of the bedroom. Julian followed. "Darius!" he called. The man didn't slow. Bashir caught up, yanked him to a halt by grabbing his arm. "Would you wait a bloody damn minute!" He caught his temper, counted to ten.

"You still didn't really think I would fall in love with you, did you?" The man didn't answer,just tried to wiggle from the hold. "You did."

Darius managed to free himself from that iron grip. "Well, I guess I know now," he shot back. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do." He began to walk away.

"You know jealousy really doesn't suit you." He skidded to a halt, turned back to eye him incredulously. "You know to love someone you have to like him first. There's no reason why we couldn't continue our friendship." Darius began to shake out a negative. "Unless you're not man enough to do it..." baited Julian.

He didn't even see the hand that shot out and hit his face like a streak of pure fire. His own hand darted up to his mouth, the back of his hand wiping the blood from his cut lip. His eyes were lit with a similiar fire that was just as painful.

Darius backed away like the ground was about to open up and swallow him. Beneath the face plate his stunned features paled. "Julian," he whispered.

"Feel better?" was all he asked.

"Like a damn fool."

"Good, that's how you're supposed to feel." The doctor retrieved the portrait for O'Brien. "And take this to the chief as a present from me and my fool, okay?"

Darius nodded dumbly, stumbled toward the exit. "Will you ever forgive me, Julian?"

"What's to forgive?" he quipped.

The forcefield dropped and Darius stormed into the cell. You could almost see the steam rushing out from under his helmet as he stalked into the room. "This is about Bashir, isn't it," O'Brien confirmed.

He nodded once.

"Then you know where he is."

"Yes. My superior wanted to see how well he would function with a female of his own species."

"You mean the vent woman."

"Exactly. According to my sources, they are to mate with each other."

"Let me get this straight. While I've been busting my butt working on that sorry junk you call machinery and thinking all this time that they were doing some horrible genetic experiments on him, Julian Bashir has been making babies with a woman he heard singing through a vent!" O'Brien ranted.

"Didn't I just say that?"

"That little weasel. I could kill..."

"You'll have to wait your turn," Darius replied coldly.

"You can't just outright kill him and be done with it. He's got to suffer a while first."

"No, I wasn't referring to Julian. He's already suffered enough. I hit him," he admitted in shame. O'Brien's eyebrows drew up comically. His tone returned to ice. "I was talking about that...that..." he stammered, looking for the right word.

"Woman?" O'Brien offered.

"Precisely."

"Okay, we'll just have to kill 'em both then."

"But why? Bashir has done nothing to hurt you."

"Physically, no. But he's scared the hell out of me mentally and emotionally." Miles admitted. "And why do you want this woman so bad. What's she done to deserve death?"

Darius paused for a moment. "I haven't really thought about that. I just don't like her. Bashir made her out to be some sort of goddess, but I see nothing of interest in her."

"Julian was just letting his pants control his brain, as usual."

"You mean this desire he was talking about?"

"Yep. He hasn't quite learned how to keep his hormones undercheck yet. Give him some time; he'll come around, especially when she rejects him."

"I believe she has already done that."

"When?"

"While you were asleep after your first day of work, I took him to see her. She kneed him in the groin."

Ouch, that hurts. "Then why are you so upset? She obviously could care less about him staying with her."

"I'm not sure. I guess it's just seeing him with her day after day that really ticks me off."

"I should have known. You really do care for him, don't you?"

"Yes. I told Julian that I loved him, and he admitted that he does not feel the same way. I was hurt, but I got over it. Now, seeing him with that..."

"Bitch?"

"Yes, er...bitch, I now wonder if she is the reason why he rejected me."

Why me? Why do I have to be the one stuck in the middle of all this mess? "Darius, I don't won't to hurt you anymore than you already are, but she isn't the reason why he turned you down."

"How do you know?"

"In our culture, although we're supposed to have outgrown silly inhibitions like this, it's not exactly natural for a man and another man to be together, as lovers. I'm not saying that it isn't still practiced, it's just that...well...Bashir is more a man and woman guy. You've never seen a woman before, until now, so it probably feels very natural to you to have another male as a... companion. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"The way we were brought up is different. That is why he refuses my advances?"

"In a way, yes."

"Ah, I think I understand now. Thank you for your time." He turned to leave and suddenly remembered something. "Oh, this is for you from Julian." He produced a piece of paper from a niche in his uniform, handed it to Miles.

The human gingerly unfolded it. His face lit up. "My sweeties!" He gazed at it completely oblivious to his companion. There were tears in his eyes as he held the drawing to his chest. "Tell him thank you, and that I really appreciate this wonderful gift."

The guard nodded. "My shift is almost over. I must be on my way now."

"Goodbye." Miles returned to his bed and sat down, massaging his throbbing shoulder, hugging the portrait of his life to his heart. Geez, Darius sounds so much like Data, it's frightening. Sighing, "I guess I should change this bandage before I go to sleep."

He got up and went to the small cubicle they called a bathroom. Unzipping his jumpsuit down to his waist, he slid it off his shoulders. And cried out as a sudden sharp pain sliced through his arm like a hot knife through butter. The pain subsided after a moment and O'Brien gently flexed the joint, wincing with the effort. It was a lot stiffer than usual, but Bashir had warned him it might do so.

He began to unwrap the bandage from around his shoulder. As the last piece was removed, he closed his eyes and groaned. "Oh no. How could this have happened? Shit! "I'll bet anything it was that blasted sewer water." I knew I should have killed that stupid little bastard when I had the chance! Cleansing the wound as best as he could, Miles dressed it once again. Julian's really gonna go ballistic when he finds out my shoulder's infected. Gently pulling up his coveralls, he eased his right arm back into the sleeve, cursing himself for not noticing sooner. Bloody hell! This really complicates matters now.

Plodding back to his bed, he crawled behind the thin sheet, shivering from its coolness. "I've got to find a way to get us out of here. And I can't let Bashir know about my shoulder. No matter what happens, or how sick I become, I just can't let him know." Tomorrow. I'll try to find out something tomorrow. Whatever it takes to get into the computer room, I've got to do it. It's up to me, now that Julian's out of the picture, to get us out of here. I can't fail. For all our sake, I must not fail!

Early the next morning, Darius came as usual to take O'Brien down to the mines, and he noticed that the chief was favoring his right arm while he was putting on his workboots, more so than he was a couple of days ago. Just the simple action of pulling the shoes onto his feet seemed to cause him great pain. "How about we stop by the infirmary first?" he suggested. "You appear to be having trouble with your arm this morning."

"Oh, it's nothing. It's just a bit stiff, that's all," Miles assured him.

"Perhaps that means you have reinjured yourself. You really should let the doctor check it out," he insisted.

"Really, I'm fine. I just need to take it easy for a while."

"Still..."

"Darius, I'm okay," O'Brien replied in exasperation. "Don't worry about me; you're as bad as Julian when it comes to my health. I won't do any heavy lifting today; I promise."

"And you're just as stubborn and pig-headed as he is. We better hurry, or you're going to be late."

O'Brien chuckled slightly, following him out of the cell and down the corridor into the nearest lift. "Where are they going to put me today?" he asked. The waste disposal unit, he wondered, remembering what happened the other day.

"The computer room. One of the control panels has short-circuited, and my superior needs for you to fix it right away."

I guess my luck's finally starting to change. "What exactly does that panel control?"

"It did control the waste containment system, until two days ago."

"You mean that's what caused that...nauseous pond of goo I had to wade through and almost kill myself?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then, by all means, lead the way." And to think, I almost strangled that young lad in the control tower. I'll apologize to him later, after I solve this minor problem.

They stopped outside a large metal door, guarded by two armed soldiers. "This is where you'll be today," Darius said, then pulled O'Brien back a few feet and asked, "Are you sure you're okay? I don't want you to hurt yourself unnecessarily."

Miles knew that his companion could tell he was hurting pretty badly; in fact, he really wanted to take him up on his offer and go by medical instead. But there was no way he was going to give up this chance to find out where these people were hiding the runabout. He had promised himself and Bashir last night that he was going to find a way to get them out of here. And nothing was going to stop him. Nothing. "I understand your concerns, but I'm all right. I'll make you a deal. If my shoulder is still giving me trouble this afternoon, we can stop by the infirmary then. Do we have a deal?"

"You will tell me if it's still bothering you, right?"

"Of course." The sentry seemed to accept his word; the man was pretty gullible.

"Very well." Darius confronted the guards in front of the computer room's entrance, spoke with thm briefly, then pointed at the chief who was still standing were his friend had left him.

The guy on the left pulled out a padd, quickly glanced over it, then nodded in confirmation to the other man who unlocked the door and opened it for the engineer.

Darius walked back over to O'Brien. "The guards will check in on you every hour," he said in a soft tone so no one could overhear them. "Don't get caught messing with something you're not supposed to," he added in a whisper.

Maybe Darius wasn't as gullible as he'd thought. "I won't. You can count on it."

O'Brien sat back on his haunches, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He had been there for nearly four hours and was still nowhere near being finished with the terminal. This is getting me nowhere fast. Most of these circuit boards are completely shot, and these isolinear chips look like they haven't been changed in years. Compared to this junk, DS9 is a dream come true. He sighed tiredly and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. Using the back of his hand, he felt along the sides of his face. You're burning up with a fever, Miles. You really should be in bed, instead of fiddling with this sorry excuse for a computer, he chastised himself.

The door opened slightly and one of the guards peeked in. "How are your repairs going?"

"Fine. Just fine," he lied.

"Will you be finished soon?"

"Oh, yes. Just in time for lunch," he lied again.

"Very good." The door closed with a loud clang, leaving O'Brien alone once more.

Oh boy, you've done it now, Miles. They're going to kill you when they find out you've been lying the entire time. But hey, I'm probably gonna die anyway. He glanced down to the other end of the room and smiled. I guess I could help the others get out. Boy, are those guys going to be steamed when they come back in here at dinner and I'm not even half way finished.

Rising to his feet, he stretched his arms and legs, grimacing in pain when he tried lifting his right arm. The infection must have spread. I can barely move it now. Holding his shoulder, he trudged to the opposite side of the compartment, slid into a chair and activated the main database.

He opened several documents, each containing detailed descriptions of the facility's history and scanned through them, stopping only when he passed something of interest. He then located a blueprint of the entire area, paying special attention to any shortcuts that would lead them to the hangars. Pulling up a listing of all the ships docked there, he found the name of their runabout, its location, and something else. Oh no! They're going to sell it for scrap three days from now. That only leaves us a couple of days to get out of here now. I've got to let Julian know what's going on.

As quickly as he could, he closed all the files and deactivated the computer. I better see if I can fix this junk in a hurry. Or at least make it operational for a while. He weakly pushed himself up from the chair and was immediately rewarded with a feeling of profound dizziness. Staggering towards the door, he tried to call for help, but his mouth refused to move. He reached for the entrance one final time before collapsing to the floor, slipping into unconsciousness.

Both of the guards rushed into the room upon hearing the muffled thump of a body hitting the floor. One of them kneeled down and felt for his pulse, then reached for his forehead. "This man is very sick. Get the doctor."

"But what about the computer?" the youngster asked.

"Forget the damn computer and go get the doctor! Hurry!"

The rookie dashed out without another word, and the remaining bubble head glance down at the motionless form. "You should have never been put on work detail until your wound was completely healed. We needed an engineer, but not so bad enough that we couldn't last another few weeks. Now it may be too late."

At that moment, Darius ran into the room, coming to rest by O'Brien's side. "Malachi, what happened?"

"I don't know. We came in after we heard something fall and hit the floor. He was already unconscious when we got here, and he's burning up with a fever."

"I knew he didn't look well this morning, that's why I asked you to keep an eye on him."

"I just don't get it. Why this sudden interest in this man and his companion?"

"From the first day, I knew there was something different about them. They are kind to me, and I have come to accept them as friends. I have been taking care of this one ever since the other one was moved."

"I still don't understand why you have become so attached to them unless...." The man shook the thought away. "Take care, my brother, for I fear this one's usefullness may soon run out. Our supervisor is not pleased with his health. He is recuperating much too slowly, but that is not his fault, nor is it yours."

"What are you saying, Malachi?"

"I'm saying that you better watch out and hope the boss doesn't decide to get rid of him."

Darius thanked his friend for all his help just as the medic came in. Backing away, he allowed the doctor some room to work with his patient and stepped in only to help lift O'Brien's limp form onto the gurney. I hope you're wrong, Malachi, he thought to himself as Miles was carted out. I sure hope you're wrong.

Darius strode into his superior's office, removing his helmet as the man pointed him towards a chair. "Sit down my boy," he said to the young officer.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" the guard asked.

"Of course I did my son."

He squirmed uneasily in the overstuffed chair. "Why did you ask to see me?" Darius asked in curiosity.

"I just heard what happened to our new engineer."

"You mean O'Brien."

"Yes, whatever his name is, I don't care. But I do care about his diminishing health. I just talked with the doctor, and it seems that dear Mr. O'Brien is not getting any better. In fact, his shoulder is badly infected, and that infection has now spread down into his right arm. He has almost no movement in the limb because of swelling."

"What does that have to do with me, sir?"

"He is your responsibility. Do you have an explaination has to how this could have happened?"

Darius hung his head low with shame. "No I do not, sir."

"I thought as much. That is why I have decided to end this problem here and now. We need an engineer, but this man has turned out to be more trouble than he is worth. His life will be terminated tonight, as a sign of mercy. I am not a cold hearted man; I don't like to see men suffer in this manner."

"But why does he have to be killed?" the guard demanded in anger.

"He is of no use to us any longer. He can't work, if he can't use his arm. And he can't use his arm."

"It's not his fault that his shoulder is infected. It's from working in those filthy mines all day long. He should have never been put on the duty roster until he was completely healed. It's your fault he's in this condition, not mine or anyone elses. That's exactly why we lost the other guy. All you care about is work. You could care less about their health as long as they're able to work."

"Lieutenant, I suggest you watch your tone. You are not such a valued officer that you cannot be replaced by someone who will not argue with my orders."

"There is no sense in killing O'Brien. If he is given the proper medical treatment, he will get better."

"No he won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"The doctor has given him little hope for survival. We do not have the necessary equipment needed to treat him effectively. His condition will only worsen until he dies of complications."

"No! I don't believe it! You haven't even given his a chance to get better! All he has done is work, work, work, non-stop, since he arrived."

"And you think giving him a few days to rest will help?"

"Yes," Darius replied, "I do."

"Then so be it. I will give you two days. If he does not show any improvement on the morning of the third day, he will be put out of his misery."

"But..."

"Two days, Lieutenant, no more. You can get his doctor friend to help you, if you think it will do any good. Is that understood?"

Darius shot him a glare filled with daggers as he picked up his helmet and placed it back on his head. "Yes, sir," he curtly responded, then stalked out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Damn him! Two lousy days won't help a bit, and he knows it. What the hell am I going to do now?

He awoke to a soft cloth being tenderly dabbed against his forehead and checks, trying to cool the fever burning within him. O'Brien could not help but release a soft moan of pain as he wearily shifted his head to get a better view of his visitor.

Darius stopped at the sound, concerned. "Are you in much pain?"

"Just a bit," he slurred, lying to his companion. In fact, it was a solid pulse of fire streaking through every nerve on his right side.

The guard loaded a vile of painkillers into the hypospray the doctor had left behind. He knew the chief wasn't being entirely truthful; he could see it with each ragged breath. Gently pressing it to O'Brien's neck, the engineer's hardened features softened and relaxed. "Is that better?"

"Much," he whispered, smiling slightly as he gazed up into the dark faceplate hovering above.

Darius simply nodded, then asked, "Did you know that your shoulder was infected?"

Miles took a long moment to answer, then finally admitted that yes, he had known about the infection, for the past two days. But before his friend could question his actions, O'Brien continued on to say that he had to go to work. It was the only way he could get into the computer room and locate the missing runabout.

"You were weak; you should have been in bed," Darius reprimanded him. "I could have got you that information myself. All you had to do was ask."

"I know, but you have already done so much. I promised myself and Julian last night that no matter what happened or how sick I became, I was going to find a way to get us out of here."

The guard allowed him a moment to catch his breath before asking, "In that case, did you find out where they are keeping your ship?"

Miles nodded, his respiration slowing. "I need to get a message to Bashir," he said faintly, his body gradually succumbing to exhaustion.

"I have a small data padd," Darius replied, pulling it from a niche in his suit.

"That'll do just fine." O'Brien tried sitting up, then wished he hadn't as the pain flared up again. His muscles tensed and the tension worsened the pain still more. He felt hot tears slipping down his cheeks and gentle, leatherclad hands easing him back to the bed.

"You okay?"

He murmured a faint yes, whimpering slightly, his body still shaking from the exertion.

When the last of the tremors had died down, Darius patted O'Brien's hand understandingly. "You dictate, and I'll type."

The chief nodded in agreement and slowly gave his companion the message he wanted to send Bashir. It took almost ten minutes to do so, but both of them knew it would be well worth the effort.

Darius slipped the padd back into his pocket. "I'll deliver this as soon as I can. In the meantime, you should try and get some rest."

"Could you hand me that piece of paper on the floor beside you?" O'Brien asked.

The guard leaned down, recognizing the picture that Julian had drawn for the chief. "Here you go."

Miles smiled, his eyes closing involuntarily. "Thank you, my friend," he breathed, clutching the portrait of his family to his chest, welcoming the contentment overtaking him, pulling him into oblivion.

Darius sat there for a moment. Two days. He glanced down at the still form, now resting peacefully, and decided that he would stay with him the rest of the night, just in case his superior tried to go back on his word. I will not allow you to die by his hands. Julian asked me to watch out for you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.

It had occurred to Darius that O'Brien might die before the two days were up, and the thought brought first a surge of fear, then a more reasonable reaction of distress and anger. It's not fair. He's already been through hell; why must he now die? He is much too young to have to suffer this much pain, and he has a wife and a daughter waiting for his return.

The guard removed his helmet and leather gloves. Tentatively, he reached out with his bare hand, cupping the chief's ashen face, caressing the fever-hot skin below. Miles stirred at the feather-light touch, moaning softly, but did not awaken. Maybe it would have been best just to let the doctor put you out of your misery, he thought. Then you wouldn't be suffering like this. I guess I should have told you that you only have two days left to live, but I just couldn't. You've already been through so much, and I don't think I could bear seeing the expression on your face.

He rose from O'Brien's bedside, walked into the open bathroom, and returned moments later with a bowl of warm water. Slowly unzipping the injured man's coveralls, he carefully unwrapped the soiled dressing, grimacing slightly once the wound was uncovered. Submerging his hands in the liquid, he wrung out the soft cloth and applied some of the antiseptic solution the doctor had left behind.

At first, the contact was soothing, even relaxing, as Darius gently cleansed the bullet wound. But as he probed deeper around the infected area, the burning of the sterilizing lotion caused the chief to toss restlessly.

The guard paused with his work, speaking meaningless words of comfort until Miles settled back down, allowing him to continue with the task at hand.

Gingerly binding the chief's shoulder once again, he stood and took the bloody mess into the lavatory, dumping it all into the sanitary unit in the wall. Rinsing out the bowl, he ran some fresh, cool water into the container and returned to his friend's side.

A glance at his chronometer told him that O'Brien had been out for nearly three hours, still and silent like a corpse, but for his shallow breaths. Darius found a blanket on top of the other bed and wrapped it around the shivering engineer. He laid a hand on Miles' forehead, felt the slick perspiration there in spite of the chill. Even his basic understanding of medical matters told him that was a bad sign.

Taking the bowl of water, he sponged down the unconscious individual, taking care not to disturb the fresh, clean bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. "I wish that there was something more I could do to help ease your pain," the guard whispered, sweeping the sweat- dampened hair off of the chief's brow. "I'm sorry this ever happened." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. I'm so terribly sorry.

A sudden scream punctuated the stillness, yanking Darius back into reality.

O'Brien flailed helplessly against an unseen force. "No!" he shouted, struggling against the blanket that covered him. He refused to give in, railing against going back...back to that loneliness. Waves of nauseating pain beat against him, darkness closing in fast.

Darius laid a hand on his shoulder to still the human's restless nightmare.

"Help me," Miles called deliriously, his voice barely audible. "Help me..." His left hand felt for and gripped the guard's outstretched arm.

"How?" he asked, grabbing hold of the chief's hand. "What can I do to help you?"

"Julian?" O'Brien questioned, his voice changing. Visual and auditory hallucinations. Not a good sign.

Darius opened his mouth to voice a negative, then decided against it. "I'm right here, Chief."

The engineer nodded, moaning in pain. "You came back," he muttered, his breath ragged.

"Yes, Chief, I heard you were sick, so I came back. It's okay. It was only a dream," he reassured the injured man, squeezing his hand firmly.

"Yes...a dream..." Miles repeated breathlessly, his grip loosening.

"That's right; it was just a bad dream," Darius answered him calmly, reaching for the hypospray lying on the floor by the bed.

"A nightmare..." O'Brien stated, his breathing returning to normal.

The guard slapped another ampoule of painkiller and an antibiotic into the hypo and pressed it against the chief's neck. After a few minutes, the hand fell away completely as the Irishman slipped into peaceful sleep.

He reached out, gently shifting the engineer's arm to a more comfortable position. Pulling the blanket up to his chin and tucking him in, Darius rose to his feet, stretched and sighed. "I don't know how, but I'm getting you and Julian out of here. This has gone on long enough, and I'm sick of it. I don't care what it takes, but I'm getting you out of here tomorrow." You can count on it.

"Be still," he scolded for the sixth time.

Ahead, Tristian stretched a kink from her spasming neck. "Are you finished yet?"

"No, for the zillionith time, I am not finished," he teased. "But I suppose you deserve a break."

"The slave driver takes pity!"

Bashir set aside the pad, laid the pencil on the half-finished sketch. He went over and replaced her hands, massaging her neck. She groaned, leaned back into the touch. "You have maginificent hands."

"Essential for the trade, dear."

"Babies' butts aren't that soft." He burst into mirthful laughter, tickled her just where he knew it affected her the most.

Someone cleared his throat. It was Darius, standing in the doorway, gazing with hurt eyes at the couple frolicking on the bed. "Excuse me," he murmured. "I am supposed to escort the young woman to medical."

Capt. Sinclair nodded, bounded off the bed. "I'll be with you in a minute." She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Darius and Julian...alone.

"Hello, my friend," the physician ventured. "How are you doing?"

"Not good, I'm afraid." Julian's features recast themselves with guilt. "Not because of you, Julian. I have received some distressing news."

"Tell me," the human urged.

"I'm ready." Tristian emerged, her hair pulled into a loose knot on the back of her head.

Darius looked back to Julian's expectant features. "Later." Bashir nodded. He'd wait, maybe not patiently, but he would nevertheless wait.

Less than twenty minutes later Darius was back, settling against the amazing vanishing sofa of doom, settling his gaze upon the physician. "The trip is routine," he said. "I heard that the warden wished to know if she were pregnant." His brow wrinkled. "What does that mean?"

"I'll explain that one later. It's one of those woman things." The guard nodded in understanding. "Now about this news that has distressed you..."

"O'Brien...his shoulder is infected."

"Damn it all to hell! I told him to keep the bandage changed, keep it clean. Can't he follow one simple little order?"

"There is more," Darius added, waiting to see if Julian's temper tantrum had abated.

"You mean it gets worse?"

He gave a grim nod. "Much worse. If O'Brien is not well enough to work in two days the warden will see that he is...put out of his misery." Bashir growled another curse, one the sentry was unfamiliar with. "Oh, he gave me a note for you." Darius produced a data padd, extended it to Julian.

He took it, opening the proper document and scanning the letter. It read: Julian, I have found some very interesting files while rooting inside the main computer's guts. I've managed to locate our runabout, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. It's scheduled to be sold as scrap within the next three days. Can you imagine that, a Federation ship sold as scrap metal, like some piece of Cardie junk? Anyway, I've memorized the hangar and its current docking section. We should plan our escape, and I mean pronto, buddy. Let me know if you think of anything that could help. P.S.--I hope you're enjoying yourself, making babies with your new friend. Let me know when you're having your first child. Got any names in mind? Miles or Edward are two fine ones, but I suppose if it's a boy he'll be little Julian Jr. Just joking.----------Miles

"We've got to get out of here," he heard himself say.

"Think you can get ready by tonight?" inquired Darius.

"Do I have much choice?" He began to go over the scenerio in his head, like he always practiced an operation before he actually put on the scrubs. "Do you think you would be missed if you went missing tonight?"

"Why?" he asked in confusion.

"You don't think we're going to leave you here, do you?" Darius cocked that bubbled head, and somethin came to Bashir. "I don't even have a clue what you look like." He reached out, grasping the helmet to remove it. At first, Darius was startled and tried to stop him, but finally complied. The face plate was no longer a shield he could hide behind.

Julian lowered the helmet, settled his gaze on the man before him. "My God," he breathed. "You're human, aren't you?"

Darius' beautiful brown eyes filled with confusion which Julian could finally see. "Of course, is that what you call your species as well."

It all clicked. The light bulb nearly blew it went on so fast. The old-fashioned Federation type tricorder. The distress signal which had drawn Tristian. The hyposprays. The English without the benefit of a universal translater, at least a modern one. "Our species. We come from the same place." He studied the man, pondered on how they could be mistaken for family. "My guess is that a Federation starship wandered out this way seventy years ago. You are the descendants of the original crew." He shook his head at the sheer mindboggling possibility of it all. "I wonder what ship it was..."

"The U.S.S. Galileo," the other human answered hesitantly. At the questioning stare, "That is what the plaque in the warden's office says."

"We need a few things though, beforehand."

"Before what?"

"Before I take you home."

"Good morning," he purred.

"That's good evening," she replied, stretching lazily. She couldn't miss the heated gaze on her bare flesh. "Not now," she murmured, "you're going to wear me out."

"I'm energetic."

"The Energizer bunny doesn't have that much juice." His face contorted with confusion. "Never mind." She leaned in for a good morning kiss. "How about a shower before this escape?"

That grin widened. "Let's---"

"Julian." Another voice intruded on the private exchange. Tristian shrieked and yanked the covers up over herself, conviently robbing Julian of his own handful.

"Darius," he gasped, snatching up his rumpled clothing and slipping into it. "What are you doing here?"

"It is time," he answered cryptically.

"Time for the escape?" Tristian asked.

"Yes."

She shot Bashir a look of sheer exjuibilation and dropped her own cover. Donning her own attire, "Let's blow this pop stand! I've been waiting for two and a half years to hear those words!" She glided forward, yanked off Darius' helmet and planted a big kiss on his lips. The man jumped back as if Quark had just tried to give him a throat culture with nothing but his tongue.

Julian smiled at his astonished features. "I kinda understand why you like her now, Julian," he mumbled. Bashir laughed lightly, shaking his head at the pondering expression on Darius' face. "We need to get to O'Brien."

"Yeah, I want to meet this old coot," Tristian said, linking one arm through Julian's and the other through Darius'. "Lead the way, gentlemen."

Insanely, Julian thought they should have been skipping along a row of yellow bricks, singing I'm Off to See the Wizard or something along those lines. But, he supposed, that would probably not be a good idea. It would probably draw attention to the escape at hand. Nope, not a good idea...

"Jules!" slurred the human beyond the shimmering forcefield. Julian had hoped never to hear O'Brien address him in that fashion again.

"Chief," he chided.

"What?" he responded in wide-eyed innocence.

"He's plastered!" Tristian blurted in her usual tactful nature. "He kinda looks like a drunk Irish teddy bear. I think he's cute."

"Thanks," he slurred. "Hey, Jules, you picked a good one."

"I definitely think he's cute."

Bashir shot her a glare of annoyance. "Now isn't the time to be stoned out of your gourd, you old goat!" he hissed.

"Tell that to the docs here. Yeah, they hurt when they examine me. You go get 'em, Jules!"

Bashir sighed tiredly. "I don't need this today. I really don't need this."

Darius approached him. "There are some things I must take care of first. I will return as soon as I can."

Bashir nodded. "Be careful."

"Don't worry. I want to see this Alpha Quadrant for myself." He disappeared down the corridor.

Bashir turned back to the giant five year old drooling across the way. "How much did you take?" O'Brien shook his head in denial. "The doctor wouldn't drug you up like this. How much did you take?" he demanded.

"Just a teeny bit," he admitted, his fingers indicating the pinch of medication he wanted the man to think he took.

"And I'm the Queen Mum," he retorted. "How much did you take?"

"A whole hell of a lot," he finally said. "I haven't felt this good since we threw that St. Pattie's Day bash."

Bashir rolled his eyes. "God, that much!" Julian bent over, slapped O'Brien slightly to get a hold of that wandering attention span. "Go vomit in the bathroom."

"Gross," Tristian murmured, her nose wrinkling.

"Don't want to," the chief protested.

"Go vomit or I'm going to give you the Heimlich maneuver." The ultimatum was pretty firm. O'Brien thought about it for a moment. Yeah, Jules would do it.

"Okay, where's the potty room?"

"Where it's been since we've been here, Miles." Bashir felt the overwhelming laughter of hysteria bubbling up inside him. He managed to hold himself in check.

"Oh, yeah. Just checking," he said, trying to cover for his stupidity of the moment.

"Yeah," Julian muttered sardonically, "you never know when the evil Potty Master might switch the location of the potty room in his sinister plan to rule the universe."

O'Brien managed to clamber up to a vertical---well, it was pretty close---position. He stumbled over to Bashir, stood swaying in a non-existant breeze. "There's no need to get sarcastic on me, kid." He stumbled to the bathroom; a minute or two later the sound of retching drifted back.

He looked to Tristian. "You sure know how to show a lady a good time, don't you? Are all of our dates going to be like this?"

"Only on special occasions, darling."

O'Brien stumbled out once more. "Next time you get all drugged up and be the one who vomits, okay, Julian."

"You're coming back to me, Chief."

"Throwing up has a way of sobering a person, you know."

"Precisely."

Darius appeared in the dooorway, a bundle of items in his arms. "We may need these." He transferred the tassle of junk to Julian. "There's weapons and the device to remove our trackers," he explained.

Julian dropped the weapons on the bed. "Guess that'll be my job." He eyed the sinister looking instrument warily. "This won't kill us, will it?" Darius just shrugged. "Okay, any volunteers?"

All eyes found a sudden inordinate interest with the floor. "Come on, I can't test this on myself, you know."

"I'll operate it for ya, Jules," Miles offered.

"Not in this lifetime, Chief." He turned to Tristian who sighed.

"Ah, hell, what's the worst it can do?" She laid down on the cot.

"Kill---"

"Not now, Chief!" Bashir turned back to the young woman. "Where was it implanted?" The captain showed him, and after studying the apparent workings of the instrument for a few moments he proceeded to remove the tracker. They had to smother the screams with a pillow.

Finally though, the item was removed, and Tristian lay there panting from the exertion, crying slightly. She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. He placed the instrument in her palm, helped her sit up. "Okay," he murmured, "my turn." The reluctance in her eyes remained, but she managed to do the procedure properly. Julian managed to hold back the tears. "Now that hurt!" he hissed. He took a few moments to recover before turning to O'Brien.

The chief's eyes widened. "Oh no, not again," he whined. "Don't you come near me with that thing or I'm going to smack you, Julian!"

There wasn't time for this. "Chief, if we don't get out of here tonight, two days from now they are going to kill you." O'Brien went completely white. "That was why we sprung this all of a sudden, before the scheduled departure of the runabout. It's now or never, buddy." Miles stood there, his eyes wide as a deer in headlights, but he finally collapsed on the bed. Bashir removed that device once more. "Okay, Chief, I owe you a lollie-pop when we get back to the station."

"A green one."

"Okay, a green one."

Darius moved to the door. "We should be going..." Julian stopped him. "What?"

"Lie down." The guard stared at him like he'd lost his marbles. "Please, just lie down." This was Julian. Darius trusted him. He complied. And Bashir's hunch had been right on the money. Darius' movements were also being tracked throughout the instituition.

Afterwards, Darius showed them all the goodies he'd gotten. O'Brien whistled. "Projectile weapons...but we don't know how to use projectile weapons."

Tristian shoved him out of the way with her hip, picked up the automatic which resembled an old-fashioned uzi and pulled out the clip. She slammed it back into place and put a bullet into the chamber. She tossed O'Brien the pistol on the bed and Bashir the shotgun. "Point and pull the trigger."

"But these aren't phasers. These will inflict great bodily harm," the doctor reminded.

"Are you sure?" she asked. He nodded. A slow smile spread over her face. "Then they should let us go without a great deal of resistance. But somehow I doubt they'll do that so..."

"Quit griping and shoot the bloody thing!" O'Brien interrupted.

Bashir sighed, pumped a shell into the barrel. "This thing kicks, doesn't it?"

"Like a mule," Tristian replied. "Hey, I don't want bruises, and I'm not going to trust anyone else with a fully automatic weapon." She checked the machine gun once more, showed O'Brien how to remove the safety from the pistol. "Now are we going today or did I get up for nothing?"

Darius put a finger to his lips. "This way." He lead the group out into darkness.

He was crouched against the wall, trying to blend into the shadows; he would have if not for the large weapon clutched in bloodless hands. O'Brien was telling him which way to go and he had been appointed leader apparently. Whether he wanted the job or not. "What about automated defenses?" he whispered.

Behind him O'Brien snorted softly. "Don't worry, Jules; if they try to shoot us the johns are gonna overflow. I took care of it, with that special O'Brien touch even."

Bashir shook his head, inched into the next corridor. He held his breath for a moment, finally breathed a sigh of relief. "It's clear."

The explosion hit his ears just a millisecond after the whirzing noise shot past his ear. He flung himself over the cart a few feet ahead, crouched down behind it as bullets riddled the wall behind him. "Chief! You said you took care of the systems!"

"I did!" he shot back. "I'm pretty sure I did," he mumbled below his breath. Beside him Tristian smacked his good arm hard enough he was pretty sure her finger prints could've been taken from it. "Ow!"

"Chief!" Panic had crept into the doctor's voice. "Get me out of this. C'mon, O'Brien, think."

"Hey, I'm trying." Ideas whizzed through his brain, but none all that plausible and none which didn't involove a bit of blood shed.

"What do the guns operate by?"

"Hmm?"

"The guns, Chief," Tristian repeated. "The tracking method."

"The last sign of movement."

She smiled. "Darius, give me that helmet." The man complied without a word; he'd sacve the inquiries for later. Sinclair took a deep breath, muttered a prayer below her breath and jumped to her feet. The helmet went sailing in the opposite direction, drawing the fire a mere second before the aim was locked on Tristian. She fired herself. The gun went silent.

In the next corridor a hand popped up over the bullet laden cart, waving in the air, checking if the coast was clear. Bashir finally got to his feet. Tristian walked over, the other two in tow. "Never leave a man to do a woman's job," she advised. "What in the world did Adam do before Eve, whine to God about every little thing?"

Bashir just stood there, watching her move on, listening to his heart hammer like a rabbit's in his chest. He felt a sharp slap on his shoulder. "Now that's a woman, kid." O'Brien followed. Darius pulled him along. Afterwards, for about ten minutes, the trip remained uneventful.

But then, of course, all hell broke loose.

There was no pounding of enemy footsteps, no rapid fire. Just a sudden shout and the thud of a body hitting the metal deck. Darius was safe, out of the line of fire. The same could not be said of his benefactor, however. Bashir and he knelt down beside the injured woman as O'Brien shot and killed the single guard that had fired upon them.

There was so much blood.

"The gun locked up," she explained. "There was no other option." Tristian reached up, grasping Darius' hand as Julian examined her leg. "How bad?" she asked, gasping in pain at his touch.

"The bullet severed the femoral artery; you'll bleed to death soon if I can't stop it. We've got to get you to the runabout now."

"There's no time. You have to leave me behind," she found herself replying even as Bashir was pulling her into his arms. She stopped him with a swift intake of breath at the wave of pain shooting through her.

"No! We can still save you, but we have to leave now!" he retorted, pressing down firmly on the wound. "I can make a tourniquet. It'll buy us some time." He set about to ripping off one of his sleeves, trying to wrap it around that shapely leg.

"Julian," she whispered, gripping the physician by the arm. "You have to go; I'll hold the guards off as long as I can..."

"You'll die within five minutes after we leave without medical attention. Please, Tristian..." he pleaded.

"Julian, if you truly love me, you'll leave me behind; I'll never make it," she answered calmly.

"I can't..." he admitted, tears filling his eyes.

"You must. For all our sakes, you have to let go..." Tristian's hand fell away, her body already weakening from the extensive blood loss. "Goodbye, Julian..."

"No! I won't leave you to die without a fight!" He reached out for her, but O'Brien pulled him back.

"C'mon, doctor, there's nothing you can do for her now. Let her die with dignity."

Bashir shrugged him off. "Let go of me, Chief!" he demanded, contempt dripping from every syllable.

"He's right, Julian. We have to go," Darius spoke up. "The runabout's just too far away." He squeezed Tristian's hand and looked down upon her paling features. "I'm sorry that we never got to know each other better. You're not as bad as I thought."

"You're not half bad either. In fact, you're down right handsome. I wish we'd met sooner. It would have made the time pass much more quickly." She kissed him one last time; Darius blushed.

"Goodbye, Tristian Sinclair."

"Goodbye, Darius." He released her hand and allowed it fall gently to her side.

"I'll never forget you," Bashir said, slowly rising to his feet. "I love you, and I will always cherish the short time we had together."

"As will I, Jules," she said, smiling as she inched her way to a half-sitting position against the wall, gripping O'Brien's pistol in her hand. "I'd kiss you, but there's blood on my lips."

"I don't care." He leaned back down, pressed his lips to hers. He felt O'Brien pulling him back up, down the hallway.

The Starfleet doctor watched her all the way down the hall, fighting back unshed tears in the darkness of the corridor. "Goodbye, Captain..." he murmured softly, entering the lift that would take them down to the first level.

O'Brien sagged tiredly against the smooth surface, his shoulder throbbing with pain. It was taking every ounce of strength he had left, coupled with sheer will power to stay on his feet.

Bashir noticed his companion's trouble and moved immediately to his side. "You're burning up with a fever," he commented, feeling the chief's forehead and cheeks. "Chief, how could you let your shoulder get infected? You knew how important it was to keep the wound clean," he gently reprimanded. It felt good to fuss at the chief like always; the anger occupied his thoughts with something other than the dying woman he'd left behind.

"There was nothing I could do," he answered, slightly perturbed by the doctor's accusation. "The sewage valves were disabled in the mine. I tripped over a misplaced toolbox and fell down into the filthy mess, twisting my ankle in the process. I did the best I could..."

"It's okay, Chief. I know you tried your best," he reassured his friend. "Darius told me what happened, and I know it wasn't your fault. I should have been there for you, but I wasn't. I'm sorry if I let you down," he sincerely replied.

The door opened, revealing the ground floor. "Don't worry about it; I should have told someone what was wrong, but I didn't, and now, I'm paying the price for my stubborness." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then asked, "Julian, would you help me? I'm not sure I'll make it the rest of way by myself."

"Sure." He slid O'Brien's left arm across his shoulders and wrapped his hand around the chief's waist for added support. Darius held the doors open while the two men walked out of the compartment and covered them from behind as they started down the dimly lighted hallway.

Their pace was painfully slow, but steady, as they approached the main exit. Bashir sighed in relief upon seeing the double doors, but suddenly gasped in surprise as he looked up above their objective. There, mounted a couple of inches away from freedom was another automated machine gun. "Uh, guys?"

"Whatcha what, Jules?" Miles asked.

"What is it, Julian?" Darius prompted.

"I don't think we should go this way."

"It's the only way out of this building. What's the problem anyway?"

"Don't look now, but we have a slight problem located about three inches above the doors."

O'Brien and Darius looked upward, saw what the doctor was talking about.

"Bloody hell..."

"My thoughts exactly, Chief," Bashir replied.

They stopped about twenty feet away and gulped as the weapon leveled itself straight for them. This time, there was no escape. Miles shook his head, cursing himself for doing such a poor job of rewiring the joint. Darius faced the exit, preparing himself for death; Julian closed his eyes, waiting for their imminent demise.

And waited.

But the shots never came; instead, a lone toilet flushed in the background.

Bashir opened his eyes in shock and turned to face his injured companion. "What that what I thought it was?"

O'Brien grinned broadly. "Yep, sure was."

"Chief, I could kiss you," the doctor exclaimed in joy.

"Uh, I think he would like that better than I would," Miles commented, pointing back at Darius.

Julian simply laughed, lightly hitting the chief on his good shoulder. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault. We left a bit earlier than I anticipated."

"Whatever. Remind me when we get back that I owe you a big dinner."

"And a lollie-pop," Miles reminded him.

Bashir sighed, "And a lollie-pop."

"A green one..."

"Chief, would you please be quiet? I owe you a big dinner and..." he glared at the engineer, "...and a green lollie-pop."

"On second thought, maybe a red..."

"Chief."

"Just kidding."

"Can we leave now, Miles?" O'Brien nodded, as Bashir tightened his hold. "Then let's get the hell out of here."

"I see it," Julian called out in excitement. "There's the runabout," he shouted in joy, pointing to the vessel at the far end.

Miles looked up, smiled slightly as he caught as glimpse of the small craft, then neaarly collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.

"Chief, don't pass out on me now. Hang on; we're almost there," Bashir said softly, gently shaking his feverish friend.

Unfortunately the chief was up to putting his fainting spell on the floor to a vote. He just up and collapsed, knocking Bashir to his knees. "I didn't say anything about getting you out, kid."

"No, I guess you didn't." Bashir turned to Darius. "C'mon and help me here; he's heavy." The two men managed to haul their companion over to the runabout. Bashir entered his clearance code and the hatch swung open. He and Darius dragged the chief inside.

He transferred the weight to his companion. "Darius, get him in a chair; I'm preparing for take-off." The guard nodded once, strapped the man in as Bashir headed for the pilot's seat. The sound of projectiles scraping metal rang against the hull. "Chief, " Bashir muttered to himself, "I hope you've disengaged those tractors and opened the bay doors."

Apparently he had, for the runabout slid through the agape bay doors and the planet's atmosphere with no problems. Behind him he heard Darius gulp as the runabout shot out into the vastness of space. "Uh, Julian, I remember hearing that there was to be a patrol out today. A very big ship."

Bashir's eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his options. He hit a panel. "This is the U.S.S. Orinoco to any Federation ship within range requesting assistance. We have encountered a hostile enemy who may be patroling this area. Request assistance A.S.A.P." He closed the channel, set the distress signal to repeat every thirty seconds and turned the ship around.

"What are you doing?" Darius was hanging over his shoulder. "Why are you headed away from this wormhole of yours?"

"Because the U.S.S. Springfield is not very far from here. Still in orbit of the planey O'Brien and I were visiting. They can give us assistance." Bashir poked at a readout. "What's wrong with the warp drive?" he breathed in annoyance. One of the sensor arrays beeped. Julian paled.

"What?" Darius asked.

"There's a ship coming out of warp, dead ahead. I can't tell if it's ours or theirs, but it's very big." Bashir shared a look of apprehension with the man beside him, glanced at his friend who sat in the chair he usually occupied, drooling like a baby.

The area on the viewscreen shimmered for a moment, and then a ship screeched to a halt mere kilometers ahead. Darius sat there holding his breath, waiting for annihilation. Bashir's shout of jubilation nearly sent him over the edge of panic. Julian settled down, opened a channel. Another of those females appeared on the screen, and Bashir smiled at her.

"Having problems, Doctor?" There was a teasing quality overlaying the concern in her voice. Apparently she was a friend.

"There's a prison colony back there, Major, who would like to have us back. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated."

"A prison," she repeated. "Is that why you're furrier than usual, Doctor?" Bashir's brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment, then his hand went up to stroke the mass of hair covering his lower face, and he laughed. "Let us handle it for you. Just sit back and enjoy the show."

"Aye, aye, sir." The channel remained open so Bashir could see the entire bridge of the Defiant. Something struck him as odd. While he turned the smaller craft about face, he asked the major about it. "Kira, where are all the Starfleet personnel? The commander? Dax?"

The Bajoran didn't even try to hide her amusement. "They're back on the station, quarantined. After you left, every non-Bajoran on the station came down with a case of the Bajoran measles."

Bashir remained expressionless. "You've got to be kidding." The giggles coming over the line told him she wasn't.

She turned serious. "Here comes this ship of yours, Bashir."

The old-fashioned canabilized starship dropped out of warp right in front of the runabout. Behing the tiny craft, the impressive form of the Defiant loomed like a shadow. "Open a channel," Kira ordered. "Alien vessel, this is the U.S.S. Defiant, Major Kira speaking. Starfleet would like to extend their appreciation for finding its lost officers. It would also like your cooperation in the investigation of their disappearance---"

The major never got to finish her speech; the ship turned tail and ran. "Friendly sort, aren't they?" She turned her attention back to the men in the runabout. "You're free to dock, Doctor. I'll meet you in Sickbay and let you fill me in on these escapades of yours."

The man nodded, and his image winked from the screen. Kira savored the feel of those engines kicking back into warp beneath her, of the way the command chair felt so right, and arose after a sigh. "I'll be in Sickbay," the Bajoran told her crew as she stalked toward the turbolift. "Just don't get us killed," she murmured a second after the lift door closed.

EPILOGUE

Two days later, Major Kira Nerys sat before a spotted Lt. Dax. At the moment, the red spots clashed with her normally dark ones, but they would vanish soon. "Look at them," Dax muttered in amusement.

Kira couldn't help but smile as she gazed at the two men at the next table; she smothered a giggle. "You think they'd get rid of those things taking residence on their faces."

"At least they made them look more presentable," Dax remarked. "Besides, I think it's some sort of contest, one of those male things."

"You would know," the Bajoran responded, to which Dax pursed her lips and nodded an affirmative. "And what is this?"

Kira was referring to the brightly colored package O'Brien had pulled from beneath his seat and plopped down in Bashir's lap. "For you," Miles said, noting the suspicious gaze Bashir sent him. "After all, you did save my life."

"Yeah, so you shouldn't be trying to get revenge so soon." Bashir shook the package, checked it for air holes. With the chief there was no telling what he had crammed into the gaily wrapped package.

"It won't bite, I promise." O'Brien even crossed his heart.

Bashir eased off the ribbon, drew away the paper form the box, and cautiously pulled off the lid. Okay the poisonous snakes hadn't yet latched on his face. So far, so good.

The contents were surrounded by brightly hued tissue paper which he shoved out of the way. Those lips pursed when he finally laid those puppy dog eyes on the gift. "Miles Edward O'Brien..."

"What?" an Irish voice shot back innocently. He was even batting his eyes.

Bashir pulled out the piggy, racoon, and polka-dotted cow boxers and hit the engineer's thick skull with them. Dax and Kira exchanged confused glances about the flying underwear. "You call this a present?"

"From the heart," he responded with mock sincerity. "Ah, those expressions of yours, Jules. Life doesn't get any better than this."

A smug grin popped up on Julian's face. "That so?" O'Brien studied the doctor, looked over his shoulder at the sight Bashir eyed so intently.

"Daddy!"

O'Brien's face lit up with child-like glee only parents knew. His babies were home. "If you'll excuse me," Bashir muttered, vacating his seat for Keiko O'Brien. The chief barely even noticed his exit, but Bashir didn't mind. He might forget his friend too if the woman he loved walked through the door.

But he knew that would never happen, and he accepted it. Pretty much. Every once and a while even the impossible became reality. Maybe one day...

He strolled along the promenade, came across a familiat form. "Darius." The man jumped slightly, clutched his heart. The smile that so naturally lit up those features appeared again. "When does your transport leave?"

"In an hour." He paused, felt the conversation beginning to lull. "It's all so big, so new, so pleasant. And it was very nice of you to ask your parents to look out for me while I was on Earth. I look forward to meeting them." Bashir waved off the gratitude. "I look forward to seeing the place of my origins, the place of our origins."

Bashir studied a spot on his boot for several seconds. "Oh, and don't let my mother fix you up with cousin Jake. You're far too good for him." Darius nodded. Bashir had gotten rather used to the numerous occations that the man did so. It was sort of soothing, his quiet nature.

"I think I may just fall in love with this Alpha Quadrant." Not as hard as I fell in love with you though, Julian, he thought but couldn't bring himself to say.

"I think most of those we repatriate from the prison are going to be quite content." A thought struck Bashir. "Oh, what last name did you decide upon?"

The man's eyes darted nervously to the floor. "I was considering, if you think it's all right, the name...Sinclair."

Julian just gawked at him for nearly a minute, until Darius began to grow hot with anxiety beneath that stare. His gaze fixed to that spot on Bashir's boot as well. "Darius." The man looked up. There were tears in those soft brown eyes he adored. "I think Sinclair is a marvelous name and a very lovely remembrance to Tristian."

Darius smiled, fidgeted a little. "Your commander wanted to see me before I left. I really should go visit him now." It was Bashir's turn to nod.

"And I guess it's time to part with this ferret I've been carrying around on my face." He extended his hand, had to show Darius how to shake. "Goodbye, my friend. If you ever need me, just call." He hated goodbyes.

Darius came forward as if to hug the man, brushed his lips against that scratchy cheek instead. "Til we meet again," he ammended softly.

Bashir remained rooted to the spot, even as Darius brushed past him and to a lift. "Mr. Sinclair," he called out to the retreating form. Darius halted after he realized the address was directed toward him. "Have a good life," Julian whispered across the crowded promenade.

"I will, my love. I promise." Darius disappeared into the dark confines of a lift.

Bashir turned back to the view port, watched Darius' transport leave for Earth. He continued to stand there even as Odo made his last patrol of the promenade, studying the little section he called home.