What's Past
"It's amazing," Doctor Bashir observed to Chief O'Brien, or rather the bottom half of Chief O'Brien. The rest of the chief, who was standing on an anti-grav platform, was inside an infirmary ceiling duct installing a newly-arrived air filter.
O'Brien's "What's amazing?" floated down from the duct, closely followed by, "Hand me a magnetic probe, five centimeters, would you?"
Bashir poked through the engineer's tool kit, set the probe and handed it up. "What's amazing is that you're able to install Starfleet-configured air filtration equipment inside a Cardassian environmental system without even consulting a blueprint or plan of any kind," the doctor said with undisguised admiration.
"Well, if you do it often enough, one system is pretty much like another."
"The same is true of humanoid species, but I wouldn't do surgery without a preliminary scan!"
"This isn't surgery, Julian." The chief lowered the platform enough for Bashir to heft the duct cover up into O'Brien's hands. "But as you surgeons say, 'I'm ready to close.'" O'Brien chuckled and Bashir groaned as the chief refastened the cover.
O'Brien lowered himself to the ground, stepped off the platform and was about to put the discarded Cardassian air filter into the now-empty Starfleet box when Bashir asked, "Shouldn't we check it first?"
"The air filter? For what?"
"Listening devices, visual recorders, things like that."
"Why would anyone want to bug an infirmary?"
Bashir's voice dropped dramatically. "Deathbed confessions!"
O'Brien shook his head, knowing that the doctor was merely baiting him by hinting at spies and conspiracies, but he nevertheless explained, "The rush of compressed air through this unit would preclude the ability of even a finely-tuned directional microphone to pick up the roar of a riot mob, much less a whispered deathbed confession!"
But Bashir had taken a tool from the counter and was opening the front of the filter, never one to bypass an opportunity to needle the engineer. "But if they'd installed some sort of buffer layer, like insulation, between the microphone and the actual air filtering mechanism—"
"You can't—"
"—then right behind this casing, or by the—" Bashir popped open a panel, and out tumbled a small black oval sphere.
The two men looked at each other, surprised.
They did a preliminary scan with a medical tricorder to determine whether it was some kind of explosive, and then took the sphere to engineering to run a series of tests.
O'Brien later placed the sphere on Captain Sisko's desk and explained, "It's a listening device that fed directly into some sort of surveillance equipment that's no longer on the station, sir."
The captain hefted the sphere in his hand to look at it, as if it were a kind of alien baseball. "So no recording mechanism?" he asked.
"None, sir," O'Brien affirmed.
"Hm." Sisko raised an eyebrow as he examined the black sphere, considering, and then with a quick wrist motion threw it to Bashir.
The doctor caught it and asked, "So shouldn't we check all the ducts for similar listening devices?"
"I don't see the point, Doctor," Sisko said. "If the listening device has no recording mechanism, besides the technology of the device itself it contains nothing of inherent interest for us. It's not a life-threatening problem and, quite frankly, unless it is, we've got better things to do with our time." Sisko paused, and gave Bashir a long stare. "Don't we, Doctor?"
"Oh, absolutely!"
Bashir hummed contentedly to himself as he probed the casing on a Cardassian air filter after the rest of the station had shut down for the night. He remembered what he had seen O'Brien doing earlier with the duct but his hands weren't as sure as the chief's and it had taken him some time to work the filter loose from its vent. Now he carefully probed the casing until he found a small panel and with a triumphant, "Gotcha!" he eased it open. Nestled just inside the door was a black oval sphere but, unlike the other one they'd found, this one had several recessed buttons on its surface.
He rubbed his hands together, considering, then shrugged and pressed the first button on the left. Nothing. He pressed the first button on the right. The sphere started to iris open.
Something crashed behind him and he whirled, guilty, but saw no one. "Who's there?" he demanded. When no one answered, he threw a sterile cloth over the sphere and ran into the next room.
A young Bajoran man stood next to a fallen instrument tray looking a little shocked at the noise he'd caused as his wide, gray eyes met Bashir's.
The doctor smiled at him, instinctively wanting to put the young man at ease. "I'm the doctor. Can I help you?"
"Uh—" the youth answered as if at a loss. He was in his mid-teens, slender, with long, thick wavy hair worn loosely braided over one of his broad shoulders. He would have been tall if he'd stood up straight, but either lack of self-esteem or a need not to tower over his friends caused him to hunch in what looked like long habit. Seeing him standing as if in perpetual cringe almost physically pained the doctor, and his smile widened in sympathy for the awkward youth.
"My name's Julian. Has something happened?" he tried again.
The gray eyes narrowed in a puzzled frown. "I—don't know where I am," he said.
"You're in the infirmary. Come, sit down," he offered, realizing the youth must be dazed. He started to take the young man by the arm to lead him to a chair, but the arm jerked in his grasp and both men looked down to see that blood had started to stain the sleeve.
Bashir grabbed for his medical tricorder and scanned him. "What happened?"
The young man thought hard. "I must have—got too close to the machinery." He looked at Bashir, unsure. "Can you fix it?"
"Oh, sure. I've seen much worse, believe me," he assured him, watching the bioreadings on the tricorder screen.
"How much?"
The doctor looked up with a blank stare. "Excuse me?"
"How much will it cost? For you to fix my arm?"
"It's free," he said, puzzled.
"Free?"
"Oh, Starfleet eventually pays for it, I suppose, but it doesn't cost you anything." He led the way to a diagnostic bed. "Hop aboard. This won't take long." The Bajoran sat on the bed gingerly and Bashir helped him lie back, then crossed the room to get some supplies and equipment. "So what's your name?" Bashir asked over his shoulder.
After a small hesitation, the youth replied, "Meren Rydoras."
Bashir came back to Meren's side and smiled reassuringly. "Pleased to meet you, Rydoras."
"Yes?"
"It's always easier to heal a friend than a stranger, you know," he said with a wink. Meren almost ventured a smile in response. "Now, this won't hurt at all." Bashir started to push Meren's sleeve up and the young man stifled a wince. "Or maybe it will a little," he amended. "You know, there's a little girl here, her name's Molly. She likes to make up riddles, and she told me a few the other day," he said as he carefully moved the sleeve. "Let's see . . . what's big and hairy and goes scuttle-scuttle-scuttle when it goes across the floor?"
"Uh—I don't know."
"A palukoo. What's hairy and big and goes scuttle-scuttle-scuttle when it goes across the floor?"
"A palukoo?"
"You've heard these before! Here, try this one. What doesn't go 'woof'? Oh, and is big and hairy?"
Meren barely stifled a snort of laughter. "A palukoo. How old is Molly?"
Bashir felt the muscles in Meren's arm relax and he went on in the same easy manner as he treated the youth, "Old enough to think up about four dozen of those. What's big and hairy and doesn't fly . . . ?" When he finished Bashir observed, "Well, I guess the treatment was less painful than the riddles!"
"They were pretty bad," Meren admitted, but he was smiling.
"Make a fist for me." Meren did so. "Good!"
"Thanks," he said, and gave Bashir a heartfelt grin.
"You're very welcome." He helped the Bajoran sit up. "Now don't do whatever you did to injure yourself in the first place and come back tomorrow so I can check your progress. But most importantly, get some sleep!"
"Shouldn't you be getting some sleep, too?" Meren asked as he arose.
Bashir scratched his head. "Well, I guess so," he admitted. "But I'm in the middle of a project I can't do during the day, so—"
"Do you need some help?"
"Do you want to help?"
"Sure. You fixed my arm; let me repay you somehow."
And Bashir noticed that Meren was standing a little straighter as he offered to help. Bashir grasped one of the youth's shoulders, pleased. "Let's get to it, then! But it's all very top secret, so whatever you see is to be kept in the utmost confidentiality . . . " he hinted, wanting to make it as mysterious and exciting as he could for Meren.
He showed Meren the oval sphere he'd found that evening. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out how it works," he said. "I don't know how exactly to listen to, or view, the contents."
With Meren's help it didn't take half the time to put the filter back than it had taken Bashir to pull it down alone. They took down another one but didn't find any oval spheres, and then carefully replaced it. Talking in hushed whispers, they felt like co-conspirators, and enjoyed the subterfuge.
"I'd say that this was a good night's work, Rydoras."
"Thanks for fixing my arm. Julian," he added, and checked the doctor's expression to see if calling him by his given name was okay.
Bashir grinned in answer. "Thank you, friend," he reassured him. "Now we both get some sleep, right? I'll see you tomorrow." He glanced at the chronometer on the wall and corrected, "Or, actually, later on today!"
"Later on today, Julian."
"It's a recording device, all right, but the information's encrypted," O'Brien said when Bashir took the device to the daily staff meeting in Ops. "I've seen similar devices, but we'll need an expert in Cardassian cryptology to work with this."
Security Chief Odo said, "I believe I can help you with that."
Kira looked at Odo, surprised. "You're a man of many talents, Constable."
The shapeshifter gave her a look down his almost-formed nose and said simply, "It's part of my job, Major."
"Odo, do you feel that any information recorded in that device is worth the time you'll spend in trying to recover it?" Sisko asked.
"Quite possibly. The Cardassians were known for exacting—shall we say, 'deathbed confessions.'"
Bashir shot a triumphant glance at O'Brien, who rolled his eyes and goodnaturedly conceded the point. Then another thought occurred to the engineer and he suddenly demanded, "Does that mean you've been monkeying around with the air ducts in the infirmary, Julian?"
"Well, yes…"
"Who gave you permission? Do you know how many systems could be compromised if you didn't reinstall them properly?" O'Brien didn't even wait for an answer and stomped angrily to the lift, hitting the railing with the flat of his hand as he entered it and then pointing accusingly at Bashir as the lift descended.
"Dismissed, Chief," Sisko said to himself. He sighed and then jerked his head at Bashir. "You too, Doctor. He'll give you a better chewing-out than I ever could."
"Uh—yes, sir."
Properly chastised, Bashir watched as O'Brien finally lowered the anti-grav platform to the floor and put his tools away with deliberate care.
"Now," O'Brien said, and Bashir steeled himself for part two of the chief's "you're a doctor, not an engineer" lecture. But instead O'Brien went on, "Having said all that, that's a really good job you did up there. I'm impressed. You got that from extension courses?"
Bashir relaxed visibly, glad to have his friend back. "Actually, I had a bit of trouble with the filters. But a young man got himself injured last night and after I treated him he helped me reinstall them. He seemed pretty handy."
O'Brien admitted candidly, "I could use him. What's his name?"
"Meren Rydoras."
"Starfleet?"
"Bajoran."
He paused to consider. "Nope, don't recall the name. Maybe he just arrived?"
"I told him to come back today so I could look at his arm again. When he comes by I'll let you know and you can meet him."
"Sounds good. Now, Doctor, you may know a larynx from a liver—"
"And a hawk from a handsaw," Bashir couldn't help adding, and got a severe stare for his efforts.
"—but from now on, if it's not under the supervision of me or another engineer—leave it alone, okay?"
"Okay."
O'Brien put out his hand solemnly, and just as solemnly Bashir shook it in pledge.
"Darts at 1800?" the engineer asked.
"1830?"
"You're on."
"You're buying."
The doctor hadn't intended to stay late in the infirmary, but finishing up the pediatrics log after the latest round of inoculations had taken longer than expected. When he looked up from the main medical console he found that the rest of the station was on night power and Meren had just sidled into the infirmary.
"Well, hello there, Rydoras—what happened?" Bashir greeted. "I thought we'd made an appointment!"
Meren shrugged, and Bashir could see the young man start to hunch in on himself again as he said, "I couldn't find my way here any earlier, Julian. I'm sorry."
"That's all right," he assured the youth warmly. "Let's see how your arm's doing. Make a fist for me." Meren did so and Bashir praised, "Excellent!" as he ran a tricorder over the injury. "Doing just fine, Rydoras. By tomorrow there should be no trace of discomfort." He pulled out a chair for him. "Here, have a seat."
"Why?"
"I think I have a job opportunity for you, if you want it."
"Really?" And the young Bajoran sat down.
"Chief O'Brien was very impressed with the work you did putting the filters back in the air ducts, and he wanted to meet with you to talk about your joining his engineering staff."
"Really?"
"Really," Bashir confirmed, amused at Meren's wide-eyed astonishment. "Do you have any formal operations or systems training?"
"No—I mean, I've never gone to school or anything. I just watch people and—pick up how they do things."
"Some people can watch the same procedure dozens of times and still not learn a thing from it. A quick learner who's good with his hands; that's quite a talent."
Meren visibly straightened his shoulders as if to carry Bashir's regard, and the doctor leaned back in his chair and smiled, pleased. "What are you doing now with yourself, Rydoras?" he asked.
Meren's gray eyes flickered briefly and Bashir sensed an evasion. "Trying to stay out of trouble."
"You don't strike me as the kind of person who gets into trouble much," the doctor countered lightly.
The gray eyes turned a troubled blue. "I guess I mean—stay out peoples' way."
Bashir continued to hold the youth's gaze calmly, and when Meren said no more, he asked, "Are you here with your family?"
"Just my father."
The doctor kept himself from nodding as he intuited what Meren hadn't said: stay out of my father's way.
"What's your father like, Rydoras?" he asked, careful to keep his tone conversational although he sensed he was getting close to something about the young Bajoran.
"He's a good man. He works hard."
Bashir froze. Meren's own words were the highest praise Bashir had ever been able to give his own father, and he had a sudden vision of Meren trying so hard to win his father's love by staying out of his way, by being so careful not to make a single mistake, by remaining as unobjectionable as possible.
"I'm sure he is," he managed to assure Meren.
"He's busy and he's got a lot on his mind, it's not like—I mean, he doesn't mean to—" And Meren's shoulders started to sag as he tried to explain his father's behavior.
Not able to stand Meren's cringing, Bashir wrenched himself from his personal reverie and leaned forward, gripping Meren's shoulder tightly.
"Your father's a fine man, Rydoras," he stated, his voice firm. As he did so, he caught sight of the silver clip anchoring Meren's braid. "Did you make this?" he asked suddenly.
The youth looked puzzled at the change of topic, but said, "Yes."
"It's beautiful." Bashir tilted the clip in the light, admiring the intricate patterns etched into its surface. "What gave you the idea for the design?"
"I just—carved until it came out right."
Bashir looked at Meren. "You really do have an eye for things, don't you? And steady hands, too. Have you thought about medical school?"
"No." But a smile was playing about his lips as he said it, and his eyes had gone back to their usual clear gray.
Bashir grinned in answer. "Well, perhaps you should consider it."
"Okay, Julian."
The doctor relaxed back into his chair. "Oh! You know that oval sphere we found yesterday?"
"Did you find out anything about it?"
"It's a recording device, but encrypted. Someone's working on the data and I hope to have something soon."
"Is it okay if I come by tomorrow, then?"
"Sure. As a matter of fact, I think Chief O'Brien would be pleased if you were here to keep an eye on me in case I felt like taking any more equipment apart."
"I'll see what I can do, Julian."
Meren's answer, bantering and easy, made Bashir smile. "See you tomorrow, Rydoras."
"See you tomorrow." And the doctor observed with satisfaction that the young Bajoran walked out looking a little taller.
Bashir found time to wander casually down to the security office the next day and found Odo and Kira discussing station matters.
"…based on evidence, Major—the physical, the tangible, what is produceable before a judicial committee," Odo insisted, "and not the aggrieved word of someone who insists that spirits from—"
Kira shook her head. "Odo, do you really think that once someone's dead, that's it, there's nothing—"
The security chief cut her off, seeing Bashir in the doorway. "Yes, Doctor?" he demanded, all business.
"Uh," Bashir said, suddenly ill at ease when he'd been expecting a warmer greeting, "I just wanted to know if you, uh, had been able to, you know, figure out the, uh—" To Bashir's chagrin Kira was grinning, amused at the discomfiture the shapeshifter was causing him.
"The encryption code for the Cardassian recording device?" Odo interrupted.
"Yes."
"No."
"Oh."
And then Kira couldn't help laughing out loud at them both.
Defensive, Bashir said, "That wasn't the only reason I came here!"
"Then sit down," the Bajoran major said, "and, Prophets' sake, Odo, you don't have to be so curt."
Odo made no concessions to gregariousness, but Bashir felt somewhat mollified as he sat down and said, "Thank you, Major."
"You're welcome," she said. "Now—what else did you come here for?"
He actually hadn't come for anything else, and was momentarily stumped, but then thought of something he wanted to know. "Have either of you ever come in contact with a young man, Meren Rydoras, or know of the Meren family on the station?"
"Meren?" Odo repeated, turning to his workstation and entering some information. "That name isn't familiar to me. Do you have a physical description?"
Bashir nodded. "Check the visual infirmary logs for the last two nights, around zero hundred hours. Bajoran, pale skin, gray eyes, long brown hair, I'd guess maybe 14 or 15 years of age, slender build, almost six feet tall—"
"What's your interest in this Meren Rydoras?" Kira asked. "Do you suspect anything?"
"No, not at all. He's a very nice young man I treated for an arm injury two nights ago. I just never came in contact with him before, and wondered about his background."
"No Meren Rydoras," Odo stated.
"I'm sorry?" Bashir said, not sure he'd heard correctly.
Odo fixed the doctor with a severe stare and said deliberately, "No. Meren. Rydoras." Then he clarified, "There is no record either of a Meren Rydoras or of a man fitting his description having ever set foot on this station."
Bashir frowned. "How can that be? I treated him right in front of the main holo-recorder."
The security chief transferred the images from his screen to one of the wall displays. It showed the doctor apparently talking to himself as he handled his tricorder and other instruments in the middle of the infirmary.
"What were you doing there, Julian?" Kira asked, intrigued.
"I was treating a patient…whom you can't see," Bashir said, uncertain. "But I know I treated him, my tricorder's got a record of his blood type, specifics about his wound, I—"
"Doctor, what does this evidence tell you?" Odo asked, impatient.
Bashir looked at the shapeshifter, at a loss. "Constable, are you telling me Meren Rydoras doesn't exist?" His gaze turned inward, remembering a disassembled air filter, a shy smile, a conversation about a father, and he wondered out loud, "Who is he?"
Odo didn't venture a guess, instead turning back to his workstation. Finally Kira, who had been studying the infirmary log as it played, broke the silence with the thoughtful suggestion, "Maybe he's a borhyas."
The security chief snorted. "Ghosts."
Kira stated, "Too many Bajora died at the hands of the Cardassians on Terok Nor to keep their borhyas from ever resting peacefully."
"But do borhyas take corporeal form?" Bashir asked, puzzled. "I mean, I treated this boy for an injury, he held tools in his hand—"
"I've never personally encountered a borhyas, but that's not outside the realm of possibility," the major said. "If you knew why he couldn't rest, maybe you could help him."
"So—" Bashir struggled with the idea of borhyas, then said, "—could Rydoras have been alive during the Cardassian occupation?"
"Maybe. Odo, try—"
"I don't believe in ghosts," the shapeshifter declared flatly.
"You don't have to," Kira countered. "We're looking for information and you have access to it. Did someone matching Meren Rydoras's description ever visit DS9 in the past?"
Odo gave her a sharp look, but complied. After a few minutes, the view on the wall display changed.
"Rydoras," Bashir breathed, knowing without a doubt that the young man on the screen with the wide, sad eyes and stooped shoulders, supposedly dead all these years, had walked into his infirmary for two nights in a row.
"He was fifteen when he died," Kira read from the screen. "An ore processing accident caused him to bleed to death."
"And I treated his arm and he said the injury happened when he got too close to the machinery," the doctor said. "But the injury wasn't that severe!"
Kira looked at Bashir seriously. "Something must have happened between his injury and his bleeding to death, some wrong that needs to be righted."
"But what could it be?"
"If you're going to continue this—metaphysical speculation, please take it outside my office," Odo said, skepticism making his voice more gruff than usual. "Matters of the present, not the past, require my immediate attention. Doctor, you need not check up on me; as soon as the recording is decoded I will notify you."
"Thank you, Constable." As Bashir slowly walked out, lost in thought, the security office door closed on,
"Odo, just suppose that every living being's spiritual side—"
"You are assuming that every living being has a spiritual side, Major…"
"Okay, where've you been hiding my new engineer?" O'Brien demanded as he came into the infirmary.
"I'm sorry?" Bashir asked.
"That Meren Rydoras you told me about—I never saw him yesterday, where is he?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't—?" Then the engineer's heartiness dissolved as he realized that Bashir's eyes were unusually thoughtful, almost sad. "I'm sorry, is something wrong?"
Bashir heaved a sigh, as if he were struggling with something he found hard to fathom. "Well, you tell me, Miles." And he told O'Brien about his conversation with Kira and Odo and what he'd found out about Meren. "I don't know that I believe in ghosts. But if that's not it, I don't know what's going on."
"Well, just don't tell Molly there might be ghosts on the station, that's all I have to say!" he said, wanting to joke Bashir out of his mood.
"You know, your daughter's imagination came in handy, I got Rydoras to relax while I was treating his arm that first night by telling him all of her palukoo riddles."
"That's quite a bedside manner you've got, Julian!"
"Whatever works," he shrugged goodnaturedly, but couldn't help circling back to what was really on his mind. "You know what else, though, Miles? Last night when he was telling me about his father, it was like—listening to myself."
O'Brien nodded silently, knowing not to probe that particular comment. When Bashir didn't continue, O'Brien finally pointed out, "If that's the case, and it's also true that he's a borhyas who needs help, then you should know how to help him, right?"
"Do I?"
"Sure you do."
And the absolute assurance in that statement made Bashir suddenly feel that, despite any unresolved differences between him and his father, he did know how to help Meren.
That night Bashir stayed late in the infirmary again, and as soon as the station shut down for the night Meren came in.
"Hi, Julian."
"Hello, Rydoras. How are you?"
"Fine—look what I can do!" The youth made a fist, and then flexed his arm back and forth. "No discomfort!"
"Then as your physician, I certify you fit for normal duties again. You've made a wonderful recovery, Rydoras." He gestured to the chair next to him. "No word yet on the oval sphere, but come here and have a look at this. These are the results of a battery of tests we did to determine what, if any, medicinal value various plants on Bajor's moons have." Bashir knew that Meren hadn't had any medical training, but he had made the tables and charts as complete and clear as he could, and now watched as the young man examined the data carefully.
Meren traced a reading from one table to another. "Same substance, same test, different result—how far apart in time were the tests performed?"
Inwardly pleased by Meren's observation and straightforward manner, Bashir pulled up the information requested. "About twelve hours."
Meren nodded and tapped one of the readings. "Some of those plants are so sensitive to changes in light, temperature and humidity that after twelve hours they essentially change properties."
Bashir nodded. "That's good information. Anything else?"
The youth considered the display, and they discussed other similarities and differences between results and what they might possibly mean.
Then the doctor turned to Meren and asked, "How did you know all that?"
The young Bajoran suddenly blushed. "I—just—read things and remember them."
"Just like you watch people and learn, or carve until it looks right." Bashir held Meren's gaze intently with his own. "Rydoras, believe me when I tell you that not a person in ten without medical or scientific training could have done what you just did. You have a knack. Your mind can put things together intuitively. You're a quick learner. Your hands are sure and strong. You could be a doctor, an engineer, an artisan—you could be anything you want to be."
Meren's eyes started to change color and Bashir guessed he was fighting a lifetime of conditioned thinking, of a father telling him so often that he couldn't do anything right that he'd become physically bowed under it.
"I—" Meren's face worked. "That's not—"
"Anything," Bashir repeated. "All you have to do is choose."
Meren bit his lip, frowning. "Are you sure, Julian?" he asked, and Bashir heard a world of need in the question.
"I'm sure."
"But I have to ask my father—"
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"That's old enough to get your own work papers," he said, having researched that point. "So you don't need his permission. You can start apprenticing under me right now. Or under Chief O'Brien. Or under your choice of art masters. Just say the word."
After a moment, Meren exhaled slowly, his now-gray eyes unfocused, looking at some imagined future. "I don't know," he said softly. "I never thought…"
"You don't have to decide now," Bashir told him. "Take your time, Rydoras. We'll all still be here. Okay?"
Rydoras straightened, and Bashir smiled at the sight. "Okay, Julian." And he smiled back.
"Good. Now let's go get some sleep—we've had too many long nights in here!"
They both stood, and Bashir was surprised to find that they were eye-level with each other now. The doctor impulsively clapped him on the back and the youth grinned at him as they walked out towards the Habitat Ring.
After a while Meren asked, "Julian?"
"Yes?" Bashir looked sideways at his companion. Was it the dim lighting that made it look as if Meren were—fading? Bashir stopped walking and stared hard at the young Bajoran.
Meren stopped as well, and his voice was warm with emotion as he said, "Thank you."
"You're—" And between that word and the next, Meren faded into nothing. "—welcome." Bashir put out a hand to where Meren had just stood. "You're welcome," he said softly.
Kira went into Quark's the next day, sure she'd find Bashir with Chief O'Brien drinking some of the pale foamy liquid they were so fond of.
She found them, all right, but instead of the friendly camaraderie she'd expected, they sat across from each other, staring into their drinks as solemnly as if someone had died.
"Doctor?" she asked softly, and they both looked up. She held out a datapadd to him. "Odo finished with the encrypted recording."
"Please, join us," Bashir said, and Kira pulled up a chair. "Have you seen the recording?" he asked. She nodded, and he signaled for a waiter to bring more drinks. "What was on it?"
She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Among other things, your Meren Rydoras. He came into the infirmary with an arm injury, and broke a piece of equipment as he walked in. The Cardassian doctor agreed to treat him if he had the money to pay for the treatment and the equipment he had broken. Rydoras's father was brought in, and he paid grudgingly, all the while verbally abusing Rydoras for being weak enough to let himself be injured, for using up hard-earned money that could otherwise have gone towards more food and better lodging, for being good at nothing at all, for being a disappointment…all of which Rydoras took without a word. And after his father left, Rydoras told the doctor to give the money back to his father and not treat him. And the doctor allowed him to bleed to death."
The three of them sat in silence until the drinks came. Then O'Brien said, "Julian was just telling me that Rydoras showed up again last night. And right before his eyes just—faded away."
Kira managed a small smile. "That must mean things turned out okay. He wouldn't have gone away if his problem hadn't been solved."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Major," Bashir said. "We were trying to figure out if I'd helped in any way or not." He considered the three glasses in front of him, and then picked one up and proposed a toast. "To what could have been." Kira and O'Brien raised their glasses. "To Chief Meren."
"Or Doctor Meren," O'Brien added.
"Or Master Meren," Bashir said. "Sleep well, Rydoras."
Kira took a deep sip in tribute, and the bitter, fierce burn of the ale against her throat felt right.
The doctor finished his drink and arose.
"Where're you headed?" O'Brien asked.
"To take your advice, Miles." The engineer nodded and he and Kira watched Bashir leave.
"What advice was that, Chief?" she asked when he was gone.
O'Brien sighed heavily. "To record a letter to his father."
She looked at him, puzzled. "You made that sound pretty momentous."
He raised his glass, then looked at her over the rim of it. "Maybe it is." And he drained his glass.
FIN