More irritable than ever from Chief O'Brien's earlier abuse, Quark was glad that there was at least somebody around to vent his frustration upon.

"Rom, you idiot," he snapped at the earliest opportunity. "You weresupposed to be working on the holosuite controls. And what's with that stupid look? I ought to take you out and string you up by your lobes."

Rom opened and closed his mouth, standing as mute as a week old garden slug.

This is where you say something, Quark thought angrily. Yes, Brother. Or no, Brother. By the Blessed Exchequer, say anything.This is not how it's supposed to go.

His useless younger brother's mouth continued to open, and close - and open and close again. Quark felt his impatience rise like a mounting flood. Finally, after a long and agonising silence, the muscles in his brother's throat gave a start as though realising - and not before time - that they could make noise.

"Brother…" stammered Rom. "I saw… I saw…"

"Sawwhat?" Quark demanded, his voice easily three times as loud as he had intended it to be.

"I saw… me."

"What?" Had it finally happened? Had Rom finally gone completely, irrevocably insane?

"I saw me. By the holosuite door. It was pretty dark. I don't think he… I mean I… I mean, I don't think whoever it was saw me. But it was definitely… At least, I think it was… Oh, Brother. I'm so confused." His voice trailed away to a thin moan.

You're confused, all right, Quark longed to say. Instead he snarled and threw a rag at Rom.

"Go clean the tables."


Julian could find no reason to be as restless as he was that night, and could think of nothing to explain his peculiarly nervous anxiety, like beetles scurrying up and down beneath his skin.

And yet, there he was, lying on his back with his bedclothes kicked into an agitated jumble, his gaze roaming back and forth along every shadow that had forged a path across the ceiling of his quarters. The dim light obscured what little colour there was, and the whole room seemed to mock his search for logical explanations.

Fragmented images paraded through his thoughts, all oddly disconnected like a jigsaw with too many missing pieces. A ship. A planet with no name. A pair of yellow eyes staring coldly from the darkness.

If he had not been so wide awake, he would have wondered if he wasn't dreaming. But in spite of the oppressive silence closing in from every direction, this was surely no dream, and he was equally unable to shake away the call.

Go to sleep, Julian. This is ridiculous. You've got surgery tomorrow. He wondered where his restless gaze had lingered the longest. Was it on the curving beams running like a ribcage across the ceiling and down the nearby walls? Or was it on the starlit shadows creeping inwards from the adjacent room?

With all the time he'd lain awake, he ought to have been able to picture the shapes around his bedroom even with his eyes tightly closed. But every time he did close his eyes, the scattered, dreamlike images rose unbidden into his thoughts. And something was watching him, its eyes solidifying in the uneven lines of light and darkness.

Perhaps a warm drink

He chuckled, a far more bitter sound than he had expected.

Or perhaps a strong anaesthetic. Or a frontal lobotomy. Might as well face facts - you are not going to sleep tonight.

With a sigh that sounded more like a frustrated scream, he kicked the covers from across his waist and hauled himself out of bed.


The corridor of the habitat ring could hardly have been quieter if the entire station had been running on reserve power. Even cruising alone through the blackness of space in a runabout with the lights turned low was never as silent as the early hours of morning on Deep Space Nine.

It was only an artificial night. Julian knew that as well as anyone, and vividly recalled how difficult it had been at first for him to adjust to the new twenty six hour daily cycle. Still, illusion or not, and regardless of how dark the station could be even at the height of each passing day, this near-empty hall was noticeably dimmer than usual.

"This way," said a voice from around the next corner.

Auditory hallucinations now? he thought, surprised at how detached and coldly intellectual the question seemed to him. The same voice drove him onward, beckoning and taunting. But who was to say that he was hallucinating at all? If felt real enough. Maybe there was somebody calling to him, somewhere just beyond his sight. And there was nothing he could do to fight a consuming, almost visceral urge to follow.

"Where are you taking me, then?" he asked in a hushed whisper, his own voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silent corridor. He paused, uncertain for a moment which way he should go, and peered wide-eyed in both directions. He realised belatedly that his feet were leading him in a sharp arc towards the doors of the turbolift.

"This way."

Feeling a hot rush of adrenaline just beneath his skin, Julian asked himself where the voice could have been coming from this time. He stepped inside, and turned to face the open doors. "Docking Bay Five," he heard himself say.

The Docking Ring? demanded a persistently irritating thought. What could possibly be in Bay Five?

The lift sped smoothly towards its destination, but he did not have time to consider the situation before the flashes of light and dark began to slow, and the vibration of the turbolift quietened and ceased. Julian tapped restlessly upon the rail. His brow was furrowed, shoulders slightly hunched, and he waited for the doors to open.

Somebody else was already at the airlock.

"Miles!" exclaimed Julian. He jumped back, startled, and feeling as though he'd been caught in the middle of something ever so slightly illicit.

"Shh." Miles was crouching by the outer wall. He pressed a finger to his own lips, and pointed. "Hear that?"

Something strangely quiet, and pulsing. Nothing at all like the hum of equipment. More like

"A heartbeat," whispered Julian.

"Exactly!"

"But we shouldn't be able to hear anything coming from out there. It's all sound-proof, isn't it?"

"It ought to be."

"This way."

Miles O'Brien tensed visibly. "I can override the security lock," he said, glancing nervously around him. "It'll take a while to scramble whatever records there might be, but it'll be manageable enough."

"Why not just use your security code?" Bashir turned back from where he'd been peering through the transparent sections of the cog-shaped door. There was something on the other side, but too little was visible to offer any clues.

O'Brien scowled. "Why not yours?"

"Good point." But Julian paused, frowning slightly, asking himself why either of them should be so reluctant to leave a record of their access codes.

The throb of his own blood rushing past his ears was growing steadily louder and faster. And the noise from outside was speeding up to match. Julian's brow tensed still further. Was such a thing even medically possible? For a bone-chilling moment, he wondered if he really was losing his mind. But then, he thought, why would he and Miles be sharing the same bizarre illusion? Why was his friend even there?

Whatever the answer, he was itching to discover what lay beyond that airlock.