Had Deep Space Nine's Doctor Nathan Hayes been present on board the Destiny, he would likely have taken a more decisive action to stop Bashir from escaping the safer confines of the medical bay. He had the experience, after all, to remember that his predecessor knew of every twist and back road that there was to be found on a Federation medical computer. This certainly included the means to connect any Sickbay to the ship's main functions, and especially site to site transporters.

Julian had refused a hypo that Kalandra had offered him, shuddering now at the very thought of sleep, but careful to remain polite. He was just as agitated as he'd been before, wishing that he could wrap both arms around himself, curl into a ball, cover his head, and hide from all the others' prying eyes. The passage of the morning had left him agitated. Powerless. And irritable enough to want to scratch at the creeping pins and needles along his skin until he had rubbed himself raw.

He'd gained a decent variety of skills, simply by observing the likes of Quark and Garak. There were occasions when Major Kira had encouraged him to put these into practice - mostly by watching and noting the Ferengi's more questionable dealings. But most of what he'd discovered had been the result of trial and error - and carefully tested strategy. Of course, in his mid and even late twenties, this knowledge was not something he would have thought of putting to use. But now…

His first impulse on entering the runabout had been to resume his search for Hilary Larkin. The runabout's onboard database had to be significantly more comprehensive than that of the Ragnarok, and whatever could not be found there would be far easier to upload from other nearby places. But he had allowed the console to remain as black and lifeless as ever.

The leaden weight on his shoulders had lessened somewhat, but was never far from the edge of his thoughts. He had only been given one reason to believe that there was any chance of success. And this, he recalled with mild despair, had come came from a man he barely knew and who certainly did not have his unquestioning trust. And what was the point in continuing to chase after long abandoned ghosts? Even if his actions now were not an utter waste, what part of his life remained, that could possibly be worth saving?

"Oh." Garak was as surprised by his own small gasp of astonishment as he had been to discover both his companions seated in the runabout. He paused halfway through the open hatch, wondering with some bewilderment why he should have been surprised. Had he not come to this place already half expecting to find them? But he hid the expression quickly, covering it up with what he hoped was his least alarming smile.

"What are you doing here?" demanded O'Brien.

Garak hesitated, although reluctant admit that his actions might well have been signs of uncertainty. Even a lie was so much easier to tell when one first had some viable notion of the truth. But perhaps in this case, there was no real need. Neither of those in the runabout with him were looking particularly keen to hear his answer.

"I could equally ask the same of you," he chose to respond. "Considering that our paths have crossed with each other and not with anyone from this ship, it is my assumption that neither one of us has any interest in making ourselves especially easy to find."

Bashir continued to stare at his hands without offering a verbal response, although his fingers may have clenched just a little more forcefully. A bad sign, Garak thought. As he looked from one face to the other, he pursed his lips into a thin, tight line.

Word had been quick to reach him by the usual indirect route - a quiet inquiry here, some subtle insinuation there - that the good doctor or whatever he happened to call himself now was no longer in the place where others had assumed that he should be. His own recollections of prematurely departing a succession of medical facilities was clear in Garak's mind, several of many instances which had led his own father to believe him incorrigible. But then, Tain had never entirely repudiated those same qualities in himself.

More often than not, the younger Elim's escapades had resulted in a scolding, not least in more recent times by Doctor Bashir. But with the aid of his memory, combined with just a little deduction, he had estimated that he would most likely find his Human companions in one of only three - maybe four different places. If either of them was at all similar to the Cardassian tailor, then the first place to which they would be drawn would have to be somewhere moderately familiar.

And he doubted - at least in this instance - that either of them was in any mood to be unpredictable.

Lifting his head a fraction - looking not at his companions, but to the blackened and inert controls - Bashir paid only distant attention to his friends' brief exchange. He followed their words as though a mere observer, watching some drama on a stage - a predetermined script in which he scarcely had a part to play.

He saw Garak's mouth open, as if to make some further comment. But the Cardassian was quick to look away. Nothing escaped his lips beyond what had been already said.

But that did not mean that there was nothing more to say.

"Miles. I'm a traitor."

"No you're not!" the Chief insisted even more forcefully. "You're the last person I'd imagine ever betraying anybody. And none of what you've told me now would convince me that you've committed any treason."

Maybe not intentionally, Julian thought, but found that he had already turned his face away.

This was how it was to be. The Federation had robbed him of his position, of all that gave meaning to his life, except for the knowledge that he would never deny those things that he'd always believed. But if the fragments of memory and dimly echoed dreams had told him true, the Dominion had taken even that from him.

"I…" Bashir choked on his words, unable to distract himself from the sight of his unsteady pale-fingered hands. "I swore that no-one else would ever know what we learnt about the Harvesters, and they would certainly never find it out from me. We both did. Remember? But now I think it… it may have been better if we had died along with everyone else that day."

"Don't you dare think that." O'Brien's response was suddenly, immediately fierce, his voice hoarse - only partially retrieved even after a long and weighty silence. "Don't even start. I like my life the way it is. I like being alive, and nothing - nothing - anyone can tell me is about to change that fact."

"I'm sorry, Chief. I never meant to…"

"All right," he grumbled. There was tension in the air - fortifying the uncomfortable barrier now wedged between them.

"But for anyone--" Bashir whispered, half to himself. "For the Dominion to have found out that kind of information…"

And for me to have been the one to tell them… The power of this added thought pressed down upon him like a blow to his stomach.

"…May indeed prove quite unpleasant." Garak cut into their dialogue, his voice sharp, and momentarily startling in its abruptness. "But even if what you say is true, we don't know for sure that your captors found anything from you beyond what they already know."

I know what you're trying to do, thought Julian. Extricating truth from falsehood, where Garak was concerned, was too often like trying to untangle the fabled Gordian Knot. A younger, more naïve Doctor Bashir might even have been convinced by his reassurance - before experience had taught him to find cause for suspicion in every utterance he heard from the mouth of the Cardassian tailor.

"Then why go to so much trouble?" demanded O'Brien, his scowl darkening.

Why was Garak hesitating? Julian wondered briefly. It was hardly like him not to have an instant response. But his reply when it came was rapid and fluent. "If it were me in their position - and that's not saying that it ever would be - this could well be a matter of attempting to ascertain how much you have managed to discover."

It was rare to find certainty in anything that Garak claimed to know, but it took barely a moment to realise that none of those seated in the Ganges were taking any comfort from their attempts at rationalisation. So when had the moment been? Bashir asked himself with increasing vexation. When had it become so very difficult to set his mind at ease?

"So what happens now?" he asked - only half expecting to hear an answer.

"There's not a lot we can do, is there?" growled O'Brien. "Not while we're sitting around in here."

"We ought to tell someone."

The others paused, and Bashir discovered that he was looking up at two pairs of steady, staring eyes. "I'll tell them." It was O'Brien who broke the silence, the stiff edge to his voice too narrow to allow for disagreement. He waved a stubborn finger at his friend, as though sensing an argument about to emerge.

"Not a word," he scolded. "I said I'd take care of it, and I will. By the looks of things, you'd do better to get back to the medical bay before you keel over, or something."

I'd have been telling him the same. "Right," muttered Julian, taking surprisingly little comfort from the idea. He'd heard, read - assumed - that confessions brought release. But not for him. His biggest secret had been revealed at the cost of his career. And now it seemed the task would fall to others, to deal with a problem of his own making. Perhaps it was better that he had not told them about Larkin.

"Just… Just give me a moment," he pleaded. O'Brien was right - even now he struggled to stop his eyes from closing. "Just a moment - it won't be too long."

Patrols were light along the border - the Dominion continuing to regroup and recover from their demoralising loss of the place they had returned to calling Terok Nor. There were rumours. As usual, word had reached the station's Ferengi population before it did many others - and from there spread among the nervous civilians. Perhaps, they said, the Dominion might even consider a negotiated ceasefire, if not a permanent peace.

Could this be a sign of weakness, some had started to wonder. But not Ben Sisko. Peace with their enemy was far away, if it was coming at all. And even when defeated, the invaders' teeth were as sharp as ever. A fox driven back into its burrow was every bit as able to bloody its adversaries' hands.

"So, you're taking the Defiant out after all." There was no hint in Dax's voice that she'd been expecting anything else. A smile came to the corner of her mouth as she paused to watch her long time friend.

"You make me sound so predictable," Sisko had responded, almost accused.

What could it have been? he asked himself, settling hurriedly into the captain's seat. What was it about the Old Man's words that had them replaying so insistently inside his head?

Her answering laughter was as clear in his memory as if she'd continued laughing all the way to the bridge. Soft and pleasant, but still with a trace of melancholy behind it. "If I remember rightly, Curzon took less than a week to learn not to try predicting you," she'd assured the Human captain. "But in this case, I'd be lying if I said I was surprised."

He had told the Prophets once, that the past was something that could never be regained…

Pushing away the echoes of long finished conversations, Sisko focused his attention on the forward display. "Release docking clamps." He felt a low shudder beneath his feet, the docking clamps relinquishing their hold upon his ship. Orders or no orders, he thought, trying not to wince at the sudden reminder. They would not have very far to go - and would most likely be there and back before anything happened to make their absence matter.

"Are you really sure that I…?"

The Defiant span around in one smooth, fluid motion, and before long it was Corinna's words that started to play inside his head. Her image was as clear to him as Jadzia's had previously been.

Looking fretful and out of place, the honey-skinned young woman had hesitated anxiously just inside the airlock, and faltered mid-sentence, lowering her gaze towards her fidgeting hands. The beginnings of her awkward question had quickly faded to a memory.

Then, she had turned to face him, uncertainty and conflict behind her desperately wide brown eyes. But even as her steps grew shorter and tighter and her hands pressed against her upper arms, she managed to steel herself enough to force her way forward.

"Dax." Remembering his present surroundings, Sisko quietly summoned the attention fo the stately, long-haired Trill, whose chair rotated in a smooth semi-circle until she was able to meet his eyes. She understood, without the need for words, and rose from her place with a smile and a quietly subtle nod of acknowledgement.

"Leave it to me."

From the corner of his eye, Sisko noted a glowering scowl on the face of his Tactical Officer. Dax's husband glared darkly for a moment, his eyes sparkling beneath the shadow of his rigid brow. But he raised no objections - and Sisko quietly allowed the moment to pass. This job, the captain knew, was best left to Commander Dax. He had already noticed some of the interaction between her and Corinna Anderson, and especially that they seemed to have developed something of a quick rapport. Whatever Worf's misgivings, thought Sisko, he could surely be trusted to keep them to himself.

A thick, serrated door rolled to one side with a laboured grinding of its hydraulic joints, until finally, it was well enough ajar to allow a trail of passengers an easy ingress through the airlock, and onto the outer docking ring. Last to exit behind a pair of tall Bajoran engineers - a man in a stiff, matte grey shirt, almost Romulan in its inflexibility although the man himself was far paler than a Romulan, set both feet upon the carpet and stopped beside the opening. He waited, glancing surreptitiously from side to side, and paused to watch his fellow travellers as they filed away in twos and threes and vanished from sight around the nearest corner.

"So what is it you've come all the way here for?" The speaker was one of several passengers their transport had collected on its most recent stop at Bajor. She had studied her companion quietly, squinting through her diminutive, loose-skinned eyelids.

"Oh, just another minor conference," had been the man's response. "Nothing special. You know how it is. Nothing that would be of interest to anybody else."

The woman's slightly puffy face had pushed itself back into a smile. "How would you know unless you try me?" she'd asked - a bold, jocular challenge.

The passenger at her side had forced a laugh. Small talk - that was the key. It was probably the closest ally he was ever likely to have. Keep it light, keep it simple, and nothing he said would mean enough to arouse the woman's curiosity. "I'm afraid that when it comes to my kind of work, most other people just aren't that interested. Truth is I have trouble staying interested myself."

His fellow traveller seemed at least to have taken his hint. Quietly echoing his expression of mirth, she folded both hands in her lap, and closed her eyes. They had remained closed for the remainder of the voyage.

The man had not initially planned for this contingency, but it was just as he had indicated to Admiral Ross. There were few possible circumstances which could ever truly leave him without a course of action. He would not have gotten as far as he had in the organisation, after all - not without the ability to adapt. And now that the Defiant was no longer guarding the station, with the majority of its senior officers equally indisposed, to miss such an opportunity would have proven him a fool. Quietly, alone at last, he checked his chronometer. Three hours to go.

That shouldn't be a problem, he thought, nodding to himself. He could wait.