Nightlife of the Gods

by G.Dunbar

Salvation a la mode. Lies, love, blood, mud, and mutants...2nd book in a series

6. Default Chapter Title

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Wow, that was close," Jake admitted to Ziyal when Bashir turned away to wait for the turbolift.

"Well…" Ziyal said.

"Yeah, really," Nog finished for her with a scoffing knock in Jake's diaphragm. "What are you talking about? She's dead. No one can see her."

"Well…" Ziyal said as far as that, "not exactly."

"Present company excluded," Jake grinned.

"And your father doesn't count," Nog put in. "He's crazy, we're not. Jake's a writer and I'm a cadet. He's got the imagination, and I've got the training…we're trained for these sort of encounters," he nodded confidentially and somewhat erratically as he stood a little straighter in his Starfleet uniform even if he couldn't quite manage any taller.

"You're not dead," Ziyal reassured him.

"Thank you!" Nog heaved a great big gulping gasp of relief. "A load off of my lobes, I don't know about you. I remember the war. I remember surviving the war even if you didn't."

"Nog!" Jake huffed because he was tall he was what? Older? Smarter? Wiser?

"What?" Nog whined like his Uncle Quark. "I said she was dead, she is dead. I didn't say she looked dead, she doesn't…You don't," he promised Ziyal. "You look pretty good, actually. For a dead female, I mean. I've seen worse, trust me, so's he."

"Thank you," Ziyal laughed. "I think."

"Anytime," Nog nodded. "Anytime." He eyed Jake.

"What?" Jake groaned. "She's an evolved lifeform. What's so difficult to understand about that?"

"Force," Nog corrected. "Life force. Nothing's too hard to understand. I'm just saying if she's wrong, and you're wrong, and I am dead, someone's got some explaining to do. Maybe not you to me because you're dead, too, but definitely your father to my father."

"Oh?" Jake said. "What happened to it comes with the uniform?"

"It does!" Nog snapped. "But is it okay with you if I graduate first before I die? I mean, if I have a choice here, that's my choice!"

"It's fine with me," Jake assured, likewise having a few plans for the future that did not include being a guest at his own funeral.

"Thank you!" Nog resumed inspecting Ziyal for any signs of being a Changeling rather than who she was. "Wanna jumja stick?"

"Hm…maybe later," Ziyal agreed.

"Uh, huh," Nog nodded with a tip for Jake. "That's what they all say."

"She's invisible," Jake countered.

Nog thought about that, it seeming redundant to being both invisible and liquid. "Okay," he accepted that much. "So where to? Not that I mean to suggest anywhere isn't private enough for you. I'm just saying you're here for a reason, right? Stop by. Say hello. See how the old gang is doing. Major Kira. Garak. Captain Sisko…" his fingers edged up toward his com badge.

"Will you stop that?" Jake slapped his hand away.

"Hello!" Nog defended his paranoia. "He's your father, he's my commanding officer! I think he might want to know he's got the ghost of Gul Dukat's dead daughter haunting the station, don't you?"

"Who says she's haunting?"

"I do! She's two weeks late to kill Legate Damar but maybe she's operating in a different time zone than we are. Okay?"

"I don't think so," Jake shook his head.

"Well, I do," Nog assured. "And I'm not letting her out of my sight until I know exactly, and I mean, exactly what is going on -- so let's have it," he gave Ziyal a nudge just to see if she was solid, which she seemed to be. Cold, clammy, rubbery like unchewed meat. "Okay, that much is normal," he agreed. "So what do you want? Weapons? Control of Ops? I think you have an order over at Garak's you didn't live to pick up."

"Oh, I don't know…" Ziyal considered.

"Mysteriously, I might add," Nog clued Jake.

"She's half-Bajoran!" Jake insisted.

"And the other half's Cardassian," Nog was keen. "Lucky me."

"I think you mean us."

"No, I mean me," Nog assured. "You're Human, I'm Ferengi. You deal in words, I deal in profit -- Or I should. If your

father had to be right about influence, did he have to be wrong about whose on whom?"

"I don't know," Jake sighed. "Just…"

"I am," Nog said. "I am. I'm just waiting on Ziyal." He eyed her. "Okay, what about this one? Your father's release from Federation prison or you'll destroy the station? It's a good one, I'll admit -- It'll never happen, but it is a good one."

Ziyal smiled. "Your Uncle Quark's maybe?"

"Where Jake and I can sit and talk to ourselves and who's to notice or complain?" Nog verified.

"Something like that," she laughed.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Nog set out. "We'll sit at the bar and see how many kanars it takes Garak to see you and me and Jake not to. I'm off duty anyway, what do I care?"

"I don't think so," Jake shook his head for reasons other than his father would stuff his head down the solid waste disposal if he even thought Jake had touched a glass of alcohol, never mind tasted one. What reasons those were, were probably extraneous considering the one given.

"Okay, fine, we'll save getting into trouble for some other night and just sit in the back and drink root beer," Nog waved disgusted. "Is that more like it?"

"Yes," Jake said.

Which explained why minutes later the two of them found themselves under arrest for disorderly conduct with a hundred or so innocent, or not so innocent others as they walked into Quark's, straight into Leeta's volcanic eruption against her violet competitor. Nog springing when he should not have sprung, to Leeta's defense, inspiring the hundred or so others to join him in the fun, Garak and Quark among them.

Jake ducking when he should not have ducked, his face connecting with Leeta's fist clenching her synthetic trophy and he was down. Flat on the floor, dazed and buried under a purple wig, Leeta staring at him aghast before she whirled, spewing rage at the one she claimed to be responsible for her punching Jake in the face and blackening his eye with the other one's hair.

Or what was left of her hair. Either way Odo could understand how it might have all come about, the same as he could hear Nog shouting about his right to defend his mother. Something which explained why his mother, Leeta, was in reasonably healthy and clothed shape, to where the other one was healthy.

Still, it was a familiar claim; young, virile teenage family members rising to the defense and protection of helpless, older family members, it was definitely a familiar claim. Reasonable only in that Nog was more reasonable than his predecessor Pfrann Dukat, stopping short of removing the heart of his mother's alleged antagonist and satisfying his warrior spirit and code by helping Leeta strip her clean; or almost clean.

"Yes…" Odo noted. With half a purple leg left, half an orchid thong, and half a violet shoe, the hostess formerly known as Viola was generally stripped down to her pink flesh even if Nog and Leeta didn't quite make it to the white bone. In contrast the brown, shoulder length hair seemed oddly out of place. Nevertheless, for a moment it was Bashir's voice Odo found himself listening to rather than a hundred others; not there, in his head. The good doctor saying something like: Yes, well, to prosecute a nineteen-year-old third year Starfleet cadet…

Yes, well, she's not his mother. Odo could hear himself countering, more than likely for naught.

Yes, well, she clearly is his mother in Nog's mind. Bashir argued, knowing the mind of teenage Ferengi named Nog even better than he knew the mind of teenage Cardassians named Dukat. Certainly married to his father…

If not Ferengi, to boot. Odo helped Bashir out, he thought sarcastically, with his latest dissertation on when and where to apply cultural principles and when and where not to. By general rule that would be when and where Bashir wanted to. To the devil, the demons, targs and gods with anyone else.

Precisely. Nog is Ferengi. A naked woman to the Ferengi is hardly anything extraordinary.

Which was not only true, but completely beside the point. Odo left off thinking about Bashir's hypothetical prattle of nonsense to concentrate on what was the point, and what were the rules. Naked females or males were not legal except in times of ceremony, such as a wedding, as they were certainly distracting. Perhaps not to him, but to the vast majority of Quark's patrons who were not Ferengi anymore than the hostess. Beyond all of that it was incontrovertibly illegal to require or force a female or male to become naked against their will.

"Someone want to give this young woman a hand, or a jacket…or a piece of cloth," Odo inquired above the general and ongoing uproar. To which the crowd immediately made a point to NOT respond, apparently because half of them did not like her, to where the other half apparently did.

"Going once," Odo dangled thirty days suspended sentence for their reconsideration.

"Going twice…thank you," he accepted the missing bottom half of the torn purple leg from Nog dutifully presenting it to him like any good Starfleet cadet in his position would.

"And thank you," he accepted another piece from Garak; it appeared to be part of a missing sleeve. Nevertheless, he made a note that Garak stooped to retrieve the amputated slip of gauze. He did not have it on, or in his possession when Odo arrived on the scene with his troop of security to quell Quark's resumed weekly free-for-all now that they had all had their fill of two weeks of silence. To where Nog did have his piece in his possession.

"As far as you…" Odo reached down to collect the woman's hair from the hands and face of another key suspect who might like to wish he stood a chance at being overlooked as he lay on the floor at Odo's feet.

"Definitely wish," Odo admitted upon seeing who he did not expect to see under that mask of purple hair and that was Jake Sisko.

"I…" Jake stared up at him through his brilliantly discolored left eye.

"Also reasonable," Odo agreed with the faltering stammer, giving young Mister Sisko a hand up to his feet and promptly cuffing him the same as everyone else was cuffed. All but two of them with the stock, surprisingly inflexible fiber cording Odo preferred for no particular reason other than they were lightweight and therefore extraordinarily portable; by the gross if he needed them.

The remaining two found their wrists and much of their forearms uncomfortably clamped inside a massive and heavy block of duranium, commonly known as Cardassian handcuffs, but only because they were. As they were carted along by his security squad for show as much as a precaution just in case there were any Cardassians, or Klingons, or particularly unruly participants in the crowd.

There weren't any Klingons. There was one Cardassian. Garak. Surprisingly mute and typically docile but Odo still clamped a pair on him because he felt like it. There was also Leeta. Hardly mute or docile. However the sheer weight of the handcuffs was generally successful in quieting her hands even if they couldn't silence her.

Jake, in the meantime, petitioned to join the masses, complaining the standard, "Do you really have to do that?" in response to his hands being secured.

"Probably not," Odo grunted. No more than he had to call Jake's father. Not there, anyway, not just then, but he did. His reasoning being that if he did chances were he wouldn't have to do it again. "Constable Odo to Captain Sisko…" he activated his com badge.

Jake groaned and hung his head in resignation.

"Good," Odo nodded sharply in approval.

"I beg your pardon?" Sisko answered, hardly deaf to the bedlam surrounding Odo and curious as to what might be good about it.

"Not you," Odo assured, "Jake. We're in Quark's. You can meet us in the Infirmary…no reason to run, it's only a black eye. That, and he's not going anywhere. He's under arrest. Disorderly conduct for now." He ogled Nog, giving the Captain a necessary moment to digest what he was saying. "So's your cadet Nog; same charge."

"On my way," Sisko signed off.

"So are we," Odo gave Jake another nod. Certain the Captain was running. "Let's go."

They got there ahead of the Captain. They also got there ahead of Bashir who oddly enough wasn't there personally supervising his new resident, and who Nurse Faraday hailed in a flustered, desperate attempt to bring order.

No easy task. Removing Leeta's antagonist Viola from the spotlight simply meant they now only had ninety-nine or so highly and loudly opinionated suspects, better than half of them intoxicated. One to the point that he made it to the Infirmary threshold but no farther before he toppled over: Garak. So that explained the vocal paralysis, as it left them with ninety-eight or so yet-to-be-hoarse voices.

As Garak was clearly not the one Leeta was screaming at about the war and winning it while Faraday was attempting to coerce Bashir into joining the mayhem.

Neither was it Quark, writhing and screaming more about his knee than anything else.

It was Odo. The war Leeta referenced was the Federation-Dominion. The gimmick Bashir couldn't see anymore than he could see who Leeta was screaming at, was not risqué. It was a violent assault on one of the security officers attempting to hold her by her upper arms that were not immobilized by the heavy, massive block of duranium secured in front of her; the one flaw in the Cardassian handcuffs, if one wasn't Cardassian. Their block structure prohibiting an arresting officer from securing a suspect's hands behind their back unless the officer didn't mind the risk of breaking the arrested's arms or dislocating their shoulders as one or the other gave or held.

The Cardassians didn't mind the risk with their suspects, so it wasn't a flaw. The Klingons didn't mind either; they were Klingons. Their arms and shoulders could easily withstand the puny force and if they couldn't, they still didn't mind. The Federation and Bajor did mind. Since they did they ended up with one of their security officers unconscious. Leeta wrenched loose of her gentlemanly sentry holding her carefully, not tightly, swinging her cuffed hands like a battering ram, knocking the security officer senseless and looking to knock the second one as the crowd cheered and she took a bow, screaming for Bashir.

She ended up in solitary confinement, otherwise known as Bashir's office with Odo to contend with if she cared to contend; she didn't. Not physically. Verbally she didn't mind searing him until Bashir showed up. Bashir did. Ten minutes later in his office, five or so minutes before then in his Infirmary.

Bashir was also five minutes ahead of the Captain which Odo did not know, nor would he have presumed. Had Odo known he would have to agree it made sense. The Captain either did not run, choosing instead to make his son squirm a little in apprehensive anticipation, if nothing else, or the Captain entertained his own brief explosion before he ran.

Odo was close. Sisko's brief explosion was internal, not external. The Constable's report of he and Jake being in Quark's annoyed him. He preferred Jake not go to Quark's, or if Jake went, he went infrequently for a reason, such as dinner. Jake's common reason visiting with friends didn't cut it, not even at nineteen. Odo's subsequent detail of a black eye paralyzed Sisko momentarily. A black eye was an injury, though a minor one. Under arrest was hardly minor, whatever the charge.

"Ben…" Kassidy was already out of bed with Odo's first mention of meeting them in the Infirmary. A black eye relieved her. Under arrest jarred her and she wasn't Jake's father.

Or mother, if Sisko cared to be more gender-accurate, which Sisko did not care to be. His son was under arrest. He stopped caring about or listening to anything else.

In the meantime, who Kassidy was, was Kassidy Yates, an attractive woman in her forties with clear brown skin and soft brown eyes. Clear thinking and sensible-minded. Calm, stable, solid. Independent, willful and wise. A woman with her own opinions, damn anyone else's, and that included Benjamin Sisko's, who she affectionately called Ben, lover, friend.

She was also a former freighter Captain for Bajor Prime, truly wanting to be a freighter Captain again and having a difficult time securing a permanent position eighteen months after serving a six month prison term for delivering medical supplies to the Maquis.

Based on that history she was potentially someone who Bashir intended to wave in support of his argument concerning appropriate versus inappropriate Maquis association. Affording Sisko what? The opportunity to purge himself of the guilt over having entrapped and arrested his lover rather than tip her off to her impending fate and in turn, sell himself and his uniform out for what? Love? Out of the question. Whatever sadness Sisko felt over the events of two years ago he harbored no guilt, none. Loving Kassidy now as he loved her then.

Whatever momentary betrayal Kassidy felt at the time was gone before the Federation Marshals took her away. Benjamin Sisko did not betray her, she betrayed him. She put him in the position he found himself in, and she put herself, not the other way around. Forcing him to choose between his soul or hers when she knew what he would choose and could only choose, which was why she loved him. A strong woman with the strength to be honest, an honest man with the strength to be strong.

It took something more than strength however to condemn a nine-year-old child to an untimely, unfair, and unnecessary death. If employing Kassidy as a defense tactic was truly part of Bashir's plan, Bashir would be wrong in his thinking, and equally out of line. There was no such thing as appropriate Maquis association in Sisko's mind. Fully aware of Bashir's medical screening of the Maquis survivors with Major Kira's consent and approval, while Sisko could understand Kira's and his Chief Medical officer's position even more than he could understand Kassidy's, he did not agree with it. He could not agree, and would not agree. Once the colonists were granted formal immunity or a reprieve for their past deeds by either Bajor or the UFP, preferably both, that was another matter. As that was not now.

Regarding Bashir's intent to treat the Maquis child, if not petition to return to the colony to bring her to DS9? Doctor Bashir would be returning to the remote Bajoran colony sooner than he realized at the present moment, bringing much more than his medical field pack and his Nurse Faraday with him, for a great deal longer than one week. Off the record, what Bashir, for that matter Dax, Kira, or Keiko O'Brien, did on that colony beyond what they were supposed to be doing was not something Sisko necessarily needed, or wanted to know.

On the record, they were there to conduct an extensive field study of the area. If somewhere between records Bashir found he could not restore the child to a reasonable degree of health with the equipment he would have available to him, he would at least be assured Sisko was home aboard the station thinking about it. On the verge of considering discussing it with Kassidy, almost desperately wanting her to talk him into what he wasn't sure he could talk himself out of when Odo interrupted with a call about another child; his. One who wasn't nine and should know better; apparently he didn't.

"I'm calm," Sisko advised Kassidy when he signed off from Odo to pull on his shirt, trousers, and boots, which he sat down on the bed to do in an effort to prove just how calm he was.

"No, you aren't calm," Kassidy corrected, more than his heaving breast telling her that.

"Yes, I am calm," Sisko said, his shoes on his feet, his socks in his hand, his shirt on backwards and inside out, his chest heaving only because he was breathing deeply to remain calm.

"No, you aren't calm," she assured, dressed and pulling her hair back in a clip, pointing out his socks and his shirt because she cared. About him, and about Jake who was physically fine except for a black eye. Who was under arrest for whatever he had done, they would find out what he had done and take appropriate action. Stuffing Jake's head in the solid waste disposal was not appropriate action.

"I have never put my hands on Jake," Sisko refuted her outlandish claim coldly, wrestling with his shirt that simply refused to be cooperative no matter what he did to it.

"No," Kassidy believed him when he said that. Believing also he had, upon rare occasion, thought about it, and was thinking about it now. In between thinking about Jake's first steps, his first day of school, his first desperately broken heart at age twelve with his mother's violent death and where, he, Benjamin Sisko had gone wrong in his son's upbringing from there. He hadn't gone wrong, not from there or anywhere. Jake Sisko was a personable, likable, highly intelligent and upstanding young man. He was also nineteen. Some times nineteen-year-olds just seemed to forget who and what they were for no reason other than they were nineteen. Ben should know that, having been nineteen once himself, the same as she had been. In the meantime, asked, she would have to say, she, personally, did not believe Jake forgot any such thing. Sure there was much more to the story than what they were presently hearing.

"Of course there's more to the story," Sisko stared at her. What was she saying? That he didn't believe in his own son?

"Then get dressed so we can find out," she pulled his shirt out of his hands to pull it down over his head right side out and forward, assuming he could take it from there. If not? Chances were someone else somewhere along the line would be remarking on how calm he wasn't regardless of how calm he claimed to be.

"Jake…" Odo was not alone in his unexpected and somewhat unpleasant surprise. If there was anyone Bashir expected to see housed among the burly group of belligerent derelicts upsetting the Infirmary's sterile atmosphere, he certainly did not expect to see Jake.

Or Nog really either, except possibly in the role of an appointed deputy, which Nog wasn't. He was wrinkled and torn with a host of superficial abrasions, handcuffed and under arrest the same as Jake who sported a painful looking and potentially incriminating black eye.

"I don't believe it…" Bashir threaded his way through the bustling din of the Infirmary to locate Michelle and Leeta only to pause dumbfounded at Jake sitting on an examining bed with three strangers Bashir hoped rather than friends.

"Hi, Doc," Jake grinned as nonchalantly as he could under the circumstances with an accompanying shrug of his shoulders. "I'd wave, but you know."

"Yes, well, I'd try something other than that if I were you," Bashir suggested, borrowing a passing tricorder to have a look over that eye.

"You mean like innocent bystander?"

"Either that or 'it's a long story'…which I'd also make a good one," Bashir patted Jake's shoulder to emphasize his point, in reassurance that Jake was fine, and also to bring his attention to the strands of purple fiber that looked remarkably like hair.

Jake sighed. "Would you believe me if I said I don't even know who she is?"

"Viola," Bashir guessed. "But I think that's probably less important than what happened?"

"I don't know," Jake shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

"Think about it," Bashir encouraged, spotting Michelle on her fast march toward him. "I'll have Faraday take care of that eye for you -- "

"I don't need -- " Jake said quickly as he turned away.

"What?" Bashir stopped.

Jake stared at him. "I don't know," he decided. "Nothing. That's okay."

Bashir looked at him. He looked chagrinned, awkward and mildly ill at ease. "It's okay," Jake said again, his eyes wide. "Go do what you need to do. I'm fine."

"Come here a minute," Bashir took him by the arm, reassuring security it was all right, and begging a moment from Michelle who tried to look patient amidst the chaos.

"Well, yes, that's part of it," Jake agreed as Bashir drew him aside to the amusement of the hardened trio sitting with him, "I don't need any special treatment. You must have fifty black-eyes in here."

"At least," Bashir said. "With half of them back next week, and the other the week after. You can't be serious about caring what any of these people think at all. If you're going to exercise a right, exercise the one to be set apart because you are different."

"Innocent, anyway," Jake said. "Sorry, Doc, but Odo's right: equality. Even if it's the kind no one likes."

Bashir rolled his eyes. "Odo's only trying to make a point."

"Like calling my father?"

"Exactly," Bashir assured. "No one thinks you're anything but innocent…Nog, either…" He left Jake standing there, spying the Captain on a fast advance, pensive, troubled, in his dignified way, Kassidy with him.

"Jake's quite fine," Bashir greeted them enthusiastically. "Nog, also, I would think. I was just going to have Michelle see to the two of them…" he heeded Michelle's urgent touch of his arm, notifying him Leeta was in his office and generally beside herself.

"Fair exchange," Bashir grinned at Sisko. "Mind? Leeta's frightfully upset apparently."

"Not at all," Sisko took a deep breath, stopping in front of Jake with an eye on those security wristlets.

"They really aren't necessary," Faraday assured in support, collecting a bio-repair unit and looking around for a quieter corner, not easy to come by. "Doctor Bashir's right."

"Are they?" Sisko asked Jake.

"No," Jake sighed. "It was all an accident. No one meant to hit anyone -- I swear, Dad, Nog and I were only trying to separate them."

Sisko nodded. "Who?"

"Leeta and one of the other hostesses? They were arguing, fighting, I guess you could say. I don't know about what." He frowned because if one listened to Quark above the general din it had as much to do with Leeta being malicious and power mad as it did with the color purple, none of which made much sense. Jake looked quizzically at his father.

"Hm," Sisko said tersely, also not listening much to Quark's wailing, an uncomplimentary analogy coming to mind. "It's not called a cat fight without reason."

"Cat fight?" Jake repeated uncertainly.

"We'll discuss it," Sisko assured with a sharp, quick look around for Odo.

"It doesn't take much," Faraday was back with Nog and a friendly wink, beckoning for them to follow her.

"No, it does not." Sisko eyed Nog.

"No one touches my mother," Nog insisted stubbornly. "I don't care who they are -- Sir," he added.

"We'll also discuss that," Sisko promised. "Constable Odo, Nurse Faraday?"

"Doctor Bashir's office," she pointed.

"Thank you."

Kassidy watched him leave. "What do they call a brawl when it's two men?" she remarked.

Michelle chuckled. "Fun."

Kassidy nodded. Either way it was over. The fun or the fight. She maintained an interest herself in securing Jake and Nog's release from their handcuffs.

"Um…" Jake sided with the hesitant security officer.

"I know," Kassidy said. "Odo was making a point; it's been made," she assured the officer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bashir reaffirmed his opinion of Odo's strict rules of equality and order when he entered his office to stagger back a step or two from the thudding blow of Leeta's Cardassian handcuffs in his chest as she jump up with her shrill scream of welcome, rushing headlong into him. He caught her and his balance, the fact that she was something to hang onto no doubt helping him out with the latter.

"Yes, well," Odo grunted something of the like, "one of those things the Cardassians overlooked."

"Yes, apparently," Bashir agreed, speaking less of Leeta's fettered wrists than of her grappling fingers and three-inch nails that were free and remarkably dexterous, clawing and scratching for his attention which she had. "Leeta!" He got her under control, or at least her name in edgewise as he attempted to get her under control, Odo grunting again, something about that's why the handcuffs were necessary.

"While waiting for the shackles, yes," Bashir said.

Odo eyed him. "She assaulted an officer."

"She didn't assault anyone," Bashir corrected, like he had been there which he hadn't been. "That includes Jake -- Jake's fine," he reassured Leeta, managing to extract that much from her hysteria. "He's fine."

"Oh," she stopped abruptly to immediately clutch for him again, that time angrily. "Are you dating her?"

He reacted. He didn't mean to but he did, her demand catching him by surprise. "Who?" he involuntarily blurted out.

"Viola." Odo offered him a scrap of sparkling violet gauze for his consideration.

"Oh…" Bashir said.

"Are you?" Leeta insisted.

"Well, no, of course not…" Bashir said.

"Ha!" she said triumphantly. "I told that stupid Garak and Quark. Julian has taste, you know. He has class. Unlike some people around here!"

"Yes, of course I do," Bashir agreed honestly, Odo rolling his eyes. "No offense to the young woman…I hardly even know her…In fact, I don't know her…"

"Ha!" Leeta sneered. "Who wants to?"

"Well, I'm sure someone does," Bashir smiled, highly doubting if concern over his social life would be found to be the root to her madness. "Simply not me…In all honesty I'd have to say I far preferred her predecessor…"

"I'm her predecessor!" Leeta assured, thinking and speaking of a different sort, and she was right, she was. She and he were exactly who he and Dax should have become following the amicable end to their relationship (that never was) and her marriage to Worf, very good friends.

"Quite," Bashir agreed regardless. "And I like you -- very much," he gently guided her back to her seat where he tried to make sense out of what was troubling her. He couldn't beyond Quark being an antagonist, which Quark was, and her feeling slighted and insulted by what she called an infringement on her position as manager of the hostesses, largely self-appointed though that position may be, which she had every right to her feelings.

"They're legitimate feelings," Bashir was outside talking to Odo nodding and saying "Um, hm," every other sentence or so.

It wasn't the conversation Odo expected. He expected the one about Nog's right to defend his father's wife, not Leeta's exclusive rights to the color purple.

Bashir blinked. "Of course Nog's rising to Leeta's defense is reasonable."

It was so reasonable it didn't even warrant a discussion in Bashir's opinion, to where Leeta did. A dramatic one, melodramatic anyway. Complete with the exhausted hand to the forehead, the tempered impatience, the trying and failing attempt to have Odo understand; he understood. Quark's would be lost without Quark, it would be lost without Leeta as would Quark.

"Precisely," Bashir said, relieved to find he was getting somewhere.

"Um, hm," Odo said, it all depending on where Bashir thought he was getting. "In the first place…"

"No, her position isn't largely in her head," Bashir argued. "Generally of her own doing, yes, I said that."

"Dukat's doing," Odo assured just to set the record straight insofar as who had actually hired Leeta, and who had merely set her down in the middle of Quark's bar one day where she stayed long after Dukat left.

"I don't care how she came here, or there," Bashir insisted. "I don't care if she sprouted from a seed."

"No," Odo agreed Bashir cared about what he called the right of seniority and Quark's audacity to tell Leeta to change her outfit rather than the twenty-four hour old new one and not expect more than his knee to be broken.

"Precisely. You have to understand Leeta -- you do understand Leeta. Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

Odo was still working on that part. The rest of it he believed he may have. "She's simple, child-like," Bashir enlightened him in case he didn't. "An idiot savant, if you insist."

"No offense to the young woman," Odo nodded.

"Hardly," Bashir snapped, but only because Leeta was also clever, crafty, incredibly resilient, and acutely tuned to her public. All capsuled rather nicely under the stock phrase damn good at what she did.

"Yes, well, what she did was assault a Dabo hostess," Odo took his scrap of purple gauze back. "Jake Sisko and a security officer -- among other random attempts to assault others along the way."

"No, she didn't," Bashir maintained, again like he had been there, which he hadn't been. "Leeta didn't, nor does she assault anyone however upset she might get. Something is clearly very wrong far beyond a perception of competition. Now, I don't care what you put in your log, but I'm telling you I want those handcuffs off Leeta and I want them off her now. You may be the Chief Constable, but I am the Chief Medical Officer, and you are not only unduly harassing my patient, you are exacerbating her emotional crisis."

"Not guilty to either," Odo assured, but that was all right. He believed Humans had a saying. "It's your funeral."

"I beg to differ, it's yours," Bashir pointed as he preceded Odo in through the door of his office, "if Captain Sisko comes in and finds Jake trussed up like some common criminal." Even though he already knew Sisko was there, with Jake, something Odo didn't, though presumed, and found out for a fact shortly after he released Leeta to Bashir's soothing, petting, "No, it's all right, it's all right. Talk to me. I want you to talk to me…" Odo left them there to return to the hub of the Infirmary and Sisko successful in hunting him down.

"Had enough?" Odo wondered of the Captain, not about the Captain, but about Jake. "Not you, Jake."

"Yes." Sisko may not have understood what his Constable meant at first, but he did now, and the answer to the question was yes as well.

"Good," Odo approved. "Though I'm sure you'll find there to be some reasonable explanation."

"Oh, yes," Sisko was certain of that. "And I'll have it, Constable, you can bet on it."

"Yes," Odo said. "In the meantime I believe you'll find the explanation to go something like Nog's effort to protect Leeta."

Sisko stopped him. "What's reasonable, Constable, isn't necessarily acceptable from Nog, Jake, or anyone else."

"Um, hm," Odo said. "Though reasonable nevertheless being that she is married to Nog's father Rom."

"Yes. However, quite frankly right now, Constable…" Sisko acknowledged.

"You don't know, do know, don't care, do care," Odo nodded.

"Something like that," Sisko gestured for him to proceed.

Interestingly enough when they arrived at Jake with Nog they were both already free of their bondage and being treated for their assorted scrapes and bruises. Something to do with rank and privilege no doubt.

Odo ogled Bashir's Michelle Faraday, a Human he hardly knew but was coming to, instinct and experience suggesting he trust her about as far as he trusted Kassidy Yates, whom he suspected to be the ringleader. Sisko was more interested in Yates' involvement, though he was trying very hard not to let that show.

Ms. Yates proved to be of little assistance in that area with her blatant pat of Sisko's arm and comforting assurance. "It was ridiculous. Ridiculous," she emphasized, in all having found his security personnel reasonable and cooperative once bringing that to their attention.

Faraday just snorted, averting her eyes from Odo who she found to be an extremist. At least here, tonight, now, in this instance. A throwback to another time and same place. Forgetful that the occupation was over. Sisko and his Federation in control, not Dukat and his Cardassians.

"Yes, well," Odo cleared his throat, not having to read Faraday's mind and dropping a hint. "An extremist would likely order the arrest of you two for interfering."

They looked at each other, Faraday and Yates, in as much to say in whose dreams? When they were through looking at each other, they looked at him, their expression and opinion unchanged. That was all right. Sisko was also looking at him, somewhat startled and uncertain if his Constable was joking or serious.

"Or maybe not," Odo consented, secretly finding it interesting and disconcerting that Dukat might have a better sense of equality and fairness for all; Dukat didn't. Unless one considered everyone's right and equal opportunity to be imprisoned and/or executed, publicly or otherwise. Apart from that Dukat had maintained little involvement or interest in the general doings of the Bajoran workforce aboard his station, or his station personnel, other than in getting to the bottom of whatever Threat or Force threatening him or his operation. Hence to the person or people responsible and from there quell the uprising or problem of the day. A passion that might also suggest the former station Commander was thorough; he wasn't. He wanted to live. To live, it was to Dukat's distinct benefit to correctly identify the troublemaker or makers, be they Bajoran, or some ambitious Cardassian competitor seeking to usurp him.

That was also an interesting thought. Odo glanced at the remnant of purple gauze in his hand. Leeta was a lot like her predecessor, and he didn't mean the hostess killed during the Maquis attack two weeks ago, he meant Dukat. So was he. Order. Separating and identifying, and in Leeta's case, annihilating the competition. He might do the same thing, who knew. Personally unaware of any immediate or impending competition for his position, he was keenly aware of the challengers. Some chronic, some rare. Bashir was chronic. Sisko was rare.

"I should think not, Constable," Sisko was nodding, smiling, speaking lightly though seriously about Odo not being serious about casting either Yates or Faraday in irons; Yates, admittedly probably more on his mind.

Odo grunted. "Yes, well, whatever Dukat may have been and is, reasonable doesn't come to mind, insane does." Supported, enhanced, caused by conditioning, training, general personality, and any number and variety of narcotics and alcoholic stimulants and depressants. Some designed to help him sleep at night, others to keep him functioning during the day. Occasionally, over the years, he apparently got them mixed up. Odo had no proof to such a claim, it was just something he suspected. Finding it difficult to believe anyone could be that erratically functioning and non-functioning, coherent and incoherent without chemical assistance.

Bashir, shockingly, held a different opinion than Odo of the former Cardassian dictator, diagnosing Dukat to be unequivocally and indisputably organically mentally ill. Aggravated by his conditioning and training, but hardly caused. Bashir found no evidence of any sort of cranial implant or any other during his most recent physical examination of the Gul eight months ago following Dukat's emotional collapse, as he had never found one before; their Cardassian tailor-spy Garak was a different and another story.

Bashir also disputed any excessive misuse, or abuse of any chemical or natural substance by Dukat, narcotic, certainly out of the question. To the contrary, vehemently opposed to any physical exertion beyond waggling his tongue, Gul Dukat was surprisingly physically fit, strong even. Quite strong. Athletic, if he cared to be outside of his or anyone else's bed, which Dukat didn't care to be, quite satisfied with being tall enough, tight enough, for a man rapidly approaching sixty. Who did that sound like? Oh, yes. Shakaar Adon, the elder.

Odo recalled his competition. To think he just got rid of one of them only to end up with Number Two. Why did he find he preferred Dukat? Probably because Dukat wasn't competition, not with Major Kira. To where Dukat might glean Kira's attention, he'd yet to secure her affection and never would. Shakaar Adon, the younger, managed both. It remained to be seen how well his uncle fared. From the sounds of Kira's discussion with Sisko and him earlier, and Odo didn't like how it sounded, obnoxious and overbearing easily transposed into exciting and thrilling. Definitely Odo found himself thinking of and preferring Kira's vehement description of a Bajoran version of Dukat, simply tempered and tanned with dancing blue eyes and white hair, rather than the dancing light in Kira's eyes that betrayed her interest in the outlaw calling himself Anar.

Back to the outlaw Dukat who was leaden gray (greenish-gray to some optical nerves, hues of rancid purple to others), watery-eyed and black-haired. Obsessive, compulsive, about everything he did, or didn't do, their equally obsessive-compulsive Doctor Bashir insisted, mentally, Dukat was simply nuts. A manic-depressive schizophrenic sociopath with a psychotic personality. Criminally insane was something for the UFP courts to decide though Bashir found himself in agreement with the idea of Dukat being a menace to society.

Sisko, on the other hand, had no idea what Odo was talking about, certainly not at all what he was thinking. Why Dukat's name was even mentioned, or brought into the conversation. Odo grunted one last time. "Nine o'clock? My office?"

"We'll be there, Constable," Sisko promised for Jake and Nog.

Odo believed him and moved on to round up the remaining ninety-six or so derelicts of society once their bruises and bumps were tended to and make room for any real patients who might happen along; one did. A Bajoran in his sixties who was eating a late dinner and developed a sudden and fairly uncomfortable episode of indigestion.

"Where?" Quark was quickly alert to the Bajoran's voiced complaint even if no one else was paying attention.

"Some Bolian restaurant," the man grimaced, new to the station and having forgotten the name.

Quark snorted. "That figures. They kill more in a week than I do all year. War, pestilence and terrorist attacks aside."

"I'll remember that," the Bajoran agreed.

"You do that. Need a nurse?"

The Bajoran eyed him. "You're not a nurse?"

"No," Quark sneered, "but you're close. Bartender. Quark's the name. Stop in once you're done here. We have a package promo for first time patrons. One price gets you everything. The bar, dinner, and the gambling admission. Holosuites are extra, but most feel it's worth it."

"Sounds interesting," the Bajoran admitted, "but right now I think I'll take that nurse."

"Deal. You stay there…well, sit there," he agreed as the Bajoran decided to slide down the wall and sit on the floor. "I'll be right back." He hobbled off to grab the first blue jumpsuit that crossed his path. "Are you a nurse?"

"No," Ortiz said. "And I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to wait your turn."

"I don't need a turn," Quark assured. "I was already here last week; one of the early ones. Come on, you're something. You've got a guy over here who's sick enough to think I'm you. Sounds like food poisoning to me."

"Well, then I guess he better get in line," Ortiz removed his grubby little Ferengi hand from her sleeve.

"Okay so you're cute," Quark said as she walked away. "That and a strip of latinum. Trust me, I know this. I deal in cute…maniacs, but cute." He limped back to the Bajoran. "Just me. They're a little busy right now but I'm working on it."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," Quark assured. "I've been telling them they need to close that place down before something like this happens. Maybe now they'll listen."

"Maybe," the Bajoran closed his eyes.

Quark waited. "You can open them. Hello," he poked the Bajoran in the shoulder with the tip of his cane. "I'm saying you can open them."

The Bajoran did, not for very long and not very wide. Quark could be wrong but guy really didn't look right. "Hello!" he turned his grating nasal bellow on the crowd. "What do you have to do? Die to get some attention around here?"

"Somewhat extreme, isn't it?" Odo drawled from above his head.

"Not me," Quark sneered, "him. The one on the floor…not that one on the floor, this one on the floor; the Bajoran; that Bajoran, not that Bajoran, this one. He's not with them he's with him; alone. He just came in…fell in," he nodded as Odo stooped to have a look. "He was at the Bolian restaurant…I told you about that place, didn't I? But, noooo. I'm just being Ferengi, like I have a choice in the matter. Well, there's your proof. Food poisoning. Am I right, or am I wrong?"

"Are you sure you're not dating her?" Leeta surveyed Bashir suspiciously.

He smiled. "Positive. Though I maintain that's hardly why you're upset anymore than it's to do with Quark -- or is it Quark?"

She ignored him, briefly. Her head turned away, her chin set and held at a cocky and stubborn angle so he'd know she was ignoring him. "I told that stupid Quark and Garak trying to weasel information out of Julian by fixing him up on a date, it's not going to work."

"Makes sense," Bashir agreed in principle.

"Humph!" she snorted. "I'll say it makes sense." She fell silent for a moment again, eyeing him and moving on to complain about the dying platter of Acamarian legumes otherwise known as parthas ala Yuta. "I told them Julian's not even here. I saw Julian. I said hello to Julian on the Promenade. He already had his dinner with him."

"Yes, well, actually," Bashir cleared his throat, still convinced they weren't getting to the heart of the trouble, "I was in Quark's briefly -- to order dinner. Quark was being creative, though he did cancel the request, apparently a moment or two too late…That's reasonable, isn't it?" he chanced.

"What am I a maid now, too?" she insisted. "No one can put it back in the replicator? They took it out, but they can't put it back in? I already have a husband, you know. Not that anyone would know this. But I do have a husband, believe it or not."

That was an odd and mystifying association. "Oh?" Bashir said.

"That's just what I said," Leeta nodded fervently. "'Oh?' 'Uh, huh.' 'Why?' Did it get me anywhere? No. And it won't either -- wrong!" she jammed him emphatically in the chest with her nail. "I want to know, Mister Julian Bashir. It's just not fair! You know how I get!"

She was starting to cry, not in anger, but in true aching sadness. "Well, yes, I do know," Bashir agreed quickly though confounded by what she meant.

"He's never here," she wailed, gesturing wildly in her upset frustration. "He's gone and back and gone again and all he ever says is 'um, nope, can't tell you'!"

"Rom!" she insisted in case Bashir was having difficulty figuring out who she was talking about, which Bashir wasn't, just why. "And it's okay if he tells me you're leaving again tomorrow, which no, it isn't. Oh, no, it isn't!"

"Yes, well," Bashir said, "I can respect why you might find that upsetting -- "

"Of course I find it upsetting!"

That's what he was saying. "However, I'm also sure you know Rom is hardly meaning, or doing anything malicious or underhanded -- "

"I want to know!" she grabbed him by the collar. "Rom never left when he worked for Quark, never."

Other than probably an occasional trip home or Earth to visit Nog once his son entered Starfleet Academy, Bashir really wouldn't know, and neither would it have been significant to Leeta at the time. Now it was. He understood what she meant by 'knowing how she is' or could be. That would be lonely. An ordinary emotion, quite commonplace that she wouldn't like and not really understand why she had to have, feel, or experience it. Little to do with being spoiled, everything to do with her childlike characteristic that could be both charming and irritating. Rom was no better in that area. His personality, outlook and innocence so attuned with Leeta's it was a galactical wonder why the two of them hadn't discovered each other before they did.

Bashir moved to tell her that, reassure her again how Rom would never intentionally dream to be hurtful or distant. How it might only seem like he was absent more often since resigning as Quark's stooge and joining O'Brien's engineering team. A role for which the bumbling Rom was surprisingly suited and truly remarkably adept, excelling far beyond anyone's imagination. A natural. Another one of those gifted idiot savants astounding and defying the critics.

"Well?" Leeta demanded.

Bashir blinked. "Well what?"

"Julian!" she swatted him. "I want to know where you and Rom are going!"

He stared at her, as he stared the pieces of the confusing puzzle all suddenly started to fall into place. Of course he wasn't going anywhere with Rom, as of course he had been with Rom, even if he hadn't been with Rom exactly, Rom had been there aboard the Defiant. On its initial trip to the Bajoran outer colonies to deposit the Ark with its passengers and field team, and on its return voyage to secure the runabout and crew.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Bashir straightened up from his stoop next to her to rest back on his heels. Of course Rom was chosen to accompany them not only for his engineering skills but also his trustworthiness. It was what one might call a "top secret affair". It wasn't something Rom could, or should discuss with anyone, and he was not only sure Rom was aware of that, he knew Rom was proud to be involved. In his ignorance, almost boastful and gleeful that he couldn't say anything, oblivious to the frustration it inspired in Leeta.

"Julian," Leeta whimpered, her lower lip starting to quiver again, but then she wasn't only angry about what she couldn't understand she was frightened of it and for Rom. Quark's she could understand. The recurring joke about the Ferengi bar continuing to be a hotspot for political and social intrigue with Quark having to offer hazardous duty pay as a job perk to entice prospective employees was a joke in one regard, and not a joke in others. Intrigue and hazardous duty aboard the Defiant was something else entirely, and not anything Leeta could begin to comprehend only that Rom was involved and she wasn't.

"Yes, all right…" Bashir's arm went around her consolingly, urging her down off her chair to sit beside him on the floor. "But first let me assure you Rom and I aren't going anywhere tomorrow…"

"Oh, yes, you are," she corrected, her beautiful face contorting again in a mugging parody of her husband who she didn't mean to ridicule only imitate. "'Oh, yup, tomorrow.'"

"No, not tomorrow," Bashir maintained kindly tomorrow was a misunderstanding or an attempt on Rom's part to tease her out of her blue funk. "Unless by some miracle Kira has managed to convince Captain Sisko without my medical logs, and if she has, I would think I would have also been notified, not only Rom, which I haven't been."

"But I don't want Rom to go to Cardassia," was her pressing point. "It's so dangerous, Julian, it really is."

Bashir smiled. Dangerous was a given. Oddly enough however, having been to Cardassia Prime once or twice too often he had to admit he found the impoverished world and its citizens surprisingly different from its ruling military minority with its influence and stench nevertheless distinct. Hardly daring to call them friendly, they were noticeably civilized and rather peaceably mellow. Uncomfortably sheep-like in their devotion and their beliefs; a herd mentality one might say. Severe in their dress and serene in their public demeanor. Not exactly how one might expect to find an ancient world of intellects, artists, and architects, a billion or so strong. But it was who they were and continued to be a hundred millennia after the fall of the First Hebitian civilization their direct ancestry also believed by some to be the root of the Bajoran civilization, making the Bajorans and the Cardassians cousins at the very least to each other's marked annoyance.

"Is that where Quark and Garak think we were?" Bashir asked. "Cardassia Prime?"

"Of course," she scoffed.

"They're wrong," Bashir assured. "The border of Cardassian space, perhaps, but no further. Captain Sisko's interest in escorting Janice and Anon also included the safe escort of Janice's Bajoran family home…" he hesitated slightly. "As difficult as that might be for some to fathom, Janice's adopted people are Bajoran, to where her husband clearly isn't. Who Anon is, quite possibly more unbelievable than what he is."

"Who is he?" she huffed, either her intelligence or her ignorance prompting her to question what she already knew.

"Yes, well, Dukat's son at the very least, quite obviously," Bashir agreed. "As is Pfrann…Leeta, listen to me, because I just may need your assistance, never mind only Rom's. There's a little girl on Janice's home world -- the only surviving child of a brutal Klingon attack that quite literally annihilated her people; there are only thirty-five survivors in all. Nadya's very sick and I want to petition Captain Sisko to bring her here to DS9 for treatment. Apart from it would be nice if Nadya and her mother could stay with a Bajoran family while here, I need a Bajoran family for Nadya. I need a cover. Some way to forestall having to explain who she and her mother are. Someone to pretend they are her family whom she is simply visiting. For all the truths Janice told about her people and her world there were a few details she neglected to mention."

"Maquis," Leeta nodded, having been there in the amphitheater with the rest of them throughout the Chief's hearing. "I figured that."

"Yes," Bashir said. "Should there have been any doubters among us I seem to recall Sian, Anar's son, making that rather formal announcement, along with Anon's rather formal declaration of protection."

She shrugged. He wasn't quite sure why she shrugged away Anon and Pfrann Dukat's association with the Bajoran Maquis, but she did. "He was always saying things like that; not about the Maquis," she clarified, since there was no such entity as the Maquis during the Cardassian occupation, they came after. "But he was always saying things like that, about unity and brotherhood; not that I ever believed him."

"Dukat?" Bashir guessed. Uncertain what other silver-tongued slime she could be talking about.

She shrugged again. "I didn't. But who knows. Maybe Anon's different; he looks different. Sounds different."

"And he'd have to be quite a bit different, yes," Bashir agreed. "Leeta, Janice's father Anar is Shakaar Adon's uncle. Nadya is Anar's granddaughter."

She looked at him, he couldn't say as he blamed her. "Yes," he nodded. "That's why Rom hasn't been able to say, or tell you anything. He's under orders not to. And neither can you say anything. Whether you agree, or disagree with who and what they are, you can't say a word."

"Maquis?" she whispered that much. "Shakaar Adon's family is Maquis?"

"Well, I don't know about his family," Bashir admitted. "I wasn't even aware he had a family, certainly not an immediate or surviving one."

"Yes, they're dead," Leeta nodded. "They're all dead."

"Well, clearly this particular branch isn't," Bashir sighed, no more clear about what it was about the entity Shakaar that had its wearers prevailing where so many others around them failed, than the Shakaars were about what it was about the entity Dukat.

"Leeta, please," he beseeched her, also not quite sure why he was divulging any of this to her other than for her own sake he couldn't have her smashing bars, hostesses or security officers because she felt grossly neglected and left out. "All I do know is there is a very sick child out there regardless, and I need your help. A place for the child to stay, and, yes, a small token of relief to offer Captain Sisko from what would have to be monstrous concerns for her safety and everyone else's. Even still, I swear to you, neither I, nor Rom, are leaving tomorrow to go anywhere. I wish I were. A few days, yes, if I'm lucky and Captain Sisko agrees…a few days," he smiled, "if I'm not. Will you help me? At least by keeping the secret for however long such a secret can be kept?"

"I'll do it," she patted his chest in her baby-doll manner and child-like way.

He didn't dare, or even try to ask her why in the name of the Prophets, he just closed his eyes with another sigh, that one relieved. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you." The timing perfect if nothing else as Michelle was in the doorway trying not to appear impatient or urgent in her request for his attention as he leaned forward and planted a grateful kiss on Leeta's cheek.

"Sorry," Michelle apologized for what could be viewed as an untimely intrusion.

"Not at all," Bashir climbed to his feet with a helping hand for Leeta. "I'll be right there."

"Thank you," Michelle said and left.

Bashir smoothed Leeta's ravaged hair and tried to straighten the torn shoulder of her outfit, which he couldn't. There was simply not enough of it left. "I'm also serious when I say no more fighting with Quark, Viola or anyone. After all, discounting all this turmoil you've been feeling over Rom, is it really that important who wears what? Whether it's the same color, a different one, or one similar?"

"Yes," Leeta assured without having to give it a second thought.

Bashir nodded. "Yes, well, in that case then I daresay she'll change without having to be asked twice, or possibly at all…" he paused.

"What?" Leeta said.

"Nothing," Bashir shook his head. "Only that I think that's the first time I ever kissed you and felt friendship, true friendship, nothing more or less."

She had no idea what he meant. "It's a compliment," he promised, thanked her again and left to find Michelle tapping her toe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Taking it a little literally, aren't you?" Faraday chastised Bashir's approaching grin, not that it was her place to, but she commonly indulged herself when it suited her.

"You mean Leeta? My bedside manner? Yes, well, I've always taken it rather literally, selectively anyway, you know that…what's going on?" he took the padd she plopped in his hand. "Not with Leeta, I know what's going on with her. With you? Whomever? What do you need, other than some assistance in clearing out the rest of these social outcasts? Not even sure why Odo brought half of them other than to further his obscure point of equality."

Michelle nodded. "You've a Bajoran male in the main theater, unidentified, but then he was unconscious by the time we got to him."

"I don't like the sound of that," Bashir assured, "unless you're also about to tell me it was through no fault of our own."

"I don't know," she said, trying to be fair. "Can we tell our heart attacks from our vagrants without a tricorder?"

"We can if we're in the vicinity and paying attention," Bashir handed her the padd. "Who we're talking about is obviously Ortiz; you certainly can't be talking about Doctor Hamilton…who I daresay is in attendance, not only Ortiz. From the looks of that preliminary, the man's not only reasonably young, he's in a rather bad way."

"Very bad," Michelle said. "I would be surprised if they weren't looking at cardiac replacement once they got in there."

Bashir started out for the operating theater. "Where's Doctor Dupo-Frey? We can't all be on Bajor, on holiday, or wherever. Not but two weeks after a damn terrorist attack. Still conceivable the station stands to be at considerable risk even if we aren't at yellow alert."

It was actually much closer to three weeks, but why be a pissant about things? "He's on his way," Michelle assured.

"First one?" Bashir queried Ortiz after relieving Doctor Hamilton to return to the Infirmary and he joined her at the table.

"First Bajoran," she agreed. "Do you…?" she wondered if he wished to take over.

"No, that's all right, you're both doing fine," Bashir nodded with a close eye on the readings.

"There's no excuse for this," Ortiz said bitterly, disgusted by the extensive corrosion of the Bajoran's heart.

"The Cardassian Occupation you mean?" Bashir smiled back at her.

She looked at him over her surgical mask. He nodded again. "You're quite right. Stress and poor diet can take its toll. Fortunately we're equipped to offer our visitor a bit more than a pulmonary support unit and a comfortable ride home to Bajor for cardiac replacement."

Three hours later he threw his surgical gown in the hazardous waste disposal, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice as he turned on Ortiz. "Don't you ever pass judgment on a patient of mine again. Are you mad? That man could hear and absorb everything you said. A first semester medical student understands and appreciates that."

Ortiz smiled. "Then we graduate to the reality of spending four hours caring for a patient who couldn't care less for himself. One who refused to accept his responsibility, regardless of the underlying cause, willfully choosing to continue neglecting his health. It's all right. You have your opinion, I have mine, and you're right. He's lucky we were here. He may get lucky again. Who knows. I'm more interested in you inviting me to breakfast…or is that inappropriate too?"

Bashir looked at her. "I'll be honest with you, Doctor -- "

"You're not sure why someone with my talents would feel she has to seduce her instructor to get ahead," she interrupted him with a knowledgeable nod, apparently having heard it before.

"No," Bashir replied, "I wouldn't be. Particularly since from my brief observation you are at least talented."

"Just insecure," she interrupted him again to laugh at his annoyance. "You're wrong. I'm not insecure, though you apparently are. I don't have to seduce you. It might just be something I want to do?"

"I'm not interested," Bashir said plainly. "Admittedly that probably is what qualifies your invitation to be inappropriate beyond the fact that I am your superior. You are here for a six-week internship, not to find a husband, mate, or weekend date. Your general attitude, not only toward me, but most importantly toward your patients is abrasive and disrespectful, and quite alarming. Regardless of your talents, I'm not convinced practical medicine is, or should be your field. My recommendation is that you use the next six weeks to reevaluate your motives and expectations behind choosing Starfleet. That will certainly be my recommendation to Captain Sisko as well as Starfleet Medical's Board of Advisors."

He stopped short of threatening to charge her with harassment if she didn't desist, exited the changing area, irritated, unconvinced he wasn't protesting a little too loudly, couldn't be cited for exaggerating, unfairly allowing his personal feelings to interfere. Unwanting to say anything more, and not certain he hadn't already said too much with that opening about how it was only inappropriate because he wasn't interested, to where if he were it would be nothing more than a social exchange, harmless and common.

"In a pig's eye," Bashir sputtered, far less candid and offering his true opinion on his stride past Michelle. "Arrogant little witch, manipulative. For whatever her reasons, whatever her game…" He almost walked straight into Worf as he crossed the threshold onto the Promenade.

Worf halted in his determined march for the Infirmary, mute and momentarily uncertain how to proceed. He did not expect to come upon Bashir, though he was there to see Bashir. That was a contradiction and Worf frowned, aware of, and as confused by the range of conflicting emotions churning inside of him. Ones, for which, he had decided Bashir was responsible, involved with Jadzia to the extent that he was promoting her maintained distance from her husband. Worf knew why, as he continued not to know why Jadzia would buy into Bashir's deceptive line when she knew it was manipulation, and would only result in inflaming Worf's annoyance.

Worf knew what he thought, and he did not like what he thought. Liking it less when he entered their quarters aboard the station at 0500 almost exactly, prepared to apologize in his stiff way for his unexpected all-night duty schedule that wasn't exactly unexpected but he was not at liberty to divulge that, or why. It didn't matter. Dax wasn't there to hear the apologetic explanation. She was absent, as she had been absent from her husband's quarters since the time of their initial discord prior to her disembarking aboard the Ark for the Bajoran colony Dyaan IX, a period of time that was now almost two weeks in length. A discordant note that should have been resolved and long over, which it was not. It was not over at the time she left, intensified and aggravated during her field mission, expanding far beyond her disagreement with his disapproval over Bashir's bawdy idea of friendship upon her return to the Defiant, and subsequently the station, but not her husband.

Worf stood in the emptiness of his quarters as he stood in the dwindling hubbub of the Promenade now, convinced Jadzia could be nowhere except with Bashir and confounded to find out she was not. That discovery rocked the foundation of his thinking; it made no sense.

"Yes?" Bashir said somewhat impatiently to Worf's abrupt and obvious silence.

Worf huffed, regaining his stoic composure and advising Bashir with certainty, "I am looking for Jadzia."

"Who?" Bashir almost said, as beset with a convulsion of emotions as Worf. To the extent that reality wasn't necessarily reality and certainly dramatically removed from reasonable or rational. Obviously so since he certainly knew who Jadzia was, what he couldn't seem to understand however was why Worf might be asking him where she was. Clearly she wasn't with him. Half-tempted to also retort something snide like "Nothing up my sleeve" he didn't, choosing instead to dismiss Worf's announcement of Jadzia being MIA with a vague wave of his hand. "No, sorry, haven't seen her. I've been in surgery -- have you tried the science lab?"

"She is not in the science lab," Worf assured, having combed it thoroughly for any evidence apparently from the way he sounded.

"Oh, well, can't say then," Bashir said thoroughly disinterested in pursuing the conversation and extraordinarily piqued because he also knew where Jadzia wasn't, and that was in his quarters any longer, regardless of where else she may or may not be.

That understanding, hardly any sort of revelation, not only fueled his annoyance over spending the evening with Ortiz rather than Jadzia, it furthered his annoyance with having to waste any more time with Worf. He turned away for the turbolift, bitter and morose and continuing to think utterly irrational things like Jadzia was Worf's wife and if Worf couldn't keep track of his wife, was there a particular reason why Worf thought he, Julian Bashir, could, or should be able to?

His quarters were dark, including the console. Jadzia long gone and probably convinced he had contrived Faraday's call for assistance. Why she would think this he didn't know other than she knew him and there was a twenty-five year old blonde resident at stake otherwise known as fair game, fresh prey.

"Damn it all," Bashir sat heavily, and briefly down at his console before he decided he was physically exhausted not only emotionally and therefore couldn't begin to make sense to himself or anyone else. It had been a long and chaotic two weeks, exhilarating in many ways, debilitating in many others. He stood up to accidentally kick against one of her carelessly discarded boots he didn't even realize was there. He did now.

"Jadzia?" he stared from the ankle-high shoe toward the door to his bedroom. Uncertain who else's foot might fit and fill the boot other than another Trill, and still finding it harder to believe she had chanced everything from discovery, to exposure, to Worf's wrath, to spending the night alone, rather than she was out and wandering the station in her stocking feet.

She was in bed, asleep and on her stomach, facing the single harsh light, his stuffed, childhood bear upside down and pushed aside, a data padd held loosely in her hand. He remained braced in the frame of the doorway for a moment, breathing in the peace that seemed to overtake him before the electrifying surge of excitement. His head dipped and he relinquished his station in the door, silently slipping out of his jumpsuit, and down under the sheet next to her. Quietly ordering lights out as his hand touched her shoulder and his mouth kissed the frame of spots outlining her hair. She stirred immediately, releasing the data padd, a groggy smile in her voice as she turned over into his arms.

"What time is it?" she wondered.

"Late," Bashir admitted softly. "Extremely. 0500? 515? As quiet as the Infirmary was earlier, it was bedlam."

"It happens," she agreed.

"So it does. Official duty call's at 0700. You?"

"0700," she nodded.

"Barely enough time for a shower and a cup of breakfast tea," he lamented.

She smiled. "I like the idea of the shower."

Her arms closed around his neck and he was both right and wrong about being able, or not being able to make love to her in an hour. One hour and thirty minutes later he lay heavily back against the wall, Dax pressed tightly to him, the two of them dressed and steps away from his quarter's door. The fact that they could commit a physical act in record-breaking time more stimulating than fulfilling, and either way as quickly as the ninety minutes had passed, he desperately wanted the last of them to linger into being forever.

"You're going to be late," Dax mentioned before they were.

"Extremely," Bashir wished, wondering as he kissed her how he could have ever doubted, he didn't know, her commitment perhaps? To him? Them? Her body and her as hungry for and loving toward him as he was for her, her flesh unmarred or marked by any beastly encounter with Worf. Ironically he couldn't say the same for his brief encounter with Leeta's Cardassian handcuffs that left a brutal, and previously unrealized abrasion along his thorax.

"Should I ask?" Dax had inquired amused.

"Or touch," Bashir winced in uncomfortable answer as she touched him. Appreciating one of the reasons it seemed difficult to breathe was because it was slightly painful to breathe. His muscle and bone bruised though otherwise fine and quickly forgotten under her gentle stroke. Right now though she was laughing lightly for a different reason and he was smiling.

"Dinner?" he asked. "Tonight? Quark's? 2300 or so? We can take a late break from detailing the last of Janice's inventory. Congratulate ourselves for all our hard work. Plan our strategy for proving or disproving her theory?"

"Or even deciphering the compositions and figuring out what we have," Dax said.

"Yes," Bashir said. "All while dreaming of and wanting to make love to you."

"Sounds manageable," Dax nodded in the affirmative as far as dinner even if she couldn't guarantee the rest of the night.

"Take a break and get some rest later," she made a point to advise before she left.

"Take a break and tuck me in?" he countered with an invitation.

"No…" She laughed as she left. Already five minutes late for Ops duty, she bustled into her quarters for a quick change of clothing, pulling her hair loose as she brushed through the door to halt. Worf turned around from his perplexed and pensive stance in the middle of their living area.

Where did she think he had been? Where did she think he would be? Flashed through Dax's mind as her smile flashed, filling her cheeks, hearing herself announce, "Ninety percent complete. I'm not sure Benjamin could ask for more."

She spoke of Lange's inventory, explaining herself without explaining where. Worf's attention followed her as she ran hastily past him for the shower and a change out of yesterday's uniform she still wore. He could tell by its appearance, he could tell by its smell. The aroma she carried with her was salty, sweet, Human, antiseptic, feminine, Bashir's. Who lied when he said he had not seen Jadzia, two hours ago now, whether he saw her before, or saw her after.

He saw her both. The smell was recent, fresh, close. Lingering in the air after she left to try and wash it away with the water Worf could hear running. She had been in the medical lab with Bashir, as Worf suspected, not the science lab where Bashir attempted to detour him. Not in Quark's, the Replimat, in counsel with Captain Sisko, Major Kira, or Keiko O'Brien, over their scheduled return to the Bajoran outer colony Dyaan IX.

Bashir said more than he realized, either that or Worf heard more than Bashir said. The fragile, frail Human, angry, hostile, begrudging, flustered, for reasons only he knew as he exited the Infirmary to meet the towering powerful Klingon and stare him down with the arrogant glint in his eye. Jadzia, flustered, startled, almost frightened, now. Worf took a step toward the shower and stopped to turn on his heel.

He was on duty aboard Ops ten minutes late, Jadzia ten minutes behind him. Captain Sisko understanding and permissive, aware Worf had spent the evening and overnight hours diligently working beside the Chief, determined to ready the Styx for departure today. Sisko would take late, if he had to. O'Brien's latest estimate was early evening when he finally broke to take a needed two, three, or four-hour break, two hours after Worf. Not because he was tougher than any Klingon, but because he was still mulling and muttering over his mind what to say to his wife Keiko when he saw her, if he saw her, if she would even speak to him; he'd find out.

Sisko exhibited the same understanding for Dax when the turbolift announced her hurried arrival for duty twenty minutes late. Presuming she'd spent the better part of her evening endeavoring to complete cataloging Lange's inventory while Bashir spent his time dodging slurs, hisses, and spits, and probably an occasional fist or two, as he worked to cool and treat the heated tempers steaming up the Infirmary. It was an event Worf knew nothing about. The Captain equally oblivious as to why he should make a point of mentioning it, and therefore he did not, or had not yet. The only point Sisko might find himself reflecting on regarding the Infirmary was the looks of it at the time he left and the knowledge that the task of treatment and cleanup would probably take Bashir the bulk of the night.

From his brief glance over the extent of Lange's inventory at the time of its arrival aboard the station, he highly doubted if Dax would meet her goal alone, and he'd barely the heart to tell her she didn't have to. Instead, while she might not have all the time in the world, she had the rough equivalency of six weeks. His smile held a secret when he turned away from conferencing with Kira at her console to greet Dax good morning.

Absorbed by what was on his mind, Sisko failed noticing Dax avoiding eye contact with Worf, her rapid pace slowing as she approached her station, her smile feeding Sisko's innocent belief as it strove to feed her husband's; quietly. She spoke too softly for Worf to hear her return comment which appeared to be satisfactory to the Captain.

"Worf doesn't ask for much," Dax disclosed as the reason behind her tardiness, "only an occasional check in."

"Reasonable, Commander," Sisko nodded. "Entirely reasonable…If you would please," he indicated her console, rocking her with the deadly calm request, "call Doctor Bashir to join us in my office." He turned away with a silent gesture for Worf to precede him.

"That didn't take long," Dax admitted under her breath as Benjamin walked away. The eye contact she avoided was Kira's as her hand touched the console to give Julian the fright of his life.

"I didn't expect to see you until noon or so," Michelle's plump grin appeared over Bashir's eye-opening cup of Klingon raktajino that was searing hot and black and desperately in need of something sweet.

"Yes, well, if it's at all possible," Bashir pleaded, "you don't see me until noon or so. I really must get cracking on this project of Dax's…For God's sake we have a scheduled meeting with Captain Sisko at 1000." He stretched out a grisly, stomach-turning row of Dax's contaminated samples that for some mysterious reason made him think of pastries as they sat on his desk. Purple, gooey, pink, pastries, delicious and waiting to be devoured. He grinned at Michelle whose froth of graying hair also reminded him of a pastry. "It's fair to say I'm not at all prepared," he confessed to being a derelict in his own right.

"It's possible," she patted his arm, deciding for Doctor Dupo-Frey that he was refreshed, not only bronze, from his two week holiday on some sizzling Bajoran island resort and eagerly looking forward to diving right back into the thick of things whether he realized this or not.

"My God I love you," Bashir assured. "What are the chances of you disregarding nutritional value and finding us a dozen or so of some illicit anything for us to consume?"

"About as good as my extending my shift until 1000," Michelle picked up the hint for assistance with a twinkling wink and shrug.

"Definitely I love you," Bashir swore as he cheerfully answered Dax's unexpected though welcome call over his com badge. "Yes, Dax? I'm here. I swear. In the Infirmary. Working. Michelle can testify…" he called Michelle back from leaving with a wave. "I'll be prepared."

"He'll be prepared," Michelle promised in support and harmony.

"See?" Bashir laughed.

Dax didn't, though she was calm in her startling reply. "Benjamin wants you and I to meet with him and Worf in his office now."

"Oh," Bashir said, his smile remaining in place. "Well, yes, all right…just a minute, let me make sure I have everything with me…I'm in my office…" his hand closed over the data padd that was either her compilation of Janice's inventory, or his medical log of the colony's inhabitants. It didn't matter. He picked it up to hold in demonstration for Michelle.

"I'll put a hold on those pastries," she agreed.

"Yes, please," he said. "And wish us luck."

"You'll do fine," she trusted him.

"I'll do my best," he assured.

She left and he touched his com badge verifying, "Dax?"

"I'm here," she answered.

"Quite," Bashir forewent his badge, sitting down at his desk and activating the console's screen monitor. Where here was, was aboard Ops, at her station. She looked mildly bewildered and forcibly nonchalant. He looked openly perplexed and strongly concerned as he motioned for her to use her ear piece rather than the public com system of her console. She did and he was free to question her in privacy and heart-pounding fear. "Darling, what happened? Are you all right?"

"Nothing…" she shook her head slightly; and that couldn't be accurate. Clearly something had happened.

"I don't know…" she carefully added what was probably far more accurate as his eyes narrowed in inspection.

"Yes, well, it's all right," Bashir reassured confidently and soothingly. "Whatever it is, it's all right; we'll work it out."

He meant it. Dax wasn't sure why that should seem surprising, or why she would have thought he wouldn't, didn't.

"Jadzia?" he said anxiously to her silence.

"Yes," Dax replied. "Yes, we will."

He smiled. "Good. I love you. I'll be right there."

It was a promise that he kept. Running, whether or not he flew, and since he couldn't fly, he did run, and no one would ever know by his appearance that he was remotely concerned about anything other than what he professed to be concerned about. That was the precarious health of a nine-year-old Bajoran child named Nadya.

The one risk he did take was joining her on Benjamin's small couch rather than occupying one of the two vacant seats directly facing the Captain's desk. Dax had avoided them, too, needing the comforting security of the arm of the sofa to support her. Understanding, much to her chagrin, she was nowhere near as adept as Bashir was in glossy, carefree lying. Remarkably inept, if she admitted it, which she did, to herself. She sat with her back to Worf, keeping her smile directed on Benjamin's somber expression. It was probably a guilty position from Worf's point of view. She seemed normal and natural to Sisko who seemed pensive and definitely wanting to talk. It was a long, quiet minute following Sisko's accepting nod that Bashir would be along promptly.

Julian was. His coffee in one hand, a data padd in his other. Cheerful and talkative and doing the unthinkable as he assumed his seat next to her on the couch.

That was dangerous, foolish, absurd. If she couldn't begin to lie to Worf or Benjamin with any hope or conviction, he couldn't begin to protect her or himself from Worf, and it was a position that put him directly between her and Worf standing silently to the rear of the office like a stone-faced sentinel. Dax's full attention shifted from Sisko to Bashir, sensing Worf's flex of annoyance, trying to keep the shock from registering on her face and her hand from grabbing for Bashir's arm in a frightened demand to know what he thought he was doing.

That was all right. Bashir was trying and succeeding in not patting her hand as he chatted on. Indulging himself and them for a minute or two with his typical, generally irrelevant insight and comments as he sat excitedly forward in his seat, his body hunched, his knees supporting his arms, his head bobbing in time with his prattle, largely directed at Sisko.

It was a defensive position, Dax realized. Poised and prepared to spring to his feet in a moment's notice. A purpose behind the difficult-to-follow, nervous-sounding line of chatter as it afforded him the time to survey their surroundings and situation that in the least were extraordinarily quiet. He mentioned this jokingly when he walked in. Something about the lot of them appearing lively, Kira's unenergetic stroll halting behind him.

"Major," Sisko invited Kira to have a seat as Bashir aimed for the couch.

She brushed it aside with her usual "I'm fine."

"Julian…" Dax wanted to say and did say, it sounding to her audience like her typical warning cue that Benjamin was tiring quickly of his nervous babble; he wasn't nervous. She knew that. He was breathless and excited to see her and very much in love. She stared at his slender, lanky physique that could be called scrawny, underweight, and undernourished. His raging energy and racing metabolism consuming everything he ate at warp speed, turning the nutrients, vitamins and proteins back into just that, more energy. It was a completely acceptable feedback cycle according to him, unmindful of the rigors it placed on his heart; it didn't place rigors on his heart. His heart was as solid as a rock, the same as the rest of him. He wasn't boyish. He was masculine, adult. The grin was boyish grinning back at her, adoring and brightening the love in his eyes. Dax fell wholly in love with him at that moment. The last small piece of herself she held in reserve yielding to being swept off her feet, figuratively, even if Bashir couldn't quite manage it physically. She wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the comforting support of his arm around her.

That was fine. He wanted to reach out and touch her, he almost did. He almost beat them to it, said it for them, before them. How, yes, Jadzia had been with him. Though, no, he wouldn't say they were having an illicit affair as much as he would say they were very much in love. What could they say to that really? Either of them? Worf or Captain Sisko, or Kira for that matter who was probably just there to help keep the peace, which wasn't very likely and what concerned Bashir most of all. He was definitely in a defensive position and quite prepared to defend if necessary.

It wasn't. Actually, it turned out to be a good thing that he didn't say anything because it wouldn't have been so much as saying something first as it would have been saying it unnecessarily, jumping the gun, as the Humans might say.

"Yes, Doctor, yes," Captain Sisko was nodding and quickly losing interest as Dax predicted in Bashir's connected, though irrelevant mention of the Infirmary. "I was there."

"Yes, that's true, you were," Bashir's head cocked backwards and almost upside down as he smiled back at Dax seated next to him. "And, well, since you were, I don't suppose you would mind mentioning to Dax how I really didn't abandon her to working on the last of Janice's inventory alone?"

"Oh, well…" Dax smiled in return, "if you're talking about the Infirmary, I believe I may have heard a rumor…"

"Of how it was probably wiser, if not safer, to remain in the lab? That's very true," his eyes twinkled. He was cueing her. She couldn't believe it. He didn't say which lab, but he was cueing her. "Of course I have my suspicions curiosity got the better of you at some point -- can't prove it," he admitted. "But I do have my suspicions."

"Well," she teasingly pointed to the padd, "I can't prove it, but there's hope apparently Lange's inventory finally did manage to secure your attention?"

"Swear," he swore, "I was just settling in to work when you called."

"Um, hm," Dax said. "Meaning?"

"Well, meaning," he settled back to drink his coffee, drape his arm casually across the back of the couch behind her and include the office in his conversation, not only her, "this morning was really the first opportunity I had."

"I see," Dax said. "And what exactly did you say transpired between the time -- "

"I left the science lab and you fell asleep in the medical -- sprawled," he claimed and she laughed; she had to. "On the console?"

"You don't know that," she denied.

"I do know that," he assured. "I'll never say how I know that, or why."

"No," Dax agreed before he got too carried away with his inventive tale. "I believe we were talking about you?"

"So we were. And, well, let's see, what happened? A minor melee -- which you may have noticed Captain Sisko states to have been present during for a short while."

"I did," Dax nodded.

"A cardiac replacement?" Bashir offered with a grin. "Somewhat untimely and timely at the same time -- which reminds me," he sat up straight again, focusing on Sisko, "I'd like to talk to you about my resident Doctor Ortiz."

"Yes, Doctor," Sisko nodded, willing to talk about anything, and right now really wanting to talk about something specific. "All in due time."

"Yes, of course," Bashir apologized. "Sorry. I'm sure you've called us here for a reason?"

"So I did." Sisko paused a moment before he stood up with his sober, somber expression, pausing for another moment before he moved to round his desk.

Yes, well, there's no reason to drag this out, you're quite right. Flashed annoyed through Bashir's mind and he almost said it out loud. He didn't though. He did however sit back, his arm returning to stretch itself across the back of the couch behind Dax. He almost put it protectively around her shoulders. Kiss her cheek reassuringly. He didn't though. He did watch Captain Sisko as he moved around to stand in front of his desk, facing Bashir and Dax, his back apologetically to Kira who looked generally bored.

Bashir wasn't bored. He was increasingly and rapidly growing less tolerant of what were clearly strained seconds of silence for whatever reason. He sat up suddenly straight again prepared to say whatever, whatever fleeing from his mind as Sisko as suddenly sat down on the edge of his desk, bursting into an expansive grin, chortling, "Congratulations. The results of your initial survey have proved impressive enough for First Minister Shakaar to request the UFP's assistance in conducting an extensive exploration of the region in question on the Bajoran colony Dyaan IX. That request has been approved with the UFP commissioning a field team for the period of one month…"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

One month. One surface month? One station? Federation? Bajoran? One month! Bashir's brain screamed as he sat there too thunderstruck to say a word to Sisko nodding at him.

"That team will include you, Doctor Bashir, as well as you, Commander Dax," Sisko advised Dax also startled to silence by what she was hearing, "and Keiko O'Brien in her expertise as a botanist.

"Jake…" His nod and grin moved to Kira, "has volunteered his services as a field technician -- community service," he explained to her.

"Makes sense," she shrugged.

"Yes," Sisko thought so. As he was anticipating Odo would agree with the frame of thinking, as well as the sentence imposed as being fair and reasonable. If by chance Odo did not agree, Sisko would tell him to.

"I am aware, Doctor," Sisko returned to Bashir, "you have worked with Jake before. "

"Well, yes, that's true I have," Bashir sat back, still too confounded by what he was hearing to say much more than that. "Not as a field technician specifically, but yes, as a medical assistant."

"Very true," Sisko said. "Nog will be assigned to assist Major Kira with any necessary security measures. With nothing too dramatic being anticipated in the area of security, Nog should also find ample time to extend his services as an added field assistant to the science team."

"Yes, well, dramatic," Bashir interjected, starting to come alive. "About the only thing dramatic about the colony -- " He stared at Dax.

"Good question," she agreed.

"Quite. Damn good question," he assured. "What colony? For that matter…"

"What anything," Dax smiled at Sisko. "Make that everything."

"Quite," Bashir said. "For example what initial results? You haven't had time to review our initial results -- have you?" he frowned, thinking of the overnight hours since they returned to the station and Kira's opportunity to discuss matters, results, wants and desires with Captain Sisko. In turn with First Minister Shakaar, in turn the UFP, and have them all in agreement, quite literally within only a matter of hours?

"It would seem unlikely," Dax nodded, "particularly since we don't have any initial results."
"So what?" Kira sat down with a shrug. "We'll get them."

Yes. Dax would imagine within a month's time chances were they would manage to "get something". "Still, it's very generous of you," she mentioned to Benjamin, carefully so as not to give him the wrong impression, or encourage him to rethink his decision, "to volunteer our services…"

"On a whim, Commander?" he grinned.

"You obviously don't think it's a whim," she agreed.

"No," he shook his head. "No, I don't believe it's a whim."

She thought. "In retrospect, Janice Lange would either have to be mad…"

"For reasons other than that, Commander," he assured.

She nodded. "Because there's a ring of truth to the tale as to how Janice Lange even became involved with the Bajoran-Cardassian caucus. Her petition to the Council of Ministers to extend her grant and include a botanist to assist her in her studies of her botanical ointment -- there is a Bajoran mummy. I imagine Kira's already mentioned that?"

"Yes," Sisko assured. "And that fact alone, Commander…" he had to say.

"Is almost unbelievable," Dax agreed. "What are the chances of a like, almost identical culture, certainly racially identical, developing on two completely different worlds, light-years from each other?"

"Extremely rare," Sisko understood. "I would think extremely rare."

Dax nodded. "Bajoran space exploration is only a thousand years old, not four."

"No," Sisko agreed.

"Yet the mummy is Bajoran," Dax smiled at Bashir. "Four thousand -- is that right?"

"Yes, actually. My estimation of the mummy's age was remarkably close to that determined by Janice. However, considering the limitations of the equipment I had available…"

"That is all scheduled to change also, Doctor," Sisko assured. "Mister Worf and Chief O'Brien have been working to install a science module in the runabout Styx on loan to us from the UFP."

"What?" Bashir glanced at Worf.

"With Major Kira's introduction of this issue of a child…" Sisko's upraised hand stopped Bashir from say anything further for a moment. "That has briefly delayed your anticipated departure from this morning to early evening as Chief O'Brien has had to make modifications to the supplied module to incorporate a fully equipped operating room."

"You're joking," Bashir said.

"No," Sisko was hardly joking. "I trust that should satisfy you temporarily?"

"Satisfy me?" Bashir repeated. "I can't believe it…as a matter of fact, I can hardly believe any of this. Dax is right. We don't, or didn't have any initial results, beyond the existence of the mummy, but no one knew about that…"

"Irrelevant, Doctor," Sisko shook his head, "as Major Kira said."

Yes, well, what Kira actually said was "so what". However Bashir supposed that could be roughly translated into meaning the same thing. "Why do I have this idea of community service as retribution is much of the issue?" he questioned.

"That idea also extends to the why behind choosing Nog, Doctor, yes."

"I presumed as much," Bashir said. "I meant First Minister Shakaar Adon."

Sisko smiled. "You would be right."

Bashir nodded. "Well, I suppose it's fair to say, what could he say?"

"Nothing," Kira assured.

"Quite," Bashir said. "Still, it's also fair to say that it took a great deal of confidence and trust on your part to arrange all of this prior to truly knowing anything."

"Not really," Sisko denied. "Trust and confidence only in that if anything was there you would find it -- which apparently you did. Four thousand years old," the idea fascinated him. "That is remarkable, Doctor, remarkable."

"Yes," Bashir agreed. "Probably best explained by an advanced peoples who either conducted some manner of trade with its less advanced neighboring societies, or plundered its neighboring societies for workers or slaves. The later Bajoran population of the planet can easily be explained by the Cardassian occupation throughout the sectors…which, speaking of, has Major Kira made you aware of the entire situation surrounding the settlement?"

"Much of it I would think, Doctor, yes."

"Including the fact that the current Bajoran population was fairly annihilated by the Klingon Empire, not the Cardassian Union?"

"It has been brought to my attention how that is a possibility, Doctor, yes. Though I would refrain from citing the Klingon Empire as being responsible whether or not the squadrons were Klingon…

"As I would, Doctor," his hand rose again in encouragement of diplomacy and tact, "keep in mind, the population you refer to is known to be Bajoran Maquis. A fact, entirely possibly known by the Klingon squadrons at the time of the raid, and while that doesn't make it right…"

"It also doesn't make it wrong," Bashir replied. "I disagree. But then I always disagree whenever someone's talking about people's lives. Apparently I'm not alone. Unbelievable as it may seem, and admittedly it is still quite unbelievable to me, Anon Dukat also disagreed."

He stood up, supporting his continuing disbelief for everything with a shake of his head. "Yes, all right. One month. That's an approximate six weeks sabbatical actually, considering the remote location. I'll have Michelle pull the duty rosters, make any necessary adjustment to ensure coverage is sufficient…which brings us back to the issue of Doctor Ortiz."

"An extra pair of hands?" Sisko smiled.

"No," Bashir said emphatically. "Thank you for the consideration, but no. I intend to discharge Doctor Ortiz. We can get into the whys later. Right now I'd like to have a look over our runabout -- Styx, is it? Odd choosing."

"To some Human literary historians, perhaps," Sisko concurred with the point already made by O'Brien. "To the rest of the galaxy, I would imagine a river is a river, and I would attach no significance to the choice."

"Comment only," Bashir reassured.

Sisko nodded. "You and Dax are welcome to tour the Styx, Doctor. If you wouldn't mind however, clarifying what you mean by discharging Doctor Ortiz?"

"Precisely that. From her duties. I don't like her attitude. Toward me is one thing, though I'd be kind if I said she wasn't insubordinate, because she is. What I really don't like is her attitude toward her patients. She's uncaring. Abrasive. Rude. They're a chore. A nuisance. Quite frankly, I'm not quite sure why she choose the medical field other than the mechanics are apparently something she can do."

"You've mentioned your concerns to her, I trust?"

"I have. Why?"

"We'll discuss it," Sisko promised. "I have a scheduled appointment with Constable Odo at 0900. Shall we say 1000? I believe I'm already on your schedule for that time. In the meantime, Major Kira can direct you and Dax to the Styx. Answering any questions you may have. Regarding the mechanics of your departure, the Defiant will be transporting the field team to a designated drop-off point, returning to secure you at the appropriate time."

"Yes," Bashir said. "One would presume all of that. Actually, if someone just tells Dax and I, for that matter, Keiko, where the Styx is, I'm sure we can find it ourselves. As we can tour its facility ourselves, asking any questions we may have, and offering any suggestions we may also have…Excuse me, but it sounds as if I might wish to discuss the matter of Doctor Ortiz now…"

"We'll be outside," Dax stood up with a volunteering smile for Sisko.

"Thank you," Bashir said.

The door swished closed behind her, Worf, and Kira. Sisko eyed his highly irritated Chief Medical Officer. "Well?" Bashir demanded. "Apparently you know something about Doctor Ortiz that I don't? Some sort of celebrity perhaps? A mother, father, uncle, aunt, distant cousin on the board who won't take too kindly to their little cherub being discharged? Well, I'm sorry, but I am not only within my authority to relieve any medical officer I deem unfit, I am obligated."

"Yes," Sisko agreed. "So is Doctor Ortiz well within hers to haul you up on charges of discrimination and harassment."

"What?" Bashir said. "That's preposterous."

"Maybe," Sisko nodded. "Probably…Does the word bitch ring any bells with you, Doctor?"

"Witch," Bashir corrected abruptly after a thought.

"She heard bitch," Sisko replied.

"I don't care what she heard," Bashir insisted, "I said witch. Manipulative witch, as a matter of fact, which was precisely how she was acting."

"Possibly," Sisko granted. "Probably…and inappropriate on your part, Doctor, either way."

"Oh, really," Bashir retorted. "I suppose it wasn't inappropriate of her that in the middle of my requiring she treat a patient with due respect the only response she can think of is to make a sexual advance toward me?"

Sisko looked at him.

"I'm quite serious," Bashir insisted, "she made a pass at me. I rebuffed it, of course. Flat out told her no. So, no, I can't see where I am guilty of any form of harassment, certainly not sexual -- but then again," he agreed heatedly, "for all I know, from her deranged point of view I may be guilty of harassment for the simple fact that I did rebuff her. Twice, mind you. Not once, twice!"

"Doctor…" Sisko hand was back up in the air.

"I'm telling you this is preposterous."

"And I am suggesting to you that this sounds very much to me like a personal problem. From what I am hearing from you, and what I have already heard from Doctor Ortiz this morning; a personality conflict, if you will. One resolved quite easily by the fact that you won't even be here."

"No," Bashir shook his head. "No, it isn't a personality conflict. I don't like the woman. That's very true. I want her out of my Infirmary, also very true."

"She will be," Sisko promised. "In six weeks. In the meantime I am requiring you trust, as I trust, that if there is truly anything wrong with Doctor Ortiz's approach to her patients, I will be advised of this immediately by Doctor Dupo-Frey, Doctor Hamilton, and so forth -- without!" he pointed. "The accompanying witch. Is that clear?"

"Until she kills one of them," Bashir said. "The man had a heart attack. He wasn't intoxicated; he had a heart attack. She was so obsessed with the fact that they were drunk, they were dirty, they were surly, that she didn't take the time to just listen. To just look and listen, and yes," he nodded, "much of that is training, some, part, all. That's why she's here. To train, to learn, and in the meantime the man is lying on the operating table and she is removing his heart and the only thing she can think of to say, mind you, is how this is all so unnecessary. How there is no excuse for the abuse the man has perpetrated against himself, and quite frankly even if that were true, at that point, at that time, it was none of her damn business! Least of all anything she had a right to say with her patient lying right there!"

"Go to Dyaan IX, Doctor," Sisko offered quietly, "I'll take care of Doctor Ortiz."

"Thank you!" Bashir said and exited in a whirl.

"Better?" Dax asked when he spun out of Benjamin's office onto the Ops deck.

"Yes, much…I think," Bashir agreed flustered. "Probably. He said he would take care of it."

Dax nodded with a shrug. "Then I'm sure he will."

"Yes. Simply a matter of how. It's all right. I'd rather not be bothered about it right now…more important things to think about," he grinned, aglow and wondering if she was thinking the same things, knowing she had to be.

Dax smiled. "Two minutes," she begged from Kira.

Benjamin looked up from his pensive pose, sitting on the edge of his desk when she reentered his office.

"Then I guess you won't be needing this," she held out her data padd with a twinkle.

"Your report?" Sisko replied. "Yes, please."

"It's really more of a journal," Dax explained as he took it. "A great deal of it opinion. Unfortunately there weren't too many facts available."

"That's fine. I'm looking forward to hearing -- or reading your observations," he chuckled, his nose wrinkling in reassurance as he rounded his desk. "Opinion or theory, I should be the last one to criticize."

"That really was quite a risk you took in organizing all of this," she agreed.

Sisko shrugged. "Perhaps. If I was wrong and there was nothing of interest to the Federation or Bajor, all I had to do was stop everything right here."

Dax nodded. "With Shakaar taking the tongue lashing from the UFP for wasting more than their time."

"Exactly," he said. "As he is welcome to take to the praise. All part of the agreement, Commander, and quite frankly either way, I can't see where First Minister Shakaar could complain. Indeed, he is lucky, and he knows it."

"It's a sensitive situation," Dax understood. "Far beyond Janice Lange and Shakaar's knowledge of an impending terrorist threat to the conference."

"The issue of Anar," Sisko acknowledged, "remains very much unresolved. Uncertain as to the best resolve. Subjectively, while the foreseeable future will likely find the settlement absorbed as a Bajoran colony, it is entirely possible offers of clemency and immunity will not include Anar. Certainly not allow him to remain in a position of authority or control. Beyond that, I can only guess."

"Self-exile," she smiled. "Anar knows that. For everything he is and may have been he's not a fool."

"Debatable," Sisko's chin tipped. "However, given the alternatives and his claim to prefer anonymity to life in the spotlight, I also can't see where our Mister Anar could, or will complain."

"He may not." Dax considered Elise as the candidate to replace Anar as the town's Elder. A role she could see Elise assuming, one she could see her capable of doing. More stringent in certain areas probably where Anar was likely more lenient, personal behaviors, definitely, but also general routine.

She smiled again. "However, whether or not an exchange of power at this time would be in our best interest or the colony's regardless of Anar's personal wants or preferences, is a crucial question…one, I have an idea," she offered, "Anar's also having difficulty answering. But then I'm not so sure his initial role as a Maquis leader wasn't cast upon him, probably due to his skills, among them organizational.

"I'm not so sure," she said, "he didn't at least try to rule from the background. Meaning, I'm not so sure how many people are aware of his true identity whether or not they are aware of his chosen name, other than those of a trusted nucleus -- that I suspect has grown in size, not shrank."

Benjamin was listening to her attentively. She indicated her journal. "It's all in there, including my opinion on Anar's ability to find his way to the station; Lange's shuttle. He'd like the reason to be more mysterious, probably to tease, possibly because he believes we'd like it to be more mysterious. In the meantime, his engineering skills are as adept as Kira's or the Chief's…which, yes," she admitted, "opens the door to where is Lange's shuttle?" Plausibly, it was either docked somewhere on Bajor Prime, waiting to be secured, or aboard Anon's Galor-battle cruiser, the Tir, waiting to be returned.

"Either would be reasonable," Sisko concurred when offered the choice.

"Though it is somewhat Romulan of him," she teased, "to expect to be able to rule effectively from behind closed doors."

"What works, works, Commander," Sisko granted. "Unmindful or how exactly or why. Whether the identity of the Romulan Praetor would ultimately be found to be a collective body rather than a single man or woman, for that matter a computer. It's an interesting correlation. Feasible an outsider, one or several, may adopt such an approach as their standard, or foundation, indeed, many have. You may be right our Mister Anar is simply one of them, inspired by a personal desire to 'remain behind the scenes'. His longevity, not withstanding the length of his chosen career, certainly supports your conclusion of some form of masked avenger."

"Opinion only," she laughed, her fingers tapping on her data padd he had placed down on his desk. "One that honestly hopes you can be as generous in your understanding of them. Whatever threat they once posed, they're survivors, Benjamin, barely. Persistent only in their audacity to hope when they are without hope. Julian's right about that and really most everything else he feels -- about the colony," she smiled, clarifying for herself as Alexis Ortiz flitted briefly across her mind. "For different, probably simpler reasons than Kira, but I know they both find the situation, particularly Nadya's, unacceptable and offensive."

Regarding Ortiz she refrained from commenting or asking. Not previously aware anything had transpired between Julian and Ortiz, though apparently something had, much to Julian's vexation, she was uncertain as to what would be her motive behind any inquiry.

"I appreciate and understand both Major Kira and Doctor Bashir's position," Sisko assured her. Though he had only heard one of them, he had an acute idea from Kira of what was, and would be Bashir's.

"I'm glad," Dax said. "I'm very glad."

He glanced at the data padd. "However, if you're hoping to somehow persuade me to excuse Anar or any of his group carte blanche -- "

"No," she said. "Separate, not excuse. The past from the present."

"Eighteen months isn't a very long time, old man," he reminded her gently.

She started slightly with his invocation of Curzon, his one-time close friend from the time of his days as a young cadet until the day of the Ambassador's death eight years ago. For the first time ever she felt herself wondering what Julian was asking her to wonder if now or ever, Benjamin, or anyone, were talking to Jadzia Dax at all?

"It's a lifetime, Benjamin," she activated his console, Bajor Prime appearing on his monitor screen. A world of fifty million dead and twenty times that number of survivors, thriving or trying to on a planet of trillions of graves spread over however many lifetimes. Some better, some possibly worse.

"There are at least two thousand graves on Dyaan IX, Kira, Julian, and I calculate," Dax told him. "Possibly as many as five, possibly as many as ten. Very few of them I would think Klingon. There are thirty-five survivors. If there are any other inhabitants of that world they are in the same dire and primitive straits as the colony because they certainly didn't stop by to introduce themselves, or to check us out, which I would have thought they would have, if they were capable, or even out there. Can you imagine, Benjamin? Can you? I know you can, I know you have had to, and it's so very sad if it's nothing else. It's just so very sad."

He looked up at her trying to assimilate and understand what she was saying. Her smile flickered, changing the subject to some extent. "Which only leaves Jake -- I believe I understand your reasoning and choice of Nog."

"An effort to maintain confidentiality for the time being, Commander, of course."

"Yes," she said. "Though I admit I'm completely lost on this -- community service idea?"

His grin reemerged. "Before saying Jake's involvement in the field expedition was not exactly my idea -- "

"Now that I would have to say I already know," she laughed. "But then we are how many sectors away? How many light-years?"

"Enough," Sisko assured. "Certainly more than enough."

"However he is nineteen," Dax offered. "What can you really say? Or do?"

Something else Sisko would prefer not to have to admit. "Not too much really. Caution? Perhaps? Advice?"

"Threats of disowning, disinheritance, confinement," Dax nodded. "My goodness this sounds all too familiar; I think I've been through this before; I know I have. And the latter alternatives while tempting, really are a little too harsh."

"Yes," Sisko agreed, "they are certainly both. However, so is the idea of a suspended sentence rather than proposing community service as a reasonable alternative."

"Suspended sentence," Dax repeated.

"Jake and Nog were arrested during last night's melee at Quark's."

"I don't believe it," she said immediately.

"Thank you," Sisko said. "Neither do I, and quite frankly I'm not aware of anyone who does.

"Kassidy," Dax smiled, naming one who definitely wouldn't believe any such nonsense, and more than likely the one who initiated the suggestion of including Jake in the field expedition. Probably in an effort to soften Benjamin's fiercely adamant disapproval of the Maquis that in its intensity could threaten to cloud the issue of the colony he was attempting to resolve. Possibly as a way to offer him an objective, yet youthful, yet clear impression of the situation. It was a good idea. She thought about her journal and what she hoped to accomplish through it. Basically it was the same idea.

"Doctor Bashir," Sisko named another staunch defender of Jake and Nog. "Major Kira -- Constable Odo as well is hardly inclined to cite either of them with willful intent. That doesn't mean there doesn't have to be an examination into the facts or a reasonable and acceptable explanation. If you expect it from one it's accurate, and only fair that you have to expect it from everyone."

"What is the explanation?"

"Poor judgment," he would say. "Involving themselves when what they should have done was step back and let security do their job. Therefore, learning what one's natural instinct tells you isn't always the best, or correct action in this instance. Difficult to accept when one's friend or family member is involved, which was the case in that it was Leeta. Nevertheless it is a lesson that must be learned."

"Definitely a reasonable alternative," she supported imposing a session of community service. "Educational, as well. For both Nog and Jake; Jake has an interest in field reporting."

"Yes," Sisko agreed. "Now if only I could somehow forget that 'field' is in the heart of a colony of Maquis."

Dax laughed. "Former Maquis, now respectable farmers. Startled, clumsy, but enthusiastic about reviving the land and themselves. If there's a field, which there are a few scattered and struggling, they're the expected grain and vegetation, with the unexpected addition of grapes. Anar holds a fascination with cultivating vineyards. It isn't practical, but he's peculiar I would say, about his task. Devoted. Religious in tending. Reverent when he speaks of the idea. I'm not sure why -- but then, I'm not sure about a lot of things," she confessed with a pat of his arm as she left, "simply full of opinions."

"Well? Where to?" Bashir prodded Kira as they moved across the Ops deck, clamoring up the steps for the turbolift. "You really don't have to escort us, but you do have to tell us unless you want us wandering the upper pylons -- oh, damn," he abruptly shrank back against the rail with a groan as the lift engaged.

"What now?" Kira insisted.

"Nothing," Bashir sighed. "Only that Leeta was right. Rom is leaving again; he's leaving today."

"So?"

"I told her he wasn't?" he grimaced. "I don't suppose you could tell her I was wrong, could you? Quite innocently wrong, I mean?"

Kira regarded him skeptically.

"For the sake of the station?" Bashir proposed. "I'll show you my chest, if you insist -- I know that probably sounds a bit odd -- "

"No, I don't want to see your chest," Kira shook her head.

"You sure? It really is the only evidence I have on me -- "

"I don't want to see your chest!" she slapped his hand away from his jumpsuit. "What's the matter with your chest?"

"Big bruise," Bashir stepped out of the lift with a smile and a nod for her, Dax, and Worf. "Honest. Big one. Right here. Hurt like the devil, too -- Cardassian handcuffs? I guess it did."

"Well, fix it," Kira said as they strode off down the corridor for the shuttle bay. "There something wrong with you that you can't fix it?"

"No, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm just saying -- using it as an example, if you will…"

Or for some other reason. Or for simply conversation. It was one or the other. Dax smiled in agreement to herself, not really wanting to get into a pattern of thinking there was a hidden meaning or reasoning behind everything Julian said or did. "So there was something going on," she remarked amiably to Worf walking silently beside her.

His head jerked, her voice unexpected, an invisible question mark on his reply, an attempt to verify what she meant. "With Captain Sisko."

She looked into his eyes for the first time in days. He was depressed. That was a strain for a Klingon, a species who didn't handle emotion well if only because they handled it too much. She tried her smile again in a faint effort to make him feel better.

"Oh, well, that's really no mystery…" Julian jealously, gregariously and jokingly popped his way into their conversation because for all the things that had changed over the past two weeks there were also the things that hadn't.

Dax just shook her head, hearing Worf's classic huff and facing Bashir's classic grin. "What's no mystery?

"Regarding Shakaar and Captain Sisko's idea of community service, you mean?"

"No…" Dax did not mean anything. Benjamin's concept of "sentencing" Shakaar to a period of community service was all Benjamin could do to make his point emphatically clear to Bajor's First Minister.

"No…" Bashir agreed. "You mean Jake and Nog."

"No…" Again Dax didn't mean anything. "Apparently you do," she smiled.

"They were arrested," Bashir explained on their way through the door into the shuttle bay, "during that brawl at Quark's."

"Benjamin informed me," Dax nodded.

"We do not believe it," Worf added.

"Who does?" Bashir shrugged as he stopped in surprise, probably more to do with the sheer size of the runabout really than anything else. "Apparently however believing and having to treat everyone fairly and equably are two different things -- it's big."

"It's very big," Dax agreed impressed.

"And brand new," Bashir said. "Not just merely clean -- come on." He set out to race her across the bay and check out their new home for a month anyway, screeching to a halt halfway through the midsection with a whooping, cheering, "Yes!"

"Two showers," Dax explained to Kira. "Julian's happy now."

He was ecstatic, but he kept it to himself as best he could. Though he did end up showing them all his chest, but only because the tour wouldn't have been complete unless he actually got to try out his new fully-equipped Infirmary and adjoining operating suite, not merely load something into the data banks.

"You're obsolete," he grinned up at Dax.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"Your immunity record," he straightened up. "Six months. Kira could stand a number of boosters as well."

"Uh, huh," Kira said.

"See for yourself. It's two years since you and Dukat ventured out for Korma."

"Why does it seem like yesterday?" Dax agreed with Kira's scowl.

"Maybe because I'm still sick," Kira pushed Bashir aside. "Let me see that file."

"It's all right," Bashir said. "Not too much to do anyway except lounge around and wait for the Chief and Worf to complete assembly."

"Maybe you don't," Kira assured.

"As maybe you enjoy lounging on the bathroom floor with your head hung over the toilet wishing it was a hallucination," Dax said. "Personally, if I'm going to have to suffer the consequences, I'd like to at least have had the fun."

"No, my record is fine," Bashir laughed, "and I have plenty to do."

"Uh, huh," Kira jammed her finger in his ribs with a nod for the console. "Four years. The last time you had an immunization series Jaro was Minister."

"Now isn't that interesting," Dax smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Sisko's fingers drummed on Odo's desk. "Recommendation, Constable?"

Odo grunted. "You seem to have been doing fine on your own. You've got Shakaar agreeing to a six-week science expedition, and me considering a six-week sentencing to community service."

Sisko smiled. "Not to be misunderstood as an admission of guilt. A lesson perhaps, yes, in learning to exercise better judgment."

"Yes, well, community service isn't a sentence, so it sounds as if we may be even," Odo stared past Sisko to where the two teenage criminals sat in the outer lobby of his security office awaiting their fate. "How long have they been out there?"

Sisko didn't know. As long as he had been in here?

"We'll leave them there awhile longer," Odo decided. "Make sure that lesson of yours gets off to a good start. What other recommendation can I make -- oh, yes, Ortiz.

You want an impartial opinion from a doctor on a doctor about another doctor. Interesting notion."

"I believe I'm less interested in finding someone to disagree with Doctor Bashir, Constable, than I am in insuring myself discharging, or not discharging a resident is the appropriate action."

"For the crime committed," Odo nodded. "Pardon the parallel, though it's one you might want to consider using. Pretend she's a cadet. Draw an association. Rude to an Ambassador, whatever. Then what would you do? Same rules, different game, that's all."

"Either or, Constable," Sisko assured. "Either or."

"Depends on how rude. In that case then my recommendation would be probably the best opinion you're going to get is Bashir's, whether or not it's impartial. Is he sure, or is he just angry? Want to give him time to think about it? How crucial is this? That's your first decision."

"Crucial?" Sisko thought. "As far as jeopardizing patient safety and security? Doctor Bashir is angry, rightfully so. Crucial as far as jeopardizing the flow of the Infirmary?" he looked at Odo. "That is also important, Constable. Intangible and invaluable."

"Don't overrule him then," Odo suggested. "Give the decision back to him. Tell him you're giving the decision back to him, now, or when he's cooled down, and that you trust him to make the right one; he will."

"Point…" Sisko nodded slowly. "Yes, that's a very good point…thank you."

"Anytime," Odo grunted. "Now, getting back to this idea of yours about community service…"

Sisko looked at him.

Odo rolled his eyes. "That's what I thought. All right. Community service it is. How long did you say they have been out there?"

"I don't know," Sisko said. "Thirty, forty minutes?"

"We'll let it go a few minutes more," Odo agreed. "Coffee?"

"Okay, so what are they doing in there?" Nog complained, burrowed down in his seat, his short, dangling legs and feet kicking against Jake's chair.

"Talking?"

"They've been talking an hour. We've been out here an hour."

"Working out the details then," Jake shrugged. "I don't know. Relax. Everything's fine."

"Uh, huh. Where have I heard that before?" Nog scoured the lobby skeptically, waiting for you-know-who to show up there, if she had the nerve; she did. Nog glared, Ziyal laughed.

"Miss me?"

"Like my uncle Quark misses my mother," Nog assured.

"Nog, Ziyal didn't have anything to do with Quark's." Jake had a lot of faith in a dead dame he barely knew.

"No, she just happened to be there at the time my mother decided to take the place apart; I buy that. Makes sense to me."

"It's not a classic case of alien possession."

"Wait and see," Nog threatened. "I'm telling you, wait and see."

Jake nodded. "I think my father liked my idea better."

"Only," Nog advised Ziyal, "because he wouldn't let me tell him mine. He wouldn't let me explain you to him. I wonder why?"

"We're in enough trouble," Jake reminded.

"Tell me about it," Nog said. "Look, one really simple question, all right? If her father sees her and he's crazy, and you and I see her, what does that make us?"

Jake sighed. "Must you always look on the dark side of things?"

"Must you always look on the bright? I'm telling you we have two choices here. That's it, two. We're lo-lo-lo-loco, or your pal Ziyal is an alien lifeform. Take your pick."

"What happened to dead?" Jake grinned at Ziyal.

Nog did not. "We should be so lucky -- hello! Will you just answer the question? Bottom line, just give us the bottom line. Are we, or are we not nuts?"

"Oh, well, I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe?"

Nog snorted. "In your dreams. Your father was out in the Delta Quadrant long before you showed up, everyone knows that. So whatever your scheme is, I'm telling you for the last time it isn't going to work. Jake and I aren't even going to be here. We're scheduled for field assignment with Doctor Bashir, Commander Dax -- "

"And Keiko O'Brien." Ziyal nodded. "Dyaan IX. It's so pretty and peaceful there now that the mines are closed. That's really a lot of Anar's concerns. They don't want to lose the tranquility of their new life even if means sacrificing technical standards -- "

"What?" Jake said to Nog gawking at him.

"What do you mean what?" Nog sputtered. "You were the one wandering around Bajor Prime for the last two months, not me. You were the one hailing me oh, hey, I'm back, wanna meet me on the Promenade?'"

"So?"

"So you were the one who introduced me to her, okay?" Nog shrieked. "I didn't introduce you, you introduced me! That's so, okay? That's so -- what?" He snarled at who turned out to be Captain Sisko, but only because such was his luck.

"Sir!" Nog jumped to his feet, snapping to attention with a respectful salute. "So what, Sir! How can I help you, Sir? Cadet Nog at your service!"

"Nog's annoyed because he thought he had a date set up for this weekend," Jake explained.

"That isn't entirely accurate, Sir," Nog refuted to Sisko.

"Yes, it is accurate," Jake nodded.

"No it isn't!" Nog turned on him. "What's accurate is every time she shows up something happens!"

"Coincidence," Jake shook his head.

"I'll give you coincidence!" Nog whirled back on Sisko and Ziyal's grinning leer teasing him over the Captain's shoulder; he blinked.

"Leeta," Jake offered his father.

"Major Kira!" Nog blurted out.

"What?" Jake groaned.

"I don't know!" Nog waved. "Association, all right? Association!"

Jake nodded. "Women in general," he advised his father. "Can we go now? Doctor Bashir needs us to stop by the Infirmary as soon as possible. Nog's immunizations are out-of-date."

"No, yours are out-of-date," Nog bustled along beside Jake's easy-going lanky gait as they set off down the Promenade. "I'm fine!"

"Well, what did he do?" Jake taunted. "Mix the two of us up?"

"How do I know? Anything's possible. If you don't know that by now!"

Sisko slowly turned away from watching them to ogle Odo in amazement.

Odo grunted. "Yes, well, if you missed it, so did I."

"Apparently," Sisko agreed.

"It's all right. Here comes one of the aforementioned troublemakers now," Odo gave a nod toward Leeta, a sight to see in her gilded lamé body hose and golden spikes hammering down on them as she matched wit for wit with Quark milking his knee for all it was worth. "Maybe she can shed a little light, figuratively, of course. Not too much there to shed otherwise."

"I'll ignore that, Constable," Sisko replied.

"You can try," Odo supposed. "What?" he drawled down on the less flamboyant of the two.

"Life," Quark assured. "I'm talking life. Hers, mine, I'm not picky. Just put her in, activate the security field and I'm on my way."

"Oh, shut up," Leeta clouted him in the back of his head. "Who cares what you want? It's always about what you want."

"See what I mean?" Quark said. "Little wonder why her husband's been subletting the Klingon's old quarters aboard the Defiant."

"Wrong," Leeta corrected. "Rom isn't aboard the Defiant. Julian told me you and Garak are both crazy and I shouldn't pay attention to anything you say."

"Doctors who turn down breakfast with smoldering blondes should be the last one to talk," Quark suggested. "Okay, I'll bite. What did Garak and I say? And keep it clean, the Captain's listening."

"Rom isn't aboard the Defiant," she insisted. "He's not. He's nowhere near the Defiant. He's…well, you know, someplace else."

"Uh, huh," Quark said. "Well, I guess that must have been my other brother Rom who ordered up a short stack of pancakes, twelve sausage links, six eggs over lightly and eight slices of toasts because you-know-who is too you-know-what about going you- know-where to eat."

"I guess so," Leeta nodded.

"Uh, huh," Quark said. "I don't have another brother Rom."

"I know that!" she snapped.

"Well then?" Quark waited.

"Well then!" she said stubbornly.

"You had your chance," Quark shrugged to Odo as Leeta took off down the Promenade with a wailing scream for Bashir. He hobbled away.

"The Chief," Odo identified Rom's breakfast date. "The 'smoldering blonde' is probably Ortiz."

"Oh, yes, Constable," Sisko said. "One would presume."

"Which?" Odo asked interested.

"The Chief," Sisko assured.

"Um, hm," Odo said. "Still, it lends credence to Bashir's story of unwanted attention."

"Unbelievable, but, apparently yes, Constable."

"Why is it unbelievable?"

"Because it is," Sisko smiled. "I'll be on Ops."

"Lucky you," Odo grunted.

"Definitely." Sisko beat it out of there before Garak woke up to find himself decked out in a violet waist-length wig and a pair of Cardassian handcuffs with no idea why, or how either; Odo did, but he wasn't talking.

"Hey," O'Brien greeted his wife of eight years, Keiko. He stood outside his quarters in the corridor for about ten minutes and then he just went for it; he walked in. In a way he was glad he did. She was a beautiful woman, shapely and feminine in her appearance, carriage, and height. She didn't tower over him and she wasn't down around his navel somewhere. She was normal size for a Human female, average, ageless to an extent, though an adult. In her thirties, middle ones, with the classic shaped dark eyes and straight dark hair of her Human culture Japanese.

They used to call it race, one of the handful or two of known species who did. Subcategorized, or subdivided themselves into defined races rather than houses or families; they did that, too. They also once upon a time employed a caste system similar to Bajor's. They did a lot of things. Segmented, segregated, all long before O'Brien's time. Now the term race was generally synonymous or interchangeable with species. The categories broadened as "man's" world grew beyond a planet to a system, to a sector, to a quadrant, to a galaxy. Species, race, used to denote like people living on their individual worlds, whether or not their world incorporated different cultures, and whether or not the cultures got along. It hadn't changed much, the makeup of the level of existence or life commonly called humanoid. It hadn't changed at all. It wasn't any different as you moved from this world to that one. All alike, identical in their view and vision of "drawn lines".

Drawn lines were on O'Brien's mind as he walked through the door into his home. Not racial ones, cultural, gender, or even marital. Distance, maybe? Time? He hadn't seen Keiko in a year since Dukat got it into his head to try and rule the galaxy one more time. Like it mattered. Before Cardassia's Dukat, it was Klingon Chancellor Gowron. Behind Gowron, as behind Dukat, was the Dominion. At the moment, a long moment, stretching on to be nine months, no one ruled. They were all back in their corners, behind their respective drawn lines.

It wasn't like the year fell away though. How could it? He couldn't even comprehend a year. Maybe he could if there was something dramatically different about her, which there wasn't. She looked like Keiko. Concentrating, intelligent, focused, distant. There was this incredible distance between them that had nothing to do with light-years and nothing to do with time. It had been there a while, and he didn't have any idea how to cross it.

The honeymoon was long over. Married in '67 aboard the Enterprise, he just remembered being so very much in love. Molly was born in '68. In '69 they moved here when the station was nothing more than a hulking man-made pit in the skies above Bajor Prime. A hellhole. It had been a bad idea. It had been a good one. It had been an assignment, he had no choice.

It was Heaven, it was Hell, and what it was most of all was never the same again. How could it be? Dimensionally the former Cardassian mining station Terok Nor was a hundred, two hundred, three, five hundred times the size of the Enterprise, somewhere around there. It was a city, or at least a town, inhabited by ghosts, voles, scattered, skeleton crews replacing the close-knit expansive community of the Enterprise. It grew, it changed. It grew and changed so much that it was overwhelming to Worf when he arrived in '73. It made him nuts. He buried himself aboard the Defiant for the first year to escape the hustle and bustle.

Keiko just left. The hustle was chaotic, the bustle could be violent as multitudes of species suddenly converged on the station, first to work, and then to live and then to visit and Keiko wanted out. She threatened and then she finally just did it. First emotionally and eventually physically. She gave up her school and returned to her first love of botany full time. Her days in the station's arboretum became field trips to Bajor Prime and then assignments and studies taking her away for months at a time beyond Bajor Prime to the outer colonies through the worm hole to the largely unexplored Gamma Quadrant.

Initially she brought Molly with her. Occasionally she left her at home aboard the station. And then redevelopment of the ravaged sectors of the Alpha Quadrant hit more than a snag in its rebirth. Conflicts returned, serious ones as the Cardassian Union slowly recouped and regrouped from its losses sustained during the Federation-Cardassian wars. The Klingon Empire took an interest. The Romulan. Six years ago when O'Brien first came to the station it was deep space, out in the middle of nowhere. No one had even heard of the place. Today it was next door to everybody and their brother. A metropolis of bedlam where everyone clamored to have their say and do it their way.

The wars returned. The isolated incidents of collision became battles, campaigns. Worlds were killing each other, annihilating each other, choosing sides and drawing lines. Keiko's infrequent trips to Earth to visit her family became more frequent, always taking Molly with her, and then suddenly she had two children when her son Kirayoshi was born, and almost as suddenly she was home on Earth with her children to stay.

She didn't come back because she missed him, loved him, and couldn't bear another moment away from him. She came back because her husband of eight years was facing charges of attempted murder and physical violative assault whose sordid details O'Brien really didn't want to have to get into because they really didn't have anything to do with him. A general "what happened?" he could and was prepared to answer, expecting to answer and really wanting to tell her.

Simply how. How to offer if she didn't ask. What to say if she said she didn't want to know, especially since it was over long before she even got to the station. What to say if she said she didn't want to listen when he told her he wanted to tell her anyway?

The "hey," was in replacement of "hi" or "hello" when he walked in. The simple word quiet, uncertain, awkward, chagrinned. She was in the living area of their quarters, standing over the couch, packing. Forty-seven mismatched outfits, hers, the kids, cast aside, she was replacing them with field gear. There a day she was leaving already. O'Brien made a mental note to try his best and not bring that up or into the conversation, not directly. No accusations, no demands. No "why" or "how could you" that she claimed not to understand and therefore couldn't answer what he didn't understand, and he didn't understand it. It plagued him, haunted him, confounded him, their marriage, everything, until they had nothing. She had his name and his two kids, and he had a wife and two kids off somewhere, and he loved her. He did. He loved her and his children, and he knew Keiko and his children loved him; they did. They just didn't connect. They weren't connected. They were separate and apart.

She looked up when he walked in to dally a few feet inside the doorway. She didn't say anything "Hi" "Hello" or "Hey" in return, not a word. She didn't look happy, angry, or sad. A totally, totally blank expression on her face and in her eyes. No hate, no love, madness, or even apathy.

Waiting, maybe, O'Brien decided that, for him to say something other than "Hey." So he did. He said neutrally, "Where are the kids?" as he took a few steps deeper into their quarters and closer to her across the room from him.

"Sleeping?" he guessed as she straightened up from organizing her duffels. "Kind of late isn't it?" he continued in comment only because it had to be somewhere around eight o'clock in the morning. "What time did you get in?"

"Yesterday," Keiko nodded and started walking toward the kitchen for some reason, her voice as neutral and unrevealing as his. "I don't know…six, seven o'clock?"

O'Brien followed her, feeling his head bobbing along in agreement. "Long trip. Especially for -- " he almost said Kirayoshi, the baby, but he didn't. The baby he held in his arms when Keiko left was a baby only because he was younger. Right now his son could race out and run right past him and he probably wouldn't even know it was his son unless someone told him.

Unless he looked like him -- did he? O'Brien stared at Keiko. He had no idea what his son looked like. Monitors, screens, letters, just didn't cut it. He knew what Molly looked like and would be surprised to see she was so much taller or surprised to see she wasn't. He knew what Keiko looked like and he could scarcely believe he was actually looking at her.

"Well, I guess for all of you," he finished, understanding Kirayoshi was the youngest. Molly, really, a baby still herself, and Keiko the one who had to manage the two of them from shuttle to transport to shuttle to transport and so on, halfway across the galaxy.

"Definitely," Keiko assured how it had been long, retrieving a cup of black tea from the replicator. It smelled like Lapsang suchong, it probably was.

"You want something?" she asked, either catching him sniffing the air or simply being curious or courteous.

"No, that's all right," O'Brien declined. "Well, yeah, maybe," he changed his mind. "No, that's okay, I'll get it," he decided to get it himself, take care of himself, not put her out for no reason. That was the easy part. The hard part was figuring out what he wanted now that he said he wanted it.

He dawdled at the replicator. Happy to let him do his thing, Keiko sat down with a shrug at the breakfast bar, opening a package of small, fruit squares she had brought along on the trip for her and kids to nibble on. She nibbled on them now, taking a sip or two of her tea. He gave up and replicated a tall drink of ice water.

"Guess you want to know what happened," he went for it as his hand closed around the glass.

"Yes," Keiko said honestly, and that was a start. A big one. A good one.

O'Brien took a breath. "I put my foot in it," he admitted as honestly without self-pity or shame. "I was mouthing off. For all good reasons I felt at the time, which none of them were. Someone, they, the Threat Force, picked me up on it. Why not? I was right there. It wasn't why me? It was more, why not me -- do you want to take this somewhere more comfortable?" he interrupted himself to ask, realizing he was starting to talk quickly now that he was talking, and meaning someplace like the couch?

"No," Keiko was comfortable. She had a chair to sit on. A table to lean on. A cup to grip and a cookie to eat.

"Okay, this is fine," O'Brien accepted and sat down on the chair across from hers, trying to drink and hold his water steady, the glass already sweating as much as his hand.

"How…" Keiko frowned, mentally shuffling through the random details she did have from Bashir's hastily scrambled transmission notifying her Miles was in hot water, as in boiling, up to his neck, and urging her back to the station. "Is she?" she asked, assuming that to be appropriate if there was an injured person other than O'Brien, and if not, she assumed he would correct any misinformation she had been given.

"Janice Lange," O'Brien put a name to the victim. "Doctor Lange. And she's fine, I guess. As fine as she can be. She was hurt. Seriously hurt. Injured." Maimed, he didn't say. Brain damaged. Dead.

Keiko nodded.

"It's a shame," O'Brien acknowledged. "Really. She's nothing but a kid. Cute one. Smart. Didn't have to happen, but it did."

That was her classic argument. He realized when he said it. It didn't have to happen, but the fact was it did. That was the trouble she had with the station. What didn't have to happen did happen on a yearly, quarterly, monthly, weekly, daily basis, if you looked for it, and often enough when you didn't. It wasn't that way on Earth. Three hundred years ago it was that way and for the twenty-five thousand before. Then they got smart. They hadn't yet gotten smart out here. What did she expect him to say to her? Honey, you're living in the wild west. You're founding Rome. Landing on the moon, building the first shipyards on Mars. They were living on the brink of civilization. They were not yet civilized. She wanted civilized, and that was a problem, a big one, because civilized he couldn't offer her. Dreams, he could. Plans, admittedly some of them schemes. Trial and error. Blood, guts, gore, and mayhem. It all depended upon the way someone looked at it, and she apparently, obviously, looked at it one way, and he looked at it another.

He didn't look at it at all if she wanted him to be totally honest. She made him look at it. He just did what he was supposed to do, could do, and when he looked at what she wanted him to see, he was at a loss as far as what she wanted him to do about it, could do about it, which was nothing. What could he, Miles Edward O'Brien do to change the galaxy? Other than his little piece? Other than work with, assist, do his best, in a team effort to change the whole nine yards? He wasn't God. He wasn't some super-dynamic, extradimensional entity. He wasn't even Captain Kirk. He was Miles Edward O'Brien and he was starting to race off down this mental tangent that had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

"How did you become involved?" Keiko was seeking to verify.

Good question if she meant the whole business. "My mouth," he said again, if she meant the situation surrounding Lange.

She nodded. She meant Lange. His mouth, O'Brien wasn't quite sure she was sure what he meant. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering if she wanted the details, if he should offer the details, which were what he said, not did, said.

"I was crass," he extended. "Rude. Not to her, to Julian. I was competing with Julian. Against him."

Her face contorted. He heard her sigh before she sighed, "Miles…" incredulous, baffled as to why he would ever compete against Julian? He didn't know. Maybe he liked to lose? He always lost. Everyone did. No one ever beat Julian Bashir at anything. Not since Bashir let the cat out of the bag about being genetically enhanced and how all those times everyone thought he'd lost and they had won were only because he let them win. It didn't matter what. Darts, spring ball, racket ball, arm wrestling. O'Brien couldn't beat Bashir at arm wrestling. The scrawny little twit, half the Chief's size, O'Brien couldn't bring that arm down if he threw his weight against it because Bashir knew precisely how to hold his arm, exactly how to control his muscles. Worf couldn't bring his arm down. Dax. They'd snap it off at his shoulder first, and since they knew they would, they didn't try. They didn't partake.

Though Worf was probably tempted. Oh, yeah. It was getting around that time, getting close to that time again, when Worf would be tempted, as he had been tempted a few times before. A point that was neither here nor there at the moment, though it was relevant to a point O'Brien was hoping to make. In the meantime Keiko was saying her familiar "Miles, Julian is extremely concerned about you."

Which either meant she had assumed this, extracted it from his transmission, or Bashir had spoken to her since she had boarded the station.

"I know that," O'Brien just agreed.

"He's a friend of yours," she insisted.

"I know that," O'Brien said. Kind of hard not to considering Bashir announced it two seconds after he set foot on the station for the first time. He sized up the crowd of two dozen, zeroed in on O'Brien, for God knew what reason, walked up and said "Hi." Or "Hello." Julian Bashir rarely, if ever, said, "Hi" to anyone. He certainly never said "Hey." He was refined, cultured, sophisticated. Civilized. He was also nuts. Out to lunch. Out in left field. Pushy. Arrogant. Obnoxious. Superior. He was okay, O'Brien supposed. He liked Bashir. It took him years to like him, but eventually he liked him. He still liked him.

He had actually spent the last week even if he didn't spend the first, understanding Bashir's response, opinion, feelings, surrounding the whole situation that had happened. He spent the last week understanding Odo's, Kira's. They were right. They were absolutely right. The Chief was dead wrong.

"Honey…honey…" O'Brien interrupted Keiko's dissertation on Bashir's deep feelings for him that wasn't really a dissertation, maybe a sentence or two. "I know he's my friend, okay? He is my friend and he's right. He's dead right on anything he said. I let him down. I let everyone down. They didn't know what to think. That's it in a nutshell. No one knew what to think. I wasn't me. I wasn't acting like me. And if I wasn't acting like me over here, where then was the line drawn? When did I start acting like me? Where? When did I take it further? How much further? Where?"

She was watching his hand section out his words, his sentences, the here, the there, like a chop, chopping down on the table top. Not hard. Just chop-chop-chop, sectioning everything out.

"Were you drinking?" she asked. She surprised him unless she was just looking for a way to explain it to herself other than he felt like mouthing off because he didn't drink. He drank like most people drank, when he felt like it. Other than that he didn't drink, no more or less than anyone else.

"Yes," he said. "I had a couple of beers. But, no, I wasn't drunk -- I ended up being drunk," he assured. "I ended up unconscious. Intoxicated. Blown. But that was induced -- and," he nodded, "that was actually one of the things that even had the doubters a little confused. Too much too quick too soon. You know what I mean? I would have had to have been sitting there with a hypospray, drowning myself in the stuff."

"But why?" she said.

"Simple," he assured, "in retrospect. Scary as hell. They didn't care. It didn't matter if it looked real, contrived, or what it looked. That wasn't the point. I wasn't the point. Even she wasn't the point. The point was they wanted the conference canceled. And this -- her, me, Dukat, Quark's, whoever, wherever. This is what we're going to do unless you cancel, until you cancel, whatever the hell we feel like doing. They're deranged, honey. Sick and dangerous as they come."

And now that he had talked her into leaving with the two kids faster than she had arrived: "We've got to work on why, honey," he said soberly. "The us part of why. I was so angry. I have been so angry, and that's not an excuse, but it is the truth. We are so far apart -- I'm not talking about Earth," he assured before the argument started. "I'm talking about us. The entity, unit, us. I'm not asking you to meet me halfway because you can't, and I can't meet you. I'm asking you to step into the same area as me and for the two of us to turn around and look at each other. It's what we need to do. What we have to do. What we're supposed to do. Not live in each other's shadow, and not you go your way while I go mine. And I guess I'm asking," he said, "is it something you want to do?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

His life flashed before his eyes. It really did. He didn't know what to say for a moment. Not because he expected her to say "No. I want a divorce" because he didn't. He didn't expect her to burst into tears; she didn't. She just sat there and said "Yes" like it was an easy question. The simplest one in the world to answer.

"Okay," he patted her hand he didn't even realize he was touching. "That's fine -- I mean, that's great," he sat back on his seat and picked up his glass of water that was still cool. "Definitely what I wanted to hear, that's for sure."

Keiko shrugged, remarking, "You're so emotional, Miles."

He was. That he was. Or he could be. Rough, tough, gruff, emotional. Explained why when Bashir extended his lily-white hand in friendship Keiko grabbed it and crammed it into his. Nagging him to death until he took it, accepted it, became friends with it, Bashir.

"You're not?" he smiled.

"No…" She felt she was emotional about important things.

"You're important to me," O'Brien said. "Let me tell you something…" he inclined forward in confidence.

"Miles…" she interpreted the move differently and wasn't having any of it.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not going to get gooey -- or sexual. I understand." Which he did. He understood she just got in, home. That if she was going to come home she'd rather it not have been because her husband was under arrest. He understood all of that. How even if she wasn't angry, she was probably annoyed.

"Did you…" he digressed for a moment back to the question he hadn't asked. "I don't know. Did you ever think, maybe not believe, but did you ever think there may have been something to this? What happened?"

"No," she said as quickly as she had said yes before.

"Never in a million years, Miles Edward O'Brien," he added, if he correctly read what she didn't say.

"That's about right," she agreed.

He nodded because what was also probably right was never in a million years would she have, or should she have had to think about it. Know about it. Come to terms or deal with it. One of those things that should not have happened and did. "Thanks," he nodded. "Seriously. I appreciate that. Though if -- heck," he chuckled suddenly. "Though if you listen to Julian I have this wild man inside of me. This Mister Hyde dying, even if he isn't trying, to come out."

"Everyone does," she shrugged.

"Humans," O'Brien agreed. "Yeah, that's probably true. Definitely a few cultures out there who do, more than a few. On the outside, not the in. Did I tell you she was married to Dukat? Not Dukat, his son. Did I tell you that?"

"No. I heard that though, yes."

"Oh, yeah? Where? From Julian?"

"No," Keiko said. "On the shuttle."

She didn't say which one. It didn't matter. First, second, third, fourth, or last, good news like that traveled far and fast.

"I'm being facetious," he said when she looked at him.

She knew that. Though really she couldn't see where it was anything but news. Neither good nor bad. "Which one?" she asked.

"Which son? I don't know. The oldest one. Anon's his name. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Name to the face, to the --well, story, actually," O'Brien nodded.

"Yes," Keiko said.

"Who even knew he had a son old enough," O'Brien agreed. "Though it stands to reason he does. Heck. He's got what? Six of them? Seven? Eight?"

"Miles…" Keiko sighed.

"You don't want to talk about it," he said.

"No, not really."

Neither did he. To put it bluntly, who the hell cared? "Let me tell you what's going on with Worf and Dax," he ventured back to where he had left off before she started getting nervous that he was going to molest her ten minutes after he came in the door.

"Worf and Dax?" she said.

"Worf and Dax," he assured. "There's a point to all of this, so let me finish."