The nearest turbolift was a mere twenty meters away. Twenty-five good paces at most, yet it seemed like kilometers, a marathon run on broken limbs where each jarring step was felt in every bone and muscle of his body. But he had come this far under his own power and was damned if he was going to collapse yet. Not until he was safe within the walls of his own quarters. He was aware of Kira walking beside him, matching her normal strident pace to his shambling one, present if he needed help, but sufficiently distant to maintain the air of cool indifference she usually reserved for him.
Finally the turbolift doors shut behind them, and Bashir allowed himself to crumple against the wall, not caring if the Bajoran major saw or not.
"Are you all right?" Kira asked.
Bashir looked up, aware that he was half-asleep on his feet. Aware also, that he had never seen the major in anything but a uniform or Bajoran "peasant" garb. He was equally sure she had not picked this blue-green gown herself, that she looked damned stunning in it, and that she would quite probably emasculate him if she even suspected what he was thinking. The fact that the thought even occurred to him in the foggiest way proved one thing.
"I'm not dead, yet," he said, then after a pause added, "The escort wasn't necessary, Major."
"Commander Sisko seemed to think it was. I had the feeling if I didn't, Odo would have."
"Yes," Bashir tried to keep the dread from his words and thoughts. This was their Odo-- the constable, not the supervisor--and lie would have to face him again, sooner than he wanted. "In that case, thank you."
*****
The turbolift doors opened, and Kira stepped through. Bashir followed carefully behind her. She had gone only half a dozen paces when she stopped abruptly, turning so suddenly the doctor bumped into her. Startled, he took one quick backward step, as though afraid the physical closeness would offend her. How odd, Kira thought, from this one who is always maneuvering to get closer. But that was unimportant now.
Bashir's face was barely inches from her own. She needed to know the truth, and she was betting on his innate forthrightness and her own bluntness to obtain it for her.
"Did you do it?" she asked, her voice low and intense.
"What?"
"Was what the Klingon said true? Did you kill Odo?"
Bashir looked away, not meeting her steady gaze. She saw the emotion boil through his dark eyes, and she had her answer before he spoke.
"I killed a shapeshifter." The doctor's answer was so low and flat she barely heard.
She could see he was unwilling to say more. Remembering the first time she had killed, she understood some of what he felt--the confusion and the horror. And for her, the first time had been a nameless, faceless Cardassian foe, not a familiar face. Kira watched as Bashir pushed past her and walked away. He leaned against the bulkhead as he commanded entry into his quarters. The door closed behind him, but Kira stood for several long minutes staring thoughtfully
Odo was her friend, one of the few she counted on this station. One of the few who had experienced the Cardassians as she had. There had been times when they butted heads over security matters, but she trusted him, believed he trusted her, and even felt a fondness for him. Odo had always maintained his only interest was justice--fairly enforced. His obsession with security sometimes suggested methods bordering on Cardassian totalitarianism, but essentially, he was a just being.
It disturbed Kira to think that Odo, under other circumstances, could be cruel and sadistic. And yet, this other Odo had driven Bashir to murder. Yes, Bashir was cocky and in love with the idea of adventure, but he was not the type to kill, even with extreme provocation.
And yet, he had.
*****
The cool darkness enveloped him with a comforting gentleness. Silence lapped against him, and the clean, filtered air was a blessing to breathe. Padding across the main chamber, he entered the bathroom before requesting light. He blinked in the bright glare, startled by his own appearance in the mirror. No wonder Commander Sisko had been concerned. He looked almost as bad as he felt.
With great care, he stripped off the remains of his uniform, dumping it into the recycling bin. There was nothing to salvage. Even his rank pips and communicator had been confiscated and would have to be replaced. Starfleet uniforms were notoriously tough, but his had been reduced to tattered rags
Stepping into the shower, he set the controls at his usual temperature, then stood as the warm rivulets washed over him. He did not even have the energy to scrub and wondered absently how long he would have to stand here before the water alone would rinse away the filth. As the temperature of the water slowly rose and the heat penetrated his stiff muscles, he realized he was trembling. The past several hours he had quite literally been running on adrenaline. The few minutes of sleep on the runabout, the excitement of coming home, had all given him a false energy that was now slipping away with the water and the layers of grime. He damned well could sleep on his feet right here, but he had other matters to attend to. He slowly began working soap into his hair and skin, amazed at the quantities of grit he worked loose. When he was finally content that he was clean again, he stood for several more minutes in the hot needle spray. After all, this was medicinal, was it not? Had he not told Sisko it was part of his prescription for himself?
At last, Bashir shut down the water, wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the outer room. The temperature was definitely cool against his wet skin, but that felt good. Food and drink would also feel good. "Tarkhalian tea," he requested from the replicator, but instead of waiting for it to materialize, he went back to the bathroom, He stored an emergency medical kit in his quarters.
There was one more duty he needed to perform before he rested. It was the one task he had wanted to avoid. Adjusting the lighting to its highest level, he cautiously turned over his hands. He had hidden them from Sisko beneath the tattered sleeves of his uniform. He doubted even Major Kira could have ascertained the damage, he was so well coated with dirt, Clean now, there was no denying the injuries or the pain. Much of the dirt was gone, but the top layer of skin had been blistered away, particles of ore ground into the tender layers below. Filling the basin with an antibiotic solution, he immersed his hands, ignoring the sting.
When he had finished the task, he was finished as well. Stumbling from the bathing area, he forgot about the tea that now sat cold in the replicator. He forgot he had not eaten in over two days. Lying down across his bed, he pulled the top sheet over himself and simply forgot.
*****
Bashir stabbed idly at the now cold meal before him, his thoughts far removed from the hum of activity in the replimat. He did not, at first, note the shadow which passed over his table, nor the person who made it, until he heard his name.
"Doctor Bashir."
Bashir jumped, startled by the low voice. The inherent grumble in the carefully-created vocal chords, which had once been merely irascible, had in the past three days become threatening, and the young Terran, lost in thought, was not ready for the intrusion. His elbow tumbled his cup, sending its contents splattering across the tabletop. He was on his feet before he had thought of what he was doing or where he was.
"I did not intend to startle you, Doctor. But you never reported to Commander Sisko. We are both still waiting for your input."
"I..." Bashir began to stutter out an excuse, then caught himself and his breath. "I was on my way. But I needed to eat."
"It has been twenty-four hours since you and the major returned."
Odo's manner was not accusatory, but his words struck Bashir like hammer blows. He had spent most of the past day asleep, had only managed to drag himself awake a short time ago, and he still felt unsteady. His diagnosis had not been entirely correct. It appeared that it would take somewhat more than soap, water, and eighteen hours sleep before he was functioning normally again.
"Major Kira?" Bashir asked, partially to divert the topic of conversation from himself, but mostly to hide his discomfort at being this close to the shapeshifter.
"Has returned to her normal duty shift. She has provided us with the details of the mission from her point of view, and we have analyzed the logs from the runabout. However, since your experience was somewhat different, we also need your perspective."
"Her report?" Bashir had not intended it as a question the constable should answer, but be did anyway.
"Provided a great deal of information. We feel the transport of the runabout to the parallel dimension was an accident of circumstance, and unless those circumstances are exactly duplicated it will not happen again. Since your counterparts in the other dimension were not aware of the existence of the wormhole, it is doubtful they would crossover to this universe."
"Oh," Bashir said noncommittally. He was relieved to know they probably would not be expecting visitors in the near future, but that had not been his concern.
"Have you reported to the infirmary?"
"No, I was going to report to Commander Sisko before I returned to duty."
"The commander was not expecting you to return to duty yet. He was concerned that you have your injuries tended." Odo had remained a discreet distance from the doctor throughout their conversation. "He told me that if you did not wish to voluntarily go to the infirmary, I was to escort you there."
Bashir looked directly into the constable's eyes, making absolutely certain he showed no signs of the uneasiness he felt. "The injuries are minor and do not require treatment."
"How are your hands?"
The question, and the voice, echoed out of the nightmare of the past seventy-two hours, and the answer Bashir snapped back was a stinging retort. "No lopped fingers."
The constable tilted his head quizzically before pursuing his goal. "There was some concern on the part of both Major Kira and the commander about the injuries you sustained, particularly to your hands."
Bashir continued to stare at the at the constable, then stepped stiffly away and began to walk toward Ops. The constable was at his side instantly, taking him by the arm and turning him around. Bashir had been incredibly rude. He knew it, yet he could not stand here facing Odo. Not now. Not yet.
The shapeshifter took his hand by the wrist, turning it palm upright in the bright light. The doctor had cleaned the grit from his hands, sterilizing and sealing the raw flesh, and covering it over with a layer of synthetic skin to allow the lower dermal layers to regenerate. Though he knew it was foolish to treat himself, it was a simple procedure, much like removing a splinter, and he had not wanted his staff to see what had happened. He was not ready to answer their questions yet. Though he would not be operating for a while, there would be no permanent scarring or damage.
Bashir pulled away from Odo and continued towards Ops. Odo walked by his side, apparently determined to pry the truth from the recalcitrant physician. "Major Kira has explained the social situation in this alternate universe. Both the commander and I know your experience was less than favorable. It is also my understanding that an alter ego of myself was responsible for making sure discipline was maintained in the ore processing facility."
Bashir stopped. "That is a very polite way of putting it."
"I believe you are having difficulty making a distinction between that reality and today's reality."
"Yes," Bashir agreed, holding his voice and mannerisms in check, his body rigidly controlled as the angry words threatened to flow forth. "Yes, perhaps I am having a problem with that."
Odo returned Bashir's steady gaze with calm curiosity.
"And now, if you will excuse me, Constable, I believe I am late for my meeting with Commander Sisko."
****
"Then if you have no further details to add, Doctor, I suggest you report to the infirmary." Sisko's nod of dismissal held no latitude for argument. The commander had listened intently as Bashir recounted his experience in the alternate universe, asking an occasional question, or urging the doctor to speak when he found it difficult to continue, but otherwise allowing him to continue at his own pace. For his own part, Bashir had attempted to report as objectively as possible, and still he found himself battling a nagging sense of guilt when he described the alternate Odo's death. You did nothing wrong, be told himself. You did what you had to do to survive and return home. He could easily have logged the entire incident and had the computer transfer the information to Sisko, but the commander had insisted on a face-to-face interview. Bashir was certain Sisko was gauging his own physical and mental condition as they talked.
"Thank you, sir." Bashir rose to his feet. "It will feel good to get back into the old routine."
"Not yet, Doctor." Sisko also stood up. Early in his tenure on Deep Space Nine, Bashir had been intimidated by the commander's physical presence, but he had quickly learned that, while Sisko was well able to use his size to his advantage, he was genuinely concerned about the well-being of all members of his command. "Before you report for duty, I want your medical staff to give you a thorough screening." Sisko's hand rose to silence Bashir's protest before it was even fully formed. "That is an order, Doctor. One you would enforce yourself should any other member of this staff experience what you had. I'm sure your medical personnel are capable of doing an adequate job."
"Sir, I--"
"I am suggesting light duty for the next twenty-four hours. Of course, your own people will have the final word on when you can return to your normal duty load. You are dismissed."
Sisko returned to his desk, thumbing the hail signal to contact someone outside the office, effectively ending any protest Bashir might have had.
Bashir left the office, pausing as the doors swished closed behind him. Odo and Kira looked up to where he stood, obviously caught in a conversation he was not meant to overhear and, judging from the look on Major Kira's face, one she was not pleased with herself. As he moved away from the door to Sisko's office, Kira and Odo started towards it. To discuss, no doubt, what he had just related to the commander. They both nodded courteously as they brushed past him and disappeared behind the doors. Bashir waited a moment, undeniably curious about what part of his report they were about to discuss.
"It's good to have you back, Julian," said a soft voice beside him.
Bashir jumped, despite the gentleness of the words. Jadzia Dax slipped around his shoulder, to stand facing him, her brows knit with concern. "We're all glad you and Kira returned safely." Dax's tone was reassuring.
"Am I that obviously in need of assurance?"
"You looked concerned. If it means anything, Odo has some remaining fears that our counterparts in the other universe might follow you through the wormhole. He and Kira plan to discuss the matter with Benjamin."
"Odo assured me that was not possible. The circumstances would be too difficult to duplicate." Promises Bashir desperately wanted to believe, yet Dax's words left an icy well in the pit of his stomach.
"We believe that to be the case, but Odo prefers to err on the side of caution."
"Yes. Well, I must go." Bashir started to leave, anxious to get away from Dax, but her hand on his arm stopped him.
"I could arrange for someone to cover my station if you would like company," she offered.
"That's quite all right, Jadzia. Despite what you might have heard, I am not on the verge of crumbling." Bashir winced inwardly at the brusqueness of his own words, but the Trill seemed unaware of their harshness. Pulling away, he headed for his appointment in the infirmary.
*****
"How are your hands; Doctor?" The voice growled with hidden menace, followed by laughter as sinister as death, pursuing him through the darkened corridors with soundless footsteps, echoing and re-echoing through the emptiness. "Your hands, Doctor?" Laughter: "Your designation, Doctor?" Laughter: "No joking." And the laugh, insinuating itself in the roar of machinery, in the endless shuffle of workers and through empty passageway "Your hands, Doctor?"
Bashir sat up with a start. Cold sweat poured down his face, and his hands were clammy with it. His breath came in short gasps as though he had just run a marathon, or worse, as though he were terrified. Glancing around the darkened infirmary, he took several deep, cleansing breaths, assuring himself it had all been a dream.
He sat before the computer terminal in his office, the only light the winking indicators on the Cardassian screen, as the computer waited, as it apparently had for hours, for the next input of information. Bashir had been updating records, catching up on his reading and patiently trying to be a good patient, when he had fallen asleep, mid-sentence, still more tired than he had thought. The nightmare had rattled the sure calmness of much needed rest, and the voice had been so real that, even now, fully awake, he found it difficult to shake the feeling that he was not alone, that something watched from the shadows.
Bashir rose stiffly from his seat. His arms and legs, not fully recovered from his ordeal, were now cramped from sleeping huddled over in a chair, his flesh goose-bumped as though from a cold draught. The tingle of warning shivered up and down his spine as he strained his eyes in the darkness. He knew this infirmary as well as he knew his own quarters. Every form and shape was as familiar to him as his own hands. Studying the lifeless shadows, he found nothing amiss. No monsters lurked in the darkened corners, nor under the beds. Finally, as an afterthought, he commanded the lights to brighten. Standing in the middle of his office, the lights glaring at full intensity, he suddenly felt completely foolish, jumping at shadows like a frightened child as he had once jumped at shadows in his grandfather's vast libraries. The chronometer on the face of the computer glared the time. It was the middle of the night shift. Only one technician manned the infirmary at this hour. If anything unusual had happened, he would have noticed.
Shutting down the terminal and the lights, Bashir padded quietly to the front of the infirmary. A single light glowed in the duty station, but there was no one present. Probably gone to the replimat for a break, Bashir reasoned, trying to force the nagging tension from his spine, to convince himself that all had been his imagination. He had almost succeeded when a soft sucking sound behind him caused him to spin, commanding the lights up as he did. But, despite his speed, he saw nothing.
"Is there a problem, Doctor?"
Willing himself not to jump several inches into the air, Bashir turned to face the speaker, his head beginning to reel from so many twists and turns.
Odo stood in the infirmary, his head cocked inquisitively to one side, a bemused expression on his face . "The lights were off, then on, then off, and now on. I thought t perhaps there was a problem," Odo said.
"N...no." Bashir stammered the word through clenched teeth. "Nothing," he added more calmly. "I was doing some reports and was preparing to call it a night."
Odo's head tilted to the opposite side, acknowledging Bashir's excuse without words.
Bashir halted a brief moment before rushing on. "If you will excuse me, it's been a long day."
The doctor pushed past the constable, intent on escaping. As he did, his shoulder brushed against the shapeshifter. He heard a startled grunt, but kept going, annoyed with himself for his skittish reaction to a dream, but more annoyed by his continued feelings of animosity toward the Changeling security officer. The realization of how his actions might be perceived made him stop his headlong rush. There was a hushed quiet on the darkened Promenade. All the shops, even Quark's, were little more than blackened windows, sightless eyes gazing on the sleeping station. And though every ounce of logic told Bashir he was alone, instinct left him taut with expectation and dread. Something beyond the closed and locked store fronts was watching.
Bashir closed his eyes consciously relaxing. He needed to return to his quarters, to rest as he should, and then he would be fine. Except for the laughter. A ghost of sound, eddying and swirling amidst the background thrum of noise that was the breath and heartbeat of the giant space station. Muted, distant, barely perceptible as a slight ringing in his ears, the sound sliced through the silence, insinuating itself in his soul. He had heard it only once before, yet like that other time, this phantom laughter reeked with perverted pleasure and promised no good. The sound faded, wraithlike, beyond his perception, only to return, closer, more substantial. More evil.
Jerking his eyes open, Bashir searched the shadows for the source of the elusive sound, peering into the darkened store fronts until the ring of boot heels drew his gaze upward to the catwalk circling the Promenade. His breath caught in his throat. Leaning against the rail, obscured by shadows and throbbing light, stood Odo. Bashir glanced quickly over his shoulder in the direction of the security' chief's office. It was visible from here. Light poured from the glass fronted door, a brilliant slash in the velvet shadows. A figure cut across the light. Someone was within the office, and yet Bashir glanced back toward the overhead walkway only to find nothing.
"Damn," he muttered, shaken by what he thought he had seen. Assuring himself it was only overwrought nerves playing tricks on his senses, he glanced again toward Odo's office. Odo was there, not overhead, and certainly not haunting the passageways like a cackling spirit. And yet, the sound had been so real, the figure so concrete.
Bashir hurried away from the Promenade, not wanting to encounter any late-night visitors to the replimat. He needed to get away from here, if only so he would not have to explain the cold sweat that soaked his blanched face. He was either going completely crazy from the strain, or something was terribly amiss. and there was no one with whom he dared discuss his fears.
*****