"Why do I know the name Chronowerx?" Ezri asked, she was Trill after all and she'd never lived in a time when Earth still had private industry... but the name was definitely familiar.

"It's the name on the software company that essentially invented the microchip in the late 20th Century," Vaughn said, his knowledge of his species' past far outstripping that of his Trill and Ferengi crewmates. "But the reason you'll have heard of them Commander," he continued, his tone more foreboding. "Is because they're also the company that built the DY-100 sleeper ships. And those vessels will live in infamy for all Starfleet Officers..."

"As the ships that carried the Eugenics Wars survivors away from Earth and out into space," Nog continued; the pieces finally falling into place.

"Like Khan Noonien Singh," Ezri chimed in with her piece of recollection, the events of almost a century ago with the crew of the USS Enterprise on their now galaxy-wide famous five year mission being required reading for cadets taking advanced history, which Ezri had done in order to avoid some other ghastly subject she couldn't recall.

"Are we saying our guest is a superhuman?" Nog asked his questions, like that of any Engineer , were straight to the point.

"Not necessarily. The Botany Bay was an isolated case. Most of the superhumans who rose to dominate my home world in the 1990s died when their Empires began to crumble around them. Most of those DY-100 sleeper ships were rounded up by NX-Class vessels centuries ago."

"So how did this one get into the Gamma Quadrant?" Ezri asked, but they were all thinking it.

"That's the question isn't it Commander."

Bashir, his back turned, feverishly worked over a series of computer terminals. The Jane Doe lay prone on the nearest biobed, her vitals scrolling by on the screen above. Sickbay was quiet at this late hour, and even the omnipresent journalists, who had been waiting for her to recover for an interview, had lost interest and departed.

The Doctor was well into his second shift and even with his augmented power of concentration his will was beginning to lack. He sat back in his chair, discarding the PADD he'd been in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He let his body slip from his stool and made his way groggily to the replicator. With his back turned and his concentration on the swirling accumulation of atoms slowly forming his highly caffeinated beverage Jane Doe suddenly sat up.

Still without a care in the world Bashir turned. He had just enough time to see the fist coming, and then the lights went out.

She wasted no time. Her clothes were retrieved from the stowage compartment in her biobed and dressed quickly and quietly. Heading towards the exit of Sickbay she took once last glance over the unconscious body of her would-be saviour laying in a pool of his own drink.

Ezri had left Nog to his work with the cylinder. Her limited engineering or scientific knowledge wouldn't be of much use there, besides she was into the fourteenth hour of her shift and she wanted a sonic shower and a change of clothes. Maybe even a quick nap...

After entering the turbolift and stating her destination she asked the computer what time it was.

"The time is 19:45 hours," the computer stated in a voice some said sounded like one Betazoid Ambassador.

Cancel that nap then, she thought rubbing her weary eyes and remembering she'd promised an interview with that journalist at 20:00 and that hour was fast approaching. The prospect of discussing HER story didn't exactly daunt her but she was still apprehenscious. Though she was sure this was elevate once she'd had a morale boosting shower.

Still two decks away from her stop the turbolift came to a halt and Gregory Charles entered. "Ah Commander, I'm a little early but do you mind if we start our interview?"

Cancel that shower then.

After rerouting the turbolift to the mess hall Ezri was now sat opposite her wouldbe captor on the school cafeteria-esque bench rows, a table fixed between them. Ezri had helped herself to a steaming cup of something dark and un-coffee smelling and Gregory had opted for a rare variety of tea from Capella.

The interview had drifted conversationally and comfortably enough once Ezri had become accustomed to the audio recorder's presence on the desk before her. Eventually once their beverages were exhausted Gregory turned back onto the line of questions he'd given up on in the turbolift earlier.

"So, you're a joined Trill," he began tactfully.

"I am," Ezri agreed, readying herself for whatever direction Gregory decided to take it.

"It's my understanding," he said the conceded; "Which is limited granted due to the shroud of secrecy the symbiosis commission operates behind - "

"Now hang on," Ezri interjected, not wanting to stand idly by whilst this Human rubbished her people. "Shroud of secrecy makes it sound as if we're operating some sort of covert operation for nefarious means."

Gregory held up his hands; "A poor choice of words I can admit, but outside of Trill society we didn't even know of the symbiote's existence until 2368."

Ezri would give him that one, the Trill did have their secrets, and for good reason. Their society had already presented a odd mix of total honesty and openness and secrets behind closed doors, Freemasons gone mad.

The Federation had always tolerated this quirk from this member world as Trill's technological advancement, rich dilithium reserves and abundant population made her too rich of a prize not to, but the revelation of the symbiote's existence had caused quite the controversy across the Federation; particularly in political circles.

"It is my understanding," Gregory continued deciding the argument had been won. "That the selection of hosts for said symbiotes is quite thorough and competitive."

"Yes," Ezri said, realizing he knew about the emergency symbiote transplant, he knew the Dax symbiote was never destined for Ezri. It made the rush of emotions she'd experienced when she'd first become joined to come flooding back. She'd fought hard to get that one word answer out, and knew she'd need to be strong for just a little longer.

"But yours was an emergency?" Gregory offered her the word emergency and it immediately relaxed her.

"Yes, an emergency," she agreed, it was a get-out-of-jail-free card for her having to explain how she'd ended up with a symbiote, which was of course a massive bone of contention between herself, the commission, her family and Trill society as a whole.

"Not every Trill can be a host, there's simply not enough symbiotes to go around. Nor the will of every unjoined Trill... to be joined."

Ezri was trying to explain how Trill society worked. She wasn't sure how good of a picture she was painting for the Earth-born socialist reporter as she herself had left Trill at a young age to live with her family and then to Starfleet Academy and had been serving since.

She assumed she must have failed as Gregory's tact seemed to change. In fact his entire persona seemed to alter.

"So because there's not enough symbiotes to go around, those who are joined are treated... how? As better than the rest?"

"Wait, a second..." Ezri was standing now, her stood pushed away from the desk, her face a mask of anger and disgust.

Gregory joined Ezri on her feet, he matched volumes with her as well tet-for-tet. Thankfully the mess hall was deserted at this late hour.

"The joined. The joined are treated like gods!" he proclaimed, he was starting to sound as if he were preaching rhetoric, not conducting a civilized interview with a fellow Federation citizen.

Ezri had moved her hands to her hips and was looking at the man, a faint glaze of water across her eyes. Not from an incoming cry, more of anger and steely determination.

"This," she said over pronouncing her words, "Interview is over."

Ezri turned and began storming out towards the mess hall's always open exit. Her extra sense told her Gregory was about to speak again so she turned back to him once she'd reached the safety of another of the Defiant's non-descript corridors. "And I'm recommending to Commander Vaughn we immediately return to Karemma to deposit both you and Ms. Cartwright."

Watching her go in silence Gregory Charles weighed the options left open to him. His rant hadn't been part of his plan, but one could only suppress one's internal monologue so long before it found ways to squeeze out.

He took a moment to deactivate and then return the audio recorder to his pocket before retrieving a small PADD from a jacket inner pocket. He removed the styles from the holster on its outer edge and began to write notes.

The words at the end were: Symbiotes worshipped like gods.