The passage was level, but with every step as draining as though Bashir were climbing up a long, steep slope. The uncertainty of his movements was worse than it had been in his first waking moments of the morning. Relax, he told himself. It's nothing. You're probably just hungry. He did not feel any protests from his belly, but just because he had no appetite, did not mean that his body would not react. Barely noticing, he had somehow skipped the last three meals.

Just don't say a word to anyone - or they'll never let you go.

The maze of passageways beyond the common area were not entirely off limits, but Julian's presence would almost certainly attract some unseen attention. His gaze was drawn to the gaps in each wall where the back up lights had dimmed for the day. There - in the upper corner, and close to the point where wall became ceiling. It was the logical place for those in charge to have strategically positioned their covert but vigilant surveillance equipment.

Every sound was startling as a firecracker burst exploding at his back. Phantom pursuers chased him through the corridors, close enough in his imagination to send shocks of anxiety all the way to his extremities. He kept a sharp look-out, resisting an automatic need to turn and glance over his shoulder. The surest way to attract unwanted scrutiny to behave as though he expected it. He had learnt that lesson at the age of fifteen, when he'd uncovered the reason for all the lies of his early life.

Lunch was no more appetising once Bashir had finally returned to his seat - distractions never far from the fringes of his mind. Even as the sight of the heavy stew came to fill the entirety of his attention, he doubted that his situation would change that afternoon.

With a glance into the border of his visual field, he jumped - suddenly aware that another person was watching from less than a meter away. He had not fancied himself so easy to surprise.

It was the quiet, petite young woman, whose Autumn shade of red-blonde hair was her first, most easily recognisable feature. Her movements were as quiet as those of a cat, and she seemed to hesitate a moment at his side. Before that time, she had not so far moved from the background. "Sarina?" Bashir dropped his voice instinctively to a whisper. He had never consciously noticed the dark and silent kindness behind this woman's eyes.

"That's your name, isn't it? I heard some of the others…"

He faltered, looking down, and surprised to find that both of her hands were clasped around his. But he took only seconds to raise his head again with a confused and mildly puzzled frown. "What is it?"

Sarina's expression changed - turning with little visible movement to a shy, although quietly pleasant smile. Allowing her hands to slip away, she stepped around him and continued on her way towards the exit.

Bashir clasped both hands as quickly as he could, careful to conceal the tiny blinking device now nestled in his open palm.

Crimson light cycled across four evenly distributed points on the surface - even though the machinery itself was little bigger than a cufflink, and easily concealable where he had folded up the end of his sleeve to a point two thirds of the way from his wrists to his elbows. He did not know what instinctive notion was telling him that the shy young woman had heard his conversation in the dining hall - but he was no less convinced for all her continued silence.

One door in particular caught Bashir's attention and halted his stream of introspective reasoning. He instantly recognised the twisting and highly stylised emblem emblazoned across the outer wall. Two snakes curled around a straight, winged staff, forming a shape not unlike a strand of Human DNA. The symbol of Starfleet Medical had an ancient tradition, reaching back to the early religions of Earth.

Quietly surreptitious, he plucked the override device from its place of concealment, and finally let a single breath escape through his half open mouth. As he had suspected it might, the locking mechanism on the door gave way with little resistance to a brief but concentrated energy pulse radiating from the direction of his hand.

Where am I? He stepped through the open door and into a barely lit and narrow room. It had neither the size nor the complicated apparatus of a proper Infirmary, more basically equipped than even the Defiant's Medical Bay. Two long beds were positioned on either side, bookends to a trio of chairs facing inward at their centre. Some kind of clinic, Bashir assumed. He swallowed back a tide of bitter guilt - rising like bile, and which never entirely settled at the centre of his gut.

But then, what else was he to do? The challenge swelled to overwhelm his thoughts, even more powerful than the stomach churning uncertainty that had preceded it. Leave the room behind? Go back to the empty remnants of his life, to sit and wither in that deceptively gaudy but no less stale communal space?

Computer connections were very nearly omnipresent in modern facilities such as this - and basic functions were easily accessible by a simple voice command. Holding his breath, Bashir allowed his gaze to pan around the room. There had to be a terminal somewhere nearby. More importantly, a screen to show him the images he needed to see.

There were colours at his right, infusing the semi-darkness with a soft, luminescent hue. A computer panel? Julian wondered. With barely enough courage to allow himself the sound of a sigh, he crept forward until the console was within his reach. "Computer." He winced at his own half-suppressed vocalisation, but was relieved to be answered with nothing but a soft, mechanical chime. "Display outgoing message logs, beginning from Stardate 51320."

"Please enter authorisation code."

Damn.

With his jaw clenched so tightly that he could feel the surfaces of his teeth begin to grind, Julian was only fractionally successful at holding back the curse within his throat. He should have expected such a response. No, he corrected the previous sentiment. He had been expecting it. Starfleet officers were rarely stupid. He could hardly have believed that they would neglect to include a security protocol within their network's central processor.

"Where's Quark when you need him?"

Bashir's head was aching - subtly, but persistently - and with every passing moment, it grew more difficult to ignore. So, he was out of the computer. The question was - short of hailing a passing Ferengi merchant - what in the world could he do about that?

As automatically as if by telepathic direction, he looked down - and only now recalled the pressure of Sarina's override device against his hand. With the hasty drumming of his pulse already gathering strength as it rushed past his ears, Bashir was reminded of the slender isolinear rods that Quark kept hidden and used to break through the station's computer systems. He still clasped Sarina's gift between the tips of three fingers.

Gripping tightly, so as not to let it fall, he swept it experimentally across the length and breadth of the console's gleaming surface - and wondered briefly how far its abilities would extend.

The device in his hand emitted a subdued beep as it interfaced with the Institute computer. Five columns of initially incomprehensible shapes flashed and changed over the surface of the terminal screen. As Bashir watched, he started to recognise patterns in the apparent chaos - a detailed yet elegant algorithm starting to gather from the randomness around it.

"Thank you, Sarina," he whispered. Even a Ferengi would have been challenged by such a complex decryption sequence.

He leaned forward to watch the data ascend to the top of the screen. "Wait," he hissed - in a voice near to silence. The shifting columns before him stopped abruptly. Five lines down - that was the name that he had been hoping to find. A transmission to Adigeon Prime, from the office of Doctor Athena Nikos. At least he could be sure that she had passed along his message. There was no indication of a reply - but the name of the recipient…

"I don't suppose there's anything else on this file?" he muttered. Another harsh mechanical chime gave immediate confirmation to all of his doubts, and there was no indication that he was connected to any non-Federation databases.

Bashir reached up and scratched the pain of taut muscles away from the back of his neck. Better not stay too much longer. He glanced to his left, half expecting to find an accusatory face at his shoulder, but discovered only darkness and empty space. Nothing had reached his ears, he realised, except the sound of foundations cooling.

"One more thing, Computer." Even his hushed commands increased his sense of disquiet. "I need an open channel… to… er… To Deep Space Nine."

"Good Lord! Julian?"

It was a familiar face that appeared on the screen. A high, round forehead, topped by a layer of curly, light brown hair. Narrow eyes squinted intently. "What in the world…?"

"I guess I'm the last person you expected to see." Bashir discovered that his voice had turned slightly apologetic - although secretly glad to have encountered this face and not another. But he held his breath, anticipating the response.

Miles O'Brien snorted quietly, eyebrows raised. "You could say that. I thought you were supposed to be taking some time away."

"Who told you that?"

"Someone who should've known better, it seems. Then I'm assuming this isn't just a social call."

Julian shook his head. "Chief, I… er… I have a favour to ask."

"What kind of favour?" The frown was deep across O'Brien's brow.

Bashir set aside a wave of quiet resentment - although the feeling continued to clench inside his belly. It was hardly fair of him to react so negatively to the doubts of his friend. "I think I might have a contact in the Adigeon system," he began. "But all I can find is a name."

"And you want me to…?" The Chief's head was shaking in apparent incomprehension.

"Set up a link to Adigeon Prime," insisted Bashir. He glanced warily over one shoulder, but the peripheral movement that he believed he had seen was merely the effect of an animated standby graphic in another nearby corner. Heart racing dizzyingly, he turned back to O'Brien. "See what information you can find. I may not have access again - not for long enough to do this myself."

"But you think that I can?"

"If anyone can dig up half-buried files… And listen. I don't know when, and I don't know how - but I will find a way to get back in touch."

O'Brien sighed. "I s'pose it won't do much use to say no," he said, sounding ever more dubious with every word. "But wouldn't you rather be talking to the captain?"

"No." Bashir trusted Sisko, but all instinct told him that he was as likely to focus on the irrationality of his former subordinate's pleas as he was to heed them.

He shook his head, suddenly bitter enough to send a brief flush of heat into his ears. "I should never have agreed to come here in the first place."

There. You've said it.

So now what?

"Julian?"

He looked down, and discovered that his hands were gripping the edge of the furniture, so hard that his fingernails were set to press against the surface. A faint ache had come to the back of his head. Glancing up again, he saw a frown spread across O'Brien's creased and pink-tinged brow.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course. Why?"

Looking away so quickly that his initial reaction barely showed, O'Brien gritted his teeth against a temptation to raise a comment. Bashir found himself wondering exactly what the others on Deep Space Nine had been told about his situation. His own role had been central in several similar briefings - but the sickly, lightheaded feeling remained, forming a shroud around his attempts to think.

The moment of unsteadiness had only lasted a second. But there was still a mild gasp behind his voice. He shifted his centre of gravity so that much of his weight was supported by the tabletop, and blinked until his focus returned. "Sorry, Chief. It wasn't intentional."

Miles O'Brien was shaking his head. His expression changed to one of heavy resignation, as heavy as the sigh that escaped through his mouth. "Listen - I promised Keiko I'd call…"

"I'll leave you to it, then." Bashir's own voice was so small that he barely heard it himself. He gestured helplessly to nothing in particular, before hunching slightly as he turned to go. It was becoming a habit.

"But I'll see what I can do," O'Brien offered suddenly. "What was the name of that friend of yours?"

"What…?" Bashir paused for a moment, looking back. Of course. He still hadn't mentioned their contact by name. "Naron," he replied. "You think there's a chance?"

"It might take a while, but I can try."

The younger man smiled - although still a little sadly. "Thanks, Chief."

But his smile disappeared almost an instant after the transmission had ended. With the return of darkness, his eyes were wide, their focus sharp. He was even more aware of the sudden approach of voices from outside.