1. Default Chapter

Based on the episode "Crossover", this story was originally published in the fanzine HAVEN, 1995. This is the first time it has been posted on the net. Familiarity with the broadcast episode is essential for understanding the incidents depicted in the first half of the story. The story cronicles Julian Bashir's experiences during this episode and the consequences after his return from the mirror universe. Because it is set early in the series, the attitudes of the characters reflect my perception of their relationships early in the development of the program. 

Disclaimer: As always, the characters and DS9 universe belong to Paramount, but the plot belongs to me. 

Rated PG. Enjoy! Reviews welcome.   
  
  
  
  


AFTER THE LOOKING GLASS

by, Maddie 

  


Stumbling, he snapped himself back to attention, concentrating on where he was going, trying not to think of the nightmare that had so swiftly encompassed his existence. The heated air, far too warm for human comfort, the increased humidity, the dim light, all suited to non-Terran physiology, the omnipresent metallic dust clogging his nostrils and caking his lips, were constant reminders that he had been abandoned in a hellish world he could neither escape nor comprehend. 

His arms and legs ached from constant exertion, his bruised jaw still burned. Although he considered himself to be in excellent physical condition, he was beginning to doubt that assessment. Licking parched lips, he took a deep breath, as much to calm his jumbled thoughts as to fill his laboring lungs with air. How long had it been since they had passed through the wormhole, since their routine mission had, with the suddenness of thought, become far from routine? 

Normally an ebullient, over-talkative person, he found the silence of his fellow workers unsettling. Each plodded from duty to duty in wordless silence. None spoke, as though years of servitude had dulled their wit and will to carry on the simplest conversation. Or perhaps, as he had found out with swift and startling clarity, the price for conversation was just too great. Yet, he found it difficult to fight the urge to ask questions. Whose reality was this? What had happened to turn his world upside down? 

As the ore trolley trundled up the slow incline, Julian Bashir glanced backward over his shoulder. The armed guards at every work station made his skin crawl, though his human companions were as oblivious to them as they were to everything else. To the rear and slightly to the left stood the Klingon who had escorted him here from the runabout pad. He had always respected Klingons. A proud and powerful race of warriors, he had never had reason to fear them, yet they seemed well suited to the task of labor camp guards. Their heavy armor and massive size, in the ghastly gray light, sifting dust motes, and clouds of steam, gave them a particularly threatening air. But, he knew he could deal with the Klingons mentally, if not physically. It was the other that made his blood run cold. 

"Is there something wrong, Doctor?" The coarse voice dripped contempt making his title a filthy epithet. 

Bashir looked up to the catwalk that, an instant before, had been empty. The shapeshifter stood, legs spread, arms held behind his back, towering over his workers, looking down like an Imperial wizard, completely in control, feared and fearless. Meeting his eyes, Bashir tried to convince himself this was not the Odo he knew, not the Constable committed to justice for all species, but a ruthless taskmaster whose only pleasure was working each Terran captive until they had nothing left to give, demanding complete obedience from them all. His goal this duty period appeared to be the subjugation of Julian Bashir, in his own reality, a specialist in multi-species medicine, but here and now...he didn't care to think of it. 

Before Bashir could answer, he was shoved, not gently, off the loading ramp. Off balance, he fell to his knees, the shapeshifter's booted feet inches from his face on the metal gridwork of the catwalk. Pushing himself to his feet, he ignored the protest of his limbs that only wanted to rest for a moment. Iron hands clasped his arms, and he risked a glance at the Klingon guards standing on either side of him, but it was only the barest glance since he felt compelled to keep constant watch on the shapeshifter who now walked slowly down the durasteel stairs to stand on his level. 

"Is there a problem, Doctor?" 

Radiating through every word the shapeshifter spoke, Bashir sensed hatred that a human be more than destiny decreed, and destiny in this place decreed slavery for all of Terran descent. Terran, spoken with the same ethnic bias that sent thousands of his own ancestors charging into wars of retribution founded on blind prejudice that simmered for centuries, but never died. A gut level hatred he had never experienced, not while under his family's protective wing, nor in the rarefied atmosphere of Star Fleet Medical School. Not like here. 

The shapeshifter took Bashir's face in his hand, his fingers bearing down on bruised flesh and bone, slowly, but effectively applying pressure. "How many times do I have to ask?" 

"That depends on whether or not you _really_ want an answer." Bashir held his breath, waiting for the blow that would surely follow his injudicious words. None came. The pressure of the shapeshifter's hand increased, emphasizing each word. 

"Terran workers always answer promptly when asked a direct question." 

"And what rule of obedience is that?" 

The shapeshifter struck, a backhanded slap that caught Bashir across his already bruised jaw sending firecrackers of pain burning along his flesh. The young human blinked, forcing back the tears that stung his eyes. 

"Rules of obedience numbers six and eight. Terrans always answer promptly when spoken to. Ask no questions." 

Bashir swallowed hard, but kept silent. He had to keep reminding himself that, despite appearances, this was not Odo. He had experienced a brief flare of hope upon first seeing the shapeshifter on the lower level, thinking perhaps he would be treated fairly. Odo was of impeccable character, passionately dedicated to truth and justice. Cermudgeonly, irascible, and sarcastic, to be sure, but always fair, and although Bashir's dealings with him had been limited to clinical, professional efforts, he had come to respect the constable. In turn, he felt the constable respected him for his ability and had ever since the Cardassian attack shortly after the discovery of the wormhole. With crewmen and civilian injured scattered across the Promenade, Bashir had realized the constable was squeamish about humanoid blood, yet, they had found footing for mutual respect that day. 

Maybe that was the problem. He expected to be respected and show the same deference to the shapeshifter. Instead, he received only contempt. At some point, wherever _here_ was, Odo's cynicism had been transformed into racial hatred, tainted with a sadistic nature that derived pleasure from tormenting those in his power, and that unnerved Bashir. He instinctively wanted to trust Odo -- as he instinctively felt he could exchange verbal barbs with _this_ O'Brien or lunch with _this_ Garak. The foundation for that trust had shattered the first time the shapeshifter struck him. Bashir had been more startled and shocked than hurt by that first blow, but as each blow increased in intensity, so had his anger at the sudden, senseless indignity of his position. 

"Your mind is wandering, Terran. Now answer the question. Is there a problem?" 

"As a matter of fact, yes, there is," Bashir countered sharply. He was angry, and since he had been asked a direct question, he intended on answering it. "I don't know what this place is or how I happened to end up here. But I'm no one's slave. I don't understand why you re doing this, but I have no intention of giving in to you." 

The rest of whatever Bashir planned to say was lost as the shapeshifter's hand circled his throat, cutting off his air, forcing him slowly to his knees. "Understand this, Terran. It is the only thing you need to understand. While you are under my supervision, you will do everything you are told. There will be no defiance. You will not speak to any of the other Terran workers. You will not speak to any superior unless spoken to, or asked a direct question. You will not slack off on your work or allow others to carry your share of the burden. And one more thing. On this station, and in this universe, _all_ Terrans are slaves. There is no escape." 

Odo released his grip, and Bashir sucked in gulps of hot dusty air, which caused a sudden spasm of coughing. When he finally was able to breath, he looked up at the shapeshifter. 

"You do not like me, Terran. I do not like you. Before I am through, you will hate me. That is how it should be." 

"The Odo I know would never subject another living species to--" 

"Well, perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps I remind you too much of someone else you know, some soft and condescending creature. Perhaps, it would be easier for you to hate me if I had a different face." He leaned over the doctor, and his face began to waver, lose cohesion, and dissolve. As it reformed, Bashir turned his face away from the slavering jaws that were forming inches from his face. When he looked back, the shapeshifter had returned to his original conformation. 

"I think I would rather have you hate this countenance, Terran. Something tells me it would be much more distasteful if your tormentor had a familiar face." 

Odo nodded to the Klingons who still stood ready on either side of Bashir. One of them handed the shapeshifter a cylindrical object, roughly the length of this forearm. "Our Klingon allies have proven to be particularly good at controlling errant humans. Veritable watchdogs of security and of discipline." Odo thumbed a hidden switch on the cylinder he held in his hands. Bashir heard a faint whining hum. "This is an ingenious device they have adapted for use on this station. I think you need a small taste of its effectiveness, then perhaps you will not be so inclined to abandon the rules. Used properly, this little toy can stop a Terran heart. Klingons, of course, are much sterner." 

The metal rested against the side of Bashir's throat. Strangely, it was warm, not cold as he had expected, and it vibrated faintly. 

"This is the lowest setting." 

Bashir tried not to tense, knowing it would do no good and hoping that this was all a perverted game. The shapeshifter laughed. A wave of pain exploded and Bashir felt as though his skull would split from the force of the shock. He was blind and deaf to all but the pain, totally unaware of how long it lasted, knowing only that he had never experienced such agony. When it subsided, and he was again aware of his surroundings, he lay curled on his side, knees drawn to his chest, locked in a muscular spasm. As soon as he moved to stretched his cramped legs, the Klingon hauled him to his feet. He trembled with the aftereffect of the neural assault. 

"Back to work, Terran." The Klingon pushed him toward the closest ore wagon, forcing him back into the line of workers. 

Bashir moved blindly, still shaken by his encounter with the shapeshifter and his toy, still wondering what had precipitated this assault, not that there had to be a reason. Being Terran and an outsider were reason enough 

Hand on the rim of the ore container, he leaned against it, as much to support himself as to push the load. His arms and legs continued to quiver and his stomach lurched with every movement. He was struggling to keep one foot moving in front of the other, when he felt a touch on his left hand. He jerked his head up, startled by the familiarity and wondering if he would see another face from his world Dax, or maybe Sisko. The face he saw was not one he expected, though he recognized the older woman as the same woman whose cart he had been made to push when he first arrived. She nodded at him. Her gnarled hand covered his protectively, as though through her silent gesture she wish to convey a message. 

Opening his mouth, he started to speak but an almost imperceptible shake of her head told him to keep silent. He did, not wanting to bring the supervisor's wrath down on her. She kept her hand on his, leaning into her task, and suddenly, Bashir realized she was assuming the weight of the cart herself, giving him a moment to recover. Bashir looked at her again. The last time he had worked beside her he had barely noticed her. She was just another nameless Terran, toiling in the dust and choking air. Now, by a simple gesture, she became distinctly Human, and he was uncomfortable realizing he had not noticed before. She was short, and surprisingly stout, oriental perhaps, with graying black hair tied into a long tail at the base of her neck. Her face was round, seamed, and bland, as were the other faces around him. Bashir freed his hand, then, in turn, laid it upon hers and gently squeezed. She understood. He would carry his own load. He was not dead yet. 

***** 

Bashir had been surprised and relieved to see Major Kira standing near the shapeshifter several hours later. Even more surprised when she was allowed to speak to him. As he turned to resume his place in the line of laborers, a surge of hope buoyed his spirits and left him feeling almost cocky. Kira was alive. And while it was too much to hope that she could arrange his release, she was apparently free to move about the station however she wished. She had determined where they were, and although they were still trapped here, just knowing where helped dispel the feeling of helplessness he had stubbornly pushed to the back of his mind. They also had a slight chance of finding their way home. It was up to him to make contact with this mirror O'Brien and determine if he was able and willing to assist them. 

Glancing around the dimly lit chamber, Bashir searched the shadows. Earlier, O'Brien had been perched atop the thorium containment module, centered in the large room in which he now stood. He had been there each time Bashir's laborious route had taken him through the main processing terminal. If Bashir could just locate him . . . 

"Interesting conversation?" 

The doctor jumped, spinning around, the shovel he had been leaning on clattering to the floor with a metallic ring as he stopped face to face with the shapeshifter. 

"Yes. Quite interesting," Bashir answered. He did not know if Odo expected an answer and, truthfully, did not care. It appeared Odo would punish him at will, whenever he wished, whether Bashir's infractions were real or imagined, and he could do little to prevent or avoid it. He refused to be a puppet dancing on the shapeshifter's string. 

Odo grunted, but did not speak. His face echoed the angry look it had worn when Kira had barged past him a few minutes before, brazenly assuming the right to speak with her "Terran friend." Odo had not looked pleased then, but Bashir had been so relieved Kira was alive he had momentarily forgotten his own precarious position. 

"Perhaps you would like to repeat it." 

"No," Bashir said firmly. If he was going to take a beating, he damned well was going to take it for a good reason. Bashir had involuntarily taken a step backward as the shapeshifter approached, the memory of his last encounter with Odo starkly clear. Fear tightened his throat, but the human stood his ground. Odo could, and probably would, kill him on a whim, and he desperately wanted to stay alive now there was a chance to get home. 

"Pick up the shovel." 

For a moment, Bashir hesitated, his arrogant Terran stubbornness arrayed against this unknown quantity that could easily explode in a burst of violence. Bashir stared at Odo. He had never been sure how truly Odo mirrored human emotion in his facial expression, how much of what he mimicked he truly comprehended. At this moment, he looked furious. 

"Pick up the shovel," Odo repeated. 

There was no denying the threat that rumbled low in the shapeshifter's throat. His hand moved to his sidearm, the intention unmistakable. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Odo, Bashir bent to lift the shovel. As he stood upright, Odo stepped closer. 

"You are certainly an interesting challenge, Terran. It's been a long time since I've had a challenge. I don't believe I've ever met so belligerent a Terran before. You've given my day some little interest. But you are beginning to wear my patience." Gathering a fistful of uniform fabric, the shapeshifter drew Bashir closer. "You realize, of course, that by speaking to your Bajoran major, you have broken several rules?" Odo paused, but Bashir said nothing. "You've also lost your place in line. Since you seem to have developed a fondness for this shovel, let's see how well you use one." 

Shoving Bashir before him, Odo indicated the direction they were to walk. Bashir noted every turn, looking always for O'Brien. He had to be somewhere. As they moved deeper into the bowels of the station, Bashir was choked by the increasingly fetid air. Human sweat and metallic dust mixed with machine oil. Friction from the laboring ore crushers heated the air, filling it with ionized particles and flecks of grit that stung his eyes and burned his nostrils. Gouts of steam hissed periodically through the dimly lit chamber, reflecting the low light and creating ghostly shapes that flitted through the macabre scene. He was sweating profusely before they even reached their destination. 

At last they stopped before a moving conveyor belt. Teams of Terrans methodically shoveled ore from trolley to belt, moving with mechanized regularity. Bashir was surprised by the archaic simplicity of the arrangement. A mechanical dump would be so much more efficient, but with a galaxy full of Terrans to subjugate for free labor, why bother with machinery? 

Odo pushed aside one of the workers and indicated that Bashir should take his place. The other Terrans never broke their rhythm. Eyes averted, they did not seem to notice the new arrival. Odo leaned closer, his lips almost touching Bashir. Some detached, analytical part of the doctor's brain noted that he felt no breath on his flesh. "Do not break the pace, Doctor. Any delay will be attributed to you and dealt with accordingly. And be careful. The belt has been known to lop off fingers, hands, limbs of injudicious workers. We wouldn't want to lose a hand now, would, we, Doctor." 

Bashir glanced at the man across from him, then he lifted his shovel. His arms already ached, but he set to work, attempting to match the cadence of those around him. But his mind was on O'Brien. He had to find him. His life could depend on it. 

*****   
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Curiosity, as a child, drew Bashir to the antique books in his grandfather's library. Many were history texts about far-off countries and the politics, sociology, and conflicts of times long past. The places, the names, the wars had enthralled him, even as a child. His life had been so regulated, calm, protected, mundane, that he had longed for and dreamed of adventure all his life. A frail and solitary child, sheltered to excess by his mother, much of his early years had been spent immersed in his grandfather's vast library. There he could travel. There he could dream. There he could find adventure. And there he discovered war. 

Yes, he had studied his history. He knew of the great wars that had raged across his planet and the galaxy, but somehow the holobook accounts had been sterilized statistics compared to the richly flavored texts his grandfather so lovingly collected. But while his grandfather's military histories chronicled the strategies, victories, and defeats of armies and generals with rich and vibrant detail, even they rarely spoke of the human aspects of war. Yet, it fascinated him. He studied the battles, recreating them in complex computer games. His grandfather had even allowed him to touch, just once, the intricate array of tiny metal soldiers he had ranged across the south end of the library. 

He had been ill that day, and it was intended as a special treat to cheer him, and it had, until be had grown tired. Then, sitting alone in the vast, silent room filled with ancient books that smelled of mildew and age, he had begun to study the volumes. Many he had been allowed to read before. But the oldest, most precious books, were highest up on the shelves where small hands could not disturb them. 

He was never sure what impulse made him climb the ladder to those top shelves. Though dizzy with illness and height, he had perched atop the ladder and carefully thumbed through page after page. In the darkening light he came to the last text. it was also a chronicle of war, but not of generals and conquests and adventure. Instead, it spoke of humanity, cruelty, frailty, and ultimately, dignity. It told a tale of millions, imprisoned in forced labor camps, destroyed for no other reason than that their beliefs were different. The light was quickly fading from the great library as he sat with the fragile yellow pages spread open before him. The eyes staring from the photos were large and dazed, faced drawn, bodies gaunt. 

His mother found him, staring at the pictures, bewildered by the tormented souls, for his eight-year-old mind could not comprehend such deliberate cruelty. Mother had closed the volume, gently wiped his tears, and led him down the ladder to bed. The next day, the volume was gone, but for many months after, the faces, the eyes, had haunted his dreams. He saw them in the shadows, and in his grandfather's library, among the books and toy soldiers. 

Julian Bashir saw them now. Dull, listless, lifeless faces, too exhausted to move or even eat. Bodies tumbled haphazardly about him, thin, dirty, with eyes devoid of life or hope. And he sat among them, leaden with exhaustion, covered with ore dust and sweat. His hands ached from hours shoveling, the knuckles bruised and cut, large seeping blisters covered his palms. He wondered, absently, if he, too, had become one of the faces in his grandfather's book. In his ears rang the constant moaning of the ore crushers and the endless taunts of the shapeshifter and his Klingon underlings. He had bitten his tongue and silently endured the humiliation of their words, afraid if he angered Odo further, he would be pushed so far into the depths of the ore processing station he would never find O'Brien or make contact with Kira again. 

Finally, when he thought he could not lift another shovel full of ore, a klaxon had sounded declaring a halt and the workers were herded back to the central hub, given a meager ration of food and allowed a moment of rest. Bashir sat, picking at the tasteless white mush he had been given. He should be hungry. He should eat even if he was not, but he was too worn to make the effort. Glancing around him, he looked for the shapeshifter, but Odo was no longer present. He did, however, see O'Brien, his head ducked into the Thorium containment mechanism again. 

Bashir handed his plate to another of the workers. The man blinked in disbelief as he received the extra ration of food, but he hastily gobbled it down. Bashir rose stiffly and walked to where O'Brien worked. He tried to be causal, to hide the fact that every inch of his body screamed with exhaustion. He had to get this O'Brien to trust him. When he was opposite the Terran mechanic, Bashir leaned against the machinery, propping his leg up, his hands limp at his sides in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. He did not want to be distracted thinking about his hands, about what was happening to them, or could happen to them. He tried to look at ease. 

"Miles O'Brien," he began conversationally. 

O'Brien looked over his shoulder, then returned to his work. 

"I know you," Bashir pressed, "on my side." 

"Yeah," O'Brien answered noncommittally, head still buried in the unit he worked on. 

"Actually, we're best friends." It was a lie, but Bashir hoped this O'Brien would not see through the sheer fabric of it. 

O'Brien turned, interested, but cautious. "You an' me?" 

"That's right," Bashir felt a sudden spark of optimism. He might just pull this one off, as long as he was careful and said nothing this O'Brien found offensive. 

"What am I? Some kind of doctor too?" 

"No. You're Chief of Operations of this station." Bashir could see O'Brien consider this fact, then he looked doubtful. 

"Me? Go on." 

Bashir could see how desperately this O'Brien wanted to believe what he was saying. "It's true." 

"Chief of Operations." O'Brien sat down to think over the possibilities, options undreamed of in his world. 

"Looks like you know your way around machines." It was half question, half reassuring statement. 

"I know some things," O'Brien said flatly. There was no pride in the statement, as if the mechanic were afraid to admit he knew too much. "What else is he like? This Chief of Operations." 

"Oh, he's married. He has a five-year-old daughter. He's one of the most decent men I know. We've fought our way out of a few scrapes together." 

O'Brien thought this over for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was wistful. "Sounds like he got the lucky draw, between him and me." 

Bashir took a deep breath and moved closer to O'Brien, not wanting anyone to overhear what he would say next, for both their sakes. "Have you ever done much work on transporters?" 

"Me?" O'Brien's attention came back to the present. "Yeah. Some. Why?" 

"Well, the Chief O'Brien I know is an expert in transporter technology." 

"I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I know as much as any Terran." 

"I hope that will be enough." Bashir said to himself. 

"Enough for what?" 

It's now or never, Bashir told himself as he plunged on. "We think a that a transporter will help us get back to our side." Bashir knew the minute he said the words the battle was lost. O'Brien's face darkened with anger, hurt and fear. He had been used all his life and probably felt he was being used again. 

"What? Yer fillin' me up with this stuff just to get me to help you. Is that it?" Anger made O'Brien voice rise above the hiss and whine of the machinery. 

"No." Bashir was desperate not to loose this man's trust. "Everything I've told you is the truth." 

O'Brien stood up, angry and frightened. "I don't know you. I'm not your friend." He turned his back on Bashir, denial in his words and action. "I'm not your friend," he repeated vehemently. 

"Meal break is over." 

The new voice, from behind them, startled Bashir and the young human jumped, turning to look over his shoulder, even though he knew who he would see. The shapeshifter's tone left no room for argument and was directed only at Bashir. The doctor had not noticed his return, did not know how long the supervisor had been watching, nor how much of their exchange he had overheard. Maybe, for O'Brien's sake, he had heard nothing. For his own part, the doctor did not need to be reminded of which rules he had broken this time. He saw the hint of promise on the shapeshifter's chiseled features, and in the deep set eyes that had become mere tunnels in the dimness, tunnels devoid of light or mercy. 

A cold wave passed through the young Terran doctor, washing over his resolve not to give in to his captors, not to succumb to the rules and the rule makers. He was not a slave, he told himself, as he had a hundred times, neither in mind nor in spirit. Yet, Bashir hurried to rejoin the Terran workers, praying he could blend into the nameless mass and escape Odo's wrath, knowing he could not. His heart pounded and his stomach twisted with a sudden jolt of fear. Slipping into the shuffling line, he thought for one wild moment he would silently vanish into the crowd. 

The bitter taste of defeat added to his sense of panic. He had been so certain this O'Brien could be convinced to help them, so damned sure of his own charm and persuasiveness. But it did not work here any better than it would have worked in his own universe. It seemed O'Briens everywhere mistrusted him. 

"Going somewhere, Doctor?" A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and he was pulled from the line. 

Bashir took a deep breath, unclenched his fists and turned slowly, wishing away the tingle of warning that shivered up his spine. Squaring his shoulders, his head held high, he proudly met Odo's level stare. He swallowed hard, biting down the fear. Knowing damn well he was in for hell and wondering what it would be this time. Stepping away from the line of workers he stood face to face with the shapeshifter. 

Odo nodded, as though he was not surprised. "How easily you forget. Your medical schools must be quite lax to offer a degree to someone who has such obvious trouble remembering the simplest rules." The supervisor held the pain stick, toying with the slender metallic cylinder, stroking its smooth surface, making sure the Human saw exactly what he held in his hands. Reaching out, he placed the instrument against Bashir's abdomen, applying pressure. 

Bashir's muscles tensed instinctively, bracing for an assault, despite his efforts to appear relaxed and calm. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds, waiting for the jolt of pain he knew was coming. But nothing happened. Bashir released the breath he had been holding. Sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, but he did not move. 

"How are your hands?" 

Bashir still stood without speaking. The non-sequitur was unexpected, yet he knew the concern was false. 

"Must I remind you that rule of obedience number six..." 

"Always answer a direct question promptly," Bashir shot back. 

Odo nodded, mock approval in the gesture. "There may be hope for you yet. Now, answer the question. How are your hands?" 

The metal rod dug harder into Bashir's stomach. 

"They are still intact. No lopped off fingers," Bashir said smartly. He was tired of the game, tired of the rules, and just plain tired. Get it over with. His mind ground out the thought - _Do what you are going to do. Now. No more games._

Odo dropped the pain stick to his side, reaching out instead and taking Bashir's right arm at the wrist, turning the doctor's hand palm upward, exposing blisters that paled dead white in the static bursts of harsh light. Bashir did not want to look. He could easily assess the damage by how he felt. His fingers were stiff, the joints tight, sensitive skin abraded to deep blisters. He tried to pull free of the shapeshifter's grip, but Odo clamped down tightly, further aggravating the abused flesh. Bashir tried not to wince, tried not to think of his hands, or his life if any permanent damage occurred. If he lost sensitivity in his fingers, if... 

"You really do have a lot to learn, Doctor." 

Odo jerked Bashir by the arm, pushing him ahead. With a sharp prod from the pain stick, he herded the young doctor back into the depths of the processing facility. Farther than the last time he had come this way. Farther away from O'Brien and Kira. Farther from hope. Nudging Bashir left or right the shapeshifter finally indicated they should halt. They were once again at the conveyor that carried ore to the crushers, but closer, near the smashing jaws of the machine. Its grinding maw worked relentlessly, pulverizing the rock into powder. 

"Feed it, Doctor." Odo's voice, low and brutal, cut through the whine of machinery and through the depths of Bashir's soul. The voice dripped contempt. "Feed it now." 

Bashir started to reach for a shovel, but the shapeshifter kicked it aside. "Use your hands, doctor. Let us see just how well you operate." 

Bashir hesitated, then began heaving the metal ore onto the moving belt. The stone was sharp edged, heavy and covered with the ever present' cloying gray dust. Within minutes, he had torn the blistered skin from his palms, exposing the raw flesh below, the clinging grit caking his skin and grinding filth into the open wounds. But he dared not stop. Odo stood behind him, pain stick ready, waiting for any excuse to use it. 

"And one more thing, doctor. This machinery tends to jam with some regularity. Someone has to crawl into the works and remove the offending blockage. I have left word that it will be your chore to un-jam it. Now work." 

***** 

"This one." The Klingon's voice was a distant grumble filtered through the background noise only because of its proximity and harsh command. It penetrated the disassociated ramblings that pervaded Bashir's half-conscious thoughts. He had stopped trying to make sense of the situation hours ago, his mind all but shut down with exhaustion. The brutal pace had sapped every ounce of his energy. His lips and throat were parched and thirst gnawed at him. He wanted to stop, just for a few moments, to rest, to breathe cool, clear air, to moisten his mouth with sweet, fresh water. 

"This one." The Klingon was behind him now. A surge of panic brought him sharply to attention, looking in vain for the shapeshifter, knowing he could be anywhere, in any configuration in the shadowed corridors. How long had it been? Didn't the shapeshifter need rest? The face he recognized, the leering countenance that mocked Odo and taunted him, was not present. 

"Come with me, Terran." The Klingon guards had blended into one tormenting entity that allowed him no respite, prodding and striking whenever they thought he moved too slowly. He gave silent thanks they had not resorted to using the pain stick. He doubted he could withstand another such assault. Fists seemed to satisfy them. 

"Move, Terran." 

Bashir made his leaden legs move, staggering against an ore trolley, grabbing its side to steady himself. 

"We are wasting time. He can't even walk. How will he crawl through the feed lines?" 

"Does it matter? It is just another Terran. Not the first to die nor the last." 

The two distinct Klingon voices now penetrated Bashir's senses. Were they talking about him? What did they mean? 

"Here," said a coarser voice. 

Bashir stood before the secondary feed line of the giant ore crusher. The machine had ground to a halt. Workers stood idle along the conveyor, sagged against shovels, heads resting on hands. A cold steel pry bar was placed in Bashir's hands. He stared at it, the men in front of him making way to allow him passage. He remembered now the shapeshifter's last order. He was responsible for un-jamming the machinery should it become fouled, but he hadn't the vaguest idea how. 

Before he had a chance to wonder further, he was lifted bodily onto the conveyor belt. From the other side, a thin, dark-eyed youth, hardly more than a child, carrying an identical pry bar, was boosted onto the belt as well. The child began to scuttle into the mouth of the machine. Bashir followed his lead. 

The opening narrowed as they approached the blockage. Bashir could feel the bridled thrum of energy vibrating through the stalled machinery. The air inside was stiflingly hot. He did not think it was possible for a human to perspire when they were as dehydrated as he was, yet his hair and clothing soon dripped with moisture. There would not be an ounce of fluid left in his body if he emerged alive. 

The young Terran's hand on his arm stopped his mental wanderings The youth pointed ahead to the mechanism, clogged with debris. It was an archaic arrangement of rollers and gears. Bashir was no mechanic, but he knew enough basic engineering to recognized the inefficiency of the design, like the inefficiency of using human labor instead of automatons. 

Without a word, the youth began to pick at the chunks of rubble clogging the mechanism. There was hardly room to swing the pry bar effectively, none to stand, or even kneel to get leverage. Lying flat on his stomach, he would not be able to work effectively. Not normally claustrophobic, Bashir felt as if the machine's jaws were closing around him. He glanced toward the opening scarcely seven meters behind him. It seemed a kilometer. When the mechanisms re-engaged, how much time would they have to retrace their steps to get back out? How much time before they were crushed along with the ore? The child continued to chip away with his crowbar, prodding at the blockage. Bashir joined him, adding his efforts to the task. He was tempted to delay the procedure and give the laborers on the line a few extra moments rest, but he knew it would not go well with him if the crushing operation were delayed very long. 

With a shuddering groan, the last of the blockage was knocked free. The air was suddenly thick with a cloud of choking dust expelled as the machinery kicked back into gear. Bashir was startled by the jolting forward motion of the belt, but blinded by the belching filth that clung to his sweat-soaked face. A hand, small but firm, clutched his arm, urging him outward. Groping blindly, he started backward, his companion pushing him with increased urgency. The belt on which they moved, shuddered again and the grinding wheel around them shifted and began to move. The child pushed Bashir harder and he moved against the belt which was picking up speed. In the dust, he could not see the moving equipment, but he could sense it above and around him. At that moment, his young companion yelped. Bashir heard fabric ripping and the youngster's hand slipped from his arm. The doctor grabbed for him, but he could not find the boy. The dust cloud had begun to dissipate and a shadowy form moved away form him. Clutching at the shadow, he felt resistance. The child whimpered and struggled, but with a surge of urgent strength, Bashir grasped the child's arm and heaved him toward the mouth of the crusher. There was a rending sound as the fabric of the child's tunic shredded, then he was free scuttling past Bashir into the open. 

Bashir tossed his pry bar outward, then backed toward the opening. There was no room to turn around, and he found the forward movement of the conveyor belt, pushing with him arms to back out. He was almost free, turning to exit, when he felt a jolt at the back of his uniform jumpsuit. Slowly, the fabric began to twist in the gears. He pulled but his uniform was far tougher than the young Terran's thin tunic. It would not tear free. Instead it twisted, tightening the high neck of his shirt, constricting around his throat, cutting off his air. He grabbed at the fabric, but was unable to wriggle free of his own clothing. His head began to swim, and he felt himself being drawn back into the machine. 

Then someone grabbed the front of his shirt, cold metal touched his throat and slit the material. He could breath again. The same hands cut him loose, then rolled him off the belt and onto the hot floor, which felt remarkable cool compared to the interior of the ore crusher. He drew in shivering gulps of air, unable to move and glad to lie still for a few seconds. His hand went to his neck, rubbed raw by the twisted fabric noose. 

"Why did you waste your time, Duvan. He is just a Terran. Who would miss another Terran?" 

Bashir did not hear the answer. He was hauled to his feet and shoved toward an ore trolley. Light headed from fatigue and his near brush with strangulation, he had to concentrate to stay upright. 

"The shifter will not like it if you remove this one from the line," repeated the same voice. 

Again Duvan pushed Bashir toward the line of ore trolleys that were once again moving away from the crusher. 

"Are you afraid of the shifter?" Duvan said at last. "He may be the supervisor, but he is only one. We are Klingon, and it is the Klingon Empire that is strong, not the shapeshifter. We are meant for better things than being slave drivers. Klingons are meant for glory and honor." 

Bashir could sense the dissatisfaction in Duvan's voice and was not so exhausted he missed the challenge in his words. Glancing upward, he recognized Duvan as one of the Klingon warriors who had first beamed aboard the runabout, then later escorted him to ore processing. 

"Move, Terran. Don't make me regret saving your miserable life. You may well live to regret that I did." 

Pushed back into the line behind an ore trolley, Bashir risked another glance at the Klingon, Duvan. He towered over Bashir by at least a head and was twice as broad at the shoulder. Standing statue still, arms crossed, Duvan had not sheathed his knife. Bashir was not sure, but it looked as though Duvan nodded silent approval. Bashir continued to stare until the Klingon turned away. 

***** 


	3. Chapter 3

Even empty, the ore trolley was unwieldy and difficult for two humans to manage. By the time it was fully loaded, it was almost immovable. They had made three passes from crusher to ore pickup, through the main processing hub, back to the crusher, and Bashir bad not seen O'Brien again. Nor did he see the shapeshifter. A second meal break passed and Bashir continued to plod behind the ore trolley. There was no relief from the work, but he was not singled our for any additional punishments, for which he was silently grateful. He understood now why no one here spoke. There was not energy left to speak. He found it increasingly difficult to perform the simple tasks expected of him. He had completed a full circuit of the facility and barely remember it, the passage of time a meaningless blank. 

That was why Kira's appearance startled him. Her sudden approach, her urgent warning to "watch your back" confused him at first. Something had upset the major and she was not going to tell him what. Suddenly, their plan was different -- forget the transporter -- forget O'Brien. They needed to get to a runabout pad. He listened. He even responded, though he felt as though he were communicating through a tunnel filled with tar. And when she flew out of the processing center, his eyes followed her to where the shapeshifter stood, listening and smiling 

Bashir quickly looked away. A surge of fear tightened his stomach and sharpened his wits. There was no immediate retaliation for this infraction, and within minutes he had passed back into the depths of the complex, but the skin over his spine tingled with the warning prickle of impending danger. Kira's warning kept him glancing over his shoulder. "Watch your back." What did Kira mean? What could happen that had not already happened? Did the Bajoran major realize how dearly he paid for her previous visits? Or how, without them, he would have no hope? "Watch your back." My back? Why my back? The shapeshifter's smile was his answer. 

They had been given yet another rest break. He had lost track of how many he had been allowed to take, and could not longer remember how long he had been there. A kaleidoscope of faces whirled around him and though some workers had been removed and replaced, O'Brien had not reappeared, nor had the old woman he had worked with for several hours. He was desperate to sleep, but they would not let him. Collapsing onto an overturned bucket, he stared at the container of ore in front of him. His head nodded, the noise around him a low buzz. Drifting in and out of sleep Bashir was more asleep than awake. There was something he had to do -- something important. Major Kira had been very firm when she had given him his instructions. Talk to O'Brien? No, that was not it. 

Bashir's head jerked up. He had been dozing. But staying awake was so difficult. Drifting in and out of a half twilight sleep he wondered what he was to remember, what he was supposed to do. His back! Yes, guard his back. Kira had warned him of some danger, and he was supposed to guard his back. But it ached, from the constant toil and the Kiingon's knife. When Duvan freed him from the ore crusher, he had been cut and had not noticed at first. Now the wound throbbed and burned. An infection, no doubt. And his hands. He would have nightmares about what was happening to his hands. He had to watch his back. But he was so tired. He drifted again. Like a swimmer caught in a storm tide, unable to hold on, sinking, until a kick, by a boot well placed in the middle of his back brought him sharply awake. Major Kira's warning raced through his mind. 

"You're not accustomed to this work load, are you, Doctor?" The shapeshifter's voice, so long absent, now growled coarsely in his ear. 

Bashir tried to sit upright, afraid to show the slightest weakness. He had to stay alert and take his chance when it came. 

"You have much to learn," the shifter gloated. 

Bashir looked up at the half-formed visage towering over him and hadn't the energy to respond. His head fell back, his chin touching his chest. But the shapeshifter was not going to let him rest. 

"It's a shame this is going to be your last night on the job." 

Last night? What did he mean, last night? Before Bashir could determine the answer to that cryptic threat, all hell broke loose. The thorium containment field, as O'Brien had predicted it would, suddenly ruptured, pouring the toxic chemical gas into the processing center. Odo sprang into action, calling for the release of the security doors to allow the workers trapped within to escape before they were all dead. 

This is it, Bashir thought. He knew it was his only chance, and acting on instinct, attacked the shifter's assistant and grabbed his sidearm. When the shifter turned toward him, hand on his own weapon, Bashir fired. Then he watched in horror as Odo's face rippled and burst outward, a thousand gelatinous blobs, shimmering in the fluctuating light, refusing to coalesce again into the familiar shape of the shifter. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, Bashir thought in shock. The sight caused his stomach to lurch as from a well-placed gut punch. His training and sheer habit made him want to help, but there was no time and nothing he could do, so he turned and ran. 

***** 

And he kept on running, through the twisted corridors with which he was barely familiar, deep in the space station. He could hear pursuit close behind him, voices hounding his every move. Bashir was not sure what made him seek refuge in the maintenance conduit. Maybe it was something O'Brien said once, about how a man who knew his way around those conduits could hide on this station forever and never be found. Ripping the cover from the opening, he crawled in, pulling the screened plate behind him just as footsteps approached. Klingons! But they ran past, not suspecting he was here. 

Bashir pushed farther into the conduit, then collapsed against the side wall, waiting for his pulse and respiration to return to something close to normal. His head spun, giddy with the luck that had suddenly set him free. Well, not free as long as he was on this station, but at least no longer under guard. 

Then he shifted, bringing the weapon he still clutched in his hand back into view. He stared dumbly at where the intensity gauge should be. There was none. This disrupter apparently had only one setting, and it was not stun. Would he have fired on the shapeshifter had he known this weapon was set to kill? Despite all that had happened, was he justified in taking that kind of vengeance? 

His mind kept replaying the incident. Odo's face, and it was Odo, was there one moment, the next, bubbling outward like soap from a child's toy, floating in a surreal dance outward, defying even the laws of gravity. Bashir buried his own face in his free hand, trying to blot out the memory. The vision would haunt him for a long time, and now he just needed to think clearly. He should be able to get to a runabout pad using the maintenance conduits, but he was not sure of his directions. He had become completely disoriented over the past hours. 

Moving slowly, deeper into the duct-work, careful not to make any noise that would reveal his location, he heard a sound in front of him and froze, weapon at ready. O'Brien moved into view, and Bashir breathed a sigh of relief. This O'Brien might not be a friend, but with luck, he would not be an enemy. At best, Bashir hoped, he would point him in the right direction. At worst, he would say nothing and let him pass without alerting the guards. 

***** 

Kira stood on the outer edges of the merry gathering swirling around her. She had made eye contact with Sisko, but he had made no move to approach her, nor she him. Garak, it seemed, would keep a close eye on her, so she kept a careful distance from him. Besides, she was too absorbed in watching her alter ego, the Intendant. How could she take this woman's place? Would she? Even to save herself and Bashir? She hoped she would not have to make that choice. 

Although the Intendant was in a "happy mood," Kira sensed the undertone of tension in the crowded room. Sisko's people kept to themselves, near the bar, but always alert. Klingon guards placed at regular intervals were undoubtedly Garak's doing. Were they intended to guard the Intendant or eliminate her? Kira was positive that whatever Garak had planned would be done covertly No one on this station would ever know the truth. Kira could see no options. She was watched constantly, and although her movement had not been inhibited, she doubted she would be allowed to casually stroll onto a runabout. And the was still the problem of Bashir. 

So absorbed were the party-goers that none suspected disaster had struck the ore processing unit beneath them. Removed from the Promenade so that its sights, sounds, and misery would not unduly invade the life and pleasures of the chosen few, the wailing klaxons and choking, dying Terrans were of no concern until thrust abruptly into the midst of the Intendant's gaiety. Kira felt the surge of anger course through the gathering at the rudeness of the intrusion. Insulted by the disruption, the guests muttered their dissatisfaction, but were sharply cut off by the Klingon guard's words. 

"Intendant. The new Terran killed the shapeshifter, and O'Brien tried to help him escape. 

Kira felt her own sense of shock. Staring at Bashir and O'Brien, she was unable to believe the Klingon's accusation. Yet her counterpart believed, and a wave of rage pounded from her. Kira watched, speechless, as the Intendant stormed, ranted, and pronounced sentence with chilling surety. The Terran doctor would die. Turning on this other O'Brien, the Intendant's tone changed from fury to disappointment, and she spoke as a pet owner would express dissatisfaction with a favored animal who had done nothing more offensive than act out of instinct. 

Kira Nerys barely heard the exchange. Part of her mind registered the softly spoken words, but her attention whirled. What now? She had seen the look of anticipation on Garak's face. He was looking forward to this execution. Did that mean his other plan was forgotten? Kira wanted to turn away. Whatever was about to happen, she could not control. She would be lucky if she did not join the two Terrans on the Promenade. She wondered how she would react if she was made to watch. Kira had never completely warmed to Bashir, and she made no excuses for her attitude. Her assessment for the Intendant had been her honest appraisal. Bashir was an arrogant Terran who probably had led a soft life compared to hers. He was overbearing, over enthusiastic, and his thoughtless chatter had infuriated her on more than one occasion. Kira took great delight in using her rapier tongue to shoot him down. 

But there was a world of difference between embarrassment and the degradation he was about to be subjected to, doled out as only a sadistic Cardassian could. It was not lost on the Bajoran major the irony of who would orchestrate Bashir's torment. She knew the doctor considered the Cardassian tailor a friend of sorts. What must Bashir be thinking now? 

It was then Bashir glanced toward where she stood, dressed in her finery, well-fed and well-rested. His handsome face was smeared with sweat and filth. barely able to stand, he swayed with exhaustion. A rush of guilt surged through her. Why had she allowed him to remain below? She should have known how he would be treated. She had worked in ore processing herself. She knew. Somehow, she could have arranged to have him released in her custody while she had still had the Intendant's favor. She could have pretended he was her consort, that she had need of his services. The story was not unbelievable. The Intendant would have understood. He was certainly desirable by both human and Bajoran standards. Had she left him below to satisfy her own perverted sense of justice, to give him a taste of what her own life had been like? 

Kira did not want to meet his eyes, but she did, and the look there brought back bitter memories. She had seen that quiet despair on hundreds of Bajoran faces. She did not want to see it here, echoed on this human face. There was no mistaking his silent plea for help. But did he want help to escape or help to die, swiftly and painlessly? It did matter. He was beyond her aid. He knew it. 

Bashir looked away, and for a moment his shoulders slumped. Kira knew what would come. Did he? Even if this pampered, idealistic, naive young man did not know what fate had decreed for him, she certainly did. She had seen it before. Prisoners stripped, taunted, tortured for all to see, held up as examples to intimidate their comrades. Her cheeks burned with the remembered humiliation, and she also averted her eyes. 

The moment of defeat passed as quickly as it had come. When Kira looked again, the doctor seemed calm, resigned. He would die with as much dignity as he possessed. and like it or not, she would probably be forced to watch. That, in the end, would be the greatest indignity of all. To die in front of strangers was humiliating. But having someone present he knew, someone who in the past had shown him no kindness, would be far worse. He probably believes I'm enjoying this, she thought savagely. 

Bashir had turned back to the Intendant, who had turned her back on the O'Brien, effectively sealing his fate. Kira, too, focused on the Intendant's last words to the sandy haired Terran. 

"Oh," the Intendant said. "He's going to take you with him all right. Just not exactly where you thought he would." She then nodded slightly to Garak. 

The Cardassian's face split in an unholy grin. Stepping forward, he spun his victims around, shoving them toward the door. Bashir shot a final look over his shoulder at Kira, and she knew, successful or not, that she had to try something. Turning on her Klingon guard, she realized Sisko had also taken action. Stepping from the shadows, his crew behind him, in a coup as well organized as the Kohn Ma at its deadliest, Sisko's people had the room under their gun in seconds. Before the Klingon's could recover from the shock, they were out of Quark's Place, racing to the runabout and to freedom. 

***** 

Though the face on the view screen was concerned and the voice stern, Kira sensed relief in the Federation commander. She could not deny the overwhelming echo of that emotion within herself. 

"We've had ships from here to New Bajor looking for you two. Where have you been?" 

"Through the looking glass," Kira said. "It's good to be home." 

Bashir nodded agreement and grinned weakly before leaning back into the padded contours of his chair. 

"Our sensors indicate you've sustained damage. Do you want us to tow you in?" Sisko asked. 

"No," Kira replied. "I think we can manage to dock on our own." 

"I'll be curious to hear your explanation of all this," Sisko added. 

"It's a...curious story," Kira answered. She dared not say more over an open comm channel. The entire affair could well become a security matter. For now, she was content to know she was communicating with the right Sisko, even though there was a pang of regret at having left his mirror image to his fate. Somehow, she consoled herself, that Sisko would do well. She wished she could have thanked him, but years in the underground had taught her sometimes thank yous must remain unspoken. She wondered if, a hundred years from now, she would be a name in the history of this alternate universe. Something told her that Sisko certainly would be. Her train of thought was broken by Dax's calm voice. "You are cleared to land at Docking Bay Two." 

Kira nodded, well aware that the Trill could not see the gesture. "Our estimated time to docking is fifteen minutes," she said. "Kira out." She cut the transmission and glanced at Bashir. His eyes were closed and be appeared to be asleep. She turned her attention to the pilot's board in front of her. They had taken a damaging hit from the Klingon cruiser moments before entering the wormhole. She did not like the readings she was getting from the warp core. 

"Actually, I think you have the wrong fairy tale," Bashir said, startling Kira. 

"What?" Kira's attention was on safely docking their crippled ship. 

"We may have gone through the looking glass, but at this moment, we look more like Beauty and the Beast" 

"Huh?" What was he talking about? Kira thought as her fingers danced across the control panel. There were too many blank and red indicators on the main board to please her. The Bajoran was glad to be back in her own universe, but they were not home yet it would take all of her piloting skill to bring the crippled runabout back to DS9. She was going to need his help. 

"Doctor," she said after a moment of prolonged silence. "What is the status of the plasma leak?" He did not answer. "Doctor?" Kira's voice edged with irritation. She needed both hands to maneuver into docking position. She turned sharply to the co-pilot's position, a verbal jab on the tip of her tongue, but bit off her comment with a twinge of concern. Her companion apparently had fallen asleep this time. Kira took the barest moment to scrutinize his face. Beneath the grime, his olive skin was pale, purple smudges shadowed his eyes, and livid bruises traced his jawbone and neck. A sudden shimmy drew her undivided attention back to the control panel. They would soon be back on the station. It was her job to make sure they arrived safely. 

***** 

Fifteen minutes later, with a gentle bump, they settled onto the landing pad. Kira sat back in her seat and sighed, then rose to make the necessary connections to the air lock. Walking back to where Bashir slept, she thought about his last comment Beauty and the beast, indeed. She would have to check that one in the computer file. References to old Earth fairy tales, as they called them, both baffled and intrigued her. She had difficulty conceiving of a childhood so carefree that such indulgences could be made. Yet, these adults seemed to take great pleasure in teasing each other with childish images from long told tales. 

She had once accessed the files on Alice in Wonderland after hearing a comment about the Mad Hatter delivered in a most scathing and sarcastic manner by a Starfleet junior officer who never dreamed his Bajoran superior would take the time to look up the reference. The story simultaneously baffled her and appealed to her perverse sense of humor. Kira was surprised at how easily the looking glass reference had come to her, and how apropos the words of a long-dead Terran writer had been to their experiences. 

"Doctor," she said. "Doctor Bashir." She shook him gently, to no avail. "Julian," she said more firmly. Bashir sat up with a start. Disoriented, he scanned the inside of the craft with confused and frightened eyes before realizing where he was. 

"We're back?" he asked. 

"Yes. We've docked." 

The doctor closed his eyes again with a sigh. "It's good to be home, Major." 

"We can disembark now," Kira said as she turned to leave, anxious to get off the runabout. 

"Major." Bashir's voice sounded stronger, more alert and awake. "Before we do..." 

Kira turned to where he sat, leaning heavily on the arm of the co-pilot's seat, and waited. Licking dry lips, Bashir spoke quietly. "I'm sorry." 

Kira looked at him quizzically. "What happened wasn't your fault. We're both lucky to be alive." 

"I don't mean that." Bashir stood stiffly and took a step closer to her. "I meant, I was sorry if I offended you in any way. By what I said before we entered...the wormhole. Despite how it might have appeared, I was not attempting to seduce you. I was simply trying to make conversation." 

Kira felt herself flushing. She had all but forgotten about that exchange. It seemed trivial after what they had been through. 

"I realize you don't care that much for me, Major," the young man continued in a voice so tired it almost made Kira cringe. "I just thought if we talked, we could work more comfortably together. Without animosity. No more." 

Kira nodded, then said something she knew she would regret later. "We don't need to discuss that now. Perhaps later, when we've both rested." Kira turned back to the airlock and keyed the opening sequence. As the heavy door rolled aside and she stepped through, relief surged through her. 

"Major." Sisko's face split into a wide, warm grin. 

Kira smiled back, stepping into the brightly-lit companionway. It was amazing how something as simple as bright, Federation lighting chased the gloom from the corridors. She had always thought Cardassian design grim, but she realized now that it was not the architecture but the atmosphere. 

"We thought your runabout had been destroyed. You were listed as leaving New Bajor on time, then you completely vanished only to reappear just as suddenly." 

Kira was about to answer when she realized Bashir had not followed her. Standing behind Sisko, Odo studied her with intense curiosity. Glancing back, she saw that Bashir had frozen, his gaze locked on Odo. Though it seemed an eternity, she knew he pause only seconds before stepping from the airlock. 

The warmth of Sisko's expression chilled when he got a good second look at this chief medical officer. His eyes traveled from Bashir to Kira, then back to the doctor. She was conscious of her non-regulation attire, and of the disparity between her condition and her companion's. 

The concern in Sisko's voice was unmistakable as he turned his attention to Bashir. "Doctor, I think you should report to the infirmary." 

"I have it on good authority that the doctor is not in." 

Kira saw through Bashir's thin attempt at humor. 

"I meant as a patient." It was obvious he wasn't fooling Sisko, or anyone else with two moderately good eyes. 

"And who would doctor the doctor?" This time Bashir did not even attempt humor. And Sisko's reply was equally sharp. "Your medical staff is quite competent" 

Bashir shrugged, having lost the urge to be defiant, and smiled weakly. "I really make a lousy patient, sir. And I don't think there's a thing wrong with me that can't be cured with soap, water, and eighteen hours of sleep." 

"Is that a professional opinion?" Sisko asked, his tone now one of cautious concern. 

"Yes," Bashir said sharply. 

It was then Odo stepped forward. "The disappearance of two staff officers and their return in less than good condition is a matter requiring investigation. I would like a full report as soon as possible. There may be security precautions that need to be taken." 

Bashir tensed as the constable moved nearer. Kira could see it in the stiff line of his back. He had not moved away from Odo, but she sensed he wanted to. 

"I think we should debrief Major Kira and Doctor Bashir as soon as they feel they are ready," Sisko intervened. "In my office." 

Kira readily agreed, curious herself to hear Bashir's version of what had happened. "I would like to make that report as soon as possible." She spoke with professional crispness. "While the details are still fresh." 

"I think you can both take time, if you need to, Major." There was an amused twinkle in Sisko's eye. "That will give Dax and O'Brien time to download the computer logs from the runabout and begin an analysis of that data. Do you require assistance?" 

Sisko's last words were directed at Bashir. The doctor shook his head negatively. 

"I'm going that way," Kira said, then hoped it had not sounded unduly familiar. She had not done much to prevent Bashir from being victimized, but she could at least make sure he got to his quarters. Regardless of her opinion of him, the doctor had shown courage, and that she could respect, even reckless courage. 

"All right," the commander said. "In my office. As soon as you are able." 

***** 


	4. Chapter 4

  
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. 

*****   



	5. Chapter 5

***** 

Kira glanced at the line snaking out of the replimat and into the promenade. She planned on grabbing a quick lunch before returning to her duties in Ops, but realized with a sinking feeling that she might have to settle for a hot cup of coffee and try again later. Slipping past those waiting for food, she placed her beverage order, and was soon standing with a steaming mug and no place to sit. Sighing, she resigned herself to standing when she noticed a splash of science blue in the farthest corner of the replimat. It was Bashir, without, she was pleased to notice, Garak. The doctor was absorbed in whatever he was reading. Though she did not normally lunch with the young man, she could not deny a sudden surge of curiosity. She had not seen the doctor since he had given his report to Sisko. Though he had been temporarily placed on medical leave he was back on duty again, and she usually ran into him at least once during the course of her daily routine. 

Granted, she had been absorbed in studying the curious readings they had gotten from the runabout she and Bashir had piloted into the alternate dimension. With a sudden pang of chagrin she realized she had intentionally buried herself in her work to the exclusion of all else. It was an old habit from the days when the Cardassian occupation was most grim, a defense mechanism she still used, though not as frequently, working at a frantic pace, ignoring the need for sleep and food, and in doing so, working through the emotionally upsetting times of her life. She snuggled the hot cup in the palm of her hand. Sometime in the past few days she had bridged whatever emotional hurdle she had needed to pass, and was once again at ease with herself and her experience. Working like a dervish had its disadvantages. Right now she was starved, which reaffirmed her conviction that she had once again achieved her own personal internal balance. Unfortunately, the lines were no shorter. 

As her mind wandered she watched the doctor thoughtfully. Bashir's head was bent over a padd. Stepping in his direction she saw him shift, then look up from his work. She had not meant to gape, but she was taken aback by his appearance. The dull look in his shadowed eyes, the drawn paleness, gave the appearance of haunted nights devoid of sheep, despite the fact that he had assured Sisko sleep was all he needed. 

Kira was startled by her sudden rush of concern, grounded, she was certain, in guilt - that lingering feeling she had totally suppressed over the past week. She was well aware she had verbally and mentally danced around the subject of what had happened to Bashir, concentrating instead on analyzing the sensor readings from the runabout until she had analyzed them to death, not thinking of what might be going through the doctor's thoughts. 

Attempting to cover her embarrassment, Kira approached Bashir, nodded a greeting, then spoke. "It's a bit crowded. Would you mind if I shared your table?" 

"No," Bashir said, then quickly began to gather his things. "I really must be getting back to the infirmary." 

"You don't need to leave on my account, Doctor." Kira slipped quickly into the seat opposite Bashir. "I didn't mean to chase you off." She caught his arm, and he sat back in his seat. "Look, Doctor, I know I haven't always been the most charming person to deal with, but we should be able to share hot drink in a public place. Just between friends." The doctor seemed to relax slightly, yet he was poised as if to flee. 

"I'm not going to bite your head off, Doctor." Kira felt a flutter of annoyance before she batted the emotion back into place. 

"It's sometimes difficult to be certain, Major." The young man's tone was uncharacteristically sarcastic. 

There was a prolonged silence in which Kira began to doubt her rash decision to share her little free time with Bashir. Yet, she was bothered by his silence. Normally he could talk circles around any one of the staff. was always able to carry on a polite conversation, and more often than not overstepped his bounds. 

"We've been analyzing the readings from the runabout's trip to the alternate universe," Kira began tentatively, broaching the only subject she could think of that provided a shared experience for them both. 

"I was under the impression there was little information to be had from those readings." He had sat back in his chair, making an obvious effort to look relaxed. 

"Essentially, that is true." Kira began to relax into the subject as well. She was not a science officer, and was definitely out of her league where many subjects were concerned, but she had poured over the information gained by their unexpected wrong turn in the wormhole. "Except for a slight mass discrepancy and the obvious phaser damage, we didn't find anything unusual." 

"Mass discrepancy? From the phaser hits?" 

"No." Kira shook her head. "The discrepancy showed up after we had docked. O'Brien and Dax thought at first it might be significant, but haven't been able to tie it into anything." 

The mass of the runabout, as it currently sat in the launch bay, was a few kilograms less than the mass as it had been when it exited the wormhole, recorded by the station's record keeping scanners. The discrepancy existed even after Kira and Bashir's body mass had been eliminated from the total. Neither Dax nor O'Brien had been able to account for the loss, though Dax theorized that whatever force had thrust them into the alternate universe might also have depleted the already damaged runabout of some of its molecular structure. The problem had been bothersome because it was not explainable, but there appeared to be no danger posed to either the station or its inhabitants, and eventually Dax had concluded the mass loss would remain as much a mystery as their unexpected trip had been. 

"Is there any cause for concern?" Bashir's tone was cautious. 

"Apparently not." 

"Oh." 

Kira was once again puzzled by Bashir's withdrawn silence. "Doctor?" she asked tentatively. Bashir continued to stare at his padd. "Julian?" Kira asked again. 

He looked up. 

"Is there anything you wanted to talk about?" she questioned cautiously. 

Bashir's mouth opened, brows knit together in thought, when his communicator bleeped. At first he made no move to respond, but when the call repeated he tapped the mechanism. "Bashir here." 

"Infirmary, sir. This is Ensign Cordell. Will you be returning to the infirmary soon?" 

"Is there an emergency?" Bashir's voice regained its professional crispness and he began to gather his things. 

"Not really," replied Cordell, "but there's something I think you should look at." 

"I'll be there shortly." Glancing at Kira, Bashir nodded. "Sorry, Major. I must go." 

Kira nodded back, then stared at his back as he wove his way through the crowded replimat. Why did she get the impression that call had been poorly timed - that there had been something the doctor wanted to confide in her. 

"I apologize if I've succeeded in scaring the young man off." 

Kira looked over her shoulder. Odo stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back. 

"I don't think you scared him off," she said, indicating the empty seat beside her. 

Odo declined to sit, but continued to watch in the direction Bashir had gone. "Let us be realistic, Major," Odo continued, his voice coarse with sarcasm. "He has made a sincere effort to avoid all contact with me since you returned." 

"I don't even think he knew you were here, Odo." Kira found his tone disturbing. Even for her saturnine friend, the statement sounded harsh. "Give him time. He'll get over his discomfort." 

Odo nodded his head affirmatively. The slightest smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps." The shapeshifter moved away, leaving Kira dumbfounded. She was not certain, but it appeared as though Odo was offended by Bashir's attitude. He had not shown any signs of offense prior to now. She sighed. Not only was she no science officer, she was no psychologist, and could not begin to analyze alien psyches - either of them. 

Relinquishing her table, she started back towards Ops, arriving just as O'Brien received a call from the infirmary. 

"Tampered with in what way?" O'Brien was asking. 

"Entries have been made on records only I and my medical records officer have authority to access," said Bashir's voice. 

"Perhaps we should notify security?" 

"First, I want to make sure there are no systems failures that could be responsible, Chief. When you have time, I would appreciate your opinion." 

***** 

"Is this the only incident?" O'Brien asked, his fingers running over the computer panels as he spoke. 

"The only one we've found." Bashir kept his voice level, not wanting to acknowledge the gnawing dread the words that had scrolled across his monitor engendered. There was a logical explanation, he was certain of that. 

"When was the last time you accessed these files?" 

"About four days ago. I was imputing information, updating records. Nothing out of the ordinary." 

O'Brien frowned. "Doctor, as near as can tell, this information was input from your own terminal at the time the rest of the records were. There doesn't appear to have been any tampering, no codes entered other than your own access code and retinal scan. According to the information available there has been no security breach. Did you leave the terminal at any time?" 

**** 

"No," Bashir said, "but I did doze off for a few minutes." 

"It might have happened while you were sleeping. Does this entry mean anything to you? A joke, perhaps?" 

Bashir took a deep breath, then looked O'Brien squarely in the eye. "A joke, perhaps." 

"I can't do anything else from this terminal. I'll run a diagnostic from the main computer in Ops and let you know what I find. In the meantime, keep me informed if anything else shows up." 

"Yes, I suppose that would be the only proper course." 

O'Brien nodded, then left. Bashir continued to stare at the words, repeating line after line in the medical records. He had not input them. He was certain of that. No one else would know of their significance. He had not reported this to Sisko, nor placed it in any of his official reports or personal logs, yet the words mocked him in endless columns. "How are your hands, Doctor?" Bashir reached to delete the entry, but before he could. one last statement slipped past on his screen. "It's no joke." 

***** 

A golden shimmer from the alter candles softened the harsh contours of the room, pushing back the hard-edged design of the Cardassian furniture. Kira sat cross-legged before her personal shrine, eyes closed, breathing controlled and slow. Willing herself to do the ritual exercises prior to meditation, she was acutely aware of everything around her, the flickering candles, the cool brush of recirculated air, the soft gown that had replaced her customary uniform. She ran her fingers over the folds. It was still difficult to indulge the senses, to enjoy what liberation had brought. And such thoughts, she chided, would never achieve the proper meditative state. 

Taking another cleansing breath, she again began the process of preparing her thoughts for her evening prayer. Relaxing, breathing, slowing her heartbeat, these rituals she had repeated in surroundings far more barren and uncomfortable with greater success. Settling into the familiar routine she emptied her mind, and was promptly interrupted by her door chime. 

"Damn," she muttered. It was well past the hour for polite social calls. She might as well forget her evening prayer. Walking toward the door, she activated the external audio. "Yes," she asked, "who is it?" She did not attempt to hide the annoyance she felt at the late night intrusion. 

"Major, I--" 

Kira opened the door. Bashir stood outside her quarters, hands locked behind his back. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I can come back at another time." 

"No," Kira said quickly. She had the feeling whatever the doctor had to say needed to be said now. 

"I can wait, if you wish to change." Bashir seemed distinctly uncomfortable with her current state of dress, and part of her found that amusing, yet she knew he was deadly serious. 

"That's all right" She stepped aside, motioning him to enter. He hesitated. 

"We could talk just as easily in the replimat, if you prefer." 

"That's all right," Kira repeated. "Just come in." 

Bashir stepped inside the door and it swished shut behind him. 

"Computer, lights at three-quarter intensity," Kira requested. As the lights brightened, eliminating the sultry glow of candlelight, Kira motioned to a chair. 

Bashir sat on the edge of a narrow couch, elbows resting on his knees. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. If Kira had found his appearance startling when she had seen him in the replimat early in the day, she found it more so now. 

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked. 

"Huh? No. No, thank you. Major, I need to talk with you. About what happened, on the other side." 

"I've read your report to Commander Sisko." 

"There are some things I haven't reported to the commander yet I didn't think they were necessary. but now I'm not so sure. I need to talk with someone." 

Kira sat patiently waiting for the doctor to proceed. Bashir seemed to be searching for the right words. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, walked the length of the room, then sat down again. 

"Major," he said, "This may sound impossible, but he's not dead." 

"Dead. Who?" 

"Odo," Bashir said impatiently. "The other Odo. The one from the other side." 

"What makes you think that?" 

"Because he's here." 

"Here? I find that hard to believe." 

"Why?" Bashir closed his eyes as though regaining his composure before continuing. "Because I'm the one telling you. I'm also the one who killed him. Remember? No one had trouble believing that, why should you find it difficult to believe he's still alive and in our world?" 

"Now, wait a minute, Doctor," Kira snapped, "I'm not the enemy here. I just want to make sense of what you're saying. To make sure it makes sense to you." 

"It does make sense." 

Kira sat, hands clenched in her lap, the candles, her robe, her meditation forgotten. She scrutinized the man sitting before her. There was no doubting his sincere belief in what he was saying, but he had been under a great deal of stress. "Look, Doctor Bashir, I'm not qualified to analyze your mental state, but it's obvious, even to me, that you haven't been sleeping or probably eating right. You seem to be under a certain amount of stress--" 

"A certain amount of stress?" Bashir interrupted, laughing bitterly. 

Kira felt the anger beginning to flair. "You know," she said, stabbing her finger at Bashir, "You're not the only one to have ever done time in a Cardassian work camp, Doctor. Some people spent decades slaving in those camps." 

Bashir leaned back against the deep cushions of the couch. His eyes closed, and for a brief moment, Kira thought he had fallen asleep. "I'm sorry, Major," he said so quietly Kira had to lean forward to hear what he said. "I didn't come here to argue and I don't mean to presume my experience was unique. But since we've returned, everyone had gone to great pains to assure me our counterparts could not possibly duplicate our journey, and yet, I can't help feel they have. That they are watching. They are here. He is here." 

"What proof have you?" 

Bashir opened his eyes and stared blearily at her. He leaned forward again. "Instinct," he stated simply. "More than anything else." He quickly told her of the sensation of being observed, of the incident on the promenade shortly after their return, when he was certain he had seen Odo on the overhead catwalk, of the laughter. 

"How often has this happened?" Kira asked, undeniably curious, since she had experienced no such illusions. 

"He's everywhere. In the infirmary. In the corridors. I hear the laughter." 

"Doctor, you're exhausted. Could it just be your senses playing tricks on you?" 

"Yes. That's all I thought it was. That's what I kept telling myself. It was just my imagination and it would go away with time. But it hasn't, Major. It's gotten worse." 

"So bad you can't sleep or eat," Kira said, half to herself. She'd seen this before, in her countrymen, her fellow resistance members, particularly those who had survived a close brush with the enemy. Bashir did not answer her half-formed question, but she didn't need an answer. The evidence was before her eyes. "Have you talked to any of your own staff people about this?" 

Bashir shook his head, then laughed softly. "One of the disadvantages of being the only doctor aboard." 

"Commander Sisko?" 

"And what would I tell him, Major? That I can't sleep?" 

"What else is there to tell?" 

"Until today, nothing." 

Kira waited. 

"Today, on the terminal in my office, in records no one but my medical records technician and myself have access to, was a line entry, a question, repeated over and over, hundreds of times." Bashir looked at his palms, rubbed one hand into the other, then looked Kira directly in the eye. "He, the Supervisor, took great delight in the fact that I was a doctor." Bashir held his hands up. "Perhaps you don't realize, Major, how important these are to a doctor, a surgeon. How much they can tell me about a patient that no instrument ever would. They are my life. If any permanent damage happened to my hands, I wouldn't be able to do the job I've spent my life training for, and that's caring for people. He knew that, and went to great pains to see that as much damage was done as possible, without ever lifting a finger himself. 'How are your hands, Doctor?' he would ask. I didn't tell anyone about it I took care of the injuries myself. And yet, Odo, our Odo knew. How did he know? Why did he use the same question? And why is it in my computer terminal?" 

Kira listened "You can't believe our Odo had been replaced by--" 

"That's just it, Major, I don't know. Was he? Did the other Odo manage somehow to cross over with us? That mass discrepancy Dax and O'Brien couldn't explain - what if that discrepancy walked off the runabout?" 

"No." Kira was beginning to doubt her own conviction that Bashir had been imagining everything. It was her turn to pace restlessly around the room as she considered his line of reasoning. "There wasn't enough mass to account for a being of Odo's size." 

"Are you certain?" Bashir's eyes glittered with new determination. "How much of the other Odo was left? I saw him Kira, dissipating in a thousand directions. What if he had lost mass. We don't know how much of Odo needs to be there for him to continue as a life form. We just don't know enough about what Odo is." 

Kira had stopped before her altar, the candles sputtered in pools of melted wax, shrunken to nothing, but still flickering bravely. Perhaps there was some truth to what the doctor was saying. She turned to face him. "Why tell me all this? Why not contact security?" 

"For obvious reasons." 

"You don't trust Odo. You've been avoiding him since we returned. But he is the same Odo. He doesn't hold anything against you. If you believe there is an alien life form on this station that is in any way hostile to personnel on board, then we have to report it." 

"Can you, without a doubt, trust him, Major?" 

"Yes," Kira stated unequivocally. She chose to ignore the tickle of distrust that nudged her subconscious, the half-remembered tone in Odo' s voice in the replimat this afternoon, and how it had disturbed her. 

"Well, Major," Bashir said, a new calm in his voice. "I've seen the enemy wear that face. I can't trust. Not yet. Not until I know for certain." 

"Then I'll talk to Odo. I know him. I'll know if there is anything amiss." 

Bashir rested his face in his hands, obviously exhausted. "And if I am just imagining it all?" 

"Then it won't go any farther than this. In the meantime, Doctor, I suggest you do whatever you advise your patients to do when they are having trouble sleeping. Make sure the intruder alert devices for your quarters are activated. In the morning, if you still feel there is something that needs to be reported, we'll take it to Commander Sisko. He'll listen, Julian." 

Bashir looked at her through sleep bleary eyes. "Thank you for listening. I sincerely hope you are right." 

The Terran doctor rose, and Kira escorted him to the door. As it closed behind him, she turned her back and leaned against its cold solidity, all thoughts of her evening meditation forgotten. Bashir's accusation disturbed her more than she would admit to the young Human. Despite any fault she might have found with the doctor in times past, she understood the urgency with which he had spoken, the desperation which had brought him to her as a confidant. She did not believe their Odo was suspect, but she could not be certain his double was not present on this station, nor what that double might be capable of. 

*****   



	6. Chapter 6

  
Julian Bashir walked away from Kira's quarters feeling better than he had since before their unexpected journey through the wormhole. It had taken all of his nerve to approach the Bajoran major with his fears and suspicions, knowing how she had scoffed at him in the past. He was glad she was open to what he had to say, because he was beginning to have serious doubts about his own mental state. He had always thought of himself as adaptable and resilient, had scored highly on a psyche profiles and tests, and was shaken because Odo's mirror image had become so thoroughly intimidating. 

Granted, the supervisor had been very good at what he did, and had worked side-by side with the Cardassians, undisputed masters of subjugation. Bashir could have dealt with the nightmare and the physical abuse, if it had not been for the shadow laughter. The subtle, invasive threat, the subliminal fear dogging his every step since they shot back through the wormhole, had been far more insidious because he had no way of knowing whether it was real or imagined. Until today. He was convinced now, even if Kira wasn't, that the mirror Odo had somehow survived the disrupter blast that had ripped him apart, and managed to hitch a ride back here with them. That conviction buoyed his spirits as nothing else had been able to in the past seven days. 

Of course, convincing himself and Kira that Odo was indeed present was far easier than actually locating the duplicate shapeshifter. This supervisor knew the station as well as their own Odo, could mimic any shape or creature aboard her, and need never be found if he did not want to be found. Which meant, Bashir reasoned, in order to flush out the duplicate interloper, they would need damned good bait. Kira had advised him to return to his quarters and wait, while she talked to the constable, but instead he found himself headed for the infirmary. He had felt the supervisor's presence most strongly there. This time, he intended on confronting the cause instead of trying to outrun it. 

"Doctor Bashir." the technician on duty jumped to his feet as Bashir entered the infirmary. "Is there an emergency, sir?" 

"No," Bashir assured the young man, "Quite the contrary. I'd left some journals here that I need to read." Bashir thought quickly to cover his presence in the infirmary at this hour of the night. "I'll be here for a while if you would like to take a break." 

"It's really not time for my break, sir. 

"That's no problem. I'll wait until you return." 

"Thank you." 

Bashir waited until he heard the technician's footsteps fade into the darkness. He wasn't exactly sure how he would lure the shapeshifter out. The times he had heard the phantom laughter, he had been tired, almost asleep, so that the sound had been ethereal and disorienting. The shapeshifter seemed to sense when he was most vulnerable. 

Bashir settled himself in his office before the computer terminal where he had first heard the ghost. Leaning back, he forced himself to relax, willing his limbs to go limp, his eyes to close. He had no idea what he would do should the shapeshifter choose to show himself. As he sat in the quiet darkness, memories came back unbidden, his first shocking introduction to human status on the Intendant's Terok Nor, the endless hours and endless toil. Bashir shuddered despite his attempts to relax. 

"He will not come to you." 

Bashir felt a chill creep over his flesh. Slowly he opened his eyes. 

"Provided he even exists." 

"How can you be so certain?" Bashir asked in turn. 

"Because I would not." 

"And for that reason, you assume your double would not show himself. How am I to believe you? Major Kira has assured me you and he are not similar in any way." 

"We are not." Odo stepped from the shadows and Bashir rose to his feet so the Constable was not looking down on him. "But I have dealt with enough criminal minds to have some concept of how they think. Even the most innocent would recognize your current maneuver as the bait in a trap. The only thing missing, Doctor, is the trap itself." 

"Can I be certain, at this instant, the bait has not been successful?" 

"Yes, because I've been with Odo since I roused him from his rest." Kira joined the Security Chief in Bashir's office. "He has not left my side." Kira's voice softened. "This is our Odo," she stated simply. "His only concern is your safety and the safety of the station." 

Bashir listened and wanted to believe, but he had to make a conscious effort to ignore the twist in his stomach. He looked from Kira to Odo. "I know, Major. I keep telling myself this is not the same shapeshifter." Bashir's words came suddenly, in a bitter torrent he had struggled to control since they had returned to their own reality. "I've never disliked you, Odo, nor had any reason to distrust or fear you. I have always respected you and thought we worked well together professionally. I've told myself over and over you were not the one who threatened to crush my hands if I disobeyed any of your precious rules of obedience, that you were not the one who struck me when I did not, that you were not the one who drove the Terran workers, myself included until we, I, was so exhausted that I couldn't move or think. And I've told myself over and over that you were not the one I killed." There was a long pause as the doctor tried to calm the anger he had so carefully leashed. "But every time I close my eyes, the face that fills the nightmares is still yours." 

Odo stood, listening dispassionately, waiting as an old mariner out waits a fierce northwester, until the last gusting blast of harsh words subsided. And Bashir was not surprised by calmness. This was Odo. Taking a deep breath, Bashir expected an equally stinging retort, from Kira if not Odo, but none came. 

"I'm sorry," Bashir said at last. "That was not necessary." 

Odo's head tilted to one side. "On the contrary, I've found most humanoids have a need to vent suppressed anger or resentment before they can continue with a relationship." 

"Burying the hatchet," Bashir said to himself Odo did not seem to notice this comment. 

"Major Kira warned me of your ill feelings," the Constable continued. "That will not effect how I do my job." 

Bashir was suddenly exhausted. The rush of anger had left him spent. He was rapidly losing any desire to argue. 

Kira look a step closer, "Both Odo and I agree, you should not expose yourself to this entity until we are certain we can protect you." 

"If you will recall, Major, I have been exposed for the past seven days. He hasn't harmed me, at least not physically." 

"Not yet," Odo observed. "Until now, he has been in control by virtue of the fact he has remained hidden and unacknowledged. Now that you have made the assumption he is real, and a threat, his tactics may change." 

"So what do you suggest we do?" 

"I suggest you continue your normal routine," Odo answered. "I will install security surveillance in the infirmary and in your quarters. Allow me to investigate, to determine if this wraith really exists, and if he is still on the station and a danger." 

Bashir glanced from Kira to Odo, still unwilling to relinquish control of the situation to the shapeshifter. Finally, he nodded. "All right. We'll try it your way." 

***** 

As the days passed, Bashir began to doubt his own belief that a second shapeshifter was on board the space station. There were no further incidents, real or imagined, to substantiate his theory and no physical evidence was gained by repeated sensor sweeps of the station. Silently, in his heart, he had hoped to find some evidence the mirror Odo was alive. It caused him some distress knowing he had so blithely ended a life, but he wanted to put the entire incident behind him, and was almost willing to admit he had created all those tormented images out of his imagination. As his life returned to normal, or as close to normal as this posting would permit, he began to believe he had been hallucinating as a result of physical and mental stress and lack of sleep. 

Once again he found he could look at his fellow crew members without wondering how their counterparts in the other universe had fared. He began to close the gap he had willingly placed between himself and those he considered friends. Garak, O'Brien and eventually, Odo. As he and Kira agreed, no mention of 'the other' was officially made in any log entry, nor reported to Sisko. One does not report daydreams, he reasoned, and as he once again began to sleep, free of nightmares, he stopped checking every shadow and jumping at every unexplained sound. 

Bashir leaned back in his chair. He had just finished updating his logs and glanced at the chronometer overhead. He had worked well past midnight, not to avoid sleep, but because it felt good. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned and stretched, then reached for the cold cup of tea that sat next to the terminal just as his communicator bleeped. "Bashir here," he said, tapping the golden emblem lightly. 

"Doctor," said Odo's voice, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but one of my security personnel has sustained an injury. Can you report to the access corridor outside docking control cabin six?" 

"What is the nature of the injury?" Bashir was gathering his medkit even as he spoke. 

"I don't believe it is serious, but thought he should be examined before he is moved." 

"I'll be there in a few minutes. Bashir out." 

Julian ran the location through his mind. Docking control cabin six was at the top of docking pylon six. Walking quickly down the quiet promenade, he stopped at the turbolift and gave the verbal command to ascend. Middle of the night emergencies always seemed more serious than they usually were, perhaps because any incident seemed magnified by the silence that settled over most of the station and because unexpected things happened when crewmen were tired. 

Julian stepped off the turbolift, and glanced from side to side. At first he saw no one, then the glint of light on metal drew his attention to the inward curve of the bulkhead and a figure sprawled just around the bend in the corridor. 

"Odo?" he called tentatively, but received no answer. He walked quickly, med scanner in hand and ready, but he knew with a dull certainty, before he reached the injured man, he was too late. The man's leg was twisted from the knee at an impossible angle, his arms tossed carelessly, his lifeless eyes staring into the night. 

"Damn," Julian cursed, scanner running. This body had not fallen. It had been tossed like a rag doll, and had landed in a heap on the floor. It had taken only seconds from the time Bashir stepped off the turbolift until now, and as he continued to scan the immediate area with his tricorder, he reached for his comm badge. 

Whatever message he thought he would send, was never sent. A swift blow to the back of his skull, snatched consciousness from him before his hand could activate the communications device. He crumpled to the deck, atop his intended patient, and never heard the cackling laughter. 

***** 


	7. Final Chapter

  
A ruddy glow from the emergency lighting cast shadows of blood on the twisted remains. Tangled lines spewed from gouged bulkheads snaked across the cold steel floor. Mangled metal from machines and equipment convulsed in a tortured sculpture of wanton destruction. The deathless quiet pressed against the carnage, silence and memories all that remained. In the corner, cast off like so much chaff, an ore trolley lay tipped on its side, the last remnant of its final load scattered across the floor. The machinery was dead, the workers who had labored here gone. The only reminder of their presence was a tattered scrap of fabric snagged on the shattered face of a control panel. The air was cool, free from dust, but flat and stale. Life support in this portion of the station was minimal, sufficient only to sustain life should anyone come here, either intentionally or by accident. When the Cardassians withdrew, they gutted the ore processing facility along with the rest of the station, but no one had seen fit to reclaim the site for Bajor. Like the mines of the surface, this place held too many bitter memories of defeat and subjugation. Many would have the facility permanently closed, a symbolic gesture casting off the horrible yoke which had been borne so long by the people of Bajor. 

As Bashir regained consciousness he slowly realized he was sitting, propped against a bulkhead. His head pounded and his vision blurred but he was aware of where he was and after surveying his surroundings closed his eyes against the macabre sights that were so hauntingly familiar. Blood pounded in his temples with each beat of his heart, and he thought he heard the phantom machinery pounding along with it, the commands of the guards, the endless shuffle of feet as Terran slaves moved ore, staggering from mindless labor to mindless labor. So dreamlike, yet he knew it was not a dream, just as he knew be was not dreaming this place. Reflexively, his hand went to his chest, knowing full well what he would find. His communicator was gone. Back braced against the wall, he tried to lever himself upward with his feet, but a sudden rush of nausea and dizziness forced him to sit again. Drawing his knees up, he rested his arm, then his head against them, partially to ease the pain, but mostly because he was suddenly shaken by where he was. 

Several minutes passed in utter silence, before Bashir tried once again, to get to his feet. He had to get out of here, to warn Kira and Sisko. Steadying himself against the wall, he took a tentative step toward the exit. 

"It isn't a pretty' place." The voice was barely audible, a coarse whisper as subdued as the silence, filtering through the deathly light. 

Bashir hesitated, his heart pounding with each word, yet he knew his only chance lay in reaching a communications device. Without looking for the source of the voice, he started to dash for the exit, knowing his chances were slim. He had taken a half dozen steps when a hand clamped down on his elbow, spinning him around. Taking advantage of the momentum of the turning motion, he clasped both hands together like a club and struck out, a double, backhanded blow. His hands made contact with coarse fabric, and solid flesh below, before flesh gave way, melting from his touch. He tried to regain his balance, to strike again, but the hand holding his arm in an iron grip continued to pull him forward as a second hand, closed tightly in a fist, struck downward across his face. 

The blow felt like it came from a jackhammer and he went down, hard, on his knees. A second blow, from a booted foot, caught him across the side, and he felt a white hot poker of pain pierce his gut. He could not move, would not have if he had been able to rise. The side of his face throbbed along with his head, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth where his teeth had cut his lip, and the grating pain in his side told him at least one rib had cracked. Curling himself around the injury, he slid across the floor so he was a foot or two from his attacker. 

"How are your hands, Doctor? I hope you haven't hurt them." The supervisor stood over him, dressed in the same blue-grey uniform he had worn in the Intendant's ore processing center. His face was hidden by the shadows, but Bashir could see the glint of his eyes as they caught the barest fraction of light. 

Bashir pushed himself farther from the shapeshifter. Fighting against the pain, and the fear that roiled up inside him. This creature was in complete control, and he was at his mercy, as he had been before, and his insides lurched. "What do you want?" Bashir finally managed to gasp out the question. 

Odo laughed, the same humorless laugh that had haunted the station's corridors. "My, aren't we abrupt, Doctor? Aren't you going to ask how I feel, Doctor? Am I well? Have I recovered from my injuries? Did I enjoy my ride through the, what do you call it, the wormhole?" The shapeshifter stepped closer to Bashir, clenching his hands into fists as he did. 

Bashir braced himself for another assault, and for a frozen moment, neither of them moved, then the shapeshifter squatted down so his face was inches from the doctor's. 

"But I suppose you've figured that all out now, haven't you, Terran." The shapeshifter's voice held the word, rolling it around as though saying it were, in itself, disgusting. 

"Yes, you Terrans think you are so superior here in this universe. You still have much to learn, Doctor. But I will answer your question." The shapeshifter rose, abruptly and walked several feet from Bashir. 

The young Human let out his breath, realizing he had been holding it. The motion caused an ecstasy of pain to knife through his shattered side, but he dared not take his eyes from the being in front of him. This Odo was far more powerful than he, dangerous, and, he feared, quite mad. The Supervisor turned back to Bashir, his face unnaturally calm. "I actually wanted to thank you, Doctor." 

"Thank me?" Bashir pushed himself to a sitting position, his eyes never leaving the shapeshifter. 

"Yes. You did me a great favor." The shapeshifter's voice was calm, conversational. "I was far too good to be a supervisor in an ore processing operation." 

"An overseer, you mean," Bashir blurted, then bit back the rest of his words. 

"The title isn't important. You did not get to know our dear Intendant, but she liked to surround herself with those she could manipulate and control. She thought of those beneath her as inferior. The only way they could rise above their position was to become her pet. I did not wish to become a pet. So I did my job, and did it well. But that does not mean I wanted to remain one of her minions. I did plan on breaking free of her control in such a fashion, but when I saw the opportunity, I took it." 

"I was that opportunity?" Bashir continued to edge painfully away from the shapeshifter. 

"Not you. But the situation. I was sure you and your major would attempt to escape, would want to return to your own universe. I simply waited for the inevitable to happen." 

"And if we had not made the attempt?" 

Odo shrugged. "Then you would have been dead." He stared straight at Bashir, a gloating smile touching the corners of his mouth. "I had orders to destroy you before dawn. I would have preferred to keep you alive a bit longer to watch you squirm, but if I could not use you to further my own goals, I was not foolish enough to allow your presence to undermine my position." 

Bashir had managed to push himself to a sitting position. His head still throbbed, but his vision had cleared. If he could keep the shapeshifter talking a few more minutes, he might have the strength to make another attempt at reaching the door. "Then if freedom is what you want, why are you still here? You could have slipped away undetected. Why show yourself to me and destroy any chance you have of getting off this station?" 

Odo laughed, then his faced darkened with suppressed rage. "Have you forgotten, Doctor? You tried to kill me." 

"I was defending myself." Bashir found it increasingly difficult to breath against the pain in his side. 

"You blew me into a thousand--" Odo stopped, as though the memory was too painful. Bashir saw the outrage play across his features. The shapeshifter stepped closer to the young man. "You thought I was dead. They all thought I was dead. And I almost was. I had never disassociated to such an extensive degree. I was not able to recover all of my original mass." Odo paused as the words sunk in. "But I was still conscious. Still able to assimilate enough of myself to move through the ventilation system to the runabout pads. I was very weak, too weak to hold any but the simplest shape. I was in pain." 

The shifter's eyes did not leave his captive for even the slightest moment. As he listened, Bashir could feel the pain and responded with a wash of sympathy. He was responsible for causing this injury. He was about to speak when darkness settled again over the shapeshifter's features, a rage deeper than he had seen before, an unbridled anger directed at him. 

"You attempted to murder me, Doctor. Something I will never forget, nor take lightly. In my universe, Terrans have died for less." 

'That isn't the only reason you're still here," Bashir said quietly. 

"I needed time to recuperate. To heal. But, I found it amusing to watch you Terrans in your own environment. You think you are so superior, so much in control of your situation. You, especially, Doctor, are in need of reminding that you will not always be in control." 

"So, now you have reminded me, where do you go?" Bashir fought to keep his voice flat and emotionless, to avoid stirring the anger in his adversary. 

"Off this station. Anywhere in this universe. There are always places for a truly superior being to create his own niche. At first, I thought it would be amusing to take you with me, but I've decided it would not suit my purpose." 

"But you still lured me here. Killed an innocent crewman to use as bait." 

"It was just a Terran." 

"Just a Terran. And what will you do with this Terran?" Bashir pointed to himself. 

The Supervisor closed the gap between them in an instant, hauling Bashir to his feet, sending bolts of pain through his head and side. "I've a place for you. It will take them days to find you. If they do, you may live. But if they don't, I'll content myself with the knowledge that it was a long and uncomfortable death. Either way, I will be gone." With those words, the shapeshifter turned Bashir and shoved him forward. 

The doctor stumbled, catching his balance against the thorium containment unit. As he did, his hand closed on a dislodged metal spar. Leaning against the unit, he tried to hide the movement of his hand, pretending to catch his breath, but he could not fool a being so accustomed to controlling others. An appendage snaked around his neck, closing off his air. 

"That would not be wise," the supervisor said. 

"Nor was that," echoed the same voice. 

The pressure on Bashir's throat eased. Through the roaring in his ears, he became aware of a new presence, another voice identical to his tormentor. Odo, the constable, their Odo, had managed to locate him. There was a brief buzz of talk behind him, but he was too muddled to comprehend it. Then the force around his neck vanished. He turned, staring dully into the darkness to see two shapeshifters, face to face. 

"Now, isn't this an additional amusement," the supervisor said, his voice a low growl. He had changed, subtly, elongating to give the illusion he was looking down on Odo. But the maneuver did not ruffle the constable, who had begun to circle slowly, attempting to move the supervisor away from Bashir. 

"I have no quarrel with you," said the supervisor. "We are, after all, one of a kind." 

"No," said Odo simply. "Not one of a kind. My kind does not murder to achieve a goal, nor to bait another sentient being." 

"My, my, how you fuss about one dead Terran. Where I come from they die in droves, and no one cares." 

"I'm well aware of how things are done in your world. But this is not your world." 

"It could be." The supervisor appeared to be shifting again. "It could be our world, our universe." 

Odo was stalling, dragging out the encounter with his mirror image, perhaps, because he was as shocked and fascinated by his evil twin as Kira had been, but more likely, Bashir realized, to give him time to escape. As the two shapeshifters talked, the constable had subtly changed positions with the Mirror Odo, until he stood with his back to Bashir, between the doctor and the other. Bashir knew it was up to him to summon help. Leaning against the thorium containment unit for support, Bashir slowly stepped away. The movement left him dizzy, but he was upright. The door was his next goal, but it was not to be that easy. 

The supervisor realized what he was attempting to do and charged foreword with a sudden, incoherent cry of rage. Equally swift, Odo moved to intercept him, his actions a blur. The two shapeshifters engaged each other as Bashir stared in fascination. He had expected each to assume some increasingly terrifying solid transformation in a duel of superiority, but instead, each melted before his eyes. They swirled into one another until Bashir could not tell the two apart. As one mass they rolled across the cluttered deck, churning, colors fluctuating, in soundless battle. Accustomed to humanoid encounters, Bashir was enthralled by the fluid movement and utter silence. 

He had paused only a few seconds, but every second could be critical. Forcing himself to turn away from the mesmerizing battle, he staggered to the exit and out into the access corridor. He cursed silently for not being more familiar with this part of the station, for not knowing the shortest route to the nearest comm panel, though he prided himself on knowing so much. As he rounded a curved bulkhead he came to a communications outlet, and his heart sank. It had been gutted like everything else, and had not yet been repaired. He shambled on, each step jarring his head and side, until he half staggered, half ran. The turbolift was ahead. There had to be a working comm panel there. As he reached it and slammed his hand against the activation touch plate he was relieved to hear the familiar chirrup of response. Catching his breath he spoke hoarsely, "Bashir to Kira." 

No response. 

"Bashir to Kira, please respond." 

"Bashir?" Kira's voice was taut, "Where are you? Is Odo there? I haven't been able to locate him." 

"I need a security team and medkit at the ore processing plant. Now!" 

"On my way." 

Bashir cut the communications link and was back into the companionway before he realized Major Kira had never questioned his request, as though she was expecting his call. Perhaps she was. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, or if anyone had noticed and reported his absence. Bashir's thoughts raced as he stumbled back to the ore processing center, wondering what he would find when he arrived, and knowing he could well be walking into greater danger than he had left. 

At the entrance to the processing center he stopped. The filtered light seeped through the open hatchway into the corridor. Motionless, he waited for some sign that the battle he had left raging within was still being fought, but he could detect no sound or motion. Cautiously, he slipped inside the door until he could see the main floor. Torn and twisted equipment littered the area, but there was no sign of either Odo. 

But what sign did you expect, he thought. They could be here, assuming the shape of any object, playing a deadly game of hide and seek. Bashir moved farther into the chamber, his headache almost forgotten as he strained to hear or see any hint of the others. The silence was ruptured by the shattering clamor of metal striking metal. A young Bajoran, in a service uniform, stood directly across from him - phaser drawn and ready. 

"Dr. Bashir?" the young officer asked. 

"Yes," was Kira's firm reply from a few paces to the man's left. Kira emerged from the shadows, the brownish red of her uniform barely discernible in the rusty light. She stood several meters from Bashir and said nothing as, tricorder in hand, she scanned the silent shadows that stretched between them. "Doctor?" she asked at last, expecting an explanation. 

"Odo was here," Bashir answered. "They both were." 

"But where are they now? Response time was minimal." Kira sounded impatient. 

"I don't know." 

"Major Kira," came a new voice over Kira's comm badge, "I think I have something. I'm near the first large ore crusher." 

"We're on our way." Kira nodded, then plunged into the depths of the facility. 

Having not been told to wait, Bashir followed doggedly, silently glad to see two members of Kira 's security team flanking him, matching their pace to his slower one. _Bodyguard_, he thought. His pace had slowed considerably, and while the ache in his head had subsided somewhat, a weight had settled on the left side of his chest, and breathing was becoming more difficult. 

When they joined the rest of the team, Kira looked completely baffled. What they had found looked nothing like Odo, in any form. A slick of material, thinly spread and greyish in color, that more closely resembled a poured plate of old-fashioned agar, covered the floor for approximately four square meters. 

"Doctor," Kira said, handing him the tricorder, "what do you make of those readings?" 

Bashir studied the information Kira had gathered, quickly cross-referencing it with everything he had on record about Odo's physiological make-up and function. It wasn't much. He would have to do some fancy guessing. 

"It's definitely Odo. One of them, at any rate." Bashir was working as he talked. 

"And?" Kira asked expectantly. 

"I'm not one hundred percent certain." 

"How many percent certain are you, Doctor?" Kira's eyebrows arched, and the look on her face was one Bashir recognized well. She was annoyed, and the annoyance was rapidly becoming outright anger. 

"The closest I can come to a diagnosis, if he were humanoid, would be a neural toxin. Some substance that creates a barrier that inhibits the transmission of electrical impulses across synapses, or causes the neurons to fire uncontrollably. The rigidity of the mass is like the spasms of a muscle." 

"Can you do anything?" 

Bashir nodded his head. "I think I can. But Odo's nervous system isn't humanoid." His fingers flew over the tricorder, attempting to determine the agent and its antidote, and swearing he swore he would run a full baseline series of diagnostic tests on the shapeshifter as soon as Odo was back to normal. If he got back to normal. Reaching for the med kit, he quickly prepared a hypo. It would either work, or Bashir had a feeling Kira would be very angry with him. 

The only sound besides his own ragged breathing was the hiss of a hypospray. Bashir sat back on his heels, tricorder scanning, his mental fingers crossed. For several seconds there was no response. The flat lifeless grey of his "patient" became grayer, and Bashir feared he had made matters worse instead of helping. Then a small quiver ran through the flattened material. A second, more visible shiver followed. Then slowly, from edges to center, the color began to change from dully gray to pale pink and, finally, to soft orange-red. The alien began to pulse and drew together so that it was not spread over the entire floor. It looked once again like Odo at rest. 

Kira looked at Bashir as though still expecting more. 

"I doubt he'll be able to assume any solid shape until he has had time to rest, Major," Bashir answered her unasked question. "For now. I think it would be best if he was taken to the infirmary for observation." 

"How can we be sure it's...our Odo?" Kira asked. 

"From these readings, we can't. But I think it is, Major. The other had every intention of leaving this station. I assume he planned his escape well. If he hasn't already boarded a ship that was leaving, he will be soon." Bashir looked up from where he sat on the floor. "And now, Major, if you don't get me to the infirmary, all this effort will have been for nothing." 

*****   
Odo sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on the readout from his computer terminal. Standing in the doorway, Bashir cleared his throat to announce his presence. 

"Yes, Doctor." Odo's eyes never moved from the data scrolling silently across his board. 

"I stopped to see how you were feeling." Bashir stepped into the security chief's office. "If you have no objection." He indicated the tricorder in his hand. 

Odo shrugged and grunted a nonverbal assent to the examination. "You will find nothing changed from yesterday," he commented over the soft whir of the medical tricorder. 

Completing the exam, Bashir replaced the scanner and shut down the tricorder. The silent room was filled by the almost inaudible hum of Odo's computer. 

"As I said, Doctor, you will find nothing changed from yesterday." 

Bashir felt his spirits dive, not because of the apparent dismissal of his concerns, but because of what it implied. 

"As I reported to you then, and the day before, there has been no sign of my duplicate, either on this space station or on any outgoing vessel." 

Bashir had no doubts of Odo's sincerity or the thoroughness of his investigation. It had been over a week since their last encounter with the mirror Odo. The constable had made a full recovery from the toxin he had been exposed to. Odo had saved Bashir's life, and the doctor had, he hoped, repaid the debt. He no longer had reason to fear this Odo, yet the lingering doubt still assailed him. Despite the constable's diligence, they had no proof the alternate Odo had left the station, any more than they had proof he was still on board. 

"Traffic through the wormhole cannot be discontinued indefinitely while we continue to search." Odo had risen to his feet and stood facing the young Terran, his voice softer. "We have to resume our normal activities." 

Touched by the change in the shapeshifter's manner, Bashir's own voice dropped to a whisper. "He's still out there." 

Odo nodded. "Believe me, Doctor, I feel no better about that than you do. I do not like knowing my mirror image may be anywhere in this universe. But we can do nothing about it. You must accept that fact." 

Or allow the memories to haunt me forever; Bashir finished silently to himself. He looked Odo steadily in the eyes. "I apologize for anything I might have said to you in the past days that was offensive. I realize that I lashed out at you when you were not at fault." 

Again, Odo nodded acceptance of the apology. Very slowly, the shapeshifter extended his hand. Bashir hesitated, unable to remember Odo ever offering this simple gesture, aware of Odo's personal preference of physical distance from his colleagues. Then he took the shapeshifter's hand in his own, silent acknowledgment that it was time to put the supervisor and his world behind him. 

***** 

"There is something very peaceful about it, isn't there?" 

Bashir looked up to see Kira standing a few feet away. Her hands were held behind her back, and she hesitated a moment before stepping to the window. 

"The Denorious belt has long been a source of peace for my people. Even before the discovery of the wormhole, it was considered the calm center of a troubled universe." 

They stood silently for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Bashir spoke. "How long did you work below?" 

"Below, in ore processing?" 

Bashir nodded. 

"From the time I was old enough to move ore until I finally escaped." Kira's voice was calm. 

"How did you survive so long?" Bashir knew for a fact he would have been worked to death before he would have lived more than a year. 

"By becoming a shadow. Unseen. You survived by not being noticed. Once the guards knew your name, who you were, you were done for. If you remained nameless and obscure, you lived from one day to the next." 

"I find it difficult to believe Kira Nerys was ever meek and obscure." 

"It's amazing what sixty years of Cardassian cruelty can accomplish." 

"I guess I never got the chance to be obscure." Bashir continued to stare until the soft touch of Kira's hand on his forearm startled him. 

"I can't say I didn't know what would happen," she said. "Because I did. But I couldn't think of any other way to keep you alive. The Intendant would have ordered you killed. Immediately. I convinced her you would learn a valuable lesson from the experience. I knew the work would be hard, but I never expected the supervisor to single you out." Kira shook her head, her lips a tight line, and the hand on his arm tightened. 

Bashir sensed frustrated anger in her movement, but did he also sense guilt? 

"And..." Kira seemed to choke on the words. "I wanted you to taste what life had be like for so many of my people. You have led such a privileged existence compared to them." She paused, emotions mixing in her eyes. "Compared to me." 

"I'm sorry, Major. I never meant to hurt you. And I didn't mean to place myself above your people or belittle their experience. But I am good at what I do, no matter how my arrogance may gall you. I won't deny that." 

Bashir studied Kira's face. In the low light, the glitter of her dark eyes told him how much her own experience in the alternate universe had disturbed her. Seeing herself as a willful, indulgent, and cruel leader must have been as emotionally shocking, if less physically trying, than his own tenure in the mines. "You are not the Intendant, Kira, anymore than Odo was the supervisor. You don't need to feel guilty for anything she did." 

"I saw so much of myself in her," Kira said, a look of bewilderment passing briefly over her features before she turned to look out the window. 

"They were all so much like the people we know, yet so different," Bashir reassured. "In different circumstances, we might have been more like them. I keep wondering how they all fared--Sisko and O'Brien. I suppose we'll never know. I don't think I will ever forget them, though, or what happened." 

"No," Kira said, her voice calm and confident once more. She looked up at Bashir and a smile touched her lips. "You never forget. You don't want to. You learn to accept what happened and get on with your life. But you never forget." 

They stood for several moments in companionable silence. Finally, Kira turned to Bashir and shook her head. "I don't know about you, Julian, but I could use a good, strong cup of coffee." 

Bashir smiled. She had finally used his name. "Actually, Major, I was going to suggest a cup of Tarkhalian tea. Quite refreshing." 

"Nerys," she said as she turned away from the window, linking her hand through his elbow and leading him toward the replimat. 

"Nerys. Perhaps, I'll try that." 

END   
  
  



End file.
