Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:21:46 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith: Hope Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 2/18 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: It wasn't long before he had a visitor. The door chimed. He'd almost forgotten what kind of sound a Starfleet starship's door chimes had. He waited for it to sound again just so he could listen. This time there was a voice, too. "Doctor Bashir? It's Counselor Troi. May I please come in?" Bashir sighed. A counselor. Still, he had expected it. If he had just rescued someone from six months alone in a cave, he would have prescribed counseling, too. So now he was the patient. It would probably be awhile before he was allowed to be a doctor again. Death tended to negate one's license to practice, after all. "Yes," he answered, unable to dredge up any show of enthusiasm. "Come in." As the door opened, he saw the light from the corridor, so he turned his head away and covered his eyes. He listened for the door to close before he uncovered and turned toward her. "It certainly is dark," she said. She had a bit of an accent, and he remembered another Troi. "Yep," Bashir answered. "How has your mother been? I hope she wasn't on Betazed when. . . ." He didn't bother finishing the sentence. "She was," the counselor replied and Bashir could hear the sadness in her voice. "But I'm sure she's giving them hell anyway." Bashir smiled, remembering the annoyance with which the ambassador was generally greeted at the station. Not always though. "I'm sorry." He paused for a moment and then welcomed her in. "I'd offer you a seat, but I haven't really explored the place yet. I'm sure there's a couch in here somewhere." "Yes," she replied, "there is. I think I can find it. Would you like to sit down?" "I already am," Bashir told her. "I tripped over this chair earlier." He heard her stub a toe, but she held her breath rather than curse it. She let out the breath. "Found the couch," she said and he could hear her smiling. He thought it amazing that one could hear a smile, but it was there nonetheless. "It must have been hard," she started. "Six months alone in a cave." So now it was officially begun. "Six months, one week and four days," Bashir corrected. She was silent for a moment and he guessed he'd caught her off guard. "Data said two weeks, five days." "Well, I wasn't in the cave the whole time," Bashir admitted. "I was with Section 31 before that. They're the ones who put me in the cave." "What is Section 31?" she asked. "Didn't the captain tell you before he sent you down here?" Bashir countered evenly. "Or can't you read my thoughts?" That took her by surprise, too. He could tell. "No," she replied, "on both counts. I'm only half Betazoid. I can sense emotions. I can only communicate telepathically with other telepaths. According to your records, you're not a telepath. Unless--" "No," Bashir cut her off. "I didn't lie about it, if that's what you're getting at. To be quite honest, I didn't lie about anything. I simply didn't volunteer the truth about my DNA resequencing." He paused, taking a breath. "Section 31 is part of the Federation Charter, a sort of security force not unlike the Tal'Shiar or the former Obsidian Order. They work outside of the law to ferret out would-be traitors to the Federation." "Isn't that what Starfleet Intelligence does?" At least she was indulging him and not questioning his sanity just yet. "Starfleet Intelligence works within the law," he countered. "They don't torture their prisoners, for one. They don't generally kidnap Federation citizens or proceed on the assumption that one is guilty before proven innocent. In fact, they don't often deal with Federation citizens at all." "So Section 31 polices citizens," Troi reasoned skeptically. "We have police to police citizens. Again, they're within the law." Troi was silent for a long time. Perhaps she was thinking they'd gotten off on a tangent. "So they kidnapped you," she finally said. "Did they think you a threat?" Bashir had already decided to tell the truth about Section 31. He'd decided that his first few days in the cave. If he should ever get out, he would tell everyone. They wouldn't remain a secret. "I'm not sure," he answered, "I think so, but I proved my innocence." "Through torture?" She didn't sound convinced, but at least she sounded a little concerned. "Psychological torture, yes. They withheld food, deprived me of sleep, and kept me in a holoprogram. Of course, I didn't know it was a holoprogram. It was all very realistic. In it, I was accused by Internal Affairs of passing information to the Dominion. Everything I'd ever done was turned around to show that I could be sympathetic to the enemy. They had everyone turning against me. They even had Weyoun trying to convince me I was an operative." "But you proved your innocence?" Was that a touch of suspicion he heard in her voice? "Are you an interrogator or a counselor?" he asked her. But he didn't give her time to answer. He didn't want a confrontation. "Yes, I held that I was innocent all along, and I finally discovered the holoprogram. They even used an implant to analyze my neurosynaptic relays. They were convinced, so I should think you should be as well. I hardly think I was a danger to the Federation these last six months. Besides, it was all just a test. I passed." "Why put you in the cave if they believed your innocence, if you passed?" It certainly sounded like suspicion. Well, it was to be expected, Bashir supposed. "They didn't." He realized that was confusing, so he continued. "They let me go, returned me to Deep Space Nine. I reported the incident to my commanding officer, but he couldn't find any evidence. No transporter traces, no record of Section 31. Starfleet Command would neither confirm nor deny Section 31's existence." "But you ended up in the cave." Confused was better than suspicious. "That was later," he said again, "They returned. More than once." "Because they still suspected you?" Bashir smiled, though he knew she couldn't see it. "No, because they wanted to recruit me. I told them no. I find their methods repulsive. Their existence is against everything I believe in. But my commanding officer saw it as an opportunity for an investigation, as did Admiral Ross. I was ordered to say yes when they returned for me, to play along." "And what did you find out?" "That they knew me too well," Bashir responded, unable to keep the bitter tint from his voice. "They manipulated me, used my principles against me, and they used Admiral Ross to do it. I was led to believe they were going to assassinate someone and by trying to stop it, I unknowingly sent an innocent woman to prison and furthered their true plot, which was to secure a more powerful position for one of their double agents. I was again returned to DS9 and yet again ordered to go along with them in order to expose them. That," he explained, punctuating the point, "is why I ended up in the cave." Silence again. Six months in a cave could drive anyone to insanity. Bashir was convinced that was what she was thinking had happened to him. "It's hard to believe," she finally said, "that the Federation would condone such an organization." "That's what I told Sloan." "Who is Sloan?" "He was my contact, I suppose," Bashir replied, " my interrogator and then my recruiter and my judge. The cave was his decision.. A bit of creativity on his part." *You asked once,* Sloan's voice sounded in his head, *what would have happened if we didn't find you trustworthy. I admit, this is more creative than we usually get, but you get the general idea. You're an intelligent man, after all.* "I don't expect you to believe me, you know," he told Troi. "I wouldn't. If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't believe a word of it. Section 31 goes against every principle we've been brought up to believe in, everything we're supposedly fighting for. So why should you believe me?" He hadn't expected an answer, and her answer surprised him. "Because I'm half-Betazoid." She moved a bit closer to him; he could hear her on the couch. "I can tell when someone is lying. You believe what you are saying." Bashir leaned closer to her. "But do *you * believe what I'm saying?" She had no answer for that. So he asked her something easier. "Are you here to determine if I'm sane after my lengthy subterranean stay?" He could hear her smiling again. "I think you're sane. It's more a question of stability." Bashir nodded. "Do you think I'm stable?" Troi laughed lightly. "I think I'll need more time to determine that." Then she became serious. "But I think everyone needs a little instability now and then. Get some rest, Doctor. It was nice meeting you." "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again," Bashir said. As counselors go, he decided he liked her, though he was wary of her empathy. That could only complicate things. "I'm sorry I can't show you to the door." "I can find my way, thank you. Watch your eyes." Bashir took her advice and covered his eyes again. He heard the door open and close again and knew it was safe to uncover his eyes. He was tired. Probably a side effect of malnutrition. That, and he didn't know what time it was. He still didn't know where the bedroom was so he moved to the couch, remembering where Troi's voice had come from. He also remembered what she said. Everyone needs a little instability. Sounded good, but he couldn't use it. He couldn't get back to Deep Space Nine if he was unstable, and he had to get back to Deep Space Nine. Geordie caught Data just before they sat down. "How is he?" he whispered. "If you are referring to Doctor Bashir," Data replied quietly, "I believe Doctor Crusher will be giving us an evaluation of his health. If you are inquiring about his emotional state, Counselor Troi would be best to answer. I have only spoken with him for a few minutes last night. I cannot give an informed opinion." Geordie gave him a smile, but let it go. He took his seat at the table. Data sat beside him. "Good morning," Captain Picard said, starting the staff meeting. "Commander, have you finished analyzing the data?" Data noticed that Riker looked more haggard today than usual. He shook his head as he spoke, "It's all gone. Every last living thing." Doctor Crusher spoke up, "It looks like biomemetic gel." Data let his breath out slowly and looked to the tabletop. In his mind, he quickly calculated all the lives that were lost. Deyon III had had a population of 6,521,372 humanoids and well over 50,000 species of animals. And he thought he could feel the loss of every one of them. It wasn't as deep as losing someone he knew, but the pain was there nonetheless. He'd been feeling that a lot lately. Like most mornings since the war began, when he started his shift, he turned off his emotion chip. The pain stopped instantly, and he straightened up in his chair. The others were looking down, too. It was Captain Picard who raised his eyes first. "And what of our guest?" He looked to the doctor. "He'll be fine," she replied, but not with her usual smile. "Malnutrition, some atrophy of his muscles due to inactivity, but physically, he's not in bad shape." She looked to Troi. Troi wasn't smiling either. "Considering the trauma he's suffered, he's quite calm. He doesn't seem too excited about being rescued, but that could be shock." "What about his story?" Riker asked. "What about Section 31?" Troi took her time answering. Data thought perhaps she wasn't sure. "He believes it. Of that I'm certain. Whether or not it's true. . . ." Riker leaned forward. "It can't be true. The Federation isn't like that. When we found him, he was talking to himself. He's not sane." Data noted a hint of bitterness in the commander's posture and tone of voice. Apparently, Troi noted the same thing. She looked Riker in the eye. "I don't think you're qualified," she said, "to make that assumption. Hallucinations are not unlikely given his condition. And I found him to be quite rational." "So did I," Picard agreed. "He didn't seem irrational or hallucinatory when I spoke to him, though, I admit, that was only very briefly. I wouldn't want to believe his story about Section 31 either, but with the war, a lot of things have changed. I want to talk to him again. He was put in that cave by someone. I doubt the Dominion would have bothered with the replicator, and he didn't strand himself. There has to be something to what he's saying, even it if is being distorted by trauma." Bashir awoke expecting to touch the moist mud of the floor of the cave, but then he remembered where he was. The soft cushions of the couch met his hands. The *Enterprise*. He sighed and asked the computer for the time. "The time is ten hundred hours," the computer intoned. *Only a few hours,* Bashir thought and wondered why he couldn't sleep now that he'd been rescued. He had slept often in the cave. He cocked his head and asked the computer to repeat. He listened to the voice. He'd not really paid much attention to it when he'd heard it on the *Defiant*, but it was different from the voice on the station. More polite. "Thank you," he told it, knowing it was unnecessary. "You are welcome," it replied. Bashir rubbed his face, and his hand lingered over his beard and then made its way to his hair. His hair was long, past his collar. He couldn't imagine what he must look like. He stood and began feeling his way around the room. He found an open doorway and went through it, following the walls again there. Another doorway, this one closed. He found the panel and opened it, remembering where to touch the darkened controls. He reached his hand through and found cloth. A closet. He must be in the bedroom. Good enough. He'd have a place to sleep, or at least to lie down. He continued along the walls and eventually found another door. It opened in front of him and he was sure he'd found the right place. It was then that he realized his eyes were straining. He was trying to see. He'd given up trying to see a long time ago, but now his eyes were strained. Light. He still couldn't see anything, but there had to be more light, just an increment more. Crusher had said they'd raise the lights gradually. It had to be starting. Still, it was, for him, nothing to get excited over. In practice, he was still blind. He held his hands in front of him and explored the room. He found a counter and a sink. He moved his hands around the counter and found the shaver. He couldn't do much about his hair, but he could remove the beard. If he wanted his life back, he had to find a way to feel like himself again. Like the increment of light, it was a start. Afterwards, he rubbed his face again and felt only smooth skin. It felt odd, but familiar. He took a shower and wished that it was a water shower instead of a sonic one. He wanted to feel warm water on his skin. Still, he felt cleaner when it was done. He found the closet again and changed clothes, wondering what it was he'd been given to wear. He was trying to find the replicator when the door chimed. He thought for a moment that the counselor had returned. Then he changed his mind. The door chimed again. The Captain, or may be First Officer. There were questions that needed asking. "Come in, Captain," Bashir called, deciding that they would want to limit the introductions just now. The door opened and closed. "Good morning. How did you know?" "Deduction." Bashir didn't bother to face Picard. He wouldn't be able to see him anyway. Besides, he was hungry. He continued his way along the wall: a dish, a table, the ports, but no replicator. "Can I help you find something?" Picard asked after a moment. "Replicator," Bashir replied. "Of course," Picard said, though Bashir didn't hear him move. "About three meters to your left." Bashir spun around. "You can see me?" He forgot about the replicator and was intent on the direction of Picard's voice. He still could see nothing. Not even the slightest hint of light. Perhaps he had gone blind. "Night vision of a sort," Picard replied. "Something my Chief Engineer, Geordie La Forge, cooked up." Bashir still looked. Night vision glasses or goggles usually gave off some detectable glow. But he could see nothing. He remembered La Forge from the last time he was on the *Enterprise*, when he met Data. He was an inventive man and he was blind. Technology helped him to see past the darkness, and perhaps now he was helping his crew to do the same. When he spoke, his voice with quiet. "Must be nice." He turned back to the wall and moved to the left as Picard had indicated. He found the replicator and then froze. He'd eaten the same thing for so long, and now he could order anything. It was like the whole universe had opened up to him. He couldn't decide. "Doctor Crusher recommends eating light for now," Picard suggested. He was still undecided as to what he really wanted, so he took Crusher's advice and ordered scones with jam and tea. There was a familiar sparkle in the center of the machine, something he could actually see. He watched it until it went away. He reached a hand in to where the sparkle had been and found the food, just as he'd ordered it. He might know the technology, but it still felt like magic to him at times like this. *A little starvation will do that to you,* he told himself. He carefully picked up the tray of food and walked back to where he'd found the table. "You don't mind if I eat while we converse, do you?" he asked Picard, not really caring what the captain's answer would be. He was hungry and he was going to eat. It didn't matter what Picard thought. "No. Do you mind if I join you?" Picard asked in turn. He moved. Bashir could hear him walking across the room. "Tea, Earl Gray, hot," he ordered at the replicator. Then he walked over and pulled out a chair. "I can describe the quarters for you, if it will help," he offered. The jam was heaven. The fruit burst to life on his tongue. Starfleet field rations were worse than bland. He'd almost forgotten what real food tasted like. He nearly lost Picard completely in the sensation. "Um, no," he replied. "It's better if I find everything myself." "It will only be for a few days," Picard countered. "A few days," Bashir repeated. "A lot can happen in a few days." "Point taken." Bashir dipped another scone into the jam and waited for Picard to continue the interrogation he'd begun in Sickbay. Picard didn't disappoint him. "Tell me about Section 31. Why did they maroon you?" "I told you already," Bashir answered. But he was willing to repeat himself. He wanted Picard to know about them. He wanted Picard to believe him. "They marooned me because I betrayed them. I lied. My commanding officer told me to join them in order to find out more about them. I didn't want to have anything more to do with Section 31 but I followed my orders. I joined them. I infiltrated them. But they caught on and weren't appreciative." "I've never heard of them," Picard said. Bashir heard him sip his tea. "I'm not surprised. If you had heard of them, they wouldn't be as effective. Their victims don't expect them either." He finished the last of his scones and rose to return the plate to the replicator. "Counselor Troi told me you spent time with them before they sent you to the cave," Picard went on. "What did you do during that time?" Bashir thought for a moment of questioning Troi's ethics. But it was counterproductive. No harm was done. At least not yet. He sat back down and answered the question. "I trained." There were still some things he wasn't going to tell about. There was always the possibility that Section 31 was still listening. "They couldn't just hand me an assignment, not like before. I had to train and they had to trust me. In the end, they didn't." "What did you learn in your training?" Julian wished he could see the man. So much was said in a face. All he had were words. "A good many things," Bashir replied, again only planning on half-truths. "Practical things. Policies and procedures mostly. I can give you a full report for you, if you'd like." "That would be helpful, thank you." Picard agreed. He must have decided to change the subject, because he let the subject of Section 31 rest completely. "My Chief Engineer has asked me to ask you about the transmitter. It was quite delicate work, even for an engineer." Bashir cut him off. He knew where this was leading. "I took extension courses in engineering at the Academy," he said. "I'm not an engineer, but I do fairly well with Federation equipment." "But converting a portable replicator into a transmitter is unheard off. How did you know how to do it? Such a thing wouldn't be taught in an extension course." "I'm genetically enhanced," Bashir said, guessing that that was what Picard was getting at. "I read about them." "Them?" Apparently Picard was hoping for more. "Replicators and transmitters," Bashir clarified. "Do you know why I took the extension courses?" He imagined Picard shaking his head. The captain was silent so he went on. "Because one of my patients died. He didn't have to die. Not if I'd known what I know now. Any second year engineering student would have known. But I was in medicine. I had no idea and neither did anyone around me. And so the man died. I didn't want that to happen again." "So you studied transmitters and replicators?" He wasn't used to being so open, but he'd already started and he didn't see any risk in what he was telling. "No, I read about those more recently, but for similar reasons. I've starved. No matter what the science behind that little device on the wall, it's really magic to someone who has starved. You can't starve with a working replicator. I wanted to know how to fix mine in case it broke. I never wanted to starve again." "And the transmitter?" "Dominion Internment Camp 371." "I don't understand." "I was replaced, before the war started," Bashir explained. "I was held in the camp in the Gamma Quadrant. One of the other prisoners in the camp had converted an old life support system into a transmitter. He sent a signal into the Alpha Quadrant to Deep Space Nine. It's because of that signal that I'm not still there. I wanted to know how he did that. Once I thought of it, there in the cave, it really wasn't so hard to visualize the circuitry. I had a lot of time to concentrate. It was difficult in the dark, but I could see the circuits in my mind." "You sent a signal only Data would understand." Not a question, but it implied one. "Someone else might have heard. I didn't know if I was behind enemy lines or if Section 31 was still monitoring me. I knew I could trust Data, so I called for him." "You're fortunate he got it," Picard replied, and Bashir could feel the interrogation slipping into a more conversational tone. "We only found your signal because we were ordered to the neighboring system. It was quite coincidental. You're lucky we found you at all." Bashir chuckled just once. "Lucky? I suppose that's one way to look at it. The other way is to see that I'm an extremely unlucky individual." "Why do you say that?" Picard asked, sounding a lot like Counselor Troi. Bashir took a breath, but kept his voice even when he spoke. "I've been shot, shocked, beaten, replaced, flogged, gassed, had my fingernails ripped out, and my hand broken repeatedly with a hammer. I've been a prisoner of war before the war even started. I've been berated and kidnapped. I've been a slave. Twice! I've had someone reach inside my chest and grab my heart. I've been thrown into cells and nearly suffocated." He'd never said so much before. He had kept most of those things in.. "And yet, here I am. Still standing. Yes, I'm a very lucky man. Or I'm not." Picard was silent for a long time. Bashir could hear him sip his tea. Stalling. Too much, surmised. He'd said too much. Picard didn't know how to respond. "I know how that feels," Picard said finally, taking Bashir by surprise. "Like fate must be against you. I've been a Borg, you know. It still haunts me. But I'm still here. It's not a curse. You'll see that, given time." "I had six months," Bashir countered, barely speaking at all now. There was silence after that. Bashir didn't feel like speaking. He had lost the words. "Bridge to Captain Picard." Bashir heard Picard tap his commbadge. It had a familiar little chirp, and he remembered a time when his own commbadge had meant so much to him. "Picard here," the captain replied. "What is it, Commander?" "We'll be leaving Dominion space within the next half hour, Captain." "Very good." Bashir got the distinct feeling that the captain was relieved. It was an easy way out. "I'll be right there." There was another chirp, and the comm line closed. "Good news, Doctor. We'll be able to inform your family and Starfleet Command of your recovery." "But will *they* think that's good news?" His voice was barely above a whisper, so he wasn't even sure if Captain Picard heard. He was surprised then when Picard touched his arm. "They're your family," Picard said, equally as quiet. He raised his voice little. "And Starfleet Command needs all the officers it can get." Then he pulled away and the door opened. The sudden flash of light sent a stabbing pain through Bashir's head, but it faded after a few moments. Bashir was left to imagine what his parents would think, what they would feel, when they found out he was alive after all. Starfleet Command was another concern. But not the same. To Starfleet he was just another officer, one who had lied. His parents loved him. He was their son. Picard waited until the *Enterprise* had crossed over the Dominion lines. Only then did he relax his fingers. He hadn't realized how hard he'd been gripping the arms of his chair. The Dominion did that to him. The Borg gave him nightmares, but the Dominion made him nervous. He feared the Borg, but he also understood them. To a point. They were straightforward, purposeful, relentless. They had no need for deceit. The leaders of the Dominion specialized in deceit. Their minions were no less relentless, but they are not straightforward. They were clever, with more personality than the Borg. They had heartfelt, if manufactured, devotion where the Borg only had programming. They had a fire, a drive, where the Borg had just a steady hum. "Mr. Data," he said with a voice as steady as it would have been if the ship had been traveling to Risa, "contact Starfleet Command, secure channel. I'll be in my Ready Room. You have the Bridge, Number One." The transmission was already put through by the time he sat behind his desk. He tapped the control, and a face appeared. Admiral Necheyev smiled at him, but he noticed that her eyes didn't smile with her lips. She looked older, more haggard. But then, almost everyone he knew did, too. The war did that. "Good to see you again, Captain," the admiral said. "And you, Admiral," Picard responded. "There was nothing there. Not a single living thing." Necheyev nodded, her smile gone. The rest of her face was as severe as her eyes. "We expected as much." She looked away, and Picard could see the pain she felt. Deyon III used to have a population of over six million. The report had come some three months earlier. A rumor. The total destruction of life on Deyon III. The rumor even gave a reason: biological warfare. The *Enterprise* had been sent to confirm it. "Dr. Crusher was able to identify the cause." "Biomemetic gel?" Picard nodded. "We'll be filing a full report as soon as we've had time to complete our analysis." "Very good." Necheyev was all business now. "Though I can't say I'm looking forward to reading it. Thank you, Captain." She was about to disengage the transmission. Picard held up a hand. "There is something else, Admiral." "I've got news, Captain." Captain Sisko was surprised by the call. He'd already talked to Admiral Ross twice that week. But something about the admiral's face told him he shouldn't mind the interruption. "Good or bad?" Ross didn't answer the question. "They've found Bashir." "Bashir who?" It wasn't that the name wasn't familiar. It definitely was. Sisko didn't forget the names of the casualties among his own crew. Especially not ones he considered friends. But Julian had been found more than three months ago. Or rather his body had been found. "*That* Bashir," Ross answered, looking Sisko straight in the eye. Sisko shook his head. "I don't understand." "Neither did I." Ross agreed. "But it's true. Dr. Julian Subatoi Bashir is alive." Sisko barely breathed for the next five minutes. It only took that long for Admiral Ross to tell what he knew. Sisko called Colonel Kira into his office and invited her to sit down. She looked at him, confused, as he paced back and forth across the floor. But he wasn't sure how to start. And he wasn't sure how he felt. He was happy, overjoyed. But it was such a surprise. Such an unthinkable surprise. "Julian's alive." Kira just shook her head in little staccato movements. Sisko sat down beside her and touched her arm. "Julian's alive," he repeated. "Admiral Ross just told me he was picked up by the *USS Enterprise*." She was still shaking her head. "Where?" Sisko stood up again and turned away from her. "Behind the lines. I don't know any of the details. Ross didn't know. Just behind the lines." When he looked back at her, she had stopped shaking her head. She caught his eye. "It was them." She was resolute. "Section 31." Sisko felt a stab of pain in his chest. Guilt. He hoped she wasn't right. But he also hoped she was. Any other reason for Bashir to be behind the lines would only be worse. "I don't know." "I do." Sisko sighed. "Gather the senior staff in the Wardroom, just the ones that knew him." He didn't think the other doctors needed to hear just yet. If it were true, they'd find out soon enough. "What can I do for you, Beverly?" Picard asked as Doctor Crusher stepped through the door. He could just catch a glimpse of the bridge beyond and Riker standing near the command chair. The door shut and he focused on the doctor. "I'm concerned about Bashir," she answered, holding out a PADD. "In what way?" As Picard reached for the PADD, thoughts of changelings, clones, and Borg ran through his mind. The last one was irrational, a traumatic reaction. But the others were possible, maybe even probable. He pushed those thoughts away. No sense jumping to conclusions. He read the PADD. Doctor Crusher summarized it as he did. "It's his medical history. I downloaded it just after we ended radio silence. That, and the number." Picard was scanning the document. Bashir had a history longer than his service record. "Which number?" "The one that isn't in there," she replied. "Mind if I sit?" She waited for him to nod and then continued. "It's on his arm. A tattoo, and a crude one at that. The letter A followed by six digits on the inside of his left forearm:" She demonstrated as she spoke, running a finger along the inside of her arm. Picard watched her. That rang a bell, but not a clear one. It was odd. Not that he had a tattoo, but that he had *that* tattoo. A and six digits. It was distinctive to anyone who had studied Earth history. A and six digits. Auschwitz. But that was hardly likely, given the man's age. "Perhaps he had a relative," Picard suggested, "who survived the Holocaust. Keeps it as a reminder." "I thought so, too," Beverly admitted, then pointed to the PADD, "until I checked his medical history. There's a whole block there. He was treated at Starfleet Medical for a multitude of injuries, including lacerations to his back, malnutrition, and--" "Cyanide poisoning." Picard had found it on the list. "It's impossible." "As impossible as Will and Geordi riding in the Phoenix with Zephram Cochrane?" Picard looked up at her. "Exactly just as impossible. You're telling me he traveled in time to Auschwitz? Why would he do such a thing?" "I don't know," Beverly admitted, sitting back. She was obviously frustrated. Her face was just slightly flushed and her lips turned down in a frown. "Starfleet Command isn't telling." "War will do that," Picard reminded her. "I suppose Starfleet thinks it's not our business, otherwise it would be in the records. Still, it is curious. What made you go through all this trouble? He didn't look to be in too bad of shape." Beverly held up one hand, palm facing in, fingers spread. "His left hand," she said. "It's roughly thirty-three years younger than his right. Or rather the bones are." Picard shot one eyebrow up and waited for her to explain. "That would make me curious." She nodded and pointed to the PADD again. "Osteogenic replacements, same time frame as the others. He had every bone in his left hand replaced. It took some wrangling with the computer even to get those records. I think Starfleet doesn't want us to know." Picard handed her back the PADD. "I never thought I'd have the opportunity to be in the company of a survivor. And of the gas, no less. Cyanide poisoning. It had to be the gas. In fact, he said so, though I hadn't placed that until just now. He also said his hand was broken with a hammer. That probably explains the bones. What was the number, the first three digits?" "One seven three." "That's fairly early," Picard said, speaking more to himself. He was trying to work out the date. "1942, or '43 perhaps." "Well," she said, leaning forward again. "You know more about that than I would. Though I thought your historic interests ran to more ancient things." "Some things just stand out and demand to be noticed, Doctor," Picard told her with just a hint of a smile. "Like a one-year-old hand on a full-grown doctor." She smiled back. "Thank you, Captain." She stood up to leave. Picard stopped her. "Considering Starfleet's apparent reticence on this matter, we should probably keep it under wraps ourselves for now." "Of course," she said, all seriousness again. "But I'm still worried about him." Picard nodded and waited for her to leave. He glimpsed the bridge again. Riker was looking his way. "So am I," he whispered. "So am I." -- --Gabrielle I'd much rather be writing! http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/ The Edge of the Frontier http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/ This Side of the Nether Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? 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