Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:26:00 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net 
 

Title: Faith: Hope
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 8/18
Rating: [PG-13]
Codes:

      Sisko shook his head, not really denying what Julian was saying, but 
out of shock and a sudden sense of guilt.  This is not how he imagined 
things at all.  He'd never seen Bashir so angry, never seen him lose his 
temper.  Not like this.  And he would have bet the war that Julian would 
never strike him.  But it had happened, and he had the bruises to show 
for it.  He couldn't bring himself to strike back, though.

      He wanted to deny what Bashir was saying, but he couldn't find the 
words to make it at least some of it true.  He hadn't thought about what 
had happened as torture.  He hadn't thought about what it must have been 
like for Bashir.  There was only the mystery, the subversive group 
within Starfleet, kidnaping Starfleet officers.  Kidnaping Bashir.  He 
didn't see it that way before.  He saw Bashir as an opportunity, not as 
a victim.  He saw him as strong, not as vulnerable.  He thought of 
Julian's enhancements, of his genius, and assumed he could outsmart 
Sloan.  But it wasn't just Sloan.  It was a whole group that had been in 
existence for centuries.

      "You only think of yourself," Bashir went on.  It was like he was a 
flood that couldn't be held back.  His eyes were wide with anger and his 
hands shook at his sides.  "You think you, the almighty Emissary, alone 
can save the Bajorans.  You think you're fighting the war all by 
yourself.  It's easy for you to give orders.  You don't have to suffer 
the consequences like the rest of us.  I couldn't sleep for weeks.  I 
had nightmares about what they'd do to me, what they'd already done. 
You ordered me to go back to them, and I was willing to obey because I 
believed in you!  I believed that you would be there for me, somehow. 
That you wouldn't order me into it and then just leave me to die out 
there.  But you didn't even stay.  Jadzia died and you ran away because 
it was too much for you!  For you!" he repeated, incredulousness seeping 
in his tone.  "You weren't captured by the Jem'Hadar.  You weren't 
replaced.  You weren't singled out by the Dominion.  You weren't 
kidnapped by your own government.  You weren't manipulated into 
betraying an ally.  And it was too much for you?!"

      He said it with such venom, such hatred.  Bashir's face was contorted 
like a mask of pure evil.  Sisko shook his head, and that caused the 
pain in the back of his skull to flare up.  "I didn't run away," he 
argued in his own defense.  He had to raise his voice to match the 
intensity in the room that Julian had caused.  Was he even Julian 
anymore?  "I had to think, to find a way to contact the Prophets."

      "For three months?!" Bashir cried, and Sisko jerked back involuntarily 
in fear at his reaction.  But Julian didn't touch him; he didn't even 
try.  He actually turned away, throwing his hands up in wonder.  "We 
were dying out there, and you," he turned back, "were sitting at home 
cleaning clams!  And not even a word from you!  We didn't know if you 
were even coming back!  They could have come for me at any time.  And 
you wouldn't have even known I was gone."

      Sisko wanted to deny the doctor's words, but he couldn't.  It was true. 
  He'd been so wrapped in his own despair, not just about Jadzia, but 
about the Prophets and the Pagh Wraiths, that it had blocked out 
everything else.  In those three months, he'd not once thought about the 
war, not about the crew, not about his orders to Julian.  He hadn't 
thought about those orders at all really, not until Kira had suggested 
Section 31 after Bashir was found alive.

      Bashir was perhaps guilty of blowing it out of proportion, but he was 
right.  And considering that he'd only been rescued two days before and 
he was seriously traumatized--that much was obvious--Sisko could 
understand the blowing it out of proportion.

      "I trusted you," Bashir said, out of breath, but seeming to calm down. 
  "But you're no better than Sloan.  You're worse."

      Sisko wouldn't fight him back, and he understood what was happening 
with Julian, but he was going too far.  "I am not like Sloan," he held, 
his voice full and firm.  This had to end.  "I am definitely not worse."

      Bashir shook his head and squatted down until he was eye-level with 
Sisko.  "I know," he said, full of contempt.  It didn't sound like he 
was agreeing.  It sounded conspiratorial.  He continued, dropping his 
voice.  "They told me.  They told me so I would know the truth and stop 
trusting you.  I might not have believed them before, but I know it's true."

      *Know what's true?* Sisko thought.  He didn't say it.  He was afraid he 
already knew.

      Bashir bent closer to his ear and whispered, "I know why the Romulans 
joined the war."

      Now Sisko found it hard to breathe.  Not that.  No one was supposed to 
know about that.  If it got out, the Romulans would break the alliance. 
  The war would be lost.  And it wouldn't be just self-respect that 
Sisko had lost.  He shook his head, unable to speak at the horror 
playing in his mind.

      "Did you even know where that gel was going?" Bashir asked, still 
whispering, no longer shaking.  He had the power now, as if he were the 
captain and Sisko the lieutenant.  "Did you even bother to find out who 
was getting it after you ordered me to deliver it to the cargo bay?"

      Sisko remembered Julian's warnings that day.  He could hear them 
echoing again in his head.  '*In the wrong hands, it could be used to 
make biogenic weapons, or for illegal replication experiments, or to 
develop organic explosives. . . .'*

      "*They* got it," Bashir told him.  "The Dominion. *Eighty-five* liters. 
  And with it they wiped out an entire world."

      The breath ripped itself from Sisko's lungs.  The Dominion?  A world? 
He tried to stand, but his legs were rubber; they wouldn't hold him.  He 
braced himself on his arms as Bashir continued to whisper in his ear. 
"Six million, five hundred twenty-one thousand, three hundred and 
seventy two people.  Every animal, every plant.  Nothing lives on Deyon 
III.  And you have yourself to thank for that."

      Sisko felt the bile rising up in his throat.  Six million.  A whole 
world.  Dead.  Because of what he'd done.  He couldn't even see Bashir 
anymore, but he felt him back away.

      Bashir's voice was quieter, calm and cold when he spoke again. "I 
trusted you once," the younger man said, chastising himself.  The fire 
within him had died down.  "I respected you.  I looked up to you, 
admired you.  I believed you when you said it was our job to make sure 
we never had to find out what would happen if we were pushed too far, 
whether we'd lose everything we stood for, all our principles.  And then 
you threw them all away.  You became like Sloan and then you became like 
the Dominion.  You're a murderer and a liar.  I expect as much from 
Garak; it's in his nature.  But not from you."

      Sisko looked up at him, saw him turn away and face the viewports and 
the stars beyond.  "There's Section 31," he continued "and there's you. 
  There's the Dominion and the Cardassians, too.  There's not a place to 
stand between you.  There's nothing left."  His voice was hollow.  "The 
universe is destroying itself.  We can't let the Dominion win, but we'll 
lose ourselves if we win.  We've already lost, if you're any judge. 
There's nothing left worth fighting for, worth living for, not really.

      "I used to believe that we were better, that we believed in things and 
upheld those things, good things.  But we don't, do we?  We say we do 
and then we throw them away.  I had faith in you.  I've no faith left. 
It's all gone.  You killed it when you killed those people."

      He didn't say anything else, and he didn't turn back from the 
viewports.  Sisko assumed then that he was finished.  His head and 
shoulders didn't hurt near as much as the knot twisted into his stomach. 
  He struggled to his feet.  Fortunately, the door wasn't far.  He 
thought about saying good-bye, but how could he do that now?  No words 
were appropriate.  Sisko left him behind, hoping that Bashir could get 
help.  He needed help.  He'd been broken, and Sisko realized now that it 
was himself, not the Dominion, not Sloan, but himself who had 
accomplished it.  He had betrayed the trust Bashir had in him.

      And he had crossed the line.  He had sold his soul to get the Romulans 
into the war.  It was a price he was willing to pay.  But he hadn't read 
the fine print.  He had only thought of the cost to himself.  He had 
been angry to find out Garak had placed a bomb on Senator Vreenak's 
shuttle.  He'd called him a murderer.  But he'd done worse, and millions 
were dead.

      Several *Enterprise*crewmembers eyed him curiously as he lurched down 
the corridors, holding the wall for support.  He didn't care.  He didn't 
even see them.  He found the transporter room almost by accident.  He 
managed to straighten himself up before he got to the door though.  He 
couldn't explain to anyone what was wrong.  Section 31 knew, but they 
hadn't made it public yet.  They had told Bashir, but he had also said 
that the Dominion can't win the war.  He wouldn't tell.  Even 
traumatized and half-crazed, he was smart enough to know the 
consequences of that.  He had wanted to punish Sisko.  He wouldn't make 
the whole quadrant pay for it.  So Sisko had to hide it, just like he'd 
hid it for the last year and a half.  No one could know.  Not about the 
gel and not about Bashir.

      He stopped just outside the door to the transporter room and instead 
made his way to a turbolift.  "Sickbay," he ordered.

      "What happened to you, Captain?" the nurse asked when he walked in. 
She was a young woman of Asian ethnicity.  She smiled brightly as she 
worked on his bruises.

      "I backed into a bulkhead," Sisko lied.  He didn't want anyone to think 
that Bashir was violent.  If they thought he was, he might be 
institutionalized, which in Bashir's mind would likely be no different 
than prison.  And he would only blame Sisko for that as well.  Besides, 
Sisko felt he was a special case to Bashir, the one person he'd really 
lash out at.  O'Brien hadn't sounded stressed or fearful when he'd 
called, and he'd been visiting Bashir since he arrived on the ship.  And 
Picard or Troi would have informed him if he were had displayed violent 
behavior with them.  No, there was no point in slowing down Julian's 
recovery by accusations of violence.

      The nurse chuckled.  "How did you manage that?"  She finished tending 
his head and moved on to his shoulder.

      "The corridors were dimmed for Doctor Bashir."

      "Oh," she nodded.  "That explains it.  That shouldn't last too long 
though.  Doctor Crusher estimates another three days before he's up to 
normal lighting.  All done."

      "So it's not permanent then?" Sisko asked as she put away her
instruments.

      She helped him pull his shirt back over his shoulder.  "No," she 
assured him.  "He was just in the dark too long.  It's temporary."

      "Thank you."  Sisko picked up his jacket.  "I need to get back to my 
ship.  Take care of him for us."

      Her smile widened and her eyes twinkled.  "We will."  It was so unusual 
to see such a bright face these days.  How did she manage when there was 
a war going on?

      Sisko nodded and left her and Sickbay.  O'Brien and Dax were waiting 
for him when he transported back to the *Defiant*.  Neither of them 
looked particularly happy at leaving Bashir behind.  Troi was there, 
too, but she was waiting to transport back to the *Enterprise*.


      Bashir waited for him to leave before he turned around again.  His 
quarters were empty.  "Computer," he ordered softly, "no visitors. 
Where is Counselor Troi?"

      "Counselor Troi is not on board," the computer replied.

      Bashir let out a long breath and dropped himself onto the couch.  He 
covered his face in his hands and tried to think just how he'd let 
things get so out of control.  He'd actually hit Sisko.  He hit his 
commanding officer.  What if Sisko didn't let him back on DS9?  And it 
couldn't be good if Troi should find out, or anyone else for that 
matter.  He had to get control before she arrived.  Sisko's presence had 
caused him to crack.  All the things he'd thought in the last month, or 
longer, had come rushing back to the fore.  All the hurt, the anger, the 
betrayal, not just of himself, but of all he believed.  Sisko had lied, 
cheated, fabricated evidence, and participated in murder so that the 
Romulans would join the war and die by the thousands fighting the Dominion.

      Of course, it was good to have another ally, but Captain Sisko didn't 
have the right to choose for a whole civilization like that.  If they 
ever found out what he did, with Garak's help, they'd pull out and 
perhaps sign a separate peace with the Dominion.  The Federation-Klingon 
alliance would lose the war and the Alpha Quadrant would be enslaved. 
Bashir wished Sloan had never told him these things.  Or he wished Sisko 
had told him they weren't true.  Sisko had lied and Sloan had told the 
truth.

      He wasn't able to think when Sisko was here.  Everything had just 
swirled and boiled inside him.  But now, he was calm and able to think 
things through.  But he knew even that would show to the Betazoid.  He 
had to get past it, push it down, and concentrate on something else.  He 
went back to the game.  He started with the replicator.  It was easy. 
He'd already done a portable unit for real.  This was larger, but the 
basic components were still the same.  It took an hour, but by then he'd 
found his balance.  He even thought he could sleep.

      Troi did come though, as he knew she would.  She asked him about his 
feelings now that he'd seen his friends.  He answered with what she 
wanted to hear.  It was good to see them again.  He'd missed them.  He 
regretted not seeing Dax or Kira.  It was all true, if one discounted 
Sisko.  And he did.  He had put Sisko out of his mind so that his 
thoughts and emotions wouldn't be polluted by the thought of him. 
Without Sisko, there was balance.

      And Troi didn't bring him up, which led Bashir to believe that Sisko 
hadn't mentioned the incident to her.  All the easier then to not think 
of him.

      "Starfleet Medical has concluded the investigation of your identity," 
Troi said, finally changing the subject.  Or maybe she was just changing 
tactics.  "The body they found has been identified."

      "Who was he?" Bashir asked, positive that she would not give his own
name.

      "His name was Edoard Hussein," she replied.  "He disappeared eight 
months ago from his business on New Sidney.  He went to lunch and didn't 
return.  He left a wife and three children."

      "Do we know why?" Bashir asked.  There was a knot in his stomach, and 
he hoped the man wasn't killed just for his resemblance to himself.

      "He was a weapons manufacturer," Troi explained.  "Starfleet 
Intelligence had suspected him of leaking secrets to the Dominion.  They 
began an investigation almost a year ago.  In fact, they thought he had 
caught on to them and fled."

      So it wasn't a tragedy then.  Not for the man anyway.  It was just a 
fortunate coincidence in Section 31's perspective.  A traitor was found, 
picked up, convicted, and executed.  And oh, look!  He looks a bit like 
out good friend the doctor!  Two birds, one stone.  "So that's done 
then," Bashir concluded with a measure of relief if not joy.  "I'm me 
and I'm not a criminal.  Perhaps, then, I can be a doctor again."

      Troi smiled at him.  "You're already a doctor."

      He wasn't going to let her off with friendly smiles and platitudes. 
"You know what I mean."

      She did; her smile faded.  She looked him in the eye.  "I don't think 
you're ready," she admitted.  Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled 
again.  "You can't even see yet."

      True enough.  One needed eyes and plenty of light to properly treat 
patients.  "When I can see," he asked, knowing that his lack of light 
tolerance was really just an easy way out for her, "will you reevaluate 
your assessment?"

      She matched his seriousness: one healer to another.  "I'm always 
reevaluating my assessment."

      He sighed and stood up.  She was still avoiding the issue.  "My sight 
isn't the problem," he said, walking a little way away.  "I can handle 
whatever you have to say."

      "But would it help?" Troi challenged, much to his surprise.  "If I told 
you my assessment, would it help you?  Or would you only to try and 
'fix' whatever you think I think is wrong?"

      He had to give her credit.  Either her Betazoid half was stronger than 
he'd supposed or she had a fair sense of judgment beyond her empathic 
abilities.  He was sure she had sensed nothing emotional to draw that 
conclusion.  "I want my life back," he repeated, still not willing to 
break down for her, "and that doesn't mean just pacifying you.  I would 
not want a psychologically deficient doctor working under me, treating 
patients.  And I wouldn't dare to put people at risk if I thought I was 
a danger to them.  I understand that."  He felt his face flush and was 
glad for the relative darkness.  He turned away from her.  "I am a 
doctor," he added in a whisper, now facing the viewports and the distant 
stars beyond.  "I will do no harm."

      "I believe you."  Her voice was soft, though not a whisper.  He heard 
her take a deep breath and then she was beside him at the viewports.  "I 
am concerned," she admitted now.  "I can't sense you.  Not as I should."

      He faced her, raising an eyebrow.  "Because of you or because of me?"

      She smiled a little but didn't turn her head.  "I sense everyone else, 
so it must be you."

      Bashir faced the stars again.  "I see," he said.  He knew this point 
was going to come.  Still, he had hoped to avoid it.  Hell, he had hoped 
for a non-empathic counselor altogether.  But here it was, and he had 
planned for it.  "I have a theory about that."

      "Oh?"

      "Equilibrium."  It was simple and made a lot of sense the way he saw 
it.  But there was often a gap between theory and practice.

      "Equilibrium?" she repeated, turning to look at him.  She seemed 
genuinely interested.  There was no hint of smile, no patronization or 
amusement.  She was willing to hear him out.

      "Everything is equal," he explained, "in the end.  Any one thing has 
the potential to be good or bad or neutral, or any degree therein. 
Should I be ecstatic at my rescue, for instance?  Yes, I'm rescued, out 
of the cave and the damp and the cold.  I'm even beginning to see again. 
  But I'm also in danger again, as you saw.  They tried to frame me. 
There's still a war on, too.  In the cave, I was miserable, but at least 
I was safe.  Happiness is cancelled out by the lack of security, leaving 
nothing but a neutral state.  It's either that or exaggerated mood 
swings.  Mood swings are a waste of energy and a loss of control.  They 
quite often do more harm than good.  So I chose neutrality.  I chose 
control."

      She didn't say anything, though she hadn't really changed her 
expression either.

      "Let me give you an example you can perhaps relate to, with only one 
emotion and one object.  Fear and changelings.  We're all paranoid that 
they're hiding around us, deceiving us, being something other than 
themselves.  They can be the floor you stand on, the chair you sit in, 
the blanket with which you cover yourself at night.  They can be your 
shoes, your clothes, or even your best friend.  You can't tell. 
Anything in this room, or anyone on this ship, could be a changeling and 
we wouldn't know it until that changeling slipped up.

      "So what do we do?" he continued.  "Do we live our lives in fear, 
hiding under the bed that could very well be a changeling?  Do we cower 
and break out into cold sweats?  I'm terrified of them, you know, except 
for Odo.  There was one, she did things to me that I wouldn't wish on 
Sloan.  I had nightmares for months on end.  But I couldn't function if 
I let that define my life.  If everything holds the same potential for 
fear--the bed, the floor, the wall--then there's no more fear in one 
place or circumstance than in another.  It equals out, normalizes, 
leaving only life behind.  It's either that or madness.  So I don't act 
afraid and you don't sense fear."

      She still said nothing, though her expression had definitely changed. 
Her eyes had turned away, dropping down to stare into nothing as she 
digested what he had said.  She stepped away.  "That's why you're flat," 
she whispered, probably to herself.  But he had heard, regardless of her 
intentions.  He had been successful.  He could keep her out.  "I don't 
think that's the best thing for you," she said, more loudly, "for anyone."

      "What else is there but lies?" he asked.  "Would you rather I pretend 
to be happy, ignoring the unhappiness I feel, even though they are of 
equal strength?  Would that be any healthier?"

      "No, not if it were acting," she conceded, facing him again with her 
back to the couch.  "What about when Chief O'Brien came by.  Was it 
still equal then?"

      "A momentary fluctuation perhaps," he admitted, "but for all the relief 
at seeing him again there was the loss of all I'd missed.  Six months. 
Six months of war.  People I knew had died.  His children had grown. 
Things had changed.  This isn't new, you know.  And I don't think it's 
entirely unique.  When I escaped from the Jem'Hadar prison, I wasn't any 
happier.  Relieved perhaps.  Not to say that I wasn't happy, but I was 
also disturbed.  I felt violated.  I had been replaced.  No one even 
knew that I'd been gone.  Another man had been living in my quarters, 
performing my duties, eating lunch with my friends.  Captain Sisko had 
visions and required extensive neural surgery, which that changeling 
performed.  Odo became a changeling again and Kira had the O'Briens' 
baby and I wasn't there.  I wasn't even missed.  To not acknowledge all 
that would be denial."

      It surprised him that he had brought that previous incident up.  He 
hadn't thought of it when he'd come up with his theory.  But it fit. 
Good and bad.  One package.  Just like he'd told Data.

      "You're right."  He hadn't expected to hear that from her.  "It would 
be denial.  And denial isn't healthy.  I'm still concerned though."

      That was acceptable, even expected.  "I'd be questioning your 
credentials if you weren't," he told her.  There was a moment of silence 
as each tried to decide what to say next.  Nothing seemed to come 
naturally from where they'd left off.  Silence was fine, Bashir decided, 
when one was alone, but it was an annoyance when someone was with you, 
especially someone who's job was to evaluate you.  "What about 
research?" he finally said, startling her with the blunt change of topic.

      "Research?"  She shook her head.

      "Seeing patients is one thing," he explained.  "You have to be 
absolutely certain.  I understand that.  But there's no reason I can't 
do research.  I was working on several long-term projects before they 
came for me: my prion project, the cure for the Blight.  I'd like to 
continue my work."

      "Of course," she nodded, even smiling.  She probably thought it would 
help him to recover if he got back to some of his normal routines. 
Fine.  He hoped it would, too.  "I'll try to find the records.  Will the 
work station be too uncomfortable for you?"

      She was referring to the light.  It probably still seemed really dark 
to her.  "The light is increasing at nearly twice the speed it was 
yesterday at this time," he told her.  "My eyes are improving rapidly. 
I'll be fine.  I'd like something to work on."

      "Okay," she replied, her smile widening.  "I'll get you the access you 
need."


      It was Dax who called the meeting.  Sisko would have avoided it, using 
the mission for an excuse.  But since she called it and not him, he 
didn't have an excuse.  There were several hours before the *Defiant* 
would be in range of the Dominion outpost.  Worf could handle the bridge 
and the *Defiant* could do without O'Brien for a little while, too.  So 
the three of them were gathered in Sisko's quarters, and Sisko was faced 
with lying to his oldest and dearest friend.  That he'd never seen Dax 
look as young as Ezri Dax didn't help.

      "He seemed fine, considering," O'Brien said, and Sisko thought he was 
speaking from experience.  "I overheard that he wasn't eating or 
sleeping while he was in the brig.  He kept saying he wasn't hungry, but 
he ate quite a bit once he got out."

      Dax nodded, thoughtful.  "He probably didn't even realize he was doing 
it.  Being incarcerated is probably traumatic for him no matter how well 
he's treated.  What about emotionally?  I wish I could have seen him."

      O'Brien replied repeating his earlier assessment, "He seemed fine.  We 
talked about the war and what's he's missed during the last six months. 
  He seemed happy to be back.  He was disappointed that he couldn't come 
back with us though he understood the reasoning.  If anything, he was 
maybe too calm."

      It was the exact opposite of Sisko's assessment of Bashir.  He couldn't 
tell them that, though.  Luckily, Dax was watching O'Brien when he spoke.

      But then Ezri turned to him and he had to think quickly.  "What about 
you, Ben?  What did the two of you talk about."

      *Me, mostly*, he thought.  "Pretty much the same thing," he lied.  "I 
think this is all rather hard on him."

      "Troi said he was too calm, too," Dax shared with them.  "Almost as if 
he were unemotional."

      No wonder Picard hadn't said anything about Julian being possibly 
violent.  It never occurred to them.  Julian's ire was only for him, 
Sisko realized, and the realization fit with everything Bashir had said 
to him.

      "What's wrong, Ben?" Ezri asked breaking Sisko's internal thoughts.

      "Nothing," he told her.  "It's just not what I expected or wanted." 
Half-truths could be very useful.  "He was dead and now he's not.  I'm 
not sure what I expected."

      "He was only dead to us," Dax corrected.  "To himself, he was alive, 
and alone, the whole time."


      Captain Picard felt a sense of relief as he watched the stars streak by 
through the main viewscreen.  Bashir had been cleared and released and 
could now concentrate on healing.  Sloan--if that was his real name--was 
in custody and would be turned over to Starfleet Security at Starbase 
368.  And there were no Dominion ships in the area.  He was relieved, 
but he couldn't relax.  Section 31 was a secret organization within the 
Federation.  Picard had always looked down on organizations like the 
Obsidian Order, who used fear to control and police their own people. 
To know that there was such an organization, though one which used 
secrecy instead of fear, in the Federation was hard to take in.  The 
Federation was supposed to be benevolent.  It was supposed to be 
voluntary, an organization that people wanted to be a part of.  They 
were supposed to be free, refined, and good.  There should be no need 
for such an organization as Section 31.

      Of course, he knew that just because one played by the rules, it didn't 
mean that others did.  That's why Starfleet Intelligence had to exist at 
all.  And he knew that even Starfleet Intelligence had been involved in 
questionable activities.  He'd assumed that that was what MacKenzie 
Calhoun had been involved in before being given command of the 
*Excalibur*.  Somehow, it had been easier to swallow when he thought of 
such activities as the purview of Starfleet Intelligence.  Starfleet 
Intelligence had rules and policies and oversight, so Picard didn't 
question too deeply what those activities were.  He trusted that 
Starfleet Intelligence wouldn't cross the line.

      Maybe that's why Section 31 bothered him.  The lack of trust, the 
crossing of the line.  If what Bashir said was true, there were no 
rules, no oversight.  There was hardly even any knowledge of the 
organization, and their treatment of Bashir showed a definite lack of 
trust from the organization.  Were they always there, looking over the 
shoulder of Starfleet and citizens alike, waiting for a slip-up, a 
suggestion of possible subterfuge?  The Federation wasn't supposed to be 
like that.

      "Daniels to the Bridge," a call came in.  The Security Chief sounded 
hurried, even angry.

      "Bridge," Picard said, acknowledging the call.

      "He's gone, sir," Daniels explained.  "Sloan.  It's like he just 
disappeared.  He must have beamed out."

      Geordie was on the Bridge and he had overheard.  "He couldn't have 
beamed off the ship," he supplied.  "The shields are up and there's no 
place to beam to even if he could get past the shields."

      "Yellow alert," Picard commanded.  "Search the ship and keep an eye on 
the sensors in case there's a cloaked ship out there."



-- 
--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/




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