Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 29 Jan 2004 07:03:39 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net 
 

Title: Faith, Part II: Forgiveness
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 7/9
Rating: [PG]
Codes:
Summary:  Doctor Bashir, after having been marooned for over six months,
Chapter 9, cont.

      Bashir had found his center back in the Infirmary.  He could push Sisko 
and his words aside and concentrate only on his patient.  He looked down 
at Mtingwa who was sleeping fitfully on the biobed.  She'd worsened 
during the night, but not enough that Girani had felt the need to 
disturb him.  She looked different to him somehow.  Lighter, but not in 
a sense of weight.  He'd been running scan after scan to try and 
pinpoint the problem.  He kept the word "subspace" in the back of his mind.

      He read over Girani's report from the night shift.  There was nothing 
unexpected there.  Mtingwa's condition had worsened.  She was on 
life-support now.  Her lungs had ceased to function on their own.  Her 
pulse was steady but very weak.  Her blood pressure had dropped 
dangerously low.  She was dying.  Bashir didn't expect her to last the 
rest of the day.  And there was nothing he could do to help her.

      "How is she?" a voice said, startling Bashir.

      Bashir spun around to find Garak standing behind him.  He nodded to the 
biobed.  "Will she live?"

      Bashir resented the intrusion.  And he didn't want to voice his 
pessimistic prognosis in front if his patient, unconscious or not.  She 
might be able to hear.  "Can I help you with something?" he asked instead.

      "Why, lunch, Doctor!" Garak exclaimed, though he kept his voice 
respectfully low.  "You haven't forgotten again?"

      "Garak--," Bashir started to protest.

      "Now, I'll have no excuses, Doctor," Garak insisted.  He reached out, 
took Bashir's arm, and began pulling him toward the door.  "You do have 
to eat.  Your patient is sleeping.  She's not going anywhere. I'm sure 
your staff will notify you immediately if you're needed.  You cannot 
sacrifice your own health."

      Bashir shook his arm free.  Garak had never been that forceful before. 
  It was odd.  Still, he couldn't just get out of lunch.  He was hungry, 
and it was their habit to share lunch once a week.  He hadn't told Garak 
he wasn't willing to do so anymore.  He wasn't even sure he wasn't 
willing to do so anymore.

      "Jabara," Bashir called out.  "I'll be in the Replimat.  Call me if 
anything changes."

      "Yes, Doctor," Jabara replied, coming to the door.  "Have a nice lunch."

      Garak seemed to be in a particularly good mood as they strolled down 
the Promenade toward the restaurant.  Bashir wasn't sure why they were 
walking so slowly.  Garak knew he had a patient to get back to.

      "You reacted strangely," Garak suddenly said, "to our luncheon last 
week.  I didn't mean to upset you."

      "It--" Bashir began, unsure of how to proceed. He didn't want to talk 
about last week.  He didn't want to go to the Replimat either, for that 
matter.  "It's nothing."

      "Oh, I doubt that," Garak said.  "I doubt that very much. It's quite 
something.  However, I'm not sure what to expect from it."

      Bashir's legs stopped moving.  He hadn't meant to stop.  His heartbeat 
began to pound in his ears.

      Garak noticed and moved back to him.  "Come, Doctor.  People will 
wonder what it is that has upset you.  And people can't know that, can 
they?"

      Bashir shook his head.  No, they couldn't.  But still, he couldn't 
move.  The Promenade began to swim around him.

      Garak just nodded.  "So what will you do about it?"

      "I can't do anything," Bashir breathed.

      "And what about me?" Garak asked.  "What do you think of me?"

      Bashir thought about that.  He'd told Sisko that Garak was just 
following his nature.  It was true.  Garak had done many terrible things 
and still Bashir had befriended him.  He'd been a spy, an assassin. 
He'd tried to commit genocide against the changelings.  What he'd done 
with Sisko was nothing new.  And nothing immoral in Garak's Cardassian 
code of ethics.  But did that make it right?  Yes, for Garak, but what 
about for him?  How could Sisko be guilty and Garak be innocent of the 
crime that both had committed?  Garak had found the forger.  Garak had 
found the data rod.  Garak had killed the forger and planted the bomb on 
the senator's ship.  Garak had done the killing.  But he'd killed 
before.  He'd killed before and Bashir had still stood by him as a 
friend.  He'd even forgiven him.  He'd visited him when he'd been 
sentenced to six months for his attempt against the Founders.  He'd 
never once broken off his lunch engagement.  But did that make it right?

      "Well?" Garak prompted.

      "I don't know!" Bashir blurted, which stopped the Promenade from 
spinning.  "I don't know how to take you."

      Garak watched him for a moment.  "Now that wasn't too hard, was it?" he 
said.  "Come, the Replimat will be full if we don't hurry."

      Garak walked on and after a few seconds, Bashir followed.  He knew less 
how to take Garak than he did two minutes before.  Then he realized that 
was a familiar feeling when it came to Garak.

      Garak didn't speak again until they reached the Replimat.  Strangely, 
he ordered an onion.  Nothing else.  Bashir ordered a salad and they 
found a table.

      Garak still didn't speak after they'd sat down, and Bashir was at a 
loss.  He took a bite of his salad and waited.

      Garak didn't disappoint him.  "The onion is a very interesting 
vegetable, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

      This was their old game.  The game that had started the day they met. 
Garak wasn't interested in the onion.  He was passing information.  Of 
course, these days, it was what was expected of him.  He had no reason 
to hide anything.  Bashir suspected Garak meant it purely for his own 
amusement.  Fair enough.  "Well, it does have some medicinal value," he 
said, playing along.  "Though not much."

      Garak smiled and began to peel off the outer skin.  "Some vegetables 
are merely two dimensional:  outside and in.  But this. . . ."  He 
peeled off a layer of the onion and set it aside.  "This has layer upon 
layer."

      Bashir puzzled over it for a moment, but the answer simply wouldn't 
come to him.  What had the onion to do with anything?  Mtingwa?  No, 
nothing seemed to correlate there.  The war?  Well, no.  This sector had 
been quiet recently.  The Dominion's experiment and Doctor Pfenner?

      Garak offered a hint.  "I intercepted an interesting message today.  It 
appears to have been a bit delayed as it was sent the day before 
yesterday from somewhere in the Brayat system.  It was intended for the 
Millani system."

      That had to be Pfenner.  But what did the onion have to do with it?

      Garak peeled back another layer.

      Pfenner--or his changeling counterpart--had been working on a three 
dimensional model of subspace.  Garak had mentioned dimensions. 
"Layers!" Bashir said, suddenly understanding.  Onions had layers, and 
so did subspace!  That must have been what Pfenner was onto.  Bashir 
pushed back from the table, forgetting the salad.  "Thank you for the 
lunch, Garak."

      When he reached the Infirmary, he immediately put a call through to the 
Aranus Institute.  A gray-haired man answered, "To whom may I direct 
your call?"

      "I'd like to speak to the director, please."

      "Whom shall I say is calling?"

      Bashir tried to hide his impatience, but his fingers drummed rapidly on 
the desk.  "Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Office of Starbase Deep 
Space Nine."

      "Just a moment."

      He glanced over to his patient while he waited.  She seemed lighter 
still.  He walked over to her bed and noted the display above her head. 
  He tapped a few controls and her weight was displayed.  She'd lost 
over ten kilograms.  She didn't look any lighter in the sense of weight. 
She just seemed, well, less there.

      "I have the director for you, Doctor." the man called out.  "Are you 
still there?"

      Bashir returned to the communications console.  "Yes, put her through, 
please."

      The picture changed and the director, a Millanine female, appeared. 
"How can I help you, Doctor?"  Her voice quivered a bit and Bashir 
wasn't sure if that was due to her species or her age. He'd never met a 
Millanine.

      "I'd like a copy of Doctor Pfenner's recent work," Bashir told her.

      "Your Lieutenant Dax already requested copies of Doctor Pfenner's
notes."

      Of course.  Dax had been assigned to Pfenner's work.  Still, he wanted 
more than notes.  He wanted the onion.  "But I don't believe she 
requested the model itself."  He had no idea if Dax had or not, but the 
moment was here and he didn't want to wait to ask her.

      "No, she didn't," the director confirmed.  "But why would you want 
that?  That was the changeling's work."

      "It would help immensely," Bashir tried.  "Could you send it over?"

      "Well, yes, I don't see why not."

      "Thank you," Bashir told her, grinning.  "I'll be waiting for it."

      The director nodded.  "Good day, Doctor."

      The screen went blank and Bashir called Jabara over and told her to 
contact him when it arrived.


      O'Brien went over the scan again.  How could the fragment have 
decreased in mass in the last four hours?  He knew it was disintegrating 
slowly, but it still looked the same.  It hadn't moved since the night 
before.  It was just a fragment of metal, a shard.  The thought had 
occured to him, when he first noticed the weight had changed, that it 
could somehow be a changeling, but it had been left alone all night 
without incident.  One would think a changeling would be bored sitting 
in a little glass dish in a lab.  Besides, he'd cut off a part of it, 
and it had not changed.  Just metal. Only lighter now than it was before.

      O'Brien's communicator chirped.  He tapped it once to acknowledge the 
call.  "Chief," Bashir's voice, a lot more like O'Brien remembered, came 
over the line, "can you meet me at Quark's?"

      "Now?" O'Brien asked. It was lunchtime, yes, but Bashir was supposed to 
be eating with Garak right now.  What was he doing in Quark's?

      "Yes," Bashir replied.  "I think I'm on to something.  Please hurry. 
And if you see Dax, bring her along."

      Dax?  This was no darts game.  "Alright.  I'll be right there." 
O'Brien recorded again the fragment's weight and the time at which it 
was taken.  He'd be checking that again when he returned.  He secured 
the lab and headed for Quark's.  He called Ezri on the way.

      "What's wrong, Chief?"

      "Nothing," O'Brien reassured her.  "At least I don't think anything's 
wrong.  Julian said he was on to something."

      "How did he sound?" she asked.

      "Like he was on to something," O'Brien replied.  "I think that's worth 
looking into."

      "Well, yes," Ezri agreed.  "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

      Quark's was busy, but Bashir was waiting by the door.  "Did you see 
Ezri?" he asked, not even bothering to say hello.

      "I'm right here," she called out as she came up behind them.  "What's 
all the excitement about?"

      "An onion," Bashir said, and then he turned into the bar.  "Quark, I 
need a holosuite."

      *Onion?*  O'Brien worried that his friend had finally cracked.  He 
shared a confused look with Ezri and then followed Bashir.

      "They're all booked up," Quark told them.  "You'll need to make a 
reservation."

      "No time," Bashir said.  "We'll have to borrow Vic's."  Then he was off 
up the stairs.


      Ezri followed still in a blur.  O'Brien's call had come not three 
minutes earlier.  Julian certainly did seem to be on to something.  The 
crowd in the bar didn't seem to phase him at all.  He looked energized 
even.  He rushed up the steps two at a time and barely slowed as he 
approached the holosuite.

      The doors to Vic's opened and Vic waved from the stage.  The three of 
them went to the bar to wait for the end of the song.  For his part, Vic 
wrapped it up quickly and then told the band to take five.

      "They might need to take more than five," Bashir said, but he gave no 
further explanation for what they were doing.  'Onion' hadn't told her much.

      "Julian!" Vic exclaimed.  "Man, are you a sight for sore eyes!"  He 
grabbed Julian's shoulders and pulled him into a hug.

      Julian pushed back.  "Thank you, Vic, really, but I don't have time 
right now.  I haven't come for a visit.  I need to borrow your bar."

      "My bar?"

      "Something about onions," O'Brien offered, tossing up his hands.

      "Onions?"

      Julian's badge chirped.  One of his nurse's spoke.  "The file has 
arrived, Doctor."

      Julian sighed. "I need to run a simulation--"

      "Of an onion?" Vic added.

      Julian shook his head.  "That was just the inspiration.  Please, all of 
the other holosuites are taken. You're welcome to stay. I just need to 
borrow it."

      Vic looked to Ezri and his expression asked if Julian was sane.  Ezri 
shrugged and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

      "Okay," Vic decided.  Suddenly the lights in the bar blinked out.  The 
crowd began to panic.  "It's alright, folks.  Power's out.  Nothing to 
worry about.  The engineers think it'll be an hour or two before they 
can get us up and running.  If you'll just follow the emergency exit 
signs, you'll all be fine."

      Ezri turned to Julian while the crowd filtered out.  "Okay, what's with 
the onion?"

      "Garak," he told her.  "He was trying to tell me something."

      "Well, it's not like we don't know he's cracking those transmissions," 
O'Brien interjected.  "Why the use of vegetables?"

      "He likes being cryptic," Julian offered as an explanation.

      Well, that was certainly true.  But it didn't explain the onion.  "So," 
Ezri prompted.  "Onion?"

      "You'll see," he said.  And then quieter, "I hope."

      Finally, the crowd was gone.  "Okay, Pally," Vic said, rejoining them. 
  "The place is all yours."

      "Thank you," Julian said.  Then he tapped his comm badge. "Please route 
it to this holosuite.  I'll run it from here."

      "Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied.

      Vic's bar winked out of existence and another simulation took its 
place.  Ezri found herself standing on nothing.

      "Whoa, Pally!" Vic exclaimed.  "Where's the floor?"

      Black space surrounded Ezri and the others, reaching out in every 
direction.  There were stars.  "Space," she said.

      "This is what space is like?" Vic had grabbed hold of O'Brien's 
shoulder, but his voice was filled more with wonder now than fear.

      "Subspace," Julian corrected, and Ezri realized now that this had 
something to do with Pfenner.

      "Where's the onion?" Vic asked.

      Julian shook his head.  "I've never seen this before," he said.  "We'll 
just have to wait and see."

      They didn't have to wait long.  Translucent blue lines formed around 
them in concentric circles expanding outward.

      Another set of lines materialized, intersecting the blue ones at 
several points.  "Okay, that I recognize," Ezri called out.  "Chroniton 
waves."

      "Layers!" Julian exclaimed. "We only assumed it was the changeling who 
was working on the model.  What if it was Pfenner, himself?  What if 
they took him because of the model?"

      "Very good, Doctor."  Everyone spun around to find Garak in the 
doorway.  "I knew you'd work it out."

      "What did the message say, Garak?" Julian asked.  "What was it about 
the layers?"

      "Well, it was a bit garbled," Garak began.

      "But what did it say?" Ezri asked, growing impatient herself.  They 
*were* on to something.

      "'Nearly successful,'" Garak recited, "subspace . . . distorted signal 
. . . unknown layer . . . aborted'"

      "Nearly successful," Julian repeated, turning back to the model.

      "The experiments?" O'Brien suggested. "Like with Mtingwa.  They sent 
her ship off somewhere, maybe to one of these layers.  The ship was 
supposed to send a signal back to its base or receive one from it.  That 
would explain the comm system.  But it didn't work.  So it was set to 
self-destruct."

      "Only it didn't," Julian added.  "But I think you're right.  Layers 
would work.  They could be sitting right beside us and we'd never know."

      "But it would have to be the right layer," Ezri said.  She was starting 
to understand.  "Mtingwa said she saw the base, but as if it was 
transparent.  She was in a different layer, just not the right one.  Her 
ship tried to self-destruct.  The transmission didn't go through."

      "So which one is the right one?" Julian asked.  "And which one did she 
hit?"

      "Chroniton waves!" O'Brien blurted. "Good God!  Science lab."  He 
turned and headed out before anyone could question him.  Ezri and Garak 
followed.

      "Thank you, Vic," Julian threw back as they left the holosuite.  "You 
can have your bar back now."


      They reassembled back in the science lab, where O'Brien was analyzing 
the shard from the ship.  "It's lost weight again," the Chief said.

      "What?" Bashir hadn't expected that at all.  "What do you mean it's 
lost weight?"

      "Just sitting here," O'Brien said.  "It lost mass.  It's the same size. 
There's just less of it here."

      Where he'd been rather elated by their discoveries, he now felt the 
floor had fallen out from beneath his feet.  He had to sit down.  "What 
about the chroniton waves?" he asked, hoping O'Brien had different 
thoughts than the ones he was having.

      "I think Mtingwa's ship hit one of the intersections," O'Brien 
explained. "There were some chroniton particles here when I first 
analyzed the fragment. But they've dropped off. They're gone.  And now 
the fragment is going, too."

      Ezri came around to stand in front of Bashir. "Are you alright, Julian?"

      "Mtingwa lost weight," he told her.  "I thought she looked lighter. 
Lighter, not smaller.  There was just less of her."

      "They're going back," Garak surmised, and Bashir realized he'd 
forgotten the Cardassian had come along.  "The ship did self-destruct. 
The chroniton wave only delayed it."

      Bashir shook his head, not wanting that answer.  "But she's there, in 
the Infirmary. It's been days, a week or more since she was found."

      O'Brien sat down beside him. "I'm sorry.  I only thought about the 
ship, the metal."

      It made sense. It made terrible sense.  Mtingwa was dying because she 
died in her ship when it self-destructed.  "What's the rate of decay?" 
he asked, and his voice felt hollow in his head.

      "It's increased," O'Brien answered softly.  "I figure the whole thing 
will be gone in five or six hours."

      By evening, Caldia Mtingwa would be gone.  Would he even remember? 
Would any of them?  Would they forget then what they'd just learned? 
Her ship, her experiences helped them to put the pieces together.  Would 
her death be in vain?  Did she have to die?  "Can we stop it?"

      "I wouldn't know how," O'Brien admitted.  "She was never really here."

      "That's how she burned," Bashir said, letting his thoughts out.  "She 
burned inside the suit.  Because the ship blew up."  The mystery's 
excitement had left him.  Now there was just his patient.  Caldia 
Mtingwa, a person, with memories and thoughts and loved ones.  "I need 
to return to my patient."  With that, he left them to deal with subspace 
layers and Doctor Pfenner.  He didn't have to solve the whole puzzle. He 
only had to be a doctor.


      Ezri watched him go.  She felt for him.  Jadzia had, too.  When he lost 
a patient, he lost a bit of himself, if only for a time.  Sometimes it 
was just that he put too much pressure on himself to save even the ones 
that couldn't be saved.  That became clear to her after his enhancements 
were revealed.  But sometimes it was just that he cared that much.

      "Are you sure?" she asked the Chief, though the part of her that held 
Jadzia's memories felt sure of it as well.

      "There's one way to be certain," O'Brien suggested, not sounding any 
happier than Julian had.  "The *Potemkin* found her.  They could go back 
and look again."

      "To see if there's debris," she finished for him.  "More than there was 
before."

      "I figure it would take them at least a day to get back there," O'Brien 
said.  "By then, there should be enough to detect."


      Bashir sat and watched her sleep. He'd done everything he could for 
Mtingwa.  Everything except tell her the truth.  There was still a 
little more time for that.  She had to be awake to hear it.  She'd been 
moved to one of the rooms at the back of the Infirmary, a quieter place 
with less traffic than the main room.  It was more obvious now.  She was 
less opaque than before.  Bashir could almost make out the shape of the 
biobed beneath her.

      It was so pointless.  Life.  Breathing.  What good had it done Mtingwa 
to be found only to die?  What good had it done for him to be found?  So 
now he had light.  And with light he'd seen death.  Death on the 
*Enterprise*, death on Carello Neru, and now death on DS Nine.  So now 
he had people around him.  People who betrayed him, people who couldn't 
be trusted to live up to their principles, people who looked to him for 
help he couldn't give, people who died.  What good was that?  For every 
breath he took in freedom, his heart received another reason to hurt. 
Or another potential reason.

      Even here.  Even in his Infirmary.  This was his refuge, the last 
vestige of who he used to be, the universe he used to live happily in. 
And it was just as painful as the world beyond it.

      Mtingwa stirred and opened her eyes.  She drew in a labored breath and 
then brought one hand up to rub at her eyes.  "I can't see you," she 
said, with more breath than voice.  "Not clearly."

      "It's not your eyes," Bashir told her, taking her hand.  She felt solid 
enough.  "What else do you see?"

      She turned her head, looking around the room.  "Black, like it's hiding 
behind the walls."

      *Space,* he thought.  He had to clear his own throat to speak again. 
"What about your ship?"

      She looked at him, her eyebrows drawn down in confusion.  Then she 
dropped her eyes lower to her side and they widened.  She looked down 
toward her feet and reached her other hand out as if to touch something. 
  "It's there," she said, and she gripped his hand tighter.  "Why am I 
seeing that?"

      Bashir took a deep breath, as if that would help anything.  It wouldn't 
help her.  It wouldn't help him, not really.  He didn't feel any better 
having taken it.  "I--" he began and found that he couldn't start there. 
  "We found something, something to explain your condition."

      She looked at him, at his eyes.  "Explain it," she said, "not cure it."

      "I can't cure it," he admitted.  "It's not a disease.  It's not even an 
injury to heal.  I wish it were."

      "I'm dying?" Her voice broke.  "How?"

      She deserved to know.  "When the Dominion put you in that ship and sent 
you off, they were trying to reach a particular layer of subspace.  One 
where they could see and contact this layer.  They got close with you. 
You could see the base.  But the ship was supposed to exchange a signal 
with the base.  The ship was programmed to self-destruct if the signal 
didn't go through."

      "But it didn't destruct," she pleaded.  "I survived."

      The display above her head began to beep.  Her heart rate and 
respiration were too high.  Still he couldn't not tell her.  "It did," 
Bashir said.  "The layer you reached intersected with a chroniton wave. 
  You've been suspended in time.  You're really still there, in that one 
moment before the ship destroyed itself."

      A tear slipped from her eye and ran down toward her ear.  "And now? 
I'm seeing the ship around me, space beyond--"

      "Because you're going back there."  The beeping grew more insistant. 
He reached for a hypospray beside the bed.

      "No!" she cried.  "Don't sedate me."

      Bashir shook his head.  "It will only calm you."

      "I'm going to explode," she argued, "why should I be calm?"

      "Because your lungs can't take it, and neither can your heart."

      "Wouldn't it be better to die here?" she asked
      "I'd have to try and revive you," he told her.  "This way you have a 
little time."

      Her heart rate began to slow, not by much though.  "Time for what?"

      Bashir pulled over the portable comm panel.  "To say good-bye.  We can 
call your family, or you can record something."

      "How long?" she asked.  The panel still beeped but the beeps were 
coming farther apart.

      "A few more hours."  He held up the hypospray again.  She nodded and he 
administered the drug.  Her heart rate slowed immediately and her breath 
came more evenly.  But the tears flowed faster now.

      "I'd like to be alone," she told him, nodding toward the comm panel.

      "Of course," he said, standing.  He moved to the door.  "If you need 
anything. . . ."

      "Will you be there?" she asked just as he'd reached the door.  "When. . 
. ."

      Bashir nodded and left.


      Sisko sat back and let the others discuss O'Brien's report.  Sometimes 
it was easier not being in command.  Admirals outranked captains.  He'd 
let them sort it out.  He'd already accepted it.  It made sense.  How 
many pilots, like Mtingwa, had been lost out there, one layer away from 
what they knew as reality?  Or more.  Pfenner hadn't finished his model. 
  They didn't know how many layers there were.

      If it wasn't for Mtingwa, they might never have discovered what the 
Dominion was up to.  Her ship, her story, was the key.  Without her, 
they'd still be trying to figure out why the Dominion wanted all that 
dilithium and they might not have had any reason to connect that mystery 
to Pfenner's disappearance.  And she was just a fluke.  She was never 
meant to survive.  She never really had.

      Temporal Investigations had had to be brought in on this one.  Was she 
here?  Was she not here?  Would anyone remember her once she'd reverted 
back to the point where time, for her, was suspended?  Without her, 
would they remember anything they'd discovered?  Would they be unable 
then, to stop the Dominion from testing it on more and more pilots?

      K-Layer Subspace Concealment.  That's what they were calling it now. 
Now that they had solved the puzzle, intelligence on the theory was 
popping up all over the place.  The Cardassians had dreamed this up 
during the Klingon wars, though they had lacked the resources to even 
test it.  Why that hadn't come out until now, Sisko wasn't sure.  Though 
he did have a suspicion.  Section 31 could perhaps have been interested 
in the technology themselves.  By keeping it quiet, they kept others 
from catching on.  It was obvious they had advanced technology they 
didn't share with the rest of the Federation.  They were able to beam 
Bashir away even though the station's shields had been up.  It wouldn't 
be beyond them to want to keep K-layer concealment to themselves.

      But would they let the Dominion come so close to getting it?  He didn't 
know the answer to that one.  He'd never actually dealt with them 
himself, except for that brief moment on the *Enterprise* when they'd 
captured Sloan.  He really only knew about them through Bashir.

      Bashir.  Always his thoughts came back to Bashir.  *Damn it.  Enough!* 
  Sisko had spent the last three weeks wallowing in guilt, kicking 
himself for what he'd done to Bashir and the Romulans and Deyon III. 
He'd let it distract him from his duties and from his family.  That was 
enough.  Yes, he'd done wrong.  But punishing himself over and over 
wasn't going to change anything.  The past was the past.  He could only 
try to make up for the past.  He had to live with the present and work 
toward the future.

      And Bashir would have to learn to live with that as well.  Traumatized 
or not, he had a job to do, and his job included being under Sisko's 
command.  Sisko made up his mind to have another talk with Bashir once 
the admirals had decided what to do with K-Layer Subspace Concealment.


-- 
--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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