REP: DS9 Faith, Part II: Forgiveness 2/5 [PG-13] B
Philippe de la Matraque
Author: Gabrielle Lawson
Contact: inhe...@earthlink.net
Series: DS9
Rating: PG-13
Codes: B
Part: REP 2/5
Summary: Second part of Faith trilogy: Dr. Bashir returns to DS9 after being
marooned for six months and hopes to regain the life he had.
Note: This story does reference other stories of mine. It can stand alone
but it might leave you with questions. If you've read my other stories,
those questions shouldn't come up. Those stories can be found here on my web
site, http://gabrielle.sytes.net/trek/writing.html or
http://www.fanfiction.net.
Star Trek:
Deep Space Nine
Faith
Part II: Forgiveness
A Novel by
by Gabrielle Lawson
Chapter Seven
Doctor Girani stayed on during his first shift back. Bashir was still on
light duty. He'd worked out with her and Kira a gradual increase in his
duties as doctor and as Chief Medical Officer. For now, Girani would keep
most of those duties, though Bashir would be kept informed.
Bashir was satisfied with the arrangements. Though he felt ready to take
on all of his duties, he understood their caution, just as he had with
Crusher and Troi. Only he knew how his mind spun in circles when he wasn't
working. Just standing in the Infirmary made him feel more like himself
than he had felt in half a year. This was home.
Given his light duty status, he didn't see any critical patients during the
shift. Girani took any war casualties that came in from the docked ships.
Bashir was left with the day-to-day mishaps aboard the station. And there
were a lot of them that day.
To be honest, he suspected most of the bumps and bruises he saw were merely
an attempt to see him. The patients smiled and made the usual small talk.
How was he? How had he been? Was it good to be back? Bashir smiled and
answered each one as if it was the first time he'd been asked. There were a
few more serious cases: an engineer with a sprained ankle, a child with a
skinned knee, even a Telavian freight handler with a cracked tibia. He had
a steady stream of patients right up until lunchtime and the end of his
first shift.
He really didn't want to leave, though. He closed himself in what Dr.
Girani still insisted was his office and updated the patient records for
everyone he'd seen. He was stalling and he knew it. He felt peace there.
His mind slowed down, concentrating on each abrasion or laceration. It
didn't veer off into diagrams of conduits or layers of paneling as it had
the night before. There was only the patient; he was only a doctor. The
universe beyond the Infirmary door asked so much more of him than that.
Out there he had to face Garak's words. Garak could be so cryptic at
times. Bashir sometimes wondered if the tailor/spy knew he was being so
perceptive or if he just liked the sound of the words. *A great deal to
lose.*
Out there he'd already lost so much. Six months of time and memories and
trust. Gone in an instant that took an eternity to pass. In here, in the
Infirmary, nothing had changed. Medicine was still medicine; patients were
still patients; and he was still the doctor he had been. This was all he
had left to lose and it was everything to him.
Admiral Ross took the seat offered him, the one at the head of the table.
The Romulan representative sat to his right. He was a tall man, imposing,
nothing at all like Senator Cretak. Ross caught himself making that
comparison and shut down the thought. He had no room for guilt.
General Martok sat to Ross's left. He was much easier to deal with, easier
also than any other Klingon Ross had ever met. He didn't look down on other
species unnecessarily. The general attributed that uncommon outlook to his
time in the Dominion internment camp where he'd learned that 'Cardassians
were clever, Romulans could be trusted, and even a Breen could have honor.'
The occasion for that speech was Bashir's memorial, when he'd said he'd
learned a human with will and compassion was a force to be reckoned with.
That was another thought Ross didn't want. He'd seen that force firsthand
after the Romulan incident. Bashir had never looked at him the same way
again. He was always formal and never crossed the line of insubordination.
But he was always cold, unsmiling. Ross had felt both remorse and relief at
the report of Bashir's alleged death. He didn't know what to feel now that
he was back.
But that was hardly the major concern in the admiral's thoughts at the
moment. Dilithium was on his mind.
"They're up to something," he finally said, after Captain Sisko and
Commander Worf had taken their seats. "And we just got a little closer to
finding out what that is.
"Last night the *Potemkin* picked up a Cardassian distress signal." The
ship had approached cautiously, fearing a trap. But he didn't bother
telling them that. They could read the details in the report. Ross skipped
to what was important. "They found a small scout vessel, hardly
spaceworthy. The pilot was a human fighter pilot, Lieutenant Caldia
Mtingwa. She was reported missing with the rest of her squadron after the
Quarron Offensive over a year ago."
General Martok and Senator Parnal were each reading their PADDs now.
Worf, as Strategic Operations Officer, already knew. Sisko, as Worf's
commanding officer, had already been briefed.
"A prisoner of war?" Parnal asked, with an air of incredulity. "Escaped?"
Ross nodded. "Something very few have been able to do." He inclined his
head in the General's direction. "And, while her exposure to Dominion plans
was limited, it's more than we had yesterday."
"Are we certain she is who she appears to be?" Parnal asked.
Ross had anticipated the question. "We're taking every precaution. She
has passed all medical exams, including a DNA comparison. She'll be under
constant observation for the next seventy-two hours." Ross nodded to Sisko
to take over.
"The Dominion," Sisko began as he stood, "is now using their prisoners for
slave labor. Lieutenant Mtingwa was apparently used in some sort of
experiment. She was placed in the ship with minimal instrumentation and no
navigational capabilities. She reports that the ship was entirely
controlled by autopilot. Her report's actually very fascinating reading,
though it leads us to few conclusions. It appears as if she was shunted out
of phase or something similar. While there, she could see the Dominion base
from where her ship had been launched, but only as a ghostly image. Her
sensors could not read it.
"Her ship began a self-destruct sequence. Ten seconds later she was
shunted violently back here, some fifty light years from where she started.
Her ship was damaged enough to prevent the autopilot from returning her to
the base, and the shift was violent enough to disrupt the self-destruct
sequence. The ship's dilithium was entirely consumed."
Ross picked up from there. "Lieutenant Mtingwa reports that well over
fifty pilots were transferred with her to the base from the prison camp
where she had been interned on Quarron IV. There were only six others with
her when she was assigned to the scout ship. I think we can assume that the
Dominion has been using up their stores of dilithium in this experiment.
And I think we can also assume that we don't want them to succeed in
whatever it is they're trying to accomplish."
"How was lunch?" Dax asked after he'd sat down.
Bashir felt his shoulders tense and hoped it didn't show. "It was fine."
Her lips turned down into something between a frown and a smile. "I saw
you put your tray back full after Garak left yesterday. Is there a reason
you didn't eat? Have you eaten today? Can I get you something?"
How to get out of that then? he wondered. He couldn't say yes, though he
had skipped lunch to stay in the Infirmary, or she'd wonder why he wasn't
eating. And he couldn't really tell her why Garak had upset him or what
Garak had done with Sisko, could he? "No, thank you. I'm really not
hungry. I had lunch in my quarters."
She forced a smile and he knew she suspected he was lying. But she didn't
press.
"Kira said you were angry," Dax reported instead, "about her leaving your
post open."
"I wasn't angry over the sentiment," he told her. There was nothing not to
be dishonest about here. "I was angry that she'd been irresponsible where
the health of this station's population is concerned. There should have
been a Chief Medical Officer--a permanent one."
"And yet, you were worried you wouldn't get your post back."
Bashir nodded though he felt a bit defensive having to justify this. "I
couldn't be both? Yes, I want my post back. But I don't put myself and my
wants above the well-being of the crew."
"I wasn't insinuating that you would," Dax assured him calmly. "I just
want to get at what you were feeling. Counselor Troi mentioned your theory
of equilibrium. Do you still feel that way, now that you're home?"
*Ah, that.* He'd almost forgotten that. It fit. "Yes, for the most
part."
Dax nodded. "Assuming you're happy to be back, what is it that cancels
that happiness out?"
"Fear." It was an easy question. "I'm no safer here than I was on the
*Enterprise*. Maybe less."
"Why less?" She looked genuinely concerned then.
Did she really have to ask? And how far should he go in answering?
"Because security on this station hasn't proven adequate in the past. Why
should it now? At least it's harder to beam in and out of a ship at warp.
This station sits still. Its shields can be penetrated."
"By Sloan."
"On several occasions."
"He visited you on the *Enterprise*," she reminded him.
"He arrived by shuttle," he pointed out in return. "Though he did beam
out."
"What did he want," she asked, redirecting the conversation, "when he came
to visit you?"
Bashir quickly weighed his options on how much to tell her. He really
didn't need to lie where Sloan was concerned, but he didn't particularly
want anyone else to know about his device either. He decided to start with
the obvious, what she should already know. "He wanted to frame me."
"To what end?" she pressed. "Would they have left you to rot in prison?
Besides it was rather flimsy. He should have known that Benjamin could
prove your innocence."
"I think he panicked," Bashir told her. And he believed it, sincerely. It
still shocked him a bit. Sloan had shown himself vulnerable. "He hadn't
expected me to escape the cave. I surprised him and he had to think up
something fast. He was stalling for time."
"Time for what?" she pressed, almost sounding like Jake in reporter mode.
"He visited you again, after you were released. What did he want then?"
"The same thing he's wanted since the first time," he replied. "For me to
join them willingly. I refused."
"And he just let you go?" She didn't sound convinced.
There was more than one reason Sloan hadn't just forced him or abducted him
there. "I was too public just then. I came back from the dead."
She smiled. "Quite a feat by anyone's standards. Let's hope you're too
public for a good long while." Her smile faded. "I just don't understand
why they don't just take no for an answer. Why would they want you for an
operative when you are so vehemently opposed to what they do?"
Bashir shrugged. "They're insane?" He was only half joking.
"That must be exasperating for you," she said, and it was nice to have
someone acknowledge what Sloan and Section 31 did to *him*.
"It is," he agreed. He wanted to tell her it was maddening, but thought
that was probably not the best word for someone in his position to use.
"It's frightening," he said instead.
"Did you talk to someone after the first time?" Dax asked.
"I told the captain, and Kira and Odo were there."
She shook her head. "You reported, and that was good, but did you talk to
Counselor Telnori, or Miles? You told me--I mean Jadzia--but you didn't
talk *about* it. About how you felt."
*How I felt.* Of course, it wasn't the details she wanted, though they
were what he wanted to discuss, truth be told. He wanted someone to want to
hear it, someone to be as appalled at it as he was, someone who would pledge
to fight for him, to protect him. He wanted someone to rescue him. But how
likely was that? It was a pipe dream and he knew it. It was hard for
anyone who heard to comprehend it, to take it all in. It was too much and
they preferred to not know. So, no, Dax didn't want the details. She only
wanted his feelings.
"No," he answered. "No one asked."
"You could have gone to see Telnori." Bashir looked away and she quickly
added, "But you avoid counselors' offices. We're not the enemy, you know.
We're not looking to trap you into saying something wrong. We want to
help."
He felt some shame at that and cast his gaze to the floor. "I know."
"You tell your patients to see me. As a doctor, you know the good we can
do." Her voice was gentle, her expression one of concern and not
accusation. "Can you not accept it for yourself? Sometimes you're a
patient, too. You're allowed that."
Bashir looked up at her like he was seeing her for the first time. She
looked so young, naive even. But she wasn't. She was better than Troi.
Better than Garak. Because Garak used his perception to throw him
off-balance. Ezri used hers to reach out. And she was the first to have
done it.
"Talk to me, Julian," she encouraged. "We can start there. We can start
anywhere you want."
It had been two days already. Two days since Bashir returned from the dead
to stand on Deep Space Nine. And Sisko had still not seen him since that
night. Protocol would usually mean that Bashir would present himself to
report for duty. But Captain Sisko hadn't forced the issue. Bashir had met
with Kira, and the captain had let it stand at that.
He still didn't know what to do with Bashir. He'd sensed Bashir's
uneasiness in the docking bay. It was nothing like what Sisko had seen on
the *Enterprise.* That had been much worse. It could mean that the extra
time he'd spent on the *Enterprise* had done him good, calmed that violent
streak within him. Or it could just mean that Bashir had covered it up in
front of the others.
But Sisko was captain, commanding officer of Deep Space Nine. He couldn't
go around avoiding his Chief Medical Officer. Though he wasn't officially
Chief Medical Officer yet. Girani was handling that for now, letting Bashir
ease back in to the post. That meant he wouldn't be at staff meetings for a
least a few more days.
Sisko slammed the PADD he was holding down on the coffee table. He was
finding excuses, and he didn't like it. He'd never been afraid of any of
his officers before, not even when that alien virus had Kira (and Bashir,
apparently) plotting mutiny. O'Brien was the paranoid one then. Sisko had
been obsessed with building a clock. He looked over at it now. It really
was a beautiful clock.
Stalling! Again. The clock wasn't an issue. The past wasn't an issue.
Bashir was the issue. Bashir. When Sisko had first heard that he was
alive, he was surprised but happy. He'd looked forward to welcoming him
home, talking with him about what had happened during the last six months,
maybe working out some of the distance that had come between them in the
year or so before he'd disappeared.
Sisko remembered the hope in Bashir's eyes once he'd been beamed up from
Auschwitz that first time. He'd trusted Sisko to save him. He'd trusted
him. And the Bell Riots. They were together there and Bashir trusted him
to make the right decisions to get them out of it. But Sisko also
remembered those same eyes in the runabout on the way to Adigeon Prime. The
trust was gone. Sisko hadn't understood it. He hadn't thought he'd done
anything to cost that trust.
But he had.
He remembered the joke he'd made to Kassidy on the *Defiant*, how he'd said
he liked Bashir better "this way." "This way" was impersonal, formal, all
business, saying only what needed to be said. No smile, no greeting, just
"Here are the reports." And Kassidy had caught him; she'd known he wasn't
joking.
When had he stopped liking Bashir? Bashir, who made one feel comfortable
in his Infirmary, who smiled when he walked into the room, whose enthusiasm
sometimes got the better of him? Bashir, who stood up to a tribesman with a
gun to his chest and demanded his medical supplies to treat Kira? He'd
liked that Bashir.
Now he knew why Bashir had changed. Section 31. That was where it
started. His foundation had been shaken. And Sisko, in his righteous
indignation over what Bashir had uncovered within Starfleet, had missed that
and ordered Bashir to join them.
The Federation was a big thing, not really quantifiable. Captain Sisko was
Bashir's commanding officer, the only one he'd ever had. Bashir had admired
him, respected him, trusted him. And Sisko had thrown him to the wolves.
He'd come to Sisko's office, as a Starfleet officer performing his duty, to
report what had happened. But he'd also come as a victim, one who hadn't
slept in two days, seeking support from his captain, the one who hadn't
given up on him in 1943 and the one who had argued in his favor after his
secret had been revealed. But Sisko had missed that.
It wasn't Bashir who had changed. It was him. Sisko had changed.
Somewhere between the invasion and the incident with Garak, Sisko had lost
himself. He'd let himself get so focused on the war that he'd lost sight of
other things, other people. Like Bashir. And he'd stopped liking Bashir
because he hadn't wanted to face it. He hadn't wanted to admit that he'd
given up so much. Bashir stood for principles. Bashir was a walking
conscience, and Sisko hadn't wanted a conscience around.
The door chimed, interrupting his thoughts and Sisko realized that again,
he'd let his thoughts wander. He was thinking about Bashir but not about
what he would do with him. "Come," he called, not knowing who to expect and
not really caring.
It was Garak, and Sisko couldn't remember a time when Garak had ever come
to his quarters. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," the tailor said.
Sisko was puzzled over why he'd come at all. "No," Sisko replied. "I was
just thinking. About Julian."
"Ah," Garak said, raising his head just a bit. "I've been thinking about
him myself. May I sit?"
Sisko nodded to the couch. "And what have you thought? Have you seen
him?"
Garak sat down, but he didn't relax into the cushions. He sat right on the
edge and kept himself stiff. "I take it you haven't," he surmised.
Garak was sometimes too perceptive. *Probably made him a good spy*, Sisko
thought. He shook his head.
"We had lunch yesterday," Garak said, answering Sisko's question. "He's
not quite himself."
Sisko nodded. "He's been through a lot, Garak."
"But I've been watching him. He doesn't seem as out of sorts with others.
When he *is* with others, that is. He spends most of his free time in his
quarters."
Sisko caught that but wasn't going to open up to Garak, not without Garak
opening up first. "He was alone a long time. It will take awhile for him
to get used to being around people again. Dax doesn't think we should
worry. At least he's not holed up in a holosuite."
"True," Garak conceded. "But he was stammering like the day we first met.
Do you remember what he was like that first year? Eager for adventure, but
flustered when it arrived. He wanted to be a hero. It was quite charming,
really, to see him so at a loss for words."
"He was a hero," Sisko let out, though he hadn't meant to say it, not to
Garak. But it was said. "He just hadn't caught up to himself yet."
Garak nodded. "He did catch up to himself. He stopped stammering years
ago."
Sisko sat up straighter and turned himself more square to Garak. "Yes, he
did." He hadn't stammered once in their confrontation on the *Enterprise*.
"What are you saying, Garak?"
"I seem to upset him," Garak said, standing. "He seems fine--well, fine
enough, all things considered--with others. He's flourishing in the
Infirmary already. But me. . . ."
Sisko actually felt a little relieved. He wasn't alone in Bashir's wrath,
it seemed. "He knows, Garak."
Garak had turned away, but he turned back now. "Knows what?"
He sounded sincere enough, but Sisko knew he must have at least a suspicion
or he wouldn't have come to see him. Garak could easily have gone to Dax or
O'Brien. He and Sisko didn't interact all that much. Not since. . . . "He
knows what we did. He was told. He knows more than I do. Where did you
get the data rod?"
Garak sat down again. "Ah, that." So he had suspected. "That would
explain his behavior. Somewhat."
Sisko wasn't worried about Garak's perception of Bashir just then. "You
didn't answer my question."
"It doesn't matter now, does it?" Garak asked. "What's done is done."
"It does matter," Sisko held, now feeling some of that anger Bashir had
thrown at him. Did Garak know? "What did he want with the gel?"
"I didn't ask and he wasn't forthcoming," Garak stated quickly, standing
again. "He had the upper hand, Captain. He had what we wanted--what you
wanted--and he wasn't in the mood to negotiate. He wanted the gel, nothing
else."
Sisko stood, too. "Who was he?" he asked. "What ties did he have to the
Dominion?"
That spun Garak around quickly. "The Dominion?" Sisko thought he looked a
little paler than his usual gray. He looked away and Sisko waited for him.
"It had to be indirect," he finally said, softly, as if speaking to himself,
"or they would have stopped us, exposed us somehow."
Sisko thought about that and knew that Garak was right. The Romulans
joining the war was a big blow to the Dominion. They would have made a move
to ensure that the Romulans either stayed out or joined them. Some of the
anger melted away and he sat down again. "Whoever he was, the gel ended up
with the Dominion."
Garak sat, too. "What do you think they'll do with it?"
Sisko felt the bile rise in his throat again. "They've already done it."
And he told Garak about Deyon III.
Kassidy arrived before he'd had a chance to tell Garak about his own
encounter with Bashir. He wasn't sure he should anyway, so he didn't mind
the interruption. He didn't know how to explain Garak to Kassidy, though.
"Mr. Garak," she said, smiling at the guest but throwing a questioning
glance at Sisko, "what a surprise!"
Garak smiled back and offered his hand. "Yes, I don't often make house
calls, but the Captain is a busy man, and I needed a break from all those
transmissions." He turned back to Sisko. "If you want to get those pants,
I'll have them mended for you by morning."
Leave it to Garak. "No need to stay up with them tonight." Sisko stood
and walked toward the bedroom. "Whenever you get a chance."
"Nonsense," Garak said. "It's just a mend. It will take no time at all."
Sisko nodded and quickly retrieved a pair of pants from his closet. He
made sure to keep them folded in order to hide a tear that didn't really
exist. He handed them to Garak, who tilted his head and took his leave.
"What happened to the pants?" Kassidy asked Sisko, sitting beside him on
the couch.
Sisko remembered the dinner he had warming on the stove. "Grease
splatter," he told her, and it hurt to lie, even this little bit. "Burned a
small whole in the left thigh."
She looked into his eyes, concerned. "You weren't hurt?" she asked as she
touched his thigh.
"No," he assured her. "Just the pants."
Bashir felt rather worn out after his talk with Ezri. She seemed a lot
happier when he left her office, less suspicious. At least in that he'd
been successful.
He, however, didn't feel much different from before. What he did feel was
relieved. He'd gotten by without letting anything dangerous slip out. It
*was* nice, though, to have someone interested in him for a change, and not
just a report. She had empathized with him, not in an invasive way like it
would have been with Troi, but in a comfortable way. It was like she
understood.
And that made her more dangerous than Troi ever was. He had felt himself
trusting her several times during the session and had to remind himself to
be careful. Trust can be betrayed; he'd learned that lesson well enough.
Besides, if he let his guard down, he might talk about Sisko and what he
knew. And, although it might make him feel better to not carry it alone, it
could only make matters worse. Secrets didn't stay secrets on this station.
Besides, even if he only told Dax, in confidence as her patient, what good
would it do? What would it change? Would it win the war? Would Section 31
leave him alone? No. Nothing would change, except that he would make an
accessory of Ezri the way Sloan had of him. So there really was no point.
He was on the Promenade and he thought briefly of stopping in at Quark's to
see if O'Brien was there. But the noise was so loud from there. He just
couldn't put on the facade he'd need for Quark's.
Bashir turned toward the turbolift that would take him back to the Habitat
Ring and his quarters. He still had to work out the code for his device.
O'Brien put his dishes back into the Replicator and kissed Molly goodnight.
While Keiko put Kirayoshi down for bed, he dusted the model again, still
waiting for the chance to run strategies with Julian like before. O'Brien
hadn't seen him in two days, not since the *Enterprise* had docked. He'd
actually entertained the idea of kayaking again in the hopes of dislocating
his arm just so he'd have an excuse to go to the Infirmary. But he knew
that Julian was only working in the morning at present. He could only go
kayaking after work, and that would give him a different doctor.
"You could call him."
Miles hadn't realized Keiko had returned. "Asleep already?" he asked,
surprised that Yoshi would be down so soon.
"He was very tired," Keiko replied, wrapping her arms around him. "Didn't
even put up a fight."
"I don't want to disturb him," Miles said.
"He might want to be disturbed," she returned. "Wasn't he glad to see you
on the *Enterprise?*"
"I don't think 'glad' would quite characterize it." He turned around to
face her. "He wasn't unhappy or annoyed or anything, but he didn't seem to
be glad about anything. It's not like him. It's not like him to be this
quiet."
She put her head on his chest near his shoulder and held him close around
the middle. "If anyone can imagine what he went though, Miles, it's you."
Miles knew what she was referring to. The Agrathi prison. But it wasn't
quite the same. "But I wasn't alone. I wasn't blind."
"You were alone at the end," she held, looking up at him. "And what was
there worth seeing? My point is, you weren't exactly happy when you got
back either. You can relate. Go, talk to him."
O'Brien did remember. He had returned from his implanted imprisonment a
guilty man. He had killed his only companion in twenty years. He had
wanted to put it behind him, telling himself that it hadn't happened, that
Ee'char wasn't real, that none of it was real. He had tried to bury the
guilt in work. He had wanted to be with his family, start his life again
from the moment it had changed.
Julian didn't have the guilt maybe, but he would want the same thing. His
old life. Only he wouldn't find it. Just as O'Brien hadn't. Time changes
a man whether he wants it or not. O'Brien had found his way to simply
living and finding joy in his life, as it now was, again. But it hadn't
come easy.
Julian had tried to help early on, but Miles had pushed him, and everyone
else away. That was what Bashir was doing. And maybe, like Miles had, he
needed some time to find that he couldn't make it on his own before he could
accept the help he needed.
"I don't think it's the right time," he told his wife.
She put her head back down against him. "At least just let him know that
you're here when he's ready."
"I will," he promised her.
The rest of the evening was quite uneventful, and Bashir found himself
disappointed even though he knew he didn't want visitors. He was used to
contradiction. It was his old life beckoning him, the thing that he wanted
most. The old Bashir would be having dinner with friends or colleagues,
sharing a round of ale at Quark's, or enjoying a set at Vic's.
And yet, he couldn't bring himself to be the old Bashir. The old Bashir
had been naive, blissfully unaware of the depths into which good people
could fall headlong.
The current Bashir knew better than to leave evil only to the evil. The
good were just as capable. So the current Bashir had decided to heed his
wariness toward crowds of people in uncontrolled situations instead of his
urge for company and entertainment. Besides, he didn't want to answer any
more questions about where he'd been for the last six months.
He had eaten alone in his quarters and calculated the code for his device.
Safe from Sloan for one more day, he turned his attention to the power
transfer conduit he'd been working on in the lower levels.
Yesterday he had drawn a diagram based on his memory of how the conduit had
felt. It had taken some time and it was nearing midnight by the time he'd
finished. He had tried then to do research, to compare his diagram to the
one in the computer. But sitting in his quarters in the utter quiet of the
station's night had proved unsettling. He constantly felt as if he were
being watched, or as if the walls were moving behind him.
He couldn't go out though. It was still too early. Someone else would be
up, maybe strolling along the Promenade. Sisko did that sometimes. Or he
used to. Bashir didn't know if he still did. He didn't know the man at all
anymore.
*How could he?!* Bashir asked the wall the same way he'd asked the cave.
How could he have done what he did? How could the same Sisko, the one that
had risked his life to fulfill Bell's destiny of bringing the sanctuary
districts down, who let the woman he loved go to prison for helping the
Maquis to break the law, the one who had risked his career to help the
Bajorans see the truth of the Circle, how could he have lied, falsified
evidence, and helped to cover up at least four murders so that hundreds of
thousands more could die in the war? How could the man who was standing by
his bedside when he woke up from the Lethean's coma be the one to order
Bashir to place eighty-five liters of the same gel the Lethean had attacked
him for in a cargo bay to be handed over to some stranger with unknown
motives? How could the one who'd risked everything by beaming down to a
Nazi concentration camp to bring him back be the same man who would abandon
him to Section 31?
And how could Bashir ever look at him the same way now? How could he look
up to him like he did before? How could he trust him?
He couldn't. It was that simple. He just couldn't. And if someone like
Sisko could change so much, anyone could, including himself. But he wasn't
ever going to let that happen. He couldn't trust anyone else because he
couldn't control anyone else. He could control himself.
And he could control his surroundings. To a point, anyway. He stood up
and looked at his walls, his windows, his ceiling. They weren't enough.
Sloan had come and gone as if they weren't even there. And a changeling
could just slip under the door, through conduits or ducts or anything.
Hell, Laas had been fog once.
Security locks for quarters on the station really only covered the doors,
kept people from breaking in. They didn't stop beaming or seeping, or
flowing. What he needed were sensors, something to warn him if something or
someone tried to come in through the wall or ceiling. Or shields to keep
them from coming in at all.
Sitting back down at his desk, he pushed the PADD with the conduit
schematics aside. He had work to do.