CHAPTER
17

ODO SAT BROODING in his office and didn’t look up when Kira entered. She stood in the doorway until he finally said, “Kai.”

“Opaka,” she replied, and sat down. “You know, if this keeps up for much longer, I’m going to blow out some brain cells trying to keep all these passwords and cross codes correct.” She paused, studying him. “You feel even worse than you did the other day, don’t you?” she said.

“Did you hear what I said earlier?” Odo demanded. “I called him ‘it.’ How am I supposed to take umbrage at anyone who considers me some sort of outlandish freak when call another of my kind ‘it.’ ”

“You think he’s one of you . . . whatever you are?” she asked.

“Ohhhh . . . I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “Part of me doesn’t want to believe it. I’d like to deny the possibility of being related in any way to that . . . that psychopath. And yet part of me would love to believe it . . . so that after all these years I could finally hold out some hope of learning about my background, as I’ve always wanted.”

He lowered his hands and saw that Kira was staring at him. “What?”

“Your . . . uh,” and she tapped her own forehead as indicator.

He reached up and felt his brow. There were imprints in it, left by his fingers. He frowned and it smoothed out. “Better?”

“Odo,” she said wonderingly, “I haven’t seen you lose control like that before. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course I’m not all right,” he said testily. “You know I have to return every eighteen hours to my natural form. Well . . . I’ve been cutting my rest periods short lately. Every moment I’m lying in my pail, I’m wondering what he’s up to. Where he is. What he’s doing. Who else on my station is dying. Who else I’m failing because I haven’t been able to capture him. Don’t you see, Major?” He leaned forward, tapping the desk for emphasis and trying to make sure that he didn’t mush up his hand again. “This is a security matter. I’m head of security. That makes it my responsibility. And every person who dies because I failed to apprehend the felon is another life on my head.”

“No, Odo,” she said flatly. “You can’t take all that on yourself.”

“I can, and I do. I’m sorry if that upsets you, Major, but that’s the way I am. Damn. If only I could blame Quark for this somehow.”

“Pardon?” The abrupt change in subject threw her for a moment.

“Quark. It’s always so safe to begin and end an investigation with Quark. Nine times out of ten, when problems arise on this station, he’s involved somehow.”

“Not this time,” said Kira confidently. “Murder isn’t exactly up his alley. Besides, he barely squeaked out of being victim number four himself.”

“Yes. I suppose he—”

Odo’s comm badge beeped, and he tapped it. “Odo here.”

“Constable,” came Sisko’s voice, sounding older and heavier by the moment. “Tell me you have something.”

“What I have, Sisko, is four corpses and a pile of frustrations.”

“And what I have,” said Sisko, “is a warship making its presence known and my life more complicated. The Cardassians want results.”

“Distract them, Sisko,” said Odo sharply. “Put their minds on something else. Send Chief O’Brien out to perform some sleight of . . . hand. . . .”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes went wide.

“Constable?” came Sisko’s voice.

No answer. Odo appeared to be looking inward.

“Odo?” prompted Kira.

“Constable?” There was some concern now in Sisko’s voice.

“Sisko,” Odo said slowly, “I have a thought. It’s a bizarre thought. An unlikely thought. But a thought nonetheless. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. Oh . . . and check with O’Brien. Find out how long it will be before he finishes the relays. If things work out, I don’t want our unwanted guest to slip away again.”

“You sound as if you might be on to something, Constable.”

“I just might be, Sisko. I just might at that.”

Julian Bashir desperately wanted to get drunk.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—he couldn’t bring himself to leave the infirmary. He just sat there, staring at the spot that had been routinely occupied by Nurse Latasa.

He felt that everything was slipping away from him. As if he might lose his grip on the sort of life that he wanted to lead. One in which he was a healer with an intrepid and friendly staff aiding him. Where people came to him, asking for help and he gave it freely, pleased to have the opportunity to help others.

Not this. Not this . . . this situation. This deplorable state of affairs, with death all around him, filling his soul like rotting meat assaulting his nostrils. One of his nurses dead. Others dead. A boy dying, and he was powerless to . . . 

“Dr. Bashir.”

He turned and saw Azira standing in the doorway. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts and inner turmoil that he hadn’t even heard the door open. “Yes?”

She was holding Rasa cradled in her arms. She didn’t seem particularly strained by the effort: either the boy was lighter than he appeared, which was possible, or she was stronger than she looked—and considering that Bashir’s face was still sore where she’d slapped him, he wasn’t about to rule that out.

Rasa was asleep. Bashir could hear the raspiness in his chest. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been in the holodeck representation, but it wasn’t exactly comforting.

“He sleeps very soundly,” said Azira. “He always has. He . . . ” And she looked up at Bashir. “Help him, Doctor. I’m . . . I’m not ready for him to sleep forever.”

Not quite believing it, Bashir took a step forward. “Are you sure?”

She laughed bitterly. “Now you are asking me if I’m sure? No, Doctor. No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything. And I’m not going to risk throwing my child’s life away on that uncertainty. Do whatever you can.”

She held the boy out to Bashir, who took him quickly. “What I can do,” he said confidently, “is save his life.”

“Then do it,” she said.

“Have you consulted with your husb—”

“Do it, damn you!”

Her change in attitude was so rapid that it caught Bashir off guard. But he was only momentarily taken aback. Then he simply nodded and said, “All right. This way, then.”

He carried Rasa to a diagnostic table and laid him down. The medical sensors immediately snapped on, and Bashir promptly saw the same dismal readings he’d seen the other day. Now, however, it filled him only with a sense of challenge. “I took the liberty of synthesizing the medication required to combat the panoria,” he told her. “It’s called tricyclidine.”

She studied him. “You were that certain that I would bring him to you.”

“No. Not at all. I was, however, that hopeful. Now . . . I want to replenish his fluids. Get him stabilized. And while I’m working on that, I’ll be introducing the tricyclidine into his system.”

“The effects will be immediate?”

“This is hardly a miracle drug. He will feel somewhat more spry within the next forty-eight hours. But you mustn’t let him overexert himself. Once we have him safely on the road to recovery, I can give you enough tricyclidine so that—if you ever are fortunate enough to leave this place—you can take it with you. It’s easily administered, but must be done every day for the next twenty-one days. That’s playing it safe. By that point, the disease will be completely out of his system.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He smiled for what seemed the first time in ages. “Yes . . .  quite sure. I’m afraid that K’olkr will have to satisfy himself with sharing your joy over your son’s survival rather than acquiring the boy directly himself.”

“Yes.” She ran a hand gently over Rasa’s face. “Yes . . . I imagine that he will.”

And then there came a horrified gasp from behind them.

Del had entered, and on his face was an expression of utter horror and disgust. He might have walked into the infirmary and discovered Azira and Bashir coupling on a med table and not had a reaction more extreme than he was having right then.

“I . . . I thought I saw you come in here,” he whispered to Azira. “But I . . . I can’t believe—”

“Go away, Del,” she said. She sounded very tired but very determined.

“You . . . you’re mad!”

She turned on him, seething. “If you mean insane, no. But if you mean angry, yes! Yes, I’m angry! I’m angry at K’olkr for inflicting this disease on a child who has never hurt anyone! I’m angry at the beliefs that have held us back from treating my son so that he might live a long and productive life! I’m angry at myself for delaying as long as I have!” And, surprisingly, she turned toward Bashir. “And I’m angry at you, Doctor, for showing me a future I did not want to see! If you’d left me blissfully ignorant, then perhaps I could have held on to the beliefs that I’ve embraced all my life! But I can’t live with the thought of my beautiful, beautiful little boy being reduced to that shell of life. I’m angry at the entire damned universe! But you started this, Doctor, and you will finish it. And you, Del, will get out. Now!”

“I will not!” snarled Del. “I will not turn away from the will of K’olkr! I will not ignore the light! I will prevent you from doing this. And I will save you from yourself and your own folly!”

He charged at Rasa, trying to grab the boy and yank him off the bed. Azira intervened, getting between the two and shoving Del back. Del lunged forward once more, and Azira threw her arms around him, trying to keep him in place. The Edemians struggled, hand to hand, and Del slammed Azira up against the bed, almost knocking Rasa clear off it.

Then there was an unexpected sound . . . that of a spray hypo hissing.

Del looked down in surprise to see a hypo pressed against his arm. It was being wielded by Bashir, and it had just been emptied directly into his system.

“Pleasant dreams,” said Bashir calmly.

Del pushed Azira aside and tried to come at Bashir. He did not, however, get very far. Specifically, he took two steps before his consciousness fled, and instead of attacking Bashir, he managed only to stumble forward and sag into Bashir’s waiting arms.

“Enthusiastic sort, isn’t he?” said Bashir. Without further comment, he swung Del up and over onto another med table. “He should sleep for a few hours and be somewhat more reasonable when he wakes up.”

“When he wakes up,” Azira said with cold certainty, “he will go straight to my husband and tell him what has happened.”

“Not a problem. Because we can also go your husband. And whereas Del is going to have a lot of religious fervor to spout, we, on the other hand, are going to be able to show Mas Marko his son—healthier than he has been in quite some time, the sparkle back in his eye, the spring back in his step.” Bashir was feeling positively buoyant at the thought. “Rather than condemn what you’ve done, I have a suspicion that Mas Marko will offer up a prayer of thanks to K’olkr for bringing you people here, where Rasa could be treated and saved.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” Bashir had slid the stabilizing unit into place over the boy and had activated the treatment. Already the lad’s vital signs were leveling off. Bashir introduced a tricyclidine system into the unit, and it began to filter into Rasa’s system. Satisfied that all the readings were normal, he looked back at Azira and said, “Why? Don’t you?”

“Ah. You are finally asking my opinion,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness, “rather than simply inflicting your opinion on me, assaulting my beliefs, or passing judgment on our theology.”

“Azira, I did no such—”

She put up a hand, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Doctor,” she said firmly, “it would be a waste of time for me to tell you my opinion, because whatever happens is what will happen. I have made my decisions and must live with them, just as every sentient being must do. And what I think of the decision beyond that is of no relevance at all.”

And she did not say another word as Bashir labored to save her son’s life.