by Неизвестный
A three-way conversation—or argument, at least on the part of the other two points of the triangle—had broken out in the research facility that she administered aboard the station. Commander Sisko had come upon her and Dr. Bashir, engaged in debating the ethics involved in Ahrmant Wyoss's case.
She could see that Benjamin was in danger of losing his temper, in that deceptively calm, voice-lowering manner that reasonably terrified a good number of the station's crew. But then again, Bashir's obstinacy—he was not quite the thin, pliable reed that many took him to be at first encounter—was notably evocative of that reaction in others.
"Commander—" In deference to Starfleet etiquette, she addressed him by his rank in public, rather than by the first name their long friendship allowed her to use. "I think both viewpoints can be accommodated here. There's no reason why my assisting Odo's investigation would necessarily interfere with the subject's therapeutic requirements."
"We're not talking about a 'subject' here." The steel in Sisko's voice barely softened when he replied to her. "The individual in question is charged with attempted murder. The target of Wyoss's attack was myself, DS9's most senior officer, and if he had managed to continue unapprehended, presumably he would have taken Major Kira's life as well. That puts an even more serious cast on the matter; we're dealing with what could have been a critical blow to the station's operating capability and to the ongoing execution of our mission here."
Bashir placed his hands against the lab table behind him, as though bracing himself for an anticipated stormwind. "I would like to respectfully submit that the commander may be letting his personal feelings interfere with his judgment. It would be only natural, and certainly expected by a competent psychologist, for you to be affronted by the subject's admittedly regrettable actions. That can give rise to feelings of vindictiveness on your part."
That, remarked Dax to herself, is a rhetorical tactic that's not going to work. One didn't need to share a centuries-old mentality to predict the negative effect the doctor's words were having.
"To be concerned about an epidemic of murder aboard this station, Dr. Bashir, can hardly be ascribed to vindictiveness." The steel had chilled to subzero temperatures. "I would be as concerned about the matter if that pryblade had been aimed at your head." The commander was silent for a moment, as though forcing himself to resist contemplating such an event. "Until we ascertain what's behind these events, I have to assume that something is happening which could endanger our entire onboard population. The welfare of the station takes precedence over the interests of this single individual."
Dr. Bashir didn't flinch, though Dax had detected a nervous clenching of his jaw as Sisko had spoken. "Sir, as DS9's commander, you may be able to justify that decision. But being the station's chief medical officer, I am first bound by my oaths as a doctor. The threat that you believe the station is faced with is still a matter of conjecture; your use of the word epidemic itself is a loose appropriation of a precise technical term—we haven't isolated a bacillus or virus that's being carried through the air ducts and is turning people into crazed murderers. I'm sorry, sir; I don't mean to indulge in a lecture on this point, but right now we don't have any basis for assuming the subject Wyoss's violent actions were necessarily connected to those previously committed, or that there will be similar acts committed by other individuals in the future."
"Waiting to see whether more murders will be committed on my watch," said Sisko drily, "is not a course of action—or inaction—that I am going to undertake. The successful administration of a Starfleet directive is not a matter of applying strict scientific judgment. When lives are at stake, the worst-case scenario is the one which must determine our actions. When it's determined conclusively that these murders are not part of a series, and that there is no threat to the station's crew and residents, and to DS9's continued operations, then Ahrmant Wyoss's therapeutic concerns will be given the priority you evidently feel they deserve."
The argument had raged back and forth in front of Dax; now she tried to intervene. "You have to remember," she said, turning to Bashir, "that I'll be keeping an open mind in my research. What Odo may have concluded about the subject will have no bearing on my findings. It's entirely possible that I'll discover that Wyoss's actions and his mental state have absolutely nothing to do with the other murders."
Bashir appeared not to have heard her; he drew himself to full attention, his gaze locked straight into Sisko's. "Commander, I must state my continued disagreement with your decision in this matter. It is my belief as a doctor that the subject Ahrmant Wyoss should be immediately transported off-station, to the nearest Starfleet facility where he can receive the level of psychotherapeutic attention he needs."
"Your protest is noted, Doctor." Sisko's words became clipped and formal. "And my decision is unaltered."
The tension in the room abated when the door slid shut, though the commander's angry footsteps could still be heard echoing in the corridor beyond.
"Julian—" She turned toward Bashir. "Would you care to explain to me just what it is you think you're going to accomplish with this approach? There's part of me that's known Benjamin Sisko a lot longer than you can ever hope to and I can assure you that this is absolutely the wrong way to handle him."
"My, my." Bashir smiled at her. "This is a rare show of emotion from you. You're usually so calm and collected about these things." He nodded toward the door. "As a matter of fact, I think I've accomplished a great deal just now. I've got our good commander just where I want him."
She stared at him in amazement. "Then it's not Ahrmant Wyoss who needs psychotherapeutic care. It's you."
"Perhaps. Since I came to DS9, there have been occasions when I thought I should have my head examined. But in the meantime, I've made sure that Wyoss will, if not immediately, at least eventually get a degree of care that I wouldn't have been able to provide him here aboard the station. You see, now Commander Sisko will bend over backward to demonstrate that he bears no hostility toward a mentally ill individual. As soon as you and Odo are finished with him, Wyoss will be shipped off to the best treatment facility that Sisko can pull the strings for." Bashir shrugged. "Otherwise, the commander might have insisted that I take care of Wyoss—you know how Sisko prefers solving all our problems on-site. And frankly, from what I've seen, this particular psychosis might be a little beyond my expertise."
Dax shook her head. "That was absolutely reprehensible of you, Julian. I find it repugnant that you would try to manipulate anyone like that—let alone a friend of mine."
"Really?" Bashir seemed genuinely surprised by her reaction. "But if it accomplishes what's best . . . surely that's all that matters . . ."
She had turned away from him, calling up a screenful of data on the lab bench's computer panel. It served to mask the annoyance she felt welling up inside her over the doctor's Machiavellianism. There were times, admittedly few in number, when the ballast of her symbiont's centuries of wisdom were overridden by a strong emotional reaction from her younger physical self. If she had been able to split herself down the middle, the temptation to slap Bashir's smug, self-satisfied face would have been irresistible. Or better yet, the style of Kira Nerys that she sometimes envied, a good roundhouse punch between his eyes.
"In the first place," spoke Dax without turning around, "that's not all that matters. The fallacy of the ends justifying the means is a common one for the—shall we say?—less sophisticated mind to fall into. And secondly, based upon my long-standing personal knowledge of Commander Sisko, it's clear to me that you could have accomplished just as much, if not more, by being forthright with him, rather than indulging your unfortunate penchant for being overly clever."
"Oh." With that one syllable, Bashir's voice indicated a sudden state of deflation. "I merely thought that . . ." The rest of his words dwindled away.
She glanced over her shoulder, noting with satisfaction that her unexpectedly sharp comments had had the desired effect
.
"Now, if you don't mind—" She tapped out a command on the computer's keyboard. "I have to work to do."
Bashir said nothing more; she heard only the sound of the lab's door sliding open, then closing. When she was alone, she could feel—almost regretfully—the spasm of annoyance subsiding, the catecholamines within her skull and the adrenaline in her bloodstream returning to their usual levels. If she had, as the old Earth saying put it, jumped down Bashir's throat, she could at least justify it on a rational basis as having been appropriate to the situation.
The question of further action was a delicate one. After a moment's consideration, she rejected the notion of relating to Benjamin any details of this conversation. It was a matter for and Bashir to work out between themselves.
Another voice spoke within her. The ancient one, separating for a moment from the invisible, parallel course with the mind of a humanoid female that had not yet completed one life.
All phenomena are transitory, said the symbiont. This, too.
She almost replied aloud, but checked herself, hearing her own voice inside her head. That's all very well in the long run. But we have to deal with these situations—and these people—at this moment.
The symbiont was incapable of a smile or laughter, except that which her body could give to their shared existence. But she could detect, as she had before, the gentle amusement that temporal affairs evoked from it.
At this moment, came the voice, some of these people hardly even exist.
The process of formulating a reply, the working out of the transient and benign schizophrenia between one side of her conjunct being and the other, was interrupted when she felt the symbiont align itself once more with the thoughts of its host body. That was a sensation she had long become used to, that of becoming whole and undivided once more. Yet something more: as though currents of water in which she swam had turned their motion to hers, augmenting the smallest force of her will.
That was enough to allow her to put the unpleasant incident between the commander and Dr. Bashir firmly out of mind. In some ways, though Bashir's expertise and analytical skills would have been of considerable value, it would be easier for the time being without him around. Not all of the things she had begun monitoring were taking place inside Ahrmant Wyoss's skull. There were others, data from the various sensors arrayed in the empty, starlit space beyond DS9, deviations in readings that were so small as to be almost infinitesimal—she'd had to lower the percept thresholds on several devices to enable them to register anything at all. Just enough to form not a pattern, but the barest suggestion of one: a few scattered points on the graph she held inside her thoughts, the outline of a shape not yet visible to her. Until she knew what that meant—or whether there was anything more than just a random shifting in background radiation levels—it was best to keep the observations to herself.
She turned her attention to the computer screen. There, the smaller universe of Ahrmant Wyoss was being carefully pried apart. On the screen, rows of numbers bounced between a narrow range of values, giving her a real-time monitoring of his physiological processes. A scrolling graph of brain-wave function showed him to still be in a state of narcotized sleep, though with abnormal spikes of activity throughout the thalamocortical zones. Something was going on inside the subject's visual information processes that was connected to the hyperactive REM being picked up by the optical sensors. He's seeing things, thought Dax. But what? Mere dreams, even nightmares, didn't produce such neuroanatomical storms.
She scanned past the other numbers. Respiratory functions were on the high side, but sustainable, as hormone levels whipsawed between apparent panic and anger states. As Odo had remarked to her when the subject had been transferred to her keeping, whatever world Wyoss had found himself trapped in, it was evidently not a pleasant one.
With another command, she switched the screen to a view from the overhead camera in the subject's secured isolation chamber. With clinical detachment, Dax observed the clenching of the jaw, the straining neck tendons, the feverish sweat upon the brow. Invisible energy restraints at the wrists and ankles, and a wider band across the abdomen, prevented Wyoss from injuring himself.
"Computer, give me audio on this subject." In response to her spoken command, a low guttural murmuring came from the panel's speaker. "Increase one-point-two-five decibels."
Now she could make out the words, the alternately furious and terrified monologue that seeped through Wyoss's teeth. The voice was scarcely human, a howl of anguish from the darkest, unexplored caverns of the brain stem.
"All right, that's enough." The lab's silence folded around her again. The subject's words, loosened by an injection of one of the more powerful pentathol analogues, had spoken of things that no sane person would wish to hear. But she would have to, eventually; every syllable was being picked up by the chamber's microphones and recorded in the data banks.
She blanked the screen. "Computer. I want all material from this subject indexed against the recordings logged on by the chief of security, reference tag 'Epidemic.' Give me a breakdown on all distinctive word patterns and imagery that cross-link between the recordings. Prepare a transcript with embedded back-markers."
"Processing," responded the synthesized voice.
There was nothing to do now but wait. It would take only a few minutes at most. But part of her, that had listened to the words with dread, wished it would be longer.
"I just wanted to see my dad." He gave a small shrug, as if it were nothing important. "That's all."
School was over for this shift, and Jake had come up to the Ops deck on the off chance that his father might have time for him. Perhaps they could go get something to eat—it'd been a long while since they'd had dinner together in their living quarters—or if there were only a few minutes to spare, maybe he could just sit in his father's private office behind Ops, and they could talk. Not even about the things that weighed heaviest on Jake's heart and mind, but about anything at all. He'd always thought that that made his father feel better as well.
"Sure—" The comm tech, a lieutenant who was one of Jake's favorites, glanced over her shoulder toward Commander Sisko's office. The door was partially retracted, voices drifting out from the other side. "Tell you what, I'll go see if he's busy right now. You just wait here, okay?"
Standing in the Ops entranceway, Jake watched as she slipped through the deck's low-key bustle of activity, the constant monitoring of the station's well-being. The big viewscreen was blanked at the moment, without even a scattering of distant stars beamed aboard. Though if there had been a show like that, he knew, nobody here would have had the time to pull away from their gauges and controls to take a look at it.
The comm tech had crossed over to where she could cast a surreptitious glance into the office. She caught the arm of one of the other crew members passing by; they had a quick, whispered conversation.
"I'm sorry." She had come back and leaned her head close to Jake's. "But it looks like right now's not a very good time. Your father's got an agenda full of conferences and briefings—I don't know when he's going to get through it all."
"That's okay." Jake made a stone-faced effort to conceal his disappointment. He knew that these chances had grown increasingly scarce. They were hardly worth bothering with, if they weren't something he wanted so much. He shrugged again. "I guess I'll see him later on."
"I'm sure you will." The comm tech gave him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Soon as I can, I'll let him know you were here."
Jake turned and walked away without replying.
And kept walking, with no intended destination, not even watching where his footsteps along the metal-walled corridors led him.
Though when he arrived, he knew that some part inside had led him there.
Jake glanced toward the darkness at either end of the corridor. Silence; hardly anyone ever came to this sector. He had stumbled upon it by accident, in his wanderings around the station. Assured that no o
ne was watching him, he laid the flat of his hand against the nearest door. There were three others just like it, all in a row, the entrances to a bank of holosuites. The new ones, the ones that were special; the one that could take him to places that weren't programmed into Quark's boring old holosuites. And to one place in particular a very special place . . .
He punched his access code into the control panel and stepped inside.
Behind him, he heard the doorway to that other world, the one with his father in it, seal shut. Squinting, he glanced up at the bright sun overhead, then started walking through the field of wind-brushed yellow grasses, the stalks parting around him like a whispering sea.
"I figured you'd be back." The other boy smiled and side-armed a small stone across the creek. The smile twisted at one corner, to signal just how much he knew. "Where else could you go?"
Jake looked away, feeling his breath tighten in his chest. Even under this false yet oddly true sun, a cold shiver ran over the skin of his arms.
CHAPTER 4
He grasped the edge of the empty tray and pulled it toward himself, bringing the server's face within centimeters of his own.
"Tell me," said Odo, his gaze boring straight to the back of the startled Quark's skull. "Everything you seemed so insistent that I should know before."
Quark managed to tug the tray free and straightened up, smoothing with one hand the disarrayed lapels of his jacket. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." He glanced over his shoulder, aware that other patrons of his establishment had noticed the confrontation between him and the chief of security. "Tell you what? Perhaps you've been working a little too hard. I don't want to suggest that you're imagining things, but—"