“Any change down here?” Vaughn said, looking in Ezri’s direction.
Bashir gazed at Nog and decided that any discussion of Ezri’s prognosis ought not to occur within range of the chief engineer’s sensitive ears. There was nothing to be gained by stressing him with bad news. Bashir gestured toward his office as Shar excused himself to speak with Nog.
“Give me the bad news first, Doctor,” Vaughn said, once the office door had closed discreetly behind him and Bashir.
“Ezri’s slipping away from us,” Bashir said. From me. He felt exhaustion suddenly gaining on him, with despair coming up hard on its heels. He sank heavily into the chair behind his desk.
“How?” Vaughn said, standing on the other side of the desk.
“There’s massive peritoneal inflammation in and around the symbiont pouch. As well as progressive neurotransmitter and endocrine imbalances, including toxic levels of thorocrine production.”
“Bottom line?”
“Ezri’s body is rejecting the symbiont. It’s happening very slowly, but there’s no denying it. And apparently no stopping it either. Her neurotransmitter production has fallen to critical levels, and her body is even rejecting direct isoboramine injections.”
“Isoboramine?” Vaughn said.
“It’s a neurotransmitter unique to Trills. Without a sufficient isoboramine concentration, the neural link between host and symbiont collapses, and the symbiont has to be removed in order to keep it alive.”
“Any clue as to what’s causing it?” Vaughn said, folding his arms.
Bashir shook his head. “All I can tell at this point is what’s probably not causing it. I can find no trace of any unusual virus or prion anywhere in her body. I tried a course of metraprovoline, lethozine, and metrazene, which will knock certain retroviruses out cold, even if we’d failed to detect them. No response. And I got the same results with the full spectrum of general antirejection drugs, the sort we ordinarily use on organ transplant patients. Neurogenics, for stimulating neurotransmitter production and uptake, have also proved to be a dead end. I even tried bethanamine.”
“Another neurotransmitter?”
“An inhibitor, actually. Bethanamine is a little-known Trill drug set which has been used occasionally to safely separate symbiont from host. But it failed to work on Ezri, for no reason I can fathom. In fact, nothing I’ve tried as yet has made very much difference at all. It’s as though her body is a computer running a program that can’t be altered once it’s started.”
“Could the Sagan’ s encounter with the alien artifact have anything to do with this?”
“I still can’t say for certain. All I know for sure is that Ezri’s isoboramine levels are still falling and the critical neuro-umbilical pathways between her and Dax are degrading. Net result: Her body is continuing to reject the symbiont. And I can’t stop it.” Bashir slammed his fist on the desk in frustration and then lapsed into silence.
From the back corridors of his memory, he heard the words of encouragement he had spoken to Jadzia after Verad had briefly taken possession of the Dax symbiont. You’re not going to die. Do you hear me? I’m not going to let you die. He tried not to dwell on his ultimate failure to deliver on his promise to Jadzia, a mere four years later. Or the fact that another such failure now appeared all but inevitable.
Vaughn’s impatient prodding brought him out of his reverie. “I said, ‘What’s next?’ Surely you’re not giving up, Doctor.”
Bashir shook his head, though he already felt utterly and completely defeated. “The symbiont appears to be exhibiting signs of incipient ischemic necrosis. As Ezri’s body continues to weaken, the symbiont is losing more and more of its vascular support. I’m afraid I’m running out of options.”
What I need is a miracle.
Vaughn seemed to turn that information over in his mind for several moments before speaking again. “How long does she have?”
“At the rate she’s producing rejection toxins, she might last a few more hours at the outside. That goes for the Dax symbiont, too, unless we remove it.”
Vaughn clearly was not ready to concede defeat. “All right. There are no other Trills on board, so transplanting the Dax symbiont is out of the question. Unless…”
“Sir?”
“What about placing her in stasis, symbiont and all?”
“A stasis field wouldn’t slow down the ongoing neural collapse. It might even hasten it.”
“All right.” Bashir could still hear a note of hope in Vaughn’s voice. “Trill symbionts have been implanted in humans from time to time, correct?”
Bashir nodded cautiously. “But only on a very temporary basis. Even if we’d started heading for Trill yesterday at maximum warp, the journey would still take weeks too long. And no Trill–human symbiosis could last long enough to keep the symbiont alive long enough.”
“Couldn’t we transfer the symbiont briefly into a series of different human hosts?”
“The hosts could probably tolerate that. But there’s no way the symbiont could. A series of marginal transplants like that would place far too much strain on it, without allowing for a sufficient refractory period. If the Dax symbiont is going to have any chance at all, it has to be returned to the Caves of Mak’ala on Trill, or the nearest equivalent, within a few hours of its removal from the host.”
Vaughn appeared to grasp the ramifications immediately. “And if the symbiont continues to weaken, you’re going to have to remove it from Ezri sooner rather than later.”
Bashir nodded. He felt hollow inside.
“So regardless of whether or not the Dax symbiont survives…” Vaughn trailed off.
“Barring a miracle, Ezri is going to die.” Bashir felt detached from himself as he spoke the words. There. I’ve finally said it out loud.
“You mentioned ‘the equivalent’ of the Caves of Mak’ala,” Vaughn said, stroking his beard, plainly still considering every conceivable alternative.
“Merimark and Leishman are already busy constructing a portable symbiont pool like the one I rigged to carry the Dax symbiont after Jadzia’s death last year. But there are still no guarantees. The symbiont has already become dangerously weak.”
Vaughn looked somber. “So you have a decision to make.”
Bashir found that he was having trouble maintaining his train of thought. He took a moment to compose himself before speaking. Perhaps fatigue was catching up with him. How long had he been awake?
“I can hold out for a miraculous last-minute cure for both Ezri and Dax,” he said. “Or I can give the symbiont a fighting chance at having another life.”
A life I’ll probably play no part in. For the first time, Bashir understood at a gut level how hard the earliest days of his relationship with Ezri must have been on Worf, the late Jadzia’s husband.
“At the expense of Ezri’s life,” Vaughn said. But Bashir could detect no reproach in the commander’s tone. Vaughn’s vivid blue eyes took on a faraway aspect that spoke eloquently of other times, other deaths, other unwilling but unavoidable surrenders to decay and entropy.
Vaughn placed a gentle, fatherly hand on Bashir’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry, Julian.”
“So am I.” His words sounded banal in his own ears, but he could think of nothing better to say.
“How is Nog?” Vaughn said after a moment’s silence.
The doctor managed to summon a weak smile, actually grateful for the change of topic. It was a relief to put aside, however briefly, the crushing weight of the decision he carried on his shoulders.
“Let me show you,” Bashir said, leading Vaughn back into the main medical bay chamber and to Nog’s biobed. Shar stood beside the young engineer, who was sitting up and reading something on a padd. Vaughn failed to completely conceal his surprise when he noticed what lay on the low table beside the bed.
It was Nog’s left leg, severed at the knee.
“Hello, Captain,” Nog said, making as though to rise from the bed, then evident
ly realizing that the maneuver hadn’t been one of his best-considered ones. He gestured with his head toward the orphaned limb on the table, at which Shar was staring abstractedly.
“Sorry about this, sir. Shar has just brought me up to date on the repairs still going on aboard the alien ship.”
Vaughn appeared to be trying hard not to stare at Nog’s disarticulated leg, but was not entirely successful. “Between Shar, Senkowski, and Permenter, everything’s well in hand over there. You’ve already done most of the heavy lifting yourself.”
Shar nodded affirmatively to Nog. “I expect the alien vessel to be ready to get under way within a day or so.”
“You just rest and do whatever Dr. Bashir tells you,” Vaughn said to Nog. “Got it, Lieutenant?”
Nog looked sheepish as he handed the padd to Shar. Bashir caught a glimpse of technical schematics on its display screen just before it disappeared behind Shar’s back.
Bashir pointed to the leg. “Nog, may I?”
“Go ahead, Doc. Just bring it back when you’re through with it. I find it sort of comforting to have the thing around, now that it looks like I might not be needing it again.”
Bashir held the limb before him to allow Vaughn to examine it. Vaughn took it and turned it over and over. He appeared puzzled. Shar, however, who had brought Nog and his severed leg to the medical bay, seemed to be taking this in stride.
“What happened?”
“Nog’s body has apparently rejected it,” Bashir said, then allowed his words to sink in for a moment. Vaughn’s raised eyebrow made it plain that he, too, understood that bodily rejection was emerging as a common theme here. “And that’s not the end of it, either.”
“Son,” Vaughn said, handing the leg back to Nog. “What did you mean when you said that you ‘might not be needing it again’?”
Nog grinned as he lifted the coverlet that had been draped across his lap and slowly unwound the dressing from the stump of his left leg. As the bandages fell neatly away, Bashir looked at both Vaughn and Shar to gauge their reactions. Shar’s eyes widened slightly, his antennae probing unsubtly forward. Vaughn’s jaw fell like a nickel-iron meteor.
Bashir quickly examined the tiny, perfectly formed leg sprouting from Nog’s stump. It had grown by several centimeters during just the last hour.
Bashir wasn’t certain how much time had passed before the nonplussed Vaughn finally found his words. “Can you…explain this, Doctor?”
“At the moment, I’m simply at a loss,” Bashir said, shaking his head. “Even his burned femoral motor nerves are regenerating.”
“I’d be sorely tempted to call this a miracle,” Vaughn said, his gaze locking firmly with Bashir’s. “And wherever we find one miracle, we might do well to keep searching for others.” He was clearly talking about Ezri.
“I wish I could afford to believe in miracles, Captain,” Bashir said, biting his words off. “Unfortunately, I have to make do with the real world.”
The medical bay doors hissed open again. Merimark and Leishman entered, using antigravs to carry a meter-wide, half-meter-deep oblong container. The pair set the object down gently beside Ezri’s biobed.
“One medical transport pod suitable for a Trill symbiont,” Merimark said as she glanced uneasily at the unconscious Ezri. “Ready for activation when you give the order.” Bashir recalled that Kaitlin Merimark had become one of Ezri’s closest friends among the Defiant’ s current crew complement. It couldn’t be easy for her to see Ezri in her current condition.
“Thank you, Ensign,” Bashir said, then turned to Vaughn. “I’ll make a thorough investigation into Nog’s condition as soon as possible. But at the moment I’m afraid I’ve more pressing matters to attend to.”
Vaughn looked grave. “I take it you’ve come to a decision.” About Ezri went unsaid, though the words hung in the air like smoke over the Gettysburg battlefield.
“Yes. The only decision possible.”
“I understand,” Vaughn said. “Come on, Shar. Let’s get back to work.” Shar, his facial muscles suddenly unusually tense, nodded silently. Bashir wondered how much Shar knew about Ezri’s condition. He wished he had time to brief everyone beforehand about what was about to happen, and to allow Ezri to say her own farewells to one and all. But he no longer had that kind of time. He’d squandered that time with his repeated, fruitless attempts to save Ezri and the symbiont both.
Feeling miserable, Bashir watched Vaughn and Shar exit the medical bay.
He told himself that Ezri wouldn’t have wanted any maudlin good-byes. She’d have another life soon, once they returned Dax to the Trill homeworld after the conclusion of the Gamma Quadrant mission. She’d have plenty of time then to catch up with auld acquaintances, he thought.
“‘ ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world,’” Bashir said quietly to no one. Then he noticed Nog’s quizzical stare.
“What’s going on, Doc?”
Bashir realized that he had been protecting Nog from the truth about Ezri. He sighed, collected his thoughts, and said, “Nog, you deserve to know what’s really about to happen to Ezri.”
The only decision possible.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Bashir really, truly wished he were dead. “Ensign Richter,” he said. “Please prepare Ezri for surgery.” Then he turned back to Nog and started to explain, as gently as possible, that Ezri was going to die very soon.
The woman I love is going to die.
In preparation for the procedure, Ezri was moved back into the small surgical bay, where she slowly drifted back to consciousness. Her eyes opened and she smiled. Despite her pallor and fever, the smile made her as radiant as Bashir had ever seen her.
And it’s the last time. The last time I will ever see that smile.
His heart pounded, auricles and ventricles transformed to hammers and anvils. Doing his best to manage his roiling emotions, Bashir explained to her what was about to happen. She listened attentively and took the news with considerably more grace than Nog had. Or Merimark. Or even Krissten, for that matter.
But Ezri’s equanimity rattled him at first. He had to remind himself that Dax had already experienced host death eight times before.
“I understand, Julian. I love you. And I trust you to do whatever you have to do…to save Dax.”
Once again, he heard Jadzia’s voice, echoing up from a well six years deep: Don’t blame yourself, Julian. You did all you could.
He desperately wished he could believe those words.
“Julian.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be conscious when you…cut the cord. Not like Curzon. That was different.”
Bashir knew that Curzon’s symbiont had been surgically removed as well. But that had been done at the end of a very long, very satisfying life.
“I understand,” Bashir whispered, his words catching in his throat.
“I don’t want to be…emptied, like the time Verad took the symbiont…” She trailed off. Bashir noticed for the first time that her face was wet.
Julian, Jadzia confessed in the back corridors of his mind. I’m scared.
“I understand,” he repeated. He felt a single fat tear roll down his cheek. Another one jostled for position behind it. He squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed back, hard. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, then straightened and released her hand.
“I’m ready, Julian,” she said at length.
Blinking away his tears, he donned his surgical mask and lifted an exoscalpel from the tray beside the operating table. At his nod, Krissten carefully attached the delta wave inducer to Ezri’s temple.
“Ensign Juarez is standing by to activate the artificial environment container,” Krissten said in a subdued voice. After learning about Ezri’s condition, Edgardo demanded to be allowed back on duty, insisting his leg had healed sufficiently.
Ezri mouthed a silent I love you to Bashir, then smiled.
“Good-bye, Ezri,” he said.
&
nbsp; Her lips curled into a faint smile. Then oblivion took her.
Responding to Bashir’s nod, Krissten activated the sterile field. He gripped the exoscalpel tightly in his gloved hand, grateful that the instrument showed no signs of slipping this time. Krissten silently opened the front of Ezri’s surgical gown, exposing Ezri’s abdominal pouch. Very gently, he moved the exoscalpel’s tip across her abdomen, leaving a slender crimson line in the instrument’s wake. A moment later, the body of the symbiont began to emerge, its brown, lumpy skin glistening under the room’s bright lights.
The symbiont inched forward, fairly oozing into his hand. After it had emerged entirely from Ezri’s body, Bashir cradled it gingerly. The eyeless, limbless creature’s helpless emergence reminded him of a cesarean section he had once performed; he had to remind himself this “baby” carried within it a store of experience and knowledge at least an order of magnitude greater than his own.
“This is going to be a somewhat unusual procedure,” Bashir told Krissten as he raised the symbiont slightly higher, studying the superficial patches of necrotic tissue that had already begun to appear along the moist, amber-colored umbilicus still connected to Ezri’s abdominal pouch. “There’s already been so much neural depolarization along the entire neuro-umbilical trunk that the nerve bundles will have to be cut in a specific order to minimize the risk of neuroleptic shock for the symbiont.”
“Understood,” Krissten said, her voice muffled slightly by her surgical mask.
“Neurocortical separator, please.”
She took his exoscalpel and replaced it with the requested implement. Gently hefting the symbiont in his left hand, he touched the tip of the compact, gleaming cylinder to a point about six centimeters down the length of the umbilical cord.
Ezri’s body jerked reflexively as the separator sank its tiny polyduranium probe into the cord. “Note that I have just severed the gross motor pathway nerve bundle,” Bashir said, his voice sounding flat and tinny in his own ears. He felt detached from his actions, as though he were a first-year med student watching with his classmates while a faculty member performed surgery in a Starfleet Medical operating theater.
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