“Neural activity down another tenth of a percent,” Juarez reported from across the medical bay.

Bashir glanced up at the diagnostic panel and confirmed the reading. “Acknowledged,” he said, and looked back down at Ezri.

He hated seeing her like this. Even though it had been her choice to take this action, it troubled him. He understood that if her interpretation of events had been correct regarding her first contact with the object, then Ezri’s declining neural processes and isoboramine levels coincided with Dax’s mental contact with—

With what?Bashir asked himself in a burst of anger. With a pool of unimpressive slime that somehow extended into other dimensions? He felt his jaw clench and his hands tense. How could she have done this?he thought. How could she have so obviously risked her life—and her life with him—for this speculation?

Bashir squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly furious with Ezri. And with himself, he realized. Why had he agreed to this? For Ezri? For the Vahni? The Vahni would not be served by the unnecessary and avoidable death of Ezri Dax.

Pain coursed through his palm. He looked down and saw his hand gripped so tightly about the tricorder that his flesh had gone white. He opened his hand and dropped the device back onto the shelf, where it rattled among other equipment. A hypospray skittered off and fell to the floor.

He stared at his hand. Indentations decorated the fleshy part of his palm, tinged red now as blood flowed back to the areas. He tried to bring his anger under control, but instead, his ire rose, and he imagined sweeping his arm across the shelf in front of him, knocking everything to the floor. No, not the shelf,he thought, and looked over at the stand, and at the bizarre object resting upon it. He saw himself pulling Ezri’s hand from the substance, and then upending the stand…aiming a phaser…

Bashir raised a hand to his face, wiping it across his eyes. He felt pressure in his temples, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep. If he could just—

“Doctor,” Juarez called, and Bashir recognized the note of concern in the lieutenant’s voice even before the alarm sounded. Bashir dropped his hand and opened his eyes. He looked up at the diagnostic panel, the source of the warning tones, and saw that Ezri’s neural activity had dropped precipitously, her other vital signs following it down. He acted at once, almost without thought, a product of his training and abilities. He reached for the hypospray of delactovine, but could not locate it on the shelf. He quickly crouched and looked on the floor, recalling the hypo that had fallen, but he did not see it.

“Edgardo,” he called, standing back up, “prepare a delactovine injection.” As Juarez acknowledged the order, Bashir pulled the tricorder from the shelf. He did not even realize the decision he had made until he reached across the bed and pulled Ezri’s hand from the object. He lowered her arm down beside her body, then worked the tricorder. The haze of blue dots that indicated the activation of the containment field buzzed on around the object.

Juarez raced over, a hypo held up in his hand. Bashir took it, verified the drug, and set the dosage. Quickly, he applied the nozzle end of the hypo to Ezri’s neck. The short hiss of air was a welcome sound. He peered up at the diagnostic panel, waiting for the changes that would come. And they did come: heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, and numerous other readings. And still her neural activity remained dangerously low, so low that her autonomic functions could be endangered. If her brain ceased to function above a certain minimal level, Ezri’s body would no longer sustain itself: her heart would cease to beat on its own, her blood would cease to flow through her veins, her lungs would no longer expand and contract.

Bashir reached up to the cortical stimulator and touched a control. At once, the blinking of the green and red lights sped up. He looked to the diagnostic panel again, but after a few seconds, only a marginal increase marked Ezri’s neural activity. Bashir shook his head, a calmness settling over him as he considered the next steps he would have to take. He reached for the hypos and other medical equipment on the shelf by the bed. He had prepared for this contingency. Now he could only take the actions he had planned, and hope that they would be enough to save Ezri.

50

Charivretha sat at the dining table with Thirishar’s bondmates, a tall glass of Andorian ale in her hand. She had arrived just as Thriss, Anichent, and Dizhei had been starting dinner. At Dizhei’s invitation, Charivretha sat down at the table with them, although she would not join them in their meal; in just a few minutes, she would be leaving for the ambassadorial reception.

It had been an arduous, tiring day, spent in meticulous preparation for the summit tomorrow. Charivretha did well with details, able to master massive amounts of facts, allowing herself to recall them effortlessly as needed; she could sometimes even cull unexpected and valuable conclusions from previously unvisited juxtapositions of information. But for all of that, she cared less for the preliminaries and more for the actual job. She enjoyed politics, not paperwork.

Throughout the long day today, Charivretha had looked forward to a glass of ale. She could not abide replicated versions of the drink, but Anichent had discovered that the barkeeper on the station possessed a couple of bottles in his stock. She had asked Anichent to purchase them, as good an excuse as any to visit Thirishar’s bondmates this evening. Thirishar had offered the three of them the use of his quarters just before departing on his mission, and they had all moved in here that same day. Charivretha tried to spend as much time as possible here with them, but her responsibilities sometimes interfered, as had been the case during the past few days.

Now, she smoothed the white, thickly textured fabric of the formal dress she wore, and then raised her glass in salute. Anichent sat across from her at the table, the tall, hardy figure putting her in mind of Zherathrizar, one of her own bondmates. Dizhei, already old for her years, but very sweet, sat to her right, and Thriss, usually so lively, but quiet right now, sat to her left.

“To family,” Charivretha said as she lifted her glass. Only Anichent and Dizhei followed her lead—Anichent had ale; Dizhei’s glass contained water—and matched her toast. Thriss continued eating her meal, not looking up. Charivretha chose to let the discourtesy pass. She sipped at her drink, the fiery liquid tumbling down her gullet like warm gravel, heating and rasping her throat, and leaving behind a delicious warmth and fullness.

Anichent smacked his lips and delivered a husky sigh after taking a healthy gulp of the ale. He really did resemble Zherathrizar in many ways, Charivretha thought, from some of his mannerisms to his mode of dress; the brown leather vest he wore over a pale green tunic and brown pants gave him the air of an outdoorsman, though she knew his aspirations actually leaned toward politics. “I thought I was overcharged for the ale,” he said in a voice made deeper by the Andorian drink, “but now I’d have to say it was worth it.”

“And I’d have to agree,” Charivretha said in a bass whisper. She cleared her throat, and then looked over to Dizhei. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?” she asked the prim schoolteacher.

“Thank you,” Dizhei said, “but I don’t want to change the sound of my voice.” She smiled, a clear signal that she understood and accepted the good-natured teasing.