“Hi,” Ezri said, attempting to inject a lightness into her tone and manner that she very obviously did not feel. “Actually, I’m not really very hungry.”
Neither Ezri’s appearance nor her admission surprised Bashir; this was what he had expected. The loss of Roness had been difficult for Ezri, he knew, not least of all because her orders had led directly to the ensign’s death. “That’s all right,” he said, trying to deflect attention from her lack of appetite. “I’m not all that hungry myself.” As he looked at Ezri, he noted her pale complexion, as well as a slight puffiness below her eyes, both indications of her recent sleeplessness. She had awoken abruptly several times during the past two nights, and although she had not spoken of nightmares, Bashir felt certain that she had been visited by them. “What’re you doing?” he asked, pointing to a series of numbers and several blocks of text on the companel. He hoped to ease Ezri’s grief, at least for the moment, simply by behaving as though nothing were amiss.
“I’m just looking at the readings of the pulse,” she said, glancing around at the display. Bashir did not quite know what to make of that. Ezri was no scientist, and although several of Dax’s previous hosts had been, he doubted that she would be able to add anything to the crew’s research. “I’m not having much luck,” she added, confirming his thoughts. To this point, Bashir knew, Ensignch’Thane and his staff had been unable to identify the precise nature of the pulse, although the direction from which it had traveled had been evident. Defiantnow journeyed back along that path, Commander Vaughn hoping that the crew could find a means of ending the threat to the Vahni. Bashir felt the vibrations of the engines through the decking as the ship flew at warp.
He moved farther into the room, walking over to the lower of the room’s two beds and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “How are you feeling?” he asked, tapping at his shoulder. When Saganhad been struck by the lunar fragments, Ezri had suffered a hairline fracture of her left radius, and an anterior dislocation of her right sternoclavicular joint. Bashir had repaired and treated both injuries, and by now, any discomfort should have faded completely. But Ezri answered his question in a different way than he had asked it.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m feeling pretty down.” She switched off the companel, but continued sitting before it.
Bashir nodded, his heart heavy. “That’s completely understandable after what you’ve been through,” he said. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, but by remaining seated, Ezri seemed to indicate that she wanted something else from him right now besides comforting. “Maybe it would be a good idea to take another few days before you go back on duty,” he suggested to her.
“No,” Ezri said at once. “I have to go back to the bridge.”
“I know you feel that way,” Bashir said, “but you’ve been affected so deeply by what happened that—”
“I’m supposed to be affected,” she interrupted. “We’re all affected. I’m sure even Commander Vaughn has been having difficult moments since—” She hesitated only an instant before saying the words. “—since Gerda died.”
“Yes, of course,” Bashir said, supposing that she must be right: their small crew of forty—thirty-nine now—had all been hurt by the loss of one of their own. Vaughn had held a memorial yesterday, and there had been few dry eyes. Oddly enough, Ezri had managed not to cry at the service, even though she had wept back in their cabin both before and afterward. “We’re all affected,” Bashir went on, “but it’s obviously different for you; you were there.”
“I’m the first officer,” Ezri declared. “I have to return to duty.”
“Ezri,” he said, and now he did stand up. “The crew can get along without you for a few more days.”
“Without me,yes,” she agreed. “But not without their first officer. The position is my responsibility. I can’t let my personal situation, my emotions, paralyze me. I have professional obligations. The ship needs a first officer, and not somebody substituting in the position, but the person chosen for that duty.”
“I understand,” Bashir said. He took the few steps over to her and put a hand tenderly on her shoulder. “You need to take your mind off of what happened, and maybe even to prove to yourself that you can do the job.”
“No, that’s not it,” Ezri said, her voice rising. She stood, and Bashir let his hand fall from her shoulder. She paced past him, then turned to face him from the corner of the room. “This isn’t about my needs. It’s about my responsibilities.” She paused, looking down at the floor, and when she spoke again, her voice had quieted. “I feel horrible about Gerda. I wish she hadn’t died, and I suppose that if I could, I’d give up my life for hers. But I know that I did the right thing. The actions Gerda and I took, the orders I gave, saved so many lives down on the planet…I feel survivor’s guilt, but I don’t feel guilty for the command decisions I made.”
Bashir heard the words of a counselor in what Ezri was saying, and he wondered if she was helping herself with the truth, or hiding behind it. He worried that she might be overcompensating for her part in the loss of Roness. In fact, ever since Tiris Jast had been killed, Ezri had taken on more and more responsibilities, and Bashir could not help thinking now that so many of her actions in the last few months had been reactions to tragedy—as though, by assuming a position of leadership, she would be able to avert such disasters in the future.
“Even if you don’t feel responsible for Roness’s death,” he told her, “you still have emotions. You said yourself that you feel down, that you feel horrible.”
“Yes, I do feel that way,” Ezri said. “But I told you how I was feeling because I need to talk about it, not so that you can protect me.”
“It’s my job to protect you,” he said, taking a step toward her.
“As my lover,” Ezri asked, “or as the ship’s chief medical officer?”
“Both, I suppose.” As Defiant’s CMO, he had the authority to relieve Ezri—or anybody else—of their position, even over the objections of the captain. He had not considered invoking his power to keep Ezri from returning to duty, but if that became necessary…
“You don’t have to worry about me professionally,” Ezri said. “I have resources available to me to deal with the responsibilities of my position, resources that nobody else aboard has.”
Bashir understood the reality of that: eight other lifetimes of experiences, collected within the Dax symbiont. But Ezri was not any of the other of Dax’s hosts, and he believed that she had not even fully integrated all of their memories. Because of Jadzia’s presence and experiences while aboard DS9, Bashir had studied a great deal about Trill physiology, and he realized how difficult joining must have been—must still be—for Ezri, who had never trained for it. During the last eighteen months, he had witnessed firsthand the problems that she had experienced as she learned to exist as a joined being.
So yes, Ezri had resources, but Bashir was not convinced that she would be able to avail herself of them in a way that would help her right now. Dax’s previous hosts had memories of coping with loss, but they also had memories of feelingloss, and those might be recalled to Ezri now, perhaps even deepening her sorrow. Joining, Bashir knew, required a delicate balance even under the best circumstances, and he was not convinced that Ezri had yet achieved the equilibrium she would need to live out a healthy, joined life.
He said none of this to her, though, wanting neither to add to her troubles, nor to deny her the support she sought from him right now. Instead, he said, “All right,” agreeing not to address his concerns about her resuming her position as the ship’s first officer. He opened his arms, and she went to him. As he held her, she told him how she felt, about the tremendous emptiness and sadness she carried inside her, and about her guilt at having survived when Roness had not. Bashir listened, trying to provide her the support she needed.