REP: DS9 Faith, Part III: Peace 3/8 [PG-13] B
Philippe de la Matraque
Author: Gabrielle Lawson
Contact: inhe...@earthlink.net
Series: DS9
Rating: PG-13
Codes: B
Part: 3/8
Summary: Doctor Bashir, has given up on DS9, Starfleet, the Federation, and
life itself.
Note: This story does reference other stories of mine. It can stand alone
but it might leave you with questions. If you've read my other stories,
those questions shouldn't come up. Those stories can be found here on my web
site, http://gabrielle.sytes.net/trek/writing.html or
http://www.fanfiction.net.
Archivist: Please replace any older copies. Trekiverse and my own site
only.
Star Trek:
Deep Space Nine
Faith
Part III: Peace
A Novel by
by Gabrielle Lawson
Chapter Thirteen
The runabout had not disappeared at all. All the evidence pointed to a
much simpler solution, and yet one still unexplainable: It had cloaked. No
K-Layer Subspace Concealment, no phase shifting, nothing out of the
ordinary. Just cloaked. Only Starfleet runabouts were not equipped with
cloaking devices. That opened a new page to the mystery. And Kira found
she preferred focusing on the mystery of the runabout to dwelling on Captain
Sisko's confession. She wasn't quite sure what to do with that. She could
tell herself that she might have done the same thing, especially during the
Occupation. She could also say that the Romulans deserved it. They had
been letting the Dominion use their space to attack Federation and Klingon
ships. She could even say that Sisko was probably right. If the Romulans
hadn't joined the war, the Dominion would very likely have turned on them in
time.
And maybe that was why she didn't harbor any more animosity for Garak than
she had before Sisko's revelation. It wasn't hard to figure out how Sisko
had come by his plan and the pieces required to carry it out. He hadn't
mentioned the Cardassian tailor/spy, but Garak had long ago ceased to fool
anyone as to his true calling. He was devious, dangerous, and deliberate.
But he was also slowly developing a conscience more closely resembling
Bajoran or Federation ethics. And sometimes that *did* fool people. He was
still a Cardassian, born and raised. The cost paid for the success of
Sisko's plan was probably quite small in his eyes. Cardassian ethics
wouldn't bat an eye at sacrificing an individual for the good of the state.
So, really, he hadn't done anything that would surprise Kira.
But Sisko. . . . Sisko was her captain, her commanding officer for more
than six years. He was a man who had earned her trust and respect. He had
earned her admiration. He was fair and caring when necessary and tactically
brilliant when that was required. He could look beyond his own beliefs and
upbringing to accept the Bajorans' differences, and even to embrace them.
He was a man of principles. And he abided by those principles. Or at least
he had.
Beyond all that, he was the Emissary, chosen by the Prophets. She had
accepted that on faith, and on Kai Opaka's declaration, and had trusted the
Prophets' judgment. Benjamin Sisko had found the Celestial Temple and met
the Prophets. He had discovered B'Hala. He had warned Bajor against
joining the Federation before the war began, and thus saved Bajor from
instant anihilation by the Dominion. He was revered by her people, and by
Kira herself.
But how then could he have done what he did? It was no wonder to her now
that Julian had been so uneasy around the captain.
*Enough!* she shouted to herself. If she wasn't careful, her distress
would show. Questions would be asked; the truth might get out. And then
the Federation would face a war against four races with only the Klingons at
their side. Julian had kept silent, as best he could. She would have to as
well.
"Why would they turn toward D'Nexi?" Ezri asked, and the question helped
Kira to return her thoughts to the missing runabout. The single warp trail
they had been following turned abruptly in the direction of the D'Nexi
system and the battle about to rage there. "The *Enterprise* is already
going there. Why leave the *Enterprise* only to turn back without a word?"
"They didn't turn back exactly," O'Brien offered. "They set a course that
would bring them to the D'Nexi system, not to the *Enterprise.* But what
good could a runabout do in that kind of engagement? There was hardly
enough firepower aboard to tickle a Cardassian Galor-Class warship."
"I think it's all simpler than that," the captain said, startling them all.
He hadn't joined in the conversation up to this point, and Kira had figured
he was stewing in his own guilt. He was still sitting in the command chair,
with his elbows propped up and fingers steepled together in front of his
face. He wasn't stewing, she realized. He was thinking. "Runabouts don't
have cloaks."
They already knew that. Romulan and Klingon vessels had cloaks, but in
Starfleet, only Defiant-class vessels were equipped with them.
Dax nodded. "Klingons and Romulans do. But neither of them have any
reason to take our runabout."
"There's someone else," the captain said, dropping his hands and sitting up
straight. "Someone who can transport a Starfleet officer off his station
while the shields are up."
At that moment, Kira forgot to breathe. Julian was the Starfleet officer
in Sisko's statement. Section 31 had taken him.
"So they might also be able to cloak a runabout," Dax finished for them
all.
O'Brien slapped his hand on the console in front of him. "And just how do
they think they're helping the war effort by keeping that kind of technology
to themselves anyway?"
Kira took a breath again at that. "What do they want with our runabout?
Why D'Nexi?"
Worf finally spoke. "Pfenner. They do not want D'Nexi. The runabout was
going to Faeros. They must know Pfenner is not in the Faeros system."
"He's at D'Nexi," Sisko said, nodding. "Do you think it's a coincidence
that they also took Bashir today?"
Ezri took in a quick breath. "Julian cracked the layers. I mean, we all
did, or Garak did, but anyway, it was Julian who put the pieces together."
Kira looked at the captain and felt something akin to hope stir in her
disgruntled stomach. "If we find Pfenner," he said, "we find Julian."
The light came as quickly as it had left the night before. Sunrise and
sunset were shortlived on this moon or planet wherever they were. Riker
blinked and began the process of sitting up. His joints were stiff from
sleeping on the hard ground, but he stretched and the kinks began to work
themselves out. The others started to stir as well, stifling yawns. Once
they remembered where they were, they lost the sleepy look. Today was their
first full day as prisoners of the Dominion. Just in time to punctuate that
thought, Riker heard shouts and sirens begin to blare.
He looked to Bashir and found him sitting in the same position as he'd left
him, hunched into the corner. But he began to move with the sirens. Riker
was surprised then, when the doctor was standing before any of the rest of
them. Riker stood to meet him. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked.
"I wasn't sleepy," Bashir replied.
Riker regarded him for few more moments. He looked tired. Very tired, as
if he hadn't been sleeping for quite awhile. His skin was taut and the area
under his eyes was dark. His eyes, themselves, seemed almost lifeless. But
he replied quickly, unlike last night, when he'd appeared to be in a daze.
Flashbacks, Riker decided. He was probably having flashbacks. But, despite
the physical signs of exhaustion, Bashir appeared to be alert and coherent.
The door, nearly concealed from all view when closed, began to ascend to
the ceiling and a Jem'Hadar ducked under it to get inside. "Out!" he
ordered, brandishing his weapon.
Riker nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, but his men caught it and
began to move toward the door. Bashir stepped forward, too, and Riker let
him pass. The Jem'Hadar followed him back out the door. Riker squinted
against the brightness of morning in this place. He could hardly make out
the next building in the glare. He could, however, make out the silhouette
of the Vorta, Deyos, the camp's commander. There were also four other
Jem'Hadar. One of them wore a Klingon knife in a sheath on his boot.
"I hope you had a good night's sleep," Deyos offered, his voice dripping in
insincerity. "I'm sure you're all very eager to find out your new
assignments. You will report to the following kommandos and there you will
learn your tasks. Mr. Simmons, you will be working in the plant."
Riker stiffened at that, as did Simmons. They'd heard what Jordan had said
about the plant. One of the Jem'Hadar stepped forward and shoved his weapon
into Simmons's back. "Move!" To his credit, Simmons made no reply or
complaint. He looked back at Riker once and then began to walk in the
direction the Jem'Hadar was prodding him.
Deyos was unperturbed. "Bormann, maintenance." Another Jem'Hadar stepped
foward, but Bormann had already gotten the hint. He started moving before
the Jem'Hadar could butt him with his weapon.
"Garulos," Deyos went on, "construction."
Garulos, too, moved of his own accord. And with that, Riker's original
crew was stripped from him. He hoped he'd see them again by nightfall. He
hoped Simmons could still talk by then.
Deyos turned to Bashir next, and Riker held his breath. "You, my dear
doctor, may tend the wounded."
Bashir nearly fell over. "What?" he blurted. Riker was just as surprised.
He'd expected Bashir to get hauled away and beaten or thrown into solitary
confinement.
"And tend the dead," Deyos added. "You can start with that Romulan filth
we hung yesterday. Burn the body, destroy the ash."
No more words came from Bashir, and Riker remembered a word from his
history classes when they'd dealt with the Holocaust: Sonderkommando. Riker
watched the Jem'Hadar with the knife lead the doctor away and wondered if
he'd see any of his team again.
There was only one Jem'Hadar left and he now took Riker's arm. "Commander
Riker," Deyos finally addressed him, "you and I have some things to
discuss." He turned his back and began walking. The Jem'Hadar made sure
that Riker followed.
Captain Sisko braced himself as he dematerialized and rematerialized on the
runabout. Because the trace was weak, they'd had to follow it slowly.
Nearly eight hours after finding the trace, they had found the vessel
itself. Two other warp signatures were found within transport distance of
the runabout, and no life signs were present on the *Dnieper*. A quick scan
had revealed all life support functions were functioning perfectly, so Sisko
had decided he wanted a look for himself. He took Dax and O'Brien with him
and left Worf in command of the *Defiant*.
"She checks out, sir," O'Brien reported. "Not a thing is wrong with her."
"And I don't detect a cloaking device anywhere," Dax added. "It feels like
a ghost ship, though."
Sisko nodded. It did feel like one. A perfect ship without a crew. He
caught Dax's eye. "Check the logs." Then he made his way to the rear
compartment with his own tricorder out. Even though he suspected Section 31
was behind the runabout's initial disappearance, he didn't think it was like
them to abduct an entire crew and leave the ship behind. But why else would
Riker and his crew abandon the ship, if there were no equipment
malfunctions. Two warp signatures outside the runabout pointed to a
potential threat, but the *Defiant*'s sensors had shown no indication of
recent phaser blasts to the hull. If the two other ships were Jem'Hadar,
how had they found the cloaked runabout? And why would the cloak come down
here in front of them? Why would the crew give up without a fight?
O'Brien had also come to the rear. Sisko walked to one wall and began
opening each locker and drawer. Surely an away team would have packed
supplies. O'Brien took the other side and began the same process. Sisko
was just about to reach the bunks when Dax came in behind them.
"There are no logs," she reported, "which, I'm aware, doesn't make much
sense."
"They staged this," O'Brien stated as he slammed a locker closed. "They
cloaked this runabout and then, when it was all over, they took the cloak
and cleaned up the scene. There's not a stitch of evidence that shows
anybody was ever on this runabout to begin with."
Sisko had a locker open and he left it that way when he turned to them.
"They left more than a stitch, Chief."
They walked over to stand behind him and Dax gasped. Three pieces of
clothing lay carefully folded in the bottom of the locker. O'Brien picked
up the top piece and unfolded it to reveal the jacket Julian had been
wearing as he boarded the shuttle that morning.
Sisko picked up the rest: a shirt and a pair of pants. "Things just got a
bit more interesting."
Crewman Formenos did not comment when she was assigned to the plant. She
wondered, of course, what the plant was and what was done there, but she had
hope that she might see someone from her crew now that she was out of the
barracks. She had not seen any of them since she was separated out. She
had not seen anyone. The barracks she had slept in were empty.
She was taken south, past many rows of barracks, but, still, she saw no one
except her escorts. Three Jem'Hadar walked beside and behind her. The
bright sun reflected off the ground nearly blinded her and the heat was
intense. Still, she said nothing, preferring not to show any weakness to
the Jem'Hadar. After perhaps half an hour they reached the bottom of a high
hill. Only as they ascended above the heights of the barracks did Formenos
get her first glimpse of other prisoners. Far off to the west she saw what
could have been a construction crew. To the east, striped uniforms moved
through the barracks like ants in a farm. She was pushed from behind when
she looked too long. She forced her eyes forward again.
The top of the hill housed a long, white complex of buildings. Formenos
was herded toward the closest one of them. She was pushed again as she
stepped through the door. Her eyes were not able to keep up with the sudden
change from the bright of outdoors to the interior darkness. She had
stopped because she couldn't see. But, with the Jem'Hadar's encouragement,
she moved on, trying not to hesitate in her steps. After a few seconds, her
eyes began to adjust and she could see she was in a room with about 40 other
people. The Jem'Hadar placed her in line and then left, closing the door
behind them.
Formenos squinted at the crowd, trying to see if she recognized any of the
faces. Someone clapped twice and the people began to move, lining up on two
sides of the room. All except one, but he was pulled into line by the
others. Simmons. He saw her, too, but when his gaze met hers, she became
confused. The front of his shirt and chin were red with blood, but he
didn't appear to be bleeding anymore. He held a shaky hand up to his mouth
and his eyes told her of sorrow and fear.
Four people stepped into the room. Two were Jem'Hadar, one was a Vorta,
and the other was human. The human, wearing a long white coat and neatly
pressed trousers, stopped at the far end of the line and waited, flanked by
the two Jem'Hadar. Formenos recognized him, too. Pfenner.
The Vorta moved down the other row. Each prisoner in turn opened his or
her mouth. He reached Simmons and his neighbor had to open Simmon's mouth
for him as Simmons seemed to be in too much shock to move for himself. The
inspector nodded and passed to the next in line. He reached the end of the
line quickly and was soon in front of Formenos. Following along, she opened
her mouth. The inspector stopped and checked a chart in his hand. "Ah, the
other new one," he said, smiling softly.
Formenos shut her mouth and looked to Simmons. He was shaking his head.
She didn't dare speak, so she tried to send the question with her eyes.
*What?* Simmons opened his mouth again and made a scissors sign with his
fingers. Formenos felt queazy. The blood. They had cut out his tongue.
"It needs to be processed," the Vorta called. Formenos was too scared to
worry over the insult of being called an 'it.' She wondered if they would
even anesthetize her first. Simmons looked to be in shock, not pain. Maybe
it wouldn't hurt.
The Jem'Hadar moved from around Pfenner, but he rushed to keep up with
them. He pushed one of them out of the way until he was standing beside the
Vorta. "Eline Formenos?" he asked.
Formenos wondered how he knew her name. She nodded.
"Do you know who this is?" Pfenner asked the Vorta, who rolled his eyes in
a completely disinterested manner. "Doctor Eline Formenos is one of the
most renowned Subspace Theorists in the Federation."
Formenos found the whole thing rather surreal. Her tongue was about to be
cut out, she had been called an 'it' by a Vorta, and now their target had
her confused with some scientist who had the same name. She got the
feeling, though, that she didn't want to contradict him. Maybe being a
scientist would mean she would get to keep her tongue.
"What it is matters little," the Vorta said.
"Don't you see?" Pfenner argued. "She could be essential to discovering
the layer! Her work on subspace eddies has become the standard."
Layers? Formenos remembered the mission and the reason Riker had
surrendered. They still needed to stop the K-Layer experiments. She
decided being a scientist was perhaps worth losing her tongue. What was a
tongue when compared to losing the war? "Layer?" she asked, trying to sound
interested. "Eddies have been proven countless times. Are you suggesting
there are layers within subspace?" She paused for a moment, as if thinking.
"I suppose it's possible."
Pfenner sighed and then he smiled. "It's more than possible. The layers
exist. We've proven it. But we haven't perfected the manner in which we
can reach a specific layer. Your help would be invaluable."
The Vorta seemed to be ignoring this whole exchange. He checked his chart
again, but then widened his eyes at what he found. "Her qualifications
*are* impressive," he muttered.
She noticed the pronoun. But she couldn't just give in so quickly. She
was a Federation scientist now, not a traitor. But too much resistance
wouldn't get her where she needed to be: in Pfenner's lab. "Who is 'we?'"
she asked.
Pfenner looked as if he were going to speak, but the Vorta beat him to it.
"The Dominion, of course."
"I am a prisoner of war," Formenos said, "not a traitor to my people. I
cannot help you."
"You will do as you are told," the Vorta stated. He tilted his head and
the Jem'Hadar on his left stepped up. He grabbed her head and forced her
jaw open.
"Wait!" Pfenner called. "We need her mind, not her hands. I can't work
with her effectively if she's forced to pass notes. We need to confer and,
to confer, we need to talk. She will help us when she realizes what we are
doing." He looked at her again, pleaded with her with his eyes. "No
scientist can resist this kind of breakthrough. And she'll want an end to
the war as much as I do. You've spared my tongue. Spare hers. We need
her."
The Vorta studied her hard for a moment. Then he waved one hand,
dismissing the Jem'Hadar. "You have one day. If she will not help us
willingly, she'll work as the others do."
Pfenner sighed again in relief. He took her arm. "Please," he said. "Come
with me. Let me show you. Think of the science and put politics behind
you."
She regarded him warily but followed. The Vorta let her go and the
Jem'Hadar didn't move. The other prisoners watched her as she passed, but
there was only one that mattered to her right now. She found Simmons
looking back at her, relief clearly on his face, but also confusion. She
offered him a quick wink and then disappeared through the door at the other
end of the room.
Pfenner led her to a turbolift and didn't speak again until the doors had
closed. "You had me worried," he said, keeping his tone low. "I wasn't
sure you'd play along."
So he hadn't confused her name. "I didn't exactly want to lose my tongue,"
she said, opting for a neutral reason. She did not know how far she could
trust him yet. "I'm not a scientist. I'm a pilot."
"I know," he answered quickly. "I hacked the system and changed your
records. You don't want to be a pilot here, Crewman Formenos." His voice
took on a very sad quality. "Not here. Keep playing reluctant. But by the
end of the day, you have to be with me. You'll see it's the only way."
Formenos didn't reply to that, but she didn't need to. The lift stopped
and the doors opened onto a gleaming white lab. Pfenner led her to a door
on the right. She could get cleaned up in there, and change her clothes.
She nodded at that, but she wasn't sure how she'd play this whole game out.
She was only sure of one thing: Pfenner's way was not the only way.
The Jem'Hadar were watching. V'dara was where he'd last seen her. Bashir
took a deep breath before approaching too close. The morning was turning
out to be quite warm and V'dara had not kept well overnight. She looked
wilted upon the hook, her head hanging close to her chest. Her hands had
fallen as well, and he touched one gently when he reached her. It was the
only kindness he could give her with the Jem'Hadar right there.
"Take it down!" one of them ordered. "This place is needed."
*For the lottery,* Bashir thought, and he squeezed her hand. *Fifteen
people are alive today because of you*, he told her silently. *Thirty*, he
corrected himself. There had been no lottery last evening either.
But the Jem'Hadar were watching. *Like kapos,* he thought, getting lost in
that memory again for a moment. And strangely, the memory helped him.
Again, the boundary between the past and the present--between this camp and
that one--blurred. The smell was no more unbearable than the stench he'd
woken up to every morning; the sight of the corpse no worse than anything he
had seen amid the gas. It was easier work now, even if less pleasant. He
had the use of both his hands.
The guards--kapos or Jem'Hadar--were watching, so he went to work, putting
the smell out of his mind and ignoring the cold, lifeless feel of her body.
He wrapped his arms around her legs just above the knees, tucking his
shoulder into her torso. When he lifted, he tuned out the sickening squick
of the hook coming out.
She fell across his shoulder and he turned toward his kapos so they could
show him where to take her. His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the
large crematorium building he had helped to build, but he did not see it.
All the buildings beyond the Appelplatz were identical as far as he could
see.
The kapos turned and Bashir followed them past many of those
buildings--barracks, he realized--toward another area of the complex. After
walking for nearly twenty minutes, they reached a tall pulsating fence that
formed a boundary. More Jem'Hadar stood guard at the only gate he could
see. They did not hinder Bashir and his minders. V'dara's body was fairly
light--a testimony to the treatment of the prisoners--but still heavy after
carrying her for so long. He tried to shift her weight but he would have
had to put her down to switch her to his other shoulder. He did not think
his kapos would allow him such an indulgence.
Four small buildings stood in a square, facing inward on a small, barren
courtyard. Beyond them, Bashir could now see a second fence and more
barracks behind it. A siren somewhere sounded two short blasts and for the
first time that day, Bashir got a sense that there was still life in the
camp. Doors opened in the buildings behind the fence and women emerged,
wearing striped dresses like V'dara's. Two women per building, each pair
carrying a box between them. Maintenance. One of the kommandos Jordan had
listed. Bormann had been sent to maintenance.
The kapos stopped beside a door in the nearest of the four buildings. "You
will dispose of it here," one of them said, the one with the knife Jordan
had mentioned. "The uniform is to be used again." Neither offered to open
the door. Clutching V'dara's legs tighter with his left hand, Bashir
gripped the handle with his right and pulled it open. He had to step back
to avoid the door and then turn to get his burden though the narrow doorway.
The room inside lit up as soon as he crossed the threshold and the door had
closed. To his surprise the kapos had not followed him in. He was alone.
There was a low table in the center of the room. He walked over to one end
and braced himself as he shifted V'dara's body off his shoulder. He tried
to lower her gently to the table, but his arm had gone numb. She fell back
with a thud.
He studied her a moment and brushed the hair away from her glassy eyes. He
remembered how they had lit up when Martok and the others had finally let
him in on the escape plan. It wasn't his inclusion that had caused her eyes
to shine, but the hope she had had in their plan. She hid it with a calm
countenance that would make a Vulcan jealous at any other time, but that one
day, he had seen it.
This was not the way he had envisioned it ending. He had had hope then,
too. Now he was a shell of that man that had stabbed a Jem'Hadar in the
neck to save her and their plan from being destroyed, and she was dead. A
prisoner again and now a corpse. Of their original six co-conspirators,
only himself and Martok remained. Garak and Worf had joined them at the
end. Five had survived to escape. And now there were four.
Sighing deeply, he rubbed his neck and tried to work some feeling back into
his shoulder. His hand brushed against the lump, the implant he was given
and he remembered that she had one as well. He looked around the room to
see if there were any tools. There was only the table, though. A large bin
stood to one side of the door and directly behind the table was the
crematorium. The table itself tilted up so the body could be rolled into
the crematorium. But he didn't want to do that to V'dara, at least not
until he had her implant out.
There wasn't even a broom or dust pan for the ashes, and he wondered just
how Deyos expected him to dispose of them. Right now though, he wanted the
implant, and he didn't think the kapos would wait long for him outside.
Telling himself that V'dara was gone in an effort to make what he was about
to do easier, he turned her body over and lifted her hair to expose the lump
on the back of her neck. Since he had nothing else, he used his fingernails
and clawed at her skin.
It took several minutes but at last he had it free. There was no light
source in the room beyond a thin slit beneath the ceiling. So he held it up
and squinted into the ray of sunlight that filtered in. He could feel his
own lightly throbbing at the back of his neck with his pulse, but this one
was still and silent. As dead as V'dara. It must have transmitted her
vitals as well as her location. But could it listen in to her
conversations? She had said it did not, and, given her time in the camp, it
was certainly possible that she was right. Wouldn't Deyos have used
something he'd overheard against her or the other prisoners? But it was
also equally possible that the device was a bug, and that by not acting on
any overheard information, Deyos was keeping the secret in the hopes of
learning more. But Jordan had come to their barracks last night. There was
obviously some freedom of movement found underneath the rules imposed by the
Dominion. If the Dominion was aware, they would have cracked down, even if
in subtle ways.
Still, he wanted to know for sure. Pfenner had already been mentioned
around him. Deyos may already know the objective of their mission. And
just when did he start thinking of it as his mission anyway? Bashir
wondered. He hadn't wanted any of this. He shook his head. What he did or
didn't want did not change his circumstances in the least. He tried to
break open the implant with his fingers, but it was small and slippery. In
the end, he wiped it off on a relatively clean corner of V'dara's striped
dress and placed it between his teeth. He bit down just hard enough to
crack the outer casing and then spat to remove anything that might have been
left behind on his teeth.
Holding the now opened implant up to the light, he ran every image of every
transponder and transmitter he'd even seen through his head. The tiny
circuits here told him it was little more than a homing beacon. The device
in the back of his neck would simply tell them where he was and if he were
still alive. No more and no less. V'dara hadn't worried about it, so
neither would he.
He hurried now to strip her of her dress. The kapo had said it would be
reused. V'dara deserved more than this undignified cremation, but he had
seen death on a much larger scale in Auschwitz. The dead were beyond pain
and beyond dignity. Bracing his shoulders under the table, he lifted one
side and she rolled into the waiting crematorium. The table fit neatly into
the opening in the wall, sealing the chamber. A simple latch near the top
held it in place and a lever on one side started the fire. With a loud
whooshing sound, the crematorium chamber lit up so hot, Bashir could feel
the heat even when he stepped back to the door. Thirty seconds later, the
roar of the fire died down to a whisper, and, with a hiss of cool air, the
latch lifted and the table fell back into place.
V'dara, inside the chamber, was reduced to ash. And with her body now not
obscuring the view, he could see a lever just inside the chamber. He
hesitated to touch it but found it cool enough. He lifted it and the bottom
of the chamber split, dropping her ashes into a pit below. Where they went
from there, he couldn't tell. It was too dark to see. He hoped that counted
as disposal. He didn't want to give Deyos any easy excuses to punish him.
As if on cue, the door behind him opened. "You will have to be quicker,
human," one Jem'Hadar said, "if you want to keep up."
"And if you don't keep up," the other said, smiling, "you will be
punished." He was the one with the knife. There was a certain gleam in his
eye. He seemed to enjoy the thought of punishing people. Bashir considered
the knife, and wondered which Klingon he'd killed to get it. *Der
Schlachter,* he thought. He remembered Max calling one of the Blockaltestes
that once. Butcher.
But he just nodded slightly and dropped his eyes to the floor. Thirty a
day. The crematorium chamber, itself, was at least efficient. Thirty
seconds per body would not be difficult. But carrying them this distance
from the Appelplatz would be exhausting, not to mention extremely unpleasant
and unsanitary. *Welcome to the Sonderkommando*, he told himself, as he
stepped out the door and into the bright sunlight and dust.
The Vorta, Deyos, was standing in front of him, looking down on him with a
smug expression. "It's not everyday we capture a Starfleet Commander," he
said, smiling a bit. "Especially not First Officers of flagships. Tell me,
what were you doing so far from the *Enterprise* in a practically
defenseless ship?"
Riker knew that he really only had to give name, rank, and serial number,
but those answers had already resulted in several bruised ribs and his
present kneeling posture. *Three hours now,* he estimated. Three hours in
the bright sunlight of wherever they were. He was already sunburned, and,
while getting off his feet had at first been welcome after two hours of
standing, his knees were starting to ache. The heat and bright light didn't
seem to bother Deyos or the three Jem'Hadar who had been guarding him this
whole time.
Besides, the Vorta already knew more than Riker's name, rank, and serial
number, and Riker wanted to know how much that was.
"Shore leave," he said, eyeing the Jem'Hadar on either side of him.
"Humans need a break now and then, even during war."
Deyos' eyebrows dropped to show his skepticism. "Shore leave? At the
D'Nexi Lines? Not likely." He looked up at the nearest Jem'Hadar, who
prompty backhanded Riker across the face.
The slap stung and Riker's legs were so weakened that they couldn't hold
him upright against the force of it. He spun until he fell on his side and
smacked into the hard, dry ground with enough force to kick up a layer of
dust that left him choking. The other Jem'Hadar grabbed him by the collar
and pulled him to his knees.
When Riker's eyes had watered enough that he could open them he found Deyos
waiting patiently. "Would you like to try again?" the Vorta asked.
Riker was still coughing up the dust so he couldn't answer right away.
Deyos waited. Finally, Riker had his breath. His voice was rough when he
spoke. "Only if you want me to make something up."
That at least got Deyos to quirk a brow. The second Jem'Hadar hit him that
time, and Riker fell onto his other side and sucked up even more dust in his
attempts to breathe. The tug on his collar cut off what little air he could
manage. When it released him, he braced himself forward on his hands and
spat out the dust at Deyos's feet. The Vorta stepped back but otherwise
didn't seem to mind.
"I doubt you could," he said. "You don't seem to have much of an
imagination."
Riker tried to remember what he'd wanted to learn from this conversation,
but at present he decided he had only learned that his captor had at least a
small sense of humor. When he got his breathing back under control, he
gathered his dignity and pushed himself back up on his knees. "I don't need
an imagination," he told the Vorta. "Neither do you. You have the
runabout."
Deyos froze for just a moment, but Riker noticed and counted it a small
victory. With his composure once more firmly in place, Deyos committed his
first mistake. "We do not have the runabout," he admitted. "It was
useless. Your navigational logs had been wiped, and keeping the vessel on
hand would have presented a security breach."
Riker coughed again, trying to rid himself of the last bits of dust in his
lung. But he also used it to give himself time to process Deyos's words.
They didn't keep the runabout. Bashir's report on his escape from
Internment Camp 371 told how Garak had contacted the runabout that had been
left in orbit. Riker hadn't seen much of this camp, but he knew he hadn't
seen anything that even Data could turn into a transmitter. Deyos had a
weak spot. And the logs had been wiped. Riker knew he hadn't wiped the
logs and no one else had had the time. This only confirmed his theory that
Section 31 had set them up to be captured, though he still couldn't figure
how they'd had time to do it either.
"Why wipe the logs?" Deyos asked when Riker stopped coughing, "if you were
only on shore leave. Why not head out of the sector instead of into it?
And why would you take such a small ship when you were in obviously
dangerous territory?"
"I didn't wipe the logs," Riker answered, and he was rather glad that he
could answer at least one question truthfully. "I wasn't aware they were
wiped until you said so. We were headed out of the sector but were called
back. And we could only take a runabout because our larger ships are needed
for combat."
Deyos raised one eyebrow, apparently surprised that Riker had said so much.
"Why were you called back?"
Riker hadn't had time to fill in all the details of his story yet, and the
recall was a new development. He knew his answer would earn him another
lungful of dust, but it would also buy him a bit more time. "I don't know,"
he said and tried not to flinch before the blow came.
But this time, it wasn't a hand that hit him, but the butt of a rifle. He
fell backwards as the rifle hit his chest and the air was knocked from his
lungs. He didn't have to worry about coughing because he couldn't quite
remember how to breathe. His eyes stung from it though. It was awkward
lying there with his legs folded underneath him, but breathing was the only
thing really on Riker's mind. The Jem'Hadar didn't bother to lift him this
time and as he finally got a bit of air to go into his desparate lungs, he
heard Deyos speaking.
"I do dislike hearing that answer."
Now the Jem'Hader grabbed for him, and the thick fist at the front of his
collar choked him as he was once again placed on his knees. It was
considerably harder this time to stand from the knees up. "I don't--" he
began again, but changed his mind. "I just follow orders," he gasped as he
clutched at his sternum with one hand. "They said return. I returned. We
don't ellaborate in dangerous territory. We just obey."
"Hmph," Deyos snorted. "You're the First Officer."
Riker nodded. "I would have been briefed in person when I reached
*Enterprise*."
Deyos was silent for a bit and Riker hoped that meant he bought the story.
Pushing his aching chest out of his mind, he tried concentrating on the
Vorta. Why question him at all? When Starfleet personnel were replaced by
Changelings, the replacement contained all their knowledge and memories.
Somehow that information was extracted from the original. Why did the Vorta
not use that technique to gather intelligence from prisoners?
"*If* I were to believe you," Deyos finally said, "how would you explain
the presence of Doctor Bashir on your vessel? He is not assigned to the
*Enterprise*. He is not a member of your crew."
*Yeah,* Riker thought, *that does throw a monkey in the wrench. Er, wrench
in the monkey? It must be the heat. Or the rifle.* Bashir, he had to think
about Bashir. He had been assigned to the *Enterprise*. Maybe there was
something there. "He was temporarily assigned to the *Enterprise*," he
said, hoping that giving Deyos that much would buy him more time to come up
with a better answer.
"Yes," Deyos confirmed, "but he was transferred back to Deep Space Nine
very recently. I'll ask again: Why was he on your runabout?"
Riker took a deep breath. "Shore leave," he offered and then held up his
hands to try and block the strike he was sure he was going to get. "You may
have noticed," he quickly added, "that he isn't doing so well. He's
shell-shocked. Counselor Dax thought shore leave might do him some good.
So we brought him along."
"Shell-shocked?" Deyos asked, clearly skeptical of that diagnosis.
Riker made a point of eying the Jem'Hadar again, knowing the Dominion's
genetically-engineered soldiers would never suffer from post-traumatic
stress. "Post-Traumatic Stress disorder. Happens to soldiers in battle.
Too many times facing a life-or-death situation. They need to get away from
the danger."
"Hmmm....," Deyos intoned, mulling that over. "He does seem a bit out of
sorts. He was never this distant before. Perhaps the six months he was
reported missing and dead have something to do with his present condition.
Tell me, what did actually happen there?"
It just didn't make sense. Deyos knew so much about who was assigned where
and when. Why didn't he know more? Why didn't he extract the information in
an unstoppable manner? Riker was relieved that he didn't, but it still
didn't make sense. The Dominion could take an abductee's knowledge and
personality. Why bother questioning and risking being deceived. And what
was he supposed to say about Bashir? He couldn't exactly tell Deyos that
Section 31 had marooned the doctor. Flat-out lying was his only option.
"He couldn't remember. We found him on Deyon III. Maybe we should be
asking you what happened."
He knew he deserved the backhand after that one. So once more he was
coughing up dust. But Deyos' silence confirmed that the Dominion had been
the ones to render Deyon III uninhabitable. He didn't ask how Bashir could
be on the planet when it couldn't support life, and Riker didn't bother to
offer the fact that Bashir was found *in* the planet, rather than on it.
The layers of rock between him and the surface filtered most of the
contaminants in the water and air so that Bashir could survive. Deyos might
possibly see Bashir's survival there, while the rest of the world died
around him, as the event leading to his post-traumatic stress disorder and
thus, need for shore leave. Riker also worried that Deyos might then use
this information against Bashir in some way, but it couldn't be helped. He
had to explain Bashir somehow and he'd done the best he could to deflect
Deyos from the doctor. In Bashir's present state, Riker didn't know if he
could be called upon to hold out if he were questioned. So it was better to
cast doubts in Deyos mind about Bashir's usefulness at this stage. His role
as 'example' would mean that Deyos wouldn't kill him.
"If you are lying," Deyos said. "I will find out." And then, to Riker's
surprise he turned and walked away.
But that still left the three Jem'Hadar who took it upon themselves to
pummel him further and then return him to his knees once more. Riker felt
the salty wetness of blood in his mouth and decided it was better than dust.
It was just easier that way. *Look at the bright side,* he told himself.
But he had to make up the bright side, and he wasn't doing a good job of
convincing himself. He was certain that the runabout's capture was Section
31's doing. But would they bother to get them out when they had the
information they wanted? He hurt and he was anxious about the lottery
Jordan had spoken of. He feared for Simmons, who had been assigned to the
plant, and he worried about Formenos, whom he hadn't seen since they were
processed. And then there was Bashir. Bashir was losing his mind, and
Riker didn't see any way to stop that process, not in this place.
Formenos spent the day with Pfenner, and he spent the entire day trying to
instill in her an enthusiasm for the science behind K-Layer Subspace
Concealment. And it worked. It would have been incredible, if it wasn't
for the Dominion. Her head swam in the diagrams and equations even though
she'd done well in Quantum Physics in flight school. She wished then that
she had gone to the Academy and studied more. She would have understood it
better, so that when she escaped or was liberated from the camp, she could
take the technology with her, at least in theory.
The plant had one central laboratory, where Pfenner and a few other
scientists theorized, made models, and ran computer similuations. There was
a much larger area where prisoners scavenged pieces of junked ships into
test vessels. She had seen Simmons there, pulling apart an intake manifold
under the watchful eye of his own personal Jem'Hadar. Three of the other
buildings, Pfenner had explained, held the junkyard, with over one hundred
junked ships, while the largest building served as dilithium storage. Two
other buildings remained to the complex. One housed a cargo transporter.
The other held the pilots and living quarters for the scientists.
The transporter had taken the two of them to a starbase orbiting the
planet. After they had materialized, a pilot was transported with one of
the shoddy, cobbled-together vessels from the junkyards. And seven
Jem'Hadar. The Jem'Hadar all looked alike, but the pilot was someone she
recognized. Carl Payne and she had graduated flight school together. He
looked past her though, and she realized he probably didn't recognize her
since her hair had been shorn.
"Prepare the vessel." A female Vorta clapped her hands, and three other
prisoners moved foward to obey. They pushed the ship into place on a launch
pad, facing the airlock doors. The Vorta turned to the Jem'Hadar. "And the
pilot."
Carl was pushed to the side of the launch bay where an EV-suit was hanging.
All seven Jem'Hadar went with him, and Formenos wondered why they guarded
him so tightly.
"The ship is equipped with little more than a transmitter and receiver,"
Pfenner explained, facing away from the far wall where Carl was being forced
into the suit. "Once it is launched, the planet-side base will begin the
shift into subspace. Then this base will emit a targeted signal. We've
been able to reach the K-layer with our transmissions for weeks now. But
the ship. . . . This ship, when it reaches layer K, will receive the signal
and respond. Once the base received the response, the planet-side base will
iniate retrieval."
Formenos didn't miss the hesitation. They'd not yet managed to reach the
desired layer with the ship. She wondered why he had trouble saying it.
But she had a guess. She heard guilt in every word Pfenner spoke, and read
remorse in his eyes.
Carl was lifted into the cockpit. Only then did Pfenner look his way. And
when he did, Carl saluted him. Pfenner's shoulders shook with his next
intake of breath, but he held his emotions in check. The Jem'Hadar sealed
the cockpit and stepped away from the ship.
Pfenner led her behind a transparent barrier and the airlock doors opened.
The other prisoners stayed in the bay, gripping handholds along the wall.
The Jem'Hadar also remained. The Vorta, though, was behind the barrier. A
transparent door closed, sealing the barrier.
A Comm line opened. "Ready to launch," the Vorta announced.
"Proceed," came the word from the planet-side base.
"Three seconds to launch," replied the Vorta.
There was no verbal countdown. Three seconds later the small ship shot out
into space. The Vorta announced the successful launch and then watched
Pfenner carefully. Formenos watched the ship as it, and Carl, disappeared
from sight.
The airlock doors closed again, but no one made a sound. Formenos counted
to herself. When she reached thirty, the Vorta spoke. "No response. Trial
aborted."
Pfenner sighed, dropping his shoulders and bracing his arms against the
console. The barrier door opened and two Jem'Hadar escorted her and
Formenos back to the transporter pad.
The Vorta followed them out. "How many are left, Doctor Pfenner?"
Pfenner's jaw shook as he answered. "Forty-two."
The Vorta's eyebrows rose, but she made no other remark. The transporter's
beam took them and deposited them back at the plant.
"What about the ship?" Formenos asked as they headed to their quarters.
"And the pilot?"
Pfenner stopped and faced her. "That is why I must succeed. Don't you
see?" he pleaded. "I'm no traitor. I don't do it for the Dominion. That
ship didn't receive our signal. It didn't reach the K-Layer. So it also
didn't receive a signal to return. It's lost. That pilot is lost. And
I've only got forty-two more to get it right. I don't want to waste those
forty-two lives, Eline. I've got to find the solution."
Bashir had been given five minutes to explore the sick house before the
wounded began to come in. He had found a cabinet with various bandages, a
vascular regenerator, and a handful of other simple medical devices. No
antibiotics or anethetics, no surgical equipment. There was nothing much to
treat a life-threatening wound, or even an infection from a paper-cut. He
himself had a basin in which to wash his hands, but without soap, he could
not even be called on to stop the spread of infection from one patient to
another. Most of the patients though, didn't call for much more than the
supplies he had on hand. He spent the day treating minor wounds, the worst
of which was a broken arm. Six Jem'Hadar stood guard outside to make sure
that none shirked their chores by lurking at the sick house needlessly.
After treatment, each patient thanked him and then hurried back out the door
to be escorted back to their work detail.
By the time the sky began its turn to red, Bashir had begun to feel like a
doctor again. The sick house was a simple room with the cabinet and basin
along one wall and a table in the center. Nothing else. No bunks overfull
with dying prisoners. No foul smell of dysentery and disease. This was not
Auschwitz, and the memories did not seek to convince him it was.
That changed when he stepped out the door. The Jem'Hadar appeared again as
kapos and the gathering they took him to was little different from any roll
call the Germans had called. Hundreds of striped-uniformed prisoners stood
in ranks while Jem'Hadar moved among them counting. Bashir, however, was
not placed in their ranks. He was pushed to the side and made to stand by
the building where the hooks hung on the wall. The front wall was once more
rolled up into the ceiling and the back wall was dark from where V'dara had
been. Tonight, there would be a lottery.
Garulos had thought he was relieved to reach the end of the work day. He
had had only one short break for lunch--if it could be called that.
Everyone on his detail was given twenty minutes to receive and swallow the
bland, pasty ration bars that served as food in the camp. Two bars.
Garulos had watched the other prisoners and followed their example. He ate
one bar, as distasteful as it was, and slipped the other into his clothes.
It had been quite a trick to keep it there during the rest of the day. He
had no pockets. The bar had had to be tucked behind the waist-band of his
pants. He wasn't looking forward to how it would taste after sweating over
it all day. But he did acknowlege that he was very hungry, perhaps hungry
enough to eat even a sweat-soaked, bland, pasty ration bar. He just wished
he had some water to wash it down with.
But right then what he wished most was to sit. When they had returned to
the area in front of the building with the hooks, Garulos had miraculously
managed to find Bormann among the other prisoners. They could not, however,
find any other members of their crew. Except Bashir. Bashir was standing
next to the building opposite the Vorta who ran the camp. He was flanked by
three Jem'Hadar and he looked a mess. More Jem'Hadar moved methodically
around the rows and lines of prisoners, arranged in blocks. They were
silent, but Garulos could guess what they were doing. Counting. And
counting again.
Two hours had passed already. The sun was dropping, and with it, the
temperature. Bright, glaring lights had flashed on with an audible boom and
still the prisoners stood. And still the Jem'Hadar counted. It might have
been maddening if Garulos hadn't had his legs to focus on. They ached from
the fatigue of working for twelve hours to build three barracks. And to
tear down two others. It was tiring, not to mention pointless work. The
condemned buildings were in no more disrepair than any others.
At first, his legs had welcomed the respite of being still. But after a
while, the weight of his body had caused them to ache again. His feet
begged for relief and his back protested as well. And still they stood. And
still the Jem'Hadar counted. Garulos had heard the conversation the night
before, how the human, Jordan, had compared this camp to one called
Auschwitz. He wished he'd studied more Earth history now. He wondered if
that camp was as ridiculous as this one. The work detail had made no sense,
and now, if this scene was to be believed, Jem'Hadar couldn't count higher
than sixteen. They had passed by him at least six times already. No one
had moved or fallen from the lines, so the sixth count would be no different
from the first. And yet they came around again.
Finally, when the sun was completely gone from the sky, the Jem'Hadar
seemed satisfied. They conferred with each other, and then one moved
forward to report to the Vorta. The latter nodded, apparently satisfied,
and Garulos found himself growing anxious. He also remembered what Jordan
had said of the lottery, and of course, he'd seen one of those hooks in use.
As much as he wanted to be not be standing anymore, he didn't want to have
to move from the spot where he stood. He didn't want anyone to.
Another Vorta appeared from behind the building and handed a PADD to the
commanding Vorta--the other prisoners had called him Deyos. Deyos then
began to call out numbers. "Three hundred and two, nine hundred forty-six,
twenty-eight."
Garulos expected to hear a gasp of shock or a wimper of despair, but he
heard nothing. Three people, however stepped out from ranks and walked to
the front, stopping in front of the three hooks inside the building.
Deyos called three more numbers, and the man beside Garulos took a deep
breath and shuddered. Then he stepped forward. Two women joined him and
they stood just to the side of the original three. Six Jem'Hadar moved
forward as well. They moved to either side of the original three and, each
taking an arm, they lifted their prisoners up and impaled them on the hooks.
Garulos shook when they screamed and could not bring himself to look at
their writhing forms. They did not die quickly. It seemed an eternity
before anyone spoke or moved. It was Deyos, and he called three more
numbers and then said, "Take them down."
Garulos chanced to look up, expecting to see the Jem'Hadar remove the dead
prisoners from the hooks, but it was the second group of condemned who did
so. The man who had been standing beside him had the victim on the left.
He wrapped his arms around the prisoner's legs and lifted. Garulas was
shocked to see the victim's arm grab hold of the man's shoulder. He was not
dead.
But still he was lifted from the hook and laid on the ground in front of
the building. Then the Jem'Hadar took that man who had been standing beside
Garulos, and the two women who were called with him, and lifted them onto
the hooks while the next three watched silently.
Garulos wanted to scream along with those on the hooks. He tried to find
some reasoning for the Dominion to do this to its prisoners, but it didn't
make any sense. Why not simply execute them? The Jem'Hadar had rifles.
Why not shoot them? Why make them suffer?
When the screams ceased. Deyos read three more numbers and the process
repeated. Before the gathering was dismissed fifteen had lost their lives,
and fifteen more had been condemned.
O'Brien gave out a low whistle. "This is not what Julian needs right now."
Sisko nodded. In front of them, on the main viewscreen, were nearly two
hundred vessels of Federation and Klingon designs. And that was only the
portion of the gathering armada that fit in the viewscreen at present
magnification. The Romulans had yet to arrive. The warp trails of the two
vessels had led to D'Nexi and beyond. And, given the present state of
affairs at D'Nexi, the *Defiant* could not simply continue on alone into
enemy territory, cloak or not. The D'Nexi Lines had exploded, and the
*Defiant* was now just one of many ships about to engage in combat with the
enemy.
"It's not what any of us needs right now," Ezri added.
"Except it's what the war needs right now," Sisko countered. "If we can
turn them back at D'Nexi today, we'll have gained a significant victory.
The Dominion will have to retreat from this sector."
"I hate war," O'Brien said.
"So do I, Chief," Sisko replied. "So do I."
TBC
--Gabrielle