Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:26:22 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith: Hope Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 10/18 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: Chapter Four The next two days were quiet. Several doctors had tried to take up the torch of his research during Bashir's 'absence', and Troi was able to get access to those notes as well. The other doctors, impressed by his early work, were happy enough to let him have the projects back, asking only partial credit if their work proved beneficial. None of them had finished the prion project or found a cure for the Blight. One had managed to adapt the vaccine Bashir had already found for the people of Boranis III into a vaccine for most of the humanoids of the Alpha Quadrant, but it would only work on unborn children, just as Bashir's vaccine had cured Ekoria's child and not Ekoria herself. There was still nothing to protect those already born from the biogenic weapon. Since the lights in his quarters were still not as bright as those in the corridor beyond, Bashir stayed in and worked, accepting visitors when they came. Troi was the most frequent of his guests, though she wasn't exactly a guest. Data stopped by for dinner, and the captain had dropped by once after Sloan's departure. The only time Bashir had left his quarters was for a trip to Sickbay where he was pronounced physically healthy. It was the second day after Sloan's last visit that he received a message from his parents. His mother had cried, which unnerved Bashir and nearly threw off his balance. His mother was the solid one, the foundation. His father flitted about, but she was steady. And she had cried. It was so hard for them, she had said, to lose him. They were glad, overjoyed, to find that it was all a mistake again. (Starfleet had told them it was a mistake. Bashir rankled at that. A mistake was not intentional. What had been done to him wasn't an accident.) It was harder this time, she admitted, because there had been time to accept his death, as if that could ever be accomplished. Still, she thanked whoever was responsible that they had another chance. With the war, not all families were as fortunate as that. His father had joked. He always did, it seemed. But Bashir could see that he was near tears as well as he spoke to the machine that would carry his words to his only son. He wanted to know how Starfleet could make such a mistake. And why hadn't Julian written sooner so they would have realized it wasn't true? He'd have to explain to them how he'd been missing and where he'd been. Bashir had been sitting in front of his console for an hour trying to figure out just how to do that. He'd started and stopped at least a dozen times, deleting what he'd already said. How did one tell one's parents that he wasn't dead anymore? How much was he to tell them? He didn't want to tell them everything. He didn't want to worry them about Section 31. They had enough to worry about. When Troi came by for their daily visit, he still hadn't gotten past "Hello." He turned off the recording and met her at the couch. She smiled and asked how he was, and he decided he could probably use her help after all. "I'm a bit frustrated," he told her, and her smile widened ever so slightly. "I don't know what to say to my parents." Her smile was replaced by serious contemplation. "I'd be glad to help you brainstorm," she told him. "But in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself. I take it you don't want to tell them the truth." "Starfleet didn't tell them the truth," Bashir countered evenly. "They said they made a mistake. That's all." "Rather an oversimplification," Troi agreed. "But the truth is harder." Julian stood and paced over to the window. "They worry enough about me with the war on. Especially after my imprisonment and other happenings. They don't know about Section 31. I don't think they need to know. It's too much." "You could still tell the truth," Troi suggested, not getting up, but turning toward him, "without telling them the whole truth." "I thought of that," he agreed. "I was missing, presumed dead. They mistakenly identified the body. But they'd ask how I went missing." She nodded thoughtfully. "Which brings you back around to Section 31." She thought for a moment. "You were under orders, correct? Then you could tell them you were on a mission." Julian thought about that. It wasn't a lie. He had been on a mission. A couple of different missions depending on one's particular perspective. "And I can't give details about the mission," he added, further developing her idea. "Something went wrong, I got marooned and was lucky to be found at all." "Something like that," she agreed smiling again. "I don't think you have to dwell on that. Keep it short and move on to what's important. They're your family." *What is important?* he thought to himself. He'd been having trouble finding important things of late. He almost let himself slip down that path of thought. It was a sign that he was growing more comfortable with Troi. She came everyday and was always nice and inviting. He almost wanted to talk to her. But he had decided one thing *was* important, to him: Deep Space Nine. She was the main thing keeping him from getting there. A burst of light flashed by the viewport and stung his eyes, causing him to flinch and back away, but the jolt to the ship knocked him off his feet. He looked around and saw that Troi was on the floor, too. She pushed herself up on her knees. Just as another shot hit. Only then did the red alert klaxon begin to blare. "Where was the klaxon?" he shouted over the next barrage. "They must have come up too fast," she surmised. Bashir shook his head. *Into the fire, indeed.* "They would have been on the sensors." "Maybe they were hiding in the nebula." She held onto the couch and tried to stand, but the jolts came rapidly. From the flares of light outside, Bashir assumed the shields were still holding, but the ship was being buffeted by the constant contact. Troi kept getting knocked down. "I have to get to the Bridge." The next hit was not met by the flare of shields, but rammed full-force into the hull, sending vibrations up through the deck. "We've lost some shields," Bashir guessed aloud. He crawled to his console and pulled himself into the seat there. The floor bucked beneath him but he managed to hold on. He called up the computer and began punching in commands. Troi managed to find her feet for the few seconds it took to move to the console. "What are you looking for?" she asked. "Shields, damage reports, casualties, life signs," he began, rattling off a list. "Access requires a level three clearance or higher," the computer droned, a voice of calm amid the chaos of the battle outside. Bashir slammed his fist on the console. "I used to have a level four," he complained. Troi was watching the window. "We lost shields on this side," she confirmed. "They've got them back up for now, I think. I saw at least three ships. Jem'Hadar." "What's your clearance, Counselor?" he asked. She took the hint, turned back to the console, and entered her clearance code. The reports Bashir had requested began to scroll across the screen. "They're borrowing power from other areas for the shields," he said, sharing with her what he saw. "Hull breach three decks down." She pointed to another area of data. "Turbolifts are out," Bashir added. "You'll never make it ten decks through Jefferies tubes." She nodded. "Looks like we're stuck on this deck." She pulled up the damage reports. "Did you see how many ships there were?" "More than a dozen," he answered. "Fourteen, I think." While she assessed the damage, he had pulled up some other readings on the bottom half of the screen. His fingers had been flying across the console as he looked at casualty reports, weapons status. But now his fingers froze. He was looking at life signs. "We've been boarded." Jem'Hadar lifesigns. Troi froze, too, then turned her head to look at him. "Where are they?" Bashir forced himself to move again, taking over the whole screen with lifesign readings. "Deck 10, Section 16." "That's pretty close," she said. "We'd better get out of here. There's a weapons locker in the next section." Bashir jumped out of his seat and raced, as well as he could, across the lurching deck to the replicator. "What are you doing?" Troi yelled at him from where she was still gripping the chair. "Medkit!" he yelled back. If there were Jem'Hadar on the ship, there would be wounded. And if he and Troi were stuck on this deck, chances were the med crews were unable to get down to it. As were the extra Security forces. He replicated a few essentials, a tricorder, and a bag to throw them in. "Section 15!" She called. "We got three of their ships, though!" Bashir grabbed the last roll of bandages from the replicator and stuffed them into the bag. He thought about replicating the low level pain killers Geordie had given him, since he was going to have a headache. His time of slowly acclimating to normal light levels was over. It was going to be bright in the corridor. He let it go though. His quarters were in Section 14. "Let's go," he said, heading toward the door. Troi was already there, just far enough back to keep the door from opening. She had her hand phaser drawn, and she waited for him to catch up to her. "Ready?" He checked the tricorder first, scanning beyond the door. Satisfied that no Jem'Hadar or Cardassians were about, he nodded and she stepped forward, opening the door. The light stabbed at him, but it wasn't blinding anymore. He could see her cautiously look one direction and then the other, phaser always pointing the direction she was looking. *Counselor and doctor*, he mused. *We were supposed to be healers*. He could hear weapons fire in the distance. Not so distant. She waved for him with her free arm and got bumped into the doorframe for it when another blast hit. He grabbed her arm to help steady her and together they ran out into the corridor. Kira woke up and acknowledged the transmission. She pressed the controls on her wall, waiting for the Emissary's face to appear. It took only a second. His face was unreadable, but she could see the smoke and damaged consoles behind him. The fact that he was calling at all, though, signaled that the *Defiant* had survived whatever engagement had come up. "Major, we'll be returning to the station by tomorrow afternoon. Chief O'Brien will be sending a repair report. We've taken some damage." Kira nodded. She'd been hoping for more. "It's good to hear from you, sir," she said, seemingly ignoring all the Captain had said. "We couldn't get a message through to you. Did you reach the *Enterprise*?" Sisko allowed her a small, fleeting smile. "I saw him. He seemed fine. A bit hollow, but fine." Kira let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Is he with you?" Sisko shook his head. "Not just yet. He needs some time to recover." "Recover from what?" Kira asked, alarmed. "I said he was fine," the Captain repeated, more slowly this time. "I promise, Major, to give a full report when I get back." Kira dropped her eyes and nodded once. "Of course." The captain's voice softened. "See you in fourteen hours, Nerys." She looked up and smiled. "Yes, sir." The transmission ended and Kira laid back down again. She closed her eyes. It was only midnight. She needed the sleep. But it wouldn't come. The sound of weapons fire decreased as they ran away from the firing. They reached the weapons locker in less than five minutes, but there was only one phaser rifle left. Troi looked at him with uncertainty, trying to decide which way to divide the weapons. Bashir decided for her. "I'll take the hand phaser," he offered. "I'll need my other hand for the medkit." It wasn't the real reason he had chosen the less powerful weapon. The larger rifle was more powerful, and therefore required less precise aiming. Bashir, with his enhanced hand-eye coordination, could make just as deadly use with the hand phaser by aiming precisely for vulnerable areas, such as the point where the Ketracel White tube entered a Jem'Hadar's neck. She handed him the smaller phaser and shouldered the larger rifle. As she did so, Bashir noted movement in the cross corridor to the left. A Starfleet Security officer was dragging another officer by the shoulders, leaving a trail of blood behind them. Bashir checked the setting on the phaser and then followed the two officers down the corridor. He had to run to catch up with them, and Troi had to run to keep up with him. The ship lurched again and Bashir hit the bulkhead with his shoulder. "Where are you taking her?" he asked the Security officer. "We've been putting the wounded in Section 10 when we have the chance," the man answered. He was only an ensign but already he looked like a seasoned veteran. Bashir handed the phaser back to Troi and bent down to get his arms under the woman's knee and shoulder on one side. The ensign got the idea and moved to lift the woman, a lieutenant commander, on the other side. "She saved my life," he said, nodding down at the woman. Bashir couldn't see any visible wounds, but he could feel the warm liquid on her back. Judging from the blood on the floor, she'd lost a lot of it. Her face was pale, but her lips still held their color. She might make it to Section 10, and maybe then Bashir could do something for her. "Are there any medical personnel in Section 10?" Troi asked, trying to keep her footing beside him through another blast. Bashir wondered why she would ask. Not that it wasn't a good question. But did it mean she had doubts about his ability to treat the wounded, especially in a triage situation? The man shook his head. "No, we're just getting them out of the way of the fighting, at least for now." The deck obliged them by remaining steady as they rounded the next corner. What Bashir saw next was utter chaos. At least a dozen seriously wounded, open wounds, blood everywhere, a few blue-trimmed officers trying to help them. It was impossible to tell the walking wounded from the uninjured; everyone had at least cuts and bruises. Bashir decided to concentrate on the worst cases, and hope that nobody would collapse on him before he got to the less seriously injured. Bashir helped the ensign set the lieutenant commander down, but stopped the ensign before he could run off. "Where are they?" he asked. "Med teams can't get down here," the man answered. Bashir shook his head, "The Jem'Hadar? Where are they?" "Just got to Section 14, last I saw. We were holding them there." "That's only four sections," Bashir told him. "Someone's got to stay here." The ensign looked at Troi and nodded toward her rifle. "She can stay." "I plan on it," Troi said. Bashir didn't have time to argue. "This place isn't defensible. They'll cut the wounded down. We need defenders and help to carry the wounded." "I have to get back to my post," the ensign argued. "Look, I'll see if we can't send someone back. But if we can't hold them, it's not going to matter much." Bashir let him go. The lieutenant commander was bleeding to death. "This is a mess," he said under his breath. He took out the tricorder and started to scan the woman. He rolled her over and found the wound without any trouble at all. Another inch and the blast would have cut her spine in half. Bashir threw open his medkit and knew he didn't have enough of anything. He used the tissue regenerator as a quick fix, stanching the flow of blood from the woman's wound. He left her lying on her stomach and moved to assess the other wounded. Scanning them quickly with his eyes, he counted a dozen patients lying on the deck. At least half of those had open disruptor wounds, all of which were bleeding freely because of the anti-coagulant in Jem'Hadar weapons. One crewman had an open fracture of the femur. Another was missing her arm below the elbow. The other four had second and third degree burns. Two of the burn victims were shivering, but none of the four looked as though they would die immediately. He looked up at the blue-trims who had stopped to stare at him. "Do any of you have medical training?" he asked. They each shook their heads. Two of them looked spooked. One seemed completely unconcerned with the present situation, but he was a Vulcan. Of course, Bashir could guess they'd all had some basic training, but the situation probably overwhelmed them. They needed a leader, someone to make them focus. "Well, now you're going to get a crash course," he told them. "You a med-tech?" one of the pale ones, a woman of diminutive stature, asked. She held one hand limp in her lap and looked nauseated. "Doctor Julian Bashir," he replied, granting her a smile, in the hopes of raising her spirits, "at your service. What's around here?" he asked, gesturing with his head to indicate the corridor. His hands were busy, though they were too late for the lieutenant he was checking. The man was going to die. He had a hole in his side large enough to fit a fist through. The blast that had hit him had shattered his ribs, sending fragments of bone into the heart. It was a wonder the man was still breathing at all. Bashir could tell at a glance there were others with a better chance of surviving and he had limited supplies. *I never liked triage*, he told himself. *Not this part, anyway.* The man was unconscious and unlikely to wake up. Bashir did nothing for him and moved on. "Quarters," the small woman answered, pointing. "Those are mine." "Aren't you going to help him?" the other human accused, pointing to the man Bashir had left. "Lieutenant Versalis is beyond help, Ensign," the Vulcan, a lieutenant, answered, allowing Bashir to concentrate on his next assessment. Broken femur. A good deal of pain, but not life-threatening. He could reduce the fracture with traction within a minute, but there were others in greater need. "I'll be back for you," he told that man, no more than a boy really. Just starting out, he'd bet. The boy nodded back, but didn't dare speak. He was probably trying to be braver than he was, hiding the pain. Bashir moved to the next patient in line. "Quarters have replicators," he said, getting back to the young woman's answer to his question and ignoring the accusation as something completely counter-productive and impractical at this point. "Has anyone got a PADD?" The lights in the corridor flickered as the Vulcan held out a PADD, which Troi took and handed to Bashir. "They'll cut power to non-essential systems," she whispered to him. "Let's get what we can while we can," he whispered back, already punching in a list, trying to brainstorm, in order of importance, the supplies he wanted. "Take her," he added, nodding to the woman as he removed his jacket. "Make a sling for her and have her help you carry the supplies back." Troi understood. "She needs a distraction." She nodded and used Bashir's jacket for the sling. The lights flickered again and Bashir hoped they'd at least be able to get the first few things on his list. He turned back to his next patient. A woman. Her arm had been torn off just below the elbow. Someone had managed a tourniquet. She was unconscious, but the bleeding was slowed. He called the Vulcan over and asked him his name. "Kovek," the lieutenant answered. "Kovek," Bashir acknowledged, "I need your help," He handed him a dermal regenerator, a hypospray, and a roll of bandages. He quickly instructed him on their use and moved on to the next patient. Kovek nodded and began to work without protest, though also without enthusiasm. Bashir's next involuntary aide was less than resigned to his new roll. Bashir ignored his protests at first and kept telling him what needed to be done. The Vulcan did the arguing, telling the other man that it was illogical to disobey. One doctor was not enough. Carter, the unhappy ensign, was not doing anything else of importance and therefore, if one wanted the wounded to survive--and there was no logical reason to want them to die--one would have to become another set of hands for the doctor. To Carter's credit, he did what he was ordered to do even if he argued the entire time. Bashir found it easy to ignore Carter's complaints, tuning him out as easily as he'd tuned out the rush of water back in the cave. It was nothing but white noise to him. He went on, treated the burn victims with temporary syntheskin, pain killers, antibiotics, and synergine for the shock. He wished all of his patients could be so easily relieved of their pain and distress. -- --Gabrielle I'd much rather be writing! http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/ The Edge of the Frontier http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/ This Side of the Nether Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! 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