Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:29:34 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith: Hope Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 11/18 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: "Holding at twenty-six, Captain" Data answered quickly from Ops. "They have broken through to Section 14." "But they haven't made it off the deck?" Picard asked, hopeful. Well, as hopeful as one could be when the Jem'Hadar had boarded his ship. Deck 10, Sections 16 through 14. The hopeful was for silver linings. Twenty-six was just over half the original boarding party. Deck 10 was only one deck. Sections 16 through 14 meant only three sections. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. "No, sir," Data responded, his fingers dancing over his console. He was probably managing six different tasks, Picard mused. *Easier for him*, he thought. For Picard, the battle raged around his ship and within it, and he didn't have a positronic brain. "Helm," he ordered, changing his focus as he saw an opportunity appear on the tactical display, "bring us around 34 degrees port. Tactical, lock photon torpedoes on the third ship's starboard nacelle." There was a leak, visible to the sensors. That nacelle was giving that Jem'Hadar ship trouble, and it just might give the *Enterprise* an edge. That ship, positioned as it was just now, in between two others, might damage the other ships when it blew. "Aye, sir," Helm and Tactical answered in unison. The ship turned and the main viewscreen panned over to face the new target. "Torpedoes armed and locked," Tactical reported. Riker gave the command. "Fire!" Three torpedoes streaked out through the space between the ships and slammed into the smaller, bug-like Jem'Hadar vessel. The first hit squarely on target. The second was slightly off, hitting the strut between the vessel's body and the nacelle. The third hit squarely on the underside of the ship as it was tipped upward and to port by the first blast. The three torpedoes together blew the ship apart, sending large pieces of debris spewing out in several directions. The largest piece, nearly the whole forward hull, plowed into the ship on its port side, causing its shields to crackle and fail, while another piece glanced off the shields of the starboard ship. "Phasers on the fourth vessel," Riker ordered. "Fire!" "Quantum torpedo on the lead ship," Picard ordered in turn, ignoring the second ship. Two for one was good enough. The lead ship would be expecting him to try and finish off the second ship, the third of the group. Picard hoped to surprise it. "Coming around," Helm answered. "Locked," Tactical responded even as the fourth ship was destroyed. "Fire!" By the time that Troi and the woman, Saeren, had returned with a couple of armfuls of new supplies, the lights in the corridor had gone out, meaning main power--and with it, the replicators--was gone. There was emergency lighting though. Bashir felt more comfortable with the light level, but he was more worried for his patients than for himself. He could take a headache. By this time, he had assessed and prioritized the twelve original patients, one of whom, Versalis, had died. But even then, there were new arrivals just behind the counselor. Carter had stopped complaining and even Saeren seemed to realize that her distress would have to wait. One Bolian was brought in with a good section of his skull knocked away. He was still breathing, but that was the only sign of life he gave. Blue blood poured down that side of his face into his open eyes. He didn't move, didn't blink, not even when Bashir flicked the exoscalpel across the back of his hand. He would die, too. There were impaction injuries, internal bleeding, problems that required surgery in most cases. Some might have a chance. If the battle didn't last too long. That was Bashir's task then, to try and help them last it out. He thought he could win with a few of them. Another hour and fifteen more had arrived; seven more had died. Bashir was himself covered in blood at this point, red, green, blue, and probably a few other shades. He glanced around. Troi was bloody, too, bandaging and helping out with the rifle still slung over one shoulder. Saeren did what she could with one arm. During a lapse in the incoming traffic, Bashir had found the time to reduce the dislocation in her shoulder. She'd passed out, but she was helpful when she woke up again. Another arrival. She was alone, pulling herself along the floor with her arms. The sounds of gunfire had grown quiet and distant, and Bashir wondered just how far she'd come. She collapsed before Bashir had had a chance to stand. Kovek reached her first, and Bashir helped him carry the woman farther into the corridor. She appeared to be paralyzed from the waist down. They laid her gently on the floor next to the previous patient. Kovek had the tricorder near him. "Not broken," he said, clipping the sentence short. He held the screen toward Bashir. But Bashir didn't need to look. He began to pump her chest with his hands. "Heart stopped," he told the Vulcan. That overrode any injury to her spine. No heartbeat, no life. It was that simple. He tried mouth-to-mouth, being so desperately low on supplies. He counted the seconds as he tried CPR. Nothing worked. She was dead. Bashir leaned back on his heels and let his hands fall to his sides. She'd tried so hard just to die at the end. "I put her with others," Kovek volunteered, and Bashir wondered if he heard him right. "What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists. "I'll put her with the others," the Vulcan repeated. Bashir nodded and let him go. They'd been removing the dead to one of the quarters nearest to the corridor. But just as he started to lift her, Kovek let her fall again. He sighed himself and Bashir thought that rather uncharacteristic. "We went to the Academy together," the Vulcan said. His hand shook as he brought it to his face. "All four years." His shoulders heaved and Bashir realized Kovek was crying. Bashir grabbed a light beacon from the floor, reached up, and pulled Kovek's hand from his face, startling the Vulcan who pulled away in distress. But not before Bashir had gotten a chance to flash the light at him. One eye dilated. The other did not. "Kovek," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Come sit down." Troi had come over beside him, drawn by the rare show of emotion. "What's wrong withyou?" Kovek asked, slurring his words and drawing the attention of Carter and Saeren and several of the wounded who could take their minds off their own pain. "Kovek," Bashir tried again. "You're wounded. Let me help you." "She's wounded!" Kovek replied, nearly shrieking and pointing at his friend on the floor. "Help 'er!" Bashir shook his head. "I can't help her," he told Kovek. "I can try to help you. Come sit down. Carter will put her with the others." He glanced over his shoulder where Carter was nodding. The man's own eyes showed worry. "You can't her away!" Kovek cried. He was holding his head now. The right side. The same as the eye that wouldn't react to the light. Bashir had already guessed head injury. Kovek had seemed to be fine. Triage had led Bashir to the more seriously wounded. Or so it seemed. The truth was, he'd missed Kovek. Bashir wasn't sure if he should blame himself or triage in principle. In the end, he knew he was responsible. He'd taken Kovek as an aide, not as a patient. Kovek himself had not admitted any injury or complained of any pain, but with Vulcan fortitude and a head injury, he couldn't be expected to be so helpful. Bashir was the one who should have known to check, and he berated himself for the lapse. "What happened to him?" Troi whispered in his ear. "Head trauma," Bashir whispered back. "There's probably bleeding in his brain." He tried to edge closer to the sobbing Vulcan. Shocked, Troi turned to look at him. "When did that happen?" "Quite some time ago from the look of things," Bashir answered. "We need to calm him down." Moving closer, Bashir tried to touch Kovek's shoulder, but the Vulcan batted away his hand. "Be careful," Troi whispered, reminding him that Vulcans were much stronger than humans, and an emotional Vulcan could be a dangerous Vulcan. Bashir knew that though. He knew a lot about Vulcans, and just about every other species in the Federation and quite a few without. He was already going over Vulcan anatomy in his head. But he knew Troi was just showing her concern for his safety and so he didn't reply. He just nodded and tried again. "Kovek," he called softly, "come lie down." He touched Kovek's shoulder again, but Kovek suddenly jumped to his feet. The sudden movement caused him to lurch to one side, the left side. Bashir stood, too, but Kovek lurched again, this time, right toward Bashir, arms outstretched and fingers splayed like claws. He grabbed onto Bashir's shoulders before the doctor could react, shoving him into the opposite bulkhead. Bashir's own head rang for a bit, but he shook it off and his eyes began to clear. Troi had come over to help him, but he pushed her away. Kovek was falling, his eyes rolled up under his eyelids. "Help him," Bashir told her, and she scrambled to reach the Vulcan before he hit the floor. Troi and Carter helped Kovek to sit, while Saeren gave Bashir her hand to help him off the floor. Bashir touched Carter on the shoulder once he'd pulled back away from Kovek. "Can you take the woman away, please?" he whispered, and Carter just nodded. "I'll help," Troi offered. She slipped the rifle off her shoulder and handed it to Bashir before she lifted the legs of the dead woman. Kovek was awake and weeping quietly now. He clutched one hand to Bashir's arm as he knelt beside him. Bashir glanced back to Saeren and she seemed to know what he wanted. "It's alright," she told him, shaking her head. No one else needed him right then. He would stay with Kovek. Bashir was glad. He wanted to stay with the Vulcan. He had once told Kira that no one should die alone, and where he could help it, he always wanted to try and be there for a patient that didn't have anyone else. It was never easy, but he felt it to be an important thing, something the living owed to the dying. And he felt particular sympathy, not to mention guilt, for Kovek's plight. In his life, Kovek had mastered control, as all Vulcans are taught. Control was something Bashir had practiced for many years, but even so, it was often a struggle. For Kovek, it was as simple as breathing. Except that now, a head injury had caved in that control. He was laid bare, in all his weakness, to die without ever regaining what was most important to his life. Kovek spoke to him, telling him about Jenna, the woman, his friend, who had just died. She had struggled with advanced astrophysics. He had struggled with interpersonal relationships. They had helped each other. She was his first non-Vulcan friend. As he talked, more and more of his words turned to mumbles. His hand lost its grip. When Troi touched Bashir's shoulder, Kovek had become completely incoherent. "They're coming this way," Troi whispered, taking the rifle. She handed him the hand phaser. *Not yet*, he wanted to tell her. Kovek wasn't gone yet. But the Jem'Hadar wouldn't care. He nodded and thought of the other wounded. He thought again about what he'd said to the Security officer. The corridor wasn't defensible. There was nothing to take cover behind. They were exposed on either end. Carter, Saeren, and the patients who were conscious all looked to him to save them. Troi out-ranked him. She'd even commanded the bridge of the *Enterprise*, but she, too, waited for him to tell them what to do. "We'll have move them," he told her, and he hated the idea of what movement might do to some of the wounded. The Jem'Hadar, though, would do worse. "Where?" She knelt down. "We'd only be boxed in." "How many weapons have we got?" Bashir noted his hand phaser and her rifle, but no others. "Carter has a phaser, too," Troi offered. "And how many Jem'Hadar?" He was already forming an unpleasant plan. He could do it, sublimate whatever negative feelings it provoked. He'd slept with the dead before. Could the others? "Six, at least." "Two for each of us." Bashir patted Kovek's arm once and then stood up. "The dead quarters. We can ambush them in there." Even in the dim light, Bashir could see Troi's face pale. "We're going to play dead." Bashir nodded. "Among the dead. Shouldn't be too hard. Most of them are unconscious," he waved a hand at the wounded. He looked down at Kovek. "Comatose. We can use the dead to disguise the most visual aspects of their breathing. Cover them. Those that can will have to hold their breaths like the rest of us. There's not that many to go around." Troi nodded, but her expression showed her shock at his language. He surprised himself really, talking about the dead like so much cordwood. Cordwood? He'd never even seen cordwood, so why had he thought of that word. Auschwitz. The dead stacked like cordwood. He'd heard that before. "Consider it a defense mechanism," he told her. "I once got used to death." "That might be the most honest thing you've said to me yet," she admitted. "I can feel you here." Bashir let her comment go, giving it no reply. It would only complicate things and besides, they didn't have the time. "How long?" "Four minutes maybe," she replied. "Let's go then. We've got twenty-seven patients to move. Put Saeren with the most mobile: fractured femur, arm, etc. Those who can walk with a little help. We'll have to carry the others." "They're not going to like this," Troi breathed. "They don't have to like it," Bashir told her. "They just have to survive it." Saeren did her job, taking two at a time, one hanging on to her, her hanging on to the other. Carter helped Bashir carry Kovek. Bashir took the Vulcan's shoulders, carefully cradling his head, while Carter lifted at the knees. It wasn't quick progress but it was easier than going it alone. Saeren and Troi worked together. It was five minutes before they were all behind the closed door in the room of the dead. But it wasn't enough. Troi, being the senior officer, issued the orders, trying to help the patients and staff accept what was about to be done. They blanched. Bashir stepped up. "I know it sounds callous. I know that doing this feels like walking over your own grave, but the dead are dead. They can't hurt us but they can help us. And, if we don't do this, we'll be dead, too, and then they *will* have died in vain." They began to move even as Bashir heard the boots in the corridor outside. Still a few doors down. The others probably didn't hear it. He motioned to Troi and Carter. Carter, like himself, had a hand phaser. The Third rushed forward into the room. The First had chosen him to lead the boarding party and he didn't want the First or the Vorta to think him lacking in courage for the Founders. He led his troops. He did not simply order them. He had split the ranks, leaving the Fourth and Fifth behind while he took five others and advanced to the next section. They had come across a blood-filled corridor and two lone defenders. The Federation soldiers were cut down easily enough, though they did managed to kill Okin'dahi. The Third left him behind without another thought. He had done his duty. He had served the Founders. The room the Third and the remaining four entered was quiet and dark like the others they had seen. This one had a smell though. The smell of blood and death. Jem'Hadar were bred to be soldiers, to fight in the worst of conditions, so the Third did not need bright light to see that this was the room of the dead. Bodies covered the floor of the main room, strewn over each other with ghastly wounds, some dressed, some not. Some were still armed, having fought and died as Jem'Hadar might have, though without anyone to remove the weapons and continue the fight. The Third was standing in the door, blocking the entrance. He was about to turn and lead his men forward when he heard a sound. A moan. Someone was alive. He debated letting it go. A living wounded in this room was no threat to the Dominion. He would die soon enough. And yet, it could have been a trap or someone not so seriously wounded. An officer. A valuable prisoner for the Dominion. Which would the First discipline him for? Better to investigate. He motioned his men inside, taking the point position for himself. "Check them," he ordered. He kicked one of the bodies with his boot. It did not moan or move. Dead. He kicked the one beneath it. Nothing. Beside that one, with one arm caught beneath the body, but the hand visible still clutching a phaser, was a civilian. The Third hesitated. He was clearly dead. Staring blindly forward, the eyes, still as they were, seemed to bore right through him. Then he heard the shot. His first instinct was to turn and return fire, but then he felt the pain inside himself. A blade of heat cut through his spine and sent him to his knees. He knew that he was exposing Eni'kalan behind him, but he was helpless. His muscles disobeyed his orders. His hand could not raise his weapon; he could not even lift himself from the floor or activate his communicator. It was only the nearness of Eni'kalan and the others that kept his face from touching the deck. But as they fell around him, he fell. And in less than thirty seconds, he knew it was his men who were dead, and he was aware of the living standing above him even if he couldn't turn his body to look at them. One of them knelt down, the one with the lifeless eyes. Even now, in his animate face, they did not seem truly alive. Humans. Jem'Hadar lived for the fight. For humans, it was fighting that took the life out of them. "You're going to die," the man said, and the Third was vaguely surprised to hear no malice in his voice. "There's nothing I can do for you." "I am already dead," the Third told him, refusing to relinquish his dignity. He was Jem'Hadar. To the last breath. "Victory is life!" The human's eyebrows raised, his forehead became lined. "I know you believe that." He even sounded sorry. "You shall get neither." The Third wanted to spit on the human's pity, but the man stood and turned away, taking the Third's disruptor with him. "We can uncover the wounded," Bashir said, stepping away from the paralyzed Jem'Hadar. He handed the man's weapon to the young man with the broken leg. "A weapon for you, my dear," he said with a smile, offering another disruptor to Saeren as if it were a bouquet of flowers. "How thoughtful," she chuckled, playing along. Back to business. "There's no sense moving them again. We might just have to come back. If someone's condition has changed, call out." "Over here, doctor," Carter called. He was standing beside one of the wounded. Number five by Julian's triage count. One of the original twelve, fifth in priority. Bashir rushed over, leaving the others to continue uncovering the wounded. He could see the man was dead, but he used the tricorder anyway. Potassium. "Hyper-calaemia," Bashir sighed, giving the cause of death to no one since no one was listening. The man moved from number five to number ten. Ten among the dead. He might have made it, could have made it, with more supplies, better supplies, an infirmary. *There are twenty-six others who might make it*, Bashir's mind argued, forcing him back to his duty. *Leave the dead behind. He doesn't need you anymore.* "How are the others?" he called out. "Bejlis is bleeding again," Saeren said. Bejlis was the amputation, conscious now and obviously in pain. Shock was a danger. Bashir sent Saeren in search of out-dated supplies. Needles, hooks. The chances of her finding any were small though, given the reliance on computers and modern technology. There was always a phaser, if he could find no other method to stop her bleeding. He could cauterize the wound, but that could complicate her chances of integrating with an artificial limb. The tourniquet, however, was just as bad and less reliable. So he took out the phaser and apologized to the woman for causing her more pain. She managed a small smile before her face contorted into a grimace as he fired. The bleeding stopped. Bashir squeezed her remaining hand gently and then moved on. Several of the others had not fared well from the move. Only two had died. Though Bashir had anticipated that some might die, their deaths still hung heavily on his conscience. Behind him, the Jem'Hadar nagged at him, assaulting the wounded with words now that his body wouldn't work. Bashir was able to tune him out, to relegate the tirade to a small part of his mind where it didn't matter. But Carter, who after his initial reluctance had become a calm force of aid, was less able and snapped. "Shut up!" He screamed loud enough to startle even the Jem'Hadar into momentarily halting his diatribe. But only momentarily. Carter kicked the Jem'Hadar in the side with every ounce of pent-up frustration he was feeling. The Jem'Hadar lost his breath then laughed at the young man. Troi grabbed Carter's shoulders and tried to hold him back. "He can't feel it," Julian told them both, not even looking over his shoulder. "Then let me kill him," Carter said, attempting to control his voice. "I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar jeered at him. "I can't let you do that," Bashir admonished quietly. "Why?" Carter protested. "He's the enemy! He's going to die anyway." "I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar repeated. "Because he isn't dead," Bashir responded, ignoring the Jem'Hadar. He finished what he was doing and stood up to face the young man. He understood his fury, even his hate. He sympathized with Carter and wished that the Jem'Hadar had been killed in the ambush. But he hadn't. "He isn't dead, and that makes him my patient." The fight drained out of Carter. "Even when you can't do anything?" Bashir laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Especially when I can't do anything." "I do not need your pity!" the Jem'Hadar screamed from the floor. "Nor do I need your help!" "You can gag him though," Bashir finished. Carter grinned. "Right away, Doctor!" "Seven, Captain." Data almost sounded happy, Picard thought, though the android usually turned off his emotion chip during battles. It was good news though. The Security forces stranded on Deck 10, beleaguered though they were, were not only holding their own against the Jem'Hadar, but decreasing their numbers. Picard would ask about *Enterprise* casualties later. He still had a few ships to deal with. "Try and get some troops down there, Number One," Picard ordered, wiping the sweat out of his left eye. He had that luxury now. The battle wasn't over, but it was ending. The boarding party was contained, and of the fourteen original Jem'Hadar ships, ten had been destroyed, one as it had tried to make a kamikaze run at the *Enterprise*. A quick shot by Lieutenant Barnaby at Tactical had stopped that in time. That left only four. Four Jem'Hadar ships were still formidable, certainly, but not as deadly as fourteen. The *Enterprise* was holding her own, dishing out more now than she was taking. "La Forge to the Bridge. I can give you warp now, Captain," Geordie reported from Engineering. "Hold off, Geordie," the Captain answered. "We're going to finish what they started." The deck had stopped bucking. Bashir wasn't sure when it had happened, but he was just now noticing it. If the deck wasn't bucking, then the ship wasn't being hit. The battle appeared to be won. The comm system was still out though. He'd asked Troi to try it. They didn't want the others to hear unless they'd gotten an answer. The deck was still sealed, too. Bashir had taken Carter with him when he went to test it. He found two dead in the corridor when he left the quarters. Three more in the next corridor. One wounded, which they carried back with them. There was nothing left to do but treat the wounded and wait. Wait for help and wait for more to die. Kovek had already died. Bashir had been there with him, even if Kovek wasn't aware of it at all. He hadn't died alone. So many had. Fourteen, if he counted the three he and Carter had found. At least two more would die if help didn't come within an hour. Bashir knelt down and tried to concentrate on extending that time limit. He didn't hear Troi come up behind him, though he did see her kneel down beside him. "It's not your fault," she whispered. "What's not my fault?" Bashir asked, trying to sound as if he really didn't know what she was talking about. "Kovek," she replied, letting him pretend he didn't know. "We were all fooled." "I should have checked him," Bashir argued, regretting it as soon as he had said it. He had let her in. "He gave you no reason to suspect, no reason to check," she held. "I should have felt that he was in pain. But I didn't. He didn't project it." "He controlled it," Bashir told her. "He trained all his life to control himself." "Exactly," she said. "So I should blame him?" Bashir asked with the intent of sarcasm, though without the tone. "You should blame the Jem'Hadar," she replied, completely serious. "They killed him. You didn't." She stood up and walked away, not giving him a chance to answer. So many things are easier said than done, he thought as he finished up. He brushed his messy hands, only removing the most sticky aspects of the mess, against his pants leg and stood up. It was then that the door opened behind him. He whirled and found a gray, scaled face staring back at him. A few centimeters below the face was the weapon. Bashir's own hand was wrapped around the hand phaser he didn't even remember reaching for. It was a standoff. Except that the Jem'Hadar were rarely afraid to die. Besides, there was another one behind that one, his weapon also raised, and Bashir was sure that none of his own companions had had the reflexes necessary to raise a weapon in time. "You are enemies of the Dominion," the Jem'Hadar spoke, "and you will die." "Eventually," Bashir answered, matching the Jem'Hadar's icy tone. "Fourth!" the other exclaimed, nodding toward the floor where their comrades had fallen. "Move back!" the Fourth demanded. Bashir shook his head and held his ground. He wasn't afraid to die either. "No." The Fourth's head cocked to one side and narrowed his eyes. "You will stand aside or you will die." "No," Bashir repeated, staring right back. "You want past me, you'll have to kill me. And I warn you, I'm genetically enhanced. My reflexes are faster than yours. You so much as twitch and you'll be joining your friends on the floor." The Fourth froze. "You will not be killed if you stand aside," he tried to reason. "I'll not be your prisoner again," Bashir reiterated. "And I'll not allow you to harm my patients." "You cannot succeed," the Fourth argued. "You may be faster than one, but not two." "Are you sure?" Bashir asked, thumbing his phaser to a higher, wider setting. The blast came as a surprise and Bashir almost expected to feel the pain burning through himself. But it was the Jem'Hadar who fell. Bashir pulled back his own weapon and stepped over the Fourth's body into the corridor. "He twitched," a familiar face reported. "Novak?" Bashir said. The blond Security officer smiled. "Good to see you again, Doc." Bashir didn't remember him being transferred. Must have been while he was gone. Bashir shook the moment away and found what was important. "We have wounded in here." Novak nodded, and removed a small black device from his uniform. He held it to his mouth and spoke. "Novak to Bridge," he said. A communicator. A different one, one that could cut through the security seal. "Section 13 is secure. Request medical transport of casualties." "This is Crusher," came the reply. "How many?" "Twenty-seven," Bashir stepped in. "They can't all transport. I've got three critical in there." "Where are you?" Crusher asked. "I'll send a team down. Prepare the others for transport." Novak handed the communicator to Troi, who had stepped outside as well. "I'll leave the details to you, sir," he said. "We're still reading a few Jem'Hadar on this deck." What followed was a whirl of activity, almost chaotic in comparison to the relative quiet of the last hour before the Fourth had come to the door. A medical team, with a cartload of equipment, a doctor, two med-techs, and three nurses, had come just as the transporter began to whisk the patients away. Bashir supplied the doctor with a PADD on which he detailed the conditions of the patients and the treatments he'd given. As the last was transported, and the three critical patients--including the gagged Jem'Hadar--were taken away, Bashir grabbed one of their med-kits and took off in the direction he'd seen Novak going. Troi ran to catch up with him. "What are you doing?" "The wounded were brought to us," he answered. "There might be more out there." She didn't argue or try to stop him, nor did she turn back. In fact, her empathic talent led them to a few of the wounded they found, eight in all. One had died almost as soon as they'd found him, but the other seven survived transport. Bashir counted nineteen dead along their way. They stopped looking when main power was restored and the deck unsealed. Sensors could now sweep the deck and find everyone, dead or alive. Starfleet officers began pouring onto the deck, Security teams and Medical teams and even a few engineers. Troi sat down right there in the corridor and Bashir joined her, leaning against the wall. "You did well," she said, pulling back her legs as another group ran by. "You helped," Bashir pointed out, feeling the walls come back up. The doctor in him was done for the moment. The patient was taking over. "I'm going to allow your transfer," Troi said, not even looking him. "But it will be conditional." "What conditions?" He didn't care what conditions so long as he got back to Deep Space Nine. "You'll see a counselor," she replied. "Regular sessions with Counselor Dax." Bashir was silent for a moment, trying to deaden all the feelings he'd let go while treating patients. He found the balance easier now than when Sisko had come. A form of weariness, he supposed and hoped it would help him sleep through the night. "Understandable," he finally said. It was understandable, even though Troi had no idea how awkward that would be. Still, he didn't want to worry about that just now. One step at a time. He was going back to DS Nine. He could worry about the rest once he got there. "Hmm," Troi muttered. "I was afraid you'd say that." She stood up again and offered a hand to help him up. "I was hoping you'd argue with me." "Does that mean you're not going to allow my transfer?" Bashir asked calmly, as if he wouldn't care one way or the other. He did care, and he had to fight not to feel it. She was leading him back down the corridor the way they'd come. "No, I'll approve it," she smiled. "I was just wanting to get through that equilibrium of yours." "There's no point to getting through it," Bashir held. Now that they weren't looking for any wounded, they made quicker progress. Already, they were nearing the corridor that had served as a makeshift medical station. "You weren't at equilibrium here," Troi said, lowering her voice. Blood still stained the walls and floors. There were still crew members removing the dead from the quarters where they'd hidden. "There was more than myself at stake then," he told her, trying to raise his voice above the whisper that wanted to come out. "So it's you you've given up on," she concluded. Bashir stopped, surprising her. "No," he replied firmly, meeting her eyes. It was everyone else. Even her. Not that he could tell her that. But the began. "We grew up together, but about a year ago he star -- --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! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? Thu Jan 29 01:01:47 2004 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n9.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.93]) by emu (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aM5cm1D23NZFnx1 for ; Wed, 28 Jan 2004 21:58:42 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13021-1075355486-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.