Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:29:55 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith: Hope Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 12/18 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: It was the last thing he needed. "Raise shields," Captain Sisko ordered. "Target their shield generators." The Jem'Hadar ship had come out of nowhere. Or nowhere they could see just yet. It was just at the edge of sensor range when they'd first seen it. But as they drew closer, it had come after them, weapons blazing. Sisko had been hoping for a quick, uneventful ride home. He wanted some time to himself to think things through before Bashir returned to the station. Bashir knew. No, there was no time for that, not now. The Jem'Hadar ship fired. The *Defiant** shuddered under the impact, but her shields held. "Fire!" Sisko ordered in return. Three phaser blasts struck the Jem'Hadar ship square on. "Their shields are weakening," Worf barked from behind and to the right. "Hit them again," Sisko ordered. "What about ours?" "Better than theirs," Nog quipped. His words were witty, but his voice was tense. He'd grown a lot during this war. "I'd like more than a comparison, Ensign," Sisko chided softly. "Aye, sir," Nog replied. "Holding at eighty percent." Eighty was good. The *Defiant** could handle eighty. She had the ablative armor as well, something Jem'Hadar ships lacked. As ample demonstration, the second volley from the *Defiant** hit the Jem'Hadar's shield generator. "Their down!" Nog exclaimed. "Mr. Worf," Sisko said, keeping his voice calm, "will you please destroy that ship?" "Aye, sir." But the ship turned tail and the phasers missed. "Shall I pursue?" Nog asked. "By all means," Sisko answered. So much for time to himself. Julian Bashir studied his face in the mirror. It didn't look so different. His beard was gone; his hair was cut. It was a face he recognized, but it didn't seem to belong to him anymore. Likewise, the uniform. It was the same as he'd remembered. The zippered shirt, the gray-shouldered jacket. The gleaming commbadge on his chest. But it didn't feel like his. It felt like a lie. The door chirped. The captain, he knew. "Come in." He turned his back on the reflection that wasn't really him and wore the uniform that no longer seemed to fit into the living area of his quarters. "Good morning, Captain, Commander." He hadn't counted on Riker being there, too. Captain Picard smiled at him. Riker did not. "Now you look familiar," Picard said. "It suits you." *The lie?** Bashir thought. *I suppose it does in a way.** "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm very much looking forward to getting back to work." "And back to Deep Space Nine," Riker finished for him. "That goes without saying, sir." Picard let the smile fall but nodded. "We're working on it," he said, "It's going to be a few days at least before we can get to that sector. Maybe a week." Bashir looked away from him, trying to contain himself. He'd almost let himself trust Picard, and Troi. Riker was another matter entirely. "You *will** get there," Riker assured him, and Bashir mentally kicked himself for being so transparent. "There's a war on. There are priorities." Bashir sighed and nodded. Riker was right. There was a war on and there were things that outweighed Bashir's one puny life. "Of course, sir." Picard waited for a moment, probably trying to decipher Bashir's mood. "In the meantime, we'd like to put you to work." "I'd assumed as much," Bashir told him, "since you gave me a uniform." "Doctor Crusher will be glad for the extra help," Picard went on. "She did have concerns about you practicing medicine so soon." He was silent a moment more. "She's not concerned anymore. You handled yourself well, Doctor. And I have you to thank for the lives of twenty-four of my crew members." Bashir's head snapped up to look at him. "There were twenty-seven." "She didn't tell you?" Picard looked concerned as well. "I was assured that my patients were being cared for," Bashir told him. "And then I was ordered to bed. What happened?" "I'm sure Doctor Crusher will give you a full report in Sickbay. Ensign Caleri and Crewman Sekazi did not survive surgery." Bashir drew in his bottom lip as he tried to contain himself. But it wasn't as easy now. He turned away and balled his hands into fists. He found himself staring out the viewport. "Counselor Troi told me that you did everything possible for them. Doctor Crusher concurred." Picard kept talking. "It was a valiant effort." "But it wasn't enough," Bashir argued. "Doctor," Riker stepped closer. Bashir could see his reflection in the viewport. "I can't believe that these are the first patients you've lost." Bashir whirled back around. "I'll stop being a doctor when it stops mattering to me." "I'll wager that that is why you're such a good doctor," Picard said, stepping between them. Bashir sighed. "And the Jem'Hadar? What about him?" "He's in the brig under constant guard." "He's paralyzed." "Yes, I know," Picard replied. "But he's also the first Jem'Hadar prisoner we've taken. He's very important to us." "What will they do to him?" Riker's eyes narrowed. "What does it matter?" Picard gave him a hard look, but the commander didn't back down. Neither did Bashir. "He was my patient, too." "He's the enemy." "I'm fully aware of that," Bashir told him. "I'm the one who shot him." Picard stepped forward again. "He'll be transferred to Starbase 171 and handed over to Starfleet Security. I don't know what will happen after that." Riker must have sensed the moment over. "Doctor Crusher has asked that you report for duty at 0900 hours." Bashir nodded, but it was Picard whom he addressed. "Yes, sir." He watched them leave. *Apologies are nothing more than words,** he decided. He'd try to avoid Riker when he could. Sisko held the PADD. It was a succinct report, thankfully. One thing to like about Worf. His reports were always succinct. The Jem'Hadar ship had run back to its friends when its shields had been knocked out. Suddenly the odds had changed from one on one to three on one. But the *Defiant** had managed, not only to survive, but to rescue the cargo vessel that was being attacked. The cargo ship was towed back to DS Nine, and the both she and the *Defiant** were undergoing repairs. And there were three less Jem'Hadar vessels in the war today. *There will be more tomorrow,** he reminded himself as he set the PADD down on the coffee table. But at least he wouldn't have to worry about them today. For now, he had other things to think about. Things Bashir had brought to mind again. Things that had grown more ugly by neglect. He'd thought he could live with his choices when he'd decided to bring the Romulans into the war. He could blame Garak for the bomb and for the murders. All Sisko had done was manufacture evidence. He could justify it that way. Lying wasn't as bad as murder. But the truth was uglier than that. The truth was something closer to what Bashir had said. He'd compromised himself. He'd sold too much, crossed a line. The gel was the line. Garak may have led him to it, but it was Sisko who stepped across. He went along with the lies and the need for lying but the gel was something he could have, should have said no to. *Then how would you have gotten the rod?** he argued. He'd needed a genuine Cardassian data rod to make an accurate forgery. *But the senator knew it was a fake anyway,** he argued back. Would it have mattered then if the rod was genuine or not? Garak had planned all along to use a bomb if the forgery hadn't persuaded the senator. A substandard or non-genuine rod would have led to the same result. So the gel was for nought in the end. And Sisko had not even bothered to find out where it had gone or what it had been used for. *Ignorance is bliss.** It was easier not knowing, especially after Bashir's warning, which he'd tried not to listen to. Six million. More than six million. Bashir had known the actual number. Sisko couldn't remember it. Still, six million was more than enough. One could argue that six million was a small population by planetary standards. But six million was not a small number. And it was a number with significant relevance to Bashir. *All the more reason for him to hate me,** Sisko thought, putting a hand to his shoulder though it had stopped hurting within an hour of leaving the *Enterprise*. How could Bashir forgive him for the deaths of six million people? He wouldn't. Though Sisko could argue he was only indirectly responsible, he knew that would still leave him an accomplice, though unknowing, of the genocide. Genocide. That was not a word he'd ever wanted even indirectly associated with his own name. It was an ugly word. It infected a name with it's ugliness. Sisko, murderer of a world. Sisko, through his own negligence, accomplice to the murder of a world. Either way, it was ugly. "You haven't so much as relaxed since you came home," Kasidy scolded lightly as she sat down beside him. She felt nice, soft and warm. She smiled and wrapped an arm around his stomach. He kissed her, hoping that he could relax, that he could go back to forgetting the whole thing had ever happened. But as he held her he thought of another man who might have been holding his lover when the end came on that other world. Knowing it would confuse her, but doing it anyway, he got up and walked to the window. He'd given the Dominion the means to kill that couple and millions of others. They might have done it anyway, maybe some other way, but knowing that didn't wash Sisko clean. He'd given them the means to do it the way they did. And cuddling Kasidy felt wrong because of it. She was clean and beautiful. He wasn't fit to touch her, and he couldn't tell her why. Troi seemed to be there every time he turned around. "Good morning, Doctor." She smiled as he entered Sickbay. Bashir nodded to her and then found Crusher. He'd looked her up on the computer to make sure he'd recognize her, but he found he didn't need that. She had a presence to her, an air of command. And she had the pips. Three of them. "Doctor Bashir," he said, coming to attention, "reporting for duty as requested." Crusher smiled at him, too, and extended her hand. "Nice to have you. I hope you won't mind not having top billing." Bashir loosened his shoulders and took the hand that was offered. "In the last six months, barring last night, the only ones I was giving orders to were crayfish." He caught Troi's eye from the corner of his vision. Her smile had gone. She looked slightly worried. "That was a joke, Counselor." She smiled again and laid a hand on his shoulder as she turned to go. "You should work on your delivery." Crusher waited until Troi was gone. "You like toying with her, don't you?" "I used to tease Worf," Julian told her, letting himself relax a bit. His uniform was starting to feel right in this place. "I miss having him around." "You teased Worf?" she asked, incredulous. "Chief O'Brien usually helped." Finally, she laughed. "Daring. You two must be quite a team." *We were,* Bashir thought. Doctor Crusher took him with her on rounds, bringing him up-to-date on all the patients currently in Sickbay. There were a lot of them. Some were his, a few of which smiled or said hello when he came by. "So you *are* a real doctor," Crewman Bejlis teased when they came to her. Julian offered her a bright smile and winked. "Yeah, but don't tell anyone." "I think your secret's out," she chuckled back. But then she sighed. "I still feel it. I dreamt last night and was surprised this morning to wake up and find it wasn't there." Julian had been studying her chart from the corner of his eye while he chatted with her, but now he gave her his full attention. He took her one remaining hand in his. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll be fine. The prosthetic you'll be fitted with will eventually feel as natural to you as the arm you lost." "But it won't be me." Her hand squeezed his and a tear slid from her eyes. "No, but it *will* be *yours*," Bashir replied, still holding her hand. "It's not the same, but it's not as different as you might think. Try and remember that." Another tear, though she fought to keep a brave face. "I'll try," she said. Bashir gave her hand one last squeeze and moved on with Crusher to the next patient. Crusher paused before the next biobed and lowered her voice to a whisper. "They've been talking about you." Bashir felt a small wash of pride. He fought it. That was the old Bashir. He got washed away by praise and attention, the opinions of others. Bashir knew now that those things didn't matter. Pride was irrelevant. *Damn*, he thought, *now I sound like the Borg.* Crusher went on when he didn't reply. "You've had quite an impact already in your short stay with us." "Blessing or curse," Bashir quipped, hoping to brighten the mood again. "I haven't decided yet." The next week went by quickly enough, for most of the crew anyway. For Bashir, it dragged along. Only his shifts in Sickbay seemed to pass swiftly. All the other hours--and there were so many of them now that he couldn't sleep--stretched on like the void of space separating him from Deep Space Nine. It wasn't that he was tired. Quite the contrary. He had to wear himself out just to sleep a few hours every night. It was boredom and it was not being where he wanted to be. He was with strangers, with the exception of Data, and Data, though a friend, was one he'd only met twice. The *Enterprise* wasn't the same as Deep Space Nine, and Data wasn't the same as Chief O'Brien. "Are you having dinner?" Doctor Crusher asked, interrupting him as he was finishing up his daily report. "Yes," Bashir answered, not seeing any reason to elaborate. "In your quarters?" she asked again. "Is there something wrong with my quarters?" he asked in return. He had a feeling she was going to ask him to eat with her, and not in her quarters. He felt uneasy. Working with strangers was one thing. Socializing was different. He was used to the quiet of his quarters. "No, but you've been hiding in there practically since you arrived." "My quarters are quiet." She sat down beside him. "Is DS Nine quiet?" She touched his hand and he had to resist his initial impulse to pull away. Actually, it felt nice. Maybe he didn't mind. "You're going to have to get used to being around people again." "I'm around people right now," he countered quietly, reluctantly removing his hand from beneath hers. "Okay," said and smiled. "Then consider it an order. You're coming with me. Finish your report, Doctor." "Aye, sir," he responded, giving in. His arguments had been weak but he didn't want to tell her, or anyone, how he really felt. He didn't want to even feel. But it was impossible to escape the stares as he rode the turbolifts or walked down the corridors on his way to Sickbay. He knew how rumors worked. Scuttlebutt was a strong thing on a ship like this, especially in war. He was quite a story, he was sure. He was a curiosity, a man rescued from a cave only to be put in the Brig and then released to work in Sickbay. And that was if they hadn't heard of his genetic background. That would probably cause more rumors. As it was, most of the stares seemed out of curiosity, something he could understand. A few, though, looked on him with open disdain. He pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He couldn't tell if Crusher, as they walked to the lounge, noticed or not. He wasn't about to ask. Apparently, he needn't have worried about the noise level in the lounge. All talking stopped within ten seconds of the door opening as first one head, and then others, turned to see who had entered. Crusher must have noticed, too. She turned her head one way and then the other. As she did, all the heads in the room dropped. Well, not all. "Doctor Bashir!" He recognized the voice, and, once he saw her, he recognized the rest of her as well. "Dominik told me he'd seen you last week." "Thomas, or should I say Lieutenant Thomas. It's good to see you." "You've met?" Crusher asked as the young woman approached. The young woman smiled. "I used to be stationed on the *Defiant*," she replied to Crusher. She held up her left hand. "And it's Novak now," she told Bashir. He saw the ring and gave her one of his best smiles. He even felt it a bit. "Congratulations on both counts then." By now, the room was beginning to fill with noise again, so he had to speak up a bit. "How are you?" "Well enough with a war on," she answered. "Will you join me for dinner? I'm sitting right over--" She had turned to point to her table but stopped in mid-sentence when her previous dinner companion picked up her plate--still full--and vacated the table. Bashir stole a glance at Crusher and saw that her face was flushing red. She was either embarrassed or angry, or both at the same time. Novak turned back around to face him. She kept her eyes low, her head dipped slightly. She was ashamed. "Please excuse her, sir. She doesn't know you." A glass clinked hard on the bar to Bashir's left. "She doesn't need to know him," someone sputtered. Bashir doubted either Novak or Crusher could have heard the man, though the voice was loud enough for his enhanced hearing to pick it up. "What did you say?" Crusher demanded. No one turned, but the room became quiet again. "She don't want to know him." The voice was slurred but loud enough this time that any normal human could hear. "We don't keep company with freaks." Crusher was incensed. Novak was angry, too. "He's no freak," she held. Bashir just shook his head a little. He was a freak and yelling wasn't going to change anyone's opinion anyway. "You're drunk," Crusher said, keeping her voice calm despite the redness in her cheeks. "Go to your quarters." "Why should *I* leave?" the man at the bar asked, turning now to face them. "*He's* the one who should leave. We all *earned* our right to be here." There were murmurs throughout the room and Bashir wondered if they were agreeing with the man. It was hard to tell. "And to wear that uniform," someone else added. Well, that was one who agreed. Crusher must have ignored that second voice. "Because your superior officer gave you an order." The man was too drunk to worry about protocol. "I suppose *he's* my superior officer, too." Bashir could see only one pip on the man's collar. "Or maybe he's just superior." "Go--" The man wasn't finished. "His parents made sure of that." Bashir felt more like a spectator than the cause of the spectacle. The man at the bar was inebriated and felt no compunction against interrupting Crusher, a Commander as well as a doctor. And the general populace of the room, encouraged by the drunkard's honesty and hidden by their numbers, allowed a few others to voice their agreement. But it was Crusher who lost control. Not verbally or physically, but mentally. She argued with the drunkard. "He was a child," she said. "He had no choice." "He had a choice about lying." That was behind them, a voice that, undoubtedly, would not have spoken if they'd been facing the other direction. *I didn't lie*, Bashir thought to himself. *I simply didn't volunteer the information.* It was nitpicking but it had the slight advantage of being the truth. "We had to *earn* our place in Starfleet," the drunkard added. "He *has* earned it," Novak threw back. She was one of the ones who had saved him. In a way, she had saved him more than any of the others. The others had tried but always came up just too late. Novak, or Thomas, as she was back then, had had the answer at just the right moment. She had known what to look for when he was in the gas. Without her, he would certainly have died. He knew that. And she, like the others, knew that. It made her a bit protective. So even now, when it wasn't his life, bur perhaps his honor, that was endangered, she was defending him. He wanted to tell her not to bother. She wasn't the only one, it seemed. "He saved our lives," someone else pointed out. Bashir recognized him, Tamil, the young man with the broken leg. And a few voices were brave enough to agree with that. Bashir wondered where a vote would fall. Hero or horror? "Did he?" That one stung. Bashir turned to see Carter standing by the door. "It seems to me that quite a few of us died. He didn't save Lieutenant Versalis. He didn't save Kovek." Carter had fought beside him. Carter had tried, with him, to save the others. Carter had also wanted to kill the Jem'Hadar and Bashir had stopped him. But Novak laughed, which threw everyone off. "You want it both ways!" she exclaimed. "You want to crucify him because you think he might be more than you are. And you vilify him when he shows he's not superhuman. Listen to yourselves!" No one spoke out after that, though there was a lot of murmuring. Bashir decided he was tired of the spectacle, whether he was the center of it or not. He touched Crusher's elbow. "I think," he whispered, "I will, respectfully, disobey your orders and take my dinner in my quarters." Crusher didn't look at him; she was too busy seething at the others. "May I meet you there?" Bashir nodded and offered his hand to Novak. She took it and they took their leave. Several others, including Tamil, left behind him. Either they sympathized or were simply smart enough to leave the room. Doctor Beverly Crusher remained behind, disgusted and ashamed at what she'd just witnessed--no, participated--in. She was an officer, a command officer, and she should not have allowed herself to get pulled into such an argument. But she was ashamed of her crew more than herself. The *Enterprise* was the flagship of the Federation's Starfleet. Her crew should be the best of what the Federation had to offer. They should exemplify what the Federation stood for. Prejudice wasn't one of the Federation's founding principles. It was something Federation citizens tried to purge themselves of. It was a weakness, a shameful thing. And that was the shame she felt now, even though it was only a handful who'd openly spoken out against Bashir. How many others had simply agreed but chosen to stay silent? She wished she knew the magic words that could erase all the prejudice and distrust from them but she didn't have time to plan a speech. She had to improvise and hope for the best. "Everyone up," she ordered, not raising her voice. Only a few rose to their feet. Those that did stood at attention. Crusher stood ramrod stiff, hands clasped behind her back. "This is not a mob," she said. "This is the Federation Starship *Enterprise*. A proud ship, with a proud legacy of tolerance and standing up for what is right. You have disgraced her and all that she has fought for. If what I have seen here tonight is what the Federation, what Starfleet, has become, then we have already lost the war." Enough lecture. No, not enough, but she didn't know what else to say. On to practical matters. She looked around the room and found a PADD on one of the tables. She walked over, picked it up, and saved the information there. Then she cleared the screen and started taking names even as she talked. "Yes, Doctor Julian Bashir was genetically enhanced. But he's also a trained, experienced, and eminently talented doctor. If you begrudge the one, I can't change that, but remember the other. Twenty-six members of this crew are alive today because of him. "Beyond that, he is a Starfleet Officer, a full lieutenant of five years. And that means he outranks everyone in this room except myself. He may be genetically enhanced and therefore smarter and faster than you, but he still had to earn that. Commander Data is an android, programmed with the whole of human knowledge and you don't consider his rank a gift. You don't treat him with disrespect. I expect the same treatment of Lieutenant Bashir. I can't make you like him but I *can* make you respect his rank. No more eye rolling, no more whispering and rumors. Respect." She finished collecting their names, thankful for her good memory and the last month's routine physicals that made most of them even more familiar to her. "And to give you ample time to make that adjustment, you're all taking a second shift today." She felt a twinge of guilt for punishing the ones who had remained silent. But there was no time to take a roll call to see where each one stood. "You can start now," Crusher added, feeling she had to be firm and to counteract the usual, friendly bedside manner they were all used to. "Dismissed." Dishes clanked, feet shuffled, and the replicators whined, but no one spoke or grumbled. Crusher uploaded her list to the main ship's computer and reaccessed the previous data before handing the PADD to a waiting and nervous ensign. She counted, as a way to keep herself calm and poised. She hadn't gotten to thirty before she was the last person left in the room. The door opened ahead of her, allowing Geordie and two of his engineers inside. They stopped at the door, startled. "Where is everybody?" he asked, surveying the empty but oddly disarrayed lounge. "They had to go back to work," she offered without giving him the whole story. Ship's scuttlebutt would probably manage that in the end. She nodded once more and made her way past him to the corridor. Bashir and Novak would be waiting. -- --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! 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