Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:32:03 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net 
 

Title: Faith: Hope
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 17/18
Rating: [PG-13]
Codes:


      It had been six hours since the Enterprise had lost contact with 
the away team, and five hours since Geordie and Data began to modify the 
probe.  The probe worked on the same carrier frequency as the colony's 
distress signal which even now was still penetrating the kertimide cloud 
that swallowed up all other transmissions.  The distress signal had to 
be abnormally strong, Geordie had explained, and it would take time and 
a lot of creativity to build a transceiver inside the probe that could 
match that strength.  Picard was getting anxious, and had just called 
for the third time to inquire about their progress.  He didn't mean to 
micromanage, but there was something about the situation on the moon 
that unnerved him.

      "We've got it figured out, Captain," Geordi replied, sounding more 
excited than annoyed.  "It's just a matter of pulling it all together now."

      "How long do you estimate?"

      "Hour, hour and a half tops."

      "Good to hear," Picard said, though he'd hoped for sooner.  "Keep 
up the good work, Commander.  Picard out."  So he was back to waiting.


      Riker checked the time and scanned down the main corridor, trying 
to decide if Bashir would disobey orders and go on without him or if 
he'd just lost track of the time.  Taking a gamble that it was the 
latter, he started down the left corridor.  He moved quickly, assuming 
Bashir had already scouted out the earliest ones.  He paused at each 
room only long enough for the door to open.  He glanced in, called 
Bashir's name, and, when he saw and heard nothing,  he stepped back and 
let the door close again.

      It was the eleventh door, sixth on the right, that made him pause. 
  There were no beds or wardrobes here, no shelves for storage.  There 
was also no Bashir.  But there were glittering lights, display screens 
and consoles.  The room hummed with sound he hadn't heard from the corridor.

      *This is it*, he thought.  He checked the displays.  This was the 
transmitter, still transmitting the distress signal.  He thought about 
contacting the *Enterprise* now.  They knew what had happened to the 
moon and the colonists, at least this group.  It was time to get back 
into contact with the other two teams and leave this dying rock.

      But he had to find Bashir first.  He left the room, and the hum 
was cut off when the door closed behind him.  He checked the next room 
on the left and then came back to the right, finding more storage rooms 
but not the doctor.  He alternated side to side giving each room the 
same cursory check before moving on.

      Another hum met his ears as he opened one of the doors near the 
end of the corridor.  And there was Bashir, standing in front of a large 
computer console.  He'd heard the door and looked up.

      "You're late," Riker scolded, "and you skipped some rooms."

      "I heard something," Bashir replied, "and came here to find it."

      "The rooms are sound-proof," Riker argued.  "What did you hear?"

      Bashir bit his bottom lip, caught in a lie.  "Vlad'a mostly."

      "Ah."  Riker smiled, hoping it wasn't a completely friendly smile 
but also not derisive.  "You followed an hallucination."

      Bashir's lips turned sheepishly.  "He said he heard something.  He 
was quite insistent."

      Now Riker's smile was genuine.  "I hate to break it to you, but 
hallucinations can't walk down the hall in front of you, telling you 
what's around each corner.  They don't work like that."  He let the 
smile go.  Back to business.  "Besides you missed the transmitter."

      "Oh."  Bashir's eyes dropped, but then darted back up again.  "But 
I found the way out."

      "Oh."  Riker hadn't expected that, but it was good news.  "Where?"

      "Do you remember some sort of door at the upper level?"

      Riker nodded. "Holographic.  That's how we got in."

      "That explains it then."  Bashir walked out the door and into the 
room across the corridor.  Riker followed, but only got as far as the 
door because Bashir was coming out again.  He had a small container in 
his hand which he lobbed toward the wall at the end of the corridor. 
The container went through the wall and disappeared.  "That does explain 
it."

      "It certainly does," Riker agreed, still watching the wall.  It 
was another hologram.  "Good to know.  Now, let's see if we can't 
contact the *Enterprise*."

      "No!"

      Riker spun around at the vehemence in his voice.  But Bashir 
looked just as surprised, and he was looking toward the door to the 
computer room, which was standing open on its own.

      "Why not?"  Riker asked, still confused.

      "Why not what?" Bashir returned, trying to cover his surprise.  He 
didn't take his eyes off the door though, and the door didn't close.

      "You shouted," Riker answered.

      The surprise returned, only now Bashir was staring at him.  He 
shook his head.  "Hallucinations don't work like that."

      "I'm not hallucinating," Riker said.

      "I thought I was."

      Riker lowered his voice and watched the still open door.  "Are you 
telling me that was Vlad'a?"

      "You don't see him, do you?" Bashir asked.

      Riker looked hard at the door and the room beyond, not that he 
wanted to see the boy.  "No, but something is holding the door open."

      "He wants us to go back in," Bashir said.

      "What if he's not your hallucination?"

      "I'm not sure but he's been right so far."

      Riker gave it a moment's thought and then nodded.  "Could he be a 
changeling?

      "Not if you can't see him," Bashir whispered, and then he stepped 
into the room.  Riker followed him and they both stopped just inside the 
door.


      Bashir closed his eyes and tried to block out the hum of the 
computers.  Vlad'a had disappeared just as he and Riker had entered.  He 
couldn't show them where the sound was.

      As it turned out there were three hums, one for each of the 
machines.  And as he concentrated, he could separate out little beeps 
and clicks, the sound of his own breathing, and the whisper of air from 
the vent.  Then a brushing, very soft, like thick cloth on metal, and 
the whisper of air began to whistle.

      When he opened his eyes, he was already looking straight at the 
vent.  He took a step toward it and saw movement from the corner of his 
eye.  But it was just Riker slowly removing his phaser from a pocket. 
Bashir tilted his head toward the vent and stepped closer.  There were 
some crates near the wall, so he moved one over, trying to make as 
little sound as possible.  He stepped up and peered into the vent.

      It was dark.  Just dark.  But there was still the whistle, louder 
now to his ears though still just barely audible.  He stood very still, 
listening and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the vent. 
After a few minutes, he could distinguish variations in the darkness, 
shapes.  And one of the shapes was a head.  A small head, but a head, 
set upon small shoulders.

      Too small to be Jem'Hadar, he thought.  It was a child.  A 
survivor!  "You can come out now," Bashir urged, speaking slowly and 
quietly.  He didn't want to frighten the child.

      Riker stepped toward them.  "What is it?" he whispered.  Bashir 
held up a hand to stop him.  The child had moved farther back.

      "It's alright," Bashir tried again.  "We're not going to hurt you. 
  We're from Starfleet.  We're here to help."

      The movement stopped.  The child was listening.  "I'm Julian," 
Bashir continued, "and this is . . . ."  He looked to Riker, not 
remembering his first name.

      "Will," Riker supplied, putting away his phaser.

      "You can come out now."  Bashir offered his hand.  "They're gone." 
  He had to wait a few minutes, but then he felt the soft flesh of a 
child's hand in his own.  Bashir pulled back gently as the child scooted 
forward until his young face appeared in the light.  His face was pale, 
his features gaunt.  He didn't yet commit to leaving the vent.  He 
peered out with grown-up eyes, full of distrust and wariness.  He 
couldn't have been more than ten years old.

      He stared hard at Riker and at Riker's phaser.  Riker turned the 
collar of his jacket so that his comm badge was visible.  The boy turned 
his gaze back to Bashir, and Bashir did the same, realizing too late 
that they didn't much look like Starfleet officers.

      But the boy seemed satisfied.  Still saying nothing, he reached 
for Bashir's shoulder.  Bashir pulled him the rest of the way from the 
vent and handed him to Riker who set him down on the floor.

      "What's your name?" Riker asked, but the boy only stared back at him.

      Bashir had an idea, remembering the early days of his own 
childhood.  He turned over the back of the boy's collar.  "Danny," he 
said, reading the hand-written letters upside down.  When Riker raised 
an eyebrow.  "My parents used to write my name on my collar," he 
explained, " in case I wondered off and got lost."

      "That happen a lot?"

      "Before I was changed? Yes.  He's traumatized," he said of Danny, 
who had simply moved his head back and forth with the conversation. 
"Considering what happened back there."

      Riker nodded.  "He's a survivor," he said.  "Let's see if we can't 
contact the *Enterprise*."  He held out a hand, and to Bashir's 
surprise, Danny took it.


      "Sir!"

      It was Compton who saw them first.  She'd always had good eyes. 
Grierre followed where she pointed.  Dark figures were moving in the 
dimming haze of the valley below.  He tried to separate them.  "Ten?" he 
asked.

      "I count twelve."

      Grierre took her count to be the more accurate.  "None of our 
parties had twelve."

      "Unless the other two joined up," Enyar offered, coming to crouch 
beside them, "to come looking for us."

      "I don't want to count on it," Grierre decided.  The dark blobs 
were dancing in and out of view, or cover.  But they were approaching 
rapidly considering the distance.  "Check your weapons and find secure 
positions."

      Compton nodded.  "They have the advantage in numbers but we have 
the high ground.

      Enyar tried to make light as he checked his phaser rifle, "It's 
only four apiece."

      Grierre didn't mind.  He knew Enyar could, at times, be a hot 
head, but he was always focused in battle.  Enyar had even killed four 
Borg during their last incursion, one of which had been his best friend. 
  "Is that all?"


      Bashir frowned and tried another configuration.  The same annoying 
chirp met his earns.  He'd heard it seventeen times already.  No matter 
how he reconfigured the transmitter, he could not alter the distress 
signal except to distort it.  Riker had recorded a message and left 
Bashir to send it.  He'd brought up the replicator transformation as 
justification for his faith in Bashir's ability to reconfigure this one.

      Frustrated, Bashir closed his eyes, visualizing the transmitter in 
the dark.  He started with the outer casing, peeling back layers one at 
a time in his mind.  But it was murky, unfamiliar.  Federation 
technology but not Starfleet technology.  Then it hit him.  He was 
taking apart the wrong thing.

      He brought the transmitter back to its original configuration and 
opened the channel so he could once again hear the original message. 
Just when it began to loop again, Bashir recorded it on his tricorder. 
He closed the channel again so he wouldn't be distracted and then played 
back the recording.  He listened carefully.  Then he slowed it down by 
ten percent and listened again.  It took three tries before he heard the 
breaks.  Fifty-nine of them, separating the thirty-second transmission 
into sixty half-second segments.

      He went back to the receiver and, instead of tapping into the 
actual distress signal. configured it to play only the prerecorded 
outbound message that Riker had wanted to replace.  What he heard was 
incomprehensible, staccato syllables a half-second long and a second apart.

      "What's that?"

      Bashir had been concentrating so hard that he didn't hear the door 
open.  "That's what this transmitter is transmitting," Bashir answered.

      Riker steered the little boy back into the room.  "That's not the 
distress signal?" he asked.

      Bashir shook his head.  "No, it is.  Or rather it's one third of it."

      Riker dropped down onto a crate.  "Which third would that be?"

      "The first, I think," Bashir replied.  "Three directions, three 
transmitters, one transmission.  They alternate every half-second."

      "Can we change it?"

      Bashir had been trying that for awhile.  "This one transmitter 
alone isn't strong enough to penetrate the interference."

      Riker glanced at Danny who seemed uninterested in the whole 
affair.  "But you said the three were alternating."

      "With the message," Bashir explained, checking the tricorder to 
make sure he was right.  "But they're all broadcasting.  They just 
broadcast silence the other twenty seconds."

      "So the *Enterprise* won't understand our message," Riker 
concluded.  "What about something non-verbal?   Like how you contacted 
Data."

      Bashir dismissed that almost immediately.  "It was just a 
pattern," he said.  "Enough to make him curious.  He had no idea it was 
me or what the transmission was about.  We need the *Enterprise* to come 
and get us.  We need something specific."

      "What about SOS?"  Riker suggested.  "You know, Morse code?  It's 
short but specific enough to say we need help."

      Bashir thought about that, tapping the three letters on his knee. 
  Too slow.  He tried again, faster this time.  It could be done, each 
letter taking a half-second.  Probably too fast for a human, but not for 
Data  "We'd have to break it up," he said.  "One letter per turn or it 
will get drowned out by the other two transmitters."

      Riker slapped his knee and stood up.  "It's a start," he decided. 
  "Just enough to make them curious.  Maybe they'll find a way to 
contact us."

      Bashir nodded and set to work.  It took less than a minute to 
record a looping SOS message and replace the older signal with it.  That 
finished, he joined Riker and Danny at the end of the corridor.  The 
wall at the end shimmered as they passed through it, and Bashir again 
found himself plunged into darkness.  Fortunately Riker had found a 
lantern of sorts and he flicked it on.  But instead of a passage out, 
Bashir saw a rough and jagged wall of rock.  He checked his tricorder 
and found the passage thirteen meters up.  "It's above us," he told 
Riker, pointing.

      "I guess we don't get a turbolift this time," Riker quipped. 
"Think you can climb?"

      Bashir took off the splint and tested his sore wrist, but nodded 
despite the ache he still felt.  "We haven't got much choice."

      Riker held the lantern up in front of the boy.  "I don't think 
he'll be able to do this himself.  I'll take him.  You take the bag and 
follow-up."  He handed Bashir the lantern and bag, though he removed one 
of the ration bars and held it out to Danny.  "Last chance.  You sure 
you don't want it?"

      Danny shook his head and Bashir guessed he still hadn't spoken. 
It wasn't surprising.  Danny wouldn't be the first child to stop 
speaking after such a trauma.  Riker tossed the bar back to Bashir and 
crouched down.  Bashir steered the boy until he was piggy-back on Riker 
and then helped the commander to stand under the extra weight.  Riker 
then started up the wall, which perhaps wasn't as impassible as it first 
appeared.  Still it would be difficult with the shifting of the lantern 
swinging from Bashir's arm.

      *Rock climbing is new*, he thought, trying to make light of what 
was actually an ordeal.  He still felt dizzy, but he wanted out of this 
cave as much as he had the other one.  He ignored the swinging light for 
the most part and trusted the rest of his senses to find the next hand- 
or foothold.

      Riker was just above him, and little pebbles and dust tumbled 
lightly down in his wake.  "Not much of an escape hatch," he commented. 
  "They couldn't have expected to evacuate anyone this way."

      "They didn't plan on evacuating," Bashir pointed out.  He held 
himself to the wall with his toes and the fingers of one hand while he 
felt for the next edge with his other hand.  "This is where they 
evacuated to.  They meant to keep the enemy out."

      "Didn't work," Riker grunted.  "How'd they get in without tripping 
the booby trap?"

      Just then a shower of fine dust fell down on Bashir and he was 
glad he'd shut his eyes.  He opened them when he heard the gasp. 
Looking up, he saw a jacket rushing toward him, slightly to the left. 
The jacket was attached to arms and legs and the rest of the boy.  By 
the time all that registered, Danny had fallen into Bashir's left 
shoulder, loosening his hold on the wall and knocking the lantern off 
his arm.  The lantern crashed to the floor, plunging them once again 
into darkness.  Danny, however, did not.

      Bashir gripped the boy's collar in his fist and used all his 
strength to push his body close to the wall with nothing but his toes 
and four fingertips.  "Grab the wall!" he ordered even as Riker was 
asking about the boy.

      "You caught him?!"

      Bashir ignored him.  Having already fallen once that day, he 
didn't care to do so again.

      Almost immediately, the weight dragging on his arm disappeared, 
though he still had his fist on the boy's jacket.  He wasn't sure what 
to do then.  He couldn't let go of the boy, and he couldn't climb with 
only one hand.  His fist lifted and he realized Danny was climbing. 
Tentatively, he let go, keeping his hand hovering over the boy's back. 
He could feel the jacket brush against his palm as it moved.

      "There's light up here," Riker called down.  "Just take your time. 
  Don't try to rush it."

      Bashir didn't, though he could have gone a little faster.  He 
wanted to stay below the boy in case there was another slip.  He kept 
track of Danny by sound, and used the feel of the rock and Riker's voice 
to guide himself upward.

      As he edged closer to Riker's position, he could begin to sense 
shadows in the rock, the vague definition of Danny's form above him, and 
the silhouette of Riker's head.  There was light up there.  Danny 
reached Riker first, and the commander pulled him over.  Satisfied the 
boy was safe, Bashir, now with a steady, if incredibly dim and indirect, 
source of light, ignored the minor cuts on his fingers and sped up his 
climb.

      When he reached the ledge, he could see the light.  It came from 
around a corner.  The ledge was really the exit of a tight crawlway, but 
the light, little as it was, had a natural feel to it.  And the air 
didn't smell right.  They had indeed found the exit.

      Riker flexed his fingers and Bashir remembered the pain in his 
own.  He opened his medkit and ran the dermal regenerator over his 
hands. There was nothing to clean them with, so he also loaded a 
hypospray with antibiotic after passing the regenerator to Riker.

      "What about you, Danny?" Bashir asked.  "Do your hands hurt?"  He 
lifted one of the boy's hands and felt it for blood and injury.  Riker 
handed back the equipment and started down the tunnel.  Bashir felt 
nothing and tried the other hand, but the boy was impatient.  He pulled 
loose and set off after Riker.  Bashir packed his things quickly and 
followed, crawling through the increasingly muddy tunnel, around the 
corner toward light and air and freedom.  But he wasn't thinking about 
those things.  He was thinking about a ten-year-old survivor who wasn't 
and could climb rock like a mountain goat without so much as a scratch 
on his hands.

      He lost those thoughts, too, though as he stood up beside Riker. 
"You hear that?"

      "Vlad'a again?" Riker asked in a whisper as he peered nervously 
back down the tunnel.

      Bashir stepped past him into the sunlight and dust. "No," he said, 
"weapons fire."


      Riker paused, just for a moment, trying to hear for himself. 
Bashir had a head injury.  He admitted to hearing things.  But then so 
had Riker, not that he could explain that one.  And Bashir probably did 
have better hearing.

      "Wait right here," he told the boy.  He took the bag from Bashir's 
shoulder and dropped it on the ground.  "Don't leave this cave until one 
of us comes for you."  He waited for Bashir to ready his weapon and then 
motioned for the doctor to follow him out.

      Once outside, he heard the fighting too.  But he couldn't see 
anything.  They were somewhere on a mountain and a ridge was between 
them and the source of the sound.  "Tricorder," he ordered, but Bashir 
already had it out.  While he scanned, he looked back over his shoulder 
toward the mouth of the cave.  "What?"

      Bashir shook his head.  "I'm not sure."  He turned his attention 
back to the tricorder.  "It's not clear, but there are definitely more 
than three life signs.  And most of them aren't human.  Above us, to the 
west.  We're close."

      "Our guys?" Riker asked.

      "Above them," Bashir answered.

      "Good," Riker decided. "We can cut them off.  I take it we're 
outnumbered."  Bashir nodded.  "Okay, let's go.  We'll come back for the 
boy.
      Keep low and quiet, to the rocks.  We'll surprise them."

      Bashir looked once more over his shoulder, frowning, but he nodded 
and started over the ridge.

      They hadn't gone more than forty meters before the cave and even 
that first ridge were obscured from sight.  But the firing was louder, 
and now there were voices.  Deep voices, focused, authoritative and 
unfearful.  "Victory is life!"

      Riker saw the Vorta first.  She stood back, away from the firing, 
protected behind a barrier of rock.  Protected from the three officers 
still firing from the cave's entrance, but not from Riker.  Or rather, 
not from Bashir.  Riker pointed to the Vorta and then to Bashir's 
weapon.  He held up five fingers and waited for Bashir's solemn nod.  He 
was impressed.  Crusher might have protested such an order.

      Riker dropped his hand and rushed forward, low and quiet.  He'd be 
close before Bashir even fired.  In his head, he counted.  When he got 
to four the Vorta turned.  She opened her mouth in surprise, but a bolt 
of light burned a hole into her chest before she could utter a command. 
  Riker was past her before her body hit the ground.

      At least one Jem'Hadar had heard though, and Riker diverted to the 
Vorta's position, stepping over her lifeless corpse.  The Jem'Hadar saw 
nothing when he turned.  Confused he turned back to the fight and Riker 
fired.

      Now they all knew he was back there.  But there were two less to 
worry about now.  Riker spotted two more bodies even as three very alive 
Jem'Hadar rushed him.  He estimated five more still firing up the mountain.

      Riker fired, dropping one of his attackers.  The others, caring 
nothing for their fallen comrade, kept coming.  He got one more shot off 
but the first of them had reached him, knocking off his aim.  Still a 
second Jem'Hadar fell and Riker guessed it was Bashir who had fired. 
Quarters were too close after that.  Riker couldn't even lift his phaser 
rifle, let alone fire it.  The Jem'Hadar had tackled him, throwing him 
hard onto the ground.  Riker thought he actually saw stars, but he 
ignored them and the dizziness.  The Jem'Hadar had a knife--a Klingon 
dagger--to his throat.  And Riker didn't want to die.

      Riker caught the Jem'Hadar's arm with both of his, holding the 
knife at bay barely an inch from his throat.  The Jem'Hadar was strong, 
and Riker grunted with the effort to keep the blade from digging into 
his flesh.  The Jem'Hadar, though, only needed one arm to counter 
Riker's two, and he used the other to pound Riker in the stomach.

      The blow, not completely unexpected, was jarring, enough that 
Riker involuntarily lost his grip along with his breath.  But it also 
caused him to curl inward, and he used the movement to twist sideways. 
The dagger caught him in the shoulder, and the Jem'Hadar made sure he 
buried the jagged blade all the way to the hilt.

      The pain was blinding, a brilliant, fiery white behind his eyes. 
He couldn't see, he could only feel: the pain in his shoulder, the 
weight of the Jem'Hadar over him, the bony fist that pounded into his face.

      Riker tried to reach his phaser rifle somewhere at his side, but 
he still couldn't see it.  He only had one thing left.  Well, two things 
really, but he needed the other for leverage.  Reaching up with his good 
left arm, he grabbed what he expected was his assailant's uniform and 
yanked.  The Jem'Hadar hadn't expected it and Riker pulled him off 
balance just enough that Riker could get a leg into the mix.  Once he 
got his foot firmly planted in the Jem'Hadar's torso, he straightened 
his leg and sent the Dominion soldier flying.  He didn't stay down long.

      Ignoring the pain and forcing his eyes to work, Riker found his 
phaser and fired.  And missed.  The Jem'Hadar raised his own weapon, but 
someone else fired and he fell.  It was only a leg wound though. Riker 
fired again to finish him off.

      The immediate threat was gone, and Riker was left alone in the 
skirmish.  Only a few Dominion soldiers remained, and the rest of the 
team had now come down to finish them off.  Riker looked to his right 
and saw Bashir coming towards him, throwing his phaser to the ground in 
favor of his medkit.

      "Stay still," Bashir ordered, pressing a hypospray to Riker's 
shoulder.

      The pain immediately subsided to a more bearable level.  Trying 
not to look at the knife, he turned his attention back to the skirmish. 
  He counted four Jem'Hadar and only three Starfleet officers actively 
fighting against them.  Compton was being double teamed.  She fell, but 
used her legs to kick the knee of one of her attackers.  She scrambled 
up while he clutched his leg.

      Riker didn't see what happened after that.  His shoulder erupted 
in pain again, and he turned his head to see the knife now in Bashir's 
hand.  His other hand was now clamped down on Riker's shoulder.  The 
pain slipped away again quickly, and Bashir prepared a bandage.  But 
once the pain had lessened, Riker's attention was elsewhere:  just over 
the crest of the ridge behind and to the right of Bashir's shoulder.

      "Danny!"  The boy's head could just be seen poking over the tops 
of the rock.  And a Jem'Hadar had made his way to the edge of the ridge.

      Bashir spun around without removing his hold on Riker's shoulder. 
  The Jem'Hadar was climbing quickly over to where Danny was still 
standing passively.  Riker tried to sit up, to reach for his weapon, but 
Bashir held him down and even grabbed his free arm.

      "Hold this here," he ordered, placing Riker's left hand over the 
bandage.  "Press down."

      Riker didn't take his eyes from the boy, but he did what Bashir 
said, pressing hard enough that the pain stirred and his vision blurred. 
  He saw Bashir, who had never turned back toward Riker, find the bloody 
knife with his hand.  The Jem'Hadar had stopped in front of Danny, the 
top of whose head barely showed now.  Then the Jem'Hadar dropped, 
choking out a cry of pain.  Bashir still knelt there, staring at where 
Danny's hair disappeared behind the rocks.  His hand, now empty, was 
smeared with blood from the blade of the knife.


      Riker thought he would run after the boy.  He wanted him to.  But 
he seemed frozen there, the color draining from his face.

      Well, someone had to go. The Jem'Hadar could still be alive.  He 
could have grabbed the boy.  Riker again tried to sit up.

      Bashir pushed him back down.  "You'll be fine, Commander," he 
said, speaking louder than before.  He leaned in close as he secured the 
bandage.  "The Jem'Hadar wasn't hurting him," he whispered.

      Riker wasn't sure if he was confused because of the way Bashir was 
acting or if it was a result of his injury.  "That's because you killed 
him," he replied, also whispering.  "You have to go after the boy.  He's 
probably terrified."

      "He was talking to him," Bashir said, and Riker wasn't sure which 
pronoun went to the boy and which to the Dominion soldier.  "He wasn't 
hungry.  He climbed that wall faster than me.  He didn't hurt his hands, 
and he didn't listen when we told him to stay put."

      Riker felt dizzy, but then, he had felt dizzy since he hit the 
ground.  "So, maybe he's had practice with the wall.  He was curious or 
afraid to be alone."

      "He would have run," Bashir argued, finishing with the bandage, 
but still keeping his voice down.

      "He did," Riker told him, pointing to where they'd last seen him.

      "Only after I threw the knife."

      Bashir touched the hyposray to Riker's neck and the dizziness 
began to subside.  Suddenly the pieces started to come together. 
Bashir's evidence and his lack of color.  "You think he's a changeling!"

      Bashir raised his voice again.  "That will have to do for now. 
You'll need surgery when we get back to the ship."  He offered a hand 
and supported Riker's back as they stood.

      "Why?" Riker asked, whispering. "It could have left any time."

      "The same reason they killed all those people," Bashir replied, 
lowering his voice again.  "They still want the dilithium."

      "But it's useless," Riker reminded him.  "The colonists made sure 
of it."

      Bashir's eyes widened.  "Say that louder," he said.

      Riker knew why they were whispering, but he didn't get why Bashir 
now wanted to risk being overheard.  "What?"

      "I have an idea," Bashir whispered back.  "Just play along."  He 
raised his voice loud enough to be overheard.  "We can't just leave, 
Commander.  The Federation needs this dilithium."

      Riker took a deep breath.  What if they were wrong?  What if they 
were right?  Either way, they had to find the boy, to rescue him or to 
capture him.  He raised his voice.  "The dilithium is useless.  The 
colonists made sure of that."

      "It's useless *now*," Bashir argued, allowing a trace of arrogance 
into his voice.  "They wouldn't have holed up in that cave if they meant 
for it to be permanent."

      "So you're saying it's reversible?" Riker asked, knowing full well 
that it was.  He wouldn't be arguing at all if Bashir hadn't asked him 
to play along.  Still, finding the key to decontaminating the dilithium 
could take months, if not years, especially if the colony's whole 
population had been murdered like those in the cave.  "Even so, it's not 
for us.  It will take months for our scientists to even figure out how 
to reverse it."

      "Oh, please," Bashir said, rolling his eyes and throwing up his 
hands.  "It's not *that* hard.  It's just chemistry."

      Bashir was more animated now than he'd ever been on the ship or 
even in the cave.  Which was good.  Otherwise Riker wouldn't have had to 
fake his irritation at Bashir's tone.  Riker was sure, too, that 
Bashir's next words would be to boast about his genetic superiority, 
something he hadn't actually done in Riker's presence yet.

      Bashir didn't get the chance, because Danny's little boy head 
popped up over the rocks again, wide-eyed and pale.  His timing was 
suspicious, but otherwise he looked very much like what he presented 
himself to be as Bashir gently scolded him for not staying where he was 
told.  If he was a changeling, he seemed not to be aware that he'd been 
found out.

      Riker looked around and noted the skirmish was over.  Grierre and 
Compton were helping Enyar off the ground.  There were no more 
Jem'Hadar.  The skirmish was won, with relatively few injuries to the 
away team.  The ache in his shoulder reminded him that he was one of the 
injured.

      "Try not to move that much," Bashir reminded him.

      Riker ignored him.  He had bigger things to worry about than a 
shoulder.  Others in his team were bleeding, too, but Bashir didn't even 
look at them.  He was watching the boy.  Bashir had other things to 
worry about, too.  One way or another, they had to know.


      "What's the problem, Mr. La Forge?"

      "Nothing, sir," Geordie replied, still trying to filter out the 
distress signal which was interfering with their signal.  "The probe is 
working perfectly, but the distress signal has become garbled.  It 
changes frequency every one point five seconds.  We have to recalibrate 
our own transmitter to match."

      "Geordie," Data interrupted, "it is a pattern."

      Geordie appreciated Data's help, but between him, the captain, and 
the transmitter, Geordie was getting frustrated.  "I got that Data.  But 
why did it change?"

      Data did appear to pick up on the frustration.  "Because someone 
changed it," he replied.

      He pressed a few controls and the distress signal began to play, 
but at only half its normal speed.  Now the pattern was more than clear. 
  And the message wasn't garbled.  It was just missing pieces.  A full 
second of every three at current speed.  But the missing part wasn't 
filled with silence.  Instead it was short pulses of Morse code.

      Suddenly, all that frustration was gone.  "Captain," Geordie 
reported, "I think the away team just contacted us."

-- 
--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/




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