Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Mon, 26 Jan 2004 21:32:55 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net 
 

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


      They stood in a circle around the boy, and Riker made 
introductions to the rest of the team.  Bashir was sure it was only an 
excuse to surround the boy.  What Riker said next confirmed it.

      "Phasers at the ready," Riker ordered casually.  "There could be 
more of them out there."  He was absently turning the dagger, the one 
he'd retrieved from the fallen Jem'Hadar, over and over in his hands. 
"Setting three should be fine for now."

      Bashir was tired, drained in fact, but his pulse refused to slow. 
  It made him dizzy.  Or maybe the concussion did.  Either way, he knew 
Danny was the solution to it.  If Danny was just a boy, then they could 
leave this moon with its one survivor.  If not . . . well, that was 
something he didn't want to contemplate.

      "We were all alone at one point or another," Riker went on, 
"whether in the cave or in the fighting.  As a precaution, I want 
everyone to be tested.  Doctor, would you please draw blood from everyone?"

      Bashir heard him, but didn't--couldn't--take his eyes off the boy. 
  He answered.  "They've gotten past blood tests before."

      Riker looked at him, turned his head.  Bashir caught that in the 
corner of his vision.  "One used a whole arm from the person it 
replaced," Bashir added to illustrate.  Just the mention of it gave him 
a chill.  Not the arm so much as that changeling.  An image flashed 
through his mind.  A vial of black powder poured into his hand.  Her 
ashes.  It was one of the ways he coped, reminding himself that Kira had 
killed her, that she was no longer a threat.  She could only torment him 
with memories now.

      Riker took a breath and then spoke again.  "Okay, so we try 
something different.  Something one wouldn't be able to prepare for.  A 
lock of hair."

      "You could have prepared for it," Enyar pointed out, "since you 
suggested it."

      Riker gave him a sideways smile.  "Okay, so you can suggest 
something different for me."

      Danny turned to look at one and then the other as they spoke, but 
he showed no expression.  He just watched.  And Bashir watched him.

      "Fingernails?" Grierre suggested with a shrug before Enyar had 
come up with anything.

      "As long as it can be separated from the body," Bashir confirmed.

      "Why don't we all just spit?" Compton asked.

      *Novel*, Bashir thought.  *Why hadn't anyone thought of that before?*

      Riker smirked.  "Maybe next time."  For now, he took the knife and 
sliced a bit of his left thumbnail off, which he then handed to Grierre.

      Grierre held it in the palm of his hand and waited about thirty 
seconds.  When it didn't change, he dropped it to the ground.

      "Next," Riker ordered, handing the knife to Grierre, the closest 
one clockwise.

      Grierre cut a small lock of hair from near his right ear.  He 
handed the lock to Riker, the knife to Compton.  She frowned a bit at 
the state of the weapon, which had only been wiped off, not cleaned. 
After a suitable wait--for the lock of hair to change in Riker's 
hand--Compton repeated the gesture.  Hair to the right, knife to the 
left.  Bashir would be the last, with the exception of the boy.  Danny 
watched each one, turning in a circle as Compton, then Enyar, cut a lock 
of hair.

      Finally, the knife was given to Bashir.  His own hair was short, 
given his recent haircut, but he pinched a bit between his fingers and 
put the knife close to his skin.  His eyes never left the boy, and the 
boy met his gaze.  Enyar dropped Bashir's hair which hadn't changed, and 
it flew away with the dust in the air.

      "Keep the knife," Riker ordered.  And Bashir finally turned away 
from the boy to look at Riker.  He didn't want to be the one to be that 
close to a Founder, provided of course, Danny was one.

      Riker leaned down to Danny's level.  "We have to check you, too," 
he told the boy.  "Don't worry.  He's a doctor.  He won't hurt you."

      Bashir began to lower himself to one knee, hands outstretched. 
He'd do it quickly.  Take a lock and then stand back up again to wait 
for the change.

      Danny didn't give him the chance.  Danny melted away in a flash of 
golden liquid, falling back into the little boy's clothes and bursting 
out again in a thick stream that hit Grierre right in the chest. 
Everyone was surprised and Bashir jerked back instinctively, moving his 
hand back to his phaser even before the stream had completely left 
Grierre.  It was so quick, Grierre hadn't had time to fall before the 
changeling had reformed into some sort of snake.  Grierre had a look of 
disbelief on his face.  Others fired behind him, and the changeling 
squealed.

      Bashir had forgotten the shapeshifter.  He ran forward as Grierre 
fell, collapsing first at the knees, arms outstretched.  He hit the 
ground, gasping for breath, only a moment before Bashir reached him.  It 
was more than a sucking chest wound.  Bashir could see through the 
twelve-centimeter hole in Grierre's chest to the barren soil below. 
With one hand, Bashir cradled him; the other searched in his medical 
bag.  Grierre struggled, trying to breathe and looking to Bashir for 
help, for hope.  But there was nothing Bashir could do.  He could heal a 
laceration, knit a broken bone, but he couldn't put this back together, 
not in the time it would take Grierre to either bleed to death or die of 
asphyxiation.

      Bashir placed a vile into the hypospray from his bag, still using 
only one hand.  For the pain.  It was all he could do.  He placed the 
hypospray to the lieutenant's neck but it did little to console the man. 
Grierre was still trying to breathe, to live.  He grasped Bashir's arms 
with panicked fingers and sucked in breath that had nowhere to go. 
Bashir just held him until, finally, the struggling stopped, the fingers 
loosened, and Grierre was dead.

      This was the last thing Bashir wanted.  They'd already lost one of 
the team.  He'd seen enough corpses for one day.  For a month.  For a 
lifetime.  Compton knelt down beside him, and Bashir realized the firing 
had stopped.  He looked up, past Grierre's frozen expression of shock, 
to where a blotch of black dust was slowly being swept away by the 
moon's wind.  The changeling was dead, too.  Bashir closed Grierre's 
eyes and moved out from under him, laying him gently on the ground.

      It was Riker who touched his shoulder.  "The *Enterprise* just 
contacted us," he said, speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the 
moment too much.  But the moment was nothing but disturbing to Bashir. 
He stood and turned away from the body and found instead the clothes the 
changeling had left behind.  He could just see the tag in the back of 
the jacket.  There had been a real Danny once.  He was probably back in 
the cave with the other children.  Bashir could see them still, stacked 
against the wall.

      He turned away again.  "When do we leave?"


      They'd had to wait another hour for the *Enterprise*'s engineers to 
filter out the interference.  The transport finally came just as the sun 
was beginning to set.  Bashir noted the glorious red-gold color of the 
sky, a product of the pollution brought on by the colonists.

      His head ached considerably, but his mind was clearer now, more under 
control.  Troi was too distracted by the emotions of the others though 
to pay him much notice.  Bashir heard about it in Sickbay.  Riker's 
wasn't the only group to take on casualties in skirmishes with lingering 
Jem'Hadar.  The other away team members talked of seeing bodies, of the 
smell.  All of the colonists were dead.  Bashir was not surprised.

      Bashir was given the next day off, to recover from his concussion, and 
he'd welcomed the return to his clean, quiet quarters on the 
*Enterprise*.  Troi had come by, though.  She wanted to talk about what 
he'd experienced in the cave.  He told her he didn't remember much about 
it, using the concussion as an excuse.  He didn't want to talk about the 
cave, or even Danny.  He didn't want to think about them, because, if he 
did, he would feel.  He'd feel the disgust and the sadness, the anguish 
and the hopelessness again, and Troi might have changed her mind about 
DS Nine and even his return to duty.

      He could tell she was frustrated when she left, but he couldn't let 
that concern him any more than Riker's inferiority complex.  He would 
soon return to Deep Space Nine and thereafter be Ezri's problem.

      Two days later, the dilithium contamination mystery was solved. 
Surprisingly, it was Albert who cracked it, which had sent Jack into a 
jealous huff.  All of which was described, with characteristic 
melodramatic air, by Lauren in a letter to Bashir.  She did manage to 
squeeze in two sentences welcoming him back from the dead.

      The scant sensor data and Bashir's tricorder readings had been sent to 
the Institute in the hope that the trio of "mutants" would be able to 
solve the chemical equation faster than Starfleet's own scientists. 
They'd been right, and as far as Bashir was concerned, it was the only 
good thing to come of Carello Naru.

      But he didn't want to think about that anymore.  He only wanted to 
think of Deep Space Nine.  Home.  In just two more hours.  If he closed 
his eyes, he could see every detail of his quarters, just as he had left 
them the last time Sloan had taken him away.  Kukalaka sat on the corner 
table in the living room.  Three PADDs were left on the coffee table. 
His breakfast was still in the replicator.  Sloan hadn't given him time 
to eat it.  Typical.

      Outside his quarters was the long, curved corridor.  Beyond that, a 
turbolift to the Promenade.  And there, crowds of people, some shopping, 
others working, and still others just taking a break from the war. 
There was Quark's, fairly loud even in the morning.  Morn would wave 
hello from his barstool.  Quark wouldn't bother, unless he wanted something.

      Garak's shop was farther down, on the outside curve of the Promenade. 
The intrepid Cardassian would be working behind his desk, either 
designing or sewing or decoding Dominion/Cardassian transmissions.  Or 
maybe he'd have a customer.  He'd nod or wave to let Julian know he'd be 
delayed a bit.  Bashir could wait, most days.  And in a few minutes, the 
customer would be satisfied, and Garak would be free for lunch at the 
Replimat.

      The Replimat was a lively place at lunch time, and sometimes he and 
Garak would have to wait in line to get a table.  They'd pass the time 
talking about literature or politics but never about the war.  It was a 
rule they'd made a few weeks before.  Lunch was time off from the war.

      After lunch, he might check in at Ops, visit with O'Brien or Kira 
before returning to the Infirmary.  His Infirmary.  Sickbay on the 
*Enterprise* was like Sickbay on the *Defiant*, only bigger, and that 
was pretty close to being like every Sickbay on every Starfleet vessel 
or installation in the Federation.  But the Infirmary was unique, a 
blending of Federation medical technology and Cardassian design, or vice 
versa.  It had character, a mysterious or adventurous look to it.  But 
Bashir found it comforting.  He felt at home there more than any place 
he'd ever been.

      The two hours flew by.  The ship-wide announcement that they were about 
to dock broke into his thoughts and shattered the tranquility he felt. 
It was time to go home.


      The *Enterprise* would be docking late in the evening, and since 
everyone was planning to be together anyway, Sisko had invited the 
senior staff and a few other guests over for dinner.  Jake, having 
gotten the sense that his father was preoccupied, had volunteered to do 
the cooking.  The captain didn't mind.  He was preoccupied.

      But this wasn't just a social occasion.  This was a briefing, for 
tonight, the dead--in a sense--came back to life.

      Sisko himself was doing a particularly good job of blending in with the 
furniture.  Ezri had taken the lead, and the captain was more than 
willing to let her keep it.

      "With the exception of his time on the *Enterprise*," Ezri was saying, 
"Julian has spent most of the last six months in complete isolation. 
While he's sure to have recovered from any physical effects of that 
isolation, it hasn't been quite two weeks since he was rescued.  He will 
likely still have emotional and psychological issues when he returns. 
We need to be aware of that and be sensative to what he's feeling."

      "If he is unfit," Worf spoke up, though not as loudly as he might have, 
"he should not be allowed to practice medicine."

      Sisko rankled at his tone, but he couldn't speak up, not just because 
it would bring his presence back to the awareness of the others, but 
because of what he'd seen in Bashir.

      Kira was the first to defend Bashir.  "He's *been* practicing medicine. 
  Their Chief Medical Officer has nothing but praise for his ability, 
knowledge, compassion.  It took forty minutes to read her report.  I 
never knew Julian had so many wonderful attributes."

      Sisko thought again that maybe he'd been wrong not to say anything 
after his talk with Julian, but what could he have said without telling 
why Bashir had been so upset?  Besides he'd had nearly two weeks on the 
*Enterprise* with a counselor who was also an empath.

      "That's just it," Dax said.  "That's in Sickbay.  That's when he's 
being a doctor, working as a doctor.  Counselor Troi says it's like a 
light switch.  He's fine when he's working.  He's outgoing and charming 
and everything else we know him to be.  But when he's out of that 
setting, he's subdued and withdrawn.  He keeps to himself and rarely 
spends time with more than one person."

      Sisko could believe that, having heard the other's reports.  Bashir had 
been anything but emotionless when he'd confronted Sisko.  Two sides of 
the same person.

      "He has friends here," Ezri continued.  "And when the *Enterprise* 
docks tonight, they're--we're--all going to want to see him, to tell him 
that we missed him, maybe even just touch him so we know he's real. 
That may not be what he wants.  He may not be comfortable with that."

      "Like me," Nog spoke up.  Jake had invited him, and Sisko hadn't seen 
anything wrong with it.  Besides, he did have a unique point of view, as 
he was reminding everyone.  "You--all of you--meant well, coming to 
welcome me back after I lost my leg.  I can realize that now, but it 
wasn't what I wanted then."

      "Or even what you needed," Dax affirmed.  "And that may be the case 
with Julian."

      Sisko could imagine a scene like that with Bashir, except, instead of 
subdued and dour like Nog, the doctor would be anxious and wary, 
something like a small animal cornered by a pack of wolves.

      "Are you saying we should all go home after dinner?" asked O'Brien, a 
bit roughly.

      Ezri was quick to reassure him.  "No, I think we should be there.  I 
think we should plan for the best, but not expect it.  We should take 
our cue from him, keep things low key until we know he's okay with more."

      Sisko had been half hoping that would be the case.  It would give 
Bashir a chance to get settled and give the rest of them time to assess 
his state of mind.  He'd realized a lot that night.  For the first time 
Sisko had sensed how dangerous Bashir could be.  And yet, he'd also 
understood that the only thing holding Julian back was Julian.  It 
wasn't Sisko's rank that kept him from attacking, nor the fear of 
punishment.  It was the man Julian was, the compassionate one Ezri had 
talked about.  He was still in there somewhere.


      There was a small crowd waiting by the airlock.  During war, any time a 
ship put in at a starbase was an exciting relief for her crew.  The 
others were too busy talking amongst themselves to even notice him.  He 
hung back, just around a corner, watching them smile and listening to 
their laughter.  There was an energy in the corridor and it pricked at 
the sleeves of his uniform.

      He backed away, clutching his one small bag.  It would be like that on 
the other side, too.  It wouldn't just go away when the *Enterprise* 
crewmembers dissolved into the crowds of the Promenade.  It would stay 
and follow him, because the *Enterprise* crewmembers were just waiting 
for the airlock door to open.  On the other side, they were waiting for him.

      It wasn't for any rational reason that he got into the turbolift.  He 
didn't even plan to call out the deck that he did, even though he knew 
what he would find there.  A smaller service airlock.

      He was surprised, though, by who he found there.

      "The personnel airlock is up a few decks," Riker stated as he leaned 
back against the airlock controls.

      Bashir stopped at the door, still unsure of his own reasoning in 
coming.  He couldn't find a reply for Riker.

      "But I suppose you knew that," Riker went on.  He didn't seem angry, 
and Bashir didn't see anyone else in the room.  "They're probably 
waiting for you up there.  But I suppose you knew that too."

      Bashir just nodded, still unsure of his own response and Riker's reason 
for being there.

      Riker stepped toward him.  "I thought you wanted to go home," he said, 
dipping his eyebrows down in confusion.

      Finally, Bashir felt he could answer.  "I do.  I can get home this way."

      Riker took a moment before speaking again and nodded.  "You could.  But 
all your friends are waiting the other way."

      Bashir bit his lip and turned away.  He didn't have the answers. 
"There's a crowd . . . ," he began.

      "You know," Riker said, saving him from having to continue, "I have a 
brother.  My twin in a sense."

      Bashir could tell a story was forthcoming.  That was easier to deal 
with, so he played along.  "In what sense?"

      "Well, he's me."  Riker found a couple of crates and sat down on one. 
"Transporter accident.  It created a double of me.  Problem is we didn't 
know it.  So he, the other me, was marooned on a crashed ship for seven 
years before we discovered him.  In the end, we worked it out that we 
could be brothers.  I'd be Will Riker and he'd go by Tom, our middle name."

      "Oh, him," Bashir interjected.  "He was on the station.  He hijacked 
the *Defiant*."

      "And last I heard," Riker said, nodding sadly, "the Cardassians had 
him.  But that's a different story for another evening.  This is about 
his rescue."

      "Because he was like me," Bashir realized.  "Because he was marooned."

      Riker nodded again.  "Not exactly like you.  He was marooned by 
accident.  He didn't give up hope of rescue.  Not for seven years.  It 
kept him going, kept him sane.

      "He dreamt of rescue, of going home, of seeing Dad again, of getting 
his career back on track, of holding . . . well, the woman I had loved 
back then.  In short, he dreamed about getting his life back."

      Now Bashir could see where Riker was going with this.  His pulse sped 
up a bit in his chest.  Still he couldn't interrupt.  He found himself 
hoping for a happy ending even though he already knew the epilogue.

      "He *was* rescued," Riker went on.  "He did get back into Starfleet. 
He did see Dad.  And, for awhile, he even got the woman.  But he 
couldn't get his life back.  He couldn't just pick up where he left off. 
  I had his career.  And the woman, she had her own.  She'd grown and 
changed.  And, even though he didn't realize it, so had he.  The puzzle 
had changed and he didn't quite fit anymore."

      Now his heart was pounding.  "Are you saying I shouldn't go back?"

      Riker stood again and came toward him.  "No, I said you weren't exactly 
alike.  You were only gone six months, for one thing.  And there's not 
another Julian Bashir running around the station.  There's still a place 
for you.  I just. . . .

      "Look," he began again, "you've been dreaming about going home for the 
last six months, or at least the last couple of weeks.  You want to pick 
everything up right where you left off.  But life doesn't work that way. 
  It's going to disappoint you no matter how much you try and hide from 
it.  In fact, the more you hide the more you lose."

      Rationally, Bashir knew Riker was right.  But he didn't feel rational. 
  He felt violated, a victim of theft.  His life, those last six months 
had been stolen from him, and now Riker was saying there was no justice, 
nothing to make up for what he had lost.  It wasn't fair.

      When he didn't say anything, Riker put a hand on his shoulder. "So make 
the most of it.  Take it as it is and claim it as yours.  It's still 
your life.  And it's waiting for you with open arms."  The hand on 
Bashir's shoulder turned him away from the service airlock and toward 
the corridor.  "Up on Deck Ten."

      Bashir still felt uneasy about going back to the main airlock, but he 
had no argument to make to Riker, no reason not to go with him when the 
commander walked him back to the turbolift.  Riker's words had stung. 
They were words he hadn't wanted to hear even though he could hear 
himself saying them to someone else.  He had said almost the same thing 
to Crewman Bejlis about the loss of her arm.

      Riker took his bag and walked him to the airlock as well, and Bashir 
was surprised to find most of the senior staff there waiting for him. 
Geordi and Data stood on one side of the corridor.

      Geordi smiled and offered a hand.  "You know you could stay if you
wanted."

      Bashir didn't want to stay.  He wanted what Riker told him he couldn't 
have.  "I'll keep that in mind."

      He offered Data his hand.  Data had gotten him out of the cave, and 
Data had saved him from the court martial.  Bashir regretted not having 
more time to spend with him.  "Thank you, Commander.  For everything."

      "That is what friends are for," Data replied, shaking his hand.

      Troi and Crusher waited on the other side.  Troi was watching him 
closely.  Too closely.  He hadn't been careful enough.  She probably 
felt his uneasiness.

      "It was an honor working with you, Doctor," Crusher said.  "Don't let 
them work you too hard too soon.  Take some time for yourself."

      "I had six months to myself," Bashir replied, "but I doubt I'll be 
thrown right into the thick of things anyway."

      Troi offered her hand as well.  "I've spoken to Counselor Dax.  You'll 
be seeing her once a day at first.  Maybe you'll open up more once 
you're home."

      So she had known all along that he was holding her back.  *It doesn't 
matter*, he told himself.  She was letting him go, and that was all he 
wanted from her.  "I'll try," he told.  "Please thank Captain Picard for 
me."

      "I will," Troi replied.  "You're nervous."

      Bashir could already see the edge of a sizeable crowd on the other 
side.  "It's a lot of people," he admitted to her.  Riker had hit closer 
to the mark.  Maybe she wouldn't push any farther.  At this point, he 
just wanted to get it over with.

      "They're your friends," she reminded him.  "You'll be fine."

      Bashir just nodded and took his bag back from Riker.  He took a long, 
slow breath as he stepped past them into the airlock.  The great wheel 
on the station side was still rolled back.  On the other side was home.



-- 
--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

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