Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 29 Jan 2004 07:03:31 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith, Part II: Forgiveness Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 5/9 Rating: [PG] Codes: Summary: Doctor Bashir, after having been marooned for over six months, Chapter 8, cont. Martok had offered, and, too often nowadays, Admiral Ross didn't feel like turning him down. Even if it meant eating gagh. The Promenade was noisy, full of people shopping, eating, or just talking. People living. That was the draw. Just living. Just putting aside the war for an hour or two. Captain Sisko had said he'd meet them at the Klingon restaurant. Ross moved though the crowd and noticed the one person he hadn't expected doing the same. Bashir. It was hard not to notice him as the crowd subtly shifted out of the doctor's way. Ross had heard that Bashir was keeping to himself after duty. And with Lieutenant Mtingwa now in his care, he simply hadn't thought Bashir would be heading to a rowdy place like Quark's. Perhaps it meant he was settling in finally. As much as Ross tried to push thoughts of Bashir and Romulus away from each other, he had never wished real harm on Bashir. And he didn't want animosity between them. The war was enough animosity. Perhaps Bashir's recent disappearance had given him a new perspective, one where they could go beyond the decorum duty prescribed and move on to genuine civility. Bashir saw him, too. And he looked a bit nervous. He darted his eyes, and Ross realized he was trying to find a different way around. But someone waved at him. Chief O'Brien. The two used to play darts. Bashir waved back. Trapped, as it were. That really wasn't how Ross wanted it. He didn't want Bashir running off every time they ran into each other. He wanted to make peace, to move beyond Romulus and the misfortunes that war had forced on them both. "Doctor!" Ross called out, motioning Bashir over. Ross was standing near Quark's. That and protocol would keep Bashir from avoiding him. Bashir moved forward, his face unreadable. "Admiral," he offered, no inflection in his voice. Ross let it go. He was the admiral. Diplomacy was part of his job. Besides, he knew what Bashir had gone through. "I was glad to hear you'd been found." He offered the younger man his hand, and a smile. "Welcome back." Bashir's eyes narrowed, his hands remained at his sides. When he spoke his voice was cold, not unlike Koval's back on Romulus. "How's that aneurysm?" Ross dropped his hand. He couldn't say anything more. He couldn't move from that spot. Bashir stepped past him and on into Quark's. He hadn't forgotten, Ross knew, and he hadn't forgiven. Captain Sisko watched from the turbolift. He'd stopped there when he'd seen O'Brien wave to Bashir, deciding he'd wait until the doctor was safely inside the bar before he met up with Martok and Ross at the Klingon restaurant and vaguely thinking he could maybe beg out of the dinner altogether. But then he'd seen Ross call Bashir over. Bashir had given a report, sketchy though it was, of what had happened on Romulus and how Ross, supposedly his contact in his mission against Section 31, had not been there when he was needed. One piece not in place and the whole thing had crumbled. If Ross had been there, Bashir might not have turned to Cretak. She might not have been arrested. An illness had detained Ross, but Bashir's dour properness around him ever since had said he resented the admiral for it. Sisko wanted to see now if that resentment would cause Bashir to lose the mask he'd been wearing for everyone else but Sisko. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Ross offering his hand to Bashir and Bashir refusing it. Bashir said something that left Ross looking pale before joining O'Brien in the bar. Ross stood in the middle of the Promenade for a moment and melted back into the crowd. Sisko stepped out from in front of the turbolift. He didn't know what exactly Bashir had on Ross, but he felt a bit of relief knowing that he wasn't alone. "What did Admiral Ross want?" O'Brien asked as Bashir reached him just inside the door to Quark's. "Just wanted to welcome me back," Bashir told him, not wanting to get into it any farther. It was loud in the bar, and he had to raise his voice so that O'Brien could hear. He moved further inside, hoping to pull O'Brien away from the topic of Ross as he pulled him away from the Promenade. "Find anything new on the ship?" O'Brien shrugged and followed. "Yeah, don't know what it is yet though. The dilithium broke down on a molecular level, that much is sure. But there's something else there I just can't figure." They passed the bar and Quark waved them over. "What can I get for you, gentlemen? Doctor, your first drink is on the house." Bashir regarded him, skeptical of this show of beneficence. "That's generous of you, Quark." "Consider it a welcome back gift," the Ferengi enthused. "It's a terrible thing to lose a good customer." Bashir decided not to take offense. "Thank you," he replied. As for the drink, Quark had said 'first' after all. Had he offered more, Bashir would have been suspicious. "Make it a root beer then." "Wouldn't you like something more substantial, to calm your nerves perhaps," Quark suggested. "What's wrong with my nerves?" Bashir asked. He'd been trying to hide his insecurities. He'd fooled a Betazoid counselor. How had Quark figured it out? Quark smiled and brought out a bottle that wasn't root beer. He started to pour. "It's just that it's a big crowd and you've been keeping to yourself. I thought the noise might make you jumpy." Bashir nodded, relieved it was just that. "With the exception of the last sixth and a half months, I've lived on this station for the better part of seven years. The noise is nothing new. And I believe I said 'root beer.'" Quark must have given up on him, because the Ferengi dropped his smile and turned to O'Brien. "What'll it be, Chief?" "Scotch," O'Brien answered. "My nerves could do with a bit of calming." Quark poured the drinks and then went to tend other customers. Bashir picked up his root beer and moved towards the end of the bar where their dartboard still hung. O'Brien was apparently not ready to play, as he took up a stool and sat down with his drink. Bashir would rather have played and left. The noise did bother him, and so had the admiral. He sat down next to O'Brien and looked over the bar. So little of it had changed. Quark was at the other end, arguing with Morn as usual. Someone shouted 'Dabo!' and Bashir turned. A barely-clad dabo girl was congratulating the winner, a short Norellian with blue hair and a turned-up nose. Nearly every chair and table in the whole establishment was taken. A few of the faces were new to Bashir, but it was still the same Quark's. Only he had changed. "How's the root beer?" O'Brien's question brought him out of those thoughts. He realized he hadn't actually taken a drink yet. "It's fine," he said, sipping now. "Just like I remembered." O'Brien didn't act as if he'd even heard. "You know what I can't fathom? The darkness. How'd you manage without the slightest bit of light?" Bashir sighed and took an even longer sip. He didn't want to talk about the cave. "It was like being blind," he finally said, trying to dismiss it. "Other senses learn to compensate for the lack of sight. Tell me about your mystery, with the ship." "All the readings are off," O'Brien said. "They're right, but they're not right. They're just off. It's just strange. I've been puzzling over it all day. I need a break. Shall we play? I've kept your darts." Bashir looked at the box Miles held out to him. He hesitated to touch it a moment. He hadn't thought about the box for months. "Thank you," he finally said. They stood up and stepped to the area in front of the board. "You want to go first?" Miles asked. "You can," Bashir told him. He remembered enjoying darts very much, but it didn't seem that entertaining now. It seemed more of a waste of time. So many other things were more important than throwing darts at a board. His patient was dying, for one. "So how was it on the *Enterprise*?" Miles threw his first dart, just above center. A twenty. A good shot. "Did you spend much time with Data?" "He visited quite often," Bashir told him. "Caught me up on everything, the war, mostly. You know he has an emotion chip now?" The second dart hit a three, just below center. "Yeah, I'd heard that." Miles threw his last dart dead center. His face lit up in a smile and his shoulders relaxed. "Though I didn't think it was working properly," he added. Bashir envied him that release of tension. Small talk and a bulls-eye, aided by a bit of scotch. If only it were so easy. "He's got it worked out now. He mostly keeps it off though. The war's a bit hard to take." "Wish I'd gotten to visit him a bit more." Miles retrieved his darts and stepped to the side. "He was a good friend." Bashir remembered their compromise and moved back towards the tables. "What about Riker? Were you friends with him?" "Yeah," Miles replied. "Not as close. He's a fun guy, though. Had a poker game every week with several of the senior staff." *Fun?* Bashir wouldn't have called him fun. "So you knew him well?" He took his first shot. Dead center. Miles harrumphed. "I was kind of hoping you were out of practice." "Want me to step back more?" Bashir asked. O'Brien smiled and waved that thought away. "You'd be standing on that table. It's not likely you'll hit all of them." Bashir nodded and prepared his second dart. "You didn't answer my question." "Riker?" He took a sip of his scotch. "No, not well. I mean, I knew him. I knew of him. I didn't spend a lot of time with him outside of work." He nearly dropped his scotch when the second dart hit the center as well, knocking the first out of the board. As it was, the liquid spilled on his hands. "You sure you weren't practicing in that cave?" "I was blind and you had my darts," Bashir told him, but he was just as surprised himself. It used to be hard to hit the board from this distance. He threw the last dart as quickly as he could and, still, it hit center. They both stood silent for a moment. Bashir couldn't take his eyes off the darts. What six months ago would have thrilled him, now sent a shiver down his spine. "Miles, I'm sorry," he offered. "For what?" O'Brien asked. "For not letting me win? We don't have to play this. Let's just go have some dinner. Keiko would love to see you." Bashir shook his head even before he'd decided. He just wanted to go. "Maybe tomorrow," he said, hoping that would placate O'Brien. "I just want to go back to my quarters." He turned to go. "You didn't finish your root beer," O'Brien tried. But Bashir was already working his way through the crowd. O'Brien watched his friend go, not sure if he should follow. He wanted to say that the darts meant nothing. But they did mean something, and it was almost scary. Perfect. Too perfect. What did that say about Julian's mind that he could do that without aiming? But Miles wasn't as afraid of Julian as he was afraid for him. Julian was hurting more than he let on. Miles knew how that felt. He'd done the same after the Agrathi prison. He'd pushed his friends away, including Bashir. He hadn't wanted help, hadn't thought he deserved it. Maybe Julian felt he'd be weak if he asked for help. They say doctors make the worst patients, and Julian never had been one to talk about his own weaknesses. Miles didn't know what to do. Julian was always the stronger one when it came to things like this. Suddenly, O'Brien felt a wave of gratitude for his wife. He downed the rest of his Scotch, retrieved the darts, and left for his quarters. For just a moment he thought he saw a strange man in striped clothing from the corner of his eye as he exited the bar. But when he stopped to look closer, the man was gone. Bashir couldn't stop moving even when he'd returned to his quarters. He felt like a rubber band drawn too tight, like an engine stuck in warp nine. He couldn't stop. His mind wouldn't stop. That was why he couldn't sleep more than an hour or two a night, why he laid awake taking apart the walls in his head, or tinkering in the lower levels. It's why he could put three darts into exactly the same space on a board more than three meters away. What had he become? For six months in that cave he'd worried about losing his mind. But instead he couldn't get away from it. He wanted to rest, to not think, for even just a little while, but when he tried, the fears would come. Sloan would come and he wouldn't be ready. The Dominion would steal him away before he could think of a way out. His mind was the only defense he really had, the only one he could count on. Too much could happen if he let his guard down. He took the time to calculate the code and then began to work out. The coded device would keep Sloan at bay for a while longer. And perhaps the war would keep the changelings busy. Tonight, he wanted to sleep. As he had before, he began with stretches but felt impatient and soon moved on to more exertive exercises he remembered from the Academy. Things he'd learned from Section 31. He practiced movements, martial arts katas and stances, kicks and blocks. When his legs began to shake from fatigue, he dropped himself to the floor to work his torso and arms just as hard. His uniform became sticky with sweat, but he didn't stop. He could still think. He could still remember all he'd said to Troi, all he'd kept from Ezri. He still felt the energy pumped through his body by his racing heart. He closed his eyes against the stinging sweat that dripped down his face and pushed himself up on his arms. His back strained but he lowered and raised himself again and again. Bashir let his knees fall to the floor and folded himself back onto his feet, flattening his torso against his thighs and his face against the floor. His arms stretched out before him, reaching almost to the spot where they anchored his pushup. It was a good stretch. But it wasn't enough. His arms were tired, but not tired enough. His mind still ran in circles, thinking this and that, in spite of the fifty push-ups he'd just completed. He wasn't the least tired. His body was, but not his mind. His mind had to be quiet if he was to sleep. He hadn't told Troi that he wasn't sleeping. He hadn't told Ezri either. He'd be relieved of duty, and the times in the Infirmary were the best part of the day, the times when he almost felt whole again. But the truth about equilibrium, despite the fact that he'd meant everything he'd said when explaining it to Troi, was that it was a fake as much as he was, as much as anything he'd let Troi see or Ezri hear. The real truth, the one he even tried to hide from himself, was that his body was an automatic shell. Each breath was an effort he couldn't help but take. There was a hole inside him, threatening to swallow him up, but his lungs still took the next breath; his heart still beat; his eyes still opened in the morning, even if he hadn't slept at all. He got back up on his knees and stretched his arms back to their positions. Up on his toes. Down. Back straight. Chin to the floor. Up. One hundred and one. Down. Up. By one hundred twenty his arms were shaking. He forced them to drop him down again and lift him up. Down, up, down, up. Two more. One twenty-five. He didn't stop. Down, up, down . . . . He collapsed, panting to the floor, sweat dripping into his eyes. He didn't even bother to brush it away. He inhaled, first one breath and then others in quick succession. He could wear his body out, but his mind kept going anyway. Benjamin Sisko tried to listen to the conversation at the table, but his mind refused to stay there. He should have tried harder. He should have pushed Garak instead of letting Garak push him. He should have made an effort to find out who wanted the gel. *Foolishness!* he chided himself. Yes, Garak had pushed him, manipulated him into going farther and farther, but he'd taken the first step himself. He'd set out to find evidence that the Dominion was going to attack the Romulans and when there wasn't any, he'd created it. That was his idea, not Garak's. The gel was a detail, one piece of the whole structure that made the lie possible. Not just a lie. A crime. What would they do if they knew? Kassidy might understand. She'd worked for the Maquis. She broke the law to do something she believed in. He'd believed, wholeheartedly. He was so convinced that they'd lose the war without the Romulans. But she'd had to spend six months in prison. Would she understand why he got to stay free? She hadn't hurt anyone. He'd caused thousands to die, millions. And Jake. What would Jake think of him? He was supposed to set an example for his son. He was supposed to teach him about ethics and principles. "Hasn't he been through enough?" Kassidy asked. Sisko snapped back to attention. Bashir again. It was always Bashir. "That's why they want me to do the story," Jake replied. "Because I know him. They think he'd open up to me, that he'd trust me." Sisko doubted that. Bashir wasn't opening up to anyone, no one except him. Kassidy put down her fork. "What did you tell them?" "That he's a friend. I told them I wouldn't sacrifice a friend for a byline." Jake dipped his head and glanced at the captain. "I also said the station's commander wouldn't allow it." "You're right about that," Sisko told him. His stomach churned between pride and shame. He had taught his son about values. Kassidy smiled. "Good for you, Jake." The door chime interrupted the discussion. "Come," Sisko called. He was surprised to see Admiral Ross when the door opened. Ross nodded his hellos to Kassidy and Jake. "I'm sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to borrow the captain." Sisko wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. "What is it, Admiral?" "Not here," Ross said. "We're meeting in the Ward Room." Sisko left his napkin on the table and met the Admiral at the door. "I'll be back," he told his family. "Go on with dinner." Once in the corridor, he hoped Ross would be more forthcoming. But the Admiral kept silent the entire way. The door to the Ward Room opened, and Sisko saw some familiar faces. Worf, Martok, and Parnal. But there were others. Admiral Benetti and two Romulans Sisko hadn't met. "Now that we're all here, we can begin," Ross said, as Sisko took one of the two remaining seats. Worf was standing at the other end of the table. "Two hours ago, Starfleet Intelligence forces confronted and killed a changeling posing as one Doctor Wilhelm Pfenner of the Aranus Institute on Millani Twelve." "The Millani system is not part of the Federation," Parnal pointed out. Sisko wasn't sure if he was making an observation or an accusation. Benetti responded, "No, but the Institute employs nearly one hundred Federation citizens. The Millanines requested our help when Pfenner's peers began to suspect him." "I was not questioning your actions," Parnal explained. "I was questioning the Dominion's. Why Millani Twelve? Was Pfenner working for Starfleet Command? Was he a spy? Millani Twelve is sufficiently distant from the front as to pose no strategical advantage." "He wasn't working for us," Ross told him. "Aranus is a research institute more concerned with theoretical science than practical. There doesn't seem to be much reason to take Pfenner at all. Which is why we can only assume this has something to do with their recent interest in dilithium shipments." -- --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! 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