Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 07:06:05 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson inheildi@earthlink.net Title: Faith, Part III: Peace Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: NEW 8/17 Rating: [PG-13] Codes: Chapter Fourteen Bormann was still staring at the empty hooks when the others around him, except Garulos, began to move. A body brushed between them. "Take these and follow me." Bormann looked to the voice and opened his hand. A red patch of cloth was placed there and a thin man gestured that they should follow quickly. They were led to a barrack building, very much like all the ones Bormann had cleaned throughout the day. There was a door on one end that slipped up into the ceiling and little else besides. Already the building was crowded with prisoners, all men, and all sitting or lying on the hard dirt floor. The corner just to the left of the door was empty of people and stank. Bormann had cleaned enough barracks to know why. He had not once seen any waste reclamation units or latrines. Like animals, the prisoners were made to live with their filth. But like men, they scraped together as much dignity as they could manage and kept it to one place. The prisoner they were following led them to the back corner. "Do you think the Commander's here, Lieutenant?" Garulos asked beside him. "I hope so," Bormann replied. He looked to the left and the right, scanning each face they passed, and realized there were already more than a hundred prisoners in this tight space. But he did not see Commander Riker. The man stopped near the back and pointed to two empty spots on either side of a prisoner sitting hunched against the wall. Only then did Bormann realize who the prisoner was. "Simmons!" Instead of raising his head, Simmons ducked it. Garulos sat down beside him. "We heard Jordan last night, sir. They took your tongue?" Simmons didn't look up, but he nodded. Bormann couldn't think of any consoling words so he just put a hand on Simmons shoulder. He sat down on Simmons' other side. While Garulos asked if he had seen Commander Riker, Bormann finished his scan of the barracks. He saw only one other familiar face. Jordan was sitting with a group in the far corner. They sat in a tight circle and spoke quietly amongst themselves. Then one stood in the center of the circle and the others reached forward to touch his legs. They all bowed their heads and finally, Bormann realized what was going on. They were praying. Bormann realized it, but he didn't understand it. Praying was something from the past, when humans believed in deities who were greater than themselves. He wondered which one of those deities this group of prisoners were praying to, and why they bothered. No deity had stopped the lottery that night. None had stopped it in all the other days and nights of this camp. Praying, he supposed, was a crutch, something to give them false hope. He heard the "amen" and then the group broke up. The prisoner who had led Bormann and Garulos to their spot tapped Jordan on the shoulder and pointed toward them. Jordan smiled and moved over to them. "What were you doing?" Garulos asked, nodding his head to where the group had been. "Bible Study," Jordan answered. "You're welcome to join us. We meet every evening. Today, we were blessing Ensign Morales. He's volunteered to be a missionary." Bormann wouldn't have asked, but since Garulos had, he was curious. "Missionary?" Jordan nodded. "He is going to take Psalm 139 to the other barracks. We have no Bible. We rely upon memorization. Each barrack dedicates a new missionary, who will change barracks each day, rotating to all the barracks in the men's camp until he returns to his first barracks, as Jafhe did tonight." Garulos grunted, though Bormann knew that was a sign of confusion. "What happens when you run out of memorization." Jordan shrugged at that. "A genuine concern, so each night we pray that the Holy Spirit will continue to give us Scripture so that we don't run out. I'm Jordan, Lieutenant, by the way. I don't believe we were properly introduced." "Bormann," Bormann replied. "Also a liuetenant." He touched Simmons' shoulder again. "As is Mr. Simmons, here. And our associate is Crewman Garulos. Have you seen Commander Riker, by any chance?" Jordan's smile evaporated. "No, but nice to meet you all the same. I would suspect the Commander had an appointment with our Commandant. Doctor Bashir, though, will arrive later. So, your turn for questions." At that, every head in the barracks turned their way and other prisoners inched closer. "What can you tell us about the state of things outside this camp?" Three hours later, Bormann's throat was hoarse, and the door to the barracks opened once again. It was a long walk back to the crematorium, but this time Bashir did not have to carry the bodies. In fact, Schlacter had hit him twice for trying to help one of the condemned prisoners who was struggling with a body bigger than herself. Once they reached the crematorium, though, the bodies were dropped onto a stack and left to Bashir. One by one, he carried them inside and placed them on the table. Their clothes went into the bin near the door. The table was lifted into place and the crematorium did its work. The fifth body though, was more than a body. It wasn't until he had picked him up that Bashir realized the man was still alive. He hadn't moved, but his pulse and breath were hard to ignore. As was his voice. "Please," he begged, as Bashir placed him on the table. "Not the oven." "I have to," Bashir told him. "I'm sorry." "Not alive," the man argued. "You put corpses in there. I'm not dead. Not yet. Not the oven." Bashir realized then that the man wasn't asking to live. Rather he was asking that he not be burned alive. He wrestled with himself. would it be ethical to put the man into the crematorium alive, just so Bashir could say he hadn't killed him? Would it be euthanasia to kill the man quickly before burning his body? Would it be murder? He would die anyway, but painfully. "It's fast," he told the man, hoping the man would take the burden from his shoulders. Two thumps landed on the door and Bashir looked up. The kapos. The door opened. "Why do you delay?" one of them barked. "He--he's not dead," Bashir stammered. "Shoot me!" the man cried. "Burn him," Schlachter ordered. It would be as much murder to burn the man alive as to kill him before he was burned. Bashir had never taken a life outside of combat before--or outside of being forced. He was being forced here as well. He could not win. In that case, he would give the man the least painful death. He began to undress the man, taking off his shirt. The kapos, thinking he was complying, stepped back out the door. As Bashir pulled the shirt over the man's face, the man pleaded with him again. "Shh," Bashir told him. "You won't burn." He held the man's face, still covered by his shirt, in both his hands, and then he twisted as hard as he could. The bones in the man's neck snapped and his breathing hitched. His body relaxed and released the last of his breath. Bashir felt for a pulse and finding none, he continued removing the man's clothes. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking. As the body dissolved in the flames, he shuddered and leaned into the wall. There were ten more bodies outside and the crematorium was quick. He had no time to ponder the morality of his situation. *Merciful*, he told himself. *Murder,* he argued back. Fortunately, the other ten were already dead. He processed them as quickly as he could. He was anxious to go back to living people. When he had finished, he stepped outside to the waiting kapos and the kommando of condemned prisoners. They began the march back, and as they passed the main gate, two other kapos took the women from the line and marched them away. The men were deposited in their respective barracks until Bashir was once again alone with the Jem'Hadar. He was stopped in front of one long building and one of the kapos handed him a small patch of cloth and two bars of pasty rations. "These are your barracks," he said. The other one opened the door and shoved him inside. Once inside, the door slammed into the ground behind him, and he had to grab a wall with one hand just to keep from falling. All around him he saw the sunken faces of starving men. They stared at him from the ground and from the wooden slats that served as bunks. Those closest put their hands to their faces and looked away. Several got up and moved. Bashir knew why they did. He stank. He was covered in filth and blood from the bodies of V'dara and the night's lottery winners. He had not had an opportunity to change clothes or even to wash his hands from the night's work. The ration bars he held were contaminated now because he'd touched them. He wasn't hungry anyway, but he might have given them away to someone. He dropped them there by the door. If someone took them, it wouldn't be his doing. Someone did, and he brushed them off on his pant legs before eating one. Bashir looked away and swallowed the bile that was inching its way up from his stomach. He had been there once. He knew what it was like to starve. He stepped further in, looking for an empty place. The bunks, he saw, were full, which left only the ground for sleeping, and the ground was where the rats would come. Unless he could find Max. "He's of the Five!" someone called out, "like V'dara. Show some respect." That sent a flurry of whispers coursing through the building. Nearly all the men on the floor stood up and about a dozen began moving towards him. "Tell us about the camp," one said. "I heard it was on an asteroid," said another. That one had a French accent, but he didn't look like Henri. "Did you really make a transmitter out of the ventilation system?" Bashir looked from face to face but he couldn't answer. There was no ventilation system beyond the gaps in the wooden walls. There was no place to move. Too many people pressed around him, nearly pushing him into the bunks. "Leave him be," another voice chided. "It's his first day and he has a harder job than any of you." Bashir recognized his voice and his face when it appeared beside him. "Jordan." Jordan smiled and took his arm. "This way. Your crewmates from the *Enterprise* are here. We'll get Commander Riker, too, as soon as he's released into the system." Riker. He remembered now. The runabout, the Jem'Hadar, Deyos. The bunks disappeared and he could see that everyone would be sleeping on the floor. He followed Jordan to the rear of the building and found three other faces he remembered, but not Riker's. They covered their noses, too, and everyone around them made room on the floor for Bashir to sit. "What job is that?" Garulos asked, wrinkling his nose. "The Sonderkommando," Bashir replied as he leaned into the wall and stared at his left hand. It was whole and unbroken, but as he watched, it bent and twisted and the bunks came back. There had to be a thousand men in that one building and the press of all those bodies made it hard to breathe. "Disposing of the bodies," Jordan said. "V'dara had that honor as well. Doctor?" "I need to go outside," Bashir told him. "I can't breathe." "You can't go outside," Jordan told him, touching his arm again. "They lock the doors. Just relax. This is our free time, the only freedom we have. Just sit back and enjoy it. Get some sleep. Mornings come fast here." Commander William T. Riker repeated his name and rank over and over again in a whisper. His voice had given out long ago. The monotonous push of his breath through his lips gave him an anchor, something to hang onto so he wouldn't fall. Falling gave his knees a momentary reprieve, but the beatings he received caused more acute pain over larger parts of his body and further threatened his stability when, once again, he was back on his knees. It was cold. The burning, bright sunlight of day had turned into a black night with no warmth. The Jem'Hadar hovering over him did not shiver, but Riker found himself unable to stop. His teeth rattled and his whole body shook, causing him to teeter on his knees. His legs were numb from lack of heat and circulation, but his knees were in constant pain. Jem'Hadar didn't sleep either. They had received their tubes of ketracel-white after the screams of the lottery losers had quieted. Riker received nothing and his hunger added to his instability. His vision, diminished by the darkness, swam in waves of motion. The wind whispered to him. *Lie down, sleep.* "Riker," he breathed, trying to drown out the wind, "William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the *USS Enterprise*. Riker, William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the *USS Enterprise*." Formenos lay in her bed, covered by a thin blanket. She had a small pillow under her head and a real mattress beneath her body. But she could not sleep. She ran the day through her memory searching for clues, trying to remember everything that Pfenner had said, every expression on his face. He had pleaded with her. Carl was lost in the experiment and Pfenner had pleaded with her to understand the urgency of the project. He said he didn't want to waste the forty-two that were left. There was such pain in his voice when he said it. She believed him. Pfenner was no traitor, not in the literal sense. Nor was he a collaborator as they were usually thought of. He didn't even do it for the science. He didn't work for the Dominion because he wanted to. He was forced to, in a more subtle way. The Dominion hadn't used force with him. No torture, no threats. They used guilt. For every failed experiment, another pilot was lost. And he felt himself to blame. But he wasn't to blame. The Dominion was, and she had to convince Pfenner of it. He was close to success and success would cost millions, even billions, of lives. The pilots were expendable, though she felt awful even thinking it. But it was the truth and the pilots themselves would likely understand that. They were prisoners of the Dominion; they knew what Dominion victory would mean for the Federation. Pfenner was a precious thing in war time: a compassionate man. But there was a reason compassion was curbed in wartime. Pfenner was too nice, too hurt by the loss of the pilots, to see that he was leading the Dominion to victory, and that that cost was higher. She had to convince him. He had more freedom than anyone else in the camp. And he had the knowledge. He could sabotage the project, corrupt the data. And if he couldn't be convinced, she would have to curb her compassion, and make sure that the project, and its creator, were destroyed. "Captain Sisko," Picard began. "It's good to see you again, though I wasn't aware the *Defiant* was assigned to this fleet." His countenance matched his words. He smiled amicably, but his tone was clipped and formal. The *Enterprise* was being readied for battle even as they waited for the fleet to assemble. "Good to see you, as well," Sisko returned. "We haven't been assigned to the fleet, but it seems our missions have intersected. I have a runabout I'd like to talk to you about. But not over the comm." The fleet was converging near the Garhua Nebula in an attemp to avoid Dominion sensors, but Sisko knew the Dominion wasn't the only organization that might be listening. Picard apparently knew that, too, because his smile never wavered. "Understandable," he said. "Would you care to meet in my Ready Room?" "That would be fine," Sisko replied. "I'd like to bring a few of my senior staff if you don't mind." "Not at all. I was going to invite a few of mine as well. When would be convenient for you?." "Now, if you're not overly busy." Picard's smile widened. "That would be fine. I'll have Mr. Data meet you in Transporter Room Two." Sisko nodded and Picard's image winked out. "Dax, Chief, you're with me," he orded, standing up. "Mr. Worf, you have the bridge." Worf took the captain's chair while Dax and O'Brien followed Sisko to the turbolift. "What will we tell them?" Dax asked, catching up with him. "The truth," Sisko replied. But then he stopped and grabbed her lightly by the arm. He held her gaze until she nodded. There was some truth that could never be told. That settled, they went on. When they materialized on the *Enterprise*, Commander Data was waiting for them. "Welcome aboard," he said in greeting, smiling lightly. "The Captain is waiting in his Ready Room." "Lead the way," Sisko replied, smiling back. They walked down the corridors in comfortable silence. Data only spoke again to order the turbolift's destination. When they reached the Bridge, Deanna Troi rose from the captain's chair and joined them. "Can I get you some tea?" Picard asked as he stood and offered his hand. "No, thank you," Sisko replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. Behind him the door swished closed. "Mr. Data?" Picard said, looking to the android. Data opened a tricorder and scanned the room. "Secure, sir," he reported. Picard nodded and pulled down on his jacket. "Good. Please, have a seat." He gestured toward a sofa and some chairs and sat himself. "I believe we've all met, so we can skip the introductions. What can you tell me about my runabout?" Captain Sisko met his gaze, deciding to get right to the point. "We have it." Picard's eyebrows lifted. Counselor Troi looked just as surprised. Data simply cocked his head slightly. "Her crew?" Picard asked. "We don't have them," Sisko replied, "but we have an idea who does. We were able to trace the runabout from the Faeros system. It had been cloaked. When we found it, its logs had been wiped and there was no one and no cloaking equipment on board. We did, however, find Doctor Bashir's civilian clothes in one of the lockers." "Doctor Bashir?" Picard asked, clearly confused. "Civilian?" Troi added. "He gave me his resignation a few days ago. I haven't submitted it. As far as Starfleet is concerned, he's still an officer. He left the station on a transport shuttle early that morning but disappeared in less than an hour." Picard leaned back in his chair. "You think it's Section 31." Sisko nodded. "I know it's Section 31. It's the only way to explain the cloak and Bashir's presence aboard your runabout." "He didn't leave to join them," Dax spoke up. "He left . . . ." "He left so they would kill him," O'Brien finished for her. "He told me the night before that he was jealous of Vlad'a, one of his friends in Auschwitz, because Vlad'a had the strength to commit suicide and he didn't. He wanted Section 31 to take him and kill him." Troi paled and her mouth opened slightly, but she didn't speak. "He fooled you," Sisko told her. "He fooled all of you. He's not well." "I forced him," Dax admitted. "I took him off duty until he could open up to me. I pushed him too far and took away his one refuge." "If he was unstable, he shouldn't have been on duty anyway, Lieutenant," Picard assured her. "But he was awfully good at that deception, wasn't he?" "That part wasn't a deception," Dax said, defending Bashir. "He was perfectly capable in the Infirmary." "Doctor Crusher would agree with you," Troi finally said. "He's remarkable. I've never met a human who could block my senses." "He's in trouble," Sisko said, bringing the conversation back to the main issue. "And so is your runabout crew." Chief O'Brien took up the report from there. "We found two warp trails near the runabout. They led us here, to D'Nexi." "Behind the lines," Sisko added, "to be exact. I think we can assume the Dominion has them." Picard and Troi were struck by that news. Data, however, remained stoic. "Is there any reason to think that Section 31 is ? Or perhaps they thought Dominion capture would be a more appropriate punishment for Doctor Bashir and our runabout was an unfortunate bystander." Sisko shook his head. "I don't think it's either of those. We were sent to find the runabout. But before that, our assignment was to find Pfenner and uncover the Dominion's plot." Picard nodded. "Riker's team's mission was to find Pfenner. There had been a report that he was in the Faeros system. Admiral Necheyev authorized the mission and insisted on the inclusion of one Lieutenant Dayton. She was the only one on the team I didn't know." "She was probably a plant," Sisko concluded. Picard tugged on his uniform jacket again. "It wouldn't surprise me if Admiral Necheyev was involved with Section 31." "They want to find Pfenner as much as we do," Sisko told them all. "I think they know where Pfenner is, and they set up the capture of your runabout, with our doctor aboard, in order to get to Pfenner." "So they are prisoners of war," Picard surmised. "Do you think they have a plan to get them back?" The barracks had been quiet and dark for at least a few hours when Deyos returned to him. Riker vaguely worried that he'd be questioned again. He was too tired, too dazed, too beaten to come up with good lies. He could barely even lift his head. But Deyos surprised him. "I've decided to give you a kommando all your own," the Vorta said. "Stand him up." The Jem'Hadar on either side of Riker, grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. But Riker's feet were numb and his knees cramped. His legs refused to hold him, and he fell to the ground again. He would have liked to stay there, to close his eyes and let sleep take him, but Deyos had other plans. "Keep him up," Deyos ordered. "He has work to do." The Jem'Hadar lifted him again and this time they kept their hold, which caused his shoulders to ache. "I'm giving you a rather light assignment," Deyos said in mock sincerety. "A cleaning detail. You should thank me. We've even gathered all the necessary supplies at your work site. You have it easy compared to some." He wagged his finger at the Jem'Hadar and then started walking. The Jem'Hadar followed, dragging Riker between them. His legs were regaining their feeling and now were beseiged by the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of a million and a half pins and needles. Even more uncomfortable was the smell as they drew near the work site. Slaughter site was a more accurate term, Riker decided. He had heard the screams earlier in the evening. As they rounded the corner of the building, Riker held his hand up against the light and the putrid smell. He saw a bucket and brush standing by the wall and realized that this was what Deyos expected him to clean. He dared a glance at the hooks, expecting three bodies to still be hung there. But they were empty. The walls behind them and the floor below them were smeared with blood and filth from the gruesome, painful deaths the hooks had provided to fifteen souls that evening. And they would kill fifteen more in the morning. "If it's not clean by the morning roll call," Deyos warned, "the names won't be chosen randomly. Your crew will be next." Riker was too busy staring at the blood. He didn't see Deyos turn to leave, or the gesture that ordered the Jem'Hadar to drop him. Unfortunately, his legs weren't quite ready to hold him upright and he landed on the sticky floor in another puddle of blood and detritus away from the hooks. "Clean," one of the Jem'Hadar ordered, kicking him in the ribs to make sure he'd heard. Riker had to swallow the bile he'd been fighting to keep down. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and tried to stand. But his legs were still assailed by those pins and needles, though less of them now, so he was forced to crawl through the muck to reach the bucket of tepid, soapy water. Jordan woke when the light hit his face. He was used to it by now, but it still annoyed him. His father used to wake him up like that. He'd come into the bedroom and turn on the lights while shouting "Wakey, wakey" as if it were some funny joke. What it was was blinding. Jordan sighed. He missed his dad. His parents probably thought he was dead, thanks to that clone. Jordan quickly stuffed those thoughts back down into the dark corners of his mind. He turned to his right and found Bashir lying still and staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he was reminded of *The Lord of the Rings*, a book his mother had read to him over and over as a child. Legolas, the lone Elf of the Fellowship, could sleep with his eyes open. Well, at least that was the simplified way his mother had explained it. But Bashir didn't look like an Elf. He looked all too much like a broken man, and it seemed likely that he hadn't slept at all. On his other side, Bormann and Simmons began to stir. Garulos was already standing. His orange hair looked fire-bright in the harsh overhead lighting. All around the barracks, men were moving, stretching, helping each other to stand. Jordan touched Bashir on the shoulder and Bashir bolted up to a sitting position. "Good morning," Jordan offered. "Sleep well?" Bashir didn't answer, but he did turn his head to meet Jordan's gaze. "Roll call is in fifteen minutes," Jordan informed him and the others from the runabout. "That's not a lot of time for the hundreds packed into this barracks. There will be ration bars outside. One per man. Don't take more than that. Some of the hungriest ones try to take more. They are beaten for it. Not by the Jem'Hadar." He paused to make sure they were all paying attention. "They are beaten by us. No man is allowed to take the life of another. Leave that to the Dominion." Bormann and others nodded, and Jordan looked to Bashir to make sure he heard. He still didn't speak, but his eyes looked more alive than the night before. He seemed to be lucid. Garulos offered Jordan his hand, and Jordan gladly took the help. His limbs were stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. "There will be another lottery," Garulos said, and his accent made it hard for Jordan to determine if he were making a statement or asking a question. So he just nodded. "Why do the chosen go so quietly?" Garulos went on, and this time Jordan could hear the inflection to know it was a question. "Why don't they resist?" Jordan sighed. "Because they know the consequences. No one will get rations for a week. The last time someone resisted two hundred of us starved to death. I've never been so hungry in my life." Garulos nodded and cast his gaze to the floor. "I see. It is noble then, to sacrifice one's will to fight so that others may live." "It's not easy though," Jordan quietly told him, leaning close. "It's a struggle each of us hopes to never face." The door opened and the melee began. The hungriest ones had lost their decorum and pushed hard to get through the doors to their meager ration bar. The others were hungry, too, and refused to let them through. Jordan and the others of the Bible Study stayed to the back. The runabout's crew did as well. Jordan touched Simmons on the shoulder. "You'll have your breakfast at the plant, same as lunch. Something you can drink." Simmons's head bobbed in what might have been a nod. By the time they got out of the door, only two dozen ration bars remained. Just enough. There were no chosen in the barracks the night before. -- --Gabrielle I'd much rather be writing! http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/ The Edge of the Frontier http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/ This Side of the Nether Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? Sun Feb 01 01:03:06 2004 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n3.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.86]) by eagle (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aNaFi5uf3NZFji0 for ; Sat, 31 Jan 2004 22:01:04 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13081-1075615027-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.