Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 07:06:24 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 10/17
Rating: [PG-13]
Codes:


Chapter Fifteen



      There are times, Riker thought, when people could be so naive.  Things 
got bad and they would think, 'Well, this is the worst it could be.' 
And then someone somewhere would come along with a cruel streak and show 
them their folly.  Riker had thought he'd seen horror.  He'd seen the 
Borg and what they could do to a sentient being.  He'd seen murder. 
He'd seen thousands of corpses rotting in an underground cave.  He'd 
seen people dying slowly, three at a time, in the lottery.  He had 
thought it couldn't get any worse.

      Tomorrow he would help to stone a man.

      Jordan himself had found Riker in the aftermath of the lottery and led 
him to the barracks.  "He made the right choice," he said.  Riker had 
just looked at him.  He couldn't speak.  "I know it doesn't feel good, 
but he did the right thing. It's one man.  Hundreds more could have died 
without rations for a week."

      Riker nodded his agreement, on both counts.  It didn't feel good.  It 
felt horrible.  But looking at the faces around him, he knew the 
prisoners were barely surviving on the rations they had.

      "That is why they don't resist," Garulos said.  He was leaning against 
the wall next to Riker.  They were waiting for Simmons and Bormann. 
Jordan left them to sit with a group in the corner after telling him 
that Bashir would be back later.

      "Bible study," Garulos said, nodding toward the group in the corner. 
"The calm one was a missionary."

      "Missionary?" Riker asked, but he didn't really care for an answer. 
Garulos didn't bother giving one.

      "Why does it always seem they choose the guy standing next to me?" 
Bormann asked as he found them.  Simmons was with him.

      Riker stood up to offer them a place to sit.  Bormann looked alright. 
Simmons, though, had a reddish brown stain on the front of his shirt. 
"Did they?" he asked.

      Simmons nodded.  Then he pushed Riker back to make room on the floor. 
He put his finger into the dirt and Riker could barely make out what he 
wrote as there wasn't a lot of light.

      'Plant,' his fingers spelled.  He brushed that away and wrote again. 
'Pf,' and then 'Formenos'.

      Returning one's mind to a mission had a way of distracting one from 
unpleasant circumstances, and this was no exception.  'Destroy' wrote 
Simmons before he wiped it away.  'K,' 'plant,' 'orbital,' 'help Form.'

      Formenos had been assigned to the plant.  Pfenner was there, working on 
K-Layer, and Formenos needed help to destroy the plant and an orbital 
station.

      "That's a tall order," Riker told him.  "How do you know? How did she 
talk to you?"

      Simmons pointed to his mouth.  'Pf's pet,' he wrote on the ground. 
'Access,' 'computer.'

      "She has computer access?!" Bormann exclaimed, but only in a whisper. 
"How'd she manage that in just two days?"

      Riker held up a hand to dismiss the question.  It didn't matter how she 
had the access.   They needed to do what she asked.

      "I don't suppose it's possible to sneak explosives in?" Garulos asked.

      'From?' Simmons asked.

      "Good point," Riker replied.  "We don't have anything to offer except 
our minds."

      "And one of our best minds is rotting in the crematorium right now," 
Bormann put in.

      "I don't know that I'd categorize it as rotting, Lieutenant," Riker 
corrected.

      Bormann dropped his eyes.  "Sorry, sir."

      "I don't think he was entirely stable when they put him aboard our 
runabout," Riker admitted.  "And I think Deyos is doing everything he 
can to push him over the edge.  But maybe we can help him and Formenos 
at the same time.  Maybe we can get him to focus on this dilemma."

      "Sir," Garulos said.  "What is going on with him?  I can understand not 
telling us on *Enterprise*, but I think here we should know."

      Riker sighed and rubbed his chin.  The stubble growing there scratched 
at his filthy hands.  "He was at Auschwitz once.  I'll keep it simple 
and say he did not have a good time.  This place looks like Auschwitz. 
There are a lot of similarities."

      "I take it you're not talking about the museum," Bormann suggested. 
"So he's having flashbacks?"

      Riker nodded.  "And that group we discussed on the runabout, they 
abducted him on multiple occasions, tried to recruit him, and 
manipulated him into doing what they wanted.  They marooned him.  We 
found him a few weeks back."

      "Six months of solitary confinement," Garulos said, nodding himself. 
"And considering how this group has treated us, setting us up for 
capture. . . ."  He let those thoughts trail off.

      "Well, he has one advantage now," Bormann said, smiling wickedly.

      "What's that?" Riker asked.

      "He's not the worse smelling prisoner anymore," Bormann replied.  "Sir."

      Riker smirked himself.  "Very funny.  Now let's look into Formenos's 
problem so we have something to present to him when he returns."




      Bashir lifted the man onto the table and began to strip the clothes 
from him.  The last one had been alive, like before.  Snapping his neck 
was easier this time.  Killing was getting easier and it frightened him. 
  This one was the believer.  And as Bashir looked at his face, he 
noticed that he was no longer gaunt.  His cheeks were full, his limbs 
well-muscled.  If not for the trickle of blood from his lips, Bashir 
would have thought the man alive.

      "You know now," he told the man, knowing he couldn't hear.  "So is it 
true?"

      The man, of course, didn't answer, and Bashir lifted the table and 
sealed the crematoria door.  In a few seconds, the man's body was gone.

      Beyond that, he had no other thoughts.  *Carry the body, undress it, 
close it, burn it.  Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it.* 
Over and over.  He didn't smell the stench of their blood.  He didn't 
feel the weight of the corpses.  He only moved.  *Carry the body, 
undress it, close it, burn it.*  He'd been here before, and somehow, in 
the years and months between he'd managed to think there was a reason to 
live again.  Heiler laughed at him from the corner of the room.




      Cloak or no cloak, the *Defiant* could not get behind the D'Nexi Lines. 
  She could only go through them.  And to go through them, she had to 
fight.  About six hundred Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan ships had 
reached the D'Nexi Lines today to reinforce the Klingon forces that had 
been holding the Lines for the last two weeks.  The Dominion had been 
ready for them.  Not a half hour after the fleet arrived, eight hundred 
Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships swooped in to face them and the 
battle had been raging ever since with barely a let up.  Each cubic 
meter of space was fought over, ship for ship.

      Barrage after barrage slammed into the *Defiant*, but the shields and 
the armor below them held.  Casualty reports were streaming in.  The 
*Defiant* had taken two casualties so far, both wounded, none dead. She 
was lucky.  The Allied fleet had lost seventeen ships already, and the 
battle had only started a few hours before.  The Dominion, thankfully, 
had lost twenty.  But the odds were still tight.  Starfleet Command was 
already trying to divert more ships to the Lines, but there weren't 
enough ships around to divert.  That said, the Lines were holding and 
the allies were even managing to push them back a bit.




      Jordan finished the Bible Study just as Bashir entered the barracks. 
As he had done the night before, he pushed his way to the front to guide 
him back to his crewmates.  Bashir had looked wildly around the room 
last night.  Tonight he didn't raise his eyes from the floor as he let 
Jordan lead him to the others.  Riker stood when they arrived.

      "Doctor?" he asked.  Bashir didn't move or raise his eyes.  Riker 
grabbed his shoulders with both hands.  "Julian, look at me."  It took a 
little shake but Bashir did finally look up.  "That's better," Riker 
said as he released the doctor.  "We need your help."  He pointed to the 
ground in front of Simmons.  "Sit here.  Mr. Jordan, we could probably 
use your help as well."

      They all sat in a tight circle and Riker laid out the problem.  The 
last crewmate, a woman named Formenos had been assigned to the plant. 
But someone named Pfenner there took her on as a favorite.  She kept her 
tongue and had somehow gained access to a computer.  The plant was 
developing a dangerous new technology, and Formenos wanted to stop it. 
She just didn't know how.

      As bad as the evening had been, Jordan relished the thought of a 
mission to stimulate his mind--and perhaps damage the enemy's war 
efforts.  They conspired half the night and came up with a brilliant 
plan: a virus.  If only they could carry it out.  Right now they didn't 
even know how to tell Formenos their plan, let alone the details on how 
to carry it out.  Simmons had smuggled a napkin out of the plant, but 
none of them could imagine how they would write on it.  In the end, 
knowing morning would come soon and a long day would follow it, Riker 
ordered them to get some sleep.




      Riker and Jordan were asleep on either side of him, but Bashir couldn't 
sleep.  Not that he didn't want to.  He even tried closing his eyes, 
resigning himself to whatever should come in the night.  Still, he could 
not rid himself of the condemned man's face.  He could already feel the 
weight of the stone in his hand.

      He opened his eyes when he felt the soft tingle of a transport near his 
feet.  He was surprised to see a young a woman with short, dark hair 
smiling down at him.  She was dressed in black just as Sloan often wore. 
  As he sat up, she knelt down and a bit of hair fell onto her forehead. 
  She brushed it back then pointed to the napkin by Riker's head.

      Bashir picked it up but was wary of giving it to her.  She was either a 
changeling or Section 31.  There was nothing on the napkin, however, as 
they'd yet to decide how they might compose a virus onto it.  She 
motioned that he should give it to her.  He passied it over and she 
placed another napkin in his hand.  It was very dark, but he could just 
make out some dark figures on its fold.

      "You know things didn't quite turn out as we planned," she whispered. 
  She gave him a sad smile.  "We thought they'd put that mind of yours 
to work.  Still the mission is going well in other fronts."  She nodded 
toward the napkin and then stood.  The transport took her almost immediately

      Bashir held up the napkin, trying to turn it into one of the wan shafts 
of light from outside. He knew now who the woman was.  He didn't close 
his eyes again for the rest of the night.

      When Riker woke up, Bashir showed him the napkin with its tiny print 
detailing a virus that would do everything they'd planned the night before.

      "How did you. . . ?" Riker tried to ask, looking at the small square of 
paper in his hands.

      "I didn't," Bashir admitted.  "We had a visitor last night.
Thirty-one."

      "I'd say so," Riker said, "but if they could do this, why would they 
need you?"

      Bashir just shrugged.  "They underestimated the Dominion.  Thought 
they'd put me to work with Pfenner."




      They didn't speak for a few minutes and Riker was surprised by Bashir's 
next question.  "Do you still think I'm arrogant?"

      Riker watched him, looking for any suggestion of aggression on his 
face.  He didn't find it.  "You care what I think?

      "It's not that I didn't before," Bashir replied.  "It didn't matter. 
You were temporary.  I was going back to DS9."

      Riker nodded.  "I wouldn't be your commanding officer."  He leaned back 
and thought about Bashir's question for a moment.  "No.  I don't think 
you're arrogant."

      "Arrogant means you think of yourself more than others," Bashir said. 
"I'm more arrogant now than I ever was before.  People thought I was 
arrogant before, but I thought of myself as less than all of them."

      "And now?"  Riker wanted to keep him talking. And he really wanted to 
know how Bashir thought of himself.  He didn't think he'd heard this 
many words from Bashir since they came to this camp.

      "And now," Bashir went on, "I'm all that there is.  I'm the only one I 
can really trust because I'm the only one I can control.  Everyone else 
has the potential to betray.  They are unpredictable."

      That was heavy but it had an amount of logic to it.  "To a certain 
extent," Riker countered, "you should be able to predict based on 
previous actions and a person's character."

      "Like with Captain Sisko and the order he gave?" Bashir challenged. 
His voice, however, remained calm and somewhat distant.  "And Starfleet 
Command who backed him up?  The Federation Council which turns a blind 
eye to Section 31?  Like a certain admiral who lied to me, used me?"

      "Good point," Riker conceded.  "Makes it hard to trust, I suppose.  But 
you trusted Data."

      Bashir nodded and rested his head against the wall again.  "Data is a 
machine.  A wondrous machine, but a machine.  He's programmed to be 
moral.  And barring someone tampering with that programming, he'll do 
the right thing."

      Riker felt he needed to counter that, both for Bashir and for Data. 
Data could base a lot of his personality and choices on programming, but 
he not everything could come down to 1's and 0's.  He had his ethical 
dilemmas from time to time.  Bashir needed to know that.  "There was 
this man, Kivas Fajo," he said, "a collector of unique things.  He 
captured Data and kept him by threatening to harm someone else with a 
very painful weapon.  Data eventually convinced Fajo's assistant to help 
him escape, but Fajo used that weapon on her.  Data took the weapon from 
him, but Fajo taunted him with his programming.  He knew Data couldn't 
kill him.  Data had to decide then: Could he kill Fajo or stay and let 
Fajo continue threatening and killing people to keep him there?  He was 
saved from that choice by the transporter, but Geordi caught the 
discharging weapon in the beam and deactivated it.  Data did not say 
that he had fired it.  He let us believe it was a malfunction but I have 
my doubts."

      Bashir looked thoughtful then closed his eyes.  "I had a choice once. 
I could take the whip and beat this poor man who'd been caught doing 
something or I could watch as every man in my kommando was shot in the 
head.  I thought the world would have to come to end, the universe would 
have to rip itself apart.  It was an impossible choice.  But I made it."

      He opened his eyes again and turned to face Riker.  "I'm not proud of 
beating him, certainly not of killing him. It ripped a piece of my soul 
from me.  I would have died myself but she wouldn't turn the gun on me. 
  Given those two horrible choices--to obey and kill a man, or to 
disobey and let twenty, thirty die--I made the right one.  So did Data."

      Riker nodded, "I agree, but I don't think it had anything to do with 
his programming."

      Bashir turned his face to the crowded room again and was quiet for 
awhile.  Riker wondered what he was thinking.

      Finally he spoke.  "I learned something in Auschwitz:  Dying is easy. 
Living is hard."

      Riker didn't believe that, not even here.  Life was not always easy but 
it was better than death.  Bashir had been trying to die before he was 
transported onto the runabout, but he wasn't dead yet.  Death was 
obviously harder than he thought.

      "Once this war is over," he told him, " we should have a drink and 
discuss that again.  I think your perspective may change a bit."  Bashir 
didn't answer and Riker guessed he was still being morose.  "Did you eat 
anything yesterday?" he asked.

      "When?" Bashir asked in return.

      "Breakfast or lunch," Riker answered.  "You need to eat.  The ration 
bars taste awful, but at least they're something."

      The door opened and Bashir was saved from having to reply by the 
gruesome reality of what was to come.

      On the one hand, Riker was thankful for Section 31's gift.  They could 
accomplish their mission--and more--and maybe get out of this camp.  But 
on the other, having the puzzle solved for them had lost them the 
opportunity to reach Bashir.  For a moment he had been coherent, and 
Riker had tried to take advantage of that moment of lucidity to get him 
to eat.  He was sure Bashir had neither slept nor eaten since he had 
left DS Nine.  Bashir's enhancements were likely a factor in his 
endurance, but even now his hands were beginning to shake and his face 
was taking on an unhealthy pallor.

      As the prisoners stood, Riker realized he was using Bashir as a way to 
cope.  He could practically hear Deanna's voice telling him as much.  If 
he worried about Bashir, he didn't have to worry about what was going to 
happen this morning.

      Deyos himself stepped through the door flanked by Bashir's 
near-constant shadows: the Jem'Hadar Third and his nondescript 
companion.  They pushed their way through the crowd to Bashir's side, 
took his arms, and pulled him toward the door.

      Though he didn't relish the idea of stoning a man to death, Riker 
hurried after them.  When Bashir and his escorts reached Deyos, the 
Vorta spun on his heels and led them outside.  Instead of piles of 
ration bars waiting on the ground, there were only stones this morning.

      "Need I remind you not to try any tricks, Doctor?" Deyos asked.  "You 
could kill him with one stone and a sufficient knowledge of anatomy. 
But that would rob your colleagues of their usefulness.  If he dies too 
quickly, I can still cut rations."

      Bashir didn't say anything, even when Deyos handed him one of the 
larger stones in the pile.  He didn't even look up.  Deyos smirked and 
Riker found himself fantasing about killing that Vorta in a slow and 
extremely painful way.  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to 
find Jordan behind him.

      "He's not just punishing Bashir," he whispered.  "He's trying to break 
us all."

      Garulos was with him.  "No prisoner is allowed to take the life of 
another."

      Jordan nodded.  "And until today, that code has not been broken."

      Riker nodded and picked up his own stone and joined the line that was 
forming behind Deyos and Bashir.  "And if we all should accidentally miss?"

      "Don't underestimate Deyos," Jordan warned.  "He hasn't bluffed yet.  I 
don't think he's bluffing now.  He could starve half this camp in a week."

      Deyos himself led them to the far side of the roll call grounds where 
the condemned prisoner was tied between two posts.  Jem'Hadar guards 
formed everyone into lines.  Unlike other days, there was no chatter 
among the prisoners.  The women were marched in and put in a line just 
beside the men.  Riker looked for Formenos but couldn't see her. He knew 
the plant workers stood together at roll call but he couldn't tell this 
morning who was assigned to the plant and who was not.

      "After throwing your stone," Deyos announced to the gathered prisoners, 
"proceed to roll call.  Now the good Doctor Bashir will grace us with 
the first stone."

      Past Bashir's shoulder, Riker could see the poor man who was about to 
die pull hard against his bonds.  He wept and shook his head.  Bashir, 
with so blank an expression he might have been a robot, stepped forward 
one step and held his stone up toward the man, like a baseball player on 
a pitcher's mound.  He pulled his arm back and threw, catching the man 
directly in the throat. So hard was the shot that the man fell backwards 
and only the ropes on his wrist kept him upright.  He coughed and gasped 
for breath as a trickle of bright red blood trailed down his neck.

      Deyos stopped Bashir from walking away.  "I thought we discussed this," 
he said.  "I can still cut their rations.  How many will die, do you 
think, because of your pity?"

      "He isn't dead," Bashir replied.

      Coughing blood between his lips, the condemned man stood again.

      "How fortunate," Deyos retorted, stepping out of the way.  He turned to 
the first woman in line.  "Madam, if you will.  And make sure you hit him."

      She threw her stone, hitting the man in the leg.  He stumbled but 
choked out a cry of pain.  Riker was next, and he just couldn't do it. 
Bashir, he could understand.  Bashir wasn't in his right mind anymore. 
Yet still, it was obvious that the stone to the throat was meant to kill 
the man quickly, though not immediately.   Bashir had that knowledge of 
anatomy.  He knew just where to throw.  Riker didn't have that advantage.

      "Throw it, Commander," Deyos ordered.  "Throw it or you can join him 
and I'll still cut their rations."

      Riker felt his knees begin to buckle.  This was impossible.  And yet 
there he couldn't let all the prisoners suffer for this one man's very 
understandable wish to live.

      "We're waiting," Deyos said, stepping closer.

      Telling himself he only held a snowball, Riker threw, and his stone 
contacted solidly with the man's stomach.  The man hunched forward as he 
began coughing again.  His chin and chest were red from the blood.
        Feeling rather nauseous and suddenly exhausted, Riker turned away 
from the man and followed after Bashir.  They were led back to the roll 
call grounds and lined up in the usual ranks.  Riker felt every thunk of 
stone against the man behind him.  He kept walking, trying to 
concentrate on the napkin that Simmons carried and not what he'd just 
done.  Jordan joined them, with Garulos not far behind.  Simmons came 
next and stood between Garulos and Bormann.  So even the plant workers 
were part of the stoning.

      It took two hours for the stoning to end, though the victim's cries had 
turned to whimpers within the first hour.  Riker's legs were already 
numb by the time the last man was lined up for roll call.  Deyos, 
however, did not appear interested in altering the routine any more than 
he already had.  The count went on, and so did the lottery.  Fifteen 
people hung--one to replace the stoned man--and fifteen new prisoners 
were chosen to die that evening.  And Bormann was one of them.




      Formenos waited anxiously for the prisoners from the camp to arrive. 
She went with Pfenner to the lift and tried not to look as if she was 
anxious.  She worried the Vorta or Jem'Hadar there would see through her 
deception.  Only Pfenner knew she was not who she claimed to be.

      The workers finally began to stream in.  "Deyos kept you longer than 
usual," the Vorta said.  "You're behind schedule.  There will be no meal 
breaks today.  You'll need those to make your quota."

      The group, already looking forlorn, didn't so much as groan.  And of 
course, no one spoke to tell why they were late.  One by one, they 
opened their mouths, showing their lack of tongues to ensure that no 
other prisoners had infiltrated their ranks.  Pfenner walked behind the 
Vorta, and Formenos walked behind him.  Simmons turned his eyes to her 
as the Vorta examined him, and when the Vorta moved on, he nodded once. 
  Formenos only hoped that nod was meant for her.

      With the simple inspection finished, the lift began to rise.  Simmons 
moved another prisoner aside so that his side of the rank was nearest to 
her.  The lift stopped and the workers filed out.  Simmons was too close 
however and ran into Formenos.  And Formenos had the sense to fall.

      Simmons frantically held out a hand to say he was sorry, and used the 
other to grab her arm and help her up.  One finger tapped against the 
inside of her arm, and Formenos clamped her arm hard to her side.  Once 
she was on her feet, one of the Jem'Hadar guards grabbed Simmons and 
clubbed him to the ground.

      "He can't work," Pfenner snapped, joining in the scene, "if you knock 
him senseless.  You're fine, aren't you, Eline?"

      That last question to her was softer, as if he sincerely cared.  "Yes, 
I'm fine," she confirmed.  "Accidents happen."

      One of the other workers helped Simmons up and they went on to their 
stations.  Pfenner and Formenos left the Vorta behind and took another 
lift to the lab.  Pfenner went to his console and began to work. 
Formenos excused herself, telling him that she needed to use the 
lavatory.  Once there she lifted her arm and found the napkin that had 
held the bread she'd given to Simmons.  Only what it held now was worth 
far more than a piece of bread.  She didn't understand it all, but she 
knew what to do with it.  It was a program.  She had to get to a 
terminal, somewhere where not even Pfenner would see her work. 
Everything she needed was laid out on that small bit of soft paper in 
impossibly fine print.  She tucked the napkin into a pocket and hurried 
back to the lab.


-- 
--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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