Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:41:50 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 6/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Three When the tingling faded and he was able to see again, Bashir found himself standing in the streets of an old, definitely European town. There was a pallor over it, though. The buildings were dark but trimmed with a light frosting of snow. It almost looked like an old, primitive black and white filmstrip he'd seen in school. People bustled about him, all with heads bowed, hurrying to wherever they were going. Everyone looked up to stare at him for a moment before running off again. There was a cacophony of sounds--none of them comforting. They were sounds of misery and fear. The cold air carried the smell of rot, of hunger, and of death. No one spoke to him, but he could hear voices. They spoke in a language he could not readily identify, but his universal translator let him know what they were saying. "They're coming this way." "I forgot my papers." "We must hide!" And then he noticed the others. The people who were not staring or talking. The ones who were not moving, whose eyes were fixed on something immovable. Their bodies were frail and still and their eyes spoke of hunger more than mere words could manage. Snow lingered on their legs and shoulders. Then there was another sound, that of engines coming closer. Bashir hadn't realized it, but there'd been no sound of engines before. That in itself spoke of something being terribly wrong there. He knew the year after all: 1943. Combustion engines were common technology in all major cities of Europe by that time. Bashir turned the corner and looked down the street. There were trucks coming with soldiers in black uniforms walking in front. They pushed and shoved people as they came. The pieces were beginning to make sense. 1943. Europe. The soldiers. The people. They each wore a symbol: a six-pointed star. The soldiers shouted in a language he recognized even before his universal translator could relate their words to him. It was German. He now knew where he was--not exactly, but that didn't matter so much. Whatever city it was, he knew he was likely in more trouble than he'd ever been in his life. Bashir took off his communicator and cupped it in his hands. He was not yet sure how he'd gotten there, but he knew he couldn't stay. "Bashir to *Defiant,*" he whispered. But there was no response. "Bashir to Sisko," he tried. "Bashir to Dax." Nothing. He was cut off, alone in this place. Whatever city it was, it was a ghetto, crowded with too many people and not enough food. He didn't need to know the name of the city. It was a ghetto for the Jews. The soldiers were Nazis, SS most likely. And he himself stood out like a sore thumb in his crisp clean uniform. Bashir tucked his comm badge into his uniform so that it couldn't be seen. He may not have been able to communicate with the others, but if they were looking for him, it was the only way they could find him. "What do we have here?" A mocking voice came from behind him, from the direction of the street where the trucks were. Other voices joined the first. They were coming toward him. The soldiers. "Hey, Jew" they sneered. "Come here, Jew." Julian thought for a moment before turning. If he ran, they would shoot him. Would they listen if he told them he wasn't Jewish? *Not here,* he told himself. *If I am here, I must be a Jew.* "Hey Jew," A hand touched his shoulder, shoved him. "Are you deaf?" Julian turned. There were four of them. He couldn't fight them all. Where would he run even if he got away? The ghettos would be walled in. And he didn't know the streets and alleys. "What kind of clothes are these, Jew?" The loud one asked, touching his collar. "It's all that I have," Julian answered, trying hard to keep his voice even. He did not want to show them any emotion. Fear would only feed them. Defiance would get him killed. They all laughed at him. "Where is your star? Have you an *Ausweis*?" The loud one asked. The universal translator had not translated that last word.* Ausweis.* "What is an *Ausweis*?" he asked knowing that it sounded stupid. To their ears, he was speaking German. Why wouldn't he know this word? But it was too late. The words were already out. They didn't laugh at him. They didn't answer, not with words. Before Julian could react, the loud one lifted his handgun and pointed it directly at Bashir's forehead. The barrel was only a centimeter from his skin. "Have you," he spat, "an *Ausweis*?" Bashir decided that there was no way the others could find him if he was dead, so he answered the soldier's question. He had nothing with him but his comm badge--Strange, he remembered holding a tricorder before the transport. Anyway, he had no *Ausweis,* whatever it was. "No, I haven't." Julian almost held his breath. He had to fight to keep from it, as the loud one contemplated whether or not to shoot him and be done with it. For what seemed like minutes, he forced himself to stare at the ground, and not at the soldier or the gun barrel directly before his eyes. It made his stomach turn to play their game, to let them feel superior. The Master Race. That was what the history books had said they considered themselves. The Jews--and they considered him to be a Jew--were pests, on a level with rats. It was appalling, but they had the guns. They held the power here. "Doctor Bashir had told me to leave the samples out," Nurse Hausmann said, her words still a little muffled from the sedative she'd been given. She'd been blood-screened three different times since waking up just to be sure she was really Nurse Hausmann. "Someone was messing with them. A security officer. I asked if she needed help." The nurse looked confused as she tried to remember. "When I approached her, this . . . thing came through her chest. It was holding a hypospray. She was a changeling. She grabbed me before I could call for help and then used the hypospray. I don't remember anything after that." "It appears," Sisko began calmly, "that you've been in stasis for the last five days." "What's happened to the ship?" the nurse asked. "Where's Doctor Bashir?" "The changeling sabotaged the ship. Doctor Bashir is missing." Sisko didn't want to worry her or the other crewmembers too much just yet. "Do you remember which crewmember she was? Do you know her name?" The nurse looked thoughtful for a few moments. "No, but I could find her in the medical records." "I think I can call up the records, Benjamin," Dax said. She walked over to the computer and began working. "Are you sure she was security?" she asked the nurse. "Well, security or engineering," she answered. The nurse looked back at the captain. "She was wearing gold. And she was human," she called back to Dax, but then decided she needed to correct herself. "Well, not human, but she looked like a human." Sisko nodded. "Here we go." Dax called their attention to the computer. "I've narrowed it down to human females in security and engineering." The nurse went to stand beside her and began flipping through pictures. She finally stopped on an attractive young lieutenant with dark brown hair. "Lieutenant Julie Whaley," Dax read. "That's her." Sisko half-knew what the computer's answer would be before he asked. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Whaley." "Lieutenant Whaley is no longer on board." "Still twenty-seven, Old Man?" Sisko asked starting to feel just a touch of relief. Dax nodded and gave him one of her small smiles. "Twenty-seven. I think she's gone, Benjamin." That was one less thing to worry about. But they still had plenty of others. "Call a meeting, Dax. I want everyone still on this vessel in the mess hall in twenty minutes. O'Brien and whoever is with him can keep working, but I want them on an open comm line." The gun lowered. "Take him to the truck," the loud one ordered. Something hit him hard from behind. A fist or a handgun, Bashir couldn't tell. But it hurt. He stumbled forward, clasping his hand to his neck. "Move!" another soldier yelled, pushing him in the back with a rifle. As they stepped out into the street, Bashir was surprised to see so few people there. There had been so many just a few minutes before. But now there were only the hopeless people and those the Germans had taken to the truck. The soldier behind him shoved the butt of his rifle into Bashir's back again, causing him to lurch forward. The cobblestone street was slick, but he caught himself and didn't fall. Ahead was the truck, a big, plain truck, already half-filled with fearful people. They cried out that they had their papers, just upstairs, in the flat, if only they could go get it. The Germans ignored them or hit them with their guns. Julian's mind raced as he neared that truck. He couldn't escape. He didn't know the city, and there were too many Nazis with guns. They might be primitive, compared to the phasers and disruptors he was used to, but he knew they were no less fatal. And if he left this place, it would be harder for the captain and the others to find him. Besides, he knew what happened to those people in the trucks. Every student in school learned about the camps. Places like Auschwitz. He'd even toured there once with his father when he was very young, seen the rooms full of shoes and human hair. But he was being pushed closer and closer to the truck. There was nothing he could do. They reached the truck. There were other people there, so Bashir had to wait his turn. There was a woman beside him. She was young and pretty despite the dirtiness of her face and clothes. She wore rags and an old torn coat that was too small for her. She had a wild, terrified look in her eyes, though one of panic, searching for hope. And then they lit up. They'd found the hope. "Tenia!" a man's voice shouted. Bashir followed her gaze to the young man who was running toward them, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand as he held it out for everyone to see. "Tenia, I have it!" he screamed. "I have her *Ausweis*! You can't take her! I have it!" Tenia tried to turn and go to him, but another soldier prevented it, holding her around the waist and laughing as she strained against him. She stopped struggling and tried logic. "He has it," she told the soldier. "He has it there." She pointed to the young man. And just as she did there was the sound of a gunshot, and the young man fell to the ground still with the *Ausweis* in his hand. The woman, Tenia, screamed and struggled hard again against the soldier holding her back. She was crazy now, in shock. Bashir was right beside her, and he reached for her, too, knowing the danger she was in. She still had a chance, if he could stop her. She was young and still relatively healthy. She wouldn't be gassed right away. "He's gone," Bashir told her as he tried to pull her away from the soldier. "Get in the truck. It's all we can do." The soldier let her go, and she began to calm down. She didn't face Bashir at first, but she let him lead her to the truck. "I'll help you." Bashir pulled himself into the truck and turned to help her. She was looking at him now, but her eyes were blank. The tears had stopped. And then there was a handgun beside her head. "No!" he shouted but the sound was lost amid the eruption of the gun and the woman's head. The projectile broke out through her face in a torrent of blood and bone, and the woman's hand slipped from his own. Someone else screamed behind him, but Bashir couldn't move. Bashir could not believe it. He knew what the Nazis were capable of. He had read it. He knew what they thought of Jews. But to see it, to experience it here was far more than his head could have taken in with mere words on a screen or even pictures. The woman was dead. This was reality, a reality he was in the middle of. He wanted to shout out to them they didn't have to do that, to shoot her in the head. She was coming, getting into the truck. But his mouth, thankfully, knew better than to move. Other people were pushed into the truck in a more hurried fashion, forcing Bashir back from the edge where he'd watched her die. And slowly then his mind began to take hold of him again. Someone else had screamed. There was a muffled crying sound still. Bashir looked around. The sound was coming from a man, perhaps in his forties. A stain of red was advancing down his pant leg. The bullet had hit him. Several arms held him, kept him from falling. A hand covered his mouth, keeping him quiet. Bashir's first thought was that it was cruel, but his second thought was that it was right. He had to be kept quiet. Tenia had not stayed quiet. "Put pressure on it," Bashir finally said, keeping his voice low. The truck was getting crowded, but he pushed his way over through the crowd there. An older woman beside the injured man took off her head scarf and pressed it onto his wound. Bashir clawed at the sleeve of his own uniform until it finally began to come loose. When he reached the man, he wrapped the sleeve around the man's leg, pulling it tight around the bullet hole while the man screamed into the hand that covered his mouth. "I'm sorry," Julian said, as he tied the make-shift tourniquet, "but we have to stop the bleeding." There were no instruments with which to take the bullet out and nothing to give the man for the pain. But he soon lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor of the already crowded truck. There was also no water for cleaning the wound, and Bashir was sure, with the lack of sanitation in the ghetto, that it would soon be infected. The man would die. If he didn't die now because of this, then he would die when they reached whatever camp they were going to. He wouldn't be fit for work. The only thing he could really do for the man was try and make him comfortable, which wasn't easy when there was no more room in the truck. At least the press of people on every side kept him relatively warm. Maybe he wouldn't go into shock. "You there, Chief?" Sisko asked. O'Brien's voice came back to him over the comm line. "We're listening, sir. And we've just about got a handle on these parasites. That should give us a few systems back." "Good." Sisko made his way to the front of the room to where Dax and the other senior officers were waiting. Except Bashir. It nagged at him that the doctor was missing. It nagged at him that sixteen members of his crew were missing. The remaining twenty-one members of the *Defiant*'s crew milled around, mumbling. They were confused and, he had to admit, scared. "May I have your attention?" Sisko spoke. He didn't raise his voice, but kept it low and calm. Every eye turned to him, and the room became quiet. "A lot of things have happened in the last hour or two," he continued. "It's going to take all of us to get to the bottom of it. "First, there has been a saboteur on board the ship." The quiet became silence as that sank in. "A changeling. We believe the changeling came on board under the guise of Lieutenant Whaley." Someone spoke what they were probably all wondering, "What about the blood screening?" Sisko let Dax field that one. Bashir had talked to her about it after all. "She passed. The blood sample taken from her was human blood. Doctor Bashir had noted a slight deviation in viscosity and oxygen content. In hindsight, that would be consistent with the blood of a recently deceased human." Sisko didn't want them to dwell on that. "Commander Worf will be heading up the investigation of the changeling. If any of you saw Lieutenant Whaley or have any information about her activities on this voyage, please speak to Commander Worf after you're dismissed." Sisko took a deep breath and then moved on to the next topic. "Before we discuss the physical damage to the ship," he said, and then he stopped. He wasn't quite sure of the best way to do this. He started again. "We believe that the changeling is no longer on this ship. We don't know if it was destroyed or if it transported away. However, it appears that the changeling removed sixteen of our fellow crewmen before departing." There was silence as he looked out at their faces. They weren't scared anymore. They were worried, of course, but they were also angry. "I intend to get them back," he said sternly, determination filling his voice. "Major Kira will be leading that investigation. It may be that our crewmen were transported to the planet's surface. If any of you have any expertise in twentieth century Earth history, please let the major know. "Now, there has been a significant amount of damage to this ship," Sisko turned to the easiest part of the meeting. "Besides the parasitic devices that are affecting the diagnostic and navigational systems and external sensors, we have extensive physical damage to the warp and impulse drives, weapons, shields, the transporter, external communications. And of course, main power is still offline. "You should all know by now that we are not in our own century. We can't return until this ship is functional and our crewmen are found. All remaining engineers will concentrate on repairs. We'll begin with the most essential systems and the systems we need to get our people back. See Commander Dax for your assignments once you're dismissed. Anyone with any engineering background may be called on to assist. "Commander Worf will choose a team to help investigate the changeling. All other security officers will assist Major Kira in tracking down our missing crewmen. We will have a briefing of all security personnel on the bridge in one hour. Help out where you can until then. "Everyone else remain behind, and we will work out shifts and rotations for your duty stations. Be prepared to do whatever is necessary. We've lost a lot of people and a lot of time here. It's going to take all of us, working overtime, to get back home." He waited a few seconds, looking from face to face. "Dismissed." The truck finally jerked and began to move forward. The buildings rushed by in a gray blur. Bashir held his arm, rubbing it with his other hand to try and keep it warm. "You're dressed strange," someone said, tapping him on the shoulder. "You're not Polish. Are you an American?" Bashir didn't quite know how to answer. *So this is Poland,* he thought. He turned to see the wrinkled face of the woman who'd given her scarf to cover the bleeding man's wound. "No, I'm not American." He decided it was probably best to stick to his original excuse for his strange attire and hope that the matter would be dropped. "It's all I have." "Can't be very warm," the woman said. Others were observing, staring at his uniform. He could feel them watching. One woman reached out to touch the fabric on his remaining sleeve. "No," Bashir replied truthfully, "it isn't very warm." "Are you a doctor?" Bashir didn't even turn to see who had asked. He opened his mouth to answer, but then thought that it might not be a good idea to be a doctor just now. He couldn't do anything to help the man on the floor. Could he help anyone in the camps? Would that be interfering, changing the timeline? "You act like a doctor," the voice answered itself. "How did you get here?" came another question. "It hardly matters," a dark-haired man retorted angrily. Everyone forgot Bashir's uniform and turned toward the man. He was young, about Bashir's age, with a defiant set to his eyes. Or was it angry resignation? Bashir couldn't tell which. "It doesn't matter how he got here. We're all leaving, remember?" Julian almost wished for the questioning, because the man's words had sparked off a torrent of worried questions that no one could answer. Where were they being taken? What would happen there? Was it really a resettlement camp like the Germans had said? The young man raised his voice to be heard over them. "The Germans don't need us. They just want us gone." "How will they get rid of us?" asked an old man. "They can't kill us all." The entire truck voiced its agreement. All except Bashir and the angry young man. "I don't see anyone stopping them," the young man said. Julian tried to focus his attention on the wounded man, but there was no more he could do for him now than he could have done five minutes ago. He didn't want to listen to the debate in the truck. He knew the answers. The Germans would try to kill them all, but yes, there was someone trying to stop them. The other side would win the war and liberate the camps. But that was not for several more years if he remembered right. And that would be an eternity for these people. Telling them that was out of the question. They were still arguing. He wanted to tell the young man to be quiet. He only succeeded in scaring the others, but then the other side of himself told him it was good for them to know what was happening, that they should know the truth. But they weren't listening to the truth anyway. They couldn't accept it. They had to have hope. It frustrated the young man, too, but before he could start again the truck jerked to a stop nearly toppling them all over. The wounded man groaned when someone stumbled and kicked his leg. Julian tried to tighten his tourniquet, but he didn't have the time. "Everyone out!" the soldiers were shouting. "Into the train! Move!" They had opened the back of the truck and were pulling people out, throwing them onto the ground. A few didn't make it back to their feet in time. Others were thrown down on top of them. This only caused the soldiers to curse at them more for holding up the line. Bashir and some of the others took the wounded man's shoulders and dragged him toward the open back of the truck. The angry man, who'd grown silent when the truck stopped, stooped over and picked up the man's feet. A younger man beside him tried to help. "Why are you carrying that man?" one of the soldiers asked. The soldier had asked so straightforwardly that Bashir thought he almost deserved an answer. "He is injured. He needs medical attention." The soldier smiled then. It was a gracious smile, but evil. It sent a shiver up Bashir's spine that was not from the cold. He could see the amusement in the soldier's eyes. "Well, we'll make sure he gets special attention when you arrive at your destination." Another soldier grabbed Julian's shoulder and pulled him backwards from the truck. He couldn't get his feet under him fast enough, and he fell hard onto the cold ground. The breath was knocked from his chest in a cloud of vapor, and his back stung from the impact. Still he forced himself to sit up. The wounded man had fallen out on top of him, covering his legs. The others, especially the angry young man, were quick to lift him up though. Bashir had managed to get to his knees when one of the soldiers kicked him in the ribs, sending him back to the ground. *Damn the timeline,* he thought, and every nerve in him screamed at him to turn and kill that soldier with his bare hands. But he knew they would shoot him in an instant if he even made a move in that direction. So he stood as quickly as he could and moved toward the line of people climbing into the train. "They would have killed you if you tried," the angry man was waiting for him. Julian was still angry and his words came out sharply. "Do you read minds?" "I don't need to." The man answered. "I can see it in your eyes." Strangely, now that they were out of the truck he didn't look angry anymore. Bashir couldn't think how to describe it. Apprehensive perhaps, and cynical, but the rage in his eyes was gone now. "What's your name?" he asked. "Julian." There was no point in lying. He wouldn't be able to convince them he was Polish anyway. "Hmph. You're not Polish. And you are dressed strange." He stepped up awkwardly into the train car and extended his hand to help Bashir up. "What's yours?" "Andrzej. Nice to meet you." To Be Continued.... (right in the middle of a scene) -- --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 Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. 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: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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