Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:45:51 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 7/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Three -- Continued Once they were inside they each forgot the other's presence. Neither one spoke as they surveyed their new surroundings. *It's not much for comfort,* Bashir thought, trying to lighten his own mood just a little. It was a plain boxcar with no compartments or seats. It had four small windows near the ceiling but they were barred and lined with barbed wire. Little wisps of straw lay scattered on the otherwise bare, wooden floor. The door abruptly slammed shut behind them, and they could hear the lock falling into place. The car grew dim, with the only light coming from the windows and the cracks between the slats of wood making up the walls and ceiling. Those windows and cracks also let the cold air in, but offered no good view of the world beyond. Julian was tall enough to see out the windows, but all that was visible were the top floors of a row of buildings and the dull, gray, winter sky. No one made a sound as they waited for the reality of it to sink in. They stood like animals, afraid to move, eyeing the ceiling, the windows, the locked door, ready to pounce on any way out that showed itself. But none did. Andrzej was the first to speak, stating the obvious, "It's a cattle car." "Do they think we're animals?" someone else challenged. "Of course, they do," Andrzej replied, but without the anger he had before. In its place was a sense of wonder tempered with foreboding. "Haven't you heard their rhetoric? We're vermin, pests polluting their perfect race." "Where will they take us?" a girl asked. She stood there shaking with her hands tucked under her arms. Her eyes pleaded for an answer, some reassurance. No one answered and, again, everyone fell to silence. But they did begin to move. Each began to prowl the car. The first to act headed for the corners and sat down forlornly. Others, those with friends, huddled together in groups as they sat, using each other for added warmth. Slowly a murmur arose as each group settled down and tried to determine their destination. Bashir remembered the wounded man and looked around for him. The older woman who had given up her head scarf was tending him in one corner. A few others were there as well, sitting close beside him as they tried to keep him warm. *It won't do any good,* Bashir thought and hated the callousness he felt in himself. He had felt the same way with Tain before he'd died of heart failure in the Jem'Hadar camp. Bashir had had nothing with which to help him, and the guards wouldn't give him access to any medical equipment. It was the same situation now. The man would die. They wouldn't be able to keep him warm enough. There were no heaters or blankets. And he was still losing blood. It was better for him, Bashir thought, to die here, quickly from shock, than to suffocate in the Nazis' gas. Andrzej had seemed to have a good idea as to where they were going. He called Julian over, but Julian waved him off. "In a moment. I just want to look out." He needed a little time to himself, and it was impossible here. But the car wasn't even half full yet and the train wasn't moving. Bashir suspected that the Nazis would bring more, so it was better to try his communicator here with fewer witnesses. He walked to the window and looked out. Bashir knew where they were headed, again perhaps not the exact location, but he knew what awaited them there: a camp, slavery, and very likely, death. He also knew that they'd lose everything they had, especially things of value. And his communicator was made of gold. It would probably be pocketed by some SS guard or taken back to Germany. Either way, it could not be taken intact. Bashir couldn't let the comm badge, with its advanced technology, end up in Nazi hands. But before he disabled it, he wanted to give it one last try. Facing the window, with his back to everyone else, he slipped the communicator from the inside of his uniform and cupped it in his hands to muffle any sound. He held it up to his ear and pressed it, activating the communicator. But it made a sound reminiscent of electronic glass breaking and would not open a channel. Whoever sent him to this place, he reasoned, must have tampered with other systems as well. That was it then. He'd have to disable the communicator now, while the car still wasn't full. If he waited, someone might see it. But the comm badge also housed his universal translator, and he worried how he would explain to Andrzej why he could no longer speak Polish. He wished now that he hadn't said anything to anyone. It was going to be awkward now. If the people were suspicious before because of his appearance, they'd be doubly so when he ceased his ability to communicate with them. But he didn't want to disable it just yet. Sisko might still be looking for him. Just because communications were out didn't mean the sensors would be. He decided to wait. He could disable it in the night while the others slept or break it with his boot heel before they got off the train at whatever camp they came to. Bashir tucked the comm badge back into his uniform and zipped up the collar. The cold was really beginning to bother him. And with one sleeve torn off, it was even worse. The others at least had coats, as ragged as they were. But he hadn't planned on beaming down to the surface and definitely not into an unheated cattle car surrounded by Nazi SS soldiers. Sisko waited for his senior officers--except Bashir--to take their seats on the bridge. "What did you find, Major?" "The shuttle has been completely destroyed, Captain," Kira began, letting her frustration show. "There was nothing left of the changeling. . . or the transporter. There's enough large pieces that we might be able to get something back from the computer. But that's going to take a lot of work." "I might be able to recover something," O'Brien suggested. "We might still get the transporter logs." Transporter logs would help him find his people. But there were other things just as important that needed the chief's attention. "How many engineers do we have left?" Sisko asked. O'Brien looked crest-fallen. "Three," he admitted, "including myself." Sisko nodded wearily. "Dax can work on the shuttle. We need you elsewhere, Chief. It won't do much good if we can find our people without being able to talk to them or transport them back here." "We can't scan outside for them?" Kira asked, but her eyes told him that she knew the answer already. "No external sensors," Dax answered. "The changeling modified a probe to blow up in the launcher. The forward sensors are gone, literally." "The parasites took out the rest though," O'Brien stated optimistically, "so once we have main power back online we should have the laterals at least." "Well that's something," Sisko sighed. But something else was on his mind. That changeling would have been aboard the shuttle. There were no more incidents of sabotage since the shuttle exploded. No sign of the changeling aboard the ship, though they weren't taking chances. So the changeling either died in the blast--unlikely with the planet in transporter range--or beamed down to the planet. Which is just what the *Defiant* had been trying to prevent in the first place. One changeling could still change the course of history. He looked up when the security officers began to file onto the bridge for their briefing. One young woman with a red-trimmed uniform stepped to the front of them. She stood at attention. "Ensign Mylea Thomas, sir. I studied history, sir, before I went to the Academy. Mid-twentieth century is my specialty." Andrzej was waiting for him at one end of the car. "This is my cousin, Vlada," he said, introducing the boy beside him. He was perhaps eighteen, by Bashir's estimate and definitely scared, though he was trying hard to hide it. "He doesn't speak Polish, but Czech is similar, so he understands. Vlada's family came here after the Nazis took Prague. Didn't do much good, though. Nazis came here next." Bashir wished now that he'd gone ahead and disabled his communicator. If he spoke, Andrzej and Vlada would both understand him, each in their own languages. And that would take even more explaining. He wished he could set the translator for specific languages, but it just didn't work that way, at least not without proper equipment to alter it. It was designed for a completely different century, one where hundreds of different cultures interacted without the luxury of a single common language. *Well,* Bashir thought to himself, *we'll just have to try not talking at all.* Smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he held out his hand to Vlada. Vlada took it and gave it a half-hearted shake. "Where *are* you from, anyway?" Andrzej asked. *Damn,* Bashir cursed silently. That was not a yes or no question. He would have to answer. He sincerely hoped that the answer he gave was similar enough in the two languages that neither one of the others would notice. Keeping it short, he simply said, "England." It wasn't exactly a lie. Neither of his companions seemed to notice. But Andrzej's countenance actually dropped. "Then how did you get here?" Bashir shrugged. That one was easier. Nothing to say. And he was still telling the truth. "But if you're here," Vlada began, "then does that mean the Allies are losing?" Bashir pretended that he didn't understand and looked to Andrzej for translation. It also gave him a little time to try and decide how best to answer. He couldn't give the future away, but telling them that they were not losing wouldn't change anything, except perhaps that it might give them a little bit more hope. "Are the Allies losing the war?" Andrzej interpreted Vlada's question. "No," Bashir stated flatly. Since both Polish and Czech shared the same Slavic base, he was sure he could get away with something as simple as that. But he was worried that the conversation would only continue and become riskier by the minute. Andrzej only nodded though and stared sadly at the ground. "But they're still not in Bialystok. There's no one to stop the Nazis from taking us. I've heard, from others, about a place. A place where they take Jews." Bashir half wished that he would stop there, for Vlada's sake. He was scared enough. But he was glad for the change of topic away from himself. He couldn't keep it up. They'd eventually notice that something wasn't quite right about him. As they waited there the light began to fade. And with the light went what little heat they'd had. Andrzej and his cousin had stopped asking questions and turned to huddle together for warmth. Vlada, in particular, seemed very near panic. Andrzej, who'd earlier been reminding everyone of their fate, was now consoling his cousin, reassuring him that if they were strong and had faith, they would get though it. They would survive. Vlada didn't seem so sure. Julian, for his part, didn't feel too sure either. He knew he was in excellent health and stood a good chance of surviving. But he was also aware that it was only a chance. The Nazis had set out to annihilate the Jewish population in Europe. Whether he lived or died depended as much or their whims as it did on his health going in. And his new companions were not nearly as healthy. It would be even harder for them. *At least they have each other,* he thought. Julian had no one. That was more apparent to him in the cold. He thought about that time when the *Defiant* had been damaged by the Jem'Hadar. He and Jadzia had been trapped in a turbolift. It had been this cold then. Probably colder. But they'd held each other, sharing whatever warmth they'd had. It was nice that it was Jadzia that time, but now he would settle for just about anyone. Starfleet uniforms were great, on the whole, and very adaptable. But they couldn't adapt to extremes of cold or heat. And it was downright frigid in the railroad car. His breath came out in a puff of vapor when he exhaled, and it was hard to keep from shivering. He found that if he relaxed his whole body, the shaking would stop. But he couldn't keep that still. He envied the others their coats and rags, no matter how tattered they were. At least they were something. He could feel his comm badge against his chest, and he wondered if he should try again to contact the ship. Surely, by now, they would've realized he was missing. Of course, he knew there was most likely sabotage, and many systems, like communications, might be out. And even if they did find him, he wasn't sure how he'd get out of this. Locked in this cattle car, there was no way to transport him out without being seen. *Maybe they realized that,* he thought. *Maybe that's why they haven't called.* It was not a comforting thought, but he could understand. He thought that perhaps he should go ahead and disable his communicator. Actually he wasn't quite sure how to do it. He didn't have any tools with him. Simply breaking it was out of the question, at least for now. The car was too quiet. Someone would hear. And he still didn't know what to do about Andrzej. *Someone had been inside the stasis unit,* he said to himself as his thoughts returned to the ship. *But who?* It didn't make any sense. Unless . . . unless someone did not want that person to be found. The readouts were tampered with so that he wouldn't know the drawer was activated. He thought about the strange Klingon vessel, the vial of blood that was not quite right. *A changeling!* The person in the drawer was the person the changeling replaced. Was it Whaley? It was her blood. *But that's just it,* he thought. *It was* her *blood.* It was human blood. How did the changeling manage that? It was growing darker still, but Julian thought he glimpsed new snow falling outside the windows. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast on the *Defiant.* But then he thought about the others in the car. They'd probably had even less to eat. All of them had looked thin and malnourished. One thing he did worry about though was frostbite. His ears had long since grown numb, and he was losing the feeling in his hands, even though they were tucked beneath his arms. People were starting to lay down on the floor and go to sleep. Julian didn't think he could. He was just too cold. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hard wooden wall. *Risa,* he thought, *lounging on the beach with the sun warming my skin.* It didn't help. He was still freezing. Kira stood up and stretched her arms behind her back, trying to work out the kink that had settled on her spine. She and a few others had been sifting through the wreckage of the shuttle, trying to find traces of . . . well, just about anything. Her back still ached. *I may have to have Julian look at it,* she thought and then stopped herself. Julian wasn't there. Through the force-field she could see the stars and Earth's one moon past the outer hull, but not the sun. Night. She hoped he was down on that planet somewhere and not lost among those stars. As much as he'd annoyed her at times--and he really did annoy her at times--Kira had to admit that the doctor had grown on her. He could be exasperating, egotistical, and completely tactless, but he could also be like he was when Bareil died: dedicated, caring, and sensitive. He could be sweet. At first, she had hated that. She hadn't seen much sweet on Bajor most of her life. It was pointless and got in the way. Sweet could get you killed. Now, he reminded her of what she could have been, what a million Bajorans could have been, if they'd been able to grow up in peace and freedom. He had what they had lost, what the Cardassians had taken from them. He still had it, even after the Jem'Hadar internment. It had hardened him, she could tell, but it hadn't completely erased that quality he had. And she didn't want him to lose it now. She knelt down amid the debris again and scanned it with her tricorder. Bashir was not the only one missing. A soft murmur of whispering voices found its way to Julian's ears from across the car where the wounded man had been. They grew louder and his translator was able to translate what the voices were saying. "He's dead." At that point, all voices stopped. Even those that had been talking among themselves, not about the man at all, froze in their conversations. Bashir's first thought was to rush over there and check for a pulse, but his fingers were numb. He wouldn't even be able to feel it. He couldn't bring himself to move his legs from their curled-up position. And he knew there was still nothing he could do for the man. Finally, someone spoke up. "What will we do with him? The door is locked. We can't put him out." In the darkness, Bashir could make out a form still moving over the man. As he watched a gust of cold air blew in through the windows, and a light dusting of snow landed on his left knee. It melted almost as soon as he saw it. He didn't want to see it. It only made it feel worse. He pulled his legs in closer to his chest and lowered his head onto his knees. "Not for me," he heard the old woman say. "For him." "Why him?" someone argued. "He's a stranger. He hasn't had to live in the ghetto." "He's a Jew," she countered. "He's in this as much as we are. Besides he has nothing. You have a coat." Bashir was so lost in the cold that he didn't realize they were talking about him until he woman tapped lightly on his knee. "Put these on," she said, when Bashir lifted his head. "You'll be warmer." He looked past her to the corner where the man had been. He could see him there, even in the dim light. The white flesh of the man's torso stood out against the dark walls. Trying not to shake, Bashir reached out and took the clothes that she offered. They were dirty and they smelled bad, but he didn't mind. The woman was right. They would keep him warmer. He opened his mouth to thank her, but remembered that he probably shouldn't speak. His lips were numb anyway. He just nodded to her and hugged the clothes to his chest. Her mouth curled up into a little smile, and Bashir thought as she walked away, that she must be someone's grandmother. She just had that quality about her. Setting the clothes beside him, Julian began to sort through them. It wasn't easy without light, but he found several shirts. The man had been wearing layers against the cold. But Julian thought it odd that there were no pants. So he took one of shirts, the thickest one, and wrapped it around his legs, tucking it around tight. Then he took the others and put them on, one by one. They were just a bit short in the sleeves and too big everywhere else. But that hardly mattered. Each one felt like an extra barrier against the pervasive cold. There was a coat, too, that the woman had put at his feet. It was as old and torn as Andrzej's, but it felt so much warmer to slip it on. He wrapped that around his torso and fumbled around for the pockets. He found them and plunged his hands inside. Almost immediately, his hands began to ache. It was a normal reaction, he knew, and a good sign, but he closed his eyes again to wait for it to end. The maneuvering thrusters worked. *Well, that's one thing,* Sisko thought wryly. *At least it will lessen our chances of being seen.* Luckily 1943 was too early for humans to be exploring space. But they did have telescopes. It was better, therefore to stay on the lighted side of the planet. But using the thrusters now, while they were on the night side, would only make them more visible. They would have to stay put until dawn. Then they'd be safe to move again before the next nightfall. Sisko worried about his people. External sensors were still out, but he'd had every available officer check out every viewport to see if anyone could be seen. He'd been relieved when none of the missing crewmen had been spotted. It was still possible that they were transported into space, but beyond what was visible to the naked eye. Sisko decided he'd rather concentrate on the possibility that they'd been transported to the planet. Sisko sighed and checked the time. It had been nearly ten hours since Bashir's disappearance when they first began to realize that they'd had a saboteur on board the ship. Ten hours. Too much could go wrong in that time. None of the crewmen were prepared to beam down to the planet in this time. Just as when Bashir, Dax, and he had accidentally transported into the twenty-first century during the Bell riots in San Francisco, their uniforms would cause them to stand out when what they really needed to do was blend in. Every hour they spent in that time carried more danger, for themselves and for history. Some little, seemingly insignificant action could change the timeline. An even worse thought was that the changeling was probably down there too. It would be nearly impossible to find, even with sensors. If it was portraying a human, the sensors would only register a human, among billions of other humans. It made Sisko angry to think that it had already been walking around on his ship, impersonating not one but two members of his crew for the last week. Sisko stood up and stretched his back. O'Brien had protested at first when he had told him that he would be working on the transporter. The Irishman could be quite protective of this ship. But one quick reminder of who'd designed this ship in the first place had quieted the chief down. Sisko hadn't expected nearly the amount of damage he'd found though. The platform had been physically torn up and key parts removed. The phase transition coils were missing and the targeting scanners, since they were linked to the external sensor arrays, were useless as well. Deciding that he needed to stretch his legs, Sisko started walking around the room. It was a small room, so it didn't take long to reach the back wall. Most of the screens and readouts here were blank, since a non-functional transporter was not an essential system, but Sisko couldn't help but feel a little claustrophobic without the usual sounds and lights and the shining stars from a viewport. Without thinking, he had let his eyes drift down to the floor, following the line of the wall where it met the carpet. He was tired. The remaining crew, including the senior staff, was pulling double-shifts now, keeping the posts covered and effecting repairs, as well as running investigations. Kira had returned to her quarters nearly two hours ago to get some sleep before she started back on her next two shifts. In another two, Sisko would be free to rest. But he wasn't sure he wanted to rest. He wanted to get his ship running again so he could find his crew and take them home. Something caught his eye. There was a reddish-brown spot on the floor below the transporter controls. Sisko knelt down to get a better look at it, but there wasn't enough light to see. He almost called for lights, but remembered that wouldn't help. Main power was still offline. Emergency lights were all they had to work with. Forgetting the lights, he returned to the platform where he'd been working and retrieved the tricorder that lay there with the other tools. He already had a sinking suspicion what that spot was. He knelt again beside the spot and scanned the area with the tricorder. Just as he thought. It was blood. Human blood. Sisko made a mental note to check the duty roster. His optimism--what little he'd had--was beginning to slip away. Maybe he wouldn't find his crewmen alive at all. To Be Continued.... -- --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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