Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:49:50 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 12/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Six Julian Bashir had no idea how long he'd been unconscious this time. He awoke to darkness. Complete darkness. He wasn't even sure he was conscious, except that he could feel the pain again in his shoulders, especially the left. He couldn't feel his right arm at all. And then he realized that he was laying on it. He tried to move it, so that he could sit up. But when he did, the pain flared again in his left shoulder, and he had to fight to stay conscious. He wasn't sure it was worth it. Somewhere in his mind though, the doctor in him reminded him that he had to reduce the dislocation. The shoulder muscles had already begun to spasm. The longer he waited the worse it was going to get, both in pain and difficulty. Taking a deep breath, Bashir braced himself and rolled over toward the right. Just as his right arm was free, his left brushed against the wall. Searing pain shot from his shoulder down his arm, up to his neck and across his back. Ignoring the discomfort of the pins and needles, he drew his right arm up quickly to grasp his left. He curled himself into a tighter position, his head and knees pressed against the wall, and gulped for breath as he waited for the flare of pain to die down. Whether or not he lost consciousness again, he wasn't aware, but the pain did die down, back to the constant agony he felt when his arm was perfectly still. He took another deep breath, and this time he used the wall for support, pushing against it with his back until he was in a sitting position. Panting from the effort, he forced himself to stay conscious. He imagined he was back in medical school, and that his professor had just asked him to diagnose a patient. Skipping over whatever symptoms of malnutrition he might have, he went straight to the effects of "the patient's" hanging. He still couldn't see anything through the darkness in the room. He would have to use his hands, or hand rather, and try to visualize the damage. The hardest part was releasing his grip. It felt as though his whole arm would fall off if he let go. *We're waiting, Mr. Bashir,* he heard the professor say. He let go of the arm and felt it drop slightly. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on the professor's voice. After a few moments, he gingerly moved his right hand up to the shoulder, feeling for the angle, the misplacement of the bone. *Patient is experiencing severe pain,* Bashir the doctor thought to the professor. *Probably dislocation.* *I could have told you that!* Bashir the patient scoffed. He slid his hand gently down his arm, mentally picturing the angle of the arm. His elbow hung outward away from his body and his forearm was turned in, putting his palm face down on the cold cement floor. *What is your prognosis?* the professor asked. *Well, the muscles have spasmed,* he replied,* which will make the reduction more difficult. We should sedate the patient.* *Unfortunately, we are fresh out of sedatives today,* the professor commented in a strange, sing-song voice. *Let's begin. Kocher's maneuver would be best, don't you think?* Gritting his teeth, Bashir gripped his arm tightly again, just above the elbow, and forced the elbow to bend, laying the hand on his lap. The patient nearly fainted, and with him the doctor. But the professor clucked at him disapprovingly, and Bashir knew he had to prove himself to the man. He took a deep breath and tensed his body, readying himself for the pain. Then he pulled down on the elbow. He clenched his teeth in order not to cry out. He had to move quickly, the doctor knew, or the patient would lose consciousness and the arm would never go back into place. The second step required him to rotate the arm outward. The hand rolled over until it was laying face up near his knee. Quickly then he performed the third step as well, drawing the elbow in toward the patient's heaving chest. He froze there, in that position, feeling the pull against his shoulder but afraid to move again. It was unbearable, the pain he felt. He needed help. *It is not a difficult procedure, Mr. Bashir,* the professor admonished. *Then why don't you do it?* he screamed back at him. *Because I will not always be there every time you have a dislocation to reduce,* the professor replied matter-of-factly. *The fourth step. What is it?* Bashir bit his lip and shook his head. He couldn't do it. It hurt too much already. *You must do it,* the professor insisted. *Now what is the fourth step?* *He can't do it,* a new voice said. It was a familiar voice, one that had occasionally haunted his dreams. Altovar. The Lethian had nearly killed him with his telepathic coma. *Or he won't. He's not strong enough. He never was. When things get too hard he just gives up like he always has. Isn't that right, Doctor? It's not going to get any easier, you know.* *Yes, he can do it,* another voice said, and Bashir began to wonder if he was losing his mind. He tried telling himself it was just shock. The new voice was soft and gentle, yet low and strong. It spoke with confidence. *He can do it, because he has to. Come on, Julian,* it encouraged. *You can't get back to us until you first get past this. We still need you.* It was Captain Sisko's voice, and it heartened him. Sisko had confidence in him. He did not want to let him down. Pressing the back of his head against the hard, cold wall he rotated his arm again, pulling his left hand across his body. He could no longer hear the voices, not even his own as he screamed, waiting for the joint to slip finally back into place. When it finally did, he found he still couldn't let go of his throbbing arm. He felt himself falling over onto his right side and did nothing to stop it. Just before he lost consciousness again, he thought he heard Sisko's voice. *I told you he could do it.* When he awoke again, the room was still dark, and again, he wasn't sure if he was really awake at all. His head felt fuzzy and sweat dripped into his eyes. His breathing was rapid, but he felt like he couldn't get a good breath. He struggled to sit up again and found it even harder than the time before. Every muscle ached from stiffness. And his left shoulder protested the movement as usual. He was disappointed, though not surprised, to find it still full of pain. He forced himself to move though. He had to know more about where he was. He tucked his left arm into his shirt so that it worked as a makeshift sling. Then he braced his back against the wall and pushed with his legs. Very stiffly, he slid up the wall until he was standing. It made him dizzy, but he leaned against the wall for support. Slowly he walked around the room, feeling the walls for an opening, a window, an air duct, anything at all. Still no one had told him why he'd been taken from the barracks. He only knew that it had something to do with his English heritage. He hadn't spoken to any of the Germans, so the only reason they could have known that he was English was from the changeling. He was sure that this punishment, or whatever it was, was her doing. He reached another wall after only a few steps. He turned and followed that wall as well. Bashir admitted he was scared of the changeling. How could he not be? She was right, in this place, because she chose the form of an SS officer, she had the power of life and death over him. There was no way to fight her, no way to resist that would not end in his death. All that he had left was survival. Whatever they were going to do to him, he had to survive. If he could live long enough, the *Defiant* would come for him. Then he could tell them where to find the changeling. Another wall. He turned again. He thought back to when he had been in the alternate universe with Kira. Odo had been the overseer in charge of ore processing where he was made to work, and he had already expressed his intent to kill him. But an explosion caused a diversion, and Bashir had grabbed a phaser from one of the Bajoran guards. Odo saw this and was just about to fire his own phaser, but Bashir was faster. He fired and the changeling had exploded. He wanted to do the same to the one here. Part of him felt guilty about that, about wishing harm and death on another sentient being, but it was only part of him. The rest felt justified by hunger, by pain, by cold, by cruelty, by having to stand by and watch others being killed and being unable to stop it. She'd chosen this place for him. It was not an accident that he had ended up in Poland. She'd chosen it to cause him the most pain, the most torment. He hated her. This time when he reached the next wall, he felt a crack, long and straight. He ran his finger along it as far as he could reach without bending over or stretching his arm up too high. It ran vertically up the wall, and he was tall enough to reach the point where it became horizontal. It had to be a door or a window. But he could feel no draft coming from the crack, and he knew that it was cold outside. He lowered his hand, feeling the area enclosed by the crack. It was cold, like the wall, but metal. A door. There was no handle on this side. He decided that he was in a cell. But why so dark? he wondered. What time was it anyway? Was it still night? He thought that it must be morning by now. But there was no light from any window. Perhaps there was no window at all. He moved on, feeling the last remaining wall until he reached what he assumed was the place he had started. No windows. No furniture, no fixtures of any kind. Only a door that opened from the outside. The walking had made him light-headed, so he slid back down the wall. He hadn't eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours--at least that long. He was starting to miss the soup from the other barracks. How long would they keep him in here? he wondered. Would they just let him starve to death? He waited for what seemed to him like an hour, cradling his arm to his chest. No one came to the door. No one yelled through it. The only sound he heard was his own shallow breath until he fell asleep again. Benjamin Sisko was having trouble sleeping again and not even Mozart was helping. It nagged at him that they'd only been able to reach two of the missing crewmen and still, seven had not been found. The second had been Ensign Wu. He was holding out in the Serengeti, mostly because a group of Massai warriors had found him while they were out hunting. They had taken him back to the village and were treating him well. It had been hard telling both him and Salerno that they couldn't transport them back to the ship right away. But at least he knew that they were alive, and the crew would be able to find them again as soon as the transporter was functional. The other seven were still completely lost. Were their communicators damaged, or was it more than that? Bashir worried him more than the others because he knew Bashir had been singled out, abducted from the crowded sickbay. Sisko valued Bashir, as a part of the crew, and as a friend. He was often the voice of reason or conscience in the many staff meetings they held, counteracting Worf's more aggressive nature. His personality always made him seem younger than he was, and yet, many times, Sisko had been surprised by his wisdom. Bashir was, in short, someone Sisko did not want to lose, not that he wanted to lose any of the missing crewmen. And he did not intend to leave this century until all of them were back on board the *Defiant.* It was not so much the door opening. To be honest, he hadn't heard that at all. It was, instead, the sudden rush of air into the room that woke Bashir. He hadn't realized it because he had lost consciousness, but the room had been completely sealed, not only sealing the light outside, but the air as well. And while the new air was not exactly fresh and clean, it was a welcome addition to the room. His aching lungs filled themselves with deep full breaths for the first time in hours. The light on the other hand was not as welcome. Compared to the darkness in the room, the light from the door was blinding. Bashir shielded his eyes weakly with his right hand and tried to see past the door. But the brightness obscured everything. He could make out a silhouette in the doorway. A man. He bent over and placed something on the floor. Bashir could hear the sound of metal as the object touched the cement. The man stepped back and the door closed, plunging the room again into utter darkness. The fact that he could breathe again bolstered him and gave him strength. His light-headedness began to clear, though that had the unfortunate side effect of bringing the pain in his shoulder and muscles back into focus. Still he thought he could smell something in the air, and it probably had something to do with the object that had been placed on the floor near the door. He still felt dizzy and didn't really want to try and stand again. Instead, still cradling his arm he scooted across the floor toward where he remembered the door to be. In doing so, he kicked the thing on the floor, and the metal screeched against the cement. He leaned forward, stretching out his good arm toward his feet. He was surprised when he touched it. It was warm and it was a plate. It was shaped more like a pie pan, but he didn't really care. He could smell the food on it. He could feel the heat, though there wasn't much of it, emanating from the food. His mouth watered. It had been over a week since he'd eaten hot food. He resisted the urge to grab it and start eating. He had no idea what was on the plate. It was as if he'd gone blind. *Still,* he told himself, *it is food.* And besides, he had eaten the soup. This, he could smell, was better than the soup. And anything was better than starving to death. He crossed his legs in front of him and picked up the plate, setting it carefully in his lap so that it wouldn't tilt over and spill the food. He spread his fingers and slowly lowered his hand over the plate until he felt something. It was hard, but lukewarm to the touch. He picked it up and smelled it. It might have been some kind of bread. He put it back down and felt around the rest of the plate. There was something wet at one corner, and he had to lick it off his finger. It tasted like the soup from the other camp except that it was thicker. To one side of the plate was something else. He guessed meat and thought that he must be hallucinating. It was a small portion and it was very nearly cold, but it was meat. As he began eating, he had a vague thought of bacteria and even parasites that could be in the meat if it wasn't properly cooked. He thought about the fact that he had not washed his hands in over a week either, and he was using one of them in lieu of utensils. But he quickly pushed the thought away. It had been the same with the soup. He had to eat it. He didn't have a choice. Besides, there was only a possibility of bacteria or parasites or other dangers from eating the food. *Not* eating the food was a guaranteed way to endanger his health. The bread was very hard, but he found it softened a bit when he soaked it in the thickened soup. Within minutes he had eaten half of each food item on the plate. He remembered what the Chief had said about the implanted memories he had of the Agrathi prison. He had always saved half of his food, hiding it away behind a loose rock in his cell, just in case the guards decided to stop feeding him for awhile. But where was Bashir to hide it. The cell was nothing but a cement square with an airtight metal door on one side. There were no loose rocks, no nooks, no cracks to hide the food in. The man was sure to come back and take the plate away. *Better to eat it now,* he thought, *and build up my strength.* He finished it quickly and placed the plate back on the floor. Then he scooted back again to his spot by the wall. It felt good to have eaten something. It was a better meal than what he had been getting in the barracks. Back on the station, he probably wouldn't have even called what was on that plate food. But he was not on the station anymore. It was different here. He hadn't eaten a full meal in over a week, nor had he showered in that time, or even washed his hands with soap. The only time he had changed clothes was when they gave him the camp uniform to wear. He wondered if he'd even recognize himself if he saw his reflection in a mirror. That thought brought a new worry to mind. Would the *Defiant* crew recognize him when they came to look for him? He tried to push the thought away. He had enough to worry about. Breathing, for one thing. He knew now that the cell was completely sealed, and therefore, airtight. He had no idea when they would let him out or even open the door again. He would have to conserve his air and not move around too much. The latter was fairly easy, since all his muscles ached and his shoulder throbbed. But it was hard not to take a deep breath when his lungs wanted it so badly. The familiar shape of the European continent was displayed on the viewscreen above the transporter's control console. It looked just the same as the Europe he had grown up with. He could make out a portion of England at the top edge just past France and beyond that, just the slightest glimpse of the southern coast of the Emerald Isle itself--Ireland. Chief O'Brien focused on the continent for the moment though. He had been working on the transporter for nearly eight hours straight, and he had stood up to stretch his legs a bit. Seeing the continent there, the long boot of Italy, the Spanish peninsula, the slight hint of the British Isles, it was almost like they'd come back to Earth for a visit. From this high in orbit, there was little difference between the two Europes four centuries apart. The land itself had changed little, only the structures on the land had adjusted with time, and, in Europe, that had only been some of the structures. Europe, even in the twenty-fourth century, valued its history and sense of the ancient. There were castles in Europe that had been standing for nearly a millennium. Not even the World Wars had knocked them down. There was a large transparent circle over the surface of the continent on the viewscreen, and O'Brien knew it was to show the sensor and communications ranges. But there were no other points of light. No comm signals. O'Brien sighed. He had hoped they would have found more by now. The sensors, though still weak, had improved. No comm signals meant simply that no crewmembers were down there. It saddened him that they still hadn't found all the crewmembers. Julian was one of the ones still unaccounted for. It would take several hours before they passed over Europe completely and could scan a new area, and O'Brien was going off duty in two hours. They would be over the Atlantic by then. But he was also glad that no signals had been found. While the picture on the viewscreen looked calm and peaceful, he had paid attention in history class--and he'd spent enough hours in the holosuites with Bashir, fighting off the German incursions across the channel--to know what was going on down there. Ensign Thomas had, of course, briefed the senior staff on the basics of the war. Europe *was* the war, well, half of it anyway. There on the screen was a Europe under occupation by the Third Reich. By 1943, they would have had nearly the whole continent under their control. O'Brien stared at the screen harder. And it made him angry. The sun was shining brightly and the sky was clear. O'Brien could even see the mountains, the Alps and the Pyren‚es. It was wrong. It was perhaps Europe's darkest hours, and yet, it still looked like paradise. 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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