Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:49:54 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 13/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Six -- Continued

      The burst of air woke Bashir again, and the light from outside
again hurt his eyes.  He hadn't remembered falling asleep.  This
time there were several silhouettes against the light.  He couldn't
tell how many.  He heard a very authoritative voice say something,
in German, of course, and then one of the men stepped into the
room.  His body blocked the door so that the brightness faded and
Bashir could see again.  He wore a uniform like the SS officers,
but he didn't look like the one the changeling had been
impersonating that first night.

      Bashir braced his back against the wall again and pushed with
his legs until he was standing.  It was easier this time, since his
muscles had had a little time to relax, but he felt dizzy once he was
up all the way.  A second man stepped into the room.  Bashir
fought with his own body to show no reaction, but he felt his legs
begin to shake.  He was afraid.  Afraid that they would hang him
on the post again, or worse.  They had brought him here for a
reason.  They were not going to just let him go now.

      The two men moved quickly and each took one of Bashir's
arms.  Bashir had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.  He felt
his knees turning to rubber and tried to brace them again.  But they
were moving too fast.  The two men were pulling him toward the
door.  Bashir didn't want them to know about his shoulder.  They
might exploit such a weakness.  So he stepped ahead quickly,
ignoring the dizziness, the pain, and the instability of his own legs.
He wanted to stay even with them and not let them pull on his
arms.

      The light in the hallway was still too bright for Bashir's eyes
which had grown accustomed to the severe darkness of the cell.
He could not make out any details of the corridor because he had
to squint against the light, but he could feel the closeness of the
two men.  Apparently the passageway was rather narrow.  Bashir was
thankful when the one on the left released his arm and moved to
walk behind him rather than at the side.  The man on the right
tightened his grip, and his own arm kept brushing against Bashir's.

      At each step the light became more bearable, and Bashir could
make out the numbers on the doors he passed.  Other cells.  He
could also hear some of the prisoners inside them, groaning softly
or crying out.  He also thought he heard a rhythmic chant, perhaps
a Jewish prayer, behind one of the doors he passed.

      They took him up some stairs and down another, wider hallway.
There were no cells here and the light was different, more natural.
He was led into a small, brightly lit room.  There was a window
there and Bashir could see the sun shining into the yard.  He saw
the wooden wall and three posts.  He shuddered.  Three men were
hanging there.

      There were two men already in the room.  One sat,
while the other stood stiffly against the wall.  They weren't SS.
Bashir wasn't sure what they were, but they were not wearing the
same uniforms as the others.  Instead of the gray and black of the
SS, they each had on a long brown leather coat.  It was buttoned up
high to conceal most of their other clothes, but it looked as though
they were wearing regular suits underneath.

      There was another chair in the center of the room.  One of the
guards hurried in to push it off to the side near the only other
furniture there.  A table stood near one wall.  A clear glass pitcher
of water sat upon it, with two glasses.  There was also a plate of
food.  Real food, not like that in the camp or even what he'd been
given in the cell.  It looked like turkey or chicken and potatoes.

      Bashir felt his stomach tighten, and his mouth started to water.
But more than the food, he wanted the water.  He hadn't had water
in several days.  He knew he was dehydrating.  There was also a
clock on one wall.  It was nearly 2:30.

      The other guard led him to the center of the room where the
chair had been and then stepped away.  The sitting man watched
him closely, a half-smile gracing his round face.  The man beside
him, took a small step forward.  "*Zieh Dich aus!*" he
commanded.

      Bashir did not know what to do.  The man had spoken in
German.  They knew he was English.  He wondered why they
didn't find anyone to translate like the SS man in the barracks.  He
hesitated a moment and then spoke, "I don't understand."  He said
it very quietly, just loud enough to be heard.

      The sitting man lifted his chin slightly and the guards came
back to him.  Very roughly, they began to undress him, stripping
off his shirt first.  Fearing for his shoulder more than his pride,
Bashir helped them, trying to guide the shirt off without pulling on
his left arm.  Even still, the movement was enough to cause his
whole left side to erupt in pain.  His sight began to blur.  He bit his
lip again, swallowing any sound he might make.  They stripped
away his pants last and then pressed down on his shoulders until he
was kneeling naked before them in the center of the room.

      The room seemed to be spinning, and Bashir tasted blood from
where his teeth were digging into his lip.  But he didn't fall, and
after a few minutes, his sight returned to him as well.  His shoulder
still hurt, since now he couldn't support it at all without giving
away his injury.  But he was thankful it had not dislocated again.
The air in the room was cool on his skin, and he began to shiver.

      The two guards left then, and the standing man walked slowly
in a circle around Bashir.  Bashir watched him as well as he could
without turning his head.

      "*Wie heiBt du?*" the sitting man asked, in a gentle voice.

      Bashir was afraid to speak.  Had the undressing been a
punishment for speaking before or simply normal procedure?

      "*Wie heiBt du?*" the second man repeated into Bashir's ear.
His voice was louder and definitely more menacing.

      "*Warum bist du hier?*" the sitting man said.  He still spoke
lightly.  "*Was machen Sie in Polen?*"

      "I don't understand," Bashir finally breathed again.

      "*Ich weiB, daB Du das verstehst!*" came the harsh words in
his ear.

      The sitting man smiled then, a full smile.  He stood and
walked over to the small table.  He stood to one side so that he did
not block Bashir's view as he slowly poured a glass of water.  He
sat down again, and, still smiling, he sipped the water.  *"Sind Sie
durstig?  Mochten Sie etwas Wasser?*"

      *"Zeigen Sie uns, daB Sie uns verstehen, dann bekommen Sie
Wasser.*"

      Bashir stared from one to the other, his brows furrowed in
confusion.  He couldn't understand them.  They just kept talking,
one with his quiet voice between sips of apparently delicious
water, and the other more threateningly from behind him or to
either side.  The sitting man eventually drained his glass and went
to place it back on the table.  This time he took a pinch of food and
tucked it into his mouth.  He licked off his fingers afterwards.

      "*Sie sind wahrscheinlich auch hungrig, nicht wahr?  Dann
sagen Sie es mir einfach,*" he said.  "*Sagen Sie es mir und sie
konnen etwas zum Essen haben.  Wie lange ist es her, daB Sie eine
richtige Mahlzeit hatten?  Sie zittern ja.  Sie frieren bestimmt.
Mochten Sie Ihre Kleider zuruck haben?  Sie mussen es nur sagen,
dann gehoren Sie wieder Ihnen.*"

      Bashir's knees felt weak.  The room had grown darker.  Outside
the sun had set.  He glanced again at the clock.  The long hand was
just about to touch the twelve.  It was five o'clock.  He glanced at
the empty chair and then back to the table of food.  He could
understand now what the man was doing, tempting him with food
and drink.  But to what end?  What did they want to know?

      "*Ah! Ihre Beine werde mude!*" the sitting man's smile
widened into a grin.  "*Das ist ein sehr bequemer Stuhl.  Gehen sie
hin, setzen Sie sich.*"


      The door opened and another man, dressed the same, stepped
in.  He was a very tall man, with handsome features and a glint in
his eye.  He said nothing but walked to the corner of the room and
stood there against the wall.  The other two men had turned to
watch him as well, and Bashir got the idea that this new man was
their superior.

      The man nodded and the two men continued.  The one sat down
again and the other continued his pacing.  It was making Bashir
dizzy, either that or it was simply weakness and the need to sit
down.  The door remained open and Bashir could hear footsteps
coming.

      The two guards appeared in the doorway then, carrying another
small table and a chair.  The tall man directed them over to a
corner near the window.  They set the table down and left.
Another person entered, dressed differently than all the others.

      It took Bashir a moment to realize that it was a woman.  She
wore stripes, like Bashir, but on a dress and coat rather than shirt
or pants.  Her head was shaved, leaving only dark stubble.  She
was emaciated, but she moved quickly, her eyes never looking up
from the floor.  She was carrying a tray with more plates and
another glass.  She moved to the new table and set it with two
places.  Then she went to the other table and removed the plate of
food that was there.  She set another down in its place, and Bashir
could see the steam rising off of it.  She shuffled quickly out of the
room again.  The two guards followed her and closed the door
behind them.

      The air in the room now began to fill with the smell of the food.
Potatoes again and meat, but this time it was pork.  It appeared to
be breaded.  There were also several slices of dark brown bread.  It
looked soft.  There was even a small plate of butter to go with it.

      The harsh man stopped pacing and pulled the new chair up to
the table near the window.  He sat down and smiled, picking up his
fork and knife.  The sitting man turned to look at the tall man who
was sitting now as well--though Bashir couldn't remember them
bringing in another chair.  The empty chair still sat near the table
with the water.  The tall man nodded and the sitting man pulled his
own chair over to the table.  "*Sind Sie sicher, daB Sie sich nicht
zu uns setzen mochten?*" he asked, looking at Bashir with a
snicker.  Then he turned to his place, and the two men began
eating.


      *Greenland,* Sisko thought angrily.  *What could live in
Greenland?*  Two more signals had been found there earlier in the
day.  The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became.
He finally had to leave the bridge and return to his quarters so that
his mood would not infect the crew.

      He was starting to get an idea of what the shapeshifter had
done.  Wu and Salerno were the exception, something gone wrong.
Survivors only by accident.  The Atacama, the Serengeti,
Galapagos, K2?  No one was supposed to survive there.  The
changeling had beamed the  crewmembers to their deaths.
Greenland was a wasteland of ice.  Starfleet uniforms couldn't
possibly protect someone from the cold there.  The two crewmen
had not answered their comm signals, and Sisko hadn't expected
them to.  They had frozen to death, probably within hours of their
transports.

      Only the command crew, and a few others on Kira's team, knew
of the locations of the signals at this point, and Sisko decided it
must stay that way.  Even Kira, who had no reason to be familiar
with Earth geography, had not rejoiced at finding the signals.  The
sensors were continuing to improve.  She could read the conditions
on the island.  She knew they were dead as well.

      There was a small chirp and then Kira's voice came over the
comm system.  "Kira to Sisko."

      Sisko counted to three in order to calm down a bit before
answering.  "Sisko here.  What is it, Major?"

      "Two more, sir.  This time in, um, North America."

      North America?  There was a chance there.  Perhaps another
exception like Salerno and Wu.  "Where in North America,
Major?"

      "I'll patch the sensors through to your quarters, sir.  Just a
moment."

      There was a pause and Sisko pictured Kira up on the bridge
fighting to get the computer to cooperate and allow power to his
viewscreen.  He felt his pulse pick up and knew he was getting his
hopes up.  He tried to tell himself that he shouldn't, but it was too
late.  Finally the blank screen came to life.  A map of North
America came into view with two small pinpricks of light in the
general area of the Northwest Territories.  In his own time, Sisko
knew the area to be fairly evenly populated with large tracts of
forests and wildlife preserves as well.  But this was the twentieth
century and he just wasn't sure.  "Can you show me population
centers, Major, on the northern part of the continent?"

      "Give me a second, Captain," Kira answered.

      A moment later the new map showed up, this time marked with
cities.  Some areas, especially in the south were heavily dotted
while the area of the signals was clear for miles.  "Who are they,
Major?"

      Kira lowered her voice.  "Nohtsu and Fellini."

      *Wonderful,* Sisko thought.  Nohtsu was not human.  On the
one hand, that made him glad she was in an sparsely populated
area, but on the other hand, it lessened the chances of her survival.
"Did they answer our hails?"

      "In a way, sir."

      Sisko had been sitting on his bunk, leaning back against the
wall, but now he sat up, carefully ducking under the bed above
him so as not to hit his head.  "Explain."

      "I'd rather come to your quarters, sir," she replied.   She
apparently didn't want the bridge crew to overhear.

      "Fine."

      Sisko was surprised though when she appeared at his door so
quickly.  It was barely two minutes before his door buzzed.  He
stood and called her in.  Kira stepped inside, her features tight, not
revealing anything.

      "I made the calls from my quarters," she explained once the
door had closed, "just in case.  We got nothing from Fellini, but it
seemed that Nohtsu was opening and closing the channel.
Apparently she can't speak.  We worked out a signal of sorts.  I've
explained the situation to her.  She's wounded, sir, but she's
managed to find some shelter.  Fellini is dead. She saw his body."


      "Has anyone seen her?" Sisko asked.

      "No," Kira answered, "nor has she seen anyone else."

      Sisko nodded, not knowing what else to say.  "How many does
that leave?  Four?"

      Kira gave a swift nod.  "If we count the changeling."

      "I doubt we'll be lucky enough to find a comm signal for the
changeling," Sisko remarked, sitting back down on the bunk.
"Where are we *not* looking?"

      Kira pulled up the stool to sit as well.  "Well, the ice caps and
the open oceans.  We've covered all the land masses."

      Sisko sighed.  "I hate to say it, but maybe we should sweep the
oceans and the poles."

      Kira nodded, but said, "I don't think we should stop scanning
the continents, though.  One of them might have a damaged
communicator.  They might be able to repair it and then the signal
would show up."

      Sisko smiled.  "Julian did say he took engineering extension
courses."


      The language had changed, but the situation hadn't.  It was now
seven o'clock and very dark outside.  The guards and the woman
prisoner had come back an hour before to take away the table and
chair near the window and to replace the lone plate of food on the
other table.  A new fresh pitcher of water replaced the other
half-empty one.  And then the pacing and questioning had begun
again.  This time it was in Polish, or Czech.  Bashir could not tell
the difference.

      The tall man was standing again, but Bashir could not see the
chair he left in order to do so.  He didn't give it much thought.
Perhaps the guards had taken it out as well. The one empty chair
still sat by the table with the water pitcher, and Bashir longed for it
even more.  He needed the chair, the food, the water.  His mouth
was too dry.  His tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth.  He
was so hungry he felt nauseous, but then he was growing
accustomed to that feeling.

      His legs were quickly becoming the center of attention.  It was
harder than roll call, he decided.  Roll call hadn't lasted for four
hours, at least not since he had been in the camp.  Two, maybe
even three, but not four and a half.  His calves and feet had fallen
asleep, but his knees ached from the pressure.  He wished that he
could stand.  He wished he was at roll call.

      He couldn't even shift his position.  He had tried it once and
received for his trouble a sharp blow to the groin.  He'd fallen
forward, doubled over in pain, only to be kicked in the ribs
repeatedly while the pacing man was screaming "*schnell*" at him
and gesturing for him to get up.

      It was the first time they'd hit him since he was brought to this
room, the first time either of them had lost his composure.  They
were growing frustrated.  The sitting man continued to speak
kindly, tempting him with the water and food.  But the pacing man
was much more vocal now, spitting threats in German that Bashir
couldn't understand.  The tall man merely watched and never said
a word.

      "*Mit wem arbeitest Du?  Wer ist Dein Kontaktmann
drauBen?*" the pacing man shouted into his ear.  "*Was meinst
Du, was Dir das bringt?*"

      "*Jesli mi wszystko powiesz, on ci nic zlego nie zrobi,*" the
sitting man said.  "*Powiedz, ze jestes glodny, i damy Ci jesc.  To
takie proste.*"

      The man's voice was almost hypnotic, but the words still meant
nothing to Bashir.  He knew what they were trying to do though.  It
was almost classic.  He had even seen Sisko and Odo team up and
do it to Quark.  Good cop, bad cop.  Isn't that what it was called?
One threatened, one promised help.  Both wanted the same thing.
But without the words, Bashir couldn't know what they wanted.

      He tried to focus his attention on the floor.  But his eyes kept
drawing back to the table or the chair, only to be caught up again
by the man circling around him like a vulture.  The circling man
had an object, like a short, ornate cane or walking stick, with a
decorated knob on the high end.  He kept snapping it into his
leather-gloved hand as a further distraction and an illustration of
his threats.

      "*Czy wiesz co Ci sie stanie jesli nie odpowiesz?*" the sitting
man was saying.  "*M¢j kolega zaczyna byc zly.  We wlasnym
interesie, zacnij wspolpracowac zanim bedzie za pozno.*"

      This went on for another forty-five minutes, each of the two
speaking or screaming a different language while the tall man
watched silently from his place in the corner.  He was seated
again.  Bashir forgot about the sitting man and his partner and
watched the tall man now, who was watching the pacing man.
Where had the chair come from?  The door hadn't opened.  As he
watched then, the man dropped his eyes to look directly at him.
As Bashir stared, the man's pupils grew until they blocked out the
iris and the white of his eyes, leaving only blackness.  All the
sound seemed to drain from the room as Bashir watched.  He
realized now that this was the changeling.  The eyes stayed black
for only a moment.  The man smiled and his eyes returned to
normal.

      From the corner of his eye Bashir noticed that the man had
stopped pacing around him.  Suddenly the sound came back to
him, filling his ears.  "*Ich werde dafur sorgen, daB Du mich
verstehst, Du judischer Bastard!*"

      Before Bashir could even look up, the stick came down hard,
hitting him in the back of the head.  Bashir fell, unable to stop
himself, unable to even comprehend that he had fallen.  More
blows descended on him, on his back, his shoulders, and his head.
He had no time to bite his lip.  He couldn't think fast enough to
clench his teeth.  The cries simply came out of him and he
screamed.  All other sensation left him.  There was only pain and
the constant blows pounding him from above.  He wasn't sure how
long it lasted.  And then he heard a word, clear and loud, like a
buoy, something he could hold on to.

      "Enough," the tall man said from the corner, and the beating
stopped.  He knocked twice on the door and the guards returned.
Bashir felt them pull on his arms and then the room and everything
else became as black as the changeling's eyes had been.


      She waited until the guards had dragged the doctor's
unconscious form out the door.  When she was alone with the two
Gestapo agents she spoke.  "Gentlemen, I suggest you get some
rest."  Her voice was low and masculine to match the human form
she had taken.  "We will begin again in four hours."


      The shorter man with the round face spoke up next.  "It appears
he does not understand either language.  He's hungry enough.  He
would have asked for the food if he understood.  What good is a
spy who can't understand the language?"

      "But what is an Englishman who only speaks English doing in
Poland during a war?"  The changeling countered.

      "Perhaps he is a pilot," the other man suggested.  He was much
calmer now, and one would not suspect that just a few moments
before he could have beaten a man to death.  It had been quite a
show.  "He should be in a prisoner-of-war camp."

      "He doesn't even look English," the other said.  "He might be
from Palestine."

      She challenged his remark.  "He was found in the ghetto
wearing very strange clothing adorned with gold.  There was no
wreckage, no parachute."  She straightened then.  No more
speculation.  If they were going to continue at midnight, she would
have to regenerate now.  "Plane or no plane, Palestine or no
Palestine, spy or no spy, it is our duty to find out what this foreign
Jew was doing in a Polish ghetto.  We will continue in four hours."
With that, she turned and walked out the door.

      She did not have to go far.  Few of the rooms, except those in
the cellar, were in use at this time.  She could 'sleep' unnoticed in
any of them.  She paused outside one door and looked down the
hall to make sure no one was watching.  She turned the handle on
the door.  It was locked.  Perfect.  She lowered herself to the
ground and slipped quickly beneath the door, leaving it locked.
She didn't bother to reform on the other side.

      Four hours was not a long time really.  She felt she needed
more.  She had spent many hours the last few days flying to Berlin
and back to set things up.  At first she had thought her knowledge
of this planet and its history to be exemplary, but she hadn't
expected to be stuck on it as she was now.  She had known about
the war and the Nazis, even the Holocaust, but it was the minute
details that had tripped her up.

      She'd had to do some research in order to fit in with the SS.
That was not too difficult though, considering she had replaced an
actual individual.  This Gestapo bit was harder.  She had simply
chosen a generic shape of no one in particular and then had to
fabricate an identity and the authority to do as she pleased.  This
required a trip to Berlin to study papers and orders and
mannerisms as well.  It was a lot of work.  It left her fatigued, but
also confident that she would not be questioned.

      Satisfied that things should work smoothly now she pulled
herself up onto the shelves that lined one wall.  She'd seen some
large, overly-curious rodents running around the camp on other
nights and did not want to have to bother with them now when she
was so tired.  She situated herself in a corner and altered her
appearance to fit in with the wood.  Now, if someone did manage
to open the door before midnight, she wouldn't have to worry
about being seen.  Assured now that she was safe for the night, she
let herself rest peacefully.


      Bashir woke up once again to darkness, wondering just what
had happened.  He was afraid to move, in spite of the
uncomfortable and painful position he found himself in.  His
whole body hurt and his head felt like it just might explode.  He
was glad that he couldn't see anything.  He was sure the walls
would be spinning around him.  His left shoulder was once again
demanding his attention.  He could feel that it was dislocated
again.  If he moved it would only be worse.  He didn't want to ever
move again.  The cement floor was cold beneath him, and he
realized he was not wearing any clothing.

      *You're not going to just give up, are you?*

      Bashir raised his head to see who had spoken, and then dropped
it again.  Even without the use of his eyes, he was dizzy.  He
groaned and closed his eyes again, hoping the voice would just go
away.

      *Well, are you?  That's what they want, you know, Jules . . . I
mean Julian.*

      Bashir opened his eyes again, knowing that there was nothing
to see.  But the voice, his father's voice, had sounded so real, so
near.

      *It's what they want,* the voice echoed.

      Images and sounds forced their way back into his memory.  A
table of food, fresh water.  A ragged woman in a striped dress.
Black eyes.  Black eyes.  The changeling.  The changeling smiled
and then . . . and then everything fell apart.  The pacing man had
hit him with something, and he hadn't stopped until the changeling
had told him to.  He wondered why he--she--had stopped them.
Didn't she want him to die?

      *Julian,* another voice called.  He had expected Sisko, but this
time it was the Chief with his lilting Irish accent.  *Julian, get up.
You've got to fix that arm.*

      *I don't think I can do it again,* Julian thought to his friend.
*They'll probably just pull it out again anyway.*

      *Would you rather them pull on it while it's out?* O'Brien
argued.  *Besides, it doesn't hurt near as much the second time.
Come on, sit up.*

      *Easy for you to say,* Bashir snapped at him.  *You had me to
take care of you.*

      Right, O'Brien agreed, *and you've got you to take care of you.
So get to it.*

      Bashir wasn't exactly sure why, but he began to move, sliding
himself across the cold floor until he met a wall.  Each inch felt
like a mile, but he made it.

      *That's it,* O'Brien encouraged.  *Now sit up.*

      "I must be in shock, " Bashir mumbled aloud as he pushed
himself up against the wall.

      *Or I wouldn't be here, right?*the Chief finished for him.  *I'll
be here as long as you need me.  I've seen you stand up to a band
of Jem'Hadar without flinching, Julian.  You can do this.*

      Bashir started to draw in a deep breath, but then remembered
that the cell was sealed.  How long would they keep him in here?
He would have to be careful about things like that.

      *Do it quickly,*O'Brien suggested.  *Don't think, just do it.*

      Bashir clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes closed as he took
hold of his left arm.

      *On the count of three,*O'Brien said.

      *Get me out of here,*Julian pleaded to him.

      *We will,*the Irishman whispered.  And then he began to
count.  *One, two, . . . .*

      Julian did not hear him count to three.  He did what he had
been told.  Instead of using four distinct movements, he moved his
arm quickly and fluidly until, agonizingly, it popped back into
position.  When it did, he let himself fall back over onto his right
side.  He lay still but he did not lose consciousness right away.

      *I told you it wasn't as bad the second time,* O'Brien spoke
softly.


      It was only a few hours before they came for him again.  A
moment's worry came to him that his arm would be dislocated
again, but they forced him to stand and walk back to the room on
his own.  The room was different this time:  no table, no water, no
food.  Just the chair sitting in the center under the light.  The
pacing man was there, still holding his stick.  The sitting man, who
was no longer sitting, was dressed now in a white lab coat.  He
smiled as Bashir entered.  But it was the pacing man who spoke.
"Won't you sit down?"  His voice was heavily accented, but the
words were unmistakably in English.

      Before he had a chance to answer, the guard who was with him
led Bashir forcibly to the chair and pushed him down by his
shoulders.  His hands were placed on the arms of the chair, and the
man in the lab coat tied them in place.

      "I do hope you slept well," the pacing man continued, still
speaking pleasantly.  But there was nothing pleasant about his
countenance.  "We have some questions to ask you.  Do you
understand me now?"

      Bashir was still groggy and very sore from the beating he'd
received.  But he forced himself to concentrate on the man's voice,
his words.  Still, it seemed like too much effort to try and speak.
He nodded.

      "Good," the man said, snapping the stick sharply into his palm.
The guard was at Bashir's feet, tying his ankles to the legs of the
chair.  When he was finished he left and the other man, the third,
the changeling, entered.  There was a slight sheen to his face.

      "Begin," was all he said.

      "What is your name?"

      Bashir looked at his wrists and fear flashed through his mind.
They were going to torture him.  They would not have tied him
otherwise.  They had not tied him earlier.  He had thought the
hanging and the beating had been torture enough.  Apparently the
Germans did not.

      "Your name," the man demanded more strongly.

      Bashir's heart pounded as he tried to think.  Should he tell
them?  Or should he lie?  He knew he couldn't tell them the real
truth anyway.  *She already knows your name,* he heard  someone
say.  It was Garak's voice this time.  *What can it hurt?*

      Bashir opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  His
mouth was too dry.  He closed it again, took a deep breath and
then swallowed.  He tried again.  "Bashir, Julian Bashir."

      "Where did you come from?"

      *Best stick to the truth as much as possible,* Garak suggested.
*Just make sure it's the right truth.*

      *The right truth?* Bashir asked him silently.

      *The one that doesn't get you killed.*

      Another deep breath.  "I'm. . . I'm from England," Bashir said.
They knew that already, too.

      The man looked a little confused.  "Not from Palestine?"

      Bashir shook his head.

      He shrugged and moved on.  "Why are you here?"

      Bashir looked up at him, forgetting the changeling's warning
about making eye-contact.  Why was the man asking him?  They
had brought him here.  "I was arrested," was all he could think to
say.

      Apparently the answer took them by surprise.  No one said
anything for a moment.  Then the third man said something quietly
in German.  The pacing man nodded and then asked, "What were
you doing in Poland?"

      *Good question,* Garak said.

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

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