Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:50:06 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 16/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Eight For one half hour, the *Defiant* remained in a geosynchronous orbit over the white ice of the North Pole. Dax and Kira had worked out a strategy, a spiral starting at the pole and then working around and southward, against the Earth's rotation, widening until it reached the equator and then closing in again on Antarctica and the opposite pole. In that manner, they would be able to cover the entire surface of the Earth in only a few days. But that would not start until 1600. At 1530, the entire crew, except Worf, who was manning the bridge, and Nohtsu, who was still convalescing in sickbay, were gathered in the mess hall for a short memorial service in the honor of their fellow crewmembers. Jadzia Dax and all the others on her shift had cut their off-duty hours short in order to attend. She listened intently as Captain Sisko read each of the names. She tried to picture each one. "Ensign Renaldo Amitai," the captain said. "Crewman Patricia Armand." Dax remembered them both: one, a tall man, quiet and sincere, with gray eyes that seemed to look through you, and the other a strong woman, of medium build and short dark hair. When Sisko read the next name, Ephraim's, Dax felt a stab of pain, or perhaps it was guilt. She couldn't remember him. He was new to the ship, just transferred on. Fellini, the Italian, with chiseled features and a soft voice. Garris, whose small stature and delicate frame belied her physical strength. Worf had commented on her skill as a Security officer on more than one occasion. Keller, who always smiled at her whenever she was in the transporter room, except when Worf was looking. "Ensign David Nitzsche," Sisko continued. An animal lover. His family ran a zoo back on Earth. The oldest in Europe, he had told her once, not far from Prague. "Ensign Olan." A tall, thin Bolian, boisterous and loud. He loved a good party, but he was always deadly serious when on duty. Pelt and Shavatt, inseparable friends. Dax couldn't remember ever seeing them apart. Tristan Smith, a warm young man renowned for his impressions of the senior staff. Dax regretted that she'd never gotten the chance to hear him do her. Sopok, serious and logical, but more approachable than most other Vulcans she had met. Syra, Olan's cousin, and a brilliant engineer. The chief had bragged on her as Worf had with Garris. Triilan. Triilan kept to himself when he was not on duty. Dax could just barely visualize his face. "Crewman Christian Wieland," Sisko finished. Beside her Dax heard a sniffle. Thomas, the ship's designated historian, shook herself slightly and then pulled herself back to attention. They'd been friends. A single tear released itself from the young woman's eye and raced down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away. It was a long list. Too long, and as the gathered crew observed a moment of silence, Dax prayed to whatever god might be listening that Julian's name would not be added to it. Max set the food he carried gently down on the bunk and then proceeded to climb up as quickly as possible. One of the others who shared the bunk watched it jealously, but Max snatched the bread and sausage back up before he could do anything. He began to crawl with his free hand to the wall were the doctor was sitting. The Englishman, as usual, was sitting with his good shoulder to the wall. He looked up when Max brushed one of his legs as he made his way there. He didn't say anything, though, but he did sit up a little straighter and look around the room. Max realized he was probably looking for Vlada, who had disappeared after roll call again. He had started doing that about the time the SS had taken the doctor away. Max had lost track of him for perhaps only ten minutes that first evening. But he'd been gone longer and longer lately. Frankly, Max missed the company. The doctor, especially since his own disappearance, was hardly one for conversation, even if they had spoken a common language between them. Vlada, though, reminded him of a young man from Teplice, a student at the gymnasium there who had always stopped by the shop after classes were finished. Everyday he'd bought the same thing, one *kobliha* with marmalade inside. He would always remark that Sophie Zeidlov made the best *koblihy* in town. Max pushed the thoughts away. *Enough reminiscing,* he scolded himself as he finished the last of his sausage. Remembering Teplice, his wife, his life, only depressed him. They were all gone now. Just as he was stuffing a portion of his moldy, stale bread into his pocket, Vlada poked his head up. Max saw him, but Vlada diverted his eyes. "I found some more food," he said as he climbed up. He held out the extra piece of bread he'd found, and Max could not help but eye it hungrily. When he'd sat down, Vlada tore the bread into three parts. He handed one to Max and placed the other in Bashir's good hand. Vlada, still avoiding Max's gaze, had sat down cross-legged, tucking his feet beneath his legs, but not before Max noticed the shoes, real shoes, he was wearing now. "*Dekuji,*" Max thanked the boy. *It's nothing,* he told himself. It really wasn't any of his business anyway where Vlada 'found' his extra food and shoes. *I should just be thankful.* It was probably all that was keeping the three of them from being carried out of the barracks in the morning with the corpses. Julian Bashir looked at the bread that Vlada had given him. It was brown, not gray or black, like the bread they usually got. And it was softer, too. He thought that maybe he should save it, like Max did with a portion of his food every evening. But then, it would end up stale and hard, and most likely moldy, like the bread they usually received. He did not want to waste this new 'good' bread. So he took a bite of it and watched Vlada. The piece was only big enough for a few bites anyway. He wanted to thank him, but he also didn't want to speak. How would Vlada understand, anyway? Vlada still sat cross-legged at the end of the bunk that faced the aisle. He kept his head lowered and would not meet Max's eyes. For a moment, Max looked worried, but then he said something to Vlada, probably thanking him for the bread. And he, too, began to eat. Vlada finished his own small bit of bread and then laid down across the end of the bunk. Bashir thought that was unusual. The three of them always slept side by side, with Bashir always on the left, so that he could sleep on his side and protect his injured shoulder. Vlada took the middle spot with his head at the opposite end from Bashir and Max. It was a relatively good arrangement considering their confined quarters. It provided some warmth, while also allowing ample, though still quite limited, space for sleeping. And it made it easier to share the one thin blanket they had. Perhaps Vlada would move later. As he was, he left very little room for Julian's long frame. The *Blockalteste* began to yell and pound on people with his club. Curfew. Julian finished the last of his bread, and slowly scooted away from the wall. With Max's help, he removed his coat, and shoes, wrapping them up to use as a headrest. It was much colder without them, but it was apparently the rule. He'd seen the *Blockalteste* pull men from the bunks and beat them for breaking the rules. Carefully, he lowered himself down, tucking his left arm beside him. Vlada didn't move though. He stayed at the end of the bunk with his back to Bashir. Julian had to curl himself up into a near-fetal position which was not at all comfortable on the hard wood bunks. Max looked like he was about to say something, but he turned to Julian instead. They shared a glance of concern and confusion, but then Max lay down too, a little closer to Bashir, spreading the blanket over the two of them. It took him a minute before he settled into his spot, because he also tried to stretch the blanket to cover Vlada as well. He finally gave up and lay still. Bashir was already asleep. He woke up several times during the night, as he had every night since he was taken to the other camp. It was the pain that woke him. It might have been that Vlada or Max had brushed against his arm or that he'd merely shifted his position in his sleep. Either was enough to wake him. It would always take several minutes for the pain to fade back to a tolerable level. As he waited he could hear things. Snoring was a constant, but beyond that he sometimes heard yelling or crying or the moaning of the sick. And below all that, he could hear skittering. He wasn't sure at first what the sound was. But two nights ago, he'd seen them. Rats. Huge rats, about three times the size of the largest vole he'd seen on the station. They skittered across the floor in the middle of the night, nibbling for any crumb that might have been dropped on the floor. There were at least four of them in the barracks now. Three of them ranged out of Bashir's limited range of sight, scavenging for food. The fourth stayed near the door. It didn't appear as hungry as the others. Someone at the far end of the barracks screamed. Bashir could not see who it was or why he had screamed. He couldn't move more than he had already. He turned back to look at the door. The rat there sat up on its haunches and turned its head until it was looking right back at him. And then it smiled. Bashir laid back down quickly and closed his eyes, trying to figure out if he had just hallucinated or if the rat really had just smiled. There was a rational explanation, he knew. Odo had often taken the form of a rodent to listen in on clandestine conversations. There was no reason to assume that the changeling here could not do the same thing. He lifted himself up again, slowly, and looked toward the door. The rat was gone. The man who had screamed earlier had apparently decided that it wasn't worth the effort. All was relatively quiet again. Still it took over an hour for Bashir to fall back asleep. When he was awakened the next morning by the camp's whistle and the *Blockalteste*'s assistant--*Stubenalteste,* Max called him--Vlada was already gone. "*Vlado!*" Max called in a whisper. He obviously didn't want to arouse the *Stubenalteste*'s anger. He looked around for the boy as he helped Bashir to sit up and dress. Once up, Julian was able to crawl down off the bunk on his own. It had apparently surprised Max though. He stopped calling for Vlada and just watched before he climbed down himself. It was several minutes before Vlada appeared from somewhere near the back of the barracks. He had more bread in his hand, and he again shared it with the two of them as they waited for the *Stubenalteste* to unlock the barracks door. But he did not unlock it right away. Instead he blocked the door and yelled at everyone until they became quiet. It took a few blows before everyone got the message, but eventually the room quieted down. Then the *Blockalteste* began to speak. He had hardly opened his mouth, however, before someone pounded on the outside of the door. The *Stubenalteste* hadn't expected it apparently. He stood still for a moment, looking to the *Blockalteste* for advice or permission to open the door. The *Blockalteste* also looked taken aback, but he yelled for the *Stubenalteste* to open it. An SS officer stood on the other side of the door. Bashir thought he looked a little familiar, but he didn't have a clear memory of every SS officer he'd seen, especially since his time in the other camp. All the prisoners immediately lined up in front of their bunks and took their hats off. Anyone who was slow received a blow from the *Blockalteste.* "*Wo ist der Englander?*" the SS asked, his voice calm and almost friendly. Bashir heard him and froze. All he could think about was the other camp. *I can't go back there,* he thought. He didn't take his eyes off the man. He was not one of the ones who had come for him before. The *Stubenalteste* pointed to Bashir. Everyone else stood perfectly still. The SS came over to stand right in front of Bashir. "Good to see you again," he said, his accent heavy. Julian did not dare look up at him, but he recognized the voice. It was the same as the SS who had greeted him upon entering the camp, and also of the Gestapo agent that had given him the lesson in German numbering. "Come with me," the changeling commanded, not unkindly. She turned smartly and started for the door. She stopped to bark some order to the *Stubenalteste.* Bashir did not want to follow, but he had no choice. He glanced sideways at Max and then stepped cautiously out of the line. He hadn't walked in a couple of days except to use the 'facilities,' the buckets that stood at the back of the barracks. The changeling was walking too fast, and he had to hurry to keep up. As he stepped out the door, he felt the cuts on his back stretch and open up again. It was snowing, but there was very little wind. The door slammed shut behind him. More SS were heading toward the barracks, one wearing a long white lab coat. "It's a selection," the changeling said without turning around. She was using Whaley's voice now, and it sounded strange coming from the male body in front of him. "So what are we going to do with you?" Max only worried about Bashir for a short time. He was too busy worrying about himself. The *Stubenalteste* had bolted the door behind the SS and the doctor. He seemed relieved that they were gone, but then, in an instant, removed all traces of emotion from his expression. The *Blockalteste* forced everyone to keep their places. Max thought about his wife and his daughter, and he was sure the Germans were going to kill him now. The door opened and SS came in. They shouted angrily for everyone to move into the room at the back of the barracks. He glanced at Vlada who stood to his left. For the first time since Max had met him, the boy did not seem afraid. He pushed his way confidently toward the back, dragging Max with him. "Try not to look afraid," the boy whispered. "They're going to take out the sick ones, ones who can't work. We have to look healthy." "How do you know this?" Max asked, but Vlada didn't answer. He did not lose his confident air, however, and Max suspected it had something to do with where he got the new shoes. Max decided to trust him. He'd shared the extra bread and he seemed to know what was going on. Max wasn't going to complain, not if the boy could save his life. Changing the subject, he asked about the doctor. "He's not healthy enough to work." Vlada looked pained by that question, but again didn't have an answer. "I don't know. The SS took him." He didn't say anything else, but Max got the feeling that they were thinking alike. The Englishman would not be coming back this time. Neither had time to ponder his death, however. Once inside the smaller room, they were ordered to turn and go back out. Only now, they were to run out one at a time. Max and Vlada anxiously waited their turn. Max really did not know what to do. He could not look healthy. It was impossible. After two weeks, he had lost weight. He was thin, too thin, in places, and swollen in others. He hadn't had an opportunity to bathe or to shave. Before he had time to really think, his turn came. The *Stubenalteste* ordered him to run. The SS, especially the doctor, eyed him coldly, looking for any blemish or other excuse to sentence him to death. It was both the longest and the shortest run of his life. Long in apprehension, and yet short in that it was over within seconds, it seemed. He was told to turn around. He did. He was asked his number. He told them. A white piece of paper was placed to one side on a pile. And then he was out the door, lined up with the others who had gone before him. Vlada followed soon after. In a few minutes, the entire barracks was emptied. The SS left and the *Stubenalteste* ordered everyone to the latrine. It usually happened that there was a mad rush for the building. Thousands of men converged there, at the same time, since they were all expected at roll call soon after. There was yelling and arguing and accusations of taking too much time. Some men tried to bribe others to take their places. But today it was different. The other men from other barracks were already gone off to roll call. No one yelled or argued. No one really talked, except in hushed whispers. "Where'd he put your paper?" "What do you think they'll do with us?" Still, the *Stubenalteste* gave them little time before ordering them back to the barracks. When they returned, they were given their breakfast, consisting of the same clay-like bread and brown water which served as coffee. The door was bolted again. They didn't even go to roll call. And the Englishman had not returned. Julian was not quite sure where the changeling was leading him, but it wasn't to the other camp. They had walked away from the main guard tower. He was thankful for that, at least. But he didn't allow himself to feel too grateful. She could just as easily torture or kill him in Birkenau. She was SS, as far as the rest of the camp was concerned, and he was a Jew. Who would stop her? The changeling stopped in front of another barracks building and opened the door. "After you," she said, with a slight bow and a mocking smile. Bashir stepped inside. The building was not very different from the barracks he'd just left, nor from the others he'd seen on the way. But this one was empty. Of course, it was still early in the morning. Everyone was probably still at roll call. "Welcome to your new block, Doctor," the changeling said, transforming herself as she stepped through the door. "I do hope you feel at home here." Bashir stood still and didn't answer. He tried to show no expression at all. He did not want to give her any excuse to punish him. He was sure he wouldn't survive it. "Please," she said, this time in a friendly, almost sincere tone, "sit down." Bashir looked at her, at her chin, Whaley's chin. But he did not meet her eyes. She had warned him about that. He could still just barely feel the bruise she'd given him. She was leaning against the 'oven' and indicating one of the lower bunks with her hand. Bashir didn't know whether or not to obey. She noticed his uncertainty. "Go on," she urged. "I didn't bring you here to kill you. I could have done that last night." Still unsure, Bashir moved slowly to the bunk she indicated and sat down. It wasn't comfortable, but it was less tiring than standing. He leaned his good shoulder on the post and tried not to look like he was in as much pain as he felt. The changeling just stared at him for a few moments and then rolled her eyes up, taking in the ceiling and then the walls and finally the floor. "This really is a dismal history you have here. Killing each other over such petty differences, and on such a scale. Have you any idea how many humans were gassed yesterday? Or who simply dropped dead during the *Appell?* I'm quite surprised you haven't killed each other off already." She stood and crossed over to the bunks. She seemed to be waiting for a response. Bashir hadn't really spoken at all in the last couple of days, and he wasn't sure he could count on his voice for the reply she wanted. "The war will end," he said. His voice was rough, and he tried to steady it. "We learn from our mistakes." She sat down beside him and regarded him with concerned eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? What about the sanctuary districts? You've seen those yourself. They were ghettos, not too unlike the one you so briefly visited a couple weeks ago. Do you know how many the Germans set up? Thousands of humans died before they ever made it to one of these camps. Why didn't your people learn from that?" Bashir remembered the sanctuary districts she spoke of. He and Captain Sisko--only a commander then--had been taken to one after a transporter malfunction deposited them in the twenty-first century by mistake. Thousands of people forced to live in a 20-square block area of San Francisco in the early twenty-first century. Though the authorities had claimed that the sanctuary districts were for the benefit of the residents--for their own good--the district had walls, the guards had guns, and the residents were not allowed to leave. It had disgusted him to see people forced to live that way. "I suppose we forgot," he whispered, still not looking at her. "But you are no different." "You solids kill yourselves," she retorted, though not violently. "Until Odo, no changeling had ever harmed another." Bashir took a deep breath. She might kill him for what he was about to say, but he couldn't keep his tongue any longer. "But you harm others all the time." She shook her head. "The solids took it upon themselves to harm us first." "Which solids?" Bashir asked, hoping she would clarify. He wasn't sure exactly why he felt the need to press his point. She was not likely to change her opinion or her goals. He had not expected, however, the response he received. Faster than he could see it, her hand--or a tentacle of some sort--shot out and contacted with his jaw, sending him flying backward onto the bunk. His back erupted into an inferno of pain, and his mouth began to bleed. She was completely calm when she spoke. "I feel it's important to be consistent. Otherwise you'll only be confused about our relationship. But in reply to the question you shouldn't have asked, I'd say that it doesn't really matter which ones. You of all people should understand, Doctor, prevention saves lives. By bringing order to the solids, we prevent the persecution of our people." Bashir did not answer this time. He was too busy trying to force the pain to die down again. The changeling also didn't speak for awhile. Then she reached out and grabbed him by the arm--his right arm, thankfully. Once she had him sitting up again, she pulled him to his feet, pushing him back against the boards that held the bunks up. She kept one hand on his chest, pinning him to the bunks. She seemed to study his face for a moment and then declared, "That really just doesn't look right on you." Bashir had no idea what she was talking about. But he didn't ask for clarification. He didn't need it really. As soon as she had said it, she transformed her other hand into a long sharp blade. "Hold still now," she warned as it reached toward his neck. "You have the bridge, Major." Worf said by way of greeting as Kira stepped onto the bridge. Kira barely had time to nod before he brushed passed her into the turbolift. She wondered why he'd had the bridge. His shift had ended four hours earlier. Kira looked to O'Brien, who was standing next to the command chair. "Good news, Major!" he called brightly. Kira stopped mid-yawn. "You found him?" she asked hurriedly, rushing over to the sensor console. The chief's face fell. "Not that good," he replied quietly. He waited for Kira to regain her composure. She straightened up and went to the replicator in back for a raktajino. "Sorry, Chief," she apologized. "I guess I spoiled your news. What have you got?" "Navigation." He smiled again. "She's up and running." "Well, that should make the pilot happy," Kira quipped. Dax heard her and smiled. "Very happy. Of course, it had to come only after my sixteen-hour shift was over," she teased. "I hope you enjoy it, Ensign." The last remark was directed toward the aft turbolift. "Enjoy what, sir?" Ensign Thomas asked as she stifled a yawn of her own. In answer, Dax stood up and with a flourish of her hand, indicated the helm console. Thomas took the seat offered and looked at the console. For a moment she did not see anything. She was still too tired. The double-shifts were getting to her, just as they were everyone else. Then it hit her. "Navigation!" she exclaimed with a sense of awe. "I love you, Chief." O'Brien grinned and turned not a light shade of red. "Don't let my wife hear you say that." He gave a slight nod of his head to Kira and then left with Dax to go below. "Where are we, Ensign?" Kira asked, checking her own consoles. Thomas leaned over the helm, checking a few readouts. Then she directed the main viewscreen to show the now familiar sensor-map of the planet's surface. This time it showed a large expanse of blue water and the edge of a small land mass. "We should be directly above the Philippines in about six minutes, Major." Kira shook her head and tried to remember the Philippines. She had thought that she could pass any Earth geography test someone wanted to give her by now, but she realized that some of it must still have slipped by her. "Where are the Philippines?" Thomas pressed a few controls and widened the map beyond the confines of the sensor's optimum range. "Pacific Ocean," she pointed out. "Just ten degrees or so above the equator and not too far from the lower edge of Asia." "Asia, I remember," Kira said. *Nepal, to be exact,* she thought. "I take it we haven't picked up any signals." "None, sir." Kira sighed. They'd covered nearly half the planet's surface, both land masses and oceans, and there still was no sign of Doctor Bashir. Then she sat up, leaning forward in the chair. "What about those transporter logs? We can eliminate some of the fragments by considering the comm signals we found earlier." She turned to her own consoles then, pulling up the information they had managed to salvage from the shuttle's transporter logs. "Ensign, let's see the entire planet." She waited for Thomas to make the necessary changes to the viewscreen's display. "Now superimpose the transport locations of the missing crewmen. Maybe there will only be a few possibilities left." The screen abruptly changed and Kira applied the data from the transporter logs herself. It was still a longshot. They didn't have enough fragments to account for all of the transports initiated by the changeling, and they still had the problem of not knowing whether each piece of data referred to latitude or longitude. They would just have to try all the possibilities and see how close they got. 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! 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