Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:53:01 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 17/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Eight -- Continued The changeling had left him there in the empty barracks, his new block, all day. He'd had nothing to eat or even a chance to relieve himself. Bashir, his freshly shaved face bruised from the blow she'd given him, had wedged himself into a corner and slept with his head against the wall. He had woken up periodically, but still no one had entered the block. The door remained bolted. He even missed the evening roll call. Despite his hunger, discomfort, and shivering, he was glad for the respite from that. But he was confused by the whole thing. She had treated him almost as if he were a human. Almost. The way she had spoken to him, as if she deplored what was happening in the camp. And yet only a few days--How many?--before, she had told the Gestapo to torture him. But he also knew that she had saved his life today. It was not hard to understand the selections. Anyone not fit for work would be killed, probably gassed. He was not really sure. And he knew that he, himself, was not really fit for work. If the SS doctors, or selectors, or whoever they were, had seen him, they would have selected him for death. She had taken him out of the barracks before the selection and was assigning him to a work detail, a Kommando, as she called it, though she had not said what kind of work he would be doing. He couldn't help thinking of Max and Vlada. He was pretty sure he would never see them again, and they were the closest things he had here to friends. It was already dark out when the door opened. He heard it open, and began the slow process of standing up. The first thing he saw were the high jackboots the SS wore. It was *Scharfuhrer* Heiler, the SS identity the changeling had taken on, who entered. He closed the door behind him, but did not bother to change into Whaley's form. "Good, you're up," Heiler said, without his usual German accent. "Come with me." He didn't wait for Bashir to follow, but merely opened the door and stepped out again. Of course, Bashir knew he would follow. What choice did he have? If he stayed, she would only come back for him and force him to go. So mustering his strength, he shuffled out the door. He was glad when she took him to a latrine. It really was not much more than a barracks building with two short, wide walls running the length of it. Two rows of holes were cut into the top of each of the walls. The place reeked, though Heiler didn't seem to mind. *But then,* Bashir thought, *she doesn't have a sense of smell.* He thought perhaps this, and the other latrines, were the only places in the camp where one could not smell the smoke. "You have two minutes," Heiler ordered, reforming into Whaley. She did not leave him any privacy, but by now, Bashir didn't care about modesty. He had no doubt that she would enforce her time limit. So he hurried to finish before his two minutes were up. He barely had time to button his trousers--not an easy thing to do with one arm--before they were back out into the cold. As they walked, he tried to ease his hand back into the pocket that performed a double function. It kept his hand warm, but also served as a sling, supporting the weight of his arm. She was walking faster now, and it was difficult to keep up. Each step was difficult and seemed to pull on a different muscle in his back. His wooden shoes kept wanting to slide or stick in the snow and slush. She led back to his new block, only now it was filling up with people. "*Du! Komm her!*" Heiler screamed to one of the prisoners, and Bashir realized he hadn't even noticed her changing. Bashir could see by the red triangle he wore the prisoner was not a Jewish prisoner. Jews wore the star. The *Blockalteste* in his old block had worn a green triangle. Bashir still didn't know what the different colors meant. But he could tell that not having a star gave them a higher status. Bashir guessed that this one was also a *Blockalteste.* "*Du hast einen neuen Gast,*" Heiler continued. "*Wenn er stirbt, dann durch meine Hand. Ist das klar?!*" "*Jawohl, Herr Scharfuhrer,*" the *Blockalteste* affirmed, his head still bowed and his hat in his hand. "*Morgen fruh kommt er unter mein Kommando,*" the changeling told him. "*Sieh zu, daB er seinen Weg zu mir findet!*" With that she turned and left. She seemed to be in a hurry, and Bashir suspected it was nearly time to regenerate. "*Warum sorgt er sich bloB so um Dich?*" the *Blockalteste* snarled as he turned to Bashir. He replaced his cap and waited for Bashir to answer. The other prisoners were milling about noisily, but a few of them had taken notice of the new arrival. Bashir had no idea what he had been asked. He didn't even really care now. He was tired and hungry and only wanted to go to sleep. "*Wenn ich dich etwas frage, dann antworte gefalligst!*" the *Blockalteste* yelled angrily. Bashir faced him now. He stood nearly a head taller than the man. "I don't speak German," he said quietly. The *Blockalteste* seemed surprised by the response. "*Was war das?*" he asked, the venom gone from his tone. "*Englisch?*" Bashir nodded. "English." All of a sudden, the *Blockalteste* appeared tired. He removed his hat and rubbed his short, stubby hair. "*Englisch,*" he sighed. Then he turned to the prisoners, most of whom were now openly staring at the two of them. "*Gibt es hier jemanden, der Englisch spricht?*" One prisoner, very thin--like all the others--eyed Bashir suspiciously then took a step forward. Beside him, another prisoner grabbed his arm. "*Nie! Pewnie doniesie do SS,*" he warned in a whisper. The first prisoner hesitated for a moment and then shrugged off his friend's arm. He stepped forward again. "I speak English," he said. Sisko leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at the main viewscreen, as if looking harder would increase the sensor output. They had nearly completed their scan of Earth, and there was still no sign of Bashir or the changeling. Fortunately, there was also no sign of any major change in the time line. Ensign Thomas had been assigned to monitor radio signals and the course of events down below. Major Kira, who was due to go off duty in a little over an hour, was tackling the fragmented transporter logs again. She'd eliminated several possible coordinates. But she still had a formidable task. She hoped to have the list narrowed down by the time she went off duty. "Benjamin!" Dax called from the helm. "Mr. Stevens reports that impulse engines are now functioning." She turned around to smile at him. "He recommends against trying to break any speed records though." Sisko nodded, allowing a slight upturn of the lips to show his amusement. "Duly noted," he said. "Will it help us with the scan?" Dax shook her head, turning serious again. "Not really. The sensors need the time to do a thorough scan. If we go fast, we're likely to miss something." Sisko sighed and stood. He needed some coffee. Two weeks already. Every day they were looking, they were less likely to find him. With proper sensors, they might have been able to detect the transporter traces on the planet or chroniton particles on the missing crewmembers. But the changeling had been thorough in its sabotage. By now, any remaining particles or traces would have dissipated. The only way to track the changeling was to scan for it in its gelatinous state while it was regenerating. At any other time, it would only scan as what it was portraying. The chances that the *Defiant* would be overhead the exact location where the changeling was regenerating were, of course, very slim. And Bashir would always read as just another human. The only way to find him was to find the comm badge he had when he left the ship. Kira met him at the table at the back of the bridge. She didn't look overly enthusiastic. "Captain, I've managed to eliminate all but one coordinate." In fact, she only looked tired. "One coordinate," Sisko repeated. "Not one set of coordinates." Kira shook her head. "If it's a complete coordinate," she explained, "that still leaves us with four different orbits around the planet to scan." Sisko took a long sip of his coffee and looked at the PADD she handed him. She was right. Fifty-three degrees, as near as they could figure it. They would have to circle the Earth on both 53 degrees north and south latitude and east and west longitude to cover every possible location. But it was still better than continuing on as they were. "Good work, Major. As soon as we've finished the scan, we'll change course." He studied her face a moment. "Go get some sleep, Major." "My shift isn't over," she argued. Sisko was about to insist; he could see she was exhausted. "We're all tired," she countered before he could say anything, "We all pull double shifts, remember? Unless you're going to give everyone an extra hour off, I won't be taking one." Sisko decided not to argue. She could be stubborn, but to be honest, he felt the same way. He nodded and let her return to her station to draw up the course changes. The *Blockalteste* appointed the English-speaker as Bashir's guardian of sorts. And the man didn't seem to appreciate it much. As soon as the *Blockalteste* walked away, the prisoner had looked Bashir over with distrust and obvious distaste. When after several minutes, he'd said nothing else, Bashir felt he should break the ice. It had been so refreshing just to hear those three words, "I speak English," spoken by another prisoner, he had almost forgotten about the cold and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. "I'm Julian. Julian Bashir," he said, extending his right hand forward. The prisoner glanced at Bashir's hand, but made no move to take it. "What is an English doing here?" he asked roughly. His friend hovered close by, watching the exchange, and probably waiting for a translation. "Same as you," Julian replied, noticing the six-pointed star on the prisoner's uniform. "Do you have a name?" The prisoner snorted. "Here, we have only numbers." "No," Bashir stated, "we still have names." He was starting to feel the cold again and his hand was throbbing. He waited to see if the prisoner would say anything. But it was his friend that finally took the cue. "Piotr," he said simply. He pointed to himself as he said it. And he, in turn, held his hand out to Bashir. The first prisoner rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. Bashir took it and smiled. "*To jest Szymon,*" Piotr continued, pointing to his companion. Bashir tried again to be polite. "Nice to meet you, Szymon. I wish it were under better circumstances." "I don't know this word," Szymon snapped. "A better time and a better place," Bashir tried to explain. "I wish we were not here." "I look at you," Szymon said, now smiling just a little, "and I think you will not be here long." And then, just to be polite, he translated what he had said into something that sounded almost like German, so that all the other prisoners who were still staring could share the joke. Bashir wasn't laughing. "How long have you been here?" "I was here in October." "That's a long time." The *Blockalteste* began yelling. "*Zehn Minuten*!" And the prisoners began scrambling inside. Bashir didn't want to be crushed in the crowd, so he hung back, even as Piotr and Szymon went in. There were more prisoners here than in his old block, so he went around the corner of the building and knelt down. His legs were tired of standing. He looked up and noticed a star peaking through a small break in the cloud of smoke that hung over the camp. It was soon covered up again, but Bashir found he couldn't take his eyes off that spot. *Szymon's right,* he thought, *I won't be here long. They'll find me.* The melee at the front of the barracks began to die down, so he rose from his spot and hurried toward the door. He didn't want to get locked out or beaten for being slow. When he stepped inside he was amazed. There was hardly room to stand. Men filled each of the bunks and yet more men were struggling to climb into them. There was some fighting as people struggled for the best spots. The stronger ones seemed to find a place at the top. The weakest ones tried to get a space on the lowest bunks, though many were forced by shear crowding to crawl under the bunks and lay there. Bashir searched in vain for an open spot, but there simply was no room. Each of the men lay head to foot, six men or more per bunk. Szymon caught his eye from the top bunk. His head was near the aisle. Piotr was sitting behind him. "You can sleep on the floor," Szymon said, trying to sound gracious. The whistle blew again and the door to the barracks was locked. Until the *Blockalteste* called for silence, there had been much discussion about the days event. Who had been selected? Would they be sent to the gas? By now there had been many rumors. After the selection, the entire barracks had been under *Blocksperre,* or block arrest. The prisoners weren't even allowed to go out in the courtyard. In a way, Max didn't mind. It was warmer, at least a little, indoors, out of the wind. There was no 'sport' and they hadn't had to participate in the roll call. But it was also fairly crowded. Vlada had disappeared again after their meager morning meal. He returned again just as the *Blockalteste* called for lights out. "We don't have to worry," he whispered as he climbed up to the bunk. "We're on the good list." "How do you know?" Max asked him. Vlada shook his head, still not meeting Max's gaze. "That doesn't matter. I don't know what happened to Bashir though." "QUIET!" someone screamed. Max knew it would have to be the *Blockalteste,* but he turned to look anyway. All whispering stopped immediately. Everyone laid down and the lights were put out. Just before the room fell dark, Max turned back to Vlada. But the boy seemed already to be asleep. The floor was filthy, worse even than his old barracks, though to be honest, he hadn't spent much time paying attention to the floor there. He couldn't help it here. The two other men under the bunk where Bashir lay had only grudgingly moved over to give him room. It hadn't been easy for them. There was no room to turn over, and both of the men were so weak they could barely slide themselves over. Their bare legs, with no blanket to cover them, looked as if they were stripped of all muscle leaving only tightly stretched skin to cover the bones. They also had sores and cuts on their legs and hands and faces. Bashir realized that some of it could be caused by malnutrition and the lack of sanitation, but that still didn't account for all their problems. One of the men slept with his hands inside his wooden clogs. The other didn't even have the clogs. His bare feet were missing some of their toes. Bashir, himself, had managed to slide under the bunk once they'd made room. He laid on his stomach with his coat wrapped tightly around his shoes and his injured hand resting on the floor beside him. He, too, had no blanket, and the air was frigid. It didn't take long in this barracks for the noise to die down. Within minutes the prisoners, exhausted from their long day at work, were all asleep. Bashir, remembering the skittering sounds and the rats he'd seen in the other barracks, tried to stay awake, but the pain and exhaustion were too great. It was sometime towards morning when they came. The sounds of struggling first came from those near the door. But it was only when one of the men beside him screamed that Bashir woke up. He was unable to turn to see what was happening. But he could hear them. There was a loud "thwack!" and something large and furry fell against Bashir's leg. Instantly, though, it moved, twisting and scratching to right itself. It had to be one of the rats. Since he couldn't sit up or even turn over, Bashir decided that he'd have to move. Using his good arm, which had been tucked underneath him, he clawed the floor to his left and tried to pull himself out from under the bed. He felt a sharp pain in one of his calves which caused him to twist instinctively toward his attacker. But the first bunk was too close to the ground and his left shoulder hit it hard. Sinking down again, Bashir clutched his shoulder and tried not to lose consciousness again. Another bite sunk into his calf. He imagined himself getting eaten by giant rats. It was not how he had expected to die, even in this place. Forcing himself to release his shoulder, he tried again to pull himself out into the small aisle. The rat attacking him still wouldn't let go. Its claws dug into the leg it was biting while its huge body lay across the other. Still, Bashir pulled and managed to slide his torso free from the bunk. Then he could twist himself over, forcing the rat to release his leg. Still, it didn't give up so easily and came at him to bite him again. Bashir could see now the man under the bunk. He clubbed at them incessantly with the clogs he had on his hands until, frustrated, they moved on to some other, less defensive, target. Bashir's clogs were still wrapped in his coat under the bunk. And now, his only good arm was supporting his body, keeping him from falling backward into the wall behind him. But the rat was voracious, and though he kicked with his feet, it wouldn't stop coming back at him. Biting back a scream himself, Bashir reached his left arm, burning with pain so that it blocked even his sight, toward the bundle of stripes just under the edge. His hand brushed against them and his whole arm began to throb, from the tips of his broken fingers all the way to his back. He very nearly forgot the rat and his reason for wanting the bundle. His good arm lost its grip on the floor and he fell back into the wall, sending flames through his torn back. It was too much. *Let it eat me,* he thought, as he heard the voices. *There's not much left of him, Captain,* Kira was saying. She made a disgusted sound. *That is not an honorable way to die,* Worf added disapprovingly. *It's not like he could help it, Worf,* O'Brien challenged angrily, defending the honor of his friend. *You saw what they did to him.* He spoke quieter now. Managed for quite awhile, I'd say, considering. . . . He let the last remark hang in the air. No one offered to finish it for him. "*Stop gawking and help me!*" he shouted to them in his mind, not realizing that the words were in fact audible. "If you insist," a female voice quietly answered. He looked at her as if through a mist. He could almost see the stunned faces of his crewmates as they turned to see the intruder. Whaley, hair shorn close and in striped camp uniform, knelt before him. She flung one arm out faster than Bashir could even see and snatched the rat's tail. Whipping it away, she snapped hard, letting its head smack into the wooden bunk. "Now," she whispered in a seductive tone, "you best get some rest. It's only a few hours until reveille. If you don't sleep, you won't be ready for work. And if you're not ready for work, I'll put a bullet through your brain myself. Sweet dreams, Doctor." Leaving the dead rat's carcass lying beside his feet, she transformed herself into a cat, black as midnight, and silently jumped over Bashir's head onto the wall and scampered away. Praying a small prayer that there were no more rats, Bashir used his feet to pull the bundle to him and then closed his eyes where he lay, letting the darkness fall over him. *Can't figure that one out at all,* O'Brien was saying. Captain Sisko watched the sensor readout as they finished up the scan. He was almost relieved that they hadn't found Bashir toward the end. Considering the other transport points, he wouldn't have been surprised to find Bashir in Antarctica. As it was, without a signal, there was still some reason to hope. But now that the scan was over, a new course had to be set. Kira had gone off duty three hours ago. She hadn't given a preference for which orbit to try first, and there was really no way to tell which one would be a better choice. So Sisko chose one at random. Longitude would make more sense, considering they were orbiting over the South Pole. "Set course to orbit the Earth at 53 degrees east longitude, Old Man." Dax, who was looking less like her serene self every day, merely nodded. The image on the viewscreen immediately began to spin as the *Defiant* turned. Sisko sat back down in his chair and watched the viewscreen as he cradled his cup. It was tea this time, decaffeinated. He would go off duty in one hour and he didn't want to be kept awake. It left him with too much to think about. Morning came quickly, and with it, another roll call. Max climbed down from the bunk, secure in the knowledge that he and Vlada had been put in the 'good' pile. But also, he felt guilty. The piles of paper, when he had seen them, seemed very unequal. He had no way of knowing which was the good pile and which the bad. But knowing the Germans, and hearing the rumors--rumors that Max now was sure were more true than not--about the gassings, Max was certain the larger pile was for those who would die. How many of the faces he was seeing now, as he prepared--as much as was possible--for morning roll call, would not be alive by evening? The *Blockalteste* was more vocal even than usual. "It has to be spotless! You filthy pigs! Move your carcasses. Faster!" For reasons unknown, the barracks had to be cleaned. They had to be cleaned every morning, to ridiculous standards given the conditions they were forced to live in. But this time was different. The block's staff seemed especially curt and offensive today. There was a lull in the yelling for a moment, and Max looked toward the back of the barracks where the *Blockalteste* had been. He was still there. He was talking to someone, but there were too many people in the way for Max to see. He wasn't sure why he felt he needed to see who it was, but still, he couldn't turn his eyes away. The *Blockalteste* seemed almost friendly in the way he was putting his hand on his companion's shoulder. He shook his head and patted the shoulder of the man he was speaking to. He reached into his pocket and handed the man something. The bodies blocking Max's view moved, and he could now see who it was. The *Blockalteste* touched Vlada's face almost affectionately. The boy turned away, and so did Max. He thought about the crust of bread he still had stashed in his pocket. What had it cost the boy? Time was running out. The *Blockalteste* left Vlada and returned to beating anyone who moved too slowly. Max turned back to his work. There would be no food until the *Blockalteste* was satisfied that the barracks were clean. Finally, the doors opened and they were herded out into the dark, chill morning. Each man jostled to get to the front of the group, so that there might be time to use the latrine before roll call. Max was torn between his need to relieve himself and his rampant hunger. He'd even been dreaming about food lately. But the decision was made for him. It had taken too long to clean the barracks, and the pushing and shoving was too great. He would never even make it into the latrine in time. He did have time, though, to get his meager ration before the whistle called him to roll call. Vlada caught up to him there. "I think he went in the bad pile," he said. He seemed quite saddened by the thought, and Max thought it odd that he'd developed such an attachment for the doctor, especially when they'd never even had a conversation. 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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