Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:53:05 GMT In: alt.startrek.creative From: Gabrielle Lawson Title: Oswiecim Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net) Series: DS9 Part: REP 18/42 Rating: [PG-13] (Violence) Codes: Chapter Eight -- Continued Roll call ended in chaos. Bashir had glimpsed it before from his place in line with his old barracks. But now, he was a part of it. As soon as the order was given, the straight rows and lines of five broke away in a mad rush to a dozen different places around the assembly ground. More than a dozen. Bashir couldn't see them all, and he certainly didn't have time to count them. "Follow me," Szymon ordered and then took off at a run. Bashir had a hard time keeping up and nearly lost him in the pandemonium of striped suits and shaven heads. But Piotr lagged just behind and motioned to him with his hand. Clear on the other side of the assembly ground, another group was forming lines five abreast. Szymon took a place in one of the lines and waved for Piotr to hurry and take a spot. Bashir was left to the outside. He hardly had time to get into line before the line began to move. They marched at a jarring double-time, while another prisoner-leader led them in much the same manner as the *Blockalteste* had, with blows and angry yelling. Two SS officers came along as well. Bashir recognized one as he ran past, easily keeping pace with his line. It was Heiler. "Good morning, Doctor," he said as he jogged along side. He was grinning, a cold, evil smile that made lies of all his words. "I trust you had a good night's sleep." Bashir didn't answer. He tried not to even look at him. It wasn't hard really. He had a lot to think about. Walking had been painful and awkward for him, given the injury to his back, but running at double-time was even worse. Each step threatened to tear his back open again and jarred his shoulder. It also took a tremendous amount of effort. His legs felt heavy and uncooperative, though they still strove to obey him. The wooden clogs on his feet felt like cement blocks. He had no energy and his stomach growled. He'd missed breakfast. It had taken an inordinate amount of time to dress himself with only one arm. The other SS officer held the reins of a large dog which growled menacingly and lunged at the prisoners. They ran past a barbed-wire gate onto a road of sorts, also lined with wire. Bashir noted at least three more rows of the long barrack buildings, then an area of smaller buildings set wider apart. To his right he could see more buildings, rows upon rows of them, maybe more than a hundred with others being built. A construction site lay ahead of them, on either side of the road. Bashir couldn't tell what it was they were building. From what he knew of historic architecture, which wasn't much, it looked like an ordinary brick building. There were men dressed in civilian clothes there, too, and the Germans weren't mistreating them at all. They had to be civilians, but Bashir didn't know why they would be working in a camp like this. "*An die Arbeit, du dreckiges Schwein!*" Heiler screamed, jarring him back to attention. Piotr grabbed Julian's arm and pulled him through the snow to another area. Thin bands of iron cris-crossed a long rectangular area on the ground. More of the wire lay piled up to the side. "We make the top," Szymon grudgingly explained. Before Bashir could puzzle out just what the man had said, Szymon pushed one end of the wire at him. It was cold, having sat out all night under the snow. Piotr and Szymon lifted the wire farther down, and they all dragged it to the rectangle marked out in the snow. Some other men were beginning to mix cement and Bashir realized what they must be trying to do. The iron wire was reinforcement of some kind. They were laying it down in the rectangle on the ground to make "the top," as Szymon had said: a ceiling. But the ceiling to what? Bashir took another look at the building and noted a tall thick chimney rising from the back of it. Trying to move his left hand as little as possible, Bashir did his part to lay the wire. It was difficult. To lay it properly, the prisoners had to stand in the rectangle amongst the wire that was already lain. Bashir's wooden clogs kept slipping and getting caught in the mesh of it. Still, he didn't want to be beaten for not working, and he didn't want Szymon to think that he wasn't doing his share. He needed Szymon. Once in place, they used smaller bits of wire to twist around the thicker iron rebar to hold it in place. The ceiling to whatever they were building was quite wide, but much longer, and it took a long time to twist the little wires, which were as thick as nails. And he had to do it bent over, reaching down, while trying to keep his balance. His back flared in pain from it. His shoulder hurt from the change of attitude, with gravity now pulling it a different way. Only his hand seemed not to protest too much. The cold wire mixed with the wind was making it numb. It was hard to see from behind all that pain, and the other Nazi guard kept yelling at him to move faster. But it was Heiler who spoke to him. Bashir hadn't even heard him come over. He nearly fell over when he saw the boots suddenly standing there. The still shiny, black boots stepped gently onto the wire framework they were laying. "It's quite an ambitious project really," he said when he didn't think the others would hear, "building four crematoria to burn humans more efficiently. They've been using a farmhouse to kill them. It's messy. This will be much more orderly. You have to admire them for that." A crematorium. Bashir had guessed it once he saw the chimney. But what was he to do? If he refused to work, they'd kill him. And he didn't expect that Heiler would allow him to change. She obviously wanted to keep him where she could keep a closer eye on him. "This will be the undressing room," she explained. "You're standing on it. How many humans can fit in this room, do you think?" Bashir was nearing the end of the wire, and he could see that Szymon and Piotr had finished, too. They were going for another long piece. Bashir straightened to go after them, but it was too difficult now that he was bent over. His knees couldn't take the shift in weight and he fell. The hard wire bit into his kneecaps, and only his right arm reaching out in front of him kept him from going all the way down. Heiler above him, looked to see if anyone had noticed. The dog barked somewhere nearby. "*Steh' auf!*" he yelled, bringing his foot down on Bashir's back. Bashir's hand slipped through the wire and he crashed down against it. There was no protecting his left hand this time. It was caught between his body and the wire. "*Steh' auf!*" Heiler yelled again. Bashir hardly heard him, struggling as he was to free himself of the wire without losing consciousness. He was afraid he'd never wake up if that happened. She kicked him again, but he tried to crawl to the side off the ceiling they were making and out of the wire mesh. After roll call, those whose numbers had landed in the bad pile were called out and taken away. Several of them cried, others tried to prove that they were healthy and asked loudly to be given another chance. Max lowered his eyes. He couldn't bear to see them part. They were going to die. When they were gone, the *Blockalteste* continued on with the drilling as if nothing had happened. By 1300, they were back again at the southern tip of the planet. And still, the sensors had picked up nothing. Kira sat again in the command chair. She had hoped to have something better to report to the captain when he returned to duty. Instead, all she had was a change of course. This time, they would take the west line, 53 degrees, and circle the planet again. Kira sipped the raktajino she held in her hand and read the morning's status reports. No new progress in Engineering, though the crew still had a lot of work to do to get the ship into shape to make the trip back to the twenty-fourth century. Medical had requested immediate restoration of power to at least one stasis chamber. Ensign Nohtsu was bleeding internally, and without Julian, they were unable to help her. Kira had approved the request as soon as she received it. Security was turning up a lot of new evidence from the changeling, showing how it had traveled from system to system within the walls and conduits to sabotage the ship. Worf, though not an expert in engineering was working on the computer in Whaley's quarters. He was trying to figure out what information the changeling had accessed while it was on board. It might give some sort of clue as to what its plan was or where it sent the doctor. She realized now that it was exactly fourteen days since he'd disappeared. Two weeks. And still there was no sign of him. It was strange really. All the other comm badges had registered on the sensors as soon as they were within range. Kira was starting to see now what Sisko meant when he said the changeling had singled him out. And it made her all that much more determined to find him. She'd even begun praying about it, hoping that the Prophets would still hear her all the way out here in this foreign time and place. Still, she had a feeling, a strangely calming feeling, that they wouldn't find him today. The rest of the day proceeded much like the morning had. Heiler constantly shadowed Bashir, looking for any opportunity to torment him. The only respite had been a short break for the mid- day meal. Bashir had decided he couldn't dignify it by calling it lunch. Given his condition, he could not fight to get a better place in line and ended up very near the end of the line completely. When it came his turn for soup, the large can was nearly empty. A few spoonfuls of the thin liquid were all that he got before he had to go back to work again. By the time the sun began to set, his hands, both of them, were bleeding and his face bruised. He could barely stand. The prisoner-leader--*kapo*, Szymon had explained to him during the meal--yelled at them to fall into line and Bashir gladly obeyed. He was exhausted and only wished to return to the barracks and sleep. More than that though, he wanted to eat. Even the rotten meat and stale bread would be good enough by this time. Szymon had a measure of pity on him this time after watching his ordeal with Heiler all day. He moved over to let Bashir have the center place in the line. The *kapo* spent several minutes counting them before he yelled again. The line began to move, again at double-time retracing its steps back the way it had come. It was even harder returning to the camp. Bashir could feel the warm liquid oozing from his back, and his legs threatened to abandon him at every step. He didn't notice the new buildings this time as he passed. He concentrated as much as possible on the ground directly in front of him where his feet would have to go. He felt dizziness somewhere just below the pain and found it hard even to focus on the ground. But he had forgotten about roll call. They reached the camp and were even within sight of the barracks when the *kapo* called for them to stop. Panting for breath, Bashir wanted to drop to his knees, to sit down, or to lay down, but with the Germans watching, he knew it was impossible. Several others from the kommando fell and were placed beside the two dead men they had carried back from the work site. Still the counting went on. The sky, when he could glimpse it beyond the smoke and lights of the camp, was dark, but still the counting continued. Snow began to fall again, lightly dusting the shoulders of the men around him. He didn't feel it. His vision blurred and doubled and his body swayed slightly to the side though he tried to stand perfectly still. And then the whistle blew. The lines broke up and the prisoners began to work their way to the barracks. Szymon stopped to look at him for a moment. Bashir didn't see it. He was still trying just to stay on his feet. "You must eat," Szymon said, and Bashir thought it was the kindest thing he'd said to him yet. But he still couldn't move. He couldn't trust his legs to carry him. "Fine, stay and . . . " Frustrated, Szymon searched for the right word. "Stay and don't eat. It's not my caring." He trudged away into the crowd. But Piotr stayed behind. He turned Bashir by his shoulder in the direction of the barracks. Bashir wobbled, but he didn't fall and he found that his legs would work after all. And Szymon was right: He needed to eat. Piotr helped him this time, to get to a better place in line. He received his ration and hungrily ate the sausage. His hand shook as he held the bread, but he ignored it. Some of the others were fighting to get into the latrine. Bashir resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't satisfy every biological need and found a corner of the building to sit against as he ate. The snow stopped and the wind parted the smoke above him until he could count five dim stars in the heavens. He almost fell asleep there, but a touch on his shoulder woke him with a stabbing pain. A prisoner, one he didn't recognize, stood above him. He motioned for him to go inside. Then he turned and left Bashir alone. He stuffed the last of his bread into his coat and tried to stand. It took nearly five minutes just to get upright again. The block was just as full as it had been the night before, with the exception of the men who had died during the day. Still, he was not able to find a bunk. But he couldn't bear sleeping underneath them again. The bunks had trapped him before, so that he was defenseless against the huge rats. He found his corner, the one he had curled into the day before, when the changeling had first brought him here. It was empty. Just before the *Blockalteste* called for lights out, he wedged himself down inside again, keeping his shoes and coat near him. Despite the cold and his lack of blanket, he was asleep in minutes. He didn't get to sleep for long. The rats came earlier than the previous night, and the screaming, crying and groaning of the men being attacked woke him. Again, since he was on the floor, Bashir was approached by one of the rodents, but he was not as vulnerable as before when he'd been pinned underneath the bunks. He kept his legs pulled up close to his chest, but still the rat charged his toes. He clutched his heavy wooden clogs now as he'd seen the other man do and beat at the rat when it came near. He missed a few times as the rat backed away quickly and hit his own toes. He decided, though, that it was better than being eaten. The changeling didn't come again this night, or at least he wasn't aware of her if she had. But the rats didn't go away until nearly morning, and, exhausted, Bashir let his head fall again against the wall. He closed his eyes and let the dreamless sleep come. He was awoken soon after by the *Blockalteste*'s voice. Morning again. He was still exhausted, but he was determined this time to get to the latrine *and* receive his morning rations. He didn't think he could possibly survive the day of work with so little sleep and so little food. He noticed as he got dressed that at least a dozen prisoners were carried outside. The dead. They would be counted with the rest at roll call and then taken out to be burned or buried. Bashir watched them coldly, feeling little of anything for them, but thinking that he should. But as they left the barracks for the last time, his mind was preoccupied with their former sleeping arrangements. Their lives, sadly, were over. They wouldn't be needing the bunks anymore. Perhaps he could get a place on one in the evening and maybe get a little bit of sleep. The day proceeded much like the previous one, except that he did procure his breakfast. He wasn't sure how today he had managed when before he hadn't. But the morning roll call relieved him of whatever burst of energy he'd had in the morning. He'd very nearly decided to join the men lying at the side. Some were the dead. Others were the ones who fell during roll call or who were too sick to move. Bashir felt that he could move, painful as it may be, but standing still in the cold air was nearly as much torture as he'd already been subjected to. As they stood, he watched the morning sun take over the darkened sky until it shined brightly, adding only a tint of warmth with its rays. Still, they stood. He tried sleeping, while still standing, but it wasn't a deep sleep and he was always afraid of falling or having a *kapo* catch him at it. He could do little more than close his eyes anyway before he felt dizzy and nearly lost his balance. He itched from the lice that had invaded his filthy clothes and his unshorn hair, but knew he couldn't scratch anything. He had heard a word spoken among the block leaders and the German guards, one he could recognize. Typhus. And it was carried by lice and thrived in the horrible sanitary conditions in which the prisoners were forced to live. It was another thing to worry about, but also something he couldn't control. He couldn't even wash his hands properly, let alone take a shower and keep clean. He ate his food, what little there was of it, out of the same foul bowl everyday and wore the same smelly, disgusting clothes that he'd been handed his first day there. Finally, the Germans were satisfied with the count and the lines broke up to form their work groups. Dragging his legs with difficulty, Bashir found Szymon and Piotr and followed them to his kommando. As he began the march, he wondered if he'd be alive to march back to roll call in the evening. The west longitude scan was no more successful than the east longitude or even the spiraling scan had been. There was still no signal from Bashir's comm badge, and as yet, the crew had been unable to come up with another method for finding the doctor. Any trace of the transport on the planet's surface had dissipated before the lateral sensors had even come on line. And Bashir himself would simply blend in with the rest of the planet's population. The badge was still their only method. O'Brien and a few of his team were now working on a way to boost the sensors to detect the actual communicator badge, not just its signal. There were specific alloys and components not accessible or still undiscovered in this time. But comm badges were small. They could easily fit in the palm of one hand, a small hand. The sensors would have to be very sensitive to locate such small quantities of the target alloys. The forward sensors were still, and would remain, unusable, and the laterals were still not up to full specs. O'Brien had not looked hopeful when asked if they could be improved. He had thought that maybe he could coax a ten percent increase in their strength and scanning sensitivity, but he wasn't sure if it would be enough. Still, they couldn't stand still and wait for the signal. With the *Defiant*'s low sensor range, they might miss it entirely. So when Dax returned to duty, she was ordered to change course to follow an orbit at fifty-three degrees south latitude, a course that only crossed land once at the southern tip of South America with the exception of a few small islands. Lieutenant Jordan had been "relieved to be relieved," as he put it. He suppressed another yawn and headed for the mess hall for a bite to eat before he slept. Dax knew just how he felt. Everyday, the rest period seemed shorter even though the actual number of hours never changed. Sixteen hours was a long shift to pull. She'd done it often enough that she hadn't thought it a big deal when they'd first begun to look for the missing crewmembers. But this was her sixteenth day of consecutive duty, not counting the shifts before the *Defiant* went back in time. It was a long time. And it didn't look to be getting any shorter. She was also slightly annoyed that she never got to see Worf anymore except while on duty. His shift ended at 2000, while she was off from 0800 to 1600. Sometimes when she was really tired she'd even found herself angry at Julian for being missing, and it made her feel guilty. She knew it wasn't his fault, and, wherever he was, he was probably no happier about the situation than she was. So she always made a conscious effort to shift her anger back onto the changeling that had infiltrated the ship and caused the deaths of sixteen people already. Worf never even said anything to her about it. She knew he wouldn't though. His Klingon honor would not let him admit in the presence of others his frustration at not seeing her. He spoke to her only in a business-like manner that concerned their duties. That frustrated her, too, but she knew there was really nothing she could do about it. He wouldn't change, and under other circumstances, or a shorter duration of double shifts, she probably would never expect him to. But the time and tension were catching up to her. The only respite she felt was the breaks. Every few hours, the bridge crew got a break. It was staggered so that no system was ever left unmanned, but it did allow for a little bit of socializing during the overlap moments. Dax tried to arrange her first break to coincide with the end of Worf's final break before he went off duty. She shared the others generally with Kira or Benjamin. Other times she was left alone at the table at the back of the bridge. It was then that she missed Julian. She remembered the many times before Worf came to the station--and even some after--that she had shared a table with him on the Promenade sipping raktajino after a long day's work. Even when he had been chasing her, and so much more once he'd stopped, he was a wonderful companion. She had to admit, Worf was somewhat boring when it came to sitting and sipping--though he excelled in other areas. But Julian was pleasant and always interested in what she had to say. He understood her when she spoke of science and was always willing to sit and listen to her talk about Worf, though she knew he really wasn't that interested. He was too polite to tell her so. He was a good listener and a good friend. And she couldn't help feeling that he was gone now and he wouldn't be coming back. 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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