Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 04:53:13 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 

Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 20/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Nine -- Continued

      Dax was the unfortunate one this time.  It was twelve
hundred hours, right in the middle of her time off.  But it was a
time when all the rest of the senior staff was on duty, so she was
outnumbered.  Sisko offered to try and make the meeting short, but
she didn't complain.  She might have teased him about it, if she
hadn't been so tired.  Sisko himself was still stifling his yawns
after having just woken up.  He was beginning to wonder if he'd
be able to get back on a normal day/night schedule once they
found Bashir.

      O'Brien was the first to offer his report.  "The warp
engines could take at least two more weeks to fix.  We're
practically building them from scratch down there."  He was
obviously frustrated by the whole thing, but Sisko also knew he
loved the challenge.  "On a brighter note, the shields aren't quite
as bad.  I've got Stevens heading up the team there.  We should be
able to get minimal shielding by tomorrow morning.  But I do
mean minimal.  You probably couldn't bounce a satellite off 'em.
But as we keep getting the power relays repaired, the shield
strength will improve.  We still won't get full strength, but we'll
have enough to get us around the sun, provided we only make one
trip."

      Sisko nodded.  He'd seen the reports at the start of all this.
The depleted Engineering crew had been doing a remarkable job
repairing the ship.  In three weeks, they had all but two of the main
systems in at least working order, some better than others.  But
getting the ship back into shape to take them home wasn't the
chief's only job.  "What about the sensors, Chief?"

      O'Brien shook his head.  "It's a very small piece of
equipment," he explained, speaking about Bashir's comm badge.
"It would be difficult to scan for even if we had all our sensors.
I'll keep a team working on it, but really, sir, I can only spare a
few people."

      He started to go on making excuses, but Sisko held up a
hand to stop him.  He understood.  It was like triage.  You can't
just put your resources on the ones that hurt the worst.  You also
have to think about who will benefit from your administrations.
O'Brien wanted to find Bashir as much as the rest of them.
They'd developed a close friendship over the years.  Sisko was
still surprised by it sometimes when he remembered how O'Brien
had hated the doctor when he first arrived on the station.

      Commander Worf had little new to report.  The ship had
been searched from one end to the other.  Every deck, Jefferies
tube, conduit and panel had been scanned.  And evidence of the
changeling's sabotage had been found in nearly every one of them.
But the Security teams had found no new evidence of changeling
infiltration, which seemed to confirm Sisko's theory that the
changeling had been destroyed in the shuttle explosions or had
transported off the ship just before.

      "Good," Sisko decided.  "Now draw up a new roster.  Post
the Security personnel where they can be most helpful.  If they
have any engineering experience, assign them to Chief O'Brien."

      "Aye, sir," Worf grumbled in reply.  Sisko wondered if it
was just his usual grumble or if he didn't like the idea of
reassigning Security.

      Dax didn't have much to report.  She hadn't been on the
bridge in over four hours and the course had changed since then.
So Sisko moved on to Kira.  He knew the scanning wasn't going
well, so he started with the timeline instead.  "Ensign Thomas said
there's no significant changes in the timeline," Kira reported.

      "No significant changes," Sisko repeated.

      "They would have to be significant or she wouldn't notice
them," Kira clarified.  Sisko was a little disappointed.  If there had
been a change, they would know where to look for either Bashir or
the changeling.  They might even get lucky and find both.

      "I'm running out of ideas," Kira declared.  She wasn't even
trying to hide her frustration anymore.   "We've scanned every
inch of that planet.  If he's down there, his badge simply isn't
functioning.  We can scan that planet until we drain all the power,
but it still won't turn anything up if the badge isn't putting out a
signal."

      "Well," Sisko began patiently, "we've got nothing better to
do at the moment."  Still, he had to consider her point.  They
couldn't simply stop scanning.  They were going to be orbiting the
planet anyway, since they couldn't go home yet.  But, as she had
said, it was apparent that the badge was not working.  "Maybe we
can narrow down the search."

      Dax spoke up finally.     "We've tried that already using the
fragments from the transporter logs."

      Sisko nodded and held a hand up.  "I know, and we didn't
find anything.  But that's not what I'm talking about.  Up to now,
we've been scanning everywhere, no matter how inhospitable or
uninhabited.  And it was the right thing to do.  We wouldn't have
found our people if we hadn't."  He got up and paced a few steps.
He felt guilty for what he was about to say, like he was giving up,
at least partially.  But he knew it was now also the right thing to
do.  There was no point wasting their resources on hopeless
causes.  "But it's been eighteen days now.  Bashir's comm badge
is malfunctioning.  I think that's obvious.  If we're going to get a
signal from it, it will have to be fixed.  If, however, he's been in,"
he threw up his hands as he gave them an example, "Antarctica for
seventeen days, there's no way he's going to fix it."  He lowered
his voice.  "If he's there, he's dead.  We should concentrate on
areas where he'd have a chance, at least for now."

      No one said anything for a few minutes.  Kira nodded
silently and left her gaze on the tabletop in front of her.

      It was Dax who broke the silence.  "What happens when
we get the warp engines fixed, Benjamin, if we still haven't found
him?"

      Sisko looked her in the eye.  He didn't want to make that
decision yet.  He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
"Then we call another staff meeting."


       When she came for him again, Bashir was worried that
she'd put him in new barracks as she had before.  He'd be sleeping
on the floor again with no one to speak his language.  On the other
hand, it might also have meant a new work kommando, and that at
least had a chance of being better than the one he was in.  Not
much of a chance though.  He was hoping she wouldn't be cruel
enough to put him in with the *Sonderkommando.*  Szymon, who
had opened up a little since the stitching, had told him about that.
It was supposed to be kept quiet, but everyone who had been in the
camp for even a few weeks learned about the *Sonderkommando.*
They were the ones who dealt with the dead.  They loaded and
unloaded the gas chambers and then burned the bodies, but only
after searching them for gold.  The *Sonderkommando* was itself
gassed every few months.

      As he stepped out the door behind her, he heard the
*Blockalteste* call *Blocksperre.*  There was going to be another
selection.  "It's impossible to find some privacy here, you know,"
Whaley's voice remarked from the man's body in front of him.
"I'd take you back to my barracks, but that might cause
questions."

      Bashir didn't say anything as he hobbled along after her,
but he couldn't help thinking something sarcastic.  She was
worried about privacy?  He had to sleep on a wooden plank with
five other men.  She had chosen this place, not him.

      She did manage to find something though, one of the
warehouses he had glimpsed when going for the soup.  No one was
working there yet because it was still too early.  The sky was still
dark and everyone was probably getting ready for roll call.  She
led him into the warehouse and instantly changed her form to
match her voice.  Bashir stood in the doorway, partly out of fear of
punishment should he move in a way she didn't like, and partly
from shock.  He'd seen what filled the warehouse before, on the
trip here with his father, but it had been behind glass then, a
museum exhibit.  Now it was out in the open, fresh and all the
more horrible.  Hair.  Piled as high as the ceiling, it stretched from
one wall to the other.  Blond, red, brown, grey, every shade and
color imaginable.  He saw braids in it and ribbons here and there.
Children's hair.

      "At least they're resourceful," the changeling quipped,
picking a stack of bundles to sit on.  "They could have burned this
with the bodies, but they're sending it back to Germany.  What is
that saying you have?  'Waste not, want not?'  Please, have a
seat."

      Bashir couldn't speak.  He just stared at her, shaking his
head in tiny movements.  He couldn't sit.  The bundles on which
she was perched so nonchalantly atop were full of hair.  The hair
of murdered women and children and inmates in the camp.  He
couldn't walk on it.  He couldn't sit on it.

      "Fine, have it your way," she dismissed.  "I just thought
you might be tired.  You could consider this your day off."  She
leaned back, looking very much like a human being.  "Within
reason, of course."

      "There's no reason here," Bashir whispered.

      "Depends on how you look at it."  The changeling sat back
up, and Bashir feared she would hit him again.  But she didn't.  She
seemed genuinely interested in conversing on the matter.  "Before
we came here, I really didn't know what a Jew was.  Oh, I'd
learned about it.  We all had.  This is where the crew would have
ended up after all, except for the non-humans.  We would have
had to dispose of them ourselves.  Earth isn't ready for
extraterrestrials just yet.  But I really didn't see any difference
between the lot of you humans."

      Bashir tried to ignore her as she rattled on about National
Socialist ideology and racism, but something had caught his
attention.  What had she said about the crew?  He had noticed his
hearing was beginning to deteriorate just a little.  But it was quiet
in the warehouse with the exception of her voice.  He had heard
her, but almost lost that sentence in the rest of her lecture.  The
whole crew would have come here.

      "But I realize now that that might not have been a good
method," she continued.  "After all, there's some who could be
considered of Aryan stock aboard.  And some of you might have
simply survived somehow.  We couldn't have you finding a way to
leave a message for the future."

      He was paying attention now, ignoring instead the fatigue
in his legs.  He would have been standing in roll call anyway.  She
was talking about the crew of the *Defiant,* about what she had
planned for them.  And apparently the plan had fallen through.
Why else would she have been talking in should-haves and
couldn't-haves?  He realized now that he really hadn't thought
about that before, that she could have transported more than
himself to this hell, that the whole crew had been in danger.  But
apparently it hadn't turned out that way.  Maybe she *had* lied
about Captain Sisko.  Maybe he *was* the only one.

      And she was right.  It wouldn't have worked to send the
whole crew here.  Some would probably have been shot on site.
Others would have been singled out as political prisoners and
treated better.  Besides, they'd all just arouse suspicion, and what
both he and the changeling needed was to blend in.  "Too many
foreigners," he supplied.  He wanted her to keep talking about it so
that, perhaps, he could learn what the whole plan had been.  What
were they going to do with the *Defiant* once the crew was
disposed of?

      "You're right, of course," she sighed.  "Someone would get
suspicious."  She smiled at him then, a cold smile that tried to
appear genuine--or maybe it was the other way around.  "But you?
You fit right in, don't you?  Are you sure you're not really
Jewish?"

      "Judaism is a religion, not a race," Bashir said.  He faced
away from her, but where he could still see her from the corner of
his eye.

      "Perhaps, but does that really matter?" she asked, standing
up.  "These uniforms are so ill fitting when I'm in this form."  She
morphed herself then, pulling in her arms and legs until the
uniform she'd been wearing slipped down around her feet.  In its
place she wore the simple flesh-toned dress that had become
characteristic of her people, at least when they interacted with
solids.  "I mean," she continued with the conversation, "reality is
only what you make of it.  Judaism may be a religion, but here, it's
treated as race.  And that's what you have to live and die with.
Religion becomes irrelevant."

      Bashir didn't know if he agreed or not.  Was it irrelevant?
Perhaps in the context she was speaking of.  But, though he'd
grown up believing religion to be something to be respected in
other cultures, but otherwise rejected, it somehow felt worse to
look at all that hair and think the people who had lost it were
killed for no reason at all--or that the God they believed in wasn't
there for them when they died.  But then, his rational side would
ask why their God didn't stop them from dying.  It was a complex
issue, one he was too tired and too hungry to contemplate now.

      "Sometimes I come here," the changeling said, her tone of
voice much different, more reflective, than before, "or to one of
the other warehouses when no one is around, usually when they're
eating lunch.  It's difficult to keep this shape constantly--
especially that man--and to wear those clothes.  It's so limiting.
How can you stand being trapped in the same form all the time?"

      Bashir didn't expect that she was actually looking for an
answer, but when he looked over at her, she was waiting for him to
speak.  She even looked genuinely interested in his answer.  But
what kind of answer could he give?  It was a very odd question to
ask someone who'd never changed his form.  "It has its benefits,"
he said, keeping it vague.

      "Do you suppose Odo thought so?" she asked.  "We
changed him.  It was meant as a punishment."

      Bashir wasn't sure he should answer that one.  It might
compromise the constable in some way.  But she seemed
determined to wait until he responded.  So, still trying to be vague
and noncommittal, he said simply, "He got used to it."

      "But he was happy to change again," she pointed out.
"Soared like a hawk across the Promenade, isn't that right?"  As
she spoke, she twirled around once in a graceful arch.  "Oh, that's
right, you weren't really there at the time."

      "No," Bashir replied, "I wasn't."

      "It's a shame."  She had stopped her little dance.  Now her
eyes fell to the floor toward her bare feet.  Little wisps of loose
hair lay about them.  She didn't seem to notice.  "I knew him.
And he knew you so well."  She looked up.  Her eyes showed the
excitement he heard in her voice.  "He was just as good a doctor.
You should have seen him work.  No one even noticed he wasn't
you.  He knew he was going to die, but he went anyway."

      It was disconcerting to hear her speak of the changeling
that had impersonated him like that.  He had found it very
disturbing to learn all the changeling had done while he was
in the Jem'Hadar prison.  Once he had found out, he made every
patient the man had seen come in again for a full physical.
Captain Sisko had patiently spent the better part of a day being
tested and retested after Bashir had learned of the surgery the
changeling had performed.  And yet, he'd found nothing wrong
with any of them.  That changeling had been as good a doctor, just
as this changeling had said.

      "But he died," her tone changed to something harder, more
angry, "before he could complete his mission.  Does that sound
familiar?"

      Bashir caught the warning in her tone and kept his mouth
shut.

      "It was your fault.  You escaped and warned the station."
She quieted down, but the coldness in her eyes didn't leave.  "But
that was only one of my people.  Do you know how many of us
were on that ship?  Forty-six.  And they died because of me and
because of you."  When he didn't respond, she continued.  She
sounded remorseful.  "I failed them.  I failed because of you and
your curiosity.  If you'd just have left the blood samples alone, this
could have been avoided, not for you, but for them.  But now
they're dead.  And I'm alone here with only *you* for company."

      He thought about the number.  *Forty-six changelings.*
Forty-seven, if he counted her.  The exact number of crew on the
*Defiant.*   She was silent after that, for nearly fifteen minutes.
Bashir didn't offer to break the silence.   Nor did he sit, though his
legs were tired.  He didn't move from his spot near the door.
Every time she moved or took a step, he felt it a desecration to the
people who had lost the hair that filled the room.  She didn't seem
to mind.

      Then suddenly she returned to the empty uniform on the
floor.  "I have to go."  She slipped one foot and then the other into
the neck of the uniform jacket.  "Stay away from the SS, if you
want to live.  And be sure not to miss the evening roll call."  With
that, she disappeared, melting down into the uniform.  The
uniform then began to grow, rising from the floor as she filled out
its spaces.  Her hands poked out of the sleeves and finally her
head, or rather Heiler's head, emerged from the collar.  She had to
pick up the hat.  "You shouldn't stay here," Whaley's voice spoke.
"There's a transport of Gypsies--whatever they are--coming in
today.  They'll be bringing their hair in here."

      Bashir looked at her.  "Wh--," he started to say.  But he
stopped himself, remembering her reaction to his questions.  "I
don't know where to go."  Freedom here could be as dangerous as
slavery.  He didn't know the place.  He didn't know what was
allowed and what wasn't.  And how was he to avoid the SS?  It
seemed strange, but he had to admit that he was only safe when he
was with her.

      "Go back to your barracks.  It's empty now," Heiler
answered, though he carried no accent.  "I don't care.  I told you
this was your day off."

      And then he was gone, and Bashir was left standing alone
in the warehouse.  He stood there for a few moments, trying to
decide what to do.  He couldn't stay, as she had said.  If someone
saw him, there would be questions.  Finally he turned and opened
the door a crack.  He couldn't see anyone near, so he stepped out.
The sun was just beginning to brighten the sky, and the wind was
picking up.  He closed the door behind him and hurried to leave
the area, still not sure just where he would go.


      Captain Sisko looked at the PADD Worf had given him
before leaving the bridge.  Worf had given no explanation of the
report, and now Sisko could understand why.  It was something
better not discussed, at least not yet.  He had a decision to make
first.  It read at first, like an ordinary report.  Worf had concluded
that the changeling, as believed, was no longer on the ship, but
also that it was likely the changeling committed suicide in the
shuttle craft when it exploded.  Some black, sooty residue had
been found near the remains of the transporter controls, and there
had been no evidence of any timeline changes to show interference
by the changeling on the planet's surface.  There was a high
possibility that the changeling threat was gone.

      But added to the Security report was something else,
something Sisko wouldn't have expected of Worf.  It was a report
on the morale of the crew, something Worf too often seemed
insensitive to.  But as he read on, he realized it was something
hard to miss--unless you were the captain of the ship.  The crew
was unhappy, and Sisko could understand that.  They were tired,
and felt there was no longer any danger.  They wanted to go home.
Bashir had been gone now for nearly four weeks without a trace.
It was time now to admit that he was dead and concentrate on
getting the ship back to its own century.

      Sisko could not blame them for grumbling.  The sixteen
hour shifts they were working were grueling.  He could do
something about that.  But he wasn't ready to give up on the
doctor.  They were right.  Three and a half weeks was a long time.
He had moments of doubt himself when he knew Bashir was
dead and they were wasting time and energy looking for him.  But
just when he was about to make that decision, the doubt slipped
and just enough hope stepped in.  And a small helping of guilt,
too.  Bashir had been gone for a month before, kidnapped by the
Jem'Hadar and none of his crew had even noticed.  And he'd
survived it, escaped with Garak and Worf and a few others in tow.
Perhaps he was still surviving now, wherever he was.

      Bashir had given a report, but otherwise he talked very
little about his time in the internment camp.  He'd asked about
everything he'd missed while he was away and ordered most of
the station's residents to come in for full physicals, but otherwise
he'd tried to go on as if it had never happened.  But Sisko had
noticed a change in him.  He was much more serious than he had
been before, especially when it came to the Dominion.  And he
was afraid.  He hid it well, actually.  But Sisko could sense it.  He
smiled less often and always seemed to want more reinforcements
from Starfleet.  Sisko remembered how Dax had teased him just
after they had abandoned the station and were rendezvousing with
the Federation-Klingon task force, asking him if there were
enough ships for him now while the impressive fleet hung before
them on the viewscreen.  He had joked back to her, but Sisko
could tell that he was relieved.

      No, Sisko was not ready to leave without him.  But he also
knew that he couldn't stay forever.  Bashir was only one man.
Sisko had twenty-eight other crewmembers to think of.  He would
have to make a decision eventually.

      "Dax," he asked, clearing the PADD and setting it aside,
"what is the status on our ability to get back to our time?"

      Dax checked her instruments and took a moment to consult
with the officer at the Engineering station.  Then she swivelled her
chair around to face him.  "Still a ways to go, Benjamin.  Warp
engines are still offline, and we'll need stronger shields if we don't
want to burn up completely."

      Sisko sighed with relief, earning a confused look from
Dax.  "Thank you, Old Man."  He pressed a few keys on the
console beside his seat and spoke, knowing that the comm system
would relay his voice through the entire ship.  "All hands,
effective at OOOO hours, all shifts will be reduced by four hours.
Off time will be staggered within the normal sixteen hour shifts.
Major Kira will work out the rotations.  Check the new roster in
the morning."  He paused a moment before changing the subject.
He had to approach the next subject carefully.  He didn't want the
crew to feel that they had been spied upon.  "It has now been over
three weeks since our arrival in this time.  As yet, we've found no
evidence of a change in the timeline nor of any further sabotage by
the changeling.  It is safe, for the time being then, to assume that
the changeling was destroyed in the shuttle explosion.  We have
also not received any signal from Doctor Bashir.  I realize how
hard the last few weeks have been, and I appreciate the effort and
loyalty this crew has shown.  I know you want to go home.  I do,
too.  However, it will still be some time before the ship is capable
of getting us there.  We must continue to monitor the planet's
surface for either changeling activity or our missing crewman until
that time.  When that time comes, if no evidence of either has been
found, I will reevaluate my decision.  In the meantime, we should
all assume that Bashir is alive and give as much effort to finding
him as we did for the others.  Sisko out."


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

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