Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 05:05:48 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 32/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Thirteen -- Continued

      Lieutenant Jordan hadn't given up his nighttime mission.
He'd just altered it somewhat to avoid dealing with the rats all
night.  He showed up at the barracks just after roll call and moved
among the inmates until time for curfew.  He was able to see most
of the inmates that way, as they ate dinner and socialized.  He also
planned to show up at the latrines in the morning, even though
they smelled worse than even the smoke.  Everyone came to the
latrines, and he would watch their faces as they marched out again.

      He started by watching the line of men as they waited for
their rations.  He could see what they ate, the dirty hands they ate
with.  He knew they didn't have a choice, but it still sickened him
to watch it.  He didn't bother getting in line himself, even though
his disguise might require it.  They needed the food, lousy as it
was, more than he did.  He had a nice enough bed back on the
*Defiant,* and a replicator in the mess hall that could make
anything he wanted for dinner.  Of course, he hadn't used it yet
today.  He felt he needed to look thinner.  He needed to look
hungry even if he didn't act it.  He would only eat once a day until
they left this place.  That was the promise he'd made to himself.

      He didn't see Bashir in the line, so he went inside and
looked around the bunks.  He couldn't see the top bunk, but he
didn't think it wise to stand on the wall. He'd been warned about
what the block elders thought of that.  But most of the men
weren't lying down yet.  They sat up on the upper bunk, dangling
their legs over the side and Jordan could look up at them.  He also
listened to what was being said as he passed.  He'd gotten Chief
O'Brien to alter his already modified badge so that he could toggle
the translator on and off at will.  He turned it off now and listened
for words he understood, English words that would indicate if the
doctor was among the inmates.

      The block elder emerged, and Jordan turned the translator
back on.  The block elder yelled that the door would be locked in
ten minutes.  Jordan walked quickly toward the door, not wanting
to run and show too much energy.  He had to push his way out,
since everyone else was pushing their way in.  But he watched
their faces as he passed, especially the ones who were taller than
himself.  He thought about the meeting of the away team last
night.  He hadn't been there, of course, but he'd read the report
earlier in the day.  Bashir had been to the hospital.  Barker had
reported that the Jewish doctor there had not said that he was
injured, but that he'd treated the injured.  Still, Jordan thought it
might be a good clue to keep his eye out for injuries as well.  Once
he was finally outside, he stopped just past the door.  Each man
would have to pass him as he went in.

      Some still stood milling around, staring blindly at the
world in front of them.  They made no move to go inside.  Some
were helped by friends who led them inside.  Others were simply
left to themselves.  They were so thin, like skeletons covered
thinly with tight-stretched skin.  If they weren't wearing shirts,
Jordan felt sure he could have counted every one of their ribs.
They were pale, he could see that even in the dim light outside.
He hadn't seen them in the line for food.  They were starving.
They were already dead.  Thomas had told them about these, to
not be surprised when they saw them.  Muslims, they were called,
or Muselmen.  The walking dead.

      Jordan watched the last of the healthier inmates pass
through the door.  The block functionary there began to move
toward the door to lock it, but one of the Muslims was still
standing, making no move to enter.  Jordan hadn't wanted to go
back in.  He'd have to wait then and hope for a clear moment to
transport.  He certainly didn't want to still be there when the rats
came.  But he couldn't leave that man out in the snow no matter
how close to dying he already was.

      The man didn't even seem to notice when Jordan touched
his shoulder.  "It's time to go in now," Jordan told him, letting the
translator change his words to German.  He turned the man around
and the man didn't resist.  So he steered him through the still
opened door.  The functionary locked it once they were in, and
Jordan was left to take a place on the floor once more.


      By morning, the entire crew knew.  Dr. Bashir was, or had
been, somewhere in Auschwitz, most likely Birkenau, and the
*Defiant* would not be leaving until the away team either found
him or conclusive evidence of his death.  While most weren't
heartened at the idea of remaining in this century, there were no
more complaints.  Everyone who remained on board the ship
carried out his or her duty with renewed conviction.  They were
back to double shifts now, sixteen hour days, taking over the
duties of their fellow crewmates who were already leaving again
for the planet's surface.

      Word was leaking out about conditions in the camp.  The
away team could be heard discussing it over dinner or just before
breakfast.  Kira listened intently and read every word of every
report.  The more she heard and read, the more she felt the sense
of dread and horror that had filled her at Gallitep.  She had thought
that she would never confront anything so horrible the rest of her
life.  Gallitep was the pinnacle, the epitome of cruelty,
degradation, and murder.  But with every report, she found that
Auschwitz was eclipsing it, a feat she would never had thought
possible.

      It was huge, that camp down there.  Birkenau, itself, had
more inmates than Gallitep.  And that was the living.  Whole
trainloads had passed its gates only to die in the gas chambers in
the old farmhouse at the north end of the camp.  And the Nazis
were in the process of building four more chambers with
crematoria attached.  No more need for funeral pyres.  They would
burn the people in ovens.  The first of the four, according to the
computer library and the evidence provided by the away team,
would be finished early next week.  The Gypsies, an ethnic group
Kira had only heard about from Thomas's short lecture, would be
the first to try it out.

      She had gotten sick the first day she had entered
Gallitep and was confronted by the survivors.  She had had
nightmares for weeks from the things she had seen and from the
stories they told her.  But it had all made her fight harder for her
people and her world.

      Now she felt helpless and frustrated.  She had her duties on
the *Defiant,* but they were minor and ordinary, little more than
monitoring systems.  She hated just sitting still.  Every moment
she got she studied the map of the camp and records indicating
what kind of activity went on within each of its boundaries.  She
and O'Brien discussed it sometimes over coffee before the captain
came on duty.  He was anxious, too, wanting to go down there and
find his friend.  Unlike her, he was not held back by his
appearance or his species.  He was held back by responsibility.  He
had to constantly reroute power from other systems to keep the
warp drive up to specs.  It was a priority Sisko insisted on.  The
ship had to be ready to leave as soon as Bashir was found.

      Kira was not content with just staying on the ship.  And
she'd already worked out a plan with one of the nurses,
Hausmann.  If something went wrong, with either the away team
or Julian--if he was still alive--then she would beam down, despite
the risk.  She had a uniform prepared and hanging in her quarters.
Nurse Hausmann had synthesized skin ready to cover her nose
ridges.  She could be changed and ready in less than ten minutes.
And she wasn't going to let Sisko or the Nazis hold her back.


      *Blocksperre* was called again in the morning, and for
nearly fifteen minutes, Bashir thought the changeling had decided
to leave him at the mercy of the selection.  The door remained
locked and the inmates grew anxious.  He was concerned about
Szymon and hoped that he would be able to stifle his coughing and
disguise his fever.  If he'd been allowed, Bashir would have gone
outside to get some snow and rub it onto Szymon's head to cool
him down.  But he was not allowed.

      For himself, Bashir was neither worried nor relieved.  If he
stayed for the selection he would be sent to die.  If not, he would
be with her, and he never knew what that would mean.  She
changed more than her appearance at every meeting.  As he
waited, listening vaguely to the murmur of voices around him, he
thought about what dying in the gas would be like.  He
remembered that it was a form of cyanide gas.  Cyanide killed
quickly, depending on the dosage and method of delivery.
Ingested in concentrated form, it could kill instantly.  But as a gas,
in a large room--and he knew the size since he'd helped to build it-
-he wasn't sure.  It would depend on the amount of gas, the
number of people in the chamber.  Would they all simply fall
asleep or would they gasp in pain and panic and trample each
other as they suffocated?  He was hungry and tired, and it was hard
to puzzle such things out.

      He hadn't quite come to any conclusion when the door
opened.  A white-coated soldier entered.  The selection.  Everyone
got down from their bunks and stood, hats off, at attention.  The
doctor was alone though.  He'd always seen a group come
together.  The doctor took out a clipboard and read off a number.
Bashir listened and then repeated it back to himself slowly
translating the digits in his head.  *Hundert tausand sieben
hundert* . . .  It was his number.  And he was surprised at how
much fear he still had inside of him.  It was only when he stepped
forward and got closer to the doctor that he recognized the face of
Chief O'Brien.


      It had taken two days of discussion and even the promise
of certain favors--which she did not intend on carrying out--for
Ensign Thomas to get permission to enter the Gestapo files.  She'd
nearly given up when the agent in charge had propositioned her.
He was a particularly unattractive man, with a round face and
greasy hair.  His double chin seemed pinched by his collar and he
reeked of insufficient personal hygiene.

      It might take weeks to get the proper paperwork and
permission, he had told her.  He would have to write to Berlin to
confirm her orders and identity.  But if she were to agree to a more
personal meeting, he'd try and speed things along.  Perhaps it
wouldn't be necessary to contact Berlin after all.

      The thought of lowering herself to physical bribery had
sickened Thomas, but she had kept her reaction to herself.
German women were expected to bear ethnically pure children for
the Fatherland and *Fuhrer.*  She could hardly afford to act a
prude in her current disguise.  She agreed, but haggled with him
over a time.  She wasn't free until evening, after roll call.  One of
the *Blockfuhrerinen* was leaving early for weekend leave, and
Thomas was needed to count the women in her block.  But she
would meet him later in his office here.

      But, of course, she planned to be back on the *Defiant* by
that time.  All of which meant, she had to find something good
today.  She could not return tomorrow without having to again
face this man who might, at the least, wonder why he'd been jilted
and keep her out of the records again.  At worse, he could demand
a more timely payment for his kindness.

      She was glad he had other business to attend to and had not
accompanied her personally into the office where the records were
filed.  She didn't want to waste any time, though, in case he
changed his mind about waiting or someone else decided they
needed the office.  She found the B files quickly and rifled through
them, hoping that the doctor's name wouldn't be there, and just in
case it was, that he had used his real name.  It was.  And he had.

      But the file was in German and though she knew some,
reading it was still very difficult.  Besides the Nazis often used
euphemisms and jargon that she wouldn't have learned in any
language course.  She would have to scan the files for translation
back on the ship.  Things would have been easier on their first trip
to Berlin if that had been possible.  Stevens, in Engineering, had
suggested a portable scanning device, like the late-twentieth
century computers had.  He replicated one and managed to update
it a bit.  The original was too bulky and required an external power
source.  The modified one was a work of genius, at least in
Thomas's eyes.  Stevens had gotten creative.  He not only made it
smaller and gave it an internal power supply, but he designed it to
fit into the clip of the Luger she carried.  She just hoped she didn't
need to shoot anyone.

      Before she used the scanner however, she checked the door
again, placing her ear to the wood and listening for movement.
She heard nothing.  She quickly laid the file open right there in the
drawer.  She drew her weapon and snapped the clip out.  One by
one she held the clip over the documents, scanning them into the
memory of the tricorder she carried in another pocket.  The
scanner was slow, by Starfleet standards, but she couldn't
complain.  That would be impolite.  It was a relatively thin file, all
told, and it only took her a few minutes to scan the whole thing.
She closed the folder and replaced it in the cabinet.

      Once that was done, she knew she had to go back out and
face that Gestapo man.  She really hoped he was too busy with
something to talk to her.  She wanted to just slip past him quietly.
But then she remembered, she wouldn't have to slip out at all.  She
could simply disappear, transport to the ship and download the
information.  No, it would be sloppy.  The man knew she had
come in.  She had to go back out, otherwise she'd cause confusion
and, most likely, suspicion.  So, after straightening her uniform
and checking to make sure all her modern gear was stowed safely
away, she put on what she hoped was a sly, see-you-later smile
and placed her hand on the door knob.

      She stopped though, frozen by a memory of another door
opening on a cold, dark street to desolation and fear.  It was a
strange sensation but one she was having more and more often.
She was starting to realize now that it wasn't just a dream.  She
was remembering.  It had to be a memory from the ghetto before
she had been attacked on the train.  It faded quickly though,
without giving her any answers.  She decided she would ask Dax
that evening, or maybe Novak.  Right now, she had a duty to
perform.  She replaced her smile and opened the door.


      Bashir had known better than to take that face at face
value.  O'Brien and his shipmates were gone.  Besides, the chief
hadn't said anything as they left the barracks, and he wouldn't
have known anything about *Blocksperre* or that there was going
to be a selection.  Bashir had reasoned then, that it was just Heiler
trying out a new face, a new game with which to torment him.
Using O'Brien's voice, the Irish lilt that still visited sometimes in
Bashir's restless dreams, she had told him to wait and left him
standing near the fence and in easy view of one of the guard
towers.  She had spoken quietly so that the Ukrainian guard in the
tower wouldn't overhear.  Dropping the accent, and slipping back
into German, she yelled something to the guard.  Then O'Brien,
the changeling, had left him to stand in the early morning stillness
with the sun barely topping the horizon.

      It had been three hours, and the guard had watched him
carefully for every minute of them.  His gun never wavered from
pointing directly at Bashir's chest.  Perhaps O'Brien had offered
him some especially nice bribe to watch him so carefully.  Or
maybe he simply enjoyed his work.  Whatever the reason, the man
did what he was told.

      The changeling, once again as *Scharfuhrer* Heiler,
returned after another hour, when the sun was well up into the sky
somewhere behind the billows of smoke.  Bashir was so stiff by
then that he could barely move when she told him to follow her.
He had no other plans for the day, so he followed, wondering idly
if she would kill him today.  He didn't have far to go.  She led him
to the latrine building.  Everyone else was at roll call or locked in
the barracks so the place was empty.

      Heiler's body changed into that of Whaley and the
changeling sighed.  Bashir said nothing, nor did he move at all.
He watched her carefully though.  She looked around her noting
the filth and mud.  "I don't have legs," she said.  "So you wouldn't
expect these would get tired."  She sighed again and Bashir could
tell she was in one of her gloomy moods.  Still, she was just as
unpredictable.  She could just spend the day talking to him.  Or she
might decide he hadn't yet been punished enough for whatever
crimes the solids had committed against her people.  Selection or
not, he could very well end up dead.

      She was watching him.  "You could show a little
sympathy," she admonished.  "This takes effort, you know.  Being
solid is your natural form.  It takes more work for us."  She turned
away from him, slowly pacing the length of the building.  "Did
you know I volunteered for this mission?  I thought I could do it.
It's not just replacing people.  That part is easy.  Even learning
everything about you solids only takes a few days.  But it's so hard
being alone."

      She came back to him, standing close.  She sounded tired
and even sincere.  He didn't care.  Loneliness was the least of what
she deserved.  "You know, in the Link," she continued, "one of
your centuries was so short.  It flew by.  A decade was the wink of
an eye, if we had had them.  But now. . . ."  She let her voice drop
off.  When she resumed it was with a greater sense of despair.
Bashir had never seen her so emotional.  "Now, I'm alone.  It's
only been a few weeks and it's an eternity.  Four hundred years!"
she exclaimed, emphasizing each word.  "Four hundred and thirty
actually.  I thought I could stand to be away from the Link, but
now. . . .  It's hard when you're alone."

      She stopped as if waiting for a reply.  Bashir didn't speak.
She would probably hit him for it.  But he was sure she would hit
him for anything he said, so there was no point wasting his breath
on words.  She turned her head, distracted by some distant noise
that Bashir could no longer hear.  "We have to move," she said.
She took him by the arm and pushed him out the door.

      The wind was strong now, blowing ice across his face and
stinging at his eyes.  It was nothing new.  That had been happening
since the day he arrived in this time.  He imagined it would
continue to the day he died.  Spring could not come to Auschwitz.
She led him into another barracks.  Its inmates had already gone
off to work.  Like all the barracks he had ever seen, including his
own, it was scarcely cleaner than the latrines.  She leaned back
against one of the bunks and watched him.  Bashir, once again,
simply stood where she had left him, just inside the door.

      "You're not much for conversation, are you?" she said.  An
edge had come into her tone.  "I probably should have left you in
your barracks.  You should be thanking me for saving your useless
life.  And this isn't the first time.  You haven't thanked me once."

      That was a good point, Bashir decided.  Not that part about
thanking her, but the saving of his life.  She had done it several
times now, but she had also nearly killed him just as many times
or more.  He didn't feel the need to thank her, but he was curious
as to why she did it.  She obviously wanted him to be punished,
and yet she stopped on the brink of his death every time.  Even
when he had been willing to give up himself, she had forced him
to the hospital for two days of recuperation.  He had noted the
selection the next day.  She had saved him then as well.  But why?

      Bashir opened his mouth to speak and then stopped.
Whaley watched him expectantly.  "Wh--  I don't understand," he
said finally, remembering that a question would earn him a blow,
"why you bother to save me."

      She didn't even have to think about her answer, and by her
tone an unknowing observer might have thought the two of them
had been friends for years.  "You're the only one I can talk to,"
she said.  "No one else here knows me.  I can be myself with you."
She smiled.  "Or anyone else, for that matter.

      "Still," she warned, "I wouldn't get too comfortable if I
were you.  I will last the four hundred and thirty years.  You, on
the other hand,--"  She didn't finish the sentence, but Bashir knew
what she meant.  He would die eventually, whenever she grew
tired of him.  "I think, when I do get back to the Link, that we'll
have a lot to learn from this place."  She started pacing again.
"Yes, a lot to learn.  You're a pretty good test of such facilities
actually.  You escaped from our prison camp, you and that
Cardassian friend of yours.  We should have killed him
immediately.  But I can see now that we were much too lenient
with you.  Except for that period in isolation, you were allowed to
walk around freely.  You're a murderer, a vile being who can't
even keep his own word, and we treated you like a guest.  This
place has been much more effective."

      Forgetting himself, Bashir glanced up at her at that
accusation.  He immediately dropped his eyes again, but she had
already seen it.  "Yes, you.  Do no harm.  Isn't that what your oath
says, the one you hold higher than even your oath to Starfleet?
You harm.  You murder.  You were at the helm when the
Jem'Hadar first boarded the *Defiant* three years ago.  You fired
the weapons that destroyed one of our vessels.  How many do you
think you killed then?"  She let her voice raise, ignoring the fact
that someone might overhear.  "And what about Odo?  You
destroyed him without even a hint of remorse!"

      Bashir's brow furrowed as he tried to imagine what she
meant.  Odo was a friend.  He would never hurt him willingly.

      "I meant your supervisor," she explained slowly, as if
dealing with a dense child, "in ore processing.  You stole a phaser
from one of the guards and shot him, full power."

      He remembered now.  The alternate universe, the one
where humans were slaves and Kira had wanted him tortured to
death on the Promenade.  He remembered talking with one of the
nurses about it a millennium ago, before all this happened.  She
knew about that.  How could she know?  Had she read the
thoughts in his face or in his mind?  Unless perhaps she had been
the nurse.  Perhaps he had been talking to her.

      "We replaced you," she stated, as if it were obvious.  "We
know everything you know.  We know all about your enhanced
DNA and even that stuffed bear you keep in your quarters.  Don't
you think you're a little old for that?"

      Agitated that they had gotten off on a tangent, she pulled
the one-sided conversation back around to Bashir's crimes.  "Even
here you harm people, your fellow prisoners."

      Bashir closed his eyes, not wanting to hear anymore.  He
had done all those things, but none of them had been murder.  He
had shot down the Jem'Hadar ship to save the *Defiant* and the
lives of its crew.  He had shot that other Odo in self-defense.  And
Piotr. . . .  *No,* he told himself.  *She shot Piotr.*

      "But it was your refusal to carry out the order that I gave
you that killed him.  You knew the terms.  You let him die."

      "I . . . I couldn't decide," Bashir stammered in a whisper.
"You didn't give me a chance."

      "You obey here!" she yelled.  "You don't have to decide!
You do what you're told.  Did you have time to decide when you
killed Odo?  Or did you just shoot?   Did you question your
captain when he told you to fire?  Oh, you care so much for your
precious Piotr or that Frenchman.  Jews!  Whose lives were over
once the war began.  They had no future, no worth!  But do you
care for my people?  Do their deaths cause you grief?"

      She dropped her voice.  "You want to know why I save
your life, you who aren't worth one tenth of even one of the lives
you destroyed?  I save your life so you can pay for them.  But I
promise you this, " she said, coming so close that he could feel the
air when when she spoke, "you will never live again outside these
fences.  But you will live until then."  As she spoke she began to
unbutton the first two buttons on his coat and on his shirt.  Bashir
did nothing to stop her. Anything he tried would only cause him
pain.

      "On the day they come to save you, the Soviets or the
Americans or anyone else, that's the day I will kill you."  She
placed her hand directly on his chest and he was surprised by the
cold of it.  It felt fake, like some synthetic thing, a piece of rubber
placed against his skin.  "But" she continued, speaking almost
seductively "until then you will live, and your days and nights will
be filled with pain and the memories of all that has been taken
from you."  Her lips were so close to his cheek that, had she been
someone else, she might have kissed him.  But he knew her better
than that, and he feared her touch even before it began to pierce his
chest.

      It was small at first, a mere pinprick, and he felt more
nausea than pain when she slowly poured the thin band of herself
into him, squirming like a worm between his ribs.  His instinct
said to grab her hand and pull it away, but to touch the SS was not
allowed.  His hands twitched as she writhed inside him, and his
breath caught in his throat.  His chest began to burn as the band in
him thickened and moved its way toward his heart.  Now it was
pain, made worse by the horror of what was happening.  He
wanted to pull away but it was as if another hand had gone inside him
and took hold of his heart.  His knees trembled but he willed
himself not to fall, afraid that his heart would be ripped from his
chest if he did.

      He struggled to breathe against the pain and the foreign thing
inside him.  His heart pounded against the pressure he felt.  His
left arm was going numb.  He looked at her.  She had to stop or
she would kill him and break her promise.  But she stood directly
in front of him, staring coldly into his eyes.  She was neither
smiling nor snarling.  Her face was a blank, a stone wall as cold as
his cell in Block 11.

      He fell, but she released her grip, letting the strand of
herself pull back until it found a grip on one of his ribs.  She
pulled him up that way, her hand still flat against his chest, until
his face was again inches from hers.  She was fuzzy.  His eyes
wouldn't focus.  She changed.  A man stood before him now, his
face a contradiction to the uniform he was wearing.  "Do you
recognize this face?" Whaley's voice asked.  When he didn't
answer, she pulled him closer.  "Do you recognize this face?"

      It was the face of a prisoner, one of the others who shared
the bunk with Max and Bashir.  He was the last of its original
inhabitants.  All the others before Bashir's arrival had died.
Bashir nodded weakly.  He couldn't answer.  He could hardly
breathe.

      "Follow it in the morning," she said, keeping the prisoner's
face.  "We've been transferred."  She changed again, back to
Heiler and pulled the strand back into her hand.  With nothing to
hold him up, Bashir fell, pinning his left shoulder beneath him.  He
made no move to rise or even to roll over.

      "Don't be late back to your barracks," Heiler told him, still
speaking with Whaley's voice.  Bashir didn't see him leave, but he
heard the door close.


      Chief O'Brien was still working on the warp drive.  They
had the minimum power they would need to get back to the
twenty-fourth century now, but O'Brien wasn't satisfied.  He
didn't want the minimum.  The minimum didn't leave room for
errors, and until they got to a starbase, this ship was going to be
full of errors.  They were becoming easier to predict now, but half-
way around that sun approaching warp ten was not the time to
have to try and prevent one.  Now was.  The ship could rest and
save her strength while the engineering crew worked to give her
more.

      O'Brien wanted to reach at least the middle range of the
required engine strength.  He'd like to get it higher than that, but
the changeling had really torn things apart.  As things stood, it
would take three minutes just to break orbit and then nearly 40
seconds more to switch from impulse to warp.  Six minutes before
they reached the threshold at which the ship would be thrown
forward in time.  It wasn't good enough.

      O'Brien, due to his duty shift, had not been at the
debriefing meeting the senior staff and away team had every night.
But he'd seen the uniform.  The nursing staff had it laid out on one
of the biobeds in sickbay.  They had made the excuse first of
scanning it, seeing if they could detect any injury to the doctor or
any residue of gas.  They had, happily, detected neither, but the
uniform hadn't moved.

      O'Brien knew what they were up to.  Bashir had made
friends with the senior staff, and he was close to them.  But the
medical staff was his staff.  He worked with them everyday.  He
knew each of their names when O'Brien didn't, when maybe even
the captain didn't.  They were there when he stayed up all night
with a patient.  They shared his devotion to medicine like none of
the senior staff could.  Not one member of his staff, Federation or
Bajoran, had ever asked for a transfer.  Some of them had even
asked to be transferred to his staff, not to DS Nine and not to the
*Defiant.*  But to Julian.  He was their doctor, and the uniform
was a tribute to him, a way of saying they hadn't given up and
they hadn't forgotten.

      O'Brien appreciated the tribute.  Each day that went on,
each clue they found, made Julian's death more real.  And O'Brien
was ninety percent sure that he was dead.  He hadn't been able to
go down to the planet, but he'd read every report, smelled the odor
the away team's uniforms left in the corridors.  He saw their faces
just before they beamed down to that place.  He had even found a
report on the computer, a document smuggled out of the camp just
this month that survived after the war.  Twenty thousand people,
it claimed, had died in Auschwitz since the beginning of the year.
Julian was just one man, and a kind man, more apt to give away
his food and starve himself than to watch others go hungry.  He
was not the sort to fight over a piece of bread or sit silently in the
face of cruelty.

      The ten percent that still held hope was in two things.
Julian's experience in the Jem'Hadar internment camp and his
genetic enhancements.  Julian had protested a decrease in rations
for the prisoners which resulted in a stint in isolation.  Maybe he
had learned from that what speaking out could do in a such a
situation.  Maybe he had learned to just exist quietly and keep his
head down.  Maybe he survived that way.  And maybe his
enhanced stamina gave him strength when around him others were
losing theirs.  Maybe he didn't have to have as much food to
function.

      These were the two things that O'Brien held onto while he
waited for news of his friend.  But his doubt led him back to
sickbay after his shift was up.  The nurse watched him when he
entered, but she didn't ask him if she could help him as she usually
would have.  She could tell he hadn't come as a patient.  The
uniform was still there, with the sleeves placed loosely across the
torso of the jacket.  In the dim light, at first glance, it was almost
like Julian was lying there himself, but O'Brien knew that was just
what he wanted to see.  He stepped up to the bed and touched one
of the sleeves, the blue one, for a moment.  And then he did what
he came there for.  He held Julian's comm badge up to the light,
looking at the marks scratched there once more before he placed it
on the uniform.  Then he walked away.

To Be Continued....



-- 
--Gabrielle
I'd much rather be writing!

http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/trek/    The Edge of the Frontier
http://www.stormpages.com/gabrielle/doyle/   This Side of the Nether
Blog: http://www.gabriellewrites.blogspot.com

--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Awards Tech Support

http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/

No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards

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