Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Thu, 15 Apr 2004 05:09:15 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: Gabrielle Lawson  
 


Title: Oswiecim
Author: Gabrielle Lawson (inheildi@earthlink.net)
Series: DS9
Part: REP 34/42
Rating: [PG-13] (Violence)
Codes:

           Chapter Foureen -- Continued

      Bashir was exhausted by the time evening roll call came.
He wanted nothing more than to rest his legs and his back.  The
*kapo* must have knocked one or more of his vertebrae out of
place.  A nerve was pinched, and it sent a spark of pain down his
right leg with every step.  While he stood, the pain was a constant
throbbing down his back and past his thigh to the back of his knee.
The changeling had lived up to her promise.  She had saved his
life, but his days were filled with pain.  Everything hurt now, even
his right arm ached from simple fatigue.  But before he could rest,
he had to stand and be counted.

      The wind had died down, but it was still cold.  Julian, after
falling down earlier, had gotten mud all over his coat.  It was wet
and, of course, had not dried during the day.  It had become stiff,
and the cold had soaked in through his shirt right to his skin.  It
actually felt good against his back, but he knew it wouldn't be
good for his health.  Not that it mattered.  The changeling had
made her pronouncement.  He would never be healthy again.

      Two and a half hours later, the roll call broke up and the
prisoners were allowed to go back to their barracks.  There were
few workers from this kommando who shared Bashir's barracks
and he was glad.  While he wasn't worried about the kommando,
he didn't want rumors floating around the barracks.  It was the
closest thing he had to refuge, and he didn't want everyone there
hating him or thinking that he was a spy for the SS.

      Without the wind, the smoke hung in place over the camp
obscuring all the stars.  Bashir watched the sky anyway while he
chewed his stale portion of bread.  He used to live there.  It all
seemed so far away to him.  He smiled.  It was so far away.  Light
years, centuries.  His smile faded.  He noticed that all the other
prisoners gave him room.  None of them came near him and his
spot by the wall.  Szymon came close.  He stood off to the side and
watched for a few moments.  He looked up to see what Bashir was
looking at then shook his head and went inside.

      *They think I'm a Muselman,* Bashir thought.  *Let them.
Safer that way.*  But the Muselman had an advantage.  His
worries were over.  They no longer mattered to him.  His thoughts
were gone.  He was impervious.  Bashir was still very much able
to think.  He thought too much.  Another thing the changeling had
kept her word on.  His days were filled with pain and the memory
of all that had been torn from him.


      The next day, right after the revelation of Bashir's survival,
came as a let down.  There were no work kommandos that day.
With the exception of Jordan, the away team couldn't get close
enough to the prisoners.  Only the *Sonderkommando* continued
to work as usual.  All the other blocks were engaged in rigorous
calisthenics and cleaning.  The away team kept their distance and
watched for about an hour before returning to the ship.  Between
the dozen or so men on the team, they counted one hundred dead
from the exercises.  Healthy men would have been hard-pressed to
keep up with the pace.  But the prisoners were starving, sick, and
exhausted.

      After returning, they had all changed back into their
Starfleet uniforms and offered their services to the continuing
repairs.  It was the first chance Thomas had.  She found Novak in
one of the Jefferies tubes.  He was working alone.  She pulled
open the hatch and crawled in.

      He was far enough down the tube that she couldn't see
him, but his comm signal confirmed that he was there.  She kept
crawling and eventually saw him.  His hands looked to be buried
inside the communications panel where he was working.  He
looked engrossed in his work so she cleared her throat to let him
know that she was there.

      He looked up quickly and then went right back to work.
"Is there something I can help you with, Ensign?" he asked.

      Thomas hesitated for a moment.  He sounded awful.  The
things he had seen had had an effect on him, pulling him down.
Maybe it was too much of a bother.  Still, she was plagued with
the dreams.  They even occasionally came to her when she was
awake.  "Yes, sir."  Still it was a hard thing to ask about.
Something upsetting had happened or she wouldn't be this
preoccupied with it.  "It's. . . .  Before I. . . ."  He was watching
her now, waiting for a coherent sentence.  "I need to know what
I've forgotten, sir."

      Novak sighed and put down his tools.  "We thought you'd
remember eventually," he admitted, turning to look at her.  "Have
a seat."  He sighed again.  Apparently, this was as hard for him to
talk about as it was for her.  "We weren't trying to keep it from
you, really.  You were just so upset before--"  He touched his head
indicating her attack.

      "You were afraid it would interfere with my duties?"
Thomas asked.  She knew the answer.  Novak only confirmed it by
nodding.  "It's interfering with my duties now.  I have dreams
about it.  I see this man, and it's like I know him.  He calls me
names and says that I betrayed him."

      Novak looked down at the floor.  "I suppose you did.  We
all did.  But it was necessary."

      "Then he's real?"

      Novak was full of sighs, it seemed.  "Yes.  We needed you,
you know.  You know more about what's going on than any of us.
We needed you and you were so zoned out on guilt.  When we
found you," he said, meeting her eyes, "we thought you had
hanged yourself.  It was that bad."

      Thomas was still on her hands and knees from crawling,
but she sat down now, cross-legged like Novak.  She had it easier
than him.  Her head didn't hit the ceiling.  He had to hunch over a
bit.  "What did I do to feel guilty for?  I promise not to let it
interfere with my duties.  Besides you all know just about as much
as me now anyway."

      Novak shook his head.  "We know like witnesses know.
You know like a historian.  You know the big picture and little
details that we miss.  We just know the horror we see.  But I'll tell
you, because you deserve to know."  He looked her directly in the
eyes again.  "But you have to promise to remember that you
couldn't have done any differently, and you probably made little
difference in that big picture.  Okay?"

      Thomas felt her stomach drop.  This was it, the source of
her dreams, and it was bad.  She nodded.  "Okay."

      "We needed information on the transports from the
*Judenrat.*  But they were stubborn and stalled us every chance
they could get."  He smiled a tiny smile when he said that.  He was
proud of them.  "You met a man, someone who worked for the
council.  He said he would get the information."

      "But I had to promise him something," Thomas concluded,
looking at the floor.  She wasn't seeing the floor though.  She was
seeing an old pharmacy counter, a door that led into the back.

      "You promised to save his family," Novak supplied.  He let
that hang for a moment and didn't say anything more.

      Thomas felt the bottom drop right out from under her, and
she was glad she was sitting.  She would have fallen otherwise.
The air had rushed out of the tube and she felt lightheaded.  She
shook her head.  "I couldn't."

      Novak's voice was gentle, as was the hand on her shoulder.
"You couldn't.  It probably made no difference, you know.  He
might live, he might die, but no SS woman promised to save his
family the first time around.  In the end, nothing's changed."

      *Except that I gave him hope,* Thomas thought even as
she nodded, *and then I betrayed him.*


      Jordan beamed back down the next morning.  The day
before had been routine for him, and went off without any
mishaps.  He still hadn't seen Bashir.  But he hadn't been caught
either, and he was back on the ship before the calisthenics
began.  He heard about it when he returned and saw the effects of
it back on the planet that night.  Everyone was exhausted, and
there were empty places in the bunks.  Fewer men were sleeping
on the floor.  There were still plenty down there though, and
Jordan hadn't wanted to stick around waiting for the rats.  He had
made it back out the door before it closed and had beamed away
without anyone being the wiser.

      Today was different.  Today, he couldn't find a solitary
place.  Everywhere he went there was a prisoner.  He tried the
room just off the main room in the barracks, but he heard voices
in there.  He assumed it was the block elder and some of his staff.
Who else would have a private room?  When the block elder
emerged from the room, Jordan knew his time was running out.
He hid under one of the bunks and hoped this time that no one else
was hiding there as well.

      Everyone began to file out of the barracks for roll call, and
it seemed like he'd finally have a chance to transport.  He waited
for the last of them to leave and listened for the sound of the door
closing.  Finally, they were gone, and he crawled out from
underneath the bunk.  He was just about to tap his badge when the
door to that one little room opened.  The block elder smiled an evil
grin and rushed out at Jordan.  He smacked him hard across the
face before he could react.  Jordan went sprawling and hit his head
on the brick-walled flue in the center of the room.  "Get up!  If
you're late for roll call, I'll kill you myself!" the block elder
screamed, kicking Jordan in the ribs.

      Jordan had eaten the day before, and all the days before
that.  He wasn't weak and hungry like the other prisoners, and,
though he was dizzy and his head ached, he scrambled quickly to
his feet.  He was clear-headed enough, as the block elder shoved
him out the door, to realize that he'd really screwed up. The counts
would be off today and someone would die.


      Szymon was in terrible shape that morning.  He could
hardly get out of bed.  He'd spent the whole night coughing.  His
neighbors in his bunk had stayed close to him during the night
because his fever had kept them warm.  Bashir gave up his silence
that morning.  He felt Szymon's head.  It was burning.  "Szymon,
go to the hospital," he advised.  "Just for today.  If there's a
selection, you can run away."

      Szymon shook his head.  "They will lock me away.  I will
be fine.  I will go for soup.  The *kapo* will send me for soup."

      Bashir nodded.  The hospital was dangerous and probably
couldn't help anyway.  But still, he had wanted to try.  He knew
Szymon would die, but it was hard watching it.  At least Piotr had
gone quickly.  He probably hadn't even felt the bullet.  But
Szymon was slowly wasting away, and after all his months of
surviving.  It wasn't fair.

      Szymon had been unable to get breakfast, so Bashir shared
his.  Max spotted them in the crowd and pushed his way through,
dragging someone with him.  He was smiling.  The guest, though,
looked bewildered.  About thirty new prisoners, fresh from
quarantine had descended on the barracks the night before.  Most
of them had spent the night on the floor with the rats.  Bashir had
heard them, too, in the night.  This one was very shabbily dressed
with thin civilian clothes.  A stripe of paint on the back would still
identify him as a prisoner.

      "*Das ist Leo,*" Max told Szymon, "*Er ist der Schwager.*"

      Szymon turned back to Bashir.  Amusement shined in his
eyes, but also pity.  Still, he made the introduction.  "This is Leo,"
he said.  "He is the brother of Max's wife."

      Bashir didn't want the introduction.  *No more friends,* he
thought.  It was too dangerous.  He didn't smile.  He didn't even
look up when Max introduced him, telling him that he was an
English doctor.

      The young man drew in a breath.  "*Die anderen sagen, er
sei ein Spion,*" he said.  "*Einer von der SS beschutzt ihn.*"

      Szymon laughed, which, of course, made him cough.  "He
thinks," he choked out, "that you are a spy."  He switched back to
German to argue with the newcomer.  Bashir put a hand on his
arm, trying to stop him, but it was too late.  "*Er ist kein Spion.
Wenn er ein Spion ist, er ist ein Spion fur die Englander.*"  He
laughed again, and Bashir wondered just what he was saying that
was so amusing.  "*Aber er ist ein sehr schlechter--er spricht kein
Deutsch.*"

      Max laughed, too, but only a short, soft chuckle.  The
*Blockalteste* began to yell, and they all got up for roll call.
Bashir helped Szymon up with his one good arm though it pulled
at that nerve in his back.  He felt it was his last chance to say
good-bye.  Roll call proved to be blessedly short that morning,
which was actually only a mixed blessing.  The work day would
begin sooner for it.  He was surprised though when Leo followed
him to the barrack-building kommando.  The count came out even
however, and the line moved forward.  Bashir hoped Leo wouldn't
die his first day on the job.


      Jordan nearly held his breath through the whole roll call.
He tried to tell himself it was just like the Academy.  Just drilling.
Standing at attention.  It was no different.  But he'd never been
made to stand at attention for an hour.  He'd seen enough of these
roll calls, though, to know that this was short.  The numbers came
out.  He was astonished, but he was glad to be alive, just the same.
He had managed to tap his comm badge a few times to let the
*Defiant* know that he was not clear for beam out.  At least they
would still be able to track him.  He wouldn't disappear like
Bashir, unless someone killed him.  It was a frightening thought.

      He tried to sneak away when the ranks broke up, but a
*kapo* spotted him.  "One more!" he yelled, grabbing Jordan by
the arm.  "Are you afraid of work, Jew?  Get in line."  And Jordan
found himself in a kommando marching off at double-time to
somewhere.

      They left that section of the camp and moved out onto a
muddy road.  Jordan nearly fell when his feet slipped, but he
caught himself and soon managed to find an appropriate way to set
his feet.  He could keep up.  The man beside him was having a
worse time.  He coughed occasionally without opening his mouth.
He fell once, but before the *kapo* or SS could see, Jordan picked
him up off the ground.  He held him up as they ran the last of the
distance.  He could see where they were headed now.  The
chimneys of Crematoria II were in front of them.   That was where
Novak had heard of Bashir.  Maybe he could ask the *kapo* where
he had gone.  Or maybe he could find that one prisoner.  But they
turned at the intersection of the road and moved over to
Crematoria III.


      Sisko slammed his fist down on the table.  He had been
having some coffee with Dax in the mess hall.  She was just
getting off duty and would be meeting Worf soon.  That was
another reason why Sisko had switched shifts.  They had really
had little time together in the last month and even before that.  She
had invited him to accompany her to dinner though when her shift
ended.  They had spent the whole time talking about Julian and
sharing their new-found optimism that he'd be found.  The
message from the bridge had interrupted the cheerful mood.
Thomas had come in person to tell him.

      Jordan was late.  He hadn't called for transport before the
*Appell.*  "Have we heard from him at all?" Sisko asked her.

      Thomas nodded.  "Yes, sir.  He sent a signal a few minutes
ago.  He's not clear for transport."

      "Damn," Sisko exclaimed.  "I knew it was too dangerous to
go as a prisoner."

      Dax put her hand on his arm.  "He's probably fine,
Benjamin," she said.  "He sent the signal.  That means they
haven't caught him."

      "He probably just couldn't get free and got caught up in the
roll call," Thomas added, trying to help.

      It didn't help.  "Wouldn't that mess up the numbers?
There would be an extra number.  What would the Nazis do then?"

      "Apparently there wasn't," Thomas reported.  "The roll
call only lasted an hour.  That's pretty quick for an *Appell.*
Someone else was probably absent.  It happened all the time.
They'd search for the man, find him hiding or in the latrine or
something.  But this time the numbers came out, so they didn't
bother to find the missing man.  Jordan probably just got his
place."

      Sisko felt a little better.  But only a little.  One man down
there was enough.  Now there were two.  And it didn't matter that
Jordan was healthy.  All he had to do was look at an SS the wrong
way, and he wouldn't be coming back to the ship at all.  "We can
track him, right?"

      "Yes, sir," Thomas confirmed.  "He still has his badge."

      "Have one of our people keep an eye on him," he ordered.
"I don't want to lose him."

      Thomas turned to leave.  But Dax met her at the door.
"Are you alright, Mylea?  Novak told me that you asked."  Sisko
assumed it was about the ghetto.

      Thomas met her eyes and Sisko could see that she was
lying when she said that she was fine.  "It's just sad," she added.

      "I know," Dax said, placing her hand on the other woman's
shoulder.  "But we wouldn't have gotten this close without it.  You
did your duty."

      Thomas nodded.  "Yes, sir.  I should be getting to the
bridge."

      Dax nodded and let the ensign go.  She waited until the
door closed again before she sat back down at the table.  "Do you
think she's angry that we didn't tell her?"

      "She doesn't look angry, Old Man," Sisko told her.  "She
looks sad, just like she said.  She's got a heavy weight to carry
around.  I better get back to the bridge myself.  I want to keep my
eye on Lieutenant Jordan today."  He stood up.

      Dax smiled and nodded, but didn't look completely
convinced.  She had a weight to carry, too, Sisko decided.  He
placed a hand on her shoulder as she had for Thomas.  "See you
later, Old Man.  Get some sleep."


      If Leo still needed convincing, beyond Szymon's word,
that Bashir was not a spy for the Nazis, he got it that day at work.
Heiler was in one of her moods.  She never strayed far from him,
taunting him for working too slowly, or beating him for dropping a
board or nail.  She even tripped him once, so that she could beat
him for falling.  Unlike the *kapo,* Heiler only used his hand to
do this, but what the others couldn't see was that his hand was not
always made of flesh.  Sometimes it was as hard as wood, others
as heavy as iron.  It left bruises even through his coat.

      She didn't even leave him alone for the midday meal.  She
tripped him again after he left the line, spilling his soup into the
mud.  The other SS laughed at Heiler's antics, and the *kapo*
watched with amusement as well.  By mid-afternoon, Bashir felt
like he could hardly move.  The last round of blows had landed on
his left arm.  The bandaging held, but the shoulder was pulled, and
it felt nearly the same as if it had dislocated.  Then Heiler put him
to roofing and had a hearty laugh watching him try to climb up to
the roof with broken bones and mud-caked shoes.

      The day was an eternity, and Bashir finally began to feel
like a Muselman.  All thought was ripped from his head by his
demanding body.  His arm, his back, his legs, his hand all ached
terribly, and beyond all that his stomach felt like a black hole
sucking the life out of him for lack of food.  He was too
preoccupied with trying to work to worry about Leo or the *kapo*
or even Heiler.  He just wanted to get through the day.  If he could
just make it to roll call, he thought, but he couldn't finish the
sentence.


      "Now you know how to work, eh, Jew?" the *kapo* called
jokingly to Jordan as he set the wheelbarrow down.  He stopped
smiling long enough to snarl.  "Keep working!"  One of the SS
kept a close eye and nodded.  Jordan recognized him.  Salerno.  He
couldn't interfere at all, Jordan knew, but it was at least a comfort
to know that the *Defiant* knew where he was.

      Jordan felt ill and sore all over, but he obeyed.  He'd
already learned what happened if the *kapo* thought you didn't
know how to work.  The kapo carried a short club with him, and
he used it with a particular flair.  Most often it came down on a
prisoner's head.  But when he'd decided Jordan didn't use the
proper method for laying brick, he had caught Jordan with it right
across the arm.  Unused to such punishment, Jordan had cried out,
grabbing his arm.  He had felt it crack under the force of the blow.
The *kapo* though, had not liked the sound of his voice, and hit
him at least five more times across the back and the head.  Jordan
had spent the rest of the day dizzy from the blows.  His hand and
arm had swollen so much that the sleeve of his coat became tight.
And this was how he had to lay brick and push a wheelbarrow.

      Jordan used to be in construction before joining Starfleet.
He had helped to build houses for new colonies in the Federation
interior.  But he could bet that in three months he never worked as
hard as he had in this one day.  He looked in utter amazement at
the other veteran prisoners.  They were hungry.  They were sick.
And they did this day after day.  Jordan felt sure he would die if he
had to continue this tomorrow.  He would find the solitude he
needed tonight, and he would beam back up to the *Defiant.*  He
wasn't planning to come back down the next day either, at least
not while wearing the stripes.

      The call to line up at the end of the day came as such a
relief that Jordan found his second wind.  He joined the ranks
gratefully.  As the *kapo* counted them, he whacked anyone who
wasn't properly lined up with that club of his.  Jordan had learned
to march though, back in the Academy, and so he lined himself up
perfectly with the leader of the line.  The *kapo* pulled him out of
the line anyway, along with the man beside him.

      "Carry that," he ordered, pointing with the club to one of
the bodies laying beside the ranks.  There were two of them.
Jordan recognized one of them as the man who had coughed on the
way out there.  Perhaps he'd coughed on duty.  Blood had spilled
out the back of his head onto the snow.  Jordan, ignoring his own
pain and thinking of his partner, tired and starving, took the man's
shoulders, holding on with his elbows more than his hands.  The
other man got the feet, and they rejoined the group.  The *kapo*
conscripted two other men for the other corpse, and the kommando
began marching back, again at a double-time.

      The roll call turned out to be grueling and lasted for nearly
three hours.  Jordan had left Salerno at the gate so he tapped his
comm badge again, signaling that he still couldn't get away.  He
had a lot of time to think about it as he stood there shivering and
wishing for an amputation.  He could call for transport as soon as
he got free from roll call, or he could move to the next barracks on
his list and look for the doctor.  For himself, he wanted to go back
to the ship.  He wanted to lie down on one of the biobeds and let
the nurses in sickbay magically take all his pain away.  Then he
wanted to sleep until at least noon the next day.  But something in
the whole day still made him think outside himself.  Bashir,
wherever he was, had been in this place for weeks, working for
weeks, eating that awful, rancid water they dared to call soup.  He
was probably just as anxious to go home, and he deserved it more.
Jordan decided to stay.


      Julian began walking back to the barracks and was
surprised when Leo showed up beside him.  The young man took
his arm, his right arm, and helped him to walk.  Max was already
there, waiting at the edge of the crowd for them as they returned.
He was visibly relieved to see Leo again.  Julian asked about
Szymon and was certain that Max would tell him that Szymon was
dead.  "Szymon?"

      Max nodded and pointed inside the barracks.  "*Ich habe
Brot,*" he whispered, "*aber Szymon will es einfach nicht
essen.*"  He used his hands to demonstrate what he'd said,
shaking his head and pointing to his mouth.  Julian knew the word
"*Brot,*"and when Max said he had bread, it was usually real
bread, not the camp clay that was passed out as rations.
Something was very wrong if Szymon wasn't eating that.

      Julian nodded and went inside.  He ignored the men on the
floor and his own aching back.  He went right to the foot of
Szymon's bunk and began to climb up.  It was almost as hard as it
had been after the changeling had reached into his chest.  He
shook that memory away and continued to climb.  One of
Szymon's fellow bunkmates protested loudly, trying to push Bashir
away, but he didn't feel like taking any more abuse tonight.  He
had to help Szymon.  Bashir pushed the man back and pulled
himself over the edge.  Szymon was laying down.  He looked
awful and he clutched his coat to him for warmth.  Bashir checked
him for fever.  It had not gone down at all.

      "Szymon, you need to eat," he told him.  He looked back to
the edge.  Max was there holding out the bread.

      "Go away," Szymon implored, closing his eyes.  "You
cannot be a doctor here."

      "No," Bashir admitted, putting the bread into Szymon's
hand, "but I can be a friend.  Sit up."  Bashir tried to lift him, but
of course, it was impossible.  "You're only hurting me, Szymon.
Please help me."

      Szymon opened his eyes.  "You eat it, Bashir," he said.
"You know it will not help me.  You need to eat.  Go get food for
yourself."

      Bashir tried for five more minutes, but he knew he would
not get his rations if he waited longer.  And Szymon was right, the
food wouldn't help him now.  He was dying.  Max sat with him
while Bashir and Leo got their rations.  Max gave them each an
extra sliver of the good bread he had found, and Bashir went
outside, figuring he only had perhaps a quarter of an hour before
curfew.


      Jordan hung back as the others went inside.  He watched
each face as they passed him and then walked around the building.
He didn't want the block elder to come out looking for him.  He
looked back toward the tall chimneys where he had worked today
and reached for his pocket.  Something made him stop though.  A
lone figure was still outside at the barracks across the way.  Jordan
couldn't see it clearly, but he could tell it was definitely a prisoner,
the gray stripes stood out slightly against the dark night.  He
appeared to be looking up at the sky.  Jordan looked up, too, but
only saw smoke.  Still he couldn't beam out with that man there.
He might look over.  He started to walk away but he stopped again
when he heard a voice.  It was quiet, coming from near that man
over there, and the translator didn't pick it up.  Another figure had
appeared.  Jordan didn't need the translator.  He couldn't make out
all the words, but he recognized the language.  The voice had
spoken English.


      The smoke was heavy, and he couldn't see a single star.  It
was the perfect ending to an awful day.  Szymon was dying and
the sky was hidden.  Not for the first time, Julian thought perhaps
he was crazy for coming out in the cold.  Not that it was much
warmer inside, but at least there was a measure of shelter from the
wind.  But he couldn't sleep without coming.

      All the others had already gone in.  Bashir could hear the
door shut around the other side of the building.  But there was no
call for lights out.  He still had time.  He heard a shoe shuffle on
the ground behind him and froze.  Slowly he turned, expecting the
shapeshifter, in one form or another.  Instead he saw Szymon.  He
had a far-away look in his eyes and it scared Julian.  "You should
be inside, in bed," he told Szymon

      "There are not beds here," Szymon countered in almost a
monotone.  He stumbled a few steps further around the corner.
"Why do you come here?"

      Bashir regarded him carefully, clinically, diagnosing him
with his eyes.  Szymon was dying.  Not in a day or in an hour.  He
was dying now.  "I come," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice
even, "to look at the stars."

      Szymon took a few steps further and nearly fell.  Bashir
hurried to catch him, but Szymon brushed his hand away.  "You
cannot see stars."

      Bashir looked back up at the stars.  The smoke had not
gone away.  "But I still know they're there."

      Szymon shook his head slowly.  "The world is finished,"
he said before dropping to his knees in the snow.  His head
dropped to his chest.

      It was the first thing Szymon had said with emotion in
weeks.  That ripped at Bashir's heart.  He shook his head and
relaxed his legs until he was kneeling, too.  He ignored the cold as
his pantlegs grew wet from the snow.  "No," he said in a low but
firm voice.  "No, it's just going through a bad spot."

      Szymon looked up at him, his eyes filled with pain, but
also wonder.  "Can *you* not see it?" he asked.

      "I see it, Szymon," Bashir said, "but it won't last."

      Szymon looked down again and nodded, slowly rocking
himself back and forth.  "But we will all be finished."

      Bashir moved around until he was kneeling in front of
Szymon.  He took hold of his shoulder until Szymon looked him in
the eye.  "No," he said again.  "*They* will be finished." *You
can't tell him that,* Julian's mind warned. *Temporal
displacement--*

      *He's dying,* he argued back.  *What will it change
besides giving him an ounce of peace?*  He waited for a
counter-argument, but one didn't come.  *Good, that's settled
then.*

      He focused his attention back on Szymon.  Szymon was
looking at him in confusion, like he'd finally gone insane.  "The
Nazis will lose the war," Bashir told him straight out, and waited
for an objection from his mind.

      Szymon's eyes bore through his own, and Bashir watched
the emotions played out there.  Disbelief, fear, and then
understanding.  "You don't belong here."

      Bashir's eyes wavered for a moment.  But then he looked
Szymon full in the face again.  He'd made up his mind.  Szymon
wasn't going to die here, in this hell.  "No, Szymon," he stated, "I
don't belong here."

      Szymon had taken on a knowing look, like a wise man a
hundred years old.  "From the stars."

      That surprised Julian.  Did people in this time believe in
aliens from other worlds?  "No," he smiled.  "I'm from England."
He took a breath, still holding Szymon's gaze with his own.  "I'm
from another time."  He waited to see Szymon's reaction.  His
eyes didn't change.  "A long time from now," he added.  "It gets
better, Szymon.  All this. . . ."  He waved his broken hand behind him
to the camp and the barbed wire, beyond the distant chimneys
where the smoke billowed up.  "All this ends."

      Szymon didn't say anything, but his eyes hungered for
more.

      "The Nazis will lose the war," Bashir went on happily.  It
felt so good to tell one of these people, to show them a light in all
their suffering.  "In two years, they will liberate this camp, and the
Nazis will be punished for what they've done here."

      Szymon's eyes held a far-away hope.  He grew weaker in
Bashir's grip and nearly fell over.  Bashir caught him and cradled
him with his good arm.  "One day, the whole world will be at
peace."  He could feel Szymon slipping away even as the
memories came to him of bright green fields of grass and
blooming flowers, sunshine in San Francisco, the clean, beautiful
streets of London.  "'Paradise,' they'll call it, and there'll be no
hungry people, no poor.

      "And we'll travel to the stars, Szymon, farther and faster
than you can even dream.  And we'll meet other people there,
from different worlds."  He thought of Jadzia, then, and Kira and
Odo and even Quark.

      "How is it . . .," Szymon breathed weakly as he stared at
the smoke-filled sky, ". . . in the stars?"  His eyes had ceased to
focus.  He was no longer seeing this time and place.

      "It's beautiful, Szymon," Julian whispered, leaning close
so Szymon could hear.  "Like traveling among diamonds."

      "I can see it," Szymon sighed, full of wonder.  And then
his whole body relaxed, and his head lolled to one side.

      Bashir had been smiling at the things he remembered, but
his smile faded as Szymon died.  If it had been another time, he
could have saved him.  He could have saved them all.  Henri,
Piotr, all the others.  Bashir felt his throat constrict in pain and
tears welled up in his eyes.  He had thought he couldn't cry
anymore, but it wasn't true.  He held Szymon's body close to him
and closed his eyes with his left hand.  "I'm sorry, Szymon," he
whispered as he placed his forehead to Szymon's, still warm from
the fever.

      Julian held him that way for a few minutes more and then
raised up.  He took one deep breath and then laid Szymon's body
down in the snow and began to remove his clothes.  Szymon
wouldn't need them anymore.


      The one man was dead, Jordan could see that where he
stood.  He had heard the whole thing, thanks to the hearing device
Stevens had made.  It was him.  Bashir was alive and he was
sitting not twenty meters away.  Jordan started to walk towards
him, but Bashir didn't notice.  His back was to the lieutenant.
Jordan didn't want to call out.  Someone else might hear.  But
Bashir got up and went inside before he could reach him.
Numbly, Jordan reached for his comm badge.  He checked around
him to see that he was obscured from the sight of the watchtowers
and called for transport.

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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