TITLE: Dark Journey Author: Valerie Shearer Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net Series: DS9 Part: Rev 0/4 (major revision) Rating: PG13 (violence) Codes: none Summary: An exploration of the hard road to peace after torture and imprisonment. Set sometime after Dr. Bashir, I Presume, but before the war arc. Alternative history. Note to archivist: Please archive this story. Note on distribution: This story may be passed onto others provided this entire header is left intact and my name and e-mail address goes with the story. It may not be published or printed for fanzines without my permission. Permission must be obtained to include it in any fanfic websight as well, other than the official websight. Note on feedback: Please send lots. Constructive comments are appreciated. Flames will be ignored. Reply at thenightbird@earthlink.net. All reasonable mail will be answered. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Julian Bashir, Miles O'Brien, Keiko O'Brien, Molly and Yoshi, Quark, Garak, Kira Nerys, the station, the Bajorans, Cardassians, the Dominion, Starfleet and any other cannon person or place I forgot is property of Paramount Studios. The contact, Tela, and the two doctors are mine. Warning: This story contains acts of physical and psychological violence. It is also intense in nature and includes torture. There is no sex. This is actually a revision of my first fanfic. It has been rewritten and punctuation, spelling and grammar fixed but the basic story has not been changed. Dark Journey by Valerie Shearer *****The Man Before***** Sitting in darkness in his quarters, he remembered how it began. He met the young man shortly after his return from the internment camp. After several weeks of intense debriefing by Starfleet, the polite request for information on his family had been welcome. But he knew nothing of civilian prisoners, and there was little he could do to help. He liked him, and was honestly sorry. The young man had been a frequent patient. He had come to the station looking for news of his family, who had disappeared in the Gamma quadrant not too long after the initial contact with the Dominion. He had stayed in hopes that he still might learn something, and because there was nothing to go back to. His patient didn't particularly care what happened to himself and had refused counseling. But shortly after that he had left. Months later, he had returned, quite changed. He had a renewed purpose in life, and a deadly serious message Julian had been chosen to receive. He might have been suspicious if he hadn't known the young man before. But there was something in the urgent manner he had to believe. The message was simple. At a particular time and place, three ships would cross the Cardassian/Dominion border. They were damaged, but could make it to the border. They were full of refugees from several Dominion prison camps. They needed food and medical attention badly, and a safe escort out of border space. He had been ready to go to Sisko with the information, bringing along his messenger. The young man had refused. He showed Bashir a simple recognition sign. It was stressed that no one must be told where the information came from--not Sisko, and especially not *them*. If any further contact was necessary, he would be given the sign. He had been troubled by the reference to *them*, and even more the proviso. If they take you, they will interrogate you, said his contact. Hold out as long as you can. Give me time to disappear. He had been stunned by the implications, and the young man's intense manner. It was not a game. It was quite real with potential deadly consequences. This was a real life adventure, with no safeties. He had been chosen because he was trusted, and Sisko would believe him. The young man had reminded him, finally, that he knew what they did with their prisoners. A chill ran down his spine. He still lived with nightmares from that time. He went to sleep each night fearing being taken again. And now he was facing a potential chasm that might not have a way out. He imagined Garak's voice, saying you always wanted to be a real spy ... He had still delayed telling Sisko. He was afraid, but he could not let the Dominion escapees just die in space. Sisko had handled it quietly, and with two other doctors and a bay full of supplies, they had set out in a runabout to meet them. He had considered the danger, but could not stay behind. And once they reached the ships, all of the rest was forgotten. A lot of the passengers had been injured in the escape. They were a mixture of people, some survivors from Maquis settlements, some unlucky enough to have been captured in Dominion space, and even a smattering of Cardassians. There were a lot of children, mostly without parents, and most of the adults were the lucky ones who had been able to escape. Their condition was appalling. They were all suffering from malnutrition, and sick from the related diseases that came from weakened bodies. There had been epidemics left unchecked. They had been abused and abandoned, and left to die. The three doctors had stayed with them for the three days it took to escort the slow moving ships to safer territory. They had had little sleep, or food, having given most of what they had to the children. They had left, heading towards DS9, wanting a good meal and sleep. In a day they would be home. About an hour out from the rendezvous, something went terribly wrong. He had just been about to eat his first real meal in three days, his colleagues already asleep, when something had appeared on the scanners and they had come to a dead stop. He never got to have a bite of his meal. The Jem'Hadar that materialized behind him was too fast. He blacked out. *****The Blooding***** He heard the door open. He had given up setting it to lock; it had been overridden too many times. It was Miles again. He wouldn't talk to anyone else. Miles came as a concerned friend, but he knew it was also to help the doctors. His friend had reminded him of the debt; Miles would have splattered his brains in a cargo bay were it not for Julian's persistence. So Miles came and talked, and told him about what had happened in the past year. Usually the only response he got was a request to leave. None of it was real. It was hard to believe it had only been a little over a year since his descent into hell. It felt like a lifetime. Miles had been especially talkative that day, and he wasn't in the mood for it. "Please," he had finally said, "Your friend is dead. Stop looking for him. He died in their prison. Go away." Miles had obliged. He always did. But he was always back the next day. They would continue the daily torment until he told them what they wanted. ********** Miles sat at a back table at Quarks, trying to recover from his visit to Julian. He hadn't seen his friend in more than a year, but the man who alternately ignored him and drove him away couldn't have changed that much in such a short time. He'd read the medical report of Julian's injuries, and had been shocked at what had been done to him. Miles could not imagine it. Julian's insistence that his friend had died was especially disturbing. Miles had already had the same thought. After the doctor's disappearance, they had found the runabout intact, drifting in space. The transporter traces were Dominion. They had tried to follow the trail, but it was too faint and went too far into enemy space. Julian's parents had been notified that he was missing, a suspected kidnaping by the Dominion. The file was left open. Refugees coming from Cardassian/Dominion space were surveyed for information on his whereabouts, but no one knew anything. They waited, hopes of his survival growing dimmer. And then, a little over a month ago, a badly damaged cargo transport originating from Cardassian space was found. Limping in on damaged engines, it had been brought to DS9. The original crew had been killed, and some of them had died slowly. The new crew was a tattered and broken group of successful escapees from a Dominion labor camp. Among their number was Julian Bashir. ********** He had come to in a small room. It was neither wide enough for him to sit down in, or tall enough for him to stand. He was dressed in some thin rough fabric, in loose pants and shirt. The room was cold, both the surface of the walls and the air. He was barefoot. The only position he could manage was hunched over, leaning against the wall. The bright light that filled the room was visible even with his eyes closed. There was nothing to eat. His thoughts were very clear, and dominated by an incredibly fierce hunger. There was plenty of water but it did not banish the visions of food that he saw in his head. He was exhausted. They would not let him sleep. If he started to doze, he was prodded awake by one of their devices. He had no idea how long he'd been there. He believed it to be several days, but time had begun to lose its meaning. In occasional moments of sleep, he dreamt of food. In his rare rational moments he tried to calculate the days since he'd eaten--long enough that he could think of nothing else. ********** Miles watched Julian as he sat and stared at the padd. The last few days had been very frustrating. He had gotten no reaction at all from his friend. He hadn't even gotten annoyed and asked Miles to leave. They were getting nowhere; Julian had shut him out along with the rest of the world. He wondered how long they would leave him here before Starfleet medical insisted and transferred him to the psych ward at the Institute. He wondered if his friend would end up locked away still adrift in whatever world he existed in. Miles hadn't said much of anything that day. He was finding it harder and harder to pretend that anything was being accomplished by these visits. Julian hadn't noticed; he had been sitting, staring at a padd, the whole time Miles had been there. It had been the same the day before. "I'm going to leave now." He watched for any sign of reaction. There was none. "I'll be back tomorrow." Julian continued to stare at the padd, and Miles fled the room. Julian heard the door close and waited until he was sure Miles was gone. He sat the padd down and leaned back on the chair, resting his head against the cushion. His expression didn't change, but a hopeless look filled his eyes. He was going to have to make himself remember. All he wanted was to be left alone. But they would not do that, not until he told them what had happened to him. He couldn't do that yet. He had managed to forget most of the particulars, and even in the nightmares the details were blurred. He was never free of nightmares. But as with food, he had learned to be grateful for sleep, and accepted whatever he got. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to go to that place, where they had first blooded him. He saw it all from a distance, as he was slowly torn down, as if it was happening to someone else. One of these times when Miles came again, he would have something to tell him. ********** Miles had taken up his vigil at Quarks again. He had sat moodily watching the crowd for an hour when Quark had brought a bottle, unasked, and said it was on the house. He had mumbled his thanks and was again left by himself. He hadn't wanted to go back. The psychologist had insisted he continue, despite his doubts. It was a waiting game. He had decided to talk about Molly and her brother. Perhaps he could tell Julian enough baby stories that he would get annoyed and asked him to leave. Miles would welcome even that. It would mean that Julian at least knew he was there. But it had been the same. Julian had been lying on the couch when he came, and still was when he left. He hadn't made a sound. Miles had asked again if it was pointless, but the doctor had again insisted. Julian treated the room as a retreat. He tolerated Miles, but hid from anyone else. If this approach failed he would have to be moved to a hospital. If he was forcibly removed from his retreat, they worried he would never come out of his own world. But it was taking its own toll on Miles. He was not sleeping well. He tried to talk to Keiko, but she could not understand. Every time he had to go into that room with the shell of the man he had called his friend, it made it a little harder to believe that this would have a happy ending. But there was nobody Miles could talk to, and he was slowly bottling up his own frustration and making his life almost as miserable as Julian's. ******** They had taken him out of the room. This room was larger and they had tied his hands to a wall. Still disoriented from lack of sleep and starvation, he drifted in and out while they moved around, ignoring him. Everything changed when the Vorta entered the room. He had given Julian his entire attention, and asked the question they never quit asking, "Who was your contact? How did you have the information about the refugee ships?" Julian tried to ignore them, but the focus on himself forced him to try to think. "I don't remember," he told the Vorta. "It would be much easier on everyone if you tell me now," said his interrogator. One of his colleagues was brought in. He was terrified. He was dumped in the middle of the room. He had already been beaten, and did not try to move. He looked up at Julian, pleading with his eyes. Something became very clear to Julian. He held the lives of is friends in his hands, and he could save them by giving the name. But he had promised he would be silent. It was his choice. He could keep his promise or save his friend. It was time to choose. The Vorta stood before him. "You can watch your friend die, slowly and painfully, or you can answer my question." He thought of the children on the ships. If he was strong enough, more might get the chance to survive. "I told you," he said, "I don't remember." He expected someone to hit him. But nothing was done to him. He watched his friend die, screaming in pain. He could not shut out the sounds. He felt every scream, every gasp, every blow as if it was happening to him. But he could not say the name. He would keep his promise, no matter the price. Part of that price was within himself. He was bloodied. He would carry the blood of his friend for the rest of his life. ********** Miles was too depressed to hear Kira approach, sitting next to him. "Dr. Palson's family asked if we knew anything yet." "I wish we could tell them something," Miles volunteered. "But it's like talking to a stone. He doesn't even hear me." "They're probably dead. They may have been killed in front of him," said Kira. "I can understand why he doesn't want to talk about it." She would know, thought Miles, glancing at the faraway look on her face. He had gotten to be good friends with the major since his son's birth. They had more or less included her in the family. "But what can I say to help?" asked Miles, feeling helpless. "Just give him time. When he's ready he'll talk about it. He has to sort it out for himself." Miles shrugged and went on drinking. She had things to do and left. That night, Kira couldn't sleep. There were too many ghosts. She wondered if he would be able to deal with his. She had been born into a brutal world, and learned how to survive it. But he had spent most of his life in the safety of the Federation's core world, unfamiliar with casual brutality, and would have no inner defense against it. She tried to imagine how much worse it would be if you had no idea what to expect. He had changed after the time spent in the Jem'Hadar prison, but would not talk about it. She wondered how bad his nightmares had been. It had been too hard to deal with and he had bottled it up. Perhaps something inside him, a need to hide pain left over from his long concealed genetic history, would make it impossible for him to let go. There was a clinic on Bajor, run by a well known Bajoran doctor who treated torture victims. She decided to talk to Sisko about specialized help. ********* He existed in a world dominated by hunger and death. He heard his friends screams, and felt the dull shock of his death. It was his fault, justified or not. It haunted him in daydreams, and in nightmares when he was allowed to sleep. The only thing that could banish the screams were the food dreams. He remembered all his favorite meals, savoring the taste and texture of his memories. It would be so real that for a moment the hunger would dim. But at each waking, the dull emptiness and the sheer physical hurt would return. He had reached a point where he could not possibly refuse food, or stop himself from eating. It was not prison food, but the best of the best. The platter was heaped with special gourmet touches, all his personal favorites. He had no control over himself. When he couldn't swallow the food he forced it with the drink. He ate hurriedly, desperately, eager to banish the pain. And when the food hit his stomach, it came back out. He collapsed in grief, sobbing for the first time. They had broken his control, and won their first victory. They repeated the torment later. Eventually it was a relief when he was past hunger, and refused the food. ********** Miles had been busy at his usual time; his visit had been an hour or so later, when Julian wasn't ready for him. He had just finished eating, the demolished remains left on the table. Julian had then retreated to the bed, curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly to himself. There was no way he could tell them that the platters of food they brought--the replicator had been disabled--reminded him of that traumatic moment. But refusing food had become unthinkable. He didn't even notice Miles entrance. Miles found his friend cocooned in bed, and reached out in an instinctive touch to comfort. Instantly, Julian jerked away, his face full of pain. Miles begun to stammer in apology; he had forgotten the nerve damage and the actual pain touching involved. Bastards, her thought, anger building. But then Julian looked up at him, and he thought he saw more than the mask he had been shown so far. Julian looked terrible, he thought. But he did look more like his friend than he had when they had first started the visits. Having shown himself without the mask, Julian abandoned it. He looked like a sick, badly wounded animal trying to find somewhere to hide. It was more distressing to Miles than the mask, and he felt more hopeless than before. Despite the reality, he still hoped his friend would wake up from his nightmare and be the man he'd known. But it was not going to happen, and he buried his grief for Julian's sake. "We had some problems," Miles said. "I had to come later. Sorry." Julian didn't say a word, but ever so lightly tapped his hand. "Don't go," he said very quietly, almost a whisper. But it sounded like the Julian Bashir he had known. "I'd like to kill them for doing this," said Miles. "It didn't help," said Julian very quietly, and coldly. Miles found the statement very disturbing and hesitated. "Maybe you could tell me about it," said Miles. It was a beginning. The meeting was attended by a small, select group. The station psychiatrist was present, along with Miles and Kira, and the Bajoran doctor Kira had contacted. He was an expert on torture and its effects, and had secretly treated patients during the occupation. Lately, he had been offering his services to Starfleet and the victims of the Dominion. He had studied the medical reports, the psychological studies, and the assorted mutterings that Julian had made to Miles in the last few visits. He was there to discuss what had happened to the doctor and how to approach his recovery. His first words were deliberately not encouraging, the same thing he told every Federation client's family or doctors. He didn't need to tell the client. Either they knew or would not believe it. "Remember," he said, "you will never 'get back' the same person. Our goal is to let the victim come to terms with their experiences well enough that they can manage a normal life. That is quite a different thing." ********** Dr. Bennet was younger and stronger, and had not been harmed until he was brought in the room. He was not simply beaten; he was slowly tortured to death. For Julian, as he was forced to watch, it was a little more distant than the first, and he didn't try to shut it out. It would come back in nightmares anyway. Each time his friend lost consciousness the Vorta demand Julian's attention and asked again "Who is your contact? How did you get your information?" Each time he had replied again, "I don't remember." And then they had continued. But in its own way it had been easier. It had been expected. He had already accepted its inevitability. It would be more blood on his hands, but once he had been blooded the second time was not as traumatic. It added new voices to his nightmare. It deepened his sense of guilt. But Bennet's death did not add anything new to the destruction of his innocence. One thing was changed. Having condemned two friends to pain and death, he had decided he would never tell them, no matter what they did to him. He would not make the sacrifice empty by betraying them with a confession. He would rather die. ********** The families of the two doctors had been officially notified of their deaths in Dominion captivity, with no details, since all Julian had said was they were killed. It was assumed they had not died quickly or easily, and he had watched, but he had only hinted at that, and it was not official. Julian had given some vague answers to questions, but few hints of what had happened to him. He would still not tolerate anyone but Miles. Neither of the doctors liked using a stand-in to talk to their patient. But Julian refused to stay in the room if they entered, hiding in a dark, enclosed space, and expecting him to talk to them was unrealistic. So they reluctantly agreed to Miles part in the treatment plan. "Are you certain you want to do this?" asked the Starfleet doctor. "You may be under-estimating the stress involved. It may be very hard for you to listen to him talk about what happened to him. It's traumatic to treat a friend who has gone through a terrible experience. It's easy to lose your sense of balance." Miles insisted on doing it, now that there was some hope of him coming out of his isolation. "I've ... had a few bad ones myself. I think I can manage. And he saved my life a while ago. I was ready to die and had the phaser pointed at my head. He talked me out of it. It's a debt, and I won't abandon a friend". Kira was preoccupied. She looked up and added quietly, "I'll be there if he needs to talk. I've seen a few bad things myself." The Bajoran doctor added, "Your welcome to talk to us as well. It's going to be as hard for you as your friend. It may be harder for you if you try to think of him as the same man that left here." ********** He sat in the dark bedroom. Except for when someone came in and turned the lights on he kept the place dark. He thought very methodically about it. He had learned that rash actions were not beneficial for survival. He considered every action he took with very critical consideration. He wanted them to go away and leave him alone. He didn't mind Miles visiting once in a while, although it was still an intrusion on his self-imposed isolation. But he didn't want to see him predictably every day anymore. He had concluded that ignoring them hadn't worked. They were still waiting to be told what had happened to him. He had made himself remember it all in a detached and distant way. If that was the only way to banish them, he would tell. Unexpectedly, he found that talking about it helped the nightmares. They were always with him, and he accepted them with the same outward calm as he had everything else. But as he described his nightmares, he found they visited him less often. He slept better. He was grateful for the respite. In the safe haven of his room, he talked about his own torture. He would only tell Miles. As long as they did not intrude personally, he didn't mind the recording device. He spoke in a calm, cold tone and in great detail. He didn't see the effect he was having on Miles, forcing him to listen to the details of the brutality he had lived through. First, he had been drugged with a neuro-stimulant that had magnified every touch. Then he had been brutally beaten. When he had refused to talk, they had used electrical stimulation directly to the nerves, magnifying the pain. Eventually, he had been unable to remain conscience long enough and had been thrown in a small, bare cell. What he didn't tell them about was the anger, and the horror at being so brutally violated. He had vowed he would get revenge some day, but for then all he hoped was to survive. Even when he wasn't beaten or electrocuted, they kept up the medication. Even simple movement, or a pebble on the floor of his cell was agony. His whole life had been overwhelmed by pain. The torture itself was only marginally worse than being taken to the interrogation room. As they continued day after day, he realized he was getting very weak, and the nerve damage was so bad it would last the rest of his life. He would never be without pain. He had given up caring about food as well, and that had taken its toll. He only moved when someone made him. But he still wanted to survive. After a while, they left him alone on the floor of his cell, with only the drugs and the pebbles to torment him. The pain made it hard to stay conscious much of the time, but eventually, the body began to compensate, and blocked enough that he lay in an exhausted stupor most of the time. He thought about how much he hated them and found the strength to survive. Then they had defeated that mechanism. The new drug blocked the endorphin which dulled the pain. It grew more intolerable each time they forced him to stand and it was impossible when they started beating him again. And finally he had broken. He had talked. He had told. He had betrayed the dead and his promise to himself. He felt like he had died. But he left out that part when he told them about it. *****Interlude***** Miles was not handling it well. He had listened to his friend speak in grisly detail of his own torture in a tone that was far too calm, far too detached. He wanted to hear anger. It was as if it had happened to someone else, and he was reading a police report. It was in precise detail because he had been told to do it that way, much the same way he had been doing what he was told for most of the past year. Julian had said nothing of the labor camp he'd been sent to, or their escape, nor how the crew had died. Perhaps the crew had been unlucky enough to be there when payback came. He wondered if that was what Julian had meant when he said it didn't help. Miles was very angry, both at the Dominion and the Vorta who had tormented his friend, and Kira prodded out the anger. She understood far better than she could say. She was having a hard time not remembering her own life. He wanted to kill the Vorta, but Kira knew that would not help, and yet he needed to express his outrage. She encouraged the anger until he could not hold it in, and let him talk it out. Restless, he paced around the room while he talked, gradually slowing when his tirade calmed. With the anger spent, he collapsed into a chair, staring at the wall. Resigned, he finally said, "I don't think it's serving any purpose. Julian's just doing what he's told to do anyway." "He spent almost a year in a labor camp," she said. "That is how he survived. It will take time to get over that." "I know ... but it's bad that he won't say anything about the end. We know there was a revolt, they took the ship and a lot of people had an ugly death. He just dances around that part." "Maybe you don't want to hear it," she said. He stared at her. "Whatever happened, that crew didn't die like that from rational behavior. They were striking back. Some of them died from torture. Don't be surprised if Julian helped." Miles looked at her, horrified. "Look, I know what they did to him. But he just couldn't *do* that. He's not like that. They couldn't break him so much that he'd be part of something so degrading and ugly." Kira sighed. She knew he needed to hold onto something. "You'd be surprised what people will do when they have no choice." ********** Having told, he had been rewarded with his life. His life came to center on a lumpy mattress on the floor of a dingy cell, with a young Cardassian woman caring for his battered and beaten and badly starved body. She spoke standard with an accent. Neither had universal translators, and it seemed odd to hear his native language spoken with such an accent. But she convinced him to take a little of the broth when he didn't want to--didn't care to try. She carefully avoided touching the worst parts of his arms and back, where the nerve damage was the most pronounced, and treated the cuts with minimal touching. The doctor in him was impressed, and the hurt and scared child grew to trust her. Slowly, he began to recover, and the rational part of his mind started to return. He realized that for all the torment they had subjected him to, he had not been killed. They could have kept it up and taken his sanity, but not his life. Sometimes he wondered if it was not already gone, as the nightmares made sleep nearly impossible. She could not take away the memories, but instead shared hers. She was the youngest child of her family. Her father had opposed the Dominion as he saw it redesign Cardassian society, and her brother had come to hate them after her father had disappeared. He had tried to kill an Vorta, and was executed for it. The entire family had been arrested. She did not know what had become of the rest of them, but she had been taken here, to nurse the survivors of the interrogation chambers back to life so that they might be worked to death. That was what awaited him when he was strong enough. The prospect was quite grim. The drugs were all gone, but the pain from the damage to his overstimulated nerves was still there. It was worse on the places they had used the electrodes, but it was *there* everywhere. He knew that even with the best treatment known, there would only be marginal improvement. He bitterly realized that he had been denied the pleasure of being touched. He would never be free of pain. Soon, he knew, they would take him away. With the loss of this young, unaccountably kind young woman, he would lose the last traces of who he had been. The old Julian was dead, broken and twisted by pain and betrayal. The new one had not yet been born. *****The Incubation***** The meeting was not going well. Miles was giving his personal impressions of the patients progress. "I know he's talking, but he's just too calm. He's doing it because he can't get out of it. I just know him too well. The Julian Bashir I knew would not have been so cold. Then when he gets to the labor camp, he gets very cautious. It sounds like he's editing it as he goes. It was all in this incredible detail before. Then he gets very wary. Whatever happened, he's hiding it." The doctors spoke quietly between themselves. Dr. Pelar, the Bajoran specialist, summed it up. "You're right, of course. The other he could isolate from himself, but what happened in that camp is much more personal. But we can't push him. Give him time. He can't hide it forever." Frustrated, Miles tried to clarify his feelings. "It just seems like the longer he talks the less he says. He's pulling away from it. He hid his little secret for 20 years. I'm afraid he's going to bury this." Dr. Pelar tried to reassure his friend. "Please don't worry about that. We won't allow him to do that." Miles worried about it anyway. "He won't talk about the end at all." "I believe he's afraid of remembering that." Everyone knew he was hiding something. But none of his friends, even Miles, was at all certain that they wanted to hear the rest. ********** At first, he told himself it could have been worse. The rations were always short and he was always hungry, but there was food. It was a measure of how terrible it had been that this didn't strike him as quite so horrible. The work itself was not hard; the worst that could be said of it was that it was excessively boring. They were not pushed overly hard; he realized bitterly that they were someone's property, and they wanted to get as much use of them as possible. If it wasn't for the constant pain he lived with, it would have been more tolerable. Most of the others had been in the wrong place when the Dominion forces arrived and had not endured the sort of torment he had survived. Not that it wasn't a brutal place. If one was "slow" at finishing there was punishment. If one was hesitant at obeying there was an instant punishment. Unfortunately for him, the pain was often hard to work through, and he was seen as slow or hesitant far too often. And in a short while, for him, it became a living hell. They carried short whips, which bruised rather than cutting the skin. It was effective punishment without damaging the prisoner. But for him it was agony. The guards knew it and went out of their way to find fault. Some of his fellow prisoners felt sorry for him and offered help when they could, while others worried he would effect their overall work and bring punishment in the form of reduced rations to everybody. Most of the time he just hoped to live long enough to pay the bastards back, and so he managed to live one day at a time. ********** He wanted to tell them about it, especially Miles, how hate had kept him alive. He wanted his friend--and even now he felt friendship for the man--to know that he dreamed of revenge to drive off the nightmares. He wanted him to know that he understood the anger his friend showed for the Dominion. But Miles was imagining it in theory. He was viewing revenge that was unfulfilled. Julian had gone beyond that, and wasn't sure who he was anymore. He was sure in time they'd figure it out; the bodies of the ships crew were plain enough. But they'd not seen the camp itself. He had been damaged by them. And in his rage at revenge, he had become them. He could not talk about it. He spoke of bits and pieces, but he knew he didn't want to become the thing he knew he would become in their eyes. ********** He owed his survival to a secret friend. After a month of constant agony had passed, someone had made contact, someone on the inside. He recognized the sign he'd been shown many months before. The pain killer his friend provided dulled the misery enough he could at least function. He didn't know what it was or if it was addictive, nor did he care. It was the difference between surviving and not. The months went by, daily life changing very little and slowly becoming normal. The guards still singled him out, but he was able to keep up better. He came to hate them personally, and it gave life an edge that made it easier to go on. Sleep was filled with nightmares of the interrogation intermingled with visions of payback. It gave him something to live for. There had been no contact from his friend. He went to the hiding place and the drugs would be there. But then, after almost a year had passed, he found more. There was information. There was a planned rebellion. He was told what the distraction would be and when it would happen. He was given the coordinates of the cargo ship that was waiting, and the names of the two officers who knew the codes they would need to get over the border alive. He knew what would signal the beginning. He told no one. He scarcely believed it himself. He didn't really expect it to ever happen. And then the signal came. He found an extra supply of the drug for himself, and weapons, mostly knives made to look hand made. But they would do. What followed was madness. *****Rebirth***** He had said all he was going to say, and it had been decided to give him limited access to the station. He didn't socialize, and didn't seek to, but found himself at a table in the back of Quark's with a companion. Kira hadn't asked if he wanted her to stay. She hadn't said much at all. Instead she watched him closely, waiting for the right moment. "Did you enjoy killing them?" was what she asked. He paused, very still, for a moment. "And when it was done you still didn't feel any better." He wanted to leave, but couldn't. "No," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Just ... empty." "Don't bury it," she said. "It will destroy you." Studying the floor, he murmured, "So be it." "No," she continued, placing her hand on his shoulder and making him wince. She did not remove her hand. He had been weaned off the drug he was taking in prison and given a new one but touch was still very painful. "You aren't going to do this to your friends. They've worried too much about you." She was talking to him like one might to a small child. Or like one of *them* would have regarded him. He squirmed, trying to pull away but she pressed harder and he stopped. "Miles in particular. You made life miserable for him. You're not walking away." "I don't have any friends," he said angrily, not showing any of it outwardly. "Their friend died in the interrogation." "I know." Her tone was quiet, and both of them paused in recognition of the truth. His anger evaporated. "Miles doesn't want to know the rest." "But he has to," she insisted. "He has to live with it and so do you." She looked him in the eyes, guilty soul to guilty soul. He sat down. She removed her hand. He tentatively reached out to take it. He looked at her, troubled. "Thank you." Some moments extend beyond words. He felt a bond form and for the first time felt like he might be able to face life again. She looked questionably at his hand and he said quietly that it was alright. The hands weren't that bad. He ordered another drink. She did too. Then several more drinks. They said little, but showed no inclination to leave. Finally, he said quietly, "About the camp, well ... I can't talk about that rationally. Mostly, there was rage and blood. The torture, it's like it happened to somebody else. The end at the camp, was ... madness." She said nothing, but listened intently. "On the ship, I really don't know what happened to most of the crew. We still had our knives, so I can guess. I was one of a few that could help fly the thing, so I was busy." He looked away, somewhere else. He continued. "But there were two of the officers we kept safe, since they had the codes for the buoys. We had to have them and they refused to tell." He shut his eyes as if trying not to look. "We, uh, *made* them tell us." She looked at him a long time, watching the coldness that was there. "And you don't feel guilty about it either," she said. "Not guilt exactly. Maybe ... regret. But there is a certainty that we had to do it. It was--necessary." She understood his dilemma. But she wondered if Miles - or some of the others for that matter--would be as understanding. That was something he was going to have to live with too. ********** It was the first time he'd been dealing with them directly, and he felt nervous as he sat in the small office with the two doctors. He'd agreed to talk to them if Miles was left out of this. He'd talk to Miles later, when he could sort it out better. That was the problem. He could remember everything else in sharp, if distant, detail, but not this, not the madness that had made him. It was a blur of blood and anger, of fire and revenge, and of massacre. And when it was over, he had felt nothing. The anger was gone, but there was no satisfaction, no joy in going home, no sense of victory. Just more blood. He sat remembering how he had felt hoping that somehow he might sort out the jumbled memories that had lost him everything. It was the Bajoran who did the talking. The Starfleet doctor, who was still officially in charge, had deferred to greater experience. This was not within his usual range of traumas. The Bajoran didn't prod or push. He told Julian to begin wherever he liked. The only questions that were asked were there to nudge things back to the right path. Where his other descriptions had had a cold detached air, this one was deeply emotional. This was the bridge between then and now, and it was the key to whatever recovery he managed. ********** He remembered the beginning. It started with alarms, loud and insistent, which rang over the whole complex. He knew what it meant. A supply of gas had been pumped into the main administrative section of the complex, housing most of the civilians that had no direct contact with prisoners. It rendered them unconscious and kept them from coming to anyone's aid. It also triggered the air circulation system to seal itself. Each section shut itself from the others. The contaminated one would not open even to a manual opening. That was all as planned. It was the last thing that was. The air scrubbers should have begun cleaning the air, and the sleeping victims would be sick but alive. But they failed to start. Everyone died in the administrative wing, but as it turned out they were lucky. It happened during a time when most of the prisoners were in their cells and there were fewer guards. The locks were opened and the knives had been found and dispensed. The madness broke into anarchy. The guards died quickly. They lent their weapons and devices to the prisoners arsenal. The section door seals had begun to open and they went hunting. When the dust settled, everyone who worked for the Dominion was dead. Some had died of wounds from the guards guns, some killed outright, but far more had been hacked apart after being stunned. The dockloaders were bleeding on the deck. The office staff was beaten into submission before being killed. There was blood everywhere. Over half the prisoners had been killed. Another group had succeeded in breaking into the contaminated section when the section had sealed itself again with them inside. Perhaps a quarter of the prisoners were alive and in good enough shape to hope to survive. He didn't remember much of it. He knew he had been part of it, burning up the anger and rage, and exacting the revenge until nothing was left, but even now he couldn't remember any details. He must have killed some of the guards, since he carried their personal devices. He must have used his knife, as it was as bloody as he was. He remembered wandering around the dead prison looking for *something*. He couldn't remember what. They had been in no hurry to leave. There was nobody alive to challenge them, and the cargo ship in the dock must have felt safe because it showed no signs of departing. They had even changed to dry clothes. Except for the search, which he remembered in hazy moments, this was as clear and detached as his earlier tones. He wanted to quit talking and leave it there, but he was prodded along, albeit gently. He would resist and the doctor would insist harder. He had decided he didn't want to know. He resented the pushing and a simmering anger began to surface, but he suppressed it. He couldn't express it; he reacted to the insistent pushing, just short of abuse, but doing what he was told. It had become the survival reaction. He was told to remember his search. Think of nothing else. And then he remembered and began to cry. His friend, who had saved his life, was hacked apart and stabbed until he would have bled to death. He mourned for a few minutes, a last shred of himself surfacing before it was buried by practicality. It was time to leave. Then he began rounding up survivors for the trip back home. Home ... He looked at all the blood and knew there was no such thing for him anymore. ********** Later, in his quarters, he found he could not shut out what followed, and for the first time in a long time began to *feel* something. He remembered holding the knife to one of their prisoners, he didn't remember which one, demanding the codes that would get them past the border, and using his doctor's skills in ways no medical training had ever intended. Most of the other killings on the ship had been more random hackings like in the prison, but this was different. He remembered the blinding urgency that permeated everything. They had to have the codes soon, or they would not get past the remote stations. They would get them no matter what it took, or what it made of them. It was necessary. He still believed it was. But his recall of that time, at the end, was not detached and distant. It was blurred with emotion. One of them had asked his family for forgiveness when he turned over the code. He had been bleeding and badly injured by then, but alive. But there wasn't much available to treat the kinds of injuries that had been carefully inflicted on them, and both had died within hours. He remembered standing, looking at the bodies, barely able to believe that he had been largely responsible for it. And it wasn't until then that something vital, something that had never quite made sense suddenly came clear. These two, unluckily, had been deliberately tormented for the information they knew. There had been no time to take care with their survival--their own had been at stake. As brutal as it had been he would do it again, no matter what it had made him into. But when they had tormented him, it had taken a long time, more than enough for his contact to disappear many times over. And from past experience with the Dominion, torture wasn't necessary if they really wanted to know. Maybe they already had picked his brain. Or maybe they really didn't care. That wasn't the point at all. It was punishment, and making an example. Others, like his unfortunate contact at the prison, had had it made clear what the price was. He had been marred, physically and psychologically. He knew he would never be the same. He had left a talented doctor. He would return a murderer. And when they had been towed into DS9, and he had been brought aboard again, he had not been able to deal with what the man who had left had become, and would not tell them about it. He had met them in silence, and had lost the game. He had lost himself too. He didn't know if it was possible to put the broken pieces back together. ********** Julian Bashir had confessed--there was no other word for it--to the events on the ship, and had finally broken down in sobs and a complete collapse. He had been sedated, and was under a suicide watch at the moment, having concluded that he had nothing left and giving himself to them to do as they pleased. The doctors treating him were in debate about what to do now they had broken his defenses. There would be no charges filed. Star Fleet had already retired him for medical reasons, and the Federation wanted no part of the murky waters that would be stirred up if they tried. On Bajor, it was an old story, and no one would likely make any accusations, though there had been several offers of help. He had never had a chance to talk to Miles. He was once more confined to his quarters, which were monitored at all times. He slept most of the time, read occasionally, and ate his meals. He showed no interest in trying to leave, and had never tried to hurt himself. He had got his wish to just be left alone. *****The Healing***** "I can't believe it," he was saying to Kira. "It was so--barbaric. I just don't see him doing something like that." Julian had left a very detailed description of the interrogation of the two officers and his part in it, sparing nothing, least of all himself. Miles had read it and been unprepared for the revelations. "And then he *still* maintains it was justified." Miles just shook his head in disbelief. "You can't say," she said, her voice level. "You weren't there. He'd survived a year of brutality, and if he hadn't adapted he'd been dead by then." "I can see the prison ... " he paused. "That was something pent up that got out of hand. But this ... this was so ... cold." "He didn't want you to know," she said. "He was afraid of losing your friendship". Miles didn't know how to feel. The Julian he had known, the one that had been his friend, would never have done that. "I haven't seen my friend in a long time," he finally said. "You'll never see the friend you knew again, either." Her tone was firm. "He's gone. He can't go back to what he was. "But the man that's there now needs you. He's all alone. He feels broken and worthless. He isn't even allowed to make any decisions about his future. He needs to know that somebody cares." "You do, Nerys". "I can't see losing one when there's a chance," she said, her expression suggesting something Miles didn't want to know about. "I just don't know who it is I'm looking at anymore". "Neither does he." Miles remembered something he generally didn't like to. "My first ship assignment was with Captain Maxwell. He got along with everybody. His wife fed us dinner. He had a couple of kids. We would have done anything for him." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "When the Cardies staged a sneak attack against the colony they lived on, they slaughtered everybody. We were the first to hit the ground, and we almost got trapped. I *found* Mrs. Maxwell, and the kids--or what was left of them. And a lot of others I knew, too. Just slaughtered ... We fought our way out. I'd never fired a phaser at anybody before. I got lots of practice before we made it back to the ship. For months, we were busy fighting them. It got to where the only thing that I cared about was killing more of them. I couldn't get the sight of those people out my mind ... And then, eventually, it ended and I didn't know who I was anymore. In time ... but I will never forgive them for what they made me." Kira tried to picture the innocent young Miles and couldn't. She had always liked him, from the time he had arrived. She hadn't heard the whole of his story before, but she knew, unlike most of the young Starfleet people when they arrived, that he understood a lot more than he said. "And you had friends who helped." "Yeah," muttered Miles. "Do you remember when his family secret first came out?" she said. "A lot of people looked at him oddly, treated him different. But you didn't. You made allowances for darts ... but you still treated him like the friend you had before. That mattered a lot to him. I think he still remembers it." Miles said, resigned, "I don't know what we'll find when it's done, but I want to help." He looked at Kira, sadly, "Well, lets go and try to talk somebody into letting him have visitors.". ********** The Starfleet doctor had gone. Once he was out of Starfleet forever the doctor had been deemed to have better things to do. The Bajoran had offered to stay, and had further asked to take his patient to Bajor and his quiet, isolated practice. The change of scenery, he had found, often helped put things in perspective. But in his own way, Julian already had. He had opened up the wound and let himself feel it all. And he had come near to destroying himself. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't let it happen again. He had shut off all the feelings, and vowed never to let them out again. When they had visited him, Miles and Kira had felt the chill. Miles had said, softly, "Your still a friend. I'll always be there if you want me to be." A part of Julian was grateful, and wanted to respond. But the defense system he had built refused it. Kira had been very simple and direct. She looked rather grim as she told him, "This isn't going to work. Eventually, you'll have to deal with it." He'd reacted a new way, with hostility. He'd almost driven them away with the anger, alternating with the coldness, that he had made his outward image. Kira had seen him a few more times, but Miles had stayed away. ********** He hated the retreat. The flowers were beautiful, the scents flowing. He refused to acknowledge them. He was there because he didn't have any choice. He had no intention of giving in. The style was simple, just questions, and more questions, repeated until a reaction was gained. The doctor had mostly asked about the ordeal, skipping around from event to event, insisting over and over that he must say how he *felt*. The only thing Julian knew for sure was he didn't want to remember any of that. Eventually he'd go from cold and unfeeling to anger, which was considered a victory. Today the chosen subject was the torture. "How did you feel when the doctors were killed in front of you," he was asked. He looked at an insect crawling on the table very intently. "How did the ones you killed feel?" The questions kept alternating between them and him, over and over, until he'd had it. "I suppose", he said sarcastically, "that it hurt." "Because you intended it to," said his companion. "Just like they intended it to hurt you." "They didn't have to be so stubborn," he insisted. "They would have been better off to tell us. We *had* to have that information, no matter the cost, and then." "So you cut them up and let them bleed to death," pressed his pursuer. "How did it feel to be the one in charge? Didn't you like the feel of power? Wasn't it fun to humiliate them? Wasn't it satisfying to impose your will on someone who was terrified of you?" Julian felt his anger rise. "It wasn't like that. We had to know or we'd never get across. We had to get the information out of them." "I'm not saying you didn't." The tone was different, softer and very reasonable. "But along the way you deliberately tortured two people to death. You are responsible for their deaths. You must accept that." Taken off guard by the shift in tone, Julian just stared at him. "I thought I had. Isn't that what this self hate stuff is about?" "Can you accept that they suffered before they died? I mean emotionally, and that they hated you as much as you hated your tormentors." Julian had begun to squirm, a sign he was listening. The doctor continued to push. "Or, is it that you can't deal with how you felt to be tormented and broken because you'd have to acknowledge how they felt?" Julian seemed to sag a little in his chair. He said very quietly, with no anger, "We had to." "A reason, not an understanding. There is a big difference. You keep bringing that up and it's not even an issue. Why can't you accept your responsibility for their terrible deaths?" "I ... I didn't want to be one of them. I didn't want to cut them up," his tone rambling. "I didn't want to ... to" he paused, taking a deep breath, "have to look at them and see myself look back." He sighed and put his head in his hands. "Did they deserve to be tormented? Was it their fault? And was it your fault that they caught you and hurt you too?" "No," came out as a sob. "Nobody deserves that." "Not even you, Julian." He sat sobbing, hunched over the table. It had taken a long, long time to get there, but he had finally taken a small, tentative first step. ********** He was telling the story over again, not in the cold, unemotional detail he had before but in a series of stops and hesitations and sobs. And anger. The anger was encouraged. And the grief as well, as he relived his own death. The first blooding. The shame. The humiliation. The sheer terror. It all came out in stops and starts, and moments of silence. He remembered the terrible panic when he realized the new drug made it impossible to fight the pain, and he knew that it was near the end. He would betray his promise to the dead. He remembered the shame mingled with relief when he had told, along with the sense of betrayal and guilt, that he couldn't hold out. Everybody has a breaking point, they had said. He hadn't really believed that until then. He tried to describe the desperate hunger, but could not find the words for it. He remembered the sense of desperation when they had fed him the sumptuous meal, and the incredible sense of loss when he had lost it all in messy humiliation. And, later, the horrible ordeal when he had first been fed, the stomach wrenching pain of the first sips, and the young Cardassian woman's moments of kindness, the only he had felt in a long time. He still bore the wounds of that experience. The replicator in his room was shut off; he couldn't control the urge to eat compulsively. He didn't feel hunger, just the overpowering need to assure himself he wouldn't be hungry. Then he would make himself sick by eating too much and end up in the infirmary. Here, he was still living under very controlled conditions. That was one of the many problems he would have to learn to live with before he could leave. But he was taking firm steps toward that goal. ********** He had heard that to be alive was to feel, but sometimes it was just too much to ask. He still could not remember much of the madness at the camp, just little snatches of memory. He didn't want to deal with the savage retribution. He had been made into a hollow thing by it, and he was fighting so hard to reclaim himself, but the blood always reminded him that some things were lost forever--especially any trace of innocence. He had been taken back to the ship and had relived the interrogation of his own prisoners. Standing where he had cut them up, he felt the urgency of the moment and the desperate need for the codes. But there remained little but coldness in his recall of the actual act as he'd used his expert knowledge of pain and how to cause it to force the codes from them. He knew he could never be who he had been. The man who had looked at his victims and seen objects was also part of him now. He was afraid of that part of himself. It would be so easy to bring it back. *****Remaking a life***** It was time to go. He dawdled, gazing back at the gate. He remembered how he had hated to come here. Now, he was afraid to leave. He had nowhere to go. Starfleet considered him unstable and wouldn't accept him back, and he didn't think he could take the reminders of his lost life. Bajor had been very hard hit in the Dominion assault while he had been imprisoned, and there were still many places that needed doctors and wouldn't ask any questions. He felt an affinity with them, a silent sharing of loss from the same enemy. He had taken a job as the resident medic at a refugee camp. The area had survived the Cardassians, who had chosen to live there, but was utterly devastated by the Dominion. Most of the survivors had moved into an undamaged valley where a large camp had been established for those with nowhere else to go. There was no shortage of work, and he plunged himself into it. He already spoke the native language. He pushed himself hard and did more than necessary, trying to find a piece of the man he'd been. There was very little else to do, and he couldn't afford the transport away if he wanted to go anywhere else. What little extra he had went for extra medicines, or gifts for the children. He lived only a little better than most of the residents, and even felt guilty about that. ********** Nobody knew about his background, and when he wasn't working he kept to himself. Except for those he was training, he avoided personal contact. He could act the doctor when dealing with patients or staff, but was too unsure of himself on a more personal level. He was a very lonely man. She was his star pupil in the training he was giving his new staff on how to work out of a medkit. She'd worked in a hospital, and helped the others who had not. Most were barely coping with their own lives, and had as much trouble as he did with anything more personal than their jobs. Tela had lost most of her family in the Jem'Hadar attack, but she liked the foreign doctor who worked too hard, and hid too much. She occasionally helped him to bed when he fell asleep in the lab. It was one of those occasions that she discovered his secret. She had put her hand lightly on his back to wake him. She had done it before, but this time he startled awake and winced, jerking away from her. He woke a few minutes later and apologized. "I need my medicine," he said, hesitant. "It should have been here but the delivery is late. The dosage is running low, and it hurts a little to much. I didn't want to startle you, honest." He'd looked at her, worried at his confession. He studied her carefully. "Nerve damage," he said, "from the neuro-stimulants and the zappers," he finished very softly. She stepped backwards a little. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know ... " "That's alright," he said. "I didn't tell anybody. It's ... tolerable right now. But if those supplies are any later ... " "I'll be very careful," she said. "It's anything that touches me, not just hands. So while I appreciate your concern there isn't much you can do." But his tone had softened. "I've noticed you. You always seem to get me back to bed." She though he liked the attention. He looked very hesitant. "How?" she asked. He paused, nervous. She could sense an understanding between them, and could tell he did as well. "You'll probably guess anyway, but somebody should know the truth." He told her his entire story that night. The first rays of the sun had come over the mountains, and she held his hand. He had even told her about the ship. It had tumbled out in an emotional rush. He had talked to doctors, and written reports, but never told it personally. There was a sense of relief he had not anticipated. He wanted to hold her but it would hurt too much right now. She sat very close and did her best to comfort without touching. "Why do you keep this a secret?" she asked softly. "You needn't be ashamed of it." "It's not shame, not exactly. Talking about it brings it back. That ... monster ... I became has to stay banished." She had listened quietly, and without reaction. "But you were lucky to have survived," she said. "You can't hide from it your whole life. You can't shut part of you out. Look, I admire you." He looked at her, grimly. "There is nothing to admire." "Your alive. You survived. You did what you had to, and there is no reason to blame yourself." "It's not that simple," he said. "I don't wish that I'd died there, but they took so much that nobody can put back. I ... I feel more like myself now than I have in a long time. When I'm with patients I can be more who I was. I feel like they didn't win, didn't take everything." "Would you feel up to a walk?" she had asked. As they neared the top of the small rise in the open space, the rest of the valley spread out below. She pointed to a small creek, barely visible in the dust that made up the valley now. At least most of the rubble had been hauled away. "I used to live next to that river. It had trees and flowers. We had a big garden. The house was small but it was friendly. My parents had grown up there and I grew up there. We even survived the Cardassians." "Someone said they lived near here," he said softly. "In this valley, among other places. They wanted it to look liveable so they left us alone." She paused, looking past the destruction to what had been before. "Not the Jem'Hadar," she said, her voice trailing off. "I remember the day they attacked. I wasn't home but my sister was. We heard the noise and people started pouring in with injuries. We did the best we could, but there were so many. And we were out in the open, so it wasn't safe. We concentrated on saving who we could and getting them out of the area so they had a chance of recovering. It wasn't until the next day that I got home." She stared at the little cove. "She was still there. The house was in ruins. Nobody had worried about the dead yet. The river had flooded and left rubble everywhere. I found a few mementos and ran. I never had the courage to go back." Tears were streaming down her face. "Did any of your family survive?" he asked gently, putting his arm around her. "They are all dead. Everything I had is gone, everyone I loved." She paused, taking a deep breath. "We thought we were so lucky with the Cardassians. They liked the area and left it alone. That's why the Jem'Hadar attacked here. What's the use of destroying what's already gone?" "You have mementos," he said, and she thought if what remained of his life, packed in a small bag he didn't dare to open. "I'm glad I came here," he said. "If I can learn to live with this, you can learn to live with your monsters." ********** Three days later the supplies arrived and Tela got the vial he was waiting for. She could tell he was getting desperate. He showed her what to do and she filled the internal reservoir. He closed his eyes and lay perfectly still for a time. She watched as he seemed to relax and finally rolled over on his bed. When he got up she was still there. He put his arms around her and hugged her. "For before" he said. She hugged him back, but noticed he didn't seem to respond right. "It just numbs the nerves." he said. "I can't feel much, especially at first, but it's better than the pain." It surprised her the Federation couldn't do more. "They can't do anything?" "Not really. Everything had been tried. It's a lot better than it was, at least. I'm used to it now." "Then we'll just have to make sure your medicine isn't late again," was what she said. But she thought to herself that it must be terrible for touch to be taken from him. He wondered if he'd shut out the memory of what it felt like as well. *****Reconnections***** The ground transport had arrived early and its passenger waited along with a mass of crates. Shortly, however, a large cargo vehicle appeared and several figures appeared from it. One of them was Bashir. It had been a long time since Miles had seen him. He really didn't look forward to the reunion. The other was a youngish Bajorian woman. From the body language Miles could tell that they were close. He guessed it might even be very close. How life had changed, he thought. Once, they would have simply beamed it down. Now, with the transporter scramblers in place, it had to be physically hauled. But Bajor had taken a lot of damage in the brief but intense invasion, and had gladly accepted the inconvenience. Bashir and the woman had gotten close enough to identify him. Julian just stood there, looking awkward. Miles decided to break the ice. "We sent your supplies down early because it was beginning to look like we wouldn't get a transport for awhile. Oh yeah, the doctor doubled the shipment on a couple of things." Julian was listening intently. "It's odd to hear Standard again," he commented. "Thank whoever thought of it for me," he said politely, a little formally, with a nervous edge, "we need anything we can get." "I'll do that. Anything else you need, I'll mention for next time." Miles couldn't think of anything else to say. They stood in awkward silence. The Bajoran woman whispered something in Bashir's ear. "Ugh, you should come and look around. It's going to be awhile before they pick you up." He sounded as hesitant as he looked, thought Miles. He understood. It was up to him if he wanted to bring up old times or just visit. Julian had his arm around her again, Miles noted, and they were having some conversation in Bajoran he couldn't hear well enough to follow. He wasn't fluent in it, but could usually pick up enough to get the drift of a conversation. He couldn't believe the change in Julian, who was certainly not the same man he'd known before disaster had destroyed his life. But he wasn't the angry, withdrawn man he'd last seen either. He wanted to get to know this new man. He'd lost far too many friends. He wanted to reclaim this one. When they finished their conversation and came near, he decided it was time. "You look a lot better than I last remember". Bashir was silent for a brief moment, and thoughtful. "Probably. Blame her," he said giving her a playful kiss on the cheek. She blushed. Miles felt like he was prying. "How are the kids and Keiko?" asked Bashir. A look of sadness crossed Miles face, and he took a deep breath. "Well, Molly and Yoshi are at the settlement, doing fine. We lost their mother a little over a year ago. A shuttle accident ... old, faulty equipment." Julian looked stunned. "I didn't know things were so bad," he said, "Please accept my condolences." Miles wondered if he had fallen into the trap of thinking only his own life could be disrupted by disaster. He looked like he wanted to go, but Miles kept talking. "Their half-brother is due in a few months." It was a time when there wasn't much room for mourning, and happiness had to be grasped whenever it came. "In that case congratulations," said Bashir uneasily. "Actually you know her. She's carried one of my kids already." Miles smiled at his old friend, hoping to break down a few barriers. "Kira? But ... " Julian almost smiled himself. "An awful lot has happened that you haven't heard about," said Miles. "We should talk about it." Julian had found a bottle of some brew he'd gotten from a patient, a little odd tasting but after a few drinks you no longer noticed it. His friend had gone home, and Miles had accepted a cup, and then two, of it. His head was buzzing. "We don't hear much at all here. Maybe later you can tell us about the station and all that. But ... how did you and Kira?" "Oh, she never really left the family when Yoshi was born. And when Keiko died, she helped with him and his sister. It just ... happened. We didn't even see it coming until Molly asked if she was her new mommy." "What happened to the uniform," asked Julian, who had been wondering since he saw Miles in civilian attire but had decided not to ask until the bottle loosened his tongue. "I gave it back. About a year ago Starfleet tried to pull most of the veterans out. Most of us had lost a lot of friends, and weren't willing to go. Most of us resigned." While Julian was trying to figure out what to say, Miles continued. "They made some sort of deal where they weren't supposed to have a 'military presence' in this area, but since we resigned we weren't military anymore. I still do the same stuff. Same old problems. But we had to evacuate dependents so often for awhile we just settled them here." He chuckled. "Nerys hates it. They won't let her on the station at the moment." Julian had managed to make his voice work. "Is anything the same?" "Well, Quark's still here. Morn is still his star customer. Sisko's officially an 'administrator' now, but it hasn't really changed his style. You ought to visit. I can twiddle the rules. Bring your friend too." It was tempting, but not quite enough. Julian swallowed another gulp of the booze. "You have an exaggerated idea of how much we get paid. They figure the food and housing are free, so we're pretty much stranded. And I'd never catch up with the work." They both poured a new glass full. Miles observed "Doesn't taste half-bad after a few glasses." "Local brew. I'm sure they'd be willing to sell some of it to Quark." Julian was more relaxed, looser. "Sure. I'll sneak in a few bottles." They sat and sipped for a while, Miles thinking out loud, "Too bad we don't have a dart board." "I think we're probably both too drunk for darts." Julian was slumped comfortably against the chair, not sitting ramrod straight as he'd been. Neither had to say the friendship interrupted so long before had been resumed with mutual consent. Miles had something on his mind he couldn't keep quiet about anymore. "Julian, about the way things, well, seemed to work out, well, I didn't know how to deal with, well, you, the way you were, the ... " "Things I'd done?" finished Julian. Miles shrugged. Julian lifted up the glass and stared at the contents. "Neither did I. I still don't quite know how to feel. Tela seems to think it's not a big thing. You do what you have to to survive. I still don't know, but I suppose since I have to live with it, maybe she's right." "Or she's being realistic. Sometimes that's not a bad thing." "About six months ago," Julian began carefully, "a batch of the pirates from those mountains were stealing our supplies. We couldn't get any help from what's left of the government, so we, well, fixed the problem ourselves. No more pirates." Miles was watching him closely. He saw a glimpse of great loss in his eyes. He wondered if all of them had lost as much. "We arranged an ambush. I'm afraid somehow none of them survived. And we got back most of the stolen stuff when we went to their camp. And more stuff that they'd gotten elsewhere. We managed to sell it and get the transport." "They are hard to come by," Miles said carefully, taking another sip. "The locals considered us hero's. Especially that the pirates managed to all get killed. They figured we got rid of them so we got their loot." Bashir shook his head. "Sometimes I still wonder, though, about the way I felt then, like ... some kind of animal. I don't think that naive young man who came to DS9 would have done that. But then, he would be dead by now. So, who knows." He looked at Miles and realized he wasn't the only one who had vastly altered his values in the last few years. "All the naive young men are dead now," said Miles. In the morning, his head moderately pounding, Miles sat across from Tela in the cafe, as they called it. She spoke a little standard. He spoke enough Bajoran. They managed. "I'm glad he found you," said Miles. "You're good for him. He needs that." The final part of the night, they had talked about her. Julian had had a lot to drink and had told Miles how she had revitalized his life. She had taught him to accept himself in ways no doctor or counselor could have. She had been willing to accept him just as he was. He had never dared chance that, not even before he had ever heard of the Dominion or Bajor. She blushed. "He is too hard on himself, though", she said, "but I'm happy you came. He needs an old friend." Miles shook his head. "He's always been hard on himself. It's in his nature, I think." There was a loud clang somewhere outside, and he winced, holding his head. "I guess you enjoyed the bottle" she said. "I couldn't wake him up this morning. Fortunately, we're pretty empty." "He drank most of it, I think, at least. My head says I must have had enough. I promised to sneak a few bottles on the station. It's potent enough Quark might stock it." "He has some when he can't sleep." she said. "He uses that to kill the dreams he won't admit he has. He's gone through a couple in the last six months." "He told me about the pirates, a little at least." "He probably left out a lot. He didn't tell you about the people of ours they killed and dumped and how it was intended from the start that nobody would survive the ambush. Or that he took care of the leader himself. Nobody missed them, of course, but it bothers him now." Miles realized that it didn't bother him. He'd seen too much in the last few years to worry about that. "When my wife died, we suspected sabotage. I still don't know if it was, but I would have personally destroyed them if we'd found anything. Pest removal." "He's afraid of being a monster," she said. "He's felt that way a looong time. Long before they really made him into one. Something to do with his parents." "His genetic alterations ... " she said. So he had told her. "I think he accepts himself more than he ever has before. From what he said when that came out, at least." "You helped him then. He told me. He felt very bad he hurt you. I'm glad you came back." "So am I. *****Addendum***** As time went by, Bajor once more retreated into the poorer backwaters. After a minor revolt against them, the Dominion turned on Cardassia and its people, using its resources to build up a Dominion fleet which was independent of the Gamma quadrant. The Prophets took no notice of the kind of traffic that passed through the wormhole, until a disabled ship exploded inside and damaged it. They changed their minds. The wormhole was as stable as ever. But any ship that entered it came out destroyed. With it no longer a potential invasion route, Bajor's main value became a watching post for Cardassia. After major damage from a sneak attack, the old Cardassian station was abandoned. Most of the civilians that had elected to leave Starfleet also chose to stay on Bajor. And having destroyed Cardassia and taken everything, the Dominion abandoned it without means of defense, rife with disease, much of it Dominion designed, and without resources. There had been minimal attempts at aid, but nobody could really spare that much. The newly built Dominion fleet moved on to the Romulan empire, and overwhelmed it. They were kinder to the Romulans. Better located, the territory itself had value. But it was still an occupied state. The Dominion made incursions on nearby areas, costing both the Federation and the Klingons, and making an alliance very attractive to various smaller systems. They were never defeated. But neither did they win. The Federation survived, in a much smaller and weaker state, as did the Klingons. In what had been Cardassian/Bajoran space, a loose amalgam of surviving systems came together to form an alliance. Eventually, a new station was built, more maneuverable and incorporating Dominion technology as well as Federation. What survived of Cardassia was eventually admitted to the alliance. Neighbors of the alliance considered it a minor power at best. But the rather loose definition of trade kept it going. Benjamin Sisko became a ship designer, supervising the building of ships at a newly built port on one of Bajor's large moons. He doubled as Emissary. Miles O'Brien had two children by his second wife. Julian Bashir had two children of his own. All of their children grew up in a much different world than their fathers. In time, the original hospital became a training center for new doctors, teaching a fusion of Federation and Bajoran methods. It eventually became a major research center for the viral diseases finding their way our of Cardassian territory. No matter how important, Bashir, however, refused to go to medical conferences. The devastated valley grew again. Tela and her husband built a new house by the creek and raised their children there. It was not life in paradise, but it was enough. He never quite resolved the guilt. But eventually he stopped trying to and it became part of the complexity of life. ---Finis---