Surrender, Book 1 of The Green Hills of Home

by nightbird47

In the final battle over Cardassia, the Federation and her allies are defeated, leading to captivity and slavery for the peoples of the Alpha quadrant. This is the story of the survivors of Deep Space Nine. A companion story to Legacy.

1. Surrender Part 1Chapter 1

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

Summary: The battle over Cardassia ends in an allied defeat and the beginning of the end of everything for the Federation and the Alpha Quadrant. When does the act of survival cross the line to becoming collaboration?

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All regular series characters and references to events in the cannon Star Trek universe are the property of Paramount Studios. The other characters are mine.

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

what if ...

The final battle over Cardassia has been lost and a few ships, the Defiant among them, are able to escape. Most that try are destroyed. But the Defiant is in need of massive repairs, and the Dominion fleet, with Breen support, follows the retreating ships, taking whatever is in the way. Their first target is the Bajoran wormhole.

My heart turns home in longing

Across the voids between,

To know beyond the spaceship

The hills of Earth are green.

Across the seas of darkness,

The good green Earth is bright;

Oh, star that was my homeland,

Shine down on me tonight.

We pray for one last landing

On the globe that gave us birth;

Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies

And the cool green hills of Earth.

Robert Heinlein, The Green Hills of Earth

This story is set in the trek world, but is mostly about human reactions to the humiliation and degradation of long term captivity and what it does to them. Many of the events are based on real world human events and habits. I hope I've done a good job of showing what the loss of freedom does to the soul. This novel is dedicated to the uncounted souls who have had to live the story of Surrender throughout human history.

The trek background of the Dominion policy of using captives for forced/slave labor is based on the Dominion war series, published by Pocket Books.

Chapter 1

The corridor is jammed with people, shoved ahead by the Jem'Hadar as they push me away from the Infirmary, my Infirmary. I'm still too stunned by the surrender to believe it, can still hear the way Worf stumbled over the words. Why Worf? Is Sisko dead? Injured? I watched Jake's face as it was announced, frozen before the realization hit him that his father should be saying the words, not Worf . . .

But Jake got out, stumbling along in shock, lost somewhere in this mob. I can't stop the worry about those we left behind as the Jem'Hadar rushed us out without concern for the wounded. My patients are still there, those that couldn't walk. My back still stings from the rifle butt that was smashed into my shoulder when I tried to help one of them as he fell.

It all happened so fast. Suddenly the Jem'Hadar were everywhere. Those who hesitated, who panicked and ran, who had to resist, are dead now, shot on the spot. The people in this mob wanted to live.

I got lost in the crowd after that, but search the sea of scared faces for my people while we're crowded closer. I know many of these people, if only by name, but hardly recognize them now. They are just a sea of terrified faces, already twisted by shock into an unthinking mob. I must find my own staff, have to make sure they are all right. Anyone with knowledge of first aide had been sent to help me, Jake and Ezri among them. I notice one of my nurses, Bandee, a recent arrival from Starfleet Medical, as she pauses in confusion and is wacked by another rifle. I can just reach her, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.

If she falls they'll shoot her.

Down a ways, Jake's head stands a little above the crowd. He's moving in fits and starts, pushed ahead by the swirl of people. Ezri was next to him as we were forced out the door. Little flashes of our one night together, slowly exploring her spots, haunt me suddenly. More than anyone else, I need to know she is safe. Suddenly, I must know where she is. After all the time we wasted discovering we wanted each other I can't lose her now. But she's too short; in this crowd she could be trampled. I can't find her.

Ahead is another corridor and more are being shoved into the mob. I catch a quick glance of Quark, holding his upraised palm ahead of him, trying to keep back the press of bodies. I have to find her soon, before she is pushed too far ahead. I shove the people next to me out of the way, careful not to look at them. There is just enough space to slip ahead of them without losing my balance. The whole crowd is pressing back now, with the pressure from those being merged with us. My foot slips. I grab the nearest person as we all freeze at the sound.

The whine of rifles is coming from my Infirmary. All the time, all the hope, ended so finally. I can't help but stop, looking back, and almost fall in the sudden confusion as we're forced back and ahead at the same time.

Someone steps on my foot, and I try to get out of his way. I grab him to keep us both from falling. The second corridor is past now. Muffled orders to hurry echo down the halls as the guards herd us closer and push us faster. I hurry too, but now the desperation is greater. Jake is ahead of me now, pushed half-way down the next corridor by the new people. I can't tell if Ezri is near. I must find her. She's so small. She could get lost in this crowd.

A sudden shove ripples down the hallway and there is a scream behind me, and a shot. Then another scream, another shot. The fear is palatable now, a deathly quiet coming over everyone. We move faster-edgy, less careful, hardly noticing the feet and elbows that poke us. The Jem'Hadar have pushed us to a turn in the corridor and we grind to a stop, forced against each other.

I can't see Jake anymore. But Ezri is so short. She could still be ahead of me in the mob. I might not have lost her.

Then, quite suddenly I realize Ezri is in front of me. Without thinking, I take her hand, wrap my arm around her and draw her towards me. In the silence, I lean over and whisper into her ear, "Don't let go. Don't let us be separated."

She nods, not making a sound. Pressed against me, every muscle is tense. Her hand, clenched in mine, is clammy with sweat. Crowded too closely, she takes short, quick breaths when the crush of bodies is momentarily relieved. I try to shelter her with my arms as we're pushed closer and ahead-but not so quickly now. Trying not to fall, we had something to distract us. Now, the pace much slower, there is little room to move at all. Now, we can think of our destination.

Ezri stares at the crowd, gasping for breath, but letting me guide her. In her eyes is a glimpse of hell. With all those lifetimes, does she know too much of what is to come? Or is she just Ezri, facing the unknown, but knowing just enough of the Breen and Dominion's ways to guess? Either way, I will keep from losing her.

Pulling her closer, I vow we will not be separated. At the internment camp, they stored us together. But there have been rumors that it's worse now, that we are being forcibly used for labor. Surrounded by terrified people, images of the camp fill my mind and it haunts me. I remember it too well. I know what it's like to have the Jem'Hadar watch your every move. I still have nightmares about my time in isolation. I don't want to be in the middle of a nightmare that doesn't end with morning.

There are a wall of guards now, all pointing their rifles at us, bayonets extended. How many of these people wonder if it wouldn't be better to die now? Stopped before a line of death, we are crammed together, Ezri firmly clasped in my arms. She's staring at them and their rifles hardly breathing, as the first people are pulled out of the crowd, reluctant to leave the safety of the others. They pull back, first, and then rush forward as the poke of weapons hurry them on. Moved ahead as the guards shove us along, I watch as the Jem'Hadar take communicators and roughly search for any other equipment they can find. Here and there people resist and are hit for their trouble, but only to hurt this time. And they take more than equipment. Anything personal is stolen as well. Ezri is almost rigid, staring ahead, and I worry they'll hurt her as gradually we are moved closer to the line of Jem'Hadar and their rough touch.

I can see them now, as Ezri holds my hand so tight it hurts. With a rough grip the guard grabs my arm and I'm shoved forward, his gruff voice ordering me to let go of her.

I try to loosen my hold without losing her, but she can't move. Abruptly, a rifle is shoved at her head. The guard simply says, "Now."

I reluctantly let go, but she's still next to me. When they are done I'll grab her hand. I edge closer to Ezri until the guard yanks me back.

First, they take our communicators, then rough hands back up a scan. We do not resist. They confiscate a tricorder I'd forgotten and then try to shove me ahead, but I balk. Ezri is still being held. She has something clutched in her hand.

"Now," orders the guard, again, with a terrible finality. He has me by the arm, ready to shove me ahead.

She's still standing there, frozen in place, her skin blanched white she's holding it so hard. I back up a little and grab her hand, forcing it open. It's a small pendant, something of Jadzia's. It's taken, and I hold her again as they shove us forward.

I didn't want to lose any memories of Jadzia, but it wasn't worth Ezri's life.

Numb with relief, we're pushed into the turbolift with a few others, holding tight to each other as the lift drops suddenly, descending to the half-finished areas below where we stored excess supplies. Are we to be stowed away with the same care as the crates and supplies that might sit for months before they were used?

Ezri is pressed against me, still tense but . . . different. Out of the crush of bodies she can breath again. She slides closer as the overloaded lift wobbles a little.

"I won't let go again," I assure her, whispering softly. It is a promise. We will have to be forcibly separated. In the half-light of the lift her eyes are watching, alert and curious, no longer suspended in a nightmare.

Checking the group, I see both civilians and military, men and women, even a few children. We haven't been sorted out. But below?

Then the lift lurches to a stop and we're summarily pushed out of the way into another crowded sea of prisoners. Here, the fear is worse. Ezri moves closer, my arms around her again. Her quick breaths and pounding heart worry me, but I can't help. All I can do is hold her.

We're not alone. Here and there, others cling to each other, desperate to stay together. It's half-dark here, and cold. Off in the corner is a tall man that could be Jake, but the light is too dim to be sure. The air is musty and dank. Nobody asked our names. We stand in the shadows, scared and staring. Suddenly, a door creaks open near us and guards shove us inside the cavernous warehouse. Ezri moves with me, matching my hesitant steps, as I back towards the wall, others being forced inside and slide along as the crowd fills the space. Abruptly, the door shuts, and I collapse to the floor still entwined in her arms. There is no sound but the movement of bodies as people collapse in sudden relief.

The guards are on the other side of the door for now. We are crowded but can move around. Aside from a few bruises, nobody is hurt. It's too dark to see much of anything, even the source of the pungent smell filling the room.

Silence reigns as we wait while other rooms are filled with living cargo. We can hear the muffled sounds of their movement as they are forced inside. After the hurried evacuation we're giving into exhaustion and shock is taking over.

I tell myself we didn't send the whole fleet to Cardassia. The station has been too badly damaged for them to use it against anyone. We can't give up hope of rescue.

But the cold is very hard to ignore. And the silence is worse, much scarier than the shouting guards. Nobody knows what comes next, what new indignity we'll be forced into. Ezri is very still, probably still in shock, and I hold her close. Before the Defiant left for Cardassia, we promised we'd come home alive. We managed to keep that promise. I make a silent vow to her that we will stay alive.

It is cold, though not as cold as it would be if this place were empty. My mind is drifting, half-asleep, replaying over and over that moment the Jem'Hadar swarmed into the Infirmary, forcing us away immediately. Still stunned by the surrender, by the mystery of Sisko's fate, we were denied the chance to make any plans, any heroic last stands, and were shoved out and down into this purgatory. But this is not the end. We have only begun this roller coaster ride to hell.

o0o

How long has it been since we were trapped in this nightmare? There's no more sense of time. There is just the cold and the hunger-and most of all thirst. All of it together-especially the fear-bring a wary kind of reality to this place.

People are talking quietly, coming out of shock. Now and then they call out for someone in particular. Families are separated, often as those on duty were trapped away at the their posts when captured. The fear is palatable. Nobody knows if they'll get a chance to find their loved ones later. A little girl is crying because she can't find her mother. She's quieter now, the sobs almost inaudible. Someone is trying to comfort her. I hold Ezri closer, huddling together as we try to stay warm.

It's so cold. She presses close and I surround her, feeling her relax a bit as she warms a little. Her breathing slows and she's half-asleep. We don't talk. It's enough to have each other right now with so many lost or alone. She wraps her arms around me and we try to keep away the cold and the fears.

In the turbolift, that time before with Jadzia, we'd held each other for comfort and warmth. The cold had been icy that time, but this is worse. Then, there would be rescue. Now, lost in this darkness, the hope of release is already fading. We hoped for the muffled sounds of battle, but there has been nothing but silence.

Our captors aren't ready yet. We're relegated to this dark, smelly hell like excess baggage. With nothing to eat or drink, hope fading, and a hard grimy floor our only bed they'll keep us here until we're hungry and desperate enough to take what they offer without complaint.

I keep thinking of how fast Martok and Tain rushed out when we were ordered to assemble. Even the powerful can be forced into behaving. Each time I fall asleep, I'm haunted by memories of the internment camp, the hopeless feeling tempered by the hope of Tain's transmitter. Each time I wake I've managed to forget where we are.

My stomach grumbles constantly. But I can live with that a little easier than the thirst. We have had nothing to drink. Mouths dry, the lightheaded feeling from early dehydration noticeable, we curl together as thirst gradually becomes a greater preoccupation than hunger or cold.

Here and there, people mumble prayers to their chosen deities. I wonder if some are simply hedging their bets. As the war got worse more and more Starfleeters found time to visit the Bajoran Temple, just in case.

I'm half asleep, Ezri curled inside my arms, when a screech from the door and the sound of boots instantly wakes me. For a terrible moment, I'm worried it's over and we'll all die. I hold Ezri tighter and she stirs, looking first at me and then the open door.

The Jem'Hadar, rifles pointed at us, pour inside. Something heavy is dragged along, and I watch as a couple of people try to slip past the guards. It's too dark to see who they are, but I have a strange indifference to their fate as they are shot on the spot and everybody near the door quickly backs up. It was a stupid thing to do. It's better not to know, to keep their deaths off in the distance. But nobody else will try to run now.

But then, everyone stops at the sound of water slowly sloshing in its barrel. The men with the water retreat, dragging the dead with them, and it is all I can do to keep from rushing forward even with the guards. All I can hear is the water, and Ezri, no longer lost in her thoughts, is hurriedly untangling herself, ready to get to her feet. Relief floods our faces as the door is forced shut and the first dipper is pulled from it. We are still hungry and cold and face an uncertain future, but there is water.

All that exists is the water. It drives away the rest-the fears and hunger and cold. Ezri is trying to stand, the crowd already moving towards the door, again in darkness. For a moment there is hesitation, but then there is a rush, and the sound of shoving and arguing. I'm so thirsty I could clear a path myself, but my legs are too stiff to move that fast. Ezri and I start edging around the mob, hugging the wall.

My heart is racing as we grow closer. Someone hands me a wet handle and I drink a little of the water in the dipper. It has a metallic taste and is warm, but tastes better than the finest wine I've ever had. I give the rest to Ezri. She is staring at the water, still holding onto me. They take the dipper back but more is brought.

Suddenly overjoyed, I recognize a voice. Miles. "Julian, you okay?" he asks. "Where's Ezri?"

"She's here," I say, relief flooding my raspy voice.

"I can't find Keiko. I got to our quarters but the whole area had been cleared out."

I have to reassure him. I can't stand the thought of him losing his family. The area where their quarters were was undamaged. They probably weren't hurt. "We didn't get any patients from that area," I say, remembering the sound of their dying and suddenly unable to continue.

"They're here, not this bay, but here. Somebody told me." There is defeat in his tone, a deep anger he can't quite hide. Pushing his way past the ring of thirsty people around the barrel, he finds his way to us. He collapses in my arms, and the three of us share an emotional reunion. I can't help but wonder if he'll see Keiko again, how the children fared in the mob. But I keep that to myself.

Then there is a noise, a squeak by the door. Ezri straightens up and we watch as the door is pushed open a little and someone is shoved inside.

Worf. Miles moves away, pulls him to us. We make sure everyone has a last drink before sliding back to our place by the wall.

Miles crumples besides me. Ezri sits between Worf and I, her hand on Worf's shoulder.

"This can't be," Miles mumbles, lapsing into silence. He cradles his arm, the shoulder wound healed but still sore.

"You'll find them," I tell him, knowing it isn't up to me but still hoping to reach through the deep gloom he's fallen into. But he ignores me and stares at the door.

Ezri sits closer, sharing warmth, but her attention is on Worf.

Very quietly, he starts to talk.

"This is a great dishonor," he says.

Ezri takes his hand. "You didn't have a choice. Much more and there wouldn't be a station."

Worf won't look at her. "Before the end, Weyoun offered a deal. Surrender now or everyone would die. I did not plan to accept but I was overruled."

"How?" asks someone nearby, listening.

Worf sits up straight, stiffening. "At phaser point, if you must know," he says reluctantly. "I regret not allowing them to shoot."

Silence reigns for a time as we try to visualize the last moments. Then someone else, another listener, asks the question we have been avoiding.

"What about Sisko?"

Worf fumes. Growling out the words, he says bitterly, "He ran away. He is a coward."

I don't know which cage Jake is in, but I'm glad he's not here, not this moment.

Even Miles is roused by the news. "The Captain wouldn't run," he mutters.

Bitterly, Worf explains. "The Dominion fleet was only on sensors, but it was obvious we were outgunned and outnumbered. Sisko was watching the readouts when he . . . froze. When he came out of his trance he wasn't interested in us. All he said was, 'I must go.' "

"Where?" asks Ezri, her voice too calm.

"Bajor. He took a runabout. I assume he made it."

Another vision, I wonder? But what could have possibly made him leave-run, I correct myself-on the eve of the last battle of our war? But then, he never considered what it would mean when he gave me to 31.

"It wouldn't have mattered," says Ezri, still sounding like desertion was a normal thing to do. "We still lost."

Worf doesn't buy it. "We were betrayed," he announces with finality. Then he adds quite softly, "and dishonored. *This* is not living."

Nobody can think of anything else to add. Worf pulls away, Ezri sliding onto my lap, between Miles and I, shivering a little. We leave Worf and his dishonor to himself for a little while.

Thirst sated at last, the room begins to quiet. More and more, it sinks in that we lost, that we are prisoners, that we're stuffed into the cargo holds of the station like things to be used up. My stomach growls, demanding food. The rough walls are rubbing sore places on my back and the cold is seeping through my uniform.

There is a rough stubble of beard on most of the men already. Here and there are small attempts at personal grooming, but there is little anyone can do. Already, the smell of crowded bodies is starting to compete with the still unknown stench.

Ezri falls asleep, cuddled between Miles and my lap. He says nothing, just staring into his own world. I doze a little, again, hoping to forget reality for a time. But all I can see and taste are the camp rations they fed us, the real walls of the prison. Deyos used the rations to keep us under control, and any attempt at fighting back got you locked in isolation.

I force myself to stay awake, not needing that nightmare too. There is no sound but the shuffling of bodies on the hard floor, and an occasional trip for water. It's very eery, so much quiet in such a crowded room.

The little girl has quit crying. Ezri has moved across both Miles and I, the three of us huddled closer. It feels colder now, somehow. Here and there are inaudible whispers. The water has helped, but all I can think of is something to eat. No matter how bad the nightmare, even Dominion rations would do.

Ezri moves a little and I realize she's awake. She looks up at me, scared but calm. "They were going to execute Worf and I before Damar let us go," she whispers, glancing at Worf.

"I know," I say uneasily. "There was the internment camp." She holds me closer and I wrap my arms around her. I guess if we're going to die it would be better to die together. I'm not sure if it wouldn't be better than living for who knows how long as their prisoners.

She kisses me, gently. We hold on to each other just in case this is the last time we have together.

o0o

I'm having a dream. I know it's a dream because Garak is here, and Garak is dead. But the rest of us are standing in lines, waiting for our lunch at the replimat. No one is sitting. Nobody has gotten any food.

Garak has wandered forward and now joins me in the line. "It's broken," he says. "Everything's broken."

I look at him again and notice the blood. He's covered with it, and looks a little too pale. "Let's go. You need to see a doctor." I try to get out of line, but he won't move. And my feet are too heavy to lift, as if I have heavy weights in my shoes.

"It's too late. I'd rather wait here, with you. They'll fix the replicator eventually. They won't let you starve." He is distracted, listening to some inner sound.

My stomach hurts, cramping a little already. How long have they left us with nothing but water? The barrel has been hit hard, and I hope more will be provided when that one is done. But I don't know. I'd like to have more water, help the hunger a little, but I don't want to use it up too fast.

And I'd have to get out of line. My feet won't move, no matter how hard I try to drag them.

A sound, and Garak and the replimat vanish. Worf is awake now, his shout having awakened everyone near. Ezri has rolled onto my legs, her full weight resting on my feet turned to the side, no feeling in my lower legs. She stirs, my feet starting to tingle as she pulls herself up and towards Worf.

Everyone nearby is looking at him, even those who can't see him in the dim greyish light. "I did not intend to wake anyone up," he says.

"A nightmare?" asks Ezri, lightly.

He is annoyed, but answers. "Not exactly. I did not remember being *here*," he adds, in a tone even Ezri should know to leave alone.

She doesn't. "You are here. Was it a good day to die?"

Worf glares at her, barely holding back his anger. "You do not pry into such things."

She's too calm, as if she was in her office. "It's my job. You were loud, almost violent. Someone could have gotten hurt, especially with all these people here."

Worf is smoldering now. "I will go elsewhere if you wish."

She eyes him levelly. "There isn't anywhere else to go." She adds, utterly calm. "You want an honorable death? You may get the chance for one. You may be able to battle them over and over until you've had all the fights you ever wanted."

Worf is startled, and doesn't immediately cover the shock. He glances at me, rubbing my legs as the tingle slowly gives into an ache, before he can hide the fear from her.

"It would be a more honorable way to die than like a vole trapped in an empty hold," he vows, looking around at those nearby, who are watching the entertainment with interest and anticipation. Not that a vole would have much of a chance in *this* particular cargo hold right now.

Ezri is ignoring his barely controlled temper. "Or maybe they'll give you a real fast death and just execute you."

"Much preferable over this," he announces, raising his voice. Then he gets quiet again. "I should have refused to surrender, made them shoot if they really wanted this. I would have not been responsible for it then."

Ezri sounds satisfied now. "You're not responsible. You can't control Weyoun or his guards. All you could do was the best possible thing *at the time* for the rest of us."

Worf clenches his fists as if to hit something, shaking them, arms tense, but drops them in frustration. "*I* gave them the station. I have dishonored myself, the house of Martok and all Klingons everywhere."

"That's very Klingon," she says, but softly, not as Ezri the counselor but Ezri the friend. "But it's not fair. All these people are alive since you surrendered when you had a chance. Ask them if they'd rather be dead. Don't impose your own sense of honor on them."

Worf looks around, the center of local attention in the dim light. "I will not. But I am still greatly dishonored."

He pulls himself back, resolutely refusing to look at anyone else. I give Ezri a curious glance, shuffling my legs around, trying to stretch them a little. I manage to bump Miles, still sleeping. He looks up at me, eyes half-focused. "Ee'Char? Is it time?"

"No, just go back to sleep," I tell him quietly. He leans back, immediately asleep. He's been mumbling to Ee'Char for a while.

Ezri is looking at him, her profession interest evident. "No," I tell her. "Leave him alone."

She shrugs, moving towards me again. She ignores Worf as she slides over my lap, between Miles and I, and rests her head on my shoulder. "I tried," she says.

But as she settles down in my arms, I keep remembering that moment when the Jem'Hadar held a rifle at my head, Garak still in the wall. If we hadn't succeeded, would I have preferred to die rather than face the particular sorts of punishment only spoken of as rumors? A little chill passes over me, a sudden flash of horror I won't explain. Ezri notices, looks at me oddly. "Just cold," I mumble, but inside I'm there, facing the longest moment of my life, waking in that narrow cot with the devastating realization that I'd been replaced, that this could be the rest of my life.

Now, the others bored, it's quiet again, or as quiet as a crowded room can get. But I'm still there, still lost in the grey of an existence I do not choose.

I wonder if later Ezri might discover that even Klingons can be right once in a while.

o0o

I keep gazing at the water barrel. The last time I was there, however long ago that was, it was almost empty. The water doesn't stop the constant awareness of food, but it helps a little. Worf keeps mumbling, half-asleep, fighting imaginary battles with the Jem'Hadar. I know what he's dreaming about, the kinds of fears he can't put to words. Each time I manage to sleep the grey walls of Barracks 6 enclose me again.

Of course, a cot and food would be paradise right now.

Miles is leaning forward, mumbling to Ee'Char occasionally, making imaginary sand drawings with his hands. He doesn't see any of us, but he's peaceful. Maybe that's better. I can't judge with Ezri lying across both of our laps asleep. At least Miles believes his family to be safe on the station.

Then a very loud scraping sound rouses everyone, even Miles and Worf, and the door is opened again. Nobody moves this time. Miles stares at it with confusion, Worf as if daring someone to a fight. Ezri is rubbing sleep from her eyes as she moves off my lap.

The light is very bright this time, far brighter than when the water came. It hurts our eyes, but you can make out quite plainly the line of Jem'Hadar and Breen standing in the way.

The Breen are holding their cattle prods out, Worf scowling as he glares at them. For a brief moment, Ezri looks alarmed and grips my hand. But then she slips back into the Ezri that came on the cargo lift, calmly watching, hardly perturbed at all.

I don't know which is worse, which is more dangerous for her should they come too close. They've almost shot her once, and I know what happens when you defy them.

At least we're far enough away for now.

They part in the middle, and a couple of prisoners drag in another barrel, removing the empty one. The tension is still there, still strong, but a little less desperate than before.

A couple of the Jem'Hadar move into the room, and we can see they also carry the cattle prods. But they each have a box, and abruptly they toss handfuls of something into the middle of the room.

Even with the Jem'Hadar standing there people are already scrambling for it. But none of it reaches the walls of this cold tomb. Just as quickly they are done, and without warning they retreat and shut the door.

"Some kind of rations," says a woman in the middle of the room.

"We didn't get any," says someone on the wall near us, worried, his voice on edge.

Suddenly, an unorganized re-distribution of the rations begins, as handfuls are tossed all over the room. I'm sure the people in the middle got more, but sent some our way to keep us where we are.

We're too hungry to have much energy anyway. A few land by me and I snatch them before anyone else can grab them. I'm hoping for more than three, but that is all that comes near.

They are Dominion rations. I recognize them instantly, even in the darkness. But the bad memories they bring no longer matter. Rations, even Dominion rations, are food. I can't guess how long its been, but I've been dreaming about eating each time I slept.

The others are looking at me. I divide each bar into four parts and share them between Worf and Miles and Ezri and I. Miles snatches them from me. Ezri takes them slowly, looking them over. Worf refuses at first.

"Eat, Worf. Doctor's orders," I tell him.

He looks at them for a second, then takes the pieces from me. "If you insist," he says, "but we are being fed like animals and to consume the food makes us like them."

"Eat it, Worf," says Ezri.

He grumbles, but eats. No one else has made such a fine distinction.

The people nearby who didn't get any glare back and start getting to their feet, moving towards the center of the room.

A more direct re-distribution has started as those who didn't catch any of the crumbs go looking for their share. There is a lot of movement which is hard to see in the dark, but the anger is quite plain. A whole range of noisy arguments have already started. The people who tried to horde the food are having it taken from them, sometimes violently. Someone pleads they don't have anymore, hadn't eaten yet.

If they are listening they must be pleased. They lock us away like garbage without food, and now we turn our anger on ourselves. Already, we are grateful for their crumbs; already we are being as they want us to be. A shouting match has turned physical and someone's been punched. A child is crying hysterically.

Several of our neighbors return with bars in hand, looking grimly satisfied. I could probably get more, but I will not be an animal for them.

"Look at that, there must be seven of the bars there," says an angry voice, drifting back. I listen, seeing the grim reality that in part they have already won, already own a little of us. The hoarder is robbed of his entire cache and the child cries louder.

I will not join the mob. Not yet. A few days more of this enforced starvation and blood would probably have been spilled.

Ezri stares at the bits of ration bar, and carefully takes a bite. Miles stares forward, toward the door, and just eats. I force myself not to gobble them up, fighting off all the bad memories the taste brings to life.

All the rations distributed, peacefully or not, people settle down to eat. It's very quiet again, with few comments. The general feeling finds the bars disgusting, but then few are in the mood to be picky now.

Ezri complains, "I'll take the algie stuff the Breen fed us."

Miles says nothing. I wonder if he's thinking of Keiko and the children, wondering where they are, if they managed to get any food. Or is he still with Ee'Char?

Worf stares grimly ahead, finally standing and joining the line moving towards the water. Ezri yawns, looking towards him and shaking her head. "Klingons," she mutters settling against my arm. "That was okay for breakfast. I wonder what we get for lunch."

o0o

There's an edgy feeling to crowd. We're all waiting for another feeding. People move around more, sleep less. Everyone wants to be ready to grab what they can. There will be no complaints about the rations this time.

The door groans open again, the room mostly silent except for occasional whispered conversation and the line for water. But this time a scared prisoner stumbles nervously inside to throw the food to the animals. He's very careful to hit the whole room. There are more of the bars, scattered everywhere in the darkness. I grab three, and the others one each.

I wonder if things got out of hand before and they didn't like the results.

I lean back, pulling Ezri closer, and prepare for another show.

But this time after the door slams and the scared prisoner is gone, a voice suddenly booms across the room. "Let's not be the animals they want us to be. Share. Anyone without anything?"

For a moment, nobody moves. We're still very hungry. Nobody wants to give up any little extra they might have found and might share with friends or family.

"Come on folks, we aren't going to repeat the last time, are we?" he asks. I doubt anyone regretted the food they ate, but there has been a guilty silence ever since.

Nearby, several people stand. Inside me, a little voice explains that it is perfectly right for me to have the extra bars. After all, we had less than a full one last time. But I remember the debacle the last feeding became and do not wish to see it repeated.

I give them each one of the bars. It is hard. I am so hungry. They sit down, already subdued. We're used to the near dark already. It's easier to see in than the light. Finally, everyone without food has sat down, and now everyone has something to eat.

The owner of the voice continues. "Ok, who has more than one?" Others stand. "Let's collect them, and divide them later. We need to see how many are in here too." I can hear his steps as he moves around the room, collecting the extras. He has made us listen with his voice. "We have to take care of each other," he says. "They won't."

Silence comes over the room. This time, Ezri says nothing. Sometimes food is food. Miles stares at the shut door, like he's been doing since we were first fed when he's awake. I eat my bar, thinking less about the memories this time than how good it feels to eat.

Worf holds the bar in his hand, just looking at it. Ezri has fallen asleep between Miles and I, and I ask, quietly, "Do they taste any different to you?"

He turns, his eyes thoughtful. "This one will. Perhaps someone will write a song about the man who gave us back our dignity."

"You could," I suggest.

"I am not a musician. Perhaps Ezri, for he is a most honorable man. I celebrate his spirit."

The man is moving around the room, counting little groups of people. He's careful not to step on anyone and takes great care to count all the children. They are worse off than the adults.

Worf turns away. "Somehow, I do not remember them tasting so good."

"I don't remember the taste mattering that much after a little while," I add.

Later, having finished our meager meal, most people have gone back to sleep, the only retreat to sanity left us. But we feel better now. We were not animals. We reclaimed ourselves today and somehow we must remember how important that is.

o0o

Five more feedings since we reclaimed ourselves, still cold, still hungry. Two more barrels of water. It's always prisoners who throw out the food, and sometimes they happen to spill a lot more than they throw. Maybe the guards intimidate them. Maybe they are done when the box is empty and somebody else will go hungry. I don't care. The last one was a feast-three bars apiece-but it was a long time before the next feeding.

Nothing else has changed. Miles sits and draws in the sand or stares at the door. Despite repeated attempts at conversation, not even Ezri can get him to talk. Worf eats his ration bars without complaint, stands in line for water, and waits for this to end. He won't argue with her anymore, but she still tries to talk about it.

The smell is worse, but we don't notice it too much now. The fuzz on my face is starting to itch, and its hard not to scratch. Some of the men don't bother stopping themselves, scratching their chins constantly. But a cut here could be fatal.

Everyone is tired and hungry, grimy and cold. Worse, there has been no assault on the station to free us. It's been seven feedings, but more days than that. If it was possible to retake the station-and recapture the wormhole-then it would have been done. The end will not mean freedom, not for now, but we will get to leave this prison.

Even that would be welcome.

Worf is waiting in line for water, and Ezri is curled up in my lap. I hardly notice when she asks, it is so quiet.

"Do you think he had another vision, like with Ba'Halla. He was right then."

There are many things not to talk about, friends probably dead, family that is missing, but most of all we avoid talking about *him*.

"Must of been. Remember, I wasn't here then," I remind her. The changeling saved the Captain's life then, ended the visions. It still hurts a little that nobody noticed.

"I wasn't exactly here either," she adds. "But you see the point."

I'm not listening. I'm sitting on the little cot, listening in horror as Martok explains how he was kidnaped two years before, how he fears what his duplicate has done. It's slowly dawning on me that somewhere is another Dr. Bashir, and nobody will know the difference. But I don't want her to get started on that.

"He ran out on us, is that the point? Just like he abandoned me, like he made me sign over poison for some slimy deal with Garak. He didn't care. He does what he wants to."

"No," she says, insistent. "He wanted to stay. There was something he had to do on Bajor, something that mattered more than the war and the Dominion and even losing the battle. Somewhere down there was his destiny."

"Was?" I ask her, suddenly curious.

"He's done with it now. He won't be coming back."

"Back from where?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I had a dream, all white around me, like the orb visions. But he was there, and it was really Benjamin. He was different, like he could see things we are denied."

"I don't suppose he was going to help us," I grumble.

"He's too much in awe of this new reality, all the new things he sees. Our problems are insignificant now. He'll come back some time, now or before, but not the Captain we knew."

"He's dead to us now," I say, wishing she'd leave the whole subject alone.

"Or not born. Benjamin's life has never been linear, but now he isn't even confined to living it as it was."

"Good, maybe he'll leave us alone." But around me are the grey walls of Barracks 6, and Martok is limping in from "practice". Tain, wheezing, is reluctantly helped to his bunk. He's almost done with the transmitter but he'll never know if it brings rescue. What if it hadn't? Might I still be rotting in the rocky prison, or would they have found better uses for all of us?

"Julian," she repeats, since I didn't hear her first attempt to reach me. "Before Worf gets back."

"What about him," I ask, remembering bandaging his battered body as well.

"He's given up. He's going to die in battle, even if it's just a guard. I'll miss him."

"He had to surrender the station. It was a big disgrace to him. Honor matters a lot to Worf, even more than it does . . . to Martok." It occurs to me that Martok is likely dead by now. We heard reports of massive damage to his ship before we escaped capture over Cardassia.

Martok had been fighting the Jem'Hadar for two years, just trying to keep from being hurt too badly at the end. Worf would never have made it that long, even if he wasn't keeping them busy for Garak.

She's probably right. For a second, she's wearing a pensive look, her hand playing with an invisible ponytail. Then she moves her hand, looking at it oddly and shaking her head. "When you brought him back he was in pretty bad shape. He might have been dead by then without your escape." She starts playing with her ponytail again, and I try not to notice. "But that's just Worf. So much to prove to himself."

I remember the way he pretended not to hurt so badly he could hardly stand, how he'd lie that binding his ribs was fine. He never was a very good liar.

"Your turn," he says as he steps to his spot and sits, staring ahead.

We don't all go at the same time. The space would be gone by the time we were done. Spots along the wall, with something to lean against, are rather prized.

Ezri yawns and gets to her feet, rubbing her stiff legs. "I guess you two are next," she says, looking at Miles. Miles doesn't get up for water very often, and I take him along when it's my turn.

Worf doesn't look at me, staring at the door, a resigned look in his eyes. He waits until I'm looking at him, speaking softly. "I will not be made into a slave again."

"I understand." I don't want to admit it. I don't want another friend/crewman to die. But I can't lie to him. Before, all of us had been imprisoned, occasionally beaten, questioned, and some-I remember the footsteps pacing near me, bound on the floor, and the sounds as the other prisoner was beaten to death instead-some of us were simply destroyed. I shutter, involuntarily, filled with dread. It was a secret I kept, telling neither Starfleet, Sloan, nor Ezri. But Worf was there long enough to know of the rumors, of that and other, worse things.

He confirms it. "Martok was drunk one night. He said they'd killed someone as special punishment. They didn't know if it was you until they let you out of isolation. I thought you would understand." He looks towards Ezri. "You have never told her?"

"Nobody. Right after that I went in the box. It took a long time to sort out what was real. They'd ask too many questions. I'd have to remember." I watch as Ezri stands in the line, almost as if it was for lunch at the replimat. "I have to take care of her," I tell him.

"She is strong. Do not doubt her." He looks fondly at her. "I will miss her."

"She's needs you. She's being reckless." I try to find some reason for him to stay alive, but then, he and Martok were *used* by them, forced to live with constant battering. We both know it will be worse this time.

"She is your mate," says Worf. "She has chosen. You owe her a debt I cannot fulfill."

"And you are her friend. I have a feeling there won't be many left in a while." I look at him, finally finishing the last of his rations. "Stay with us. Sometimes it's honorable not to die too."

"I will not speak of this again," he says. "Do not tell her of my intentions."

There's nothing I can do to change his mind. He would have let the Jem'Hadar kill him in the ring rather than go on like Martok before, and now he believes he has committed a greater disgrace.

"I'll keep it to myself." I look at him, leaning back against the wall, finally at peace with himself. I don't have to tell Ezri. I hope she finds a way to say good bye before it's over.

"She knows," says Worf, looking up at her. "Perhaps she'll continue to try to talk me out of it. It would give her something to do." He looks at me, his face grim. "When this time is done, *you* will have to put up with her questions."

All I can think of, given that all of us could easily be executed for the escapes, is the fervent hope that she has that chance.

end, Part 1, Chapter 1 of Surrender

Acknowledgments

This story was a year in the works, and underwent numerous rewrites. I'd like to than Victoria Meridith, Matt Edwards, and Meghan Elizabeth for their help and suggestions. I also wish to thank Morgan Stuart, Carolyn Conley, Arne, and Sarah for their final beta reading of the finished draft and suggestions. It was posted on ASC in 2001.

And especially, I'd want to thank Paula Stiles, super beta reader and unpaid, unofficial editor. She has patiently read numerous versions of this story over the year it took to write it, given wonderful advise and suggestions, and most certainly helped shape the final product. She has reviewed, edited and occasionally vetoed experimental scenes, made important plot suggestions, and helped with background here and there. If you like this story, you should also give her credit for helping to sharpen and define what was a good story into a far better one.

I'd like to thank the author of Three Came Home, Agnes Newton Keith for the writing of her memories as a prisoner of the Japanese during World War 2 on the island of Borneo, a wonderfully evocative glimpse of life in captivity for ordinary civilians, which I credit with creating my interest in how people at the middle of it see our history. Her's is an extraordinary book and is fascinating to read if you want a slice of real history.

I'd also like to thank Gabrielle Lawson for writing Oswiecm, and discussing her research into personal recollections, which led to a shelf full of people's memoirs of their own survival, all of which helped create the mood in Surrender.

This is a sister story to my other novel in the process of being posted called Legacy, an AU of the Dominion war. In this, the loss is far more profound but the nature of the decisions no different in the end. If you have read that story you will notice many of the original characters also appear in this one. The terraforming process developed in that story is also a major element of the lives or the survivors of the taking of the station in this alternate version of the war. This one, however, is told from the point of view of those on the bottom.