Disclaimer: As always, the characters and DS9 universe belong to Paramount, but the plot belongs to me.
Rated PG. Enjoy! Reviews welcome.
AFTER THE LOOKING GLASS
by, Maddie
Stumbling, he snapped himself back to attention, concentrating on where he was going, trying not to think of the nightmare that had so swiftly encompassed his existence. The heated air, far too warm for human comfort, the increased humidity, the dim light, all suited to non-Terran physiology, the omnipresent metallic dust clogging his nostrils and caking his lips, were constant reminders that he had been abandoned in a hellish world he could neither escape nor comprehend.
His arms and legs ached from constant exertion, his bruised jaw still burned. Although he considered himself to be in excellent physical condition, he was beginning to doubt that assessment. Licking parched lips, he took a deep breath, as much to calm his jumbled thoughts as to fill his laboring lungs with air. How long had it been since they had passed through the wormhole, since their routine mission had, with the suddenness of thought, become far from routine?
Normally an ebullient, over-talkative person, he found the silence of his fellow workers unsettling. Each plodded from duty to duty in wordless silence. None spoke, as though years of servitude had dulled their wit and will to carry on the simplest conversation. Or perhaps, as he had found out with swift and startling clarity, the price for conversation was just too great. Yet, he found it difficult to fight the urge to ask questions. Whose reality was this? What had happened to turn his world upside down?
As the ore trolley trundled up the slow incline, Julian Bashir glanced backward over his shoulder. The armed guards at every work station made his skin crawl, though his human companions were as oblivious to them as they were to everything else. To the rear and slightly to the left stood the Klingon who had escorted him here from the runabout pad. He had always respected Klingons. A proud and powerful race of warriors, he had never had reason to fear them, yet they seemed well suited to the task of labor camp guards. Their heavy armor and massive size, in the ghastly gray light, sifting dust motes, and clouds of steam, gave them a particularly threatening air. But, he knew he could deal with the Klingons mentally, if not physically. It was the other that made his blood run cold.
"Is there something wrong, Doctor?" The coarse voice dripped contempt making his title a filthy epithet.
Bashir looked up to the catwalk that, an instant before, had been empty. The shapeshifter stood, legs spread, arms held behind his back, towering over his workers, looking down like an Imperial wizard, completely in control, feared and fearless. Meeting his eyes, Bashir tried to convince himself this was not the Odo he knew, not the Constable committed to justice for all species, but a ruthless taskmaster whose only pleasure was working each Terran captive until they had nothing left to give, demanding complete obedience from them all. His goal this duty period appeared to be the subjugation of Julian Bashir, in his own reality, a specialist in multi-species medicine, but here and now...he didn't care to think of it.
Before Bashir could answer, he was shoved, not gently, off the loading ramp. Off balance, he fell to his knees, the shapeshifter's booted feet inches from his face on the metal gridwork of the catwalk. Pushing himself to his feet, he ignored the protest of his limbs that only wanted to rest for a moment. Iron hands clasped his arms, and he risked a glance at the Klingon guards standing on either side of him, but it was only the barest glance since he felt compelled to keep constant watch on the shapeshifter who now walked slowly down the durasteel stairs to stand on his level.
"Is there a problem, Doctor?"
Radiating through every word the shapeshifter spoke, Bashir sensed hatred that a human be more than destiny decreed, and destiny in this place decreed slavery for all of Terran descent. Terran, spoken with the same ethnic bias that sent thousands of his own ancestors charging into wars of retribution founded on blind prejudice that simmered for centuries, but never died. A gut level hatred he had never experienced, not while under his family's protective wing, nor in the rarefied atmosphere of Star Fleet Medical School. Not like here.
The shapeshifter took Bashir's face in his hand, his fingers bearing down on bruised flesh and bone, slowly, but effectively applying pressure. "How many times do I have to ask?"
"That depends on whether or not you really want an answer." Bashir held his breath, waiting for the blow that would surely follow his injudicious words. None came. The pressure of the shapeshifter's hand increased, emphasizing each word.
"Terran workers always answer promptly when asked a direct question."
"And what rule of obedience is that?"
The shapeshifter struck, a backhanded slap that caught Bashir across his already bruised jaw sending firecrackers of pain burning along his flesh. The young human blinked, forcing back the tears that stung his eyes.
"Rules of obedience numbers six and eight. Terrans always answer promptly when spoken to. Ask no questions."
Bashir swallowed hard, but kept silent. He had to keep reminding himself that, despite appearances, this was not Odo. He had experienced a brief flare of hope upon first seeing the shapeshifter on the lower level, thinking perhaps he would be treated fairly. Odo was of impeccable character, passionately dedicated to truth and justice. Cermudgeonly, irascible, and sarcastic, to be sure, but always fair, and although Bashir's dealings with him had been limited to clinical, professional efforts, he had come to respect the constable. In turn, he felt the constable respected him for his ability and had ever since the Cardassian attack shortly after the discovery of the wormhole. With crewmen and civilian injured scattered across the Promenade, Bashir had realized the constable was squeamish about humanoid blood, yet, they had found footing for mutual respect that day.
Maybe that was the problem. He expected to be respected and show the same deference to the shapeshifter. Instead, he received only contempt. At some point, wherever here was, Odo's cynicism had been transformed into racial hatred, tainted with a sadistic nature that derived pleasure from tormenting those in his power, and that unnerved Bashir. He instinctively wanted to trust Odo -- as he instinctively felt he could exchange verbal barbs with this O'Brien or lunch with this Garak. The foundation for that trust had shattered the first time the shapeshifter struck him. Bashir had been more startled and shocked than hurt by that first blow, but as each blow increased in intensity, so had his anger at the sudden, senseless indignity of his position.
"Your mind is wandering, Terran. Now answer the question. Is there a problem?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, there is," Bashir countered sharply. He was angry, and since he had been asked a direct question, he intended on answering it. "I don't know what this place is or how I happened to end up here. But I'm no one's slave. I don't understand why you re doing this, but I have no intention of giving in to you."
The rest of whatever Bashir planned to say was lost as the shapeshifter's hand circled his throat, cutting off his air, forcing him slowly to his knees. "Understand this, Terran. It is the only thing you need to understand. While you are under my supervision, you will do everything you are told. There will be no defiance. You will not speak to any of the other Terran workers. You will not speak to any superior unless spoken to, or asked a direct question. You will not slack off on your work or allow others to carry your share of the burden. And one more thing. On this station, and in this universe, all Terrans are slaves. There is no escape."
Odo released his grip, and Bashir sucked in gulps of hot dusty air, which caused a sudden spasm of coughing. When he finally was able to breath, he looked up at the shapeshifter.
"You do not like me, Terran. I do not like you. Before I am through, you will hate me. That is how it should be."
"The Odo I know would never subject another living species to--"
"Well, perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps I remind you too much of someone else you know, some soft and condescending creature. Perhaps, it would be easier for you to hate me if I had a different face." He leaned over the doctor, and his face began to waver, lose cohesion, and dissolve. As it reformed, Bashir turned his face away from the slavering jaws that were forming inches from his face. When he looked back, the shapeshifter had returned to his original conformation.
"I think I would rather have you hate this countenance, Terran. Something tells me it would be much more distasteful if your tormentor had a familiar face."
Odo nodded to the Klingons who still stood ready on either side of Bashir. One of them handed the shapeshifter a cylindrical object, roughly the length of this forearm. "Our Klingon allies have proven to be particularly good at controlling errant humans. Veritable watchdogs of security and of discipline." Odo thumbed a hidden switch on the cylinder he held in his hands. Bashir heard a faint whining hum. "This is an ingenious device they have adapted for use on this station. I think you need a small taste of its effectiveness, then perhaps you will not be so inclined to abandon the rules. Used properly, this little toy can stop a Terran heart. Klingons, of course, are much sterner."
The metal rested against the side of Bashir's throat. Strangely, it was warm, not cold as he had expected, and it vibrated faintly.
"This is the lowest setting."
Bashir tried not to tense, knowing it would do no good and hoping that this was all a perverted game. The shapeshifter laughed. A wave of pain exploded and Bashir felt as though his skull would split from the force of the shock. He was blind and deaf to all but the pain, totally unaware of how long it lasted, knowing only that he had never experienced such agony. When it subsided, and he was again aware of his surroundings, he lay curled on his side, knees drawn to his chest, locked in a muscular spasm. As soon as he moved to stretched his cramped legs, the Klingon hauled him to his feet. He trembled with the aftereffect of the neural assault.
"Back to work, Terran." The Klingon pushed him toward the closest ore wagon, forcing him back into the line of workers.
Bashir moved blindly, still shaken by his encounter with the shapeshifter and his toy, still wondering what had precipitated this assault, not that there had to be a reason. Being Terran and an outsider were reason enough
Hand on the rim of the ore container, he leaned against it, as much to support himself as to push the load. His arms and legs continued to quiver and his stomach lurched with every movement. He was struggling to keep one foot moving in front of the other, when he felt a touch on his left hand. He jerked his head up, startled by the familiarity and wondering if he would see another face from his world Dax, or maybe Sisko. The face he saw was not one he expected, though he recognized the older woman as the same woman whose cart he had been made to push when he first arrived. She nodded at him. Her gnarled hand covered his protectively, as though through her silent gesture she wish to convey a message.
Opening his mouth, he started to speak but an almost imperceptible shake of her head told him to keep silent. He did, not wanting to bring the supervisor's wrath down on her. She kept her hand on his, leaning into her task, and suddenly, Bashir realized she was assuming the weight of the cart herself, giving him a moment to recover. Bashir looked at her again. The last time he had worked beside her he had barely noticed her. She was just another nameless Terran, toiling in the dust and choking air. Now, by a simple gesture, she became distinctly Human, and he was uncomfortable realizing he had not noticed before. She was short, and surprisingly stout, oriental perhaps, with graying black hair tied into a long tail at the base of her neck. Her face was round, seamed, and bland, as were the other faces around him. Bashir freed his hand, then, in turn, laid it upon hers and gently squeezed. She understood. He would carry his own load. He was not dead yet.
*****
Bashir had been surprised and relieved to see Major Kira standing near the shapeshifter several hours later. Even more surprised when she was allowed to speak to him. As he turned to resume his place in the line of laborers, a surge of hope buoyed his spirits and left him feeling almost cocky. Kira was alive. And while it was too much to hope that she could arrange his release, she was apparently free to move about the station however she wished. She had determined where they were, and although they were still trapped here, just knowing where helped dispel the feeling of helplessness he had stubbornly pushed to the back of his mind. They also had a slight chance of finding their way home. It was up to him to make contact with this mirror O'Brien and determine if he was able and willing to assist them.
Glancing around the dimly lit chamber, Bashir searched the shadows. Earlier, O'Brien had been perched atop the thorium containment module, centered in the large room in which he now stood. He had been there each time Bashir's laborious route had taken him through the main processing terminal. If Bashir could just locate him . . .
"Interesting conversation?"
The doctor jumped, spinning around, the shovel he had been leaning on clattering to the floor with a metallic ring as he stopped face to face with the shapeshifter.
"Yes. Quite interesting," Bashir answered. He did not know if Odo expected an answer and, truthfully, did not care. It appeared Odo would punish him at will, whenever he wished, whether Bashir's infractions were real or imagined, and he could do little to prevent or avoid it. He refused to be a puppet dancing on the shapeshifter's string.
Odo grunted, but did not speak. His face echoed the angry look it had worn when Kira had barged past him a few minutes before, brazenly assuming the right to speak with her "Terran friend." Odo had not looked pleased then, but Bashir had been so relieved Kira was alive he had momentarily forgotten his own precarious position.
"Perhaps you would like to repeat it."
"No," Bashir said firmly. If he was going to take a beating, he damned well was going to take it for a good reason. Bashir had involuntarily taken a step backward as the shapeshifter approached, the memory of his last encounter with Odo starkly clear. Fear tightened his throat, but the human stood his ground. Odo could, and probably would, kill him on a whim, and he desperately wanted to stay alive now there was a chance to get home.
"Pick up the shovel."
For a moment, Bashir hesitated, his arrogant Terran stubbornness arrayed against this unknown quantity that could easily explode in a burst of violence. Bashir stared at Odo. He had never been sure how truly Odo mirrored human emotion in his facial expression, how much of what he mimicked he truly comprehended. At this moment, he looked furious.
"Pick up the shovel," Odo repeated.
There was no denying the threat that rumbled low in the shapeshifter's throat. His hand moved to his sidearm, the intention unmistakable. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Odo, Bashir bent to lift the shovel. As he stood upright, Odo stepped closer.
"You are certainly an interesting challenge, Terran. It's been a long time since I've had a challenge. I don't believe I've ever met so belligerent a Terran before. You've given my day some little interest. But you are beginning to wear my patience." Gathering a fistful of uniform fabric, the shapeshifter drew Bashir closer. "You realize, of course, that by speaking to your Bajoran major, you have broken several rules?" Odo paused, but Bashir said nothing. "You've also lost your place in line. Since you seem to have developed a fondness for this shovel, let's see how well you use one."
Shoving Bashir before him, Odo indicated the direction they were to walk. Bashir noted every turn, looking always for O'Brien. He had to be somewhere. As they moved deeper into the bowels of the station, Bashir was choked by the increasingly fetid air. Human sweat and metallic dust mixed with machine oil. Friction from the laboring ore crushers heated the air, filling it with ionized particles and flecks of grit that stung his eyes and burned his nostrils. Gouts of steam hissed periodically through the dimly lit chamber, reflecting the low light and creating ghostly shapes that flitted through the macabre scene. He was sweating profusely before they even reached their destination.
At last they stopped before a moving conveyor belt. Teams of Terrans methodically shoveled ore from trolley to belt, moving with mechanized regularity. Bashir was surprised by the archaic simplicity of the arrangement. A mechanical dump would be so much more efficient, but with a galaxy full of Terrans to subjugate for free labor, why bother with machinery?
Odo pushed aside one of the workers and indicated that Bashir should take his place. The other Terrans never broke their rhythm. Eyes averted, they did not seem to notice the new arrival. Odo leaned closer, his lips almost touching Bashir. Some detached, analytical part of the doctor's brain noted that he felt no breath on his flesh. "Do not break the pace, Doctor. Any delay will be attributed to you and dealt with accordingly. And be careful. The belt has been known to lop off fingers, hands, limbs of injudicious workers. We wouldn't want to lose a hand now, would, we, Doctor."
Bashir glanced at the man across from him, then he lifted his shovel. His arms already ached, but he set to work, attempting to match the cadence of those around him. But his mind was on O'Brien. He had to find him. His life could depend on it.
*****