Part IX, Act IV: Locked Out

When the bottle was empty, Julian yearned to refill it. He was still thirsty, his throat soothed but still dry and his head still aching mutely from dehydration. But his stomach was sloshing uncomfortably, and there was a sour taste of reflux in the back of his throat. A larger bolus of water was not what he needed. What he needed was two days' unrestricted access to the pipes, so he could indulge in small, frequent drinks until his body was satisfied, his skin turgor was back to normal, and his brain could be coaxed out of its constant nagging for the unobtainable.

It took considerable willpower to turn away from the spigot, intent on returning the bottle to its place on that table. Julian felt a twinge of guilt, having no idea how to clean and sterilize the vessel. Again, reason dictated that there must be some such process, since there were no signs of the prisoners swapping infectious diseases as one might expect if they shared dishes indiscriminately. But he couldn't see a device with which to do it.

That thought was driven from his mind as the door clanged open and Ikat'ika returned. He stepped boldly into the room — the Jem'Hadar seemed incapable of moving in any other way — and stopped dead when he took in the scene. Julian was standing just short of the table full of canteens, the one from which he had drunk still in his hand. The First had three medical instruments in his hands. He strode to the edge of the table nearest Arat'zuma and slammed them down upon it, before rounding the other work surface at speed. Before Julian could react and almost before he could flinch, Ikat'ika seized his arm with one rough hand and snatched the bottle with the other. He fairly flung it into the empty spot in the orderly line-up, closed that hand on Julian's opposite arm, and shook him viciously.

"Prisoners are issued their water ration once daily!" he snapped. "Stealing water is not permitted!"

Julian couldn't answer. His teeth clattered with the force of the shaking, and he felt a painful twinge in his neck as the muscles tried to keep his head from flopping like that of a rag doll. What had been indistinct discomfort took a sudden, wrenching turn into nausea, and he felt the burning in his chest intensify. Ikat'ika didn't shake him for more than twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When the First released his hold, Julian staggered, disoriented. He might have fallen, but his groping left hand found the edge of the trough that was not quite deep enough to be a sink. He clung to it while his buckling knees rediscovered their ability to bear him and his head reeled.

Ikat'ika was already gone, marching back to the other side of the room to tower over his subordinate. "I told you to guard him," he said sternly. "Why did you permit such a violation of the rules?"

"The Vorta has given orders that the human is not to be killed." Arat'zuma ground out the words with an angry effort. He was trying to sound as if he was not in pain, but his suffering was obvious. "I did not think it wise to shoot him over a little water."

"And you could stop him no other way?" Ikat'ika said scornfully. "Look at him: his kind are weak. Surely a Jem'Hadar soldier can overpower one human."

The reply was almost too low for Julian to hear, at least over the roar of blood in his ears.

"You saw what he did to the Eighth, First," Arat'zuma muttered. "I believe the weakness of his species has been exaggerated."

Ikat'ika made a disgusted sound. Over his shoulder, he cast a contemptuous demand. "Get over here, prisoner, and tend to your work! I have brought the tools you requested, and there is no time to waste."

Julian pushed himself up, relinquishing the support of the trough. He was rebounding from the rough handling, and his steps were almost steady as he came around to the other table. He looked at the tools, separating out the osteogenic stimulator and studying the other two.

"How did you know which ones to take?" he asked.

Ikat'ika curled his lip in disgust. "The Jem'Hadar are not illiterate, human. You have seen the Vorta's medkit with your own eyes: each tool is labelled in the case."

Julian had forgotten that. He supposed a part of his mind didn't register the Dominionese characters as writing, since in this place he was functionally illiterate. "Which is which?" he asked.

Ikat'ika nudged him roughly aside with one shoulder, although Julian would have been content to move of his own volition. He frowned pensively at the tools for a moment and then picked each up briefly, smacking them down again in a way that made Julian cringe. That was not how one ought to handle delicate medical instruments.

"Skeletal tractor," the First spat as he moved the first one. "Cartilage regenerator. Enough stalling. Get to work."

Although Julian trusted to the man's eye for accuracy, he still tested the tool identified as the skeletal tractor before moving to his patient. He did so by applying it to the back of his own hand. It took a moment's fumbling to figure out the controls, but when he did, a shimmering blue beam emanated from the head of the device, vanishing into his skin. Julian withdrew the tool a few millimetres, and felt the slow, deep tug as his second metacarpal shifted within him. It was an uneasy feeling, but he stopped before it could become uncomfortable. Satisfied, he picked up the osteogenic stimulator as well, and moved to Arat'zuma's side.

It was another procedure that would have been far easier to perform with a trained assistant. Nurse Jabara — any of the Deep Space Nine nurses, really — would have known what was needed without Julian even having to vocalize it. His medical technicians would have needed only the occasional instruction, and they would have understood the medical jargon that was second nature to Julian. As it was, he had only Ikat'ika to aid him. Julian told him how to immobilize the arm, and the First did so with ruthless efficiency that bordered on roughness. Every time Julian gave a direction, he was met with a black glare that clearly communicated that guards did not take orders from prisoners. He did his best to communicate with his tone that these were requests, not commands, but all three of them knew differently.

Funnily enough, Ikat'ika was not the most sullen aide Julian had ever worked with. As he repaired the dorsal metacarpals one by one, realigning the bones with the miniature tractor beam and then knitting the fractures with the osteogenic stimulator, Julian found himself remembering Yeto. The Klingon mercenary had been part of a strike team that had invaded the station when a rare ion storm had led to an evacuation of everyone but the senior staff and Quark, who had refused to leave for reasons that had alter become clear. Led by a renegade Trill bent on stealing the Dax symbiont, Yeto and the others had overtaken the station and forced Julian to perform the single most horrifying procedure of his medical career.

He had initially refused, and would have held that position resolutely in the face of death. But he had not been the only one threatened, and in order to save the lives of everyone else aboard Deep Space Nine, Jadzia had implored him to do as their captors commanded. Under armed guard, Julian had removed her symbiont and transferred Dax into Verad. During the long, hellish night of fighting to keep Jadzia alive while her isoboromine levels fluctuated and her body tried so resolutely to die, Julian had bullied Yeto into acting as his nurse. The Klingon had shown nothing but contempt for Jadzia, incapable of seeing her heroism for what it was. But at least he had obeyed, and she had lasted out the night until her crewmates were able to overpower the hijackers and Julian could return Dax to its rightful host.

Ikat'ika had this much to commend him over Yeto: he was invested in the fate of the patient. Whenever Julian could spare a moment from watching his hands and the surgical field, he stole glimpses of Arat'zuma's face, taut with silent anguish, and of Ikat'ika's. The First, too, watched his subordinate whenever he was able, and despite his perpetual stony scowl, there was genuine concern in his cold eyes. When Julian had to call for an adjustment of position, or to instruct his assistant how to support one of the broken fingers, the change was made with meticulous precision, if not precisely gentleness.

Knowing first-hand how agonizing the Dominion's osteogenic stimulators were, Julian couldn't help but be awed by Arat'zuma's fortitude. He ground his teeth and sucked in ragged breaths, and by the time Julian had repaired the last of the shattered knuckles he was trembling to his core, but he did not cry out.

At first, Julian had made attempts to talk to his patient as he worked. But the stony silence from Arat'zuma and the black looks from Ikat'ika had cowed him soon enough. Clearly the bedside manner that had won him accolades in medical school and served him well all through his years of practice — even with gruff General Martok — was not appreciated by the Jem'Hadar. Julian quickly abandoned the effort and worked with quiet efficiency.

It was challenging, doing all of this without the benefit of an imaging scanner. Fortunately, the skeletal tractor was very responsive, and Julian was able to work by feel. All the tissues of the hand were designed to support the bones in their proper configuration, too, and they were only too eager to be coaxed back into their rightful places. Still, it was slow going. He was just about to start on the phalanges, and had thankfully switched off both tools to adjust his position when the klaxon blared out, startling Julian badly and making him flinch.

His heart was hammering with the shock as the Second's cold voice echoed over the comm system. "Twenty seconds to curfew," he said robotically. "Prisoners, twenty seconds to curfew."

Julian looked anxiously up at the dreary grey ceiling. There was no way he could get back to his barracks in twenty seconds, even running at full tilt. He couldn't leave his patient in any case: he had at least another twenty minutes' work here, assuming the Dominion's cartilage regenerators were as efficient as the Federation model. But what were the consequences of missing curfew?

"Back to work, human," Ikat'ika growled. "You can take your rest when you have done your work."

"That's not…" Julian began, then closed his mouth with an effort. There wasn't much point voicing his fears to his captors, and he didn't suppose the First would be interested in reassuring him if he asked questions. The only thing he could do was get on with the repair, and hope they wouldn't hold him responsible for something that wasn't his fault.

When the last of the broken bones was mended, Julian reduced the dislocations of the interphalangeal joints. As Martok had been, Arat'zuma seemed surprised by the gentleness of the motion required to do so. Even as he moved from one finger to the next, Julian could feel some of the rigid resistance ebbing from the Jem'Hadar's arm, and when next he stole a glance at his patient's face, Arat'zuma looked spent with relief. The worst of the pain was gone.

Regenerating the cartilage was easy enough. Julian gave instructions to his patient, having him flex and stretch each joint as he worked, stopping when he reported a feeling of normal strength and stability. Again, it was strange to do any of this without the benefit of a tricorder. It was strangely exhilarating, too. It forced Julian to use his skills in a way he never really had before, and he found himself rising admirably to the challenge.

"There," he said at last, straightening a spine he hadn't even realized had begun to ache with stooping. He put the regenerator on the worktable with the other tools, and rolled his shoulders before raising an arm to stretch. "How do you feel?"

Arat'zuma raised his hand before his face, rippling his fingers and turning it over to examine the palm as he made a fist, stretched his hand wide, and clenched again. Visually, the repair was perfect. Only the bruises, black as charcoal on the grey, mottled skin, remained to indicate there had been any trauma.

Ikat'ika was watching his subordinate intently. Suddenly he bent his elbow, flipping up his palm rigidly against his ribs. Arat'zuma looked at him questioningly, and the First nodded once. The younger Jem'Hadar drew back his fist and blasted it into his commander's palm with enough force to splinter a board. Ikat'ika did not even budge: his hand, arm and body absorbed the blow as if carved of stone. Arat'zuma studied his hand again, flexed the fingers once more, and looked up with blazing triumph.

"I just need to feel the joints to be sure everything's healed," Julian ventured, approaching with care.

Arat'zuma made a dismissive noise, even as he yielded his hand for examination. "It is healed," he declared.

"All the same," said Julian. He took the Jem'Hadar's hand with both of his own, kneading the back and testing the joints. Then he held out his first two fingers. "Let me feel your grip strength, please."

The guard almost smirked as he curled his hand around Julian's fingers and squeezed. At once, the doctor felt his own bones grinding together, and sharp pain lanced along his nerves. He stiffened, but neither voiced his pain nor tried to pull away.

"Enough," said Ikat'ika, just when the pressure began to grow unbearable. Arat'zuma looked disappointed, but he let go.

Julian curled his other hand reflexively over his aching fingers and took a step back. Arat'zuma rose smoothly from his seat, snapping to attention.

"With your permission, First, I will return to my duties," he said. His eyes glinted as he glanced at Julian. "Unless you wish me to deal with the prisoner."

"I will tend to that," said Ikat'ika. "Do not forget: the Cardassian is due his daily allotment."

"I never forget, First," said the guard. "Unless I am instructed to do so."

Arat'zuma moved off towards the trough along the far wall. From the shelf beneath the table, where the prisoners' metal plates were stacked twenty high, he took a shallow bowl of the same alloy. It was smaller than the plates, but it had higher sides. He took it to the taps and filled it.

The sound of water made every cell in Julian's body protest with yearning. He would have been able to stomach more water now: another quarter of a litre at least. He didn't dare to ask for it. He had no idea what his status was now that he had fulfilled his purpose in the eyes of the First. For all he knew, Ikat'ika was about to turn him over to the Second so that Boran'itrex could enjoy himself.

Arat'zuma was at the door now, and it squalled violently open. Ikat'ika collected the instruments from the table and looked coldly at Julian. "Come," he commanded.

Julian followed him wordlessly, trying to quell his dread and to reign in the part of his brain that loved to compute worst-case scenarios. The other Jem'Hadar was just striding through the door opposite the kitchen, stepping into a darkened space that seemed narrower than either the kitchen or the cargo bay. Julian only got a glimpse before the door slid shut behind Arat'zuma, and Ikat'ika was already moving back towards the inner airlock.

It was a relief to step back into the atrium. Julian was accustomed to physical discomfort melting away while he worked, his own bodily needs subsumed by his absorption in tending to his patient's. Fatigue, hunger, and even thirst were forgotten at such times, and so he hadn't really noticed how cold he had grown in the kitchen. The rest of the prison was hardly balmy: fifteen degrees Celsius wasn't nearly warm enough for human comfort. But it was markedly warmer than the environment past the airlock. The tight, constrained shivering eased, and Julian was able to relax his limbs a little as he rounded the back of the administration pod in Ikat'ika's wake.

The First turned and glared at him. "Do not follow me," he hissed menacingly. "I must now attempt to smuggle these tools back into the medkit without drawing attention from the Vorta or his spies. I cannot do that with you trailing after me like a narvak."

Julian didn't recognize the word, and the Universal Translator apparently had no Federation equivalent. The tone was clear enough: it was some kind of contemptible animal. He stepped back hurriedly, distancing himself from the First just in chase a narvak was something one usually kicked. But he could not simply wander back to join his comrades. The door to Barracks 6 was surely locked down.

"It's after curfew," Julian ventured. "What am I supposed to do?"

Ikat'ika glared at him indifferently. "I do not care what you do, human," he spat. "You have served your purpose."

And he strode off, leaving Julian alone.

(fade)

For a couple of awful, agonizingly long minutes, Julian just stood there. He was out of sight of the nearest sentries, and probably as safe as it was possible for him to be under the circumstances. But he was paralyzed. He didn't know where to go or what to do, and the bewildered helplessness of being faced with a choice without any idea of his options was strangely horrifying.

He remembered Miles's return from Argratha, and how he had struggled to make the simplest decisions. Accustomed to being robbed of all agency and choice by the twenty years of memories implanted in his brain, he'd been overwhelmed by the scope of options in his daily life. Working to help his friend readjust, Julian had done enough reading into the effects of incarceration to understand this was a common problem. In the days before the comprehensive rehabilitation services and supports the Federation provided its parolees, the stress of trying to function in a world of choice had even led people to reoffend just to return to the comfort of a structured existence. He thought he was feeling some small part of that stress and panic now.

It wasn't quite the same, of course. Julian had far more scope for decision-making here than Miles had been given in the Argrathi prison simulation. For twenty-four hours in each daily period, he was free to move about the compound as he pleased. Yet still the rules and expectations provided a structure to his choices that was missing now. He didn't know what was expected of him in these circumstances. He had no idea what the consequences would be if he misstepped. He felt exposed and disproportionately terrified.

He couldn't stand here all night, though. He was exhausted, and even as he stood there, a tremor of fatigue shuddered through his body. Even the hard, narrow cot seemed tempting, and as much as he rebelled against the idea, Julian found himself longing for the familiar shelter of his cell.

It was possible, just possible, that the barracks doors were only disabled from the inside at night. It was conceivable that the could still be opened from without. It was worth a try, wasn't it? What else was he supposed to do?

Scrubbing his face with one cold palm, Julian tried to calm his clamouring thoughts. Fear and fatigue were telling on him, and he knew he wasn't very rational. He was lucid enough, though, to know it wouldn't be wise to simply stroll up the middle of the atrium on the most direct route back to his pod. As far as he knew, only three Jem'Hadar were aware he'd been singled out by the First for special duties this evening. One of them, the Second, wouldn't be especially respectful of that service. And that left twenty-seven who wouldn't see him differently than they would any other prisoner abroad after curfew.

Julian found himself wishing he'd asked more probing questions about disciplinary action in the prison. It had seemed simpler to obey the rules so that he never needed to learn the cost of disobedience. It had not occurred to him that he could be forced into a position where it was impossible to obey.

He was feeling increasingly unsteady, and he moved to lean against the wall of the administration unit. Julian closed his eyes, visualizing the atrium and the positions of the pairs of Jem'Hadar sentries. He imagined their sightlines, and as he mapped all of this out, he understood that his situation was impossible. They were deprived of the usual tactical challenges faced by their people in combat, so these Jem'Hadar had made the prison their battlefield. They had clearly spent a great deal of time and effort devising an appropriate grid for supervising the atrium. Where they positioned themselves during the day, not so much as a square metre of floor was unsurveilled. He didn't know if they maintained that level of vigilance at night, but if they did, he had no hope of reaching his barracks unobserved.

At least he could move along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. And he could hope that there were fewer men on duty when the prisoners were locked down. It was one of those moments when Julian found himself envying people like Major Kira and Commander Worf, who nurtured religious faith. He would have loved to be able to put his fate in the hands of a deity right now. Maybe then he would have been less frightened as he shoved himself off the wall, rounded the corner of the pod, and stepped out into the open.

There were two Jem'Hadar at the base of the nearest pillar. They were talking to one another in low, muttered tones that neither Julian's sensitive ears nor the Universal Translator could quite decipher. It was strange to see these disciplined killers engaging in such a humans activity: gossiping at one's post didn't seem like something the Dominion encouraged or tolerated. Certainly Julian had never observed the guards doing such things before. A flash of paranoia worthy of Garak took him, and he was momentarily convinced they were talking about him: either his presence at the White ceremony, or the fact that the First had enlisted his labour afterwards.

But if they were talking about him, at least they weren't looking at him. Julian moved swiftly and silently into the shadow of the pylon, and then scurried to the dubious shelter of the wedge-shaped space between the administration pod and the barracks unit to its left. He leaned against the wall for a moment or two, debating whether to cut across the throat of the gap — the more expedient path — or to retreat into the space between in the hope that he might be less conspicuous.

He settled on the shorter route. It wasn't just a matter of weariness: the longer he was out in the open, the greater the chance of drawing notice. When he inched around the corner of this pod, he saw that there were indeed fewer soldiers on duty in the atrium at present — about half as many, in fact. He was gauging their positions and trying to map out their blind spots when a stern, stentorian voice made him jump.

"You! Prisoner! It is forbidden to be out of the barracks after curfew!"

Julian's insides grew watery with dread and disappointment, and he felt the animal urge to run. He didn't, in part because he wasn't sure he was in sound enough condition for the exertion but mostly because he knew they would chase him. Even at his healthiest, he'd find it difficult to outrun a Jem'Hadar — and in this place, there was no where he could hope to escape them. So he stood fast and let them come.

Three of them converged on him, two with rifles ready. The third lunged in, closing his fingers around Julian's sternum. It was the same move the Eighth had used on him in the ring, digging into the intercostal spaces, forcing his ribs to spread. It was exponentially more painful on this part of his ribcage. Nerves Julian had only ever understood as spidery lines on an anatomical map exploded in fiery anguish, and although no air was forced from him, his lungs seemed paralyzed, the air within them stagnant. He fought the urge to scream, but he could not stop a stuttering moan of blind torment as he was dragged away from the wall, feet scuffling disjointedly.

"You are forbidden to wander the compound at this hour!" the Jem'Hadar snarled. "Those who disobey are subject to disciplining."

One of the others made a low, savage noise of anticipation, and Julian was dimly aware of the soldiers slinging their rifles across their backs. It seemed he was in for a beating after all, but at that moment he just wanted the bone-biting pressure on his breastbone to ease. His vision was flooded with brilliant starbursts of agony, and he was certain that he was about to black out. But the mercy of unconsciousness didn't come, and the pain intensified as the Jem'Hadar began to twist his clawed fingers.

"What is this?" another voice demanded, in a clear note of command. It was a vaguely familiar voice, but it was not Ikat'ika. Dizzily, Julian sent out a wild prayer to any gods or Prophets who might be listening that it was not the Second instead. "Release him: he cannot breathe. A dead prisoner is no sport."

Julian gasped in a hungry gulp of air as the hold on his chest released. He couldn't stand: he crashed to his knees, clutching at his chest and trying to regain control of his mind. He remembered Miles trying to describe the manoeuvre to him seven months ago. When the Defiant had been boarded by the Founder who liked to take female form, one of her bodyguards had employed it on the Chief of Operations. Hurt like hell, Miles had concluded.

He was a man of few words, at times, but he always managed to hit the nail on the head.

"Sir!" the Jem'Hadar who had seized him said crisply. Julian, bowed over his lap and clawing the floor with one had while the other massaged his chest as if trying to stave off angina pains, couldn't raise his head to see which superior officer had stepped up. "This prisoner is abroad after curfew!"

"I can see that," the other said coldly. "I will take him into my custody. Return to your posts."

"But sir, we are permitted to punish the prisoners as we see fit, if any disobey the curfew," the guard protested discontentedly. There were sounds of agreement from the other two. Julian was surrounded: the corner of the pod at his back, and the soldiers in a tight arc around him. If they decided to rain down blows, or to start kicking, or to draw their weapons again, he would be defenceless in this position. He slid one foot out from under his thigh and tried to plant it firmly next to his other knee. His whole body felt shaky and somehow remote, however, and the change was not a forceful one. At least now he could rest his brow against his patella for a moment.

"I will see to it," the other Jem'Hadar said.

"Sir, if we could be permitted to assist you—"

He sounded almost like a child trying to negotiate the rescinding of a coveted privilege. Obviously, this interference was derailing a much-anticipated treat. That thought made Julian feel sicker still. A bewildered part of his brain still could not comprehend what his life had become.

"No." It was a savage snarl. "The human did this to me!" There was a rustling, jabbing motion. "He is mine. I am not interested in your input. Disperse!"

They went. Julian straightened at last as he heard their booted feet clatter away, cupping both hands over his upraised knee as he prepared to rise. He thought he knew whose hands he had landed in this time, and he knew that could not be good. But he was determined to meet his fate on his feet instead of cowering on the floor.

Eighth Talak'ran seized his shoulder and hauled him roughly up so that they were almost nose-to-nose. "You are a fool, human," he hissed. "The Vorta's admonitions and the First's interventions are no good to you at night!"

So someone had seen the exchange with the Second, after all. Julian supposed the Jem'Hadar observed a great deal more than even their higher-ranking fellows assumed. He forced himself to meet the eyes of the man he had maimed. Boran'itrex's hatred of him was at one remove, probably more a reflection of his own bloodlust than Julian's deeds. The Eighth, however, had just cause to despise him.

"If you saw the First lead me away," he said levelly, although he knew it was not wise to try to argue his case; "then you know I didn't miss the curfew of my own volition. He had work for me."

Talak'ran curled his lip. "What kind of work?"

Julian thought about the secrecy, the meeting in a remote part of the complex, and the purloining of the medical equipment. "That's confidential," he said.

The Jem'Hadar cocked is head uncomprehendingly. "Confidential?" he repeated, as if he had never heard the word.

"Private," Julian said. "I'm not allowed to talk about it."

Talak'ran smiled chillingly. "Not even if I will snap your neck if you do not?" he asked. "I can do it so that you will live, satisfying the Vorta's command. But you will wish for death."

Julian couldn't even comprehend how unbearable life in a Dominion prison camp would be for a quadriplegic, but neither was he willing to compromise his beliefs and his ethical backbone — not even to preserve his physical one. "Not even then," he said.

The Eighth made a noise of disgusted bewilderment. His grip on Julian's shoulder tightened and his eyes shifted to the left. Two of the nearest sentries were watching intently, and one of them had taken an eager step forward, obviously also wanting a share of the fun.

Do you want a piece of this? B.C., the ghost in Sanctuary District A, had once asked Julian and Commander Sisko that question, gesturing to a bloody, beaten man his gang had attacked for nothing more than the canary-yellow ration card that entitled him to two meagre, barely-adequate meals a day. Julian had refused him coldly, even though that might not have been wise. Considering that the very next evening, the ghosts had targeted him instead, it hadn't been wise at all. But it had been right.

Julian had been denied the chance to step in and defend the poor man back in 2024, held back by Sisko and by the necessity of preserving the timeline. It wasn't lost on Julian that the following night, his commander had been unable to exert similar restraint upon himself, and stand idly by while Julian, instead of a twenty-first century human with a chromosomal abnormality, took a beating. Sisko's intervention had resulted in a street fight that had caused the timeline to collapse. Over the next three days, both Starfleet officers had paid a steep penance for that.

This time, no one would step in, unless it was to join in the fun. All the people who might have intervened were locked away behind airtight bulkheads.

"Move!" the Eighth snarled, pushing Julian ahead of him, up the atrium towards the glowing rim of the arena. A moment later, Julian felt the pitiless nose of a plasma rifle nudging at his floating ribs. His flank still ached, deeply and dully, on that side, and he was all too aware of his still-healing organ as he was driven forward towards the ring.

Were they going to have a rematch? He wasn't as fit for combat now as he had been on the day he faced Talak'ran, and the Jem'Hadar was unlikely to underestimate him. Julian had thought perhaps his best strategy next time would be to put up only cursory resistance, in the hope that once he was down, the First would call an end to the contest under the auspices of the Order of Things. But in an unofficial bout, without Ikat'ika's supervising eye, that might be just as likely to get him killed while he cowered on the floor.

Lost in these frenzied thoughts, he was taken by surprise when Talak'ran nudged him left instead of right: not towards the ring, but towards the door that led to Barracks 1 through 6.

During the day, the entrances to the corridors were locked open. Now, it was closed. The Eighth keyed in a code on the panel, and the door screeched open with a clang. "Inside!" he barked, shoving Julian over the threshold so that he could not help but stumble. He thrust out a hand to catch himself against the wall. The door slid closed, and he and Talak'ran were sealed in the corridor, separated by one blast door from the other guards, and from almost three dozen prisoners by the other six. There was the door to the waste reclamation unit, too, of course, but it wasn't airtight like the others and Julian doubted anyone was inside.

Julian didn't know what to expect, but he did know he wasn't interested in submitting meekly. He knew his own ornery streak had plenty to do with that attitude, but he also couldn't help but remember Garak, speaking of the Klingons who had assaulted him in his shop. Ah, but I got off several cutting remarks which no doubt did serious damage to their egos.

"No audience?" he challenged, turning to face Talak'ran. "I thought maybe you wanted a rematch."

He waited for the Eighth to strike him, but the Jem'Hadar only raked cold eyes over his body. "If you are ever permitted back in the ring, I will take great pleasure in defeating you," he said.

Julian was take aback by this. Curiosity overrode insolence. "What do you mean, if I'm ever permitted back?" he asked. "The Second made it sound like it's only a matter of time."

The Eighth looked uneasy, as if he knew he should not have disseminated this information. "You are not to be used for training purposes until further notice," he said. "The Vorta doctor was… displeased by the condition in which she found you. She has given orders that if you are similarly damaged upon her return, there will be grave consequences."

A part of Julian was profoundly, almost wretchedly, grateful to know this. But it was also unsettling. It reminded him of nothing so much as Keiko's bonsai trees, left in her husband's charge with strict instructions for care. Or the directions Julian had given his own staff about tending his prion cultures while he was away at the burn treatment conference. The care and tending of samples, experiments and projects was an important consideration for any scientist, be they botanist or physician. That didn't mean it felt good to be the specimen.

"Who told you this?" Julian asked. "The Vorta? The First?"

"No one told me," said Talak'ran. "It is known."

Julian took a deep breath. "Is that why you've brought me here?" he asked. "So that you can beat me where there are no witnesses?"

"You will remain here until the dormancy period is over," the Eighth said sternly. "I can discourage entry to this pod until then, but if you wander the compound at large, the others will satisfy their thirst for your blood. You are despised among the Jem'Hadar, prisoner. What you did to me in the ring revolts us on a primal level you cannot understand. It is a violation not lightly to be borne."

He was going to guard the door? To keep the other Jem'Hadar at bay so that Julian would survive the night? That made little enough sense, and the subsequent remarks only served to confuse him further.

"What about you?" he asked, too confounded to weigh the wisdom of the question.

"I?" said Talak'ran. He glowered grimly. "If I had been left to the care of the Vorta, I would have been executed twelve days ago. I still do not understand how the First persuaded him to let me live, but I know he could not have done so if you had not sealed my wound and made provision for me to be dosed with the White. This is my repayment of that debt. Do not waste it. And do not claim that I have shown you favour."

Julian had never seen a Jem'Hadar concerned with discharging a personal obligation before. He couldn't quite believe he was seeing it now. But neither was he going to question this unexpected reprieve.

"Can you let me back into my barracks?" he asked breathlessly, nodding at the door.

Talak'ran glared at him. "Do not press your luck," he growled. Then he relented and explained; "No one beneath the rank of Third has the codes for the barracks doors. Only those who are Twelfth or greater can unseal the pods. Be grateful you tried your barbarous trick on me, and not your first opponent."

He turned on his heel and unsealed the door, striding out into the atrium. As the door slid closed, he was already taking up a wide-legged stance with his rifle at low ready.

Julian stood only a moment in numb astonishment. Then he fairly ran to the door to Barracks 6. He might have tried overriding the panel if he'd had some kind of tool — or even a working understanding of the Dominion writing system. As it was, the only thing he could do was inform his cellmates that he was alive and in no immediate danger. Crowding against the right-hand window, he knocked emphatically upon it.

Kalenna was at the other side of the pane almost before Julian could strike the glass a fourth time. Her eyes were wild with worry, and they widened at the sight of him. She gestured frantically towards the control panel on her side. Julian looked pointedly down at his and shook his head. Her shoulders slumped a little, but she was saying something over her shoulders. A moment later, Martok was beside her, his craggy face also furrowed with equal measures of concern and relief.

Kalenna mouthed something, but Julian couldn't make sense of it. One thing the Universal Translator was useless for was lip reading. She was speaking Romulan, and he didn't know the mouth movements. They were evocative of Vulcan, but too far divergent for his unpracticed eye to decode. Julian shook his head, holding up his hands helplessly to show that he could not understand. With a little, despairing twitch of the lips, Kalenna sighed visibly.

Then Martok tried. His was a single movement, an almost circular pursing of the lips that spread into a fissure. That one Julian did recognize, partly because it was a single simple vowel sound and partly because it was one of the phrases he knew in two dozen languages he could not otherwise speak. He had learned a few key sentences in all of them, because even when the Universal Translator failed he had to be able to practice his craft. Some of the others he knew included "I am a doctor", "I can help you", and "Is that painful?"

What Martok had said was "'Oy'?" Loosely translated and accounting for the fact that in Klingon, most verbs were optional, it meant, "Have you been harmed?"

Julian shook his head emphatically. First he mouthed the word no, then wrapped his tongue around its Klingon equivalent: qo'. He had a feeling he'd butchered the shape badly, and it was impossible to capture a glottal stop without actually vocalizing anything. But Martok seemed to understand. He spoke to Kalenna, and she drew a hand over her mouth in obvious relief.

She spoke to the General, and he shook his head frustratedly. Kalenna looked at Julian again, opening her mouth to speak, then closed it, discouraged. He thought he knew what she wanted to ask, but she couldn't convey it in a way he would understand. It occurred to him almost drunkenly that this must be a little like how the Breen felt every minute of every brutally long day: longing to communicate, but unable to do so save by the most rudimentary means.

In any case, there was nothing to be done. They couldn't let him in, any more than he could let them out. He was trapped in this corridor until morning, and there was no help for it. Julian pressed his palms together and pillowed his cheek upon them, tipping his head, closing his eyes and letting his face go briefly slack. As he opened them again, he pointed down at the floor. Kalenna instinctively tried to look down past the bottom of the window. She couldn't, of course, but she nodded and mimicked his sign for sleep. Then she pressed her palm to the glass, fingers splayed.

Julian put his own over hers, aligning his long, slender fingers with hers. The thick, pressure-resistant surface separated them, but for a moment he thought he could feel living warmth. At the very least, he felt far less alone. Even here, there were people who cared whether he lived or died. They'd be waiting for him in the morning, and he dared to believe they would rest easier knowing he still drew breath.

Kalenna withdrew, moving with uncharacteristic weariness towards her bunk. Martok remained for a moment, regarding Julian solemnly. Then he straightened his posture and clapped his right fist — loosely bent because of the hampering bandages — to his chest. This time, Julian recognized the word he barked more by the gesture than by the movement of his lips. Qapla': the Klingon salutation of good fortune and a wish for triumph.

Julian mirrored the gesture, nodding his head wordlessly. Martok gave him a brief, bracing grin. Then he, too, moved away from the door. He didn't return to his bare-slatted cot, however. He went only as far as the nearest bench and sat down upon its end, facing the door. He braced his feet broadly and fixed his eyes on the door. Julian understood, and even though there was no way Martok could come to his aid, he felt inexplicably less exposed.

The General would keep the watch.

With one last look of earnest gratitude, Julian turned away from the door, pressing his back to the wall beside it. Wearily, grateful for the chance to get off his tired and unsteady legs, he slid down the wall. He didn't want to lie down on the gritty stone floor, so he settled with his back to his barracks and his legs drawn up. He crossed his arms over his knees, and rested his heavy head upon them. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep in this position, but he closed his eyes anyway. Just that one small gesture of repose seemed to dispel the weary weight of tension that had been dragging on him for hours, and Julian let himself drift into a semiconscious stupor of relief.

(fade)


Medical and Exobiology Glossary:

bolus: A large volume of fluid administered rapidly, often in a time-sensitive emergency.

skin turgor: The elasticity of the skin; reduced in cases of severe or chronic dehydration.