Chapter Eighteen: Endless Cycle

"Dr Bashir!"

Seated in the buggy, Bashir turned toward the shout, mentally running over the cases he had treated since arriving here and wondering which this was, or if it could possibly be a new one.

A man on horseback cantered up to him and wheeled the horse to a stop beside the buggy. "It's my nephew, Doctor; he took a foolish jump with his horse and hurt himself badly."

Bashir schooled his features to hide his disappointment; far from being a new case, this was one he had seen two times already.

"Take us there, Ben; Cherry Fields Plantation."

"Yes, suh," Ben responded instantly, whipping up the horse.

The rider, whom Bashir knew to be named Reece Dickerson, wheeled his horse around, galloping ahead of them to be waiting at the plantation when the doctor arrived.

Bashir leaned back in the seat as Ben drove, unable to make himself feel the same sense of urgency he had the first or even the second time he had been called on this case, though the injury was just as serious and painful.

At first, he could easily have forgotten this holo-world wasn't real, and would have minded only for Sisko's sake. But then he noticed that the illnesses and injuries to which he was called were beginning to repeat themselves. It wasn't just the normal pattern of something "going around"; it wasn't multiple people developing the same illness, but the same person calling him again for the same symptoms, often before he had fully recovered the first time. Yet to everyone except Bashir, it was as if the first time had never happened.

The cases came in varying orders, and the same one might occur at different times of day, but they always repeated; he knew them all now, and it was the final proof if he had needed any that they were indeed in a holoworld and not the true past.

It made sense, he supposed; no holoprogram was infinite. They all covered a limited amount of time; had a limited number of ways events could transpire. And this programmer would have focused more on developing the ability to trap people in the program; the algorithms for the program itself would be even fewer than normal.

Bashir had seen no other doctor since he had been here, and realized that each person trapped in the program must simply step into the place of one of the original characters, matched perhaps by some degree of similarity. It was easy to see how Sisko had found himself a slave, and Bashir guessed his stethoscope and other medical equipment had allowed him to take over seamlessly for the doctor.

"Wait here," he told Ben unnecessarily, grabbing his bag and jumping from the vehicle without waiting for the slave's aid.

"Yes, suh," Ben replied to Bashir's back as the doctor half ran up the lane to the house. His steps didn't have the same urgency as the first time, but the doctor in him still couldn't be completely convinced that there was no real need for haste.

It was Reece who opened the door as he was about to knock, just as it always was. And even knowing he was only a holoprogram, Bashir found himself wondering again how he could seem so fresh after riding desperately for a doctor.

"In here," the man said in a low voice, gesturing down a now-familiar hallway.

The injured youth, Duke Millersly, lay among the cushions on a sofa, his eyes closed though Bashir knew now that he was conscious. His face was pale and sweaty, his features drawn with pain, his breathing shallow. Bashir dropped to his knees beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead before feeling his pulse, though he already knew to the fraction of a second how weak and thready the beat would be.

Why couldn't there be at least a little variety? he wondered in some annoyance. He had often used the training holograms at Starfleet Medical; even when you programmed them for the same ailment ten times in a row, there were as many variations as if you were treating ten different patients for the same problem.

Here there was no difference whatsoever from one time to the next, and he wondered for a moment if he could force a change by varying his treatment. But his treatment had been correct the first time; he would not give inappropriate treatment, even to a hologram, simply for the sake of relieving his own boredom.

"Have you given him anything?" he questioned.

"Some whiskey for the pain and shock," Reece responded.

Bashir's lips tightened; why, he wondered, had it taken so long for people to realize that while a stimulant initially, alcohol was ultimately a depressant, and far from the appropriate treatment for shock? And any pain relief it offered was surely negligible; not enough to justify its use.

Suddenly he felt a moment's fear as he realized his thoughts were word for word what they had been the last two times he had heard the patient had been given whiskey. Was he being swallowed up in the programming until even his thoughts and actions were doomed to an endless cycle of repetition? And if that was the case, would even Miles be able to pull him and Sisko back when the assimilation was complete?

A moment later, he dismissed the thought as absurd. He was the same person; naturally he would react the same way given the same circumstances. And anyway, was he really even thinking the same thing twice, or simply recalling what his thoughts had been the first time? He could play this whole scene out word for word; why should that not include his thoughts as well?

"Bring a blanket; we have to keep him warm," he ordered, concerned as before that the young man was beginning to go into shock. It was a slave who brought the blanket, and with a nod that was all the thanks he dared offer Bashir tucked it around his patient.

He debated again the wisdom of laudanum; it, too, was a depressant and contraindicated for shock, and yet the pain itself might be a greater danger.

But he knew now that the small dose he measured had caused the patient no harm, and so this time his hesitation was only an instant and almost out of habit — and that, too, was a difference, he thought in some satisfaction.

He made the dose slightly larger this time in the knowledge that it would likely be safe, partly to greater ease Duke's pain, partly out of his own curiosity to see whether he could force the boy's vitals to be different than the last two times he had played this scene.

"Drink this," he urged gently, supporting Duke's head and shoulders as he held the glass to his lips. "It will help with the pain."

Duke's eyes remained closed, but he swallowed the medicine obediently, wincing at the taste and perhaps a twinge of additional pain despite Bashir's care in moving him. He moaned softly as the doctor lay him back down, and Bashir brushed a hand across his forehead. "Just lie still," he urged gently. "Give that a few minutes to work, and then we'll see how bad your shoulder is."

After twenty minutes, Bashir enlisted Reece's help in slipping Duke's jacket and shirt off the injured arm, exposing a bruised shoulder with the bone obviously jutting out of place.

The boy's mother had been hovering nearby, fluttering in concern as Bashir worked. At the sight of her son's misshapen shoulder, she gave a low moan and toppled over in a faint.

The first time, Bashir had rushed to her side. Now, he simply glanced over his shoulder and left her to the care of her slave Sadie Rose, already vigorously applying a smelling salt bottle. It was mostly the effect of inappropriate dress, he knew; too many layers for the southern heat, and corsets laced too tight to draw a decent breath. And while he couldn't prove it without his tricorder, he strongly suspected she was at least partly faking, trying to get some attention from the young doctor.

If she wasn't faking it, he found it a bit suspicious that she managed to swoon back gracefully into a chair, though he supposed in a holoprogram anything was possible.

In any case, she did not require his care and would come to in approximately four point three minutes, so he focused his attention on gently feeling Duke's injury.

It was a bad break. Even on Deep Space Nine, he would likely have needed to perform surgery to be sure the bone was aligned and any fragments cleaned out; before the invention of bone regenerators he would have needed to insert pins. Here he could do neither, and the first time he had developed an elaborate brace that took several hours to construct and apply. Now, he didn't see the point; whether Duke's shoulder healed well or badly, in a week or a month they would be starting over from the beginning. Instead he simply aligned the bone as well as he could and stabilized the arm in a sling, leaving a bottle of laudanum for the pain and instructions for its dosage.

Previously he had stayed until he was sure all danger of shock was past; now he knew there was no need and took his leave as soon as he saw the boy was resting comfortably.

oOo

Dr Bashir got out of the vehicle and half ran toward the house, and Ben pulled the horse into the shade to wait. Some masters would have been upset with him for waiting in the shade; Dr Bashir would have been upset if he hadn't, though his voice would have been harsh only in the presence of witnesses.

He was a far better master than the others; there were no beatings and better food. But his appearance hadn't been the rescue Ben had hoped. He was still a slave; his back still ached and he felt sick and feverish. Slumping down with the reins held loosely in his hands, he settled himself to wait miserably for the doctor's return.

He drifted in and out of a feverish half doze, startling to full awareness and nearly falling from the seat at the sound of Dr Bashir's voice.

"All right, Ben, we can go now — Ben!" Springing to the seat, he caught him by the arm, pulling him upright.

"I'm — all right, suh."

"No, you're not," Dr Bashir contradicted flatly. He touched a hand to Ben's forehead. "You're feverish again. Ben, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"Wouldn't'a done any good, suh," Ben said dully.

"Of course it would," Bashir scolded lightly. "At the very least I wouldn't have had you sitting out here like this — though I'm glad to see you at least had sense enough to park in the shade." He glanced around. "There's no one to see; lie down in the back and let me drive. I'll take a look at your back once we get to the boardinghouse."

"Don' bother 'bout me, suh," Ben mumbled even as Dr Bashir helped him from the driver's seat and into the dark interior. There was little room on the seat to lie down, but Ben curled up, sparing his back as much as he could.

A knife twisted in Bashir's heart at the apathy in Ben's voice. He wasn't just telling the white doctor not to bother treating a slave; he had given up on expecting the treatments to do any lasting good. And he was right, Bashir admitted; even Ben's relapses were so cyclic in nature that he wondered sometimes if he had truly found the commander or only a holographic copy of him. But surely it was only that the beatings would have repeated themselves; Bashir buying him had changed that, but the program couldn't be rewritten entirely by his presence, and the effects of the non-existent beatings remained.

Ben groaned involuntarily as the carriage hit a rut, and Bashir was suddenly sure again of his reality — and even more concerned. Losing the will to live could be far more dangerous than any injury in and of itself.

"You had better hurry, Miles," he whispered through gritted teeth, "or Sisko may go too far to bring him back."

Next chapter coming next week! …hopefully. The library is closed due to the coronavirus threat, so I'm trying posting from my phone with the wifi at work. If I end up not having access to that (I don't think they'd close grocery stores, but some people are afraid they will), posting will be delayed until the library opens again.

I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know!

Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. If you have questions regarding my Deep Space Nine alternate history, check my profile first to see if they're answered there. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie