Curiosity, as a child, drew Bashir to the antique books in his grandfather's library. Many were history texts about far-off countries and the politics, sociology, and conflicts of times long past. The places, the names, the wars had enthralled him, even as a child. His life had been so regulated, calm, protected, mundane, that he had longed for and dreamed of adventure all his life. A frail and solitary child, sheltered to excess by his mother, much of his early years had been spent immersed in his grandfather's vast library. There he could travel. There he could dream. There he could find adventure. And there he discovered war.
Yes, he had studied his history. He knew of the great wars that had raged across his planet and the galaxy, but somehow the holobook accounts had been sterilized statistics compared to the richly flavored texts his grandfather so lovingly collected. But while his grandfather's military histories chronicled the strategies, victories, and defeats of armies and generals with rich and vibrant detail, even they rarely spoke of the human aspects of war. Yet, it fascinated him. He studied the battles, recreating them in complex computer games. His grandfather had even allowed him to touch, just once, the intricate array of tiny metal soldiers he had ranged across the south end of the library.
He had been ill that day, and it was intended as a special treat to cheer him, and it had, until be had grown tired. Then, sitting alone in the vast, silent room filled with ancient books that smelled of mildew and age, he had begun to study the volumes. Many he had been allowed to read before. But the oldest, most precious books, were highest up on the shelves where small hands could not disturb them.
He was never sure what impulse made him climb the ladder to those top shelves. Though dizzy with illness and height, he had perched atop the ladder and carefully thumbed through page after page. In the darkening light he came to the last text. it was also a chronicle of war, but not of generals and conquests and adventure. Instead, it spoke of humanity, cruelty, frailty, and ultimately, dignity. It told a tale of millions, imprisoned in forced labor camps, destroyed for no other reason than that their beliefs were different. The light was quickly fading from the great library as he sat with the fragile yellow pages spread open before him. The eyes staring from the photos were large and dazed, faced drawn, bodies gaunt.
His mother found him, staring at the pictures, bewildered by the tormented souls, for his eight-year-old mind could not comprehend such deliberate cruelty. Mother had closed the volume, gently wiped his tears, and led him down the ladder to bed. The next day, the volume was gone, but for many months after, the faces, the eyes, had haunted his dreams. He saw them in the shadows, and in his grandfather's library, among the books and toy soldiers.
Julian Bashir saw them now. Dull, listless, lifeless faces, too exhausted to move or even eat. Bodies tumbled haphazardly about him, thin, dirty, with eyes devoid of life or hope. And he sat among them, leaden with exhaustion, covered with ore dust and sweat. His hands ached from hours shoveling, the knuckles bruised and cut, large seeping blisters covered his palms. He wondered, absently, if he, too, had become one of the faces in his grandfather's book. In his ears rang the constant moaning of the ore crushers and the endless taunts of the shapeshifter and his Klingon underlings. He had bitten his tongue and silently endured the humiliation of their words, afraid if he angered Odo further, he would be pushed so far into the depths of the ore processing station he would never find O'Brien or make contact with Kira again.
Finally, when he thought he could not lift another shovel full of ore, a klaxon had sounded declaring a halt and the workers were herded back to the central hub, given a meager ration of food and allowed a moment of rest. Bashir sat, picking at the tasteless white mush he had been given. He should be hungry. He should eat even if he was not, but he was too worn to make the effort. Glancing around him, he looked for the shapeshifter, but Odo was no longer present. He did, however, see O'Brien, his head ducked into the Thorium containment mechanism again.
Bashir handed his plate to another of the workers. The man blinked in disbelief as he received the extra ration of food, but he hastily gobbled it down. Bashir rose stiffly and walked to where O'Brien worked. He tried to be causal, to hide the fact that every inch of his body screamed with exhaustion. He had to get this O'Brien to trust him. When he was opposite the Terran mechanic, Bashir leaned against the machinery, propping his leg up, his hands limp at his sides in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. He did not want to be distracted thinking about his hands, about what was happening to them, or could happen to them. He tried to look at ease.
"Miles O'Brien," he began conversationally.
O'Brien looked over his shoulder, then returned to his work.
"I know you," Bashir pressed, "on my side."
"Yeah," O'Brien answered noncommittally, head still buried in the unit he worked on.
"Actually, we're best friends." It was a lie, but Bashir hoped this O'Brien would not see through the sheer fabric of it.
O'Brien turned, interested, but cautious. "You an' me?"
"That's right," Bashir felt a sudden spark of optimism. He might just pull this one off, as long as he was careful and said nothing this O'Brien found offensive.
"What am I? Some kind of doctor too?"
"No. You're Chief of Operations of this station." Bashir could see O'Brien consider this fact, then he looked doubtful.
"Me? Go on."
Bashir could see how desperately this O'Brien wanted to believe what he was saying. "It's true."
"Chief of Operations." O'Brien sat down to think over the possibilities, options undreamed of in his world.
"Looks like you know your way around machines." It was half question, half reassuring statement.
"I know some things," O'Brien said flatly. There was no pride in the statement, as if the mechanic were afraid to admit he knew too much. "What else is he like? This Chief of Operations."
"Oh, he's married. He has a five-year-old daughter. He's one of the most decent men I know. We've fought our way out of a few scrapes together."
O'Brien thought this over for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was wistful. "Sounds like he got the lucky draw, between him and me."
Bashir took a deep breath and moved closer to O'Brien, not wanting anyone to overhear what he would say next, for both their sakes. "Have you ever done much work on transporters?"
"Me?" O'Brien's attention came back to the present. "Yeah. Some. Why?"
"Well, the Chief O'Brien I know is an expert in transporter technology."
"I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I know as much as any Terran."
"I hope that will be enough." Bashir said to himself.
"Enough for what?"
It's now or never, Bashir told himself as he plunged on. "We think a that a transporter will help us get back to our side." Bashir knew the minute he said the words the battle was lost. O'Brien's face darkened with anger, hurt and fear. He had been used all his life and probably felt he was being used again.
"What? Yer fillin' me up with this stuff just to get me to help you. Is that it?" Anger made O'Brien voice rise above the hiss and whine of the machinery.
"No." Bashir was desperate not to loose this man's trust. "Everything I've told you is the truth."
O'Brien stood up, angry and frightened. "I don't know you. I'm not your friend." He turned his back on Bashir, denial in his words and action. "I'm not your friend," he repeated vehemently.
"Meal break is over."
The new voice, from behind them, startled Bashir and the young human jumped, turning to look over his shoulder, even though he knew who he would see. The shapeshifter's tone left no room for argument and was directed only at Bashir. The doctor had not noticed his return, did not know how long the supervisor had been watching, nor how much of their exchange he had overheard. Maybe, for O'Brien's sake, he had heard nothing. For his own part, the doctor did not need to be reminded of which rules he had broken this time. He saw the hint of promise on the shapeshifter's chiseled features, and in the deep set eyes that had become mere tunnels in the dimness, tunnels devoid of light or mercy.
A cold wave passed through the young Terran doctor, washing over his resolve not to give in to his captors, not to succumb to the rules and the rule makers. He was not a slave, he told himself, as he had a hundred times, neither in mind nor in spirit. Yet, Bashir hurried to rejoin the Terran workers, praying he could blend into the nameless mass and escape Odo's wrath, knowing he could not. His heart pounded and his stomach twisted with a sudden jolt of fear. Slipping into the shuffling line, he thought for one wild moment he would silently vanish into the crowd.
The bitter taste of defeat added to his sense of panic. He had been so certain this O'Brien could be convinced to help them, so damned sure of his own charm and persuasiveness. But it did not work here any better than it would have worked in his own universe. It seemed O'Briens everywhere mistrusted him.
"Going somewhere, Doctor?" A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and he was pulled from the line.
Bashir took a deep breath, unclenched his fists and turned slowly, wishing away the tingle of warning that shivered up his spine. Squaring his shoulders, his head held high, he proudly met Odo's level stare. He swallowed hard, biting down the fear. Knowing damn well he was in for hell and wondering what it would be this time. Stepping away from the line of workers he stood face to face with the shapeshifter.
Odo nodded, as though he was not surprised. "How easily you forget. Your medical schools must be quite lax to offer a degree to someone who has such obvious trouble remembering the simplest rules." The supervisor held the pain stick, toying with the slender metallic cylinder, stroking its smooth surface, making sure the Human saw exactly what he held in his hands. Reaching out, he placed the instrument against Bashir's abdomen, applying pressure.
Bashir's muscles tensed instinctively, bracing for an assault, despite his efforts to appear relaxed and calm. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds, waiting for the jolt of pain he knew was coming. But nothing happened. Bashir released the breath he had been holding. Sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, but he did not move.
"How are your hands?"
Bashir still stood without speaking. The non-sequitur was unexpected, yet he knew the concern was false.
"Must I remind you that rule of obedience number six..."
"Always answer a direct question promptly," Bashir shot back.
Odo nodded, mock approval in the gesture. "There may be hope for you yet. Now, answer the question. How are your hands?"
The metal rod dug harder into Bashir's stomach.
"They are still intact. No lopped off fingers," Bashir said smartly. He was tired of the game, tired of the rules, and just plain tired. Get it over with. His mind ground out the thought - Do what you are going to do. Now. No more games.
Odo dropped the pain stick to his side, reaching out instead and taking Bashir's right arm at the wrist, turning the doctor's hand palm upward, exposing blisters that paled dead white in the static bursts of harsh light. Bashir did not want to look. He could easily assess the damage by how he felt. His fingers were stiff, the joints tight, sensitive skin abraded to deep blisters. He tried to pull free of the shapeshifter's grip, but Odo clamped down tightly, further aggravating the abused flesh. Bashir tried not to wince, tried not to think of his hands, or his life if any permanent damage occurred. If he lost sensitivity in his fingers, if...
"You really do have a lot to learn, Doctor."
Odo jerked Bashir by the arm, pushing him ahead. With a sharp prod from the pain stick, he herded the young doctor back into the depths of the processing facility. Farther than the last time he had come this way. Farther away from O'Brien and Kira. Farther from hope. Nudging Bashir left or right the shapeshifter finally indicated they should halt. They were once again at the conveyor that carried ore to the crushers, but closer, near the smashing jaws of the machine. Its grinding maw worked relentlessly, pulverizing the rock into powder.
"Feed it, Doctor." Odo's voice, low and brutal, cut through the whine of machinery and through the depths of Bashir's soul. The voice dripped contempt. "Feed it now."
Bashir started to reach for a shovel, but the shapeshifter kicked it aside. "Use your hands, doctor. Let us see just how well you operate."
Bashir hesitated, then began heaving the metal ore onto the moving belt. The stone was sharp edged, heavy and covered with the ever present' cloying gray dust. Within minutes, he had torn the blistered skin from his palms, exposing the raw flesh below, the clinging grit caking his skin and grinding filth into the open wounds. But he dared not stop. Odo stood behind him, pain stick ready, waiting for any excuse to use it.
"And one more thing, doctor. This machinery tends to jam with some regularity. Someone has to crawl into the works and remove the offending blockage. I have left word that it will be your chore to un-jam it. Now work."
*****
"This one." The Klingon's voice was a distant grumble filtered through the background noise only because of its proximity and harsh command. It penetrated the disassociated ramblings that pervaded Bashir's half-conscious thoughts. He had stopped trying to make sense of the situation hours ago, his mind all but shut down with exhaustion. The brutal pace had sapped every ounce of his energy. His lips and throat were parched and thirst gnawed at him. He wanted to stop, just for a few moments, to rest, to breathe cool, clear air, to moisten his mouth with sweet, fresh water.
"This one." The Klingon was behind him now. A surge of panic brought him sharply to attention, looking in vain for the shapeshifter, knowing he could be anywhere, in any configuration in the shadowed corridors. How long had it been? Didn't the shapeshifter need rest? The face he recognized, the leering countenance that mocked Odo and taunted him, was not present.
"Come with me, Terran." The Klingon guards had blended into one tormenting entity that allowed him no respite, prodding and striking whenever they thought he moved too slowly. He gave silent thanks they had not resorted to using the pain stick. He doubted he could withstand another such assault. Fists seemed to satisfy them.
"Move, Terran."
Bashir made his leaden legs move, staggering against an ore trolley, grabbing its side to steady himself.
"We are wasting time. He can't even walk. How will he crawl through the feed lines?"
"Does it matter? It is just another Terran. Not the first to die nor the last."
The two distinct Klingon voices now penetrated Bashir's senses. Were they talking about him? What did they mean?
"Here," said a coarser voice.
Bashir stood before the secondary feed line of the giant ore crusher. The machine had ground to a halt. Workers stood idle along the conveyor, sagged against shovels, heads resting on hands. A cold steel pry bar was placed in Bashir's hands. He stared at it, the men in front of him making way to allow him passage. He remembered now the shapeshifter's last order. He was responsible for un-jamming the machinery should it become fouled, but he hadn't the vaguest idea how.
Before he had a chance to wonder further, he was lifted bodily onto the conveyor belt. From the other side, a thin, dark-eyed youth, hardly more than a child, carrying an identical pry bar, was boosted onto the belt as well. The child began to scuttle into the mouth of the machine. Bashir followed his lead.
The opening narrowed as they approached the blockage. Bashir could feel the bridled thrum of energy vibrating through the stalled machinery. The air inside was stiflingly hot. He did not think it was possible for a human to perspire when they were as dehydrated as he was, yet his hair and clothing soon dripped with moisture. There would not be an ounce of fluid left in his body if he emerged alive.
The young Terran's hand on his arm stopped his mental wanderings The youth pointed ahead to the mechanism, clogged with debris. It was an archaic arrangement of rollers and gears. Bashir was no mechanic, but he knew enough basic engineering to recognized the inefficiency of the design, like the inefficiency of using human labor instead of automatons.
Without a word, the youth began to pick at the chunks of rubble clogging the mechanism. There was hardly room to swing the pry bar effectively, none to stand, or even kneel to get leverage. Lying flat on his stomach, he would not be able to work effectively. Not normally claustrophobic, Bashir felt as if the machine's jaws were closing around him. He glanced toward the opening scarcely seven meters behind him. It seemed a kilometer. When the mechanisms re-engaged, how much time would they have to retrace their steps to get back out? How much time before they were crushed along with the ore? The child continued to chip away with his crowbar, prodding at the blockage. Bashir joined him, adding his efforts to the task. He was tempted to delay the procedure and give the laborers on the line a few extra moments rest, but he knew it would not go well with him if the crushing operation were delayed very long.
With a shuddering groan, the last of the blockage was knocked free. The air was suddenly thick with a cloud of choking dust expelled as the machinery kicked back into gear. Bashir was startled by the jolting forward motion of the belt, but blinded by the belching filth that clung to his sweat-soaked face. A hand, small but firm, clutched his arm, urging him outward. Groping blindly, he started backward, his companion pushing him with increased urgency. The belt on which they moved, shuddered again and the grinding wheel around them shifted and began to move. The child pushed Bashir harder and he moved against the belt which was picking up speed. In the dust, he could not see the moving equipment, but he could sense it above and around him. At that moment, his young companion yelped. Bashir heard fabric ripping and the youngster's hand slipped from his arm. The doctor grabbed for him, but he could not find the boy. The dust cloud had begun to dissipate and a shadowy form moved away form him. Clutching at the shadow, he felt resistance. The child whimpered and struggled, but with a surge of urgent strength, Bashir grasped the child's arm and heaved him toward the mouth of the crusher. There was a rending sound as the fabric of the child's tunic shredded, then he was free scuttling past Bashir into the open.
Bashir tossed his pry bar outward, then backed toward the opening. There was no room to turn around, and he found the forward movement of the conveyor belt, pushing with him arms to back out. He was almost free, turning to exit, when he felt a jolt at the back of his uniform jumpsuit. Slowly, the fabric began to twist in the gears. He pulled but his uniform was far tougher than the young Terran's thin tunic. It would not tear free. Instead it twisted, tightening the high neck of his shirt, constricting around his throat, cutting off his air. He grabbed at the fabric, but was unable to wriggle free of his own clothing. His head began to swim, and he felt himself being drawn back into the machine.
Then someone grabbed the front of his shirt, cold metal touched his throat and slit the material. He could breath again. The same hands cut him loose, then rolled him off the belt and onto the hot floor, which felt remarkable cool compared to the interior of the ore crusher. He drew in shivering gulps of air, unable to move and glad to lie still for a few seconds. His hand went to his neck, rubbed raw by the twisted fabric noose.
"Why did you waste your time, Duvan. He is just a Terran. Who would miss another Terran?"
Bashir did not hear the answer. He was hauled to his feet and shoved toward an ore trolley. Light headed from fatigue and his near brush with strangulation, he had to concentrate to stay upright.
"The shifter will not like it if you remove this one from the line," repeated the same voice.
Again Duvan pushed Bashir toward the line of ore trolleys that were once again moving away from the crusher.
"Are you afraid of the shifter?" Duvan said at last. "He may be the supervisor, but he is only one. We are Klingon, and it is the Klingon Empire that is strong, not the shapeshifter. We are meant for better things than being slave drivers. Klingons are meant for glory and honor."
Bashir could sense the dissatisfaction in Duvan's voice and was not so exhausted he missed the challenge in his words. Glancing upward, he recognized Duvan as one of the Klingon warriors who had first beamed aboard the runabout, then later escorted him to ore processing.
"Move, Terran. Don't make me regret saving your miserable life. You may well live to regret that I did."
Pushed back into the line behind an ore trolley, Bashir risked another glance at the Klingon, Duvan. He towered over Bashir by at least a head and was twice as broad at the shoulder. Standing statue still, arms crossed, Duvan had not sheathed his knife. Bashir was not sure, but it looked as though Duvan nodded silent approval. Bashir continued to stare until the Klingon turned away.
*****