Chapter 17

It was a very special harvest.  It would be small, but it was the first crop ever 
grown there.  And yet it was vastly important.  It proved the process Vance and 
Blanchard had created worked on the least productive of soils.  Justin watched 
with bittersweet satisfaction.  It was a great achievement, but few would even 
know it existed.  That it worked so well gave him a deep satisfaction, but he 
knew that Walter would never share that.  Without the recognition it no longer 
mattered to Walter.  He almost wished he'd met Jaro all those years before 
instead of Walter.  It was possible they would never have founded Cyrus 
without Walter's ambition, but he found he no longer really cared about that at 
all. 

For something else mattered more.  He and his Bajoran friend had not risked 
everything so they might be praised.  He saw the little field with its rich harvest 
as a lifeline.  It alone could replace the dried food used that year.  Despite the 
temptation, none would be used immediately.  Every bit of edible harvest would 
be dried to be saved. 

He knew Sisko was scared.  Their test had changed everyone's lives.  But if it 
worked it was *possible* that they might be allowed some day to use it.  It 
might not grant them freedom, but they would be able to feed themselves. 

The crop would be different.  He could hardly stand to eat his breakfast without 
taking it to his lab these days.  The plants that already grew on Cyrus were so 
diverse and promising that he and Jaro had not even looked at the notes on the 
teraforming project.  They spent all day writing up the report Sisko would need 
to grant them permission to plant their garden, and he even dreamed of the 
field swaying with the heavy fruits of the desert plants which guided their 
growth based on rain. 

They had plenty of water, and it would make the difference. 

He watched the day's work with pride, not only because he and Walter had 
made it possible but for those who worked with such dedication today. 

It was a community event, and everyone who wanted to help was welcome.  It 
would have been much simpler to use a smaller workforce, but it wouldn't have 
*belonged* to all of them that way.  Some worked in the field, pulling the fruits 
and vegetable and greens from the plants.  Next to the field drying tables had 
been built, over the terraformed area, and another large group of people were 
gathered there ready to prepare the harvest for preservation.  Then, when it 
was done, another crew waited ready to properly package the food so it would 
last.  No one was allowed to work on more than one crew. 

When the whole harvest was done, the ground would be dug under and the 
unusable parts of the plants buried to decay and enrich the soil. 

Several of the new Bajoran residents had offered to assist.  Justin found them 
most welcome, for Bajor was one place where the sort of farming they were 
forced into was necessary and understood. 

The field was little, but somehow it was putting them together as a community.  
Everyone who wanted to could own a little of the accomplishment.  It was a 
small beacon of hope in a world where there was little that any of them could 
do to make their own future. 

Justin stood on the rolling hills overlooking the field, permitting himself to 
dream.  Next fall, there would be twice as much land.  Perhaps, if luck was 
with them in the years after there might be much more land, and a rich crop of 
native plants.  He knew what they'd done was a risk,  but would do it all over 
again for the dream. 

Jaro had been below, taking samples of the terraformed area.  Justin's earlier 
examination had shown the rock hard chunks of even a month ago were 
softening to a clay_like texture, and he knew that by spring they would have 
crumbled into a rich, if virgin, soil needing only the organic additions.  It would 
have to be dug up and amended first, but that was simple. 

But Jaro had followed him up to the hill, and a little of his dream was 
dampened. 

Jaro looked over the valley, and shrugged.  "We will need many more shovels," 
he said. 

Justin realized it wouldn't be as simple as he visualized.  The ground would be 
hard, and the shovels would be most inefficient.  He hadn't considered the loss 
of the automated plow/mixer.  The field could make for a very rich harvest, but 
it was going to be very hard work to accomplish that. 

Of course, the workers were available.  For this field, there had been too many 
volunteers.  But next year, would they be as anxious to work hours at a time to 
have it ready to plant in time for the crops to grow and be harvested?  Now, 
this was a treat.  After a few days it would cease to be quite so inviting. 

He didn't want to condemn his people to a life of drudgery just to survive. 

*His* people, he considered.  Jaro was just as much a part of this place now as 
he or Walter.  The field was full of people who'd lived in space a year before and 
yet they were a part of it too.   The strangers who had dropped out of the sky 
were no longer interlopers.  This was their home now.   He wanted a better one 
for all of them. 

He'd forgiven them for changing all his plans.  They'd brought Jaro and the 
incredible luck that had inspired their new improved method. 

Jaro fumbled with his shirt, one sleeve rolled up and the other down.  He 
stared at the fields.  "When its ready, how hard is the soil?" asked Jaro 
speculatively.  

"Firm."  He looked at the people below.  "It's going to be hard work to get it 
prepared."  
Jaro sat on the specimen case as if it was a chair.  He stared making shapes 
with his hands, lost in thought.  "We had a primitive sort of plow on Bajor, 
something you could make out of wood if necessary, but it worked.  It had big 
wheels.  You could push it.  When the Cardassians left us with land nobody 
else wanted that's all we had."  He stood again, shifting around as if he was too 
restless.  "I believe we could make one that is a little stronger with what we 
have here, and it would make all these dreams a little more possible.  This 
winter we need to work on that." 

Ancient style farming equipment wasn't a part of Justin's basic experience, but 
he was willing to learn.  He looked at the Bajoran, and smiled at his friend.  As 
far as he could remember, he had never really had one before.  It made the 
moments of success so much better to have someone to share them with.  

"Yes," he said enthusiastically.  "Perhaps you could make a drawing of it.  I'd 
like all of this to be  quite official, of course." 

Jaro didn't smile much, but he was clearly excited.  "I have already.  Perhaps 
we could discuss it over dinner." 

"Yes.  Certainly," said Justin.  If only Walter had understood him so well, he 
thought, they might have already made some sort of difference. 

                              *****

There was a tap on his door, and Willman called out, "Come in."  Bashir stood 
a little nervously just inside the office.  Willman indicated a chair.  "Please sit 
down, Doctor."  He noted the pronounced limp, as Bashir put most of the 
weight on his good leg.  He also noted the look of relief when he did sit.  
"Doctor, I'm very pleased with your work.  You and Miss Broadman have made 
an excellent team.  I wanted you to know that for the immediate future, I 
intend to continue with this arrangement.  However, you will be working in the 
afternoons as well.  I assume your knowledgeable about lab procedures?"  

"Yes, I am Sir." 

Willman gathered that Bashir had decided to behave.  "Good. I have several . . . 
oddities that I've been tracking.  As you've done research, I think you would be 
the best one to follow through on this project.  I just don't have the time 
anymore." 

Bashir seemed genuinely pleased.  "Thank you, Sir.  Could you tell me about 
these oddities?" 

"Not at the moment.  I'd have to show you.  Tomorrow, perhaps.  But there is 
another matter.  How bad is you leg?" 

Willman watched his face and could see the defenses rising.  "I manage Sir."  
He could tell that Bashir was not going to say anything more unless forced to, 
and until it began to interfere with his work Willman wasn't willing to do that.  
"If you have a lot of pain, please let me know.  There are a few things we can try 
that should help." 

Bashir said calmly, the calm concealing a massive storm, "If it becomes 
necessary.  I will tell you then, Sir."  

Willman knew how bad the pain must be, and how deeply he resented him, 
and was certain that unless he could not stand to walk on the leg, Bashir 
would never say a word.  He had learned to behave, but not changed his mind.  

He pulled out several cards.  "These are for you." 

Bashir took them, almost reluctantly.  "Thank you, Sir, but . . . .  " 

"Lunch and dinner passes.  You won't be on the list.  Go have a good meal.  
You're off restrictions a day early.  Go visit you friends.  Miss Broadman will be 
glad to have a dinner companion as well.  I'm assuming that this reward for 
good behavior will continue to be earned." 

"You won't be disappointed Sir," said Bashir.  Willman was sure he wouldn't.  
Just the same, he was impressed with the young doctor, and wished his 
behaving was based on something other than fear.  

He didn't want to be the enemy.  Bashir acted as if he was, but had to obey.  
That wasn't the point.  The enemy had been far too remote, and Blanchard's 
little test should have left them with Jem'Hadar everywhere.  Bashir should be 
able to figure that out.  But they would come.  And when they did, the 
discipline his staff had become used to might save their lives. 

Willman knew that he might not survive.  Or perhaps, the price of survival 
might mark him with the same stamp as the enemy.  It might be up to Bashir 
and Lonnie to make up the difference.   He knew, faced with an enemy Bashir 
already knew, that he'd behave.  Then, he'd be the one to set the example.  

He would understand better when he saw the "oddities" in the lab. 

But tonight, he wanted him to have one last evening to relax before dropping 
into a nightmare. 

                              *****  

Bashir first returned to his quarters to change back into his rumpled jacket.  
He put his staff pin on his shirt   He felt more relaxed in the other jacket.  And 
on the shirt, it almost covered the pin. 

But he wore it.  Willman would hear if he didn't and put him back on 
restrictions again. 

He used he crutches.  He'd managed the days without them so far because of 
the restrictions, but the walk to the warehouse for dinner was too much.  He 
didn't care if Willman noticed and complained.  He already knew how bad he 
pain was or he wouldn't have asked about the leg. 

It was his doing.  All his treatments had damaged it beyond repair.  If he 
thought Willman had anything that would really help he'd ask.  But he already 
knew what was available, and none of it would be enough.  If he had to live 
with the pain, it was a little satisfying to think that Willman might feel 
responsible. 

He was looking forward to the afternoon.  He might not be able to come again, 
but he wanted one last time with his friends.  

The line for food was short, and he turned in the unused cakes.  He didn't 
much care how well seasoned the soup was that day.  It had to be better than 
the mushy cakes. 

He expected that most of his friends had gone home by then, but to his 
surprise they were waiting.  Lonnie must had slipped over to tell them.  Most 
were busy now, having been absorbed into the various winter preparations 
after their full medical release.  But they still met for lunch, and had come a 
little later today just to be there. 

He forgot Willman for a little while.  He was the only one with a pin, but there it 
didn't matter.  Little was said, everyone except him having somewhere to go 
after lunch, but he looked forward to tomorrow. 

After they'd left, he wandered towards the fields and passed Sisko's office.  He 
paused, thinking of the cost Sisko had paid and how badly he was being used.  
Everyone was being used by Them.  He could no longer talk about it.  He 
couldn't deal with the daily reminders anymore if he looked upon the reality.  
But his anger at Them was still strong, and he blamed them for the sadness in 
Miles face, the fear in Lonnie's, and the stranger inside that office.  Even 
Willman, he thought reluctantly, was Their making.  He pulled out the dinner 
pass, and thought to himself he should give the man a chance some day.  

He continued on, finally making it to the hills overlooking the fields.  The plants 
were gone now, harvested and stored, but he wanted to see them anyway.  He 
had looked forward to the harvest, 
but had been under restrictions then and missed it entirely.  Eventually he'd 
forgive Willman, but not yet.  He found a place out of the breeze and watched 
the people working on the soil, placing a layer of native plant parts, cut up into 
pieces, over the entire field, both the completed and the still developing sides.  
Lonnie had told him about it at a quiet meeting when nobody was about.  It 
was hoped it would make reworking the soil next year easier.  It was a part of 
the various activities connected with the coming winter.  

As he watched the people below dumping the crates of materials, he considered 
the planet, rocky and marginal, and the hope the field represented, now gone.  
Someone had been trying to recreate that hope with the experiment.  He 
understood how they had endangered everyone, and how unforgiving They 
would be, but understood the experimenters as well.  He only wished he had 
the nerve to fight back as they had.  Someone would find a way to strike back, 
he thought, and his certainty of that was the only thing that made life 
tolerable.  
It was getting late.  Dinner would be soon enough, and he didn't need the walk.  
He rested on the hill, watching as everybody worked and wishing that he could 
join them.  Even if it was hard work, he'd prefer that over the battle with pain 
that had become his life. 

                              *****.

He was waiting in the dining area when Lonnie arrived for dinner, and 
surprised her by having already gotten it.  He was already half done with his.  
"Sorry, I couldn't wait," he muttered between bites.  

She almost smiled.  "I know.  I had thirds the first night back here." 

"I didn't know the stuff could taste so good,"  he said between sips.  

She didn't reply, scooping out the best parts of the soup.  "They haven't made 
those steaks in a while.  I kept thinking of them most of the time while I 
gummed down the thing.  Why do they have to be so chewy?" 

He was done with his, and it wasn't time for seconds.  "I don't know.  That was 
one of the better things about them.  If they had just a little more taste . . . . "  
He looked at her, and shrugged.  "The truth is, it wouldn't have mattered how 
good they tasted if I had to eat them all alone." 

She smiled nervously.  "Or how bad if you didn't." 

They didn't say much the rest of the evening, but she got seconds for both of 
them.  He realized he didn't really notice much about the crowd that night.  
They made it back to their quarters just before curfew.  He had the first good 
sleep he'd had in several weeks.  

He already knew that tomorrow was going to be a hard day. 

                              *****

Dr. Julian Bashir was in his element.  Despite the antiquated equipment, and 
the consolations with Willman, he felt entirely whole in the lab.  His leg was 
propped up on a chair with a pillow under it, and he had brought his crutches 
should he need them.  But the work was enough to get his mind entirely off the 
pain.  There was a puzzle to solve, and he was so drawn into the mystery that 
Lonnie had had to drag him to dinner the night before.  

For the past few months, Willman had been screening blood samples for signs 
of infection, in hopes of warding them off before they became serious.  But in 
the last few weeks there had been anti_bodies present against something, even 
if the patients were fine.  Finding what was causing the anti_bodies was 
Bashir's task.  

In a way his life was coming together better than he could have expected.  
During the mornings, he and Lonnie worked together, as they had been before, 
but there was a difference.  Having let go of his resentment, he was learning to 
deal with problems within their limitations.  Lonnie knew much more about the 
practical side of the new medications and treatments than he did, and he 
listened to her.  They discussed the cases like equals, and he understood why 
Willman was teaching her what she needed to know.  It wouldn't be long before 
she could handle many cases on her own.  

They ate lunch together now as well, usually with his friends.  They were all 
familiar with her, and they were comfortable together.  He and Lonnie would 
pursue their individual jobs during the afternoon, and meet again for dinner, 
as privately as was possible.  He had come to think of her as a necessary part 
of his life.  The only time he forgot all the rest  was in the afternoons, lost in his 
research.  

The door opened and he glanced up, noting it was Willman.  Katre had been 
released that day, and a blood sample of hers was being analyzed.  What he 
found was most interesting.  

"Anything?" asked Willman.  

"It's not Cardassian.  Look at this."  He indicated the setup.  Willman peered 
through the goggles.  "The rounded antibodies are those formed against the 
Cardassian virus.  They are very different than the others." 

Willman studied them carefully.  "Too different.  If we could do a DNA analysis I 
bet it would back us up.  So what do you think it is?" 

"That's a very good question.  It could be local, something we mutated with the 
chemicals or other changes brought in the last few years.  Or it could have 
been imported.  It's just not like anything I've ever seen before."      

Willman looked at him curiously.  "Imported?" 

Bashir nodded.  "The virus that's causing this has already hidden in the body.  
No telling when it will go off.  But we need more diverse blood samples than 
just patients or staff.  We need people who haven't been near here." 

Willman looked preoccupied.  "There is only one source of an imported virus as 
it currently stands.  Is that what you are implying?" 

"Yes."  Bashir closed his eyes for a moment, remembering something.  "It would 
be their style," he said bitterly.  

Willman straighten up and looked at his staff doctor.  "Okay, this stays quiet, 
between us.  Understand?  Not even Lonnie knows." 

"Certainly.  Can we get more blood samples?"  

"I'll do my best.  We'll have to come up with a decent reason to take blood.  I 
don't want to alarm people."  Willman sat on the nearest stool.  His face fell, 
the stern man falling away, replaced with the haggard look of a man who was 
deeply afraid.  "Keep up the good work.  I need to know if the antibody count 
goes up.  Will we have an epidemic on our hands?"  Willman had dropped all 
pretense of authority.  He just looked scared and worried.  

"If what I think is true, we already have one."  Bashir stared at him, just as 
scared, but aware he  may have seen the real Willman for the first time.  

                              *****

The bird sat atop the tallest tree in the park, body arched toward the sky in full 
song.  The brown and black body, sleek and powerful, was singing loudly.  He 
heard it in his head, the five short whistles followed by a series of longer, more 
piercing sounds.  Then the bird resumed the menagerie of chirps and calls it 
made every morning.  James remembered perfectly the song of the mocking 
bird that had lived next to his window and sang every morning, the song that 
had welcomed the day for him for so long.  The park was full of people, and the 
grass and trees were in place, even the small pond that glistened along the 
side.  But it was too silent.  There were no birds.  James missed the sounds of 
birds, and the first was the mocking bird that still lived in his memory.  

It was late and he finished his nightly routine, and went to bed.  He slept well, 
as he always did, feeling secure in his warm, comforting world.  He awoke to 
the sound of the mocking bird, singing its varied song at his window.  As he 
followed Morris across the landscape, which was green and lush, with tall trees 
shading the buildings, he heard the mocking bird's song, singing alone.  James 
ate his breakfast, preoccupied, but very happy, looking forward to the day's 
end so he might make more birds.  Robins, he thought, would be next.  And 
then a knot of finches chattering away in a tree.  He finished, and followed 
Morris to work, where he stood by the window and heard the sounds of the 
children and the breezes, and the birds.  The robins and finches were faint and 
far away, but as the hours ticked away and he filed and cross referenced as 
efficiently as possible so it might be done sooner, he could hear them in his 
head, not yet real but aching to be given life.  

                              *****

Morris grabbed James from his back room retreat and declared it was time for 
lunch.  He wasn't so worried about James now.  He had not seemed so 
withdrawn.  He was always waiting for breakfast, dressed and impatient to 
leave.  He was ultra efficient at his job, and when Sisko had requested a way to 
cross reference various records, James had devised one on his own.  James 
had moved his desk, where he sorted out his work, under the window, and he 
kept it as neat as his clothes and his room.  He didn't talk much, but he did 
listen.  Morris believed that James had finally started to deal a little better with 
life.  

It had, unexpectedly, warmed up again, and the outside lunch had been 
reopened for the warm weather.  Morris sat with James and a few others, in the 
nearly deserted deck eating their early lunch.  James was gazing around the 
square, half_smiling to himself.  Randy had noticed how much better he liked 
eating outside.  It was such a nice day and everyone was enjoying the warmth 
and looked happier.  

Still, James seemed a little more quiet than normal.  He was not paying much 
attention to his food, and staring oddly at the shadows cast by the buildings 
and shade coverings.  He was almost  transfixed by one spot, but there was 
nothing to see there.  He still sipped his food, but slowly, as if he hardly noticed 
what he was doing.  Leaning forward, he was looking at something only he 
could see.  

Morris was very worried about James's odd behavior.  He couldn't take his eyes 
off him.  Then, James suddenly stood up and smiled, clearly listening to 
something that made him very happy.  Randy rose from the table, and walked 
to his friend, looking at him confused.  "Is something wrong?  Are you OK 
James?" 

James looked at him, clearly excited.  "It's the birds.  They sound so beautiful."  

Morris was desperate.  "But James.  There are no birds on Cyrus."  James just 
stood and listened to the birds, and wandered towards his room.  He didn't 
even notice that Randy Morris was following.  

                              *****

All morning they had been calling to him.  From the window was a distant 
chattering, the mocking bird's varied song louder and more real.  He had 
hurried through his work, counting the hours, and when Morris called him to 
lunch he had almost been reluctant to go.  He wanted to be done when he left, 
to go and make the birds.  He felt their pull so strongly that he could not think 
of anything else.  

But when they had come to the square, which to James had trees and grasses, 
he could feel their calling him, and their song became louder and angry.  He 
could see the tree where they should be, and hear their loud demands echo in 
his head, and yet he had not painted them.  He knew he could not let them be 
real yet.  But they were so inviting, he could not stop himself from imagining 
them there.  

And then, he saw them.  They were no longer impossibly loud, and the angry 
chattering was gone.  They twittered and moved in the tree feeding on the gnats 
that swarmed around it.  And the mocking birds song became joyous and even 
more alive.  He stared at them, consumed with the joy of their existence.  He 
had made them real.  He had made their music for all the others to hear.  

Morris had come up to him and ask his strange question.  Why should the 
sound of birds be wrong?  But he knew what he must do to keep them alive.  If 
he didn't he couldn't go back to the world Morris and the others were part of.  
He still needed that world as much as the park and the birds.  He must paint 
them now, not wait until the night came. 
He forgot his lunch. Moving with purpose he seldom showed, he went straight 
to his room, to his portal, to make the birds so they would leave him alone.  

                              *****

Willman glared at his staff, his full displeasure aroused and making the most 
of it.  They were completely quiet.  Someone had mishandled a lab specimen, 
probably due to sloppiness, and could have exposed everyone to what it 
contained.  Only he and Bashir knew what that was.  But Bashir had obeyed 
orders and not said a word.  

Willman sat down at his desk and shuffled papers for a short time, letting them 
stew.  He had never been more serious about anything than he was about this.  
The virus had been found to be widespread, but handling it directly was risky.  
Bashir had volunteered to do that.  Willman had gained a new respect for the 
young doctor.  But he couldn't let anyone know that now.  

They were shifting around uncomfortably.  He decided the time was right.  He 
stood up unexpectedly and stepped in front of his desk, standing so he could 
look down on them.  "I'm not going to ask who did this, because it doesn't 
matter.  The next time it will be somebody else.  The most important thing is 
that all of you remember that there is not going to be a next time.  We can't 
afford sloppy handling of infectious materials in a small hospital like this.  We 
have no safety margin.  Therefore, all of you will be given the chance to think 
about this incident for the next week.  All medical staff, regardless of position, 
are on restrictions for one week.  You have one hour to get meals.  Otherwise 
you are on duty or in your quarters.  And as far as meals go, there will be no 
taking staff privileges unless they are actually warranted.  I have asked for an 
accounting of who takes them and when so I do mean this.  Dismissed.  Out."  
He watched as Bashir left, limping notably again.  He looked miserable.  But 
then, only Willman knew how much reason he had to be.  

                              *****

Lonnie caught up with him near his quarters, where he had gone to retrieve his 
crutches.  She stood outside his open door.  "We might as well get lunch now.  
It's a little early but I'm not taking staff privilege." 

"Sure," he said, hopping out the door balanced on one leg.  

She shut the door for him.  "You need to talk to him about this.  He could 
help."  

"Someday, maybe."  He knew he didn't dare now.  He didn't want anyone to 
know that his opinion of Willman had changed, because Willman would be 
honor bound to treat him if he did.  And he agreed that the terrible secret they 
shared should not get out.  Willman had not yet told Sisko.  He wanted definite 
proof first.  Bashir was worried and upset, but not for the reasons Lonnie 
assumed.  He hated having to let her since she so wanted him to understand 
Willman.  

It was warm for once, and lunch was being served on the upper deck again.  
They found a place that was reasonably private.  Friends would be there in a 
little while, but for a moment they had a little privacy.  They got their meals 
quickly, and were prepared to take advantage of the full hour they were 
allotted.  

She had been watching him for a few minutes when she stopped eating and 
looked him in the eyes.  "Look, I know you didn't do anything, but I really do 
understand why he did this.  So should you." 

He wasn't sure what to say.  He more than agreed with her.  But he couldn't, 
openly, say so.  "I'll live with it." he said, thinking of the depth of the anger at 
Them he felt at that moment.  Lonnie again misinterpreted it, as he'd hoped.  

"I just don't want you to get into trouble."  She was clearly worried.  He decided 
to defend himself.  

"Do you know how hard it was to get dumped here after months in a nice safe 
cocoon and then have everyone expect instant acceptance?  Oh, I've gotten 
used it.  You don't hear me asking any unwelcome questions anymore or 
attracting unwanted attention.  I'm not blind.  Look, you knew him before.  You 
remember him from then.  I didn't.  I don't even think the feeling is personal. 
But there has to be someone to be mad at."  He let out just a trace of the anger 
he felt for Them, and Lonnie was suddenly very quiet.  He thought to himself 
that she did understand.  

They hurried their lunches, and with a little time to spare went back to his 
quarters.  He had left his good jacket there and had to change.  She followed 
him in and closed the door.  

"You wouldn't want to get us in more trouble," he said, half_serious, 
half_teasing.  

He was sitting on his small couch.  She sat next to him.  "Look, we have a few 
minutes before we have to get back.  Hold me.  Please." 

Feeling awkward, he put is arms around her.  But she felt very comfortable 
there.  He held her tight and she hugged back.  Neither said a word, just gave 
the other a moment of unconditional support in the face of whatever was to 
come.  They were careful not to be late, but were both sorry to leave.  

                              *****

Morris watched as James opened his door, not closing it, and followed him 
inside.  James immediately sat on his cushion, and began mixing the paints.  
He used a very fine brush, and made tiny dabs of paint.  But, eventually, as he 
watched James absolute concentration, he saw birds, many little birds, and 
watched transfixed at the urgency at which James was painting.  He wasted no 
movement and never took his eyes off the painting.  He dabbed with such 
precision that one might have believed he was possessed.  But Morris was also 
overwhelmed by the intensity of his caring.  Each bird was a tiny bit different.  
Each had a dab of paint that hadn't mixed quite the same.  They were 
individuals.  They were real.  After watching for a while, Morris could almost 
hear the birds himself.  It was all he could do to tear his gaze away from the 
painting and the painter, backing out of the room and quietly closing the door. 

It was as if for a few minutes he had shared the reality that James inhabited, 
where the trees were green and the grass thick, and the children happy.  He 
would gladly trade James gentle world for his own nightmares.  Perhaps, he 
thought, James was lucky in his own way.  But he lived in such a fragile world, 
and if it was destroyed he didn't know if James would ever get over it. 

                              *****

Morris had come back from lunch, and knocked on Sisko's door.  Sisko was 
not particularly busy, and after taking one look at his young aide, told him to 
sit.  

"Sir, it's James.  I don't know how to say it but he . . . isn't really with us." 

"I don't understand. Is he all right?" 

"Well, no, Sir.  He was at lunch, and he was just looking at one of the shelters, 
just staring at it.  Then he got up, and just stood there, listening to something, 
smiling about it.  I tried to ask him but he just said the birds sounded so 
beautiful." 

Sisko leaned forward, and whispered, "Birds?" 

"That is what he was hearing.  He went to his room after that and I watched 
him paint them on the picture.  He was so, well, intense, about it.  He wasn't 
here.  He was in that picture.  I think I know where he lives.  It's inside that 
park, and I think he's being drawn further and further in all the time." 

Sisko just looked at him, and sighed.  "I've suspected there was something 
wrong for some time.  Just little things, when he didn't seem to react right.  
But lately he's been so much better." 

"I think he's made us part of his world since he has to deal with us.  I don't 
know what to suggest we do.  I don't think he could handle losing that one.  
Not any more.  And I think he needs us too.  He seemed like he wanted me to 
hear the birds, and I swear when I was watching him paint them, I could hear 
them." 

Sisko thought about the young man who had lost himself somewhere between 
fantasy and reality.  He wondered if he was only just the one they knew about.  
But for now, he could think of nothing to do.  "Keep an eye on him, Randy.  
Just watch, act the same, see how he does.  I don't think there is much more 
we can do.  I only hope his reality is better than this one." 

"Yes, Sir.  I'll stick with him.  Thank you for understanding." 

Sisko watched as the young man was leaving and called him back.  Morris 
stood near the door.  

"How may people know about this, ugh, the birds and all?" 

Morris said quietly.  "You and I, and him of course.  The square was almost 
deserted." 

"Let's keep this quiet.  If there is nothing we can do, I don't see spreading the 
news around.  Why don't you go check on him."  Morris nodded and left the 
room.   

But before Morris returned,  James came in himself.  He went to his desk and 
files, and began to finish the work he'd started in the morning.  It was as if 
nothing had happened.  If anything, he was more animated and alive than 
before.  As far as anyone could tell, he seemed to be doing a lot better, and 
nobody would have suspected that his world was a good deal happier than 
theirs.  

                              *****

Julian finished his dinner first, and decided that the line for seconds was too 
long.  Lonnie agreed.  Her quarters were closest to the pathway back, and they 
had a little time before curfew and their allotted hour were up.  She asked him 
in.  

He had never seen her quarters.  It was no different from his, except she had a 
lot more to squeeze in and it seemed smaller from the crowding.  But she had 
still managed to make it look like home.  She went into her bedroom and 
brought out a small charm, carefully repaired.  She held it gently in the palm of 
her hand.  "My mother gave me this.  It's been passed down for four 
generations.  It scares me to think I may be the last." 

He didn't want to see what she was trying to say.  "You don't know that." 

"Look, something is going on beyond the obvious.  I think you know.  I don't 
really want to know what.  Just how bad it is."  She looked at him, as he 
thought about what to say.  "You don't have to say anything.  Look, sloppy 
handling of lab stuff has happened before, even in the last year, and he's never 
looked this scared.  And you're not really mad at him anymore." 

He shrugged.  "It's bad.  We don't know how bad yet.  You didn't hear that from 
me."  He was utterly serious, and she nodded.  Looking at the charm, he said, 
softly, "It's beautiful.  You should wear it with that dress."  He didn't smile, but 
his eyes did.  She returned her charm to its safe place and came back.  "Thank 
you.  But you have to go now." 

"I know," he said, squeezing her hand.  "But I'll see for breakfast.  Early?" 

She nodded, looking very tired.  "We better if want any."  He took her hand and 
squeezed it and she returned the gesture.  Reluctantly, he let go.  

She opened the door for him.  He noticed that she watched as he hopped down 
the pathway that led to his room, wondering about the warning he'd given.  


                              *****

Lonnie closed the door.  She walked inside and sat on her bed. 

Bad, she thought.  He had said everything with his eyes.  The lab specimen had 
to have been very dangerous.  She knew Willman was scared about an 
epidemic.  The room around her was as close to home as could be.  She 
pretended that the outside world couldn't get in.  But this had.  

If they were keeping it such a deep dark secret it must be real, and very bad.  
How soon would it be impossible to hide?  How many would they lose? 

She was so tired.  Everyone was overworked.  With the winter work and 
harvest, there had been a lot of minor injuries.  But here, even small cuts could 
turn deadly and the hospital had been very busy.  Would they be the first to fall 
sick, the first to be exposed?  Had they already been? 

She wanted to sleep.  Maybe in dreams she could get away from this 
nightmare.    

But first she took out the charm.  It was so simple, yet striking.  She cherished 
it, not only for its memories but for its beauty.  There was so little of it left in 
life that what was had to be carefully guarded.  

She returned it to its hiding place, but remembered how it felt in her palm.  
Filled with dreams of home, she fell asleep almost immediately.  

For the first time in ages she dreamed about the family she'd left behind and 
woke in the middle of the night, tears in her eyes.  She buried her head in her 
pillow and let the tears come. 
 
You had to mourn.  By morning she'd be able to pretend that she didn't know 
the secret, and she might be able to get through another day. 

                              *****

Bashir was not so lucky.  Sleep alluded him that night.  The grey, dimly lit 
barracks of Internment Camp 371 filled his head.  Cyrus was different, but it 
had come to feel much the same.  

It was hard to pretend.  When Willman had first shown him the "oddity" he had 
been suspicious of its origion, but had kept it to himself.  Then everything else 
had been eliminated, and there was only the local chemicals or Them.  But the 
chemicals had nothing to do with it, and it was certain.  They were culling the 
herd.  Or perhaps instead of the Jem'Hadar, the disease would be the 
punishment. 

He tested blood samples every afternoon, tracking a randomly chosen group of 
staff and patients.  Willman had asked for blood testing for the staff and 
selected others to make sure they hadn't been replaced, and convinced Sisko 
that it should be ongoing.  The antibody count was going up in all of them.  He 
didn't get names; Willman kept track of that by coding it to numbers.  But he 
saw the growing threat.  Both had agreed the whole project had to be as 
isolated as possible. 

Bashir had volunteered to do all the direct handling.  He knew more of safety 
procedures than anyone else.  And he owed them something.  His patients had 
died because he'd chosen to wait to the second evacuation.  And Barrett would 
have put up with twenty more passengers on that long flight and perhaps more 
than a hundred would have lived. 

And his leg might be whole.  As much as he blamed Willman and Them, he 
knew without his urging Barrett to risk the beaming he would almost certainly 
have arrived uninjured. 

Watching the gloomy room, he imagined the cots along the wall, and the 
sleeping companions he'd learned to value.  Now most of them were probably 
dead.  He could have talked about the gloomy mood with Garak, or even 
Martok.  But even though the people might understand, he couldn't talk about 
it.  He'd promised Willman. 

He'd completely revised his view of the man.  Sitting in the lab, he didn't see 
the stern master or the friendly man Lonnie had known, just a man desperate 
for answers but afraid of them, too. 

He wished he could go to Willman and talk.  He would understand.  Perhaps 
the doctor would even welcome the chance to unburden his own fears. 

But Willman was alone. He was the man in charge.  He could not share. 

Bashir lay in his bed, hearing the sounds of others across the room and 
remembered.  But the old nightmare was almost comforting compared to the 
thought he woke with after a short, exhausted sleep. 

When they came, and he was sure someday they would, Willman might be 
taken away.  Would he replace him?  Would he have to stand alone and lonely 
like Willman?
 
He had hated Willman, and feared him, but the worse fear of all was that he 
fail. 

                              *****