Chapter 20

The second meeting, this one involving only Sisko, Willman,  O'Brien 
and Dax, was held well past midnight.  Before, Sisko had  again tried 
to question their prisoner.  He just stared at him,  saying he was just 
watching.  He didn't know who was doing what.   They could do 
whatever they wanted with him.  He didn't care.  

Sisko believed part of it.  He didn't think the lookout knew  about the 
experiment.  But he most certainly did know who was  conducting it.  
He had to have led them to the location.  

But Sisko had just read Willman's latest scribbled report on the  
virus.  Since the first cases two days before, there had been a  steady 
increase in active cases.  A few, Willman had noted  cryptically, "did 
not follow the established pattern for the  disease and were possibly 
fatal."  He expressed worry for babies  and small children and anyone 
already ill.  Sisko knew it was the  kind of act to be expected, but was 
still very bitter.  With this  deliberate act of murder, they were picking 
and choosing who  should live.  He did not feel inclined to push the 
unfortunate  lookout to say anything more.  Nor did he know if he 
could give  him to the enemy either.  

If Zale wasn't given up freely, They'd just take him.  They could  at any 
time.  But this was a test he must pass if he was to be  able to help 
anyone.  Once they had Zale, they'd take Tarlan and  Blanchard as 
well.  Sisko didn't want to guess what came after  that. 

Willman was the first to arrive.  He looked exhausted.  He had  been 
dividing his time between the incident and the outbreak of  the virus.  
Sisko would have suggested a few hours sleep but  doubted Willman 
would be able to sleep any more than himself.   Before anyone had 
arrived, he looked up at Sisko and said very  thoughtfully, 
"Blanchard's got the virus, and I believe it's the  most serious form.  I 
don't know if he's going to live anyway.   Tarlan is taking care of him.  
You know, I've known Justin for a  long time, and I don't think he ever 
had a friend that cared  about him personally before.  He and Walter 
were friends, of a  sort, but I don't think Walter would do what his 
Bajoran friend  is doing.  Whatever he did it for, he's already given his 
life." 

Sisko asked very quietly, "How many people is it going to kill?" 

"I really don't know.  But people like Blanchard are going to  either die 
of the disease itself, or it's going to leave them so  weak they'll die of 
something else in the next few months."  He  sighed.  "How can we do 
it, Ben?" 

Sisko began drumming his fingers on the table.  He was very  
depressed.  "How do we refuse?  We give him up or They just take  
him." 

Willman looked grimly at Sisko.  "I know.  They get him however  we 
do it.  But we don't have to *offer* him.  If they ask, we  will have to 
give.  But we wait for them to ask." 

Dax arrived during the conversation.  She hadn't even sat down.   "It's 
the only real option."  She spoke carefully, neutrally,  making an effort 
to make the conversation less emotional.  She  looked at them.  "You 
have to be practical here." 

Willman stared at her.  "I was being practical," he said with  irritation.  
"If I wasn't I would say we flatly refuse.  But I  know we can't do that."  
He continued to stare after she sat.  

Sisko tried to calm things down.  "Look, we all agree about that,  
whatever the motivation."  Willman stopped staring and Dax looked  
away.  "We're not all here yet anyway." 

Dax said calmly.  "Miles should be done soon.  They are treating  the 
rock." 

"What?" asked Sisko.  

"That rock that's blocked the mud channel.  They found some of  the 
terraforming fluid and are pouring it into the rock.   Actually, if the 
process works at all it should break up the  bolder before the mud 
hits, or at least make it possible to break  it up."  She looked at 
Willman, her expression softer, "At least  some good will come of this 
disaster." 

Sisko looked at the rest.  "Maybe so, but that's strictly between  
ourselves."  He fixed both with a gaze.  "Nobody likes this, but  it's 
here.  We have to do the best we can to get through it.   What we don't 
need are arguments between ourselves."  He watched  them, expecting 
and getting silence.  

Miles arrived a few minutes later, his clothes dirty and with an  odd 
smell.  Nobody made any comments, letting Sisko handle the  
situation.  "We've been discussing the problem," Sisko commented,  
"and I believe we have come up with a solution of sorts.  Willy,  will 
you?" 

Willman repeated his idea, and Miles nodded.  "Not much choice,  
really.  Poor bastard."  He stared at the table, finally looking  up.  "We 
destroyed the evidence, or at least made it useless."   They were still 
waiting.  "And I took the fluid left in the  machine and dumped it in 
the rock." 

He looked around the table, finding no surprise.  "Do you think  it will 
work?" asked Willman.  

"I don't think they would have taken so many risks for something  that 
didn't work," Miles said grimly.  

"Does anyone have anything else to say?" asked Sisko. Nobody  spoke.  
"Then go home and get some sleep.  I have a feeling  tomorrow may be 
a very long day for some of us." 

                              *****

Zale lay on the cot listening to the movement outside the door.   They 
were changing guards.  In an hour it would be quiet and dark  
outside, and it would be time. He had lay in this bed for two  days, 
alone, without even being questioned.  But he knew that was  just an 
interlude; eventually They would take him.  
He was having trouble waiting.  He had thought about it every  minute 
of the day or night since he'd found the heavy piece of  metal, once a 
blade off some machine, that they had missed in the  dusty corner 
when the room had been cleaned out.  

He had spent all his time sharpening the edge, hiding the area  when 
the guards had checked on him or brought meals.  It hadn't  taken 
much and sometimes he wondered if one of them had left it  
deliberately.  He used the metal edge of the bed, covering the  
scratches when he was being observed.  And he thought about the  
details as well, hoping he could do it without crying out.  They  must 
not discover him early.  What he planned should not take  long.  

And after four days, he was sure They were not going to wait anymore, 
and he was ready to deny them.  He laid on his side, facing  the wall, 
and loosened his coat and shirt.  He felt the edge of  his instrument, 
cutting his finger.  He took the roll of material  he'd made of the sheet 
and put it in his mouth to keep himself  quiet.  Holding the blade at 
the right angle, he told himself  this was his only way out.  

He held the point against his neck, just below the ear, suddenly  
scared of the pain.  He thought of those he would betray should  They 
take him and gathered his courage.  Closing his eyes,  concentrating 
on his hand, he pushed the point into his neck.  

He bit hard on the roll of fabric, surprised by the pain, feeling  the 
warm sticky blood already flowing down his arm.  For a second  he 
froze, just like that.  He could not stop now; he would pass  out and 
perhaps they would be able to save him.  He was certain  that once 
he's lost conscienceless he'd make some sound that  would bring 
them early.  He had to carry it through.  

Trying to forget the pain, remembering that he was doing this for  
others, he gripped the knife again, harder now since it was so  wet 
with blood.  He summoned all his strength, and pulled it  down, 
tearing through muscle and into the soft tissues of the  throat.  He 
managed to pull the blade out of his neck, and  panicked for a 
moment when the blood ran down his throat.  But he  was bleeding so 
heavily that the panic did not last long.  He was  very cold, and every 
bit of energy had left him.  He pushed the  wad of fabric out of his 
mouth with his tongue, and felt his arm  with the blade still in his 
hand fall.  He lay for a moment,  growing colder and less coherent, 
finally fainting into a brief  unconsciousness as he continued to bleed.  
He was dead within  minutes.  

                              *****

He had just come on duty, and as usual looked in the room.  Their  
prisoner appeared to be asleep, facing the wall.  He wondered if  Zale 
knew that Sisko had been contacted by the Vorta and the  meeting 
that morning would seal his fate.  But, standing by the  door, 
something caught his eye, something shiny on the floor.   Cautiously, 
he entered, and proceeded into the room.  Zale did  not react.  Looking 
towards the wall, along the floor, he stopped  suddenly.  Zale was not 
moving or breathing.  And on the floor  was a puddle of blood.  Zale 
must have found the blade.  He  backed out, and ran to get someone 
in authority.  

                              *****

Willman arrived quickly, entering the room alone.  He noted the  blood 
on the floor, and a slight spraying of it on the wall as  well.  He turned 
Zale over, slowly and carefully.  The neck was  torn open, the 
sharpened metal strip still in his hand.  There  was a lot of blood, 
soaked into his clothes and the mattress. It  hadn't been entirely 
painless, but he was certain it had been  quick. Willman guessed he'd 
killed himself sometime during the  night, from the state of the body.  
He left the room and closed  the door.  

Sisko was waiting outside.  "I guess we don't have anyone to give  
them after all."  

Willman noted the look of disbelief.  "No, unless they want the  body.  
It's quite a mess, but he went fast.  Can't blame him,  really.  Better 
than Them getting him." 

Sisko stumbled towards his office.  Half his staff was sick and  only 
the bare minimum was getting done.  Willman stopped before  they 
reached it.  "I have to go, Ben.  Bashir's sick and I don't  have time for 
a conversation right now." 

Sisko looked concerned.  "Is he serious?" 

"Probably not.  It's hard to say with the initial stage.  But  he's going 
to be too sick to work for awhile and that's going to  be very much a 
problem." 

"What do we do with him?"  Sisko pointed towards the room.  

"I'll send somebody over here to get the body.  I guess that it's  over 
now." 

"I suppose.  I still have that meeting.  I guess you should write  up a 
statement on his death.  I'll need something like that." 

Willman followed Sisko into his office, the relief he'd felt  already 
changing into shock.  He wrote out the report Sisko  needed.  Sisko 
looked lost, and Willman wished he had the time to  talk.  But that 
wasn't possible now.  He would see if he could  find an hour in a few 
days.  

                              *****

Two days later Willman was sitting in Sisko's office again,  officially 
giving a report on the spread of the virus, but both  of them knew that 
wasn't the real reason.  The office was  deserted, more of his aides sick 
and now almost nothing being  done, as it was in all the other 
departments.  "Well, if they  wanted to know if we were susceptible, 
they have their answer,"  said Willman, not concealing the bitterness.  

"Any deaths?" asked Sisko.  

"Not yet.  But I've got a few people who are just barely hanging  on.  
All the symptom's are treatable.  It's just for some they  get out of 
hand and we can't treat them anymore." 

"How's Bashir?" asked Sisko.  

"He's fine.  The fever's down and his breathing is better.  He's  not over 
it, but if he's doing this well now, he'll be ok.  It's  just going to take 
time.  I'm sure when he gets back to work  there will be plenty to do." 

Sisko drummed his fingers on the table.  "What about Blanchard?" 

"He's hanging on, thought I'm not sure how.  Tarlan's looking  better, 
though.  I think it effects the Bajoran's less.  My  Bajoran staff has 
been much less ill."  Willman listened to  Sisko's drumming.  "Look, 
Ben.  Stop that.  How did it go with  the Vorta?" 

"He was disappointed.  I got the impression he was going to read  your 
report very closely," said Sisko, with emphasis on the last  part.  

"So, he thinks we helped him?" said Willman.  

"He was suspicious.  But Zale wouldn't have done it that way if  we 
had." 

"Maybe we should have."  Willman didn't look at Sisko when he  said 
it.  "We couldn't protect him, and I don't think anyone  wanted them 
to get him." 

"I can't get the thought out of my head," said Sisko slowly,  "that we 
are responsible.  If we'd been a little less  *enthusiastic*, we could 
have found the test without finding  anyone there." 

"Looking at it now, that would have been preferable," admitted  
Willman.  "But I don't think anyone's going to take that chance  
anymore.  So, perhaps, Zale sacrificed himself for the rest of  us." 

Sisko sighed.  "I got another warning.  No more incidents, or  tests or 
illegal experiments.  And he mentioned the contraband,  too."  He had 
picked up the baseball and was rolling it in his  hand.  "He means 
business.  I don't think it would have really  mattered if we'd been a 
little late this time. As long as there  are no more activities.  Somehow, 
that has to be made clear to  everybody." 

Willman looked at him, quite seriously, "Look, Ben, once we  caught 
him there was nothing else we could have done.  In a way  he saved us 
one hell of a decision." 

Sisko said, wearily, "I know.  I just wish we'd never have caught  him 
in the first place.  There would never have been a decision  to make."  
He paused, playing with the baseball.  "I will admit  that I still don't 
know if I could have gone through with it." 

Willman said nothing, but Sisko knew the man's calm was  deceptive.  
After a long pause, he began slowly, "If you had, I  would have stopped 
it.  I have a hospital full of people who  shouldn't be sick, and I think 
I'd have made them do their own  dirty work.  It wouldn't have 
changed anything, but it would have  made me feel a lot better." 

"I think I would have too." 

Sisko rolled the ball around and Willman excused himself. 

One crisis had ended.  The other was growing worse all the time. 

                              *****

In the five days since the first case of the virus, Bashir had  been 
pushing himself to the limit.  He worked until the pain got  so bad he 
couldn't stand it, or he was simply too tired to go on.   And as the 
patients got more numerous, the small instrument  hidden in his 
quarters came to make all the difference.  The  staff did whatever was 
necessary.  He was working with the most  serious patients, those 
with severe respiratory problems long  after the first stage of the 
disease, usually leading to  pneumonia.  They treated each symptom 
aggressively, and while a  lot of them were still very weak, they were 
still alive.  But it  was going to take months for them to recover, and at 
any time  they could contract something else. They were so weak that 
nearly  anything would kill them.  He hardly left the room, resting in  
the small staff room in between.  Only when he was in too much  pain 
or needed sleep too badly did he go home.  

But that night he'd collapsed, and been sent home for a good  night's 
sleep.  He'd made the pain stop, and gone to sleep  immediately.  
When he didn't show up in the morning, Willman sent  someone to 
check on him, and Willman himself came soon after.  

Bashir was aware of who was there, despite the fever.  He heard  them 
talking though it did not make a lot of sense.  But he was  using most 
of his concentration on breathing.  His throat was too  swollen to 
swallow, and he was careful not to breath too deeply,  which would set 
up a bout of coughing.  

Willman's face swam into his vision, and he tried to listen to  the 
doctor.  Willman was leaving him here, with monitoring.  That  meant 
that he wasn't as bad off as some.  But he didn't have the  energy to 
listen, or to think.  All he had was the energy to keep  breathing.  

                              *****

It didn't seem like three days, but Willman assured him that's  how 
long it had been.  It had felt much longer to Bashir.  All he  could 
clearly remember was taking one careful breath at a time,  and 
worrying that he would fall asleep and forget how.  He had  run a 
relatively high fever, but hadn't really known at the time.   Willman 
assured him that his swelling had gotten no worse or he  would have 
been inside the hospital.  He was still feverish, but  he felt mostly 
chills now.  Wrapped in extra blankets, he was  perfectly content to 
stay in bed.  He had a bad headache, and  noises were magnified, and 
his throat was still sore.  But he  wasn't having to remember to breath 
anymore.  That had been the  terrifying part.  That part he would 
remember the longest.  

He had tried to sit up in bed, but had immediately collapsed back  
onto his pillows and pulled the blankets over him.  When he tried  to 
raise his head, it pounded far worse than before.  And he felt  dizzy 
from weakness.  He laid down again, in pure relief, and  didn't try to 
argue with Willman when he ordered him to stay in  bed for at least 
another two days.  

                              *****

He was allowed his bed for four days.  But the next day the  epidemic 
mushroomed into the disaster that Willman had originally  predicted.  
Suddenly instead of a stream of new cases a day there  were as many 
every hour.  Both the staff and the facilities were  instantly 
overwhelmed.  Everyone who could stand was called in to  help.  
Bashir went back to work, still feeling rather weak, and  tried his best.  
But the last stage of the disease was starting,  the most debilitating, 
and despite the emergency he was sent home  again.  

                              *****

Bashir understood the cause.  His body was killing off the last  
remnants of the virus hiding in the tissues, and it left him weak  and 
tired.  Being able to explain it did not make him feel any  better as he 
dropped onto his bed after being sent back home  again.  He felt worse 
than he had before, hardly able to turn  over without severe muscle 
and joint pains.  When he'd arrived  with Lonnie, she had removed his 
brace, and as a result his leg  hurt as well, but he was too tired to do 
anything about it.   Everywhere else hurt too much to notice.  

He had been one of the lucky ones with relatively mild symptoms.  
That was the insidious nature of the disease.  It left even those  with 
mild cases vulnerable to any number of infections. Willman  had 
ordered he stay in bed, and as part of her job Lonnie came by  to tend 
him.  She was never there long; she was just too busy.   But she 
would do her best to cheer him up, and check all the  proper things.  
Most of all, he just needed rest.  

She also brought his food, very basically prepared soup that was  
largely broth.  He was only now getting where he could swallow  the 
solid parts.  At first he hadn't been able to sit up, and she  had fed 
him as well.  But she didn't have the time, and he had  managed to 
prop up his head far enough to sip his food. He felt  guilty, with the 
others working so hard, and as much as he  enjoyed her company, 
finding a way to eat on his own make him  feel at least a little useful.  

                              *****

Before, when it had first began, life had been interrupted by the  
sickness, but the essential things were still being attempted.   But 
when the virus had suddenly erupted into a general epidemic,  and 
most of the population was sick with one stage or other of  the 
disease, the established patterns of life had been wiped  clean.  

They would have to live without their reports for a little while.   There 
was nobody to write them.  Since Sisko had been confined to  his bed, 
there was nobody well enough to sign them anyway.  There  were a few 
people who had not yet gotten sick, James among them,  but they 
were being used to help the ill, delivering food to the  doors of people 
who were too weak to get it themselves.  The  priorities had shifted.  
Anyone who could help was working to  keep their own people more 
comfortable.  

Nog had organized the food deliveries in the residential section.   He 
and Rom, and a few other Ferengi fortunate that the virus  didn't 
make them sick, had been working long hours taking care of  their 
neighbors.  Leeta, like many of the other Bajorans, had  only a mild 
case, but she had come down with a secondary  infection and Rom 
had been sent home to care for her.  

Only that which was fundamental and necessary was still being  done.  
There were no established jobs.  People did what they  could, for as 
long as they could manage.  The greatest priorities  were help at the 
hospital and food distribution.  The food was  kept to the simplest 
form of broth for most.  

Surviving the virus itself was only the first victory.  Secondary  
infections were increasingly common, some mild and others far  worse 
than the disease.  And even if victims stayed health, they  faced a long 
recovery. The epidemic of the virus itself would be over soon, but it 
would leave behind a long legacy of misery.  In  years to come, it 
would be remembered as their first Winter.  

                              *****

Lonnie stood by the door, watching Willman as he stood over the  bed.  
She could not quite take in his sudden metamorphosis.   Since the 
outbreak of the virus, he had changed from the severe,  stern man he 
had become to the one she had known when she first  met him.  He 
stood over Bashir, head bent over sharply so he  could speak softly 
and hear whatever whisper Bashir was capable  of making.  

Lonnie had checked on him that morning, expecting him to be  better.  
He had been steadily improving in the three days since  he had been 
sent home to rest.  But she found him feverish and  incoherent, and 
quickly checked his leg.  It was red, with the  heavy irritation of a 
fungal infection they had first encountered  when they came to Cyrus.  
It tended to occur around wounds, where  the skin was abnormal or 
injured. The spores would enter the area  when the wound was fresh, 
and even after it had healed, for a  time, if the patient was weakened 
enough, they would take over in  a matter of hours.  The homegrown 
infection was proving the most  prevalent of several secondary 
infections they were dealing with.  

                              *****

As it spread it released toxins, as well, and patients were often  
violent, overcome with hallucinations.  Movement could easily  tear 
the effected skin, so they had to be sedated.  But first,  Willman was 
making a last ditch effort to see how badly effected  Bashir's mind was 
already.  Both he and Lonnie knew about his  nightmares, and since 
the bad people in them would not have used  his first name, Willman 
was trying that approach.  Bent over the  patient, whispering quietly, 
he said "Julian, will you talk to  me."  But there had been no response 
and he was about to give up.   He decided to make one last attempt.  
"Julian, please, this is  very important.  Try to hear me."  His voice 
was soft and gently,  but there was a lilt that hadn't been there before.  

Bashir, very slowly, started to respond, perhaps relating to a  
childhood memory, or some cherished moment.  Eventually, he  
opened his eyes, lost in confusion.  Looking at Willman in  
bewilderment, he said in a whisper, "I don't know you." 

"That's fine.  I'm a friend.  Julian do you remember when you got  sick 
again?"  Lonnie marveled at how gently Willman sounded.   Bashir 
just looked at him, lost by the question.  "Do you  remember Lonnie 
coming to see you last night?" 

Bashir mumbled something unintelligible, but whispered "Want to  
sleep," afterwards.  

Willman took a small cup and held it up before him.  "This will  help 
you sleep.  Now, drink it down."  Bashir looked worried, but  drank 
the medicine.  He made a face.  But the powerful narcotic,  designed 
to counter the hallucinations from the toxin, rapidly  sent him into 
oblivion.  

Willman moved rapidly, moving the pillows from his head first,  
placing them into a bin.  Everything on the bed would have to be  
decontaminated.  Laying the now unconscious doctor flat, he  removed 
the covers from his inflamed leg.  Carefully lifting his  leg by the heal, 
the pillows were removed and added to the bin.   Lonnie laid the long 
cushioned support under his leg and spread  out the thick, jell 
covered wrap on top of it.  His leg was  lowered carefully into the 
support and the wrap closed over it. 
  
The bin was moved out of the way, and the stretcher brought in.   He 
was lifted across with extreme care given to any jarring of  his leg.  
Pillows were packed around it, and he was strapped in  place.  

A few minutes later he arrived at the newly created wing where  the 
others like Bashir were housed.  As sick as they were, they  were still 
lucky.  Most of them would recover without any lasting  signs of 
illness.  The other effects of the virus were not so  considerate.  

                              *****

He didn't know which nightmare he was in, but someone had tied  
him down.  Maybe there were monsters waiting by the bed.  He  pulled 
gently against the strap that held his wrist, but couldn't  loosen it.  
Then there was an unknown sound and he panicked. 

Flailing about, he tried to get away but was too weak.  What had  they 
done to him?  He called out for his mummy, but she didn't  come.  
Everything was a blur.  He screamed for her again, and  even 
Kukalaka, but he could hear the monsters just a little far  away.  Were 
they laughing?  When they came again, would they hurt him? Would 
they smile  when he screamed? 
But then she was there.  She gently pressed her hands over his  and 
shushed him.  "I'm here.  Don't be scared." 
 
It didn't sound like Mummy, but she was nice.  He relaxed a  little.  
"The monsters . . . . " he mumbled. 

"They're gone.  I chased them away."  

He looked and didn't see them.  She was holding his hand.  She  still 
wasn't mummy but he didn't care.  She put something soft  and 
squishy next to him under the cover.  "Here's Kukalaka.   He'll keep 
you safe." 

He wanted his arm loose, but was too wary to ask.  Maybe they'd  
finished hurting him and she was there to make him feel better. 

"I have to go for a while, but I'll be back.  Remember, Kukalaka  is 
here." 

He saw the bear sitting next to him and went back to sleep safe  in his 
shadow. 

                              *****

He was still in restraints when he woke again.  He wasn't sure  where 
he was, but he wasn't five anymore.  His vision was still  blurry and 
he was exhausted by the brief struggle to move. 

A nurse came immediately.  He vaguely recognized her voice.  "How  
do you feel?" she ask. 

"Tired," he mumbled.  He should know where he was. 

"You've been very sick, but you're getting better now.  Just  rest." 

She was moving away and he had to know.  "Where am I?" he asked. 

She listened intently, then finally answered.  "Your voice is  very 
slurred from the medicine.  But I think I understand.  Just  relax.  
You're in the hospital.  You're doing fine, but we can't  let you move 
around.  That is why you are restrained."  She  paused a moment, 
giving it time to sink in.  "Now, I'm going to  let go of your hands 
gradually.  You have to stay still.  If  you're not, we'll have to sedate 
you again.  Is this understood?"   She sounded tired and harassed and 
busy.  He nodded.  "Ok, do you  promise you'll stay still.  I can't take 
off the restraints yet.   You'll have to behave with them in place.  Do 
you?"  He nodded  again, yielding to her authority and not wanting 
any more drugs  clouding his mind.  

She let go, slowly, prepared to take hold again if he didn't  cooperate.  
But he offered her no resistance, and after the  initial panic did not 
have the energy to fight anyway.  He laid  back in the bed, allowing 
himself to drift off into the fog that  surrounded him.  Within minutes 
he was asleep.  
                              *****

The next time he woke his head was a lot clearer.  He still felt  weak 
and the restraints were still firmly in place, but he  remembered where 
he was and didn't react to them.  His leg still  hurt, but in a different 
way now.  It throbbed as if it had been  burned.  The damaged nerves 
spread the pain unevenly.  He didn't  think it was possible for it to 
hurt more than it normally did,  but he was very cooperative about 
keeping it perfectly still.  He  dreamed about his device, still hidden in 
his quarters.  Willman  was treating the infection with a topical goo, 
apparently made  from the casaba leaves he had seen near the cave.  
It appeared to  be working.  He was recovering quickly.  He didn't 
think he could  stand to spend any more time locked inside this 
building than he  had already been.  

A few hours later, Willman came to examine his leg.  Bashir was  
familiar with his way with patients, but there was something  different 
about the man.  The desperation that had driven him was  gone, 
replaced by resignation and bitterness.  He looked around  the room, 
still crowded with victims of Their handiwork,  including himself.  
Willman was removing the bandages from his  leg, very gently and 
carefully.  He had always been through about  his technique, but this 
was done with the same extra care he had  used with all the patients 
Bashir had watched him tend to before  his turn had come.  He 
finished unwrapping the leg, and looked at  Bashir.  

"The infection's almost gone.  If it's better tomorrow I'm  sending you 
home.  I would guess you'd rather be in your own  place than here, 
and I'm sure there is someone waiting to replace  you."  Willman 
looked at the room, sadly, and Bashir felt a  numbness growing inside 
him.  He would have to deal with this  too.  "I'm sorry about the 
restraints.  I thought I'd ordered  them removed this morning.  We had 
a whole new group of patients  come in so I may have not gotten to it."  
Willman removed them  himself.  

Bashir, carefully feeling out the stranger sitting besides him,  was 
grateful for the relief.   "Thank you, Sir.  I didn't want to  bother the 
nurses.  They were too busy, and I knew they had to  ask you 
anyway."  He noticed Willman was watching a child a few  beds away 
who was still asleep, looking worried.  Bashir didn't  want him to leave 
yet, concerned about a torment he remembered  from before.  "Ugh, 
Sir, can you do something about the itching?   It's already bothering 
me." 

Willman gave him his full attention again.  "Next time the  bandages 
are changed I'll fix that.  Look, I know we need you,  but I need you 
well.  You're staying in bed until I say so this  time.  The viral epidemic 
is over, but there is still an awful  lot left to do.  No arguments."  

Since he didn't have the strength to sit up in bed, Willman  received 
none.  But Bashir watched him the rest of the afternoon,  as he 
checked one patient after another, giving each his full if  brief 
attention, and acting unlike Bashir had ever seen him  behave before.  
Later, after the doctor had left, it occurred to  him that the reality of 
their lives had become a little more  grim, if someone like Willman had 
given up.  

                              *****

He was aware they had changed the mattress.  The old one had been  
lumpy, but this one had different lumps.  In a way it was  
disappointing, even if neither was all that comfortable.  He was  used 
to the other one.  And until Willman allowed him to get out  of bed, he 
would be getting used to this one.  

No one had said it in so many words, but he'd figured out that  Lonnie 
was feeling guilty.  She had checked him before bed, but  to avoid 
waking him had not checked everything and had missed the  
beginnings of the infection.  No one was blaming her, except  herself, 
but at least for the first few days, she was giving him  every spare 
minute she could.  She brought every meal, and shared  her own 
meals with him.  He appreciated the attention, though at  times he fell 
asleep before he could finish.  The day after he'd  come home, the 
morning crew had found her sleeping on his couch  as he was having 
a particularly bad night.  The next day she had  been busy most of the 
day, but still managed to bring his food.   He didn't have much 
appetite, but he ate much more when he had  someone to eat with.  

It was the next day that changed things forever.  

She had missed breakfast, having been too busy, and had hurried  
through lunch.  He didn't ask, but gathered that things were not  
going well.  He had decided he didn't want to know, quite yet.  

She had arrived with dinner, late, after she was off work. He  called 
her into the room when she arrived.  "Could you help me?"  he asked.  
"I think I'd like to sit up but I can't pull myself  up."  

"It should make it easier to eat, too," she said as she helped  him up 
and against a pile of pillows.  "How do you feel?" she  asked, 
concerned.  

"Much better.  At least I'm not dizzy.  I have been looking  forward to 
dinner."  She brought in their food, able to eat  without helping him 
for once.  It was a strange feeling, he  thought, sharing a meal with a 
friend when the world was falling  to pieces around them, but these 
few moments of privacy made it  easier to take.  They ate in silence, as 
had become their custom,  and she cleared the dishes away.  She was 
still there, just  keeping him company, when the regular nurse came 
to check his  leg.  Lonnie had, oddly enough, left the room.  

The nurse had slid him down in his bed so she could do a better  job, 
and was examining an area that was not healing well when  Lonnie 
wandered back in.  She began to take a sample of the  tissue before 
continuing with the bandaging.  Lonnie stood by the  door, just 
watching, looking as if she was ready to run.  The re_ bandaging took 
a long time, and she drifted away.  He was helped  back up, and the 
nurse left.  

When Lonnie returned she was upset.  She stood by the door,  staring 
at his bandaged leg.  "I'm so sorry.  It's my fault that  you had to go 
through this."  She didn't move from where she  stood.  

He looked at her, letting the worry he felt show.  "No," he said,  "It's 
not.  It happened.  You didn't have any reason to suspect  anything 
was wrong." 

She refused to look at him.  "But I should have checked anyway.   It's 
procedure." 

"Yes," he said insistently, "It's procedure.  But you used your  
judgement.  It was a mistake.  It's going to be fine." 

Lonnie hadn't moved from where she stood.  "But it should not  have 
happened." 

"All right, it shouldn't have happened.  But it did.  You won't  always 
make the most perfect decisions, especially not now."  He  looked at 
her, slightly annoyed.  "Would you come here and sit  down?" Slowly, 
reluctantly, she made her way to his side.  He  took her hand.  "Look, 
you made a mistake.  But I forgive you.   Isn't that enough?"  

"I suppose it will have to be," she said.  She leaned forward,  careful of 
his leg.  He sat forward so she might put her arms  around him, then 
leaned back, pulling her closer.  There had  always been a little 
distance left between them before, but this  time she pushed against 
him.  She laid her head on his shoulder.   "I just can't stand the 
thought of losing you." 

"I'm still here," he whispered, and before either of them knew  what 
had happened she was looking at him.  She was sitting on the  side of 
the bed, leaning closer.  He drew her towards him, and  her eyes were 
excited and scared and very alive.  "But you, don't  ever go away."  He 
pulled her to him.  

It was a hungry kiss, one drawn from the need not to be alone, as  
well as the need for each other.  It was desperate,  unanticipated, and 
intense, neither prepared for the emotions it  would bring.  But it was 
real, and for just a moment they could  forget all the misery and took 
a little piece of joy.  

When it ended, they were reluctant to let go of each other.  She  closed 
her eyes and lay her head against his shoulder.  He  stroked her hair 
absently with his free hand.  They sat together,  just holding each 
other, for a long time.  

But eventually she moved her head and he his hand, and leaned  
forward to release her arms.  She retreated to the chair.  He  laid back 
on the pillows, holding onto the moment as hard as he  could.  She 
reached out a hand, and he took it, holding her  tight.  

But then, he remembered what was hidden in the small broken  
corner in the cabinet behind her.  He wanted her desperately, but  not 
now, not when he could destroy her as easily as himself.  He  knew he 
was too dependent on the device, and could not bring  himself to 
smash it.  But if he could go back and do anything in  his life over he 
would have thrown it in the box that first  night.  What was his 
salvation had just become another trap.  

Lonnie looked at him, her face a jumble of sadness and joy.  "I  love 
you.  I need you.  But I can't take . . . this.  Not now.  Not when . . . . " 

"I know," he said sadly. "What happened?" 
"We lost a couple of people today.  Respiratory cases.  They just  
couldn't fight off the infections anymore." 

He held out his arms and she came to him, holding him just as  
closely as before, but it was a different touch.  It spoke of  friends who 
needed each other much too desperately to risk the  uncertainty of 
change, and yet knew that within them, the  difference was already 
there.  

                              *****

Lonnie continued to share dinner, and whenever she could manage  to 
bring lunch.  His leg was healing well, but Willman kept him  in bed 
for more than a week and away from work for two.  He was  impatient, 
and Lonnie told him everything that had happened  during the day.  
They had lost four more people of secondary  causes, or pre_existing 
problems.  Three of them were children.   He had asked Willman how 
bad it might get, but Willman simply  said "worse".  

But when he did return to work, for as long as he could manage  
without becoming exhausted, he had one patient he wanted to see  
first.  Lonnie had told him she was admitted three days before,  with a 
sudden severe flare up of her chronic condition, he had  asked 
Willman to at least visit the child, but Willman had  refused.  By the 
time he came back to work, she was in the  children's critical ward, a 
small, hot, incoherent bundle.  The  drugs they had used before 
helped, but were not likely to save  the child's life.  

He came in the ward, spotting her bed by the presence of both  
parents sitting next to her.  She lay, unmoving, in the bed,  growing 
weaker every hour.  Lonnie had told him she was not  expected to last 
the night.  

The parents were in shock, watching their dying child's life fade  
almost visibly as they waited.  The mother looked up at him,  tears not 
yet shed, and offered her chair.  He refused and found  an empty one 
nearby.  "Thank you for coming, Healer.  Katre asked  about you but 
she knew you were ill." 

Very subdued, the cost of the epidemic real for the first time,  he said, 
"I'd have come before but Dr. Willman wouldn't let me  out of bed."  He 
looked down at the child, so still and flushed  with fever.  "I almost 
came anyway." 

"No," said the father, staring at the wall.  "You have to recover  so you 
can help these other children.  Nothing can be done for  her anymore.  
She had been sick so much in the last few years.   It was only getting 
worse." 

Bashir knew what he meant.  Even with all the resources of  Starfleet 
and Bajor available, he had barely saved her the first  time.  But it still 
made him angry.  She was doing better with  the new medications 
they had started using on the station.  She  had a chance to grow up 
there.  But here the chronically ill  didn't stand much of a chance, 
with the limited medicines they  had.  "She would have been fine 
without the virus," he said.  

The father said bitterly, "My daughter would have been fine  without 
the Cardassians and their disease." 

Bashir looked at him, wishing Willman and Sisko had allowed the  
origin of the virus to leak out.  The Cardassians had left behind  little 
pieces of destruction to harm children such as Katre, but  They were 
killing her.  He wanted to tell the parents, to tell  all the parents of 
these critically ill children who had made  them sick.  He wondered, 
once it did come out, if they would do  it again, or if this one 
demonstration had been enough.  

The child's breathing was becoming irregular, and he checked her  
pulse.  It had become erratic as well.  "It won't be long," he  told the 
parents, preparing to go.  

"No, stay if you can," said the mother.  "She would like that." 
 
He sat with them while little Katre's breathing grew fainter and  her 
pulse more erratic.  In a short while, undramatically, she  simply 
stopped breathing and died.  He took care of the details,  getting the 
child's body moved to a private room so the parents  could stay a 
while to say good bye.  He led them to the room, and  quietly closed 
the door.  

Someday he'd pay Them back for this and all the others. 

                              *****

He ate his lunch silently, Lonnie watching him without comment.   
When he was done, he stared at the wall of his room, not touching  
the bowl.  "I heard she died," said Lonnie softly.  

"I was holding her hand," he said.  "We are going to save as many  of 
these people as we can, and not let Them murder any more than  they 
must."  Lonnie felt the growing anger in him, and it scared  her.  She 
was afraid he would ultimately sacrifice himself if  that was what it 
took, and she needed him too much__everyone  needed his skills too 
much. She squeezed his hand.  He looked at  her, speaking very 
slowly, "and someday, they'll pay for this." 

Lonnie understood his anger and pain, hoping it wouldn't destroy  
him.  He couldn't save them all, but she knew each patient that  lived 
would be a victory.  That was the only one's he could have  right now.  

                              *****

Julian had tried to sleep, exhausted by the child's death and his  own 
still weak condition.  But it was to no avail.  When he first  learned 
about the virus, he had been bitter.  It fit in the  expected pattern too 
well.  He had felt anger, but it was  tempered by it not being much of a 
surprise.  It still hadn't  been real.  Even his own sickness hadn't quite 
defined the cost. 

But he had seen its effects in Willman and the sudden change to a  
very different man.  At first the new man was only in private,  but 
since the epidemic had come he had dropped all the masks.  He  was 
just resigned, and saddened, and broken.  Julian hadn't liked  the 
man who had written the overbearing rules, but would still  prefer him 
over this defeated man who had replaced him. 

Julian vowed he would not be that way.  Katre's death had marked  a 
change in him.  Bitterness had become outrage.  He knew he  could 
not stop their plague.  But he would fight them, as a  doctor, one 
patient at a time.  He would not accept the  inevitable; he would fight 
to preserve each life.  Each patient  saved counted as a victory. 

He wanted to talk to Willman, to tell him not to give up.  But if  he 
allowed him to become close, Willman might notice the device.   As 
things were, with all the work ahead of him, he couldn't stand  to lose 
it.  He sensed that Willman would probably protect him,  but would 
take it.  Maybe he could use the instrument in the  cave, and if they 
went on another walk he'd bring his little  salvation in hopes of that.  
But there wasn't time, now, to go to  the cave. 

He knew he was taking a chance, but it was his to take.  Lonnie  or 
Willman, or anyone else, would be unknowingly sharing the  danger.  
He would not ask that of friends. 

Some day he could let Lonnie in, but not yet. 

                              ***** 

It was the middle of a particularly cold night.  Even snuggled,  he felt 
freezing as he lay with his arms wrapped around his wife,  his two 
young children cuddled near in the smallest bedroom.   They shared 
the small room at night, using their small heater to  help warm the 
room.  It was the only way they could heat a room.   The little heater 
had little effect in a larger room.  So Carl  Jackson and his family had 
resorted to the oldest means of  warmth, sharing their own.  

But it was not a very big room, and with the two children curled  so 
close he couldn't move, making it difficult to sleep.  Cheryl  had been 
too tired to care, and pressed near him, sound asleep.   He listened to 
the rough breathing of his daughter, and the  wheezing of his son.  
They were still sick, but he was assured  they would recover.  Both 
had survived the virus only to come  down with severe colds soon 
after.  He could hear the icy wind  that had been blowing the last few 
days moving things around.  At  least the house kept it outside, but 
that was small comfort when  it was so cold.  He had been told that it 
wasn't as bad when the  snow came, but he didn't know if he was 
prepared for that.  

He could not remember being warm.  Only when he was sick had the  
bitter cold outside not been noticeable.  It was not so hard on  the 
children, naturally warmer and not yet used to the controlled  interior 
temperatures he and Cheryl had lived in all their lives,  but for the 
adults it was miserable.  She seldom complained, and  he felt guilty 
when he went to work, for the older buildings were  usually warmer.  
He looked forward to the nights, when they  huddled together in the 
small room and he felt close to his  family.  

But there had been more rumors, and he knew them to be more  
reliable than most.  The details of the Federation colony that  had 
defied Them and fought back were being leaked now.  Families  had 
been ripped apart, and the surviving adults had been deported  to 
numerous places as a warning.  The children had been taken  away.  
Every rumor of "activities" that came down the grapevine  made him 
hold his wife and children closer, and it was harder to  sleep.  He 
wondered how many more nights he would have them to  hold.  

If he lost them, nothing would matter at all.