LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year 1

Part 2 - Transience

Chapter 3

Lonnie was watching him as he chose the gift, especially 
as he carefully unwrapped and untied each piece of the 
decoration. He had done that as a child and it had become 
his trademark. Her gift and the one from Mr. Vance were 
the only ones done up with all the extra tape and 
ribbons. Mr. Vance was a friend of the family, but she 
must have asked about the ribbons. It touched him. He
saved her gift for last so the day would end up being 
something more like home. 

It was heavy. She had grinned at his remark about it 
being a box of socks. Carefully peeling off each ribbon, 
he was eager to see what was hidden inside. He looked up 
as he pulled loose the final piece of paper, noting her 
own anticipation. All he could see was a nondescript box, 
but the top was taped shut as well. He toyed with the 
top, watching her from the corner of his eye and enjoying 
her anticipation. 

"Ok, James, enough, open it up," said Dr. Willman, 
laughing. 

With a last quick turn of a small knife, he carefully 
slipped off the top. Excited, he peaked inside before 
touching any of his surprise. But he had not anticipated 
anything like this. Totally awed, he gushed, "Wow, this 
is ...perfect." For a moment, he wished he could have 
found a better word, but ceased to care as he pulled out 
the first of his treasures. 

Reverently, he held up the small container to the light, 
noting the shimmering colors. He'd heard of this kind of 
paint, but it was special and not many tried it. He'd 
dreamed of this kind of art supplies. His eyes shining, 
he carefully laid it on the table and took the next 
container from the box. One by one, he sheltered them 
protectively in his hand as if priceless, and carefully 
lined them up next to each other. It was an unimaginable 
treasure. Everyone had given him something, but this gift 
had made it a real birthday party. 

The last gift having been opened, his audience drifted 
off, heading towards the food. Lonnie stayed, watching as 
he was spreading out the contents on the table. He 
stroked the little tubes and boxes with the strange 
markings that she had found. Totally absorbed in his gift 
he didn't see her come up to him. "I'm glad you like 
them. I wasn't sure they'd get here in time for your 
birthday." 

A little startled, he asked, "How did you find some of 
this?"

"I have sources. I used to have some of this," she said, 
picking up a small cube of iridescent rock.

"That's right, you said you'd done some art. This is 
pretty rare stuff for a hobby."

"Well, it was a little more than a hobby. I was attending 
the Art Academy at Caldar."

He grinned. "You were? My grandfather says I'm going to 
get in the next session. He wants me to come home in a 
few months. I'm gonna be paroled from this rock."

"Good for you. You'll love it there. Everybody tried to 
talk me into staying but I was keeping somebody like you 
from getting in." 

"I don't get it. Why would you quit? It's so hard to get 
in," he said, amazed.

Lonnie was thinking. "My family got me in. They were sure 
I'd discover I really did like art. I discovered that I 
really didn't. It's nice enough for an occasional hobby, 
but that's about all." She sighed. "Now for you it's
life. I can understand that feeling. That was how I felt 
about nursing."

James considered that. "My grandfather wanted to be a 
musician. But he grew up on a little dust heap like this 
and never really had the chance. He is the one part of my 
family that really understands about art."

"Oh, my family never liked the idea. If I had to do it, I 
should at least be a doctor. They couldn't understand I 
didn't want that."

"You're almost a doctor, with all those certifications."

"Ah, but that was to qualify for a post like this."

He studied her, a little curious. "That's one thing I 
don't get about you. Why would you want to end up on a 
dusty rock like this? I mean, if you're that good, you 
could have gone anywhere."

She looked resigned. "That's something you'll never 
understand. I felt stifled on Earth. It was all too easy. 
Here we have challenges. The soil we've made is real, 
it's living. We're going to make this place come alive. I 
really wish you could understand."

She was glowing from the reverie. James was polite, but 
didn't find it impressive. It was the same way all the 
hardy pioneers on this rock felt.  Personally, he liked 
being suffocated by all the conveniences. "I guess not,"
he said, and shrugged.

*****

The awkward moment was rescued by Mr. Vance, accompanied 
by one of his aides who was looking at James's assortment 
of treasure. "Very nice, James, but food's ready," said 
Vance. 

Rafferson added, joking, "Come on, kid, you've got hungry
people here." James nodded and began carefully storing 
his gifts in the box, first holding each reverently. Mr. 
Vance understood his family's tradition, especially the 
picnic and the birthday person being the first through 
the line. His father and Vance were good friends, and it 
was as a personal favor that James had been sent here 
during his parents' bitter divorce. At least that was
done now, and he could go home. 

The food was good, nothing unusual for the Cyrus colony, 
but James did appreciate the attempt at cheering him up 
with the proper party. Lonnie had wandered off, and he 
sat down on one of the little benches to eat his lunch. 
He looked across the small square, currently covered with 
a lacy, grass-like cover. At a distance it almost passed 
for grass. The guests had bunched together around the 
tables and were eating. Even for his birthday party, it 
wasn't unusual for James to go off alone. James had 
never, and would never, fit in here. 

He was touched by the party, but it still wasn't home. 
Everything was too quiet. All the children should be here 
playing in the sun, and he missed their laughter. Despite 
his determination to at least feign good spirits, he was
starting to feel his usual gloom. At least it would be 
dusk soon and they would all go home, and leave him to 
his treasures. He would put the other gifts away later. 
Those were all practical items, things people would 
replicate for themselves anywhere but here. Here, the 
replicator was on a need-only basis. Everyone but James 
thought it was a good idea.

Lonnie broke his gloomy mood with a tap on the shoulder. 
"You have some messages, birthday boy. They just came 
in." He handed her his food and sprinted for the 
communications building. 

*****

An hour later, his mood was much better. He didn't even 
care that his food was cold when he retrieved it from 
Lonnie and motioned that she should come. Finding a more 
private place, he blurted out his news. "My grandfather 
just heard. I've been accepted. I start the next 
session." 

She didn't have to ask where. "So, you got a happy 
birthday after all. I'm so glad for you." She shook his 
hand. "Do you want to announce it?"

"Not yet. I want to tell my family personally and if Mr. 
Vance hears, they will."

She nodded. "When are you leaving?"

"The next supply ship. Just two more months and you can 
all be pioneers without me."

She laughed. "Believe it or not some of us will miss 
you."

James enjoyed the rest of his sixteenth birthday. 
Foremost among his thoughts were that his seventeenth 
birthday would be much different. 

*****

The two leveled areas, arraigned like stair steps, were 
of impressive size. The upper level was a little narrower 
than the lower, and not as flat, but it was only meant to 
hold the machines. The lower area was much wider, and 
both men saw something very different than the crumbly 
rock surface that existed today. They saw lush farmland. 
In the next few days they would begin loading the 
terraforming equipment in place and start the process of 
making a dream into reality. It was a heady moment for 
both.

"Remember when we first proposed this?" mused Justin 
Blanchard, who had spent a lifetime working towards this 
moment.

Walter Vance smiled. "They said we were crazy. We 
couldn't make useable land that fast." Both men gazed 
toward the smaller test field where the spring crop
had been so recently been planted. That had proven the 
method worked. In one season they had turned the 
crumbling rocky soil of this world into rich loam,
using only carefully measured chemicals, heat and 
pressure. This field would make them famous. But more 
importantly, it would prove they were right. As friends 
and partners they looked forward to presenting the report 
this field would make possible, and most of all to their 
victory over the opponents that had denied them so long.

For fifteen years they had shared a dream and fought to 
make it real. Justin Blanchard was no politician but he 
was a brilliant chemist. His continued improvements to 
the already simple process had made it feasible to use on 
large areas like the newly graded field. Walter Vance was 
also a scientist, but he had the contacts. While he did 
not enjoy it, he had spent his time appealing to anyone 
who would listen. In the end, he had succeeded. The 
scientific establishment within the Federation was still 
not interested, but plenty of other places were. It was a 
group of individuals that had sponsored this colony, and 
it was to them that Vance and Blanchard owed the 
culmination of their dream. For the two men, it had 
become the single driving force in their lives. To 
shatter the dream would be nothing less than to shatter 
the dreamers. 

"When do we start?" asked Blanchard impatiently.

Vance was still studying the little field. "We have 
already," he said proudlyas the two men fell into 
reflective silence.

*****

"Then that's it?" asked Lonnie, watching as her boss 
studied the latest result of the ailing replicator. 

"So far off it's useless," sighed Dr. Willman. Everybody 
knew how much he hated machines. He used them to treat 
his patients, but didn't like depending too much on 
technology. He usually kept it to himself, but quiet 
comments under his breath today made it plain that he was 
thinking of it. Raising his foot, he clearly wanted to 
give the replicator a swift kick. "No telling when we'll 
get a replacement. Do a complete survey of what we have. 
Hope there are no emergencies. I've got to see Vance 
about communications."

Lonnie was mildly concerned over the recent problems with 
communications since James' birthday. "James said he 
couldn't get his parents, just a lot of noise. He said 
it's been getting worse every time he tried." 

Willman was trying to cover his worry but wasn't doing 
too well. "Last time I tried we couldn't get anything. 
Nothing but static. Considering how long it takes, I've 
got to get a request in for another one of these," he 
said, tapping the replicator with his foot. "I'll be in 
Vance's office," he said.

"He won't like that," suggested Lonnie. "Perhaps over 
lunch would be better."

"No. He has to listen in his office," grumbled Willman as 
he left. 

*****

Walter Vance disliked meetings. After so many years of 
promoting his dream in hundreds of them, he carefully 
avoided them now. When he met with his staff it was over 
lunch or for an afternoon picnic. Vance used the office 
for privacy when he had things on his mind. Willman knew 
that and had invaded the sanctuary, but wouldn't leave.

That was what was so annoying about Dr. Willman. After 
more than two years, Vance still could not bring himself 
to call the doctor by his nickname Willy, as nearly 
everyone else did. The doctor was generally easygoing, 
but his argumentative side deeply perturbed Vance. Both 
were stubborn men, and they were civil but never 
friendly. Vance knew they should understand each other,
but for one important difference. Willman had made his 
own discoveries and quietly accepted his disappointment 
when his work was ignored. Vance could not forget how the 
Federation had never taken him and Justin seriously. 

"I would think you would be more concerned with 
communications," said Willman, "since we are on the far 
edge of nowhere." 

Vance disliked being lectured. "I am, Doctor. But exactly 
what am I suppose to do about it? I've had technical 
support look over the unit. It's working fine. The 
problem is coming from up there," he said, pointing to 
the sky. "I can't fix that."

"The last time I looked it wasn't even being monitored. I 
suggest you at least have somebody on duty around the 
clock in case something does come through. I spoke to 
James. He has a scanning system set up that should alert 
us to anything that gets through even if it is garbled. 
But you have to have somebody there to hear it."

"Ok, Doctor, I'll do that. I can't think of anything 
else. It's happened before. It's always been natural 
phenomenon."

Willman was leaning over him now. Vance hated being 
trapped. "But what if it isn't this time?" asked Willman 
in a deadly quiet tone.

Vance was getting angry. He knew all about the 
possibility, but Cryus couldn't do anything but hope. He 
didn't see any reason to worry without more facts. "We 
hope they ignore us, I guess," he said sarcastically. But 
he really didn't see anything but paranoia in the doctor, 
and didn't care to cater to it. "I really don't see a 
reason to worry. Oh yeah, how's that replicator of 
yours?"

Willman looked annoyed. "Functionally dead, at least. The 
tech staff is stumped. I have to get a replacement soon." 
He emphasized the "soon".

"I understand," said Vance. "I'll go to our sponsors if 
nothing else. They could get you one, probably." Vance 
really did see his point, but wasn't willing to show it. 
He had learned a few things in his hundreds of meetings.

"Good," said Willman, "Tell them it's urgent." He wasn't 
happy, but had made his point.

Vance reached for his lunch, growing cold, as Willman 
left with the two men in a state of truce.

*****

James was on duty at communications when the Antelope 
made their first contact. The comm line, which had been 
giving off little more than static, suddenly came to 
life. "Cyrus 3, this is the Antelope, do you read?" 

James had been daydreaming. His voice sounded a little 
startled when he answered. "Antelope, this is Cyrus. 
You're scratchy but we can read you." 

"My name is Captain Barrett. I need to talk to someone in 
authority there."

"That would be Director Vance. I'll send for him."

"Contact will be resumed in five minutes," said Barrett.

James heard it from the door, already searching for 
someone to relay a message. As no one was in sight, he 
started running.

*****

Walter Vance was having a quiet lunch and did not want to 
be disturbed. Willman had asked again that morning about 
the replicator and Vance had replied that he was trying. 
The communications silence was starting to worry Vance. 
He was trying to clear the worry for a little while over 
lunch when James burst in the door. Vance was annoyed, at 
first expecting Willman again. James knew better but at 
least he would leave. "Could you at least knock, James. 
And can't it wait?"

But he couldn't miss the breathless rush of words. "I'm 
sorry, Sir, but it's real important. We got somebody on 
communications," gushed James, with a sudden breath 
interrupting, "that wants to talk to you."

Vance lowered his fork, studying the young man's 
eagerness. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but any 
break in the silence was welcome. "He asked for me by
name?"

"Well, someone in authority. That would be you. They will 
resume contact any minute now."

Vance left his lunch alone and motioned the young man out 
the door.

*****

"Cyrus, this is the Antelope. Do you read?"

"That's Barrett," said James.

"This is Walter Vance, Director of the Cyrus 3 
Experimental Agricultural Colony. Is this Captain 
Barrett?"

"It is. I have a surprise for you, Mr. Vance. I'm beaming 
down Captain Sisko first so he can explain the 
emergency."

Vance was suddenly scared. Barrett's tone was deadly 
serious. He had a vision of a sudden order to evacuate, 
and couldn't bear the thought of leaving now when they 
were so close. James was staring at the comm unit with 
awe.

"Be reasonable. What's going on that you can't tell me 
now?" Vance tried to sound confident, but knew he didn't 
quite manage. 

"You're going to have some temporary visitors. We're in 
the middle of an evacuation."

Vance could hear the annoyance in the captain's voice, 
but the news of visitors was more alarming. Where would 
Cyrus, with its tiny population, put them? "Captain, I 
don't know what's going on here, but we don't have any 
facilities for visitors."

"I'm aware of that, but there are a few things you don't 
know yet. Captain Sisko will explain."

Vance stared at the comm unit while James looked around. 
Suddenly, a tall black man in Starfleet uniform appeared 
from the sparkle in the corner. He smiled diplomatically 
at Vance and James, and walked forward.

Vance had stood up. Shaking Vance's hand, the man 
introduced himself. "I'm Captain Benjamin Sisko, and we 
have the first group of evacuees from Deep Space Nine. 
We're going to have to stay here for a little while."

"Evacuees?" asked Vance, swamped by the word. "Why is 
there an evacuation?"

"Because the Dominion fleet attacked my station, and we 
didn't have a choice. I've had to leave some of my people 
behind and Barrett has to go back for them. So we need to 
stay here temporarily. The Dominion fleet is watching the
station. I don't know how long they will wait before 
taking it and my people."

Sisko's tone was nothing to argue with. Vance still 
didn't like the idea but didn't see a choice. The news of 
the Dominion attack and an impending war did not yet 
register. "How many people do you have?" 

"About 300."

Vance tried to imagine where that many people would go. 
The reason for their need wasn't real yet. It was easier 
to think of Cyrus swamped with strangers but he looked up 
at the sky just the same, wondering if the alien ships 
were following after. "I don't know where we are going to 
put 300 people," was all he could manage to say.

"Mr. Vance, we have our own supplies. We don't want to 
disturb your people. I just want my own people safe. Do 
you have a problem with that?" Sisko's voice was terse 
and impatient.

Vance disliked the tone, especially as he had not meant 
his comment that way. Sisko knew of the attack already 
and was used to it. Vance was still trying to believe it 
wasn't a bad dream. "Captain," he said slowly, "I don't 
have a problem with that. I was simply saying that we 
don't have a lot of areas big enough to hold that many 
people. But we'll find one." He paused, his hesitation 
plain even to Sisko. "The attack, how bad, how many 
ships?"

Sisko stared at him in silence. "Too many," he said 
grimly. Then, he impatiently paced to the door, Vance and 
James following. Speaking to his ship, Sisko tapped his 
commbadge. "Begin sending supplies down at my signal. 
We're looking for a location."

Vance followed him out of the door, catching up outside. 
Sisko had left the settlement and was standing on the 
twin platforms. "Captain, this attack. Can you tell us 
anything? We haven't been able to get much from long-
range communications for a couple of days."

"It's being jammed by the Dominion. The bulk of their 
fleet headed towards the Federation. I will need to 
contact Starfleet."

Vance was stunned. Somehow, the nightmare that loomed in 
the distance became more real. But like Sisko, he kept it 
pushed away. "If you can. We haven't had much luck."

"I'll have some of my people look at the equipment. Maybe 
they can boost it a bit." Sisko was looking around at the 
large and relatively flat expanse they were standing on. 
"This looks useable."

His disappointment over the test only momentary, Vance 
replied quietly, "We'd just finished preparing it for 
terraforming, but you can have it for now. Won't it be a 
bit crowded?" 

"We don't intend to be here that long." Sisko tapped his 
communicator again and began issuing orders. "Send 
O'Brien and a few of his people down to see if they can 
get a signal through the jamming," he finished. 

Vance watched as the man took charge of his people, and 
backed away. Sisko was scared, but did not dare show it. 
Vance could still not believe that the news was real, but 
the field was gone already, Sisko's people materializing 
in small bunches, clutching their meager belongings.

Stumbling back to his office, Vance remembered a speech 
he'd made once to an aide group. He'd told them how his 
method could make the difference between life and death 
to the refugee populations clustered in unspoken places 
where paradise did not live. He only hoped that he would 
not have to see his words proven so close to home.


*****

The future field was becoming crowded with people and 
crates and furniture. Sisko had ordered the largest bay, 
which had held the bulk of his people, to be emptied of 
everything so there would be more room for supplies. The 
other smaller bays would be large enough for the 
passengers, and despite what he'd said to Vance he wanted 
as many supplies on hand as possible. Vance had been
persuaded to use his large industrial replicator for 
tents. The first of them had gone up already and the 
supplies were being sorted. The Antelope was already 
gone. 

*****

The colony's ageing comm unit had been modified without 
much trouble. As the impromptu camp materialized on the 
field, Sisko had taken over the comm unit himself with no 
luck. But finally, after several hours of nothing, a 
noisy connection to Starfleet had been made.

"We will need more than the freighter," said Sisko, using 
the same clipped and insistent tone he'd used with Vance 
earlier. The fuzzy image on the screen nodded a bit but 
the reply was inaudible. "I have too many people to take 
the chance on something so slow. And we can't stay here 
for long."

A blur of static eradicated most of the reply, but Vance 
could make out a cryptic "you'll get instructions and 
we'll coordinate things," satisfying neither an angry 
Sisko nor Vance. Vance had finally allowed the news to 
sink in, and he shared Sisko's unease over the situation. 
Sisko pointed at Vance. "This man is in charge of this 
little colony. Perhaps you'll believe him if he tells
you how it is."

Walter Vance had spoken to many important people. But he 
realized that this was the most important appeal he'd 
ever made. Sisko had tried to be a little more diplomatic 
than Walter expected, but then the Captain was used to 
Starfleet.  But Walter wasn't and he understood that 
Sisko was hoping he'd say what they didn't want to hear.

"Sir, I don't know you but I know this place. We have 
perhaps forty people here, and we have neither the water, 
or the food, or the shelter to house all of your 
*evacuees* for more than a little while. I don't know 
*why* Captain Sisko chose to come here, but he did and 
now I *demand* that you take care of the problem. I don't 
want to see anyone suffer, not his people, nor mine. But 
you claim you'll coordinate this evacuation and I expect 
these people to be gone very soon."

Sisko looked as grim as before, but he nodded. The static 
crackled and Vance could just make out the calm voice on 
the other end. "Director Vance, I wish I could send 
immediate aid, but we have other problems. My answer 
stands. Starfleet out."

The screen turned to black, and the background hiss 
resumed. Sisko slumped a little in the chair while Vance 
kept staring at the screen.

"I hope you don't mind extended company," said Sisko with 
a trace of resignation. "The Dominion fleet was heading 
their way. We tried."

Vance was more worried than before. Sisko had finally let 
down his guard and Walter could see the desperation. 
"They will send someone," ventured Vance.

"Someone," muttered Sisko, exhaustion written in his 
face, as he slowly stood.

"I'll stay," offered Vance, just to avoid the mess 
outside.

Sisko nodded silently, slowly walking towards the door.

"When," he said, pausing, "When we go you should go, too. 
Starfleet will insist. You should know that."

Then, the tired Captain left and Vance was alone with the 
hissing unit to keep him company. The day's events closed 
in on him, the grim silence of the hiss the most hideous 
sound he'd ever heard. He didn't want to leave Cyrus. He
didn't want his dream interrupted again. But then, 
somehow that didn't really matter so much now.

Once he'd seen a picture of Willman before the 
Cardassians had changed him. He kept thinking of it now, 
of the innocence destroyed, and wondered how many 
Willmans would be left at the end. 

*****

Sisko had retreated to the eery silence of the hiss a few 
hours later, still exhausted but feeling useless.

There was a tap on the door. "Come in."

It was one of the locals, an older man with unruly 
graying hair, that Sisko had not noticed in the onlookers 
that had gathered outside. "I'm Dr. Willman. I understand 
your CMO isn't here yet. I just wondered if you needed 
anything."

Sisko studied the man. Vance had worn the look of someone 
about to drown, but Willman wasn't so naive. He was still 
in shock, but already thinking. There was an immense 
sadness in his eyes. In its own way, it was harder than 
Vance's confusion to take. But Sisko did appreciate the 
consideration. "Not at the moment, though something for a 
headache wouldn't be a bad idea."

"I'll send something over." He hesitated, and Sisko 
looked up expectantly. "Captain, would you have anyone 
who could look at a replicator? The medical replicator is 
way off spec. We haven't had any success at fixing it and 
with communications down I haven't been able to get a new 
one. Given the current circumstances, it's rather 
important."

"Yes, I'll get O'Brien to look at it." Sisko watched as 
the doctor nodded, keeping his composure. He was already 
making plans, thought Sisko. "He needs to get a few 
things done first. He and his crew have been working on 
this all day", Sisko added, pointing at the comm unit. 

"Any luck yet?"

Vance hadn't said anything. Sisko wondered if the two got 
along. "We made communication. If it worked they know 
where we are. Now we wait for another reply."

Sisko wondered if Willman had practiced his speech. It 
was spoken so carefully, with just a hint of urgency. He 
wasn't trying to make matters worse, but Sisko suspected 
that he expected them to get that way. "Just in case, 
when your people get here, I hope they are bringing 
medical supplies."

Sisko studied the man, already having decided he liked 
him. "Dr. Bashir was ordered to. He would in any case. 
He's a very conscientious doctor." 

"I look forward to meeting him." Sisko remembered Bashir 
after he returned from the Dominion prison camp. He'd 
changed. He was quiet and careful. The trace of youth 
that played against the brilliance was gone. Willman was 
like that too. Perhaps the two would find some common 
bond to make it easier.

But Bashir and the rest were still on the station. Sisko 
had no way of telling if they were alive or free. He just 
wanted them here, no matter how crowded it was. 

"I'll just be glad when they get here," sighed Sisko.

Willman was watching too closely, and Sisko wished he'd 
go. But then Willman nodded. 

"Yes. First things first."

Sisko knew that whatever happened, Willman was going to 
matter.

*****

It had taken all day to assemble the tents, but sometime 
past dusk the last one had gone up. They had spread them 
out over the two levels, grouping three or four in a 
section, with room for pathways in between. The families 
with children had gotten the first groups set up, and 
they had grown quiet very early, despite the noise. The 
children, once put to bed, had fallen asleep immediately 
and their parents had given in to the exhaustion of the 
trip soon after. 

The same was true of each new shelter; despite the 
roughness of the setting they didn't notice that night. 
It had really been too crowded on the trip to get much 
sleep, and few people had slept much the last days on the 
station. That night, as the frantic need to hurry had 
abruptly ended, they had collapsed into deep dreamless 
sleep.

Sisko was the last to retire, his quarters a small tent 
and the narrow cot too lumpy. The breeze slipped inside 
the small door, and the noises were all unfamiliar. But 
none of that kept him awake. The Antelope should be back 
at the station in a day. His people would be here after 
that. Where they would go was anyone's guess, but he 
suspected that the feeling of crowding now would be
much worse then.

And after that? Only he and Vance had seen the fuzzy face 
on the screen, and heard the half-answers. Vance had kept 
it to himself as had Sisko. But others would guess. When 
nobody had answers and communications remained blocked 
they would all know. 

There were a lot of ships. Starfleet was strong, but how 
strong? The image of the best of the fleet blasted to 
space junk at Wolf359 filled his mind. What about the 
crews on those ships? How many of them died or were 
assimilated and written off as a cost of victory?

In the silence of the night, it was all to easy to 
remember Jennifer lying dead that day.

But it had been a long day, a long week and nothing-not 
the mattress nor the fears nor the memories--could keep 
him awake.

*****

Lonnie perched on the counter, watching the starfleeter 
named O'Brien and his assistant reduce the medical 
replicator to a heap of components. It did not give her 
any confidence. The muttered comments about burned parts 
did not help.  Willman had left earlier, leaving her to 
watch.

Finally, a red head popped up behind the half-
disassembled unit and O'Brien stepped forward, with a 
small hand-ful of pieces. They appeared darkened and 
somewhat twisted. His assistant held a small container 
out and the Chief dropped them inside. 

He held the container out for her to see. "Just how long 
have you been using this unit since it malfunctioned?" he 
asked Lonnie.

"Almost a week," she said cautiously.

"And it's been getting more and more off spec each time 
you tried?" continued O'Brien patiently.

"Well, yes."

"And when did it get so far off spec that it was 
officially broken?" 

"Uh, about three days ago."

"And since then?" he continued, sounding exasperated.

"I don't know. They were trying to fix it."

"Well, I could have it up and running if you'd have left 
it alone. As it is, you've got a major overhaul on your 
hands here. Every time you ran it you sent a charge 
through this," he said, holding up a somewhat darkened 
square, "and it controls the specs for replication. Or it 
used to."

"You wouldn't happen to have another one?" said Lonnie, 
sheepishly.

"We could replicate all the other parts, but your 
equipment wouldn't have this.  We could get it from the 
station, but we couldn't get a signal through and the
replicators are down anyway. I'm afraid you're out of 
luck."

Lonnie stared at the mess they'd made of the replicator. 
She knew there were a lot of people sleeping in tents on 
the grounds. She had heard the same stories about 
invasions and war as everybody else. She wanted them to 
all go home and things to go back to the way they'd been.

The replicator made a lie of her wishes. The two men 
loaded it into a crate without any special care. They 
dropped the box of parts and other refuse in the side.

"Maybe your rescue ship will have one," she suggested, 
wishing very hard that it be true.

She could only call the look he gave her one of pity. 
"Yeah, maybe," he said.

She watched as they carried out the box, staring at the 
place where it had been. It was their lifeline. Now it 
was gone. James had joked about the hearty pioneers. What 
if they had to be like that?

Somehow, it would be fixed. Somehow, it would work out. 
She only hoped that everybody stayed real healthy before 
that.

*****

Justin Blanchard watched the monitor as it verified that 
the terraforming unit was being emptied of its chemical 
soup. He heard Vance taping keys behind him. "They 
couldn't possibly have had worse timing. It took two days 
to mix and if we don't use it soon enough it's going to 
degrade too much. How long do we have to put up with 
them?" 

Vance sighed. He knew Justin didn't mean to, but it just 
made the fear worse. And there was no answer. "I have no 
idea. I couldn't turn him down, Justin. You didn't see 
his face."

"But why there, on our field? With this invasion we might 
get cut off. It might be badly needed."

"There wasn't anywhere else to put them. And we just have 
to wait until the Federation comes and gets them." Justin 
was an old friend but hadn't been there when Starfleet 
had evaded every question. Justin had no idea how much 
Walter didn't want to think of an answer to his question.

"And you're going to trust the Federation to care about 
us? Come on, Walter. I'm not some sponsor you're trying 
to impress. I'm your old friend. It won't matter to them 
if our project fails. You know that." Blanchard looked on 
in disbelief at his old friend. 

Walter wished he could explain. But he and Sisko had made 
a silent pact. Justin wouldn't understand anyway. "I 
really don't think we matter much to them right now. I 
think the Dominion fleet is of more concern. Doesn't that 
even worry you, Justin?" Vance was getting tired of being 
diplomatic. At least with Justin, he didn't have to lie. 

"They all worry me. I'm going to have to re-sample the 
rock when they leave. Who knows what chemicals will be 
left? We might not be able to make the right mix. Doesn't 
this project mean anything to you anymore?"

Walter was tired. He hadn't slept well for too long. He 
kept looking towards the sky, the place that had been 
their symbol of separation from the rest, and now might 
have their doom waiting above the clouds. He didn't feel 
like pandering to Justin and his blindness. "Yes, Justin, 
it does. But we have the enemy jamming our 
communications, and 300 refugees dropped on us at the 
moment.  The project will be still be there when all that 
is settled. Of course I care. But I'm not sure this is 
the right time to be doing this." 

Deeply hurt, Blanchard stared at him. "I don't believe 
I'm hearing this. Just what do we do with the chemicals 
if we're putting this on hold?"

That was at least a reasonable question. There were some 
mixed. If they had extended guests more useful land would 
be necessary. There was the other side of the cultivated 
field, and the whole process would give the bored 
visitors something to watch.

Vance hoped they might understand what they had cost 
Cryus. But it would give Justin something to do to. Right 
now, that mattered more.

"Hmmm. We have the other side of the small field. There 
should be plenty for that. It's a lot better than having 
it degrade." Vance was perfectly calm. He knew Justin 
would run with the idea.

He could see the excitement. "We could do that. It's 
still ... wrong, but it's better than nothing. I suppose 
we should start refilling this unit." 

"I'll be back later. Sisko wants to talk about 
something." Vance was almost glad for the excuse to leave 
and let Blanchard calm down. The only part he disliked 
was the excuse being Sisko. The man had a great burden to 
carry, but Walter was content to leave it to him.

*****

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Miles 
had nothing to do. Even since they had landed on this 
lonely hunk of rock, he had had a job. The urgency of the 
moment was his refuge, and he could escape into his work. 
But there was nothing to fix today. The raindrops 
spattered on the tent in fits and spurts, and Miles 
stared at the dark, wet sky and couldn't sleep. 

It had taken an eternity to get used to the beds on the 
station, but he doubted he would ever get used to this 
narrow cot. The first night he had been too exhausted to 
care, and neither the oddness of the place nor the little 
cot
mattered. But the exhaustion was wearing off now. The 
feeling of misery that had hit some earlier with too much 
time to think had ambushed him and he listened to the 
rain and tried not to toss and turn.

It was the place. He'd lived inside in a regulated 
station for too long. The tents were drafty and while the 
material didn't drip, they soaked up the waterleft in the 
rocky soil after the nearly daily rains. The mud was 
everywhere. His blanket kept falling off and was always 
damp from the wet floors. He almost fell off each time he 
tried to turn over. 

But that was all an excuse. He thought to himself that 
Keiko liked rain. He kept wondering if she'd like this. 
When he did sleep, his arm would reach out for someone 
who wasn't there. There was a small window in the tent, 
and between storms he could see the stars at night. She'd 
loved that part of living on Bajor.

Was that helping her now? Was she in a place where there 
were stars, or a cage? Were she and the children alive? 
He kept listening for the children's noises at night and 
couldn't hear them, and would wake after a dream to the 
devastating reality that they were gone.

Sisko said they'd try. But Miles was a realist. His and 
the few other families trapped on Bajor might well be 
lost forever. The sounds of other's children brought back 
vivid memories. He'd argued with Keiko too much. They'd 
never really talked. But something had kept them together 
and that was lost now. He wanted her to be alive, but 
late in the night when all there was rain, he hoped that 
she'd die easily if all life became as horrible as it had 
for the Bajorans the last time an invader had taken their 
home.

They'd been apart before. He missed her and Molly then, 
too. But he always knew she'd come back. Now, no matter 
how much he tried, he couldn't make himself believe.

He tried to feel something. He couldn't be angry at the 
enemy because then she was gone. He couldn't grieve, or 
cry. He was simply lost in a sea of nothingness where 
there had been no good byes, and no end. When there was 
work to do he could stand it, but after all that was done 
he tried to push away the nightmare and it stalked him.

He wanted to grieve. But then he'd have to say good bye. 
He surrounded himself with nothingness to keep away the 
storm.

Once, a long time ago, Kira had said you lost the moment 
you gave up. He tried to remember that, lying on a lumpy 
cot with a wet blanket and memories all he had to hold. 
Kira would go back to that life. He knew she would never 
leave her home.

She would hold on. He must try.

Noise woke him from a game with Molly and the wet tent 
surrounded him like a shroud. Light was streaming in the 
window, and he realized he'd slept a little. But it was 
morning, time to rise and work. Except that on this 
technologically backwards rock there was nothing to do--
today. He could fix the borderline things, and tomorrow 
he might be busy.

Most of these people wanted rescue today--now. But Miles 
knew that the space between home and here was full of 
Jem'Hadar, and rescue was their dream. At least they had 
one. It didn't matter much to him when the ship came--
even if.  All that mattered was too far away. Leaving 
here would just make it further.

The sun shone through the window, lighting the pebbles on 
the floor. He sat up blurry-eyed and discovered his 
roommates were already gone. He borrowed a dry blanket 
and wrapped it about himself and collapsed again, and 
lost himself in dreams of family. 

*****

The little valley was a study in contrasts. On one side, 
lush farmland had been created, already supporting its 
first full spring crop. The young plants covered the deep 
rich brown soil with a lacy cover of young leaves. A 
faint odor of wet dirt and fertilizer perfumed the air.

The opposite side of the valley was quite different. 
Flattened in patches, the dry, chalky soil of the planet 
was being covered by the table-like machines that
would make it as rich and soft as that in the green half 
of the valley. The work had started at dawn, the leveled 
areas soaked with the chemical soup mixed before the 
dream had become a refugee camp. In time, it would make 
the crumbling chalk useful, and the great silence that 
came from space gave it all a greater urgency. And as 
Vance had hoped, the visitors came to watch. 

The crowd had gathered slowly, drifting out of their 
tents, and had pushed closer, at first, as the chemicals 
bubbled their way into the soil. But then, the smell had 
hit, and all but the most hearty of them had fled. But 
while most retreated from the odor, one man eagerly made 
his way closer. 

Justin Blanchard studied the small field with a great 
sense of pride when the man approached and hesitantly 
introduced himself.

"I'm Tarlan Jaro," he said, waiting until Blanchard 
nodded. "I've heard of you, even if I doubt you've heard 
of me.

Blanchard studied the middle-aged Bajoran, noting the 
look of excitement in his eyes. "I believe our ideas were 
submitted to Bajor, though nothing came of it."

The Bajoran sighed. He shrugged. "I was a government 
official then, though not terribly important. My duty was 
to increase food production. I liked your ideas very much 
and I did push them as much as I could. But, alas, those 
who wanted the Federation's goodwill feared that your 
method wasn't approved, and too many thought it wasn't 
Bajoran enough."

"I didn't deal with that," replied Justin, intrigued with 
the enthusiasm he saw. "Walter did the meetings. Would 
you like to hear more about it, Mr. Jaro?"

"Tarlan, not Jaro. Bajoran names are backwards to yours." 
The Bajoran stepped closer, pointing at one of the 
machines sliding across a sheath of chemically-soaked 
dirt. "But others often make that mistake." He watched 
intently as others were slipped into place and the entire 
end of the field was swallowed by machines. Justin noted 
he could not take his eyes off the work.

"We mock the work of volcanos with our machines," 
explained Justin. "They bake the treated soil with heat 
and pressure until it becomes rock. But next year the 
rock will have altered to this," he said, reaching down 
and grabbing a handful of the treated soil.

Tarlan took it, running his fingers through the dirt. "I 
do hope you'll let me watch as it changes." 

Justin was excited by his new friends general enthusiasm, 
but wondered if the Bajoran was asking to join the normal 
residents of Cyrus. Surely, he and the others would be 
gone long before the field was ready. He knew about the 
hissing comm unit, and yet somehow it did not enter into 
his world quite yet. He would miss the Bajoran, though. 
Somehow, Justin knew he'd found a kindred soul.

So few shared his devotion to the project. Even Walter 
had given up on following the small details that made 
Justin's day exciting. All he wanted to know was about 
the results and when they could be showcased.

Walter wanted fame. But Justin would have been just as 
happy to simply prove it worked. He neither shared nor 
understood Walter's childish need to be praised.

"You'd have to stay awhile. It doesn't happen overnight. 
But," he said, thinking of the first complex tests that 
had never worked how they were supposed to, "But it is 
very fast in comparison with the first attempts." 

"Which were much more complex than this, I would guess. 
Or at least what I remember of it was."

Justin took a deep breath. "We realized that our best 
chance was on smaller, unaligned worlds, and for them it 
required simplicity. Ah, I remember the first
test we did with the new approach . . . . "

His visitor listened closely as he told of the first 
failures followed by growing success, and how Walter met 
with anyone who might help or had any need for the 
process.

Tarlan shook his head, sadly, when politics came up. "On 
my home, this process could have done wonders." 

Justin tried to remember everything he knew about Bajor. 
The Cardassians had abandoned it after taking everything 
of worth. "When all this is over, I'll personally 
supervise whatever application you choose," he offered.

The Bajoran just stared at the fields. "That's going to 
be a long time. I left my wife and children there. I 
don't know if I'll ever see them again."

Justin was shocked. He was inspired by the interest in 
the project, but this sense of doom didn't fit. "This 
invasion, it will work out. It always does. Look at the 
Klingons. I've heard we're allies again. It will resolve 
itself. I can wait."

His guest looked at him sadly, and for a moment he was 
reminded of the way Walter looked after he'd complained 
again about the field the refugees were ruining. "You 
haven't heard the rumors, then?"

Justin smiled, not terribly interested in them. "There 
are always rumors." He changed the subject before Tarlan 
could reply. "And when I had to do this small field 
instead of the larger one we meant to do, I altered the 
mix a bit. It's an experiment. It should be a lot richer 
soil than the other. It should yield a much better crop, 
first time out. Just in case we're on our own for a 
while, you see."

"That could be useful," the Bajoran agreed. "But what 
about the Dominion? You could be sitting in the middle of 
another Demilitarized Zone."

The first hint of real worry touched Justin Blanchard. He 
had friends who lived in what had become Maquis 
territory. He hadn't seen them for a long time and
missed them. He didn't care about politics and stayed 
away from the whole Maquis mess, but he knew his friends 
were very likely dead. For the first time, the refugees 
and the reason for their presence on his field hit him. 
But he had much on his mind and no time for the distress 
it could cause. "Let's hope things go better than that," 
he said. But despite the next few hours and the Bajoran's 
eager ear, he could no longer pretend that they were 
alone. 

*****

For most of the old residents of Cyrus, their visitors 
were still only a major inconvenience. But three hundred 
refugees had done more than disrupt their well-ordered 
plans. Sisko's people had brought most of their own 
immediate needs along, but with so little baggage and 
supplies, it was obvious that it wouldn't last. Then, 
their refugees would be far more than inconvenient.

The colony simply didn't have the means to feed that many 
people. The replicator might make up the difference for a 
time, but even that would not last forever. With only one 
small cultivated field, it would have to. And the chalky 
soil of Cyrus would grow little more than the scrubby 
grasses and mossy seasonal plants that characterized the 
native life. Everyone knew about the persistent jamming 
and the lack of answers. But the Federation had promised 
to take them away, and for once, most of the staff wanted 
to belief that the Federation would keep its promise. 

But even the most optimistic of them knew it wasn't going 
to be all that soon. And there were more coming, with 
even Sisko's own people worried about where to put them. 
But it was easier to worry about how tightly-jammed the 
visitors might be than to admit to the real fears.

For the new people had done more than take over the 
field. They had shattered the shield of illusion that 
Cyrus was safe from the universe that its residents
had fled. Sisko and his people had pulled Cyrus into a 
dangerous world where mysterious enemies could invade and 
trap Cyrus in the middle of chaos and war. And while they 
hoped that when the Starfleet people were gone life would 
go back to what it had been, deep inside they knew the 
illusion was gone forever.

But James did not belong, and for him life was suddenly 
filled with purpose. He didn't linger in his bed anymore. 
He knew, each day, that there would be something 
worthwhile to do. 

Unlike most of the rest, he found any way he could to 
spend time with the newcomers. In a small way, he 
identified with them, but mostly he just liked them 
better than the idyllic dreamers he'd know most of his 
sentence on this rock. They lived interesting lives. 
James didn't really want to share them, but the artist in 
him was captivated by the sudden drama that had revised 
all their future hopes. 

He walked through the camp, watching faces. None of these 
people had allowed reality to sink in. They had been 
driven from home to a tent on a nearly deserted rock, and 
all they were doing was existing. Parents watched 
children, safeguarding the few toys they had, while never 
letting them out of sight. Couples clung to each other, 
hardly talking but then, words weren't really needed. And 
James couldn't bear to watch those few who'd left family 
behind on Bajor, for as much as they tried to hope he 
could tell how hopeless they knew it was. He tried to 
imagine what it would be like to never see family again.

He had spent the day helping out at the camp, and 
returning to his own room, was surprised by how large and 
firm and dry it was. He was almost tempted to spend a 
night out in the rain just to see what it was like, but 
it might ruin his sketches.

For James wanted to remember this place. When he went 
home and started art school, he wanted to draw on the 
experience and was afraid that the memories would get too 
muddled. So he sat up and drew pictures, mostly quick 
sketches, but here and there pictures in detail. There 
was one woman with her baby, born the day they arrived. 
He had looked into her eyes and seen the fear for the
child, and he took special care to get her picture right. 

But James knew, no matter that it might take a little 
longer, that he would not be like them. They would leave 
Cyrus, but not really to home anymore. He was lucky. He 
was going on to a dream. He believed it would be because 
he had to, because life wouldn't matter anymore if the 
invasion changed that, too. 

He'd made himself very useful. He could talk to Vance 
when problems arose. He'd set up the replicator for tents 
long before Vance gave his permission. Then he'd gone to 
the Director himself, asking as if he expected permission 
to be granted.

He didn't like Cyrus, but he knew how to get things done. 
In his last days he'd finally found a use for himself as 
a go-between.

Today's problem was water. A system of pipes brought 
clean river water to the settlement, but when taxed to 
its limits by the refugees it wasn't enough. Sisko's 
people had already set up plans for the new piping system 
which would bring in much more water, and had even 
started putting it together.

But Vance just stared at the paper. "It's a good system, 
but . . . . " he said.

One of Sisko's people waited impatiently, his muddy 
uniform sleeves rolled up and his look one of annoyance. 
"And we need it," he insisted.

James understood Vance's hesitation. Nobody wanted them 
to stay for too long, but if they were designing water 
systems to accommodate themselves the hope of prompt 
rescue was held up as a lie. And Vance was even less 
willing to acknowledge the reality.

Vance sat dry and clean in his sturdy office thinking 
about it, and James could tell how deeply terrified he 
was of the idea. If the pipes were built, it was an
open admission that neither the visitors nor his own 
people might get their wish. And he knew Vance had to 
believe that the intruders would go.

James had a sudden inspiration. "And we need it, too, 
Sir. After all, when we do make the field there will have 
to be water for the crops. This way the supply will 
already be there," he suggested.

Vance looked up at him, a bit perplexed. James thought to 
himself that he probably hadn't used "we" much before 
that. But the director shook his head, too.

"Good point," he finally said. "Build it. We even have 
extra pipes."

Then the Starfleet engineer left and Vance just 
collapsed. He looked up at James. "We don't even get fuzz 
on the comm unit anymore. Just nothing. Sisko won't say 
but he's afraid his other people are dead. Maybe we 
should hope so.  I didn't come here to watch people go 
hungry." He stared at the desk. "I'm sorry James. About 
Calder." 

James shivered for a second, a creeping cold going up his 
spine. But he could not accept anything except his dream 
coming true. And even if he started a little late, what 
he was doing now was different than before. All of a 
sudden he was important. He mattered. Most of the time 
before he just Vance's young guest, who was tolerated and 
occasionally indulged. 

Deep inside, James knew it had to end. He was too afraid 
to think of any other way besides his leaving. But each 
morning, as he prepared for the day's work after waking, 
he studied his drawings.

The people at Calder would see what kind of an artist he 
could be, and how far he'd come, when they studied the 
drawings. For there was a life there, an intensity and 
empathy he didn't remember before. Nothing on Cyrus or 
Earth could have shown him how much that mattered and in 
an odd way, James wasn't in quite the rush to go anymore. 

*****

Sisko stared at the communications panel, feeling utterly 
useless, and listened to the silence. He reset the unit 
for another round of messages, already knowing it was 
utterly futile. The Dominion controlled the area and no 
amount of power boost was going to make the unit work.

He watched as it sent its simple message to anyone who 
might hear, and scanned for any communications in 
progress as well.

It found nothing. Normally, this area of space should 
have been thick with conversation, but now it was silent. 
He wondered how many other little places like this one 
were waiting for some help or some message to tell them 
what had happened.

How many of them already knew, as the people on Cyrus 
did, that it was probably over already? Did they find 
believing it as hard? Did they want to retreat to the 
comfortable illusion as well?

Or had the Dominion already sent its cloned soldiers to 
prove it a lie? Would that be easier than sitting and 
waiting to know for sure that nobody was coming, and that 
the future was hard and hungry? Had he led his people 
into a trap worse than the one they might have found if 
they'd insisted on going ahead to the rendezvous?

Dax had come in earlier to keep him company. She'd 
switched to civilian clothes, but even they were dabbled 
with mud. It had rained that morning and the upper deck 
was awash in sheets of mud sliding off the hill behind 
the upper level.

"I can't help but wonder if we aren't any better off here 
than on the station," said Sisko.

Dax was dabbing at the mud on her shoes. "The jamming?" 
she asked.

"When we first got here I was able to get through to 
Starfleet. It wasn't a good signal, but it wasn't being 
blocked. Now," he wondered out loud, "the jamming is as 
total as at the station. If Barrett's information was 
correct, we're already in occupied territory."

"Starfleet knows where we are, at least," said Dax.

"They know our situation," said Sisko, exasperated. "Or 
at least they knew a week ago. And all they said was that 
supplies would be sent."

"Somehow, I don't think Vance really wants us as 
permanent residents."

"That's what he told Starfleet," said Sisko, with a hint 
of a smile. "He said what I couldn't. I was trying to be 
diplomatic."

"You must have been in shock," said Dax, almost smiling 
herself.

The moment of levity passed. Dax asked the question both 
of them had been avoiding. 

"Anything on the Antelope?"

The Antelope should have returned. Any number of things 
could have happened. The station could have been taken. 
The ship could have been destroyed. Perhaps they would 
never arrive. Perhaps they would be delayed. 

"Nothing, not even a garbled message."

"They still could be alive, Benjamin"

"Or being held prisoner. We should have left some of the 
supplies and taken the rest. It was just too risky."

"Then we wouldn't have much to eat," she reminded him.

He knew. The food they had was being carefully rationed. 
In addition to the mud and the tents and the uncertainty, 
that added to the depression.

"I know, Old Man, but I can't help but think there must 
have been a way," said Sisko, shaking his head.

"They may have had to avoid the Jem'Hadar or taken a 
different route. It's not time for the memorial just 
yet," said Dax. Sisko tried to believe it. But people 
disappeared in wars, he thought. 

Dax gave another half-smile, but this one was wistful. He 
wondered if she believed it either. Dax retreated to 
silence and Sisko stared at the unit, hoping and dreading 
themoment its silence was broken.

*****




LEGACY

An Alternative History of the Dominion War

Year 1

Part 2 - Transience

Chapter 4

Sisko watched as his two officers carefully seated 
themselves in the damp seats of what served as his 
office. A pounding rain the night before had forced a
move of the upper parts of camp to the lower level, 
crowding everyone more but leaving the upper level to the 
overflowing mud. It was everywhere, spattered on 
everyone's clothes and nearly getting in the water. The 
soil on the lower area was much coarser and when wet it 
stuck to feet, but pebbles were much easier to manage 
than the mud. 

Dax still wore the same distant look she'd begun to have 
after Worf had gone with the Rotarran. She was fingering 
the ring Worf had given her. Her civilian clothes had 
dabs of mud all over them.

Miles was just quiet. Sisko knew the uncertainty of his 
family's fate was an overwhelming burden. "I guess we 
should get started," said Sisko. Miles and Dax looked up, 
a trace of worry in their eyes. Perhaps Miles was hoping 
for an answer and Jadzia for a message. But there was 
nothing new to say. What mattered was now. He spoke as
if he were sitting in his imposing office on the station. 
"We need to begin using the rations we brought with us, 
and it must be handled very strictly. I'm putting you two 
in charge of the disbursing of rations and the security 
of our food supply."

He watched Dax closely. Her expression shifted from the 
distracted look she always wore to one of concentration. 
She even looked at him. "How soon will we be giving them 
out?" she asked. "The supplies people brought should be 
gone soon." 

"Tomorrow, for some at least. We need a way to prevent 
hoarding. I'll leave the details to you. It should be 
ready for large scale distribution in at least three 
days." 

Miles was looking at his hands, as if counting something 
on his fingers. He asked, warily, "How long do these 
supplies have to last?"

"As long as possible. I want to go on short allotments 
unless there is a need for more, so keep that in mind. We 
need some way to make it less obvious that some get more 
than others."

"That's not going to be popular," said Dax quietly.

"This isn't a popularity contest."

"We will need security," she added.

"Your have it. You'll have your own. If you need anything 
else, just ask. This is the most important priority we 
have at the moment."

He looked at the Trill. She was focused again. She was 
almost the same Jadzia he'd known on the station. "We'll 
need a survey of what we have now . . . . " she was 
saying as she hurried out of the tent. 

Miles stayed behind. He looked at the floor, then up. 
"Any word, Sir?", he asked, stumbling over the words.

Sisko hated to have to answer. Miles knew there wasn't 
much hope, but the Captain didn't want to make it so 
obvious. The others with family left on Bajor were not 
officers and kept their grief to themselves, but he had 
to see Miles' face every day. "Nothing. We haven't even 
had any notable noise on the comm unit."

Miles seemed lost in thought for a second. "I can't boost 
the power anymore," he said offhandedly. Then, he closed 
his eyes, and looked away. "I suppose by now, Bajor has 
surrendered. If they didn't get them off, then they're . 
. . . " he stopped.

For all we know, we're their prisoners, too, thought 
Sisko. But he kept the thought to himself. "I'll let you 
know as soon as there is something to tell you."

"Thank you, Sir," said Miles very softly.

"I'm . . . sorry, Chief. For you and all the others."

Miles nodded and went to do his job. 

At least he had a job. Sisko looked at the rumpled 
office, and the mud, and wondered what to do next. The 
rations would be handled for now, but what of later? 
Somehow he knew this was the easy part and pushed back a 
dread that had no name.

*****

Deep in a cavern on Bajor, lost in the mazes of tunnels 
whose minerals deflected scans, Keiko O'Brien and her 
children snuggled together on the makeshift bed. The cave 
wasn't really cold, but somehow, the blankets were a 
little wall of safety in a terrifying world. They had 
arrived that morning after an exhausting five-day hike, 
and for the first time in days could really sleep. On the 
trail every sound could be the Jem'Hadar. The children 
had been too tired and slept, but Keiko had only rested. 

It wasn't safety--there would never be a safe place again 
for her--but it was as close as existed in this hard, new 
world. Molly kept close, afraid to leave her side, and 
she watched as they slept in the soft glow of the fire. 
Yoshi, nestled in a pile of blankets, was restless but 
quiet. She was afraid he'd wake and cry and give them 
away. On the trail, he'd fussed until one of her helpers
gave him a berry to suck on. It was large and sweet, the 
skin hard, and Keiko had decided not to ask what else it 
did besides occupying him.

She didn't like her child drugged, but it was better than 
his cry betraying their hiding place or secret trail. 
Perhaps Yoshi was sleeping it off, but she hoped he had a 
measure of safety. He was too little to know that his 
world had been ripped away. 

Molly hadn't needed the berry. She was too scared of the 
mountains and the strangers that came and went. She was 
old enough to know.

Keiko wrapped herself in a light blanket to shield 
herself from the draft and curled around the children. 
But only after she'd listened to the snapping of the fire 
and the soft breathing of her children did she fall into 
an exhausted sleep.

*****

Around a bend, in a washed bucket normally used for 
carrying water, the golden goo that made up Odo moved in 
small, rythmic waves. He had waited almost too long 
before shifting this time. The rest he had to have was 
calming his body, but his mind was on the woman in the 
next turn of the cave. There had been no news, so far 
into the hills, but Bajor was almost certainly captive 
again.  She'd grown up in that world. So had he, in his 
own way. Keiko and the others would learn, but Kira knew 
the value of freedom, and now it had gone. Perhaps
tomorrow night she would let his bucket lie near her. 
Perhaps someday she would be able to put to words the 
devastation of this time and understand that it was
as terrible for him. 

*****

Kira sat by a small fire, its glow throwing a soft 
flickering light along the walls. She remembered the 
kinds of food they'd eaten before the Cardassians were 
banished. As hungry as she was, the food wasn't 
appetizing. Each bite brought back memories of desperate 
meals eaten before a raid, or the murky light of hidden 
spaces where danger was only a betrayal or a noise away. 
But these caverns had saved lives. Nobody could scan 
them, and after the Cardassians had been done with their 
mining operation, the abandoned caverns had become a 
haven of safety. The enemy had never managed to get 
inside. But the new enemy with their weapons and utter 
lack of respect for solids might make this place a trap.

Keiko and the children could not be hidden here. These 
caverns would have to be a stopping place, but this time 
the resistance would be different.

And so would the army. She remembered the station after 
the Cardassians had left it, ruined and broken, and how 
the Federation had given it new life. Before
the Dominion, she had tasted real freedom. It had always 
been a dream before. The others took for granted what she 
had learned to cherish.

She'd carried Yoshi inside her. She never wanted children 
in the harsh world of Bajor under the Cardassians. 
Children were too fragile and died too easily. But Yoshi 
was hers too. She grieved for him and his sister, and for 
all the others who might have to grow in the same world 
she had.

As the fire flickered she watched the shapes on the wall. 
Odo rested not far away, and some of the flickered images 
made her think of him. What would his own people do if 
they found him? To the Cardassians he had been a 
curiosity, but to this enemy he would be a traitor.

She looked towards the wall that shielded his bucket from 
view. She would miss him, but Odo would have a hard life 
in this new world. He had always been alone, until the 
liberation came and he had gained a life of his own. Now, 
that would be gone. His only safety was to be apart from 
those who might be watched, less he be taken.

She nearly went to him, but stopped herself. The world 
that had come to be held many hard lessons. Keiko would 
learn. The children would as well. It would change and 
mutilate them in ways she knew too well. But she must 
keep away from Odo. Even here, there could be ears that 
nobody noticed.

She stared at the fire, wondering if this time there 
might be some redemption on the other side. Tomorrow 
would be soon enough to tell  the others that her
contact had passed on a message. Yesterday, Bajor and 
its people had agreed to an unconditional surrender to 
the enemy and fallen back into nightmare. 

***** 

Miles watched as the line crawled forward, each person 
exchanging their ration sticker for their dinner. 
Everyone looked tired. They weren't getting a full
ration, but Federation rations were designed to be more 
nutritious than they had to be. Willman had advised that 
mothers with nursing babies or pregnant women not be 
shorted. Children received an adult ration. But most got 
just a little less than was satisfying.

He and Dax had devised a simple system of stickers. Each 
person got a week's supply, for which they were 
responsible. If any were stolen the thief was considered 
to have stolen food, and one of the storage rooms was 
planned as a place to store thieves. They weren't sure 
what to do with them once they got off Cyrus, but with an 
insufficient supply of food Sisko planned to come down
hard on them.

The colony did have a replicator, and it could make more 
rations--or other kinds of food but there was another 
worry. Cyrus was supposed to be a sparsely-populated 
planet and it would be odd if there was a high-energy 
signature from the replicator. It would draw them 
unwanted attention. If it came to it they'd use it, but 
for now with no sign that the Dominion had noticed them. 
It was best to be cautious.

But Miles had been passing out rations for three days, 
and he realized all the faces looked the same. They were 
hungry, and scared, and the daunting reality of their 
situation had begun to sink in. They waited in line 
quietly and took their food, then vanished. People liked 
to eat in private. Perhaps they traded what they had or 
ate some of the children's food. 

In the two weeks since they had left the station, their 
people had begun to feel like the abandoned--like the 
refugees that they were.

But for Miles, the daily routine was his life. His wife 
and children were trapped far away, and he couldn't allow 
himself to think of them. The rations were under guard, 
and he was personally responsible for their protection. 
He couldn't help his family, but the job--and its great 
importance--made him important. He could help someone.

Jadzia worked with the helpers, recruited from volunteers 
personally screened by both Miles and Jadzia. It had to 
be tempting to be so near the food, and to have access to 
a few more bars for the family. Any who tried to break in 
would be dealt with, but they had to trust those who 
guarded.

Just the same, Miles supervised the day's count and 
locked the door. If they came up short somebody had taken 
a few too many and it would not be ignored.

Having a little control made him feel a little less lost, 
too, so he could stand the rest. But no matter how much, 
it was harder, too. He knew how much was in the supplies. 
He did not like depending on the replicator. Willman knew 
about war, too, and had advocated making as much of a 
supply as possible, now, before anything new happened but 
had been overruled. Now, as he watched the stock of 
rations diminish too fast, Miles agreed with him.

They were done for the day. The count had come out even 
aand Miles watched a his assistant signed the padd. It 
was the part of the day Miles hated, when the sudden rush 
ended and there was too much time for things he didn't 
want to think about.

He grumbled at the young man, one of his engineers on the 
station, "I wonder when we start filling up those bins 
before we don't have the chance."

Carl Jackson was scared, his wife having the distinction 
of the first birth on Cyrus the day they'd come. But he 
didn't know as much as Miles. "We'll get the next 
shipment soon. Then we'll go home."

Miles didn't remember when he'd been that innocent. But 
he hoped Carl was right. Even if he had to tell Keiko's 
family that their daughter was a Dominion prisoner he 
didn't want anyone else to have to live through the 
nightmare that was his.

*****

At first, the lateness of the Antelope's return was 
warily dismissed as expected. It was old and slow and 
probably had to take a longer route. Then, especially for 
those with family aboard, it wasn't mentioned. They 
simply couldn't voice the fear. Perhaps, given words, the 
sense of doom might come true.
 
But as the time stretched into several weeks of no word 
and absolute silence from space, the hope started to 
fade. So many things could have gone wrong. The ship 
could have never gotten back to the station at all. The 
Dominion could have already taken those left behind. 
There could have been innumerable things that happened 
along the way, accidents or encounters with enemy ships. 
After weeks had gone by, many did not expect to ever 
know. 

But fourteen days after the first transport had left, it 
came to ground.

The first message had been sudden and unexpected, but 
much too ominous for any relief. The Antelope was emptied 
of as much equipment and supplies as time allowed by its 
cargo transporters, everything beamed to an open area 
outside the main camp. Sisko posted a guard as otherwise 
the food and other things might disappear before any of 
it could be surveyed.

But everyone's eyes were to the sky, even the original 
staff of Cyrus. The Antelope had warned that there was no 
landing gear and the normal transporter was not 
functional. The unwieldy ship would try to slide into the 
atmosphere and land on the sand dune near the settlement. 
It wasn't impossible and with a little luck they'd make 
it. But the Antelope would never leave Cyrus, and unless 
the Federation provided other transportation the planet 
would be severely over-populated.

Willman had his medical team waiting, everyone hoping it 
wouldn't be needed.

As they watched, the ship broke into the sky with a loud 
boom. The angle was too sharp, but somehow it curved 
rather gracefully to a more gently one as it fell towards 
the sand. For a terrible moment it swirled too much and 
then straightened again, now dropping faster. Far too 
close to ground. Everyone held their breath, willing it 
to land even if there was nowhere to put so many people.

But then, a vision burned into everyone's memory forever, 
the Antelope suddenly swirled again, dropping sharply 
straight down. The wide nose of the ship dipped towards 
the sand, and in a horrifying unreality it slammed nose 
down into the sand dunes, its hard thud shaking the whole 
area.

For an instant, nobody moved. The ship fell into pieces 
before their eyes. Little fires sprung up here and there. 
The acrid odor of the fuels that kept it functioning 
wafted out from the crash site in the soft breeze.

Then everyone ran towards the Antelope, not just the 
trained teams but Cyrus staff and visitors together. 
Nobody knew what they could do but they had to try. 
Willman and his people set up triage as close as 
possible, while others took the masks handed out to 
would-be rescuers and scrambled to pull those running 
from the collapsing wreak to safety. It was a kind of mad 
scramble at first, everyone who could walk or crawl or 
run from the ship moved away by helping hands. But 
getting inside the ship was harder. 


*****

It took time to find them, the few living and the many 
half-dead. The chemicals from the wreck had filled the 
air and only those with breathing gear could crawl 
inside. They couldn't see very well, but used tricorders 
to find anyone alive. Even with the protective gear, the 
wet mix of fluids made it harder, getting on skin and 
burning the rescuers, leaking into masks, and wworse of 
all, making the rescue all too hasty.

If they didn't find the living soon, they would die from 
the fumes. Here and there the chunks of hull were simply 
too heavy to lift and anyone trapped under them was 
doomed. They left the dead, for now. Nobody knew how many 
were on the ship, but Willman's triage center should have 
been more swamped than it was. And too many of those were 
rescuers hurt in the sudden rush.

When all was said and done, there were fifty-five dead, 
including all but one of the crew of the freighter and 
its captain, and many more that would die in the next 
week. 

*****

And there were those that might live. Dr. Julian Bashir 
was among that group.

He came to on a makeshift bed, his upper half covered in 
a folded blanket. His head and lungs hurt. His leg felt 
wet, as if it was on fire. He let out a groan when he 
opened his eyes.

There were three fuzzy shapes working on his leg. As he 
tried to raise his head, a hand gently pushed it back on 
the pillow. "Careful, Doctor," said the unknown voice, 
"You have a mild concussion and you have to stay still."

He tried to. But the pain was too much.

"Keep him still!" insisted a voice, sharply. "We just 
got the bleeding stopped. I don't know if we could stop 
it again."

He made himself obey. He tried to ignore the pain as 
they moved him around, attaching something to his leg to 
immobilize it. He could smell the blood and the fumes.

He almost fainted as they fastened the device. One of 
the nurses told him softly to try to stay awake. One of 
his own nurses, he thought vaguely.

Finally they were done and his now-immobilized leg was 
left alone. He let out a breath.

An unfamiliar voice, male, perhaps the same one that had 
been talking about the bleeding swam into the mist to ask 
him a question. 

"Doctor, I need to know your blood type. You've lost a 
great deal of blood and I don't have any records on you."

He felt utterly exhausted. He wanted to sleep. He 
finally remembered the answer to the question and 
whispered it.

Sleep was luring him back. Something nagged at him about 
that. *Shouldn't sleep*, he thought. *Can't stay awake.*

He wondered why it hurt so much, why they hadn't given 
him anything for the pain, why they hadn't healed up the 
cut in his leg.

"Talk to me," someone said. Perhaps the nurse from his 
staff.

"Leg . . . . " he whispered.

"We've stopped the bleeding. The wound still has to be 
cleaned. But we have to do that later."

Hazy from blood loss and shock, he lost consciousness. 

*****

Hazy light swam in front of his eyes and he realized he 
was awake. The first thing he remembered was the beam 
falling and the sudden, jolting pain. Then he realized he 
couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't move either, and 
could feel the padded cuffs of the restraints.

He almost panicked. But the nurse discovered he was 
awake and lightly touched his arm. He couldn't see her in 
the hazy light, but could hear her calm voice. "You were 
moving around too much. We were worried you'd start the 
bleeding again. That's why we used the restraints."

He stopped fighting them and blinked his eyes. Things 
were a little less hazy. He could see the shapes of the 
other makeshift beds and the forms of others moving 
around tending them. He tried to look down, terribly 
worried about his leg. The pain was gone, but he didn't 
know why. He knew the beam had fallen on it. He'd had few 
tastes of this kind of medicine, but knew sometimes 
shortcuts had to be made, especially if supplies ran low. 

He couldn't tell. The haze wasn't clear enough for that 
much detail and he was almost afraid to look.

"My leg . . . . " he asked softly.

"We had to clean out the embedded shards in the wound. 
You've been in surgery. The anaesthetic will wear off in 
a few hours. For now you should get some sleep."

"How bad . . . ?" he asked. 

He recognized her professional expression, one doctors 
and nurses used when they didn't want to alarm the 
patients. "You'll have to talk to Dr. Willman about
that."

He was so tired. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted 
this Dr. Willman to come and tell him his leg was 
alright, that it would heal fine. He wanted to hear
that the emergency treatment was only for now, that the 
base hospital would fix it until it was good as new.

But the smell and the noise wasn't encouraging. He could 
still sense the chemical stink in the air. There were 
burned flesh, groans, crying and other sounds he was more 
used to hearing from the other side. A part of his mind,
thinking quite clearly, realized that he was quite lucky 
to even get out alive, but the terrified little boy 
inside just wanted to run away and make it right. 
Maybe if he slept he'd wake from the nightmare after all.

*****

For once, Garak didn't die in his dream. Memories of the 
screaming, unsteady descent of the Antelope filled it 
instead. 

There was a flash, many flashes of things so real he 
could not tell it was a dream. The beam slammed him flat 
against the deck. He could feel the cold of the metal as 
he hit and then the stabbing pain that washed every other 
thought away. The jagged edges tore and burned into his 
leg and all he heard was a rush of sound. The sudden 
slipping of the ship, the acceleration as it fell, and 
the way everything slid the wrong way made him tense up 
and try to grab at anything. 
Hands pulled at him, ungentle hands yanking the fire in 
his leg too fast. The shockwave of the ship's impact 
shocked everything and the squeal of tearing metal
sections filled his ears. And the screams. . . the 
screams that were too muffled because the screamers were 
trapped. The choking, reeking smell filled his lungs and 
he could barely breath.

And just before the terrible dream ended, he remembered 
Garak pulling him away, then stopping. Why would Garak 
stop?

He woke, this time his vision clearer. His leg was 
firmly held in a cage of wires and straps. He still had 
no feeling there but was aware enough to know that was a 
good thing. All around him were makeshift beds and more 
patients. The noise of their groans and cries and the 
hustling of nurses was not so bad this time. He expected 
it. Somehow, he thought, it hadn't been that loud when
he was on the other side.

A nurse came near. He kept thinking about Garak and had 
to know. He didn't recognize her but she stopped and 
checked his vital signs while he watched. 

"Dr. Willman will be seeing you soon. Go back to sleep 
if you can. We'll wake you," she said quietly.

"Nurse, the Cardassian, Garak, is he all right? I 
remembered him pushing me out of the way when things 
started to fall."

"I'm sorry, we don't have any Cardassian patients. A 
young Cardassian woman died of her injuries the day of 
the crash. I checked over the survivors yesterday and I 
don't recall more. I'll ask but I don't think he made 
it."

Then Ziyal was dead as well, he thought. "I believe he 
saved my life," he told her, softly.

"Then he must have been a good friend." she said. 

He lay there after she'd gone, thinking of that last day 
when the Dominion had suddenly changed the world. He 
would never know, now, just what Garak thought of the 
rest of the novel. But if he ever found a copy he'd read 
it. 

*****

Dr. Willman knew his patient wasn't fooled by the look. 
He'd probably used it himself. But it was easier to fall 
into old habit now, overwhelmed by too many patients with 
wounds he wasn't really equipped to handle. At least this 
one had a chance.

Bashir spoke quietly, almost calmly. It surprised 
Willman a little. "How bad?" asked his patient.

Willman kept his voice low. "The cut was deep but we 
cleaned it. It will take time to heal but it won't leave 
major damage."

Bashir wasn't buying it. "How major?"

"Scarring, and you'll require some therapy."

Bashir wasn't fooled. Willman was giving him an honest 
diagnosis if the patients could be evacuated in a week or 
two. And he was counting on more medical supplies sooner 
than that. He didn't really know how bad it could get
if more went wrong.

"I'm a doctor," said Bashir patiently. "I know it's a 
deep cut and it was contaminated. Contaminated wounds 
infect," he finished, almost as if he wasn't talking 
about his own leg. "Please, be honest. How bad is it?"

Willman was impressed by the calm demeanor and knew his 
patient would figure it out himself anyway. "The wound is 
not infected now, but there is still a good chance it 
will. We got all the solid pieces out, but there is still 
the jell. Do you feel better now?"

"Not really," said Bashir, very restrained. "What can 
you do about the infection?"

"I don't have a lot of supplies. What you brought has 
helped, but it isn't enough. If that fails, there are 
other methods of treating the infection, but they aren't 
all that pleasant. I will use them if I have to."

Bashir had closed his eyes. "And if they fail?" he almost 
whispered.

"Then you probably won't survive. But if it comes to it, 
I think you'd rather be alive and not whole. I'll take 
the leg if I have to to save your life. I'm not making 
any promises but I'm going to try to keep you alive."

There was a long pause.

Willman resumed his professional tone. "For now, I'll 
give you something for the pain, but I can't do much. We 
don't have a lot left. And we're leaving it to heal by 
itself so we can observe it better. We don't know how 
deep the contamination went, and I don't want to close it 
until we're sure."

Bashir became very quiet. "I'll be fine. I don't want 
the medicine." 

Willman said nothing but after leaving ordered the nurse 
to medicate him anyway. The best thing he could do was 
sleep.

And if he was sleeping he'd not ask anymore questions.

*****

It was Sisko's shift at communications, listening to the 
endless hiss, so far only broken by the fateful arrival 
of the Antelope. How long, he wondered, would they be 
left to wait? He didn't expect much anymore. Dax's 
warning about Wolf 359 still was in his thoughts. The 
Federation had nearly been destroyed in that one. His own 
life had been shattered and nothing could put it back. 
Sometimes, he sat in the quiet room and thought of 
Jennifer. What would he have done if she had lived? Would 
he have even come to DS9? Would he be closer to Earth and 
their new battle for survival instead of quietly waiting 
for a message that could spell doom?

He realized he remembered what Jennifer looked like, but 
could not remember her voice. It bothered him and he was 
trying to find the memory when Jennifer and the past 
vanished from this thoughts instantly.

The unit beeped with an incoming message. He moved 
closer, watching all the readouts with fascination.

Somehow, this message made it through. Its signal was 
steady and strong. Someone must have chosen to allow it 
to pass.

That was not good. But none of them could take the 
mystery for too long.

"Cyrus 3, do you read?" The voice was scratchy and hard 
to decipher, but sounded magnificent to Sisko.

He answered the hail. "This is Cyrus 3." The exhilaration 
evaporated. What if it was the Dominion? Starfleet should 
have known who to ask for, not just a location. Warily, 
with much less eagerness, he added, "Please identify
yourself." 

He was surprised by the response. "Is that you, Ben?" 
said the voice. With all the noise he didn't recognize 
it.

"This is Captain Benjamin Sisko. Please identify 
yourself."

"Alright, Captain Jackson Braddoc, currently stuck here 
at the task force office. It's been a long time."

Sisko remembered him now, and even recognized the voice. 
"JB? Weren't you captain of the Terianna?"

"Was. Listen Ben, we have to keep this short. I have 
work to do. We're sending a ship full of supplies, all 
for you. It should be there in a few days, though I 
couldn't give you an exact arrival date. Food, medicine 
and the like. I understand you're roughing it." 

"We're almost out of food and medicine, so we won't turn 
it down. But what we need is rescue. Is this ship going 
to take us home?"

JB suddenly sounded cautious. "Well, not yet. That 
hasn't been organized yet. I'll let you know when more is 
known."

Sisko picked up on the caution. That suspicion that a 
lot was being left out was growing stronger. "We keep 
communications manned at all times." 

Sounding relieved the conversation was over, JB said 
goodbye. Sisko removed the baseball from his pocket and 
began turning it around and around while he thought about 
the vast amount that had been said between the words.

A few hours later, his shift over, Sisko decided to take 
a walk. He thought the doctor might appreciate personal 
word on the shipment. It wasn't going to help right away, 
but at least they had something to plan for.

And he wanted to check on the wounded. He was still in 
shock over the death toll from the crash. In addition to 
the original fifty-five dead, twelve more had died. More 
probably would. Sisko still regretted not taking them 
all, somehow, the first time. 

*****

Looking over the crowded hospital, he didn't notice 
Doctor Willman hurrying over towards him.

Sisko stared at the turmoil for a second, noticing 
Willman as he stopped by a bed. He waited until the 
doctor was close enough he could speak softly. "I've
had word we'll have supplies-- food and medicine--in a 
few days. He couldn't give an arrival date, though."

Willman glanced over the abyss that surrounded him. 
"Supplies would be good. But is that all you got out of 
them?"

"That's all he'd say. He was glad to end the 
transmission."

"Well, that ties it," murmured Willman. "They don't 
intend to evacuate anyone, I'll guess."

Sisko didn't want to see it in such stark terms. Perhaps 
it was delayed. "He said that was being organized."

"Like I said," stated Willman firmly. He looked around 
the room."Most of the really serious ones won't last long 
enough to have it matter anyway. The rest, well, they'll 
have to live with what I can do."

Sisko didn't like the tone but much more hadn't been said 
by JB than had been spoken. He knew Willman was likely to 
make the worst of  it, but then it had a little too much 
validity.

Willman pulled him closer to the sea of bodies. Sisko 
tried to find Bashir but couldn't. "I wanted to find out 
how my CMO is doing. He did survive the crash."

Leading Sisko towards the sea of beds, Willman pointed 
out one bed where Sisko recognized his own CMO, 
apparently sleeping.

"I'm going to need him," said Willman, leading Sisko away 
from the patient area. Satisfied they were out of casual 
earshot, he stopped. "We're overwhelmed. His leg has a 
deep gash, which was heavily contaminated. We're lucky he 
didn't bleed to death before we could stop the bleeding. 
We've cleaned the wound, but it's almost certain to 
infect. I don't have anything to  treat it at the moment. 
The same can be said of a number of these people. It 
might require more barbaric means to save their lives if 
I don't get supplies very soon."

"All I can tell you is what I was told," said Sisko in 
frustration. "I couldn't get any details out of them," 
feeling like it was a losing battle.

"What about relocating these people? We can't feed all 
of you forever. They do know you're running out of food," 
continued Willman's diatribe. 

"Yes," said Sisko, resigned. "They are sending supplies. 
Medical supplies and food. That is all they are saying. I 
wish I could tell you there was a transport but nobody 
has mentioned one."

Willman, having vented his frustration, had calmed down. 
"At least they are sending something," he said, resigned.

"I agree," said Sisko, equally resigned. "Is it possible 
to visit Dr. Bashir? I'd like to tell him he did a very 
good job. I've gotten some excellent reports."

"And you want him to know you're worried too, right?" 
asked Willman.

"Something like that."

"I'm not encouraging visitors, just not enough room, but 
a brief visit would be okay. Look, the peptalk's fine but 
leave the worry out. Tell him about the rain and all 
that. You know the drill, cheerful face, calm voice. He 
isn't exactly thinking straight right now." 

"I promise. When would be a good time?" asked Sisko. 

"Give him a couple of hours. He should be awake then."

*****

Sisko held a meeting with Vance and the few others with 
authority that afternoon, telling them what he'd heard 
and the sense of what was left out. Willman was invited 
but was far too busy. It was almost dark when the meeting
ended, and the Captain headed straight to the hospital as 
he'd promised. 

He wasn't so sure of what to say anymore. If Bashir was 
that sick he didn't need to hear the forebodings that 
were rife by evening. Everybody knew by then. They were 
impatient for supplies, but scared about the half-answers 
about rescue.

Bashir would need more than Willman had if he was to 
truly recover. But Sisko knew that might not happen. If 
Starfleet wanted to rescue them, it would have been just 
as easy to do that as to send supplies.

Heading towards the hospital, climbing a hilly path, he 
hoped he could see Bashir. But even if he'd waited too 
late and had to come in the morning, at least he got the 
walk. Even with the residual stink of the crash, the air 
on Cyrus was clean and crisp, and Sisko put together a 
semblance of calm before he arrived.

Willman stopped him by the outside door, pulling him out 
of earshot. The man looked grim. There were a couple of 
chairs and Sisko sat down.

The doctor dropped into the chair with exhaustion. He 
met Sisko's grim expression with his own.

"Now, I'm going to let you see him against my better 
judgement, mostly because he really wants to see you. But 
I'm going to repeat this... cheerful face, calm voice... 
and short visit. He isn't up to much more."

"Is he worse?" asked Sisko, concerned that he should 
wait.

"Yes, and to be honest if you don't see him now I can't 
say when you'll be able to. Captain, his leg is infected. 
It's only minor now, but unless we get more supplies very 
soon it's going to be a lot worse." The doctor's grim 
face worried Sisko more than the words.

"Are you saying he might not make it?" asked Sisko 
softly.

"I wouldn't say at this point. But the potential is there 
for a severe infection. If that happens, we will do our 
best."

"If it would be better . . . ." said Sisko, as Willman 
interrupted him.

"No, go and see him. I warn you, he looks pretty bad. 
And don't mention the deaths. He doesn't know how many 
didn't make it."

Sisko took a deep breath and prepared for the visit.

*****

Bashir was flushed and sweaty, his eyes half-focused.
When Sisko approached he turned his head, looking towards 
his visitor. The doctor was trying to focus his eyes but 
after a moment appeared to give up and his gaze drifted 
away.

Sisko was very uncomfortable, especially with the way 
Bashir was faced towards him but not really seeing his 
visitor. Before, the Captain had planned a short,semi-
official tone. But he wasn't even sure, now, that Bashir 
would even react. 

The nurse came over and touched Bashir to get his 
attention. She bent down and spoke quietly. "Captain 
Sisko has come to see you."

Bashir seemed to almost focus. His voice barely audible, 
he said, "Captain, we got here a little late. They shot 
at us." He attempted a smile.

Sisko smiled back. It was hard, with all the guilt about 
leaving them behind. Holding tight control over his 
voice, he said lightly, "That's fine. We were a little 
worried but you made it. You did well on your first 
command."

Bashir was trying to listen, "I tried," he whispered. 
"I'm so tired . . . ."

"Then I'll let you sleep. Get well, Julian."

He left the patient area and went to sit under the awning 
in front of the hospital, trying to recover. He had not 
expected Bashir to be in such bad shape. There was so 
much he wanted to say. Nearby, Rom and Leeta sat 
together, staring at the desolate landscape. He had heard 
Quark was not expected to last the day. 

He felt responsible for the deaths. He should have 
gotten them all. 

The small, overcrowded hospital had smelled of medicine 
and sickness, and he hadn't expected the intensity of the 
sounds and the smells. It was from another time, with the 
makeshift beds and the scattering of barriers all wrong. 
Willman hadn't said it, but he knew Bashir could die of 
the infection. He had the report the doctor had filed 
that morning on the scarcity of supplies. He hoped that 
JB's estimate was on the slow side. He had the feeling a 
lot of the patients didn't have the luxury of time. 

*****

Julian was scared. He was too exhausted to move about, 
but tried to stay perfectly still anyway. He didn't want 
to make the his condition any worse. Nobody had to tell 
him his leg was infected. In the crowded hospital with 
its limited staff, he was getting too much of their time. 
And he had a fever. They kept checking much too often. He 
guessed the fever was higher now.

He remembered Sisko's brief visit in a kind of haze. He 
wasn't entirely sure if it was one of the vivid dreams he 
was having or real until the nurse had mentioned how nice 
it was for the Captain to come and see him.

All he could think of was Ensign Muniz. He had died from 
internal bleeding and infection on that Jem'Hadar ship. 
There had been no medkit. Miles had spent an entire night 
talking about it over something that Quark kept behind 
the bar. 

It wasn't fair, he thought. People didn't die of 
infections in his time. He could smell the faint odor 
coming from his leg. It didn't hurt all that much. He was 
too lightheaded from the fever to think why.

Willman had told him they were going to do a second 
surgery, and remove the most affected tissue. They would 
cut away more of the nerves and muscle. It would never be 
the same again. The pain would be worse, and the chance 
for the infection to spread in this kind of place all too 
obvious.

But he could accept that. If he'd been where Willman was 
he would do the same. The most terrifying part was the 
real possibility that it still wouldn't be enough. He'd 
heard a vague rumor that supplies were coming, but he was 
past that option. Without a base hospital that had the 
latest Starfleet could offer, none of that might be 
enough.

If it came to it, Willman might take the leg. They made 
artificial ones that were so real nobody could tell the 
difference. But he'd know. He'd never had to take that 
option, but if the war was going badly other doctors 
were. They probably told their patients it would all be 
fine, that the new one would be perfect. But now he lay 
in this bed with his leg stinking of infection, and no
real treatment available. Now, those nice phrases didn't 
seem so comforting as before.

Or, what if the rumored rescue ship didn't come? Would 
he be left incomplete? Would he survive at all? 

In his society, those that were marred were made better. 
Scars could be erased. Missing limbs were replaced. 
Children with less than the normal intelligence could be 
"fixed", even if it was illegal.

How many others were like him, hiding behind a lie? But 
the society he'd lived in only tolerated the "different". 
How many parents were desperate enough to take the chance 
of prison and isolation for their children to give them a 
chance for a real life?

Would that give him an advantage now, in this suddenly 
savage place?

Willman had mentioned, again, about the "special" 
procedure that might become necessary. He hadn't 
elaborated and Julian hadn't asked. But there 
was something in Willman's face that was different from 
the others,  something he'd seen in the Bajorans after 
he'd come to DS9. After the internment camp he 
understood. Willman knew about survival. If he'd learned 
his "barbaric" procedure in some dark place Julian was 
afraid.

The Dominion hadn't allowed medical care, but he'd done 
what he could. None of it had been especially kind.

He was dreaming about that place, wrapping Worf's broken 
ribs knowing it wasn't really going to make a difference, 
when the nurse came with a hypo.

"Time for surgery," she said. He didn't recognize her, 
one of Willman's people. She was doing her job, but he 
could tell reality hadn't made it inside yet. She pressed 
the hypo against his neck and her heard her fading voice 
as she said good night. 

*****

Willman looked down at the chart, steeling himselfagainst 
the memories. Bashir had survived the surgery, but it had 
not been a success. The infection had gone too deep, and 
his fever was too high. Willman was going to have to try 
to prepare his patient for the ordeal he must endure to 
save his life.

It wasn't complex, and its origins were ancient. People 
had gone to the sea to cure their wounds long before 
medicine existed. Even after, salt applied to a bad wound 
was known to cure it. Perhaps it was good that Bashir was 
delirious. He'd already begun the treatment, the wet 
compress covering his wound soaked in a concentrated salt 
compound. Salts would carry the infection of a deep wound
to the surface, but the pain was terrible and it retarded 
healing. But when life hung in the balance it didn't 
matter.

It was already working. The puffy skin around the 
surgical cut was dotted with yellow puss from the wound. 
The salt compound had penetrated and was cleaning the 
deeper parts. But while this might be enough for some 
wounds, this one was too deep and the patient too sick.

Willman had invented the combination of salt and 
deburring with chemicals at a prison camp. He'd saved 
lives. But he hated the memory. Bashir was very sick
and shock was always a risk. He weighed the option of 
simply amputating the leg, but here, with the silence 
from space an ominous sign, having two legs would be 
better than one.

The room was prepared. The wound would be soaked in more 
of the salt solution then the dead and damaged skin 
literally boiled away with disinfectant. It wasn't pretty 
or easy. But someday Bashir would be grateful.

But not today. If he survived he'd remember the pain for 
a long time. The leg would heal slowly and probably 
require more topical treatments. The scar would be ugly, 
and he might not have full use of the leg. But he'd live.

But now, if he could get through the fever, he had to try 
to tell Bashir what was going to happen.

"Doctor, listen to me. I need you to listen to me."

Willman, in frustration, put his hands on Bashir's 
temples and tried again.

"Doctor, you have to listen to me. It's important, we 
have to talk about your leg."

Bashir still seemed lost in some fever induced fog. 
Willman was frustrated. He would do the treatment even if 
he couldn't get a response, but it was better if he 
explained.

Bashir's nurse, a Bajoran woman named Jabara, tried this 
time. "Julian, listen. You can hear me." Her voice was 
soft but focused. "We have to treat your leg. Try to look 
at me."

He seemed to stir a little, some recognition appearing. 
Willman decided to try to talk to him.

"Doctor, we have to do a special treatment. I want to 
explain what will happen." 

Bashir seemed to be aware of what was being said, but it 
was hard to tell. His fever was so high.

"We tried cleaning the infection earlier, but it didn't 
help." There was a change in his eyes as he tried to 
focus, response to the earlier attempt to save his life. 
The infection had continued unaffected, and the fever was 
out of control. 

"I'm going to use a chemical burn." He didn't see any 
particular response, but he decided to try.

"We'll have to tie you down. It's important you don't 
move. I will apply a solution of chemicals, mostly 
various salts, and they will be allowed to be absorbed 
into the wound. This should kill off most of the 
infection." 

Bashir said nothing but he seemed to be more aware than 
before. He looked scared. He was trying to focus on 
Willman.

"We can't control either the infection or the fever, and 
it hasn't gotten to the point were it's septic, so 
something has to be done now or you won't make it."

Bashir looked like he was trying to talk. But he opened 
his mouth and no words came. He seemed to be drifting 
away.

Willman wanted to hurry before his tentative connection 
was gone. "This is going to be extremely painful. I'll 
give you a painkiller, but it won't be enough. But this 
is necessary to save your life. Remember that."

Bashir had drifted back into his dream world. Willman 
hoped he'd heard enough to prepare him.

*****

Little Jules hurt. He didn't know what the doctors were 
doing, but he was scared of them. When he'd first come to 
this place and his father had led him into the big 
building it had been a big adventure. But now it was 
terrible, and he just wanted them to stop.

He couldn't move. They'd tied him down so they could 
hurt him. The world was very dark and cold and scary. 
Kukalaka was hiding because he was scared too.

The big doctors were talking, and there were others in 
the room. He could hear as their voices swelled to a roar 
and then grew quiet again. But Jules was listening for 
footsteps. He could hear them coming, again, to hurt . . 
. .

He did not try to move. He couldn't run away from them. 
But around him was a fog, deep and swirling. As the 
footsteps came closer, the fog grew thicker and drew very 
close, shielding him from the sounds in the room and 
making a quiet cocoon for him to hide. In the darkness 
and soft glow, he drifted amid a rhythmic hum, and 
floated with a serenity of a child safe in his mother's 
womb. A deep peace settled over him and he slept.

But then the peace was shattered, the footsteps so close 
the vibration of their thumps shaking his cocoon. A 
noise, loud and squeaky,  split his hiding place apart 
and he could see the monsters.

Shadowy figures loomed above him, their tentacles 
reaching for him. As they closed about him and tugged at 
his body he tried to fight them, but could not. His body 
would not obey him at all. The tentacles wrapped around 
him and he floated into the air. Then he started to fall, 
a sudden slam from above pressing him against something 
firm and rough. The shadowy things leaned over him and he 
saw hints of eyes and twisted grimaces in the dark spaces 
where faces should have been. The monsters showed flashes 
of themselves, twisted and grotesque. Jules dared not 
move, dared not make them hurt, and he clung to the fog 
that still shrouded him.

Then the fog was stirred as they moved about and his 
safety faded and thinned. The icy touch of the monsters 
make him shrink away, and his hands were bound against a 
hard, cold thing. As his fog disappeared, his legs were 
bound as well, forced into a tight cuff. Helplessly 
bound, the sounds rose to a roar and the lights were too 
bright. He'd opened his eyes when they came but now the
light hurt too much and he closed his eyes again, begging 
silently for his fog to return and shield him from this 
place. 

He squirmed at the closeness of the monsters, bending 
down over him, but he could not move. His heart pounded, 
the sounds echoing around him, and his breathing grew 
ragged. His body was cold and yet he broke out in a 
sweat. The panic was looming around him and he tried to 
stop it, for they would see, but could not. He shuddered 
as a tentacle touched his leg. A cold fear was growing
inside him, and he forced open his eyes to see. Above 
him, the shadowy figures loomed, their faces twisting 
with grotesque laughs, and their eyed fixed on him. 
Faint shadows danced on the wall. He stared at them, 
utterly frozen in his panic. The fear grew, creeping 
through his being, as a second touch sent a wave of 
shivers through his body. He trembled despite the 
restraints. He could not make himself be still. A touch 
to his arm made him jump, overwhelmed by the knowledge 
that they would hurt him and he could not move or run or 
stop them. He wanted to close his eyes, but could not 
take his gaze from the dance of shadows on the wall.

*****

Jules stared at the monsters dancing on the wall, too 
frozen with fear to try to move. The doctors had hurt 
before. But they'd not been so terrible and he just
wanted them to stop. If he could scream he might have 
dared to plead, but he couldn't do that either.

They'd forced open his mouth, then stuffed something 
stiff inside. His mouth was too dry. He couldn't breath, 
and was afraid he'd choke. Despite the fear, he'd opened 
his mouth wide, trying to take a deep breath, but all it 
did was pull the thing deeper. He tried to push it away 
with his tongue, and it moved where he could breath.

The monsters would not let it go, and he clamped his 
teeth into the thing. It helped a little with the pain. 
He breathed through his nose until the panic ebbed, not 
remembering where he'd learned to do that. But with the 
monsters dancing and the fear, a helplessness overcame 
the rest.

There was nothing he could do to stop them, like when 
Father went raging.

He cringed at their occasional touch, but was more afraid 
of the darkness.

Then it grew terrible. Something frigid and wet touched 
his leg. The icy touch sent a shockwave through his body, 
and the roaring in his ears was so loud. Then, the 
wetness was hot and burning, searing against his flesh, 
and the smell hit him. He broke into a sweat, the light 
around him glowed orange and shifted into flames.

Biting hard against the gag, he trembled when the waves 
of pain flowed through his body. The shadows were 
laughing. He didn't want to entertain them and willed the 
tremors to stop. His heart was pounding so loud its echo 
thudded in his ears and he feared it would burst. The wet 
fire burned too deep and the odor filled his mind, the 
pounding of his heart shutting out the other sounds. The 
light around him was the orange of flames.

But the pain was too bad to hear or see now. Everything 
became a black tunnel which surrounded him in its velvety 
softness. 

*****

Then a sound tore him from the blackness, a bubbling 
which swelled into a hiss. The air smelled of fumes. He 
fought to breath as the stench filled his lungs. Breath 
came in irregular gasps. A wave of dizziness flattened 
him against the deck, and he wondered if he would faint 
should he try to rise. His eyes were tightly shut against 
the burning vapors, and he could hear the mad pounding of
his heart amid the wavering hiss. Stabbing pains from his 
leg began which spread the length of his body, and he 
realized it was pinned. Desperately, he tried to pull 
away, but could not move it. The acid was eating deeper, 
taking away flesh. Something was cutting across his leg 
near his hip, and he tried to scream but could not summon 
enough breath. It cut deeper, and he could feel the blade 
that would take it. His mind wasn't working; he tried to 
plead with them to stop, but could not remember the 
words. The acid ate deeper, and the pain began to 
overwhelm everything. He willed the teasing blade to drop 
and end the agony, but it stayed suspended, pressing hard 
but refusing to cut. He saw his leg reduced to bone, amid 
waves of unspeakable pain. He begged for the blade to 
fall, and it just cut deeper, while the acid rose towards 
it. 

Then the pain had a laughing faceÊ The *thing* loomed 
over him as he begged it to stop. But as the *thing's* 
laughter thundered around the room, a wet, warm darkness 
surrounded him. He should have feared drowning but as it 
lifted him from the place of horrors there was nothing 
but a warm, soft comfort. The pain was gone, lost in the 
warm sea, and he let the water surround him as the 
monsters and their laughter faded away.

*****
 
Willman watched as Bashir relaxed. He'd struggled too 
long, far beyond the point when most would have passed 
out from the pain. There was some extraordinary strength 
in this man that would serve them well. He did not allow
himself to think how much that strength would be needed, 
not then. Now, the wound which had been jagged and rough 
was a smooth, red sash of raw flesh. It would not heal 
easily, but the infection was gone. The patient would 
live. If he allowed himself the comfort of being 
unconscious for a time it would be better, but Willman 
thought he'd probably wake sooner, too.

That was too bad because there was a dwindling supply of 
pain medication, and he would be better off lost in 
blackness.

The restraints were removed and Bashir crumpled flat 
against the table, arms ready to dangle. The nurses 
bandaged the red swath, and the patient was gently
lifted onto his bed. 

Willman watched for reaction but there was none. He was 
beyond noticing the handling. If he was lucky, he'd found 
a quiet, safe place to hide from the rest. If he was 
luckier, he'd bought the two days it would take more 
medical supplies to reach them.

Willman didn't expect rescue. All he asked was enough 
that these people who'd cheated death could last long 
enough for a victory.

*****

James dropped the last of the crates salvaged from the 
Antelope in the stack, standing over the pitifully small 
pile, and following the others out of the dark building. 
That had been all they had been able to salvage. The rest 
had been too contaminated by the chemicals. 

He was filthy. He and the others had been climbing all 
over the remains of the Antelope. Smears of chemical 
leftovers were all over his clothes. Everything they wore 
would be destroyed along with the contaminated cargo. He 
looked forward to a long leisurely shower and a warm 
dinner. 

But most of all he wanted to retreat to his quarters 
alone. Lately he had been doing sketches, committing to 
paper the images of the last few days. It had long ago 
ceased to be exciting, but a grim fascination had taken 
hold. The crash of the Antelope had been James's first 
real introduction to death. 

He had volunteered for the rescue crew. He had pulled 
out at least twenty who were still alive, and, working 
with a compulsion he couldn't describe many more
who were not. Eventually, after his filter had failed 
and he got a few lungfulls of the fumes, he had been 
dragged away for treatment. But before that, he and his 
partner had pulled away a collapsed wall and found the 
fifteen people that had died underneath it. 

Four of them hadn't made it past the collapsing series of 
beams at the back and had been buried in rubble. Even 
more had been trapped underneath the planks of the wall 
and had died quickly from the thick fumes trapped with 
them. They never had a chance, and yet James still 
checked just in case one had made it. Working their way 
forward, they had come to the front, where the planks had
formed a cavern. The air was contaminated, but most of 
the fumes were contained behind the area. Four people had 
been trapped there. 

They found them near the other end, where there was a 
small open gap where a corridor had been. Rubble had 
fallen in the way, and the opening was too small to get 
through. But they had spent the last moments of their 
lives, while the fumes were drawn in by the opening, 
frantically pulling bits of rubble out of the way. It was 
a hopeless effort, looking at it later, but they had 
covered their mouths and fought for life until they had 
finally passed out. 

James and his partner had carried the bodies back to the 
staging area, James with a reverence he could not 
explain. He had been deeply touched by their desire to 
live. He had begun a series of sketches of their faces, 
and of the other moments from the crash that touched him, 
labeling each small drawing. He crammed the pages with 
drawings, impressions of the last days, from the crash
itself to the survivors and the dead. He showed them to 
no one, but each night he added more. In between the 
horror, he still drew his vignettes of life and when a 
book was finished he would stack it with the others. 
Every night he added a page, and his visual diary was 
becoming a history of their time. 

*****

Miles didn't have anything to do, and had chosen to sit 
by his friend. Julian was drifting in and out of sleep. 
He was still flushed, and his fever hadn't disappeared, 
but the nurse claimed Julian looked much better than he 
had the day before.

Julian still looked terrible to Miles. He'd come to the 
hhospital after a short walk, needing to talk to Willman 
about his supplies. But the doctor had surprised him by 
asking him to stay.

Julian woke occasionally, and Willman wanted someone 
there to talk to him. 

For a time, Julian had been awake, just staring at 
something Miles couldn't see. The nurse explained, when 
he asked, that it was from the fever. His friend was
still disoriented. But Miles kept talking, about the 
rain and how strange it was to wake up with the sun.

Maybe Julian heard, or perhaps not. It didn't matter. 
Miles didn't mention any bad news. He'd heard the rumor 
that they would be staying for a while, or longer, and 
kept it to himself. Then Julian relaxed and Miles watched 
as he slowly drifted back to sleep. 

Did he know he'd nearly died? What would he think, later, 
when he did know? Would he almost wish it had just ended 
then?

The leg was seeping some kind of fluid, and the nurse had 
made him leave for a short time while it was dressed with 
a new bandage. Miles didn't want to think of how bad it 
hurt, but knew Willman didn't have much to treat the 
pain. The nightmare for his friend wasn't over yet, even 
if nothing worse came of it.

But Miles wished he was in that bed. Someday, here or at 
a hospital that deserved the name, Julian would recover. 
He'd remember the crash and the pain, but it would end.

But Miles knew his family was lost. Bajor was far away. 
A gulf of war existed between them now. The Cardassians 
had crushed Bajor before, and from what they knew of the 
Dominion it would be worse this time. He might never see 
them again. All these others lost in their own sorrows 
were so lucky, if only they knew.

But Julian stirred again, and Miles told him about the 
rain that day, how it had pounded on the tent and made 
the floor slick with damp. Later, he'd have more to do 
and find a little more life. Now, talking to his friend, 
he pushed the darkness a little away with words.