TITLE: Surrender,Part 1 - Captivity
Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home 
Author: Valerie Shearer 
Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net 
Series: DS9 
Part 1/60(Chxx) 
Rating: R 
Codes:Angst,B/Ez,Ob's,K/O,AU,Post-War 

Summary: The battle over Cardassia ends in an allied defeat and 
the beginning of the end of everything.  When does survival 
cross the line to collaboration? 

For full header please see Part 0/60

note:  This story contains elements of graphic violence and non-
consentual sexual acts.


   This story is set in the trek world, but is mostly about human 
reactions to the humiliation and degredation of long term 
captivity and what it does to them.  Many of the events are based 
on real world human events and habits.  I hope I've done a good 
job of showing what the loss of freedom does to the soul. 
   The trek background of the Dominion policy of using captives 
for forced/slave labor is based on the Dominion war seies, 
published by Pocket Books.




                            Surrender 

                        by Valerie Shearer 


This novel is dedicated to the uncounted souls who have had to 
live the story of Surrender throughout human history.


what if ... 

The final battle over Cardassia has been lost and a few ships, 
the Defiant among them, are able to escape.  Most that try are 
destroyed.  But the Defiant is in need of massive repairs, and 
the Dominion fleet, with Breen support, follows the retreating 
ships, taking whatever is in the way.  Their first target is the 
Bajoran wormhole.



My heart turns home in longing 
Across the voids between, 
To know beyond the spaceship 
The hills of Earth are green. 

Across the seas of darkness, 
The good green Earth is bright; 
Oh, star that was my homeland, 
Shine down on me tonight. 

We pray for one last landing 
On the globe that gave us birth; 
Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies 
And the cool green hills of Earth. 

     Robert Heinlein, The Green Hills of Earth 


                        Part 1 - Captivity 

                            Chapter 1

                              ***** 

The corridor is jammed with people, shoved ahead by the Jem'Hadar as they push me away from the Infirmary, my Infirmary.  I'm still too stunned by the surrender to believe it, can still hear the way Worf stumbled over the words.  Why Worf?  Is Sisko dead?  Injured?  I watched Jake's face as it was announced, frozen before the realization hit him that his father should be saying the words, not Worf . . . 

But Jake got out, stumbling along in shock, lost somewhere in this mob.  I can't stop the worry about those we left behind as the Jem'Hadar rushed us out without concern for the wounded.  My patients are still there, those that couldn't walk.  My back still stings from the rifle butt that was smashed into my shoulder when I tried to help one of them as he fell.  

It all happened so fast.  Suddenly the Jem'Hadar were everywhere.  Those who hesitated, who panicked and ran, who had to resist, are dead now, shot on the spot.  The people in this mob wanted to live. 

I got lost in the crowd after that, but search the sea of scared faces for my people while we're crowded closer.  I know many of these people, if only by name, but hardly recognize them now.  They are just a sea of terrified faces, already twisted by shock into an unthinking mob.  I must find my own staff, have to make sure they are all right.  Anyone with knowledge of first aide had been sent to help me, Jake and Ezri among them.  I notice one of my nurses, Bandee, a recent arrival from Starfleet Medical, as she pauses in confusion and is wacked by another rifle.  I can just reach her, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling. 

If she falls they'll shoot her.  

Down a ways, Jake's head stands a little above the crowd.  He's moving in fits and starts, pushed ahead by the swirl of people.  Ezri was next to him as we were forced out the door.  Little flashes of our one night together, slowly exploring her spots, haunt me suddenly.  More than anyone else, I need to know she is safe.  Suddenly, I must know where she is.  After all the time we wasted discovering we wanted each other I can't lose her now.  But she's too short; in this crowd she could be trampled.  I can't find her.  

Ahead is another corridor and more are being shoved into the mob.  I catch a quick glance of Quark, holding his upraised palm ahead of him, trying to keep back the press of bodies.  I have to find her soon, before she is pushed too far ahead.  I shove the people next to me out of the way, careful not to look at them.  There is just enough space to slip ahead of them without losing my balance.  The whole crowd is pressing back now, with the pressure from those being merged with us.  My foot slips.  I grab the nearest person as we all freeze at the sound. 

The whine of rifles is coming from my Infirmary.  All the time, all the hope, ended so finally.  I can't help but stop, looking back, and almost fall in the sudden confusion as we're forced back and ahead at the same time. 

Someone steps on my foot, and I try to get out of his way.  I grab him to keep us both from falling.  The second corridor is past now.  Muffled orders to hurry echo down the halls as the guards herd us closer and push us faster.  I hurry too, but now the desperation is greater.  Jake is ahead of me now, pushed half-way down the next corridor by the new people.  I can't tell if Ezri is near.  I must find her.   She's so small.  She could get lost in this crowd. 

A sudden shove ripples down the hallway and there is a scream behind me, and a shot.  Then another scream, another shot.  The fear is palatable now, a deathly quiet coming over everyone.  We move faster--edgy, less careful, hardly noticing the feet and elbows that poke us.  The Jem'Hadar have pushed us to a turn in the corridor and we grind to a stop, forced against each other. 

I can't see Jake anymore.  But Ezri is so short.  She could still be ahead of me in the mob.  I might not have lost her. 

Then, quite suddenly I realize Ezri is in front of me.  Without thinking, I take her hand, wrap my arm around her and draw her towards me.  In the silence, I lean over and whisper into her ear, "Don't let go.  Don't let us be separated."  

She nods, not making a sound.  Pressed against me, every muscle is tense.  Her hand, clenched in mine, is clammy with sweat.  Crowded too closely, she takes short, quick breaths when the crush of bodies is momentarily relieved.  I try to shelter her with my arms as we're pushed closer and ahead--but not so quickly now.  Trying not to fall, we had something to distract us.  Now, the pace much slower, there is little room to move at all.  Now, we can think of our destination. 

Ezri stares at the crowd, gasping for breath, but letting me guide her.  In her eyes is a glimpse of hell.  With all those lifetimes, does she know too much of what is to come?  Or is she just Ezri, facing the unknown, but knowing just enough of the Breen and Dominion's ways to guess?  Either way, I will keep from losing her. 

Pulling her closer, I vow we will not be separated.  At the internment camp, they stored us together.  But there have been rumors that it's worse now, that we are being forcibly used for labor.  Surrounded by terrified people, images of the camp fill my mind and it haunts me.  I remember it too well.  I know what it's like to  have the Jem'Hadar watch your every move.  I still have  nightmares about my time in isolation.  I don't want to be in the middle of a nightmare that doesn't end with morning. 

There are a wall of guards now, all pointing their rifles at us, bayonets extended.  How many of these people wonder if it wouldn't be better to die now?  Stopped before a line of death, we are crammed together, Ezri firmly clasped in my arms.  She's staring at them and their rifles hardly breathing, as the first people are pulled out of the crowd, reluctant to leave the safety of the others.  They pull back, first, and then rush forward as the poke of weapons hurry them on.  Moved ahead as the guards shove us along, I watch as the Jem'Hadar take communicators and roughly search for any other equipment they can find.  Here and there people resist and are hit for their trouble, but only to hurt this time.  And they take more than equipment.  Anything personal is stolen as well.  Ezri is almost rigid, staring ahead, and I worry they'll hurt her as gradually we are moved closer to the line of Jem'Hadar and their rough touch.  

I can see them now, as Ezri holds my hand so tight it hurts.  With a rough grip the guard grabs my arm and I'm shoved forward, his gruff voice ordering me to let go of her. 

I try to loosen my hold without losing her, but she can't move.  Abruptly, a rifle is shoved at her head.  The guard simply says, "Now." 

I reluctantly let go, but she's still next to me.  When they are done I'll grab her hand.  I edge closer to Ezri until the guard yanks me back. 

First, they take our communicators, then rough hands back up a scan.  We do not resist.  They confiscate a tricorder I'd forgotten and then try to shove me ahead, but I balk.  Ezri is still being held.  She has something clutched in her hand. 

"Now," orders the guard, again, with a terrible finality.  He has me by the arm, ready to shove me ahead. 

She's still standing there, frozen in place, her skin blanched white she's holding it so hard.  I back up a little and grab her hand, forcing it open.  It's a small pendant, something of Jadzia's.  It's taken, and I hold her again as they shove us forward. 

I didn't want to lose any memories of Jadzia, but it wasn't worth Ezri's life. 

Numb with relief, we're pushed into the turbolift with a few others, holding tight to each other as the lift drops suddenly, descending to the half-finished areas below where we stored excess supplies.  Are we to be stowed away with the same care as the crates and supplies that might sit for months before they were used? 

Ezri is pressed against me, still tense but . . . different.  Out of the crush of bodies she can breath again.  She slides closer as the overloaded lift wobbles a little.  

"I won't let go again," I assure her, whispering softly.  It is a promise.  We will have to be forcibly separated.  In the half-light of the lift her eyes are watching, alert and curious, no longer suspended in a nightmare. 

Checking the group, I see both civilians and military, men and women, even a few children.  We haven't been sorted out.  But below? 

Then the lift lurches to a stop and we're summarily pushed out of the way into another crowded sea of prisoners.  Here, the fear is worse.  Ezri moves closer, my arms around her again.  Her quick breaths and pounding heart worry me, but I can't help.  All I can do is hold her.  

We're not alone.  Here and there, others cling to each other, desperate to stay together.  It's half-dark here, and cold.  Off in the corner is a tall man that could be Jake, but the light is too dim to be sure.  The air is musty and dank.  Nobody asked our names.  We stand in the shadows, scared and staring.  Suddenly, a door creaks open near  us and guards shove us inside the cavernous warehouse.  Ezri moves with me, matching my hesitant steps, as I back towards the wall, others being forced inside and slide along as the crowd fills the space.  Abruptly, the door shuts, and I collapse to the floor still entwined in her arms.  There is no sound but the movement of bodies as people collapse in sudden relief.  

The guards are on the other side of the door for now.  We are crowded but can move around.  Aside from a few bruises, nobody is hurt.  It's too dark to see much of anything, even the source of the pungent smell filling the room. 

Silence reigns as we wait while other rooms are filled with living cargo.  We can hear the muffled sounds of their movement as they are forced inside.  After the hurried evacuation we're giving into exhaustion and shock is taking over. 

I tell myself we didn't send the whole fleet to Cardassia.  The station has been too badly damaged for them to use it against anyone.  We can't give up hope of rescue. 

But the cold is very hard to ignore.  And the silence is worse, much scarier than the shouting guards.  Nobody knows what comes next, what new indignity we'll be forced into.  Ezri is very still, probably still in shock, and I hold her close.  Before the Defiant left for Cardassia, we promised we'd come home alive.  We managed to keep that promise.  I make a silent vow to her that we will stay alive.  

It is cold, though not as cold as it would be if this place were empty.  My mind is drifting, half-asleep, replaying over and over that moment the Jem'Hadar swarmed into the Infirmary, forcing us away immediately.  Still stunned by the surrender, by the mystery of Sisko's fate, we were denied the chance to make any plans, any heroic last stands, and were shoved out and down into this purgatory.  But this is not the end.  We have only begun this roller coaster ride to hell. 

                               *** 

How long has it been since we were trapped in this nightmare?  There's no more sense of time.  There is just the cold and the hunger--and most of all thirst.  All of it together--especially the fear--bring a wary kind of reality to this place. 

People are talking quietly, coming out of shock.  Now and then  they call out for someone in particular.  Families are separated, often as those on duty were trapped away at the their posts when captured.  The fear is palatable.  Nobody knows if they'll get a chance to find their loved ones later.  A little girl is crying because she can't find her mother.  She's quieter now, the sobs almost inaudible.  Someone is trying to comfort her.  I hold Ezri closer, huddling together as we try to stay warm.  

It's so cold.  She presses close and I surround her, feeling her relax a bit as she warms a little.  Her breathing slows and she's half-asleep.  We don't talk.  It's enough to have each other right now with so many lost or alone.  She wraps her arms around me and we try to keep away the cold and the fears. 

In the turbolift, that time before with Jadzia, we'd held each other for comfort and warmth.  The cold had been icy that time, but this is worse.  Then, there would be rescue.  Now, lost in this darkness, the hope of release is already fading.  We hoped for the muffled sounds of battle, but there has been nothing but silence.  

Our captors aren't ready yet.  We're relegated to this dark, smelly hell like excess baggage.  With nothing to eat or drink, hope fading, and a hard grimy floor our only bed they'll keep us here until we're hungry and desperate enough to take what they offer without complaint.  

I keep thinking of how fast Martok and Tain rushed out when we were ordered to assemble.  Even the powerful can be forced into behaving.  Each time I fall asleep, I'm haunted by memories of the internment camp, the hopeless feeling tempered by the hope of Tain's transmitter.  Each time I wake I've managed to forget where we are. 

My stomach grumbles constantly.  But I can live with that a little easier than the thirst.  We have had nothing to drink.  Mouths dry, the lightheaded feeling from early dehydration  noticeable, we curl together as thirst gradually becomes a greater preoccupation than hunger or cold. 

Here and there, people mumble prayers to their chosen deities.  I wonder if some are simply hedging their bets.  As the war got worse more and more Starfleeters found time to visit the Bajoran Temple, just in case. 

I'm half asleep, Ezri curled inside my arms, when a screech from  the door and the sound of boots instantly wakes me.  For a terrible moment, I'm worried it's over and we'll all die.  I hold Ezri tighter and she stirs, looking first at me and then the open door. 

The Jem'Hadar, rifles pointed at us, pour inside.  Something heavy is dragged along, and I watch as a couple of people try to slip past the guards.  It's too dark to see who they are, but I have a strange indifference to their fate as they are shot on the spot and everybody near the door quickly backs up.  It was a stupid thing to do.  It's better not to know, to keep their deaths off in the distance.  But nobody else will try to run now. 

But then, everyone stops at the sound of water slowly sloshing in its barrel.  The men with the water retreat, dragging the dead with them, and it is all I can do to keep from rushing forward even with the guards.  All I can hear is the water, and Ezri, no longer lost in her thoughts, is hurriedly untangling herself, ready to get to her feet.  Relief floods our faces as the door is forced shut and the first dipper is pulled from it.  We are still hungry and cold and face an uncertain future, but there is water. 

All that exists is the water.  It drives away the rest--the fears and hunger and cold.  Ezri is trying to stand, the crowd already moving towards the door, again in darkness.  For a moment there is hesitation, but then there is a rush, and the sound of shoving and arguing.  I'm so thirsty I could clear a path myself, but my legs are too stiff to move that fast.  Ezri and I start edging around the mob, hugging the wall.  

My heart is racing as we grow closer.  Someone hands me a wet handle and I drink a little of the water in the dipper.  It has a metallic taste and is warm, but tastes better than the finest wine I've ever had.  I give the rest to Ezri.  She is staring at the water, still holding onto me.  They take the dipper back but more is brought. 

Suddenly overjoyed, I recognize a voice.  Miles.  "Julian, you okay?" he asks.  "Where's Ezri?" 

"She's here," I say, relief flooding my raspy voice.  

"I can't find Keiko.  I got to our quarters but the whole area had been cleared out." 

I have to reassure him.  I can't stand the thought of him losing his family.  The area where their quarters were was undamaged.  They probably weren't hurt.  "We didn't get any patients from that area," I say, remembering the sound of their dying and suddenly unable to continue. 

"They're here, not this bay, but here.  Somebody told me."  There is defeat in his tone, a deep anger he can't quite hide.  Pushing his way past the ring of thirsty people around the barrel, he finds his way to us.  He collapses in my arms, and the three of us share an emotional reunion.  I can't help but wonder if he'll see Keiko again, how the children fared in the mob.  But I keep that to myself. 

Then there is a noise, a squeak by the door.  Ezri straightens up and we watch as the door is pushed open a little and someone is shoved inside. 

Worf.  Miles moves away, pulls him to us.  We make sure everyone has a last drink before sliding back to our place by the wall. 

Miles crumples besides me.  Ezri sits between Worf and I, her hand on Worf's shoulder. 

"This can't be," Miles mumbles, lapsing into silence.  He cradles his arm, the shoulder wound healed but still sore. 

"You'll find them," I tell him, knowing it isn't up to me but still hoping to reach through the deep gloom he's fallen into.  But he ignores me and stares at the door. 

Ezri sits closer, sharing warmth, but her attention is on Worf. 

Very quietly, he starts to talk. 

"This is a great dishonor," he says. 

Ezri takes his hand.  "You didn't have a choice.  Much more and there wouldn't be a station." 

Worf won't look at her.  "Before the end, Weyoun offered a deal.  Surrender now or everyone would die.  I did not plan to accept but I was overruled." 

"How?" asks someone nearby, listening. 

Worf sits up straight, stiffening.  "At phaser point, if you must know," he says reluctantly.  "I regret not allowing them to shoot." 

Silence reigns for a time as we try to visualize the last moments.  Then someone else, another listener, asks the question we have been avoiding. 

"What about Sisko?" 

Worf fumes.  Growling out the words, he says bitterly, "He ran away.  He is a coward." 

I don't know which cage Jake is in, but I'm glad he's not here, not this moment. 

Even Miles is roused by the news.  "The Captain wouldn't run," he mutters. 

Bitterly, Worf explains.  "The Dominion fleet was only on sensors, but it was obvious we were outgunned and outnumbered.  Sisko was watching the readouts when he . . . froze.  When he came out of his trance he wasn't interested in us.  All he said was, 'I must go.' " 

"Where?" asks Ezri, her voice too calm. 

"Bajor.  He took a runabout.  I assume he made it." 

Another vision, I wonder?  But what could have possibly made him leave--run, I correct myself--on the eve of the last battle of our war?  But then, he never considered what it would mean when he gave me to 31. 

"It wouldn't have mattered," says Ezri, still sounding like desertion was a normal thing to do.  "We still lost." 

Worf doesn't buy it.  "We were betrayed," he announces with finality.  Then he adds quite softly, "and dishonored.  *This* is not living." 

Nobody can think of anything else to add.  Worf pulls away, Ezri sliding onto my lap, between Miles and I, shivering a little.  We leave Worf and his dishonor to himself for a little while. 

Thirst sated at last, the room begins to quiet.  More and more, it sinks in that we lost, that we are prisoners, that we're stuffed into the cargo holds of the station like things to be used up.  My stomach growls, demanding food.  The rough walls are rubbing sore places on my back and the cold is seeping through my uniform.  

There is a rough stubble of beard on most of the men already.  Here and there are small attempts at personal grooming, but there is little anyone can do.  Already, the smell of crowded bodies is starting to compete with the still unknown stench. 

Ezri falls asleep, cuddled between Miles and my lap.  He says nothing, just staring into his own world.  I doze a little, again, hoping to forget reality for a time.  But all I can see and taste are the camp rations they fed us, the real walls of the prison.  Deyos used the rations to keep us under control, and any attempt at fighting back got you locked in isolation. 

I force myself to stay awake, not needing that nightmare too.  There is no sound but the shuffling of bodies on the hard floor, and an occasional trip for water.  It's very eery, so much quiet in such a crowded room. 

The little girl has quit crying.  Ezri has moved across both Miles and I, the three of us huddled closer.  It feels colder now, somehow.  Here and there are inaudible whispers.  The water has helped, but all I can think of is something to eat.  No matter how bad the nightmare, even Dominion rations would do.  

Ezri moves a little and I realize she's awake.  She looks up at me, scared but calm.  "They were going to execute Worf and I before Damar let us go," she whispers, glancing at Worf. 

"I know," I say uneasily.  "There was the internment camp."  She holds me closer and I wrap my arms around her.  I guess if we're going to die it would be better to die together.  I'm not sure if it wouldn't be better than living for who knows how long as their prisoners. 

She kisses me, gently.  We hold on to each other just in case this is the last time we have together. 

                               *** 

I'm having a dream.  I know it's a dream because Garak is here, and Garak is dead.  But the rest of us are standing in lines, waiting for our lunch at the replimat.  No one is sitting.  Nobody has gotten any food. 

Garak has wandered forward and now joins me in the line.  "It's broken," he says.  "Everything's broken." 

I look at him again and notice the blood.  He's covered with it, and looks a little too pale.  "Let's go.  You need to see a doctor."  I try to get out of line, but he won't move.  And my feet are too heavy to lift, as if I have heavy weights in my shoes. 

"It's too late.  I'd rather wait here, with you.  They'll fix the replicator eventually.  They won't let you starve."  He is distracted, listening to some inner sound. 

My stomach hurts, cramping a little already.  How long have they left us with nothing but water?  The barrel has been hit hard, and I hope more will be provided when that one is done.  But I don't know.  I'd like to have more water, help the hunger a little, but I don't want to use it up too fast. 

And I'd have to get out of line.  My feet won't move, no matter how hard I try to drag them. 

A sound, and Garak and the replimat vanish.  Worf is awake now, his shout having awakened everyone near.  Ezri has rolled onto my legs, her full weight resting on my feet turned to the side, no feeling in my lower legs.  She stirs, my feet starting to tingle as she pulls herself up and towards Worf. 

Everyone nearby is looking at him, even those who can't see him in the dim greyish light.  "I did not intend to wake anyone up," he says.  

"A nightmare?" asks Ezri, lightly. 

He is annoyed, but answers.  "Not exactly.  I did not remember being *here*," he adds, in a tone even Ezri should know to leave alone. 

She doesn't.  "You are here.  Was it a good day to die?" 

Worf glares at her, barely holding back his anger.  "You do not pry into such things." 

She's too calm, as if she was in her office.  "It's my job.  You were loud, almost violent.  Someone could have gotten hurt, especially with all these people here." 

Worf is smoldering now.  "I will go elsewhere if you wish." 

She eyes him levelly.  "There isn't anywhere else to go."  She adds, utterly calm.  "You want an honorable death?  You may get the chance for one.  You may be able to battle them over and over until you've had all the fights you ever wanted." 

Worf is startled, and doesn't immediately cover the shock.  He glances at me, rubbing my legs as the tingle slowly gives into an ache, before he can hide the fear from her. 

"It would be a more honorable way to die than like a vole trapped in an empty hold," he vows, looking around at those nearby, watching the entertainment with interest and anticipation.  Not that a vole would have much of a chance in *this* particular cargo hold right now. 

Ezri is ignoring his barely controlled temper.  "Or maybe they'll give you a real fast death and just execute you." 

"Much preferable over this," he announces, raising his voice.  Then he gets quiet again.  "I should have refused to surrender, made them shoot if they really wanted this.  I would have not been responsible for it then." 

Ezri sounds satisfied now.  "You're not responsible.  You can't control Weyoun or his guards.  All you could do was the best possible thing *at the time* for the rest of us." 

Worf clenches his fists as if to hit something, shaking them, arms tense, but drops them in frustration.  "*I* gave them the station.  I have dishonored myself, the house of Martok and all Klingons everywhere." 

"That's very Klingon," she says, but softly, not as Ezri the counseler but Ezri the friend.  "But it's not fair.  All these people are alive since you surrendered when you had a chance.  Ask them if they'd rather be dead.  Don't impose your own sense of honor on them." 

Worf looks around, the center of local attention in the dim light.  "I will not.  But I am still greatly dishonored." 

He pulls himself back, resolutely refusing to look at anyone else.  I give Ezri a curious glance, shuffling my legs around, trying to stretch them a little.  I manage to bump Miles, still sleeping.  He looks up at me, eyes half-focused.  "Ee'Char?  Is it time?" 

"No, just go back to sleep," I tell him quietly.  He leans back, immediately asleep.  He's been mumbling to Ee'Char for a while. 

Ezri is looking at him, her profession interest evident.  "No," I tell her.  "Leave him alone." 

She shrugs, moving towards me again.  She ignores Worf as she slides over my lap, between Miles and I, and rests her head on my shoulder.  "I tried," she says. 

But as she settles down in my arms, I keep remembering that moment when the Jem'Hadar held a rifle at my head, Garak still in the wall.  If we hadn't succeeded, would I have preferred to die rather than face the particular sorts of punishment only spoken of as rumors?  A little chill passes over me, a sudden flash of horror I won't explain.  Ezri notices, looks at me oddly.  "Just cold," I mumble, but inside I'm there, facing the longest moment of my life, waking in that narrow cot with the devastating realization that I'd been replaced, that this could be the rest of my life. 

Now, the others bored, it's quiet again, or as quiet as a crowded room can get.  But I'm still there, still lost in the grey of an existence I do not choose. 

I wonder if later Ezri might discover that even Klingons can be right once in a while. 

                               *** 

I keep gazing at the water barrel.  The last time I was there, however long ago that was, it was almost empty.  The water doesn't stop the constant awareness of food, but it helps a little.  Worf keeps mumbling, half-asleep, fighting imaginary battles with the Jem'Hadar.  I know what he's dreaming about, the kinds of fears he can't put to words.  Each time I manage to sleep the grey walls of Barracks 6 enclose me again. 

Of course, a cot and food would be paradise right now.  

Miles is leaning forward, mumbling to Ee'Char occasionally, making imaginary sand drawings with his hands.  He doesn't see any of us, but he's peaceful.  Maybe that's better.  I can't judge with Ezri lying across both of our laps asleep.  At least Miles believes his family to be safe on the station. 

Then a very loud scraping sound rouses everyone, even Miles and Worf, and the door is opened again.  Nobody moves this time.  Miles stares at it with confusion, Worf as if daring someone to a fight.  Ezri is rubbing sleep from her eyes as she moves off my lap. 

The light is very bright this time, far brighter than when the water came.  It hurts our eyes, but you can make out quite plainly the line of Jem'Hadar and Breen standing in the way. 

The Breen are holding their cattle prods out, Worf scowling as he glares at them.  For a brief moment, Ezri looks alarmed and grips my hand.  But then she slips back into the Ezri that came on the cargo lift, calmly watching, hardly perturbed at all. 

I don't know which is worse, which is more dangerous for her should they come too close.  They've almost shot her once, and I know what happens when you defy them. 

At least we're far enough away for now. 

They part in the middle, and a couple of prisoners drag in another barrel, removing the empty one.  The tension is still there, still strong, but a little less desperate than before. 

A couple of the Jem'Hadar move into the room, and we can see they also carry the cattle prods.  But they each have a box, and abruptly they toss handfuls of something into the middle of the room. 

Even with the Jem'Hadar standing there people are already scrambling for it.  But none of it reaches the walls of this cold tomb.  Just as quickly they are done, and without warning they retreat and shut the door.  

"Some kind of rations," says a woman in the middle of the room. 

"We didn't get any," says someone on the wall near us, worried, his voice on edge. 

Suddenly, an unorganized re-distribution of the rations begins, as handfuls are tossed all over the room.  I'm sure the people in the middle got more, but sent some our way to keep us where we are. 

We're too hungry to have much energy anyway.  A few land by me and I snatch them before anyone else can grab them.  I'm hoping for more than three, but that is all that comes near. 

They are Dominion rations.  I recognize them instantly, even in the darkness.  But the bad memories they bring no longer matter.  Rations, even Dominion rations, are food.  I can't guess how long its been, but I've been dreaming about eating each time I slept. 

The others are looking at me.  I divide each bar into four parts and share them between Worf and Miles and Ezri and I.  Miles snatches them from me.  Ezri takes them slowly, looking them over.  Worf refuses at first. 

"Eat, Worf.  Doctor's orders," I tell him. 

He looks at them for a second, then takes the pieces from me.  "If you insist," he says, "but we are being fed like animals and to consume the food makes us like them." 

"Eat it, Worf," says Ezri. 

He grumbles, but eats.  No one else has made such a fine distinction. 

The people nearby who didn't get any glare back and start getting to their feet, moving towards the center of the room.  

A more direct re-distribution has started as those who didn't catch any of the crumbs go looking for their share.  There is a lot of movement which is hard to see in the dark, but the anger is quite plain.  A whole range of noisy arguments have already started.  The people who tried to horde the food are having it taken from them, sometimes violently.  Someone pleads they don't have anymore, hadn't eaten yet.  

If they are listening they must be pleased.  They lock us away like garbage without food, and now we turn our anger on ourselves.  Already, we are grateful for their crumbs; already we are being as they want us to be.  A shouting match has turned physical and someone's been punched.  A child is crying hysterically.  

Several of our neighbors return with bars in hand, looking grimly satisfied.  I could probably get more, but I will not be an animal for them.  

"Look at that, there must be seven of the bars there," says an angry voice, drifting back.  I listen, seeing the grim reality that in part they have already won, already own a little of us.  The hoarder is robbed of his entire cache and the child cries louder. 

I will not join the mob.  Not yet.  A few days more of this enforced starvation and blood would probably have been spilled.  

Ezri stares at the bits of ration bar, and carefully takes a bite.  Miles stares forward, toward the door, and just eats.  I force myself not to gobble them up, fighting off all the bad memories the taste brings to life. 

All the rations distributed, peacefully or not, people settle down to eat.  It's very quiet again, with few comments.  The general feeling finds the bars disgusting, but then few are in the mood to be picky now.  

Ezri complains, "I'll take the algie stuff the Breen fed us."  

Miles says nothing.  I wonder if he's thinking of Keiko and the children, wondering where they are, if they managed to get any food.  Or is he still with Ee'Char? 

Worf stars grimly ahead, finally standing and joining the line moving towards the water.  Ezri yawns, looking towards him and shaking her head.  "Klingons," she mutters settling against my arm.  "That was okay for breakfast.  I wonder what we get for lunch." 

                               *** 

There's an edgy feeling to crowd.  We're all waiting for another feeding.  People move around more, sleep less.  Everyone wants to be ready to grab what they can.  There will be no complaints about the rations this time.  

The door groans open again, the room mostly silent except for occasional whispered conversation and the line for water.  But this time a scared prisoner stumbles nervously inside to throw the food to the animals.  He's very careful to hit the whole room.  There are more of the bars, scattered everywhere in the darkness.  I grab three, and the others one each.  

I wonder if things got out of hand before and they didn't like the results. 

I lean back, pulling Ezri closer, and prepare for another show. 

But this time after the door slams and the scared prisoner is gone, a voice suddenly booms across the room.  "Let's not be the animals they want us to be.  Share.  Anyone without anything?" 

For a moment, nobody moves.  We're still very hungry.  Nobody wants to give up any little extra they might have found and might share with friends or family.  

"Come on folks, we aren't going to repeat the last time, are we?" he asks.  I doubt anyone regretted the food they ate, but there has been a guilty silence ever since. 

Nearby, several people stand.  Inside me, a little voice explains that it is perfectly right for me to have the extra bars.  After all, we had less than a full one last time.  But I remember the debacle the last feeding became and do not  wish to see it repeated. 

I give them each one of the bars.  It is hard.  I am so hungry.  They sit down, already subdued.  We're used to the near dark already.  It's easier to see in than the light.  Finally, everyone without food has sat down, and now everyone has something to eat. 

The owner of the voice continues.  "Ok, who has more than one?"  Others stand.  "Let's collect them, and divide them later.  We need to see how many are in here too."  I can hear his steps as he moves around the room, collecting the extras.  He has made us listen with his voice.  "We have to take care of each other," he says.  "They won't." 

Silence comes over the room.  This time, Ezri says nothing.  Sometimes food is food.  Miles stares at the shut door, like he's been doing since we were first fed when he's awake.  I eat my bar, thinking less about the memories this time than how good it feels to eat. 

Worf holds the bar in his hand, just looking at it.  Ezri has fallen asleep between Miles and I, and I ask, quietly,  "Do they taste any different to you?" 

He turns, his eyes thoughtful.  "This one will.  Perhaps someone will write a song about the man who gave us back our dignity." 

"You could," I suggest. 

"I am not a musician.  Perhaps Ezri, for he is a most honorable man.  I celebrate his spirit." 

The man is moving around the room, counting little groups of people.  He's careful not to step on anyone and takes great care to count all the children.  They are worse off than the adults. 

Worf turns away.  "Somehow, I do not remember them tasting so good." 

"I don't remember the taste mattering that much after a little while," I add. 

Later, having finished our meager meal, most people have gone back to sleep, the only retreat to sanity left us.  But we feel better now.  We were not animals.  We reclaimed ourselves today and somehow we must remember how important that is. 

                               *** 

Five more feedings since we reclaimed ourselves, still cold, still hungry.  Two more barrels of water.  It's always prisoners who throw out the food, and sometimes they happen to spill a lot more than they throw.  Maybe the guards intimidate them.  Maybe they are done when the box is empty and somebody else will go hungry.  I don't care.  The last one was a feast--three bars apiece--but it was a long time before the next feeding. 

Nothing else has changed.  Miles sits and draws in the sand or stares at the door.  Despite repeated attempts at conversation, not even Ezri can get him to talk.  Worf eats his ration bars without complaint, stands in line for water, and waits for this to end.  He won't argue with her anymore, but she still tries to talk about it.  

The smell is worse, but we don't notice it too much now.  The fuzz on my face is starting to itch, and its hard not to scratch.  Some of the men don't bother stopping themselves, scratching their chins constantly.  But a cut here could be fatal. 

Everyone is tired and hungry, grimy and cold.  Worse, there has been no assault on the station to free us.  It's been seven feedings, but more days than that.  If it was possible to retake the station--and recapture the wormhole--than it would have been done.  The end will not mean freedom, not for now, but we will get to leave this prison. 

Even that would be welcome. 

Worf is waiting in line for water, and Ezri is curled up in my lap.  I hardly notice when she asks, it is so quiet. 

"Do you think he had another vision, like with Ba'Halla.  He was right then." 

There are many things not to talk about, friends probably dead, family that is missing, but most of all we avoid talking about *him*. 

"Must of been.  Remember, I wasn't here then," I remind her.  The changeling saved the Captain's life then, ended the visions.  It still hurts a little that nobody noticed. 

"I wasn't exactly here either," she adds.  "But you see the point." 

I'm not listening.  I'm sitting on the little cot, listening in horror as Martok explains how he was kidnaped two years before, how he fears what his duplicate has done.  It's slowly dawning on me that somewhere is another Dr. Bashir, and nobody will know the difference.  But I don't want her to get started on that. 

"He ran out on us, is that the point?  Just like he abandoned me, like he made me sign over poison for some slimy deal with Garak.  He didn't care.  He does what he wants to." 

"No," she says, insistent.  "He wanted to stay.  There was something he had to do on Bajor, something that mattered more than the war and the Dominion and even losing the battle.  Somewhere down there was his destiny." 

"Was?" I ask her, suddenly curious. 

"He's done with it now.  He won't be coming back." 

"Back from where?"  I ask. 

She shakes her head.  "I had a dream, all white around me, like the orb visions.  But he was there, and it was really Benjamin.  He was different, like he could see things we are denied." 

"I don't suppose he was going to help us," I grumble. 

"He's too much in awe of this new reality, all the new things he sees.  Our problems are insignificant now.  He'll come back some time, now or before, but not the Captain we knew." 

"He's dead to us now," I say, wishing she'd leave the whole subject alone. 

"Or not born.  Benjamin's life has never been linear, but now he isn't even confined to living it as it was." 

"Good, maybe he'll leave us alone."  But around me are the grey walls of Barracks 6, and Martok is limping in from "practice".  Tain, wheezing, is reluctantly helped to his bunk.  He's almost done with the transmitter but he'll never know if it brings rescue.  What if it hadn't?  Might I still be rotting in the rocky prison, or would they have found better uses for all of us? 

"Julian," she repeats, since I didn't hear her first attempt to reach me.  "Before Worf gets back." 

"What about him," I ask, remembering bandaging his battered body as well. 

"He's given up.  He's going to die in battle, even if it's just a guard.  I'll miss him." 

"He had to surrender the station.  It was a big disgrace to him.  Honor matters a lot to Worf, even more than it does . . . to Martok."  It occurs to me that Martok is likely dead by now.  We heard reports of massive damage to his ship before we escaped capture over Cardassia. 

Martok had been fighting the Jem'Hadar for two years, just trying to keep from being hurt too badly at the end.  Worf would never have made it that long, even if he wasn't keeping them busy for Garak. 

She's probably right.  For a second, she's wearing a pensive look, her hand playing with an invisible ponytail.  Then she moves her hand, looking at it oddly and shaking her head.  "When you brought him back he was in pretty bad shape.  He might have been dead by then without your escape."  She starts playing with her ponytail again, and I try not to notice.  "But that's just Worf.  So much to prove to himself." 

I remember the way he pretended not to hurt so badly he could hardly stand, how he'd lie that binding his ribs was fine.  He never was a very good liar. 

"Your turn," he says as he steps to his spot and sits, staring ahead.  

We don't all go at the same time.  The space would be gone by the time we were done.  Spots along the wall, with something to lean against, are rather prized. 

Ezri yawns and gets to her feet, rubbing her stiff legs.  "I guess you two are next," she says, looking at Miles.  Miles doesn't get up for water very often, and I take him along when it's my turn. 

Worf doesn't look at me, staring at the door, a resigned look in his eyes.  He waits until I'm looking at him, speaking softly.  "I will not be made into a slave again." 

"I understand."  I don't want to admit it.  I don't want another friend/crewman to die.  But I can't lie to him.  Before, all of us had been imprisoned, occasionally beaten, questioned, and some--I remember the footsteps pacing near me, bound on the floor, and the sounds as the other prisoner was beaten to death instead--some of us were simply destroyed.  I shutter, involuntarily, filled with dread.  It was a secret I kept, telling neither Starfleet, Sloan, nor Ezri.  But Worf was there long enough to know of the rumors, of that and other, worse things. 

He confirms it.  "Martok was drunk one night.  He said they'd killed someone as special punishment.  They didn't know if it was you until they let you out of isolation.  I thought you would understand."  He looks towards Ezri.  "You have never told her?" 

"Nobody.  Right after that I went in the box.  It took a long time to sort out what was real.  They'd ask too many questions.  I'd have to remember."  I watch as Ezri stands in the line, almost as if it was for lunch at the replimat.  "I have to take care of her," I tell him. 

"She is strong.  Do not doubt her."  He looks fondly at her.  "I will miss her." 

"She's needs you.  She's being reckless."  I try to find some reason for him to stay alive, but then, he and Martok were *used* by them, forced to live with constant battering.  We both know it will be worse this time. 

"She is your mate," says Worf.  "She has chosen.  You owe her a debt I cannot fulfill." 

"And you are her friend.  I have a feeling there won't be many left in a while."  I look at him, finally finishing the last of his rations.  "Stay with us.  Sometimes it's honorable not to die too." 

"I will not speak of this again," he says.  "Do not tell her of my intentions." 

There's nothing I can do to change his mind.  He would have let the Jem'Hadar kill him in the ring rather than go on like Martok before, and now he believes he has committed a greater disgrace.  

"I'll keep it to myself."  I look at him, leaning back against the wall, finally at peace with himself.  I don't have to tell Ezri.  I hope she finds a way to say good bye before it's over.  

"She knows," says Worf, looking up at her.  "Perhaps she'll continue to try to talk me out of it.  It would give her something to do."  He looks at me, his face grim.  "When this time is done, *you* will have to put up with her questions." 

All I can think of, given that all of us could easily be executed for the escapes, is the fervent hope that she has that chance. 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 2 

                               *** 

Light.  Bright light spills into the room, blinding everyone.   It's been ten feedings--an unknown number of days--since the first rations.  We figure there are about 140 people in here.  Some of them are sick, a few died and were hauled out with the water.  People cough and talk in whispers.  The last few feedings have been very meager, the prisoner with the box being careful not to drop anything more than he is allowed.  But it helps that we've been dividing up the food since the second feeding.  It's  made us feel a little less like trapped rats. 

Time and days have lost their meaning.  We eat when they feed us, and most people sleep in-between.  It dulls the constant hunger a little. 

Nobody has the energy for much else. 

Ezri hasn't said much since the food got so scarce.  She mostly sleeps, like the rest.  Everything about this hell of a life has become like a bad dream, and eventually we'll wake up into the nightmare. 

There has been too little food to ever forget the hunger, and when awake most people stare at the door, waiting for more to eat.  Conversation is hard, not thinking of things that don't remind you of food.  When I sleep, I dream about my lunches with Garak.  He's probably dead by now.  But all I remember of my dreams is the food.  Most of the time Ezri and I curl close, her small body in my arms, and we keep each other warm.  

Miles presses close for warmth, and sometimes the three of us curl together,  but he usually stares at the floor, making motions with his hands.  When I take him for water he calls me Ee'Char and I answer that way.  Not a pleasant illusion, but better than wondering if your family is crammed into another room where the prisoners don't leave much food.  He hasn't spoken to me or Ee'Char for a little while, and my few attempts to draw him out have been ignored.  I hope he will talk later--if there is a later.  But sometimes he cries. 

It's been too long for there to be much hope of rescue, at least any time soon.  Whatever they plan, we'll have to live with it.  I tell myself that somehow the Federation is still fighting the war, that somehow the depleted fleet will win and there will be an end to this.  I grasp this hope like the distant beacon of a lighthouse to a ship lost at sea. 

Each time they shove open the door, the light is very painful and Ezri buries her face in my chest.  I  try to block it with my hand, but it doesn't help enough.  The longer we are kept in this darkness the worse the pain. 

But this time, there has been nothing thrown to the animals yet.  They are standing there with the doors open and the horrible light driving us back. 

This time it's Jem'Hadar, a few Breen thrown in, with rifles held at ready.  No skiddish prisoner with food is in evidence. 

I can't tell if I'm afraid or relieved that something different will happen.  Miles slides closer, more alert than he's been in days.  Ezri straightens a little, sitting on my lap. 

Worf looks relieved, almost happy and excited. 

They are moving towards us.  "Up," barks the Jem'Hadar in front.  

We push ourselves up on shaky legs, helping support each other, moving slowly, hugging the wall for support.  As we approach the door, near the water, the guards begin grabbing people and pulling them out.  I hold Ezri again and this time she grips me just as tightly.  The light is too bright and hurts too much, and we stumble ahead blindly in the shimmering haze. 

She's pulling back, away from the guards.  I drag her forward into the pool of burning light.  

"I will not be a slave!" declares a familiar voice, and Ezri tries to get away. 

There is a fight.  Several thuds indicate someone falling hard on the deck, Worf or the Jem'Hadar it isn't certain.  But then there is rifle fire, sudden and final, and a last thump.  The crowd freezes, unable to see in the bright light. 

"Resist and you join him," yells one of the guards.  Nobody takes him up on the offer. 

Most of the people in this room have never faced anything like  this and are terrified.  I can't get Internment Camp 371 out of my head--and it was luxury next to this hell.  Ezri, for all her lives, has not lived through this kind of nightmare. 

She stops pulling, and suddenly leans against me.  I wrap my arms around her, holding her upright.  When she stands on her own, she is very passive, letting me pull her with me as we're swept forward. 

Someone grabs my arm.  Ezri and I stumble forward, both concentrating on staying together. 

"Hurry up," orders the guard, through a Breen translator.  

Ezri tenses, and a second later I know why as I'm grazed by the prod.  For a moment I go numb, then the jolt of pain hits.  Forcing stiff legs to move, we stumble forward into an agonizing bright fuzz, the pain from the light almost as bad as the charge of the prod.  I can make out nothing in the glare, and close my eyes to the bright light which still shines through my eyelids.  The only thing I allow myself to think about is Ezri's hand gripping my wrist. 

We're back in the corridor, the air a little fresher, the light now tortuously bright.  We're shoved back the way we'd come originally.  We stumble blindly forward as the Breen prods convince any stragglers to hurry. 

We stop, abruptly crammed against each other.  She still has my hand.  It's still fully bright here, and even with eyes closed my head hurts.  We shuffle along until she's closer to me, and I put my arm around her.  She presses against me, every muscle taunt.  I am desperately afraid of losing her in this crowd. 

Now we wait.  The light hurts our heads, but the press of bodies is warm.  From time to time we're pushed forward.  Finally, after an eternity, someone shoves us into another room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door locking. 

                               *** 

We are locked inside a box, trapped in the absolute dark.  Outside is light that is too painful, Jem'Hadar that would shoot us and Breen that would torture us.  I don't know what happened to Miles, but I still have Ezri.  We have room to move around, but we will not let go of each other.  She holds me as if we release our hold we'll still lose each other, as if we will drown in a sea of bodies alone.  

She knew what Worf was going to do.  She probably thought she could cope with it.  But sometimes she's wrong.  I don't know how many people have died since the attack and surrender.  All I know is the first death we felt so personally was his. 

We can hear noise, the box not sealed, but the Jem'Hadar and Breen with their little rods are outside the door, locked away from us.  I remember the Breen that helped save me when we'd escaped from the camp.  I remember the jolt of their prod.  I wonder what else will be different. 

Whatever is to come will be soon.  We sit, entwined in each other.  I hold Ezri in a kind of death grip, both of us afraid that's what it will become.  Nobody says a word.  They are undoubtedly listening.  But I don't want to leave this place, this dark safety.  

We have no warning when the door is opened, this one sliding apart silently.  Bright light floods the room and we are once again blinded.  They don't make us stand, just drag us out of the box.  Reluctant to leave, I hold Ezri tight and she pushes herself against me too.  But they pull her away from me.  

I grasp her hand, trying to pull her back.  She fights just as hard, but a sudden yank and I almost fall, jerked back by the arm. 

I should be stronger, but how long has it been since we've had enough to eat?  I think of Miles desperately clinging to his vision of Ee'Char to make his loss tolerable.  I have no escape from the pain.  Maybe we didn't know each other so well before, but in the . . . weeks? since this began, she's my whole world.  They can't take it away. 

All I  can think of is losing her as her hand is pulled off mine with the help of a painful jolt at the wrist.  I try to lunge away, somehow get her back, but a probe suddenly grazes my spine and I nearly collapse, the guard jerking me along.  Numb, I let them drag me,  blinded by the light and the pain and the fear.  We had so little time together.  If only I hadn't hesitated so long, taken so much time to tell her how deeply I wanted to be with her.  If only we'd known there was no time for games. 

I understand why Worf did not want to live.  Without Ezri, I don't particularly care one way or the other. 

I am pushed into a room.  "Undress," says the Breen.  My uniform is filthy but it's the last piece of my life they haven't taken.  I hesitate until I hear the telltale charge of the prod, hurriedly undressing, throwing my uniform onto the floor.  I stand in the room naked, blinded by bright light, unwilling to visualize any of this in my mind. 

"Respond when tapped," orders the guard. 

"State your name," says the voice.  Vorta, from the intonations, but not Weyoun. 

"Ezri Dax," she says.  Her voice is steady and even.  I hadn't known she was in the room, how many of us stand here naked to be examined like animals.  But she'd been so afraid before.  Did she see me in the bright light?  Did I make a sound I wasn't aware of?  I don't care about the rest, not now, just that she is here.  But . . . odd the way she said, "Ezri".  

After a light tap, I give my own name, minus the doctor or the rank.  The three others follow suit.  I don't know any of them. 

It is the longest moment of my life.  

"Your position on the station," he continues. 

We each give our rank, where there was one, and state what we did before we became their property.  I tell them I was chief medical officer.  Ezri says she was a counseler, no hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty about her identity.  Two of the others were in engineering.  The last one is a civilian.  

Now that they know who we are, I'm certain we'll be executed.  I don't want to remember this as the last moment I might share with Ezri. 

The Vorta then asks the civilian a question.  "Your wife, what position did she hold?  Is she alive?"  

Why does the Vorta care?  I can't get my mind off Ezri.  I can't see her but can feel her standing so near, yet so far away.  I promised we'd not be separated.  But the only choice that matters here is his. 

The civilian says she was Ops.  He didn't know what had happened to her.   He gives her name.  He stumbles over the words. 

The Vorta asks the rest of us the same question, what family do we have and are they alive.  He is taking some kind of notes. 

I'm questioned first.  I say Ezri is my wife, that we'd made plans.  I don't know why, perhaps out of desperation.  I sense it matters.  

"You'll be listed as married," he says. 

Stunned, I almost drop the things as something is pushed into my hands, clothes of some sort.  They are either grey or blue, I can't tell with the bright fuzz.  I dress.  I feel a little better that way.  

"Hold them for now," says the Vorta. 

Nobody needs any encouragement to hurry.  I just want to be back in a locked room where nobody can touch us again.  We feel our way down a cold hallway to another cell, this one dark but not pitch black.  I can see a little as the door closes and she sits next to me. 

Her eyes ask the question.  I answer it with a kiss.  I don't know if we would have married, should the war have ended better, but that moment is our proposal, acceptance, and marriage.  I hold her, taking all the comfort I can from not being alone. 

                               *** 

Ezri is dozing, but I can't sleep.  I stare at the gloomy light, wondering what gave me the sudden inspiration to claim her as my wife-to-be.  What have I done?  When they dispose of us, will she go where I do now?  If it were anyone other than the Dominion, I might count on having some value.  The Mexicans saved the doctors at Goliad to treat their own, while executing all the rest of Fannon's men.  But these creatures do not allow medical treatment of prisoners.  I am less use to them than the most junior of Miles crew. 

And if they do want me as a doctor, will I be made to treat them?  I saved the Vorta when we crashed, during the war, after destroying the white supply depot.  I still remember the way the Jem'Hadar watched as I operated, hoping they would not choose to end the operation prematurely by killing the doctor. 

We've seen the Jem'Hadar First execute his Vorta, and the same one I saved betray his own soldiers.  And yet, within the Dominion each has a purpose.  What will ours be?  They took a lot of prisoners during the war.  I doubt they just locked them up like those of us at Internment Camp 371.  So much has changed.  They were eradicating the Cardassians the last we knew.  What exactly is planned for us? 

What skills make one useful to them?  Is Jake in one of these little rooms?  Kasidy?  Is being family to the Emmisary enough this time? 

But there is noise, and the door slides open.  The bright light wakes up Ezri and she stares groggily at the fuzzy shadow that pushes a box inside our cell.  Then the lights disappear again as the door closes. 

One of the others is there first.  "There's a lot of rations here," he says, amazed and excited.  He starts passing them out, and we each get three bars all to ourselves. 

Three bars counts as a feast now.  My grumbling stomach no longer associates them with Deyos and his mercurial power.  All I can think of is how full I feel. 

"Maybe we're okay," says a young woman, sitting close to the civilian from my interrogation.  "They must have a reason to give us all this food." 

Nobody makes any comments, aware the walls have ears, but just the same we feel a little better about our future.  Then, later, a second box appears with three more bars per prisoner.  It's been weeks since we've had that much to eat, and everyone feels slightly ill by the time we're finished. 

But we do not complain.  We'll take whatever crumbs they give, and even be grateful for it.  We wait, not knowing what we are waiting for.  

Perhaps a few hours later, still full but feeling better, the door opens again and a voice coming from the haze orders us to get up and out. 

We straggle through the door, wary, and yet less concerned than before.  We've had days worth of food in one.  It has to mean something. 

The guards order us lined up against the walls, not just those from our cell but a lot of others.  Ezri is next to me, but we don't touch except for a little squeeze of her hand.  I'm afraid to take it in mine standing here with all the guards, not knowing if they approve.  If we're to be lucky, I dare not ruin that luck.  If not, perhaps Worf was right. 

The light is still too bright and we can see very little, but hear as the guards move towards us.  They begin calling names.  Ezri and I are among the first called, along with the civilian and the young woman, apparently his wife.  The rest of us in the cell are called too, along with family. 

We step forward into a second line and wait.  

I stand, wondering what this means, especially to those they don't choose to call, as our group grows bigger.  I hear Miles name, listening for Keiko and the children, but hear only his.  I recognize a few people from Miles crew.  I'd recently confirmed Jackson's wife was pregnant, though neither she nor the other children were called.  Scalman had been treated for an injury recently, and he is luckier.  He has his family with him.  A lot of the people called have families with them.  I can feel Ezri touch my hand, just a little.  It will be harder for those without with so many reminders of what was lost. 

Eventually they finish, the hall still too full of people, and the second line is ordered to move.  We file slowly after one another now, numb from some mixture of fear and relief, not pushed in a crush, feeling the wall as we can't see in the light.  

At the end of the walk is another locked room.  This one is smaller than the open bay but larger than the little cell.  The light is dim, but doesn't hurt.  We have room to move around.  Nobody says a word until the door closes. 

We take a count.  There are fifteen people in the room.  Everyone but Miles and Jackson is with family, though I don't know the others well enough to tell if everyone is there.  Scalman and his wife hold onto their children, and the others sit down by the wall, keeping close to each other.  The woman from Ops and her civilian husband are still with us, but I don't know them.  We can see a little, and look each other over, both worried and relieved. 

Miles ignores everyone, feigning off my attempt at a reunion.  He just stares at the door, away from the others.  Neither he nor Jackson look at one another.  I wish I could find the right words to say, but if it was me and Ezri was missing I doubt any would help.  The rest just leave them alone, lost somewhere between grief and hope.  But Jackson keeps looking at the children. 

A while later, the door slides open and another box is pushed inside, it closing immediately.  Eagerly, we nearly tear it open, expecting more rations.  But this time it is better.  It's full of blankets.  Each of us claims one, wrapping it around ourselves, and three remain.  Abruptly, Miles takes the extras, cradling the blankets tenderly in his arms.  He keeps mumbling something too quiet to hear.  But we all know what he's thinking.  Why would there be more blankets than prisoners?  Why too few for all of the missing family? 

There has been no conversation.  We dare not guess where this room will lead, what particular value we hold the others did not.  We watch the door, hoping for food and, after the blankets, some other luxury. 

All but Jackson.  He is very still, his head back, eyes closed tightly.  He hasn't warmed himself with his blanket.  He's just clutching it in his hand. 

Miles looks peaceful, the extra blankets in the crook of his arm as if they were a baby.  I won't ask him, wouldn't break the silence, but he's too peaceful now.  Either he will get back his family, or believes he will.  But what sort of promises did he make?  Looking at Jackson, lost in a desperation he can not share, I am certain he would have promised anything to have Cheryl and the children. 

I suspect, given different circumstances, that he is not alone. 

Dragging worse than before, more undefined time passes.  Another box of rations, again three per person, and we gorge ourselves.  Miles looks a little better, but he never lets go of the three blankets.  Jackson takes the food, but eats it without noticing what he is doing.  Ezri has fallen asleep after all the food, and I keep watching him.  What sort of hell is he lost in, grasping for hope when he has no right to have any?  As the hunger fades a little, less demanding now, we can think of more than food.  We're all aware that very few of us were called to the second line.  What became of the rest? 

We try not to think of that.  For some reason, we are given blankets and food that makes this place feel like luxury.  What makes us special?  Did they pick a few Cardassians to save before they killed off the rest?  

Scalman's wife Tina distracts us briefly by pulling the blanket out of Jackson's grip and wrapping it around him.  He takes her hand, and she takes him in her arms.  Scalman moves, he and his wife on either side of Jackson, as he holds him protectively. 

Miles never lets go of the blankets.  I only hope he knows more than he's willing to say and isn't just lost.  But I won't interfere and won't let Ezri bother him either. 

Not that Ezri has said much since Worf died.  She watches, as if a distant observer, but it's almost as she really isn't here. 

Maybe it's her way of coping.  Nobody can really deal with why we are here, where the rest were sent, not now.  Too many friends, too many people we care about are missing.  After they dim the light in an artificial night, we all fall asleep wrapped in our blankets. 

Everyone is sleeping when a noise startles us awake.  It's still "night" but the door is open and a flash of the bright light fills the room as the guards push someone inside, a woman and children.  

Jackson looks at them, a hope so intense he nearly hurts his head as he sits up.  Then, just as quickly, he crumples into Tina's lap, her hand soothing his shaking form.  

Keiko stands in the middle of the cell, Molly gripping her hand and Yoshi in her arms.  Stunned, silent, she starts to move slowly towards Miles.  Wordlessly, she collapses into his arms.  They hold each other and their children, bundled in the extra blankets.  It grows quiet again, and everyone sleeps. 

                               *** 

We awaken to light, not bright, but brighter than the "day" before.  Keiko is dressed in the same clothes as we are, the children in a smaller version of the same thing.  Miles is curled up with them, the children tangled together with the parents.  She just looks at us, saying nothing. 

Jackson watches the children for a few moments and looks away again.  Scalman's children are staying close to their parents, and he puts his arm around them. 

Everyone but Keiko watches with anticipation as the door slides open.  The box of rations has enough for everyone again, and she and the children lose no time in eating theirs.  The rest of us, the desperation sated a little, take more time with our food.  Miles whispered conversation with her brings silence in the room, but he's being too quiet to hear.  Nobody asks, despite intense curiosity over where she'd been.  I wonder how we'll feel when she decides to talk.  Lost in the mystery of our fate, nobody says much at all. 

The long, worrisome day drags on, everyone waiting for the next box of food.  The boxes have been scavenged already, pieces having become small toys for the children and the parts of a game for the adults.  The children have found each other, Scalman's six year old daughter Tricia playing dolls with Molly.  The three year old boy wanders back and forth from his sister to his parents. 

Sometimes Jackson holds him.  The little boy has taken a nap in his lap.  Carl is holding very still so as not to disturb him, always on the verge of open grief, but holding it back just enough to go on.  

We decide to exchange names, for those willing to talk.  

Townsend looks up, his eyes half focused, alone with his son, almost twelve.  The boy's face is puffy, as if he'd been hurt recently.  Ralph explains, quietly, as if he was talking about someone else, "Ralph Townsend," he says, then adds very calmly, "My wife is dead.  There was an explosion," he says and stops. 

The boys wounds are half-treated burns.  He must have been with his mother.  He wears no expression at all. 

"Realand, I was working on communications.  My wife Cassie and my step-daughter Marta," offers an older-looking man, his daughter sitting between he and his wife.  She's perhaps fourteen, but not entirely human, her face carrying an exotic beauty even in this dingy place.  She does not look up, sitting quietly with her hands folded together, a deep sadness in her eyes. 

I introduce myself, Ezri giving her name too quietly.  Miles mumbles his name and those of his family, but ignores us afterwards.  Scalman quietly takes his turn, giving Carl Jackson's name for him.  The woman and her civilian husband are Brenda and Jason Harwell. 

Everybody is quiet again.  Jackson is crying now, Tina just holding him.  If there were no blankets provided, there is little hope of them being alive.  But he can't say good bye, not yet.  In a way, Townsend is lucky.  He's free to grieve.  Carl is just caught on it's knife's edge. 

Eventually, they darken the room again, and we have "night".  The last thing I remember thinking as I fall asleep is there must be a good reason they're going to all this trouble, that we must be lucky. 

Then we know how fortunate we are to be useful.  It's still the middle of the night, but Keiko suddenly begins to talk, everyone waking quickly.  Her voice quiet, with no inflection at all, she almost whispers the words.  

"They put the rest on a ship.  We were told we were being sent to Cardassia.  They plan to strip it bare and use us to do it.  They already killed all the Cardassians." 

During the battle over Cardassia we saw the reports of what was happening on the surface.  We could guess . . . But it is still unbelievable that they had wiped out a whole species just for defying them.  Silence follows, each of us aware that we are very lucky people, that we may have been allowed to survive.  

But it is also a warning.  I think of the blight.  Perhaps for the Cardassians to die quickly instead of a little at a time is easier.  And what of Earth, and the other places that are going to resist until there is no other option but surrender?  

Eventually Brenda asks, rather faintly, "All the Cardassians?" 

"We were told," says Keiko.  "I don't want to know if it's true."  She pauses, looking at Miles.  "I think they were looking for us but had the wrong name.  The ship was ready to leave when we were pulled off and brought here." 

Jackson looks at her, a desperate hope in his voice.  "Did . . . did you see my wife at all?  My children?" 

Keiko still speaks with no expression, but her eyes are full of relief.  "I had these two with me when we, when they took us.  Before they put us on the ship we tried to find our children, and I guess if we'd known we might have just claimed all of them." 

Complete silence has filled the room.  Everyone is watching Jackson as he stares at her in horror.  "What happened to them?" he asks. 

"Nobody knows.  They just took them away."  She looks at Carl, almost sorry.  "Maybe Cheryl will find them if they go on the same ship." 

But he does not hear that part.  He collapses back against Scalman and his wife, just staring, no longer sobbing. 

Tina says quietly, "Leave him alone now."  He rolls towards them, and she holds him again. 

Nobody dares put it into words, but why us?  Each of these people had important jobs on the station, and except for Jackson their families have been spared.  They must have picked and chosen carefully among their captives.  We are of some special use.  With the families they have hostages.  

Miles breaks the silence.  "They let me pick nine people to keep.  I picked them for ability.  I couldn't choose any other way."  

"Thank you," says Scalman, very hesitantly.  

"See if you do in six months," answers Miles, his voice dragging. 

Ezri buries her head in my shoulder, and we hold each other.  After the certainty that we'd die together, I can't allow myself to think of how we'll live. 

"It's not Cardassia," says Keiko, quietly.  Reminded of our luck, we drop the subject, hoping luck is the right word. 

                               *** 

If the artificial days are correct, we've been locked in this room for almost five days.  The box of rations arrives twice a day, always with three each.  Even Miles children have stopped gobbling them down.  We take as much time as we can to eat now.  There is nothing else to do but sleep, and it's easier at "night". 

I can't think of missing friends anymore.  It's easier to think of the ones on the ships as strangers. 

I'm only vaguely aware we all need to wash, that my face is covered with a deepening layer of beard.  Men are starting to scratch themselves at night, trying to stop the itching.  Most simply try to pretend it was always this way. 

The boxes have been used to make things that help pass the time, but really nothing will do that.  We are in transit, waiting for the unknown.  There is too much that is impossible to talk about.  I can't think about what is going on out there, beyond the station.  Is the war already over?  Have our people been overrun, or are they still fighting.  I can't tell how long it's been, but I know the Klingons would never surrender.  The Federation?  I thought I knew.  I almost hope they do.  But I doubt it. 

We don't talk about that, about how little it matters to us how the war is going if our side doesn't win soon, about how the Federation officially declared the missing as dead within months.  Did they have some inside information we weren't allowed to know? 

For us, it could be worse.  Most of the people captured with us will spend the next months cleaning up dead Cardassians.  Some of them might live long enough to end up with us someday.  It is a tiny hope that friends might live that keeps us going. 

We try to talk, but it hurts too much to remember old friends now dead or gone.  We don't deal with the future.  Mostly we listen for sounds, any sounds, and try to guess what they mean.  We don't speak of the questions with no answers, or our fears and anticipation of what might come when they open the door. 

Ezri talks now and then, thoughts that come out of nowhere.  She still isn't here.  She eats and sleeps with the rest of us, pays attention to sounds, but it is as if there is a wall between us. 

We've just been fed, and she's gnawing on her last bar, her expression thoughtful.  "Worf hated these.  He told me once when the Breen had us.  When they said we'd be turned over to the Dominion he complained they'd quit giving us the algie, make us eat this stuff.  Maybe that is why he let them kill him." 

I just stare at her.  I wonder if she even *sees* this room.  "He wanted to die with his version of honor," I say, wondering if she'll hear. 

She stares straight ahead, almost at me but . . . not quite.  "He always was worried about that.  Jadzia used to tease him about it." 

Who am I talking to?  I've never "seen" Ezri as a patient, but she'd tried now and again to draw something out of me.  It almost sounds like she is lost in that part of herself, safe from all that's going on. 

"We all did," I tell her, hoping she'll give me some clue. 

Then the dreamy look vanishes, and her eyes are grim.  "He did what he had to.  Maybe he knew something we don't." 

She's looking at Jackson, sitting back with his eyes closed, eating a ration bar in silence.  If anyone could help him, maybe she could.  But what would she say, what sort of hope could she hold out without telling a lie? 

Carl hasn't said a word since Keiko told us about the children.  He eats, he sleeps, and stares at the other children in the cell, but never looks at anyone else.  I'm afraid for him.  When we get to the part where we find out what they want of us, will Carl even be capable of doing it?  

I keep asking myself what they want of me.  I can see why some of them were spared the hell the rest have been sentenced to.  The station was heavily damaged, and Miles and his Ops people have the specialized knowledge of how to keep the hybrid Cardassian/Bajoran/Federation systems functioning.  That accounts for most of us.  The others have a reasonable function on the station as well. 

But I am a doctor and they don't allow medical treatment.  They let Tain die at the internment camp.  They killed all the wounded this time.  What use is a doctor under those circumstances? 

Most of our friends have been shipped off to probably die on Cardassia.  How do we justify our cooperation?  Or do we let them send our families off to harvesting the dead and tell ourselves that nobody can accuse us of collaboration? 

Sometimes I want to stay here, guards safely on the other side of the door.  But each time it's opened to feed us we expect it to be over, and each bite of our rations is a reminder of what we are to them.  There is nothing to do and we often retreat to sleep.  But each time we hear a sound near our cage we wake with a start, certain the door will open and we'll be dragged out to face whatever future they have made for us. 

I need answers.  We all have to know why we're here.  No matter what lies on the other side, we have to get out of this cage before we all end up like Carl.  If they are watching, it should be plain that it's time.  They have already robbed us of home and possessions, and now take the rest.  We accept their crumbs without complaint.  Now, we almost look forward to their choice of our future, for it has to be better than this. 

Our main distraction are the children, making use of the scraps of boxes for toys.  We marvel at how their minds can transcend this place, even after the cargo pens.  They are our entertainment, along with a few games made of box scraps.  It helps pass the time when we have too much of it. 

And there are stories, all carefully culled from our childhoods before war and death colored their memories. 

"My father was so relieved we had a special dinner, all my favorite foods, but he wouldn't let me out of the house for a week until my friend went home."  Brenda, telling us about her great adventure lost with a friend when she was seven. 

People glance at Molly, almost the same age.  We don't let ourselves think of the lives our own children may lead in their world. 

There are so many things left unsaid.  We hope that the war will end with our liberation, but it is impossible to forget the battle above Cardassia.  It was a devastating defeat.  It's hard to hope when you know how bad things were at the end.  How long do we wait before we give up?  After they let us out of here, will we hear any news?  Will we be able to believe it if we do? 

The carnage in the Cardassian sky was almost our last hope of victory.  Was there enough left behind to keep fighting, or is its legacy debris and slavery.  What is left to fight with?  Where is the seed of hope that victory might come at the end?  

If the Dominion wins will they let us go home?  We can't forget the fate of the Cardassians.  If the Federation keeps fighting, will there even be a home? 

                               *** 

For once, everyone is wide awake.  Rations are late.  There has been very little noise, and it's always very busy before we're fed.  In this dreary nothingness, even meals supplied by guards have become extraordinarily important.  

Then, everyone tense, comes the sound of feet, too many of them.  The door slides open but no box is shoved inside.  A lot of guards, both Jem'Hadar and Breen, wait outside the door.  

"Out," says the head guard, adding a gruff "Now," when we don't move instantly. 

Grabbing blankets and the small things we've made, we stand very cautiously, careful not to hesitate.  Slowly, with a mixture of nerves and expectation, we move into the corridor.  It's still bright, but we can see reasonable well now.  Ezri and I hold our blankets along with each other.  Miles and Keiko carry the children.  Scalman and his wife have their hands full with the children and Jackson, keeping him moving although he doesn't seem to care.  The others follow in a bunch, keeping close. 

We take care to keep away from the guards.  They have the prods, all of them.  We move when they say to go. 

We're herded towards a turbolift and pushed inside.  Those with children are allowed ahead.  Jackson is cornered between the Scalmans, keeping him moving.  He's given up.  How many of the rest might give up, too, if they were left alone. 

We look up, nervous, as it rises to the habitat ring.  Filing off slowly, we wait where other guards point us to go.  As we wait, silent and apprehensive, others are brought up on the turbolift.  Where we are standing, it's hard to see any difference from when it was our station. 

Among them are others like Jackson, looking absolutely lost.  But as we wait, the turbolift arrives with a haggard looking group of women, looking much worse than the rest. 

Carl looks up, seeing her.  Scalman tries to block him from moving, not trusting the guards, but Carl shoves his way past us, eyes locked on his wife.  He ignores both us and the guards as he reaches her, falling into her arms. 

At least he found Cheryl.  There are a lot of people in the way, and she looks dirty and tired, but otherwise well enough.  Maybe her child will have a chance to be born after all. 

Carl doesn't move as people crowd around them, too absorbed in his relief.  Miles watches with worry, holding Molly closer.  I think I understand.  The Jackson children are still missing.  

Jackson isn't alone.  Other men from other turbolift loads push their way towards the women, still looking a little dazed.  Whatever awaits us, it is immaterial to them now.  Miles kisses his daughter, and I wonder how he would have managed the last week without them.  The first reunions complete, the other women begin drifting towards the others, pushing their way towards men who could not see them before.  Nobody shouts, the guards too visible, but a silent relief fills the space where despair had lived before. 

At least, for some.  No children have appeared, and it is obvious that some of the newly reunited are still not whole.  Carl and Cheryl, holding on tightly to each other, are searching the crowd. 

It's taking a long time for all of us to be assembled.  There are a lot of guards but they don't seem to care if we move around.  Nobody would get far enough to matter if they tried to escape, anyway. 

I still can't get over how much it looks like the place we left, what, months before?  

But we soon discover just how different a place it this has become.  The guards move closer and we keep away from them and their prods.  A short walk past the main corridor and we see it. 

There is a gate, locked and guarded, and we stop in front of it.  

Then the guards part and a group of children, small and large, pushed together, rushes towards us. 

Carl moves instantly, he and Cheryl wrapping arms around Jeffrey and Calla.  Jeffrey, seven, has his two year old sister in his arms.  For a moment he pulls back, stiffly, as his parents find them again. 

The gate opens with a squeal, and we are pushed inside.  Ezri and I walk in slowly, both nervous and relieved.  Others, especially those newly reunited with family, are shoved along until everyone is inside.  Then the gate crashes shut. 

The Vorta steps near, Weyoun himself, nodding at the First.  The Jem'Hadar addresses us, "This is your living area.  You will be left alone if you cooperate.  You may not leave unless you have a work assignment and the proper pass." 

I remember Kira describing Terok Nor--the walls and guards and filth.  So now we have an answer.  But the questions are harder to ask. 

                               *** 

Our new home is a barricaded corridor, with a series of subdivided and stripped quarters behind it.  The corridor has become an open space, a group of tables positioned near the gate.  Everything about it is plain and grey and dull, the most prominent feature the large, locked gate. 

But compared to the cargo bays and little cells that came before, it is absolute luxury.  Everyone is milling around, just looking, intentionally ignoring the gate. 

The open space beyond it, the tables, and especially the enclosed quarters in back are far more important now.  As long as we are theirs, there will always be a lock between us and freedom. 

Ezri is standing by the gate, looking over the space we are allowed to claim.  She's still holding her blanket, watching the people, especially Jackson and his family, sitting at a table, just holding each other.  Molly and Tricia are busily exploring the place. 

Miles is milling around the largest space, near the tables.  I wonder if he's trying to guess where this used to be, or if he knows.  Then, pausing, he finds a notice.  Reading it to himself, he mumbles, "Wonder what all this costs," to me. 

I'm trying not to think of that right now.  I'd much rather appreciate the space and the tables and choose not to answer.  He is reading the notice a second time, and I look over his shoulder.  It is a list of room numbers and names.  I trace down to our names.  Ezri and I get one room, number 12.  Miles and family get two, number 4.  Jackson and his family are listed as getting two as well, along with Scalman.  Tracing my finger along the list I pause on Jackson's name.  "They knew where they were all the time," I say. 

"Guess I was lucky," whispers Miles, shaking his head. 

Most of us are standing by another wall, in a semi-circle with someone reading another notice out loud.  Miles and I wander over to join them. 

It is the rules that we will have to live with in this place.  Some of them are quite specific, some very general.  I suppose it depends on how they want to use them. 

Each of us, save the youngest children, will be given a work assignment and be allowed to leave our cage.  Some will get a special pass to do particular jobs, and I don't want to know what sort of rules apply to that--not yet.  I suspect I'm one of the chosen few.  The others will have to settle for guards.  I don't know what's worse, having to work under their watchful eye, or having them "trust" you with, I assume, very bad consequences if you betray that trust. 

The other rules are quite plain, clearly dominated by a theme.  Anyone found to have committed sabotage will be executed.  Anyone caught stealing or in an area not permitted will be executed.  Anyone refusing an order will be "disciplined".  I wonder if that means disappearing to Cardassia.  

There are no comments about the rules.  Nobody is going to care anyway.  But we're overwhelmed by the private rooms, and the tables, and all the open space.  If we're going to be used in any case, we might as well live a little better. 

Miles keeps staring at his hands, mumbling to himself about the cost of all this.  Miles and I have gone to look over our quarters and Miles studying ours with our families still outside.  I finally broach the subject.  "I'll bet they want us to fix up the station, or at least you.  Why else would they have asked you for names?" 

"I . . . " he pauses, staring at the plain room where Ezri and I will live.  "I wish they hadn't.  If they'd just asked about them I'd feel better."  He sits on our bed.  "Then . . . then I wouldn't have sent . . . " 

I understand.  I'm still afraid of what they'll ultimately want of me, still uncertain why I'm not in one of those pens heading towards Cardassia.  I can't allow myself to think of the best reason.  But Miles is right.  Where does cooperation become treason?  Where does your families survival cease to matter?  

"You were ask a question," I say, quietly.  "You answered it.  You gave them the best people, and that's all you could do." 

"I wanted my family back.  He said they were alive.  He didn't actually make any promises, but it was plain enough."  Miles words are bitter but resigned.  "I'm pretty sure any of those unfortunates they shipped out of here would have done the same if they had the chance."  He looks up at me.  "You did." 

He means Ezri.  I can't look at him.  "I couldn't lose her.  Not so soon . . . " 

He stands, looks me in the eyes.  "Hold on to her Julian.  You'll need her.  We'll all need somebody." 

I can't deny it.  Instead I change the subject.  "Well, they cleaned the place out pretty well.  Nothing left that I can see."  There are no replicators, or terminals or anything which might be used against them.  Maybe they learned something from Tain. 

Miles studies the room.  "We have another little room, with a big cot but nothing else.  The other room is the same as this one." 

Our new home has a table and chair along with the cot-like bed set next to the wall.  We've been given no other clothes but the blue, faded to grey coveralls we got before.  According to the rules, if we behave, we will get a shower every week and new clothes each month.  Boots will be provided for work.  

The best part are the cots, and even better the pillows, two hard little lumps but after the last month it doesn't matter what they feel like.  Much like the blankets, it is as if we have stepped into a haven of comfort.  And we have a room to ourselves, a place to hide from the rest.  Even if they watch, it could be so much worse.  It's still a prison, but far better than a bare floor without even the illusion of privacy.  

"Maybe the food will be better," says Miles, looking at the table.  But food is served communally in the area near the gate with the tables.  Breakfast will be served before we go to work and dinner after our shift is done.  The posted rules do not explain how long a shift lasts.  When we are not working we may do what we want, but must stay in our cage.  Being out of "our" area without reason is grounds for immediate execution. Non-cooperation means our privileges will be revoked.  The rules didn't say what was considered a privilege.  

Someone taps at the door, and Jackson is standing there, looking a little nervous.  "Uh, Doctor, . . . " he begins. 

It feels like a lifetime since anyone has called me that.  Miles is sitting on our cot, and I come to Jackson.  He's still in shock, but better.  I remember the moment I found Ezri in the crowd for a flash, how intense the relief had been.  What if I'd never found her, would she be gone? 

"How are they?"  I skip the fake words of comfort. 

"Real tired.  Cheryl didn't get much to eat, and she, she won't say much about the way it was.  They only took her out of the holds below a few hours ago."  He pauses, looking around.  "She didn't know anything about the kids until they showed up here." 

I glance at Miles, looking away.  Is he grateful that his children were spared that special hell, or has he banished the thought? 

"How are they?" I ask in my professional voice, though from what I saw, Ezri could probably be of more help, if she can help anyone now. 

There are tears in his eyes.  "Alive," he says.  "What else, I don't know.  But Cheryl is pregnant, ugh, could you look her over?" 

I don't look forward to this, not seeing Jeffrey.  I keep remembering the lost, distant look in his eyes I'd seen when they were sitting at the tables.  I hope in time it disappears and a little boy is still there.  But I like being able to help them, even if all I can do is check Cheryl's condition.  "Are you in your quarters?" 

"Yes," he says, quietly, defeated. 

"I'll come with you," I offer, as Miles stands.  

"I'd like to get Molly to sleep," he says, Jackson moving back so he can leave. 

The interior of Jackson's quarters is identical to ours, except for the smaller room.  Cheryl is lying down, staring at the wall. 

She looks thin, but not too bad off.  "I'm going to feel for the baby," I explain, as she rolls over.  

I can't do much, but she hasn't lost it so food should help.  She's borderline malnourished, but if we're fed as much as we have been she'll recover from that. I hope the baby she carries will as well. 

"I was so afraid I'd lose her," she says, closing her eyes.  "They didn't know about her and I was afraid to tell them."  My exam done, she rolls to her side, away from view.  "Then, then they said where we'd be going and I almost hoped I would."  Touching the added walls of their quarters, one being an original, she says very quietly, "not that this will be too good, but . . . " 

I nod at Carl, going to comfort his wife.  Or just be with her.  For now, that's enough. 

In the other room, I can see Jeffrey curled up tight with Calla, holding her protectively with his arm.  Even asleep, he's tense, ready to fight. 

He is no longer a child.  He isn't asleep, looking back at me with the wary eyes of a threatened animal.  Calla is sleeping, pulled back in the protective cage of her brothers arms.  I pity Carl.  He thought he'd found his children. 

I leave, taking my time as I go to get Ezri.  She greets me with a smile this time, all the distance vanished.  "Making a late house call?" she asks. 

"Sort of," I mumble.  "We have a bed.  And pillows.  Want to try them?" 

She pauses, resisting as I take her hand.  "Too bad Worf gave up too soon," she says, and puts her arms around me.  "Well, let's go home." 

We don't hurry.  It makes the space feel bigger if you walk slowly.  But this is all the world we have now. 

Despite the walls and the cots and the pillows, this is still a prison.  We still belong to them, and Weyoun can control us without the Jem'Hadar using their rifles or the Breen their little prods.  He can cut rations.  That was how Deyos kept his prisoners in line at the camp.  Certainly, Weyoun will do the same, should we give him a reason.  He's aware that it's very hard to ignore it when your children are hungry. 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 3 

                               *** 

I know the walls are an illusion.  They can watch us here as easily as in an open cargo hold.  They didn't at the camp, could not have been watching or I'd have long ago been dead, but if everything else has changed that must have too.  But the walls are a good illusion.  If we cannot get away from our unseen masters, we can at least escape the company of the others for a few hours. 

It's been very hard to have no privacy.  Even after weeks of hunger and humiliation we still crave some time alone, a space of our own.  The walls are dingy grey and the door hardly closes, but for now it is our own place. 

Ezri and I cuddle together on the small bed, a glorified cot but it is a lot better than the floor.  We revel in being alone.  The pillows are an absolute luxury. 

But the best part is simply to be alone, to have her in my arms.  The way she's molded herself to me, arms entwined, makes the nightmare fade for a little while. 

We don't make love, though obviously some have.  You can hear the noise through the walls.  I'm too emotionally spent, still recovering from the starvation diet we were fed after our capture.  But in Ezri there is finally a spark of life, something she has not had since they shoved us into that beastly hold and reduced us to basic survival. 

I worry about her.  Many of the others have gone into a deep depression, too listless and quiet.  But not Ezri.  It is as if none of this really happened, as if she'll wake up soon and it will all vanish.  What happens when she doesn't, when she knows she never will.  Even if we are lucky enough to be liberated, we'll still be here. 

A part of me never left Internment Camp 371, went back each night and relived all the nightmares.  Each battle we fought I wondered what they'd do if they had me again.  To agree to the trade of prisoners with Keevan, to voluntarily walk back into their captivity had been nearly impossible to do. 

None of these people here will really leave this place, always retain a small tie to it no matter how the future turns out.  Somewhere inside Ezri knows this, and she shuts it and the reality of life away. 

When that crumples, what happens to her, to all of these people living with the delusion that this is a life? 

But we are cuddled close, warm and relaxed, when she wraps her arms around me and gives me a kiss. 

I look into her eyes.  There is fear and anger, shame and relief, and a hint of joy as well. 

She sits up, taking my hand.  

"I take you, Julian Bashir, for my husband," she says. 

"And I take you, Ezri Dax, for my wife."  I grin. "Now I get to kiss the bride." 

This time the kiss is better, much more enthusiastic, and I notice how much the bed squeaks. 

She settles back inside my arms.  Neither of us are ready for the honeymoon yet.  Reveling in what has become luxury, we sleep well. 

We're still asleep when quite suddenly we are jarred awake by a sound. 

I recognize it immediately, though Ezri wouldn't.  I remember the first time I ever heard it at the internment camp.  It had surprised me how quickly Klingon generals and Cardassian spy masters rushed to obey.  For a moment it is as if I have awakened in the camp again, reliving that first morning. 

"We have to get up." I start untangling blankets and arms and legs.  She's still half-asleep. 

"That would be my guess," she yawns. 

"If it means the same thing we assemble somewhere when it rings."  I can't keep the urgency out of my tone, the knowledge that we will all learn what I already know. 

She watches me, and sighs.  "Ok," she says.  "At least we don't have to get dressed." 

"We should find out where to go," I say.  I'm surprised the anxiety is so strong.  It has been a long time.  But then, I never really told anyone about the nightmares. 

She is up now, nervous but keeping calm.  "Don't rush.  If that's what it means the others don't know.  They'll tell us."  She takes my hand, forcing me to sit.  I relax a little. 

I still worry, though.  Deyos assembled us to give out bad news.  At least, it was always bad for us.  After all the time he'd been there, Martok could predict how bad it was by how long we were made to wait.  

What will happen today?  We still have no idea why we have been kept here when the others were all sent away. 

We move towards the door, Ezri first.  I'm trying not to rush past her.  It doesn't take long to find out where to go.  The voice of the Jem'Hadar booms over the speaker.  "All prisoners, assemble by the gate." 

I take Ezri's arm and hurry us along.  People are moving towards the gate with a mixture of confusion and worry.  I still remember the prods and can't imagine the Jem'Hadar armed with them.  Ezri studies them, and I can only guess what's going through her mind.  I won't ask what they did to her when she was held by the Breen.  She doesn't ask about the internment camp.  We don't share our nightmares.  But she is entirely too calm right now. 

We reach the gate among a crowd of nervous people.  The guards point us towards the tables where we eat.  We push our way in, sitting or standing where there is room.  Nobody says anything, not even the children. 

The gate squeaks open.  The Jem'Hadar and a few Breen line the way out.  They all have prods.  Very tense, Ezri is staring at them now.  I worry her shield will fail now, when I can do nothing to help. 

The First thumps his way into our cage.  He reads a list of names, those of us with something special they need for now.  We follow each other across the room, away from the tables.  Reluctantly, I let go of Ezri's hand, her grip so hard my fingers are numb.  

Soon, all that remains are the families they are holding to insure our cooperation.  Ignoring us, he abruptly address them.  "You will be assigned work today after your morning meal.  Remain here after eating." 

Down the hallway, a cart with two tubs of food and bowls is slowly rolled inside.  The bowls are split down the middle.  Several prisoners have set up a table with a bin of spoons.  They don't look at us.  The others have started to drift into a line. 

Those of us considered "special" are dealt with separately.  The Second calls out our names while his Third gives each one of us a pass.  Then the First returns his attention to us.  "This is your work pass.  Keep it with you at all times you are out of this area.  You have access to areas normally forbidden to prisoners with these passes."  He pauses, holding the prod in his hand and pointing it at us.  "If you abuse this privilege, you will be punished."  

We stare at it, giving him our complete attention, and he continues.  "If you are found out of a permitted area you will be shot."  He turns, finally done with us, and follows the other guards out the gate, quickly shut behind them. 

As if any of us are going to try and run with so many guns pointed at us . . . 

We nervously drift back to the breakfast line, curious to see what sort of food such lucky captives are fed.  I notice Ezri is near the back of the line and hurry to join her.  Hoping to postpone the day as long as possible and not cut in front of anyone, I take her hand and we move to the end of the line. 

Waiting silently, she studies my pass.  Her gaze keeps shifting back to the guards.  There is no conversation at all. 

Slowly, the line disappears and it's our turn to eat.  But now there is no place to sit, and we continue to stand and wait with Miles and his family, the very end of the line.   It is a relief when, one of the first nervous groups having finished, we take our food and sit, sharing with the O'Briens.  It's crowded but the bowls don't take up much space. 

One side of the bowl contains a fairly thick gruel which tastes mostly like the regular rations.  The other side is a vaguely flavored broth.  We get a spoon and a glass of water. 

The gruel would taste very strange if we hadn't already gotten used to the rations, but somehow it's more filling this way.  I dip a spoonful of the gruel in the broth and the flavor is a little different.  I watch as Ezri tries not to look back at the guards. 

They are being unusually patient.  They must not be ready for us.  But before we're finished with our food the guards open the gate and start pushing those that have eaten out into the corridor, each one motioned out as the bowl is returned to the bin.  They have no passes, and will have to live with the constant watch of the guards.  Ezri stares at them for a moment.  Somehow, she will have to manage.  Both of our nightmares were coming back to life.  She watches the prods as she nibbles on her food. 

She is eating so slowly I can tell she is having trouble keeping herself under control.  "Just do what they say," I whisper, glancing at the guards.  "Hurry up before they make you dump it." 

It is a relief when she hurries her meal.  It is a lot easier for me to worry about her.  I still have no idea what they want with me.  But I'm certain it will prove a lot harder--in the end--than whatever sort of work they have in mind for Ezri and the rest. 

I watch as the others let go of their wives or husbands hands and spouses and older children drift into the line forming behind the gate.  Jackson has a look of panic, but Cheryl doesn't hesitate.  Tina moves quickly too, as her husband looks away.  Ezri looks up at me, nervous, but not . . . the same.  I can't explain it, but I feel better.  She isn't about to freeze, and yet she isn't so distant.  Maybe reality has started to sink in.  Maybe some other part of her is helping.  If it gets her back safe, I don't care. 

Standing by the gate, I watch with trepidation as Ezri and the others vanish from sight.  Those of us with passes are kept waiting, the only one's spared an obviously pregnant woman they'd kept back and the smaller children.  Miles and his Ops people make up the majority, but there are a few others, like me, who are left in uncomfortable suspense. 

                               *** 

Staring at the gate, we wait for our future.  Though it has probably not yet been an hour, the time drags so much it feels as if an eternity has passed.  

Everyone is apprehensive, and we try not to look at the gate.  The children are playing, and their high pitched voices and laughter somehow make the wait easier.  I still glance at the gate, and a few just stare, but most of us--especially those with children--have come to watch their noisy play instead.  It's a reminder of what is at stake today. 

The others, even Realand, know why they've been picked.  None of them want to go, but there is no mystery to solve.  I try to watch the children, but its hard to not to wonder.  I can't stand the suspense anymore.  Since I know they don't *allow* medical treatment, why am I here?  It must be something else.  The children are not enough of a distraction.  

It's been a long wait and I have nothing but myself to think about.  Now that it is so near, I can't push away the memories.  Before, I wasn't any different than the rest.  I was cold and hungry and filthy and scared.  But now, now I face something none of them do, a decision I alone must make.  

No one will be told to do what they will want of me.  The children play, but I remember standing next to Sloan, the Romulan mind probes in hand and his suicide attempt that made them useless.  Miles and I sit in a corridor, injured as we try to navigate the dying mans mind.  His wife and all the people who had been abandoned along the way, and the very different Luther Sloan they knew make me wonder what made him into the enemy.  And that office strewn with the files of his mind, finally *that* file, fill me with a tangible sense of regret. 

If we'd never found the secret, I could not have cured the disease.  Then no one could ask me to make such a complete betrayal of my own.  I remember celebrating with Miles at Quarks past closing hours, how upset Quark had been until we bought him off. 

What were we celebrating?  Odo's life, yes, but what of the others?  What do I do when they tell me I must cure them, the same enemy who has sent so many friends to hell? 

There were weeks of sleepless nights expecting Sloan's people to return, but they never did.  I do not know what happened to Odo, but his people are dying and I could cure them.  None of my records remain on the station, even my most private notes.  But they have me.  They understand that short of a mindwipe I'd still remember, and even at the end the Federation wasn't that desperate. 

Sloan's people would have done it, kidnaped me and taken away all I knew.  At this moment, faced with a betrayal far worse than any to be asked of the others, I wish 31 had come back.  The enemy couldn't force me to do what I no longer remember. 

I don't want to cure them.  Most of the people that survived capture are on Cardassia living in virtual slavery.  Most of the people taken on this station are with them by now.  I can't imagine the sort of conditions they must be trapped in, and doubt many will come out of it alive. 

If *alive* is the right word for the survivors. 

Here, those of us lucky enough to be useful live more comfortably, but we are still their prisoners, lately relegated to being their slaves as well.  By any definition, it would be treason to cure them. 

But Ezri is here.  She's all I have left of my life.  Miles and his family are a few rows of quarters away, my best friend.  I don't know the others well, but well enough.  If I refuse they will kill or deport her and probably the rest.  She and the others are my sacrifice.  

But we will lose, whatever comes of it.  If the Founders die, the Jem'Hadar will kill us too.  If I save them, I will be saving ourselves as well. 

I stare at the gate, knowing I can not refuse.  I can stall, perhaps, or find a way to make them appear to be cured.  Maybe the Federation will find a way to win, though with the wormhole to supply themselves the Dominion has all the advantages.  Maybe it's over already.  A lot could have happened since our capture.  The battle over Cardassia took almost everything we had.  What else remains for us to lose? 

And if it means the survival of their gods, the price will be very high if I fail them.  I can sell my soul for Ezri and so many others to survive, or I can condemn friends and the only family I can touch to some sort of hell.  Should I do what I want, refuse out of hand, they will die. 

I would sacrifice my life before I'd save the changelings, but can I take so many others with me?  

And yet, somehow, it doesn't make sense.  If they know I cured Odo why wait all this time, with the gods so ill?  They would not risk the Founders if they knew I could cure them.  They do not yet know.  But, then, what else would spare doctors when we serve no purpose in their world? 

                               *** 

The children are gathered around the woman, hardly noticing us at all as she winds the words of a story together.  He voice is animated, changing with the role of the speaker.  She growls as the bear, boasts as the handsome prince, and sighs as the maiden.  All of us are listening, drawn into the children's story, not entirely because it takes our minds off who we're waiting for.  I'm not sure if I want them to hurry and get it over with, or take their time so I can hear the whole tale of maiden and prince and bear. 

The bear, now revealed to be the enchanted form of her chosen suitor, had challenged the prince to a contest.  Should the prince be victor, the bear will return to the forest forever.  Should the bear be victor, the prince will seek out the wizard who cast the enchantment and free the bear of his animal state.  The prince will also abandon his pursuit of the maiden, protecting her until the time the bear, now in his own human form, can claim her. 

The story is interrupted by the squeaking of the gate, and the arrival of a contingent of Jem'Hadar and Breen.  The women and children disappear into the residential area.  I try to take my mind off my own future by noting that the Breen are always surrounded by the Jem'Hadar.  They don't trust their allies.  No doubt, the Breen don't trust them either.  I just hope we don't get caught in the middle. 

I wonder if the bear really trusts the Prince to accept the bargain.  I have never heard the story, it being one of her mothers, so I have to be here to find out.  I hope someone cares about what the maiden wants, though I doubt they do. 

The Jem'Hadar enter the gate, and we all back up a little.  The First fixes us in his gaze.  

He begins.  We already know, but it's worse when he says the words.  

"You have been selected to serve the Dominion in your former functions on this station.  As long as you remain useful, you will have certain privileges.  If any of them are abused, they will be removed and you will be punished."  His hand is on the prod as he says it.  "Any attempts at sabotage will result in the deportation of your families.  Their presence is your reward for good behavior. Do not take them for granted." 

We grow very subdued.  Put so bluntly, we are robbed of any illusions.  Miles stares at the table in front of him, and most of the rest are looking away, trying to deal with the reality of the moment.  Maybe it's easier for me.  I already understood.  But even I am having a hard time with it. 

"You will be called and taken to your stations," says the First abruptly.  

He steps away from the others, going through the gate.  More Breen are waiting and the Second calls out the first name, Michael Scalman.  He stands, looking towards the place his children disappeared.  Nervously, he follows his guard out the door, looking back one last time.  Both of Scalman's children are inside with the woman, and I'm grateful she moved them out of the way.  Let their world have a little security.  The guard stops just outside and a Breen follows behind. 

More names are called, all the Ops people.  Jackson stands, scared, but looking away from them.  He walks slowly, but with no hesitation.  Having finally found them, he would do anything to save his family.  Brenda Harwell wastes no time obeying, as do the rest.  His whole staff assembled, Miles is the last.  He flashes a look of resigned guilt, then it disappears.  He marches out, not looking back.  But I don't envy him.  First, he's given the burden of choosing and now he must help the tormentors fix the station. 

But then, nobody cared what the maiden thought either. 

The others are called, from a smattering of departments, all with skills to fix what was destroyed before they stole our home.  Realand is trying to pretend he isn't scared, but he is the exception.  His wife is called afterwards.  But his daughter is gone with Ezri and the others, doing whatever work they have found for them.  I watch as one by one they all go. 

Then I'm the last one left, and the guards all disappear.  I sit alone now, watching as the woman and her charges crawl out into the open area.  The children stare at the place their fathers or mothers had been. 

She begins the story again.  The prince, ever boastful, remarks with warning that on his estates, they shoot bears for sport. 

"You will not shoot *me*," growls the bear in answer. 

I look towards the gate, hoping they let me hear the rest of the story, but several Jem'Hadar have stopped, and are dragging open the gate.  The woman looks up, watching. 

"Julian Bashir, come now," says the First himself. 

Caught somewhere between relief and dread, I slowly follow him out.  I look back at the woman, watching as the children are already deeply involved in the story. 

Would they be left alone if she were not here?  Or is this just another privilege that can be taken away? 

I can't imagine the idea of having a child here.  What happened to the little girl that had been crying that first day?  Was she among these children, listening to stories and playing with hand made toys, or . . .  I can't finish the thought.  Even if they left the small children alive, how long would little ones like these last in the nightmare they'd made of Cardassia. 

                               *** 

I follow my guards as we pass out of the main residential area of the habitat ring and towards an area used for offices.  The station still looks the same, just empty.  They've even repaired some of the damage.  The only difference is everywhere the lights are brighter.  It highlights the oddly graceful Cardassian design, perhaps a last monument to a culture and people who no longer exist. 

They move fast, and then, quit abruptly, I'm stopped in front of an unmarked door.  It's opened and I'm ushered inside.  The First stands in the open door but does not enter. 

I look up with dread mixed with curiosity, but find myself astonished instead.  There are a few beds and a very basic infirmary.  I recognize a few things from my . . . old? one.  But most of the instruments are missing.  Through an adjoining door, a small lab is visible. 

It isn't the same, hardly up to the technology I'm used to, but I have a lot of field experience when most of the kit is empty.  It won't be that different.  I take a few hesitant steps inside, still not sure it is real. 

They don't allow medical treatment.  Maybe I'm dreaming this because I don't want to see what it really is.  Maybe it's a laboratory and I'm to make the cure now. 

"You will work here," orders the First.  "You are to familiarize yourself with your equipment and medicines.  Do not leave the room." 

The door shuts and the room doesn't change.  It's still a poorly equipped infirmary, but one perfectly satisfactory for the normal range of cases I'm used to. 

I'm both astonished and bewildered.  This is new.  Doctors held prisoner have been used before, if not by the Dominion.  But I can't leave the room.  I don't have any choice in patients.  Will I be treating their pick of our own people or the Dominion officials who now run the station?  

Still uncertain what they want of me, the sense of relief is enormous.  I will be allowed to be a doctor.  I will have a little of my life back.  

But most of all, it's good to be in this room.  I wasn't made to work among the ghosts of my murdered patients. 

                               *** 

I've done a survey of my supplies.  There are enough, but like everything else in the world they've made, it's not really sufficient.  Most of the instruments I relied on are gone.  There is no tissue regenerator, and any patient needing surgery is out of luck. 

Not that I'll likely see anyone like that.  They also control the choice of patients by their own rules.  I can repair minor injuries, fix broken bones--though not fully, and generally prevent the infection of wounds.  But so much else will be impossible.  Internal injuries are un-treatable.  I can patch up those hurt too bad to survive on their own, given our circumstances, but only if it is routine. 

Even with this I could have only kept Tain alive a little while longer.  But I could have helped Martok and Worf.  Am I a reward for good behavior?  Have my skills been made into a new kind of control over our lives?  Waiting in the empty room, I remind myself that we are all here to be used, that our immunity from a slow death is being useful. 

Yet, I am a doctor.  It is my job to heal people.  I despise them for using me this way, but can't refuse to work.  A doctor refusing to treat his patients is unthinkable. 

Nobody asked the maiden if she wanted the knight or the bear either.  I wonder if she would have preferred to lose both of them?  I'll have to ask the woman how the story ends . . . 

A few long hours pass before I have a patient, but the door slides open and a young Bajoran woman is guided inside.  She's been in some kind of accident, with a few cuts that have to be closed, and a lot of bruises.  I patch her up, doing my best with what I have, and she's taken out again.  I'm short on pain killers, and I can tell some of it hurts.  But she doesn't say a word to me, watching everything I do with a somber gaze.  Just before they take her back she momentarily makes eye contact, nodding a silent thank you. 

I still don't know why I'm here.  But standing in the now deserted room, it occurs to me that long ago they would take care of prized livestock and let the marginal ones live or die.  It is the only answer--other than Odo--that I can imagine.  I'm repulsed by the idea of curing them, but everything in this room, even the patients silence, reminds me that I'm just a possession to them.  

I still wonder if Tain, with some care, might have survived to be liberated.  Even if he died a little while later, it would have mattered to die free. 

And yet, outmoded methods and all, it was *satisfying* to treat the woman.  For at time I was whole.  The guards were outside.  Nobody watched over my shoulder.  I'm sure they watched--everywhere here is monitored.  But after a time you accept the illusion because you must. 

With nothing to do, I study the lab.  The tools given me are primitive and the range of testing methods limited.  The results will be less polished, but I can do about as well as I did during the war, working out of a medkit alone. 

Despite the simplicity, it is still more than enough to make the drug that cured Odo.  Counting my supplies for the fourth time, I remind myself that they know everything there is to know about me, all my abilities.  I've been replaced by one of them, and nobody even knew.  

Is that why I am here, why Weyoun or the other Vorta was unknowingly moved to save me, so I can be made to cure their dying gods?  Or is it something else, something I'd refuse, and this is a sham to make me like them, and make sure I already belong when it's time.  By then, will I be used to obeying their commands?  As a doctor, do they understand I feel obliged to help?  

Or *can* I make myself save them?  That would be giving myself to the enemy, and I won't do that.  It was wonderful to treat the woman.  It made me feel fully alive.  Do they understand?  Is this just something more to lose in the end should, no *when*, I refuse them whatever this place is to prepare me for? 

But that is the future.  This room, these instruments, this *job* is today.  If I can take back my life for a few hours, help the ones they let me help, I'll count myself and Ezri lucky. 

                               *** 

There are twenty-five specimen cases.  I know.  I've counted them twice already.  There are only twenty-three covers.  I decide to make note of that in case it matters some day.  Or to have something to do.  The time drags worse in this place than in the cells we've been locked in before.  At least there we knew there was nothing we could do about it.  I'd like a patient, someone to distract my mind from all the unwanted thoughts I can't chase away.  I'm hoping when the door slides open and a guard enters. 

"Come now," he barks in normal Jem'Hadar fashion. 

Nervous, I trail after him, surprised that I'm trusted with only my one guard.  Or, only one that I can see.  I have no illusions about that. 

He leads me on a tour of the station.  A lifetime has passed since I've seen most of it, but only perhaps a month has gone by.  

How can a month take such a long time? 

It is so odd to walk past all the ghosts.  Much of the station looks virtually the same, not even extra bright, except whole areas that should be crowded with people are deserted.  The Promenade is so quiet.  The shops were damaged during the battle, but with the doors closed you can imagine they just haven't opened for the day. 

Of course, the people who ran them are gone, along with the customers who gave the place life.  They have all been sent to hell.  The Dominion doesn't need shops.  

The Replimat is lighted, and I think of Garak as we pass it by.  I suspect they are using it for themselves.  The Vorta eat.  Maybe they make our mush there.  But there will be no more lunches with my friend. 

He is dead.  He was on Cardassia when all the Cardassians were slaughtered.  Kira, for joining with them, is probably dead too. 

How many others that I called friends are gone?  How many of them will die in the hot Cardassian sun cleaning up the piles of decaying mess? 

I shudder when I think of Ezri being sent there.  

He's leading me towards the ward room.  When we arrive, I'm escorted inside and discover Weyoun sitting at the table, gazing out at the wormhole. 

Ships are pouring through, lots of them.  A little more of that hope I cherish dies as I watch, transfixed by the sight of our doom.  We had so little left.  It's only a matter of time. 

He looks up.  I stand where I'm told to wait.  The guards back up and Weyoun studies me. 

"You will run a small infirmary for our local workers.  Considering the unusual nature of this station, some of you are hard to replace."  

I note he sounds rather pleased with himself. 

He is watching me and I force myself to stay calm.  I still don't believe that is all he wants, but it makes some sense.  I guess the families are allowed medical treatment as a benefit of being hostages--as long as fathers or mothers behave.  

He sounds finished.  I want him to be done.  I can't stand to be in the same room with the man who has killed so many of my own.  I have to get away from the window and its terrible view of the wormhole and our doom.  

Then he looks up again, his expression preoccupied.  "There is another matter.  Ezri Dax is not married to you.  We must remedy that.  You'll be married this evening after your meal." 

It is an order.  It defines my place in his world, no matter how many special privileges I have. 

But I'm too overwhelmed by the amount of ships coming through the wormhole to think much about it.  I can't tear my gaze away from a huge fleet of Jem'Hadar ships funneling out of the swirling blue and white jewel in the dark sky. 

How can something so beautiful serve something so terrible as the Dominion? 

"You may ask questions.  You have my permission."  He sounds busy, and all I want is to leave this room. 

I don't want to talk to him.  I want to be away from the window that is filled with the end.  But he is waiting for a question.  I know I must give a good impression, play the game by his rules. 

"There is no place to keep patients overnight," I say, able to think of nothing else. 

"You are a good doctor.  If necessary they might be excused from work."  He gazes out the window and sounds pleased with himself.  "You will do your best, and we'll see what is required when necessary."  

He is amused by my hesitation.  I want out of the room, back to our cage and out of his sight. 

"Thank you, Sir," I say, swallowing the revulsion I feel at the courtesy.  "Ezri will be happy."  I'm not sure of that, but she won't argue about staying. 

Weyoun is apparently tired of the conversation.  He waves the guard out and I am more than willing to go.  

"She'll be listed with your last name," he says.  He addresses the guards.  "Let him finish his shift." 

I hardly notice the empty spaces inside what was home on the way back.  I am still too stunned by the fleets of ships.  There will be no liberation.  I'll officially marry Ezri because we have to, and I don't want her to die on Cardassia. 

I don't trust Weyoun, but then at least I bought some time to figure out what to do when they demand I cure the changelings. 

                               *** 

Ezri and I will be officially married tonight.  As I am let inside after my shift finally ends I notice she is already in line for dinner.  She looks dirty and tired, but not hurt.  I'd almost managed to forget how worried I was about her. 

She moves to the back of the line to join me.  "You don't have to examine me," she quips.  "I'm still in one piece." 

She's in her previous mood, but I still look for signs of bruises or limping.  "I should hope so," I pause, wondering how she'll react.  "We're getting married tonight." 

Her gaze drifts toward our quarters where we'd given our private vows.  "Didn't we already?  Or didn't that count?" she says, and I wonder, again, if it would have happened if the war hadn't ended this way. 

"Not officially," I say quietly, trying to keep the bitterness out of my tone.  We'd already said real vows.  What does it matter if Weyoun orders us to play his game.  The Federation wouldn't have recognized our private vows either.  "He wants a real ceremony to make it official, so you can stay."  Of course, when we were a part of the Federation, we would have had a choice. 

She shrugs a little.  "Maybe we'll have a party," she says, but there is no joy in it.  She's trying to pretend that we have a little say in our personal lives, but it doesn't work. 

"You get to be Ezri Bashir," I add.  "Paperwork still exists." 

"Oh," she says, and it occurs to me she might not want to change her name.  But then, I'm sure neither the prince nor the bear bothered to ask the maiden. 

Miles is standing nearby, and joins the conversation.  "A wedding tonight?" he asks. 

"By Weyoun's order," I answer, softly.  "I already married her anyway."  

He has a thoughtful look.  "I don't think people would mind a little distraction tonight."  He puts his arms around both of us.  "Well do our best for you." 

As he drifts off, I look at Ezri, watching the line as it crawls towards the pots of food.  It's been a very long day and as the food comes closer we are both more interested in dinner than the evening's events.  "I could think of better circumstances but I'll still marry you," she says.  Looking at Miles, she almost smiles.  "He's planning something, you know."  He's talking to little knots of people who glance back at us.  "Maybe we'll have that party after all," she adds. 

"Weyoun will probably like that, like he's done us a favor," I add, very quietly, almost in a whisper.  I turn away from her, still haunted by all those ships gone to annihilate our own. 

She smiles, a little vicious grin.  "Too bad Worf wasn't there."  

Her little comment backfires.  It would be satisfying to have Worf snap another Weyoun's neck, but he's dead.  Even if he was alive, he'd never be allowed near another Vorta.  "I could have done without that remark," I mutter. 

Even Ezri decides to drop it.  Subdued, she sighs.  "Do I at least get to have a shower before the wedding?" she asks.  Tugging at her dirty clothes, she explains, "We loaded crates all day.  It was pretty dirty." 

Thinking about the almost boring day I'd spent, except for the woman and Weyoun, I answer carefully.  "I doubt it.  It's not the end of the week yet." 

About then, we reach the servers and our conversation ends.  Miles has vanished somewhere, and people are whispering around us.  But all we really care about right then is dinner.  It's hot and the broth is still a novelty.  We eat quickly, too hungry to savor much of the flavor.  Strange how it's already grown on us. 

Dumping our dishes back on the cart, one of the last to eat, the servers start to drag it out the door.  But several Jem'Hadar approach and after the cart is past they block the door. 

"Ezri Dax, you will come," one of them orders.  Somehow it isn't quite the normal bark they use. 

She looks at me, about to make some remark, but stops herself this time as the guards urge her to hurry. 

The gate closes behind them and she disappears down the corridor.  I don't expect them to hurt her just before her wedding, but just the same I prefer to stay by the gate. 

I notice Cindy Carlan standing nearby.  I hadn't heard her name until dinner, but keep thinking of the story she'd been telling the children this morning.  Her husband has not yet returned.  At first, we share our vigil in silence.  But the story is too intriguing.  I want to know the end. 

"I'd love to hear the rest of your story," I hesitantly mention.  "Sometime you could tell it to everyone." 

She doesn't take her eyes off the corridor.  "How far did you get before . . . " she pauses, her soft, worried voice betraying everything. 

Maybe it would help her to tell the story.  Perhaps it would help to distract both of us until our people were returned. 

"The prince had threatened to shoot the bear and the bear said he wouldn't succeed." 

"Oh, the challenge," she says, trying and giving up on the story voice.  "Sorry I can't manage that." 

"It's all right.  I just wanted to hear the story."  I feel comfortable talking to her, and don't bother to hide the worry. 

"The prince can't turn down a challenge, though he is sure he'll win.  The bear demands he defy all his enemies and even all the scores." 

"Of course, the prince can't resist," I predict. 

"And he's got a lot of enemies.  Turns out he's not so strong as he thinks.  So when he gets himself into lots of trouble, the bear rescues him from them by having him enchanted into another bear." 

"So, who does the maiden marry?" I ask. 

"The prince.  Or she thinks he is.  The bear has the wizard finish the job by turning himself into the prince.  So he gets the estates, the power, and the maiden." 

"And the prince?" 

"He gets shot by the fake one.  Remember they hunt bears on his estates . . . " 

"So," I ask cautiously, "how do the children like the end?" 

"Fine.  I leave out the part about the former prince getting shot.  Of course, my mother told me the story just to make sure I got the message.  She was very disappointed by my father." 

She's human, but strikes me as more like Kira than your average Starfleet wife.  Resting her hand on her belly, she stares out into the hallway, her expression resigned. 

"What about the maiden, did anybody ask her what she wanted to do, or did she know she wasn't really marrying the prince?" 

"Nobody cares about the maiden, she's just there."  Her voice is as even as before, but there is a trace of bitterness allowed to creep in. 

I move a little closer.  "Are you doing all right, any problems?"  

"I'm doing fine.  It's just," she pauses.  "I was raised on one of the boarder colonies.  When I was twelve, the Cardies killed my parents and one of my sisters.  When they evacuated the survivors, we were sent to Earth and raised by my aunt.  But they didn't get to us for three months.  We hid in the mountains and ate what we could find."  She pauses again, rubbing the gentle rise of her stomach.  "Sorry if I can't feel too sorry for the Cardies.  I mean, they were *allies*.  How many of us did they kill this time before they wised up about . . . " 

She lapses into silence, staring again, waiting.  We share our nervous vigil.  I glance at her again--her strong eyes keeping in all the worry, her tense but composed stance.  I wonder if she is what out next generation will be like. 

She steps back, composed, as her husband is escorted to the gate and enters, simply taking his hand as he comes to her.  His dinner has been saved and he wastes no time eating, the two quickly disappearing into their quarters. 

But like her, I can't leave.  I can't relax until Ezri walks back through the gate.  Alone, I keep seeing all the ships, and all I can hear is the hard, confident tone Weyoun used when he gave the order. 

I don't like being ordered to wed, with the threat of hell if I say no.  I might have married Ezri in time, but not this way.  At least we had last night's exchange, when we spoke from the heart.  I want her to know I care.  I will always care.  But it is demeaning to have all the real options taken away. 

Like we are property.  Like we are slaves. 

Then I see her, walking behind two Jem'Hadar.  She is standing straight, her clothes clean.  I want to wait for her like the woman, hide my fears, but it's all I can do to keep from rushing to the gate instead of walking slowly. 

She steps inside and I pull her towards me, just holding her.  She's had a shower as well, her hair still damp.  Weyoun wants something.  I need Ezri, but I am also afraid for her. 

More guards appear, this time with an official looking type in tow.  From the arrogant way he moves, he's already decided which side he's on and I guess the guards are more for his protection than control.  As far as I can tell, he's human. 

He's safe for now.  I remember what came of those who slept with the Cardassians, how their deaths were considered a particular prize, and wonder how long he'll last. 

"I will officiate at the wedding," he explains, keeping to the side, his guards waiting outside.  He glances towards them occasionally, as if he was nervous about being locked in with us. 

Miles and crew arrange the area.  Everyone, even Cindy Carlan and her husband, attend.  Our guests stand or sit around the tables.  In front of them, in the shadow of the gate, Ezri and I stand next to each other and in front of the traitor who will marry us.  Miles is my best man.  Tina Scalman, a friend of Ezri's stands with her.  We have no rings. 

But then, there is a surprise.  Someone hands wedding rings to Miles and Tina.  The previous owners are probably dead.  They are simple bands, a little worn, but fit well enough.  It is eery to slide the stolen ring on her finger, but then there is little of this ceremony that can be called festive. 

The words are the standard Federation text, minus any references to the Federation.  We say yes at the appropriate moments.  The traitor pronounces us husband and wife. 

I wonder if Weyoun was watching.  He should be pleased.  Now everything is official, and there are no broken rules. 

I kiss the bride.  It is odd, because I feel like I have to.  But then, I like kissing her too.  She returns it, but there is no passion or joy. 

I wish it could just be a formality, the real words having been already said.  But that was our choice.  This is not.  This is an act of control. 

But suddenly, everything changes.  Everyone applauds with genuine cheer. 

For a moment we all forget what this is and Ezri an I share a real kiss, full of as much emotion as we are capable of now, and part reluctantly.  Our friends gather around and we all share hugs.  It is a bittersweet moment, with so many other friends gone.  

It is a moment shared with Miles--my best friend--at a time when most of us have lost all their real friends.  I am more grateful that Miles is here now than when we were almost lost inside Sloan's mind and he helped me remember why we were there. 

No.  Don't think about that now.  Don't ruin what little joy there is tonight. 

A cart is pushed in the gate, and we are allowed to serve ourselves a glass of something sweet.  The taste is unfamiliar, but we savor it.  The gruel is slightly salty, the broth has a tang, but we have only water to drink.  The sweet drink is a sip of paradise.  

Miles glances behind him, and one of his people passes something forward.  Ezri and I are overwhelmed by the rings and drink.  It has made what was a cruel ruse into a celebration.  I'll even tolerate the traitor if he keeps out of the way. 

"Have a good night," says Miles.  "Happy wedding," he adds, handing us a book. 

It's heavy, solid, a tie to the past before we had padds.  I open the cover, discovering it to be a detective/adventure novel of a very respectable vintage.  Vic might have read it in his time.  "The Underground Man, by Ross MacDonald," I read from the cover.  I can't hide the joy that it brings.  I've never read it, but can't wait to start on the first page. 

"It's all we could manage for a wedding present," explains Tina. 

Miles adds, "If we don't cause any trouble, we can have more. 

Ezri makes no comment, but suddenly looks exhausted.  We lead her to a bench and she sits next to Tina.  But, taking the book, she has an inspiration.  "Let's read some of it now, for everybody.  Who wants to read first?" 

One of the others, one I don't know, says with excitement, "We could read a little each day, maybe after dinner.  We'd have something to look forward to that way." 

We have no music to play.  I can't take that first dance with my wife.  But I'm nominated to read first.  Everyone has arraigned themselves within easy distance, and I begin our first tradition. 

After the reading we go to our room, our minds still on the book. 

I'm still caught up in the tragedy of the man, Stanley, who has spent his life obsessed with the disappearance of his father, and the boy, his son, who is missing now too.  I can smell the smoke of the encroaching brush fire as it returns to scorch the ground above Stanley's roughly dug grave.  The vivid images of a hot California summer, the devil wind stirring the fires flows through my mind.  I want to know where the boy and the blond girl had gone, what connection Stanley's death has to his father's vanishing fifteen years before.  I've been taken away to a vivid place filled with evocative images that still dance in my head.  I dwell in the unspoken hint of tragedy that is already palatable.  I want my day to pass quickly, my mush to come and go, and to go back to that place so I can stand to be in this one.  

The book belongs to us.  We could read all of it if we wanted to.  But we set it on the table, the page carefully marked.  We will hear it along with the others.  There must be something special for tomorrow, for all the tomorrows that will come. 

Ezri slides into bed.  She's already pushed the chair against our door so nobody can interrupt.  

Grinning, she opens her coveralls, but just a little.  She looks around.  "I see a beach, and I'm stretched out on this sandbar.  It's a little narrow, but we'll have just enough room.  Over there," she says, pointing at the door, "the waves are rolling in all around us.  Up there," pointing at the wall, there's a solid bank of trees, with flowers of every color."  

I move towards her, cautiously, as if I was wading through waist high water.  "Wouldn't want to get those wet," I say, kneeling on the floor, the water flowing around me.  

"Well, you'll just have to be careful," she says, as I open them all the way down, carefully sliding my hands inside, tickling her nipples with my fingers. 

She gasps, sitting up, dislodging my hands.  "Remember, keep them dry," she says, but half out of breath. 

I slide off her coveralls, so soft and clean, and take care to put them on the table.  For a second the water and the trees fade.  But then, with her bare, inviting body stretched out on the cot, I can even smell the salt air and flowers. 

I rise up, teasing, "Your turn.  Don't worry, I'm already wet." 

She unfastens my clothes, pealing them back while she slides her body against me.  I can feel the erect nipples as she rubs them against mine.  I tear off my clothes, tossing them in the ocean and climb on the sandbar with her.  It's narrow, and we have to work to balance.  But I'm too busy as she licks and bites and makes me forget the Dominion and the dead and everything else. 

When she's done, I start tracing her spots from the place they start at her neck almost all the way down.  The sand is shifting under me, the tides making a loud racket, almost a squeak, but nothing else matters but her. 

After a time, wrapped in each others arms, we finally fall asleep and dream of shifting sands and the scent of flowers. 

Tomorrow she'll go back to her crates and I to my uncertainty.  But for a little while we sent it all away, only aware of each other, tonight we have decided to have each other, empires and wars and disasters be damned.  In our one little room, we celebrate the joy of being alive together. 

                               *** 

End, Surrender, part 1