TITLE: Surrender, Part 2 - Necessary Compromises 
Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home 
Author: Valerie Shearer 
Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net 
Series: DS9 
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 0/61

note:  This story contains elements of graphic violence and non-
concentual 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 

what if ... 

The final battle over Cardassia has been lost, and the ships that 
can retreat.  But many don't make it.  The Dominion destroys most 
of those that try.  The Defiant makes it home, but is in need of 
massive repairs.  The Dominion fleet, with Breen support, follows 
the retreating ships, taking planets and stations and ending the 
war for those in the way... 




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 2 - Necessary Compromises 

                            Chapter 9

                               *** 

Ezri is standing by the door of our room, dinner over and the reading just broken up.  The light from the small hallway casts a silhouette around her. 

I do not recognize my wife.  It is not only the increasing shifts in her personalities, but the way she's slumped against the door, braced against it as if it is a shield.  Gone are the quicksilver darts of energy that characterized her movement before.  Her pixy-short hair is growing out in shaggy clumps, falling halfway down her neck.  She is starting to look like the others who recently received obligatory shoulder length trims after an accident with long hair and a machine.  It would be nice to think that their safety was the reason, but we all know it was the delay caused by the accident. 

But the hardest change to take is the look in her eyes.  She is staring at me.  Before there was a spark of excitement about the day, even after the firefight at Chintaka and all the rest we went through in the last days of our war before capture ended that part of our lives.  Now there is wariness and exhaustion, with a fair dose of fear.  She spends her day under the Jem'Hadar's control, under constant threat of accidents and reprisals.  She holds Tessie and for a little while I lose her, preoccupied by the responsibilities and joys of the child.  She eats her bowl of mush as if it was a banquet, and gives herself to the story.  

The only hint of the woman I knew is late in the night, cuddled close to me, when she and I play Pretend.  We let the world drop away and this grimy little hole transforms to a distant beach, with the waves and the birds and the scent of flowers.  Sometimes it is day, with the bright sun warming us.  Sometimes it is night, a bright moon casting a glow on the water.  It is our beach.  We make it as we wish.  We give ourselves fully and without reserve to the other and probably wake up the neighbors with the loud squeak of the bed.  Tessie sleeps through the noise, once she's asleep, waking only when her tooth hurts or she has a bad dream.  

When we go to the beach, it is our place.  Amid crashing waves and the scent of flowers, we forget for a night that the morning will bring the same grimy room and the same alarm that begins our days.  Even now, with her growing uncertainty about my present job, she still plays Pretend. 

Before Tessie, without that--and our books--there wouldn't be anything to wake up for.  

Ezri's still staring at me.  She hasn't said a thing about what I'm doing, but she thinks about it.  I catch her watching me now and then as if she is trying to make up her mind.  And there is the distance, growing worse, especially as tired as she is with Tessie and her long day.  I help, but she has a special bond with the child now.  If it helps her cope I won't interfere.  But the moment is so near when the game is up, when Sloan and I make our move.  I know I shouldn't tell her, can't tell her openly.  But she must know that I have not betrayed them--nor will I.  I would like to think she has enough faith in me to see beyond the deception.  But this place demands a heavy price and faith is the first casualty. 

She knows I'd do anything to save her from deportation.  No doubt she believes that would include betraying the rest.  Now and then she says almost nothing to me all day--when things have gone badly, when the day has been too long and she's exhausted with the child.  But she watches.  She always seems to notice the times when Sloan has slipped in another clue and even away from the lab I can't stop thinking about it. 

At least, I think she notices.  She never talks about what goes on during the day, and never mentions the bruises I see now and then.  And when she can get by with it, very careful since Tina's death that they don't notice, she gives the guards looks full of venom. 

The hardest times are when she isn't Ezri, when she lets some other part of herself cope with life.  She hardly sees me then.  I need her so badly, especially now, but dare not intrude.  I don't share the worse part of her life and have no right to make the days harder. 

I am afraid of losing her.  Perhaps to the guards or an accident, but more to one of the others inside.  Once, I wondered if it was Ezri I loved and now I know as I watch her suddenly fade away. 

I need our readings.  It is the only time I can shut out the formulas and the havoc we are going to wreak on the monsters that are destroying us.  It is the only time I push away the fear of being alone. 

But as she stands there, watching, Lemas and his final choice haunts me.  If, somehow, they took Ezri away I don't know if I'd care much anymore whatever came of things.  No matter how much she changes, she is still my anchor. 

So many of the books are about monsters, but other monsters than ours.  And it is easier to read about other monsters.  I can forget about our own for a little while.  We started a new book tonight, a relatively short one called Childhood's End.  

It is another novel about the coming of paradise.  This time it is the gift of alien overlords.  But it is not an easy path.  The Overlords, waiting unseen in their ships above the world's major cities, have done nothing but good works.  But the people of Earth are still suspicious, and many distrust the alien's ultimate goals.  

Beyond that, there is a sense of something wrong despite the beneficent rule.  I almost wonder if somehow we got this book as a hint that had we cooperated instead of fought, we too might live under the kindly peace of Dominion rule instead of surviving as slaves.  We read almost a quarter of the book tonight but despite it being late nobody wanted to stop.  After the next chapter the golden age will come, and if the lights hadn't blinked we would have read that as well.  But we'll have something to look forward to tomorrow.  We wonder what is such a secret that the Overlord Karellen cannot show himself, and worry that his vision of paradise is a little to close to that of the Founders. 

But it's so much easier to worry about Karellen and his mysterious race than our own uncertain lives.  People glance at me, wondering, but keeping it to themselves.  The crews are never late anymore.  Even Miles and his crew have less to do.  Time is running out, and we don't want to consider what comes next. 

Perhaps that is what has put Ezri into this mood.  I have decided I must tell her, not just for myself, but so she will know that we will get our revenge. 

She's still staring, but moving towards me now, hands on hips.  I've been anticipating this moment for a long time.  I don't know if I look forward to it.  But I can't stand the silence anymore. 

"Don't do it, Julian," she says.  

It's Ezri.  I'd almost prefer it be one of the others, except Jadzia or Joran. 

I've gone through this in my mind so many times.  I know what I have to say.  But it is very hard to put it into words.  "I have to." 

She turns away from me.  "After what they've done--you can still say that."  I can hear the bitterness in her voice. 

Nobody from our group has been killed since Tina, but a lot of people have been hurt, including Ezri.  It's just a matter of time before someone else is killed or another accident becomes sabotage.  I am as scared as the rest.  I have to live here too.  But if I don't cure the changelings, all of these people die.  Hasn't this occurred to her at all, or to any of the others?  Does it matter as much to them as it does to me? 

Kira knows, because she is watching me very closely.  I believe she's mentioned it to Miles.  He tried to bring up the subject once.  But the rest . . . 

Ezri must know.  Somewhere in all those lifetimes must be one host that understands, certainly Curzon.  But I can't deal with the thought that she is already too damaged to allow herself to see it.  Or maybe she does and remembers that once I would have done it simply because otherwise it would be murder. 

At least our stint in isolation made it plain we have no particular special "privileges" they all thought I had. 

"If I don't they'll kill all of you.  For starters."  

I remind myself that they'll do the same if they find out the cure isn't real.  I remind myself that I have to be very careful what I say, even here in the privacy of our quarters.  I hate to let go of the illusion. 

Ezri is looking at Tessie, sleeping soundly tonight.  She's been cutting a tooth, and fussed a lot.  But the tooth is done now and she fell asleep early.  I look at the soft, gentle expression on her face, love her all the more.  It will change after our talk.  Right now, I wish Odo had never been cured.  Then we wouldn't have to have this conversation.  Then Ezri could have this moment of peace last a little longer. 

Ezri must know I will not betray my own.  I can't bear losing her, and I will if she comes to believe I've betrayed them.  Somebody besides Sloan must understand.  

Then, she is absolutely serious when she says, "Then we die.  But don't sell yourself to them." 

Somehow, I must find a way for her *alone* to understand.  I take her hand and pull her towards me.  Her uncertain, worried eyes meet mine with a trace of hesitation.  "It will work out," I say.  I grip her eyes with mine and try to let her see everything I cannot put into words. 

Sloan once had a wife.  Is this how he lost her, a little more with each lie, with each secret he couldn't explain until the secrets mattered more? 

She draws back, considering things.  "It works out," she says.  "For who?  For you?  Me?  For *us*?  What about the rest of these people?" she asks, confusion and a trace of hostility in her eyes. 

Does she think, once I'm done, that I'll be granted a reward, some comfortable cabin with a replicator and a nice suit, washing daily with a clean-shaven face, like the man Marta married? 

Or will I?  Will I be forced to choose between these people and the ones they hate more than the guards?  

Kira believes it will work out.  Sisko told her, probably in grandiose phrases.  But the game is very hard to play, and I know some of the choices are hard.  I just didn't know how hard it would be when I first looked at the padd. 

I understand the game.  I know what I'm going to do is breaking all the rules.  It is a risk, but one I have to take.  I know our quarters are monitored and I should not tell her anything, not endanger everything with a careless word.  

But Ezri must believe in me.  I cannot stand to have her think me a traitor.  I pull her close and she lies next to me, but does not relax.  "I'm not in the mood," she whispers, pulling away. 

I kiss her anyway.  I'm too tense and worried, no more in the mood than she is.  But the bed squeaks.  The noise will not interest whoever is listening.  Sometimes our games get especially noisy.  "Please, pretend you are.  Just this once.  Please. I need you."  I finally get her to meet my eyes and hope she sees the silent plea for her to listen.  

Something must get through because she kisses me back.  But it is too mechanical and she hasn't relaxed at all.  She rolls over and opens the top of her clothes.  They were replaced recently and a little big.  "If you insist," she says, a small hint of playful interest.  "It might be fun.  Night, I think.  A full moon this time.  Just the water, lots of waves, but no birds."  She is willing, but she makes no attempt to touch me. 

We haven't gone to the beach too often since I started working in the lab.  I don't know if it's because I have been preoccupied or she's been unwilling. 

I start undressing her.  She allows me to, leaning back and relaxing a little, and finally starts to reach for me.  The forest is here now, silent except for the rustle of wind.  The waves are constant, the tide swirling around our sandbar.  Above us, the full moon shines a bright light on our world.  Not a word is said but at least she smiles, slides my clothes over my shoulder, tickles my chest a little. 

Sliding her clothes down her arms, I stroke her back.  She responds for a second and there is a small catch in her breathing. 

She pulls herself up, and begins undressing me.  She's not in a hurry but I can see the anticipation in her gaze.  It isn't passion.  There is need but it's not so urgent we have to have each other at this moment.  But we both know how lucky we are to have the beach and each other and be able to lose the world for a little while. 

I think of Marta, but she has no beach or joy or release.  She gives herself because she has to, because it's a way to survive.  Some of the places they have us it's a stranger and some extra food, or a favor that's being traded for.  Privacy has ceased to matter.  I hope there is some pleasure, some release for them too.  

The waves quiet, the forest fades.  The sandbar becomes a bed that squeaks.  But I am momentarily tempted to go back, just lose myself in Ezri and the beach tonight and hope she somehow understands.  

The bed is making a lot of noise, but I still have no idea what to say to her.  The words still have to make sense and double meanings will have to do. 

She whispers in my ear, nibbling hard on my earlobes as we wriggle out of our clothes and the bed squeaks even louder under us, "Who's pretending?"  

It's a teasing line said in hopes of finding me in a better mood.  But it gives me an idea.  If anyone is listening it might sound like a nights normal conversation. 

They must be used to Pretend. 

"I need to believe you really care," I say.  I try to make her see there is more with my gaze.  I don't know if she does. 

She pulls back, draping her blanket around her, disappointed.  "You know I do." 

This isn't going right.  "Just for tonight, pretend the only thing that matters is that we have a good time." 

"Hmmm," she murmurs.  She relaxes a little.  She almost smiles. 

I can hear the waves now, feel the spray.  The forest is looming over us.  I haven't said what I must but the beach is luring me closer, the waves cleaning away all the fear and anxiety.  

I draw her close and kiss her again.  I pull her body closer, nuzzling her ear, working my way down her spots.  I whisper, "It has to be convincing or it's no good."  I draw my hands down her chest, playing with her breasts.  She is aroused, moving about, the waves splashing so loud, covering us in their spray.  

But I can't enjoy the beach yet.  I have to make her understand.  The waves draw away, the forest recedes.  We are on the cot, Tessie sleeping on a matt floating on the sea which shimmers around us.  The bed is loud, its racket persistent.  Abruptly, I lean over and whisper so quietly I'm worried she won't be able to hear.  "If it's not it will be all over." 

My tone of voice is different, colder, bitter--more normal, at least for here.  She grows still, my hands still cupping her breasts. 

She must notice.  I wonder if she loses the beach too.  "I'll try," she says hesitantly.  I can't tell if she understands or is just confused. 

Pressed against me, her body is too tense.  I massage her gently, the nipples growing hard in my hands, as she starts to relax.  "For us," I say.  All of us, everywhere that have been stolen by this war, I think.  But now she's using her hands, taking them to all the right places.  I kiss her again, a hungry kiss she returns in kind.  The bed squeaks and moans.  The water swirls and the sand is growing soaked and smooth. 

I hope the roaring of the waves will cover the whispers. 

She slides down to my chest and working hands and tongue and hips makes a very convincing impression.  The forest rustles, the gentle breeze now a wind churning the water around us, drenching us in its frenzy.  It's difficult to keep my mind on anything but her busy hands.  I dive under her and without thinking grasp her suddenly then push her down hard. 

She's startled, staring at me with momentary surprise.  I release her and she starts to pull away but I stop her.  "I don't like this game," she says, very quietly. 

"I don't either," I say.  The beach is still here, but dim, fading.  I want it back.  I drop down next to her, stroking her body as she moves with mine.  A particularly loud squeak is persisting and my mouth is next to her ear. 

I'll never have a better chance.  "Keep up the noise," I whisper.  She rolls over slowly, the squeak very loud.  She is staring at me.  I face her in the dim light and with little more than breath, I tell her.  "There won't be a cure, but they'll think it is." 

It isn't quite the truth.  But it's close enough. 

She stares at me, stunned.  "Nobody else can know," she adds in another nearly silent whisper, while we continue to explore each other's secret places.  The waves churn and the froth spatters us as we slide around the sandbar, hungry for each other, needing to escape facing the reality I'd put into words.  

The next kiss is full of passion.  We finish what we'd started and for a little while let the beach shut out all the ugliness. 

Later, waking, Ezri and I tangled in covers and clothes and each other, I stare at the grim room we call home.  The time is so close.  A few more days and Sloan and I will be ready to tell the Vorta--or perhaps the Founder himself--that I can cure them.  I know what the others will think, and Ezri must be just as distant. 

Did Lemas lie awake at night wondering, if he did get home, if he would have to pay for his deception with the rest of his dreams?  If he'd . . . would he and Liz have tried to find a life together knowing what they'd done? 

We're lying in each other's arms, and I'm rubbing her back.  There is still a bit of noise.  She turns to me, drawing me towards her.  "Whatever happens, I understand."  It is almost inaudible.  

Maybe if she can hold me at night when nobody else can see, I can stand it. 

                               *** 

Sloan stands near the door, betraying his anxious mood, as I run a final test.  He's been helping more and more and we've worked out a kind of visual shorthand between us.  I watch the numbers as they are recorded on the padd. 

It is finished.  Short of an actual test on a sample of changeling goo, I have done all I can.  That is their job.  I did not ask to see Odo again, knowing we would be refused.  I assume their own doctors will do the final tests.  

Inside is a great emptiness.  I signal Sloan that it's done.  But it's late.  Neither of us are ready for the big day yet.  Tomorrow will be soon enough. 

He watches over my shoulder as I check the padd.  "I'd do one more confirmation," he says. 

"We haven't tested these for long term exposure," I say, thinking out loud.  "We'll check it in the morning." 

We set up the test, taking our time.  This may be the last day we ever come here.  I keep wondering if I like that idea or not.  Sloan has never given me another hint of what this formula does, but test 31 was different from the others.  Occasionally, when I have time to myself, I apply the differences in my head.  I doubt I'll ever get a real explanation.  It's very likely I'll never see Luther Sloan again. 

What happens next?  Do I go back to the infirmary?  Is there a reward for being good?  How will I manage when everybody thinks I betrayed them? 

Sloan is looking at the padd.  I suspect he is as uncertain as I am.  I keep wondering why he's here.  Was he sent?  Did he get caught while planting his files? 

Is 31 still in existence at all? 

Sloan kidnaped and used me.  I despised him.  I suppose planting the fragment of file amounts to more of the same.  But they'd have discovered that I cured Odo eventually, and there would have been fewer options without his help. 

He said, a long time ago, that I was a part of 31 already, that I'd always be.  Here, especially now, that doesn't seem so bad.  We tried to win with ships and soldiers.  It didn't work, isn't working.  Nobody is going to liberate us but ourselves now. 

Tomorrow it will begin. 

                               *** 

I walk into our compound as if it was an ordinary day.  They've cut back on everyone's shifts, and even Miles spends less time away now. 

We do longer readings now.  The aliens have shown themselves, and their version of paradise has come.  Nobody wants for anything.  There is no disease or starvation, and each person works at the job of their choosing.  Crime has vanished, and the one world that replaces the many nations is free of the stresses of nationalism.  

But there are terrible costs.  The aliens and their technology are so overwhelming that many things human are lost.  The creative arts did not end, but lack the spark that made works brilliant as the absence of conflict and strife removed the emotional heart.  The alien's machine, which can show the past as it had happened, compromises religion as hallowed stories are proven to be myth.  But worse of all, the spark of adventure is extinguished.  A strict ban on space flight limits the human race to earth.  And Earth was too safe for adventures to be real enough.  For those who could not settle for paradise, there was no place to go. 

It sounds familiar.  I remember the looks the Starfleet people got when we arrived on Bajor, and the stunning realization for some of us that there was much more than paradise.  In the Overlord's utopia, I hope I would have yearned for more.  But I knew too many who would have been as satisfied as the majority of those who dwell happily in their "long, cloudless summer afternoon of peace and prosperity." 

I cling to that image, now lost forever, of the Earth I knew.  No matter what becomes of the war, that is gone.  Even if we survive paradise is lost. 

For one man, Jan, the long summer is not enough.  He must know.  Concealed in the belly of a model whale, locked in an artificial hibernation fully asleep, he is the first man to feel the pull of the stardrive. 

I cling to this vision, this affirmation of our need to know more than the gods allow, and the courage to defy them in the search for answers.  I'd much rather be Jan, facing the unknown, than myself.  If only our own defiance, our own affirmation of our will, could be so open.  But Jan will go home on the next ship.  We must hide our secret and live with the wrath of our own.  For if there is any suspicion that it isn't real, we--and all the rest--will be dead long before any of the Founders. 

Ezri is already back, quietly talking with Kira.  They are looking at me, watching as I hold a sleepy Tessie.  I nod but leave them alone.  Keiko joins them with the children in tow, Molly giving her Aunt Neres a hug. 

In between, talking with Molly, Kira keeps glancing at me.  I wonder if she has figured it out.  Is it obvious that this day is hardly normal for me?  Am I giving it away without intending to? 

I just want to go to Ezri, hold her, spend as much time as I can before . . .  Or maybe it would be better for it to be a normal day. 

Odd how we redefine "normal". 

Tomorrow will change that.  If anything goes wrong all of these people will be dead by the end of the day.  A thousand doubts enter my mind.  We never tested the formula.  What if it doesn't cure them?  Will the Jem'Hadar mow these people down with rifles, or use their bayonets?  Will they make Sloan and I watch?  Will they kill us after the rest are dead?  

For a moment I see the Alamo, bodies draped in unnatural death.  I have seen too much of that.  It is too easy to visualize these people strewn around where they fell, the blood . . . 

And the bodies of Fannon's men executed at Goliad, the second Texas massacre twenty days after the fall of the Alamo.  Fannon watched as they died.  He was executed last.  What thoughts ran through his head as the Mexican rifles killed everyone around him?  Was he, in the end, grateful for death? 

I shut out the image.  The plan will work.  It will work because it must.  There can be no other option. 

Ezri looks up, watching for a second.  She walks over to me, studying me carefully.  She must have seen the flash of horror but makes no comment about it.  "You're back early," she says. 

She's relaxed.  I guess it was a good day for her, whatever *good* means anymore.  I'm most grateful she is Ezri.  I need Ezri now. 

"Looks like everybody else is too," I say.  I have an idea.  If anything happens, I'll never hear the end of the book.  At least I want to know how that ends. 

She is very serious.  "It's almost over," she says.  

Miles has heard rumors that some of the resident groups will be moved soon.  I doubt it will be us, not quite yet.  Miles still has work to do.  But I will no longer offer any special protection.  Nor will Sloan.  What is he thinking now, hearing the rumors himself? 

"I know."  I mean more than the war.  I'm sure she understands.  I hope she understands.  

It won't be too long before they don't need me, or Miles, or the rest of us.  What then?  Is that what she means? 

We play with Tessie and visit her grandmother while I wait for Miles.  Elaine and Cassie are doing better now, the medicine smuggled in by Marta on her last appearance helping them breath a little easier.  It won't undue the damage, but when Kira brings them their food, she adds a few drops to both women's broth.  Tessie is very talkative, and I notice both of the sick women smile a little at the little girl's words. 

They've been excused from work.  I didn't do it.  I suspect Marta had one other condition she insisted on before her marriage.  It won't save their lives either, just make the last days a little more comfortable. 

However many that is.  Cassie Realand is too sick to notice too much, but Elaine is waiting to die.  

Miles is staring out the gate, alone, soon after he is returned.  

"You sound about as busy as I am," he says, his eyes grim.  "If it wasn't for the problems with communications we'd have hardly anything to do." 

"What sort of problems?" I have to ask. 

He looks at me oddly.  I suppose I usually didn't ask about that sort of thing.  "Little things.  The normal sorts of failures you get in a new system.  It's complicated, and you get that."  He shrugs, but he's nervous.  "Realand's been dragged all over the place the last few days since the women were exempted.  Of course he doesn't argue anymore." 

I'd like to think that Miles regrets that a little.  But then I hardly know him anymore, hardly know myself.  If we live through this, there will be a lot of penance to pay. 

"We've got plenty of time for reading tonight.  Let's see if we can finish the book."  I don't look at him, don't want him to see how desperate I am. 

"Sounds good to me," he says, "I'll get it." 

I notice Ezri and Tessie are back, Elaine with them this time.  She is shaky and pale, but feeling much better. 

"We're reading early, I think.  Maybe we can read the rest of it," I say.  Ezri gives me a worried look, and Elaine nods. 

"I would like to know," she says, and I wonder how soon she too will be gone. 

More and more people are assembling, and Miles has moved a chair in place for the reader.  I assume this means we read. 

Better a featureless paradise than our own lives.  I just want to know how it fares, hoping it lasts a little longer than ours. 

Paradise has come, but some wish to preserve what they can of human society.  An island colony, named New Athens, has been established.  There the Overlords technology is left out and old crafts are revived and the arts pursued. 

George Greggson and his wife Jean have moved there with their two children, a seven year old boy named Jeffery and an infant girl mostly called the Poppett.  Unknown to them, the Overlords watch, and wait. 

A few people glance at the Jackson's, especially their son.  I wonder if he was anything like the bright, curious boy in the book before capture and whatever nightmare turned him into the timebomb he is now. 

The Jeffery of the book loves the islands.  He's a good child, intelligent with much curiosity.  He almost dies one day when a tidal wave sweeps the beach.  But a voice told him to run, and a rock was vaporized to enable him to climb away from the water.  This boy has a timebomb inside him too, and it will go off as surely as ours will. 

George is grateful that his son is alive, but a dread grows inside him.  Years before, during the oddity of a party game with a ouija board, Jean had suddenly fainted after the board answered her question--where the Overlords sun was to be found.  The Overlord Rashaverak had been present and watched with great interest as Jean had fallen into a sudden trance before the answer had come.  He says nothing to his son, or Jean, but the fear is there that somehow Jeffery matters in ways he cannot understand. 

Then, just weeks later, the dreams begin.  Jeffrey goes to other places in his sleep, places which could be dreams but are too vivid to be ordinary.  The Overlords, watching, can guess which places he has gone.  His parents, silently worrying, listen as he tells them of the worlds he sees in sleep. 

Do Cheryl and Carl wake at night, and go to watch the child sleep hoping he will remind them of the child they lost in the dark, desperate room months ago? 

Eventually, his worry too much to bear, George approaches the Overlords and it suddenly makes a terrible kind of sense.  The children, Jeffery only the first, have transcended the limits of their species.  The dreams are only the beginning.  The Overlords know little more than the parents, except that their race will never reach that state of being.  They are servants to a higher kind, and can never be more. 

George feels a pity for them, and several people glance towards the gate.  The Jem'Hadar are no more free than we, trapped in their programmed fate.  It does not stop George from a trace of bitterness, nor us from hating the ones who hurt us.  But we can transcend this place, like the children.  They will never be anything else. 

"'I've only one more question,' he said.  'What shall we do about our children?'" 

"'Enjoy them while you may,' answered Rashaverak gently.  'They will not be yours for long.'" 

"It was advise that might have been given to any parent in any age: but now it contained a threat and a terror it had never held before." 

Tessie is asleep, collapsed in Ezri's arms, and I put my arm around both of them.  Miles is holding Molly close, his eyes closed.  Keiko pulls Yoshi closer, rocking him in his blanket.  The wonder that would take the children of Earth could not be stopped, the parents left behind in their own loneliness.  But Miles and I are not alone.  Others hold their children as if tomorrow the ones who control our fate might send us away, where?  We are lucky here, in our little sheltered isle.  When will that luck run out?  When will we matter no more than the parents of Earth when their children have gone? 

The dinner cart creaks its way inside the gate as we silently rearrange ourselves for the evening meal.  There is little conversation.  People keep their children close.  The cart leaves and we resume the reading. 

There is a pall over the room.  Jennifer Anne slept, the toy she kept suspended in the air no longer moving, taking care of her own needs.  She had changed so fast, now long past the spark of being that had been the Poppet.  Jeffrey was still himself, now and then.  His parents cherished those times.  But they could see the child they loved fading, his uniqueness vanishing before their eyes.  They walked, and tried to have as much time as they could with the boy before he was gone.  An undefinable sadness and confusion took the dog, Fey, who knew the boy was no longer her master, and wondered where he had gone. 

We are lucky.  Our small children are spared the outside world.  They are hungry and dirty, but they still have us.  The older ones, like the Deneban's two children, are big enough to work and their youth is already gone.  We, too, are the last generation.  The children will never know the world we had--only the grimy, grey place known as survival.  We mourn for them.  But we watch, even those with none, terrified that they will have nothing at all, that they will be taken away.  We don't know what happened to the children of those shipped to Cardassia.  Perhaps they died there, like their parents likely did.  Or at least everything they were died.  We cling to this place like an anchor, despite the locked gate.  In here we claim ownership of ourselves, with books, with love and with family.  We know they can take it away, just as the people of the colony of New Athens see the children who are no longer human leave them for a last time.  If they . . . how will we cope?  Will we choose to leave in fire as do the remnants of the new colony of Athens?  Would our overlords allow us that choice? 

For Jan, going home is an emotional experience.  In his mind he has been gone for six months.  For the Earth, it has been 80 years.  But he has seen the planet of the Overlords and understands why humans had to be kept from the cosmos, just how much they had to learn before it would be possible for them to join the worlds that lived outside their knowing.  He could have stayed with the Overlords the rest of his life but wanted to go home, to the place he was born.  He had seen the utterly alien vistas of a world populated by creatures that fly, and had many questions still unanswered.  But *home* drew him back, and a kinship with his own kind. 

I left Earth to come to this place, to find my frontier.  But I always knew I could go back, that family and friends would be waiting.  But for how long?  The war is so near done, and we with it.  I understand Jan too much.  I want to be able to go home again. 

But Jan found nothing but darkness and oblivion.  The children, or whatever they had become, were merging into something with a single identity that was unconcerned with the world around them.  In time, they had removed all life from their place, for a reason known only to themselves.  No longer children, no longer even human, Jan mourned for his lost world. 

For he was alone.  The rest of humanity had destroyed themselves in games of risk and wars of destruction.  With no future, they had faded from existence and left behind a dark, ruined place.  The Overlords watched, never knowing when the children would test their powers and alter the orbit of the planet or the moon, and it would end for any who might have survived. 

Jan is the last man on Earth.  For a while, he is granted a childhood dream of being the best pianist in the world.  For awhile, the children left the rock and living things remaining alive alone. 

When we lose, who will be the last of our kind to die on the cool green hills of Earth? 

But the changelings do not ignore that left behind forever.  As they matured into creatures of energy, parts of a single whole, even the planet is gone.  The Overlords watched, trapped in their own endless existence, as another race matured into what they had always been fated to be.  A little bit of mankind still stirred in the consciousness of the cosmos, with nothing left behind. 

Stunned, quiet, overwhelmed by the mixture of tragedy and wonder, we hold onto our own.  Perhaps fate had taken them; perhaps something more wonderful would come from the end of humanity.  But something is always left behind, the hopes and dreams of those who don't fit into the new way of things.  Are we like them, not merely the last generation, but the ones who must wait for the end.  Would it have been better for it to be over quickly, or will we be sentenced to a long decline like those left to slowly die of the quickening? 

Tomorrow, our revenge will be sowed.  Tomorrow we may have a small light at the end of our darkness.  But I realize it is only a hope.  The Founders will not survive but neither will we, not as the people we were.  We will make something new, but no revenge, no books, no dreams will reclaim what is lost. 

Still caught in the story's spell we dawdle, each lost in our own personal world.  But it is late.  The lights are blinking.  We have to go. 

Miles stands and turns to address us.  "I have a couple of possible trades.  I was wondering what kind of book you'd like." 

We, another last, lost generation pull our minds back to our own reality.  What happens when they are done with us is a mystery.  We can't permit ourselves to think it, but everyone wonders if there will be time to finish the next book.  But we need our readings.  It is the only time that belongs to us.  The magic of the stories makes the day tolerable.  We look at each other, hurried by the blinking of the lights, and pretend we have all the time in the world.  

We must decide quickly.  We still haven't moved towards our quarters, and the lights are blinking again.  Miles asks, "Do we want more adventures?  I can get a couple of them.  Or a comedy.  I've heard there's one floating around." 

The Jem'Hadar have arrived and are waiting for us to go.  We start edging back towards our rooms.  "Let's vote," someone says,  "Everybody for the adventure," he suggests.  The results are halfhearted.  "The comedy?"  Hands go up, and we start to disappear into our little dungeons as the Jem'Hadar begin to open the gate. 

We have had enough drama and war and adventure.  We'd like to laugh this time.  "I have just the thing," says Miles, almost smiling.  "It's supposed to be short, too."  

We're already half-way into our respective rooms, but there is a cheer.  The Jem'Hadar have left the gate but are still waiting a little distance away.  I'm sure everyone is looking forward to tomorrow and the new book.  They want to laugh.  I wish I could share their mood.  They could as easily be dead by this time tomorrow. 

As soon as we get inside Ezri confronts me.  "You're done," she says, but very quietly, watching me closely. 

I nod.  She looks at me, both worried and relieved.  I offer my arms and we hold each other and the little girl who is to be ours. 

Much later with the lights dimmed and officially in night we are still in each other's arms, unable to sleep.  Quietly, she whispers, "The rumor is that the Klingon home world was wiped out just like Cardassia."  She rolls over, and the bed makes its usual noise.  "They'll do the same to Earth.  Who knows how many places they've done it to.  Do whatever you have to." 

I hold her for the rest of the night.  She kisses me before they leave for work, a desperate sort of kiss as if might be the last on this day that will change everything.  I watch as they disappear, hoping that it isn't the last time I ever see her. 

                               *** 

My escort is late.  All the rest are gone but Cindy and I and the little children.  The two sick women are sleeping, Cassie growing worse despite the medicine.  Elaine is better, but work would change that and I'm sure that isn't part of Marta's bargain.  But this late call is a portend of bad news, and I'm sure the tests have been analyzed.  Either the Founder will live or we will die.  Cindy is busy, so near term, and giving all her attention to the children.  But I think she can tell I'm nervous.  I like listening to them play.  She has permission to read the Oz book to them during the day, and they are playing little games with the characters.  I smile a little.  I push away the horrible feeling that their lives depend on how well things go this day.  I am painfully aware that the children are the most expendable.  I keep thinking of how the people of Earth gave up when their future and their children were both stolen from them. 

Eventually, after a long wait, my guard arrives and I'm almost glad to follow him out the gate.  The waiting has only made it harder.  In a few hours it will be over and I will have shown myself an apparent traitor.  Only Ezri will know, and she can only accept me in private.  As we progress down the corridor, I'm certain it's time when we turn the wrong way and come to the ward room again.  This time Weyoun is waiting.  I don't want to look at him, but after all the drab greys of our quarters and even the lab, his violet eyes and brightly colored suit draw my attention. 

The distraction is short-lived.  Soon after, Sloan is brought in as well.  I'm reminded of why we are here.  We say nothing, but are still worried. 

"You are done," says Weyoun.  "We confirmed your last test.  Once the vaccine is prepared, you will cure the Founder."  He stands, walking around the table and stopping in front of Sloan.  "I think *you* will prepare the vaccine.  After it's tested the doctor will treat the Founder."  He moves back, studying us.  "If it fails, both of your groups will be executed." 

Most direct . . . Sloan is looking down, his eyes half-focused.  I wonder if he is as worried about the people he is risking as I am.  I can't push away last nights vision of them lying dead all around me. 

Weyoun sits down again.  "Are you certain this treatment is ready to use?" 

He looks at me.  I take a deep breath, wishing I could be absolutely sure.  But he knows we don't have the equipment to do that.  "Yes," I say quietly.  I might have qualified my statement, but now, the moment of truth so near, I don't want them to look too closely.  

"Do you agree?" he asks Sloan. 

Sloan does not look up, but simply says, "It's ready, sir." 

I still wonder what they did to him.  

Weyoun motions to the guard, and I'm led out of the room.  I follow the guard towards what was once Odo's office.  It's different now, somehow colder and more dangerous to be put inside one of the cells. 

I'm pushed into the first cell, and the force field is restored.  It's been altered from the transparent shield it had been to another sheaf of dingy grey, as if there is a dirty fog surrounding me.  The cell is half-dark, but I know they are watching.  I sit on the bench and wait as still and as calmly as I can manage.  I will not give them a show. 

Some time later the fog suddenly vanishes and I'm assaulted with bright light.  Sloan is pushed inside and the fog is restored.  My moment is growing closer and I'm trying to hide how nervous I am, how much I want to see Ezri again, how much I dread the way the others will reject me.  I glance at Sloan, certain there is someone he's worried about.  He is so quiet, so resigned.  I watch as his hands start to tremble as the light replaces the fog and more guards come. 

We don't speak.  We don't even look at each other or use our hand signals.  I wonder how his people will accept him or if they know what he's done. 

I remember standing before the Founder, trying to be as cold as Sloan while I told my lies.  But he isn't a stranger who comes in the night anymore.  I wonder if I know more of the real Sloan than most had been allowed to see. 

Once, I would have doubted him had I seen him as nervous and broken as he is now.  But then, perhaps, I notice it just to take my mind off the intense worry that this will somehow still fail and everyone will die. 

The guards approach and I'm ordered to come.  I follow the Jem'Hadar out of the cell and don't look at Sloan.  I'm lead to my lab, where the male changeling is waiting, sitting on one of the remaining treatment beds.  I take the hypo prepared for me by Sloan, waiting on a tray by the main testing area where he had shown me sample 31 before. 

The man has used me before, playing perfectly my reaction to the supposed plot to kill the Romulan.  Would he do it again, even if he would die as well? 

The guards are watching, ready to shoot.  I guess, unlike Fannon, we won't see our people die if they pay the price.  I show them nothing but a doctor at work.  I stand tall.  I do not hesitate as I approach the changeling. 

I remember treating Odo, how painful a process it was.  I do not want them to shot me out of hand.  I must warn them so they will expect the Founder's short-lived distress. 

"This will be painful.  It will force a return to your natural state before it is done.  Do not be alarmed.  Now, please lie down."  I am the consummate professional, confident of my authority and knowledge.  

He looks at me with curiosity, but lies down on the biobed.  I study the tricorder near the bed, forcing back all the fears that this act will bring nothing but our own death.  I look utterly professional.  I wonder what became of the female changeling who'd been here before.  

I press the hypo against his flaking "skin" and give him the treatment. 

I step back, watching, as the creature turns to amber goo and reforms, except now there is no damage to his form.  Not that he can see. 

The tension in the room drops a measure.  The Jem'Hadar move their hands away from their rifles.  The Founder stands, studying me for a moment.  He turns away, addressing the Jem'Hadar.  "Return him to his quarters for now.  If all goes well he will be rewarded later." 

I follow them down the corridors, still stunned that it is over.  We arrive at the gate.  The only adult in view is Cindy, and she watches as I walk inside.  It will be hours before anyone else returns.  I wonder what to do with myself before then. 

I expect her to say something but she is silent, preoccupied, rubbing her belly.  The children are playing with their meager toys.  She's been reading the Oz book to them, the marker visibly moved ahead, and they are still acting it out.  I wish we had some children's books, but whoever is supplying the books didn't find any. 

"Do you need any help with the children," I ask. 

"No, we'll be fine," she answers.  But I see the way she's watching me, and I wonder if she has guessed.  

She's still rubbing her belly, her gaze too soft for this place.  "Are you all right?  Any signs of labor?" 

She looks up, tearing herself away from whatever kind of pretend she's playing in her daydream. 

"Nothing yet," she says, and smiles.  The smile is so out of place.  But then she knows very little about the rest of this nightmare.  

Everything looks peaceful, and I need to have some time to think.  I make my way to our quarters to try to make it real.  Tessie is playing, looks up at me and goes back to her game. 

It has begun. 

In the solitude, my mind wanders.  I wonder if the male changeling volunteered to be the first to receive the vaccine.  I assume their own doctors are checking him for any signs of misadventure.  They won't find the second disease.  I never used a padd, but have applied the formula from Sloan's test batch 31 to the results.  I know what it does now, how careful someone has been to make it disappear until it is too late.  It is too close to the basic chemistry of the changeling itself.  When they take another form as he has already done all traces of it disappear. 

Was this 31's answer to my cure?  Was it part of some plot to offer to cure the changelings in exchange for a surrender that never happened?  

Odo won't require any treatment.  He is already cured.  The others will either die of the original disease, untreated, or the one the treatment has introduced.  It cannot be spread by linking with other changelings.  They can shapeshift as much as they want, or not at all.  It will have no effect.  After some six months have passed, they will sicken rapidly and then die. 

There is no cure.  It would take months of study to create one.  Even if I'm forced to try, they would all be dead long before one was found.  Should they insist, will I pretend to try to save my life, or Ezri and Tessie's, knowing it is a pointless act of treason? 

If I refuse, the Jem'Hadar may kill me.  They may kill a lot of us before they die themselves.  But they will destroy the Vorta first.  Still, no matter how many die in their grief, they cannot restore their gods. 

The Founders will not destroy anyone else.  That is all that matters. 

                               ***

                            Chapter 10

                               *** 

I have been excluded from the others already.  

The Founder appears to be cured.  No one has come and taken us and the others are alive.  I spent my day with family.  Tessie needed a nap and I liked being with her, sharing with her our empty room, and later playing with her outside when she woke. 

I was there when the first of the crews returned, every shift ending early today.  It is the sort of surprise that always comes with a heavy price.  They knew what I was doing, and now they suspect that I have betrayed them.  Is the short day Weyoun's idea of a celebration of his gods survival, or am I being given some kind of esoteric punishment for having taken so long. 

As people return, they give me curious glances when they find I am back early.  I wonder if Lemas would have been greeted with the same stares if he'd made it home. 

The general mood isn't improved when Miles appears at the gate with an armful of books.  He glances at me, sitting them down on the table.  There are four new ones along with the one offered for trade. 

"They heard they'll be moved pretty soon.  They want to make sure the books don't get confiscated."  He doesn't look at me, rubbing the patchy beard, scratching something on his chin.  He adds with resignation, "The bastards still have a use for us for a little while." 

"A little while," I say. 

"Look, er, I heard," he says awkwardly.  "You could say I kind of understand," he mumbles. 

I don't look at him.  Miles and his crew have put the station back together for them, and each one understands that the cost of refusal is very dear.  But I suspect that even Miles doesn't approve.  There are degrees of cooperation. 

"Well, you're all still alive," I say, leaving it at that.  Miles shrugs a little.  I pick through the stack of books and immediately notice one that draws my attention. 

It's called "No Sanctuary" and I recognize the sort of pest spot it's about.  There is a picture of a little girl and a sub-title, "A Personal Memoir".  I pull it from the stack and push the rest back towards Miles, who chooses not to notice. 

With the arrival of Miles crews, they've all heard the same rumor he has of the Founder's good fortune and now they are ignoring me completely.  While we wait for dinner, I concentrate on the book and ignore them too.  Ezri had taken Tessie to visit her grandmother and I am alone.  Miles sits near but not even he is speaking to me. 

I ignore them too.  The book is too full of memories, and it helps shut out the looks and silence.  The girl's name is Danielle Watson, and when her family was put inside the Sanctuary District she was ten.  The little boy in the picture with her is her brother.  According to the dedication, he was six, a year later, when he died. 

I open the book to the first chapter, "Beginnings" and am with Dannie, as he parents called her, as she left her home for the last time. 

"Mother was crying.  We'd already sold everything of any value, or anything too big to carry.  We had our things in a few boxes, and my father and a cousin carried them out to be stored with his family while we would stay with them.  I held Casey.  He had a bag of toys, and his clothes, and I had taken my favorite dolls and books.  He didn't understand, but he was scared.  My father returned, and my mother held him as they took a last look at the things we were leaving behind.  They were left to satisfy the remaining rent.  My father did not want to leave with debts.  Then we were called out of our house, the only place I'd ever lived, for the last time." 

For most of these people it would be too much a reminder of our own loss, but for me it is more.  I remember standing next to the people of Dannie's time as they told their stories to the world, how they'd committed the crime of poverty or lost a job.  Then they were shunted out of public view with promises nobody could keep until the public conveniently forgot about them.  I'd sat with the hostages, ready to defend them with my life, while the police stormed the buildings with deadly laser scopes against whatever the residents could find.  I remember walking out of the building with an injured Sisko, staring at a street full of bodies, the dead and the dying, all ordinary people who had just had enough and wanted to be recognized. 

The Bell riots were the beginning, and the Sanctuary districts were removed.  But not all at once.  I go back to reading, hoping Dannie and her family all survived the day. 

"We walked with my cousin and uncle, finally taking the public car.  It felt so empty to have only these few things left, and all the people staring at us.  All I wanted was to disappear, be invisible, and not the curiosity we were.  It didn't sink in that we had no home until it got dark, and we crowded into the small living room together, the only extra room they had.  I missed my bed, all of my dolls, my privacy so much I could not sleep.  Even then, I knew we were lucky.  Others had to fend for themselves on the street, hiding from the police.  At least we were safe from that, though it would take a long time to forget what it meant to have a home."  

Overwhelmed by memories, I close the book.  But then I open it again, skipping ahead a few pages.  I understand what it is like to be torn from home.  After living the Bell riots, I'd studied the time.  Once, the homeless were tolerated, if begrudgingly.  But by then to be poor, to have no home, was a crime.  Sisko and I had been arrested for the simple reason we could not prove we belonged.  If Dannie and her family had been left to the streets, the police would have detained them once their hiding place was found and thrown them into the same hell as Sisko and I.  But as I peak ahead, things grow more desperate.  Dannie's cousin has a new brother, and there isn't much room or money.  Her father feels ashamed that his family is taking the little extra money and space.  He offers to leave but his brother refuses.  But Dannie knows he's been looking for another place to go.  She knows her family would not leave them to the streets. 

Then the landlord orders her family out or her uncle and cousins will lose their own home.  Dannie and her family disappear into one of the dank, rotting buildings that had been abandoned and begin living off what they own. 

"Each day, something more disappeared from the boxes and there was something to eat.  Mother stopped crying and started to just look sad.  Father disappeared for hours at a time, never telling us where he was going.  Sometimes he'd return with money, sometimes food, and sometimes nothing.  We got used to being hungry, though Casey cried himself to sleep most nights.  Then, perhaps a month after having become one of the invisibles, we ran out of things to sell.  We hid in the shadows, aware of police appearing now and then, looking about.  We stayed where we were, doing everything short of stealing food, but knowing that soon enough the police would come." 

Miles has chosen his own book, a comedy about a man named Arthur Dent.  His planet--well, our planet--was destroyed in the building of an interstellar bypass.  He is set adrift across space with an oddity name Ford Prefect.  The book is very thick, but it appears to be three novels bound into one book.  I hope they have enough time to read them, even if their shunning of me has already created a distance between us. 

Their reading begins before dinner but I don't join them.  I listen as they are laughing, the food cart approaching, and they only reluctantly break up to eat.  I've only half-followed the story as the unassuming Arthur Dent defends his house against a bulldozer, losing his battle just about the time the whole Earth becomes vaporized to make way for the bypass.  He finds himself plucked from the Earth in the nick of time, his rescuer none other than the rather odd Ford Prefect, who really believed he had chosen a quite ordinary name.  Sitting on the Vogon spaceship, he discovers that Ford is really a stringer for the legendary Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a compendium of all things a hitchhiker must know. 

But even as Arthur's reluctant adventure begins and we meet the soon to be former President of the Imperial Galactic Government, Zaphod Beeblebrox, I am more drawn to Donnie and her family.  In a sudden attack, the police wake them in the middle of the night by banging on the doors.  The family is arrested, marched to the locked gate of the urban ghetto, and taken to the crowded processing center.  

Arthur Dent and his odd friends are a comic relief, even if they destroy Earth once again, but I remember the processing center with its rows and rows of benches and the mood of desolation it held.  It is the same place, the same District, that Sisko and I were taken to.  It was full of tired, desperate, scared people who had no where else to go.  After many hours of sitting and waiting we got a ration card.  Then we are sent out on the streets, with a warning to safeguard it from the ghosts and dims, and to avoid the police.  I close the book, even before Dannie tells about it, the smell and the ragged people all too real. 

After wandering half the night, finding nothing but hostility and suspicion, Sisko and I had settled for the street as we gave into exhaustion.  In the morning, the captain brought breakfast, as I tried to ease the aches from sleeping on the hard, cold cement.  He had to stand in line for hours to get it, and we ended up eating with our fingers.  As the cart squeaks its way inside of own little prison, I hold onto the book.  At least we don't wait for hours to eat, once the food arrives.  We have a spoon to eat with.  We have a reason to be kept like animals. 

My group--if they will allow me to be one of them--break up and move to the line ready to silently eat their tasteless mush.  Nobody even looks at me.  I sit by myself with Dannie's book for company.  But I can see their eyes.  They are alive, full of anticipation, for there is time to read more of the book.  Even I want to know what becomes of Arthur Dent. 

I look up at the gate, locked and patrolled, and wonder what comes next for us.  The people crowded into the Sanctuary Districts were of no particular use.  At least for now we serve a purpose.  We get cots and blankets, and even the illusion of privacy.  But we started with hard floors for beds, and we eat whatever they give us because we know they can stop if we don't cooperate.  When this use is done will they find another?  It is unthinkable that they should not.  Which is . . . was the luckiest?  Was the desperate, dangerous life in the urban pits better or worse than what we have now, that we will have when our use here is ended? 

I'd asked Sisko if people had really changed.  He never really answered my question.  He just said we'd have to make sure we never had to find out.  But I guess we failed.  We are here in our own well guarded sanctuary, proof that, push come to shove, we'd survive however we had to. 

I am proof of that, at least to these people.  I have no doubt that I am no longer welcome.  If they could, they would make me leave.  But when you're in a cage you just make the untouchables invisible.  I sit waiting for my dinner, alone in a room full of people. 

Then dinner arrives and it gets worse.  There is an extra bowl full of some kind of fruit.  The others know now, even if they didn't before.  With each bowl of mush we get a whole piece of the fruit.  Then the guards announce that the fruit is in celebration of the Founder being restored to health. 

For a moment they look at me, astonished and shocked as the truth sinks in.  Nobody had spoken to me before, and now they move away, as far as they can from the traitor among them.  

But they ate the fruit, an unknown variety, but very sweet and delicious.  At least most of them did . . . Realand has been dragged around daily keeping the comm system running, and he has apparently decided arguing is pointless since his visit to the little cage.  But he reached the cart, looking at the fruit, and took his bowl of mush.  The server tried to hand him a piece, and he very delicately, as if to touch it at all would contaminate him, brushed it aside.  

I still don't like him, but I'm glad someone refused to celebrate.  I admit I ate it with relish.  It was sweet.  It was delicious.  It was food. 

Trying not to look at any of them, I finish my meal quickly and leave.  I retreat to our quarters, the only place I can go, taking Donnie's book with me.  I will not be allowed to know what becomes of the stumbling Mr. Dent.  If they could, I'm sure I would not be allowed to live.  But that isn't in their power.  I belong to the Vorta now.  I am his plaything.  He chooses to reward me with this torture. 

Ezri sits listening to the story.  Tessie is with her, and for the first time I can't wait for the lights to blink.  She will come here because she has no other place to go, and we can hold each other for the night. 

The lights flicker and she returns, Tessie limp and asleep.  But she's sticky, the fruit juice all over her.  It is like a perfume in the air that reminds me of nothing but bad memories.  But we know better than to waste food.  Donnie would understand.  She would savor every bite. 

All those years of progress, and growth and lies, and we're no different than the people who walled up their cities and forgot that you can't hide forever. 

                               *** 

I am sitting alone, waiting.  Everyone else sits or stands staring at the gate.  Breakfast is late.  Work may start late or there simply may not be time to eat it. 

At least they aren't paying a lot of attention to me. 

People begin to move near the gate at the sound of movement, but then back away sharply.  It isn't the cart.  It's the Jem'Hadar. 

The Deneban's look dejected, more resigned than afraid.  Catherine pulls Bayla closer, and Daniel looks away, lost, towards our quarters for a moment. 

Jackson moves his family closer.  Ezri starts towards me, Tessie in her arms.  We'd heard the rumors about groups being deported.  I know they might have waited for Sloan and I to finish.  Is this the end of our luck?  Are we leaving? 

They force open the gate, push their way inside.  All of them are armed.  Breakfast is forgotten, even I am forgotten.  All anyone can see are the guards and their guns. 

The first is among them, a sign this is very important.  He steps ahead of the rest.  "The following will come.  Kevin Realand.  Cassie Realand.  Elaine Silman.  Now." 

There's no compromise, nothing routine in his tone.  We all watch as Realand steps forward, no sign of the arrogance they'd already punished out of him.  He's afraid.  Kira has slipped back to the rooms, and is helping Cassie and Elaine.  Cassie is coughing constantly, looking pale and listless, too sick to last long. 

But Elaine, despite her sickness, is calm, resigned, almost proud.  She's afraid, but I'm sure, to her, whatever she did was worth it ending this way. 

With Elaine helping to steady Cassie, they are encased in Jem'Hadar and marched away. 

Ezri has moved nearer, Tessie looking towards the gate.  I am certain that Tessie will never see her grandmother again. 

There is not a sound, not even when moments later the cart finally makes it appearance.  People line up to eat--no fruit this time--and silently sit with their families.  When they finish, they line up for work.  Ezri hands me Tessie, breaking the rules.  "Stay with her," she whispers.  

I have not been told what to do and the guards clearly wave me away when I approach the crews.  I retreat with Tessie to the end of the tables. 

It's odd, the feeling of relief mixed with grief.  Realand and the others won't come back.  By evening they'll likely be dead.  But as I watch the faces staring at the gate, I see relief.  We didn't get deported today.  They aren't done with us.  They file out, having lasted the morning. 

They can read more tonight, maybe even a few more nights if all of us are still lucky. 

It's curious, the favor the Jem'Hadar did for me.  I'm still invisible to the rest of them, but just for a while I was a part of the whole.  It wasn't forgiveness.  But it was something. 

The last of them go, even Miles crews.  Cindy retreats with the children, minus Tessie.  She gives me a glance but otherwise ignores me. 

Tessie won't let go of me.  She's too young to really understand, but somehow she must know how bad it is.  She keeps looking at the gate, repeating "na-na" over and over again. 

After a while I can't stand it and take her back to our room.  She sits on her bed with her toys, somehow delighted with all the attention.  But she still asks about Na-na.  How do we tell her her grandmother will be dead by nightfall?  If she's lucky.  I keep thinking of Sloan, the way he had been destroyed by something terrible.  Elaine and the rest may well not die so easily. 

Tessie falls asleep with her toys, holding the little makeshift doll someone had made.  I stare at the walls, wondering if it is worse to be alone with a room full of people or be left behind for hours with nothing to do.  Being a prisoner when you have something to think about, something to do with your hands, is better than being relegated to this quiet non-existence Weyoun has sentenced me. 

Tessie is sleeping peacefully.  It won't sink in that something is wrong until we don't take her to see her Na-na tonight.  I won't disturb her now. 

But, sitting on our table is the Dent book, the story of Arthur Dent, hapless human, and his unplanned journey through the galaxy.  I didn't notice it until morning, but Miles must have given it to Ezri to leave for me.  I pick it up, noting the place is marked very carefully.  I feel its weight in my hand, solid and real.  They read for a long time last night, until the lights blinked and forced them to stop.  I wish I could have been there.  The light is bright enough during "day" to read, but somehow this silent gift of my friend only reminds me that I have to read it alone, that I have been separated from the rest. 

I can't read Miles anymore.  The guilt inside him is too great and he deals with it by ignoring all the demons.  But his children are alive.  Looking at Tessie, I can understand.  She isn't really mine, but I would protect her.  I believe he understands, at least a little, that I would not sell my soul without a good reason.  I doubt he has any hint of the reason. 

For a little while, I just hold the book and close my eyes.  I remember our games of darts after my genetic status was revealed.  He stood by me.  Even then, he didn't understand.  But I was his friend.  I have to believe I am still a friend.  I forgive him the subterfuge and silence.  He has to live here to.  Ezri must come to this room with me at night, but were he to defend me he would be shut out as well. 

I can't read, not for a while.  There is no pleasure in stories you can't share.  But Tessie sleeps, and the time crawls by.  I don't want to read the Dent book, not yet.  It is their book and I have been shut out of their world. 

But I was, at least for a few, very vital days, a part of Donnie's.  Taking her book, her little piece of immortality, in hand I open randomly to a page. 

She's in Sanctuary District A, watching her little brother play.  "The street was filthy, strewn with the trash that had nowhere to go.  Later, when it was cold, it would be burned but now it lay in heaps on what had been the sidewalk.  The children played a game of tag, some version they had created for themselves, and their game spread the edges thin.  Father was drunk, as he often was now, and Mother had retreated to her private place where she hid inside herself." 

Outside, Cindy is watching our children play.  I can hear them, voices quieter than normal, but still the high pitched fun of play.  Cindy has been very quiet of late, the birth of her own child so near.  She hears only what people can bring themselves to say, sees only what we can describe.  What is her world, shielded by the gate, but knowing a little too much of what happens beyond it?  

I didn't want children here.  Ezri isn't likely to ever have one of her own, not lost in this life.  But things are *different* when I think of Tessie, how she smiles, how she has come to cling to Ezri as if she knows in her child mind that the rest are gone. 

I wonder if Elaine is dead now.  Or does she wish she was?  But I did make a promise, both of us.  We'll care for the child she's left behind.  We'll tell her about the heroic act her grandmother committed one day, even how her mother died.  

I flip back to the beginning, when Donnie explains the reasons for her book.  "Once, when I was a child, my youth was stolen.  I dedicate this book to the other children who didn't live to grow up, who were hardened out of all recognition, and who cannot tell their story.  It was hard to remember, but if one child is allowed to live and grow in peace it has been well worth the pain." 

She was seventy-five years old when she published her book.  The world she had been born into was gone and utterly destroyed by the Third World War and other horrors of the 21st century.  And yet, Zephram Cochran had made his first test of warp drive, and by the time her grandchildren had grandchildren of their own, the Federation would have grown out of its infancy.  But she wanted them all to remember where they came from, and how important it was to never do it again. 

We knew too, Sisko and I.  We shared her world.  I turn to the marker I'd left before, and continue reading. 

Her family have just come to the District.  They huddle together in the cold comfort of the open street for several weeks.  Once, I could not imagine how it would feel, to be so cold and so miserable for so long.  But the cargo decks below were no kinder, and I understand all too well now. 

Then a miracle happens.  Donnie's family buys their way into one of the buildings, taking over a crowded, drafty, reeking room. 

Our tiny space with its thin walls and drab shadows surrounds me.  But I understand.  We are lucky, just as Donnie and her family know themselves to be.  Donnie's mother has some medical training.  Her father is good at fixing things.  For the first time since being locked inside they sleep in relative peace. 

There are worse things than filthy little rooms . . . open cargo bays with nothing but a hard floor, hard cold streets in constant danger from ghosts and dims and the police.  Walls, no matter how thin and rooms no matter how tiny are yours. 

For now.  I can't get the morning off my mind, the fear that we were leaving, that it was over.  Tessie has cuddled against me, her head on my lap as a pillow.  

What happens to us when we are done here?  Will Weyoun use it as some kind of leverage to demand more of me?  Sometimes I look at Kira and can see the pain in her eyes.  To lose freedom is hard.  But to grow up without it, to know how precious a gift it is when it is taken away is worse.  Will we be relegated to more cargo bays?  Will we be sent off to live among strangers?  Will Weyoun use this as a way of insuring my continued cooperation? 

Can I still play games with someone who is probably presiding over the torture of this child's grandmother? 

I put down the book, marking my place carefully for later.  Lying down, I let Tessie curl up in my arms.  She holds my hand.  Warm and soft, she makes the day tolerable.  

If only Elaine knew that we share more than anyone knows, except my act of rebellion must stay hidden at all costs.  Falling asleep, I dream about the world I'd like to make for her. 

But Tessie wakes up too early, leaving too much of the day.  We wander back to the common area, and allow Cindy and the children to ignore me.  I expect Tessie to go and join them, but she surprises me and stays. 

But the view here is as boring as the narrow, dull walls of our quarters.  I cannot live in just this world.  I need the ones spun by the books. 

Dannie's book is too personal, and hurts a little too much right now.  I can't read it with her twin in my arms.  And I listened to them read last night, here and there.  I need the absurd world of Arthur Dent too. 

I'm playing a game.  If I hide, if I pretend I am not still a part of them--that my act is so different than theirs that I deserve to be set aside--I will get my wish.  In my game, I feel no more guilt than Miles, and he doesn't hide. 

Tonight, they will not exclude me from the reading.  But first I have to catch up.  I have plenty of time to do it. 

Tessie plays with her doll.  I open the Dent book to the first page and read it aloud, watching as she plays, imagining she is listening. 

A girl is sitting in a small cafe in Ricksmansworth when she "suddenly realizes what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place."  But her timing is off and she never gets to tell anyone.  

For a flash I remember the man in the cargo bay who made us divide the rations.  He probably died on Cardassia, but for a moment he reached the pinnacle of his being.  For the survivors, like Arthur and I and the rest of us, life has a different goal.  But I admire those who had a chance to reach out and make things better, even if there wasn't time for a phone call. 

Did Elaine make a difference?  Will Sloan and I?  Was Elaine's sacrifice a meaningless act of suicide?  Will ours prove to have consequences we didn't intend?  The girl in the cafe will never know, but we will. 

The rest of us go on, taking each day as it comes.  Dannie scrounges for old clothes to make into bandages for her mother.  She misses her brother, but can't cry.  Too many people have died, too many other children.  We work for the monsters destroying our civilization because we want to live.  We believe we have the right to survive.  We draw invisible lines about what acts of collaboration are acceptable and which make us traitors. 

Tonight Ezri will hold me again, make up for the long day.  Tomorrow I will not have to read the book myself.  Somehow I will make a difference, even if only to me. 

What will I do with the inordinately long day that will leave? 

The words flow so much better read aloud.  The style is catchy, unconventional.  I can savor the images when I slow them down.  I enjoy the jokes better this way--the way Mr. Prosser has visions of axe's and a predilection for little fur hats, the only vestige of his Mongolian ancestry remaining of his descent from Genghis Kahn.  Ford talks him into replacing Arthur in the mud in front of the bulldozer, which seems reasonable at the time.  As the Vogon fleet comes closer to Earth, Ford takes Arthur out for a drink knowing the bulldozer and the house and Mr. Prosser are all doomed, along with he and Arthur if they don't get to the pub in time to have enough to drink. 

The last time I passed Quarks, the space was filled with crates and shelves, the holosuites gone.  But I can close my eyes, see the swirl of people and sounds and life it once held.  I don't think of them as gone, just away.  I can let them live that way, let the pub where Ford drags a protesting Arthur become real as well. 

I have plenty of time today to finish last nights reading.  I'm actually looking forward to tonight, even if they pretend I'm not there.  The Vogon ships descend as Arthur hears the bulldozer knocking down his house.  The Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic winking madly, Ford is prepared with his towel packed away.  The Vogon demolition beams are energized and light pours out of the hatchways.  And The Vogon Construction Fleet coasts away amid a terrible ghastly silence where a moment before the Earth had stood. 

Is that how it ends, a normal day with a moment of panic--and then silence?  Telling myself the human race, save for one Arthur Dent, has just expired I put down the book.  I should be grimly reminded of Cardassia, of the Klingon home world and what will likely become of our own Earth, but not now.  This is so absurd, so different from our own universe.  Would it be easier if it all ended in a quick flash instead of this prolonged misery? 

My throat is dry, and I brave the silence and get a drink of water, ignored as I pass the children and their teacher.  Tessie is resting, playing with her doll, and stays behind.  Cindy's playing a game with them.  She doesn't look at me and I once more ignore them.  The children are too intent on their game to notice. 

How will I manage the days, if all of them are this long and deadly quiet? 

There is still too much time in the day and I've gotten as far as I can read.  

Tessie is absorbed in her doll.  I read a bit more of Dannie's story.  Her brother Casey is already gone, when more children perish in a widespread epidemic.  Her mother seldom speaks anymore, and her father has given himself to the comfort of drinking.  He's always drunk now, she notes in careful, cold words.  Many drink, she says, and he bullies her mother most of the time.  She stays away when she can, waiting until he collapses at night before she can relax and sleep.  She is quiet in the morning until he leaves.  I think of the children outside, playing their games.  We have no crutches to lean on, but I suspect it would be much the same with us if they existed. 

I wake when the book falls on the floor, staring at the walls, wondering how much longer I must wait before there is some company.  Dannie's book is going too fast.  I don't want to run out of things to read or I'll lose my mind.  I wonder if Weyoun thinks this is a reward.  

The gate is opening.  I wander out to see who is back and notice Kira standing there, limping from a bandaged foot.  I sit down at one of the tables, still invisible to Cindy and her charges.  There is a little blood seeping through Kira's bandages.  Their new doctor must have tended to the injury.  I'd go back and read more, but invisible or not it's good to have company. 

Unlike the others, Kira makes it a point to stare.  I can live with being anonymous.  This hurts too much and I head back to my quarters.  Whatever happened to the vision of Sisko, of the hint to trust me?  Or has she decided that Sisko ran out on us too, that his visions no longer count? 

Kira follows me.  She blocks the narrow corridor before I can get away.  She is standing very close to me.  "Ezri may not say it, but she forgives you," she says. 

"I didn't ask her to," I say, playing my game, with the beginnings of a suspicion that Kira is playing along.  Even if she isn't, it is a relief to just to have someone talk to. 

"She loves you.  It's been known to happen," she says, and won't look at me. 

Something very odd had happened between her and Odo before we retook the station in that other life.  Perhaps she has reason to understand. 

"I guess you would all rather be dead," I say, filling my role of martyr.  

"Is that why you did it?" she replies.  I can feel the hostility, but her gaze is rather cool.  I can't tell if she believes I'd prefer the Founders live rather than forfeit these peoples lives or is playing the same game as me. 

But I wonder what I would have done without Sloan.  Would I be able to sacrifice all these people? 

"You didn't throw away the fruit," I note. 

She looks me over, ignoring the remark.  "Do they deserve to live?" 

I decide to be honest.  If anyone is listening, I don't care anymore.  As far as they know, my opinion didn't stop me from cooperating.  "No, they deserve to die.  I never said they didn't." 

She has me cornered and I can't get past her.  I just want to be home, watch Tessie until Ezri comes back.  "You just cured them," she says. 

"I did what I had to do," I tell her, growing annoyed, no longer sure what she's up to. 

She just keeps staring and I'm about ready to push her out of the way.  "I'd like to get to my quarters," I say, rather testily.  

I glare at her.  The feelings she is bringing to the surface are dangerous.  I don't dare let them show. 

She is watching me too closely.  Can she see the hidden worry I dare not deal with.  What if the disease does not kill them?  It bothers me that I could never test that part.  

I do not want to be the man who saved the Founders. 

Kira is still watching me.  I force myself to look away.  She moves down the corridor.  I follow her, intrigued by the look of recognition in her eyes. 

I'm standing right next to her when she stops me, looking me straight in the eyes.  "Just as I did, before you came here.  But you didn't understand then." 

I remember, when we'd first arrived on the station, how hard it had been to understand the Bajorans--especially people like Kira who had fought back and could only now openly express their anger. 

How innocent we must have been. 

She can tell there is more than meets the eye.  She understands the personal cost of doing what must be done.  The others don't know what to look for.  At least, not yet.  

"Have you heard anything, about . . . " I ask, hoping that it's over, that they die soon rather than later. 

"No, maybe Miles . . . "  But her tone is wary.  She's warning me not to be so obvious as Elaine.  She is pushing me to see if I'm going to react. 

"Let's hope so," I say, resigned.  She's fed and cared for the women they will or have murdered.  She can't help them either.  But we both know Elaine took too many chances, dared them to find her. 

We share a moment of understanding.  I can see the silent support in her eyes.  She won't openly defend me or make life any easier when I'm ignored.  But she doesn't need to ask details and won't give away the secret. 

Tonight, when I invade their reading, she'll ignore me just like the rest.  Miles gave me the book to read out of friendship, I think, not necessarily understanding.  I respect that.  But I wish it was more. 

She understands.  For now, that is all that matters. 

I make my way back to my quarters and read the rest of the day, reading over the Dent book again, noting my favorite parts.  Tessie goes out to play with the other children for a time, and in a way it's a relief.  I need some time by myself.  I must remember the game, how to play the most important game of pretend I've ever played.  Tessie is wonderful to hold and cherish, but too much a reminder of the cost of failing.  

Arthur is given a bable fish to put in his ear, and only then can he hear the Vogon's words that were gibberish before.  After capture they must endure the poetry, the worse in the universe, before being tossed into space.  I keep thinking of Garak and how much he would appreciate the persuasion value of the worse poetry of the universe, but show nothing of his inner thoughts.  At best, there would be a small hint of interest.  But Garak is dead now.  There was no infinite improbability drive to save him, as were Arthur and Ford--and just in the nick of time.  Perhaps luck is a large measure of survival.  After all, we are lucky too. 

But I turn back to a special passage, one that stays with me even after I'm done.  Arthur has just realized the Earth is gone.  Still stunned by the kick of the hyperspace drive, he tries to muddle it through. 

"The Earth." 

"Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind.  There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth gone, it was too big.  He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone.  No reaction.  He thought of all the people he had been close to.  No reaction.  Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket two days before and felt a sudden stab--the supermarket was gone, everyone in it was gone." 

How, I ask myself, will we feel when the inevitable comes and Earth is demolished by the fires and bayonets of the Jem'Hadar?  How will we deal with the grief of something too big to feel, or will we simply grow cold?  Which death will make it real, family, friends, or the neighbor down the street you'd almost forgotten?  Which place will be missed the most, the Alamo, the old buildings of London, or the new things that made it paradise?  How soon will we join Arthur Dent in his own sorrow for something lost which cannot be reclaimed? 

There is noise outside.  People are returning.  I pick up the book, intending to give it to Miles without too much notice.  I will listen tonight because they won't walk away from a reading.  I may be set apart but I still need them and the story.  Arthur goes on and so must I.  I push away all the fears for a little while and watch as Ezri enters, carefully not looking at me.  I can survive this and all the rest.  I did what I had to do, and now I'll have to learn to live with it. 

                               ***

                            Chapter 11

                               *** 

Another long, dull day . . . worse since I invaded the evening's reading and do not have that to catch up on.  Tessie spends a little time with me, and naps in her own bed, but mostly she's played with the other children.  It's been hours since breakfast, and will be many hours more until anyone else returns.  Tessie is asleep with me for the moment, but I've done all the reading I want to and simply feel restless. 

But there's nowhere to go and nothing to do.  I am keeping quiet so as to not wake Tessie.  Again, I wonder if Weyoun considers this form of torture a special gift for saving the gods, or if it is as he intends it to be, the payment he believes we deserve for dragging out our jobs as long as Realand and company did. 

There has been no sign of them, not even a rumor.  We all assume them dead, but at least a rumor would confirm it, make it real.  Perhaps that way, it would feel like Tessie was ours.  Not knowing, there is still a sense of taking care, trying to hold back the fondness in fear she'll be taken back. 

She's just settled down for her nap, sound asleep, when I hear the commotion--screams, shouting, children running. 

I look at Tessie, worried.  I didn't hear the gate open, but it is possible to push it gently.  Hesitantly I go outside. 

And freeze.  Cindy is holding a little girl no older than Tessie.  The child is crying hysterically.  All the rest have retreated behind Cindy--all but Jeffrey and his sister.  He's a little ways away, Calla held inside the cocoon of his arms.  She's crying too.  But I can't get my eyes off of Jeffrey, the cold, dangerous look in his face and body, the knight ready to strike at the first hint, protecting his princess from the angry dragon. 

It's been growing closer and closer and finally the timebomb inside him has gone off.  As I approach, he starts to back away, nearly dragging Calla along, keeping her inside his shield. 

Cindy deigns to talk to me.  "She's hurt," she says, indicating the little girl in her arms.  "She and Calla had an argument about the toy, and Jeffrey decided to protect his sister with that." 

Nearby, still where it fell, is a broken leg from a chair.  I pick it up, Jeffrey retreating further, visibly dragging his sister along.  There is no blood, but it is hard enough to do damage, especially to such a young child. 

"I need to check her over," I tell Cindy. 

The girl isn't hysterical now, but still sobbing.  Cindy opens her arms, lets me take her to a nearby table where I check her condition.  There's a large lump on her head, several bruises on her arm.  But her eyes focus, and the skin isn't broken.  She should be all right, though I'll check back on her later. 

I tell Cindy as much.  She's relieved, but still worried.  "I'll keep her with me, have her rest.  Is that enough?" 

"As much as we can do.  She's probably got a concussion, but minor.  If she seems disoriented or her eyes don't focus, get me right away." 

She nods, taking the girl.  I advance on Jeffrey, continuing to back away until I am too close, naked fury in those eyes as I stand above him.  "Let go of your sister," I tell him. 

In answer he pulls back, trying to kick me as he starts to drag her.  She starts to scream.  But I'm faster and stronger, and take Calla from him in a sudden grab.  

For a moment he is stunned, and quiets, but starts to crawl forward.  I have Calla at the table, breathing hard and scared, near panic.  But as far as I can tell she is fine. 

I give her to Cindy.  "Have her rest too.  I'll take care of him." 

Jeffrey backs away, under the tables.  He's small, but the anger and venom in his eyes is still dangerous.  I'm cautious as I approach.  "Jeffrey, come with me.  Now." 

He ignores me, but I expected him to.  But he looks away, just for a second as the table leg falls a little away from him.  Distracted, he misses my hand grabbing him, pulling him from under the table. 

He's a small angry animal fighting for its life.  He tries to bite and kick and tear himself loose.  I pull him back from the others, everyone staring as he struggles in my firm grip. 

He demands to be let go, to have his sister, makes threats against me and the others if he's not released.  Even so small, I take the threats as real. 

Children killed on Bajor, children turned from childhood by those they attacked.  Jeffrey is dangerous, and I wonder what will become of him. 

But I remember the boy who trailed after his mother when his sister was born, who liked to draw pictures of castles and knights, who dreamed of the wonders of the universe.  That child was destroyed in that cargo hold, though he will never say how.  

How can I cooperate, even to revenge us, with monsters who make orphans of little girls and treat children so barbarically they make monster of them? 

Jeffrey is still struggling, but with less determination.  I get Cindy's attention.  "Have one of the older children get Tessie.  I don't want her anywhere near him." 

Two of the children Jeffrey's age scamper to my quarters, and a sleepy Tessie is led outside.  I drag him along, fighting me again. 

Jeffrey has to get himself under control, and be kept away from the rest.  The injured child was so young.  She could easily have been Tessie. 

I drag Jeffrey inside, dumping him in the furthest corner.  I sit on the chair, blocking any attempt at escape. 

He stares, the most intense hatred I've ever seen in the child's eyes.  If he could, he'd kill me to get back to his sister. 

Taking a length of bandage, I issue a warning.  "Don't move.  Don't make a sound or I'll tie you up and gag you.  I mean it." 

Jeffrey was about to say something and stops.  He looks at the floor, drawing himself back, looking as if he was a snake coiled to strike should anyone come near. 

It quiets outside.  Cindy reads them a story.  I listen, distracted, but not paying much attention.  I never take my eyes off of the boy, waiting for my first moment of inattention, his first chance to run. 

Finally, after what seems like hours of watching, he looks up, staring straight at me.  "You deserve to die," he says.  "Calties all deserve to die." 

I've heard the term, the local slang for the helpful collaborators Weyoun has found.  But it's the first time it's been applied to me and it hurts.  I should keep my promise, but he hasn't moved.  And I'm struck by the coldness in his eyes.  It's not anger now, not the kind that inspired the attack on the child.  This is cold, pure hate.  If he could he would do it. 

He does not move, just stares.  I want to go away from him, stop seeing the reflection of myself in his eyes.  I want to stop the little voice that believes he's right.  But he is too dangerous right now.  He has given me a function in this place again, and I will take it. 

The room quiets, except for Jeffrey's stare.  I notice he's still tense, but tired.  Eventually he'll fall asleep.  Cindy's not reading anymore.  The children are playing or talking in their little voices.  I wish Jeffrey could be like them again. 

Then, when he looks asleep there is a sudden noise and I'm distracted.  Jeffrey is gone.  I notice him under the bed, something in his hand.  I can't tell what it is, but can't let him out. 

I pretend not to see him until he turns, inching towards me.  He's got a piece of metal, hard, rusty, and sharp.  He must have been hiding it before.  There is nowhere to back away, no place to go.  He's got the knife in his hand, can reach my leg.  Here, especially if it's deep, that would be enough to insure a miserable death. 

I kick him, missing the knife, and he skidders under the bed.  I back off, knowing how little he has to do to succeed.  The boy shrinks along the wall where I can't reach him without being slashed by the knife.  

I must lure him out.  Standing by the bed, I kneel towards him.  "You want to kill me.  Try." 

He inches towards me, knife extended.  I'm counting on my reflexes, and as soon as he is close enough snatch his arm, twisting it hard until he drops the knife, kicking it away with my other hand.  Not sparing him, he's jerked to the bed where I first tie his hands, then his feet.  

Still struggling, I dump him on the floor by the wall, facing away from me.  I push my foot into his back.  He may be a child but he was going to kill me.  I don't kick him but want to. 

"You say one word, and I gag you.  You move and I blindfold you.  Understand?"  I move my foot away, tapping him with the toe.  He jumps a little. 

Later, watching him from the bed, I study the knife, wrapping it in some bandage to keep from cutting myself.  It's sharp, home-made and deadly.  Jeffrey doesn't move.  But I remember the look in his eyes, and am sure he's killed before.  What sort of hell did they put our children in?  What kind of place would turn a child into an executioner? 

I realize he's asleep.  But I can't relax.  What happens now, with a child killer in our midst.  Or should I keep that particular observation to myself.  They all know he's dangerous.  Perhaps some of them wouldn't have minded too much if he'd not missed with the knife. 

A tap at the door wakes Jeffrey, the only sign that he stiffens a little.  

Through the open door, Kira says grimly, "Go check the child again.  I'll watch." 

I leave Jeffrey to her.  She briefly notes that he's restrained, and I show her the knife.  "He had this," I note. 

She eyes him with concern.  "He try to use it on you?" 

"Tried.  He didn't get far."  I decide to leave it at that and Jeffrey says nothing. 

Outside there is gathering around Calla and the other child.  Her parents are pale and scared, looking towards Jackson and his wife with worry. 

I'm almost noticed.  The child is fine, probably with a headache but not serious.  I inform the parents and intend to leave. 

But Jackson corners me.  "What about Jeffrey?" 

"Kira's with him," is all I say. 

"What happened to him?  Did he tell you?  Sometimes he talks in his sleep, says terrible things.  But that's all he ever says about it, in his sleep."  Jackson is close to collapse.  I try to lure him away, want him to know to watch his son, but he is quickly falling into a helpless stare. 

It is Cheryl Jackson who asks.  "Did he hurt you?" 

"No, but I found a knife on him.  I tied him up, had to after that." 

She nods, sadness mixed with resignation.  "Jeffrey will have to be kept away from the other children.  It's been made very plain that he won't be allowed near them, or the others will take action.  I'm not sure how.  If you can, could you watch him, at least for now?" 

I don't want to see the child turned executioner.  I don't want to remember the coldness in his eyes, the calmness as he tried to slash me with the knife.  But if this is something I can do to belong, I'll help.  "As long as I can.  Calla is fine.  But I'd keep him away from her for now, if you can." 

She nods.  "We'll make sure."  She is hiding the pain, worried over her son, the way her husband is near collapse.  But she is strong, taking Carl's hand.  "Could you bring Jeffrey to our quarters now?" 

"Sure."  I hate the thing Jeffrey has become, but it felt very good not to be invisible. 

Kira is sitting on the bed, watching as the boy squirms on the floor.  "The parents want him now.  I'll bring him." 

"I'll come."  She watches as I heft him off the ground, carrying the knife herself.  "I'll take care of this before it becomes a problem for everyone." 

I have to drag Jeffrey there.  He refuses to walk.  Calla is in her parents room, Jeffrey going alone to the other.  "I'll untie him," I offer as I drop him on the bed. 

Carl is standing nearby.  The devastated look is fading, replaced by anger.  He stares at the boy, one hand held in a fist.  "Don't bother." 

I flee the room.  Cheryl is trying to talk to him, calm him down, but I doubt she'll succeed.  I think of Marta and the battering she'd received.  And Donnie and the way she kept away from her father.  What are we becoming?  

"Little bastard," mutters Carl as I run away from reality, thinking of Tessie and Ezri and how good it will be to hear the story tonight. 

                               *** 

The Dominion war is over.  The end came today as the Federation signed an unconditional surrender.  Ross, representing Starfleet, and the highest ranking survivor of the Federation council signed the document.  Even this far away, we got all the details. 

The crews came back early so they could hear the announcement.  I was watching Jeffrey, still hardly moving since the beating he took from his father.  We were all called out, and details were told.  I kept thinking of Ross with a rifle at his back, the numb realization still to hard to take that it is over. 

Ross and the others are probably dead by now.  Nobody will say it--nobody wants to think it--but the Dominion doesn't just let you surrender.  They make examples.  I still remember Admiral Ross's speech about war . . . inter alma silent leges.  In war there are no rules.  Certainly not in this one, except the winner makes the rules, decides who lives and who dies. 

And now we are the conquered people.  Now, if we had believed it would come to be, we know that the only liberation will be our own.  It should be easier for me, knowing it has been set in action.  But it isn't.  I was maneuvered into this as I have been so many other things. 

I wonder, when they executed him, what did Ross think of?  All the rules he'd broken, the compromises he'd made, all for naught?  I don't know why I still hate the man, despise him for what he was, but I hope he lives.  I hope they lock him in a room and make him beg--force him to capitulate and accept the kind of humiliation we live with and understand what it feels like to be used like a puppet on a string.  Maybe I could forgive him then. 

And if he's alive, maybe others who matter more are too. 

We had more fruit with dinner.  It is round and slightly yellowish.  The skins are thin and a little tart, with the meat of the fruit very sweet.  I have no idea what they are called. 

I hope to never see another of them.  I'll never forget why they gave them to us. 

Everyone is very silent.  A lot of us had? have? family or friends on earth, and little hope of ever seeing them again. 

Cheryl Jackson took her son home, tears in her eyes.  Her entire family lived on Earth.  Most likely they are dead by now.  Strange, I can think of her family dead, but not my own. 

We've all heard the rumor about the Klingon home world, laid ruin and it population eradicated like Cardassia.  No reason to expect any different for Earth.  Except Earth was home . . . 

I keep thinking of Arthur Dent, trying to make the vaporizing of home real and that complete stranger who got through his disbelief.  I think of my parents, and friends left behind.  And yet, like Arthur, it isn't real.  But there was a neighbor, an old man who lived near my family the last time I was there, who grew roses.  His garden was his life and passion and reason for staying alive.  He had every color in every size plant and flower he could make room for. 

His roses are gone now.  He is gone too.  All I can think of is his pleasant smile and the wonderful scent of his garden.  I hope he died before they burned his flowers.  It would have broken his heart.  I must believe my parents died quickly.  They made mistakes, but at least before I lost them forever we came to understand each other. 

I'm sure they are dead.  The Dominion would not let the Federation's determined resistance go unpunished. 

This vivid image of bodies . . .  of soot blackened shapes in the smoke filled sunset . . . of the reek of death on the wind . . .  I can't chase it away when I close my eyes.  It was a short work day after the announcement.  I retreated to our quarters today to get away from the rest of them. 

There is a sense of numbness, a complete disbelief that we are a conquered people, that millions, maybe billions of us have already been eradicated.  It's too much to take in.  It's too much to believe. 

Some of us are just sitting in the common area.  Others have retreated to their quarters to sit with family.  Ezri is quiet, stunned.  She's not human, has only visited Earth, but the fate of Trill and many other places may well be the same.  We can only guess; she doesn't know if her home, her own kind have survived at all. 

And it's far worse when you have to live with it alone.  Miles brought back more books yesterday.  No trades were even discussed.  They are going to send more of us away to . . . where?  But we'll probably be the last. 

I didn't bother to ask, since nobody paid any attention to me, but looked through the pile and found another two books to read.  I'm not welcome at readings but I go anyway.  I know Miles would leave the book out where I could read it alone during the day, marked to the place they stopped, but I still need them.  They pretend I'm not there and I let them.  They won't forgo readings to spite me.  If I had to be alone all the time I'm lose my mind.  But it's hard to care right now.  We all share this grief, but they won't let me in--not even for a moment of silent support.  I don't know if I'm really in a mood for satire, not now.  But I like to hear them laugh.  If they still do, still can. 

There is a brief reading tonight, despite the news.  Arthur is not the only human left alive, a woman who now calls herself Trillion having followed a guy named Phil from a party months before.  Arthur remembered her, having tried hard to win her from Phil.  But Phil turned out to have two heads and three arms and be from outer space, and Arthur hadn't a chance. 

I smiled a little at that, wondering if my attempts at luring Jadzia had looked as pitiful.  But I have her now.  She is there more often than Ezri and it still hurts.  Worf is dead, but I still feel as if I've stolen her when Jadzia banishes my Ezri completely. 

Morning was very quiet.  Trillion had heard about Earth, and she stares at the two white mice which are the only link with Earth that remain.  That night she can't sleep.  Ford is too excited about his escape from exile and lies awake.  Life isn't going the way Zaphod expected and it's keeping him awake.  But Arthur is too tired and he sleeps. 

The rumors had been rife that Dominion forces had taken everything near home.  We all knew it was just a matter of time.  

Then, yesterday's reading was oddly cheering.  The Heart of Gold, passing through every point in the universe, has found the legendary planet Magrathea, once so rich it simply disappeared and is now just a "fairy tale". 

But it exists and the Heart of Gold is orbiting the dark planet.  A missile attack is launched, and Zaphod is oddly excited.  

" 'Hey, this is terrific!' he said.  Someone down there is trying to kill us.'" 

" 'Terrific,' Arthur said." 

" 'But don't you see what this means?'" 

" 'Yes, we are going to die.'" 

" 'Yes, but apart from that.'" 

" '*Apart* from that?'" 

" 'It means we must be on to something.'" 

" 'How do we get off it?'" 

Then Arthur has the idea of restarting the improbability drive.  The missiles become a bowl of petunias, which thinks "Oh no, not again," as it hits the planet, and a sperm whale which has a brief, if confused, bit of life before crashing into the planets surface in a big wet thud. 

We went to bed with visions of the absurd and it made it easier to sleep, easier to forget how soon it would end.  Then, this afternoon, the surrender of the Federation was announced and the petunias and the whales and the mystery of Magrathea was shattered by reality. 

I'm keeping Danielle's book.  I turned to her today, rereading it again, this time just for the flavor.  The part I read most often comes just before the assault when her father came to the building to tell their story.  He was squeezed out of his job, became very ill and the bills got too far behind.  There wasn't a place for him when he recovered.  The debts were huge.  They lost the house because they ran out of money and even selling everything they had left wouldn't make a difference. 

Each time I open the book to that passage I'm struck by the reality that I could have walked right by him--and probably did.  Danielle was with him and I saw her among the crowd.  I search my memory for her face, but can't find it.  I feel connected to this girl in a deeply personal way and won't let go of her. 

I keep thinking about her life.  I grieve with her when her father is killed during the assault.  She watched as he was shot, held him as his blood spilled out on the street.  She never forgot it.  She never forgave them.  Just as this day is one none of us will ever allow to fade. 

The grief and shock and horror of this moment will live with me the rest of my life.  I can't stand the thought of having helped the monsters now.  I wonder if some of these people would rather have died than have me save them. 

But I have a secret to savor.  When the changelings start to die, they'll know.  It will not take very long.  There will be no time to make plans . . . just like those trapped in the places they picked as examples. 

But it is going to be a long six months.  For the others, I do not exist.  I would even welcome their disgust over being invisible.  But I dream of the day when I can tell them why.  They must know I did not betray them.  Still, even more, I'd like them to feel the satisfaction of getting revenge. 

                               *** 

Not a single word was said at breakfast today.  Ezri held Tessie last night, and I wrapped myself around her.  I don't know if we slept or simply gave in to the shock.  We didn't even consider going to the beach.  What if it had bodies floating in the waves? 

Our people dragged themselves out of bed and stared at the tables, ate in grief and filed out without any hint of feeling.  I was handed Jeffrey, still black and blue but more aware, and almost welcomed the need to be more watchful today.  He doesn't look at me, just stares at the floor.  But if he didn't hurt so much, he'd have tried something. 

I'm more alone than ever now.  Tessie stays with Cindy most of the time, Jeffrey in the way.  I've heard that word--caltie--in passing, though I only assume it's about me.  I hurry by, don't invade their privacy. 

Now that we are fully owned by them, the only dignity we get is what we make for ourselves.  But I know if Weyoun asks again what I'll say.  I can't look at Jeffrey, remember the child he used to be, and ever cooperate again. 

What happens to him next?  Does he take the route Worf did?  Or does he fume silently until he explodes again, and perhaps this time his father will beat him a little too long.  Or does he somehow grow up and become one of the vicious young killers Kira is too familiar with? 

Whatever becomes of him, the bright, inquisitive child is dead.  The thing in his body now is a monster which will consume whatever traces of the boy remain. 

Another tap on the door, and Carl is there.  "We're back early.  I figured you'd like to get rid of him." 

Carl strides over to his son and nearly drags him out.  The boy is clearly in a lot of pain, and I wonder when the next beating will start.  Carl does what he is told.  He never stalls, never annoys them.  But he sees the world around him too, and Jeffrey is his personal reminder. 

"Is everybody back?" I ask, hoping for an early reading. 

"No just the Ops crews.  Nothing much to do now."  Jeffrey tries to twist away from his father's grip, and Carl yanks him back.  "He hasn't tried anything, has he?" 

"No.  He just sits and glares." 

"Better not do anything," mutters Carl as he tows his child away.  I think of an old story, how fairies would take a child and replace it with one of their own.  If only that had happened to Jeffrey.  Then we might find him again some day. 

Jeffrey hates the monsters.  But I think in time he'll hate his father as much as he does the others, or perhaps more. 

I retrieve Tessie, needing a reminder that children still exist that aren't like Jeffrey, and she hugs me.  Somehow, it makes up a little for the rest of them. 

More time drags by, playing with Tessie, reading a little, holding her during her nap. 

Eventually the rest of the crews get back, much later than normal.  Nobody is trying very hard.  It took hours more to do what they did the day before.  Ezri goes straight to our quarters and kisses Tessie, then gives me a silent hug. 

It's different now that it's over, that the last bit of hope has been destroyed. 

Even dinner is late, everyone waiting impatiently, staring out at the gate. 

First, the cart rolls in, and while we're all lined up for our food the gate is pushed open a second time. 

We've accepted that most of the people we knew on Earth are dead, that some of our own here have gone as well.  We know the dead do not come back, we say good bye and go on.  But sometimes they do. 

Four Jem'Hadar march inside, holding onto a disheveled prisoner.  They shove him ahead, causing him to lose his balance and fall.  He's filthy, covered in blood, and not reacting to them at all. 

But while we don't pull out of line, especially with the Jem'Hadar there, everyone stares.  Kevin Realand has defied all the rules and come back alive. 

They withdraw, leaving him where he fell.  There is no sign of the women, no inkling of what became of them, but too much blood on him to bode well.  A few people start towards him, but he starts to push himself to his own feet on shaky legs, finally standing, and slowly, mechanically, gets in line for dinner. 

Ralph Townsend, near the front of the line, takes his bowl and leads Realand to a seat.  Placing it in front of Realand, he silently gets back in line. 

Dinner proceeds in silence, Realand eating slowly, nearly collapsing once.  I should check to see how he is, but I doubt he'd let me, and even if I did, what difference would I make?  He will ask if he wants me to, or I will insist if it is something I can fix.  But whatever led to the blood soaked clothes can't be fixed that easily.  I let him go, stumbling back towards his quarters, wishing as much as the others that he'd explained, that he'd tell us they were alive, just not here. 

We've lost too much.  Even if it's Realand, to get one of them back matters. 

Miles is sitting next to Jackson, Jeffrey not in view.  His mother is taking his food to him in his room.  Once, Miles threatened Realand not to hit his wife, but he sits next to a man who beat his son unconscious.  No matter that the boy is psychotic by now.  Once, Miles would never have accepted a man who beat up a boy.  But now, it keeps the danger under control because the boy is too badly hurt to hurt anyone else.  We used to have standards.  We used to be civilized.  Now we have a code of survival. 

Nobody has started to read, and I don't want to sit around out here.  Tessie is sleepy, and I pick her up to put her to bed. 

She hasn't changed, grown taller or heavier or learned any new words.  But she's different.  Before dinner she was a child we were watching.  Now, seeing all the blood, the horrific look in his eyes, she is ours.  I'm absolutely certain that her grandmother, even if she hadn't been ill, will never come back to us. 

Ezri returns a little while longer.  "We're doing a real short reading," she whispers. 

But she's looking at Tessie.  "Anybody know anything?" I ask. 

"He does," she says.  "But he won't say.  Give your daughter a kiss." 

She's asleep, dreaming.  I kiss her lightly on the forehead, not wanting to wake her.  "She did what she believed was right," I say very quietly. 

Ezri just nods.  "Someday, Tessie will be very proud of her." 

The reading is very quick, and we adjourn to our rooms and our families, and I hold them both as if nothing will ever tear us apart. 

                               *** 

Alessa Riland Carlan was born today.  I delivered her late in the afternoon with her father Justin holding her mother's hand.  She was born in the cramped quarters of her parents inside this locked cage. 

She is the first child of our group to be born a slave.  

Not all of her family is gone.  She is named after her grandmother, who was on Earth and is probably dead by now.  Her mother had family that lived on one of the colonies they captured early in the war.  Nobody knows about them. At least she has her parents. 

One of the older children came to get me when her mother went into labor this morning and there was no one to ask for her to be taken to the other doctor.  Realand, left behind as well, was recruited to watch Jeffrey.  He knew about the end of the war by then, and the way Jeffrey had snapped.  Jeffrey must have remembered his old reputation because he slunk into the corner and didn't move. 

I didn't like the look in Realand's eyes much either when he said Jeffrey wouldn't be allowed to hurt anyone.  But then I'd rather that than having to declare someone dead or watch them die slowly if Jeffrey got loose. 

Returning, Jeffrey was crouched in the corner, a cut on his cheek that hadn't been there before.  I didn't like the look in Realand's eyes either.  He's hurting so much inside he needs to smash someone to let it out.  He hasn't said a word about the women. 

Once, Ezri would have tried to draw it out.  But she's not the same woman who tried to help Worf and Jackson long ago.  She isn't Ezri now, or Jadzia, or any of the others.  Since the beating, she is a tumbled mixture of all her selves as demanded by the moment. 

Most of all, she's Tessie's new mother. 

But for me today was such a good day.  I understand they would have preferred the other doctor, but at least there were no complications.  Now her mother will have one more child to watch during the day.  

The way things are going, Cindy will never know what a workcrew is like--at least one of them here.  She won't watch little children all her life. 

Having been granted the gift of my life again, it will be harder to take my days anymore.  I sit in the front sometimes, even if I'm ignored.  I like to watch Tessie play, the others talk in their childish voices.  At least they weren't born slaves like Alessa. 

Watching Jeffery, I've been rereading The Underground Man, the book Ezri and I got as a wedding present.  Miles returned it to us when it had made the rounds.  I cannot forget the father, marred as a child, damaged in ways nobody understood.  And then there is the tragedy of his own son, damaged as he had been. 

Jeffrey has been warned that should he make any trouble I'll give him back to Realand.  He hardly moves now.  The boy's kept a prisoner among prisoners, the abuse passed on from guard to us, visited on our own. 

I dwell on Danielle's fate.  One of the books Miles got was a history of the 21st century.  Some of the premier terrorists of the age that followed the Sanctuary Districts were survivors of the riots who could not forget.  

Will the children living through this, at least those old enough to remember what was lost, harbor dreams of revenge that poison their lives even if the monsters die and we are free?  Will Alessa Carlan ever have any idea of what has been taken from us?  Will Jeffrey grow to be as mean as the society that made him into this? 

I already love Tessie, but sometimes wish someone else was there to raise her.  It would take equipment we aren't likely to have for Ezri and I to have a child.  I can't bear to watch this new world twist and damage my own and not be able to do anything about it. 

I don't want to stare at the walls again tomorrow.  Jeffrey will have to make due with Realand.  I'm going to try to go with the others, see something of the life they live before it, too, disappears. 

The odd part is, I believe Weyoun intends this reprieve from work to be a reward.  He doesn't know it is more a silent revenge.  I don't know if the guards will let me, if they count or just watch bodies, but I must try to get away before I lose my mind. 

Today, though, it was lucky I was here.  I used to enjoy delivering babies, with the joy of a new life and the promise it held. 

But what does this child have to look forward to, even if the monsters die and we fight our way to freedom?  The ideal and the dream are gone.  All she'll have is surviving, be it enslavement or the ruin left by the war. 

I feel sorry for her.  Her parents dreams will be nothing more than stories.  Our world will be as much a fantasy as Oz was to Aunt Em. 

But it *was* good to be a doctor again.  

I guess I'm lucky.  No matter what happens to us and our people, they'll always need me.  Even if Weyoun and his kind have decided all of us are disposable, they will not be here forever. 

After, my life will be as it was during the war, with not enough hours in the day and never enough supplies.  But we will be free then. 

No matter the cost, that moment can't come soon enough. 

                               *** 

Cindy gets to spend the day in her quarters with her newborn today.  Cheryl Jackson, by now also visibly pregnant, has taken over watching the children. 

But I didn't try to get into line.  Something is wrong.  The bowl was taken to Jeffrey, but not returned.  I was informed that Realand would watch him today, but Cheryl looked exhausted, on the edge of emotional collapse.  Carl, on the other hand, was much calmer. 

I decide to wait until the rest are gone, and then go to investigate.  Realand is resting in one room, Jeffrey confined to the other. 

"What are you doing in here?" he demands.  "You have no business in my rooms." 

"I want to check on the boy." 

Realand watches carefully as I move closer.  "Don't go in there.  You weren't asked." 

"You're not going to stop me," I say, pushing him back.  He still hurts.  He lets me by. 

"You won't like it," he warns. 

I don't.  Inside, confined to a box, Jeffrey lies on his stomach.  He's naked, his back covered with welts from a cot strap.  At least there are no open wounds.  But Jeffrey is huddled in the box, his hands tied.  Before, there was anger and coldness in his eyes.  Now there is a bitterness that goes very deep.  But mostly he is lost, cringing at my touch.  I have the feeling Jeffrey has been shattered inside and nothing will ever put him back together. 

Realand is eating a bowl of mush, but he already had one. 

"What happened?" I ask, not hiding my dislike of the whole situation. 

"Kid tried to grab his sister.  He's not allowed near her, or anybody for that matter.  His father punished him."  Realand is casual about it, continuing.  "Nobody's business but theirs." 

I watch as he eats.  "Is that what they're paying you to keep this quiet?" 

"No, just make sure he stays put.  He gets out of the box I use this," he says, holding up the cot strap.  "I've had some practice with it on a whore." 

Marta had welts too, deep ones.  I wonder about Cassie.  "And your wife?  I think you were warned about that." 

The horror in his eyes makes me forget Jeffrey for a second.  The anger is bubbling, near the surface.  I don't want Jeffrey to suffer for it.  I keep thinking of Stanley Broadhurst's son, caught in the same vicious cycle as the father.  Jeffrey is damaged, dangerous.  But Carl is turning his son from a timebomb to something worse, something irretrievable.  

Realand's eyes narrow, spewing venom.  "Never mention my wife.  You don't deserve to speak her name."  Then he turns away, stands, and slaps me. 

It's unexpected.  She's dead, but he must know details.  I'll allow him that, won't retaliate.  But I'm worried about the boy.  I don't want to make things worse. 

"I won't.  Just leave the boy alone.  He's not going anywhere."  It's the best I can do for Jeffrey now.  Realand is grieving, angry.  Until he works it out he's as much a timebomb as Jeffrey. 

I can feel the angry glare as I go.  But he stays with the boy and Jeffrey behaves.  When Jackson returns early I decide to take it up with him.  

I corner him in the hallway.  "What did Jeffrey do?" I demand. 

"You said to keep him away from Calla," says Jackson, irritated.  "He wouldn't do it.  I won't have him hurting her." 

"Did he actually hurt her, or did he just try to be near his sister?" 

Carl is on-edge, nervous.  "He won't hurt her if he never goes near her." 

"You didn't answer my question." 

"He touched her, that's enough.  What? You want him?  You want to wonder when he's going to find another knife and stick it in your back?"  He turns and faces me.  "My son is dead.  That *thing* in there isn't my son, whatever it looks like." 

It's too close to my own thoughts, too close to the truth.  But Carl is making it worse.  "You beat and starve him and he will be.  Is that what you want?  Did you give Realand that strap so he'd finish the job for you?" 

Carl stares at me.  "It's an animal.  If it touches Calla it doesn't eat for a day.  If I had a cage to lock it in I would." 

Realand has come out.  He's staring at me.  "Maybe you should raise it.  But I doubt you'd want it around that little girl you stole." 

For a moment I quit thinking about Jeffrey, about Carl abandoning his son, about how close that hits to home, or might have.  For that moment all I can think of is Tessie.  "Her grandmother asked us to take her." 

"Before she knew about you." Realand is holding the strap, ready to snap it at me.  The explosion inside him is building and I keep out of his way.  Then he backs off, snorts at me, "Lucky you, I've got to watch the animal."  He shakes the strap at me, "Stinking caltie." 

He slinks off into the room.  Jackson is watching.  "Better watch out," he says.  "He's not the only one who thinks that way." 

He stomps away, leaving me alone. 

Ezri is back by the time I venture out again, playing with Tessie.  I keep my distance, wary of Realand and his threats, and Jackson's warning.  Realand is looking for a target, and his best option is me. 

But Tessie pulls out of Ezri's arms and runs to me.  Realand is watching, staring, eyes narrowed.  She's persuaded to go back to Ezri, after I make some excuse. 

I keep out of sight until the dinner cart arrives.  Realand eats a bowl for himself and takes one for Jeffrey.  I keep quiet, hoping to appeal to Cheryl later, too preoccupied by my own worries.  I sit apart from them, and Ezri has picked up on my nerves and doesn't try to approach.  Tessie is tired, and falls asleep in her arms. 

I've just gotten up to retreat to our room and out of his sight when Realand attacks, moving behind me, kicking hard behind my knees.  It comes as a surprise, and I land on my knees, falling on my side. 

Before I can move Realand lands a hard kick into my stomach and the world blurs. 

But I can hear him.  "This thing," he's saying, "This filthy thing on the floor has taken a child he doesn't deserve.  He claims her grandmother agreed, but that was long before he betrayed us.  And we can't ask her anymore." 

Silence has fallen on the room, and his answer to my attempt to get out of his way is another hard kick, this time in the side, knocking the breath out of me.  My hand is on the floor, and he presses his foot on it.  I freeze. 

His voice is different now.  "You all want to know.  My wife is dead.  She wasn't killed by the Jem'Hadar.  There's been too much sabotage.  He has help now." 

He moves his foot off my hand and I pull it back, a hard kick in the back my reward.  I can't leave now.  There is a ring of people all around me, and each kick is harder, hurts more.  I roll on my stomach hoping to protect myself the best I can. 

"He found this monster in prison, ready for execution.  He likes to kill, to rape, to torture.  He was spared so that he may serve the founders." 

His voice is almost a whisper now, the room silent.  I don't move, listening intently, hoping the words don't remind him too much of the anger inside. 

"I was separated from the others.  They already knew about the sabotage, what it was.  He demanded I tell him which woman had done it."  He stops, with a sharp intake of breath.  "I didn't lie.  I didn't know.  He said we'd have to ask them." 

His voice drops so low it's hard to hear, but everyone listens.  His foot is further away.  I keep watching it, hoping he forgets about me.  

"I was brought to this room, both locked in cages, both naked.  He asked me again, and I didn't lie to him."  He puts a foot on my back, pressing his foot into tender bruised skin.  I'm not sure he is even aware of me.  "The monster is waiting, and he explains about him, how he'd killed 20 women, *how* he killed them, how long it took before he tired of them.  Then he asks which one." 

It's like a story, but it's real too.  People are getting closer.  Ezri is just outside the main ring, trapped in her own cluster of people. 

"I wouldn't answer.  He tells the monster to pick.  He opens the cages, reaches in with his filthy hands . . . then he goes to Cassie, pulls her out, takes her to his place . . . " 

Realand speaks slowly, haltingly as the memories come.  "He started to tortured her, raped her, made her scream.  Ellie, Ellie watched too.  He wasn't done when she stood, offering her body to the monster.  She confessed to everything.  Weyoun made him put Cassie back in her cage.  Then he had the monster take Ellie, just play with her, make sure she didn't change her mind." 

"He accepted the confession," his voice hardening, the foot moved.  "And made Cassie the punishment.  To watch." 

Realand's voice is quiet as he describes what was done to his wife, how she was ordered to be killed at the end.  I tense as he draws his foot back again, then stops. 

"Then Ellie," he says, looking at Ezri holding Tessie, then down at me,  "Ellie was *given* to him.  His possession, his toy.  He used to keep his victims alive for weeks.  Weyoun was impatient with him.  The monster only had her for a week before she'd just be executed . . . if she was still alive."  His voice becomes dull, lost.  "I spent the rest of the time in one of the little buried cages.  When she died, he'd let me go.  He told me before they shoved me inside.  He didn't take too long, most of a week, but all the time I was there I kept seeing what he was doing to her, remembering Cassie." 

"And this thing," he says, anger bubbling again, kicking me hard, "This thing worked with him, just like the monster that tormented our women, tortured them to death."  I've barely gotten my breath when his foot slams into me again.  Everything is fuzzy now, repeated blows to the same bruises throbbing intensely.  "And the worse insult is he's stolen her grandchild."  He kicks me again twice in quick succession, the first making me roll a little to my side, the second catching me in the stomach. 

He wants to kill me, to make up for Cassie and Elaine.  I can't get away, can't move.  Maybe if he does he'll leave Ezri alone, not demand Tessie. 

Then Kira's voice, louder than his, rational, takes their attention.  She pushes her way through the crowd, pushes Realand and his foot away.  Then she looks down at me, eyes too hard. 

"Quit.  Don't kill him.  Maybe he might deserve it but you don't want to be like that thing that killed the women."  

I can hear them moving back, my vision too blurry to tell much.  But Kira is still here.  The foot is too far away to touch me.  I don't move at all. 

"What about the girl?"  Realand, still angry. 

She taps my side with her toe, not hard but it hurts anyway.  "He doesn't deserve her.  Her mother was murdered by them, grandmother too.  She died out of loyalty to *us*.  The child can't be left with a traitor." 

She's going to take Tessie.  She's saving my life, but somehow it doesn't matter all that much. 

There is the sound of a commotion, and I wonder if it's Ezri, if they are trying to tear the child out of her arms.  "Stop," orders Kira.  "Now, she's a different matter.  She has a choice.  She can have that thing, or the girl, but not both." 

I can't speak to her.  Realand is too near.  If I try he'll kick me again, never let me say it.  But I want Ezri to take the child.  She must not be dragged down in disgrace with me. 

But she hasn't said a word.  She's moving closer, the crowd letting her through.  

"Make up you mind, Ezri," says Kira.  "They won't wait." 

"Take her," she says, and I can hear the terrible catch in her voice.  Tessie is confused, calling to Ezri, finally crying. 

Then Ezri is besides me, sitting like a protective tigress with a cub.  Something about her is wrong, not Ezri, not Jadzia.  I hope not Joran.  Realand is too near for that. 

"I had to.  You know why," she whispers.  

Kira moves them away, most of them stepping around me, a few not bothering.  She's talking about the future, with more orphans, more children to give homes, how they need some rules.  Ezri and I are forgotten, left alone.  

They give Tessie to Brenda and her husband.  She can't have her own.  

Someone comes closer, and I tense.  But it's Jackson.  "Up," he says.  Between he and Ezri they drag me off the floor.  "You go to the back room tonight.  Her too." 

Nothing matters now.  I knew the ultimate price when I "cured" the Founder.  I didn't expect it to hurt this much.  At least Elaine got to die. 

The back room is a little dark closet.  Jackson dumps me on the floor.  Ezri sits besides me.  Every bruise is throbbing, every tender place inside me spasms when I move. 

For a little while, all I can think about is the pain. 

But later--I don't know how late since the lights are still bright--Realand opens the door.  He stands there, blocking the light.  All the anger is burned out, his voice soft, hurting. 

"I didn't tell them about Ellie.  She's alive.  That thing broke her into little pieces.  She just wanted to die, for him to finish so it would be over.  But there was some kind of trouble.  The thing got confessions.  He made her help him.  Then the Vorta gave her to him as a gift." 

He pauses.  "But she's dead.  I was taken to her before they released me, so I'd know.  She . . . she did what he told her, no matter what.  She would have killed me but he stopped her.  He just wanted me to know."  His voice drags.  "And the boy, he chewed his way loose during the nights meeting, hid with his sister.  When we found them Carl was ready to kill him but I stopped him.  I'm taking the boy.  I won't spare him, but I won't act like Carl either." 

Realand shuts the door, trapping us inside the little room.  It hurts to move, but we find a way to hold each other. 

"Kira saved your life," says Ezri.  "She did more, saved his as well." 

"Maybe even Jeffrey." I add.  

"I had to give her up, you know that.  She'd just keep getting hurt."  Ezri slumps, defeated. 

I can't think about Tessie yet, the hole her taking has torn inside us.  Ezri tries to explain it, tries to make it sound better, but for both of us she's still waiting in the room, when we're let out of this darkness, and will be there with her happy hugs. 

Without her it would be so empty now. 

We try to sleep.  But I hurt so much and it's too cold and the floor is too hard.  Eventually I fall into an exhausted stupor until the bell rings. 

We have to wait until someone opens the door, but try to untangle ourselves.  "I'm going with the crews today.  I'll find a way.  I'm not letting him control me anymore." 

Ezri squeezes my hand. 

Miles is standing before us as the door opens.  "You can go home tonight."  He hesitates.  "Look, the kid is fine.  Brenda will take good care of her."  He doesn't leave.  He stammers again, "I think I know how you feel." 

Then he walks away, and I remember the Miles who stood by me when I was revealed as a genetic freak.  Somewhere that man still exists, buried under layers of guilt. 

We stumble towards breakfast, the first few finished and already in line.  "They rush you when you're at the end.  They don't bother to count," advises Ezri quietly. 

I eat, slowly, and slide between several others who won't deign to notice.  Neither do the guards as I pass through the gate. 

I will not be left alone today.  Weyoun will not decide.  He has taken all he will be allowed and whatever comes of it, with this act of defiance I take back a little of my life. 

                               *** 

End, Surrender, Part 2a