TITLE: Surrender, Part 3-Slavery
Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home 
Author: Valerie Shearer 
Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net 
Series: DS9 
Part 3/60(Ch) 
Rating: R 
Codes:Angst,B/Ez,Ob's,K/O,AU,Post-War 



                            Surrender 

Part 3b

                            Chapter 17

                               *** 

Strange, how you get used to things.  Waking with the work bell this morning, I realized I expected to be here.  I don't retreat to other places anymore, except our beach and the magical places we go with books.  At first, this was a barnyard where you'd keep the farm animals.  But now it's our refuge.  It's almost home. 

Sometime this week we're due for another decon and I'm even looking forward to it.  The weather is warm and the fleas came back too soon.  And the crews have brought back some greyish little bug that has settled in our bedding.  They don't bite, but they tickle when they crawl on you, especially in your hair and beard.  The children, working much closer to the field muck where they hatch, are covered with them. 

In the morning, we don't rush that much anymore.  Everyone knows how long it will take them to be ready, and we take as much time for ourselves as we can.  

I hardly notice the day anymore.  It is routine.  I do what I've done for months and get through it.  The best part of the day is when they lock us in for the night. 

It's tricky, but we have maybe an hour of light.  We read every night now.  Since we have the time, we've voted on the book.  We picked the Dent book again.  We never read the last part, and started there.  

Arthur, trapped along with Ford on a primitive Earth, has been alone for a long time.  He wakes with a standard early morning yell of horror as he remembers where he is. 

"Time is the worse place, so to speak, to get lost in, as Arthur Dent could testify, having been lost in both time and space a good deal.  At least in space they kept you busy." 

Since parting company with Ford some four years before, he's only had himself for company.  I can actually feel sorry for the hapless hitchhiker.  Despite our problems, we still have each other, and there is always plenty to do. 

Arthur remembers the one strange, odd time when he had a visitor, one who in typical fashion came to insult him.  On a spring evening some two years before there were lights flashing through the clouds. 

"He turned and stared, with hope suddenly clambering through his heart.  Rescue.  Escape.  The castaway's impossible dream--a ship." 

The ship slid gracefully to the earth, "its long legs unlocking in a smooth ballet of technology." 

After a ramp descends and light pours out, a tall figure emerges from the hatchway.  It proceeds down the ramp until it stands directly in front of Arthur. 

"'You're a jerk, Dent,' it said simply." 

Arthur is boggled at the strange alien thing, with its peculiar tallness and flattened head and slitty little eyes.  Its robes are golden with a peculiar alien collar design.  It gazes at him. 

"Arthur's first sensations of hope and trepidation had instantly been overwhelmed by astonishment, and all sorts of thoughts were battling for the use of his vocal cords at the moment." 

"'Whh . . .?' he said. 

"'Bu . . . hu . . . uh . . .' he added." 

"Ru . . . ra . . . wah . . . who?' he finally managed to say and lapsed into a frantic kind of silence.  He was feeling the effects of not having said anything to anybody for as long as he could remember." 

The alien, after a frown, consults a padd of sorts.  

"'Arthur Dent?' it said." 

"Arthur nodded helplessly." 

"Arthur *Philip* Dent?' pursued the alien in a kind of efficient yap." 

Arthur tries to get the words to work but all he can do is make sounds.  The spindly alien repeats his insult, adding, "a complete kneebiter." 

The creature notes something on his clipboard and returns to his ship.  Arthur still tries to talk but can't manage more that an "er".  The ship rises in the prehistoric Earth's evening. 

Arthur finally finds the words, but it's too late by then. 

"He jumped and danced until his legs trembled, and shouted till his lungs rasped.  There was no answer from anyone.  There was no one to hear him or speak to him." 

He had just received a visit from Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, a creature who had found a purpose in his immortality.  It wasn't a particularly good one, but at least he had something to do with his infinite life. 

He had set out to insult the whole universe, one being at a time.  It wasn't easy being immortal.  Sunday afternoons took on a terrible listlessness, and it wasn't fun anymore to take the risks, smile at the funerals, and generally outlive everyone else. 

I wonder to myself if Weyoun would be relieved if he could go on again, live through a long series of clones.  And what happens to Dax when Ezri . . .  But it's not time for that.  It's time to laugh. 

It is wonderful to laugh.  Often we read the funniest parts over again.  Sometimes we tell stories afterwards, when it's gotten to dark to read, tales from places that have nothing to do with this universe.  Later in the year when we don't have the light to read, we will still tell the stories.  We will still hold fast to the little of us that is not owned by them. 

You have to have something to look forward to.  We have our readings--and our children.  Tessie is towed around by Molly sometimes, as if she was born her sister.  Both of them complain about Yoshi when he's in a mood to cry.  Somehow, slowly, we are becoming a family. 

After all the pain, it is as if I have entered my own long summer, like the Earth under the aliens.  I take each day as it comes, as if this time will go on forever.  But I know it will not.  The Founders will die and this strange, terrible, comforting world will fall to ruin.  Or *he* will call me back with some new demand, reminding me of the price paid before, and the summer will end in sudden storm. 

After Wowbagger leaves, it starts to rain.  Arthur goes to his cave and makes a rabbit pouch he thinks might be useful to put things in.  Even when you're stuck alone on a primitive Earth you need some kind of plan. 

It is getting dark, and the book is returned to me.  I carefully put it away while we begin story time.  Even Sloan tells stories.  Last night he told us about Humpty Dumpty.  Before, he told us the tale of the Emperor's New Clothes.  

He started joining in on our stories a little while ago when he and Nancy started to share their blankets.  He spends most of his free time with her now.  I am relieved to left alone, though I keep an eye on him. 

Odd how useful fairy tales can be.  The minstrels who originally told them to get past the king's spies would be proud of us. 

Now, nobody bothers the children when they play.  It's the only chance they have for a childhood.  They are still growing up too fast.  Even if Humpty Dumpty shatters into a thousand pieces of ash, they have still been robbed of their youth.  And we have no home. Nobody can put it back together again either.  Slarti can't build us a new Earth, no matter how much we wish he could. 

Today I saw Kira.  She's been gone from here for months, and I wondered if Odo had managed to be with her somehow.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  I wonder where they'd put him.  Genetically, he'd been made human and we are divided by species.  The crew I was serving was a sarki group of Bajorans, but still I was extremely surprised when she came up to my cart to take a plate. 

I didn't look at her and she mostly ignored me.  But for just a second, she flashed me a look.  We gave each other a little bit of support, and she rushed on with her food.  I made sure I kept to my own job the rest of the time I was there. 

But I guess being Odo's lover helps.  They made him into a solid, but where she is they have benches to sit on when they eat.  And they had fruit.  Even among castes, there are layers. 

I guess Odo is behaving.  Well, he's taking care of Kira.  That's what matters to him.  We all do what we have to. 

I try to cope with Ezri and her shifts in personality.  Sometimes I do not recognize her at all.  Before work she takes the children and marches out with confidence, and it is as if Jadzia was standing there.  But the hardest time is when there is bad news, or trouble, and she adopts Curzon's cynical dissolution. 

I know she is afraid of Joran.  Perhaps, letting Curzon dismiss the fears is her way of coping.  She's doing what she has to too but sometimes it's hard to watch.  It reminds me of how much I've lost. 

Tomorrow I rotate back to scrub crew.  The last time I managed to find a few bites of fruit.  We're just as invisible on scrub, but we don't have to deal with anyone. 

That way I don't have to come face to face with anybody I know.  I'll have a little more time in the morning since I won't have to change.  If I had a choice, I'd take scrub over serving.  Being invisible is useful sometimes.  People don't notice you're there when they sneak in a conversation. 

There has been very little trouble since the last batch of new prisoners taken to the barred compound.  Security is a little more relaxed and people dare to slip in a quick conversation when they can.  We have gotten to be very good listeners. 

Something is up.  They are pushing the others, demanding more of them than before.  Maybe our timetable was off a little.  Maybe the victors are getting itchy for more. 

I wish the months would go by faster and this could end.  They should die, but that is the only certainty.  All the rest is an unknown.  Knowing that there is an end helps me pass the time.  

Sometimes I realize I'm lucky, knowing there is an end, and wonder how the others cope.  Or perhaps they are the lucky ones for they don't have to hide the anticipation--or dread--that will only get worse when the time comes closer, when the imposed order we live under now disappears and we have chaos. 

I must believe it will work out.  Anything else is unthinkable.  But then, if losing was unthinkable why are we here? 

                               *** 

The noise is loud, voices and transports, signs of trouble and perhaps another parade of misery.  It's been going on all night.  There have been rumors that the camp is being expanded, prisoners from elsewhere being brought here, but people are getting more cautious since the Bajoran's fire and the results.  We're very careful now not to openly defy the rules. 

But the noise is keeping me awake, wondering if we'll have to watch as they empty the compound again or there will be more hands to do the work after tonight.  I don't know which would be better for us.  If they aren't sarki, then we'll have more people to serve and the day will be even longer. 

But the noise stops, and I'm almost asleep when we hear the door open.  This has never happened, not this late, and everyone is instantly awake, worried about the break in routine.  But it closes soon after, the sound of someone stumbling the only clue. 

There was a flash of early dawn through the door.  Someone is sitting on the matts near the door, just staring.  I'm too far away to see him, but the people in front can. 

"It's Carl," says one of them, astonished. 

Cheryl is out of her blankets immediately, rushing past everyone to him.  Even from the center of the room, I can see him jerk back when she approaches, then her sudden retreat. 

I decide to look for myself, disentangling arms and legs from Ezri and Tessie, who'd had a bad dream and was being held.  I step forward into the dim light, and stop. 

He's naked.  He's just sitting there, filthy and thin, but not as bad as we would have expected.  He doesn't even seen to notice his nakedness.  He's not looking at anything, his eyes unfocused, utterly still. 

Cheryl approaches again, cautiously this time.  "Carl?" she says.  She pats her stomach.  "Carle, your daughter, is already born.  But she's fine, she's beautiful.  Do you want to see her?" 

He doesn't respond and she stays back, keeping her distance, now completely uncertain what to do. 

Then Nancy is there.  She pulls Cheryl back.  "Don't touch him.  He isn't ready for that yet."  She walks forward, almost to Carl.  She has a blanket which she holds out to him.  "Here's your blanket," she says.  

She drops it in front of him.  He doesn't move at first, but then gradually, carefully he takes it, holding it to him. 

It's grown light enough I can look him over.  He's dirty, branded like we'd seen before.  There is an additional small brand on his shoulder, one of ownership.  Cheryl has seen it now, is staring at it.  She doesn't look surprised.  But she has no idea what to do or say, given his instant retreat. 

Nobody really expected him back, though Luther had speculated on it.  If, I think, this still, stunned man can be called Carl anymore. 

Nancy takes hold of the blanket, motioning Cheryl back.  "Come back here and rest now," she says.  He holds tight to the blanket, finally looking at her, shaking his head.  "You can't stay there or people will step on you."  She pulls harder and he gets to his knees, then stands, keeping away from everyone, letting her drag him back to his own matts, his own family.  She watches as he wraps the blanket around himself, tightly as to shield him from any touch.  Then he stares at the children, rolling as far from them as he can. 

She keeps Cheryl back, watching as he stops moving, looking Cheryl in the eye.  "Don't touch him.  You'll just make him run.  Keep the children away too.  It's hard but he isn't ready for family right now." 

Luther is watching her, still sitting on their matts.  I notice he can't look at Carl.  She takes Cheryl's hands, looking at her. 

Cheryl looks back at Carl, now lying on his side, as far from the children as he can get.  "That's not Carl.  He wouldn't do that." 

"Give him time."  Nancy forces Cheryl to look at her.  "Just let him be for now." 

Cheryl quietly walks back to their matts.  She sits near the children, holding Carle, looking at her father.  Calla moves near her, staring.  She takes her children in her arms and turns away. 

Across the room, Jeffrey is watching.  It's too far away to be sure, but I imagine that I see satisfaction in his look.  Realand just sits behind him, looking away, and I wonder if he's thinking of Elaine and her fate.  

Others glance at the matts, Jackson not moving now, trying not to stare.  I get a work uniform from the bin and give it to Cheryl.  Carl appears to be asleep, and she lays the clothes near him. 

Perhaps tomorrow I can do a better examination.  Cheryl has to work now, but one of the other women, hurt in a fall, watches the children.  But with the warmer weather and fields full of crops, all but the smallest children go to work.  Molly troops out with her mother each day, and children only a little older than Tessie go as well. 

Carl doesn't move when the work bell rings, everyone watching just in case.  Cheryl leaves the clothes near him, and his food as well as he hasn't responded to it yet.  When we return, he's eaten and is lying in his blanket, the clothes ignored.  He tenses as she enters, watching alertly without saying a word.  

Completely lost, Cheryl looks toward Nancy.  Food will be arriving soon and we aren't supposed to bring bowls inside.  Nancy steps up to him, pulling off the blanket as he retreats.  "Get dressed," she orders.  "You need to get dinner." 

Her tone is confident, expecting him to obey.  Slowly, he pulls the uniform towards him.  We leave him be as he pours himself into it, awkwardly fastening the front.  He tugs at it here and there, as if it feels odd.  But looking at Nancy, he slowly sits, watching the door. 

He doesn't say a word.  He waits, tense, watching everyone around him as if he was an injured animal surrounded by a pack of snarling predators.  When we're called to dinner, he moves quickly, cautiously never getting near anyone.  He sits by himself, eating quickly and resuming his wounded stance.  He follows us back inside afterward, returning to his side of the matts.  Cheryl moves away, closer to the children, and sits with them while we read. 

Carl sits alone, the blanket around him as if it were a moat.  But he closes his eyes and listens, and when the reading is done collapses back in a heap.  Cheryl still keeps away, but he is no longer so stiff. 

Tomorrow he'll have to work, and he knows it.  He can't deal with any of us, his mind still lost in a nightmare none of us can imagine.  But for just a moment, reading about Arthur Dent and his lost life, Carl smiled a little. 

It's almost dark now.  Almost everyone is asleep.  But Luther is restless, finally sitting up, his hands shaking.  Nancy wakes as well, taking him in her arms, holding him as if he was a child.  Gradually, he puts his own arms around hers and they slide down in their blankets. 

Someday Carl will be able to let his wife hold him, touch him, but for now he's still too lost and utterly alone. 

Maybe Carl will never be the same, emerging in measured steps to be a stranger we'll have to get to know.  But we can give him time.  We'll let him be, watch and carefully keep important conversation away. 

Who knows what he'd tell them, how much we can trust him now.  We still own ourselves, despite the brand on our hands. 

Nobody really knows about Carl anymore. 

                               *** 

Sloan doesn't get to serve.  He can't stop the trembling of his hands and he drops things.  Sometimes, he starts to talk to himself and won't stop.  The guards ignore him now.  He's been relegated to the jobs where it doesn't matter if he goes off into himself. 

I still wonder what they did.  Once, when we had the lab, I scanned him with a tricorder.  There was nerve damage.  I would have tried to help him, but both of us knew it was too big a risk.  They hurt him more before he was returned, but we are strictly denied medical treatment now.  Even if I knew what was wrong, there is nothing I could do. 

I'd have never believed that the cold man who tormented me could be broken so badly, but I think now that he'd already been destroyed, long before Weyoun and his monsters came near.  Looking at Jackson, I wonder that I never saw it before, the coldness, the subservience hidden by arrogance.  Carl is owned by a man, but Luther was owned by an organization.  Whatever his life was before, 31 replaced it with the one they dictated. 

Weyoun had him broken again, and judging from the way he won't look at Carl they may share the same kind of nightmare.  But in a way the complete destruction of the agent for 31 left him reborn as well.  Where Carl is cold and almost arrogant, Luther is careful, but he loves Nancy.  He has been given back something he'd lost.  Despite the trembling hands and distant moments, he is more free than before. 

Still, he babbles more now, and gets lost inside his nightmares.  I worry that one of these times when he starts talking he'll say the wrong thing and somebody will be listening. 

But eventually he stops and is relatively normal.  He gets confused about where he is, how he came to be there.  But he never asks.  Aside from the mumbling, he hardly ever says anything.  We were astonished when he started telling stories. 

When she can Nancy holds him, and he grows quiet.  They curl together at night in their blankets, and I hope he has a beautiful beach to lie on but doubt it.  At least he has Nancy.  I am glad for him, but it must be hard for her. 

At least Ezri remembers bits and pieces of when she's not herself. 

She is always Ezri when we read.  Even Sloan stops his mumbling and concentrates.  We're following Arthur's final adventure quite slowly, with little time to read.  But that few minutes we have to dream makes the rest of the day pass much more quickly.  The work expected of us is still as hard, but eventually you get used to anything.  It no longer matters what we do.  At the end of the day we take back our lives for a little while. 

Even Carl listens.  He still closes his eyes, the tense stance relaxed for a little while.  He sleeps better.  The day after his return he fell and I had a scrape to treat.  He allowed me to touch him, but just barely.  I did a cursory exam, and kept the evidence to myself of the cruelty of the man who had bought his soul.  But in the book he's free.  When we read before sleep he can escape from his bonds a little while. 

Arthur's long isolation has ended, Ford finally having returned.  Arthur was in a cheerful mood, having decided before Ford's unexpected arrival to copy Ford's example and go mad as a way to better pass the time.  But the now battered Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic had lured Ford back to sanity and he has come to rescue the Earthman.  

Their means of escape is a velvet paisley-covered Chesterfield sofa which has appeared in the middle of a field, drifting in from the eddies of the space-time continuum.  Ford advises catching up with the piece of irrational furniture. 

"Ford and Arthur pounded chaotically after it, but it dodged and wove as if following its own complex mathematical topography, which it was.  Still they pursued, still it danced and spun, and suddenly turned and dipped as if crossing the lip of a catastrophe graph, and they were practically on top of it.  With a heave and a shout they leaped on it, the sun winked out, they fell through a sickening nothingness and emerged unexpectedly in the middle of a pitch at Lord's Cricket Ground, St. John's Wood, London, towards the end of the last Test Match of the Australian series in the year 198-, with England needed only twenty-eight runs to win." 

My London, the one now ground to ash, springs to life in my imagination.  There is discussion about the sudden appearance of our rather tattered castaways, and especially about the Chesterfield, but with typical British civility, Ford and Arthur end up in the refreshment tent drinking tea.  Once his awareness returns to his body, Arthur relishes the cup of tea.  He is home.  Journey over.  But Ford has to ruin it by telling him the Vogons are only two days away. 

Sometimes even tea doesn't help.  Even his towel has changed from blue with yellow stars to pink.  But Ford is acting more odd than normal.  And a small boy insists on insulting him in the same words Wowbagger had before.  Arthur isn't so sorry that Earth will be demolished in two days this time. 

Then Ford sees the S.E.P.  An S.E.P. is also known as Somebody Else's Problem.  If you don't expect to see it you won't.  I suppose I understand the idea all too well.  But in this case it turns out to be a spaceship carrying the spectral form of Startibartfest, who just happens to like English cricket. 

The match ends, but everyone's day is interrupted by another ship with a group of robots who play their own match, leaving a smoldering mess of the grass, and take the ashes held by the winning team. 

Some days you just can't win.  And it wouldn't matter in two days anyway.  And in the end they get commandeered by Slarti to solve and ancient mystery they'd rather not. 

And we think we have problems . . . 

                               *** 

I'm still on scrub duty and can't help but notice how tense everyone is.  Our routine never varies, but for the rest it has changed quite suddenly. 

It's frustrating that I haven't been able to find out why.  Occasionally people sneak in a conversation, but it's never been about anything important.  Somehow the reason for all the change is too dangerous to talk about. 

It's late in the summer, and the field crew is busy.  None of them are back and we are fed dinner by ourselves.  A few of us have been left behind to prepare their dinner, and the rest are trying to pretend we're not worried as we're locked in. 

Realand drags Jeffrey across the room, away from the man he condemned to hell.  Before, Jeffrey stared at his father.  Now Carl stares back.  Once, I caught a glimpse of what so terrifies Realand, and hope Carl is content to only torment the boy with his quiet threats. 

Daniel goes to the family matts, trying to conceal his worry as his wife and older children, and the adopted daughter Cindy has become are still missing.  They push them a lot now.  I've had to treat more cuts and scrapes, and nobody has forgotten what happened to Brenda's friend.  I still have a little of the salt, but it is too dangerous to use it unless it is vital, and much to risky to get more.  At least most are on the arms and body now, and they are protected from the muck.  He takes Alessa from the current babysitter and is teasing her, the little girl giggling. 

Carl sits by himself, now used to his uniform but still the cold, heartless man who was sent back to us.  He works, both hard and well, and never breaks the rules to talk.  The only sort of emotion he's ever showed are the deadly glances at his son.  

We didn't expect this, especially not the arrogance.  But we can live with it.  Everybody's seen the special little brand, heard the stories of what the personal bed-slaves of the calties are used for, how it is the final humiliation. 

I am not alone in keeping my tongue around him.  He is ignored and mutually ignores us.  But he has a wife and children.  People break the rules to watch as he acts as if she is invisible, and never reacts to his daughters at all.  Somehow, we can't forgive him for that.  Even calties have families and take care of them.  Carl is breaking *our* rules by ignoring Cheryl and the girls. 

But looking at Carl, seeing the poison glances he's given Jeffrey, nobody really wants to discuss it. 

Just as they wait until I get the morning's book, and always return it to me when the reading is done.  No one has as much as disturbed our blankets.  Carl has the potential for danger, but they know I'll keep my promise. 

We've moved readings to mornings when there is light.  There is never any time in the evening anymore.  I miss the evenings we could read.  It was a better way to end the day than to begin it.  But we will finish the last Dent book, no matter how long it takes to do it. 

I started my day considering the morning's reading, and the most recent was particularly fitting, as Arthur has just seen a vastly concentrated summary of Galactic history and is mulling it over. 

"Just as a slow series of clicks when speeded up will lose the definition of each individual click and gradually take on the quality of sustained and rising tone, so a series of individual impressions here took on the quality of a sustained emotion--and yet not an emotion.  If it was an emotion, it was a totally emotionless one.  It was hatred, implacable hatred.  It was cold, not like ice is cold, but like a wall is cold.  It was impersonal, not like a randomly flung fist in a crowd is impersonal, but like a computer-issued parking summons is impersonal.  And it was deadly, again, not like a bullet or a knife is deadly, but like a brick wall across an expressway is deadly." 

If anyone ever dares irritate Carl, if he ever acts out the plans written in his eyes, we'll all know about what comes of this cold, impersonal sort of hatred.  I might have kicked Jeffrey until he died of his injuries.  I have a feeling Carl would be a lot more creative. 

The tide of emotionless emotions grows, "to rise to an unbearable if unheard scream and suddenly seemed to be a scream of guilt and failure." 

I remembered the moment when Weyoun killed my friend, and how hatred had driven everything else away that might have changed things for Miles and the others.  I know he forgave me.  But even now I wonder if I might have found another way.  It didn't change anything in the end.  I defied him, refused to even hear what I was to do.  But next time--and I'm certain there will be one--I cannot act so rashly.  I almost welcome the busy day so I can put it out of my mind, lose myself in the work, and try to forget.  But now it's over and there is nothing to distract me from wondering. 

Molly calls me "Daddy" now.  She won't talk about the man who gave her life.  I wonder if she even allows herself to remember him.  Or does she, in her youth, understand the deadliness of the hatred that was screaming in Arthur's mind. 

Then the scream stops, and they are standing on a quiet hilltop watching the setting sun of a tranquil evening, walking happily in the "informational illusion" of grass towards a town. 

I remember the Alamo, and Vic's, and all the other "places" I've been with the magic of a holodeck.  Molly will remember, but only vaguely.  Yoshi will not know of it at all.  

"It suddenly occurred to Arthur that coming as this did at the end, so to speak, or rather at the beginning, of all the horror they had just blurrily experienced, something nasty must be about to happen.  He was distressed to think that something nasty could happen to somewhere as idyllic as this.  He too glanced up.  There was nothing in the sky." 

He was informed that this was the beginning, before all the wars and horrors had destroyed it.  But as I stare at the door, waiting, I am certain that we, too, are on the verge of more random acts of darkness.  Everything is so busy, with the other crews being rushed far more than usual.  I'm almost grateful that we can still rely on days without surprises.  They never bode well for us. 

I'm watching the glow of sunset as it's reflected through one of the barred windows.  I'm forcing myself to relax when I notice Sloan standing nearby. 

He is looking at me.  He moves very close, and I watch with interest as he hesitates. 

"They don't pay any attention to me, any of them anymore," he says. 

I almost wonder if part of it is an act.  But he's having a hard time putting together the words.  "Are you all right?" I ask, a little concerned. 

He moves very close.  "There were a couple of people behind a shed today.  They were having a private conversation.  I guess they didn't see me."  He looks at me, worry written in his eyes.  "I heard about the Breen," he adds. 

It's hard not to react, to pretend that it's just an ordinary conversation.  "What about them?" I ask as casually as I can. 

"They ran out on the Dominion.  The Dominion didn't like that.  They're sending the Jem'Hadar after them." 

No wonder everyone was tense, and everything so rushed.  The changelings couldn't stand being slighted.  They were going to make an example of the Breen now. 

Some people never know when to quit.  I wonder to myself what will happen when the changelings start to die and they are still in the middle of a war. 

Maybe we have a chance after all. 

I keep hoping to see some satisfaction in Sloan's eyes, but all I see is worry.  I tell myself it's because he's been too badly damaged.  I hope that's why. 

The door opens and our families enter, and there is a general sigh of relief.  Dinner arrives without delay, and we eat quickly.  Most people are tired and are soon in bed. 

Most of them go straight to spouses and children.  Cheryl takes her girls and sits with Nancy.  Later, when she has to, she'll go back to her own matts but for now Carl is filling them with his own isolation. 

Someone tells a quick story, just because we're used to it by now.  I still wish we could see well enough to read.  I broke the rules and skimmed ahead myself.  I just want to go to sleep with Trillion and Zaphod and the robots determined to take the Golden Ball from the Heart of Gold so they may achieve the Universal Readjustment.  I want to find out what happens to Zaphod after they shoot him (twice, even).  I want the evening light so we may dream of more than the cold greyness of our own lives.  At least, there are stories. 

Ezri is tired and warm and sleepy, but she notices.  "What?" she asks.  At least I know she's Ezri right now. 

I hold her close, the children already asleep.  "Just thinking," I reply as calmly as I can. 

"What happened?" she asks. 

I debate if I should tell her.  It's bad enough that Sloan knows the secret of the Founder's fate.  All she knows is that the cure is a lie but none of the details.  I love Ezri, but can I trust her? 

Well, word will spread anyway.  She'll figure it out on her own. 

"It's the Breen.  There's another war, this time with the Breen for running out on their allies." 

She looks at me, worry mixed with satisfaction.  Then, abruptly, she isn't Ezri.  Her face is older, and more cynical than the woman I remember.  "Don't be too pleased,"  she says, and I recognize the intonation.  Odo had sounded like that when he'd hosted Curzon.  "Don't celebrate until you know how it ends." 

Kira says we have to keep hope alive, and the war with the Breen could bring about an end to this in time.  Curzon, tempered by his own experiences, understands the enormous risks that we get caught in the middle. 

But at the internment camp, the only thing that mattered was the belief it would work, and the courage to risk being wrong. 

I nod.  "I won't.  But it gives us a chance."  

She nods.  "A chance . . ." and Curzon disappears.  

Ezri looks blank for a moment.  I wait to see who comes next.  She is exhausted.  She looks up at me for a moment, still a little lost.  "Maybe they'll kill off each other," she murmurs as she falls asleep. 

I stare at the twinkle of stars that show through the window, wondering if there is anything left to wish. 

                               *** 

Everyone knows now.  It was officially announced last night.  

It was raining, a miserable warm late summer rain that has made the air muggy and turned the ground into mud. 

It was a quiet night.  Everyone was tired after the long day, but stunned by the news as well.  That they intend to punish the Breen is no surprise.  But nobody can tell how much it will effect us.  We don't know if we should hope that the Breen are victorias, if any loss by those who hold us is a victory for us, or if our own bitter memories of the Breen should be remembered first.  They defied the Dominion, but they tortured us. 

What would we think of the Cardassians if there were still any Cardassians alive?  

This morning we almost don't read.  But it is habit, and we need our rituals, those moments we own for ourselves.  I pull out the book, as always giving it to Raina who hands it to the first reader.  Ritual is important and that is part of it too. 

It's Daniel again.  He holds the book carefully, not bending it too much so the spine won't be bent, turning it around in his hands as he reads.  He's still never said what he did, but while everyone holds the books with reverence, Daniel is especially careful. 

His High Judgmental Supremacy, Judical Pag, L.I.V.R. (the Learned, Impartial and Very Relaxed), Chairman of the Board of Judges at the Krikkit War Crimes Trial, is mulling over things as the fate of the Krikkit robots is being decided by the victors, everybody else, in this case. 

He comments that you wouldn't necessarily want to share a Galaxy with these guys . . . 

Of course, there is always someone you could say that about.  Sometimes they are even the same species as you. 

In the case of Arthur's universe, the Krikkit robots launched a sudden, surprise attack on the rest of the universe, with thousands of ships which simultaneously attacked thousands of major worlds, taking what they wanted and wiping them out of existence. 

It was a big shock to the galaxy, experiencing a rather good period of peace and prosperity, sort of like being mugged in a meadow. 

In the judges view the Krikkit robots were a little too *obsessed*.  It was about the only explanation of why the did it--to wipe out anything and everything that wasn't Krikkit. 

Too bad for the Breen that they hadn't figured this out before. 

Striking terror, usually very short lived, in the hearts of all they encountered, the savage, single-minded flying battle machines used battleclubs which used one way knocked down buildings, another fired blistering Omni-Destructo Zap rays, and a last, rather final way, destroyed suns. 

Eventually the rest of the Galaxy won anyway, even if it took approximately two thousand years at a cost of two grillion zilched guys. 

So now they have a trial going.  It features a shielded group of representatives of the people of Krikkit, looking at the rest with polite loathing, and Judicary Pag, aware he was at the center of the most momentous occasion in legal history. 

Of course, he strives for a balanced view.  Sticking his chewing gum to his chair, the courtroom in grim silence, he allows they have their own view of the universe.  Mostly they wanted the universe to themselves. 

Making the clerk remove a cup of water which tasted *odd* he comes up a plan, a brilliant plan which makes everyone happy. 

First, the people of Krikkit would be encased in an envelope of Slo-time, inside of which time would continue as it had always been, or seem to.  Actually, it would go very very slowly, while they'd be invisible to everyone else. 

Eventually the rest of the Universe would come to an end and they'd emerge, alone in a universe that they didn't have to share with anyone.  The trap would be locked with a special key, a Wikkit Gate. 

Then the judge retired for a Sens-O-Shower with a rather nice member of the jury he'd already slipped a note to earlier. 

Simple. Easy.  Brilliant.  But even the best plans go ary.  They missed one Krikkit warship and it destroyed both the gate and the key, and Zipo was momentarily distracted as his friend was rubbing his back on the sunny beach. 

I guess all plans can go ary.  They feel so safe, what with the key destroyed now.  Who think the Krikkit's could ever get out at all? 

Still, the Krikkits lost.  We like that idea.  We could do without the two thousand years and two grillion zilched guys.  But we don't think about that kind of thing anymore. 

I glanced at Sloan, though.  If the best laid plans of His High Judgmental Supremecies could fail, anybody's could.  Even ours. 

Of course, the Jem'Hadar are less evident now.  The calties are no more welcome and someday will make much better targets.  The Breen will kill a lot of Jem'Hadar before it's all done. 

Privately, I wonder if they won't be doing Weyoun a favor.  When the Founders die, there won't be as many around to worry about. 

The book is handed back to Raina, and she brings it to me.  But the day has changed from one overshadowed by doom--the Breen really don't have a chance and we'll probably see the few survivors if they let there be any--to victory.  The Krikkit Robots were fearsome and mean, methodical and dangerous, but they *lost*.  And with their planet wrapped in the time shield, when they get out it won't much matter to anyone but the diners at the Restaurant, waiting for the universe to end. 

The Dominion holds us captive--keeps us as slaves--but only for now.  When they fall, we'll make sure they never bother us again, though I doubt there will be any thought to their own view of the universe by then. 

It helped make the miserable wet day a little more liveable.  For many of us, used to life on the station or from carefully controlled climates, rain is something long forgotten and the constant wet is more miserable than for others.  And the mud is worse, covering everything, tramped inside on clothes and shoes, sticking to hair and bedding.  I'm soaked to the skin, and my shoes are thick with half-dried mud.  And it's only the beginning of the area's rainy season. 

All I want is to get dry and go to sleep.  But it's noisy, and I'm half awake when the door opens and a whole new group of people are shoved inside before it is locked. 

This time there was no noise, no transports, just a gust of wetness and the new arrivals. 

It's almost dark, but we can see well enough to tell they are dazed, mostly staring at the marks on their hands and us.  Someone hesitantly asks, in standard, "Where are we?" 

I haven't touched Danni's book in a long time, but I know it too well.  I understand how these new people might feel, suddenly shoved into a strange new place.  And I also understand how those already there within the Sanctuary Districts must have reacted as more and more were crowded inside, as the little space they had to themselves slowly disappeared.  

They'll be bled, just to make sure they aren't changelings.  I know there is no need, that if they are spies they are more likely to be humans with rewards waiting at the end of the secret, but I can't tell them. 

Not that we do anything that would get us in trouble, at least in the open.  But new arrivals make everyone nervous at first, give us a feeling of our private lair having been invaded by intruders. 

The children are awake and Molly is staring at the new people, watching as they clutch their own children's hands.  Ezri watches them with a cynical expression, all Curzon at the moment.  

"Bajor," comes the answer.  "Where are you from?" 

"Mars," says one of the men.  "We worked at the Utopia Planetia yards.  They destroyed everything, and took all the survivors with them." 

Ezri mutters, "Hardly a surprise," under her breath.  Lately it's hard to tell where she leaves off and Curzon begins.  She can't express the anger she feels, but Curzon can dismiss it in cynical words. 

Someone else adds, "They emptied everything near Earth after they were done there."  His tone is bitter, and scared.  "We're being deported all over.  Some of the colonies kept fighting back until they killed everyone in them." 

We're stunned.  Somehow, we know Earth is gone.  But there were other places we had made into copies of home.  Everybody hoped to see one of them again someday, just to remember. 

They must be gone, too. 

Ezri starts to say something, but I stop her with a look.  I love her.  She's dealing with this in her own way.  But right now, I can't take it.  She shrugs. 

The door opens again and the newcomers move quickly out of the way.  A bin is pushed inside and the door is again shut tight.  It has bedding and mats for them. 

I realize they have nothing but the clothes they were given after capture.  For them, this place must be luxury.  We keep our opinions to ourselves.  In a way, I suppose we feel lucky. 

It is pitch dark by the time everything is divided and spread out but people are still in shock, still asking questions. 

"What do you do?" someone asks, very hesitantly. 

"Field work, feeding the others, cleaning, that kind of thing."  The mention of food brings silence.  Someone else adds, quietly, "The food's boring, but there is usually enough." 

There are sighs of relief and anticipation.  I guess they won't mind the lumps or the stale taste.  

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, takes it toll and everyone falls asleep. 

In the morning, they are unnerved by the bell.  We go about our usual business until it occurs to us that nothing is usual today. 

Not trusting them to respect *our* rules, we don't do any reading. 

Other groups like ours have had new additions and they are all gathered together in the morning.  Now, there are twice as many of us.  I'm back on serving, which means dragging a heavy cart around in the mud all day.  The only good thing is I get to change into a dry uniform.  

They are counted and given the lecture about rules while we start the normal morning routine.  They look very nervous as they are parceled out between groups, and the largest amount sent to the fields. 

The others are given to us to train.  We do our best, wishing we were not reminded so clearly of our own beginnings here.  It's new to them, and a hard reminder to us that we long ago stopped thinking of what takes up our days.  For a little while the usual routine will be harder to stand, until we remember how to forget again. 

                               *** 

Once, long ago on our now lifeless planet, people guided their lives by the seasons.  They celebrated the gifts of rain and sun and the spring planting, and again in the fall when the fruits of the harvest were reaped.  They danced with fires and joy and settled into preparation for the winter.  They again celebrated, middle of winter, on the first day that the light of day grew longer, the darkness slowly banished. 

They were not forgotten.  Even after we had achieved mastery over nature, even when we could make our own rain and enrich the soil exactly as we needed, we remembered their celebrations.  Religions had passed them down through time, and even if we did not generally subscribe to gods anymore, we remembered the holidays. 

If we, here, the remains of that species and its dreams, could find the means to celebrate we would understand now.  The long summer has faded, the muggy days growing colder and more wet by the week.  The crops are tall, the daily work less since there is so little to pick of the seasonal ones, now mostly dried to brown vines.  We are caught in one of those moments between other moments, when the old work is mostly done and the new not yet begun.  The fall harvest isn't ready, but the summer is over. 

Most of the assignments are given out by a particular caltie we call "Sir", an older human with thinning hair and a small mustache he chooses to wear.  He sets up his table in the morning and aside from regular crews that always do the same job, he and his lieutenants assign the rest to what is needed that day.  He makes the decision about the children, and lately has excluded all the younger ones.  He's even picky about those who are sick or hurt, much more lenient about excusing us for the day or days.  

We have more time for ourselves.  The younger children are once more locked in much of the day, and those like Cheryl, who hurt her arm the other day, are left at home to recover.  

Carl is working with us today, an unwelcome addition to our crew.  More shipments arrived to be transferred to warehouses, things sealed in crates and boxes now, covered in Dominion script.  Anyone who can haul heavy things is pulled for the day's duty.  Nobody really wants to be around him, the cold mean look in his eyes too much like the guards that surround us.  Then Realand falls and hurts his foot, and we haul him outside to be sent back. 

Carl hardly ever speaks, and he picks special moments to do it.  Standing back, watching as Realand is examined and sent limping away, he drifts inside, waiting until Daniel and I are back to have his say.  

Daniel doesn't like him, is nervous around him.  Carl moves too close and Daniel drops the tools he's holding, just missing his own foot.  "Go ahead," says Carl, "Take a vacation.  You'll need it once harvest starts." 

We already know.  We really don't appreciate being reminded. 

He moves out of the way while Daniel picks up the tools.  Standing next to me, Daniel mumbles, very quietly, "Maybe he should have an accident.  Not just a little one." 

I remember when Carl waited with us a long time ago, falling into despair when even Miles got back his family, but his was left missing.  The baby was crying last night, and Cheryl was hurting.  He didn't even bother to look.  Daniel wasn't the only irritated party. 

Carl can stay away from the rest of us and nobody will mind.  But he's been back long enough that he should have tried to let her near.  And the openly hostile looks he gives her do not make it any better.  When all you have is family, you don't shove them away.  Not every one of the relationships on the matts is perfect, but they take care of each other.  Carle's crying kept people awake that had to sleep.  Carl *owed* it to the rest to help his wife. 

Daniel is annoyed enough to say something.  He moves closer to Carl, who is working with the same efficiency he always does.  Daniel gets in his way and Carl stops.  

"Out of my way," orders Carl. 

Daniel looks him over.  "Not until I want to.  I don't take orders from ratflaga." 

Carl backs off, if just for a second.  The new underclass has a name too, rat for their position, and flaga, a Cardassian term for that which rises to the top of the sewage.  It just isn't used too often.  Daniel looks victorias.  Carl waits patiently while he moves, for once not looking at him. 

Daniel waits until Carl has started working again, stepping in his way.  This time Carl just stops, says nothing.  "Better help your wife with that baby tonight.  I'll make sure to remind you." 

Daniel moves further along, setting up the next shipment while Carl finishes the last one.  He won't look at me.  The anger is still there, but the arrogance has disappeared. 

I go about my own business, leaving Carl to his own thoughts.  But I feel a little better, just the same.  Lost in the shame he won't let us see is the man we knew.  Maybe we can find him again some day. 

                               ***

                            Chapter 18

                               *** 

Summer has gone, the evenings growing cooler now, the days growing shorter.  The sun sets earlier, but it is so gradual we hardly notice.  We might not notice much at all except it gets dark too early.  When work runs late--and with harvest it always does--it's dark before we can read most of the time. 

Our new additions, now called our Martians, no longer talk about home.  They work without complaint or resistance at whatever job Sir assigns them to, giving every impression that they consider themselves quite privileged to be here.  They don't notice the bugs or the dirt or the hours.  They do notice the food.  Sometimes they watch our children with a haunted look, and a sadness that nothing can hide. 

Carl never looks at them, but then he hardly notices us either.  The Martians carefully avoid him, taking special detours to stay away from his matts.  He still ignores Cheryl.  Even the Martians obviously do not approve, but none of them are willing to challenge him. 

Maybe he reminds them too much of the people they'd known before, the spooky ones who survived however it took, even if the cost ended up destroying them. 

Carl pointedly avoids them too.  Perhaps he is reminded too much of the rats he'd worked with before his owner took him away from that. 

Others have been added and mixed with us, but they are different.  Most of their matts are grouped together, as if we are separate from them. 

Daniel stares at them sometimes, sitting together in their corner of the barn.  He knows a little about what made them so *different* than us.  But he's used to us, he and their children and Catherine and Cindy a part of our society now.  He had one of our little rooms on the station for a while. 

The Martians don't talk much at all.  The keep together, listening when we occasionally read, and eating at the same time as the rest, but not *with* us.  It is as if we have become two separate societies forced together in the same open barn, and in our own way we keep away from them, strive to preserve what we had before. 

But most nights, with the harvest at its peak, nobody is in the mood to talk.  All of us are too busy working to think about more than food and sleep when the day ends. 

Everything has been reorganized.  More prisoners have been added to almost every group.  Every bin of grain is used for breakfast, and while we serve it a crew refills them for dinner.  It is as if the whole day is repeated twice over. 

Very often, we've already been fed and locked inside by the time the field crews return, dusk or later, and they are capable of little more than sleep after a quick dinner. 

Usually we don't even try to read, even when there is a little light.  It's too late and too dark too soon and we're too exhausted.  But everyone misses the books.  Even if only for a few minutes, we left this place.  Instead, in the dark we tell stories, sometimes retelling the books as folktales.  It's different hearing of Dorothy and Ozma in our own words, sometimes getting the small details mixed up, but it connects us to the oldest memories of childhood.  Even better, one of the new people--an older woman named Dorothy who often acts as their leader--tells traditional stories as well.  The folk tales and tall tales and stories passed down through many generations weave a world around us in the dark.  She tells stories of almost all the now obliterated cultures of Earth, and we vow to remember them.  We will not let the memory of what we were die so easily. 

Dorothy is trying to break the invisible barrier between us, the unofficial line that the matts create, but it will take a lot of time.  Or, perhaps, it won't be that hard if everything we were used to keeps changing.  

Life was routine before.  Now, with all the new people, everything is different.  The daily schedule never changed, but now it varies day by day.  Our retreat is so crowded, filled with strangers.  Worse, the last hopes that some little reminders of home might remain are gone. 

The new people with their defeated faces remind us of Arthur reliving the moment he discovered Earth had been vaporized.  We cling to Dorothy's stories as a treasure we must preserve, but sometimes it reminds me too much of the Bajorans and their cherished memories of all that the Cardassians had destroyed.  We won't forget, will write them down when we can for the future to preserve, but none of it will be real for our children.  The world in which we lived will be as much a fairy tale as Cinderella.  Alessa Carlan is crawling now, babbling in her baby language, and every time I look at her I wonder if she will grow up as hard and bitter as the Bajorans who no longer understand what they had been. 

I understand what Miles tried to tell me.  All we can do is try to keep them alive.  But in case we didn't understand before, now we know how lucky we are.  We have blankets, and shelter and enough food--and the books.  The new people accept this place without complaint.  Before they had nothing, and the simplest things are wondrous luxury.  

And most of all they revere the books.  It's late and Ezri and the rest of my family has just arrived, Ezri going to sit with Cheryl for a time to listen as she glares at Carl, when Dorothy comes to stand, hesitant, before our matts.  

"I know there is no time to read, but could I hold one of the books, just touch it?"  She looks away, not sure enough to look at me.  I'm sure she's heard about Jeffrey, but I don't think that is the reason.  It's the books themselves.  She might have been a teacher, or a wordsmith of story.  Perhaps she loved history, the extended passage of our kind.  But now she is just a woman who keeps alive memories, who matters as much to us as the books themselves.  I wouldn't let the other strangers touch the them, but Dorothy is different.  I pull out the most proper one, the Oz book, and she takes it lovingly in her hands, holding it as if it was a baby.  Eyes closed, she strokes it.  Her look dreamy, she carefully hands it back to me. 

"If you want, you can read it when it's light," I offer, now an unheard of sentiment in this grimy place.  But I trust her to care. 

"No, I just needed to feel them."  She looks around the room, finally looking at Jeffrey, sitting next to Realand with a blanket thrown around his shoulders.  "I know about your promise.  It's a good one.  Keep it.  Those books are worth more than any one of the lives in this room." 

I look at her face, set in absolute joy as she watches the book slipped back in its place.  "Would you keep my promise too?" 

The change is sudden, very disturbing to watch with its reminders of Ezri's slipping personalities.  But her face is as hard as stone.  "I will keep them safe if you can't."  It is a promise carved in stone, made with all the conviction of the passionate patriot.  But she is a guardian of our dreams instead. 

I nod, disturbed by the reminder of my unwanted ties to Weyoun, and the uncertainty of my own future. 

She moves slowly, walking back to her own people.  Their children are huddled in the middle of a protective circle, as if we might reach in and steal them.  But they are grim children, hardly childlike at all anymore.  A few have ventured out to play with ours, but their play is too violent for most of us, too worrisome for parents trying to keep what is left of childhood intact. 

For while the Martians do not discuss it, we still have our children.  Many of them, like Dorothy, are alone, families long lost.  Instead they gather their matts in several large spaces, sleeping close to the others as if it offers some comfort.  Some of them just watch our little ones with grieving eyes when we are together.  When they were deported, the sick and injured among them were executed.  Most of the sick were children.  Weyoun wants me near, and that our children have survived justifies the cost I have paid.  The others respect that I refused his second demand, but they haven't forgotten that, for now at least, I also saved the Founders.  But if we have children who can play it was worth all the loneliness. 

At first, our children were delighted with the new families.  Molly and Kara still occasionally play with two little girls their age in the morning.  The parents watch, enthralled, as slowly their daughters rediscover play.  I suppose it is comforting to the parents that our children are still capable of being children, that their daughters might still have a chance. 

But so many of theirs are already beyond that.  Their parents watch as they play their oddly un-childlike games, hoping they will remember, but not expecting anything anymore.  

Occasionally we finish a little early, and there is still enough time for reading.  We've all heard the books before, but the new people are fascinated.  

The Martians invaded earth again the last time we read.  We expected them to say something, but all they did was stare at invisible pictures in their minds as we read.  For a while, I suspected they did not see the Martians, and the scene was a bit too real.  But then, later, the children were playing war and the tripods always lost.  

These books are icons of a lost civilization, but they keep a little of it alive as well. 

The new people had nothing but reality.  I can't imagine how we'd have coped without the books to offer some escape.  But our new Martians remind us that we'd woven some very careful lies and now they've been shattered. 

We feel more like prisoners than we did before. 

It keeps raining.  Gradually the weather is getting colder.  We have plenty to do, not only harvest but an unending line of transports to unload, and the water and mud make everything harder.  

People are getting sick from the constant dampness.  We were all given inoculations for something yesterday.  They didn't tell us what it was for, but there have been rumors.  I guess, since we handle the food, they don't want us to get sick and spread it to others. 

We also had a special decon, just for us.  The Martians, not knowing what to expect, were very nervous.  It was cold waiting for my turn, but with the encroaching winter there are different bugs and for a while they'll be gone too.  Everyone slept rather well last night, despite the residual smell.  It was almost like the scent of flowers lingering from a special evening. 

Well, we do have *some* advantages. 

Before, life became so routine you got used to it.  That's impossible now.  People are moved from crew to crew.  Since the bulk of the harvest is going on, half our scrub crew has been transferred there.  We're too tired to do much more than sleep now.  

It's been nearly six months.  I don't much care what happens when they die.  I just want this nightmare of a life to end. 

                               *** 

Ezri is watching as Carl prepares for work.  There is no conversation at all between he and Cheryl, and he hardly even looks at the children.  She has taken to pretending he's not even there, but you can see that it still hurts. 

Despite warnings, from Daniel and others, Carl still won't look at his wife.  She often works with Ezri and they are friends.  Cheryl maintains he isn't her husband and has suggested he move his matt and blanket to somewhere else. 

"You'll be working with him today.  See if you can find a place.  Please."  She says it softly, looking at Cheryl.  He still won't tolerate being touched, which most take as a given, but his totally ignoring his wife and family is not welcome.  Few really trust Carl.  He wasn't supposed to survive being a rat, and that he did raises suspicion he sold more than his body to come home. 

"I'll try.  If we can."  My eyes meet hers, shared worry that he isn't ever going to change, but at least someone should try.  I'm not sure I'm the best choice but I did promise Ezri before.  The rest know they can call him a name and he'll back off, but they don't have enough confidence to be too direct.  Maybe Ezri thinks, considering my warning after Jeffrey, that he will leave me alone if he doesn't like the advice. 

I watch as he eats, quickly and without any reaction at all, like everything else he does.  He works well; he's gotten the more important, easier jobs because of it.  Today they have a lot of transports to unload, and most of us not serving will be doing that most of the day. 

Sometimes when inside the warehouse it's safe to talk.  The noise of the loaders is enough to cover anything said from prying ears outside.  I don't expect him to even respond so it shouldn't be much of an effort. 

But when we reach the warehouse, finding myself alone with him in a very noisy loading area, I get one of those unpleasant surprises life sometimes offers. 

Carl is indeed in a talking mood.  He looks around the room, observing the series of loads the machine is processing.  He comes close.  "I happen to know my wife has been complaining to yours.  I'll spare you the trouble of bringing it up." 

He's cold about it, unfeeling.  At first, I think he's done and don't particularly mind if he is. 

But he is just getting started.  "You know why I don't like her touching me." 

I've examined him, when he was first sent back.  I know what he did to survive.  "I've see the results." 

"It's not that.  Not really."  He pauses, thinking.  "I gave up feeling anything about that after the first few times."  He starts filling a bin, this job small parts emptied from their crates.  The machine is in the middle of shuffling another into place and making less noise.  He watches as the machine begins its next cycle.  "At first, we were part of the rewards for the guards, and as long as it didn't get in the way of assigned work they could have whoever they wanted.  After the first few days in the box, you didn't argue."  He watches the bin as it moved down the line.  "Then he picked me, had me marked, and I belonged to him.  It meant I was off limits.  I was his personal bedrat then." 

I've heard the term.  It is startling to hear Carl use it without any feeling at all.  "What does this have to do with your wife?" 

He won't look at me.  "I still belong to him.  I always will.  Now that he's let me go I don't have to be bothered by anyone."  His look is arrogant, but I understand now.  One caltie owned him then and no matter how cruel he might be he was off limits to the rest.  But that doesn't apply here, in our world.  Cheryl and the children are part of our own implied rules, and sooner or later someone will make sure he understands.  Cheryl has more friends than he does. 

"Not even your *wife*?  And what about your children?  All she wants is to be let in."  I can't imagine shutting out Ezri, no matter how bad a thing had happened. 

He turns, looks me in the eyes.  His tone is icy.  "You don't seem to understand.  I don't want her touching me." 

He's right, I can't understand.  The Carl Jackson that they took worried about them all the time.  This icy stranger isn't the same man at all.  But I sense something more, something worse than wanting to protect himself.  He won't look at me, starts filling crates with much more effort than before. 

"You don't know what *she* went through, how hard it was for her to go on when we'd see you for a while, and then you disappeared.  She didn't know if you were dead, or . . ."  

"Or *what*?" he asks with sneer.  He stops working, walking right up to me.  "You really think he doesn't own you, just because he's leaving you alone right now.  Oh, you'll never be touched, your special goods, but you have a wife.  What if you refuse and he decides to deport her?  The scum they use in the pens will have their pick, and she's prime meat.  How will you feel?  Or will you find another way to explain to yourself that you really didn't give in just to keep her here?" 

He stares at me.  I try to defend myself.  "I refused him before.  It cost a lot of lives.  But I did the right thing."  Or did I, asks a small voice inside me.  Is his accusation a little too close for comfort, a little too real to deny?  But I bury the doubts.  I stare back at him.  If we were not in the middle of a warehouse with guards outside, the anger would be too much to stop. 

He steps back, just watching.  "You think I don't care about my wife.  You think I refuse to be close because I've forgotten how I felt before.  You're wrong." 

The coldness is gone, replaced by something different, something harder to watch.  His eyes are dead and bleak, lost in his fate. 

The bins are all full and the noise is loud.  I remember my own need for Ezri to know I hadn't betrayed them, how it was important for someone to know.  I wonder if Carl has that same need.  "Why, then?" I prompt him. 

"Why did he let me go?  Have you wondered?  I know the rest have.  You can see it in the way conversations stop when I come near."  He turns away.  "You cured the Founders to save your wife.  I helped torment a woman to death." 

He sits, closing his eyes.  I have to get closer to hear his quiet voice.  "Since they got rid of the locals around here, there's some big project going on.  I don't know what it is, but the shipments the night I was released were brought here to work on it." 

It takes me a moment to realize that the shipments were more prisoners, and I watch as he kicks a few fallen pieces around on the floor.  I resist the urge to pick them up and not have them be lost.  "There is a resistance unit of some sort too, and they caught this woman who'd infiltrated the calties.  She looked just like Cheryl, cleaner, longer hair, you get the general details.  She was already messed up a bit--questioned, I guess, her back a mess, lots of prod burns.  But he wasn't interested in that part of her now.  He told her that she could have died easier if she'd talked, with the collar alone, in a dark isolation cell.  Now she got to die in agony."  He pauses, looks around, not at me anymore.  "And I got to be there when he was done." 

He's looked away, suddenly quiet.  For a moment all the coldness and arrogance is gone, just the pain left.  And the shame.  "He'd already picked out my replacements and I figured I'd be dumped soon.  Usually he has us deported just to make sure we can't say anything.  He was in charge of her execution.  He ordered me to help." 

"You killed her?" I have to ask, remembering Elaine. 

"No.  Just made her last few hours more miserable than she needed them to be.  He used a shrink collar.  It's wet leather.  You sew it around the throat where they can just manage to breath.  Then it shrinks, and eventually it crushes the throat and they suffocate.  But they have hours to wait, and he liked it when she tried to scream and would choke instead." 

He looks up at me.  "I was going to refuse.  I didn't particularly care if he killed me then.  I'd rather be dead than shipped off to some work crew for a few months or maybe even a few years with nothing but an accident to wait for." 

He droops his shoulders.  "Then he said he'd take Cheryl instead.  He had the authority to get her deported, and he'd have picked her out for himself.  I couldn't stand the thought of his filthy hands on her.  I know he'd been watching her.  He told me a lot of things about her life, made sure I knew the baby was born and all that." 

I remember the caltie who came into the barn that day, especially the smile.  "He excused me to deliver her," I tell him.  

"Don't you see?  The only way I can protect her is to look like I don't care?"  His shoulders droop and rise and the coldness starts to return.  He gives me one last glance before it covers all the pain, almost of gratitude. 

"I'll keep this to myself," I tell him as I stand up and start working.  We've been talking too long.  Neither of us can afford trouble, least of all him.  He's not sarki.  He will always bear the brand of the underclass and one hint of trouble and he'll be back. 

I think of Miles scream as they shot his wife, the relief in my heart that they didn't shoot mine.  I don't want to but I understand.  What if I hadn't told Ezri about the Founders, would she have abandoned me?  Would it have been better? 

We work the next hour without comment, Jackson never looking at me, but I can't get my mind off of his words.  I've pretended and taken the personal consequences.  I've refused and suffered a worse loss.  Weyoun will draw me back again and what do I do next?  I have a wife and children to protect now.  For Carl it was easy, though he is not finding the left overs so easy to live with.  His owner will not likely ever bother him again.  But Weyoun will certainly make other demands of me. 

I owe my family and the ghost of the man who died for me as well.  But I can't stand to see Carl push away the only people who can help him. 

It's nearly done, our noisy cover almost over.  I get his attention, make him look at me.  "Look, don't shove her away.  It won't matter to the caltie.  But those children need a father, and Cheryl needs you.  You still need each other." 

He pauses, both of us checking for any unloaded cargo, especially anything spilled on the floor.  He is near, the coldness fully in place but I can see through it now.  "I don't know how to anymore." 

"Let her do it.  Don't fight her.  Just don't be alone." 

The warehouse is done.  We'll spend the rest of the day on regular scrub work, probably work late.  Carl goes with another group and I don't see him the rest of the day, but I notice that night he sits next to his wife to eat.  Cheryl looks puzzled but pleased.  He doesn't speak to her, certainly doesn't try to touch her, but he's gotten closer than since he returned.  It's a start. 

Ezri notices, and that night, running her hand down my back as she pulls off my clothes, she murmurs softly, "too bad they took away his beach.  Wonder if he'll ever find it again." 

I don't know what to say.  For Carl all the beaches are gone.  The only freedom Carl will know is when the caltie is dead and he might break the chains in his mind.  The man who enslaved him will likely never come again, but for Carl it doesn't matter. 

But I do not belong to Weyoun.  No matter how many times he asks, no matter how many ways I must deal his demands, I will never allow myself to be owned like Carl is. 

No matter what happens in the future, I'm still luckier than him.  Ezri opens her clothes and slides next to me.  I pull them off and she undresses me.  The waves are gentle and the breeze is quiet.  The full moon shines above us.  As long as we have the beach we have each other. 

                               *** 

The fall and the harvest have gone now.  The days are icy and a week ago we had our first snow. 

Before, most of us had only played in it, if that.  Even those who fondly remembered the white cold cover have come to change their minds now that we have to live with it. 

Today I am on early crew.  There is a dusting of snow on the ground, not so much as the last few days, but it's cold.  By morning the drifts have turned icy and we try to avoid them until they melt in the sun.  We start the heating units and prepare our group's breakfast.  With all the warmers going it's not too bad.  The hard part is when we have to haul the carts to the other units in the cold.  The coats they've given us help, but don't stop the cold wind that chills through all your clothes. 

At least I'm on scrub now.  We spend most of our time in the shed where it's warmer.  With the field crew working in one of the inside warehouses, the night is the coldest part of our existence, locked inside our quarters in the chill. 

The walls would absorb the heat of the day if it was warm enough.  But the sun has no real heat and the walls do little to help but keep out the wind, as the first real winter weather of the year begins.  Worse, it will just get colder and the snow heavier before spring comes.  In the old folk tales, every culture had some celebration for the coming of spring.  Now I understand why. 

And the monsters should be dead by now.  But the camp is still being run at full production, and the war with the Breen is still being fought.  There is a lot of movement around camp and we hear all the rumors now.  The latest is that the Dominion is sending Jem'Hadar against the Breen in record numbers.  Speculation says it's a final push and this miserable war will be over.  Most people hope the Dominion wins.  The Breen are an unknown.  People captured early on remember them too well.  The Dominion is still the enemy and we're still their slaves, but at least when the war ends we won't have things quite as hard. 

I'm still reminded of my question to Sisko so long ago, amid the misery of a Sanctuary district.  We failed to keep paradise, but I think I have my answer now.  Most of the people here would rather stay slaves than risk starving in the ruin the Dominion will leave behind. 

Most of them believe the massive commitment of Jem'Hadar is a measure of victory.  But I wonder.  Is there a reason to move the Jem'Hadar far away from the Vorta's established command centers?  Sloan gives me worried looks now and then, and I can't forget that I never tested the new disease.  But I can never ask Sloan what it was intended to do.  

I won't risk my family.  We've managed this long, we can hang on for more.  

Breakfast is ready.  We start the carts towards our quarters, glancing reluctantly back at the warmth.  The doors are opened for us, and we push the carts inside. 

We've been eating in our quarters for a month now.  The little children are of no particular use now that the fields are done, and are left behind with a few of the women hurt in an accident.  The children and recovering women never leave this room at all.  Since it's light enough, I've allowed them to read some of the books during the day.  But I'll roll carts sooner than be locked in all the time. 

I finish my serving duty and sit down to eat with the family.  We have adopted Kara and her mother.  The food is hot and we eat it quickly.  Otherwise it gets cold.  A warm breakfast is very important right now. 

Looking out at the door, still shut, I can't stop asking myself why they aren't dead?  Why are we still here, trapped in this place?  Was there a mistake made somewhere along the line and they will live on?  Better to have refused entirely than that. 

The bowls are piled back in the carts, and everyone who's leaving is lined up with their crews.  The guards open the door, and we file out to our daily drudgery. 

The Martians still gather in their groups, but they aren't strangers anymore.  With the cold and the snow and early darkness, we all are a little too resigned about our lives. 

Nobody said much during breakfast, and Ezri kisses the children with great affection.  She is hardly ever Ezri.  It's very jarring to see Jadzia standing next to me, holding Yoshi and comforting Molly, keeping Tessie from running off.  But she was always strong, and had integrated all her parts so well that you hardly knew she was a joined Trill.  She wanted children so badly.  Now she has them.  And now, we need her strength. 

I think about Worf sometimes.  He was on the station when it was taken, but chose his own way out.  Those Klingons who didn't are either dead or sent to one of the detention camps where the survivors of his kind have ended up as payment for being so uncooperative. 

Sometimes, I am grateful that Ezri was here instead of Jadzia.  She'd have been sent away with him, as his wife.  She would be dead by now.  I don't know what I'd do without her, even if it takes Jadzia to keep her safe. 

It's fitting that Jadzia has gotten a second chance.  She is a good mother, steady and strong and loving, giving them all the love the hard cold world outside denies them.  I'd rather have Jadzia here than Curzon.  But then, I'd rather have Curzon deal with trouble than Joran.  

Molly hugs me and gives me a kiss, dragging her brother along.  He has a cold and I'd rather she let him stay warm.  "Yoshi needs to stay in bed," I tell her. 

With big solemn eyes she takes his hand and leads him back.  Tessie is playing with her doll, and Molly joins in the game.  But I can see the terror in her eyes.  A couple of children have died of phenomena from colds that did not improve. 

I remember the first time I went to Bajor to innoculate a group of children against one of the diseases left behind after the Cardassians departure.  It's scary how much Molly looks like them now. 

I'm sorry, Miles.  I'm trying.  I will keep them alive somehow. 

But it nags at me that something must be wrong if the Jem'Hadar are being sacrificed at such rates.  Maybe we just need to wait a little longer.  I wish I knew if it was time to hope or despair. 

We leave our families behind, and go our separate ways.  We load the other breakfast carts and send the serving crews on their way.  The bins are filled with grain and water to soak, and we start washing the trays as the serving crews return. 

I'm completely absorbed in work, letting the heating coils and steam keep away the cold, when three Jem'Hadar approach.  They come near the shed.  I don't hear them over the noise of our work the first time they call my name. 

"Bashir, you will come," insists the head guard, louder the second time.  

We grow quiet, and I reluctantly pull my wet hands out of the water, drying them on the outside of my coat.  I stuff them in my pockets, but my hands are pulled out and manacled behind me.  I can feel Carl staring at me, see Realand looking away. 

For the first time, I actually want to come back here.  

But they march me to a small transport and shove me inside a cell.  The door locks and I'm left in the pitch dark. 

It rolls out of camp, then I can feel it lift off.  I try not to think of why I'm here.  But I hope Ezri doesn't worry too much.  I know she'll take care of the children if I don't come back. 

It isn't a very long trip.  We land and sit.  My hands are starting to hurt, my fingers growing numb.  I just want to get to wherever it is taking me.  It lands, and I wait in the dark, staring at the door.  And then, finally, it opens. 

The Jem'Hadar shove me through a door, the area still in winter, and lead me to a small room where the manacles are removed.  I'm ordered to strip. 

I obey them and am ordered into a smaller room.  The door is locked. 

Suddenly I understand when the shower begins.  It would be nice if it was a water shower.  I let myself imagine warm water running all over my body, with the warmth and relaxation filling my mind.  But I'll settle for a sonic shower. 

It's been months since we had any kind of bath.  I'd ceased to think about the general filth and stink.  Everybody else smells so we don't notice it anymore.  Occasionally we get rinsed off a bit in the rain, but other things have come to matter more than being clean. 

It lasts a long time.  I would have had it last longer.  I'm released and clean clothes are tossed at me by a guard. These clothes are really clean ones, not the half-rinsed greyish things that pass for washed at home.  I slide them on my clean body, allowing myself to enjoy the luxury. 

It's easier than thinking about why I am here. 

The manacles are replaced.  They are very tight.  I'm led down a long corridor to an office.  They shove me in the door and wait. 

"Take off the manacles," orders Weyoun. 

We must still be on Bajor.  Why is Weyoun here and what does he want with me? 

I stand rubbing my wrists, noticing the slave mark burned into my hand.  I keep remembering Carl's warning, especially the part about Ezri, and remember there is still something worse. 

Though, oddly enough, Weyoun is nervous.  He tries to look preoccupied, but he's not paying any attention to the padd he's holding.  "Leave us," he orders the Jem'Hadar guards.  He watches as they exit, staring at something on his desk, still trying to cover his nerves.  

I wait where I stand, trying very hard not to show how much I want to kill him.  I know the Jem'Hadar can be back in an instant.  But I still can't help but wonder why he would leave me alone in a room with him. 

I say nothing, show none of the hate flowing through my veins.  I think of Molly and her brother, of Tessie, of Kara and her mother, and my Ezri.  They are still hostages.  I couldn't bear to lose them.  I force myself to behave.  I may still refuse, but I will know what I'm to do at least this time. 

He stands suddenly, brushing past me.  "Come," he orders. 

I follow him as he goes through a second door.  We are in an infirmary, quite well equipped and stocked.  On the single biobed in the room lies the male changeling, obviously quite ill.  

Our timetable was off, but it worked.  I do not show the satisfaction deep inside me.  I do not let myself feel the worry.  What if they don't die, but just fade very slowly.  What sort of havoc could they cause before they go? 

Weyoun looks at the bed.  "Doctor," he says. 

Doctor.  I glance at my hand.  I wish he'd make up his mind. 

"The Founder took ill several months ago.  He grows very weak when he takes new forms, and it has grown worse in the last few weeks.  You know as much about the Founder's biochemistry as any of our people and you will use that knowledge to serve the Dominion." 

I don't want to serve the people who've enslaved me.  I don't want to touch the monster who should be dead by now.  But there is Ezri and the children, and my promise to Miles.  And, I admit, a lot of curiosity about why he's still alive. 

"I'll need equipment and some samples," I say quietly, not looking at Weyoun or the Founder. 

"All you'll need has been provided.  When you have found some sort of answer, you will be returned to your family." 

No deals then.  No promises dangled in front of me.  No temptations to be like the people who run the camp for them.  Good.  It's easier that way.  I couldn't stand to be like them. 

I won't look at Weyoun, even if he wants me to.  But there is something curious about his tone.  He is very worried.  And there is a great deal of arrogance there too.  

If the Founder's die, the Jem'Hadar will kill the Vorta before they kill each other.  They despise them.  Weyoun has to know this. 

I wonder if he isn't planning to tell them.  There are no Jem'Hadar in evidence except the two who brought me here.  I'm sure there are guards, but I wonder who he's got to fill the role. 

"May I examine him?" I ask.  I can't deny the curiosity about what we did and how it may not have worked. 

"Please," says Weyoun.  He hands me a tricorder himself. 

I scan the Founder.  He has taken a solid form, the same half-defined form Odo usually adapted.  But he's very weak.  He is only half-conscience.  "How long ago did he morph?" I ask, for the first time the fascination with the medical problem overcoming my great distaste for the idea. 

"Perhaps an hour," says Weyoun.  "This condition has become much worse in the last week.  Before that it wasn't immediately noticeable." 

"What happens when he returns to his natural form?" I ask, almost forgetting who I'm addressing. 

"Much the same, Doctor."  He walks over to the Founder.  "There has not been the time to organize much research into this condition.  I have what is known already provided in your laboratory.  I believe the Founder should rest now." 

Weyoun ushers me out of the room, to another corridor leading to a locked door.  He opens it himself, and I enter. 

It is as well stocked a lab as at Starfleet Medical.  I'm astonished I'm being allowed access to so much equipment.  There is even a replicator.  But I think of Ray.  He's probably dead by now.  All he wanted was a piece of fruit for his daughter.  Weyoun wants much more, and looks to be willing to provide whatever it takes to get it. 

I keep thinking of Carl, how he saved his family, how he sold his soul.  I've cheated and refused.  Now, looking at the lab, perhaps it is time to cooperate.  The changelings will die anyway.  I'd like to know why.  And I want Ezri and Raina and the children to have a chance to survive. 

There is always something worse.  He may call me Doctor and let me have this lab, but my hand bears the truth.  "You'll work here for the immediate future, and be confided during the night."  He looks up, unexpectedly, and I hear a hint of desperation in his voice.  "For you own protection, of course." 

From whom, I wonder?  The Jem'Hadar?  My own people who have the wrong idea?  But I think he's sincere about that. 

I know when he has to he'll use Ezri and the others as a threat, especially with the hints of desperation.  Is he keeping me safe from some unknown elements among a resistence group?  Is he worried the Jem'Hadar and others who worship the Founders as gods will prevent my efforts as if I was really out to destroy them? 

Is Weyoun starting to grow a little paranoid, and for good reason? 

He leaves me alone.  I delve into the files, detailed samples and scans of not only this but other changelings that are afflicted.  All in all it's rather well organized for something not yet coordinated. 

I think I know why.  Weyoun, or perhaps the changelings, are keeping this quiet.  Massive numbers of Jem'Hadar are sent to fight the Breen.  The Jem'Hadar need not go on a rampage if they aren't told the gods have perished. 

I wonder why Weyoun hasn't been replaced by now, with the arrogance he's showing.  Or perhaps he can't be.  Damar did his best to destroy cloning facilities. 

Other guards appear at the door when I'm retrieved hours later.  I've had my fill of food from the replicator they provided.  But there are no Jem'Hadar.  I don't know the name of the species, but remember them being shown a long, long time ago in a briefing as a Dominion ally--but not one genetically programmed to follow. 

My original guards are dead.  Their bodies are lying in the corridor.  I wonder if Weyoun shot them himself. 

We set out to kill the Founders so the Dominion would become so unstable we could break free of it.  But what if it goes on anyway?  We're still the one's with symbols on our hands. 

I stop in front of the door as ordered.  It is opened.  It is neither a cell nor a room, but a little bit of both.  Two bunk beds are along one side.  There is a table and chairs.  A bookshelf has books sitting in view. 

There are no windows, but it's warm and dry and I feel incredibly lucky. 

It is already occupied.  I'm stunned to see Odo come out of a smaller room.  Disheveled, his hair hanging down in shaggy lumps, he watches both me and the guards with caution. 

The guards leave and close the door.  I thought he was cooperating.  But he looks too confused and depressed for that.  He says nothing, but walks towards me.  "Doctor?" he asks as if he isn't sure who it is. 

"Bashir," I say.  "Yes, it's me." 

He continues to stand there, just staring.  "Human's don't have names," he says.  "The only humans with names are collaborators." 

The last time I saw Odo, Miles died, torn apart by Jem'Hadar bayonets.  His wife died from multiple hits from their rifles.  Their children are mine now, and I cannot let more die because Weyoun wants to play games.  I found a way out the first time.  Somehow, I will this time as well.  Even if they consider me a collaborator I won't let any more of my family or friends die. 

I keep remembering Carl's face when he told me about Cheryl, how the caltie wanted her and would take her if he didn't do as told.  He was ashamed.  So am I.  But I also remember Miles lying in a puddle of blood, and know Carl wasn't exaggerating about what Ezri would become should she be deported. 

But that is private, not for Odo to know.  I send away the shame. 

Except for when they took me off crew to bring me here, they haven't used a name in months.  I understand what he means, and have to defend myself.  "I'm not a caltie," I tell him, openly insulted, rubbing my beard.  "I was taken out of my crew and brought here.  Nobody asked if I wanted to come." 

He eyes me cynically.  "You are cooperating, are you not?  You look a little clean for a sarki." 

I've know the word.  I don't appreciate him using it.  I wonder if every place there are kasari there is a version of it to let the others feel superior to someone.  "I didn't ask for the shower either," I say.  But I did enjoy it.  When they send me home I'll feel dirty again, and I'll notice how filthy the rest are. 

They will all notice me, too.  I'll pay for the replicator, and the clothes and the shower.  Now and then suspected collaborators have been found dead, or suffered unexplained accidents.  I will not be forced to shave off the beard.  It is my claim to innocence. 

I have a family.  I promised Miles I'd keep them safe.  It was simple before.  The Jem'Hadar were the enemy, are the enemy.  Weyoun wouldn't hesitate to dispose of my family if I don't cooperate. 

But if I do, I might wake with a knife at my throat, and nobody will notice.  If I can't convince Ezri to trust me it could be her hand holding the knife.  I'm not sure how much control she has over Joran. 

I lose either way. 

"I have a family.  Weyoun will deport them."  I stare back at him. 

"They all have families," he grumbles.  He studies me.  It occurs to me that he has Kira, too. 

The statement must remind him, since he moves closer to me, concern written in his eyes.  "How is Kira?  Have you seen her?  I have asked but they won't give me any answers." 

There is desperate worry in his eyes.  It is the same kind of terror I know when I think of Ezri. 

Weyoun must be keeping Odo isolated, just in case.  No wonder he's so bitter.  

"I haven't seen her in awhile, but she looked okay," I say.  Months ago, but then I suspect she will still be quite safe.  Weyoun won't lose his bargaining chip. 

Odo looks at my hand, scowling.  Glancing at the symbol, he shakes his head.  "You don't hear much news," he says. 

He takes one of two glasses, filled with tea, and hands it to me.  "Not much," I admit. 

"I've been threatened with that," says Odo rather gruffly, "but he wouldn't dare."  He sits, and I take the other chair.  It is very comfortable.  It feels a little odd to be sitting so far off the ground.  "I might even tell you about it," he adds, his face grim.  He turns away and ignores me. 

I am caught in this dilemma, and Odo is the only one that can help.  Even if I wanted to I can't cure the monsters.  Weyoun won't accept failure and the others won't trust me even if he does.  There are facts I need to know about the Dominion itself, and how it is functioning, to find a safe way out of my problem.  Somehow, I must find an answer.  Odo could help, but he won't even look at me. 

Suddenly, I'm very tired.  "Where do I sleep?" I ask. 

He still won't look at me.  "You may take the top," he says. 

Keeping out of his way, I climb up the side and lay down on the bunk.  It feels strange, too soft, too insecure.  I roll against the wall and close my eyes.  

If I do find a way, will Weyoun make me live like this, with clean clothes, my choice of food, and the hatred of everyone I know?  I'd rather take the work and filth and bugs.  I would rather spend my life kasari and be ignored, than have to wonder each night if I'll wake to a knife in my back, suddenly paralyzed while I'm gagged and ripped apart to die in agonizing pain in a pool of my own blood. 

That is usually how known collaborators die.  I think of Miles and all the blood and wonder if I am not looking at my own future. 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 19

                               *** 

It is "night".  The lights are shadowy and dim. 

For seven years I accepted the artificial simulation that eventually fools the senses.  At first on Bajor the day was too bright and the pitch dark of night intimidating.  But I'm used to it now.  It's hard to sleep without the blackness of real darkness. 

If I can sleep at all . . . I picture them returning after their shift, searching the faces and not finding my own.  I can hear someone explain that the Jem'Hadar took me.  I can see the devastation in Molly's eyes as a little more of her childhood is torn away, Tessie's confusion as another parent is gone. 

I'm still worried about Yoshi.  There is little I could do if his cold turns bad.  Even if they occasionally innoculate us against the latest epidemic, children are still considered disposable.  But if--no, when--this is over I don't want to find him gone. 

I try to see Ezri, but she's hard to define.  Lately, she has almost vanished.  Her hair is almost to her shoulders now, hanging in lanky, dirty hunks.  She pulls it back with a tie to keep it out of her eyes, like many of the women, but it isn't long enough to stay there and she's forever pushing it out of the way now.  But then, I'm used to the beard too.  I would miss it.  I'm almost used to seeing her with her hair longer and can't quite remember how she looked before.  She's started to look more and more like Jadzia.  I loved Jadzia, and wanted her.  But not this way.  But I'd take almost any of her facets now just to have her near. 

It's too light, and too warm.  Our matts are spread out together, and I miss the closeness of the others cuddled near.  Molly talks in her sleep, and I keep listening for words that are too far removed to hear. 

The bunk is too high.  I would be more comfortable with the mattress on the floor.  But I'll try that tomorrow night.  Odo spent half the evening pacing and I don't want to wake him up. 

He's treating me like the others did, assuming that my cooperation comes with loyalty.  That's not fair, and he should certainly know it.  Kira is being kept from him, but he knows Weyoun will make sure he never forgets she's at risk.  He hasn't cooperated, but he isn't fighting the advantages he has, like the soft bed and replicator.  But then, I can't imagine being locked up here alone for such a long time.  Perhaps the cost is not all that different than the one we pay. 

But I still want to go home, to the people that make life mean something.  Maybe Odo and I have that in common. 

Weyoun will send me back.  I can not allow myself to believe anything else.  I will not endanger Ezri or the children.  I cannot break my promise to Miles. 

But the others, my family among them, will not expect me to return.  We are the last step before oblivion.  They are saying good bye tonight as I desperately search for some way to get out of this trap without betraying my own.  

Even if they ignore me, and I'm relegated to the worse jobs we do, I would rather be there than here.  Somewhere in the mass of files and tests I have waiting for me is an answer.  I just hope it won't come too late for the people who matter. 

                               *** 

Odo has made dinner.  I haven't had so much food in a long time, and simply can't eat that much.  He's on his third glass of tea, and appears to be sipping it without any enjoyment. 

I notice he's gained weight.  I wonder if it's occurred to Weyoun that changelings don't get fat either.  If it does, Odo will find his replicator disabled, or perhaps they will remove it entirely.  He still disapproves of me.  He barely tolerates my presence, but it's been a long time since he had someone to talk to.  I guess he can't resist, even if he never makes eye contact. 

"Weyoun wants me to call back the Jem'Hadar, keep them under control.  They don't know I'm a solid.  He's sure they'll never discover it on their own."  He looks personally amused as he orders another plate of desert.  

Odo is playing a dangerous game.  But I guess it's keeping him sane.  Still, there has to be a reason why Weyoun is so worried about the Jem'Hadar that he'd need a changeling to keep them under control.  I'm surprised that I had almost the same idea.  I wonder if it would work anyway.  "You've been isolated?" I ask. 

He doesn't look at me.  "Almost completely."  He puts down his tea, stares at the plate in front of him.  "I asked to be with Kira, whatever the circumstances.  But he wouldn't release me after she died." 

I'm confused.  "She?" 

"The other changeling, the female who tried to lure me so many times.  The male was sent when the station was retaken, because she was so ill."  He picks up his tea again, and takes a sip.  "My people--those who were my people--are individuals outside of the link.  He was rather upset about the Breen.  After that, he had no interest in luring me back.  So I was denied Kira's company as punishment." 

I watch him as he stands, taking away the tray and all the plates.  He looks more depressed than before.  When he returns, he sits heavily in the chair.  He's got something around his wrist, a Bajoran bracelet she must have given him.  He takes it off and holds it in his hand, staring at it.  "Then you know how I feel," I say. 

He does not take his eyes off the bracelet.  "I have no idea what a *caltie* feels like," he snaps back. 

He ignores me.  I don't want to play his game.  I don't care what Weyoun had done to him.  I will not put up with being insulted by that name.  But I need to know what happened to the female changeling.  I keep my voice even.  "The changeling, was she alive when he was cured?" I ask. 

"Yes, just barely.  She didn't survive your cure."  Odo looks over the room.  "I was moved here shortly after I saw you." 

I look around the room.  No matter how comfortable it is, I can understand his mood if he's been locked inside here all that time.  But the word still hurt.  "Do you ever get out of here?" I ask. 

"Only recently, and only to see Weyoun," he grumbles.  Odo stares at the door.  "I've already made my choice and he knows what it is.  He can't quite forget what I was or I would have been moved to one of the work camps months ago."  I have a feeling he would much rather that than be locked in this comfortable tomb. 

He'd never call in the Jem'Hadar for Weyoun.  But I wonder if Odo would do it for Kira and the rest trapped directly in their path should Weyoun's little plot fail. 

"He wants me to treat the Founder," I say. 

"And will you?" challenges Odo, daring me to refuse, staring at me. 

"I have a wife and children.  Miles and Keiko are dead and we're raising Molly and Yoshi and a little girl named Tessie.  I made a promise to Miles, and to Tessie's grandmother, to take care of them."  I am tired of his attitude, and stare back. 

Odo can say anything he wants.  Weyoun can't replace him with another ex-changeling.  But if he has to there are others who could study the disease.  I'm still very careful what I say. 

Odo slumps down in his chair, gazing at the wall.  "Do you know how many of your people they killed, just outright executed for being humans?" 

I know.  I've heard stories from the new people.  I hate being here, being put in this trap.  I don't want to swallow the hatred I feel for Weyoun and his empire.  I'd love to tell them no and mean it. 

But I promised Miles.  I can't cure the monsters anyway.  Why let people I care about be hurt without trying to find a safer way out?  "Yes," I say steadily.  "It is my intention that my family not be among them." 

Odo studies my expression for a moment before scoffing at me.  "Do as you want, Doctor.  I will do as I must." 

Odo moves away from me, sitting down on his bed.  He ignores me the rest of the night. 

I retreat to the corner of the room where I've moved my bed.  I keep looking at his books, wishing I could take one to read.  But they are his.  I assume he is the same about his being touched as I am about mine.  He knows that Weyoun won't hurt Kira.  The Vorta won't risk losing his only chance of Odo's cooperating.  But he wouldn't hesitate to deport Ezri or I.  We share the way we feel about our books.  We're both being used.  But I can be replaced and must never forget it.  

But Odo gets bored and likes to talk.  No matter how much he detests being locked up with a caltie he can't ignore the company.  It doesn't matter if he talks to me or the walls.  It shouldn't be hard to encourage him.  I'm a very good listener.  

                               *** 

If only Sloan were here . . .  If I had help I could be done sooner and go back . . . home?  How can a prison be home where we are treated like animals?  But this isn't really different.  The doors lock behind us just the same. 

Sloan will never be sent here.  He's too unstable, too undependable.  I'm not sure he'd be able to help anymore.  I don't want to have to deal with a stranger. 

But maybe Sloan could tell me if I'm on the right track.  Even if I wanted to I can't cure them.  I've verified that already.  I don't know if Weyoun will like it, but I do know a way to help them.  Perhaps it will fit nicely into his plans.  I will not admit to myself that it could help Weyoun as well.  But I feel like Lemas as he admits the whole scheme to save Fielding, knowing it is the only way to save Liz as well.  Weyoun is practical.  He should agree.  It will make his position more secure, but save my family. 

Nothing will keep Weyoun in power for long.  He isn't made for that.  He'll make too many mistakes and it will all come crashing down soon enough. 

And Odo's accusation is still wrong.  If Weyoun had the nerve to deport Kira, I wonder if Odo would be so certain of himself.  His people will still die, just a little slower.  I will not lie to Weyoun or make promises I can't keep.  I have done what I can, and he will have to be satisfied. 

I am allowing this to be a refuge of sorts.  It has been several weeks.  Odo had grudgingly let me read his books.  Almost all of them are detective novels.  He seems to be particularly fond of an old woman named Miss Marple, with half a shelf of her tales.  I find them very enjoyable, a gentle reminder of the home that is gone, or perhaps the one that only existed in our minds of an England that ended long before.  

He still doesn't look at me, our meals a very odd mixture of suspicion and familiarity as he orders the dishes and we eat together.  We even share a conversation, but never look at one another.  When this is done, when I go home, I'll miss the food.  But I think I'll enjoy my meals more. 

There could not have been any real research into this condition or they would have discovered this treatment themselves.  I'm even more certain than before that Weyoun plans to keep the Founders demise a secret, and hate that I have been forced to help him.  I think of Lemas and Liz, standing by the Wall, and wonder if my fate will be the same.  Weyoun may not want any witnesses.  Carl bought his release home by paying a steep price.  The caltie who owns him probably still has plans for him--or Cheryl--down the road. 

I hate to admit that Carl was right.  I'd tried so hard to pretend that he wasn't.  Weyoun will send me home just so he can reel me back when he's ready. 

He doesn't own my mind, never will.  But he owns my life, has the power to control it whenever he chooses.  Is that any different than it was for Carl? 

It's easier during the day, when I can distract myself with tests and formulas.  It is so hard to push away the worry about Yoshi.  I wish I could get some assurance he was all right, that Molly and Tessie aren't sick too.  I force myself to think about the work rather than things I can do nothing about.  At night, after food and conversation, I try to read.  But I can't concentrate.  I miss Ezri, and my children.  They are my children now.  I will save them both for Miles and Ellie and for the love I have for them. 

My wandering mind is pulled back to the lab.  The test looks right.  I've run it five times.  At least they'll live a little longer, and have each other in the end. 

I suppose that means something to changelings. 

I've asked to see Weyoun.  Odo has been very poor company, but he is willing to listen when I ramble, and had a very good idea last night. 

I will give this information to Weyoun.  But there will be a price.  Maybe if we stand together we aren't taking too much of a chance.  

After he knows, we may well never see our families again. 

                               *** 

I am brought into work again, and spend my time looking into things about which I already know the answers.  But it's all encoded in careful terms.  The only people who could make sense of it are their own researchers and if they were trusted I wouldn't even be here. 

I'll have to be the one to give Weyoun the bad news. 

Sloan and his people were very complete, and I can explain it all in terms that can't backfire on us.  Of course, that won't stop them from blaming us anyway. 

I keep wondering, where did this idea to set conditions come from?  I've been listening to Odo ramble for weeks, and lecture me about loyalty in his own annoying way, and maybe that made a difference. 

Or maybe I'm just tired of playing the game their way.  The last time I saw Weyoun he was scared.  I'm only hoping that the arrogance that has come with being irreplaceable has not blinded him to practicality. 

Odo told me about Damar and the cloning facility he destroyed, the way Weyoun can no longer be recreated. 

It's a big risk.  I lay in bed at night and remember the internment camp and how much danger there was of discovery when Tain, and later Garak, were working.  We'd have been shot on the spot.  You take risks when there is nothing left to lose, or when you choose to gamble for a greater good. 

Before we lose everything, all the opportunities, I want to take some kind of stand.  It will probably kill me, but every time I see the image burned into my hand I remind myself that Ezri would be proud of me. 

The morning has wound down, and I'm repeating old tests again, looking for something I might have missed.  I see a hint of it in an early scan, something I'll never know the meaning of now, when the sound of the door opening shuts everything else out. 

Weyoun is here. 

"I was told you wanted to see me," he says. 

What gall we have to think we can bargain with him?  What nerve we have to think he'll listen?  He's more worried than before.  I haven't been allowed to see the Founder, but guess he's either very sick or dead.  I really do hope he's not dead yet. 

"I have results to report," I say as icily as I can.  It's hard.  I still remember his order to have Miles hacked apart.  I still look forward to seeing him die the same way. 

"Report them immediately," he replies, impatient and rushed.  "I have a great deal to do, Doctor."  He is different, not just arrogant but confident of his authority. 

The Founder is too sick to get in the way of any decisions he makes.  I wonder if Weyoun is planning the Breen war all by himself, or if there are other Vorta who are keeping the secret.  But he's clearly taken on an authority that was always a little tentative when the Founders could destroy him as quickly as he can us. 

"Under certain conditions," I say.  I am calm.  Either he agrees or doesn't.  He kills me or lets me live.  He deports me or sends me home.  It doesn't matter.  I'm taking a little of the control back. 

He's annoyed, and surprised.  He stares at me for a few moments.  I can see he is getting angry.  "You do not state conditions."  No "doctor" this time. 

"It isn't complicated.  I just want to see my family and Odo to see Kira." 

Weyoun actually looks relieved.  The Founder must be so sick he's afraid he'll die soon. 

He needs me.  He has to find out what's in this file with a minimum of eyes looking at it.  

After a very long pause, he answers.  "That is reasonable.  I'll have them brought to you tomorrow.  You will also divulge your results in the afternoon."  He snaps out the words. 

How do I tell them nothing I do will keep them from dying?  How will it feel to help them hide the secret? 

"As long as my family is all right," I say. 

"You will be brought here in the afternoon.  Be prepared to reveal your findings or it may be the last time you ever see them." 

I have no doubt he means it.  He's got his own taste of power.  Somewhere inside, he likes it.  He'll do all he can to preserve it.  I don't know quite yet if that is good or bad.  I remember the dead Jem'Hadar that brought me here, the ones who knew about the Founder. 

Weyoun turns and leaves, this time without any further word.  A little while later I'm taken back to my quarters. 

Odo notices my expression.  "What happened?" he asks. 

"Weyoun is going to let us see our families," I say. 

Odo looks me over, debating.  "Not by his own choice, I imagine." 

"Not exactly," I say. 

Odo smiles a little.  "I would like to see Kira again some day." 

"I said *our* families," I add. 

He is relieved and genuinely moved.  "Thank you," he says, very hesitantly. 

We don't say much the rest of the night, each taking a book to read.  I can't follow the one I pick, the carefully placed clues hard to remember even though it is one I've read twice before.  All I can think of is tomorrow and what will either be a beginning or an end. 

                               *** 

I am left alone this morning.  Impatient, worried, and nervous of what comes later in the day, I didn't sleep much.  I'm dozing when the door bursts open. 

I know who it is before I look.  "Daddy," she screams as she bursts into tears and fiercely takes hold of me.  I look up as Ezri and Yoshi are Tessie are ushered inside, Kira following behind. 

They are wearing clean clothes and got a shower.  They may be suspect as well, if Weyoun decides to sent them home.  Yoshi is pulling to be put down, and runs on his short legs to my side.  Tessie is already holding me, and I'm astonished by how much she's grown. 

Her hair is clean and sparkling, all the children are clean.  I realize that it's the first time I've ever seen she and Yoshi so cleaned up.  They are all beautiful children. 

I can not describe the absolute joy there is in knowing they are well.  

I look up at Ezri, standing back a little, looking stunned.  I don't know her.  Ezri is there, but just bits of her.  Jadzia and Curzon glare at me too, but she has made herself into a new person when I was gone.  "We thought you were dead," she says. 

"I wasn't allowed any contact," I say.  I'm overjoyed that she's found some kind of stability.  I'm terrified that I'll be never be a part of this new woman's life. 

She's studying me.  She'd debating weather to believe me and I still see hesitation in her eyes.  "What are you doing here?" she asks. 

"Pointless research.  Nothing that matters."  I hold out my hand.  I try to reach her with my eyes but see nothing but suspicion.  "I didn't want to come.  This was Weyoun's idea.  There was no point in refusing when it didn't really matter."  She doesn't move, staring at me.  I have the terrible feeling she isn't buying my explanation.  "Weyoun is playing games.  He found some of my old genetics research, something I hadn't finished.  He has plenty of people who could have done it, but he want to make sure I know he still remembers me.  He likes making me do what he wants."  She is still watching, considering.  "I'd rather have you alive than make Weyoun find someone else to finish my old project." 

It occurs to me that she has no reason to trust me.  The story even sounds lame to me.  But if she suspects the real nature of my work they will probably die. 

She's being cautious, almost cold.  I decide to be the same way.  I can't get the image of Carl out of my head, making a point of keeping Cheryl at bay until he didn't have to try.  I don't want that for my family but Ezri isn't acting like I'd expected.  I don't quite know who she is anymore.  She moves towards me, but stops.  "How sure were you that it was *pointless* when you agreed to do it?" she says, and I'm reminded of Sloan pretending to be internal affairs.  He'd used the same tone of voice. 

"Ezri," I say, not sure what to reply.  This is supposed to be joyful, not like this. 

"Are you helping them?" she asks, demanding a straight answer.  

If Weyoun is hiding the secret from the Jem'Hadar and everyone else subject to his orders, then will my findings simply make him more powerful?  There is just enough guilt I'm afraid she'll see through any explanation about it. 

How long have I been here?  How hard has it been for them, in the cold and snow and mud while I've had this room with a stock of books and bed.  And the replicator.  I can see her looking at it. 

I see myself through her eyes, clean and well fed and clearly not hungry, and think I might have the same doubts she obviously harbors.  I might well be mistaken for one of the low level calties at camp except for the beard, which is still untrimmed and thick.  She will never forgive me if she believes I have collaborated with them, even to save her and the children.  "No," I say. 

She is still watching.  Something's happened at home, something I don't know about to make her this bitter.  "Why are you here then?" she repeats. 

Quietly, I drop my guard.  My tone is grim, tired.  "To play Weyoun's little games, to let him feel important."  I pause, waiting until she's looking at me.  "To let him demonstrate what we are to him," I add, holding up my hand with the mark of a sarki emblazoned upon it, "so you and these children would stay alive."  She is staring, considering, trying to decide what to believe.  Feeling uncomfortably like Carl in some sort of confrontation with his wife, I look her in the eyes, as cold about it as she is.  "How many parents can they lose before they won't let anybody near?" 

I have hit a nerve.  "How meaningless?" she demands, but with less force. 

"Completely," I say, as calmly as I spoke to Weyoun.  It will be easier to tell him the truth than it is tell her a lie.  "He could have had anyone do it.  He demanded I do it so he could prove how he owns us.  Even he knows the research is pointless.  He wouldn't have dangled you as a reminder if it really mattered, or agreed to this condition I pulled on him.  You don't make deals with Weyoun unless they serve his purposes too." 

She comes forward, stands still.  "I hope that's true," she says. 

"I would not hurt my people, and you know it," I say.  My look dares her to disagree. 

She looks me over, watching the children as they cling to me. 

"No, you wouldn't," she says.  She walks forward, reaching out her hand to touch me.  Her touch is tentative, uncertain.  She still does not trust me.  But at least she knows who I am.  I do not recognize her anymore.  There is no uncertainty, no hesitation.  She has not changed into anyone else.  Most of all she reminds me of Kira when I first met her, long ago in a different lifetime than this one. 

Something is wrong.  Something happened while I was away that hurt her terribly.  "What happened?" I ask. 

"Raina's dead," she says, her voice suddenly dull.  "It was another accident.  I'm worried about Kara.  I had to leave her behind." 

Molly is crying harder now.  

"Just an accident?" I ask. 

"There are a lot of them."  She looks at me.  "Why are we here?" 

"I wanted to see you.  I wouldn't tell Weyoun about the research if I didn't get to see you first." 

I notice Kira is staring at me.  She doesn't believe my explanation.  She walks forward, still studying me.  "I did what I had to do," I say, looking her in the eyes, daring her to argue, and hoping she remembers. 

She watches me, deciding.  Ezri is still uncertain, waiting.  Kira finally makes up her mind.  "Sounds reasonable to me," she says, mostly to Ezri. 

The level of tension in the room visibly relaxes. 

Odo can't take his eyes off Kira.  He doesn't give me away, as I had worried he might.  A deal is a deal.  Having her in the room, so near, is worth a little compromise. 

Odo takes her hand and they sit together.  "What about me?" Kira asks. 

"I owed it to Odo.  He gave me the idea."  

Ezri looks at me, cautiously.  "And after this?" she asks. 

"I don't know.  That depends on Weyoun.  But I got to see you at least." 

I know I should ask how bad things have been, but not now.  I'm stunned by Raina's death.  I don't want to make deals with murders.  But for everyone's sake, the secret must be kept.  Now, if the Jem'Hadar were to discover their gods are dying we would all die.  Weyoun is right to be worried.  He will be the first victim if they discover he has lied.  It would be most satisfying to see them rip him apart, but not if we are the next victims.  Eventually their hold on this quadrant will loosen, and then the time will come.  How many of us are dead already?  Why kill off the rest when time and his own arrogance will take care of the rest.  He'll keep the Jem'Hadar under control in the meantime.  Anything else would be suicide, and I have four children to raise now.  

Holding Molly and Yoshi, with my wife so near, I know I'm not ready for that kind of sacrifice quite yet. 

Odo and Kira say nothing.  But she leans forward and he takes her in his arms.  He just holds her, and we leave them be.  

When the time comes I believe Odo would agree to play Founder a last time.  But never for Weyoun. 

With them so near and afternoon approaching, I am terrified that this is the last time I will ever see my own family.  I can't allow myself to think of anything beyond this moment, with the children cuddled close and Ezri allowing me to hold her.  I banish the afternoon and the conversation which will buy us this time. 

Ezri and the children sit around my bed, and she relaxes a little.  She even lets me kiss her, and has not pulled away as I put my arm around her.  She's still not sure.  But she's willing to take Kira's lead and give me a chance.  I still don't know who she is, but she is stronger than since we were shoved into the cargo hold the day of our capture. 

She had three, now four children relying on her.  She made her own promise to Miles.  When they took me away, she could not be a shattered woman and keep that promise.  Perhaps all this was for the best, even if she is not my Ezri anymore and will never be again.  We do what we have to.  But we don't break promises to the dead. 

Cuddled closely together, we talk quietly of little things. 

"It's been snowing a lot," she says.  "It doesn't melt off anymore.  There's big piles of it all around the buildings.  Actually, it helps keep them warmer." 

"Good," I reply, "The children, how are they doing?" 

"Better," she says.  She looks away when she says, "Everybody is used to the cold anyway." 

But not me.  I've been here in this comfortable place, warm and well fed, while they've been sitting in the middle of winter.  "I guess I'll get used to it too." 

She strokes Molly, who is still crying, but softer now.  "Yes," she says hesitantly, looking at the door.  But she's scared.  She doesn't know any of the details, but is aware this could be the end. 

Molly is half-asleep, but Yoshi has crawled onto my lap.  He's talking in excited words, and here and there I can pick up a meaning.  "Da da," he repeats often, falling back into rushed together sounds that definitely mean something to him. 

"Molly usually translates," says Ezri, but having stopped her tears she's fallen asleep in Ezri's lap.  Yoshi is firmly entrenched in mine, holding on fast with his little hands.  He's babbling less, now, relaxed, as he curls into a comfortable position and almost instantly falls asleep. 

Tessie climbs up next to him, sleepy herself.  She is so much taller and can't keep her fingers out of my beard.  I let her play with it.  She pulls some hairs and Ezri quietly reprimands her.  "No," she insists, "Don't hurt Daddy." 

Ezri takes a deep breath, as Tessie keeps tangling her fingers in my dark beard, her pale wisps of hair sticking out of her head at the back.  "Daddy went away," she says, hurt and anger coloring her tone. 

I stroke her gently.  "Daddy still loves you.  Daddy's here now." 

Tessie starts crying, suddenly, her head buried in my shoulder.  I put my arm around her and just hold her until she stops, her hand sliding from my beard as she falls asleep. 

I am the only father she's ever know. 

I stroke the children.  I pull Ezri closer.  I can tell she is worried.  Whatever she thinks, she does want to go home.  

"I kept the books close," she says quietly.  "It reminded me of you." 

"Have you done any readings?" I ask. 

"A few.  Mostly for the children.  It's dark pretty early."  She pauses, carefully looking at me.  "I read that one you keep to yourself, the one about the Dannie.  When it's light enough, we should read it.  I found it very moving." 

Danni's book.  You read the secret diaries when you think they're dead.  Or the books that were very private.  When I come back all clean and well-fed, what will they think?  Will I still be dead to the rest of them?  I couldn't stand to live through that again. 

"I must have seen her," I say with a little hesitation.  She knows about the trip through time.  A part of her lived it too.  But we've never discussed it.  I don't want to make anyone else curious about it. 

"I didn't expect to ever see you again," she says, looking at me, still a little uncertain. 

"I know.  I wasn't so sure of it myself." 

She still isn't sure.  I doubt she really believes my story but I have to believe she'll understand I can't tell her the truth.  I have to believe she'll take me back.  But she allows me to pull her close and kiss her, and the kiss in return is real. 

I still don't know her, but I look forward to getting acquainted.  She is still my wife.  Yoshi stirs a little in my lap, and we stroke his hair gently to help him relax back to sleep.  Relaxed, Tessie slides off onto the bed.  Ezri is still the only mother these children have and I their only father.  I treasure all of them as the afternoon and its moment of truth comes nearer. 

Abruptly, our moment vanishes as the door opens.  A guard gruffly orders, "You will come," and I slowly untangle myself from the others.  We slide Yoshi carefully onto the bed, and I give each of them a kiss.  I don't know if Ezri believes my story, but she knows what is at stake this afternoon.  I remind myself that she kept one secret, and wonder if she's changed too much to keep quiet about another.  As I pass through the door I look back at them, hoping that this is not the last time I'll ever see my family. 

                               *** 

Weyoun is waiting when I arrive.  He sits at one of the tables, and I stand nearby.  

"You have seen your family.  You will abide by the arraignment."  His violet eyes are hard and cold, and small doubts are insisting on being heard.  He is clearly the decision maker now, and his arrogance shows.  If I help him hide the truth, no matter why, I am betraying my own in some small way. 

"I assume you've monitored us.  I didn't give away any secrets," I say, forcing myself to be as cold as he is. 

"That was wise.  I have done as I promised.  Now it is your turn.  What are your findings?"  He is very tense, clearly worried.  

I remain calm.  I am telling the truth.  It's easier that way.  I stand before him, looking him *almost* in the eyes.  "I can't cure them," I say, getting it over. 

I'm relieved I didn't try to lie.  I watch him as he considers my words.  He is a little stunned.  I suppose he was hoping I'd have a miracle.  After a pause, he asks, "Is that all of your findings?" 

"Not everything," I say, moving around, taking the authority that my knowledge gives me.  I remind myself that presentation is everything.  "There is a condition present that bears no similarity to the previous disease.  There appears to be an ongoing breakdown in their ability to absorb energy.  In a solid it would be analogous with not being able to absorb any of the nutrients from food." 

Weyoun pauses, his concern evident.  "Are you saying that the Founders are starving to death?" 

"Essentially," I say.  I wait while Weyoun considers my diagnosis.  I see grief in his eyes, and determination.  We believed that the Dominion would not survive the death of the Founders.  Perhaps we were wrong. 

He looks up, meeting my eyes.  "You call this a 'condition'.  It is not a disease?" 

I am the doctor.  Weyoun is the friend or family of the patient, someone who cares, but cannot prevent their death.  I've done this before.  Even now, it hurts a little.  "The effect is much the same.  But there is no pathogen present in a 'condition'."  I sit opposite him, putting us at equal footing. "This has existed for a long time.  It was simply too insignificant for me to have ever found it in Odo.  Perhaps the disease exacerbated it, but it would have come to this eventually."  

Sloan had planned it out rather well.  The cure for the first disease contained a small, irreversible genetic patch.  The dna was already there.  The patch simply activated it.  It is impossible to tell how long the deterioration has gone on.  I almost wonder if this was plan B or what was intended from the start. 

Weyoun is shaken, but recovers.  "You cannot treat the condition?" 

"Not in the time they have left.  It would take several years of research to study the biochemistry that causes it.  They'll be long gone by then." 

I use my most clinical tone.  It's easier when it's the truth.  Another concentrated effort like the one that failed with Sloan's first disease might work.  But then, everyone would know. 

"I see," he says, visibly nervous.  He has a problem.  He can't push this supposed research or it will give it away.  And it could still fail and leave the Founders dead, followed shortly by the Vorta. 

"There is one thing that can be done, though I wouldn't call it a treatment."  I am being very professional now.  "It appears that when they link, they can draw on the collective energy of the whole link to sustain them.  Linked, they should live longer." 

He is thoughtful.  "Enough to save them?" 

"Probably not," I answer. 

Weyoun is silent.  "The Founder is so ill he can not properly transform anymore.  Are you suggesting that sending him home would help?" 

I'm fascinated by his manner.  There is so much grief there.  He has lost the foundation of his existence.  In an odd way, I understand. 

It is a good revenge, just as the deaths of the Martians gave the Earth another chance.  But like the devastated world they left behind with their heat ray and black smoke, revenge won't restore our own world.  Revenge isn't as satisfying as I'd like it to be. 

I keep my look grim.  "It could prolong his life considerably."  I'm extremely relieved that Weyoun came up with the idea on his own. 

"Will remaining here and continuing your research make any difference in the end?" he asks slowly. 

I know I could lie.  It would buy me time to experiment with some sort of treatment, knowing it would be too late in the end.  And then, what?  Weyoun will own me, force me into other duties that mark me as a traitor.  I would have a bed and my choice of books and the replicator.  But I don't want that.  "No, nothing short of high priority research will make that kind of difference." 

We both know that is not going to happen. 

"I wish you to examine him first," says Weyoun, worry and uncertainty filling his voice. 

I follow him into the room.  The Founder is unconscious.  I don't ask but guess he's been like this for some time.  I scan him quickly, and study the results.  He's failing rapidly.  "I'd get him there very quickly," I tell Weyoun. 

"That can be arraigned," he says. 

"What about my family?" I ask. 

"You will be returned to your camp." 

I guess my use is ended.  He knows they still have Ezri and now four children's lives to hold hostage.  I'm actually rather relieved to be done. 

I will miss the replicator.  If they stay tonight, we'll have to have a feast. 

He calls the guards and I'm heading out the door when he asks a question. 

"What do you want in exchange for you help?" he asks. 

I'm astonished.  I did not expect a reward, except my life.  I think hard.  Freedom.  Food.  A little privacy.  Food.  Freedom.  But he won't do this. 

Then I remember the fruit.  I've tasted it a few times, tiny traces of sweetness.  "There is a fruit some of the groups get.  Round, orangish, . . ." 

"Kenexa fruit," he says.  It's the first time I've ever heard a name.  "You want your group to get it as well." 

"The rations get very tiresome." 

He nods.  "The Breen are near surrender.  When the war ends we shall add the fruit on a daily basis." 

I am stunned that he would think of that.  I wonder if he might call on me again.  "May the war end soon, then," I say. 

I'm ushered out of the lab.  I will never see it again.  I wish I could be sorry.  But I'd rather scrub tubs than do this again. 

Ezri is waiting, worried.  "I think we're going home," I tell her. 

She nods.  The children are curled up together on the bed, sound asleep.  I don't know if she believes my story, but I wouldn't be going back to our group if I had really betrayed my people.  Calties have their own quarters, good clothes, and probably replicators.  They will pay for them dearly when Weyoun's facade finally falls away.  I am already stained by this act.  I will not make it worse. 

We have a feast, waking the children long enough to eat.  I take out my favorite of Odo's books, a short story collection, and read our visitors my favorite story.  "The Man who Collected the Shadow" was a loner, an oddball who never fit in.  His one passion in life was the Shadow, secret fighter of crime, righter of wrongs.  One day, in a rundown used bookstore, he finds the last two pieces that make his collection complete. 

I smile at his indescribable joy.  I remember the day I discovered the secret of Sloan's second weapon.  It was so simple, so effective.  I wouldn't call it joy, but I will never forget the satisfaction of having solved the puzzle. 

He is complete now.  The power of the Shadow is his.  He can right the wrongs himself now.  He has become the Shadow. 

I have been the Shadow.  I have taken revenge on murders, in the name of the one's they've killed.  I want to go home and wait until it ends now, hoping I will not be excluded from them too long.  I wish him luck in his avocation. 

Odo says, "If you want to take the book when you leave, it's yours."  His tired, very human eyes meet mine. 

He does not know how lucky he is that he was changed.  I wish there was a way of telling him. 

Ezri yawns.  It has been a very long day for her.  We make room for the children on a make-shift bed made of chair cushions, and they are moved without waking.  She looks drawn and pale, and unexpectedly holds me close.  We're almost asleep when she whispers, "I didn't think you'd come back.  They don't make deals."  Her face is resigned.  I don't recognize her anymore.  "But I missed you.  They missed you more," she says, looking at the children.  "We'll have to get to know one another again."  She sighs.  "I had to keep strong for the children.  I found myself." 

There is a curious look in her eyes, not Ezri or Jadzia, but a little of both, and someone else I've never met.  "I know," I say.  Looking her in the eye, I add, "This will end.  It can't last like this." 

She just holds me.  She isn't sure what I did, doesn't trust me entirely, but has made her choice.  It will be hard enough for me when I have to face the others.  I don't want to think of how long it might take before we could be called free.  But with each other we'll find a way to manage.  She has chosen not to be alone, not to leave the children we now claim as our own without a father. 

Looking in her eyes, practical and distant, familiar and relieved, I know what I will face--the cost I will pay for this act of betrayal.  Once Weyoun said I would know the worst.  Now, relegated to almost the lowest caste of slave, I am to be isolated even from my own. 

The first time he gave his orders I tricked him, and even if I had to live with the reputation it gave me I knew that the game had to be played that way, that no matter how difficult revenge would not have been without it.  The second time, I refused and killed my best friend and regained what the game had cost.  But this time there were no lies, no deceptions.  I told Weyoun the truth, bargained with the meager scraps that I could find.  I did it to save my family.  But in the act of cooperation with the enemy, have I truly passed the line to collaborator? 

The Founders will still die.  But this time Ezri and the children will not.  I stare at the door, wondering how hard it will be to look at the others, knowing that when Carl reminds me that he owns me now, I don't know if I can deny it anymore. 

                               *** 

Weyoun is done with me.  We will be going home tomorrow, but we have the rest of the day.  I realize how much I will miss the special things, the replicator and clean clothes, the time to read, but I still want to go back.  To stay here would cost more than I am prepared to pay. 

But for now, we have treats.  I make an enormous ice-cream Sunday for the children, topped with lots of chocolate.  Molly remembers the taste and eats hers quietly, reflectively.  She plays with her friend, but she isn't a child anymore.  I notice Kira is watching her.  I wonder if she sees a little of herself. 

But Yoshi is delighted, covered in melted ice-cream and syrup and so full of energy he can't sit still.  Tessie, with little more than residual memory of such things, still manages to cover herself in sticky chocolate, and eats so much she has a stomach ache.  Odo looks annoyed, but sneaks in a little smile, the first I've seen since I was brought here. 

If only we could end this now, somehow, before Yoshi's childhood vanishes as his sister's already has, as Tessie's has already been marred.  But I made sure that Weyoun can keep his secret for a little while.  Yoshi will have to take whatever childhood he can get.  I look at Ezri, wondering if she can see the guilt. 

For if I didn't he wouldn't have any childhood at all.  Ezri and I would be gone and he'd have lost more parents.  I could not do that to him.  And Tessie would once again be the child to be parceled out to whoever was willing to take her, ripped from family again by Weyoun this time.  Odo and Kira have been very quiet, giving us privacy.  Kira will be staying behind. 

Finally, after dinner, the children retire to their bed and fall asleep.  Ezri is sleepy and lies down herself.  I catch Kira watching the children.  "I must be hard," I say. 

She looks across the room at something far away.  "Don't leave them, whatever you do.  Don't take that from them." 

I'd heard about Kira's mother and Dukat.  I can understand why she did it.  She was taking care of her family in the only way she could.  I wonder what I would have done if the only option that would keep them safe was my staying here, working for Weyoun.  They would assume I was dead.  I think I would leave them with that lie rather than forcing them to live with the disgrace of a caltie for a father. 

Kira is looking at me, staring.  She didn't believe my explanation to Ezri.  She can see the guilt.  But she must know I had reasons I can't say.  "They'll shut you out.  They might kill you.  You do know that," she says. 

"I won't belong to Weyoun," I answer. 

*Not completely,* I think to myself. 

She watches me closely, seeing everything.  I let her look.  She is staying here, for now at least.  Both of us are personal pawns in a game we don't control.  Just as I was allowed to go, she was made to stay.  I'm sure neither she nor Odo was consulted in the decision. 

"Sometimes, we do what we have to."  She says it so quietly it's almost a whisper.  Our eyes meet in a moment of silent understanding.  

She glances at Odo and he joins her.  He has several books in his hands.  "I thought you'd like these.  I can always get more."  His expression is neutral, but I understand.  He has forgiven me.  He has Kira now, until Weyoun takes her away again.  I take the books from him, and he nods at me.  "I hope we will see each other again under better circumstances." 

I nod.  "Take care of each other," is all I can think of to say. We retire to our respective families. 

Ezri stirs as I crawl into the narrow bed next to her.  I realize she wasn't asleep.  She's looking at me, no compromise in her eyes.  "I've been thinking," she says, her voice very low.  "When we get home I'll have to protect you.  But I want the truth, the real one." 

She means what she says.  But Kira is right.  Suspected collaborators have died messy deaths before.  I did this to stay alive.  I don't want to be killed by my own.  The rest will look to Ezri.  If she accepts me, the rest will eventually come around. 

"Not here," I whisper.  She nods.  She pulls me closer, snuggles close, and I take comfort in her touch.  For the first time, I worry that I no longer have a home. 

                               *** 

End, Surrender, part 3