TITLE: Surrender, Part 4-Madness 
Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home 
Author: Valerie Shearer 
Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net 
Series: DS9 
Part 1/60(Chxx) 
Rating: R 
Codes:Angst,B/Ez,Ob's,K/O,AU,Post-War 

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

For full header please see Part 0/60 

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


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



                            Surrender 

                        by Valerie Shearer 

what if ... 

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



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

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

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

     Robert Heinlein, The Green Hills of Earth 



Part 4 - Madness 

                            Chapter 20 

                               *** 

Yoshi is smiling, pointing out the window as the transport lifts off, excited by the strange 
morning.  The pilot has left the window open, and the clouds are thick as we rise into the sky.  
Yoshi doesn't remember runabouts and spaceships.  The grubby life we're allowed is all he knows, 
and this is a grand adventure to him.  His stomach was upset all night from the rich food, and he 
hardly slept at all. 

Tessie is squirming, trying to see it all.  Her tummy ache has passed, but she is still full of energy 
from all the special food and can't sit still.  She keeps looking at the clouds and sky, her young 
eyes round with excitement and a little fear.  When they were brought here it was in the cage, and 
she's doesn't remember much of the world she was born into but vague impressions. 

Molly isn't excited.  She's old enough to remember the world they stole from us, and knows what 
we're going back to.  She's already too old to be a child in this place.  Sitting on her mother's lap 
she watches the clouds as they slide by the window, lost in her own quiet thoughts. 

Ezri is calm, her eyes hard, but I suspect she's hiding the worry.  I disappeared a long time ago.  
They already assumed I was dead.  Would the others assume that she and the children would not 
return as well?  Would any of our meager possessions remain--especially the books? 

I worry about the books.  I know Dorothy will care for them, if she took them.  But what if she 
didn't?  What if my promise to her mattered as much as the one to Elaine about Tessie?  Will I 
have to force the issue to take them back if it comes to that?  Of course, it's a lot easier to worry 
about the books than worrying about what they'll all think of me, the local traitor. 

Ezri will back me up.  I won't find a knife in my back some night.  But they'll make sure my life is 
kept miserable.  None of our work is easy.  Some of it is utterly miserable, and that's all I'll be 
allowed to do for a long time. 

The transport jerks suddenly, Yoshi startled, and his excited babbling is interrupted by the whine 
as we land.  He grows quiet again.  The transport rolls along the ground now, near the gate.  He 
knows where he is now.  The adventure is over. 

Tessie looks away as we approach the gate, growing sad.  But in an odd way she looks relieved as 
well.  It may be a terrible life, but for her it's home.  The strange adventure was fun, but when 
you're not quite three, home matters more. 

Ezri looks down as we approach the gate, the guards looking inside.  Something has changed.  
Neither of them are Jem'Hadar.  In fact, one of them is Romulan.  He passes us through as I gaze 
at Ezri, giving him a deadly stare she doesn't let him see. 

She said things had changed.  I'm beginning to see how much.  Now that the Founders are gone is 
Weyoun disposing of the Jem'Hadar wherever he can?  I'm sure the Romulan guard is more 
concerned with his own comforts than esoteric things like loyalty to the Founders. 

We pass through several more gates.  When I was removed, the passenger compartment was 
closed off and I didn't see anything.  But none of the people at the gates are Jem'Hadar.  Some of 
them are even human.  

If the guards are like us, were like us, what sort of reception will I get?  Will Ezri's acceptance of 
me matter at all?  Will they shun her as well--or worse? 

I wasn't nearly as nervous about this before. 

The transport stops, and we're ushered out into the cold. 

Ezri wraps her coat a little tighter, following the guards--more scattered alpha quadrant 
races--back to our barn.  I'm just cold.  Shivering, I follow behind her, the children rushing along 
between us. 

The door opens, a scattering of children and a few adults inside.  I get a glimpse of their stunned 
faces as I'm stopped before entering, held back by the rifle--same as the Jem'Hadar had 
carried--held by a human guard. 

Ezri looks back at me with a nod, and I hand her the books Odo gave me.  I wait next to the 
guard, trying hard not to look at him.  As the door shuts, I stumble shivering after him to the 
cooking tent, where I'm shoved ahead to a small alcove. 

The director of our section, Sir as we call him, is in a new uniform, wearing one of the little 
patches the guards have on their coats.  He doesn't look up as I wait to see what he wants.  At 
least, aside from the new clothes, I'm used to him. 

"I was told you would be back today," he says, shuffling some papers.  "We're short on clean up 
tonight.  You'll go out with them.  For now, we've got today's shipment to unload."  He looks 
down, as if I'd suddenly vanished. 

That means I'm dismissed.  The guard wanders out, keeping close to the warmth of the cooking 
area as long as he can, and I trail behind.  Not even a short respite from work for me.  Perhaps I'm 
lucky.  Maybe the rest will figure out that had I sold them out I'd be in the kind of uniform the 
director is wearing instead of prison dress.  But it is very clean prison dress, and I look rather well 
fed. 

I may still be sarki, but a little lower in the scale of things than the rest now.  The guard hurries as 
we get past the warmth, and the wind is blowing.  He points me toward the crew, already 
shoveling grain into the machine that breaks it up and I hurry to grab a shovel. 

Moving is warmer than being still, and I don't stand out so much. 

I watch the guards, noting the distribution of species.  A Bolian, a few Romulans, other less 
known species are among them.  There is even a Trill.  They leave us alone, but it's too cold to 
dally anyway.  As the melting snow soaks into my boots, I notice they are shifting around.  It's 
satisfying that they are probably colder than we are. 

My clothes are spattered with mud and the dust from the machine by the time dinner comes.  We 
eat in the covered area of the building, quickly while the food is hot. 

It's too cold to think of the replicator, but I will later. 

Immediately, I'm sent away with the clean up crew.  I still remember how to do it.  It just isn't 
quite so automatic anymore. 

Ezri is in bed by the time I get back, wet and dirty already.  All day I've gotten looks, first of 
surprise, then suspicion.  After awhile I was too cold to notice them, but everybody is looking 
now. 

"He let me go," I tell them.  I'm really too cold and wet and tired to care what they think right 
now.  I hold up my hand, pulling off my wet gloves, to show my mark. 

Ezri pulls me closer, moving the wet things to the side.  She helps pull off the soggy boots, and 
then the rest, drawing me inside next to her bare skin, wrapping herself around me, tucking in the 
blankets while the children snuggle closer. 

I fall asleep immediately, waking later as the winds roar fills the room.  Ezri pulls me very close. 

"You promised," she says, matter-of-factly. 

"I know," I whisper, keeping close to her ear.  "He's on his own.  The gods are still dying, and he 
wanted me to cure them again." 

"You didn't?" she asks. 

"Nothing I could--or would--do to cure them.  They'll last a little while longer linked, not that it 
will make much difference." 
She stares at me.  "The Jem'Hadar disappeared from here almost a month ago.  The bosses and 
the guards are all calties now, with that *uniform*."  She pauses, thinking.  "Did he offer you one 
of the nice new uniforms?" 

"No, just to get to come home."  

She stares at the ceiling.  "Home . . . " she mutters.  "We've heard the Jem'Hadar are still in the 
area, just not here.  So the bastards out there have to behave or the Jem'Hadar come back." 

"How bad?" I finally ask, thinking of Kara, now curled next to Ezri instead of her mother. 

"They take revenge when guards get killed.  It's personal now." 

I can hear the hatred in her voice, and wonder what I've done.  How can I have helped Weyoun 
save his empire when he's actively turning us against ourselves? 

"I just wanted to come home," I say, quietly, worried she doesn't believe me. 

"We figured it had been too long.  If you hadn't sold out you were dead."  I realize she's still 
getting used to me being alive herself.  

"You thought I was dead." 

"Isn't that good?" she asks. 

She kisses me.  I kiss her back, suddenly missing her more than ever.  She takes my hand, sliding 
it up her chest, and I cup her breast, nipple tightening against my palm. 

The trees are swaying in the warm breeze.  The surf drifts in and out, lazy in the afternoon sun.  
Ezri and I lay on our sandbar, the sun warming our naked bodies, slowly, quietly merging our two 
selves into one. 

                               *** 

Morning is an ordeal I can do without.  If I wanted any more proof that they'd rather not have me 
around than the silence that greets Ezri and I inside, the morning wait for assignments is ample 
evidence. 

Sir and his crew wait in the office while we wait outside in the snow.  I'm not on a regular crew, 
so every day I'm assigned to whatever needs to be done.  Most of us are gone and at work in a 
short while. 

I'm always last.  Usually Jackson is near the end too, along with Luther and a few others.  But 
Jackson still spooks the people he works with, despite the quiet resignation that's started to 
replace the cold disdain.  And Luther doesn't get much done when it's cold, his hands shaking too 
much. 

Me, they just ignore until the end.  Even the calties who pick and choose aren't sure about me, 
don't like me.  I make a point to rub my beard when looking at them, just a reminder that I am not 
one of them with their smooth faces and carefully trimmed hair.  Maybe there is a trace of loyalty 
to their own left, and it hurts to be reminded.  I don't know.  I don't care.  I just like seeing them 
squirm. 

The one today, dark haired and tall, has assigned everyone but Carl and I.  He hasn't even looked 
at me, as if I was invisible.  The wind is blowing and it's very cold.  My boots are already wet.  
But he keeps *looking* at Carl. 

"Jackson," he finally says, pausing.  Carl looks away, uncomfortable in his gaze.  "You have a 
loader to fix today.  Grain loader 5 is out of order." 

For a moment Carl looks a little relieved.  He didn't work for Miles for seven years without 
learning how to patch things back together.  It's a compliment to be assigned a repair job, 
especially for a rat.  But Carl will have company today.  He points at me with a finger but doesn't 
look at me.  "That's your assistant." 

Jackson looks very disappointed.  He likes working alone.  In any event, I don't know how to fix 
loaders.  And grain loader 5 is outside. 

He moves off, away from the office.  Reluctantly, I follow him. 

But Carl isn't the same when he starts on his job.  He was one of Miles best, and he's looking at 
the loader now, absorbed in taking apart the outer casing of the unit.  He hasn't even looked up at 
me.  I just stand back shuffling my feet around in the slush. 

It is going to be a very long day.  

Abruptly, he wants the tool case.  No, he *orders* me to bring it, his tone unmistakable.  For a 
moment I hesitate, holding back, waiting for him to at least look up. 

Instead he snaps impatiently, "Hurry it up.  I need it now." 

Slowly, I pick it up, move forward, curious what caused the loader to abruptly quit.  It was 
working fine the night before and it hadn't snowed at all over the evening.  There wasn't a good 
reason for it to quit.  But I'm sure there is a reason.  I wonder if Carl will hold back the 
information . . . lie about the damage or if he'll tell them everything. 

I guess we'll see who owns Carl today. 

I give him the tool kit and he pushes it back towards me.  "The splitter, third over on the top 
row."  He doesn't look up, taking the tool as I hand it to him.  He hardly moves as he is bent over 
the open casing, pulling parts aside, utterly absorbed in the work. 

I can see fascination, escape in his eyes.  He used to do this on the station, trouble shoot things 
for Miles, and for a moment he goes back there, even if he's standing in the snow with a brand on 
his shoulder. 

I can understand.  I don't get to be a doctor often, but when I do it matters.  Even now, ignored 
completely, I wouldn't mind them asking. 

They'd have to ask, see me, let me touch them. 

He's bent over the machine now, completely absorbed in his work.  Aside from occasional orders 
for tools, he doesn't pay any attention to me. 

Carl hasn't said a word to me since I returned.  But he watches, once in a while giving me an 
amused look.  I wonder if he knows how much I thought of him in those months, especially his 
warning about Ezri. 

I still wonder, if he hadn't suggested her fate, if I might have done things differently.  But I doubt 
it.  He only reinforced the knowledge that resistance--of any kind--comes with a very heavy price. 
 I just wasn't ready to pay it, not this time. 

But someone was.  Carl is wearing a curious look as he pulls the cord out of the machine.  It's 
torn, but not entirely.  At the start is a visibly straight cut the machine could not have made. 

For a moment, Carl hesitates.  I can understand, thought I don't want to.  He can't hide it.  But if 
they are allowing him to repair it, they might believe his explanation.  Or, maybe not.  Carl can't 
afford to not be believed. 

"Well, I can't do anything more," he says.  He doesn't look at me, but I can hear the tension in his 
voice.  He starts back towards the office, the cord in his hand, head down, ignoring me as he had 
before. 

I'm very curious what Carl is going to say.  Lives could depend on it. 

The cord progressively droops towards the muck, eventually trailing in it.  Appearing to notice, 
Carl pulls it up, off the ground. 

Sir is out, and we are required to wait, again standing outside in the cold until he returns.  I keep 
shuffling my feet around trying to keep warm.  Carl is preoccupied, hardly moving at all.  He 
looks up when Sir approaches, and motions us into his office. 

I stand towards the back, relieved to be ignored for once.  This is Carl's moment of truth and I 
won't intrude. 

"Did you determine the cause of the problem?" asks Sir, detached, as if he was busy with other 
things and barely listening. 

Carl holds up the cord, the material around the break unrolling itself into a ball.  "The pulley 
broke.  I'll need another one from supply and it will be a lot of work to replace it.  I can't get it 
done by afternoon." 

Carl holds all the authority he can in his voice.  I hate to admit how much I understand, how I 
hear myself talking to Weyoun. 

Sir drops the game.  It occurs to me it would be an excellent way to commit sabotage.  "How 
soon, then?"  He almost sounds like Sisko when he was impatient with Miles for a moment. 

"Tomorrow, with help."  Carl is calm, businesslike. 

"You have help."  Sir is annoyed now. 

"I need someone who knows what they are doing.  Not him."  Carl is still just as calm and 
unperturbed as before.  It is amazing.  We just don't deal with Sir in tones like that. 

"Pick someone.  I'll have them switched."  Sir is annoyed by the tone, but wary.  Something odd is 
going on. 

Not that I'll mind getting away from Carl, especially with this turn of events.  But Sir hasn't asked 
how the cord broke yet.  I still want to find out what Carl has to say about it. 

"Why did it break?  Was it deliberate?"  He is nervous around Carl.  Maybe his owner hasn't quite 
forgotten about Carl.  Maybe he is being so cooperative for a reason. 

"Someone cut it.  But it had to be months ago, long before the rain, and they didn't do a very 
good job.  It caused enough stress for it to break down eventually, but there is not trace of water 
or mud inside.  You couldn't open and cut it without leaving evidence. 

It's been a long time since then.  Carl is calm, almost arrogant.  Sir is still nervous.  Of course, Sir 
is human, and not immune from punishment either. 

"Hmmm.  We didn't even ship that one in until fall.  I guess you're lucky this time."  He's gone 
stern on us, eyeing Carl with distrust but not questioning his judgement.  In this weather nobody 
could check the results anyway. 

"When will the new cord be available?" asks Carl, sounding impatient.  "If it isn't soon I should 
close up the housing before it gets rusty." 

Sir pushes a button, and one of his lieutenants enters, the same dark haired one that assigned us 
this morning.  He glances at Carl with a look, and Carl's confidence falters for a flash. 
"Take him with you," he says, pointing at Carl.  "He needs something from supply."  Carl glances 
at the dark-haired caltie and despite his outer calm, I can tell he's more nervous than with Sir.  
Odd, I think to myself.  Then I remember the way he'd been looking at Carl this morning.  Carl 
wouldn't be able to say no.  All he needs is one guard saying he refused an order and he's gone. 

"And get whoever he wants to assist.  We need this working soon." 

I imagine that Sir has production quotas to meet, and with a loader down he can't fill the 
warehouse.  But when it's working we'll have a very long day making up for it.  He won't punish 
anyone for sabotage this time, but we'll still pay for it. 

Carl and the caltie leave, Carl noticeably subdued.  Sir notices me.  "Scrub crew the rest of the 
day, now." 

I can live with scrub on a cold day.  Inside a warehouse would be better, but it's warm around the 
shed.  I take my leave, not giving him a chance to get annoyed. 

I notice that Carl had dropped the cord in the mud.  The material is swelling, making invisible any 
evidence he may have had.  He leans over and retrieves it but the caltie has him toss it in the trash. 

Walking towards the shed, I remember seeing it as he pulled it out.  He lied to Sir.  The cut was 
hardly minor. 

And I don't have to work with Carl.  But apparently Realand does.  Later that evening, after the 
rest are back, he and Carl stumble inside, wet and cold and soaked.  They retire to their blankets 
immediately, stripping off the wet clothes and crawling under their blankets.  I notice Carl is being 
helped by his wife, and she holds him to help warm him up.  He's not arrogant anymore, just tired 
and weary and relieved to be inside.  He watches me for a moment, looking worried, before 
disappearing into his wife's arms. 

I realize he lied to Sir.  He was worried that *I'd* betray the lie.  Realand is one of the few of us 
left that would know how to damage the machine without it being obvious.  And Realand was 
working there a few days before, just after Jeffrey was carried back from the warehouse badly 
banged up from a fall. 

I was allowed to bind his ankle and check him over.  Jeffrey hurt too much to glare and Realand 
was too worried to argue.  If the ankle was broken there wasn't much I could do but hope it 
healed. 

Realand isn't above revenge if he's angry enough.  I notice he's as relieved to be away from 
Jackson as the snow.  The boy crawls inside the blankets with him, shivering, his ankle still 
wrapped from where it was twisted.  

I've no doubt that Carl made sure Realand understands that he owes him.  I'm rather relieved that 
Carl isn't likely to do me any favors.  I don't think I'd like what they'd cost. 
But it's late.  Everyone knows the loader will be fixed tomorrow and we'll have extra work, and 
the story is short this time.  Dorothy tells an ancient Norse tale of Odin and his gifts for the 
children as the mid-winter passed towards spring.  It's icy here, and perhaps she means us to 
remember that, in time, we'll too have the gift of spring. 

                               *** 

Cindy holds the baby, looking at me as if she was having last minute doubts.  The baby cried all 
night last night and I almost got up to see what was wrong.  But she wouldn't have appreciated 
the attention unless it was her idea, not from me . . . 

"Do you want me to look at her or not?" I finally ask. 

She holds the baby towards me, pulling back the blanket.  "She's been crying a lot," she says. 

I sit down on our matts, gesturing for her to sit as well.  She looks doubtful, but complies.  Alessa 
is cradled on a nest of blankets.  I won't ask to hold her.  Cindy must be worried about the baby or 
she'd have done like everyone else and avoided me. 

I check the baby's throat and neck, Cindy watching carefully.  There is an epidemic, though none 
of our people have been sick.  Perhaps humans are immune.  We can only hope so, since there is 
nothing I can do about it. 

Sliding my finger along the child's gums, there are several puffy spots.  "I think she's just teething. 
 She looks all right." 

Cindy wraps her baby again, picking her up.  She doesn't get up.  "How long, do you think?" she 
asks. 

"A few days.  There's a couple of teeth so she's going to be fussy.  I'll look her over tomorrow if 
you'd like." 

She hesitates, looking at the baby and then me.  "If she's not better," but she's not sure.  I 
delivered Alessa when I was invisible to them, so there is a certain president.  But now, with the 
way things are, having anything to do with me is something to be avoided.  

I don't have social conversations with anyone.  If their children are sick, or if they are assigned to 
work with me they tolerate my presence, but otherwise I could have never come back at all. 

I let her leave.  She must feel relieved since she's much less tense.  But then, that could simply be 
that I'm done touching her child and she doesn't have to talk to me anymore.  

When the Breen war began things changed for everyone, even us, but mostly we just had more to 
do.  Now, now that *he* has taken over everything is different.  I suppose it would have 
happened in time, even with the Founders, but it was so sudden that it is even more of a betrayal. 
The Jem'Hadar are gone from here, filling the role they have for centuries in the gamma quadrant, 
as a guarantee Dominion subjects will behave.  Now, the people who guard us and run our lives 
answer only to *him*.  We hate them and it's returned in kind. 

The Jem'Hadar were impersonal.  The new establishment has its own kind of viciousness.  I know 
what the others think of me, especially now.  I disappeared and didn't die in some convict gang.  
The only other choice was to sell myself to them, like the rest of the traitors.  

But I came home.  Ezri knows I made it possible for Weyoun to hide it.  But she can see the 
guards all around us.  She knows that the Jem'Hadar are still within reach, housed outside the 
slave camps.  She knows what the Jem'Hadar would do if the Founder's demise was known.  She 
understands now.  It has made it easier for both of us. 

The rest take their cue from Ezri.  She openly accepts me, and is quite obviously protecting me as 
well.  I doubt I'll wake up with a knife in my side, but they don't have to like me.  Once the spring 
rains begin I'll be relegated to the outer edges of the scrub crew, the ones who haul the trash and 
do the worse cleaning jobs.  Now, I haul food and supplies through the snow, work after normal 
hours, along with the frigid early morning snow crew before breakfast.  Maybe, eventually they'll 
figure out that someone who had sold out to them would never come back to face this kind of 
life, but in the meanwhile I decide to let them think what they want.  Weyoun really has nothing to 
worry about.  He knows I'll not give away his secret.  How could I, knowing it would simply 
condemn all of us to death. 

I'm usually cold and wet and miserable, but some part of me welcomes the punishment.  I didn't 
have to cooperate.  Whatever my motivations, I chose to do it.  I still betrayed them and owe 
them something in return.  Each day I work in the muck someone else doesn't have to. 

I'm always filthy now.  At first I felt dirty, not like before, but I've ceased to notice the muck and 
the smell.  I'm usually soaked, smeared with the slimy mud that fills every doorway where the 
ground isn't frozen.  My day ends late, sometimes after dinner when I have to eat cold food by 
myself. 

I keep wondering if living like this is worth it.  But I have Ezri.  We go to the beach at night, the 
waves so gentle, the breezes soft.  I put up with the day so I can have the night and Ezri and the 
only life that means anything. 

                               *** 

For some reason, I got off early tonight.  I don't know why but I'm not asking either.  Ezri is 
visiting with Cheryl, all the children playing, and I'm resting when Dorothy approaches. 

I checked when I returned.  The books were gone.  But that night Dorothy told Ezri she'd taken 
them and I felt better.  Dorothy is as much a treasure necessary to survive as the books are, but I 
know she'll take very good care of them. 

She's brought a few out to read during the day, and she's very careful about them.  I know I can 
trust her.  Someday, if they ever are willing, I might be able to ask for them back. 

I won't risk a fight over them.  I won't risk something happening to them even if they still belong 
to me.  Dorothy will care for them.  If someone defies her, I'll protect them for her.  I'm sure they 
haven't forgotten, even if they don't pay any attention to me now.  

But I miss them.  I'd like to look at Dannie's book now.  Since Ezri read it, talked about it, I 
realize I've forgotten things.  I could read a little tonight.  But I'd have to ask her for the book and 
I can't.  The rules go both ways.  Unless someone needs a doctor, they ignore me, and I them. 

Somehow, I can't blame them.  All I have to do is look at the guards.  All of them, and Sir, and his 
lieutenants, are traitors.  I wonder if Dannie, in her world, would pretend I wasn't there too. 

Carl knows, even understands.  We both saved our families.  Once or twice, since the repair job, 
I've caught him looking at me.  He knows I won't betray them.  I know he won't either.  We both 
know he lied to Sir, even if it saved Realand and the son he hates.  But more of us would have 
been punished, and he knows. 

So do I.  I hope Kira and Odo are happy, trapped in that room, always at Weyoun's mercy.  But 
even if life is lonely and miserable, I'd rather be here. 

This is family.  Maybe I don't deserve them, but I still have a place here, even if it is to be invisible 
now. 

Dorothy is still standing there.  She has several books in hand, and I finally look up at her.  "Did 
you want to read?" I asked. 

"Not really, but these had been moved since morning.  I've warned them, but my warnings don't 
quite have the power of yours.  I'm bringing them back."  She's hesitant, talking to the invisible 
man, but then she looks up, fixing a couple of her people with a look of warning. 

I assume she knows who took them.  Now I do too.  I decide to stand, taking the books from her. 
 One of them is Dannie's and I give it special scrutiny.  He watches, nervous.  The book is 
undamaged, but I take my time, watching him squirm. 

"I'll help," I offer, leaving the books sitting openly on our blankets, knowing nobody would come 
near them.  Even now, they know. 

Her people have vanished when we arrive, and splitting the books between us, we carry them with 
loving care.  She sits them on the blankets with the others.  She starts to back away. 

"Please don't go.  You've taken very good care of them.  Would you like one to keep?" 

I don't know why I ask, since she looks like she wants to go.  I think she doesn't want to deal with 
me, but the books matter more.  Nobody will defy me to touch them.  But she didn't want to.  In 
one short walk across the barn, I've become important again.  I hold the books, and they are the 
family treasure. 

Now, as soon as there is light, they will have to ask again.  Nobody will bother my family, or try 
to take the children.  While I've been gone I see more missing faces than Reina, and more children 
with other families.  There will be other births in the spring.  If someone will take in an orphaned 
child, now, nobody will argue about it. 

And you can replace children.  But not books.  We have a trace of our civilization left, hiding 
under matts, and even the ones who shun me won't argue.  I'll keep them safe.  What good is 
surviving if all the meaning is gone? 

Dorothy is still there, hesitant.  "I'd worry too much.  I can't trust them." 

She comes forward, hesitantly sitting next to me on my blankets.  I hand her the short story 
anthology, the one with the shadow story.  Leafing through it, I show her the page.  "Odo gave 
this to me.  It isn't long.  Maybe we should have a quick reading tonight.  We have time." 

She brightens.  Standing, she holds up the book.  "It's short, something new from Odo."  The 
others look my way, unable to hide their curiosity.  "We'll only need a few readers." 

Daniel comes forward, standing before her, trying not to look at me.  None of them want to, but I 
offered the book and they have to listen. 

He starts reading.  He has a wonderful voice, so full of life when the man finds the last books to 
complete his collection, so full of joy.  It is as if I'd never heard the story myself.  She calls on one 
of her own people, a woman named Jean, to read the end.  Her voice is softer, but full of wonder, 
then satisfaction. 

As he becomes the Shadow, as he takes the power into himself to right the wrongs of his world, 
they all cheer. 

For a moment we aren't in a cold, gloomy barn.  We aren't slaves, but alive and ready to strike.  I 
know they won't understand that I too am the Shadow, but it's enough to know the feeling. 

Then Dorothy takes the book from Jean, carefully closing it, and brings it to me.  Quietly, she 
hands it back.  "Perhaps we could read some of the shorter passages when we have time," she 
suggests. 

"Certainly," I say loud enough for most of them to hear.  See, I'm the enemy, the traitor, but I 
won't deny them books. 

In an instant, I'm a little less invisible, a little less the enemy.  I won't deny that I like it, but I miss 
the readings too. 
Dorothy makes her way back to her matts while I stow the books.  Then someone nearby stops 
her.  "What about Homer?" he asks. 

It's too dark already to read print.  But she's been telling us about Homer's legendary journey 
across the ancient Aegean world, and like children given a special treat, we still need our story. 

"All right," she says, "Where did I leave off?" 

Several voices explain and she sighs.  She begins again. 

It feels different with the books there, but comfortable.  And as she finishes and people drop off to 
sleep, I realize my books are not the most fragile of treasures.  Dorothy is.  But for her, anyone 
here would kill. 

If the books are our treasure, she is our soul.  

                               *** 

It's very cold this morning.  The snow quit yesterday, but piles of it remain, growing higher with 
each storm.  We push the extra against the walls of the barn, and it helps keep what warmth there 
is inside.  At least the snow has some use. 

Before, when we were supervised by the Jem'Hadar, we were just bodies.  They didn't care that 
we traded jobs, just that the work got done.  We could predict what we might be doing ahead of 
time. 

Now Sir runs things.  He has an office to himself, not as grand as *his* but it makes him 
important.  Some are part of permanent crews, but others--especially those like Luther and 
I--never know what to expect anymore.  We eat, then assemble for our days assignments.  Sir has 
a warm office.  He and his lieutenants don't notice how cold it is in the morning. 

The door opens and the lieutenants, both human as is Sir, stride outside.  They have a list and 
begin reading. 

Carl is standing near me, looking at the ground.  One of them is the dark haired one, and he keeps 
glancing at Carl.  He's assigned to a warehouse unloading, and if possible droops a little more.  
The caltie watches as he moves away. 

Every time he's on duty Carl gets more depressed, more quiet.  It's always a warehouse, always 
with enough others that it won't make a difference if Carl disappears for awhile.  I wonder if the 
others notice, or if they choose not to see.  You can't condemn someone for what you don't see. 

Finally, with most of the rest gone, he gets to me. 

"Sloan, Bashir..." 
We step forward.  Lately I see a lot of Luther. 

"Clean up, storage area 5," he says. 

For once, I got out of snow clearance.  Whatever they spilled, storage area 5 is inside.  I don't 
even mind putting up with Luther for that.  He talks a lot when we work alone, mostly about 
himself and his wife, married while I was away.  I wonder if his marriage was as melancholy as 
mine, but refuse to ask him. 

Nobody talks about the time I was away. 

The guard pushes us inside, and we almost smile.  The floor is covered with grain.  One of the 
door seals has come loose and the bin emptied itself all over the floor.  It will take hours to clean 
up, all of them inside. 

"Hurry it up," he says.  But there is no time limit.  This could easily take all day. 

Still we don't dawdle--no reason to attract anyone's attention. 

We've been working for a little while, steadily but in no particular hurry, when Luther brings 
*him* up.  "He must really have plans if even Sir is afraid of you." 

I don't appreciate the comment.  The grain is heavy, and I'm sweating under my coat.  But it feels 
so good to be warm, really warm, I don't want to take it off. 

At least Luther talks to me.  "I'm a body to Sir.  Just like you." 

He stops working, stares at me.  "Let's hope not.  You're here since he isn't sure where you 
stand--how he's supposed to treat the pets.  I'm here since when I get too cold I get too shaky to 
be of much use." 

It is true his hands shake badly in the cold.  But I am not *his* pet.  "He doesn't own me.  
Everybody may think so, but I didn't betray them," I spit at him, angry.  'Not completely,' I tell 
myself. 

"Look, I was his pet too.  For awhile, until he was done with me.  It's not easy but you have to 
play the game.  Play it smart and you get to work in a nice warm building.  Play it stupid and your 
best friend dies."  Luther sounds bitter, his hands visibly shaking from the stress. 

I don't dare start a fight, not here.  But I'd like to.  I'd like to smash his face in for reminding me.  
I lift the shovel instead, threatening.  

"Don't push it," I add. 

"You just needed a reminder," he says quietly.  "He used them again, but you were smarter this 
time."  

Neither of us are working now, and I'm worried the lack of noise will be noticed.  I start shoveling 
again, the loader almost full.  Luther gets the idea and shovels as well.  We fill the loader and start 
sliding it to the chute that will dump the loose grain into a properly sealed section.  It's a noisy 
process and I take advantage of the noise to discourage any listeners. 

"You mean Ezri.  It wasn't that."  I have to explain.  I'd like someone to know that we dared to 
take a little control for ourselves. 

"You pushed it, made some deal.  For once you played the game smart."  Luther is standing in 
front of me, talking low, just loud enough I can hear over the screeching of the loader as it falls 
into place and dumps its load. 

"And look what it got me," I add. 

"A breather," he says, lightly.  "He'll want more.  Keep being smart and you'll find a way out.  Be 
stupid and he'll find a new pet."  He stares me in the eyes.  His hands are shaking worse now.  His 
eyes are half-focused, and I see a hint of the horror he lives with.  "You don't want him to find a 
new pet." 

Luther is playing his own game, pushing me for reasons of his own.  But that horror in his eyes is 
real, and I get the point.  He still reminds me too much of the Sloan that kidnaped and tortured 
me, and then dared--or presumed--to consider me recruited into his cause.  He reminds me too 
much of *him*. 

But I am not Weyoun's pet, any more than I was part of 31. 

"It won't make a difference to the others anyway.  I'll still be up to here in muck this spring, and 
only have you to talk to."  

"If that's what they believed, Cindy wouldn't let you touch her baby, no matter what," he says, but 
softly, rapidly losing it.  He's looking around, a little confused.  "Or Dorothy wouldn't let you 
have the books." 

"Dorothy couldn't keep them safe," I correct him, ignoring the part about Cindy.  "I'd just like it 
to be over," I mutter to myself. 

"You don't want him to be done with you," he says, confusion and apathy taking over, Luther 
disappearing inside his nightmare. 

I watch as he fades, looking about the room in confusion, his hands shaking so badly that he can 
hardly hold the shovel. 

He's just standing there.  Somebody might notice.  I want to spend the whole freezing day inside 
this warm room.  Maybe Luther will remember where he is before night and Nancy won't have to 
take care of him.  "Shovel, Luther.  Get to work."  I keep my voice low, gentle, and he looks up 
at me, nodding. 

I shovel most of it myself, Luther coming back somewhere near the end and trying to work 
through the confusion.  It takes all day, and if anyone thinks I've been stalling Luther's 
preoccupied state of mind is enough of an explanation. 

Food comes, and I sit with Ezri and gulp it down.  Being warm was appreciated, but it was a two 
man job and Luther disappeared too early in the day.  

"No beach tonight," I mutter to Ezri.  All the work is a blessing in disguise.  I'm too tired to think 
of the future and all the intangibles that would otherwise keep me awake. 

She puts her arms around me, kisses me.  We crawl under the covers, the children already 
snuggled together.  They move closer, and I give them each a kiss.  

"Anybody want a story?" asks one of the women.  

Dorothy has been an inspiration.  The woman was added while I was away and I still don't know 
her.  But she is willing to tell the                                                                                                    
                                                                                                   story in the books she 
remembers. 

There is a general murmur of acceptance, and she starts the tale of Alice and her trip through 
Wonderland with the Rabbit.  We don't have the book, but she has a daughter and had read it so 
many times she knew it well enough to tell it without the printed page.  

Half-asleep, I stir a little when Ezri nudges me.  "Hard day?" she asks. 

Alice is chasing the rabbit but I'm too tired to follow it.  "Luther faded on me in the morning.  He 
moved the spill around but I did almost all the work.  I guess he's doing better now."  I choose to 
keep his conversation to myself.  She'd probably argue with me and I'm too tired for an argument. 

"We had it easy.  There was a guard killed last night.  They found him in Group 12's compound.  
They got demoted.  We got all the easy jobs and they did the hard part." 

Punishment has gotten worse, too.  Group 12 will be on half-rations, or worse, for three months.  
They'll get the dangerous jobs, not just the hard ones.  All the "extras"--like extra bedding, will be 
taken from them.  Nobody will bother to look for who killed the guard.  Individuals don't matter 
to the Dominion and Sir and his ilk don't make decisions like that. 

It's still bad to be Sarki, but 12 has found something lower. 

"I thought Luther was getting better," says Ezri, still wide awake. 

"He is.  I don't know what set him off this time," I lie.  I won't mention his little game, nor the 
cost he's paying for it.  I don't understand why it matters so much to him that I lie to myself. 

"Nancy's pregnant.  She told me this morning."  Ezri looks away, keeping her thoughts to herself. 
 I know she still wants children of her own.  Maybe on the station, but here it's very unlikely, as if 
anyone would want to impose this life on a child. 

Luther had children, way back before 31 took away his life.  I wonder if she's told him, if that's 
why he's suddenly so concerned about me and my family.  But Ezri had moved her hand to her 
belly, our fingers massaging the moving form of Dax inside her. 

I've heard of surviving Trills, but the guard was the first I've seen.  Even if he was a guard, it 
might make her feel a little better.  Maybe when the end comes we can find a Trill willing to be 
joined.  "One of the guards was a Trill," I say softly. 

"A guard?" she says, repulsed by what I realize I'd implied. 

"If he's around there must be others who aren't," I add. 

"Hmmm, maybe . . . " she says, her voice drifting off. 

Some things, some nightmares, we keep to ourselves.  She moves our hands from Dax and rolls 
over so I'm facing her now.  

The wind is blowing, filling the barn with a strange howl and the story is over.  I hold her, wishing 
I wasn't so tired, wishing we could go to the beach, wishing Luther had kept his mouth shut and 
just worked today. 

A little later I realize she's asleep, curled against me, and all I want is it to be over, to be free of 
*him* and the glances and the isolation, whatever it takes. 

                               *** 

Morning started early today.  A special bell rang and we were awakened before dawn.  We filed 
into a well lit tent set up near the door where we were examined by doctors, and then vaccinated 
against something. 

Cindy's baby was fine, but we've all heard of the epidemic that's hit the others.  I don't know if we 
are special because we could spread it, perhaps as unaffected carriers, or Weyoun is giving us 
particular favors. 

I simply accept our luck at being spared.  It would hurt too much if, in my own way, I could not 
help these people.  I remember how hard it was to watch Martok as he stumbled back from 
"practice".  I couldn't even treat the cuts properly. 

Maybe we could spread the disease, or just maybe *he* wants to make sure I and my family stay 
alive, and he can't single us out, so everybody gets the advantages. 

Sir and his ilk don't know what to make of me.  I'm singled out with work, but they are careful 
just the same.  My own people, thought, know what they think. 

Of course, right now, I'm not sure some of them would let the traitor even touch them if I could 
help. 

Once, I wanted to practice frontier medicine.  Be careful what you wish for.  When this ends, 
whenever it ends, whatever suspicions are left won't matter.  Doctors like myself will be needed.  
Only problem is, the supplies will be more rare than we are.  I guess I'll get my wish then. 

Work was . . . work.  I was wet and muddy all day.  It was hardly a surprise.  But the people from 
12 had it worse.  A couple of them were killed today in an accident.  I could see it from where I 
was working.  For this split second, I knew I should go there, try to do something.  But then 
sanity prevailed.  Not even being *his* pet would keep me from paying for that. 

Later in the day I got stuck next to Luther in a secluded spot, and he brought it up again.  Since 
Nancy got pregnant he wants a doctor around, and I'm all he's got.  I don't mind helping Nancy.  
Luther talks to me at least.  But the others . . .  Standing in the muck near the cooking area, I 
watched as they carefully avoided me.  But, should the children get sick, or they hurt themselves 
at work they deign to notice me.  At least then I matter a little. 

Ezri pats the blanket for me to sit when I get back, late as usual.  She has my food saved, and 
without a word I take the bowl and eat.  It's cold and lumpy, but then 12 won't get any dinner.  

"Luther mentioned that he could work a trade for you, something inside for a while.  One of the 
men with a pregnant wife."  She looks as if she expects me to thank him.  

I stare ahead.  "Luther ought to keep his business to himself." 

"Julian, he's trying to *help* you."  She sounds annoyed, exasperated.  "You aren't the enemy.  
We both know that." 

"Oh," I say, not intending to continue the conversation.  It's bad enough that Luther insists on 
reminding me of *him*.  I don't think I could take it if Ezri starts in too. 

I look up only to see one of them, the one's avoiding me in the cook tent today, holding his arm. 

"It got burned today.  Could you look at it?"  He won't look at me.  It must hurt a lot for him to 
come near, actually talk to the invisible man. 

For a moment I consider saying no.  If it's a bad burn, I can't help and the best I can do for a lesser 
one is wrap it.  But he's leaning over now, intruding on my space, and I look over his arm. 
"It should heal.  Just keep it clean."  At least he can.  Wash duty has some advantages. 

"Anything else?" he asks, disappointed, as if somehow, magically, I can make up for them and 
their lack of care. 

I'm about to say so when Ezri moves forward.  "Get something and we'll bandage it," she says, 
giving me a look of disapproval. 

I can't stand it when she does that.  "About this much should do," I add, showing him with my 
hands. 

Miles is in my head now, berating me as well.  'Julian, you're letting *him* win.  You're a doctor, 
even if there isn't much you can do.  You do whatever you can.'  

I remember Kira saying we could never give up hope, even when there wasn't anything left to 
hope for.  It was easier to hold on to something when I knew the changelings would die and 
Weyoun would fail.  Even if the end was bloody, it would be an end. 

But the bastard is smarter than anyone expected, and thanks to me nobody knows the Founders 
are gone.  I'm sure he salved his conscience by sending them all home, letting them die together in 
peace.  He's saving their empire in their memory, but for him too.  

Miles is still there, nagging me.  'Have some patience,' he insists.  'He'll lose in the end.  Take care 
of your family--my family--until then.' 

My unwanted patient comes back with some cloth and I bandage his arm.  He even thanks me.  

"I'll check it tomorrow," I say, keeping it short.  I just want him to go away, want to get warm 
and go to sleep. 

'Good,' says Miles.  'Make sure you do.' 

Finally, I have some time to shut them out.  Ezri is talking to someone nearby, her voice low, and 
the children are playing some game under a blanket-tent. 

I try to sleep.  But I keep thinking of Kira and her warning, wondering if the rest are having as 
hard a time following her advise as I am. 

I miss her.  I hope Odo is happier with Kira than he was alone.  Weyoun must still hope that Odo 
will change his mind, play pretend in exchange for the favor.  And he might--if he can still manage 
the deception.  But he would never do it for Weyoun.  He tolerated my dealings with the Vorta 
without approval, but would never cooperate on his own. 

When the Vorta's house of cards falls someone is going to have to stop the Jem'Hadar.  I hope 
Weyoun has some kind of plan in mind other than Odo.  Or perhaps that will be our chance for 
freedom, if Odo is all that's left.  Would Weyoun make a deal for Odo's cooperation and an end to 
all of this?  

Eventually the lie will collapse and everything will be reduced to ruin.  The Dominion will crumple 
from its own sheer weight.  Do we look forward to that day, or dread it?  How long from now is 
"eventually"?  What if Odo is unrecognizable as a Founder and the Jem'Hadar do not believe him? 

Either the Breen are still holding out or Weyoun was lying.  We don't get anything but soupy 
gruel.  It's hard when I remember how good the food was I had at the lab, though most of the 
time I'm too hungry to worry about that. 

Weyoun lies to the Jem'Hadar, and perhaps the other Vorta.  Why shouldn't he lie to me?  We'll 
get kenexa fruit when he has something to celebrate, and then never see it until the next victory. 

If only we never have another taste if the fruit, and no more victories for the Vorta and his new 
empire.  I could settle for gruel if it meant him losing. 

People are going to sleep, and it's very quiet now.  Ezri takes me in her arms, undoing my clothes. 
 She starts to pull them back, and I almost stop her.  But I need the beach.  It's the only place I 
can sleep anymore. 

I keep my eyes closed, listen to the waves.  The birds are singing in the forest, and the spray cools 
us while we lay warming ourselves in the sun. 

I'm asleep almost immediately.  The last thing I can remember is a gentle kiss as she pulls me 
close.  *Don't worry, Miles.  I'll take care of them.  Nothing would matter anymore if I couldn't 
go to the beach.* 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 21 

                               *** 

Nancy lies asleep, wrapped up in blankets, Luther pacing nervously.  "They said she could stay in 
tomorrow," he says.  

"More than tomorrow," I add.  "Ezri said she fainted."  Luther can't stand still he's so worried 
about his wife.  "I'd say she stays put for at least a week.  They won't insist if she can't put weight 
on it."  

Women here have two kinds of value, the work they can be made to do and the children they 
produce.  The first is obvious.  But why they want lots of children is still a mystery.  

Fishing around between our blankets, I pull out The Princess Bride.  It is Nancy's favorite, and 
suitable for the children.  She can read it to them during the day.  They just finished the Oz book. 

I could forbid them to touch the books at all, but now, everything lost and little future to look 
forward to, the books matter more than ever.  They are all that's left of what we were.  I could get 
back at them if I said no, but all that would do is prove how I'd sold myself.  And to get them, 
someone has to talk to me, touch what I touched. 

That alone is enough reason for sharing. 

When I have the time, I still read Dannie's book.  But mostly I read about Osma and Dorothy and 
the Nome King.  It's very satisfying to see paradise win and evil banished.  It helps me believe that 
we might have more of a future than as sarki.  

Nobody uses Kasari, the official term.  Not even us, not anymore.  

Luther pauses in his pacing.  "Sir called you in today, pulled you off shift." 

I pause before choosing to answer.  He knows I can't get angry here, with people around.  But I 
do wonder why Sir was so interested.  "I have additional duties.  He wanted to know when our 
women were due.  I get to deliver the babies."  Nancy groans as she moves her foot.  I'm annoyed 
at Luther for reminding me, not in the mood to do him any favors, but he's instantly at her side, 
holding her hand as she sleeps. 

"She okay, I mean, the baby's okay?" he asks. 

"She's doing fine."  I consider the cost of a favor.  "Look, I'll see what I can do to get her 
excused, since she fainted." 

Luther stops, takes a deep breath.  "Sir would do it if you ask.  He doesn't know how to deal with 
you." 

He has to do this, keep reminding me over and over.  "Don't bring that up again."  

"It's true," he says, wearing a look that reminds me of the man I knew a long time ago. 

I'll help Nancy, but I'd like him to leave me alone.  Glaring at him, I snap out my words.  "I don't 
care."  Speaking very softly, I add, "I could have played along with *him* and stayed there the 
whole winter.  But I decided to come back home where things are a little more honest."  I hold up 
my hand.  I rub the thick beard on my chin.  "This is what I am to him.  You too.  All of these 
people here.  Nothing more." 

I don't know if it is easier to live with him since he's been getting better.  He rarely talks, 
except--unfortunately--to me, but he seldom mumbles anymore.  The baby has changed him, given 
him something more than revenge to look forward to. 

He takes Nancy's hand.  She's wearing a wedding ring.  I wonder if it was the same she wore 
before she was made a widow.  I wish I hadn't missed the wedding.  I wonder who married them, 
or if it was just a paper filed with Sir.  But even angry, I'm happy for him.  Maybe she can help 
where medicine can't. 

He's been watching me very closely today.  I've been relegated to cleaning all day, and things were 
so busy we got behind.  Come spring, I'll see a lot of him when I'm stuck in the most grimy jobs. 

She looks a little warm.  He waits until I lean over to check his wife.  The words could mean 
anything, but the finger talk makes its meaning quite clear.  "How soon?" he whispers. 

I wonder if he knows that linking together will help the dying changelings.  Or if I helped keep the 
illness quiet.  I wonder what he thinks--or would think--about that. 

"Eventually," I mumble. 

He nods, and I'm sure it wasn't an accident.  His expression is quite clear, and not lost at all. 

I'm still convinced his behavior isn't an act, but somewhere in there the Sloan I grew to despise is 
still alive.  But then, I appreciate the sentiments now. 

"The rumors we hear," he continues, louder, "are that they are about to surrender."  He's switched 
the exchange to the Breen for any prying ears. 

"That's what I hear." 

"Then they have everything," he says.  He looks away, the look growing thoughtful.  "For now.  
It won't last." 

I remember studying history.  It was never my best subject but I did well anyway.  Empires 
usually expand until they collapse as they have grown to big.  Except for us, a historical sense of 
time is too long.  History is written from the empirical observers point of view, not the slaves. 

I wish it were more comfort that Weyoun hasn't got a chance in the end. 

Most of the women aren't back yet.  They've been taking the smaller children to a separate area 
this week, using them to sort out little parts.  At least it's warmer there than here.  We go off to 
wait for the people that matter to us.  Sloan sits by me while I rest, warming up in a couple of 
blankets.  It's not long before the door slides open and I'm greeted by the enthusiastic hugs of two 
children.  Not to be left out, Yoshi and Tessie have to have their own hugs. 

For them there will be an end someday. 

I'm hungry.  The servers aren't back yet and we wait.  It will be more of the lumpy soup.  I 
wonder how long it will take to get used to it again.  I've decided Weyoun was just making empty 
promises about the fruit. 

The doors open, and Ezri and the others return.  She is greeted as warmly as I was.  I look at her, 
wondering if this is a little like she would have been if she'd been properly joined.  My Ezri is 
there, and my Jadzia.  But she's not either of them anymore. 

I love her anyway. 

The servers finally bring the food.  We eat our disgusting dinner, and roll in our blankets to sleep. 
 At least it's too cold for all but a few of the bugs.  They are careful to rid us of the ones that 
could make us sick.  But the ones that just make us miserable are ignored.  This spring I'm sure 
there will be another explosion of the grey fuzzy things that were everywhere last year.  

A few stories are told in the dark.  We can tell the story of Oz without the book now.  But it's late 
and cold and we are too tired.  Most of the audience is already asleep. 

Tomorrow is starts all over again. 

I'm not waiting anymore for a tomorrow that's different.  I dream of spring and fruit and light 
enough to read our books again.  I'm looking forward to watching the children play in the 
morning. 

The rest . . . I can't handle it right now.  It comes when it comes.  Let history take care of itself 
and future generations argue over what it means.  For us, that is all too clear. 

                               *** 

The Breen war is over.  The Breen issued an unconditional surrender today.  Little wonder with 
the amount of Jem'Hadar sent to punish them. 

We are relieved.  We wonder if the Breen homeworld will meet the same fate as Earth and 
Cardassia Prime and the Klingon home world.  We really don't care.  The hours are too long and 
too many of us remember their probes. 

Beast killing beast.  And they took a lot of Jem'Hadar with them.  A few of us know how 
fortunate that might be. 

Luther's been promoted to more demanding work of late and he talks to more than me now.  He's 
on a first name basis with Daniel.  If he'd give up his comments I wouldn't mind calling him a 
friend.  I don't know if it's friendship, or the comfort of having someone else who knows.  Even 
I'm slowly gaining acceptance again.  But Luther is one of the few that talk to me unless they have 
to. 

Now and then he uses our personal sign language to tell me things that others shouldn't hear.  
Miles and I once destroyed him, but it's a personal victory that we've managed to bring him out of 
the pit they drove him to. 

I don't like to think of Miles.  All I can see is the blood.  Until there is some justice done, it is all I 
want to remember of my friend. 

The scrub crew was called out to unload a crate this afternoon.  Fruit.  Probably kenexa fruit.  I 
can't mention the name.  It was hard work but we have a bin of it now.  The worse part was 
keeping ourselves from taking a sample. 

When I was at the lab, I had lots of sweets.  I still can't get the craving out of my mind. 

For once, dinner was early.  It was announced that we will continue to receive fruit with meals.  
It's in appreciation of our work during the war.  Really.  But then I don't care what excuse 
Weyoun uses as long as he keeps his promise. 

We each get a whole piece.  We make the children eat the rest of their food first, but I notice a lot 
of people can't wait. 

Whatever else I did, if it helped or hurt, I am very satisfied with the fruit.  I can't give these people 
the gift of freedom, but at least they have a little to look forward to each day. 

Little things matter a lot these days. 

Little things are all that's left. 

The Bajorans in this Provence were deported recently, sent away off their homeworld with the 
same status we enjoy because of continued acts of resistance.  We can't fight back, not yet.  

I wish the others knew that the end had already been set in motion.  I wish it would come a little 
sooner. 

It will be easier for us now.  But harder too.  Somehow, in the back of our minds we hoped the 
Breen would win.  It might not mean freedom, but it would be satisfying.  It would prove our 
masters could lose. 

I'm gazing out the window again.  I wish it wasn't so dark.  I'd like to see a few stars.  But I notice 
Sloan has come over.  He's being careful, making sure we're not going to be heard.  He must have 
other news. 

It's fitting.  He may be a little better, but he's still seen as invisible.  "Win something, lose 
something," he says. 

At least he isn't trying to give me a lecture.  I don't think either of us are in a mood for that right 
now. 

I don't ask where he heard it.  He's a good source of rumors and news.  He is seldom noticed, and 
the guards like to talk when they think they are alone.  Of course, he's right most of the time.  
"What did they lose?" I ask. 

Something is wrong.  He should not sound so down.  "The terran sector, as they call it." 

He can't see me, and misses the startled look.  "Earth?" 

"That general area.  They were too busy with the Breen to defend it, especially since it's mostly 
deserted.  They took the few prisoners left and brought them here." 

Earth is in someone else's hands.  It should be good news.  It is the first step in the crumbling of 
the Dominion.  But what if we want to go home someday? 

Sloan pauses.  "That's all I heard.  No other details." 

I listen as he walks away, stunned by the news.  I want to go home.  I don't care if it's a ruin.  But 
I didn't expect we'd have to take it from someone else.  

When the news spreads, it's going to divide us more.  For humans, it will be a reminder of what 
was lost, and another barrier to taking it back.  For the rest, it will be something to privately 
celebrate, that it wasn't them? 

What happens when the Dominion does fail?   Will we be left with nothing but little empires 
where we aren't welcome either? 

Ezri calls out to me.  "Julian, it's getting cold." 

Don't think about that now.  It's too hard to imagine that it can be worse than this.  At least they 
have a use for us. 

I crawl under the blankets with her and she rolls against me.  "The fruit was so good," she 
murmurs, half-asleep.  "Do we get it for breakfast too?" 

Think about breakfast, and more of the fruit.  Look forward to spring.  Enjoy the extra sleep 
because I'm not on early crew tomorrow. 

Think of the little things.  They are all we have left. 

                               *** 

I hold court in the early evening, off to the side of the room.  It was Ezri's idea, and it works.  I 
don't have much to offer, at least in medicines, but I can do some simple things.  At least I can 
give back some of what I took from them when I helped Weyoun hide his secret. 

They ignore me the rest of the day, but they do come in the evening. 

Jeffrey is sitting on his blanket staring at his little sister.  It's as close as he dare come, knowing 
full well he can't go near unless allowed by Realand, who isn't in the mood to allow it anymore.  
Maybe it has more to do with Carl than anything else, a concession to the way Carl is falling into 
a kind of resignation.  He's not cold anymore, nor does he show the arrogance that was so 
noticeable at first.  I wonder if Realand has noticed the way the caltie looks at him and is giving 
him a break.  The three of us know he owe's Carl.  Or is he worried that deep inside, the anger at 
Jeffrey is still there. 

Jeffrey isn't a child, hasn't been since he defended his sister so long ago in that cargo bay.  He's an 
eight year old terrorist in training, but Realand has nobody else.  Perhaps keeping the boy under 
control gives him something to live for.  He hasn't really changed Jeffrey, but now he's waiting for 
the right moment to step into the bloodbath of his future. 

He's vicious and yet Realand has taught him to be smart.  He never bought his father's deep 
seeded terror that someone will resist and he'll lose his children.  But he's already gotten that 
revenge.  Jeffrey stores up the anger, and given half a chance would find a way to use it.  When I 
look in his eyes, I see Kira as a child, ready to strike out but not yet with the proper target. 

The guards are not the only dangerous people around here.  There are other Jeffreys, too, hidden 
among the small victims we don't even see anymore. 

Jeffrey, even now, would kill one of *them* without hesitation.  Is he the future of all our 
children? 

The calties will be his first targets when the time comes, but I wonder who will come next.  I 
remember the Bajorans who kept fighting long after the Cardassians were gone because it was the 
only thing left with any meaning. 

Cheryl ignores him, concentrating on showing me a puffy scrape on Calla's leg, her worry 
legitimate.  She holds the baby in her arms, still so small and innocent. 

Carl, however, keeps an eye on the boy who sent him to hell.  He'll never trust Realand's control, 
and even now, with his fall into despondency, he poses a threat to the boy.  Will Realand allow 
him his revenge, I wonder?  Or has Realand taken on the role he abandoned?  Will he defend 
Jeffrey, whatever he has become, against the man who abandoned the boy? 

But that happens tomorrow.  For now, Calla's future is in question.  It doesn't take much of an 
infection to kill here.  Before, with Brenda's husband, it was almost certain once the cut turned 
puffy.  Now, maybe he might have a better chance. 

Calla squirms as I hold her leg.  I've gathered a kit of sorts, some reasonably clean bandages, a 
piece of metal sharp enough to clean wounds, a few local remedies that grow within our reach.  
I've gathered some of them, and Ezri and the others most of the rest.  We have to be careful, but 
it's important.  They are amused if we stuff or pockets with grass now.  They don't bother to ask 
why.  Maybe in the spring, I'll have access to more of the native plants and can help them a little 
better.  Even now, more people come, but they still don't talk to me otherwise. 

"How long has it been like this?" I ask her softly, so as not to imply she's been ignoring the 
wound. 

"Since last night.  I don't know how she scraped it, but it was healing before." 

The wet weather has made infections a big problem.  One of the local remedies works fairly well, 
and grows within our reach, a mossy film you can find under the snow.  But the wound has to be 
cleaned first.  "Hold her still.  This will hurt but it has to drain." 

Jeffrey inches closer, keeping an eye on me.  If I wasn't a doctor, if his mother hadn't brought 
Calla here, he would be more of a threat.  But I wonder how long he can contain the explosion 
building within him. 

Calla cries as I clean out the wound.  But it's not deep.  She'll be fine if it stays clean for long 
enough.  At least she's small enough and young enough to be allowed to stay inside right now.  I 
soak a fold of bandage in the boiled down syrup, a combination of a the moss and a power from a 
local grass dried under the snow, and cover the wound with it.  Then I finish the bandaging.  "I'll 
check her over again tomorrow." 

Cheryl can go now.  She's taken care of her child, let the traitor do what nobody else can.  People 
disappear quickly when I'm done. 

But not now.  She watches as Calla goes to her own blanket to play and get warm.  Jeffrey starts 
minding his own business, but I keep a wary eye on him anyway.  I'm sure he'd kill anyone who 
hurt his sister even now.  

Cheryl starts to stare.  "Is there some other problem, maybe with the baby?" I ask, hoping she'll 
leave. 

"No.  You know Carl offered to trade jobs.  So have others.  Why won't you accept?" 

First Luther, now others with children.  All she wants is to make sure I'm here to treat her family. 
 We're in the middle of a bad cold snap with a lot of snow.  I'm trying to get over a cold and the 
snow isn't helping.  Carl works an inside job most of the time.  It would help to stay warm, but 
just in case they ask her for me, I've made it plain to Ezri I won't trade. 

"Because I won't," I reply, keeping my voice even, pushing away the frustration.  "You tolerate 
me because of this."  I wave my hand over the medical kit.  "Don't bother to pretend there's any 
more to it." 

"Maybe we do," she says, just as evenly.  "What does it matter?  What did you do that you feel so 
guilty about?" she insists. 

At least she has a right to ask.  She must have some idea of what Carl did and forgives him. 

"Do you want me to look at your daughter tomorrow or not?" I snap at her, just wanting her to 
go. 

She regards me cooly.  "Doctor," she says with emphasis, "When are you going to realize that you 
matter around here, that whatever you are to *him* you're more important to us.  Do you know 
how many doctors are left?  Of any kind?"  She pauses, letting it sink in.  

I glare at her.  She has grown stronger as Carl has become more resigned.  Since Carle was born, 
she's been a kind of leader among our people.  "I know.  I do what I can."  I try to move away, 
but she follows me. 

"Yes, and your trying to kill yourself too.  I don't want to know what you did when you were 
gone.  I'm sure it wasn't so terrible or you'd be one of the uniforms.  Carl is afraid of twitching in 
front of them.  You're not.  I'm sure you made some deal, but it must not have been all that great 
if this is what you got for it." 

She grabs my hand, looking at the mark.  "It was enough," I say, barely hiding the anger. 

If it wasn't for the baby, I'd yank my hand free.  But she lets it go instead. 

"Good," she says.  "Be angry.  *He's* using you.  Can't you figure it out that people avoid you 
because you shove them away?  Don't blame us for what *he* did." 

She walks away, back to her family.  Jeffrey is still watching, though no longer staring.  Carl looks 
away.  I wonder if he wonders if I'll turn the next time, or just fall into pieces like he has.  I 
wonder if he's worried that his owner will come again, and his nightmare will start all over 
again--if any of it has ended. 

I still have nightmares about Internment Camp 371, even if it is by now ancient history.  It was the 
moment my life turned from promise to nightmare, and I'll never forget.  I doubt Carl will ever let 
go of the lost feeling he had in that cell, waiting for our fate with no family and no hope.  Even 
now, he clings to them all the harder, more than afraid he'll lose them again. 

He isn't comfortable about his wife's conversation either.  He watches from a little away, nervous 
about what was said.  It's no surprise Carl would trade.  We both want to save our families.  
Given my options, he would have done the same.  But for him there would be no guilt. 

If only it was that easy for me.  If only I could end it as simply as Carl would.  But somehow, 
someway, I will find a way for it to end before even my family ceases to matter. 

                               *** 
It's snowing outside, just warm enough that the pathway has turned to slush.  Outside, our feet 
slip and we keep getting soaked.  Inside the warehouse, it's warm and we get a respite from the 
cold.  The crates are heavy and every muscle hurts. 

Luther and I have been assigned the unloading of a shipment of supplies, and we don't get dinner 
until they are inside.  My shoes are covered with slick mud, the snow near the warmer warehouse 
door having melted, and my foot slips.  The crate crashes to the floor and all the parts dump on 
the ground. 

Luther stops, heading out the door to the snow.  "Well, we get to stay inside for a little while," he 
says. 

I'm already reloading the crate, first having hauled it empty to its place in the stack.  A few more 
trips back and forth will be easier than dragging it full.  The parts stack, and we're lucky they 
aren't breakable.  Even if some of them are damaged, nobody will know for months.  He comes to 
help, but even with both of us it is going to take a while, and we still have a lot to unload.  It's 
going to be harder once it gets colder outside and the slush ices up. 

"It'll be worse later, this spring, when it's raining," I add, trying to make the best of it.  We'll get a 
chance to warm up a little, at least. 

"Yeah," says Luther.  "They'll let you out of the muck before they do me." 

I'm not really in the mood for conversation, especially not that one.  We have this discussion every 
so often and he knows I don't like it.  But he keeps pushing.  And he's wrong anyway.  He's 
already getting better assignments than he did, and as long as he stays more steady on his feet he'll 
keep them.  For me, despite the doctoring and the books, outside I'm still being punished.  "No, 
they'll let me serve then.  More wet and muck to trudge through that way."  I've got a small pile of 
parts stacked and carefully pick them up, leaning the stack against myself.  Moving towards the 
open crate, I drop them inside, making a loud thud.  "Not that they wouldn't rather just get rid of 
me," I add. 

I came back where nobody else does.  I was clean, obviously well fed with new books.  What else 
was there to think but I'd sold out to Weyoun and his calties.  They tolerate me, let me treat their 
wounds, but don't trust me. 

Luther is startled, freezing up for a moment, shaking.  I know he can't help it but it annoys me that 
he's not working.  

He recovers quicker than he used to, taking a breath.  "They don't consider you a caltie, not any 
more than they do Carl or Ezri or me." 

I wish he'd stop talking and start working.  "If it wasn't for Ezri I'd be dead by now.  And you 
know it."  Luther is still just standing there.  We don't have time for a break.  I'm not particularly 
fond of the subject either.  "Get back to work or we'll miss dinner," I snap at him. 
He kneels down, slowly picking up parts, dumping them in a pile.  But he's still looking at me.  
"You don't get it, do you?" 

Even more annoyed by his dawdling, I drop my next stack of parts into the crate, a bigger stack 
making a louder thud that echoes around the room.  "Get what?  That I'm lucky to be allowed to 
get soaked in the snow?" 

He freezes again, shaking this time.  I should care but I'm too annoyed at him for making this 
miserable day more trouble.  He gets control of himself, looking up and staring calmly at me.  
"You know why they leave me alone?" he asks. 

"Because your crazy," I answer.  He's *here* now, but he still slips off somewhere else too often. 
 He's still not dependable enough for a lot of work. 

"Perhaps.  But mostly because *they* had such an unhealthy interest in me.  *He* is even more 
fixated on you than that.  You're dangerous to be around." 

I wish I had my next load ready.  I'd make it even louder.  I'm a caltie to them and maybe he 
doesn't like having to work with one so he's coming up with this new story.  "Of course, since 
they assume *he* will get what he wants again, if he bothers to ask."  I glare at Luther, daring 
him to disagree. 

"He will ask," he says.  "It doesn't matter what they think you'll do."  He's leaning over his pile of 
parts, stacking them now.  I'm tempted to pick them up myself, let him pull in the next crate from 
outside.  But they're too heavy for one person to move.  He'd just as likely spill them in the snow 
and we'd be in far more trouble than with this one, not to mention icy cold and soaked. 

"Would you get to work?" I snap at him, letting loose the bitterness inside that mention of 
Weyoun has released. 

"Think what you want then, but if they really thought he owned you not even Ezri could protect 
you from an *accident*." 

I glare at him again, and this time he ignores me.  He picks up his pile of parts, and we get back to 
working.  There is no more conversation the rest of the miserable day. 

At least we finish in time for dinner, but it takes half the night to get warm and I'm sound asleep 
before they get around to telling a story. 

                               *** 

It's cold, more than the day before, and drizzling.  The snow from the night is melting into a thick 
slush, and my boots are already half-soaked from waiting outside Sir's office.  It's going to be a 
miserable day no matter where I'm assigned, but with weather like this it will be outside. 

Then one of the lieutenants, the tall and dark haired one, looks at me with an odd look.  "Jackson, 
Bashir, Warehouse seven cleanup.  You have until afternoon." 

Carl is improving, with the coldness becoming a deep bitterness, and he's easier to be around now. 
 He's not ignoring his family and everyone has noticed he's sleeping with his wife again.  But still, 
there is something disturbing about Carl.  I don't want to work with him, especially not in a 
warehouse alone.  But it is inside.  How I got assigned to anything so warm is the real mystery.  
But I follow Carl as he heads toward the line of warehouses. 

He waits for me to enter first.  It's dark inside, and I hesitate, but the guards outside insure that I 
do.  Carl strolls inside after me and the door shuts. 

I can hear it lock, too.  Odd.  Then the light comes on, and I realize there is nothing inside to do.  
It's almost empty.  But Carl is standing there, looking me over like I was some of the meat he 
worked over with his owner, grinning at me. 

I should have guessed.  Just because Ezri can't hide the shattering, it doesn't follow that it applies 
to everyone, especially Carl.  And this isn't the Carl Jackson who is starting to hold his children, 
who shares his blankets with Cheryl again.  This is the man who helped torture a woman to death 
because he was told to. 

"How did you arranged this?" I ask before I realize the answer.  I remember the odd look the dark 
haired caltie had given me. 

"A trade.  The tall one, kind of pudgy with the dark hair, he was interested in a very personal 
favor."  Jackson is walking towards me, still *looking*.  I don't want to imagine what that 
personal favor was.  I don't want to be the one to pay for the hidden anger inside him, the anger 
the dark-haired caltie has kept alive over the time, and made sharper.  Carl wouldn't dare show it 
to him.  But I'm different.  I have no power over him.  I don't know if I should hope that this cold 
man stays in control, or if that isn't worse. 

And there is no way out of the warehouse.  I know what sort of things Carl did to survive, what 
I'd guess he's still doing.  I can't help but wonder what he has in mind this morning.  But I know 
the look.  It's the same one the caltie gives Carl.  

How did I walk into this trap?  This isn't the same man who ate breakfast holding his infant 
daughter.  I remember the way Ezri shattered, and wonder how badly Carl has.  He's been so 
quiet, so withdrawn--especially after the days the dark-haired one is on duty.  We got used to him. 
 We saw the danger in Jeffrey--but not Carl.  A cold killer stares at me, raking me with his eyes, 
and I'm the first of our own to see. 

Whatever the explanation, the danger is tangible and I assume I have to stop him before he is able 
to do what he has planned.  The glint in his eyes, the amused smile, all make me certain I must 
stop him. 

I back away from him as he strides towards me.  "Don't touch me or you'll be sorry," I warn him 
in the same tone that banished Realand and the others.  But I don't know if it will work on this 
strange man in Carl's body. 

"Who said anything about that?" he asks calmly.  "What wrong with spending the morning in a 
warm, dry room?  I just wanted a private conversation, that's all." 

"Then talk," I say, still keeping my distance, wary, not believing him. 

"You know, this is very odd," he says, coming deliberately closer.  "Here you are afraid of me, 
*you* who has given them all a warning you'll kill anyone who touches you matts or anything that 
belongs to them.  You know why they leave you alone, even now?  Oh, your wife makes a public 
display of supporting you, but *really* they're afraid.  If they try anything and it fails, you'll kill 
them.  If they succeed you wife will take a suitable revenge.  They don't like you but they don't 
want to die." 

For a moment I'm surprised, distracted.  I didn't know Ezri had established that sort of reputation. 
 "Just what makes them think she'll do that?" I ask, curious. 

"Something.  Has to do with your middle child and a stray comment that came her way.  She 
didn't like it much."  He dismisses the whole subject.  "Maybe she'll tell you some day." 

Joran, I wonder?  Or is the Ezri that came together a little too much like me?  But that is 
something I have to work out later.  Right now Carl is the biggest problem.  "That isn't what you 
want to talk about." 

"No, not really."  He starts towards me, near the wall.  I know I don't want to be there but don't 
want to react too much, feed his mood.  But I'm aware of the sort of things Carl has done and 
how he'd be willing to do them again.  He stops, not quite in front of me.  "Did he call you 
'Doctor'?  Did it feel good to be so important?  Or did he just use your name, make you more than 
one of the bodies for hire?" 

I remember Weyoun calling me by my title, how odd it felt, and Jackson sees it in my eyes.  "He 
called me whatever he wanted." 

Abruptly, Jackson moves behind me and touches me, his hand on my shoulder where his brand is. 
 "I'll bet if I pulled off that uniform there wouldn't be anything to see.  Yours is invisible.  But it's 
there.  You let him buy you this time." 

I look away as he moves around, can't look at him.  At the end of my research, I knew little more 
than at the start, but I did it.  I never once tried to stall.  I cooperated this time.  I never lied to 
him or had any hidden agenda but keeping my family alive.  They are safe because of it, but it 
doesn't change what I did. 

And he sees it.  "How does it feel?" he asks. 
"What matters is that my family is alive." 

"Oh yes, that's why, I suppose.  Too bad you didn't extend that courtesy to Miles and the others 
before." 

I have no answer.  If I defend myself, I'm branded as no better than him.  If I don't he will move in 
for the kill.  Or maybe he will anyway. 

He moves behind me again, replacing his hand on my shoulder.  This time he starts to slide it 
down my back, and I stiffen at the contact.  "Get your hands off of me," I warn, now spitting out 
the words in deadly earnest, ready to kill him if necessary. 

He ignores me, trailing fingers along, using nails to scrape against my clothes.  I'm fuming now, 
ready to smash him.  I don't want to get in trouble, but he *will* get his hands away. 

He tries to slide his hand below my waist and I draw the line.  I whirl on him, smashing a fist to 
his jaw.  He's pushed halfway across the room, landing on his side. 

But he sits up, rubs his jaw.  "Touchy, aren't we," he comments.  I realize the threat won't be 
enough.  Carl won't back down so easy as the rest.  He pulls himself to his feet, standing before 
me.  "I wondered if he had to soften you up a little before you complied, break you down.  But I 
guess not.  Nobody's ever tried to touch you."  He steps back, saving himself another fist.  "Yet.  
He'll get tired of you eventually.  You'll find out." 

"Who put you up to this?" I ask, knowing he won't tell me, or maybe hoping he won't.  If he does 
it means he plans to kill me.  But I understand now.  They've been patient, allowing me to live 
with them but they still want to know.  

He stares at me with hard, cold eyes.  "He didn't have to force you into anything.  All he needed 
was to tell you what to do." 

I had my own reasons he can't know, but it's uncomfortably close to the truth.  He can spot the 
guilt too easy for my own good. 

"You know, I don't like the way my jaw feels.  I think you have to make up for it."  He turns, 
watching as I move away from the wall.  Then he pulls out the device, holding it up for me to see. 

It's a prod, but not the kind the Breen used.  It's one of the special kinds he used to torture people 
with for his owner.  The look in his eyes is full of excitement, even anticipation.  I remember when 
Joran came out and Ezri tried to kill the man who kicked Molly.  I have a feeling that Carl--the 
Carl we've come to know again--is as unreachable as she was at the moment I stopped her. 

Somehow, I have to stop Carl.  If I kill him, will they assume I was hiding the truth and finish the 
job themselves?  

"You think your wife will protect you forever?  Certain people want to know what you did, if you 
deserve to live.  If I don't think so I get to do whatever I please." 

He's grinning again, stripping me with his eyes.  "Look what you did to keep your wife safe," I 
taunt him.  "Is that what you propose for me?"  All I want is to force him into action before he's 
ready, to get the little prod with the wires sticking out away from him before he can use it. 

He smiles.  "Interesting.  I never thought of that but it would be suitable.  And quiet.  They 
execute traitors that way.  Why shouldn't we?  It wouldn't be all that hard to find a little strip of 
leather." 

His grin has vanished, and he's playing with the device now, pulling wires loose.  I back away, 
forcing myself not to run.  It's evident what he's planning, but I have to be close enough to grab it 
from his hand before he can use it. 

"You touch me with that and I'll kill you."  I don't take my eyes off Carl, especially his hands.  I 
need a distraction but there isn't anything in the empty warehouse.  He's nearly done, obviously 
setting up some power unit now.  It's now or never.  I think of Jeffrey and his rusty knife a 
lifetime ago as I grab for his wrist. 

And miss.  He jabs it into me before I can get away and the thing starts to pulse.  It doesn't hurt at 
first, embedded in my shoulder, but my arm goes numb.  I can't move it.  Before I can recover 
Carl spins me around and jabs it in my neck. 

I can't move at all.  It is as if I've been paralyzed but can still feel. 

He pushes it against me, pulsing slightly.  The waves don't hurt but I know they are only the 
beginning.  Numbed by the charge I can't stop him from shoving me against the wall. 

Then something different happens.  A small needle slides through my clothes into my spine.  I 
freeze, every muscle stiffening. 

The pain grows slowly, not too bad, as he stands directly behind me.  My heart is pounding in 
anticipation.  Then he must notice something and suddenly he stops.  I still can't move yet, even 
with it gone. 

"I am working for someone, you know, someone you'd never suspect.  Or don't know that well.  
But I find out if you deserve to live." 

Why did this surprise me?  Aside from using Carl, I realize I should have expected it.  I'll have to 
tell him something.  I don't want to find out how creative he can be.  But what? 

He shoves the probe in again, mid-spine, and I slump limply against the wall.  But he ties my 
wrists just to be sure.  "What did he want you to do?" he asks. 

"Research."  I say it between clenched teeth, the pain growing each time the probe pulses, 
building to a crescendo. 

"Into what?" he demands. 

I think of Garak suddenly.  And Sloan.  Together they say, 'Lie.' 

"Genetics, some projects I'd left behind.  I don't know why.  Anyone could have done it but he 
wanted to make *me* do it.  You wanted to prove your point. You've done it." 

He stops pushing the needle in further, retracting it, but doesn't turn it off.  "He owns you.  Say 
it." 

"Weyoun owns me," I say between gasps for breath and he moves the device down. 

He's not done.  He got me to admit what he wanted to.  Now he can make his judgement.  But 
he'll get the thing away from me.  Or he would if this wasn't personal too.  Does it have something 
to do with Ezri and the little taunt about her reputation? 

"I should take you down," he mutters, sounding entirely different now, "like the new ones in the 
box, all scared and fighting.  You hurt them, make them scream.  Then you punish them for the 
screams, find out what they are really afraid of."  He sounds dreamy, as if he's back there, as if he 
liked it. 

I can't move.  I can't stop him.  If he wants to rape me, hurt me with the prod or whatever else he 
has, I can't do anything about it.  It would almost be better if there was anger but it's gone.  He 
amused, bored.  Where he is this kind of thing is so routine that he had to get creative to keep it 
interesting. 

But how did he get the prod?  I'm desperately trying to get my mind off his plans, and choke out a 
question.  "Who gave that to you?" 

"This?" he says, jabbing it in the small of my back very hard, causing me to nearly fall.  
"Remember I have *contacts* beyond our lowly existence.  The guard got an extra favor if he'd 
make contact with my owner.  I figured he wouldn't want me again, but it might amuse him to 
make a temporary loan." 

He waits.  Every muscle is twitching, tingling.  Movement means throbbing pain.  Finally he pulls 
me back from the wall, forces me to my knees.  Then he starts to pull back my clothes, and I try 
to stop him but can't. 

He exposes my back.  He's standing there just waiting.  "I have an idea.  If I tell them they didn't 
do anything to you, you just cooperated, your dead.  Either I kill you or they do.  Your choice.  
Maybe they take care of your wife as well since she'd get back at them."  He sounds odd, his 
voice soft, comforting now. "But you gave me some good advise.  I like having a family again.  
You were right, he'll do what he wants whatever I do.  I have to thank you for that."  He thanks 
me by tapping the probe to the groin.  I gasp from the pain, panting hard. 

Suddenly his voice softens.  "I remember when I held my daughter the first time.  She's so little 
and so warm and soft.  I couldn't have imagined it before.  Thank you."  Then, as abruptly, his 
voice hardens again.  "For that, I'll spare your life.  If you win." 

He's going to play a game.  I can't imagine the sort of game Carl would think up.  I don't want to 
know, just that he get it over with.  

"This is it.  You don't make a sound.  Not even a whimper.  You do, I tell.  You don't I keep it to 
myself. 

He pulls down my clothes to my wrists and blindfolds me.  "Understand?" he asks.  I nod, even 
the simple movement hurting.  But I believe him, somehow.  He played this game before and is 
used to it working. 

He begins.  Teeth clenched, I can taste blood as I bite my own tongue.  He plays with my back a 
little, and I let myself fall down, hoping to protect my chest, and the rest of the places he can 
reach.  But he grows bored with my back, rolling me on my side and pulling down my clothes to 
my knees. 

It all becomes a haze of pain, but I keep absolutely silent.  I don't know if it's to save myself or 
because I know he's right that Ezri would be eliminated too if they thought she'd revenge my 
death.  I don't know where he's touching me, don't apply any labels anymore.  It's just agony.  And 
then it isn't anything at all, just blackness. 

I come to, laid out on the cold floor, naked with my clothes folded under my head as a pillow.  
My hands are no longer tied, the blindfold gone.  My vision is a little fuzzy, but I can see the 
unfocused gaze in Carl's eyes, the lost look I've seen in Luther's.  He's stroking me gently, his 
touch still agony as he mumbles to himself. 

"You win, you know.  I'll tell them he hurt you first.  They won't forgive you but will let it go.  
They won't kill your wife." 

He moves his hand, playing with me.  I can't move, and it hurts.  If I could stop him, I'd kill him to 
do it.  But I can do nothing but lie unmoving as he uses my body as a toy.  

Then, looking at his eyes, I realize he's not even aware what he's doing and he's still mumbling.  
"He let me scream the first time.  It's easier if you can scream.  Then I couldn't.  And when he was 
done, he took me." 

My heart is pounding, breathing in short gasps, as he tenderly caresses me with a touch of fire.  
He's lost in his fantasy, acting out old nightmares.  He's going to act out that one as well.  I'm 
certain, panic starting to edge out any semblance of rational thought. 
Then he stops, his hands pulling away.  "Sometimes when I'm with Cheryl I think of that, and 
instead of her I see him there, and I can't tell her."  He closes his eyes, hands held before him as he 
was looking at them. 

"You'll be able to move in a while.  I didn't know he was going to do that.  I couldn't stop him."  
He says it very quietly, trembling, utterly lost.  "I'll stay here until then.  I won't let him touch 
you." 

Carl, or whoever this is he's become, doesn't know he did it himself.  Inside, Carl is just as 
shattered as Ezri, but it doesn't show most of the time.  

I'd like to find out who hired him, who splintered him worse with the memories.  But he won't tell, 
may not even remember.  I'll have to live with the uncertainty, never really knowing who tried to 
destroy both of us. 

Carl just sits, staring at his hands and the door.  The pain grows easier and I fall asleep.  But 
sometime later--I still hurt too much to get up yet--he shakes me awake. 

Pushing away pain, I realize this is the man who used the prod on me.  He's smiling again, his eyes 
playing down my body, not hiding the interest. 

"You want to kill me," he says. 

As soon as possible, I think, but don't say it.  Not when I can't sit up.  "Maybe there will be an 
accident." 

He grins, tapping his shoulder.  "Not to me.  If there is, remember my friend on Sir's staff?  And 
him," he says, touching the brand again.  "Neither of them would like that much.  You touch me, 
you pay for it.  And I did do you a favor." 

He'd spare me.  In his head I'm Weyoun's property.  If he thought he could get by with it, he'd do 
more than look now.  But just as Ezri and the children are hostages to Weyoun's whims, now they 
are to him too. 

But Carl is dangerous to everyone.  This side of him will never be seen inside the walls of our 
barn, but I know.  "Who says I'd have to kill you.  What if Realand knew about you?  How long 
would Carl last." 

"He does.  Maybe not as well as you do, but he knows.  So does Jeffrey.  You'd better hope they 
keep it to themselves." 

Carl means his threat just as much as I mean mine.  "Never touch me, or my family or anyone else 
for that matter or it won't matter who is protecting you."  I pull myself up with strength I can 
barely manage.  "Remember *you* have a family too.  What if the others discover your little 
secret?  How long do they last?" 
The smile fades.  Even this part of him cares enough to protect them.  "Remember that the next 
time you decide to play doctor," he says, and I realize he knows about the small cache of salt and 
herbs hidden in my matts. 

For now we're even.  Neither of us will let our family's be hurt.  But someone knows about Carl, 
what lies inside the withdrawn bitterness, the one that hired him.  Who, I wonder, as the 
tormentor fades and the broken man returns. 

Carl sits down again.  "I tried to keep him away.  I can't make him go."  He looks me over.  "He 
didn't hurt you?" 

"No," I answer, perplexed and alarmed.  How do I protect my family when I have to let him live? 
 

He's almost like a child now.  "The door's unlocked.  Rest awhile.  He's got it all arranged." 

I watch as he stumbles out, lying down again, not ready to face them yet. 

When I wake up, he's gone.  Slowly, I drag myself to my feet, force aching muscles to move as I 
dress.  

I stumble outside, and I'm motioned to the office.  The dark haired lieutenant is working inside.  
He gives me the same amused look he did before.  "Your *partner* told me about the accident.  
Take the day off in your blankets." 

I stumble blindly back home, the door opened for me.  Several others are inside, and I collapse on 
my matts, pulling the blankets over me and closing my eyes to everything but the pain. 

Carl is curled up in a ball underneath his blankets.  Later I hear the others come back, Ezri 
hurrying to me.  She tries to check me over but it still hurts to move, and I won't tell her what 
happened.  She stares at Carl, but doesn't figure it out. 

If I did, or she did, she'd probably kill Carl.  I should want that, but not yet.  Cheryl is holding him 
like a child, as he sobs, and I pity her.  At least Ezri knows she's my hostage. 

For a brief moment, he looks up at me, very worried.  I remember what I threatened.  I sounded 
cold, but wonder if I could do that to Cheryl and the little girls. 

Something will have to be done about Carl--but not right now.  Someone else knows, and I'll be 
watching everyone around him very closely to see who it is.  By then, the caltie will find someone 
else and his owner will have forgotten. 

Dinner arrives, and Carl sits up, staring blindly at nothing, too much like Luther when I first 
discovered he'd been on the station.  But that isn't Carl, just a piece of him.  What if the rest of 
him, that cold amused tormentor, lies in wait and listens?  But then, he knows about my 
doctoring, and my stash.  If I'm not dead or deported now, he has some reason to keep quiet.  
Luther is sitting on his matts, watching Carl, noting the bruised jaw, and then glancing curiously 
at me.  I can guess what he assumes.  I wonder if he'll try to bring it up.  

Then Carl notices I'm watching him, tensing, suddenly very nervous.  We both meant our threats, 
but he has a greater danger facing him than I do.  What if he gives the caltie another "favor" and 
someone notices?  What if his vicious alter ego comes out at the wrong time, if he's viewed as too 
dangerous for the rest?  He can threaten all he wants, but never act as openly as I can. 

They know about me.  They know better than to take chances.  After all, the one who had to 
know used Carl to find out, wouldn't risk himself.  

But he'll slip.  Or her.  I don't care much who it is.  I just want to know.  Maybe Carl is immune to 
*accidents* but the one that pointed him at me isn't. 

I'll get to Carl later, if necessary, if they haven't destroyed him already. 

I hope not, but I'd rather get the ones who used him.  Dinner comes eventually, and I eat mine 
watching him closely.  He never looks up.  He knows the game I'm playing.  

Ezri tries to hold me but it hurts.  Or I remember the pain, I don't know.  But we 
don't--*can't*--go to the beach. 

For that alone I'd like to kill him or her, and Carl.  I don't sleep well and it's cold and I know, now 
that the test is done I'll go back to the cold wet work tomorrow. 

I'm hostage to Carl now too--just as he is to the caltie and to me.  

But Weyoun owns me.  I don't come willingly, but I come.  What else really matters? 

Luther is right.  They worry about me since *he* keeps dragging me back.  And so is Carl.  Isn't 
that what it means to be owned? 

It's very late and I didn't get very much sleep.  I'm too tired to stay awake anymore, even with 
Ezri holding throbbing muscles.  But I dream of the day *he* comes again, and how, *somehow*, 
I'll end it this time. 

Who cares about the rest if this is all that's left me? 

                            *** 

end, Part 4a