TITLE: Surrender, Part 4-Madness Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home Author: Valerie Shearer Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net Series: DS9 Part 4/60(Ch) Rating: R Codes:Angst,B/Ez,Ob's,K/O,AU,Post-War Chapter 22 *** Off in the distance the bell is ringing, and we shake ourselves awake. The weather is still too cold. Between Ezri and I and the four children we manage to warm up at night, rolled togther sharing all the blankets and each other's warmth. But the day is a different matter. I'm assigned snow clearing today. It will be icy cold and wet and miserable. I don't want to wake up. But we have no choice. Untangling ourselves, we aren't ready to leave the warm blankets. I still hurt from Carl's *test* and she is still waiting for an explanation. The children stay covered, as I notice Ezri looks a little pale. "How are you feeling?" I ask her, worried she might be sick. "I'm fine," she says, dismissing my concern. "Anyway, we're working inside today. Don't worry about me. You're the one that needs to be careful." "I am," I answer, "I don't get in anybody's way." "Julian, you're going to end up really sick this way. We'll get someone to trade." She pulls me back after I put on my coat. "Listen, Nancy is sick. We can't lose you. You're the only doctor around." I already know. I've already looked at her for Luther. She has a cold. If it stays a cold she'll be fine. If not, I can't really help her, and Ezri knows it. It's going to be miserable today, and I just want to be left alone to get my food before we have to go. Ezri is getting up, pulling on her coat, wrapping up the children in the extra blankets. She's about to say something else, and I don't want to hear it. "She's doing fine," I snap at her. "Luther asked me to check her over last night. She's almost over her cold." Even with my coat on I'm shivering. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. "Julian . . . " she says, but I'm moving away. The snow crew is sent out first, and we have to be ready early. Then quite abruptly our normal routine is disrupted by the door opening, icy cold air filling the already chilly room. Several guards stand in the door. They are not Jem'Hadar, but they are armed. "Bashir, come now!" orders the man. I freeze where I'm standing. I'll need my boots and hat. I must have a chance to say good bye to my family. These aren't camp guards. They are from Weyoun's special unit of calties, and should they find themselves alone, anyone here would risk the danger of killing them. Even Carl, I think--or me. It would be one way of ending this nightmare. "Get dressed now," snarls the woman, and I notice the looks she's giving Ezri, how much they would resemble each other without Ezri's spots. She continues. "Hurry it up or you go like that." I rush to our blankets, Ezri taking my hand, the argument forgotten. She looks scared, but she doesn't show it aside from her eyes. She hands me my boots and kisses me on the cheek. "I love you," she says. "Come home." Of course, we both know that isn't up to me. Or, perhaps in some terrible way it might be. I think of the guards, how nobody would miss them, how their deaths would be good news to the rest of the people in this room, even if I killed them. She must see the anger and resentment in my eyes, squeezing my hand harder now. She's more scared than before, but she's still perfectly calm. "Do what you have to," she says, almost a whisper, and her eyes say good bye. But we do not say the words. Slipping on my boots, then my hat, I lean down to kiss the children. I can't go without doing that. Molly grabs my hand. "Daddy, I love you," she says. She's crying. Tessie reaches out, hand tangled in my beard, and Ezri has to separate it while I hold Tessie in my arms. She just stares at me as I move away, Ezri keeping her from following. I can feel Carl's eyes boring into me, watching. He doesn't look like any of his shattered selves, just the despondent man he shows the world, at least to most of them. But I see. He has a little smile. Then it vanishes and he looks away. Carl is back, but not in control. Realand and Daniel and Luther are starting too, but in shock. We don't get visits by the Specials very often. This time Weyoun is making sure everyone knows why I'm going. Dorothy looks at me, calm but worried. She has already said that Ezri can take care of the books better than she, and Ezri has already established that she is under our protection too. I'll miss Dorothy. Some part of me wonders if I'll see her again, but this isn't the usual taking. More of me assumes this is good bye. I nod towards the older woman who holds our history. She nods back. But the cold is filling the room, making it worse for everyone. All of them are staring at me. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to move. Silently, I say good bye. Just in case . . . Outside, they hurry me along through piles of snow, the door now shut, to a small personal transport. I'm pushed inside between them. I offer my hands, resigned to being cuffed, but unexpectedly they leave me alone. Their jackets opened, I can see they wear uniforms, though they should be in prisoners coveralls. They are Weyoun's *personal* body guards. I take a deep breath, considering if Luther was right after all, worried that Carl's prediction is going to come true this time. Maybe I am a danger to the others. Maybe it would be better to find some reasonable way out. Is Carl's way the only one, to force him to give up and live with the concequences? The transport rides along the ground until it passes through the outer gates of camp, only lifting off after it clears the outside walls. I consider if it would be possible to take them in this confined space, but doubt I could kill both before they killed me. Instead, I lean back my head, closing my eyes, trying to stay calm. Maybe there will be a better time. Then the pilots compartment slides open, and I have to look at the sky. For a moment I'm caught up in memories, looking down on the planet that has become our home. The transport is sub- orbital, but beneath us is a vista of clouds with bits of water and land peaking through it. From here, it could be Earth. But these creatures, these traitors, work for the people who destroyed it and the memories turn bitter. And then I see the pilot, realize he is human. I stare at him knowing the guards would never let me get close enough, still enjoying the thought of my hands around his neck. But they notice. "Stay back or I'll make sure of it," the largest one says, yanking me back by the shoulders, slamming me against the hard seat. Winded by the shove, I hold up my hands in submission, still glaring at them, but looking away. When they don't restrain me, I place my hands very carefully on my lap. The woman looks as if she's just waiting for an excuse to use the restraints, that she would enjoy tightening them to see how much I'd squirm. The other one is more direct. "One move and I'll make it real tight," says the burly one again, giving me another shove for good measure. I lean my head back, looking down, where they won't notice the poison glare I'm still directing towards the pilot. But other than that I don't move. There's no point in resisting and getting my hands bound behind me. It hurts too much. The cuffs will be too tight even when they're not trying. They wouldn't kill me anyway, save me from Weyoun. They already belong to him. Pushing down the anger, careful not to give them reason to prove anything, I tell myself that someday these people will pay for what they've become. If I'm still around, I very much look forward to it. It could be worse. At least the transport is warm, and I savor the heat. If it wasn't going to end in front of *him* I wouldn't mind it taking longer. But I want this to be over. Maybe getting warm has given me a new perspective. This has to end. I don't care if it ends with me dead as long as I take out someone else with me, especially if it's Weyoun. Of course, I'd have to play some sort of game, lull him into trusting me enough to get close enough with enough time. If nothing else, it would be a satisfying way to die. But I don't know if I could make myself play the game again. I've played it before and look where it got me. Then, all too soon, we land in the middle of a large complex, and the burly guard yanks me out of the craft. I stand where I am told, waiting . . . "You want to clean him up?" the burly one asks the woman. "Sure," she says as if she would enjoy doing it personally. My skin crawls, thinking of Carl, but I stumble ahead, the rifle pointed at me. Should I run and end it now, or find out what Weyoun wants this time? But then, I would like a shower first . . . even with her watching. Using the rifle, I'm pushed into a small, very utilitarian cubical and ordered to strip. The slime smiles, her eye wandering down as I pull off the coveralls. The gloved hand gestures for me to turn around when I show my back, and I comply, the order backed up by the rifle. I keep thinking of Carl, of his leering exploration, of his warning. Weyoun wouldn't allow her to touch me. Or would he? I wish it was Jem'Hadar. They never cared enough to stare. Pointing at the shower with the rifle, I'm told to wash, and do it well. She chuckles, says I'll have to prove I'm clean first. I can almost feel the filthy hands on me, but the shower feels good and distracts me enough I can stand to be in the same room. Then, still naked, she makes me stand and inspects me closely, all of me, touching me here and there. I tense with each contact, still hurting from Carl's personal torture, his open interest still on my mind. The guard only enjoys the reaction, chuckling to herself as if amused. Then she just stares, shaking her head. "I guess you're clean enough," she says, but still looks, holding the clothes, teasing and now openly leering at me. But Burly can be heard asking when she's going to be done. Annoyed, she throws the clean clothes at me, and watches carefully as I dress. It's a relief to be covered, but I know she isn't seeing the clothes. It was a sonic shower, but I haven't been this clean in months. But I think I'd rather have the Jem'Hadar with their penchant for fists than these traitors who stare. I don't mind being undressed anymore. But I felt *naked* with the guard watching. I'm certain if Weyoun wasn't waiting she'd have tried much more than look. If she dared. I'm healthy, strong. She's part human, but not entirely. She's probably stronger than she looks. There are rewards for turning traitor. Marta was lucky. Now, there would be no need for deals. Now, the man she married would buy her without bothering to ask. I can still feel her eyes boring through me, as if the clothes were an illusion. I can feel her hands exploring what she has no permission to take. Even in route to Weyoun, I do not feel safe from her. She shoves me ahead again, jabbing suddenly with the rifle, first out the door and then down a familiar corridor. There are others in there and I feel safer in the corridor, even if being taken to see Weyoun. Luther's warning keeps repeating in my mind. As long as he keeps calling me back I'll never belong to my own again. This last time, after Odo . . . And the look, the open leer. . . Carl is very bitter, but he knows about them. What if Weyoun decides I won't cooperate, gives me to the guards? The memories of Carl and his hands are too fresh, but deep inside I don't care anymore. As long as it ends. It shouldn't be too hard to get them to shoot me. But this is the last time he'll steal my life. Carl's warning that *he* will eventually be done with me, and what comes then, keeps distracting me. With the slimy guard behind me, after the shower, I'm certain I'd rather have them shoot me than still be alive. But I know she wouldn't kill me. I think of the punishment, the ultimate method of execution meted out to Cassie and Elaine. She would welcome the chance to stop me, and be allowed to do what is already playing in her mind, reduce or remove my own ability to stop her. With Luther it ended, as much as it can ever end, as a broken man. Is that the only real option I have left other than death? When Weyoun's door opens I'm escorted into a new world. There are no Jem'Hadar in sight, no one from the Gamma quadrant races they brought with them. The only people around him, and a fair amount at that, are calties--calties wearing civilian clothing, only the patch on their jackets identifying them as his staff. All of them are neatly dressed, faces smooth, and hair carefully trimmed, even making Sir's staff look sloppy. His office has been divided into separate desks, each with a caltie sitting at it, all personally loyal to *him*. The Founders must be dead by now. He must be worried that the Jem'Hadar will find out. Perhaps he's making fewer of them now, keeping them isolated and to the outskirts of his empire for his own survival. The slimy guard taps on a door padd, probably Weyoun's office. "The doctor is here, sir." "Take him to the lab first. I'm rather busy right now," *he* says, preoccupied. He sounds rushed, harassed by the daily details of life. Who would have guessed he could carry off the ruse so well? Those around him, traitors to their own races, probably don't care if the Founders are dead or not. They owe their personal loyalty and comfort to Weyoun alone. They owe their own survival to his continuing to rule. I keep thinking, short of torture and rape, or death, there was one other way out. Could I play pretend with them again, play the game smart, like Luther wanted me to. Could I find a nitch in their world and then destroy them? There are a lot of them. It might be easier to hide if I didn't stand out. I'd have to abandon Ezri, of course. She'd be safer in camp than here given the chances of any of these people surviving the death of Weyoun. But she's strong enough to raise the children now. She doesn't need me anymore. She'd be better off without me. All I have to do is convince Weyoun I don't care what happens to her, and hope he doesn't force me to prove it. But then there is the choice Carl had to make at the end between a last refusal and his wife in the hands of a monster. We stop in front of a door, interrupting my thoughts. For the first time, I really look at the place. The building is obviously new, almost reminiscent of something the Federation might have built in its utilitarian efficience. But the security is much more obvious. And there are nothing but special unit guards. The door to the lab slides open after a double security check, and I'm guided inside. The guards wait outside. All I want is to leave this room. It's pleasantly warm, but there is a *chill* far colder than the icy morning I left a few hours before. How dare I think I can pretend to be like these people? This is a research lab, and I'm sure Weyoun plans to add me to its staff. I can not do this. I don't want to know what sort of research they are doing, but doubt I'll be allowed to remain ignorant. And yet, standing, waiting for it to be over, some part of me is impressed with the place. It is bigger than the one I'd been allowed to use before, with even more technology-a mixture of Dominion and many other cultures. There are no guards, at least that I can see. But I know better. This is here to research something very important to Weyoun, even more so than saving the Founders. There are too many people, too many machines, unseen security so intense it shows in the guarded ways the busy staff moves across the room. Whatever they are doing, to cooperate now would mark me forever. But can I refuse and not condemn my family to hell? If this matters that much to him, *nothing* will be allowed to get in the way. Then a middle-aged human walks up to me, dressed in rumpled lab coat, his hair tangled and untidy from the way his fingers are twiddling the longer strands. Preoccupied, he looks up as if I am interrupting something important. He offers his hand. "I believe you're to get a tour of the place," he says as if I was like him, with no marks on my hand. I know this man. He's filled every laboratory since the first was assembled. He does research, making it his life, his purpose. He would have done the same for the Federation, served their goals just as easily as Weyoun's. This room is his life. He has never asked himself why, never considered what might come of the discoveries he makes. Weyoun didn't even have to buy him, just show him the room. He is as dangerous as the Vorta in his own way. I let him take my hand but can't share the enthusiasm. He doesn't notice. My hand feels soiled everywhere he touched. I'm getting the quick tour, certain they plan on having another chance for a more detailed one. "This is the main research bay," he tells me, as we pass by a room full of testing stations. He doesn't stop long enough to see much more. I follow him, impressed despite the hatred inside me. It's a very efficient place. One could do a lot here. After that, there are a series of isolated labs, and a group of offices. I don't get to see inside. We pass through the small patient care area, hardly stopping as he gestures towards the beds, "For our patients," as he hurries to a special door. We stop. He looks excited, his eyes full of satisfaction. "Sorry about the quick look, but we don't have a lot of time." I watch as he enters a code, backed up by his own DNA scan before the door opens. He hasn't even reacted to my silence. It is clearly a nursery. Instruments sized for small children's bodies lie on a table. There are several small biobeds in a small alcove to the side. In another room, the light dimmed, are what appear to be incubators. I stand still, just looking around the room. I cannot imagine this man having power over children. He smiles and a cold chill creeps down my spine. I think of Ezri and the children, loved and protected as much as is possible, and this man with his room full of instruments. When I turn him down I may not be able to protect her, but I think Ezri would understand if she saw this place. His pride is evident as I follow him, slowly, fear and anger mixing and growing inside me. He leads me inside the dimly lit room with the incubators. Lying in one, sound asleep, is a small baby. Even this young, I can already tell it is a Vorta. "Meet Weyoun Jr," he says. Is this what Miles died for, or did this come after? And why an infant? Or do the Vorta grow to maturity as the Jem'Hadar do, growing up in days? I want to ask, but can't force out the words. I don't want him to notice the blind fury growing inside me. I consider if he would be a worthy target for it, standing there so proud of his betrayal of everything he was. But Weyoun would be better. I know they'll kill me. Maybe it will be worse than just dying. But I don't care anymore. I force the anger back, make my voice sound calm, interested. "How old is he?" I finally ask. He smiles again, that creepy smile. "A couple of months old. We tried to duplicate the Dominion cloning process before but couldn't get it to work. Not that we need to in this case. The baby carries the same DNA as the donor. It's a lot easier to alter small children anyway." The anger retreats, replaced by a dawning sense of horror, an abhorrence of this man and everything he represents. What happened to the "test subjects" that failed? Is the baby Vorta just another "experiment"? What sort of "alteration" are they planning? Do they want *me* to participate? It is all I can do to keep my hands off his neck, but I know he does nothing without orders. Weyoun is responsible for this plan, and he should pay. The doctor will pay in his own time. I can't move. Memories flood my mind, flashes of a time long ago, things hidden so well they hurt all the more. Little Jules holds my father's hand as he leads him into the hospital with the doctors, kin to this man. Eyes wide, he pulls away as the nurses pull his small body into restraints. Sobbing, he begs them to stop, screaming inside for his mother, for rescue from this place. Then I can feel Jules next to me, staring at the baby, his hand clutched in mine. His little feet scurry behind me, Kukalaka clutched in his other hand, as the doctor taps me on the arm. It startles me, but he doesn't appear to notice. "We don't want to wake him," he says quietly. Relieved I follow him out of the nursery, past the banks of instruments, and out the door. Jules scampers after me, his hand still locked in mine. He's crying now, scared, his pulse racing. My host steps past the patient area, Jules keeping close to my leg. After opening the first door, the doctor ushers us inside, indicating a chair. I sit, uneasily, as Jules climbs into my lap, holding on tight and sobbing hysterically, Kukalaka pressed against me. Some part of me understands this man, lost in the normality of his life, will neither see nor hear Jules. I must appear calm or I'll never get near Weyoun. Choking out the words, I finally ask, "What do you want of me?" "You'll have to discuss that with my superior. I'm to brief you on the project." So cold, dry. A baby is lying in sleep, existing only so he can be tormented by men like this who are incapable of feeling. What would he feel if it was my hands pressing his throat closed, gasping for breath? Is he afraid to die, or is that as immaterial to him as life? He begins. I hear the words, how they plan to alter the baby's DNA, add abilities the Founder's evidently didn't find important but Weyoun wants anyway. Jules is very quiet now, listening, burying his head in my arms, his sobs silent. For the baby it will not be the same. The ordeal will last a long time. The doctor lays out the plan for the continued torture of this child as if the child's pain was of no importance. I know differently. I stare at him, unable to pretend anymore. He isn't even looking at me, doesn't notice that I hardly hear him. He is proud of his plan. It blinds him to everything else. But I remember the voice of the doctor as they bound me, assuring little Jules it would only hurt a little. Jules squirms as little memories, flashes of pain and confusion, fill my mind-- injections, muscles caught in spasms that would not stop, nausea so bad I could hold nothing down. No matter what they offer or threaten, I will not touch the child. Not all the monsters are dead. One of them sits across from me at a table, smiling, pleased with himself. He shrugs, adding in a friendly tone, "Of course, we may run into some snags. I think he's ready for you now. I do hope to discuss this later." Stunned, lost in memories I thought I'd banished, I mumble, "yes," to him. If I do not leave now, I'll end up killing him. Dragging Jules along, too frightened to walk on his own, I escape the room and the monster. He leaves us at the door, the deadly smile still there. Silently, forcing all the outrage to stay back, I follow our original guards. Burly is distracted, in a hurry. Slimy keeps both hands and eyes to herself, but just the same keeps watching too close. They don't see Jules either. I still want to kill the doctor, but he can be replaced. Once Weyoun is gone, he won't last very long. I'm sure he won't die gently or easily. I owe it to Jules and the child and all the rest to end the nightmare for everyone. This time, Weyoun's office is almost empty. He's sent all but a few of his staff away. Sitting at his desk, the guards usher us inside, Jules little running steps barely able to keep up, Kukalaka clutched to his chest, head buried in the bear. He does not climb in my lap this time as I take the chair that's offered, but hides under the desk, rolling himself into a tiny ball. Weyoun says graciously, "I'm sure Dr. Blevens has explained the project. We were lucky to find him." I think of Cardassia and the silent tomb it became. Too bad, I think. He deserved to die with the Cardassians, he and all the monsters who helped him. But I sit on the nearest chair to the door, the furthest from Weyoun, because I don't want him to see how I am barely under control, how little I want to hold back the anger and outrage and pain. He picks up a padd, reading it to himself. "It's unfortunate that you didn't choose to participate earlier, especially for your friends." He murdered Miles because I wouldn't work for him, but Miles forgave me. Now I understand why. But I still see the blood, and will keep seeing it until someone has paid. Tomorrow I will probably be dead, but so will his murderer. He doesn't see. I'm still keeping it back, barely able to stop the timebomb inside me from exploding. But Miles is standing next to me now. He puts his hand on my shoulder, holding me back. 'Not yet,' he says. Weyoun continues, his voice pleasant with a hint of sincerity. "I trust you've learned it would be better to reconsider. Of course, when you bring your family here, the slave marks will be removed from your hands as well. You'll have our best quarters, your own replicator, all that you need to be comfortable. And no one can harm your wife and children." Miles keeps pushing me back. 'No, Julian, not yet,' he says. They killed the parents but would give the children everything, would steal them away. 'He'll have them killed if you do,' he says. But Miles can't stop me anymore. Jules pulls back hiding as far from view as he can. Inside me, a fury so intense I cannot contain it is growing, building to an explosion I cannot stop. Weyoun is waiting for me to reply, sitting patiently and watching. I want my hands around his throat, his body bloodied and beaten, but there is too much noise in my head to move. My father, staring in disappointment, as I stumbled through school . . . my mother holding me, as I sob, telling me she loves me even if I'm not perfect, hiding her own worry . . . The doctors, with their hypos and tests and the fear and the hurt. In time I marveled at the new things in my head, the abilities I'd never dreamed of, but by then Jules was gone. That I could see . . . I forgave my father, but he was still wrong. He had no right to decide for Jules. He made a better son, but it was not for him to choose, no more than Weyoun can torment a child to remake himself. I stand, looking at Weyoun, staring with barely concealed hatred. He still should die, but know why first. "Why?" I ask, staring at him. He looks up, preoccupied, missing my anger. "You should understand. The Vorta were made to fill a role, and we did our jobs quite well. But there are qualities we were not permitted to know, things we depended on the Founders for our guidance. They are . . . no longer available to me. I find myself hampered in important decisions by the limitations imposed on me by my nature. I believe the Founders would approve, as I am simply carrying on a legacy in their honor." He can be open with me because I know the changelings are dead. I saved myself--my family--before by making a deal with him. But there comes a point when you cannot cross the line drawn in the sand. No matter what, like those who perished at the Alamo, I will not step over Travis' line. He will make the child into the image he wishes for himself, just as my father made sure I would not be the failure he was. Standing in the room, staring at him, the anger and resentment of a lifetime demands release. I set it free, slowly, standing and pacing forward near Weyoun, holding in just enough to give my words a bitter edge. Jules moves out of his hiding place and stands behind me. Miles stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder again. He's looking me in the eyes, angry now. 'Please, Julian, not now. It's not the time. You're going to get them killed.' Weyoun looks up at me, standing over his desk, caution and surprise passing briefly across his face. "Yes?" he says. I release years of pain as I light into him, my voice rising. "How dare you claim you have the right to decide what that child, that baby, will be as he grows." The outrage swells as I speak, Jules clutching my hand. The hatred for all Weyoun has done fills me, blinds me to all but him and the child at my side. Standing there, staring into Weyoun's eyes I see amusement as the bitterness grows, filling me. Now, in place of the bear, Jules is holding the baby, cradling him as if to protect him from harm. "You have no more right to use him than my father did. You have no right to torture a child because *you*," I spat out the word, "are not good enough." I look down at Jules and he has merged with the child, having become one. My father stands before me, trying to speak but I won't let him. I can't bear to hear another excuse, another denial that they killed their only child to make a new one. With more bitterness than anger now, I spit out the words. "I don't care if *your* life is a failure. That child has a right to his own, a right to exist *as he is*, without you deciding what that should be. You made him, now you live with it. I will not torment him, no matter how many threats you make or what it costs me in the end." I realize I am finished. He knows now. I want to kill him but all the emotion is used up, and I just stand, shaking, as he looks me over. Miles has removed his hand, but not moved. 'You promised. If they die it's your fault.' All I see now is bitterness. He forgave me before. But not this time. Everything spent--the anger, the hatred, the terror--I do not move as the door opens, do not resist as I'm dragged away from Weyoun. Jules in next to me, holding on to my leg with an iron grip. "Are you done?" asks Weyoun, cold and unmoved. "You would have been a great asset to the project but I can find others." He is doing something with a padd, looking down at his desk. Abruptly, he holds it up. "I have just issued the order for the deportation of your family, including the four children. They'll be sent to a small mine near Cardassian space. Some of the tunnels are very narrow and low. Children work well there, at least as long as they last. Your wife is short as well. She'll be quite useful for a time." Not Ezri, not the children I promised to keep alive . . . Unable to move, Jules arms wrapped so tightly around my legs I can't walk, I'm silent, stunned. I knew he'd do it, but he had not yet *issued* the order that will doom my family to a slow, miserable death. Shaking, I find my voice. "Why don't you just execute them and get it over with?" "Because it would be too fast, because you'd get your way. You are a slave. You have no right to refuse my orders, or you will be punished. Shall I add more names to that list?" I remember now. He ask that when he killed the others and I let him. Miles steps in front of me, intense disappointment written in his eyes. 'You could have stopped it, stopped yourself. You promised to take care of them.' I pull away from the guards, stand and face Weyoun. "You can do this," I say, sweeping my hand around the office, "because they are dead now. Because nobody gets in the way." I feel good, having ceased to keep his secret. But then, in a little while, Ezri and the children will be dead too. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters but revenge. In a white hot flash of anger, I rip away from the guards, lunging across the distance and the desk he tries to use as a shield. I yank him roughly across the desk, shoving him to the floor. He squirms as my hands close around his neck, thumbs pressing against his throat. He's gasping for air, flailing under me. I don't have much time before they kill me but don't want him to die too easily. He faints, and I let up a little, watching as he starts to gasp for air again. Then I tighten my grip, intending to crush his neck. Miles stands over me, just watching. 'You should have listened to Sloan,' he says, sadness mixed with anger and satisfaction as I squeeze the life out of Weyoun. 'Play the game smart or your best friend *and* your family die.' Then . . . then the pain. Footsteps are all around, and my hands let go, Weyoun falling back hard against the floor, his head making a thump. At first, there is noise and numbness and confusion. I'd seen the prods the Breen had used, carried by the current guards. But I hadn't imagined them using them, not like this. I'm vaguely aware as they drag my limp body off Weyoun, their doctor hurrying past to tend to him. I guess he's still breathing. Another passing thought, I should have killed him the first time, not waited. They drop me on the floor, roll me on my stomach. I can hear as the probes come near, the little whine they make. Then, jammed against my spine, every muscle tightens and then spasms. My head is buzzing, unable to speak or scream at first, then unable not to. It goes on for an eternity, my body a mass of twitches and jerks I cannot control at all, and white hot pain that drives me back inside myself. Then . . . nothing. But in the darkness, Miles is gazing down at me, fading slowly. 'Good bye, Julian.' As Miles disappears there is nothing but emptiness. Off in a distance a voice . . . "You know what to do," says one of *his* aides, this one with a peculiar tattoo of an intricate pattern on his arm. Vague awareness of pain, muscles twisted in spasm as suddenly they pull me off the floor, the quick movement making me fade, then there is nothing but blackness. *** The beach is so dark. The rain pelts the sand, the birds silent. The trees thrash around in the storm. Covered with foam, the waves churn in the wind. Above, in the dark sky, the moon is gone, and I'm huddled on the sandbar alone. No, not alone. Jules is here. I don't come here alone. Where's Ezri? Then I see her, standing in the water, staring down at me. She's thinking, a mean grin on her face. I don't like it, don't trust it, but she's pulled open my shirt, slides hands against my skin. She's looking away now, off in the distance as her hands explore my body, or what she can reach of it. She slides them down my chest, fingers playing as they go, teasing. Her hand trails up my trousers, down my stomach, softly tracing across the groin. I hurt so bad, can barely move. I like the feel of her hand as it touches, tingles. The muscles, tense from the pain, start to relax, the tension ebbs a little, the gradual sensation as she slides her hand down my body. I need Ezri, and the beach. The waves have calmed, the rain stopped. The trees are still, but the birds do not sing. The moon is still gone, the sky dark. I breath deeper than before as she slides the whole of her hand along my chest, and the pain dims again, muscles relax. I can breath better, move a little. I allow my arm to stretch, reach out towards her. She hurts me, pinching hard on sensitive places. She hadn't hurt before, why now? She likes to play rough sometimes. Her nails rake into my skin, pressing hard, dragging, drawing blood. The muscles that had relaxed are tense again, twitching in reaction to her now rough hands. She pulls back my shirt, but I hunch forward and the shoulders of my clothes fall back into place. The wind is blowing again, whipping up the water. A spattering of rain falls on me as thunder and a flash of lightening visibly excite her. For a flash it is day, then the darkness returns. She stops, looks. She is frustrated, annoyed. She gets like this sometimes. I never know who she is, even now, when she insists so firmly. But I don't see Joran in her eyes. She'll be rough, hurting. But she knows how to bring the excitement to a razor's edge, and I let her do what she wants then. But I hurt now. I don't want the edge. I want the soft trail of her hand, the gentle massage, the shimmering calmness of her fingers as they slide down my body. She doesn't hurt if I say no. I raise a hand, carefully, with much effort, and try to pull away her hand. She'll understand. She always does. Suddenly, she pulls away. I hear noise, something being tumbled nearby as she backs into the water. I still can't move. Even without her help, each hint of movement more than a small change of position sends stabs of pain down my body. And then, she's back, grasping my arm, sliding hand under my shoulder, shoving me to the side. Before I can move she has both wrists. She's binding them, tight, too tight, throbbing almost as she is done. Abruptly she takes my shoulder and pulls, rolls me over to my back again, but now my bound wrists are underneath, trapped, stabbing into raw nerves along the spine. I can't move, can't fight the pain. Ezri is looking down, her eyes cold, uncaring at the agony. She smiles, grins, rakes her nails down my chest, pressing against bruises. Why is she hurting me? What have they done to my Ezri? Did they give her to the same monster that destroyed Ellie? Is Ezri a creature of pain and destruction now, a deadly puppet on a string of torment? She looks down, the wind howling, the rain stirred up in a torrent, as she holds the prod in my face. "You won't hurt me, I'll make sure of that," and she shoves it into my stomach, slides it down towards legs. It isn't against skin but it doesn't matter. The line of agonizing fire is just as terrible. She laughs as I cringe from the pain. Do I scream? Does she want me to scream or is it more fun if I don't, like it was to Carl. She pulls the thing away, the small pulsing terror, and her hand is running down my chest again, teasing, tickling past the clothes. Any touch is agony now. The grin is still there, the leer like Carl, the thing in her hand like Carl had, moving it back, the pain flooding through me. The wave crashes against the sand and I'm suddenly doubled over in agony so intense it all goes blank, stomach, back, legs, every muscle all tied in knots. Loud roars as the water splashes on me, over me and the muscles let go, still twitching, still tingling. I collapse back on the sand, Ezri standing in the water, my coveralls grasp in her hands, keeping me from falling. She shoves me back, pins my shoulders. I can't stop her, can't control my body at all. The pain from sudden grinding against hard sand, raw and damaged nerves triggered to spasm, almost banishes the beach. She tosses the probe in the water, moving towards my legs. With every bit of strength I have, I try to pull free as she grasps my ankles, kick her with as much strength as I can. But Jules is in the way, hiding on the end of the sandbar. I can't stop her as she ties my ankles together, too tight again, some kind of stiff cord that bites deep into the skin. Jules is crouched on the sandbar, looking at me through two selves, himself and the baby, *his* baby, ready to torture. Jules is trembling, pleading is a small voice, "Make the bad lady go away," he pleads. Ezri slides closer, leering now, and I try to move away. Jules backs off, almost in the water. She slides her hands inside my shirt again, this time taking her time as she explores me, scraping and dancing fingers over muscles in tight spasm, teasing where it makes me squirm. She slides out one hand, gliding it over my trousers to my groin, and smiles. Then she backs away, returning, dripping wet, with the prod. She slides it up my legs, between them, almost to her hand. Flashes of lightning erupt inside me, jolts of agony with muscles so tense I can hardly breath. Her hand feels through the cloth of my coveralls, fingers probing. The seizures ease, the muscles flaccid now, attempts to move only bringing spasms and pain. She grins at me. She trails her fingers through my beard, down my neck, across my chest, rams the probe into me again. Another wave roars against the sandbar, smashing against me, every muscles going into spasm again. Carl is here, somewhere in the distance. 'I warned you,' he says. 'Maybe this one likes it if you scream.' Ezri's face floats in front of me again, grinning in anticipation. She slides her hand down my side, past my hips, dancing her fingers between my legs and back up again. Then the pain, sharp, extended, reaching everywhere searing through nerves and muscles already abused. Ezri laughs. Carl splashes his way to the sandbar. 'Scream. She's waiting for you to scream. She likes different games.' I keep staring at Carl, remembering. I can't make a sound. He'd tell if I did. The pain explodes inside me and it all goes black. All wet. Jules, soaked as well, climbing back on the sandbar, baby still in his arms. "Scared of the bad lady," he says in a little voice. Ezri looms over me, her hand exploring. She's smiling now, a dangerous smile. Another grin as she tosses the prod away again, but now she has a knife. She points it at my throat, sliding the blade down my chest, pausing at my waist. I freeze, knowing I can't stop her, seeing the look in her eyes, the hunger. With the coveralls on she can only torment me. But she catches the knife in the fabric of the waist, poking my skin and pulling it away as she is ready to slit open my armor. Carl is still there, looking amused. 'Guess what? She has permission,' he says. He smiles, his eyes trailing down my body. 'Lucky her.' She pulls it loose, watching my face, and I try to hide the fear. I want to beg, plead for her to stop, but my swollen jaw won't move and Jules stops me. "Bad lady hurts," he wails. I can't move. I can't make the pain go away, or stop her as she plays with her knife, not yet drawing blood but teasing. I stare at it as her hand trails up and down my body, waiting for the first stab, the first trace of fire as she cuts too deep. She plays for an eternity while Carl watches, each scrape of the knife shear agony. He smiles now and then. 'Wish I could help,' he adds, disappointed. She isn't playing now. Hand sliding down my stomach, resting against my leg, the knife is ready to tear at my clothes. I finally close my eyes, can't watch as she steals everything. Carl is watching, bored. He would probably be more creative, but it doesn't matter much to me. The pain is so bad I almost pass out, want to pass out, want to forget what she's doing, what she intends to do. If Carl tries to touch me I'll kill him. But I want Ezri to be with me, go to our beach, merge in the rythem of the waves. After this, do I dare let her touch me? Is this some errant personality that I don't know about, one that could come back when I didn't expect it? Then noise, water churned by a motor, a gruff voice echoing past the trees. "Get your hands off of him, scum." Guard, burly one. Ezri is suddenly yanked backwards, pulled into the water. A solid slap hits her along the cheekbone. She sways from the blow. She puts away her knife, stashing it somewhere in her clothes. "I was just having some fun. It's just sarke anyway." "You want him to kill you? We did what we were ordered. He's been disciplined. You didn't just watch him. He's not available." He stares at her, "From now on, leave him alone." He grabs her again, hanging on as she tries to pull away. "I'm not going down with you." Burly hits her again, this time squarely on the jaw with his fist. "See," he says, "I know better. This one's his. We don't touch it." There is a little cut on her cheek, and a trickle of blood draining out. Carl smirks. 'Lucky you,' he says, bored, walking away. 'Just wait. He'll get tired of playing eventually.' Jules is crawling next to me, hiding by my side from the bad people and Ezri. "*He's* still out," Ezri complains. "Get him untied *now* or I report this." Gruff voice, nervous. "Don't worry about the monitor, he's awake anyway." Ezri drags herself out of the water, dripping on me as she shoves me on my side, rubbing her jaw. Why is she doing this, hurting me? She cuts the rope with her knife, pokes me deliberately. "Hold it down for me, don't wanna get kicked," she mutters. "That's your problem," says Burly, and she moves cautiously around me. Gripping my leg, she slits the rope fast and moves away, not pulling it off. "You don't think you're going to leave that behind, do you?" he asks. Burly snarls at her, "Get in the boat," as she yanks off the rope. She's still standing in the water and he drags her into the boat after him, looking at me, snarling "Sarki trash." The boat pulls away. The water starts to calm a little, the thundering of the wind less overpowering. The churning waters around me recede enough I'm dry now. But I still hurt. I'm afraid to move, afraid it will lead to more convulsions. But the guard is gone, Ezri too. What did they do to her, how did they shatter her again? Lost, all lost. I collapse on the sandbar, watch as the boat speeds away. Everything hurts, ankles and wrists burning from the rope, hands and feet throbbing as the circulation returns. Jules crawls next to me, sliding close. He holds me very tight. I am a little surprised that it doesn't hurt. Drifting, listening in the darkness. The sky is still dark, the trees silent now. The waters are utterly still. Then someone else is here--Luther now, sitting on the side of the sandbar. 'He still wants something. But Carl's right. He'll give up his pet. Then you'll be sorry he did.' He sits there, staring at the calm waters, watching as they start to churn. He has a family now. He'll have a child in the spring. But nobody will touch him now. I can't say that of my life. "I tried to kill him," I tell Luther. 'Tried. He didn't die. You'll pay for that.' Then even Luther disappears, standing, splashing his way across the waves until I can't see him anymore. Ezri's face and the leer and the grin keep flashing in my mind. Have I already paid? Have they twisted her like they did Elaine? Have I lost Ezri forever? Then Jules sits up, dives in the water and runs. Ezri is standing before me, that grin spread across her face, a look of satisfaction in her eyes. She's holding the knife in her hand. "My turn," she says. I stare at the spots, so clean along the side of her face Burly had smashed. But there is no bruise, no cut. She lifts the knife, grinning. "You should listen to your friends." How long has it been? Is Weyoun dead? Do I belong to her now? She touches me and I can't move. She takes the knife, digs it in my side and jerks it out. She starts to rip away at my clothes, my shield against her. I can feel the blood. She tears my clothes up the side, then gripping the torn side, down the other, throws the torn part out of her way. There are spots of blood along my legs where she kicked me, but I can't see them well. I can't move at all. "Mine," she says, laughing. Ezri liked to get rough. I let her, knowing she could bring the excitement to a razor's edge, to the verge of obsession, but never cross the line. But she hasn't permission. I don't want her now, not this Ezri, what they made of her. But I can't move, I can't stop her as she plays with my body, as she makes it do as she chooses. The beach is quiet now. She finished, blood all over her from the cuts, the bites that tore the skin. I roll on my side, do not look at her as she bathes in the sea, takes her uniform and dresses. Jules crawl back as she vanishes. The sea around me is calm, but the water is the color of blood. My body is spent, worn and used, but cannot rest. I belong to her now. Lost, I try not to move, try to ignore the pain. Jules crawls closer, carefully sliding against me. I tense, but his touch doesn't hurt. I'm so tired. The hurting is so bad. But Jules is soothing beside me, a small seed of calm. He's falling asleep, and I let him pull me inside his world where none of the bad people exist. *** Staring out at the dim light, Jules asleep. Muffled noise woke me, the sand quivering, sliding into the sea. Waves stirred in the sudden wind, but the spray of water fades away. A cell again. Huddled on my side, cold hard floor under me, still dressed in the same clothes they'd given me. My shirt is open, scratches all over my chest. Hurting everywhere, can hardly move. Muscles all tight now, can't make them relax. Can't remember why, but it's over, all done. Nothing left now. The beach is gone. Where am I? Who did this? A sudden loud sound as the cell door is shoved open. A red glow brightens grey shadows around me. Why red? The distant sound of an alarm too, and I try to think. The noise that woke me, the floor shaking with a quick, sudden jerk . . . the thud off in the distance. Something is wrong. *I'm holding Ezri, lying on our bed in our palace of a room before, on the station. We're both asleep, the middle of the night, when we're jarred awake by a loud boom which rattles everything. The lights go out and it's pitch black. That time the explosion was Odo. Who now?* Jules wakes, slides off my lap, holding his arm as if carrying the baby. He backs away, retreating into the darkness behind me. Breathing in quick, little gasps I stay very still, muscles taunt, wound up like a cobra ready to strike. Head down, I watch the door, anticipating . . . The woman guard, the one I'd named Slimy, walks inside. I stay very still, not moving legs, arms or head, luring her near. Ezri's face leering at me, filling my mind. The way Burly smashed her jaw, the cut and bruise on Slimy's face. The way she looks so much like Ezri without the spots. "It hasn't moved," she comments. "We checked, now feed him and go." The gruff voice drifts inside from the red haze by the door. Slimy moves closer, something in her hands. A rope . . . I can see her face as she gets near, closer than before. Her jaw is purple and swollen, eye blackened, and she's missing a few teeth. The leer is so familiar, just like the one Ezri was wearing. For a flash, I see her grinning at me, standing in the strangely glowing cell. Her spots are lost in the bruised mess of a jaw. Then she's gone and Slimy is back. I understand. They had just finished with their probe. I was disoriented. I let this *thing* touch me, feel me. I shiver, looking in her eyes, reading her intent as she dangles the rope. *Not this time,* I tell myself, the pain suddenly gone, adrenalin flooding me, ready to strike. But I keep myself still. Lure her here, let her come to me. "This wing's dark," says Slimy as she comes close enough I could touch her. The hands are so near, she'll be taken completely by surprise. "Nobody'll know." She leans down, and I can feel her watching. Burly's very irritated. "We've got the rest of them to feed. It won't be hard to figure out how we got behind considering the last time you pulled this." Burly sounds disgusted now, but wouldn't stop Slimy--or help either. "You go on then," murmurs Slimy, looming over me now. The hand is on my knee sliding up towards my hip, slowly sliding between my legs. The water splashes me as the waves churn. Slimy is soaked but doesn't notice, intent on me, playing with the rope in the other hand. I grin to myself, my right hand drawing back, becoming a fist, left hand slipping towards the wrist. "Get outta there now. You know we have work to do." Burly is annoyed, but Slimy doesn't pay any attention. The boat starts moving away, making waves in the water. Jules is hiding in the forest this time. He won't be in the way. Slimy is taken completely by surprise when I snatch the exploring hand with my left, yanking it out of the water, and smash my right, coiled tightly in a fist, into the swollen cheek, cutting it open. Stunned, she drops the rope before landing half in the water on the other edge of the sand. Gasping, she yells for Burly. "Get him off me!" But it's too late. Burly and the boat are already gone. She tries to use the sand to push away, but I still have the wrist. She yelps as I pull it back, breathing hard, and I smash my fist into the face again, hitting the nose this time, making it bleed too. Out of breath, she lands face down on the sandbar, me leaning over her, and then I take the rope. I remember how she used the prod before, all the tender and terrible places it was shoved, all the screams that made my throat raw. Then later, with Carl watching, when it was worse, when I couldn't scream. She's afraid, especially as I take the rope, slowly slipping it around the neck, tightening it around the throat. I pull it tight and she can't breath, but let go. She collapses, gasping, but I pull it tight again, only this time she can just manage to breath. Flailing, still trying to dislodge my hold, she chokes and collapses. I loosen the rope long enough for her to get her breath and then jerk it tight again, too tight at first, then looser. She stops moving, resisting. I'm almost sorry. She played with me, tormented me. Don't I get to play back? Maybe I will. She's tense, nervous as my hand slips under the shirt, pulling it open. I scrape my nails against the skin, pinching a little here and there, where she expects. I like the way she shakes, especially as I move past the shirt. For a moment I wonder if I could do it, repeat what had been done to me. But mostly I just want to find the knife. Then I'll decide what else to do. For now, feeling the delicate smell of her fear, I decide to let her think what she wants. I conduct the search slowly, sliding my hand against skin, feeling the anticipation build. She's shaking now. I slide my hand down the side, over the buttocks, and now she's fighting for air, trying to gulp panicky breaths while the rope half-strangles her. I even let my hand slide further, inside her thighs, just to push the panic a little further, feel her body freeze as she can't gulp enough air. So satisfying. I wonder how long I could play before she figures out I'm really not interested. But that is for later. First I have to find the knife. A suspicious lump, but not the knife. Her prod. I pull it out, slide it down the back. She doesn't move. But I still want the knife. She can escape with the knife. The knife is hidden somewhere inside her clothes. I grab the collar, sliding my hand under the chest through the wet sand, rubbing the nipples with the wet sand, opening the shirt, pulling her back, locking her arms inside the sleeves. The waves are churning again, the wind building suddenly to a gust. Her breaths are coming in small gasps now, the pulse racing. Wet with sweat, she twists under me, choking but landing a solid kick, nearly pushing me into the water. But I still hold the rope, my play interrupted, yanking it hard and pulling tight until all of the resistance stops. She's not moving now. I let go of the rope, tear off the clothes. The water's calm, the wind still. The knife is inside a hidden, inner pocket of the uniform, strapped to the leg. The rope lies limp around the neck, and I watch closely for signs of waking. The clothes are still drifting in the water, half visible in the calm sea where I threw them. She jerks, suddenly aware. I've slit the rope into pieces, tied the hands behind the back, the feet together. I tap the spine with the prod, and she jumps, tries to fight and pulls on her wrists. The wind starts to roar, her feet bending back, trying to twist herself to the side and into the water. Whining loudly, the now activated prod interrupts this attempt to escape. Sliding it along her back, low on the spine, she tries to scream. But can't. The attempt makes her choke and she doesn't resist as I pull the rope from the neck and then grip the feet, the prod shoved into the spine. But the rope is all bloody, probably from the face, and I just toss it in the sea. I must have pulled a little too tight, damaged something. The prod makes my hand tingle, brings back too many bad memories and I turn it off. But it's heavy, the handle quite useful as a club . . . She's still now, breathing in little gasps but still quite dangerous. The trees are swaying in a distant turmoil, but it's very silent now. Gusts of wind stir the sea, but there is no roar. Everything, even Slimy, head covered in blood, is fuzzy now, undefined as things often are in dreams. But the memories are very different, sharp at first, descending into a miasma of pain with her face right in the middle of it. She used the prod. Burly was the one who made the bruises. But Burly kept his hands to himself. And Slimy was very creative with the prod. I remember all the details. She laughed when she watched me thrash about, pushing the prod into the places I denied the hand. Maybe Carl was right. Maybe she wanted me to scream. Too bad she can't scream anymore. Rolling her to the side, the water swirls around me as I stand next to the sandbar. The trees are moving in an agitated dance, the sky darkened, a silent storm lighting the sky in bright flashes of lightning. But it is silent, a strange empty kind of silence. Yanking her onto her back, she pulls away from me as if she's too tired to move more than that. It could be a trick, a lure as I'd used before, but I stare as she looks at me through listless eyes. She's bleeding to death. The blood had soaked into the sand, but now it trickles down the neck and shoulder from the cut and mangled throat. The rope tore open a large blood vessel. The listless manner is not a ruse. Holding the prod in my hand, I wonder if it's worth it. She's too far gone to notice much of what the prod can do. But then all I can see is the blood, Miles lying in a pool as his life drained away. He heard my promise, this thing may be dying but it will still hurt enough. 'Don't, Julian. Don't let him win.' Miles voice fills me, but he's so disappointed. Why? I see Miles bloody body, Weyoun's limp form as they took me away. The thing in my hand is solid, heavy. I smash it into ribs and chest and the rest of it, the handle slick with blood, hard to hold as I blindly strike back at Slimy and all of them who make it possible for Weyoun and his kind to make us into sarki. Around me, the water swirls, the trees silently moan, but slower now, tired. The eyes are closed, blood everywhere. The prod is slick and I throw it into the sea. Fading, the sky dingy, the water almost calm, the trees still, she suddenly jerks and an unnatural limp stillness comes over her. She is dead. She'll keep her hands to herself now. The gentle motion of the water is soothing, inviting sleep again. But I cannot sleep in a nest of blood. Growing louder, the roar now chasing away everything I'm swept into the sea, dragging me under to a cold salty nothing where I am at peace. Then, later, a child's hand touching mine. Wet and cold, the sand clean again, the body dragged away in the waves. On the sand bar now, tossed there by the waves, Jules crawls close, melting into me, banishing the wariness and fears and I sleep in peace. *** Little hand, tapping my arm. Child's voice, scared, insistent. Can't make out the words. Nothing but emptiness left. But Jules is still here. I can't abandon him. Reluctantly, I pull away from the comforting blankness and open my eyes. I'm on the floor, either tossed or fallen this way. Muscles stiff and cold, bruises everywhere, dizzy when I try to sit up. The light is dim, but enough to see the lump of something near the wall, all bloody. I have blood all over me too, my clothes soaked in it, some dried stiff. I look at my hands, stare at the dark, dried smear that darkens my palm. How? I don't remember any of it. Looking at the wet lump, drawing away from it, don't want to remember it either. I try to pick myself up off the floor, but it's hard. I can't keep my balance. I keep falling when the strength in my arms gives out, hurting more each try. Eventually, rolling on my side and pushing myself up, I manage to sit. Ignoring the pain inside me, I welcome the company as little Jules crawls in my lap, snuggling under my arm. He doesn't notice the blood. So alone. I don't remember why, but I am certain about it. Still, Jules needs me. I'll keep him safe, keep him near. A flash, Miles voice in my head. 'Try not to lose him.' Why is he so disappointed? Why am I so empty? More noise, the door opening, Jules doesn't move, and I look away. The glimpse of the guard who walks in the door, bowl of food in hand, forces muscles to attention, coiled again, ready to defend. But he stops, shakes his head, and puts the bowl of food by the door. Burly, I recognize him now, the light bright from the door. Not red now. He walks over to the lump, looking it over. "Didn't remember the food either," he mutters to himself. "Maybe it got mad." Another set of footsteps, and I stare, remembering the office, Weyoun, the baby merged in Jules. One of Weyoun's lieutenants has come to sort out the mess, the one with the design on his hands. He glances at the lump, cautiously avoiding the puddle of blood. Then he comes near me. Jules huddles in my arms. "No big loss. As long as this one is not damaged." He's staring at me, and I look away, flooded by memories each time I see him. "Take care of him, you know what to do," he'd told Slimy. He was stupid, but he took orders. Weyoun's man has something in his hand. The sound it makes is so . . . familiar. A tricorder, not the Dominion kind. He scans me, bringing a little flash of horror, remembering when mine was taken, the masses of people, mostly dead now, crowded into the corridor. Wonder if he was one of them, then. Just *when* he decided to betray everything he was? If I wasn't so tired, if Jules wasn't so scared, he'd join the lump on the floor. "Get rid of the mess," he orders, gesturing towards the wet lump. Burly sounds uncertain. "What about him? I took the knife and other stuff he'd gotten. It was just tossed around on the floor. But I wouldn't get too near. I did warn that one, for all the good it did." Burly is dragging the wet lump out the door, leaving a trail of blood. "Clean that up too," the suit orders. "We'll decide about him. He's not going anywhere." He kicks a piece of strewn clothes towards the door and the messy lump. "He did us a favor anyway. Now we don't have to bother shooting that thing." Burly has dragged his dead partner out the door, avoiding me. He returns with a mop of sorts, sopping up the blood. I don't remember killing her, but I know I did it. Maybe Weyoun will understand now that I do mean no, that I'd still kill him given the chance. If he doesn't have me shot, maybe he'll leave me be now. The suit stands in the light by the door, watching Burly clean up the mess. When he's done, the door shuts and it's almost dark again. Jules stirs. He's staring at the food, eyes fixed on it. It takes a long time before I can move, before I can keep enough balance, before my legs will obey me when I crawl towards the food. I don't want it. But Jules is hungry. He doesn't say anything, but I can see the yearning in his eyes as he nears the bowl. I pull the food back towards the wall, too exhausted to move any more, letting the cold metal hold me up. Jules slides next to me, taking the spoon, eating a little and looking at me. "Finish it, go ahead," I tell him, gently. He eats quickly, not caring what it is. Children here are just glad to eat. There isn't a drop left in the bowl when he's done. With a sigh, he falls asleep on my lap. I'm so tired. It was so much work to get off the floor. I hurt so much inside. I just want the nothingness to come again. The cold, hard room fades and Jules and I float in a sea of oblivion where nothing can reach us. *** Curled in a ball, Jules arms around me, they come. Different guards, wasting no time, take my arms, pull me to my feet. Jules never lets go, doesn't leave my side anymore. I still hurt but can move now. More bowls have been slipped inside the door. I carry Jules when I crawl to them, and when he's sleepy I hold the bowl for him, watch the desperate way he eats. But I never take any of the food. Food is immaterial now, as is everything but Jules. He is the only reason not to fade away into oblivion. I exist in a meaningless nothing, cold and hurting, too dizzy to move. But Jules must eat, stay alive. I can crawl for him. "Wish we had a blanket," says one. Filthy, blood soaked, they hesitate to touch me, get their clean uniforms all dirty. But Jules is heavy, and I start to fall. "I'm going to need some help here," he tells the other one. He keeps a grip on my arm so I don't fall but I can't walk like this. The second guard links arms with me. "You'll wash, but he's not going to fall." They are all business, doing a job. I don't know where we're going and don't care. But I'm sure I'll get there in one piece. Firmly held between them, we're towed out of the cell. One of them, the fussy one, checks the time. "We're going to be late," he says. Hurrying along, I keep stumbling. I can't make my legs work right. Held too firmly to fall, I'll either walk or be dragged. Even walking hurts, but the other would be worse. And they're scaring Jules. I force my legs to stumble ahead as we're hurried down a long corridor, then come to a sudden stop. The next corridor is blocked, and we only enter after a security check. I'm already exhausted, and might be relieved that we're there so quickly if I could feel trivial things like relief. But the little plaque stops me cold. Isolation. It's in Standard, like most of them. The one word sends an icy chill through me, dredges up more old nightmares. The man from Weyoun's office is waiting. "He's not having you shot for what you did to him, he'll even let you out of there. Count yourself lucky." He's cold, as are the guards as the door opens and I'm shoved to the floor, pushed in as I crawl inside the box with Jules crowded next to me. Something is on the floor, rations I think, and I gather them the best I can. Jules will be hungry. Heart pounding, I watch the door slide shut and seal us inside. The top is too low to stand. The sides are too narrow to turn without difficulty, even without Jules. I can't move around at all with him on my lap. As the darkness and silence closes around us, Jules presses against me and takes away the fear. *** Outside, the wind howls, a trace of the dust filtering through the rubble filled top of our hiding place. Ezri is asleep, her arms around the children. Pressed close, keeping away the cold, I stare into the darkness. The boy is asleep, curled up between us. He will not let Ezri hold him. Above us, blowing about in the icy wind, the rubble of the house that used to stand makes odd noises as it disintegrates into dust. Did the boy live here? Was he hiding when the Martians came and their machine destroyed his world? Or had he wandered for a time, like we did, cold and hungry, before he found the little cellar and a measure of safety. Listening to sounds, remembering the strange glow of the red weed in the moonlight, I can't banish the memories. London, Sunday afternoon, my office closed for the day except for an emergency at the hospital. The warning of Martians, coming to annihilate us that fell on deaf ears, even as the haggard refugees of the initial attacks drifted into the city. Then the head ray and the smoke, and running, just running, blindly and with desperation. Those I might have saved the day before fall by the wayside, and I do not even look. They were in the way. The train can only hold so many. And then the train. Crammed inside, living cargo desperate for a chance to survive somehow as the city burns. No food, the stench terrible in the crowded car, the hope that somehow the train might outrun the Martians. And always, even with the crush, the knowledge that most of them never made it to the train, that most of them died. But what now? The Martians and their heat ray and the terrible black smoke have destroyed everything. The red weed covers the land, driving out the native plants, chocking the rivers and lakes, starving the survivors. What of the rest of the world? Did they cross the seas, destroy the Americas, and all that lived on the other continents as well? It was such a short way to the continent, they must have gone there too. Else, someone would have come and tried to drive them away. We are alone, lost in the misery of a cold lifeless world, save the red weed. What becomes of us tomorrow, how will the children live, as pets of the Martians, trained to amuse them? But the boy, he wants to live. He stays with me, never leaving my side. I don't even know his name. He doesn't speak. But he has searched the area, showed us the hidden food he'd saved and willingly shared it with everyone. He is ours now, as much as we can save any of them. I wish the night would end. I wish the sun would rise and the cities with them, the people going about their daily business. I'd like to see an opera, watch the flurry of activity each morning as the servants start the cities day. I'd like to ride in my coach, have a passing conversation with my neighbors, retire to bed with my wife. But it's gone. The city is in ruins, those who did not escape are dead. The sun will never rise on that world again. The clean bright streets have been scorched and ruined. What will become of the little of humanity that remains? A noise, a scratching as the dead trees scatter above us. I am so tired, so cold, so hungry. The water in the pipes is drinkable, just so, but for how long? The boy is awake, stirring in the darkness. He slides closer, taking my hand. He's such a strong boy, so unperturbed by the long night outside. I take comfort in his strength, his need to live. He presses against me, falling asleep again, drawing me into his peaceful world, and the whine of the wind grows so quiet I can sleep. *** Daylight, darkened by dust casts an unearthly light over the odd new landscape. The wind still blows, stirring the dust, giving the sky an orange glow as if a fire burned off in the distance. Our hovel is so crowded, so filthy, that it is a relief to leave even if the wind cuts through to the skin and dust and grit fills lungs and eyes. We must have food. Without the boy we would have found nothing. The boy is our miracle. The red weed is everywhere, the ruins of the house nearly obliterated by it now. We crawl out of the small opening, the boy and I through a crown of its tangled stems. Its smell is so odd, so *wrong* and if the boy did not know where to find the food, or the opening to return, we would be lost. I do not know how he can tell, but I let him. Ezri and the children stay behind, hiding in the only safety we know. I cannot let the boy go alone. It is almost as if he is a part of me now, a child, but not child-like. He does not join in when the others play. Kara tries to draw him in but he shakes his head. He looks up, listening, and crawls under the weed away from our hiding place, toward the next pile of the weed. I stay behind him, trying to remain unseen. We hear noises that are not from the wind. Abruptly, breathing hard in the dusty air, he disappears under a pile of the weed and into buried ruins. I crawl under the red curtain, lying flat on the ground, listening for his return. He never takes long. There is never much food, but we have something to calm the hunger a little. He has a three dolls, this time, and a stuffed bear which he clutches to himself. Yoshi got a rattle the last trip. We start crawling back, well under the cover of the weed, when he suddenly grabs my hand. There is light, too bright. A searchlight trails over the ground, a tripod slowly lumbering towards us. He freezes in place, grasping my arm as I crawl by his side. It is scanning the ground ahead of us, our hiding place. A long claw-like thing emerges, skittering along the top of the red weed, suddenly diving inside. It pulls away a pile of the branches, and then the rubble underneath. Stop, my mind screams, though I can't move. A faceless thing is ready to take them, and I must stop it. But the boy holds my arm so firmly I can't leave. I can see through the weed as it reaches inside, a child held by the leg dragged up into the air. Molly, desperately trying to twist away. She screams as it tosses her into a vat, and I cannot move at all. Then it returns, Kara this time, by an arm, yanking her hard, her scream echoing past the ruins that conceal us. Another dip and it pulls up Tessie, held by an arm, twisting in panic and filling the air with more screams that I can't stop. The child is tossed in the vat with her sisters, and I stare at the opening as it descends once more. Then . . . Ezri. The grasping thing has her leg, pulling her up, swinging her as it pulls. She holds Yoshi in her arms. If she drops him, he'll probably die of the fall, if not he'll die a different way. Abruptly, still near the ground, she lets go of him. He falls slowly, gracefully disappearing into at thick pile of the weed. Ezri is dragged up higher and higher, then swung inside the vat with my daughters. Just leave Yoshi, I plead. One survivor. Just one. It reaches down and pulls his limp body up to join the others. I collapse on the ground, shaking, livid and desperate. The boy never lets go, and I can't break his iron grip on my arm. If I could, I'd find a way to save them. I do not move as we listen to them feed, the dolls hidden under me, hideous sounds as they drink the living fluids from my family, taking away all that was left. I collapse on the ground, face buried in the dolls, and wish I could join them. But the boy is still here. He holds my arm, tighter now as I wake, the tripod gone. It's night again and he shares the food but I cannot eat. He's still holding the bear, never letting it go. He motions to go back, where he'd found the food, but I don't care anymore. I will not move. He eats the food, offering some each bite, and I turn my head away. Then he does a strange thing. He puts the bear in my arms. He lies down next to me, and I feel so strong. Ezri and the rest are gone, taken, dead. He needs me. He will not let me go to them. It's so cold. I feel him near, an un-natural glow or warmth in his hands, a shield of light surrounding us from the wind. He will protect me. But I don't want to go on. What is there to live for anymore? He moves closer, his eyes too old for a child. The bear is between us and he's calling, pulling me towards him, giving me his life, his courage to live. I feel lightheaded as I start to fade, drawn through the conduit of the bear into his being. It's safe inside, warm and good and bright. The air is fresh, the trees whole, the children's voices loud and happy. I smile, and embrace him and the life he holds inside him as my own. *** End, Surrender, Part 4b