TITLE: Surrender, Part 5-Endgame
Overall Series: The Green Hills of Home 
Author: Valerie Shearer 
Contact: thenightbird@earthlink.net 
Series: DS9 
Part 5/61(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 5 - Endgame 

                            Chapter 24 

                               *** 

It rained last night, a cold rain, though it doesn't mean a lot to me.  It did to Jules, covered in mud and slush half the day as he worked hard this time.  They are clearing roadways of snow.  Jules dragged buckets to the side of the road and dumped them.  At first, he thought it was fun, digging out the snow in shapes.  Then he got wet and cold and just did what he was told.  He left his bear behind this time, mostly because Mum insisted.  He wrapped himself in a blanket and has been playing a game with the bear ever since returning, his food disappearing almost instantly. 

Then there is the screaming.  One of the women is having a baby.  She is having some kind of trouble and Mummy has been sitting with her.  Nobody is sleeping.  Jules simply ignores the noise, piling up a bunch of sticks and letting the bear knock it down.  He keeps babbling to the bear too, over and over.  Probably most people would prefer to be able to ignore the noise like Jules does. 

Mummy shakes her head, several of the other women standing nearby.  The father, sitting by his wife and holding her hand, doesn't notice as they leave. 

Mummy is quiet, sad.  They aren't trying to help anymore.  "I tried," she tells them.  "I had the quick class in childbirth but this is beyond what I know."  She looks at Jules, giggling as he talks to his bear.  "We need *him*." 

What could Jules do to help?  

The women go back to the mother, trying again, doing their best because they always do, even when it won't matter. 

And then, suddenly, there is a blinding flash--and I *know*.  I must go home now.  The pirates are invading.  I can see their ship approaching, ready to steal what we've been able to grow after their last visit.  If I don't leave now there will be nothing to save.  Mummy looks up, suddenly confused.  I rush to Jules, merge into him, without stopping his play or babbling.  Mummy comes to me, taking my hand. 

"We need you *now*," she says. 

The light is so bright, and I see Mum, not this stern, sad woman I've come to admire as she's taken such good care of Jules.  We hold hands, Kukalaka too, and the drab but welcome walls of my own room and my own bed are there. 

Jules the Avenger is home. 

                               *** 

Someone is screaming.  I am suddenly alert, on edge.  Every bit of training and experience honed by the war and all the rest is on the surface, as I scramble out of the blankets, dropping some small thing in my hand.  I sit up, half-aware that others are looking at me but blind to them.  The woman is pale, her breathing labored.  Ezri is following me, several others as well, and I immediately examine the woman.  She's in labor, but the baby is caught.  If something isn't done very soon I'll lose both of them.  

"Hold her down," I order to no one in particular.  I don't bother to explain what I'm going to do.  It would waste time. 

Ezri and the others, the husband as well take hold as I force my hand inside her, feeling for what instruments might have once told me.  A cord, looped around a foot, pulling tighter.  A breech birth.  I take the baby in my hands, pushing back, while I remove the cord.  I take a pulse, still strong.  Not too late.  Labor is still early, but she's screaming hysterically.  She is too exhausted already.  Shielding the baby with my hands, I deliver a daughter. 

There is a lot of blood, but the baby is fine.  The mother is exhausted, her body still in labor but she has ceased to scream.  She looks at her baby, tears in her eyes.  

"It will be a little bit," I explain.  "I can't really hurry it up." 

But she'll live.  She didn't tear anything and her daughter is healthy.  I sit with her until the final stage of the birth, and let the women clean her up.  She is already nursing the baby. 

Then, Ezri takes my hand, drawing me back to the blankets I know to be mine, and the family I thought was dead. 

I have no words to describe the way I feel inside.  To call it intense joy would be an understatement.  I am still bloody, still wet from the birth water.  But I just hold her.  Molly and Kara are plastered against me, sobbing.  Yoshi is babbling to me.  Tessie tries to push her way between us, her little hands reaching for my beard. 

I thought they were dead.  I believed they had been dragged away to die in hell.  But here they are locked in an embrace on the blankets and matts that are mine.  I don't want to know why.  I just want to hold them. 

But I don't remember how I got here.  I know I was in Weyoun's office, my family to be deported, ready to kill him.  I lunged at him, had my hands on his throat, and then . . . I'm here. 

It wasn't a dream.  I remember the doctor and the baby.  I remember little Jules sitting on my lap while the offer was made.  I remember shouting at my father. 

But how did I get here?  Why is everybody staring at me?  I don't care right now, as long as Ezri and the children are real. 

I just hold them, never wanting to let go, until someone taps me hesitantly on the shoulder.  Nancy Sloan, I notice.  Why do I feel so *different* about her now, so close? 

"She's bleeding a little.  I don't think it's serious, but . . ." 

I let go of Ezri and the children, go to the woman.  I don't remember her.  They move in new people from time to time.  She must be new.  She's going to be fine, half-asleep with the baby in her arms, I go back to my family. 

Ezri looks at me, uncertain.  "Julian?" she asks. 

"I'm here," I tell her, pulling her close, kissing her with abandon. 

"I just wanted to be sure," she says, a little out of breath. 

I have to tell her, have to let her know I didn't betray them.  "If *he* wasn't a liar, you'd be dead.  He said you were being deported." 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  "Not long after they took you we were detained, here at camp.  The people with us were all being deported."  She looks down, takes a breath, holds it for a heartbeat.  "It's a long story, how it didn't happen.  But *he* did try."  

I want to know, but not now.  I have a vague recollection of *him* saying Yoshi was dead, that Ezri was hurt, as if he believed it.  I think he was going to have me executed.  I don't remember why he didn't. 

But he must have sent me back.  Did he do it because he thought I'd just decide to die on my own if Ezri and the others were gone?  It happens.  Did someone lie to him?  Why the hesitation in Ezri's voice, as if she doesn't *want* to tell me how she was rescued. 

I watch her, carefully avoiding looking at me.  I won't ask her about it now, but I know one out women have.  We are slaves, available to be bought and sold.  Who can tell if some caltie underling sells a few of the women before the shipment leaves? 

Of course, that wouldn't figure with Weyoun's plans.  "He wants hostages.  He still thinks I'll cooperate with him, even after, after what I did."  I ask myself if she should know about that.  What if he wants to protect his secret?  Why should I help him? 

She kisses me.  "Tomorrow.  It's very late.  There will still be work." 

But I have to know.  "How did I get here?" 

"They sent you back, but you were . . . lost.  Like Luther was." 

I look towards Luther, holding his wife and feeling the baby move, but gazing at me with a victorias look in his eyes. 

"Lost.  How?" I insist. 

"You were like a child," she says, hesitant.  Then she turns professional on me.  "It would be better for you to remember what you can on your own.  We can fill in the details after that." 

"It's . . . it's this big blank space that I can't see.  How long have I been here?" 

"A couple of months.  Honestly, I didn't think you'd come out of it.  Not like this.  But," she smiles, a hint of tears in her eyes, "Welcome home." 

I take her in my arms, hold her as tight as I can, "We're both home now," I say. 

"Both?" she asks, distracted. 

"Someone else.  I don't know who.  But he's home too.  I just know." 

The children yawn, and I realize how late it is.  It was winter when I left, and it's still cold.  But morning will come early.  

I notice a rag doll, pick it up.  It is so familiar but I don't remember ever seeing it before.  "Yoshi's?" 

"Yours."  She shrugs.  "We'll talk about this tomorrow." 

I should rest now.  She's right, the bell will ring in a few hours and we need some sleep.  But little images are filling in some of the blanks.  I have to make sense of them, at least a few, before I could sleep. 

Most people are asleep, the screaming having stopped.  Why do I remember the screaming?  A few people are staring, but I ignore them.  I keep looking at the doll.  "I thought it was Kukalaka."  For a moment I wonder what to do with the memento.  Maybe Yoshi would like it.  But then, I lost the other Kukalaka, stolen like everything else.  I think I'd like to keep this one.  I tuck him under my pillow, kiss Ezri gently again.  "He'll try again.  He'll never give up.  You know that." 

"As long as you don't give in."  Ezri takes my hand.  "I thought it was done when they took us.  Don't let him win." 

The baby is crying, softly, and I remember another baby, one with the pixy ears of a Vorta.  I wonder what the monsters *he* owns have done to the baby so far. 

"I tried to kill him," I finally tell her, whispering the words.  "I'm sure, I remember it.  I wanted to make him know how much I hated him or he'd be dead by now." 

"He won't let you have that chance again," she answers. 

"If he does, I won't waste my time." 

"Promise," she says. 

On a whim, I say, "As you wish," and she gives me the oddest look.  

"Just keep out of the Prince's way." 

A quick flash of the Prince, sword in hand, with violet eyes and elegantly curved ears, and I feel better.  Somehow, even if it makes no sense, I know he'll never bother me again.  "As you wish," I tease her, but she's already asleep. 

There isn't much time for dreaming before the bell, but there is a moment, just a flash, of red fire and swirling blue/green dust, and I know we both made it home. 

                               *** 

Yawning, still exhausted from the long night, I went to work in a brand new world today.  It was filled with lost people desperately hanging onto the illusion that they had a life.  They are alive; we are valuable bodies to our captors and are neither starved nor left without protection from the weather.  Our shelters are crowded but protect us from the rain and snow, and we're worked hard, but not so much that the healthy overly suffer.  I was on snow detail today, and had a warm coat and boots, gloves and hat.  It didn't make up for the cold or the wet, but they could do worse. 

It's just that we are things to them, to be used and cared for up to a reasonable point.  If you're too sick or hurt, or break too many rules, or refuse to work, you pass that point of value. 

There are ways to survive even that, but they aren't pleasant.  There is a certain building where one can go to offer their services as bed partners for the night to the guards, the pay in food and for those especially cooperative, unobtainable treats like hot baths and nice clothes--and permanent isolation from your own.  Unlike Marta, they don't get the chance to make deals. 

Sir and the guards and the suits in the office think they are different than us.  They have nicer things, but the rest is the same.  The Jem'Hadar are within easy reach of camp, and should our home grown traitors fail they can be back in no time.  The guards probably don't consider it, but Sir does.  He knows, understands where the others don't.  He follows his orders just as we follow ours.  Everybody pretends there is some choice in the matter. 

There is none but the one to survive.  And that *is* a choice. 

These people around me, those that are family and friends, have made theirs.  It was forged in little steps, one at a time.  For some of them, resisting is unthinkable.  Those that had to fight back are already gone.  For the rest, they've simply gotten used to things. 

I'm not used to things anymore.  I shoveled show all day, getting my feet soaked in the grimy slush, and did what I was told.  But there was a difference between us.  I'll get my dinner, but I didn't try too hard.  The man next to me pushed himself to his limit, determined to clear his little square alone, almost taking pride in what he'd done.  Maybe for him that works.  I didn't intrude.  But I'll do what I need to eat, what I must to keep the guards out of my life.  Nothing more. 

Which one of us is the slave, I wonder?  Is it him, grabbing a little pride in his work, affirming that he hasn't lost everything?  Or is it me, having chosen to just do enough because I have to? 

But I am not property.  I do not belong to them.  Most of all, I will never belong to *him* again. 

And yet, I never have.  I have lied to him, played pretend, for everyone but Ezri.  I've refused, seen my friend murdered and my own life destroyed.  But I never let him own me. 

We're eating inside tonight.  I don't know if this is normal.  There are so many daily details of this place I no longer can assume.  My bowl of soup is empty, and I'm finishing my last few bites of the kenexa fruit.  The children are playing and Ezri is with her friends.  A little time by myself is what I need right now, a few matts of privacy to help me sort out all the uncertainties. 

Luther stops nearby, turning towards me as if he's going to say something.  But he stops, hesitates, and leaves.  I watch as he finds Ezri, speaking privately to her for a quick moment before going back to his wife. 

What's wrong with him?  He was getting a little better.  Why do I prefer him to stay as far away from me as he can? 

The fruit is so good, ripe and sweet.  There is an odd feeling to each bite, a familiarity and strangeness that intermix.  But they have fruit because of me, because I played the game smart at least once.  I'd be isolated, probably find myself locked outside after work some night, if they knew why we had fruit.  But they'd eat it anyway. 

I kept *his* secret quiet, but how much of that choice was to keep the Jem'Hadar away, to keep our people from being the first victims when the Jem'Hadar knew?  They are as much slaves as we, as Weyoun is in his own way.  When you take choice away, when you deny any other option but subservience, all you have left is slavery.  How ironic that Weyoun is trying to undo that sin while honoring the memory of those who made it. 

Of course, I still have medicine.  My stock of bandages is still there, though the local drugs will need replenishing this spring.  I like the way they hesitate when they come, as if they have to make themselves speak to me.  I like that I matter in at least one way.  It makes up a little for the lowly place I have in their world. 

I'm still not one of them, never really will be.  They all think that *he* could come again, play more games with my life.  They don't want to get in the way. 

I wish I could tell Luther he was right, that I understand now.  I wish I could tell all of them that I tried to kill him. 

*A flash of a face, violet eyes, pixy ears, in elegant wedding dress as he dares me to do it.  A swirl of blue/green, with lightning bolts of red, trapping him, shrinking him until he falls into sticky dust.  A satisfaction that he will never touch me again.* 

I stare at Ezri, just looking at me.  "Julian?  Are your still here?" 

Shaking my head, I try to clear the image but it's still there.  "Ugh, just thinking," I whisper, but she clearly doesn't buy it. 

"Before it gets too dark, could you look at Nancy.  Luther was worried about her.  She's still not feeling well." 

*Kind, gentle voice, taking me to places where I could soar.  Laughing eyes as she reads, memories of places where children used to smile and laugh and dream.* 

I always respected her, from the first moment she didn't shy from my pain after Miles died for me.  I always wanted her to respect me, not listen to the others who made me into the slime at the bottom of the vat that could not mix without ruining the rest.  But this is softer, a moment of tenderness in a place where that has been extinguished. 

I must help her.  I don't know how.  But there has to be *something* which will make a difference.  

"Did Luther ask you?"  I have to know why he won't talk to me, why I'm relieved about it. 

"He didn't want to disturb you," she explains.  Maybe, maybe not.  But it never bothered him before. 

But I owe something to Nancy.  I don't even know what.  Edging around the blankets, I go to her.  Luther backs off, standing too far to the side to just be giving me room. 

It's getting dark, but there is enough light left to examine her.  Ezri holds up a blanket for privacy.  I can find nothing wrong, but she is listless, too tired.  I need more time and light and instruments.  

I wanted primitive medicine, and now I have it.  Except a lot more of your patients die this way.  Maybe Nancy has a simple chemical imbalance.  But I can only guess and hope that some native herb grows near enough to be safely gathered that will make a difference. 

And I have to tell Luther.  Why do I loath him so much?  I'd gotten used to him, broken and damaged, but the loathing isn't of the Luther Sloan who shakes and can't remember what he's been told to do.  It is the man I originally grew to hate, to despise for the way he'd changed my life.  And it is a personal anger, a madding fury with a reason still unknown to me.  But he knows.  We may not want anything to do with each other, but I owe him this.  As Ezri covers her, I walk towards him. 

He stays, but he's very cautious.  "How is she?" he asks. 

"Nothing I can identify, but something is wrong," I have to tell him.  "Maybe some of the Bajoran herbal remedies might work if I can get any." 

"Do your best, Doctor," he replies, tired.  Then he looks up, a hint of hope in his eyes, "In a little while, you might even have a chance to find a healer to consult with." 

I hear Luther telling me about the Breen war, finger talking a part.  He knows how to listen, to become an invisible part of the scenery.  But there is no need for subterfuge now.  After insisting on resisting, acts from the smallest of inconveniences to open bloodshed, they have been paid back.  Everyone's heard the rumor that the Bajorans, *all* of them, have been relegated to a status of sarki and are to be rounded up and branded.  It's another lesson, like Realand's still consuming grief over Cassie and Ellie, and my own odd return as a child, of the price of rebellion. 

I really don't want a conversation, but should feel him out for more information.  "That might help, but I doubt there are many of them still alive."  They'd already executed what remained of Bajor's government, and most of the surviving resistance leaders of yesteryear.  The Healers were a special caste, and unless they were able to hide they're dead.  But not Kira, I think.  And then, cautiously, "How soon?"  I know better than to ask more.  But his wife is the one that's sick.  He'd owe me if I save her, but then I *want* to keep her alive. 

Never taking his eyes off Nancy, he starts towards her, then stops.  "Very soon," is all he'll say, perhaps all he knows.  

I wonder what the Bajorans will think of me.  They'll probably despise me just as much as the rest.  I want to get away from Luther, escape the bitter resentment that is so disturbing about his presence.  But quite abruptly, he takes my hand.  Looking me in the eyes, lost in some great inner turmoil, he whispers, "It happens slow."  He stumbles over the words.  "One day you'll wake up and it won't be so . . . blank." 

Then I remember.  The anger, the way they all stood around me, the way they talked to me.  I don't remember what they said, or what I said, but they didn't like it.  Especially, I remember how he hit me. 

I pull back my hand, glare at him.  I still don't know why, but the loathing is worse, the way he looks at me, so . . . sadly.  "Why?" I ask, daring him to tell me, somehow defend himself.  I notice Realand watching, keeping as far out of the way as he can. 

Luther backs away, almost stumbling.  I follow, one, two then three strides back, near Ezri, still standing by Nancy.  I raise my hand to strike him, Luther's eyes fixed on my hand.  He's staring at me with a gaze on the verge of sudden panic, but too frozen to move.  He does not make a sound. 

But Ezri does.  She steps up to me, past Luther, staring at my hand.  "Stop this," she says.  "He did save your life." 

I drop my hand, gingerly feeling my cheek as if he'd just smashed his palm into it.  Luther retreats, all his attention on Nancy.  Ezri takes my arm, nearly drags me back to our blankets. 

I pull away, still angry.  "Why did you stop me?" I ask.  I refuse her attempts at calming me down.  "He hit me.  He hurt me for no good reason.  Why do you say he saved my life?" 

"Because he did.  You were lost.  You tried something very stupid, very dangerous.  If it wasn't for Luther, you'd be dead now, buried alive in a little cage." 

It shakes me.  The current method of execution is simple.  Strip the prisoner, tie them so they can't move, and lock them in a dark cage, then dropped into a hole.  It's a living grave.  They cut the vocal cords first so nobody can hear the screams as they lose their minds. 

I can feel as the probe is forced down my throat, how my naked body is held tight as they cut me.  Tasting blood, choking I fall forward with it spilling down my chin as I cough.  Then the ropes, tight, feet tied at the ankles, knees bent back, underneath, kneeling.  Struggling, despite the ropes and the blood, I'm shoved inside the cage, closed around me, pressing against my skin.  Then it drops, down into darkness, down into oblivion. 

I remember he was going to execute me.  Would he have had them do that to me?  I don't remember any details, if he said how.  Shaking, I allow her to pull me inside the blankets, her arms around me.  I should be safe here, entwined in the arms of my wife. 

But she was to be deported.  Why am I so certain that *he* will leave me alone?  The only explanation I have is that he believes they were sent away, that they died on that rock consumed by the mines foul air. 

What did rescue cost her?  I stiffen and she turns and moves away, just a little. 

"You weren't deported.  Why?"  I ask, my voice flat and uncompromising. 

Ezri takes a careful breath.  "First, they took us from here.  All we could take was ourselves, no toys, not even a blanket.  Then they locked us in this dark box, adding others as they went.  There wasn't any food and almost no water.  I don't know how long.  But then the lights came on full bright so we'd be blinded."  She pauses, slumping down, against me now.  "They separated out the men, all the older boys that were tall enough.  Then it went dark again." 

She has her eyes closed now.  "There were a couple of suicides.  They heard what was coming."  Her voice is dragging now.  "Then they turned on the lights again.  All the women were pulled away.  They left the children alone." 

I think of Jeffrey, how in a room full of children he became a monster.  I can't imagine my own in a room like that. 

I try to stop her.  I didn't want to hear all the details.  "That's enough." 

"No," she says, adamant.  "You're going to listen." 

There is no compromise in her voice.  I like that, even if she is aiming it at me. 

"Tell me then." 

"They picked us over.  Most were sent back to the hold.  But they liked me.  One of them said I was exotic." 

I cringe at the image of them staring at her, eyes stripping her bare.  She describes how they were ordered to strip, one woman refusing who was summarily held until they tore off her clothes. 

I remember what Jackson told me, long ago, about what would happen to her if she was deported.  I remember his hands on me, wishing he could do more.  And then . . . what?  Some other memory, some terrible memory I don't want to remember. 

"I did what they said,"  she says.  "One of them, one of the specials, came up to me, started with his hands."  I can feel the anger building, the desire to smash his hands for daring to touch her.  "I let him.  He traced my spots all the way down.  He wasn't rough.  The others were already getting started before they paid.  He didn't hurt me." 

"But he touched you."  I should hold it back, but I can't.  She has been spoiled, soiled by his hands. 

"He buys me.  They snicker as he orders me sent to his room." 

I can't hear this.  Something inside me, something I don't remember, fills me with dread--and anger, not at her new owner but *her* for just standing there, letting him paw her body.  My hands reach around her, open her clothes, reach inside.  I cup her breasts, feel the nipples harden, reach back and take them in my fingers and pinch, digging nails in hard.  "Did he do this?" I ask. 

"No," she says squirming, but I'm holding her too tight.  "He came into his room, told me there was a surprise, and the children were sent in--to a room with toys and games and other things they couldn't even dream of." 

"Unless you let him take you," I say, feeling soiled, trapping her arms, pulling down her clothes.  "Unless you helped." 

"No," she insists, trying to pull away.  "He didn't touch me once we went to the room.  He fed us, something indescribable.  The children were ordered to stay in the other room after that." 

I pinch hard, anger and jealously consuming me.  Her back arches, her belly moves.  She's squirming, but not entirely out of anger.  Sometimes pretend used to be like this, but she did the demanding. 

I won't release her.  "You let him, didn't you, let him have you." 

She's struggling, trying to break free.  I can see the anger in her eyes.  "I would have.  To keep them alive.  I made a promise." 

I jerk her back.  So did I, but I broke mine.  She was there in that room because of me, selling herself.  "Undress me," I order her, turning her around. 

No beach appears.  She pulls open my shirt, pulls it off.  She does what I tell her to.  But she says he would have, not that he did. 

Holding her naked against me, I ask.  "What did he do?" 

"He drew pictures of me.  He made me pose in some . . . interesting  . . . poses, but didn't lay a hand on me." 

"But he wanted to," I add. 

"He wanted to.  But he didn't.  He was done with the pictures, ask me to come and undress him when something beeped.  He had some kind of emergency at headquarters and had to go immediately.  He traced my spots once, just teasing, and locked the door." 

I want her, now, just as she is, no beach, no waves, just her body.  I turn, pinning her under me, keeping back the arms as she starts to struggle.  She bites as I come close, and she resists as I bite back, but she's excited, ready. 

I take her.  After we lay in an exhausted stupor with the blankets covering our bodies.  I let up on her, her nipples bruised, welts from my own bites on her shoulder and neck.  But her bites drew blood. 

I don't release her.  She licks the blood from the bites, her head falling back.  She closes her eyes.  "He didn't touch me.  He had this fancy design on his hand, some thing with colors.  He came back, quickly, with new clothes.  And he had transfer papers back here, no names like they do now, just species and sex and age, like we'd just been shipped in.  No Dax either." 

I suddenly realize that Weyoun probably believes they are dead, that he's lost his hostages, that he won't come back looking.  But every favor has its price and this one is on Ezri.  The one with the design, the one that . . . what?  I remember him too, but how?  After they'd pulled me off Weyoun?  Before they'd started beating me?  I'm still holding her down.  "He wanted you," I say. 

"Yes, probably still does."  She squirms, now angry.  "Let me go," she demands. 

I can't stand to touch her, not after he did.  I let her go. 

But she has other plans.  Sometimes pretend got rough.  Usually Ezri made it rough.  She makes me pay for the way I treated her.  I don't try to fight her.  It just makes her more determined. 

Then a flash.  A leering grin looking at me.  A touch of fire.  I can't move.  Ezri is so angry she doesn't really notice that I don't resist her at all. 

Finally she's spent her own anger and lets me go.  I fall asleep, the beach finally around me, dark this time, no birds or moon.  Ezri leers, grins, her hands busy as she slides hands down bare body, but I remember now.  Not Ezri.  Her, Slimy, who I made into the wet lump.  I remember the rope, the blood, the pain. 

I can't sleep. 

I remember how I let her touch me thinking it was my Ezri, how it felt to know that. 

Was I hurting Ezri or Slimy?  If the Special decides to come back, would I hurt Ezri worse, or kill her?  

But she's alive.  She's here, next to me, bruised and naked and alive.  *He* must think her dead, me an idiot, and perhaps I'm free of him now. 

If the special tries to take her I'll kill him, but for now I have back something I'd expected to lose forever.  I take her hand, gently this time. 

She rolls closer, snuggling.  I don't want her that near, but there is no place to go.  There is no beach now.  Slimy took that away.  I destroyed it when I killed her. 

But it's so late and I'm so tired.  I fall asleep and the waves crash, the wind blows, and the bloody lump covers everything with red.  I have Ezri, if I can stand to touch her, but they took away the beach. 

                               *** 

When we came back from work today we found them, two Bajoran families sitting on a pile of bedding and mats, staring at newly marked hands. 

One of the men is older, his wife holding a small child and a woman staring silently at nothing.  The other family is younger, man and woman, along with four children of varying ages.  

As we enter the barn they look at us, worried and still stunned.  All of them move closer, the older man standing. 

People mutter about space under their breath.  We are crowded enough without adding more people.  And even if we came from different places, most everyone here is human.  It didn't matter before, and we co-existed with each other remarkably well.  But here it is different.  Here your species is important.  Bajorans used to be more protected, if they behaved.  Now they have lost that and we have to put up with them too. 

They wait on their matts, the older man standing, while the first crews to return file past, looking them over.  What do we assume, why are they here?  Are they problems being disciplined or are they the lucky ones, like we'd been. 

There are rumors they are carving out a worse place for the Bajorans, hoping it stems the tide of violence outside in the Bajoran-assigned areas. 

All of the early arrivals are back.  The late crew will not be here for several hours, and we retreat to our matts, waiting. 

Finally, the older man steps forward.  He is trying very hard not to look at his hand, and the sarki brand, as he gestures with his arms.  "We didn't know where to put these things, but if someone could direct us?" 

He is careful.  Who knows what kind of people we are?  I'm not sure we even know ourselves.  But looking around the room, I notice Dorothy is standing now.  She steps carefully on the pathway, not in any hurry. 

"We'll have to find a space," she says.  "Dinner will be a few hours.  We have time."  She steps forward, taking his hand.  "My name is Dorothy." 

He's startled.  I can see it in the way she is standing.  The words are friendly.  But the manner is cautious, filled with warning.  We can't put them out the door, but we'll have to decide how we all feel. 

"Tarlan Jaro," he says.  Indicating the rest, he adds, nervously, "My family."  He is cautious, his Standard heavily accented. 

The young woman is still staring, devastated, at the door.  The rest of them look up at Dorothy and the family patriarch.  The young woman ignores all of it but the world inside her head. 

The older woman stands, looking over Dorothy.  "I am Teala, what you would call a personal name.  Is that the sort of names you use among yourselves?" 

She is close in age to Dorothy, not much taller.  The two women probably both had families, and Teala has lost less of hers.  The stunned young woman and the look of grief in the rest are proof enough. 

Dorothy is polite, almost gracious when she wants to be.  But underneath the civilized layer she's a woman who's lost and grieved and lives with the bitterness.  And she knows how to take care with strangers.  

But then, looking at Teala, I assume she does too.  She isn't the least bit intimidated by Dorothy's warning look. 

"Inside, it is a matter of choice.  Names are usually not used outside."  Dorothy speaks formally, slowly, as if Teala might need help understanding. 

Teala replies just as formally.  Her accent is noticeable, but not as thick as Tarlan's.  Her tone is glacial.  "I would assume.  As we are among strangers with customs different from our own I consider it a polite consideration to ask." 

They eye each other.  Tarlan is watching his wife with fascination, nervous about the confrontation.  But Teala stands straight and dignified.  She does not look at her hand at all. 

Dorothy says nothing for a moment.  Then she says, softly, without the edge of before, "As one should.  It is going to be difficult to find the space but I'm sure we can make room." 

Dorothy has spoken.  She accepts Teala and her family.  She will expect the rest of us to do so as well. 

Ezri is watching them, her fingers tracing the spots on her face.  I hate the way it reminds me of the thing that touched her.  I look away. 

"It will be hard for them," she says.  "There are certain things they won't expect, and we should explain about inside." 

I don't know if she's being a counselor or if there isn't something else.  We're used to her, but she still sees nothing but humans, hears human stories, and the revenge dreams of humans bent on punishing the ones who took away home.  She has to wonder what came of Trill, of the mining colony her family lived.  But nobody really knows, not yet, and few here really care. 

We know we've lost home.  It's hard to care about the rest. 

Dorothy examines the child in Teala's arms, smiles.  "Your grand daughter?" 

Teala blanches, her voice unsteady.  "My son's daughter, and his wife," she says, reaching for the girl who starts to collapse as she finally looks away from the door.  "Our son was taken from us when we arrived.  He has been locked away in a cage for rats." 

There is silence, and Tarlan moves to his wife, does not hold her but stands very close as people glance at Carl. 

Dorothy takes her hand.  I remember Carl's description of the reception for new rats.  I hope his wife doesn't know the details, not now.  Later, it won't matter so much since the violation will be all done. 

Ezri moves a little closer, not touching.  I've noticed she's careful about that.  I avoid looking at the rats when we get glimpses, and she knows about the nightmares.  She is watching me.  "What?" she says. 

I don't bite.  She's in professional mode.  I'm not interested in talking.  She doesn't know what the nightmares are about.  None of them make sense except for what she does to me, even if I can't see her in the dreams. 

"Hope he dies quick," I mumble.  

Ezri moves away, satisfied.  She probably thinks I'm thinking of her and the caltie, but it's mostly the glimpses inside my nightmares.  I couldn't even describe them to her if I tried, if I wanted to.  But I wonder, now, what happened to me?  Just what did Slimy do that bought her to the wet lump she ended up?  The woman's look is all too clear to me.  She knows, perhaps not all the details, but enough. 

So does Teala.  She lets Dorothy take the child as she holds the mother.  I glance at Carl and he is looking away. 

Dorothy takes Teala's hand.  "Come to my matts, both of you." 

Teala helps the girl, almost carrying her.  I watch, uneasy snatches of memories I do not understand in my mind.  But I can't take my eyes off the older man.  He watches, silent but with smoldering bitterness hiding behind the formal words as he thanks Dorothy. 

Perhaps I am no longer alone.  Would Miles have been relegated to the rats now, given an even slower death than he was, his wife taken with the decorated women they keep for the staff?  Would knowing he was dying in little pieces have made it harder than the knowledge that it was over? 

Dorothy comes forward, goes to talk with Tarlan.  He follows her back with the rest of his family. 

It occurs to me I don't know how this is handled now.  Dorothy's moment of decision was new.  Who decides how we fit them in now that we want them among us? 

But I notice matts being moved about near Dorothy.  There is a little more room there.  Tarlan and family are squeezed in next to her matts.  The young woman has been put to bed, the child being held by one of Dorothy's daughters, Dorothy sitting next to Teala in quiet conversation. 

I keep thinking about Miles, how he was my example, my special punishment for refusing.  I wonder what the Bajoran did, if there is some reprieve at the end for his son if he changes his mind. 

I'm not paying any attention to the rest, caught up in the visions of blood that live in my mind.  But someone hesitantly taps my shoulder.  It is the Bajoran. 

"Doctor?  Dorothy said you were a healer.  Areena won't talk, or even look at us, but we hoped you might look her over just the same.  We were held in a cell, then my son was . . . dragged away.  A little while later she was taken out too.  I don't expect that she would tell us what happened, but she won't let us examine her for injuries either." 

He speaks Standard, but doesn't know the layers of meaning.  I can tell he doesn't mean it to come out so cold and clinical.  "She won't let you touch her?" I ask, nervous, afraid of my own nightmares getting mixed up with the woman's. 

"Not so," he says softly, as we walk back to his matts, "Nothing so abrupt as that.  She won't let anyone help.  She won't care for her daughter."  He's frustrated, not wanting to go to a stranger but terrified for his child. 

I stop him in a quiet spot, deciding what to say.  "When she was returned were her clothes, ugh, different?" 

He looks at me, deep hatred in his eyes.  "She was gone a long time.  She came back angry, dirty and bruised as if she'd fought them.  But she would not say more than he was already dead, even if he would live a little while." 

I notice Carl is watching.  So does Tarlan.  "From what we've heard . . ."  I don't know what else to say. 

He internus me, quickly.  "Dorothy has told me of that's one's fate.  I was warned to beware of him, that he is unstable.  But I suspect he is the reason we are here, to be certain I have constant reminder of my choice." 

I have a feeling that Dorothy had other reasons to sent him to me.  "Did Dorothy say anything else?" 

"That you would understand." 

I wonder if she's supplied all the details, too.  But I'm in no mood to discuss my own miserable life.  

"I might."  Then I abruptly change the subject, switching to Bajoran in case he doesn't want to say it for others to hear.  "Your daughter, is she ill?  Or is she just in shock?" 

He's surprised by his native language, opens up a little.  "Areena lost her own family several months ago.  They were deported.  She hasn't been . . . right . . . since then.  But she did care for the child, and my son was there."  He pauses, and I notice he's looking at me.  "You do understand.  I can tell." 

I ignore the comment.  "If she's not sick or hurt I don't know what I can do.  There isn't a lot I can do in any case.  But I'll look her over."  I keep my tone neutral.  I'm sure he's here for a special reason.  I suspect we share more than I'll admit. 

Silently, I follow him to their matts.  Areena is under a blanket, quite still but I doubt she's sleeping.  Teala tells her a healer has come.  But I personally doubt she'll ever heal from what was done to her. 

She pulls away from them but Teala insists, pulls back the blankets.  "He must examine you." 

Teala waits while she uncurls herself.  She's scared but won't show it.  Instead, she covers it with an angry glare. 

I keep thinking of Slimy, standing over me as I laid in wait, and approach with caution.  I use her own language, trying to keep my voice even.  "I just want to see if you need medical care.  Did they hurt you?  If there's any cuts they need treating." 

She watches, wary.  From the look in her eyes I wonder if she's entirely here.  But she pulls down the shoulder of her uniform. 

She's a mass of bruises.  I should look her over better, but not yet.  The cut on the shoulder isn't deep, but it's pink around it.  It could infect and hasn't been cleaned. 

I hold out my hand, but don't touch her.  "I have to clean this.  It will hurt but I don't want to hurt you." 

I look up, getting Teala's attention.  "I need my things.  My wife knows where they are.  Tell her it's a cut." 

It would be better to go myself, knowing just what I want, but the woman is deciding if she'll let me even do that.  I can't walk away now. 

In a few minutes, Ezri appears with a small wrapped container.  I lay out my things, cleaning the cut while the woman freezes in place, letting me work.  I don't have much to use.  But it isn't too bad.  Bandaging the cut, I cover her again.  "I'd leave off the shirt for now.  I'll check it in the morning." 

We leave her to her nightmares.  I can guess.  Just in case nobody tells Tarlan all the details of a rat's life, his son's wife can tell him how they make them.  Teala follows me back to my matts, and watches as I put away my things. 

"You have very little here," she notes, still using Bajoran. 

"We have to be able to find it, and I'm afraid there aren't a lot of people around here who'd know what to look for anyway." 

"I know," she says, the anger written in her voice, the chance to strike back, no matter how small a way, too tempting. 

"That might be useful this spring."  

Being able to practice even this sort of medicine makes life tolerable.  Knowing they have to come and ask is satisfying.  But it would be better if I could do more, treat them with a little more certainty it would work. 

She nods, looking towards her matts.  "I'll see if there are other injuries, later.  Nothing can be done about the bruises." 

"Dinner should be soon, once the late crew gets back," I add.  "Inside, for now." 

She's hungry too.  All of them are hungry.  She nods, leaves to go to her matts.  But I have a feeling that something important has begun. 

Dinner arrives with the late crew, and the Bajorans see nothing but their bowls.  But they take their time with the fruit.  I notice even Areena is eating her piece with relish. 

Dorothy is called upon for a story.  She keeps it short.  Most of us are too tired for more than that. 

I do my normal visit with Luther and Nancy.  She's still too weak, too pale.  I still don't know what's wrong.  I can't tell Luther anything new.  

But we are not alone here anymore.  They have run out of patience with the Bajorans, and we get the special ones, set aside from their own.  

Now I know what Luther meant.  I wonder if he knows more about out recent arrivals than he would say. 

Then there is a noise, and the door opens again.  A lone figure walks into the semi-darkness, followed by the thud of a single ration of bedding and matt. 

It's just light enough to see who it is.  Kira has been returned to us.  

                               *** 

We've made space for Kira.  She doesn't need much, only enough for her single matt.  But it's still very cold and Ezri made space next to us.  It's been hours since her arrival, and she's not said a single word. 

But now, the room almost dark, she's sitting with the blanket wrapped around her, nestled into the tumble of blankets from our matts.  She holds up her newly marked hand, staring at it.  It's different than ours, slightly smaller with a stripped boarder which now indicates the species.  I can only guess they removed the old mark when she was allowed to stay with Odo. 

She looks at me, holding out her hand.  Softly she starts to speak, the sadness overwhelming.  "First, they take our history, they use our historic castes for the names of their slave groups." 

She pauses, staring at her hand.  I can only wonder how we'd feel if they'd used names from our civilizations, soiling them as they have Bajoran history.  I wonder if we'll be marked a second time with the strips along the boarder. 

Then she looks down.  "Then they take our land.  Within a month they'd moved most of the surviving Bajoran population to the northern provinces.  They use the rest for themselves and you."  She looks across the room.  "They didn't live this, but couldn't leave either." 

"That's a ghetto," I say, remembering my reading on the Sanctuary Districts after we came home, thinking that since the calties had gotten so much authority a lot of sorry history would be repeated too.  

She hardly pays any attention to me at all.  "My people don't give in all that easy.  They kept fighting.  Little things, misdirected shipments, and big things," she pauses, "like bombs."  She shivers, the temperature dropping and lies down with the blankets around her.  "So they did to us what they've done to almost every other people in the Alpha quadrant.  And they'll do worse when the resistance doesn't stop." 

We've heard of the resistance, bombs and murders and retribution in kind.  It hardly touches us.  When it does it's catastrophic, since the punishments keep getting harder and more barbaric as they try to stop it.  Today, Jackson would have died for the rock, and not slowly. 

She looks at me, grief in her eyes.  "It's been quite evident that it isn't working, that all it's causing is misery.  But they don't listen.  They just want to pay them back for dead families and stolen lives." 

I look around me, the sea of people who are cooperating so they will not lose their families, so they will not lose their only touch with the past.  If we'd not been forced into such absolute control would it be different?  For us, the sort of resistance paid the Dominion by the Bajorans would be a disaster.  We get punished by having rations cut, having work details made longer, having the family of the offender deported as well. 

Now the Bajorans will have to live under the same rules.  I wonder if they will eventually come to the same conclusion as most of us did. 

Every day I go out and work, slowly it is true, but without protest, am I falling into the same compromise as the rest? 

And if she is here, what has come of Odo?  "How's Odo?" I ask her. 

"He finally got what he really wanted, I think.  He hates his own people.  Weyoun never understood that."  She rolls on her side, talking low, as if we were children whispering secrets at camp.  "There was some trouble with the Jem'Hadar.  I don't know what.  Odo never bothered to ask.  All Odo had to do was stand behind him in a transmission.  But he refused, flat out." 

She shifts around, finding a more comfortable place and I suspect she'd gotten used to the beds she and Odo had.  "I thought they'd move me, but no, I stayed until the end.  First they took away the replicator, and we got the same mush everyone else eats.  Then, then they hurt him most, took his books.  I thought he'd lose his mind, with nothing to do.  All he had to do was just *stand* there and get them back.  Weyoun probably faked it anyway." 

She sits up, looking towards Ezri, "Is she asleep?" 

She's been sleeping with the children of late, and all of them are out.  "Long cold day.  You'll find out tomorrow.  She's out." 

Kira sits up, looks at me.  "We got moved to a cell.  They did give us a cot, but that's all.  Prison dress and food and all."  She looks at Ezri again.  "But then he found somewhere to get the Jem'Hadar out of his way.  Trill." 

I want to touch Ezri.  I want to hold her and share the grief she'll feel.  I think.  I don't know how much any of us can *feel* anymore. 

But Kira continues.  "The Trills held an organized strike.  The Jem'Hadar murdered half the population, deported most of the rest.  They are resettling others on the planet now." 

So we're both lost, without any home but where we are.  "Odo was told.  He makes sure Odo knows all the gruesome details of all the places they destroy.  He doesn't tell Odo about all the places they've lost but you probably hear from the new arrivals." 

I wonder why she's so talkative.  I doubt she's aware of my reputation as the local nutcase.  I hope she'll still talk to me later.  "We hear a lot of things.  Mostly we see a lot of calties." 

Our eyes meet.  She knows.  Odo knows too, must know my "cure" didn't save them.  I wonder if I should warn her that talking to me could be hard on her. 

"They'll pay, you'll pay them back," she says.  

Perhaps even those *believed* to be among the hated collaborators, I think to myself. 

"Where's Odo now?" I ask. 

"Alone, in a cell.  He gets to see Weyoun and nobody else.  They took away the bed too."  She holds up her hand.  "I was told that the only thing that will rescind this is Odo's cooperation and that won't happen." 

She falls down into the blankets.  "They will be moving more of us here, later in the spring.  First they have to finish the project." 

"What project?" I ask, playing dumb, remembering all the crates with Dominion script I've unloaded lately. 

"They trashed a good portion of Bajor, and have to have somewhere to grow the food for the rest of . . . of us.  This area is going to be a huge farm.  They'll need lots of you, and us." 

She grows quiet.  So our future is to work fields, process grains to mush and be animals of the field.  For now.  I don't know how long it will take but eventually it will all fall apart. 

When it does, at least we won't starve.  It's late, the crates were heavy and there will be more tomorrow in a few hours.  I watch as Ezri shifts around, the children cuddling closer.  I miss her.  I wish she'd let me near.  But then when she touches me I think of the beach with the bloody water, and the nightmares get worse.  

At least fields use children.  Molly and Kara will be busy this spring.  If she's lucky they'll spare Tessie, and perhaps by the time Yoshi is old enough he'll be free again.  He's crawling with abandon now, trying to stand.  We just don't have much for him to pull himself up with here. 

But they'll still all work fields.  It will be survival then, just as it is now.  A different kind, but the work will be as hard.  But for now, before that day comes, Yoshi and the others will have a right to grow up, a reason to be here.  It won't be much of a life, but something. 

More than Odo has, I think to myself as I finally fall into an exhausted sleep. 

Kira wakes up early, though, and sitting with Ezri and I, Yoshi on her lap, playing with a toy, she keeps looking at Tarlan.  

"You have quite a celebrity there," she mutters quietly enough only Ezri and I hear. 

"He didn't say much about himself, just his family.  One of his sons got tossed in the rat cage." 

Kira eyes him with interest, almost compassion.  "He lost most of them already.  He's probably the last living former member of the Bajoran government." 

I watch her face, looking for some sort of hope but see none.  "Why is he here?" I ask, not interested in playing word games. 

"You've been getting a lot of crates of late, I suspect.  Before the war there was an independent project--Federation people but not sponsored by the Federation--with a simply land reclamation method.  Back then Tarlan was a minister with the Provisional Government.  He studied it, wanted to bring it here.  But it didn't work.  Bajoran pride got in the way and he resigned." 

"But that didn't stop them from bringing it here later," I comment. 

"No, it works after all.  I guess it's being used all over the place where they have lots of mouths to feed."  She looks around the room, "and plenty of bodies to harvest the food." 

Ezri is looking at her, impatient.  I keep wondering if the surviving Trills will be among them. 

"What about him?" she says, looking at Tarlan. 

"They wanted him to run it.  He knew more about it than most people here.  But his oldest son had been killed on a transport early during the war, and just about then his daughter and her family disappeared when they wiped out several villagers.  He wasn't inclined to cooperate." 

"And he's here, since he's going to be a part of this project of theirs one way or another," I add, looking toward Dorothy's matts, wondering what he'd told her. 

"More or less.  But you're lucky.  You have his wife too."  Kira traces the mark on her hand again, distracted.  "She's a botanist, specializing in plant hybridization.  She wouldn't work for them either.  But eventually you'll need someone like that."  She takes a bite of her fruit, savoring it.  "Odo doesn't get fruit either, just the mush and not too much of that.  He never said much, but he was just discovering taste, really getting used to it.  Now he's learning that sometimes you don't care too much about that." 

She gets quiet.  She misses him, but won't say it.  She doesn't expect to go back this time. 

"I don't suppose they told Odo about me?" I ask, almost afraid he knew, that I'd find out something I didn't remember. 

She shakes her head.  "Only how many people he murders," she mutters.  Then she looks up at me, studying the two of us.  "Something changed." 

"He took me again and I refused.  I'm still not sure of part of it, but I came back like Luther.  I barely remember the first few months back."  Not all the details, but it will do. 

She eyes me, then looks away.  "Was it worth it?" 

I remember the baby, and the human monster that was going to torment him.  "I thought he'd kill me.  I didn't care.  I just wanted it over." 

She glances at Ezri, carefully combing Tessie's hair and not looking at either of us.  "Is it?" 

Do I tell her?  Will Ezri find a time to pass on the secret? 

"He'd signed the order to have me executed, but I guess I amused him enough I got sent back to be the example.  They don't know if I'm going to slip back into . . . there . . . so they keep their distance.  I don't think he's going to ask again." 

She is watching, and I can't look at her.  "Somebody almost killed him.  One of the guards slipped and we heard." 

Ezri smiles.  She looks at me, then Ezri.  "Why not?" 

I'm not in the barn, but his office.  My hands are around his throat.  I want to smell the fear, see him beg.  He still shows mostly surprise. 

"Julian?" asks Kira, tapping me on the shoulder. 

I can't draw away, can't stop seeing his face as my hands squeezed harder.  I don't want to be here.  I see the beginnings of fear, but not enough.  Letting up the pressure, he gasps for a breath as I tighten my grip.  Then the footsteps, the sudden agony . . . 

I can't get away from it.  I can tell they are talking but can't understand.  I can feel their hands on me but it isn't real.  Only Weyoun, his throat still in my hands, the pain shooting through me, is real. 

I can see them, as if through a haze, as Ezri takes her hand to slap me.  But she pulls back.  "No," she says, "No, we'll just loose him like we did before." 

But the pain is growing, and the nightmare is making the haze worse, thicker and stronger like a wall of steel. 

Then Kira is gripping my shoulders.  I'm vaguely aware of it as if from a great distance.  Jules is near, offering his hand.  

The pain explodes inside me.  I fall, dragged away from him, more pain filling me until there is nothing else.  Jules still waits, his hand ready to banish it all, to take me away. 

But then Kira is here too, standing tall and straight in her old red uniform.  "Come back," she says.  "Tessie needs you.  She's scared, crying.  Come back for Tessie." 

Then Tessie is there, Jules still waiting, hand extended.  "Daddy," she says, trying to run but her feet won't work.  I look at Jules, so serene, his world so safe. 

But I need Tessie.  I can't leave her.  "Come here, Tessie," I say, holding out my arms.  The pain is so bad but I need her more. 

She runs, lands in my arms. 

I don't remember how she got there, but Tessie is curled inside me, sobbing.  I realize I am too.  I can't stop the sobs.  Someone is holding me.  Kira. 

Ezri is sitting a little ways away, trying to comfort the children.  Everyone is staring.  I don't ever want to let go of Tessie. 

"I didn't kill him," I whisper.  "I wanted him to hurt more and they stunned me before he could die." 

"Remember, don't ever give up hope or there isn't any, even when you can't see any reason.  Like now." 

I whisper, "He had them deported.  A caltie wanted her and saved her life.  He thinks they're dead."  I take a breath, a little calmer.  "He won't come back for me, but I almost killed them." 

Kira is still holding me, Tessie snuggled calmly on my lap.  "You did, but I'm sure you had reasons.  I won't go back to Odo, but then in a way it's a relief to have it over. 

Ezri is sitting near, uncomfortable but close.  "That was close," she says, softly.  "Thank you, Neres." 

The bell dings warning that breakfast will be here soon, and we have to be ready for work before that.  Even me, the local loonie.  Luther still has his bad days now and then when he can't remember what he's doing, but he still has to stumble out to work even if all he does is get in the way. 

I won't get in the way today.  For once I look forward to work, to something to do that will drive away the images floating in my head.  I'm scared.  I remember bits and pieces of Jules.  But I don't want his world again, not like that. 

Dressing, I think of Arthur and Ford, stranded on the primitive Earth.  With nothing left to do, Ford turned to madness, Arthur never getting the chance because the Sub-Eatha-Sens-O-Matic scanner told Ford that help was coming.  But if he had gone to madness, would Arthur have stayed there, in that place where it doesn't hurt so much to be alone? 

                               *** 

I'm just preoccupied, but they look, wondering.  The melting snow is mixing with the mud and if I don't pay attention my feet will slip.  I'm all here.  Cold and miserable, wet to the skin with soaked boots, but here. 

But they wonder.  When they have to come for medical attention they hesitate now.  Ezri watches me, ready to act, but she doesn't have to worry. 

I won't let the monster out again. 

If I can help it I won't let him out.  But even I don't really know for sure. 

Certain people avoid me.  Realand doesn't come near, and Jeffrey keeps his looks to himself.  He tried that once, just one flash of a look.  I don't entirely remember getting up, but I'd taken two steps towards him before he had vanished.  He takes the roundabout route to his blankets now to stay further away. 

Luther probably knows, more than any of them, what is going on inside my head.  I don't touch Nancy without Ezri being there, even though he knows I'd never hurt her.  If there is anything to tell him she does.  Not that there is anything new.  She's still weak, growing weaker.  At this rate she won't survive the baby. 

Carl stares, once in a while, but he caught me staring back, too.  He retreated, and he stays to his matts when I'm around now.  

But others notice too, Daniel for one, and he's always been more open with me.  Catherine and family do not come unless they have to, and Cindy insisted on Ezri holding the baby when she had a scratch I treated. 

Dorothy is the only one that seems to be willing to be around me.  But she's careful.  She doesn't bring up touchy subjects. 

Nobody mentions the books unless I offer and my family, now including Kira, is strictly off-limits. 

Ezri watches, carefully never mentioning anything but daily events.  She saw me stare as she traced her spots and doesn't do that anymore.  Molly and Kara, the children who gave up childhood this spring, are visibly cautious around me.  In a way I understand.  I'm still bigger than them.  My father didn't quit until I could hit back. 

Tessie still comes, still sits on my lap, still entwines her fingers through my beard.  She's my special child, the one that I hold dearest.  And Yoshi is just happy to find his daddy again.  If I hurt Tessie I'd let the guards finish me off.  It would be easier to die that way than let Ezri or Kira do it. 

If I touch any of them Kira will make sure I pay for it.  She didn't have to say it.  Ezri's hand was on her spots and I . . . She grabbed my hand and shoved me flat.  All I had to see was the utter conviction in her eyes that I am dangerous and she wouldn't put up with me. 

Kira knows about people like me.  She's known about them all her life and knows just how to get rid of them too. 

But I don't want to go.  For oddly enough, for the first time, I do feel a part of these people.  I'm pushed to the edge, given miserable work, inside and out.  I dragged the refuse out yesterday and some of it spilled.  Nobody offered to help clean it up.  But there is inside and outside.  Outside, I'm a body.  I work.  I clear a little of the melting mess of the roads, or shove heavy crates inside a warehouse.  Inside, I may be crazy and dangerous and necessary, but I'm one of them, too. 

And so are Tarlan and his family.  Teala was pleased by the kenexa fruit.  Long ago, when the Dominion and Bajor were officially "allies" it was studied as a new crop on Bajor.  She remembered the taste, even if the memories of it were bitter. 

Bajoran pride won that one too.  But not this time.  At least I don't have to worry about slipping and using the name. 

But Jaro is different than the rest.  Areena still sits and stares most of the time, and maybe he can deal with me better because I'm proof you can recover.  Dorothy or someone has told him about Jules already. 

But he sits with me.  He takes his cue from my mood.  If I'm willing to talk, we do.  If I'm silent, we sit together.  I still don't know the man, not really, but we understand each other. 

For both of us, there was no good way out.  For both of us, the cost has been so high we wonder now and again if it wasn't too much. 

Yesterday he sat next to me at dinner, on my matts, the rest of them away.  Abruptly, he mumbles to me, "I saw my son today, this pitiful half-starved creature, this animal I didn't recognize."  He shook his head, took a deep breath.  "I should tell Te-le he's alive.  Not that it would much matter to Re-ne, but I should tell her anyway.  But I can't.  She'd want to know the details.  I just can't put them in words." 

I take his hand, grip it tight.  I understand.  There have been no rumors about Trill.  I should tell Ezri.  She deserves to know.  But I can't.  It hurts too much, is too close to what happened to home.  We sleep side by side, protective layers of blanket between, for it's too cold not to.  But if I tell her her people are gone, or scattered, that she bears a death sentence that a caltie saved her from, she'll never come back.  I want her to come back.  I don't know how, but I want the blankets to melt away between us and to hold her.  That would be enough, for now. 

I'd like back the beach too, but that is like the dreams of freedom we tease ourselves with, an impossible dream.  We don't have those anymore. 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 25 

                               *** 

Decon took up most of the morning today.  They were punishing the Bajorans for some act of rebellion and didn't feed them much for a month, and now some epidemic is sweeping their population.  One of Jaro's grandchildren was ill, and every single one of us got a complete examination.  I assume that humans and Trills are immune to it, since nobody was detained.  But Kira and the Tarlan family were moved to quarantine this morning.  We were told that once the epidemic is gone they'll be back.  At the rate it's hitting the Bajorans it might not be long. 

I want Jaro and his wife back.  I want Kira's company.  They are friends, family.  Someone else will replace the ones that die in their own area, but this is different. 

I don't like eating alone.  Lately, I've been very unsociable and Ezri takes the children to a friend's matts to eat.  Jaro comes and sits with me.  I'll miss him tonight. 

If he dies I will find some way of getting revenge for him, someday. 

And then, late afternoon, just off work, everything changed.  

I saw him, the Thing that saved Ezri's life, the Thing that wants her.  I was just finished, wet and cold from snow clearance, and wanted to get inside and be dry and warm.  But as he walked by I could no longer feel the cold. 

With him was another Special, this one shorter and darker with a shadow of a beard in the late afternoon.  He had two women, very young, who looked much like each other.  I didn't recognize them, probably from one of the other groups.  But I didn't dwell on them, nervous and resigned, and didn't show the relief inside me that neither of them was Ezri. 

The Thing ignored them.  Someday I hope the dark-haired Special has to pay for what he was doing, but the Thing is mine.  I wonder if he knows.  I'm quite certain that he paused, and looked at me momentarily as we passed. 

Inside, I changed from the wet clothes to dry, and wrapped myself in a couple of blankets.  Tessie found me and lavished kisses on my beard, and Yoshi babbled his own version of a greeting.  The older children arrived cold and exhausted from the warehouse they are working just ahead of their mother. 

Dinner went quickly, the hot food disappearing before it had a chance to cool.  But as I was dropping our bowls in the bin, Carl put himself in my way. 

"You were lucky today," he taunts. 

The office caltie hasn't been around the last few days.  Carl has a little more confidence than usual. 

I should leave it but I can't.  The presence of the Thing has made me too suspicions.  "How is that?" I ask. 

"You saw them.  You know which one I mean.  He likes Ezri.  He wants her.  Maybe next time he'll decide to pick her." 

The fury is rising inside.  Carl is just in the way.  I have a firm grip on his arm before he can escape.  The arrogance has disappeared.  He starts to crumple before my eyes.  I shake him to make sure he's paying attention.  "Did he touch her?" I demand. 

"Yes," he whispers, holding still, only wanting me to let go.  

I don't.  "How bad?" I ask. 

He's scared.  He doesn't know if I'll turn on him.  He knows about that kind of thing.  "The spots, he likes the spots.  He likes to touch them."  He looks at me, eyes pleading for release.  "But he wouldn't pick her.  Too old, he said." 

I let go abruptly and he almost falls.  People notice, but nobody gets in my way.  I watch as he scurries away to his wife and blankets. 

Ezri is sitting with Nancy, talking quietly, getting a feel for how she's doing.  She does this every night when we get in.  Nancy is still not well, and I admit to being worried.  But I can't think of Nancy now.  All I can see is Ezri, and the Thing that dared to touch her.  I can see his fingers trace down her face, her neck, into her clothes.  I can see him go further, all the way down to her toes, and Ezri lets him.  I start to glare at her, anger building. 

She looks up, noticing my look, and quickly looks away. 

I go to our blankets, the children already snuggled inside their own nest.  Ezri hugs Nancy, makes sure she's covered up.  Luther is with the late crew tonight and not back yet.  Slowly, as if she'd rather not, Ezri makes her way home.  She drops into the blankets much more quiet and preoccupied than usual. 

"She's not improving at all with rest," she says.  

It worries me, but I can't think of anything I can do.  Not yet at least.  "Teala mentioned something local, folk medicine but I'd be willing to try anything.  Who knows?" 

Ezri shares a moment of concern for Nancy, but won't ask unnecessary questions.  "If it helps . . . " she says. 

She rubs her face, tracing her finger down her spots.  It infuriates me, reminds me too closely of what I know.  We fall silent.  I keep staring at her spots, can see his hand as it slides down her neck, inside her uniform.  I watch as she lets him. 

I keep waiting for her to say something.  "Mine was wet and miserable.  How was your day?"  There is no hint of the anger inside in my voice, as cold as Carl's. 

She hesitates, looks away.  "Nothing unusual.  One of the official slime came by but otherwise we stayed pretty warm." 

She's not going to tell me.  She's getting ready to go to sleep.  I stare at her, unable to break the image of the filthy hands tracing down her spots, all of them.  Most of all I can't stand the thought that she *let* him do it. 

Abruptly, I push myself up.  "I'm thirsty," I mumble, not looking at her.  Realand had things he used, and had hidden from Jeffrey.  I know where they are.  She's loosening her blankets, making herself a nest to sleep in.  We don't share our blankets now, just the space between them.  But tonight will be different. 

She isn't quite done when I return, her clothes opened and loose as she's preparing for bed, and slide inside our sleeping area without haste.  Removing shoes and coat, my clothes are open too, as if I plan to remove them.  She looks up, surprised, but keeps arraigning blankets. 

Then, without any warning, I break her nest, scattering the blankets.  While she's distracted, I shove her head down, pull back the collar of her clothes and yank hard.  She fights me, but the blankets are trapping her legs.  The top of her uniform clears her shoulders, and I pull her arms free while she squirms.  The loop of rope slips around her wrists and I tighten it into place. 

She glares at me, unprepared by the surprise attack.  I push her down, flat on her back, running my hands over her spots.  I can feel the filth he left on my wife.  "Let me loose or you'll be sorry," she snarls at me. 

But her hands are pinned under her back.  Her legs are tangled in the blankets.  She squirms, but it isn't getting her anywhere.  Pushing against her shoulders, I pin her to the matts.  Looking her in the eyes, I glare back.  "You weren't going to tell me what the slime did, how he touched you."  I slide my hand down her body, trying to pull her clothes off but unable to without letting her loose.  I decide it is enough.  I know Ezri.  I know she is as capable as I am of defending herself. 

But she has stopped resisting.  "He didn't want me," she says, coldly, staring at me. 

"He touched you.  That's all that matters."  I lower my face just above hers, staring into her eyes, climbing over her body so she can't move. 

She's seething with anger, but knows that she's trapped.  The cold look returns to her eyes.  "He touched a lot of us.  You going to hurt all of them?" she dares. 

"They aren't my wife."  I pull back, and she pushes herself up a little.  I shove her down with my hand.  "We're going to play pretend again.  We're going to pretend I'm him, and then we'll see how much you want him." 

We don't play pretend anymore.  We don't go to the beach either, with all the blood.  But tonight she'll understand why she doesn't really want him. 

"I don't want him," she says through teeth clenched together.  "And I don't want you either." 

"But he wants you," I say, slipping my hand around her throat.  I slip the little cord around her neck, tie it.  It isn't tight, but I could easily pull the loose end to make it worse.  For the first time I can see she is afraid of me.  I don't want the beach, not tonight.  I want a bed in the caltie's room and his face staring at her.  She doesn't make a sound.  "If this was him it would be tighter.  He isn't interested in what you want, just him."  I pick up the cord, pull on it lightly.  It slips in just a little, not enough to matter, but she gets the point. 

She's quiet, her breathing rapid and on the edge of panic.  Holding the cord in my hand, not pulling at all, I move back and she stays on the matt.  My hand starts exploring her body, pushing roughly against her spots, pinching tender skin as my nails drag against her.  I rake my nails down her body, rubbing here and there, touching without permission.  She closes her eyes, her body tense but under control, but always aware that I have the cord in my hand.  She's in no danger.  I do not intend to harm her.  I just want her to understand what he is, what he wants to do to her. 

She's afraid, my Ezri is afraid of me.  I can't stand the thought of her letting him touch her, knowing she would have let him take her.  Carl was afraid too, that I'd snap, that I'd hurt him.  I don't care about Carl.  But I don't want to hurt her, just make her understand. 

Then it's different.  I'm on the beach.  The water is swirling around me.  My body is lying, half-numb but able to feel all the pain of the prod, and the hands that follow.  Ezri is staring down, a mean glare in her eyes, her hands everywhere, hurting me, that leer in her eyes.  I can't move, can't fight her.  Why is she hurting me?  What have they done to her? 

Abruptly, the water disappears, the course sand fades.  Ezri is squirming under me, the cord tighter, and there is blood, my fingers pinching, bruising her.  She's breathing slowly, carefully as the collar restricts her breathing.  I stop, astonished.  Why am I hurting her?  Who am I punishing, tormenting, Ezri or Slimy? 

Backing away, I pull off the cord, and she collapses against the matts.  Opening her eyes, I see fury.  But she's careful, worried.  I snapped, and even if I pull my hands back, I do not let her go. 

"Bastard," she mutters, but quietly, watching. 

I say nothing, further retreating but keeping her hands tied, the blankets pinning her legs.  Inside me, there is pain and turmoil and hurt so deep I can't describe it.  But I collapse next to her under the blankets, pulling them over both of us. 

"I thought you were her," I say, softly, hesitantly.  "She hurt me.  She had a prod and, and, . . ."  I can't tell Ezri what she did.  I don't want to remember.  "But I saw *you*, on our beach.  I couldn't stand the thought of that Thing touching you like he did today." 

I stare at the blanket, avoiding looking at Ezri.  

"When you were with Weyoun?" she asks.  I'm almost surprised.  It's been such a long time since I've heard that tone, the one she used to use with her patients. 

"She was a guard." 

"Did she rape you?" she asks softly, not moving. 

"No.  She tried.  She tried twice.  The second time I killed her." 

She lets out a long breath.  I realize that if I'd not left the beach when I did today I could have killed her again.  I don't want Ezri to know how scared I am.  But as I pull away she rolls towards me.  "Would you rather I kill your Thing than let him paw me a little?  Would you rather he get to take me on his own, because he'd own me if he could, if I made trouble?"  There is sudden silence between us.  "He didn't really do the looking anyway.  It was the other one.  He picked the twins." 

I would have killed Slimy whatever the result.  I don't know how to answer her question.  "What happens when he does pick you?" 

She tenses.  Her voice loses its professional tone.  "I don't know.  But he didn't, Julian.  He didn't hurt me.  You did.  Now, untie me." 

I should.  I know I have to eventually.  But despite the calm voice I know she's still angry.  If she tries to take her revenge I am afraid the anger will spill out and I would kill her. 

"Not now.  Not if you might hurt me."  But I back off, trying to pull away from her. 

"Fair's fair, isn't it?"  She says, annoyed.  But she's calmer now.  She was afraid of me, but now she can't miss that I am afraid of her too, scared enough to strike back if she gets too close.  I am more afraid of myself, of the anger inside that might explode without any control. 

"I'd probably kill you if you tried.  I don't know if I could stop myself."  I roll as far away from her as I can. 

She's silent for a moment.  "When your Thing took me from the deportation group, he saved my life.  And he saved all the children's lives too.  I don't know why he did it, since all he had to do when he didn't have time to finish what he wanted was send me back to the cell.  But he didn't.  He sent me home.  Not even as me, just a Trill with adopted children." 

There is a voice in my head, one I haven't heard in a long time, not since I . . . woke. 

It's Miles.  There is no hint of understanding anymore.  'Look, Julian, this Thing of yours saved their lives, not you.  You condemned them to hell, your wife, your--no, *our* children and Tessie and Kara.  How *dare* you condemn her for wanting them alive.' 

I try to deny him, push him out of my head.  'He was buying her.' 

'But she'd still be alive.  Doesn't that matter to you anymore?' 

Then he's gone.  I don't know if I want him to come back or not. 

Ezri is looking at me, and I think of what happened to her people, how she would be dead now without the new identity. 

I've never told her about the joined Trills.  The rebellion is known here, but none of the details.  But it will all come out eventually.  If she knew I had kept it from her how would she feel?  She owes the Thing her life.  

I never answered Miles question.  I thought she was dead.  I remember the moment I discovered they were alive, how I didn't know if it was real.  Nothing else would matter if she was gone. 

Still, she betrayed us, would betray us again.  Just as I did to save them before. 

I roll over, moving towards her.  "I need to get to your hands." She rolls on her side as I untie her, waiting for her to retaliate. 

But she doesn't.  She pulls her hands in front of her, rubbing her wrists.  "Don't worry, I won't hurt you."  She's tired, hurting.  I leave her alone. 

"I won't touch you again," I say, not knowing if I should be relieved or saddened. 

But she rolls over, lying close to me.  I keep thinking of her dragged away, executed because she is joined.  I keep thinking of waking to this place with her gone. 

"He saved your life in another way," I add.  I roll over, turn to face her.  Hesitantly, I put my arms around her, gently, holding her lightly.  

"Because of what happened on Trill," she says. 

"Yes."  I pause, and she pushes against me, closer.  The rumor has just reached us that the Trills revolted, that there were mass deportations of the survivors.  But I know more.  "The joined started and led the revolt.  All of them were executed.  And the caverns below the ground were burned."  I don't have to say that she, and any other joined Trills who have managed to stay hidden are the only ones left alive. 

She is silent, moving my hand to her belly and the space where the worm lies.  When she dies he dies too, now.  The desolation inside her is immense, like the emptiness inside me when we had the fate of Earth confirmed. 

But she says nothing about it.  Perhaps she'd already guessed. 

"Maybe your Thing knew, too," she says, finally, changing the subject.  "Today, the second one thought I was interesting.  But your Thing said I was too old, wouldn't be of any interest to their friend.  Maybe he protected me." 

I'm still furious at him for touching her, but the anger is dulled by the memories of Slimy and her hands and the lump of dripping flesh I made of her, the scene I could have replayed today.  "He just wants you for himself," I say, tired, spent. 

She slides her hands inside my uniform, pulling it back, and I let her.  I like the warmth of her body against me, the joy of her being alive to hold.  I slide her clothes down her hips and she guides mine off as well.  

Our bodies entwined, she says quietly, "If he keeps me hidden here for himself we have to live with it."  She moves away, just a little.  Weyoun did the same to me, but now he thinks they are gone.  Now he holds no hostages.  She moves back, turning to face me.  "I know you can't accept that, but it's my life.  Remember, Julian, you don't own me either." 

Is that what she thinks, that I want her like he does?  But I was the one who hurt her today. 

The children are stirring, and I hope we've not kept them awake.  "I don't want to own you," I say, "just . . . need you." 

"Jules needed me too."  She hasn't spoken the name before. 

Next to me is Kukalaka, the little rag doll Nancy had given me, the one I took for my lost bear.  Little Jules had been so lost, but Mummy was there for him, even here.  The caltie and his lust saved Jules too. 

"I'd kill him if he took you," I tell her. 

"I know.  But he hasn't.  Maybe he won't," she adds, sleepy, wrapping her body around mine. 

I pull back.  "No  beach.  There's too much blood." 

"Too late, anyway," she mumbles. 

Later, tangled together in quiet comfort, Ezri is still awake.  She whispers, "I remember when he was done with the pictures, when he started touching me, I didn't . . . I couldn't stand his hands on me.  But the children were so near, and I wanted to live.  I hated myself for it, but I knew I'd let him." 

I remember the way Burly dragged Ezri--no, Slimy, away, made her stop.  What if he hadn't?  I couldn't move, couldn't stop her.  What if she'd done it, all she wanted, would there have been an Avenger, would Weyoun have found what was left so useless he'd have simply found someone else, let Slimy have the broken remains to use until there wasn't anything left? 

That's why I killed her.  I didn't want to know.  I still don't.  Unlike Ezri, I'll always wonder, and like her, I'll never know what would have been. 

But she's holding me now.  Her body is warm, soft, cuddled close against me.  She's real, neither dream nor nightmare.  Carl can allow his wife to hold him, touch him.  Luther seeks the safety of Nancy's arms.  I wish they could tell me how.  But maybe this is how it begins, going to this warm safe place where you aren't alone. 

She's fallen asleep, and I close my eyes.  I'll dream of red weed and tripods tonight, of blue/green dust and red lightening.  The Avenger got home, but at least I still have his dreams. 

                               *** 

The bell is loud after the late night, and I lie in bed half-asleep listening.  The dream had been so good, of the Princess and her lover, of the battles with the pirate that I'd been visiting at the time.  It would have been better to end the dream properly, to go home to the red weed and Mum, to wake here with my family.  Now it's all a jumble in my head and I need to sort it out. 

But Ezri pulls in her clothes and starts dressing, and retrieves mine as a hint.  I pull them on while sorting out my dream, and she drops some things on my chest. 

"Your toys."  She gives me a look that makes it obvious she never wants to see them again.  I already know that if I tried that again she'd kill me. 

Rising, I gather them carefully so they aren't visible.  I wash off the dried blood the best I can, but can't contaminate our water.  Then I drop them into Realand's hiding place, catching him watching.  I hope he'll move them later, since now Jeffrey could find them.  So could I. 

I don't want to imagine what Jeffrey would do with them.  The little stick with the sharp point has a stain on it.  I wonder if it did before, or that was her blood. 

But I notice, returning, that our nearest neighbors regard us with looks, especially me, and the older children give me a quick look of disapproval.  Ezri is already up and dressed in her coat, taking care of Tessie and Yoshi.  

I'm given space by the rest.  I guess we weren't as quiet as I thought.  Luther gives me a curious look, watching as Ezri takes my hand.  I know they don't approve, even if they won't say anything.  But they also wonder when I'll go off again, fix the anger on one of them.  I'm sure the little scene with Carl has been noted.  He doesn't matter, but they know I could snap at any of them. 

I don't say a word to anyone all morning.  I'm stuck on road clearance, and by the time the long, miserable day is over I'm not in the mood to talk.  

They've noticed that the clean bin of uniforms is emptying too fast.  A new policy is in effect.  If our clothes are wet, we put them in a bin by the door when we return.  They'll be back, dirty and dry, in the morning, the servers the only ones who get clean uniforms.  I eat, then taking a blanket, strip and wrap the blanket tight to stay a little warmer. 

I don't serve anymore, even in the slush and muck.  But I hear about the changes.  The higher caste prisoners have been moved, and most of the groups now are sarki.  Some are human, but they are a scattering of species.  There is even a group of half-starved, broken Trills.  Ezri has seen them and said nothing. 

She's making a nest for us when I return.  I wait while she finishes, dropping my blanket and crawling inside.  She crawls inside, pulling off her clothes, lying close and wrapping her arms around me. 

Lost in the warmth and comfort, I'm almost asleep when she wraps her legs suggestively around me.  "No hurting," she whispers.  "It's been awhile." 

I keep thinking of the beach and the blood.  I remember the way she worked her hands, the slow progress of her prod across my body.  I can't go there.  

I hold back, Ezri watching.  "No," I tell her.  "Not tonight."  

"It's cold.  I'll warm you up," she says. 

But she doesn't understand.  The Thing never had time to hurt her.  When I turned on my wife, I let out all the memories of that day, of the prod, of Slimy and her hands and the leer in her eyes.  When she holds me, I can be little Jules tucked away in his mothers arms.  But not now, not with her legs pressing against me that way. 

"No," I insist.  "Her blood's all over the beach." 

Ezri pauses.  "Then we'll go to a forest.  The trees are tall.  The brook babbles by us.  The leaves are soft and the moss is spongy underneath them." 

But I hold back.  I don't see Ezri anymore, but as she pulls me closer, I can't keep the memories away now.  I can remember Slimy too well, all the things she did, all the places she shoved her prod.  I remember the bloody mess she was when she was dead. 

I could have done the same to Ezri.  Now she's pulling me closer, being careful, gentle, but not stopping when I pull back. 

But then, I didn't stop the night before.  I didn't even know what I was doing to her. 

She's touching now, but softly, caresses rather than hurt, and I let her.  I don't want to, but she didn't either.  I guess for her there is a forest.  But for me, there are blankets and matts and a sea of people around me who probably heard me hurting my wife and likely wonder when I might hurt them too--and not even know.  But she is gentle, even if there is no pretend or no beach.  Now we're even.  

She reaches out to hold me and it hits, the feeling of desperation as Slimy is done playing, has put the prod away.  I keep waiting for the boat, for Burly and rescue.  But there is no boat.  Her hands wrap around me, touching, threatening.  I'm not here in our nest but on the beach with waves churning and the cold spray spilling all over me. 

I can't allow Ezri to touch me.  How dare she think that just because I let her use me--albeit gently--that all of the pain is done.  She wasn't touched, not really.  But I can't forget, and every touch makes the memories more real.  Except now, Burly and the boat won't come.  

After we came home from Internment Camp 371, I was haunted by nightmares of that last night, with Garak in the wall and the disruptor pointed at my head.  Except in my nightmares the Jem'Hadar found Garak, killed him, destroyed his work.  We didn't go anywhere.  For weeks I'd wake up in a heavy sweat, if I could sleep at all, with the close confines of an isolation cell I knew I'd die in around me. 

It didn't help that I knew it wasn't real.  It doesn't help when Slimy slides the knife down my side, tearing the fabric that shielded me from her hands before.  

She didn't have the time in that cell.  But if she had, would I have been sent back at all?  Would the distraction of needing to discipline Slimy have delayed the special from Ezri, and if I came back at all would she and the rest have been long gone, slowly dying in that mine? 

It's the unanswerable questions you can't escape. 

Ezri pulls me closer.  All I want is to get away from her.  I can't stand to have her touch me.  I must get away from the beach before it is too late, before Slimy gets what she wants.  I pull away from her, jerking back.  "No.  Just give me my blankets." 

Ezri pulls away, reluctantly.  "It was a beautiful forest," she says as she sorts the blankets between us. 

A while later, settled against each other, she's touching my back.  I can't pull far enough away to not be touched.  I can't sleep.  If I do Slimy will be there. 

Maybe the dead get revenge too. 

"Are you cold?" she asks. 

"No.  Just don't touch me." 

"But?" she asks. 

"I didn't have any forest," I tell her.  "I'll leave you alone.  Just keep away." 

"If that's what you want."  She rolls towards the children, and I pull back.  I don't know if I want that.  I know I can't allow her to touch me. 

I'm exhausted, and fall asleep.  The beach is all around me, the water churning, the sky flashing with a storm.  But the water is red with blood, splashing all over me, soaking her uniform. 

Slimy draws her hand down me, teasing with her prod here and there, tearing off the torn clothes.  Burly will not come this night.  

She puts away the prod.  She smiles, pulls away the soaked uniform.  

I know it's not real but it doesn't matter.  The water is blood, the trees shadows in the storm, and the sky flashes of light followed by darkness.  

I belong to her.  She begins what Burly had stopped, and the only thing that matters is the night end and I can wake up and escape. 

                               *** 

The road was icy today.  We had to work late.  I slip inside last, icy cold, and fall asleep immediately as soon as I have the blankets wrapped securely around me.  Slimy will still be there, but I don't care as long as I'm warm.  

She's got a knife.  She has shed her uniform, tossing it into the bloody water.  She takes her knife and slices off my clothes this time, nicking me here and there, the only sound the material ripping under the pull of the blade. 

She starts, and I can move a little, try to squirm away from her, dig into the sand.  The blood is slippery, all over us, and she has her arms around me as I try to move away.  

Then a voice, arms holding me firmly, "Julian, wake up." 

She holds me tight, shakes me a little, and the storm fades to black, the trees darken, the sea of blood calms.  Then the beach itself goes away. 

Ezri is holding me, lying beside me, and I lie still, trying to sort out all the images in my head.  Slimy is gone, but I can still feel her work, my body on the edge of another betrayal.  I don't fight Ezri this time.  This time she saved me. 

"Nightmare," I mumble.  "It's gone now."  Not really true.  But there is distance instead of the beach. 

"Of her?" she asks.  I wonder if she ever dreams about the Thing, especially after I attacked her.  I realize she doesn't show any desire for the beach either. 

"Go back to sleep.  I'll keep her away."  She holds me tight, through the blankets, and I relax a little.  I remember Carl's warning about Ezri, about a side I've still not seen.  Maybe it will keep Slimy at bay. 

There is no beach.  But there is no knife, no blood either.  All we have is each other, the closeness of our bodies with the blankets keeping away the nightmares. 

She's still awake.  I ask, softly, "Does he just touch you in your dreams?" 

She holds me tighter, then relaxes long enough for me to turn towards her, release my arms so we may hold each other.  "No, more than that." 

"I'll keep him away."  

For the first time in ages I sleep in some semblance of peace. 

                               *** 

I don't see much of Luther, especially not alone.  He's been given the better work of late, myself getting the kind of grimy jobs he owned before, but then most people don't want to work with me now--too nervous around me--and I get the all day jobs.  But today someone slipped and assigned us together.  We can't talk in front of the guards, but it was obvious he didn't like the idea. 

I don't much either.  I remember bits and pieces of the last few months, and I must have been sent with him a lot.  From what's been said, I doubt I was much help.  Not that I intend to work all that hard today; Luther can hurry if he wants to, but I'll do only what I must for dinner. 

Most of the loading we've done has been off transports into warehouses, heavy crates that are sealed with official Dominion script on them.  We can't stall with those; we're watched too closely and it's too cold to be outside the whole day.  But this time we're loading crates of parts in transit for shipment with the usual rules.  By dinner it must be done.  But that's plenty of time, and I am in no rush. 

Luther is.  I keep wondering if he just wants to finish and get away from me.  Nobody bothers us if we talk on jobs like this, and yet neither of us has said a word.  We fill a crate and carry it to the loader together.  We've carried twice as many of his crates as mine.  He keeps looking at the load of parts, something small but heavy, and then me. 

It's not hard to see what he's thinking.  He wants to get done and be with Nancy.  Mostly, he probably just wants to be done and away from me.  

He's standing there, counting crates to be filled, obviously annoyed.  I don't care.  We'll get dinner without his paranoia. 

"Would you hurry it up?" he finally says.  We've haven't got a quarter of this loaded." 

He's wary, as he should be.  He knows I remember.  He knows I'm only under tentative control.  I smile at him, "Why?  We have plenty of time."  I'm calm and unperturbed, knowing it will make him more annoyed. 

He owes me after all.  "The sooner it's done we go home."  He's trying to keep the worry out of his voice.  But it isn't working all that well. 

"And they'll find something else for us to do.  No, I'd rather stay in this warm, dry building all day."  I smile at him again, but not so friendly this time.  "You probably won't have to be around me tomorrow."  I've been working, but deliberately stop.  "Anyway, what do we owe *them* that we should bother rushing?"  Something is biting my cheek and I remove it.  It reminds me again.  "What do we owe them that we should be working so cooperatively at all?" 

"Our lives," he says, standing quite still, nervous at the anger in my voice. 

"This isn't life," I murmur, finishing off a crate. 

Nobody says anything while we haul it outside.  Inside, nobody cares if we break the rules.  Outside, we stay quiet. 

But as soon as we are both inside, as soon as the door is shut, Luther stops in front of me.  "I had to do everything when you were *little*.  You couldn't even keep the floor clean half the time.  So right now I'd say you *owe* me." 

I remember waking up in what I thought to be my bed, kept awake and hungry for days while he and his people "tested" me.  I remember being manipulated into betraying someone with no ulterior motives so 31's man could take hold his power.  All of them are either dead or slaves now, but the bitterness remains.  I wish I could remember the Federation as the shining jewel I'd always believed it to be.  Sloan ruined that too. 

But that is in the past, all turned to ash.  I shut out the memories. 

"I don't owe you anything," I inform him.  Neither of us are working.  I'm surprised Luther doesn't rush over to fill crates so there is noise, but instead he just stares.  "Are you worried we'll be late and you'll have to try trespassing again?" 

Staring, he freezes in place.  "I saved your life that day,"  he says quietly, almost whispering. 

"But you should never have *been* there, especially not with someone who you could not know would understand.  Go yourself.  Risk your wife and child.  But I couldn't have made the decision then.  You almost cost my life too." 

"No," he says.  "If we'd been late, we'd have been punished.  Before that we'd have been questioned about where we were.  Considering how sick you were, I seriously doubt you'd have made it back." 

"Look at you," I say calmly, staring.  "You're so scared of them, you work so hard so they won't notice.  But then, then you sneak into places they'd kill you if they found you.  If we'd been late I would have been a perfect excuse.  But you didn't think of that.  Even *now*, I wouldn't take that chance."  I glare at him, daring him to argue. 

"I'm not convinced," says Luther, daring me back.  "I know them.  All too well.  So do you.  We both understand what they consider punishment." 

"So, today, lets say we end up late.  What do you do?  I'll take my chances.  You can trespass if you want." 

For a moment we stare at each other.  My cheek burns in memory of the way he slapped me that time, so hard it hurt all night.  Even Ezri didn't stop him.  But then she's come to her own sort of compromises of late, too. 

I haven't.  I won't forgive him, not for any of it.  Neither of us are working, the place silent.  Guards could come in at any moment.  But I don't care right now.  I just want Luther to know that I remember what he did. 

I step up to him.  He backs off, just a little, before he says, carefully, "We should get back to work before they encourage us to hurry." 

I keep moving on him, and he keeps backing away.  I don't know why I'm so extra infuriated with him.  All I know is that somehow, someway, I have to let it out. 

Just like I did on Ezri that night she told me about the special and his pictures and his hands.  Luther is now cornered, trapped, and I expect him to try to get away.  But he becomes very quiet, very still. 

"Please," he says, almost begging, an edge of panic in his voice.  "Don't touch me.  Please don't hurt me." 

The panic feeds my anger, barely under any control.  The tricks and the torture were from before and I can't deal with them.  The slap wasn't. 

I hit him so hard he falls, my hand stinging with the blow.  He's on the floor, my foot hovering near his stomach.  I'm ready to use it, to smash it inside him when I'm stopped by the whimper. 

It's coming from Luther.  He's huddled on the floor, looking up in little, furtive glances but not looking at me.  When I move he shrinks away. 

"I'll do whatever you want, just don't touch me." 

I hadn't asked him to *do* anything.  And my foot hadn't touched him.  But somebody had.  I've seen the shaking, the stumbling uncertainty, the lost hours.  But I've never seen him this terrified before. 

I keep thinking of Elaine, the creature she was turned into when she was condemned to her own living death.  Maybe Luther met the same man, or his best friend. 

Maybe he knew some of the people that turned Carl into a monster. 

I take a step near him and he melts further away, his breathing ragged, his body trembling.  I can't take my eyes off of him, this small terrified animal so badly abused by someone that it has lost all dignity. 

It is hardly the Luther Sloan I remember.  I move closer, watching as he retreats as far as he can, smashed against a crate.  I put my hand on his lower back and his whole body jerks.  

"I'll do it, whatever you want.  Don't hurt me this time.  Just get it over." 

I stare at him, the position he's taken, the way he's shaking in terrified anticipation.  I wonder if he'd ever encountered Slimy, or if it was somebody else who hadn't been so stupid.  The longer I wait the more still he becomes, the more ragged and taxed his breathing, waiting for the rape. 

All the anger vanishes.  I collapse next to Luther on the floor, Slimy wearing Ezri's face, leering down at me, the intention quite plain.  The hands start exploring my body, the places she'd sent her torture device before.  Burly called it off, and I killed Slimy the next time he tried it.  I still have the nightmares, when Burly doesn't come, when she does what she intended.  But for Luther it had been real. 

I let Ezri hold me now, but nothing else.  The beach is still covered with blood, and she's waiting for me to fall into sleep. 

Everything spent, I murmur.  "I killed the one that tried it on me.  She was stupid.  I smashed her to a bloody pulp before I was done." 

Luther stares at me, still trying to retreat.  "Please," he whispers, still lost in blind terror. 

I take my hand, touch him gently, hating the way he jerks then freezes.  "It's all right now.  It's long over.  You're just remembering it." 

I keep my hand there, repeating my words until they get through.  In my mind's eye, the beach is there, with all the blood.  But as Luther collapses, sobbing, it fades a little. 

He moves towards me, hesitantly allowing me to hold him.  "It wasn't human, I don't know what it was.  They thought I could put the computer system back together, but even if they made me I couldn't manage that.  But he said he'd give me to this thing if I didn't.  I didn't know . . . " 

His voice fades.  He just cries.  I hold him like a child that needs comfort, knowing that there is no comfort for Luther's memories, or mine.  

Finally, he whispers, "I begged it to kill me, over and over, but it wouldn't.  It just hurt me worse when I did and . . . "  He stops again, eyes closed, voice flat.  "And I decided to do whatever it wanted, pretend whatever it wanted.  I was its whore." 

Luther slumps down as I pull away.  I keep thinking of Slimy and the *hands* and the prod and the way she had the knife, what she could have done with that, what she does in my dreams.  I sit in the silent warehouse, not here, but in another dreary room, beaten and unconscious on the floor with the guard ready to pounce.  What if she'd been smart enough to tie me up before I woke?  What if she'd gotten the knife out before I stopped her?  What if her kick had knocked me off balance, if she'd gotten the control, gotten her revenge like Ezri did the night Ezri told me about the Special? 

How far had she gone the time before, when my memory had these blank moments I can't remember? 

I keep thinking how near I came to being this whimpering wraith on the floor. 

He moves, sitting up.  He looks at me with a face stained in tears and made deathly pale by memories.  "How bloody was it when you were done?" 

"Sort of a big puddle," I say, not sure I want to see it again.  "I accidently strangled her first.  She had a probe and I was going to play with it." 

Luther blanches, but he's doing better.  "For both of us, and who knows how many others." 

We share the silence for a few moments.  Then Luther says, quietly, "I really shouldn't have taken you there.  I knew you weren't responsible enough.  I didn't expect you to turn into some kind of avenger." 

I lean my head back, shaking my head.  "But if we were late and they'd questioned us, I just don't know if either of us could have taken it.  Who knows what was the best thing?" 

Luther starts picking himself off the floor, and I help him up.  "If we don't get this stuff loaded we'll have to figure that out all over again." 

I look at the daunting amount of crates to be filled and wonder how long we've wasted.  I slide the next crate into place, starting to fill it.  "Let's just make sure we don't have to do that." 

We are finished.  It took a long time, and it's not past curfew but we may miss dinner.  Before pushing open the door, Luther looks at me.  "Someday you'll have to tell me about this Avenger." 

"He went home," I tell him, almost allowing a smile.  I hope he's banished his pirates, that the red weed is faded and the hills of Earth have gone back to being green.  But his world will never be the same as the one before the Martians came. 

Luther gives me one of those looks, and I remember his face framed by a window from a lifetime ago.  "Maybe he left a little of himself behind." 

I'm very tired tonight.  It's partly the exhausting day--we both worked very hard and much faster than either of us would normally have been inclined.  We weren't late, but dinner was cold and lumpy.  But we didn't have to think about the dilemma of that night. 

And the rest.  Ezri holds me close, but somehow the barrier between us is different, smaller.  I think about what could have been.  It didn't happen.  Even if I have to live with nightmares I don't have to live with the sort of things Luther does. 

Ezri would have given herself to the Thing if it saved our children.  I still can't understand.  But she didn't have to.  Even if he came to her in nightmares, she doesn't have to live with memories like Luther's either.  

We hold each other, closer now, but still no beach.  It's still too bloody.  Maybe it will always be that way.  I'm afraid of seeing her leer at me, hurt me, and maybe she doesn't know who will share the sandbar with her anymore.  She doesn't try now.  I've given up most of the illusions by choice.  This one I didn't want to lose. 

But Luther is huddled close to Nancy.  She's holding him, I imagine, and I wonder at how hard it must have been to allow her so near, to let her touch him, to learn to trust that she would not hurt him if he allowed her inside.  But he loves Nancy and somehow I will keep her alive for both of us, for the way she saved him and the way she believed in Jules. 

If Luther can find a way to trust her, maybe Ezri and I can find the beach again sometime. 

I'm not alone anymore.  It's just Luther, and we're both outcasts.  But all the old angers are forgiven, and I didn't know I could do that before.  

Realand is sleeping in his blankets, holding Jeffrey, the boy he has turned into a controlled weapon by who knows what kinds of terror. 

Jackson and his family are all curled up together in the cold night, all of the family he'll admit to.  I wonder what he'd do to Jeffrey if he could, or what Realand would do to him if he tried. 

We don't forgive anymore.  We tolerate, we extract revenge, but we remember too.  Jeffrey still watches Carl, and Carl still glares back at him.  Each time I hold Tessie I wonder if her Grandmother is dead yet, if she blames me like Miles for condemning the child. 

I haven't' forgotten Realand.  I look forward to my foot in his stomach, and just hope Jeffrey doesn't mind too much.  

But I know things they don't.  I know the Founders are gone, that Weyoun is passing his power to collaborators who lack the constraints he does.  Is it any wonder that life has turned more vicious since they came to power? 

But it won't last.  And that day, when it all comes crashing down, I'll tell them.  I'll expect them to make up for everything they've done.  Maybe then I'll allow them to forgive me. 

                               *** 

The days have become quiet, predictable.  I get assigned unloading almost every day, along with most of the stronger men.  There are always more crates to unload, more and more with Dominion script that are worse to store since we are always under the glare of special guards. 

I guess they don't trust the local ones enough.  But today we got help, if that is what you call it. 

It's almost dinner time, and the doors open.  But it isn't food.  It's twelve men, rough and angry, eyeing us with suspicion.  None of them have any personal things.  There are no families, not even unrelated like with Dorothy's group. 

It was obvious Dorothy and the others had been together for a time.  They moved together.  It is just as obvious that all of these men are strangers, and trouble as well. 

They stare at us, suspicion and warning in their eyes.  Each carried his own matt and bedding, newly issued, but aside from the grimy coveralls, they have nothing else.  They have no central leader, no one willing to even assume the role. 

But Dorothy stands.  She is a woman of iron now, no trace of the grandmother who cares for Jaro's granddaughter and takes care of his daughter-in-law when she's lost.  Like Dorothy Gale confronting the Nome King, she makes her way to the front, backed up by the visible presence of most of the men, even me. 

They stare back, daring her to talk first.  She looks them over, her look as cold as Carl when he was questioning me.  But she doesn't need any discussion with them. 

"We have rules.  You need to understand them because we do enforce our rules.  Now, there's space against the back wall.  Go there." 

Just as Dorothy liked Teala and her family, and we have come to as well, we don't want these men here.  They each hoist their bedding and ignore the others.  They glare at Dorothy, starting off across the corner of established matts. 

"Follow the open areas only.  You wouldn't have walked into someone's home and that's what you're doing.  If you don't learn the rules, you'll only be allowed to walk along the side." 

He's tall, rough and angry.  "You don't tell me what to do, woman." 

Three men, the nearest to his choice of places to trespass, surround him.  They don't touch him, but it's plain they'll enforce her word.  He backs away, the others starting towards the back wall already, taking the side route. 

"We'll see about this, later," he growls at Dorothy as he follows them. 

We have been invaded.  Once, I'm sure these men were different, but whatever has been done to them has changed them.  Even as they try to set up their matts, they are arguing with each other. 

At least they can help unload crates.  We might finish a little sooner.  That is probably why they are here. 

But Dorothy nods to several of the men.  There is a small meeting on her matts.  I'm not invited, but come anyway.  We'll have to keep an eye on them.  Nobody puts in words the other worry, that they'll get in trouble with a guard, even if it would get rid of them.  We'd still have to pay for it. 

I notice Jeffrey is watching them, Realand's matts near the back.  For once, should Jeffrey choose to carry out his threat, nobody would mind, not even the ones he didn't bother, I suspect. 

We go back to our blankets.  Dorothy tells a story about the invasion of a medieval town, how the citizenry stopped it and killed all the invaders.  She looks back at the wall while she tells it.  It's not like her usual stories, and I wonder if she made it up but don't particularly care.  The point was taken. 

We finally go to sleep, but uneasily.  For once everyone, Luther and Carl an I included, all belong and are all willing to let the invaders know. 

I don't like them.  I don't like that they are watching, getting in the way.  But somehow it's better too.  I don't know how this community came to be.  I was a little boy then.  But when I came back, I had more than a room full of people to return to.  I had family. 

                               *** 

                            Chapter 26 

                               *** 

An interesting thing happened this morning.  One of the invaders, a younger one who is scrawny and usually stays our of their squabbles, tries to cross into our space.  Since they walked across matts and got them dirty they've been forbidden to come near us.  We let them eat their food in the corner by the door, then slink back. 

He happened to step near Realand's matts.  Realand was on early crew and already gone, but he's been trusting Jeffrey more and more.  The scrawny invader discovered a small ferocious animal named Jeffrey staring him down. 

At first, he ignored the boy.  He is just a boy, after all, even if he's also a killer.  He *stepped* on Realand's matts, just the very edge, but that was enough. 

Everyone was watching, especially Dorothy.  She's been very protective of Tarlan's matts, still waiting for their return, and insists that home will be waiting. 

Jeffrey moves right up the invader, standing rather stiffly, and glares. 

The invader glares back, but isn't impressed.  "Get outta my way, brat," he snarls. 

Jeffrey is very calm, very deliberate.  The man never notices what he has in his hand, two small wooden hammers, with sharp carved spikes on them.  

I know.  It makes me uneasy to see Jeffrey with them in his hands.  I don't know if it's because Jeffrey is so dangerous or because I only now remember using them on Ezri in my rage over the caltie. 

But Jeffrey knows what he's doing.  He's small, young, but can easily reach the man's knees.  Without warning, giving him a chance to be off his guard,  he smashes the hammers behind the man's knees. 

Jeffrey dashes out of the way when he loses his balance, grabbing at the boy as he falls.  But Jeffrey is ready, taking the device and tapping him gently on the spine as a warning. 

The invader freezes in place, does not move.  Jeffrey could paralyze him that way.  He'd be useless then, and the useless die. 

Jeffrey ties his hands and gleefully gags him too.  He winds something heavy around the feet and sits behind them, the spiked hammers in his hands. 

He pulls off the man's boots, keeping them near.  Then with the bare bottoms of feet exposed, he slams the spiked hammer into them, smashing with decided satisfaction. 

The other invaders, as expected, don't interfere.  We would defend one of us if they hurt us.  But they don't work that way. 

The man is squirming from the pain, but it will be worse later, his swelling feet stuffed into boots too tight, when he has to spend the day walking and standing on the deeply bruised feet. 

Nobody helps Jeffrey, not that he needs it.  Nobody tries to stop him either. 

The victim collapses, probably faints, and ceases trying to dislodge the mad boy. 

Jeffrey does not untie him, just moves out of the way.  He stands, looks at Dorothy for a decision. 

She stands, makes her way to the man, and kneels down next to him.  She can be seen examining the beaten feet, as he squirms at her touch.  

Abruptly she motions for one of the men at her matts, and he comes.  Most can't hear but I can.  "Get the boots on before they swell up too much," she orders. 

He complies, though stuffing the feet back into the boots is difficult.  The lacing is pulled tighter and the invader is pulled to his feet.  Jeffrey obediently unwinds the legs, unties his hands.  The gag is finally pulled and Dorothy and her matt mate steer him back to the wall.  

He's taking short painful steps, hesitant to put weight on the injured feet.  But he's more interested in Dorothy and her pronouncement. 

"You were told to keep out of our space."  Her voice is iron now, and they listen.  The scrawny one is still being dangled between them. 

"We did, he didn't," says the tallest of them, named Thompson, the only one that has volunteered a name. 

"He's one of your's.  Make sure he gets back tonight.  If he doesn't it's your fault."  I watch, fascinated.  He'll barely be able to walk, at great risk of an accident that will remove him from our barn, but she is demanding they be responsible for their own.  They'll likely have to do his work for him, and she's not done. 

"And if we don't?" demands Thompson.  The scrawny one keeps looking at Dorothy, and I wish I could see his face. 

"Then you all sit in the back tonight while we eat.  No dinner.  Maybe no breakfast tomorrow if you make any noise tonight.  He comes back tonight, you personally bring him his dinner." 

Thompson backs down.  The scrawny one is allowed to fall onto his blankets, and Realand strolls up to them, Jeffrey next to him. 

"Keep on the boots today, and make sure he walks.  That will keep down the swelling.  It'll just be bruised tomorrow.  We'll get you some water to soak them in tonight."  He looks them over, moving towards Thompson.  "And keep off the matts or I let him have you next time." 

Jeffrey holds up the hammer with the spikes in front of Thompson's face.  I can imagine him grinning too. 

Just for effect, all of the men and most of the women stand. 

Thompson slinks back, going to the scrawny one to check.  He glares at Dorothy, but only for a moment.  Then Jeffrey takes one step forward and stops. 

He turns his attention to Jeffrey's victim instead. 

With breakfast having arrived, we settle down to eat.  I notice that Thompson is carrying two bowls, and makes sure Dorothy notices. 

I'll probably be on the same crew, with all the noise there was in the night meaning there are lots of things to unload.  At least there will be something interesting to watch today. 

                               *** 

It has been very quiet the last few nights.  Our outcasts spent a whole day without food after they had a fight over Scrawny.  Thompson had to do his work, and wanted him to pay, but the rest did too.  Scrawny won, never being touched.   

They made too much noise, and while Dorothy made sure Scrawny had breakfast, the rest didn't.  Then, because she was in a bad mood, they didn't have dinner either.  

They haven't made a sound at night since.  It's been very peaceful.  I was even allowed to look at Scrawny's feet, just to check.  He'll live.  He even managed to look a little grateful.  

The door opens a little early today, and Kira walks back in. 

We wait, relieved, but we've only seen Kira so far.  She has several bundles, and Dorothy points towards the wall.  Thompson picks one of his people to scurry forward and carry them for her. 

Kira glances at him, curious, but lets him haul the bundles.  He drops them on our matts, as ordered and scurries back to his place. 

She looks at me, a little surprised.  I understand; I've come back to a whole new world more than once.  When they were removed, the outcasts were hardly so well behaved. 

"Jeffrey," I whisper to her. 

She nods, and watches the door, still open. 

Tarlan appears, carrying his youngest grandchild.  They have more baggage.  The outcasts don't wait for Dorothy this time.  Three of them hurry ahead to move it. 

His family is watched carefully as they enter, and the relief is evident when all of them return.  The bundles are left on the matts as the food comes. 

We go off to work, and somehow it's such a long day, waiting for the end so we can see what's in the bundles. 

Kira had two.  One was specifically put on my mat. 

It rained hard the night before and we heard half the roads were washed out.  Since they only use ground transport here, the transports couldn't get here to give us a lot to do.  Even dinner is early. 

If I have to be on late crew, that's better than one of the long days. 

When I return, Tarlan has been welcomed back, and I noticed he's glancing carefully at Jeffrey and then the outcasts.  Dorothy must have told him. 

Kira is waiting impatiently.  Jaro and Teala are visiting, each with a smaller bundle. 

"We have a surprise," says Teala.  "I'll have to help you, but we were in an area they haven't used yet.  They hadn't disturbed the native growth.  If we wanted to spend our time digging up tubers they didn't mind." 

"Tubers?" I ask. 

"Special tubers.  You could eat them, but they have much better uses." 

She looks towards Luther.  "It's believed that women with child need special things.  Whatever it is in these tubers that makes them stronger has long been attributed to some secret gift of the Prophets.  I myself think it's chemicals, but don't bother to argue with healers.  All they ever do is smile at you." 

She's using Bajoran, but still keeping it quiet.  I'm not the only one who understands the language. 

"How," I ask. 

"Chop them up in her mush.  Or she can eat them like a fruit."  She looks distressed.  "Don't tell her it may cure her.  Not until you see results.  I don't know if it works on humans, but this sort of weakness was not uncommon for our own women when . . . " 

She stops.  We don't speak of the Cardassians anymore. 

I should say something to Jaro, but there is no need.  Most of the time Miles didn't say anything either.  Having him gone has been too much a reminder of the emptiness that came after Miles went away. 

'I'm still here,' he says. 

I smile, a little smile to myself.  'Don't go away so long.' 

'I wasn't gone.'  He pauses.  But something tells me that he's less worried now.  I wonder what he sees that we are denied. 

Kira has drifted off, seeking out Ezri who has taken the children to play.  None of them were surprised that she was keeping away from me.  Some things change, but not that. 

We start moving aside the blankets, making room to stash the tubers.  Each is carefully wrapped in dried leaves, and Teala assures me that they will keep that way.  Luther is sitting with Nancy, holding her hand as they talk, but she hasn't been strong enough to do much more for the last week. 

"How much?" I ask Teala as we finish, taking one out. 

"Perhaps a third, to begin." 

I look at Luther.  I can see the grief in his eyes as I tell him, nightly, that she's no better.  I remember the man who pled for mercy, the Luther Sloan inside his head who loved his wife, who wanted her back.  I take Ezri's knife and slice one of them in pieces. 

"Thank you," I tell Teala. 

We don't say that often.  But it is necessary now.  

I leave my friends as they watch my matts. 

Luther looks up as I approach, the tuber slices wrapped in a bit of leaf.  "She's very tired today." 

Nancy is asleep.  "Wake her up.  I have a treat." 

He strokes her hair, and after a time she opens her eyes.  "Jul . . . Julian?" she asks. 

"I have something for you.  I want you to sit up and eat all of it." 

"Medicine?" she asks, looking at my hand. 

"Old Bajoran cure.  I think it might work." 

"Sure," she says, but she's still groggy, too tired to think. 

She nibbles on the tubers as Luther holds her.  "From them?" he asks, looking towards my matts. 

I nod.  Nancy holds out her hand for more.  "It's good," she says, "sweet." 

"Maybe we can grow them," I say, wondering how we'd do that. 

She finishes her treat, wishing for more. 

"Tomorrow," I tell her. 

Luther has an odd look in his eyes, following me as he finishes settling her.  "Is this true?" he asks. 

"They used it for their own women during the occupation," I tell him.  "I have no idea if it works for us." 

"She smiled, that's enough for now." 

He takes my hand,  "Another debt," he says. 

Dorothy calls for the story, and makes it short.  She's still on the theme of hero's but this time she tells about a Bajoran. 

The rain pounds as the storm resumes, but we are complete again and it doesn't touch us anymore. 

                               *** 

I heard the rumors two days ago, whispered words because they carry such danger. 

They say the Founders are dead, that they were never really cured.  They don't put it in words, but the implication is I didn't really betray these people. 

Quite abruptly, I was taken off road clearance, where I've worked ever since the outcasts arrived.  Now, with the snow melting, the slush is turned to little but mud.  I assumed I would spend the rest of the spring covered in mud and soaked through.  But now, abruptly, I'm working inside on warehouse duty.  It isn't easy, but for now, for us, it is the best you get. 

I can understand our people believing the rumor.  We would grasp any straw we could if it promised a little hope.  But the calties and especially Sir?  What reason do they have for rewarding me for the murder of the gods to which they have given loyalty? 

But then, they haven't done that.  Weyoun owns them.  If he had the Founders making the ultimate decisions, even from a distance, they would not have such power, or free reign.  There would be no reason to keep the Jem'Hadar so far away. 

The Jem'Hadar were prone to acts of random violence, beatings and the like.  The caltie guards stay more in the background, but when they get in the way it's a lot more personal.  And since the rumor there is an arrogance about them that wasn't there before, a disregard for even their own rules.  Out of the sight of their supervisors, they do what they want. 

It is as if they believe no one will ever make them behave. 

I don't know which is worse for the rest of us.  About the time the rumor appeared, things for us, in general, got worse.  There has been more work, always more transports with things to load and unload, with the mud and slush never quite cleared.  The hours are longer and nobody takes their time on a job unless they want to go hungry that night. 

But for me things are much better. 

I'm not working in the small crews, which demand everything you have, not anymore.  I assigned the larger groups, typically over staffed since the large transports must be unloaded quickly.  Sometimes the last one never arrives, like yesterday, and I get to spent a couple of hours playing alone with Tessie and Yoshi.  It has been a long time since I could do that. 

There are other signs that my life has changed.  My popularity as a doctor has increased.  I'm bothered with all sorts of minor things they might have avoided me over before.  I don't know which I like better, the attention or being left alone to spend evenings as I choose. 

Ezri still spends them with her friends so I suppose it doesn't really matter. 

And then there are the *looks* I get, people whispering to each other and then staring, trying to look as if it was an accident.  I suppose I should be relieved, even victorias that they know I didn't betray them now.  After all, I've dreamed of this for a long time.  

The real problem is, I'm not. 

Of course they would believe a rumor.  I suppose looking around, the disappearance of the Jem'Hadar, the firm grip Sir and his people have on our lives, it might make sense, especially the abrupt way it all changed.  But they also believed the Vorta, never doubted his word.  They made me a traitor without considering I might have pretended. 

Tessie is curled in my lap.  She's been here since I returned, playing with my beard, telling me stories about her doll.  I love Tessie.  I love the others too, but she is special.  She is the one we came to love first, the one they tried to steal. 

Her tangled blonde hair is shorter than it was last week.  She got something sticky in it and Ezri trimmed it short.  Now, especially after Kara forces her to stay still and combs out the tangles, she has soft, gentle curls all over her head.  I wonder how it feels to grow up when nobody ever makes you take a bath.  I don't know why but I have to smile. 

But just the same, I'd like to see how beautiful she'd be if she wasn't grimy and her hair was clean.  When they arrived after Odo and I dared make a deal, I was too scared to remember how beautiful a child she is. 

Somehow, Tessie is still a child.  She's been ripped from a series of mothers, but I'm her father.  Not even Realand could change that. 

I watch as he sits with Jeffrey.  They are talking about something.  He was in the same crew today, and managed to be there to dump all my loads in the loader, the worse part of the job.  I let him.  He deserves it. 

He looks exhausted.  He's probably telling Jeffrey some new way to torment future victims, so when the boy reaches adulthood he'll be the perfect terrorist.  As Tessie slides out of my lap to Ezri, I think to myself he has already demonstrated the worst thing he could do. 

I'll never forgive him for Tessie.  Never. 

Maybe he knows that, is making sure Jeffrey will protect him. 

But why did he make my day easier?  I still don't understand. 

Then Luther is there, nervous, still worried.  He hesitates, still not comfortable near my matts.  "Nancy wanted to take a nap, but you were going to look her over." 

I'd forgotten, lost in my daughters charm.  "I'll do it now.  How is she doing?" 

"Better," he says.  She still isn't well.  But she's so much improved that if it keeps up she'll be strong enough for the birth. 

I let my training take over, as always, when I'm being a doctor.  I check her over.  Her color is better.  She's sitting up with more strength.  I can't test all the little things that would confirm that the herb is working, but I don't need to.  Nancy herself is the proof. 

"I read the children a story today," she says as I finish.  She looks peaceful, preoccupied, the way women get when their babies start to move about inside them.  "I wasn't exhausted.  Thank you."  She just takes my hand, smiles, places it on her swelling belly.  "She's busy today.  I don't remember her being so active before." 

Nancy didn't think she'd make it before.  She wouldn't say it, knowing it would destroy Luther to know.  But she sees hope now. 

I wish I could say it wasn't me.  She knows that anyway.  But then the thank you is to everyone.  She doesn't let go of my hand.  "I'm going to give you a little more tomorrow.  Pay close attention to how you feel, let me know."  I understand why Nancy is so special to me now, how kind she was to Jules, but I hate the feeling of experimenting on her. 

"Look, I know what you and Luther did on the station.  I understand now.  So do they."  She looks at the people on their matts, mostly resting, but the mood has changed. 

"It's just a rumor," I say, not wanting to talk about it. 

"If you say so," she says, looking towards Luther, who is talking to Ezri.  "But consider the timing.  Just think about it.  He didn't think I'd live.  Now he does." 

I watch Luther, noting the way he looks back nervously at me.  It makes sense that they'd see something was wrong.  Why pull the Jem'Hadar from here, reorganize nearly everything, if there wasn't a reason.  But she's right too.  People still don't trust Luther, keep him on the edge, *and* believe his tidbits of information. 

I'll have to see what Luther thinks of this rumor. 

But in the meanwhile, I watch as they look at me, Luther sitting with his wife, Daniel and Catherine carefully looking the other way, but glancing back, Dorothy not bothering to hide her gaze. 

I wonder if they want me to confess.  A little part of me wants to, wants to make them all admit they were wrong.  But it was a secret, and you pay when you tell. 

Since the rumor first appeared, each day has been oddly disconnected from the last.  I wake, wondering if it will be the last time I hear the now again familiar work bell.  Each meal has taken on its own existence, each spoonful of mush the significance of a last meal to a doomed man.  I expect the guards to drag me away during the day each time they approach, so I say good bye to Ezri, thought I do nothing on the surface that is different. 

I can hardly sleep.  Every time Ezri presses against me at night, even with our shield of blankets, I remember the face leering down at me.  Does *he* know how much it scares me that this time I'll have no immunity from the guards?  Slimy had played with prisoners before and nobody minded.  She's dead but I'm sure there are plenty like her. 

Each time I close my eyes the dreams come--Slimy and other, faceless things that come at me.  If he just has me executed I won't mind.  I woke Ezri with my nightmares last night.  She loosened the blankets and held me.  I let her, some part of me needed her. 

She didn't ask about it.  She doesn't anymore.  But I notice as she comes back to our matts, Molly and Kara trailing behind, that her hair is to her shoulders now, that she ties it back in a real ponytail now. 

I wish we weren't so distant.  But maybe it will be easier that way.  I'll miss her. 

The late crew, Tarlan among them this time, stumble in and dinner follows.  Afterwards Dorothy holds court, her current theme great leaders of the past.  I try to ignore her as she talks about William Wallace, savior of Scotland.  She keeps looking at me and I wonder if she knows how much the Scots still distrusted the English--especially young men with lower class accents--before the Jem'Hadar made it immaterial. 

Heros are very personal things.  It gets late and I make sure Ezri can hold me again, not saying it in words. 

Maybe tomorrow I can get something out of Luther.  But with Ezri's arms around me, the things are driven away by a magic shimmering, and all I can remember of the dream is shimmering blue and green, with flashes of red, and a great feel of satisfaction. 

Then, still dark, we all are startled awake by the doors opening.  It's pounding rain outside and the guards carry lights.  They shine them around the room, looking over darkened matts, scaring children unused to such bright beams of light. 

I can't move.  I feel Ezri's grip tighten as if she doesn't want to let go.  I won't let go until I must, but can't take a chance of her being identified as Ezri.  I wait for them to call my name, tear me away one last fatal time. 

"Where is Kira Neres?" one of them asks, giving into the frustration. 

I look up.  In the light you can see the Specials are drenched and muddy, that the guards are as miserable as they are. 

Kira crawls out of her blankets, and I notice Jaro sits up too.  She isn't part of his family, but close enough.  Teala rises too, looking concerned, takes her husband's hand. 

"Get all your things.  Your going back.  Make sure you take it all." 

We sit, quiet, surprised, as she packs her meager possessions, and then bits farewell quickly.  They escort her out the door--very carefully, hands off, we note.  Then they shut the door and the icy room grows quiet. 

Sleep wins over curiosity until morning. 

Nobody mentions Kira's departure but they look at me in the morning rush.  I ignore them, as usual. 

It's quit raining but the ground is soaked.  Puddles are everywhere and the road crew trudge off to a cold, wet day.  I get picked as part of a five man crew to load deliveries off transports. 

Three will remain outside.  Luther drags me inside, giving the other three a look I remember from a long time before, framed in my window.  They get to fill the bins and we get to dump them into the loader.  But they have to stay outside in the slush and we just have to do the lifting.  Or I will.  Luther isn't much good at it. 

The first few hours we just work.  But then the next load of transports is late and Luther and I sit and wait. 

Strange to look forward to being alone in a warehouse with Luther.  But it's different now.  I understand his demons all too well. 

The noise from the motors in the loaders is too much for most conversations.  But he knows I can hear where others might not. 

"Interesting rumor I heard," I begin, speaking in his ear. 

"So had he," says Luther, sounding pleased.  "He's spooked.  He's trying to buy Odo again with a little present." 

Kira, of course.  It makes sense.  "I wonder what else he gives back.  Not that it will help." 

"Perhaps," he says, looking at the warehouse, listening as more transports arrive.  Our private conversation is almost over.  "He lost control.  There are people around him who know how to use that."  

But the transports are here and we go back to unloading.  A few hours later there is another break and I decide to ask.  "Any idea where the rumor came from?" 

His hands are moving, admitting it, but he shrugs, and says simply, "The wind?" 

In my head, Miles is grumbling, 'Look, listen to him this time.' 

I wish they'd both quit.  I'm beginning to think being ignored wasn't so bad. 

"Pretty sudden wind," I mutter. 

He turns, looks at me.  The next batch of transports will be here soon.  He doesn't have much time.  "You're scared.  Don't be.  When is the last Jem'Hadar you saw?  This," he says, taking my hand, showing me the sarki mark, "this is what we are to them.  Nothing, just bodies.  Rumors happen.  You don't drag the chief suspect away if you'd rather nobody notice.  No, you do your best to never come near again." 

He's right.  Weyoun wouldn't dare risk pulling me into the spotlight, just in case anyone had noticed.  He already thinks his hostages are dead.  I am finally, utterly *rid* of him. 

He must have seen his mistake with Kira.  We won't see any more Specials for a long time.  The rumor will fade away and yet here it will not be forgotten. 

I won't spend the spring in the mud.  I suppose I can thank Luther for that.  The next batch of transports arrive, and Daniel comes in to tell us there are a lot of them, we'll have to hurry to finish before dark. 

We all end up working outside to finish.  I'm wet, cold and muddy by the time the late night is over.  Everyone is tired, a lot of supplies having arrived, and after a short story we sleep. 

But the dreams are gone now.  Ezri puts her arms around me, and I draw close.  The blue/green glow that surrounds us shines in the darkness, and I fall asleep immediately, hoping Odo at least gets back his books. 

                               *** 

There were more transports today.  Every day of late there have been more transports to unload.  I don't have to stand in front of Sir's office anymore; I'm on a permanent warehouse crew.  But it's hardly easy work.  Something is going to happen and the warehouses are filling up with supplies we unload daily, sometimes in crates, sometimes in small cartons. 

I don't remember, but before they were making exceptions with much looser standards.  Now, except for age and pregnancy, or injuries where you can't stand, there are no exceptions. 

The very young children remain inside.  But Molly and Kara work every day, in a vast warehouse that houses the supplies for spring planting.  They were mixing some sort of fertilizer yesterday and came back reeking of it.  Ezri and most of the women are working on the coming season too--inside, but the hours are long. 

The men either work road clearance, a daily chore now the ground has turned to mud, or warehouse duty.  Road clearance is wet and cold, but the loads are always heavy and there is no end to them now.  The Bajorans have taken over serving/kitchen duty, even scrub.  

Yesterday there was an accident, and a crate spilled.  One man, from another group so I don't know his name, was hit in the stomach.  He was carried away unconscious.  If there were internal injuries he'll probably die of them.  I was lucky.  I just badly bruised my foot, didn't break anything.  But it hurt to force my boot on it this morning and it's getting harder to put weight on it as the day goes on.  

But I can stand on it.  If it isn't broken I get to work. 

So much for luck. 

I'm not working very hard today, but at least nobody is upset over it.  By afternoon, I've been moved inside, where I don't have to walk much.  But it's still hard to manage, just the same. 

I don't stall anymore.  On regular crews, especially, they ignore individuals.  They punish everyone for being slow. 

Realand is on the same crew, and we generally try to avoid each other if we can.  But it is late and my foot is so sore I can hardly walk on it.  I'm not getting much done at all. 

He comes in, starts sliding the crate across the floor himself.  I'd twisted my ankle and had to stop until it quit throbbing so bad.  I have to accept the help, but I'd rather it be anyone but him. 

There is a small rock on the floor.  He kicks it away with his foot.  It slides across the floor and almost hits me. 

But it distracts me, and I loose my balance, then fall. 

"Sorry about that," he says.  "I thought it would go under the unit." 

My foot is throbbing, and I'm taking a lot of deep breaths to cope with the pain.  Even if he does all the rest of my work I still have to stand up and move to the side, or I'll be in the way of the crates.  And I have to walk back too. 

"It didn't," I say, and he doesn't hear the dark anger inside. 

I remember the way I landed on the floor that night he tore away Tessie.  I remember the way he called me a thing, how Kira probably stopped him from killing me. 

He's walking towards me now.  I still don't understand why he wants to help, but I don't want to be anywhere near him.  His boots are dirty, coated in mud, and wet.  I keep staring at them as he comes closer. 

He offers his arm, holding it towards me.  

Slimy is above me, hand exploring, waiting for her chance.  But she won't get it.  I let her come in safety, but now all of that has gone. 

"Here, I'll help you up.  Just rest over there.  I'll finish up," 

I take his hand, watch the foot, knowing it will come crashing into my stomach, my back, how dismal the night will be locked in the small room. 

I know how he'll rip away my child.  I warned them about that.  I will keep my promise. 

He's pulling me up and I let him.  My ankle no longer hurts.  I'm seething with an anger too long delayed, and now it will be allowed to explode. 

I reach my feet, unsteadily at first, then stronger.  He is about to let go when I grab his arm, jerk him off his own feet, hear as he lands abruptly on the floor. 

"What are you doing?  I was trying to help?" 

My foot lands in his stomach, the bad one so I can't kick him as hard as I'd like.  He stops trying to get up, curls over to protect himself. 

I feel no pain at all now.  I'm ready. 

"Look, you know about the rumor.  It explains everything.  I didn't know before.  Stop this." 

He's trying to plead for his life, but I have other plans.  I said I'd never forgive him for Tessie and mean it. 

"You still took Tessie.  I won't ever forget that." 

He stops moving, his breathing shallow and scared.  "We all blamed you.  We didn't know.  You didn't tell us." 

"How could I?" I snarl at him, my foot smashing into his side.  He tries to move away but I follow, kicking him again. 

"I know."  He gasps it out between gulps of air. 

"But you're the one that took Tessie.  You'll have to pay for that."  

I kick him again, then he rolls on his stomach, lies still.  He says nothing more.  He's pulled in his hands, trying to protect his face.  Just for effect I get him in the shoulder and he hunches over even more. 

"Just do it quick," he pleads. 

He's mine.  He knows what he owes me.  There is some satisfaction in that.  But only some. 

It's a blur after that.  I don't feel the pain in my foot.  I don't hear any sound but the roar in my head. 

Then a voice, strong, insistent.  Luther.  "Stop this *now*.  Get you're hands off of him." 

I answer with another kick. 

Luther stomps up to me.  "Stop *now*.  You want everyone here to be in trouble?" 

Why should I care about them?  Did they really care about me?  I slam my foot into Realand's side again. 

"So, all you care about is yourself." 

"No, I'm just keeping a promise." 

Then Luther shoves me back and I land on my foot.  All of a sudden the pain comes back. 

"Don't say a word," he warns. 

He bends over Realand, who's still conscious.  "Can you sit up?" he asks. 

Realand moans, tries to move but it hurts too much. 

"Looks like you managed not to kill him," says Luther, his tone full of warning. 

If he thinks I'm going to try anything, he's wrong.  I'm not about to try to move my foot. 

"We need to get you back home," he says to Realand.  "This isn't personal," he adds as he knocks him out. 

For a moment, Luther looks around with great indecision.  He hasn't taken charge of a moment in a long time.  I hurt enough to let him. 

He pulls some things off the cart, as if they'd fallen.  He picks up Realand, now limp.  "Clean this up," I'm ordered as he goes. 

I can hear him telling them about the accident, nothing big but he's unconscious, as I start to crawl towards the mess.  I suppose Luther will make me finish cleaning it up, like he did with Jules at first. 

A caltie guard looks inside, notes me picking up spilled cargo, and leaves. 

I pile it near the crate and sit.  I can't get up now, can't put enough weight on my foot. 

In a little while Luther comes back.  "We've got to get back to work.  The crew will be late if we don't hurry." 

But he picks up the cargo and dumps it in himself, then pulls me to my feet and half-drags me across the floor.  "You have to look like you can work.  Otherwise it isn't an accident." 

I stand for a few minutes, but can't keep my balance.  He sighs and helps me down. 

Luther is exhausted but we finish on time.  He helps me back home himself, pausing by the guards to mention that my foot was swelling too much to stand on it.  They agree to excuse me the next day. 

He half-drags me inside.  Realand is lying on his matts, Jeffrey watching with venom in his eyes as I enter.  I hurt too much to care right then. 

We bypass my matts, going straight to Luther's and he dumps me, first going to Realand. 

The guards think it's an accident, but inside they know.  I don't care anymore.  All I feel is numb and emotionally spent and in a lot of pain.  Even Ezri is ignoring me. 

Luther returns, Daniel trailing behind.  "We need you to look at him," says Daniel, playing Luther's game.  "We think he's okay, but can't tell for sure." 

I guess I have to.  I let them hoist me up between them and carry me without using my bad foot.  They let me down near Realand.  I understand perfectly what is going on.  I'll be excused if I play along.  Jeffrey won't use any of the toys on me if I behave. 

Jeffrey never takes his eyes off of me.  I notice Scrawny watching with great interest. 

Realand is still out, but we pull off his clothes.  He's got a lot of bruises, and he's going to be sore for awhile.  But he's lucky.  My foot hurt to much to kick that hard.  He doesn't have anything broken or damaged inside that I can tell.  I tell them and am hauled back to Luther's matts. 

"Must have been a really bad fall," says Daniel, off hand as he leaves. 

Luther makes me sit up.  All I want is to peal my boot off and try to deal with the pain, but he stares at me, not the Luther who was broken, or the one who tormented me in my quarters.  This is the Luther who cared for Jessica, who regretted his loss of family, who loves Nancy and had paid me back for my help by letting them all know. 

"Look Julian," he begins, patiently, softly.  "We'll all give you this one.  He took Tessie.  But he came to *help* you today, entirely of his own free will.  He volunteered.  He knows what he did and you had to do that to him." 

"I couldn't stop myself," I say, and he glances at Jeffrey. 

"You have to learn how.  If you don't all you've gained will be gone." 

"I get dry work, that's all."  I want to go back to my own matts and sleep now.  I am in no mood to talk. 

"No, they don't think the same about you.  You did what nobody else could, you're the dragonslayer.  They *need* you.  You're the man who they believe can save them.  Be that man." 

I don't want that.  I think I'd rather be left alone.  But Luther is saying I don't have a choice.  All I have to do is keep some control. 

But, at first, I saw Slimy with hands ready to pounce.  Only later did I see Realand.  But then, knowing who I was trying to kill didn't stop me. 

I look at Jeffrey still watching me.  He hurt Scrawny, but knew where to stop.  Maybe Luther is right. 

Dorothy comes over, sitting next to me.  "Let's get that boot off," she says, as I lay flat and try not to show how much it hurts, especially when they get it off. 

She directs a couple of the outcasts to carry me back to my blankets and someone has gotten cold water to soak it in.  It only helps a little. 

"How's Realand?" I ask. 

"He's awake.  He told Jeffrey not to touch you." 

Maybe he does understand what it means to have your child torn away after all. 

I'm already asleep when dinner comes, Ezri bringing it to me.  My foot is less swollen, and Realand is sleeping too.  I roll over to get something to give him, Ezri taking it to his matts. 

Luther brings Nancy to me tonight.  She's so much better that I enjoy our nightly visits. 

"Is the Avenger done avenging?" she asks. 

"Never," I tell her, looking at Realand, Ezri talking to Jeffrey and Dorothy.  "But that wasn't him." 

"Good, I really miss him."  She smiles, and I remember sitting with her as she read to me, as I told her about the Avenger and she listened where nobody else did. 

I'd miss her as much as Luther if Jaro hadn't brought back the tubers. 

Dorothy leaves Realand, settles down on her matts.  I just want to go back to sleep, but she says we have to have a story. 

Everybody settles down, and she begins.  "Once upon a time, there was a little town that was terrorized by a dragon.  He carried away the ones he wanted at will, but no more.  Not after the Dragonslayer made his stand." 

I try to stay awake.  But my foot hurts too much, and I don't want to be the Dragonslayer tonight.  Ezri holds me, and I'm happy to be little Jules, safe in his mummy's arms. 

                               *** 

I returned to work yesterday, my foot able to fit in my boot again, and Realand will tomorrow.  He hasn't said a word to me, pointedly ignoring me most of the day while we've shared the empty room with small children and a few women.  I took out Dannie's book again, reread it from cover to cover.  It's still hard to read, but I understand her all too well now.  She speaks of the blood of the Bell riots, and how it fed upon itself.  I kept looking at Realand, wondering what Jeffrey might have been had he grown up in the world we did. 

Then work came again, and I didn't much care about Jeffrey or anyone else, as long as I could go back and peal off my boot.  But tonight, the rain having once more washed out the main road, we are all here for an early, extended story. 

Dorothy is in a good mood today.  The outcasts lost breakfast the day before last from excess noise, but were absolutely quiet last night.  We all got a good sleep.  She says she has a special story to tell, and we hurry to relax at our matts. 

I notice that Scrawny isn't with them, that he seems to have been allowed to sit with Daniel's family instead.  Most interesting . . . 

She is sitting on her matts, head back, eyes closed, telling the story as if she was reading from a book.  Sometimes I wonder where she goes when she tells her story, if the adolescent Arthur isn't riding through the forest with her watching as he passes as if it was a holoplay.  Or does she ride with the young squire, her head full of the scent of forest and the sounds of the creatures moving amongst the leaves and moss of the moist grounds.  Are the places in the stories her beach? 

"The tall, lanky squire followed Kay through the mass of pathways, now overgrown and at times nearly impassable.  He filled his mind with the sounds of the forest, the creatures he was intimately familiar with the strange tutelage of the old wizard.  He slipped through pathways hardly visible in the murky light, guided by senses only partly his own.  His horse startled at a snapping branch, and he had to lean forward hastily to avoid falling off." 

"Then, without warning, the veil of forest parted and the ruined vista of the old villa came into view.  Some of the columns had cracked, and its general form was choked with forest vines.  The pool had become a swamp of moss.  Time was etching its price on the once pristine, elegant home, just as time had stolen away its occupants." 

"But Arthur, sitting near the forest, did not see the ruin.  Merlyn had told him of the people who had come to their isle, imposing their will with the typical brutality of conquerors.  But then it changed.  For Roman Britain was home, and when it was ordered to abandon it those who left went with a heavy heart." 

I look around at our people, listening, as we dwell in our own dark ages.  The Roman villa would fall to the demands of forest and vines, but slowly, leaving behind disappearing reminders of what had been.  But our world was reduced to ash and death, no one to remember it--no one but Dorothy and those she grants the honor of listening of listening to the memories of her kind. 

Only memories, but it's better than nothing.  With no identity save that we keep for ourselves, even memories matter. 

Others have heard of her now, even those who aren't human, and if we could put her in the square we could fill it.  I think Sir knows of her too.  She hurt her back yesterday, and has been excused for a week, an unheard of time, without anyone asking.  Maybe Sir has a little of his humanity still hiding inside. 

Kay trots his mount closer to the ruins, and a lone man emerges from the vine covered atrium.  Arthur remains near the forest, still watching.  Kay is immersed in a hurried conversation and then turns his mount back towards Arthur. 

" 'We must hurry,' says Kay.  'My father has a long journey to make.' " 

Arthur is lost in the sounds of the forest, the softened lines of the villa.  He turns his horse to follow Kay with regret.  For a time he held a lost world in his grasp, and now the petty disputes of his own time drive it away.  Sir Hector will take days to arrive at the special gathering and make new alliances, but the brutal world around him will not change.  The moss will choke the pipes and the graceful baths will fade from view.  The vines will shatter the walls.  All that was will disappear. 

But Arthur knows there is more.  Beyond the disputes and wars, beyond the shrinking villages and walled towns is something else--knowledge, dreams, something better.  Arthur is just a youth, the servant of the son of a knight, but Merlyn has given him a gift of dreams. 

Just like Dorothy.  We are controlled outside.  We have almost no contact with the groups that surround us in camp, not even the human ones.  Outside is too dangerous to even allow accidental contact.  But the calties do not intrude in the world inside, and we must not give them reason. 

We cannot share our gift, the dreams and wonder of Dorothy's words.  We must not put her at risk.  We know the ruined world the Dominion has made will fall, and Dorothy must be there to tell the rest of Arthur, of his dreams and magik and the future he would carve out of turmoil. 

Kay's father brings his son and squire along, their world in great danger.  The King is dead.  A new King must be chosen.  The contest will be filled with all the knights of Britain and their sons. 

But Kay's sword is lost, and Arthur is sent to retrieve it.  He's tired, it's late, and he finds a strange stone in the square with a sword embedded in it. 

Arthur takes it in his hands and all the magik in the world gathers around him.  In a bright haze of light, the sword slides easily from the stone. 

Suddenly, the square is filled with people, all hailing Arthur, the King? 

He looks about, noting Kay and his father, other knights of great importance, and the people of the town all hailing him.  Even Merlyn is there. 

Arthur realizes, rather belatedly, that the sword he holds is Excalliber, that he has made himself the King with the magik of his mind. 

I see a shimmering of blue/green around the sword, a glow of red at the center.  Somewhere in the crowd is a large stuffed bear, and a small impertinent boy hailing him as well.  

There are noises in our barn of people shifting around in their blankets as Dorothy's musical voice calls for the crowd to hail the new king, and they comply.  I ignore it.  This is one of Dorothy's favorite stories, and every time she tells it she adds more details, but I know why she'd doing it now.  I almost wish she would start on the major villains of Earth history instead. 

Arthur looks across the square, looks at the glistening sword in his hand, listens as the crowd begins to hail him.  But it isn't real yet.  Even when they make him a knight it is a distant moment, when his boyhood companion Kay is swearing allegiance to him as his sovereign it isn't right. 

But he is the King of the Britans now.  Inside, he would like to sit in the forest, listen to the animals who tell tales Merlyn has taught him to hear.  But he must be King.  It is ordained. 

I roll over and pretend I'm asleep wishing Luther had kept things to himself. 

                               *** 

The rain was heavy last night, and the mud was thick around the outer areas of the warehouses.  I've taken off my mud covered clothes and changed.  The outcasts had late duty, along with Carl and a few others.  We've already been fed, and the doors will remain locked when they return. 

We're waiting for them so we can start the story.  Dorothy is still telling us of Arthur and his knights, and we don't want anyone to miss a part of it.  Dorothy is especially good at telling this one. 

But when the doors open, something is wrong.  The outcasts stalk in as usual, but Carl is in front of them, and he's trying to hurry away. 

He doesn't make it.  Right after the doors close, the largest of them, Thompson, grabs Carl by the arm and jerks him back.  Two others stand behind him, watching.  Carl tries to get away, but they are holding onto him even tighter.  The skinny one moves out of the way as Thompson steps out and swings Carl to the side. 

"I caught your rat here with one of the office calties," he says.  Carl slumps down, no fight left in him.  "Thought you'd all like to know."  He shifts Carl forward.  "Don't know why you put up with rats." 

Then the shorter one, stocky with big fists, slams one into Carl's stomach, and Carl crumples to the ground.  He doesn't resist them as he's stripped so everyone can see the brand.  The other two rough him up more as they proceed, the skinny one dancing around, pushing back clumps of dark hair as it falls into his eyes. 

Carl doesn't move.  Neither do we.  Nobody likes them, nobody wants them here.  But Carl's dealings with one of Sir's men breaks all the rules and nobody will help him. 

Cheryl is staring at them, stunned.  She's holding the baby, and Calla is hiding behind her. 

Jeffrey is watching, staring, as Realand holds him still. 

Carl lies on the matt, unconscious.  All eyes are on the three men as they suddenly move towards Cheryl and the children.  The short one, running his hand through a fine dark blond fringe, announces their intent.  "Now lets see what he's got hidden from before." 

Cheryl pulls the children to her, nervous, but doesn't run.  It's all she can call home and she won't be evicted by bullies.  She keeps looking at Carl, wanting to go to him, but that would only invite disaster right now. 

Then Thompson stomps onto the matts, breaking all the rules.  He grabs her, pulls her up to her feet.  The others follow and the three of them fight with each other as they try to hold Cheryl.  Struggling with them, she tries to protect her children.  Where these men come from the family are all rats.  She loses the battle with Calla, the little girl being yanked away suddenly as she screams. 

Carl, we know, did a bad thing.  We can't help him.  But Cheryl didn't.  Our rules are different.  We won't let them apply theirs.  Violating their matts was the worse thing they could have done. 

Jeffrey is standing, eyes fixed on his sister, ready to attack.  Realand is holding him back, but just as worried.  He cares about Cheryl and family.  Ezri is staring, pulling at me.  Her hand slips under the blankets and rests there.  "Stop them," she says. 

Thompson tosses Calla to the skinny one, Calla struggling as he keeps a hard grip on her.  "Here's a ratkid to play with.  Sometimes they can be fun." 

The man starts moving towards their corner with the child and is stopped.  Calla is pulled out of his grasp and he's held by three of our men. 

But as we are distracted by Calla, Cheryl is knocked down.  The baby is taken and dropped to the matts, as Ezri, in one swift movement, reaches under our matts for something, and then stands.  I can see she has a knife.  Our neighbors are surprised but watch as she makes her way to Cheryl. 

Thompson starts pulling their matts apart, throwing things in a pile, while the stocky one yanks off Cheryl's clothes.  "Wonder what ratwoman tastes like," he says, anticipating more. 

Cheryl is fighting him, but the baby is behind her and she won't make her a target.  Then, abruptly, Ezri slides up to him. 

Holding the knife at his heavy throat, she demands, "Let go of her or die." 

Carl had alluded to her being different now, and I see it.  She isn't Joran.  She's under perfect control.  She would kill him without hesitation.  

Carl must have known all along about the knife, but he never betrayed her.  He's still lying in a heap by the door and I'm almost tempted to go to him. 

Then Thompson abandons the matts and smacks Ezri on the cheek, cutting her face, knocking her down and dropping the knife.  The fury is everything now.  I move away from our matts, the children hidden under blankets.  I get between him and my wife.  Cheryl's attacker is backing away, dragging her along. 

"Stop this now.  Instantly." 

Ezri is stirring, and I kick the knife away.  She retrieves it and takes Carle as well, going back to our matts. 

Thompson glares at me.  "You," he sneers.  "A crazy and a rat.  Fits somehow." 

Cheryl's clothes are off and Thompson grabs her from his partner, starts playing roughly with her body.  Calla's still screaming and the baby is wailing.  Other than that there is no other sound. 

The partner mumbles a quiet comment.  He's disappointed.  He distracts me and I smash his jaw so hard it breaks.  There is blood all over my hand from the cut. 

But Thompson lets go of Cheryl.  Someone, Sloan I think, grabs her and pushes her towards Ezri. 

"You don't break our rules," I explain.  I realize Luther is standing behind me with Ezri's knife.  Thompson is staring at his smile.  The stocky one, still disappointed, slips away towards Carl.  I notice he picks him up, taking him to the darker, small open area in the back.  I can't do anything about that now, but will. 

Even Realand is approaching,  Thompson tries to retreat, but can't.  

"They're just rats," he say. 

Slimy said something like that.  She's dead.  He hit Ezri.  He was going to rape Cheryl.  I stare at Thompson, and he stumbles back against the ring of men now surrounding him.  His other partner, detained after Calla was taken from him, is added to the trap. 

Luther takes over, not the damaged man I know but the one that tormented me once on a holodeck.  "Put the matts back just like they were and we'll see what we'll do."  He waves the knife at them, backed up by a ring of men ready to kill them.  When they start moving the matts back into place, wary but complying, he pulls me aside, pointing to the back, "Carl," he whispers. 

Ezri and Cheryl are holding the children, finally just sobbing now.  Cheryl has a blanket around her but I can see bruises.  I stare towards the dark place Carl was dragged. 

Despite the broken jaw, the short one is naked and busy.  He doesn't hear me and his friends are too cowed to warn him.  I pull him off Carl, who slumps to the ground in a heap. 

I smash the man in the face, not bothering to miss the jaw.  This time I break his nose too, the blood too much to tell what else I might have broken.  He stumbles and falls.  He has a club of sorts and I pick it up, look at it. 

I remember Slimy's hands on me, exploring, hurting.  I remember the prod I killed her with.  I look at Carl, crumpled on the ground, bleeding here and there. 

Cuts can be deadly here, I remind myself.  Clubs work better. 

The man is on his side, stunned.  I remember lifting the prod, smashing, hitting so hard I thought it would break.  I notice his arm is at an unnatural angle, broken.  The club is in my hand, all covered in blood.  His hand is dangling.  I smash it with my foot.  He screams and tries to protect himself.  More thumps of the club and his ribs are broken, his skin turning pale.  There has to be internal bleeding.  He'll die anyway.  I stop.  We'll roll him in a blanket and bind him and let him die alone in the dark. 

But then Carl moves, whimpers.  No.  He knew about the knife, the medical supplies.  He didn't tell.  He could have killed me but didn't.  He proved his loyalty.  But he is still a rat now, whimpering on the floor. 

I shake him and he pulls away.  "He didn't like that," he mumbles, trying to pull himself up, protect himself.  I assume he means the caltie or Sir's man and his chosen method of rape. 

"Get up,  You have something to finish here.  You want to be a rat all your life?  He'll die anyway.  Make him pay for all of them."  

I hand him the club.  Carl looks at it, especially the blood.  Then he looks at the bully who lies in front of him.  "I can't . . . " 

"Sure you can.  Think of what they did to you.  Think of what that caltie makes you do to keep from being sent away." 

We may all end up there after tonight.  But I want Carl to free himself of the nightmare too. 

He starts smashing the man.  I think of Slimy and the wet lump she became.  I don't want too much blood and have to stop him.  Thompson's friend is dead anyway. 

Luther is behind me, holding a rope and blanket.  Together, Carl watching, we wrap up the body and tie it shut inside the blanket.  It will go to the dead room tomorrow.  Nobody will offer an explanation. 

If they ask, we'll have a story.  The bullies were problems, often arguing amongst themselves.  We discovered they'd had a fight, killed one of them in the night.  Nobody will really mind, not even Sir who found them difficult. 

But then Carl stands, walking towards Thompson and the others.  He doesn't notice he's naked and bleeding.  Placing the body in the corner, Luther and I watch as he surveys the scene.  His wife and children are still with Ezri.  His matts are restored, Thompson and the other one tied up on top of them, waiting.  Carl is so quiet now, so *cold*.  I recognize him again.  But this time I won't be the victim.  He goes to Thompson, pointing.  "Is this the one that touched my wife?" he asks. 

Someone confirms it.  He picks up Thompson by the feet, dragging him back to where he'd been.  The clubs still there.  He's avenging his wife and family now.  Nobody will stop him and nobody will have heard a sound in the morning. 

But there is no sound.  Carl is quiet.  So is Thompson.  He has to be.  He can't breath very well.  In a while he can't breath at all.  He borrows the knife to cut the strip from the neck before we wrap him up too, and add him to the other body. 

The third man, the skinny one that tried to take Calla was spared, put near the back wall uninjured.  He was very near Realand's blankets.  He's dead in the morning, the blood mostly soaked into his clothes.  Ezri's knife is missing.  I notice as we wrap him for disposal that Jeffrey is watching.  He has blood on his sleeves and is smiling. 

We carry out the bodies before breakfast.  Nobody asks.  But Sir's man eyes Carl carefully as we line up for work.  Carl isn't in a regular crew and this time is assigned first, added to a large warehouse crew.  He waits, watches us all with curiosity.  Then he goes about his business, picks out crews, and leaves. 

I have a feeling Carl won't be bothered anymore.  The rest of the mess is cleaned up.  As far as we know, should anyone ask, there was a fight. 

Outside, we belong to their world.  We don't have much choice but to obey their rules.  But when they close the doors, inside is our world, with our rules. 

The bullies know, now, that we will enforce them.  They sit on their matts alone, without interfering with our lives.  Most of all, they leave Carl and I alone, and avoid Jeffrey and his new father entirely. 

And Carl knows.  We understood how he survived before.  We didn't condemn him for it, for everyone here understands survival.  But he lives with our disapproval now.  Perhaps I am the only one who understands how hard a promise he made us, that next night, to keep away from the calies, make no more "trades".  It could get him returned to the ratcage.  But we saved his life too, and let him in. 

It will be a long time before we trust the bullies, or make them a part.  Carl was a part before, and will be again.  Nobody will touch his family, even if his owner reclaims him and we never see him again. 

The bullies who cower in the corner didn't understand about family.  Now they do. 

                               *** 

I haven't ask about the knife.  It would be better for everyone to not know where it is--as long as the bullies don't have it.  But I think I know who does, and if he's smart it will disappear before Jeffrey can get his hands on it again. 

We were officially asked how they died.  Sir didn't seem very concerned.  They were hard to control, and he doesn't like that.  We do what we're told.  We haven't lost everything like the bullies had; we have something to be taken away.  He was told they got into a fight, and we found them dead in the morning.  He nodded and sent us away. 

But the dark-haired Caltie was watching, especially Carl, as we explained.  He knew.  He hasn't even looked at Carl since.  Sir doesn't approve of "favors", even if he knows they happen.  

The bullies are keeping entirely to themselves.  Maybe, like Dorothy's group, they'll eventually become their own family, and we can admit them to ours.  For now they are interlopers we can't get rid of.  They know better than to get in our way. 

We will have no further trouble from them.  Carl has not been spared; there are certain telltale signs that he's being disciplined.  He is last in line for food.  He gets to do the dirty jobs in our own world.  But he isn't surly about it, or even resigned.  He has a home.  That's what matters. 

He's assigned inside a warehouse tomorrow, as I am.  Quite suddenly, both our assignments have improved.  I wait as he gets his clean uniform for the next day, catching his eye.  I don't change, taking the clean one with me.  "Want me to check your injuries?" I ask.  "The cuts looked like they were healing but just to be sure . . ." 

Nervously, he shakes his head.  "If it looks like we need you Cheryl will tell you."  Then he looks away.  "I guess this makes us even." 

"Well, I'd say you passed," I say.  I make stabbing motions to suggest a knife.  "You knew all along." 

He shrugs.  "Ever since she thought I'd made some remark about Tessie." 

I study him.  He's standing taller than before, but the brand is still there.  He says no to someone else and he can still be gone.  But since he revenged his wife, and all the rest that happened to him, he has taken back himself. 

Nobody blames him for surviving.  Nobody would blame him if his owner made a demand and he obeyed.  Calties like Sir's are different . . . 

I belong to myself again.  Now, Carl does too.  It may cost him, but it will be his choice.  Still, I want him to stay with us.  I say, quietly, "Look, be careful." 

He looks away, but it isn't the defeated man of before.  There is something else there. 

"If he wants me, I can't do anything about it," he says, resigned.  I don't need to say that I understand, though I doubt I'll ever be bothered again.  But then, I'll never be sure of that. 

"Nobody knows what happens tomorrow," I add.  Something is up, and everyone knows it.  That doesn't ever bode well for us. 

He's still standing there, finally looking at me.  "Look, we're more than even.  You did more than just save my life." 

I remember Slimy and the bleeding lump he became.  I don't regret it.  I wouldn't say I'm proud of it either.  But someone paid, for both of us.  I know eventually, when it's safe, we might deal with the fact we've both murdered someone.  But not now.  Now, all that matters is we can stand here and have this conversation. 

Daniel is approaching, waiting patiently and giving us space.  They have all been like that the last few days.  Maybe Carl isn't the only one to gain. 

He's eyeing me, watching Daniel.  "Maybe we both got something from it," he says. 

Since the rumor started that the changelings are gone, thanks to me, they still avoid me.  But it's different.  Now it's in a kind of deference.  I committed an act of defiance, in the form of genocide, but against *them*.  It didn't work out the way we planned, but they respect the intent. 

I've made my promises, about the books and my family.  They know what I'd do to keep them.  But today changed things.  When I told the bullies to stop, it was because of Ezri.  But it was for the rest too. 

You don't hurt family, even the black sheep like Carl.  You don't touch the family he clings to.  Thompson and his bullies broke our rules.  This is all we have, and we won't surrender it to the likes of them.  I don't know, anymore, if I acted because of Ezri or because I wouldn't put up with the bullies. 

We sleep with only a layer of blanket between us now.  Tomorrow's uniform has to be clean, some special shipment that can't get muddy, and I will dress in the morning.  For now, after I eat, I'll put the dirty one in the bin.  At least they've given up on just drying the uniforms.  We get a new bin when we put the old one out. 

I nod, looking at Daniel.  "Maybe so."  Looking at the clean uniform, I sigh.  "Maybe it won't rain tomorrow either." 

Carl stares across the room.  "You never know," and takes his leave. 

Daniel wants to read a particular story, Cindy's favorite, since she figures it's near her birthday.  I promise to get the book for him, and make the reading a surprise.  He goes away satisfied. 

There have been a lot of rumors, a lot of strangers too.  We are all on edge, almost like the last days before we were taken from the station.  In case something happens, I'd hate for Cindy to miss her birthday present. 

But eventually the long evening passes, and after I've eaten I toss my soiled clothes in the bin.  With only a blanket keeping me warm, I'm glad to climb into our new nest.  Ezri and I snuggle, the blanket loosely between us. 

Then she rolls over and the blanket moves down.  Her bare skin is against mine.  Her nipples are hard and firm, her skin soft.  I wrap my arm around her, drawing her closer. 

The beach is there.  The clear blue water is calm, the small waves of low tide lapping at the sandbar.  The trees are still, the birds singing softly in the green wall.  The sky is blue, a late storm disappearing in the distance as the dawn lights the sky. 

Ezri is with me, holding me close, and we look into each others eyes. 

"I'd still kill him," I say. 

"I know," she says.  "I'd expect you to."  Then she adds, "You already killed her." 

But it seems wrong to talk about it here, on our beach, the one we'd lost for so long.  "Not here.  We lost it for so long. Let's not . . . " 

She stops me as the sky brightens, and pulls me closer, just holding each other. 

We watch the dawn break over us, the storm recede.  We have back the beach.  We have back each other. 

We just cuddle together, feel the sun as it rises in the morning, *this time*.  Later, when we want to, we'll make the waves churn, stir the sand.  But now, at last, we are whole again. 

When the world changes again, we'll still have each other. 

                               *** 


End, Surrender, part 5a