LEGACY
An Alternative History of the Dominion War
Year 1
Part 3 _ Adjustments
Chapter 10
The last remaining step before the Dominion could leave them alone would be
the most traumatic. Once the identification tags they had to wear were issued,
none could escape the reminder that they had lost all semblance of freedom.
Most people had already read the rules, and it was generally concluded that it
wasn't as bad as expected. But the tags would be hard. Even when sleeping
they must be worn. The Dominion had to be able to find them at all times.
But first, each tag had to be keyed to the individual. The personal information
and DNA samples already collected had been combined with residential
information, and ten days after the Dominion appeared came the final
reminder that they were prisoners.
That day's orders were that all persons would stay in their assigned living
quarters. They would be called together when it was time.
The hospital compound was the first location processed. The patients were
processed first, each given a temporary tag until they either died or were
released. Even the dying were listed, though most of them would never know
the difference. Ninety_eight of those in the crash had now died, as would a few
more. The dying were left together, given what could be afforded to keep them
comfortable, but treatment had been suspended. Nothing still available would
save them.
First, the dying were tagged. A small device keyed the little tag to their DNA, so
when they passed their deaths could be properly recorded. Lonnie followed the
Jem'Hadar as he touched each in turn, verifying the names.
Willman had ordered her to do it. He had explained that the Vorta did not
participate, but his First did. In their world, she was the same.
She didn't like being compared to the creature, but it was clear that nobody
disagreed with Willman anymore.
Then they moved on to the surviving patients. Lonnie nervously verified each
name, hoping they didn't decide to take Bashir this time. The device was
briefly touched to the scalp, a small beep indicating it matched existing
records. Then there was a little whirl, and the tag was done.
She pinned them to the patients gowns. She didn't look in their eyes as she
did it, not wanting to see her own reflection. She tried not to touch the small
device attached to her collar. She knew it didn't hurt since she'd been the first
to be processed. It was not the sort of distinction she wanted to have.
She pushed away her feelings when they reached Bashir's bed. He was awake,
staring away from them. He was afraid but trying not to show it. She was
careful not to act any differently than with the others, but didn't have to worry.
He never turned his head her way.
"Bashir," grunted the First.
"Julian Bashir," she said as calmly as she could, but inside she was afraid.
The First touched the device to his head and the machine beeped. Then the
little whirl came and he pulled off the tag.
She took it from him, fastening it to Bashir's gown.
It was easier after that. She had to verify the staff's identity as well, Willman
the last processed.
The First left and Willman called her to his office.
"You did well." She didn't bother to sit.
"Will they be back?" she asked.
"We should hope not," said Willman, slipping a little into the man she'd known.
"I'd like to check the patients," she said, hesitantly.
"He's asleep. Don't wake him. But make sure he gets his lunch."
She was dismissed. The staff was pretending nothing was different, but she
could feel the wall open and the world change as she retreated to the small
room that had become her office to fill out the papers that rewrote their world..
*****
Sisko assembled his entire staff in the small square. It wasn't ideal, but he
wanted them to be close to him. He wanted the First to know he was busy and
needed them back to work.
But waiting was hard. It was threading to rain, and he distracted himself by
considering where to put a covered eating area. There was one empty
warehouse, the one that had held Vance's machines. Perhaps it would make a
good mess hall, and some shade could be added outside for good weather.
It was miserable waiting outside in the spring rain. It would be worse when it
was cold. He was composing the report on the project when the First
approached.
"Captain Benjamin Sisko," declared the Jem'Hadar First.
"Yes," replied Sisko more hesitantly than he intended to.
The device touched his scalp briefly, and he felt a small twitch. Mostly, it felt
cold. In a moment, the device beeped. The second Jem'Hadar removed a small
round object with a clip and fastened it to his clothes.
It had been so simple, and there was no pain. But he went numb inside.
His people wore communicators on the station. They could find them most of
the time that way. The Dominion device did the same thing. But this would be
very different.
You could take off your communicator. If you weren't on duty nobody minded.
The little round tab had to be worn always. If it was removed, it transmitted a
warning. Anyone who took the chance could face having one injected
internally. If too many refused, that would happen to everyone.
Glebaron didn't say, but it could track them. Sisko felt like an animal being
cataloged and branded. He welcomed the numbness that pushed away that
image.
The two Jem'Hadar proceeded down the irregular line.
Most were too wary of the Jem'Hadar to react too much, especially with the
armed guards that stood a short distance away. James had not noticed at all,
lost in his own world. He didn't even finger the tag after it was attached.
Jadzia had remained perfectly calm, with the same half_smile she usually
wore. Her reaction deeply disturbed him. Vance had come, not officially
severed from the top layer of command. He'd not even looked at the Jem'Hadar
as they tagged him, but instead glared at Sisko.
Blanchard was quiet and a little stunned, but otherwise well behaved. O'Brien
had hidden his resentment well. Eventually they had proceeded to the last
person and released them to go about their business. It was almost time for
lunch and the larger area with the biggest population hadn't been started.
It was going to be a very long day. Somehow, Sisko expected them to send
masses of Jem'Hadar to finish it soon. But it was too telling that nobody
refused or argued.
If they needed them, the Jem'Hadar could return in a heartbeat and everyone
knew it.
*****
The untreated fields, now labeled the Residential Area, was given a reprieve for
lunch. Miles and the supply people were allowed to bring in the food, families
required to eat outside their homes or tents. Then they had to wait to be
tagged.
To speed things up, the area was divided into four sections. Miles, Jadzia,
Sisko, and Blanchard were assigned to work with two Jem'Hadar each.
*****
Jadzia stood behind the First. She didn't know why she'd gotten the
distinction of accompanying the Jem'Hadar First, but followed calmly, checking
off a list of names as the soldiers did their work.
She felt nothing. The people hesitated as the Jem'Hadar approached, this time
without guns drawn, and submitted to the tags. She could tell they were
afraid. Later, when the Jem'Hadar were gone, they'd think about the real
meaning of the little tags. But this was nothing. If anything, it had taken up a
day that, for many, would have been spent lost and drifting.
Later, she knew, it would be different. She couldn't look at the faces, knowing
their nightmares were just beginning.
They tried to take each day as it came. Some had found work, helping Supply
or digging the trench. Some had volunteered to take food to the sick. Already,
little bits of organization had formed in a sea of nothing.
Others, already dubbed Floaters, helped when someone was needed and they
were in the mood. More might have done that, but there wasn't enough to do.
There were still too many people. She'd started a list of those who wanted
work, matching skills with tasks and trying to use as many as possible.
Today, following the Jem'Hadar, she imagined the people she was trying to help
watching with suspicion, but tomorrow when faced with another long day and
a little round reminder of their captivity, they'd be glad to ask again.
Curzon understood. Jadzia held the letter Worf had sent, staring at the walls
of her new quarters when the day was done. She didn't belong. But she drew
from the Others inside her to fill the time until it was over.
Perhaps she'd be missed. Perhaps they'd remember her as one of the traitors.
Her vision of the future had too many clouds to see clearly.
The afternoon went quickly. The four appointed helpers watched as the
Jem'Hadar disappeared when it was done. Miles stared ahead, his face grim.
Blanchard was relieved, ready to run.
Sisko watched as the others left, people disappearing inside their little homes,
whatever they might be, to privately deal with their grief.
They were the losers in this war and could not forget now.
He approached her, watching as she gazed at the hospital. "At least it's over,"
he said.
She couldn't reply. In her mind the darkness that awaited her was all she
knew. But Curzon pushed it aside.
"For now," she muttered, "Or perhaps it's just beginning."
The darkness returned, and she reached for the little tab. "I know," said Sisko.
"Do you want to talk?" he asked.
She shook her head, not even Curzon's cynicism enough to chase away the
vision. The sky had changed. The hill had a fine coat of native grass, and the
path was well worn. There were voices around her, grim and defeated, as she
was taken by a terrible wariness softened by an immense peace.
She didn't reply, drawn by the vision and yearning for the peace.
She heard him ask, his voice full of worry, "Old Man?" as she fled to the
sanctuary of her room.
*****
Lonnie curled in bed remembering the day the Dominion had come, that long
day spent in the square with rifles pointed at them, unsure of what to expect.
Today had almost been an anti_climax. The soldiers had been so calm. She
knew they didn't have to flash rifles to make a point anymore. The little tab
was clipped on her old, loose shirt that she liked to sleep in. Her room was
pitch dark. The one small window was blocked by another building so unless
the sun was shining there was no light. She felt the tag with her hand. It was
as if she were the princess in the old fairy tale with the pea. She could feel it
near. She remembered the tingle as the instrument touched her and the tug
on her shirt as it had been attached.
This time they hadn't touched her things. Nothing was broken and nothing
was different. But she was changed. The last illusion had been shattered that
day, by the Jem'Hadar and their tags and by Willman making her go with
them. The grief swirling inside her was trying to get out, but she could not
allow that. She had to be strong, but could not if she let herself grieve.
Willman wouldn't like that. So she lay staring at the darkness, wishing there
was a place to hide.
But that was gone. They'd always know where she was. She imagined the
thing could hear and see everything. Even in the dark room, perhaps she
wasn't alone.
Bashir had tried to tell her how it felt to be afraid. She hadn't understood. But
between Dr. Willman's rules and the enemy, her life was no longer her own.
Tears fell, silent and salty making her pillow too wet. But she couldn't stand
the turmoil they let out, and made them stop.
Tomorrow there was work. Willman would expect her to be strong. If she ever
let out the storm, she'd fail all of them.
The tears dried and she rolled away from the wet spot, and didn't even
remember falling asleep.
*****
Five days after the tagging, Sisko opened his first official meeting as the head of
Cyrus 3. It was a small gathering, with only the necessary department heads.
There was something almost surreal about it; they might have been in the
conference room on the station. There would be other meetings, with more
details, and assistants to record them. But this one was not for that purpose,
nor for those ears.
The day before, Sisko had told his assistants he was unavailable, and spent the
entire day in his office making preparations. Much of the day he'd worked on a
special speech, but now that it was time to give it, he chose not to. There were
important things to be said__things he didn't want to discuss and they didn't
want to hear. The questions he had to ask would be uncomfortable with
ramifications neither wanted to consider. The speech was to tell them why.
But reading it over that morning, he found much of it unnecessary. After the
tagging, they must already know how difficult their positions were. It had been
two weeks since the Dominion arrived, and he could already feel the distance
people put between him and themselves.
Vance was invited, thought he knew the man wouldn't come. He had even
been avoiding his former office when he left his quarters for whatever he did
during the day. But he'd been notified that he was to remove his things. One
of the smaller new housing units had been assigned to him already.
Sisko wondered if it was wise to completely reject Vance, given their suspicions,
but knew it didn't really matter. Vance wouldn't have anything to do with the
new governing body of Cyrus.
Sisko envied him sometimes. He wished he could do the same.
The meeting started shortly after breakfast, the small group arriving early. At
present there were only four departments and five officials. The sat in a row of
chairs facing Sisko.
"Welcome. I know this isn't easy for any of you. But I thank all of you for your
effort, given the circumstance. We *must* maintain authority here, or the
Jem'Hadar will come and do it for us. If you find the responsibilities too hard,
speak to me and I'll find someone else. But even if no one else can, please
understand how much I respect all of you for having the courage to sit in this
room."
Jadzia looked around the room, rather curious. Miles glanced at his shoes.
Larson, the newly appointed head of building, bit his lip a little. Willman
stared straight at Sisko and Blanchard occupied himself with his report.
Sisko knew Jadzia would stay. Miles would as well, though he would never
talk about the more practical reasons. Willman certainly understood, and
Blanchard was too wrapped up in he and Vance's project to not follow up on
the results. Larson was the only real uncertainty, and he fumbled with his
hands as if deciding.
None made any comments, so Sisko moved on. "I believe it's time for
department reports."
Larson spoke first, and Sisko wondered if he decided to get it over with early.
He couldn't keep his hands still and kept pausing between words that normally
didn't require one. "We're proceeding as planned, Sir. The residential area for
the medical people is finished. The main area is about half_done. We're
grouping the units in sections, with some space in_between, but since we have
to relocate the people on the building site first, it's slowing down the process."
He looked relieved when he was done. But Sisko gave him his full attention.
"How long do you expect it will be until it's completed?" asked Sisko.
Larson didn't want to be wrong, but didn't want it to sound bad either. Sisko
could see the fight inside him to come up with the best answer. "A month,
perhaps. No more than that." Sisko thought he was rushing it a bit. Then he
took a deep breath and surprised Sisko. "I have a question, Sir."
"Yes," said Sisko, curious.
"We're going to have leftover materials. We'll need a place to store them if they
aren't going to be used right away."
"Talk to O'Brien after the meeting." Miles shook his head, but Larson was
obviously relieved to be done.
Sisko nodded at Dax, the next in line. "Distribution of food is going well,
though we've been getting a few complaints about the taste. We've also set up
a soup pot for those who wish to contribute. It's quiet popular."
Miles started his half of the report as soon as she finished. "Ops is running
smoothly, and the shipment we got had everything we were promised."
Sisko wished he'd call it something else. It was too much of a reminder of the
station, and just how much had been lost.
Blanchard started next, without being asked. "The area we terraformed seems
to be developing well, and I believe we will have an entire valley for use next
spring." He was clearly holding back more than he showed, but his tone was
calm and steady.
"Thank you, Mr. Blanchard. Let's hope you're very successful." But all the
while Sisko worried. Vance was a patriot who wouldn't taint himself with a hint
of collaboration, but Blanchard cared so much about his project he'd have run
it for the Dominion if they asked.
Willman's face was grim. "We have had a lot of deaths in the last few weeks,
mostly those from the crash. But aside from that we have the staff resettled,
our supplies were complete and the staff is getting a handle on the new
instruments."
Sisko nodded. "That's everything, unless someone has something to add."
Nobody did. They could have sent him a quick report on paper, but it wouldn't
have meant as much. It mattered that they'd come to his office and declared
their positions to everyone.
But Sisko had to say one last thing. "This is a very difficult time for all of us.
We have been given authority by Glebaroun to enforce the rules we didn't
establish. They aren't especially difficult or unusual, but if we accept the
authority we also accept that we must follow the rules. And we must be willing
to make others follow them as well. This won't be easy, people. But we all
know how much it matters." He looked at each in turn, his grim look leaving
no illusions. "I think we're done. Except for this. I will not ask again. If any of
you wish to pull out, you have until this time tomorrow to do so. I, personally,
was not given the option. But it is my choice to give you the chance to pull out
now." He paused, watching them.
He continued, "You must understand what I expect of you, should you decide
to stay. We have had rules imposed on us, most of which are not
unreasonable. But you must make sure these rules are followed. You will
have a certain amount of disciplinary authority within your departments
should they not be. If this is not sufficient you may refer people to me. But
you must understand that you are responsible for the behavior of the people in
your own departments. It isn't my job to discipline your people. And in
exchange for this, you do not have to deal with the Vorta. Now, does everyone
here understand this?"
Larson looked a little stunned, "Yes, sir."
Willman gave Sisko a private look of support, and said, "That is quite clear,
Sir."
Dax and O'Brien agreed. Dax was unreadable, but O'Brien looked
uncomfortable. Blanchard paused, as if he was going to say something. But
he simply said he understood.
"Good. I'll be here if anybody has anything to talk about."
He watched them, a battle raging within him. He'd only known Willman a
short time, but already counted him a friend. Dax was one of the oldest friends
he had, and he cared deeply about O'Brien. Larson was unfamiliar and very
nervous; but had come from the station, and was still one of his own people.
Blanchard was largely a stranger, but that presented its own dilemma.
He'd hardly slept the night before, wondering how he could ask them to do this.
He could already sense the gap between himself and the others. As the
commander of the station there had always been a certain amount of isolation.
But this was different. This space was not so easily broached with dinner
parties. It was not just the hostility Vance had shown. It was the nervous
hesitation with which he was approached, and the formality with which he was
addressed. He was separate from them; soon to be isolated physically as well.
He could live it. He didn't like it but he understood. What he didn't know
about was the aura of distrust and fear he could already sense. He had less
authority than he'd had on the station, but that had been freely accepted. In a
sense, this was as well. He had made his choice to accept the position before
the Vorta had insisted on it. He had slept badly since, uneasy over the cost.
What he couldn't explain was the belief that he *must* take the responsibility.
He had brought them there. If anyone should have to live with the
compromises and isolation it should be him. But he was uneasy about the
others. They were friends. He wanted them in the key positions because he
could trust them, but he knew he was sharing the separation he already saw.
He offered them an out, although out of personal loyalty he doubted they would
take it. Larson looked very uneasy, and he almost hoped he would accept.
Blanchard was an entirely different matter, and the wariness he felt about the
scientist concerned him. But he preferred that to the uncertainty of taking his
friends into the same abyss.
"Before we end this meeting, does anyone have any last questions?" They
shook their heads, and he dismissed them. "Then we're done for today."
Larson was the first to go, clearly in a hurry to leave. Blanchard took his time,
standing by the door for a moment, glancing at the others, before stepping
outside. When he was gone, Jadzia turned to Sisko and smiled. "Join me for
dinner?" she asked.
Disturbed by the resigned look he saw in her eyes he chose to accept. Perhaps
she'd give him a clue to what she was up to. But the way she looked at him,
and the cynical cast of her eyes suggested she wasn't alone. She followed
O'Brien out, and he watched as she hurried back to her rooms
But Willman stayed. He waited until the door shut and Sisko started poking at
the papers on his desk to explain. ęShe's very calm. I know she'd an old
friend, but is she all right?"
Sisko slumped down in one of the chairs. "She'll manage. She's had a lot of
lifetimes. Her last host was a very practical old man named Curzon. He'll keep
her going."
Willman was curious. "I've never met a joined trill. I suppose you're right." He
paused, relaxing a little. "But that's not all. She lost someone. She won't let
go."
"She had somebody she loved. He left with the Defiant. She already knew she
wouldn't see him again. I am worried about her. If you've got any suggestions
I'm open to them."
"Time, I guess. She's got plenty of company." He sat down and looked at
Sisko. "We've got more important things to discuss. Vance, for one."
*****
She had just finished rounds. She had delivered the small round tabs from the
three patients to Willman's office, attached to a form that would officially record
their deaths. In a day or two, the barriers could be moved and the space used
for the other patients, but for now they would wait for the last few of those who
had survived the crash only to take weeks to die. It would not be long. Only
four were left. One_hundred and six of those who had been on the Antelope
had died.
She sat in the office, filling out the forms. Willman would have to complete
them, but she had filled in all the spaces but the actual cause of death and
made sure the tag was attached to the form. That was important to somebody.
Willman had made sure she understood how much it mattered. She only
wished they cared as much about the living.
Some of them would have died anyway. Some of them, had they gone to a
modern hospital might have made it. Those were not the ones she was
thinking of, as she filled out the name on the certificate of death. It was those
that just might have made it if they had not taken so much of the equipment.
After spending so much effort to save them, she knew them as more than
bodies in need of care. This one, a young Starfleet engineer, had a wife who
had been sent back to Earth; he had called out to her in his last hours while
Lonnie held his hand. Once, he had looked up at her and obviously seen his
wife. He had smiled, and begged her not to leave. Lonnie stayed as long as she
could, until he had gone to sleep, and she hoped he didn't think his wife had
gone. That was all she could do for him, but she had given him some of her
time so he would know someone cared.
She was tired, and angry, and frustrated. She knew better than to complain.
Long before Sisko had called his meeting, Willman had called his own staff
together to explain the rules. He understood their frustration, but he didn't
want to hear about it. He was different, and as she listened to the lecture she
watched his face. To Lonnie, he was a friend and a cherished mentor. But at
that moment, he was neither. He was their superior, and what he said was
law. Sisko had tried to soften the blow, but Willman had not. His staff had
been very quiet since then, and Lonnie had only seen him a few times.
He had reorganized the staff as well, which had brought its own problems,
merging the surviving member's of Bashir's staff into his own. He had
promoted some of the new staff above his own people and that had brought
some resentment, which he had squashed in yet another meeting when the
complaints had reached him. Lonnie sat in the back of the room, next to
Bashir's head nurse, Jabara, and wondered where her friend had gone. Lonnie
was now the second in the department, and Jabara directly under Lonnie.
She had finished filling out the certificates when there was a tap on the door.
Lonnie was actually relieved to find it was the Bajoran nurse. She had come
for some of the scarce supplies locked in the office, the key held by whoever
was in charge and on duty.
Jabara had noticed the one certificate not with the others, and the way Lonnie
was looking at it, and sat down for a moment. She placed her hand over
Lonnie's, about to pick up the certificate. "Write the family a letter," said the
nurse. "It doesn't matter that they won't receive it. It's for you."
"Thanks," said Lonnie, with a sigh. "I'm just glad it was you."
The nurse paused for a moment. "It's hard, for him too. He didn't make the
rules."
Lonnie picked up the paper and put it with the others. "It's just not all that
easy to turn off the feelings."
Jabara said quietly, as if remembering, "That is what the letter is for." She
looked at Lonnie, "You need to talk about it. I mean everything."
Lonnie hadn't slept well since the takeover, unable to push away the
frustration. She liked the Bajoran woman. "Well, I'm off tonight. I put my
dinner in the soup." They agreed to meet at dinner. As Jabara was leaving
Lonnie had a thought. "At least," she said slowly, "we get a chance to get used
to it. What about Bashir and the rest of your staff in there? It's going to be
very hard for them."
*****
Willman and Sisko had moved into the smaller office and the staff had been
told to hold everything. It was nearing lunchtime, and they were getting
nowhere. Willy was doodling on a piece of scrap paper. Sisko was playing with
his baseball.
The frustration in Sisko's tone was evident. "I *do* understand his feelings. If
he doesn't want to work with Them I'm perfectly willing to let it drop. But I
have a problem with the hostility. It's hard enough without that."
Willy looked at him, thoughtfully. "Walter isn't mad at you. They aren't
standing there so he gets mad at the next best thing. It's not personal."
Sisko was rolling the baseball around in his hand, looking at the opposite wall.
"That doesn't make me feel any better."
"It wasn't meant to. He's not going to be the only one. You should have
listened to your own talk."
"Nothing like the one you gave your staff, I assume," said Sisko.
Willman wasn't smiling. "No. But I told them the truth. I never said it was
pretty."
Sisko watched the doctor, thinking of where he'd been. "Maybe you're right.
Once things get set up we'll have to have the junior people in. I'll let you talk to
them."
"I can't, and you know it. Properly, it should be their supervisors. Look Ben,
you can't hide from this. I'm glad Walter is out of the picture. I can't imagine
the disaster if he wasn't. But sooner or later you're going to have to insist. It
would be easier on everyone if it was sooner."
Sisko was still playing with the baseball. "I reluctantly agree. Hmmm, just
how to you read Blanchard? You know him better than I do."
Willman continued to doodle. "As for Justin, I don't know. He's being awfully
cooperative for someone who was going to terraform the place where most of
your people live."
Sisko mused, "He did seem satisfied with the little field. Anyway, his
equipment is gone. I agree, he's a little too calm, but . . . . "
Willman stopped doodling. He put down the pen and looked rather grimly at
Sisko. Sisko stopped playing with the baseball. "Maybe. Ben, I've heard some
rumors. I know what Walter was planning and I believe he carried out his
plans."
Sisko enunciated each word, alarmed that his suspicions might be right.
"What kind of rumors?"
"Contraband. I don't know who or how much but I'm keeping a very close
watch on Justin. And this stays between us for now."
Sisko looked at the wall, turning the baseball around in his hand again,
looking very grim. He thought of what that might ultimately require him to do.
"Thank you. Do you think They know?"
"I don't think so. If the truth was as bad as the rumors, they wouldn't have left
like they did. But he's spent the last fifteen years of his life living off the
project. It is very odd for him to be so agreeable now, what with all if it beamed
away."
Sisko was squeezing the baseball in his hand. "That's what I keep thinking. As
far as we can tell the inventory records were complete and they took all of it,
but records have been known to be wrong."
Willman picked up the pen, scribbling little squares in the middle of his doodle.
"Exactly. And it's so tempting if you knew where it was, just to see . . . . " He
scribbled over the doodle. "I don't know how long temptation can be ignored."
Sisko looked even more grim, staring at the baseball. "Or they know already.
And they're just waiting for us to trip the wire on the trap. Either way, we may
have a major problem."
"Yes. And that is why you have to come down hard on everybody. Make them
too scared to take the risk."
Sisko said nothing, but couldn't help but think of the price he would have to
pay to try to save them.
*****
His official designation was Dr. Leonard Willman, Department Head, Medical,
of Dominion Colony 159_A, designation: Cyrus Agricultural Colony, Status:
captive. He thought about that as he slowly made his way home from the
meeting with Sisko, taking the longest route and all the time he could. For the
moment, he was alone. He was allowed to be the man they had called Willy.
They didn't call him that anymore. His staff took care to call him "Sir" and
approached with caution. Others, except just a few, called him "Doctor". They
looked at him as a stranger. He was not surprised. He was a stranger to
himself.
He no longer enjoyed his profession. It had been about saving lives before. A
week ago that had changed. Since They had come it was just holding back
death. He had thought with the tricorder and the other instruments Garnet
had left them that they would manage well enough. But he realized, faced with
the growing death toll, that it was not the same. There would be too much
pain, too many dead and maimed, when there did not need to be. He would
not forgive them for that.
But still, to his staff, he would be the stern master he had to be, and none
would see the pain underneath. Eventually they would grow used to life as it
was now. Some day their captors would be honest about what they were. But
for now his stern and unbending demeanor was the only way he knew to
protect his people from themselves. He would rather they feared him than to
have to learn to live with the Jem'Hadar.
But he was worried, looking at the newly transplanted population they had
acquired, wondering who among them understood. The Bajorans did, for the
same reasons as himself, and perhaps those closest to them from the station.
Or did they? Sisko had told him about his second in command, a Bajoran
woman named Kira, and how she had grown up in the resistance. She'd
learned to kill when most of the children of the Federaton were playing child
games. If the Bajorans were as hot headed as Sisko hinted, they might find a
way to make havoc here.
They were trapped with family lost on Bajor. They didn't have anything to lose.
And how many of the people who'd lived on the station with daily contact with
them might do the same? If there was a way and a place to go live in the
mountains and kill Jem'Hadar and blow up Dominion buildings how many of
those on Cyrus would have found it?
Vance would have been there. He didn't know about Blanchard. Justin
wouldn't abandon his life's work so easily. Willy was sure something was
hidden in the caves. He didn't know what, but if they were lucky nobody would
ever find it.
Sisko didn't understand what he had to do, the sort of man he must become.
He knew, thought Willman, what the price might be, but he could not make
himself into that man as easily as Willman could.
For Leonard Willman, waking was a revisited nightmare, thought long
banished. He remembered all too well what had happened to those who had
broken the rules, and did not wish to see it again. He'd be at the hospital in a
few minutes and their friend Willy would vanish as surely and quickly as the
enemy had and Dr. Willman, a man despised, would take his place.
But for a few minutes, Willy was allowed to live and yet it hurt too much for
more than that. Dr. Willman didn't feel and it was easier that way.
The hill was almost climbed. He straightened his shoulders and let his face go
grim. His look hardened to one nobody would question.
He knew neither joy nor pain, but it was better that way.
*****
Sisko had spent the afternoon in his office, catching up on paperwork, badly
distracted by Willman's news. He kept asked himself just how far he could go.
He knew the guidelines by heart, having read them over too many times. His
authority ranged from putting someone on restrictions for a short time to
virtually locking them in their room when not working, or official house arrest,
for as long as he decided. The ultimate act of betrayal would be going through
official channels and turning someone over the Dominion. It would mean
deportation. He didn't want to know what happened then.
If Willy's rumors were true, it might come to that with Vance or Blanchard.
Distracted, turning these options around in his head, he heard a tentative
knock on the door. "Come," he said.
It was Larson. He looked very nervous and hung back. Sisko was grateful to
have something to get his mind off the problem.
"Sir, I had a few questions." Larson looked as if he'd practiced a few dozen
times.
"Certainly. Sit down," he said, indicating a chair.
Larson seemed a little hesitant, but sat. "Sir, I think I want out."
Sisko wasn't surprised. "You have that option. Nothing bad will be said."
But he wasn't done. "Ugh, Sir, I don't want to quit. I have to have something
to do. But I don't, I don't think I could manage the position I have now." He
sounded worried that Sisko would have a problem with his request.
"All right, I'm officially accepting your resignation as Department head. But
keep your job. We need you there. We'll just sub you under somebody else."
"Thank you, Sir."
He watched him leave the room, his relief evident, and wished he could solve
them all that easily. He wasn't really in the mood to go to dinner with Dax, but
had already agreed, and closed up the office for the night.
At the square, she was already seated in a far corner, both meals waiting for
his arrival. He noticed she was playing with the ring until she saw him, then
suddenly stopped. She sat straighter, her expression distant but interested.
At least she'd be quiet. He needed time to think.
She looked up as he approached. "Thank you," he said, sitting in front of his
dinner. She watched him as he took his first sip, with the faintest hint of a
smile. As he sipped the heavily spiced soup and then reached for his drink,
she said "Surprise!"
Refilling his glass, he looked at the others in the square. "You can't tell me
that all of them are having this," he said, enjoying another sip.
"Special batch. You had a hard day." She sighed, taking a sip of her own
meal. "Both of us did."
They ate their food silently, lost in their own thoughts. Nearly finished, Sisko
ask very quietly, "Do you know anyone who wants Building? It's available."
She ate a few more bites before answering. "I have a suggestion. Make
Operations a separate department and move it there. We don't need the two of
us in Supply."
"I'll ask O'Brien. If only we could solve them all that easily." Sisko looked
moodily at the bowl, wishing there was more. The flavorings were varied, but
aside from experiments, they kept the seasoning rather tame.
Dax looked perturbed. "True," she said, "but that's not for here. You're not
here to worry, but to eat." She lifted up a small kettle, and scooped out
another bowl for herself, serving him one as well.
Curzon had been like that. Jadzia hadn't. He could swear the old man was
sitting next to him tonight.
She was coping. Maybe she was lucky she had others to call on.
They watched the people around them, minding their own business, as they
ate. Congregated in small groups, quietly talking, he thought everybody was
trying to make the best of it they could. In a year, or more, he hoped they
would be doing as well.
*****
Michael Emery had drawn the closing shift that day, and was reluctancy eating
his meal alone. Around him were crates, and a hand written list of those who
had signed up for the soup. All of it had to be ready for morning, the cakes
and the vegetables soaking, and the lists of who got what prepared. His part
was sorting out the food and preparing the lists.
The soup that day was rather good, he thought, but he missed the
conversation. Meals were one of the few times that things felt even a little
normal. His job wasn't that demanding, more dull than anything else, but
while he spent hours sorting out lists and repackaging the little cakes that
were their food, his mind wandered too much. It didn't taste bad in a soup, he
thought. They were mostly bland when you ate them alone. But no matter
how much they varied the taste of the meals, or how they altered the
preparation, the variety was gone. It was, like the little round tabs, one of the
constant reminders of reality.
He picked up one of the cakes, and examined it. Sealed in a wrapper it was,
perhaps, three inches thick, and would have fit in a sandwich. It felt spongy,
wet enough to chew through and firm enough to not fall apart. Three of them a
day made up the full nutritional needs of an adult, but none of the sensory
ones. The seasonings helped, and the dried vegetables, but that was the best
they could manage for variety. He liked bread with his food; no matter how
good the soup, bread rounded out the meal.
But there was no bread. They had discussed the possibility of growing some
sort of grain with the Ag people, but even with the whole valley they didn't have
the room.
He glanced at the clock, perturbed he'd daydreamed too long. Going down the
list, he began sorting the food packets between bins. The lists would have to be
recopied after he was done with this, and he would not get to bed until late, but
the food prep people liked to talk. Sometimes, when the conversation was good,
he'd volunteer to help them with their preparations. It was better than going
back to a dark room alone.
He came to the last name on the list, then closed up the crates. There was a
little of his dinner left, and he finished the now cold soup and moved it off the
desk. He started the distribution list for the next day, recording the names for
each separate list and a master. He had just finished when the food crew
arrived.
There was never any conversation while they verified the counts; it was too long
a process to do again, and the count had to match the list or someone would
end up short. But Emery didn't want to be alone, and offered to help them out.
*****
While Emery was beginning his shift, in an isolated corner Lonnie sat silently
staring at her food. In her hand was the letter she had written to the young
engineer's family, and she handed it to Jabara to read while she sipped her
soup. It was good today, with a tang they usually left out. But Lonnie didn't
really care what it tasted like. Tomorrow it would be a little bit different, but
never much. All the to morrows would be like that.
It was a long letter, and Jabara was taking her time reading it. Lonnie
watched, now and then, and wished they could say the words openly that she
had written. She had been angry when she wrote it. She had put in words all
the feelings she had bottled up since they had first learned of the takeover.
She blamed the Dominion and their rules for the death, but they were not
alone. The Federation had killed him, too. They'd abandoned him, and the
rest, to this cold hard world. Did his family understand? Did they go to the
politicians and demand action? Did they speak out and call it betrayal?
She told them of the cost. Their son had bought their freedom. It was cruel,
but it was true. If she could have sent the letter she didn't know if she'd been
that blunt. But perhaps she would be. They needed to know, to not forget what
had been done.
She was hungry. Instead of lunch, she'd written the letter. She sipped her
food slowly, savoring the taste despite the grim turn life had taken.
She get extra if there was enough left. They were supposed to keep track of
who'd eaten when and she was still owed lunch. It wasn't the food she knew,
but already she'd gotten used to the soup, and today's was special.
Why? Was it someone's birthday? Had the cook met an old friend and was in
an especially generous mood? There wasn't anything to celebrate here, but
that day they had.
She finished her bowl, picking it up and going for seconds. They knew she was
Willman's number two. Nobody would deny her another bowl.
But she wanted to take it somewhere more private, and perhaps have a little
talk with Jabara. As she had written the words, and the anger had taken form,
reality had dawned.
Life was a miserable little trap, but she couldn't change it. She would go on
and do the best she could, treating those who could be saved and comforting
those who couldn't. The relief she expected didn't happen. Understanding it
just made things harder.
Jabara had finally finished the letter, which she folded and put in her pocket.
Neither spoke when she ate, Lonnie picking at her second bowl.
Jabara had been watching when she returned. Lonnie wanted to go and made
herself eat. Several others had come for seconds and been turned away.
Breaking the silence, she realized the server had forgotten something. "I told
him I'd missed lunch. He didn't check."
"That isn't why you got it," said the nurse, looking at her collar.
Lonnie was uneasy about that, even if she was entitled to the second bowl.
This one was especially good. The chunks of ration cake had shredded into
small pieces, just like she preferred. She ate quickly though. They were all
looking at her and she wanted to get away. Willman wanted her back after
dinner for more papers, anyway.
When she had finished and they were returning to the hospital, Lonnie tried to
explain. "You might not understand, but it wasn't like that for us, before . . . .
" said Lonnie, carefully. "We weren't military. We were like a big family. If I
was the Chief Medical Assistant it wouldn't make me important. It was just my
job. Here I'd just be Lonnie. Now, now I'm this . . . . " She fingered the little
staff badge. "And Willy__Dr. Willman__he was a friend. We worked together.
He wasn't this . . . intimidating force."
Jabara didn't answer, walking slowly until they reached a place no one would
be in earshot. She frowned. "Don't you see that he is scared? He's heard the
same rumor's we have. He is trying to protect you the only way he can. He
wants to see people doing their jobs and keeping their mouths shut."
Lonnie was very quiet. "I think I figured that out somewhere near the end of
the letter."
"Why are we talking about this, then?" asked Jabara.
"Because I had to say it. I had to say something out loud."
Jabara said, very quietly, "It's a very good letter. Nobody here would disagree
with any of it. But it's dangerous too." She pulled out one of the specimen
bags they used for contaminated material. Lonnie watched as the letter was
dropped inside and sealed up. They were almost to the hospital when Jabara
cut to the path that led to the back entrance. Lonnie followed. They entered
the hospital, near the disposal area where contaminated materials were
destroyed. Jabara handed the bag to Lonnie. She paused a second before
dropping it in the chute. Truth, she thought, could not be destroyed so easily.
*****
Emery was tearing apart the little cakes, sitting around the large vat they'd be
cooked in, when he realized he was actually enjoying himself. The food crew
was small, and worked mostly late at night when the rest were forced inside by
the night and the curfew. During the day they slept, and only now and then
were they a part of the mass of Cyrus's new population. They served the food
they cooked, and were otherwise left alone.
People appreciated the food. When the soup was especially good, the chef and
his crew even drew praise.
It was different with other jobs. He'd already noticed that some of his
neighbors pretended he wasn't there.
One of the women was telling a joke. It wasn't very good, and rather old, but
he found himself laughing with the rest. Nobody joked where he worked. None
were in the mood. Since he had received his little staff button, there was an
invisible wall around him that many couldn't climb.
He'd even lost a few friends. But this was a moment to be savored. For a few
hours, he was just Michael again. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd felt that
way.
Another hour went by, and the "dog food" was done, as they called it. He
wanted to stay, and listen to more idle conversation and laugh at a few more
jokes. But the food crew still had hours of work to do, and he would need all
morning to prepare for that afternoon's meeting. It had been an honor to be
trusted with the supplies when they had first arrived. But everything had
changed since the Dominion came, especially in the last week. Since they'd
been lined up and tagged, his job had become a huge weight.
But he lived with it. Somewhere on Earth was the little girl and her mother he
missed desperately, and to not have something to fill the hours would have
been intolerable. But that night he slept better than normal. It was a terrible
joke, and very old, but he smiled in his sleep as he remembered the way she
told it.
*****
Sisko watched as James took the latest batch of documents, disappearing
around the corner to the bank of cabinets. He couldn't imagine what he'd have
done without James now. The young man had sorted and filed dozens of
documents without any complaint or fuss. He never rushed or wasted time.
Everything he did was methodical, with a steady pace and much dedication.
Messages he was entrusted with arrived promptly. He was unfailingly polite.
His work could not be faulted in any way. But Sisko still worried about him.
He remembered how eager James had been to talk and explore their problems
when they'd first come, and especially how he had helped make them feel that
someone cared. He had worked tirelessly after the crash, impressing everyone.
James had enormous potential as an artist and human being, given a chance
to show it. But then the Dominion had come and taken that away. Since
Willman's assistant had asked he be put on staff, James had worked very hard.
But it wasn't the same as before. His bright spirit was drowning in grief.
Everyone here had lost touch with home and family, but for James it was
worse. He'd lost that, but his future as well.
He knew James coped with his loss by painting. He'd seen the picture once
himself, mostly trees, but had heard there was much more to it now. James
spent every free moment in his room alone. He had seen his staff take the
young man with them when they went to lunch or he would have skipped
meals as well. He only hoped that their efforts would be enough to keep him
from losing himself.
*****
Tarlan sipped the day's soup, hoping it was not so bland, and was again
disappointed. He missed the food at home, and especially the spices. His wife
had just the knack for seasoning things. He missed her, and the food
reminded him of how much. But he was a practical man, and he appreciated
his lunch, bland or not. The Cardassians had not been so considerate.
Across the table, Justin hurried his meal, impatient to get to the field to do the
core tests of the most recent terraforming. "I wish we could borrow that
tricorder of Willman's for a few minutes," Justin mumbled. He kept tapping
his fingers on the table, and Tarlan was getting annoyed. Bland or not, he
intended to take his time with lunch.
"Once we get the cores you can ask him." Tarlan continued to eat while Justin
tapped impatiently.
"I'd rather not." Justin sighed. "It probably breaks some rule, anyway." But
he had stopped tapping. "I can compare it with the old cores they left."
Tarlan had been watching Justin while he ate. He knew how much more
useful the tricorder would be. He liked Justin, but he was worried. Willman
had been asking a lot of questions, and it bothered him that Justin was wary of
the doctor. He wondered just what it was that Justin was afraid of.
*****
Somewhere in the room behind him, James and Rafferson were moving things
around, making room for new shelves. He could hear the murmur of voices
and an occasional thud as something hit the wall. He had offered to help, but
he hadn't finished the morning reports yet. So he sat shuffling papers instead.
Things had changed, but for him they had also stayed the same.
There were a lot of differences between the Federation and the Dominion, but
there was one thing they shared. They liked to keep good records. Randal
Morris knew all about that. He had transferred to DS9 only a few weeks before
the evacuation, and had never really learned his way around the station. But
he knew his way around the records they required.
He checked the clock again, and it was two hours before lunch. He might
finish this pile of work before then, but he was sure there would be another
waiting for him when he returned. He had come to DS9 to find some adventure,
and after a very brief and intense few weeks, had found himself back where he
had started, sitting and writing reports.
He had done well in the Academy, but the thing he did best was write. His
talent had not gone unnoticed. Upon graduation, he had been appointed an
administrative aide to an admiral. It sounded good, but the reality was he
spent his days sitting preparing an endless stream of documents. Someone
had noticed how well done they were and he had ended up with a promotion.
But his job didn't change. Eventually, the admiral got another aide to do the
standard paperwork, which helped, but it wasn't what he'd gone into Starfleet
to do.
It took him three attempts to get a transfer. The first had gone nowhere, and
the second had fallen through at the last minute. With the impending war, the
admiral had not been able to stop the third transfer. He had gotten to DS9 in
time to end up stranded on Cyrus.
He'd been surprised when Sisko called him in. The transfer of power had been
only days before, and he was still stunned by the events. He had too much
time on his hands. But apparently, Sisko had already noticed his last post
back on the station, and remembered the name. When Sisko had asked him to
join the staff, it was almost a relief. It was better than staring at the grey soil.
And, in an odd way, the job was comfortingly familiar and different. There
wasn't much difference in the words, but it was still a novelty to write them
with a pen on old fashion paper.
But the novelty wore off. It was still better than staring at dirt, but he'd
already started to hate the piles of reports. A few mornings, he wondered if it
wouldn't be better to dig the moat instead. There was someone to talk to there.
He found it very ironic that even after all that had happened, he was still stuck
in his old rut.
But that changed the day they'd been tagged. He wore a small round pin on
his shirt that denoted him part of the colony staff. Nobody had been hurt that
day, but everybody had been marred. Life would never be the same as an
animal that could be tracked.
His neighbors had ignored him the next day. He'd been relieved when Sisko
had asked which of the abandoned quarters in the old section he wanted. It
set him apart even more, but all of those who lived near shared the same
isolation. They'd come from various duties, but that was an important bond
between them.
And the most isolated was Sisko himself. Randy had noted that he never went
out to eat, but one of his old friends brought dinner instead. What sort of
reception would Sir have gotten had he joined the rest? There was little sign of
open hostility, but when the staff went to eat, the rest made room for them by
leaving.
Glancing at the clock, Morris decided he'd made good progress. In less than an
hour his current stack of papers was much shorter. The door opened, and
Rafferson entered, James in tow. "Why don't you quit for a while and we go get
some lunch?"
"Sure," said Morris. James started to protest that he wasn't hungry, and
before he could get away from them to his room, they towed him out the door.
*****
Tarlan's suspicions continued to grow as the afternoon progressed. Taking the
cores had been simple. There was not much more that could be done, and no
real reason to stay. But Tarlan decided to look over the test area and
eventually Blanchard followed him to the most deserted part of the field.
Tarlan stopped and looked at Justin. "Justin, be careful. I don't want to know
what Willman might find, but I hope what I hear isn't true."
Justin looked at him, and smiled. "Jaro, you know better than to listen to
rumors."
Tarlan frowned at the smile. "What if they aren't rumors? Justin, you don't
have any idea what this could lead to. If these things do exist, leave them
alone."
Justin looked offended. "Are you insinuating that I lied?"
"I'm saying your behavior is very suspicious. It's the smile. It's the mood.
Haven't you noticed that nobody else is smiling?" Tarlan was almost certain
that some part of the rumor was true. If Justin had something to do with it, he
didn't want to know. But he had to know how much danger he was in.
Justin shook his head. "Look at this field. This is my legacy. If we never make
another one, this proves it can be done. I've worked for fifteen years to stand
on a field like this and I refuse to not enjoy my success."
Jaro understood, but feared others would not. "You deserve it. But you can't
just ignore the rumors. They won't ignore them. Please, ask Willman about
the cores at least."
Still unperturbed, Justin sighed. "If you insist. He probably won't do it
anyway." He glanced upward. "They won't ignore this either. The project isn't
dead. It's just waiting. These things that might exist aren't important. What
matters is that the knowledge still does." Justin stopped, looking toward the
settlement, a small bit of concern crossing his face. "Do you actually think
there might be danger?"
Jaro was relieved. "Yes." Fingering the small ID pin he wore on his earring, he
continued. "This isn't a game. They own us, Justin. Nobody is willing to say
that, but think about it. This field could not possibly feed all of us. The only
other option is Them."
Justin had stopped smiling. He looked out toward the dunes where the
Antelope had crashed. "For now. But if we could make more fields, it might be
different."
"And if we tried, we would be dead, or worse."
"Yes, now . . . " Justin's voice trailed off as his eyes glazed over again. "But
maybe not later, when we rework the process so it doesn't need all that
technology. It was always intended to be simple, and by normal standards it
is. But if we work at it, we could make it so much better." He was nodding to
himself, filled with budding ideas that a part of Tarlan could understand.
Then Justin stopped and looked at him, his eyes very intent. "I know
everything there is to know about the process. A lot has never been recorded."
There was excitement in his eyes. "Jaro, I want to share it all with you. They
can't possibly argue with that. And perhaps between us we can find a more
practical way of making this place liveable."
Jaro just stared at him. The idea was terrifying, but very seductive too. He
respected Justin for his mind, and it flattered him that he would be asked to
share in this knowledge.
He told himself that passing on the knowledge wouldn't break any rules. They
weren't going to restage any of the old research, not that the technology existed
anymore if they'd wanted to. But he also knew that they didn't *need* a
reason.
He'd survived the Cardassians by being careful and cautious. But he'd never
been a free man then. Swallowing the fear, he embraced the adventure. He
couldn't go back to the Jaro that had lived before freedom, any more than
Justin could understand what kind of risk they were taking. But life had to
mean something. It wasn't much, just keeping a dream alive, but most of them
were already gone. This one deserved to live. "I would be honored," he said.
Justin sighed, thinking ahead. "We'll compile a good history, and follow it
through, see what we might have missed. Testing could be a problem, but
there's a lot to do before that. I did little tests in my lab for fifteen years before
we made this field. I'm sure we'll find a way." He didn't smile, but his look of
satisfaction couldn't be denied. For Justin Blanchard, there was a new
challenge. And for his friend, Tarlan Jaro there was a sense of self_respect,
tinged with fear, he did not even know he had lost.
end,Legacy,Year 1,Part1_3,Chapter 10