CHAPTER 5

DR. BASHIR SAT ON HIS COT in the tent Brother Gis had assigned him. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, his mouth open as he took three slow, deep breaths, trying to regain the analytic calm he would need if he was ever going to take the first step toward saving the children.
Save them … for what? A malicious whisper of a thought crept through his mind. For the next epidemic that blows through this wasteland? Or for years of backbreaking work trying to reclaim the land the Cardassians drained dry?
Be still, Julian told the voice. He closed his mouth and took a penetrating breath through his nose, held it for a beat, let it out through pursed lips, and repeated the pattern. He had learned this technique for centering himself even before he began his physician's training. Everyone talked about the pressures of Starfleet Academy, everyone spoke of the additional pressures of exobiological studies, but no one thought to suggest how to handle those pressures. You either found a way that worked for you or you quit.
Quitting was never an option for Julian Bashir.
You see how thy live here, the voice persisted. It's amazing that this is only the first illness to take such a heavy toll. You like to think you can work fast, but will it be fast enough for them? If you fail, they die, and if you succeed … some other sickness will spring up and finish the work of this one.
Julian's stomach churned. Leave me alone. Let me think.
He knew it was an impossible request the moment he made it. How could he escape from himself?
He could still hear the words of Selok of Vulcan, the instructor he had admired and respected above all others, telling him, "You are one of the most confident medical students I have ever known, Bashir. You are also one of the most self-critical. You believe in your abilities, yet at the same time you never cease questioning them."
"When you lecture us, haven't you stressed a doctor's need to evaluate his own performance frequently, sir?" the younger Julian protested.
The Vulcan healer's austere expression remained as it was. "There is a difference between self-analysis and self-attack. Learn it."
At times like this, alone but for the inner voice that questioned him constantly, Julian wondered if he would ever learn Selok's lesson.
Thinking about what's waiting for you out there won't change a thing, his inner voice went on. And finding the cure for this "camp fever" won't change a thing either. You won't be saving anyone, Julian; you'll only be prolonging their misery. Is that kind?
I am a doctor, Bashir told himself. His hands hooked under the edge of the cot, the knuckles going white. I am a healer. It's my job to find the cure. It's my duty. It's why I was brought here, what they're all expecting of me. I can't let them down.
A fine doctor! Laughter echoed inside Bashir's head. Dax and Kahrimanis are already at work in the infirmary, while you're in here, hiding.
Do you call that an infirmary? Bashir lashed out, his indignation letting him forget everything else, for the moment. There aren't even enough beds for the sick.
But you have a nice bed, Julian, the voice said sweetly. Do Kahrimanis and Dax have such comfortable accommodations? Brother Gis said they would have places in the adult dormitories—more tents, only with bigger holes in the walls. But you—! You're the healer. Special privileges for you. Why aren't you out there, earning them?
I'll do more than that. Dr. Bashir took one last deep breath and opened his eyes. And if what I do here isn't enough to save their world, at least I can save their lives. He felt better now. The churning in his stomach had subsided. In its place was the hot, steady fire of anger. He was angry because there was work he should be doing that was going undone. He was angry with himself for the momentary weakness that had overcome him when the first set eyes on the camp.
He got no consolation from the fact that he wasn't the only one so affected. Kahrimanis, too, had been strongly jarred when Brother Gis led the landing party down the hillock and into the midst of the settlement. Bashir distinctly remembered his assistant's pale face, his sharply indrawn breath. Even Dax registered shock at the filth, the stench, the hopelessness that hung over the entire encampment like a thick cloud of fetid smoke.
Dax, who has lived so long and seen so much! he thought. If she could stare stunned at the misery surrounding them, could he blame himself for his own reaction? The wave of pity that struck him felt like a hammer blow to the chest. It left him shaking so badly on the inside that he asked Brother Gis to show him to his quarters right away.
They don't need my pity, he told himself as he rose from the bed and strode out of the tent. They need my help.
Two steps out of the tent and the smell drilled him right between the eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Dr. Bashir's nostrils curled at the reek of human waste left where it had fallen, untreated and unburied. An odor of rotting garbage wove itself through the air as well, though this scent was far weaker—the refugees did not have enough food to produce many leavings, and what food they had was so thoroughly, completely used that few scraps were left over.
As Dr. Bashir stood there, a boy of about ten came by pushing a wheelbarrow full of organic refuse. The child walked with the stoop-shouldered, shuffling gait of an old man. His clothing was so tattered that it was impossible to tell what its original color had been, or even its original shape. As he trundled the barrow past Julian, he did not bother to give the doctor so much as a passing glance. Curiosity took more energy than he had to spare.
"Can I help you with that?" Dr. Bashir stepped up to the boy and tried to relieve him of the heavy barrow. Asking his permission was just a formality. To his surprise, the child clung to the wheelbarrow handles stubbornly, baring his teeth in a warning snarl. Julian released the handles and backed away fast, showing the boy his empty hands. "All right, all right, it's all yours. No one's going to take it from you."
The boy glowered at Bashir, then dug his bare, brown feet into the dusty path and continued on his way. Bashir watched him go, shading his eyes until the wheelbarrow turned around the corner of one of the camp buildings and was gone from sight.
The boy's departure left Dr. Bashir alone. Cupping his hand over his nose and mouth, he set out to find the infirmary. After a while, his hand dropped back to his side. The reek of the camp became familiar, though no less pungent. I suppose this proves you can get used to anything, he thought. He wondered whether the smell would ever come out of his clothes.
Brother Gis's camp was a jumble of tents and opensided pavilions thrown up around the ruins of an old farmstead. There was no organization to the layout of the buildings and no overall plan except to provide as much shelter as quickly as possible. It looked as if it had grown itself overnight, like some sort of fungus, rather than the work of human hands. Every solid-walled structure that Dr. Bashir passed was cobbled together from a half-dozen other cannibalized buildings. Courses of brickwork were topped with layers of unmortared stone. Roofs served as walls, floorboards were transformed into roofs, and anything that could stand was made into a wall. Some buildings had wooden sides, each one wearing a different-color paint, many showing the scorched scars of incomplete burnings. When the Cardassians left Bajor, they thought they'd taken everything useful with them. The refugees showed them how wrong they were.
Dirt tracks served as streets, dashed and dotted with ruts and holes. Bashir could see no order to their rambling paths, no reason for the crazy jogs and angles. At this hour, they were deserted. He found himself stepping very quietly, the better to hear any sound made by another living soul. He did not like walking with ghosts.
Julian did not have far to go in order to reach the infirmary. It was a large gray structure whose size suggested it had once been a granary or storehouse. One wall showed the black streaks of fire; another was completely gone, replaced by a curtain of patchwork blankets hung between the supporting beams. That curtain was the only door the place had.
Five very young children sat playing in the dirt in front of the building. Three of them stood by watching while the fourth—a big girl with wild, brown hair like a bramble patch—gave a savage beating to the fifth, a boy much smaller than herself. The children witnessing the uneven match showed no reaction, neither cheering the bully on nor trying to go to the aid of her victim. The victim, in turn, accepted the drubbing with nothing more than stifled grunts when the blows fell. As for the bully herself, she did not appear to be enjoying the process any more than her prey. Her face was dead, her eyes empty. To Julian, that was the most frightening thing of all.
He waded into the middle of the fight and separated the children, yanking the boy to safety on his shoulder. The girl did not try to reclaim her victim, but only stood gazing at him with the patient, inhuman expression of a dog that has treed a cat and knows that the unlucky animal will have to come down sometime. She could wait. The boy's nose was dripping blood and mucus, which he did not bother to wipe away. It added to the layer of grime already encrusting his face. The stink coming from his frail, bony body was appalling.
"What's the meaning of this?" Dr. Bashir demanded. He got no answer. The children only looked at him, waiting. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he went on, confronting the girl.
She was not ashamed. She was nothing. Her eyes met his, but there was no spark behind them. It was like waiting for a response from a statue.
Julian set the little boy down and tried to get an answer out of him. "Why was she beating you?" All he got was a shrug. Then the boy scurried away like a rabbit, ducking around the corner of a nearby tent without sparing a word of thanks for the doctor. The remaining four trotted off after him. Julian's heart sank as he realized that if they caught up with that child, the beating would resume as if nothing had happened.
He debated whether or not to bother following them and trying to make contact. A glance at the infirmary made his mind up for him. If he didn't get to work on finding a cure for the camp fever, he was more than likely to see those children again all too soon, as patients. He lifted up a flap between two of the hanging blankets and went in.
Here was another smell, just as strong and stunning as the reek outside, but a smell he knew. Fever made its own perfume. Julian blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimness inside the infirmary. There were few windows, most of them broken, all of them open, although the faint breeze did little to effectively circulate the air or dispel the odors. Metal cups nailed to the upright beams held candles that added their glow to the meager daylight.
By this dim light, Julian saw two rows of bedrolls laid out on the bare earth on either side of a central aisle. The few shabby cots stood out like islands of luxury. Hammocks hung in places where the upright beams were planted close enough to permit them. Ropes ran across the width of the building, holding up sagging sheets that gave a little privacy to whoever lay on the other side. The vast room was filled with the low, indistinct sound of moaning, coughing, bodies tossing and turning, and sometimes the erupting cry of delirium.
Dr. Bashir walked slowly down the aisle, turning his head left and right, noting that most of the shapes beneath the scanty covers were very small. He glanced into one of the curtained-off cubicles and surprised a woman—her face young, but her hair gray as ash—crouched on a crude stool with an infant at her breast. The baby lay very still, despite the mother's repeated attempts to encourage it to nurse. Dr. Bashir saw the small, pale lips move just a little, then relax. The mother stared at him, but her expression did not ask for help or demand privacy. To her, he was only something to look at, like a wall.
"May I?" He stepped into the cubicle the same way he had stepped into the children's fight, only this time he was not about to give up so easily. She resisted when he first tried to take the baby from her arms. He was gentle but firm as he took the child away, and she was too weak to do more than put up a token struggle. Cradling the infant in one arm, he unwrapped its dirty swaddlings and examined it. He did not use any of the medical instruments he carried, in case the sight of something so alien near her baby might panic the mother.
Observation is a doctor's first, best tool, Selok once taught. The little body in Julian's arms felt warm, but not hot, and there were no signs of swelling anywhere. He shifted the baby to his shoulder and patted its back. He was rewarded with a loud burp followed by dampness seeping through the shoulder of his uniform and the smell of curdled milk.
"Well, that's gratitude," he said, smiling at the baby as he rested it back in the crook of his arm. He stroked its cheek and got a strong rooting reflex. Now that its stomach pain was relieved, it was eager to nurse. But why was it so warm to the touch? A swift investigation of its mouth gave him the answer.
"He's teething," he told the mother. "It's normal for babies to feel a little warmer than usual when their teeth are coming in."
He gave the baby back. The young woman accepted her child from the doctor's arms, acting as if she expected the infant to explode. With one eye still on Dr. Bashir, she began rewrapping the baby as snugly as before.
"No, no, no!" Dr. Bashir said, reaching out. "Not so warm, not so tight. He's hot enough. You don't want to overheat him or the first cool breeze could give him a chill. Take off at least one layer of those swaddlings until the tooth comes in or the weather gets cooler."
The mother's eyes narrowed. She tapped the heavily ridged bridge of her nose, flicked the naked wires hanging from her right ear, then pointed at Bashir's own ridgeless nose and undecorated earlobe.
He was puzzled only for an instant; then he laughed. "No, I'm not Bajoran," he said. "But I've studied how your people and mine are alike and different. Teething's a similar process for our babies and yours. Now, Ferengi babies, that's a different story." His tone changed to one of concern. "Is there something else wrong? Can you tell me? Can you talk?"
The woman appeared to think this over, then slowly said, "You … studied? You are the healer Brother Gis said he would bring us?"
"I am Dr. Julian Bashir." He moved to pat her hand, but thought better of it when she jerked away. "You may have seen others here like me?" He indicated the insignia that was his comm badge. "Lieutenant Dax and Ensign Kahrimanis. We've come from the station, Deep Space Nine, and …" His words trickled away. "You don't know a thing about space stations, do you?" he said. "Or Starfleet or the Federation or—Never mind, it's unimportant. We've come to help, that's all you need to know. Don't be afraid of any one of us. Understand?"
The woman bobbed her head uncertainly, then removed the outermost swaddling cloth and with a shy look attempted to blot away the spit-up milk from Dr. Bashir's shoulder. "Thank you," he said. "Now take your child out of here. He doesn't need to be in the infimary. As a matter of fact, with this contagion, it's the worst place possible for him and you."
Dr. Bashir doubted whether getting mother and child out of this nexus of infection would save them, but he knew it would do them no good to remain. He escorted them to the exit personally. At the blanketed doorway, the young woman hesitated, then suddenly seized Dr. Bashir's hand and pressed it to her right ear. Then she darted through the flap and away.
"Ow," said Julian, regarding the thin scratch that the naked wires had left on the fleshy part of his palm just below the thumb.
"Ah, Dr. Bashir!" Brother Gis stood before him, pleasure lighting up his face. He was no longer clad in the long robes and cap he had worn aboard the station. Instead he was bareheaded, with a knee-length brown tunic and serviceable yellow apron covering him. He took Julian's hand and examined the scratch. "Nothing serious. Come with me and we'll put something on it."
Dr. Bashir trailed after the monk back down the aisle. At the very rear of the building, a sheet had been hung across the entrance to what looked like a stall. Julian had to duck through a slit in the sheet to enter. Inside he saw a rickety table, a back-broken chair, and a hodgepodge of chests, bins, trunks, and other storage furniture. Here the clean, spicy smell of medications was stronger than the sour smell of sickness.
"Welcome to my office," Brother Gis said. "Will you be seated?" He motioned Dr. Bashir to take the only chair, but Julian politely refused. "No? Then with your permission." The monk sat down with an audible sigh. "That feels good. Even when I am gone for so short a time, the work piles up. I had just left you in you tent and was about to escort your friends to their accommodations when Belem, my assistant, came rushing up with an emergency only I could handle. According to Belem, that is." He gave Julian an arch look. "I have been going from one emergency to another ever since. Ensign Kahrimanis and Lieutenant Dax still do not know where they are to sleep tonight. It reflects poorly on our hospitality. I hope that you, at least, are well settled?"
"Everything is fine," Julian replied. He pictured Dax and Kahrimanis, hard at work, while he huddled in his tent. The spark of anger against himself burned hotter. "If you can tell me where I can find the boxes we brought from DS9, I'd like to deploy the supplies and start setting up a field lab."
"Of course, of course." Brother Gis made calming motions. "I shall have Belem take you there at once. In fact, I shall tell Belem that for the duration of your stay, he is to be your personal aide."
"Ensign Kahrimanis is here. I really don't need—" Julian began.
"I implore you, Doctor, take him." the monk's hands joined in a sign of supplication. "He is a good lad, only a little too—how to say it?—eager. He helps where there is no need of help and there is no stopping him. He means well, yet he leaves me feeling that half the emergencies he reports are emergencies he has created."
"Surely you don't mean he causes them?" Dr. Bashir was on guard. This was not the sort of aide he wanted.
"Did I give that impression? Forgive me. It is an injustice to the boy. What I meant was, his imagination exaggerates ordinary situations to the rank of emergencies. He is very young, very excitable, and very far from home. He needs to calm down."
"I'll take him off your hands and do what I can with him," Dr. Bashir promised. He wondered whether he was blushing. While Brother Gis was describing the overeager Belem, Dr. Bashir had had a momentary vision of himself chattering at Commander Sisko about his latest dabblings in espionage with Garak. Did the few instances when he had turned up useful information make up for all the other times he had bent the commander's ear for no reason? "It's the least I can do."
"You will not regret it," the monk reassured him. "Now let me see that scratch."
Obediently, Dr. Bashir stuck out his hand. Brother Gis gave it a brief look and said, "Hardly a nick, but I would feel better if I cleaned and bandaged it for you. There is contagion in the air, and we still do not know if the disease limits itself to Bajorans. I will get my kit."
He was still rising from his chair when Dr. Bashir produced a thin, metallic instrument and ran the flashing tip of it down the length of the scratch. It vanished without leaving so much as a scar behind.
"By the Prophets!" the monk gasped. "What did you do?"
Dr. Bashir had a charming smile. "I didn't want you to waste your supplies treating something so minor."
"Er, yes." Brother Gis looked at him askance, then picked up a bronze handbell from the tabletop and rang it twice. Julian heard a scuffle of heavy footsteps from beyond the screens and was nearly bowled over by the lanky young Bajoran who came bursting into the makeshift office.
"You must be Belem," Dr. Bashir said when he recovered his balance. The boy shifted his weight awkwardly and nodded without looking the doctor in the eye. He could not have been older than fourteen, and he, too, wore a strand of bare wire dangling from his right ear. "Brother Gis says that you'll be helping me here," Julian persisted. "I need to be taken to the supplies we brought from the station. Do you know where they are?" Again the jerky nod.
"Don't stand there like a jeskla, Belem; obey the healer!" the monk said severely. To Dr. Bashir he added, "After Belem has shown you where you are to work and helped you set up your things, I would like to take you on a tour of the entire camp. I say I would like to, barring any new emergencies." He gave the boy a significant look, but Belem was studying his own bare feet and missed it. "After that it will be time for our evening meal. We eat communally, in the square."
"The square?"
"We call it that. It used to be the exercise yard for the draft animals."
"Draft animals? How could a farm survive without machines?"
"There were machines here." Brother Gis folded his hands. "In fact, we have two of them in fair working order—a tiller and a fertilizer—and I have a man working on salvaging a third. But we were lucky that some Bajorans still enjoy the old-fashioned ways enough to make breeding verdanis profitable."
The word was alien to Dr. Bashir until he remembered Major Kira using it once when she and Quark got into an argument about gambling. The Ferengi thought the Bajorans were fools for not betting on the verdanis races and said so. "They're like horses!" Julian exclaimed with a snap of his fingers.
"If you say so," the monk replied. "Even the verdanis that has been trained for the racetrack can still pull a plow and tread out the grain or turn a millstone. They have been our salvation, especially now that so few adults remain to work the fields. I only wish we could give them back their old accommodations, but we need them more."
"Well, then, if I don't see you earlier, I'll meet you in the square," Julian said.
"Anyone can direct you there. In bad weather, we move into the stables, but when the sky is clear it is good to live as much as possible under the eye of the Prophets." He rose from his chair with a grunt of weariness "Until then. Dr. Bashir."
Julian walked out of the infirmary with Belem by his side. The young Bajoran had a strange gait, a rolling limp that drew the doctor's eyes immediately. One if the boy's feet was malformed, and the calf badly bowed.
Poor fellow, he thought. That looks congenital. Still, it's nothing I couldn't fix for him fast enough. I wonder when I ought to offer? He may be sensitive about it—I'd be surprised if he weren't! And if Bajoran adolescence is anything like ours, he's at that age when there's nothing about his body he feels at home with. He decided he would wait until Belem got to know him better before bringing up the subject.
Belem guided Dr. Bashir to a shelter that had one stone wall, three wooden ones—one with a real door—and a wooden roof. There was a latch on the door, held closed by a complex device that looked like a hand-manipulated puzzle box. Belem pounced on it with nimble fingers, and after a series of quick twists and turns had it open. The Bajoran could not suppress a smile of pride when he opened the door for the doctor.
Dr. Bashir returned the smile and said, "Thank you, Belem. You'll have to show me how that works."
"'Seasy," Belem mumbled, and darted into a nearby tent to fetch an oil lamp. It was rancid oil, but it was the only light source available. By the flame of the rag wick, Dr. Bashir surveyed his new laboratory.
The containers from the station were there, set down neatly in a row beside three wooden tables. Julian knelt beside the first one and began to unpack. Belem hung back at first, though it didn't take long for his naturally helpful nature to manifest itself and send him to work at the doctor's side. The boy picked up all the things Julian laid out beside the chests and arranged them on the tabletops.
"Careful," Julian said automatically as Belem set out a variety of glassware and a portable microscanner.
"Don't worry, sir," the boy said. "Brother Gis told us to give you the best tables. These have their own legs, not broken, not even fixed once. They don't wobble at all, and their tops are smooth and level." He announced this as if it were the greatest miracle his world could boast.
Which it is, Julian thought. With Belem's help, they soon had a laboratory setup that was to Dr. Bashir's liking. His next step was to show the youth how to use a sampler. "I'd like you to take this into the infirmary and gather blood samples from the fever patients," he instructed him.
"There's nothing but fever patients in there now," Belem replied. He studied the slim, shining wand, awestruck. Do you think I could? I am no healer. It would be arrogant."
"It would help me," Bashir said. The boy looked dubious. "I need the samples, and it won't hurt the patients," he went on, trying to gain Belem's confidence. "All you do is touch the blue-banded end to the patient's inner elbow—that cleans the area—then flip it around and touch the other end to the same place to take the blood. There won't be even a mark left behind. Oh, and I'll give you something to use to identify which patient each sample comes from. I could do it myself, but Brother Gis can use my skills better elsewhere. Do you see?"
"I—I think so." Belem's lower lip trembled. "But I'm so clumsy. What if I do it wrong?"
"I'll accompany you and watch you try it the first few times, then you can carry on on your own. Will that do?" Belem nodded without much conviction. "Anyway, who says you're clumsy?"
"Everyone." The boy sounded sure of that.
"Brother Gis said that?"
"Nnnnnno," Belem admitted. "But he's the only one. It's because of this." He extended his twisted foot, at the same time looking away from it as much as possible.
Dr. Bashir felt his heart leap at this unexpected opportunity. There would be no need for him to await a more favorable moment to heal Belem. It wouldn't take long, he knew it, and if he could perform the operation before it was time for the evening meal—
—you'll redeem yourself, the voice within whispered. Fix the boy's leg and you prove you can be the great, romantic frontier healer of your dreams. But is that who you are? Or are you just the man who was cowering in his own tent not so long ago?
Proving myself isn't important, Julian thought ferociously. What's important is the boy. "May I examine that?" he asked Belem.
"Yes, sir." The boy answered in away that as good as said he did not dare refuse the great healer's request. He sat down on one of the empty containers and continued to look away while Dr. Bashir ran a diagnostic probe over his skin.
The boy's rigid, terrified attitude troubled Julian. He tried to relax his patient by chatting with him while he worked. "Have you been here long, Belem?"
"Five years. I was twelve when our village was—resettled."
Julian looked up sharply. Belem didn't look seventeen. His healthy growth had been stolen from him by the years of Cardassian occupation. More than his growth: Julian knew that resettlement was often just another word for destruction. He tried to keep his tone casual as he went on to say, "I should have known. I see you're well past the age of initiation." He touched the bare lobe of his own right ear where Bajorans wore the shimmering ornament that marked their status.
Belem touched his own right ear reflexively and blushed to feel the naked wires. "I had to sell them," he muttered.
"What?"
"The crystals. I was the oldest, my brothers were seven and five. I had to buy us food for our journey."
"Your journey?" Julian repeated.
Belem looked at him as though the doctor had just hatched. "The journey here, sir. We had to come, you know. There was trouble on our farm. The Underground sabotaged Father's harvester, and the Cardassian agents were coming to collect the crop. Father ordered all of my uncles and aunts and the bigger cousins into the fields to do the work by hand—even me! Only we couldn't do it fast enough. The Underground must have been watching. They came back the next night and burned the fields." The life went out of his eyes as the past came back, remorseless. "They did the same with all the other farms near our village, too. The Cardassians didn't care why we hadn't met our quotas. Father tried to reason with the Gul, but he said things—Father forgot himself and shouted back at him." Belem shuddered. "We ran into the hills when we saw what they did to Father. Then there was a bigger fire—"
"You don't have to tell me any more," Dr. Bashir said gently. Belem blinked at him, waking from the old nightmare.
"Oh, I don't mind talking about it, sir," he said. "I was able to save two of my brothers and bring them all the way here. That's something. Jin—that's my middle brother—Jin always stuck up for me after we got here. He told everyone who called me useless and a coward to shut up. Then he told them how I'd brought him and Narel—he's ten now—all the way here from home."
"I can't see anyone calling you a coward, Belem," Bashir said. He finished his examination and stood up. As he'd thought, the malformation was congenital but correctable, even here. "And Brother Gis would be the first to contradict anyone who called you useless."
The Bajoran boy's eyes filled with tears. "But I am useless, sir," he said.
"How can you—?"
"I lost it." His head dropped to his chest.
"The crystals? But you needed to sell them in order to live."
"Not the crystals." He looked up, and all Julian could see in that young face was pain and shame. "Our name, sir. Jin and Narel were young and terrified, and the way here was so hard that no one can blame them for forgetting, but I—I should have held on to it. It was who we were. It's why we're just Belem and Jin and Narel instead of who we should be." Tears flooded his cheeks. "Our name, sir; I lost our name."

 

CHAPTER 5

DR. BASHIR SAT ON HIS COT in the tent Brother Gis had assigned him. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, his mouth open as he took three slow, deep breaths, trying to regain the analytic calm he would need if he was ever going to take the first step toward saving the children.
Save them … for what? A malicious whisper of a thought crept through his mind. For the next epidemic that blows through this wasteland? Or for years of backbreaking work trying to reclaim the land the Cardassians drained dry?
Be still, Julian told the voice. He closed his mouth and took a penetrating breath through his nose, held it for a beat, let it out through pursed lips, and repeated the pattern. He had learned this technique for centering himself even before he began his physician's training. Everyone talked about the pressures of Starfleet Academy, everyone spoke of the additional pressures of exobiological studies, but no one thought to suggest how to handle those pressures. You either found a way that worked for you or you quit.
Quitting was never an option for Julian Bashir.
You see how thy live here, the voice persisted. It's amazing that this is only the first illness to take such a heavy toll. You like to think you can work fast, but will it be fast enough for them? If you fail, they die, and if you succeed … some other sickness will spring up and finish the work of this one.
Julian's stomach churned. Leave me alone. Let me think.
He knew it was an impossible request the moment he made it. How could he escape from himself?
He could still hear the words of Selok of Vulcan, the instructor he had admired and respected above all others, telling him, "You are one of the most confident medical students I have ever known, Bashir. You are also one of the most self-critical. You believe in your abilities, yet at the same time you never cease questioning them."
"When you lecture us, haven't you stressed a doctor's need to evaluate his own performance frequently, sir?" the younger Julian protested.
The Vulcan healer's austere expression remained as it was. "There is a difference between self-analysis and self-attack. Learn it."
At times like this, alone but for the inner voice that questioned him constantly, Julian wondered if he would ever learn Selok's lesson.
Thinking about what's waiting for you out there won't change a thing, his inner voice went on. And finding the cure for this "camp fever" won't change a thing either. You won't be saving anyone, Julian; you'll only be prolonging their misery. Is that kind?
I am a doctor, Bashir told himself. His hands hooked under the edge of the cot, the knuckles going white. I am a healer. It's my job to find the cure. It's my duty. It's why I was brought here, what they're all expecting of me. I can't let them down.
A fine doctor! Laughter echoed inside Bashir's head. Dax and Kahrimanis are already at work in the infirmary, while you're in here, hiding.
Do you call that an infirmary? Bashir lashed out, his indignation letting him forget everything else, for the moment. There aren't even enough beds for the sick.
But you have a nice bed, Julian, the voice said sweetly. Do Kahrimanis and Dax have such comfortable accommodations? Brother Gis said they would have places in the adult dormitories—more tents, only with bigger holes in the walls. But you—! You're the healer. Special privileges for you. Why aren't you out there, earning them?
I'll do more than that. Dr. Bashir took one last deep breath and opened his eyes. And if what I do here isn't enough to save their world, at least I can save their lives. He felt better now. The churning in his stomach had subsided. In its place was the hot, steady fire of anger. He was angry because there was work he should be doing that was going undone. He was angry with himself for the momentary weakness that had overcome him when the first set eyes on the camp.
He got no consolation from the fact that he wasn't the only one so affected. Kahrimanis, too, had been strongly jarred when Brother Gis led the landing party down the hillock and into the midst of the settlement. Bashir distinctly remembered his assistant's pale face, his sharply indrawn breath. Even Dax registered shock at the filth, the stench, the hopelessness that hung over the entire encampment like a thick cloud of fetid smoke.
Dax, who has lived so long and seen so much! he thought. If she could stare stunned at the misery surrounding them, could he blame himself for his own reaction? The wave of pity that struck him felt like a hammer blow to the chest. It left him shaking so badly on the inside that he asked Brother Gis to show him to his quarters right away.
They don't need my pity, he told himself as he rose from the bed and strode out of the tent. They need my help.
Two steps out of the tent and the smell drilled him right between the eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Dr. Bashir's nostrils curled at the reek of human waste left where it had fallen, untreated and unburied. An odor of rotting garbage wove itself through the air as well, though this scent was far weaker—the refugees did not have enough food to produce many leavings, and what food they had was so thoroughly, completely used that few scraps were left over.
As Dr. Bashir stood there, a boy of about ten came by pushing a wheelbarrow full of organic refuse. The child walked with the stoop-shouldered, shuffling gait of an old man. His clothing was so tattered that it was impossible to tell what its original color had been, or even its original shape. As he trundled the barrow past Julian, he did not bother to give the doctor so much as a passing glance. Curiosity took more energy than he had to spare.
"Can I help you with that?" Dr. Bashir stepped up to the boy and tried to relieve him of the heavy barrow. Asking his permission was just a formality. To his surprise, the child clung to the wheelbarrow handles stubbornly, baring his teeth in a warning snarl. Julian released the handles and backed away fast, showing the boy his empty hands. "All right, all right, it's all yours. No one's going to take it from you."
The boy glowered at Bashir, then dug his bare, brown feet into the dusty path and continued on his way. Bashir watched him go, shading his eyes until the wheelbarrow turned around the corner of one of the camp buildings and was gone from sight.
The boy's departure left Dr. Bashir alone. Cupping his hand over his nose and mouth, he set out to find the infirmary. After a while, his hand dropped back to his side. The reek of the camp became familiar, though no less pungent. I suppose this proves you can get used to anything, he thought. He wondered whether the smell would ever come out of his clothes.
Brother Gis's camp was a jumble of tents and opensided pavilions thrown up around the ruins of an old farmstead. There was no organization to the layout of the buildings and no overall plan except to provide as much shelter as quickly as possible. It looked as if it had grown itself overnight, like some sort of fungus, rather than the work of human hands. Every solid-walled structure that Dr. Bashir passed was cobbled together from a half-dozen other cannibalized buildings. Courses of brickwork were topped with layers of unmortared stone. Roofs served as walls, floorboards were transformed into roofs, and anything that could stand was made into a wall. Some buildings had wooden sides, each one wearing a different-color paint, many showing the scorched scars of incomplete burnings. When the Cardassians left Bajor, they thought they'd taken everything useful with them. The refugees showed them how wrong they were.
Dirt tracks served as streets, dashed and dotted with ruts and holes. Bashir could see no order to their rambling paths, no reason for the crazy jogs and angles. At this hour, they were deserted. He found himself stepping very quietly, the better to hear any sound made by another living soul. He did not like walking with ghosts.
Julian did not have far to go in order to reach the infirmary. It was a large gray structure whose size suggested it had once been a granary or storehouse. One wall showed the black streaks of fire; another was completely gone, replaced by a curtain of patchwork blankets hung between the supporting beams. That curtain was the only door the place had.
Five very young children sat playing in the dirt in front of the building. Three of them stood by watching while the fourth—a big girl with wild, brown hair like a bramble patch—gave a savage beating to the fifth, a boy much smaller than herself. The children witnessing the uneven match showed no reaction, neither cheering the bully on nor trying to go to the aid of her victim. The victim, in turn, accepted the drubbing with nothing more than stifled grunts when the blows fell. As for the bully herself, she did not appear to be enjoying the process any more than her prey. Her face was dead, her eyes empty. To Julian, that was the most frightening thing of all.
He waded into the middle of the fight and separated the children, yanking the boy to safety on his shoulder. The girl did not try to reclaim her victim, but only stood gazing at him with the patient, inhuman expression of a dog that has treed a cat and knows that the unlucky animal will have to come down sometime. She could wait. The boy's nose was dripping blood and mucus, which he did not bother to wipe away. It added to the layer of grime already encrusting his face. The stink coming from his frail, bony body was appalling.
"What's the meaning of this?" Dr. Bashir demanded. He got no answer. The children only looked at him, waiting. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he went on, confronting the girl.
She was not ashamed. She was nothing. Her eyes met his, but there was no spark behind them. It was like waiting for a response from a statue.
Julian set the little boy down and tried to get an answer out of him. "Why was she beating you?" All he got was a shrug. Then the boy scurried away like a rabbit, ducking around the corner of a nearby tent without sparing a word of thanks for the doctor. The remaining four trotted off after him. Julian's heart sank as he realized that if they caught up with that child, the beating would resume as if nothing had happened.
He debated whether or not to bother following them and trying to make contact. A glance at the infirmary made his mind up for him. If he didn't get to work on finding a cure for the camp fever, he was more than likely to see those children again all too soon, as patients. He lifted up a flap between two of the hanging blankets and went in.
Here was another smell, just as strong and stunning as the reek outside, but a smell he knew. Fever made its own perfume. Julian blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimness inside the infirmary. There were few windows, most of them broken, all of them open, although the faint breeze did little to effectively circulate the air or dispel the odors. Metal cups nailed to the upright beams held candles that added their glow to the meager daylight.
By this dim light, Julian saw two rows of bedrolls laid out on the bare earth on either side of a central aisle. The few shabby cots stood out like islands of luxury. Hammocks hung in places where the upright beams were planted close enough to permit them. Ropes ran across the width of the building, holding up sagging sheets that gave a little privacy to whoever lay on the other side. The vast room was filled with the low, indistinct sound of moaning, coughing, bodies tossing and turning, and sometimes the erupting cry of delirium.
Dr. Bashir walked slowly down the aisle, turning his head left and right, noting that most of the shapes beneath the scanty covers were very small. He glanced into one of the curtained-off cubicles and surprised a woman—her face young, but her hair gray as ash—crouched on a crude stool with an infant at her breast. The baby lay very still, despite the mother's repeated attempts to encourage it to nurse. Dr. Bashir saw the small, pale lips move just a little, then relax. The mother stared at him, but her expression did not ask for help or demand privacy. To her, he was only something to look at, like a wall.
"May I?" He stepped into the cubicle the same way he had stepped into the children's fight, only this time he was not about to give up so easily. She resisted when he first tried to take the baby from her arms. He was gentle but firm as he took the child away, and she was too weak to do more than put up a token struggle. Cradling the infant in one arm, he unwrapped its dirty swaddlings and examined it. He did not use any of the medical instruments he carried, in case the sight of something so alien near her baby might panic the mother.
Observation is a doctor's first, best tool, Selok once taught. The little body in Julian's arms felt warm, but not hot, and there were no signs of swelling anywhere. He shifted the baby to his shoulder and patted its back. He was rewarded with a loud burp followed by dampness seeping through the shoulder of his uniform and the smell of curdled milk.
"Well, that's gratitude," he said, smiling at the baby as he rested it back in the crook of his arm. He stroked its cheek and got a strong rooting reflex. Now that its stomach pain was relieved, it was eager to nurse. But why was it so warm to the touch? A swift investigation of its mouth gave him the answer.
"He's teething," he told the mother. "It's normal for babies to feel a little warmer than usual when their teeth are coming in."
He gave the baby back. The young woman accepted her child from the doctor's arms, acting as if she expected the infant to explode. With one eye still on Dr. Bashir, she began rewrapping the baby as snugly as before.
"No, no, no!" Dr. Bashir said, reaching out. "Not so warm, not so tight. He's hot enough. You don't want to overheat him or the first cool breeze could give him a chill. Take off at least one layer of those swaddlings until the tooth comes in or the weather gets cooler."
The mother's eyes narrowed. She tapped the heavily ridged bridge of her nose, flicked the naked wires hanging from her right ear, then pointed at Bashir's own ridgeless nose and undecorated earlobe.
He was puzzled only for an instant; then he laughed. "No, I'm not Bajoran," he said. "But I've studied how your people and mine are alike and different. Teething's a similar process for our babies and yours. Now, Ferengi babies, that's a different story." His tone changed to one of concern. "Is there something else wrong? Can you tell me? Can you talk?"
The woman appeared to think this over, then slowly said, "You … studied? You are the healer Brother Gis said he would bring us?"
"I am Dr. Julian Bashir." He moved to pat her hand, but thought better of it when she jerked away. "You may have seen others here like me?" He indicated the insignia that was his comm badge. "Lieutenant Dax and Ensign Kahrimanis. We've come from the station, Deep Space Nine, and …" His words trickled away. "You don't know a thing about space stations, do you?" he said. "Or Starfleet or the Federation or—Never mind, it's unimportant. We've come to help, that's all you need to know. Don't be afraid of any one of us. Understand?"
The woman bobbed her head uncertainly, then removed the outermost swaddling cloth and with a shy look attempted to blot away the spit-up milk from Dr. Bashir's shoulder. "Thank you," he said. "Now take your child out of here. He doesn't need to be in the infimary. As a matter of fact, with this contagion, it's the worst place possible for him and you."
Dr. Bashir doubted whether getting mother and child out of this nexus of infection would save them, but he knew it would do them no good to remain. He escorted them to the exit personally. At the blanketed doorway, the young woman hesitated, then suddenly seized Dr. Bashir's hand and pressed it to her right ear. Then she darted through the flap and away.
"Ow," said Julian, regarding the thin scratch that the naked wires had left on the fleshy part of his palm just below the thumb.
"Ah, Dr. Bashir!" Brother Gis stood before him, pleasure lighting up his face. He was no longer clad in the long robes and cap he had worn aboard the station. Instead he was bareheaded, with a knee-length brown tunic and serviceable yellow apron covering him. He took Julian's hand and examined the scratch. "Nothing serious. Come with me and we'll put something on it."
Dr. Bashir trailed after the monk back down the aisle. At the very rear of the building, a sheet had been hung across the entrance to what looked like a stall. Julian had to duck through a slit in the sheet to enter. Inside he saw a rickety table, a back-broken chair, and a hodgepodge of chests, bins, trunks, and other storage furniture. Here the clean, spicy smell of medications was stronger than the sour smell of sickness.
"Welcome to my office," Brother Gis said. "Will you be seated?" He motioned Dr. Bashir to take the only chair, but Julian politely refused. "No? Then with your permission." The monk sat down with an audible sigh. "That feels good. Even when I am gone for so short a time, the work piles up. I had just left you in you tent and was about to escort your friends to their accommodations when Belem, my assistant, came rushing up with an emergency only I could handle. According to Belem, that is." He gave Julian an arch look. "I have been going from one emergency to another ever since. Ensign Kahrimanis and Lieutenant Dax still do not know where they are to sleep tonight. It reflects poorly on our hospitality. I hope that you, at least, are well settled?"
"Everything is fine," Julian replied. He pictured Dax and Kahrimanis, hard at work, while he huddled in his tent. The spark of anger against himself burned hotter. "If you can tell me where I can find the boxes we brought from DS9, I'd like to deploy the supplies and start setting up a field lab."
"Of course, of course." Brother Gis made calming motions. "I shall have Belem take you there at once. In fact, I shall tell Belem that for the duration of your stay, he is to be your personal aide."
"Ensign Kahrimanis is here. I really don't need—" Julian began.
"I implore you, Doctor, take him." the monk's hands joined in a sign of supplication. "He is a good lad, only a little too—how to say it?—eager. He helps where there is no need of help and there is no stopping him. He means well, yet he leaves me feeling that half the emergencies he reports are emergencies he has created."
"Surely you don't mean he causes them?" Dr. Bashir was on guard. This was not the sort of aide he wanted.
"Did I give that impression? Forgive me. It is an injustice to the boy. What I meant was, his imagination exaggerates ordinary situations to the rank of emergencies. He is very young, very excitable, and very far from home. He needs to calm down."
"I'll take him off your hands and do what I can with him," Dr. Bashir promised. He wondered whether he was blushing. While Brother Gis was describing the overeager Belem, Dr. Bashir had had a momentary vision of himself chattering at Commander Sisko about his latest dabblings in espionage with Garak. Did the few instances when he had turned up useful information make up for all the other times he had bent the commander's ear for no reason? "It's the least I can do."
"You will not regret it," the monk reassured him. "Now let me see that scratch."
Obediently, Dr. Bashir stuck out his hand. Brother Gis gave it a brief look and said, "Hardly a nick, but I would feel better if I cleaned and bandaged it for you. There is contagion in the air, and we still do not know if the disease limits itself to Bajorans. I will get my kit."
He was still rising from his chair when Dr. Bashir produced a thin, metallic instrument and ran the flashing tip of it down the length of the scratch. It vanished without leaving so much as a scar behind.
"By the Prophets!" the monk gasped. "What did you do?"
Dr. Bashir had a charming smile. "I didn't want you to waste your supplies treating something so minor."
"Er, yes." Brother Gis looked at him askance, then picked up a bronze handbell from the tabletop and rang it twice. Julian heard a scuffle of heavy footsteps from beyond the screens and was nearly bowled over by the lanky young Bajoran who came bursting into the makeshift office.
"You must be Belem," Dr. Bashir said when he recovered his balance. The boy shifted his weight awkwardly and nodded without looking the doctor in the eye. He could not have been older than fourteen, and he, too, wore a strand of bare wire dangling from his right ear. "Brother Gis says that you'll be helping me here," Julian persisted. "I need to be taken to the supplies we brought from the station. Do you know where they are?" Again the jerky nod.
"Don't stand there like a jeskla, Belem; obey the healer!" the monk said severely. To Dr. Bashir he added, "After Belem has shown you where you are to work and helped you set up your things, I would like to take you on a tour of the entire camp. I say I would like to, barring any new emergencies." He gave the boy a significant look, but Belem was studying his own bare feet and missed it. "After that it will be time for our evening meal. We eat communally, in the square."
"The square?"
"We call it that. It used to be the exercise yard for the draft animals."
"Draft animals? How could a farm survive without machines?"
"There were machines here." Brother Gis folded his hands. "In fact, we have two of them in fair working order—a tiller and a fertilizer—and I have a man working on salvaging a third. But we were lucky that some Bajorans still enjoy the old-fashioned ways enough to make breeding verdanis profitable."
The word was alien to Dr. Bashir until he remembered Major Kira using it once when she and Quark got into an argument about gambling. The Ferengi thought the Bajorans were fools for not betting on the verdanis races and said so. "They're like horses!" Julian exclaimed with a snap of his fingers.
"If you say so," the monk replied. "Even the verdanis that has been trained for the racetrack can still pull a plow and tread out the grain or turn a millstone. They have been our salvation, especially now that so few adults remain to work the fields. I only wish we could give them back their old accommodations, but we need them more."
"Well, then, if I don't see you earlier, I'll meet you in the square," Julian said.
"Anyone can direct you there. In bad weather, we move into the stables, but when the sky is clear it is good to live as much as possible under the eye of the Prophets." He rose from his chair with a grunt of weariness "Until then. Dr. Bashir."
Julian walked out of the infirmary with Belem by his side. The young Bajoran had a strange gait, a rolling limp that drew the doctor's eyes immediately. One if the boy's feet was malformed, and the calf badly bowed.
Poor fellow, he thought. That looks congenital. Still, it's nothing I couldn't fix for him fast enough. I wonder when I ought to offer? He may be sensitive about it—I'd be surprised if he weren't! And if Bajoran adolescence is anything like ours, he's at that age when there's nothing about his body he feels at home with. He decided he would wait until Belem got to know him better before bringing up the subject.
Belem guided Dr. Bashir to a shelter that had one stone wall, three wooden ones—one with a real door—and a wooden roof. There was a latch on the door, held closed by a complex device that looked like a hand-manipulated puzzle box. Belem pounced on it with nimble fingers, and after a series of quick twists and turns had it open. The Bajoran could not suppress a smile of pride when he opened the door for the doctor.
Dr. Bashir returned the smile and said, "Thank you, Belem. You'll have to show me how that works."
"'Seasy," Belem mumbled, and darted into a nearby tent to fetch an oil lamp. It was rancid oil, but it was the only light source available. By the flame of the rag wick, Dr. Bashir surveyed his new laboratory.
The containers from the station were there, set down neatly in a row beside three wooden tables. Julian knelt beside the first one and began to unpack. Belem hung back at first, though it didn't take long for his naturally helpful nature to manifest itself and send him to work at the doctor's side. The boy picked up all the things Julian laid out beside the chests and arranged them on the tabletops.
"Careful," Julian said automatically as Belem set out a variety of glassware and a portable microscanner.
"Don't worry, sir," the boy said. "Brother Gis told us to give you the best tables. These have their own legs, not broken, not even fixed once. They don't wobble at all, and their tops are smooth and level." He announced this as if it were the greatest miracle his world could boast.
Which it is, Julian thought. With Belem's help, they soon had a laboratory setup that was to Dr. Bashir's liking. His next step was to show the youth how to use a sampler. "I'd like you to take this into the infirmary and gather blood samples from the fever patients," he instructed him.
"There's nothing but fever patients in there now," Belem replied. He studied the slim, shining wand, awestruck. Do you think I could? I am no healer. It would be arrogant."
"It would help me," Bashir said. The boy looked dubious. "I need the samples, and it won't hurt the patients," he went on, trying to gain Belem's confidence. "All you do is touch the blue-banded end to the patient's inner elbow—that cleans the area—then flip it around and touch the other end to the same place to take the blood. There won't be even a mark left behind. Oh, and I'll give you something to use to identify which patient each sample comes from. I could do it myself, but Brother Gis can use my skills better elsewhere. Do you see?"
"I—I think so." Belem's lower lip trembled. "But I'm so clumsy. What if I do it wrong?"
"I'll accompany you and watch you try it the first few times, then you can carry on on your own. Will that do?" Belem nodded without much conviction. "Anyway, who says you're clumsy?"
"Everyone." The boy sounded sure of that.
"Brother Gis said that?"
"Nnnnnno," Belem admitted. "But he's the only one. It's because of this." He extended his twisted foot, at the same time looking away from it as much as possible.
Dr. Bashir felt his heart leap at this unexpected opportunity. There would be no need for him to await a more favorable moment to heal Belem. It wouldn't take long, he knew it, and if he could perform the operation before it was time for the evening meal—
—you'll redeem yourself, the voice within whispered. Fix the boy's leg and you prove you can be the great, romantic frontier healer of your dreams. But is that who you are? Or are you just the man who was cowering in his own tent not so long ago?
Proving myself isn't important, Julian thought ferociously. What's important is the boy. "May I examine that?" he asked Belem.
"Yes, sir." The boy answered in away that as good as said he did not dare refuse the great healer's request. He sat down on one of the empty containers and continued to look away while Dr. Bashir ran a diagnostic probe over his skin.
The boy's rigid, terrified attitude troubled Julian. He tried to relax his patient by chatting with him while he worked. "Have you been here long, Belem?"
"Five years. I was twelve when our village was—resettled."
Julian looked up sharply. Belem didn't look seventeen. His healthy growth had been stolen from him by the years of Cardassian occupation. More than his growth: Julian knew that resettlement was often just another word for destruction. He tried to keep his tone casual as he went on to say, "I should have known. I see you're well past the age of initiation." He touched the bare lobe of his own right ear where Bajorans wore the shimmering ornament that marked their status.
Belem touched his own right ear reflexively and blushed to feel the naked wires. "I had to sell them," he muttered.
"What?"
"The crystals. I was the oldest, my brothers were seven and five. I had to buy us food for our journey."
"Your journey?" Julian repeated.
Belem looked at him as though the doctor had just hatched. "The journey here, sir. We had to come, you know. There was trouble on our farm. The Underground sabotaged Father's harvester, and the Cardassian agents were coming to collect the crop. Father ordered all of my uncles and aunts and the bigger cousins into the fields to do the work by hand—even me! Only we couldn't do it fast enough. The Underground must have been watching. They came back the next night and burned the fields." The life went out of his eyes as the past came back, remorseless. "They did the same with all the other farms near our village, too. The Cardassians didn't care why we hadn't met our quotas. Father tried to reason with the Gul, but he said things—Father forgot himself and shouted back at him." Belem shuddered. "We ran into the hills when we saw what they did to Father. Then there was a bigger fire—"
"You don't have to tell me any more," Dr. Bashir said gently. Belem blinked at him, waking from the old nightmare.
"Oh, I don't mind talking about it, sir," he said. "I was able to save two of my brothers and bring them all the way here. That's something. Jin—that's my middle brother—Jin always stuck up for me after we got here. He told everyone who called me useless and a coward to shut up. Then he told them how I'd brought him and Narel—he's ten now—all the way here from home."
"I can't see anyone calling you a coward, Belem," Bashir said. He finished his examination and stood up. As he'd thought, the malformation was congenital but correctable, even here. "And Brother Gis would be the first to contradict anyone who called you useless."
The Bajoran boy's eyes filled with tears. "But I am useless, sir," he said.
"How can you—?"
"I lost it." His head dropped to his chest.
"The crystals? But you needed to sell them in order to live."
"Not the crystals." He looked up, and all Julian could see in that young face was pain and shame. "Our name, sir. Jin and Narel were young and terrified, and the way here was so hard that no one can blame them for forgetting, but I—I should have held on to it. It was who we were. It's why we're just Belem and Jin and Narel instead of who we should be." Tears flooded his cheeks. "Our name, sir; I lost our name."