CHAPTER 6

"JULIAN, YOU'VE GOT TO EAT." Dax slid onto the bench beside Dr. Bashir and looked pointedly at his untouched plate. A lump of grainy black bread and a dollop of meatless stew covered the chipped clay platter.
"I'm not hungry." He said it so softly that she had to have him repeat it.
"I know this isn't the Replimat's best," she said, "but it's all they've got to offer us." She picked up a piece of bread and with some effort tore off a hunk with her teeth. "Mnoff vad," she said, struggling to chew it.
Julian poked at his stew once with chopsticks, then pushed his plate away.
"You could always ask for shipments of food from the station," Dax suggested quietly. "Just do it so that Brother Gis and the rest don't find out. It would hurt them deeply."
"I'm not interested in eating station food here," Julian said, fists tightening on the table. "I'm just not hungry."
The intensity of his words startled Dax. It was the first time she'd heard him speak to her harshly. In ordinary circumstances, Julian was either trying to impress her or flirt with her, neither one with great success.
These aren't ordinary circumstances, she reflected. "What's troubling you, Julian?" she asked.
Instead of answering, he got up and walked away.
"He's still not used to this," Ensign Kahrimanis remarked.
"This is not the sort of thing anyone gets used to," Lieutenant Dax replied. Not if you've got a heart. Her glance swept the square, where a dozen plank-and-trestle tables had been set up for the evening meal. The sun was almost down, staining the sky shades of deep amber, peach, and purple between the camp buildings. Wooden torches smoldered and flared in their sockets, lighting the way for the children who went back and forth from the cook shack with the big serving platters or who hauled buckets of drinking water from the storage barrels.
Most of the tables were empty. Those that were occupied were packed with children who huddled near each other. The few tables where adults sat were the most thickly mobbed. As Dax watched, she saw a little girl try to squeeze onto a bench beside a grown man. The man gave her a tired smile, but the boy beside him snarled, then launched himself at her.
"Calin! Calin!" The man pulled the boy off the little girl and scolded him while the other child slunk away to take a place at another table. A heartbreaking look of yearning filled her eyes, which never left the man's face. "Why did you do that, Calin?"
"'Cause you're my father!" the boy shouted. "She wants to take you away from me, just 'cause her father an' mother's both dead. She can't! You're mine!" And he seized his father's arm fiercely.
"It is often so," said Brother Gis. The monk and his two brethren were the only ones sharing the table with the crew members of Deep Space Nine. "There are perhaps a dozen children for each adult here, counting ourselves. Some of them came to us already orphaned, although a number were in the care of older brothers and sisters. The fever has changed much of that. Those who came to us with parents that the fever took are like blossoms on the wind, and those who still have parents living are terrified of losing them"
"If things were otherwise, we might hope for aid from the district centers, offers of fosterage, adoption, even adult volunteers to come here and work with the children," said Mor. He was the youngest of the three monks manning the camp. He had the face of a man who was once fat. "But this is an isolated area. In the good times, pleasure-travelers seldom came this far into the Kaladrys Valley. The village of Lacroya never even had a guest-house, just a tavern. As it is, people have their own problems. To them, our hardships are unimportant in comparison. When I travel to the camp at Jabelon to trade for lamp oil, I hear rumors that there is much unrest in the cities, and it is spreading rapidly. The government is unstable, like a pavement made of broken stones. If we send them word asking for help, they send us silence. If we were to pack up the children and travel to the capital itself so that they could not pretend we are not there, they would give us excuses."
"Besides, the children have been uprooted enough," Brother Gis put in. "I would not ask it of them. They were never strong enough to make such a journey, and now that so many are sick, it is impossible."
"So here we stay," Brother Talissin concluded, "waiting for the Prophets to teach our leaders the lesson of mercy."
"It's extremely difficult for people who have been powerless to gain power suddenly." Jadzia spoke from the prior experiences of several lifetimes. "It takes time before they can think of using that power in anyone's interest but their own."
"Which makes us all the more grateful to you and Dr. Bashir for giving so much of yourselves to us," Brother Gis said.
"Please, we've barely begun. As soon as Dr. Bashir can run some tests on your patients, we'll be on our way to finding the cure for this camp fever of yours."
"Dr. Bashir has already done wonders," Brother Gis said. He gestured to where the doctor stood watching a group of the older children. They had formed a ring around Belem, who was showing off his mended foot and leg. The others gaped at it, and one tried to touch it. Belem made a mocking noise, in jest, and jumped lightly out of reach. Unfortunately, he did not look where he was going; his leap sent him bumping into the doctor.
"The healer does not have the cure for clumsiness, I see," Brother Talissin sniped. He was younger than Brother Gis, who himself was not so old, but he was steeped in bitterness.
"I'm sure the boy will discover that for himself when he's older," Dax said placidly. Brother Talissin snorted.
"If it is the will of the Prophets, a cure for the fever will be found," Brother Mor said with sincerity. "If not, we must still thank Dr. Bashir. By healing Belem's foot, he has given the children a sign they can understand, a sign that there is hope for change."
"He has changed Belem's life, at any rate," Brother Talissin said. "If he knew what sort of change he has wrought, he would not be pleased."
Brother Mor leaned forward to peer at Bashir. The doctor spoke a few words to Belem and headed slowly back toward the table. "He does not look pleased."
"That is all an act," Brother Talissin scoffed. "The long face is just to make us fuss over his accomplishment with Belem. Is one healing a triumph? The boy could have gone on as he was before and the healer could have used his time aiding those who need it more." Dr. Bashir returned to his place in time to hear the monk conclude, "I have raised enough children to know all the different tricks they try to get attention."
"Then why don't you give it to them?" he snapped.
"What—?" Brother Talissin sputtered.
"The children in this camp work like adults," Julian said. His voice was flinty, his face tense with the strain of holding back so much helpless outrage. "They have to—I accept that. If they don't do the farmwork, they won't eat. But they are so alone. I see it in their eyes, the nothingness, the cold. Too many of them are isolated, even in the middle of a mob. They're fed and sheltered and clothed as well as possible, but they need more than that. They want care."
Brother Gis regarded him with sorrowful eyes. "You think we do not care for the children, Dr. Bashir?"
Julian was abashed. "I didn't mean to imply—With respect, Brother Gis, you and your brethren are doing all you can for them, but there is a difference between maintenance and—and showing each one of them that he's more than just an interchangeable unit. You care for the children when they want you to care for the child. It's not your fault if they need more than you have the time to give."
"I think I see your point, Doctor," Brother Gis said, nodding, chin in hand. "As you see ours. There are not enough of us here to single out every child for individual attention. May the Prophets forgive us."
"We do our duty; the Prophets need not forgive us for that." Brother Talissin broke off a crumb of the coarse bread and soaked it to chewable softness in the liquid from his stew. "You have only arrived here today, Dr. Bashir, yet already you seem to have all the answers. Truly you must have walked with the Prophets. Share your great wisdom. Enlighten us. What will you do for our children that we have so shamefully neglected to do?"
"For a start, I'd give them the attention they have to fight for now."
"You would? How generous of you." Brother Talissin lifted the now-tender crumb to his lips and chewed it carefully. When he opened his mouth, Dax saw that many of his teeth had rotted away. "Working alone, you would have the patience to listen to every complaint, arbitrate every squabble, praise every achievement no matter how small for each of the dozen children in your care. Not only that, but find the time to see them fed, clothed, washed, and still be able to do your share in the fields, in the cook shack, fetch water, do laundry, and heal the sick?"
"I'm only thinking of what's best for the—" Julian began.
"For the children, yes," Brother Talissin cut him off. "Something we never think of. Not only are you more efficient and more insightful, but you are also more benevolent than we!" Brother Talissin rose from his seat. "You are in truth a gift from the Prophets. Thank you, Dr. Bashir. This has been most enlightening." He swept from the table and left the square.
"Is it just me or did anyone else see the size of that chip on his shoulder?" Ensign Kahrimanis muttered.
"Shhh," Dax hushed him. She could see Julian seething and thought it best to avert the imminent explosion. "You're right, you know," she said, touching his forearm. "I've noticed how badly alienated many of these children are. Their minds need as much healing as their bodies. After we've found the cause and the cure for the fever, I will make it my business to talk to Commander Sisko and Major Kira about this. If we approach the Bajoran authorities with the interest of the Federation behind us, I'm sure we can mobilize relief measures that will—"
"My God, don't you understand, either?" Dr. Bashir exclaimed. "The authorities don't see what's become of these children, and they don't care to see! They can ignore the Federation as easily as they ignore their own people. They've got their own agendas, and they don't include the children. For all the help they are, the provisional government might as well be on one of the moons! But we're here, and we owe it to them to do everything in our power to save them—not just from the fever, but from this life and what it's doing to them. Not someday; now." He stormed off in the opposite direction from Brother Talissin.
Brother Mor sighed and ate an orange-colored chunk of stew. "I hope Brother Talissin's wrong about Belem. I don't think that our young healer could stand it otherwise."
"What do you mean by that?" Lieutenant Dax asked.
Brother Mor fished a green-and-white-striped bit out of the juice. "Sickness is not the only way we lose children here. The healer is right: The children need attention, they want it the way plants want rain. When there were more healthy adults to go around, the orphans would frequently be taken under someone's wing along with their own children. The whole camp felt like one big family in those days. Even the children without parents knew that they belonged. But since the deaths, we are shattered. The children are cut loose. Oh, we tell them what to do in the fields or when doing chores, but when they have free time it is another story."
"The healer is right," Brother Gis concurred. "Our children need more attention than we can now give them. The young ones strive to gain notice by getting into all sorts of mischief. Any attention is better than none. There have been times when the mischief escalates to downright vandalism and cruelty."
"Even so, when we are hard pressed, we put their problems to one side," Brother Mor said. He now had a limp brown stringy thing halfway to his lips. It dangled from his chopsticks like wet lace. "We told ourselves that they could wait, they were children, it was not as if their lives were in danger, they had time." He sighed and ate.
"And so we lost them," Brother Gis concluded.
"How?" Dax asked. The monks were used to speaking plainly of death, but she sensed some other form of loss behind Brother Gis's words. "How did you lose them?"
"When they grew old enough, they ran away," Brother Gis answered. "They vanished into the hills to become fighters."
"Resistance fighters? But that's over."
"They no longer fight the Cardassians, true. There is no more Underground as such. Instead, ever since the expulsion, many Bajorans who do not find our present political situation exactly to their liking strive to change it the only way they have come to know: through violence. The Resistance has smashed into scores of splinter groups, each with its own idea of what Bajor should be."
"It's not bad enough that our ministers battle among themselves in the council chamber." Brother Mor sounded disgusted. "When the Cardassians were here, at least we knew the enemy."
"As soon as a child is old enough to handle a weapon, they're gone, boys as well as girls." Brother Gis bowed his head. "Belem's younger brother left us last year, and his youngest will no doubt follow. Belem's malformed foot was all that kept him here this long. I do not care to recall how often he has been teased about it by the others of his age. They called him coward for remaining here, even though he had no choice in the matter. The fighters in the hills move like shadows and wind. He could not possibly live such a life with that handicap holding him back. That is why I made him my assistant, to do some small thing toward protecting him from his tormentors. Now that he has been healed …" He shrugged.
Dax looked in the direction of the group of children that had surrounded Belem. They were still there, except now Belem was allowing them to touch Dr. Bashir's handiwork. They squatted at his feet, nudging one another and whispering excitedly. "I think Belem won't run off so fast," she opined, "He's too much of a celebrity right now.
"For the moment," Brother Mor agreed. "But later? The boy came to us without a family name. He was so scarred by the atrocities he witnessed that it was his brother Jin who had to remind him that his given name was Belem. Few of our children still recall their families. Those that do crow over their less fortunate fellows. By joining a guerrilla faction, these children acquire both a sense of belonging and a new family name. You have no idea how important that is to us, Lieutenant."
"But I do," Dax replied, thinking of Major Kira.
"It does not matter to the children which faction they join," Brother Gis added. "They know nothing of politics and care less. All that matters to them is belonging, finding a replacement for the parents they have lost. As for the guerrilla bands themselves, the leaders do not bother asking the children if they agree with the cause or not. If they can aim and shoot, they qualify."
"Several children have left us since the outbreak of the fever," Brother Mor said. "If they carried the contagion with them, it will definitely spread beyond this region."
"All the more reason for us to get back to work." Lieutenant Dax stood up; Ensign Kahrimanis followed suit.
Brother Mor's hand shot out to detain her. "But you have not finished your meal!"
"I guess we're not hungry either," Ensign Kahrimanis said.
"Sit, sit!" The monk urged them back into their places with words and motions. "When I first arrived here, I was like you and the healer. I wanted to fix everything right away. That first week, I almost killed myself with too much work and too little rest. You must trust my word: You will do us more harm than good if you drive yourselves too hard. Then we shall have you to look after in the infirmary as well as our other patients."
"Finish your meal and then go, if you like." Brother Gis backed him up. "You will be the better for it."
Ensign Kahrimanis picked up his chopsticks again and looked at the food suspiciously, but Dax settled herself to eating, following the absent Brother Talissin's technique for dealing with the rock-hard bread.
They're right, of course, she thought, chewing slowly. There will be additional help here within three days; there's no need to exhaust ourselves. I need my wits sharp if I'm to find this holy child, the Nekor. I must keep fit; tired minds make stupid mistakes. I'd better remind Julian of that. She sipped warm, tawny water from her cup. If he'll listen.

Julian was concentrating on the sample under the microscanner when Dax came into the laboratory shack two days later. Dr. Bashir's workspace had been improved considerably with the addition of self-powered lights sent down from the station, accompanied by a long tirade from Chief O'Brien against the "double-damned Cardie sensors that couldn't find a black dog on an ice floe!"
"I've had news from the station," she announced.
He behaved as if she hadn't spoken. He changed the sample and adjusted the instrument, then spoke into his recorder: "Possible retroviral affinities in evidence. Mutation of previously harmless organism similar to cases of nanadekh plague reported from Klingon Empire: Investigate." Only after he was done recording did he turn to acknowledge her presence.
"News?"
The bright overhead lights, so different from the flickering illumination of the infirmary or the dusk-hour dimness in which they ate their one communal meal of the day, shone full on his face.
Lieutenant Dax was appalled. Julian's eyes burned in red-rimmed sockets with dark shadows beneath. His skin was pasty, and his normally pronounced cheekbones jutted out so sharply that they looked ready to cut through the skin. Dax knew Julian had been pushing himself, but she had no idea he'd worked himself into this state in so short a time. It was impossible to keep track of his comings and goings, since he had a private tent.
She did not let her shock show. "Major Kira reports that the Klingon vessel Shining Blade docked early. They regret to report that they have no personnel they can spare to help us here. They are en route to a vital rendezvous in the Gamma Quadrant. On the other hand, they're readying a generous shipment of supplies for transport at thirteen hundred hours to our original beamdown coordinates. If I bring Ensign Kahrimanis and you bring Belem, we should be able to move them easi—"
"Belem's run away," Julian said. He turned his back on Dax and prepared a new sample for the microscanner.
Jadzia laid a hand on his shoulder. "Julian, I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said tersely, his eye to the viewer.
"Are you sure he's gone? Maybe he's just been reassigned to the fields. The harvest festival is coming soon, and now that he's fit they can use his help getting in the crops."
Julian shrugged off her touch. "Brother Talissin saw him racing off down the road." He spun around to face her. "Brother Talissin took a great deal of pleasure in reporting that to me. The boy had too great a lead for pursuit, or so my monkish friend assured me. Besides, what good would it do to fetch him back? He would only run away again."
"Brother Talissin is a very sour mouthful," Dax commented.
"Brother Talissin is a realist. He sees things for what they are, without hanging a bunch of useless, romantic trappings all over. Why plant roses to hide a pigsty?"
One corner of Jadzia's mouth quirked up. "Maybe the pigs have a taste for roses."
Dr. Bashir made an exasperated sound and went back to his microscanner.
"Brother Talissin is an envious man," Jadzia continued. "He couldn't stand to see all you'd done to help Belem, so he had to poison it for you."
"And what have I done for the boy?" Julian wanted to know. "When he was a cripple, he was safe. I've only made it possible for him to be killed. And perhaps for him to spread the fever, if he's carrying it."
"Would you cripple all the children, if you thought that would keep them safe?" she asked softly.
Julian ignored her last remark. "I think I'm onto something," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "Take a look for yourself." He stepped aside so that she could check out the sample under the microscanner. "Do you see?" he asked, a touch of the old eagerness creeping back into his voice. "I've isolated that organism from samples of blood taken from fever victims only. It took me a while to find it; it's almost identical to a bioplast found in the blood of healthy Bajorans."
Dax glanced up. "A mimic?"
"Or a very clever infiltrator." He managed a grin. "Soil-borne is my guess."
"Then why hasn't it turned up before?"
"I'm theorizing that this has turned up before, in a different form, which was eventually diagnosed and cured by local physicians." He changed samples and invited her to take another look. "I don't need to tell you that microbes are tenacious creatures, fearsomely adaptable. Throw them out the door and they come creeping back in through the window, even if they have to build the window themselves. When this particular strain was supposedly eradicated, I'd say it went dormant, perhaps assaying a little experiment now and then with nonhuman hosts."
"There is a high population of rodentlike fauna in the area," Dax admitted. "Hyurin. They're rather like a cross between rats and hamsters."
"The farmers would have had their methods for keeping the hyurin population down, I'm sure," Dr. Bashir said. "When the Cardassians destroyed so many villages, the animals could breed unchecked."
"They have their predators, but that wouldn't keep the hyurin away from Bajoran settlements. On the contrary, the little creatures would seek out man-made structures as good hiding places from their natural enemies and spread the microbe through their droppings," Dax concluded. "From there it's a short step back to human hosts. Starving refugees don't have the luxury to check whether or not their food supplies are uncontaminated."
"It is related to the nanadekh plague. I'm hoping it will respond to the same sort of treatment."
"A specially engineered antibody." She nodded.
"Of course, given the remarkable genetic similarity between this organism and the perfectly harmless one, I'll be taking extreme precautions in designing and testing the antibody. We don't want to set up an autoimmune disaster scenario by moving too hastily."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Julian." She took him firmly by the arm and steered him toward the door.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm taking you back to your tent and putting you in your cot," she explained.
"Well, this is a switch," Julian muttered. "You trying to get me into bed."
Dax ignored the gibe. "You look awful. Talk about disasters, you're one just waiting to happen."
He yanked his arm out of her grasp. "There's nothing the matter with me. I have work to do."
"Do you trust yourself to do your best work on no sleep?" she countered. "That's the perfect formula for making mistakes—fatal mistakes." Putting on her most persuasive voice, she slipped her arm around him and steered him toward the door once more, saying, "You've done the most important work already. I think you've found the answer to our mysterious fever. Leave your notes with me and I'll take it from here. You know I've got several degrees in genetic engineering."
"Yes, but—" His protests were met by strong, steady encouragement out of the lab.
"You're our doctor, but I'm our science officer. I let you do your job, now you let me do mine. With luck, I should have a breeding batch of antibodies tested and ready for injection by this evening … if you get out of my way. Go on, rest; you'll need it when we start the immunization program. You know how children adore getting shots!" One final push and he was out the door. Jadzia shut it on him with a sigh of relief.
She rechecked his notes and found that despite his obvious near-exhaustion, Julian had hit the mark. All indications were that he had found the answer to a puzzle that was stealing lives. No matter what she thought of his countless attempts at flirtation, she had to confess that he was as brilliant a doctor as he prided himself on being.
Jadzia adjusted the microscanner and began her work. It would take time for her to design an antibody tailored to the task of destroying only the retrovirus and not the organism it mimicked, but the most difficult part was done: thanks to Julian, she knew the face of the enemy.
He tries to do too much, she thought. He'll destroy himself if he doesn't learn some moderation. Oh, well, I did manage to send him off for some sleep. I don't need to worry about him now.
She bent over the blood samples, her mind at ease.

Across the camp, in the infirmary, Brother Mor looked up to meet Dr. Bashir's wobbly smile. "I'm here to lend a hand tending the patients," he announced.
"I thought you were working in your laboratory," the monk replied, perplexed.
"I was, but I reached a good stopping point. I've discovered that sometimes when you work too close to a problem for too long, you lose insight. A different activity may give me a new perspective on the disease. I'm very close to an answer."
Brother Mor looked dubious. "You don't sound well," he said. "You look tired. Perhaps you would be better advised to lie down in your tent and—"
"What, my voice?" Dr. Bashir forced a creditable chuckle. "Cooped up in that lab, it's just a bit rusty, that's all. Oh, and don't be misled by these." He indicated the dark rings under his eyes. "A family quirk. We all look like raccoons half the time."
"Raccoons?"
"Brother Mor, can't you use an extra pair of hands in here?" Julian wheedled.
Grudgingly, the monk admitted that he could. Soon Julian was hard at work, doing what he could to clean the bodies of those fever victims who were too far gone to perform even the most basic hygiene care for themselves. It was not a pleasant task, but he did not focus on that.
It's work, he thought. At least I'm doing something for these children, something to help them. Something to keep me from thinking about how many of them might die before Dax comes up with that antibody.
Something to keep me from thinking about Belem.
He moved doggedly from pallet to pallet, cooling the small, burning bodies with sponge baths to ease the fever. It was primitive, but he knew it was the best solution he had to apply until Dax was ready. The retrovirus did not respond to any of the pharmacopeia at his disposal. For now, he could only deal with symptoms.
Frontier medicine, he thought as he dabbed at a little girl's flushed face with a damp cloth. This is it, all right.
The child's hair lay in damp tendrils across her forehead. They looked like the finest Arabic calligraphy. He stared at the patterns they made, suddenly certain that if he could stop them from weaving and blurring so badly, he would be able to read the answer to a great riddle in their pattern. The letters danced in and out of focus, mocking him, but he concentrated on their elusive message, determined that the answer would not escape.
The infirmary began to spin around him, but he knew it was just a trick of the mysterious letters to evade him. He held on, though the spinning went faster and faster, until he could reach out and seize the meaning. Yes, there it was, the answer! It was his! Another triumph for Dr. Julian Bashir!
He opened his mouth to speak the word he read in the twisting letters and pitched forward to the ground, unconscious.

 

CHAPTER 6

"JULIAN, YOU'VE GOT TO EAT." Dax slid onto the bench beside Dr. Bashir and looked pointedly at his untouched plate. A lump of grainy black bread and a dollop of meatless stew covered the chipped clay platter.
"I'm not hungry." He said it so softly that she had to have him repeat it.
"I know this isn't the Replimat's best," she said, "but it's all they've got to offer us." She picked up a piece of bread and with some effort tore off a hunk with her teeth. "Mnoff vad," she said, struggling to chew it.
Julian poked at his stew once with chopsticks, then pushed his plate away.
"You could always ask for shipments of food from the station," Dax suggested quietly. "Just do it so that Brother Gis and the rest don't find out. It would hurt them deeply."
"I'm not interested in eating station food here," Julian said, fists tightening on the table. "I'm just not hungry."
The intensity of his words startled Dax. It was the first time she'd heard him speak to her harshly. In ordinary circumstances, Julian was either trying to impress her or flirt with her, neither one with great success.
These aren't ordinary circumstances, she reflected. "What's troubling you, Julian?" she asked.
Instead of answering, he got up and walked away.
"He's still not used to this," Ensign Kahrimanis remarked.
"This is not the sort of thing anyone gets used to," Lieutenant Dax replied. Not if you've got a heart. Her glance swept the square, where a dozen plank-and-trestle tables had been set up for the evening meal. The sun was almost down, staining the sky shades of deep amber, peach, and purple between the camp buildings. Wooden torches smoldered and flared in their sockets, lighting the way for the children who went back and forth from the cook shack with the big serving platters or who hauled buckets of drinking water from the storage barrels.
Most of the tables were empty. Those that were occupied were packed with children who huddled near each other. The few tables where adults sat were the most thickly mobbed. As Dax watched, she saw a little girl try to squeeze onto a bench beside a grown man. The man gave her a tired smile, but the boy beside him snarled, then launched himself at her.
"Calin! Calin!" The man pulled the boy off the little girl and scolded him while the other child slunk away to take a place at another table. A heartbreaking look of yearning filled her eyes, which never left the man's face. "Why did you do that, Calin?"
"'Cause you're my father!" the boy shouted. "She wants to take you away from me, just 'cause her father an' mother's both dead. She can't! You're mine!" And he seized his father's arm fiercely.
"It is often so," said Brother Gis. The monk and his two brethren were the only ones sharing the table with the crew members of Deep Space Nine. "There are perhaps a dozen children for each adult here, counting ourselves. Some of them came to us already orphaned, although a number were in the care of older brothers and sisters. The fever has changed much of that. Those who came to us with parents that the fever took are like blossoms on the wind, and those who still have parents living are terrified of losing them"
"If things were otherwise, we might hope for aid from the district centers, offers of fosterage, adoption, even adult volunteers to come here and work with the children," said Mor. He was the youngest of the three monks manning the camp. He had the face of a man who was once fat. "But this is an isolated area. In the good times, pleasure-travelers seldom came this far into the Kaladrys Valley. The village of Lacroya never even had a guest-house, just a tavern. As it is, people have their own problems. To them, our hardships are unimportant in comparison. When I travel to the camp at Jabelon to trade for lamp oil, I hear rumors that there is much unrest in the cities, and it is spreading rapidly. The government is unstable, like a pavement made of broken stones. If we send them word asking for help, they send us silence. If we were to pack up the children and travel to the capital itself so that they could not pretend we are not there, they would give us excuses."
"Besides, the children have been uprooted enough," Brother Gis put in. "I would not ask it of them. They were never strong enough to make such a journey, and now that so many are sick, it is impossible."
"So here we stay," Brother Talissin concluded, "waiting for the Prophets to teach our leaders the lesson of mercy."
"It's extremely difficult for people who have been powerless to gain power suddenly." Jadzia spoke from the prior experiences of several lifetimes. "It takes time before they can think of using that power in anyone's interest but their own."
"Which makes us all the more grateful to you and Dr. Bashir for giving so much of yourselves to us," Brother Gis said.
"Please, we've barely begun. As soon as Dr. Bashir can run some tests on your patients, we'll be on our way to finding the cure for this camp fever of yours."
"Dr. Bashir has already done wonders," Brother Gis said. He gestured to where the doctor stood watching a group of the older children. They had formed a ring around Belem, who was showing off his mended foot and leg. The others gaped at it, and one tried to touch it. Belem made a mocking noise, in jest, and jumped lightly out of reach. Unfortunately, he did not look where he was going; his leap sent him bumping into the doctor.
"The healer does not have the cure for clumsiness, I see," Brother Talissin sniped. He was younger than Brother Gis, who himself was not so old, but he was steeped in bitterness.
"I'm sure the boy will discover that for himself when he's older," Dax said placidly. Brother Talissin snorted.
"If it is the will of the Prophets, a cure for the fever will be found," Brother Mor said with sincerity. "If not, we must still thank Dr. Bashir. By healing Belem's foot, he has given the children a sign they can understand, a sign that there is hope for change."
"He has changed Belem's life, at any rate," Brother Talissin said. "If he knew what sort of change he has wrought, he would not be pleased."
Brother Mor leaned forward to peer at Bashir. The doctor spoke a few words to Belem and headed slowly back toward the table. "He does not look pleased."
"That is all an act," Brother Talissin scoffed. "The long face is just to make us fuss over his accomplishment with Belem. Is one healing a triumph? The boy could have gone on as he was before and the healer could have used his time aiding those who need it more." Dr. Bashir returned to his place in time to hear the monk conclude, "I have raised enough children to know all the different tricks they try to get attention."
"Then why don't you give it to them?" he snapped.
"What—?" Brother Talissin sputtered.
"The children in this camp work like adults," Julian said. His voice was flinty, his face tense with the strain of holding back so much helpless outrage. "They have to—I accept that. If they don't do the farmwork, they won't eat. But they are so alone. I see it in their eyes, the nothingness, the cold. Too many of them are isolated, even in the middle of a mob. They're fed and sheltered and clothed as well as possible, but they need more than that. They want care."
Brother Gis regarded him with sorrowful eyes. "You think we do not care for the children, Dr. Bashir?"
Julian was abashed. "I didn't mean to imply—With respect, Brother Gis, you and your brethren are doing all you can for them, but there is a difference between maintenance and—and showing each one of them that he's more than just an interchangeable unit. You care for the children when they want you to care for the child. It's not your fault if they need more than you have the time to give."
"I think I see your point, Doctor," Brother Gis said, nodding, chin in hand. "As you see ours. There are not enough of us here to single out every child for individual attention. May the Prophets forgive us."
"We do our duty; the Prophets need not forgive us for that." Brother Talissin broke off a crumb of the coarse bread and soaked it to chewable softness in the liquid from his stew. "You have only arrived here today, Dr. Bashir, yet already you seem to have all the answers. Truly you must have walked with the Prophets. Share your great wisdom. Enlighten us. What will you do for our children that we have so shamefully neglected to do?"
"For a start, I'd give them the attention they have to fight for now."
"You would? How generous of you." Brother Talissin lifted the now-tender crumb to his lips and chewed it carefully. When he opened his mouth, Dax saw that many of his teeth had rotted away. "Working alone, you would have the patience to listen to every complaint, arbitrate every squabble, praise every achievement no matter how small for each of the dozen children in your care. Not only that, but find the time to see them fed, clothed, washed, and still be able to do your share in the fields, in the cook shack, fetch water, do laundry, and heal the sick?"
"I'm only thinking of what's best for the—" Julian began.
"For the children, yes," Brother Talissin cut him off. "Something we never think of. Not only are you more efficient and more insightful, but you are also more benevolent than we!" Brother Talissin rose from his seat. "You are in truth a gift from the Prophets. Thank you, Dr. Bashir. This has been most enlightening." He swept from the table and left the square.
"Is it just me or did anyone else see the size of that chip on his shoulder?" Ensign Kahrimanis muttered.
"Shhh," Dax hushed him. She could see Julian seething and thought it best to avert the imminent explosion. "You're right, you know," she said, touching his forearm. "I've noticed how badly alienated many of these children are. Their minds need as much healing as their bodies. After we've found the cause and the cure for the fever, I will make it my business to talk to Commander Sisko and Major Kira about this. If we approach the Bajoran authorities with the interest of the Federation behind us, I'm sure we can mobilize relief measures that will—"
"My God, don't you understand, either?" Dr. Bashir exclaimed. "The authorities don't see what's become of these children, and they don't care to see! They can ignore the Federation as easily as they ignore their own people. They've got their own agendas, and they don't include the children. For all the help they are, the provisional government might as well be on one of the moons! But we're here, and we owe it to them to do everything in our power to save them—not just from the fever, but from this life and what it's doing to them. Not someday; now." He stormed off in the opposite direction from Brother Talissin.
Brother Mor sighed and ate an orange-colored chunk of stew. "I hope Brother Talissin's wrong about Belem. I don't think that our young healer could stand it otherwise."
"What do you mean by that?" Lieutenant Dax asked.
Brother Mor fished a green-and-white-striped bit out of the juice. "Sickness is not the only way we lose children here. The healer is right: The children need attention, they want it the way plants want rain. When there were more healthy adults to go around, the orphans would frequently be taken under someone's wing along with their own children. The whole camp felt like one big family in those days. Even the children without parents knew that they belonged. But since the deaths, we are shattered. The children are cut loose. Oh, we tell them what to do in the fields or when doing chores, but when they have free time it is another story."
"The healer is right," Brother Gis concurred. "Our children need more attention than we can now give them. The young ones strive to gain notice by getting into all sorts of mischief. Any attention is better than none. There have been times when the mischief escalates to downright vandalism and cruelty."
"Even so, when we are hard pressed, we put their problems to one side," Brother Mor said. He now had a limp brown stringy thing halfway to his lips. It dangled from his chopsticks like wet lace. "We told ourselves that they could wait, they were children, it was not as if their lives were in danger, they had time." He sighed and ate.
"And so we lost them," Brother Gis concluded.
"How?" Dax asked. The monks were used to speaking plainly of death, but she sensed some other form of loss behind Brother Gis's words. "How did you lose them?"
"When they grew old enough, they ran away," Brother Gis answered. "They vanished into the hills to become fighters."
"Resistance fighters? But that's over."
"They no longer fight the Cardassians, true. There is no more Underground as such. Instead, ever since the expulsion, many Bajorans who do not find our present political situation exactly to their liking strive to change it the only way they have come to know: through violence. The Resistance has smashed into scores of splinter groups, each with its own idea of what Bajor should be."
"It's not bad enough that our ministers battle among themselves in the council chamber." Brother Mor sounded disgusted. "When the Cardassians were here, at least we knew the enemy."
"As soon as a child is old enough to handle a weapon, they're gone, boys as well as girls." Brother Gis bowed his head. "Belem's younger brother left us last year, and his youngest will no doubt follow. Belem's malformed foot was all that kept him here this long. I do not care to recall how often he has been teased about it by the others of his age. They called him coward for remaining here, even though he had no choice in the matter. The fighters in the hills move like shadows and wind. He could not possibly live such a life with that handicap holding him back. That is why I made him my assistant, to do some small thing toward protecting him from his tormentors. Now that he has been healed …" He shrugged.
Dax looked in the direction of the group of children that had surrounded Belem. They were still there, except now Belem was allowing them to touch Dr. Bashir's handiwork. They squatted at his feet, nudging one another and whispering excitedly. "I think Belem won't run off so fast," she opined, "He's too much of a celebrity right now.
"For the moment," Brother Mor agreed. "But later? The boy came to us without a family name. He was so scarred by the atrocities he witnessed that it was his brother Jin who had to remind him that his given name was Belem. Few of our children still recall their families. Those that do crow over their less fortunate fellows. By joining a guerrilla faction, these children acquire both a sense of belonging and a new family name. You have no idea how important that is to us, Lieutenant."
"But I do," Dax replied, thinking of Major Kira.
"It does not matter to the children which faction they join," Brother Gis added. "They know nothing of politics and care less. All that matters to them is belonging, finding a replacement for the parents they have lost. As for the guerrilla bands themselves, the leaders do not bother asking the children if they agree with the cause or not. If they can aim and shoot, they qualify."
"Several children have left us since the outbreak of the fever," Brother Mor said. "If they carried the contagion with them, it will definitely spread beyond this region."
"All the more reason for us to get back to work." Lieutenant Dax stood up; Ensign Kahrimanis followed suit.
Brother Mor's hand shot out to detain her. "But you have not finished your meal!"
"I guess we're not hungry either," Ensign Kahrimanis said.
"Sit, sit!" The monk urged them back into their places with words and motions. "When I first arrived here, I was like you and the healer. I wanted to fix everything right away. That first week, I almost killed myself with too much work and too little rest. You must trust my word: You will do us more harm than good if you drive yourselves too hard. Then we shall have you to look after in the infirmary as well as our other patients."
"Finish your meal and then go, if you like." Brother Gis backed him up. "You will be the better for it."
Ensign Kahrimanis picked up his chopsticks again and looked at the food suspiciously, but Dax settled herself to eating, following the absent Brother Talissin's technique for dealing with the rock-hard bread.
They're right, of course, she thought, chewing slowly. There will be additional help here within three days; there's no need to exhaust ourselves. I need my wits sharp if I'm to find this holy child, the Nekor. I must keep fit; tired minds make stupid mistakes. I'd better remind Julian of that. She sipped warm, tawny water from her cup. If he'll listen.

Julian was concentrating on the sample under the microscanner when Dax came into the laboratory shack two days later. Dr. Bashir's workspace had been improved considerably with the addition of self-powered lights sent down from the station, accompanied by a long tirade from Chief O'Brien against the "double-damned Cardie sensors that couldn't find a black dog on an ice floe!"
"I've had news from the station," she announced.
He behaved as if she hadn't spoken. He changed the sample and adjusted the instrument, then spoke into his recorder: "Possible retroviral affinities in evidence. Mutation of previously harmless organism similar to cases of nanadekh plague reported from Klingon Empire: Investigate." Only after he was done recording did he turn to acknowledge her presence.
"News?"
The bright overhead lights, so different from the flickering illumination of the infirmary or the dusk-hour dimness in which they ate their one communal meal of the day, shone full on his face.
Lieutenant Dax was appalled. Julian's eyes burned in red-rimmed sockets with dark shadows beneath. His skin was pasty, and his normally pronounced cheekbones jutted out so sharply that they looked ready to cut through the skin. Dax knew Julian had been pushing himself, but she had no idea he'd worked himself into this state in so short a time. It was impossible to keep track of his comings and goings, since he had a private tent.
She did not let her shock show. "Major Kira reports that the Klingon vessel Shining Blade docked early. They regret to report that they have no personnel they can spare to help us here. They are en route to a vital rendezvous in the Gamma Quadrant. On the other hand, they're readying a generous shipment of supplies for transport at thirteen hundred hours to our original beamdown coordinates. If I bring Ensign Kahrimanis and you bring Belem, we should be able to move them easi—"
"Belem's run away," Julian said. He turned his back on Dax and prepared a new sample for the microscanner.
Jadzia laid a hand on his shoulder. "Julian, I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said tersely, his eye to the viewer.
"Are you sure he's gone? Maybe he's just been reassigned to the fields. The harvest festival is coming soon, and now that he's fit they can use his help getting in the crops."
Julian shrugged off her touch. "Brother Talissin saw him racing off down the road." He spun around to face her. "Brother Talissin took a great deal of pleasure in reporting that to me. The boy had too great a lead for pursuit, or so my monkish friend assured me. Besides, what good would it do to fetch him back? He would only run away again."
"Brother Talissin is a very sour mouthful," Dax commented.
"Brother Talissin is a realist. He sees things for what they are, without hanging a bunch of useless, romantic trappings all over. Why plant roses to hide a pigsty?"
One corner of Jadzia's mouth quirked up. "Maybe the pigs have a taste for roses."
Dr. Bashir made an exasperated sound and went back to his microscanner.
"Brother Talissin is an envious man," Jadzia continued. "He couldn't stand to see all you'd done to help Belem, so he had to poison it for you."
"And what have I done for the boy?" Julian wanted to know. "When he was a cripple, he was safe. I've only made it possible for him to be killed. And perhaps for him to spread the fever, if he's carrying it."
"Would you cripple all the children, if you thought that would keep them safe?" she asked softly.
Julian ignored her last remark. "I think I'm onto something," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "Take a look for yourself." He stepped aside so that she could check out the sample under the microscanner. "Do you see?" he asked, a touch of the old eagerness creeping back into his voice. "I've isolated that organism from samples of blood taken from fever victims only. It took me a while to find it; it's almost identical to a bioplast found in the blood of healthy Bajorans."
Dax glanced up. "A mimic?"
"Or a very clever infiltrator." He managed a grin. "Soil-borne is my guess."
"Then why hasn't it turned up before?"
"I'm theorizing that this has turned up before, in a different form, which was eventually diagnosed and cured by local physicians." He changed samples and invited her to take another look. "I don't need to tell you that microbes are tenacious creatures, fearsomely adaptable. Throw them out the door and they come creeping back in through the window, even if they have to build the window themselves. When this particular strain was supposedly eradicated, I'd say it went dormant, perhaps assaying a little experiment now and then with nonhuman hosts."
"There is a high population of rodentlike fauna in the area," Dax admitted. "Hyurin. They're rather like a cross between rats and hamsters."
"The farmers would have had their methods for keeping the hyurin population down, I'm sure," Dr. Bashir said. "When the Cardassians destroyed so many villages, the animals could breed unchecked."
"They have their predators, but that wouldn't keep the hyurin away from Bajoran settlements. On the contrary, the little creatures would seek out man-made structures as good hiding places from their natural enemies and spread the microbe through their droppings," Dax concluded. "From there it's a short step back to human hosts. Starving refugees don't have the luxury to check whether or not their food supplies are uncontaminated."
"It is related to the nanadekh plague. I'm hoping it will respond to the same sort of treatment."
"A specially engineered antibody." She nodded.
"Of course, given the remarkable genetic similarity between this organism and the perfectly harmless one, I'll be taking extreme precautions in designing and testing the antibody. We don't want to set up an autoimmune disaster scenario by moving too hastily."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Julian." She took him firmly by the arm and steered him toward the door.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm taking you back to your tent and putting you in your cot," she explained.
"Well, this is a switch," Julian muttered. "You trying to get me into bed."
Dax ignored the gibe. "You look awful. Talk about disasters, you're one just waiting to happen."
He yanked his arm out of her grasp. "There's nothing the matter with me. I have work to do."
"Do you trust yourself to do your best work on no sleep?" she countered. "That's the perfect formula for making mistakes—fatal mistakes." Putting on her most persuasive voice, she slipped her arm around him and steered him toward the door once more, saying, "You've done the most important work already. I think you've found the answer to our mysterious fever. Leave your notes with me and I'll take it from here. You know I've got several degrees in genetic engineering."
"Yes, but—" His protests were met by strong, steady encouragement out of the lab.
"You're our doctor, but I'm our science officer. I let you do your job, now you let me do mine. With luck, I should have a breeding batch of antibodies tested and ready for injection by this evening … if you get out of my way. Go on, rest; you'll need it when we start the immunization program. You know how children adore getting shots!" One final push and he was out the door. Jadzia shut it on him with a sigh of relief.
She rechecked his notes and found that despite his obvious near-exhaustion, Julian had hit the mark. All indications were that he had found the answer to a puzzle that was stealing lives. No matter what she thought of his countless attempts at flirtation, she had to confess that he was as brilliant a doctor as he prided himself on being.
Jadzia adjusted the microscanner and began her work. It would take time for her to design an antibody tailored to the task of destroying only the retrovirus and not the organism it mimicked, but the most difficult part was done: thanks to Julian, she knew the face of the enemy.
He tries to do too much, she thought. He'll destroy himself if he doesn't learn some moderation. Oh, well, I did manage to send him off for some sleep. I don't need to worry about him now.
She bent over the blood samples, her mind at ease.

Across the camp, in the infirmary, Brother Mor looked up to meet Dr. Bashir's wobbly smile. "I'm here to lend a hand tending the patients," he announced.
"I thought you were working in your laboratory," the monk replied, perplexed.
"I was, but I reached a good stopping point. I've discovered that sometimes when you work too close to a problem for too long, you lose insight. A different activity may give me a new perspective on the disease. I'm very close to an answer."
Brother Mor looked dubious. "You don't sound well," he said. "You look tired. Perhaps you would be better advised to lie down in your tent and—"
"What, my voice?" Dr. Bashir forced a creditable chuckle. "Cooped up in that lab, it's just a bit rusty, that's all. Oh, and don't be misled by these." He indicated the dark rings under his eyes. "A family quirk. We all look like raccoons half the time."
"Raccoons?"
"Brother Mor, can't you use an extra pair of hands in here?" Julian wheedled.
Grudgingly, the monk admitted that he could. Soon Julian was hard at work, doing what he could to clean the bodies of those fever victims who were too far gone to perform even the most basic hygiene care for themselves. It was not a pleasant task, but he did not focus on that.
It's work, he thought. At least I'm doing something for these children, something to help them. Something to keep me from thinking about how many of them might die before Dax comes up with that antibody.
Something to keep me from thinking about Belem.
He moved doggedly from pallet to pallet, cooling the small, burning bodies with sponge baths to ease the fever. It was primitive, but he knew it was the best solution he had to apply until Dax was ready. The retrovirus did not respond to any of the pharmacopeia at his disposal. For now, he could only deal with symptoms.
Frontier medicine, he thought as he dabbed at a little girl's flushed face with a damp cloth. This is it, all right.
The child's hair lay in damp tendrils across her forehead. They looked like the finest Arabic calligraphy. He stared at the patterns they made, suddenly certain that if he could stop them from weaving and blurring so badly, he would be able to read the answer to a great riddle in their pattern. The letters danced in and out of focus, mocking him, but he concentrated on their elusive message, determined that the answer would not escape.
The infirmary began to spin around him, but he knew it was just a trick of the mysterious letters to evade him. He held on, though the spinning went faster and faster, until he could reach out and seize the meaning. Yes, there it was, the answer! It was his! Another triumph for Dr. Julian Bashir!
He opened his mouth to speak the word he read in the twisting letters and pitched forward to the ground, unconscious.