"Why? Because the thought of being beamed down for the first time made him nervous? He's no coward, Commander. He's been helping refugees since before the Cardassians were expelled from Bajor, under their very noses, in fact. If you don't think that takes courage—"
"I wasn't questioning his courage," Sisko said. "I was asking what could have possessed him to be the one to approach us. Why him and not someone from one of the other camps where the illness had spread? At his there's only a skeleton crew of healthy adults left to care for the sick and to tend the fields. He's a healer; he's needed. He's not the sort of person who would walk away from need unless he had some previous assurance that his mission was guaranteed success."
He regarded Major Kira steadily.
"All right." She gave in. "He has my sponsorship. I have distant relatives who escaped the Kaladrys Valley but who still try to keep track of the friends they left behind. I heard about the situation in the camps from them and confirmed it on my own." Her eyes flashed defiance. "I didn't simply cut off the rest of my life when I came aboard DS9!"
"No one asked you to, Major," Sisko said in his quiet manner.
Kira snorted. "That's not the way it seems, sometimes. The Federation, first, last, and always!"
"Isn't that the way you feel about Bajor?" Sisko's question was just above a whisper.
"Why shouldn't I?" she snapped.
"Because it blinds you," he replied. "No one is asking you to give up your allegiance to your homeworld. The Klingons never would have become allies of the Federation if we'd asked that of them. You have potential, Major, incredible potential. Starfleet could use more like you; leadership is not something that can be learned in the classroom. But being a leader means having to make choices, choices that affect hundreds, thousands of lives. All that I want is for you to understand that the 'right' choice may not always be the choice that favors Bajor."
"You'll have to prove that."
"Give me time." His gaze swept the bustling scene. All those people, Federation and Bajoran, depending on him. "Believe me, it's not an easy thing to prove, even to yourself." The doubts that had assaulted him when he first took command of Deep Space Nine came flooding back. Starfleet's idea of the "right" place to post Benjamin Sisko clashed violently with his own opinion of the "right" place to raise his son, Jake. "It's hardest when the right decision isn't the one that gives you what you want."
"Your decision got Dr. Bashir exactly what he wanted," Major Kira remarked. "Frontier medicine: ever since he got here, that's all he talked about, the chance to practice frontier medicine. I wonder if he knows what he's getting himself into?"
"Dr. Bashir's training gave him ample preparation for any medical contingency," Sisko said. "You've seen him at work long enough to know he's not just all talk. He's taken care of all of us more than once. You ought to have more faith in him."
"I'm not questioning his competence as a doctor, sir," Kira replied. "Although if I hear him tell that preganglionic/postganglionic nerve story one more time, I can't be held responsible for my actions. But on Bajor, we have a saying: The loudest petitioners of the Prophets ask for what they desire most but know least."
"We have a similar saying, Major Kira," Sisko said. "Never wish for your heart's desire; you just might get it."
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, sto
pping 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 n
ormal 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."
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