Warchild

by Esther Friesner

  Perhaps, Sisko reasoned, there was some shred of information somewhere in Dax's shared memories that would provide the crucial clue to finding a cure for the Bajoran camp fever.

  "Only one true healer, and so much work to be done …" Brother Gis murmured.

  "I can also spare you one of Dr. Bashir's assistants, Ensign Kahrimanis, and when the Federation ships arrive with your supplies, they ought to be able to provide some additional personnel as well."

  The monk brightened to hear this news. "Well, Dr. Bashir's one more healer than I was going to get. I will pray that the Prophets reveal the cure to your Dr. Bashir swiftly. The sooner he discovers an effective treatment, the sooner we may return him to you."

  "Speed is in the best interests of us all," Sisko concurred. "While Lieutenant Dax will provide some help for Dr. Bashir, her true task will be to locate the child of the Kai's prophecy. For the sake of security, as requested by Vedek Torin, no one else will know the reason for her presence; not even Dr. Bashir."

  The monk made a gesture of acceptance.

  "If you or your brothers happen to think of any further clues concerning this child, bring them to Lieutenant Dax's attention at once. This is no easy task. We can use all the help we can get."

  Brother Gis's lips curved up slightly. "So can we."

  Dr. Julian Bashir stood at attention before Benjamin Sisko's desk, but his eyes did not remain fixed on his commander's face. Try as he might, he could not resist stealing a sideways glance at Lieutenant Dax, who had also been called into the commander's office.

  Commander Sisko was speaking about Bajor, about the necessity for the Federation to take a more active role in helping the Bajorans recover from sixty years of Cardassian occupation and surmount the local factionalism that reasserted itself almost as soon as the oppressors departed. Naturally Commander Sisko stressed that while simple humanity cried out for the Federation to act, the Prime Directive put certain unavoidable barriers in the way of total involvement.

  If he had not been standing at attention, Dr. Bashir would have shaken his head and sighed in perplexity. Why was Commander Sisko bringing up all this now? It was common knowledge. More to the point, why was the commander going over such familiar territory solely for the benefit of his medical and science officers?

  While still a medical student, Dr. Bashir had developed the extremely useful ability to split his attention. Thus he was able to make rounds under the tutelage of one doctor while picking up additional useful insights from the lecturer of a second group of students just across the ward. When Julian's teacher marveled aloud at the handsome young man's apparently miraculous ability to learn twice as much, twice as fast as his peers, they never suspected it was because Julian could benefit from two teachers at the same time.

  It was this same gift that now allowed him to hear every word Commander Sisko said while his mind cast back over the circumstances that had brought him here.

  Less than fifteen minutes ago he had been strolling on the Promenade, feeling rather pleased with himself. A brief visit to Garak's shop had turned into a lengthy conversation with the Cardassian clothier.

  Garak was an anomaly, and Dr. Bashir's inquisitive mind never could resist such a tantalizing puzzle. As a member of the race that had bled Bajor for sixty years, the clothier had nonetheless chosen to remain behind on Deep Space Nine when his fellow Cardassians pulled out. Garak was no fool; he had to realize that his continued presence aboard the station would be viewed with suspicion, to say nothing of out-and-out hostility by the Bajorans. It was not the safest place for him to be, even with the Federation standing guard, maintaining the peace of the station. Yet he stayed.

  Privately, Julian thought of Garak as the Brave Little Tailor from the old Earth fairy tale. Justas privately, he pondered the real reason for Garak's choice. He was not the only one. The Cardassian dealt in more than the latest fashions, and secrets were changed just as frequently as styles behind the curtains of his fitting rooms. But whose secrets, and at what price?

  There had already been more than one occasion on which Garak's subtle aid had helped the Federation. Such actions seemed to indicate that Garak was an agent who would act however and for whomever it would benefit himself most, but was his cooperation a blind? When you dealt with someone like Quark, you knew the Ferengi was only out for personal gain. With Garak… ? Bashir wasn't ready to hand in a final diagnosis just yet. The Cardassians were not the sort of people to forget their expulsion from Bajor, especially since the discovery of the wormhole. Would Garak pull back the curtain someday to reveal a door through which his people could retake all they had lost?

  Unasked, Dr. Bashir had made it his business to keep an eye on this potential threat to the security of Deep Space Nine. He told himself it was his duty, but the truth was he would have done it anyway, just for the thrill of dabbling in intrigue. A medical student's life was circumscribed by long hours of classes followed by longer hours of study and practice. There was little time left over for relaxation, and definitely none for adventure.

  Adventure! The word, the very thought of it thrilled Dr. Bashir. When he was younger, before he sank himself body and soul into his medical studies, he loved to spend every free moment steeped in all sorts of adventure stories, everything from tales of swashbuckling swordsmen and Wild West cowboy heroes to the latest real-life news of Starfleet actions across the galaxy.

  He often told himself that he'd chosen a career in medicine first of all as a result of that incident during the ion storm on Invaria II, when simple medical knowledge might have saved that poor girl's life. Having his career as a professional tennis player pop like a soap bubble during his first match merely confirmed his choice. But he knew as well that he had chosen to become a physician because it satisfied the many different urges of his soul. As a doctor, he would be able to solve a thousand fascinating human puzzles—puzzles that must be solved, with stakes of life and death in the balance. His expertise would earn him as much admiration as any of his boyhood heroes, and even if dashing bladesmen no longer existed outside of holosuite programs, he could still save the lives of countless damsels in distress with a scalpel if not with a sword.

  But even the many promises of a medical career were not enough for him. He refused to become just another doctor; he would become the best. He joined Starfleet because their standards were almost as high as his own, and because the dream of adventure on some distant frontier still beckoned.

  His posting to Deep Space Nine seemed like the fulfillment of his every desire. And once here, finding Garak was icing on the cake. Julian was never more pleased with himself than after having a long and—he hoped—revealing interview with the Cardassian. He couldn't for the life of him understand why no one else on the station seemed to recognize or appreciate his efforts.

  That didn't stop him from trying to make them see what a good job of amateur espionage he was doing.

  He viewed it as pure luck when he ran into Commander Sisko on the Promenade. "I've just had the most fascinating chat with our Cardassian friend Garak—" he began.

  "You can tell me all about it in my office," Sisko replied, and hustled him away before he could get another word out.

  When they entered the commander's office, instead of sitting down and asking Julian to describe the conversation with Garak, Sisko motioned for the young doctor to keep silent while Lieutenant Dax was summoned. Dr. Bashir couldn't help preening a bit when he heard that. At last his efforts were being appreciated! Better; Commander Sisko was taking his contribution seriously enough to want Lieutenant Dax to share Julian's revelations.

  It was easy for Julian to remain silent while they waited for Dax to arrive. He was mentally reviewing every detail of his talk with Garak, the better to present it in a way that would force the lovely lieutenant to take him seriously.

  Why won't she? he wondered, and the thought rankled as much as it always did. I know she's a Trill, that she's lived hundreds of years—at least her symbiont has—bu
t that doesn't make Jadzia a crone. So what if she shares the symbiont's memories? I've studied the writings of Hippocrates, but that doesn't make me an ancient Greek. Sometimes I get the feeling she thinks of me as just a little boy.

  Strangely enough, this thought did not irritate Julian; it only strengthened his determination to show her how wrong she was. He had been underestimated by others before this. His youth, his good looks, his healthy self-confidence, all together or separately managed to make certain people prejudge him. He had proved himself to every one of them, and he intended to prove himself to Dax, too. It was only a matter of diligence and patience.

  But as soon as Lieutenant Dax presented herself in the commander's office, Julian realized to his dismay that his latest effort would have to wait. Without saying a word about Dr. Bashir's recent talk with Garak, Commander Sisko launched into this speech about the need to give more help to the Bajorans. Julian failed to see the connection, but he was a good Starfleet officer. He bit his tongue and bided his time.

  "We are now fortunate enough to have an opportunity to aid the Bajorans without treading on any Starfleet regulations," Sisko went on. "Our assistance has been requested for a purely humanitarian effort on the surface of Bajor. Dr. Bashir, you've often said that the main reason you wanted to come to Deep Space Nine was to have the chance to practice … frontier medicine?"

  "Yes, sir," Julian replied, with some small hesitation. Something odd was afoot here; another puzzle. That was all right, he liked puzzles.

  "Well, you're going to get that opportunity. There's a new sickness ravaging the displaced-persons camps on Bajor, a kind of fever like none their healers have ever encountered before. The situation is growing graver by the day. Repatriation efforts are going slowly, and the refugees still in the camps were not in perfect health when they arrived—"

  "Small wonder," Lieutenant Dax commented.

  "As you say," Sisko acknowledged. "They're easy prey for this epidemic."

  "Excuse me, sir, but is this an epidemic?" Dr. Bashir inquired.

  "I'm not familiar with the exact circumstances that must exist before someone with your training could call it an epidemic, but I intend to treat is as such. It's a sickness that is invariably fatal, there is no known cure for it, and it is spreading rapidly." Sisko was grim. "Yes, I'd call that an epidemic."

  News of the medical crisis on Bajor had an astonishing, immediate effect on Dr. Bashir. He was no longer concerned with impressing Lieutenant Dax or making Commander Sisko admire him for his exploits at espionage. His whole mind, his whole being, focused on the problem at hand and the plight of the afflicted Bajorans. "How far has the contagion spread?" he asked intently.

  "I'm afraid we have no reliable information on that," Sisko admitted. "Only rumors that it's been found in several camps in the Kaladrys Valley and it might be spreading beyond."

  "Have any measures been taken to isolate the patients?"

  "Not to my knowledge, no. No extraordinary measures have been taken, although the camps themselves are fairly well isolated."

  "The Cardassians did a pretty thorough job of destroying the Kaladrys Valley," Lieutenant Dax put in. "It's currently impossible for the resources of any one area to maintain an extended group of people. Therefore, the Bajorans have planted their refugee camps as far apart as possible, so that the survivors have a fighting chance of supporting themselves on the land they've been given."

  "I'm sending you and Lieutenant Dax to head a small landing party," Sisko told Dr. Bashir. "You're being sent to the camp that seems to be the originating point of the infection. Your assignment is to help care for the sick, naturally, but I want you to give top priority to diagnosing this illness and developing a cure."

  "I'll do better than that," Dr. Bashir said boldly. "I'll come up with a vaccine to prevent the disease."

  "I'll be satisfied if you can just find a way to hold it in check, and to do that as quickly as possible," Sisko replied. "Lieutenant Dax will be working with you closely on this; her experience might provide a crucial insight."

  Dr. Bashir grinned. "An excellent idea, Commander."

  Dax made a sound that might have been a laugh but ended up as a cough.

  "You won't have much to work with," Sisko continued. "Not at first. I'm sending as much of the station's medical supplies with you as we can safely spare, though it's far from sufficient. We're expecting additional supplies in three days—that is, if nothing comes up in the meantime to divert the ships bringing them."

  Dr. Bashir nodded crisply. "Am I correct in assuming that we'll be operating under, well, primitive conditions?"

  Sisko's mouth twisted into an indulgent half-smile. "You might say that. From what Brother Gis has told me, only self-contained diagnostic tools can be operated in the camp. They have no power source."

  "None?" Dr. Bashir looked doubtful.

  "I thought it was your dream to practice frontier medicine?" Dax teased gently. "It sounds to me as though this assignment will be the answer to your prayers."

  "I was only trying to learn as much as possible about what's waiting for us." The heat behind his own words startled Dr. Bashir. His face felt as if it were on fire. "Who is Brother Gis?" he asked, to divert attention from himself.

  "He's the monk who came to us for help," Sisko answered, "and he's a healer in his own right. He'll brief you on conditions in his camp and give you as much information as he's got concerning other settlements. I'd pay close attention to what he says if I were you, Doctor. Major Kira tells me that Bajoran monks of the healing orders have access to a body of medical knowledge predating ours by centuries. Their technique relies less on technology and more on a combination of physical and spiritual healing, but it's said to work wonders."

  "According to Major Kira," Dr. Bashir commented.

  "You doubt her word?" Sisko sounded amused.

  "No sir, it's just that … Major Kira isn't exactly objective when it comes to all things Bajoran."

  Dax smiled at Dr. Bashir, a radiant look he wished he could freeze in time and hold on to forever. "Dr. Bashir's right there, sir," she said. "Major Kira's patriotism does tend to color her judgment at times."

  "Fortunately, neither one of you will need to evaluate Major Kira's judgment," Commander Sisko said cheerfully. "You'll be getting firsthand experience of Bajoran healing; you can make your own reports on it afterward. And Dr. Bashir—"

  "Yes, Commander?"

  "Don't worry too much about the primitive working conditions. You'll be able to return to the station at any time, if you should need to use the diagnostic equipment here. But whether you do the bulk of your work here or on Bajor, there is one factor I can't stress strongly enough: time. The refugees have very little of it left."

  "I'll begin preparations immediately, sir," Dr. Bashir said. "Can Brother Gis meet me in the infirmary? He can brief me while I pack."

  "An excellent plan, Dr. Bashir. I'll see to it. Dismissed."

  As Dr. Bashir turned on his heel and started from the commander's office, he heard Sisko add, "Lieutenant Dax, I'd like to have a further word with you."

  Now what's that all about? Julian wondered. Another puzzle. And the sickness defying Bajoran healing powers was yet another puzzle awaiting him.

  That was all right. Dr. Bashir liked puzzles, especially when solving them might mean another chance for Jadzia Dax to see that he was not the little boy she thought. A puzzle, a chance to impress Jadzia, and the opportunity for Dr. Julian Bashir to practice medicine under primitive conditions and prove that he didn't need the technological bag of tricks of Starfleet to triumph over this unknown disease—perfect! Any other doctor might feel just a little nervous, going into strange territory like this, but he was not just any other doctor.

  He had never felt so confident in his life.

  CHAPTER 4

  CHIEF OF OPERATIONS Miles O'Brien leaned on the control console of the runabout and asked the pair of legs sticking out from under it, "What do you make of it, McCormic
k?"

  Ensign McCormick's muffled voice came from deep within the bowels of the machinery. "Never seen anything like this before."

  "And not likely to again, if you're lucky." O'Brien slapped the console. "Blasted Cardie technology. When it works, it works … barely. They're the misers of the universe."

  McCormick's legs vanished. There was a short scuffle; then he popped his head out and looked up at the chief of operations. "Don't you mean the Ferengi, sir?" he asked.

  "No, I do not," O'Brien replied, giving the console a look of disgust. "There's worlds of difference between a cutthroat merchant and a miser. The Ferengi may be greedy, but they know the value of reinvesting what they've got with an eye to bigger profits in future. The Cardies just take what they can and hold on to it with both hands and a tractor beam. Their machines are designed to meet the bare minimum when it comes to function specs. No thought to adaptability, no thought to possible future needs, just so it works enough to do the task of the moment. There's no—no elegance to it!" It was the worst judgment Miles O'Brien could pronounce on any technology.

  McCormick scooted out from beneath the console. "I think that's done it. I've got it fixed."

  "All right. You and Trulli run some diagnostics on it." O'Brien touched his comm badge. "O'Brien to Trulli. We're done here. How about you?"

  "Trulli here," a voice replied. "I've taken care of this one. All runabout transporters should be working at peak level now."

  "Good." O'Brien shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if a routine maintenance check hadn't brought the problem to light before the next time the runabout transporters were put to use. He'd been around long enough to know there was no such thing as a pretty accident, but those involving transporter malfunctions were the ugliest of all.