Subject: DS9 Story: Changes (long)
From: [email-masked] (joyce antrim)
Date: 31 Oct 1994 01:13:55 -0600
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative

CHANGES: A Deep Space Nine story.  Copyright on this story by
   Brenda S. Antrim, all rights reserved, 1994.  Copyright on
   characters by Paramount Pictures, Incorporated, all rights
   reserved.  Comments welcome, as with any of my fanfiction. 
                            Enjoy!  

     Hatred ran deep and strong as the rivers had once flowed
across parched and broken land.  Bajor had been a beautiful place,
before three generations of brutal Cardassian occupation had
stripped it of its wealth, its resources.  Now the Bajora, as
deeply wounded in spirit as their ruined land, struggled to heal
amidst the wreckage their tormentors had left behind.  But the
hatred remained.  Buried in some souls, ingrained by pain and loss
and terror, it festered.  Most of the deeply religious men and
women struggled with their nightmares, tried to rebuild their
lives, worked to build a future for children who would grow up
free.  But for some the hatred was too great, and it wouldn't be
buried for long.  They looked for vengeance, not to the future, for
their paghs were bound to the pain of the past.  Their need and
their hate decreed that someone be punished, that they could not
rest until all vestiges of Cardassia were wiped from the surface of
their planet, as if by scrubbing Bajor clean they could remove the
stains on their own souls.

*****************************************************************

     Doctor Julian Bashir, chief medical officer of the joint
Bajoran-Federation outpost station Deep Space Nine, was normally a
cheerful man.  He was usually so cheerful, in fact, that many of
his crewmates considered him a pest.  Unless they were injured or
ill, of course.  Besides being a pest, he was also an incredibly
talented doctor.  He usually bounced with the barely-restrained
energy of a puppy, and his high spirits could irritate his fellow
officers.  But today was not a normal day, and his mood was
uncommonly grim.
     "Children.  They're only children."  The Bajoran nurse working
alongside him nodded silently, then handed him the smallest
laserscalpel in the emergency medkit.  They continued to work
swiftly, the silence broken only by Bashir's terse commands and the
whimpering of the wounded.  The orphanage had been the latest
target in yet another skirmish between battling factions trying to
gain power in the still unsettled Provisional Government.  The
Council of Vedeks was decrying the most recent round of violence,
and Kai Winn herself had appealed for peace and calm, so the heads
of the factions could meet.  But the fighting was widespread, and
here in the countryside, far from the peacekeeping forces of the
cities, the innocents were once again suffering.
     Only two of the staff of eight had come to the orphanage after
the missiles had hit.  The others were either at home with their
families or unaccounted for in the general confusion after the
attack.  The village had taken some moderate damage but the center
of the attack had been on the humble orphanage, and the sixty or so
displaced Cardassian children who lived there.  Of that number,
fully half had been killed in the initial attack.  Bashir had been
at a nearby village, enjoying a rare break from his station duties
and taking his nurse up on her longstanding invitation to meet her
family.  Shika Mer was a good friend to the young doctor, and she
and her husband included him in their extended family.  Mer had a
feeling that Julian's reputation as a playboy in training would be
completely shot if Major Kira or Chief O'Brien ever saw him romping
on the floor with her toddlers.  His love for children was one of
his better kept secrets, but when word had reached her village
about the carnage at the orphanage, she knew how deeply affected he
had been.  They hadn't wasted any time with explanations, just
snatched up their medkits and ran for the flitter.  Within ten
minutes they were at the scene, and they waded into hell and got to
work.  They hadn't stopped for a breath.  Bashir had contacted the
station to update Commander Sisko on the situation and he'd
promised to send a runabout down with more medical supplies and
personnel to assist the village.
     Even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the whining
pitch of a transporter beam.  She allowed herself a small sigh of
relief before turning back to her work.  Looking down at the small
body lying so still under the doctor's skilled hands, she couldn't
help but wonder if the killing would ever stop.  The young
Cardassians didn't trigger any emotion except pity.  They were no
more to blame for the atrocities of the occupation than her
children were to blame for the madness of near-civil war among the
adult Bajora.
     Julian took a deep breath and stilled his hands.  He'd done
all he could for this little boy.  Now his fate was in the hands of
a power greater than Julian's skill.  Looking up as the first of
the medical team came through the remains of the door, he snapped
out a series of orders, directing a trauma team to the emergency
triage unit he had set up in what used to be the main hall of the
orphanage.  He sent another team into the village central square to
aid the injured villagers.  Moving to the next wounded child, a
girl of perhaps six or seven years, he began working to stop her
bleeding and treat her internal injuries.  Within moments of their
arrival his teams, Bajoran and Federation working together, were
set up and operating smoothly.
     Major Kira Nerys stood by the doorway, surveying the scene
with surface calm.  She'd spent most of her life as a freedom
fighter for her home world, but she'd never gotten used the sight
of a bomb blast.  Especially when the dead and wounded were
children.  Looking at the small still bodies, she didn't see
Cardassians.  Just dead kids.  Fury grew at the wasted lives, all
the destruction, and her gaze was drawn to Bashir working steadily
in the midst of the carnage.  His uniform was bloody and he looked
tired and somewhat shell shocked, but his hands never stopped
moving over the young girl in front of him.  His professionalism
always startled her a little.  She thought of him as so young,
cocky, overenthusiastic -- but his skill as a surgeon continued to
amaze her.
     "Ma'am?"
     Kira swung around at the soft question.  One of the young
Humans assigned to the rescue team was looking at her, waiting for
further instructions.  Shaking her head a little to clear it of old
memories, she concentrated on the task at hand.
     "Take the antigrav jacks over to the east end, check for
survivors, assist the med teams in setting up triage and be careful
of any unexploded ordinance."
     He snapped to and returned to his small group.  Soon the
sounds of the rescue teams shifting debris almost overpowered the
moans of pain from the wounded and dying.  Almost.

*****************************************************************

     Julian felt like he'd walked into a nightmare that was never
going to end.  The losses to the orphanage had been horrible, with
forty eight of the sixty three children dead.  Another six were
critically injured and had been transferred to the infirmary on
Deep Space Nine for further treatment.  None of the doctors in the
nearby Bajoran hospitals had any experience with Cardassian
physiology -- or so they claimed.  He was beginning to wonder. 
Damage to the village had been moderate, and the rest of the
orphans had been fostered out to families in the surrounding area
who had volunteered to take them in.  He forced himself to think of
these compassionate people whenever he needed to be reminded that
not all Bajorans considered Cardassians to be carrion.  Like now,
for instance.  He and Major Kira had been "negotiating" with the
village elders for almost two hours about burial for the children
killed in the attack.  This was the third time in two days they had
had to petition the council of elders.  What was the matter with
these people?  The children were Cardassian, yes, but for Gods'
sake, now they were corpses!  Why wouldn't the Elders cease their
endless bickering and approve of a burial site?  The prevailing
attitude seemed to be "not in my backyard, they're unclean."  He
was getting damned sick of it, and he was very impressed with
Kira's patience as she rephrased the question.  For the fifth time.
     "It is a health consideration, sir.  Perhaps the land to the
north of the orphanage site would be appropriate?  There is a small
cemetery already established on the grounds."
     "It won't hold them all, Major," Julian reminded her.  "There
is only room for about twenty, and we have more than twice that to
bury."  He didn't bother to hide the edge to his voice, and Kira
looked a warning at him.  He promptly ignored it and concentrated
on the head Councilman.  He'd had quite enough stalling from them
and now he hammered the point home.  "I realize you don't wish to
bury Cardassians in your sanctified ground, and we're not demanding
you do so.  But those *children* have been dead for two days now. 
Unless you prefer to deal with the aftereffects of rotting corpses
and their attendant diseases, I would *suggest* you make a decision
regarding their *disposal*.  Now!"
     His harsh words fell into a small pool of silence and for a
moment he nearly backed down under the weight of their combined
glares.  Kira closed her eyes briefly and sighed.  But he stiffened
his spine and continued to hold the leader's stare.  It was time
for the squabblers to get a glimpse of reality.
     The head councilman finally straightened from his seat and,
ignoring the infuriated doctor, addressed Kira.  "Major, we shall
have a site set aside by the end of today's session.  In the spirit
of mercy as the Prophets teach us, they will be given proper
sacrament.  The burial will be midday tomorrow."
     He turned with slow dignity and left the room without
acknowledging Bashir.  Three of the other elders trailed in his
wake, but the final old man paused.
     "Doctor Bashir," his words were soft but firm, as if his
conscience demanded they be spoken but his spirit feared
eavesdroppers.  "Thank you for all of your help, and for the
villagers you saved after this unfortunate tragedy.  We ... do
appreciate it."  Giving a tiny bird-like nod, he gently patted
Julian's arm and hurried to catch up with the others.  The doctor
watched him go, reluctant to face Kira and the inevitable
explosion.  He didn't have a long wait.
     "What the hell was *that* little stunt all about?  Don't you
have a diplomat somewhere in your family tree?  Did he get all the
tactful genes and you got the tongue that was loose at both ends
and disconnected from the brain?"
     He risked a glance at her and wished he hadn't.  Her face was
almost as red as her hair.  Her eyes were glittering, her fists
were planted on her hips and her feet were spread wide, like a
fighter getting ready to attack.  He sighed.
     "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
     "What did?  Offending the Head Councilman and sending the rest
of the elders off in a snit?"
     "It resolved the problem, didn't it?"  He hated sounding so
defensive.
     She snorted.  "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose."
     He turned to her and shrugged his shoulders, loosening muscles
that were tensed from too much stress and not enough rest.  "Well,
they will have a site chosen by tonight, and those children will
finally be buried.  That *is* a resolution as far as I can see."
     Kira began to answer him hotly, and saw him brace himself
unconsciously to meet her temper.  Narrowing her eyes, she thought
for a moment before answering him.  A myriad of conflicting
memories fought for her attention, and she wondered how to explain
the unexplainable.  Especially to one who was in many ways still an
innocent.
     "Don't blame them for feeling the way they do, Bashir."  Her
mild tone reassured him, and he relaxed enough to listen to her
words.  "They've seen a lot of death, most of them, and it was
because of the Cardassians that they had to live through it. 
They've seen children die before, many have lost children
themselves, killed by the Cardassians.  These kids, well, they're
reminders of things these people would like to forget, to put
behind them."  She leaned toward him, almost as if her intensity
could make him understand the horrors the Bajora had survived.  "It
*is* a tragedy that those children died, but these elders have
other pressing concerns, like trying to keep their village in one
piece when they're right in the middle of an undeclared civil war. 
And, while you may not agree with their views, Cardassians, even
children, are not high on the priority list when there's an
emergency."
     His face hardened at her final words, and she sighed
impatiently.
     "After all, they're only Cardassians, right?"
     "If that's the way you want to see it, then, yes!" she snapped
back at him.  "You're the one who wants everybody to face reality,
Doctor.  That *is* the reality here, whether you're ready to accept
it or not."  Shaking her head at his truculent expression, she
turned and headed for the door.  "I'll be in the runabout."
     "Kira?"
     She turned back at his questioning tone.  He'd sounded odd, as
if he was having trouble getting her name out.  She looked at him
quizzically when he didn't continue.  He cleared his throat and
tried again.
     "Over the past two years I've been visiting the orphanages
periodically.  Routine exams, basic care, physicals, that sort of
thing.  Would you ... that is, I'll be attending the service
tomorrow.  Would you accompany me?"
     She held his pleading gaze for a long moment, then nodded
silently and left the room.

*****************************************************************

     Dela Cahr was a bitter man.  He had lost his wife and child to
a Cardassian forced labor camp, had seen his brothers murdered for
their part in the fight for Bajor's freedom, had lived with
emptiness filled only by the prod of his hatred for so long that he
knew no other existence.  As a guerilla with the Kohn Ma, he had
found a purpose for what was left of his life.  But now, there were
no more Cardassians to kill.  For a short time after the pullout,
he had been involved in the war crimes trials of the sympathizers
left behind by their Cardie masters.  But the proceedings had
tasted like ashes in his mouth.  So many of the guilty went
unpunished.  The "evidence" wasn't strong enough, the council trial
was too weak or squabbled too much to seek true justice, or the
guilty had enough money to buy their freedom from the dock.  They
didn't all escape, though.  He had his own means of ensuring that
justice was served, whenever he felt convinced that his information
was solid.  He trusted his instincts.  And no one ever suspected
that many who had escaped the courts had not gotten very far. 
Their deaths were all reported as accidents.
     While he hadn't been involved in the attacks on the Cardie
whelps he wasn't the least bit sorry that it had happened.  Whelps
grew up, and became soldiers, and they were all better dead.  He
wasn't surprised that the Federation doctor had worked so hard on
the brats instead of concentrating on the Bajora who had been hurt. 
After all, hadn't it been those from the station who had fired on
their own people?  People fighting for their homes against the
damned Cardassians, just like the Bajora had?  Funny, how they'd
fight to protect the Cardies, but not lift a finger to help their
own kind, the Maquis.  He cheered the Maquis on, himself --
reminded him of his own fight.  But then, he guessed they'd had to
do it, if they were going to protect their Prophets-damned treaty
with the bastards.  Major Kira had surprised him, however.  Nerys
had been in one of his sister cells, fighting alongside his own
soldiers in the swamps, during the Occupation.  She'd been tough,
principled, driven, if not quite as driven as he was.  He didn't
want to believe that she'd changed so much that she was pleading
the case for a bunch of Cardie carrion.  No, it had to be the
Human.  
     Noticing the Elders returning to the chamber, he straightened
from the back wall and gave closer attention to the meeting.  They
were arguing over where to dump the corpses again, and he started
to relax.  Until they got to the details.
     "...at midday tomorrow.  There is a suitable plot adjoining
the lower pastures, and it is large enough to contain all of the
... victims.  Monk Cherol has volunteered to perform the ceremony."
     Ceremony?  What ceremony?  Were they actually going to
sanctify the burial of a load of Cardassian waste?  He didn't want
to believe what he was hearing.  But the Council was agreeing. 
Feeling a familiar burning deep in his gut, he pushed away from the
wall and swiftly left the building.  He had a funeral to attend.

*****************************************************************

     Morning haze had burned off in the sunshine, and the light
threw the cracked brown land into harsh relief, unrelenting lines
of drought and neglect.  It was a dead place, with no grass to
soften the angles of the landscape, no flowers to brighten the
eyes' view, no breeze to disturb the baking summer heat.  Fitting,
Garak mused, that the young Cardassians' final resting place should
be as inhospitable as all the other supposed havens in their short
lives.  Old, not very well buried resentment thrummed just under
the surface of his skin, but he forced it down.  As an adult male
Cardassian on the surface of Bajor after the Empire had withdrawn,
he had to keep a sharp eye on his surroundings and could not afford
to be distracted.  He probably shouldn't have come today.  When
Doctor Bashir had contacted him the previous night he had already
known of the attack.  His sources hadn't withered completely away. 
He had been forewarned, knew that the devastated orphanage was one
to which he had accompanied the young doctor several times on his
mercy missions.  But he had not known the full extent of the
losses.  When Julian told him, he had felt something within him
become still and quiet.  Not for the first time since his Human
friend had removed his Wire, he briefly wished that he could turn
off his emotions.  Escape from them.  No one on DS Nine knew his
true history, although Julian knew more than he perhaps realized,
but Garak had closer ties to those orphans than any of the
Federation people would understand.  How could they understand? 
They were not Cardassian.  He tried not to think of his children,
taken from him in his disgrace, as much to protect them as to
heighten his punishment.  As if exile from Cardassian space were
not punishment enough.  As much as he tried to ignore it, there was
a link between himself and the small still bodies lying so
patiently under the hot sun for burial.  Something of himself had
died here on Bajor as well.  He'd found himself on the 0500 shuttle
to Bajor, trying to ignore the way the other passengers whispered
behind him and avoided his presence as if he were diseased.  His
thoughts chased themselves in a fruitless attempt to justify his
need to see these children laid to rest, and he knew it was tied up
with his guilt over the fate of his own children and the pain in
Julian's eyes when he'd told him about the funeral.
     Seeing Major Kira standing uncomfortable and silent several
feet from the long furrow in the ground that would serve as a mass
grave for the victims, his eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. 
He and the major had had several confrontations aboard the station
and this was not the time for another.  Deliberately treading
heavily on the crusty ground, he saw her swing toward him.  He
continued on his way to Bashir's side without acknowledging her. 
Kira made an abortive move toward them, then stopped.  She stared
hard at him for a moment, then her gaze shifted to the bodies, then
the grave.  She settled back into her original stance, giving the
vague impression that she would really rather have been anywhere
else.  Garak left her to her discomfort and looked up to meet
Julian's sad eyes.  The young Human looked exhausted, with deep
shadows of fatigue under his eyes and a fine white line of tension
defining his tightly compressed lips.  Strain showed in his stiffly
erect stance, but his uniform was spotless and he was freshly
shaved.  Garak knew how hard Bashir had fought for the dignity of
a proper burial for the Cardassian orphans.  His mind flashed back
to a worried, determined Julian spending hours by his side as he
went through the horrors of withdrawal.  Afterward, when the
confusion and rage had cleared, he had been impressed by Julian's
dedication, and his friendship.  Sometimes he wished that he could
somehow make amends for the verbal abuse he had subjected the
doctor to -- not to mention physically attacking him.  Bashir had
never mentioned it, and he had the feeling it was because the Human
understood more than Garak would have expected from one so young. 
So Bashir's determination to do the best he could for the orphans
didn't surprise Garak.  It was completely in character.
     "Glad you could make it."  The subdued voice matched his tired
face.  
     "Thank you for informing me."
     "I knew you'd be interested in the children-" for a moment,
Julian's voice faltered, then he picked up the thread of the
conversation again.  "It seemed ... that you would wish to be
present."
     Garak nodded but said nothing.  A Bajoran monk, barely into
his twenties, had stepped up to a small alter that had been hastily
erected by the side of the grave.  Two older Bajoran men stood
impatiently next to the trestle tables holding the bodies, waiting
for the consecration to be over so that they could complete the
distasteful task of burying the Cardassians.
     The monk laid several long strands of knotted ribbons on the
altar and raised his hands for silence.  An unnecessary gesture,
since the handful of people at the grave side were already still,
awaiting his words.  But it seemed to help him gather his thoughts,
and as he lowered his hands he began to speak.
     "In the absence of family to oversee this consecration, I,
Cherol, do so in sorrow for the ending of life, in so many, so
young."
     Gently, he lifted the cords and began to place them at precise
intervals on the cloth covering the bodies.  The knots met and
crossed, forming an intricate web that shimmered in the light,
catching the small forms up in a rainbow embrace.  As he worked,
his soft words carried over the still air to the silent watchers. 
     "The Prophets teach us that each life has a meaning, a
purpose, a time.  There is a reason for each life, a plan laid and
followed.  For every pain suffered a lesson is learned; for every
joy felt a reward is earned.  Each soul fulfills its destiny, as
the Prophets will.  Every life has a meaning, as the Prophets will. 
Every soul will find a place of rest, and return to fulfill the
plan, as the Prophets will.  May these young souls find their place
of rest, and their fulfillment, in the Hands of the Prophets."
     As he finished the sacrament, he completed the web.  Raising
his arms in the traditional posture, he meditated for a long
moment.  Instinctively, Kira did the same.  Julian lowered his eyes
for a brief prayer.  Garak, after a moment's hesitation, lifted his
hand to his forehead ridge in a final gesture of respect for the
children.
     The monk lowered his arms, and the brief service was
concluded.  Stepping away from the grave, without a word to his
audience, he headed back to the village.  Bashir looked askance at
Kira.
     "It was his duty."  She was watching the cemetery workers
lower the trestles into the furrow.
     "He volunteered."  Bashir was too spent to even be angry at
the monk's snub.
     "He has other people to attend to, doctor."  Turning to face
him, still ignoring Garak, she changed the subject.  "If you'd like
to meet me at the runabout, I have some business to finish up with
the Elders."
     Bashir nodded and Kira strode away.  He sighed and turned to
Garak.
     "I need to make a follow-up on the other injured children,
make sure their healing well, check their conditions.  I don't know
what's going to happen to them.  They've lost everything."
     "May I accompany you?" Garak returned softly.  "I can at least
provide them with some new clothing."
     Julian smiled and reached out to pat the shorter man's
shoulder, then the two friends turned and walked toward the
village, leaving the gravefillers to their work.  Unnoticed, sharp
eyes followed their progress.  They noted the warmth between the
Human and the Cardassian, a Cardassian they had seen before.  One
of those with no "evidence," but one he'd seen a few times in the
past.  During the occupation.  In the shadows.  There had been
rumors, but no proof that this Cardassian was any better or worse
than any other -- except that there had been whispers about the
Enforcers, the Obsidians.  The Butchers.  This would require some
planning and preparation.  It was time for another ... unfortunate
accident.
    
*****************************************************************

     Jadzia Dax ached for the young man sitting across the small
table from her.  Dax had seen a lot of death in nearly three
hundred years, had lost hosts, lovers, children.  The symbiont
applied its accumulated wisdom to helping Jadzia find the words to
comfort the saddened doctor.  But she had never been a healer,
didn't know the special pain felt by those trained to save lives
when they failed.  Especially when the victims were children.
     "I know it's a platitude, Julian, but that doesn't make it any
less true.  You did everything you could."  Her voice was gentle.
     "Not enough."  He concentrated on the tumbler of cool amber
liquid sparkling between his restless fingers.
     "If you hadn't been there, none of them would have survived." 
She reached across the table to insistently tug one of his hands
from its death grip on the glass.  Sliding her palm over his, she
intertwined their fingers.  His grip tightened momentarily, a small
squeeze of appreciation for the comfort she was offering, then his
fingers relaxed to lie loosely in her grasp.  Wordlessly she shared
his sense of loss.  She knew he had been making mercy runs to the
orphanages for almost two years now, and that many of the
youngsters killed in the attack had been those Julian had been
seeing on a regular basis.  Any time innocent bystanders were
killed in someone else's war, it was a tragedy.  When they were so
young, and they were patients, the tragedy took on a personality,
had faces.  It hurt on a more personal level.  Her fingers
tightened on his again, a little friendship hug, and he smiled
fleetingly at her.
     "Thank you, Jadzia."
     Quark made a stop at the table but a quick head shake from Dax
sent him on his way with a shrug.  Julian didn't notice.  They sat
for a long time in silence, each immersed in their own private
thoughts.

*****************************************************************

     Kira was not having a good night.  The carnage at the village,
the emotions evoked by the simple funeral, even Bashir's
justifiable anger, struck too many painful chords in her memory. 
Too often she had been on the receiving end of the devastation. 
She had seen too many children buried.
     Biting off a muffled curse, she finally gave up the attempt to
sleep.  For the hundredth time, perhaps the thousandth, she wished
Bareil was beside her.  Wished she could lean across the narrow bed
and burrow into his warm strength.  She was strong, but sometimes
in the middle of the night she felt like a child again.  Lost. 
Alone.  Staring into the faint light washing over her small
personal altar, she decided to clear her schedule, take a few days
off, center her pagh.  Spend some time with her favorite Vedek. 
Bashir was going down in a couple weeks to check up on the other
kids wounded in the attack.  Perhaps she'd ride down with him on
the runabout, then take the shuttle up a couple days later.  The
plan gave her mind something to concentrate on other than her
nightmares, and she finally settled down to get some sleep.

*****************************************************************

     Chief Miles O'Brien surveyed the packed runabout with no
little satisfaction.  While he had no love for the Cardies, he was
a father himself.  He'd been appalled at the damage reports from
the rescue crews sent down to the wreckage of the village.  He'd
also been keeping a bit of an eye on young Bashir.  Major Kira had
told him about the number of deaths, and how hard Bashir had worked
over the survivors.  He'd noticed the younger man had been subdued,
his normal high energy directed toward determination to make sure
the rest of the orphans suffered no further deprivation.  Medical
supplies, basic medicines, blankets, food, some toys for the
youngest victims.  Garak had been working overtime, and was stowing
sturdy new clothes onboard with the other supplies.  Miles still
didn't trust the little "tailor" -- truthfully, he never would
trust a Cardassian, and he knew it.  Not after what he'd seen, what
they'd done to him.  But that wasn't the kids' fault.  He'd learned
that when he and his wife had cared for a young Cardassian boy
caught between his adoptive Bajoran family and his birth father
from Cardassia.  He had learned a lot from that experience, and it
made him even more sympathetic to the orphans' plight.  But Garak? 
He thought not.
     Julian brought the last of the toys and books he'd scavenged
into the cargo hold.  He noticed the careful distance and utter
silence maintained between O'Brien and Garak and wisely made no
comment.  He cast a swift smile at the tailor, then addressed
Miles.
     "Thank you for all the work, Chief.  You've really pulled it
all together."
     "Glad to help, sir."  Miles kept his eyes on his datapadd,
checking off the last of the containers.  With a satisfied sigh, he
held the padd out to Bashir.  "If you'll just sign this off, she'll
be ready to fly."
     Julian signed briskly and smiled at Miles.  "Well, I know this
was a lot of work.  The children will certainly appreciate it, and
so do I."
     O'Brien returned the smile.  "Hope they get some good use out
of it, sir.  If you don't need me here any longer, I've some work
to get back to on the Promenade-"
     "Never ends, does it?" Julian interjected sympathetically.
     "Never will."  Giving the doctor a friendly nod and studiously
ignoring Garak, Miles ducked out of the runabout and disappeared
through the airlock.  After a moment, Julian broke the silence.
     "I'm sorry, Garak."
     "Whatever for, doctor?"  The Cardassian finished fastening
restraining straps around the last of the clothing containers and
straightened to face his friend.  "I would never hold you
responsible for the actions of others, or their attitudes and
opinions."
     Julian opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a
word another figure stepped into the small cabin.  Kira at least
acknowledged Garak's presence with a curt nod before turning to the
doctor.
     "I'll be riding down with you, Bashir."
     "Um."  He blinked, redirected his thoughts, and began again. 
"Pilot?"
     Her look clearly said "of course," then she began the
preflight checklist.  Bashir exchanged a helpless look with Garak,
then they both acquiesced and settled in for the ride.

*****************************************************************

     The late afternoon sunlight painted shimmering highlights on
the petals of the velvety purple flowers, and a slight breeze
brought the scent of green growing things to tickle Kira's nose. 
She could identify any number of swamp and mountain plants as
edible or poisonous, by sight, touch or smell.  She didn't know
what the little sparkling flowers were called.  The blank spot in
her floral lore sent a tingle of dissatisfaction seeping through
her.  There were too many utterly harmless, normal, everyday things
she just hadn't had time to learn, too preoccupied with daily
survival in a world gone mad.  The morning had been a typical
confusing mixture of relaxation and arousal, an odd state she found
herself in whenever she spent any time with Bareil.  He had been
very attentive the past two days, but on this third afternoon his
duties had called him away, leaving her to amuse herself for a few
hours.  Thinking about the night to come, and the fourth and final
day of leave she had managed to secure before she had to return to
the stresses of daily life on DS Nine, she burrowed deeper into the
leafy alcove behind the main gardens of the monastery and slipped
into a light meditative trance.
     At first the low humming of voices from behind the alcove was
a minor irritant.  Determinedly, she ignored the intrusion of the
monks' voices and tried to concentrate on her center, her pagh. 
Then a name, and the worried tone in which it was invoked, brought
her completely to attention.  The monks were hidden behind a thick
wall of shrubbery, but their conversation came through clearly
enough.  Or perhaps, given the content, it should have been called
a confession.
     "Dela Cahr is a powerful man in the district."  The voice was
younger than she'd thought at first, and vaguely familiar.  It was
also trembling with nerves.  "He has many sympathizers and more
influence than I do, by far.  I felt ... threatened."
     Cahr?  Threatening a monk?!  Things had certainly changed
since they had fought together in the swamps.
     "What did your penitent tell you, Cherol?  Why did you feel
threatened?"
     "He said that he knew that Dela had brought a criminal to
justice.  He'd done some work on an electrical board for him, but
he would not say exactly what he had done.  When I pressed him for
the reason behind his feelings of guilt, he said that an innocent
would die with the guilty, and that it was troubling him."  The
shakiness in the monk's voice increased as he continued.  "Dela
entered the chamber then, and my penitent stopped speaking.  Dela
then told him that no friend of a Cardassian could ever be
considered an innocent, even a healer.  Then Dela looked at me and
asked - no, told me that penitence in confidence was private.  I
agreed of course, because that is true, but also because ... his
words, his stance.  He frightened me."  After a short pause to
collect his composure, the monk continued.  His voice was stronger
now that he had finished the difficult part of his narrative.  "I
seek guidance, Vedek.  Dela and his ... supporters ... it is my
belief that they have arranged accidents before."
     "Do you wish to request reassignment?"
     As the two men discussed the young monk's future, they began
to move toward the outbuildings and their voices faded in the
distance.  Kira was grappling with the mental image of her old
comrade as a renegade vigilante, going around arranging "accidents"
for Cardassians and strongarming monks.  Although, she considered
dispassionately, Dela'd probably be good at it.  He'd been an
excellent swamp soldier, very thorough, always making sure there
were no survivors after their attacks on the Cardie outposts.  No
surviving soldiers meant no one to shoot you in the back as you
were leaving, no one to report your whereabouts to the larger units
and endanger the Resistance squads.  Though he'd have a hard time
now finding Cardies to hunt ... something clicked into place in her
memory, and she knew where she'd heard that monk before.  Cherol
had given the Blessing at the village where Bashir was dropping off
the supplies for the orph... oh, Prophets protect me, Kira thought,
her eyes growing wide.  She extricated herself from the alcove with
no wasted motion and hurried to the main building, ignoring the
startled looks her headlong rush drew from the groundskeepers she
passed.  Heading for Bareil's quarters, her mind worked feverishly,
putting together what she remembered of Dela Cahr's methods, paths
to the village, surrounding topography, who could be trusted to
help Bashir if Cahr's men got to them first.  Underlying her
furious thoughts was a litany of worry.  Healer.  Innocent. 
Healer.
     She had to get to Bashir before Dela Cahr did.

*****************************************************************

     For such a productive trip, it certainly wasn't ending well. 
The innocuous thought floated through Julian's mind as he fought
with the recalcitrant controls of the runabout.  Peripherally he
noted Garak's hands moving over the navigational and emergency
systems controls, showing a surprising and completely ineffective
mastery of Federation equipment.  With a sinking feeling, Bashir
noted the dead instrument panel, indicating universal electronic
failure.  Mixed with his mounting terror was unexpected chagrin. 
He'd never heard of anyone killing the entire electronic array of
a runabout; it would have to happen when he was piloting it.  Miles
would have a fit.  Fatalistically he held onto the protective
webbing locking him in place, closed his eyes, and waited for
impact.

*****************************************************************

     Light hurt.
     Garak had never realized this particular bit of wisdom, and he
considered himself something of an expert on the subject of pain. 
Forcing his eyes to open once more, he was relieved to find himself
relatively unhurt.  He lifted an unsteady hand to his temple and
felt a thin trickle of blood dripping from a shallow furrow
wrapping around his head, beginning just over his eyeridge and
ending in a knot in the thick hair at the base of his skull.  The
dizziness began to abate, and he carefully lifted himself from the
floor of the runabout.  The webbing had either torn or been cut by
flying metal in the tumbling crash, and he had been tossed toward
the aft cargo hatch.  Now the runabout was canted at a thirty
degree angle, with her rear buried in muck and her nose smashed
from her wild end-over-end roll.  Garak was bruised and sore, but
his dense skeletal mass had saved him from more severe injury.  A
soft moan brought his head up, searching for the source.  Moving
carefully through the debris toward the cockpit, he saw a limp hand
draped over the armrest of the pilot's seat.  Alien crimson blood
traced a slow trail across the back to drip off the farthest
knuckle.  The hand wasn't moving.  Garak swallowed painfully and
pulled himself forward to assess the situation.
     A side strut had been ripped from the instrument panel,
pinning Julian to his seat.  There was a long bruise beginning to
darken across his left eye, spreading diagonally from his temple to
the opposite cheek, and his nose was bleeding slightly.  Shattered
glass sparkled in his hair and over his chest, but none of the
pieces were large enough to be harmful.  His left leg was lightly
pinned by the same destroyed section of the control panel that was
cutting into his chest.  The Cardassian put his fingertips to
Julian's throat, hoping that Human physiology was comparable to
Bajoran.  He was surprised at the depth of his relief when he felt
the thready pulse under his hand.  Humans were so fragile. 
Julian's eyes suddenly opened, and Garak instinctively responded to
the blank terror he saw there by cupping Julian's jaw with his
hand.  The terror faded, and Garak selfconsciously withdrew his
hand to grip Julian's shoulder.
     "I'm ... trapped."  With comprehension came pain.  Garak gave
him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
     "Not for long, I assure you.  It's only the one beam, and I
think I can handle that."  Suiting action to words, he carefully
positioned his hands near the center of the strut and pulled. 
Julian gasped and gritted his teeth, making no other sound.  Garak
applied as much force as he could and the strut slowly shifted
until it was a handspan away from Julian's body.  The release of
pressure from the chest wound caused the blood to flow freely and
Julian lifted a weak hand to staunch it.  Shaking from shock and
blood loss, he wasn't able to apply sufficient pressure, and he
cursed in small breathless spurts.  Garak smiled involuntarily; at
least his young friend had some spirit left, even if it looked like
he would soon have no blood.  Bunching the torn material of
Julian's uniform shirt together, he held the makeshift bandage
against the wound and pulled Julian from the wreckage.  Settling
him on the soft ground some distance from the crash site, Garak set
about making Julian more comfortable, and rebandaging the chest
wound.  As he pulled the tattered remnants of Julian's shirt from
his back in order to clean the wound, Julian made an abortive
attempt to stop him.  Garak soothed his hands away, and gently
pushed him forward to tie the ends of the bandage around his torso. 
Seeing Julian's back in the waning sunlight, Garak abruptly
stopped.  The scars were very old, most of them poorly healed, and
laid in a definite pattern of interlacing strokes.  Julian was very
still under his hands, and Garak finished tying off the bandage
without a word.  Easing his friend down into a prone position,
Garak tucked an emergency blanket around him to ward off the chill. 
Giving in to impulse, he pushed the sweat-soaked dark curls off
Julian's forehead.  Intent, pain-lanced dark eyes peered at him for
a long moment before the battered Human gave an involuntary moan
and lapsed back into unconsciousness.  Garak sat for a little
while, close to his side, thinking of stories, and lies, and all
the little things friends never told friends.  All the dirty little
secrets that left their marks on the inside.  And sometimes on the
outside as well.  Finally, he gave Julian's prone form one more
reassuring pat and returned to the runabout to salvage what
supplies he could.     

*****************************************************************

     Swirling pinpoints of light exploded behind Julian's eyelids. 
He'd never quite believed the old saying about seeing stars, but he
was willing to amend his beliefs when the situation warranted.  His
head hurt as if someone had hit him with a mallet, and he was
dizzy, weak, and vaguely nauseated.  His training came to the fore
and he ran an internal inventory, assessing the damage.  Someone
had done rudimentary first aid, cleaning the scrapes and cuts,
putting a pressure bandage on his chest ... Garak.  Julian
remembered the tense few moments before he passed out, and winced
at the memory.  Then he stilled abruptly, as the pain in his face
reminded him that he'd gone headfirst into a control panel.
     "Oh, excellent.  You're awake."  Garak's voice was cheerful,
giving no indication that anything at all was amiss.  Bashir was
relieved.  He wasn't really up to handling this right at the moment
anyway.  He tried to locate the voice in the inky blackness
surrounding him, but could only make out Garak's silhouette,
backlit by moonlight, on the ground in front of them.  He was
sitting behind him, supporting Julian's weight against his side,
keeping him from moving and disturbing his bandages.
     "Um hm."
     "How do you feel?  Or is that the wrong question to be
asking?"
     "Like I've been in a runabout smashup."  Garak's dry chuckle
didn't quite mask his concern.  Forcing himself to ignore the pain,
Julian asked about the state of the runabout.  His companion
hesitated for a moment before replying.
     "Communications are out, and your commbadge was crushed by the
beam that hit your chest.  But the emergency beacon was activated. 
Rescue shouldn't be long in coming."
     "Did you ... find the medkit .. in-"
     "In pieces.  I thought the Federation prided itself on the
quality of their workmanship.  Certainly to hear Mr. O'Brien one
would think that there was no contest, that Federation technology
was in all ways superior to Cardassian.  Frankly I'm disappointed. 
That webbing-"  Garak's voice flowed over Bashir, slurred by the
increasing demands of his injuries, and he found himself drifting
out of consciousness again.  
     The Cardassian continued his soothing prattle until he felt
Julian relax into sleep.  Bringing the blanket up closer around his
patient's shoulders, he huddled against him for warmth.  The swamps
were cold at night, but he didn't dare light a fire.  Whoever had
so inventively sabotaged the runabout was probably looking to
finish the job, and Garak was too old a hand at being in enemy
territory to light a beacon for them.  He was just glad Bashir was
too exhausted to notice, and question, their singularly dark and
chilly camp.
     Julian moaned softly in his sleep, and Garak shushed him
gently.  Shifting on the hard ground, he put his arm around the
doctor and moved him into a more comfortable position, with his
head resting on Garak's chest and his long body curled protectively
around his wounded ribs.  Garak cradled him in his arms, and secure
in the knowledge that Julian wouldn't hear a word he said, finally
told him the truth about his exile to Deep Space Nine.

*****************************************************************

     "What's the problem, Commander?  I thought those scanners were
fixed!  After that last mess with Doctor Bashir and the refugee
camps, now you're telling me we can't find him again?"  Worry made
Kira's voice sharper than she'd intended.  Convincing Bareil of the
imminent danger to Bashir, not to mention Garak, and questioning
Cherol had eaten up most of the rest of the afternoon.  All of her
instincts were screaming at her to hurry.  When she had contacted
Sisko on a secure line from the monastery, he'd told her that the
runabout carrying Bashir and Garak had crashed in the swamp outside
Dela Cahr's village.
     "We have dispatched a rescue crew, but there's a lot of
interference from the surface."
     "What kind of interference? ... sir?"
     "EM, overlapping radiowaves, signals across frequencies,
intermittent signals from other old beacons... you name it."
     "Cardie junk, left to rot in the swamps after they pulled
out."  Kira was disgusted.  "How about his commbadge?  Or the
emergency beacon on the runabout?"
     Sisko's look told her plainly that he didn't appreciate being
treated like an idiot.  "The commbadge seems to have stopped
transmitting."  She nodded, abashed at his patience but still too
worried to regret her lack of tact.  His voice softened slightly,
as if to reassure her.  "We're trying, major.  We've dispatched the
Ganges for an onsite search.  But it will take some time to get
there."
     Kira nodded her understanding of the situation.  Sisko had to
keep this quiet; he didn't dare call in local assistance to locate
his missing people, because he didn't know whom he could trust.  By
sharing their knowledge of the runabout's difficulties, and by
helping pinpoint it's location, he could be signing Bashir's death
warrant.
     "I'll keep you updated if there are ... any further
developments, Commander.  Kira out."  As she closed the commlink,
Kira was convinced that Sisko also didn't fully appreciate the
immediacy of Dela's threat.  He hadn't dealt with fanatics enough
to realize just how dangerous they could be.  Or how thorough. 
"Let us handle it," Sisko had demanded.  And he was probably right. 
But Kira had a nasty feeling that he wouldn't be able to "handle
it" before Bashir and Garak ran out of time.
     Making her decision, Kira snapped her heavy jacket on, grabbed
her knife and survival belt, and headed for the door.  She
hesitated briefly as she crossed the threshold into Bareil's
office, then came across the floor to stand at his desk.  He rose
to meet her, and she reached up to hold him for a moment.  He froze
when his arm brushed against her phaser.
     "I've got to make sure they're all right."
     He nodded and hugged her tightly.  Pulling back, still holding
her loosely in the circle of his arms, he gazed thoughtfully into
her worried eyes.
     "Dela Cahr was a comrade.  What will you do if there is a
confrontation?"
     She held his look for a long time before dropping her eyes. 
"I don't ... want to make any mistakes ... or wrong choices."  Her
voice fell, almost as if she was talking to herself instead of the
Vedek.  "But I can't allow him to hurt innocent people.  My
friend."  She lifted her eyes back to his and answered as honestly
as she could.  "I don't know.  Trust my instincts, I guess."
     Bareil smiled and dropped his arms, stepping back to give her
room to leave.  "You will do what is right, Nerys.  I trust those
instincts of yours."
     She smiled and hurried from the room.  Unvoiced, her final
response to his comment teased at her mind.  *But do I trust them?*

*****************************************************************

     For the first time in nearly four years, Garak felt completely
relaxed.  Cleansed, somehow, by the simple act of finally
explaining the truth behind that whole mess with the questioning of
those Bajoran children and its disastrous aftermath.  He savored
the silence after he had finished, letting his words seep silently
into the damp cold air of the Bajoran swamp.  Julian's voice
shocked him into immobility.
     "Thank you."
     "It was just a story," Garak instinctively replied.  He
scrambled to find a better line, a more convincing way to cover his
previous words, but he was unprepared and off guard.  Before he
could pull together a more complete story, Julian's soft voice
continued.
     "Aren't they all?  One hears ... so many stories.  Truth can
be what you make of it, and history can be ... so fluid.  My own,
for instance."
     "Does this have something to do with the scars on your back?" 
Garak was happy to divert attention from his own story, at least
until he could find a way to convince Julian it had been another
lie, and change the subject.  "They appeared to be in a sort of, I
don't know quite how to put it, a pattern of some kind?"
     "Mm hm."  The sound was noncommittal, but didn't quite manage
to eradicate the traces of old pain, as if from a long buried but
still awful memory.
     "If I may ask, why didn't you have them removed?"
     "Too old, too many -- too long untreated.  Too deep to
successfully remove or cover."  Julian was silent for the space of
heartbeat, then drew a ragged breath, choking a little when he
jarred his chest wound.  "I suppose one ... story ... deserves
another."  After another little pause, he sighed and began to tell
Garak about another place.  A desert hell, another life, called
Ishmir.

*****************************************************************

     Dela Cahr crept noiselessly through the thick vines around the
crash site.  Dawn was beginning to chase away the shadows of the
previous night, and he had ascertained that there had been
survivors.  But not for long.  Following the trail of burnt and
broken trees deep into the swamp he had felt his heart begin to
pound.  This was the most satisfying part of the chase, when
justice was meted out, when Cardassians and their sympathizers paid
for their crimes.
     He cautiously approached the remains of the runabout, keeping
the bulky shape between himself and the clearing beyond.  He
stopped and listened hard, concentrating on identifying the
location of his enemy before he attacked.  With all the instincts
of thirty years of guerilla warfare on alert, he tracked his
quarry, waiting for his best shot.
     He could hear labored breathing.  Peering around a jutting
corner, he made out the restless form of the Starfleet doctor
wrapped in a blanket and nestled in a bed of vines.  He appeared to
be semiconscious, pale and exhausted.  Bloody bandages tossed
beside his rough pallet gave mute testimony to the severity of his
injuries.  Dismissing him as a possible threat, Dela was searching
for the Cardassian when a rustle in the branches across the
clearing from the doctor stopped him.  Blending back into the
shadows, he waited and watched.
     Kira stepped carefully from the tangle of vegetation and
crossed the small clearing toward Bashir.  Garak was nowhere in
sight, and she knelt beside the Human to assess his condition.  She
found nothing reassuring.  His normally warm caramel skin was
clammy, with a faint sheen of sweat from a rising fever.  She laid
a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat and he whimpered softly
in pain, trying to draw away from her touch.  Kira pulled the edge
of the blanket back to see a widening spot of bright crimson in the
middle of a fresh pressure bandage.  She winced at the sight of the
wound, as well as the bruised and swollen face of the young doctor. 
At least Garak had treated his injuries - but where the hell was he
now?  Kira replaced the blanket, pulling it tightly around his
shoulders, and lifted her hand to her commbadge.  Before her
fingers could touch the metal, a voice froze her in midmotion.
     "Touch it and I'll kill you."  It was Dela, and yet it wasn't. 
There was a fine edge of madness in his tone that hadn't been there
when she'd known him last.  Or perhaps she hadn't recognized it
five years ago, because they were all a little mad in the middle of
a war.
     "Cahr?"  Slowly, keeping her hands in plain sight and away
from her body, she pivoted to face her old comrade.  "Dela Cahr? 
Don't you know me?  It's Kira Nerys."
     "I used to know you."  His hand never wavered, the phaser
pointed directly at her chest.  "But not anymore."
     "Why not?"  Her mind raced furiously.  She had no chance to
draw her weapon, holstered when she had knelt beside Bashir.  Dela
was too far away for her to hope to disarm him.  He'd have her shot
before she could even make a move.
     "The Kira Nerys I knew was a patriot.  Wouldn't sell out to
the Cardassians.  Or the Federation."  He gestured angrily at
Bashir with his free hand.  "Didn't help sympathizers."
     "He's not a sympathizer, he's the station doctor."  She tried
to remain calm so he wouldn't get even jumpier.  If there was only
some way to make him understand... "We have to work together with
the Federation if we're ever going to make Bajor strong again."
     Dela's eyes glittered dangerously.  "Trading one overlord for
another?  I don't think so."  He trained his weapon on Kira with
determination.  "I'm sorry, Nerys, but justice must be done."
     "Justice?" she began to argue, when the whine of phaser fire
split the air.  Dela screamed and scrambled for the underbrush
clutching his forearm to his side.  As he disappeared, Kira clawed
her phaser from its holster and whirled on this new threat.  Garak
emerged from a clump of trees near the runabout, holding his hands
high, a Federation phaser clutched in one fist.
     "Now, Major, I couldn't just let him shoot you both, now could
I?  But I do have to do something about my aim."  His slightly
ingratiating voice grated on her nerves.  Growling an
incomprehensible reply, she turned back to where Dela had
disappeared.
     "Did you see where he went?" she demanded.
     "No.  I must admit I was more concerned with the possibility
that you might accidentally shoot me than with the whereabouts of
your erstwhile companion."  Garak leaned down and lightly touched
Julian's shoulder.  The doctor's eyes opened at the contact, but
they were wide and unfocused, unaware of his surroundings.  "We
must get our young friend here to an infirmary very soon, major."
     "I have a flitter just down the stream, less than a klick from
here.  We can-" seeing a movement in the trees to their right, Kira
instinctively reacted to the blur of motion by pushing Garak out of
the way.  Phaser fire cut past her face, so close she could almost
taste air burning, too fast for any other reaction.  There was only
time for a fleeting thought, By the Prophets, why didn't I keep my
phaser up? before a solid weight hit her and drove her into the
ground beside Julian.  Garak returned Dela's fire, and Dela
crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.  Kira looked up to see the
pale ridges of a Cardassian face, peering intently and with some
concern into her own, his heavy body protectively flat against her
own slighter figure.
     Garak looked down at the shocked Bajoran beneath him, and
couldn't quite contain a smile.  He'd knocked the breath out of her
when he'd slammed her out of the way of the terrorist's shot, and
it looked like he'd scrambled her wits as well.  Levering himself
off of her, he moved over to check on Julian.  Kira slowly pulled
herself off the ground.  After giving Garak a long, considering
look, she turned and walked over to Dela's body.  Her eyes narrowed
against a sudden rush of tears as she considered her fallen
comrade.  For he was still her comrade.  It was just that he hadn't
known when the war had changed, when the battlefields had shifted. 
Too many deaths had hardened his hatred until he could no longer
see past the surface, to the individual behind the skin.  Too much
hatred, too much vengeance.  Too much loss.  She shook her head. 
His justice was not hers, but it would take her a long time to
accept the fact that a Cardassian had saved her from being killed
by a comrade.
     In silence, she returned to Garak and helped him gather up
Julian.  Together, they carried him to the waiting flitter, and
back to the hospital ward at the monastery.  Kira's mind was filled
with the image of Cahr, left behind for the swamp to claim, and how
she could try to protect his reputation as much as possible in the
official explanation of all of this.  She and Garak didn't say a
word to one another all of the way out of the swamps, after she had
forced out one small phrase.
     "Thank you."

*****************************************************************

     Shika Mer shooed her children out of the recovery room,
promising her husband that she'd be home soon.  He smiled back at
her and gathered up their offspring, bundling them out the door. 
Once Doctor Bashir was feeling well enough for visitors, they had
insisted on making sure "Joolyan" was really all right.  Some of
the command staff had been a bit shocked by his small visitors, but
Julian had been very happy to see them.
     "Just what I needed to lift my spirits, Mer.  Your children
are a delight."  His sparkling eyes left no doubt of his sincerity. 
She smiled back, relieved to see him on the mend.  It had been a
close call when they brought him back from Bajor.
     "Well, next time when we visit my family, I hope it will be a
little less stressful.  And if you want to see the swamps" she
shuddered slightly, "hire a guide."    
     He laughed back at her, then stopped abruptly.  She followed
his gaze to where Kira was nodding carefully to Garak in the
doorway of the infirmary.  Garak gave a little bow, and the Major
dipped her head in return before leaving the room.  Garak watched
her depart before continuing into the recovery room.  Mer wondered
if she'd ever hear the whole story, and decided she probably
wouldn't.
     Garak entered the room and smiled a greeting at Nurse Shika
Mer.  She smiled back at him hesitantly, then addressed the tailor.
     "Remember, don't tire him out.  He's still in recovery."
     "Oh, I won't overexert the good doctor, madam."
     Julian smiled at her and nodded his agreement.  His expression
was slightly wistful.  "It's all right, Mer.  We're only going to
sit quietly for a while.  And ... tell stories."

*****************************************************************

                         THE END