Path: news.inforamp.net!winternet.com!guitar.sound.net!echo.sound.net!glawson From: Gabrielle Lawson Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: REPOST: If It's Not One Thing....DS9 9/27 Date: Fri, 3 May 1996 21:38:05 -0500 Organization: Sound Advice Limited's Internet Access for KC Lines: 535 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: echo.sound.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Status: N If It's Not One Thing.... by Gabrielle Lawson Part 9 Chapter 5 Ensign Karl Jones sauntered down the corridor with satisfaction. It was, for him, the weekend. He'd drawn a rather unfortunate shift in Security for the last three weeks, working from 1900 to 0300. But now he had three days off before moving up to the "day" shift. He planned to spend at least one of those days in bed. Jones stopped in front of his door and waited for it to open. It never had worked right, but Jones and his roommate didn't bother to worry about it. It wouldn't have been high on the station's repair list anyway. After a few seconds the door slid open smoothly. It was dark inside, but Jones knew that his roommate would be sleeping. He always woke up when the door opened though, so Jones whispered into the darkness, "It's just me, Justin." Without turning on a light, he stepped into the bedroom. There was no answer from Justin, and Jones wondered if he hadn't come home yet. But as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could vaguely see Justin's form on his bed. He's still asleep, he thought, and he took special care to be quiet as he undressed. His own bed lay at the other side of the room, and he couldn't wait to get into it and start his vacation. Jones changed into a robe and headed for the bathroom for a quick sonic shower before he began his hibernation. His eye caught the chronometer on the wall and he stopped. "Computer," he said, "what is the exact time?" "The time is 03:13:31." "Then why does the chronometer say 0105?" he asked without realizing that the computer would think he was still addressing it. "Unknown." "Thank you," Jones said in irritation. "That's all." It was strange. The computer generally ran the chronometers. They could only be reset manually, unless the Bajorans had been messing with the computer again. He left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom to check the chronometer there. It said the same thing: 0105. Then he remembered. Justin had a watch, an old-fashioned wind-up wristwatch that his parents had given him for Christmas last year. Jones opened the top left drawer on Justin's dresser and fished the watch out. He looked at the face. Both hands pointed to the one. Maybe the computer's wrong, he thought. But he wouldn't have been relieved from duty until 0300. It just didn't make sense. Heading for the bathroom again, he stopped to pick up his comm badge. He waited for the door to shut behind him so he wouldn't wake Justin and called Ops. "Ops," came the answer. "I'm having problems with the chronometers in my quarters," he said. "What time do yours say up there?" "You could ask the computer for the time, Ensign." The woman's voice sounded annoyed. Must be Bajoran. "I checked that. I want to make sure the computer hasn't been tampered with again." "We've received no other reports of malfunctionings tonight. It's 0317. Does that help?" "No," Jones answered. "That's what I was worried about. Someone's reset all our clocks." "I assume you have double quarters?" Jones was thinking, and he only half paid attention to the voice in Ops. "Yes." "Well, maybe your roommate was playing a joke on you." "I'd better go check on him," Jones said. He knit his brow in confusion. "He wouldn't have been up that late. Jones out." He returned to the bedroom. Justin was still lying in his bed. He hadn't moved since he'd seen him before. Jones's eyes had now fully adjusted, and he could make out that Justin's eyes were open. "LIGHTS!" he shouted and ran to his roommate's bed. Justin didn't move, and his eyes stared blankly at where Jones was standing. He wore an expression of wonder frozen on his motionless face. His eyes were tear-stained, and there was blood on the blanket beneath his neck. Jones slapped his comm badge. "Medical emergency! Chamber 326 habitat level H2." He felt on his roommate's wrist for a pulse, and when he felt nothing he put his ear to his roommate's chest. Nothing. Justin was dead. Jones fell back onto the floor in shock and sat there, staring at his roommate's opened eyes. The large wooden door opened, and Dr. Grant stood on the other side. He looked down and his eyes grew wide when he saw the visitor. "It's you!" he said. He stepped outside, looking fearfully behind him into the house, and slammed the door. "What are you doing here?" "I live here," Julian answered. "Don't you know me? I'm your son." Grant ignored his response. He became very angry. "I know who you are!" Grant accused. "I won't let you hurt my family. I won't let you. Go away before I call for Security." "But I live here," Julian repeated. "You can't call Security." But the door slammed shut again and Grant was gone. Julian turned away, and walked toward the cemetery near the old Holy Trinity Church. He found his mother's grave easily. She had a beautiful headstone. "Beloved Wife and Mother. We'll Remember Her Always," the inscription read. He knelt down beside the grave. "Hello, Mum," he said. He was surprised at how grown-up his voice sounded. He looked down at his hands. They were grown up too. He was wearing a Starfleet uniform. His mind returned to his mother. "I miss you. Everything's gone wrong." "Get away from there!" an old man screamed. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Bashir stood and turned to see who had yelled at him. An old man was running across the cemetery to where he stood. He looked slightly familiar. "I'm just visiting," Bashir replied, innocently. "You have no right here," the old man held. "Who are you?" His voice shook with age, and his wrinkled eyes stared at Bashir suspiciously from beneath his white eyebrows. "I'm Julian." Bashir was confused at the man's anger. Who was he? "This is my mother's grave." The old man turned red. He grew furious. "How dare you say something like that? You're not my daughter's son." He grabbed Bashir by the wrist, and Bashir was surprised at the old man's grip. His other hand jabbed out, pointing to the next grave on the right. "That's my grandson." "It's a lie," Bashir tried to tell him. But he wouldn't listen. "I don't know who you are, but I'm taking you to Security." He started to pull him away from the cemetery. "Please, Grand-dad, wait," Bashir tried to remove the man's hand from his wrist. But the old man was unusually strong. The old man released his grip and then smacked Bashir across the face. His voice was younger when he spoke. "Medical emergency! Chamber 326 habitat level H2." Julian Bashir opened his eyes and slapped the communications panel beside his bed. "I'm on my way." He pulled his outer uniform on over his pajamas. Then he grabbed the medkit he kept in his quarters for such emergencies and was out the door at a run. He arrived at level H2, chamber 326 within minutes, finding the quarters where the call had originated. But he almost ran into the door when it didn't open for him. He was just about to override the security lock when the door slid open. No one was in the front room, which was dark. He could see a light on to his left. "In here," a quiet voice said. Bashir followed the voice and the light and entered the bedroom. One young man sat on the floor in his robe, staring at another young man on one of the beds. The one on the bed didn't move, and his eyes were open. He recognized him from the Infirmary. It was Ensign Tsingras. Bashir walked quickly to the bed. "What happened?" he asked as he checked for a pulse. When he didn't find one, he pulled out his tricorder. No neural activity. It was official. The ensign was dead, certified so at 0323. The other young man hadn't answered. Bashir closed Tsingras's eyes and pulled the bottom of the blanket up to cover his face. Then he turned to Tsingras's roommate. He knelt down to be at the young man's level. "What's your name?" The man didn't look away from the body. "Look at me," Bashir said a little more forcefully. "That's an order." The man turned his head to look at the doctor. "That's better." Bashir's voice was soft again. "What's your name?" "Jones, sir. Ensign Karl Jones, Security." "Good. Karl, did you call Security?" Jones looked stricken. His eyes widened in fear. "I forgot!" "That's alright," Bashir said. "Calm down. I'll call them." Then he tapped his comm badge and called Security. He sighed and tapped it again. "Bashir to Sisko." There was a short delay before the commander answered. "What is it, Doctor?" His voice was still a little groggy from sleep. He sounded annoyed. "I'm sorry to wake you up, sir. But I believe we have another murder. Security is on the way, but I thought you should know." "Where are you?" Sisko was awake now, and his tone reflected his awareness and concern. "Chamber 326, habitat level H2." "I'll be right there. Sisko out." Bashir turned back to the ensign. "Let's get you off the floor." He helped the young man to his feet, and they went to the living room, away from the body of Jones's roommate. Then Bashir went to the replicator and ordered a cup of tea with sugar. Just as he was carrying the tea back to the young man, the lights went out, plunging the quarters into darkness. He tapped his comm badge with his free hand. "Bashir to Ops." There was no answer. Bashir thought that it must be the Bajorans again. The viewports helped to add some light from the stars, and Bashir's eyes adjusted quickly. Jones was lying curled up on the couch when Bashir reached him. He looked tired. Bashir sat him up and had him drink the tea. While he was drinking, Bashir went back to the bedroom to examine the body, turning sideways to slip through the half- open door. He couldn't see much in the darkness. But his tricorder still functioned properly, and he began to scan the body. There were four puncture wounds on the neck surrounding a larger wound that pierced the trachea and lacerated the vocal cords. And there were concentrations of a foreign substance in every cell of Tsingras's body. The largest concentrations were in the vicinity of the heart and in the bloodstream. The tricorder could identify part of the substance which seemed to be a compound of nearly fifteen different chemicals. Three of which were unknown. But even discounting these three, the remainder was sufficient to prove fatal in a matter of hours. But even more strange was that the internal organs of Tsingras's torso were not there. Bashir had never seen anything like it. There were no longer any cavities in the torso, nor a heart, stomach, intestines, lungs, etc. Something was there, an unidentifiable mass. Bashir wished for his biobeds and diagnostic computer, but of course, they would be down like the rest of the station. Bashir felt that now it might take the others some time to reach them, so when he was finished examining the victim, he decided to try and question the only witness. Jones had finished the tea and seemed much more alert. His eyebrows were pulled down over his eyes in thought. Bashir sat down beside him. "Tell me what happened." he said, setting the tricorder to record what the ensign said. "I was on duty until 0300," Jones began and told the doctor everything that he'd done since coming back to his quarters. He told how he'd seen his roommate in the dark and thought he was asleep. And he told about the inconsistencies of the chronometers and Justin's wind-up watch. "Somebody had to set all the clocks wrong." He started to talk faster as he arrived in the story at the death of his friend. "So I came back to Justin and turned on the lights. I could see his eyes were open then, so I called you. I checked his pulse, but. . . . Why would anyone want to kill Justin? He was a nice guy." "I don't know," Bashir answered. And then he thought about the clocks. Perhaps he could determine the time of death. "When did you call Ops?" "At 0317," he answered and then continued, "and the computer had said 0313 when I asked, but the chronometers and Justin's watch said 0105." "So if someone reset them," Bashir said slowly, thinking aloud, "that would have been at . . . 0222." He addressed the ensign again. "Then what did you do?" "I sat down and waited for you to come. I didn't touch anything after that as it could all be evidence." Grant tossed and turned on his bed. He honestly wanted the sleep now that wouldn't come. He just couldn't get comfortable, and his head had begun to ache. His body was shivering though he wasn't cold. In fact he felt rather hot. He turned over again, closing his eyes tight, and tried to force his mind into the area of dreams. But the closer he got the more he remembered his son's--Bashir's--aloofness and hostility. He sat up angrily and reached for the table beside his bed. The drawer slipped open easily, but his hands searched in vain for the hypospray. It was gone. Dr. Maylon must have taken it. "Lights!" he ordered and nothing happened. He waited for a moment and called again, more tentatively, "Lights?" Still nothing. Grant cursed under his breath and got up from the bed. His legs were still shaky, but he could stand. The stars filtered dim light through the viewport, and he headed toward the dresser on the other side of the room. Opening the middle drawer on the left-hand side, he brushed aside the clothes. He couldn't see into the drawer, but his hands knew the familiar feel of a hypospray. Forgetting the malfunctioning lights and the doctor's warning against the drug, Grant stumbled back to his bed. He pressed the hypospray against his neck and then slipped it beneath his mattress. Then he dropped himself back onto his bed and closed his eyes, letting the blackness sweep over him. Liian moved cautiously counting his steps. He'd practiced them earlier in the night before Taleyn had pulled the station's computers down. Sixty-four straight and then turn right. The Promenade received little light from the stars that shone in through the oval viewports on the second floor. Fifty-nine, sixty. Liian had decided on the Cardassian's clothes shop. He felt that if anyone deserved a bombing it was a Cardassian. The others didn't belong there, but most of them sincerely meant no harm. Liian held the bomb in his hand. It was small and heavy, but he could feel the power of the Prophets in its smooth cool surface. Sixty- four. Liian turned right and counted again, this time to thirty-three. And then he was at the door. Unlike the other doors on the station, this one opened easily. Taleyn had seen to that. In appearance, it would seem that every electric or computerized function on the station had fallen. But in reality a few were still running though they wouldn't register on any monitors. One of these had been the transporter that had beamed her aboard the Ranger. Another kept the life-support systems running and another had recalled the extra Security back to the security office. Still others allowed her colleagues to carry out their tasks. The shop was bathed in total darkness. The little light from the upstairs viewports couldn't penetrate past the corridor. Liian pulled a small, cylindrical flashlight from a pocket in his tunic and stepped forward. Clothes hung on humanoid-shaped stands, displaying Garak's apparent skill at tailoring. In the back was a counter and some curtained booths for trying on his wares. Liian set the flashlight down on the counter so that it faced the booths. Checking the setting on the bomb, he moved forward. The bomb, once armed, would go off in twenty minutes, time enough for him to get back to his quarters without being seen. There would be few people out at this time of night, and all others were stuck behind doors that would only open manually. Liian chose the middle curtain and pulled it back quickly. The sound of the rings sliding on the rods above seemed terribly loud in the silent station. The light behind him cast his shadow onto the wall in the back of the booth between the shadows of the curtains. It made him look taller and thinner, and Liian wished that his true stature was more along those lines. He wasn't fat, just stocky, and he wasn't terribly short. He was, he supposed, just average. He'd always wanted to be something more than that. He placed the bomb on the wall, even with his shadow's shoulders, and was just about to activate the arming switch when he saw the shadow curtains move. Another shadow now joined his on the wall. Liian froze. The shadow lacked a clearly defined head. It was hooded. One of its arms moved and disappeared into its body. When it returned again, the unmistakable shadow of a knife had appeared at the end of it. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the shadow spoke. Then the whole shadow grew more defined on the wall and melted with his own as the person behind him stepped forward. Sensing in an instant that his life was truly in danger, Liian spun with the bomb still in his hand. His attacker was taken by surprise as the bomb smacked into his gray-hooded face. The knife scraped weakly against Liian's arm, but the man didn't lose his grip on his weapon. Liian did. The bomb fell clattering to the floor. He grabbed for the gloved hand with the knife and caught on to the man's wrist with both hands. He saw a flash of black. The next thing he knew, he was tumbling to the ground, and his knee was filled with pain. But he did not release his hold on the man's arm and pulled his adversary down with him to the floor. They had moved out of the booth, and Liian came very close to hitting his head on the counter. The knife came down quite near his shoulder, but Liian forced it away from him. The man got to his knees first. Liian's knee wasn't working properly, and his kneecap stung with the effort. Using his free hand, the man hit Liian hard against the face with his fist. Liian tasted the blood in his mouth where he'd bitten into his lip. But before the man could repeat the blow, Liian pulled his good knee up into the man's ribs hard and repeated it before the man could react. At the same time he tightened his grip on the man's wrist, hoping to cut off the blood supply to his hand. The third blow with his knee took his assailant's breath away, but instead of letting go of the knife, he threw it about six feet past the counter and Liian's head. Liian let go of the man's arm and instantly brought his whole leg up. Getting a foot on the man's chest, he sent him sprawling back into the booth. Liian turned and pulled himself along the floor hoping to reach the knife before his attacker regained his footing. He wasn't so lucky. His whole leg burst into pain again as a heavy weight fell upon it from the back. Instinctively, Liian cried out and moved his hand in the direction of his aching knee. But the man, who was kneeling on the back of Liian's knees, snatched up his arm and twisted it onto his back so that Liian could feel the ends of his own close-cropped hair. Liian bit his lip to keep from crying out again and tasted more blood in his mouth. He tried to move, to force the man off of him, but the man was out of reach. "You terrorists sure do put up a fight," the man said, panting from exertion. His tone was patronizing. "But don't you think perhaps I'd come prepared?" Screaming with the effort Liian shifted his weight with all his strength, causing his attacker to lose his balance once more. The weight slid off Liian's knee, and he moved forward again, stretching out his free arm for the knife that just might save him if only he could reach it. His fingers brushed against the warm ribbed surface of the handle, but then his breath was forcefully ripped from his lungs. The man had thrown himself bodily onto Liian's back, still holding Liian's left arm behind him and tightening his grip on it there. Liian stretched his other arm toward the knife, biting back the pain in his opposite shoulder. He had it, and he smiled despite the situation he was in. But even then he heard a slight whirring sound in his left ear, and something hot pressed into his neck. His breath stopped in his throat, and his fingers froze on the knife. The whirring raised in pitch, and Liian felt the heat reach up past his ear, cutting off the sound. Still the heat moved forward, and Liian's fingers relaxed their grip on the knife. The heat jerked in his head, and a last breath escaped from his lungs. When the man released his arm, Liian lay still. The whirring stopped, and the man stood up beside the body. He walked to where the knife lay in the boy's hand and pulled it from his fingers. He knelt down again at Liian's head and turned it so that he had a clearer view of the boy's neck. But the indirect light from the flashlight was insufficient to see. Standing up again he retrieved the light from the counter, and, holding it between his teeth, he aimed it just below Liian's left ear. He placed the tip of the knife at just the spot where the laser had entered and turned it so that it would match the direction the laser had taken to the boy's brain. When he felt he had the knife positioned just right, he pulled it swiftly toward him, forcing it into the boy's neck. He left it there, took a piece of folded paper from his cloak, and threw it down beside the body. The doors swished open again, and he was gone. Julian Bashir covered his mouth as he yawned. Jones was asleep on the couch, and Bashir was waiting for the commander and Security to come and open the door. He'd tried it earlier, but it wouldn't budge. He wouldn't have left anyway. The communications and lights were still out as well. In fact the only thing that did work was the tricorder and Tsingras's wind-up watch that indeed did show the wrong time. Bashir sat in a chair at the dining table and waited. The only sound was that of Jones's breathing. Suddenly there was a flash of light from the bedroom. It was an eerie light, but beautiful with an aqua-blue tint. It faded leaving the sound of a low chant. Bashir stood quietly and stole toward the door. It stood frozen half- closed, and Bashir peeked around the edge of it to see inside the room. Three Gidari stood around Tsingras's bed, chanting slowly in a language Bashir could not understand. Without the computer there was no instant translation, but he set his tricorder to record it just the same. Bashir couldn't see into the room from where he was standing, so he peeked around the door and crossed the open area when he was sure the Gidari couldn't see him. The room behind him was still as dark as pitch. That would help to hide him. The Gidari's hands were raised, and they were dressed in red cloaks. A blue light had begun to emanate from beneath the blanket that covered the top half of Tsingras's body. Tsingras began to move, or rather, something inside him began to move. One of the Gidari stepped forward brandishing a knife. He pulled back the blanket that covered the body, throwing it onto the floor. He cut away Tsingras's nightshirt, exposing his glowing torso. Gently, and with the skill of a surgeon, he made an incision from Tsingras's throat to his navel. There was no blood. The Gidari stood back, and all three lowered their hoods. Bashir gasped from behind the door, then froze in fear that they had heard. He was certain he couldn't be seen from his spot behind the door. He continued to watch. Their skin was the same blue tint as the light he had seen and which still emanated from Tsingras's form. Their hair was silver and shined in the light. The one with the knife had longer hair than the others, and Bashir could now see that it was a female. She was beautiful, and she looked toward the doorway. Her skin was smooth and her face narrow. Her eyes were a disconcerting solid white, but that didn't detract from her beauty. She turned back to the body, apparently satisfied that there was no threat. Her silver hair was put up elegantly in a cascade of braids and weaves. She replaced the knife in her cloak and removed her gloves to reveal long slender fingers. She raised her arms, crossing them at the forearm with her fingers arching back to meet at the fingernails. The others imitated her movements with their still gloved hands and heads raised toward the ceiling. "Rhek!" they barked in unison, and a small hand appeared from the slit in Tsingras's torso, followed by a small voice that cried out in the silence. The woman stepped forward again as the small Gidari struggled to free itself from Tsingras's remains. When it caught sight of the other Gidari, its cries ceased and it reached out toward the woman. She uncrossed her arms and pulled the small one from the body. It was larger than a human baby, resembling more a child of a year or two than a newborn. It's was identical to the others in every way except for the glow of it's skin and the shortness of it's stubbly silver hair. Long sinewy threads from its stomach and legs connected it to the corpse on the bed. The woman held it aloft for a moment, chanting in a low voice that would hardly reveal her femininity. One of the attending Gidari stepped forward, producing a small blanket from beneath his own cloak. This he wrapped around the back of the young Gidari and took it from the woman's arms, still holding it up. The middle Gidari still stood at the end of the bed, chanting with his arms raised in the crossed position. The woman took the knife again and raised it to the ceiling, one hand on the handle and one, opened flat, supporting the blade. The child's white eyes grew wide in fear as the knife moved toward him, and he cried out as the sinews were cut, releasing him from his former host. Small bits of bright blue fluid dripped from its legs and stomach. The fluid lost it's glow as it fell to the bed, and gradually the child ceased to glow as well. The room was again bathed in darkness. Watching from the door, Bashir struggled to follow the movements of the Gidari. He squinted into the darkness and stared as the attendant wrapped the child more fully in the blanket, covering his head as well. Then the attendant handed him to the Gidari who had stood, arms crossed, at the end of the bed. The woman, reaching into her cloak once again, produced a weapon. A red line of heat and light shot out toward Tsingras's remains, which glowed red for a second before disappearing. Again the blue light flashed in the room, shining out the door behind Bashir to where Jones lay asleep on the couch. When the light faded, the Gidari were gone. Bashir sat down, leaning back on the half-closed door and checked to see if the tricorder had recorded everything. But the tricorder refused to work. The only thing that showed on its display was the blue light of the Gidari transporter. Everything that had transpired in the bedroom was unreachable. Nothing he did changed the display on the screen. It was useless, like everything else on the station. Jones was still sleeping. Bashir could hear him snoring. Standing up, Bashir slipped through the door to the bedroom. He used the malfunctioning tricorder's display for a light source. Bashir looked around the room. There was no evidence of the Gidari's presence. The only trace that remained of Ensign Justin Tsingras was the scorched sheets on his bed. To Be Continued....