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A man stood upon a bridge over the Shar River in northern Ashina Province on Meklos Two, looking down into the swiftly flowing river ten meters below. His hands were tied behind his back, and a similar rope encircled his neck, attached to a framework above his head. The rope fell loosely now over one shoulder and down to his knees. His weight was supported by three loose boards laid parallel to an opening that had been created at one edge of the bridge; the man stood closest to the edge, while three other men, all Meklosians, stood further back, their own weight serving to balance that of the first man and keep the boards in place. These Meklosians were members of the military, as evidenced by their colorful sashes and the small rank-denoting tattoos on their foreheads. At either end of the bridge stood a guard, of somewhat lower rank, holding a weapon in a watchful and ready stance. The guards appeared to be oblivious to what was happening in the center of the bridge; they simply looked out in either direction at the surrounding countryside.
Beyond one of the guards there was no one in sight; the road curved into a forest about fifteen meters beyond the bridge and then was lost from view. The other bank of the river was open ground, upon which rested a small fort, heavily barricaded in the distinctive local style, with a weapons array that was meant to guard the bridge and the forested areas surrounding it. Midway between the bridge and the fort were the spectators, a line, in single file, of soldiers stationed at the fort, each holding a weapon in a relaxed position. Their faces were impassive, but the faces of the few members of the local populace who had learned of the execution and come to witness it wore a look of disgust. However, with the exception of the group of four in the center of the bridge, no one moved. The spectators faced the bridge, the soldiers staring stonily motionless. The guards at either end could just as easily have been statues; not even the wind rustled their heavy garments. The senior officer stood with folded arms, silent, observing the rituals being accomplished by his subordinates but showing no outward reaction. The culture believed that Death, when it chooses to make an appearance, must be treated with respect - the familiar rituals, accompanied by deferential silence, enabled all present, even those not already familiar with Death, to greet it appropriately.
The man who was about to be hanged was a human, apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was also a member of a military organization, if one might judge from his uniform, which was the blue and black suit denoting the Starfleet Medical Corps. His features were good - a straight nose, firm mouth, supple lips, and thick, wavy dark hair which he wore short, above his collar. He was clean-shaven; his eyes were large and hazel-brown, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected from one whose neck was in the noose. Evidently this was no common criminal or vulgar assassin - the Meklosian social code allowed for hanging many kinds of individuals, compassionate officers of alien militaries not excluded.
The preparations being complete, two of the soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the planks upon which they had been standing. They saluted the remaining officer and stood facing him, one on either side. These movements left the condemned man and the remaining Meklosian standing on the two ends of the same plank, which jutted precariously out over the opening in the bridge. The Meklosian was much larger and heavier than the man about to be hanged; thus, his weight held the board firmly in place, but when he stepped aside, the board would tilt, drop down into the river below, and the man would dangle free. The arrangement was simple and effective, in the opinion of the Starfleet officer. His face and his eyes had not been covered. He looked for a moment at his feet resting on the board, then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the river, racing madly beneath his feet. He watched a piece of driftwood as the current carried it along in an almost artificially slow motion away from him.
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his friends, his colleagues, his lover. The water, glinting azure in the morning sun, the fog, the fort, the Meklosian soldiers and the sneering civilians, the driftwood - everything began to distract him, to render him uneasy. And now he became aware of a new sound, a new disturbance - a pounding, like the hammering of a mallet on a heavy piece of metal. Was it some kind of death knell, he wondered, some signal warning of the event that was shortly going to take place; the wait between beats was maddening, and he could barely endure the suspense of wondering when the next sound, louder each time, would ring out. The beats hurt his ears; they seemed to pound into his chest, and he was afraid he would scream and lose his balance. What he actually heard was the beating of his own heart.
He opened his eyes and saw the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I could possibly pull the noose off and jump into the river. If I dove under, I could avoid their weapons and swim to shore, run to the woods, and find the camp. It's far enough away from this fort to be safe for the moment, thank God; Garak may have managed to reach it and may already be there with the others, waiting for me."
As these thoughts flashed into the doomed man's brain in a fraction of an instant, one officer nodded to the other. The remaining Meklosian stepped aside.
*****
Julian Bashir was Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine, a remote starbase operated jointly by the Federation and the government of Bajor. While Bajorans, in effect, still exerted the greatest influence over the station and were its principal inhabitants, it was a Cardassian exile, Elim Garak, who had most intrigued Bashir at first meeting and had become, in succession, Bashir's lunch companion, friend, and lover. The enigmatic air Garak continually affected did not dull Bashir's feelings for him; he only knew that his friend had an unhappy and possibly violent and tragic past, and he vowed to replace those memories with new, happier, ones. At the same time, his idealistic nature longed to make a difference in the area of the galaxy in which he found himself; he longed to use his fine education, his medical skills, and his enthusiasm for life to help others who did not possess those things but needed their own chance at life. When news came of the plague on Meklos Two, he did not hesitate to volunteer for the mission of mercy being sent by the Federation. Meklos Two was an isolated world, virtually unexplored, fearful of outsiders, fearful of interference, fiercely protective of its culture. In fact, almost nothing was known about its cultural biases and taboos, beyond the most basic information gleaned from brief contacts with Meklosian ships. So Bashir's recklessness in asking Garak to accompany him can be partially excused on the grounds of ignorance and youthful exuberance.
"Go along with you?" Garak had asked him, incredulous. "I doubt the mission commander wants a spare Cardassian getting in the way."
"You wouldn't be 'getting in the way' - you'd be a mission volunteer, just like all the rest of us. There are at least two dozen others without any medical education who are going to be trained to help. Please come, Garak; it'll do you good to get out of your shop for a while, and away from this station." It'll do us good to have some time together, too, doing something worthwhile, something greater than ourselves, Bashir thought. Garak had inclined his head in silent acquiescence, a gesture Bashir knew so well. Good - it was settled, then; they'd be together for the three month or longer tour of duty, working together, accomplishing something important together, and able to enjoy each other's companionship, both emotional, and, if the opportunity should ever present itself there, physical. Too bad no one had told him that the Meklosians would find their relationship criminally repugnant - too bad no one had warned him that even the hint of engaging in such activity, even among non-Meklosians, even among visitors to their world, was an offense punishable by death without a trial. No one had warned him because no one had known.
The makeshift hospital was set up near a wooded area; it was close enough to two villages that had been decimated by the plague for the inhabitants to reach help, but far enough away from any military installation for the government to refrain from too much interference. From the first, the Meklosian government, acting through its military, had been hostile to the mission. Only the dogged and altruistic persistence of the Vulcans leading the mission had managed to enable the "intruders" to establish camps and make progress against the ravaging disease. The volunteers were warned not to stray too far and to avoid doing anything that would frighten or upset the local inhabitants - a difficult regulation to follow, since so few Meklosian customs were known. The military liaison assigned to the hospital was generally close-mouthed and obtuse about such matters; however, he was not oblivious to the signs of a relationship between the doctor and the Cardassian volunteer and seemed to subtly convey his approval, to Bashir's surprise. For his part, Bashir had been tireless in his efforts against the plague; he had felt a thrill at each success, crushing despair at each failure, and had begun to win the slow and grudging acceptance of the people he was treating.
Except for the fact that he had been able to share no time alone with Garak, who was working equally hard and sleeping in the same dormitory-style quarters, he counted the mission a personal and a 'humanitarian' success. One day, two months after his arrival on Meklos Two, the air was enticingly warm, the sky was clear, and the beautiful forest surrounding the hospital was invitingly alive with the sound of birds and other animals. On an impulse, Bashir approached his friend, busy with the unenviable task of washing sheets and towels in a huge laundry tub. "Let's go - just for an hour or two - they won't miss us." They went. After hiking for twenty minutes, Bashir could wait no longer; he pulled Garak down on top of him, down among the leaves carpeting the forest floor, and began kissing him unrestrainedly. Two months of pressure and fatigue and worry began to miraculously melt away as he wound his arms around Garak's strong Cardassian neck and surrendered to the delicious 'alien' taste and scent of him. It was intoxicating - it was exhilarating - leaves clung to his damp skin and his hair; he closed his eyes and felt the fire burn every part of his body as Garak surrounded him, entered him. Then he was roughly pulled up and a weapon was held to his chest - he struggled back into his uniform and watched in horror as Garak tried to free himself from three Meklosians, who inadvertently released him and then pursued him into the woods. Bashir was quickly led in the other direction to the fortress, where he was held overnight as a prisoner.
*****
As Julian Bashir fell straight downward through the bridge, he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. He awoke many minutes later, it seemed, to the feeling of suffocation; the pain at his throat was almost unbearable, radiating down into his shoulders, arms, chest, and even his legs. The paths it followed were well-defined and pulsed in time with his heartbeats. There was a hot, almost burning sensation in his neck and shoulders, while his head seemed to fill up - with blood, he supposed - and an eerie silence enveloped him. Actually, he felt rather than consciously thought all of this; only his body, not his mind, was functioning, and his body registered unbearable pain and agony. He was moving now, it seemed, swinging through space, free of any support or contact with the ground - and then suddenly the light disappeared, he heard a loud splash and then a roaring in his ears, and he was plunged into cold and darkness. His conscious mind revived. It was true - the rope had broken and he had fallen into the river. But the noose, still firmly circling his neck, would suffocate him after all - please don't let me die this way, die from hanging, under water! He saw the light, filtered through the water, so far above him - he continued to sink, watched the light dim and then, miraculously, saw it brighten as his struggles brought him closer to the surface of the river. His discomfort was lessening as he remained peacefully suspended in the water, and he was almost disappointed to realize that he'd now have to face the Meklosians again, who'd undoubtedly begin firing on him with their crude projectile weapons.
"No," he thought, "I'm not going to make it this far, and escape hanging and drowning, only to be shot by those bastards. No, I will not let them do that to me - that is NOT fair."
He wasn't aware at first that he was trying to free his hands, but eventually the sensation in his wrists told him that he had been making slow but steady progress at loosening the rope. He observed his efforts almost dispassionately - very good, Julian, keep trying now; there - you've almost got it - congratulations! The rope fell away and he felt his arms float freely as he watched his hands through the water. The hands suddenly began to claw at the noose around his neck and pulled it loose. No, no, put it back - as the noose floated away, the sharpest pain he had yet experienced coursed through his body. His heart pounded and he was racked with spasms of unimaginable torment. But his hands paid no attention; they continued clawing toward the surface of the water, toward the light - there, he felt himself finally emerge from the water into the blinding sunlight - his chest convulsed with the agony of drawing in an enormous gulp of air, which he very promptly exhaled with a shriek.
He was now completely alert and aware of his surroundings. In fact, he was more than aware - he had never observed anything in his life with this level of clarity and sensitivity. The ordeal he had gone through must have heightened his senses, sharpening them in such a way that things he had never even noticed before now stood out in bold relief. The waves made a comforting sound as they lapped against his face, and the trees that lined the shore were magnificent in their detail - even the delicate tracery of veins on each leaf was now apparent. He marveled at the rainbow of colors glinting off of the wings of the Meklos insects, a rainbow that was mirrored in each droplet of water clinging to the plants growing alongside the river. The exotic song of the birds, the gentle humming of the insects, even the sound of a fish gliding through the water beneath him - it was a symphony of sound and color and light in which he began to lose himself.
He had been facing the opposite direction, down the river; however, he felt himself slowly rotate with the current and became aware once more of the bridge, the fort, the soldiers, and his executioners, silhouetted against the sky. They were shouting and gesturing at him - he saw one of the soldiers draw his weapon. Suddenly he heard a loud explosion as something landed in the water within a few centimeters of his head; his face was splashed by the spray, as he heard a second shot and saw that, indeed, one of the soldiers was aiming a weapon at him. He noticed the soldier's sharp green eyes - well, they couldn't have been too sharp, he mused triumphantly, as he had obviously missed.
Another current caught Bashir and turned him around again, till he once more faced the forest on the opposite shore. The shrill, staccato sound of spoken Meklosian echoed across the water behind him; he focused on that sound, that chanting, and knew there was probably little chance that it meant anything other than the Meklosian equivalent of "Ready - aim - fire!" There was no panic in the voice, no urgency - this was all part of a day's work for them, to be accomplished with calm efficiency. Bashir dove once again toward the bottom of the river. He dove as deeply as he could; despite the roaring in his ears from the water and his own injuries, he could still discern the sound of the weapons firing, and he saw the small but undoubtedly deadly pieces of metal that had been meant for him. They sparkled and twirled through the water; he brushed some of them away as he continued to swim. One piece landed on his neck and began to burn; he grasped it and impatiently flung it away.
He eventually rose to the surface, gasping for breath, and saw to his joyous amazement that he had managed to swim a fairly good distance under water. He was quite far from the bridge, and thus very close to the woods and to safety. Far in the distance, he heard the sounds of weapons again re-loading and firing, but there was no danger to him yet, the soldiers were far short of their mark. Bashir swam with the superhuman strength of a doomed man; he knew the soldiers would now be preparing to fire at will, and there was no way he could avoid being hit. Suddenly, a vast wall of water seemed to rear up out of nowhere and wash over him - oh God, he thought, they're using an energy weapon of some kind now. The reverberation from the blast, however, carried him along with it, further and further downstream, plunging him down into the depths of the water and then suspending him above it for an instant, bobbing like a child's toy. I'll drown, he thought again, I'll never be able to keep my head up long enough to breathe. Objects on shore flew past him in streaks of color, as he whirled round and round and flailed uselessly against the maelstrom - suddenly he was flung up onto the shore and lay there, choking and coughing, every muscle in his body aching.
He had landed behind a small cluster of overhanging branches and was thus shielded from the view of the soldiers on the bridge. The abrupt cessation of movement, coupled with the scraping of his hands against the sand and gravel on shore, served to jar him into wakefulness, and he began to cry from relief and happiness. Nothing in his life had ever seemed more beautiful than that river bank; he flung handfuls of gravel and leaves into the tree branches, and as they flew upward, the sun caught them and they sparkled like jewels. The trees themselves diffused the light and seemed to glow from within; Bashir was mesmerized at the sight of each tree, each branch, in perfectly ordered symmetry, the breeze rustling the leaves in a kind of gentle song. He would gladly have remained in that place forever.
But, no, it was time to move on - an energy blast had sliced through the higher branches of some nearby trees and roused him from his daydream. He sprang to his feet and disappeared into the forest.
All day he walked, staggering through the leaves and the undergrowth, trying to gauge the location of the hospital camp by the position of the sun. The forest had never seemed so wild during any of his previous, brief, explorations, or during the hike yesterday with Garak. The realization disturbed him.
By the time darkness came, however, he knew he was on the right path. He recognized it; he could even see the landmarks upon which he and Garak had commented, so many hours ago. The thought that Garak was eagerly and agitatedly waiting for him, in fact, was all he needed to drive him on and keep him moving. It was strange, though - it was the same forest, and yet not the same - no birds called, no small animals rustled the leaves underfoot, no insects darted. The trees seemed to form an unwavering path that guided him forward; they even met at a point in the distance, a point he could never quite reach. Overhead, the night sky was speckled with stars in unfamiliar patterns - well of course they're unfamiliar, he told himself, you're on Meklos Two, you're far away from home. But the patterns looked menacing somehow, and foreboding. Once or twice, he was certain he heard a voice whispering to him in a language he did not recognize - he whirled around, but saw and heard no one.
His neck was in pain; he felt it with his fingers and found that it was tender and swollen. There was undoubtedly a black circle where the rope had bruised him - he hoped he wouldn't present too hideous an appearance to the workers and the patients back at the camp. His eyes and his mouth, too, felt hot and swollen; his eyes would no longer completely close, and his mouth hung open as he desperately tried to take in some cool air. At least the walking was not strenuous - in fact, he could no longer even feel his legs or his feet beneath him as he stumbled forward.
He must have fallen asleep while walking, he decided, for there was the camp already, and the hospital enclosure - the morning sun streamed down upon the peaceful setting and Bashir felt a sob catch in his throat. He drew nearer and heard the familiar sound of children, the Meklosian children, laughing and playing - and now he saw Garak coming out of one of the doorways - he tried to cry out but could not; suddenly, however, Garak looked up and saw him. He began running toward Bashir, his arms spread wide to catch him and embrace him, a smile of the most intense joy and relief Bashir had ever seen spreading across his face. Bashir tried to smile in return but tears spilled out instead and he fell forward into Garak's arms. The blow across the back of his neck caught him completely by surprise as the light blazed all around him - then the light was abruptly snuffed out and all became darkness and silence.
Julian Bashir was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Shar River bridge.
The End