Title:   The Prophets' Abandoned
Author:  Kathryn Ramage 
Series:  DS9
Codes:   G/B 
Rating:  PG
Summary: On a dare from Garak, Bashir agrees to spend the night
in a "haunted" part of the station.
Setting: Early on.  

Disclaimer:  Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, and all the 
characters even if they never really knew what to do with 
them.  This story was written purely for entertainment 
purposes.

Copyright October 1998

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"There are parts of this station your people still haven't explored,"
Garak said as he stepped off the turbolift; Bashir followed him down 
the empty corridor. "Places they know nothing about.  Here, for 
example."  He stopped to punch in a code at a control panel, and the 
sealed door whisked open.  They entered a large room full of dust-
covered chutes, cartons and disused machinery.  Although it was no 
less dimly lit than the rest of DS9, Julian found it grim, shadowy, 
cavernous and, yes, a little spooky.

"Where are we?" he asked.  

"This was part of the old uridium-processing facilities," Garak 
told him. "Here, Bajoran workers smelted raw ore from harvested 
asteroids. I understand that when the station was fully operational, 
the temperature in this room could exceed 170 Imperial Kardasi 
degrees."

"My god," Bashir murmured, horrified.  "That's more than 50 Celsius.
They couldn't possibly have survived."

"Few of them did. Hundreds simply dropped dead in the middle of their
work shifts.  To be assigned here was to receive a sentence of death.
They call this room 'The Prophets' Abandoned.'"  The tailor had
placed himself--deliberately, Bashir was convinced--in the shadowed
recess just behind the door.  Face half-hidden, his voice echoed
dramatically through the empty room.  "A colorful expression, isn't
it?  They say that the spirits of the dead remain here, waiting for
the opportunity to take their revenge."

"Who 'says' that?" Bashir demanded with scornful bravado.  The last 
thing he wanted was to appear nervous before the Cardassian, who was 
so obviously trying to unnerve him.

"Why, the Bajorans, of course."

"I've never heard a word of it before."

"I'm not surprised.  No doubt they're too ashamed to parade their
provincial superstitions before the rational and enlightened minds 
of their Starfleet associates. *You* don't believe in ghosts. *You* 
wouldn't be afraid to stay here overnight."

"No," he insisted, "I'm not afraid."

Garak beamed. "Splendid, Doctor!  I had hoped you would come up to 
my expectations."

Julian tried to protest, to retreat, to let Garak know he hadn't
really intended to spend the night in here, but before he knew what 
had happened, the dare had become a wager.  Garak agreed to remain 
with him, to keep him company and to ensure that he followed the 
terms of the bet.

They settled down in the small vestibule to the main chamber and made
themselves as comfortable as they could amid the rusted and sooty 
relics. In spite of the gloomy atmosphere, Julian thought he would 
have had little trouble sitting here, if Garak had not decided to 
pass the time by regaling him with stories he had heard of The 
Prophets' Abandoned in its heyday.

"One tale in particular has always haunted me," said the tailor,
with no apology for the use of the expression.  "A member of the
Resistance had failed in his mission to assassinate the station's
Prefect, Gul Dukat.  A worthwhile goal, in my opinion, but of course 
Dukat didn't see it in the same light, and the prisoner was sent here 
for his punishment.  He survived more than a month, they say, before 
the overseer on this floor determined to speed the punishment to its 
expected conclusion.  The would-be assassin was bound there-" Garak 
gestured to the upper level, where the enormous chute that slanted 
up from the floor branched into three conduits; Julian couldn't help 
thinking it looked like a humanoid figure with upraised arms. "And 
when the molten uridium flowed down..."  He grinned as the doctor 
tried to suppress a small shudder.  "Not a pleasant death, you agree.

"It *is* only a rumor, Doctor, but I am inclined to believe it.
This place had a remarkable reputation for pain, death, and untold
misery.  I don't wonder at the Bajorans' superstitions.  There are
times when I can almost imagine I hear the ghosts myself."

So could Bashir, although he refused to admit it. That soft rustle,
almost like a whisper--that was only dust, unsettled by their
movements, sifting to the floor.  That low moan from the level above?  
Nothing more than air in the ducts.  The scurries and rattling sounds 
were loose pieces of ore in the chutes, voles, palakoos--not the 
echoed footfalls of long-dead workers trapped in their final moments 
for all eternity, or at least until they could have their revenge.  
He was being silly.  He had let Garak's stories get to him, and his 
imagination was running wild.

After all, they were still on DS9.  The familiar world was only a 
few levels above him. It was a short walk to the turbolift; in a 
matter of minutes, he could be on the Promenade, or safely in his 
quarters.

And whatever horrible things had happened here, had happened long 
ago.  

Garak lifted his head and frowned.  "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That thumping noise."

"I don't hear any-" Then, suddenly, he did--a distinct, regular
*thump*, coming from the upper level.  "It's just one of the 
machines," he said.  "We must have set it off somehow."

"Yes, perhaps," Garak climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from
his trousers.  "I'm going to have look.  Wait here."  He crossed
to another door at the opposite end of the chamber.  The thumping
grew louder--or was that only Bashir's imagination?--as his friend
entered the darkened passageway beyond.

Julian sat for several minutes, watching the open portal, listening 
as the sound of Garak's footsteps grew fainter.  When he thought 
he had waited long enough, he called out, "Garak?"

No answer.

"Garak? Are you still there?" He rose and took a few steps forward, 
when the lights went out.

Unrelieved darkness surrounded him--even the emergency lighting in
the wall panels was out--and the thumping was distinctly louder now, 
but Bashir went on toward the door Garak had gone through, until he 
ran straight into some metal barrier.  As he stumbled, his out-
stretched hands encountered a rounded, grimy surface: it was the 
lower end of the ore chute. Cool to his touch, but when the molten 
uridium poured through...

No.  He was *not* going to let Garak's stories frighten him.  He
would keep his head and find the door.  Find Garak.  Then they
would get out of here, never mind their bet!

He scrambled around the end of the chute, hissing as he clipped his 
ankle painfully.  Limping, he struck another obstacle: something 
plastic, cylindrical, nearly as tall as he was, that wobbled slightly. 
There were several such containers scattered about the room; Bashir 
tried to recall their exact locations, but it was hard to orient 
himself with that damned *thump* *thump* *thump*, too much like his 
own heartbeat, drumming in his ears.

If he was where he thought he was, then there was a workstation just 
behind him and the wall that would lead him to the door only a meter 
or so beyond.  He turned, started forward purposefully, and after a 
few steps touched- not the wall he had expected, but more gritty 
metal.  The base of the ore conduit.  He'd gone the wrong way; the 
door must be to his left, not the right.  

A soft sound like a moan directly above him made him look up, even 
though it was too dark to see the jointure overhead where the Bajoran 
assassin had supposedly been executed.  That moan again.  Air in the 
ducts, he told himself, even if it did sound just like someone in 
pain.  

Then he reconsidered.  It *was* superstitious to talk of ghosts, but 
it was also possible for consciousness to survive after the physical 
existence had ended. He'd seen it himself, even been possessed by 
such entities more than once.  Memories lived on.  Personalities.  
Who was to say that some essence of the Bajorans who had suffered 
and died here hadn't remained?

And, his thoughts leapt forward, if such remnants were still here 
awaiting revenge, wasn't a Cardassian exactly what they were waiting 
for? They wouldn't be particular.  Any Cardassian who came their way 
would do.  

"Garak!" he shouted and reached out blindly.  His hands met the 
welcome, smooth surface of a wall and, using it to guide himself, 
he headed to his left.

The pounding stopped.  Bashir froze, listening.  For a moment, there
was nothing but silence, then a faint metallic clang--once, twice--
and a thump just on the other side of the wall.  

He inched forward tentatively; the wall disappeared from beneath 
his hand.  He'd found the door.  As he reached through, he touched 
something softer than metal or plastic.  Warm.  Fabric.  A humanoid 
body.  

He yelped as a hand closed on his shoulder, and then nearly collapsed 
in relief at the sound of Garak's voice:

"Doctor, I heard you cry out. Are you all right?"

"Garak, thank god!" As he sank against his friend, Garak caught him.  
"Why didn't you answer me?  Where *were* you?"

"I was up on the gallery above the processing center. You were right 
about the machinery--one of the old dehumidifying pumps had been 
activated. I've shut it off. I'm sorry I was gone so long. It wasn't 
easy making my way back in the dark."

"What happened to the lights?"

"I have no idea...  Ah! There we are!" The bright exit light came on 
just above them.  "Nothing to be alarmed about." 

They were standing at the entrance to a small antechamber with doors 
on three sides and a ladder leading to the upper level.  As he looked 
back at the path he had taken through the main room, Bashir marveled 
at how short and relatively straight a distance he had traveled.  How 
could he have gotten lost?  He felt silly now at how frightened he had 
been by a few easily explained noises.  

"I thought I'd lost you," he murmured, too embarrassed to admit 'I 
thought the ghosts had got you.' 

But even if Garak understood, he only answered gently, "It's all 
right, dear Doctor. I'm here."  His arms were still around Bashir; 
it seemed to Julian that his friend was holding him rather close, 
but under the circumstances, he didn't mind at all.

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"I don't believe there *were* any ghosts," Bashir said decisively
the next morning.  They had gone up to the Replimat for breakfast, 
and he was able to look on the incident more objectively now that 
he was in safe and familiar surroundings.

Garak looked surprised.  "Surely you never believed it--a rational,
scientifically minded, Federation educated young man such as
yourself?"

"I think," Bashir answered, "that you set the whole thing up just
to send me straight into your arms."

"I confess I'm not sorry it happened," the tailor said.  "But what 
makes you suspect that I planned it?"

"Precisely because it did turn out this way.  It's so *Cardassian*.
You never come at what you want directly--you have to arrange the 
situation.  Lure me into an isolated part of the station. Tell me 
spooky stories, then leave me to investigate some mysterious noise. 
Not to mention shutting off the lights."

"Doctor, I assure you-"

"You knew that by the time you came back, I'd be so relieved to
see you that we would naturally wind up saying...a few things to
each other that would never have come up in our usual lunchtime
conversations." 

Garak's eyes were alight with appreciation for his perception, and
encouraged by the fact that he was smiling.

"You might have asked me, you know," Julian concluded, "instead of 
frightening me out of my wits."

"Perhaps," Garak returned his smile, "but I don't think a simple 
question would have given me such a delightful answer."


Kathryn Ramage                       kramage@erols.com
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Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not faint... 

Jane Austen, "Love and Freindship"   (Her spelling)
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