Have you forgotten yet?...

For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:

And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,

Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game...

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.

-Siegfried Sassoon

The sun rose and bleached the sky white, but the clouds did not lift their veil. Dust still covered everything. Dust hung in the air and dust tainted the clouds and reflected the light like glitter. The dust and the glittering grit had been powdering everything for days, and Christine was sick of it. It fell into wounds and made a sticky mass of blood. It fell into the water and made it undrinkable and fell into the food and made it an anathema to the mouth. It got sucked into the lungs and slowly and mercilessly corroded the soft alveoli until every cough became a spatter of blood. The dust was killing people, for god's sake. More than the bombs and the bullets and the buildings that collapsed at the lightest breath of wind, the dust was killing people…

The war on Paladas 3 was not yet an old one. The fighting had been going on for some months, apparently – long enough to weary the spirit out of every living soul, but not long enough for the population to become used to the sudden violent deaths, the spiralling loss of homes and possessions, the shortage of food and the soul-destroying misery of constant uncertainty. Perhaps in a few years the proverbial stiff upper lip would fall into place and people would carry on about their lives, stalwart in the face of destruction. That time had not yet come. Hopelessness was the pervading emotion in everyone but the fighters.

'Miss Chapel.'

She turned from the cracked window. Spock was holding a cup out to her, his hand carefully held over the top to stop the dust from settling in the drink. His face was half hidden behind the cloth that was wrapped about his mouth and nose.

'Thank you,' she murmured, slipping her own hand over the top with a practised movement before he removed his.

She lifted the mug under her own face cloth and tipped it towards her lips, only discovering as the liquid entered her mouth that it was a warm serving of the ever-thinning soup that had been boiling for days. She grimaced, glad that her expression was hidden behind the cloth. Obviously Spock could glean her reaction, however, for his eyebrow lifted, and he said, 'It is, at least, nutritionally sound.'

'Yes, thank you,' she said with a smile. 'I appreciate it, really I do.'

He nodded briefly.

'Aren't you drinking, Mr Spock?' she asked, her professional concern getting the better of her.

'The soup contains meat,' he said simply.

'Oh,' she replied, wondering just what meat had been found to add to the broth. There was a certain amount of vermin crawling around but – No. She shuddered to think of it. 'I hope you're finding something to eat, Mr Spock,' she said, looking at him critically. They had all dropped weight since the rations had run out but Spock, as usual, showed little sign of difficulty.

'I am finding sufficient nutrition,' he said. He looked past her at the sky and commented, 'There is a seventy percent chance of rain.'

'Thank god,' Christine sighed unthinkingly.

'There is no deity involved, Miss Chapel,' Spock corrected her. 'It is an estimate based on meteorological conditions that cannot be affected. There are constants on many planets. Nimbostratus indicates rain, even here.'

'Then thank meteorological constants,' she smiled, taking another sip of the pallid soup.

Spock raised an eyebrow briefly but did not give a reply. Instead, he angled his gaze upward at the clouds again, a pensive look on his face.

'Perhaps,' he said eventually. 'Inclement weather may suppress the worst of the fighting. But there is little drainage in this place…'

Christine looked out into the wide, debris-scattered square. What had been a beautiful courtyard was two inches deep in dust. All she could think about was how wonderful it would be for something to wash all that dirt away.

When she turned back to Spock, he had gone. She smiled. Courteous as he was, some human pleasantries seemed to elude him in times of pressure. Leave-taking was apparently one of them.

She turned her attention back to the surroundings, reassessing her view of the place. It would take a hell of a lot of rain to wash away all of that dirt. More likely it would just turn it to mud. But rain would mean fresh water, at least. If Spock was correct it would be sensible to set up some kind of catchment devices to replenish their supplies. If they all continued to use the broken water main on that side street then she imagined it wouldn't be long before people fell foul of some local version of typhoid or cholera.

She sighed and moved away from the window. The rest had been nice, even if the soup left a lot to be desired, but there was too much to do. There was far too much to do.

She went through into the inner room where the walls were stronger and so far seemed invulnerable to the constant rumble and tremors of explosions. It was a good thing, too. There were so many people in here that a collapse would be disastrous.

She smiled as she caught the eyes of various patients. It was always good to look cheerful, and if Spock could catch her reaction to the soup above the cloth about her mouth they were almost certain to be able to read the cheerfulness on her face. She knelt down to attend to a sleeping child whose dust mask was askew, and then turned to the captain, who was lying on a makeshift bed by the wall.

'How are you doing, sir?' she asked him with a smile, squatting beside him.

He looked sideways with a glint in his eyes, and she suddenly became aware of just how short her skirt was in this position.

'Not too bad, then,' she said dryly, readjusting so that she was kneeling down.

His eyes widened as if in innocence, and then he smiled.

'Nothing that being able to get out of here wouldn't fix,' he said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice. 'It's driving me crazy not being about to get out there and do something.'

'Now, there's nothing you can do that someone else can't do,' Christine said with a smile, lifting the blanket and carefully examining the blood-stained bandages about his chest. 'You don't want a punctured lung to go with the rest of the damage, do you?'

'No, I do not want a punctured lung,' Kirk admitted. 'What I would like is for my First Officer to come in and report to me.'

'Well, I know for a fact that Dr McCoy has told him in no uncertain terms that he's not to bother you,' Christine admitted. 'So he's probably waiting until the doctor's not paying attention.'

Kirk chuckled, and then winced. 'Really, nurse, how much longer will I be stuck in here?' he asked seriously. 'It's absolutely maddening.'

She held out her tricorder over him and made a show of studying the results, even though she knew they would be no different to the last time she had checked.

'A while,' she told him. 'No, really, captain, I can't be more specific than that. It just depends how long it takes to heal, and that,' she added sternly, 'depends on how much you rest, among other things.'

Kirk sighed and settled back onto the thin mat that was his bed.

'Do you think you can sneak me a padd, Nurse?' he asked her hopefully. 'Not to work – just to – to read. I could do with something to occupy my mind.'

She smiled. 'That, captain, would be more than my job's worth,' she told him dryly. At the look on his face she smiled again. He looked like a little boy who had been told he couldn't stay up late. 'I'll tell you what, captain,' she promised. 'I will have a look around and see if I can find you any real books. Something you can't accidentally slip into work-mode on. Something with real pages.'

Kirk grinned. 'I have always been a fan of real pages,' he said. 'Just – just make sure it's something with some meat, huh? None of these cheap romances for bored women.'

Christine gave him a mock offended look. 'When I'm bored, captain, I don't read cheap romances,' she assured him.