"Our Gentle Persuasion"
2474, Cardassia Prime (then)
He awoke naked, on his back, in perfect darkness. No way to know how long he was unconscious. No way to know what date it was. It would be months before he would accept this, but he had just begun his own new calendar. By the only reckoning there was, this was Day One.
He reached out with his hands and feet and his mind to feel the limits of his confinement. Less than two meters in every direction they were stopped by smooth, obsidian walls. No doors. Of course no windows.
He searched every surface for an imperfection. He found only one. The arrowhead of his communicator badge. He tapped it. He was not surprised when it replied in an unhappy chirp that it could make contact with no one.
The walls were stone, carved down to the molecular level—smoother than glass, so slick they almost felt wet, the work of a transporter. The rock had been hewn out, not quite large enough for a man, and he had been deposited in its place. Beneath the surface, locked and lost, left to himself he would survive for only moments as his oxygen supply dwindled and disappeared into useless carbon dioxide. Logically, he knew they had not gone to so much trouble only to let him die. But a small emotion whispered cruelly and relentlessly: this was his tomb.
The wound in his chest had been crudely patched; it itched. He resisted the impulse to scratch at the incision. He knew what was beneath it, a small device, somewhat complicated, a low-powered microreplicator and a neural stimulator. It was the source of the chemical that clawed at the margins of his self-control. It could, he surmised, do far worse. It was also, he realized at length, what kept him alive. When he exhaled, it was oxygen again.
Though his body screamed that it had been invaded, with a thought he silenced it.
And for a long time there was nothing but silence, punctuated only by the slow, continuing pumps of his heart and lungs.
Then, the Voice, the only other Voice in the world. The Voice seemed happy. The Voice seemed to smile.
“Good morning,” the Voice suggested unconvincingly. “What is your name?”
“Sylok,” he answered. “My first name is unpronounceable.”
“Yes, of course it is. Your rank?”
“Lieutenant commander.”
“Your unit?”
“U.S.S. Shangri-La, Security Department, Operations Division, United Starfleet.”
“Very complete, good.”
“I believe you knew that already.”
“Yes, I did. But I wanted you to tell me. What is your place of birth?”
“What is the relevance of this question?”
The Voice seemed amused. “When we’ve conquered the Federation, we’d like to know where to return you. Dosage up ten percent; please answer the question.”
“I was born in T’Pella Hospital, in T’Pella, on Kaven Island, planet Mirikal, Khalet system.”
“Yes, yes… very good. And what was your mission in the Chin’toka system?”
“I wish to see a neutral representative.”
“Dosage up ten percent.” He felt dizzy; he felt sick; he felt gravity more keenly than he ever had, and when he looked up into the black above him, it was an effort. “What was your mission in the Chin’toka system?”
“To explore strange new worlds,” he said. “To seek out new life, and new civilizations. To go where no one has gone before.”
The Voice was silent for a moment; then it laughed, laughed for a long time. Its laughter was not vicious, but hearty and amiable, as if they had shared a joke together. Finally, it replied, “Yes, of course. Of course. I suspected the drug might not work on you. You have defeated our chemicals and ignored our probes—resisted our gentle persuasion. The Dominion has other methods, Vulcan—I have other methods. And we have time… time to get you acquainted with your new life. So much time to get you acquainted with our civilization. Yes, my friend!” The Voice chuckled warmly.
Agony exclaimed from inside his chest, from the monster stitched beneath his collarbone. His flesh was replaced with fire that burned but could not consume. The solace of death was distant and theoretical. Only the implausible mercies of life remained, and, for the first time in his existence, he knew despair.
“We shall explore together.”
2474, Cardassia Prime (then)
He awoke naked, on his back, in perfect darkness. No way to know how long he was unconscious. No way to know what date it was. It would be months before he would accept this, but he had just begun his own new calendar. By the only reckoning there was, this was Day One.
He reached out with his hands and feet and his mind to feel the limits of his confinement. Less than two meters in every direction they were stopped by smooth, obsidian walls. No doors. Of course no windows.
He searched every surface for an imperfection. He found only one. The arrowhead of his communicator badge. He tapped it. He was not surprised when it replied in an unhappy chirp that it could make contact with no one.
The walls were stone, carved down to the molecular level—smoother than glass, so slick they almost felt wet, the work of a transporter. The rock had been hewn out, not quite large enough for a man, and he had been deposited in its place. Beneath the surface, locked and lost, left to himself he would survive for only moments as his oxygen supply dwindled and disappeared into useless carbon dioxide. Logically, he knew they had not gone to so much trouble only to let him die. But a small emotion whispered cruelly and relentlessly: this was his tomb.
The wound in his chest had been crudely patched; it itched. He resisted the impulse to scratch at the incision. He knew what was beneath it, a small device, somewhat complicated, a low-powered microreplicator and a neural stimulator. It was the source of the chemical that clawed at the margins of his self-control. It could, he surmised, do far worse. It was also, he realized at length, what kept him alive. When he exhaled, it was oxygen again.
Though his body screamed that it had been invaded, with a thought he silenced it.
And for a long time there was nothing but silence, punctuated only by the slow, continuing pumps of his heart and lungs.
Then, the Voice, the only other Voice in the world. The Voice seemed happy. The Voice seemed to smile.
“Good morning,” the Voice suggested unconvincingly. “What is your name?”
“Sylok,” he answered. “My first name is unpronounceable.”
“Yes, of course it is. Your rank?”
“Lieutenant commander.”
“Your unit?”
“U.S.S. Shangri-La, Security Department, Operations Division, United Starfleet.”
“Very complete, good.”
“I believe you knew that already.”
“Yes, I did. But I wanted you to tell me. What is your place of birth?”
“What is the relevance of this question?”
The Voice seemed amused. “When we’ve conquered the Federation, we’d like to know where to return you. Dosage up ten percent; please answer the question.”
“I was born in T’Pella Hospital, in T’Pella, on Kaven Island, planet Mirikal, Khalet system.”
“Yes, yes… very good. And what was your mission in the Chin’toka system?”
“I wish to see a neutral representative.”
“Dosage up ten percent.” He felt dizzy; he felt sick; he felt gravity more keenly than he ever had, and when he looked up into the black above him, it was an effort. “What was your mission in the Chin’toka system?”
“To explore strange new worlds,” he said. “To seek out new life, and new civilizations. To go where no one has gone before.”
The Voice was silent for a moment; then it laughed, laughed for a long time. Its laughter was not vicious, but hearty and amiable, as if they had shared a joke together. Finally, it replied, “Yes, of course. Of course. I suspected the drug might not work on you. You have defeated our chemicals and ignored our probes—resisted our gentle persuasion. The Dominion has other methods, Vulcan—I have other methods. And we have time… time to get you acquainted with your new life. So much time to get you acquainted with our civilization. Yes, my friend!” The Voice chuckled warmly.
Agony exclaimed from inside his chest, from the monster stitched beneath his collarbone. His flesh was replaced with fire that burned but could not consume. The solace of death was distant and theoretical. Only the implausible mercies of life remained, and, for the first time in his existence, he knew despair.
“We shall explore together.”
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Killer.
