Semil: Agent of the Empire

So this project arose from the character backstory I'd given my KDF character, Semil. As a matter of personal preference, playing Klingon holds little appeal for me. But this Vorta character of mine dates back to the days of dial-up and using AOL CDs as coasters.

So how to explain a Vorta working for the Klingon Empire? And here, we join the story.

Chapter I: From Beginning to End to Beginning

The first few breaths were always the worst part, he remembered. Far moreso than the disorientation, the nausea, or the dizziness. Crystalline pins surged through the lungs, in deep, gulping gasps.

The rancid sweet smell of the bath, he recognized as colloidal growth medium A8. The warm gel provided just the faintest resistance to movement. Not that there was anywhere to get to in a hurry goopy and naked. Definitely growth medium A8. He didn't have to open his eyes to know it was a cloning vat, but did so anyways. The dull searing of overly bright lights overhead did little to provide clues anyways.

A few more gulps of razor-edged air weren't enough to drown out the voice that boomed out of the black void at the edge of his peripheral vision. "Don't strain. Your retinas have not yet completely matured."

He recognized in the voice reasonably fluent, if strangely accented, Dominionese. But what accent?

"Do you know where you are?"

It wasn't a standard reorientation protocol, he remembered, but it seemed reasonable given the circumstances. It wasn't entirely clear what protocols he was remembering anyways. "Kwonat." He forgot that speech took some time. Factory fresh vocal cords didn't seem like they needed time to adjust until you needed them. He paused to slow down and concentrate. Just like in training. "C-cloning vat."

"Do you know who you are?"

Well, of course he did. The memory engrams were supposed to come pre-loaded, after all. No use being a race of cloners, if you didn't have the kinks worked out after a few millenia. Still, what seemed like an obvious answer wasn't springing up unbidden.

A few moments passed before the right neurons synapsed. "Sshmul." Dammit. Again with the enunciating. "Ssssemil. Semil. Aaagent eight-ssshix-six... freee... onnne... seven." It was always so frustrating having to relearn how to use one's tongue, even if he knew it wouldn't last.

A tube was pulled roughly from out his nose by the vague blurs shifting in his clouded vision. Hardly the worst discomfort or indignity in the process. Is that something new?

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Moments seemed like an eternity as he struggled to piece together a jumble of images. Smells of fire and burning. A dull pain throbbing from his shoulder. Sounds of klaxons and rumbling deckplates. A few barely whispered abortive "I..." came out, with no clear intent to continue or finish.

A second booming voice, only slightly less abrasive, made itself known from the background of the dark void. "It's possible some memory engrams did not engraft. Or the imprints are still integrating complex memory access. We'll know more after the full cognitive series. With the first battery..."

"Aaaavenal." Even slurred, Semil's voice quieted the other two. "Avenal seven. Firsssht, dead. Lost.. starboard nacelle. P-piloted... transporrrters down. Crasssh land...?"

Silence. From the radiant warmth and the fetid breath, Semil could tell someone was leaning in. Even with the hushed volume, he could recognize the first voice. "And who do you serve?"

Even without functioning retinas, Semil blinked. "Who... sssurve...?"

The voice asked again, slow and deliberate. "Who do you serve?"

Semil stammered again, with non-reply, and fell silent.

After a few moments, the second voice came back to intervene. "We'll know more after the full cognitive series."

Nicely done! Now, when do we get the rest of the story? It sounds like it will be a VERY interesting read and I think many will want to read the entire story. I know I do. ;)

Thanks for the kind comments.

I'm at a point right now where I'm filled with ideas. Now structure, there's the challenge. I'm also giving some thought to playing around with form in some coming chapters. We'll see how that goes.

It'll probably be coming in installments; work, as always, limits the time I have available for leisure pursuits. That having been said...

Chapter II: Being and Becoming

The green skin of Doctor Asiliaa glowed orange from the wall of monitors as she hurried along with her progress report. "...and as you can see, he's rapidly regaining complex problem solving, integrated motor skills, language code-switching..."

Colonel K'vot stepped towards the grid to inspect them more closely, his already ridged brow furrowed to focus on each of the recordings being replayed simultaneously. On one, the Vorta was sleeping in his bunk. Semil sitting, seemingly alone in a darkened interrogation room. Semil stretching. Semil dining. Semil at work on a Tarkelian 5D holopuzzle. Semil lying unconscious on an operating table, masked figures carefully inserting probes deep inside his temple.

"All very impressive, Doctor. But you know why I'm here."

"Of course, Colonel." Asiliaa was not used to having to be apologetic to Klingons, to anybody, really. But she, of all people at the facility, knew what was at stake. "The Lethean telepaths have been reporting their 'sessions' proceeding well." She gestured at one of the numerous monitors.

K'vot's attention turned to the screen. On it, Semil appeared to sleep on his bunk. As he squinted into the recording of the darkened room, only then he noticed the faint outline of the figure seated just off the head of the bunk, in the shadows.

"Now, I have little experience with their techniques," she continued. "However, I have every assurance from them that excellent progress is being made." She gestured towards the operating room video. "And the implants seem to have engrafted suitably, and are stablized. The input and output contacts are responding, and ready for programming input."

K'vot grunted his reply. Asiliaa had been working with Klingons long enough to recognize the tone as begrudging affirmation. She used the opportunity to press him, "Beyond that, I cannot say how the conditioning regimen is working. If you would only let us..."

K'vot turned sharply to face the Orion. His brow relaxed in a way she was not used to from Klingons when confronted. Though unable to admit it or even recognize it was happening, she flinched ever so imperceptibly, as the Colonel's towering frame came to loom over her. "Then you are asking me to inform the General that you are again questioning his methods? Deviating from his explicit orders?"

A passive aggressive Klingon, she thought. That must be new. Still, invoking the General was more than sufficient threat.

"Or perhaps you have forgotten your last several failures?" Okay, that one stung, she thought. "The General was understandably most displeased you were forced to destroy those copies. We will proceed with compliance testing in Phase II, as ordered."

Having sufficiently dressed down the Orion, K'vot's eyes returned to surveying the multitude of footage on display. Semil showering. Semil jogging on a treadmill. Semil reading. Semil -- wielding a bat'leth? The Colonel's brow furrowed again as he drew closer to the monitor. "Explain this."

On screen, the Vorta drew the blade back and to his right, winding up a lightning hook thrust at his opponent, a Nausicaan with at least a two foot height advantage.

Asiliaa's composure returned immediately. She was accustomed to brusque attitudes from Klingons. "The holodeck memory core suffered a complete fragmentation failure last month. We recovered only a few programs. The combat training simulations were the only adequate platforms that we could use for the motor skills assessments. As you can see --"

The Colonel held up his hand to silence her. A politeness by Klingon etiquette standards, she told herself. K'vot's face drew even closer to the screen, watching the figure spin and twirl the bladed weapon, now against multiple opponents. She could tell he was studying the movements, with an interest he had not paid to anything she had said.

"This can't... How many of these simulations have you been running?"

"This is level 6B. We only switched to these simulations last month, after the holodeck breakdown."

K'vot's ears noticeably pricked. The training simulations were designed for Klingon schoolchildren -- to supplement their live combat training, not teach it. It took most Klingons their entire childhood to reach 6B proficiency, and this -- pale, weakling petaQ had achieved it in a month.

He scoffed. "Impossible. The Vorta are known to be physically deficient. I would've been surprised if he could hold a bat'leth with both hands, much less swing it at a rock."

"As you can see, Colonel. He's doing much more than swinging it." She motioned to the screen. On it, Semil was dislodging one endpoint of the bat'leth from the rib cage of one fallen Nausicaan, using the momentum to swing it overhead and deliver a brutal slashing blow, straight down through the holographic collarbone of another. As a scientist, the doctor quietly gloated in the data speaking for itself.

"We had discussed the likelihood that the Augment gene vectors would have some effects on physical ability. The previous clones we made from this line had showed improved strength, reflex, stamina, coordination --"

"Which are good building blocks, but hardly the same as skill and talent, Doctor."

"That may be, but we've been seeing extensive synaptic activity arising in his orbitofrontal precortex and amygdala. Local dopaminergic levels and vasopressin have been escalating."

"Meaning...?" K'vot hated having to remind these scientist types to translate, necessary as it was.

"Aggression." K'vot blinked in reply, not fully comprehending. "These parts of the humanoid brain are associated with aggression and impulse control. We theorize that it's from the Augment vectors we recovered from deep storage. The human reports of their early experiments..."

"Do not match our experience with these selfsame constructs, Doctor."

"Yes, but that may represent a species difference. Using these constructs in humans may result in one outcome, in Klingons another, in Gorn, or Nausicaan..." Asiliaa trailed off, clearly excited.

"Doctor, you told us that the Vorta would make ideal subjects for these experiments. Unlike our Gorn enterprise."

"Only because Vorta were already an engineered species, and top of that, were perfectly suited to the Dominion cloning technology recovered during the war. But don't you see? We're adding human gene sequences. Our results clearly show some element of unpredictability..."

"So this is your excuse for the previous clones behaving so erratically as to doom themselves to termination?"

Again with the jabs. This time, Asiliaa stood her ground. "I'm saying that this is why we need to move up the compliance assessments. The General is never going to get his servile little soldiers if we waste time on clones that we're not certain from the beginning..."

"Enough." This time, K'vot's tone was certainly not polite. "I will make my report to the General. Your progress has been noted, and will be communicated accordingly."

"And what will be your recommendation?" Asiliaa had been reporting to K'vot long enough to know that he was relatively resistant to her innately Orion coercivity.

"We have wasted enough time. I will advise him that there is little reason to hold off on Phase II." Asiliaa grinned smugly at her small victory. "BUT," K'vot continued, this time with a raised finger of warning, "you will not proceed until my return. I will personally be on-hand to oversee the assessments." The Doctor opened her mouth to begin to protest, but caught herself, knowing that she would have to take the victory she'd been granted in stride. The Colonel excused himself from the office, only after her begrudging acquiescence.

She could deal with K'vot later, when he returned. Dealing with predictable Klingon values was easy. It was after all, this new player on the gameboard she was truly interested in.

Chapter III: Soundlessness

The empty, dimly-lit hallway echoed with Semil's gentle footfalls, as he made his way to the small gymnasium. Not that this was any kind of exception. In the months that he had occupied the small suite of rooms, he had not seen so much as a single other soul. No other prisoners, no guards, no interrogators - well, none that he cold see.

Or was it weeks? Maybe years? The fuzzy-headed disorientation was relenting over time, but far too slow for his peace of mind. The holotreadmill began its program, a relatively light seven mile jog with only a few small hills for variety, hiding somewhere in the latter half.

At least, he had assumed this was some sort of incarceration. It was easily the most comfortable imprisonment he could think of. Certainly in comparison to Semil 2 (or was it 3?), who had run a smallish internment camp. Having had one of the highest prisoner mortality rates was one of the few professional regrets that had stuck with him across lifetimes.

What fragmented memories he could access were assuredly borrowed from some previous clone. Those memories weren't sufficient to provide much of a clue as to the identity of his captors. Only the occasional instruction over the loudspeakers boomed in, in heavily accented Dominionese.

It hadn't taken a leap of logic or faith to understand that he stood alive for some reason, to serve someone's agenda. The details were only dressing. After all, it's what he would do.

The mind does wander so when not actively occupied with Dominion business.

It was the first legitimately free time he could remember - well, ever.

He reached up to wipe a growing bead of sweat from his brow. Not two lifetimes ago, he could remember wheezing along after his First at a brisk trot, along some emptied street or other in the capitol of some occupied territory or other. Something about a diplomat who needed questioning. It felt like a lifetime ago, if for no other reason because it had been.

A physical training regimen this rigorous was no part of any "rehabilitation" program he had known. At least not for the captives.

Someone had clearly decided to make upgrades of some sort or other.

Add it to the list of oddities and inconsistencies, I suppose.

In similar circumstances, other lesser species could concern themselves with sleuthing, or escape, or resistance. All futile; all failings. Perhaps their gods had not seen fit to bestow patience or cunning.

For now, Semil was content to do as instructed, and await what opportunities presented themselves. Whoever was behind the loudspeakers and surveillance, they would make their mistake soon enough.

They clearly want something. And no way to get it from me without tipping their hand. And I'll be ready.


Seven miles. How had they passed by so quickly?

Semil reached for a towel as the strip of holographic floor beneath him slowed to a walk. For all the things that were off - or at the very least, different - this exercise regimen was the least of his concerns.

Muscles in his legs twitched and spasmed. The nondescript grey tunic clung damply to his shoulders and back. Semil stepped toward the replicator port for a cup of cool water that awaited him.

He remembered just enough of his own interrogations to know that these - whoever they were, knew what they were doing. Letting him feel just comfortable and safe enough for whatever was coming next to really gut him. After all, it's what he would do.

The voice behind him came as a surprise. For their vaunted hearing, it was still possible to sneak up on a Vorta. The voice was immediately recognizable.

"You have been, and continue to be no end of disappointment to us, Semil."

He pivoted about, instinctually prepared. "Founder, I..."

His eyes darted about the room, finding only emptiness, and the quiet hum of the treadmill as it came to a complete halt.

"No end of disappointment." Again from behind him came the voice.

He whipped his head around, cautiously this time.

Was it possible? Could it be that a Founder had risked himself to find me? More likely that this is their punishment. Whatever I've done, of course it was a failure, deserving of whatever atrocity awaits me here.

Still no one, no thing.

Or, of course, this could always just be a simple case of complete and utter madness.

The silence of the room told him it was no ship or vessel from day one. This wasn't even a proper prison. Even the most soundproofed isolation cell does not completely muffle screams of torture, or the ominous hum of desperation that penetrates even the thickest walls. Whatever this stillness was, it assured a much less savory outcome.

At the far corner of the room, a small movement caught his eye. Tiny and imperceptible, it was little surprise his eyes had missed it. If anything, it should have been notable that the Vorta's eyes had caught it at all.

He slinked across the room cautiously to better examine. A lone moth buzzed its wings against the warm glow of the wall light.

Fancy that. Even in this place - controlled air, controlled light. Carefully programmed food, and some perversely unorthodox regimen of exercise and debriefing - all this control, and a simple insect subverts this all.

The moth came to rest on the wall, its colorless wings ceasing their flitting buzz. Semil leaned in, eyes wide, studying the creature.

For all his attention to detail, he had never been so confronted before by such frailty and defiance in one single package. Of course, countless worlds had tried to stand up to him in lifetimes past, stood up to the Dominion. And for all their weakness, none had been so delicate and fragile as this moth. And certainly less nondescript.

With one open hand, Semil soundlessly raised his arm. The stillness of the room was disrupted only by the slow crunch of Semil's palm against the cold, grey wall.

Chapter IV: Conditioning Parameters


...I don't believe any fewer than three Jem'Hadar battalions defend Septimus III.

Then how many more defenders can the Dominion commit to support the Cardassian Eleventh Order within two days notice?


Septimus is centrally located. Eight divisions can arrive within a day. At least twenty within two.
Perhaps I can speak to your cartographers about updating your starcharts, I'd be most glad to...


How many Founders operate within the Cardassian theatre?


One and only one. I've answered this several...


Where is the Ketracel White storage facility for the Monac system?


In Lagrange orbit between Monac III and IV.


What is the square root of ninety-seven million two hundred fifty-nine thousand, forty-four?


Nine-thousand eight hundred sixty-two.


What is the Founders' primary strategic objective in the Alpha Quadrant?


The capitulation and subsequent occupation of the Federation, Klingon and Romulan Empires. And then we have cake.


You believe this is some sort of exercise in comedy?


Far from it. I have answered all of your questions precisely, with exceedingly accurate detail.


We shall see how "accurate" your answers are, when we...


When you, what? Check your history books?


I'm well aware it's no longer 2375. I'm reasonably certain the war has long since concluded. I would even wager it's substantially ahead in the future, though I admit I'm not quite certain when.



This isn't an interrogation. You know the answers. You're only checking to see the accuracy of the answers I'd provide.


And what would make you believe such preposterous nonsense, if only to test our patience?


Surely you don't think we don't have our own ways of ascertaining -- well, had our ways of ascertaining how much you knew?

That our intelligence outmatched yours at every turn?

Please.

You don't even recognize the questions that I know you shouldn't have even half the wit to ask.


See, I believe - the real question is why you're doing this. What answers do you seek - when you already know what the real answers are supposed to be? Who are you? And what do you...?




Anesthezine at a hundred parts per million. Returning to normal atmosphere.


I warned you it was too soon...


For the compliance testing, not for stupid directed questioning. You must know we have been showing too much of ourselves. This is a very delicate...


We have no time or need of delicacy. If you cannot produce results, I will recommend immediate termination to the General.


No, no. This, I can memory wipe. I can't continue with many more memory wipes without causing irreparable...


And you believe this defiance is not irreparable? That he knows more than he already should about...?


It is not a waste to make sure that we're not destroying another perfectly good specimen, setting us even further back, just because you won't listen to reason and let us do our job!


Look. We'll memory wipe this session, but it's hardly lost. He was hardly wrong, you know. He has been responding to all the questions with unerring accuracy, no matter what he's pieced together.


Doctor, surely you can't believe this is the right time...


No, no -- nothing like that. Listen to me. I've been meeting with the Letheans. We may have an idea to double, maybe even triple the conditioning parameters.


Then why the hesitation? What new brilliant theoretical insights do you aspire to today?


Not theoretical. We have a plan. And the General is not going to like it.

Chapter V: Unseen Tectonics

Semil raced down the hallway. The hiss of broken pressurized gas piping was only intermittently punctuated by the occasional sparking conduit. Lights flickered in chaotic asynchrony with the pulsing whoop of the alert klaxons. In spite of his light footfalls, he could feel the vibrations in the deckplating as he came to another partly disabled door.

The Vorta wedged himself through the narrow gap as best he could, exerting and straining with his whole body to squeeze through into the next corridor, seemingly indistinguishable from the previous.

It had been only minutes that the jarring alert had presented him this opportunity. It may have been overly convenient, maybe even a test, but even if it didn't result in escape, it could at least provide some answers, maybe even only clues as to the identity of his captors, or his location -- or even the year. That could be a start.

It sure beat the boredom of his daily regimen. He had attempted activation of his termination implant twice in the past week, mostly out of sheer boredom, only to conclude that he didn't even have one.

The labyrinth of corridors didn't even seem all that complicated, but surely he should have come upon something noteworthy. A turbolift, a control room, a transporter room, an airlock - hell, a fully stocked arboretum, even. Anything except these endless drab gray halls.

It had occurred to Semil that even the first rule of daring escapes wasn't even panning out. Pick a direction, and stick with it - increases the odds of finding some way out.

Even an unconfigurable dumb terminal would've been something to work with. At least that could provide some kind of clue. It never ceased to amaze him how many species with networked computing technology always had the most ridiculously poor security protocols.

Another corridor branch. He had counted the number of turns he had made, just to make sure he wasn't circling back. It hadn't been long since he had made it past the first secured door, but there hadn't been signs of anything but more corridor in the time since. It was possible he was planetside, instead of being on a ship, or station; but even then, this had to have been a massive structure for him to not find anything.

Wherever he was, at least there wasn't any sign of pursuit - no guards rushing him, or the telltale dizziness of anesthezine. No other prisoners, or cries for help from behind the locked doors. If this was some sort of attack, or prison break - someone certainly had more pressing concerns.

Another shower of sparks erupted in the corridor ahead of him. He had only caught himself midstride to stop just barely, feeling the heat and singe against his face and forearms as they instinctively rose to shield him.

He lowered them, when it seemed safe to proceed, and that's when he saw her.
In spite of the generally poor condition of their surroundings, he instinctively dropped to a knee prostrating himself. "Founder. I had no idea..."

"Rise, Semil." The Changeling motioned, bidding him back on his feet. "We must move quickly if we are to escape." She motioned him closer, to her side, as she pivoted to stride down the hallway with the assured confidence that all her species possessed.

Semil assumed his place, following behind the Founder at a reverential few paces, but close enough to remain present in her peripheral vision.

"Come, a ship awaits us. But we haven't much time..."

Semil stopped dead in his tracks, unsure and wavering. "I don't... you came.. for me? You haven't also been imprisoned...?" His eyes squinted, not entirely clear as to this newest twist in his circumstances.

The Founder sensed Semil's hesitation, pivoting back to face him. Her face beamed with the knowing assurance that countenanced the humanoid forms that all Changelings seemed to prefer, when forced to interact with Solids. "Yes." She nodded. "I am taking you home. Where you belong. With us." She extended a hand, goading him to continue on in their escape.

"But..." Semil stammered, "...why? Founder, this could just as easily have been done with a platoon of Jem'Hadar. For you to risk..."

"Why is not important." She interrupted "Only that we leave now." She beckoned to Semil again, this time with growing impatience.

It still wasn't right. A Founder had no place risking herself to free him. He knew it, down to his core, with every genetically engineered fibre, muscle, neuron, and tendon.

A cold, chilling thought seized him. It was absolutely abhorrent, and he knew instantly with perfect, crystalline clarity that it had to be true. "Founder? Are you here...?" His throat stuck, and he shivered slightly. "...you're here to kill me, aren't you?"

Through the strobing flicker of the lights, he could tell her face had become impossibly unfeeling. He knew this face. When a Founder didn't have to bother pretending to be anything like a Solid. "We had hoped to know what secrets you divulged." It was clear that she wasn't even bothering to pretend to pity him. "It seems that is no longer a priority here."

Semil almost choked. He was not surprised by her reaction. From the moment Vorta stepped out of their cloning vats, they had already been programmed with a single unerring, inviolable truth. That the Founders had given life, and carried with that gift the absolute moral right to take life away. The gift and dispossesion of life. Any more detailed definition of a God got bogged down in semantics and stupid details.

What surprised him was suddenly remembering the disruptor he had tucked into his waistband. He couldn't quite remember where he had found it, even if it had obviously only been a few minutes prior. He reached down beneath his tunic, and when he raised it back up - only then did he notice it was wielding the pistol. Aimed squarely at the Founder. He had drawn a bead on God.

The Changeling's face softened again. "Surely, this must be the work of torture. What terrible agonies you must've endured." Her hands reached out to him, welcoming and open. "We only wish to save you from this place. Come with me, and I promise you, they can' t hurt you -- they won't hurt you ever again." Her voice became almost musical.

Semil choked as he fumblingly stepped backwards. He couldn't tell if they were tears; Vorta tear glands had largely atrophied with unuse over the generations. Hot stinging in his eyes could just as easily have been from the steam or conduit sparks. That had to have been it. How else to explain the suddenly suffocating lack of air, compressing upon his chest, squeezing him? Words barricaded themselves in his throat. "Founder -- Founder, I..."

The Changeling punctuated another staccato extension of her hand. Her visage grew more wizened, the sadly bittersweet pleading of a grandmother reaching out to a grandchild by sheer force of the gravity of love and compassion. "Semil, come. Come home with me."

Knots in his stomach had grown and proliferated. His outstretched hand gripping the disruptor openly quaked, more than the bulkheads or deckplating. Through the blurriness of his tear-filled vision, her face beckoned with the ecstatic light of god, his God. The God he had been born, and raised, and engineered, and trained, and taught to serve through all possible fates and agonies. Not just one lifetime, at that. Dozens of lifetimes he carried memories of, all prepared to lay down on behalf of the Founders. In enough cases, he had done just that. Died for his faith, over and over on a Karmic wheel in a test tube, spun by a Founder.

Just then, the God left her Solid form, becoming liquid in a lightning-fast instant. Where the Founder had stood, a formless wall of shrieking daggers and jagged needles surged forward at him at supersonic velocities.

His eyes shut just as his index finger pressed down on the trigger.

_______________________________

Semil shot upright. Darkness enveloped him, as did a cool wetness. His clothes were clinging to him. He reached up to his neck, expecting to find something garrotting him - how else to explain the ragged breaths that felt of fire and toxic ash?

He felt his skin slick and greasy. In the dark, his hands groped their way to his face, to his forehead. The same clammy slippery skin greeted his fingertips there, too.

He looked around as his eyes adjusted, making out the dim outline of his bunk.
His breathing slowed. He shivered in place, trembling from unseen tectonics.

Chapter VI: Improvisations

K'vot watched through the one-way glass intently, his elbow tucked in as he stroked his beard absent-mindedly. Asiliaa was much more concerned with the neuroprogramming monitors before her, watching the progress of each code fragment as they uploaded. Only occasionally would she glance up at the subject in the next room. Semil was strapped to a table, fidgeting and straining against the restraints, his head encumbered by a large probe device.

"The inputs are registering nominally," the Orion doctor reported. "It should only be a minute more."

K'vot didn't bother nodding. Without Asiliaa noting, his free hand slipped into a utility pouch, producing an isolinear memory crystal, which he held out for the doctor, turning to her.

She eyed him with suspicion. "What's this?"

"The General has felt some... creativity is perhaps in order." K'vot almost smirked. It had been little secret that he relished these opportunities to assert his dominance, despite Asiliaa's protests. It was hardly the first time he had invoked the General to countermand her work. But this was most certainly a new manifestation of their typical Klingon bullying.

She took the crystal in hand from K'vot without breaking eye contact. "I hope you know the risk you're taking." She knew this would be an unwinnable argument, as so many others had been. "This engrammatic programming hardware is cobbled together from what your brutes could pilfer during the Dominion Wars and from the chaos of the Romulan schism; it's hardly ideal for your... 'improvisations'."

"Doctor, humor me." K'vot smiled to himself with fond memories of those times. Desparate battles against the Jem'Hadar and assault raids on underdefended Tal'Shiar labs were certainly preferable to these nursemaid duties.

Asiliaa begrudingly inserted the crystal into a port. "I'm at least going to inspect your handiwork before I do anything that will irreparably fuse his synapses." Her fingers tabbed at controls busily. Her eyes rolled as she leafed through the program contents, her eyes slowly widening. She stopped herself before protesting any louder. "So are you ordering me to upload this... this -- barbarism?"

"Let us consider it a strong recommendation."

Of all the Klingon traits she found unappealing, their capacity for patronization was the most galling. Asiliaa gritted her teeth as she keyed in the compile and upload commands. "I hope you know what you're doing."

With a final keystroke, the program uploaded. They both turned their heads to watch.

In the next room, Semil tensed violently, screaming out. He thrashed against the restraints, as multitudious images of violence and depravity flooded his cerebral cortex through the neuroprobes.

Asiliaa turned her eyes back to the monitors. "Adrenergic signals are spiking. Dopamine, cholinergics -- all rising."

Through the audio pickups in the otherwise soundproofed room, over the screams and cries, Asiliaa could hear the crack of Semil dislocating his own shoulder as he writhed and bucked, still screaming. "I'm putting a stop to this. Now." No sooner than she began to key the shutdown sequence that she could hear more sounds of breaking and shattering in the room.

She shook her head as she completed the shutdown. Again, the Colonel would be ruining her work with his presumptiousness and impatience.

With the shutdown commands complete, she turned again to peer into the room, fearing the worst. What she saw gave her pause - Semil had broken free of his restraints, in spite of (or was it the reason for?) his dislocated shoulder. The neuroprobe helmet had been mostly pulled from his head, as he lay at the foot of the examination chair curled as a fetus, trembling and rocking in place.

The shoulder would be easy enough to fix, but how to assess what other damage K'vot had done? Asiliaa reached for a medkit.

Having stepped back well outside the Doctor's sight, K'vot quietly smiled to himself.

Chapter VII: Dreamt My Own Being

The preprogrammed lights-out in the detention suite had done little to draw Semil to a restful sleep. He lay motionless in his bunk, his eyes open in the dark.

They know. Of course they know. They must know.

The Founders the Founders the Founders. All and each and every one of them know I’ve failed them. No way to hide it. They know.

I can’t go back. Mustn’t go back. They’ll never have me back. Because they know.

I can’t – they shouldn’t – they wouldn’t. They know so they won’t take me.

The names. They don't have names. The Link doesn't require them to have names. For us that need no names, other than Founder - other than the Hundred. They don't need names. But some of them have names. The ones that were cast away earned themselves names.

We have names. They give us names because we are Solid and we do their bidding, and we need names to interact with other Solids.

Where are all these thoughts coming from? What have they been doing to me? I can't remember. There are only some vague, blurry -- no...

Are they dreams? Is this real? Is this a dream? Is this a nightmare? Can I wake up from it?

If I sleep, will that wake me up? If I die, will that? What if this isn't a dream? If this is real, then I just die.

Maybe it's a dream, and dying here will kill me. Dying kills me. Dying will kill me.

Have I dreamt this all? Have I dreamt my own being? How far back does the dream go?

If this is a nightmare, then what happened to me before? Why is this all taking place here?

Semil rolled in his bunk roughly, almost off the edge of the small, hard pad. His face peering over the edge, was when he saw the dull matte of brushed metal.

The slight peek of a mek'leth handle, hiding beneath his bunk.

Chapter VIII: Unfamiliar Door

Semil paused at the unfamiliar door. The alert klaxons blared to no one in particular in the corridor, even though Semil had little doubt it was for him. As he crouched in the doorway, he stared intently at the two Gorn that had cautiously entered the hallway ahead of him.

It was clear they hadn't yet seen him; Gorn preferred to rush their opponents, relying on brute physical prowess. Having only the element of surprise, it was clear he would have to act quickly, instinctually. No time for planning or strategizing beyond recognizing that he could never win against a Gorn in very close quarters. He would have to stay quick and strike precisely to overcome their sheer reach and strength. He gripped the blade of the mek'leth tighter in preparation.

From his crouch, Semil lept forward at the nearer Gorn. Leading with his momentum, his right arm swept forward with the blade; his eyes intent on making sure the edge reached its target.

With the strength of his legs and stride reaching up through his spine into the blade through his arm, the blade slashed at the Gorn's inner thigh just as he growled out recognition of the Vorta in his vision.

Without having to look, Semil knew that the strike had been a success. The warm spurt against his face and neck as he continued to accelerate could only mean that he had managed to sever the Gorn's femoral artery. He would have to hope and trust that he had also managed to cut a tendon or two in order to immobilize the gargantuan reptile just long enough for him to take care of his partner.

Coming up on the second Gorn, approaching a full sprint, he could just make out the putrescent smell of his breath - some unholy combination of rotten fish. The breath came just ahead of the impressive roar the creature let out, as it drew its arms back and out in order to strike with its claws.

This would be his only real chance. With one last thrust of all of the strength in his legs, Semil leapt, hoping to time the kick of his legs in the air just right. With his legs springing forward into the middle of the belly of the creature, the Gorn stumbled back.

Semil had not quite anticipated the solid bulk of the massive reptile, sending him wobbling as he splayed out his free hand to assist with landing. At least the attack had not gone fully awry, he thought as he steadied his balance.

He looked up to assess the condition of the second Gorn, who had tripped up on his own feet as he reeled backwards. So not enough of a kick to knock him off his feet by itself, but enough to take advantage of this particular one's clumsiness. Semil thought to himself that he would have to reconsider the force of luck in the nature of the universe, at some later date.

For now, he would have to finish the immediate task at hand for that later date to arrive. He sprinted ahead again at the Gorn, who had just splayed his own hands at his side to try and get up.

Big mistake. With only a few steps to build speed, Semil dove down atop the mammoth beast, aiming the weight of his landing into the handle of the blade, which he steadied with both hands, prepared to meet the resistance of armor, if not the tough reptilian hide the Gorn were so famous for.

Semil could hear the cracking of ribs, over the Gorn's wails not long before he felt the dull thud of his own body landing atop the Gorn.

A hot sting on his shoulders must've meant the Gorn had managed to start a desperate swipe with his claws before being pinned by the blade. It had all happened fast enough that Semil could only hope that the balance of injury was on his side.

Though not having shut his eyes, it still took a moment for the Vorta to recognize he had succeeded. The Gorn's muscular arms weakened and slowly began to fall to the side. Semil could feel the rasp of their scales as the strength behind them fell silent.

Silent too, was the Gorn's voice - as the shrieking wail weakened to a viscous gurgle, then a last sigh. Semil let go of the blade long enough to right himself and stand, noting the mek'leth positioned perpendicular to the midsection of the now unmoving reptile. Maybe not a lethal blow to the heart, but surely dissecting the Gorn's aorta had to have worked just as well.

Stepping down on the side of the reptile's torso to gain some traction, Semil reached down with both hands to yank the blade free. The deep red pool beneath his feet started to grow faster as the blade wrenched free, no longer obstructing the free flow of the now dead creature's blood.

Righting himself again with the mek'leth now in hand, Semil took notice of the long, deep gashes along the sides of his upper arms; the left side worse than the right. The Gorn's claws had done some impressive damage, despite the reptile's ultimate disadvantage.

Semil could feel the distant echo of the pain, but noted that he still retained most of his range of motion. He supposed this is what the 'looks worse than it is' line he kept hearing from his Jem'Hadar meant.

The squeal behind him reminded Semil of the first Gorn. He turned to look, and found the creature shrieking and writhing on the corridor floor, clutching its thigh as he lay in his own growing pool of blood. The creature's tail thrashed about uselessly.

So he had not managed to bleed out, after all. Just the same, best to take care of this quickly before moving on.

With the Gorn clearly more focused on trying to control his own bleeding, Semil found it possible to creep up to him, staying out of line of sight in spite of the reptile's side-positioned eyes.

The creature still did not give any indication it had seen him when Semil stepped down on the creature's nearer arm with one foot, and and with a single movement, slashed the blade down, across, and through the Gorn's neck.

The creature's wails turned to shrieks and gurgles as it spasmed and convulsed in place before coming to rest.

He had some vague memories of disemboweling a Nausicaan further back. Maybe a Lethean, too? Nevermind - the immediate task was getting out of the corridor, and out of sight.

He was decidedly unclear, as with so many things in his present circumstances, why he had been drawn in this direction. But his certainty and clarity were crystalline and perfect.

The access panel popped out with a touch, granting him access to the actuator circuitry guiding the door mechanism. Bypassing the security lockouts was a trivial matter, certainly moreso than the uncertainty that lay behind the door. More guards, perhaps.

The panels of the door gave way with a disgruntled sigh, and he stepped through.

Inside, an office or laboratory of some sorts gave him access to numerous control panels, and behind those, a bank of darkened monitors.

Curiosity merged with pragmatism, as he stepped towards the consoles gingerly. With a few keystrokes, the panel alighted with information, glowing orange against his pale, ashen skin. Status reports, medical records, personnel files, some kind of database of recordings...?

A few more keystrokes, and the bank of monitors behind him awoke, displaying vaguely familiar sights. He recognized his bunk after a few moments, despite having never quite appreciated it from that angle. Only then did Semil recognize his own figure laying in it - asleep. On the next monitor, he was seated alone at the small dinette -- breakfasting, he'd imagined.

On and on, the displays went - timestamped differently, with no one else appearing other than himself.

Semil had suspected this was no ordinary incarceration or imprisonment; clearly this was only the first clear evidence to compel him to look further.

He turned his attention back to the control panel, his fingers dancing over the keypads with new determination.

The displays scrolled through file directories - he knew he had little time before having to continue on.

He paused, spotting something and scrolling back to it.

"Project Overview", it was titled. It can't really be this simple, can it?

Semil's eyes widened as he began skimming through the file, taking note of the numerous cross-linked files.

It occurred to him that whoever's office this was, clearly had some weight and authority in matters. On a whim, he tried inputting few commands, and he found he could track the movements of personnel throughout the compound.

The files would have to wait. He keyed in download commands into the database, taking note of the bank of isolinear processors and memory crystals beneath the console. He reached for the blade while staring intently at the map of the facility, paying close attention to the few icons moving through it.

Chapter IX: Decidedly Complicated

Cradling his left arm, Semil limped doggedly down the hallway. Klaxons continued to blare through the corridor, despite his having taken the lighting controls offline.

His pulse and breathing were just returning to normal after his last encounter - this time with a pair of particularly aggressive Nausicaans. The one had managed to knock him down with a solid roundhouse sweep, twisting his ankle rather badly in the process. Add to that, landing on the shoulder he had dislocated some time before that.

Once he had gotten the upper hand with the disruptor he'd picked up, Semil had made sure to spare the Nausicaan the merciful efficiency of a swift death. Twisting the mek'leth blade run into his rib cage clearly made an impression, as the Nausicaan had growled and grunted in excruciating agony, his chest cavity pulling wide and ribs cracking.

Still, Semil felt little pain, in spite of his several injuries. In his many times welcoming Jem'Hadar back from battle, they had never acknowledged as much - but only with hindsight could Semil recognize the quiet, furtive thrill behind their eyes that they had worked so hard to conceal.

They had been, after all, only servants of the Founders. Taking pleasure in combat was something for these silly warrior races, with all their posturing and chest-puffing - not soldiers.

And most certainly, not Vorta. The closest he had ever been to live combat before had been watching the multiparametric tactical displays relaying holotelemetry from his platoons.

Still, it had never before occurred to him to inquire of his Jem'Hadar about the thrill of combat, the white hot rush of adrenaline and danger. How his pulse sharpened, his hearing and vision attuned, his movements became a dance - a single fluid expression of purpose and control.

Or moreover - the abject satisfaction of staring into a defeated opponent's eyes as the life drifted away from them. How was it this had never been a topic of the Vorta combat psychodynamics conferences he had attended in the past?

He would gloat, if there had been anyone else around to listen.

Only a few more slow, hobbled steps on his rapidly swelling ankle took him to the one last door, which swooshed open unbidden. Behind lay a cavernous space, with only a few small craft parked, and a great expanse of inky space beyond the open doors - a shuttlebay.

He stepped into the large room, towards the nearest craft when he saw the tall, lone Klingon standing there.

On instinct, he drew the disruptor, aiming squarely at the new interloper. He had counted through the remaining biometric signals on the internal sensors. Surely, his counting skills couldn't have been so off. And a Klingon, at that - this was the first Klingon he'd encountered.

The species he'd encountered made little sense working together. Letheans, Gorn, Nausicaans - the petty thugs and rabble of the Alpha Quadrant. None of whom could orchestrate so methodical and technical an achievement as he had discovered in the scant few hours since his escape. Of course, it could only make sense if they were working for someone else.

As Semil eyed him warily, cautiously stepping closer, the tall Klingon began to chuckle in earnest. "Very good. Very good, indeed."

"I imagine my readings on the nuances of Klingon comedy may have been lacking, Colonel...?" Semil punctuated his question with a brandish of the disruptor pistol, recognizing the Klingon's rank marks.

"K'vot. I am K'vot." The Klingon stood his ground, unwavering.

Clearly, he knows something - or has some reason for such bravado. Not that I should let my guard down regardless.

"And you, Semil." K'vot gestured magnanimously at the Vorta. "Reading material aside, you have mightily demonstrated some skill and cunning here today."

Of the many things he had considered to explain these circumstances - trap, ambush - 'test' had not been among them. "You've been watching the whole time."

"Of course. How else to assess your progress? And you can relax now. I'm compelled to award top marks."

Semil kept the disruptor at eye level, stopping well short of K'vot's reach and range. "Then this test of yours. What makes you so certain..."

"So certain you won't shoot me?" K'vot interrupted calmly. "You won't shoot me. You can't. You won't."

Semil tried brandishing the pistol again to make his point, whoever this Klingon was - he had answers Semil wanted. But it occurred to him, that K'vot was right. Upon considering, Semil's pulse and breathing were slow and calm, there was no white hot flush, or rage. It was actually the most calm he had felt in a very long time. Possibly ever.

Considering he had just spent the last couple of hours killing his way out to this room, with his own two hands - he felt surprisingly serene confronted with the only being between him and escape.

Still, this was no time for weakness. "You're remarkably confident about that for someone with a disruptor pointed at their face."

"You can trust me, Semil. I'm going to take you away from here."

"To another prison, no doubt. For a more forceful interrogation, perhaps?"

"Actually..." K'vot stopped mid-sentence as a disruptor bolt buzzed over his head, from to the side of where both men were standing.

Both K'vot and Semil turned to the source of the shot, to find an Orion woman, wielding a pair of disruptors "YOU!" she shouted, her voice rasping from exertion.

She hobbled towards K'vot and Semil, clearly in much worse shape than the Vorta, bleeding from the corner of her mouth and several other places. "I knew you would try something like this. Every time I so much as turned my head, you thought I couldn't tell you were plotting -- scheming?" Asiliaa fired another disruptor shot over K'vot's head, this one just a little closer to the mark. She had never been so fortunate as to see a Klingon fearful, but damned if she wasn't going to try.

Semil slowly stepped back from the Colonel, clearly not being the subject of the Orion woman's ire. He knew he couldn't completely escape her notice. How could someone have escaped his notice? There was one Orion woman he had kicked down an empty turboshaft. Is this her? Semil made a mental note that recalling those kinds of details became that much more difficult, and yet that much more important through the plush, white-hot delirum of a bloodlust.

Asiliaa had halted her forward advance, clearly paying attention to the both of them now. "First rule of this kind of project, am I right? Eliminate anyone with operational knowledge who could give you up? Anyone who could throw a wrench in the gears?"

K'vot stood impassively, his hands raised in mocking surrender, staring intently at Asiliaa.

"I'm surprised you waited this long, Colonel. Typical Klingon, thinking he can do everyone else's job better than them."

"Semil, I'd like to introduce Doctor Asiliaa." K'vot gestured slightly. "You've been in the good Doctor's care, while you've been our guest. Doctor, you're to be commended for managing to evade the internal sensors."

The Orion doctor reached up behind her ear with one hand and roughly pulled out some device. She threw it in K'vot's direction, the small device skittering to a halt closer to Semil. From the blood and skin still attached, it was clearly some kind of implant. "Biomimetic dampener, to be precise."

Whatever this game was, it had turned decidedly complicated. K'vot was still apparently unarmed. Semil kept his disruptor trained on K'vot, though with far less immediate import. Though Asiliaa had them both sighted, it wasn't likely she could target them both successfully, not if they were moving.

"Why?" Asiliaa continued, unperturbed by K'vot's patronizing condescension. "Why now? What is it you hope to gain by taking him now?"

"Because, Doctor..."

Asiliaa hadn't time to react before realizing Semil wasn't just moving, but was already upon her. A sparkling flash of metallic reflection was all she saw before drawing her arms in defensively. That's when she realized her hands had been severed - amputated cleanly with one lightning quick stroke of Semil's mek'leth.

She staggered backwards, unable to focus on the gushing stumps where her hands were supposed to be. Instead, through her ragged breaths, she caught sight of one of her hands on the floor, only a couple of meters from her, still gripping the pistol, a couple of the fingers paroxysmally twitching.

The shock and surprise had not worn off before she felt her breath knocked out of her, and the cold slap of the bulkhead behind her against her back.

The blade had run straight through her , and lodged itself into the bulkhead behind her. Asiliaa didn't need her medical training to recognize bleeding out would only be a matter of seconds.

With her last few breaths, through the deepening dizziness, she mustered what strength she was capable of to lean in despite the shaft of the blade holding her in place. She drew as close as she could to Semil's ear, a mindless rictus emblazoned on his face, and whispered. Through ragged gasps, her words coalesced like faint clouds on a clear day, "You - you are my greatest achievement."

If she was to expire, the last thing she could do, the only resort left her would be --

The Doctor's breathing slowed and deepened, then ceased, and she slumped forward, supported only by the blade running through her midsection.

His breaths returning to normal, Semil released his grip on the blade handle. He turned to face K'vot, who continued to stand unmoving, in the exact same spot he had been in when Semil had first entered the room.

He no longer felt the need to reach for his disruptor as he stepped towards the Klingon, this time, taken over by a compulsion. "You're the one who left me the blade. Of course." A feeling of reflex washed over him - something with an echo of familiarity, and yet deeply and wholly alien.

Within a few feet of the Klingon, still unarmed, Semil lowered himself to one knee. His neck folded slowly into a bow.

"Very good, indeed, Semil." The Vorta couldn't bring himself to look up. He couldn't tell if K'vot was grinning, or training a disruptor on him - but in that moment, none of that mattered. Semil felt a warm flush in his veins as his pulse slowed.

"Computer! Initiate auto-destruct, authorization K'vot eight-eight-one-five-blue."

Semil looked up. K'vot had reached into his utility belt, retrieving some kind of device. It wasn't a recognizable weapon - perhaps a communicator? Transporter control remote? "I think you'll find this next part will go much easier if I take care of this."

Semil couldn't understand what K'vot was saying, when the Colonel input a couple of commands into the device.

Semil felt a metallic buzzing deep in his consciousness, as his eyes rolled back in his head. His thighs and hips softened as he crumpled to the ground.

As the room turned from gray to black, Semil could just make out a computer voice begin a countdown.

- END PART I -

You have a true talent for storytelling. :)

Thanks a ton for your kind words, Jacien.

I've never really written Klingons before, so it's been a fun and rewarding challenge for me.

Hell, I haven't written fiction in so long, I suppose I'm surprised Breen isn't coming out.

Looking forward to the continuation of the story, if there is to be a continuation. I would especially like to "learn" the vorta's purpose for existence in this story. Well done, Ereiid. :)

Oh, the story is continuing, most certainly.

Can't have everything answered all in one go now, can we?

Chapter X: An Appointment

Semil awoke, bolting upright in the unfamiliar bunk. He immediately took notice of the smooth, ashen skin on his exposed shoulders. Someone had clearly bathed him after going over him with a dermal regenerator. He swiveled his left shoulder in place; full range of motion, if not a vague, faint soreness. Someone had taken care of that, too.

He looked around the small, darkened room, recognizing nothing. As he stood, the hum of the deckplates gave notice he was clearly on some kind of ship. The high, tinny whine of the subharmonics that only his Vorta ears could pick up indicated it was a smaller vessel, at that. A Bird-of-Prey, perhaps?

There was a mirror over a wash basin, which he stepped towards. The vanity light activated itself, glaring harshly. His pupils contracted painfully, before accomodating - when he could see he had been given a change of clothes, and a haircut. He wore some sort of armored collar, and a sleeveless tunic over fitted leather pants. His hair had been neatly combed to the side.

He turned towards the door. Surely, it must be locked, he thought. As he stepped towards it - it opened, unbidden. Strange.

Stepping out into the corridor, it became clear he was on a Klingon ship. He recognized the dull brown and orange palette from the intelligence files. How all that reading had seemed limetimes ago -- if only that weren't so literal.

He turned his head both ways, no sign of life or activity in either. His ears could tell one direction was the source of the hum, probably towards the engines. He started down the corridor in the opposite - which had to have been towards the bridge.

More blast doors opened for him. It was clear to Semil that he was not a focus of security on whatever ship this was. Though cautious, he had to admit that he had not felt the adrenaline surge, the white-hot clarity of his recent escape attempt. If they were returning him to imprisonment, they were doing a piss-poor job of it. Some other agenda must be afoot.

One last, heavier set of blast doors gave passage, and he recognized the cramped, utilitarian bridge, which he stepped onto.

The Klingons at their duty stations gave him no notice, paid him no heed. From the command chair barked an order, which Semil could understand despite being in Klingon. "Drop the cloak. Signal command for a landing approach."

"Good. You've awoken." K'vot addressed him from the command chair without swiveling around.

Beyond him, on the viewscreen, the crescent of a backlit emerald green orb grew in size. "You're bringing me to Qo'nos. What for?"

"Very good." K'vot smiled to himself that the Vorta's mental faculties were undiminished. "You have an appointment. We mustn't be late." A punctual Klingon - this must be important. "Perhaps you're hungry? You've been asleep for some days. The mess hall has been ordered to stock rippleberries and kava nuts. I trust you can find your way there."

Semil's ears perked slightly at the mention of familiar comforts. "I don't suppose you're inclined to inform me as to what appointment you speak of? Or what I'm doing here at all? Or...?"

K'vot interrupted the Vorta with a raised hand. "All your questions will be answered in due time. Sooner than you suspect, perhaps." The Klingon turned to Semil to address him. "For now, eat. Rest. You're going to need to be your best for the General."

Chapter XI: Chaotic Patterns

The lighting on the terrace was provided only by a row of traditional Klingon braziers that hung from the arches above. As Semil stepped out onto the terrace, he noticed the bright lights and towers of the First City, miniaturized by distance on the horizon. Out here in the city's hinterlands, the dense, expansive jungles of Qo'nos reached up the hillside slope. In the glow of moonlight and faint flicker of the firelight, he could see vines and creepers snaking and twisting their way up to the terrace railing and the arches above.

It was an impressive sight, though Semil could not help but think that any attempt at escape would be within a few dozen kilometers of the densest population of Klingons in the galaxy. It would have given him pause, if he had actually felt any such compulsion to race out into the Klingon night.

There were reports from undercover agents on the Klingon homeworld he had read through, while on assignment in the Alpha Quadrant. Holorecordings from Founders and various other embedded operatives, telling of the deservedly fearsome reputation of the vicious wildlife that continued to stalk the jungles of even modern Qo'nos.

The details of those reports were the furthest thing from his mind. The dossiers and briefings mentioned nothing of the heady, fetid smell - damp and overripe, that plunged through the nighttime darkness, lingering in the nostrils well after he exhaled.

He could feel an electric vibration - an aura that seemed to emanate from the silver-tinted rustle of the jungle canopy, as a cool breeze filtered through the leaves. It was the wavelength of life on the planet he felt. The dense undergrowth up to the treetops, teeming with biota, softly chirping and sqawking with alien fauna.

He turned back to the terrace, still sensing himself alone. It was curiously overdecorated, per the usually brutalist Klingon standards. Tapestries and throws and objets d'art from alien worlds he didn't recognize, but were surely not Klingon. There was a baroque sensibility to the collection of mismatched furnishings - perhaps numerous untold stories behind each he may never know. Semil thought it strange, though perfectly symmetric with the muted cacophony of wildlife he could feel from the jungles below.

Lost in thought, even his Vorta hearing failed to notice the stealthy approach of the Klingon into the room behind him. "I trust your journey here was not uncomfortable." The voice was raspy and strained, as Semil turned to face it.

An elderly - nay, decrepit Klingon male sat in a wheeled chair. Not one of the modern technological marvels preferred by the bleeding-heart Federation types, but a rustic - if not rusted, antiquated wheelchair. The man had numerous tubes running from the corners of his mouth, his nose - every conceivable orifice that was visible. And a few more that were not entirely conceivable.

"The General, I presume." Semil bowed his head graciously, relying on decades' worth of borrowed memories of ambassadorial work.

"That is an old title, for an even older Klingon." The elderly Klingon chuckled to himself with no small exertion. "K'vot chooses to pretend certain things remain true, even if they are not."

Semil looked up from his bow, visibly confused. "Then...?"

"My name is unimportant." The old man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "But you -- you, my boy, are what we are here to discuss." He made an effort to gesture towards Semil, a bony, gnarled finger making a sign more like a sickle than a point.

Gestured closer by the old man, Semil could more carefully appraise his host, taking a few steps closer. The Klingon was deeply and heavily scarred. A few scars ran across his face and brow, possibly explaining the one milky white cataracted eye. He did not wear the pompously bombastic uniform of the Klingon Defense Force, only a humble tunic covered by an ill-fitting bulky sweater of sorts. An assortment of crumbs and stains mottled every piece of clothing the Klingon wore. A throw, not unlike the others strewn about the room, covered what Semil assumed to be the Klingon's useless legs.

"I sense your curiosity. How is it an old warrior such as myself has not performed the Hegh'bat?" The old man raised a wavering eyebrow, one that threatened to totter over and fall at any second. "The wise warrior accepts that some of our most important battles are not fought with guns, or blades, or ships even."

Sensing an indisputable opportunity for tact, Semil smiled hollowly.

"No matter. Again, these are not the questions I imagine you have."

"Why am I here?"

"Directness. A Klingon quality, most certainly. And not one reputed for your people, I'm afraid."

Semil almost began to interrupt, when the Klingon continued on, denying him the opportunity. "Why are any of us here? What purpose is life, and our niche in it? These kinds of metaphysics are hardly questions you pose alone."

Another failed chance to interject passed by, as the Klingon coughed noisily into his tubes. "But you -- you once had an answer to that question, did you not?"

It was an obvious and clearly rhetorical question to Semil. "Of course. I live..." The words stuck in Semil's throat, just beneath the limn of his consciousness. "...I live to serve." Finishing the sentence was more of a struggle than Semil anticipated.

"But who? Who do you serve?" The Klingon again jabbed in Semil's direction with a gnarled finger. "Who do you serve?" Upon repetition, the old man drew the words out, slowly and deliberately. It triggered a vague, distant memory in Semil.

"Tell me, do you know how the Founders engineered servitude in the Vorta? In you?"

Of course, Semil knew. Even though cloning operations and biomimetics was never his specialty - Vorta were responsible for operating the massive cloning foundries that churned out Jem'Hadar, entire battalions at a time. Vorta cloned each other, and even themselves sometimes. With each new generation, an exacting process of quality control assured the stability of Vorta lines. There was even a robust library of modular traits available for some degree of customization - a telekinesis package here, a little enhanced nephrotoxic resistance there. The details were not his forte - that was for other Vorta.

In spite of all this, Semil knew the old Klingon would probably continue on to tell him anyway.

"We discovered some years ago that the Vorta have an engineered olfactory receptor. Your sense of smell. Can you guess what we found?"

Again with the rhetoric.

"This engineered receptor in Vorta is responsive to a pheromone, faintly produced in infinitesimal quantities by one, and only one known species in the whole galaxy."

"The Founders."

"And this olfactory receptor is hardwired into the midbrain of every Vorta. Directly connected to the parts of the Vorta brain that control learning and the most basic and primordial forms of imprinting. Obedience. Submission. Reverence, even."

Semil was beginning to realize that this line of didact had taken a turn.

"And what if I were to tell you that we found a way to alter this engineered receptor?"

Semil choked. He welled up with emotions that he had no name for, had never experienced. Feelings well beyond the scope of his capacity to even imagine.

"Now then." The Klingon began wheeling himself haphazardly in the direction of the door. "The hour is late, and I imagine you must be exhausted from your travel."

Semil's knees buckled slightly, seating him on a wooden settee carved with intricate, chaotic patterns. An out of place relic, undoubtedly from some conquered, forgotten race.

"You might find some food in the pantry, if you're hungry. Some of it might not even be very alive anymore, if that's your taste." The old Klingon dismissively chuckled to himself as he vanished into the darkened interior of the compound.

Alone, Semil drew one of the throws over his shoulder, as he stared out over the stillness of the jungle night, towards the vaporous glow of the city lights.

Chapter XII: Defensive Posture

The smell of Qo'nos had grown more ripened as Semil stepped out the decrepit entrance portico of the General's compound into the lightening jungle.

Having waited until daybreak, he had wandered down the unlit corridors of the building for more than an hour. The top level had been the only one with signs of life. The rest of the halls on the lower levels had clearly been unoccupied for quite some time, in clear disrepair. Mildew stained every wall. Vines, creepers, and tree branches invaded the rooms and hallways, the jungle lazily but confidently working to reclaim the compound.

He had found a nest of some clearly disagreeable rodent species in what seemed to have been an armory. What few bladed weapons remained had rusted over and dulled. He had picked out the least corroded bat'leth, and a tattered, mildewy shoulder holster in order to sling it behind his back.

He had found no other occupants of the compound. Once upon a time, it must haveve been one of the Great Houses. The labyrinth of corridors and numerous levels clearly indicated it had been a House of power, wealth, and influence; moreover, that it had clearly fallen into disfavor somewhere amidst the innumerable regime changes of the Empire.

An enormous, noisy wasp buzzed past his head and back into the endless expanse of flora and greenery. Semil had managed to keep track of his turns, and the direction of the First City in his memory. He reached for the bat'leth, turned the other direction, and began hacking his way through the thick undergrowth.



Semil had lost track of time somewhere after the first hour. The temperature had rapidly climbed to a thorough swelter, and determining the position of the sun was near impossible through the dense canopy. His exposed arms had been bitten raw by all manner of creatures.

Despite the strength in his arms, he welcomed any clearing in the undergrowth he came across, and approached another one. In his peripheral vision, he could make out some sort of carcass - the faint remains of some sort of furred quadruped creature was all he could make out through the writhing wriggle of scavenging insects and haze of flies that buzzed about.

Having made it to the far side of the clearing, he thought it an opportune time to rest momentarily.

Semil reached into the small hip pouch he had hastily prepared himself from what he could find in the General's pantry for a canteen, and drank from it.

He had decided upon his escape from the General's compound with no conscious rationale, no plan other than to set out into the jungle and as far away from the General and K'vot as he could get. Returning to the Gamma Quadrant, to the Dominion and the Founders had been the furthest thing from his mind - as if they would even have him.

He'd already known for some time he had no termination implant. It had made sense to at least attempt some measure of escape to anywhere, or at least die trying. Pity no future Semil clones could at least benefit from his miserable ordeal, if only as a cautionary tale.

Semil gasped for, releasing his lips from the mouth of the canteen, having drunk more than he had intended to ration.

From behind him, he could hear the rustle of leaves signifying something attempting to stealthily approach. Noiselessly replacing the canteen into the hip pouch, he slowly reached his hand back to the handle of the bat'leth.

Pivoting to face the threat and drawing the bat'leth in a single fluid motion, he had to crane his neck upward to make out the towering, spindly creature, which had reared up on hindlegs and let out a threatened growl. It was furred, and sported long, razor thin claws. Semil recognized it from his briefing files as a Kolar beast, and a distempered one at that.

Semil drew his bat'leth into a defensive posture, prepared to deflect the creature's swipes, and began slowly pacing in a semicircle around it, trying to spot some tactical advantage in the terrain and environment in his peripheral vision. The creature let out another growl, this time louder and more noticeably annoyed. It punctuated its gesture with a snap of its toothless jaws; supposedly strong enough to break bone with minimal effort.

It had become apparent to Semil that the carcass he had seen earlier should have been a sign of a predator's territory. He would find time to castigate himself later, perhaps last thoughts as the creature disemboweled him.

Just then, the creature took a few test swipes at the Vorta. Nothing in earnest, only looking for weaknesses or cowardice or perhaps even surrender in the strange pale hairless interloper. Semil recognized these, and was prepared for the pounce of the creature - as it sprung forward at him with surprising force. He had managed to leverage the bat'leth up to deflect the sheer momentum of the attack to the side, only managing to nick the creature's substantial bulk mildly in doing so.

it was clearly enough to irritate the creature even further, as it slinked away suspiciously, circling back in preparation for another pass. Semil intuitied that the creature would eventually win in a match of stamina, ultimately expending more energy to keep deflecting the creature than it would to keep attacking.

As the creature wound up its rear legs, Semil grew decisive, adjusted his grip on the bat'leth, and squatted slightly in order to prepare his own counter.

From only a few meters, the Kolar beast sprang forward at him again, this time with a far less vocal, more efficient growl.

Semil reacted almost instantly, spring himself forward to meet the creature, trying to lead the creature's trajectory across the forest clearing with the pointed end of the bat'leth, supported by as much of his momentum and the strength of his legs as he could.

There was a satisfying crunch from the bat'leth as it met its target, followed instantly by a piercing howl. Semil had little time to delight, before realizing the creature's weight was substantially greater than he had prepared himself for.

Unable to steady himself, Semil had just enough time to twist the bat'leth to his side to avoid the other pointed end before the creature's great heft crashed into him. At least he wasn't going to die impaled on his own bat'leth. However, he soon found himself lying beneath the great mass of fur and muscle and bone, pinned and unable to breath.

He had just noticed the creature's claws had managed to gash three deep parallel wounds into his thigh.

The creature's own breathing had started to slow and relax, as the jungle around him grew quieter. Just before he blacked out, Semil could just make out the light rustle of individual leaves as they fell to the forest floor.

I've been utterly remiss in keeping this up. The usual suspects: work, travel, travelling for work.

Chapter XIII: Amenable

Dappled sunlight of the Qo'nos morning pierced the mottle of gray clouds. A hazy drizzle misted down from the skies and into Semil's lungs, as he awoke with a gasp. He had not quite grown accustomed to waking up disoriented as he supposed he could be.

He was back on the General's terrace, lain down on a settee. Pulling aside the gauzy sheet over him, he took notice of the crude but well-fashioned bandage around his thigh where the Kolar beast had thrashed him. It reminded him of the hot throbbing sting of his wound as he recognized the added bulk and heady pungent scent of a poultice of some kind on the wound. Though he knew better, his fingers pulled at the edges of the bandage, curious about the severity of the wound and the folk treatment applied.

"Good. You're awake." The voice came from behind Semil; he needed not turn to recognize it. "For some time there, it was not entirely clear you would awake at all. A Kolar beast's venom is quite effective when it penetrates so deeply." Semil could sense the General gesturing, probably at his wound.
Through cracked lips, Semil was not prepared for the dry rasp of his voice. "Vorta... are immune to most forms of poison. Comes in handy..." He trailed off, weaker than anticipated.

"Yes, yes. Engineered into you by your beloved Founders. Make no mistake, that was certainly not part of your genetic code we wished to alter." The General wheeled himself into Semil's view, recognizing the Vorta's inability to raise or turn his head. "Good thing you managed to keep out of those jaws. In my younger days, I've witnessed a Kolar bite a warrior in half."

"Alter...?" The words weakly hissed from Semil's lips, strained.

"In due time, all will be explained. For now, rest and heal." The General raised a cup to Semil's lips. A noxious, bitter, astringent taste met his tongue, doubtlessly related to the poultice on his leg. "I have a small favor to ask of you -- but later." The General continued to wheel himself back out of Semil's view, presumably back inside. "I imagine you'll find yourself amenable to it."

With that, Semil's eyelids drifted back down, the Vorta no longer able to will himself awake

It's been far too long since I've updated this. I'm hoping I can get back into the rhythm and patter of writing episodically. Bear with me while we work out these technical difficulties.

Chapter XIV: Incognito Vorta

This particular backwater world, Semil had never paid any attention to, even in the extensive dossiers on Alpha Quadrant geography he had read and read and reread in a previous lifetime. What little he had gleaned was that it was the sort of nondescript, unimportant world one escaped to, to evade notice, duty, and obligation. Or worse. Not enough agriculture, industry, commerce, or strategic value to be worth invading. Smugglers and pirates occasionally used it as a port of haven, but again - kept well beneath the threshold of political, military, or social relevance.

The name of the planet didn't matter; it rarely did. Neither did the specifics of the marketplace he had been casing for the three hours since he'd arrived. None of the merchants had been particularly helpful in his veiled inquiries about a particularly unruly Lethean hanging about; it seemed there were just enough rabble and alien detritus in this particular corner of the Empire for one lone fugitive to make quite the escape. No cover could be entirely perfect, however, given enough patience and observation.

The market stank of the crudely discarded entrails from the several butcher kiosks scattered down this particular aisle. A stall owner hosed down a particularly gory recent ablution from the pebbled gravel beneath his stall. A bewildering array of exotic fauna and fowl hung from the stall canopies - all ready for the cheap cooking fires, all for sale.

Semil himself had somehow managed to draw little attention - the hood of his cloak shielded him from the chilly air, but also hid his telltale Vorta ears. Enough humanoid species came through this sector that another random visitor didn't curry much notice. He recognized he couldn't mill about in a specific location for too long, if he was to continue going ignored.

The door of the bar he had been casing in slow, casual loops slammed open. A dark-robed figure staggered out of it, goaded along by an angry Selay female as she shouted and hissed obscenities into the night air. It was the Lethean. At least, Semil was mostly certain, based on the dossier K'vot had provided. The Lethean staggered down the alleyway, with a colorfully dismissive gesture for the Selay barkeep, who gave up on her shouting and hissing, slamming shut the door to the bar.

Securing his cloak, Semil began his tail of the Lethean, keeping his distance, but never losing sight of him. The labyrinth of alleys had just enough twists and turns to make the low-speed, meandering pursuit just a bit interesting for Semil. In spite of his focus and resolve, he couldn't help but feel his pulse gradually quicken, his senses tighten, his muscles twitch and warm with preparedness.

The Lethean was clearly far too drunk to pay heed, anyways. He lurched from the corner of one building to the next, grasping at the field stone wall for support, if not orientation. He retched into the street, dry at first, followed by a bilious splash of some noxious brew.

Semil looked around and noticed several youngish, unoccupied-looking street urchins. They were paying no heed to either him or the Lethean, caught up in what looked like some sort of gambling pasttime. Still, this was not the opportunity he was waiting for.

Patience, he told himself, shortly before catching the sideways glance of the Lethean. Dammit.

"What are you looking at?" The words belched from the Lethean, slurred, a generous string of drool running from the corner of his mouth.

This would have to change his plans. "Nothing. Just --" Semil stammered, not sure if he was found out. Reaching for his disruptor now would be too obvious. Even through the Lethean's drunken stupor, he posed just enough of a threat. Add to that, the alien children. Surely they'd make all sorts of fuss that would complicate escape. Too many options to process entered his mind. He knew he had to commit, to make it look casual and easy, without being suspicious or off-putting. "You looked like you could use some help for a moment."

The Lethean let out a broad guffaw. "Like anyooone on this forsssaken pebble would ever offer help." Semil felt himself being appraised through heavily lidded eyes. "Yooou're not from arooound here? Are yooou..?"

Semil proceeded to begin backing away slowly, cautiously, when the Lethean reached out one grimy arm to paw at him. "Wait. Youuu... you don't happen to have any beetle snuff, do you?"

This was a surprise. Semil had been hoping the alcohol had clouded the Lethean's telepathy enough, but this was making it too easy. "In my rooms. Why?"

"It's just -- beeen so long. Caaan't get the good Ferengi braaands." Semil wasn't clear who was entrapping whom.

"Yeah. I can spare a tin." Semil reached to guide the Lethean.

"Frieeend, you've made a frieeend here today."

"It's not far." Along the alleyway, the Lethean stumbled and lurched, guided by the incognito Vorta.