Re: Semil: Agent of the Empire
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.
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.
