Semil: Agent of the Empire

Chapter XV: Little Intrigued

The rented room was small and dingy, not unlike everything and everywhere else on the planet. Semil sat at the small dining banquette, idly picking at some dried mealworms that were apparently some sort of local delicacy. An open bottle and two empty glasses sat beside.

The room had been picked not only because of its relative remoteness, but also because of the relatively quality muffling construction of its adobe walls. Having a landlady who apparently asked few questions did not hurt, either.

Across from Semil, the Lethean slumped over in his chair, face down onto the table.
A thin rivulet of drool trailed from the Lethean's gape and pooled by his face. At least one assumed it was drool; who knew what kinds of awful excretions these creatures made.

From his seat, Semil could see the Lethean continued to draw breath, shallow and slow. A simple assassination assignment would've been much too easy, in many ways. And Semil was certain he wouldn't have been the best selection for that.

There was something about sitting, watching the Lethean that was calming, soothing even. Compared to the lightning quick pulse and reflex of the past few hours, this was almost relaxing.

The General provided little in the way of specific instruction. The dossier on the Lethean was more than generous in detail. Semil knew more than he cared to or needed concerning the Lethean's favorite cuisine, preferred schedule, even some particularly distasteful prurient proclivities. Then again, anything even remotely sexual was offensively inefficient compared to cloning.

The Lethean's garbled wheeze gave Semil pause to consider the real purpose of his assignment.

Surely, it was another test from the General. It was obvious that he wouldn't be allowed anything of major import or significance until he'd proven himself, his loyalty. Not that Semil understood what that was.

Since the revelations from the General on Q'onos, it had simply been easier to ignore those thoughts. Put any memories of the Founders and Jem'hadar and the Dominion out of his mind while an assignment was pressing.

And yet here he was, watching the Lethean doze fitfully, letting his mind wander to the agendas that brought him to that place.

Task at hand, right.

The General had chosen an odd idiom for wanting the Lethean. To "pick his brain," he had said. The actual Klingon transliteration was surprisingly congruent to English.

An odd choice of words, indeed, Semil thought, as a glint of dim light shone from the bone saw he had just reached for.



"Report." K'vot had not eased in his brusqueness, Semil noted as he stepped into the dim glow of the Bird of Prey's ready room.

Semil slung the sack from over his shoulder onto the desk. It rolled lightly before coming to an abrupt stop. A few generous spatters of dried blood marred the otherwise unremarkable burlap.

"And where is your target? In the mess hall, enjoying a light repast, perhaps?" Semil had to remind himself that the Klingon sense of sarcasm, was neither subtle nor underdeveloped.

Semil gestured to the sack with his eyes, sensing K'vot's wariness and mounting frustration.

K'vot tugged lightly at the knot, and peered inside.

"You were supposed to apprehend him. Not..."

"The General said he needed to 'pick his brain'. I heard nothing about the rest of him."

"You snivelling little tohpah! I knew..."

"Now, now, Colonel. No need for epithets. You wouldn't have wanted me to question him myself, I know that. And the General can still have whatever answers he wants."

K'vot eyed Semil warily. "You're up to something."

"I assume you still have a Dominion engrammatic interface available?"

"if you think you're in any position to demand..."

Semil continued, in spite of knowing the risks of interrupting a Klingon in the middle of a threat. "It's the only way I'd be standing here. And you and I both know that Dominion interactive memory technology is far more advanced than anything your paltry quadrant has to offer. Even the Romulans have nothing even remotely as sophisticated or..." Semil pursed his lips in distaste. "...effective."

K'vot assessed the Vorta distrustfully. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

"Because without me, neither you nor the General will know what the Lethean knows." Semil caught himself. "Knew."

K'vot's rage eased, signified by the relaxing of the furrow in his brow.

"Come now, Colonel. If you weren't a little intrigued, you wouldn't have let me live this long."

Chapter XVI: Fuming Remains

K'vot opened his eyes.

The dimness around him did little but add to the disorienting floating feeling of his being. His consciousness buzzed as he looked around, trying to get his bearings.

"Easy, Colonel. It won't do you any good to fight it. Just ease into it; you'll become accustomed shortly."

K'vot recognized Semil's voice, and slowly turned his head and squinted to see the Vorta at his side.

"As you stop resisting it, your brain will accomodate the sensory inputs more readily."

"I will let you tell me what I may choose to resist the day after I break your skull open with my bare..."

"I've done this hundreds of times, General. I'm just informing you it's far more productive if you're not distracted by your own disorientation."

Orientation, right. K'vot slowly spiraled his neck around to get a better look at the rest of the room -- no, it was a corridor. The emergency lighting had largely failed.

There was a clear acrid stench of smoke in the air - K'vot was surprised at the vivid lucidity of the smell and almost felt the urge to cough. "Remarkable. No simulation has ever felt this real to me."

"That's because it's not a simulation. It's real - well, a real memory, at least."

A shower of sparks to their left lit the hallway, before erupting in a hail of fireball and shrapnel. K'vot instinctively raised his arms to shield himself before realizing he wasn't actually there. The sensation of heat and blast passed through him.

He recognized yelling in Klingon, as a column of warriors advanced through the now open door, illuminating the hazy hallway from the light beacons affixed to their rifles.

The warriors spread down the corridor in an efficient fashion, clearing as they went, noticing neither Semil or K'vot. Apparently, their interactions with this memory would be limited. K'vot could see with the light that it was some sort of prison block, from the heavily secured doors leading off the main passage.

A lieutenant bellowed, "be'Huv!" giving the all-clear.

An important ranking figure strode confidently into the hallway, followed by his personal guard. He made his way past Semil and K'vot, to a cell door that K'vot just noticed had been forced ajar. "You, thief. You will come with us."

K'vot recognized the voice, no matter the passage of thirty years time. It was the General. Younger, but still a refined distinguished warrior, cutting an imposing figure in the fur-lined cloak of his position.

A small, though deep voice resonated from inside the darkened cell. "Tell me why I should."

"Because I will behead you where you stand if you resist."

From inside the darkened room, K'vot could make out the glowing eyes of its occupant. It was the Lethean.

"I think I know what you want - what you're looking for. And I'll take you there."



Semil and K'vot followed the party out the corridor, through the smoldering building, and into a soft hazy daylight.

K'vot was surprised that he felt the need to squint, his eyes adjusting to take in his surroundings. He recognized the brutalist architecture, replete with weighty buttresses and columns.

Semil intoned knowledgeably. "Cardassia Prime. I spent some time here."

As the party started its way along the elevated roadway, Semil gestured across at the view - across the Golhonorr River, past the fuming remains of the First Republic Bridge, towards a large blast crater where Alnetepp Plaza should have been. "Not quite how I remember it."

Now that K'vot could tell where they were, he could piece together when. At end of the War. Klingon, Starfleet, and Romulan forces just establishing a beachhead in the Cardassian capitol after the capitulation of the Dominion. Beaming down to find the proud cities of the Cardassians reduced to piles of still-hot rubble; to find Cardassian children gunned down in their mothers' arms.

At the time, K'vot was just a schoolboy. Training for his 3A bat'leth proficiencies, watching the newsfeed holovids of the devastation of Cardassia. Feeling pride at the warriors who defeated the awful cowards who could inflict such mindless atrocity, even on a race as honorless as the Cardassians.

"We need to keep up. This is his memory; there isn't anything here past what he can see."

K'vot and Semil jogged lightly to keep up with the squadron and their prisoner, past rows of Cardassian corpses, decaying where they had been slain.

Chapter XVII: Otherwise Blank

"This way." The Lethean was easy to keep track of, standing out in his simple prison tunic amidst his armored warrior escorts.

He had led the party to a nondescript back alley, remarkable only for being relatively unperturbed amidst the devastation of the Cardassian capitol. The district appeared largely abandoned and declined, perhaps explaining why Jem'Hadar had not seen reason to raze it. Even Cardassians fleeing for their lives thought they could do better.

Semil and K'vot trailed behind, unseen phantasms intruding upon this recovered memory.

"Here. This doorway." The Lethean led the party of Klingons inside. Semil gestured for K'vot to follow.

They followed the Klingons down a flight of steps into a dark basement, untouched by the Jem'Hadar extermination squads.

At the end of the room, the Lethean scurried to slide a bookcase along the dusty floor, revealing a heavily reinforced door. The Lethean beckoned the younger General to inspect the threshold. "Careful."

The General assessed the locking mechanism on the doorjamb, calling out for assistance, "Demolitions."

With the break in their journey, an opportunity presented itself for K'vot to needle Semil. "This is a failure. Why would the General wish us to interrogate the Lethean for events that he himself was party to?"

"Some detail the General missed the first time around, perhaps? Maybe he grows senile and forgot..."

"You will keep your life only because I have chosen to ignore your last statement," K'vot growled.

Summarily humbled, Semil changed tack. "This is why we didn't need the Lethean alive. Dominion mind probes are exceptionally effective at recovering memories from cadaveric brain tissue. In some ways, it's more efficient without the subject actively trying to shape his own recollections, participate in his own memories."

K'vot grunted, unimpressed by the Vorta's attempt to assuage him.

"My point is, as the interrogator, its your input, your mental imprinting of your question that led his brain to bring us here - to this memory, to this moment."

"We shall see. For the sake of your neck, perhaps you might let your head think first before acting if you live through this day."

Semil considered what he thought to be the most convoluted Klingon threat he had ever heard when the doorway erupted in a loud pop of fireworks.

Klingon warriors rushed into the smoking threshold, rifles drawn, followed by the General and the Lethean.

Following, Semil and K'vot entered the doorway, through a dark, cramped foyer.
In the next room, K'vot beheld a cavernous space, bathed in the cool, sterile violet light of a Dominion installation.

Around the room, warriors were canvassing, scanning for signs of non-existent Jem'Hadar resistance.

K'vot and Semil sidled over to the Lethean, who was leading the General about on a hushed tour of the facility. He would point at items on the numerous shelves, or larger pieces of equipment, make quiet remarks to the General, who would nod and move on to the next item.

From his own experience, Semil knew K'vot could recognize at least some of the Dominion technology surrounding them. An engrammatic interface processor. A barely used cloning vat.

In a quiet, undisturbed corner of the room, the Lethean had led the General - and unknowingly, the mental phantasms of Semil and K'vot - to a large wall rack. Innumerable stacks of cylindrical vessels filled the rack, each within a perfectly fitting slot, inscribed with status displays in Dominionese.

As the Lethean and the General were lingering, this destination clearly being of import, Semil looked at K'vot, trying to read his countenance - trying to ascertain whether the Colonel comprehended what he was seeing.

"What is it?" K'vot squinted, Semil couldn't tell from being unable to see or recognize the object.

Semil pointed at one of the cylinders. "That is a Mid-Managerial Vorta Grade 4G. Next to it, Diplomatic Attache Grade 3B." Semil went down the line. "Cloning technician, Ketracel engineer, Intelligence analyst..." He trailed off.

"This is what then? A cloning bank?"

"More of an cryonic backup. One of several scattered around the city. In case the capitol was ever cut off from the larger outlying cloning facilities. We could have backup reinforcements ready and out on the streets within weeks."

Semil gestured at a larger bank of more densely packed cylinders. "The Jem'Hadar lines are over there. A limited passage batch, too, by the looks of it. Emergency reserves that the F--" Semil caught himself. "That the Dominion never had the opportunity to activate."

Not far away, the Lethean and K'vot were closely inspecting a cylinder that they had ejected from its slot on the wall. The General gripped the cylinder with a reverent gentleness that K'vot had not recognized in him ever before, or ever since.

"And that. That cylinder he is holding there. What is that one?" K'vot pointed.
Semil squinted to see, his face otherwise blank. "That's me."

Chapter XVIII: Working Knowledge

K'vot quietly entered the mess hall, empty save the lone Vorta seated, reading a PADD.

"I can hear you, you know." Semil turned slightly to face the Colonel, without interrupting his gaze on the text he was reading. "Good ears."

"We have new orders. I have ordered Conn to divert to Beta Lankal."

Semil nodded wordlessly, still engrossed in his reading. Finishing with a passage, he turned to fully face K'vot, who was pouring himself a raktajino.

K'vot joined Semil at the small banquette, gesturing with his chin towards the PADD. "And what is it that has you so captivated?"

"Oh, this? Just working my way through that pile of Alpha Quadrant histories you left for me upon embarkation. This one is 'Romulan Imperial Ambitions of the 24th Century'. I'm up to the assassination of Praetor Tal'aura. Heady stuff."

K'vot smirked through a sip of raktajino, not wanting to spoil the Vorta for the literally world-shattering events to come.

Semil continued. "I've always admired the Romulan people for their ability to adapt to shifting power structures. Our analysts concluded it would make the general populace more amenable to Dominion rule once we'd reached a critical mass of capitulation."

"Then you haven't been concerning yourself with the failure of our mission."

"Our mission? I was under the impression it was my assignment. Just what did the General task you to find from the Lethean, anyways?"

"That is not your concern. Your only task was to the deliver the Lethean."

"Oh, but I think I did one better, yes?"

"You very well know the General wanted you to deliver him alive. Not -- dismembered like some school science project."

"I disagree. Respectfully, of course." Semil turned to face K'vot more directly. "I'm certain you know the General far better than me. But why separate the interrogator from the acquisition? If he wanted you to make sure I delivered him, why not send you to the planet with me? It's clear it was a test of sorts, but..."

K'vot grunted into his mug. "You make too much of such things. The General does not hide his agenda. It's what makes him such an effective..." K'vot caught himself "..warrior."

Semil openly stared at K'vot, unflinchingly. "I know you are both Klingon Intelligence."

K'vot continued to drink, unimpressed, not returning the Vorta's eye contact. "I'm sure I don't know of what you speak."

"The base encryption lockout on all this ship's systems? Far more extensive than anything the rest of the KDF fleet bothers to operate with. And the General? It's clear his status within the Klingon hierarchy is greatly diminished. And yet he is still allowed some resources, your loyalty? Only former operatives wth signficant operational knowledge would be afforded such a luxury, without the dishonor of forced exile..."

K'vot looked up from his mug, to squarely assess Semil cooly in the eye. "I knew from the moment the General handed me your clone canister that you would be our undoing. That there would be no way a sniveling Vorta pe'taq could possibly..."

"Wait." Semil held up a hand. "He only handed you the one clone container. Only mine."

K'vot typically did not stand for interruptions, but was taken aback enough by surprise to stammer out, "Only one, only yours."

Semil paused, lost in thought. "The General never intended for you to interrogte the Lethean."

K'vot was now speechless, failing to comprehend.

"Don't you see? The General's instructions - he wanted you to ask the Lethean about the first time they met." Semil continued, excitedly. "He meant for me to see it, to see the clone cache. He needed you to lead me into the correct memory of the Lethean's."

K'vot glared, still unable to understand.

"He wants us to find the other clones."

Hey, all. Hope you're enjoying the new installments. It's occurred to me that maybe we could use a break.

So enjoy this brief interlude, from a long time ago, in a Quadrant far, far away.

Interlude 1: Galvanis VII

Vorta Field Supervisor's Report. Agent Semil aboard Battle Cruiser 31185.

We are on approach to Galvanis VII. Embedded operatives have reported regime change in the embattled Galvanian government that may be more amenable to our agenda in this administrative block. We have been dispatched to entreaty the new government to cease attempts at resistance. They could hardly do worse than their predecessors.



The reception hall was in greater disrepair than the dossier reports had prepared Semil for when he beamed down. Plaster had crumbled away from the arches and ceiling in wild abandon. The hastily boarded and reinforced windows had done little to prevent their shattering. Shards of fluorstained glass littered the floor.

Pity, Semil had it on good authority that those things were vaguely pleasing to even Vorta eyes.

The Galvanian welcoming party at the far end of the hall was clearly a ragtag bunch. A lone cloaked figure stepped forward from the beleagured crew, his arm in a sling.

"I am Golonk the Third. Newly appointed Archduke of Galvanis VII. Thank you for agreeing to parlay." The man put in clear effort to emanate an uncomplicated, facile pride and stoicism despite his shoddy surroundings and compatriots. A feint that Semil or anyone could see through. Still, Vorta training meant keeping up appearances of graciousness.

"A pleasure, Archduke! An immense pleasure, indeed." In striding across the room well ahead of his well-heeled Jem'Hadar guard, Semil demonstrated for the assemblage what truly politic gregariousness and confidence looked like.

"My name is Semil, on behalf of the Dominion." Semil always enjoyed flourishing his speech when introducing himself in such a manner. He had always felt that the dramatic flair underscored the grandiosity of an institution as august as the Dominion.

"And may I be the first to offer condolences on the loss of your brother, Archduke Sellundis. Well, the first from the Dominion, at any rate." He smiled in that Vorta way that any other species would view as obsequy.

"It was your shocktroops that killed him."

"And I'm certain they didn't do you the courtesy of offering condolences. The brutes." Semil gestured off-handedly at his Jem'Hadar guards, who paid precisely no mind to the proceedings.

"If you're done with the... pleasantry -- perhaps we could engage in the matter for which I've summoned you here today." Golonk motioned to the hastily arranged conference table, its hodgepodge of chairs communicating a certain desparation that Semil found charming.

Semil let himself be led to a particularly comfortable-looking, unscorched seat. "I have every appreciation for a negotiator unafraid of directness."

The Archduke sat opposite, in a clearly less comfortable, but substantially more imposing, regal, though battle-worn chair. "Let me get to the point. For centuries, Galvanis has been happy to accede to every demand--" Golonk caught himself "...every offer the Dominion has brought to us. This uprising was started by my brother. Now I can't atone for the choices Sellundis made. But he's gone now. And with him any resistance Galvanis would mount."

From practice negotiations in training, Semil was finding it terribly useful to "listen with his eyes" in situations like these. He had scored perfect marks for his eye listening skills.

"Archduke, if I may be so blunt - even with your brother deposed. Decomposed. Deposed. I can never keep the two straight -- but I disgress. Sellundis did not wage his rebellion alone. Surely, there must be other Galvanians..."

It was clear that Golonk had prepared for this. "A small, dedicated coterie surrounding my brother's regime. We are prepared to bring the conspirators to justice for their part in bringing such... misery." Golonk gestured out the boarded windows. "You must believe me when I say that the heart of Galvanis has always and truly remained with the Dominion."

Semil assessed the Archduke cooly through his unwavering smile.

"Your Highness, it would bring me no greater pleasure to see you and your world restored to their rightful place within the Dominion." Semil made an outstretched arm gesture that he always thought looked great in broadcast. "After all, what is the Dominion without inclusion? And what is inclusion, forbearing forgiveness?"

The other Agents were going to eat this up in the after action report.



Vorta Field Supervisor's Report. Agent Semil aboard Battle Cruiser 31185.

In orbit of Galvanis VII. I am pleased to report that the new Galvanian regime gives every assurance of their full capitulation and cooperation in resolving this crisis.

It is unfortunate that the Archduke's presentation of events so clearly contradicts our operative reports. A "small, dedicated coterie" could never sustain months of open insurrection without broad, popular support.

I can't decide whether I am more galled by the Galvanians' cowardice, or Archduke Golonk for believing we would ever even remotely believe such a blatant fabrication. I can hardly blame a leader for wishing to protect his constituents, or himself to be more direct - but for Founders' sake, man - at least put some basic effort into it. This is your planet's life at stake here.

I am proceeding immediately with extreme pacification.

Borath, please inform the Founders they were right - as they always are, in all things.

Chapter XIX: Identifiable Sign

Semil stood naked in front of the small mirror over the wash basin in the spartan washroom of his cramped quarters. In some respects, he had to admit, life aboard this Bird of Prey was not unlike even the largest of the Dominion Dreadnoughts - minimal comforts to the point of an almost zealous asceticism.

Even Klingons, for all their stoicism, they were still a proud people. One would never accuse a Klingon of primping, and yet a life in service of the Founders would never allow such vanity as examining ones own appearance beyond the most basic grooming.

The Vorta's eyes traced up the long scar that ran up the slope of his right temple, parallel to his hairline. Unlike the rough, jagged lines he was accustomed to seeing on his Jem'Hadar or these Klingons - clear signs of battles long since fought and won.

This was different. There was a clean surgical precision to the line - an almost delicate architecture that had allowed someone to tap into the darkest recesses of his brain. It had been done well enough that it might not be noticed at first glance, to an untrained eye. It was like looking at a new roadway built over top of a slum - Dominion diplomatic engineers were building them all the time in newly annexed territories.

A clear, identifiable sign of the new society that was being built atop the old one.

A not entirely inappropriate allegory to his current condition, he thought. The Founders and Jem'Hadar visited his dreams less and less frequently. What dreams he could remember were increasingly shaped by his current circumstances. The squirm of food that the mess hall chefs preferred. The smell of targ. The sweat and musk and mildew of the exercise floor.

While still thoroughly distasteful, it had all become increasingly comfortable over time. At least he was more able to ignore the parts that disagreed with him. For some of their more dangerous planetside excursions, he had even begun wearing some of the armor pieces they kept aboard. Even with all the bluster and puffery, the Klingons could be immensely pragmatic about certain things.

He had done his best these past few weeks to refrain from comprisons between his former lives, and this new one. Still, they crept in without much effort. He didn't have extensive experience otherwise, after all.

The comm system intoned. "Semil to the bridge."

With that, the Vorta reached for a towel and flicked off the vanity light.



The small, dimly lit bridge of the Vaq'ghol hummed with the quiet intensity that Semil was becoming accustomed to as the standard operating mode on a Klingon bridge. He stepped in through the blast doors, alerting K'vot to his presence.

"We approach Hitora V under cloak." K'vot was always so curt about these briefings.

The Colonel continued without acknowledging Semil. "Beta Lankal. Ha'toria. QuVat. We are running out of colony worlds to keep this search up." He swivelled in his Captain's seat to face the Vorta. "Since you remain so convinced of our current mission, if our search comes up empty again here..."

Semil was growing accustomed to being afforded the luxury of interrupting K'vot at carefully selected opportunities. "The Lethean's time in Empire territory is our best chance to find the clone cache. You've already agreed that he would have been less likely to hide the clones on Cardassian or Orion worlds."

"Yes, yes. And Klingon-controlled territory would afford him sufficient security to operate without threat of poaching or piracy." K'vot dismissed Semil's repetition with a wave of his hand as he swivelled back around to face the viewscreen.

"I still don't understand what security concerns of yours require us to maintain cloak. We could operate much more effectively if we were allowed to actively scan the surface."

"Then you'll simply have to trust that we have very good reasons to operate as discreetly as possible. Reasons that may well compromise the success of our mission."

Semil nodded with a slight huff, unaccustomed to being kept in the dark, operationally.

"I suppose then, that we'll be beaming down to the settlement, shortly."

"I imagine that's why you're already wearing your armor."

Semil shrugged, supposing that K'vot knew him better than he would care to admit, in many ways, perhaps better than he knew himself, as they started through the bridge doors towards the transporter room.

Chapter XX: Humble Origins

The road that Semil and K'vot beamed onto was in the heart of the Hitora settlement, yet was completely empty, being in the dead of night. A fine dusting of snow clung to the duracrete.

K'vot reached immediately for his tricorder, scanning to establish their orientation in the small frontier town.

Semil instead, relied on his eyes to get a sense of the unremarkable ramshackle of the village. "This is hardly the most impressive location we've visited so far, but at least it's clean."

K'vot grunted in annoyance at the Vorta. "I am not interested in your travelogue. I am interested in finding..."

"Yes, yes. The Lethean's last registered address in the settlement was a small flat on the eastern edge of town. Quiet and remote."

K'vot's tricorder established its lock. "This way. Down this street."

Semil gestured, still attached to the pliant graciousness of his preprogrammed servility. "After you, Colonel."

The duo fixed the hoods of their cloaks, and started down the small side street. Semil knew better than to draw attention, and so kept his voice at a hush. "You didn't seem so surprised the settlement was so well-kept."

K'vot couldn't decide whether allowing the Vorta to bait him, or ignoring him would end in greater annoyance. "This is a mining town. In the Empire, miners are hard workers. Just because they lead simple lives without the glory of great battle, does not mean their hearts are not filled with struggle and sacrifice."

"Colonel, I never would have guessed you came from mining stock. Humble origins perhaps, but nothing quite so..."

In spite of their need to remain quiet, K'vot's interruption was stern and forceful. "Don't presume you know anything of me or my life, Vorta."

Properly humbled, Semil submitted to the chastisement. The two continued down the darkened street wordlessly, as a quiet flurry of soft flakes began to drift lazily down onto the silent street.



The door to the darkened basement apartment opened easily, K'vot superior espionage training clearly being at its most effective when used as effortlessly as possible. Both the Klingon Colonel and the Vorta quietly slunk inside.

They kept the room lighting off, instead using palm beacons to scan around the minimally furnished room. In turn, each man took out and activated his tricorder, concentrating on different areas of the room in a well-rehearsed pattern.

"No sign of any secret compartments. Can't pick up any anomalous power drains that might be a hidden cryonic unit." Listing off his findings, K'vot was clearly going off a prepared mental checklist.

Semil shook his head, disappointed at the Colonel's rote proceduralism. "These flats have seen too many tenants since. Anything that obvious would've been taken out long ago. What we're looking for wouldn't be here, or else it would be long gone."

"And you continually fail to appreciate that only after we eliminate the most obvious..."

Semil's tricorder beeped, silencing K'vot. "There are remarkable levels of baaktenite throughout these furnishings. On the walls, ground into the floor."

K'vot shook his head dismissively. "The main product here is unrefined baaktenite. This is to be expected, if you'd bothered to read..."

It was Semil's turn to shake his head. "No, I read the files on Hitora en route." Semil's countenance furrowed in concentration upon his tricorder. "It's something else, something not quite..."

His eyes lit up with recognition. "That's it. I'm detecting exceptionally high turbidium contamination. The most active mines currently produce ore with very low impurity. It has to be..."

The Vorta reached for his PADD, clipped to his belt, to access datafiles on the colony. Going off of half-remembered detail, scanning through for the information was easy. "There. Abandoned mines, not active for 60 years. Remarkably high in turbidium impurities."

"How far?"

"Four kellicams to the south."

"Well then. It's best we get started immediately."

Chapter XXI: Descent Approaching

The entrance to the mine had not even been properly sealed. Still, making their way down the mine shafts had been slow going with only their palm beacons lighting the dark. Navigating had been relatively simple, at least - the mine had been laid out simply so far, one long corridor with several smaller transverse tunnels, minimizing the search pattern they had agreed upon.

It had been two hours of slow, stumbling work with nothing to show for it but quietly decaying abandoned equipment.

Semil's tricorder beeped as some new feature entered the periphery of its scan range. "Just a few dozen more meters..."

K'vot, a few paces ahead, had already come to a stop. "You don't say."

Semil joined him, realizing in the dim illumination that the tunnel had given way to a much larger cavern. Even with his limited sight, he noticed K'vot standing before a precipice, his torchlight unable to illuminate a floor, or opposing wall in the darkness.

K'vot had already reached for an illuminator beacon, activating the warm incandescent glow with a flick of his thumb. It was the kind of light that did not burn to look at, even with their eyes adjusted to the dark, but surprised with its ability to cast a broad radiance.

Semil could see now that they were on a broad ledge extending many meters in either direction. It was clear that K'vot intended more comprehensive measures to get his bearing. K'vot lightly tossed the glowbeacon several meters out from the ledge, illuminating the sheer face of the ledge they were on as it travelled down.

In the dark, Semil could just make out the opposite ledge, equally precarious. There had been some sort of heavy lift machiinery in the cliff face they were on, though that had largely collapsed in great chunks at intermediate intervals on its way down.

No longer to distinctly make out the blurry flicker of the glow beacon through his muddy eyesight, Semil returned his focus to his tricorder - letting K'vot follow through with his own plans.

Semil's tricorder managed to return an approximate plan of the cavern they were in. "There's another ledge several hundred meters down, by where that broken lift is affixed. Can you see it?"

"Barely. Still, that lift doesn't stop nowhere. It's a better option than turning back now."

Semil reached into the cloak pockets before shucking it off, bails of synthcable balled up in his fist. "You know, we head down there, it's likely we'll lose all contact with the Vaq'ghol. This is much coarser baakenite, and we won't be able to get communications through, much less transporter signal."

From his utility belt, he pulled a pneumatic fusing piton into the ledge floor, several meters safely shy of where the zenith terminus of the industrial mining lift had been. He threaded the synthcable through the harness points that had been foresightedly built into the rudimentary field armor he was wearing.

To his side, he could see K'vot was working on securing his own harness quite a few meters away - perhaps out of distrust. K'vot had not yet planted his own anchor piton. "Colonel, descending down that route - there's a particularly less stable face several dozen meters down. The rock is especially..."

"Noted." Even being corrected, the Colonel could be awfully curt. At least he was taking helpful suggestions, Semil considered. K'vot came closer to Semil's piton, still allowing for a generous safety margin between their lines, before planting his own anchor.

"If it will give you some relief, I'll start down first." Semil cast his rope down the rock face, checked his harness and descender connections, and bracing himself into a studied, if not practiced abseil position. "For what it's worth, I didn't think you were a miner."

Semil started cautiously down the sheer rock face, K'vot shortly behind.



"My parents forged bat'leths." Unprovoked, most of the way down, K'vot spoke up, apropos of nothing immediately particular.

"Artisans of bat'leths are revered among the Klingon castes, if not quite held to the same status as the warriors." Semil nodded his basic textbook understanding of Klingon social hierarchy, just before affixing another piton into the rock face.

"It's how I know about how miners live. We dealt with many of them directly, rather than go through merchants and smelters."

"Among them, but not of them..." Semil trailed off, unwilling to make obvious allegorical connections out loud. "Tell me, then. Your father chose to go outside normal channels. Surely this wasn't a mark of shame of any sort."

K'vot couldn't tell whether the Vorta was trying to bait him again. "The warriors who came to him did not care. What mattered was the fine blade of his bat'leths. He gained more respect than some of the warriors that came knocking on our door."

Semil conjectured those relationships were how K'vot had the privilege of enrolling in the warriors' academies, being the son of a nuH chenmoHwI', even an esteemed one. He thought it better to not share this idea with K'vot, even if it were true.

Semil thought it best to try and instead give the Colonel a chance to instead focus on the more honorable aspects of his father's arrangement. "If he was in such demand, I imagine he didn't do the initial smelting and refinement himself."

"My brothers and cousins and I were taught to smelt the baakenite using the old ways. Father always believed only traditional metallurgy could give Klingon weapons the tang and sting of true honor. That a weapon could only be as honorable as the honor that went into its forging."

While grateful for even this slight, guarded glimpse into the Colonel's story, Semil was also growing slightly sorry he'd brought on such pedantry. The Vaq'ghol's databanks could fill him with endless reading on Klingon honor and its infinite consequences, permutations, and vagaries.

Semil was relieved to hear his tricorder beeping the end of their descent approaching from its holster on his belt.

Chapter XXII: Taking Survey

The lower part of the mine was decidedly more labyrinthine than they had encountered in the upper portion, significantly slowing their search progress. K'vot scouted on ahead, with his better eyesight, his palm beacon illuminating the passage. Semil trailed behind, eyes affixed to his tricorder, dependent on the limited range of the readings with his poor eyesight.

"There's going to be another three-way junction up ahead. Go left."

"And you expect me to believe you're not directing us in circles?"

"Left, I said." Semil was firm, despite his resolve beginning to waver in the cold, damp, tiredness. He had been using the tricorder to make an ad hoc map as they went, but did not feel like explaining himself or the basic common sense of this measure to K'vot.

Not prioritizing the time, he estimated it might already be daybreak on the surface. He imagined that an unengineered species might even be feeling some pangs of hunger after the hours they had spent in the mine, slightly increasing his respect for the Colonel.

Their left turn made, Semil's tricorder beeped and buzzed, the Vorta working to make sense of the readings.

"You have something?"

"I'm not sure." Semil twiddled several controls on the interface. "The turbidium concentrations here are quite high. It's hard to be certain..." Semil paused. "It could be a power source. Weak. Just a few meters down." The Vorta pointed along the direction of their path.

Semil scurried to keep up, as K'vot trodded ahead, wielding his own tricorder to get a fix.

He finally caught up to the Klingon, crouched beside an old antigrav palette, slumped to the side of the mineshaft, teetering on the side of a boulder, its powercells long since corroded to dust.

"This... is not as old as the rest of the mine."

As K'vot inspected the antigrav, Semil cast his palm beacon around the cavern. There was no obvious cargo for the palette next to it, making it odd that it had been discarded in such a fashion. Maybe...

The crates tumbled onto their sides down the hallway caught Semil's eyes immediately. The Vorta rushed over, stubbing his toe on an unseen outcropping. He paid the slight flash of surprising pain no mind, he was so intent on his target.

K'vot looked up to notice the Vorta's attention had been duly taken, and slowly made his way over to join Semil, who was crouched down, prying open the crates.
In the first, a random assortment of small equipment spilled out onto the cavern floor, as the cratelid gave way. The second yielded similar junk.

Semil gave a frustrated grunt, which surprised K'vot. In all his dealings with the Vorta, watching over him, monitoring him, now working with him - K'vot noted in Semil the careful, deliberately shielded countenance of his people. It was uncommn, if not rare - to see Semil express an honest emotion, even as briefly as this.

Semil resumed scanning the cave floor with his palm beacon, not content to give up.

A third crate lay further along the mineshaft corridor. Upright, but obscured by dust and rock - a partial collapse of the wall, perhaps. The Vorta shuffled over to it, in undisguised excitement, with perhaps insufficient regard to safety and caution, K'vot noted.

Clearing away the dust and gravel from its surface, Semil beheld the otherwise indescript crate with a brief pause. K'vot couldn't tell whether he was fabricating the drama of the moment, when Semil cautiously undid the fasteners and opened the lid.

Inside, rows of canisters were tightly packed upright. Several deep perhaps. A considerable fraction were dark and unlit, randomly peppered among others with still blinking lights. "Their battery capacity is rated to several decades. It's a marvel as many of them have stayed operational without the master cryonic unit."

With that, K'vot immediately understood that their mission had finally succeeded. "How many are still working?"

Taking survey, Semil found his mind unable to do the basic arithmetic. "Enough."

Chapter XXIII: Fearless Pace

With a last few puffs of exertion, Semil grasped his way back up onto the ledge, K'vot had already ascended, rigging a heavier, more secure apparatus to cinch the moderately heavy crate up. He was casually perusing the contents of the crate with some caution - wary of disturbing its contents unnecessarily.

In some way, Semil was mildly surprised K'vot hadn't simply beamed up or otherwise absconded with their prize. For all the effort and resource that had clearly gone into his own resurrection and reprogramming, he still harbored some doubts the Colonel would have simply found it easier to just start over with a new batch.

A more trusting individual might have found the thought reassuring.

K'vot acknowledged the Vorta's arrival, as he panted and huffed damp, cool air. "Good. Now that you're here, we can finish moving this to the extraction point."

Semil raised a hand. "A moment to rest." He paused, trying to catch his breath up to his voice. "Surely, even a hardy warrior such as yourself didn't make that climb without even a little strain and exercise."

K'vot smiled inscrutably. Even if the Vorta had already proven himself to be several grades above the weakling reputation of his kind, in no small part due to K'vot's own efforts and guidance, the Colonel was in no hurry to allow the Vorta the satisfaction of knowing.

Semil had already reached for his canteen, slaking his thirst in great, greedy gulps as his breath eased and slowed. "I will take that as a decided maybe."

The Vorta drew in long, deep, deliberate breaths. He felt his heartbeat pound slightly less forcefully, and just a few paces slower as the feeling returned to his shoulders and arms, the source of much of his exertion in the ascent. He made his way over to K'vot, who was sealing the crate back up.

"I suppose you're in some sort of hurry to get back to the ship."

"He should be." A voice called out from the entrance to the cavern, unexpected and unfamiliar. The quartet of brutish Orions emerged from the darkness of the mineshaft, their disruptor pistols already drawn and trained on both K'vot and Semil.

Semil had realized he had been too spent to draw his weapon fast enough. Though he was surprised K'vot's reflexes could be so unpracticed. Still, he couldn't escape this impulse that itched, to reach for his sidearm and have it out in spite of the unfavorable odds.

Between the asymmetric numbers, and their unfavorable position backed up against the precipice, Semil's rational mind still had to put up no minor struggle against his visceral desire to see even one of the Orions casually terrified at his impending death.

As he raised his hands in surrender, his mind quieted in focus, intent on the interlopers. Only the faintest tremor in his shoulder belied his desire to reach for his disruptor.

K'vot, in contrast, viewed the new arrivals with open disdain. "I never would have expected you to be so adept at keeping up, Fennaz." K'vot's reserved contempt in addressing the Orions, Semil found wholly unexpected, un-Klingon. "But then, staying one step behind - five steps behind. It is hardly of any consequence."

Well, at least know I know why we were in such a hurry. But who are they? Obviously, K'vot has had some dealings, but it would have been a basic courtesy to have been told we were being chased or followed...

"K'vot. You should know by now that the Syndicate has little interest in your paltry insults." The older Orion, speaking on behalf of his compatriots is clearly Fennaz. Knowing Syndicate hierarchy, the other three can't be much more than hired muscle. Maybe one personal bodyguard among them.

Fennaz continued, "Results matter as far as we concerned. And you're to be commended for producing them in such record time." Fennaz gestured at the crate, motioning for K'vot to step away.

The Klingon Colonel did as he was told, stepping closer to Semil, his arms raising.

"And I see your Vorta friend is feeling better." Semil maintained his composure, despite clearly being referred to in order to elicit some kind of reaction. But what kind of reaction are they testing us for? From K'vot, from me?

"I would have half a mind to take him with us, if I thought his scrambled brain could be of any use." My, how these interlopers love to monologue. It was the one truly reliable galactic standard.

For his part, K'vot remained silent.

"As it stands, I think we'll be leaving with far more than we could have hoped for." A fifth Orion pulled a small antigrav sled behind him. He and one of the others hefted the crate onto the sled with minimal effort, and began back up the main mineshaft out of view into the dark.

The only real variable is how they'll try and kill us.

"I've thought about this day, K'vot. How I might kill you. So many ways - flay you alive. Stab you in the hearts. Gouge out your eyeballs and crush your skull with my bare hands like an overripe elanda fruit."

The Orions began backing into the dark mineshaft, the way out, as Fennaz continued, "But then, you'll forgive me for forgoing any ironic, poetic justice. I just don't care for poetry."

A glint of disruptor fire, and both K'vot and Semil instinctually dove to their respective sides for cover. From the dust and hail of pebbles, it was clear neither had been the target, but the ceiling of the mineshaft. Coughing, both Semil and K'vot looked up with their palm beacons to see the mineshaft to the surface effectively sealed. A generous pile of rock and rubble blocked their exit.

From the beams of their beacons, K'vot and Semil caught sight of each other, reassured that both were still in relative health.

"It seems that way is no longer an option. If we try and tunnel through it, it'll probably destabilize this whole cavern structure. Maybe you should delete it from your map."

Leave it to a Klingon to finally gain a sense of humor only in the direst of circumstances.

Semil began affixing his harness back to the rappelling gear. "Come on. If we can't go that way, finding an exit in this part of the cavern system could take hours."

Semil checked the tautness of his ropes; his piton anchors still seemingly secure. "I have an idea." With that, the Vorta began belaying himself back down the rock face, at a much more fearless pace than before.

Chapter XXIV: Familiar Dance

One hand wielding his palm beacon, the other his tricorder, Semil raced along the darkened mineshaft more quickly than he would have judged safe not two hours ago. K'vot struggled to keep up.

"Slow down. You're going to get us both killed, blundering your way into a crevasse, or worse." K'vot was not accustomed to playing the worriwart schoolmarm. But it suited him to protect the investment of his time and resources, to say nothing of the General's.

"Any slower, and we risk letting them get away." Semil was focused enough on his task, it was surprising he bothered to reply. "And besides, I think we're getting close."

"Explain to me again just why you think there's a way out going deeper into the mine?"

"Because miners need..." Semil paused, taken by some reading from his beeping tricorder. "Miners need ventilation. This way." Semil ushered K'vot into another turn.

K'vot would have called the passage unfamiliar territory, but then everything was unfamiliar in the monotonous pitch black outside of his torchlight beam. Even using his tricorder, he would be hopelessly lost without the Vorta by this point. It made sense to at least keep tabs on the Vorta. Bringing him back up to the mine's upper level would have been dramatically more complicated if he'd had to activate his pacifier implant.

"And now here. No, strike that." The Vorta double-backed at the four-way intersection, switching from a left to a right tack. "This way."

"Stop." K'vot was frustrated and angrier than usual, though he admitted it was not entirely directed at the Vorta. "Are you just getting us more lost? If we are cut off from the ship, you already said we're at too great a depth for them to contact us or beam us back."

"Yes, yes. But trust me. We don't have much further to go."

"I'm beginning to think you'd prefer I came from a miner family."

Semil would have taken the bait at K'vot's attempt at a joke, were he not so pressed for time. "There. Did you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"Pick up the pace."

Now that Semil had mentioned it, K'vot did feel something on his face. The air in the mine had been cool and damp, with a decidedly musty odor that must have been dust and mine leavings. When they found a moment back on the ship, he'd have to stop by the Infirmary to request a respiratory purge from the Doctor. There was a cold nip to his face now. A biting chill -- moving air! The Vorta was on the right track after all.

"There. Do you see it?"

Even with the palm beacons, K'vot's eyes had accomodated to the dark just enough that he could sense the vague, faint glow emanating from the corridor ahead. His own pace quickened, now given some assurance of the Vorta's certitude.

Semil explained. "When we were down here before, I thought I could hear some air movement. Barely. Miners this deep can't operate without some ventilation assistance..." They turned a last corner, and found themselves at the bottom of a clear ventilation shaft. Looking up the several hundred meters of rock, they could make out the bright light of morning far above, piercing the top.

"You're not planning on climbing...?"

Semil reached for his communicator wristband, twiddling the knobs. "It's even better than I thought. Clear line of sight. If I remodulate the frequencies to resonate just so..." He thumbed the signal actuator, speaking into the communicator. "Vaq'ghol, come in. Landing party to Vaq'ghol. Respond."

The signal was garbled, but audible. "This is Vaq'ghol. We read you."

K'vot leaned in to Semil's communicator. "K'vot here. Can you get a lock on our coordinates?"

There was a pause. K'vot worried that the uplink was too tenuous and short-lived to make transport a viable option. He readied himself to reach for his remaining climbing pitons when the signal came back through. "Colonel, apologies for the delay. We think we have a lock on you now. Some adjustments were necessary." K'vot appreciated that his crew were just apologetic enough, but not overly so.

The Colonel motioned for Semil. "I believe you've earned the honor this time, Vorta."

It took Semil a moment for the order to register. "Vaq'ghol - joI yIchu'!"
Within moments, the two men recognized the familiar dance of sciltillant light that heralded the transporter beam.



Aboard the Vaq'ghol bridge, Semil and K'vot strode in hurriedly.

"Report."

"An Orion Marauder broke orbit 40 minutes ago and entered warp. Heading 315-mark-9."

"Helm, pursuit course. Maximum warp." K'vot resumed his captain's seat, as Semil slid into an unoccupied Tactical station at the rear of the bridge.

Semil didn't need to rely on the Tactical database readouts for certain knowledge. "Those Marauders aren't the speediest. We should be able to close that headstart." The minutest shift in the grav plating signaled the Vaq'ghol's entry to warp.

A dance of inputs from Semil's fingers brought up the calculations and astrogation charts he needed. "There aren't many Syndicate-administered worlds along that heading. Maybe if I can cross-reference..."

"No need." K'vot coolly remarked from his seat. "I know exactly where they are headed. You can skip ahead in your database search to the Verex system."

"Perhaps this would be a good time to share just who Fennaz is. You've clearly had dealings."

K'vot nodded. No need to obfuscate what was already clear. "He's a mid-level Syndicate operator. His operation helped locate and procure certain... items."

"Dominion technology."

"Some."

"Dominion cloning technology."

K'vot's wordless non-answer, Semil took as affirmation.

"You never told him what your requisitions were for, did you?"

"No, but he wouldn't have had to piece much together to know what we were planning..."

"And the Verex system?"

"An old Orion stronghold. Moreso in recent years. It's a key point of transit between Klingon and Orion-dominated territories."

"Then we can expect Fennaz will be acquiring some support."

"He's going to need it."

Chapter XXV: Thinking Clearly

From behind the cloak of the Vaq'ghol, it was hard for Semil to believe that the Empire's nominal 'allies' in the Syndicate weren't able to see through it. In two hours they had closed the gap, and were trailing behind the Marauder at short range at high warp. Surely, the Marauder must have a contigency for having been followed by a cloaked ship.

K'vot sat lazily in the captain's seat, unimpressed by Semil's mounting anxiety and worry. "If we mount an at-warp beam over of a boarding party..."

"It won't be possible to match both the subspace frequencies of the warp field and their shields without dissipating the transporter beam. And certainly not without decloaking. Patience."

Semil could hardly stem his overwhelming urge to take immediate, decisive action. A restlessness K'vot could recognize, if not sympathize with.

"We're closing to within thirty minutes of the Verex system. If we don't stop them now..."

"If we don't stop them, they'll what? What is it you think they'll do exactly?"
"I can't be sure. Beam the cargo down to the planet. Hand it off to a second, faster courier. Any number of options out of our control."

"All reasonable speculation. But I think you forget one key..."

"So you don't think Fennaz is expecting us? No more than you're trying to anticipate him?"

"I would have thought that in your time as a Dominion operative, you would have learned that second guessing onesself is the most certain means of ensuring defeat."

Semil shook his head in disagreement. "It's not second guessing - too much of this smells more and more like a trap."

"When confronted with a trap, you intend to just walk away? Or spring it unprepared?"

"I imagine you're intending to beam over boarding parties to search for the cargo. Onto that massive ship, with Founders know how many Orion toughs just waiting to intercept you?" Semil belated winced at his habituated, unconsidered reference. One K'vot was polite or hard-headed enough to ignore.

"Our only other option is to attack with torpedoes at warp. Which risks damaging the cargo, since we're unable to determine its location without actively scanning. Again, that means decloaking."

That last point stung. It should have occurred to Semil. He wasn't thinking clearly. It would take him weeks more to parse out the feeling, but the vague din of a bloodlust was just starting to cloud his judgment. There was no real precedent for such experiences in his downloaded Vorta memories - only the foggy haze of his previous escape...

"Very well then, we let them arrive at their destination. I have an idea."



The Marauder entered the Verex system, dropping out of warp beyond the gas giant fourth planet.

It had started an impulse turn for Verex III, when the Vaq'ghol dropped her cloak and opened fire on the aft quarter of the bulbous, more sizeable Orion ship. Being smaller and more maneuverable, the Bird of Prey brought her wing disruptor cannons to bear with a gracile swiftness the lumbering Marauder would never have been capable of.

The Vaq'ghol held her spray of cannon fire briefly, then unleashed a blinding fury of disruptor bolts, trained on a particular point on the Marauder's bulbous rear.



From his seat on the Bridge, K'vot swiveled to face his Tactical Officer. "Report."

"Direct hit to their portside aft power coupling. Their aft shields are down to forty percent; fluctuating..." The Tactical Officer paused, watching her status displays intently. "Their aft shields are intermittently cutting out."

K'vot tapped the comm system. "Transporter Room. Team One, standby to energize."

The Colonel raised his hand to ready the signal. "Now." His hand lowered, commanding the Operations Officer to trigger the transport cycle.



Aboard the Marauder, in an otherwise non-descript stretch of corridor, the red pulse of alert klaxons partly disguised the telltale orange glow of the Klingon transporter beam. Five Bekks pulled their disruptors, and readied their holstered bat'leths as soon as the beam-in cycle completed. Nodding to each other their readiness, they started down the hallway at a brisk light jog.

They had made it several dozen meters along the corridor by the time the first Orion security response teams engaged them. Disruptor bolts volleyed in each direction of the corridor. A particularly stout Orion guard stumbled down face-first onto the deck plating from his cover position, a freshly blasted scorch mark having seared straight through his midsection.

Meanwhile, down the hall and around the corner, well out of sight of either the boarding party or the Orion security response team, a second transporter beam alit the empty corridor intersection. A lone, pale Vorta craned his neck around in all directions, verifying that he was unseen before starting up a nearby ladder.

Chapter XXVI: Stacked High

The auxiliary security office was well locked down. The two Orion security officers made only gruff acknowledgements of each other as they carried out their duties - monitoring the intruder boarding parties. Both were engrossed enough in their duties for the ventilation grate to barely register as it quietly pivoted open above them. Both noticed the small object rolling down onto the floor from the open grate with a thud - peering with interest.

Only after the hiss of gas began escaping from the grenade did they action - staggering through their ragged coughs, neither had any chance of reaching it. Both Orions - tall, green, and musculuar - were little match for the dense cloud of toxin, slumping over into their faces on the hard metal floor grating.

Semil lowered himself from the ventilation grating, his engineered lungs immune to the neurocine. He set to work on the consoles quickly, running through a rapid checklist of pre-planned steps.

Encrypting the door locking mechanism. Check.

Initiating false intruder signals throughout the Marauder. Check.

He reached for an isolinear control chip in his pocket, inserting it into a spare slot, keying commands to work through the Orion security protocols as he went.

His superior Vorta hearing could pick out the gentle shift in the sound of disruptor fire outside the door. He took a moment to tab open an encrypted channel on his wrist communicator. "Vaq'ghol, come in. Fire Team 1 needs to stay on the starboard side. These sensor ghosts aren't going to keep the Orions fooled for very long, and we need time."

K'vot intoned from the communicator, brusque as ever. "Your status?"

"Scanning now." Semil watched as his program executed, hijacking the Orion's own internal sensors to his own end. "Not the first four decks... five." He input more commands, tuning the sensor frequencies, adjusting their scan width. "I think... there." The program chimed, recognizing the faint but distinct signature of Dominion power cells. "Secured cargo, deck 8 - portside forward."

The Vorta pulled his chip from its port, keying in a quick series of commands to try and cover his tracks. He steadied his hand on the wrist communicator. "Team 2 is go. I'll meet you at the extraction point."

Tabbing his communicator off, he hoisted himself back up into the ventilation, as a loud knock banged on the sealed door.



The corridor in this part of the ship was quiet, save the alert klaxon periodically blaring, before K'vot beamed in with his security team. He drew his disruptor pistol, the others their rifles. A quick nod to his Bekks, and the team started along the corridor.

A junction lay ahead. K'vot held up a battle gauntlet-sheathed arm to signal his Bekks to hold, as he crept to peer around the corner. Silently, using only the trained tactical gestures each Bekk had learned in their first days at the warrior academies - he signaled two guards. As expected.

Along with his Bekks, K'vot readied his disruptor - raising his arm again in the readiness signal as the warriors positioned themselves in positions of attack preparedness.

With a drop of his wrist, five disruptors opened fire - leaving two Orion bodies slumped face down in the corridor, singe and scorch marks still smoking hot.

K'vot knew that the weapons fire would immediately attract attention from the bridge, no matter how many sensor ghosts and false alarms the Vorta had deployed on the Orion's security grid. The plan hinged on their quickness.

The team descended on the formerly guarded, reinforced door.

K'vot brought out a device, affixing it to the doorframe. No matter the galactic reputation of Klingon's predilections for open combat, and loud warrior posturing - he knew and trusted the Empire's engineers. Throughout the Empire, Imperial Engineers prided themselves on their ability to break through the most reinforced doors - whether through magnetogravitic tumbler uncouplers, like this, or brute explosive force.

The door yielded readily.

K'vot strode in, two Bekks sweeping the room for more security forces, the other two Bekks turning to guard their rear from arriving security forces.

Already knowing what the cargo looked like made the job of locating it, in the small, stuffy room easier. Smaller than most cargo bays, the room was stacked high with a ragtag assortment of cargo containers - plundered loot, no doubt. Still, only one crate, smaller than most, was coated with the fine dust of decades in a mineshaft.

The Orions, in their haste to break orbit, had even done them the courtesy of leaving an anti-grav pallet nearby.

Chapter XXVII: Shadowed Figure

Having one Bekk push the pallet behind him, K'vot was down one man, having taken point for the group as they jogged briskly along the corridor at a faster pace than he would have otherwise thought prudent.

If there were Orion security forces responding, at least they were staying ahead of them for now. The beamout point wasn't far. Being slightly ahead of schedule was no excuse for the Vorta to be late. The temptation of leaving the Vorta behind was fleeting, if noticeable.

A junction approached. K'vot knew to turn left and signaled the Bekk pushing the pallet to prepare himself for the turn. K'vot pivoted hard on his foot, when he saw the four armed Orions marching their way further up the transverse hallway.

K'vot barely had time to signal for cover by the time the Orions opened fire. He had barely squeezed himself behind a wall joist, and turned his head to check the status of the rest of the team. The Bekk covering their right flank had been caught by surprise, and lay on his back, a still sparking disruptor wound upon his chest. The others had managed to find cover, one behind the cargo pallet, the other two behind corridor braces, same as himself. Each took turns intermittently returning suppressing fire, as befit their honed training.
K'vot tabbed his wrist comm. "Vaq'ghol, we are pinned in the aft transverse corridor. Come in."

Only static replied. Damn, the Orions were jamming their comms.

K'vot looked back to see if there were signs of other Orions closing in on them from behind. Only because his back was turned for that split second, did he miss the bright flash from up the corridor. It was enough to catch his attention - he could hear indistinct grunts and shouting through the disruptor bolts, which were noticeably fewer.

He peered out from behind his cover, signaling with an upraised hand for his Bekks to hold their fire. A cloud of smoke and haze obscured his view at the far end of the corridor.

A lone, shadowed figure slowly emerged from the haze, indistinct and unidentifiable. K'vot readied his pistol - mentally drawing a beed on the silhouette, selecting his target with only anticipation to guide him.
"No need to hold for applause. We're on a timetable."

The Vorta stood as the smoke wafted up and away clear of him.

K'vot and the Bekks stepped out from their cover positions. "Your timing could not be better if..."

"...if I were a Vorta?" Semil deadpanned.

This new sense of humor of his - at least that's not very Vorta of him. K'vot signaled his team back to readiness, forming up around the cargo pallet as they resumed their jog down the corridor.



Back aboard the Vaq'ghol bridge, K'vot and Semil strode in from the corridor, still sweating from their exertions on the Marauder.

"Sir. The Marauder has stabilized their power grid." K'vot's First Officer remarked from his Tactical station.

Semil had taken up the threat analysis console behind K'vot. "They've locked on with a tractor beam." It had to have been as the Vaq'ghol decloaked with lowered shields to beam back their raider teams. The Bird of Prey's shields had raised, but there was no way she would recloak while held. "We're being hailed."

K'vot took a brief second to compose himself. "Onscreen."

The viewscreen flickered and brought up the glowering visage of their Orion captor.

K'vot nodded. "Fennaz."

"K'vot." The Orion smirked knowingly across the subspace uplink. "I have to admit - your little raid took out some of my best Enforcers. Pity. I'd just signed their contracts, too." His visage grew noticeably more stern. "But this is over. I have your ship. Surrender your cargo, and we'll let you live." He paused, thoughtfully. "Minus your warp cores, of course."

"Have you learned nothing, Fennaz? You're going to have to come and take it. Better send your men whose contracts are almost up." The Colonel cackled into the vidcomm.

For all his experience with these negotiation tactics, Semil had little patience for how the Klingons and Orions conducted it. Such little civility. So lacking in finesse and subtlety.

He supposed playing into their own stereotypes was expected of these Klingons and Orions. The warrior and the pirate, ever locked in their chase.

Up until a few months ago, he would have agreed wholeheartedly with the idea. Best to play to ones strengths - the gifts one had been endowed with. But then, up until his most recent rebirth, he had been an upper-mid tier Vorta facilitator.

Today, he was something new. Something that he had a hand in creating.

The other bridge officers on the Vaq'ghol were too busy, too focused on their preparations for glorious battle to notice the commands Semil was keying into his console.

Onscreen, Fennaz's unremarkable tirade trailed off, interrupted by a low rumble. The Orion scaned around his own bridge, his eyes darting about, unclear of his circumstances.

On the Vaq'ghol, K'vot was similarly confused, looking about at his bridge officers for an update on the situation. They returned only shrugs, when K'vot pivoted about to look Semil square in the eye.

The Vaq'ghol bridge lurched as the ship sheared free of the tractor beam.

The Marauder careened into warp with a screech, failing to take the Bird-of-Prey with it.

Onscreen, K'vot swiveled his head back just in time to watch Fennaz flung head over heels aftwards, his ragdoll body folding over a railing with a sickening crack of his spine just before the commlink cut out.

He knew exactly where to seek answers. "What did you do?"

"I may have found the time to locate an engineering maintenance interface while we were aboard."

"Let me guess. And you bypassed their helm control?"

"And their intertial dampeners," Semil corrected. "A recursive diagnostic cycle, to be accurate."

"And how did you know their tractor beam would release us?"

"I didn't."

Chapter XXVIII: Existential Spiral

Semil rested on the small hard bunk of his small quarters fitfully. It was his fourth day of being confined to them. Not that he had anywhere aboard he was interested in being.

The Mess Hall maybe made for a change of scenery, even if Klingon food was still an experience to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.

He had no real duties on the Bridge, other than reporting in to K'vot. Occasionally, he would have popped in, just to watch and observe quietly, accumulating mental notes of the bridge officers' routines and duties.

The officers and crew of the Vaq'ghol had a mutually unspoken agreement of ignoring Semil, an arrangement he was tacitly complacent to oblige. Maybe they were under orders.

He had considered helping himself to the sparring gymnasium, if he'd have had any partners to spar with. He imagined the crew might not have been particularly agreeable on this point.

It wasn't until he'd lost his free run of the small ship that he'd realized he'd missed the privilege.

The reading he'd told himself he would occupy his time with - he hadn't much felt like actually following through with. What he had picked up, he'd mostly skimmed. To be sure, the Alpha Quadrant had seen some interesting development since his last clone - Gorn conquest and annexation, Klingon infighting, the Romulan schism. The Federation of course, could be counted on to be as boring and insipid as ever.

Still, there was the one topic he couldn't bring himself to broach in much detail. After the signing of the Treaty of Bajor - such little mention was made of the Dominion. Occasional refrences back to the War. But retreating back into the Gamma Quadrant, sublimating back into the aether of hearsay and rumor.

He had found reading the chapters on the War strangely dispassionate - even the events he was there for, or at least could remember. The First Battle of DS9. The Tyra system. The Betazed system. The words on his PADD were clinical, aseptic. But not much more so than the fragmented scattering of sights and sounds - memories, he supposed that they were attached to.

In previous lifetimes, studying the history of previous clones was a critical preparatory exercise for a Vorta. How better to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past, than to remember having made those mistakes in the first place?

He was reasonably certain it was an exercise no Vorta had ever had to do from someone else's history book.

His communicator chimed. "Semil. Report to Cargo Bay 3."

The Vorta rose, straightening his tunic, glad to be called away, pulled free from this particular existential spiral.

Chapter XXIX: Narrow Window

Like the rest of the facilities on the Vaq'ghol, the cargo bay was small and cramped. Even in comparison to a Jem'Hadar Attack Fighter. On a larger ship, it could pass for a utility closet. The room had largely been cleared of cargo, however. K'vot and the ship's doctor hunched over a dimly lit work bench.

The Colonel motioned Semil over. "Perhaps you have not met Dr. Ak'pak." K'vot motioned absent-mindedly at the otherolder, clearly wizened Klingon. The ship's HaqwI'.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure." These kinds of social niceties were reassuring in their way, maybe even moreso in an environment where it was clear no one meant them.

"Likewise."

All the while, K'vot's attention had not lifted from the readout of the scanner he had trained on one of the Dominion clone canisters, standing upright on the table. "What can you tell us about this?"

Semil bent over to appraise the round smooth surface more closely. He was sure K'vot could read the labeling in Dominionese, but then - he was also used to small routine tests at every opportunity. "Vorta." This was immediately obvious - the Jem'Hadar containers were much smaller and more densely packed - being more disposable even in inception.

The status light on the canister blinked a slow, dull green. It was active. "A Civil Engineer. Grade 4E. Named Sorgen." He squinted at the fine print. "Low batch number, too. Only a couple of clones deep on this line."

K'vot rolled another canister across the table. "And this one?"

"Ondara. She's a Grade 3C Warp Field Mechanics Specialist. Probably extensive experience on her, too judging by how many copies."

K'vot slowly considered Semil. "We were able to recover about a dozen of the Vorta cryotubes. And about 50 more of the Jem'Hadar ones."

"And the others...?"

"Non-viable."

There was a strange solemnity to the moment for Semil. It wasn't grief - Vorta and Jem'Hadar were disposable by design. What could it be then? To feel for these clones, long since dessicated and decayed. Their forebearers, on the far side of the galaxy.

Of the few other items in the room, K'vot motioned towards the cloning vat. "And that. I understand cloning technology is not in your..." K'vot searched for the word "primary programming. But do you think you can get it operational?"

"You intend to activate more clones?"

K'vot was silent.

"How many more do you intend to activate?"

Still, the Klingon did not answer. Instead, he reiterated "Can you do it?"

Semil stepped over towards the large tub, its consoles dark and weathered, in order to inspect it. It had clearly been in better shape. Maybe the Klingons had salvaged it from a wreck, or one of their raids on former Cardassian worlds. In either case, it looked like the oligopeptide assembly processors were still intact. The leads on the osmotic microregulators were corroded, but easily replaceable. And this model was designed to adapt to Cardassian power sources, so that took that obstacle off the list. "I think so."

"Dr. Ak'pak will provide you with any assistance you may require."

Semil exchanged nods with the Doctor.

"There's something else you should know. About the cryotubes."

K'vot nodded, as if he had anticipated it to some degree. "Upon examination, we've found an incredibly sophisticated nanocrystalline fluid lattice memory storage system. We've been trying to decode the encryption..."

Semil interrupted him quietly. "They're memory engrams." This quieted K'vot, catching his attention. "Well, emergency backups at least. If the previous clone's body wouldn't be available as a template - in an emergency, these backups can serve to imprint at least basic skillsets, cognitive function. It's not as robust as a complete memory engram pattern, but it's better than nothing."

The Vorta motioned to an outcropping of probes and hardware to the side of the cloning vat. "We'll need to get the engrammatic programming interface working before anything else. These backups are meant to engraft during a relatively narrow window during the cloning process."

"So the engrams won't take once the clone is matured?"

"Not as well, no."

K'vot motioned for Ak'pak. "Then you'll need to work quickly."

Ak'pak produced another canister from a large cabinet nearby - this one significantly larger than the cryotubes. As it came into Semil's view, it was clearly less a canister, and more of a jar. Inside, a fetus floated in a viscous lavender bath, a weightless curl to its body. Its blind eyes shut, tubes and probes ran from various orifices into the base of the unit. Unaware of its world, the being gave a slight kick.

Semil immediately recognized the vented ears.

Chapter XXX: Functional Knowledge

Semil sat up with the startled immediacy of someone surprised by their own dozing off. A brief moment of disorientation passed over him before he remembered he was at the analysis station in the converted cargo bay.

He looked about. Neither K'vot nor Ak'pak were about - he was essentially alone in the darkened room.

Semil lazily stretched his arms overhead, twisting his spine one way then the other, a couple of vertebrae cracking and popping from the exertion.

He turned his attention back to the computer monitor. The cognitive engraftment simulation had returned another failure result. Semil sighed deeply in frustration, resting his hands with locked fingers atop the crown of his head.

He stared at this most most recent in a string of failures. Twenty-three consecutive simulation programs, all ending the same - leaving a pile of useless digital neurons.

He turned his gaze over to the cloning vat at the other end of the smallish room, indicators and displays glowing and blinking. He stood, and stepped over to the largish instrument - another, more decadent species might have labelled the resemblance to a highly modified bathtub.

Inside, beneath the transparent cover, the lavender growth medium bubbled viscously. A lone humanoid figure occupied the space - a naked humanoid, its eyes shut, approximately a young adolescent in growth.

The vented ears denoted it as a Vorta. They had transferred the growing fetus from the jar into the cloning vat only eight days ago. Vorta did not need to mature anywhere near as fast as Jem'Hadar - much greater care was taken in the neurosynaptic templating.

The initial base installationof simple skillsets - language, motor reflexes - had gone off effortlessly. The prepackaged backups were designed to be as easy as possible to operate. But those skills would be useless without higher cognitive functions to integate them, and that window was rapidly narrowing.

The Klingons had salvaged what equipment they could, and jury rigged what was missing. Enough of an obstacle to make sure this process would not be as seamless as Semil had hoped.

What are we missing?

Niether K'vot nor Ak'pak were any help in this matter, other than to offer brusque grunts of acknowledgment, and deny knowledge of any further technology or data that could be helpful.

A dedicated Vorta cloning technician would have been a help - but then that's why they chose to start with the Renvar clone. His skillsets would prove useful in refining the process. An experienced enough cloning tech could remember more functional knowledge of these techniques than even K'vot could...

The train of drifting thoughts had inadvertently led Semil to his intended destination.

Of course they're hiding something. And it's obvious - the Augment vectors.

Semil remembered something. He had hidden -- he hadn't even bothered to check if it was still there. He looked around to double-check he was alone, and reached down into his boot. There, in the seam, he found the isolinear storage chip he had pilfered from the detention facility he had awoken in all those months ago. The boots were reinforced - in some ways, he was almost as surprised that K'vot hadn't found it, as he was that he had managed to forget its existence.

He loaded the chip into a port, and began browsing the file directory, opening a folder labelled 'Augment'.

Chapter XXXI: Sudden Gentleness

The transparent shield covering the cloning vat retracted. The warm jelly of the growth medium drained partly, exposing the clone's head to the air for the first time.

Semil hovered over the controls at the side of the tub, keyiing in commands slowly and deliberately, watching the clone intently between each keystroke sequence. Beneath him, in the tub, the Renvar clone had grown to his adult size, naked and motionless in the translucent glow of the lavender growth medium.

Semil looked across the tub at K'vot, who nodded his assent. Semil reached in and pulled the respiratory regulation probe from the nose of the clone, a long thin tube training behind it.

He keyed in a short sequence of commands - stimulation of only a few nuclei in the midbrain should be enough...

The clone loudly sputtered and wheezed, clearing his lungs involuntarily of the thick jelly bath. Its eyes fluttered uselessly, his limbs thrashing slightly out of reflex and disorientation. The coughs took several minutes to quiet, sounding less liquid, replaced by heavy, rapid breaths.

Semil looked up at the biomonitor displays. He had witnessed this process before in previous lifetimes. He had welcomed his Vorta bretheren back to the world of the living before - but he had never been the one to guide them through the process, from cryonically preserved embryo to full activation. Vorta didn't have parents. But this not being his area of expertise, Semil wondered to himiself whether this vague 'pride' feeling he was experience would be described as 'parental' by other species which relied on less precise methods of procreation.

Biology could be so distasteful sometimes, especially when it wasn't tightly controlled and regulated.

The clone settled, tired from his exertion.

Semil looked over at K'vot, seeking reassurance, and spoke slowly and deliberately, in Dominionese. "Renvar. Your name is Renvar."

The clone lay in the vat, unblinking. It was not clear if he could hear or understand.

"Do you know where you are?"

The clone opened its mouth silently, concentrating very hard on creating speech, but not entirely sure how to proceed. The words spilled out, wet and slurred. "Cloooone. Clooooooning. Vaaaaat."

"Good. That's good. You're right." Semil paused, unclear how to proceed. "You should rest. Let your eyes finish maturing. We will have much to discuss later. But for now, build your strength."

K'vot assessed Semil, unclear where this sudden gentleness had sprung from.
The clone opened its eyes, unfocused and unseeing. In some manner of instinct, he turned to gaze at Semil - at least where his voice was coming from.

"Wwwhhoo..? Who aaaare yoooou...?"

Semil paused, the answer not yet formed in his own mind.

So I'm perusing through Holodeck and I come upon this little gem. Haven't read it all yet,so if you get random thank yous, they're from chapters I've finished. Really good read so far though, Sej B) :lol:

Interlude 2: Arkalav II

Vorta Field Supervisor's Report. Agent Semil aboard Attack Fighter 21615.
We are approaching our listening post in the Arkalav system. Contact was lost with the post two days ago. Our orders are to investigate. Arkalav is a remote system, well beyond the boundaries of the Pacified Frontier.



"Report." Semil strode into the small command center of the attack ship, his First manning the command console in the center of the spartan room.

"We are entering scanning range." Takat'tarat was among the most efficient Firsts Semil had ever had the pleasure of supervising. If managing a squadron of barely constrained, drug-addicted, bloodthirsty combat veterans could be considered any sort of pleasure, that was. "No life signs. Signatures of weapons fire..." A few keyclicks of frustration from the Jem'Hadar betrayed his annoyance. "Indeterminate origin."

Semil eyed his First warily. He respected Takat'tarat too much to question his capability openly, especially in front of the others. But the shorthand they had developed was more than enough to communicate his displeasure.

"Interference is preventing a more detailed analysis. I will ready a scouting party."

"I will be accompanying you."

"Be assured, there is no need for your presence on a routine..."

"You presume this will be routine."

In spite of his respect, the Vorta was within every expectation to summarily chastize his minions. Semil found it important to occasionally remind his troops where real decision making lay in their carefully engineered hierarchy.

Takat'tarat signalled the Second and Third to accompany them, as they strode from the room.



The beam-in point had been carefully selected, a corridor junction, easily defensible, with ready access to the command center and the computer core. A faint, acrid smoke permeated the air, even to the Vorta's poor sense of smell.

From habit, instinct, and training, the three Jem'Hadar drew their polaron rifles as soon as materialization was complete. They moved quickly, sweeping the junction for any threats. "Clear!" Takat'tarat signaled.

A nearby systems status display blinked with static. The main computer and backups had to be down.

Semil signaled the Second and Third, "You two head to the computer core and reestablish main core access." He beckoned Takat'tarat. "You, with me. To the command center. Communications silence until main systems are restored."

The parties headed in opposite directions. Semil dutifully, if nonchalantly kept behind his First by several meters. The danger of their environment was not trivial. In other circumstances, he would have elected to remain on the ship. Even without detecting life signs, there was still the possibility the installation's attackers had found a way to evade their sensors. For all he knew, they were shrouded, errant Jem'Hadar. Such reports were not unheard of.

Twenty meters down, Takat'tarat paused at the entryway to the command center. Catching up to his First, he could see the two Jem'Hadar corpses, burnt and slumped on either side of the doorway. Semil could tell they were the Second and Third of the installation's small garrison. Takat'tarat needed only kick them slightly to be sure.

Semil pulled back from the doorway, as Takat'tarat raised his rifle in preparation to open the door to the command center. Relying on his training, the First charged through the opening door - completing a systematic sweep of the room for additional threats within a matter of seconds. He didn't need to signal the Vorta, as Semil strode cautiously into the room.

The status screens displayed garble and static. More Jem'Hadar corpses littered the floor. Smoldering and lifeless, they still clutched their weapons, clearly in the middle of a firefight. As Semil scanned the room with his own eyes, he noticed the lack of stray blast marks on the walls - whoever had attacked the post had remarkable marksmanship. That narrowed down the possibilties.

Takat'tarat had completed his more thorough sweep of the room, and holstered his rifle. He had taken out a hand scanner, and was kneeling by one of the Jem'Hadar corpses, apparently the garrison's First. Semil strode over to see, when the computer displays returned to operational status.

Curious as he may have been, his priorities were clear. Semil stepped over to the command console and input his security codes. "The Second and Third are to be commended for their efficiency." He was scrolling through access logs as Takat'tarat hastily completed his post-mortem on the base First. Semil was quickly assured that none of the most sensitive datafiles had been accessed. Whoever had been here had not been looking for Dominion secrets, or at least were unable to obtain them.

The relevant access log entry scrolled into view as Takat'tarat strode over held up his hand scanner for Semil to see. Both facts pointed to the same culprits. "Hunters."

"They dare attack us?"

"The provisions of our arrangement with them makes allowances for their leisure pursuits in our territory. Provided they keep collateral damage to our assets to a minimum, of course." Semil gestured about the room, a smirk on his face.

"Perhaps it was one of their Tosk that infiltrated the base."

Semil shook his head, "Unlikely." He pointed at the access log for the installation's sensitive, powerful sensor array. "It looks more like these Hunters were looking to use the sensor array for locating their prey. Poor desperate idiots."

A clanking sound from the corner of the room drew their attention. Takat'tarak drew his rifle with military alertness, and crept in the direction of the noise. He signalled for Semil to come closer.

Underneath the desk, they found a Vorta. Clearly the base's supervisor, he was had been shot through his shoulder. Pale from bloodloss, a true superlative for a Vorta, he trembled lightly as he fought to keep his eyes open. He sputtered and wheezed weakly, attempting to speak. "Tha... thank the Founders." His voice sounded labored, wet, and drowned - a sign of his lungs filling with blood.

Semil knelt to address the quaking, frightened Vorta. "You're Korbul. I knew your predecessor." Semil gestured around the room. "Who did this? What did they want?"

"Hun... Hunters. De-- demanded we let them use our sensor array. T.. took us by s-- surprise when I refused."

Semil shushed the other Vorta. "Don't worry. We'll take care of you -- and the situation."

Semil stood and gestured to Takat'tarat. "Put him out of his misery. Poor man shouldn't have to suffer the ignominy of being beaten by such cretinous oafs."

Takat'tarat levelled his rifle squarely at Korbul's forehead. If he had been paying attention to anything other than his precise aim, he would have noticed the profuse sweat on the Vorta's brow, and the complete and utter terror and fear in his eyes.



Vorta Field Supervisor's Report. Agent Semil aboard Attack Fighter 21615.

We have concluded our investigation at the Arkalav II installation. No survivors. The listening post's datacore has been uploaded to our computer and secured.
Recommend immediate pacification of all Hunter parties within a twenty-five light year radius. It is important to occasionally remind them where real decision making lies in our carefully engineered hierarchy.