The door slid open. Servalan swept imperiously into the sickbay, followed by two guards half-pushing, half-dragging Avon. "Chain him to the far bed," she ordered.
Dayna merely glared as they walked past her. She'd already tested her far the chains would allow her to move. It was impossible to reach Servalan. She decided to preserve her dignity (and her strength) and not bother with a futile attempt.
Accustomed to a lifetime of servitude and submission, Rashel had scurried to her knees the minute she heard footsteps at the door. But Vila was freeborn, and thought like a freeman. A guard's boot reminded him of his "proper" position.
"Didn't I tell you to kneel, Delta?" the corporal asked as he kicked him.
"Why, Vila," Servalan inquired in saccharine tones, "are you disobeying my soldiers?"
"Who, me?" Vila feigned innocence, then muttered, "Wouldn't think of it."
Avon sat on the bed across from Vila, next to the one to which Rashel was chained. The other guard fastened a half-meter chain from the bedpost to the manacle around Avon's left ankle.
"I trust you're comfortable?" Servalan asked.
"Aren't you going to tuck me in?" Avon asked sardonically.
Servalan laughed as she and the guards left the room.
Rashel turned as much as the chain and handcuffs would permit her, and told Avon (in no uncertain terms) what she thought of him, his education, her opinion of his parents' marital status at the time of his conception and birth, his personal hygiene, his bedroom habits, etc. Many of the words she used were new to Dayna. Even Vila, raised in the rough Delta warrens, was surprised by the strength and size of her vocabulary.
When she had finished, Avon merely agreed quietly, "You're probably right."
"I would kill you if I could," Rashel added.
"You'd be well within your rights if you did," Avon said in a low, fatigued voice. "I really ought to apologize for killing your husband, but in the first place, it wouldn't do any good. And in the second place, I doubt you'd accept it."
"You're right. I wouldn't. Words won't bring my Roj back, murderer."
"I know. It was ... a mistake."
"A mistake? A mistake!" Rashel shrieked, then continued in her earlier vein. She gave up her tirade only when she was forced to stop for breath, and then she cried until she ran out of tears.
Some time later, after a long and uncomfortable silence, Avon asked, "How's Tarrant?"
Dayna looked up, startled by the question. "I'm not sure. Bad, I think. He's either sedated or unconscious. Neither he nor Deva is awake yet."
"Damned fool stunt he pulled, risking his life for mine," Avon said.
"Yes," Dayna agreed maliciously.
The silence resumed for several minutes. After a bit, Dayna worked up the nerve to ask, "Avon? What is she going to do to us?"
"Attempt to interrogate us, then kill us once she's through. I expect her methods of execution will be rather unpleasant." Avon made no effort to pretty up his words. "She wants any information she can get, but mostly she wants Orac. She'll likely offer to spare your life in return for cooperation - Soolin's sort of cooperation. And likely Soolin's reward, as well. I wouldn't trust her."
"No more than I would trust you," Rashel snapped.
"Just what did she offer you?" Vila asked. "Going to sell us out to save your own neck?"
"This isn't Malodaar, Vila."
Dayna looked up, startled by the non sequitar. What did that have to do with the price of peanuts on Procyon IX?
"You shot Blake - the wrong Blake -because you suspected him of betrayal," Vila reminded Avon unnecessarily. His face paled a trifle at the memory of the shuttle above Malodaar. "Did you suspect it because the thought was in your own twisted mind?"
"You did spend an awfully long time with her, Avon," Dayna remarked. "Just what did you and Servalan talk about all that time?"
"I wasn't with Servalan the whole time," Avon explained. "Her medical staff was giving me a very thorough examination."
Dayna looked at the bulge the bandages made under the strait-jacket. "Your wounds aren't all that serious.
After a moment's silence, Avon confessed, "It was a psychiatric examination."
The convalescent dormitory grew quiet again, except for the occasional rattling of chains.
"Here are the medical reports you requested, Commissioner," the ship's chief medical officer said as he handed Servalan the files.
She flipped through the reports as she spoke. "How serious is Avon's condition?"
"His physical condition is fairly good. It's a clean burn; he'll recover easily."
"And his mental condition?" Servalan asked.
"Borderline schizophrenia and mild post-traumatic stress disorder. Only just this side of the border, too. Apparently, the shock of killing the Blake-clone and realizing he'd just tried to kill his friend and leader snapped him back toward sanity. With therapy and medication, he could be completely cured. Or he's still close enough to the edge, we could drive him to total insanity if you preferred," the CMO offered.
Servalan smiled. Even in the Starfleet Medical Corps, competent doctors who were willing to put their duty to the Federation ahead of their silly professional ethics were rare. This one would have to be observed and marked for possible promotion.
"Cure him," Servalan ordered. "He'll be of more use to me sane. An amusing conceit, isn't it, the way he's convinced I'm the late president. Other than the fact we both have black hair, I can't see the slightest resemblance."
"Unfortunately, lie detectors can't differentiate between what is true and what the subject believes to be true," the CMO apologized. "I never had the pleasure of meeting President Servalan, so I wouldn't know," he continued, lying through his teeth. "Most likely, within his mind any powerful female whom he regards as an enemy is associated with Servalan."
Servalan continued skimming through the files, noting with amusement that Restal, V. was the only patient-prisoner to be completely unscathed. "How very like him," she murmured.
"By the way, one of the female prisoners is pregnant. I assume you'll want an abortion?"
"Which one?" Servalan asked sharply.
"The older one." The CMO glanced at the reports to confirm the name. "Rashel Blake."
"If her child was conceived by a clone made from Blake's DNA pattern, then genetically that child would be Roj Blake's, wouldn't it?" Servalan asked.
"From a purely biological point of view, yes. Genetically, there would be no difference between Blake and his clone. Therefore, there would be no biological difference between Roj Blake's actual offspring and any offspring sired by his clone," the CMO explained.
"Roj Blake's offspring," Servalan repeated under her breath.
"Shall I schedule the abortion for tomorrow?" he asked.
"No, don't abort."
"The drugs and punishments used during a standard interrogation session - let alone a prolonged series of interrogations - will either induce a miscarriage or result in a deformed baby," the CMO warned.
"We'll begin with just questioning," the commissioner decreed. "Nothing else yet. How far along is she? Does she know?"
"About six weeks, approximately. As for knowing, I don't think so. She didn't say anything, and I only just now got the test results back."
"Don't inform her," Servalan ordered. She gathered up the reports and left the CMO's office without listening to his "yes, ma'am." She headed to her own office to think.
"Blake's child, Blake's heir. Dangerous. The rebellion could become a jihad, waged in Blake's memory on behalf of his son. Blake's widow and orphan son - dangerous symbols. People would die for such symbols. They cannot be permitted to live, to establish a rival dynasty to my own."
Servalan smiled. When she was nine, she had announced her intention to eventually become Empress of the Universe. Her mother had laughed and said there wasn't any such office, and that she would have to settle for being President of the Federation. Well, she'd been president - and would again - and now an imperial throne lay within her grasp ... once she had ORAC.
"With Avon as my consort and counselor, and Tarrant ... He could be my heir." Servalan smiled again. It would be easy for a sophisticated, experienced woman like herself to bind Tarrant to her, and Del was a handsome boy. And unlike Avon, Tarrant would make an excellent lapdog. That was one feat Avon could never accomplish. Perhaps that was why she desired him so.
"Tarrant is greedy, ambitious, intelligent. It would be easy to train him as my heir. As for Blake's heir -" Servalan stopped as a new thought struck her. "Blake's heir as my heir apparent - the perfect puppet. Every rebel sympathizer in the galaxy would support a regime organized in his name. There's no reason I couldn't take over the Federation, instead of taking back the Federation and then destroying the rebellion. As regent, I would have unlimited power. I could train the child in my own image from birth to ensure he was a suitable heir. And if he failed the training, accidents can always be arranged." Smiling a third time, Servalan decided to let Rashel's child live. The only difficulty with the scheme, she regretted, was that she would have to remain Sleer and abandon her true identity.
And so a routine developed. Deva, Tarrant, and Avon were removed from the dormitory regularly for therapy and treatment. Deva and Tarrant were interrogated under drugs; Avon was merely questioned. Dayna and Vila were questioned under the Federation's traditional methods: drugs, deprivation of sleep and food, and physical pain. Vila's interrogations soon ended when he failed to produce any interesting answers. Instead, he was assigned to menial chores: scrubbing the decks, shining officers' boots, cleaning Sleer's cabin and office, and waiting on her hand and foot. Rashel was questioned, but not really interrogated, slapped occasionally, but never beaten. And while the others were fed twice a day, unless their interrogation schedule called for fasting, her medical examinations and questioning sessions were often scheduled at mid-day, so she was frequently given lunch once they were done. The ship remained in orbit over Gauda Prime as Sleer's men hunted for Orac.
And so things continued. Any prisoner not being interrogated was chained to his/her bed. Sometimes more than one prisoner was out of the dormitory, but they were only removed one at a time, under heavy guard. Hours became days; the days became a week.
Vila was carryinging a tray to Servalan when the knock came at her office. Before he could set down the tray and hobble over to open it, before she could give permission, the door slid open. A Federation Starfleet lieutenant stood there. Orac was in his hands.
"Oh, no." Vila dropped the tray.
"We've found it, Commissioner, we've found it," the lieutenant announced proudly.
Servalan observed Vila's reaction. "So you have. Bring it here." She pointed to a blank spot on her desk where Vila had been about to set down her lunch tray. "Well done, well done indeed." She pushed the intercom button and called the ship's commander. "This is Commissioner Sleer. Break orbit immediately and set a course for Earth."
"Yes, Commissioner."
"Lieutenant." She addressed the young officer.
"Yes, Commissioner," he replied, expecting an award or a commendation.
"If you ever enter my chambers without permission again, I'll have you demoted so low it'll take you a decade to work your way back up to private."
"Yes, Commissioner."
"So, Vila, this is Orac. How do I work it?" Servalan asked after the red-faced lieutenant had left.
"I don't know, honest I don't," Vila lied as he knelt on the floor wiping up the mess. "They wouldn't trust me with him."
"Him? It is a computer, Vila, only a machine. But what a machine," she murmured in delighted approval.
