Note: Apologies in advance for torturing the Irony Monkey. What can I say? Sloan's methods are unconscionable, and that does not get adequately discussed.
Part VII, Act I: Manhandled
From out of a drunken dream of darkness, Julian awoke with a start. As he sucked in a gasp of cold air, a hard, calloused palm clamped down over his mouth. Thumb and forefinger pinched off his nose, and suddenly he could not breathe.
His vision was blurred, and in the moment of insensible panic he could not make his eyes focus. He tried instinctively to cry out, but his throat was dry and his lips were sealed and he managed only a muffled moan. Cold breath, smelling sourly of thiamine and rancid oil, gusted over his left cheek and whistled in his ear as his assailant leaned close.
"Not a sound, Doctor," Enabran Tain whispered. "It wouldn't take much to wake the others, and you don't want them to see us like this, now do you?"
Julian lay very still, his heart hammering at sixty-five beats per minute. He tried to slow it, knowing he'd run out of air more rapidly if he did not. He couldn't do it: he was far too weak to modulate his vital signs. He was too weak to fight off the Cardassian, too. Worse, the pressure on his jaw and teeth was causing ripples of pain to spider out into his broken zygoma. They were just warning shots for now, like the tectonic tremors that presaged a massive volcanic eruption, but although it shamed him to admit it, he feared the pain. There had been too much pain already, and he knew there was more to come. He didn't need to have Enabran Tain seek it out.
"You're going to tell me what you took and where you got it," Tain hissed, leaning so close now that he could have licked Julian's ear without stretching his neck. A shudder of revulsion joined the low, baseline shivering that was his body's feeble defence against the deep chill of orbital night. He wanted to pull back so that he could writhe away from the old man, but the knowledge of his fractured scapula prevented him. Now, the pain was almost bearable. If he moved or struggled, it would explode again.
Tain's other hand was below, clamped around Julian's right wrist so that his one useable hand was immobilized. In his current weakened state, he was easily restrained. And he was running out of air: his lungs were burning, and his mouth kept trying to suck in something breathable agains the seal of the Cardassian's palm.
"I'll allow you three breaths," Tain informed him pleasantly. "Use them wisely, Doctor: tell me what I want to know."
The pincers on his nostrils released, and the hand withdrew from his mouth. Julian gulped in twin lungfuls of air, ignoring the ache in his bruised ribs and the fire in his back as he did so. He blinked wildly to clear his vision, and forced himself to focus on the serenely grinning face floating above him. He took another breath, this one more steadying. Then he sucked in a third.
Instantly, the hand was back, more forceful than before. When his nostrils were pinched this time, Julian could smell blood. Enabran Tain looked down at him with almost paternal disappointment.
"I did try to warn you, Doctor," he said. "Three breaths. You wasted them."
Wasted them trying to breathe! Julian's mind protested. Something of his angry indignity must have shown in his eyes, because Tain's shoulders shook with a silent chuckle. "You'll get another chance," he murmured. "I don't plan on suffocating you tonight. I just want you to learn that I mean what I say."
He leaned near again, so that he did not need to put any force at all into the words he poured directly into Julian's auditory canal. "Miraculously able-bodied for the count, and ground back to uselessness again after the meal," he murmured. "You took something: a drug. Tell me what it was and how you obtained it. I'll give you two breaths this time. Fail me again, and you'll only get one."
Julian's mind, embodied as it was in a brain that had been recently rattled around his skull like a marble in a gourd, was not quite adroit enough to concoct a convincing story while battling the need for air. He focused his wits on controlling his diaphragm so that when Tain withdrew his hand again, Julian took a slow, deep, steady breath, making the best use of his limited allotment. And then, more lucid, he decided that the closer he kept to the truth, the better.
"It's a stimulant," he said, speaking rapidly in the hope that if what he said now was compelling enough, Tain wouldn't cut him off again once he took a second breath. "A dental implant. I'm supposed to use it if I'm captured and interrogated. It gives—" He was out of air, and he had to draw in more. He froze, expecting the palm to descend again.
Instead, Tain tilted his head and smiled. "Go on," he purred.
"It gives a brief burst of energy and pain-suppression," said Julian. "It's supposed to give an officer an opportunity to escape, or to get somewhere they can call for help."
"Or procure the means to kill themselves?" asked Tain.
Julian was warming into his story. It wasn't so different from what he did in the holosuite, really. Julian Bashir, Secret Agent was a master prevaricator. The stakes were higher here, but the principle was the same: commit to the yarn. His left eye narrowed. The right couldn't, really. The swelling around his eye socket was less now than it had been, but he still couldn't open the eye more than five millimetres. At least he was now quite certain his vision had not been compromised by the fracture.
"Starfleet doesn't ask that of its people," he said coldly.
Tain laughed, a noiseless susurration of mirth that chilled Julian's fevered blood. "Of course they don't," he mocked. Then he leaned in again, far, far too close for comfort. "And they don't give their personnel dental implants to guard against torture, either, Doctor. You're not talking to some doddering Gul, you know. I know more about Starfleet Intelligence and their methods than you can imagine… and much more than you know yourself."
Julian's empty stomach flopped. That was probably true. But then again…
"You quite likely do," he whispered. "But you've been out of contact for almost two years, Tain. Things have changed. The war with the Klingons, the rising threat of the Dominion… Starfleet's had to implement new policies."
Tain considered this. For what seemed like an eternity he hovered there, tightly clamped fingers digging into the sinews of Julian's wrist while his other hand lay curled just under the human's chin, ready to muffle his mouth or grab him by the throat — or, Julian thought darkly, to dig a thumb into his broken cheek. He tried to keep that fear from flashing through his eyes, and maintained a steady gaze. He resisted the urge to keep talking. Silence was more believable than the most elaborate lie.
"And why would they implement this policy for medical personnel?" Tain asked at last, thoughtful. "Surely a doctor isn't at a significant risk for capture and interrogation."
"I'm not just a doctor," said Julian. "I'm Chief Medical Officer at one of the most strategically important outposts in the Quadrant. As for being at risk of capture and interrogation, the Dominion thought I was worth capturing — and you're interrogating me right now."
Tain's eyes widened in momentary surprise, and he laughed again. This time, it was actually an audible chuckle. "I see why Garak likes you, Doctor. You're a very witty man. And you're impudent. Garak always was drawn to impudence." He planted his hand across Julian's forehead, then withdrew it and chafed his fingers together. "Is Garak aware of just how warm your skin is? It's fascinating."
This non sequitur caught Julian off-guard. "I'm running a fever," he said, before he could think that maybe this was something he'd rather Enabran Tain didn't know.
"Hmm." Tain twisted his lips in lazy disdain. Then he fixed gleaming eyes on his subject again. "So it's a dental implant. What's the drug?"
Julian thought about trying to bluff. But he couldn't think of another medication that had all the characteristics of this one, and he didn't know if Tain knew enough about Federation pharmacology to recognize a disparity between properties and symptoms. He gave a small, painful shake of his head. "I can't tell you that," he said. "It's classified. Federation medical secrets."
There was a twist of amusement in his voice and in his heart as he said those words. He remembered the first time he'd uttered them, shambling eagerly from level to level in Ops like a child on a playground apparatus, carried away with the excitement of his first posting and the thrill of wild speculation. What do you think he might want from you, Julian, Jadzia had asked, teasing lightly. He had been startled and fascinated by the question. I don't know… Federation medical secrets? Rest assured, they're safe with me, Commander!
I'm sure they are, Doctor Bashir, Sisko had said, almost too earnestly. He had never had fun at the expense of his brash and overly imaginative junior officer. Julian felt the tired urge to smile. Had he ever really been that young?
Tain sat back on his heels with a heavy grunt. The bruising grip on Julian's wrist released, and both the Cardassian's hands withdrew into his lap. "If you had told me what it was, I wouldn't have believed any of it," he said. "As it is, I'm still not convinced that Starfleet would resort to such strategies. You humans seem to regard your teeth as your own personal property."
Julian arched his eyebrows. Weren't they? But he wasn't going to let Tain goad him into protesting too much. "Believe me, or don't," he said tiredly. "I don't answer to you."
"Not yet," Tain sang, a low lilt of knowing hauteur that might have frightened Julian at a less overburdened time. The Cardassian hefted himself to his feet, gripping the nearby table for support. Once he was upright, he reached down to pat Julian's exposed left shoulder.
He had to have known how the simple, companionable gesture would hurt. It awoke the exhausted clusters of sensory nerves, and sent lightning arcs of pain down into Julian's arm. Every muscle on that side of his body seemed to clench protectively, which of course made the situation worse. Deeper, more pernicious bolts exploded from his scapula, lancing his heart and pulverizing his lung, and momentarily blinding him with misery. Julian's breath slithered out in a strained hiss of anguish, and he screwed his eyes tightly closed against sudden tears of pain.
"Ooh!" Tain made a noise of unconvincing contrition. "You'll have to forgive me, Doctor. Seems I'm growing forgetful in my old age. I do hope you have a pleasant night's sleep."
Julian heard him move off, but he was too far gone in pain to care. As he fought his rebellious body and felt its weakness and the slow, steady drain of the fever dragging him down, his last fragile, despairing thought was that he'd never be able to stand for the count today…
(fade)
He couldn't even sit up. Kalenna tried to help him, then called for Parvok. Finally, Martok nudged his way in and managed to lift Julian off of the thin pallet and turn him so that his feet were on the floor and the rail of the cot dug into the back of his lean thighs, but Julian couldn't maintain the position unassisted. If the others tried to withdraw their bracing arms, he swayed and started to sag. Finally, Kalenna tucked his arms so that his elbow was braced across his lap, and they helped him to curl forward, his brow just brushing his knees. It was a terrible, painful contortion for his ravaged back, and it stretched and strained the muscles around his damaged kidney. That whole section of his abdominal cavity had an inflamed, pulpy feeling to it now, and it was fast becoming the focal point for Julian's myriad miseries. He could feel the waves of heat rising from his body as he burned with fever. He was shivering again.
"He can't walk," Kalenna said, her voice quiet and very strained. "He'll never be able to stand for the count."
"Is there anything to be done to aid him?" Martok asked in a low, guarded way that made Julian wonder where Tain was. He couldn't lift his head to look. Even the shadows of his lap were blurred and indistinct. "Does he…"
There was a whisper of hair as Kalenna shook her head. "Parvok was with the military, not the Tal Shiar. I doubt we could convince any other operatives to give up their own doses for anyone, much less a Starfleet officer. And there is no time."
"We have to bring him out with us," said Parvok. "If he's not missing for the count, at least he'll be the only one who's punished."
"Is that all you can think of, Romulan?" Martok growled. "What his condition will cost you?"
Julian wanted to speak up in the man's defence, and to tell the General that if there was any way he could prevent others from suffering for his failings, he had to do it. But he couldn't find his voice.
"The Sub-Lieutenant is correct," Kalenna said tightly. The words clearly cost her, but Julian felt a wave of gratitude as she explained. "You have seen how he protects those around him — even at great personal cost. He is not a man who would allow others to pay for his weakness."
Martok growled. "Weakness?" he spat contemptuously.
"Physical weakness," said Kalenna, enunciating to emphasize the distinction. "It is no criticism, General: only the cold truth."
The warrior hissed in disgust. "Perhaps if he would keep his opinions to himself, I would be less inclined to look for insults where none exist. Whatever we are going to do, we must do it now."
"There's only one think we can do," said Parvok. "You said yourself that they want him alive for some reason: if that's true, they won't kill him for failing to stand. But if he fails to appear at all, other people are going to die. We've all seen it before."
Julian hadn't. He was afraid to ask for details. He hated that he was afraid, but he couldn't help it. His cheekbone throbbed, ill-adapted to a position that significantly increased bloodflow to the head. His brain, at least, seemed appreciative. The fog of concussion seemed thinner, and his higher reasoning skills were returning. The cube root of 5976, to six significant digits, was 18.1469.
Someone was bending over him. He hoped whoever it was, they wouldn't touch him. Right now his pains had found a sort of equilibrium. Any additional sensory burden might upset that.
They didn't touch him. It was Kalenna. She said quietly, "Doctor? Are you listening? What do you want to do?"
"I have to go out," Julian said, forcing the words past his throat before the physician part of his mind protested. What he needed, absent the potential for any actual medical treatment, was strict bed rest. A patient in his condition in his own Infirmary — assuming for some unimaginable reason he couldn't simply treat them — wouldn't even have been allowed bed-to-chair transfers or a trip to the toilet, much less be made to get up and walk twenty metres to try to stand at attention for an hour and a half.
But what choice did he have? Surely that was the point of such a prison: to rob the inmates of choices, autonomy, the dignity that came from feeling empowered to control their own bodies? At least, Julian imagined that was what the Dominion wanted. Starfleet prisoner of war camps were different: secure but comfortable, clean, with the needs of the captives adequately met. Denying food, water, sleep, hygiene or medical care to anyone, even enemy combatants, was antithetical to the founding principles of the Federation. It was unimaginable that Starfleet officers would resort to such tactics.
Feelings of wounded moral superiority weren't going to help him get through this next ordeal. Julian closed his right hand on his kneecap and slowly, agonizingly, pushed himself up into an approximation of a sitting position. His scapula ground painfully, and he thought he would faint — or vomit. But he didn't. He blinked up at the others: Kalenna, at his side, Martok looming above, Parvok hanging back a couple of paces. The Breen was standing by the door, exiled from this conversation as they were from all the others. There was no sign of Tain.
"The doors are open already?" Julian rasped. He hadn't realized he had so little time.
Kalenna glanced at Martok, and nodded. She seemed to want to say something, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. Her eyes flicked to the cot, its pillow askew and the ill-smelling blanket in disarray. Julian understood.
"We need to make the bed," he murmured.
"Yes," Kalenna said. Now it was she who sounded hoarse.
Julian held out his good arm to Martok. "General, can you help me?" he asked.
Martok's expression hardened resolutely. "Gladly, Doctor," he said. He gripped Julian's forearm with is right hand, and slipped the left into his armpit. Julian took a firm, hasty hold just above the Klingon's bracer, determined to do as much of the lifting as he was able in the hope of sparing too much strain on the other man's healing elbow.
It was a noble thought, but he didn't have the strength to act on it. When he tried to pull himself up of his own accord, his muscles tensed painfully and his body strained, but he did no more than rock feebly against the rail of the cot. For a second it seemed that he would not move at all, but then Martok exerted the necessary force and Julian was drawn up onto quaking legs. He swayed perilously, his head swimming with the sudden change in altitude, and Martok closed the distance between them. Julian was clinging to his arm like a drowning swimmer might cling to a rock, and his head dropped down to rest heavily against Martok's armoured shoulder. The hand under his arm slipped around to grip his back, well below the plane of the outraged shoulder-blade. Julian's body wanted to sink to the floor, but the warrior would not let him fall.
The roar in his ears subsided as the peril of unconsciousness passed, and Julian found himself still upright, chiefly by virtue of the larger man's firm grasp. The edge of the wing-like shoulder plate was digging into his brow, and Julian slowly eased the weight of his pendulous head back onto his own neck.
Something brushed the back of his calf: Kalenna was leaning in to straighten the flat, striped pillow on the cot. She moved swiftly to shake out the blanket.
"Can you walk?" Martok asked. "I will assist you."
"I can try," breathed Julian. He was desperate for a mouthful of water, but he didn't quite dare to ask for one. It might just come up again, if not here then out in the atrium. He didn't know how much was left in his second bottle, either. For some reason, he couldn't quite learn to keep meticulous account of his ration. He knew his brain ought to be able to do it, but instead he kept losing track. Some part of him still took water for granted.
It's the part of you that's still free, a voice deep in his mind murmured. It reminded him of Major Kira. Hold onto that, Julian: don't reprimand it. It's important.
At the moment, he couldn't quite see why. Martok was turning now, guiding him towards the door. Julian's feet were sluggish and clumsy, catching against the floor and then stumbling forward to compensate. Parvok stepped hurriedly out of the way, into the corner by the head of Kalenna's cot.
They were halfway to the exit when the door flew open with a shriek and a bang. Julian's whole body jolted as if with an electric shock, his overtaxed nerves too tightly strung to suppress a brutal startle reflex. Martok's hold on him tightened in response, refusing to let him fall. The Klingon went very still, and it was only then that Julian realized it was not Tain, returning from the waste reclamation room, who had opened the door. Three Jem'Hadar soldiers were striding militantly across the threshold, deploying themselves in a tight delta formation in the middle of the room. The Second, whose handiwork Julian had been enjoying for the last three days, was in the lead.
Parvok was trying to press himself as far into the corner as he could. The Breen stood like a statue just inside the door: they hadn't even stepped back when the Jem'Hadar brushed past. Behind him, Julian could feel that Kalenna had gone very still. Invasions of the barracks by the guards were rare, apart from the largely unwitnessed morning inspection. Julian's first coherent thought was horrifying.
The power drain. They've noticed it. They ran a diagnostic, and saw the anomalous fluctuations, and now…
The Second curled his lip contemptuously. "He," he spat, jerking his spiny head at Julian; "is to come with us."
He levelled his plasma rifle at General Martok's heart. "Step aside, Klingon," he commanded.
Julian felt Martok's chest swell with defiant pride. "No," he said boldly, as if speaking before the High Council itself. The single syllable filled the narrow room.
The Second stepped forward, a sidling, combative movement that was more a swaying of the hips than a proper stride. He leaned in over his weapon and bared his teeth. "The First wishes to keep you alive, Klingon," he sneered. "He sees tactical value in having the men defeat you time and again, even now that you are feeble and useless. I do not share his interest in your species. I will not hesitate to end your wretched life if you defy me."
"End it, then, and do not toy with me," Martok declaimed. "But I will not yield this man to your mercies."
The Second smiled slowly, looking more than ever like a monster out of the kind of books Julian had devoured in his preteen years. "If this is too honourable, Klingon, I can think of some more fitting end for you. Vented into space, perhaps? I am told it is a most… undignified way to die."
Martok's expression did not change, but Julian felt him stiffen. He had a vague idea that the honour or dishonour of a Klingon's death had grave ramifications for their descendants, much like other forms of disgrace. In any case, he was not about to let any of his cellmates take his place: he was the one who had earned the displeasure of the Vorta, and he was the one who should face the consequences of that recklessness.
"Do what you must," growled Martok. "But I will not surrender him."
Julian forced his aching fingers to release their hold on Martok's arm. "General, let me go," he said quietly. He wished the words were steadier, but it was all that he could manage. Trying to swallow his terror and to master his legs, he took a tottering half-step away from the support of the warrior's solid body. Almost at once he felt his knees buckling.
He didn't fall. The Second seized him by the elbow — thankfully, the right one — and spun around to fling Julian at the nearest of his subordinates. Julian stumbled, toppling forward, but the guard had a hold on him and he was not allowed to crash to the floor. The other one was swooping in now, grabbing him from the other side. The clamped hand that closed upon his left humerus jarred the bone and jostled everything attached to it. Julian's lips parted in a noiseless gasp of agony.
He was only peripherally aware of the way they manhandled him, turning him and shaking him between them as he hung limp between them. All the strength was gone from his legs, and his knees were made of rubber. He made a brief, painful effort to scramble along between them as they started to drag him through the door, but he couldn't do it. He caught a glimpse of Parvok's ashen face, eyes wild with horror, and then they were out in the corridor, turning sharply towards the atrium.
But what about the count? Julian thought wildly. The count…
Something hard and cylindrical jabbed him in the small of the back, just to the right of his spine. The sharp little frisson of pain startled him, and he was so thankful it hadn't struck him on the left.
He must have spoken aloud.
"You have been excused from the count," the Second said with grim relish. They were the last words Julian could make sense of for some time after that.
(fade)
The journey seemed to last an eternity. He was semiconscious, kept from welcoming oblivion by the sudden, sharp bursts of fresh and unexpected pain. If any of his injuries had simply put forth a steady, constant protest of agony, Julian thought it would have overwhelmed him. But none of them did. He was jerked in one direction, then the other, first stretching then compressing the fracture in his scapula. Just when he started to grow accustomed to that rhythm, his head would bob as the guards altered course, and the knot of his jaw would bounce off his collarbone: blinding anguish flared through his face. His dangling, dragging legs were a leaden weight pulling on his torso, tractioning his lumbar spine and stretching the abused musculature of his flank. And his right knee hurt, too, which seemed patently unfair. It had been improving, and now it hurt again. Julian resented that.
He heard a distant crackle that he felt sure he should be able to identify, and then his whole body stiffened at the squalling clang of another door. Someone spoke, but he couldn't make out the words or even identify the voice. Rough hands seized his ankles, and suddenly his legs were drawn up behind him and his head and shoulders tipped forward. They laid him roughly on his stomach, across a hard, ridged, and bitterly cold surface that seemed to burn him even through the layers of his uniform. His right temple hit the grill beneath him before the rest of his head, sparing his cheekbone from the worst of the impact. There, at least, the chill was welcome. After the first flare of sensory protestation, he felt the inflamed tissue grow slowly numb.
The door opened again, and this time Julian could understand the words.
"You are dismissed," a woman said, coolly disdainful. "My own men will attend this prisoner. Return to your other duties."
"Yes, Vorta!" the Second said crisply. His voice had a defensive note to it that told Julian he wasn't happy with this order. But the door shrieked again, and there was silence.
No, not quite silence. Under the low hiss of the life support system that circulated the dry and pitilessly cold air through the prison, he could hear the hum and whistle of microprocessors and isolinear circuitry. It was the sound of a computer terminal: a powerful and complex one. The only such terminal he had seen in this place was in Deyos's office. Julian tried to open his eyes, so that he could confirm his location. It required entirely too much effort: he couldn't do it.
He was aware that his breathing was shallow and ragged. The pain was settling into a new configuration, now that he was horizontal again and no one was tugging on his broken bones. He felt the almost irresistible draw of unconsciousness, like quicksand sucking at the limbs of a panicking man. He wanted so badly to float towards it, but his survival instincts would not let him.
He was in an unfamiliar situation in an unconfirmed location. There was a stranger in the room with him. A woman, presumably a Vorta. The Vorta doctor? Ikat'ika had said she would arrive in twenty hours. That had been… Julian didn't know. A long time ago. The Dominion Standard Day shouldn't have complicated his ability to track the passage of time, not this badly. But it was hard to do even simple math in this amphitheatre of pain his head had become. Roaring, jeering voices from a thousand tortured neurons clamoured for his attention.
He heard the crisp clack of shoes on the stone floor. It conjured up memories of Quark's: elegant dabo girls on improbably tall shoes, moving sylph-like through the swirls of warm colour. It made Julian think of Leeta. And it puzzled him. High heels? he thought. A Vorta wearing high heels? It seemed so… impractical.
"What is this?" the woman said frigidly. She had made a full circuit around him now, and her voice stopped just off to port, an indeterminate distance above Julian's head. "Explain yourself."
He couldn't explain any of it. He didn't want to try. The Dominion was responsible for this: let her go to them for her explanations.
"It's the human," a rigid and subtly defensive voice answered. Julian felt himself relax a little as he realized that he wasn't expected to speak after all. She had been asking the Dominion — well, Deyos, anyhow. The commandant of the camp didn't seem very happy to be questioned, either.
"Your orders were very clear," the woman snapped. She sounded angry and disgusted. "The specimen was to be properly preserved until my arrival. The human was to be kept alive."
"He is alive," said Deyos. He was trying to sound dispassionate, but he wasn't quite succeeding. "He is insolent and disobedient. It was necessary to make an example of him. Order must be maintained in the camp."
He's afraid of her, Julian thought distantly. That was strangely satisfying.
"The camp is not my concern," said the woman frostily. "If you cannot maintain discipline and and obey higher directives at the same time, perhaps you are unfit for your position."
"There has never been any question of my fitness for my position!" Deyos yelped. "I have been engineered and trained for such duties, and I perform them with excellence. No other internment camp is as orderly as this one. No other Vorta has achieved such a record of sustained efficiency and security. And I am the one entrusted with the most difficult of prisoners. The captives from the Alpha Quadrant are known for their defiance and their stubbornness, and none of them are more stubborn than this human!"
He seemed to want to say more, but he had run out of arguments. Julian could hear him huffing and fuming. When the woman spoke again, her voice was laced with icy contempt.
"I do not care how stubborn he is," she said. "You were informed that I would be returning to perform further tests, and that he was to be kept in a fit state to be examined. Does this look like a fit state to you?"
"He was sedated the first time," said Deyos. "Just how fit do you really need him?"
The first time… Julian felt his heart shrivel to a stone in his chest. Was this Vorta the one who had overseen his abduction? Was she the one who had drugged him and dragged him across the Galaxy? The spectre of that lost span of time loomed up hauntingly before him. What had been done to him while he lay there, helpless and unaware? And what did his kidnappers want with him now?
The female Vorta hissed in cold disapproval, clearly disgusted by the question. "You will explain his state, at once."
"Later," said Deyos. "It's time for the count."
"I care nothing for your count!" said the woman sharply. Julian flinched involuntarily at her tone, regretting it at once as a dozen daggers of fresh anguish lanced through his limbs and his trunk and his head. When the Vorta spoke again, her tone was silken and perilous. "Your First can conduct the count today. You are needed here, to answer for your actions. For the glory of the Dominion."
"For the glory of the Dominion," Deyos echoed hollowly. Julian heard him move towards the door. Unctuously, he said; "I will just step out to inform the First—"
"Fifth Gorotok'ren!" said the woman. "You will inform the First. And you will contact the vessel and have the invasive equipment beamed down again. It appears I will have to make some modifications to the specimen before I can evaluate him."
Panic seized Julian. Modifications? What did that mean? What the hell was she planning to do to him?
He stiffened, his left foot scrabbling for purchase against the ribbed surface under him. His right arm was pinned beneath him, and he had to roll to the left in order to free it. He found the edge of whatever he was lying on. It was a corner, rounded off where three planes met like the walls of a box. He gripped it, tried to lift himself, could not find the strength.
And a scaly hand clamped down on his wrist. Another closed on his hip, fingers digging around the crest of his pelvis. Two more seized his ankles.
"Lie still," the Vorta female said silkily, no compassion in her voice. There was no wrath, either, and Julian supposed he ought to be grateful for slender mercies. But his skin was crawling with horror and revulsion, and he still could not quite manage to open his eyes. He was functionally blind, completely at the mercy of the Jem'Hadar who held him and this woman who had snatched him away from his life. When a cold, uncannily smooth hand descended on his brow, pinning his head to the shelf beneath him, Julian felt a fissure of despair open up in his chest.
"Just lie still," the woman repeated. "You will suffer only as much as you cause yourself to suffer."
(fade)