Interrogation Room, IKS BortaS
Sunday 7th July 2391
The second day of the interrogations was by design, a little different. When Moragh arrived onboard the BortaS, he was told that as per his orders, the woman and child had been handed over to the Federation. He learned also that the final prisoner, the Betazoid who called himself Henry Smith, had spent much of the night shouting, demanding to know what had happened to his employees and blustering about his rights as a Federation citizen.
Moragh smiled in cold satisfaction when he heard that news. Having seen his compatriots removed one by one, and not returned, the remaining prisoner was scared and jumpy, probably thinking that they were dead – which they would be eventually, although only after several years of hard labour on the Klingon penal world of Rura Penthe… and that was just how Moragh wanted him.
The security captain had decided to throw the prisoner even further off balance, by not shouting and being violent, but by using something he had observed during his time on the Starbase – that calm Klingons unnerved people, sometimes even other Klingons. Since his arrival, he'd had very little free time, but he'd managed to discover a form of entertainment that had been very popular back in Earth's twentieth and twenty-first centuries called crime drama. The interview style commonly seen on these shows looked interesting, and he was keen to try it out – and if psychological methods didn't work, he could always for back on more traditionally Klingon ways of doing things.
Instead of carrying a padd, Moragh had replicated a folder and printed out the necessary information about the ringleader. Flicking through it briefly, he checked that it contained everything he needed, collected the relevant evidence box, and made his way into the interrogation room. The prisoner had been put in there about an hour ago and was sitting in the chair in front of the metal table, handcuffed and shackled. Two guards were watching him, and when Moragh arrived, they saluted and left.
For some time, Moragh sat quietly, not moving until the man in front of him began to shift and fidget nervously. Good… now it was time to begin. "So… Surjan Jasal, supposedly a disgraced Gul. I wonder…" he mused aloud, "what would someone have to do to be cast out by the Cardassians? Not that it matters, since you are not actually a Cardassian. It was a good disguise, I imagine… allowing you to deal with races not so friendly with the Federation. Tell me… did you kill the real Surjan Jasal? The Cardassians think you did, and they have a warrant out for your arrest. Did you know they convicted you in absentia? The penalty, naturally, was death, and they are happy for us to carry out the sentence on their behalf."
Leaning back in his seat and stretching out his legs in a very casual pose, he began to flip through the pages clipped to the folder. The rustling sound made by the paper was, he decided, rather satisfying, much better than using a padd. He took his time, aware that his odd behaviour was throwing the prisoner further off balance. This was not what was expected of a Klingon interrogator.
"Some of your people thought you were human, but our scans do not support this, Mr Smith." Extracting a sheet of paper, he placed it on the table, turning it so the prisoner could see it. "That is your DNA test result. We were quite surprised to find that you are a Betazoid. We've had a chat with the authorities of that world. They were very helpful and identified you as Edol Gador, a wanted criminal." The Klingon laughed at that. "Although you can't be very wanted, since they have no interest in getting you back."
The Betazoid security forces, he went on to explain, had provided a wealth of information – how every opportunity was made for Gador as a boy when it was discovered that he was not a telepath. How his paranoia over how he was treated because of this lack had grown into violent outbursts and finally violence against others. How he'd been hospitalised and treated several times but had escaped from the mental institution and disappeared. The official had told the Klingons that he was sad to say no one was sorry to see him go, especially not his traumatised family.
Now that he had the prisoner's full attention, Moragh opened the evidence box which he had placed on the table, and reached inside to extract the large, ornate ring that had caused so much damage to Rhiana's face. He was ready now to begin the real interrogation. "What a handsome piece of jewellery," he remarked, apparently casually, but watching his prisoner carefully as he spoke. "It's very heavy; I can appreciate how it might be useful as a weapon."
The truly interesting thing about it, he mused, was what they had discovered inside – the controls to Gador's holographic disguises. The small subcutaneous implant that produced the disguises had been found behind the ear and removed by a heavy-handed medic using no anaesthesia or medical instruments but his own d'k tahg.
Curiously, Moragh slid the ring onto his own hand. His fingers were larger than those of the prisoner, and it was tight and uncomfortable, the metal biting into his skin, but he managed it. Without changing the speculative expression on his face, as though he was considering keeping it or having one made for himself, he let fly with his fist and punched the man in the face, shattering the cheekbone and eliciting a scream of agony. No doubt Rhiana had screamed like that, he thought with cold satisfaction. "Tell me who hired you to kidnap the Klingon we found in your cells." The prisoner was not quick enough to reply, and almost casually, Moragh punched him again, this time in the eye.
After an hour of intense questioning, and a number of broken bones and other injuries, Moragh came to the conclusion that his prisoner really didn't know the identity of the person who had employed him to abduct and interrogated Krang. He did have the name of the middleman, but as he'd suspected, the organisation functioned in a very compartmentalised way, no one knowing the identity of anyone outside their group.
That was not to say that the interrogation had been a complete waste of time. Some useful information had been gleaned, such as the name of the ship that had brought Krang to the asteroid, and an alert would be put out for a profit-class freighter known as the Two Drink Minimum, registered to the Ferengi Trading Alliance. No such ship had been anywhere near the starbase, and Moragh realised immediately that there must have been a rendezvous somewhere, followed by a transfer of cargo.
"It's most unfortunate," Moragh said eventually, "that you have nothing further to tell us. I would have enjoyed continuing this session a little longer. There does not seem to be much point in using the mind-sifter." Cutting short the man's look of relief at that, he added, "I believe we are finished. I should tell you that the man you tortured is a close friend and I have sworn an oath of vengeance on behalf of his family."
The man's relief was already turning to fear – or more accurately, terror – as Moragh continued. "Edol Gador, by my authority as a security captain of Klingon Imperial Intelligence, I hereby judge you guilty and condemn you to death, sentence to be carried out immediately."
He was still wearing the man's ring, and with no hesitation, he lashed out one final time, delivering a heavy blow to the man's temple. He'd used his full strength and the oversized jewel shattered the skull, killing him instantly. Removing his d'k tahg from his belt, Moragh clicked it open and with a swift gesture, took the dead man's ear. If Krang survived, he'd show it to him as evidence of justice done and vengeance taken.
Wiping his knife clean again, he returned it to the sheath on his belt, and with some difficulty removed the ring. Eventually getting it past the now swollen knuckle, he dropped it into the evidence box and called for the 'trash' to be removed.
Moragh's Quarters, Tuesday 9th July 2391
The door sliding shut behind him, Moragh kicked off his armoured boots and breathed a sigh of relief at the feel of the carpet under his tired, aching feet. He eyed the discarded boots with disfavour, wondering momentarily if he could persuade Lorgh to change the uniform regulations in favour of something a little more like the ones that Krang had long since started wearing – equally smart, but lighter, missing those khest'n useless horns, and most importantly, they were comfortable to wear.
Padding across the room, he removed a small, pale pink velvet pouch from his pocket – he'd seen the colour in Arwen's room, so he was fairly sure that she would like it – and then thew himself down on the far too soft sofa, taking a momentary delight in the way he sank into its upholstered depths.
Banishing the errant thought of what he could do with his wife on such a surface if only she were not so far away on Qo'noS, he unfastened the drawstring and tipped the little box that it contained into his hand.
Made out of a beautifully polished wood that he'd been told was olive, a wood that was much prized on Earth. it was what the jeweller had called a puzzle box and part of the challenge was to figure out the trick of opening it.
He grinned, wondering how long it would take Arwen to figure out how it worked – not very long, he suspected; she was an intelligent, resourceful child.
He opened the box, albeit with some difficulty. He knew the trick, but his fingers were too large to easily operate the hidden catch. Lined with the same pink velvet, the box was home to a delicate silver bracelet. The security captain nodded in satisfaction; the jeweller had done an outstanding job.
Moragh had found the tiny jewellery shop half hidden between two larger stores on the upper promenade, one of them an old-fashioned toy shop and the other one selling books, real ones made of paper. He had been looking for something special and Leandra had recommended this place. It was not a chain store selling mass produced pieces, she'd told him, but a proper artisanal jeweller's shop. From the outside, it did not look anything special, but as soon as he walked in, Moragh knew he was in the right place.
An old-fashioned chime jangled as the door opened, and an elderly man – or at least, he looked old to Moragh's eyes – looked up. Mostly bald, with a crown of grey/white hair, he had vivid blue eyes, although only one was visible, the other being hidden behind some sort of round eyepiece that gave him a Borg-like look. He blinked his eye a few times, studied Moragh and then reached up and removed the device, revealing a perfectly normal looking second eye behind it. "Oh, hello. NuqneH? What can I do for you?"
Moragh explained what he wanted – a pendant with a silver ear hanging from it. Seeing the puzzled look on the jeweller's face, he'd quickly explained, albeit not truthfully since he didn't think the man needed to know what had really happened, that was a token for his niece to show approval over a recent incident where she had listened well and honourably.
Learning that the niece was a human ten-year-old, the jeweller thought for a moment before suggesting that a charm bracelet might be more suitable, and after a little back and forth, some more charms were chosen to adorn it.
Managing to recall several things he knew about the child from conversations with Chrissie over the years, he chose dancing shoes, and something called a unicorn that he was assured was very popular with human girls of that age. To finish, he decided on one that like the ear would have to be custom made – a d'k tahg with two tiny jewels in its hilt, one a ruby and the other an amethyst, the choice of jewels holding a symbolism that he did not bother explaining to the jeweller. There was plenty of room for more ears to be added at a later date. should there prove to be any additions to the oath.
Agreeing on a time to pick it the finished piece, he'd gone back to his office quite pleased with himself all round.
Wednesday 10th July 2391, late afternoon
"You can go home now."
Rhiana was not quite sure how she felt about that. In one sense the doctor's words came as a relief; certainly it would be good to get out of hospital. But home? Where or what was that? They meant her quarters on the starbase, she supposed, although where they were located and what they were like, she could not imagine.
And he would be there. Sorahl, he'd called himself. The Vulcan male who claimed to be her husband. That was ridiculous She was Romulan, a Tal Shiar colonel. Why would she have married a Vulcan, let alone that one in particular? Sure, he looked nice enough, but he didn't seem to be anything special, and she could not see that they would have anything in common. So why had she married him, especially when an unsanctioned marriage to an alien, especially one who was telepathic, would have put her career in serious jeopardy? Maybe, she speculated, it had been a marriage of convenience, a cover for some mission that she could not remember. If it was, then it had to be a one-sided thing, a plot of which he was not aware. The look in his eyes and the tenderness of his expression had shouted all too loudly of the deep, abiding love he felt for her.
She checked the link thing in her head but could feel nothing from him. Either she just wasn't good enough to access it on her own, or he'd shut it down at his end and locked her out. That was good, she told herself stubbornly; why would she want anyone messing about in her mind?
She'd had some intensive therapy over the few days and by now, she could remember pretty much everything up to the end of the Dominion War – her childhood, her time with the Tal Shiar, the mission that had led to her capture by the Jem'Hadar. The months of captivity, the humidity and heat of that wretched jungle planet. The constant hunger, and being forced to fight, until beyond all hope, rescue in the form of a joint Federation/Klingon taskforce.
The images were bright and clear in her mind as though it had been yesterday. After that, though, it all began to fragment into nothingness. Except, oddly, pictures that she did not recognise, memories that could not possibly be hers.
She is eight years old and alone in a vast desert. She is not truly alone, of course. There are other children out there somewhere, but she may not interact with them no matter how dire the circumstances – to do so is to fail automatically.
The sands are burning hot and even through her utility boots, she can feel the heat. It has been nine and a half days now, and she is exhausted, hungry and dehydrated, her once pristine robe torn and dirty. High up in the crimson sky, a bird calls out. Her body hurts, and every step is an effort, but she continues to plod forward, one foot after the other.
Her destination is the rocky outcropping where the adults are waiting. It is maybe a mile away, but it seems more like a hundred. She trips and falls, landing face down in the burning sand. A part of her wants to just stay there, close her eyes and sleep, but logic drives her to her feet again, telling her that she has come this far, that her destination is in sight, and she will not fail. She keeps going, step by step…
Solkar had explained that the memory belonged to her bondmate. The desert was Vulcan's Forge and the bird crying overhead was a kravohk, a bird that was both hunter and scavenger. She did not need him to tell her that the child was Sorahl and that she was witnessing… no, experiencing, was a better word… his kahs-wan ritual, the traditional test of a child's maturity and the first major step on the path to logic.
It was disconcerting to say the least – he was a stranger to her and yet she carried his memories. Was the opposite true? With sudden hope, she looked up at Solkar. "Healer, has he... has Sorahl…" The name sounded odd on her lips, yet at the same time, there was something right about it, and she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "Has he got my memories? Can we retrieve them?"
"He will indeed," Solkar said impassively. "Although there is no way of knowing which memories. Certainly he will be able to restore those of your time together, but given your continued refusal to speak with him, I do not believe that you are quite ready for that."
Guilt surged and she looked away. "I did not mean to hurt him. I just… I don't know who he is."
If she'd expected Solkar to absolve her with a comment about Vulcans not feeling emotional pain, she was disappointed. "The damage to your brain is physical, Rhiana. As it heals, we will be able to work on repairing the memory engrams through a mixture of talking therapy and mind melds."
Hope returned again. "Do you really think you can fix me?"
"Mental health and injuries to the mind are my specialty," he reminded her. "Yes, Rhiana, I can help you, although you must understand that I cannot guarantee a full return of all memory. Now, are you ready to begin?"
Over the three days of therapy, she'd begun to build up a rapport with Solkar, although she would not deny that there were moments when frustration got the better of her and she thought that she hated him, only to repent when a new memory was teased out from its hiding place. Oddly, or so it seemed to her, it was her recent undercover mission, or at least, bits and pieces of it, that had returned first. Maybe, she guessed, and Solkar confirmed it, that it was exactly because of its recentness. Whatever the reason, it seemed appropriate somehow, that her earlier memories ended with Krang rescuing her from the Dominion prison camp and began again with her attempting to rescue him.
Of course, it wasn't really a bad thing. Those memories were important to the investigation, and frightened that she'd forget again, she'd insisted on an immediate debriefing, much against medical advice. Wincing internally at the thought of how unpardonably rude she'd been to the Klingon, who had come at her request and had not deserved her bad temper, she decided that she would apologise the next time she saw him.
The doctor that was talking to her now was not one she had seen before. "You'll need to return for outpatients' appointments, of course," he continued, barely glancing up from the text he was reading on his padd and completely oblivious to her lack of attention. "All the information is in the discharge notes." He handed her the padd. "If you have no further questions, you are free to go."