KVorlag

K’Vorlag felt the bile in his mouth as he snatched up the neurocortical contacts. The Klingon steeled his hands, betraying no outward tremble as he affixed them one to one to his ridged forehead. Having fallen to this enemy once, he now walked willingly into its lair. Semil had insisted on entering the simulation, determined to pose his own questions about the Hundred to their subject. The Romulans had permitted this visit under watchful guard, but K’Vorlag did not trust the Vorta enough to let him have private communication with the prisoner, even if he had to enter the illusion himself. He felt a surge of blood pound against his temples, remembering what his last encounter had taken from him… * * * * * April 2, 2374: Having liberated a Dominion internment camp, a StarFleet officer finds a known face among the prisoners. The corridor was starkly lit outside the cell door she had opened. Lieutenant Commander L’Hona Amnor looked at the figure before her. She had confirmed his identity; he was indeed HoD'a' K'Vorlag, a former Klingon territorial governor, missing since the initial attack on Torros II. His appearance confirmed more about his imprisonment, than he was likely to tell her. Amnor looked him over, trying to assess him with her own knowledge of Klingon psychology. Shame. Beyond merely the imprisonment itself, which brought dishonor. Somehow, she reasoned, he had betrayed them. She knew that. She knew that look. "I must help secure this base," she informed him. "Come with me." The Klingon did not look up. "You have no need of me." "Then, what can I do for you before I go?" "I am bound for Gre'thor," he spat. "You are not one to offer Mauk-to'Vor; you can do nothing." Amnor frowned. If he thought his own dishonor great enough to consider ritual suicide, then maybe there was little she could do for him. Dr. Cara Sabin arrived, pushing past Amnor to enter the cell and move to the Klingon. The patient sat, unspeaking. "How are you feeling?" she asked him. "It is of no consequence." “I want to get him back to Aegis." "IyjiS?" the Klingon asked, suddenly looking up. The doctor nodded. A spark of interest crossed his previously lifeless eyes. "I have information about the Vulcan." Amnor leaned forward, intently. "I'm listening." She slipped into interrogation mode. "He was here. The Vorta took him from the installation during the evacuation." The Klingon began to describe methods the Dominion had employed to gain information. He described how they had subsumed Captain Sorehl into a mental illusion he could not possibly tell from reality. “How do you know this?” she demanded. “This is what they did to me,” he answered. "They have done it to other prisoners. Your Captain has been compromised. I saw him. He is alive.” “The captain would never give information to the enemy,” the doctor insisted. “He’s a fully trained Vulcan; he wouldn’t even break under torture.” “No one can withstand what they have done," the Klingon admitted, his voice growing softer. “It is not a matter of strength, but guile.” "Where is he now?” Amnor insisted. “Do you know where they took him?" "ghobe'. pa' jIHpu'be'," he told her. "What else can you can tell me?" A slow hiss left the Klingon’s lips. "The Vorta... there was never any honor in him, but… he is different now. Something else moves his actions," he replied, cryptically. He looked far away, his lips moving, as if making a promise to himself. Amnor stepped forward. "You have done your allies a great service." "It changes nothing,” he grumbled, waving her away. “It does not restore honor." "If it is true what they have done to you,” Amnor interjected, “then they are the ones without honor. How can you fight an enemy in your mind? One that you do not even know is there? They will pay for what they have done. Our vengeance will be served cold. yaj’a’?” K’Vorlag stared at her for several moments. He thought to offer some poignant Klingon idiom in response. But his lips were no longer worthy to offer the wisdom of Kahless. "jIyaj," he said quietly. "naDev vo' yIghoS." <I understand. Go away.> * * * * * Fixing the last contact into place, K’Vorlag eyed the one who had cost him his rank, his titles, and his honors. He had tried to prove his valiance in the resistance on Betazed, but it was only by the grace of the Chancellor Martok, himself a former prisoner of the Dominion, that he had been restored to his place. Only one Right had been denied him, he realized, but fate might yet redeem him. K’Vorlag took one last glance at his surroundings – the holodeck, its Romulan guards, Vorta, and Vulcan. He did not consider himself brave, but he noted that Sorehl had not yet joined any of the illusions himself. Perhaps that was Vulcan wisdom compared to Klingon boldness. No matter. He closed his eyes, surrendering his sense of reality. For the Empire and its true allies, he would offer even more.

Since we're adding details about our least favorite Vorta, here's an addition from the 02/27/05 sim and a flashback to a log Semil and I did together in earlier days. K'Vorlag revelled in the report from his QeDpIn. While Excalibur fought off its intruders, his science officer had managed to use jey’naS sensors to isolate and target eleven more EVA-suited Jem'Hadar floating among the battleship debris. Eleven same targets had been systematically vaporized by the cruiser's disruptors. There would be no more surprise attacks. But the last object had been different. A drifting Dominion lifepod, with a Vorta body inside. The pod was too well shielded to determine if it's occupant was alive, but if so, it would be a fitting capture for the crippled Klingon ship. K'Vorlag had ordered it tractored aboard at once. "Keep scanning," he ordered, turning swiftly to view his prize in the cargo hold. "Eliminate any other Jem'Hadar threats. We don't need three crippled ships, even if the Romulans feel left out." Passing through the heavy aft doors, K'Vorlag considered the opportunity to deal face to face with another Vorta. His past experiences had been less than pleasant, if no less challenging... * * * * * [Eight years earlier, in a security cell on Starbase Aegis] The faint blue sparkle of the brig forcefield outlined the Vorta figure as he stepped effortlessly through the screen into the unsecured space of the chamber. The Dominion agent was obviously demonstrating that Aegis security had no real means to hold him. A smile played upon Semil's face as he reached a hand out towards the Klingon in the room. Their handshake was an obvious dichotomy of tactile contact, K'Vorlag's roughish skin meeting the delicate, slender fingers of the Vorta. With observation skills borne of his years as an Eye of the Empire, K'Vorlag subconsciously noted the smoothness and paleness of the Dominion bureaucrat's skin. "Governor! I really must say I have been looking forward to meeting you." Semil's calmly smooth, rich voice belied the obvious confrontational subtext to their encounter; the displaced Klingon being so cordially greeted by the very person who’d usurped him. “Though you’re no longer governing it,” Semil noted, turning the figurative blade, “I’d be interested to know your experiences in this region of space.” K'Vorlag took less than kindly to the obvious obsequiousness of the affront. "The pleasure is yours," the Klingon barked begrudgingly. He broke the contact between their hands brusquely. "nuqneh? <What is it you want?>" K'Vorlag narrowed his eyes in blatant suspicion of the Vorta. Semil's icy blue gaze kept steady and unwavering in response, "I'll get right to it; I know how you Klingons have such disdain for the pleasantries which happen to be my forte. I have something to offer you that you might be interested in; a parting gift of sorts." With a gruff barking laugh and a nod of the chin, K'Vorlag communicated his unwillingness to do business. "You have nothing I want." He turned to withdraw from the Aegis brig without further comment. The thin curve of Semil's lips curled into the half-smile that seemed to be his only other facial expression, communicating only that he possessed knowledge of a depth no one would ever be allowed into. "It would be that much easier for you to say no then, wouldn't it? What if I were to tell you that from our recent... encounters... we seem to have a number of Klingon prisoners of value to you. General G'k'tak, Governor Mek'vort... Council Member Karge." Semil slurred the pronunciations in such exacting precision as to be condescending. Another grunting guffaw heaved from K'Vorlag's chest. "Your gelatin taskmasters don't educate their lapdog's very well if you think any Klingon would want to be returned rather than..." Semil somehow cut off the Klingon with a voice so hypnotically sedate as to be impossibly commanding. "...die in battle; yes, I read that paragraph in your Alpha Quadrant encyclopedia of cultural idiosyncracies, but you and I both know that these three men alone are well worth a little dent to your imperial honor." Semil leaned in closer as if to whisper. "I could also offer you plenty of other prizes for your troubles. Think how much intelligence could be gleaned from Admiral G'Vek, Senator Norolus of Romulus; from Tholian Minister Garmon, from..." "Enough!" K'Vorlag's command sent Semil pulling backwards, albeit slowly and calmly. "And what pound of flesh do you intend to exact for these gifts?" Another smirking half-grin serenely played across the Vorta's face. "What if I were to make you the undisputed ruler of the Beta Quadrant?" Semil noted an extremely subtle uncomfortable shifting in the posture of the usually stoic Klingon. "Of course, only up to the Federation border... I've already promised that to Admiral..." "What price?" K'Vorlag ennunciated harshly, his breath hot and tempered, tactile against Semil's chin. The Vorta readjusted his stance to more assess the Klingon, smiling in faux reassurance. "Only that you convince the good captain TSara to vacate Aegis; unconditionally, completely, immediately." It was K'Vorlag's turn to let a smug look suggest a greater depth of knowledge. His words were deliberate. "I may have my charms, but I doubt our dear SuvwI' be'a' could be convinced..." Semil turned away from the Klingon mid-sentence, stepping gingerly back through the blue sparkle of the containment field and into his holding cell. "I didn't intend for you to blabber on about the difficulties of it. I've communicated to you my offer." He turned swiftly to face the Klingon. "It's now up to you to communicate back to me whether or not you intend to seize the opportunity." K'Vorlag took notice of the subtle retreat. He strode up to the invisible containment field so boldly, for a moment Semil thought the Klingon was actually going to follow him through. But the Governor stopped, his ridged nose only inches away from the field between them. "And if I refuse; you'll threaten me with your precious Dominion toys?" Semil stepped up towards the force field, his piercing gaze unwavering from the eye contact duel between the two. "I think you know precisely what I can threaten you with; you, your family -- your species." Semil whispered the word with a resonant echo practised with dozens of equal threats delivered. The Vorta stepped backward languidly and glided to a seat in the cell. "We really must trade genocide stories someday soon; perhaps over a raktajino on the Promenade." K'Vorlag stood unwavering. "Perhaps." With legions of enslaved warriors to fight his battles, the Vorta was indeed arrogant. Without them, the tune would be much different. "But I doubt you truly have the stomach for either." With that, he strode out of the brig. * * * * * He clambered down the final gangway into the cargo hold. The Dominion pod lay askew on the damp-looking decking. Inside was a potential target that could at last reveal something useful about the Hundred, not some slippery pile of goo that could resist interrogation. K'Vorlag smiled. Such was no work for a mindless warrior; this was the forte of an Intelligence officer. As one of the Eyes of the Empire, it would fall to him. It was fortunate they'd located this prize first....

K’Vorlag grit his teeth, his eyes stinging against the acrid smoke filling the bridge of the Vorcha-class cruiser jey’naS. The still-burning consoles at aft were just a small indication of the damage now perforating his ship. It was a marvel he and the crew were still alive. True, he’d pulled an unexpected K’Tinga Arc manuever, but it had only disoriented the Dominion weapons lock during the first volley. The second barrage had pummelled the aft shields, crippled the warp drive, and nearly torn the ship apart. K’Vorlag blinked, pressing a fist against his ridgeplate. The intentional use of an imbalanced microwarp burst did have the advantage of hurling them in an erratic path that was hard to target, but the accompanying wormhole lag usually earned a merciless headache. This was such a case. But a warrior did not complain about discomfort, he recited. He was mildly impressed with their combined performance. With as little coordination as they’d been able to arrange, the battle had gone well. The Romulan ship had decloaked simultaneously with his ship, swooping in from the opposite direction. Their attack strategies had been so similar, he’d had to order his helmsman to make an evasive move just to avoid a collision. Recognizing the greater threat, the Dominion battleship had of course aimed to eliminate the jey’naS first, leaving the Norexian-class warbird Mextron nearly untouched. Damage and casualty reports were coming in. Details aside, K’Vorlag knew his ship was smashed and unlikely to make it back to Avalon without serious assistance from his allies. Which meant, of course, that N’Kedre would be even more insufferable to deal with, since she would certainly attribute her unscathed condition to superior tactics. The very idea of asking for assistance… His jaw tightened again. We succeed together in a greater whole, he reminded himself, repeating the wisdom of his great Dahar Master. Together, they’d overwhelmed one of the Dominion’s most powerful warships. Compared to such glory, accepting the aid of Starfleet, or even Romulans, was merely glob flies.