Sorehl

Sorehl, captain of engineering, knelt alone in the dark confines of his cabin on Camelot Station. His legs were folded in the traditional Yhri repose, his fingers pressed in a double ta’al triangle. He cycled through his myriad thoughts, prioritizing and compartmentalizing them as part of his routine meditation. He had rubbed the Vulcan sand between his hands in the san’kra ritual, symbolically cleansing him from worldly concerns, but thoughts of the past had crossed the threshold of his cabin nonetheless. It had been two hours since meeting with Admiral Day. His commanding officer had explained the coming conference. The Dominion had selected Semil, the Vorta who had directed events along the Canar Sector during the war, as their continuing representative. Sorehl could not dispute their logic. Although he’d had his failures, Semil had waged a successful campaign which had seized key regions of Federation space. He’d used subterfuge to capture military targets and personally interrogated a number of important prisoners. Sorehl let his thoughts dwell on that subject, delving back to his first experience with that particular Vorta, more than eight years ago… "As a prisoner," Sorehl stated blankly, "I would be of little value to you." When the Dominion claimed it had information regarding the missing USS Tianenmen, it had seemed logical to beam over to the Jem'Hadar ship and examine it alone, rather than risk other members of the crew. Sorehl now wondered about the certainty of that logic. "You underestimate yourself, Commander," replied Semil. The Vorta tilted his head and eyed him with curiosity. "Fear not. You are no prisoner. But I assure you, I consider your visit of great value." "Any efforts to obtain information from me will be unsuccessful," came the terse response. "Ever dispassionate, confident in your celebrated Vulcan discipline," Semil smiled. He shook his head slowly. "I promise my interest is in learning more about your venerated race. You have so much in common with the Vorta." Sorehl cocked an eyebrow. "Intellectual achievements. Telepathic prowess. Superior physical endurance," Semil listed. "We are both stewards for our governments and serve with singular dedication." "Vulcans are citizens," the executive officer noted, "not subjects." Semil frowned. "Hmmm, no longer 'well-known as the intellectual puppets of this Federation'? Well, good for you." The Vorta smiled, having made his point. "I'm sure the Klingons don't think of you that way anymore. I, for one, find your culture fascinating. Would you indulge me in a game of kal-toh?" He paused, thinking. "Oh, I forgot, it's your wife who plays that. Perhaps three-dimensional chess?" Sorehl looked at him evenly. "We seem to be playing games already." Semil blinked, taken aback. "I must say I'm disappointed. Well, I won't trouble you further. We’re already coming up on the wreckage of the Tianenman." "Wreckage?" the Vulcan repeated. "We think it was destroyed by impact with a cloaked anti-matter mine," Semil reported, offering a eyepiece. Sorehl took the offered device, surveying the purported remains of the USS Tianenmen for several minutes. Without direct access to the sensors, however, it was difficult to verify the exact identity. "It could have been left behind by the Klingons," the Dominion agent continued. "In their haste to retreat, they left quite a few such mines. Or perhaps your ship was laying its own. I hear such devices are quite volatile." "I'm sure I don't know," Sorehl stated flatly. "You cannot confirm or deny such facts?" Semil parroted. "Not surprising." Nodding to a nearby Jem'Hadar, Semil signaled a course change. Sorehl felt a subtle change in the vibration of the deckplates as they went into warp. "And your reasons for showing this to me?" the Vulcan asked. The Vorta tilted his head reassuringly. "Why, to assuage fear that we may have been involved." The Vulcan folded his arms. "I have seen nothing to allay the suspicion you refer to, real or imagined. Tianenmen is not the first ship reported lost along this border since your annexing of Cardassia." "I had no idea," the Dominion agent expressed in shock. "What a tragedy. It is a dangerous area of space." "Yes," Sorehl answered dismissively. “Then perhaps my next news will be of some relief,” the Vorta straightened. "You see, your station was allowed by the Cardassians to serve a purpose for which it is no longer needed. Thanks to Dominion strength, the De-Militarized Zone no longer exists. The Maquis no longer exist. Therefore, we formally invite you to withdraw." Sorehl tugged on his tunic. "Your invitation is duly noted." Semil's smile faded, his tone taking on a certain edge. "Ignore the warning if you choose, Commander, but the Dominion intends to secure all Cardassian-claimed territory," he cautioned. "Notice has been given. It would be another tragedy if we were compelled to make you leave the Canar system." "Since it does not recognize the legitimacy of the Dukat regime," Sorehl objected, his own voice level, "StarFleet is unlikely to allow a Federation-built facility to fall into his hands. We will not abandon Aegis." "For all the Founders care, you can blow your station up. Just get the people out." "The request is entirely illogical," the Vulcan insisted. "There are colonists..." "Who are welcome to remain if they wish to be subjects of the Dominion," Semil interrupted. "Extend them our invitation, if you'd like." A console beeped. "Ah, we are coming up on your station now. I sincerely hope you enjoyed your trip..." Sorehl opened his eyes. It had been the first in a series of distasteful encounters. Later came violence, outright persecution, and the deaths of several under his charge. Granted, it had been war. The Semil that walked these corridors was a new one; Sorehl knew well that the previous incarnation had died on the sands of Ovetra II. He was only a copy that carried the memories and experiences of his predecessor, not accountability for his actions. Still, despite the logic of their choice, Sorehl wondered if the Dominion fully appreciated the weight of that baggage. He would not add to it during this delicate balance. Semil was a force to be reckoned with, especially if his beloved Founders were in danger. Sorehl leaned forward, unfolding his legs as he steadied himself. As he stood, he whisked his robe away with an arcane flourish. His hand found the engineer’s vest slung carefully over one chair. Slipping into it, he stepped through the door of his cabin as it slid open. Although still incomplete, an Alexandria-class starbase such as this offered 88 decks for a chief engineer to inspect. So long as duty permitted, he intended to put several of them between himself and this latest variation of Semil.

Refrains of Semil: Part IX (The End of Semil One) April 17, 2374 [seven months into the Dominion War] An away team discovers the hidden location of the escaped Semil and his remaining prisoner, both drawn to the Ovetra homeworld by the remnants of their first contact mission. Lieutenant L’Hona Amnor looked up and down the beach. "Vulcan life-sign,” Lieutenant Commander Renckly reported, reading his tricorder, “ahead in those caves." Her mind registered the words. She broke into a run, straight into the dense foliage. The caves were in sight, not far beyond. Renckly and Major Muldoon both bounded past her. She thought briefly that caution would be a wise idea. She swung wide on her approach, looking for Jem'Hadar or anyone else in the area that might be a threat. L'Hona saw both men hit the forcefield. "You cannot interfere," she heard a voice say. Looking to the source of the sound, she cursed. One of the damned Ovetra. It made sense for them to be involved. Despite the distance, she could hear Renckly tell them to drop the force field, to let them through. She turned her gaze towards the cave. She could see the captain. Crude shackles bound his wrists. He was unshaven and bruised, his clothes tattered. He looked thin and gaunt. Semil stood beside him, threatening the crew from behind the safety of the Ovetra barrier. She watched the captain’s face. A cold knot settled into her gut. What had the Vorta done to him? Semil turned and sent some kind of blast at the captain, smashing him against the cave wall. He rebounded from the impact, then dropped limply to the ground. She glanced upward at the unseen Ovetra, cursing them for refusing to let them intervene. L’Hona couldn't stand it. "Captain!" she called. If only he could hear her, could know they were there, she thought. She saw his eyes open. Had he heard her? The Vorta had turned away, speaking to Renckly. Behind him, the captain roused, getting to his feet unsteadily. Semil laughed at the team, his back still turned on the Vulcan. Amnor stared fixedly on the captain. She watched as the muscles in his arms strained against his shackles. With a sudden snap of freedom, one hand pulled free, its thumb dislocated. The captain took two more deliberate steps forward. Sorehl's hand, slick with green blood, came up to rest on the Vorta. Semil looked startled as the fingers tensed, clamping on his shoulder. He blinked, then smiled, but didn’t fall. He didn’t even pull away. His mouth turned up in a derisive sneer. “Captain," he said dismissively, almost laughing, "you know very well a neck pinch won't work." But he was surprised again a moment later. The captain’s other, still-shackled hand wrapped around the Vorta’s neck. Semil's eyes flew open wide as the Vulcan’s jaw tightened. Too late, he started to struggle against the grip. A violent crack sent Semil's head twisting into an unreal angle. The body spasmed once violently, then fell to the ground like the deadweight it was. The captain stood there and watched him fail, blinking. With a ragged sigh, the Vulcan's eyes closed, and he swooned forward onto his knees, then into the dirt. “Captain!” L'Hona shouted again, rushing forward despite the shield. Surprised, she found nothing to impede her. It was gone. She didn’t stop. The others rushed in behind her, reaching their lost commander. The doctor dropped down beside her, scanning. "You scan him. I'll carry," she told him. Trying not to jar him, she picked the captain up. Muldoon stepped aside, standing over the Vorta’s lifeless body with just the hint of a smirk. Amnor bounded toward the beach, carrying what was left of Captain Sorehl in her arms. Muldoon flipped open his lighter, actually touching off one of his precious cigars. "I guess even a Vulcan can tell," he offered with a billowing puff, "some people just need killin'." Renckly glanced at the Marine. Despite what they'd witnessed, he was certain the captain wouldn't agree. On the other hand, Renckly himself was beginning to.

Refrains of Semil: Part VIII March 31, 2374 [six months into the Dominion War] The Federation-Klingon attack on Canar prompts the Vorta operative Semil to relocate his prisoner from the innermost planet. Not again, Madred thought. "I'm not finished with him yet," he insisted. The Gul pounded a fist on the solid tabletop, nearly spilling his leftover breakfast. "You promised me more time to prove my techniques work." Why did they always rob him of his best subjects near the moment of triumph? Hadn’t they done this exact thing to him with the captain of the Enterpise? Irritated, the Vorta didn't look at the Cardassian. "And despite two weeks, you haven't broken the good captain," Semil spoke disdainfully. His eyes didn't leave the Vulcan, who lay naked and shivering, slumped against one wall. "Are you afraid I'll succeed where you failed?" Madred challenged. The remark earned him a look of contempt. "It's no longer safe to keep him here," Semil snapped. He looked past the Jem'Hadar guards and directed one of the other prisoners toward Sorehl. "Get him up. And put some clothes on him." A Klingon staggered in to comply. "What do you mean?" Madred insisted. "Even you must have heard the alert," Semil replied. Though there had been no shots fired at this installation, secreted away on the smaller inner planet, the sound of battle should have been evident. Madred looked confused. "I was told the Federation ships were driven back." "We pushed them too far," the Vorta reported, not believing his own voice. "One of the Klingon ships planted a device in the sun. Our scans show the outer shell will go nova within hours." Semil had gone over stolen records of the days when Aegis orbited Canar II. Two years ago, a scientist had tampered with the star, nearly destroying the system. Somehow, the Federation had learned to duplicate the effect. Unable to recapture the system, they were determined to wipe the Dominion from it. But he would not let his prize go with it. “Get him to the ship,” he ordered. * * * * * With the diminished capacity of his senses, Sorehl was only vaguely aware of voices near him. Even then, he had learned scorn for those same senses, the ones that had been used to betray reality. Something was flung over him, draped over his bare torso. Strong hands lifted him, bringing pain to his weakened limbs. Still, he managed to stand. "Let me help," rasped a whispery voice. The hands braced his shoulder, urging him to walk. Through the faint brush of touch telepath, he could sense an emptiness, the extinguished rage of a beaten soul. And yet, there was something familiar. Sorehl raised his head and squinted. At once, he recognized the haggard features of his former nemesis, Klingon governor K'Vorlag, now a mere prisoner like himself. "Get him to the ship," he heard another voice order. It sounded like the Vorta. Sorehl had heard the taunting sounds of the Vorta for so long, he could no longer be certain it was real. He staggered on, feeling the despair fall once again.

From his vantage near the large three-dimensional display amid the Command Center of Camelot Station, Captain Sorehl glanced up at Semil, loyal operative of the Dominion. Only moments earlier, the Vorta had asserted his right to visit the prisoner being held in the unusual confines of Holodeck One. That prisoner was yet another Vorta named Armante, one who had seemingly switched allegiances and now claimed loyalty to the insurgent Founders who called themselves ‘the Hundred.’ Before the interruption, Sorehl had been studying the data obtained in the continuing interrogation. With the aid of a neurocortical simulator, a device itself of Dominion design, the captured Vorta was being led through a illusory reality where he had been summoned to explain his betrayal to the Founders. From his responses, Sorehl believed the Allies could learn the motivations for the rebellion, a method for contacting the Hundred, perhaps even the location of the forces they were marshalling. Of course, they could also learn important intelligence about the Founders themselves and the orders given in their absence to the Vorta administrators. No doubt this was exactly what Semil was eager to prevent. True to form, in defending this possible benefit, the Romulans were overplaying their hand and demanded exclusive access to the prisoner once the interrogation was complete. Semil had raised immediate objections. That there were equally valid objections from both Klingon and Federation partners was of increasingly little concern to his racial cousins. As the Alpha Quadrant power least injured during the great war, largely due to their hiding behind a carefully crafted non-aggression treaty, the Romulans were taking their improved galactic standing as sign of a new ascendance. And they were acting accordingly, even in this quadrant. Confident in their own superiority, the Romulans continued to act as if the Dominion was no longer in firm control of a region of space they’d commanded for more than two thousand years. This despite the fact that, except for the reinforcements they’d “lost” in the Bajoran wormhole, the Dominion home fleet numbered in the tens of thousands was undiminished. Although dormant by Founder order, Sorehl questioned the wisdom of waking a sleeping giant. Now, the Romulans were missing. The fleet they had committed to the defense of Starbase Avalon had abandoned its assigned patrol posts. Governor K’Vorlag had assumed this abdicated responsibility and deployed his own ships in their absence. But that had added another challenge. The Klingon diplomat had insisted that he be present for any meeting between the two Vorta. With him off-station, that posed a particular problem for Semil’s request. Sorehl would not make the error of unduly dismissing the Dominion operative. Although an inner voice confirmed that Semil’s indignity was feigned, he knew the starbase’s existence ultimately depended on Dominion benevolence – no matter what the Romulans believed. He would never have survived either command at Aegis or at Empok Nor if he hadn’t understood the delicate nature of such balances. As a Vulcan, he was free to respond without the concern of ego or pride or mnei'sahe to burden him. He nodded toward the Vorta, speaking at last. “Given the situation," he offered, "how can I be of assistance?”

Refrains of Semil: Part VII March 18, 2374 [six months into the Dominion War] An illusion inside the Vulcan mind... The flat composite key felt deathly cold between his fingers. It was a crude security device, strangely appropriate for the abhorrent force it would loose. Captain Sorehl looked across the cramped bridge of the starship Valiant. The Andorian admiral held the other key firmly in the tactical console. "Computer, this is Admiral Thelev a'Trok," the flag officer spoke aloud, "invoking application of General Order 24, subparagraph four, strategic option. The use of special ordinance has been authorized for this action." The Vulcan listened to the Admiral’s dialogue; in the finest tradition of Sorehl’s own late race, there was no emotion or urgency behind it. In position behind enemy lines, they had not been detected. Freed from the renounced Treaty of Algeron, the phase-cloak installed aboard this Defiant-class vessel had let them quietly slip past the sentries. From here, with the destructive payload they carried, they could lay waste to a dozen targets. "Authorization requires the sanction of a second officer of command rank," the computer intoned. a'Trok looked across the bridge at the Vulcan. Sorehl opened his mouth. "Before the captain responds," the admiral began, looking at the worn, intense faces around him, "I want to state formally, for whatever record remains, that we understand the grave consequences of what we undertake. We abhor the necessity." He paused, letting silence consume the room. "But whatever qualm we face - no race, no power can be allowed to delight in the spoils of genocide. We have been entrusted to deliver a harsh message to those who would ally themselves with such holocaust: we will not be exterminated alone. The Cardassians have shared glory in their allegiance to the Dominion. So must they be joint heirs of its horrors. Perhaps," he paused to keep his voice from faltering, "when they feel the wounds we inflict, they will pause in their slaughter. We may yet preserve those that remain." Sorehl ached for the discipline to sweep aside the discord. Fierce resolve clashed with naked horror. "This is Captain Sorehl," he managed. "I confirm the invocation of General Order 24... and hereby sanction the special provision of subparagraph four." He nodded to the admiral, and they turned both keys. Alert displays changed across the bridge as deployment began. Despite his blinking, a drop slid its way down his face. Even the shame at such an outward display could not overcome the torture of his ideals. "I am become death, destroyer of worlds," he spoke quietly, and soon the console was slick with the tears he shed... * * * * * The Dominion internment center on Canar I Semil pounded his fists against the console without restraint. The Vorta turned toward his subject, advancing toward him and reaching up to touch the face. He pulled his hand away, staring at it. With a frustrated fling, he cast the tear off his fingers. He looked at the exposed neck, so vulnerable to a tightened grasp. The Vulcan could not exist without tormenting him. He had not been broken! Instead of making him brittle, ready to collapse, each new rift seemed to vent the pressure, easing it. Captain Sorehl had, in fact, actually shown signs of exerting his will within the illusion! Semil had watched the emerging brain pattern, synapses slowly diverted from the mesiofrontal cortex. In the flowchart of their brains, Vulcans had developed that region, an extra evaluative step over their instincts and emotion. And Sorehl had grown less dependent on it. He was fighting for self-determination in an illusory world of predestination. Indeed, from it, the Vorta had learned even more secrets from his captive. The captain seemed to believe the Federation would resist even in defeat. Not only did they possess weapons of mass destruction, but they would use them! Had he been interested in gathering intelligence, Semil would have quickly passed this to his superior. He left it for later, such was his distraction. He grit his teeth and reached up again. With a firm pull, he yanked the neurocortical probes from Sorehl's head. The Vulcan jerked and spasmed violently before slumping against the restraint. Semil touched the signal that would summon Gul Madred to the cell. It was time to let the Cardassian interrogator expose the captain to a dose of reality, he mused with frustration. He fixed his icy blue stare on the subject and waited for the Gul to bring his own skills to bear.

See Semil's additional log under The Delicious Taste of Irony.

The captured Vorta, Armante, imagined he should be shivering. The Founders, in their wisdom, had removed such outward signs of anxiety from his species during their extensive genetic engineering. Vorta ancestors had been small, timid woodland creatures who’d dwelt in hollowed-out trees. They had aided the gods, who had fulfilled their promise and transformed his kind, shaping them into able overseers of the great interstellar empire. And he was being called before them. In the five years since the Alpha Quadrant War, the Founders had remained in a strictly enforced “splendid isolation” on their new homeworld, counseling and considering the outcome of the war with Odo in the Great Link. With limited instruction, they had left behind administration of the Dominion itself to their trusted advisors, the Vorta, as in centuries past. It was no small measure of his treachery that the Founders would break this link and summon him to them. From the confines of his cell aboard the Jem’Hadar fighter, Armante gathered his thoughts, examining his rationale for submitting to the Hundred. In a very real sense, the judgment bar approached. * * * * * From the back row of the Main Conference Room on Deck 2, Captain Sorehl reviewed data provided by his three-day examination of the captured Vorta. The neurocortical simulator, itself a product of Dominion engineering, had yielded a wealth of intelligence from its unknowing subject. The method of interrogation remained a personal subject of ethical debate. “You’re only using the same tool they use on others,” K’Vorlag had reasoned. Sorehl rejected the simplicity of such logic as specious, unwilling to abandon Federation ideals so quickly. He would use neither painstik or agonizer if the prisoner had been Klingon. Sorehl glanced toward the Round Table, where Ambassador N’Kedre and the Vorta Semil were vocally deliberating the future of the prisoner. Admiral Day seemed to be trying to calm both parties. K’Vorlag, for his part, merely clenched his mug of bloodwine tighter. Sorehl returned to his own thoughts. Although he had opted used the Dominion-made simulator, he had crafted no tortuous illusions nor strained his subject with imagined traumas. Indeed, the scenario he’d devised was a very real possibility if Semil won his argument. Sorehl returned to his datapad and the details their prisoner had given. * * * * * Armante knelt before the Founder, bowing low. Despite his break with them, he still felt the compulsion of respect in the divine presence. It had been so upon his first audience with the Hundred. Overwhelmed by the apparent conflict in their directives, he had sought the certainty of his termination implant to avoid betraying either. A mere Vorta should not have to choose between gods. But death had not come, his implant somehow disabled. He’d been forced to make a choice anyway – obey those who’d sealed the heavens or those who’d deigned to appear before him. And now, the accounting would come. “Explain yourself,” came the instruction from his former master. “I serve the Founders,” the Vorta commenced. And he told all he knew…

Camelot Station, Deck 36, Holodeck One Sorehl directed his unrelenting attention to the three-dimensional graphic of a neurocortical simulator, rotating gently above his engineering workbench. He scanned, comparing it with the device now being assembled. The Dominion device under consideration was an intelligence gathering tool used by the Vorta. Capable of conjuring an illusory reality inside the subject’s head and even linking it to others, it had first been used against captive members of the Defiant command staff. The purpose of that experiment: to gauge a possible Federation response to Dominion incursion into the Alpha Quadrant. During the war itself, the device had been used in less gentle settings on Allied prisoners. Including himself. Sorehl had been led through an elaborate illusion crafted by an earlier incarnation of Semil. In turn, he’d witnessed the loss of his starbase, his crew, his homeworld, his wife and his children. Quite effectively, the Vorta had broken him – mentally and emotionally. Had it not been for an unanticipated alien influence and the precaution of a Vulcan mind shield, Sorehl would have most likely lost his sanity, as well as provided useful tactical information to the enemy. K’Vorlag had not fared as well under the device. The governor still refused to discuss the specifics of what he’d endured during his own captivity. It was therefore with an appropriate sense of irony that the Klingon had insisted on using it on their recent Vorta captive. Schematics for the device had not been difficult to secure – in addition to the working models seized at Chin’toka and Canar, the Cardassians had found operating specifications among the data left behind at Quatal Prime. The industrial replicators down in the Engineering Ring had fashioned the necessary components, now being assembled here, on one of the larger holodecks along the outer Central Ring. The challenge that engaged his thoughts, however, was not a technical one, but an ethical one. Sorehl had agreed to prepare the device for the express purpose of extracting information from their Vorta prisoner. His only condition: the interrogation would be conducted under his professional supervision aboard Camelot Station. Ambassador N’Kedre had been quite clear that the Vorta would remain her prisoner and property of the Romulan Star Empire. Nevertheless, his Vulcan dignity insisted he adhere to Federation ideals onboard the station. To say that he had compassion for the Vorta subject would falsely presuppose his acquiescence to a feeling, but it was true that he had a full understanding of the abuses the Dominion device could exert. He had no intention of yielding to such base, emotional pressures. K’Vorlag had played his move carefully. It was not unlike the brinkmanship games he’d played along the Cardassian DMZ so many years ago. Like an initial kotra opening, he was testing the Vulcan's position. By offering Sorehl a chance to try and fail first, the Klingon could later side with the Romulans in insisting a firmer hand. No doubt N’Kedre intended to take the Vorta even if the examination yielded results. But probability was never complete without a thorough grounding in game theory, he recalled. At Sarpedion V, he’d proved a Vulcan was capable of waging war. He’d done so without compromising his principles. Applying his own knowledge of Vorta psychology, he was certain he could demonstrate that defeating the Hundred would not require the Alpha Quadrant to destroy its own values from within.

For those interested, logs describing previous use of the neurocortical simulator during the Dominion War can be found under the topic Variations on a Theme of Semil, starting with Refrains of Semil: Part IV.

Refrains of Semil: Part VI March 15, 2374 [six months into the Dominion War] An illusion created inside the mind of Captain Sorehl, somewhere within Dominion territory. Despair. The raw emotion surged forward, spilling through the porous cage of his carefully constructed logic. Though he knew his discipline was slipping, Sorehl clung to the belief that no Vulcan could face the trauma of recent weeks and turn away, unfeeling. He had felt it first after the destruction of Andor. Failing to extort an unconditional surrender from the Federation, the Dominion had obliterated the planet, making it a graveyard for billions of unsuspecting citizens. As they had done to Vulcan. The despair had been deeper, knowing that the center of his civilization was gone - the Gol'shiVar Arcology, where he was born; the T'Karath Sanctuary, where Surak had been slain; the Hall of Ancient Thought - all gone. His culture and his heritage had been left a wasteland. Logic had sustained him, arguing that he not mourn for intangible things. His wife and daughter had been spared, able to flee the destruction on one of many evacuating transports. Only to perish at Earth. Even the newest races of the united worlds had felt the weight of that blow. The Dominion had prosecuted their campaign with merciless logic. The fall of three founding members of the Federation, had been calculated to inspire the very despair he felt now. He had mourned openly upon hearing the news, the deaths both personal and the tens of billions unknown. Each bitter tear only emphasized how the order of his mind was slipping away. The counselor had submitted her diagnosis that the captain suffered from the early stages of Bendii Syndrome. Though the affliction was generally confined to Vulcans of much greater age, Sorehl’s condition seemed to confirm a prevailing theory that extended contact with emotional species accelerated the disease. He would have been a good test case, he reasoned, had there been a Vulcan Science Academy left to study him. He slid back into the center chair of the starship Valiant. The few survivors of recent fleet battles had gathered on the battered little ship, under the leadership of Admiral a'Vrok. The Andorian flag officer had promised a response to the Dominion. And they were on their way to deliver it... * * * * * A Dominion installation on the innermost planet of the Canar system. The Vorta had not left the side of his subject for days. He had slowly twisted the illusory dagger he had driven into the Vulcan's mind. But the Vulcan had not been shattered. The implosion had been eminent. His malice aflame, Semil had seen the anguish. He had even watched the tears stream down the impassive face. Tears from a Vulcan! But the ultimate break, heralded by such cracks, had not come. After each new loss, Sorehl had regained some measure of composure. His mind was strained, but he had not collapsed. Semil adjusted the mesocortical lead again. Curse these drifting calibrations, he thought with uncharacteristic anger. He was startled to look up and see his First had entered the cell. "The Klingon wishes to speak with you," the Jem'Hadar spoke tersely. "I left orders not to be interrupted," Semil replied. "K'Vorlag is mine to summon, not the other way around. I don't care how anxious he is to spill his secrets. He answers my bidding. Leave." "Glory to the Founders," the soldier replied, backing out. Semil absentmindedly rubbed an irritated spot on his back, where the Ovetra had marked him. He turned to his work, a task which had little, if anything, to do with the Founders at all.

Refrains of Semil: Part IV February 18, 2374 [Five months into the Dominion War] Within the confines of an illusory reality created by Semil, Sorehl is forced to watch the imagined destruction of StarBase Aegis. The destruction of StarBase Aegis had been swift and complete. Despite the heightened alertness prompted by the war, the attack itself came with unexpected finality. Scores of Jem'Hadar warships surged into the Decelea asteroid field, too many to number. The starbase responded, blasting one after another into debris. But they had not relented. Overwhelmed, the station's mighty shields, once rated the finest in StarFleet, failed. Unbowed, Ramson had taken lead of the fighter wing, sacrificing it and himself to defend those ordered to abandon Aegis. As boarding commenced, the battle grew more personal, more ferocious. Sorehl remembered those last moments in the Command Center, fire raging around them. Muldoon and Varon had died there, holding back the Jem'Hadar soldiers. It had given them precious moments to engage the autodestruct, to prevent Aegis from falling into enemy hands. Wounded himself, Commander Sej had bled out his life at the Admin console giving the final codes. Sorehl had thought to die there, as well, invoking the captain's privilege. But it was not to be. The transporter effect asserted itself, and he found himself lifted to his feet by Lieutenant Renckly aboard the Perseus. Fleeing, Aegis erupted behind them, blossoming outward, sweeping the asteroid field clear in its wake. Blair later told him it had been a gut-wrenching sight, like watching someone's heart break. Oddly enough, Sorehl understood the meaning. * * * * * Gul Madred could see the drama unfold only as a series of sensory feedbacks and synaptic patterns. The Vulcan stood against the slab, not moving. Occasionally, the captain would speak aloud to a member of his illusory crew, only hinting at the events he witnessed. The Cardassian looked to Semil, who manipulated the neurotransmitter controls. "His thoughts aren't nearly as orderly as I might have expected," he observed. The Vorta contained his irritation. The calibration of the connection to the mesofrontal cortex continued to elude him, but he would never admit this to the Cardassian. "Yes," he answered with measure, "our captain is full of surprises." "I should very much like to employ my own methods on him; demonstrate just how effective they can be," Madred offered. "I intend to give you that chance, I promise you," Semil assured. "But first, we must take everything from him. Break his foundation, mock his existence, erode his strength. You've seen what wonders it has done for our other friend?" He tilted his head toward the cell occupied by former-Governor K’Vorlag. "Yes," Madred agreed. "The Klingon was quite willing to tell us how to defeat their cloaked transports." The Cardassian eyed Semil. "You believe you can do the same to the Vulcan? I should very much like to see that." The Vorta returned to his work. It was time to strip away the arrogance of his subject's vaunted discipline.

Refrains of Semil: Part III February 2, 2374 [Five months into the Dominion War] Captured by the Dominion while on a diplomatic mission, Captain Sorehl is unknowingly placed into an elaborate mental illusion by the Vorta Semil. "Apology accepted, Captain," Weyoun assured, with open arms. "We're just as eager as you are to put this sordid episode behind us." Sorehl had not expected to see hundreds of Jem'Hadar soldiers present. Nor had he expected to see the large number of Dominion warships in orbit. Intelligence had speculated that the scarcity of ketresel white had forced the enemy to place most of their genetically-engineered soldiers into stasis. It was hard to believe wary Cardassians would allow a foreign army to occupy their home, particularly when control of them was fleeting. Unless they had acquired additional stockpiles of the chemical, Sorehl speculated. "Our interest is to end these hostilities," Weyoun went on. "Previous efforts have sadly, fallen short." Sorehl recalled a classified briefing which had described the machinations the Dominion had gone through to gain the Kabrel system. They had been willing to endure lengthy negotiations and make seemingly huge concessions to secure it. Despite these observations, he remained silent. He had delivered his message already. Instead, he focused his thoughts on the difficult task of ignoring the presence of another mind, somewhere close. Weyoun looked down. "I admit the problem may be personal. Captain Sisko has been most unwilling to accept compromise. My subordinates tell me that yours, by contrast, is a species of discipline. Certainly a man of Vulcan background can appreciate the order we seek." Each sentence increased in tension, the mild echo of taunting laughter. Against his will, Sorehl felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. "If… my behavioral patterns were also genetically predetermined... like your own,” he began, an edge creeping into his tone, “perhaps I would." He felt a mild spasm under his right eye. "There is, however, little logic in compromise with a regime lead by… xenophobic zeal and misguided racial supremacy." He grit his teeth, fighting the building rage, the deafening taunts... * * * * * "What is it?" the Cardassian asked, squinting at the subject strapped to the vertical slab. "I’m compensating." Semil adjusted the instrumented probe leading to the Vulcan's head. The neurosensory feed from his mesofrontal cortex was drifting again. There was no point in putting Captain Sorehl through this ruse if they couldn't read his responses. The Vorta calibrated the feed to a new setting. "That's twice now." "But he is completely unaware of the illusion," Madred observed, his voice betraying some admiration. "Other trials have been very effective," Semil assured. "The Dominion is all too happy to share this alternative for extracting information." Madred seemed to frown at the statement. The analyst Borath had given the Vorta community a full report on his success with the crew of the Defiant several years earlier. His work had provided the Founders with the insight to strengthen the Bajoran wormhole from collapse. With it, they had gained their current foothold on the Alpha Quadrant. A grin worked its way across Semil's pale features. He wondered what insights would be learned from this subject.

Refrains of Semil: Part II A second Alpha Quadrant encounter with the Vorta August 8, 2373 [One month before the outbreak of the Dominion War] Shoved by the Jem'Hadar guard, Commander Sorehl slammed down, tasting the dirt of Canar II. Weapons fire erupted within the ravine. He lifted his head and squinted through the cloud of dust, catching a glimpse of a familiar Klingon fleet captain rushing headlong down the hill. Former-Governor K'Vorlag was firing wildly, with Lieutenant Muldoon mere paces behind, laying down precision shots with a sidearm in each hand. A hail of rock shards fell around Sorehl as disruptor bolts tore up the terrain. Two Jem'Hadar advanced, blocking the Vulcan's line of sight. He brought his arms to lift himself up, but felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him still. Suddenly the Vorta's voice was inches from his ear. "I'm disappointed we were unable to complete the tour," Semil lamented, "but I understand your station has finally lumbered out of orbit, so my work here is done." Sorehl spoke into the dirt, unresisting. "It was our intention to withdraw without incident," he countered. "So you say," Semil agreed, "but eviction is often hastened by a little forcible incentive." Sorehl felt hot air rush past his face as the nearest soldier vaporized. Taking his cue, he jerked his shoulder out from under Semil and rolled to his feet. The Vulcan shoved another soldier aside and darted over the sandstone without looking back. K'Vorlag and Muldoon had reached the bottom of the ravine just ahead. "Leaving so soon?" came the Vorta's shout. Behind him, Sorehl could sense a building psionic pressure. He narrowed his eyes and focused his discipline, steeling himself for its release. A spherical blast sailed past him, hitting the Klingon. K'Vorlag flew back, bouncing off the rock wall. He fell to his knees, shaking his head. "Telekinetic baQa'," he muttered in two languages, getting to his feet. Muldoon stepped up, firing in the direction of the attack. Sorehl leapt over the intervening rock, landing beside them and crouching for cover. "Time to leave," he declared. Prophetically, the familiar transporter shimmer enveloped them, whisking them away from the Dominion agents.

Very nice. For those interested in a discussion of the relative sizes of these ships, check out Starship Dimensions at http://www.merzo.net/index.html. It also has the Death Star, as well as Earth's moon for comparison.

Admiral Wayne Day walked beside the shapeshifter through the stark, too bright corridors of the rebel Dominion ship. Founder Two – his apparent advocate – had had been good as his word. So long as he remained with the changling, his movements had been unrestricted. Of course, there are probably shrouded Jem’Hadar watching my every move, he reasoned. He didn’t know why the two Founders had kept him at liberty, much less alive, but he knew this was a perfect opportunity to gain intelligence on this new threat – here was a walking, if not breathing, member of the Hundred. “It would seem our fates are connected,” the admiral ventured. Founder Two kept walking in silence. Wayne bit back his anger. “If your people want something from us, you could at least have the decency to say so,” he challenged. “Or are we supposed to divine some deeper meaning from the attack on our fleet?” The Founder actually stopped at this remark. He turned, displaying a fervent look on his smooth features. “The same kind of flailing, thoughtless act that we blame the solids for.” If he’s willing to talk, Wayne realized, it’s time to pursue the tough questions. “From your comments before, I gathered you didn’t condone it,” he pressed. “You couldn’t stop it? That was a starship with hundreds of lives. Your friend wiped them out without even a declaration of war.” “Our species is not prone to dissension, Admiral,” the Founder answered. “Unity is order; conflict is chaos.” “This is no time for trite mottos!” Wayne retorted. “Your little rebellion is on the verge of starting another cross-quadrant war.” “Not yet,” came the Founder’s terse reply. Wayne was a bit taken aback. He eyed the shapeshifter carefully. “What do you mean?” Founder Two gazed at him, looking introspective. “This is a struggle to control our species. The others in my group want you to stay out of it. They don’t trust you, and frankly, they’re afraid of you.” “I don’t understand.” “No changling has ever harmed another," he explained, "Until they tried to conquer your people.” Interesting that it was Odo, another of the Hundred, the admiral recalled, who had been the first to break that sacred rule. “But we’ve made peace with the Founders.” “We are not just Founders, Admiral. We are the Hundred,” the shapeshifter explained. “We were the ones sent out to explore the galaxy, bring back knowledge and new perspectives. But in our absence, the Great Link has been… infected... and corrupted by the very peace you forced on them.” Wayne shook his head bitterly. “From a war they forced on us. Worlds laid waste, millions of dead.” “Yes, I can almost see why your people considered genocide.” The Founder let that statement sink in, then turned away. “It will be a difficult challenge to make the New Link understand you shouldn’t be exterminated - and me with you. The council will decide once we reach the Vortex. As you say, our fates are connected.” Wayne paused a moment, wondering if his advocate was up to the challenge. He quicked his pace to follow, enroute to their joint date with destiny.

As Excalibur searches for the abducted Admiral... With an unceremonious belch of orange gel, Admiral Wayne Day landed hard against the deck of the Jem'Hadar fighter. He fought the urge to wipe himself off, although he knew neither Founder would leave a part of itself clinging to his uniform or skin. Both Founders stood beside him in the airlock. In contrast to the heated words they'd exchanged at Camelot Station before abducting him, the two were focused on him silently, simply observing. "I hope your discomfort wasn't too great," the one on his left finally offered. Founder Two, as Day had taken to thinking of the more magnamous shapeshifter. Founder One, the more hostile of the pair, snorted derisively. "He's lucky you gave him oxygen at all." Day took a deep of real air, no longer sustained by the enriched gel that had been forced into his lungs. For more than a day, he had traveled through space in the interior of a changeling-created, warp-capable creature. The trip had been both physically distressing and mind-blowing. Since they were now clearly on a Dominion ship, presumably a rebel one, the admiral reasoned, the Founders must have been able to avoid pursuit. Behind him, the interior airlock slid open. Three Jem'Hadar soldiers stood beyond. Curiously, Day noted, there was no Vorta. The shortest of the three stepped forward, lowering his head. "You are the First?" Founder One demanded. “I am Hera’temlan,” the armor-skinned warrior replied. “I serve the Founders.” The brusque changling gestured toward Day. “Take this one into custody and process him. He may yet be of use to us.” “No,” insisted Founder Two, interposing himself. “He remains with me.” The Jem’Hadar First looked uncertainly between his two masters, clearly confused. Day remembered Sorehl’s briefing and the comment that such disagreements might never have arisen in two-thousand years of Dominion history. “The nature of the Founders suggests a previous unanimity in their actions,“ the Vulcan had said. A long pause passed between the two shapeshifters, each staring at the other. Getting slowly to his feet, Day couldn’t help but glance at the Jem’Hadar. He wondered, how would absolutely obedient servants deal with conflicting commands? It was the entire civil war in one room. Founder One broke the silence. “Very well,” he relented. “One solid is of no matter to this ship or to our cause. But he is your charge.” He then turned to Hera’temlan. “You will keep an escort with them, shrouded, to ensure... their safety.” The Jem’Hadar bowed his head obediently. “Go,” came the final command, and the Dominion soldiers withdrew in haste. Day was again alone with the two shapeshifters. Founder One stepped closer. “I will speak to the others. They will know how you interfered with my mission against the Alpha Quadrant fleet.” “You destroyed their ships, murdered their crews. You give them the very reason to hate us,” Founder Two asserted. “Save your words for the solids,” Founder One grumbled. "I will await the New Link." "Then I will make my arguments there," Founder Two answered, turning towards Day. “You will not be harmed aboard this ship.” “Where are you taking me, then?” Wayne insisted, braving a question. “To the Hundred?” Behind them, Founder One growled. “We would be most unwise to reveal our home, like our corrupted brethren. For all your peaceful ways, we’ve seen what lengths your species will go to eliminate our kind. We will take council in the Vortex. There, they will decide his fate,” he explained, gesturing to Founder Two, “and yours.”

It should be noted that the above log takes place on a small Jem-Hadar attack craft, not the Dominion battleship that Excalibur tagged outside the wormhole several weeks ago.

The following log takes place midway through the 09/12 sim... Captain Sorehl looked up from his prone position, hearing the latest alert. He glanced at the display which monitored Xavier’s progress two decks above. The lieutenant appeared to be moving the device toward an airlock. Clearly, the alert wasn’t about the Dominion explosive. The lighting above him flickered and metal groaned with a terrible hiss. Vulcan reflexes sprang to react as decompression alarms blared. Sorehl rolled to his knees, then got to his feet, reaching out for the display. With a touch, he brought up a damage report. Localized hull breach, he noted, only a few decks away. The fact that he was still breathing meant the autonomous failsafes built into the Alexandria-class starbase were working as designed. He let his eyes dance about the display, assessing the situation. Shields were up. No evidence of weapons fire. A physical impact with the station? Unconsciously, an eyebrow lifted. Sorehl pulled open the access panel, yanking free one of the heavy-duty emergency engineering support kits. With a swing, he hefted it to his shoulder, heading toward the damaged area. He didn’t get far. The mass surged into the room, a wave of luminescent orange fluid. All at once, it recoiled and thickened, collecting itself as a man-sized object in front of him. The chief engineer heaved the kit at it and fumbled for the phaser at his hip. The box fell harmlessly through the gel, but in the time taken to morph around it, he’d managed to draw his sidearm. Sorehl fired directly into the shapeshifter, recognizing the futility of the gesture. As he acted, a detached portion of his intellect reminded him that the Founder exposed during the Order of Bat’leth ceremony on Ty’Gokor had taken no less than 87 disruptor blasts to kill. Still, his mind reasoned in near-desperation, if he caught it at the right moment… As the weapon discharged into the shifting mass, one of the tendrils wrapped around his hand, firmly squeezing the weapon out of his grasp. The phaser fell harmlessly to the deck. If the shapeshifter had taken any damage from the attack, it showed no outward evidence. Another pseudopod extended, gripping the Vulcan by the neck and covering his mouth. On the other end, a body began to take shape; its featureless face examined him, taking note of his appearance and the rank on his collar. Sorehl struggled in vain, trying to speak and emphasize the illogic of this battle. Instead, the arm shoved outward, sending him backward in a violent spin and into the nearest panel. * * * * * The Founder watched the solid crumple into a heap beside the display, laying motionless. With a shrug, it finished assuming the limiting shape, becoming an exact Vulcan copy. Smoothing the uniform, complete with captain’s rank, it took note of the wall display. Onscreen, an officer was trying to move the device that had been planted on this station. Unstopped, he might even set it off prematurely. Now that the Klingon ship had made it necessary to take refuge on the human station, the explosive could not be allowed to detonate as planned. It would be necessary to use this shape and its authority to keep that from happening. Scooping up an untended tricorder, the Founder moved toward Deck 86 to head off the maelstrom.

In the waning moments of the Dominion threat, deep in the bowels of Starbase Camelot... Sorehl stepped away from Xavier as the force field snapped into existence on Deck 87. If the device was of sufficient yield, those fields would do little more than channel the explosion away from the upper bulk of the station, but they could prove decisive in avoiding further catastrophe. The fields might even prevent remote detonation by whoever had planted it. For his part, Sorehl had already throttled back six of the eight fusion generators and ejected the single antimatter pod from the deck below them. If he’d been willing to risk being defenseless, he’d have shut them down entirely. Such a risk seemed inadvisable, the Vulcan reasoned, with an known enemy prowling the system. There were still other precautions to invoke, he realized. Beside him, Ensign Zachary Yuuko-Chen observed Xavier’s progress, looking ready to provide advice as needed. Sorehl stepped away from the science officer and toward the nearest access panel. The isolation field and bulkheads were still in place, forming an additional barrier. The three Starfleet officers and the Klingon security teams with them were essentially cut off from the rest of the station. Sorehl glanced back toward the two junior officers. Xavier continued to work in isolation, taking his life and the lives of all the others in this section in his hands. It was another example of the lieutenant’s impulsive approach. It was as if he didn’t value his own life. If they survived the encounter, Sorehl considered assigning the engineer to some counseling. The remainder of his consciousness branched through the threat network that had been carefully engrained through meditation. “Computer, prime self-destruct charges on Deck 82 for explosive separation. Authorization Sorehl, chief engineer, alpha two clearance.” “Charges primed,” the computer’s male voice responded. “Detonate upon detection of field failure on this deck or on my mark,” he instructed. He glanced back at the two officers. The computer would require manual oversight to prepare the fusion reactors for jettisoning. Without a word, Sorehl turned his back on the Dominion-planted device and walked away, bound for the station’s reactor complex.

Alone on the perimeter of Deck 87, Sorehl pulled the tunneling neutrino goggles away from his face and slid them up to his forehead. Narrowing his eyes, he examined his work. The surface of the tritanium alloy yielded a faint reddish glow as it cooled from the touch of the gamma welder. Underneath that surface, a complex interstitial lattice was now ready for future mating with the structure of what would become Camelot Station’s engineering ring. Delivery of the E-ring itself was not scheduled for several weeks, but construction teams would move down to this level in a few days to prepare. Playing chief engineer merely allowed him to take advantage of doing some advance work. It also allowed him to put the bulk of the station between himself and the sensitive negotiations up on Deck 2. While his previous assignments had required a fair amount of diplomacy, it was not an arena he sought. Instead, his education had been geared toward designing, building, advancing civilization through technology. He was, at heart, an engineer. He glanced at the welder in his hand, a gamma-ray instrument for a like-named quadrant. Sorehl chided himself for the introspection, getting off his knees. He slid the monarch-sized PADD on the worktable toward him, using the stylus to carefully note the bulkhead location and certify the completion of his work. Configuration control was an important part of any construction task. He inclined his head, registering the sound of a turbolift opening toward the interior of the deck. Sorehl left his tools, moving toward the source of the sound. Several Klingon officers walked briskly down the radial corridor, sweeping the area with their tricorders. The lead lieutenant looked up at the Vulcan suspiciously as he approached. Sorehl stepped out in front of him. “qaStaH nuq? [What has happened?],” he challenged. Whether startled by the image of a Vulcan using the guttural phrases of his language or just generally obstinate, the lieutenant did not answer immediately. Behind him, a second warrior took pains to scan the chief engineer. “yIjatlh! [speak!]” Sorehl shouted, simulating the intensity if not the emotion, of a typical command phrase. Either the clipped command or a glance at the collar rank made its impression. “A saboteur has destroyed two ships, captain,” the Klingon explained. “We seek a device the Romulans found on their ship.” And yet, Sorehl noted, the station had not gone to alert. This was, however, the logical place to begin a search. Camelot’s eight fusion reactors were accessible just two decks below them and controlled from a central complex beginning on this level. In addition, there was a small anti-matter containment pod for supplying the lower torpedo launchers. “See to it,” he relented, stepping out of the team’s path. Although his hearing had not detected a presence on any of the nearby decks, it was a wise precaution to let them proceed. The last Klingon remained behind, eyeing him carefully. “What do you want?” Sorehl asked, invoking the typical Klingon query. The tone was accusatory, “What were you doing down here alone?” Sorehl considered the question. “Your blade,” he insisted. The young Klingon complied without hesitation, apparently unconcerned about arming a Vulcan. Sorehl drew a short green line on his palm, letting blood bead on the surface. He flexed his hand and allowed drops to trail onto the d’k tagh. “I am chief engineer of this facility,” he affirmed. He presented the weapon, hilt-first. “I am who I say I am.” The warrior took the blade, confirming the trace of blood that remained unchanged on its surface. With a gruff nod, he slid it into his belt and hastened to rejoin his companions. Sorehl squeezed his left hand, moving for the turbolift that would speed him to the Command Center. If they suspected a Founder at work, it was time to put aside his aversion and join the fray.

The following takes place in the day(s) following the renegade Jem'Hadar attack on Excalibur and Camelot Station. “The Hundred.” Sorehl stood as he began his portion of the briefing to Admiral Day and Captain J’Cin in the Excalibur conference room. Several other members of the senior staff lined the table. Through the viewports behind him, the central core of Camelot Station buzzed with engineering workpods busy with construction. “What we know of them comes largely from intelligence records provided by former DS9 security chief Odo, who remains in protected isolation among the Great Link.” Having cited his source, the Vulcan captain pressed on. “To protect their seclusion while indulging their curiosity about the universe, the Founders sent one hundred infant changlings forth to explore the remote corners of our galaxy. Each was implanted with a powerful homing instinct which would, in time, return them to Dominion-controlled space.” While such details could be gleaned from the library computer, Sorehl knew the admiral would be looking for further assessment. “According to his account,” Sorehl continued, “Odo was the first of these Hundred to return – many decades ahead of schedule. Presumably, the Bajoran wormhole had not factored into their time table. “In 2375, a second member of this group was encountered by DS9 personnel. Details of this encounter are provided in the Laas dossier.” Sorehl gestured toward the image on the portside screen, which also changed with the tabletop display. “Laas had no previous knowledge of the Founders and had never before encountered another shapeshifter. After a brief stay at DS9, he departed to the Koralis system and to parts unknown. To our knowledge, he made no contact with the Founders.” Now, of course, came the analysis. “The invoking of ‘the Hundred’ by the renegade contingent suggests that one or more of this group have somehow co-opted control of Jem’Hadar units away from ‘loyalist’ Vorta control. This suggests that the Vorta need us far more desperately than we originally suspected.” “How so?” Admiral Day asked. “We know that the Founders are in isolation during this time of post-war turmoil in their Link.” “Right,” Day acknowledged, “Semil said the Vorta have been entrusted as ‘stewards’ of the Dominion, with orders to pursue no aggressive new initiatives.” “And we know they are strict orders not to disturb the privacy of the Founders,” Sorehl added. “We learned that firsthand,” J’Cin observed. “The Jem’Hadar, however, have no real loyalty to the Vorta beyond the dispensation of ketrecel white,” Sorehl noted. “Their loyalty is to the Founders, although most have never seen one.” The Vulcan clasp his hands behind his back, hesitating. Day let a slight smirk trail across his lips. “You have something more to say, captain?” “My next comments are… conjectural in nature.” “Go on,” Day permitted, “that’s why they pay your latinum in ingots.” If he disagreed with the idiom, Sorehl didn’t show it. “If a shapeshifter appeared and demanded a Dominion ship change its orders,” he posed, “what would stop him?” A brief silence descended on the room. “Jem’Hadar devotion is genetically embedded,” Lieutenant Hawthorne offered. His pre-war experiences in the Gamma Quadrant had brought him into early contact with the Dominion. “I doubt a Vorta overseer could dissuade them.” “Indeed,” Sorehl agreed. “Such a situation may never have arisen in their two-thousand year history. The nature of the Founders suggests a constant unanimity in their actions.” “So some young upstart walks in and asks for the keys to the kingdom,” J’Cin posed, “and they give it to him?” “Even more so if his parents are out of town,” Hawthorne surmised. “Colloquial,” Sorehl noted, “but apt.” The admiral leaned in toward both captain and lieutenant. “That means he agrees with you,” Day translated. Leaning back, he offered his own question. “So the Hundred may be trying to take over the Dominion while the Founders are otherwise occupied. Why does this make us more valuable to the loyalist Vorta?” Sorehl blinked. “We cannot be converted.” Day folded his arms. Not good, he reasoned. He had no intention of fighting Dominion battles for them. “But why would the rebels attack us in the first place?” Day thought aloud. “If they’re looking for civil war, why drag us in?” “Uncertain,” Sorehl admitted. “But the preparedness of the Dominion response is something to take note of.” J’Cin nodded. “It does seem funny that Semil had a task force waiting less than twenty minutes away.” “ 'Funny' is not the word I would have chosen,” Sorehl observed, “but it does strain the limits of probability somewhat.” “They knew we would draw them out,” Day concluded, rubbing his chin. "They used the station as bait." He eyed the other officers around the conference table. “Tell me I’m not going to regret taking this assignment…”

Part 3 in a joint log series with Captain Thomas Halloway. In the Command Center of the unofficially dubbed "Camelot Station," Captain Sorehl stepped down from the Administration console. He made his way past the central display table toward the aft turbolift. Admiral Day was waiting for his arrival aboard Excalibur. Curious that his career had taken such an advisory direction, Sorehl mused, and that events on that one starbase would conspire to make him an "expert" on two species a galaxy apart. One week earlier, aboard the starship Yorktown, docked at Empok Nor “A toast, then, to the Cardassian future,” Thomas Halloway announced from the head of the Captain’s Table, raising his glass to those assembled. “The Cardassian future,” repeated his guests and the senior staff of the starship Yorktown. Even Captain Sorehl had joined the toast, taking a small sip of dark red wine from the glass. A red-haired yeoman beside the Vulcan looked on, mildly surprised. Halloway appreciated the taste, then set down the glass, leaning to his left. “What do you think?” he asked. “Quite pleasant,” Sorehl admitted, pursing his lips. “Although admittedly, I have an uneducated palate for judging the quality of intoxicants.” Across the table, Ambassador shiKatsu Raumuk examined the bottle, reading aloud, “Chateau Picard, LeBarre, France, circa 2363.” “I seem to recall you received a bottle as a gift during the war, ” Sorehl noted, looking to his right. “Yes,” Halloway nodded. He remembered Sorehl had been present on that occasion - the Remmler Array at SB 315. “I asked Jean-Luc to send me a case for special occasions.” Raumuk tilted his head. “I would say this is a fitting one.” “2363…wasn’t that the year Picard beat you out for the Enterprise-D?” his second officer, Lieutenant Commander Seiji Fujimoto asked playfully. Halloway set down his glass. “It turned out to be a good year,” he answered. Enterprise had nearly been his seventeen years ago, were it not for the existence of a more seasoned captain.* Instead, he’d been given the Ambassador-class Yorktown as his first command, from which he’d aggressively defended Federation space along this very border. Although that ship had been defeated by the Borg above Earth, he had returned to captain her successor. *[sT:TNG, “Tapestry”] “And a good year for you, Sorehl. One mission concluded, another assignment in the Gamma Quadrant. What can you tell us about it?” Although many of the details of his assignment remained classified, there were some he could share in this setting. “Not much at this point,” Sorehl admitted. “The Dominion has consented to increase Starfleet presence and allow the installation of a Federation facility. Admiral Day will administrate the sector.” “That seems like quite a concession, captain,” noted one of the Yorktown officers, a human female adorned in medical blue. “I’m not sure we would have afforded them a similar one.” Halloway leaned in toward the Vulcan. “Dr. Kelley is our resident skeptic,” he noted. Sorehl pressed on. “There are a number of conditions, of course. For one, the Dominion insisted on right of refusal for any site we select. For that reason, joint survey teams are making the choice together. In addition, the station will host a Vorta observer and must agree to be an open port to all Dominion vessels.” A young-ish lieutenant set down her glass. “So you’re not just taking a position on the other side of the wormhole.” “That is correct,” Sorehl agreed. “You could be quite a ways from reinforcement,” she countered. “Agreed, although Alexandria-class starbases employ a highly-rated shield design, as well as benchmark defensive weaponry. For our initial operation,” Sorehl explained, avoiding the details, “the Admiralty is deploying dedicated support craft. “ “Well,” the ambassador spoke optimistically, “let’s hope you won’t need them.” As usual, the libation signalled the end of the evening’s meal. Some of his officers began to filter out as Halloway stood to offer the evening’s farewells. “A fine tradition, captain,” Raumuk noted, shaking his hand. “We didn’t have anything like this when I was in the service.” Halloway slipped into a disarming smile. “Oddly enough, the Cardassians have a similar tradition.” He gestured toward the table. “I’m glad you’ll be joining us for the trip to Sky Harbor. I’m interested to trade stories about your time under Admiral Saylek on the Victory. Betile Kallian tells me you were quite a… counterpoint to the old boy.” There was a slight upturn of the lip as the Andorian merely nodded and dismissed himself. Halloway turned toward the expansive aft viewports, where Sorehl was saying goodbye to his former yeoman. He walked up as she departed. “I’m surprised you’re letting her go, captain. Masterson has been with you for what – six years?” “My next assignment is to establish a starbase,” Sorehl reasoned. “An engineering task which hardly requires a dedicated administrative assistant.” The Vulcan surveyed the human. “Considering the special invitation, I’m surprised you’re not following her.” “I’ll find her later. It’s two days before we get to Aegis,” Halloway confessed. “So, you have a few hours before you head out on Reliant?” “I had planned to visit…” “No, I understand, spend time with your family first. I’d just like to confer with you before you take off.” “Confer?” Halloway scooped up one of the unfinished wine bottles and twisted a cork into the open neck. “Don’t sound so surprised – you know we understand the Cardassians in totally different ways. I’ve got a briefing with Rear Admiral Meve to prepare for, so swing by my ready room.” * * * * * More than a week later, Day was now summoning him to offer tactical opinions on a different species a galaxy away. The admiral wanted a intelligence assessment of the recent battle. The threat of attack had ebbed. A flotilla of Dominion ships now surrounded the unfinished starbase. Semil was out there among them. Xavier and his team had beaten Sorehl’s own installation estimate for long range sensors by more than six hours. Those same sensors had verified the approach of the Atlas-class warp tugs USS Hercules and USS Goliath, bearing the next major structural addition. The Defiant-class USS Reliant, the same ship that had borne him hence, was escorting the low-warp convoy. Soon enough, other precious cargo would join them. Sorehl stepped out of the lift, bound for the transporter room, and prepared to do his part to ensure a safe arrival.

Part 3 in a joint log series with Captain Thomas Halloway. Aboard the starship Yorktown, docked at Empok Nor “A toast, then, to the Cardassian future,” Thomas Halloway announced from the head of the Captain’s Table, raising his glass to those assembled. “The Cardassian future,” repeated his guests and the senior staff of the starship Yorktown. Even Captain Sorehl had joined the toast, taking a small sip of dark red wine from the glass. A red-haired yeoman beside the Vulcan looked on, mildly surprised. Halloway appreciated the taste, then set down the glass, leaning to his left. “What do you think?” he asked. “Quite pleasant,” Sorehl admitted, pursing his lips. “Although admittedly, I have an uneducated palate for judging the quality of intoxicants.” Across the table, Ambassador shiKatsu Raumuk examined the bottle, reading aloud, “Chateau Picard, LeBarre, France, circa 2363.” “I seem to recall you received a bottle as a gift during the war, ” Sorehl noted, looking to his right. “Yes,” Halloway nodded. He remembered Sorehl had been present on that occasion - the Remmler Array at SB 315. “I asked Jean-Luc to send me a case for special occasions.” Raumuk tilted his head. “I would say this is a fitting one.” “2363…wasn’t that the year Picard beat you out for the Enterprise-D?” his second officer, Lieutenant Commander Seiji Fujimoto asked playfully. Halloway set down his glass. “It turned out to be a good year,” he answered. Enterprise had nearly been his seventeen years ago, were it not for the existence of a more seasoned captain.* Instead, he’d been given the Ambassador-class Yorktown as his first command, from which he’d aggressively defended Federation space along this very border. Although that ship had been defeated by the Borg above Earth, he had returned to captain her successor. *[sT:TNG, “Tapestry”] “And a good year for you, Sorehl. One mission concluded, another assignment in the Gamma Quadrant. What can you tell us about it?” Although many of the details of his assignment remained classified, there were some he could share in this setting. “Not much at this point,” Sorehl admitted. “The Dominion has consented to increase Starfleet presence and allow the installation of a Federation facility. Admiral Day will administrate the sector.” “That seems like quite a concession, captain,” noted one of the Yorktown officers, a human female adorned in medical blue. “I’m not sure we would have afforded them a similar one.” Halloway leaned in toward the Vulcan. “Dr. Kelley is our resident skeptic,” he noted. Sorehl pressed on. “There are a number of conditions, of course. For one, the Dominion insisted on right of refusal for any site we select. For that reason, joint survey teams are making the choice together. In addition, the station will host a Vorta observer and must agree to be an open port to all Dominion vessels.” A young-ish lieutenant set down her glass. “So you’re not just taking a position on the other side of the wormhole.” “That is correct,” Sorehl agreed. “You could be quite a ways from reinforcement,” she countered. “Agreed, although Alexandria-class starbases employ a highly-rated shield design, as well as benchmark defensive weaponry. For our initial operation,” Sorehl explained, avoiding the details, “the Admiralty is deploying dedicated support craft. “ “Well,” the ambassador spoke optimistically, “let’s hope you won’t need them.” As usual, the libation signalled the end of the evening’s meal. Some of his officers began to filter out as Halloway stood to offer the evening’s farewells. “A fine tradition, captain,” Raumuk noted, shaking his hand. “We didn’t have anything like this when I was in the service.” Halloway slipped into a disarming smile. “Oddly enough, the Cardassians have a similar tradition.” He gestured toward the table. “I’m glad you’ll be joining us for the trip to Sky Harbor. I’m interested to trade stories about your time under Admiral Saylek on the Victory. Betile Kallian tells me you were quite a… counterpoint to the old boy.” There was a slight upturn of the lip as the Andorian merely nodded and dismissed himself. Halloway turned toward the expansive aft viewports, where Sorehl was saying goodbye to his former yeoman. He walked up as she departed. “I’m surprised you’re letting her go, captain. Masterson has been with you for what – six years?” “My next assignment is to establish a starbase,” Sorehl reasoned. “An engineering task which hardly requires a dedicated administrative assistant.” The Vulcan surveyed the human. “Considering the special invitation, I’m surprised you’re not following her.” “I’ll find her later. It’s two days before we get to Aegis,” Halloway confessed. “So, you have a few hours before you head out on Reliant?” “I had planned to visit…” “No, I understand, spend time with your family first. I’d just like to confer with you before you take off.” “Confer?” Halloway scooped up one of the unfinished wine bottles and twisted a cork into the open neck. “Don’t sound so surprised – you know we understand the Cardassians in totally different ways. I’ve got a briefing with Rear Admiral Meve to prepare for, so swing by my ready room.” He tucked the bottle under one arm and left the Vulcan to his musings.

The following is a joint log between Admiral Day and Captain Sorehl, taking place on the DS9 recreation deck just before Excalibur's departure for Earth and Sorehl's disembarking for Empok Nor. Admiral Wayne Day groaned as the glowing yellow ball bounced just beyond the reach of his racquet. He sighed softly as his inertia carried him upward to the dark wall of the zero-G court. Day pushed off with his ungloved hand, drifting back toward the Vulcan below him. “In short,” the admiral repeated, “you don’t trust them.” Sorehl stretched himself toward the service area, which reasserted gravity in that limited square and let him step down. He reached out with his left hand, prompting the yellow ball to change direction and guide itself to him. “The Vorta are seeded with a genetic level of mistrust,” the Vulcan responded, “even among themselves. We would be wise to emulate it.” Day floated against the rear wall, smoothed his blue jumpsuit, and positioning himself between two horizontal lines. “And yet they’re letting us increase our access to the quadrant,” he noted. Sorehl bounced the ball once against the gravity plate. “Make no mistake, Admiral. The Vorta do not trust us.” He bounced the ball again. “But their need outweighs their misgiving.” Day paused, thinking. He stuck out his chin and nodded, indicating he was ready for the next service. Sorehl obliged, striking the ball with a loud 'thwock'. The glowing orb streaked away. Day pushed off from the wall, surging forward. Having closed the distance, the ball came back at him quickly. He hammered it toward one of the side targets, feeling his momentum change slightly. He watched his opponent dart past him in a graceful gray spin, connecting against the rebound and sending it careening off one of the far walls. Day gained the upper hand only a few volleys later. Still, he paused to take a quick breath. For all his public reserve, Sorehl was obviously less restrained on the court. Day wondered, had the former tactical engineer picked up a competitive streak during his rise to command or was it just a by-product of working with so many Klingons? Fortunately, Wayne had his own half-Vulcan heritage to draw upon; he could hold his own. He could almost make out a trace of perspiration on his chief engineer’s brow. Gravity seized his feet as Day glided into the service square. He snatched the ball from the air and bounced it. “Are you thinking we’ve made a mistake?” Sorehl was just drifting into position. He eyed his fellow command officer briefly. “No,” came the even response. “The Vorta granted this dispensation knowing it would be of mutual benefit. It is in both our interests to contain the renegade threat.” “And after that? When they don’t need us?” Sorehl steadied his drift against the upper wall. “Difficult to say. The Federation is an aberration in their two millennia of history.” Day spun the racquet in his right hand. “Because we won.” “Which should not make us overconfident,” Sorehl quickly cautioned. “Their strength is entirely undiminished in the Gamma Quadrant. If the Vorta are indeed the new stewards of the Dominion, we must not give them reason to think we are a threat.” “We aren’t. Surely they can see that?” If possible, Sorehl’s tone grew even more serious. “We exposed their gods to biological terror. They have reason to doubt us.” Day tapped the racquet against his chin. “I have to admit I was relieved not to involve the Founders directly.” Sorehl nodded. “They are indeed a less… predictable element. The Vorta may resort to Machiavellian strategies, but their motivations are straightforward. I regret I was unable to offer counsel during your interactions with Semil.” “Might be just as well,” Wayne offered. “I understand you have some personal history.” Sorehl opened his mouth to object, but Wayne cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to say it: logic alone governs your actions. I’m just not sure Semil feels the same way.” Sorehl broke eye contact, tugging at one knee of his gray jumpsuit. “Alright,” Day relented, changing subjects, “enough business. I’ve only got an hour to beat you, or we’ll both miss our rides.” Sorehl glanced at his chronometer. “Then we best hurry. Who knows how many games it will take?” Day didn’t even look over his shoulder. He just smiled and served.

A glimpse of the setting...