The Delicious Taste of Irony

[Semil 0]

Barely conscious from the severe burn of the forced plasma weapon, Semil felt the irritating tingle of the Federation’s primitive transporters wash over him. After a longer pause than necessary, the blackened bridge of Excalibur gave way to its quaint, outmoded “sickbay”.

 

Pain prickled through the scorched tissues in his chest as his weight settled on the biobed. The Starfleet doctor, Chell Reno, was still beside him. Semil smirked, having exposed another Federation contradiction. For all their altruism and claims to follow triage, the Starfleet doctor had tended the lesser-injured Pilot first, overlooking Semil’s own more serious wounds.

 

As the doctor went to his readouts, Semil considered the brave actions of his own Jem’Hadar First. He had been most sincere in his offer to praise him to the Founders. Without the efforts of his personal guard, who had wisely remained shrouded through most of the mission, the entire bridge crew would be dead. They’d been totally misdirected by the assault of a single rebel Jem’Hadar on their bridge. With a diversionary grenade, the soldier had tricked the others into putting their backs to his pending attack. Yes, the Starfleet people were totally out of their element in dealing with the Dominion’s elite shock troops. They’d been this way during the war. Semil pitied their simplicity and lack of vision.

 

He groaned again, feeling it harder and harder to breath. The wound on his chest was not superficial. He could feel his damaged internal organs struggling to keep up. The rebel Jem’Hadar had clearly meant to kill him. He’d been surprised to wake up on the bridge at all, instead of inside a fresh cloning tube at Al’quon, ready to emerge into the Founder’s service as Semil Four.

 

He coughed, bitterly recognizing just how far he was from superior Dominion facilities. He noted the quirk of fate that left him in the ineffectual hands of Federation “medicine,” considering the fate of others who’d been left in his own hands.

 

He closed his eyes, thinking how the Founders had given the galaxy a delicious sense of irony…

 

02.10.2374 [Alpha Quadrant War: Month Five of Hostilities]

 

Semil drew close to the subject of his experiment. Captain Sorehl remained strapped to the vertical slab, impassive and unconscious. The Vulcan's only sense of reality came from the neurosensory feeds strapped to his skull, planting images into his brain.

 

Over many days, the Vorta had controlled every element of the illusion, according to design. He had guided Sorehl on a trip to Cardassia Prime, allowing him to witness images of a mighty Dominion presence. Semil had taken him to Canar, where Sorehl was made to see scientists who were thrilled at archeological discoveries made under Dominion sponsorship. He had even been allowed to freely return to his precious Starbase Aegis, where he resumed his routine as commanding officer.

 

In that role, Sorehl had used, and thus revealed, command codes that could never have been tortured out of him. The real ones, of course, had already been changed, but the ease of getting them made Semil delight. From the captain, the Vorta had learned Aegis' tactical limitations, plans for deploying a new class of destroyer, and most importantly, the disposition of all Starfleet forces along the border.

 

In reviewing those forces, Semil at once saw the Federation was making a classic mistake - protecting star systems that had been sites of historical clashes with the Cardassians. They failed to realize the Dominion would not limit itself to the traditional territorial interests of their short-sighted allies. The Founders had greater vision. A vast swath beyond the Badlands lay open to immediate advance. Semil had eagerly passed on such treasures of information to Weyoun, his superior at Cardassia Prime.

 

But his interest in tactical information was coming to a close.

 

Semil remained close to the Vulcan, narrowing his weak eyes to admire the delicate points of the Vulcan ears. They truly were a venerable race. He had once commented to the captain on the many similarities between the Vorta and the Vulcans. Intellectual achievements. Telepathic prowess. Superior physical endurance. And the Vulcans had done so without the aid of the Founders' genetic guidance. Truly amazing.

 

But this was his opportunity to study them as never before.

 

There had been other Vulcan prisoners available, of course; the chief medical officer of the Cortez was only three cells down. But here was one whose discipline he had witnessed. One who had stood against him in times past; one he had studied. One now in his complete control.

 

A Jem'Hadar soldier entered the cell. He saw the Vorta, slowly pacing, circling his quarry. "A patrol reports Klingon activity - possible relocation of troops. We believe cloaked transports with escort."

 

Semil glanced over, tilting his head. "I suppose it is time to ask our friend next door to share more information with us. Alert Gul Madred. I'll meet him there in a minute."

 

The soldier gestured compliance, then withdrew. The Vorta was not yet impressed with the new strain cloned here in the Alpha Quadrant, but this one had proven efficient. Their reduced need for ketresel white would stretch the dangerously limited supply.

 

Before leaving, he looked back at the captain. The experiment was no longer just to extract tactical information. In fact, he was uncertain of the fascination that motivated him.

 

He was not done with Captain Sorehl.

 

He decided it was time to see just what would make a Vulcan break.

[Semil 0]

An intelligence file on Semil is available at: Bio: Semil, Vorta Agent for the Dominion