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An Interrogation

By Cardie-ologist

Cardassian interrogators called it a "restraining chair." It was composed of a smooth, cold metal alloy and bolted to the floor. A head clamp rose from the top, serpentine curving metal that encircled the skull in its tight constriction, the leather encased endpoints resting on either side of the forehead's characteristic indentation. After the technicians secured its grip on the subject, they pulled both arms over the chair back, adjusting it to provide constant pressure on the shoulders. When they heard the joints pop, they fastened the wrists to the manacles underneath the seat. A corresponding set of manacles bound the bare ankles to the front chair legs. The posture was intentionally uncomfortable, and Palmor Dukat had been in that posture, naked and alone, for over an hour.

His severely restricted field of vision was focussed on a three meter high booth attached to the center of the opposing wall of the interrogation room, about five meters from the restraining chair. Its door was made of a clear polymer set into a jet black metal structure. A security locked handle and a chromium control panel were positioned on the right, center area of the door. Visible through this door were various leather straps that corresponded to strategic points in the Cardassian anatomy. On the side walls of the contraption were a number of sensor like devices, that glowed an eerie combination of green, gold, and copper when activated. A black visored helmet was attached to the top central area of the roof of the booth.

This device, always referred to simply as "the apparatus," represented the cutting edge of Cardassian pain technology. Its use was permitted only on aliens and on traitors to the state whose crimes were so heinous as to deprive them of Cardassian citizenship. The room contained other objects: a narrow bed with attached wrist and ankle chains and a neatly folded blanket at its foot; a sink; a waste extractor; an overhead illumination grid of which only the small, round incandescent in the center was currently lighted; a free standing chair. But the subject was deliberately positioned so that only the apparatus was visible to him, and that it was, moreover, impossible not to look at it if the eyes were open.

Dukat thought grimly of the wild terror experienced by the uninitiated who found themselves in his situation, their imaginations running riot over the possibilities to come. He, however, had done his own share of interrogations, and he knew precisely what would happen next. Such knowledge brought its own brand of terror.

Also visible directly to the left of the apparatus was the door, sealed by four separate security locks. At last, it opened. Legate Andreny Rokat, chief of Central Command Security, entered. Accompanying him were two young Cardassian soldiers and, in civilian clothes, the only slightly older Obsidian Order interrogator who had come to Dukat's home this morning, declining to identify himself other than as "a Cardassian patriot," and bearing intercepted messages and computer traces that established "beyond any doubt that the Order of Opposition to the Occupation of Bajor, of which you are the admitted leader, was responsible for the explosion that destroyed the troop transport Carduk and killed all 1500 troops aboard."

Examining the documents, Dukat saw that the proof was, indeed, incontrovertible. "I acted alone," he had replied. "The responsibility is solely mine."

Rokat stood opposite the chair reading solemnly from a PADD: "You, Gul Palmor Dukat, having confessed before representatives of Central Command, the Obsidian Order, and the Detepa Council to acts of treason and murder are hereby stripped of all rank in the Cardassian military and of all rights as a Cardassian citizen. After the appropriate Tribunal, your life will be forfeit. Do you understand and accept?"

"I do." Dukat was pleased that his voice did not waver.

"I will leave you now to the attentions of this gentleman," the Legate said curtly and strode deliberately from the room.

The interrogator turned to one of the soldiers, who handed him a meter long metal rod. Dukat recognized it as an okh'lar, the tool used in slaughterhouses to move the animals down the ramp. The interrogator then whispered to the two soldiers, who promptly left the room. Dukat heard the beeps of the door's lock codes being activated.

The interrogator pulled up the small free standing chair that had been propped against the wall. He was sitting about 1.5 meters from Dukat. "Now, Palmor Dukat, this session of ours doesn't have to be long, and it doesn't have to be painful. I only have one question for you, and if you answer it, I'll have you released from that uncomfortable chair. You can lie down and preserve your strength for the tribunal. What I want to know is very simple: who else was involved in the bombing?"

"I told you that I acted alone."

"Of course you did. But there's a slight problem with that story. Ever since you organized the Opposition, the Order has had you under constant surveillance. You were never anywhere near the space dock, not to mention that you don't have the scientific knowledge to put together an explosive device of that magnitude. You may have ordered this act of terrorism, but you didn't carry it out. We want to know who did."

"I acted alone," Dukat repeated.

The interrogator rose to his feet with a show of reluctance. "Remember, this is your choice." He activated the okh'lar, touching the instrument to each of the bony protuberances of Dukat's head and neck, areas of Cardassian physiology that were particularly sensitive to pain. The prisoner flinched at each touch, but the interrogator did not press the trigger. Then the interrogator moved behind him, out of sight. He repeated the application to each of the neck bones, triggering the device on some, refraining on others. Dukat writhed with each shock, but made no sound. The interrogator walked back in front of his subject, scrutinizing his face and torso intently. Then he touched the instrument to a place on the collarbone that was crossed by a scar, the site of an old battlefield injury. Dukat gasped. The interrogator made an adjustment to the okh'lar's setting. He pressed it harder to the bone, holding it in place, charged, until the prisoner at last cried out.

The interrogator backed away, deactivating the instrument. "Ah, we all have our vulnerable spots, don't we? It just requires these little diagnostic exercises to find them." Dukat, still breathing hard from the pain, looked at him with hatred, but no fear.

The interrogator sat down on his chair. "I don't like to rush these things," he said cheerily. "So I'm not going to ask you the important question again just now. Instead, we're going to chat about your life. I know you've had many thrilling wartime adventures. Would you like to tell me about one of them?"

Dukat would not. He maintained a stony silence in response to this suggestion, and to questions about his school days, his favorite books, his favorite foods, and his last holiday trip. Each refusal to speak brought another "application" to the vulnerable spot.

"This is ridiculous," exclaimed the interrogator in a tone of exasperation that seemed genuine. "Answering these questions cannot possibly involve a betrayal of any person or any principle. Is this just foolish, stubborn pride, or do you enjoy the pain?"

Dukat clenched his teeth and stiffened in the chair, awaiting the next shock.

The interrogator read the physical reaction and smiled. "No, I'm not going to jolt you for not answering this time. Those were merely rhetorical questions." He began to pace around the room, going beyond the range of the prisoner's restricted gaze. "There must be something you're willing to talk about," he said softly, almost as if thinking out loud. "Your hobbies perhaps? Soldiering is such an intense profession. A man needs to relax."

"Hobbies!" Dukat exploded. "Interrogator, when will you stop these sick games? I've seen your kind at work. You don't care what I say, nor do you think that these little 'jolts' are going to make me give up any vital information. This is merely a demonstration of your power, letting me know that I'm completely at your mercy. Well" he pushed hard against the restraints "I have no illusions on that score. So just give up on this conversation nonsense and put me to the real torture."

"Anger, that's good." The interrogator sounded pleased. "Men who can get angry still have some sense of self preservation. I had begun to wonder. Of course, I should have remembered that I wasn't dealing with some frightened civilian but a fellow professional. Now, since you do acknowledge that I am totally in control of this situation, you know that the moment when you are put to the torture, if you are put to the torture, is for me to decide, not you. And I'm not ready to take that step at this time. Nevertheless "

The interrogator went over to Dukat and unlocked the restraints. The prisoner eyed him suspiciously, not even daring to ease his arms off the chair back. The interrogator brought them forward himself. Releasing his hold, he spread his own arms wide: "This. . . doesn't change the fact that the door is still locked, or that highly unpleasant things are going to happen to you if you don't cooperate. Perhaps, however, a little more equality within this room will be conducive to intelligent conversation." He placed the blanket on Dukat's lap and then held out the okh'lar to him, handle end first,. "Go ahead, take it. And if you find my repartee getting annoying, you can just give me a jolt or two." With that he returned to his own chair and sat down, crossing his legs. "Since you don't like questions, I won't ask any. Talk about whatever you want."

For ten minutes neither man spoke. Dukat cautiously massaged his wrists, covered his genitals with the blanket, nervously toyed with the okh'lar. Every time he met the interrogator's gaze, the man smiled ingratiatingly but said nothing.

"Gardening," Dukat said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My hobby is gardening."

"I never would have guessed," the interrogator replied with apparent delight. "Do you grow flowers or vegetables?"

"Vegetables, and I have a fruit tree orchard as well. We have a small farm in the country " This was absurd, Dukat thought, as he nevertheless went on about his crops. Absurdity was preferable to being stared at by his grinning tormentor.

"So larishes make good preserves as well as pies?" the man asked.

"Yes, delicious ones. My wife devotes her summers to preparing them. She says that replicated produce isn't worthy of the name." A spasm of emotion crossed his face. They hadn't let him say good bye to her, and the family's only hope from now on was to repudiate him utterly for the traitor that he was.

"This love of gardening, perhaps it explains your unfortunate partiality to Bajor. It's a predominantly agricultural planet, after all."

"Perhaps." Dukat made a decision. He looked the interrogator squarely in the eye. "But speaking of hobbies, certainly a man in your line of work needs something to take his mind off things." Dukat knew that the first rule of interrogation was to maintain the prisoner's feelings of inferiority. His arrogant seizing of the questioner's prerogative would put him back in the manacles and earn him a few jolts besides, but it would be worth it to wipe that totally inappropriate grin from the interrogator's face.

Much to Dukat's amazement, the grin only grew broader. "How kind of you to inquire. I do have a hobby, as a matter of fact. I design and make clothing, this suit for example. Do you think it's flattering?"

"I I'm not much of a judge of tailoring; I've spent most of my life in uniform," Dukat's confusion was growing. "I must say, interrogator, you are a very strange man."

The smile grew broader still. "Ah, you're not the first person to tell me that, although you are the first of my, uh, subjects. They usually feel it prudent to conceal whatever negative impressions they have of me."

Dukat actually laughed. He had not imagined that, in the very few days that remained of his life, he would ever laugh again. He tested the man further. "Would it be permissible for me to get up and walk about?"

"Of course." The interrogator was all magnanimity. "You aren't tied to the chair at present. I just require that you keep talking."

Securing the blanket around his waist, Dukat paced the narrow confines of the room, endeavoring to keep his distance from the interrogator, still seated cross legged, and the apparatus. He did talk about wartime adventures, books, food, schooldays, vacations, even pets. Finally he couldn't go on, and he sat back down in the restraining chair, staring at the interrogator's still blandly pleasant face.

"You only meant to destroy the ship, not the men," the interrogator observed, out of the blue. "It left for Bajor two days earlier than planned, and the bomb went off in space. You'd been sure that the repairs would have taken longer."

Dukat only barely kept himself from saying "How could you have found out about that?" but he imagined that the expression on his face had said it for him.

"Oh, I know you're quite shocked that I'm in possession of that information," the man continued smugly. "Security dictates that transport departure schedules be maintained by internal ship's computer only. Traces of original and revised schedules were vaporized in the explosion, etc. etc. But information rarely disappears so easily. One just has to know where to look. For you to know, however, you must have had someone inside, one of the ship's officers. He bravely allowed himself to be blown to smithereens I imagine, so as not to imperil the plan. The Opposition won't last long with all these martyrs in the ranks. You wouldn't want to give me his name, I suppose, him being safely dead and all?'

"No," said Dukat, evenly.

"I thought not, there being his family to protect," the interrogator mused. "No matter. I am curious, though, when you made your confession, why you didn't tell Central Command that you intended only sabotage, not murder. Things might have gone easier with you."

"Whatever I intended, I didn't call off the bombing when I learned the ship would be manned and in flight at the time of detonation. So I'm quite guilty of murder."

"And who was it that you would have called to call it off? Our conveniently dead inside man?"

"I would have called Central Command."

The interrogator stared at him intently. Dukat couldn't bear to return his gaze and bowed his head.

"Ah, so that's it!," the interrogator said triumphantly. "You were going to call Central Command. And something stopped you. Visions of ruin to the House of Dukat? Imagining yourself in this room? A healthy fear of dying? And now you're so ashamed, that every indignity we pile upon you will seem a deserved penance."

Palmor Dukat paled. It was as if the man could read his mind. A telepath would make an effective interrogator. But somehow he didn't think this man was a telepath. "I didn't know that interrogators were supposed to make up the answers as well as the questions," he said at last, attempting to match the other's tone of careless levity.

"When our subjects are as stubborn as you, what choice do we have?" the interrogator responded archly. "In fact most of what one uncovers through interrogation can just as easily be learned through some elementary psychology and a little basic research. The Obsidian Order does so love the drama of these proceedings, however. Unfortunately, even though I'll get much credit for sweating that information out of you, it's hardly what my superiors are hoping for. Makes you look better, not worse, and still leaves me with an unconvincing tale of a complex terrorist operation in the hands of two men with a death wish."

The interrogator looked thoughtful for a few seconds; then he rose and walked over to the apparatus. "Come here," he said, not quite so casually. Dukat uneasily complied.

"Have you ever seen one of these in operation?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." Dukat's tone was somber. "My division once ambushed a Klingon convoy and took a dozen prisoners. It was thought that they might be in possession of some valuable tactical information. I was just a Glinn, then, and my commander sent me and a platoon of enlisted men to escort the prisoners to an interrogation station. The interrogators only had to question three of the Klingons to get the information they needed, and they told us we could amuse ourselves with the rest. Two of the enlisted men decided to sneak into one of the interrogation chambers, strap a Klingon into the apparatus, and push a few buttons at random. The Klingon had only been under torture for half an hour when his screams brought the rest of us running. In an hour he was dead."

"That's what comes from amateurs misusing delicate equipment," the interrogator snorted. "Using it properly, with the requisite "off" cycles, professionals can assure that a man survives several days of torture in the apparatus. Do you know how it works?"

"No."

"The basic principle involves gamma rays, omicron particles and a reconfiguring of neural pathways to the brain's pain centers. Subjects have to wear the helmet, whose titanium polymer coating blocks the radiation, or the neural disruption would render them quite incoherent. We generally utilize a polymer shield in the genital region, too, unless the subject simply can't be persuaded any other way. Palmor Dukat, this is not an experience you should seek out. Give me just one name of someone in the Opposition who was directly involved in the destruction of the Carduk, and I will spare you this torture."

"Just one name," Dukat repeated. "And then you'll promise him mercy for just one more, and that one in turn will give you another name, and soon the Opposition movement will be destroyed. No, this will end with me."

"It is disconcerting to have all one's strategies seen through quite so effectively," the interrogator clucked, but his expression was immediately serious again. "The Obsidian Order will find other ways to destroy the Opposition. A movement that has killed once, will kill again, and it must be stopped. The people you are protecting will eventually be caught whether or not you give me their names. But giving me their names is the only way to spare yourself."

"I won't spare myself by betraying others," Dukat replied urgently.

"Where were these scruples when you betrayed Cardassia?" For the first time the interrogator let anger escape from behind the mask. "Very well, you leave me no choice but to proceed."

"Let's get it over with then," declared Dukat. He rather flamboyantly cast off the blanket, returned to the restraining chair, and applied the head and ankle restraints himself. Showing such bravado both gratified and embarrassed him.

It seemed to amuse the interrogator. "For the full effect, you do need to return the pain stick." He gestured toward the okh'lar, still resting on the right hand edge of the seat.

Dukat handed it to him as it had been given, handle end forward: "The Cardassian way to say I love you?"

"What?" The interrogator seemed nonplussed.

"It's the punch line to the old Klingon Pain Stick routine. I was assuming that was what you were referring to when you called the okh'lar a pain stick," said Dukat.

"N..no. In my profession one becomes familiar with many such instruments. Pain stick is merelythe generic term."

"My error," Dukat sighed. "Ten years ago my eldest son Elmor almost killed another boy with a pain stick, not that he hadn't been provoked, but still . . ." He broke off into silence. He could not let his mind drift to thoughts of his family if he were to have any chance of enduring what was to come.

The interrogator pulled the prisoner's arms tightly behind the chair and positioned the wrist restraints. "Interrogator, I want to thank you," said Dukat softly.

The restraints locked into place. The interrogator came around to face his prisoner. "Thank me? Be assured that after the next phase of our relationship you won't want to thank me for anything."

"I know," Dukat smiled. "That's why I'm doing it now."

"What can you possibly want to thank me for?"

"For treating me, for this little while, like a man rather than a beast bound for slaughter."

"Save your gratitude, Dukat," the interrogator replied bitterly. "That was just one of the tricks of the trade. And it did get you to talk, didn't it?"

***

When used for interrogation purposes, the apparatus was applied in "cycles." There would be a one minute gamma omicron burst, the asking of the question, and if the question were not answered, a one minute rest before the sequence was repeated at two minute intervals, then three minute intervals, and so on up to ten. By the time the first cycle had run its course, Dukat was no longer replying "I acted alone," to the interrogator's repeated, "Tell me the names of those who committed this treason with you." The pain grew so intense that he could barely gasp out "no." As the final rest interval ticked by, Dukat, who had suffered his share of painful wounds in war, marvelled that there could be a pain to exceed his worst experiences by what seemed a factor of ten. Then the apparatus door opened, and the interrogator lifted the helmet visor. He grasped the prisoner's chin in his hand. "Are you through with this foolishness, Dukat?" he demanded. "Are you going to give me a name?" "Never." The prisoner could barely whisper. The visor was pulled down, the door slammed shut, and the cycle begun again.

By the time the second cycle had concluded, Dukat could barely form a word, for which he was grateful, for he feared that better verbal facility might have led him to surrender a name before he could stop himself. This time, when the door opened, the interrogator stood back as the two soldiers unhooked the straps, removed the helmet, and carried the prisoner back to the restraining chair. When the restraints were secured, the interrogator approached. "I'll give you a couple of hours to think about what you're doing to yourself, Dukat. But I don't want you to get too comfortable." He nodded to one of the soldiers, who shoved a gag into the prisoner's mouth, while the other pressed a keypad on the wall that activated the entire ceiling illumination grid. Blinding light and intense heat seared Dukat.

The two hours seemed both an eternity and an instant as Dukat drifted in and out of consciousness. He no longer had separate parts to his body; all simply merged into one mass of agony, that agony in turn driven by desperate thirst. His mouth was the one site of pain he could still discriminate from the others. His lips and tongue were dry, swollen, and raw. The gag seemed woven from rigrex quills, tormenting and choking him.

From deep in this misery he was roused by the sudden, and blessed, extinguishing of the illumination grid. He struggled to open and focus his eyes, finally recognizing the interrogator's self tailored jacket. Then the man's face came into view as his hand reached out and removed the gag. Dukat was close to weeping with relief.

"Are you thirsty, Palmor Dukat?"

"Yes," Dukat croaked, not daring to hope.

"I've brought you this water. Can you see it?" Dukat squinted several times before his vision cleared sufficiently for him to place the water tumbler being held about six centimeters from his mouth.

"Yes. Water. Please."

"There's just one problem." The interrogator didn't move the glass. "This water is contaminated. It's red with the blood of those troops you killed. It's not fit to drink."

"Nooo. . ." The word was a moan. "It's clear, it's clear. Please let me drink. I'm so very thirsty."

"No, I can't give you such foul water. But I do know how you can make it pure. Just give me a name."

"I can't." Dukat was frantic. "But it's clear. Please. Just a sip" He thrust forward his swollen tongue in a futile attempt to reach the glass.

"Give me a name." The interrogator was maddeningly patient.

"Thirst. Terrible. Have pity, interrogator."

The man's face was suddenly only a centimeter away. "I do have pity, Palmor Dukat." he said earnestly. " I want to give you this water. I want to release you from this chair. I want to end your torture. But I can't do any of these things until you give me a name."

Somehow Dukat mastered himself. He looked the interrogator squarely in the eye: "No. I won't."

The interrogator poured the water on the floor. A single sob convulsed the prisoner's body. The interrogator opened the door locks and summoned the two soldiers. "Return him to the apparatus. And remove the genital shield."

***

Dukat's pride was gone, and most of his will. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed like a lost child. Yet each time the interrogator relentlessly repeated his single question, he kept himself from uttering the words that would emancipate him from this awful suffering.

One more cycle completed, the interrogator stared thoughtfully at his subject, moaning pitiably, the body jerking uncontrollably against the straps, eyes closed with agony and exhaustion. "Should we start another cycle, sir?" one of the soldiers inquired.

"No, I want to try something different. Let's turn the power up to level five for three minutes. I think he's at the breaking point."

The other soldier broke in, "Level five won't make him talk. It'll make him pass out."

"Thank you so much for your expert opinion," the interrogator responded with withering scorn. Turning back to the first soldier, he repeated, "Level five."

The pain pierced to the core of Dukat's being. He felt that his internal organs were exploding. Mercifully, he only felt it for about thirty seconds before oblivion embraced him.

The second soldier gestured toward the prisoner's body swaying limply in its bonds. A smug rebuke animated the soldier's features. "Oh dear," said the interrogator. "I do seem to have miscalculated."

***

Dukat awoke with a groan. He was back in the restraining chair. There were no harsh lights and no gag this time, and the pain, though severe, was more manageable. The thirst, however, remained all consuming. He tried to open his eyes, but could only force the eyelids to flicker erratically. Then he felt something hard and cold pressed against his mouth and next, a miracle, something wet. He willed his lips apart and drank. The last drop drained, the glass was withdrawn. "More," he pleaded.

"I don't suppose you'd care to give me a name in exchange for the next glass of water." The interrogator's mocking voice seemed to come from miles away.

Dukat's body stiffened. It wasn't mercy after all, only another cruel twist in the game.

"I didn't think so," the voice continued. "But you can't blame a poor civil servant for one last try."

And yet another miracle. The glass was at his lips again. He drank greedily, and when he had consumed it all, another glass followed, without his even having to beg for it.

"You shouldn't drink any more at present," said the voice through the fog in his brain. "Let me get you out of this contraption."

Dukat felt the encircling grip on his skull vanish. His head fell forward, chin hitting his chest, and he began to cry. Then there was the pressure of an arm around his shoulders as the hold on his ankles loosened. "Good. Let it all go now. It's over."

"Over?" The word was barely audible as emotion choked Dukat's voice.

"That's right. No more torture. No more interrogation. I'm going to release your arms now. Try not to fall out of the chair."

Dukat tried but did not succeed. The interrogator caught him in time, however, and partially carried, partially dragged him to the bed that was pushed up against the left hand wall. He covered Dukat with the blanket, placed a pillow under his head, and laid a wet cloth on the deeply bruised forehead. He brought another glass of water, cautioning, "Just drink it slowly, a few sips at a time."

After finishing the water, Dukat was finally able to open and focus his eyes. He saw that the interrogator had pulled the free standing chair up to his bedside and was regarding him with a look of concern.

"Interrogator . . . Everything . . . so confused. ..... why is it over? Did I reveal . . .? " Dukat feared to learn the answer.

"No, no, stubbornly silent to the end. You see, Palmor Dukat, there comes a point in every interrogation at which a man either breaks or you know that he will never break. I have extremely good instincts about such matters, and I knew we'd reached that point with you. So there was no reason to continue. I told Central Command that if they expected you to survive for your tribunal, they'd have to give up any further attempts to obtain information. And they are very eager that you should acknowledge your guilt before the people of Cardassia. Several times in the past, they've vetoed my decision to suspend inquiries, and the subjects have subsequently died, so I didn't get much argument."

Drained by his ordeal as Dukat was, he nevertheless did not feel close to dying. "But that's not true, that more torture would have killed me."

The interrogator's face showed surprise, "You do have the most annoying habit of second guessing my methods. Technically, I suppose, we could have put you through perhaps two or three more cycles in the apparatus, and four or five more hours under the illumination grid before being absolutely sure that I was right. There was simply no point. You were not going to talk. Why should I waste my time and energy and put you through needless suffering?"

"You're a torturer. What do you care if your victims suffer needlessly?"

"I am not a torturer!" The man's tone was indignant. "I'm an interrogator who uses torture as a tool, and it's not my favorite tool by any stretch of the imagination." The interrogator seemed genuinely pained by the accusation. Dukat turned his head toward the wall. "So what happens now?"

"The tribunal will take place the day after tomorrow. They'll want you looking reasonably healthy for the big show, so you'll mostly lie here and rest. There will be food and water in reasonable portions. Oh, and there will be regular injections of a drug called neurothylin."

Dukat turned back to face him. "Injections? Mind altering?"

"Not in the way you mean. When a person has had as much exposure to the apparatus's gamma omicron effect as you have, the neural pathways are permanently corrupted. Your body becomes its own personal torture chamber. Neurothylin is the antidote. I gave you the first shot while you were unconscious. It should be making the world a bit clearer to you by now. Apparatus survivors require regular doses for the rest of their lives."

"Not that the rest of their lives is a period of long duration," Dukat observed ironically.

"No, it's not." The interrogator started to say something else, stopped himself, then began again. "There will be one unpleasantness before the trial, Dukat. You'll need to be prepared. Tomorrow morning, they'll delay giving you the next injection. They'll strap you back in the restraining chair, put the gag in your mouth. Two high ranking officers of the Central Command will bring in your eldest son to see you."

"Surely they won't present me to him naked?" Dukat's voice was wracked with shame.

"I'm afraid they will. They'll not want him to be in any doubt of how thoroughly you've been humiliated, how grievously you've suffered. I assume that you've had the good sense to come to an agreement with him about what should happen if your political deviancy should ever bring you to this pass?"

"Yes, Elmor knows what he has to do."

"For the sake of the House of Dukat, you'd better hope that he does it. He must implore you to give up the names of your comrades; he must denounce you as a traitor and pledge to obliterate any trace of your existence from the annals of your house. The officers will then remove your gag. Say nothing. Then they'll leave you 'alone' with your son."

Dukat's eyes travelled to the ceiling.

"Precisely." The interrogator's characteristic mockery returned. "You know, I suspect that Cardassian building codes actually require that every structure come equipped with full surveillance arrays in every room." Then his tone hardened. "Hope that your son can keep his mouth shut, or if he can't, that he'll be abusive toward you. But if you see any sign that he's about to speak a kind word, or if he moves to touch you, to comfort you, you must repudiate him unequivocally, demand that he leave the room at once. It's your family's only hope, as I'm sure you're aware."

"My family had absolutely no knowledge that the Opposition was planning violent action," Dukat protested agitatedly. "You have to believe that. I would have never compromised their safety."

"Yes, you are a prudent man, except when it comes to your political opinions. Nevertheless, the future now hangs on your son's performance, not on your intentions."

Dukat's gaze returned to the ceiling. "Are you sure you should be talking to me like this, interrogator?"

"Before the eyes and ears of the Obsidian Order? Don't worry. My assistant Koret is the first to receive the surveillance feeds, and he's an expert on digital re-compositing." The interrogator flashed a mischievous grin.

"What comes after the tribunal?"

"Surely you know."

"Yes, but there are always a few days at least between the sentencing and the execution. What happens then."

The interrogator rose abruptly to his feet, and began to pace the room. "You need to rest now, Dukat, not have me give you nightmares."

"Tell me, interrogator."

The man continued to pace, never facing his prisoner. His voice was cold as neutronium. "We call those days the bad days. You're allowed four hours lying down, then four hours in the restraining chair, then back to the bed, back to the chair for as long as the bad days last. You're given your neurothylin for only four hours of each thirty two hour cycle. There's a daily one quarter liter ration of water. Food is given only every third day. This goes on until the day before the execution, when they'll once again help you regain your strength for the public display."

"Does anyone maintain his dignity on the bad days," Dukat asked in a horrified whisper.

"No. In preparation for my first solo interrogation, I observed twenty five politicals from arrest to execution. For all of them the bad days were . . . . very, very bad. Without the neurothylin, the body's functions are uncontrollable. Some men cry for hours, some beg for mercy, some go out of their minds and babble. Some try to beat their heads in on the bed and have to be restrained continuously. When your remains are returned to your family, the Obsidian Order will thoughtfully include a composite recording of all your worst moments on your worst days. Tell your Nestor to get word to your son. He should destroy the recording the nanosecond it's in his hands. Too many bereaved relatives think that it's worth viewing the horrors to get one final glimpse of dear old dad. It's not."

The interrogator paused, his back still turned to the prisoner. There was no sound save rapid intakes of breath. Finally he returned to the bedside and dared to look the prisoner in the face. The man's skin was ashen, his eyes full of despair. "A mercy for you, though, is that the entire planet is screaming for the blood of those responsible for the Carduk massacre." the interrogator announced as he sat down again. "You'll not have time for many bad days. You'll likely be dead before a week is out."

"Glad there's some good news." Dukat grinned unconvincingly.

The interrogator shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry to be brutal, but you did want to know."

"I needed to know."

"Cardassia is merciless and unforgiving to those who betray her." There was no taunting or recrimination in the interrogator's words. They were a plain statement of fact. Both men fell silent.

"You can't get any rest this way," the interrogator said at last. "My work is done here. I'll leave you to your . . . thoughts."

"I won't see you again?"

"No, a fact for which you will no doubt be eternally grateful." The man had reassumed his jester's mask. Dukat did not, however, look grateful, or amused. "I'm required to manacle you to the bed when you're alone," the interrogator continued. "As swollen and torn as your wrists and ankles are, there's no way I can avoid hurting you. I've told my superiors repeatedly that force field restraints are far more effective, cleaner, and less damaging than this ancient hardware, but I don't suppose that's the effect they were going for when these rooms were designed."

The interrogator fastened the manacles as gently as he could around the right ankle and the left. He lifted the prisoner's left arm and chained it at the head of the bed. As he moved to do the same with the right, there was a surge of resistance. The prisoner grasped the interrogator's hand in his. The interrogator pulled back, as if he had been touched by the okh'lar, but the prisoner retained his grasp with a strength that surprised them both.

"Interrogator," Dukat said urgently. "I don't know how it's possible given what you do and what you've seen, but I believe you still have a soul. Don't let it be destroyed. Quit this life you're leading."

With an effort, the interrogator forced the prisoner's wrist into the manacle and clicked it shut. He stood over him, shaking his head. "My soul! I see where your affinity for doomed lost causes comes from. You certainly have romantic notions about what it means to work for the Obsidian Order. They don't have a very attractive early retirement plan."

"Don't joke," Dukat pleaded. "Run off then, to some out of the way corner of the galaxy. Open a tailor shop."

The interrogator slowly sat down in his chair. He put his hand to the prisoner's chest. "Palmor Dukat, the day that the Carduk exploded you knew in your heart that the path of your life would sooner or later lead you to this room, didn't you?'

"Perhaps I did."

"Well, the day that I carried out my first interrogation I set out on a path, too. And it does not lead to any rustic tailor shops."

"Are you a follower the Bajorans' Prophets that you speak so confidently of irrevocable life paths? Did some Orb of Prophecy show you your future?"

"No, of course not," the interrogator replied.

"Then you might save yourself. I would almost feel that all of this were worthwhile if it could save you."

The interrogator briefly squeezed his prisoner's hand. "No doubt your generosity of spirit will help wash the blood from your soul, Gul Dukat. But I've made my choices, and I accept their consequences." He got up again. The men's eyes met, helplessly. What was there, finally, left to say? Under the circumstances, good byes would be ludicrous.

"I'll get you another glass of water before I go," the interrogator said quietly. As he put it to the prisoner's lips, however, Dukat moved his head to the side. "One thing, before I drink. Interrogator, is this water clear?"

The interrogator smiled sadly, "Yes, Palmor Dukat, totally clear."