Star Trek: Enterprise Logs

by Carol Greenburg

  Rokan also knew that he was blessed with far greater stamina than Harriman. Even an aged Romulan (Aged! Ridiculous. He hadn’t lost a step in the passing years; he was all that he ever was!) was still more durable, in better condition, than a young Terran, even under the best of conditions. And these were certainly not conditions that favored Harriman. The evidence of the stress became more pronounced with each passing hour. For a time Harriman was sweating more and more profusely, so much so that his uniform shirt was visibly sticking to his chest. He was starting to look a bit paler, and the cockiness in his manner was slowly dissipating. Ever so slowly, it was being replaced by something that Rokan recognized all too well: creeping desperation.

  “You do think you’re going to be rescued. That Starfleet will endeavor to arrange your release,” Rokan said after many hours and ten successive replies that began, “Harriman, John.” This time the more wan-looking Harriman said, “I already told you: Starfleet doesn’t bargain with terrorists. I don’t expect to be rescued.”

  “Commendable. Commendable. Indeed, why should you be rescued, when it comes down to it? I mean, you haven’t exactly covered yourself in glory, have you? Perhaps the braintrust of Starfleet will breathe a collective sigh of relief, glad to be rid of you once and for all.”

  Harriman glared at him, but a brief shadow seemed to flicker behind his eyes. It was what Rokan had been seeking for some time: the first seeds of doubt.

  “Nothing to say to that, Captain?”

  “It’s not a remark worth dignifying with a response.”

  “Indeed.” Rokan smiled at that. “Indeed.”

  And then Harriman laughed.

  “Is there something particularly amusing, Captain?” inquired Rokan solicitously.

  “Well, yes. Yes, I’d say there is. You are, after all, out here by yourself. Your government sent you out with no escort; just this single vessel. What will you do, I wonder, if a rescue is mounted? Perhaps your government cares less about what happens to you than Starfleet does what happens to me. I mean, my capture—and the procedures involved in that situation—are all covered by regs. But you … hell, Rokan, maybe your government sent you out with a minimal crew specifically in the hopes that you would be captured and they wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

  Now it was Rokan who laughed, a bit more hollowly than Harriman, though. “If my government desired to rid itself of me, it would simply do so. An elaborate ruse or scheme would not be required.”

  “How comforting that must be for you,” Harriman said sarcastically.

  Rokan hit him.

  It was not a move that was entirely without forethought. Rokan preferred to keep his clients confused, off-center. Make them believe that he was going to act in one way, and then do something else entirely. The blow wasn’t intended to have impact in and of itself so much as it was intended to startle Harriman, make him uncertain of what was to come next.

  Harriman’s head snapped to the side, caught unawares as he was. Then slowly he looked back up to Rokan and smiled again. “A hit. A palpable hit,” he said. “Did I strike a nerve, Rokan?” Rokan’s impulse was to hit him again, but he restrained it. The last thing he wanted to do was give Harriman any hope or notion whatsoever that he, Harriman, was gaining any sort of upper hand.

  “I will credit you this, Captain,” Rokan said after a brief period of thought. “You have moved me in directions that I rather would not have gone. You can take some small measure of pride in that, I suppose. Unfortunately, it will not bode well for you, either.”

  “Threats? Now you’re threatening me, Rokan? Is this how the great Romulan examiner accomplishes his aims? By threats?” He laughed hoarsely. “I’ve heard a good deal of talk from you, Romulan. A lot of talk, and a slap on the face that wouldn’t have hurt a five-year-old. Maybe you could pack a punch as a younger man, but now … you impotent old—”

  Rokan struck again, this time far harder. The upsetting thing was, this wasn’t calculated, and he knew it. Harriman had provoked him and he had responded, and that was singularly, screamingly unprofessional.

  The side of Harriman’s face where the blow had landed was red and inflamed, but Harriman didn’t seem to care.

  “You,” Rokan said softly, “are overreaching yourself, Captain, just as you always have. You aspire to qualities that you do not have. You think I cannot break you. You are very wrong. I had hoped that you would realize just how limited your options are. Unfortunately, you do not seem to be a particularly bright individual. Not one of the better candidates that the academy vomited up from its maw of scholarship … although I suspect you already know that. I had wanted to refrain from using drugs or mechanical devices upon you. There’s no…” He sighed in a rather forlorn way. “There’s no style to such resources. No elegance. I prefer mind against mind, rather than battering one mind into submission. Furthermore, purely on a practical level, such treatments can damage the mind of the client severely. And since we have further uses to which we can put you, that would be unfortunate. I loathe the notion of wasting material.”

  Harriman’s eyes narrowed. It seemed as if he wanted to believe that, somehow, Rokan was lying to him. For if he knew the truth, comprehended the scope of what Rokan knew, then it just might be that his entire determination to resist would crumble. “Further uses? What are you … talking about…?”

  Rokan laughed derisively. He was beginning to enjoy this session once more. There had been a point there where his determination had flagged, where he felt momentary lapses in confidence. But that was bound to happen from time to time. In order for a truly great examiner to accomplish his goals, sometimes he had to allow himself to get “close” to the mindset of his client. If the client was an uncertain, tentative individual, that closeness could begin to infest the examiner with his own doubts. It was simply one of the hazards of the profession and, for a brief time there, Rokan had forgotten that. Now, though, he approached the situation with renewed confidence. For now it was becoming time to separate, as it was, the examiner from the examined. To remind Harriman of, indeed, just how hopeless his situation was, and how he was caught up in something that was far more devastating, far more complex, than anything he might have imagined.

  “Are you under the impression you’re the only Starfleet officer we’ve ever captured and questioned?” said Rokan with a carefully constructed sneer. “It’s happened several times … and we’ve always returned such prisoners, or ‘allowed’ them to escape. But once they were ours … they stayed ours.”

  “You’re lying,” Harriman said furiously. Rokan was quite pleased at Harriman’s display of temper. It showed that he was getting closer, and that Harriman’s control and confidence were utterly slipping away. “You’re lying!” he said again. “What are you saying, that there’s … there’s some sort of Romulan sleeper agents in Starfleet? That’s absurd! You could never do that to any Starfleet officer. You can—”

  Rokan’s voice went low and menacing. “Do not, Captain, presume to tell me my business. Do not presume to tell me what we are and are not capable of accomplishing. I would not tell you your business. I would not tell you how far you could push a starship before the engines gave out and the warp core collapsed upon itself. Do not, therefore, think that you can tell me just how far the human mind can be pushed before it likewise collapses in upon itself and becomes nothing more than malleable clay for us to reshape however we please.”

  He then turned and walked out of the room. Berza was standing there, apparently waiting for him. “How may I be of service, Examiner?” he said formally.

  “My kit. In my quarters. Bring it to me,” said Rokan.

  Berza thumped his fist against his chest in salute, pivoted on his heel, and vanished down the corridor. Barely a minute later, he returned carrying a simple, nondescript gray case, which he handed over to Rokan.

  “Prepare the chair also,” said Rokan.

  Berza looked surprised. “Do you expect that will be needed, Examiner?”
>
  “Do I expect it? No. But I anticipate it. Expect nothing, anticipate everything. However, I also anticipate that within two hours, the drugs will have done their work sufficiently that the chair will not be required.”

  “Yes, Examiner,” said Berza, saluting once more. He headed off down the hallway to carry out Rokan’s instructions while Rokan reentered the room. He was pleased to see that Harriman was watching him enter, rather than simply staring off into space. It indicated to Rokan that Harriman was no longer making any pretense that what Rokan said and did was of no interest to him. Clearly, Harriman was worried.

  He had every reason to be.

  There was a small table nearby, upon which Rokan placed the case. He ran his hands lovingly around the edges of the case, making sure that Harriman’s attention was fully upon his actions. “This,” he said reverently, “was handed down to me by my teacher in the arts of examination.”

  “Handed down? Or did you kill him to get it?”

  Rokan did not even deign to respond. Instead he opened the case to display an assortment of spray hypos and mixes for assorted potions. They were kept perfectly immobile in slots that had been carved in the packing to contain them. His hand floated above them as he decided which to avail himself of first. “Do you have any preferences, Captain?”

  “It won’t do you any good,” said Harriman. “In Starfleet we’re conditioned to resist all manner of mind tampering. So it doesn’t matter what you pump into my veins. I’m still not going to tell you anything.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, Captain. I doubt that very much. However, if you have no stated preferences,” and he reached for one hypo, “then I suppose I’ll just have to improvise.”

  He carefully extracted the hypo from the case and moments later the contents were hissing into Harriman’s shoulder. Rokan was pleased, or perhaps a little disappointed, to see that Harriman was not squirming or trying to resist. There had been other occasions, other clients, who had writhed furiously in their chairs as if they had some remote hope of avoiding their fate. Harriman, however, did not resort to such theatrical and futile endeavors. “Such stoicism in one so young,” murmured Rokan. Harriman still said nothing as the drug flooded into his system.

  Rokan waited an appropriate amount of time for the drug to take its effect. Outwardly, Harriman showed no sign of anything happening, but Rokan was far too practiced to settle for any obvious signs. He could see it in Harriman’s eyes. There was a steady clouding over, which Harriman then forcibly tried to shake off. He licked his lips, which was quite common since this particular drug caused a degree of dehydration. His head lolled slightly, and he forcibly brought it around, trying to keep his focus on where he was and what was around him.

  “Now then, Captain,” Rokan said conversationally, “I want you to tell me about the troop movements your Starfleet has planned for the rim colonies.”

  “Go … to hell,” Harriman managed to say.

  With a disappointed sigh, Rokan said, “Now, now, Captain … that attitude really isn’t going to get you anywhere.” He held a recorder to Harriman’s mouth and said, “I want you to tell me the positions of every starship in the quadrant. The names of their commanders, their firepower … everything. I know it’s a good deal to ask for off the top of your head, so I will naturally forgive you any gaps in your memory. But I am seeking some aid.”

  “Harriman … John … rank…”

  Rokan made a dismissive wave. “That’s quite enough of that,” he said, not trying to keep the testiness from his voice. “You don’t seem to understand, Captain. I’m on your side.”

  “My … side…?” Harriman looked at him with eyes that had a flare of life to them for a moment, but then started to lose their focus once more.

  “You are running out of time, for my superiors are not infinitely patient. I, of course, am. I could do this all day. But they insist on immediate results, and they will not wait indefinitely. The drugs that I am placing into your system will eventually work their way out of you. You will be left unharmed by their passing. Before that happens, though, you must tell me what I need to know. If you do not do so, I shall have to use more formidable means of obtaining the information. Means that will leave a more lasting effect upon you. That will be most unfortunate for you.”

  “For you … too….” Harriman’s voice sounded thick, each word formed with effort. “You like to think … you’ve outwitted … outsmarted people … make you feel … superior … instead of what you are … which is nothing….”

  “Your opinion is duly noted,” Rokan said archly. “Now … the names of the ships, please….”

  “Go … to hell….”

  Rokan sighed. This was going to take longer than he had thought.

  The chime at the door angered Rokan, and he crossed to it quickly. Berza was standing there, the equipment that Rokan had requested floating next to him on a small antigrav lift. “Well?” Berza said. He was keeping the respectful tone in his voice, but it was clear that he was meant to convey an attitude of impatience. “It has been three hours since you administered the drugs. You said you would require no more than two….”

  “I know what I said,” said Rokan. There was more testiness in his tone than he would have liked. “I was there when I said it.”

  “Am I to understand that Harriman has not yet told us what we wish to know?”

  Rokan cast an annoyed look in Harriman’s direction. “You understand correctly,” he finally admitted.

  “Perhaps you did not administer the drugs in sufficient quantity to…”

  Rokan’s angry gaze snapped hack at Berza. “I know precisely how much to administer, and in what quantity. I have been doing this job since before you were born, Berza. Do you dare to question…?”

  “No. No,” said Berza, but there was mildness in his tone that for some reason almost drove Rokan to distraction. “I do not question.” But the questioning was there all the same, in his attitude if not in his words. “Please understand, Rokan, that if it were up to me, I could wait all day, all week. But those above me…”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Rokan impatiently. “There are always those above, aren’t there?” He considered the situation a moment, and then gestured to the equipment and said, “Bring it in.” Without waiting to make sure that his order was carried out, Rokan went back to Harriman and knelt down next to him.

  Harriman barely appeared conscious. Rokan had not stopped with the initial drugs that he had administered. He had pumped still more into Harriman’s veins when the initial dosages had proved insufficient. And still, damn him, Harriman had resisted. Rokan would not have thought it possible. Yes, he knew about Starfleet training. Moreover, he understood Harriman’s overwhelming need to prove something to himself. He was certain that he had read and understood Harriman’s psych profile correctly. He had a desperate need to be a hero, to succeed at something. Harriman fancied himself a captain in the mold of James Kirk, and he was probably of the opinion that Kirk would not have succumbed, no matter what the torture. Kirk had been built up to such legendary status that simply holding on to that image alone was enough—incredibly—to keep Harriman going.

  Every time that Rokan was certain Harriman couldn’t last much longer, he somehow rallied. It was amazing. No … it was more than amazing. It was damned inconvenient, was what it was.

  “John,” Rokan said urgently, going for the more familiar, intimate name rather than the formal rank. “John, can you hear me?”

  Harriman didn’t respond at first, and Rokan thought that he had passed out again. But then, slowly, Harriman raised his head. He stared in Rokan’s general direction, but didn’t seem to be focusing on him. His hair was matted down with sweat.

  “John,” Rokan said again. “John … can you hear me.”

  “Can … hear you, Dad….”

  Rokan couldn’t quite believe his luck. If Harriman was disassociating, Rokan could make use of that. “I’m glad you can hear me, Son. Son … can you help me w
ith something…?”

  “Sure, Dad…” Harriman sounded as if he was speaking from a million miles away.

  “I’m on the way to help with the rim colonies … and I don’t recall the names of the other vessels we’re supposed to rendezvous with … can you tell me…?”

  “Suuure,” Harriman said. He coughed several times, and then nodded. “Sure … anything you say, Sir.”

  Rokan brought the recorder up to Harriman’s face. Harriman didn’t even notice it was there. “What are they?”

  “There’s … three…”

  “Three ships.”

  “Vulcan ship … Myas…”

  Rokan hadn’t heard of it, but it might be a newly commissioned vessel. “Myas, yes, and the others…”

  “Oh … oh, that’s the second one that will arrive. The first is … is…” He frowned, trying to recall, and then his face cleared. “Right … the first is the starship … Kiss … and the third is … the Limeball…”

  Rokan blinked in surprise. What an odd crop of names Starfleet was coming up with. “So the ships are Kiss … Myas … Limeball…”

  “Say it faster, Dad … so you won’t forget…”

  He did.

  Then his face darkened in fury as Harriman began to laugh.

  As Harriman, from the depths of his torture, howled with amusement over his cleverness, Rokan—precisely, methodically—checked over the large, elaborate equipment that was positioned next to Harriman.

  “Have you enjoyed what passed for your witticism, Captain?” he demanded.