Rokassa Juice

One of the most fascinating (and time-consuming) parts of writing a Star Trek book is including lots of details that tie it together with the shows, movies and books that are already out there. I recently watched the DS9 episode "Cardassians" (2x05), in which the character Garak enjoyed a smelly beverage called rokassa juice, saying it calmed his nerves. As soon as he said that, I knew rokassa juice had to be in the novel.

Thanks to Paramount

One of the main characters in Cardassian Language is a military commander in wartime: a tough, proud leader in an already arrogant, macho culture. It would be all too easy to paint him as an irredeemable villain with no weaknesses, no doubts, no humanity. Of course, if I did that, he wouldn't feel real and I wouldn't be much of a writer, but I can't have him collapsing in a POW's arms and sobbing, either. That's where rokassa juice comes in.

In its introductory scene, it's not the rokassa juice that tells the reader he's having a bad day: we get a rare opportunity to use a battle injury to hint at his vulnerabilities. But the rokassa juice will, if I do my job right, establish itself over time as a clue or symbol, and be very useful in scenes where there are no convenient bodily signs.

Here's the passage, from Chapter 18, condensed it a bit for this post. We're on a Cardassian warship, and a human prisoner has been summoned for a chat with the Gul, or Captain:

The Gul put one hand on his chair and the other on the desk and pushed himself up on his arms. Slowly, he transferred his weight to his legs and turned stiffly to the replicator. "Coffee, cream and sugar," he ordered, and "coffee, black."

"You're hurt," I said.

He put the cups on his desk and lowered himself slowly back into his chair. "A present from Starfleet," he quipped, "a small token of friendship."

"What's it all about, anyway, this war?" I stood, picked up my cup in its holder and sat down again.

"There was a time when I would have answered, 'Expansionist aggression,' but now I'm afraid it's become little more than a political game."

"Dangerous game," I observed. "I wonder if there's anything I can do."

"I doubt there's anything you could do without revealing your presence here."

"Wouldn't it be worth it to let the secret out, though? I mean, if it stops the war..."

"If it could stop the war, perhaps revealing your presence would be worth the consequences, yes. But it's much more likely to prolong the war instead."

"I see. You haven't touched your coffee."

He picked up his coffee, took a small sip and put it back down.

"Is your leg going to be okay?" I asked.

"Yes, thank you, it's just a temporary inconvenience. But I understand your injury is not from the battle."

I stared into my coffee. "No, not exactly."

"And I hear your Bajoran assailants managed to teach you quite a bit of their language in just a few minutes."

"Only simple words," I replied. "And really, Iba only kicked me to keep me from hitting my head."

"I believe your head would never have been in danger if you had not disobeyed my Riyak."

I gripped my cup-frame tightly with both hands in an effort to prevent them from flying up to my face. "True," I admitted.

"I'm more interested in your accelerated lesson in Bajoran," he said.

I sat back, tried to relax against the back of the chair and looked him in the eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know how you learned so fast. This was your first encounter with the language, I presume?"

"Yes, it was. I'm a linguist. I guess that's why," I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Then you spent the rest of the day learning Cardassian. How did that go?"

"It went pretty well. We cleared the hallways. I tried to learn some Cardassian, but I'm afraid I must have said something offensive. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to say what I thought I heard them saying."

"And that was...?"

"I thought it was 'o-shah.'"

Gillek allowed himself an amused smile. "You were correct; they were saying 'o-shah.'" He paused for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then looked back to me. "The common tongue, what you call the Cardassian language, is in many ways an accurate reflection and expression of Cardassian social structure."

"Naturally."

"I'll simplify it for you: you should always address Cardassians as 'shada,' never as 'o-shah.'"

"Okay," I replied. "I'll try to remember that. Will I be working with them again today?"

"No. You'll begin your new assignment in a few days."

"I'd like to learn more about the Universal Translator, if I could."

"I'll consider it."

"Thank you." It had only been a comment; I hadn't thought I'd need his permission to study a translation program. "Earlier you said something about turning the heat down in my room. That would be fine with me, actually. To be honest, it's a little too warm for my taste, and I know you're worried about expenses."

"I don't remember mentioning that," said Gillek, "but you're welcome to adjust the environmental controls in your quarters to suit your comfort."

"I am? Thanks. But how do I do that? I didn't see a thermostat."

"The same way you control the lights: by voice command. Might you be referring to my remark that not all the rooms in this ship are warm?"

"Yes," I said, "that was it."

"The rooms in question are specialized storage bays, but I've found they also function effectively as quarters for uncooperative prisoners. I'm afraid they are in fact cold, rather than comfortably cool as you imagine. There is one standing empty at the moment that is..." He grabbed a tablet from his desk and typed. "...52 degrees by your 21st century North American scale. Oxygen saturation is limited, to slow oxidization of stored materials; it's breathable but very thin. There are no shower or toilet facilities."

"And you would actually put me in there if I refused to work?"

"Of course. I enjoy our little meetings, Vaine, but there's no more time for this one. I'll send for you again another day."

"Yes, Gul." In spite of my efforts, it came out in a growl. I stood up and hobbled to the door, and found Dolim Shal waiting.

"Rokassa juice," I heard the Gul say as the door swished shut behind me.

Keeping Characters in Character

Be warned, I'm just going to gripe here: I really don't like it when I get to read some new material involving a character I know well, and then the words on the page just don't fit that character. Maybe it's the dialogue that isn't right, or maybe it's how he or she acts. In either case, I'm disappointed and usually quit reading.

And I know I'm not alone. I truly believe it's our responsibility as writers to make sure we do whatever it takes to get our characters right. Even if the difference seems insignificant (she smiles and says "Thank you" to someone who helped her, when she should be muttering complaints instead, to save her pride), a character who's out of character can really kill a reading mood.

Blatant neglect of this responsibility is a big chunk of what gives fan fiction such a bad name, in my opinion. Pick up any random Star Trek paperback and see if the characters speak, move and think like the ones you know from the screen. Chances are, they won't. As a writer, I find that embarrassing.

Usually, the author has made one of these two mistakes:

• The characters seem like bobble-heads. They are shallow, exaggerated mimics of their 'real' versions, repeating their signature lines or gestures as often as possible, but not actually thinking, reacting or making decisions like the 'real' characters would.
• The characters are blank. The only way you know they're supposed to be the same people you saw on TV is because you read their names. Otherwise, they're just strangers. Sometimes it's even hard to tell them apart because they all speak and act alike.

There's just no substitute for getting to know your characters, whether you created them or someone else did. And if you have trouble getting one or two of them right, maybe you know a writer who would enjoy tweaking them for you.

I'll leave you with a scene I wrote involving some characters from Star Trek: Deep Space 9. The mercurial bartender Quark is chatting with my own creation, named Faine:


"I hope you realize those are valuable antiques now," Quark lectured. "You could make some very good money on some of those, some security for your children's future."

"Yeah, I thought about that. I just don't know where I would sell anything."

"I could help you with that," he offered.

"So that's what this is all about," I nodded, looking him in the eyes.

He turned his palms out and explained, "I have some business connections, and I'd like to help you out."

"I was thinking of selling my purse," I admitted. "I replicated a bag just like it to take home with me."

"Mmm," he grumbled, suddenly unimpressed. "What's a phone?"

"A communications device."

"I might be able to get you a little something for that."

"Thanks," I said, "but I'm going to need it."

"Can't you get another one?" he asked. "Say it was stolen. Come on, a pretty girl like you?"

"It would take time to replace it, Quark," I answered, "and the second I get back I'm going to use it to call my kids."

Quark made a sympathetic grunt and shook his head. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you're not going to be able to do that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's already been through one temporal anomaly. It may not work already. You take it through another one, the circuits will be fried for sure."

"Thanks for the heads-up," I said, and turned around to scan the crowd. Two tables away, a pretty Asian lady nursed a mug and chatted with a ruddy man with curly hair. He wore the gold uniform of an engineer, and I thought I detected kindness in their faces. I grabbed my drink and headed over.

"Can I help you?" the man asked in a mild brogue, glaring at me and puffing his chest out just a little. The woman only looked mildly curious.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I said, "but this is kind of urgent. I'm Faine Channing. I belong in the 21st Century."

"Yes, I know who you are." He stared up at me blankly, like I was taking too long.

"It's very important that I call my children as soon as I get back to my own time," I explained quickly. "I have this device, it's a called a phone, and - "

"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "Can you slow down? I want to be sure I understand ya."

"Why don't you sit down?" asked the lady.

"Thank you." I pulled out the chair I'd been standing over, and sat.

"Who told ya the circuits were fried?" the man asked when I'd explained.

"Quark."

"Don't believe everything that man tells ya," he preached. "Ninety percent of the time he's only after your latinum, and the other ten he's after your skirt."

"Miles!" the lady protested.

Miles turned to her. "Well, it's true," he argued, "and Faine here has the right to know."

Science Fiction Story: Building Towers

From Chapter Five of An Analysis of the Cardassian Language:


I carried the chair to the bed, moved the pillows and set it near the wall. Then, very carefully, I climbed onto it, then gingerly stood up, taking my time and using the wall for support.

Photo: beinghealthy.tv

The moment I was fully upright, a jolt of electricity shot through me. I fell off the chair, missed the bed entirely and hit the floor with my side, knocking the wind from my lungs.

In that long, desperate moment before the air came painfully back, I heard Gul Dukat's voice say calmly, "I'm disappointed in you, Teryn."

I raised myself to my hands and knees and coughed and struggled to breathe. When I could speak, I said, "Gul? Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you," came the answer. "I didn't know you enjoyed building towers so much. Are you an architect?"

"No," I answered, and coughed.

"No," he repeated, "but you have deceived me."

I wondered how I should respond to that. I wondered how I could have been so dumb as not to realize they would have bugged the room. I wondered where the cameras and microphones where hidden, and whether the Gul could see me now as well as hear me. I wondered if any of my bones were broken.

"Did you hear me, Teryn?" Gul Dukat persisted. "You've deceived me."

I wondered who Teryn was, and why he'd confused our names. "Yes," I answered. "I'm trying to figure out what you're referring to."

"You seemed happy enough to share my bed last night. I thought we had something good going. And now I find you trying to escape."

"It won't happen again," I promised, and meant it. I wouldn't be touching the top of the wall again, at any rate.

My breathing was becoming more regular now, and I got off my hands and knees and sat on the floor. Moving hurt: I was badly bruised, at best. I felt very grateful that I hadn't landed on my head.

"Gul?" I asked.

"Go ahead."

"I think I need a doctor."

"Why? Are you dying?"

"No, but I think I could have cracked a rib."

"A souvenir, then. A reminder to improve your behavior in the future. Is there anything else, besides your medical status?"

Thanks to Paramount

I couldn't believe he wouldn't let me see a doctor. "Yes," I replied numbly. "Are there any other places I should be aware of, that are off-limits, besides the top of the wall?"

"The top of the wall isn't off limits," he answered. "Insulting me is off limits."

"Of course," I answered, confused now. "Did I insult you, Gul?"

"I would consider attempting to run away from me insulting. Wouldn't you?"

Guest Post: Occam's Razor

Please help me welcome today's guest blogger, Terry Stenzelbarton:

Photo: ds9.trekcore.com

“Lt. Nog, we’re running out of time,” the young Ferengi heard from his combadge. It was Capt. Benjamin Sisko and Nog could tell the station’s commander was reaching the limit of his patience.

Slapping the badge, he said hurriedly, “Five more minutes, Captain. I know I’ll figure it out.”

“We may not have five minutes, Mister Nog. Chief O’Brien says heat sinks are at maximum on that spar. The secondary coolant has run out and the temperatures are rising quickly. If you can’t bring the coolant lines back online in three minutes, we’ll be forced to blow the spar, and you with it.”

Nog didn’t spare the time to answer. He felt he was close to the answer and the Captain, for all the respect he deserved, needed to just shut up and let him work.

The war was over, but there was still so much work to be done. The Founder had been transferred to Starfleet custody earlier that day, ships that had been taking part in the final Dominion War battle were in orbit around Deep Space 9 awaiting repairs, and soldiers were still being transferred through DS9 to other facilities for advanced medical care.

Tomorrow there would be parties and goodbyes. Chief Miles O’Brien had announced his acceptance of a teaching position at Starfleet Academy. Commander Worf was headed to Qo'noS to fill his position as Ambassador. Odo was going home with Col. Kira. Sisko would be away to Earth with his son Jake for two weeks of debriefings. Nog himself had scars and an artificial leg, but he had survived when hundreds of millions had not. He and Bashir and Ezri would remain on Deep Space 9, cleaning up the mess the war had wrought and continuing the medical support for the ships still limping to the station.

But the war was behind him and he’d have the rest of his life to deal with it - if he could get the coolant lines to the heat sinks flowing. The heat sinks on the spars of the six pylons of Deep Space 9 were instrumental in keeping the station’s attitude and location stable in the area of the wormhole. They were part of the station’s stabilization network and bled off heat from the reactors which powered everything from the artificial gravity to the environmental equipment onboard, to the station-keeping thrusters and six rudimentary impulse drive engines.

The coolant that was supposed to flow through the sinks was in the pipes, but not cooling anything.

In all the excitement with the end of the war and the signing of the peace treaty, beta shift hadn’t noticed the increased pressure in the coolant tubes running up the pylon to the docking clamp spar. The automatic equipment hadn’t shut down the sinks or re-route the super-heated plasma from the reactors to one of the working spars or pylons.

Only when Nog had signed on duty and began handing out assignments did he see there was an issue, and by then it was quickly becoming a problem. He sent the rest of gamma shift on to their assignments, and pulled one of the multi-tool cases and another diagnostic case from the rack. It was his first night as gamma shift supervisor.

Just before leaving the engineering offices he'd reported to Lt. Ayava, the Bajoran Gamma Shift bridge officer, that he’d noticed a problem in Pylon 3 and was on his way to effect repairs. She'd acknowledged and logged the communication, flagging it for Captain Sisko and Chief O’Brien’s attention.

That’d been 42 minutes ago.

Things had not gone well. What should have been a simple matter of shutting down the heat sinks and shunting a few valves had turned into a battle to save Pylon 3 and, in the last ten minutes, his own life.

There didn't appear to be any damage to the control circuitry for the machinery that should have been shunting the plasma. Nog opened his diagnostics case and began running the troubleshooting routine. It took less than a minute to complete, but the computer was only able to tell him something was wrong, not what was causing it.

Still confident he could keep the heat sinks from going critical, Nog began removing panels along the corridor. The piping looked right at first glance, so he concentrated on the circuitry.

Twenty-two minutes into the circuit tests, the first alarm sounded. The temperature in the heat sinks had reached maximum and the emergency coolant tanks were pumping 500 liters of Ever-Kool across the heat sink baffles. Deep Space 9’s Ferengi engineer had about 10 minutes to shunt the plasma flow to another group of heat sinks, get the primary coolant flowing to the sinks again, or blow 25 meters worth of spar off the end of Pylon 3. The station would be unbalanced and the other engineers would have to manually compensate to keep the station from tearing itself apart, but it would survive.

Nog, however, would not. He knew his time was running out when the pumps for the secondary coolant wheezed silent. The backups were now empty and the sinks would begin heating again.

The corridor he was working in was in the 25 meters that would be blown free of the station. It wasn’t just a few explosive bolts. The blast doors had slammed down with the first alarm. It was a cruel fact, but one engineers understood. Sometimes you had to sacrifice a few to save the whole. The corridor he was in would be blasted free of the pylon and, hopefully, clear of the station. There would be no place for Nog to take refuge. He’d be blown into space.

There had been some hope for a transporter lock, but 15 minutes after the emergency bulkheads had slammed shut, Ensign Polk in Ops started explaining why he couldn’t get a lock.

“Just keep trying, Mister Polk. If I don’t give up trying, you can’t either,” Nog told the young Ensign.

“Excellent advice, Mr. Nog,” Sisko added. “Is there anything we can try beaming in to you?”

“No, sir. I can fix this. I know I can. I just need to concentrate.”

Photo: wallpoper.com

“Have it your, way, Lieutenant. The Defiant has cleared moorings and is maneuvering into position to tractor the spar clear of the station. You now have three minutes,” Sisko told him.

“My way, your way, any way I can make it work,” Nog muttered to himself, looking at the piping and wiring in the corridor wall. “My way is the right way. What is the right way for this work?” he slammed the computer diagnostic tool against the main coolant pipe. The sound was wrong. It should have been filled with cooling fluid, but to Nog’s hyper-sensitive ears, he could tell the pipe was only mostly full, and not moving. He looked to the far end of the corridor and realized the valves had been worked on recently. They seemed to be installed correctly except for the arrow on the main valve. It was pointed to the left, but it should have been pointing to the right.

“The right way is right!” he shouted, grabbing the tools in the work box.

It took 20 seconds and Nog suffered freezing burns to his hands and face, but with the valve re-installed correctly, the fluid started moving through the pipes and up to the heat sinks.

He was sitting on the deck plates, hands stuffed inside his uniform, when the emergency bulkhead opened and alarms ceased. Dr. Bashir got to him first, followed closely by O’Brien and Sisko. Three other Gamma Shift engineers started work on cleaning up and putting the spar corridor back together.

“Well done, engineer,” Sisko told him. “Well done.”

An Analysis of the Cardassian Language

If you've been following me a while, you know I'm writing a novel called An Analysis of the Cardassian Language. It was born last month during NaNoWriMo, and I'm posting chapters above as they become intelligible. (At least I think so. If you find unintelligible chapters up there, please let me know.)

So you're walking down the street one day and the next thing you know, you're lying on the floor someplace where you don't belong and you're not welcome, but you're not allowed to leave. Turns out it's a military installation, and it's not even our military. They slap a pair of handcuffs on you and ask what you're doing there, but of course that's exactly what you'd like to know.

That's what happens to Faine Channing in Cardassian Language. She's in Chicago about to go home to her kids, and then she wakes up on a space station. Fans of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine will be interested to know that the station is Terok Nor, or Deep Space Nine when it was still being run by the Cardassians. Of course, we're at war with the Cardassians, which doesn't make life any easier for Faine.

NaNoWriMo is pretty intense, and like many wrimos I took a week off from writing after it ended on November 30th. Meanwhile I gave Faine her own Facebook page and started having a little fun with pictures. Today I plan to jump back into the text. Be on the lookout for more tabs above.

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Writing Blitz, Day Twenty

Chapter Six is ready, but this is just getting to be too confusing, posting a chapter at a time and trying to provide all the links to previous chapter-posts. The entire story so far (or that is, the small portion of it that's ready for reading) is now posted in convenient tabs at the top of the page.

Enjoy!

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Writing Blitz, Day Fifteen

I'm catching up. Now I'm officially only two days behind. Here's Chapter Five:

As soon as I was alone I headed straight for the bathroom, yanking the blue microfiber t-shirt over my head as I walked. At least the mirrors in this strange place were more or less normal. I pulled my bra strap down over my right shoulder and took a good look at my collarbone area: no scars, no visible lumps, nothing different from how it always was. I ran the fingertips of my left hand over the spot, feeling carefully. Nothing.

Photo: Seventeen.com

I put my shirt back on and checked my left ankle. Also nothing. So whatever that little charade was about on the table, they hadn't actually done anything. Maybe just a cheap way to keep me away from the exit doors. Well, at least now I knew where to find them. If only I could get out of this room.

There were no windows in my room: it couldn't be that easy, of course. I stood for a moment and looked at the ceiling. It wasn't a dropped ceiling, of course, and it didn't look any more promising than any other part of the room. I walked around and took a quick look at the floor: no particular reason to think I'd find a quick escape route through there, either. I wished I had some way of knowing which storey I was on, whether this building had a basement, and all sorts of other details. But I didn't, so for now at least I'd have to work with what I had. I decided to start with a thorough examination of the walls, to see how strong they were and whether there were any places where I might be able to break through. There was no telling what would be on the other side, though, but I'd figure that out when I came to it. I started at a random stretch of blank wall roughly opposite the door, and knocked on it with my knuckles. It didn't seem to be made out of sheet rock, but I couldn't tell right away what the material was. I kept knocking, moving my hand by increments up the wall, then over to my right, then down again. If it had been a traditional wall of sheet rock or some other wall board laid over studs, I would have heard and felt a change as my knuckles passed over the studs, but in this case there didn't seem to be any change. So maybe the wall board itself was some sort of strong material and part of the actual structure of the building, instead of just being a covering over the structure. In other words, maybe I wasn't going to be able to break through it. I decided to see if I got any different results from another part of the room.

I knocked on the walls at eight different places and got the same results every time. The only place I hadn't been was up high, close to the ceiling. Now, how was I going to get up there? I'd already stood on the desk, but the ceiling was high enough here - or else I'm short enough - that I still couldn't reach to the top of the wall. I picked up the chair from behind the desk and carefully tried to set it on the desk without breaking the computer. It wasn't that I cared whether I broke the computer or not, but I didn't want to leave any clues as to what I'd been doing. It was better, at least until I had a fuller understanding of my situation, for my captors to think of me as the shy, compliant type and not to feel they had to watch me too closely.

The chair wouldn't fit. The shape of the desk and the shape of the chair meant that I couldn't get all the chair's feet on the desk at the same time, and jostle it even slightly, without one of the feet slipping off and taking the rest of the chair with it.

So I carried the chair to the bed, moved the pillows and set it near the wall. Then, very carefully, I climbed onto it, then gingerly stood up, taking my time and using the wall for support..

The moment I was fully upright, a jolt of electricity shot through me. I fell off the chair, missed the bed entirely, and hit the floor with my side, knocking the wind from my lungs.

In that long, desperate moment before the air came painfully back, I heard Gul Dukat's voice say calmly, "I'm disappointed in you, Teryn."

I raised myself to my hands and knees and coughed, and struggled to breathe. When I could speak, I said, "Gul? Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you," came the answer. "I didn't know you enjoyed building towers so much. Are you an architect?"

"No," I answered, and coughed.

"No," he repeated, "but you have deceived me."

I wondered how I should respond to that. I wondered how I could have been so dumb as not to realize they would have bugged the room. I wondered where the cameras and microphones where hidden, and whether the Gul could see me now as well as hear me. I wondered if any of my bones were broken.

"Did you hear me, Teryn?" Gul Dukat persisted. "You've deceived me."

I wondered who Teryn was, and why he'd confused our names. "Yes," I answered. "I'm trying to figure out what you're referring to."

"You seemed happy enough to sleep with me last night. I thought we had something good going. And now I find you trying to escape."

"It won't happen again," I promised, and meant it. I wouldn't be touching the top of the wall again, at any rate.

My breathing was becoming more regular now, and I got off my hands and knees and sat on the floor. Moving hurt: I was badly bruised, at best. I felt very grateful that I hadn't landed on my head.

"Gul?" I asked.

"Go ahead."

"I think I need a doctor."

"Why? Are you dying?"

"No, but I think I could have cracked a rib."

"A souvenir, then. A reminder to improve your behavior in the future. Is there anything else, besides your medical status?"

I couldn't believe he wouldn't let me see a doctor. "Yes," I replied numbly. "Are there any other places I should be aware of, that are off-limits, besides the top of the wall?"

"The top of the wall isn't off limits," he answered. "Insulting me is off limits. Consider yourself warned."

"Of course," I answered, confused now. "Did I insult you, Gul?"

"I would consider attempting to run away from me insulting. Wouldn't you?"

"I didn't mean it that way," I said.

"I trust you see it differently now."

"Yes, of course. I was just wondering, are there any other places I need to avoid touching, any other places that have live current running through them?"

The Gul chuckled. "You think there's an EM current running through the top of your wall?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't know what EM is."

"Electro-magnetic."

"Oh. Yes," I replied, feeling foolish. "I did think that."

"Your quarters are safe, Teryn. You have permission to touch any surface you wish - as long as you do it for appropriate reasons. The EM surge you felt came from your implants; I decided a mild buzz would do you good."

"I think I understand now," I said, feeling deflated. What they'd told me about the airlocks, then, could be true, too. I wondered why they called them airlocks. This place was far too big to be a submarine.

"Good," the Gul responded. "Dukat out."

I got up and limped to the bathroom and pulled up my shirt in front of the mirror. I don't know what I had expected to see, besides a large red mark where my side had hit the floor. Wincing, I felt each of my ribs on my right side. I didn't feel any obvious breaks. It still hurt to breathe.

I went back to the bed to try to get some rest. I wished I'd had something to read. I couldn't even count the ceiling tiles, since there were no tiles to count. I decided to review everything I had seen and heard since the linguistics conference, and see if I could come up with any useful conclusions. Then I fell asleep.

Someone woke me with a tray of food. It was a scars-and-fins male again, in the gray uniform. I'd never seen any of the people with scars only on their noses doing anything except scattering before I got close to them. And I hadn't seen any women with the scars and fins, only men. Maybe they were the result of a genetic experiment that produced only males.

The only part of the meal I could identify at all was some kind of fish, and even then it was a variety I'd never seen before. It didn't taste very good but it did give me energy, and that's all I cared about. And anything would have been better than not eating, which I hadn't since the rouladen with Derek the day before.

I ate and forced myself to do some gentle stretches on the bed and walk about the room. I knew I'd hurt more in the long run if I didn't take care of myself now. Then I sat in the chair, propped my feet on the desk and tried to recall everything I had seen, heard, even smelled, in the past two days.

They brought me another meal, built around what must have been a goose egg, and other than that I was left alone. I went over every detail I could remember, but nothing gave me a clue as to where I was, how I got here, who would have done this, or why. I couldn't help feeling like Derek had had something to do with it, though.

Eventually the door swished open a third time. "The Gul will see you now," said my visitor. It was the same guy who'd brought me the goose egg.

“Tell him,” the Gul was saying over his intercom when I arrived in his quarters, “he'll obey my orders or I'd be happy to grant him the privilege of becoming the first Cardassian ore-processor.” He dismissed the guard with a flick of his head but didn't acknowledge me. I clasped my hands behind my back and stood waiting.

After a few more exchanges he said, "Dukat out" and turned to me. "Teryn, do you know how to mend clothing?" he asked.

"Usually," I answered, figuring I'd better qualify my response before he accused me of deceiving him again. "It depends on what type of clothing it is, and what's wrong with it." That turtle-shell armor top he wore, I wasn't sure I could mend, but the pants would be okay.

"It's a lost art, perhaps," he remarked. "Being a Gul isn't always as glamorous as it seems."

"You're the commander of this station, right?"

"And Prefect of Bay Jour," he sneered. "But my little Teryn is here now." He had been standing, and now he sat down in his desk chair and slouched lazily. "Come here," he ordered.

I went to him and he pulled me toward him, hurting my injured ribs. I gasped and stiffened.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking offended. "You don't like me now?"

"Sorry," I said, "it's just my ribs."

"Whatever you did to your ribs by your own misbehavior," he said, pulling me toward him again, "should not affect your performance for your Gul."

I nodded. "Could I have something for the pain?"

He brushed a lock of hair out of my face with a tender motion of his hand and shook his head. "If I took the pain away," he explained, "I'd be robbing you of the chance to learn your lesson. But enough of this subject. What shall we do tonight?"

I really did try to please him, but he was beyond pleasing. By the time he finally fell asleep, he'd added several bruises to my face, to match the ones on my side.

But in the morning he was all charm. He opened his eyes and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "How did you sleep?"

"I don't think I slept much," I replied.

The smile disappeared. "Pain?" he asked.

I nodded.

"You should have asked me to give you something for that," he chided, and got up. He came back and knelt on the bed beside me and used that hissing thing on my neck again. The relief was dramatic, and immediate.

"Thank you," I said sincerely.

"Don't mention it," he replied, and I wondered if that was an order or just another way of saying 'you're welcome.' I decided to be on the safe side and not bring it up again. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

He must be on drugs, I thought. I wasn't hungry, but I figured I'd better eat while I had the chance. "Sure," I said, "breakfast sounds good."

A framed photo caught my eye, for two reasons. For one thing, it looked so ordinary. In a station full of strange walls, strange desks, strange video monitors, strange turtle-shell-armor uniforms, even strange faces and necks, here was a regular photo in a regular plastic stand-up frame. The other reason was the people in the photo itself. In the middle was a smiling Gul Dukat, and on either side of him were people with the scars on only their noses. On his left was a man, and on his right a woman.

Dukat with Bajoran leader Major Kyra Nerys 

"Is this you with some of your friends?" I asked, hoping to learn more. 

He stopped on his way to the alcove. "That was taken when I became Prefect of Bay Jour."

He'd said something similar last night. I decided I'd better keep the tone light and not appear to be pressing him for information. "You look happy," I remarked.

He nodded. "It was a happy occasion. As soon as I took office, I started making changes. The death rate for those poor people dropped twenty percent."

"Death rate!" I blurted out, in spite of myself. From his behavior yesterday, I could well believe there was a death rate.

"A very unfortunate situation," he said. "They're just not as advanced as we are. But we're changing that."

I felt impressed, in spite of myself. I stood there for a moment looking at the faces of his two companions. "Are these leaders, or spokespeople, for the people of Bay Jour, then?" I asked.

He looked up from the alcove. "They look so innocent, don't they?"

Breakfast was just plain odd. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad, either. Or maybe I just wanted to get away from the Gul and back to my room. Not that that was going to be the same anymore, either, since now I knew he could spy on me whenever he wanted. What I really wanted was to go home. I missed my kids.

"I'm having company today," he said cheerfully between bites. He seemed to be enjoying the breakfast, at any rate.

"Family?" I asked, then wondered if I should have said that. If he was a result of a genetic engineering project, he may not have a family, exactly.

He didn't seem to mind, though. "A colleague. A fellow Gul, in fact. We have a lot in common."

"Oh, good. I hope you enjoy the visit," I said sincerely.

"I'm more concerned that he enjoys the visit," he replied in a serious tone. "I'll be lending you to him tonight." He leaned toward me and seemed to pin me in place with those awful eyes. "Be sure that you make him happy."

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Chapter Four of my NaNoWriMo project, An Analysis of the Cardassian Language:

I was hoping they’d give me clothes to wear before taking me to the Gul, but they didn’t. One of Tahmid’s guards picked up my purse and then grabbed my arm, pulling me up out of my seat and out the way I’d come in, all the way to the balcony. We turned right and walked for a few minutes, people scattering in front of us. Thankfully, I didn’t see anybody staring, but I wondered whether that was because they all had good manners, or because they were used to seeing prisoners walking naked along the balcony. 

Photo: memory-alpha.org

We followed the balcony's slow curve to the left, and eventually stopped at a door, which swished open before us. The guard pushed me ahead of him through the doorway, but not roughly, and remained behind me.

I found myself in an office of sorts. In style it looked a lot like Glin Tahmid's interrogation room, but except for the desk it was furnished differently, and more simply. A man sat behind the desk, with the grey uniform, the facial scars, or whatever they were, the neck-fins and very intense eyes. It seemed to me that his whole being emanated power. He nodded to the guard behind me and I heard the door close. 

"I've been watching your interrogation," he said without introduction, waving me toward him and pointing to a strange, almond-shaped flat screen on the wall. I walked around the desk and stood beside him. My own face stared back at me, frozen, from behind my hands and the rod that held my handcuffs. 

He settled back in his chair, still looking at the screen, and said, "Continue playback," and immediately my face on the screen came to life, and my fingers started moving stiffly.

 "How old are you?" came Glin Tahmid's voice. 

"Thirty," I saw myself answer, through my hands. 

"So you turned thirty, five days ago. Happy birthday.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I have no more questions for you at the moment,” said Tahmid's voice, and two seconds later the back of his head blocked the view of my face and hands. 

"Stop playback," the man beside me ordered. The almond-shaped screen went dark, and he turned to me. "Do you find me attractive?" he asked, staring me down.

I lowered my gaze, but had no idea what to answer. I didn't find him attractive. I found him creepy and scary and rude. "I'm not sure," I replied lamely. "I just met you." 

"You're shy, perhaps," he said gently. 

I nodded. 

He turned, getting half out of his chair, opened a compartment in the wall behind him and pulled out a large item, made out of some sort of maroon-colored fabric and folded. He handed it to me and settled in his chair again. "Put that on," he said curtly. 

I unfolded it and found that it was a blanket, far too hot for the over-heated room, but I didn't dare disobey, so i wrapped it around myself. 

"Sit," he ordered, patting his knee.

I sat, reluctantly. I could see where this was going, and I didn't like it, but at least it was better than what I'd thought I was in for with Glin Tahmid and those guards. And at least, if I had to sleep with this Gul person, he wasn't bad, physically - that is, if you didn't look at his face. 

"I like you," he said, "but you'll have to wait for me; I have work to do." He touched the front of his shirt, or his armor, or whatever the top of his uniform should be called, and said, "Send me a soldier for a prisoner transport." 

Photo: memory-alpha.org

Almost immediately, the door swished open and there stood another guy in a grey uniform, with the scars and the fins. I was beginning to wonder what the other people did here, the ones with the scars only on their noses, who scattered whenever we got near them. On the other hand, I had no idea what these people did, either, when I wasn't around. 

"Take her to my quarters," the Gul ordered, "and restrain her." He pushed me off his knee and I held onto the blanket and walked around the desk to where the soldier stood. 

The soldier looked to the Gul for dismissal, then gestured to me to walk ahead of him out the door. 

The restraint was a comfortable wide fabric band around my ankle, attached to a lead that gave me a little freedom of movement. What I didn't like was, from what I could see and what I'd heard, I gathered that my new location was the Gul's bedroom, and that the lead was attached to his bed. 

After making sure the restraint was secure, the soldier moved a few things out of my reach and left. 

Exhausted from the interrogation and alone for the first time since Chicago, I lay on the floor and slept. 

The whispering swish of the door woke me and I was on my feet in an instant. It was the Gul. 
My blanket had fallen in my hurry to get up, and I bent over to retrieve it, fumbling from nervousness. Finally I stood again, with the blanket around me. 

"Still shy, I see," the Gul commented with a hint of a laugh. "I'll give you something to help with that." 

"Thanks," I answered, "but I'll be okay." I was hoping to get out of here with my brains intact. 
He turned his back to me for a moment, and when he turned around I saw he had something nearly concealed in his right hand. He came toward me. 

I forced myself to breathe. 

He grabbed my hair with his left hand, and I prepared myself for him to pull it hard, but he only tipped my head gently to the side and held it there. He brought his right hand up to the exposed side of my neck, and I felt the same hissing sound and odd sensation I had when I first sat at Glin Tahmid's desk. The Gul let go of my hair. 

"What was that?" I asked, again. 

"Something to calm you," he answered, turning around and putting away the thing in his hand. 
I passed a more or less agreeable night, at least compared to what it could have been. It was just sex and sleep, except that I couldn’t sleep. I tried to be very still so the Gul could sleep, because I didn't think it was in my best interest to annoy him. But he must have noticed because he administered another one of those hissing things to my neck, and I fell asleep in less than a minute.

 If anybody had seen us in the morning they would have thought we were a regular couple - except for his bizarre appearance and the fact that he had to take that cloth band off my ankle.

He showed me how to use the shower. Or at least he called it a shower. I could have sworn there was no water coming out of that thing, yet the refreshing and cleansing effect was undeniable. And I had thought the toilets in this place were strange. 

"I've given you permission to replicate clothing for yourself," he told me when I came out. 

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what that means." 

He stared at me with those freakish eyes of his, and his lips twitched at the edges, but his voice stayed even. "What size garment do you wear..." He touched my back. "...here?" 

"Medium," I answered, hoping that was specific enough. 

He led me to an alcove that looked very much like the one Glin Tahmid had gotten the drinks from yesterday, and announced, "One garment for the top half of the body, female, Terran, early 21st Century, size medium." There was a soft sound and a whirling of light in the alcove, and a sky-blue microfiber T-shirt just appeared there, where two seconds before there had been nothing but air.

I shrank back from it and stared. 

The Gul laughed. "Order the rest of your clothing and get dressed," he ordered, then called in the direction of the door, "Enter!" 

A soldier came in immediately and the Gul went out. 

It took me a few minutes to get the hang of ordering from the alcove, and that was with a little help from the soldier. When I was dressed he gestured toward the door in that deceptively-polite manner I'd been seeing a lot lately.

Soon we were back on the balcony, and I screwed up the courage to ask, "Where are we going?" 

"To fit you with a security device." 

Either it was a shorter walk this time, or else I was just getting used to these walks, and found it much nicer to be clothed.

We entered a suite of rooms that looked a little like Tahmid's: full of objects I couldn't identify. Two guys were waiting for us. 

"Lie down," the shorter one said to me. He patted the top of what could have been an exam table or a high cot.

I obeyed, of course. 

The two of them wasted no time. One pulled my top away from my neck to reveal part of my right collarbone, while the other pulled my left pant leg up and my left sock down. At least they're not cutting them this time, I thought. The soldier who had brought me stood nearby and watched. 

It was hard for me to follow what they were doing, mostly because I was lying flat on my back and couldn't see anything but the ceiling and the shorter guy's face. I thought they cleaned a patch of skin over my collarbone, and another on my lower leg, like nurses do before giving shots, but I couldn't be sure.

Then suddenly, they both backed away and the taller one said, "You can get up now." 

I stood up. 

"You'll need to stay out of the airlocks," said the taller one. 

"What did you do?" I asked. 

"We fitted you with security implants," he replied, then repeated, "You'll need to stay out of the airlocks. If you go into an airlock, the implants will kill you." 

"What are the airlocks?" I asked. My voice came out in a whisper. 

"I'll show you," said the soldier who had brought me, and he gestured to the door again. 

Photo:pcgamer.com

The airlocks looked like giant metal donuts fitted with giant metal plates. I stayed well back. "Exit doors?" I asked my guide. 

"Yes." 

So much for escaping, then. But maybe I could find a window, or drill through a wall... 

We walked on again, stopped at one of the regular swishing double doors, and entered. "These are your quarters," he said. It was a simple room, but comfortable. It had a bed and a desk, one of those alcoves in the wall, and a strange toilet and shower like the ones in the Gul's own quarters, but without as much space. 

"When will I be able to go home?" I asked. 

"I don't know," he replied. "That's up to the cat." 

"Who’s the cat?" 

"Not the cat. Dukat. Due- kaht." 

"Oh, then who’s Dukat?" 

"You spent last night with him." 

"Oh, the Gul?" 

"Yes, Gul Dukat." 

"Could I have something to write on?" 

"No," he replied simply, and started toward the door. 

I looked around. "What is there to do here?" 

He shrugged, stopping in the doorway. "Not much for a prisoner, I'm afraid, but there is a computer here with a limited database." He took another step and the door swished shut. 

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Writing Blitz, Day Nine

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Writing Blitz, Day Nine

It's now day nine of NaNoWriMo, and I am officially three days behind. I do have a new installment for you, though:

Photo: 3quarksdaily.com 

Chapter Three 

Tahmid leaned back in his chair and looked up at me. “What’s your birthdate?” he asked cheerfully.

“September 13, 1985.” On a Friday. I’d never been superstitious about it, but now I was beginning to wonder.

“Explain,” he said.

Explain what? I wondered, but didn’t dare ask. “I was born on September 13, 1985,” I answered.

“Is that a date?”

Back to the obvious questions, again, or else he was just badgering me. “Yes.”

“By what calendar?”

“I think it’s called the Julian calendar,” I answered, getting sick of these obscure historical questions, “or possibly Gregorian? I’m sorry; I don’t know much about calendars.”

Tahmid had something on his desk that looked like a game controller, and he touched a button on it. A rod began to come down from the ceiling. It was nearly directly above me and pointing straight down like the rod the fan had been on in the restaurant. But there was no fan on this one. I tried to back up a step, in case it came down too low, but the guards held my arms. It kept coming, six inches in front of my face, and finally stopped when it was about at the level of my chin.

As soon as it stopped the guards grabbed my forearms and raised them, fitting the end of the rod into a small hole in the middle of the handcuffs. They locked together with a metallic click. Then the one on my left pulled my shoes and socks off and the one on my right made five quick cuts with his knife, and I was naked.

“I hope we’ve been able to come to an understanding,” he said in a friendly tone. “Think back to the last thing you remember before Terra Knorr. You got out of the cab, and then what?”

“I paid the driver…No, I paid the driver before I got out. Then I got out, and I walked. I had had him stop in front of the wrong building, so I had to walk a little.”

“Go on.”

“I got to my building and I was just about to go up the steps.”

“Your building?”

“The building I was staying at.”

“And then what?”

“That’s all I remember. I was turning to go up the steps.”

“And your next memory is of being on this station?”

“That’s correct.”

“Tell me about that.”

Photo: MemoryAlpha.org

“I was lying on the floor, and I saw a lot of people.”

“What were they doing?”

“Just walking around, I guess. I didn’t have a lot of time to watch them.”

“Go on.”

“Well, then the people started crowding around me, looking at me.”

“What species were these people?”

Oh, no, back to that game again! “Human.”

“They were human?”

“Yes.”

“They looked like you?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Did you scan them?”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t wait for an answer anyway.

“Did you bring a tricorder?” he asked.

“No.” Whatever that was, I didn’t bring one.

“What did these humans look like?”

“They had scars on their noses.”

“So you came this station and saw humans with scars on their noses,” he mused. “What species am I?”

“Human,” I answered, with a little hesitation. The last time we’d talked about his origins, he’d had one of his guards give me a bloody nose. And the stakes were higher now.

“Have you heard of a people called the Kardashians?” he asked. Only he pronounced it ‘Kardassians.’

“Yes.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re a family. Three beautiful women who got famous on reality TV.”

“What is TV?”

“Television.”

He shook his head. “That word’s not translating. But are you telling me you think that the Kardassians are three beautiful women?”

“Yes. Well, they’re a whole family. But the famous ones are three women.”

He touched the scar above his left eye. “What is this?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you think it is? Give me your best guess.”

“A scar?”

He touched the scar below his right eye. “And this?”

“Another scar?”

He touched the fin-thing on the right side of his neck. “And this? Is this a scar, too?”

“I…don’t know what that’s called.”

“What happened after you saw the people with the scars on their noses?”

“They left, and two other guys showed up.”

“What species were the two other guys?”

“Human.” I was getting used to this bizarre question, and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

“Did they look like you?”

“Not really.”

“Go on.”

“They looked like you.”

“Oh,” he said, “did they have three beautiful women with them?”

“No.”

He took his eyes off me again and looked at something behind me. I didn’t turn and follow his gaze this time because my wrists hurt and my hands ached. I’d been moving my fingers a lot to keep the blood flowing, and it had worked to some extent, but it hurt, too.

“How old are you?” he asked after a long pause.

“Thirty.”

“Do you know today’s date?”

“September 18, 2015.”

“So you turned thirty, five days ago. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I have no more questions for you at the moment,” he said, getting up and coming toward me with the controller in his hand. He touched the controller to the handcuffs and immediately my wrists were free. The handcuffs remained locked to the rod. “You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offered politely, and went back to his own chair.

We must have sat for about ten minutes, while I rubbed the feeling back into my hands and he busied himself with a couple of off-brand iPads. Finally he said, “We’re about done here. The gull wants to see you.”

I wondered what the chances were that he was referring to a shore bird. Not very good, I figured, but anything was possible.

He must have read my face again, because he asked, “Do you know what a gull is?”

“A bird?” I ventured.

“Perhaps in your universe, where Kardassians are all beautiful women, gulls are birds,” he conceded. “But in our reality, Gul is a military rank. There is only one Gul assigned to this station, and he is its commander. I know it doesn’t come naturally to your people, but if I were you…” He paused and drilled me with his gaze. “…I would be very respectful.”

To read more of my NaNo-novel An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, see my website, MaryJeddoreBlakney.com.

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