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“We need a name to fill the forms in. Something… ahem… less extraordinary than Khan. Why attract attention to our small project, right? And it’s not your true identity anyway, is it?” A quick inquisitive glance. A smirk at getting no reaction. In the ever-artificial light of Section 31 Admiral Marcus’s half-bald head looks plastic. Funny enough, given that Marcus is sure he’s the only proper human being in the room. His henchmen are waiting outside—Marcus has all the reasons to believe he’s safe for now.
“So. What name do you like best, huh?”
“John.”
The word slips from his tongue before he realizes that it’s a bit of a giveaway. Not that it’s of any importance. Admiral Marcus has all the trumps in his hands, and it doesn’t really matter that one of the cards in the deck is more valuable than the others.
The Admiral doesn’t seem to notice it anyway, too impatient to close the deal.
“Fine,” Marcus mutters, typing something in. “From now on, you’re John Harrison, a Federation operative. It’s vital to keep all the records straight, you know. Officially, we’re not allowed to experiment on a sentient and rational being without its consent, even if this creature is just a genetically-engineered war machine. We’re civilized people. But you will give us your full consent and sign this, won’t you, Mr Harrison?”
A rhetorical question. Of course he will.
In a medical unit—or so it’s called, all sterile white walls and the same artificial light, like they’re in deep space—he’s told to strip bare under the Admiral’s appraising scrutiny. Ironically, Marcus and his officers look less intimidating in their rather pompous uniforms than the naked warrior at their mercy. He can feel their irritation, it’s so obvious. They wanted to humiliate him. They failed.
He’s still slightly dizzy because of the amount of blood they’ve taken for experimenting, but fortunately it doesn’t show. It will soon pass. He’s fine.
“Now, shall we begin?” he suggests unflappably.
The plan is to test his ability to recover after different kind of traumas, so that the Starfleet scientists can learn how to make perfect soldiers. Maybe they’ll derive a serum from his blood later. His written consent is enough to turn him into a crash test dummy, of a sort. Well, no one should expect a reaction from a dummy. His body remains unyielding under the blows as a burly security officer (valued for his muscles, not his brain) keeps punching him, over and over again. The forming of bruises, that’s what they’re studying first.
Marcus comes closer as the officer shakes his weakened hand, winces at his abraded knuckles. “Do you feel pain, Mr Harrison?”
“What does it matter?”
The Admiral chuckles. “Don’t be difficult. You promised your full cooperation, remember. That includes answering my questions. Or should we reconsider our deal?”
“Then yes. I do feel pain.”
But his body is transport. He can—at least he tries to—divorce himself from what he’s feeling. It’s plain physical damage. It will heal.
He turns if told. Spreads his arms and legs. Leans to the wall. Among the implements they use on him, a thin but heavy rubber stick hurts the worst, and he says so when asked.
They don’t restrain him; no heavy, magnetized manacles anymore—he has seventy two reasons to be compliant and cooperative. “We certainly don’t kill anyone, even genetic freaks like you. We have our rules. But you know, things happen when you wake people from cryo-sleep. Something might go very, very wrong. Your cryo pods are ancient technology, after all. My men do not necessarily know how they work. There might be a tragic accident with your entire crew…”
Finally, they leave him for a while, alone but surely surveilled by cameras. Lying on a bench, unable to do anything but wait, he escapes to the only safe place he can remember—to a room in his mind palace where John, his John is always waiting for him. No one else can reach it, no one else is allowed to enter. This is real, this is what lasts, not the dull ache evenly spread across his battered body.
John will be safe. Whatever it takes. They all will be safe. His crew, his family.
Minutes pass. Turn into hours.
Marcus lets out an appreciative whistle as his captive stands up to meet him again. “Amazing. All the marks—almost gone.” The Admiral traces one of the welts, still slightly visible, with a nail, pressing hard and looking directly at his prisoner’s face.
A glimpse of hungry anticipation in the Admiral’s eyes quickly turns into disappointment and irritation at the lack of response.
Does Marcus want to coax a reaction out of him? Does he consider mute defiance as a challenge? There must be something personal, a history of conflicts with someone very close to him—a rebellious child? Daughter, most likely. With a son, Marcus could have been strict to the point of cruelty, but he’s at a loss what to do with a girl who seems to have an opinion of her own. No photos of her in the Admiral’s office. Interesting.
Marcus gives an unpleasant smile. “You’re recovering so miraculously well. It seems we can be less delicate with you.”
And the experiment continues. That’s how they prefer to describe what’s happening. Not torture, no. They don’t do things like that. It’s just a series of tests. More blood taken. More systematic pummeling. Cuts, deep and shallow. Larger lacerations. Abrasions. Electric shocks.
At some point, he’s pushed into a freezing cold shower. He stands under the unrelenting icy stream and lets it douse him. He considers taking a gulp of water—he won’t get any nourishment for quite some time—but decides against it. The arrangement was that they would test his physical limits. (“How long can you manage without water and food?”—“Longer than you, Admiral.”) After signing the contract, he’s not going to break the deal. They’re watching him now; they’ll notice.
Blows hurt more on wet skin.
Marcus’s henchmen replace each other when they get tired. Cold beyond shivering and slightly disorientated due to a mild concussion and constant blood loss, he doesn’t know if it’s day or night anymore. The harsh artificial light is always switched on. And they don’t let him sleep anyway.
If he were weaker, he’d lose consciousness from time to time. But he’s strong.
It’s not that he starts hallucinating after a week or so, he just retreats to a place where they can’t reach him. John’s hand touches his cheek. Compassion, concern—John’s emotions are always so palpable, unlike his. “Oh you idiot, what have you done to yourself this time? You think you’re invincible, do you? No-no-no, don’t move. Just lie still, let me take care of you.”
John wouldn’t approve of his decision. Captain John Watson would have never let one of his people suffer for his sake. Fortunately, John has no say in the matter.
He hopes that John doesn’t have nightmares in his cryo-sleep, alone now, if surrounded by other members of the crew, and unaware of the danger they’re in.
Maybe John dreams of him sometimes…
Another line of excruciatingly sharp pain across his already raw flesh. It forces an aborted groan out of him.
“Finally-finally-finally,” the Admiral mutters somewhere behind his back. “So you’re really feeling it. Don’t be shy. Cry all you want. It isn’t in the deal that you can’t. Show us you’re just a little bit human.”
Marcus wants him to beg for mercy. All right. After some convincing period of time, he will beg and plead and promise he’ll do anything… anything… just please stop this, please… But not just yet. Marcus must be sure he’s broken his adversary irretrievably, and he’s not an utter moron to think it will be easy. But if it takes effort, if it takes time, if it hurts enough to break a dozen ordinary men, one by one, maybe—maybe—Marcus will be lulled into a false belief that he’s won. It must be comforting for a man like him to know he’s able to defeat someone so much stronger and so much more intelligent than himself.
“John Harrison” will trade his intellect as well as his body for the sake of his family. He’ll help Marcus to advance his cause. If the Admiral needs a warrior’s mind to design weapons and war ships—he can use it all he wants to realize his vision of a militarized Starfleet. Let Marcus toy with a pleasant feeling of his own might.
It will be an illusion. Sooner or later the Admiral’s guard will slip. And then…
Marcus is a dead man walking, though he doesn’t realize it yet, and so are his officers, all of the Starfleet hypocrites, both those who are aware of what’s happening here in Section 31 and those who prefer ignorance and comforting lies told by their commanders. They all stick to their bureaucracy and regulations—and if a signature in the right place formally allows blackmail and torture, if it’s possible to break bones without breaking rules, it must be all right. How very convenient.
He will walk over their corpses to recover his people—restoring balance to the universe. And if he’ll be condemned as criminal, again, what does it matter as long as his friends are alive?
John will be safe. It’s worth everything. His body, his mind, his honour.
John puts a hand upon his shoulder—a comforting gesture, heartbreakingly familiar—and smiles at him, understanding and maybe forgiving.
Smiling back, he finally slides into darkness.