***The Hills of Time***
***by George Pollock, Jr.***

***Chapter 14***
***The Secrets of My Prison House***

   Villains.
   Every last damned one of them ...
   Disobedient ...
   ... disloyal ...
   ... traitorous ...
   ... villains ...
   He felt his mind focusing.
   And he remembered ...
   ... the villains ...

*******

   Slowly, he picked himself up from the deck and looked around. 
   The bridge was littered with wreckage, but all the station readouts were 
still lit. Amid the smoke and debris, the other Paranoids stirred.
   "Report!" he ordered. "Anyone!"
   The first of the others to stand up steadied himself with one hand and 
rubbed his head with the other. "Commander ...?"
   "I am here, Galt," the commander said. "Check the others."
   Galt nodded woozily. "Yes, sir ..."
   The commander sympathized with his subcommander's unsteadiness. The shock 
wave that hit the ship had thrown off his shell's gyroscopic balancer, and it 
was returning to equilibrium only slowly. Annoyingly slowly. He stepped 
warily toward the central sensor screen and surveyed it.
   "By the Maker ...," he whispered.
   The Sigma Narse system was gone.
   And so, he assumed ...
   ... was the rest of his race.
   But most likely, so was the rest of the enemy ...
   ... the Solnoids ...
   Pity, he thought.
   He had found some of them most interesting.
   He sighed.
   The end of the war.
   At last.
   And mutual extinction ...
   Galt's voice broke his reverie. "I have Tek, Commander!"
   "Very good," the commander said, almost distractedly.
   Another voice was heard. "Sir?"
   The commander looked toward it. "Yes, Drel ..."
   Already, the adjutant was back at his ops station. "Damage reports are 
coming in from all sections of the ship, sir," he said. "Life support 
minimal. Main engines coming back on line but at half power. Reaction pile 
damaged but contained. Full power unlikely to be recovered."
   "Unfortunate," the commander sighed. "Initiate repairs immediately."
   "Aye, sir."
   Galt joined him at the sensor screen and studied it. "Maker on high ...," 
he said quietly.
   The commander nodded. "Hmm ... what's is Tek's condition?"
   "Shaken up. We all seem to be ... sir. He's back at communcations, trying 
to raise our other ships."
   The other Paranoid glanced back at the cataclysm on the screen. "I suspect 
he will be unsuccessful, Subcommander."
   "It appears Leader Born's plan worked ... all too well ..."
   "System Destroyers," the commander noted. "Which they did, it seems."
   Galt kept fixed on the screen. "All our people ..."
   "A tragedy beyond imagining."
   "Well ...," Galt said, "our enemies die with us. I doubt they could have 
survived this. Weaklings ..."
   The commander regarded him with his oversized red eyes. "First of all, 
Subcommander," he replied coolly, "I am not dead yet. Second: Never 
underestimate your enemies. Even those who appear to be weaklings." His tone 
turned thoughtful. "I have found the Solnoids to be a most resilient species 
..."
   Galt said nothing. The commander suspected it was a tactical silence.
   Suddenly, Tek called out. "Commander Dawn!"
   Dawn turned toward him. "Yes, Adjutant?"
   "Sir, I've been unable to raise any of our other ships. Static on all 
Paranoid Axis frequencies."
   "I'm not surprised," Dawn said. "The fleet was deep in the system when the 
white death came. It's likely gone."
   "We barely got out ...," Galt noted.
   The commander nodded. "Picket duty had its advantages, Subcommander."
   His subordinate bowed his head. "Actually ... I feel ... like a coward 
..." He sighed. "We should have died ... with our people ..."
   "That," Dawn said, studying the sensor screen again, "is an honor I prefer 
to defer, Galt ..."
   He didn't see the other Paranoid's expression.
   A look of surprise.
   Of confusion.
   Of anger.
   Disgust.
   Contempt.
   "Commander!" Tek yelled. "I'm picking up a signal now!"
   Dawn snapped his head toward the adjutant. "One of ours?"
   "No, sir! It's a Solnoid signal!"
   Dawn glanced back at his first officer. "As I said, Subcommander -- 
resilient." Then he headed toward the com station, leaving Galt behind for a 
moment.
   Leaving him to think.
   To reassess ...

*******

   His eyespots focused in the here and now.
   And there was light.
   He looked around slowly.
   A cell of some sort. Barren. Utilitarian. Apparently, he was on a bench or 
bunk of some kind.
   And he wasn't alone.
   Quickly, he turned toward the figure. And recognized it.
   As himself.
   His shell.
   It was sitting at the other end of the bunk, motionless.  The arms were 
resting on its lap, and its head faced straight ahead with empty sockets. His 
commander's gold robes flowed from its shoulders and pooled behind the shell 
on the bunk.
   Had to have been placed there, he thought. Shells don't just get up and 
walk around.
   Well ...
   ... not without us, anyway ...
   In his mind, he smiled.
   If  his sense of humor had survived, he thought, there was hope.
   He had just started to ooze toward the shell when the narrow bright lights 
finally burst in as his vision cleared. He turned toward them. They trimmed a 
large, wide opening in the walls and along the floor. As he listened, a 
subliminal hum of energy purred through him.
   Force field. Had to be.
   Meaning ...
   ... this was a prison cell.
   Which puzzled him.
   Because the Solnoids didn't take prisoners. The war had become no-quarter.
   Tragically.
   Of course, Paranoid policy was no quarter, as well. And early in his 
existence, he had agreed with it. Victory was the only legitimate conclusion 
of the war. Every Paranoid knew that. Enemy losses were irrelevant.
   By the time of Sigma Narse, though, he had seen too much death. Paranoid 
and Solnoid.
   And he had found that much could possibly be learned from the Solnoids. 
And that there was only so much you could learn from a Solnoid corpse.
   But no one had heard him.
   For that alone, they were villains, he thought ...
   ... and worse:
   Fools.
   From beyond the trim of lights, a beep.
   He turned.
   Beyond the force field that he assumed was there -- he intended to test 
that -- was a desk. Sitting at the desk, in profile, was a uniformed Solnoid 
-- he assumed -- consulting a flat padlike device. Another beep arose as the 
being touched the pad.
   Apparently, my awakening hasn't been noticed yet, he thought ...
   But wait ...
   He blinked his eyespots dully, trying to sharpen the image. Yes, the being 
was something like a Solnoid ...
   ... but different.
   The face was harder, more angular. The chin was more prominent. And even 
from this angle, he could see that the being had virtually no bust at all.
   A Solnoid ... but different ...
   Wait ...
   Wait ...
   Long ago ...
   There was a word ...
   ... from the Chaos fiasco ...
   Operation Exogamous ...
   Mission 21 ...
   A Solnoid -- but different:
   Mmmm ....
   .... male ...
   Male.
   Inwardly, Commander Dawn nodded.
   So ...
   The Solnoids had survived, somehow.
   And they've been busy ...
   Very busy ...
   He looked back at his shell. Had to get back into it. 
   Carefully. Could have been left there as a trap.
   And as he slid slowly toward his other self, he remembered ...
   ... the villains ...

******* 

   "... calling any ..."
   Dawn hovered over Tek's shoulder. "Can you get a fix on that signal?"
   The adjutant adjusted the com controls. "Working, Commander. It's very 
weak. Knowing the Solnoid transmission ranges, it could be on the other side 
of the system."
   "... need of immediate assistance. Please come at once. This is the 
Solnoid escort ..."
   "Keep trying," the commander said.
   Galt finally joined his captain. He watched Tek frantically chase the 
signal with the directional finder -- only to have it wink out each time the 
adjutant was a keypad-tap away from locking it down. "Waste of time ... isn't 
it ...?" the subcommander asked, almost distractedly.
   Dawn turned and regarded him. "Why?"
   "... any craft receiving this. We are in need of immediate assist ..."
   Galt shrugged. "They're just Solnoids. Meatbags."
   "I don't like that word, Subcommander. And in any event, they are calling 
for help," Dawn noted, slightly annoyed at having to point out the obvious.
   His first officer looked deeply into his eyes. "So?"
   Dawn was getting irritated. "It strikes me, Subcommander," he started, 
emphasizing the subordinant rank, "that there probably few of their kind left 
after the white death to come to their assistance."
   "We can only hope ...," Galt said dryly.
   Dawn was beginning to have enough of this. "Explain yourself, Galt."
   "Need I remind the commander," Galt replied facetiously,  "that the beings 
in need of help are our enemy   -- possibly the only survivors of our enemy."
   "I'm aware of that ..."
   And then, disturbingly, Dawn noticed ...
   The inner hellfire that was growing in Galt's oversized red eyes ... 
   "Then let them die ...," the first officer said like reading a criminal's 
sentence, "... and let final victory be ours ..."
   "... Star Leaf calling any craft receiving this. We ..."
   Dawn spun back to Tek, ignoring his subordinant. "The Star Leaf?" he 
repeated. "Eluza Ortiz's ship?"
   "I wouldn't know, sir," the adjutant replied, feverishly working his com 
panel, "but ..."
   "Always wanted to meet her ...," Dawn said to no one in particular.
   "Please come at once ..."
   Tek pounded a keypad harshly. An affirmative-response tone beeped. "GOT 
IT!" he yelled triumphantly. "Course: Six-two-two-three-mark-nine. Distance: 
Ten thousand maar."
   Dawn tapped Tek's shoulder appreciatively. "Good work, Adjutant." He 
turned toward Drel at the helm. "Drel, lay in that course and proceed to the 
Star Leaf at best speed."
   "Belay that order, Adjutant!"
   For an instant, the bridge crew looked around, wondering who exactly had 
said that.
   But not exactly everyone.
   Everyone but Galt.
   Who -- Dawn slowly realized -- had said it.
   "I BEG your pardon?!" the commander demanded.
   "Adjutant Drel," Galt said, "stand down from helm."
   Drel looked from Galt to Dawn and back again. To the limited extent that 
Paranoid shells allowed for such things, he looked deeply confused.
   Dawn bristled. "You DARE ...?"
   "Commander," the first officer said, "This course of action is not in the 
best interests of this ship, this crew ... or our people."
  "It's to save lives, you fool," Dawn snarled.
   Galt's tone turned accusatory. "It is giving comfort to the enemy. Under 
Crisis Regulation 29.05, I hereby relieve you of command and assume full 
authority over this ship."
   The commander drew his shell to its full height and threw back his 
shoulders. "I refuse to yield ... traitor ..."
   Galt nodded. "So be it."
   After that ...
   ... Dawn's memories were ...
   ... uncertain ...
   But there remained the image of Galt instantly sweeping aside his 
subcommander's robe ...
   His reaching for something ...
   ... just about where his neutralizer would be ...
   And then the red flash.
   And then ...
   ... then ...
   ...

*******

   In his cell, Commander Dawn's eyes opened in their metallic sockets. And 
he saw that he must be the luckiest Paranoid ever bred.
   The Solnoid ... male ... was still intently working with the datapad at 
the desk. Turned mostly away from the cell. Never seeing that silently, Dawn 
had fully occupied his robotic shell.
   Damn, I feel lucky today ...
   A refreshing change from recent events, Dawn mused.
   Now what?
   The path of least resistance would be to make the male drop the force 
field willingly.
   Why would he want to do that?
   Why would he want to enter the cell?
   Unless ...
   ... he suspected that something was wrong inside ...
   ... and that the prisoner would not be a threat ...
   ... if he entered ...
   ... willingly ...
   And how to make the male think that his prisoner was not a threat?
   Well ... there was an ancient ploy. A cliche, really.
   But, of course, he recalled, any trap -- no matter how disingenuous -- 
will work ...
   ... if you succeed in getting your enemy to walk into it ...
   And so, Dawn slowly rose.
   Then he lifted one hand to his head.
   And as loudly as he could ...
   "Unhhhh ..."
   And collapsed noisily on his back in a metallic heap on the floor.
   Instantly, the male turned toward the clatter. In an almost-reflex, he 
tapped a gold-colored badge on his chest. "Brig to Security," he said, "the 
robotic device has collapsed in its cell. Send a team immediately."
   "Security here," the air answered. "On our way."
   The male tossed the datapad on the desk and got up. He drew a slim, narrow 
weapon from his side and charged it up.
   Then he walked toward the cell.
   Through the force field, he saw the strange chrome bipedal robot lying on 
the floor. Its gold robe was wrapped messily around the body.
   And the male finally noticed ...
   ... that the light blue polymorph was missing.
   Shit, he thought.
   Slowly, he aimed his weapon toward the robot. His other hand swiftly 
worked a small control panel next to the cell entrance.
   Suddenly, the narrow bright lights around the entrance -- and their subtle 
hum -- vanished.
   His weapon still aimed, the male -- warily -- stepped inside.

*******

   In the realm of memory:
   Dawn arose. Slowly. And strangely painfully.
   In all his career, he had never been hit by a neutralizer. They were for 
insubordinants, which he had never been.
   So why ...?
   Then he remembered:
   Oh, yes ...
   Galt.
   The villain ...
   The commander fought for focus. He shook his head and looked around. From 
the controls and seats -- and viewing ports -- he could tell that he was in a 
warp sled. And from the subtle vibrations, he could tell that he was going 
somewhere fast. Very fast.
   He studied the main controls -- or what was left of them. Readouts had 
been smashed, and the adjustors had been ripped out. Everything he needed to 
change course, or even stop the sled, was gone.
   Dawn sighed. Galt was thorough, if nothing else.
   But he was something else, Dawn thought:
   He was a traitor.
   A mutineer.
   And a villain ...
   Scanning the panels again, he noticed that only two readouts were spared. 
One indicated the sled's course:  Six-two-two-three-mark-nine.
   The heading of the Star Leaf's mayday.
   Well, the commander thought ...
   Galt might be a villain ...
   ... but he does have a flair for the dramatic ...
   He saw that the second readout read, "LOCKED." Meaning that if he couldn't 
unlock the course, this was going to be a one-way trip.
   He chuckled inwardly.
   That's probably what Galt had in mind.
   The villain ...
   Dawn looked out the front viewing ports. Ahead, barely discernable for 
what it was, lay a spaceship.
   Or what was left of one.
   Dawn recognized the silhouette: a Kularis-class Solnoid escort carrier. It 
looked as if it had been in a bad fight -- and lost.
   Which it likely had, he reflected sadly.
   He watched the battered white-and-blue ship -- the Star Leaf, he assumed 
-- grow minutely larger as the sled rocketed toward it. He was heading for 
the starboard side, near the rear of the wing. The port one was gone. So, 
from what he could tell, was most of the main-engine area.
   Maker on high, he wondered, how did they live through that?
   For several silent moments, he watched the enemy wreck assume more and 
more of the viewing port.
   I hope, he finally thought ...
   ... that Eluza Ortiz survived.
   Because ...
   ... if I live through this ...
   ... I'd like to meet her ...
   He sighed.
   Always wanted to meet her ...

*******

   In the cell, the male pointed his weapon at the robot's head.
   At its face.
   And he moved ever so closer to inspect it.
   Ever so.
   Until the weapon was almost touching the robot's tan face.
   And one of the last things he remembered was ...
   ... that when the robot had been put in the cell ...
   ... it didn't have a face ...
   What the hell ...?
   Huge red eyes flashed open, startling him.
   Instantly, the robot's left arm flew up and grabbed the male's right arm 
holding the weapon. Its incredible mechanical strength pushed the weapon away 
from the robot's face, while the right hand flew up in a blur and grabbed the 
male's left shoulder.
   Because it was looking for something.
   The nerve.
   If this were a male Solnoid, there should be a nerve ...
   ... running up the shoulder into the neck.
   A weakness to be exploited.
   And in a strange calmness during the struggle, Dawn thought that there was 
no need to kill this time. 
   Not yet, anyway ...
   The male grunted and groaned, his voice too full of bodily aching to call 
for help as he tried to pull away from the robot. Dawn's right hand slowly 
inched toward the base of the male's neck.
   To the pressure point. To the secret that the Paranoid had discovered 
during research for Operation Exagomous. For Mission 21.
   The Paranoid nerve pinch.

*******

   For Operation Exogamous to succeed, the Paranoid had needed better data on 
Solnoid anatomy and physiology. So against standing policy, several Solnoids 
had been captured alive.
   For examination.
   Which involved testing three abdominal organs that the Solnoids themselves 
considered vestigial. One was a small hollow chamber with a curious external 
access in the crotch. It, in turn, was connected by tubes to two small 
identical organs that produced odd cells of some sort.
   The best results were found to be from recently acquired healthy organs.
   And the healthiest organs, of course, came from living bodies ...
   Dawn and Galt had observed one of the removal procedures: A naked, gagged 
Solnoid had been strapped to an examination table, her arms and legs bound 
tight.
   Then the removal had begun.
   Even through the gag, the Solnoid's screams were ... unsettling ...
   But they eventually stopped, just before the Solnoid closed her eyes -- 
for the last time -- and ceased breathing after the first organ was removed.
   And who would have thought the young woman to have had so much blood (as 
the Solnoids called it) in her?
   Personally, Dawn had seen enough ripped and wrecked Solnoid bodies in 
space. He had left at that point.
   Galt, he noted later, had stayed to witness the entire procedure. 
   In the later planning report for Operation Exogamous, Dawn had found one 
footnote interesting: When one struggling Solnoid on the table had been 
struck on the base of her neck to subdue her, she passed out instantly. Study 
of the phenomenon revealed that pressure applied on a nerve at the base of a 
Solnoid's neck caused instant unconsciousness.
   Dawn had found that ...
   ... well, fascinating ...

*******

   Suddenly, in the cell ...
   Silence.
   The male fell slowly to the floor, his eyes still wide with confusion. 
Dawn's right hand was still firmly pinching the base of his neck.
   As his opponent collapsed, Dawn rolled onto his mechanical knees, then 
stood up. 
   Well, he thought ... the Paranoid nerve pinch truly works.
   Amazing ...
   But no time for self-congratulation.
   He grabbed the unconscious male's slim weapon and studied it instantly. A 
simple two-way charger button with lights showing the level of power. He put 
it on the lowest setting. He could always set it higher.
   If he had to.
   The Paranoid commander quickly looked toward the exit of the ... cell 
block, he supposed. He had heard the male call for backup, so he guessed that 
other Solnoids (if his assumption about where he was were correct) were on 
their way even now.
   Have to get out of here, he thought. Can't be trapped with my back to the 
cell. Bad tactical situation.
   He cautiously crossed the room and paused at the entrance. Warily, he 
checked just outside the portal into the corridor beyond. It was clear.
   And with a swirl of his gold-colored robe -- his steps unusually soft for 
the cyborg that he was -- he headed outside.
   Edging along the bulkheads, weapon raised near his shoulder at the ready, 
he was struck by the most mundane observation:
   The Solnoids had redesigned their corridors.
   They were ... well, different. Not what he was familiar with. They were 
efficient and functional enough -- but also slightly more comfortable than 
what Paranoid intelligence had revealed Solnoid spacecraft to be.
   Maker on high, he wondered, they're even ... carpeted ...
   Maybe the Sensualists are getting the upper hand ...
   Then he noticed the signs.
   He prided himself on being able to speak, read and write Solnoid. "Know 
your enemy" -- it was a basic combat tenant.
   But he could barely read the signs here. They, too, were ... well, 
different.
   They seemed to be in Solnoid. But some of the letters and numbers were 
altered just enough to be annoyingly confusing. Like someone started with the 
Solnoid alphabet, then forgotten some of it, then tried to remember what they 
had forgotten.
   Bizarre ...
   How long had he been unconscious, anyway ...?
   No time for any more speculation, he reminded himself.
   He paused near a corner, flat against the bulkhead, to listen for anyone 
approaching. Anyone in the different corridor with the different signs in the 
different alphabet.
   Things seemed to have changed so much, he thought.
   But how odd it was ...
   Because he had made his way through a Solnoid ship before. That hadn't 
changed.
   Then it flashed on him:
   I'm wrong.
   It has changed.
   This time, it was much -- much -- warmer ...

*******

   The crash was what Dawn expected:
   Loud, shocking and violent.
   And he survived it. 
   Curiously, he had also expected that.
   But that didn't mean the experience had been pleasant.
   The warp sled had been designed as an assault vessel, as well as a 
transport. The bow was reinforced and extremely pointed to pierce a Solnoid 
ship's hull in battle. Upon impact, Paranoid troops would pour out the bow 
hatches, firing. Paranoid intelligence had reported that more than fighter 
drones, the Solnoids feared the warp sleds -- often directing primary 
firepower against them, not at main combat ships.
   Because once a sled breached a Solnoid ship, Solnoids' deaths -- many of 
them -- followed.
   "Death sleds," the Solnoids called them.
   Which, Dawn reflected, was probably what Galt had hoped this one would be 
for his usurped commander.
   The villain ...
   When the wreck of the Star Leaf had filled the front viewing ports, Dawn 
had secured a reasonably sheltered position in the rear of the sled's cabin. 
He knew he could have stayed in the front. The bow would likely remain intact.
   But one could never be certain. Every once in a very great while, the 
deaths that followed a sled's impact were Paranoid.
   Dying would ruin my day, Dawn thought. So he found a relatively safe 
place. In the back.
   At the last free moment, he saw a Solnoid hull plate fill the front ports. 
Then came the instant of darkness, when no light could get between the 
opposing ships.
   And then ...
   The scream.
   A piercing metallic scream.
   The horrific screech of the ships being smashed by each other.
   A wrenching, painful scream. 
   And he was flying. Which surprised him a great deal.
   It happened so slowly, he remembered later: One instant, he was bracing 
himself in the rear of the cabin. The next instant, he was arching -- rather 
gracefully, he felt  -- over the seats, aiming headfirst for the front ports.
   In that slow, otherwordly moment -- through the screaming -- he saw the 
hull plate buckle and give way in a burst of shredded metal. As the fragments 
parted, he was greeted with the bizarre, mundane vision of a corridor 
bulkhead lit in a feeble glow. The glow winked out an instant later.
   Just as his shell's head smashed into the viewing port.
   Followed by the rest of his body.
   The screaming died. Dawn, on the other hand, did not.
   With a final lurch of momentum, the sled rocked and settled amid metallic 
creaking. Dawn fell down off the viewing port in a metal-and-fabric disaster 
on the deck.
   Well, he thought ...
   ... that was different ...
   For a moment, he swore he felt pain in his robotic shell's head, back and 
joints. And he knew that was impossible. So, he concluded, the pain must be 
in ...
   ... me ...
   Damn ... 
   ... that hurt ...
   Ow ...
   About then, an airy squeaking filled his hearing. It rose in pitch and 
faded in a cut-off crescendo. Emergency anti-vac cocoon in the bulkheads, 
Dawn knew. Sealing the sled's bow inside the Solnoid ship. At least something 
still worked on this wreck.
   He lay crumpled on the deck a while. And after an even longer while, he 
noticed the silence.
   It troubled him.
   If there were any Solnoids aboard, he thought, they're be here by now. 
Swarming over the sled's bow like insects, firing as if their lives depended 
on it. Which they did.
   So where were they?
   I expect to be killed by the enemy at this point, Dawn thought calmly. 
What's taking them so long ...?
   You'd think Eluza Ortiz would run a tighter ship than this ...
   Finally, he started to move. Slowly. Painfully, he stood up and looked out 
the viewing ports.
   Into darkness.
   Mostly, but not completely. The sled's interior lights cast a sick yellow 
sheen over surfaces immediately nearby. A lot of damage and debris -- not 
unusual when a warp sled hit a Solnoid ship.
   But there was something else ...
   The bulkheads, the deck -- even the ceiling -- seemed coated with 
something. Dawn turned his head in curiosity, studying the layer closely.
   It sparkled.
   Frost.
   And just barely, he saw where debris had been displaced on the deck. Close 
by, clear patches appeared in the debris' shape. Some of it had been there a 
long time before the crash, he deduced.
   Which could mean ...
   ... that the Star Leaf was dead.
   And maybe its crew, too ...
   Maybe Capt. Ortiz was as lifeless as her ship.
   He sighed.
   Too bad ...
   Always wanted to meet her ...

*******

   In the warmth of the comfortable, carpeted corridor, lights flashed on the 
walls.
   Red bars. Flashing in slow, silent sequence.
   Hell of an alarm, Dawn thought. Where's the klaxon? Where's the noise to 
shock the crew into action?
   Damned strange ...
   The red bars flashed again. Dawn tensed himself for an encounter, his back 
against the bulkhead and the male Solnoid's weapon raised at the ready.
   Through his concentration, he noticed something: The lights were heading 
back toward where his cell had been -- the ship's brig, he assumed.
   Were the lights to help the crew find the brig in case of an emergency? 
Ridiculous, Dawn replied to himself: An emergency could happen anywhere, not 
just the brig.
   So what the hell were they for ...?
   Any answer he might have come up with next was lost to the footsteps.
   Coming down the intersecting hall.
   The Paranoid commander flattened himself even more against the wall. And 
focused.
   The footsteps got louder, nearer.
   Now just around the corner.
   Maker help me, Dawn prayed ...
   And the male turned the corner.
   And jumped back in shock. His eyes widened in surprise.
   Which made him even more bizarre to Commander Dawn than he had been, just 
the instant before.
   Because this male looked like he wasn't fully formed. Incomplete. Like an 
amateur sculptor's early work.
   The face was too smooth, too generalized. The hair was brushed back 
perfectly -- but as if it had been added to his head as an afterthought.
   The auditory organs -- "ears," Dawn recalled the Solnoid term -- were 
shaped like a Solnoid's. But they featured only small holes and none of the 
distinct curling ridges inside.
   And his brown uniform looked as if it had been painted on his body.
   As if it were a part of him ...
   And his eyes ...
   His eyes ...
   Dawn had noticed them first. They were bright points of light in dark, 
deep sockets. So when the male had shown his surprise, his eyes seemed to 
rise in their sockets. They lit up his face.
   That incomplete, imperfect, generalized face ...
   Then the Paranoid blinked. And struck.
   His right arm, the one free of the weapon, reached up impossibly fast and 
grabbed the base of the male's neck.
   The male was shaken out of his shock by the touch and used both hands to 
grab Dawn's wrist. He started grunting as they struggled.
   He should be down by now, Dawn wondered. I'm right where I pinched the 
other male. What's going on?
   Why isn't he going down?
   In reply, the strange male ...
   ... melted ...
   Suddenly, his features blurred away and turned into an iridescent 
dark-brown gelatinous mass. With shocking speed, it flowed out of Dawn's 
grasp into a quivering pile on the deck. It quickly slithered away from him 
farther down the corridor.
   Where it stopped.
   The commander slowly lowered his arm.
   The mass started to rapidly rise in a sort of a column. A head rolled its 
way out of the top. Arms spread from its sides.
   A face appeared. A body defined itself.
   As the male Dawn had just grabbed.
   Immediately, the being assumed a defensive stance. And a combative 
expression.
   And he waited.
   But he wasn't waiting for what Dawn did next.
   The Paranoid dropped the weapon he was carrying.
   Then he dropped himself.
   Onto one knee.

*******

   The warp sled's port bow hatch was a shambles. The jamb was twisted and 
crushed.
   Maybe the port side struck a hull-frame beam, Dawn thought. In any event, 
no chance of exit there.
   In the growing cold, he faced the starboard hatch. It appeared intact, so 
he tried the controls. No response. He tapped them again, with growing anger. 
   Nothing.
   Damn it all to hell, he fumed, I am not going to die in this wreck of a 
sled ...
   OPEN, DAMN YOU!! 
   YOU WORTHLESS JUNK!! OPEN!!
   And nothing happened.
   Damn you, he thought ...
   And damn you again ...
   He sighed heavily. All right ...
   OK ...
   Calm down ...
   Analyze the situation ...
   What are your options ...?
   The Paranoid collected his thoughts. What's the next step here?
   Try the manual override on the hatch itself ...
   He grabbed the lever inset in the hatch and pulled. Slowly, with a 
metallic grating that vibrated through his shell's arms, the lever moved. He 
could just hear the metal rods lowering from their sockets in the jamb. He 
strained the lever all the way over and felt it lock into place.
   Nothing happened.
   For a moment, Dawn was silent. 
   Maker, he thought, you've got to stop doing this to me ...
   Then, his frustration grew until he could no longer contain it.
   He yelled wildly and smashed the hatch with his fist.
   With all his strength.
   Rather insistently.
   Again.
   Again.
   Again.
   He was starting to get angry. 
   He lunged at the hatch, his thoughts reflecting the rythm of the blows.
   OPEN!
   OPEN!!
   DAMN YOU, OPEN!!
   OPEN!!
   The hatch finally decided that it had had enough. So it gave up.
   Which surprised Dawn.
   Because as he reared his arm back for another strike, the creaking began. 
It grew louder. Then, like a huge animal's death bellow, the creaking rose to 
a hollow moan. The hatch slowly swung open. Fully open. 
   Whereupon, it stopped.
   And with a deafening clash of metal on metal, it fell to the deck below.
   Dawn sighed.
   Thank you, Maker ...
   At least I won't die in here ...
   The commander looked cautiously out the open portal, expecting to hear 
anything to suggest that Solnoids were near. But he heard nothing.
   It was what he felt that concerned him more.
   Cold.
   Deep cold.
   The cold of space.
   Lethal cold.
   This could be a problem, he thought.
   Paranoid shells weren't meant for open space. The components began to lock 
up. When a Paranoid needed to be in space, he took a drone. They were heated 
for that purpose.
   A Paranoid in space in his shell was a dead Paranoid.
   Eventually.
   Already, Dawn could feel the very first tingle of cold in his shell's 
fingertips. Granted, he could function for a while at this temperature. But 
not forever.
   Heat.
   Even at the risk of armed Solnoids, he had to find some heat on this ship. 
Somewhere.
   And even just moving would generate a little warmth in the shell.
   So it was time to go.
   He jumped down onto the fallen hatch, his metallic feet sparking echoes 
down the darkened corridors.
   He paused and pondered. What if no heat were to be found? What if the Star 
Leaf were, indeed, a corpse?
   Well -- though he had not always agreed with it -- there was the wry 
solace of the ancient warrior's fatalism:
   It is always a good day to die ...
   He started down the corridor, his heavy footsteps ricocheting off the 
bulkheads and out to other parts of the ship.
   He peered outward into the darkness. And smiled inwardly.
   Let's find out whether this is a good day ...

*******

   From Dawn's bowed head in the warm corridor, the word came.
   "Brother ..."
   The male in the brown uniform maintained his defensive stance. But he was 
surprised to hear the word. Still, he was more surprised that the huge robed 
robot had disarmed himself and acted so abjectly now.
   What's he up to? the male thought.
   Dawn spoke again, his muted words nevertheless rumbling in the small 
space. "Brother ... forgive me ..."
   The male stayed prepared. "Forgive you? For what?" he asked.
   The Paranoid commander raised his head and looked up with oversized red 
eyes. "I attacked my brother ... Forgive what is unpardonable. Please."
   The male lowered his hands slightly. "I'm sorry, but I doubt I'm your 
brother," he said.
   "Oh, you are. I saw you as you really are. You are a brother."
   The male noticed the slim weapon that Dawn had dropped to the deck. "If 
you're sincere ...," he started, "slide that weapon over to me with one hand. 
Slowly."
   "As you wish." Gently, Dawn lowered his left hand. Cupping the weapon with 
his palm, he pushed it toward the male. It bumped and bounced on the carpet, 
but it arrived at the male's feet.
   Keeping his eyes on the commander, the male lightly stepped on the weapon 
to secure it. 
   Then his right arm melted.
   It became a dark-brown gelatinous mass that started to grow, to extend to 
the deck. It engulfed the weapon.
   And just as quickly, the mass shriveled and became the male's arm again. 
With the weapon in his hand --aimed at the commander.
   "Truly a brother ...," Dawn said.
   "Don't count on it," the male replied. "What's your name, and why did you 
attack me?"
   "I am Commander Dawn of the Paranoid Axis. I escaped from a cell that I 
was being held in. From what I can tell, this place is run by Solnoids and 
their males ..."
   The male squinted in confusion. " 'Solnoids'? 'Males'? "
   "... And when I heard you coming down the corridor, I thought you were one 
of them. I knew they would be coming. That is why I attacked you ..." He 
paused. "I pray  you will understand that it was a reasonable suspicion." 
Again, he bowed his head. "And that you will ... forgive it, brother ..."
   The male nodded. "It's reasonable ... that an escaped inmate would attack 
anyone who would come along in a strange prison."
   Dawn looked up at him again. "I just realized: I don't know your name. 
What it is, brother?"
   The male never got to respond.
   Suddenly, from around a corner, a party of four males appeared. At point 
was a strange specimen, Dawn thought: Tall, with dark skin, lots of hair on 
his head and face -- and a forehead with bony ridges. He wore a sash of 
linked metal. The other males had pink, brown -- and even light green -- skin.
   And they were all armed.
   The lead male's eyes widened when he stumbled across the scene. Instantly 
-- as if they had choreographed the move -- all four males pulled out their 
weapons together.
   And the lead male yelled.
   "ODO!"
   Immediately, the male in the brown uniform held out a hand. "HOLD YOUR 
FIRE!"
   Dawn studied the male with the generalized face. " 'Odo'? Is that your 
name, brother?"
   The male sighed, then nodded, almost irritatedly. "Yes. It is ..."

*******
   Double doors. Frozen shut.
   Dawn sighed. This could be a problem, too ...
   He had encountered no Solnoids on his way through the Star Leaf. Only 
destruction, debris and barely illuminated darkness.
   And the cold. Always the cold.
   His shell was losing mobility. Each step had become a creaking struggle as 
the mechanisms started to lock up in the cold.
   And now this ...
   He paused to marshal the slight strength that remained in the shell. The 
robotic form was already starting to frost over.
   The end was near.
   But not yet.
   One last effort ...
   As he positioned himself to pull on a door half, he recalled the sounds. 
The only sounds he had heard on the Star Leaf, other than those he had made 
-- his footsteps.
   As he had entered this block -- Q Block, he noted --- he was startled by 
distant noises. From the bow, he thought. He wasn't completely sure. The 
audio input was starting to fade.
   He smiled inwardly. He had always been told the hearing was the first 
thing to go ...
   But the sounds:
   First, a clunky banging, as if of metal on metal.
   Then, just a little bit after that -- a loud, heavy metallic clanking, as 
if something had shot through a wall, through the ship.
   Through him.
   Odd ...
   Damned odd ...
   But to the matter at hand. Which he had in hand. 
   Both hands, actually.
   The doors.
   The Paranoid secured his footing by the frozen portals and forced his 
shell's fingers into the space between the halves. The metal must be lethally 
freezing now, he thought. But he felt nothing. He had lost feeling in his 
hands to the cold already.
   That was the second thing to go, he recalled ...
   Finally, he pulled.
   And strained.
   And contorted.
   And at last, he screamed in frustration.
   And collapsed onto the deck.
   Nothing. The door half never budged.
   With his shell's last mobility, Dawn forced it to sit up and recline 
against the door. I won't be found sprawled out like debris, he thought. Not 
like junk.
   He surveyed his surroundings.
   A littered corridor in feeble emergency light -- light that was fading, 
just like his consciousness.
   He suddenly noticed: It was cold in his shell.
   That was the final stage. If he froze inside the shell, he could be 
discarded with it. Just like junk.
   Damn it ...
   I won't let that happen ...
   I won't ...
   His gaze fell to the deck down the corridor.
   Won't ...
   He studied the bulkheads. He swore he could see the frost on them inching 
steadily toward him. Flowing over signs and panels and controls ...
   Toward the grille on the left ...
   He blinked his large red eyes. It took a lot of effort.
   The grille ...
   Grille ...
   Heat ...?
   A way to flee ...?
   Oh, Maker ...
   Oh, Maker ...
   Thank you ...
   Slowly, Dawn's tan face began to disappear. As if it were being drained 
inside his shell.
   Which it was.
   A moment later, from his right hand that lay on the freezing deck, a light 
blue gelatinous substance started to ooze. The mass grew larger, bulkier, 
quivering from within. Finally, it stopped flowing from the robot.
   From one end, two dark spots appeared.
   And they blinked.
   Damn, this deck is COLD, Dawn thought ...
   So cold ...
   Have to chance getting to the grille.
   Heat ...
   Please, heat ...
   Anything ...
   He started to extend toward the grating.
   It became horrifying.
   As he stretched, he exposed more of his body to the icy metal. A billion 
needles of pain pricked him into madness. As he contracted, the agony 
subsided -- but not enough to matter.
   By his third extension, he was praying.
   Oh, Maker ...
   Dear Maker ...
   Please ...
   No more ...
   The cold ...
   Dear, sweet Maker ...
   Give me heat ...
   ... or take me ...
   ... please ...
   The cold ...
   ... take me ...
   The fourth and final stretch brought him to the grille. He was beyond 
caring by then. Because as he blobbed around the access, he felt ...
   Nothing. 
   No heat.
   Damn, he thought ...
   The Star Leaf ...
   ... is dead ...
   And so am I ...
   Galt ...
   You villain ...
   Damn you to unholy hell ...
   He could no longer feel his back half. The numbness was creeping through 
every molecule of his matrix.
   He closed his eyespots.
   Again, he smiled inwardly ...
   Well ...
   It was a good day ...
   ... after all ...
   The cold entered his mind.
   The last thought that it met surprised him. For that matter, the thought 
surprised itself.
   Captain ...
   ... Ortiz ...
   ... Eluza ...
   Always ...
   ... always ...
   ... wanted ...
   ...
   ...

*******

   Worf still aimed his phaser at the Paranoid. "Constable, this is the 
robotic device found on the other ship! It was placed in the brig for 
security!"
   Odo cocked his head. "Well, I guess the brig isn't as secure as you 
thought, Worf."
   "This is a dangerous situation! Please leave immediately!"
   Dawn lowered his arms slowly. "Excuse me," he said to Worf, "is it all 
right if I stand up?" He looked back at Odo. "I will make no trouble, Brother 
Odo, if you will talk with me when I return to my cell."
   "I'm in no position to make deals with you," the constable said. "I'm a 
guest on this ship."
   Dawn considered that. "I see. Then ... I will give you my promise: I will 
return to my cell peacefully with these ... males. And I will hope that you 
will visit me sometime."
   "I make no promises," Odo said. "But I will help these men escort you back 
to the brig. To make sure you keep your word."
   Dawn nodded. "You are a true Paranoid, brother ..."
   "Hmm.  Stand up, now."
   The commander rose slowly. Immediately, Worf and the other males moved up 
to escort him. The Klingon gestured toward the brig with his phaser. "That 
way."
   "Yes," Dawn sighed. "I know ..."
   With Odo at Dawn's side and the four armed males behind them, the party 
began to move down the corridor. "You haven't forgiven me for attacking you, 
brother," Dawn noted.
   The changeling shrugged. "As I said, it was a reasonable act in your 
circumstances."
   "Reasonable, maybe, but ... unacceptable. We brothers should never attack 
one another. Never. It was the act of ... of ..."
   Odo noticed that the alien's large red eyes were downcast. And he thought 
he saw just the faintest gleam of something in those eyes.
   Something like ... shame?
   But he wasn't sure.
   Finally, the Paranoid raised his eyes and looked at Odo.
   "It was," he repeated, "the act of a ... villain ..."

TO BE CONTINUED