Has It Been a Month Already?

A green valley sprawls before him, in all its natural splendor, dotted with saffron flowers and drooping trees, lush and wet, free of cities, people or pollution, untouched by civilization.  It's warm.  Beautiful.  Mist layers the earth's bed.  With all that emptiness, he can't help imagining a city there: bright white buildings and parkways, a clean and happy people populating the streets.  Then it is there, lit up and real; an emanation of hope, an affirmation of success.  Everything he could dream.  He smiles, then laughs, thrilled by sheer joy.  It feels so good.

Night falls, and the ocean turns dark, an endless void where it's impossible to see; the only visible feature: the inkwell clouds, frozen, gigantic in the indigo sky.  It gets colder; the waves become a raging storm.  Scary, yet still exciting, and magnetic.  Paul welcomes it; he doesn't mind, he's still back home, finally, on Arcadia.  Finally.  Finally.

Snuggling into a crevice between the rocks, secure in their embrace, he waits, and waits... managing to close his eyes.  Sleep comes blissfully.  A silent reprieve... free of the world.

They claimed others ratted on him, sold him out.  It was just a ploy to get a confession out of him.  First they threatened, then tried to play friendly, then tortured, deprived him of food, sleep, comfort, played mind games, tried to bribe him, blackmail him... all to break him, to wear him down, trick him into confessing.  They knew he was Humanist; they knew Humanists were plotting against the Federation.  Who were his associates?  What was the nature of their activities?  Where and when were they planning to strike?

He told them nothing.  He wanted to tell them anything, everything, to make them stop hurting him, treat him like a human being, for God's sake, let him out to breathe open air again.  He wanted to go home.  He'd had enough of this life; he wanted to go somewhere where things made sense and he didn't have to fear.

Every time he wavered, felt his resolve slipping, something, somehow, pushed him onward, steeling his determination.  He stopped denying his fear; he had to welcome it, welcome the beatings and the torture, welcome the pain.  They would not kill him, though there'd been more threats to that effect than he could count.  They needed him alive, to confess.  Afterwards, they might kill him.  But they could not scare him with death.  To make him live was worse, and so they made him live.

The only thing they could charge him with was desertion – all they could prove.  He had shared information, sometimes classified information; there were rules and regulations regarding treatment under these conditions.  Other than that, he did nothing wrong.  Yet to the world outside, he did not exist inside these walls.  He did not exist, period.  The authorities could keep him here as long as they wanted; they made up any excuse which suited them.

Still, it was possible.  It was possible.  Had someone sold him out?  Had he screwed up; failed to cover his tracks?  Trusted the wrong person?  Trust no one; that was the rule he was supposed to live by.  He lost track of time in here, yet felt the days go by; his biological clock at work.  It could have been a month.  It felt like eternity.

The Tellarite grabbed his head by the hair, getting in his face.  The pig's breath smelled noxious.

"I can do this all day," he spat, exhaling that foul, hot odor into Paul's nostrils.

Say nothing.  Say nothing.  Don't even speak.

Go home, Paul.  Home.  He imagines it, focuses on it, a place they can't touch, until nothing else exists.

He's sitting in a diner, a quaint little place with chandeliers, candle-topped wooden tables, a fireplace on the wall.  Patrons dine and converse; Paula's sitting across from him, smiling at the joke she just told; outside rain spatters the windows and the gray street.  He realizes how much he's missed this place; he's glad it's still here.  It's warm, cozy, relaxing.  The waitress, a cute redhead, brings them the wrong food; she blushes, apologizing, trying to rearrange plates on her tray as she double-checks her order.  Paul's instantly in love with her, and wants to ask her name, but he's shy, and she disappears back to the kitchen.

His sister asks about his time in Starfleet; how did it change him, how could he bear it; what's deep space like nowadays – it's been so long for her, since she stepped foot off a planet, she can't quite remember.  What are his plans now?  He looks to the doorway to the kitchen.  What is that girl's name?

Then she's running with him, holding his hand; their marriage vows fresh in their minds, through that green valley, laughing as she jump-steps to keep up, yelling, giggling, to slow down.  He swoops her up in his arms, spinning her around.  It's one of those rare days when the sun is out; her eyes are blue in the sunlight, face glowing with her smile and that fiery red hair.  Over her shoulder he espies the rocky outcropping where he stood, relishing his world, taking it all in.

He didn't use to be so imaginative.  Strange, how circumstances forced him to get creative.

But there's a danger in dreams... in hope.  They remind one of what isn't... what isn't real.  What may never be, and what can never be.

A fist to the eye makes it feel like his eye is dripping out of its socket.  Pummels to the chest remind him of the lung condition acquired during the Bartokian affair.  Though treated, it's not a feeling he'll ever forget.  He wonders where the crew of the Dinaqa is, now; what happened to them.  Is the war on?  Raging, at that moment, beyond these walls?  He's had no news of the outside world.  If he won't answer their questions, they can't answer his, and he doubts he'd believe them anyway.

He was almost home.  They almost reached Arcadia.  Maybe the Bartokians did reach it, afterwards; he doesn't know.  The Starfleet ship caught them by surprise; before he knew what was going on, they had captured Paul, thrown him in the brig.  The ship didn't get its collective ass kicked in battle with Cerina Ringo's cruiser.  Maybe that meant the Dinaqa did; maybe not.  They delivered him to a starbase.  When he awoke, he awoke here, wherever here is; and here he sits.

He won't give in.  He can't.  He can't betray his principles.  He almost did, when he went to see Trishel Volari in the Dinaqa's medical center.  He was ready to let her treat him.  Then he saw what it would mean: giving into Milla's ultimatum – accept the help of aliens, or take a chance on sentencing your home to destruction.  It would mean betraying everything he fought for, everything he stood for; what Arcadians believed.  Most of them.  And he couldn't.  All he could do was apologize to Volari, try to explain to her why he reacted as he did, when they first met, and why, despite wanting her help, despite almost stepping across that line and letting her heal him, if she would have done so... in the end, he couldn't.  That was the way it had to be.  He wanted her to understand, just as every non-Arcadian needed to understand: Refusing help didn't equal hatred of those offering the help.  It was not that simple – and it was as simple as that.

They'd barely finished their conversation when the ship came under attack.  Somehow the Starfleet ship's transporters got through Dinaqa's shields, and nabbed Paul.  Did they come for him alone?  It seemed doubtful.  But they took him, back to face the music.

Ironically, Milla was the one woman... person... who might have helped.  He refused the first offer; there was no reason to think she would make such an offer again, or that he would accept it then, either.

She had gotten into his thoughts.  He pictured her, popping out of nowhere, in red dress and black leather, dispatching his interrogators with the blow of a sweet, vengeful kiss; offering him an exit, for a price.  The devil in the red dress.  Just as sweet... just as dangerous.  Just as tortuous as what he was forced to endure, at the hands of his interrogators, these bastard, human-hating aliens.  Thoughts of surrender followed, dripping the syrup of temptation.  If you give in, they'll let you go.  Or at least stop the beating.  But he could not drink.  He could not relent.  Don't give up, Paul.  Even if it kills you.