Walls

People weren't meant to live inside walls.  They did little good anyway.  They offered little privacy, much less protection.  And no matter what anyone called the walls holding Paul Thunder... they were prison walls.  Not formally, of course.  Oh no.  It wasn't a formal prison – the Federation had done away with those.  But prisons still existed, out of the public eye.

Out of the public eye... in the mind's eye.  Virtual prison sentences... virtual prisons.  What better way to impose the "rehabilitation" of a "correctional" facility, than to make one believe in it?

The surroundings of his prison cell/interrogation chamber vanished.  It shocked his attention.  Strapped to a chair one second – bruised, bleeding, broken, in a tight, cramped box of a room, seared by a single, blinding light and the foul stench of his own unwashed body and defecation... a single, four-sided wall without a door or window... In the next second: reclined on some kind of biobed, a vertical slab tilted 45 degrees, in a clean, sterile room, pastel blue walls, and new people around.  Not interrogators.  Not doctors.

Behind them: a door.  A door, an open door, a welcome white light beckoning to the hall outside.  Escape.  Freedom.

They were undoing his straps.  He registered their faces in a heartbeat: Three men and a woman, seemingly human, in the synthetic, hard-molded, lightweight armor of Starfleet Special Ops.  They carried weapons.  The woman held a hypo.

"Relax, sir," one of the men advised.  "We'll have you out of here in a moment."

"Sir, can you tell me your name?" the woman asked.  They were young.  Couldn't have been over thirty.

Paul's muscles twitched, yearning for the door.  No bruises.  His limbs worked.  Not broken.  He could see with both eyes; it didn't hurt to breathe.  He wasn't in the numb, senseless kind of pain one feels after being beat mercilessly for hours... days, weeks, perhaps.

On a table nearby sat a device.  He had seen them.  Starfleet doctors and counselors used them for some medical procedures.  A neural interface band.  There were no other Starfleet people around.  He wondered where they were.

"Sir," the woman repeated.  "Do you know where you are?"

Paul looked at her, then stared at the opening.

"He's in shock," the first man said.

"I probably would be," the woman replied.  "Hold still.  This will help you adjust."  The hypo touched his neck, hissing contents into his bloodstream.

"Never thought we'd raid one of our own bases," the first guy quipped, undoing the last of the restraining straps.

Base?  As in starbase?  Was he still on the starbase?

"We only have a few minutes," another reminded them.

The last restraint came off.

At last... free.  And Paul didn't move.  This was a trick.  They were baiting him... teasing, trying to get him up, make him want to escape, offering him a route, to almost taste freedom... only to snatch it away.  This was part of the interrogation.  Still trying to break him, to make him confess.  He looked at his feet as the table rotated upright, pairs of hands holding him steady.  He couldn't move.

"Sir, can you walk?"

After a moment, the first guy said, "We'll have to carry him."

"Can't we just beam out?"  This from the third man.

"You know they'd detect us," first guy said.  "We've been through this.  Easy now."  He tugged and hoisted Paul off the upright bed.

Go along with it, his mind told him.  They want to play charades.  Let them.  What else can they do?

What else could he do?

In a funk, he stood, legs surprising him with their strength, and let them guide him.  Before he knew it, he was almost running down the hall in their midst, between them, the first man and woman in front, the others behind.  His mind dimly registered words: Tactical.  Perspective.  Situation.  Sensors.  Weapons.  Lifesigns.  If this was the starbase he'd been taken to... wouldn't internal sensors detect them?  Their weapons?  Where were they going?

Ah-hah.  They screwed up.  Yep, this was a deception.  His interrogators thought he was stupid.  It was a good illusion.  But he wasn't falling for it.

Starbases held escape pods for emergencies.  The one they headed for wasn't difficult to reach: It waited at the end of the hall.  They stopped once to check a corridor cross-section.  The level appeared deserted.  Then they raced in, pushing him in, climbing in around him.

"Kellan," the first guy said, securing Paul in a seat.

The woman checked her chronometer.  "Thirty seconds," she said, operating controls.

A hint of inertial nudge indicated ejection.  The pod was loose, free from the holding clamps.  On a monitor Paul could barely see from his seat, a blip appeared.

Paul hovered near the viewport, as far from the door as he could get.  The quarters were comfortable, softly lit.  The clothes felt good – plain-wear attire, not a Starfleet uniform, but not the scant, sensor-laden jumpsuit they had on him, which was too cold, when he awoke in the starbase lab... interrogation room... whatever it was called.  It seemed too good to be true.  And when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

Heidler stood inside the door, a tall, well-built and muscled man, blond hair, green eyes, finely chiseled features.  In the Starfleet uniform which fit him well, he didn't look out of place – of course not; why would he?, the illusion was that good – but he seemed a bit... unsure.  Raw.  Fresh.  It was just a feeling, but Paul recognized the distinction.  That carried importance.  One could sometimes spot a captain, if one knew how to read people.  He had seen enough in his time.  They carried themselves a certain way.  He wore captain's rank insignia, but that didn't mean much in this illusion.

"You're supposed to be the captain?" Paul said, having found his voice.  He didn't know how long for sure he'd been under... how long since he'd been willing to speak – assuming this was real and he was using his actual vocal chords.

"I am." Heidler nodded.

"Arcadia?" Paul said.  "Is that some of kind of joke?"  Or sheer coincidence?  He'd read of a UFS Arcadia, a Quantum-class starship lost on some deep-space mission.  This couldn't be that ship.  This ship was big, much larger than a Quantum-class; the size of a small city.  Omni class, maybe.  He couldn't see it from the outside, but it was impossible to ignore, coming up from the flight deck where the escape pod got transported.  Maybe Starfleet named this vessel after that one.

"After your planet," Heidler confirmed.  "United Freedom Starship.  Formerly the UFS Future," Heidler offered.  "Now flagship and headquarters of the United Freedom Force."

United Freedom Force.  Those words should have fazed Paul more than they did.  "What happened to it?" he said, with practiced calm.  "What happened to my planet?"

"The attack?  Failed.  No casualties.  As far as we can tell, the ships sent to lay siege were recalled.  We don't know why.  The investigation is pending."

Paul would have let out a breath, if he'd been holding it.  "Who attacked us?"

"Klingons.  A task force operating under the direction of Division Five," Heidler said.  "And under the auspice of this ship's former captain."

Paul knew who Division Five was.  Filling in the blanks, he saw what that meant.  Starfleet ships, turning against Starfleet ships.  It wasn't unheard of.  It wasn't the first time.  "Care for a seat?"  He gestured to one of the chairs at a small, round, glass table in the quarters they'd assigned.  He said it snidely, with intent.  He didn't have to be polite if this wasn't real.  He didn't have to be polite at all.  Every time he tried to be polite, he usually got slapped in the face, regardless.

Heidler remained standing, hands folded behind his back; an officious pose.  This guy was serious.  Registering Paul's tone, he said, "Mr. Thunder, you didn't desert Starfleet that long ago.  Show some respect."

"Or what?  I'll get thrown in the brig?  After what I've been through?"  Paul grunted and decided to sit.  "What are you saying?  The brass had a sudden change of heart, and now this ship is named after us?"

"Not exactly.  It might help to understand why this vessel was renamed.  I don't have time for a long story, Mr. Thunder, so let me make it brief: The recent attack on your planet, like many other incidents, didn't go unnoticed.  There are those of us in Starfleet who, despite all of our training and protocols, refuse to tolerate the commission of outright slaughter.  The Federation Council, which boldly proclaims itself "our" government though we did not elect it, is a den of whores and monsters – as you've learned.  The continued persecution and mistreatment of humankind has given us cause to question... and to rebel.  Our leaders are more interested in their own well-being than ours, the people's, and flooding our ranks with non-humans every day.  Alien muscle to use against the human... yes – as the Humanists have been saying.  It's taken some of us a while to wake up, but it's happening.  We're waking up."

"And now you think you're Humanists."

"If you mean separatists... no.  Humanists believe in passive aggression... separation, if that's what it takes to be free of alien dominance... even if that means giving up our homeworld for a new planet.  But we don't think we should have to give them our homes.  Humanists started the movement.  We've taken the next step: Securing a defense.  The government has declared itself a government of criminals, by declaring war on our people, forcing us to take matters into our hands.  I'm not Arcadian, Mr. Thunder.  Yet Arcadia means more than you know.  Your cause, the cause of a pure humanity, has support.  Our numbers are growing all the time.  There are more of us than you might think... good, decent people who don't deserve such treatment.  Like my late commanding officer, Captain Prentiss, who gave his life for your world.  We're fed up.  We will not lay down and take it anymore.  We're willing to fight back.  Even if we aren't ready... we must.  We must start now, before it's too late."

Paul eyed him evenly.  "No kidding."

"The ship I served, Freedom, was lost in battle.  We took this one by right, as an aggressor.  Other ships joined us.  Though the symbolism pleases me... the "future" belongs to us... it seemed fitting to rename it in honor of the place good people died defending.  We look to Arcadia as our protectorate; the symbol of a cause the Federation would see crushed.  Earth is our mother-world... Arcadia: an adopted son.  It unites us."

"Nice speech," Paul said.  "You call that 'brief'?"

Heidler's expression tightened, not amused.  "You must have noticed, there isn't a single non-human face among the crew of this ship.  The team who rescued you... All human.  From now on, the freedom, liberation and sovereignty of human beings is our goal.  You were lucky to be born human, Mr. Thunder.  Thanks to my late captain's foresight, we've been in contact with your fellow Arcadians, who informed us of your capture."

Thunder looked over Heidler's attire.  "Unless I'm hallucinating, that's a Starfleet uniform you're wearing."

Heidler glanced down, as if just realizing it.  "True.  But, who designed these uniforms for humans, to be worn by humans?  Other humans.  We still consider ourselves Starfleet officers.  If Division Five can take political action and call themselves Starfleet officers, then so can we.  Starfleet is still a human institution, despite what it's become.  The Vulcans tried to control us in the days Starfleet began, but we created it in spite of them.  The non-humans who've flooded in, holding us down, are the ones who don't belong.  We won't change because of them – rather, like the Vulcans, in spite of them."

"I have you to thank for my rescue?"

"You have many people to thank, Mr. Thunder.  Your people... mine... and the ti klec of a certain Bartokian vessel, without whom we'd never have known where you were."

Paul made a mental note to thank Cerina Ringo, again, for aiding in his rescue, a second time.  "And now where am I being taken?"

"As a Starfleet officer – I've seen your file, Mr. Thunder; you went AWOL – you're in this.  We're returning to Command, to stand trial for our actions."

Another time... when he was another person... Paul would have protested.  He just snorted.  Great.  He'd probably never see home again.  "They'll crucify us."  After what he'd been through, he wasn't too worried about what they'd do to him... although he was.

"They'll try.  But if there's one thing they don't want, they don't want the backlash of public sentiment.  We've transmitted all of our data on the operation.  We also have the starbase biologs; recordings of your interrogation.  It's all over the news."

"You didn't have a right to share that without my permission," he stated.  Yet that didn't faze him either.  He had to care to be bothered, and despite it all... despite being here, despite beginning to accept that this wasn't some finely crafted virtual simulation of the mind... he really didn't care anymore.