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The first awakening is always scrubbed from a Vorta’s memory. Too much data, she says when he asks. All downloading all at once. Language. History. Worship. If you remembered the pain you’d forget the information. It is inefficient.
The room is large and cold, a featureless box filled almost to the brim with cloning tanks and their associated circuitry. He looks at his hands, watching them marble with goosebumps under the dim blue lighting. What if I want to remember the pain?
She frowns. Why would you want to remember?
To remind me of what I am. Of who I serve.
A sigh. Kestra is a cloning specialist, created in order to create others, and she is unimpressed by his insight. I forget how full of nonsense the new ones are. She hands him a towel and his clothes, all bunched together in a careless knot. Dress and leave, I have others to tend to today.
The second awakening is a relief. His appearance had unnerved a Founder returning from a long journey who had forgotten that his face and voice would change with age in their absence. You unsettle me, Weyoun. You are not what I remember. He had felt such distress at failing them that the sight of a Jem’Hadar raising his rifle had been met without fear. His only wish had been to remove the discomfort from the Founder’s eyes.
Back again so soon. She has an earring now. It’s so useful when Vorta die at home. No memory degradation or manual reprogramming needed. She pauses. Do you remember the pain this time?
He’s already dressing, the miracle of his revival mere semantics as his mind refills with the memories of the one who came before. Yes. We are supposed to remember our deaths, so that we may better serve in our next life.
She shrugs and taps something into her databank. A simple 'yes' would have sufficed.
Poison causes the third. An as-yet undiscovered tincture he has no immunity to, offered in an innocent glass by a would-be ruler that turns his insides to slush for five agonising minutes as the sound of Jem’Hadar boots drums in the far distance. The screams are still ringing in his head as he slides out of his pod, soaking, reaching for the towel she is holding. Before you ask, yes, I remember the pain.
They shot him , she says, eyes averted as he dresses. He wonders why. Vorta don’t even have a word for modesty in their native Dominion tongue - they have nothing to hide from the Founders. And then they shot everyone else in the palace, too. You have been avenged.
The news is disconcerting. How do you hear such things? He snaps. Your only concern should be overseeing the cloning vats.
I must understand the context of death in order to evaluate the stability of resulting life. You seem suitably chagrined at your failure to protect yourself, so I will excuse your tone this time. Talk to me like that again and I’ll see your next clone drowns in his pod.
You wouldn’t dare. My life belongs to the Founders, not to you.
I’d risk getting shot to see the look on your face through the glass. But she says it with a smile.
She’s annoyed when he awakens for the fourth time. Ship implosion, she says, stabbing at a tablet. Total atomisation. Your last backup was weeks ago and I have had to waste my entire morning programming the memories in by hand from your reports. There is no pain to remember - no synthetic memory I can inflict on you that could feel as painful as death. I hope that doesn't put you out too much.
As he dresses he tries to picture the ship disintegrating into shards of flames and twisted metal around him. Tries to imagine the terror and the heat and then the aching coldness of space. He fails - Vorta are not made to be imaginative.
My apologies to you, Kestra. I will be more cautious in this life.
He is becoming a better diplomat, he thinks. That lie almost sounded like a promise.
You were shot, again. She throws the towel in his face as soon as his feet touch the floor. By your own Jem’Hadar, again. Atomised this time, too. And your last backup weeks ago. For someone so eager to remember your pain upon creation you really are putting in every effort possible to avoid it now.
I will consider the embarrassment of such a death in the place of pain, he parries back. What happened to my unit?
They are exiled on Vandros IV. Once they have completed their mission they are to self-terminate for their disobedience. Or run out of white and quicken to madness, whichever happens first. She puts her hands on her hips. I hear the Founders are pleased with you, however.
The ecstasy of praise tempered by programmed proprietary. He coughs, politely. And how would you have heard that?
I have my ways. She shrugs. Gossip is the one trait we’ve not been able to cure ourselves of, given its importance in diplomatic circles. Make a Vorta too incurious and you make them useless. Make them too curious and you also make them useless. It is a delicate balance.
One you have perfected in me.
She eyes him doubtfully. Naturally. I helped to create you, after all.
It is the first time either of them have acknowledged this.
He remains in his pod longer than he should when he awakens for the sixth time, and when he tries to leave he slips and nearly falls. She catches him under the arms, alarmed, her tone as sharp as a knife in his ears. Report your symptoms.
I…it’s nothing. My apologies, my death appears to have come as somewhat of a surprise .
Transporter accident. She drapes the towel around his shoulders, places the clothes in a pile on a dry section of flooring and watches as he dries himself. According to the Cardassians, anyway .
You doubt their word?
You trust it? Her hair is greying and the earring droops in her ear. He wonders why he notices these things when he hasn’t before.
He dresses slowly, his fingers fumbling on buttons, conscious of her gaze. Could you look away, please.
She does so, but not before he catches her frown. You will undergo psychometric testing before you leave this facility.
I am fine. This has just been a disquieting awakening.
How so? Your immediate predecessor was atomised. I restored your memory from his last backup and performed a manual memory integration from reports he submitted centrally myself. You do not remember the pain of your failure. She pauses. This is not the first time we’ve had to do a manual restore. It should not be any different than the others, unless you are placing fault with me. It’s the most she has ever said to him and he realises the words have an uncharacteristic rattle to them.
I am not placing blame with you, merely making an observation. He hesitates. I only wish to serve the Founders in all things, Kestra. Cardassian high command is currently without oversight and I am…anxious to return to them. I assume we are on Rondac III?
Yes. I was relocated along with the facility. She is silent for a moment. Tell me. What were you thinking of when you first awoke?
The war, of course.
Any particular aspect?
How close to the end of it we are.
Their eyes meet. There is an understanding.
If the end is truly so close, then… Kestra pauses. Then you had better get back to it without delay. I grow old, and I also grow weary spending my days awakening so many Vorta to send out into a universe that I will never see.
Weyoun hesitates. There has been a truth and a lie both told frankly here today, and he is not sure which is which. Thank you.
She does not reply, but after he is gone she privately acknowledges to herself that this has been her last thankless endeavour. The thought brings with it more peace than she expects to feel, and she smiles.
Defective? Defective?!
She is young once more, and the earring is gone. Defected. I said ‘defected’.
He must have been defective to have defected. The one leads to the other. He is furious, stalking around his newly drained pod, gesticulating with the towel as though it were a flag. In our name, too. In the name of our predecessor! The shame of it all. He stops when he notices her tapping something into her databank. What are you writing? Cease immediately.
She continues. You may be a favoured Vorta of the Voice, but the cloning vats are my domain. You do not hold any sway here. She looks at him with a smirk in her eyes. But if you must know, I’m noting down how exactly the Cardassians are influencing your behaviour.
You dare -
You are stalking about with the violence of a Jem’Hadar. It is unbecoming of a Vorta. She points at where his clothes are lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Dress. You are to undergo psychometric testing before you return to Cardassia Prime.
I do not have the time for your nonsense.
I am not offering you the luxury of choice. She narrows her eyes. Your previous incarnation’s actions meant dire consequences for us both. Kestra Twenty-Three was terminated for failing to spot Weyoun Six’s defects and I am as stuck with her shame as you are with his. I will not fail as she did. She taps distractedly at her ear. That earring hurt to put in, you know.
I don’t see what that has to do with anything, he grumbles, pulling his clothes on with less care than usual. Point me to the testing room and I’ll be on my way.
It is only after he has gone that she allows herself to lean heavily upon her station with a hand pressed so hard to her lips that she tears them on her teeth.
His eighth and final awakening is too close to the last one for comfort. It is also the most careless yet, and even the fortune of having an intact brain to work with cannot do anything to mask her anger. Do you remember the pain? She snaps at him as she stabs at her databank, not even bothering to gesture where the towel and clothes lie twisted together in a heap on the floor next to the pod. She has had to awaken seven Vorta already that day and her nerves are frayed by their eerie indifference to the pattern she’s been unable to avoid seeing.
I do, he lies, rubbing at his neck. And I have learned from it.
She laughs. It is not a pleasant sound. Oh, have you indeed? The Founders will be thrilled.
He stares at her, not seeing the wildness in her eyes or the small drop of blood on the collar of her tunic. The earring is back, and he does not see this either. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.
She smiles bitterly. You have not remembered your pain since the war began, Weyoun. Atomised twice, your corpse stolen by Starfleet, your neck snapped too quickly to be felt. Yet you're only too content to throw yourself back out there only to wind up here again, reawakened alongside all of your fellow future corpses. I do not know if your failure to remember has made you more or less of a Vorta.
This is sounding dangerously close to subversive talk. The threat is hollow; he is more shaken than angry. Get back to your duties and I’ll…I’ll forget this ever happened.
She continues as though he hadn’t spoken. Do you know how many Vorta I awakened each week before we came to this place? None. Sometimes one. There were accidents, of course, and old age, and the displeasure of the Founders. I sat and sequenced and designed and occasionally, just very occasionally, I had to awaken and send a new life into their service. They were good times. The Dominion felt…alive. Do you know how many Vorta I awaken each week now? Anywhere between twenty and fifty. They walk out of here straight into their own deaths and they awaken the next day to do it all again. She rests her elbows on the databank, her chin on her hands, her eyes boring into his. You might as well be killing them with your own bare hands.
Stop this at once. He avoids her gaze, takes a moment to adjust his sleeves to rid them of imagined dirt. I recognise that it has been a…stressful time for this facility, but I can assure you with full confidence that we are quite close to the end of this war.
Her smile is hollow. Yes. You have told me this before.
He frowns. When?
In another life.
I do not recall.
She shrugs, suddenly calm. You have a shuttle waiting for you. I am sure I will see you again soon.
He pauses at the door and glances back at her. She sits perfectly still at her station, staring into the blank panel in front of her as though it contained the answer to everything - though he knew all she could really see was her own reflection.
There are no further awakenings. When the Cardassians attack the facility their artillery leaves her broken and bleeding in a corner of the room, coughing and gasping as smoke and dust choke the room of oxygen not already conquered by the flames.
There is a cold, wet corpse lying beside her, its face turned away but the profile unmistakable. A life that will never be lived.
“Well. Here it is, the end of us both,” she says to it. “I am with you each time you awaken, and so I suppose it’s only fitting that I should be here for at least one of your deaths.” She lies back against the sharp, scorching rubble, staring up at a ceiling she can’t see as its support structures begin to give way one by one, and like so many Vorta before her waits to die with the calm indifference of someone who knows there is nothing to follow and no point to her sacrifice. “It is only a shame that there won’t be another Weyoun to remember the pain this time. I think…I think you may have finally remembered who it is that we serve.”
The last support breaks and the ceiling collapses, killing her before she has time to hear it fall.
It is the end of them both.