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Silence.

Silence was his best defence. He held on to it grimly, a castle under siege, while the blows rained down on him and the Suliban besiegers hammered at his walls.

He'd had enough experience to know that the voice is a traitor. Even words of defiance can betray more than the speaker ever realises, and so he kept stubbornly mute. He was following orders, and he was good at following orders.

He opened his eyes presently to stare insolently at Silik, his interrogator. To give the alien his due, he didn't think he actually enjoyed causing this much pain. Nevertheless, he showed no aversion to inflicting whatever was necessary for as long as it took, and that, more than anything else, revealed his ruthlessness. His henchman, on the other hand, seemed to be positively relishing it. Each time he was ordered to stop the beating, he drew back reluctantly; each time he was nodded back into action, he came forward with enthusiasm. Nevertheless, his technique was amateurish, based on brutality. Reed allowed himself to picture their roles reversed, and himself unconstrained by Starfleet regulations. It wasn't as though he hadn't been there... The occasion had been stomach-churning, but instructive. He'd show this bloke how a professional did the job. He'd have him singing like a bloody nightingale in the first five minutes.

Another blow landed on his already bruised ribs. From the sickening pain he thought it might have broken a couple. He fought to control his breathing, swallowing his nausea. His eyes had closed again without his knowing, and he forced them open again, unhooding his hate. He fixed them on the face opposite him and superimposed another on it: human, heavy-featured, ugly with rage.

He spat at it.

The blow he got in return for that snapped his head backwards with such violence that he thought for one instant of molten fear it had broken his neck. But for the fact that they wanted to keep him alive, it probably would have done; dead prisoners give no information. The fist had landed squarely on his right eye, and the new fuzziness of his slowly clearing sight told him that it had probably detached the retina in it.

A whimper escaped his broken mouth.

Silik leaned closer, wiping off the blood and spittle onto the already blood-spattered Starfleet uniform.

"This is completely unnecessary," he hissed. "Just tell us what we want to know!"

"Go to hell."

His silence was broken. The besiegers heard the rattle of falling masonry above a cracking foundation. He was on the floor by now, too beaten and exhausted to stand.

As another kick landed on his broken ribs he gave a hoarse shriek. Well, he didn't so much give it – he just unclenched his jaws and let it escape. The relief was indescribable.

They knew a surrender when they heard one. They saw the way his body shrank from pain he could no longer endure. The yellow eyes widened like a cat's, and grew intent.

"Did you think we wouldn't be watching Daniels' quarters?" demanded Silik, leaning over him.

"I guess I wasn't thinking."

He was picked up and flung into the chair, which saved them the effort of having to hold him up. It restricted the ways in which they could hit him, but on the other hand the places they could hit would take more damage. At least three ribs were broken, he estimated; he was having severe trouble breathing.

"I guess you weren't, but you should be thinking now. Thinking about what will happen to you if you don't answer my questions. Are you thinking about that, Lieutenant Reed?" An infinitesimal pause, at the end of which he nodded to indicate he was. "Good. Now tell me what this is. What does it do?"

"I don't know." The fist hit the left side of his face this time, hurling him sideways. He hung over the edge of the chair, spitting blood.

"What does it do?"

"I don't know." Fingers clenched in the front of his uniform, dragging him upright again, choking. "Please!" The sob in his voice was plain. Please don't hurt me any more. I'll tell you everything. His sagging shoulders and averted eyes were eloquent of his defeat, and the snapping of the physical tension of resistance set him shaking.

The inhuman eyes blinked satisfied contempt. "Yes?"

He swallowed painfully. "I was told to destroy it. I don't know what it does."

"Who told you to destroy it?"

"Captain Archer, before he left. He didn't want you to find it."

"And why would that be?"

"He thought you would use it to contact someone. I don't know who." His rising voice broke with terror at the prospect of further beating. "I swear it!"

The stare searched him a moment longer before it was veiled.

"Have the lieutenant returned to his quarters."

They half-carried, half-dragged him back to his cabin, opened the door and flung him in. Putting him on his bunk was probably asking too much. They walked out and left him there, a thing of no further consequence. The yellow eyes had taken on a scornful gleam – for all the frustration and anger during the interrogation, there had been something akin to respect while he held out. That had washed away with his surrender. He was a weakling after all.

He lay still for a few minutes, trying to control the shaking. Tentatively he explored his teeth with his bitten tongue. Could have been worse. A couple were chipped, but none missing. Then, breathing slowly and carefully, and favouring his battered side as best he could, he slowly got himself on to his bunk and relaxed with a shudder. Somebody would come for him sooner or later and he'd be renewing his acquaintance with the sight of the ceiling in Sickbay.

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