With The River As My Guide 4/8
Chapter 4
24 May 2262
He was in a room, and Jim was there too. Slumped against a stone wall, a fading bruise on his face, he looked . . . cold.
Spock stepped into the room. “Don’t worry, Captain Kirk,” he said, an unfamiliar voice issuing from his mouth. “Should only be a few more days now.”
Jim raised his head. “Fuck you,” he said.
He laughed, its sound as cold as the stone surrounding them. “I certainly hope not,” he said. “You’re not half as pretty as my wife.”
Jim sneered, “Right. I forgot - you’re a family man.” The contempt in his voice was layered thickly over with exhaustion. “Is your wife as much of a crazy cold stone bitch as you?”
The man who was but was not Spock clenched his teeth. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m doing this for you. For the Federation. For everyone.”
“Right,” Jim drawled, “I’m sure the Federation would love a man who kidnaps Starfleet officers, tortures them, murders them, and then leaves them out in the desert to rot. That’s recruiting material right there.”
“Undoubtedly,” the other said calmly. “But even if it’s not - you’ll see I’m right. You won’t have to wait here much longer.” He began to turn away, but Jim’s hoarse shout stopped him.
“What?” Jim demanded. “Almost time for what, damn you? What the hell are you waiting for? To kill me? What the fuck do you want?”
“No, Captain Kirk,” the man said. “I certainly do not want to kill you. You’re a hero of the Federation. My eldest son has a picture of you up on his bedroom wall.”
“You- you sick fuck!” Jim was nearly incoherent from dehydration, and lack of sleep, and rage. He tried to stand, but dizziness overtook him and his legs collapsed beneath him. “What - Spock’s fine to kill but I’m not? What do you want, damn you!”
The man gazed calmly at him. “Don’t worry, Captain. In a few days, everything will be fine.” He turned back towards the entrance and tugged on an old fashioned stone door. It came loose with a groan and he walked through the doorway as the door shut behind him, trapping Jim again in darkness and alone.
“Spock,” Jim whispered, when the silence became unbearable. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He buried his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
“Spock.”
Spock jerked upright at the sound of his name. “Doctor McCoy?” he said cautiously. He glanced outside of the hovercar window at the clouds gathering ominously in the distance.
“Were you dreaming?”
“I-” Spock said. “Why do you ask?”
“You were making noises in your sleep,” he said. Despite his focus on the road ahead, McCoy’s voice seemed to hit directly at Spock’s center.
Spock swallowed. His control was starting to falter even more, if he had been speaking in his sleep without realizing it. There was a strange, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and an unusual dryness to his mouth. Fear. What was happening to him?
“Yes,” he said, barely aware that it was his mouth that was moving, his vocal cords that were producing the noise. “I was dreaming.”
“About?” McCoy prompted.
Spock thought for a moment. “It was cold. And dark. I think-“ he cast his mind back, trying to recall the dream through the fog. “Ji- the Captain was there. He was very alone. But no.” Spock frowned minutely. “He was not alone, there was another. I cannot recall . . .” he trailed off. Then his eyes widened. “Jim thinks I am dead,” he said suddenly, and with complete certainty.
McCoy’s knuckles tensed white on the wheels. “And do you think he is?”
Spock closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. “No,” he said softly. “I do not.”
“And how the hell can you be so sure?”
Spock opened his eyes. There was something, something very important that he had forgotten. Something familiar, something . . . “I do not know,” he said. “But I am.” Illogical, but true. Intuition? No, this was something else. Something more substantial.
“Huh,” said McCoy. “Vulcan voodoo at its finest, I suppose. Healer T’Brin should be able to fix you right up, I’m guessing - although by the look of things we would only have to wait for a bit for you to fix yourself. You’re getting better at remembering those dreams at any rate.”
And yet, still experiencing them, when a Vulcan should not. Spock did not give voice to the thought, nor did he comment on the current of fear woven through McCoy’s words, fear that T’Brin wouldn’t be able to fix him. Instead, he nodded on to McCoy’s chatter about the Healer and how he knew her grandson, all the time wondering what, exactly, he had forgotten that was so important.
12 April 2262
The best part of ‘backpacking’ Spock decided, was the dawn. The spring sun rose masked with dew and fog, bird sound muffled. Over the course of the morning though, the fog slowly lifted to reveal the still snowy peaks of the mountains surrounding them. Walking out of camp a little ways, Spock stood by a cliff edge, looking out over the scenery. He spotted Mt. Hood in the distance, its jagged top still white with snow, but lacking its former year round glaciers - they had melted in the summer of 2159 during the formerly dormant volcano’s first eruption in historical memory, if Spock recalled correctly. He would have to look further into the geological history of the area once they returned to Starfleet Headquarters.
There was time enough for that later however, he thought. For now, Jim would be stirring in the tent, and Spock knew that he would be impossible to talk to until after he had ingested some form of caffeine. With purpose, Spock turned around and began to stride back towards to campsite. As he drew nearer he noticed that the birdsong had stopped. Curious. A dark squirrel bolted toward towards him, coming from the direction of camp. It headed for a tree next to Spock and vanished into a hole within. Spock found himself walking more quickly than was strictly necessary. Some unknown urgency began to build itself in his side, so that by the time he was close to the tents, he was nearly jogging.
He burst into the clearing to see to see absolutely nothing amiss. Jim raised his head from where he had been putting on his boots at the entrance of the tent.
“What’s up, Spock?” he asked, a small smile curving the corner of his lips. “You see a bear or something?”
“I,” Spock said, cursing himself for being so illogical when clearly there was nothing to fear. He stopped a few feet away, realizing his breathing was harsher than it should be. Control, he willed, Calm. “No, Jim. I-”
And then he saw it: behind the twinkle in Jim’s blue eyes, hidden in the garden of ferns just beyond the tent. A splash of light reflecting off metal. Something that did not belong. Spock’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened to shout a warning. His limbs poised to spring out of the way all in the same instant as Jim’s expression slid from contentment to concern to alarm and then there was a flash a light and Spock knew only darkness.
(He would later learn how Jim saw him fall and tumbled out of the tent, making a beeline for their assailant, dodging shots as fear and adrenaline and rage SpockSpockSpock notthisnotnow pounded through his veins like napalm fire, like his fists as he bowled into Spock’s assailant and came after him like a wild thing until brief, eternal seconds later he crumpled from a phaser blast from behind).
They came to bound and moving. Spock was awake first, testing the strength of the Romulan grade handcuffs chained to a wall. There was a pounding behind his temples - apparently whomever had abducted them had not been satisfied with just a phaser stun to keep them quiet. He tried to focus internally, and was fuzzily alarmed by the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system. He blacked out again. Jim never stirred.
The next time he awoke, his vision was slightly clearer, although their situation did not appear to have improved overly much. They were in a different room this time - no longer moving. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and his head still hurt. He moved his arm and encountered an invisible wall. His fingers traced over it but encountered no flaws. A forcefield, then. Logical if one wanted to keep them captive. A door at the far end of the room began to creak open and Spock shut his eyes, pretending to still be asleep.
Two pairs of booted footsteps echoed on a stone floor. They stopped only a meter or so from him. Someone spoke.
“Not awake yet?”
“Apparently. Must’ve given them more then we realized.”
More footsteps, someone pacing. “Where’s the third one?”
“Sorry?”
“The third one. You were supposed to pick up three.”
“What the hell are you talking about? There were only these two. One tent, two sleeping bags, two backpacks. Two. Someone’s been giving you shitty intel.”
“Look, there was supposed to be three of them, and now there aren’t. Someone’s going to be pissed off about it and no way am I taking the fucking blame.”
Spock realized with a faint sense of alarm that the voices were becoming steadily more indistinct - he must have been more drugged than he had first thought. Then, nothing.
The third time Spock woke up, it was to the dubious sound and sight of Jim taking a piss in a bucket in a corner. Spock turned his head away to give his captain some illusion of privacy, and for the third time attempted to internally take stock of the situation. He started with himself: bruising around his abdomen, a bump on his head, chafed wrists, and sore all over. Drugs . . . maybe. Something still seemed off. A part of his brain felt almost disconnected; floating. No broken bones. All in all, it could have been much worse. He stretched, and discovered he was no longer chained to a wall, and his hands were free.
Finished with his business, Jim cam over and crouched over by Spock. “Hey,” he said. His voice was hoarse and he had a hefty black eye. “Can you sit up?”
Spock struggled for a moment, his muscles screaming at him as he slowly sat upright. His head swam, and he tried to focus, calling on all the tenets of Vulcan control. When he thought he could speak he said, “this is a most unfortunate shore leave, Captain.”
Jim looked at him, startled, then burst into an undignified snicker. “That’s sure as hell one way of putting it,” he agreed.
Spock inclined his head, then reached out to touch lightly at the bruising around Jim’s face. “How did this happen?”
“Ah,” Jim shrugged. “When you were- shot. I, um. I thought it was only one crazy guy so I went after him. I think he got me in the eye.” He let out a sigh, “Only apparently it’s lots of crazy guys with a lot of money if they can afford to keep a place like this.”
Spock looked around. ‘A place like this’ was a stone room, floor to ceiling sparkly schist blocks. There was a bucket in one corner, and a tray in the other. There was a door on the far side. Jim noticed him looking.
“There’s a forcefield of some kind blocking us from the door,” he said. “But it’s only on some of the time. I guess they must switch it on if they want to come in or something. You know, leave food.” He indicated a tray on the floor. “Or what passes for food, anyway. There’s some cheap bread and cheese. Not much better than replicated stuff. Some water.”
“I see,” Spock said. Hunger was all right for him. He could control hunger. Jim, on the other hand, he needed to eat. Spock resolved to see that he did.
“Not really any word on why we’re here,” Jim continued. He looked uncomfortable, “Although to be honest, I’m not really sure where here is. Or what day it is. Or what time it is, for that matter.”
Spock concentrated. “My time sense is slightly off,” he said hesitantly. “But I believe that it has been four days since our . . . forcible removal.”
Jim looked shocked. “Four days? Jesus, we were supposed to be back two days ago. Starfleet must be in an uproar by now.”
“Indeed,” Spock said, inwardly struggling with a time sense that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp like so many grains of sand. He tried to keep a blank face and focus on what Jim was telling him, how they had to keep vigilant, find out what was going on, who had taken them, how to get out of this mess . . .
“Spock? Spock!” Jim leaned forward and grasped Spock by the shoulders, manhandling him as he tilted to the side. “Damn it Spock, focus here! You’ve got to stay awake.”
“Apologies, Captain,” Spock managed. He felt boneless, and if not for Jim’s support would have slumped to the ground.
“Damn,” Jim said again. He pulled Spock against him, wrapping one arm against his chest, resting the other one gently on his head. “They hit you on the head a couple times,” he said, “I couldn’t stop them,” guilt, concern, pain. “But you’re made of pretty hard stuff. It shouldn’t be this bad.”
“I believe,” Spock said, focusing simultaneously on getting his tongue to cooperate and on soaking in the warmth of Jim’s body in the cold of the room. “I believe that my immune system is reacting, reacting adversely. Badly to the drugs. I think, even though they have been metabolized there is still something. Something.” Spock couldn’t continue, he felt as if he were trying to speak through a thick cloud of syrup, his mouth tingling and slow. “I,” he said. “Jim.” The room spun, and he could do nothing to stop it, control in tatters, something wrong with his mind. He clutched blindly at something. Jim. He was awarded with a hand in his, squeezing gently. He squeezed back with all the strength left in his fingers before his arm fell limply to the ground beside them.
Spock was getting tired of blacking out and waking up confused. This time, it was to the sound of raised voices; there were several people in the room arguing with each other - and with Jim.
“He needs a fucking doctor!” Jim was shouting. “Whatever the hell you did to him, fix it!”
“Quiet, Captain,” another voice said. This one was unknown. He spoke again, more quietly this time. “I thought I told you to bring three of them. Three Starfleet officers. Can’t you count?”
“Hell if I can’t,” said another voice, this one more belligerent. “There were only two and there was no one else on that whole damn mountain. What’s the big deal - two can be ransomed just as well as three.”
“I do not want to ransom them,” said the quieter voice with all the warmth of a December night. “Clearly your service does not live up to its reputation, does it?”
“Are you fucking listening?” Jim demanded. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re going to get out of this, but my first officer needs medical attention now!”
Footsteps drawing nearer, a quick intake of breath from Jim. Spock could picture his fists balled at his sides, his stance slowly shifting into a more balanced one, getting ready to spring.
“Your first officer will be fine,” the voice said dismissively. He sounded very close to Spock. “Vulcanoid species tend not to react well to the drug - apparently the neurotoxin in it has a strange effect on their brains. It should not be permanent, however - except in large doses. But don’t worry,” he said as Jim made a strangled noise of fury in the back of his throat. “We didn’t give him that much.” He paused. “Yet. Good day, Captain.”
The footsteps began to recede. Spock cracked open an eye to see Jim left scowling helplessly after them, a tall thin man and a shorter, burly one. “We’re going to have to change our plans a little,” the tall one with the cold voice was saying. The door slammed. Spock licked his dry lips.
“Jim,” he said, attempting to sit up. “Jim.”
Jim whirled around. “Spock!” he said. “Thank god. I thought- you just blacked out and you’ve been asleep for at least twelve hours -- I think. It’s hard to tell time. But I thought,” he knelt down and brushed hands over Spock’s face, his shoulders, and Spock felt the truth through his skin. Overwhelming relief. I thought you were never going to get up. “How are you feeling?” he said instead. “Are you still dizzy? Can you sit up?”
Spock exhaled deeply and pushed himself upright with Jim’s assistance. “I believe I am more fully recovered,” he said. “I am no longer dizzy. My control is-” he stopped as Jim shoved a piece of bread and a cup of water at him.
“Eat,” Jim said. “Slowly.”
“But,” Spock protested. Jim scowled at him.
“They’ve replenished it twice already since you’ve been out,” he said. “We’re not going to starve and you haven’t eaten in about four days.”
“Ah,” said Spock, as Jim waved the food threateningly under his nose. “I supposed it would be logical to consume foodstuffs at this time,” he said meekly, ignoring the slight churning in his stomach.
“You bet your ass it is,” Jim said. “And if you can keep this down, I’m giving you more.”
Reluctantly, Spock took the bread from him and began to chew, Jim watching him all the time like a hawk. Despite his lingering nausea, the bread stayed down and Jim forced him to eat two more slices, as well as a piece of cheese before he was satisfied. He washed it down with water, to Jim’s approval, and then settled himself against the wall next to Jim. He was still sore, and his head still hurt, but the rest of his senses seemed to be functioning at more normal levels, and he was able to block the pain with a great deal more ease than before.
“Now,” Jim said. “If you’re up for it, we’re going to figure out how to get the hell out of here.”
24 May 2262
The House of Healer T’Brin was tucked into the side of a cliff, remote enough that the road leading towards it was only made of dirt and gravel (McCoy had never been so grateful for a hovercar) and that they only passed one other vehicle on their way there.
McCoy stopped and parked where the road apparently ended and what appeared to be a driveway began. Leaning back and undoing his seatbelt, he looked over at Spock, who appeared to be doing - of all things - a crossword puzzle out of a synth-paper magazine.
“What are you doing?”
In answer, Spock held up the magazine. Of course, McCoy thought ruefully, he was nearly finished and had done it all in ink.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
“From under the seat,” Spock answered.
With a sudden jolt of recognition, McCoy spied the rather pink and fancy writing on the front of it. “Is that a crossword from my daughter’s Teen Today magazine?” he demanded. “You know that’s for teenaged girls, right?”
Spock had the sense to look slightly abashed, “In truth,” he said, “I have found some of the articles to be particularly enlightening in regards to the worldview of young human females. It makes for quite a fascinating anthropological study.”
“Lord give me strength,” muttered McCoy, opening the ‘car door. “Come on, Spock. Let’s go get your brain fixed.”
“Indeed,” Spock said quietly, setting the magazine on the seat as he too got out. “Let us.”
They walked up the path to the door rang the bell. After a minute or two, the door creaked open and were admitted by a Vulcan who looked to be around Spock’s age; his stature was slightly smaller, his skin darker and his hair lighter and almost shoulder width. He wore the simplest of meditation robes and his feet were bare.
“Doctor McCoy,” he said. He looked past McCoy, “And Commander Spock. I am Topek. Live long and prosper,” he added, making the ta’al almost lazily. Spock responded in kind. “Come,” he said, “My grandmother is expecting you.”
He led the way into the house, feet tapping lightly on the wooden floor. Spock was surprised somewhat when, instead of leading them directly to Healer T’Brin, Topek brought them instead to a large dining room. “Please,” he said. “Wait here and refresh yourselves. I will bring water.” He disappeared into a kitchen off to the side. Spock heard the sound of running water and of a cupboard opening and closing before Topek reappeared, tray in hand. In addition to two cups of water, he also bore a bowl full of fresh strawberries. He set them down before Spock and McCoy.
“Please eat,” he said. “My grandmother is resting, but she will awaken in approximately fifteen minutes. “In the meantime, I will introduce myself more fully, and you may reply in kind if you wish it.”
“I already know who you are, Topek,” McCoy said, rolling his eyes.
“But Commander Spock does not,” Topek pointed out. He reached out and plucked a strawberry from the bowl. “Therefore, introductions are only necessary, are they not?”
McCoy grumbled, but Spock leaned forward attentively. “I have read many of your articles on genetically inherited diseases,” he said. “When my appointment with Healer T’Brin is concluded, perhaps we might discuss them further?”
“Perhaps,” Topek agreed, a spark of interest in his eyes. “But only if the favor is returned in regards to your articles, Commander Spock.”
“I am gratified,” Spock said. “And simply ‘Spock’ will suffice.”
Topek inclined his head. “And I am Topek,” he said, “Grandson of T’Brin. A medical researcher on the subject of genetically inherited diseases, as I surmise you are already aware.”
“An interesting focus for a son of a family of Mind Healers,” Spock said.
“A personal one,” Topek said simply, and did not elaborate.
“I am Spock son of Sarek,” Spock said. “And I-” he looked up as an elderly Vulcan woman appeared in the doorway, eyes dark and watchful, “-I am here because I have lost my memory,” he finished softly.
“Then you have come to the correct House, Spock son of Sarek,” the woman said. She walked over to them, her gait slow and careful, and waved them down when they moved to stand. “Do not get up on my account,” she said. Topek stood anyway, and offered her his seat, which she took.
“Ma’am,” said McCoy.
Spock spoke, “I am grateful for your offer of healing, Elder,” he said in Vulcan. “And for the hospitality of your house and family.”
She nodded. “I sense your need is great,” she replied in kind, “I will do what I can to ease your suffering.” She switched back to Common. “Let us retire to someplace more comfortable,” she said. “And then,” she turned back to Spock, “I must have your mind.”
Spock bowed his head. “I give it freely,” he said.
Previous Next
24 May 2262
He was in a room, and Jim was there too. Slumped against a stone wall, a fading bruise on his face, he looked . . . cold.
Spock stepped into the room. “Don’t worry, Captain Kirk,” he said, an unfamiliar voice issuing from his mouth. “Should only be a few more days now.”
Jim raised his head. “Fuck you,” he said.
He laughed, its sound as cold as the stone surrounding them. “I certainly hope not,” he said. “You’re not half as pretty as my wife.”
Jim sneered, “Right. I forgot - you’re a family man.” The contempt in his voice was layered thickly over with exhaustion. “Is your wife as much of a crazy cold stone bitch as you?”
The man who was but was not Spock clenched his teeth. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m doing this for you. For the Federation. For everyone.”
“Right,” Jim drawled, “I’m sure the Federation would love a man who kidnaps Starfleet officers, tortures them, murders them, and then leaves them out in the desert to rot. That’s recruiting material right there.”
“Undoubtedly,” the other said calmly. “But even if it’s not - you’ll see I’m right. You won’t have to wait here much longer.” He began to turn away, but Jim’s hoarse shout stopped him.
“What?” Jim demanded. “Almost time for what, damn you? What the hell are you waiting for? To kill me? What the fuck do you want?”
“No, Captain Kirk,” the man said. “I certainly do not want to kill you. You’re a hero of the Federation. My eldest son has a picture of you up on his bedroom wall.”
“You- you sick fuck!” Jim was nearly incoherent from dehydration, and lack of sleep, and rage. He tried to stand, but dizziness overtook him and his legs collapsed beneath him. “What - Spock’s fine to kill but I’m not? What do you want, damn you!”
The man gazed calmly at him. “Don’t worry, Captain. In a few days, everything will be fine.” He turned back towards the entrance and tugged on an old fashioned stone door. It came loose with a groan and he walked through the doorway as the door shut behind him, trapping Jim again in darkness and alone.
“Spock,” Jim whispered, when the silence became unbearable. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He buried his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
“Spock.”
Spock jerked upright at the sound of his name. “Doctor McCoy?” he said cautiously. He glanced outside of the hovercar window at the clouds gathering ominously in the distance.
“Were you dreaming?”
“I-” Spock said. “Why do you ask?”
“You were making noises in your sleep,” he said. Despite his focus on the road ahead, McCoy’s voice seemed to hit directly at Spock’s center.
Spock swallowed. His control was starting to falter even more, if he had been speaking in his sleep without realizing it. There was a strange, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and an unusual dryness to his mouth. Fear. What was happening to him?
“Yes,” he said, barely aware that it was his mouth that was moving, his vocal cords that were producing the noise. “I was dreaming.”
“About?” McCoy prompted.
Spock thought for a moment. “It was cold. And dark. I think-“ he cast his mind back, trying to recall the dream through the fog. “Ji- the Captain was there. He was very alone. But no.” Spock frowned minutely. “He was not alone, there was another. I cannot recall . . .” he trailed off. Then his eyes widened. “Jim thinks I am dead,” he said suddenly, and with complete certainty.
McCoy’s knuckles tensed white on the wheels. “And do you think he is?”
Spock closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. “No,” he said softly. “I do not.”
“And how the hell can you be so sure?”
Spock opened his eyes. There was something, something very important that he had forgotten. Something familiar, something . . . “I do not know,” he said. “But I am.” Illogical, but true. Intuition? No, this was something else. Something more substantial.
“Huh,” said McCoy. “Vulcan voodoo at its finest, I suppose. Healer T’Brin should be able to fix you right up, I’m guessing - although by the look of things we would only have to wait for a bit for you to fix yourself. You’re getting better at remembering those dreams at any rate.”
And yet, still experiencing them, when a Vulcan should not. Spock did not give voice to the thought, nor did he comment on the current of fear woven through McCoy’s words, fear that T’Brin wouldn’t be able to fix him. Instead, he nodded on to McCoy’s chatter about the Healer and how he knew her grandson, all the time wondering what, exactly, he had forgotten that was so important.
12 April 2262
The best part of ‘backpacking’ Spock decided, was the dawn. The spring sun rose masked with dew and fog, bird sound muffled. Over the course of the morning though, the fog slowly lifted to reveal the still snowy peaks of the mountains surrounding them. Walking out of camp a little ways, Spock stood by a cliff edge, looking out over the scenery. He spotted Mt. Hood in the distance, its jagged top still white with snow, but lacking its former year round glaciers - they had melted in the summer of 2159 during the formerly dormant volcano’s first eruption in historical memory, if Spock recalled correctly. He would have to look further into the geological history of the area once they returned to Starfleet Headquarters.
There was time enough for that later however, he thought. For now, Jim would be stirring in the tent, and Spock knew that he would be impossible to talk to until after he had ingested some form of caffeine. With purpose, Spock turned around and began to stride back towards to campsite. As he drew nearer he noticed that the birdsong had stopped. Curious. A dark squirrel bolted toward towards him, coming from the direction of camp. It headed for a tree next to Spock and vanished into a hole within. Spock found himself walking more quickly than was strictly necessary. Some unknown urgency began to build itself in his side, so that by the time he was close to the tents, he was nearly jogging.
He burst into the clearing to see to see absolutely nothing amiss. Jim raised his head from where he had been putting on his boots at the entrance of the tent.
“What’s up, Spock?” he asked, a small smile curving the corner of his lips. “You see a bear or something?”
“I,” Spock said, cursing himself for being so illogical when clearly there was nothing to fear. He stopped a few feet away, realizing his breathing was harsher than it should be. Control, he willed, Calm. “No, Jim. I-”
And then he saw it: behind the twinkle in Jim’s blue eyes, hidden in the garden of ferns just beyond the tent. A splash of light reflecting off metal. Something that did not belong. Spock’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened to shout a warning. His limbs poised to spring out of the way all in the same instant as Jim’s expression slid from contentment to concern to alarm and then there was a flash a light and Spock knew only darkness.
(He would later learn how Jim saw him fall and tumbled out of the tent, making a beeline for their assailant, dodging shots as fear and adrenaline and rage SpockSpockSpock notthisnotnow pounded through his veins like napalm fire, like his fists as he bowled into Spock’s assailant and came after him like a wild thing until brief, eternal seconds later he crumpled from a phaser blast from behind).
They came to bound and moving. Spock was awake first, testing the strength of the Romulan grade handcuffs chained to a wall. There was a pounding behind his temples - apparently whomever had abducted them had not been satisfied with just a phaser stun to keep them quiet. He tried to focus internally, and was fuzzily alarmed by the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system. He blacked out again. Jim never stirred.
The next time he awoke, his vision was slightly clearer, although their situation did not appear to have improved overly much. They were in a different room this time - no longer moving. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and his head still hurt. He moved his arm and encountered an invisible wall. His fingers traced over it but encountered no flaws. A forcefield, then. Logical if one wanted to keep them captive. A door at the far end of the room began to creak open and Spock shut his eyes, pretending to still be asleep.
Two pairs of booted footsteps echoed on a stone floor. They stopped only a meter or so from him. Someone spoke.
“Not awake yet?”
“Apparently. Must’ve given them more then we realized.”
More footsteps, someone pacing. “Where’s the third one?”
“Sorry?”
“The third one. You were supposed to pick up three.”
“What the hell are you talking about? There were only these two. One tent, two sleeping bags, two backpacks. Two. Someone’s been giving you shitty intel.”
“Look, there was supposed to be three of them, and now there aren’t. Someone’s going to be pissed off about it and no way am I taking the fucking blame.”
Spock realized with a faint sense of alarm that the voices were becoming steadily more indistinct - he must have been more drugged than he had first thought. Then, nothing.
The third time Spock woke up, it was to the dubious sound and sight of Jim taking a piss in a bucket in a corner. Spock turned his head away to give his captain some illusion of privacy, and for the third time attempted to internally take stock of the situation. He started with himself: bruising around his abdomen, a bump on his head, chafed wrists, and sore all over. Drugs . . . maybe. Something still seemed off. A part of his brain felt almost disconnected; floating. No broken bones. All in all, it could have been much worse. He stretched, and discovered he was no longer chained to a wall, and his hands were free.
Finished with his business, Jim cam over and crouched over by Spock. “Hey,” he said. His voice was hoarse and he had a hefty black eye. “Can you sit up?”
Spock struggled for a moment, his muscles screaming at him as he slowly sat upright. His head swam, and he tried to focus, calling on all the tenets of Vulcan control. When he thought he could speak he said, “this is a most unfortunate shore leave, Captain.”
Jim looked at him, startled, then burst into an undignified snicker. “That’s sure as hell one way of putting it,” he agreed.
Spock inclined his head, then reached out to touch lightly at the bruising around Jim’s face. “How did this happen?”
“Ah,” Jim shrugged. “When you were- shot. I, um. I thought it was only one crazy guy so I went after him. I think he got me in the eye.” He let out a sigh, “Only apparently it’s lots of crazy guys with a lot of money if they can afford to keep a place like this.”
Spock looked around. ‘A place like this’ was a stone room, floor to ceiling sparkly schist blocks. There was a bucket in one corner, and a tray in the other. There was a door on the far side. Jim noticed him looking.
“There’s a forcefield of some kind blocking us from the door,” he said. “But it’s only on some of the time. I guess they must switch it on if they want to come in or something. You know, leave food.” He indicated a tray on the floor. “Or what passes for food, anyway. There’s some cheap bread and cheese. Not much better than replicated stuff. Some water.”
“I see,” Spock said. Hunger was all right for him. He could control hunger. Jim, on the other hand, he needed to eat. Spock resolved to see that he did.
“Not really any word on why we’re here,” Jim continued. He looked uncomfortable, “Although to be honest, I’m not really sure where here is. Or what day it is. Or what time it is, for that matter.”
Spock concentrated. “My time sense is slightly off,” he said hesitantly. “But I believe that it has been four days since our . . . forcible removal.”
Jim looked shocked. “Four days? Jesus, we were supposed to be back two days ago. Starfleet must be in an uproar by now.”
“Indeed,” Spock said, inwardly struggling with a time sense that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp like so many grains of sand. He tried to keep a blank face and focus on what Jim was telling him, how they had to keep vigilant, find out what was going on, who had taken them, how to get out of this mess . . .
“Spock? Spock!” Jim leaned forward and grasped Spock by the shoulders, manhandling him as he tilted to the side. “Damn it Spock, focus here! You’ve got to stay awake.”
“Apologies, Captain,” Spock managed. He felt boneless, and if not for Jim’s support would have slumped to the ground.
“Damn,” Jim said again. He pulled Spock against him, wrapping one arm against his chest, resting the other one gently on his head. “They hit you on the head a couple times,” he said, “I couldn’t stop them,” guilt, concern, pain. “But you’re made of pretty hard stuff. It shouldn’t be this bad.”
“I believe,” Spock said, focusing simultaneously on getting his tongue to cooperate and on soaking in the warmth of Jim’s body in the cold of the room. “I believe that my immune system is reacting, reacting adversely. Badly to the drugs. I think, even though they have been metabolized there is still something. Something.” Spock couldn’t continue, he felt as if he were trying to speak through a thick cloud of syrup, his mouth tingling and slow. “I,” he said. “Jim.” The room spun, and he could do nothing to stop it, control in tatters, something wrong with his mind. He clutched blindly at something. Jim. He was awarded with a hand in his, squeezing gently. He squeezed back with all the strength left in his fingers before his arm fell limply to the ground beside them.
Spock was getting tired of blacking out and waking up confused. This time, it was to the sound of raised voices; there were several people in the room arguing with each other - and with Jim.
“He needs a fucking doctor!” Jim was shouting. “Whatever the hell you did to him, fix it!”
“Quiet, Captain,” another voice said. This one was unknown. He spoke again, more quietly this time. “I thought I told you to bring three of them. Three Starfleet officers. Can’t you count?”
“Hell if I can’t,” said another voice, this one more belligerent. “There were only two and there was no one else on that whole damn mountain. What’s the big deal - two can be ransomed just as well as three.”
“I do not want to ransom them,” said the quieter voice with all the warmth of a December night. “Clearly your service does not live up to its reputation, does it?”
“Are you fucking listening?” Jim demanded. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re going to get out of this, but my first officer needs medical attention now!”
Footsteps drawing nearer, a quick intake of breath from Jim. Spock could picture his fists balled at his sides, his stance slowly shifting into a more balanced one, getting ready to spring.
“Your first officer will be fine,” the voice said dismissively. He sounded very close to Spock. “Vulcanoid species tend not to react well to the drug - apparently the neurotoxin in it has a strange effect on their brains. It should not be permanent, however - except in large doses. But don’t worry,” he said as Jim made a strangled noise of fury in the back of his throat. “We didn’t give him that much.” He paused. “Yet. Good day, Captain.”
The footsteps began to recede. Spock cracked open an eye to see Jim left scowling helplessly after them, a tall thin man and a shorter, burly one. “We’re going to have to change our plans a little,” the tall one with the cold voice was saying. The door slammed. Spock licked his dry lips.
“Jim,” he said, attempting to sit up. “Jim.”
Jim whirled around. “Spock!” he said. “Thank god. I thought- you just blacked out and you’ve been asleep for at least twelve hours -- I think. It’s hard to tell time. But I thought,” he knelt down and brushed hands over Spock’s face, his shoulders, and Spock felt the truth through his skin. Overwhelming relief. I thought you were never going to get up. “How are you feeling?” he said instead. “Are you still dizzy? Can you sit up?”
Spock exhaled deeply and pushed himself upright with Jim’s assistance. “I believe I am more fully recovered,” he said. “I am no longer dizzy. My control is-” he stopped as Jim shoved a piece of bread and a cup of water at him.
“Eat,” Jim said. “Slowly.”
“But,” Spock protested. Jim scowled at him.
“They’ve replenished it twice already since you’ve been out,” he said. “We’re not going to starve and you haven’t eaten in about four days.”
“Ah,” said Spock, as Jim waved the food threateningly under his nose. “I supposed it would be logical to consume foodstuffs at this time,” he said meekly, ignoring the slight churning in his stomach.
“You bet your ass it is,” Jim said. “And if you can keep this down, I’m giving you more.”
Reluctantly, Spock took the bread from him and began to chew, Jim watching him all the time like a hawk. Despite his lingering nausea, the bread stayed down and Jim forced him to eat two more slices, as well as a piece of cheese before he was satisfied. He washed it down with water, to Jim’s approval, and then settled himself against the wall next to Jim. He was still sore, and his head still hurt, but the rest of his senses seemed to be functioning at more normal levels, and he was able to block the pain with a great deal more ease than before.
“Now,” Jim said. “If you’re up for it, we’re going to figure out how to get the hell out of here.”
24 May 2262
The House of Healer T’Brin was tucked into the side of a cliff, remote enough that the road leading towards it was only made of dirt and gravel (McCoy had never been so grateful for a hovercar) and that they only passed one other vehicle on their way there.
McCoy stopped and parked where the road apparently ended and what appeared to be a driveway began. Leaning back and undoing his seatbelt, he looked over at Spock, who appeared to be doing - of all things - a crossword puzzle out of a synth-paper magazine.
“What are you doing?”
In answer, Spock held up the magazine. Of course, McCoy thought ruefully, he was nearly finished and had done it all in ink.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
“From under the seat,” Spock answered.
With a sudden jolt of recognition, McCoy spied the rather pink and fancy writing on the front of it. “Is that a crossword from my daughter’s Teen Today magazine?” he demanded. “You know that’s for teenaged girls, right?”
Spock had the sense to look slightly abashed, “In truth,” he said, “I have found some of the articles to be particularly enlightening in regards to the worldview of young human females. It makes for quite a fascinating anthropological study.”
“Lord give me strength,” muttered McCoy, opening the ‘car door. “Come on, Spock. Let’s go get your brain fixed.”
“Indeed,” Spock said quietly, setting the magazine on the seat as he too got out. “Let us.”
They walked up the path to the door rang the bell. After a minute or two, the door creaked open and were admitted by a Vulcan who looked to be around Spock’s age; his stature was slightly smaller, his skin darker and his hair lighter and almost shoulder width. He wore the simplest of meditation robes and his feet were bare.
“Doctor McCoy,” he said. He looked past McCoy, “And Commander Spock. I am Topek. Live long and prosper,” he added, making the ta’al almost lazily. Spock responded in kind. “Come,” he said, “My grandmother is expecting you.”
He led the way into the house, feet tapping lightly on the wooden floor. Spock was surprised somewhat when, instead of leading them directly to Healer T’Brin, Topek brought them instead to a large dining room. “Please,” he said. “Wait here and refresh yourselves. I will bring water.” He disappeared into a kitchen off to the side. Spock heard the sound of running water and of a cupboard opening and closing before Topek reappeared, tray in hand. In addition to two cups of water, he also bore a bowl full of fresh strawberries. He set them down before Spock and McCoy.
“Please eat,” he said. “My grandmother is resting, but she will awaken in approximately fifteen minutes. “In the meantime, I will introduce myself more fully, and you may reply in kind if you wish it.”
“I already know who you are, Topek,” McCoy said, rolling his eyes.
“But Commander Spock does not,” Topek pointed out. He reached out and plucked a strawberry from the bowl. “Therefore, introductions are only necessary, are they not?”
McCoy grumbled, but Spock leaned forward attentively. “I have read many of your articles on genetically inherited diseases,” he said. “When my appointment with Healer T’Brin is concluded, perhaps we might discuss them further?”
“Perhaps,” Topek agreed, a spark of interest in his eyes. “But only if the favor is returned in regards to your articles, Commander Spock.”
“I am gratified,” Spock said. “And simply ‘Spock’ will suffice.”
Topek inclined his head. “And I am Topek,” he said, “Grandson of T’Brin. A medical researcher on the subject of genetically inherited diseases, as I surmise you are already aware.”
“An interesting focus for a son of a family of Mind Healers,” Spock said.
“A personal one,” Topek said simply, and did not elaborate.
“I am Spock son of Sarek,” Spock said. “And I-” he looked up as an elderly Vulcan woman appeared in the doorway, eyes dark and watchful, “-I am here because I have lost my memory,” he finished softly.
“Then you have come to the correct House, Spock son of Sarek,” the woman said. She walked over to them, her gait slow and careful, and waved them down when they moved to stand. “Do not get up on my account,” she said. Topek stood anyway, and offered her his seat, which she took.
“Ma’am,” said McCoy.
Spock spoke, “I am grateful for your offer of healing, Elder,” he said in Vulcan. “And for the hospitality of your house and family.”
She nodded. “I sense your need is great,” she replied in kind, “I will do what I can to ease your suffering.” She switched back to Common. “Let us retire to someplace more comfortable,” she said. “And then,” she turned back to Spock, “I must have your mind.”
Spock bowed his head. “I give it freely,” he said.
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