With The River As My Guide 5/8
Chapter 5
24 May 2262 - The House of Healer T’Brin
Healer T’Brin led Spock and McCoy down the hallway to a wooden door. She stopped. “Beyond this door is a room of healing,” she said. She looked at McCoy, and then spoke directly to Spock, “You may decided whether or not your companion is also allowed within.”
Spock nodded, and turned to McCoy. “The doctor and I have had our differences,” he said quietly, “But despite those we have travelled together and I consider him a- a brother. He may remain.”
Healer T’Brin inclined her head. “Very well,” she said, and opened the door. Inside there was a simple bed covered in white sheets, with one chair and a table next to it, and two chairs by the wall. “Spock,” she said, “You must lie on the bed. McCoy, you may take one of the chairs on the far wall and observe only.” She looked at him sharply. “Healing the mind is a delicate process; an interruption could cause permanent damage.”
“I understand, Ma’am,” said McCoy.
She then turned and made for the hallway saying, “I must retrieve my nutritional supplement, in case I am in need of more strength.” She caught McCoy’s concerned look and said, “I am old, Dr. McCoy, but do not be concerned. It is a precaution only. I will return momentarily.” The door shut behind her.
Spock and McCoy looked at each other. McCoy gave a little shrug as he started to head over to the chairs. “Brother, huh?” he said carefully.
Spock avoided looking at him, “Even the best of siblings often do squabble,” he muttered.
“Right,” said McCoy, as Spock settled himself gingerly onto the bed. “I- thanks,” he added awkwardly, after a moment. He looked at his hands, and then something occurred to him and he glanced back up at Spock. “Hey, is that like the same thing you call Jim sometimes?”
Spock hesitated. “It is similar,” he said evasively, lying down on top of the sheets.
McCoy furrowed his brow, “What’s the difference?” he asked.
But Spock was spared having to answer by T’Brin bustling back into the room - although heaven forbid a Vulcan bustle anywhere, McCoy thought. She eyed Spock.
“Are thee ready?” she said, sitting down on the chair next to Spock’s bedside. “Take care, the fact that these memories are lost to you may imply that they are of a disturbing nature.”
“I am,” Spock said resolutely.
Healer T’Brin nodded, then latched her fingers to Spock’s meld points. “My mind to your mind,” she intoned. “My thoughts to your thoughts.” She closed her eyes, as Spock’s fluttered shut, and stillness and silence descended upon the room. To McCoy, the pair looked like frozen statues, and even though they were attached to each other only by the briefest of touches, it seemed as if they were connected by unbreakable steel.
“You have been dreaming,” said T’Brin. Her voice in Spock’s mind felt like dry wind blowing across the desert; the prelude to a sandstorm.
“Yes,” said Spock.
“But you should not be,” said T’Brin.
“No,” said Spock. “Vulcans do not dream.”
“But thee are only half Vulcan,” T’Brin reminded him.
Spock felt a pang. “Nonetheless,” he said. “I should not dream.”
T’Brin’s agreement flowed over him, “Do not be sorrowed, Son of Sarek,” she said, “I am old enough to realize that your human half is not your weakness. And indeed, you are correct; you should not be dreaming. But,” and the images swirled before Spock’s mental eye, “these are not your dreams.”
The mindscape twisted around them, settling on an image of the woman and three children who Spock did not know. “This woman is not your mate,” she said. “These are not your offspring.”
“No,” Spock said.
“Why then, must you know their faces so intimately?” she mused.
The figures disappeared, and another one came forth; the shadowy figure of a man, a presence that Spock knew well - as one inside himself.
“Yet,” T’Brin cautioned, “You are not this man. Though you have spoken with his voice and felt his anger and dreamed of his family, thee and he are not the same. But there is something . . .”
Spock could not even scrape together the energy to hide the illogical feelings of profound relief that swept over him. He had not been the one to hurt Jim. He had not struck him. He had not lied to him about Spock’s death. Had not starved him. Had not . . . hurt him. And yet. And yet.
Spock ached as though he had landed every blow himself, and then received them in turn.
Jim . . .
The landscape of their merged minds was changing once again, and from the dispersed mists of the shadow man finally came an image of Jim. Not an image of Jim bruised and wounded and angry against the walls of the room entrapping them, but one that Spock remembered from only a few months ago.
He had entered Jim’s quarters without invitation - as had become their custom over the past year or so - to both query after a report, and to see if he might convince his overworked captain to sleep sometime in the next week. Of course, the next hour would be preferable, but Spock had learned to pick such battles with care.
But rather than finding Jim scrabbling away fiercely at one official thing or another in the front room, Spock had instead found him sitting up in bed- having clearly fallen asleep without meaning to. A large PADD lay across his lap, the stylus dangling loosely in the hand hanging off the edge of the bed. His face was turned up even as he slumped against the pillows and he looked- calm. Trusting. Unnaturally serene.
Spock could have left him like that, turning off the lights and tiptoeing out of the room as if he had never been. Instead, he walked forward to gently caress Jim’s meld points, easing him into an even deeper sleep; one the captain would not awaken from until his alarm sounded. That done, Spock relieved him of the PADD and stylus, setting them on the bedside table, and hoisted Jim himself into his arms so that he could peel back the covers, before depositing his captain back into the bed - this time in a position that would not crick his neck and would allow for the optimum amount of rest. He pulled the covers up past Jim’s shoulders, and tucked them around him. For a moment, Spock paused, simply observing Jim’s face. Then he mentally shook himself, stepped away from Jim, and left the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.
Spock could sense T’Brin’s curious perusal of this memory, and he was sure that if they had not been in a meld, his face would have been flushed beyond all recognition, no matter how much control he was supposed to have. As it was, he squirmed as she scrutinized every angle of the memory, going over when he stood in the doorway, and when he walked forward. His examination of Jim’s face. How he had felt as he lifted Jim in his arms, and placed him gently back down again.
“You named the one who accompanied you as ‘brother,’” she said. “But not, I noticed, as t’hy’la.”
“No,” Spock whispered.
“This one, then,” she indicated Jim. “This one is t’hy’la. The brother of your soul.”
“Yes,” Spock admitted, for who could lie in a mindmeld, even to themselves?
“Does he know?”
“I-” Spock said. He forced himself to continue; T’Brin could glean the truth from his mind with or without his cooperation, but he preferred to surrender his dignity on his own terms. “I do not know,” he said finally. “He knows- he knows I call him brother, but likely does not understand the nuances of the word itself. Its total meaning. Perhaps- perhaps he suspects my regard for him, but truly I do not- I am unsure-”
“You believe that he would not jeopardize your preexisting friendship. You believe that he would not taunt fate by ignoring Starfleet protocol, by having a captain and first officer be emotionally compromised by each other.”
Spock felt each word bite into him, hot shame rolling over him at the idea of being emotionally compromised yet again, and then more shame at feeling it, and being unable to stop it, unable to look away, unable . . .
“Spock,” T’Brin said, voice rousing him out of his barreling, uncontrolled thoughts. “We Vulcans feel deeply. There is no shame in this. What is shameful is to allow your emotions to dictate your actions.”
Spock swallowed, “I am Vulcan,” he said. “I must follow the teachings of Surak. Of logic.”
“There are many ways to follow Surak’s path.”
Spock opened his mouth to speak and before his eyes swam images of Jim; working, sleeping, running, laughing. “What I feel for him,” he said desperately, “is not logical.”
T’Brin’s gentle amusement trickled all around him, “On the contrary,” she said. “It is the most logical thing in the world.”
“How?” Spock whispered, “How?”
“If I told you, would you believe me?” T’Brin asked. Spock felt her admonishment. “You must answer that query for yourself. Think, Spock. Use your mind. Use your memories.”
“I-” Spock said. “I cannot. My memories are lost.”
“Not those memories,” T’Brin said, and Spock got the most curious impression that she was actually rolling her eyes at him. “Your memories of before. Your memories of him.”
And she mercilessly cast Spock deeper into his own mind and he saw-
Jim. Not the Jim of their tumultuous first meeting, covered in grief and grime, but Jim in the few months leading up to his field promotion being declared permanent. He was sitting in one of the libraries at Starfleet Academy, back to Spock, writing with a pen and real paper, of all things.
“If I may ask a personal query?”
Jim jumped. The pen rolled away from him and he caught it just before it made it over the side of the desk.
“Sure,” he said. “Ask away.”
“What are you doing? You are not responsible for writing the condolence letters to the families of those who died during the Narada’s attack on the Enterprise.” It still hurt to say it. Spock blocked out the pain, pretending that it was someone else’s planet that had been destroyed, someone else’s mother who had died.
“Someone has to do it,” said Jim.
“But not you, necessarily,” Spock pointed out.
Jim shrugged. “I want to,” he said. I need to went unspoken, but Spock heard it as clearly as if it had been said aloud. He stiffened, and left the room.
“His thoughts intruded upon yours,” T’Brin said.
“Yes,” Spock said almost numbly, “I did not realize it was to such a high degree.”
“You melded with him.”
“In the line of duty,” Spock said. “To ease pain. Or to confuse a telepathic opponent.”
A flash of Jim with a broken leg and blood dripping down his face.
An image of Spock, mind tied to his Captain’s, shielding them both from a telepathic search party.
“You soothed his nightmares,”
“It is the duty of a first officer to see to the security and health of his captain,” Spock protested, but the protest rang hollow in his mind.
“Indeed,” T’Brin’s amusement was back. Spock was starting to get a little bitter about the fact that she threw her emotions around so freely inside what was supposed to be his mind. It was most unseemly.
“Only to you, Young One,” said T’Brin.
“I fail to understand why the perusal of these memories is necessary,” Spock said stiffly.
“You will,” T’Brin said. “Tell me,” she continued, “At what point did you begin to look forward to melding with him? When did it become painful to break away from his mind?”
Spock did not want to answer, did not want to reveal how much control he had really lost when it came to Jim, and anything that he did.
But then Spock was drowning, in a memory of water and in telepathic hate so strong it could break bone and then, and then there was a hand, cool, firm, pulling him up and Jim holding him, putting Spock’s fingers to his own forehead saying ‘Spock, Spock come on, come on! You’ve got to get your head back straight, come on, I’m here, I’m here, listen to me, listen to me damn you!’ and Spock took that invitation instinctively and dove in and was warm and home and he did not want to leave-
“He saved my life,” Spock gasped, lungs burning. “He forced me to meld with him, to stabilize my own mind.”
“He should not have been able to do that,” T’Brin observed.
“No,” Spock said, and felt a peculiar sort of pride, “But he did.”
“Indeed,” T’Brin said. “And you hypothesized what- that having been subjected to so many previous melds, your minds were already attuned enough to allow you to meld with him when the need became desperate?”
Spock’s silence was his answer.
“Surely you must have known there was more to it than that?” T’Brin continued incredulously.
Spock tried to look away, but it was difficult to accomplish when all around him he felt T’Brin’s presence, and Jim’s shadow one.
T’Brin sighed. “You are young,” she said. “It is forgivable. But now his life hinges on your understanding, does it not?”
“I do not know,” Spock said miserably. Clearly he had misjudged somewhere, misstepped in his careful relations with Jim, trying to downplay the potential of their mental connection, even to himself; trying not to reveal too much, trying to shy away, but not hurt him.
“Look down,” T’Brin said.
Spock glanced at his feet. What appeared to be a small stream burbled its way into the distance, passing between his legs where he stood, going on to infinity.
“Where does it lead?” he asked, but in his heart, he already knew.
“To find out,” she said, “You must jump.”
And so he did.
As he jumped, he expected to feel cold water to surge around him, pushing him under; he had never been the strongest of swimmers, and what had appeared to be a stream seemed bottomless. Instead, the water seemed cool against his skin, but comforting. He found he did not need to breath. He closed his eyes and let himself sink.
When Spock opened his eyes, he was lying flat on his back in the room he and Jim had spent weeks in. He got to his feet, and Jim’s head jerked up at the sight of him.
“Spock!” he said. He stood, taking an eager step forward toward him, hand outstretched. It passed straight through Spock’s as though he were nothing more than a mirage. “I must be dreaming,” he said, stepping back.
“Logical,” Spock said, ignoring the way his body was singing just at the sight of Jim. “If, as Healer T’Brin has told me, I have been entering your dreams unintentionally, it seems logical that you should be able to enter mine. Or that I should be able to enter yours when in actuality I am deep in a healing meld with a renown healer who is who knows how many kilometers away from your physical location.”
Jim stared at him. “That’s got to be the most bizarre thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said. “Now I know this is a dream. You’re dead.” He slumped against the wall again.
“No,” Spock said forcefully, “I assure you that I am not.”
Jim peered at him through matted hair, “You always say that when I dream about you here,” he said fondly. “Always trying to make me feel better.” He scowled, “Kind of sucks when I wake up though, knowing-” he broke off. “How did you find me here?”
Spock felt like saying ‘I followed a stream in my mind and it led me to your mind,’ would have been poorly received. Instead he said, “We are connected.”
“You’re an idiot,” Jim said.
Spock flinched.
“Like I need to dream you to tell me we have some sort of mystical rope tying my brain to yours- come on, Spock. Like I wouldn’t have figured it out by the time I made you meld with me. But if you’re dead,” Jim drew a shuddering breath, “I shouldn’t be able to feel you. I haven’t been able to feel you. So how did you find me here?”
Spock did not know what else to do except say numbly, “I will always be able to find you.”
“Huh,” Jim said. “Well, that’s kind of creepy, but also kind of reassuring, I guess.” He looked up, then back at Spock. “I’m just going to go ahead and keep treating you like a dream figment of my imagination,” he informed him. Spock made a tiny movement of protest, but Jim held up his hand, “Nuh uh, mister,” he said. “It’s easier for me this way, believe me.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, “So, what do you want, Dream Spock? What can I do for you here?”
“I-” Spock hesitated. He had found Jim, but not his physical body. Jim could not tell him where he was, and Spock could not even gather himself to find him because he did not remember what had transpired. Spock’s eyes widened. He might not remember, he realized, but someone else did. “You know what happened,” Spock said.
“Um, yeah,” Jim said. “So should you. We were both here.”
Spock shook his head, “But I don’t,” he said. “The memories are gone- blocked by something.”
Jim shrugged. “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly pleasant. Probably better that you don’t remember it.”
“But I cannot,” Spock tried. Jim looked at him quizzically, “I must know what caused my amnesia,” he tried again. “There is something, I know there is something in my mind that will help me find you. Please,” he held out his hand. “Please, I must know what happened.”
Jim looked at him carefully, then moved closer. “If I tell you what happened,” he asked softly, “Will you rest easier?” (Will you stop haunting me?)
“I will not rest until I find you,” Spock replied.
“Sweet of you,” Jim said, “But you’re dead, so I’ll understand if you take a while.”
“I am not dead,” Spock repeated. “And I will come for you.”
Jim choked out a laugh, “So stubborn.” He sobered. “Fine, you win.” He paused, steepling his hands together in a manner almost reminiscent of Spock himself. “After days of interrogating us about random shit like the movements of Starfleet Medical, they brought in a machine,” he started, and Spock saw himself in Jim’s mind.
Spock was hit with a stun from a phaser as the forcefield was lowered. His body fell to the ground while Jim watched helplessly, chained to the wall for the previous three hours. The shadow man himself stepped forward; his features still curiously blurred in Spock’s mind’s eye, as two others hauled Spock up and strapped him to a chair.
“This used to be a Klingon mindsifter,” said the shadow man. He patted it fondly, “But I’ve had it modified to suit my purposes.” He picked up what looked like a helmet connected to the rest of the machine, and put it on while something nearly identical was shoved over Spock’s lolling head as well. “It allows those of us without innate psychic abilities,” his mouth twisted sardonically, “to influence those who do.”
He flipped a switch, pressed something, and Spock remembered pain. Screaming. Yes, he had screamed as what felt like one thousand needles pierced his skin along with unspeakable pressure in his mind. He could hear Jim outside his immediate sphere of influence shouting his name over and over, but the knives raking over the layers of his mind like hot coals made him almost deaf to Jim’s cries. He fought for control, and shook, and shivered as hate and desperation poured into his mind like magma. It’s disgusting, it’s unnatural, it’s an abomination, we can’t allow it, whatever it takes, whatever it takes, tell me this will work and You will find him, and bring him back here, you will do as I say. Do this and we will release your Captain. A fair trade . . .
And Spock railed against that voice while through the layers of fire and pain he searched and found the source as instinct took over and he struck at it, comprehending its purpose with dawning realization, even has he sensed with dimming eyesight Jim stretching out enough to dislocate his own wrist but close enough to touch him. And there was suddenly a coolness flowing through him, stronger than ever before, flooding that stream that connected their minds into a torrential river, and part of Spock grabbed at it desperately, greedily because he knew Jim’s touch, and tied it around himself for strength, while the rest of Spock continued to fight mind to mind with the shadow man, stronger now because it was both of them, together, ripping at him and rolling until it was impossible to separate the pain from himself and from the shadow man and from Jim and then his own mind, overcome with everything. Shut. Down.
And there was the impenetrable darkness of amnesia. And behind it, a cool stream of water - and something else that did not belong.
Spock came back to Jim speaking, “I couldn’t feel you anymore,” he said, and his voice had a hysterical edge to it. “I couldn’t feel you.”
Spock’s mouth was dry with revelations, adrenaline, and fear, “They took me away. They dumped me in the desert.”
“Yes,” Jim’s voice cracked, “They mentioned. They said you were dead.”
“They lied,” Spock said, even as the room and Jim started to grow faint. He felt himself rising back to consciousness, helped along by the ever-meddling T’Brin.
“Spock,” Jim said, “Wait, Spock!”
“I’m coming for you,” Spock told him resolutely, as the room disappeared into a swirl of grey. “I’m coming.”
Spock opened his eyes to Healer T’Brin’s wizened ones.
“You understand,” she said.
“Yes,” Spock croaked, his throat dry beyond recognition. T’Brin handed him a glass of water, which he took and sipped gratefully.
“You know what they want. Why they let you go.”
“Yes,” Spock repeated. His eyes scanned the room, settling on McCoy. “Doctor,” he said, struggling to sit up. “I know how to locate the Captain.”
McCoy jumped up, “That’s great, Spock!” he said. “We’ll have to tell Command.” He faltered at the look Spock gave him. “What?” he demanded, “Why are you looking at me like that? It seems like a pretty reasonable suggestion to me!”
Spock ignored him, instead swinging one shaky leg after another over the side of the bed. T’Brin helped steady him as he stood.
“They will be expecting you,” she said softly. “You know this.”
Spock shook his head. “They will be expecting us,” he replied in kind. His eyes grew dark, “But they will not be expecting everything.”
###############################
They took their leave of Healer T’Brin the following morning, as by the time T’Brin and Spock emerged from their meld, it was well past midnight.
“You seem changed,” Topek observed, as Spock and McCoy thanked the Healer for her assistance, and the hospitality of her House. “I sense that the knowledge you gained from your healing meld was more than you had bargained for.”
Spock inclined his head, “I cannot refute that,” he said.
Topek’s eyebrow shot up. “Ah,” he said. “Then it was worth the time and energy.”
“Possibly,” Spock said, as he and Doctor McCoy turned and made their way back to the hovercar. Spock opened the door and sat down as McCoy started the engine.
“We need a Transport,” Spock said.
McCoy’s lips thinned. “No,” he said. “What we need is to contact Starfleet Command, let them know you know where Jim is. Then we can sit back and let the on duty not on medical leave due to trauma and amnesia officers handle the situation!”
“If we do that, the Captain will be in even more danger,” Spock said.
“Oh? And how do you figure?”
“You must trust me on this, Doctor.”
“Trust you? Trust you? For god’s sake man, you were a complete wreck yesterday and now you want me to follow you guns blazing into some foolhardy situation? Are you crazy?”
“You must trust me, Doctor,” Spock repeated, willing himself to be calm, knuckles starting to whiten as he gripped his PADD. “I know-”
“What, Spock. What do you know?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss-”
McCoy stopped the car and killed the engine. He turned to face Spock. “Now you listen to me,” he said. “I’ve followed you this far, but what you’re talking about is worthy of court martial. Now, if I’m going to be dishonorably discharged from the Fleet, it had better be for a goddamn good reason. So tell me what the hell is going on or I swear this car will go nowhere but San Francisco - flowers in your hair or not!”
Silence. Outside the hovercar, the dry air of the high desert blew small dust flurries, and wind ghosted between ponderosa pine branches. After a stare-off that seemed to last forever, Spock slumped and turned away.
“I spoke to the Captain, yesterday,” Spock said.
McCoy furrowed his brow, “I don’t understand.”
“I found his mind,” Spock attempted to clarify. “He and I- we have a mental connection and it was hidden before, but yesterday the- the blockade on my mind was removed and I found him . . .” he took a breath, looked back at McCoy. “He thinks I’m dead,” he said woodenly. “He . . . wept, for me. I have never-” he cut himself off and looked out the window.
Slowly, very slowly, as if he were an animal that might spook, McCoy reached out and gently touched Spock’s shoulder. “Spock,” he said. “It’s okay to say it. I’m not- I’m not judging you. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Just- tell me what happened.”
Spock gradually nodded. “They had a machine,” he said. “It was meant to illicit obedience through pain, to control the recipient’s mind. They attempted to use it only once, but the process did not go as expected. There was a factor they had not considered.”
“Jim,” said McCoy. It was always Jim.
“Yes,” Spock confirmed. “I was in pain, and fighting the machine and the man behind it with all my mental strength, but it wasn’t enough. So Jim . . .” He took a deep breath, “He gave me his strength,” he said. “He gave me his mind.” His fists clenched, “He probably did not even know what he was doing, if he had understood the consequences-” Spock stopped and shook his head. “Jim’s mental strength combined with my own was sufficient to fight off the influence of the machine but the strain was too much and so,” he shrugged, a human gesture he had picked up during his time in Starfleet. “They dumped my body in the desert, content in the assumption that either my psyche was broken and under their complete control, that I would complete the task they had set for me- or that I was completely brain dead, and thus would not be able to reveal their purpose, or the location of their final hostage.”
McCoy sat back, rubbing his cheek with the side of his hand thoughtfully. “That’s an awful lot to take in,” he said. He folded his arms as a thought struck him, “What does all this have to do with Jim being in even more danger if we contact Starfleet or any other authorities?”
Spock looked away again. “When Jim gave me his strength, I- we saw into the mind of the man who had had us abducted and tortured,” he said carefully. He did not mention the thing that did not belong in the back of his mind, taking up residence next to the stream that embodied Jim.
McCoy leaned forward, “You know what he’s planning? Who he is? What he wants?”
“I know he has connections to Starfleet,” Spock said, “But his face is strangely blurred to me, which is why we must not contact them for assistance. I know that he sees Jim as bait to bring me back again, but expendable if I bring in the authorities. I cannot risk that. And as for what he wants . . .” he looked straight at McCoy, who felt a sudden, ominous shiver.
“He wants you, Dr. McCoy,” he said. “And he wants me to bring you to him.”
Previous Next
24 May 2262 - The House of Healer T’Brin
Healer T’Brin led Spock and McCoy down the hallway to a wooden door. She stopped. “Beyond this door is a room of healing,” she said. She looked at McCoy, and then spoke directly to Spock, “You may decided whether or not your companion is also allowed within.”
Spock nodded, and turned to McCoy. “The doctor and I have had our differences,” he said quietly, “But despite those we have travelled together and I consider him a- a brother. He may remain.”
Healer T’Brin inclined her head. “Very well,” she said, and opened the door. Inside there was a simple bed covered in white sheets, with one chair and a table next to it, and two chairs by the wall. “Spock,” she said, “You must lie on the bed. McCoy, you may take one of the chairs on the far wall and observe only.” She looked at him sharply. “Healing the mind is a delicate process; an interruption could cause permanent damage.”
“I understand, Ma’am,” said McCoy.
She then turned and made for the hallway saying, “I must retrieve my nutritional supplement, in case I am in need of more strength.” She caught McCoy’s concerned look and said, “I am old, Dr. McCoy, but do not be concerned. It is a precaution only. I will return momentarily.” The door shut behind her.
Spock and McCoy looked at each other. McCoy gave a little shrug as he started to head over to the chairs. “Brother, huh?” he said carefully.
Spock avoided looking at him, “Even the best of siblings often do squabble,” he muttered.
“Right,” said McCoy, as Spock settled himself gingerly onto the bed. “I- thanks,” he added awkwardly, after a moment. He looked at his hands, and then something occurred to him and he glanced back up at Spock. “Hey, is that like the same thing you call Jim sometimes?”
Spock hesitated. “It is similar,” he said evasively, lying down on top of the sheets.
McCoy furrowed his brow, “What’s the difference?” he asked.
But Spock was spared having to answer by T’Brin bustling back into the room - although heaven forbid a Vulcan bustle anywhere, McCoy thought. She eyed Spock.
“Are thee ready?” she said, sitting down on the chair next to Spock’s bedside. “Take care, the fact that these memories are lost to you may imply that they are of a disturbing nature.”
“I am,” Spock said resolutely.
Healer T’Brin nodded, then latched her fingers to Spock’s meld points. “My mind to your mind,” she intoned. “My thoughts to your thoughts.” She closed her eyes, as Spock’s fluttered shut, and stillness and silence descended upon the room. To McCoy, the pair looked like frozen statues, and even though they were attached to each other only by the briefest of touches, it seemed as if they were connected by unbreakable steel.
“You have been dreaming,” said T’Brin. Her voice in Spock’s mind felt like dry wind blowing across the desert; the prelude to a sandstorm.
“Yes,” said Spock.
“But you should not be,” said T’Brin.
“No,” said Spock. “Vulcans do not dream.”
“But thee are only half Vulcan,” T’Brin reminded him.
Spock felt a pang. “Nonetheless,” he said. “I should not dream.”
T’Brin’s agreement flowed over him, “Do not be sorrowed, Son of Sarek,” she said, “I am old enough to realize that your human half is not your weakness. And indeed, you are correct; you should not be dreaming. But,” and the images swirled before Spock’s mental eye, “these are not your dreams.”
The mindscape twisted around them, settling on an image of the woman and three children who Spock did not know. “This woman is not your mate,” she said. “These are not your offspring.”
“No,” Spock said.
“Why then, must you know their faces so intimately?” she mused.
The figures disappeared, and another one came forth; the shadowy figure of a man, a presence that Spock knew well - as one inside himself.
“Yet,” T’Brin cautioned, “You are not this man. Though you have spoken with his voice and felt his anger and dreamed of his family, thee and he are not the same. But there is something . . .”
Spock could not even scrape together the energy to hide the illogical feelings of profound relief that swept over him. He had not been the one to hurt Jim. He had not struck him. He had not lied to him about Spock’s death. Had not starved him. Had not . . . hurt him. And yet. And yet.
Spock ached as though he had landed every blow himself, and then received them in turn.
Jim . . .
The landscape of their merged minds was changing once again, and from the dispersed mists of the shadow man finally came an image of Jim. Not an image of Jim bruised and wounded and angry against the walls of the room entrapping them, but one that Spock remembered from only a few months ago.
He had entered Jim’s quarters without invitation - as had become their custom over the past year or so - to both query after a report, and to see if he might convince his overworked captain to sleep sometime in the next week. Of course, the next hour would be preferable, but Spock had learned to pick such battles with care.
But rather than finding Jim scrabbling away fiercely at one official thing or another in the front room, Spock had instead found him sitting up in bed- having clearly fallen asleep without meaning to. A large PADD lay across his lap, the stylus dangling loosely in the hand hanging off the edge of the bed. His face was turned up even as he slumped against the pillows and he looked- calm. Trusting. Unnaturally serene.
Spock could have left him like that, turning off the lights and tiptoeing out of the room as if he had never been. Instead, he walked forward to gently caress Jim’s meld points, easing him into an even deeper sleep; one the captain would not awaken from until his alarm sounded. That done, Spock relieved him of the PADD and stylus, setting them on the bedside table, and hoisted Jim himself into his arms so that he could peel back the covers, before depositing his captain back into the bed - this time in a position that would not crick his neck and would allow for the optimum amount of rest. He pulled the covers up past Jim’s shoulders, and tucked them around him. For a moment, Spock paused, simply observing Jim’s face. Then he mentally shook himself, stepped away from Jim, and left the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.
Spock could sense T’Brin’s curious perusal of this memory, and he was sure that if they had not been in a meld, his face would have been flushed beyond all recognition, no matter how much control he was supposed to have. As it was, he squirmed as she scrutinized every angle of the memory, going over when he stood in the doorway, and when he walked forward. His examination of Jim’s face. How he had felt as he lifted Jim in his arms, and placed him gently back down again.
“You named the one who accompanied you as ‘brother,’” she said. “But not, I noticed, as t’hy’la.”
“No,” Spock whispered.
“This one, then,” she indicated Jim. “This one is t’hy’la. The brother of your soul.”
“Yes,” Spock admitted, for who could lie in a mindmeld, even to themselves?
“Does he know?”
“I-” Spock said. He forced himself to continue; T’Brin could glean the truth from his mind with or without his cooperation, but he preferred to surrender his dignity on his own terms. “I do not know,” he said finally. “He knows- he knows I call him brother, but likely does not understand the nuances of the word itself. Its total meaning. Perhaps- perhaps he suspects my regard for him, but truly I do not- I am unsure-”
“You believe that he would not jeopardize your preexisting friendship. You believe that he would not taunt fate by ignoring Starfleet protocol, by having a captain and first officer be emotionally compromised by each other.”
Spock felt each word bite into him, hot shame rolling over him at the idea of being emotionally compromised yet again, and then more shame at feeling it, and being unable to stop it, unable to look away, unable . . .
“Spock,” T’Brin said, voice rousing him out of his barreling, uncontrolled thoughts. “We Vulcans feel deeply. There is no shame in this. What is shameful is to allow your emotions to dictate your actions.”
Spock swallowed, “I am Vulcan,” he said. “I must follow the teachings of Surak. Of logic.”
“There are many ways to follow Surak’s path.”
Spock opened his mouth to speak and before his eyes swam images of Jim; working, sleeping, running, laughing. “What I feel for him,” he said desperately, “is not logical.”
T’Brin’s gentle amusement trickled all around him, “On the contrary,” she said. “It is the most logical thing in the world.”
“How?” Spock whispered, “How?”
“If I told you, would you believe me?” T’Brin asked. Spock felt her admonishment. “You must answer that query for yourself. Think, Spock. Use your mind. Use your memories.”
“I-” Spock said. “I cannot. My memories are lost.”
“Not those memories,” T’Brin said, and Spock got the most curious impression that she was actually rolling her eyes at him. “Your memories of before. Your memories of him.”
And she mercilessly cast Spock deeper into his own mind and he saw-
Jim. Not the Jim of their tumultuous first meeting, covered in grief and grime, but Jim in the few months leading up to his field promotion being declared permanent. He was sitting in one of the libraries at Starfleet Academy, back to Spock, writing with a pen and real paper, of all things.
“If I may ask a personal query?”
Jim jumped. The pen rolled away from him and he caught it just before it made it over the side of the desk.
“Sure,” he said. “Ask away.”
“What are you doing? You are not responsible for writing the condolence letters to the families of those who died during the Narada’s attack on the Enterprise.” It still hurt to say it. Spock blocked out the pain, pretending that it was someone else’s planet that had been destroyed, someone else’s mother who had died.
“Someone has to do it,” said Jim.
“But not you, necessarily,” Spock pointed out.
Jim shrugged. “I want to,” he said. I need to went unspoken, but Spock heard it as clearly as if it had been said aloud. He stiffened, and left the room.
“His thoughts intruded upon yours,” T’Brin said.
“Yes,” Spock said almost numbly, “I did not realize it was to such a high degree.”
“You melded with him.”
“In the line of duty,” Spock said. “To ease pain. Or to confuse a telepathic opponent.”
A flash of Jim with a broken leg and blood dripping down his face.
An image of Spock, mind tied to his Captain’s, shielding them both from a telepathic search party.
“You soothed his nightmares,”
“It is the duty of a first officer to see to the security and health of his captain,” Spock protested, but the protest rang hollow in his mind.
“Indeed,” T’Brin’s amusement was back. Spock was starting to get a little bitter about the fact that she threw her emotions around so freely inside what was supposed to be his mind. It was most unseemly.
“Only to you, Young One,” said T’Brin.
“I fail to understand why the perusal of these memories is necessary,” Spock said stiffly.
“You will,” T’Brin said. “Tell me,” she continued, “At what point did you begin to look forward to melding with him? When did it become painful to break away from his mind?”
Spock did not want to answer, did not want to reveal how much control he had really lost when it came to Jim, and anything that he did.
But then Spock was drowning, in a memory of water and in telepathic hate so strong it could break bone and then, and then there was a hand, cool, firm, pulling him up and Jim holding him, putting Spock’s fingers to his own forehead saying ‘Spock, Spock come on, come on! You’ve got to get your head back straight, come on, I’m here, I’m here, listen to me, listen to me damn you!’ and Spock took that invitation instinctively and dove in and was warm and home and he did not want to leave-
“He saved my life,” Spock gasped, lungs burning. “He forced me to meld with him, to stabilize my own mind.”
“He should not have been able to do that,” T’Brin observed.
“No,” Spock said, and felt a peculiar sort of pride, “But he did.”
“Indeed,” T’Brin said. “And you hypothesized what- that having been subjected to so many previous melds, your minds were already attuned enough to allow you to meld with him when the need became desperate?”
Spock’s silence was his answer.
“Surely you must have known there was more to it than that?” T’Brin continued incredulously.
Spock tried to look away, but it was difficult to accomplish when all around him he felt T’Brin’s presence, and Jim’s shadow one.
T’Brin sighed. “You are young,” she said. “It is forgivable. But now his life hinges on your understanding, does it not?”
“I do not know,” Spock said miserably. Clearly he had misjudged somewhere, misstepped in his careful relations with Jim, trying to downplay the potential of their mental connection, even to himself; trying not to reveal too much, trying to shy away, but not hurt him.
“Look down,” T’Brin said.
Spock glanced at his feet. What appeared to be a small stream burbled its way into the distance, passing between his legs where he stood, going on to infinity.
“Where does it lead?” he asked, but in his heart, he already knew.
“To find out,” she said, “You must jump.”
And so he did.
As he jumped, he expected to feel cold water to surge around him, pushing him under; he had never been the strongest of swimmers, and what had appeared to be a stream seemed bottomless. Instead, the water seemed cool against his skin, but comforting. He found he did not need to breath. He closed his eyes and let himself sink.
When Spock opened his eyes, he was lying flat on his back in the room he and Jim had spent weeks in. He got to his feet, and Jim’s head jerked up at the sight of him.
“Spock!” he said. He stood, taking an eager step forward toward him, hand outstretched. It passed straight through Spock’s as though he were nothing more than a mirage. “I must be dreaming,” he said, stepping back.
“Logical,” Spock said, ignoring the way his body was singing just at the sight of Jim. “If, as Healer T’Brin has told me, I have been entering your dreams unintentionally, it seems logical that you should be able to enter mine. Or that I should be able to enter yours when in actuality I am deep in a healing meld with a renown healer who is who knows how many kilometers away from your physical location.”
Jim stared at him. “That’s got to be the most bizarre thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said. “Now I know this is a dream. You’re dead.” He slumped against the wall again.
“No,” Spock said forcefully, “I assure you that I am not.”
Jim peered at him through matted hair, “You always say that when I dream about you here,” he said fondly. “Always trying to make me feel better.” He scowled, “Kind of sucks when I wake up though, knowing-” he broke off. “How did you find me here?”
Spock felt like saying ‘I followed a stream in my mind and it led me to your mind,’ would have been poorly received. Instead he said, “We are connected.”
“You’re an idiot,” Jim said.
Spock flinched.
“Like I need to dream you to tell me we have some sort of mystical rope tying my brain to yours- come on, Spock. Like I wouldn’t have figured it out by the time I made you meld with me. But if you’re dead,” Jim drew a shuddering breath, “I shouldn’t be able to feel you. I haven’t been able to feel you. So how did you find me here?”
Spock did not know what else to do except say numbly, “I will always be able to find you.”
“Huh,” Jim said. “Well, that’s kind of creepy, but also kind of reassuring, I guess.” He looked up, then back at Spock. “I’m just going to go ahead and keep treating you like a dream figment of my imagination,” he informed him. Spock made a tiny movement of protest, but Jim held up his hand, “Nuh uh, mister,” he said. “It’s easier for me this way, believe me.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, “So, what do you want, Dream Spock? What can I do for you here?”
“I-” Spock hesitated. He had found Jim, but not his physical body. Jim could not tell him where he was, and Spock could not even gather himself to find him because he did not remember what had transpired. Spock’s eyes widened. He might not remember, he realized, but someone else did. “You know what happened,” Spock said.
“Um, yeah,” Jim said. “So should you. We were both here.”
Spock shook his head, “But I don’t,” he said. “The memories are gone- blocked by something.”
Jim shrugged. “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly pleasant. Probably better that you don’t remember it.”
“But I cannot,” Spock tried. Jim looked at him quizzically, “I must know what caused my amnesia,” he tried again. “There is something, I know there is something in my mind that will help me find you. Please,” he held out his hand. “Please, I must know what happened.”
Jim looked at him carefully, then moved closer. “If I tell you what happened,” he asked softly, “Will you rest easier?” (Will you stop haunting me?)
“I will not rest until I find you,” Spock replied.
“Sweet of you,” Jim said, “But you’re dead, so I’ll understand if you take a while.”
“I am not dead,” Spock repeated. “And I will come for you.”
Jim choked out a laugh, “So stubborn.” He sobered. “Fine, you win.” He paused, steepling his hands together in a manner almost reminiscent of Spock himself. “After days of interrogating us about random shit like the movements of Starfleet Medical, they brought in a machine,” he started, and Spock saw himself in Jim’s mind.
Spock was hit with a stun from a phaser as the forcefield was lowered. His body fell to the ground while Jim watched helplessly, chained to the wall for the previous three hours. The shadow man himself stepped forward; his features still curiously blurred in Spock’s mind’s eye, as two others hauled Spock up and strapped him to a chair.
“This used to be a Klingon mindsifter,” said the shadow man. He patted it fondly, “But I’ve had it modified to suit my purposes.” He picked up what looked like a helmet connected to the rest of the machine, and put it on while something nearly identical was shoved over Spock’s lolling head as well. “It allows those of us without innate psychic abilities,” his mouth twisted sardonically, “to influence those who do.”
He flipped a switch, pressed something, and Spock remembered pain. Screaming. Yes, he had screamed as what felt like one thousand needles pierced his skin along with unspeakable pressure in his mind. He could hear Jim outside his immediate sphere of influence shouting his name over and over, but the knives raking over the layers of his mind like hot coals made him almost deaf to Jim’s cries. He fought for control, and shook, and shivered as hate and desperation poured into his mind like magma. It’s disgusting, it’s unnatural, it’s an abomination, we can’t allow it, whatever it takes, whatever it takes, tell me this will work and You will find him, and bring him back here, you will do as I say. Do this and we will release your Captain. A fair trade . . .
And Spock railed against that voice while through the layers of fire and pain he searched and found the source as instinct took over and he struck at it, comprehending its purpose with dawning realization, even has he sensed with dimming eyesight Jim stretching out enough to dislocate his own wrist but close enough to touch him. And there was suddenly a coolness flowing through him, stronger than ever before, flooding that stream that connected their minds into a torrential river, and part of Spock grabbed at it desperately, greedily because he knew Jim’s touch, and tied it around himself for strength, while the rest of Spock continued to fight mind to mind with the shadow man, stronger now because it was both of them, together, ripping at him and rolling until it was impossible to separate the pain from himself and from the shadow man and from Jim and then his own mind, overcome with everything. Shut. Down.
And there was the impenetrable darkness of amnesia. And behind it, a cool stream of water - and something else that did not belong.
Spock came back to Jim speaking, “I couldn’t feel you anymore,” he said, and his voice had a hysterical edge to it. “I couldn’t feel you.”
Spock’s mouth was dry with revelations, adrenaline, and fear, “They took me away. They dumped me in the desert.”
“Yes,” Jim’s voice cracked, “They mentioned. They said you were dead.”
“They lied,” Spock said, even as the room and Jim started to grow faint. He felt himself rising back to consciousness, helped along by the ever-meddling T’Brin.
“Spock,” Jim said, “Wait, Spock!”
“I’m coming for you,” Spock told him resolutely, as the room disappeared into a swirl of grey. “I’m coming.”
Spock opened his eyes to Healer T’Brin’s wizened ones.
“You understand,” she said.
“Yes,” Spock croaked, his throat dry beyond recognition. T’Brin handed him a glass of water, which he took and sipped gratefully.
“You know what they want. Why they let you go.”
“Yes,” Spock repeated. His eyes scanned the room, settling on McCoy. “Doctor,” he said, struggling to sit up. “I know how to locate the Captain.”
McCoy jumped up, “That’s great, Spock!” he said. “We’ll have to tell Command.” He faltered at the look Spock gave him. “What?” he demanded, “Why are you looking at me like that? It seems like a pretty reasonable suggestion to me!”
Spock ignored him, instead swinging one shaky leg after another over the side of the bed. T’Brin helped steady him as he stood.
“They will be expecting you,” she said softly. “You know this.”
Spock shook his head. “They will be expecting us,” he replied in kind. His eyes grew dark, “But they will not be expecting everything.”
###############################
They took their leave of Healer T’Brin the following morning, as by the time T’Brin and Spock emerged from their meld, it was well past midnight.
“You seem changed,” Topek observed, as Spock and McCoy thanked the Healer for her assistance, and the hospitality of her House. “I sense that the knowledge you gained from your healing meld was more than you had bargained for.”
Spock inclined his head, “I cannot refute that,” he said.
Topek’s eyebrow shot up. “Ah,” he said. “Then it was worth the time and energy.”
“Possibly,” Spock said, as he and Doctor McCoy turned and made their way back to the hovercar. Spock opened the door and sat down as McCoy started the engine.
“We need a Transport,” Spock said.
McCoy’s lips thinned. “No,” he said. “What we need is to contact Starfleet Command, let them know you know where Jim is. Then we can sit back and let the on duty not on medical leave due to trauma and amnesia officers handle the situation!”
“If we do that, the Captain will be in even more danger,” Spock said.
“Oh? And how do you figure?”
“You must trust me on this, Doctor.”
“Trust you? Trust you? For god’s sake man, you were a complete wreck yesterday and now you want me to follow you guns blazing into some foolhardy situation? Are you crazy?”
“You must trust me, Doctor,” Spock repeated, willing himself to be calm, knuckles starting to whiten as he gripped his PADD. “I know-”
“What, Spock. What do you know?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss-”
McCoy stopped the car and killed the engine. He turned to face Spock. “Now you listen to me,” he said. “I’ve followed you this far, but what you’re talking about is worthy of court martial. Now, if I’m going to be dishonorably discharged from the Fleet, it had better be for a goddamn good reason. So tell me what the hell is going on or I swear this car will go nowhere but San Francisco - flowers in your hair or not!”
Silence. Outside the hovercar, the dry air of the high desert blew small dust flurries, and wind ghosted between ponderosa pine branches. After a stare-off that seemed to last forever, Spock slumped and turned away.
“I spoke to the Captain, yesterday,” Spock said.
McCoy furrowed his brow, “I don’t understand.”
“I found his mind,” Spock attempted to clarify. “He and I- we have a mental connection and it was hidden before, but yesterday the- the blockade on my mind was removed and I found him . . .” he took a breath, looked back at McCoy. “He thinks I’m dead,” he said woodenly. “He . . . wept, for me. I have never-” he cut himself off and looked out the window.
Slowly, very slowly, as if he were an animal that might spook, McCoy reached out and gently touched Spock’s shoulder. “Spock,” he said. “It’s okay to say it. I’m not- I’m not judging you. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Just- tell me what happened.”
Spock gradually nodded. “They had a machine,” he said. “It was meant to illicit obedience through pain, to control the recipient’s mind. They attempted to use it only once, but the process did not go as expected. There was a factor they had not considered.”
“Jim,” said McCoy. It was always Jim.
“Yes,” Spock confirmed. “I was in pain, and fighting the machine and the man behind it with all my mental strength, but it wasn’t enough. So Jim . . .” He took a deep breath, “He gave me his strength,” he said. “He gave me his mind.” His fists clenched, “He probably did not even know what he was doing, if he had understood the consequences-” Spock stopped and shook his head. “Jim’s mental strength combined with my own was sufficient to fight off the influence of the machine but the strain was too much and so,” he shrugged, a human gesture he had picked up during his time in Starfleet. “They dumped my body in the desert, content in the assumption that either my psyche was broken and under their complete control, that I would complete the task they had set for me- or that I was completely brain dead, and thus would not be able to reveal their purpose, or the location of their final hostage.”
McCoy sat back, rubbing his cheek with the side of his hand thoughtfully. “That’s an awful lot to take in,” he said. He folded his arms as a thought struck him, “What does all this have to do with Jim being in even more danger if we contact Starfleet or any other authorities?”
Spock looked away again. “When Jim gave me his strength, I- we saw into the mind of the man who had had us abducted and tortured,” he said carefully. He did not mention the thing that did not belong in the back of his mind, taking up residence next to the stream that embodied Jim.
McCoy leaned forward, “You know what he’s planning? Who he is? What he wants?”
“I know he has connections to Starfleet,” Spock said, “But his face is strangely blurred to me, which is why we must not contact them for assistance. I know that he sees Jim as bait to bring me back again, but expendable if I bring in the authorities. I cannot risk that. And as for what he wants . . .” he looked straight at McCoy, who felt a sudden, ominous shiver.
“He wants you, Dr. McCoy,” he said. “And he wants me to bring you to him.”
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