Note: This story includes the character Desus from the novel "Black Fire" by Sonni Cooper, and refers to incidents in that book. It also features the female Romulan commander from the original Star Trek episode, "The Enterprise Incident". Though there are obvious differences between the original and alternate Trek timelines, I assume that the alternate characters would still experience many of the same situations.

Chapter One

She lay in wait. A modest ship by Romulan standards, the Nightwing carried only a small supply of short-range plasma torpedoes. Such vessels seldom traveled so far from home and never dared penetrate the Neutral Zone. But the Nightwing had ventured all the way into Federation space, where she had held position until her ion trail dissipated, briefly cloaking whenever necessary to escape detection by Starfleet patrols. The majority of her small crew considered it tedious duty, but there were two aboard who relished the mission.

On the sensor panel of the Nightwing's bridge, a blip appeared. The navigator restrained his excitement as he carefully studied his board for the speed, course, and configuration of the approaching object. Satisfied, he reported, "It comes!"

Behind him, the joint leaders of the expedition exchanged looks of quiet victory.

oooo

The Federation starship Enterprise cut through space at regular patrol speed. Hunched in the bridge command chair, young Captain Kirk kept his eyes on the forward view screen with its star field display. Who knew what might be lurking out there? He felt edgy patrolling so near Romulan territory.

"Mister Spock," he said. "All clear?"

The half-Vulcan first officer peered into his sensor hood as he reported, "No trace of ion activity." Kirk was rubbing his chin thoughtfully when Spock straightened and added, "Of course, ion displacement is only an indication of recent traffic."

A working silence settled over the bridge. Kirk stood, stretched his legs, and wandered forward to Sulu's helm position.

"Captain!" Spock's voice came again, suddenly urgent. "We are being scanned…"

Sulu interrupted. "Romulan vessel uncloaking to port, ten thousand kilometers!"

Kirk whirled toward the screen. An enemy ship loomed chillingly amid the glitter of stars. "Shields! Red alert!"

Even through the organized chaos of battle stations, Kirk heard the buildup of a Romulan transport beam. He rushed toward a scintillating pillar on the upper bridge level and vaulted the railing. But in a drift of light, Spock was gone…

"Shields!" Kirk repeated, catching himself against the vacant science chair.

"Shields up, full power," came the belated response.

Kirk straightened as if the weight of command might drive him to the deck. He turned to see the Romulan vessel plunging toward the Neutral Zone as it cloaked, and see the outrage register on the faces of his crew. He could barely keep the anger from his own voice as he said, "They're through with us. Those bastards have what they came for."

There was no possibility of catching the Romulans in time, and firing on them could provoke a war. Knowing full well the futility of pursuit, Kirk nonetheless ordered, "Follow their ion trail, Mister Sulu. All speed!"

The helmsman snapped to his controls with precision, and the Enterprise swept toward the Neutral Zone. Kirk came down beside him and placing his hands on the console, leaned forward. Eyes hard on the screen, he abandoned himself to the human illogic of wild, unfounded hope. Spock would surely disapprove.

"Captain."

Kirk knew what was coming.

"Captain," Sulu repeated quietly. "Sixty seconds to Neutral Zone."

Kirk's eyes traveled to the science station, where a junior officer was sinking dutifully into Spock's seat. Clenching his hands, he said, "Full stop."

Lieutenant Uhura's stricken voice rose from Communications. "Sir…two others reported missing. It's that Vulcan couple—Seven and T'Sel."

Since the destruction of their home world, a pair of Vulcan civilians had temporarily joined the ship's crew. Now they, too, had been plucked from the Enterprise.

oooo

There had been astonishment. A horrid prickling in mind and gut as the energy engulfed him. One helpless instant of realization before the transporter field locked rigidly into place.

Now Spock found himself staring down the heavy barrels of two Romulan blasters. Instinctively he went for a sidearm. He fumbled over the disheartening emptiness at his hip, then remembering, grew still. He had been plucked directly from the bridge of the Enterprise—a prisoner for what short span remained of his life.

As if reinforcing the thought, a soldier barked, "Hands forward!"

Spock looked at his hostile captors and slowly extended his hands toward them. Noting other movements in the periphery of his vision, he glanced to his right and discovered T'Sel and Seven with their arms similarly outstretched. So he was not alone.

"My, my," came a mocking feminine voice. "How well behaved we are."

The guards stepped aside in a sweeping salute for their superior as she entered the room. Wearing the uniform of a sub-commander, the brown-haired woman came to stand before Spock in cool triumph. "Oh, yes. It is I, Sub-commander Charvon. What pleasure to see your mask slipping, just a little. To find dismay in those proud Vulcan eyes."

Spock struggled to maintain his emotional control. "Sub-commander," he said levelly, "it was necessary for you to transport every Vulcan life reading. I now understand…that. But I would hope that your vengeance holds some measure of honor, and you will return the others unharmed."

Her mouth twisted. "Honor! You dare speak of—" Choked with fury, she slashed the air. "Guards, bind them!"

The Romulans jumped to the task. Yanking arms backward into energy cuffs, they shoved their unresisting prisoners into a neat row.

"Easy," Charvon cautioned. "Do not damage them. They shall all have their uses."

Her eyes settled so significantly on Spock that he was compelled to look away.

"Lock them up," she ordered.

Spock felt a blaster at his spine, and began to walk.

oooo

Surely by now they were deep in Romulan territory. From the engines' pitch and vibration, Spock estimated their speed at warp three, far too casual a pace for any ship under pursuit. That was in no way surprising. It would make no difference if they were creeping along on impulse power. Starfleet vessels were forbidden, under any circumstance, to violate Romulan space. There would be no rescue…and the chances for a successful escape were vanishingly slim.

Nevertheless Spock sat in his cool, dim cell reviewing every logical possibility, and a few that were somewhat less than logical. His present circumstance did not encourage concentration. His nose itched, but there was very little he could do about it with his hands still secured behind him. And there was the increasingly urgent need to empty his bladder.

Leaning back against the cold metal bulkhead, he turned his thoughts to Sub-commander Charvon. Formerly Commander Charvon, Romulan flagship captain, until dealings with him robbed her of that position, and doubtless much more. There was no one in the Romulan Empire with so hard a case for personal revenge. Falling into her silken hands should have sealed his death sentence, but having survived thus far, he began to wonder about Charvon's intent. There were worse fates than execution awaiting Vulcans in Romulan territory, and her words increasingly seemed to lead in that direction.

Spock found himself faced with a difficult moral dilemma. If matters progressed as he suspected, it was only a matter of time before the sub-commander's lewd insinuations became physical fact. Should he resist any sexual advances, even to the point of inviting injury? Or should he cooperate, endure every humiliation, remaining alert to opportunities for escape? As logical as this last choice seemed, Spock sickened at the thought of actively pleasuring his captors…or being "pleasured" by them. There was a line that no Vulcan would cross willingly, and in the matter of his personal sexuality, he was very much a Vulcan. That part of him belonged to Nyota Uhura, and no other. And so it was decided. If necessary he would risk angering the Romulans rather than submit to their degrading notions of entertainment.

With regret, Spock considered Seven and T'Sel—fresh from a Vulcan space-liner firm that was no longer in existence—innocents drawn into this horror through no fault of their own. Due to his name, young Seven was the source of much amusement among their human shipmates. They would think it ironic that a man thus named would find himself trapped in this miserable situation. Even Jim Kirk would call it "bad luck".

The cell door clicked and quietly slid open. Startled by the identity of his visitor, Spock rose and said, "Desus!"

The tall, handsome Romulan came one step nearer, his features stony.

"I thought you dead," Spock whispered into the silence.

Desus gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "You mean you hoped. No, Spock, I did not unsheathe my honor blade. Only a fool would choose death while his enemy still lives." His voice hardened to steel. "Brother!"

With an effort, Spock met the anger in those dark Romulan eyes. Once, Desus had proved a convenient opening into the world of piracy, facilitating Spock's undercover assignment. But through shared hardships and pleasures, imprisonment and adventures, the Romulan had come to mean something more—something Spock had dared not acknowledge then…or now. Long ago, he had chosen his path, wherever it might lead.

Spock gazed straight ahead and declared, "I upheld my oath to Starfleet."

A battle-hardened fist struck hard across his jaw, knocking him to the deck. Spock landed with a grunt and drew up his knees. As the Romulan moved in, he braced for a beating, but Desus only stared down at him, apparently satisfied for now by the ooze of green blood at his mouth.

"Traitorous mongrel!" spat Desus. "Oh, how I have looked forward to this day. I will see you suffer as I have suffered, and in the end you will pay with your life!"

After the cell door slammed shut, Spock awkwardly hoisted himself onto the bench. Closing his eyes, he gathered the pain into himself, embracing it like a friend until it shut out every thought.

oooo

By the time Spock's hands were finally freed, the blood on his face had dried. Alone in the cell, he fingered his swollen jaw as he re-evaluated the human concept of luck. Before embarking on a dangerous mission, Nyota and others sometimes wished him "good luck". Obviously such wishes had no effect on a mission's outcome, but to date he had survived. Would he be so "fortunate" this time? There was a chance that he might exert some influence over Sub-commander Charvon, but Desus was another matter.

Spock was lying on his bench when Charvon entered the cell, accompanied by an armed guard. He sat up. At the sight of his injury, shock and anger crossed her face. Striding forward, she grasped his chin and eyeing the tender lump, demanded, "Who did this to you?"

When Spock failed to reply promptly, she shoved him with such force that his head struck the bulkhead behind him. "You will answer when I speak to you!"

"It was Sub-commander Desus," Spock revealed.

Charvon's slim eyebrow arched with displeasure, but she quickly composed herself and went on to another matter. "Every time food has been brought to you, you refuse it. Why are you not eating? The food is no different from that we once shared in my cabin. I understand your dietary preferences and have ordered your meals accordingly. Are you ill…or merely stubborn?"

Spock vividly recalled his sojourn in Commander Charvon's quarters, where he had been welcomed as a guest, served fine food and drink by the Romulan's own hand. That same lovely hand had joined his in silent, stimulating exchange…and later slapped him for his betrayal.

Now her dark eyes flashed with sudden insight. "So, my obstinate Vulcan. Do you think you can escape the inevitable by starving yourself? Whether or not the food is drugged, you will eat." She started for the door, but turned toward him with a shrewd smile. "There are far less agreeable ways of administering drugs."

Then she was gone and the door slid shut, leaving Spock in welcome solitude. He realized that his self-imposed fast was only a delaying tactic, but would gladly exchange hunger for even one extra moment of rationality. Sinking into a meditative trance, he prepared for the coming ordeal.

oooo

A pair of blue ales were poured and waiting when Desus entered Charvon's feminine domain. He helped himself to the bracing liquor, for he would need it. Taking a seat, he drank in silence, awaiting the inevitable.

At last Charvon said, "Desus, on one of the prisoners' faces there is an ugly bruise."

"You mean Spock," Desus said impatiently. "No doubt he whined about it."

"Did you strike him?"

"Yes, and with great pleasure! Does that upset you, Co-commander?"

Charvon finished her ale and shrugged as if it were of no consequence. "Spock is a conniving, unscrupulous liar. He betrayed us both. Our common grudge united us for this mission and has brought us splendid success. Let us not fight over him now. We both want the same thing—revenge."

"His execution as ordered by the Praetor. Or…" Desus asked slowly, "am I mistaken?"

She set down her glass. "Death…is so brief a punishment. So final, so…unimaginative. There are those in power who favor a more lingering fate for our halfling."

Desus stiffened. "You among them?"

"Myself, foremost among them." Charvon smiled. "I'm not without a certain influence, even now. I arranged this mission, did I not?"

"Say it, then." But he already knew what was coming.

The smile widened. "Very well. Spock is mine…until I tire of him. Don't look so scandalized, Desus. The purebreds will be offered for ransom, as we planned. With only 10,000 Vulcan survivors, each one is precious now."

Desus could barely contain his disgust. "Chattel! You knew from the outset, yet you permitted me to believe that Spock would face execution!"

"Calm yourself, Desus. I realize you dislike the practice, but if you truly want retribution, what better way than pleasure bondage? The image is rather droll, you must admit. Proud Spock as chattel. Just think what Federation secrets that mind holds—secrets we might learn, given time…and proper persuasion."

"At the price of honor? You sicken me!"

"Then you haven't the stomach for revenge. Spock belongs to me. Keep your hands off him."

oooo

The drop to sub-warp roused Spock from a light, troubled sleep. Moments later, the Nightwing shuddered and dipped in the unpredictable spasms of atmospheric turbulence. Planetfall. The journey was at an end. Soon the ship settled to the ground with that sudden stillness so strange to veteran space travelers. Then came the tramp of boots.

Spock's cell door sprang open, and two soldiers jerked his arms into cuffs with the brutal efficiency of long practice. They herded him at blaster point to a gangplank that angled from the craft's belly. An icy draft blew up into Spock's face and he briefly hesitated, but the guards shoved him ahead. He stumbled down the ramp to firm ground, where he stopped in the wailing wind to appraise his harsh new surroundings. Here was a bleak, inhospitable world. A dim, desolate plain stretched from horizon to horizon. Except for a few hardy grasses, the gale-torn valley floor seemed devoid of plant and animal life.

Charvon appeared at his side. "Does it disturb you?"

Spock drew a deep, cold breath and exhaled forcefully, finding a certain comfort in the frosty cloud this produced. The laws of science could not be reordered by any empire, however ruthless. "This is not Romulus," he observed.

"Nor Remus." She dismissed the guards. Walking the stony ground beside Spock, she explained, "This is Hellguard. A bit dismal and chilly for some, but I enjoy its solitude, its challenges…and certain freedoms one can find only here. It is my retreat. Everything you see from this point is mine."

Her eyes came to rest meaningfully on him. Word of this colony planet had reached Vulcan before its destruction. There was talk of half-caste children surviving like animals in city streets—living by-products of Romulan 'freedom'. If this was in fact Hellguard, they were in the Neutral Zone, not Romulan space.

"Come with me," she ordered.

As they rounded the Nightwing, he saw a sturdy house nestled in a brave scattering of bent trees. From a nearby stockpile, people were transferring supplies to the ship. T'Sel and Seven were among the work force. Relieved to find his fellow prisoners well, Spock veered toward the Vulcans, but Charvon called out sharply, "No! This way!"

He followed her into the house. Its cream-colored interior walls were hung with artistic tapestries, and the furnishings showed similar evidence of good taste. The warmth of a great glowing heater drew him. Standing before it, he speculated on his captor's motive in bringing him to this place alone…and to all appearances, unguarded.

Perhaps anticipating his thoughts, Charvon revealed, "Here we have the illusion of privacy. But it is only an illusion." With a wave, she indicated a nearby door. "At the least signal from me, soldiers will enter…armed and ready. I do not believe you are a fool," she finished in a deceptively gentle voice. "Here. Let me release your hands."

He gave her his back and stood still as she unlocked the energy cuffs.

"Now look at me, Spock."

He turned. The glow of the heater cast her face in harsh shadow and glittered coldly from her eyes. Murder crossed his mind…and was rejected. Nerve pinch. Those vulnerable pressure points at her pale neck…so very near. His fingers twitched in readiness.

Abruptly Charvon glided out of reach. Relaxing into a chair, she propped her feet on a small embroidered hassock. "On the table to your left there are clothes," she said. "Change into them."

For a moment Spock pretended that he had not heard.

"…or shall I demonstrate my paralysis field and dress you myself?"

Now he noticed the controller at her fingertips, and the cool amusement in her eyes.

"Here?" he said through his teeth.

"Yes. Here and now. Strip down completely."

The garments were of Romulan styling and obviously quite expensive. Resisting an urge to hurry, Spock moved as leisurely as if he were alone in his cabin aboard the Enterprise. When he was fully clothed in iridescent black, Aurelian rose and inspected him, admiring the effect.

She nodded with satisfaction. "It suits you. Yes. It will do nicely."

"Then I shall wear it for my execution," Spock said.

She picked up the carefully folded Starfleet uniform and threw it onto the blazing heater elements, watching Spock's face as flames consumed those vestiges of his former life. Then with finality she said, "There will be no execution." Her lips stirred into a taut smile. "I have aroused your emotions, Spock. If thoughts were weapons, I would be dead now. Admit it."

He stared silently at the charred remnants.

"Ah," she laughed, "once more, the unspoken truth." Circling him, she fingered the rich Romulan fabric. Her hand drifted down the rigid length of his back. "Arrogant Vulcan," she whispered at his ear. "You will burn for my touch…"

As Spock tipped his head to avoid her breath, Charvon's delicately arched brow climbed. Continuing around, she met the black threat in his eyes and spoke a velvet warning. "Remain absolutely still and listen, proud one. Think. Have I harmed you? If you are offended by my gentle attention, how will you bear the men if I unleash them?"

He sensed a hostile presence lurking behind the inner door and—for now—saw no choice but to comply.

oooo

Mealtime arrived. Spock sat opposite the sub-commander at a small table set for two. She poured wine and filled his plate as one would for a small child. He looked at the food. Not the usual ship's fare; this was specially prepared, as if in a fine restaurant. Having fasted, he was hungry and thirsty, but it was impossible to know if the food contained drugs.

"This has gone far enough," Charvon said in annoyance. "Eat!"

Spock kept his eyes downcast, anticipating a blow. When her palm whipped out and slapped the table, he flinched as if she had struck him. That amused her.

"How very difficult this must be for you," she said with sarcasm. "Ambassador Sarek's pampered son, Captain Kirk's darling. So accustomed to being in charge, and now not knowing one moment to the next—afraid even to take a bite of food." She paused, and her eyes narrowed with determination. "But you will take nourishment, Spock. Either feed yourself now, or I will have it shoved down your stubborn throat. Decide!"

By some unseen signal, the inner door burst open. Three Romulan men strode to the table, saluted smartly, and stood at attention. Two of them were heavily armed. Charvon pointed at the third—a slender, cruel-looking fellow holding a coil of tubing. "This is Torses, ship's healer."

Nodding at Spock, Torses smiled thinly and flexed the tube. After a moment, Spock took a morsel of food into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then another. His plate was half empty when the sub-commander sent away her enforcement squad. They finished the meal in privacy.

After the dishes were set aside, Charvon settled back with an air of contentment and said, "Please me, Spock, and I will treat you well enough. Anger me, and you will suffer. Not quite the choice I once offered you, but simple enough." Reaching inside her tunic, she drew out a smooth leather pouch and dropped its contents into her palm.

Spock focused on the sturdy metallic links, and the breath froze in his lungs. He sat numbly as she rose and locked the chain around his neck—a bitterly cold symbol of Romulan enslavement.

"You are chattel," she pronounced. "Mine. From dawn to dawn, now and forever." Leaning over him possessively, she fondled his neck and shoulders, slipping a hand under his shirt to the masculine growth of chest hair. "Mine," she whispered.

Spock closed his eyes. Sickness swept through him in dizzy waves and his heart slammed out of control. Had he been drugged? Was this how it would happen? Gripping the table's edge, he wrestled the horror threatening to overwhelm his mind.

Gradually the terror receded. No. It was not happening…yet. The Romulan's provocative behavior aroused only a deep sense of revulsion, a simple emotion that he could control. Considering how he might use her nearness to his advantage, Spock raised his head and turned in his seat toward her. He placed his fingers lightly on her arm and waited in silence for her approval. To his relief, she withdrew her hand from his shirt.

Now she touched his cheek. "So it is not so terrible a thing after all, my Vulcan." And bending lower, she whispered, "my halfling." And she asked, "Was there a woman in your life? Forget her. Your planet is gone. Your people are decimated. Why not mingle your seed with a Romulan? Are we not cousins under the skin?"

Spock's fingers tensed imperceptibly, then relaxed again, drifting upward in a consciously seductive manner. With the tenderness of a caress, they found the rise joining shoulder to neck and settled over the nerve junctures. The thought formed in his mind…

And as if she had heard it, Charvon darted swiftly aside, leaving his hand dangling impotently. The Romulan men rushed back into the room. Prepared for a fight, Spock went to his feet, and there followed a brief tussle. Once Spock was securely held, Charvon loosed the full heat of her fury.

She caught hold of his slave chain and twisted it savagely. "Fool! I could choke the life from you!"

The chain tightened yet again, cutting off Spock's breath completely. There was no escaping the suffocation. This is the end, he thought as his consciousness began to fade.

Then slowly, slowly, the chain eased and air rushed into his starved lungs. Through a greenish haze he saw the sub-commander's angry face.

"No, I will not kill you," she said with contempt. "Such a death would be far too swift…and give me such brief satisfaction. You Vulcans pride yourselves on the stoic endurance of pain…but you are not entirely Vulcan. Let us see how your human half responds to a little punishment." Without taking her gaze from him, she ordered, "Torses, dislocate his fingers!"

Though Spock strained against the wall of muscle, his right hand was firmly seized. Then, with excruciating care, the healer pried his thumb backward in a wrench of agony that demanded all Spock's concentration. He ceased struggling. Gritting his teeth, he focused on a small oval knot in a ceiling beam—one tiny island of sanity. There was laughter, a wrenching of ligaments…and the knuckle joint popped.

Pain was a matter of the mind. Sweat beaded his brow as the forefinger received similar attention. He caught his lip between his teeth and refused to acknowledge the nauseating snap of another joint separation.

Torses gripped the middle finger.

"Enough." Charvon's single word ended the ordeal.

The torture squad marched out. Spock's mouth tasted of bile as he lowered his twisted, throbbing fingers to his side.

Charvon looked upon him without sympathy. "Let us hope this puts an end to your sneaking Vulcan ways. For your sake, my sweet."

"You are cruel," Spock said.

"Perhaps you made me so. The fruits of betrayal are bitter, and now you will live to savor that bitterness. Once, I whispered my calling name in your ear. Now you will call me 'Master'. Once I offered you everything—pleasure, power, wealth. Together we would have set the Empire aflame." Her voice became caustic. "Now, you have nothing. You are nothing. Surely that is a fact that your great intellect can grasp. Be logical, Spock. Accept your fate."

oooo

Though twin suns had climbed to their zenith, they shed little warmth over the land. A dark band of clouds was rushing forward on a merciless wind. It smelled of rain as Spock followed his "master" to the loading area. Shivering, he tucked his painful, disjointed fingers out of sight, and wondered if he would eventually receive medical aid or be left to treat himself. For now, Charvon clearly intended to display her new possession.

As they approached the work site, first one laborer, then another glanced up, their eyes drawn to the bright symbol of bondage at Spock's neck. In the buzz of murmured comments and sniggers, T'Sel and Seven stopped to stare in ill-concealed dismay.

Desus separated from the group and joined his co-commander. "Great gods," he groaned, "must you parade him? Let Spock dirty those pampered hands. Put him to work with the others."

Casually she pulled Spock's swollen, discolored hand into view. "He has an injury."

"I see." Desus lifted an eyebrow. He briefly searched the impassive Vulcan face before turning to Charvon, all military business. "A problem has developed with Communications. I suggest we delay until morning to effect repairs."

Now it was Charvon's turn to study her co-commander. After a moment she shrugged. "Then stay we must. There is, after all, no hurry." Her attention moved to Spock and lingered there. "Come. Your hand needs attention."

oooo

Torses had inflicted Spock's injury, and though he was now under orders to reverse the damage, his barbaric technique was clearly motivated more by sadism than any desire to heal. A gasp nearly escaped Spock as the Romulan doctor squeezed and yanked his thumb joint into alignment. All through the procedure, Spock found himself thinking rather wistfully of Doctor McCoy with his tart remarks, bothersome scanners, and spray hypos.

"Badly swollen," Torses smirked.

Moving to the next finger, he tugged at the knuckle for several agonizing moments until a snap was heard. Then apparently pleased, he surveyed his work and gave the swollen fingers one last excruciating wiggle before bandaging them.

Spock returned to his shipboard cell drained and discouraged. Stretching out on the hard metal bench, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of the pain, the fear, the ugliness. But he could not relax completely. The chain collar lay with its fused lock at his throat, reminding him of the day's many indignities and the ultimate shame yet to come—perhaps tonight, perhaps in the next hour. However Charvon might use him, he must not allow her to corrupt his lifelong ideals of disciplined thought. Bitterly, Spock realized that this might be the only help he could offer Seven and T'Sel: his example.

He could still feel the shock of his fellow Vulcans, the heat of their dark eyes boring into him. But making use of the precious solitude, he slowly quieted his mind, retreating to that inviolate space within.