T'Beth had been watching the passing stars slowly shrink into the rippling distance of hyperspace. Now there was no recognizing any of those crazy shimmers of light that filled the viewport. With his experienced eye, Father could probably still point out their last stopover, but Spock was sleeping in his seat and even had he been awake, T'Beth would not have risked embarrassing him by a question he might not be able to answer. She had already done that too many times. There was no predicting the random, dismaying memory gaps that plagued him since fal-tor-pan. But at least he was alive! All through this trip she intended to show him her gratitude for that miracle in a thousand small ways. Should he forget anything, let it be the many times she had behaved thoughtlessly these past three years.
The voice of their Vulcan pilot came over the public address system. The starliner was beginning its wide arc around the rim of the Klingon Empire. They were cruising at warp five. Eight hours to next planetfall, Ildarani.
Fortunately Father slept through the announcement. He sorely needed rest. Since the refusion he had been bothered by dreams and flashbacks to those nightmarish hours on Genesis when the planet was disintegrating. Not even the healing sessions on Mount Seleya helped much anymore. The Vulcan Masters had returned Spock to life and now he alone must learn to deal with it.
But here on the starliner T'Beth didn't like leaving him alone. Though she had a compartment next to his, she stayed with her father as much as possible during the daytime hours. Medication helped him sleep at night, but even a nap sometimes brought on another episode of screaming. And now as she watched, the rhythm of his breathing changed and there were faint movements beneath his eyelids. All at once it came over him—the outbreak of sweat, the gasping, the terrible straining against some nebulous dream agony. Immediately T'Beth nudged him awake, calling to him softly. Spock opened his eyes and stared at her with blank fear for an instant. Then the relief hit, and the impatience with himself. Adjusting his chair upright, he glanced toward the viewport.
"Where are we?" he asked.
T'Beth told him.
Looking weary and discouraged, he closed his eyes again. T'Beth wished she knew how to help. This new-Spock could be touchy, particularly at times like this. In some ways he scarcely resembled the before-Spock she had struggled to know—even physically. Since fal-tor-pan he had not returned to active service in Starfleet, or to the trim Starfleet haircut he had worn most of his adult life. His dark hair was so shaggy that it covered his pointed ear tips and most of his upswept eyebrows. In his traveling clothes she looked dignified, mysterious…and quite human.
Lately Sarek had been pressuring Spock to join the Vulcan diplomatic corps or accept a teaching post at the Science Academy. T'Beth knew that was part of the reason for this escape to her home world, but it was also to satisfy a promise Spock had made to her. If Ildarani helped unlock more of his memories and make him feel more secure, all the better.
On Vulcan it had been whispered that Father might never be himself again—that the rejoining of memories to body, the refusion, had been impaired by his human half. The priestess T'Lar had advised Spock to remain secluded on Mount Seleya. The human friends who had saved Father—his Starfleet shipmates—were urging him to spend more time with them. For a while Spock had been torn between everyone's demands, but in the end he had followed his own path, choosing a middle ground that included a little of everything. Naturally each group had then accused the other of "undue influence". What a ruckus there must have been when they found out that Father had taken her and left the whole darned planet. Of course he had left them all a message of explanation, but for now he wasn't answering their calls.
Yes, it was a good thing Father was away from all of that. Lovingly T'Beth placed her hand over his, but the touch went unanswered. Was he sleeping again?
Later they left the compartment and climbed down a short flight of steps to the lounge, where refreshments and various diversions were provided for the passengers' comfort. T'Beth was surprised at the strange mixture of people in the lounge today. After four stopovers, there were few passengers left from the original Vulcan group. Here were more aliens than she had ever seen gathered in one place, including the starship Enterprise, and they made her a little nervous. She stayed close to her father.
Over their meal Spock taught her the species of their fellow voyagers. He still knew them all—that was the best part. It was so interesting that T'Beth relaxed and set aside her craving for the fried chicken at a local restaurant on Ildarani. For now the Vulcan vegetarian plate was good enough, but once they reached their destination, Father said she could eat meat if she wanted.
A brown-skinned couple walked into the dining area and looked directly at her before turning to the food dispensers. Both the male and the female wore helmet-like caps that covered them from eye level to the napes of their necks.
T'Beth nodded toward the newcomers. "Father, what are they? The ones with the funny headgear?"
They were behind Spock now, food trays in hand. Rather than turn around, he searched for them in the mirrored wall at the front of the lounge—and froze. But only for an instant. Swiveling, he stared openly at the two aliens. Before T'Beth could say anything more, Spock was up and out the door.
What had just happened? Embarrassed, she waited alone. The brown aliens whispered between themselves and seemed to smirk at her as they took a table. Several other non-Vulcans cast curious glances in her direction, no doubt wondering why her escort had left so suddenly. She tried to ignore them as she finished the last of her meal. Why would her father thrust her into such an uncomfortable situation? Should she stay here and watch his soup grow cold? Was he coming back? She decided to wait five minutes longer. Then she got up and left. She made her way slowly to Father's compartment, not sure of what she would find or if she would even be welcome. At the door she hesitated, then pressed the chime.
"Come in," he said impatiently, as if she were the one who had done something wrong.
She entered the cramped area where they had spent so much of the past three days. Father was standing at the viewport, gazing out into Space. Sudden anger swept through her and she felt like yelling. What's the matter with you? You're scaring me! You're spoiling everything!
Very quietly he said, "Traveling with such a father must not be easy for you."
The words melted T'Beth completely. Squeezing past the chair, she put her arms snugly around him. "Iksom lom nomak'som," she whispered and felt him react to the Vulcan words with surprise.
"N'iksom," he responded in a thick voice, "loma nomak'som naksom'la." Grasping her by the arms, he stepped back and looked into her eyes. "The 'Iksom'—you know it?
T'Beth thought of the ancient poem's entirety, the beautifully flowing lines she had recited for Spock last spring, before his death. It hurt that he no longer seemed to remember that day. Blinking back tears, she said, "Yes. The 'Song of Valor'. It's about integrity, about courage, about putting another's welfare above your own. It's…like what you did when you gave your life on the Enterprise."
Had she said the wrong thing? Over the next hour T'Beth watched helplessly as her father descended into a strange brooding silence. Nothing she said seemed to relieve his dark mood—a mood, she suspected, that stemmed from the unfortunate scene at dinner. If only he would talk about it. If only he would treat her like a grown-up instead of a little girl. After all, she was approaching fifteen. Driven by frayed nerves she finally said, "Father. Can't you tell me what's wrong? Why did you leave me down there? You should've seen the way everyone gawked." And she could not resist adding a bit untruthfully, "Even the Vulcans."
"Vulcans," he said from his chair, "do not gawk."
"You did," she blurted, and immediately regretted it.
A tortuously slow minute passed before he responded. "I did not mean to embarrass you." Once more he paused, as if searching for just the right words. "It was the sight of the alien couple. For a moment I thought—but they cannot be what I imagined."
"Klingons?" An inspired guess, and apparently accurate.
The color drained from Father's face. Something very much like loathing flared in his eyes before he could collect himself. "It is not possible, I tell you. I was mistaken."
"But…what if they really are Klingons? Did you tell the captain? Just as a precaution?"
Father turned from her and went stony. A short while later he rose, motioned for her to stay put, and left the compartment. Alone once again, T'Beth looked out at the stars and berated herself for making matters worse. She had overheard Sarek saying that Father's experience on the Genesis planet had left him with a phobia toward Klingons, but she had not believed it, not until now. For the first time she questioned the wisdom of traveling with Spock so far from Vulcan. What if his condition grew worse? What would she do? Worried, T'Beth stared out the viewport and hoped for the best. There was no going back now.
Five hours from Ildarani she saw a spacecraft appear out of nowhere. The oddly shaped vessel loomed alarmingly close and blinked out of sight almost immediately. T'Beth wondered if she had witnessed a near collision. When the door opened a moment later, she turned excitedly to tell her father—and found instead the most ugly, menacing brute she had ever seen!
Her mouth fell open. The dark, knobby-headed male leered at her and brandished a long-barreled weapon.
She screamed. The creature lunged forward. Steely fingers slapped over her mouth, cutting off the sound.
She bit him on the hand. With a grunt of outrage he pulled back. In her moment of advantage she tried to knock his weapon aside. With a roar, he lashed out. A single blow to her head sent her careening into a wall. As she slid limply to the floor, the compartment went blurry and slowly faded from view.
oooo
Deep in thought, Spock left the cockpit and headed for his cabin. Captain Selak had shown polite interest in Spock's mention of the dark aliens, but had assured him that there were no Klingons among the registered passengers. It was what Spock had wanted to hear. His duty—as rightfully pointed out by T'Beth—thus discharged, he had lingered at Selak's invitation, keeping the pilot company while his co-pilot ate. There was a pleasant conversation until the proximity alarm sounded. The starliner's sensors briefly detected a ship close by before it disappeared. The vessel's configuration had suggested a Klingon design—or so it had seemed to Spock. These days he was seeing Klingons everywhere.
Setting the worry aside, he moved down the narrow corridor to the passenger section. A discordant sound shattered his fragile sense of well-being. Heart hammering, he stopped short and listened. Footsteps were pounding in his direction, heavy boots striking the deck, guttural Klingon-sounding words spoken.
For one instant Spock stood frozen, and then primal panic took hold. Running for the nearest door, he struck the switch plate. Nothing happened. Something dark appeared at the end of the corridor. Backing into the meager shelter of the doorway, he flattened himself and held his breath as a huge pair of swarthy Klingons came charging up the corridor. A barely rational part of him struggled to devise a quick, efficient plan of ambush, but disabling waves of horror sabotaged any attempt at logical thought. Like a hunted animal he pressed his back to the door and watched the Klingons start to pass by—then stop.
Whirling, they faced him, blasters at ready, dark eyes narrowing beneath shaggy bifurcated brows. A deathly chill crept over Spock as the larger of the two reached toward him and pushed Spock's hair away from an ear, then an eyebrow. The Klingon sneered. With cool deliberation the Klingon then drew out a sticklike object and touched it to Spock's neck. Spock fell to the deck in agony.
"Enjoy!" snarled the Klingon in heavily accented Standard. "Enjoy, you khesting Vulqan dog!"
A second torturous poke of the stick caught Spock on his side, then the Klingon spoke into a communicator and time briefly lapsed into oblivion.
oooo
Rough hands dragged Spock off a transporter stage and probed his clothing, presumably in a search for weapons. Then he was jerked upright and held firmly in place between his abductors.
Spock did what he could to clear the pain-haze from his mind. He saw a man and a woman pulling caps off their heads, rubbing their knobby brows, looking intolerably smug. He became aware of another, still more massive and authoritarian presence, muscles bulging, black Klingon eyes aflame.
"Ghuy'cha!" snarled the giant. "Rikta! Chy'?"
The Klingon who had attacked Spock stiffened beside him and said, "Khama' vikippu neh!"
"Kho!" the giant growled. "Khuh'be'!"
"Lu'gah!" came the quick subservient reply. "Jiyaj'!"
With unexpected gentleness the Klingons guided Spock out of the transporter room, slow on his feet, but walking. Partway down a dim passage, one of the Klingons hoisted Spock over his shoulder and carried him as easily as a sack. They went through a doorway into an uncomfortably cool cabin where, after some muttering, they dumped him on a pallet.
One Klingon bent over him. Gazing arrogantly into Spock's eyes, he fingered his cheek. The unwelcome contact deluged Spock with tangled memories of Genesis, helpless hours of confused agony, dark cruel faces, the scent of violence and death. He pulled away and the Klingon grinned sourly. "Poor little Vulqangan," he said through his feral teeth, "I can almost pity you."
The Klingons growled with laughter as they walked out. The door closed, then reopened. The massive commander came to stand over Spock's pallet, his dark heavy features curiously expressionless. Gray streaked his scraggly beard and shoulder-length hair, and his face bore the scars of many battles. Like his men, he wore an odd mixture of military and civilian clothing.
Working to maintain a veneer of impassivity, Spock stared back at him. He was disgusted by his own behavior—the paralyzing emotion that had contributed to his capture and now kept him from going for this Klingon's throat. Fear oozed from his pores in cold sweat. He had become a coward.
"So that you will know," the Klingon's voice rumbled, "my name is Torlath. But you will never speak it. You will address me only as 'my lord', for I am your master now. You will come to accept your servitude—if necessary, by a series of painful lessons."
Spock forced himself to speak, but the words were unsteady. "There is no gain in torturing a Vulcan."
Torlath almost smiled. "Yes, I have heard of the Vulqan's legendary tolerance, but I seldom find much truth in legends, my Vulqangan breed. You did not fare so well with our pain sticks. It shall be interesting to test this particular legend further, do you not agree?"
Spock looked aside.
Torlath seized him the hair and roughed jerked his head back. "I spoke to you!" the Klingon hissed into his face. "When I speak to you, Vulqangan, you will answer!"
When provoked, even a frightened animal will sometimes bare its teeth and fight back. Spock sprang at the Klingon with a ferocity that surprised them both. Torlath landed hard on the deck. Lunging atop the huge Klingon, Spock drove his fist into Torlath's face and attempted a nerve pinch.
The Klingon laughed. Easily brushing Spock's hand aside, Torlath leaped up to tower over Spock from his full massive height, and his smile faded. Purple blood seeped from a cut on his lower lip. Wiping it with the back of his hand, he glanced down at the smudge, and then abruptly whipped the knuckles across Spock's face. Spock attempted to counter and fight on, but there was no stopping the giant, or even slowing him. Those few blows Torlath failed to deflect only seemed to amuse the Klingon. Over and over Spock reached for the nerve paths at Torlath's powerful neck, but the huge Klingon palms knocked him flat. Finally Spock stayed down. Bruised and bleeding, he looked daggers at his overbearing captor, but there was no logic in further provoking Torlath when he was so clearly outmatched. Along with all the Genesis fears haunting him, now there was fear for the future. Who was this mad giant of a man? Into what hell was Torlath taking him? What chance had he of escaping? His one hope was that T'Beth was still safe aboard the starliner.
"So," gloated Torlath, "the first of many lessons, my Vulqangan. I am the master. When I speak you will answer me." And his voice snapped, "Now answer!"
From the floor Spock said, "I seem to have forgotten the question." And it was true.
Torlath's mouth curled with scorn. "So much for the legendary Vulqan intellect…"
oooo
Spock spent the remainder of the journey locked in the cabin, shivering. The off-planet warming suit he wore under his clothes had been damaged during the beating. It offered little protection against the chilly Klingon environment.
What passed for food was periodically shoved through a low slot in the door. Spock's bowl invariably contained some sort of animal flesh or stewed Gagh. He consumed only the water and dark biscuit that accompanied each meal.
In his mind he tracked the slow passage of days, often lying for hours on his pallet listening to the ominous creaks and groans of the ship. He thought of T'Beth. There was a time when he might have sensed if she were near, if she were in danger, but he had not yet regained the mental clarity for that. All he could do was wonder…and continue to hope for his daughter's safety.
Stillness came on the third day. Spock waited in his cabin as brisk foot traffic sounded in the corridor beyond his door, subsided, and the ship seemed emptied of people. With rising dread he waited for the ordeal that surely lay ahead in this waking nightmare. This was far worse than his experience of death aboard the Enterprise. Then, there had been little time for fear. His sacrifice had been an act of love for his friends, for his ship, for honor and duty—yet it had also been beautifully logical. He had freely reached into the radiation flux, embracing in death everything he held dear. It had been, without doubt, the finest moment of his life. And now that he had his life back, he must not continue to dishonor it with cowardice. Despite his fears, he vowed to meet his fate with dignity and test every avenue of escape.
Spock heard slow heavy footsteps approaching and ducked beside the entrance. As the door slid aside, he stood poised to deliver a jabbing nerve pinch. His fingers trembled with readiness. A dark shape came into view. Heart slamming, he lunged for Torlath's thick neck—and went nowhere! His arms were unresponsive, frozen. His legs felt rooted to the deck. He stood as if paralyzed while Torlath casually pulled his useless arms behind him and bound his wrists together.
"The Andromedan paralysis field," rumbled Torlath. "A fine acquisition by my government, do you not agree?" Smiling at Spock's thinly veil frustration, he released the field.
Torlath hustled him down the gangplank, into a cold drizzly night. The air was sharp with the scent of damp vegetation and wood smoke. Wordlessly the Klingon shoved him ahead, onto a forest path all but obscured by fog. After several minutes they came to a clearing that had a barnyard odor. The outbuildings were dark, but lights shone from the windows of a large stone house.
Torlath pushed Spock inside. They passed through a warm kitchen area full of curious Klingon women, then moved down a steep flight of steps to a blackness too thick even for Spock's Vulcan eyesight. He heard and scented water. A damp basement dungeon, perhaps? Then the lights came on and Spock found himself in a roomy, well-furnished bedchamber. He blinked in surprise at the steam rising from a luxuriously tiled spa sunken into one corner.
Torlath untied his hands and gave him a nudge. "Wash yourself. You smell like a khesting Vulqan snarth!"
Spock walked to the edge of the spa and hesitated. He had heard reports of the Klingon fondness for bathing. Apparently they liked their prisoners clean as well. Acutely aware of Torlath's eyes on him, he stripped the clothes from his bruised body and stepped down into the warm churning water. Torlath tossed him a cake of soap. To Spock's dismay the Klingon then began to disrobe. Torlath's muscles bulged as he entered the bath opposite Spock and sank down to his arrogant bearded chin. Spock considered trying to drown him, but he had no wish to touch the Klingon's bare flesh or be touched by him. And Torlath had already proven his physical superiority. Spock kept to his own side of the spa and washed in silence.
After the bath Spock received new clothes—a brown shirt and pants that tied at the waist by a soft cord. Klingon pajamas? The lightweight material was woefully impractical for a Vulcan in this climate. He watched as Torlath confiscated his shoes and warm traveling clothes, and resigned himself to being cold indefinitely. He glanced at the bed with its generous layer of blankets, surely meant for the comfort of a Klingon. In what damp hole would he be sent to sleep?
"Tired?" asked Torlath, coming to stand before him. At Spock's lack of response the dark Klingon eyes narrowed chillingly. "Once more you forget, Vulqangan."
Spock looked at him and said nothing.
"You will kneel," Torlath said quietly. "You will address me with proper respect."
The thought of kneeling to a Klingon turned Spock's stomach more than any fear. He remained standing.
A slow cruel smile stirred Torlath's lips. His voice dropped still lower. "Oh, you are proud. Your neck is stiff, but you will soon learn to bend it. You will kneel, you will beg, you will cry like a child to me."
Spock's face revealed nothing of his inner turmoil. Silent and determined, he locked eyes with the man who would be his master. Let Torlath taunt him. Words were only words. And it would take more than a word to send him to his knees.
"Ah yes." Torlath's eyes glittered. "Be strong. Defy me. Act tough." Laughing, he reached into a fold of his tunic and an entire wall transformed into a viewscreen. The chamber that appeared was similar to the one they occupied, but more richly ornamented with tapestries and carpets and flowering plants banked beside the spa. A huge fur-covered bed dominated the center of the room. On the furs lay a desolate, dark-haired girl in Vulcan dress. T'Beth!
Spock felt the universe collapsing around him, but somehow he remained on his feet. Somehow he maintained a semblance of composure. Feigning indifference, he turned from the wall screen to face Torlath.
The Klingon regarded him with black amusement. "She is a comely little wench. My men grow restless aboard ship. One like this would occupy them on long voyages, do you not agree?"
"No," Spock said too hastily. He stopped, and fighting panic, forced his voice to be measured and calm. "I admit to surprise, sir, that you would consider such an unprofitable course. Perhaps you are not aware of the girl's identity."
Torlath raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Speak up, Vulqangan. What do you know of her?"
"I met her aboard the starliner. She is a member of an old and influential family on Vulcan. Undamaged, she would fetch a fine ransom for you."
"Is that so?" purred the Klingon. "And why, Vulqangan, are you telling me this?"
Spock, too, raised an eyebrow and pretended to consider. "I am in your power, sir. Is it not in my best interest to please you?"
"How wonderfully selfish." The Klingon's mouth twisted as he observed T'Beth on the screen. "I have no doubt that she is valuable. An interesting crossbreed, by the look of her. But…she is also something more." His great head turned. His black eyes bored deep into Spock's. "She is that rarest of rare commodities—a Vulcan's price."
"Surely—" Spock's voice faltered. He knew sinkingly that the Klingon was not fooled. "Surely, sir, her family will pay a high price."
"Yes." Torlath looked smug. "A very high price." Once more he reached into his tunic, a subtle movement, and Spock realized he was handling a control device. "Watch the screen closely, Vulqangan. You may find this entertaining. It is an ancient test of maidenhood peculiar to Klingon culture." He folded his arms across his chest in pleasurable anticipation.
A hulking Klingon entered T'Beth's room. Leaping to her feet, she maneuvered to keep the bed between her and the intruder. She looked fearlessly defiant as only T'Beth could, but now Spock saw the swelling and discoloration on her face, and with clenched teeth imagined what sort of blow might have caused it, and why. And he knew with painful clarity how this particular contest would also end.
The leering Klingon stalked her around the bed, murmuring in his guttural language, making a cruel game of it. Then, with one impossibly swift movement, the Klingon had her. Laughing at her struggles, he easily pinned her to the bed.
Spock looked at Torlath with murder in his eyes.
The Klingon gazed coolly back at him. "Does that bother you, Vulqangan? Perhaps you want her for yourself?" From the screen came more laughter, and the rip of clothing. T'Beth cried out. "That might he arranged when my men—when I—tire of her. Perhaps on some snowy day on Vulqan!"
Spock glanced back at the screen. He could not clearly see what the Klingon was doing, and was not at all sure that he wanted to see. Growing desperate, he met Torlath's maddening, self-assured gaze. I have you now, mocked the Klingon eyes. You are mine, all mine. Submit to me. And under the circumstances Spock saw no other choice.
"My lord," he said as if the words might choke him. Dropping onto his knees, he bowed his head low, hiding the uncontrollable flush of shame. "My lord, I will do whatever you say. Only spare her." An agonizing moment passed, filled with the hopeless sounds of struggle, and sobbing. "My lord." Spock's voice shook. He brought his hands together in a wrenching pantomime of supplication. "I beg of you—please—she is only a child."
Torlath studied him leisurely, taking obvious enjoyment in his captive's humiliation. With a smile he slowly reached into his tunic, and on the screen a very disappointed Klingon backed away from T'Beth and left her crying on the bed. Then the picture dissolved.
"Your daughter is safe," Torlath said, "for now. But her future depends entirely on you, Spock of Vulqan."
At the sound of his name Spock's mind raced, but he could not bring himself to meet Torlath's overbearing gaze, not in this demeaning posture. Instead he focused on the ornate buckle decorating the Klingon's belt, on the pair of serpents greedily devouring their own tails.
"Yes," Torlath said with sarcasm, "I know who you are, brave Starfleet warrior. And I know the name of your pretty little bastard child."
Spock drew in a deep, steadying breath. "My lord—what do you want with us?"
"That is not your concern," snapped the Klingon. "From the moment of your capture, I became your only concern! Listen well, Vulqangan, and I will explain it in terms that even you can understand. Serve me satisfactorily and your little T'Beth will live the life of a pampered princess. If you are rebellious, she will suffer. If you attempt any escape…or violence…or Vulqan mental treachery, she will be tortured. If you take your own life, I will throw her to my men, my women, my khesting dogs. And if you should be so foolish as to kill me, I can protect neither of you from my people's wrath. Is that clear enough?"
"Yes," Spock said numbly. Then remembering, "Yes, my lord."
Torlath walked to the door. At the light switch he paused and glanced over his massive shoulder. "Rest well, Vulqangan. Tomorrow we will continue your instruction."
The lights went out. The door shut.
Sinking back on his heels, Spock let himself shiver freely in the chill darkness. So this was to be his room, after all—the cell of a Klingon slave. He had always known something of this kind might happen. A Starfleet officer, the son of a prominent ambassador, was a fine target for terrorism. But while considering the possibility, Spock had always pictured himself standing tall and comporting himself with honor—not groveling like a cowed beast. This was one variable he had avoided examining very closely, trusting himself to somehow handle the dilemma of blackmail, if ever it arose, by working out an respectable solution to the worst of no-win scenarios.
Well, here he was, on his knees handling it. If total submission would buy T'Beth's safety, then for now he was sold into bondage. Honor was not always a pretty thing.
The cold stone flagging of the floor hurt his knees. He got up. He looked at the faint light filtering in beneath the door. Somewhere nearby, probably in this same building, T'Beth lay frightened and lonely, desperately needing him. He, too, was frightened. Torlath's warnings pounded at him like heavy Klingon fists. There was, he decided, no logic in testing the door tonight. It would either be locked—or an open trap.
Not knowing what else to do, he climbed into the welcome warmth of the bed, but sleep did not come easily or last long. …He was lost. Small, shaking with fear, he walked aimlessly through a strange land. The ground heaved and buckled under his bare feet. Red clouds roiled in the sky, the wind tore limbs from trees and hurled debris high into the air. And the agony of a dying world convulsed his young body…
Spock awoke screaming. It was a long time before his heart slowed and he could force sleep upon himself. …And there were people. Kind, comforting arms and gentle voices. But fever mounted in him, wracking his body with hot chills, pressuring him toward madness…until the gentle hands gave him direction and relief…until the Klingon knife hovered over him and passed on and plunged into the fair one, spilling blood and death…
More screams, long and loud gasps of terror filled the night. Spock reared up and found hands touching him. Disoriented, he reached out and said, "…Jim?"
In the darkness Torlath's voice taunted him like a lingering dream specter. "No, your friend Jim Kirk is not here—yet. Why do you disturb the household?"
Spock shrank away from the Klingons's touch. "Nightmares…my lord." He took a deep breath and his voice steadied. "I am sometimes troubled by violent dreams."
"Well, become untroubled, Vulqangan, or I will give you reason to howl!" Torlath spat a vulgarity and stalked back into the night.
Spock lay awake thinking. Jim Kirk is not here—yet. Then Jim was expected? Was he, Spock, merely the bait in some extraordinary scheme to capture Admiral Kirk? In that case Torlath would meet with disappointment. Starfleet would never sanction some wild charge into enemy Space to rescue a decommissioned officer and his daughter. Most certainly they would not risk an admiral, even a tarnished admiral like Kirk. And despite Jim's late recklessness and insubordination, he was not foolish enough to undertake such a mission on his own. Was he?