He landed in a forest, somewhere on a northern continent of Alphonae Prime. It took only a few seconds to ascertain that his passage through the trees had left him miraculously unscathed, and he was not injured in any way. Spock gathered up his parachute back into its pack, removed his bulky altitude suit and mask, and began to make his way towards what looked like a thinning in the trees. He had noticed fields, and possibly buildings, on his descent, and all that he could do was to walk in their direction and hope that he would find someone who could assist him.

The first person Spock set eyes on as he left the wood was a muscular man who was standing looking out over a ploughed field, a curiously antiquated rifle tucked under one arm. Some instinct told him to distrust the man, but he dismissed the thought as illogical. He needed help, and he did not know how far he would have to travel to find it again if he passed up this chance. The only precaution he made against the man being hostile was to carefully deposit his suit and parachute near the base of a tree, to free himself of encumbrances. That done, he continued towards the man without pause.

'Excuse me,' he said clearly before he reached him, cautious of surprising a man with such a volatile weapon.

The man spun, astonishment showing clearly on his features as he caught sight of the Vulcan.

'I am in need of assistance,' Spock continued, moving closer.

'You'd best come to the house,' the man said quickly.

He looked about as he spoke, then touched the Vulcan's arm, steering him over towards the edge of the field where a hedge separated it from a lush pasture. Spock got the distinct feeling that he was trying to stop him seeing something in the first field, but before he could look they had moved through the gateway into the green field. Another man was striding down the field towards the gate they had just come through, and the burly man shouted to him, 'Miles, watch them for me. Got a visitor I need to take to the master.'

The other man nodded mutely, and continued past them towards the ploughed field. He had a gun too, but he did not look quite as formidable as the man that Spock was walking with.

'Who are you?' the man asked curiously, turning his attention back to Spock. 'You're not human, are you?'

'I am Vulcan,' Spock said candidly. 'I was separated from my ship for a survey mission,' he explained. 'My shuttle was damaged by an ion storm. I was forced to abandon the craft shortly after it entered the atmosphere of this planet. I imagine it crashed at least 3,000 miles from my position. I attempted to aim it towards one of your larger oceans before I evacuated.'

'So you – jumped out?' the man asked, seeming puzzled.

'I was forced to deploy an emergency parachute once I had reached a suitable altitude,' Spock said, letting his eyes move over the field they were walking through. Presumably this was a grazing pasture, but there were vehicle tracks and worn paths bisecting the field, from a gate at the top to the gate at the bottom that they had just come through. 'It would not have been possible to land the craft successfully with the damage it had sustained.'

'So – does your ship know where you are?' the man asked curiously.

'I did not manage to contact them,' Spock said. He thought there was an odd tone to the man's voice as he asked that question, but he dismissed the idea. Perhaps it was simply a quirk of the local accent. 'I was hoping to avail myself of a communications device here.'

'We don't have things like that in this area,' the man said carelessly. 'Don't have much technology at all to speak of. We prefer to rely on other means. Your people have no idea of where you are?' he pressed.

Spock shook his head. 'Unfortunately no. I was pushed quite far off course.'

His heart had sunk at the man's statement. He would have to find some way of either getting to a place with more advanced technology, or of somehow fashioning his own communications device from the resources at hand. A single planet was an unmanageably large area when faced with a lack of technology, and that planet was minuscule compared to the span of space he would have to reach through to arrange a rescue.

'Come on, then,' the man said, his grip tightening on Spock's arm just a little.

As they reached the top of the field a ramshackle farmyard appeared over the rise, complete with farmhouse, wooden sheds and outbuildings. Spock got his first real sign that all was not as he would wish it to be as he saw a thin, wiry figure coming out of the yard towards them, carrying a heavy bucket of water. The man was struggling with the weight of the pail. He looked too underfed for such work, his face was lined with tiredness, and his clothes were limited to a torn pair of trousers held about his waist by string. The most ominous thing to Spock's eyes, though, was the chains – a two foot long chain between his ankles restricting his gait, another chain between his wrists, and a short, leash-like length hanging from a thick metal collar about his neck. Alphonae Prime was an old, old human colony, and he had never expected to see anything like this.

'Sir, can you explain – ' he began, turning to his guide.

The man suddenly released his arm, stepping back a little to put distance between them, and lowering his rifle so that it was aimed directly at Spock's chest.

'Just carry on into the yard,' he said determinedly. 'Go on.'

Spock glanced at the gun, and then turned back towards the farmyard, walking slowly and cautiously. He saw little point in arguing. This man knew who he was and what his situation was. He knew he was without friends or help. It was not likely he would be able to persuade him to put the weapon down.

'Sir, got a present for you,' the burly man said in a louder voice as they entered the yard.

A thin, well-dressed man was standing near the house, speaking to another slave – for it was obvious by now to Spock that these people were slaves. This was obviously no prison, and there was no other reason that they would be chained in such a way.

'Where'd that come from?' the man asked, coming over to them and looking critically at Spock. 'What is he?'

'A Vulcan, sir. You could say he just dropped in from the sky,' Spock's guide said with an amused grin. 'He's got no people who know where he is. He admitted that. I know you're not one to say no to a turn of fate like this, sir. We're in need of another body.'

'You're sure he's without help?' the man asked critically. 'I've heard Vulcans aren't the type you want to anger, no matter what they say about their logic.'

'He said so himself. Got sent off course by a storm and crashed here. What can we do, anyway? Send him away to make some kind of report? You can't let him go, sir.'

'No. No, that's true. Well then – bring him into the fold,' the man smiled, looking at Spock with a discriminating gaze that made apprehension bloom in his chest. He did not dare attempt a physical resistance with that gun pointed at him.

'Bains, Petter, put him in the crush,' the burly man said, beckoning two obviously free men over. He turned his attention to one of the thin, chained men who was standing nervously nearby. 'Boy, fetch me a bucket of hot coals and the irons from the smithy.'

Before Spock could even launch a protest he was grabbed roughly and manhandled into a metal frame contraption that stood cemented into the ground nearby. It seemed artfully constructed to be able to hold or bring pressure onto every part of his body, whilst still leaving most of his surface relatively free for inspection. His arms and legs were held rigid, his head uncomfortably pinioned by metal bars, his tongue pressed onto the bottom of his mouth by a loop of foul tasting metal pushed uncompromisingly between his teeth. The part that held his ankles still was briefly released, and his boots and socks were removed. His trousers were undone, pulled off, and flung aside. He closed his eyes in brief mortification as his underpants were pulled down onto his thighs, and a rough hand began to inspect him.

'Going to geld him, sir?' the burly man asked, and Spock stiffened, momentarily horrified before he could suppress his reaction.

'I don't think so, Newman,' the thinner man replied, bending to facilitate a closer inspection. 'If I judge his species rightly, he's frigid as hell anyway, and it causes too many problems. And it's always useful as a future threat. Get that top off him. I want to look at his physique.'

His top was cut away and dropped beside him, and he stood shivering slightly, trying to ignore the fact that he was being held almost entirely naked and defenceless before these men. From the creeping, malnourished, chained figures he could see about the place, he had no illusions about what he was about to become.

'Doesn't look strong,' Newman muttered.

'No, but he is,' the other man said with an air of satisfaction. 'Stronger than you'll ever guess, Newman. Look,' he said, pressing his palm invasively onto the Vulcan's bare stomach. Spock tensed uncomfortably. 'Look at the musculature here. It's slight, but powerful. Keep a tight rein on this one. He's strong, and he's crafty. He'll do the work of two men, but you must, must always let him know who's in control. He'll break free at the first opportunity. Now – ' he said, as an ominously glowing bucket of coals was put silently at his feet. 'Stall fourteen's free, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir. Vacated last week.'

'Good, good,' he muttered, pushing moveable symbols onto a frame with a long metal handle. He regarded the mirrored lettering, and nodded, before plunging it deep into the shimmering coals. Spock allowed himself to feel the heat from the bucket – even to benefit from it – but ignored its implications. He waited, but it was inevitable that the brand would be ignored while it heated.

A plate of metal over his forehead was pulled back, forcing his mouth open by dint of the immovable bar in his mouth. 'Good dental health,' the thin man said, probing into Spock's mouth with his unwashed fingers. 'That's handy. And his feet are soft, but good. His hands look strong.'

'Are you going to chain him before you brand him, sir?' Newman asked.

'I'll have the smith do it when I'm done here. I want continuous bands – nothing he can break or unpick. Brace his arm, will you?'

Strategically placed clamps were closed, performing the dual function of holding his arm completely immobile and stretching the skin tight. The man pulled the brand out of the bucket and glanced briefly at the glowing white letters.

'All right, we're ready,' he muttered.

An inarticulate grunt of pain was forced from Spock's mouth as the white-hot end of the brand was pressed firmly against his upper arm. The two men kept talking to each other as if nothing unusual was happening, but all Spock could be aware of was the continuing waves and pulses of unmerciful pain as the skin and flesh beneath the brand succumbed to its heat. He gritted his teeth on the metal plate in his mouth, struggling to stay quiet. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Then he realised that even though the pain was continuing the brand had been removed and plunged back into the coals. His relief was tempered by the knowledge that if they needed to reheat it, they would be using it again. Someone tossed a cup of water over his arm, and for one brief second the pain relented. Then the agony began again, at the side of his left thigh this time, as the brand was reapplied. Another grunt of pain was ground out of him, but he could do nothing to move away from the relentless pressure of the white hot metal on his thigh. For a moment his sight blanked out in a haze of shimmering blotches, and then he realised the brand had been removed, and the only thing holding him up was the crush around him as water was thrown over his face and the two throbbing burns.

His optimism that any painful procedures were now over was dimmed again as the thinner man turned to Newman and said, 'Heat up that punch, and I'll fetch the lock and ring. He may be frigid, but I'll not leave him able.'

He handed Newman what looked like a long-handled pair of clippers, that he pushed into the bucket that the brand had been heated in. Spock could do nothing but stand in silence and wait, trying not to dwell on what might be about to happen. The thin man returned, holding a metal ring of about an inch in diameter, that was obviously hinged at one side and fixed with a locking mechanism at the other. He bent and took Spock's scrotum in both hands, pushing his testes aside in the soft bag and stretching it taut while Newman retrieved the punch from the bucket. Spock closed his eyes at that moment, steeling himself for the pain. It came in a swift, agonising snap as a hole was simultaneously punched and cauterised through his scrotum, and then came again as his foreskin was stretched taut and an identical hole was clipped through both sides. The ring was slipped immediately through both holes and locked, fastening his penis to his scrotum in order, presumably, to make it impossible for him to sustain or even achieve an erection without unbearable pain. He opened his eyes again, trying desperately to push away the dizzy pulsing of pain, as first the piercings and then the two brand marks were carelessly doused in something that smelt like iodine, and his underwear was roughly pulled up again.

'That's it,' the thin man said. 'Go and tell the smith to fit him with extra strong chains. I don't want him loosed from the crush until he's restrained. I'll come back when he's done and set him to work.'

Spock stood feeling the last of his freedom slip away as the smith arrived, and fastened metal cuffs about his wrists and ankles that were held together by metal rivets pushed through the eyes red hot and clamped flat, removing all chance of their being removed as they cooled and hardened. The heat transferred swiftly into the colder metal, burning the skin beneath despite the water that was flung over them. The chains fixing wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle were already fastened to the cuffs, disturbingly short and heavy. Finally a metal collar with a short chain attached was riveted about his neck, and the process was complete. The crush was finally undone as the thin man returned, and Spock stepped away from the frame cautiously, acknowledging that he was powerless, and unsure of what he may do. He glanced sideways at the torn remains of his shirt on the floor, and began to bend to pick it up. A sharp, stinging impact snapped across his thigh as he bent, and he straightened immediately, his eyes falling on the vicious crop that the thin man had just hit him with. Surprised fury blazed in his eyes just for a moment before he regained control of his automatic reactions.

'I meant only to recover my clothing,' Spock said softly, trying not to sound antagonistic.

The cane snapped across his skin again, and he hissed in breath automatically at the pain.

'That clothing is my clothing,' the man said tersely, putting his booted foot firmly on the torn top. 'You are my property. Your very life belongs to me. I am Master Heaton. You will always address me as Master, or as sir, and address every free man as sir. You are slave number fourteen. That is your only name. Do you understand me?'

'I am Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise,' Spock began firmly. 'I demand – '

The blow almost brought him to his knees. Master Heaton had struck him so hard in the stomach that the bruise mark was already developing as he struggled to his feet again.

'If I desire, I could have you executed in any way I liked,' the man said in a soft, dangerous voice. 'Or I could simply make you suffer so much pain that you would beg to be executed. There is nowhere that you can go. You are marked with my brand. Anywhere you went you would be shot on sight as a runaway. You are my chattel now, and these are my rules. Listen to them carefully.'

At Spock's lack of response the man forced him to raise his head with one finger under his chin.

'If you do not obey orders instantly, or you show laziness, or surliness, or a lack of respect, you will be beaten, or have your food or rest withdrawn. You may have lead weights attached to your hand and foot chains, and to your collar, and you will work while carrying that weight. If you show an inclination to use, or actually use, violence against your masters you will suffer extreme consequences. You may be flogged, or branded, or suffer removal of those delicate ears, or your nose or your tongue. If you ever attempt a sexual advance towards any female you will be castrated. If you attempt a sexual advance towards a free person, you will die in a most unpleasant fashion. You do not have rights or privileges. If you work well, we may allow you to exist without pain. That is all.'

'If I could be allowed to – ' Spock began again.

'Give him one hundred lashes for his insolence, then set him to work moving the rocks in the low field,' Master Heaton said abruptly, turning to Newman. 'If he disobeys again, give him another hundred. If he disobeys again, use the hammer to break one toe, and beat him again. Repeat that process until he becomes placid. He can have half rations tonight, and we'll see how tractable he is in the morning.' He looked down briefly, grinding his heavy boot against the blue shirt on the floor, covering it in dirt. 'Let him wear the rag once you've beaten him. It's something I may take from him later, depending on how he behaves.'

Spock stared about at the other cast down slaves about him, registering the thick scars of beatings and the various mutilations they had suffered. Almost none of them, male or female, had clothing above the waist. Some had no more than scraps of sacking cinched around their waists as a meagre covering. Hair grew matted and dirty, and no male was without a beard. Almost every slave his eyes fell on had obviously suffered a beating at some point, but even without such punishment it was obvious that life as a slave was by no means pleasant. He had no hope of escape at this point in time, so it was logical to at least affect submission for now.

'Punishment will not be necessary, Master,' he said softly, keeping his eyes cast towards the floor. 'I will obey.'

The master took his chin in one hand, lifting his head and staring into his face.

'Beat him anyway,' he said to Newman, disdainfully flicking Spock's chin away. 'Then we'll see.'