7: No Turning Back
The heavy door scraped open.
Spock squinted in the wash of light that streamed into the tiny cell. A pair of guards dragged him out and muscled him upright.
"Cripes, this hole stinks!" one complained. "And will you look at the blood on him? What the hell did he do to himself?"
The older guard eyed the stains on Spock skin and clothing. "That's not his—it's human. Must've worked someone over pretty good."
Seizing Spock by the arm, he thrust him down the hall. Spock staggered, caught his balance, and limped along slowly ahead of the guards. His legs no longer gave him much pain; they felt leaden and unresponsive, as if the nerve pathways were shutting down. According to his timesense, it was now the afternoon of the second day. He had been locked in that cell without food or water for 35.7 hours.
They arrived at the main shower room. The older guard pushed him, fully clothed, beneath the running water.
"See?" he said to impress his less experienced partner. "That's how you deal with these scum. Just show them who's in charge." He raised his voice annoyingly. "Isn't that right, number M343B?"
Spock finished stripping off his clothes. Taking a bar of soap, he began to wash. He caught water in his mouth and drank thirstily.
"Don't remember me, do you?" the guard persisted. "But I sure as hell remember you. His Royal Highness, first officer of the starship Enterprise. Always going around with your Vulcan nose stuck in the air." He emitted a short laugh. "Well, you're not so freaking important now—are you?"
Spock did what he could to shut out the taunts from his awareness.
Abruptly the angered guard yanked him away from the water and snatched the soap out of his hand. "I'm talking to you, M343B! And when I talk, you better the hell pay attention!"
Spock glanced at the phaser holstered at the guard's side. Encoded. Useless.
The guard drew the weapon and held it out to him. Snickering, he said, "Go ahead-take it! Make your move, big shot!"
The second guard shifted uneasily. "Come on, don't. There isn't time."
Deprived of his fun, Spock's tormentor threw the soap on the floor and walked away.
After showering, Spock was given clean garments. Instead of the usual gray stripes, the jumpsuit was orange—the color used for prisoners under transport. His pulse quickened as he stared at it.
"Move!" snapped the guard.
oooo
Accompanied by a pair of base sentries, Spock passed through the airy corridors of Starfleet Medical Center's security section. Many of the staff recognized him and stared openly at his untidy haircut and fluorescent jumpsuit, at the energy cuffs and leg restraints demanded by regulations. One nurse gave a wan smile and nodded a greeting.
Uncomfortable with all the attention, Spock acted as if he had not seen her and focused instead on his physical surroundings. It was as if he had emerged from a dark cavern into the light of day.
At the door of a hospital room, the guards courteously removed his restraints, and Spock entered the spacious realm that would be his for a few hours. The floor sparkled. The walls were so flawless and bright that he was tempted to reach out and brush them with his fingertips. His eyes moved on, settling hungrily on the huge panes of glass through which the afternoon sun was streaming.
"Hello, Mister Spock."
Dragging his eyes away, he turned toward the pleasant voice. It was the smiling nurse, accompanied by a sentry for her protection.
She handed him a pair of pajamas. "You can go ahead and put these on. The doctor will be with you shortly."
They left him, closing the door so that he could disrobe in privacy. After changing clothes, Spock went to the window and stood motionless in the sunshine, absorbing the magnificent view of San Francisco and the Bay. His eyes rose and beheld the sky—boundless blue, scattered clouds trailing mist, sea gulls in flight. He felt for the window control. There was a humming sound as the safety field engaged and a pane slid open. Cold, clean air rushed in.
The nurse appeared at his side and gently scolded him as she closed the window. "What are you doing? It's freezing out there."
Spock kept looking at the sky. As he watched, a cloud shifted, revealing a pale ghostly sliver of moon. Pained by the sight, he turned aside and found a guard now stationed beside the door.
Doctor M'Benga entered the room carrying a datapadd and offered a friendly greeting before sending Spock to the bed. M'Benga frowned as he ran his scanner and compared its readings with the information on Spock's chart. He said, "Your wife's been rightly concerned about your condition. I don't understand this at all. Your blood level of neuroplex should be considerably higher. Haven't you been taking your medication?"
"When it is given to me," Spock answered, wondering at the doctor's reference to Lauren. Had she arranged for today's treatment? Might he see her before he returned to Luna?
M'Benga's frown deepened and he glanced up. "You're supposed to be having 500 milligrams with every meal." He studied Spock's impassive face. "When did you last eat?"
Spock rapidly calculated. "Approximately forty-four-point-five hours ago."
"What?" M'Benga exclaimed. He gave Spock another sweep of the scanner. "You're dehydrated, too. Have you been ill?"
Spock told him about his stay in the punishment cell, and M'Benga's lips pressed tightly together. It was the closest Spock had ever seen the good-natured doctor come to losing his temper. Wordlessly M'Benga strode out of the room. He returned with a neuroplex injection, a tray of food and drink, and a neuro-stimulator unit.
The hours passed all too quickly, and Lauren never appeared. After the treatment, Spock left the bed and donned his prisoner's clothing. The guards were about to restrain him when he asked for one last moment at the window. There was no guarantee that he would ever set foot on Earth again.
"Sure, go ahead," came the amiable response.
Once more Spock looked down at the city, thinking of his wife and children. And of Jim. Had the captain been sent home to convalesce? Jim's high-rise apartment complex was framed by the setting sun. Although Spock's own home was not visible from here, in his mind's eye he clearly saw it. So very near!
His shoulders sagged with sudden discouragement. In better times he had been known to say that there were always possibilities, but his current situation seemed utterly hopeless. Even if he not attacked Ronaldi, Cho would have found some other way to mar his record and deny him even the distant expectation of freedom. A twenty year sentence had been difficult to face, but now it seemed as nothing beside a lifetime of unrelieved imprisonment. Gazing out at the magnificent red sunset, his throat tightened.
"I'm sorry," the guard said, "but I'll have to cuff you now."
Mechanically Spock complied. But as the cuffs and shackles snapped into place, he made a decision. In the space of a heartbeat, his desolate outlook changed to one of determination. He would come down to Earth again, perhaps by acting as if his condition had worsened. And next time he would have a plan of escape.
But what of Leo? There must be a way to include his friend.
As the sentries guided Spock to the security section's transporter, he took in every detail of his surroundings, locking the information away for future reference. He centered himself on the locus. There should have been a brief transport to Spacedock where the prison shuttle awaited them. Instead, they materialized in a building even more beautiful and ornate than the medical center. A transporter error?
Confused, Spock glanced around the lavish lobby of Starfleet Headquarters. A contingent of well-armed security officers stepped forward to receive him.
"This way," an officer said.
Spock rode with them on a turbolift that rose directly to an upper story. They walked down a hallway, through two doors, and entered Admiral Morrow's office. The admiral was seated at his desk. A woman rose from a nearby chair and met Spock's eyes. With a sharp mingling of joy and pain, Spock ventured toward his wife and received her embrace. Lauren's touch brought a conflicting muddle of impressions, but one thing was certain. She was extremely nervous.
Without saying a word, she retreated into the anteroom with the security escort. Spock found himself alone with the admiral.
Morrow lounged back in his chair and gazed at him through narrowed eyes. "Have a seat."
Working around his restraints, Spock lowered himself into the chair Lauren had vacated. The warmth left by her body enveloped him.
For a time Morrow sat silently, as if he did not quite know how to proceed, or would rather have said nothing at all. Finally he straightened. "This is difficult for me. Very difficult."
Spock did not find the situation particularly agreeable, either.
Morrow continued. "I don't know what story you told Doctor M'Benga this afternoon, but apparently he ran out and got hold of your wife—and now he's calling for an investigation into conditions at Luna." Sighing, he joined his hands before him on the desk. "I just got off the com with Jason Cho. I thought I'd have a friendly chat with him before this went any further." Pausing, he directed his attention to his computer monitor. "The warden had quite a bit to say about you."
"I am not surprised," Spock remarked.
Morrow studied the monitor a bit longer. "I see you're already acquiring quite a prison record for yourself. I can't believe all this. And Cho said there's another, even more serious incident under investigation—an incident that might well demand legal action."
"It is," Spock quietly concurred, "difficult to believe."
Morrow glanced up, clearly exasperated. "This isn't like you! Spock, what the hell has happened?"
"What has happened?" Spock repeated the admiral's query back to him. "Starfleet justice has found me guilty of attempted murder, and I have been integrated into the 'crown jewel' of Starfleet's correctional system. That is what happened."
Morrow's brows drew together. "It's not like you to be so cynical, either."
Spock adjusted his arms to relieve the energy cuffs' chafing. "Admiral, the Luna Correctional Facility is unfit to house livestock. Warden Cho and many of his staff use their power to abuse the inmates and garner gratuities for themselves. Surely a few complaints have slipped past Cho. I suggest you and your fellow admirals take the time to read them."
"All prisoners complain, Spock—but somehow I never thought you would."
Spock nodded in grim acceptance. Morrow's reaction did not really surprise him. "I must be a great disappointment to you."
"'Disappointment' doesn't even begin to describe it. I thought you would serve your sentence with some kind of dignity. But no, the warden tells me you've been stirring up the inmates—that, in fact, you're the guiding force behind the work stoppage at the mines." Morrow's dark gaze probed him. "Is that true?"
Spock was silent.
Morrow gave up trying to hide his anger. "Dammit, I'm warning you! Get those prisoners back to work or…"
"Or?" Spock raised an eyebrow. "Or I should think the embarrassment to Starfleet will be extreme. Imagine the adverse publicity when you are forced to close down the rotting Luna facility and move the prisoners to a more humane environment."
Morrow exploded. "A country club for cutthroats? Is that what you want? Well, I have news for you, Mister! That prison uniform you're wearing doesn't pull any weight around here! It'll be a cold day in hell when murderers and rabble-rousers start dictating Starfleet policy!" His hand reached for the intercom. "One minute with your wife, then you're through."
Spock rose as Lauren entered the room.
Her hopeful eyes moved from Spock to Morrow. "Well?"
The glowering admiral went to a window and stared out at the twilight, hands clasped behind his rigid back.
"He will not listen," Spock told her.
Turning to him, she sadly touched his face. Once more, that sense of tension.
Reaching up, she kissed him on the lips. He had almost forgotten how soft they felt. The subtle fragrance of her perfume drifted on the air. Realizing that they might never be this close again, his heart ached.
"Trust me," she whispered.
He did not understand.
Then Lauren stepped away and drew a phaser from inside her uniform jacket.
Spock's eyes widened. Instinctively, his wrists strained at the cuffs that prevented him from stopping her. "Lauren, no!" he said urgently.
Morrow glanced their way. At the sight of the phaser his jaw dropped.
Using both hands, Lauren targeted him and warned, "Stay right where you are. You wouldn't listen. You wouldn't pay attention to any of us. Now we're going to do it my way."
"No," Spock said emphatically. "This is not the way. Lauren, put the phaser down."
Her fingers tightened over the weapon. Her eyes stayed on Morrow.
"She is not herself," Spock told the admiral. "The strain—"
"Oh, I'm just fine and dandy," she declared. With her free hand she reached into her jacket and pulled out a communicator.
Spock fell silent. So this was not some desperate, ill-conceived act. She had a plan—of course. Lauren always planned everything carefully, but this time she was making a grievous error.
"Think of what you're doing," Morrow said.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," she retorted. "In a couple of seconds the two of us are going to beam right out of here. Now, I could use this phaser on you, but we both know it would set off every alarm in the building. So we'll just go out real quiet, and maybe for old times' sake you'll give us a minute or two before you call out your cops."
"You know I can't do that," Morrow responded.
"Lauren—" Spock began once more to reason with her, but got no further.
She spoke into the communicator, and they were gone.
Alone, Morrow tapped his combadge—and unaccountably hesitated. The force of his indecision took him by surprise. Could it be that deep down inside he actually believed Spock might be innocent? It was a long moment before he could bring himself to speak.
"Security! Prisoner escaped!"
oooo
Even as Spock materialized beside his wife, he was aware of an impulse engine engaging. Clearly they were aboard a space vessel, and it was quite small. He turned the full force of his displeasure upon Lauren. "What have you done? The children—your career—our home!"
Eyes brimming with angry tears, she tucked away her phaser. "Without you there is no home! Can't you see that?"
Fuming, she strode off the little transporter platform. Confined by his leg shackles, Spock followed her off slowly and glanced about the room. The little transporter console was unattended; apparently the controls had been operated from some other area. His eyes found a logo above the door. Sanger Shipping. He abruptly realized that they were aboard a ship owned by Lauren's mother, and a still more troubling thought occurred to him.
"Are the children here?"
"Of course not," she retorted. "They're safe in Manhattan, with Mother."
That offered some small relief. "You do realize that in order to avoid suspicion we will have to escape the solar system before engaging warp speed?"
"Yes, dear—I know."
"Lauren, we never discussed this. Do you have any idea of the consequences? You have just committed a felony."
She thrust a finger toward the transporter platform. "Do you want to go back—is that it? Go on, there's still time!"
For a moment he looked into her flaming blue eyes and seriously considered it. But at last he said, "No."
oooo
Freed of his restraints, Spock stood at the viewport in the ship's lounge. He watched as they cleared the outer rim of the solar system. Abruptly the stars shifted and blurred into warp space.
He had not expected them to make it even this far. But then, he had not expected any of this. Turning, he sat down in a plush chair opposite Lauren. Any Vulcan would experience a deep-seated need to protect his bondmate and his children. In prison, he had been helpless to do so, and now Lauren had thrust them into a situation that was harmful to them all.
"Talk to me," she said.
He hardly knew how to express his frustration.
"Would you have cared if Jim got you out of that miserable excuse for a prison? I think not. But it was me—a mere female—your own wife."
He shook his head. "Our conversations had barely touched on some future possibility of escape, and even then you were never to be involved."
"Twenty years." Lauren's voice pleaded with him to understand. "Spock, I saw what that place was like. I couldn't leave you there, any more than you could have left me."
"Now our children have not only lost their father—they have lost their mother, as well."
Her tears welled, crying out for a tender response from him. "I know. Believe me, I know. But someday we'll all be together again. Trust me."
Annoyed, he said, "You know nothing of the future. You only imagine. To act only upon one's imagination is irrational."
"Is love irrational, too? What a silly question. Of course it is."
Spock withheld comment. The concept of love could not be addressed by logic, but its power was nonetheless real. He had experienced it in his own life; even at this very moment, as he mourned his family's ruined prospects.
Quietly he asked, "Where are we bound?"
"The Antares system, with a shipment of pharmaceuticals. From there we'll have to make our own way. I have some forged I.D. chips."
"Flimsy. Inadequate. There will be retina scans."
"We'll avoid them," she said. "We'll be careful."
"We'll be apprehended. First, they will check all the places where we might be expected to seek refuge. Sydok, Gamma Vertas IV, and even Vulcan. Once they learn from Commander Carmichael that we are searching for T'Naisa Brandt, Starfleet will concentrate a great effort to locate her and..."
"Exactly!" Lauren left her chair and sank onto her knees beside him. "We want them to find her. Once she's in jail, we can turn ourselves in. Carmichael will help get this whole mess straightened out."
There was some logic in that. "But if Starfleet finds us first?" he questioned.
"They won't."
Spock's eyebrow climbed. "On what do you base that conclusion?"
"On the fact that we'll have an extremely intelligent, resourceful guide. You."
Was she attempting to win him over with flattery? Or did she actually believe he had the ability to evade a full scale Starfleet manhunt while attempting to carry out a search of his own? He told her, "You sound very sure of the outcome. What if it turns out that T'Naisa Brandt was not even involved? At most, we have only a theory."
"But a sound theory," Lauren insisted. "T'Naisa has to be the one!"
"There is no guarantee of that. Meanwhile, you have committed a serious crime. I cannot believe that your mother actively assisted you."
She gave him a wan smile. "She's a Stemple, like me. And like you, too," she added, referring to their common strain of human ancestry. "We put our necks on the line for what we believe in. And Spock, she's always believed in you." The corners of her mouth lifted a bit more. "She thinks you're the best thing to come along since warp drive."
More flattery? "Lauren," he said, "it is one thing to lay down your own life, but your actions will adversely affect the lives of our children."
She took his hand. "Spock, I know you have a strong opinion about this—especially because of T'Beth. You swore you'd never abandon another child. But this isn't the same. I did this for their sake, as much as our own. Meanwhile, they'll be fine with Mother. I set her up with a specialist for James, and she knows a violinist who can tutor Simon."
It was true; Spock could not help but think of T'Beth's early years apart from him. He knew from painful experience what could happen if a child's emotional needs were not met by a parent. Now he warned Lauren, "They will not understand."
"Do you think they understood it before? Spock, Simon was starting to believe you were guilty, and the twins didn't even know you from your lawyer!"
She touched her fingertips to his face, then stood up. "I brought you some clothes. Come on back to the cabin and change out of those prison rags."
oooo
Lauren awoke to the soothing thrum of a warp drive engine. Eyes still closed, she rolled over in bed. Her hand sought out the space beside her. Empty.
Abruptly she sat up and looked at the shadowy corner of the cabin where Spock had been meditating when she lay down. He was nowhere in sight. Throwing back the covers, she put on a robe and ventured barefoot down the courtesy-lit corridor. Triggering open the lounge door, she peered in.
Spock turned from the observation window. Light from the corridor cut across his brown flannel shirt and accentuated the somber lines of his face. Entering, Lauren adjusted the interior illumination to a soft, relaxing level.
"You must be tired," she said. "Come and sleep."
He shook his head and turned back to the stars.
Lauren loosed a sigh. "You're still angry with me."
Spock took a moment to respond. "It would be so much better if you were not involved, but now that you have set us on this course, there's no turning back."
She went to the window and stood beside him until he finally looked her way. Hungry for his touch, she reached for his hand, but he drew away from her. The rejection hurt badly. How long was he going to keep this up? With each passing hour it was becoming increasingly evident that he really did not want to be touched by her—physically or mentally. Is that why he had not come to bed?
"You are angry," she insisted. "You think I should have stayed home with the children and left you to rot."
Spock drew in slow breath. "That is not at all what I am thinking."
Lauren waited for him to say more, but he stared out at the stars in maddening silence. Finally her patience snapped. "Then tell me! Tell me what's on your mind."
His dark, unfathomable eyes found her. "Very well," he said at last. "I was thinking of prison."
The words came as a relief. She had been expecting yet another reproach for her "ill-conceived escapade", and told him feelingly, "That place was horrible."
"Yes." His gaze shifted back to the window. "It may be some time before I am ready to reveal everything that happened there."
Lauren placed her fingers on his arm, and though he did not move away, it was like handling a statue. Whatever was troubling him, ran very deep.
"That's alright," she said, as much for her own benefit as his. For suddenly she was so frightened that she reached out and embraced him tightly, hoping against hope for a normal response.
For a moment his arms remained rigidly at his sides. In slow motion he raised them and touched her back ever so lightly. Was that all? Was that all he could give? But then, to her relief, he opened just enough to say, "I left a friend behind…"
oooOooo
