Chapter Six
"We have two left; I can recommend only one," said the Andorian, gesturing toward the non-descript vessels behind him. Nasim had been observing the strangers deep in discussion as they cast glances toward his lot. He made them for off-worlders immediately. Though there was plenty of traffic from Tirellis, Nasim could spot strangers at a glance. That ability, along with a superb memory and language capability, had earned Nasim this post. The honour was well worth the surgery. As the two men approached him, his sequiglottis thrummed quietly in anticipation before he spoke to them in Standard: "The other one needs an overhaul."
McCoy looked at the two ships, hunched on their landing gear like grasshoppers, and grunted in disdain. "Are we supposed to guess which one?"
Spock shot the physician a warning glance before turning to the Andorian dealer. "You have surmised that we are interested in purchasing a vessel."
"I know my business. I own the last two short-range warp drive ships on this rock, and you two look like you need one."
"That is of no consequence, Dealer," Spock answered. "Why would I want to purchase such a vessel without any guarantee of its capability? Have you any references?"
Nasim's antennae flattened exactly as a true Andorian's would, and he smiled inwardly as the smaller man took a step back, a sure sign he knew the customs of the Andorian race, a species not commonly seen in this quadrant. So, they are spacers! No wonder they look so out of place, he thought. "I keep no records. You take it or leave it."
The smaller man spoke, his tone soothing and polite. "The bartender across town said you hadn't sold a vessel for some time. Seems to me you might be a little more anxious to sell now. Surely you and I could come to some sort of agreement. For instance, how about that customer the bartender told us about? He said you belly-ached about a particular sale some time ago, claiming the man who bought it got the better of you. If he got such a good deal, why couldn't you use him as a reference? Where can we contact him?"
Nasim scowled. This human was looking for more than a vessel or reference. And his companion, though hooded, was obviously vulcanoid – unlikely companions in these parts. Searching for Ganezh's pet, no doubt. "Forget it," he growled. "Do you want a ship or don't you?"
Spock eyed the Andorian. He obviously knew something, but there was little chance of his divulging it. "We will give the matter some consideration and contact you tomorrow morning should we decide not to make other travel arrangements."
The two men strolled away, supposedly unconcerned that they were abandoning the only means of travel in this sector, barring taking the shuttle bus back where they came from. Beta Gamma II was a take-off point for may places, and strangers did not usually make round trips back to Tirellis. Nasim knew the shuttle clientele – regulars who bartered, brought imported goods, traded he nightlife. But strangers who shuttled to Beta Gamma were bound elsewhere, the colony merely a launching site for many uncharted asteroids and planetoids, places controlled by privateering Orions and their minions. These two strangers were no different – they would be back tomorrow. The questions they were asking, however, were unsettling. Stranger traffic had dwindled to practically nothing since word of Ganezh's influence had circulated. When Faal had shown up Nasim had speculated that he was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to foray into the alien's territory. But Ganezh the alien had 'favored' him and shipped him off to the Cholanthis compound, never to be sold or killed. These two knew something of him, or he was no Orion.
Nasim closed up shop early and went to his home, a room above a brothel. Raucous noise from the party swelled below him as he put in a call to Rriendal, captain of the patrolling Orion ship, his commanding officer. Perhaps soon these strangers would also be making an unexpected trip to Cholanthis. Better for them if they had forgotten about their acquaintance. Whether it was or friendship or revenge they sought him, they would soon find their sole search would be for a quick and easy death.
ooOOoo
"Well, we wanted to find Jim, but I guess I didn't give much thought as to how we would do it," McCoy grumbled, testing the strength of his bonds. Spock, likewise restrained, sat quietly across the cubicle. "You sure this is the way we planned it?"
"You will only succeed in injuring yourself if you continue to struggle," said the Vulcan, noting the raw skin of the doctor's wrists. "As to our capture, I assumed we would fall into the hands of the alleged Orions in much the same way Jim did, simply because we are taking the same steps. No doubt intruders into this quadrant are not free to travel where they will, but are taken for questioning."
"Or worse." Sighing in resignation, McCoy leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. Despite the 'success' of their plan, it was still hard to fathom how quickly their circumstances had changed. One minute they were headed for one of the many asteroid fields, the next they were caught in a tractor beam. Once their vessel was pulled inside the larger ship, a contingent of Orions had escorted hem to the cell they now occupied.
So far they had not been mistreated. In fact, they had been virtually ignored. McCoy had the haunting idea that the Orions were transporting them to a slave colony, parsecs from any civilization as he knew it. But what was he thinking? "Spock, any Orion worth his salt would know you and I are Federation, so why would they want us?"
"Because they do not want us to report what we've learned. Up to now the Orions have been the elusive antagonists. They have been an annoyance but hardly a threat. The Babel incident, however, proved that they can be formidable if adequately motivated. However, when we confronted them that time they backed off. Dilithium was their catalyst before, but something entirely different spurred them to action this time – something far more compelling."
"You mean the report we heard about the alien presence? The attacks and rumours?"
"Yes. There was no logic in the attacks on the Civibase or the science vessel, not even the perverted logic of terrorism. The attacks were simply made. Then there is the illogic of Federation prisoners and rumours of torture. The Orions are too capitalistic to maintain prisoner compounds which do not afford them a profit. Which follows that an alien presence may have coerced or forced them into these acts."
"If we corroborate that fact to Starfleet, the rumours won't be rumours anymore."
"Precisely."
"So why haven't they killed us?"
"Until now, I would have said because we are Federation citizens. Based on the prison rumours, however, I must confess I have insufficient data to form an opinion."
"Who needs data? I can't ignore this gut feeling, prickles at the back of my neck, a. . ."
"There is no need to inundate me with allegories, Doctor. What is your opinion?"
"That they knew we were looking for Jim. That they're holding him somewhere, for whatever reason, and they were afraid we'd find him and escape. They won't let us go for the same reason they won't let him go – we know too much."
"That does not account for the fact that the Orions could have easily annihilated us, thus eradicating any problem we may have presented. There is another factor which is yet to be disclosed and until we find out what it is, speculation is pointless."
"It may be pointless, but it beats staring at the walls. This whole thing has been nothing but a wild goose chase from the start!" McCoy threw himself sideways on his pallet and tried to find oblivion in sleep.
Spock sat alone, watching McCoy. The man was anxious, understandably so, because they were about to embark on yet another unknown journey in their long mission together. He clamped his mind shut on the nagging suggestion that it may very well be their last.
ooOOoo
Jonn stood at the far end of the compound, hustled and prodded along with the others to stand at attention in order to observe the arrival of new prisoners. A squad of petty officers from the Orion ship encircled two men and escorted them through the gates, weapons brought to bear. One of the officers approached Garal, commander of the compound on the asteroid Cholanthis, and remanded them to his care. His voice carried easily across the yard and Jonn head the words 'Phederata-an' and 'Faal'. Garal cursed loudly, glancing toward Jonn, and spat into the dirt. The officer, undaunted, continued his verbal barrage, but the only other word Jonn could make out was 'Ganezh'. This seemed to have the desired effect, as Garal sullenly accepted care of the prisoners.
A fellow inmate, a Tellarite, pressed against Jonn's side. "Anybody you know, Faal?" he whispered. At least to a Tellarite it must have seemed like a whisper. To Jonn it sounded as if his friend had shouted it over the whole compound.
"Shh! I want to hear what they're saying."
"Well, all you had to do was say so," snapped the shorter inmate, his nostrils flaring.
Jonn turned to him in exasperation, aware of the watchful eye of the guard. "Tarn, please." He smiled disarmingly. Mollified somewhat, the Tellarite subsided and Jonn was able to turn his attention to the new 'enrollees'. It appeared these two were under the same 'non-destruct' category he was, sent to Cholanthis by Ganezh. A lot of good it would do them, he thought, especially the taller one. His hood, thrown back, revealed his Vulcan heritage, and would soon make him the object of derision among some of he prisoners, of sport among select guards. It did not do to stand out too much here.
The guards removed the new prisoners' cloaks and a black packet carried by the human. The man was incensed and tried to retrieve the box-shaped article, claiming the Orion captain had allowed him to keep it. He was yelling something about being a doctor, that he needed those things. . .
A guard slammed the butt of his blaster between the human's shoulders, knocking him to his knees. Garal threw the black box on the ground in front of the man and stomped it into a shapeless mass before his eyes.
So it begins for them, Jonn thought, averting his eyes from the scene, feeling their shame. They would have to learn everything the hard way, as the rest of the prisoners had. They would have to learn alone, and fast, to survive here. And if you survived, you had already learned the hardest lesson of all.
ooOOoo
"NonAl Code C, Section IVb, condition CONCLUSIVE. Okay, Mr. Scott, I see it; it's obviously classified – what does it mean?" The young captain of the science vessel frowned at the printed transcript of the last Starfleet transmission to the Enterprise.
Scott had thought it prudent not to tell her that he 'overheard' the information. What mattered right now was that he was acting captain of the Enterprise and he was hell-bent on getting her three top officers back. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together on his crossed knee. "Nothin', lass, if you're runnin' a science vessel." He watched her for a reaction, wondering just how much he could trust this youngster. Too often greenies went by the book – there was not enough experience or wisdom to temper their decisions. Science vessel captains – were they the same as starship captains? He'd known a few in his time. Many were top-notch. Some, though. . . He shrugged mentally. Wouldn't do to judge the lass by past experience. She'd have to prove herself.
Fletcher, growing weary of Scott's silence, stood hastily and moved toward the briefing room door. "Mr. Scott, when you're ready to tell me something I can use, I'll be on the bridge."
Scott fought an impulse to smile; he appreciated Fletcher's fire, and empathized with her impatience. She had a job to do and he was taking up her valuable time. "The NonAl Code C section refers to Starfleet's dealings with non-alliance planets. With no treaties, no agreements of any kind, it's a very touchy thing to deal with 'em. Section IVb deals specifically with a non-alliance planet requesting assistance from the Federation via Starfleet. Such assistance could easily be construed as an act of war unless very strict guidelines were followed."
Fletcher walked back to the table, leaning on the back of a chair. "You're saying we're here because someone – the Orions – asked us to." She put both hands behind her back and paced the width of the room, chewing the inside of her cheek. Scotty kept his peace, waiting to see what she was working out on her own. She stopped in front of a small observation port and gazed out, then turned to look at the engineer. "I suppose CONCLUSIVE means we've verified that the request is genuine and they aren't trying to lure us into a trap of some kind."
"On the nose, Captain. The Orions are just as concerned about what's been happening in this quadrant as the Federation is."
Fletcher crossed her arms and leaned back against the bulkhead. "So, what are we supposed to do?"
"For the moment, nothin'. We still bide our time until we see or hear somethin' we can grab onto. I've seen your map for examining the asteroid belts around yonder star," he indicated the orb in question on the tactical screen, "and concur with your plans to divide the belts into ten sectors. We'd best keep our patience and tackle 'em one by one. We'll combine our science department with yours, poolin' our people's knowledge and experience as much as we can. My people will keep an eye on traffic in and out of the system. With the NonAl Code in operation, we're left pretty much to do as we please."
He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. "If we pull this off and find out what these Orion renegades are up to, we'll be given citations."
"What if we don't?"
"Ah well," said the Scotsman, his features darkening, "then we'll be given somethin' else entirely."
ooOOoo
"Dr. McCoy, are you all right?" Spock gripped the physician's arm as Bones stumbled along with him toward the other prisoners, the guard behind them poking McCoy in the tender area between his shoulder blades.
The doctor nodded, his teeth clenched, and leaned on the Vulcan for support. He had treated injuries caused by blows to the spinal column, but had never had the pleasure of experiencing one himself. The pain, though subsiding, was still considerable, and he was glad for Spock's help.
"Spock, that was my medical kit! Everything I had was in there: scanner, broad spectrum hypos! I. . ."
"Quiet, earther!" snapped the guard, and slammed the palm of his hand into the doctor's back. Stifling a cry, McCoy fell to the ground in front of the watching prisoners who stood attention in front of them. Spock noticed that not one of them looked at the injured man; he also noticed the watchfulness of the guards who surrounded them. The guard who had accompanied them across the yard eyed him expectantly. Spock took his cue from the other prisoners and stood respectfully, looking down. Gradually, though no one moved, he could sense a perceptible relaxing among the guards who, after a few more seconds, lowered their weapons and left the prisoners alone.
Spock knelt beside the doctor, who was on his hands and knees. A few prisoners moved away as soon as the guards left, but some of them crowded in to watch as the Vulcan helped the medical officer to stand. Two prisoners stepped forward.
"You should never confront a guard face-to-face," growled the Tellarite.
"Especially if he's Garal," added the human.
Spock, still supporting McCoy, turned his gaze to the second speaker and his jaw dropped. McCoy, instantly recognizing the voice of the human, lifted his head and looked into the hazel eyes of Jim Kirk.
"Jim!" yelled the doctor. Oblivious to pain, he flung himself from Spock and onto Jonn, hugging him fiercely.
"Get off me!" Jonn's eyes widened in horror and he cast a look of panic at his Tellarite companion. He wrestled from McCoy's embrace and pushed him away.
McCoy stood dumbfounded, his eyes smarting as if he'd been struck in the face. "Jim," he repeated, his voice breaking, "it's me, it's. . ."
"Doctor," Spock warned. The sound of his own voice seemed strange. The link with Kirk in such close proximity bombarded him with such fear, the enormity of it staggered him. This was Faal's fear, and it was directed at McCoy! Clearing his throat, trying to ignore the powerful emotions pervading his mind, Spock sought the physician's attention. It would not do to alert the guards of the captain's real name, nor their own.
But McCoy didn't hear him. He was looking in disbelief at Kirk, searching his face for signs of recognition, signs that simply weren't there. For so long he'd imagined this event, when the obstacles and problems had been overcome and they were together once more – the mutual embraces and slaps on the back, the joking and kidding among the half-hidden tears. But this! "Don't you know me?" he tried again.
"No, I don't. Even if I did, I wouldn't pull a damn fool stunt like that! You don't want to attract attention to yourself – ever! Some of the guards are on the lookout for new candidates for their Ripper device. And if there aren't any volunteers they take what they want. So you keep your hands to yourself, you got that?"
"I – I got it," Bones mumbled, wanting only to sit down. Most of the prisoners had dispersed; the encroaching twilight apparently was a signal for the day's routine to end. Turning his back on Faal, Spock helped McCoy over to a pile of crates where one or two prisoners sprawled, and lowered him to the ground. He paused a moment, settling his thoughts as much as possible. First order of business must be to assess their situation. Crouching beside the doctor, the Vulcan took the first good look around the compound since he had arrived. Roughly square in shape, there was only one entrance at the far end, the C.O.'s quarters beside it. Guard towers were at every corner, with guards on foot between them at ground level. There was no wire or fence around the perimeter, but the field of the atmospheric screen could be discerned by the moisture condensed upon it. One step through that was death in the vacuum of space. Apparently the only way out was through the gate. So why the towers?
To his left, approximately twenty feet inside the guards' perimeter, was a small shack with two doors. A line of prisoners moved into one of them and out the other, bowls in hand. When they came out each bowl held a lump of grey-white material which they ate with their fingers. Spock could not help but notice how little of it there was, and how soon consumed.
"You don't' get any tonight."
Spock looked up at Faal, who stood with his own bowl, already empty, licking his fingers.
"Please explain."
Faal shrugged. "First night. Call it initiation rites. Most of us walked right up there with the rest of them, thinking we'd be fed this garbage like everyone else." Faal ran his finger around the rim of the bowl and popped it into his mouth, then wiped his dirty hand on a dirtier shirt. "What we didn't know was that they put you in your place for such impertinence."
"What do they do to you?" asked McCoy.
"They make you kill and eat a cuara with your bare hands."
"What is a cuara?" Spock asked.
"That," answered Faal, pointing to the privies. A pale creature about the size of a Terran rat scurried around busily, a furless animal with large, luminous purple eyes and slitted ear-holes just behind them, giving it the unnerving appearance of a tiny white shark with legs. "They're quite muscular around the back of the head. The only way you can kill one is to hit it between the eyes. That is, if you can hit it before it bites you."
"You've got my attention, man. What's the catch?" McCoy had the distinct impression Faal was enjoying this, and he didn't like being the object of his amusement.
"The bite's poisonous. Not enough to kill you, though you wish it was. But you don't have a choice. You either kill the cuara or you go to the Ripper. So you stomp on it, kick it, throw rocks at it. Then you pick up the dead mess and eat it piece by piece, organ by organ, until it's consumed. Fortunately the bones are small, and the guards don't care if you puke your guts out. . ."
"That's enough," said Spock, noting McCoy's unnatural pallor. "Why would you warn us of this initiation?" Faal's smirk faded, his eyes unfathomable for a moment. Then he shrugged nonchalantly and sat upon an upturned crate. "Let's just say I like to give the cuara a break once in awhile. They are useful, you know." At Spock's raised eyebrow, Faal continued: "They keep the privies clean."
McCoy snorted in spite of himself, and Faal broke into a small, lopsided grin which looked so good it hurt. The doctor, still contending with residual pain, shivered involuntarily, noticing for the first time how quickly the temperature was dropping.
"Sleep back to back, if you trust each other," advised Faal, his voice low. "Next to that, the best way's with your back to the perimeter shield. The field generates a small amount of heat, but that's not the best feature. No one can get to you from behind."
A blaring, discordant sound screeched across the compound.
"That's the lights out signal. You have one minute to find your place, then it's pitch dark. If you're caught moving around after that, it's punishment." Faal nodded to them, walking briskly toward his own 'place' near some of the other prisoners.
"My God, Spock, look at him!" whispered the physician. "He's lost twenty pounds, at least!"
"It has not escaped my notice," replied the Vulcan, as he watched Faal settle himself next to the Tellarite, near the perimeter. The borrowed Orion uniform hung loosely on his frame, and as he assumed the fetal position to conserve heat, Faal looked more like an adolescent than a starship captain.
ooOOoo
McCoy's shivering woke Spock just before dawn. He raised his head cautiously, remembering Faal's warning, and looked around the still quiet yard. Guards stood sleepily at their posts, no longer pacing; some prisoners were in heavy sleep while others turned restlessly. The light was broadening with encroaching day and Spock could see quite clearly a guard walk among a group of sleeping prisoners and pick one out, roughly pulling the man to his feet. The prisoner walked ahead of the guard toward a building across from the C.O.'s quarters – apparently a storage building of some kind. The Orion pushed the prisoner in ahead of him and kicked the door shut. A few seconds later another Orion, dressed in laboratory gear and carrying a small bag, walked from a building behind the C.O.'s quarters and entered the storage building.
Spock waited for some time, listening for what, he wasn't sure. There was no noise from the building, no sign of movement in the broadening light. Soon, the discordant sound of the morning assembly warning blared across the area. Prisoners hurriedly picked themselves off the ground and moved to form straight lines in the middle of the compound. The prisoner and two Orions still had not come out of the building, and Spock was forced to give up his vigil.
McCoy was stiff and sore, finding it difficult to stand. "Spock, you go on," he said to the Vulcan as the prisoners scurried to their positions. "I can barely walk, much less run."
Spock would hear nothing of it. Placing one arm around McCoy's waist and pulling the doctor's arm around his own shoulders, he half-lifted the man and brought him to the assembly before the guards began to catch stragglers. Spock noticed that some of the guards were exceptionally harsh with prisoners who moved too slowly, but other guards appeared to be overlooking such breaches of conduct.
The prisoners stood at attention for one hour, two hours, without making a sound. The sun, climbing quickly, began to heat the humid atmosphere, and Spock found himself breathing shallowly, his body's involuntary response to inhospitable conditions. He forced himself to breathe more deeply, not wishing to hyperventilate. The humid air felt like a hot weight in his expanding lungs.
There was movement at the C.O.'s door. Guards snapped to attention as Garal left the shade of the building and approached the assembly.
McCoy shifted his weight next to Spock. Though tempted to put out an arm to steady the man, Spock dared not do it, not wanting to draw attention to McCoy. "Just a few minutes longer, Doctor," he whispered. "No doubt we'll be dispersed after inspection." The human shot him a look of gratitude and straightened fractionally.
Spock!
Kirk's voice pierced the Vulcan's mind so abruptly and unexpectedly that he looked for its source before he could consider the consequences of his action. One row in front of him, at the end, stood Faal, who darted an involuntary look of surprise at Spock.
"You!" The voice was peremptory, cold.
"He means you, pointed ears!" yelled a guard who manhandled Spock to the front of the assembly to stand before Garal.
The commander of the compound walked up to Spock, eyeing him critically. "The new one. And a protected one, too," he said in Standard. "Do you know what that means, Vulcan, protected?" Somehow Spock did not think the Orion wanted an answer to that question. In any case, he remained silent.
"It means we can't kill you, because you're our benefactor's pet. Benefactor – pah!" he spat. "Meddler, manipulator!" The surrounding guards looked uncomfortable at their commander's outburst. "He controls us from who knows where, interfering, wasting me and my men on garbage holes like this!" Garal clenched his fists and blew an explosive gust through the sequiglottis, forcing himself to be calm. "In any event, I follow orders. You will no be killed, nor your medic friend. But mind this, Vulcan. There are things worse than death, and protection does not exempt you from them. Just ask Faal. He's been protected for awhile, haven't you, Faal?"
Jonn stood rigidly, not blinking, not daring to breathe, not wanting to have more attention drawn to himself. The guards always went after attention-getters.
"You turned your head in assembly, Vulcan. That is a crime which must be punished. Since it is your first offense, I will be lenient. Chandri, the least setting – this time."
The guard whom Garal addressed approached Spock with a device loosely resembling a pair of tongs, a small box at the apex blinking a red light. "Hold still and it will be over quickly," said Chandri. Was there a hint of apology in his voice? Moving fast, he placed the tongs on either side of the Vulcan's forehead and pressed a switch. The energy which exploded through Spock's brain convulsed him before the regulated power surge shut off, and he collapsed to the ground, body twitching.
At some signal McCoy could not discern, the assembly was dismissed, and he hobbled toward his fallen friend. The guard who administered the punishment, Chandri, stuck out his arm, barring him. "I'm sorry, human, but no one is to interfere. Your friend will be all right." He looked around nervously. "But you must leave the area at once before you face the same punishment, or worse." He glanced over toward the mysterious storage building where Spock had observed the anonymous prisoner disappear hours earlier.
Reluctantly the doctor backed off, turning to follow the other prisoners. He was brought up short by the sight of Faal, hands clasped to his head as he staggered blindly away. Bones went to him as quickly as his injuries would allow, reaching him about the same time as Faal's companion, the Tellarite. Together they guided him toward the crates. They sat the man down and McCoy took a seat himself, his legs trembling with fatigue. Across from him, in plain view, was Spock's unconscious form, but there was nothing he could do for him, nothing. He leaned forward to ease his back and watched for the first sign of movement.
ooOOoo
Stardate: Unknown. Location: Unknown. Personal log of – well, never mind. I know who I am, I think. It's been a long time since I've entered a log on paper, using a stylus. However, we take what we can get here, which is a little of everything. Fortunately one or two guards are pretty decent fellows. I have a sneaky feeling many of them don't want to be here at all. Amazingly enough, Chandri, the guard who applied the energy discipline to Spock, is the one who gave me these writing materials. He says it's because I'm the 'doc', whatever that means. I think it's because he feels sorry for me. Anyway, to update, Spock seems fully recovered from the energy discipline he endured several days ago, but I know him too well not to see subtle changes. We've been in capture situations before, Spock and I, and he's shown himself to be a wellspring of jail-breaking techniques. Just how many times I've watched him examine every crack, every seam of our cell with those long fingers, looking for any means available for escape, I can' begin to count. But now I'm not sure what Spock is doing. There's something, but it's not true to character, doesn't fit somehow. If I could just figure it out. . .
"Damn." McCoy looked at the broken end of the stylus, disgust written on his face.
"Expletives will not restore the point."
"Spare me, Spock. I'm not talking about the stylus anyway," he fussed, "or this either, though I should," he continued, pointing to the mess in his untouched food bowl. Spock shot him a look which reminded him he had spoken his friend's name and Bones bit his lip in anger.
It was bad enough thinking of Jim as Jonn Faal without having to remember his and Spock's 'other' names as well. His was easy enough – everyone called him 'doc' from the first day and found nothing unusual in the Vulcan's more formal 'doctor'. But Spock's name – the agreed-upon alias had been Salek, but McCoy found himself unable to relate to that name at all. It was a mental effort to use it and, in his fatigue, he often forgot. Whenever they were able to speak privately, it was in whispers – only once had McCoy spotted Jonn staring at them quizzically, and he had no way of knowing whether it was because he had overheard him call the Vulcan by his real name, or some other reason.
In any event, since Spock's discipline Jonn had kept his distance. Apparently he had become aware of his attachment to Spock via the 'Kirk' link, though he probably didn't understand how or why. His Tellarite friend Tarn, however, was curious, often sidling up to them in the food line or inviting them to play in one of the games the prisoners had contrived to while away the idle hours. Their reluctance to become friendly with Faal's companion might have quailed the ardor of a human, but Tellarites' feelings rarely got hurt unless they felt like it. Tarn's good-natured, stage-voiced vocalizations were at least tolerated if not encouraged.
It was time for evening meal – as usual, they sat in the familiar, almost comforting area of the crates. This was home now. Strange how things had altered in the course of a few days. McCoy was seated beside Spock and looked down into the bowl again. There among the terga, an Orion grain food, were squirming the usual white grubs, hatched from eggs laid by insects as the grain waited in various space docks along the trading routes. McCoy had watched as prisoners ate the grubs along with the undercooked grain, seeing that they suffered no apparent ill effects, but as yet he had been unable to make himself follow suit. He had methodically picked them out the first night they were fed and crushed them under the heel of his boot. On the other hand Spock, though a vegetarian, had begun consuming the grubs after observing the other prisoners' practice, so McCoy began giving him his. It was just another sign of Spock's altered behavior. He had entered into the compound routine without hesitation, spent the endless hours during the day seemingly in meditation, and behaved with deference to the guards and C.O., though they and even a few of the prisoners found opportunities to mock and bully him. Despite that, along with the dirt, unsanitary facilities, and abominable food, Spock carried himself as if he were on a diplomatic mission, his every need provided for.
Even this could be expected of the Vulcan, McCoy knew. It would be a defense against the horrible things they were beginning to see here – and they were horrible. McCoy had wakened several times in the night to disembodied screams of pain echoing in the blackness. Once he had detected movement near them as he and Spock huddled back to back for warmth, but when Spock sat up hastily the intruder moved away. Just last night there had been a scuffle near the perimeter next to the food shack, where Faal slept, and this morning Jonn had sported a black eye and an ugly weal which started under his left ear and disappeared down the neck of his shirt. Tarn, for once, was tight-lipped about the matter.
McCoy shook his head. It was difficult looking at Kirk and knowing that he wasn't really seeing his friend. What was more shocking was when he realized that sometimes he didn't think of Jonn as Jim Kirk at all. This Faal personality was becoming a separate entity, a person in his own right.
"What is bothering you, Doctor?" Spock set down his empty bowl and eyed the untouched food in McCoy's bowl.
McCoy tried to smile – it moved his lips but didn't reach his eyes. He looked at the bowl and its contents and decided the effort was too much tonight, and kicked it from him into the dirt. "You want to know what's bothering me, Spock, here? Now?" he gestured widely, including all the ragged people around them. "Prisoners, not knowing what's going to happen from day to day, wondering just how long we. . ." He stopped, forcing himself to lower his voice. "I'll tell you what's bothering me. You."
"I don't understand."
"Look, Spock, it's a well-known fact that your habits have a way of getting under my skin sometimes, simply because you and I both know it's your way of disguising or coping with your feelings. Don't argue with me on that, either," he emphasized as Spock prepared to do just that. "You asked, so shut up and listen. See, I understand why you follow the routine, such as it is here. It's logical. It gives you – us – a sense of purpose. It's a safety valve of sorts. Everyone has his own kind. So that in itself doesn't bother me. What does bother me is that you seem to have accepted it."
"Accepted our situation, you mean."
"That is exactly what I mean."
"You are correct."
McCoy checked himself just in time and leaned toward his friend, whispering harshly: "What?"
"I have accepted the situation. But not as you have interpreted it. I am merely waiting until there is opportunity to change the situation."
"Oh yeah. Right. Quite logical. Why couldn't I see that?" quipped the physician, his voice dripping sarcasm.
"Dr. McCoy." Spock had lowered his voice so that Bones had to lean forward even more to hear him. "Jim contacted me that first morning, at assembly."
"When you were punished for moving?"
"Yes. I was so taken unaware by my name, spoken by Jim, exploding in my mind that I instinctively turned toward the source. Jonn was aware something had happened, but he was confused. I sensed it in the link, along with the same fear I sensed when you displayed a rather demonstrative affection for the captain. When you told me of his subsequent reaction after I had been subjected to the energy-stun, I was convinced more than ever that the Faal persona is severely subliminating Kirk's. The cry of my name was Jim's frantic effort to reach me. It took all his strength, Doctor."
"Spock, you don't' think. . ."
Spock shot him a look of warning and cut eyes toward an approaching prisoner. It was Faal. He looked down at the spilled contents of McCoy's bowl.
"Waste of good material. I know some who would kill for that."
"You're mighty cock-sure, aren't you, Faal?" McCoy blurted. "Someone might think you got fried chicken every evening and scrambled eggs every morning. Must be part of that 'special treatment' we're supposed to get, huh? Only Spock and I have seen precious little of it, and I sure as hell haven't seen you get any of it!"
Faal faltered, the smugness draining away to reveal resignation. "The only special treatment you'll get around here is the dirty kind. They know they can't kill you, so they find ways to punish you, instead. Then some of the prisoners hate you because they think you do get preferred treatment. So they take it upon themselves to see to it you're punished. You've experienced it already, Salek," he commented, gesturing toward the fading bruise on Spock's forehead, the result of an 'accident' resulting when several prisoners had pushed the Vulcan into the wall of a building. The comments were of such nature as 'top-heavy', 'to much weight to carry on that stiff neck' – al centered on the pointed auricles of Spock's anatomy.
"Yes, I have experienced it. As, apparently, have you. But is only from a handful of the guards, and some of the prisoners."
The resignation hardened into a more familiar, stubborn resolve. "Just a few. If you only knew. . ." Faal drew himself up. "But you don't give in to it. You survive."
The anger McCoy had been feeling toward Faal melted into the sudden compassion he felt for Kirk as he saw glimpses of him through the other personality. Kirk would have fought back, too, and he would have made adjustments, waiting for an opportunity – just like Spock. Waiting for the right time. But what if the time were right and Faal wouldn't let him out? What must Jim be feeling right now? Was Spock picking up on any of that? Could that be the reason for his clinging to routine so? His thoughts were interrupted by the Vulcan.
"Jonn, in the spirit lf learning more about our environment here, I would like to ask you some questions. If you believe them to be too personal you are, of course, under no obligation to answer them."
Faal jerked his head around at the sound of approaching feet, but relaxed as he saw Tarn approach. "We have a few minutes before light out. You can ask, but I don't guarantee anything." Noticing Spock's and McCoy's glances at the Tellarite, he continued: "Tarn knows what I might be telling you. He understands everything." Faal sat on a crate, his arms folded upon his chest. Tarn sat cross-legged on the ground next to him.
"Very well." Spock indicated the scratch on Faal's neck. "In regard to your own recent injuries, is it common for prisoners to be attacked in the night?
Faal hesitated before answering. "Yes, and no. Certain prisoners are – property. The guards use them for pleasure, and in turn the prisoners get extra food, baths and clean clothes occasionally, or something to read. Once in a great while, a lucky one gets shipped off to a slave colony. But that's rare.
"Most of us here are regular prisoners – sent here by someone named Ganezh. The Orions speak his name like he's a god, and there's talk he's around somewhere, just waiting to pounce on the unlucky ones who aren't doing what he wants – the ones who've run across Ganezh or his rabble in one way or another. The regulars are left to their own devices, just going along until they're bitten by a cuara once too often, or malnutrition takes its toll, or they make the wrong guard angry." Faal paused, rubbing the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other, an unconscious gesture Bones and Spock readily recognized. "Once in a while one of us disappears. There's a device in the shack over there, some toy Ganezh left for the Orions. We call it the Ripper. It's been used on a few prisoners and some of the guards; the power terminals are in the four guard towers. My guess is that there's a simple solar satellite which directs energy to the towers. They were setting it up when I got here."
"How long ago was that, Jonn?" asked McCoy.
Faal bit his lip in reflection, then shrugged, a pained look darting across his face. "I don't know." He waved his hand impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I just know I've seen the changes that thing can make in a person. They scan you with it to condition you, then they can control or monitor you with relays from the tower. But it's not just the device." He looked around him worriedly. "It's this place." Tarn reached up and lay a three-toed hand on Faal's arm, and the wild look slowly cleared from the human's eyes. He turned his gaze directly on Spock. "I've seen many walk in that gate. But they don't ever walk out again." The hazel eyes had darkened with unspoken memories.
"And then there are the 'special' prisoners," interjected McCoy. "Are we three the only ones?"
Faal glanced around quickly before answering. "We three. I know why I am. I don't know why you are."
"Perhaps if you tell us why you were preferred it will give us a clue to the other question, Jonn," suggested the Vulcan.
"Ganezh is alien to the galaxy. He – invaded my mind after the Orions captured my ship. When he – touched me that way, he left certain impressions of his own mind. They were so powerful I thought my own thoughts would disappear. But I fought him; I. . ." Faal stopped, his chest heaving. He looked at Spock and McCoy as if to remind himself he was no longer on the Orion ship, and began again. "He wanted something from me. I don't know what exactly, but he wanted it so badly I knew I could never give it to him – I knew instinctively that it would be my own destruction to give it to him. I don't know if I'm making any sense," he groaned, placing a hand to his forehead.
"A great deal. Please continue."
"He tried to trick me, make me think I was home. I was afraid he'd find out about my mother, hurt her. Hurt the Hid. . . hurt him. I couldn't – I couldn't. . ."
Jonn was locked in the memory again, the terror of discovery gripping him like claws. Once again the need to protect consumed him; he had to stop the memory, lock it away deep in the recesses of his mind. He had to stop it now, whatever the cost.
Spock felt the link tingle with life. Kirk was caught up in the vision as well, reliving the nightmare He, too, feared exposure of loved ones, of the mission.
"I have to stop him, have to stop him! Not safe, not. . ."
Faal's hands groped at his left side and he screamed.
The lights-out signal blared across the yard, masking the scream.
Spock reached across the short distance between him and Faal and ended the man's nightmare, for a time, with the nerve-pinch. He and McCoy placed the unconscious man's body between them, settling in for the night. No doubt he would sleep until morning. Tarn leaned over Faal, stroking the hair from his face. Spock caught his eye and nodded, and this was enough explanation for the Tellarite – for the time being.
"Spock," whispered McCoy as the camp was plunged into darkness. "He's losing it; Faal, I mean."
"He fears he is losing himself, Doctor. When I administered the nerve pinch I perceived what he had learned from Ganezh. The alien is a tortured, tormented entity. He lives solely to deny another being's aspirations and hopes. In Faal's case – and ultimately Jim's – that wish was death. Ganezh has denied them that release, which explains Faal's special treatment."
And subsequently our own, Spock thought. Despite their efforts, Garal knew the three men were somehow connected. Perhaps that mind-device Faal mentioned factored in this knowledge. He would like very much to find out more about the unit. It was as yet unclear whether Faal had been subjected to the device other than the initial scan, but it was obvious he was terrified of it. In the link, Jim Kirk's opinion of the machine was vague, masked. Spock shook himself mentally and continued his explanation to McCoy.
"Meanwhile," he went on, "what real memories Jonn has are limited, and most of them are of this place. This is his reality. You and I have tipped the balance. No matter what he does, there is the Kirk part of him who knows us and wants to be returned to us. Faal senses that, and he believes if Kirk is returned, it will be the end of Jim – and it will be the end of himself."
"But you saw how strongly he protects Jim, too."
"Yes, and that is the madness of the persona, Doctor. He will protect at all costs, even the cost of ending his own life. But he does not yet realize that because he and Jim are inextricably linked – and this is the irony - preventing Jim from coming back will murder the very person he was born to protect. If he cannot be made to see this, if he cannot be persuaded to allow Jim to re-emerge, the Faal persona will have to be destroyed."
"Kill Faal? How exactly do you do that? What about Jim?"
Spock looked over to Tarn, who seemed to be asleep. He lowered his voice even more. "I would prefer to think I might be able to reason with him, convince him that in allowing the Kirk persona to resurface, he will not only be protecting Jim in the only logical means left to him, but will be protecting himself, too. I hope to show him that subliminating Jim's persona is killing him by degrees, to show him that if Jim's persona dies, it is not likely Jonn's persona will survive either."
"But how? I don't. . ."
"Doc!" The guard had come from nowhere, shining his light into McCoy's face and nudging him with his boot.
"What is it?" McCoy replied sleepily, wondering if the guard bought the ruse or not.
"Garal wants you to see to one of the prisoners. Come with me."
Without a word McCoy rose and followed the guard, picking his way through sleeping prisoners, or those who pretended to sleep.
ooOOoo
Tarn lay quietly next to Jonn, his hand touching his hair. Tellarites, a naturally furry species, derived a physiological lowering of blood pressure by the stroking of another's fur, or having their fur stroked. A belligerent race by nature, this simple method soothed many an ego, released may unspent tensions in an un-antagonistic way. Thus was family harmony preserved, and civil wars averted, not to mention a few duels. Unfortunately, it was difficult to practice this custom with other species, firstly because there were many with only superficial hair (or worse, no hair at all), secondly because some species looked upon the gesture as overtly sexual. Fortunately, Faal seemed to understand the Tellarite need for hair-stroking, allowing Tarn to touch his head, and sometimes stroked Tarn's fur, as well. "It's sort of like rubbing a cat for a human," Faal had explained to Tarn. "You know the cat enjoys it, so you enjoy it, too."
But right now the touch of Faal's hair brought Tarn no comfort, nor did it sooth his nerves. Hadn't he just overheard Salek and Doc talk about killing his friend? What kind of people were they, anyway? He must have heard it wrong – those two wouldn't hurt a fly. Tarn hesitated – he had seen anger smolder in the doc's eyes more than once. And the Vulcan seemed to be controlling some inner fire of his own. Perhaps it wouldn't' do to underestimate them.
But Jonn liked them. Jonn, who allowed himself no friendships (except with a Tellarite), who was leery of even the friendly guards – he liked these two, even sought them out. Well, either Jonn was losing it, as Doc had said he feared, or he had a reason to trust them. So for now he wouldn't do anything, say anything; he would keep his own counsel.
But if they tried to lay a finger on his friend, he would kill them.
ooOOoo
The doctor thought he could discern whispers following after him, and a snigger or two. It didn't surprise him anymore. McCoy had been luckier than Spock and Faal in one sense. Spock was ridiculed constantly by one particular group of prisoners, a gang of sorts who picked on and roughed up the occasional prisoner behind the guards' backs. Recently a bucket of urine had been emptied on the Vulcan's head, splashing into his dinner bowl, as comments were made about 'strange ears growing on the two-legged cuara'. Spock did not react in any way except to prevent McCoy from engaging them in a brawl. Instead, Bones tried to bury his anger by futilely wiping at Spock's fouled shirt with his own.
Then there was Jonn. Touted by Garal as the 'pretty boy', fed beard growth inhibitors sporadically, he was followed around by guards who made him the subject of ribald or insulting remarks, even fondled occasionally in the open – anything to arouse his pride and anger. He lashed back at his tormentors each time, and was summarily beaten for his effrontery. But the hazel eyes held the defiance, and the defiance was Jim Kirk's.
As for McCoy – he was the 'doc'. After the incident the first day, everyone knew he was a medic of sorts, and though he had practically nothing to work with except his hands, he was called upon by guards and prisoners alike to try to help. Too often there was nothing he could do. Usually, in the case of prisoners, it was malnutrition, disease, injuries from cruel and repetitive punishment. Occasionally a guard would fall ill, but this rarely resulted in anything more than a day or two off-duty, the healthy body throwing off whatever ailment had latched on.
Whenever he had to baby-sit an ailing guard, McCoy was ordered to strip and bathe, having his own clothes cleaned and returned to him. They reeked of disinfectant, and his skin and scalp burned and chafed from the scrubbing he gave himself. But the worst part was returning to the yard after the crisis was over, knowing some of the other prisoners misunderstood his special treatment. McCoy had learned prisoners became pleasure-partners only if they wanted to – the Orions would not have an unwilling toy, male or female. Too bad Jim didn't know that when Garal attacked him, he mused. He might have escaped the hours of torture which followed. But the Orions knew the human species well, knew what made them angry – and what made them afraid. As for him, it was a false comfort that the prisoners, no matter how some of them might despise him for supposedly selling himself to the Orions, couldn't do too much to him because one day they might need his help.
The doctor had never been in this predicament before. Without realizing it, he had long enjoyed the role of benevolent healer, the man people looked up to and respected, because of his ability to bring healing to disease, sanity to madness. But now all that was gone. Some inmates hated him for who he was thought to be, and hated him even more because they could not show him how much they hated him. He saw how they avoided his eyes in the compound, how they smirked when a guard called on him, how they had a way of laying a finger to one ear when they walked by him. So they thought he was one of the camp prostitutes, did they? Well, let them, he stormed inwardly. Wait until they're sick and dying and they're begging for me; wait until they find out there isn't anything I can do for them! They won't be thinking about how my clothes smell after they vomit on me – they won't care that I've come to hate them as much as they. . ."
McCoy stopped in mid-stride, horrified at his own feelings. Had it come to his, that he would let the opinions of others embitter him this way? Was this his safety-valve, to become like them? No – no!!
The guard motioned him on and they entered a small building not far from the gate. At one end, on a low bed, was a young Andorian, his long, snowy hair falling over his blue shoulders in shiny white silkiness. It was obvious this one was favored, a camp prostitute. What's more, McCoy recognized him – in a group of roughly two hundred souls, he had soon come to know many of them by the things they occupied themselves with. This one was a favorite of Charesh, the sub-commander of the compound, and was left alone by the other guards. The clean clothes, well-tended body, sleek hair – all spoke of good food and adequate accommodations.
Yet the youth lay still on the bed, the blue skin several shades paler than normal, the pulse rapid and weak. Bones knelt and checked his eyes and found the pupils sluggish; the breath sounds in the lungs were congested. He lay his head directly over the heart and heard its faltering, lumbering contractions, wallowing in a sea of fluid. A congenital defect, no doubt. Certainly not a result of treatment here. How terribly sad.
"There's nothing I can do for him," he said, glancing up at Charesh who hovered nearby, looking nothing like a sub-commander at the moment. "Elevate him to make his breathing easier." He looked back down at the unconscious Andorian. "Hope he doesn't wake up."
About that time the young man's eyes flew open and he recognized McCoy. He grabbed the doctor's shirt in both hands and pulled himself up, fighting to say something, his eyes wide in fear. He began to choke and gasp, writhing in an effort to draw breath, as McCoy cradled him in his arms, trying to calm him with soothing words, rocking him as a mother would her child. But the youth arched his back and died with the horrified mask of denial on his face, mouth and eyes open wide, tongue protruding. Slowly the last bit of air escaped from his lungs as the diaphragm relaxed, and the body went limp. McCoy laid him down gently, knew he should close the staring eyes, push the jaw closed. But God help him, he couldn't do it. Suddenly the eyes were bulbous, the tongue a monstrous entity of its own, waiting to transform the doctor in some awful way if he were to touch it.
"I'm sorry," he said, standing up, his heart pounding. "I'm – God, I'm so sorry!" Without asking permission, he stumbled out of the shack, back across the yard. No guard approached him, but he didn't notice. He could only think of the staring eyes, the mute appeal for help, and his inability to give it. The death mask remained in front of him as he felt his way in the dark – the tears which ran down his face did nothing to wash away the vision.
At last he was near the crates. He felt, rather than saw, the location of Spock, Tarn and Faal, and longed to lay himself down among them. But he could not. He had failed the young man tonight, but he had failed in more than that. How could he presume to claim Spock's friendship after the way he had allowed this place to disillusion him? How could he hope to reclaim Jim's? Doctor! The title was a misnomer, a joke of his own making, flung back in his face.
Spock heard the doctor approach; was surprised when he did not lay down near them. McCoy sat down next to a crate, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, rocking himself. In the darkness, Spock could hear his half-smothered sobs.
Part of Spock wanted to put his arms around the doctor and comfort him; part of him knew that he could not. Still the sight of the man, so tormented and helpless, was impossible to ignore. Spock rolled to his hands and knees and crawled over to where McCoy sat. He stifled an irritating cough and leaned back against he same crate, sitting just close enough so that their shoulders brushed against each other. At first McCoy continued to rock as though he were unaware of the Vulcan's presence, but gradually the rocking slowed and the man relaxed against the support of the crate, allowing his shoulder to rest against the Vulcan's. Through the contact, Spock could read McCoy's grief, the bitterness he turned toward himself. Spock understood the physician's need to heal, and the agony of being unable to do it. McCoy was still crying, though more quietly now, and Spock would remain awake until he knew for a certainty that his human friend had once again found a measure of peace in sleep.
A few feet away, unnoticed, Jonn woke from a deep, dreamless state, rubbing the sore spot where shoulder met neck. There were a few seconds of disorientation before he realized where he was and saw, dimly, Salek and Doc sitting against a crate. Salek was comforting the doc in some way – Jonn didn't question how he knew, he just did. Somewhere deep within him, he wanted to comfort the medic, too. He wanted so much to be able to trust them – he liked them already; they weren't like the others.
But how stupid would that be! Trust could lead to betrayal of the Hidden One and even more anguish. Garal had been noticing him again, too much – the black eye was evidence of that. Soon there would be another public approach, like the one before. He rubbed the healed scars on his wrists, bleak reminders of the day he had hung suspended from a rope while Garal mocked and humiliated him in front of leering guards and prisoners, threatening him with the Ripper.
Yet again, perhaps it wasn't so much a matter of trust after all. If he had to admit it, he probably did trust them, as much as he did Tarn. It was just that friendship ran its own special risks. Attaching himself to Salek and Doc would cause him to stand out even more to Garal. Garal would be jealous, Garal. . .
What the hell do I care what Garal thinks? Anger welled up in him from the Hidden One so violently he couldn't quell it. The bastard'll have to kill me before. . .
"Center!" Jonn cried, placing both hands on his temples. The kas t'al discipline held sway once again, and Kirk was pushed back, once again.
Spock looked over to where Faal slept. He thought he heard him cry out in his sleep, but the link remained inactive, closed. . .
Empty.
He reached along the link, probing for Kirk, but found a looming quiet. He reached further. In his mind, down a long tunnel, sprawled a figure in command gold. Kirk lay as if exhausted, his breathing laboured.
Soon, Spock projected along the frail link, not knowing if Kirk could hear him or not. Soon, my friend, the time is coming when I will act. With effort, Kirk's eyes opened and he nodded slowly, once, before closing them again.
Hours later McCoy stirred in his sleep, disturbed by the Vulcan's fresh onslaught of racking coughs, but did not wake. Spock allowed himself to inch his body closer to the doctor; it was logical, after all, to try to stay warm on a cold night. But as he glanced again to where Faal lay, all too aware of the slow withdrawal of the Kirk persona, there was as little to warm the creeping chill which grew in his heart as there was to still the hollow coughs which shook his body.