Chapter Seven of *The Vadarian Trap*
Waking up in the new house, house number seven, had been heart-wrenching. The bedroom had immediately reminded him of his old bedroom in his parents' house in Iowa. It was bright, airy, and it had that same smell, of lavender and lemons. Only the house was surrounded not by fields of corn, but by a forest.
He stood now by the large, open window. He was on the second story, and still the trees towered. And there was no end to them. Trees, sky, all around. And in the center, James T Kirk and his entourage of nine others.
He fingered the white sheer curtain rippling in the chilly breeze. Even that was of home.
Balancing on his crutches he carefully turned to see who had entered the room. It was Siska, the nurse, with breakfast. She nodded to him in that shy manner of hers. He turned back to the view. Siska was kind and lonely and scared. Siska was like him, a captive.
But he had to keep away.
Tancred had paid the ultimate price for his kindness to him. Sim and Gon were gone too, he didn't know how or where. The only one left from the time before his botched escape was Liash, the cook. He avoided eye contact with Liash. He couldn't bear the blame in the man's gaze.
So he didn't acknowledge Siska.
I am a closed box. If I stay inside they can't touch me. If I stay inside they won't get hurt.
"You'll catch a cold," Siska rebuked him. "Do put on your robe and slippers."
She set the tray on the table next to the bed, gathered the robe from the foot of the bed and draped it over his shoulders.
He stood stock still, enduring her fleeting, gentle touch.
He wanted to stay barefoot. What a surprise it had been when his feet had landed on the cool wooden planks. Like home. He'd had to close his eyes for a moment to control his suddenly troubled breathing.
Pull yourself together!
"The Doctor will be here soon. You should eat something," said Siska to his back.
He looked at the tray. He was hungry, and he needed the nourishment, but he was going to be damned if he was going to lie in the bed and let Parsam look down on him.
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Even among humans Kirk wasn't a very tall man, and in the land of Vadarial he stood at least a head under the average male. He was, however, a little taller than Parsam. This being one of his few advantages, he figured, he'd better milk it for all it was worth. So when the short, rotund man entered the room, Kirk turned to face him, and pushed off on his crutches to stand straight and tall.
"The nurse told me you are refusing to eat again," Parsam said icily.
If Kirk made eye contact with anyone in the household, it was with this man. In fact, he always went out of his way to do so, and as aggressively as he could.
Parsam met his gaze with his own seething mix of arrogance, inferiority and resentment. He was a sadist, and Kirk's defiance came as much from outrage that this man called himself a doctor as from his natural aversion to bullies. Parsam was also unpredictable. This may have made other men cower in his presence, but Kirk saw it as his advantage and provoked him as often as he could. For when Parsam struck, it was from loss of control, and Kirk never failed to make him feel it.
Stand up. Rise above him, literally and figuratively.
Parsam pushed out a sigh of irritation, brusquely crossed the room and dragged the chair from under the desk. Sneering, "Sit-down," he gave Kirk a brutal shove.
Kirk lost his balance and landed awkwardly in the chair. He managed not to cry out against the incineration in his right knee – splintered bone fragments shifting and puncturing hearths of infection in the unhealed muscle and flesh. The cold sweat broke out on his forehead and his vision went black with bright flashes.
But gritting his teeth, he shook his head with a saddened, most annoying disapproval. And smiled.
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Parsam by now suspected that James Kirk liked pain. This drove him crazy, because pain was his bludgeon and Kirk, though not immune to it, remained unbroken.
Sol had blown the knee to a pulp and had allowed only the barest of medical intervention. He had also called up the most ruthless of medical doctors in what was left of Roshan's military faction. Parsam had been glad to accept the job. As a sympathizer and active member of Roshan's party he had lost favor with the elders, and his past was sure to land him in the dock. Going into hiding had seemed like a good idea.
At first he had had a field day keeping this human alive and, as much as possible, conscious through the agony of the trauma, the infection and "healing". But as soon as Kirk had overcome the worst of it and regained the minimal amount of conscious control, the job for Parsam quickly went sour.
By now he hated it and he hated this man, but his hatred was without consequence. It had never happened to him.
"If you keep it up we'll just tube feed again," he said snidely.
But Kirk didn't react. None of the humiliations ever worked on this man.
Parsam remembered well his first sight of the Star Fleet Captain and his curiosity still untarnished by hatred and a sense of defeat. The blonde hair and hazel eyes alone set the alien apart from the dark-haired, dark-eyed Vadarians. He had much less brute physical strength than a Vadarian, but he was also much more tolerant of pain, both physically and mentally. Kirk may have been catatonic with shock and pain when Parsam came to him, but even then the doctor had witnessed his staggering will.
And yes, he admitted it, he had admired that. He had always been outspoken about his distaste for the Vadarian natural urge to gentleness and to what comes easiest. He knew only one other who rose above that, who was unrelenting and ruthless in his ambition.
Not himself. No, not himself.
Sol.
And now here he was, caught between Kirk and Sol, two giant suns. He, a mere moon.
