Chapter 8: Pen and Ink

Jim, Simon and Nyota arrived in a heap, a flurry of motion, on soft ground. Jim had no time to ascertain where they were; realizing he'd lost his phaser, he settled into a crouch and threw himself in the general direction of Simon's silhouette, pushing Nyota to the side.

Jim knew how to fight. He was not some suburban frat boy, flailing with fists. He understood his weight and strength, knew how to throw a punch, how to kick the manhood out of someone, how to rake any available skin with whatever he had available, nails, teeth, a knife, if one was at ready. Simon must have had similar training; he was lighter and less agile than Jim but knew how to use his body.

Within seconds, Simon had the business end of Nyota's phaser pointed at Jim's temple. Nyota had used every opportunity to kick him with her sharp pointed shoes but lacked the balance and thrust to do any real damage. They were caught, held tight in Simon's web.

"Back up." Simon was somewhat breathless but managed to drive them back toward a round metal pen.

Angling for time, Nyota spoke roughly. "Where are we? What are you doing?"

"Not that it will help you but you are at Bay Meadows Racetrack. You will stay here until I can find a safe place to stow you."

Jim and Nyota backed into a round pen, the smooth metal walls rising at least twenty meters straight up around them. Simon pushed the metal door closed and fastened it from the outside.

Jim and Nyota could hear Simon speaking softly to someone on a communicator and then heard the telltale sound of a transporter beam. They were alone.

Jim ran his hands up the smooth metallic sides of the pen. The pen was thirty meters across and opened up to the dark sky. "What is Bay Meadows?"

"An abandoned thoroughbred racetrack, south of San Francisco. No one has used it for at least ten years. It is scheduled for demolition within the month."

Jim looked at Nyota, noting her disheveled appearance. "And you know this how?"

Nyota shrugged elegantly. "My firm has a case with the bankrupt developers. I've seen it on holovids."

"Did the holovids give any indication as to how to get out of here?"

Nyota pinned Jim with a look. "Explain to me exactly why you are here? Last time I saw you, you were marinating in a bottle of scotch at the conference."

Jim considered his response. "Your boyfriend decided that since Simon didn't know me, I would make a great goat. Personally, I am feeling more like a sacrificial lamb."

Nyota frowned. "Spock sent you to rescue me? He must have lost his mind."

"Thanks. That is one way to put it." Jim wasn't about to share the conversation about Spock's 'Time'. He walked to the door and shook it, noting it was secured from the outside with no way to access the lock.

"Can't you just access Spock's brain and tell him where we are?"

Nyota gave him a dirty look. "I don't know what you think you know about Vulcan telepathy but I can assure you, Spock and I don't come with locator devices."

"Too bad." Jim continued to play with the metal door, trying to ignore the feeling that Nyota was not being completely truthful.

"Look, Kirk, my operatives can trace the transporter signal, assuming they were nearby. They'll find us eventually. Until then, we'll just have to figure out how to get along."

"Fat chance." Jim gave the door a final shake and sat down against the round metal wall and prayed for rescue before he killed Nyota.

Spock and Sulu bent over G'hed's PADD, following Jim's signature through the apartment building. When the PADD indicated the transporter beam, the swearing in five languages could have been heard by a casual passerby.

G'hed and Sulu looked at each other in horror and quickly bundled a protesting Spock into the flitter. They arrived at the Procyon in record time, dragging Spock through lobby, the elevators, and down the corridor to their suite of rooms.

Anza greeted them at the door and took one look at Spock and pushed him into one of the bedrooms. She didn't have to say a word. She simply pointed at one of the queen-sized beds, situated side by side and waited for Spock to lie down.

"Anza, Jim and Nyota have been taken. I must . . ."

"You must nothing. Rest, meditate, sleep. You are of no use to us right now. Stay!"

Spock tried to protest but seeing her expression, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Anza closed the door quietly behind her and faced Sulu and G'hed.

"What the hell? How did you loose Nyota and Kirk? Not only have you defeated this entire mission and endangered their lives but Spock is now two steps away from completely losing his hold on reality! How did this go so badly?"

Both G'hed and Sulu looked at their feet in abject despair. The unbeatable team was beaten, stymied by one man. They had failed Nyota, Kirk, Spock and more importantly, Alhamisi Uhura. This couldn't have gone worse.

G'hed walked resolutely to the bank of computers in the main suite and hooked his PADD into the mainframe. He prayed to the old Ghods that he had captured the signature of the transporter beam, the source and the ultimate destination. Failure at this point, would not be tolerated.

Anza ground her teeth as Sulu tried to find something to do. Ideally, she should dispatch Spock before he became a danger, ascertain Nyota's location and liberate her and kill Kirk if he was still alive. Sulu and G'hed would be left up to the former Federation President Uhura's discretion.

She would do none of those things, however. She had too great affection for Spock to kill him and of course that meant that Kirk must survive as well. Anza did indulge in a brief revenge fantasy regarding Simon and yes, Sulu and G'hed. Idiots.

Spock tossed and turned in the wide bed, first hot then cold. He drifted into an exhausted sleep born of hours of staving off the fevers of the Pon Farr. His body fell into a deceptively relaxed sleep and he began to dream.

He strode across the Forge, moisture pressing on his skin. A rare thunderstorm passed through the atmosphere, the humidity coating his skin like a cloak. The waneti flowers bloomed at his feet, softening the harsh lines of the Forge, cloaking it in a soft white that reminded him of snow.

Despite the cool breeze and soft rain against his face, he found himself thirsty. Thirst is an instinct, relentless and powerful. It drove him, it's satisfaction merciless. He wasn't sure what or where he was driven too, just that he must obey his body's demands.

On a hill, covered by sand and granite, he saw an apparition. It was a figure, slight and cloaked against the storm, seemingly waiting for him. He staggered toward it understanding instinctively it would quench his thirst.

When he came close enough, he recognized the figure as Nyota, sillouetted in stark relief against the stormy sky. She stood resolute if not welcoming. He reached for her hand and shuddered in relief at her cool clasp. She looked up at him with resignation and he pulled her into his arms, feeling her breasts pressing against his chest, her soft thighs canted against his.

He felt a storm build inside him, whipping his mind into a maelstrom. He reached for her mentally, emotionally, physically and felt . . . nothing. No response, no passion, no desire to match his burning. She was merely a cool sheath. He knew she could not contain his passion. She was willing but he could breed an animal for all the relief it would give him.

Still, she offered something. He rutted against her, feeling bile rise in his throat. He cared for her deeply, possibly even loved her, but some essential part of him was repulsed. It was wrong. She was wrong. He didn't want her.

He pushed her away. He didn't mean to be rough but she sprawled on the rocks, graceless and he wasn't surprised. He frowned and offered his hand to help her to her feet. She ignored it and scrambled, finally standing before him, chin held high, eyes defiant.

"I am not what you want. I've never been what you want. You bastard."

He couldn't even draw on pity. He was blank, empty. He couldn't even remember how he felt when he held her in his arms the last time.

Giving himself a mental shake, he turned and strode across the Forge, watching the waneti flowers shrivel beneath his feet. He vaguely realized he was dreaming but couldn't deny the truth of what he had just learned.

Nyota had been dozing, head leaning against the round pen. It had originally been designed to exercise horses and still had the smell of sawdust and manure. She shuddered in disgust. There was something so alien about the natural world, the smell of sweat, desperation and desire. She preferred the clean antiseptic lines of technology. In some ways, she believed she was a better Vulcan than Spock who too frequently led with his baser instincts, passion, compassion, and his intellect polluted with human frailties.

Suddenly, she woke fully, feeling a flush of lust, quickly quenched. She felt the shadow of Spock's mind on the edge of hers, pushing hard into her softer center. She gathered mental shields born of a decade of living with a telepath and pushed hard. It was as if she had been underwater and pushed to the surface, air clean and rare.

He was gone, not a whisper left. Whatever had been between them, a nascent bond, was ground to dust. She felt free, relieved and was surprised. She had spent so much time building something between them and was horrified at how light she felt when the last vestiges evaporated like so much smoke.

Nyota shook her head, clearing her mind and looked at the man sharing her metal prison. Jim Kirk was standing in a shaft of artificial light from the track, night finally having fallen. He was silvered by the overhead lamps, which put his features in sharp relief. She saw something there, compelling, important somehow. After a moment, she realized she was seeing him as Spock did, strong, vibrant, full of passion and light. Oh, the light. It swept around him, sparking the air around him in colors she'd never seen before.

She closed her eyes, fighting tears. As part of her rejoiced at being freed from Spock, another part coiled in fury that this was what he saw, what he wanted, what he needed. Another part of her wanted to strike Kirk and still, make him her own. She opened her eyes, standing. She didn't have Spock. But neither would Kirk. She'd make sure of it.