"Spock. Spock." The voice was low but incessant, and Spock reached out a hand to push it away. Someone set his hand back on his chest. As he awoke he became aware of his surroundings in increments, disappointment the first to return, then the pain, and finally the memory of all that had transpired since they'd crash-landed on Catelus II. For a moment he wished it hadn't. Jim was gone because he and Doctor McCoy had failed him.
"Spock, are you all right?" McCoy was asking.
He opened his eyes and noticed that he was on his back on a hard tiled floor, his head resting across the doctor's knees. He started to sit up, and the effort was so painful that he felt yet another wave of frustration at his failing body, and at circumstances that he should have been able to change. McCoy, of course, moved in to help as soon as his struggle became apparent. The doctor kept his hands on Spock's arms as Spock rode out the agony in his chest and leg that inevitably followed the movement.
He did not respond to Dr. McCoy's question because he had long since past the point where he could delude even himself of its answer. Wrestling with pain and guilt and frustration, he was far from all right.
"Look, Spock, we need a plan," McCoy said once Spock had regained composure, and glared at him with a determination that he found he could no longer match. "I don't know why the guards haven't found us yet. We probably just killed three of their men, and this is a storage room for replicator parts—not a secret hideout. If we don't think of something soon…"
Spock nodded. His mind was working, again, all they had seen beginning to form a coherent picture in his mind. "They may be occupied," he realized.
McCoy regarded him quizzically. "What do you mean, occupied? Who?"
"The guards, Doctor," Spock said impatiently. "It would explain why they have not yet found us. If most are busy with some other task, there may be few or none even searching for us."
"What else could they be doing?"
Spock shook his head slightly. There were several events that might occur at a slaving compound which would require the presence of most of the facility's guards. Unfortunately, none would bode well for the captain, even if they had saved him from the madness in time.
"Well we still can't have much time," McCoy said.
"No," Spock agreed. He pressed his lips together, aware that the doctor's prodding meant that he expected Spock to produce a solution, some logical or inspired alternative that McCoy had yet been unable to see. He only wished that his head would cease its spinning so that he could think. "We are…in a storage closet for replicator pieces, are we not?"
At this, McCoy looked concerned and answered "We are" somewhat hesitantly.
"Are such closets not usually situated near the service shafts?" Spock said.
A grin spread slowly across McCoy's haggard face. "Why yes, Mr. Spock, I do believe they are. And it'll probably go around to all of the replicators in this place." He stood, and winced, but walked over to the nearest wall and began inspecting it. "There should be a hatch, right?"
"Most likely."
Spock waited as McCoy made his way around the room, searching the walls for a telltale seam or keypad. He reached Spock again, frowning. "None in here, but it was a good idea," he said. "I'll check outside."
Spock gave a slight nod, which McCoy returned sharply before picking up the disruptor rifle, taking a deep breath, and stepping into the hall. The doors shut behind him. Spock waited tensely, his internal clock registering the time: thirty seconds…forty-five…fifty… He strained his ears strained to pick up any telling noise that might be coming from the hall. He did not like the doctor risking himself in this way, he realized, especially now that Jim's plight seemed even more hopeless than before. Since they had been stranded he'd come to rely on the doctor in more ways than one, and the possibility that he might lose him as well...really did not bear thinking about.
McCoy returned in a hurry, leaning back against the wall as the doors shut beside him. "You were right, Spock," he said. "It's just barely across the hall and the memory tape opens it. I thought I heard footsteps just now, though, so we'd better wait a minute in here before we go." He looked Spock over for a moment. "It's about chest-high, d'you think you'll be able to make it? I can give you a boost when we're out there."
Spock sighed slightly, but wrapped his arm a little more securely around his aching ribs. "Need I remind you that we do not have a choice," he said. It wasn't exactly a question. "This method shall have to suffice."
"Spock," McCoy said, and his tone was surprisingly gentle. "We do have a choice. We have had one. And I think you've been making the right one. I know how much Jim means to you."
Spock looked at the ground. The usual phrases best captain in the fleet and invaluable officer and duty tumbled through his mind, but this time he could not bring himself to offer them as justifications for his actions. No, the truth was a far more emotional one: Jim was his friend, his brother, the one man he cared about more than any other. It was not logical, but there could be no denying it.
"Right," McCoy said distractedly. He looked at the floor, then met Spock's eyes. "We might escape, Spock," he said, and it was clear that he was changing the subject to whatever had just drawn his attention. "But what are we doing to do if we can't save Jim? I mean, what are you going to do?"
This was not a question that Spock had been anticipating, and his head snapped up as he tried to think of some answer that would not release or reveal the deluge of emotions that he now held so tenuously in check. "Doctor," he said, and was disturbed when his voice broke, "I will—" He stopped, for it was not that there was no suitable answer. There simply was no answer. To return, to be assigned another captain, to take each week without Jim's easy presence—well, he would survive, work and eat and sleep. But perhaps nothing more.
"Ah," McCoy said, as though he had somehow heard and understood all that Spock could not say. His voice was more kindly than Spock had expected. In fact, he seemed to be regarding Spock with…understanding. Or perhaps pity. "We will do our best, Spock. There might be another way."
Spock straightened up. "We have not been discovered. We should go."
"Right," McCoy said. "I suppose we should." Then a moment of hesitation, and until finally he added, "I understand, Spock. I mean I really… understand."
Spock's eyes closed and he shook his head slightly, aware of the anguish that slipped back onto his face but unable to curb it. Then he forced his eyes open and stared straight ahead as he made his reply. "No Doctor. I don't believe you do."
McCoy's expression was odd and he took a breath as if to speak, but released it. "Are you ready?" he asked instead, and Spock nodded.
He then began the laborious process of standing, tilting forward and pressing his hands to the floor as maneuvered his unbroken leg into a position where it might take his weight. He was aware that he grimaced as he did so, but could no longer find the energy to care. All that mattered was that he did. Of course, no sooner had he made it to one knee than McCoy was at his side, offering his silent support.
They listened at the door for a moment before venturing into the hallway, which was fortunately empty. At least, for them. The possibility that the guards were gathered in one place attending to other business was not a particularly comforting thought in terms of Kirk's prospects for survival or freedom. There was of course the slightest chance that Kirk himself had created a diversion of some sort to attract their attention…but after their last encounter, it had been clear that the captain was not himself. If the guards were gone, it was undoubtedly for something far more distasteful,. But he suppressed his concern, for if the slaves were being moved or sold already—no. It was best not to speculate.
"It's here," McCoy said unnecessarily, guiding Spock to a hatch with a keypad across the hall and slightly to the right of the storage room. The doctor slid the memory tape into the controls and the hatch opened. Spock contemplated the opening for a moment, realizing that there would be no easy way inside.
Finally he braced his hands on the edge of the opening and jumped slightly on his good leg. He was able to get most of his torso in and felt McCoy's hands form a harness under his undamaged foot. But the jump had not been enough to propel him all the way in or to let him get a handhold inside and he fell backwards, his chest crashing down onto the edge of the opening. This time at the audible snap of already abused ribs he could not contain a groan and was barely aware that McCoy managed to shove him the rest of the way in. He had been aware that this might happen of course, though the pain that followed still managed to be something of a surprise and for a moment he could only lay on his side, his arms crossed against his side. Cracked ribs had finally broken, and if he was not careful it might be only a matter of time before one or the other inflicted more damage than his body could handle.
Still, he gritted his teeth and pushed himself up as McCoy heaved himself with a grunt into the shaft. Here, and at this moment, there was nothing the doctor could do, and after his conversation with McCoy he could feel a renewed urgency to find Jim before it was too late. His own condition did not, and could not, matter.
"Spock, are you all right?" McCoy was asking, again, as if the answer might somehow have changed since he'd last posed the question.
"We should follow this shaft to the nearest turbolift, or a map of the facility," Spock said. His breathing was shallow, every moment was agony, and the dizziness had returned full force, but it did not matter. For his mind had finally alighted on an alternative-not death, and not madness, but life.
"I saw what happened Spock, don't give me that-"
"Doctor," Spock interrupted, his tone forceful. "I may be able to save Jim."
Kirk wanted to know where they were taking him. But as always his voice would not cooperate no matter how hard he fought, and he was left trudging along behind a pale, pudgy man through hallway after hallway, deeper and deeper into the facility. Still, he glared at any guard that passed near him and found himself fantasizing about grabbing each one by the shoulder and slamming a fist into his face, if only to demand the answers and rights that he wanted and needed and deserved. But his legs marched obediently on and his arms would do nothing more than swing harmlessly by his side.
So he bit down his anger, channeling it forcefully into alertness for any moment that he could possibly take advantage of. Of course none came, and as the minutes passed he found his thoughts drawn back inexorably to Spock, and to Bones.
As relieved as he had been to see them, alive and attempting his rescue, he did not like that they were here. They were in grave danger, and the longer they remained in the compound the worse it would be. Not to mention that they'd been dirty and tired and hurt and Spock especially had seemed in no shape be conscious, let alone to mount a rescue. Of course, Kirk knew, he absolutely understood the Vulcan's desire to find him but (regardless of how he might have acted had the tables been turned) his life wasn't worth it. Worth both of theirs. Spock and Bones should have been out on the surface, avoiding his captors and looking for a way to contact the Enterprise and save themselves from the fate he suffered now. He had sacrificed himself and endured torture for his friends' safety, and the thought that it might all have been for nothing made him feel sick. They simply shouldn't be here at all, not for him, not for any reason. For Spock or Bones to perish in the attempt to save him would be…well, quite possibly the worst send-off for a new life of slavery that he could imagine. And that he could do nothing to help them or dissuade them from trying was fundamentally painful and perhaps the worst feeling of all.
The question of where he was going was finally answered when the guards brought them to a long curved room that might have been part of a ring or an arc. The tighter side of the curve was plated in metal and lined with heavy doors. Queued by each was a chain of slaves similar to Kirk's, though they varied; one might be women, or a line of children, or (as he realized with a jolt of horror) a line in which every being was missing a limb or an eye or part of their face. At the front of each, one guard had detached a slave from the line and held him or her by a chain attached to the soft golden cuffs. As he passed one line, he recognized the female Klingon he had been processed with, and gave her a small smile. But he was swept by her too quickly to see any reaction.
Kirk's line was brought in front of a door as well. In the middle this time, he watched as one of his guards detached the man at the front and held him in the same ready position. There seemed to be an air of dread or excitement about the whole exercise, and he waited with his heart pounding for what might come next. What was on the other side of those doors?
Then a buzzer sounded, and altogether the doors slid open. Each guard stepped through with their charge.
Craning to see around the others, Kirk just barely caught a glimpse of a small arena and an audience, murmuring in anticipation, who began to stand and point as the first beings were brought before them. Then the doors slid shut and Kirk was left standing, waiting for his own turn to be shown.
The rumble of a loudspeaker started up behind the doors and he wished with all of his might that Spock and Bones had gone far, far away.
Scott could not keep his eyes from straying to the chronometer as he worked, silly as he knew it was to watch the thing. Two hours, one hour, forty minutes, thirty, twenty. Now that it read ten he could barely believe it. But Starfleet had been quite convinced by the evidence and clear in their orders-no more missions without a captain, first officer, and CMO, thank you very much-and unless Scott reached a breakthrough in the next ten minutes they'd have to be off or face charges of desertion or worse.
His initial scan of the warp core had turned up nothing but a now-familiar feeling that something wasn't right, and unfortunately to run the full diagnostics took time. The computers were still working through it but they wouldn't finish until they were long since docked at Starbase 6, and by then…well, by then the Enterprise would probably have a new captain and new orders and it'd be foolish to keep trying for anything different.
He was about to take the turbolift up to the bridge, so that he could at least be there to make the order to leave in person. The crew deserved that, if nothing else, for he knew how highly they'd all thought of the captain. He was surprised, however, to be nearly bowled over by Chekov, who shot from the lift at a near run as Scott raised his own hand to operate the controls.
"Sair!" Chekov gasped, skidding to a halt in front of Scott. "Uhura and I have done it! We've broken through the magnetic field and sair." His brown eyes locked onto Scott's. "There are communications on that planet. Whatever happened down there…the landing party was not alone."
Scott glanced at the chronometer. Six minutes. "D'you have any idea what those communications were, ensign?"
"No sair," Chekov said, shaking his head emphatically. "But if you could give us just a little more time, we can find out. Just a little more. I know it's in wiolation of Starfleet orders but…sair, it is the captain." He paused and when he looked at Scott the engineer could see all the devotion, the loyalty, the love that he knew Kirk inspired in his crew. "If there is a chance at all..."
Scott looked at the chronometer again—five minutes now—and sighed. Direct violation of orders. Starfleet was not going to be happy about this, but he also knew he'd no other option. "Chekov, you have your time," he said. "Now let's make it worth the charges."