There were times when Spock considered 'accidentally' injuring himself again, severely enough to be allowed time to recover in Ma Stoner's kitchen. It was not often that he saw the woman outside, but when he did he could see the look of concern on her face. She seemed to have taken to him enough while he had been under her care that she still worried about him. But of course she could not show this. Sympathy for slaves was dangerous. It was the thin end of the wedge which would crack this network of free, convenient labour apart at the seams. Ma Stoner could do no more than look at him with concern as the weight dropped away again, his hair grew matted again, and punishment left poorly healing sores again. There was no protection for him now.

Winter hit this region of the planet hard, and Spock was not confident that he would be able to survive until the warmer weather came. The only small mercy was that in this cold he was largely spared the predation of Master Robert. The boy was far less willing to endure the cold and discomfort of the slaves' barn in winter. But the cold was likely to prove deadly. Spock knew that. Sickness was rife amongst the slaves and even with stock, forced doses of antibiotics he saw more than one die. At night his sleep was disturbed by the coughing around him, and by his own hacking coughs from whichever new illness had settled in him. His lungs burnt and his peak flow capacity was severely curtailed. Even mild activity made him short of breath. The balance between escaping and surviving was being tilted, but ironically he knew that he was nowhere near fit enough to attempt an escape at this time. It seemed that death would come to him one way or another, and he preferred to wait for the uncertain strike of illness rather than the almost inevitable consequences of a failed escape.

He was standing in the relative shelter of a small lean-to beside one of the sheds, reaching up for the harness that was used to attach a slave to the cart or any other thing that needed the full strength of the body to pull. After sitting down outside of a break and being punished the day before he felt so cold and tired that he could have easily leant against the wall and slept. His chains had been fitted with heavy weights as part of the punishment for his 'laziness,' and just walking was exhausting. But he knew that if he spent too long in the shelter Newman or one of the other overseers would be in there with whip or gun to force him back outside.

The snow was falling so thickly outside that the house could not be seen across the yard and he spent a little time wondering if this was a plausible time to attempt escape. Could he slip away in this near blizzard without being seen? But he was so cold, his reactions were so poor. He could not run without starting to choke for breath. How could he manage to get any distance from the farm in this condition?

He was going to faint. He could feel it coming over him, a feeling of disassociation, of crumbling apart in his mind. Dizziness pervaded every cell of his body. He could not hear. He could not see.

And then the world reformed itself. First it was the warmth that hit him. He was still standing. He had not fainted. He had been caught by a transporter beam, and here he was in an enclosed, warm space, just standing there, staring.

He did not know what to think. He did not know how to react. The relief that surged inside him was clamped back by his dazed mind, and he just stood, and stared.

''''''''''''''

The figure that materialised on the transporter platform was thin, damaged, and almost naked, but it was undeniably Spock. In the instant the beam still held him McCoy's eyes travelled with both professional and personal concern over the Vulcan, noting the haggard, unshaven complexion, uncut hair, and bruises, cuts, scars and dirt covering the exposed portions of his body. The blue of the filthy, torn cloth round his waist was the same blue as the pristine shirt he had worn as he left the ship eight months ago, but that seemed to be the only remnant of his previous life. He was wet and shivering. His dirt-blackened hands were held up as if engaged in some task. His wrists were circled by dark metal bands fastened together by a two foot long chain. His ankles were treated in a similar fashion. His neck was enclosed by an iron collar that sat uneasily on his jutting collarbones. The expression frozen on his face was one of tired confusion. All this McCoy saw in the few seconds before the beam released him and his muscles gained life again.

'Spock, you green-blooded son of – ' McCoy began amiably, unable to prevent a grin of pure relief from splitting his face.

Spock stood motionless for a moment, his head tilted downward, not seeming to focus on anyone in the room. Then he lifted his head slowly and his black eyes seemed to burn into McCoy's own, quenching his joy as quickly as if he had been doused with ice water. There was something hauntingly, incredibly sad, and perhaps even reproachful, in his look, as if a part of his spirit had been cut out in the months he had been away.

'Doctor,' he said softly, in a voice almost – almost – identical to how McCoy remembered it. What was different was – perhaps a loss of confidence, or just physically a loss of strength in his tone.

'Spock, come on down here,' McCoy said in more gentle tones, coming forward to touch his arm, noticing the minute signs of exhaustion – a lack of rigidity at the knee, the slight trembling of the chained hands, the pallor in the face. 'My god…' he breathed, as Spock manoeuvred ahead of him, and he caught sight of the state of the Vulcan's back. His skin was massed with fresh, old, and infected welts and scars, presumably from some kind of lash.

'You will want me in sick bay, I presume?' Spock asked, still in that quiet, ridiculously controlled voice. He was walking as if each step was painful.

'In a moment,' McCoy muttered. 'But just sit down here for now,' he said, gently pressuring the Vulcan to sit on the steps of the transporter. Spock did not resist the instruction – in fact he seemed glad of it – but he tensed perceptibly as the doctor's hands touched his shoulders. 'My god, you're freezing. Kyle, call for a wheelchair and a blanket,' he said, turning to the transporter operator, who looked as appalled as he felt.

'Right away, sir,' Kyle nodded.

Spock's eyes flicked briefly, almost suspiciously, to Kyle, then quickly back to middle distance. McCoy turned to his medical bag and pulled out both a hypo and a small spray dispenser.

'It's a strong painkiller, stronger than I'd usually give you, but – You must be in pain,' he said, touching the hypo to Spock's arm.

'Yes,' Spock admitted simply.

'This spray is a topical anaesthetic,' he added, liberally applying the fine, cold mist to Spock's back. 'It'll make sitting in the wheelchair bearable. I don't want you to have to walk down to sick bay.'

'No,' Spock agreed. He seemed without any other impulse to speak or move, but his eyes flicked briefly to the chain threaded between his ankles.

'I can't do anything about the fetters here, Spock. I'll get Scotty to bring something up to sickbay to cut through them.'

'Of course.' Then suddenly a spark seemed to light in him. He turned to McCoy briefly as if to ask him something, then changed his mind, got to his feet and went with surprising swiftness to the transporter console. 'Computer, scan for all humanoid lifeforms within ten square miles of my beam-up coordinates. Isolate and prepare to transport all those bearing iron bands on wrists, ankles and necks. Authorisation; Spock, Commander.'

'Thirty-seven lifeforms isolated,' the computer reported within a few seconds.

Spock closed his eyes briefly, performing the kind of inward memory consultation that McCoy knew in normal circumstances he rarely even had to think about. 'That is correct. Lieutenant Kyle, please beam them to – ' He looked at McCoy with a questioning expression. 'Cargo bay one?'

McCoy nodded. He knew too much about Spock's determination, even in this state, to argue with him about procedure.

'Should be fine,' he nodded. 'I'll have medical teams sent down there.'

'Sir - ' Kyle began uncertainly, looking at the doctor. 'Should I consult the Captain first?'

Spock fixed McCoy with a similar look, suddenly seeming to drop the confidence he had momentarily regained.

'Captain's not on board, Lieutenant,' McCoy reminded him. 'He's on the other side of the planet trying to get the government there to explain just why a human colony would condone such appalling slavery. That means Commander Spock is the highest ranking officer on board.'

'And he's – I'm sorry, sir,' he said, guiltily glancing at Spock. 'He's competent to give orders?'

'You know who you are and where you are?' McCoy asked Spock, confident of the reply. 'And where you've been? … Spock?' he asked again, worried when the Vulcan didn't reply instantly.

Spock snapped his attention back to McCoy as the doctor touched his arm. 'I am sorry, Doctor. I was not paying attention.'

'Spock, can you hear me all right?' McCoy asked curiously, realising that until now Spock had been focussing on his mouth almost every time he had spoken. This time he had been staring at the transporter controls before him.

'No, Doctor. I lost almost all hearing in my left ear, after a recent beating,' Spock told him calmly. 'The hearing in my right is not perfect. If I do not concentrate, I sometimes miss things.'

McCoy closed his eyes briefly, wondering how much more damage and trauma would be revealed as time went on. 'I was asking you to tell me who you are, where you are, and where you've been,' he repeated. 'Just to – '

'To assess my competency,' Spock nodded. 'I am Commander Spock, I am on the U.S.S. Enterprise,' he recited quietly. His face seemed to change as he continued, 'For the past two hundred and sixty-nine days I have been a slave designated as number fourteen on a farmstead on Alphonae Prime.'

McCoy looked at Kyle. 'He's not healthy, Lieutenant, but he's mentally competent. Follow his orders. And order medical teams down to cargo bay one to receive those poor souls you beam up.'

'Yes, sir,' Kyle nodded smartly, seeming relieved at that answer.

'Now, Spock, sit down,' McCoy urged him. 'Before you fall down.'

Spock stared at McCoy for a moment, before glancing down at his own trembling hands. Every movement made the chain between them clink and clatter, a sound he had not been able to escape for almost nine months. McCoy realised with shock as he followed Spock's gaze that both his wrists and his ankles were deeply afflicted with sores that could not possibly heal under the constant abrasion they suffered.

'It is mid-afternoon on the farmstead, Doctor,' he said calmly. 'I have not eaten, and have barely slept, in twenty-four hours. I have been working since dawn. I would be expected to work for another four hours without sitting down, and another three hours after that before I could sleep. If I allowed myself to fall down now I would be beaten until I stood again.'

'Yes – but you're not there now,' McCoy said tersely, trying to hold in his shock at that revelation. 'You're not working to the same imperatives, and your body doesn't have the resources to keep going. And I want you to sit down, now. Now, don't make me – '

A switch seemed to flick in Spock's head at those words, and he flinched away from McCoy's hand with astonishing speed, taking himself to the corner of the transporter and seating himself back on the steps in a huddled, self-protective position. Although he was struggling to control himself, his fear was evident in every taut muscle.

'Spock!' McCoy gasped, hurrying over to him. 'I didn't mean – Good God, it's me, McCoy. I was going to say I didn't want to make it a medical order. That's all.'

'Of course, sir,' Spock murmured, pressing his hands over his face as if he was trying to wipe away his instinctive reaction. 'I mean – Of course. I apologise, Doctor. The words you used…'

'What did you expect to hear, Spock?'

He shook his head wearily. 'Any number of threats – anything to cause pain or fear or physical deprivation. I – have fully expected to die before now on hearing those words. There is very little value placed on a slave's life.'

McCoy touched his arm lightly, trying to avoid pressure on any place that seemed injured or damaged. Every part of him wanted to rage at what Spock had gone through, but he knew such anger would help no one – least of all Spock.

'Come on,' he said, as the door opened and an orderly pushed a wheelchair through. He took the chair and dismissed the orderly with a nod, ignoring his shocked reaction to the sight of the ship's first officer in such a condition. 'Sit down here,' he said, wrapping a blanket around the Vulcan and carefully helping him to seat himself in the chair. 'Comfortable?'

Spock glanced up briefly. 'I have not sat on a cushioned seat since I last set foot on this ship, Doctor.'

All the same, he could not feel entirely comfortable as he was wheeled towards the sick bay, after so long of being forbidden to sit in the company of free men, or to rest while someone else tended to him. It felt so strange. This all felt so strange. He could not take it in.