It was a little under three weeks later that the trial was convened on Starbase 73. When Spock stood in his quarters and looked in the mirror he saw a different person to the man he had seen in McCoy's sick bay, malnourished and beaten and scarred. He was not entirely sure that he was a different person underneath, but the vicious scar on his face was almost completely gone, and he found himself able to sleep through the night without those odd crushing feelings of panic waking him. He was still thin, but not the hollow-cheeked person that he had been.

He was not sure how he would manage to get through this trial, though. Although he was quite confident of his own innocence and the men's guilt, the idea of having his treatment detailed and itemised and shared between numerous Federation officials was abhorrent to him. Although his name would be kept out of the press it would not be long before people put two and two together, due to the rarity of Vulcans serving in Starfleet.

Spock sat behind the desk in his room trying to process all that he was about to go through. He was wearing his dress uniform, waiting for the moment when he would be called to attend the briefing room not far away to give his testimony via subspace. On the desk in front of him there was a padd and stylus, and a list of the possible questions that he may be asked. The Federation team had been very sensitive and careful with him, trying their best to prepare him for the trial. The trouble was that he had no desire to talk about this with anyone, even to prepare. Just looking at the possible questions was vastly disconcerting, and he irrationally wished that someone, anyone, could answer the questions in his stead.

But there was no one. There were other citizens of Alphonae Prime still on the ship, waiting for the opportunity to disembark at a suitable planet that accepted human immigrants, but they would not be able to feature in the trial except as witnesses. They were not Federation citizens and could only seek justice on their home planet. As such, he would be the only victim in the case. He had no fear of facing either Newman or Master Heaton, but the thought of everything that Master Robert had done being reeled out in front of a jury made nausea rise in his stomach, no matter how hard he tried to control.

There was a buzz at his door, and he looked up sharply.

'Come,' he said.

Kirk entered the room with a sympathetic smile.

'How are you doing, Spock?' he asked.

The closer the time had grown to the trial the more careful and softly spoken Jim seemed to have become with him. Spock was gaining the impression that Jim thought him a fragile eggshell in danger of being cracked.

'I am all right, Jim,' he said, but he did not look directly at him as he said that.

'Yeah, and I'm a monkey's uncle,' the captain said in an undertone.

'Humans are apes, a branch of tailless anthropoid catarrhine primates,' Spock said pedantically. 'While monkeys are also primates, they are members of the Haplorrhini suborder. Humans cannot crossbreed with monkeys. Therefore your brother's children are certainly also apes, not monkeys.'

'Precisely, Spock,' Kirk said in a satisfied tone. 'I am no more a monkey's uncle than you are all right.'

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'Have you been taking lessons from the good doctor, Jim?'

'I don't need to,' Jim said firmly. 'I'm quite capable of seeing through you – and winning an argument with you – without help.'

'As you wish,' Spock murmured, but he kept the eyebrow raised.

'Do you want to talk, Spock?' Jim asked directly.

'Thank you, Jim, but no, I don't believe I do,' Spock replied. He had talked very little about his experiences and his emotional reactions to them, preferring to deal with it internally via meditation and the stock of mental techniques that he had built up since he was a young child.

He had never imagined, as a young child, having to use those resources to deal with something like this. Very few children, especially children from privileged backgrounds, ever had to imagine the stark, appalling consequences of slavery or rape.

'Do you want me to be in the room when you're called, Spock?' Kirk asked him. 'You can have me or McCoy present – or both of us, of course. You don't need to be on your own.'

'I would rather be on my own,' Spock said flatly. Talking about what had happened in front of McCoy had been difficult enough. He did not want to speak about it in front of him again, or speak of it in front of Jim. He did not want to have that strange barrier between them, of Jim knowing precisely what had happened to him.

'Are you sure, Spock?'

The stylus in his hand suddenly broke in two. Spock stared at it. He had been unaware that he had been putting any pressure on the slim piece of plastic, but there it was in two pieces in his hand, and there was a green mark on his palm where it had scraped against his skin.

'Yes, Jim, I am sure,' he said, very carefully putting the pieces of the stylus down on the desk. Kirk looked at them without comment, but his silence held realms of meaning.

As the stylus touched the desk with a soft clicking sound the intercom whistled, and Uhura's soft voice said, 'Commander Spock, you are called to Briefing Room Seven.'

Spock swallowed, his eyes on the broken stylus. He did not want to look up and meet Jim's eyes. He reached out to the intercom, pressed the audio-only button, and said, 'Acknowledged, Lieutenant.'

He stood very stiffly, straightening his dress uniform tunic as he did. He was gratified to see that his hands were not shaking, at least. He had suppressed that reaction in the last few weeks, thankfully.

'Do you mind if I walk down there with you?' Jim asked.

Spock hesitated, then nodded briefly. 'Very well,' he said.

He was glad, though, when Jim left him at the door. Neither had known what to say on the way to the briefing room, and when he stepped through the door and it hissed closed he stopped for a moment, taking in a deep breath and relishing this one moment of being utterly alone. Then he composed his face, took his place in front of the monitor, and switched it on.

He could not see the accused. He was thankful of that. The only face on the screen was that of a pleasant looking human woman wearing a leaf-green suit that was rather featureless, as was the current fashion for business wear. Her hair was very carefully coiffed on top of her head.

'Commander Spock,' she said.

'Yes,' Spock nodded.

'I am Alyson Hargreave,' she said. 'I will be acting as liaison between yourself and the court. Be assured that your responses to questions will be seen by the judge, the jury, the lawyers for prosecution and defence, and myself, but no one else. Are you comfortable with that arrangement?'

Spock nodded again. To say he was comfortable would be a lie, but this was the best that could be arranged.

'That's good, Commander,' she said in a sympathetic tone. 'Now, some of these questions will seem very invasive. I apologise for that, but you understand – '

'I do understand the need,' Spock cut over her. These preliminaries were unbearable. He would rather get straight to the questioning.

'Good. Now, I will repeat the lawyers' questions to you, but they will hear your responses directly. Are you ready to begin?'

He was anything but ready to begin. His mouth felt dry and for a moment he wanted to tell the woman that he could not testify, that it would be better to release the accused and let them go back to their planet. But he nodded again, and said, 'Yes, I am ready to begin.'

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

He became aware of voices very close to him. He had been sitting for a long time in the chair in the briefing room, so still that his spine had seemed to become part of the curved plastic behind him, his arms had become the chair's arms, his legs its legs. He did not know how to process his feelings. He had been doing so well, he had thought, through this last week. He had managed three full days without any flashbacks or momentary bursts of panic. He had not experienced the asphyxiating claustrophobia. Each breath had been his own, each thought considered and deliberate.

But this. This had unleashed a river. He felt like an immovable cave with a torrent rushing through him. He did not believe that he could move from his chair. His arms were part of the arms, his legs its legs. He sat very still, only breathing in air because his lungs insisted on movement. His body was hollowed out and his thoughts cascaded through his mind.

He was so, so unclean. He felt as if he had stepped back to that moment when the transporter had caught hold of him and materialised him gently back on the ship. He felt small, huddled, unsafe.

And then he heard the voices near him. McCoy saying, 'Spock? Spock, come on now. It's time to get back to your quarters.'

Then Jim saying, 'Bones, are you sure he's all right? The comm's been off for an hour, it says. Has he been sitting like this all that time?'

'Come on, Spock,' McCoy said again.

He made what felt like a great physical effort. He felt as if he were climbing from the depths of a dark hole, or waking from a very long sleep. He turned his neck stiffly to look obliquely at the doctor, who was holding his arm. He stood, and life seemed to inch back into his limbs.

'He'll be all right, Jim,' McCoy said with a hint of impatience. Spock hadn't heard what Kirk had said to make him respond in that way. He moved as the doctor nudged him forwards, and walked with him through the brightness of the corridor back to the warm, dim safety of his quarters. When they entered the room he sat heavily in his carved wooden chair behind the desk. His dress uniform felt very stiff and restrictive, and he had to fight the urge to rip open the collar.

'Let me help, Spock,' McCoy said, perceptively reaching out to undo the stiff collar and help him open the tunic to show his black undershirt beneath. Spock leant his head back, and then realised with a jerk that there was nothing to lean against.

'I am tired,' he said.

'Well, I'm glad you can talk,' McCoy said with gentle humour.

Spock turned his head a little, becoming aware that Jim had exited the quarters through their shared bathroom. After a moment he returned, carrying three glasses and a bottle.

'I thought the Scotch settled with you well the other day, Spock,' he said with a smile, putting the glasses down on the desk with a chink.

He let his eyes fall on the glasses. Three glasses. He could not bear the idea of sitting here and socialising at this time. The thought of the alcohol in his mouth was a good thought, but Jim would expect him to talk.

'Please. I wish to be alone,' he made his mouth say.

The silence felt thick and full. He could sense the unspoken communication between McCoy and Jim. And then Jim said, 'I understand, Spock. I'll leave you alone.'

The captain very deliberately picked up one glass, but left the other two and the bottle. Spock did not move his head, and he heard rather than saw the door to his quarters opening and closing.

'Please, Doctor,' he said after a moment.

He looked up slowly, trying to catch McCoy in the corner of his eyes rather than look at him directly. McCoy unscrewed the lid of the bottle and poured out two glasses of Scotch, then picked one up and took a mouthful.

'Please, McCoy,' Spock tried again. 'I – do want to be alone.'

'Yes, I know you do, Spock,' McCoy said in a sympathetic tone. 'But I would be remiss in my duties if I left you alone right now.'

'Please,' Spock said, then with some difficulty said, 'Please, Bones.'

The doctor looked startled. 'Well, now I know you need me,' he said, pushing Spock's glass closer towards him. 'Spock, I know today must have been incredibly difficult.'

Spock picked up his glass abruptly, feeling the hard, cold, rounded surface against his fingers. He lifted it to his lips and swallowed half of the liquid in there.

'Difficult,' he said, 'is not an adequate word.'

He closed his eyes, perhaps as if in closing them he could pretend that McCoy was not in the room. But when he closed them the dark bands began to constrict on him, his lungs seemed to stutter, the memories blossomed like ink dropped in water.

'Please, McCoy,' he tried again. 'I will have to go through this again tomorrow. I need to be alone. I need – '

'You are in no fit state to be alone,' McCoy told him in a low, firm voice. 'I'm sorry, Spock, but nothing you say will convince me to leave you to this. Nothing.'

Spock took another mouthful of the Scotch and found that he had finished the glass. He expected McCoy to pour him another, but he did not.

'I think that's enough,' the doctor said, taking his own unfinished glass and putting both it and Spock's glass on a surface on the other side of the room. 'Now. I don't ask that you talk to me about what you've been through today, Spock. I don't ask that you talk to me at all. But I am going to stay here for as long as it takes for you to work your way out of this, and I will do the same tomorrow, and the day after, and however long this trial takes.'

Spock closed his eyes again and exhaled very slowly, trying to take the chaotic thoughts inside his mind and calm them down to something manageable. He wanted to go into the bathroom and scrub his body clean, but he knew logically that he was already clean, and he did not want to subject himself to those oblique and reflected glimpses of his naked body. He knew that he would have to get this under control. He would have to present himself properly if called tomorrow. If he could not answer questions then it was likely that the whole trial would collapse, and all of this would be for nothing. Besides, if he did not manage to control his emotions then it was likely that the good doctor would stay in his quarters all night, and he did not want that to happen.