Ang'jmizn Spock was tired.
He had just finished his last campaign against the Altair system and he longed to return to the red sands of his estate. The warriors were loading the last of the spoils onto the ship. They would soon make their way back to Vulcan.
Vulcan. Home. The only planet he would ever claim as his own.
Yet even the thought of Vulcan wearied him. He would be met with pomp and circumstance. The Processions, the glory of his conquest lauded throughout the planet. He would have to meet with the Council to plan his next campaign. He would undergo rituals of purification with the priests. There could be no peace or privacy for Vulcan's best Ang'jmizn.
The only comfort he could take was in T'Pring, she who had been his companion since childhood. She who bore the same pressures as he. Ang'jmizn Spock allowed himself to indulge in the thought of her, tall and silver, for a moment. The weak bond between them called even in the great expanse of space.
He would be home soon.
He then remembered. T'Pring would expect a gift. Something rare and exotic to fascinate her mind. Something that he had chosen for her specifically.
Spock wandered among the spoils, but nothing satisfied him. He would have to find her gift in some other system along the way. Perhaps among one of planets that paid tribute.
It was just as well. His crew required some recreation to ease themselves from the relentless campaign he had waged.
"Chief mishek, are the engines in satisfactory condition?"
"Affirmative."
"Dakharausu, warp 3. Plot a course to the Laurentian system, where we will collect tribute. The crew is granted leave."
"Understood."
His orders were carried out with cool efficiency. Within four minutes, the Buk went into warp.
He would soon be home.
--
As soon as he stepped off the Buk, the Council met him. T'Pring was among them, dressed in silver.
"Spock."
"T'Pau," Spock knelt before her.
"Thou hast returned glorious. Vulcan honors thee."
"I am honored by Vulcan."
The Council continued the ritual of honor, but T'Pring could see his impatience.
"Thou hast defeated our enemies by the might of logic."
"Our enemies are defeated. May Vulcan live eternal."
It amused her that he was so eager to leave. As when they were children, and Spock was ever impatient to go into space and prove himself, show to Vulcan and the galaxy once and for all that he had mastered his training.
"Thou art the sword of Vulcan. Thy blade is sharp."
"I am the instrument of order. My life I dedicate to the protection of our Way."
With those words, T'Pring felt the cold tendrils of duty taking over him. Impatience vanished. He stood and went through each step, reciting the words precisely and granting weight to their meaning.
It was their Way.
T'Pau put her fingers to his psi points and nodded.
"Thou has returned victorious. Vulcan honors thee."
"I am honored by Vulcan. My life I lay down in her service."
The High Councilor withdrew her hand.
"Rise, Spock. The priests have consulted. We have named thee Ang'jmizn of the next campaign to be waged against the Orions. Wilt thou accept this commission?"
T'Pring felt Spock keep hold of himself. There was a time when he longed for honor and the glory of Vulcan. She remembered his first campaign, when he came back flush from the thrill of victory.
Now the taste of victory had lost its savor. His life was devoted to honor and duty, upholding the traditions of Vulcan. It brought him joy, but that joy was subdued. Tempered by the wars he had waged across the galaxy.
"I accept."
"Thou wilt join us three days hence, after thou hast been purified by the priests," T'Pau nodded. Her eyes softened. "Rest, Spock. Get thee to thy estate and look thou upon that which restores thy katra, the foundations of thy ancestry written in rock. T'Pring, attend to thy betrothed."
Emotion flared inside her. She did not to be ordered. It was a duty she took upon herself gladly. Emotion flashed, but she kept her silver facade.
Spock held up the ta'al to her.
"Dif-tor heh smusma, T'Pring."
"Sochya eh dif, Spock."
In silence, they walked to the hovercar waiting for them.
They said nothing to one another while in transport. Spock merely gazed out the window of the vehicle, sometimes turning his dark eyes on her. T'Pring maintained her facade until they were in the privacy of his palace.
His slaves and attendants were waiting when they arrived. Spock greeted them, spoke with his stewards concerning the household accounts while T'Pring looked at the dinner menu and selected Spock's favorite dishes, rid herself of her cloak, watching his movements all the while. After an interval, he waved most of the slaves away, relying only on his old attendant to disrobe him of his heavy uniform.
"Prepare my place of meditation."
This was how it had been the last three times he returned from the wars. He did not speak, only maintained dutiful silence until after he had meditated and dined.
T'Pring was patient. She had waited 14 months for him to return from this journey. She could wait three hours longer.
Dinner was a subdued affair, marked by the quiet clinking of silverware, imported from Klingon. One of his earlier and most taxing campaigns.
While Spock sat opposite her, absorbed in his world, T'Pring considered her own affairs. She would delay his next excursion into space. They must have some time together else the bond, already weakening from disuse, might collapse altogether. And there were the politics of how to manage the new system Spock had conquered. The Council would surely desire to sent T'Griv as governor, but T'Pring had her doubts about T'Griv's ability to administrate.
She was in the middle of a thousand calculations for the next political maneuver when Spock suddenly rose from the table, his meal half eaten.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, forgetting the silence and facades and concerns of their duty.
"No."
He did not elaborate.
"I will have another meal prepared—"
"Unnecessary," he answered sharply.
T'Pring looked at him, her facade returning. It always happened this way. He was changed in some way.
Spock closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled.
"Forgive, T'Pring. It was not my intention."
She nodded.
Something uncoiled between them.
"Follow me to the study. I have something to show you."
She followed, curious.
When she entered his study, he had his back to her. T'Pring closed the door behind her and, forgetting the space and distance and tradition that bound them, sidled up next to Spock. He was holding a strange bulky object, handling it meticulously.
"What is it?" she asked, curiosity like silver.
"Something I found in the Altair system," he turned. He carefully placed the object in her hands. "For you."
His fingers lingered on her inner wrists, then slowly withdrew.
T'Pring's eyes flashed with emotion.
"Is it a machine? It seems antiquated."
She bent her head and turned it over in her hands to examine it.
"It is an antique," he nodded. "There is a disk inside."
Spock pressed a button and the screen flickered on.
"A two dimensional player?" she asked, fascinated.
"Indeed. Watch. It will play music."
She watched, oblivious to Spock's dark eyes on her. T'Pring was totally absorbed in this new gift that Spock had found for her.
And then, as he promised, there was music.
But the sound was jarring in her ears. It was nothing like Vulcan's symphonies and songs. There was something primal and untamed about this music and it rattled her. She listened for a while, something inside repulsed by the sound.
Spock could feel it, the way the music disconcerted her. He turned it off.
"You found it disturbing," he said, as though repeating a fact.
"It is different. Alien. Almost wild with emotion," she paused. "Did you enjoy it?"
A pause.
"I found it compelling."
She had nothing to say to that.
"What was it? Does it have a name?"
Spock gently took the object from her hands and stowed it away.
"I will find you a more appropriate gift the next time I return."
"Do not concern yourself, Spock. I was not so badly affected."
"Nevertheless."
A pause.
"What was it?" she asked again.
"I was not able to discover the name of the machine, but the music is Terran in origin. It is an opera, from their pre-Warp days."
"An opera," she repeated.
"Yes," he turned back to her."
"Does it have a title?"
Spock nodded, but did not answer immediately.
"It is called Aida."
"Aida. A strange word."
"It is a name. The name of a slave, in fact," he paused, then motioned for her to sit. "Tell me how you have been passing your time while I was away. What has occupied your thoughts?"
She almost smiled. T'Pring settled into a chair and by habit, arranged herself in her councilor posture. Spock frowned.
"Do not stand on ceremony with me, T'Pring."
She relaxed, silver facade melting away.
"Sit, Spock. I have much to tell you."
--
It was as though something was hounding him.
Spock had been born and bred for space. Before his went on his first campaign, it was all he ever dreamed of. He lived and breathed those dreams of glory, he shared with T'Pring his every vision of the battles he would win.
After his first campaign, he was changed. T'Pring saw it in his eyes. But he refused to recount to her whatever had occurred in that space, instead taking comfort in the solidity of her presence. The days after his first Procession, his first cleansing, he woke T'Pring and they left the walls of the city as they had when they were children. Spock stared up at the stars, and he looked at her with his dark eyes.
Ever since his first campaign, T'Pring felt Spock's constant longing. In space, he longed to be on Vulcan. On Vulcan, he longed to be back in space. He went on campaign after campaign after campaign, returning the most stunning victories the galaxy had ever seen. He lived by the sense of duty they had written into his body, the values of honor they had inscribed into his mind. It was his world, it was his way, as it had always been.
T'Pring's training was of a different sort. But she was equally honor bound and duty bound to take her place in the Council. The priests had engineered the match between them, they had seen this destiny written in the stars.
Their love of Vulcan united them, bound them deeply in ways few others could understand.
But he was changed.
"I see no reason why it is necessary to continue this practice of mass execution of prisoners. They are defeated and conquered. What use it is to deprive them of life as well?"
"Spock, it is our Way. It is the way things have always been and always will be."
"You call upon tradition."
"Tradition and logic. It is necessary to deprive our enemies of their soldiers, or they will organize and fight against us. These are the first steps of preventing resistance. Or do you desire to release them and fight against the enemy eternally, never to attain peace?"
Spock bristled.
"The practice breeds resentment among them. If we might show a measure of mercy, then the chances of resistance decrease."
"There is no value in mercy. We are founded on our code of justice."
"Justice," Spock repeated.
"It is our Way."
He looked away. The silence was heavy between them.
"Spock?"
He turned his dark eyes back on her.
"T'Pring. If you had seen—" he inhaled. "If you had seen some of the things I have seen—"
He could not say it.
"What have you seen?" she raised her hand to meld with him.
Spock stopped her.
"No. I will not burden you with this—you already have your politics you must see to."
T'Pring could feel him rein himself in.
"You are right. It is our Way."
He bowed.
"I must meet with the priests for purification."
"The Council has not decided upon a date—"
"It will be soon," he said, expression shuttering. "It is always soon."
--
"The Orions are no threat to our territories."
"Nevertheless, they must be taught a lesson."
"The rebellion was minor and contained. It will do no good to send our ships to that sector to dominate it. Our resources would be put to better use visiting the fledgling colonies and supporting their building efforts."
"Ang'jmizn, let the Council govern. It is thy place to execute orders."
"May I not speak to tell thee of what I have seen?"
"We have heard thy statements."
He turned to T'Pring, seeking an ally.
"See reason, Spock. The rebellion was, as thou sayest, minor, but those who defy Vulcan's order must be punished. It shall be an easy conquest. It cannot last more than two months. We already have many strongholds in that system."
Spock stood against her silver gaze.
"Thou speakest of the complete subjugation of a tributary system which hath thus far exhibited neither sign nor signal of unrest or discontent. If thou wilt punish them, must not the punishment be in proportion to the offense?"
"It was no mere rebellion, Spock, but a betrayal," T'Pring answered. "For those who would betray us, for sviksu, there can be no mercy. It is our Way."
"It is our Way," he repeated.
Duty, honor, tradition keeping him firmly in place.
The campaign, as T'Pring anticipated, took less than two months.
It was managing the situation afterwards that kept Spock in space for another year.
--
Humans knew the Vulcans were going to come after them. It was inevitable. As the Vulcan Fleet conquered system after system, they would turn their attention to Earth soon. It was only a matter of time.
But humans would be damned if they didn't go without a fight. And sometimes, the best defense was an aggressive offense, so that's exactly what they did.
They allied themselves with every free, fighting, and rebellious system left in the Alpha Quadrant. They lent their ships out constantly, whenever they could and whatever they could spare, participating in the massive battles waged between the cobbled fleet of the resistance and the organized menace of the Vulcans.
The strategy was invaluable. It gave humans experience and seasoned vets who could keep their heads against impossible odds. It gave them captains like Winona Kirk, fearless and strong and a damned brilliant tactician. She and her sons, George and Jim Kirk, were already becoming legendary on Earth.
Legendary because sometimes, the Kirks pulled off victories. Sometimes, they won.
But Win was smarter than to think that those victories meant anything. She learned something from every battle and she knew the successes were good for morale. It showed people that the Vulcans were beatable. It kept spirits up.
But these were battles won against minor Vulcan commanders. If Earth was practicing for the Big One, so were the Vulcans. At least, that's what Jim's intel pointed to, and he was usually spot on. The real test would come when the Vulcans unleashed their finest weapon of warfare on Earth.
And no one, not even Jim, could get anything on this guy. They didn't even know if it was a guy. Only that he/she was Vulcan, and that he/she was a military genius. Remorseless, precise, merciless. Everything the Vulcans stood for. Humans had their work cut out for them.
Information on his tactics was hard to come by. The Vulcan was so thorough it was hard to pick up any kind of meaningful trail. Records and reports of battles were spotty at best, though they managed to find some complete files. Win studied the crap out of them, analyzing every possibility. The crux of the information problem was that any place the Vulcan paid a visit to, the system fell completely. Spy ships, observation vessels, very little escaped in the vicious cleanup campaign the Vulcans waged after their total victory. Everything in that sector became pure Vulcan territory, under the iron rule and oversight of the Council. No free person, no sane person went into Vulcan territory unless they wanted to be sold into slavery.
And in the center of it all was Vulcan itself.
They called it the Fortress because that's what it was. Impregnable. Any war against Vulcan, any truly offensive war, would have to take on the Vulcan colonies before they could even think of penetrating the inner sanctum. At least that's what the Admiralty thought. They thought they'd have to planet-hop their way there until they got to knocking on the gates of the Fortress.
Win thought that was bullshit.
She didn't know what kind of security the Vulcans had on their planet, but she figured that if they managed to take out the Fortress, everything else would collapse like a row of dominos. Or at least be seriously weakened.
The Admiralty thought she was crazy. The Kirks had a reputation for being a little crazy. By all reports, Vulcans had a very well organized colonial government and just because they shot the heart didn't mean the rest of the body was powerless. There were plenty of Vulcans, and plenty of Vulcan forces, to be found like web around the main planet.
But Win was determined to find out whatever she could. If they wanted to keep Earth free and intact, she was convinced that the only way to do that was to kill their best Commander and take out Vulcan itself. The war would rage on for years, she knew, but this would even the odds and might encourage some of the Vulcan colonies and tribute planets to rebel. So she sent her younger son on a mission to find out whatever he could about that elusive Commander and keep his ears open for anything about Vulcan.
She sent Jim out with a small ship and a small crew, a cover story and fake documents, to get this done.
For six months, he reported back to her faithfully with fresh intel and groundbreaking information about the Vulcan Fleet. Even better, he got a hot tip on the Commander that he was going to follow up on. After that, he gave her two more reports. More golden and invaluable info. His plan was set. They were going in.
Don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while, he'd told her. This misson's going to take at least a couple months.
Win waited.
She was good at waiting. It made her a good captain, knowing when to strike and when to wait.
But the silence stretched. Stretched into six months. Then eight. Then ten.
Silence like that meant two things in Win's world. Death, or capture.
He was gone.
If the Admiralty thought Win was crazy before, that was nothing.
It was personal now. It had always been personal (her husband's voice telling her he loved her so much, sacrificing himself so that Win and Jim could escape from the Vulcans), but this was her baby. This was Jim.
She didn't believe Jim was dead. She would know if he were dead. He was alive. He was alive, somewhere in vast territory of the Vulcans.
And Win was going to get him back.
She swore to herself, she promised, that she would get her baby boy back.
It was precisely when she made this resolution that every alarm bell at HQ went off. The Vulcan Fleet was marshalling their forces for a campaign on Earth.
--
Those Vulcan Interrogators were no fucking joke. Jim had decent shielding abilities, but fuck. They just raped his mind and saw everything. He was too busy vomiting in his cell and trying to figure out a way to make his pounding migraine go away than figure out some kind of escape or consider his options.
They were going to execute him. Quickly, if he was lucky. Jim had no illusions about his situation.
At least he would die free. That was more than he could say for some bastards who fell into the hands of the Vulcans.
He fell asleep on the floor—he'd been in worse situations, the pool of vomit really wasn't a big deal—allowing the bliss of cool oblivion to take him away from the confines of his cell.
He would die free. The thought comforted him.
Win had always said it was better to die standing than live on your knees. But, she'd always cautioned, if there's a chance to survive, and survive to be free, take it.
There was no way in hell living under Vulcans would constitute any sort of freedom. Once a slave under the Fortress, always a slave. With very little chances of escape, at least as far as Jim could tell. Like their territories, the Vulcans kept a firm hand on all their property. Possessive fuckers. Even if he had the choice, he'd never give himself up to them. It went against everything he believed in, everything that was right and good in the universe.
Tomorrow, he would die a free man.
He was fine with that.
Of course, Jim would rather live. But he could think of worse ways to go.
--
Was there no end to this cycle? The duty that pressed on his chest, the honor that dug into his shoulders, his neck weighed down with the ages of Vulcan tradition.
He reined himself in. Duty was his life. Honor was his being. The glory of Vulcan was his world, his purpose. The whole of his existence was dedicated to Vulcan, his people and his planet.
T'Pau bid him return.
Spock welcomed her summons. He wanted to see the red dunes, the walls of the city, T'Kuht hanging in the sky. He did not even mind the prospect of the procession, the Council meetings, going to the temple. He could see in his mind the ancient stones at the entrance to his father's house.
And he would visit the marker of his father's grave. Sarek had died in space, in a battle against the Klingons. His father had initiated that campaign and invented the strategy that ate into the territories of the former Klingon Empire. The dutiful son finished what his father had started. Those had been brutal and dark days.
It was also Sarek's idea to engineer Spock and train him to take on the mantle of Ang'jmizn. The Terran woman Sarek had chosen was said to be exceptional. There were stories whispered that Sarek had even melded with her, he was so besotted with her charms.
She offered to have the embryo implanted in her womb. She died giving birth to Spock.
Sarek was in space, warring against the Klingons when Spock was born. It is said he died shortly after the Terran expired, if such things are to be believed.
T'Pau raised Spock according to his father's original plan. She was thorough in every aspect of his education. He became so successful that he easily surpassed the glory of his father. It was everything he wanted. Spock had everything he was taught to desire.
Yet he could not help but feel restless, despite all his achievements.
He paused in his thoughts. Spock had been wandering in this planet's capital city and found himself walking along a slave auctioning house. Pushing all his thoughts to the back of his mind, he entered the building. Perhaps he would find T'Pring's gift here.
There were several auction blocks with traders selling their wares. He walked down, eyes scanning the crowd when suddenly
"Fuck you. Fuck you. You'll fucking buy her over my dead body!"
Everyone stopped to see the spectacle.
It was a Terran, wild and feral, holding a small Andorian female protectively. The child was crying while an old Tamarian woman leered.
An intriguing sight. Spock stood in place, watching.
The traders began manhandling the Terran, trying to force him to let go of the child. The Terran fought back with surprising proficiency, using the traders' unstable sense of balance against him and knocking him to the ground.
It was not long, however, before the guards came. He was outnumbered. Nevertheless, the Terran used his legs, elbows, even his head to keep away the guards and hold the child. But the outcome was inevitable. After a few minutes, they had the Terran pinned down, face smashed into the ground, hands tied behind his back. The Andorian child screamed, struggling against the traders leading her away to the buyer.
The fight over, business resumed in the building.
The Terran, however, was still struggling against the guards and his bonds, his face full of rage, hatred directed at anyone who looked him in the eye.
He was about to be led away when Spock found himself saying
"Stop."
The Terran looked at him sharply. There was recognition in his eyes. Interesting.
"Bring him forward."
The guards obeyed, neatly lifting the Terran and forcing him to his knees.
"Let him stand. What is your name?"
The Terran drew himself to his full height, shoving against the guards' attempts to force him up again.
"My name is James Tiberius Kirk."
Unusual. He said his name as though it was a declaration, an act of defiance. Perhaps it was, as many slaves were renamed to mark the master's ownership.
"Then, James Tiberius Kirk, how does a soldier of Starfleet, with your degree of skill and proficiency, find himself in Vulcan territory?"
The Terran's eyes widened. He regained control of his features almost immediately and angled his body for Spock's appraisal.
"I was too pretty to resist," he smiled, menace behind his eyes.
Do it. Look at me. I fucking dare you. You know you want to.
The Vulcan looked at him, dark eyes examining his features. But there was no lingering, no lust. It was as though the Vulcan was looking at an interesting animal. The sensation rankled Jim more.
"Like what you see?" he pressed.
The Terran was altogether bolder than he had any right to be. Spock swiftly pressed his fingers to the Terran's face, catching him off guard once more.
It took only a touch. What he found surprised him.
"You have been Interrogated. Quite thoroughly, if they were able to leave such a strong signature in you."
Jim snarled.
Spock looked at him, eyes dark and intense. He speculated.
This Terran has been Interrogated, possibly humiliated and subjected to painful forms of punishment, yet he was as wild as the desert wind.
It was... disturbing.
Compelling. Something compelled Spock. It was not attraction or curiosity, but a calling. A compulsion. Like the disturbing music of the opera, this Terran made something inside him shift, stir. His instincts were whispering to him.
Spock found himself listening.
His instincts had never failed him. He had learned, early on in his training, to utilize both his intelligence and his intuition fully in the heat of battle. His instincts were whispering, and it was enough for him to make a decision.
"Where is your trader? What is his price?"
"You want to buy me? For what?"
Spock ignored the questions and found the trader.
"What do you want from me?"
The transaction was efficient. He paid the full price for the Terran; it was somewhat inflated above what Spock thought the Terran was actually worth, but he made no comment on the matter.
"Hey! Hey you! Master. What're you going to do with me?"
The question burned in Jim's mind.
"You gonna fuck me? Are you gonna mindfuck me or something?"
He pressed the Vulcan's limits, constantly asking and talking, trying to find ways to trick answers from his lips, testing the boundaries of this Vulcan. Of the Ang'jmizn, of all people.
"What're you going to do with me?"
No answers. Only silence and dark eyes. The Vulcan was watching him, carefully.
Win had given Jim his first lessons in espionage. It was her idea to push him down that track in the first place. She also taught him herself that the first thing a spy always does—observe. That's what the Vulcan was doing with those unreadable eyes of his. He was learning a shit ton more about Jim than Jim was learning from him, shouting his questions.
Jim shut up and focused his mother's words. As the Vulcan led him to an escort car, Jim set his mind to absorbing any and all information about his surroundings. It'd keep his thoughts from spinning off to other things.
Then he realized that he was actually going to be on the inside of a Vulcan ship. If he was really lucky, they wouldn't blindfold him—
Spock reached over and nerve pinched the Terran. The car came to a halt.
"Place him in a holding cell, attend to his medical needs. He is my property."
He is my property, and will be treated as such. The words hung over the prone form of James Tiberius Kirk.
"Understood, Ang'jmizn."
As they loaded the Terran onto the transporter pad and beamed to the Buk, Spock wondered how T'Pring would react to this gift.
--
T'Pring and Jim regarded each other dubiously.
She disliked him immediately. He was pleasing to look at, but that was his only redeeming quality.
As for Jim, whatever he thought Spock—that was the Vulcan's name, he found out—would have him do when the Vulcan bought him, being a gift to his betrothed was not on that list. He'd been kept in a holding cell with the other purchases for the entire trip and hadn't seen head or tail of the Vulcan the whole time. They knocked him out again with that pinch thing they did and when he woke up, he found himself in a small furnished room. Someone came in with food, clean clothes, told Jim he was on Lord Spock's estate on Vulcan, that Lord Spock was in Procession—whatever that meant—and Lord Spock wouldn't be back until the next day.
Basically, the first couple days of being officially owned, Jim spent a whole lot of time doing nothing.
It wasn't what he expected, to say the least.
He made the most of it by trying to figure out any way he could get a message to Win, but couldn't find anything. Vulcan bastards were Vulcan bastards—anal and thorough.
Three days later, he was summoned to stand in Spock's presence, where the Vulcan presented him with some complicated robes and told him he was going to be a gift to what was basically the Vulcan's fiancée, Lady T'Pring.
Jim had no idea what to make of that. And by the look T'Pring was giving him, she didn't either.
Nevertheless, she accepted Spock's gift with grace and dignity, silver mask firmly in place.
T'Pring soon found there was no place for this human in her household. He was absolutely useless. His insolence was galling. It did not help matters that Spock's silence encouraged his behavior.
She never had slaves like this before. The ones she bought were always well trained and well behaved—expensive, but she could afford that expense. T'Pring had to admit that she was strangely fascinated by this rambunctious creature, almost as though he was an interesting piece of machinery and she wanted to see what made him tick. It was a perverse interest, like the delight one might take in a festering infection.
All her efforts to break him with force only led to his further rebellion and more subversive behavior. Yet she would not see him totally destroyed. He was, after all, a gift from Spock and that fact loomed over the human like a talisman of protection.
But T'Pring was not the best politician that Vulcan produced for nothing. She knew the insidious nature of soft power, of conditioning that slips between the cracks and latches in with tiny hooks and claws.
If force did not work, then so be it. T'Pring took every opportunity to remind James that he was a slave. They were little digs and statements, telling him he had no choice in the matter, telling him to be silent, to attend, making him aware that her use of his name, James, was her decision and never his. She could see that it disturbed the human, these mind games she was playing, and was self assured that before long, the human would attend immediately and without question.
It was her Way.
And it drove Jim up the wall. He knew what she was doing and he hated it. There were days when he tried to avoid her presence altogether. It was kind of impossible. But when he could, he took refuge in the quiet of Spock's palace. Spock and T'Pring had, for reasons that were totally opaque to him, allowed Jim access to the Ang'jmizn's estate. It was probably because when Spock was on Vulcan and not destroying civilizations, T'Pring spent half her time there anyway. It didn't matter to him. What mattered was that he had somewhere else to go, temporarily away from T'Pring's silver gaze. Jim used that.
He soon found out that certain parts of the estate were completely off limits to everyone except Spock.
Jim calculated the cost/benefits of breaking into one of those rooms. The cost—his privilege to be there on the estate all would be revoked. The cost—he might not learn anything interesting. The cost—even if he did learn something, it's not as though he could forward the information to Win. Jim looked into all his options of escape and communication. They were not good. There was a reason why they called Vulcan the Fortress. He'd exhausted his brain searching for ideas.
The benefit—he'd be doing something of his own free will, fuck Vulcan, fuck Spock and T'Pring, and fuck the gold armbands he had to wear.
By Jim's calculations, the benefits hugely outweighed whatever cost. He'd already lost everything important anyway.
So he watched Spock enter the codes one day for one of the rooms. Jim replayed the sequence he saw the fingers move over and over in his head until he was pretty sure he knew it cold. Of course, that was only if Spock didn't change the password every day.
Just to be on the safe side, Jim watched Spock do it three more times. Same sequence.
When he finally broke in, nerves tingling, familiar adrenaline rushing in his veins, he found himself in... a storage closet? Some sort of attic, except as a room? The place was full of bric-a-brac, weird alien objects that looked ancient or obsolete or just plain useless.
He thought it'd be at least a library, or a room of computer terminals. This—not what he expected.
He began to focus in on individual objects, adrenaline making it hard for him to stay still. But there must be a reason for the room and all the shit that was piled up inside. More than that, the object had to lend some insight on the mind of the owner. Jim had no idea what to make of the Vulcan Ang'jmizn. They really had no interactions since the time Spock bought Jim. And, if Jim's guess was correct, Spock didn't interact that much with his own slaves. His estate was enormous but his staff relatively small, at least compared to T'Pring's. Maybe it was because he was always in space? There were few slaves, but Jim found that they were all surprisingly intelligent, efficient, and had been working on Spock's estate for a long time.
Well, Spock was the Ang'jmizn. Probably got first pick of the war spoils. Of course he'd get the best slaves—smart, responsible, and docile. Spock commanded total obedience.
But this room of junk. There was some really old technology. Jim picked up a bulky box at random, fiddled with the buttons.
Unexpectedly, sound came out of the thing. Music.
He panicked at the sudden noise and scrambled to turn it off, heart pounding in his chest that someone would hear and he'd get caught.
Nothing happened. Silence, and nothing but Jim's blood roaring in his ears. He decided to leave before something actually went down and Spock walked. Though there was little chance of that happening. Jim timed it carefully—Spock was in purification right now.
The adrenaline was making him shaky though. Better leave. But, he also decided to return. And maybe try breaking into some more forbidden rooms.
--
Jim got bold. Bold was good. Bold was what Jim was. But too bold, and Jim had a tendency to get careless. Win warned him about it all the time. The lesson had yet to sink in as second instinct.
He was in the room again, the room with all the knick-knacks. He lost count of how many times he'd come back, drawn to the hodgepodge of objects that Spock insisted on keeping and keeping secret. Jim got so used to the space and being there that he even picked up the first thing he messed with—it was some kind of two dimensional vid player—and listened to the music.
It was kind of nice. Opera wasn't his thing, but he listened to the entirety of it while he fiddled around with the other bits and bobs tucked away in the room.
He really really should've remembered that Vulcans have eidetic memories.
Because one day Spock summoned him and dragged him to the front door of that room.
"Open the door."
Jim tried lying.
"I don't know the code."
"Open the door. You have done so before, and multiple times. Now, open the door."
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Do not lie to me."
"What, gonna look into my mind? Gonna interrogate me?"
The words flew out of Jim's mouth when really, he should've stayed quiet. The Vulcan played the silence game too well. He heard and saw everything.
But in Jim's books, silence was neither here nor there, and some part of him took it as permission, even approval. So the words flew out of the Jim's mouth.
"Do it. Fucking do it."
"I have no need to use my telepathic abilities. You have entered this room and rearranged the objects within."
Oh. Damn.
"So? That just means someone was there. Doesn't mean I did it."
"You have been seen in this area several times in the past weeks."
"The watcher has to be here too if they're watching."
"James—Jim—"
Jim's eyes widened.
"That is the name you prefer to be called, is it not?"
"What's it to you?"
"I cannot constantly refer to you as 'Terran' or 'human.'"
"You can do whatever you want."
Spock looked at Jim curiously.
"Is there a way any statement I make will not be construed as a personal offense to you?"
"No."
He wanted to see how far he could push this, exactly how much he could get away with before Spock came down on him, and came down hard. If at all. It would be kind of a letdown to find out that the Vulcan Commander was a pushover. Destroyer of worlds, can't order a slave he bought for his fiancée around. Whatever. If it was true, Jim could use that.
"Very well. Open the door."
"No."
He wasn't even making excuses now.
Spock, if he was honest with himself, did not know why he was so indulgent with this human. The conversation should not be taking place. Yet it was. He did not know why he was going through the trouble of attempting to negotiate with a slave.
"I will grant you access to my library if you open this door."
Holy shit. Jim didn't see that one coming.
It took power games to another level. But that was the point of slavery—you didn't need to play power games to get your slaves to do shit. You could just make them do it. So what the hell was this Vulcan's angle? He really didn't know what to make of Spock.
Fuck it. He'd worry about that later. Jim wanted to see the library, so he punched in the sequence and opened the door.
"Satisfactory."
Jim bristled.
Then the Vulcan closed the door, turned around and began walking down the hall.
"What, that's it?" Jim ran to catch up with him.
"I have very few files that are written in your native language, whichever Terran variant it may be—"
"Fleet uses E-Standard."
Spock nodded and slowed his pace to accommodate the human.
'Fleet uses E-Standard,' what the hell was he thinking? Of course the Vulcan already knew that. 'Know thy enemy' and all that.
"You are proficient in reading Vulcan."
"Had to. Came with my job."
"Stand here," Spock pointed.
"Why?"
"Stand still, or the computer will not be able to correctly recognize your features."
Spock's house came with all sorts of bells and whistles. Jim was surprised Spock hadn't caught him before.
"This is the pattern of sequences—"
Quick as a snake, the Vulcan put a hand to Jim's face and he felt something jolt into him. Jim had no idea what the jolt was, but somehow, he knew.
"Enter the code."
Jim did. He watched his fingers in fascination as they punched out the long sequence of characters, but he had no conscious knowledge of what it was.
The door slid open and he was standing in front of a small room of computer terminals and rows of data solids.
This wasn't really happening.
"You will attempt to hack one of these terminals to gain access to other parts of the Vulcan network. I will advise against it. Attacks against Vulcan servers are rarely successful and if you are caught, you will be tried and likely executed. There is no mercy."
There was a chance—a slim one—that the Vulcan was making this up. Besides, writing and installing a subroutine to get access to the Vulcan nets and actually carrying out an attack were two different things. And then there was the grey area in between.
"If you would like to verify my claim, you may do so in the databases dedicated to cyberlaw."
This situation was unreal. Jim could think of a thousand different ways he could subvert the computers, all from the comfort of the Vulcan's private library.
"You will have two hours to do as you please."
"What, there's a time limit?"
"No. T'Pring has summoned you."
He couldn't help but stare at Spock's back as he walked out the door without another word.
Then shook his head. If the Vulcan gave Jim the keys to his own destruction, Jim wasn't going to beat himself up about it.
He sat down and made the most of this new freedom.
--
"You should put my gift to better use."
"Then you should not have gifted me with such a useless slave," she answered.
"He is not unintelligent."
"On the contrary, he is far too intelligent. They should have executed him."
"They should have, but they did not. I bought him as a gift to you."
"A decision I have questioned many times."
"T'Pring," Spock touched his fingers to hers.
"I do not understand what you see in this human that you indulge his whims and protect him. He is getting out of hand."
Spock was silent. He did not understand either. There was no understanding, only compulsion.
"I have been assigned to another campaign."
"I know."
"It will not be long."
"I know."
Silence.
"Will you give him access to your estates while you are gone?"
"No. They will be closed."
"To me as well?"
"When have I ever closed the doors of my house to you?"
A rhetorical question, but T'Pring could feel the divide between them. It felt as though it was widening. She did not know how to stop it.
"I will not be long."
He was relieved to be going out into space again. It was in his voice.
"I know."
Silence.
"Be victorious. And find a better gift when you return."
--
The fucking Vulcan didn't even tell him that he'd closed the gates to Jim when he left. Jim had to find that out on his own when he tried to get in, was refused entry by Spock's guards, tied up, dragged back to T'Pring's, and thrown at her feet.
She regarded him coolly.
"My Lord Spock is away on campaigns. You will not go to his estate until he returns."
Yeah, tell him something he didn't know.
"When's he coming back."
"That is not for you to know."
Fine. He'd figure it out on his own anyway.
"Attend, James."
He was still on the floor, tied up. Kind of hard to get up.
"Hey guys," he called to the guards. "A little help here?"
"Leave him," T'Pring ordered.
Spock was away. She was tempted, so tempted to snap the human's neck right then and there. It was Spock's fault for buying such an unsuitable slave in the first place. But no. She had found the solution to her problem. It was distasteful, but necessary.
"Attend, James."
Jim stayed on the floor.
Then suddenly felt T'Pring wrench him up with her strength. It hurt. A lot.
"Follow me."
Later, Jim would regret following her. He would regret that Spock gave him to T'Pring. He might even regret that they didn't kill him when they caught him. He had no idea how Spock treated his slaves, but at least sadistic mind games weren't part of it.
Because standing in the courtyard was a child, wide eyed and naked. He couldn't really tell what species it was. Possibly a mix.
"Now, James," she motioned to her handmaid to take her place. "Each time you defy me, each time you do not attend immediately, I will punish the child."
"What?! You can't do that—!"
"I did not grant you permission to speak. Elvira," she ordered.
And Jim watched in horror as Elvira wrenched the child's arm. The child gave a cry of pain.
"Fuck you."
"I did not grant you permission to speak. And you will not take such a tone with me."
Another cry.
Jim could not believe this was happening. Could not fucking believe it. Vulcans. Fucking Vulcans. There wasn't a word that could describe this. Wasn't a word.
"Do you understand? Do not speak, a nod is sufficient."
Jim nodded. Hate. He hated Vulcans. He hated T'Pring, he hated this place, he hated the blood desert. He was burning up with wrath and the desire to strike out, scoop up the kid and run, far away, somewhere, anywhere, to freedom.
This wasn't a game anymore.
Oh, but it was. It was T'Pring's game, and she was putting the nails in his coffin.
"Each day, I will count your misdemeanors. You will watch the child be punished for every one."
He was going to escape. He was going to get back to Earth and fucking kill every single Vulcan in the galaxy. He was going to do it.
Sealing the tomb shut.
"But," T'Pring's eyes glittered silver. "If you are obedient to my every wish, I will set the child free."
He was grinding his teeth. Jim knelt, put his hands out, palms up. A gesture of supplication.
Good. At least the human was intelligent. This would be an easy task, the unpleasant business soon over.
"You have a question. Ask, James."
"What I am responsible for with respect to the child's welfare? Food? Clothes? Shelter?"
He was going to know everything. Everything he had to do to keep the kid alive and untouched. T'Pring made a game. He had no choice but to play. But he was going to know all the rules, and hope that the rules weren't arbitrary. You never fucking knew with Vulcans.
"No. Only punishment. As for the terms of its freedom—I will set it free when my Lord Spock returns, or never."
Jim raised his hands again. Focus. Play the part. Play the part, Kirk.
"Ask, James."
"Where will the child be sent?"
"Back to its parents, of course."
Fuck. Fuck. He was doing this. There was no way he was going to fail.
Feelings twisted up inside him, guilt and defiance and rage and fear that he might mess up. He's never been good at taking orders.
Jim bowed his head, braced himself for the most hellish months of his life.
And burned to be free.