"Attend, James."
Jim quickly closed the datapad, stood, and followed in step behind T'Pring's gathered entourage.
She really didn't need that many people following her around all the time.
"We are going to the Procession. My Lord Spock has returned."
Oh fuck.
He loved and hated the Processions the Vulcans held whenever Spock came back. On one hand, it meant Spock was back. On the other hand, it meant Jim was forced to stand in the midday sun under some pavilion, watching as the warriors paraded the evidence of their conquests.
There were always slaves. Always.
Usually people of high rank, and soldiers marked for execution. Apparently, Vulcans demanded more blood sacrifice for the sake of their empire.
He had brought it up with Spock once. Tried to reason with him. All Spock said was, "It is our Way," and that was the end it.
It is their Way. He said it like he was the one trapped by tradition, by Vulcan and the heat of its sun. Spock could come and go as he pleased. He was a fucking conqueror of worlds. Don't give Jim that shit, don't give him that look, like he's the one who's helpless. It's bullshit.
"Attend, James. Your mind has wandered of late."
"Forgive, T'Pring," he bowed his head.
"Then be aware."
She was dressed in silver. T'Pring was always silver, white-grey metallic like Earth's luminescent moon. She regarded him with calculating eyes.
Jim held his breath.
Yes, beware, human. I know your secret. I know your indiscretion. Before the day is done, I will have my revenge and triumph. I will have it.
James would be irrelevant by the end of the day. Spock would be hers once more.
"Forward," she commanded.
Jim had a bad feeling about this. He had a really bad feeling about this.
Spock was coming back from his campaign against Earth.
He was victorious.
--
"Glory to Vulcan and the land by logic protected
To Vulcan raise we our victory song!
Hither advance, o thou warrior band,
Mingle thy joy with ours, the desert vast
and fragrant flowers scatter the path along!"
"The myrrh and aloe with lotus bound
The victor's brows anointing,
Let flowers, sweet victory's perfume enwreathe,
veil their grim arms from sight.
Stand, sons of Vulcan, circling round,
and sing thy mystic praises."
"Unto the power war's issue dread deciding
our glances raise we;
thank we our warriors, the Council, the laws of logic, and praise we
on this triumphant day!"
"Thus our dread foes once more dispersed
and honor vindicated, rationality supreme,
we shall never fall prostrated
beneath their hated sway."
Jim watched the procession with dread.
Row after row after row of warriors, bearing the spoils of Spock's last campaign. His campaign against Earth.
Vulcans. They were thorough. Famous for it. None more thorough than Spock. Was there anything left on Earth? It looked like they hauled everything back to Vulcan.
Paintings, machinery, brocades of cloth, chests of gems, ancient scrolls, books, statues. It was like they raided a museum and brought everything back for display. No, not just a museum. Jim recognized science instruments, cases of data solids, blueprints of buildings. They started carting in animals. Horses, tigers and lions, jaguars, leopards—they seemed to like the cats—an entire aquarium of coral and shimmering fish. Plants, samples of trees, flowers that even Jim had never seen before, things that looks like fruits. Cacti of every variety. Some of the warriors placed these treasures to the side, others continued on.
It was terrifying, the slow regularity of it. Like a crushing wheel, the procession kept going forwards, bringing in more goods from Earth, displaying to themselves and all others gathered the fullness of their might. The fullness of Spock's power and his ability to command the Vulcan fleet. This was Spock's conquest, this was Spock's victory. Jim felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. Did the Vulcans scorch the land? Did they destroy Earth's cities? Did they sack the planet?
Iowa. Jim's home in a little corner of nowhere. Did they leave that standing?
That bastard. That fucking bastard and his duty, his immovable sense of honor. Nothing was sacred to him. Nothing but Vulcan principles.
And Jim loved him. He still loved him, despite the fact that this Vulcan gutted his home planet, destroyed its capitals and enslaved its people. That love twisted inside Jim, tortured him from the inside. Spock only had to say his name and Jim would be there at his side, giving himself up in ways he never let anyone take him before.
That bastard. That bastard. He didn't get to do this Jim. Didn't get to own Jim this way, this way that took not just his body, but his very soul, his loyalty and his freedom. No one could do that to him. James Tiberius Kirk did not give himself up to anyone or anything. Not to the Ang'jmizn, come home victorious in his campaign.
But when the Ang'jmizn's hovercar finally came in the procession, Jim's face went slack.
It was Spock, dressed like a god. His face set in that neutral expression, his bearing erect, the ceremonial armor glinting in the sun. Jim had never seen anyone look like they owned power, like they lived and breathed it from the very core of their being. The vision went straight to his head, into his blood, pooled in his groin.
Thoughts, anger, confusion about love and betrayal, planet and people came to head and Jim was struggling to keep his breathing even, to clamp down on the sensations rushing through him and control his impulses. He was surrounded by Vulcans, other slaves, delegations of allies and conquered governments. This was not the time for fantasies of taking the armor off Spock, peeling the underlayer, kissing him from navel to sternum—
This was not the time.
He got a hold of himself. As his vision cleared, he saw T'Pring tremble slightly.
She saw exactly the same thing Jim saw.
T'Pring had attended all the processions dedicated to Spock, as was only appropriate for one betrothed. Over the years and his campaigns, the spoils were always magnificent, the procession always overwhelming in its display. But this had a majesty to it. The procession had an order and aesthetic, a beautiful presentation of controlled violence. It was a representation of Vulcan's destiny—her destiny, to be shared with Spock. They would conquer with immutable logic, bring civilization and knowledge to all worlds and peoples. They would order the universe according to their design. Nothing could stop them.
She saw him, the dark and glinting sword of Vulcan's power. The instrument and creator of Vulcan's fate. He stood, made his way through the procession with such confidence. She saw the surety he had in his mission, in his power, in his duty and the sanctity of his honor.
They would be bonded soon. The Council had decided. Spock must be bonded, as it was decreed in the years past, read in the stars. And when his Time was upon him, T'Pring would be the one to sooth the fire, the only one who could quench his flame. She would know his secrets once more, have his trust and love. It would be as before once more.
The slave could never do it.
James would never be able to bear it. Humans are too weak, undisciplined and untrained for pon farr. T'Pring would be the only one. They will be bonded, Spock will be hers and only hers. She will be the one he turns to in fire and in darkness. Their minds linked, it will be as it is written.
The slave will be forgotten. His existence of no consequence. After the bond, T'Pring would see to it that he is banished from Spock's estates, never seen again. She will kill him herself, if necessary.
She watched as Spock stopped in front of the High Council's platform, descended from the hovercar. He stood by the spoils that had been accumulated—gifts to the presented to the dignitaries assembled. And there would be gifts for her. In the privacy of his estate, he would give T'Pring the gift he had chosen for her, his slender fingers touching the inside of her wrist, his dark eyes full of intent. That is how it had been, that is how it will be. The slave was nothing. She will be bonded. What is written cannot be denied.
T'Pring descended from the High Council's platform, James following behind her, attending.
She walked, head high, clothed in silver, slowly to the place that Spock stands. James stood behind her, head bowed, gold rings encircling his arms. Slave. He will be nothing.
When she stopped, Jim knelt, legs bare against the hot sand. The searing heat didn't matter. T'Pring was in front of him, but he stole a glance at Spock.
He hated this. Hated the kneeling, the head bowed. In darkness he will be Spock's equal, in secrets he is free. But here he obeyed the whim of T'Pring, wore the mark of her slaves. He obeyed, seething at this display of Earth conquered. And him conquered with it.
"S'chn T'gai Spock! Ang'jmizn of thy planet, Vulcan salutes thee!" T'Pau spoke. "Hither now advance, and on thy head, T'Pring will place the crown of triumph."
Jim didn't watch T'Pring close the distance. Didn't think about her touching Spock's head, fingers lingering, didn't think about Spock watching her face and accepting the fucking crown of triumph. Triumph at the cost of his lost home. The sand burned into his knees.
"What boon thou askest, freely we will grant it; naught can be denied on such a day. By the power of this Council, I swear shall be done."
Spock bowed deeply, then stood tall once more.
"First, deign to order that the captives be brought before thee and all that look upon Vulcan."
"It is done. Bring them forward!"
Fuck. Fuck!
He couldn't help but raise his head to see them bring humans in, pushing and dragging them in chains. Fucking chains.
The line of humans—there must've been at least four hundred people. Some of them were still wearing the tatters of old Starfleet uniforms. All of them haggard, like they hadn't been fed for a couple days. The gravity, the atmosphere, the heat, the humiliation of defeat and the finality of slavery marked them. It showed in the way they slouched, it showed in the expressions on their faces. Jim didn't recognize anyone.
Hatred surged through him again. Hatred for Spock, for T'Pring for all fucking Vulcans and their indomitable fleet, the oppression of their rule. These were his people, they were the last remnants of his home. Spock was fucking dragging them in front of him, a fucking reminder of his dominance and superiority. Superior strength, superior intelligence. Superior power. Vulcans didn't get to do this to the galaxy. They didn't get to break the spirit of entire species. They didn't get to bulldoze their civilizations, split up families, sell beings into slavery. Where was the logic of it? Where was the justice?!
Jim burned. Burned to break their shackles, the kill the force field that enclosed them, escape away to a place where he could breath freely. Find a sky that had never known the taint of slavery.
When the guards stopped the line, he saw a face.
"Nyota!"
Station forgotten, Jim jumped up to go to her. The guards rushed to apprehend him.
"Stop," he heard Spock say. "Allow him to enter."
Jim ran to her.
"Nyota, what're you—?"
She looked at him, disbelieving. She took in the sight of his clothing, the bands on his arms. Win had always clung to the idea that Jim was alive and kicking, but Nyota thought—they all had thought, especially after they knew he was in the Fortress—Jim was dead or worse. Here he was, standing in front of her, alive and kicking, blue eyes still fierce like his mother's.
Nyota pushed away the thought of Win.
"Jim," she sounded a little dazed. "You're alive."
"Couldn't kill me," he touched her to make sure she was real.
"You always were a survivor—"
Her voice was scratchy, but Nyota still had the fire in her. It came as a relief. But if she was here, where's—?
"What happened? Where's Win? What happened?"
His words. Brought up flashes of memory she didn't want to think about. Her expression shuttered. But Jim deserved to know. At least that much, he deserved to know.
"Earth—it was a slaughter, Jim—" it was coming out all wrong. Nyota was sleep deprived, hungry, thirsty, hot sun and thin air playing hell on her.
Then her eyes went wide, expression closed on itself. Defiance like steel running in her muscles, despite the fact that Nyota's world was partially tilted and blurring.
Jim turned around.
"Name yourself, and your rank," T'Pring's said, voice inflectionless, Spock at her side. "James, attend."
He didn't move.
"James, attend," T'Pring repeated.
"Go to hell," Nyota hissed. "Uhura, captain of the USS Enterprise."
Captain? Jim's mind was spinning with the implications.
"You will learn to respect your superiors, human."
It should be Winona Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. It should his mom saying that. She should be here. She can't be—she can't be—his mother was indestructible—his mother wasn't afraid of anything—she gave birth to him in space—she found ways to organize defend Earth against the Vulcans—she was a genius—she couldn't be—there was no way—it should be his mom—blonde hair blue eyes shining insolent—this isn't—this isn't—real—true—happening—
This is war, Kirk. This is fucking war. Get a grip on yourself. This is fucking war.
That bastard. That bastard. That bastard, standing beside T'Pring, looking at Jim with dark eyes.
And all he had to do was say Jim's name.
"State thy grievances, Captain Uhura."
"My grievances?" Nyota was incredulous. "You want to know what I think of your great civilizing mission?"
Spock didn't answer. Nyota took that as assent.
"I've served in Starfleet since I was sixteen. Lied about my age to enlist. I've been fighting you fuckers for fifteen years now, and I'm not going to stop. I've been fighting for Earth and my freedom half my life, and I'll never stop. You've got me in chains, in this forcefield. You think you've conquered Earth.
"You'll never conquer me."
T'Pring's hand came down on Nyota's face. Jim didn't see it coming, and Spock did nothing to stop her.
That bastard. Spock had his mask on. Jim couldn't read a single thing, he had no idea what Spock was thinking. That fucking bastard.
"You will bow to the might of Vulcan, human," T'Pring's said, silver. "I will see to it."
Nyota bared her teeth, expression feral.
His mother dead. As he looked around, Jim saw some others he recognized. He wandered among their ranks, touching their faces, unbelieving of what he was seeing.
It was different. It was different than when he was captured. To see his friends in chains. To know his mother was dead.
They were haggard. Thirst coursed through the entire body of prisoners like the shackles they were wearing.
This wasn't going to break them. This was not going to break him. They would find a way out. They would find a way back home, regroup, rebuild, attack, defend. Vulcan was not going to break him. It wasn't going to break humankind.
Jim glanced at Spock, that obscene armor blazing in the sun.
All he had to do was say Jim's name.
Jim hated him for it.
T'Pring saw the way Spock followed James's meandering through the ranks of the pathetic. She saw his gaze, the glowing passion blazing inside.
The slight. His eyes seeing past her to the slave. The human slave was loved and she was forgotten. A thousand emotions rose in her chest.
Spock watched Jim, watched and saw sorrow, grief, hatred, defiance grim on his face. These were Jim's comrades. Earth was his home. Jim's expressions were open and Spock could see what this Procession, held in Spock's honor, was doing to Jim. He made a decision.
He broke his silence, raised his voice.
"T'Pau, a boon I ask of thee. Thou sworest by the power of Vulcan that whatever I asked thee, thou would grant it."
"Speak, and it shall be granted. We have sworn it."
"Vouchsafe thee, I pray, freedom and life to freely grant unto these Terran captives here."
Jim froze.
Free them all?!
T'Pring raged.
Free them all?!
Nyota raged.
My freedom was never yours to grant.
The crowd was murmuring, the priests disturbed.
"It is my wish," Spock said.
All he had to do was say Jim's name.
He was doing this for the human. Spock was doing this for that worthless human. But T'Pring would have her revenge. She would be the victor today.
Nyota narrowed her eyes. There was something off about this whole interaction. There was no reason for the Vulcan to show mercy. Vulcan were thorough. They were never merciful. Her instincts were screaming at her.
"Here me, O Council, and thou too, dauntless young hero," High Priest Stuval boomed. "Listen thou to the voice of reason; these gathered here are our foes, to battle hardened, in them the thirst for vengeance never will die. If pardoned, set loose again to the space above, they will grow bolder and to their arms once more will they fly."
Spock made a show of considering their argument, but he already knew what he was going to say.
"With the destruction of their planet, all hopes of revenge have perished," Spock answered. "Thou sworest that thou wouldst grant this boon. It is my wish."
Jim's vision was filled with Spock, standing tall. It wasn't hope that he felt, or gratitude. Only loyalty warring with love, longing mixed with loathing.
A thousand emotions rose within T'Pring. The way the human dared look at Spock. The way the slave's eyes lingered on his body, as though he knew the secrets under the armor. The abomination of it. She would break him before she was through.
My freedom was never yours to grant. My freedom was never yours to grant!
"Let them be examined by the Interrogators, and those deemed safe, set free. Keep we back Captain Uhura, and all others who thirst for retribution."
"Thy counsel is sound," T'Pau answered. "It shall be done. But safety and peace more certain will I give thee, Spock."
T'Pring's triumph.
"Eleven days hence the bond shall by sealed between thee and T'Pring, as it was written in the days before. Hereafter thou shalt serve Vulcan with her as thy companion, together thou shalt rule with logic and expand the borders of our territories."
Jim froze. Sun beating down on him, standing with the conquered, he froze.
T'Pring's silver facade turned to him to take in the expression of his total devastation. This was her fate. It was meant to be, it would always be. The slave would be forgotten.
Nyota was watching Jim carefully, eyes going between him, the Vulcan commander, and the Vulcan princess. The Commander's face had closed completely, while silver malice glowed from the woman's eyes. Jim stood in the full sun of Vulcan.
She could use this.
If she survived the Interrogators, the torture, the slavery, she could use this. She is Nyota Uhura, war veteran of fifteen years, familiar with the stories of love and war. Jim was key. He only needed to be reminded of the price Earth has paid, of the devastation and indifferent cruelty of Vulcans. He could get her what she needed and they could escape Vulcan to fight another day.
Nyota knew Jim. She served under his mother for seven years, was her First Officer for three. Nyota was willing to use every trick in the book to get whatever she needed—whatever Earth needed. Jim was key. Everything hinged on him.
He will play Delilah to the Vulcan Commander's Samson, he will be Radames' Aida.
It might destroy him.
But she is Nyota Uhura, and she is willing to take that chance.
This was her revenge.
And Spock only had to say Jim's name.
--
No matter her revenge, she knew Spock would fornicate with the human.
She would bear it. Eleven days hence, the slave would be nothing.
T'Pring gazed into her mirror, measuring the silver in her expression.
Eleven days hence, everything would be in her hands.
--
It was a bitch to arrange, but Jim managed to slip into the prison where Nyota was being held.
"Brought you something to eat."
The victory feasts had obscene amounts of food. It wasn't hard to steal something from the leftovers.
"Cake?" she looked at the sweet yellow bread with a dubious expression. "I didn't know Vulcans ate cake."
"They don't, at least not this kind. It was for the alien dignitaries. And I got you these clementines. Whatever I could nab."
"Thanks," she ate slowly.
Going without eating for extended periods taught her a few things. Nyota doesn't remember the last time she could eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
"God, real fruit. Real Terran fruit. Not replicated. Do you know how hard it is to come by stuff like this?"
"How are things?" Jim asked, voice quiet.
"Same old, same old."
"Spock said Earth was destroyed."
Nyota straightened, drew her shoulders back.
"Is that his name. Spock," she tasted it in her mouth. It was disgusting.
"Ang'jmizn Spock, commander of the Vulcan Fleets. Yeah."
"We're still standing. It takes more than a slash and burn campaign to conquer Earth," steel in her voice.
Jim paled.
Slash and burn.
He saw his home in flames. Cornfields burning. Sky black with smoke.
"Did Mom—?" He can't even say it.
"It was quick, Jim."
"How—?"
"We were on a rescue mission. Things went sideways. It was a four of us—standard rescue squad—against a barrack of Vulcans. We got out, but only because Win held them off."
"She didn't make it?"
"She took them down with her."
Jim closed his eyes and exhaled.
"It was actually a mission to get you."
His head jerked up.
"We got a tip that said you might be there, so we followed up on it. Turned out to be another slave house. The logs said you'd been there, but that you'd been sold, taken to Vulcan itself."
"The Fortress."
"The heart of it, apparently, if you're close to their High Commander."
Nyota watched Jim's reaction carefully, looking for confirmation.
She found it. A small nod.
"That was stupid of her. She should've just counted me as dead and moved on."
"You're her son, Jim. Win swore she'd kill any Vulcan who touched you. Swore she'd castrate them herself."
"I didn't have to—"
"Really?" her voice was sharp.
Jim can't bullshit her. Silence hung between them.
"I managed to avoid it," he finally said.
It was true. He came close, but the only time a Vulcan touched him was when Jim let him. His gut twisted at that thought.
Nyota read his face. She let it go.
"You're too handsome for your own good," she said, lightness filling her voice.
"Yeah? Well, same goes for you."
She smiled, remembering.
They used to have a thing for each other, way back when. Then shut that thought out. They had bigger dreams then. Times were different then.
Enlisting changed everything. Growing up changed everything.
"I'm sorry, Jim."
"It's not your fault."
"I know. But I'm still sorry. Win was seriously plotting to launch an attack on Vulcan to get you back."
Jim laughed.
"What kept her from doing it?"
"The Admiralty, as usual."
His smile was wide.
"They should've let her. She would've found a way in."
"The Vulcans wouldn't know what hit them."
"Actually," he said, voice thoughtful. "If she did it while Spock was away, she'd've had a good chance of success."
"They don't keep patrols of their planet?"
"No, they do. But the officers aren't as good. Spock's their mastermind. They send him out on campaigns half the time."
Jim was playing into her hands perfectly.
"What else do you know?"
"Know a shitload more about Vulcan politics than I ever wanted to."
"Anything useful?"
"Not immediately. Not something that could be used for military strategy."
"What about their ships, the technology?"
"No one but Vulcans're allowed on battle cruisers. I've been in one—twice—but they never let me see anything"
"You're not?" she pointed to his gold arm bands. "You're not the Commander's?"
"No." Jim controlled his reaction. "Spock bought me, as a gift for T'Pring."
"The Vulcan who slapped me."
"Yeah. That one. Which reminds me," he brought out a small medkit and tossed it to Nyota. "Thought it might come in handy."
"Thanks."
Nyota began looking over her various wounds.
"Then what do you do?"
"I'm kind of like a steward. Manage some of the household accounts. Sometimes T'Pring gives me Council work, calculating tribute payments. Boring stuff."
He kept his tone light and didn't think about the last few months. T'Pring didn't change his duties or his punishments, but she watched him all the time, with that silver facade carefully controlled, mercury behind her eyes. Her presence hounded him, day and night. She forbid him from going to Spock's estate while he was on campaigns. Said he was to attend her. He had no choice.
"But better than the mines."
Everyone had heard a lot of horror stories about the mines. Jim wondered if it was worth it, if he could change his place. He'd be away from T'Pring's stare.
"Better than a lot of things."
Nyota was curious.
"Does she ever—?"
"What?"
"You know."
"You mean sex?" the thought horrified Jim. He hadn't even considered that. But... he wondered if T'Pring had, as some new form of mindfuckery. "No. No, not in her life."
She wouldn't do it herself. T'Pring hated humans. Or at least she hated Jim. Anyone with two eyes could see that. If she ever thought of the possibility, it probably would have been pairing him with someone else. Against his will. Against the other's will. Jim pushed that thought away.
"As far as I know, she's never been fucked in her life," he laughed, the sound forced.
"Saving herself up for the wedding?"
Jim looked away.
"Something like that."
"No wonder it looks like she's got something shoved up her ass."
"Yeah," he paused. "That'll change."
"She and Spock—?"
"Promised since birth. They're sealing the marriage in a few days."
There was an expression on Jim's face that unsettled her. It was obvious that the Vulcan prized Jim in some way. Maybe even loved him. He was a Vulcan and his face was like stone, but something came alive when he looked at Jim. Nyota had been tired and thirsty, but she kept her eyes open and knew what she saw. Win was right—it was all about the timing. With patience and a little luck, anything could happen. You could find something to turn the tide.
The Vulcan could be influenced by Jim. He had even asked the Council to set the humans all free, something absolutely unheard of. If that sign didn't seal things, she didn't know what did.
But Jim. He was the wild card. Everything hinged on him again. He held the keys. But the expression on his face, the subtle shift in his eyes. Nyota wasn't sure she wanted to know the truth.
She went for the jugular anyway.
"What are you to him?"
Jim looked up, eyes wide.
He knew the question was coming. He just didn't expect her to say it so directly, and in that tone of voice. He thought he had an answer, he thought he knew how much he was going to tell Nyota. But this—the way she was staring at him—caught him off guard.
Before he could recover, she hit him with another.
"You love him, don't you."
It wasn't a question.
Fuck shit fuck.
He couldn't even think of a way out of this. Couldn't deny it.
Jim was silent.
Nyota was making rapid calculations of her own. This was bad.
She'd seen Jim in love before. She'd seen him fall for Gary Mitchell, witnessed his series of flings. But this was different. This was sick. Suddenly, Nyota wasn't not sure if Jim would be willing to play his part in this.
He was key.
She forged ahead.
"Has he slept with you?"
Sleep. That's the euphemism of the century. Spock's taken him in so many ways, none of them comparable to sleeping.
The silence is confirmation. What's more, the look in his eyes
"You let him fuck you."
And suddenly, rage, betrayal, were spinning out of control in Nyota's vision because she remembered everything Vulcans have done in their quest to dominate the galaxy, the atrocities committed, men and women raped and left bleeding, fury gathered behind her eyes because it feels like Jim's betrayed her, himself, everything they hold dear that he handed himself over to a Vulcan, the Vulcan responsible for all this bloodshed and terror.
Win's screams echoing in her ear. All this time. All this time, searching for Jim and he was fucking the enemy. Win's screams echoing in her ear, snapping Cornwallis' elbow, Sulu and Chekov dead, Scotty—she didn't even think about Scotty. All this time.
"It's not what you're thinking—"
Traitor
"Don't tell me what I'm thinking! How can you do this?! After everything—how can you do this!"
Traitor!
"It's not as simple as you—"
"They're the enemy. They. Are. The. Enemy. He's their Commander, for god's sakes!"
"I know that, but just listen to me for a sec—"
"Oh no. No. No no no no no. Don't tell me you think he's better than them, if you get to know him—no. I don't want to get to know him. I don't want to get to know any of them, not when they started this. All of it!"
Out of control. Nyota was flinging in his face all his doubts about his loyalties, about what he wants and who he is.
"Your Commander," she spit the word, "might be noble and good, but you know what Vulcans do! You've seen them!"
"Spock's not like that. He doesn't let—"
Traitor traitor betrayal traitor fucking the enemy traitor
"Don't lie to yourself! Or do you want me to remind you? Do want me to remind you what they did to Gary? How they fucked around with his psionic abilities until he went mad. Or how about Chekov and Sulu—"
"They're—they're dead?"
"They were tortured. Slowly. For information, and for the sheer joy of it," her voice got low and hypnotic. "We still haven't gotten positive IDs on the corpses we found. The Vulcans didn't want to use mind torture. No, the sanctity of their fucking minds is too high to touch us humans," she snarled.
Jim couldn't say anything. He turned into a fucking mute.
"They must've tortured them for hours. Hours of agony, because you know what? Vulcans might claim to be logical, but deep down inside, they're just sadistic fucks. Violent and emotional hypocrites. They get off on that kind of thing."
He didn't tell Nyota to stop. But Spock isn't like that. Spock's different. Spock isn't like that. Isn't he?
Spock's the Ang'jmizn of Vulcan. He has the power to stop this, and he doesn't. He just follows the orders of the Council.
Traitor
"Want me to tell you about Scotty?"
The words come tumbling out before Nyota can stop them. Because she doesn't want to stop them. Because all this time, fighting and searching for Jim, and Jim—fucking traitor.
"Want me to tell you how I found him, mind crushed, with the memory of a four year old? He can't remember his own name. He's playing with blocks in an insane asylum."
Hysteria. Jim was there for the wedding. He gave her away. Win presided, married them on the Enterprise. Jim's like a brother to her and he is fucking the enemy. The same enemy who destroyed her husband, the love of her life.
Nyota doesn't wear her wedding ring anymore. It hurt too much to think about it. But she will use it, fucking guilt Jim into doing what she wants because it's right, it's necessary and she doesn't care anymore if it destroys him.
Her voice trapped him, soft and deadly.
"Or I'll tell you exactly how your mother died. The scent of burning flesh, she was screaming in rage and pain when we were making our break. Do you remember her screams when she gave birth to you, Jim? Do you remember? Because I think you've forgotten. Do you remember?"
I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much.
"You're in love with the same Vulcan who's destroying every free world in this galaxy. His soldiers take everything, rape everything, fuck everything they want. They're insatiable. They keep going out and out into space, no logic or order in anything. You've seen it, Jim. You've seen the chaos they leave behind. The worlds they shatter. Or have you forgotten?"
He'd forgotten. He'd gotten lost in the intoxicating scent of Spock's armpits, the feel of his pubic hair, the mole hidden on the back of his knee. He'd fallen into the Vulcan's world, was consumed by it, forgot the people dying and the planets screaming, children crying, wailing, tearing hair, falling prostrate at the feet of the conqueror.
He'd given himself, rather than remember.
Traitor
Silence.
Nyota's chest was heaving. Heart pounding. Rage controlling her every action, cold anger dictating her next move. Her calculations. She's got Jim cornered now. And he. will. pay. He will atone for this.
Nyota calmed, rage running through her veins like molten steel. Her next words were careful. Designed to hit home.
"Fine," she said, disgusted. "Fine. If you want to be a Vulcan's fuck toy, I'll find some other way to get me off this planet."
She pulled her trump card. It came to this. It came to fucking this.
"I'm sure your father would be proud. Fucking live long and prosper, Jim. Get out."
I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much.
He didn't think she'd use that, but she did. He's got nowhere to go.
Traitor
He's not. He's not. He's fought in just as many battles as her. He had to find a way to survive. He's not a traitor.
He is. Because Spock only has to say his name—
He's got nowhere to go.
So the fuck what. He can do this. He'll get over Spock, he'll forget him and move on. Get a grip on yourself Kirk. Isn't this what he's always wanted? Freedom? The chance of escape? Isn't this what he's wanted for so long, for these past years he's been stuck on Vulcan?
So get the fuck on with it and do it. Spock doesn't matter. If he plays his cards right, he get them all out and clear of Vulcan with a few hours to spare.
He'll finally be free. For real this time. For real.
Spock will bond with T'Pring, and they'll never see each other again.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Win's dead. People have been dying while he was rolling in soft sheets with Vulcan's Ang'jmizn.
Win's dead.
He's doing this.
"I said get out."
When he didn't move, Nyota knew she had him.
It felt like a hollow victory.
She pushed that feeling aside. And waited.
"I'll do it."
"You'll do what. Let Spock sodomize you? Be my fucking guest."
"I'll get you what you need. Everything. Ship, codes, battle plans. Everything."
Nyota gave him a long look, betrayal, slavery, Spock, blood, Win, war—everything—standing between them.
"I'll do it. What do you need, my fucking blood or something?" he bit out. "I said I'll do it."
"Do you know everything we need?"
"I'm a slave, not an idiot," he snarled.
"When'll everything be ready? Estimates."
"I don't know. I'm making this up as I go along."
An idea.
"Spock's wedding. We'll be ready to go by Spock's wedding. They'll be celebrating and distracted."
"Good."
He nodded, then rose to leave.
"Jim."
He stopped, but didn't turn back. Heart clenched, fist clenched, gut twisting.
"It's good to have you back," she said, voice saccharine.
Jim kept walking.
--
He steeled himself.
Locked away all the memories of him and Spock, tangled together.
He steeled himself.
Remembered the horror of his first time in a firefight. Remembered his first rescue mission. The juxtaposition of gore and stale cleanliness. Of impersonality of battles between ships and facing his enemy face to face, hand to hand.
This was personal. Make it personal. Make it fucking personal, Kirk.
He remembered how he got here in the first place. The defeat, the surrender. They were going to execute him—he was too valuable to Starfleet to be allowed to live—but he was too handsome for his own good. Always had been.
Jim steeled himself.
He focused on the vision of space, deep and cold, flying through that void, finally free.
And if that vision included a warm body of pale green skin, he thought nothing of it.
--
"Spock, I can't do this anymore. I want to be free—I have to be free. I want to fly again, look out and the space again. I can't do this anymore."
"What other choice do we have? I will refuse the bond with T'Pring, I will take you as my consort—it is my right. The priests will grant it to me."
"No. I can't. I can't, Spock. I can't be a slave anymore, I don't want to be your consort if it means you own me."
"I will give you everything you desire, Jim. We will journey through space and conquer this galaxy together."
It was tempting.
Focus, Kirk.
"You know you can never free me."
Spock looked away. Jim's heart was pounding, fear and the chance of discovery looming close, so close, but he pushed that away. He went to Spock and touched his hand to the Vulcan's face, trailed his fingers down the curve of Spock's neck, flattened his palm against Spock's chest, and as his hand traveled down, he got down on his knees.
"Come away with me," Jim whispered.
Focus, Kirk.
But he wanted. He wanted.
Spock's eyes were dark, the expression on his face unreadable.
"Come away with me. We can escape this place, this war. We'll find a colony, somewhere we can live together without anyone knowing. Someplace we can both be free. I'll be yours—not T'Pring's, not a slave. You'll be mine. You'll be mine. No duty, no Vulcan High Council, no priests. Think of it, Spock. Escape."
He dreamed of it. He had steeled himself, but he couldn't stop himself from dreaming of it, waking up in his quarters, sheets drenched. Spock and freedom and space made him arch unbearably.
"Escape," Spock repeated, the words bitter on his tongue. "Leave this place for which I have fought countless battles? This planet I have dedicated my life to?"
Escape. Desertion. Betrayal.
"Freedom, Spock. We'll be together."
Focus, Kirk.
He let himself sink into this role, the act he was putting on. It was easy. Because he wanted.
"I touched my first lirpa here. I launched my first ship from these docks."
Jim looked up at Spock, hands on Spock's knees in supplication. This was the only man he would ever bow to. And the same man he would betray.
Focus, Kirk.
"Please."
His voice soft. Play the part, play the part.
Play the part.
"I kissed you the first time under this sun, I touched your body the first time among these sands. You are asking me to leave it behind for an unknown place, a planet that can never be home. You are asking me to desert my people for you."
"For us. For us, Spock."
There was silence. The air around them was cold but heat emanated from the red sands. Jim held his breath, half hoping that Spock would say no, half dreading that Spock would say yes. Nyota's words returned to him. Images of planets devastated, his mother screaming with pain and agony and anguish and one last struggle, Scotty's mind broken, bodies frozen, floating in the hard vacuum of space, Chekov and Sulu captured and tortured for information, and the knowledge that haunted him, hounded him, of his father's sacrifice. And that accusation, hanging in the air.
Traitor
He steeled himself.
"Come away with me. We'll find free skies with nothing to stop us. We'll forge our own path, build another home. Come away with me, Spock."
When Spock reached down and threaded his fingers through Jim's hair, he knew he'd won.
His heart soared.
Focus, Kirk. Play the part, play the part.
Jim looked up.
"Do you love me?"
Spock touched his face, fingers gently tracing the curve of Jim's eyebrow. Jim pressed his advantage.
"Do you really love me?"
Something shifted on Spock's face. The creases around his eyes softened, the thin line of his mouth opened and in the darkness, his face became unbearably intimate. Jim's breath hitched. He reined himself in again.
"I love you."
"Would you do anything for me?"
There was no hesitation.
"I will do anything for you. If you cannot bear to remain enslaved, I will leave Vulcan, my life, my duty, to find new skies with you."
His heart soared. So many thoughts, dreams, the longing to live with Spock, to explore the galaxy freely, to escape to a small paradise where no one could find them—a thousand moments they could have together crowded into him and pressed into his chest to the point where he thought it would shatter. Spock would do it. He would do it all for Jim, and only Jim. He would give up everything for their love.
He chose Jim. He would give up everything for Jim.
Too little too late.
It tore at Jim. He felt like he was breaking inside, but then recalled the images and words again, the sound of his father's voice saying "I love you" to his mother as the Kelvin exploded into pieces, imagined the voice of his mother screaming giving birth and facing death as the Vulcans totally annihilated, dominated, colonized planet after planet, species after species falling under their iron rule.
Jim stood. It tore at him, so he twisted the knife in further.
"Do you trust me?"
Spock's dark eyes like the blackness of space, like the comfort of silence, like the very love burning crashing wailing inside Jim. Just one word, and everything was his. Just one word, and Spock would give him the secret to his own destruction. Don't say it. Please, don't say it.
"Yes."
Traitor
"Then I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything. I've got contacts who can help us," he kissed Spock and felt Spock holding back on his telepathy, giving Jim everything.
Remember. Remember what this is about. I love you sweetheart. I love you so much.
Play the part.
"You will need access to the security codes."
Jim watched as Spock took out his datacube. Watched as Spock inputted a sequence, took out a core, and gave it to Jim. Felt how light it was in his hands.
"Command is planning on launching a counteroffensive against the Terran Resistance fifteen days from now."
Seven days after his wedding.
No honeymoon for the newlywed couple.
"Can you make arrangements to leave before that time?"
"Yeah. I'll take care of everything."
"I must leave. But I will return," Spock kissed him.
Jim returned the kiss, controlling the edge of desperation that was spinning inside. He didn't know—it could be the last time—the codes, Nyota would be ecstatic—if he never saw Spock again—the Vulcans would find out—they would kill him—his father's voice—mother's screams—Spock, don't—
Too soon, Spock broke contact and moved to leave.
"Jim," he breathed onto his lips. "Be careful. I will be waiting."
One last touch, and Spock disappeared.
Jim sank to his knees, datacore clenched in his fist.
I love you sweetheart. I love you so much.
--
"Do you have them?"
He threw the datacore onto the table.
Nyota picked it up, eyebrows raised. Beside her, McCoy whistled.
"You must've let him fuck you real good."
Jim snarled.
"Don't even—"
"Len, shut up. You did your job, Jim. Forget about this place."
Like he could. Like he wanted to.
"You've given us the advantage we need. Finally," she stared at the datacore. "We'll win against these Vulcan bastards. We'll finally have a free galaxy."
"Your words're wasted on him, Uhura. He's pining for his pointy-eared—"
Jim launched himself at the doctor. Landed a few solid punches on that face before the crew pulled them off each other.
"Len, shut up. Go find something to do in Sickbay. Jim, get over it. In a few months, it'll be like it never happened. Your little secret's safe with us."
Once a slave, always a slave. Once a traitor, always a traitor.
Once Spock's lover, always—
"Fleet might even give you your own ship."
His own ship. Suddenly, everything drained out of him.
"Just fucking do it, Nyota."
She looked at him, eyes narrowed.
"Fine. Everyone, back to posts. Chapel, get Jim to a bunk, take care of him."
Everything was a blur as the blonde nurse injected him with something, led him to one of the beat up biobeds.
He was slipping away into oblivion, falling into dark eyes, a dark pit, the silence of broken trust and betrayal. The last thing he heard before he let himself go into the blackness:
"This is Captain Uhura speaking. Everyone, battle stations. Engineers, stay on your toes. We're warping out of this hellhole."
--
When the alert came that Vulcan's security had been breached and two Terran ships were making their escape, Spock knew.
As Ang'jmizn of the Buk, he was ordered to chase down the ships and destroy them.
Spock followed orders. He carried out his duty to the utmost.
His commands were crisp and clear, the gift of his human intuition and extensive insight he gained from his time with Jim guided his every move. He anticipated their movements with almost preternatural accuracy while his subordinates rapidly calculated warp trajectories, while every weapon of his ship automatically followed their targets and fired relentlessly, round after round after round.
This was his domain, this was his element. He was born to command, born to navigate the chaos of battle and firefights. Spock's mind, his instinct, came together and he was the predator tracking his prey, he was the le-matya seeking to destroy anything that came in its path. He did not think of Jim, he did not think of the truth of the betrayal. He simply acted, fought for Vulcan as he always had and always would.
The two Terran ships were no match for the Buk and the Ket-cheleb. Spock put his ship in perfect position to trap the larger Terran vessel, the Coriander. Stonn executed the maneuver beautifully, firing smoothly and efficiently, ripping holes into the vessel, exploding the warp core. Spock listened to his staff report that plasma dispersion was complete, the engine was totally ruptured, life support systems were dead, the hull compromised.
The Enterprise had already gone into warp.
"Ang'jmizn Spock, do you have the trajectory of the second vessel?"
"Khart-lan Stonn, return to Vulcan. The Buk has all coordinates and we are going in pursuit of the Enterprise."
"Will you not need assistance?"
"Negative. Stand down."
"Understood."
"Dakharausu, follow that vessel. Overtake it."
"Immediately."
They flew into warp.
It was not easy to keep track of the vessel. The Captain of the Enterprise—Nyota Uhura, he recalled—evidently had some skill. She was employing every trick at her disposal to throw the Buk off her trail, but there was a reason why Spock was named the right hand of Ko-eik-te'krusu. He was the best. He surveyed battlespaces and knew how to win the efficient victory, he had practiced in his training this basic skill of stalking a single flier. And he forced Captain Uhura to make mistakes.
Her first mistake was when she attempted a Krichai maneuver. The ship's structural integrity had been shoddy in the first place and the additional strain of dropping in and out of warp, turning and banking hard was taking its toll. Spock knew that the maneuver cost her something in engine capability. Already they were gaining, weapons rapidly firing a few shots, a few shots, a few shots, that found their target and destroyed the ship's shields.
Her second mistake was when she attempted to fire a photon torpedo while dropping out of warp. The Enterprise's automatic weapons systems had been disabled, its circuits gutted—Spock's chief mishek had seen to it personally. It was obvious that the crew had managed to bring some systems back online, but the fixes hadn't been good enough. The photon torpedo exploded a few hundred meters from the Enterprise, taking more engine capability with it.
And her last mistake—the final one, Spock knew, was when she stopped the chase. A brief and vague feeling of admiration flickered in Spock, that she had decided to stand and fight. The feeling left as quickly as it came. It was a foolish move and a desperate one. Spock had seen such actions before, and not only among Terrans. There could be no hope for the survival of the ship. The Buk was superior, it held the advantage in every way.
The Enterprise was admirably dodging 72% of the rounds that the Buk was now firing. But it was only a matter of time before that ship was another shattered hull, a collection of bodies and metal floating in space.
Spock watched, impassive, as the Enterprise began to fall apart
(and in his mind was the image of Jim, of blue eyes mixed with blood, of soft limbs frozen in place, of shards of ship ripping through his stomach and the entrails spilling out, of red oozing from his nostrils, of warmth drained from his body, of pink lips turned blue, of the freeze between synapses, elbows twisted and locked, Jim's body broken and tortured in so many ways, locked by death by slavery by circumstance
in his mind was the image of Jim, blue eyes fierce and burning with freedom, of soft limbs entwined with his, of sharp kisses into his stomach, of his smile free and unfettered, of the curve of his neck and shoulders, of the pale skin at the small of his back, of the sound of his laughter, of the look of his anger, of his gasps into Spock's ear, of his moans and desire pulsing, of his very lifeblood and heartbeat under Spock's hands
in his mind was the image of Jim on his knees, asking Spock if he loved him, if he trusted him, of tales of escape, of dreams of living together, of yearning for freedom, of a place where they were equals exploring the galaxy, of a place where they could meet without duty and war between them, of another life another time another place, perhaps another universe
in his mind was the image of Jim)
in his eyes was the image of the Enterprise crumbling like a pillar of salt and he heard himself say
"Stop."
The rounds continued.
"Kroykah!"
All eyes stared, astonished.
"Set a course for Vulcan."
"But Ang'jmizn, the ship will—"
"Set a course for Vulcan. We are done here. Warp 4, Dakharausu."
They obeyed.
He did not take one last look at the Enterprise.
Only whispered in his mind, to the image of Jim,
"Dif-tor heh smusma, ashaya."
They flew into warp.