Without windows, there was no way to gauge the approach of dawn on this unfamiliar planet. Suddenly a Klingon raised the lights and slammed down a bowl of food. "Lazy dog! Get up! Do you think you are a privileged guest of the Empire?" Out he stormed, banging the door closed behind him. This time there was the sound of a locking device.
Reluctantly Spock left his bed for the unremitting chill of the basement. His breakfast bowl contained what were obviously leavings, but the leavings were fresh and of food types suitable for a Vulcan diet—vegetable peelings, fruit cores, crusts of bread. And he was in no position to be choosy. He sat and ate.
Afterward he took the opportunity to explore his new surroundings. There was a small lavatory and other than a few electric light panels, the gray stone walls of his prison were bare. A pair of tiny air outlets provided woefully inadequate ventilation. Disheartened, he came to a stop beside the steamy, bubbling spa.
There was a sound on the stairs. The door opened and Torlath came in. Not sure if he was expected to kneel, Spock simply bowed and kept his eyes downcast as he had seen slaves behave in front of their masters. How he had pitied them and despised the demeaning and exploitive practice of slavery. He had never imaged that someday he, too, would be among their numbers.
"Aboard ship I warned you," Torlath said, flexing a snakelike strap between his hands. Against his will, Spock found his eyes drawn to it. The heavy black thong was the length of Torlath's arm, as wide and thick as two Klingon fingers. "You were warned, yet you chose the path of defiance. Now, Vulqngan, I will show you the path of pain." The Klingon bared his unsightly teeth. "Take off your shirt."
Spock stared at the whip without moving. Vague memories of another whip came to him—prison bars, men in Nazi uniforms—but the images were distant, so far removed from the bitter intensity of this moment. Last night he had gone to his knees before Torlath. Was that not degrading enough?
Torlath gazed at him, secure in his evil power. "I see that you have eaten, Vulqan. I hope you enjoyed the food. Because you are slow in obeying me, T'Beth will go hungry today…" He paused meaningfully. "And tomorrow…"
With clenching fingers Spock yanked the shirt over his head and let it drop.
"Already you are learning," Torlath said in a low, ugly tone. "Come. Over by the wall."
Spock moved, each slow step a leaden act of will. For T'Beth…for her safety…her comfort. Iksom lom nomak'som…
"Put your hands on the wall," Torlath commanded. "Keep them there."
Spock pressed his palms to the icy stone and repressed a shiver. He focused on the bland gray rock, on its rough-hewn texture. He worked at calming the disorder in his mind. Physically, there was no reason he could not control the pain. Genesis had restored that portion of his brain lost to plakir-fee. But his retraining in the disciplines was not yet complete, and as for his emotional state—
The whip sang through the air. It cracked across his back, stealing away his breath, shattering his concentration with a surge of raw hatred. And in that instant Spock knew the discipline of Vulcan was beyond him. Setting his teeth, he absorbed each searing stroke of the whip in silent agony. It was a leisurely beating. Torlath understood torture, how to pace himself and keep his victim off-guard and utterly demoralized. He knew just how and where to lay a lash, and when. And he enjoyed it.
"You are sweating," taunted the Klingon. "You are starting to bleed." And then, "Does this hurt you? Do you want to cry out? Cry to me, Vulqangan, and I will stop."
But Spock would not cry out. And so the whip fell again and again, until he felt faint with pain and dangerously closer to tears than Torlath might have imagined. Then, unexpectedly, the whip caught him around the legs. Spock lurched off-balance and collapsed on the floor. It was a moment before he could gather his strength and rise shakily to his knees, and even longer before he could bring himself to stand and face the wall again. But the whip remained silent.
Torlath moved near and studying Spock's downcast eyes, fingered the stubble that had begun to show on his face. At the revolting touch Spock felt his control start to slip. Somehow he held himself still, all but his eyes, which turned up and beheld the Klingon with sheer loathing.
Torlath snarled. Digging his fingers into Spock's hair, he shoved him against the wall. "Khoh! Fool! Do you not know that your life is in my hands?" He hefted the black snake speculatively and his snarl faded into a cruel mockery of a smile. "Tomorrow is soon enough, my stubborn Vulqangan. For now I will let you savor your pain and dream of the many hard lessons still to come."
oooo
For a time the lashings came daily. Under the tutelage of Torlath's whip, Spock gradually relearned some of the icy impassivity of his Kolinahr years. Stray evidence of his feelings no longer leapt from his eyes at inconvenient moments. As his beard grew, he locked his emotions down tight and pushed the Genesis fears into a corner hidden deep inside, too deep even to resurface in nightmares. He learned the proper times to stand, to bow, to kneel, and he obeyed Torlath promptly, saying "Yes, my lord" as smoothly as he had once said "Yes, Captain". To all appearances he became a model slave.
Finally a day passed without a beating, and another day, and then three. On the fourth day Torlath took Spock out of the basement and gave him work. Each morning he was allowed upstairs to clean the kitchen. When the women finished with him, he was sent outdoors to split firewood and tend a vegetable garden as well as the herd animals that were kept for food.
Spock appreciated these hours in the open air, however hard the labor, however cold and damp the weather. When the sun shone he worked the soil into rich loamy rows, inhaling the pleasant fragrance, losing himself in the simple but constructive activity. As the days passed, he began to take some small pleasure in being alive again—even if it was only the life of a Klingon slave. But though his circumstances improved, his thoughts were never far from T'Beth. As he worked, his eyes frequently scanned the windows of the house. Where was she being kept? It worried him that he never saw her.
He was at the livestock barn raking the yard clear of waste when Torlath came to check on his work. As always, the Klingon wrinkled his nose at the odor and looked about for something to criticize. Inside the enclosure, the milling herd animals snorted at Torlath's scent and backed away. Like tribbles, they tended to shy from Klingons. Spock reached down to stroke one of the speckled goat-like creatures and she nuzzled his hand, hungry for attention.
Watching, Torlath's eyes narrowed. "You like these khaadi, Vulqangan."
"Yes, my lord," Spock admitted. He hoped Torlath would not be displeased. He had not merited more than a slap from any Klingon for days. Things were going so well that he had almost decided to approach Torlath regarding T'Beth.
Torlath merely grunted and began to leave. Spock knew he might never find the Klingon in a more tolerant mood. Strengthening his resolve, he ran after him and said, "Please, my lord—"
Torlath turned to find him kneeling on the damp ground. Spock focused on the familiar buckle with its sinister knot of snakes. "My lord, may I request a favor of you?"
Torlath's shaggy eyebrows climbed in amusement. "Speak, bold one. You will soon know if you offend me."
"My lord—" Spock's throat tightened. "I mean no offense, but if…if it please my lord…I would like very must to visit my daughter."
For a moment Torlath just stared at him. Then throwing back his great head, he bellowed with laughter. "If it please my lord," he mimicked, "I mean no offense, my lord!"
Spock's control slipped. Only the thought of T'Beth kept him from the Klingon's throat. It was not yet time for that—but surely there would come a day when he would consign the swaggering Klingon to death.
Abruptly Torlath's laughter ended. A heavy boot caught Spock in the chest, knocking him into the dirt. Torlath towered over him in black Klingon rage. "So you want to see your child! You khesting dog, will I ever see my child again? Will I?"
Spock did not know how to answer him. He lay on the ground waiting.
With trembling fingers Torlath unbuckled his serpent belt. Doubling the tough leather, he snapped it between his hands. "Stand!" he ordered.
The Klingon's muscular legs were within Spock's reach. He considered tripping Torlath and delivering a blow to his groin. Gutter tactics, but effective. Then, the kill. He thought about eluding the other Klingons and finding T'Beth. Locating and stealing the Klingon vessel. Escaping from an unknown position through enemy Space. With each step the odds against success swiftly mounted in his mind. Unacceptable. Not now. Not yet.
Spock stood. In the last instant, as he braced for the impact of the leather, something made him turn his head. His eyes were on the house when the strap connected. Then there was no way to look again, to even think of who he might have seen at an upstairs window, of who might now be watching this. Torlath wielded the belt like a madman. With one powerful swipe he ripped away Spock's shirt, exposing the freshly healed skin on his back. Khaadi squealed and bolted around the corral as he flayed Spock mercilessly.
"Sakh!" Torlath roared, beating him into the dirt. "Cry like your stinking animal friends!"
Tucking down his head, Spock swallowed the pain of each punishing blow. His body already belonged to the Klingon. He dared not also surrender his spirit. However much he might have longed for such a release, he would not cry out.
Torlath lashed him one last time, then strapped on his belt and jerked Spock upright. "Cry!" hissed the Klingon.
A huge palm cracked across Spock's face, and again, and again, until blood streamed from his nose and his mind fogged with pain and dizziness. But he did not cry out. Enraged, Torlath dragged him into the house and down the basement stairs. Kicking Spock into his room, he slammed the door shut on him.
Some time later Spock found himself in the spa. He had no memory of getting there, of picking himself up off the floor and disrobing. Yet he could see his dirt-stained pants crumpled beside the bath. He felt bewildered, but since fal-tor-pan he had grown accustomed to moments of bewilderment. Holding his breath, he slipped under and let the hot water soothe and cleanse his battered face. He surfaced to find a young woman standing nearby. She was light-skinned for a Klingon, with finely cast features beneath the knobs and whorls of her forehead.
She held out a towel and beckoned to him. "Khaadi-man…khighosh."
Spock hesitated. It did not help that she may have already seen him unrobed. It only added to his embarrassment, his resentment, at the invasion of his personal privacy. He had to remind himself that there were no such considerations between master and slave. With downcast eyes, he climbed out and wrapped the towel around his waist.
The woman made no move to touch him. "Khaadi-man," she said in a soft voice.
He ventured another glance at her face. Startled, he gave her a more lingering look. Something very much like compassion shone from her black eyes. It had been so long since anyone had looked on him kindly, as someone worthy of respect. And with that thought came a sharp stirring of memory…a vision of another woman whom he had held and kissed aboard the Enterprise. Kind, lovely, golden—yes, he remembered now. Her name was Lauren and she was a doctor. Did she remember him?
The Klingon woman pointed to clean clothing on his bed. She followed and watched as he drew his pants on under cover of the towel. When he reached for his shirt, she stopped him with a gentle touch and gestured for him to lie down.
Spock openly searched her face, wondering where the next moments might take him. Was this really a Klingon who was not brutal? Even so, he did not want her touching him. But he was a slave, he was in her power. Naked to the waist, he stretched out stiffly on the bedcover. The woman came to him holding a small vial. Pouring a bit of its contents into her dark palm, she carefully applied the oily lotion to the bruises on his face. As she worked the lotion over his cheekbones and lips, the soreness began to fade. Her fingertips lingered over his pointed Vulcan ears, but there was no disdain in her manner, only curiosity. From there she moved down his neck and shoulders, and turning him onto his stomach, smoothed lotion over the tender welts on his back. When she had attended to every reasonable inch of skin, Spock sat up.
Gently but firmly she pushed him back down. "Ghobe," she said, covering him with a blanket.
"I do not understand," Spock told her.
She frowned at him. "Ji yajbe."
They looked at one another. If there was a Klingon word for "thank you", Spock did not know it. While many Klingons learned Standard, few members of the Federation spoke the language. Someday that situation might change, but for now Spock could only gaze at the woman in silent gratitude. For a moment longer her warm eyes studied him, then she was gone.
Spock put on his shirt and lay back again, analyzing the strange encounter. After a short while a sound at the door drew his attention. Expecting Torlath, he rose quickly and prepared to kneel. A girl entered the basement—a pale-looking wraith in an oversized Klingon dress, eyes wide as a timid khree pup. Spock's heart leaped as he rushed forward and caught his daughter in a most unVulcan hug.
T'Beth answered with a fierce squeeze that hurt his back. "Oh, Father," she groaned.
The sound of her voice tore at him. Tipping back her jaw, he searched her angry, tearful face. "T'Beth," he said softly, urgently, "T'Beth-kam…are they treating you well?"
She pulled away and glared at him. "Father, how could you? Cringing in the dirt like some…some whipped animal! Not even trying to fight back!"
So she was the one watching from the window. She had seen.
"Why?" she demanded. "Why did you kneel to him? Why did you let him hit you?"
Spock thought it best to keep that information to himself. "Never mind that. Tell me one thing, quickly. Was it a woman who brought you here? Young, light-skinned?"
"Yes! So what?" She grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled. "Come on, we'll try and escape together. I can't stand it anymore."
Spock gently disengaged her fingers. "The time isn't right. Be patient, T'Beth. We may be gaining an ally among the Klingons."
"You act like you're afraid." She looked very frightened herself. "You should've warned the pilot. None of this would have happened if you'd warned him!"
Spock met her rising hysteria with a calmness he did not feel. "T'Beth, listen to me. I did speak to Captain Selak. But no one could have known—"
The door opened. The gentle Klingon woman motioned for T'Beth to leave. At her signal T'Beth's eyes filled with fresh tears. "Father," she said in a choked voice.
But it was too late. Discord had spoiled their brief moment together.
oooo
Two days passed before Spock was allowed out of the basement again. It was a gray, drizzly morning. Icy gusts bent the treetops and sent leaves flying through the air. Shivering in his thin, damp clothes, he made quick work of the yard, and then went into the crudely constructed barn. Wind rushed between the ill-fitting logs and the front opening, which had no door. But on days like this the space was made a little warmer by the khaadi crowding together inside.
Spock picked up a rake and worked slowly. Out here there was no one to snarl orders, no one to strike or harass him in other ways. Klingons preferred seeing khaadi only on their dinner table, and by the look of these fat shaggy beasts, they would soon be filling Klingon bellies.
As Spock measured feed into the troughs, the khaadi mobbed him like hungry children. Standing back, he watched them eat and wondered if there was not some way to save them from slaughter. It seemed very important that these innocent animals, these fellow captives, escape death.
"Khaadi-man…" spoke a soft voice.
Spock turned, looked around. Perhaps it had only been the wind. He picked up the rake and resumed working.
"Khaadi-man," he heard again.
This time he saw her. From out of a shadowy corner of the barn came the Klingon woman, a cloak on her arm. The khaadi milled nervously. Without a word she approached him and draped the spotted fur over his shoulders.
"Warm," she said in heavily accented Standard.
Spock inclined his head. "Khi-ja. Yes. You are most kind."
She shrugged, her great dark eyes alive with that wonderful compassion so alien to this place. Spock drew a little closer. He could feel the warmth of her body, feel the kindly aura of her mind beckoning to him. Dare he take this any further? The wind moaned through the logs and the khaadi made contented sounds as they devoured their feed. Reaching a decision, Spock slowly raised his right hand and poised his calloused fingers near her cheek. She stood as if waiting for his touch, as if she also desired the communication it could bring.
Spock weighed and reweighed the risks of this particular "Vulcan mental treachery" against the possibility of gaining information necessary for an escape. T'Beth had said, you act like you're afraid. Yes—he was frightened. One wrong move and they would both be crushed down and beaten into the dirt. Yet…if this woman was as sympathetic as she seemed, if she was truly inclined to help them…
Spock touched her face. She jumped slightly, and then grew very still. He traced his fingertips over the soft brown skin, upward, toward the wide but trusting eyes, the delicately knobbed brow. "This will not hurt," he told her. And gently, very gently, he reached into her mind, and the shadows of the barn fell away…
Trust me. I will not harm you.
I hear you! In my thoughts!
We are one and together…and as one, Spock experienced her sorrow for her glory-seeking father. Silent weeping for Kruge because Kirk had killed him. Weeping for her grandfather's blood-vengeance and cruelty. This cannot help. This cannot bring my father back. So wrong, so very wrong…
Torlath wants Kirk because he killed Kruge…but it was in self-defense.
I know. It does not matter. Torlath will have all of you.
Not if you help.
…Spock felt her fear, felt her mind starting to pull away. But he could not let her go yet. Hurriedly he searched for the location of T'Beth's room, but found many locations. And there were the names of many men and women, many duties and schedules. And as for the ship…
Leave me alone!
Her mind's cry pierced Spock's concentration and a stirring of decency intervened, a grave admonition of conscience echoing from a distant time and place. A Vulcan never used force. A telepath never violated the mind of another. Reluctantly Spock moved apart and watched Lanya break down and sob into her hands. Yes, her name was Lanya. Backing away from him, she turned and fled, scattering the khaadi in her path.
oooo
All that day Spock waited, each cold creeping hour filled with self-recrimination. However sympathetic Lanya might be, she was Torlath's granddaughter, blood kin, and Spock had upset her badly. There seemed little chance that his reckless probe into her mind would go unpunished. The thought of T'Beth under torture made Spock's stomach churn.
Night came, with still no sign that today was different from any other. After the Klingons ate dinner, Spock received a plate of scraps on the kitchen hearth. Eyes downcast, he sat quietly on the warm stone and forced down the food. He pretended not to notice how the two Klingon women leered at him as they went about their work. Lately they were becoming quite bold in their interest. He looked forward to the privacy of his basement room. Standing, he hoped to be "put away", but instead a hulking woman shoved him toward the back door.
"Kharaz!" she demanded. "Kharaz dah!"
Firewood? Confused by the command, Spock hesitated. There was plenty of dry firewood beside the hearth. He had already made sure of that.
"Khip!" growled the woman, and she slapped him. The force of the blow threw Spock against a cabinet. She laughed.
Picking himself up, he went out to gather a load of kharaz from a lean-to behind the barn. A storm had settled in with the coming of darkness. The wind blew hard and it was raining. Sheltered by the lean-to, h filled his wood sling slowly, stopping often to gaze at the lighted windows of the house. Where was she? Where were they keeping her tonight?
Thoroughly chilled, he hoisted the bulging sling over his shoulder and straightened. His eyes detected a great dark shape at one end of the corral. A tree was down. Setting the sling aside, he sloshed barefoot through the icy mud to investigate. Two fenceposts were shattered, but the fallen tree limbs tangled in the boards were probably dense enough to keep the khaadi confined overnight.
As Spock studied the storm damage, he thought of captivity and enslavement, of Vulcan principles and the dignity of life. And there was a part of him that inwardly smiled at the thought of inconveniencing his brutal captors. He glanced around to make certain no one was watching. Then swiftly and efficiently he enlarged the gap in the dangling boards.
Back at the house, Spock stacked the wood in the shelter of the porch and rinsed his feet under a faucet. Then he opened the kitchen door. Shrieking in Klingonese, the two women pounced on him. For a terrible instant Spock thought his act of sabotage had been observed, but it soon became clear that they were interested only in removing his dripping wet clothes. As their powerful, determined hands tugged at him, Spock tried to keep himself covered. The larger Klingon delivered a blow that set his ear ringing. The shorter, but no less muscular female yanked at his shirt. The soggy fabric tore away from his shoulders.
Once again Spock saw no recourse but to yield, whatever their whims. Endure. He must endure. But accepting that bitter fact did not ease his humiliation. Then he glimpsed Lanya watched at a doorway and his face burned still hotter. Was she behind this? Was Lanya using her comrades to punish him for intruding on her mind?
He let go of what remained of his shirt. The delighted women stroked and explored his chest before turning their attention to the cord that fastened his pants. Their dark fingers fumbled over the strange Vulcan knot.
"Ghuy'cha'!" Lanya's shout startled everyone. Hissing in rapid Klingonese, she swooped into the kitchen and spat in his face. The other women stepped back and stared, open-mouthed.
Lanya eyed Spock with smoldering disdain. "Tokh, Vulqangan! Ha', mod!" Roughly seizing him by the hair, she pulled him all the way down to the basement. With the door securely closed, she let go.
Spock assumed the humble posture of a kneeling slave, head bowed low. Perhaps he had been rescued, or perhaps he had been brought below for a more private reckoning. For now Lanya's intention was unclear. He dared not wipe the spittle from his beard. He dared not raise his eyes to meet hers. The wrenching play of emotions on Lanya's face was lost to him as she turned and walked out the door.
oooo
Later that night, the lights came on in Spock's room. He awoke with a pounding heart and found his daughter standing beside the bed—pallid, thin, haunted looking. Throwing back the covers, he sat up, and she put her arms around him.
"T'Beth'kam," he said, gently stroking her dark hair. He wanted to say so much more.
She nestled her cheek against his shoulder and sighed. "We're never going to make it home. It's all my fault. The trip—I wanted everything to be so perfect."
"It is not your fault," he soothed. "You must not give up hope. Your being here proves the Klingon woman is continuing to help us. We'll find a way to escape." She raised her head and looked at him through desolate eyes. "I will not fail you," he promised, but the hollow words brought neither of them any comfort.
In a moment the visit was over.
oooo
Spock was still awake when the door burst open and the lights came on again. Torlath charged in, and his mood was ugly. "Get up, Vulqangan fool!" he roared. "You have lost the khaadi! Every stinking one of them!"
His gut twisting, Spock slid from bed to his knees. "My lord, forgive me. How can this have happened?"
"The wind!" Torlath bellowed. "A tree uprooted and fell into the enclosure. The beasts ran free. They were in your charge, khaadi-lover. You are responsible!"
So his sabotage had not been detected. Spock experienced a moment of sharp relief. Head bowed, he waited in silence for the inevitable beating.
"On your feet!" Torlath ordered. "Do you think to lounge here in comfort while Klingons tramp through the forest after those miserable beasts? You and you alone will find them, all of them! In three days you will have thirty-two fat khaadi in that enclosure. And do you know why, my khesting Vulqan breed?"
Spock stood before the Klingon, his eyes downcast. "Because, my lord, you desire it?"
Torlath walked up to him. Almost gently he buried his fingers in Spock's shaggy hair, then clenched them. Forcing Spock's head up, he looked deep into the impassive Vulcan eyes. "I will explain it to you," he said softly. "For every khaadi still missing, every khaadi not safely returned, your pretty daughter will receive ten lashes. Simple—do you not agree?"
oooo
The air was cool and sweet smelling. Each leaf, each blade of grass had been washed clean by the rain, but Spock scarcely noticed the beauty around him as he prowled through the Klingon forest. All his senses were focused on the hunt. Signs of khaadi…tracks…spoor…scent of khaadi. He must find each of them, quickly. T'Beth must not be made to suffer for his foolish act of rebellion.
All through the day he stalked khaadi, until the light faded and the shadows grew into darkness and strange constellations appeared in the sky. Hungry and chilled, he came back and repaired the corral for his seven recaptured beasts.
Early the next morning Spock took his rope into the west woods and tracked for long, discouraging hours before finding a single khaadi. But in the next hour he found a flock of five, so now there were thirteen. He wandered southward until nightfall, catching another eight khaadi along the way. But after releasing them into the enclosure, Spock counted a total of twenty-three. Another khaadi had appeared out of nowhere. Who among the Klingons would help a slave? Who among the Klingons was gentle enough to even get near a skittish khaadi? The answer was self-evident. Lanya.
That night Spock lay awake, anxious to be on the move. There was so little time left and far, far too many khaadi still missing—ninety lashes worth. Even if Lanya were to help again, the odds against retrieving every last animal were miserably high. There was too much wilderness for one man to cover.
At dawn Spock headed north. Almost immediately he stumbled upon a narrow path that bore the tracks of many Klingon boots. Here was the opportunity he had been awaiting for weeks—a chance to reconnoiter, find the Klingon ship, formulate a plan of escape. But no khaadi would come near this trail with its hated scent of Klingons. Every minute spent here would leave T'Beth more vulnerable. Yet only a ship could free her from the threat of harm once and for all.
Spock followed the trail. It seemed longer than he remembered, or perhaps it was only his impatience with the careful pace he had to maintain in order to avoid detection. At last he came to a clearing. Deep imprints of landings formed puddles in the ground. All along the perimeter, a ship's thrusters had damaged the vegetation. But there was no ship. And by the look of things there had been no ship here for some time.
Blackness crept over Spock as he stared at the empty clearing. What now? All his life he had believed in possibilities, but without a fully functioning vessel there could be no possibility of escape. That left only enslavement—forced labor, beatings, and endless degradation. Or did it? A very tempting thought insinuated itself into Spock's mind. Was he not, in actuality, already free? No one was watching. No one was holding a weapon on him. He could easily keep walking and disappear into these woods forever. Torlath and his men would never find him alive. There were ways to make certain of that.
Then what of T'Beth? In the starliner lounge he had abandoned her at the mere suggestion of a Klingon presence. Would he leave her to the Klingons now? Had he really grown as cowardly as his daughter seemed to think?
Still another thought came, no less terrible for all its logic. Lanya would likely let T'Beth visit him again. In less than a minute he could end their suffering easily—a nerve pinch, a quick snap of T'Beth's neck, and her ordeal would be over. And then he would be free to kill himself.
Spock pushed the appalling image from his mind. Leaving the trail, he resumed his search for khaadi. The sun burned warm and bright as it rose up through the trees. The shadows shortened and disappeared. At the brow of a hill he stumbled upon a khaadi—dead. Turning from the half-eaten carcass, he sagged against a tree trunk. This was his doing. All his. Now T'Beth would pay dearly, and there was no way he would prevent it. But he could not stop searching now…
Once again Spock pulled himself from the dark spiral of despair, and straightened. There must be no surrender. As long as there was light in the day and breath in his body, he would try. And yes, even hope. And it was hope even more than logic that led him over the next rise to four willing khaadi. His fingers trembled as he roped them together, but the gentle beasts were patient with his clumsiness. They licked his hands and made soft noises in their throats until he gave them each a little rub and spoke to them.
They walked together through the warm, luckless afternoon, and sundown came without sighting another khaadi, living or dead. Five animals short, Spock headed back slowly, footsore and heavy of heart, but still searching. Twenty meters from the compound, a bush rustled and out jumped another khaadi. Dropping down on his knees, Spock grasped the little she-beast and it responded with a painful show of affection.
"Why do you trust in me?" he asked her. "Don't you know I am leading you to the slaughter?"
The five khaadi bounded back into their corral, happily giving up their brief experiment in freedom. His eyes searching the compound perimeters, Spock slowly closed and locked the gate. It was over. The time was up. For a moment the sickening reality of his failure threatened to overwhelm him.
Boot steps sounded in the bitter night, an immense shadow loomed across the yard. Spock turned. Torlath shoved him and his back slammed into the corral fence.
"Lazy dog!" spat the Klingon. "Why are you standing idle? Have you finished with the task I set for you?"
Shivering, Spock knelt in the mud. "Not…quite yet, my lord. I am sorry. If you could grant me another day."
"I am sorry," mimicked Torlath. "Tokh! You soon will be sorry, I assure you! Get up and take count, you worthless piece of vekh!"
Torlath switched on the yard lights. Under his critical eyes Spock went into the enclosure and began counting the sleepy khaadi. There should only have been twenty-nine, but the count revealed one precious khaadi more. "Thirty, my lord," Spock reported, silently thanking Lanya for her latest gift.
On Torlath's order the count was repeated twice. Each time the numbers agreed. The Klingon's eye flamed. "Two missing! Two of my finest beasts!"
Spock doubted that Torlath could distinguish between any of the khaadi. But two animals were lost, one irretrievably, through Spock's deliberate act. What would be Torlath's fury if he knew the full truth? His head bowed, Spock followed Torlath into the house.
Lanya was in the kitchen. Casting Spock a wilting glance, she spoke to her grandfather. "Khaadi ghakh 'ar?"
"Wejmakh," growled Torlath.
Lanya made a sound of disgust. Her snarled comment completely overreached Spock's limited Klingon vocabulary. Torlath looked at her sourly and growled the Klingon equivalent of "shut up". Lanya went off in a pout. "Though there would a certain grim justice in roasting you," Torlath mused in Standard. "Kha!" Shaking his great knobbed head, he thrust Spock down the basement stairs. "You are more trouble than you are worth, my careless mongrel!"
The door closed behind Spock. The sound of Torlath's boots retreated into the distance. By now Spock should not have been surprised at anything, but finding clean clothes and food instead of a beating surprised him considerably. The short-term behavior of his captor was sometimes difficult to predict, but the long-term trend was unfailingly sadistic.
The knot of apprehension tightened in Spock's stomach. It was impossible to eat anything, impossible to think of anything but T'Beth in pain. Would he know when it happened? Would he be made to watch? Or would he be left to wonder, to guess, to imagine?
An hour passed with the slowness of torture. And then, a faint sound. Abruptly the wall screen came on, revealing a clear image of T'Beth and Torlath in her chamber. Spock tensed and moved nearer. Torlath loomed head and shoulders above the girl. Beside his Klingon mass she looked very young and frail and pathetically vulnerable.
Torlath turned toward the screen. "Vulqangan. Are you enjoying your evening? Let me present for you an added entertainment." From behind his back came the heavy snake that Spock knew so well. T'Beth stared at it, frightened but composed.
Spock became aware of his fists clenching. He started for the wall screen—then stopped in frustration. "No!" he shouted. "Please, my lord! It was my carelessness—I am the one at fault!"
They did not seem to hear him. Or see him. And Torlath had already bound her wrists and tied them to the tall bedpost. T'Beth stood trussed and defenseless against the brutish hand caressing her shoulder. Fury mounting, Spock watched her shudder and struggle to escape Torlath's touch.
"Such tender flesh," Torlath murmured, "lovely flesh, ripe and ready for the whip. See, Vulqangan?" With one fierce yank he ripped the back of her dress and T'Beth's naked skin was exposed to him.
"Father, don't look!" she cried out. "You'll only make it worse!"
A savage sound rose in Spock's throat. He rushed the basement door and wrenched at the handle. The lock held firm. Onscreen the images moved with the cold relentlessness of fate—Torlath flexing his whip, T'Beth shivering helplessly.
"Don't watch!" she begged again.
Baring his teeth, Spock applied all of his strength to the stubborn latch. He threw himself at the door and pummeled the unyielding wood until his hands bled, but he could not drown out the crack of the lash striking bare flesh…or the cries of pain. Sagging against the door, he closed his eyes…and the cry alarmed him, until he realized it was a sound of delight, not pain. He saw the girl reaching toward something, entranced. Once again Spock's heart leaped in his side, and this time the gasp was his own. "T'Beth! No!"
Somehow he caught up with her in time. Abruptly he turned her around to face him. "Touch nothing! Nothing! I told you that. You are eleven years old—old enough to listen!"
At his sharp words, her eyes filled with tears. But they were alone in this corner of the children's park, with no Vulcan to observe her show of emotion, to see that he had made her cry…again.
Rellenting, Spock crouched before her in the warm, moist sand at water's edge. "Listen to me again," he said gently. "This is not like your Ildaran forests, where you could wander in safety during the daylight hours. This is not like the benign Earth parks you've read about. There is beauty in these Vulcan parks—yes—but also danger. That innocent-looking flower that interested you excretes a searing acid."
This was supposed to have been a pleasant learning experience. He did not remember the park being so unnerving when he was a boy. But then, hadn't his own father hovered over him like an anxious shadow? And now T'Beth was eyeing that little spine lizard, the one that spits poison from ten paces…
…Turning, Spock stared at the blank basement wall. The terrible images and sounds were gone now. Little by little the tension drained from his muscles, and his shoulders drooped in defeat. The room felt as empty and silent as deep Space.
In the end she had screamed. Under torture she cried out for him, but he had not saved her from a single lash. Now she lay huddled in an agony of pain and humiliation, and he could not even comfort her. He dared not even try. No amount of rationalization could ease the sense of failure, of uselessness.
It came as no surprise when the door opened. With a casual air of power Torlath crossed the room and stood before him, holding the accursed whip that had just savaged a child. There was no need for Torlath even to command it. Removing his shirt, Spock knelt before the Klingon, head down, expectant. He would absorb the punishment with the small twitchings of astonished nerves that never grew accustomed to the pain, but screamed their shock anew with each blow. The whip would fall until sweat ran down his body, until his fingernails drew blood from his own palms, until the room faded into a green haze and even the throb of guilt grew mercifully distant.
But Torlath mere looked down at him, silent and darkly amused.
Arrogant brute, Spock thought. And he said, "My lord," his voice catching, "why do you hesitate? Beat me, too."
"No," Torlath said.
"Why?"
"Because," Torlath replied, "you desire it." Coiling his whip, the Klingon turned and left the room.