A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.

When Spock was four years old a distant clan uncle gave him a v'lay'nath as a present. Part jigsaw, part abacus, the cube was intended to inculcate the seamless beauty of logic in the youngest Vulcan children and Spock spent long hours sliding the smooth wooden pieces into place with a satisfying click. He would not be parted from it. Yet one day Sarek discovered his young son on the floor surrounded by a myriad of wooden shapes and biting back shameful tears.

"I wished to examine the mechanism within the cube," he explained. "I wished to discover if the colours could be arranged in a different configuration."

Sarek regarded his son gravely. "But my son, the creators of the v'lay'nath would have explored all configurations before arriving at the optimal arrangement. Your logic should have led you to this conclusion."

And, for the first time, Spock found he had to fight a seed of a rebellion, to bite back an argument he knew he could not win. It was the beginning of a pattern that was to shape the relationship between father and son.

But today, a Vulcan who no longer craves his father's approval, who indeed has heard himself described as the best first officer in the fleet (despite, or perhaps because of, that apparently inbuilt desire to push the boundaries of assumed knowledge) is thinking of the lessons of the v'lay'nath.

A tricorder reading, the impossibility of the duplicate man in red, a memory of clutching fingers and a transporter shimmer. He can feel the wooden shapes move beneath his fingertips, can see them slide to form the inevitable cube.

His captain stands apart. Issuing orders. He is dividing the security team and medics into search parties. The rain has eased to spitting drizzle and it is imperative that they find the missing colonists who may even now be "falling like flies." As the teams prepare to leave Spock knows that it is even more urgent that he imparts his suspicions. There is no logic in delay. Yet still he hesitates and watches James Kirk doing what he does best, a man more comfortable in command gold than anyone has any right to be. He remembers a time when that was not so. And he remembers the fear.

Then Spock looks again at his tricorder readings. And sees what he's been missing

-oOo-

A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.

His thoughts slide away, repelled by what his instincts are telling him. Rawlson - the name suddenly in sharp focus on a message screen. A dead man standing at a doorway. "It's like part of you is missing," Miller had said. Jim Kirk knows what that feels like. He remembers.

He can't voice his suspicions to McCoy; if he's right the last thing they need now is an emotional response. There's only one person he can talk to about this. But when he turns Spock is nowhere to be seen.

Then he spots him. Tricorder in hand, Spock is on the far side of the warehouse, a flash of blue moving slowly towards the foot of the gantry and the shadows beneath. Stalking, Kirk thinks. And before he has time to extend the thought the stalker pounces; Spock disappears into darkness. Kirk finds he's running, although he's not conscious of ordering his feet to move, but before he reaches the far wall there's a yell of pain and his science officer reappears holding the arm of a very dirty, very angry young man in brown coveralls.

"Let me go!"

Kirk estimates he's about 12. Brown hair sticking up in all directions, wary blue eyes and a rag tied bandana style around his forehead. It gives him a rakish air, as if he's dressed up as a pirate for Halloween, but Kirk can see blood on the side of his face.

"Starfleet scum, bastard! Let me go..." The string of swear words is impressive in one so young. But a 12 year old, even a furious one, is no match for Vulcan strength. Spock, holding the struggling boy in one hand as easily as he holds the inanimate tricorder in the other, remarks calmly,

"I can assure you that in fact my mother was married to my father some 2.6 years before my birth and it is not wise nor indeed possible to do as you suggest with those particular parts of my anatomy."

Kirk bends to hold the boy's shoulders and examine him. He thinks the blood, caked and flaking from forehead to cheek, is old but the dirt makes it hard to be sure. He shouts back across his shoulder, "Bones, get over here." Then, in the pause the boy takes for breath, he tries to hold his gaze. "Hey, son. We're not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

More swear words. But Kirk can see fear beneath the bluster. The boy is terrified. He keeps his voice gently conversational. "I'm Jim. This is Mr. Spock. You're from the Demeter, aren't you?"

There's a gasp at that and a sudden silence. The boy is frowning as McCoy arrives beside them, tricorder and bedside manner at the ready.

"Well, now, who do we have here?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the rag gently and the captive winces then tries to pretend he didn't. "Ouch, now that looks a nasty cut. Why don't you let me have a look at that?" He slings the medkit off his shoulder and starts rummaging. "Now on the board the Enterprise I've had crewmen holler blue murder over smaller scratches than that. But I can see you're a brave fella...

"The Enterprise? You're from the flagship?" There's no mistaking the awe in the boy's voice. He's stopped struggling.

"I'm the ship's doctor. And this is her captain, Captain Kirk. You're lucky we came along..." McCoy unties the bloody rag and hands it to the medic beside him who eyes it with distaste.

"Kirk. Captain...?" There's a dawning recognition. "So who's this? With the ears." The patient jerks an accusing thumb back at the Vulcan still holding him fast. Kirk nods at Spock who loosens his grip.

"I told you. This is Mr. Spock. He's from Vulcan." He drops his voice to a stage whisper. "And he's very sensitive about his ears. We've stopped teasing him about them now." Which earns him a startled smile from the boy and a raised eyebrow and twitch of the lips from the owner of the appendages under discussion. "Surely you know about Vulcans. Don't they have schools where you come from?"

The boy scowls. "Yeah, we did. We do. And I knew... it's just...We didn't have any Vulcans on the Demeter." He pulls his head away from McCoy's cleansing ministrations which are revealing a good deal of pale skin beneath the dirt and a cut which is deep enough to scar but smaller than the amount of blood suggested. "That stings."

McCoy stops spraying. "I'm not surprised. It's gone deep. Who did this to you, son?"

"I banged it. Caught in on the edge of the console... When I was..." he stops, eyeing the men around him with suspicion. McCoy pretends not to notice and bends to pull a tube from his kit.

"I'm going to put a field dressing on this. We'll have a go with the regenerator later. Unless. of course, you want a scar." The bandana-less pirate looks thoughtful.

Kirk tries again. "So are there any more of you from the Demeter...?" He lets the pause ask the question

"Jake," the boy supplies. "My name's Jake."

"Jake." Kirk confirms. "So, Jake, were you with anyone?"

The newly bandaged patient takes a deep breath.

"Yeah. My mom... she was with me when we beamed down. We had to leave. There were men. Redshirts. On the ship. They hurt people." His eyes cloud. "We didn't understand. We thought Starfleet were the good guys." There's accusation there.

Kirk reaches out and grasps a shoulder. "We are the good guys, Jake. Those men weren't Starfleet. Whatever they looked like. So what happened after you beamed down?"

Jake looks away, biting his lip. "When we got here mom made me hide. But the men beamed down too. They took her. And the others. They took all of them."

McCoy crouches down. "Where did they take them, Jake?"

"They didn't see me." Blue eyes plead to the men around him. "I did like mom said. I hid."

Kirk smiles. "You're pretty good at that, kid. We didn't see you, did we?" He looks up at Spock.

"Indeed," confirms his first officer. "I was only able to detect your presence with the aid of a tricorder." Spock holds up the instrument in question. Kirk realises that for some reason he is still scanning the boy, tilting the tricorder up and down. "Your camouflage skills are impressive."

Mollified, Jake gives a small smile.

"So they didn't see you," continues Kirk. "But you followed them, didn't you Jake?"

A mute nod.

"And where did they go?"

And an arm lifts, a dirty finger points. At the floor.

"Down there. They went down there."

"Down...?" Kirk's gaze follows the pointing finger. When he looks back quizzically at the finger's owner he gets a dazzling grin.

"If you like, I'll show you."