3.

Spock learned very quickly that outside the slave room no one was allowed to help him in his blindness, and that cautiousness of movement was tolerated by none of the free men, and only a handful of the other slaves. The theory was that he would learn faster that way, and perhaps it was true. His limbs and head were studded with varied bruises from walking into things and falling over, and from being hit for clumsiness, but he was learning very swiftly exactly where furniture stood, where overhanging obstacles were in his path, where steps and uneven flagstones lay.

His worst accident yet had occurred when he had walked into a side table containing a kettle of an almost boiling drink, but the burns down his left thigh were healing slowly, and he had learnt to be hyper alert for the changes in temperature in the air around him that indicated similar dangers. He had been beaten for spilling the drink, but he was growing used to physical punishment, and learning to avoid it. He had also begun to improvise a few small signs to allow him to communicate with the other slaves in his seven – lifting a hand to his mouth to ask for food, mimicking drinking from a cup, or giving an exaggerated shrug when he was not sure where something was.

He had been there two weeks before he felt familiar enough with his seven to let his barriers down further. When he had suffered the burn on his thigh, it had been Delash who had taken it upon himself to check the wound daily, and apply the shower cloth soaked in cold water to take some of the pain from his skin. During the frequent physical contact that this occasioned, he had been able to sense the man's open desire for friendship, and he thought it might be possible to risk a meld with him. He had been spending a frustrating hour this evening sitting on his bed-mat with Delash, trying to communicate with him and to learn the signs that Delash knew to teach him. Finally he took a deep breath, and raised his hand tentatively towards the man's face, waiting for him to object.

'What do you want to do?' Delash asked curiously, as Spock stopped with his fingers just centimetres away, a questioning look on his face. 'You want to feel my face?'

Spock shook his head. He moved his fingers a little closer. It was unethical to instigate a mind meld without permission, but there was no way to mime the question. He touched the man's cheek very lightly, feeling a beard and the roughness of a face in middle age. Then he closed his own eyes, and let his barriers down fully, reaching out carefully to the man's thoughts.

Delash recoiled, uttering a curse. Spock dropped his hand swiftly, trying to look apologetic.

'No, it's all right,' the man said quickly. 'But – ye gods, I didn't even know you could do that. Don't ever let *them* know you can do that.'

Spock shook his head quickly, then raised his hand again questioningly.

'What can he do?' Valensh asked curiously. Spock could feel curiosity all around him.

'He's a telepath. Go on,' the man said to Spock. 'Now I know, it's all right.'

Spock touched his face again, reaching a little deeper until he was at the point that he could make his mental voice heard. I am Spock, he said. An improper relief flooded over him at his first chance to *really* communicate in over two weeks. Just being able to communicate his own name was wonderful.

'Spockesh,' the man said out loud, careful not to nod and dislodge Spock's fingers. 'That's his name, lads,' he said aside. 'Good to know, Spockesh. And you're – ' He stopped, his concentration increasing, and Spock could feel him reaching out after facts that he could just sense in the top layers of Spock's mind. Good Gods, you're Starfleet, he said internally. No wonder they made you mute. Wouldn't want that getting out.

Why? Spock asked curiously.

Just – too many people who'd come after you to get you out of here if they knew. They don't advertise slavery on this planet. They know the Feds'd shut it down in a second.

I imagine this is not a Federation planet, Spock pointed out.

No, but that doesn't often stop them, does it?

Spock shrugged, mentally conceding his point. He often had reservations at his captain's seeming disregard for the Prime Directive – but in this case he could only regret that some enterprising starship captain had not come across this planet years ago, and put an end to this despicable trade.

What planet is this? Spock asked. I don't know where I am.

He had not been able to conceal his sense of lost bewilderment from that statement, and he felt a sudden surge of sympathy from Delash.

This is Nialash, fourth planet out from Angedar.

Spock allowed a sense of his ignorance to the surface of his mind. Presumably they were local names, and he did not know to what star or planet they corresponded. But Delash did not know any other name for the place, so he was left ignorant of his location.

Where were you brought in from? Delash asked.

I was abducted from Federation Starbase 53.

I don't even know where that is, Delash admitted.

I was in transport for over a week, Spock said. But it is impossible to speculate on the distance I travelled, since I don't know the speed of the ship I was on.

He let an image of his captivity on the ship drift to the surface of his mind. Delash did not respond directly, but Spock could feel his horror and sympathy at what he had suffered, and he tried hard to suppress his own emotional reaction to the memory.

Is there any way of getting a message out of here? Spock asked, turning the subject away from that unpleasant time.

The man laughed.

It's not like you can use a communications system, he pointed out, and no one wants the punishment they'd get for getting caught talking to the Feds, or sending a message out to them. We couldn't get close, anyway. We'd never get left alone near a comm unit, and we don't know the codes.

Of course, Spock replied, trying hard to keep his disappointment from the upper levels of his mind.

Then he heard someone external say, 'Del, watch it – the camera's getting suspicious.'

We'd better stop, Delash said quickly. They've got cameras in here, and they watch us harder for a while when there's a newcomer in the seven. If they find out you can touch people's minds they might snuff out that part of you like they did your eyes and voice.

That is true, Spock acknowledged.

The idea of that horrified him almost more than what had already been done to him. Even without that threat, he felt intensely uncomfortable at letting this person that he had known for so short a time having such access to his thoughts and emotions, despite the benefits. He was slowly becoming friends with those in his seven – especially with the gentle and considerate Delash – but engaging in mind melds with them required a far deeper level of friendship.

You're a private type, aren't you? Delash thought.

Yes, Spock said honestly.

He dropped his hand from the man's face before he could think twice about it. He could overcome his discomfort and carry on talking to Delash for hours, but he could not risk the punishment that they both might suffer.

'Don't worry,' Delash said aloud. 'We're not doing badly with hand signs. I know quite a few more I can teach you. I've been talking to your type for years.'

Spock relaxed a little, content just in the knowledge of this man's friendship.

'For a start,' Delash said, touching Spock's hand, flattening it out and touching it briefly to Spock's own chest. 'That's how you can say thank you. You wanted to say thank you, didn't you? I can see it in you.'

Spock nodded, signing, *Thank you,* hoping that he was putting a visible amount of gratitude into the sign.

******

The first two months felt like two years of captivity. It soon became evident that there were no days or evenings off in his position – there was nothing but endless, revolving routine. He woke every morning, showered, ate breakfast, and was transported to the mine, where he wheeled the empty cart down to the end of the rails and pulled it out when full. His feet became hard from walking every day over the rough ground, and he grew used to the constant feeling of bruising in his toes and the soles of his feet from unexpected stones and other obstacles in his path on the mine rails.

He worked for a set number of hours in the day, then was transported back to the house to eat an early dinner. Then he spent a free hour in the slave room being sure that he was clean and presentable, softening his hands with oil, shaving and attiring himself neatly for his afternoon and evening's work in his master's bedchamber. Then he went to his master's room and, if his master was absent, spent his time cleaning and tidying the room, and if he was not absent, stood unobtrusively near the door until he was called upon to perform some task.

It was this part of the day that seemed to drag far more than the rough physical labour in the mine. Simply standing in silence awaiting an order that he would instantly have to obey was far more demeaning and mind-numbing than physical work. Sometimes he was not called upon to move for hours, but he could not sink into a proper meditative state because he was required to be alert to orders.

This night, however, was not one of those quiet times. His master had arrived from dinner in a flustered state, moving past Spock and into his en suite bathroom without speaking. Then he had snapped from the bathroom, 'Come on, boy – oil, quickly,' and Spock had moved hastily into the bathroom and found the bottle of skin oil, identifiable by the shape of its angular stopper.

'Is the room presentable?' his master snapped, and Spock nodded. He had spent the hour before his master's arrival carefully feeling over every surface to be sure that all was neat, tidy and clean.

'Come on, oil,' the man said again, roughly grabbing at Spock's tunic to pull him closer.

Spock carefully poured a little oil into the palm of his hand and let it warm, before reached out to his master's chest and beginning to apply the liquid to his skin. This was one of the most discomforting parts of his duties – massaging scented oil into every part of his master's body to make him attractive to his partners. He wasn't sure if it was as bad or worse than standing and listening to the sounds of his lovemaking, or cleaning him afterwards. It was all unpleasant, just in different ways.

This time was different, though. He could sense the Master's nervousness through the tension in his body as well as in the emanations from his mind. He was snappish and impatient, his movements sharp and unpredictable. He continued to move all the time that Spock was massaging him, reaching out for bottles of scent and deodorant, and brushing his hair with swift, sharp strokes.

Spock finished rubbing the oil into the folds and curves of the man's body, wiped his hands on the towel on the washstand, and then stood back , clasping his hands behind his back and awaiting his next order as he had been taught to do.

'There now,' the man said as Spock stood back. 'Come on. Do me, quickly, and get me my robe. She'll be here…'

Spock recoiled inwardly, careful to let no sign of reluctance show in his face or body. *Do me* was the euphemistic command to touch the man's genitals and stimulate him to a state of semi-arousal. There was nothing sexual in the contact. So far, mercifully, Spock had avoided his master's interests in that area. This was purely part of the ritual to make him look attractive – but Spock detested it all the same. He oiled his hands again and performed his task swiftly and efficiently, then picked up the robe that hung on the door, helping the man put it on and tying the belt for him with the elaborate knot he had been taught to do. This room was at least so familiar to him now that he had no problem navigating within it, and all of the master's accoutrements for lovemaking were arranged by Spock himself, so they were easy to lay his hands on when asked for.

There was a tentative knock on the door, and Spock moved to it quickly, opening it while standing unobtrusively behind it. His job from now on was to be as invisible as possible.

'Oh, sir, I didn't realise this was your bedchamber,' a female voice said nervously. She came in through the door, surrounded by a sense of hesitancy. 'I thought your *melaka* collection would be in a room of its own.'

'Well, now,' the man said smoothly, with a tone in his voice that Spock instantly disliked. 'I keep it in the antechamber to this room. I thought you would sit and drink with me first.'

Spock pressed his lips together minutely, resisting any further expression. He recognised the girl's voice from earlier in the day. She was the seventeen year old daughter of a guest in the house, and by all accounts she was extremely pretty and extremely trusting. Perhaps his master did collect *melaka* flowers and press them for display, but it seemed unlikely to Spock – it was more a pastime that appealed to young girls than overweight, pampered lords of thirty or more years.

'Boy – wine. The blue *she-oani*,' his master said, and Spock moved forward silently to where the decanters were kept, feeling for the slim-necked one that held the *she-oani* and pouring it with great care into two of the glasses he had arranged earlier.

'I – never have drunk alcohol,' the girl said nervously, as Spock brought the glasses over and held out the first towards her.

'Don't talk to the slave, Telani-esh,' Lord Milaresh said carelessly. 'You'll give him ideas of importance. And this is barely alcohol. It's more like water. All the debutantes are drinking it.'

There was a hesitation, and then she took the glass, her fingers just brushing at Spock's hand as she took it. Spock almost didn't let go. He knew from the smell, and from its effects on those that drunk it, that *she-oani* was far from water.

'Stay, and refill as necessary,' his master said in the tone he kept for slaves.

Spock nodded respectfully, setting his concentration to hear every noise of sipping or swallowing or liquid moving in the glasses so he knew precisely when to offer more. It was almost impossible to follow the conversation when he was forced to focus so intensely, but he was aware at a low level of the girl's mental discomfort increasing even as her physical resistance slackened under the influence of the wine.

'Stand away,' his master said abruptly, his voice roughened with lust, and Spock moved back swiftly, putting the decanter back in its place and moving to his place near the door where he was to wait silently and unobtrusively through the love-making.

'Oh, don't worry about the slave,' he heard Milaresh murmur. 'He's stone blind, and incapable of speech.'

Spock clenched his fists behind his back. Every time he heard Milaresh say that the surge of anger became a little sharper.

He heard the girl murmur, 'Oh, sir, no… I can't – I never have,' and his master said, 'You'll enjoy it in a moment, dear,' then she cried out, 'No, please, not my – oh!'

There was the noise of ripping cloth, and a sudden sob from the girl, and a flurry of movement. Spock clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself to stay still.

'Oh, there see, you're wet already for me,' Lord Milaresh said, and there was another strangled sob from the girl. Then the noise of struggle increased, something was knocked over, and the girl's cries grew louder and more desperate, and there was a sudden noise of a palm slapping hard on flesh.

Spock took a step forward.

'Stand away!' his master snapped, his voice breathless and distracted. 'Stand away or you'll be punished.'

Spock hesitated for a brief moment – but then the girl half-sobbed, 'Please, don't make me – ' and he lurched towards the bed without another thought, groping out at the noises, feeling the oiled, fat limbs of his master and then fumbling over the smoothness of the girl's naked back. In an instant he grabbed at the man and pulled him aside, finding his shoulder and swiftly sending him into unconsciousness with a nerve pinch. He dropped him to the floor, heedless of the crash he made, and reached out again for the sobbing girl, grasping at the bedspread and wrapping it around her before hustling her out of the room.

The crying continued as he hurried her down the corridor, but he could do nothing to encourage her to stop without being able to speak. Finally, though, she muttered, 'No, not that way. Please – my parents' room – it's that way.'

Spock paused, touching a hand to his eyes to remind her of his blindness.

'This way,' she said, turning to the right. 'Down here – just here.'

Spock fumbled out to his left to where he remembered the guest room door to be, and opened it, hurrying the girl through and pushing the door shut behind them. There was an exclamation of surprise from a man, and he was roughly pulled away from the girl and flung away from her.

'No! No!' the girl cried out, as Spock stumbled into something hard, and fell. He had no idea of the arrangement in this room. 'No, he didn't hurt me – he saved me from – from – Lord Milaresh was going to – he was – '

She suddenly collapsed into tears again. Spock clambered to his feet, stepping tentatively toward her.

'No,' the girl's father said, putting a hand against his chest. 'Barani-esh, take her into the other room. I'll speak to the slave.'

Spock waited, listening to someone else moving, and speaking with a low, feminine voice to the girl, who suddenly began to cry even harder with a sound of relief and release. Then a door closed, and the noise became quieter, and he turned his attention back to the man. There was a long pause, and he heard him sitting down, and sighing loudly.

'You're Milaresh's chamber-slave?' the man said.

Spock nodded, touching his hand to his mouth to indicate his lack of speech.

'Yes, I understand you can't speak or see. But you can damn well answer questions, at least yes and no. Now. Were you there the whole time?'

Spock nodded.

'Now, don't be afraid of telling the truth – it can only help you. Did – did Milaresh try to rape my daughter?'

Spock nodded again, and there was a long silence.

'Did – he succeed?'

Spock shrugged, but he shook his head at the same time.

'You think not. Did – ' He sighed again. 'Did she come to the room for – a relationship?'

Spock shook his head vehemently, trying to mime the process of leafing through a book.

'She came to see a book? So he tricked her, and – intoxicated her? I smelt wine on her.'

Spock nodded. That was the essence of the matter, even if the details were not perfectly accurate.

'Did you harm your master?'

Spock hesitated, then nodded.

'Do I need to send help to him?'

Spock nodded again. He doubted the man was badly hurt from the nerve pinch, but it seemed sensible to send someone to check since he did not know how he had fallen.

'You'll get into trouble.'

Spock nodded, dropping his head. He was not looking forward to the repercussions of his actions.

'Well, I'll put in what good words I can for you – but – Lord Milaresh is still your master, and I've no doubt he'll be harsh on you. No, don't worry – your life's safe,' he said at Spock's expression of concern. 'He couldn't execute you without a court order, and if I stood up before a judge and explained *why* you attacked him he'd be the one facing a punishment. Take me to the master of your seven, and I'll try to explain.'

******

Within ten minutes Spock found himself on his knees in Master Robbesh's office with his head bowed to the floor and his hands cuffed behind his back, holding himself rigidly in position as the girl's father explained what had happened. Then, before the conversation was over, the door slammed open, and suddenly Lord Milaresh was there, seething with fury. He landed a vicious kick in Spock's ribs before anyone stop him, but then an argument erupted between the Lord and the girl's father, and Spock found himself completely ignored, trying to stay out of the way of all these angry people that he could not see or defend himself against. Then, finally, the door slammed again, and Spock became aware that the only person left with him was Master Robbesh.

'Well,' the man said slowly. 'You have caused us problems tonight, boy.'

Spock stayed still, waiting, as the man got to his feet and came over to him.

'I – will have to punish you,' he said, uncuffing his hands. 'I will have to punish you publicly, and well – and probably for a falsified reason that's to your own shame. But – I find myself more inclining to your right than our Lord's.'

Spock lifted his head very slightly, rubbing at the sore indents on his wrists that the cuffs had left behind.

'Yes, you can get up,' Robbesh told him. 'Are you damaged?'

Spock touched a hand briefly to where Lord Milaresh had kicked him. He had bruises from falling in the girl's parents' room, and he would have a good bruise on his ribs – but there were no breaks. He shook his head mutely.

'Good. Come, sit on the chair in front of my desk. Here,' he said, pushing something across the desk as Spock found the chair. He reached out and touched a glass with his fingers. 'Yes, drink it,' he said as Spock hesitated. 'There aren't many slaves would risk themselves for another. You did well. Just – *don't* ever do it again, or Lord Milaresh would be within his rights to demand your death.'

Spock pressed his lips together. Even if he could speak he did not think he could promise not to do the same again.

'Don't worry about that this time,' he said. 'Lord Lavoresh has said he'd defend you in court, and your Lord dare not be accused of rape in a trial. At best he'd sell you on. You're worth a *very* large amount of money in your condition, with your training. But I don't think he will – you're too useful.'

Spock nodded silently. He didn't know whether being sold on was a good prospect or a bad one. At least he knew what to expect from this master, no matter how much he disliked him.

'Just – don't attack him if he does it again,' Robbesh told him firmly. 'Leave, and get someone – a free person. Drag them by their arm if you must, but *never* attack a freeman. *Never*.'

Spock nodded slowly, tracing his finger over the engraved patterns in the glass he held. The suggestion was logical. At least, it was better than choosing death in order to save another person's dignity. He imagined that not every free person would be willing to stand in court and defend his actions to save his life as Telani-esh's father would.

'Go on, drink,' Master Robbesh said firmly. 'You won't get many chances to drink something like this.'

He lifted the glass Master Robbesh had given him to his lips, and took a sip of the burningly strong alcohol. He had no appetite for it, but he was not sure he was permitted to refuse it.

'Is there anything I can do for you, to compensate for the pain you will suffer tomorrow?'

Spock hesitated, then touched his hand to his throat and his eyes, with little hope of anything coming from the gesture.

'No, I can't do that,' Robbesh said with a soft laugh. 'You know that. Lord Milaresh would allow that even less after what you heard tonight. If you were free to testify for the girl he could be imprisoned, and then we would all be in trouble. No. Is there anything *reasonable* you desire?'

Spock shrugged. Against the quite reasonable wants to regain his sight and his voice and his freedom, there was little he desired. Anyway, there was no way of communicating anything he wanted.

'I'll free you from work tomorrow morning. Your type meditate to control pain, don't you?'

Spock nodded.

'You might want to do that, to prepare for what will happen to you at midday meal. If it's possible, I will allow you that afternoon and the day after free from your daily duties, for your recovery.'