7.

It was much later in the day when Spock managed to persuade Delash to undergo treatment in the sick bay, and he entered the familiar surroundings of his quarters to write the report that Kirk wanted. He sat in the chair behind his desk and inhaled slowly, taking in the familiar scent of his rooms. It was *good* to be back in his own, private, inviolable space, in the knowledge that no one could demand his obedience and service at any moment. It was so good to regain possession of his own self.

Finally he pushed his sentiment aside and turned his computer on, going steadily through the steps needed to open up a word processing document, taking the small sounds the computer made as signs that he was doing it correctly. Then he settled his fingers lightly on the keyboard, and began to type.

He was close to finishing when the door chime sounded, and he pressed the release button on the desk, fixing a memory of the last words he had written in his head.

'Spock, it's Jim,' Kirk said, coming into the room. 'Have you finished that report?'

Spock signed, *Almost*, and waited to see if Jim understood him.

Kirk hesitated, then said, 'Nearly? Is that what you said?'

Spock nodded.

'Is is all right if I wait here while you finish it?'

He nodded again, putting his fingers back on the keyboard and continuing to type without further attempts at communication. It only took a few minutes to complete the final few pages, and then he sat back in his chair, trying to indicate to Kirk that he was finished.

'Done?' Kirk asked, and he nodded. 'Want me to read it through?'

Spock pressed his lips together. A large part of him was reluctant to sit here while Kirk read the graphic account of the abuses he had suffered. But there was no other way, and without being able to use voice control or see commands on the screen it had been all he could do to open up a document and type – he had no way of checking what he had written. He had to exercise control over his inhibitions and allow Kirk to help him. Finally he nodded, turning the screen around to face Kirk's chair.

He sat waiting, listening to Kirk's breathing as he read. It took a little more than five minutes, and Spock could feel Kirk's emotions growing stronger as he read. Finally he turned the screen off, and sat in silence.

Spock waited, since he could not open the conversation himself.

'Spock, I – I don't know what to say,' Kirk said finally, in a voice fractured with grief. 'I'm – sorry. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner. I can't imagine – '

Spock shrugged minutely, shaking his head.

'I guess Bones knows?' Kirk asked, and he nodded. 'You don't want to talk about it, do you?'

Spock shook his head, turning away a little. The fact that he *could not* talk about it was immaterial. He had no desire at all to speak of what had happened to him.

'Okay, that's fine,' Kirk murmured. 'Spock – do you think Bones can fix your eyes?'

Spock shrugged.

'I guess he's trying to work out a way, though?' he asked.

Spock nodded. There was a silence, and he could feel Kirk's eyes on him. His sympathy was palpable. Spock sighed. It would be a long time, he imagined, before he stopped garnering this reaction. He welcomed the fact that his captain cared about what had happened – but he wanted to bury it deep down inside of him and never let it out to anyone. Sympathy meant discussion and remembrance, and all he wanted to do was to forget.

*Would you like a drink?* he signed.

'Something to drink?' Kirk asked, and Spock nodded. 'Sure, but let me fix it…'

Spock shook his head. He had fixed enough drinks over the past months to feel confident of being able to do so here. He moved over to his cooking alcove, picking up the tins and showing them to Kirk.

'Oh – er – coffee, please,' Kirk said as he realised what Spock was trying to do. 'That's the one in your left hand.'

Spock nodded, turning back to the shelf. Thankfully the process was simple enough that he managed to make two cups of coffee without problem. He did not hold the illusion that everything would be as easy now he was back on the ship. Life, in many ways, had been very simple as a slave, largely limited to the preparation of drinks and to various manual tasks. Life on a starship would be far different, and he was aware that it would be impossible to return to his post on the ship without the ability to either see or speak.

He came back across the room and carefully placed Kirk's drink on the desk in front of him. He sat, taking a sip of his own drink. It had been a long time since he had last drunk something as hot and tasteful as coffee, and the sensation of it in his mouth startled him.

'Good?' Kirk asked with a smile in his voice.

Spock nodded.

The intercom whistled, and Spock reached out to it, finding the button after a brief moment of uncertainty.

'Spock, it's McCoy,' the doctor's voice came through the filter. 'I know you can't reply, but – '

'I'm with him, Bones,' Kirk said quickly. 'If that'll help.'

'Great, Jim,' McCoy said with an element of relief in his voice. 'I've been talking to some people about Spock's condition – '

At that, Spock rapped his knuckles sharply on the desk, his lips pressed together in displeasure.

'Sorry, Spock,' McCoy said quickly. 'I didn't mean to discount you, but it's difficult talking on the intercom to someone who can't reply. As I was saying, I've been talking to some people about your condition. Do you mind if I come down there and talk with you face to face? It'll be easier.'

Spock shook his head quickly, and Kirk said, 'No, he says that's fine, Bones.'

'All right – I'll be down there in just a minute.'

Spock nodded, and flicked the intercom off. He took another sip of his coffee, grateful that his relationship with Kirk was such that the silence was not uncomfortable. He was relieved, however, when the door opened to admit McCoy. He was eager to know what the doctor had found out.

'Spock, Jim,' McCoy said briefly on coming through the door.

Spock nodded a greeting, then turned his face towards the doctor attentively as he pulled up a chair.

'Well, Spock,' McCoy said, registering his impatience to hear what he had to say. 'I've been speaking to some of the top neurologists in this part of the galaxy, and it looks positive. They're studying your scans as we speak. There's a high chance that if nerve regeneration is possible I'll be able to do it here, on the ship.'

Spock's response was evident in the relief that seemed to sink through his body. He nodded, and then signed, *Go on*.

McCoy understood the simple sign, and laughed.

'You know, Spock, if this works I won't have to get to know your sign language,' he smiled. 'But *that*, I understood. Basically, the process is this. As long as there's a residual amount of the nerve fibre left – and I believe that there is – then I can sample it and grow replacements in the lab. Then all we have to do it operate to insert the new tissue where the original was burned away.'

Spock's eyebrow rose at the statement, *All we have to do*, but McCoy's optimism was at least encouraging.

'That's the good side,' McCoy said, his voice becoming more serious. 'But it's not going to be easy. If the grafts take, it's not going to be an instant fix. Things will seem very strange for a while – especially with your vision. Your brain's hugely adaptable, and that's to your advantage – it's given up large areas of your visual cortex to augmenting your other senses. But if you get your sight back, your brain will have to readapt – it could be some weeks before you really feel that you understand visual images again.'

Spock nodded, trying not to let that idea disturb him too much.

'The same might go for your speech,' McCoy continued. 'As far as I can tell, you're doing great with the sign language. I don't understand a word of it mind, but your roommates do.
But you don't even try to form words orally. Yes, I know,' he nodded as Spock reacted. 'It's not logical to expect people to lipread if they're reliant on a universal translator to understand your language. But that's not true here on the ship. If you form words orally alongside your signing it might just help people understand. And it will help you when I work out how to fix your vocal cords.'

Spock nodded again, forming the words, *I will try* with his lips and tongue. McCoy touched his arm, and Spock could feel the emotions associated with a smile through the touch.

'I won't pretend I can lipread, Spock – but we'll get better at it, over time.'

Spock nodded again. He could see the sense in McCoy's suggestion. His lips and tongue felt odd and unreliable after so many months of disuse. He imagined that even if McCoy restored his ability to speak tomorrow it would be much longer before he could communicate with the fluency of the past.

'How long's this going to take, Bones?' Kirk asked seriously.

'Well, it's not going to be quick,' the doctor said reluctantly. 'The neurologists I spoke to will need to study samples of Spock's tissue-type, since it's not a straight human or Vulcan genome. That means physically sending them a sample to examine. Then, if they decide that it's possible, they'll have to relay the information back to me on how to culture the tissue, and it'll take some time to grow. It could be a good few months before we can attempt the operation, Spock.'

Spock nodded gravely. He had not expected the process to be instantaneous. The fact that there might be a process at all was enough for him.

******

Spock had not expected to find himself surrounded by the members of his seven quite so much on the ship, but he found himself curiously more disabled in this haven of technology and automation. He was capable of preparing certain foods and drinks from fresh ingredients, but he could not use the replicator. After cultivating an intimate knowledge of the layout of the Milaresh mansion without ever having seen more of it than one room, he found the Enterprise, which he knew unconsciously by sight, almost impossible to navigate without help. In the mansion, he had been expected to initiate communications with no one. His task was to listen, and follow orders. Here, he was permitted needs and desires, but he could not communicate them. Even with Delash at his side, the range of his language was limited to the needs of a slave, and the frustrating process of creating language had to begin again.

Delash, together with Salensh, had been assigned quarters very near Spock's own. The other four members of his seven were quartered in two rooms on a different deck. After living for so long in a group Spock was aware of a certain level of apprehension from the men at being separated, even if only into three separate rooms. Delash and Salensh had become his most constant companions in consequence of their placing, and he often found himself with Delash from morning to evening. He could tell that McCoy and Kirk regarded the man with a certain degree of uncertainty, if only because he was a representation of Spock's captivity, but he was invaluable to Spock in his role of guide and interpreter.

'Spock, they say Robbesh is on board,' Delash said excitedly as soon as he entered Spock's quarters that morning.

Spock raised an eyebrow, signing, *Robbesh? Why?*

'I don't know,' Delash said quickly.

Spock hesitated, then said, *Take me to him.*

'You want to see him?' Delash asked. 'Are you sure?'

Spock nodded firmly.

'Must I come?' he asked hesitantly.

Spock frowned. *Robbesh is a good man,* he signed. Then, *He cannot take you back.*

'You're sure?' Delash asked doubtfully, and Spock nodded firmly.

*I am not afraid,* he signed, and Delash laughed.

'Oh, Spockesh, when are you *ever* afraid?' he asked.

Spock raised an eyebrow, thinking of all those times in Milaresh's room, prey to both Milaresh and Mavenesh, waiting for that first touch. Yes, he had been afraid then. Against all logic, he had been afraid, again and again, more than waiting for the first blow of the whip.

*Take me to him,* he repeated. *I want to see him.*

Delash sighed, and went to the communicator.

'Delash, for Commander Spock, to Captain Kirk,' he said clearly.

'Kirk here,' came the immediate response. He had grown used to these communications carried out through a third party. 'What is it, Spock?'

'He would like to see Master Robbesh,' Delash said. 'He's on board, isn't he?'

Kirk hesitated, then said, 'Yes, I'm with him now. But, Spock, are you sure you want to?'

Spock nodded vigorously, and Delash relayed, 'Yes, Captain, he's very definite about it.'

Spock distinctly heard the captain sigh, and then say through the intercom, 'We're in Briefing Room Seven. Bring him over, Delash.'

******

To Robbesh, seeing Commander Spock in this environment was like a partial flashback to the time he had first seen him on the starbase – erect of stature, with an element of dignity that he had never quite lost, wearing that smart, simple uniform he had worn at that time. His next view of the Vulcan after that was naked, shivering and bewildered, being led trussed and blindfolded from a transporter cage. He had never quite been able to shake his regret at taking the sight from those piercingly intelligent eyes, and muting that concise, cultivated voice. But Spock was still blind and mute now, as he walked into the briefing room with the slave Delash at his side, even if he was erect and dignified and dressed in uniform.

The Vulcan walked toward the briefing room table, hands by his side, as he had been taught, and stopped precisely five centimetres away from it. Robbesh could not help an element of pride at his skill. Perhaps he had blinded the Vulcan, but he had taught him well, and, until that incident with the Lavoresh girl, he had been a fine chamber slave. He had been fond of this one from the start.

'Sarkesh,' he said, taking a step toward him. 'It's good to see you.'

Spock nodded. He held no malice toward Robbesh, despite what he had done to him. But Kirk interrupted coldly, 'His name is Spock.'

'Of course,' Robbesh said, abashed. 'Commander Spock.'

Spock nodded again, and then signed quickly, *My eyes, my throat. Can it be reversed?*

Delash translated, and there was silence. Then Robbesh said, 'No, Spock. It is unprecedented for a chamber slave to be allowed to regain his sight or speech.'

Spock nodded, his lips pursed.

*Are you good?* he asked.

There was a moment of silence, then Delash said, 'Spock, do you mean, how has he fared since we were released?'

Spock nodded swiftly.

'Oh, I'm fine,' Robbesh said. 'Lord Milaresh was in a fair old rage, but he knew I couldn't do anything in the face of energy weapons and Federation power. I think he knows he's lucky to get away with what he did. Everything's settling again now – but his stock's diminished,' he said pointedly. 'The household's suffering from that.'

Spock's eyebrow rose at the word *stock*, but he could not condemn Robbesh for his language choice.

*Why are you here?* he asked.

'Oh, I'm acting as an interim between your Federation and my master,' Robbesh said on translation. 'Just sorting out some details – confirming your seven's right to asylum here. Lord Milaresh has absolutely no right to demand any of you back – '

'And if he tried he'd have a fight he couldn't win on his hands,' Kirk broke in belligerently.

'Yes, exactly,' Robbesh said tolerantly. He was well-used to dealing with impetuous and aggressive superiors. 'You're perfectly safe, Delash, don't worry,' he said, in response to Delash's anxious reaction. 'But the Federation is demanding a certain amount of recompense from Milaresh – which they won't get, because they have no jurisdiction. And Lord Milaresh is demanding a certain amount of recompense from the Federation for stock taken – which he won't get either. It's just details – business details – that need to be straightened out.'

*Business details…* It was all a business to Milaresh, and to Robbesh to some extent. The trading and enslavement of living, sentient beings was nothing but a completely acceptable process. Milaresh's only mistake had been on setting his sights on a prize beyond his own planet. Without the vast, protective net of the Federation around him, Spock would have been doomed to a life in enforced servitude, with absolutely no hope, and no right, of release.

Spock pushed those thoughts from his mind before they could begin to bother him. He nodded, getting to his feet. He had an appointment to keep in sickbay, and could spare no more time for the man who had briefly been his commanding officer. In lieu of speech he extended his hand, human-fashion, towards Robbesh, and the man took it, shaking it warmly as he had seen these humans do.

'I will miss you, Spock,' he said sincerely. 'I had grown to like you. But I am glad that your people took you back. Lord Milaresh's manor was no place for you.'

Spock nodded. He could not disagree. He turned to give a brief nod of acknowledgement to Kirk, signing, *I must go. I am needed.*

Delash translated, expanding appropriately on what Spock would have said if he could.

'Oh, of course, the tissue samples,' Kirk nodded, saying pointedly to Robbesh, 'Our doctor is doing all he can to restore Spock's stolen abilities.'

'I am glad,' Robbesh said smoothly, not rising to the barbed tone of Kirk's statement. 'I wish you luck, Spock.'

Spock nodded, then turned and left the room, and Master Robbesh, behind him.

******

Spock walked into sickbay with Delash at his side, listening attentively for the signs of a medical attendant anywhere nearby.

'Oh, Mr Spock,' Nurse Chapel's crisp voice said, and he heard her boots clack across the floor as she came to meet him. 'You've come to give the tissue samples?'

Spock nodded. Human communication protocols were odd. She could have no doubt that this was the reason why he had come, since he had a prearranged appointment, but still she had felt the need to pose it as a question.

'Well, I'll just go get what I need,' she said. 'Go on through into the examination room. I'll be in in a moment.'

Spock nodded again, listening as she moved away from him, then going carefully towards the door to the examination room.

'Is she your woman, Spock?' Delash asked in a low tone as they entered the room.

Spock's eyebrow rose.

*Who?* he asked.

'Her. The nurse. Christine.'

Spock shook his head. How did he explain the relationship, or lack of it, between him and Miss Chapel? He did not think it was something that he could explain in words, let alone with the crudity of a self-made sign language.

'Really?' Delash asked, the surprise obvious in his voice. 'I just thought – The way she looks at you.'

Spock shrugged, wondering briefly in what way she had looked at him. For the thousandth time he wished uselessly and illogically for the sight of his eyes, just to see one familiar face…

He shook his head as the nurse re-entered the room.

'All right,' she said brightly, with no sense that she had been being talked about just a second before. 'I've got what I need, Mr Spock. All I need from you is a little blood, and the tissue samples. Is that all right with you?'

Spock nodded quickly.

'Can you get up onto the couch, then?' she asked him, restraining from touching him to guide him.

Spock nodded again. He took a step forward, then on an impulse which he could not quite explain, turned to Delash, and signed, *You go. I will be fine.*

'Are – you sure, Spock?' Delash asked with concern.

Spock nodded, touching the man briefly on the arm in reassurance.

*I will be fine,* he repeated.

Delash hesitated for one more second, then echoed Spock's gesture by touching his arm, and left the room.

Chapel was silent for a moment, and then said cautiously, 'Was there a reason you wanted to be left alone, Mr Spock? Did you have any medical concerns?'

Spock shook his head, going forward to the examination table and climbing onto it.

'All right. I'll just level out the table,' she said, swinging the upright table back until it became a horizontal bed. 'This shouldn't take long, Mr Spock.'

Spock nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

'First bit's the easy bit,' she said. 'Just a hypo for the blood sample.'

Spock nodded again, feeling the hypo against his arm as she carefully drew a sample into the chamber at the end.

'That's done,' she said, laying the hypo down with a clack on the table beside the bed. 'Now, the tissue samples. You'll need to hold very still for this, Mr Spock.'

Spock frowned minutely. If he could not move, he could not communicate.

'Don't worry,' she said quickly, interpreting his concern. 'I should be able to do it very quickly. I'll tell you when to hold still, and when you can move again.'

Spock nodded again. He lay listening to the small sounds of her moving beside him, obviously doing something with her equipment.

Then she put a hand gently on his shoulder. He could feel her uncertainty in the way that her fingers touched him through the fabric of his top – but this was the way she would reassure any nervous patient, and she would treat him no differently. He would reassure *her* that the touch was acceptable by meeting her eyes – but he could not.

'I'm going to take the sample from your optic nerves first,' she said. 'I'll take a bit from each eye, just to be sure. I'm using a micro-transporter. I'll set it up over your face, and get it in position, and it will beam just a couple of cells from the target area.'

Spock nodded again, willing himself into a state of total relaxation and stillness as the nurse went through the delicate process of taking the tissue samples from his optic nerves and his throat. Finally she touched his shoulder again, and said, 'That's it, Mr Spock. That's all I need to do. You're free to go.'

Spock nodded, sitting up on the bed and sliding to the floor. He pressed his lips together, then signed and mouthed, *How long?*

There was a moment of silence, and then she asked, 'How long? Before the results?'

He nodded.

'Well, Dr McCoy has to take a look at the tissue to be sure it's suitable. It needs to undergo a full analysis. We need to culture the samples in the lab. We also need to send the results off to the expert surgeons for their go-ahead on them.'

Spock nodded again. He wished for a moment that he hadn't sent Delash away. It was – *hard* – not being able to communicate. But for some reason there was something awkward about being in the presence of the nurse with Delash in attendance. Delash, he felt instinctively, wanted to be closer to him than he currently was. Perhaps he sensed a potential conflict between the two…

He exhaled a long breath, lifting his face to the nurse, willing her to say something since he could not. Finally he raised his hand tentatively toward her face. Their thoughts had been mingled once before. It would be no difficulty to establish a link now.

'Did you – want to meld, Mr Spock?' she asked tentatively, as if afraid she might be misinterpreting him terribly.

Spock nodded quickly, raising an eyebrow in question.

'If – you're sure,' she said cautiously. 'May I – Could we sit down?'

He nodded again, and she quickly brought over two chairs. Spock sat, and reached out again towards her face. His fingers touched, and seemed to burn into place, jolting into a connection with her mind.

It is easier, he said. Far easier than trying to communicate with a sign language that you cannot understand.

The relaxation of relief flooded through her, and she said lightly, It's so good to hear your voice, Mr Spock.

Of course, she would be interpreting his thoughts as a human could understand them, hearing him speaking rather than thinking. It was a relief that humans unaccustomed to melding had not the ability to pick up every nuance and impulse behind the words that they 'heard'. From her, however, he perceived a long time of aching for him, of being worried to the point of distraction for his safety, of piercing pain when she had discovered how he had been enslaved and blinded and beaten. A desire to help, a desire to restore what he had lost, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice and see him as he *should* be.

Despite the ease of communicating through meld, Spock sat, and did not say anything. He did not know what to say. He let her presence wrap around him like hugging arms, and rested in it.

Mr Spock, she said finally, breaking the silent communion.

He inhaled. I am sorry, he said, allowing a sense of his feelings to spill over into her mind. Wordlessly, she understood.

You seem - she began, and left the thought trailing before it could be formed into words – but Spock gleaned her meaning anyway – tense, preoccupied, *angry*.

Spock sighed. Angry was not quite the term for how he felt. But – there were unresolved feelings writhing in his mind. He had been raped, so violently, so frequently. He – he cringed inside just to think of it. And – nothing would be done about it. There were others still there on the planet, undergoing the same treatment, and nothing would be done about it…

He felt her fluttering of shock at the revelation that had slipped through into her mind. Of the medical staff, only McCoy had known the extent of what he had suffered. And now *she* knew too… Just like Delash, she wanted to move closer to him, to comfort him with touch and reassuring words. He felt her pity flood through into his mind, enveloping him, and instinctively he shied away.

No, she said quickly. No, please…

Spock steeled himself, and relaxed his barriers again. There was pain in this revelation of feelings, but there was also relief.

You – were raped? she asked him, slowly, and with great clarity.

Images welled in Spock's memory, sensations and scents and feelings that he wanted so desperately to forget. He felt himself shrinking, becoming small and scared again, becoming disgusted with his own body…

She grabbed at him, beginning to pull him back, staggering herself in the shared experience of the assaults but kept to her purpose by a desire to help him that was stronger than his own emotion. He saw himself like a reflection in a shattered mirror, a shard reflecting his own image of himself, still small and tainted – and another shard of glass, reflecting him through her mind, showing him as a strong and beautiful person that she wanted nothing more than to help.

This is not what you are, she insisted. This isn't you – this is what was done to you. You could never have stopped him…

A memory again, of being bent over that table, of the restraints on his wrists and ankles. Of helplessness and pain flooding his body. Helplessness…

For her sake, he controlled it.

We should have helped you. We should have come to you…

Spock shook his head inside his own head. There was nothing anyone could have done. No one had known where he was. There was no one to help him. He had been powerless to help himself…

Let me help, she thought.

Spock almost laughed.

It is too much.

Trust me.

Something gave way in his mind, and he fell forward into a wordless, defineless sharing. The sense of release was something akin to crying – but he was not crying.

Finally, he pulled away, gasping.

'Did that help you, Mr Spock?' she asked him finally, an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice.

Spock nodded slowly. He would never have asked her to share that burden in his mind, but – she had. The memories seemed smaller, and safer, and easier to rationalise, simply for sharing them with another mind.

He raised his hand again, and touched it gently to her forehead.

Don't speak of this, he urged her.

Medical confidentiality, she reminded him. I may never have treated someone with a mind meld before, but it doesn't make any difference.

He imparted his wordless gratitude to her, then began to catch hold of the shards and tatters of his experience that were haunting her mind, calming them and soothing them to a point where they did not trouble her too deeply. In imparting his mind rules to her mind, it helped in some way to order his own.

Thank you, she said.

A silence and calm like that of meditation sank over them. Spock sat, motionless, his hand placed delicately on her forehead, as the storms settled into tranquil waters.

Mr Spock, she asked finally. Was there another reason for the meld? You didn't intend to share what had happened..

Oh, he thought. Yes. I – had some questions about the process of nerve regeneration. I hoped you would be able to answer…

I'll do my best, she thought.

And with the wordless ease of meld she understood his concerns, and he understood what she knew about the process. Finally he had a clear idea of exactly what the process entailed, in a way in which verbal description could not quite manage.

I want to see you whole again… he heard from her as a wistful sigh, a passing thought rather than something she had meant to communicate.

I have great faith in both yours and Dr McCoy's abilities, he let her know.

He let his fingers drop from her face, tracing lightly over her skin as he removed his hand. The deep sense of insight and communication and reassurance dropped away as the meld dissolved, and he was left in darkness again.

*Solitude,* he thought slowly. The solitude of these artificially induced disabilities was difficult to bear. Easier now, perhaps, having shared those intense and consuming memories in his mind…

She seemed to read something in his expression, because after a moment she said, 'Well, I'm due for a break, Mr Spock. Would you like a coffee?'

He considered, and then nodded. He had never given trivial socialisation much importance in the past, but after the brutal removal of every privilege and freedom the luxury of sharing an unhurried, hot drink with a friend was something he appreciated with new vigour.