Spock turned.
The music that filled the gymnasium was haunting and dramatic. He recognized it at once. An ancient Vulcan opera, a historical tragedy of T'Kuht and her lover.
0230 ship's time only a week before docking at Starfleet for the final time. He expected to find the gymnasium deserted.
He moved to leave, to allow her some privacy for her exercises but the motion of her arms seemed somehow familiar.
She paused, leaned forward slowly her motion impossibly controlled. Her hands met the mat. She smoothly continued her forward motion slowly lifting first her right then left leg.
She rose up, slowly into the mountain position.
She was performing a routine of D'vun Kaltor. A meditative dance form still taught on Vulcan in primary school.
This sequence however, was hardly primary school level. She had obviously been working for some time at this. Her legs tightly together, toes pointed to the sky, proud T'Kuht will not bend to the wind and the sun.
The next move was quite difficult and he felt oddly excited to see if she had mastered it.
Unbearably slowly she bent her arms, only her now labored breathing belying the effort it took to remain so controlled.
Her back was pure muscle and sinew. She bent one knee, bringing the point of her toe to her knee - The Flame. She held the position for three full measures of the slowly building melody. At the precise moment when the crescendo came she suddenly pressed hard on the mat and sprung up to land firmly on her feet. Her execution was perfect. He had never seen this routine executed live and as it was a meditative exercise, music was not normally used.
But she could not have chosen a better piece.
The music faded and she serenely opened her eyes. The calm control suddenly vanished. Her eyes betrayed her embarrassment and surprise.
She quickly grabbed her towel and darted past him.
Spock heard his own voice as if from a distance, "Fascinating."
He turned to watch her go, to glimpse one last look at her surprisingly lithe form.
She met his eyes from across the room.
Blue pools of compassion and love.
In the light of every adversity, she had always been compassionate and loving even when he had scorned her for it.
He was suddenly overwhelmed by the compassion there.
He drew away from her, from this undeniably powerful emotion.
Then her eyes changed.
Fear, pain, agonizing pain.
She cried out but never cried. She had maintained control, even here.
The silence was suddenly filled with obscene mutterings of Klingon.
Spock couldn't breathe.
He tried to move but couldn't.
His vision slowly narrowed to near unconsciousness.
She cried out, but would not cry.
She fought fiercely.
Why?
The body is only a vessel. It is logical to conserve the energy you have for the most efficient escape.
Still she fought.
His vision swam before him, asphyxiation he noted clinically. Then there was the taste of copper in his mouth as another blow landed soundly on his face.
'I am a Vulcan I am in control.'
Vile Klingon mutterings in his ear warred against his own mind's voice.
'Control. I must have control.'
She cried out again.
He could hear her struggling, but he did not look up to her.
Pain, on his neck. A bite, he felt the blood well on it and begin to slide down his neck. His mind reeled for a moment. There was some sort of significance to this action.
Oxygen deprivation dulled his thoughts.
'Control, must stay in control. Must look for an escape.'
She cried out.
There was laughter in the room, the terrible laughter of madness.
Cold. Pain. Vile obscene words whispered heavily in his ear. He noted dimly that there was something on the floor, a piece of cloth with Vulcan lettering on it.
He was so cold.
He could barely see.
Suddenly there was such pain, as he had never imagined he would feel. The room rushed into clear focus and all around him was a nightmare.
He did not cry out.
Control, he clung to it as if it were his savior. He felt the iron restraint binding him down into the depths of a nightmare, fiery steel impaling him again and again and he did not cry out.
His vision began to narrow once again as he struggled for air. He must survive; he must control.
'Why?' A voice screamed from somewhere inside him.
Where was the logic in submitting to this insanity? What purpose did his passive Vulcan resistance serve here, in this madness?
It was apparent that his death was near. Its mark was everywhere around him.
'No, It would be most logical to simply submit, to bide their time and plan an escape.'
The Klingon's rough rocking abruptly changed tempo to a more frenetic thrusting, the sensation was almost unbearable.
A sound escaped him.
He told himself it was only an attempt to breathe.
The pain was so much. The putrid odor of blood wine and sweat mingled with the copper of his own blood.
She cried out again.
The iron monstrosity jerked violently beneath him then threw him to the floor.
Oxygen rushed into his lungs, his brain quickly cleared. Color flooded his eyes and hatred infused him.
Gossamer wisps of gold fell slowly from above.
He raised his eyes to meet hers. The blue pools of compassion transformed once again.
They spoke to him of control.
A different kind of control.
Control of how they were about to die.
They were about die. Their usefulness had nearly run out.
The terror that had filled her eyes dissolved and was replaced by something terrifying. Her eyes closed briefly and when she opened them again he knew what it was to see the face of a Valkyrie.
Spock too tasted the rage. It consumed him and suddenly there was no room for any control, only rage. He was the Flame and he would consume all around him.
He did not count the bodies that fell at his hands, only let the power of the Flame flow through him.
She fought as ferociously as his Vulcan ancestors striking them down as easily as if they were leaves in the wind.
Then he saw one move to strike her down, in her moment of righteous glory. He moved with power and purpose. She would not fall first Spock would not permit it. He had remained silent for too long.
The sound of his own murderous breath drowned out all else. He sprang forward. He could almost feel the man's head in his hands, knew that in a moment he would crush it like a child's toy. He could almost feel it - he was almost there - he reached-
A soft warning tone from the comm unit roused him.
He had fallen asleep! He checked the time on the monitor before him, it told him what he already knew. Only 16 seconds had elapsed.
Still it was unthinkable that he should lose control once again.
Was he not a Vulcan? Could he not even control his own body? Had living among these fragile humans worn so deeply on his control?
"Computer, stop recording. Replay."
The small dark monitor sprung to life. His image filled the screen, the epitome of Vulcan, dark, angular stoic. After a moment his recorded self spoke. His voice was deceptively calm.
"I felt it necessary to communicate to you the motivation for my leaving. It is not something I wish to cause you - " Here he watched himself falter, felt his own irritation at this behavior rise and quickly checked the emotion.
It was illogical to allow one inappropriate emotional response to generate another.
His recorded self averted his eyes then looked again up at him and continued, "My motivation for leaving is entirely unrelated to you, Christine."
He swallowed hard. He had used her given name so easily. A part of him enjoyed the easy sound of it, the familiar name of a friend. He immediately squelched the sensation listening to what he had recorded.
"I have decided to study the Kolinahr. I have long sought this level of mastery and now I will be instructed in it."
A lie? Had he actually lied?
No, it was not a lie. He had certainly sought it, but for how long was misleading.
Control was something his father had taught him as a child. Something his mother had tempered with human love. But it had always been a constant in his life, a part of what it meant to be a Vulcan.
The Kolinahr was more than just control it was total mastery of all thought and feeling to the point of emotional absence.
He had only begun to see the need for such stringent mastery in recent days when his loss of control had come so easily to him. When the murderous thrill of it had sang in his blood and his body had responded with appalling ease. Then he had felt the need for something more than his abysmal control.
"I will be unable to be contacted once I reach the enclave on Vulcan." Here he paused for 5 full seconds, his face did not betray the internal conflict that he knew had taken place.
"I wish you Peace, Christine. -" Here he had paused again.
Fascinating, he watched as fatigue like a shadow swept over his face and his eyes glazed. Slowly the muscles of his face relaxed, lines that he had always known as part of who he was disappeared. He was mesmerized by the sight of the youth in his face, the softness of his jaw. For a moment the warm tendrils of fatigue returned and he mused that relaxed this way he looked like his mother's father.
The span of silence extended beyond the preset limit of the comm unit, it sounded a courtesy tone indicating in 15 more seconds it would automatically end recording. His recorded self started from slumber, for an instant his eyes held a glimmer of the rage that had betrayed him.
Then the recording stopped.
"Computer delete message and end transaction."
Such a display was disgraceful.
He would not tell her, he could not. Perhaps later, after he had a chance to rest, to regain some measure of control. Perhaps then he could tell her.
Then he could find the words to make her understand why he had to leave.
A message on the terminal lit indicating he should return to his seat.
He raised the hood of his cloak, did not suppress the sigh that rose up from him. He had invoked a little used Vulcan right to privacy that the commercial carrier had had no choice but honor. They had no record of who he was. He had covered his tracks well.
His human friends would not be able to stop him.
He carefully controlled his thoughts, drew himself up impossibly stiff and stepped out into the corridor to return to his seat.
In a few short hours it would be done.