— Chapter Nineteen —
— Ashiv-tor —
The gold of Jim's command uniform was ripped, bloody from the fight—their fight—their fight, because he did this—and his face looked beaten in. Bones broken; skin bruised, but unmistakably Jim Kirk. Jim, who was his closest friend. Jim, who meant more to him than any person ever had or ever would. Jim, who had risked his captaincy and his career to save his friend's life. Jim who had been killed—murdered—by that very same friend he'd given up everything for.
Jim, who was dead.
He did this. His weapons, his hands, his fault. That horrible burning, no longer immolating him from within, took root behind his eyes and in his throat. He felt choked, sickened, gutted, because this was his fault. His captain. His Jim. His fault…
"Get your—"
"—hands off of him, Spock!" the Seskille said, and there was an audible sense of delight. The howling mixture of voices and frequencies and shrieking sound raised high in pleased satisfaction as they spoke aloud the words that he'd hoped never to hear again. "Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
And… Spock became unmoored.
The bridge was gone.
The Seskille were gone.
The crew was gone.
But Jim… Jim was not. Jim was dead, bloodied, murdered, limp. He was there, in Spock's hands as he lowered his captain—his beautiful, radiant, fragile captain—to the red sand. And he felt such loathing, suddenly, for himself. Such loathing. He had ruined and destroyed the one single good thing he'd ever had; the most important person he'd ever known or ever would know, and he loathed himself more in that moment than he ever had before. Jim was dead, and Spock wished that everything would stop. That someone would just finally put him down like the rabid, uncontrolled animal he was, because this… this was not bearable. He could not stand it…
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
"Spock?"
Spock stared straight ahead, stiff and unmoving. There was ringing in his ears, a sound more earsplitting and intense than any thousand voices ever could be. He felt it in his mind like a tangible vibration as black began to darken the edge of his vision. His chest ached and burned, as if he were holding his breath; he could sense his ribcage rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled, but he felt suffocated. His skin itched. His palms stung—he had dug his nails into them once more, he realized, and made a conscious effort to loosen his grip. His hands did not work. He could not move them. He could not move. No. Control. He needed to remain in control. Control…
"Spock?" the captain asked again from beside him, voice quiet as if this conversation could be kept between the two of them. Save for the audio feedback, the rest of the room was silent, and Kirk's words were audible to all. "Do you have any idea what they're talking about?"
His surroundings swirled into view through a long, dark tunnel, but it was dim; hazy and muted, like something had sapped it of color. Spock felt detached from it, like he was a concept of himself, rather than a person. He did not know what to do, or say, or think, so he did none of them. Instead, he stared and stared and stared and he felt frozen.
The bridge was staring at him. Uhura, Ambassador Hammett, the captain—they all stared at him as if he had answers to their unspoken questions. They did not understand what it was they were asking; they did not understand what this was. If he had answers, he could not formulate them. And nor was it needed, he thought distantly; a vague, formless kind of thought through fog. The Seskille were already answering them all aloud.
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
(Jim died in front of him again.)
Jim watched him closely, and although his expression was neutral, there was a furrow in his brow that suggested he was deeply unsettled. Concern was bright in his eyes, subtle but there to those who knew him well. Spock knew him well; he could see it vivid and stark amongst the flecks of green. He wanted to reassure the captain that everything was alright, that he did not need to be worried, but he could not open his mouth. Jim had been right to think him fragile; Spock had never felt more brittle in all his life. He could not speak, and he could not think, and he could do nothing but stare straight ahead unmoving, because if he did anything else, he feared he would shatter. There was a pressure in his chest, in his throat, in his eyes. He did not trust what would spill from his lips if he parted them.
"They've been making no sense at all, not once this entire morning," Hammett began, the annoyance gone from his voice. He sounded uncertain, almost subdued, as if he too realized there was a time and a place for his ire and now was not it. He shot a nervous glance at the captain, uncommonly cautious. Jim's warning the day prior had been taken seriously, then. Good, because Spock did not think he could handle the ambassador's off-putting demeanor this morning. "They just keep repeating things about your first officer and—"
"Like a wet cat." the Seskille continued on cheerfully, words disjointed and pitching oddly. "Come here, son—that's an enormous asset to—you can hear the ocean in 'em. Get your hands off of him, Spock—are you alright? What happened to you—the mind is considered sacred and should be yours to share—off of him, Spock!"
"—see? No damn sense at all. I can't make heads or tails of it."
His head pounded. His mouth was dry. His throat burned, his eyes burned, his chest burned. He felt a tension in his legs, like he was readying his limbs to turn and leave the bridge far, far behind him. Spock did not care about duty, or command, or orders; he wanted to escape. He wanted to walk out of this room and keep walking until he could pretend this had never happened. His room. He needed to return to his quarters. He needed to meditate, bury this away, find some sense of control. Please, control. It was slipping away like water through his fingers. The harder he squeezed for it, the faster it drained from him.
"Lieutenant?" the captain asked, clearly not trusting Hammett's evaluation. "What exactly is this?"
Uhura's face was composed; her lips were a thin line, forced into a mask of professionalism. Although trying very hard to conceal it from everyone, Spock could tell she was upset. "I'm not certain, Captain. They've been difficult to communicate with for a while now; they won't really answer when we try to open a channel with them. There's been limited back-and-forth responses, mostly unintelligible words or phrases, but when the ambassador told them that, well, that Mr. Spock was arriving to the bridge soon, they just… started up like this. They still aren't engaging with any of us, but they're at least saying something now." The Lieutenant spoke reluctantly, like she dearly wished the Seskille were still maintaining their silence. "It's been a lot of repetition, mostly the same phrase."
"Sometimes I envy you. Please open your eyes—you can hear the ocean in 'em. Quite blind—please open your eyes—sometimes I envy—blind. Blind—sure there's nothing you wish to talk about? Like a wet—my ego couldn't bear the heartbreak—get your hands off of him—like a wet cat."
Please stop, Spock wanted to beg, if begging would have done anything at all. Please stop this. His muscles tensed; limbs thrumming as if ready to spring into action. There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to leave—leave the bridge, the captain, the crew, the ship, the planet, himself—but his boots didn't move. He stood there with legs locked into place and he did not move so much as a millimeter. Control. Breathe. His chest burned. He was not inhaling air any longer, he realized; his chest was not rising nor falling, and dark spots opened into his vision like flowers to bloom. Breathe, he told himself, a conscious reminder, because his body was failing—failing—and control was ebbing so swiftly, so rapidly, that he could tangibly feeling it spill. He could not lose control in front of everyone…
(And Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)
Breathe.
He sucked in air. His chest rose. He blinked.
Breathe.
He exhaled. His chest fell. His ears rang.
Breathe. Control. Control. Please…
"Maybe your father will be able to join us this time. Get your hands off—like a wet—" The voice was terrible to listen to. Not only the volume and pitch of it, but the resonance. It was made up of millions of beings, of emotions, of mental energy, of stolen memories. And somewhere in there, one voice amongst countless, would be his own. He could not hear it, nor identify it, but the knowledge that it was part of the many. Just another thing they had taken from him, really. It should not have felt as violating as it did, but he felt dismembered. Vivisected; spread open for parts to be removed and discarded as they wished. They could not even leave him this. "You weren't answering anyone, Mr. Spock. I was starting to get—cherish them, treat 'em gently, carefully, and they'll—you've more than earned it ten-fold. Get your hands off of—your life is worth far more to me than—twenty-point-two-three-seven minutes later—and leave nothing left—it gets very loud up here, from time to time—than customary. Get your hands—although, I was sort of hoping—try for one moment to feel!"
Spock remembered these words and phrases. They didn't all summon a clear, distinct associated memory, but each rang familiar to him. He'd heard them before, both personally and while they were being torn from within him. Replayed and observed and inspected as an experiment. Now he heard them again. They were being auditorily displayed like a trophy, like a banner of victory, as if the Seskille were saying: listen to what we learned.All at once, he understood what exactly this was. What the Seskille were attempting to do.
"Spock?" Jim's voice was a relief to hear, but the tone was not. It was one word, but it was multiple questions. Spock, as if he were underwater—drowning—looked at the captain, ensuring his expression was barren of any emotion or sign of distress. He wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to be nothing.
"Yes, Captain?" he asked so softly as to be nearly inaudible. His lips barely parted enough to form the sound, and it was only the minimal volume that prevented his voice from being a croak.
"Hey. Are you alright?" The captain took a step closer, ducking his head down to meet his eyes and matching his volume, as if this would somehow keep the situation private between them. It would not. The bridge was focused on him with rapt attention, and there was little work to be done to distract them. They were in steady, maintained orbit that required no correction, and any scientific knowledge that could be taken had already been exhausted in the days prior. He was currently the most interesting subject of study. "Talk to me, what's going on?"
"What's mine is yours and so on, so forth—get your hands—please open your eyes—you're gonna be a real piece of work—just give me something. See, you've got to be kind to them."
He was not part of his body any longer, Spock thought distantly, feeling so vague and indistinct that it was as if he were floating away. He was not part of this room, or this ship, or this concept of Spock. Good. Good. He wanted to drift away, like a fog or a cloud. He wanted to dissipate and become absolutely and utterly nothing.
He opened his mouth, realizing it'd been too long since he'd been asked a question—although he did not know how long, because he wasn't part of the flow of time anymore, and his chest was not rising, and his internal chronometer was nonfunctional—but he was beaten to it. Which was just as well, as he did not know what he might have said, nor did he remember the question he'd been asked to begin with.
"What in heavens name did you say to them down there, Mr. Spock?" Ambassador Hammett asked, stepping closer to them in an effort to be part of the conversation. "I can't tell if they're furious at you, or afraid of you, or in love with you! It seems to be changing every few seconds!"
Jim's head snapped up and he turned a steely, venomous expression towards the ambassador, lips parting to speak—
Uhura cut in. "Sir, if I may, based on the information Mr. Spock provided us yesterday, I don't think they're meaning to insult him. There's a pattern to what they're doing. It's inconsistent, yes, but it's not incoherent. They're clearly attempting to communicate. The word choice is… curious, and I'm not entirely certain how they're deciding on them, but it's not meant to be malevolent. As best I can tell, they're piecing phrases together to try to tell us something. Only, they don't have the vocabulary foundation to get their meaning across all that clearly."
"So, a word game." Jim looked less than thrilled by that. "Speculation, Lieutenant?"
"From what I can gather, they're trying to… ask for someone." Lieutenant Uhura's glanced between the captain and Spock pleadingly, as if reluctant to explain her theory further. As it stood, she was not required to; it was evident who that someone was. Uhura's dark eyes lingered on Spock, and there was something terribly sympathetic in her eyes—something pained, like she was hurting just looking at him.
How remarkable, to have the ability to cause pain even with the absence of any action. Spock was not moving, or speaking, or breathing, but he continued to harm those around him. Curious.
"Someone." the captain stated flatly. Spock could see Jim look sidelong at him from his peripheral vision. "Right. Three guesses as to who. They aren't answering you directly, then? I'm aware it's been hit-or-miss lately, but they were still responding to my questions as of yesterday… if you could really call it a response."
"No, sir. Gamma shift reported they stopped replying to us at around oh-two-hundred hours this morning. Now it's just been… this." The lieutenant hesitated, expression pinching. "I've read the transcripts. They've—they've mentioned Mr. Spock every time. Usually some variation of the same few lines, but it's been more-or-less constant. They're very fixated on him."
Jim's mouth thinned into a grim line. "I see." He seemed displeased by the idea, tone dismissive and curt, as if he could brush away the possibility by eschewing the very mention of it. Spock felt an arm brush against him as the captain moved closer, skin human-hot even through the layers of their uniforms. It was undeniably a protective action, as though physical contact and support would keep him safe from the Seskille's focus. Unusual for the bridge; Jim was not usually so tactile with him in front of others. "Well, that's quite enough of that. Tie me in, Lieutenant."
"Channel open, sir."
"Seskille Collective, this is Captain Kirk speaking."
The audio feedback continued, just as grating and deafening as before. There was a brief flash of annoyance in the captain's eyes as he presumably remembered the audio delay that had made communication so difficult before; a delay of exactly three-point-two-eight minutes. Slow for a reciprocal conversation, requiring every message be considered carefully so as not to waste a long-awaited response.
But there was no delay this time.
"Goddammit Jim, again?" the Seskille's voice exploded in elation after only four-point-one-seven seconds had passed. The captain's eyebrows shot up in surprise, both at the speed of the reply and the wording of it. "My apologies, sir, I was—we'll follow your lead—off of him, Spock—told me if you had another name—name—name—goddammit Jim, again?—like it was really you. Is there something—I'm glad you approve—is there—it all worked out in the end—is there something I can do for you, Captain?
Through the fog, Spock remembered this exchange. He remembered sitting in his private lab alone, trying to focus desperately on his work. He remembered Jim finding him, inquiring about their usual Thursday chess match. Spock remembered the sick feeling in his gut; it'd been approximately five days after Vulcan. Only five days since he'd murdered his captain. The reminder was disgusting, vile, and chilling. He felt bile in his throat, and swallowing it down only made him more nauseous.
Jim's brow furrowed, noticeably baffled, although his voice maintained perfect composure. He cleared his throat. "Yes, there is. I believe there has been a miscommunication between us. I'd like to clear it up so as to establish a clearer understanding of one another."
The response was immediate. "Captain, please don't—thank you, Jim. I understand that this will—get your hands off of him, Spock! Goddammit Jim, again—I am certain that James T. Kirk will be a perfectly capable captain, just as you have been. Captain, please don't—get your hands—Captain, please don't… Captain, please don't…"
Spock's stomach clenched, and he flinched as he fought to avoid vomiting. Bile was in his throat, cloying and sour and burning, and his eyes were burning, and his chest was burning, and his lungs were burning. He knew this…
("Your father was a computer, like his son! An ambassador from a planet of traitors! The Vulcan never lived who had an ounce of integrity!"
("Captain, please don't…")
"Right. See, this is exactly the kind of miscommunication I'm referring to," the captain said dryly, looking entirely unimpressed. "I'm aware that there is limited ability to communicate between us due to the differences in our respective species, however, we can't understand what you are trying to say. When we first initiated contact over a week ago, you utilized a more coherent pattern of speech. If we could maintain further communication in that style, I'd appreciate it."
There was a long moment of silence save for the noise of the feedback; that howling, popping, crackling whine. Long enough that Jim had turned to glance at Uhura, who gave an equally confused shrug. And then, after nearly thirty seconds had passed, came a response.
"My apologies, sir, I was—certain that James T. Kirk will be—understand, Jim. I spent a whole lifetime learning—no, not so impersonally—share with someone—will you try for one moment to feel? Tell me there's at least—understand, Jim."
They had ignored the request to return to their former style of communication, but that was not to say they didn't try to respond coherently. It was still disjointed, but there was a certain kind of logic to the careful phrasing this time; an effort at piecing together something resembling comprehensible speech, enough to where their meaning was intelligible.
Uhura's hand was flying over her PADD, writing notes down with an unfocused gaze as her head tilted to focus her hearing on the Seskille. There was a spark of understanding in her eyes, and Spock determined she had figured it out; that she had realized what the Seskille were doing and where exactly they had gotten their vocabulary from.
Jim sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not able to do that," he said neutrally, in that careful kind of way he used when speaking to the admiralty. "If you're… asking what I think you are, I do not have that ability."
"Don't apologize. I'm sorry I broke—understand, Jim—the mind is considered sacred—suppose I assumed," the Seskille screeched after another pause. "Spock's probably don't—am Lieutenant Commander Spock. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Spock, are you alright?Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock—dammit, Spock, just give me something—Mr. Spock, or have you forgotten?—so it'll be nice to share with someone who gets it—share with someone who gets it—off of him, Spock—share with someone who gets it."
Scattered and split though the words were, the meaning of them couldn't have been clearer.
"No," the captain bit out instantly, and no longer was his voice neutral. It was cold, nearly angry, and his eyes had narrowed to slits. "No, Commander Spock is not available to speak to you right now. I will be responsible for any further contact, no matter how long that—"
"Captain, please don't—another name, Mister Spock. Captain, please don't…"
"—takes. Now, I'm aware we've asked multiple times now about the mining situation with… limited success. However, since you appear to finally understand me… to some degree, I'll ask again. Can you consent to allowing a Federation posting on your planet's surface to mine ore?"
The Seskille would not be able to give a satisfactory response to this question, Spock knew. The captain was requesting a yes or no answer, but even an affirmative response would not end the mission. An argument could be made for the Seskille not truly being able to consent to Federation inhabitation when their ability to communicate or comprehend was so limited. With the confirmed amount of pergium, and the discovery of the incredibly valuable and rare liquid latinum, Seskilles VII had just become more valuable than a goldmine. There would be substantial interest in the planet's resources from numerous parties, and if explicit, knowledgeable permission was not gained, it could be contested later on. The Klingon Empire might have been compliantly maintaining the fragile Organian Peace Treaty, but they had just as equal a claim to any planet within the Neutral Zone as the Federation did. Although improbable, if they could somehow gain informed consent to their occupation and mining, their claim would be the greater one.
The Federation would be exceedingly displeased by that. What was the human phrase? Heads would roll. Spock did not have to tell this to the captain; it was clear by his darkening expression and the frustration sparking in his eyes that Jim already understood as much.
There was another pause of silence as the Seskille attempted to piece together a response with Spock's dissected memories. "I am unable to—so explain it to me how in the hell yours keeps—I've always wondered—I can't even fathom it." The Seskille then switched directions, response arriving faster now in fragments. "I understand that this will—Mr. Spock—enormous asset to—are my first officer—lose that first officer, I want to know—are my first officer—the Enterprise, she takes—this is my ship—that James T. Kirk—Captain—off of him, Spock—are my first officer—off of him, Spock!"
The captain frowned, eyebrows creased as he attempted to decipher their meaning. His words were stilted as he spoke. "Yes… that's right. This is my ship and Mr. Spock is my first officer."
"'Cause I'll tell you—can't communicate like you and I do—actually connect on an emotional level. It'll be nice to share with someone who gets it—of him, Spock! Understand, Jim."
The captain scowled. "I understand you just fine. The answer is still no. He's not available to speak with you."
"We'll have to come back later in the day; I forgot that it gets so foggy in the morning. Maybe your—are my first officer—will be able to join us this time."
"Oh for god's sakes, Captain, just let them speak to him," Ambassador Hammett spoke up, throwing his arms up with an exaggerated huff. Even so, he kept his own voice carefully moderated to something passably respectful. "This is getting ridiculous. Why does it matter who they talk to, as long as we get a response? If they want to speak to Mr. Spock, I say let them. Commander, they're all yours."
Spock was not there. He was somewhere else, floating so far above his own body that he was not present in the room, or on the ship, or in his own mind. He was just as incorporeal and indistinct as the Seskille were—a being of energy that existed without physical form or body. He tried to drift back, tried to make the room swirl into focus, or his voice to work, or his lungs to inhale. How long had he been staring without blinking?
But he was given an order. An indirect order, but an order all the same. For a moment, he wished to challenge it; to say nothing at all, because it wasn't an actual command, and until he was given one, he could pretend that he wasn't being forced to speak to the ones who had so completely and wholly ruined him…
"Come here, son—get your hands off of him, Spock!" There was an immediate rise in the Seskille's volume; so much so that the earsplitting screech of their voice made even the human crew wince this time. Spock felt his head throb so viciously that his vision spun. Clearly, the collective had understood just enough of Ambassador Hammett's interjection to know Spock was present, and they made their enthusiasm obvious. "Get your hands off of him, Spock—they can't communicate like you and I do—Dammit, Spock, just give me something! Anything! Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him—of him, Spock—get your hands off of him, Spock!"
If he opened his mouth, he would vomit.
Jim's hand clamped onto his arm, gripping it so tightly and firmly that it was nearly painful. The throb of it grounded him down to his body enough to suck in a wheeze of air. "Don't, Spock. You don't have to say anything to them," the captain said firmly. "Seskille Collective, I know you wish to speak with him, but this is not currently possible for reasons I… won't get into right now. I apologize if this is—"
"Your concern is… noted, but not applicable in this instance—I know you were excited about—you're my friend; my best friend—" the Seskille responded, cutting the captain off. "Although, I was sort of hoping we could be something other than friends, you know?" Jim's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Spock felt his stomach sink in horror. "At his side, as if you've always been there and always will."
No.
No.
Jim's head snapped to face him, and there was a dawning spark of recognition in his eyes. The other comments had been fragmented and could have come from anywhere, but that was a line familiar to them both; one that was quite unmistakable. "Memories," he said in realization. "They're using memories—your memories, aren't they? Piecing them together to form responses—that's what this is, isn't it?"
"Do you know how much—hands off of him, Spock—know you were excited about—on an emotional level—You? At his side, as if you've always been there and always will. I think you'll find there is very little—hands off of him, Spock—get your hands—wouldn't do for you—of which I know to be considerable and beyond question. Sometimes I envy you. The whole—honestly just some things that mankind—is all we humans have to go on—I feel like I'm going mad just trying to wrap my head around it all."
No. Something sick, something dreading and cold and sick pooled in his gut like acid, like ice, and he felt his chest shudder and lurch and shake as he fought to avoid humiliating himself. A sob was rising in his throat, even more damning a response than vomiting would be. He wanted to cry, he realized. He wanted to cry, and he could feel the sting behind his eyes, just waiting to spill out…
"At his side, as if you've always been there and always will—get your hands off of him, Spock—could be something other than friends, you know? At his side—what else would you expect from a dev—"
"This is Commander Spock," Spock said aloud, firmly interrupting them to try to drown out what he knew they would continue to say. He forcibly regulated and restrained his voice to be as composed and calm as he could make it, because to do anything else was abhorrent. He was on shift; he was to be a professional. The Enterprise's first officer and he had to conduct himself appropriately. And yet, Spock was not in his own body any longer. Perhaps that was for the best. There was stinging in his throat and eyes, and he feared that if he were inhabiting himself, that he would do something unspeakably mortifying. He could not cry. He could not lose control. He could not. "You wished to speak to me."
His chest ached. He inhaled. The ache did not fade.
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!" the Seskille's response was immediate, coming before his own voice even faded. They were screaming; that shrill howling wail of theirs was deafening, louder than he'd ever heard it before. There was audible excitement in the rapid firing of their repetition, a near-euphoric glee to each word. It sent agony spiking to his mind like lightening. "Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
The captain bent towards his ear, murmured a very soft, "Do you know why they keep repeating that?" and Spock shook his head once, a short, jerking, clipped motion that left him reeling from vertigo. A lie. Just another lie to stack upon all the others he was building. It was like a house of cards by now; slippery and teetering and ready to collapse at the slightest breeze. He felt about as stable.
"You weren't answering anyone, Mr. Spock. I was starting to get worried—I don't care if you give me fifty of them—a hundred—get your hands off of him—you've more than earned it ten-fold—quite blind—like a—that's an enormous asset to me! Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
For a moment, just a moment, Spock hated them. He hated them more than he had ever hated anyone before in all his life, and the feeling of such bitter, spiteful resentment was terrifying. He did not experience hate towards another. He did not experience loathing towards another. And yet...
And yet…
Spock had hoped, although hoping was just as useful to him as begging was, that he would never again have to contact the Seskille. That he would never have to hear them, or think of them, or contemplate what they had done to him. He'd hoped that he could shove it beneath the sand just as deeply as he had the events of Vulcan. Entomb it under the desert of his mindscape where it could not harm or influence him any longer. But they had taken that from him, just as certainly as they had stolen his memories, his voice, and his control. There was nothing—nothing—they had not tainted.
He hated them.
Hate was so very, very dangerous to a Vulcan.
His memory of the events of Vulcan prior to Jim's murder were hazy. The plak'tow, the blood fever that had ripped his logic from him, had made rational thought impossible, but he remembered, distantly and as though through a veil, hating James Kirk during their combat. The yamareen had surged thick through his veins like acid—like fire—and he'd burned so intensely that his rage had been an inferno. Through the flames, he'd seen his beautiful, golden captain, bloodied and battered and struggling, and he'd wanted nothing more than to tear into him. He'd hated him in that moment—violently and potently hated him.
Spock knew what hatred felt like, and he knew how deadly an emotion it was for him. He knew that his hatred and fury and blazing wrath had murdered Jim. He knew that his hatred towards himself had forced him to lie, to cause pain and stress to those he cared for. He feared what this feeling of hatred might do now; what it might drive him to do, and who might be hurt because of it…
"My apologies for the delay," Spock told the Seskille tonelessly, so void of emotion and feeling that he sounded lifeless. He wished he was. He wished, more than anything, he could simply no longer be. "I was indisposed due to unfortunate circumstances. May I inquire your purpose in requesting me?"
"Will you try for one moment to feel?! At least act like you've got a heart!" the Seskille screeched, and Spock felt Jim go still at his side, sucking in a stiff breath. "—it'll be nice to share with someone who gets it."
"I'm aware you wish to… merge. However, that is not currently possible." It was possible, though, and with a sinking pit of trepidation, Spock suspected he knew what his next orders would be. Some part of him had known, ever since he woke in sickbay, what he would eventually be made to do. It made sense. Logical, strategical sense. He could fault no one for giving him those orders; were he anyone else, he might have done the same. "This method of communication will have to suffice at present."
"I… do not approve, I understand—will you try for one moment to—no, you aren't gonna hide behind that damn—understand, Jim. I spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings—I shall do neither. I shall do neither. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Understand, Jim. I spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings—the mind is considered sacred and should be—what's mine is yours and so on, so forth. Mi casa es su casa. I don't understand it either—I shall do neither."
(Live Long and Prosper, T'Pau had said to him. Spock had not intended to do either.)
He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, gripping his hands behind him tightly in parade rest to prevent them from trembling. He locked every muscle—every part of him capable of movement—because if he lapsed for even a moment, he thought he might start to sob. It was there in the burning behind his eyes, tears ready to well up and fall and expose him. Disgusting. Deplorable. Unacceptable. He was compromised; so unrecognizable to himself that he could scarcely comprehend it. He did not feel like Spock any longer. Part of him suspected that Spock had died in those barren, frozen ruins. A shell had returned, out of control and foreign. It was little wonder nothing felt like his; his quarters, his belongings, his work, his mind—it all belonged to someone else, someone who died. He was what had continued on where all life should have ceased.
"Spock…" Jim watched him, and concern and regret were so bright in his eyes that Spock could not risk meeting them.
"I…" His voice failed, faltering. He cleared his throat. "I wish to discuss the proposed mining agreement. I am aware your ability to consent to this is limited, however I hope to bridge this gap in knowledge between us."
"No, not so impersonally—I will if I have to, but I'd prefer it not come to that—Spock, are you alright?Get your hands off of him, Spock! I think you'll find there is very little I wouldn't do for you, Spock, ramifications or—you have to actually connect on an emotional—really put the feeling into each action so they can understand what you wanna say to 'em—"
Spock pressed his lips together tightly, thinly, and sucked in a hiss of breath that he did not feel. It raised his chest and fell it when he exhaled. He felt all the more suffocated for having done so. "I must decline your request. I am a Vulcan," he told them stiffly. "To communicate emotionally would be inappropriate for my—"
"What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak, whose father was a computer and whose mother was an encyclopedia!"
At once, a deathly-still hush fell upon the bridge.
Spock's words died on his lips. His stomach dropped out from beneath him, like a hole had opened up in the deck and plummeted him through the ship into space. He wished it would. He wished the hull would breach and simply rip him from this room. Uhura's jaw had dropped in horror. Lieutenant Sulu's eyes were wide. Chekov openly gaped. And Jim… Jim went rigid beside him, almost as ramrod-tense as Spock himself was.
He did not look at his captain. He did not meet his eyes. He did not blink. He did not breathe. He did not think. He did not—he could not….
"You're a traitor from a race of traitors—it is flawed to continue to persevere towards an unachievable objective—are not fully Vulcan, Spock, and no expended effort or attempt will result in you being one. It is a biological fact that you—get your hands off of—are half-human, and therefore it is illogical to continue trying to achieve that which is not achievable. We're approaching Vulcan; just another hour or so until—are not fully Vulcan, Spock—a simpering, devil eared freak—like the rest of your subhuman race—Captain, please don't—are half-human, and therefore—I shall do neither—not so impersonally…"
Earlier that morning, mere hours prior, he had been in Jim's arms. He had been embraced and warm and held and he had never felt so safe; never been so content than he had in that moment. He'd felt, for the first time in more than a week, as if he would be okay. Stable and secure and so safe. How remarkable—how fascinating that that sense of safety felt as if it had happened a lifetime ago. A lifetime ago to someone else. Someone who was capable of breathing and thinking and moving. Someone who could do more than stand there and stare blankly forward like a statue…
His chest burned. Spock did not know why he bothered to hold his breath. McCoy had been right; he was drowning. Why bother trying to tread water. It'd be so easier to simply sink and sink and sink…
"You're a traitor from a race of traitors. Disloyal to the core! Rotten! Like the rest of your subhuman race. And you've got the gall to—such an act is a crime of the highest degree on Vulcan—get your hands off of him, Spock!" The Seskille were excited, still speaking in their delighted, earsplitting way; a gleeful screaming that echoed through his mind like a klaxon. "—like a wet—does she know what she's getting, Spock? A carcass full of memory banks who should be—get your hands off of him—instead of passing himself off as a man! You—a violation of it is reprehensible—Mr. Spock, or have you forgotten? Checkmate—like a—I shall do neither—quite blind—you belong in the circus, Spock, not a starship—like the rest of your subhuman race. What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak—a carcass full of memory banks—a simpering, devil eared freak—like the rest of your subhuman race—"
"Lieutenant Uhura." Jim's voice was very, very quiet, but it might have been a shout with the silence in the room. "Close the channel."
"Now hold on, Captain," Hammett spoke up, shifting uncomfortably. His face had gone pale, and he darted a nervous, anxious glance to Spock and back. "This is the first time they've really spoken to anyone coherently—"
"Now, Lieutenant! That's an order!" the captain snarled out, sounding more furious than Spock had ever heard him. He was shaking with rage, vibrating from head to toe as an angry red flush rose up his neck. "Shut them down now!"
Uhura didn't hesitate.
The agonizing voice, the deafening popping, hissing, whining feedback—with the press of a button, the channel closed, and the room went silent. No one moved an inch, barely breathing as the tension rose thick in the air. Spock stared ahead blankly, lips still parted from being interrupted, although he could not remember what he'd been about to say. There was nothing in his mind, as if thought no longer existed. No thought, no feeling, no emotion. Numb. Blank. Empty. He waited to drift away into the fog, but he did not. Instead, he felt himself sinking, not floating.
Drowning.
Good, he thought, and the thought was a stone weighing him down. Good.
Jim opened his mouth, jaw working wordlessly before he managed to speak with a croak. "Lieutenant, Ambassador, briefing room in twenty minutes. Uhura, send for Doctor McCoy to head there now." The captain didn't look at Spock directly, but Spock got the sense he was watching him anyways. "Tell him to make it stat. Spock…" his voice trailed, dying and hanging awkwardly. "Spock, with me please."
Spock had to force his legs to walk after the captain as Jim turned on a heel and entered the turbolift. He moved woodenly, feeling so heavy that he thought it a miracle he could walk at all. He had the odd sense of everything standing still while at the same time it was moving too fast. It left him dizzy, sick, reeling, like he'd been struck with something. He almost raised a hand to check his skull for a fracture; it felt as if he'd been bludgeoned open.
The ringing in his ears was as debilitating as the Seskille's voice had been.
The turbolift doors closed around him, and Jim said nothing. Not a word. He stared forward and Spock did the same. Despite no direct focus, he knew they were both very, very aware of the other. Only some hours before, he'd been in complete and total sync with his captain. So carefully attuned to his movements. He had never felt so out of rhythm before; had never felt so disconnected from Jim that he could not tell what his captain was thinking or feeling.
High walls, Jim had told him, and Spock had never felt those walls be higher than they were now. It shut his captain out, and it shut Spock in. Remarkable; to be in such close proximity with someone while simultaneously be so, so far away from them.
"Spock…" Jim broke the silence, voice little more than a whispered croak. "I'm so… that was…" He broke off, and he was quiet for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, before, "Are you alright?"
Spock did not answer.
Jim did not ask again.
For approximately five minutes, the briefing room was quiet and still. Jim said nothing. Spock said nothing. They did not make eye contact. They did not move. The doors slid open, and the moment Doctor McCoy entered, the captain leapt to his feet with the clatter of his chair. He grabbed the doctor by the arm and tugged him into the hallway with a firm, unyielding grip.
The door closed on them, but even through the door Spock could make out their conversation. If it would have done anything to block them out, he would have covered his ears with his hands. He did not wish to hear this. But wishing was as useful to him as begging, and they did not understand begging…
"Jim, it's been, what, twenty minutes since I last saw you? What kind of catastrophe could you have—"
"Read this."
Silence as the doctor read through the PADD, and then, "The hell is this?"
"Transcript. The Seskille… they were talking to Spock and said all of… this. But Bones—"
"And you let them talk to him? You out of your mind?"
"I didn't exactly order him to do it. I tried to intervene; told him he didn't need to, but he just did it anyways."
"Of course he did it anyways. It's Spock! You shouldn't have even had him around them to begin with!" McCoy's voice was hissed and angry. "You should have sent him packing right on out of there! We've talked about this."
Spock sat in the empty briefing room, listening as his friends spoke about him behind his back. That he was the subject of apparently multiple conversations—ones he had not known about—was not surprising to him but it was uncomfortable. He suspected he would feel upset about it later, when he was able to feel anything again. As it was, he did not have the capacity to do so at this time; his head was empty and full simultaneously, and he was both too hollow and too distant to focus on anything more than the texture of the briefing room conference table. Each thought that entered his mind was a slow drip, like syrup or oil, spilling and slick and slipping away just as slowly. It left him feeling slimy. He should shower…
"I know. God, trust me, I realize that…" There was such overwhelming regret in Jim's tone. Spock felt something inside of him ache at the sound. He wanted to reassure Jim that it was not his fault; that Spock understood the reason he wasn't sent from the bridge, but he did not think he could speak. And he could not move, or stand, or breathe. The texture of the table…
"You want to cause permanent psychological damage, Captain? 'Cause I'll tell you; this is how you get it!" McCoy didn't offer the captain any such verbal reassurance. "And I thought they were spearheading the 'I Love Spock' fan club! Since when'd they decide they hate him all of a sudden?"
"They don't—at least, I don't think they do. They were… insistent to talk to him, and only him; absolutely fixated. You should have heard their voice when they realized he was there; if they were capable of it, they'd have thrown a party. Maybe they were, or whatever their equivalent is. They were just… thrilled." There was audible bitterness in the captain's voice. "No, I'm fairly sure they still adore him."
"Yeah, well, they sure as hell have a weird way of expressing it. Nothing invited that kind of abuse towards him. If that's adoration, I'd sure hate to see what dislike is."
"Abuse…" Jim sounded upset, and Spock could imagine his grim expression. "It's not their words. They were using his memories. All of this? They were just... taking bits and pieces of his past, putting it together to try to talk to us like some sick—it was obscene, Bones. I didn't realize it until it was too late, but I should have. I should have shut it down sooner, made an excuse to get him out of there, something. That kind of… violation of privacy… I don't even know if they really understood what they were saying or not…"
They did, Spock thought, or at least, they did in the broad sense. They understood what they meant to say, if not the specific wording used to communicate it. It was as close as they could achieve to true spoken dialogue. Fragmented and distorted though it had been, it had not been verbally incorrect. It'd been his error that resulted in their confusion. He'd told them he was a Vulcan, and they had little reference for it. They'd tried to gain one, citing memories tied to his Vulcan heritage for further clarification. His mistake, but a damning one, and there was no one to blame for it but himself.
Through the numb emptiness, a sick sense of mortification began to consume him.
"So, someone said—" There was an undeniable sense of protectiveness when McCoy spoke. It should have been warming, but Spock did not feel warmed by it. He felt numb and sick and tired. So tired. "Who the hell would say something like that to him?"
"Me," Jim admitted, so quietly that Spock had to strain to hear him. "I did."
"You—"
"That mission to Omicron Ceti III, the one with that damn pod plant that—I had to snap him out of it; had to make him angry. I didn't… I didn't know how else to do it." Stop talking, Spock wanted to say. Please stop talking. But begging didn't make a difference. Begging was useless. "It worked. He, ah… he got angry, alright. You remember."
"Jesus, Jim," McCoy was horrified. Absolutely and utterly horrified. "You know how much hell I gave him after that?! You limped on into sickbay with broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, hairline to the scapula, a concussion—I damn near raked him over the coals for it afterwards, and you're telling me that you deserved it?! You're lucky he didn't do worse to you! God, you're lucky that I didn't do worse to you! What in god's name were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that I needed my first officer back, Doctor, not some vapid, lovesick, infatuated version of him!" Jim snapped out bitingly. Frustration and powerlessness had never sat well with his captain; the more helpless he felt, the angrier he became. He was silent for a beat and then, bitterly, "I'm… not trying to justify it. I'm not."
"Well good, 'cause there isn't a justification for it," the doctor insisted furiously. "You need to keep that goddamn monster of yours caged, Captain! Green eyes don't suit you at all."
"I know. I regret that it slipped the leash that day. God, do I regret it." Jim sounded resigned, and there was a muffled sound of him scrubbing a hand down his face. An anxious, self-soothing behavior. "I just didn't think that—he told me that he understood, you know? The reason I said all of it. He told me it was a perfectly logical and expedient solution. But if the Seskille are repeating it, that means they made him experience it down there. You heard him at the debrief; they seek out emotions, he said. I suppose I just didn't really consider what that meant, exactly. What kind of memories that might have involved."
"What, you think he didn't find that memory emotional? That it didn't hurt? Coming from anyone else sure, maybe—and that's a real small maybe. But coming from you? I know you're not that much of an idiot. You're his best friend, Jim; he looks at you like you hung the moon and painted the stars. Hearing that from you? That's a special kind of knife to the back." McCoy blew out a long, low breath. "This is an absolute mess. Jesus, I don't even know where to begin with this. I already don't know how to repair the damage they did to him, and now I gotta repair the damage others did to him that they reopened while they were doing it."
Stop. Spock stared at the table and breathed in, breathed out, felt none of it. Humiliation was suffocating, and he was drowningin it. Please stop. Begging was useless. The ringing in his ears was nearly loud enough to drown out the voices of his friends, and he allowed it to. He found he no longer wanted to know what they said about him, or what they thought, or what they felt. He did not want to hear them speak of him like he was something fragile. He did not feel fragile, he felt like he was already broken. He felt as if he had shattered onto the floor like glass, and that all the contents of him had spilled out for display. He was certain it was possible to feel more embarrassed, although right now, he had a difficult time imagining it.
"Spock?"
Movement at his side. The table's texture. His lungs were burning.
Spock breathed in, he breathed out, and he mentally curled up in the sand of his desert. His ripped, vandalized, torn desert. Unrecognizable though it was, he lay there and tried to bury himself in it. He wanted to sink into the sand along with all the rest of his emotions and memories and thoughts. He'd always buried the unwanted here, and everything, all of him, every part, was unwanted to him. Sink into the sand—drown in it—and he could pretend it hadn't ever—
"Spock!"
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. McCoy's vivid blue looked back at him steadily, the doctor having taken the seat directly beside him. Jim sat at Spock's left, at the head of the table, but he did not look at either of them. His captain focused his attention instead on his PADD, although he did not appear to actually be reading it; his eyes were glazed and distant in thought. He was pale, his captain; lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Unusually disquieted.
"Yes, Doctor?" Spock inquired emotionlessly. "Do you need something?"
"No." McCoy shook his head, frowning at him. He bent his head inwards, voice gentling to something almost warm. Calm, solid, careful, worried, but warm. "Do you?" Spock blinked, raising a brow. "Need something?"
"Negative."
The doctor pursed his lips, as if he wanted to challenge that answer but knew there was a time and place to do so. Instead, McCoy reached up a hand and clapped it on Spock's shoulder, squeezing briefly. It was a motion of comfort; physical contact meant to offer him support. Idly, distantly, the thought came that he had been touched more times this morning than he had in years. It should have been reassuring, but Spock only felt cold. He stared at the hand until it was removed. The doctor didn't appear to be insulted, offering him an understanding nod.
Sometimes, Spock suspected that McCoy was the strongest one of them all.
The doors to the briefing room slid open and Lieutenant Uhura poked her head in uncertainly, hesitating at the entrance. At the captain's beckoning, she entered fully, taking her seat on the other side of the table, across from Spock. Ambassador Hammett trailed behind her, taking a chair a few down beside no one at all. Apparently, he understood he was not in anyone's good favor and did not wish to encourage further discord. The mission was nearly complete, but it was gratifying to see him display some modicum of sense.
"Well, let's get right to it then. There's been a number of recent developments," the captain began in a low volume that was no less commanding for it. "Not only with our current predicament, but with others in the Federation. This mission, which should have been a simple yes or no kind of agreement, has suffered complications. And it's been made considerably morecomplicated by outside factors that have nothing to do with it.
"As I'm sure you all know, the situation involving the planet Coridan has become critical. The Coridanites have requested admittance to the United Federation of Planets, and due to the wealth of dilithium involved, a diplomatic conference will convene to settle its admission one way or another. Now, this shouldn't have any bearing on what we're doing, and normally it wouldn't, except that mining has become a controversial topic lately. With the Babel Conference in development, the Federation needs to prove their ability to establish and protect mining interests on underdeveloped planets more than ever. Dilithium is valuable, but it's nothing next to latinum, the presence of which I understand has been confirmed on Seskilles VII yesterday."
Had it only been yesterday? It felt as if it had happened so long ago. For a moment, Spock regretted his part in the discovery. He had no doubt that it would have been identified not long afterwards, even had he not gotten involved, but he had hastened the finding. It was strange to resent scientific investigation; he had always considered unbiased fact to be a worthy pursuit, but now he wished so dearly he had refused Geology's request for assistance…
"Seskilles VII is a veritable goldmine now—better than, even," the captain continued. "We might have gotten away with a hazy yes from the Seskille before, but now that Command's been informed about latinum… well, that's changed some things. Our mission priority has been upgraded. We're to secure the rights to Seskille's VII beyond all question or doubt. As for the Seskille themselves…" Jim's eyes narrowed briefly, hardening to something flinty and cold. He took a steadying breath. "The Seskille present an obstacle to this. Trying to meet in person didn't work, for obvious reasons. Talking to them didn't work. So, let's discuss solutions, gentlemen. Lieutenant Uhura, what do we have? Now that they're communicating, do you think we'll be able to get them to make the agreement?"
Uhura looked as if she desperately wished not to answer that question, even as she reluctantly shook her head. "No, sir," she said unenthusiastically. "Not beyond reasonable doubt, at least. They've gone back to just… repeating themselves again." She waved her PADD slightly for emphasis. "Gibson is up there at the moment trying to continue the conversation, but they won't answer us anymore. They just keep asking for…" The lieutenant trailed off, but Spock could easily deduce exactly who the Seskille might be asking for.
She examined her PADD with an increasingly upset expression, and he could feel Doctor McCoy tense up at his side as he did the same. Spock did not look at his own, having no interest in knowing what else the Seskille might be revealing about him, what other memories they wanted to expose. He did not want to know. Spock felt stripped, exposed, and bared; he couldn't have been more opened up had they taken a scalpel and vivisected him. He considered what memories they had torn through, what wounds they could inflict to him with only a handful of fragmented, broken words. No, he decided. He did not want to know what else they might have to say. He did not want to hear, or read, or think of it
The captain's expression, although remaining neutrally professional, took on a distinct sour note. "Of course, they are," he murmured tightly. "Well, they'll just have to learn the shiny new emotion of disappointment."
"Yes, sir." Uhura looked relieved. Across the table, she gave Spock a shaky, weak smile.
"Ah… is there a reason Commander Spock isn't capable of leading the conversation?" Hammett said darting quick, nervous glances to the captain. He chose his words very, very carefully. "Now, I realize that it wasn't exactly ideal—and of course they had no business talking to you like that, Commander, certainly not! That was absolutely out of line, and they shouldn't have said any of it. But out of all of us, you've got the best chance at getting an actual answer from them. Can't you just, I don't know, grin and bear through the insults for a little longer?"
"Vulcans do not grin, Ambassador Hammett," Spock clarified flatly. "And despite the hostile phrasing, their intention was not to insult, but to encourage an emotional response from me." Because it had worked before. Because when they'd made him relieve those horrible, torturous memories, over and over again, the strong emotions had been a veritable feast for them. They'd felt connected to him, fascinated and intrigued by feelings they had never felt before. Pain, grief, loss, fear, hatred… and they wanted to experience them again. "They were attempting to connect with me on a mentally emotional level by way of repetition."
As they had done again.
And again.
And again.
(Jim died in front of him again.)
"Right, right, such a peculiar phrase to use," Hammett hummed in consideration. "Get your hands off of him, Spock. They've been repeating it for hours now—still are, as a matter of fact, according to the live transcripts. Among, well, among other things. Care to explain why they chose that one in particular? Is there some kind off relevancy?"
They chose it because Spock had held his lifeless, bloodied, fragile captain in his hands and never, in all his life, had he felt more intensely and more devastatingly than he had in that moment. Because he had felt time hold still, and his mind had screamed denialdenialdenial. Because McCoy's words, barked out furiously, had broken him from his stupor and he'd found himself in a reality where he had murdered James Tiberius Kirk, his t'hy'la. Because Spock had known, the moment he blinked and truly realized what he'd done, that he'd killed himself just as certainly as he had Jim, and good—good!—since he could not, and he would not, exist in that new reality.
He'd never felt so profoundly before, and he likely never would again, and the Seskille had loved it.
"Mr. Spock's personal memories, Roger," Jim said in a biting tone, "are his own business. We've more than intruded on his privacy enough, and I can't express enough how sorry I am that we did. If he wishes to talk about it, it will be at his own choosing, and not any of ours'."
"I'm just saying—"
"Then stop saying." Jim stared down the ambassador for an uncomfortably long minute, until Hammett looked away.
At his side, McCoy stared down at his PADD, considering it with an uncommonly serious expression. His brow had furrowed, lips turned down into a low frown of concentration and thought. He was idly tapping a finger against the side as he read, and Spock briefly wondered if he recognized the words; the phrase he'd said nearly six months prior. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Perhaps. Perhaps not. In the aftermath, Doctor McCoy and Jim had been so… perplexingly calm about the entire affair. As if it had been just another day, just another mission to be mused on every now and again, but one that had no true influence on their life. No doubt those damning words had been little more than an afterthought for the doctor; something said in the moment but otherwise not considered any further. Possibly, McCoy had even thought himself clever to have said them at all, if he'd extended that much effort towards reflecting on them. A small line tossed in to further convince Spock that his deception was truth. Easily said, easily discarded.
He wondered if McCoy would ever know just how deeply those words had cut into him, or just how septic and infected that wound had become in the months that followed.
"Their repetition of that specific memory is inconsequential," Spock said with a note of finality, hoping to shut down this line of inquiry. "It has no bearing on our objective, which is to secure the mining agreement. Further inquiries will be unproductive and provide no acceptable outcome. The Seskille do not understand what it is we are asking, regardless of who the question comes from. They do not have a frame of reference for the question, the issue we're speaking of, nor the answer."
"They were able to answer questions just fine earlier… in a way," the ambassador argued. "I don't understand—"
"And what a surprise that is," McCoy mumbled under his breath from beside Spock.
"—why you can't just… I don't know, coax an answer out of them."
"They have no foundation for what we're even talking about," Uhura spoke up coolly, eyeing the ambassador like one would a particularly invasive, unwelcome insect. "It's like asking, I don't know, a mouse about quantum mechanics. There is nothing there to fall back on. No idea or knowledge or basis for understanding. Captain, during the first planetside excursion, when you transferred the Seskille over to me, they started talking about flowers, just seemingly out of nowhere. I couldn't determine the reason for it; it was so random and unconnected, and it's been bothering me. But after yesterday's debrief, well, that must have been directly after that memory of the flowers you told us about, Mr. Spock. Their dictionary is filled only with what they've personally—or whatever their equivalent is—been supplied with."
"Indeed. Your logic is sound," Spock agreed with a nod at Uhura, who smiled warmly back in response. "They were able to answer using my memories to guide their response, but there exists a limit to them. They did not know, for instance, how to directly ask for me to merge with them. Instead, they used particularly strong memory associations to entice a reply. They did not witness any memories associated to mining, mining agreements, ore, negotiation, or Federation expansion. Therefore, this concept is not within their dictionary. We can ask for permission to occupy and mine their planet, and they could even be guided to answer our request positively, but without true understanding, there can be no true consent."
Even as the words left his mouth, he felt his stomach sink, because he knew—he knew—what he would be required to do next. What orders would be given. Some part of him had always known.
"So, we'll have to give them that understanding." Hammett nodded thoughtfully, as if settling some kind of internal debate. "Alright then, Commander, I suggest you start prepping yourself for an away mission."
And there it was.
Jim was on his feet before Hammett's last word left his lips. "Now you listen to me," he said vehemently, voice little more than a hiss in the room. "I wouldn't send my first officer down there if my life depended on it!"
"There could be other—we can consider other options!" Uhura said at the same time, looking increasingly upset. Her dark eyes briefly darted to Spock, and in them was a spark of horror. She had figured it out then. She'd figured out exactly what the Seskille must have done to him and the impact it must have had. Of course. One had to know a certain amount of Vulcan culture to learn their language. "Other ways we haven't tried yet—"
And cutting through the captain's snarl and Uhura's dismay, McCoy's voice rang out.
"No."
Hammett faltered in the face of such unified refusal, but he rallied himself swiftly enough. "See here," he started, having to pause and regroup with an awkward amount of throat clearing. His face had gone red with flushed embarrassment. "It… it makes sense. Logical sense! Surely even you'd agree, Commander! If they can't understand, and no one but you can make them understand, then the obvious solution is to send you down to secure the agreement!"
The problem was, the ambassador was entirely correct in his reasoning. It did make logical sense, and it was an immediate solution. Some part of Spock had known it since the beginning; that he would be sent back down there, that he would have to subject himself to the overwhelming flood of the Seskille, that he would have to allow them to violate and rip into him again. It was why he'd lingered so long in unconsciousness, why he'd allowed McCoy to imprison him in sickbay for a week, why he'd wished to so desperately to avoid the debrief.
He'd known this would happen, and now it had. In fact, he was somewhat surprise he hadn't been given the orders sooner. It was reasonable; a logical conclusion, all ends neatly tied up. It would be to the benefit of everyone, Spock knew, if he were to simply let it happen. Let it happen, just as he'd let the Seskille happen in the very end. (Assault had never felt so good…) This mission would be over and everyone, all of them, could move forward. It was logical.
Why then could he not simply open his mouth and agree to it?
"Spock isn't getting anywhere near them." Jim's eyes were narrowed with such burning anger, voice almost shaking from the force of it. His hands were clenched into fists. "He's not touching so much as a toe onto that damn planet. I won't allow it."
Hammett stood as well now, puffing up. "You won't allow it?! Your first officer is the only one who can do it, and as a Starfleet Officer—a senior officer, even!—it's his responsibility to finish the mission! Whether you allow it or not, Captain, our orders—"
"I don't care what our orders say! Do you even know what they did to him?!"
Spock felt his mind drift, sinking and floating at the same time. Like a heavy fog, nebulous but grounded from the weight. He breathed, and felt none of it, and maybe McCoy had been right that he was drowning, that he didn't know how to ask for help, that he didn't know how to stop sinking. And maybe, he thought, he did not want to stop sinking. Keep fading out, down, down, down, where this conversation, this mission, this sour pit opening up in him could no longer hold any influence. Sink into the deep, like he'd buried every unwanted thought and emotion beneath the sand. He was drowning, and good, good, because there was a sense of peace beneath the violent waves. The surface hurt, and it burned, and treading water was exhausting.
And he was so, so tired…
"Captain," Spock tried, but his voice was too quiet, and Jim was too heated.
"I'm aware that Mr. Spock suffered serious injuries, and I've got nothing but the utmost sympathy for him! I do! But the circumstances are what they are! Surely, he'd be fine for a quick pop down! No cliffs to fall off this time—"
"You're on thin ice, Hammett." The captain's stare was venomous; acidic. "Thin ice. The mission be damned, I'm not sending him down there for a pile of rocks. In fact, as of this moment, I'm pulling him from this whole mission entirely."
"Captain…."
"And I back that decision." McCoy entered into the argument with his own scowl, setting down the PADD with enough force to make the screen flicker. It was still moving; the Seskille's transcript continuing even now.
"Under what grounds?" the ambassador demanded hotly. "Under what official grounds can you pull him? He's medically recovered! May I remind you, he was cleared for duty not twenty-four hours ago by you, Doctor, and in that whole time, he's been completely fine! Are you saying that your judgement was flawed, or are you protesting rationality for reasons of personal bias?"
"Completely fine? You wanna know how—"
"Doctor," Spock said firmly, forcibly. He did not shout, but he came remarkably close to it. "Captain. The ambassador is correct. I am the only one capable of communicating to the Seskille, thereby ensuring this mission has a satisfactory conclusion. It is logical."
Jim's mouth snapped shut, and those hazel eyes turned on him with such a piercing look of betrayal that Spock felt it like a knife to his side. Spock kept his own expression blank—so empty and hollow and blank in the face of his captain's incredulous hurt. Control, but the idea of it was almost ludicrous. Laughable. He pressed bloodied palms into the black of his uniform slacks and met Jim's gaze impassively.
"Logical," the captain breathed out disbelievingly, shaking his head slowly, as if trying to possibly wrap his mind around the idea of it.
"Thank god! I'm glad that at least one among youis incapable of emotional ties! See, Captain? Even Mr. Spock understands what he has to do! I'm sorry, Commander, it's not what anyone wants, but I've got my orders too. You understand. I want this whole mess to be over just as much as anyone!" The ambassador sounded desperate now, almost pleading. "This mission is just too valuable—you get that, right?"
For a moment, Spock hated him too.
"Affirmative." He averted his eyes from the captain and stared at the table instead. At the texture of it. The color. Beige. He did not need to touch either McCoy or Jim to feel their blistering anger; sitting between them was akin to sitting next to a bonfire.
"Spock." Jim's eyes were imploring him, and Spock refused to look. "You almost died down there."
"It won't be like last time, Captain," Hammett tried to reassure, although it sounded insincere even to Spock. "He doesn't even need to leave the landing site! Just bundle up, secure the agreement, and beam back aboard! Easy as! They're incorporeal; they can't do any actual harm to him."
Uhura studied him from across the table with such compassion in her eyes. She looked nearly as resigned as he felt; clearly, she saw no other solution either, despite her adamant protest in favor of finding a different one. As Chief Communications Officer, she would have a better understanding of the true limitations of their ability to communicate with the Seskille, and she would know there was very little room to navigate around them.
"Maybe not physically! But mentally? Emotionally?" Doctor McCoy's insistent protectiveness might have been touching any other time, but in this context, it was nothing short of mortifying. He did not want his mental state discussed, let alone his emotional one. That he had an emotional state at all was unacceptable. Did they not understand that it was insulting, to be spoken of in such a manner? That it was degrading? "They ripped into his mind, Hammett! You can't just order someone to let themselves be violated, whether they agree to do it or not!"
Hammett reeled back as if slapped. "I'm—goodness! I'm ordering nothing of the sort! Certainly not! He's already done this sort of thing before, hasn't he? For another mining agreement, even! I remember reading that in his—I'm hardly ordering him to be… well, I'm not ordering that! I'm not a monster, Doctor McCoy!" He sounded shocked, as if he'd truly not considered the possibility of severe consequences to Spock. And even through his veil of resentment, Spock knew he was sincere in his surprise and horror. "I'm aware that business down there was harmful to him, but I was only told about the injuries themselves, not—Mr. Spock, just… just to confirm, they aren't going to hurt you, are they? It won't cause you any pain, correct?"
(There was the sensation of pure relief, like a cool compress against an injury, as he stopped resisting against them.)
(Assault had never felt so good…)
"You are correct," Spock agreed softly. "They will not hurt me."
"I don't believe this..." McCoy threw his hands up into the air, snarling, and then jabbed a finger at Spock. "I don't believe you."
"Furthermore," he continued calmly, as if McCoy had not spoken. "What the ambassador said is accurate. I have set a precedence for this exact scenario with our previous mission to Janus VI, where I secured a mining agreement via telepathy with the Horta. Ambassador Hammett, as the Mother Horta was similarly unable to communicate effectively to humans, my word on the established telepathic agreement was considered valid. I trust that it will be sufficient in this instance as well?"
"Well…" Hammett deliberated, tilting his head this way and that in thought. He still looked unnerved; face drawn tight in poorly-concealed apprehension. He spoke with marginally more kindness than he previously had. "If you can give them enough of an understanding for at least two other parties—say, the captain and myself—to verbally confirm it with them after, I can't imagine that'll be a problem. It's got to be crystal clear, though. If the negotiation is ever called challenged, the transcripts will need to reflect that their consent was beyond any doubt."
Spock felt his stomach lurch at the thought of the reports that would result from this. The admiralty, the clerical staff, the future mining colony… all of them would read those transcripts. All of them would see his worst moments spoken about over and over again. The Seskille's invasion into his mind might have been torturous, but it had not been permanent. It had remained between them, and although that was a poor comfort, it was one of the few he had. But now it was not; it had been freely and cheerfully shared to anyone who ever wished to read into it. They would all know what he did, what he was…
He hated them…
"I should think his word would be more than sufficient," the captain said, and his tone was so flat and void of emotion that it almost did not sound like him. Spock risked a glance over, only to find Jim staring right back at him in such helpless, abject disappointment. "After all, everyone knows that Vulcans never lie. Isn't that right, Mr. Spock?"
It had always startled him just how easily Jim could harm him with only a few carefully chosen words.
Sensing it for the trap it was, Spock gave no response. Jim's lips thinned. His expression wavered between hurt and anger in equal measures. Only hours prior, Jim had been holding him, looking at him with such fondness, such affection. There was none of it to be seen now; only a sour bitterness that stretched a void between them. Shut doors indeed…
(Spock hated himself in that moment. He hated himself.)
"Right, right." Hammett waved a careless, dismissing hand, already gathering his PADD. "I suppose that settles it then. Commander, I suggest you start packing your winter gear. We'll meet in the transporter room in one hour."
Thank you all for reading! I apologize for the tardiness of the chapter. My hand is thankfully on the mend, but typing was a bit slower than I'm used to!
This was one of my favorite chapters to write so far, I think. I was getting some major second-hand dread from it and it put me in a phenomenal mood. I'll admit to having such a soft spot for the Seskille, terrible though they are for Spock. They are so unintentionally the villain in this, and everyone despises them (not that they understand hatred)! I adore them, though, the poor things!
There are a number of references made in this chapter, the most prominent two being the TOS episodes 'This Side of Paradise', as well as 'Journey to Babel'. There are a few mentions of 'Errand of Mercy' for the Organian Peace Treaty, and 'The Devil in the Dark' for the Horta and Janus VI. Also, as some of you might have noticed, the predicted chapter count has increased from 30 to 35. This is still a rough estimate, and it could easily be more. I've tried my best to assign scenes to chapters, but I also realize I'm just incredibly wordy. There's been plenty of times now where a scene that was meant to occupy a quarter of a chapter somehow turned into the whole thing. I've redone my outline upwards of fifty times now to accommodate it, and I daresay I'll likely have to do it again a few times over before the end of the story!
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Ashiv-tor — Repeat; to say again; to utter in duplication of another's utterance; to recite from memory.
Plak'tow — Blood fever; the final part of Pon Farr whereby the victim is rendered incapacitated and the only thought is to mate.
Yamareen — Hormone released during Pon Farr
T'hy'la — Friend, Brother, Lover.