REPOST: TOS A/U, 1/6, New Minglewood Blues, [PG13] K/S

[Killashdra]

[from Killa... hi all, I'm reposting this for Greywolf, please direct any
and all inquiries, feedback, or applause to him at grey...@snowcrest.net.
Thanks!]

New Minglewood Blues (sequel to Deep Elem Blues)
TOS A/U, K/S, h/c, part 1 of 6
PG-13 for Violence and Other Unpleasantness

Damn... Something else must be wrong. Spock had never
been out this long before, and he wasn't moving at all. He
was breathing well enough, but still... Jim fretted, pacing
endlessly in the tiny cabin, letting Dirhja fly herself.
Behind him the Vulcan lay motionless in his bunk, a safety
strap across his chest, just in case. The human wasn't sure
*what* else to do.
They'd named the ship Dirhja, after the traditional triple
edged Rihannsu vengeance blade. Spock had drawn the
characters, and Jim had painted them on the hull. It was
Jim's hope that one day she might live up to that Name, and
though that might once have been unthinkable -- in this,
Spock agreed with him. Neither of them knew what name
she'd carried before; the masters hadn't painted one on her
hull, and none of the onboard documents had mentioned one.
Hell, maybe they didn't even name their ships. Jim had
never heard *her* use any name but her own -- but Dirhja
didn't belong to her anymore, and humans -- and Vulcans --
*do* name *their* ships.
She was a sweet little ship, he had to admit. She was
warp-capable, up to about warp 8.5; she had heavy-duty
impulse drives -- what the fighter jocks used to call "long
legs" -- for sublight manoeuvres -- and a cloaking device,
similar to the Rihannsu one, but modulated somewhat
differently. So far no-one on either side of the Neutral Zone
had detected them as they passed by -- a useful attribute
given their new profession, that of smugglers. Dirhja had
phasers equivalent to Federation Type II, at a power level
commensurate with her size, and she had an autopilot that
was better than any Jim had ever seen before, now that he
knew how to use it properly.
He had Spock to thank for that. Over the last two
months, bit by bit, the Vulcan had hacked into and debugged
both the ship's operating system and the computer core
itself. He had encrypted all internal data flow. He had
found, and disarmed, a number of fairly sophisticated booby
traps that !M'zh!w*hee had left behind. Jim had known that
they must be there, but not how to find or remove them
safely. Spock hadn't so much as seen a computer during all
his years as a captive, but the knowledge had still been
there in his mind, once he had time and strength, and
freedom, to access it. He might not be able to speak very
well, but there was very little, even now, that he couldn't
get a computer to do.
One of the first things he'd done, after ensuring that they
were safe, was to modify the ship's vocal interface,
resetting it for normal human pitch and range. Jim hadn't
asked him to do that -- he did, after all, have a throat patch
and earpiece. With them, he could hear, and speak, in the
nearly ultrasonic range of the masters' speech, the same
range the ship had originally been programmed for. But he
hated that hardware. Every time he used it, it reminded him
all over again of what the masters had done to him -- to
both of them. And so, without a word, Spock had taken it
upon himself to make the change. For himself, when he had
to communicate with the ship, the Vulcan used the keyboard.
Even though the character set was foreign, that of the
masters' language, it was easier for him, and faster. Better
than sitting there fighting to find the right words, when in
a crisis every instant lost might prove disastrous. In any
case, for a long time that had been the only character set
either of them ever saw -- it had rather amused Jim, in a
dry and rueful way, that it was Standard which was now
difficult for him to read. It was coming back to him fast
enough, but the sensation was definitely an odd one.
They were inbound to the edge of Federation space right
now, crossing the Neutral Zone with a load of Rihannsu
pharmaceuticals. They had traded a hold full of salvaged,
outdated computers and hardware for it. It was their third
smuggling run, and if they could pull this off, they'd have
enough latinum for the phaser and deflector upgrades Jim
wanted. Dirhja was fast and sleek, but it wouldn't hurt a
bit to have her better defended. And they had other needs,
as well. Only now did he realize -- he'd never properly
appreciated his access to StarFleet's bottomless credit,
until it was gone. Out here on the Fringe, no-one used
credits at all. Replicators themselves were rare, and
costly. Had !M'zh!w*hee not already installed one, they
would originally have been unable to afford it. Transactions
here were either handled as barter, or else paid for in
latinum, which cost more energy to replicate than it was
worth. It was only on their most recent trip that they'd had
the funds to buy a branch replicator for the galley.
They could have made more money, of course, but there
were some goods that neither of them was willing to
handle, and some people with whom they refused to do
business. On that, both were agreed -- they would not carry
slaves, nor would they sell weapons, nor any of the slavers'
tools -- and they would not trade with the Orions, for what
supported them went in the end toward the masters. Their
culture was one of the Orions' biggest customers, maybe
*the* biggest. To himself, Jim had often wondered, during
the years he'd been a slave -- how could the Fleet, so often
engaged in battle with Orion pirates, not know of the
masters' existence? For that, he had no answer... Nor could
he answer the corollary: if the Fleet *did* know of the
masters, why did they not do anything about it? Slavery
was supposed to be anathema; no world that practiced it
was permitted Federation membership, and slavers were
pursued wherever they might be. Hell, at one time, he and
Spock had personally gotten the membership of the world of
Ardana suspended, based on the mistreatment of the zenite
miners by the dwellers in the cloud city, Stratos. Most
especially, no one was supposed to be able to just snatch
Federation citizens, and get away with it. Yet the masters
went untouched, though he and Spock had not been so
fortunate...
Neither of them seriously considered returning to the
Federation, now. Each, for his own reasons, preferred to
stay out here. Most importantly, people didn't ask awkward
questions out here, or look at you with pity in their eyes.
Out here, folks knew how to mind their own business.
Once or twice, of an evening, they'd talked of going back,
trying to fight the masters and break their power -- but
they were only two men, in one very small, stolen, ship.
How could it be done? Jim was hardwired against any
direct attack on them, and Spock certainly couldn't do it
alone. And how could they make sure, if the masters were
defeated, that the Orions wouldn't just move in and take
over? Neither had any ready answer for that. The Orions
were more cruel, and far more savage, than the languidly
decadent masters themselves. It was only the masters'
technology, in Jim's opinion, that allowed them to continue
their rule. In some ways, like the design of the wire in his
head, it was far ahead of the Federation's knowledge.
It was Orion guardsmen who'd nearly killed Spock, when
they were first captured -- hell, for years Jim had thought
that they *had* killed him. He had seen him fall in battle,
and felt his mind vanish into blackness and silence. For
years, he'd thought he was alone among his enemies -- until
!M'zh!w*hee happened to return to the place where she'd
bought him. There, against all his expectations, he'd felt
that touch upon his mind, which he'd never thought to feel
again, this side of Death. It was that knowledge, that
awareness that Spock *had* survived, that had finally given
his own mind the key to the prison in which he'd been held.
It had given him the incentive to stop dreaming about
freedom, and *do* something.
And they'd made it; they'd gotten away and stolen
!M'zh!w*hee's ship, to boot. But to this day, the Vulcan had
difficulty speaking, even in the mindtouch, and sometimes
he had seizures, as well. Jim knew damned well that *he*
would not have survived, had their places been reversed; the
injuries which had caused such damage would have been
fatal, to a human. And now he was starting to wonder just
how badly the Vulcan himself was affected.
It had been Spock's turn, this morning, to stand the
watch; Jim had been forced, after running on pure nerves for
several days, to reset the wire and take a desperately
needed rest. He hated to do that; with the wire tuned to
sleep mode, he was vulnerable, if anything went wrong. But
even with the wire, he was only mortal, and sometimes even
he had to crash for a while. He'd left Spock on watch at the
pilot's station, and set himself to sleep for eight hours, no
more. It was the longest time he'd allow himself, and he'd
have cut that down if he could have figured out how to do it,
and survive. Jim had absolutely no patience for his body's
needs; it was something that he and Spock still argued
about, on an ongoing basis. Just the same, every time he'd
crashed, he'd awakened to find that everything was fine, and
Spock was waiting to hand over the controls. But not this
time.
This time, as soon as the timer brought him back on-line,
he'd known that something was wrong. He could feel it, like
comm-static in the back of his head, a harsh discordant
buzz like a communicator with an internal short. He'd
skipped his usual wakeup routine and just tuned himself up
to battle readiness, not knowing what might be awaiting
him.
He'd found the Vulcan lying rigid on the deck, next to the
pilot station, all his muscles locked, back arched, his eyes
rolled so far back that only the whites showed, his teeth
gritted tightly shut -- unresponsive, and hardly breathing.
Cursing under his breath, Jim had run for the medkit, the
wire giving him unhuman speed and grace. It had helped him
keep his hands rock-steady, as he administered the
necessary shot, and enabled him to wait, outwardly calm,
for the minim or two it took for the shot to work, and the
seizure to stop. It had given him strength to burn, for long
enough to get Spock up, and strapped into a bunk. The
Vulcan weighed much less than he had, years before; even
now, after two months of freedom, he was still far too thin.
Often he was simply not hungry. It was another thing that
they argued about.
Only then did Jim tune himself back down and begin to
relax a little. It was the gift of his former owner, that
wire in his head; both curse, and blessing, inextricably
bound together. Without it, he could hardly function any
more; with it, he could make himself do damn near anything
he wanted. But it kept him away from all but the fringes of
Federation space. Anywhere that Federation law held sway,
wireheads were illegal -- even the one-shot drones who
settled for a wire to the pleasure center and left it at that.
It was a legacy of the horrors of Earth's, and Vulcan's,
pasts. By law, any Federation doctor who found such a thing
was obliged to remove it as best he could, and forward the
wirehead himself, if he survived, to a rehab colony. And
until the masters had made him one, Jim had always
approved of that law. There was nothing a person couldn't
be made to do, if he was wired correctly. Jim *knew*. But
now...
No thanks. Jim had visited rehab once or twice, during
his service in StarFleet. No doubt such places were
necessary -- but he had no intention of ending up in one. He
still remembered the horrors of Tantalus, under the smiling
and genial Dr. Adams. He hadn't escaped from slavery only
to re-enter the Federation equivalent. In a rehab colony,
he'd be under the microscope; he'd have to put up with the
therapists and their endless questions about how did he feel
and what was he thinking... He'd be watched, every minim of
every day, every single action scrutinized and analyzed till
hell wouldn't have it... He would be *alone* again. To hell
with that. Now that he finally had a modicum of freedom,
Jim was determined to keep it.
Still... In the end, he might have to take that chance. He
was no neurologist; he had no way to tell how serious
Spock's problem might be, and no idea how best to treat it.
He was worried about him. The Vulcan had had several of
these seizures in the time since their escape; Jim had seen
in his memory that he'd been having them for years. There
were large swathes of silver in that once-black hair, mute
testament to the savage beating he'd received at the hands
of the Orion slavers -- for trying to defend Jim.
But he'd never been out this long; usually he woke up
within an hour or two, at most. Jim didn't know what else
to do. The shot he had given him was from the emergency
kit; what would happen if they ran out? They didn't really
have the right kind of scanner on board, yet; most of their
medical equipment was still calibrated for the masters,
relatively useless for their own needs. It was one of many
things on the long list of items to be bought, when funds
permitted.
So in the end, he tried the only thing he could think of.
He sat on the edge of the bunk, leaned over, put his hands on
either side of the Vulcan's face, and concentrated. <<T'hy'la
-- it's me, Jim. You have to wake up now; you've been down
for too long...>> Further and further he reached, down and
into the darkness within, seeking the touch of the other's
thoughts -- and finally, some endless length of time later,
he found what he sought. No words, just an awareness that
he was there, a reaching back towards him.
Using the telepathic bond, that had grown between the
two of them during their early days on the Enterprise, the
human reached, stretched -- and having made contact, held
on. It was hard -- he felt himself stretched, somehow, very
thin; he could feel the ever-hungry Darkness all about him,
ready to devour them both, should either falter or lose his
way...
But Jim had the wire to drive him. The wire didn't care
how tired his body was, nor how low his reserves might be
-- it pushed him on, relentlessly, allowing him to
accomplish things no mere human could have done, unaided.
He held on, making of himself an anchor, pulling his friend's
spirit back from the depths where it had wandered. And
finally, after a time which seemed to last both forever and
no time at all, he opened sore and burning eyes to find Spock
looking up at him, the wide black eyes confused, not focused
-- but awake. One hand reached up and gripped Jim's,
tightly, for a moment, as if to check that he was real.
Jim let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding,
and rubbed at his eyes. That had been just a little too
damned close for comfort... He reached down and undid the
strap that had held the Vulcan safely in his bunk. Neither of
them, when awake, was comfortable under any kind of
restraint, and he could feel Spock's distaste as if it were
his own.
He stood up and stretched, hearing little popping noises
up and down his spine. He tuned the wire down some more
-- not too far, though, or he'd crash again, and he knew
damned well the Vulcan wasn't going to be up to much for a
while, yet. It always took him some time to recover, after
one of these episodes; at first he often couldn't speak at all,
and once he hadn't known who or where he was, for a few
panicked moments. It hurt to see that, and have no power to
help. One more reason, among many, to hate the masters,
and all that they stood for.
<< ...?...>> Spock frowned, unable, for the moment, to find
any words -- but Jim knew what he wanted. He reached for
the other's hand again, the contact making the mindtouch
almost effortless. The skin was rough under his fingers,
scarred from the years of hard labour the Vulcan had
survived before Jim found and rescued him. As always, it
seemed fever-hot -- but that was as it should be, Jim knew.
<<It's ok. You had another seizure, that's why your words
are gone. It'll pass, in a while -- they'll come back.>> At
least, they always had, so far. He looked down again, and
saw the long, thin fingers make the signs for "thank you".
He made a thumbs-up in return.
He wished he knew more about head injuries. Why was it
easier for Spock to use sign language? Why did spoken
words come so hard for the Vulcan, yet written or signed
speech take relatively little effort? There was so much he
didn't know, and he always wondered if perhaps there was
some simple treatment, of which he was ignorant. It was at
times like this that he really missed the third member of
their former triad, Leonard McCoy. That one had dragged
them both back from Death, times without number; if anyone
at all could have solved this problem, surely it was he...
But Len would be an old man, nowadays. He'd probably
left the Fleet years ago; he never did have much patience for
bureaucracy and rules... And he sure as hell wouldn't have
approved of the wire, or of Jim's decision to keep it. No,
that wasn't an answer, either. Jim sighed, and put it out of
his mind. He looked down again, at the face of his friend.
At least for now, they'd pulled it off again, sidestepped the
danger one more time...
<<I'd best go check the conn -- make sure we're still on
course... >> The Vulcan nodded, and pulled the blankets up to
his shoulders. He would probably sleep now, for a time --
but it would be true sleep, not that terrible *absence* of
this morning. It would help, as much as anything could. The
black eyes drifted closed, and soon enough Jim felt him fall
gently into dreams. He reached into his pocket, made the
doubt and the worry go away, and walked to the pilot's
station. There, he sat himself down and began to run the
systems check. The rest of it, he would deal with later...
*Sure, Jim.*

-----///-----

Dirhja beeped at him, and Jim looked up from the padd
he'd been doodling on -- ah, good. They'd just picked up the
outermost beacon for the Vortex, and scan was showing all
clear. There were no-one but a couple of merchanters
insystem right now, and one Klingon scoutship. That was
fine; as long as the Border Patrol or the Orions weren't here,
it was safe to decloak. He sent the customary coded squirt
signal, waited for the ship to decode the autoresponse, and
lowered their cloak. It looked good -- the port had assigned
them a perfect orbit, close enough for transporter range,
but far enough out to make a quick retreat possible, should
the need arise. Now all they had to do was wait for
M'Shaa'a's signal, and they could do their deal and get out.
The sound of quiet, limping footsteps reached him then,
telling him that Spock was up and about. He turned, and saw
the Vulcan take his customary seat at the copilot's station.
He looked a little paler than was usual for him, but seemed
otherwise unharmed.
"How do you feel?" Jim asked him.
"Better," was the answer. "It... has passed... " But Jim
could feel his frustration, as he tried to speak. He reached
into his pocket and retuned the wire, giving himself enough
of a boost to use mindtouch, instead. Depending on how high
he wanted to boost himself, and how thrashed he was
willing to be afterward, he could use it at quite a distance.
He had done so that first night at the mining colony, when
he'd found that Spock was still alive. Jim was no telepath;
he couldn't touch anyone else's thoughts in that way -- but
the Vulcan's mind was open to him, had been for many years.
There was a bond between them. Twelve years of
separation, and the worst the masters had thrown at them,
had not sufficed to break it.
<<You up for landing party duty?>> he asked. <<We're due
to meet M'Shaa'a at the Vortex Hole, in a couple of hours...>>
That was another advantage Dirhja gave them -- she could
be set to beam them both up again, without needing anyone
on board to run things -- and she could be coded and locked
so no other could do so. !M'zh!w*hee had been a cast-iron
bitch -- but she'd bought herself -- and, unwittingly, them
-- one very fine ship.
Spock shrugged, Vulcan style, the spreading of the
fingers. The black eyes were hooded, expressionless. <<I...
shall manage, Jim. There is... need.>>
Jim looked down at the pilot station controls for a
moment. He'd been thinking, the last couple of hours;
thinking about need, and responsibility, and duty to a
friend... He'd been too damned worried about what might
happen to *him* -- and it wasn't that simple. There were
more important things at stake.
<<Listen, Spock... I -- I've been thinking. Seems to me
this problem of yours is getting worse, not better... >>
The Vulcan turned away from studying the controls, to
look at him. <<It is... possible.>> He frowned, and for a
moment the look in the black eyes was bleak. Then his face
returned to that flat Vulcan non-expression he'd always
used in the old days, when he didn't want to think about
something. <<What is... is.>>
<<Not necessarily. I've done some checking; there's a
mining colony in the chu'Harr system, less than ten
lightyears away from here. They've got a pretty good
hospital; they get funding from StarFleet XenoMed -->>
Spock cut him off, in a flash of most un-Vulcan anger.
"No." Even now, his voice was still harsh, broken. For so
many years, he had not spoken at all... He sat bolt upright,
and as he went back to the mindspeech, his hands moved, as
they often did when he was disturbed, in the twisting,
fluttering signed speech he had learned as a slave.
<<No... StarFleet hospitals, Jim. I... will... not go.>>
<<Dammit -- *why*?>>
<<I will not go.>> Jim scowled fiercely, and refused to
look away. The two of them glared at one another for a
while.
Finally, Jim reached for his control, and *made* his
mood lighter. Then he tried again. <<T'hy'la -- don't shut me
out... Why won't you even consider this? You know as well
as I do that something's wrong...>> The Vulcan stared out at
the stars, his hands laced together in his lap. Jim could
feel the care with which he organized his thoughts, before
he replied.
Even then, he had to fight for the words. <<It is... There
are... >> He sighed, and turned back to meet Jim's gaze.
<<Jim -- if I went... We are thought... dead. I cannot -- I do
not ....want... >> He hesitated, but Jim just went on looking
at him, his face and his thoughts kept carefully neutral,
waiting.
Spock tried again. <<I do not... wish my family... to know
of this.>> He gestured toward himself, the gesture taking in
the scars on his face and hands, the collar-gall about his
neck -- the damaged leg, all the rest of it. And Jim
remembered that Vulcan had never been conquered within
their collective memory, a record which went back,
uninterrupted, for thousands of years. Slavery had been
unknown on that world since the days of the mind-lords,
before the time of Surak. <<I am thought... to be dead. They
have already... grieved for me, and moved on. Let it... stay
so. A Federation hospital... will know, who we are. Who...
we were. There will be... inquiries, questions... Old wounds,
reopened. And we... we do not know that *anything*... can be
done. I prefer to retain... my Privacy.>> He had spent too
many years without it.
Jim sighed. The worst of it was, he *did* understand.
He felt the same way. He had little remaining family but
his nephew, Peter, only survivor of his brother Sam's Line
-- but Peter had sworn from childhood on that he would
follow in his uncle's footsteps and join the Fleet. What
would it do to that idealistic young man, if he were to learn
that his beloved uncle was not only a wirehead, but
determined to stay that way? How could he ever explain it?
How could anyone who hadn't felt the damned thing
understand? The only one who did understand was Spock,
and that was only because he *could* feel what it was
like...
"Well, shit," he muttered, under his breath.
That got him a raised eyebrow, and the comment, <<As...
a debating tactic, Jim... that leaves -- somewhat to be
desired...>> The very smallest of smiles flickered across the
black eyes, then. Though his concern was real, Jim had to
laugh.
He looked up and smiled, admitting defeat -- for now.
<<Whoever said cats were the stubbornest animal sure as
hell never met any Vulcans!>>
<<Perhaps not... >>

-----///-----

End of part one.

Greywolf the Wanderer
--borrowing Zepp's account.
--mail me at grey...@snowcrest.net