Deep Elem Blues (TOS, 2/2) for Greywolf

[Aleph Press]

This is being posted for Greywolf (ze...@snowcrest.net), and I'm posting
it from here rather than my new archive account because of tech
difficulties with my newsreader.

From: ze...@snowcrest.net (Zepp)
To: al...@netcom.com
Subject: NEW: TOS A/U; K/S; h/c "Deep Elem Blues", 2/2

<Greywolf clears throat, says:>
This is part 2, for disclaimers and rating info, see Part 1. All
Praise to the Archivist, the Poster of Stories!!

(This is for Jess, for writing "Beside the Wells", thereby
giving me the balls to finally write *this* one down.)

Deep Elem Blues, 2/2

(TOS A/U; K/S; h/c; PG13 for violence, mostly)

The man in the cage lay dreaming, and in the dream, a pair of
hazel eyes watched, from over his shoulder; the images of the
dream showing what he still had no words to tell.

...reaching up, his hands sore and broken, to feel the collar,
cold and hard, about his neck. Trying to pull it off; and a
shockrod reaches through the bars and knocks him flat. A
sneering, green-skinned guardsman taps the rod against the bars,
and walks away. He is in a cage, in a bare, chilly room that is
lined with stalls and cages. In the stalls are beasts of
burden; in each cage, a sick or injured hominid. None are of
his kind; most are smaller than he, light-boned and dark of
skin. No-one speaks, though he can hear a twittering in the
background, somewhere. He leaves the collar alone for a while,
and examines himself -- he is injured, as if from a fight. His
face is swollen and damaged; he can only open one eye. Bruises
and scrapes abound, some of his ribs are broken, and there is
some sort of poultice bound about his head. He is dressed in
something soft and worn, a nondescript dark grey. Neither the
clothes nor his surroundings are at all familiar; he has never
seen any of it before. His wounds are clean, and have been
smeared with ointment; there is clean water in a pan on the cage
floor, but there is no food. The only bedding is two thin and
shabby blankets, crumpled in the corner where he lies. It is as
if he were an animal, in a veterinary hospital. He cannot
remember how he came to be here.

He feels strange, dreamy and disconnected. He realizes that
he has been drugged, perhaps for some time. Somewhere in the back
of his mind is worry, and fear -- and... grief? He cannot seem
to concentrate; as he reaches for the knowledge it falls apart
and vanishes, leaving him confused, but oddly unconcerned.
There is something he should be doing, but he cannot remember
what it is... Easier just to curl up again, and let the
darkness take him.

Fragments of memories... An image, mostly dark -- the cockpit
of a small ship, lit only by red and yellow lights -- and a few,
only a very few, still green. Once more his hands move as he
sleeps on, unaware, but now their movements are quick, precise,
manipulating remembered controls that are surely dust and gone,
by now. For just a moment, he gets the viewscreen working again
-- just in time to show the incoming salvo that will finish
them. He looks up, to meet the other's worried hazel eyes --
there is nothing more that can be done.

...one of the first sessions with the questioners. Something
kept going wrong, inside his head -- he'd forgotten, how bad
that used to be. Every time they turned their machines on him,
all his muscles locked and he lost consciousness. Even through
the fog of confusion and pain, he could feel their frustration.
He barely noticed. He kept listening for something else, and
not finding it -- and that lack hurt him more surely than any
blow of boot, or fist.

A room, all white and chrome, gleaming and spotless. More
cages, each with its single occupant. Many were in restraints
of some kind; a few were on life support. The gradual panicked
realization that he couldn't move *at all*...

<<No.>> Startled by that comment, he awoke. A quick look
around showed everyone asleep in their cages, the familiar
grubby walls of the animal hospital. There was no chrome in
this place; nothing here had been painted in years...

<< ...??... >> *That* memory wasn't one of his...

<<I'm -- I'm sorry, Spock. I keep waking you up, and you need
your sleep.>> Again that feeling of shame surrounded the hazel
eyes; beneath it he could feel a steely determination. <<I need
some sleep, too,>> the voice in his head continued. <<We can
talk more tomorrow -- I'll be here for a while, yet.>>

In the cage, the black-haired man sat up, and pulled his
blankets up around him. Even in the dark, he could see his
breath condensing in the cold, still air. He shivered, and
curled himself back up again, as tightly as he could. He
frowned, finally finding some of the words he needed.

<< ...Jim. I -- remember. Tomorrow?>>

<<Tomorrow. Get some sleep, ok?>>

<<I... will.>> Acknowledgement came; then the contact
diminished again, until it was just a mutual awareness of one
another's existence. The ache in his head was almost gone, now.
He pulled the edge of the blankets up over his face; and
slowly, very slowly, he began to get warm, and to relax. After
a time, he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Elsewhere, the man who had once been Captain James T. Kirk of
the Federation StarFleet showed his teeth to the night. Tamed
lightning danced in the cores of his eyes.

*Sleep well, t'hy'la. Gods know, you need it.* Fingers
curled, unnoticed, into fists. *I don't know how, yet -- but I
know this much. I'm not leaving here without you again.*
Fingertips danced across control pads, with the ease of long
practice. He felt one short, sharp jolt of pain, as the field
retuned. Then the fierce hazel eyes snapped shut, and welcome
sleep washed all of it away -- the anger, and the shame -- and
the worry, over what he would have to do.

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

It was still cold and dark, when !Mzh!w*hee Called him to her
side. It didn't matter. The Caller did its work, and his
nerves, long-trained, brought him to her alert and aware, with
just the slightest of tremors thrumming through his brain. He
knelt, as he had learned, over the years, to do, and offered her
the control. She had her own, Master's unit, of course -- but
it pleased her, to see him so, and when pleased, sometimes she
was merciful, as much as was in her to be.

Once, he had sworn that he would die before any could break
him to their will -- but the long, weary years and the wire's cruel
and subtle grip had taken that freedom from him, years ago.
Property did not die here without permission, and permission was
never granted. The last time he'd tried to kill himself had
cost him months of pain and weakness, a seemingly endless time
when only the wire permitted him to function at all -- and done
him absolutely no good.

And then she'd decided to return to this place, and of course
nothing would do but that he must accompany her. She'd heard
there was a new shipment; she needed more labourers for her
estates... It wasn't until they'd arrived that he had looked
around, and known what place this was. Here it was that Spock
had died, trying to defend him from the Orion guards. Here it
was that the masters' accursed surgeons had taken his freedom,
his will -- even his very soul -- from him. Here it was that
they had taught him the real meaning of captivity; how it was to
be played like an instrument, imprisoned not by bars and locks,
but by his own mind and body, traitorously turned against him.

Only a quick dance of fingers upon his control had saved him
from vomiting in front of her, and the punishment that would
have brought. A few swift taps of a fingertip, a slide -- and
blessed numbness had wrapped him, safe and calm, within the
wire's sly counterfeit of peace.

Oh, it was a *good* trap, that wire -- with it, he could be
anything she allowed. It held pleasure, or pain; sleep, or that
total humming alertness once reserved for a dance along the very
edge of Death. With the wire, he could force his nerves and
body to fulfill her needs, in ways he'd never thought were
possible. He could turn nausea into passion, pain into
pleasure... He could go without sleep till he fried his very
nerves, if need be. He could do anything.

But he couldn't live without it, any more. It had controlled
his every mood, every sensation, for so long... Once, perhaps a
year ago, as punishment for some imagined wrong, she had powered
it off, taken his control, and left him caged. By nightfall he
was convinced that he would die; by morning, he knew he wasn't
going to be that lucky. She'd left him there like that for
three days; three thousand years of reeking, shivering, soiled
and desperate Hell. And when at last she'd returned, unlocked
the cage, and handed him the control again, he had knelt before
her, still trembling, in full submission, the ashen taste of
total defeat cold and bitter in his throat. Pride, after all,
was a luxury possessed by free men, and there was no-one like
that, here.

But he had endured. She taught him ways to use the wire for
his own pleasure, as well as hers. The controller would not
permit some things, but others he was allowed. He grew skilled,
and therefore grew in value -- and slowly, very slowly, he came
to understand exactly what the wire was, and how it did its
work. Only a week ago, he'd finally figured out a possible way
to cheat the control, and give himself to Death -- and then
they'd come here, and in dreams that first night, he'd felt that
touch within his mind, which he'd thought was gone forever. It
was faint, and hard to read; damaged, even as he was himself --
but it was unmistakable. Somewhere in this cold, accursed
place, was Spock -- t'hy'la -- the man he'd thought had died for
him, all those years ago.

And suddenly, everything changed.

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

It was time to run the scans again. Jim walked over to what
he thought of as the ops console; he concentrated for a moment, and
the memory of what to do came sharply into focus. Now he was
glad of all the times her vanity had kept him here, immobile,
while her crew carried out her duties. That, and the hyperaware
focus the wire let him reach on demand, were making their escape
possible.

Years before, preferring the spoken word to the signed speech
of the other slaves, she'd had him fitted with a throat patch
and earpiece, that he might hear her words and respond in kind,
for unaided, their speech was far above his range. For this,
she was accounted mildly perverse among the other masters, and
thereby gained some measure of status in their intricate and
deadly game of politics and plots. He had loathed it at the
time, as he loathed almost everything of hers -- but now, it
just might save their lives. He *knew* her, almost as well as
he knew himself. He was sure she'd left booby traps in ship's
operating system -- but ship still thought he was one of them.
He sounded right, he knew the right codes -- and none of the
traps had sprung.

Scan showed negative, as it had since their departure.
Hopefully it would stay that way.

He wondered, for a moment, what had become of her, whether or
not she could track them through ship's cloak. He didn't think
so, but there was nothing he could do but put as much distance
between them as possible. He'd already made a series of course
changes, hoping to fool any who sought to guess their path.

He had tried, the night they left, to kill her. Oh, gods, he
had tried -- he had stood beside her bed, shaking and sweating
and trying not to puke, with her laser in his hand, for what
felt like forever. But the wire did not permit it; that
limitation was hard-wired in, not susceptible to reprogramming.
It had almost been beyond him even to give her the drug, to
knock her out -- the conflict between what was permitted and
what he needed to do had left him shaking and dizzy for hours
afterwards. Only the knowledge he had gained, at such cost,
over the years, had given him the key, the way to tune himself
so he could ignore at least that part of the commands. And he'd
managed. He'd made it out of her quarters and across the
compound unobserved, the wire making him cat-quick and silent as
a ghost.

Part of it was luck, of course. The masters were complacent;
there hadn't been an organized rebellion in nearly a century,
and even individual rebellion was practically unheard of. There
had been no alarms on the animal hospital; no sensors to betray
him as he cut through the lock on Spock's cage with the laser.
Evading the compound's guards had been child's play -- he'd
tuned himself up so sharp and so high that they seemed to crawl
in slow motion as they made their rounds. Seeing so clearly, he
had found the gaps in their pattern, through which they made
their escape. He would pay for it later, of course, he always
did -- but he didn't care about that.

Jealous of their power as the masters were, none of the
overseers dared question why !Mzh!w*hee wished to launch at such
an hour. It *was* her scheduled day of departure, after all.
No call was made to the barracks where her crew was sleeping; it
was presumed that they were already aboard. She was dangerous
to annoy; even the overseers trembled before her. So it was
that he used their ways against them, and got Spock and himself
away.

But oh, gods, he wished he could have killed her. Maybe then
he'd have *felt* more like a free man...

For a moment, despair overwhelmed him, the crushing weight of
the future threatening to drown him. He couldn't bear to face
that, so he made it go away; tap, tap, slide, and peace washed
through him, blessed calm returned. With the terrible ease of
too many years of practice, he put it all away. Some other
time, he'd deal with that. For now, he had work to do.

*Sure, Jim.*

Something moved, then, at the edge of his vision, and he
whipped around, lightning fast -- but it was only Spock, asleep,
talking with his hands again. Jim could feel fear, desperation;
he sighed, and reached to take the other's hand. The physical
contact showed him what the dream was -- it was the questioners
again, the feeling of being alone and without hope. Jim knelt,
and put his hands on either side of the Vulcan's face, reaching
through the bond between them, to pull the dream away.

<<It's only a dream, Spock -- feel this. *Know* this --
they're far behind us now. We are free, and we're *never* going
back there!>> Scarred and hesitant fingers reached for his own
face; wide black eyes flickered open and locked their gaze with
his. And slowly it passed, as awareness returned and the dream
broke apart.

<<Jim... >> Spock drew a breath, slowly, feeling his nerves
steady down. <<I was -- I thought... I was still -->> Even
over the bond, he still had to fight for words. Jim could feel
his frustration, as what should have been easy took such effort.
It was easier than it had been, but he had a long way to go,
yet. He had lost the mind rules; he wasn't controlling his
pain, and he couldn't go into the healing trance. He needed
specialized treatment, and Jim didn't have the knowledge for
that. He could use the gig's autodoc to treat simple physical
injuries, but this -- this was out of his league. All he could
hope for was that time, and rest, and his friend's own strength,
could heal him in the end. Jim himself didn't dare go near a
hospital -- there was no way they'd let him keep the wire, and
he doubted he'd survive the loss of it.

"Hey, don't worry about it -- I've had those dreams myself,
enough times." He spoke aloud, relishing the chance to speak
normally for once, without using the hardware. "Listen, I
thought you'd like to know -- we've been under way for 12 hours
now, and there's no sign of them on scan." Spock frowned for a
moment, and then replied, his own voice still a harsh whisper.

"I -- thank you. It is... it is good, to know that." Then he
got up, careful of his bad leg, and went to get himself a cup of
tea.

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

Jim was in trouble. He could *feel* it. The human had been
running on pure nerves for days now, aided somehow by the device
that he carried. He couldn't quite see what it was; somehow Jim
always managed to keep a hand over it, if it wasn't tucked into
a pocket. But he could feel the results -- a fine-drawn edge of
nervous energy, maintained, somehow, long past the point where
anyone else would have collapsed.

Once or twice he'd tried to bring it up, picking out the words
in his slow and careful way, but Jim would have none of that.
He simply changed the subject, or bounced out of his seat and
pretended to be busy with ship's controls. Spock did not
understand -- if it was so obvious to him, how could the human
not see it also?

For himself, the Vulcan felt much better. He had eaten his
fill, several times; he had slept luxuriously, spent far too
long in the 'fresher -- comforts he'd not had access to in
years. Jim had laughed, at one point, on finding him asleep on
the deck, but he had been more comfortable that way. The bed
was *too* soft and giving; he had finally put the bedding down
on the floor, where he slept like a dead man. He was warm
enough, and clean -- and his body was beginning to heal, a
little. Between the rest and good food, and the treatments Jim
had been able to administer, he was getting stronger every day.
This morning, he had asked Jim to cut down on his pain medicine,
and was encouraged to find that his discomfort was only mild, at
worst. That alone was amazing; he had hurt for so long, he'd
forgotten what it was like *not* to. His thoughts were growing
clearer all the time; he was walking better than he had in years.

Even his words were beginning to come a little easier, with
practice -- not as freely as the signed speech, but enough to
communicate, at least.

But Jim -- Jim was burning himself up. Somehow he just kept
going, on and on and on. His hands had developed a fine tremor;
his face was pale, save for great dark hollows about the eyes.
He wasn't eating at all, as far as Spock could see, and it had
been four days since they made their escape. Four days, in
which, every time he woke, he saw Jim, hunched over the
controls; four days of running, cloaked and silent, through
first the masters' territory, and then the fringes of Rihannsu
space. How much longer could he keep this up?

Finally the Vulcan took matters into his own hands. The human
was at the conn again, working their way through a tricky little
debris swarm -- an asteroid belt, really, but without a sun to
call its own. They came to the end of it, and he let his hands
fall to his knees and just sat, staring vacantly at the screen.
He didn't seem to notice, when Spock sat down at the copilot's
station.

So he reached out and took Jim's hand, and held it between his
own. Touching in that way, he could feel the depth of the
other's exhaustion, along with the strangeness of whatever was
driving him. An image of a piece of wire came into his mind,
but he did not understand what it meant. He just stayed there,
until finally the human dropped his gaze from the screen and
turned to face him. His face looked more like that of a skull,
than a man. Spock met his gaze, and reached cautiously for the
right words.

"T'hy'la -- enough. It is... enough; stop this."

Bloodshot hazel eyes locked on to worried black ones, and the
weight of the other man's despair hit Spock like a thunderbolt.
The breath caught in his throat; there was so much of it --
despair, and shame, a black hatred of the masters, loathing for
himself... and underneath it all, that strange, driving energy,
like an engine running near its redline... For a moment, it was
all he could do not to tear his hands away and shield his
thoughts. But he did not. He kept his shields down, despite
the flood of sensations, trying to make Jim *see* --

<<No.>> He made his thoughts as clear as he could; this was
no time for the amibiguities of spoken words. <<You are *not* like
them.>> He looked down for an instant, then forced himself to
meet Jim's eyes again. <<Jim, I... I, also, hate them. But if
you... kill yourself, t'hy'la -- they win.>> And he held that
thought, and his knowledge that it was true, in a place where
the human could not ignore it.

Jim dropped his eyes and looked away.

<<You don't know what they did.>> The thought was bleak,
bitter. <<You don't know what I am.>>

<<No. But I do not care. You have... given me back my
life.>> He pointed toward his neck, finally freed from the cold iron
of the collar. <<For the rest... >> And another small piece of
his past returned to him, an idea from his birth tongue,
<<Kaiidth! What is, is. It is... done. You are still t'hy'la.>>
The human stared at the floor for a time; then he met Spock's
gaze again, and smiled, a tight, bitter grimace.

<<Am I?>> he thought. <<Watch, then, and learn.>> And he
pulled a small device from his pocket, held it on his open palm.
It was a remote control of some sort, a smooth, oval blackness,
studded with miniature control surfaces. He curled his fingers
over it, made one quick, sliding tap on its surface --

-- and the despair was gone, in an instant, as if it had never
been. He tapped it again, and the mood returned, full force.
He did something else, and Spock felt it lift, just so far, and
stop. It was more bearable now.

<<There. No point in making you feel it, too.>> He dropped
it into his pocket again. <<I'm wired, Spock. I can do whatever I
have to do -- but it's all a fake. Smoke and mirrors...>> He
tried to block their contact, then, but it was too late -- the
Vulcan had seen the rest of it in one sharp intuitive flash;
!Mzh!w*hee, the surgeons, the things she had made him do -- and
the time she had taken it all away.

Jim's mindtouch shimmered with returning pain. <<I can't
function any more, without this -- this *thing*. *You* saw,
what I turned into without it. How can you tell me that you
value *this*?>> And Spock saw another part of it, then, the
thought that burning himself up would solve it once and for all.
He did the only thing he could think of; he dropped the last of
his shields and left himself open, undefended.

<<Because I do.>> He reached out, touching one finger to the
human's cheek for just an instant. <<That "wire" -- changes
nothing.>> He hesitated, reaching for the proper words. He had
to get this right. <<There is... a link, between us -- a bond,
as... my people would say. How could I *not* value that?>> And
he sent an image of his own, then -- how it had been to be
alone, and counted of less worth than any herd beast. <<You...
came back for me.>>

<<But I could have done it so much sooner!>> came the
thought, and the harsh self-loathing. In the human's mind, he saw
regret, for all that he had endured, for the years of wasted
time. He answered the only way he could.

<<Could you? You... saw me die. Felt me die. Were they...>>
He lost the words for a moment, had to fight to get them back.
<<...were they so careless, then? Or... were you watched, as I
was, close-held... through every minute? I -- can *see* it,
Jim. I will not judge thee. If this... if this were... a test,
then... I failed, too.>> And he made Jim see, how it had been
with him. They had named him beast, and he had accepted it --
and in many ways, it had been true. It had been all that he
could do to survive at all. <<It was the same... for you. We
did as... we had to. We... survived.>>

There was silence then, and a fierce scowl on the human's face
as he thought it over. Spock waited, quietly. He had argued as
well as he could; now it was for Jim, to choose what he would do.

He waited. He glanced around the gig's cockpit, noting red
lights across the board -- and remembered that to the masters,
that was the equivalent of green lights aboard any Federation
ship. They were still running cloaked; in that mode, engine
noise was minimal, and the loudest sound he could hear was his
own breathing.

He didn't know where they could go, from here. They had been
StarFleet officers, once -- but Jim could never return to that,
not with the wire in him. And he realized that he did not want
to rejoin StarFleet, without the human. It would not be the
same -- and in truth, he didn't know if he could pass the entry
exams, in his current condition. He was not eager to try, or to
see, perhaps, pity, on the faces of those he had known before.

Everyone thought the two of them were dead. Perhaps it might
be best to leave it that way. He didn't know. If he returned
to Vulcan, they might be able to help him regain what he had
lost -- but at what cost? He had never really felt that he
belonged on that world, never been accepted as one of them. How
much more so would he be outcaste now? And for Jim to go there
-- no. The wire was an abomination, by Vulcan tradition. They
would never agree to let him live there, without trying to
remove it -- and that choice was not theirs to make. No.
Vulcan was not an option. Surely there were places where the
two of them could go, honourable ways to earn themselves a
living. Surely there were other places where he could get the
help he needed...

Finally, after what seemed like a long time, Jim stirred, and
met his gaze again. There was a look on his face that could
almost have been called a real smile. He spoke, his voice soft
but clear, in the quiet cockpit.

"I don't know if you remember this -- Omicron Ceti III? The
spores?" Spock thought about it, and realized that he did
remember, somewhat dimly, now that he had been reminded of it.
It had been the first time in his life that he was truly happy
-- and he had left it behind, willingly, for this man had needed him.
He nodded.

"So," said Jim. "Remember me asking you, if we were both in
the brig for fighting, who was going to get the job done? I
guess maybe this is the same kind of thing..." And now he did
smile. "You're a stubborn man, Spock -- did I ever tell you
that?" The Vulcan made a show of considering it.

"I believe... that you did," he said. His voice was still
scratchy and hoarse. "I -- have found it... a necessary
attribute... " The very tiniest of smiles might have crossed
his face. Then he reached for the human's hand once more. It
was still hard, to speak aloud for very long.

<<Now, t'hy'la -- will you sleep? It would... be wise, to do
so.>> And he showed Jim then, what he looked like. <<If... if
you would live, then you must rest... >>

Jim scowled, and Spock could see that it worried him, the idea
of letting go like that -- but they both knew it was necessary.
Eventually, he took the control out of his pocket. His fingers
danced across the pads a moment; then he looked up.

"You're right, dammit. I don't like it -- but you're right."
He got up and walked to one of the bunks in the back; Spock
followed him. He sat down on the bunk, and set the control on
the single small shelf by his head.

"OK. Now listen -- when I do this, I'm going to crash, hard.
You won't be able to wake me up easily, maybe not at all. Can't
be helped. But you have to promise me this -- if anything goes
wrong," and he pointed to a single stud at the control's center,
"you'll hit this, and wake me up. That'll do it. And don't
worry about messing me up; I've locked out all the rest of it.
If nothing happens, it's set to wake me by itself, in about
eight hours.

"Will you promise me that?"

Spock didn't much like it, but he knew Jim was right. Ship
didn't recognize Spock, and he didn't know either the codes, or
the controls. If something happened, Jim would be the only one
who could fly them to safety. He said,

"I... agree." And then, feeling something else was called
for, " ...sleep well, t'hy'la."

The human swung his feet up and stretched out. He reached up
and tapped the control, just once -- and was gone, instantly.
One brief spasm rippled through his body, and then he went limp
and started to snore. The Vulcan watched him for a time, then
pulled the blankets over his legs, and returned to the cockpit.
There he sat down again, to watch the stars, and think.

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

So, that's the story... Let me know what ye think of it, an' it
please ye to do so...

We now return ye to our regularly scheduled postings, already in
progress...

Greywolf the Wanderer, borrowing zepp's account
"Listen, as the wind blows, from across the Great Divide
Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time
The Night is my companion, and solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here, and not be satisfied?"
--Sarah McLachlan, "Possession"
Ding Dong, the Deng is Dead!

--
"These are only my opinions. If they were the gospel truth, your bushes
would be burning." -- Nancy Lebowitz button

"Freedom of religion includes freedom from religion." -- My favorite
bumper sticker

-- Alara Rogers, Aleph Press
al...@netcom.com

All Aleph Press stories are available at ftp.netcom.com /pub/al/aleph.

[Judygran]

Wonderful story! Chilling, haunting, well done. Kirk, addicted to an
artificial stimulator? Boggles the mind, but you did it most believably.
The aliens are fascinating and original. Their motives are a bit obscure,
but that's the way it usually is in hurt/comfort stories.

Please get busy on the sequel, Greywolf. I can't wait to see why they go
from here.

Judith

[mik...@asiaonline.net.tw]

Excellent story! Bravo!