REV2: TOS A/U Deep Elem Blues, K/S h/c 2/3 [PG13]

[Greywolf the Wanderer]

Here's the second part. For disclaimers and such, see part 1.

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

Deep Elem Blues, part 2 of 3
(TOS A/U; K/S; h/c)
(PG-13, for Violence and Other Unpleasantness)

Four hours to sunrise. It was time. He had managed to
steal what he needed earlier, right under the noses of the drunken
overseers, who just laughed when he'd told them his Lady had
sent him to bring her more wine.
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.
The guards let him fetch a bottle and carry it out. They
were so busy watching the arena broadcast, a recap of the recent
Rihannsu Year Games, that they never even saw him steal the
injector from the office medkit.
The sedative was a safe one for her, he knew -- he had
heard the Orions laughing together one night, at her estate, about
how certain of the masters found the drug's aftereffect not only
pleasant, but arousing. Some of them used it fairly often, to
hear the guards tell of it.
That was very important, that it be something safe.
She lay sleeping, even now. She had been especially
demanding tonight. Jim was sore, and he was *tired*. None of that
mattered.
It was the work of but moments to retune the wire, and now
he felt young and strong again, fiercely alert, and *alive*. He
lived for these moments. He paid for them afterwards, of course
-- it was still *his* energy and strength the wire drew on.
Tomorrow he would be exhausted and ravenously hungry. That
didn't matter, either.
He walked up to her bed, injector in hand -- and dizziness
and nausea roared through his flesh. It was all he could do to
remain standing; he nearly dropped the injector. He ended up on
his knees beside her, shaking and sweating, and trying not to
puke.
It was the wire, of course.
Years before, when he was newly wired and not yet trained,
he'd thought to kill her and so to gain his freedom. When he'd
raised the knife, the wire had given him a jolt that laid him
out for most of a day. And at the end of that, *she* had been
waiting, to punish him.
The limitation, she had told him, was hard-wired in. He
could not kill any master, nor could he harm one. And then she
had spent the rest of an endless night demonstrating his
helplessness to him, in every way. Her, and the sneering Orions
of her personal guard. Even the memory of it made him feel ill
all over again.
But he *had* to do this. Nothing in his life had ever been
more important. She was scheduled to take her property,
including him, and lift off later today -- and he couldn't let
that happen. Couldn't leave Spock behind again. No. Not now.
Never again. So he moved into a cross-legged position, put the
injector down, and thought it out.
He already knew the sedative was a safe one for her. To
him it would have been a deadly poison; to her, it was no more than
a restful night's sleep, and a pleasant randiness the following
day. So giving her the shot would not do her any harm.... It
must be because he hadn't been *told* to do so, that the wire
was causing problems. He might be able to work around that.
He took his control out of his pocket again, picked up the
injector, and when the shakes began, he very delicately adjusted
his settings, one tiny attribute at a time. Jim had no idea how
many possible settings the wire had; he himself knew of several
thousand, and her master's control no doubt had more than that.
Finally he was able to stand again, and keep the injector
steady. He felt very odd -- distant, somehow, and rather
floaty. It was hard to remember what he'd wanted to do, for a
while. But in the end he was able to lean down and very
delicately give her the shot.
She stirred, and mumbled something in her sleep, and for a
moment he could not move, nor breathe. But the moment passed;
as the drug took effect her already loose posture relaxed
considerably. She slumped as if boneless, and began to snore.
Relief made him dizzy again, but only for a moment. Now, he
could make his other preparations.
Ship keys -- ah. There. She never let those out of her
sight. He knew for a fact that there were no others.
His medkit, the one she used when she got a little too rough
and injured him. It was not an uncommon occurrence.
Her sidearm -- an antique laser pistol, of impressive power.
He picked that up, and walked to the bed again, just wishing...
-- and he doubled over in pain, as violent cramping nausea
twisted his insides. He gritted his teeth and thought about
raising the pistol --
--and woke up some minims later, on the floor, the sweet
metallic taste of blood choking him. His nose was bleeding, a
slow steady drip. He left the pistol and walked into the
fresher. It took him nearly 20 minims to make it stop. He had
to sit still that whole time.
So. That was out. Damn. He *wanted* to kill her.
*Needed* to kill her. Needed to exorcise her from his soul. But
the wire would not permit it.
He hated her. He had hated her for a long time. For good
reason, he feared her -- her capricious temper, the wide streak
of willful cruelty in her. And yet... In some odd fashion, she
had gotten under his skin, over the all the long years. As
*her* pet, he had been spared most of the more random cruelty of
the Orions. She had even nursed him, a time or two, when
illness or injury had laid him lower than the wire could help...
For this, too, she was accounted perverse among her fellows.
Inasmuch as she cared for any living thing besides herself --
and that was debatable -- she did care, in her own strange way,
for him. If only because he was her pet, and her favourite
bed-toy.
!M'zh!w*hee was cruel. She was vicious. She was
manipulative, arrogant, hateful in many ways. She was a
gods-be-damned slaver. But she had also been, for many years, his
only refuge. She had taught him of pleasure, as well as of pain.
But as he sat, and thought, and waited for the bleeding to
stop, he remembered the other times. Times when she had
shrieked in rage, used the wire against him, even once or twice
given him to the guards for a night, given them his control.
They had been forbidden only to kill or cripple him, though he
had wished, endlessly, for death's release.
And then there was Spock. The Vulcan was here, somewhere;
Jim even knew more or less in what direction. He would not be hard
to find, in this primitive place. Spock. Still alive, against
all odds -- but hurt. Damaged, somehow. His mindtouch had been
faint, faltering, full of fear and uncertainty. If not for the
wire, Jim doubted he could have spoken to him at all. The first
few dreaming nights here, all there he had seen were images, and
those faint and confused. He hadn't dared let himself believe
it was real, not at first.
Still. Spock was alive, and he was *here*.
For twelve years, Jim Kirk had mourned for the wise and gentle
friend who had died trying to defend him. For twelve years, he
had known that he was lost. Alone, among his enemies, far from
home, away from anything or anyone he had ever known.
!M'zh!w*hee had bought him from the Orions, had paid for the
wire, had showed him beyond any doubt, time and again, that he
was helpless here, dependent on her whims for even the air he
breathed.
Until she had brought him *here* with her. And something had
exploded inside his head, like a mortar round. Something he'd
thought he'd lost, all those years ago. Spock was *alive*. And
somehow none of the rest of it mattered so much, knowing that.
The bleeding had stopped, finally. He scowled at himself in
the mirror. A shopworn human male; older, paler and thinner
than he once had been. He'd lost some of his remaining hair,
over the years -- and the augments he had once prized had fallen
out, long ago. The flat woven band of chain around his neck
bore a plaque, emblazoned with *her* sigil. The clothes he wore
-- skintight, shimmering silver catsuit and slippers -- marked
him as what he was.
That didn't matter either, he told himself fiercely.
He almost believed it.

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

Part of it was pure luck, of course. The masters were
complacent; there hadn't been an organized slave rebellion in
nearly a century, and even individual rebellion was practically
unknown. Add to that the shoddy discipline and poor morale of
the Orion guard force, and he was halfway there already.
Slipping out of her quarters was easy. The doorguard was
slouched against the wall, reeking of cheap wine and snoring.
Jim smiled fiercely, thinking of this same guard later, facing
*her* wrath. Sonofabitch had it coming. Damn straight.
For a moment he felt shamed; his feeling for the green-skinned
guards was damned close to racist in nature. But he knew they
weren't *all* like that. Times past, when he still wore
StarFleet's command gold, he'd met a few Orion trade delegates
who were as civilized and pleasant as anyone else. Too bad none
of that type seemed to be working here.
The weight of the laser pistol tucked under his shirt was
solidly reassuring. He had cautiously retrieved it just before
he left, making certain that he did not look at her or think of
her, as he did so. The wire had permitted that. A pouch slung
over one shoulder held the rest of it. There were only those
things he had stolen tonight. Personal possessions were
something she had always forbidden him. And *that* didn't
matter, either.
Making certain that both laser and pouch were secure, he
tuned himself up *high*. To climb the fence out into the main
compound was laughably easy. His vision was sparkling and
clear; his blood sang and fizzed in his veins. He felt as if he
was ten feet tall, as if he could literally do *anything*. And
it felt wonderful.
That was the fiendish thing about the wire. If he could
simply have loathed it, it would have been much easier to live with.
But in his more honest moments, Jim Kirk knew that he loved the
damned thing as much as he hated it.
It was himself that he despised.
He paused at the top of the fence, in the shadow of the
masters' quarters, scanning for guards on patrol. It was
child's play to find them. As *fast* as he was tuned right now,
they seemed to be moving in slow motion, ponderous lumbering
behemoths. He watched, trying not to fidget, until he'd seen
them walk one complete circuit and knew their pattern.
Enough. He slithered silently down and set out in the
direction that led to Spock. The pull of the bond in his head
was like an anchor chain; following it was effortless. The
Vulcan was sleeping at the moment; Jim let him be. Spock had
sounded exhausted and more than a little ill during their last
contact. His mindtouch had been filled with pain. He needed
the rest.
With contemptuous ease, the human slipped between the
sheds, the stacks of wood, the piles of rock and mine tailings. He
sneaked around the cleared circle where the whipping posts
stood, wrinkling his nose at the fetid smell from the nearby
punishment boxes. He had seen such things before, in old Terran
historical tapes. There, they had been called "tiger cages".
At one point he froze, deep in the heart of a shadow, while
not ten feet away two guards hawked, spat, and shared a pipeful of
dreamdust. Typical Orions -- neither saw him. It was Jim's
opinion, after living around them for far too long, that the
Orions' martial reputation was vastly overstated -- that, or
they'd been living off it for so long they'd forgotten how to
*be* warriors. After an interminable wait, the two guards
finally trudged on about their rounds, noticeably less steady on
their feet than before.
Soon he had reached the shed where they kept sick or
wounded livestock. At least, that's what it said -- after all these
years, Jim could read either Orion script or the glyphs of the
masters as easily as he had once read Standard.
The shed was unguarded -- and unlocked, much to his
surprise. He examined the door very carefully before slipping
silently through it. No alarms. Not even any contacts for alarms.
Inside, there were no visible cameras. No sensor grids.
Nothing. Just a long double row of locked cages, with stalls
and more cages along two walls. But he recognized this. He had
seen it before -- in Spock's thoughts. This was it!
Large animals dozed in most of the stalls. For one painfully
sharp moment, he was reminded of his mother's barn, back on
Earth. But he sniffed the air, and that image vanished. This
place smelled like a mixture of a nursing home and a stockyard.
No farmer worth his salt would let his barn get this bad.
Careful after that to breathe through his mouth, Jim started
looking into the cages, one by one.
Each held a single hominid. Most were all of a type -- nut
brown skin, feathery crest on the head, the same colour as the
skin. Small and slight of build. Not Spock. All lay deeply
asleep, though one or two tossed as if in fever. Their scent,
close up, was sweet and a little musky; not unpleasant, but for
the other smells around it.
Further along he saw what had once been a Tellarite, he
thought. It was hard to tell. One ear was missing and most of
the fur was gone, and its breathing had a wet, laboured rasp to
it. He couldn't tell if it was male or female, but it was not
long for this world.
For just a moment, he let himself dream of somehow getting
them *all* away from here. But reality intervened. They were all
unconscious, in addition to being either injured, ill, or both.
He was one man, with nothing but a wire in his head and an
antique sidearm. He'd have needed a full squadron of Ground
Forces Marines, *and* air cover, to pull it off. And all he had
was himself -- and the wire.
He sighed, shook his head, and went on looking. And
wondered how many years it would be before he stopped feeling
guilty about it.
Kaiidth!, as the Vulcans said. What is, is.
One cage held an Andorian, whose antennae had been
snapped off -- long ago, by the look of them. Deaf, then -- and in
all probability, irretrievably crazed. Andorians *needed* to be
able to hear. That one lay curled in a ball, hardly breathing
at all. His blue skin had that musty greenish tinge that told
of oxygen starvation.
More of the little brown people.
And finally, near the far end of the barn, a cage containing a
tight-curled shape, concealed by blankets. And Jim *knew*.
This was Spock. He could *feel* him, deep in exhausted sleep.
He squatted down in front of the cage, and retuned himself for
the mindtouch. <<Spock... Wake up. It's Jim.>>
He felt the other fight his way to consciousness -- he'd been
given a sedative again, it felt like. Finally one thin,
long-fingered hand parted the blankets, and the Vulcan looked
out at him. For the first time in twelve years, they looked at
one another. The lump in Jim's throat felt big enough to choke
on. He couldn't speak. Didn't have words for what he felt --
except maybe relief. God. It really was Spock. Somehow he
hadn't quite dared believe it, until now.
The Vulcan rubbed at his eyes and frowned. One wrist and
hand were splinted, heavily bandaged. Jim leaned in closer, the
better to see in the dim light -- and saw the faint half-smile
flicker across the other's face, almost too fast to be seen.
God, he was thin. He looked half-starved. His hands and
wrists were scarred. His face showed the marks of years of
beatings. Under the crude iron collar, the flesh of his throat
was scarred and discoloured. His hair was long, now, well below
his shoulders. Still as thick as ever -- but there were wide
swathes of pure white all through it. Jim winced, when he saw
that. He knew what that was from. He'd seen it happen.
The other cleared his throat, and coughed a couple of times.
Didn't sound very good -- but as cold and damp as it was here,
that was no surprise. Without his suit Jim would have been
shivering himself -- and Spock had always maintained, to
Scotty's disgust, that the Enterprise was a good ten degrees too
cold for real comfort. The human made a note to himself, to
turn up the heating on board the ship, even higher than he'd
already planned to.
He looked up again, into the familiar black eyes, noting the
effort Spock was making to stay awake and focused. <<Spock --
can you hear me?>>
The Vulcan nodded. <<Jim... yes.>> Then he tried to use
the signed speech, and found the splint was just too cumbersome.
His lips thinned together for a moment and he frowned again.
<<What... why? You, here... why?>> The human could feel him,
searching for the words he needed. It was as if they simply
weren't there. Then he realized. Head injuries. It must be.
Damage from the beating, when Jim thought he'd seen him killed.
He still remembered -- the feeling of the other's thoughts in
his, flaring into white-hot pain, and then nothing. There had
been so much blood...
Jim showed him the laser. <<I'm leaving. Now. And I'm
taking you with me.>> He pointed to the splinted wrist. <<What
happened to you?>>
Spock shrugged, one-handed, the Vulcan spread-fingered
gesture. <<I... fell. Knee, hand... damage.>> The expression on his
face now was resigned, passive, and Jim realized he was still
expecting to be left behind. God. He couldn't even imagine
what it must have been like for him here, through all the long
years alone.
He shook his head, no. <<Don't worry about it, Spock. Can
you walk at all?>>
<<I... can try...>> The Vulcan was moving, now, laboriously
working his way to the front of the cage, clutching his ragged
blankets about him. As he approached, Jim noticed that his left
knee was splinted, also. It didn't matter. He had to get them
out of here. So he would.
The human's hands were shaking. He tuned himself back
down a little, dialed the laser down to a needle-beam, and very
careful of his aim, cut through the simple padlock on the door of the
Vulcan's cage. Spock watched, silently. The black eyes were
focused intently on him, but they were glazed, from the drug and
the pain. Even so, Jim could feel excitement, long dormant,
beginning to build within him.
A beast in one of the stalls twittered nervously and stamped a
clawed paw -- but none of the other hominids so much as stirred.
*They must put drugs in their food, at night. No wonder the
shed's unlocked.* Mentally he crossed his fingers, hoping that
Spock would be able to stay awake enough to help.
The metal had cooled, now, and he pulled the door of the
cage open and beckoned to the Vulcan. <<Come on, Spock. Here
-- let me help...>>
Spock held out his good arm, and let Jim pull him up and out
of the cage. He tottered precariously on his good leg, then leaned
against the cage. Jim could feel the dizziness in him. On an
impulse, he laid one hand on the thin shoulder, to steady him.
God. How had he forgotten this, how hot the Vulcan always
felt? Even now, shivering in the chill of the night, Spock's
skin was fever-hot, under his hand. The cold here must have
been excruciating for him... No wonder he wore so many layers
of ragged clothes.
Spock frowned again. <<Jim... what of... the-->> He lost the
words, then, but Jim had seen the image he was thinking of --
one of the hulking Orion overseers.
He smiled. <<Don't worry about them. Half of them are
drunk, and the rest are fools. I can see them coming a klom away,
Spock.>>
In the end, Spock had to drape his good arm around Jim's
shoulders and use him as a crutch. The human was shocked all
over again at how gaunt he was, how much weight he had lost.
*Oh, t'hy'la...* The slow and halting trip to the barn door
seemed endless.
To hell with it. After he closed the door behind them, Jim
tuned himself up high again. Like this, he had strength to
burn. More than enough to help this ailing half-starved
stranger/friend. And given how much trouble Spock was having
merely staying awake, it was necessary. <<All right, Spock.
Just lean on me. Let me take your weight -- we haven't got much
farther to go.>> He sent the other an image of !M'zh!w*hee's
ship. <<That's our destination. We have to get to the landing
field. This place isn't very big; it's not far. I'll help
you.>>
The expression in the black eyes was a little more alert,
now. <<How did...?>>
Jim grinned nonchalantly, dismissing it as nothing, a mere
trifle. <<It was easy. I knocked *her* out, and stole her
keys. It's my... my owner's ship. It *was*. It's mine now.
Ours.>> And he laced his arm around the other's skeletal
ribcage, and they started out. Tuned up as high as he was, even
with a half-conscious Vulcan draped over him, it was nothing to
evade the guards. It had been so long since anyone resisted,
the masters were smug, complacent. *She* had never bothered
wiring him not to run. It had never occurred to her -- or, at
first, to him -- that he might even try. Until now, he'd had no
reason to risk it.
Until now.
Her loss. His gain -- and Spock's.
By the time he reached !M'zh!w*hee's ship Spock was barely
conscious. The landing field was deserted; there was no sign of
the guard who should have been posted there. Jim stopped, keyed
the hatch open, then just picked the Vulcan up and carried him
inside. Thin as he was, it wasn't hard. The hatch closed and
locked automatically behind them.
There were several bunks in an alcove at the back of the main
compartment. He laid Spock down on one of these, and covered
him with several spare blankets. Stood looking down at him for
a moment, still barely able to believe it. Then the human shook
himself and went for'ard, to begin the pre-flight checklist, and
to turn up the heat.
This was the most dangerous part of all; he was counting on
the overseers' fear of her, hoping that none would question her
apparent decision to leave at such an hour. He was taking one
hell of a chance -- but he couldn't see any other way out. He
offered a little mental prayer to Saint Murphy, long beloved
patron saint of StarFleet Academy cadets, and started to warm up
the engines.
-----///-----

End of part 2

Greywolf the Wanderer
<to email me remove nospam from header, eh?>