I had set my internal alarm to wake me at 0500. When I awake, it
is dark, and for a moment I have forgotten my experiences, and wonder
why it is so cool in my quarters. But a moment later, I remember, sit
up, and the light brightens, too yellow at first, and I blink as my
eyes adjust.
I make my ablutions, and stand in front of the mirror in the 'fresher,
studying my reflection. This is not vanity, it is an attempt at the
first level of Mastery of the Unavoidable. I will learn my new status,
and file it in a part of my memory that will enable me to respond in a
manner that is expected of me, to fit my new status, and in so doing,
accept what must be, until there is an alternative that will not result
in my death.
I examine my tattoos. They consist of my name and a series of letters
and numbers. They are the first tattoos on my body made since the
Kahs'wan, when I received my clan marking on my hip, which still
remains, though faded and in the ancient script form. If it were
visible in my former everyday wear, it would be taken for decoration,
though it is not.
I commit the numbers and letters to memory. I then finger the
collar—for such it is—about my neck. It is light but
strong—perhaps a titanium alloy. It is not uncomfortable, but I
will be aware of it, no doubt what the Empire intends. I examine the
bracelet locked on my right wrist. It looks as if it were some sort of
device, and although it is removable, it seems to be locked tightly,
perhaps programmed to only unlock to DNA or fingerprint.
This perusal takes little time. The camera watches, and I must not appear as if I am acting abnormally.
I spend only a few moments wondering if this ship is anywhere near the
neutron star whose influence may have been responsible for sending me
here. I must remain alert for any opportunity, but I cannot act
precipitously either. Without more data , I am helpless to even begin
to unravel the conundrum. I abandon such thought as fruitless, for now.
With no further ideas surfacing, I leave the 'fresher.
I check the replicator. Its menu is sparse, but varied enough for my
purposes. I decide on a bowl of plomik soup, a usual Vulcan breakfast,
and kreila bread. The wafers look right—but like my own
Enterprise's replicator, the taste is not quite the same. Still, it is
nourishment, and I eat quickly with the flimsy plastic utensils
provided. I recycle them and the empty container, and decide I have
enough time for the deeper levels of the Mind Rules. I visualize my
firepot, and when its image is clear in my mind, I proceed with the
meditative exercises, not neglecting those of the body.
Then I stand in preparation for my new life.
Precisely punctual, the guards stand beside the door when it slides
open. I bend my head as I have seen Maik do, and they march me to Deck
Eight, flanking me. The deck plating is cold on my feet, but I ignore
it, and when I arrive at the room which on my own Enterprise is a small
gymnasium, I enter it, and the guards leave me. I take in the room at a
glance. There is a chair in front of a computer console. There are mats
on the floor, and facing me is an elderly Vulcan who besides the
ubiquitous jumpsuit and along with the twin of the collar and bracelet
I bear, also has a bracelet on his left wrist, which at first glance
seems to be jeweled, but the jewels, I note, are actually some kind of
control button. I suspect I will know for what purpose soon enough.
I step forward and begin to raise my hand in the ta'al, but the elder
shakes his head. "Such is forbidden, Spock, as is our language. I am
Sentor. I am to teach you what is forbidden and what is allowed. The
only way our kind may speak together is in Imperial Standard—or
the mind touch, which is allowed only because when we train our young,
the Empire knows they make more valuable slaves. The masters have told
me you are a wild Vulcan. I am to show you the uses of the collar, by
demonstrating the bracelet that the masters each wear. Sit, Spock. This
will be painful."
Curious, I seat myself cross-legged at his feet. I do not have long to wait.
Sentor's finger touches a button, and fire hits my brain, though I
maintain control. "That was the first setting. This is the second," and
the fire increases.
I avoid movement but I cannot repress a small gasp, and Sentor's finger
touches the third button. Aiii! My control is gone...almost, it is as
if my bones were burning, and I cannot repress a cry...I shiver, when
it stops. I am almost surprised that there is no physical damage. Even
a Vulcan cannot hold out long against this. Sentor tells me the fourth
level produces unconsciousness. The fifth kills. That, he tells me, I
will see for myself later. We will be observing the punishment that the
rebels have been slated for. I am not looking forward to this, but
again, it is what it is.
Sentor allows me to recover, and then tells me to be seated at the
computer terminal. I sit and he places a datatape in the console and
tells me to learn the lessons I will be shown, and tells me I will be
tested, and punished with the third setting on my collar—five
minutes' duration for each mistake. I bend myself to my task.
The lessons are simple, though many. I learn that there are strata even
in slave society—that I need to treat my superiors with respect,
though not as much respect as I must show to the least among humans.
There were formalities which I must learn, from speech, to body
language, and the least formal speech allowed and when—only at
the bidding of my owners. I learn when to stand, when to kneel, and to
keep my eyes downcast unless bid otherwise. Slaves are not to meet
informally except at allowed times. Slaves are only to converse amongst
themselves socially at prescribed breaks or meals, and then only on
allowed subjects. Slaves are not allowed to speak of their own world's
customs or speech. Vulcans alone of all slaves are allowed to keep
their mates—but even they are not allowed to choose them.
Children are kept by the parents until age seven, at which time they
are collared and trained for whatever occupation their masters desired,
and often sold or given away.
I find no history given in these lessons I learn, and I do not expect
any. I hope to learn more as time goes on, but for now, I commit the
social rules to mind and memory. I learn that the twin to my Jim Kirk
must be a tolerant man, for I could have been severely punished for
unknowingly holding his gaze as I had. I see many possible occupations
for slaves, from craftsmaker to house and body servant, to laborer in
field or mine or any occupation the humans deem dangerous or
distasteful, even bed slave or brothel slave, but I do not see any
slave trained in computer work, and even mechanical trades are limited
to the less skilled. I decide I'd best not disclose my computer skills.
It is clear that skills which could aid a slave in any sort of
independence are most certainly not allowed.
The best I can hope for is house servant. But my preferences will not be consulted.
Soon enough, Sentor comes back and quizzes me. I have earned no
punishment and I am allowed a break for a small meal and use of the
'fresher. When I resume my seat, I am given more tapes—training
for duties a household or body slave would be intended to know. I learn
them with no difficulty, but I dare not ask if this is indicative of
anything. Sentor verifies that I have learned all that is on the tape.
At 1800 hours ,Sentor has me stand. "Lord Kirk will be pleased. He
wants a good price for you, to help make up for the ones who will be
destroyed." He shows me a viewing screen on the wall. "It is time to
watch the execution. I must caution you against looking away, as we are
watched here too. Any such disobedience will be punished as well. The
masters want us to learn this lesson, together, as will each of the
slaves on board learn it."
I bend my head, a gesture I am getting used to performing. "I will comply," I say, and Sentor approves.
Facing the screen, I see it light up. The camera shows a platform on
which one of the rebel slaves, an Andorian, possibly the one I saw in
the brig, though I cannot see the details of his face closely enough to
be sure, is kneeling, fastened by a lead on his collar to a bolt on the
platform. He makes no sound but his antennae twitch and dance in
agitation.
Two things happen simultaneously. The door slides open and I see Kirk
stride in, and a transparent shield slides into place around the
Andorian.
Kirk speaks.
"You and the treacherous animals with you have been found guilty of
sedition. You've been given food, clothing, and afforded every comfort.
You've shown yourselves to be untrustworthy slaves of the Empire." His
eyes raise to the camera, to our eyes as we watch."Witness. The Empire
is good to its slaves—and punishes those unwilling to be
mastered, who have proven themselves to be wild animals. Watch and see
what happens to wild animals."
I see his fingers touch the highest button on his bracelet, and the
Andorian screams. I feel cold fingers down my spine as he begins
shaking and clawing at his eyes, which come away blue with his own
blood. Then his skull splits and his screaming increases as matter and
fluid leak from his skull and blood from his orifices. I am sickened,
but I dare not turn away as his body keeps twitching and the hellish
sound continues until at last he is still. One by one guards pull
terrified captives to the platform as the shield retracts and then is
replaced, and one by one the butchery continues. Bile rises in my
throat as I witness this barbarity, and when the carnage ends, there
are a minim of thirty bodies piled together.
The Lord Kirk, for so I must call him, lifts a phaser and disintegrates the pile.
I see slaves begin cleaning the platform, and the screen dims.
Khrikha-plukh! Never have I seen such butchery. As a Starfleet officer,
I have had to kill in the past. I have done so to save lives or under
direct orders, but this is very different. This is butchery, graphic
and obscene, over two hours of it, through which I have had to keep my
face immobile and my control tight. If I needed proof before that this
was not the Jim Kirk I knew as my friend, this would have provided it.
And I think also to myself, if this man had not verified my story, I might have ended in just such a fashion.
I steal a glance sideways, and note that Sentor, too, has a slight
pallor, and he is undoubtedly used to seeing similar atrocities. He
motions me to sit again on the pad, and joins me there.
"It is a terrible lesson, but one which you shall probably see again,
Spock, if you are ever near an animal who refuses to obey. Learn it and
live. Do not and you shall die, with much pain. May I meld with you?"
I am surprised, but do not show it. Are mind melds so casual here? It
is possible, being the only form of communication not monitored by the
Empire recording devices. We face one another and touch the meld points
on each other's faces.
And he shows me his mind entire, hiding nothing. Can I do less? I open
myself, and we speak, mind to mind. I learn that Vulcans do conceal one
thing from the Empire. Each, mind to mind, passes on the accumulated
scientific knowledge and our own planetary history, from the dim times,
through the Reformation, and to the only time Vulcan was ever
conquered, in this universe.
In turn, I give him all the science I have, and much more, my own
personal history and a look at T'Khasi, and the sands he himself may
never walk on. I show him how T'Kuht, the Watcher, looks in the night
sky, and how Vulcan's Forge looks to a seven year old child undergoing
the Kahs'wan. In this way, Vulcan—T'Khasi, though we are not
allowed to speak her true name aloud—and Vulcans keep the
knowledge alive and renew it each through the other. I show him a
Vulcan which was never conquered, which does not even have the concept
in collective memory.
//This is a great gift, Spock cha Sarek// I hear his mind//Do not be so
hard on yourself. I have no doubt you will find a way home, some day.
You have granted us much beyond the knowledge that Vulcan now has. I
will meld with others, and your problem may be worked on by greater
minds than mine//
When we break the meld, Sentor looks at me. Is that sympathy in his
eyes? "I thank you. When the masters told me who you were, I believed
you must be mad. Be a reed, Spock cha Sarek cha Skon. Bend, but do not
break. I will not see you again before you are sold, but you may be
tested by Lord Kirk. I cannot give you the traditional farewell, but I
do in fact wish it."
"And I, you, Elder. I thank you. I shall ...bend, as you say."
It is then that the guards reappear and I am led back to the quarters
in which I am sequestered. Each day Maik appears with a clean tunic and
I am told to recycle the old one. Once I am given a tiny tube of beard
repressent and a comb. I eat, though I have little appetite, and I work
on the Rules of Mastery—my control is badly shaken by what I have
seen, and the finality I may have condemned myself to. Yet I have not
been mistreated within the boundaries of the world I have found myself
in, aside from the fact that I am no longer the owner of myself.
Kaiidth. I chose this, now I must adapt—or die.
Finally, after the third day, Maik appears and tells me I am to be
taken to Lord Kirk. I nod, expecting this, and follow his lead, though
I know the way. I wonder if I will get used to bare feet. It appears I
may have to.
Cargo, as I have learned, are given as little as possible.
We soon arrive at Deck Five, the same quarters as my own friend's. I
briefly wonder who in this world has what I have known as my quarters,
but it is not useful information. There is no equivalent of me in this
universe. Even if he lives who would be my father, or she he would be
my mother, they would not meet as equals and of course would never have
anyone laboring to create a child such as I.
I bend my head, enter, and kneel before Kirk, who is seated at his desk
console. When he orders me to stand, I do so, but keep my eyes cast
down, as I have been taught.
"Have you been well treated?"
"This slave,"I answer,"Has no complaints, Lord." I can lie, when I choose to, though Vulcans do not like this known.
Kirk motions for me to come closer, and when I comply, he looks at my
arm, where the new tattoo is, fingers it, and pushes up my tunic to
poke a finger at the matching mark on my thigh. Then he turns my hand
and fingers my bracelet. "Have you been told what this is for?"
"Negative, Lord. This slave has only been taught the uses of the Master's bracelet."
"It's identification. It will keep you from places you aren't allowed
to go. Tomorrow, you'll be expected to take yourself to the cargo
holding area. Do you know where that is?"
"This slave does not, Lord."
Kirk swivels the console around, and shows me a map. "Learn that.
You'll be expected there at 0600 hours. Place the bracelet against the
door when you leave. Do not bring anything with you except the tunic
you wear. Do not be late or you'll be punished. I expect you to fetch a
good price. Be obedient, slave, and do not disappoint me, or you will
suffer. Do you understand?"
"This slave hears and obeys, Lord." I have learned the forms well. Kirk seems pleased.
"Fetch me coffee."
I bow and go to Kirk's replicator. I note the menu on it is greatly
expanded from the one in the quarters I've been placed in, and I
hesitate for a moment, then dial for my own Jim Kirk's taste in coffee.
When it arrives, I kneel and present the mug, handle first.
He sips. Good, it's what he likes, too.
"Very good. You're intelligent, boy, and if you remain this docile,
you'll prove to be a valuable animal. Valuable animals are not
mistreated. Remember this lesson."
I bow my head, and he waves me out.
As I prepare for sleep, I am acutely aware that I am entering a new
life in finality. I shall not allow this to change my core. I must
remember who I am. They will not take that from me, though they take
everything else.