Folsom Prison Blues

Why he walked into this place I do not know. He has not seen me yet. If I were still sane I would turn and leave now, before he does see me. But then, why should I? I do not have anything left to lose. It is all the same to me if I am in this place, or in some other. None of it is what I once wanted from life. None of it is anything I ever dreamed I would be doing.

No. I will stay right here. Either he will see me or he will not.

But if he does see me, if he stays -- if he stays, then this time, by my Ancestors, it is going to be different between us.

It must be.

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

The last time I'd seen Jim was at the court-martial that cost me nineteen years of my life -- and there, we were not allowed to speak. The proceeding was very brief, a mere formality. >From beginning to end, it took less than an hour to complete the destruction of my life.

He'd wanted to take the stand along with me. He had asked me earlier, in the moment when it all went wrong, why I had not told him of my plan to divert the Enterprise to Talos IV, to give my former captain a chance at a new life. I could only tell him, "Jim, no. Surely, one of us was enough." Looking back over the years, I can see how that must have caused him pain. But at the time it was all I could say. StarFleet had just informed us they were disallowing the Talosian testimony. They'd ordered Jim to bring me back to Earth to stand trial. The Talosians, oddly gentle despite their immense power, had desisted at once. Perhaps they realized that further efforts on my behalf would only make things worse. I do not know. I knew only that I fully expected to die for violating General Order Number Seven, and I could not bear the thought of causing Jim's death as well. We had not served together long, but I knew already that I was drawn to him more strongly than I have ever been, before or since, to anyone else.

General Order Number Seven is the only remaining death penalty in the Federation legal code. It is not generally known to the public at large; even the existence of such an order is kept secret, for fear of that same public's reaction to such news. The wording is plain, very brief: it simply states that anyone who sets foot on the world known as Talos IV must be put to death.

The Talosians' powers of illusion terrified the leaders of the Federation, once they were discovered. The report of the original Enterprise mission to that world was classified at the highest level, and for thirteen years no-one heard of Talos IV again -- until I commandeered the Enterprise to take my former captain there, to free him from the ruined shell of flesh that had once been his body and had now become his prison.

I could do no less. StarFleet Medical had already admitted that they were powerless to help him, after the accident that had destroyed his life. He could still think, but he could not speak or move. Vulcan Healers had been able to verify that his mind was still undamaged, but even they could not help him -- there were not enough undamaged neural pathways left for even StarFleet's medical engineers to build an equipment interface that he could use. I could not bear the thought of Christopher Pike, that brilliant and restless explorer, trapped in that way. I knew Captain Pike too well; I knew that he would rather have died than to have survived so helpless and crippled.

When first I stepped aboard his ship I had sworn an oath to that man, an oath of loyalty, a promise to serve and to protect. That to do what I subsequently did for him went against my oath to Jim, I do not dispute. No matter which course I chose I was forsworn. And so I devised the plan that became my undoing. I chose to keep Jim uninformed, out of fear for his life. I wanted the verifier to show he spoke truth when he told them, as he must, that he had known nothing.

In the eighteen months we served together, Jim worked his way inside my defenses before I even knew that he had done so. By the time I heard of Captain Pike's misfortune, I had already realized that Jim could be my t'hy'la if he were willing, if the fact of my being Vulcan and male did not disturb him. We had melded on two occasions, strictly in the line of duty. The first was the briefest of touches, to silently share tactical information during a battle. I was struck chiefly by the ease of it -- to touch Jim's thoughts was as effortless as touching my own. Then the meld was over and we were acting out Jim's plan.

The second time I melded with him was on the Melkot world, and that... Ah, yes. That was entirely different. I was tired, both from the continued pressure of the Melkotians' attempts to influence my thoughts, and from the melds with Scott and McCoy. Both men had been afraid under their shields, ashamed of their fear, willing and yet not willing. It had been a great effort to do what I must, to convince each of the unreality around us. Finally it was Jim's turn. He looked up at me and smiled very faintly, gave me the smallest of nods. I placed my fingers over the meld points, watched his pupils flare and constrict. I said the ancient words, lowered my shields -- and fell into his thoughts, lost for a moment in golden warmth. Jim's mind welcomed me. I could feel his surprise and delight at actually touching another mind. There was no trace of fear. He trusted me absolutely. I did not want to focus, to turn from this, but I made myself do it. Jim's life was at stake. Once I remembered that, control became easy once more. As I lifted my fingers away from his face, I felt his regret at my leaving. We looked at one another for a single long moment, before turning to face the illusions of the Melkotians. The soaring joy I felt at the ease of our joining, the sense of rightness -- these I dared not show, not then. I kept myself well shielded, telling myself I would speak to him later.

Afterwards, on the bridge, we made eye contact over the top of Yeoman Shimura's head, and Jim smiled at me again. This time it was a full, blinding grin and although I was by then exhausted, I felt a surge of energy rush through me.

After that I would often turn my head and find him watching me, intently. He would nod and give me a half smile and continue with whatever he'd been doing before. Each time I would tell myself I must speak to him, but I never quite mustered the nerve. I was young and unsure in those days. I wanted him, but I was afraid of losing his friendship. Fool that I was, I thought we had time. Every time our eyes met over the chessboard, I found reasons to delay acting, merely enjoying what contact we did share. A lifetime of Vulcan training weighed me down.

I knew that as my captain Jim could not initiate such a conversation without committing a gross impropriety. In such a case it must be for the person of lower rank to speak first, if they will, that there may be no possibility of even the slightest degree of coercion. I had seen Jim watching me. He most often kept company with women -- but there were men who were his lovers, too. I believed I understood the look in his eyes. But he had never spoken of it to me. For all his exaggerated amorous reputation, Jim was never less than scrupulously correct with regard to his crew.

StarFleet officially frowns on sexual relations among senior officers, but within certain limits there is acceptance, provided all parties behave in a discreet and professional manner.

But I waited too long. I never discussed it with him, and one day I heard of Captain Pike's plight and knew that time had run out for me. I spent the next two weeks planning and preparing for what I must do, then put my plan in motion. Jim made his way aboard, as I had known he would do, but he was not able to break the locks I had placed on the Enterprise computers. The ship made orbit around Talos 4 while the false trial was still in progress. With the help of the Talosians I was able to escape from the brig -- they made me unseen long enough to take Captain Pike to the transporter room and send him on his way. I asked his consent before I took him from his room, and was not surprised when he gave it. The brush of his thoughts against my own was as quick and agile as ever, his gratitude merely confirming that I was doing the right thing in freeing him.

The Talosians asked of me whether I desired to stay with them. Their touch upon my mind was effortless, despite the distance separating us. I thanked them, but answered that I could not. I could tell that they did not understand, but they agreed to my request and cloaked me once more so I could return to the brig. Immediately afterward the illusion of Commodore Mendez' presence was uncovered and the Talosians ceased transmitting altogether.

StarFleet was adamant. We returned to Federation space at top speed. In the meantime Jim was ordered, by the terms of General Order Number Seven, to put me in solitary confinement. My last two weeks aboard the Enterprise were spent in the brig, allowed to speak to no-one, not even my guards. My every move was recorded; there was no privacy in that solitude. It seemed I had already acquired a certain reputation for breaking out of supposedly secure confinement.

Even that, I endured. I still believe that it was grief I saw in Jim's eyes as I was handed over to StarFleet Security. But we were not allowed to speak.

I should have known that Fleetcom would never accept the Talosians' testimony on my behalf. I was certain that I could have escaped easily enough before we reached Earth, but then Jim would have been blamed for my escape. Still I did not feel I could ask him to face death with me. That may have been the biggest mistake I have ever made. I do not know.

I suppose I should also have realized they would commute my sentence. T'Pau no doubt made the most stringent protests. Not out of any innate love for me, no -- but for the clan, for the People, that one of ours not be executed by "those round-eared barbarians." I know my great-grandmother too well; I can all but hear her voice saying it. In addition, at that time no-one had been executed by the Federation itself for over seventy-five years. At any rate, the sentence was in fact commuted -- twenty-five years at hard labour, instead of the death penalty. For this I was expected to express gratitude. I remained silent and so, I was later informed, angered the judge. This same judge thereafter made it his business, each time I came up for a parole review, to sit there and ensure that I did not pass. Human justice, yes -- an interesting concept.

Ah, but there was always the "humane" option of mindwipe and rehab -- humans who choose that path are free in two or three years, regardless of initial sentence. But no Vulcan has ever survived the initial procedure, much less recovered from it. I elected not to try.

What I truly did not expect, though perhaps I should have, was that after fighting to preserve my life, my clan subsequently disowned me, stripping me of name and rank and clan, declaring me ni'idlhi'et T'sai'shani -- not-Vulcan, a formal outcaste, forbidden ever to return to the Homeworld. The biggest surprise was how much that hurt.

When I left Vulcan to join the Fleet my father had declared me k'torr skann -- without-a-father. He had overlooked my mother's letters to me, deliberately I suspect; she was ever stubborn and unwilling to be ruled. He must have known that if he pushed her too hard, he would lose her. Despite his edict I had remained a member of the clan, remained a Vulcan. I simply was no longer his son, in his eyes. And I had not thought Vulcan's opinion of me important for a number of years previous to that. Yet even so, when in prison I received word of the Elders' decision, it hurt to know I could never go home again, that I would never again see my mother, nor smell that dry incense-laden desert air... Ah, yes. Well. There you have it.

Within a week of our arrival at Earth I was tried, sentenced and imprisoned. StarFleet wasted no time. I saw Jim watching me again, as my hands were bound and I was marched from the courtroom. It was grief I saw on his face, I know that now.

But I did not see him again for more than nineteen years.

Kaiidth. What is, is.

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

Prison was very different from anything I had ever known. To explain that fully, I think that I must speak about my past.

Sarek my father was the Ambassador from all of Vulcan to the whole of the Federation, as was his father before him. As in fact he had always intended I should be, in my turn. As a child I had no idea that we were wealthy. I never handled nor did I see money or cred-chips at any time. It was simply so -- that anything my father deemed necessary for us to have was acquired at once. Even this did not speak to me of wealth or ease. My father's rule was strict; the tasks he set me were many and difficult. But I never went hungry, nor was I ever cold; on the rare occasions when I became ill it was Master Sekal the Healer who came to me.

All this I knew and accepted; it was of no importance, in the life that was mine.

When I left Vulcan and went to Earth I experienced something of a rude awakening. No longer were the funds of the House of Surak mine to use. Now I had to make do on cadet pay, never generous even today. Yet I was and am a man of simple tastes; I did not find it overly burdensome. When I did not have funds for more tea or extra fruit, my fellow students were usually eager to trade, in return for my assistance with their computer problems. I was busy and almost content, for the first time in my life. I was learning many new things every day, eagerly awaiting my graduation and the long-dreamed-of posting to space.

Once in space, while we were rationed to a degree, there was never any shortage of food or material comforts. With the nearly limitless power of the matter/antimatter reactors to draw on, almost anything we might desire was relatively easy to synthesize. In many ways we were better supplied than any but the richest of civilians.

It took prison to teach me the true nature of poverty and humiliation.

Within 12 hours of my sentencing my guards and I materialized inside the Corcoran Maximum Security Detention Center, on the west coast of the NorthAm province of Earth. It is an antiquated facility; the oldest parts of it date from the late 20th century, before the Eugenics war. It has been partly destroyed and rebuilt three different times. It has a grim, blood-soaked history. I could not entirely suppress a shiver when I looked around and saw that place and knew that it was now my home.

The guards had to help me off the transporter pad -- the chain between my ankles was too short to permit me to step down and I was too stiff and sore, from the weeks of cramped confinement I had already endured, to try jumping down. Their hands gripped me tightly; I would have bruises later. I said nothing. After spending a week in StarFleet custody I had begun to learn some things, chiefly that the Enterprise security people had been comparatively kind.

The guards signed me in, rather than release my wrists. I was holographed, x-rayed, body-scanned, finger-and-retina printed, and a sample of my blood was drawn for genetic ID confirmation. During all this no-one spoke to me, except to order me to turn this way or that. At all times there were at least three guards in the room with me. With my hands cuffed behind me and my ankles chained, I made no attempt to escape. Finally the senior officer pronounced himself satisfied. He leaned forward and stared into my eyes, a cold sneer distorting his face. "Listen up, asshole," he said. "You're on my turf now. You depend on me and my men for everything. How your life goes from here is entirely up to me. Be a good boy and we'll get along. Fuck with me and I'll make damn sure you regret it. Do I make myself clear?"

Unsure of what reply was called for, I nodded silently. That earned me a hard poke in the ribs from one of the guards behind me. The senior guard snarled, "You tell me 'Yes, sir!' when I talk to you, boy. You aren't a Commander anymore. Now you're just another piece of fresh meat. You hear me?"

I looked up, met his eyes, somehow kept my face expressionless. "Yes, sir," I said. Anger roiled within me but I did not permit myself to express it.

Finally he seemed satisfied. He straightened and told my handlers, "Okay. Put him through the car wash." They laughed, took my arms again, and escorted me to a bathing area. They walked fast, causing me to stumble as I tried to keep up. This provoked more laughter.

I was pushed through the doorway alone, stumbling and going to my knees on the hard stone floor. The forcefield snapped on and my chains unfastened themselves and fell off. The room was empty and cold. I stood quietly, rubbing feeling back into my hands, noting the cold draft on the back of my neck. Guards watched me from outside the field, laughing and making unpleasant comments. I found their presence distressing but I refused to let it show.

A harsh male voice came from the overhead speaker grille. "All right, asshole, strip. Put everything you're wearing into the laundry chute there, and wash yourself from head to toe with the yellow soap. We don't need any damn lice in here."

"I assure you, I am not carrying any such creatures, sir." The soap smelled foul, reeking of petrochemicals and harsh detergent. It had been three days since I was last permitted to shower, but I did not want to put that on my skin.

"Either you do this yourself or I'll have the boys do it for you." The watching guards laughed even louder. "You won't enjoy what the boys like to do. Now get moving, and don't try any of that sneaky Vulcan bullshit; we've been warned about you and we'll be watching your every move."I believed him. I did as I had been told.

The water was tepid at best, far too cold for Vulcan comfort, and the soap made me itch all over. There were neither towels nor a blower. I tried not to shiver, but I was not entirely successful.

I kept my silence.

After a few minutes the field was turned off and four large guards marched into the room, taking up positions on all sides of me. They were followed by a thin, nervous human male who walked up to me and stopped.

He looked down at the clipboard he carried then back up at me. "Right, then, ah, Spock, is it? Yes, Spock. I'm Dr. Carstairs, the prison doctor. I have to examine you, so the better you cooperate the quicker we'll be finished."

The exam they forced me to endure was both painful and degrading. There was no need to examine me at all -- that had just been done, and by far more accurate means. But I said nothing, only moved as and when I was told. I had begun to learn what I would need to know to survive in that place.

The doctor's hands were cold, his fingers rude and intrusive. The rubber gloves he wore stank of chemical disinfectant. I gritted my teeth and made no sound.

Finally it was over. The doctor stepped back, removed his gloves, then signalled to the watching guards. One of them tossed a bundle of cloth my way. I unfolded it to find a garishly bright orange jumpsuit. "Git dressed, greenie," the biggest of the guards growled. No shoes or socks were provided, only flimsy slippers. There were no undergarments, either.

The cloth of the jumpsuit was threadbare and thin. I knew that it would never suffice in the chill air of that place. "Where are the rest of my clothes?" I asked.

General hilarity ensued. "That is the rest of yer clothes. Now hurry up, we don't got all day to be putzin' around with the likes of you."

Such was my introduction to prison life. It proved a good indicator of what lay ahead for me. I was issued a single thin blanket and a small limp pillow, and that was the sum of my bedding and supplies. Anything else I might want, like soap or a toothbrush, had to be purchased -- and I had no funds.

At meals I often found myself pushed aside. Many times when I finally reached the head of the chow line there was nothing left but scraps of meat and some dry bread. I did not eat flesh nor, at that time, did I consume eggs or dairy products; this left very little to choose from. I lost a considerable amount of weight in my first six months in that place.

Of the four of us who shared my cell, I had by far the coldest and draftiest bunk. It was the top bunk of the two closest to the forcefield at the front of the cell -- and that field was improperly tuned. It spat and sparked all night long; the discharges it gave off made my skin crawl and frequently gave me headaches. Ofttimes at night as the guards patrolled they would stop outside our cell and call to me, during that first few months. They seemed to consider it a point of honour to keep me from getting enough sleep. And always they called me by names not my own. Pointy-ears, devil-man, traitor, greenie -- these were some of the less repulsive appellations they invented for me.

I ignored them. I knew that there was much I would have to do if I was to survive, and I did not have the energy to fight needless battles, as hungry and cold as I was most of the time.

At that, I suppose I did better than most do in prison. There was a grace period of almost a year before the mystique of my being a Vulcan wore off -- I made good use of that time for observation and planning. I was fortunate in that my StarFleet immunizations were all current. I have no doubt that fact prevented many illnesses during the first years of my incarceration.

I had never tried to steal before. I had never conceived of ever needing to steal. I imagine my first efforts at acquiring the needed clothing and blankets were pathetic. Certes they were unsuccessful. It was not until I had been there for nearly six months that my circumstances began to change. I had begun by then to give covert financial advice to certain of the guards, and they in turn helped me to get some of the things I needed. I was still ostracized, still scorned as a stupid greenie -- but at least I was somewhat warmer.

Always in the background of my thoughts was how much I missed Jim. He had become very important to me over the time that we served together. I wanted to see him, to speak to him, to reassure him that none of it was his fault, that he had done nothing wrong -- but somehow it never seemed to happen; something always diverted the ship whenever the prison-yard rumours said that they were headed for Earth. After the sixth or seventh such disappointment in a row, I began to realize that in all probability I was not going to be able to see him at all, even when he did return. Admiral Nogura had forbidden me, in the most stringent of terms, to initiate contact with any of my shipmates, but I had hoped that perhaps Jim would contact me. I never knew if it was his doing or StarFleet's or simply malign coincidence -- I only knew that with this realization my life changed yet again, and not for the better.

It was not until then that the reality of my situation truly sank in, I think. I was alone and an outcaste, the only Vulcan in a prison full of humans, one of only five non-humans in the entire place. Most non-human Fleet prisoners are repatriated to their homeworlds after their sentencing, once their discharge papers are processed; as an outcaste I had no such option.

The only career I had ever wanted was lost to me forever, and the only person I had ever met with whom I felt truly compatible was likewise lost. My bonding to the woman T'Pring had never been more than a formality; long ago I had realized that I could never truly bond with any woman. Though it is not held to be a logical preference, the Way of the Vulcan grudgingly admits that such as me do exist. I am s'skandrie-htath, a man who prefers men. I should have severed the bonding on the day I first came to that understanding but I had not, being at the time pre-occupied with plans to leave Vulcan and join the Fleet.

I had kept my silence during my trial, once I realized how it was going to unfold. I did so both to protect Jim's and my former captain's privacy, and to keep Jim safe from General Order Number Seven. I had not expected that he would desert me. Foolish of me, I know. We had never actually spoken of personal matters, despite the many lingering looks we'd shared; it is possible that he had no idea of my true desires. But then I have often been foolish, as regards personal matters.

I must admit that when I finally realized that I truly would not be able to communicate with Jim, I lost what little hope remained to me, for a while.

It was then that I was finally attacked. In the time I had already been imprisoned I had seen such things occur more than once, but this was the first real violence actually directed at me. Still, I had been expecting it for nearly a month -- it had become obvious that my time was running out. I thought that I was properly prepared.

I was not.

There were five of them working together. They took me by surprise one evening. My first indication of trouble was a blow to my skull that left me dizzy, weak and disoriented. After that the course of things was inevitable. I fought them. I know that I injured several to one degree or another. But there was blood in my eyes and my legs were unsteady, and eventually I was overwhelmed and held down. The last thing I felt was my clothing being torn away. I believe it is probably quite fortunate that I lost consciousness when I did.

I awoke in the prison infirmary, where I spent an extremely tedious two weeks undergoing their barbaric excuse for treatment before they would discharge me.

McCoy would have been disgusted at what passed for an infirmary. I dared not use the healing trance in that place, for it would have left me completely vulnerable. So I had to heal the slow way, as humans do. I annoyed the prison authorities, I am sure, by my refusal to discuss what had been done to me. When they sent counselors in to speak to me I merely shook my head and remained silent. I was determined to settle this in my own fashion. Since I raised neither my voice nor my eyes to the guards, I reasoned that they could not therefore accuse me of disrespect and punish me. I thought myself safe, following such a course.

Not necessarily true, I later learned -- but in this particular instance they did not care enough to bother. I was not expected to survive long, after all; the word from above was that I was merely to be kept confined until the inevitable happened. Those very few Vulcans who have been remanded there do not usually live long in Terran prisons.

I am not surprised. Terran prisons are soul-deadening places, at least the ones I have been in. They are grim and grey and monolithic, malodourous and always overcrowded, either too damp, too cold, or both at once. Perhaps the civilian prisons are different; I do not know. But this was a military facility, serving both StarFleet and the Terran Defense Corps.

For a time, while I was recovering from that first assault, I seriously considered not surviving. I could see no logical reason to continue living. But in the end it was not in me to lie down quietly and pass, as the humans say.

I remembered my assailants' faces and their voices, the nauseating flavour of their thoughts as they laid their hands upon me. Once released from the infirmary, it did not take me long to find out who they were. Then quietly, one by one, I solved the problem. Nothing so crude as what they had done, nothing that could be traced to me. No deaths. It took me several months. But of those five, none ever laid a hand on me again.

It was necessary. It was a matter of survival. I was alone, with no-one to watch my back.

It was also one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do, to deliberately give pain to others... But it was definitely necessary. I knew I could not survive, much less retain any vestige of sanity, as a communal bed-toy. It is true that contrary to popular offworld belief, most Vulcans do engage in out-of-season mating. But even Vulcans prefer to choose who they will lie with, and when. We do not, as a rule, enjoy pain, nor do we make good slaves.

There were other attacks, of course. I have always been thin by Terran standards, and even though I am taller than most humans, I do not look like a fighter.

The second attack came perhaps two months later, while I was ill with some sort of respiratory infection. I did not lose consciousness this time. There was only one assailant, but he was fully as tall as me and half again as heavy. As short of breath as I was at the time, my Vulcan strength was of little use. In the end, I was forced to touch my attacker's thoughts, to take from him his desire, in order to stop what was happening. It was an intensely repulsive experience, not only because his mind was like an open sewer, but because I had been conditioned since childhood, as all Vulcans are, to touch no unwilling mind. Yet what choice did I have, in that place? In truth, none at all. So I took from him his desire, and left a suggestion that future attempts would bring crippling attacks of nausea and vomiting. I am not proud of that, either. But like the first group, he, too, never touched me again.

Once three guards caught me alone in the shower area. I did not end up in the infirmary that time, but it was an unpleasant experience, since I dared not fight them. I already knew what would happen to any prisoner who injured a guard. All I could do was to keep myself impassive as they pawed at me, as they heaved and thrust and satisfied themselves. It is true that they did not injure me nearly as badly as the first attackers had done -- but it was most distasteful.

The following day I spoke with the head guard for my cell block; he was one those who sought me out for financial advice. At least after that, I did not have to fear the guards, only my fellow prisoners...

But the attacks grew fewer and fewer, as the years went by. I acquired a certain reputation, carefully cultivated, as a dangerous man who was not to be crossed lightly.

Why did I stay, when escape from that place would have been relatively easy for a man with my strength and skills? It is an interesting question. In truth I was probably the only man there who freely admitted his guilt. Whatever my opinion of the verdict or the sentence, it was indisputable fact that I had done those things of which I had been convicted. While I have no doubt that I could have escaped had I needed to, the need did not arise. There was in any case nowhere for me to go. Only one place interested me and from that I was forever barred.

I was, however, greatly relieved that it was not necessary for me to resort to selling my flesh in order to survive, as so many others had to do. I did have to surrender my Vulcan ethics, yes. The formal and ritual refusal to do anything dishonest or fraudulent, the pride in not being a liar -- these I abandoned in fairly short order. I compromised in the matter of diet as well, beginning to cautiously partake of dairy products and eggs. It was necessary; without an adequate source of protein I would never have survived, and what passed for vegetables in that place were usually mushy and overcooked, drained of most of their nutritive value before they ever landed on our plates. So I learned to eat what I must, to live.

My skills with a computer were all that I had that I was willing to trade. I was able to gain limited access in return for certain favours, but they would not permit me a computer of

my own. I had to use one in the prison's administration complex, always watched, closely monitored. Absent privacy it was impossible to get any personal messages out, else I might perhaps have succeeded in contacting Jim. But privacy was the one thing I could not buy.

So I altered records, arranged assorted black-market transactions, infiltrated all sorts of systems I should never have entered at all. I gave financial advice to crooked guards, to the warden, to anyone who would pay my price. I needed extra blankets, and warmer clothes than the standard prison issue. In addition, there are certain nutrients not normally present in human food, without which I would eventually have sickened and died. Those nutrients were expensive, since I had to have them smuggled in to me. One can buy almost anything in prison, but one must first acquire the needed funds. Vulcan ethics forbade such activities, so I disposed of them -- but then, I am forbidden to call myself a Vulcan now, so that must not be important. They have said it at the meeting of the clans, therefore it must be so...

Except that I still dream of that world, of how it was to walk free in the desert, smelling the incense on the wind, hearing the le-matya's cry echoing over the sands at night. It is an ache inside me that I have no way to assuage.

Kaiidth.

Why have I not Burned? Why did I not Burn when she who was to have been my wife declared our marriage anulled and had a healer break the bond? I felt it break; I was in pain and somewhat disoriented for a time, it is true. But I never Burned. I did not know why, unless I really was linked to Jim as I had often hoped, unless it was because he was human and male and did not trigger it in me. Or perhaps it was my own human blood, or my unBonded status. Perhaps the old stories are true and it is the female who actually triggers the Fire. I did not know, nor did I know of any Healer willing to minister to an outcaste like myself. It did not matter. I had no expectation that Jim would come even if I needed him. He might not be aware even if we were linked; I knew that he was headblind. In the end it made no difference, for the Fever never came to me.

For nineteen years I survived in that place, but he never came to see me. I followed his career as best I could, reading anything that came my way about the Enterprise and her captain. He nearly died several times. He lost several of his senior officers in one incident and another. He was court-martialed after the Denevan incident but Fleet cleared him of all charges; his only other choice besides deploying the satellites would have been to sterilize the entire planet. Still, many civilians died in the resulting chaos, many were permanently blinded -- I know that it must have been very hard on him, for it was ever his nature to take such things to heart. Even in the short time I knew him, I learned that much.

I know that Doctor McCoy, who had long been his friend and confidant, died of xenopolycythemia shortly after the Yonada disaster. Even in prison we heard about that. The Enterprise made contact with the ancient world-ship and tried to persuade the inhabitants to allow either evacuation or a course change. They refused, and eight months later, to avoid its impending collision with their homeworld, the defenders of Daran 5 shot Yonada out of the sky. Such a waste, not only of lives but of knowledge. For when the limited newsfeed the prison received finally displayed some pictures the Enterprise crew had taken, I recognized the Yonadan inscriptions as being Fabbrini glyphs. The little we do know of the Fabbrini says that they were wise and gifted in the healing arts. Who can say what knowledge was lost on that day?

Oddly enough, it was aboard the Enterprise that my father met his end, of a heart attack. Jim nearly died then, too; he was attacked by an Orion assassin trying to prevent the Coridani Admission. The plot was not successful, but my father never lived to see his policy carried out. To this day I cannot resolve my feelings about him. We never spoke again, after the day I left his house to enter StarFleet Academy. And yet, when I received the first letter to arrive from my mother after my imprisonment, she told me that he had known since I first left home of her contacts with me, but had never forbidden her to do so. He had not disputed T'Pau's decision to strip me of my rights, had not defended me before the clan lords. But he never forbade her to write to me, even after my banishment, though clan law gave him that right. It is a puzzle to me to this very day -- one I suppose I shall never resolve. Within a year of my arrest, he was dead.

Of it all, perhaps my sharpest regret is that I was not there to help my mother, once he was lost. She died alone, on Vulcan, four years ago. Her very last letter to me stated that she had never held her solitude against me, but I am not able to so easily dismiss it. I failed her, as I have failed so many others.

I never stopped hoping that Jim would visit me or communicate with me. He served as captain of the Enterprise for two more five-year missions. He taught at StarFleet Academy for a time, at the branch on Alpha Centauri A. Just before my parole, he accepted a position at Fleet Operations, on Earth -- but in all that time, I never heard from him. Well. I have said already, I believe, that I have often been a fool. I knew that I was building much hope on very little foundation. If the truth be told, I never have stopped hoping, though I have never spoken of it to anyone. And then to see him walk into this bar, just like that...

But I digress.

Finally my judiciary nemesis died of old age, as humans do, so much earlier than Vulcans -- and at my next parole hearing I was given my freedom, such as it is. I had six years of parole to get through before I would truly be free, but at least I was no longer confined. I thought that a great boon, the first few days on the outside. To eat when I was hungry, to sleep because I felt like sleeping, to choose something to read without having to gain approval of my choice first -- I had forgotten how sweet small freedoms can seem. To walk into a store with credits in my account, to pick out and buy what I wished with no guards watching, no Forbidden signs lighting up at my approach -- pleasant, indeed. To sit and listen to music till the sun came up and incur no punishment for so doing -- oh yes, that was very precious to me, at first.

But soon enough I realized how empty this was. I had exchanged a small tight prison for a larger more relaxed one, but I was still a prisoner. I was not free to leave the city unless my parole officer consented. I had to submit my choices for residence and employment to his scrutiny -- even my account was not private. Nothing was private. With a dishonourable discharge from StarFleet, plus such a long time incarcerated, few were willing to consider hiring me for any but the most menial of work. After several humiliating days of utter failure, I finally accepted employment as what they call a bus-boy, at a local drinking establishment. An odd name for the job, given that there are as many female bus-boys as there are male. But then, humans are often highly illogical. Since it was a condition of my parole that I remain gainfully employed, I had little choice.

Bus-boys, it turns out, are a vastly overworked and underpaid class. If not for the servers' habit of slipping me a portion of their tips I might not make enough to survive, much less to prosper. They seem to have adopted me as something of a pet; I suspect it is the novelty of working with a man who does not try to pressure them for sexual favours. Ironic that finally here, of all places, being s'skandrie-htath should become an advantage.

No. If I am to be honest, I must admit that perhaps in prison it was an advantage, too -- one of the few things that made life

there even barely tolerable. The difficulty lay in finding anyone whom I could bear to touch. But occasionally there was someone for a night or a week, or even a month, before a guard noticed and that person was transferred to another facility.

In the tenth year of my incarceration I had a lover for nearly six months. That was Michael. My Michael. Nai khirien'tah, I called him -- Bright One, in Vulcan. For that is what he was to me. So human, so very emotional -- and so good for me, while it lasted. He brought me out of my growing darkness, refusing to accept my silence and withdrawal.

In appearance he was nothing like Jim. But in spirit he reminded me very strongly of my captain. Though he was slightly built there was steel within him, a fiercely determined will to survive no matter what life might throw in his path.

By the time he was transferred to Corcoran, I had been withdrawing from life for some time. I still took care of my customers, logging in and doing as they needed me to do. But I had ceased to care, some months before, about much of anything else. I'd stopped talking, except to my customers, and I did not have many of those. Otherwise, I spoke only in response to a direct order and even then, as often as not, I stayed silent. I no longer went to watch vids, nor to the prison library. My appetite, never robust in that place, had declined to almost nothing, and I had begun to lose weight again. None of this mattered to me. Looking back I can see that I must have been suffering from a profound clinical depression, but at the time, all I knew was that blessed numbness had finally begun to steal away the loneliness and pain.

It was a process I welcomed. I told myself that it was merely my Vulcan nature reasserting itself, thereby proving that Vulcans are at least as adept at self-deception as humans.

I had begun to sleep long hours, far more than were necessary. I would have slept 24 hours a day if the guards had permitted it. My sleep was deep and dreamless, and it was growing harder and harder to force myself out of bed each day to attend to the necessities of survival. I simply did not care any more. After ten years in that place, I'd had enough. I no longer believed that I would ever be freed, so I sought freedom in the only way I could, in the oblivion of sleep.

It had been over ten years since I'd touched a willing mind, since I had seen Jim or spoken to him. I had given up hope of ever finding a true companion among the petty thieves and drug-smugglers, the drunks and sex offenders and human dregs who surrounded me. The need for the mindtouch, so sharp and so painful at first, had finally faded to a dull ache deep within me -- as everything had faded.

Into this darkness came Michael. He had been a StarFleet engineer, sentenced to a five year stint for black-market diversions of Fleet monies and property. He had served one year of his sentence when he was transferred to Corcoran for disciplinary reasons.

I still remember our first meeting. I had been sleeping; at first I was unsure of what had awakened me. I opened my eyes and peered over the edge of my bunk, to find that I had acquired a new cell-mate. He was standing in the middle of the cell and staring dubiously at the only unused bunk -- that same bunk which had originally been mine, ten years before. In the interim I had taken the other top bunk for my own, savouring its distance from the force-field emitters and its relative warmth compared to the lower bunks.

We stared silently at one another for some moments, then the new arrival grinned, walked closer, and held out his hand. "Michael Seamus O'Reilly, at yer service," he said. "I guess we're going to be room-mates, eh?"

I blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. He simply stood there and waited, while I surprised myself by leaning outward to take the offered hand. "I am Spock," I said hoarsely, breaking my silence voluntarily for the first time in several weeks.

His fingers were cool in mine, yet tinged with the warmth and open-ness of his thoughts. Even after I let go, I could still feel his regard. That awareness rendered me speechless once again. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me in that way -- not as an object, not as something to be used, but simply as a man looks at another to whom he is attracted.

That evening I left my cell and went in to supper, for the first time in days. Michael saw me come in and sought me out, sitting down beside me and chattering merrily while I silently consumed my bread and soup. I could not think of anything to say but I welcomed his company, finding myself actually hungry for once.

Less than a week after he arrived, I awoke late one night to find him standing next to my bunk and staring up at me. "I can't sleep," he whispered. "Lie with me, Spock. Let me touch you, please. It's awful cold over there, alone in my bunk."

I hesitated for an instant, but I already knew that I wanted him. The numbness into which I'd been retreating had deserted me, leaving a jumbled mess of hunger, loneliness, and desire in its wake. I nodded and moved over, making room for him to climb up and join me.

His hands on my skin were cool and dry, so very gentle. He was tall and slender, like me, pale of skin and red of hair, with green eyes and those spots that humans call freckles all over his body. A fine dusting of red-gold hair was sprinkled across his chest, his forearms and calves, growing more thickly between his legs. His mouth was soft, eagerly welcoming my cautious explorations. With every touch of his hands he drew me back toward life and living. And oh, it hurt, that rebirth. It hurt, and yet it was such pleasure as I have seldom known, to finally lie naked beneath him, every inch of me aroused and hungry, quivering, yearning for the touch of those cool and clever hands. I had to bite down on the edge of my blanket to keep myself from crying out, the first time he entered me. He felt so good against my skin, so hard there inside me, filling my emptiness with the warmth of his desire. We moved together silently, fearful the guards would discover us. But soon enough we forgot the fear, forgot everything but how good it felt to lie together...

We were lucky, that first time. None of the guards heard the noise of our coupling. By the time it grew light we had returned to our own bunks, giving every appearance of innocence. But in the space of that one night my life had changed yet again, for now I was not alone.

Michael told me once that lying with me was like sleeping in flames. We craved each other's touch as a starving man craves food. We took foolish chances, grasping any opportunity for intimacy -- and we got away with it. Whenever we lay together I could feel his thoughts brush against mine, and all that was in him was acceptance and welcome. In his arms I found some measure of peace, the first I had ever known in that place. We always had to be careful; if the guards had discovered us together, Michael would at the very minimum have been transferred to another cell block. Probably we would both have drawn time in solitary confinement. Even in the height of passion we could never let ourselves forget where we were, never just relax and let go. But none of that mattered to us, not then.

For a time, he almost drove Jim from my thoughts. That was how good we were together. He filled my emptiness and calmed my storms. I was his anchor, his refuge, the one he turned to in those rare times when pain and sorrow filled his mind. With him I was content, as I had not been for many years. He loved me, and in turn I came to care very deeply for him. If he had lived, much might have been different...

But he did not. He was killed in a fight in the exercise yard, five months and three weeks to the day after we first met. His killer was one of those who had first assaulted me, years before. He boasted of his deed afterwards, in the exercise yard. By the following morning, every prisoner in the facility knew who had done it, including me.

I felt Michael die. Not strongly, not in the way the members of a bonded pair can feel one another -- but we had shared our bodies often enough that a trace of a link had begun to form between us. So it is, when one of my people lies for a time with but one mate...

I'd had an errand to perform that day, something the warden had asked for. I did not realistically have the option of refusing. But at 1030 hours that morning I nearly collapsed onto the keyboard. I felt sharp lines of pain stabbing into me -- once, twice, a third time -- and then nothing, only the emptiness where the faintest thread of a link had been. I knew at once what it must be, though I had never felt such a thing before. It took all my strength to sit up straight, open my eyes, and finish the task before me. I could not even show my grief; I had to keep my Vulcan mask in place and pretend to know nothing. Somehow I made it back to my cell, only to find that Michael's bedding had already been removed. The last trace of hope that I might have been mistaken died in that moment.

I climbed up onto my own bunk, turned my face to the wall and mourned. But as the day passed and it grew dark, my grief became mixed with anger. I felt pushed beyond endurance; I wanted revenge with all the fire and the fury of my distant ancestors.

And I did kill, then. I waited two days, until the killer's back was turned and his friends' constant watchfulness began to ease. Then I stalked him till I caught him alone, and swiftly and silently snapped his neck. I left him lying in the dirt on the laundry room floor and walked away without looking back.

I had thought that revenge would help diffuse my grief. But it did not. Michael was still dead, and I had sacrificed something important without even realizing it.

The warden questioned me, of course -- the man's friends swore we had been enemies, swore I must have done it. But there was no proof. I had been careful, there was nothing to tie me to the crime. I drew 30 days in solitary for responding to their taunts -- but for the murder itself, I was not punished. Not formally. Only by my own awareness that I had finally committed a truly heinous act. It was a long time before I could forgive myself for that, before I could begin to understand and let it go. I have never killed again.

Ahh... Michael has been dead these nine long years, and still his memory threatens my controls. Even now the thought of his loss affects me this way.

But my grief -- and I admit, in private, that it is grief -- will not bring him back. He is gone beyond any reach of mine. And Vulcans do not believe in a life after the body's death. It is true that certain elders store their katras in the Hall of Ancient Thought. But as Sarek's despised half-breed son, it is very unlikely that option would ever have been open to me. As an outcaste, it is out of the question. And in any case humans do not leave katras. When they die they are truly dead.

I believe it is cleaner and better that way.

So. I was not, then, entirely alone during those nineteen years. But it was a near enough thing. And in all that time I seldom stopped thinking about Jim. My feelings about him grew tangled over the years, darker and more complex than that first pure flush of wanting -- but I could not put him from my mind. Even when I lay with others, some part of me kept wishing that it could be him. Only Michael was ever able to make me forget.

Proof, were any needed, of my own flawed nature. Not human, nor Vulcan either.

Kaiidth.

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

Now that I am finally "free", as I said earlier, my freedom is a sham. I have no real privacy and very little actual freedom.

The owner of the establishment where I work is an utter criminal. He is not even a competent one; he simply happens to be a member of one of the proper families. It is alarming how easy it would be for me to take over his operation. It would certainly get me killed, but it would be simple enough, in truth. Aside from that, I have begun to seriously consider violating my parole and simply leaving Earth for the Fringeworlds, where people do not ask unnecessary questions of one with my skills. At least out there I would be free to earn myself a proper living.

These were the thoughts that filled my mind on that evening when I finally saw Jim again. I was frozen; I could not decide what to do or how to act. And then Marcella took a break and handed me her orders pad, as many of the servers did from time to time -- and that was when I looked up and realized that one of the tables I would be covering for her was his.

By the bones of my Ancestors, I honestly did not know what I should do. What could I say to him, when I felt torn between a desire to strike him down, or to seize him and show the assembled patrons beyond any doubt what the real Vulcan soul holds beneath its logic -- passion and Fire. Even Surak, for all his wisdom, was never able to change that.

Both alternatives were equally impossible, of course. So I did the next best thing. I calmly walked over there and asked if he was ready to order yet.

He went absolutely white. I have always thought that a figure of speech, but no, it is a real human response. His face grew very pale, and for a moment I thought him about to faint. Then I saw him set his jaw, as of old, and he shook himself and came back to full awareness, staring at me as though he had never seen a Vulcan before. I could not make myself look away from his eyes; I had somehow forgotten how intense his stare could be.

"...Spock??? God, it is you..." He swayed, made himself take a drink of water and a deep breath, reached up and unfastened his crimson uniform jacket. So odd, to see Jim wearing what was once the colour of Security and Engineering... Small details absorbed me -- the play of the light in his eyes, the darker colour of his hair, the tiny lines the years had added to his once-smooth face. He was thinner now than he had been when we served together. Sadder and wiser, my mother might have said. Still I could not move or speak. He looked me up and down, then spoke again. "Damn, Spock, I don't know what to say. The Vulcan Consulate told me you were dead. I... listen, can you take a break? Can you sit? Do you want to?"

I was busy taking a few deep breaths of my own. Finally I realized what he had said, and that I should answer him. "I ought not, this soon -- but perhaps in an hour or so, if you are still here. Jim--"

"No, listen, an hour's fine. After all these years, I can wait that long." He lowered his eyes, an odd mixture of emotions that I could not identify on his face. When he looked up again, his expression was different. Harder, more focused. Shielded.

I looked down, away, suddenly uneasy. But there was nothing more I could say, as unprepared as I was, not in so public a place. "An hour, then," I told him, my voice suddenly rough. "I would like to speak with you. But for now, if you wish an order, I should fetch it and be about my duties."

Leaving him was the absolute last thing in the universe that I felt like doing. But I needed that job, and he was willing to wait, it seemed -- and after all, if he had not been, then that would have answered my questions quite well, would it not? So I wrote down his order for another Saurian brandy with a side of Altair water and walked away, feeling his eyes upon me with every step I took.

After handing in his order I retreated to the kitchen, shaking like a keh'ishla leaf in the sunset winds of home. I sat in the corner, clasped my hands in my lap, and fought for control.

He was well. He was here. He remembered me, and seemed to wish to speak further...

But there was no trace of contact, no awareness of his thoughts, no sense of his presence in my mind. He had not known that I was still alive until he saw me.

We were not linked. We never had been. What I had hoped for so long was a link to him was merely a very strong memory of the touch of his thoughts. After all, we had only melded twice. Logically this made perfect sense, but a feeling of crushing disappointment filled me nonetheless. For so long I had thought of, dreamed of, meeting him again. So many ways I had imagined it might be... It was hard to let go of that most cherished, long-held hope.

I suppose I should have realized that Vulcan would list me as deceased. In olden times I would have been erased completely from all records, never referred to again. It would have been as if I had never existed at all, as was done to my half-brother when I was but a child. Had I not been a highly-publicized StarFleet officer, this might well have been the case. Instead, I had simply been declared to be dead and put aside.

Such a nice, neat, orderly solution to an awkward problem. So very Vulcan. So cruel. My people are very good at cruelty.

But why had StarFleet not told him I yet lived? I could not know, unless I asked him. Suddenly an hour seemed like a very long time indeed. A heavy sigh escaped me, as I once more picked up my tray and walked out to resume my work.

That felt like the longest hour of my life. Marcella returned and took back her tables. A large group of people came in, had one round of beers and left again, leaving half a dozen tables in need of service. Several times, as I walked about the room, I caught his eyes upon me and quite lost track of what I was doing. His face was pensive, guarded, giving me no clue to his thoughts. He did not get up and leave -- but I could not tell what he was feeling. For a human, he always did have excellent control, when he chose to use it. It took every bit of my own control to carry on with my duties. I have been alone among humans for more than twenty years; the Discipline does not come as easily to me as it once did. I am not now what I once was.

Finally I was able to take a break. I walked up to his table and took the seat he offered me. And there we sat, the two of us, speechless and confused.

Several minutes passed in this fashion, before he cleared his throat. Startled, I flinched, and saw a wave of sadness pass over his face. He reached out toward my hand, but stopped himself just short of actually touching me. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I know this must be difficult."

I looked away for a moment, tried to gather my thoughts. "It is not you," I finally told him. "It is only that in prison one becomes accustomed to constant alertness. I have not been out for very long; I am not yet acclimated. It will pass, I believe." I paused, then continued. "It is good to see you again." I have learned somewhat of human customs, in all the years that I have been here. Small talk, this one is called. It has its uses, I must admit.

"It's good to see you, too. I wish--" He sighed, and looked away himself. Then he turned back and made himself meet my eyes. "I feel as if I owe you an apology. It never occurred to me that Vulcan would have lied. I should have checked more thoroughly..."

I shook my head. "It is not important. By Vulcan custom I am dead. I am outcaste; I can never go back. It is in the past, now. I have accepted it and moved on." Not entirely true -- but close enough. Certainly there is nothing I can do to change it.

He looked down at his drink; it appeared to be the same one I had ordered for him, though it was nearly gone, now. He seemed profoundly uneasy, and I tried to prepare myself for unwelcome news. "Spock -- I'm sorry. I could have tried harder to reach you, after the trial. To hell with Nogura, I should have tried. I let you down. By rights, you should tell me to go to hell."

"I do not believe in hell, Jim." Actually I do; I spent nineteen years of my life there. But I could never wish that on someone as vibrant and alive as Jim. He would never have survived it undamaged. Even I did not, and I am Vulcan. Besides, what he said had caught my attention. "I admit that I am curious, though -- what does Nogura have to do with this?"

"Once you were sentenced I was called to see Nogura at Fleet HQ. He gave me an ultimatum -- if I wanted to retain my command, I was not to contact you or accept any communication from you at all. He said that I was being watched, that Fleet wanted to close this case and lock the files away. He called you a disgrace to the uniform and the Fleet -- and I just sat there and let him do it. I was afraid I'd lose the Enterprise, too. He said that if I did attempt to contact you, he would bust me down to ensign and see to it that I spent my career hauling garbage in the Asteroid Belt. He said that if I succeeded in contacting you, he'd see to it that you didn't survive long enough to come up for a parole hearing. And I believed him. I didn't dare contact you directly. I tried to send a message through third parties, several times, only to be told they hadn't been able to reach you. But damn, I wish I'd tried harder."

"It is in the past," I told him, my voice very quiet. "I, too, was forbidden to contact any of my crewmates. I was told that I would only be allowed to write to my mother, and that any attempt to reach any of you would result in severe penalties for both myself and the person whom I contacted..." I can still remember my last interview with Nogura, the day my sentence was handed down. The fury in his eyes, the disgust that vibrated in every line of his body as he paced back and forth in front of my cell. The coldness of his voice as he denounced me, called me a traitor and a coward. He said that of all people, I more than any should know of the need for General Order Number Seven. Finally he told me that if it were up to him, I would have been dead before that day's sun had set. It was then that he spoke of what would happen should I attempt to contact any of my former shipmates, of what I would bring down upon them. I have never doubted that he meant every word. I was stunned, cold inside, shocked at how badly it had all gone wrong. It took me some time to finally meet his eyes and agree to his conditions. He spun upon his heel and left without another word, and I have never seen him since that day. Why I did not realize that he must have said much the same to Jim, I do not know. I was scarcely thinking clearly at the time, but still...

I blinked, shook myself from reverie. Took another deep breath, looked up at Jim, forced myself to speak despite the tightness in my throat. "If I had been thinking logically I would have realized that of course you must have been given similar orders. Jim, you must not blame yourself for StarFleet's cruelty, nor for that of my people. None of it was of your doing."

But he was not listening. His gaze had drifted to the floor, and I thought I heard him whisper, "Dear god, all those years..."

Only then did I finally dare to reach out and touch his hand, even for a moment.

The flood of emotion that poured through that contact nearly overwhelmed me. The loneliness, the sadness, shame and guilt... Bitterness, both at himself and the Fleet hierarchy; regret that I had not trusted him more, anger that I had not. All quite reasonable, but all at once like that, it was more than I could bear. I jerked my hand away and fought to bring my breathing under control. "I apologize, I should not intrude in this fashion." I could hardly speak, but I had to say it. "Perhaps I should go..."

"No. But I should. I'm sorry, Spock. This was a mistake." His face was once more closed to me, shielded, hard. The face of one trained to command, to ruthless decisiveness. He sat back, watched me stand, said nothing as I brought my own face under control. He stood up, pulled his jacket back on over the white turtleneck he wore underneath. Only then did he meet my eyes, his expression bleak, cold. "You can't go back, they say. I'm sorry I got your hopes up. There's nothing I can say to change what happened. I'd better leave." And he spun on his heel and left, just like that, leaving me standing numbly in the middle of the room.

I thought that I had reached the bottom of the well of pain many years ago. I was wrong. It took James Kirk to show me how much further I had left to fall.

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

Cold. So very cold. Damp, dark -- it was very late, and the street was empty of traffic. All was silence save for the everpresent hum of the surrounding city, the faint sounds of my boot-heels against the pavement. I looked around and realized that I had no idea at all of my current location. After finishing my shift and leaving the bar I had just walked, not caring where or for how long, needing only to move, to keep moving, to do anything rather than think.

But it wasn't working, and now I had managed to become lost, as well as chilled. And still I could not stop thinking. Remembering. Wishing, like the fool that I am.

But wishes have never done me much good. Why should this be an exception?

Finally I saw a bench under a streetlight and sat down there, pulling my cloak more tightly about my shoulders, my knitted cap further down over my ears. Of all the human cities I have seen, I have always thought San Francisco relatively congenial -- but on this night its appearance matched my own state perfectly. Fog swirled about the streetlights, muffling the famous landmarks, lending an eerie echo to the normally familiar sound patterns. I was in an older part of town, surrounded by three and four story buildings that seemed to be primarily commercial and industrial. It was not an area I recognized, but it appeared to be quite deserted.

After what had just happened I found that I did not care at all whether it was a safe place. What did that matter?

To finally see him again after so long, only to have it end like that, to have him just get up and walk away without so much as a backward glance...

Whatever I had thought might happen, it certainly was not that.

Time to face reality, Spock-of-no-Clan. My thoughts whispered darkly to me, full of treachery, despair. You are completely alone in this world, and you will always be alone. It is time you accepted What Is.

Unable to sit still any longer I sprang to my feet and began to walk once more, pacing restlessly. It was a surprise to bump my hip against a hard steel railing, to look down and see rocks and water some forty feet below. I had not even realized I was near the waterfront, so lost in reverie had I been.

I stood there for a long time, looking out into the darkness, waiting. Waiting to see if I cared enough, one way or another, to act. To either step away, or to climb over, let go, fall...

For a long time it did not matter, and so I did not move.

Only gradually did I become aware that I had let go of the railing, had begun to retreat in the direction of the bench I had so recently occupied. A decision, then.

Very well. I accept. I live. For now. I did not understand myself, but evidently something within me still clung to life, however barren that life might be.

I permitted myself a single sigh before setting out in search of a comm-booth, with its inevitable maps. I did not have sufficient funds to hire transport, but once oriented, the walk back to my lodgings would not be too difficult. Despite all that I have lost over the years, one thing has never deserted me -- my strength.

Though I was not at all sure, as I resumed my walk, whether that was a good thing.

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

Perhaps a week went by. Perhaps it was a tenday. I am not certain. I was not keeping track of time; I was merely going through the motions. Surviving, as I had done in prison, as once, in my youth, I had done on Vulcan. I attended to my duties and time slipped by.

And then one night I finished up, left the bar -- and he was there, leaning on the wall outside the back entrance, out of uniform, his hands jammed down into the pockets of his jacket. Just looking at me.

He had been there for some time, it seemed. The fog had dusted his clothes with tiny droplets of water. When he moved, the street-light's glow covered him in a myriad of miniature ghost-rainbows.

He said nothing, only waited silently, as if to see what I would do.

I stared at him. "What are you doing here?" I asked him, surprised at the sudden harshness of my own voice.

He flinched, then squared his shoulders and met my gaze steadily. "I have to talk to you."

"Why? What is there to say that you did not say already?" I will not deny this -- I was angry with him. I had not actually realized it until I saw him there that night, but it is true.

He did not waver, simply stood watching me. In the sickly glare of the streetlight his eyes were the colour of San Francisco Bay on a grey afternoon, a stormy slate green. And once more I found that I could not look away, could not bring myself to turn and start walking, though all that was left in me of logic warned that I should do just that. It is not logical. It is probably not even rational. But I never could turn from him. Not since the first day he came aboard the Enterprise was I ever able to do that. It is simply a fact, the way it is between he and I.

Instead I leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway from him. "Then speak," I said. "I am listening."

He sighed, almost inaudibly, and I saw a shiver pass through him. "Not here," he said. "Somewhere warm. Do you still drink tea?"

"Yes." I looked at him more closely. His face was set in that determined expression I remembered so clearly. All my instincts were telling me to turn and leave, but I ignored them. "Very well," I told him. "Follow me. There is a place nearby." Decision made, I turned and began to walk -- but I could not stop myself from looking back to see if he was walking with me. His eyes widened for an instant but he made no comment, simply came forward until he was pacing along beside me, as once, long ago, I used to walk beside him.

Strange, the patterns that recur in our lives...

I took him to the Vortex Hole. Where else? There are other cafes in my neighbourhood that stay open all night, but they are soul-less, cheap plastic franchise operations. Besides, the music is better at the Vortex. I have no liking for the currently fashionable Arcturian retrosynth. And nowhere else can one sit all evening over a chessboard and a pot of tea, without being pestered either to buy more or to leave. In the short time that I have been "free" it is one of the few genuinely pleasant places I have found.

Moments after our arrival we were seated in a comfortable corner booth, awaiting the delivery of our order. And once more that awkward silence fell between us.

I watched his hands, as he balled up a napkin and began to pick and tear at it. It was obvious that he was under great stress. He was glancing restlessly all around us, looking everywhere but into my eyes. I felt a certain sympathy, watching him; I was experiencing very similar sensations myself. It was a great effort to hold myself still, to control my face and my demeanor, to even try to observe Vulcan propriety. I managed, but it took all that I had.

"Spock, there's something I--"

"Jim, I need to tell you--"

We stopped and stared at one another again, having spoken at the same instant. His eyes were wide; I wondered whether my own were the same. I realized that sitting there like that, I could smell him, his scent, so very familiar. I could not control the shudder that passed through me then -- the wanting, as deep and intense as it had ever been.

He reached to put a steadying hand on my shoulder. For once I was grateful for the layers of cloth between us, for my shields were in a deplorable state. I leaned into his hand and drew deep breaths and waited for my nervous system to behave itself.

"Hey. Are you all right? Do you need help, Spock? What's wrong?"

I shook my head, tentatively. The world stayed still. "No, Jim, thank you. I am well enough. It is only that I am tired, I think." Had I been feeling more alert I would never have admitted even this much. But it was true. I had not slept well since seeing him on that memorable night, and I am not so young or so resilient as I once was.

There was a brief interruption as our order was served -- Vulcan spice tea for me, Oolong for him. We both sipped at our cups and pronounced them good; the server bowed and withdrew.

Jim looked up at me, steam wreathing through his still-unruly hair, and I saw that now his eyes were lion-amber, clear and bright and open, unguarded. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I am." How to even begin to tell him, of what was in my thoughts? I did not know. "Jim, I--" I cleared my throat. "There is... that is to say, I wi--" I could not find the words.

"Believe me, I know," he said, very quietly. "I can't find the words I want, either." He looked away for a moment, set his lips together, squared his shoulders. "I did some digging, since I saw you the other night. I have... well, let's just say a friend, in Special Ops. I've learned something that might account, at least in part, for Nogura's behaviour. I thought you'd like to know." He paused, watching me. I could not read his expression.

I spread my fingers in the Vulcan manner, a shrug. "I admit, I am curious. I never understood the depth of his animosity."

Jim looked down into his tea cup for some moments, then sighed. "I never did either. But this might have something to do with it. Nogura has a son. He's about our age. And he's blind and deaf and paralyzed, has been since his fifteenth birthday, when he was seriously injured in a flitter crash. He lives in a nursing home about 20 kilometers away from the admiral's house, and Nogura goes to see him every single week when he's on Earth. The boy can't communicate; no-one knows if he's aware of anything or if so, how much he understands. Nogura lost his wife over this; she left him about a year after the accident. He's been alone ever since. I think that when you did what you did for Chris Pike, he took it personally. He was one of the few who knew the truth behind General Order Number Seven. I think it must have been very hard for him to know that, and yet refrain from doing anything to help his son.

"My friend also says that he's very old-fashioned in his morals and beliefs. He's from a very old, very traditional family. In another age, he would have been a samurai. When you took Captain Pike to Talos IV, it was like a slap in the face to Nogura, a great dishonour that one under his command would do such a thing. He was vehement about catching you, seeing you brought to justice. I don't suppose you know this -- but during those two weeks while we were heading back to Earth to turn you over to the Fleet, there were two starships flying escort duty alongside us. That's how badly he wanted you punished. He was taking no chance at all that I might have a change of heart, might let you go or help you to escape." He looked away, and now I could read his face very clearly -- it was definitely grief I saw there. Shock coursed through me. I had not known of the escort. I had always believed I could have escaped if I'd wanted to.

Jim looked back at me. "I couldn't even come to see you. I knew there were bound to be spies among the crew, and that if I went against his orders, he would take it out on you. And with that escort, my hands were tied. So I sat in my cabin and when the time came I watched Security hand you over and never said a word. I'm sorry, Spock. I should have fought him. I should have found some way out. I should at least have come and said good-bye."

I was speechless for a time. I remembered once more that last interview with admiral Nogura and now I understood, at least in part, the anger, the pain I had seen in his eyes, the depth of his fury toward me, which I had never been able to comprehend before.

And yet, even so, knowing what I now knew, I could not find it in me to regret helping my former captain. I think that it is the one truly good thing I have ever done. And I would do it again, were the choice before me once more. It is the Vulcan Way -- once we give our loyalty, it is for life. And though Vulcan long ago cast me out, I cannot be other than what I am.

Finally I looked up again, met Jim's eyes, forced myself to be honest, to meet truth with truth. "Jim... it was not your fault. If anything, it was I who should have spoken. I should have let you know what was happening. You could have been condemned along with me, and you would not even have known why. It is I who should apologize, for endangering your ship and your life. I do not regret helping Captain Pike -- but I do regret the danger to which I subjected you. And the silence I kept. I am truly sorry for that. You always said that I was your friend as well as your first officer. I gave you a poor return for that friendship. Of it all, it is that I would change, if I could."

I busied myself with my tea for some moments, refilling the cup, stirring it, taking a few sips. Then, when I had composed myself again, I spoke. "I must ask you one thing. Will you be safe, after speaking to me like this? Will not the admiral find out and seek to punish you? I would not wish to be the cause of further misfortune."

Jim sighed, took a sip from his nearly empty cup, frowned in distaste at its coldness. "Spock, I really don't give a damn any more. I've been in StarFleet for twenty-eight years. I've done my bit for god and country. They're busy building a new, improved Fleet, now, did you know? Morrow told me the other day that the day of my kind of 'cowboy diplomacy' is over, that they need 'team players' now, not hot-shots. Hell, I halfway expected to be pensioned off when the original Enterprise was decommissioned, but instead they offered me the post teaching at the Academy on Alpha Centauri A3. And now I've got this desk job in Ops.

"They're building a new Enterprise, but they've already chosen Will Decker, Matt's son, to be her captain. And Nogura's getting ready to retire. He's passed off most of his day-to-day duties to Admiral Morrow, who's all set to succeed him as Commanding Admiral. I don't think Morrow gives a damn about you or me. He's got his own problems to worry about. Some days Nogura doesn't even come in to the office anymore. Anyway, it's none of his damned business. You've done your time; you've paid your 'debt to society'. What more can he do?"

I swallowed, uneasy. "He could revoke my parole. I have five and a half years to serve yet, before I am truly free. And he could take away your rank and your pension, see you drummed out of the Fleet altogether. Perhaps it would be wiser if we did not see each other."

His eyes flashed; a muscle in his temple twitched. "Is that what you want, Spock?"

I shook my head. "No. You must know that it is not. But I do not wish to bring you further harm, either. Surely I have done enough already."

"You never did anything wrong, my friend. All you did was stand by a man who had befriended you, come to his aid when no-one else had the balls to even try. I don't see that as a crime, and I don't give a damn what Nogura thinks about it. They're never going to give me another ship. I'm flying a desk these days, and it's just not the same. If I have to leave the Fleet, then I do. It's not as if I'm doing anything important where I am. Spock -- I never played the political games. I might be an admiral, but it's an empty title. I write the assignment orders, but I'm not allowed anywhere near actual policy-making. Morrow and his crowd have that sewn up tight. And I'm too old to change, to try and suck up and pretend I think the way they do."

He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up again, and I could not turn away from that intense stare of his. As of old, he captivated me. "I've been thinking about nothing but all this, since the night I saw you again," he said, his voice very quiet. "I've been through all the arguments, looked at every side of it. If you can look me in the eye and honestly tell me you don't ever want to see me again, then I'll go. But I don't think you can do that. Can you?"

I caught my lip between my teeth. I tried. I really did. But in the end, I had to admit to him, "No. I cannot tell you that. It would not be true if I did."

Some tension went out of him then. He slumped ever so slightly, seemed to sit lower in his chair. When he spoke, his tone was primarily one of relief. "Good. Because I can't say that, either. I'll be honest. I don't know how this is going to work out. I don't know for sure that nothing bad will happen to us. It might be that it's just too late, that too many years have gone by for anything to work between us. All I know for sure is this. I can't just walk away from you without even trying. Not again."

"Jim... " I could find no words. Could not describe, even to myself, the nature of what I was feeling. I lifted my hand partway toward him and paused, unable to act.

He decided it for us both. He reached out, took my hand between both of his, grasped it tightly and held on -- and left himself wide open as he did so. He must have known that I would see what was in his mind -- and yet he made no attempt to pull away or shut me out.

His emotions were so strong! Fierce and hot and bright, they buffeted me like the sandstorm winds of my childhood. For long moments I could scarcely draw breath, much less speak or interpret what either of us was feeling. Only gradually did the world cease to wobble and swirl; only slowly did some comprehension begin to return.

His regrets, his shame, his own sense of having failed -- these were so familiar they were as my own. His deep anger at Nogura, compared to my own more complex feelings about the man. Heihachiro Nogura had been my mentor. I had never understood why he grew to hate me so very much. Only now did I begin to comprehend the torment I must have put him through. The culture in which he was raised has much in common with my own.

And Jim's thoughts regarding me -- ah, they burned! I felt my face grow hot, let his hand drop, drew myself back a little in the seat. Fiercely I reminded myself that we were in a public place, that even in this relatively enlightened city and time, certain standards must be observed -- even so, I nearly threw myself on him then and there.

I looked up to see his face clouding over; he had misjudged my reaction. I hastened to reach for his hand again, steeling myself for the renewed impact. "Jim, please. Do not leave."

He froze and we stared at one another, scarcely breathing.

"All those years, all the crap they threw at us, all our own mistakes -- none of that matters now, does it?" His voice was very soft, his eyes a luminous gold.

"No. None of that matters," I agreed. I clasped his hand more tightly. "Only this."

I saw lightning flare in those lion-coloured eyes. His pupils dilated, then constricted sharply; his nostrils flared and a fresh wash of his scent surrounded us. "Yes." His voice was deeper now, almost a purr. "Only this." We sat like that for no time, forever...

Finally he reached down to take another sip of tea, wrinkling his nose in disgust upon remembering that it had gone cold. "C'mon, Spock. Let's get the hell out of here."

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

Freeze-framed images, frozen in memory: Fog swirling about Jim's head, glowing behind him in a nimbus of gold. His eyes, all the colours of them, never leaving me, hungry and intent.

Standing on the street corner waiting for the cab he had summoned. My hand sneaking across to touch his, only to find his engaged in the same maneuvre. We stood close to one another, and the folds of our cloaks hid our joining. In truth my cloak hid more than that. It had been almost three years since I'd last taken a lover; I was finding it very difficult to maintain my control.

Sitting across from him in the spacious hired aircar and only then beginning to really shiver, as warmed blasts of air roared into the cabin. Jim just smiled and kept hold of my hand. By the time we reached our destination I was warm again. Now I shivered for quite another reason. It was hard to catch my breath, hard to concentrate. I was hungry. Lonely. So very tired of it all. And afraid. Very much afraid that this too would prove just an illusion, that when morning came I would be alone once more... and yet I could not possibly have turned from him. Not then, not now -- not ever.

Reaching our destination, and all that I could see was Jim's eyes, and all that I could feel were his fingers, cool against my own. For just an instant we parted, to climb out of the cab. He had already paid the man. Then our hands came together again and I was lost once more, drowning in amber eyes and a warm human smile, shivering as I fought for control. I followed his lead blindly, clinging to his hand. We walked along a pathway, up some stairs, through a door, along a short hallway and through another door. I heard the clicking of the lock, heard him laugh, very softly.

"Spock," he said, reaching up to stroke my cheek. "It's all right. We're here. You can open your eyes now." Surprised, I did so -- I had not realized that I had closed them, so preoccupied had I been by the touch of his hand, the scent and the feel of him.

We were in what was obviously Jim's private residence. Of course he would have an apartment here in the city, stationed at Operations as he was... I had not realized, had not thought clearly about any of this.

I did not care. I reached for him again, pulled him toward me. It was so hard to remember to slow down, to use less than my full strength. "Jim--" I gasped, my voice harsh with hunger. "I cannot control -- it has been so long, I am afraid..."

He raised his head, touched his lips to mine. "Ssh. That doesn't matter either. I'm not made of glass. And you won't hurt me." Humans are cool. But his lips on mine were warm, urgent. His need was as hot and bright as my own. His skin bore the taste of it.

His arms encircled me; he melted into my own eager embrace. His mouth opened and I found his tongue, human-smooth, cooler than mine. Strange but pleasant, a difference I have never become accustomed to in any of the humans I have known. But this was Jim's tongue; that awareness hit me like an incendiary grenade. Hungrily I took him in, sucked at his lips, moved my body against his. He was hard already; he groaned as my own growing hardness brushed against him.

"Spock," he whispered, so faintly I almost thought I had imagined it, "come with me."

"Yes." There was nothing else to say. He held out his hand. Taking it, I walked beside him. I was aware of nothing but him. All my doubts had been burned away by the fire in his eyes.

We stopped walking and he reached for the clasp of his shirt, began to undo it. I found myself unwilling to allow this. "No. Let me." He smiled then, and nodded. As I began to undress him I could feel him trembling beneath my hands, very slightly, like a fine racing steed or a highly-tuned sport flitter.

The years had slimmed him down somewhat, brought a scattering of sparse greying curls to the once-smooth chest. He had scars here and there that I did not witness, souvenirs of battles I could not share with him. I understood -- I have my own share of such scars. Jim shivered, once, as I brushed against his belly while I worked at the clasp of his trousers. Finally I succeeded and they fell from his hips, leaving him clad only in tight black briefs, made tighter by the strength of his hunger. I licked my lips at the sight of his erection straining against the confining fabric. I helped him to step out of his remaining clothes, then gazed at him hungrily. He posed, hands on his hips, stance canted to show himself off to best advantage. "Do you like what you see?" he purred, smiling.

"Yes," I growled, reaching for him again.

But he was holding me off, shaking his head. "Wait..." And now it was my turn to stand, shivering, as his fingers stripped me of my clothes, my shields, all that I had been. Finally I stood naked before him, scarce able to meet his eyes. And then he was pulling me into his arms, pulling us down to his bed, wrapping himself about me. After the first shock of coolness, he was warm against me. His hands were everywhere, and every place he touched me seemed to melt only to coalesce once more below my waist, as my awareness narrowed to the feel of his hardness rubbing against my own, growing slick and wet and hot, ah, so good. His hands were firm about me; I held him tightly in my own fierce grasp, feeling his hipbones firm and strong and right beneath my fingers. My hips moved of their own volition; caught up in the whirlwind we thrust ourselves together, rubbing and sliding, groaning and gasping. I reached around behind him, found the crack between his cheeks, let my fingers wander down to caress what hid within. He arched against me, shuddering, gasping, "Ohh, god, yes..."

It took but one touch of my finger within him to make him freeze in my arms, every muscle rigid with the strength of his reaction, only to thrash helplessly against me as the waves of pleasure seized him. Hot wetness bloomed against my belly and I felt him jerk and shudder, clasped him even more tightly. I could not stop, I could not control. I thrust myself against him again and again, flying higher and higher, straining -- and then he touched my face and I was crying out, lost in my own climax, head thrown back, teeth gritted, back arched, heat burning within me even as it poured from my body.

When it was over I could not move or speak or even open my eyes. I was melted, utterly destroyed. And I did not care at all. Even as I felt his arms encircle me once more, I was losing my battle to stay awake, falling into the darkness.

But for the first time in many years, I was not afraid to fall asleep.

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

Morning, and something was wrong.

It was too quiet; I could not hear the sounds of the other inmates rising. Somehow I had slept too long. Alarm flared in me, but I forced myself to stay still, keep silent.

Until the body beside me moved, a warm hipbone brushing against me, and I realized that I was naked, that my companion was also naked, that surely the guards would come at any moment and catch us together and punish us...

A huge burst of adrenaline flooded my bloodstream and in one motion I was up off the bed and halfway across the room--

Only to stop, horribly confused, at the feel of soft luxurious carpeting beneath my bare feet. There was no carpet in my cell, no carpet in any cell, there never had been. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes, impatient for my vision to clear, and only then did I finally remember where I was and how I had come to be there.

Jim's apartment. Jim's bed. Jim...

It had not been just another dream. This was real. I turned and saw only love and concern on Jim's face -- that face which had filled my dreams for so many years.

Keeping his eyes locked to mine he stood up and took several steps toward me. "Spock? What is it, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

Such warmth in his voice, such concern. The knowledge that it was for me shook me to the core of my being. For so long I had wanted this and now I did not know how to approach him, what to do or say. Confused, I spread my hands wide in the Vulcan gesture of my childhood, to show my uncertainty.

"Jim..." I could see that he did not understand, so I followed with the human gesture, a shrug. "It is... I am well, I am unharmed." I took a deep breath, reaching for the tattered remnants of Vulcan control. "It was... I awoke and did not know where I was. For a moment I thought I was still in prison, that I had slept too long, that the guards were going to find me with a lover and punish us both. It is forbidden to engage in sexual relations, despite the prevalence of that very thing. I think that it was one more way for them to keep us subjugated, to show their power and our helplessness." I ducked my head and looked away, feeling extremely awkward. "Forgive me, t'hy'la, I did not mean to startle you."

He smiled at me, and it was as if the sun had come out. "Hey, don't worry about it, no harm done. I imagine all this takes quite a bit of getting used to. I'm just happy you're here, happy you were willing to hear me out last night, willing to come here and be with me like that." As he spoke he slowly walked a little closer, pausing when he was just out of arm's reach. "Spock," he said, his voice soft and very warm, "I would very much like to touch you again, to hold you." He held out his arms and stood waiting.

It took only a moment to decide, before I strode forward into his grasp and let his arms enfold me. Still skittish, I froze for several seconds. He simply stood there, his arms around me, his hands moving in gentle soothing strokes up and down my back. He kept his touch light, not trying to arouse, only to give comfort, until finally I was able to sigh, lean forward, and rest my head on his shoulder. He stood there holding me for some time, until he felt me relax the rest of the way, melt into his embrace.

"Come on," he whispered. "Let's sit down, get more comfortable. We need to talk, don't we?" I followed him back to the bed, allowed myself to sit, to be enfolded in his arms again.

"I-- yes, I believe so. Jim, I--" Once more my words failed me. But Jim did not hesitate.

"Ssh. Just sit quiet, take some deep breaths. Spock, I know it's going to take time for you to get used to having freedom again. I'm not surprised you were confused when you first woke up. I just want you to know, I meant everything I said to you last night. I've spent damn near twenty years wishing things had been different, wondering how it might have been if I'd had the balls to speak up, to tell you how I felt. But that doesn't matter any more, not now.

"I know you've got a lot of thinking to do. You're still on parole, and you haven't decided what to do about it yet. I want you to know that I will respect and abide by whatever decision you make. No matter what it is. Last night proved to me that what I felt for you all those years ago was real.

"I won't lie to you -- I really don't want to lose you again, not now. But I'd rather do that than coerce you in any way. I want you to feel free to choose as you need to, without constraint."

I swallowed, suddenly nervous, unsure of what to say.

Finally I found the courage. "Jim -- I do not know yet what I should do. I have thought quite seriously of simply leaving Earth and heading for the Fringeworlds. Out there a man with my skills can live well, with no questions about his past. Even if I stay here and finish my parole, I will always be a marked man, forbidden to do the only thing I ever really wanted to do.

"And there is this -- I do not wish to leave you, but I fear I shall bring misfortune down upon you if I stay. I am in turmoil; I truly do not know what I should do or where I should go." I drew a deep breath, struggling to keep from visibly trembling. The storm of emotions within me was buffeting me as if I were a leaf upon the wind.

Jim gently stroked my cheek with one hand, again and again, showing me beyond any doubt that what I had felt in him the night before was real and true. Finally he sighed and spoke once more, his voice low and very soft. "I meant what I said, Spock. Whatever you choose to do, I will respect it and you. I know what I hope you'll choose -- but if you don't, if you can't, then at least I've had the chance to see and to hold you, to know that you are alive. A month ago I still believed you were dead, lost to me forever. Now I know you're alive and on your way to freedom. Nothing can take that knowledge from me."

We sat together in silence for what seemed like a long time, my head resting on his shoulder, my arms clutching him tightly. His hands never stopped their motion, tracing soothing patterns on my shoulders and my back, stroking me, infusing me with the warmth of his caring.

Finally I lifted my head and looked into his eyes, now a bright blazing green-gold. I reached out and touched his cheek as he had earlier touched mine. "T'hy'la," I whispered, "if you truly wish it, I would stay with you a time. I do not know what will happen or where I will eventually go -- but I do not wish to part from you, not now."

A loud sigh escaped him and I felt his whole body relax, felt myself settle more firmly into his arms. "I'm sorry for all the years we missed, Spock. I wish I could have helped you, or at least stood beside you. But you're here now and I can't regret that. I'll stay with you for as long as you want me. And if Nogura doesn't like that, he can go straight to Great Patham's seventh and coldest Hell." He laughed, a dry chuckle. "What a long strange trip it's been, eh?"

I remembered that phrase. It was in one of my mother's books, a book published in a place called Berkeley in the year 1978, Old Earth Reckoning. I nodded. "Indeed. Classic pre-Eugenics War Terran literature. Appropriate, in this instance." And I could not resist the faintest quirk of a smile, to see his surprise and pleasure that I understood the reference. This was the game we played of old, before the hard times came.

And at that thought I was overcome again. I tightened my grasp until his faint gasp reminded me of the difference in our strengths. I tucked my head in against his shoulder, content to sit there and feel him breathing beside me.

Content for a while, at least. But to sit there like that, holding him, smelling him, tasting his skin -- no, I could not do that and not be touched by it. I held him tightly and turned my head to snuff at the base of his neck, to deeply inhale his unique scent. It was this more than anything that convinced me I was not dreaming. He stretched and rubbed himself against me. It was an exquisite sensation. As if of one mind we both leaned back, still wrapped about each other, until we lay entwined together on his bed once more.

"Mmm," he said, purring, turning to lick at my neck. "You taste good."

"As do you, Jim." I moved as if to demonstrate but was forced to gasp and stop, as his wandering tongue found one of my nipples. He sucked it into his mouth and nipped at it with his teeth, and a wave of delight washed through me. Jim's response was to laugh softly and reach for the other nipple, tonguing and nipping at it until I could not hold still any longer. I pulled him up into my arms and rolled over on top of him.

"You are a sorcerer, James Kirk. You have bewitched me."

He pushed at my arms for a moment. I loosened my grip and that seemed to satisfy him. He wrapped his own arms more tightly around me, reached up and kissed me.

"A sorcerer, huh? Well," he said, laughing, "they do say it takes one to know one. From you, my dear sir, I consider it a compliment." He kissed me again. His mouth drew me fiercely. I could not get my fill of him. He writhed beneath me and I felt his arousal rub against my own. Ahh...

"Jim... Ah!" He reached up and licked my face as I began to speak. I stopped and kissed him again. "Jim -- lie with me, t'hy'la. I want you..." I emphasized my words with a slight downward push of my hips. Feeling his hardness throb against me, I groaned.

He was smiling again, smiling and reaching to caress my face. As his fingers brushed across my temples I felt his assent, his eagerness. His own hunger, the echo of mine. "Yes," he said, in between kisses. "Anything, yes. Now?" I felt his body lift itself to push against me.

"Mmm..." I moved down to savour his arousal, to brush my cheek against it. I turned to stroke it with the tip of my tongue. "Yes. Now, Jim." I sucked him into my mouth and took him deep, let him slide out, sucked him in again. He groaned and arched himself against the bed. I sucked him and worked his shaft with my fingers. I stopped and licked his balls, then slowly sucked him in again. I caressed his thighs with my fingertips, softly, feather-light. My fingers swooped and circled the opening I sought. I stroked it lightly once, twice, bent and licked at it. Under my hands I could feel his body tighten, his breath grow short. Tremors coursed through him as his climax neared. I sucked on him again, circling his shaft with my fingers, squeezing, pulling. He moaned, shuddered, went rigid. His seed poured forth, and I caught it in my hands.

I smoothed some of it onto his ass. Slowly and carefully I worked first one then two semen-coated fingers into him. I pulled them out, coated them again and reinserted them, turning, stretching, feeling the tight muscle within him begin to relax. He writhed and groaned beneath me. "Ah, gods, Spock! Please, hurry... Stop torturing me, t'hy'la -- do it, now!" I permitted myself the very smallest of smiles, as I knelt between his legs and lifted his hips up onto my thighs.

I took a deep breath and very carefully began to enter him. He gasped and shuddered when the first ridge popped inside him; when the second did so he sighed happily and in one smooth upward push he took me in the rest of the way.

Ahh, he was so tight. I knew I was not his first, but...

I lost all track of my thoughts as he began to thrust himself upwards against me, grasping at my hips, slamming us together again and again. He laughed and squeezed me with the muscles inside him.

It was as if a blast furnace had suddenly ignited within me.

I lowered my head, wrapped my arms around his waist and thrust in deep, as deep as I could. He gasped and clenched around me, and I thrust again. We settled into a rhythm, thrust and return, again and again, moving easily together, as if of one mind. He was hot and wet and tight around me. He knew enough to clench his muscles and squeeze me, again and again. His chin rested on my shoulder while my own was tucked against his ear. We rocked and thrust and strove together, ever faster, ever harder.

It was a coming-home for me. No matter how wildly I moved, his arms held on to me. He met my thrusts with his own fierce hunger. As often as I bent to kiss him, he rose to kiss me. We were matched, mirrored images of need and desire.

I could feel the pressure growing within me. Currents and eddies of pleasure, hot showers of sparks across my nerves. A deep, gathering urge. I thrust harder, faster. He met me, perfect. He was so tight, so good -- ahh!

Ah, Jim! T'hy'la, bright one, Jim...

I know, love. I feel it too. And he was there with me, in the meld I did not remember making. His thoughts entwined with mine; each of us felt what both were feeling...

So full, so hot, so cool... ahh, -tight-! Harder still, and faster, we moved together. The tension was unbearable, surely something must--

Ohh... yes!

Ahhh...

Both of us froze, hung poised for a timeless moment, suspended over the abyss. Then we fell together over the edge and into the heart of the fire, laughing, swooping, burning up -- One.

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

One month has passed, since Jim walked back into my life. An instant, an eternity, of such joy as I never thought would ever be mine. Each time we touch the fire between us is renewed, growing hotter and brighter as we grow still closer.

I have now that thing for which I yearned, through all the years alone. Jim is with me, his thoughts in mine. I feel his presence even when we are apart. I feel it right now, though he is at Fleet Ops and I am here, working in the bar. It matters not. Nothing can keep us from one another, I know that now. He told me this morning that he, too, can feel my presence within. And when I told him, hesitantly, that if we continued in this way a mate-bond would grow between us, his only response was that devastating smile and a closer embrace. "Good," he told me, his manner fierce. "I can't wait. I want that; I want you. You're mine, and I'm yours."

Made wordless by the strength of my response, all I could do was return his embrace, bury my face against his neck and simply savour the fact of his presence. And it was enough. We know one another now, as we never could before.

Heihachiro Nogura retired yesterday, stepping down after twenty-five years as Commanding Admiral. Admiral Morrow has already issued a flurry of new orders, hastening to remake the Fleet into what he thinks it should be.

Jim's term of service has five more months to go. He has already advised the Fleet that he will not be re-enlisting. And I--

I am obeying the conditions of my parole, for now. My parole officer has lightened my restrictions somewhat, telling me, in a patronizing tone, how well I am doing. And it does not matter to me. None of it matters. I know now that I am free, regardless of what it may say within my file. In Jim's arms I am remade, reborn. I can choose who I will be and what I will do. Once Jim retires we will leave this world forever, for there is nothing to hold us here any longer. He has already used his accumulated pay to purchase a ship, a small but well-built vessel capable of transporting cargo from port to port. We are going to the Fringeworlds, to travel among the stars and share our lives for whatever time we may have.

In a way nothing has changed, not outwardly. I still have nightmares; perhaps I always will. I am still learning how to truly be free. But in a deeper way, everything has changed. I am not the man I was. I am no longer bitter, no longer alone.

I will never be alone again.

-----/end/---