DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of KarraCaz and is copyright (c) 2003 by KarraCaz. This story is Rated R.

DEBT OF DISHONOR

KarraCaz

Chapter 1: The Game Begins

She was in the garden trying to forget her terrible anxiety in some useful occupation when T'Pahsen found her. The young khamsamah was out of breath, panting from her exertions in the mid-day heat, when she eventually burst through the shrubbery of the wild garden, her large eyes wide and not a little curious.

"Noble lady," she began hurriedly, suppressed excitement coloring her voice. "I regret this disturbance but there is a message. Will thee not come?"

T'Pavan straightened from her pruning, slim fingers tightening convulsively about the pao bloom she still held as she met her maid's inquisitive gaze. She kept her own voice level with some difficulty, intent on controlling her pounding heart.

"Be calm, child," she admonished brusquely, her own state of mind far from that admirable condition. "Who wishes to speak with me? My husband?"

"No, lady, it is not the Lord Semnek." She lowered her eyes at the abrupt rebuke, so unlike her mistress. "It is the innastran'i, the stranger who called yesterday. He would not give his name."

T'Pahsen glanced up from beneath sooty lashes before hurriedly seeking the ground once more. "He wished to speak only with thee, Lady. No other would do."

Apprehension sent a shaft of fear stabbing through T'Pavan's abdomen as her heart plunged sickeningly, a premonition of danger, not for herself but for T'Pavahna, the child-of-her-flesh, born only five short years ago.

"Lady, are thee not well?"

The anxious voice of T'Pahsen forced its way past her uneasy thoughts. Absently, T'Pavan stared down at the crushed flower she still held in her fingers, knowing that her whole world had just broken apart beneath her feet. With an effort of will, she inclined her head, the words coming stiffly to her lips. "Go back to the house, samah. I will follow. And samah ... thee will speak of this matter to no one else. Do thee understand?"

The khamsamah bowed from the waist. "I serve only thee, Lady. None shall hear gossip from my lips."

T'Pavan acquiesced with an inclination of her head as the young Nevas'asharn girl turned away, the double anklet rings she wore chiming faintly in the hot, motionless, air. Of course, she spoke the truth, T'Pavan realized, for there was no one more loyal than T'Pahsen. Yet she was aware how quickly rumor could spread. Everyone knew that she had been at variance with Semnek, her husband, and half-brother, even before T'Pavahna's birth. She could well imagine that this news of an unknown inamoratos who had called twice in two days would enliven the palate of even the most jaded of court gossip. Such rumor would normally have been beneath her contempt but now she could not allow the least tittle-tattle connected with her name. As long as her caller and his business remained a secret, she would have nothing else to fear. She only had to comply with her instructions and T'Pavahna would be returned. For that she would do anything, risk all that she had, just to keep her only child safe from harm.

Schooling her face into an expressionless mask, she walked through the considerable grounds and enclosed gardens, oblivious of the burbling fountains and tinkling wind chimes that stirred idly as she passed by. However, as she pushed beneath the luxuriant vines that formed a natural archway into the spacious courtyard, she could not prevent the wild thudding of her heart. With inherent grace, she advanced across the flagged terrace, where water cascaded into a deep, rectangular pool. Despite the darkness of her soul, her eyes still sought out Es'sarhan's dome where it reflected the hot, orangey sky above.

T'Pahsen held the door for her as she passed from the colonnade into the cool shadows of the entry hall. The marble underfoot felt wonderfully real and solid as she paced with measured tread into the large central lanai, crossing to the comcon unit revealed now from behind its beautifully painted screens. T'Pavan's abstracted gaze swept over the young khamsamah. "Leave me, T'Pahsen. Be assured I will call if there is need."

"Noble lady." The girl bowed, departing on soundless feet. T'Pavan watched for a moment as her maid disappeared into the inner fastness of their quarters before slowly reaching out with an unsteady hand to the controls of the comset, none of the roiling emotion she felt allowed to show on her urbane features.

Enigmatically, she stared at the face that was quickly forming, loathing it on sight. Even in Human guise, the Klingon was readily identifiable -- to her at least.

"I believe you are now ready to discuss a certain matter that could prove important to us both, Madam." The thin lips smiled without warmth.

T'Pavan inclined her head, unaware of the anguish that burned within her eyes or her pale and desperate face. "It seems I have little choice in the matter, ser--"

"If you have any regard for the safety of your child, you will listen most carefully. Any failure in carrying out these instructions will not be kindly met. You understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Your orders are, by any means at your disposal, to persuade the Federation Starship Enterprise to be diverted to this planet."

T'Pavan tensed, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "The Enterprise?"

The other nodded. "This ship is known to you, of course. We are aware that the Vulqangan First Officer, Spock, was a one-time friend. When the ship arrives, you will ensure he is separated from his companions. This will not be too difficult, I assume."

T'Pavan smiled, a small, bitter parting of the lips. "Thee puts great store in a friendship that died long since. What if the task proves more complicated?"

"Remember your daughter, Madam. The Vulqangan must be made amenable at whatever cost. Do as you are bidden or the child will certainly suffer. You will be contacted again with further instructions."

"Wait," T'Pavan cried as the Klingon reached to disconnect the comlink. "How do I know that my child still lives? Before I do as you order, I want proof of her well-being."

Which was not strictly necessary as the birth link between mother and daughter told her plainly that Vahna at least was still alive. However, she needed to see, to reassure herself with all her senses that her child was unhurt.

The swarthy, impostor Human sneered in contempt at her weakness. "Very well."

Instantly the scene shifted and T'Pavan's heart leaped tremulously as the face of her only daughter replaced that of the Klingon. The child, little more than an infant, stood straight-backed, dark head held high, pretending an indifference that her mother knew she did not truly feel.

A fierce, protective tenderness rose in T'Pavan's breast as she noticed the determined set of the small chin, the solemn eyes rimmed with shadows. "Are thee well, child?"

"I will try not to shame thee, M'aih. Please do not be afraid. I am being very brave." A tremor shook the small lips and her voice wavered. "However, I would like to come home soon."

Unexpectedly the screen darkened and T'Pavan cried out. "No, please. I must have a little longer. Vahna! Vahna!"

The Klingon reappeared. "As you see, Madam, your child is unharmed. It will be up to you whether she remains that way. Do not fail us in this."

The connection was disabled and the screen darkened, leaving her with the memory of her frightened, courageous child and her own sweeping desolation. For a long moment, she stared at the blanked screen unable to consider past the nightmare thoughts. However, necessity forced her into action. Numbly, she struck the gong-like chochin with its felt-covered hammer, summoning khamsamah T'Pahsen into her presence once more.

The girl came as soundlessly as she had left, on slippered feet. "Noble lady?"

T'Pavan roused herself gradually, a plan evolving with painful reluctance. "I wish an audience with my consort. Arrange it, samah. There must be no delay."

Chapter 2: Spock

James T. Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise, stepped briskly from the elevator and onto the bridge of his ship, immediately registering the disquiet on the lean, ascetic face of his Vulcan First Officer, Spock.

"You look worried, Mr. Spock," he said with a wry grin, not altogether joking. "What's the problem?"

Startled by Kirk's approach, unusual in itself, Spock turned reluctantly aside from the main viewing screen as he slipped smoothly out of the command chair.

"Problem, Captain?" He raised an expressive eyebrow, his face serene once more, as he made way for Kirk. "I am aware of none. Standard orbit has been achieved and the Nevas'asharn High Council is awaiting your arrival at the beam down point."

"Very well." Kirk nodded, his gaze lingering on the scene of the hazy, copper-colored world pictured on the forward viewscreen, which had so intently held Spock's attention. "Have the artifacts been transported aboard yet?"

"No, sir." Spock shifted position, standing at ease with his hands clasped loosely in the small of his back. "Ambassador Sustek wished to present them to you personally on behalf of the Heir and her consort."

"Is that necessary?"

"I believe the collection is thought to be unique -- and therefore priceless. The Nevas'asharn have never previously allowed them off-planet, although there have been frequent requests." He frowned, staring ahead at the viewscreen. "The Federation is unusually honored, Captain. I also suspect they are nervous at the privilege."

"I daresay," Kirk murmured, smiling lazily. No doubt, the reason why Fleet had insisted on the Enterprise doing simple freighter work. "You've been to Nevas'ashar before haven't you, Spock? I noticed your father, Ambassador Sarek, was the Vulcan envoy here some years ago."

One of Spock's winged brows ascended quizzically as he shot Kirk a sideways glance. He had never felt obliged to reveal his intimate family background, although he was aware that such details were contained on his service record. Now, the proximity of Nevas'ashar, holding so many unforgotten and painful memories, made him even more disinclined to divulge information he considered strictly private. However, he could not ignore Kirk's request.

With obvious reluctance he admitted, "That is correct, Captain. I spent several vacations here as a child, usually during school recess. As Nevas'ashar is the sister planet of Vulcan, it is a matter of Tradition that someone from home sits on the Council."

"You have relatives here, or friends, perhaps?"

The pause lasted a fraction longer, Kirk noted with amusement, aware that he was teetering on the brink of Spock's personal data boundary.

"Negative, sir."

"Uh-huh." Of course it was a fallacy that Vulcans could not tell lies, but on the other hand, Spock was sometimes congenitally, painfully honest. He flicked the First Officer a covert glance, trying to penetrate the expressionless mask. As far as he knew, only a very few had tried to get through Spock's natural reserve, and most had been caught out at first base. However, for whatever reason, the two of them had become fast friends. Yet, it did not seem to make any difference how hard he tried to reach Spock these days; there always seemed a barrier between them. Even now, in the midst of the bridge crew, Spock was just as isolated as if he was a million miles away. Kirk was ready to respect his First Officer's wish, if that's the way he wanted to play it, yet he had known a different Spock, and the momentary unease he had surprised on his friend's face forced him to go on probing, however much he trespassed on forbidden ground.

"It was also a Vulcan colony world, I understand?" Kirk thought he detected the merest flicker of resignation in Spock's brown eyes at this further question, but the answer came, as he knew it would.

"Also correct, Captain. Vulcan did colonize Nevas'ashar. However, that was long ago, after the reformation of our world. Unfortunately, the first Nevas'asharn did not share Surak's regard for the mastery of emotion. They elected to leave Vulcan and settle a world where they could continue in the old ways."

"Oh?" Kirk propped his chin in one palm, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair enabling him to look Spock squarely in the eyes. "Now that is a revelation, Mr. Spock."

"Sir?"

"That there's a black sheep in the Vulcan family."

"A black sheep, Captain? I fail to see what a Terran ruminant of undetermined color has to do with Vulcan." Spock managed to look thoroughly perplexed without moving a single muscle.

"It's an old Earth saying, Spock." McCoy, hearing the tail end of the conversation as he entered the bridge, put two and two together and, as usual, made five. "Literally, it means a disreputable member of a social group. A reprobate if you like."

He grinned lopsidedly down at Kirk who merely shrugged, leaving the conversational ball in Spock's court. The First Officer considered the explanation before returning the serve.

"I do not 'like', Doctor," he said dryly. "And it does not apply in this case. The Nevas'asharn are definitely not disreputable, as I understand the term. They are, however, inclined toward emotionalism."

He frowned, winged brows drawing together. "In that respect they are very much like Humans. It can be disconcerting."

"That I'd really like to see!" McCoy grinned. "I'm almost beginning to like the idea of beaming down with you, Jim. You're sure they're not like ordinary Vulcans, Spock?"

He made the term 'ordinary Vulcans' sound like a dirty word.

Spock failed this time, however, to rise to the bait. "Quite sure, Doctor McCoy. I am quite confident you will both find your visit a rewarding experience."

"You're not coming with us?" McCoy asked in surprise. "With Nevas'ashar being so close to Vulcan, I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to stopover."

Again, Kirk noticed that fleeting look of unease cross Spock's usually enigmatic features, but it was so quickly masked he was sure no one other than himself could have seen it. Was Spock's recent introspection something to do with the planet beneath them? Now that he thought back, Kirk was sure it had only begun when Spock had learned they were to visit Nevas'ashar. He fended McCoy off as best he could.

"I have already granted Mr. Spock permission to stay aboard and finish off some research, Bones. However, if you change your mind, Spock, you have our coordinates?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Very well. You have the conn, Mr. Spock." He pushed himself out of the chair, heading for the elevator with McCoy at his heels. Before the doors snapped shut he saw Spock turn back to the viewscreen, his eyes looking inward at some private memory even Kirk was not allowed to share.

* * *

Spock was in the Science laboratory when, some hours later, the in-ship communicator buzzed insistently for his attention. Mildly irritated at being disturbed, he flicked the channel open.

"Spock here."

Uhura's voice came clearly through the speaker grid above his head. "Mr. Spock? I have a caller from the planet who would like to speak to you. Shall I patch you in or transfer it to your private line?"

Spock looked up from his computer console, a frown gathering between his eyes, suspicions aroused by something evident in Uhura's tone. Practical jokes, a predilection of many Humans, had been played on him before.

"Is it the Captain?"

"No, sir, Mr. Spock." There was now open speculation in the Lieutenant's voice. "The call is from T'Pavan, Ambassador Sustek's daughter. She says she's a personal friend."

Spock tensed abruptly and it was a long moment before he found sufficient composure to attempt a reply. He took a deep breath, seeking balance, steadying himself. "Put the call through to my quarters, Lieutenant. I will take it there."

Chapter 3: T'Pavan

He materialized on the curve of clean red sand that formed a barrier between the heavy, viscous water of the sea and the ragged hem of a young forest rimmed with flame trees and dark, glossy moonflower vines. For a moment Spock leaned against one of the rough, white trunks, the feathered leaves five meters above his head, gazing out at the shimmering depths of the sheltered lagoon, that stretched calm and flat before hitting a submerged coral reef on the very edge of sight.

Moving from beneath the tree into the breathtaking heat, he again became aware of the rich, formal Vulkhanir clothing that he had elected to wear. The heavy and ornate material felt strange after the everyday, easy familiarity of his uniform but he knew quite well why he had chosen it. For one of the few times in his life he declared openly his rank as a Vulkhanir, the fact that he belonged to a Family quite as illustrious as any on Nevas'ashar. Not only was he Spock, the Vulcan First Officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise, but also Spock s'kahri ansh'oune t'sarek, the son of Sarek, child of Skon, child of Solkar. Somehow, on this day when he would meet T'Pavan again, that knowledge assumed a new importance.

Tall and solitary, he strode out onto the sands, his steps sure and unhurried, following the curve of the shoreline. It was, how long, since he had last visited this strand? Of course, he knew the tally exactly, six years three months and four days. If asked, he could have quoted the passing time down to hours, minutes and even seconds. It had been nightfall then, and a haze of stars had shone brilliantly against the velvet backdrop of the sea. He stopped walking abruptly as the past rose up to confront him, the memories vivid, unclouded by time, the humiliation of that last evening having lost none of its mortification.

Breathing deeply, he began to walk again, pushing the obstinate thoughts away, sensitive to the knowledge that he must not allow the past to influence the forthcoming reunion with T'Pavan. Surprised by her call to the ship, nevertheless only at that point did he fully realize how much he wanted to meet her once more, although he was quite prepared to forego a visit planetside solely because of her presence there. Undoubtedly that had a great deal to do with his stubborn Vulkhanir pride, but he was also aware of how much influence T'Pavan still retained, how deeply she could still wound him for, despite all that had happened between them, his regard for her had not altered. An ancient proverb of his mother's came to mind; pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall! It was a particular favorite of hers -- and one she found delight in quoting -- especially in connection with Sarek and himself. However, if he was on the road to destruction, he went freely if not altogether with a sense of prudence.

He turned from the narrow strip of sand, careless of the hot sun beating down upon his scalp and shoulders, moving as agilely as a mountain sehlat among its native hunting grounds on Vulkhanir, taking the evasive path through the flame trees until the city of Orkhas'asar opened up before him. Constructed upon a long string of islets, reefs and shoals, the remains of a great chain of submerged mountains, Orkhas'asar was, as the name suggested, a place where stone combined with water in a mysterious blending. The city was built around wide boulevards with imposing statues and impressive fountains as focal points. A circular municipality, the streets were concentric, intersected with high causeways, radiating out from a central point like spokes of a giant wheel.

Spock walked along quiet, tree-lined canals, and through promenades where motorized traffic never ran, responsive to the calmness pervading the streets and which he drank deeply into his agitated soul. He needed this tranquillity after the long, weary years away. His eyes swept the cool, clean lines of pale stone, shining behind the constant hazy cascades of fountains, reminded of his home city ShiKahr, although Vulkhanir could not boast such an abundance of surface water. Crossing over onto a bridge, he leaned against the parapet, watching the bright, gossamer sails of a skimmer as it passed beneath him. The child steering the craft was obviously a professional and noticing his interest, she laughed up at him, shouting a greeting. Spock nodded in response, a little shocked by a freedom that would never have been possible on Vulkhanir, reminded once again of his own gracelessness.

With growing apprehension, he turned away from the canal into the winding lanes fronted with grand public buildings, heading for Es'sarhan, the Red Fortress, which was T'Pavan's residence and royal city all in one, the hub of Orkhas'asar, and where all the major streets converged. He chose to walk in the shade, the air about him redolent with the fragrance of flowering ysleta and tsinan vines that grew among many other native and off-world varieties in the parks, alamedas and other open spaces, piquantly spicy, assaulting his nostrils with an odor that was a constant reminder of the last time he was there. The sound of water was all about him, splashing from the fountains at every intersection, lapping at the canals stonework, swirling with slow determination around the bridge ramparts, and if he stopped to listen, he could even hear the faint, whispering, susurration of the sea. It was weird and wonderful, strange and familiar all at once, as if he wandered in some mystical dream, the portents clear if only he was able to decipher the warning. Spock felt his heart skip a beat, his pulses abruptly thundering as, with the thought, he ascended a flight of steep steps and found himself fronting a decorative gate, one of five he knew of and less public than the other four, shaped by a thrusting tracery of interweaving metal leaves, an access to Es'sarhan's extensive grounds. He stopped to read the deeply etched inscription decorating the sidewall, Keh'sarin Es'sarha, the name of the dwelling within the walls, the name of the Family that owned it, on a parity with the most ancient of Families that still ruled Vulkhanir.

And I am a trespasser here, he thought ruefully, who once presumed that the half-human son of a noble Vulkhanir father had rights that in reality did not exist.

It was the voice of reason, one he knew it was wise to heed but he continued to ignore the admonition, swayed by the overriding and totally illogical need to see T'Pavan once again. Knowing himself a fool, he pushed at the gate that opened at his touch and stepped inside, halting for a moment as the automatic keeper scanned him, found him safe, and allowed him to continue unmolested about his business.

A faint tinkling of wind chimes drifted softly on the hot breeze, the only sound apart from the predictable rush and burble of a nearby fountain, and the drowsy buzzing of insects that flew drunkenly from one pollen-laden flower to the next. In the baking heat under the sun, Orkhas'asar was a boiling pot but here at Es'sarhan was an oasis of shade and coolness.

With dark shadows sliding across his skin, Spock took the path he knew would lead him to the stronghold, his step measured and precise, until finally he pushed under an arch formed by a trailing ghefwe, the scarlet flowers huge and papery. From there, he entered a wide, paved square where a rectangular pool surged with the slow rise and fall of moving water. Trees in circular beds of watered earth bordered the pool; crimson bwi with their large silvery green leaves; flowering pao bushes; the glowing moonflowers, all enclosed on three of the courtyard's sides by a wide, shady, cloistered walk, above which the red fortress shimmered, glowing like a banked fire, its domed vermillion roof glittering against the burnished sky.

Containing his mounting unease, Spock crossed over to the poolside, absently gazing down at the slowly moving water. It was opaque, dense, unlike the water of Tehr'a, and only vaguely mirrored his reflection. The scent of flowers was heavy in the air, the faint sounds of the city so far away beyond the high walls that he could almost forget that it existed. Once, he had imagined all that held reality for him was contained in this place, permeated with so many memories of the past; memories of his childhood spent with T'Pavan; a place where he had once thought, for so brief a time six years ago, that he had actually caught hold of that elusive condition Tehr'n's knew as happiness.

At the thought, he straightened hastily, attentive to the fact that he was prevaricating, his subconscious deliberately evading the moment when he would have to face T'Pavan. He rubbed his hands over the rich material of his ornate sirwal, throat suddenly dry, and with the air of someone going to his own execution, ascended the three broad steps that led up to the colonnaded walk of the citadel.

The porter showed him into a spacious room austerely furnished, and exactly as he remembered it from his previous visits. A few bright rugs were scattered on the tessellated floor, accenting the plain beauty of stone walls, bare except for two original images he recognized as the work of Solkar, the paternal great-grandfather of both himself and T'Pavan. There was a low table set near a recessed fire-pit, a black lacquered cabinet against the far wall and a few scattered floor stools -- but mostly space and sunlight. It was the room of an ascetic, simple, unadorned, a reflection of its owner.

From somewhere nearby there came the sounds of someone strumming a lyrette, the chords soft and accomplished, steeped in melancholy, the hands playing the strings those of a skilled musician. Such mastery was given to few and Spock did not require the sudden sweet voice that soared through the quiet room to recognize the artiste. For a long moment, he stood entranced, listening as the notes burst upward, a cascade of pure melody, subtly vocalized, so desolate in expression that he wondered at such grief. The phrase, repeated twice, altered to an even purer form as the well-known voice weaved a magic cloth of sound, plucking music from the very air, changing it to something absolute, supremely fascinating and complex, holding him in thrall. Eventually he was released from the spell as the melody died slowly away and he came back to the world to find himself fronting a small statuette carved in ebenie, the hard white wood of the flame tree. It was the image of a young boy dressed in hunting straps, a lirpa balanced in one outstretched hand. He knew without a doubt that it was himself and hesitantly reached out a finger to trace the small figure, his mind absorbed in the far-reaching implications of its presence there. Drawn against his will to the spring of his own being, the hard old wood like satin beneath his fingertips, he stared at the figurine uncertainly. So taken up was he in remembrance of that boy he had once been that he failed to notice for a moment that he was no longer alone. It was only some minute shift in the air, or perhaps the faint rustle of fine cloth against stone that alerted him and he turned swiftly, heart suddenly molten, pulses hammering violently in throat and temples.

T'Pavan stood regarding him, framed in a rounded archway, dressed in a clinging gown that left the creamy jade skin of her arms and one shoulder bare. It was austere enough but still rich, and swirled around her like gossamer mist, allowing the emerald sheen of her undertunic to glimmer through.

She indicated the figurine with an inclination of her head. "Does it bring back fond memories, Spock-neha, or would thee prefer to forget the past?"

Her movements as she entered the room had the unmistakable quality of nobility, the absolute conviction of one who has never had to use caution or humility in her dealings with other people, and she met his gaze with an authority that came only by birth.

Spock, ignoring the question, raised his hand in salute, eyes fixed firmly upon hers, meeting her on equal terms, his inner turmoil hidden from any but the most intensive scrutiny.

"Greetings, Keh'sarin T'Pavan. I come to serve."

And if she had expected a somewhat less formal greeting, her disappointment was not obvious. Nevertheless a small, rueful smile mocked his courtesy, flickering at the corners of her generous mouth, her eyes aglow with what Spock took to be ironic amusement. She was extraordinarily beautiful, he observed less than dispassionately, even to someone who was notorious for failing to notice such ephemeral distinctions. Her skin was pale and delicate against a sweep of ink-black hair tumbling loosely over that one bare shoulder, held only by a fragile coronet of gold wires studded with tiny green gemflowers. Her features were patrician and finely cut, her deep-set green eyes brilliantly aware, but there was also something ruthless, even slightly cruel in the look she bestowed upon him, a determination that belied her slender body and warned him to be cautious.

"I am honored by thy service, cousin," she said finally. "But once we met with less protocol. I would prefer that, at least, had not changed."

Conscious of his gaze upon her, she moved over to the statuette, idly traced the smooth outline as Spock had done. Of course, her fingers knew it intimately line for line and feature for feature, but since she had made it there had been little chance to compare the carved face with that of the living. The likeness was there, she was pleased to note, although she had carved a boy not yet grown. Spock was now a man, and further a man who had found in measure the certainty he had lacked even six years before. That pleased and saddened her at the same time.

"Thee did not accompany thy Captain when he attended us. My father was disappointed at thy absence."

"There were duties aboard the Enterprise that needed my attendance."

"Of course." The devilish glint was in her gaze as she turned to face him, searching his features for any chink in his awesome defenses, wanting to be sure of him, although still reluctant to lead him into the trap that she so skillfully baited. Fiercely she reminded herself of T'Pavahna, knowing that she must proceed with the charade, that she had little choice. Spock was a man, capable of taking care of himself and Vahna was only a child -- her child! She inclined her head, lowering perfect lids over her wide-set electric green eyes. "It has been a long time."

"Six years, three months and four days."

"So," she murmured softly. "And in six years, three months and four days thee has still to forgive me."

Spock's expression did not alter. "I am at a loss, Keh'sarin. Was there something to forgive?"

When she laughed, it was without humor. "An illogical question, Spock? If thee felt there was nothing to forgive why, in all these years since we last met have thee not sent me word? We were friends from childhood. More than friends. Six years ago that ended. By thy choosing."

Spock's eyes hooded, concealing anything of his innermost thoughts. When he replied his words, spoken without inflection, nevertheless revealed the injury she had done him. "The circumstances of our last meeting -- and subsequent parting -- was reason enough. We are what we are, T'Pavan. I did not see that quite so clearly then. Thee always had the ability to cloud my judgment."

He looked away, unable to continue the pretense, his dark eyes confused, his thoughts in disarray as if he had suddenly awakened from some disturbing dream. "It was erroneous for me to come here. No useful purpose can be served. I will return to the Enterprise."

"With no cho'wa, harmony between us?" T'Pavan kept her voice level with an effort, but the mockery was plain. "Would thee so insult the House of Es'sarhan? Have I so disgraced thee, cousin?"

It was a challenge Spock could not ignore with impunity. Protocol had to be observed, the game of m'hekteth, of honor, had to continue in the Traditional Way, both of them conforming to the rules that governed each movement and each phrase, and protected their individual integrity. Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"I apologize for my impropriety, Keh'sarin." Vulkhanir calm disguised his bitter anguish. "I have foolishly disrupted the serenity of the House, thy kah. For that I ask forgiveness."

T'Pavan solemnly met his gaze, her reply obligatory, a ritual politeness. "The fault was mine, cousin. In the Family all is silence. No more will be said of it."

She lifted both hands, palms out, her expression dispassionate. Hesitating only fractionally, Spock placed his own palms flat against hers, feeling the jolt as their flesh contacted but refusing to let his full alarm show.

"Spock, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. I have been waiting."

His reply was distant, cool and aloof, but it was only his well-schooled reflexes that kept his agitation in check. "T'Pavan, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. We meet."

"It is time for us to talk, Spock-neha. I would be honored if thee would be my guest. If it is convenient."

Again there was no way in which he could refuse. "Of course."

They ate in the flagged court, the heady scent of the many night-flowering blooms heavily fragrant in the cooler evening air, the only sound that of the fountain as it spilled languorously into the long pool beside them, playing an elemental refrain of peace and harmony that soothed both their troubled spirits. For the moment, as they sat over the remains of the meal, their differences were of little consequence and there was a tranquillity between them where before there had been none.

T'Pavan, her green gaze remote in the soft radiance of the globe lights adjoining the pool, bowed to Spock who sat seiza opposite her, and poured another thimble of potent sheekuya into the translucent bowl, leaving her own empty as before. She offered the beverage with both hands, her right forefinger and thumb delicately holding the bowl out to him, the little finger of her left hand touching the underside -- her movements a ritual performance, as carefully choreographed as those of a dance.

Spock took the proffered fruit wine with equal composure, appreciative of the fragile beauty of the bowl as he raised it to his lips, enjoying the smooth bite of the mellow liquid as it slipped down his throat. He offered the bowl back and once more T'Pavan bowed, filling it from the decorative china flask she kept nearby. She had served him throughout the meal, graceful and attentive as she assisted him, making sure he was given the choicest delicacies from the many small dishes arranged on the simple lacquered table that lay between them. She sat back onto her heels, surrounded by the plumb cushions strewn about the stone flags, eluding Spock's watchful gaze as the stubborn memories refused to be pushed aside. However, feeling the strength of his scrutiny she started out of her dark thoughts.

"Will thee take more prusah kisan, or some khabitah, Spock-neha?"

He declined courteously enough. "No, I thank thee, T'Pavan. I have grown unaccustomed to such fare. Thy hospitality shames my appetite."

Again she bowed low, reaching out to strike the chochin with its felt-covered hammer. The bell-like chime pulsed, summoning the maid and even before the sound had fully died away into silence, T'Pahsen had appeared. The girl flicked a stealthy glance in Spock's direction.

"Noble lady?"

"Please take these things away, samah. Bring a carafe of riman. Also more sheekuya, the flask prepared earlier, if you will. And fruit."

Quick and unobtrusive, the girl cleared the dishes from the table, stacking them with skillful ease before carrying them out. Spock and T'Pavan both, waited in silence, reluctant to acknowledge the ending of the meal, the ceremonial performance that had been a gesture of unity between host and guest. And yet, Spock sensed beneath T'Pavan's outward self-possession a growing restlessness, a mental agitation that was increasing moment by moment as the evening wore on and for which there was no logical explanation. His own expression composed, at least on the surface, he continued to observe her, his senses aroused beneath the mask he assumed, remembering the circumstances of his last visit to Nevas'ashar.

* * *

Six years, three months and fourteen days before, the Enterprise had reached Altair VI, only for Spock to realize that the ardor of pon-farr, the instinctive Vulkhanir mating urge, had continued to escalate. Despite T'Pring's Challenge and his fight with Kirk -- which he believed should have alleviated the manifestations of the plak-tow, the blood fever, bringing his body chemistry back to normal -- the tensions had slowly increased until the imbalance was again acute.

McCoy, on the alert for any such reaction, took the problem straight to Kirk who was right to worry as he confronted his subdued First Officer. "Would it help if you went back to Vulcan, Spock?"

Spock answered in the negative, his eyes shadowed and defenseless. "T'Pring will not accept me, Captain. Especially now that she is aware I won our combat through trickery."

McCoy bristled. "That 'trick' just happened to save Jim's life!"

"I meant you no insult, Doctor." Spock murmured. "But honor is prized more highly than life on Vulcan. I cannot -- will not -- ask this of T'Pring."

Appeased, McCoy nodded in understanding. In Spock's shoes, he would not have trusted T'Pring with his stamp collection, never mind his life. "If she's out, what about somebody else? There must be a woman you know who would ... who could..."

Kirk fixed him with a venomous stare that would have dropped a charging Gorn at twenty paces. McCoy flushed, embarrassed. "Damnit, Jim. I was only trying to help."

Spock looked attentively at his hands clasped tightly together on the briefing room table and relaxed his fingers by force of will alone. He had always been a reserved, quiet boy and his passage through the cruel years of early childhood on Vulkhanir had left its scars. Unlike his father, most Vulkhanir parents indulged their children to a certain extent until they passed through Kahs-wan. While he had been subject to a strict regime of training from the moment he could talk and understand, his contemporaries had the freedom to exercise their opinions, which they did to a substantial degree, especially when the subject under discussion was himself. His mother was a Tehr'n, and to his peers he had been an emotional Earther, unable to control any number of childish passions. He had tried to prove them all wrong by becoming more Vulkhanir than was the staunchest member of his father's race, at least outwardly, but they had seen through him. Spock reassured himself by adhering to the conviction that intelligence would prevail over bias, which also proved a false assumption. It was apparent on innumerable occasions that many of his peers and tutors were skeptical of his abilities. They expected him to fail and yet, when he succeeded, it was because his Earth blood had given him an unlooked for advantage. The situation was not conducive to long term friendships with either sex.

It was not until he had left Vulkhanir and joined Starfleet that he discovered Tehr'n women responded to him in a quite illogical way. Given the opportunity, they had a predilection for 'mothering' him or alternatively, seemed to believe he was the ideal focus for all their problems. Some, even when aware of his distaste at being touched, let their hands and bodies brush 'accidentally' against his, or behaved in a blatantly amorous manner that was inexplicable to his understanding. The more aloof and distant he behaved, the more abandoned they became in pursuit. Although he had found such behavior fascinating in the first instance, it had quickly become only an irritant. He could not reciprocate. In that at least, he was truly Vulkhanir. Without the imperative of pon-farr, there could be no joining, and while in that condition, a Human woman without the mind bond to sustain her, would not be strong enough to withstand either his sexual appetite or the mental assault that was likely to accompany it. Reluctantly he had to admit, "There is no one, Doctor."

Yet, even as he mumbled the words, a recollection buried for over eighteen years, burrowed its way into his conscious mind. Turning from the two pairs of watchful Human eyes, he examined the memory of the one person who might conceivably welcome him. Vulkhanir could not help him, nor any woman of Earth, but Nevas'ashar could, Nevas'ashar and T'Pavan.

He cried the name silently within, producing a sudden lurch of his heart, a tightening of his stomach muscles as heat abruptly burned along his nerves. He closed his eyes, a tremor shaking him as he recalled her voice; saw her mirrored within the darkness of his inner gaze. And fierce, violent hunger enveloped him in a vortex of sexual craving and desire. The sensation passed slowly, leaving in its wake the pain of absence, of incompletion.

"Spock, what is it? Have you thought of someone?"

Confused by the power of such raw emotion, it took a second or two before he dared answer, composing his voice with a supreme effort. He met Kirk's gaze briefly, finding only concerned warmth, a profound sympathy, in the hazel eyes.

"There is someone I knew in childhood. She may be sympathetic to my ... malady. However, our mission takes precedence, Captain. I cannot leave Altair at this time."

Kirk exchanged a swift, knowing glance with McCoy before pushing himself to his feet. "For once we'll do very well without you, Mr. Spock. You may be the best First Officer in the Fleet but even you aren't indispensable. Go and get your gear together. By the time you're through, we'll have some travel arrangements sorted out."

Within a matter of hours, Spock found himself comfortably berthed in a private cabin on board a small, independent Altairan freighter bound, quite astoundingly, for 40 Eridani, home space. It was only then Spock realized he had given Kirk the wrong impression. However, it proved a simple matter to persuade the freighter's captain to put him down on Nevas'ashar instead of Vulkhanir as Kirk had instructed.

Yet, once more on firm ground, and despite the coiling tightness within him, he did not try to seek out T'Pavan immediately. He knew that she would discern his affliction as soon as they met, could not help but perceive the agony that burned along his nerves, scorching blood, mind, and soul. He needed time to come to terms with what was happening, to think things through as far as he possibly could, before putting himself completely into the hands of a girl he had known in a different life time.

Therefore, he made for the mountains, tramping the rocky ridges and high slopes crowned with the abundant flame trees, the native flora ablaze with crimson and gold. He camped out beneath the stars hoping that exhaustion would bring peace, but his shame, the fear of rejection yet again, would not allow him to rest. Indecision goaded him. So many years had passed since he had last seen T'Pavan and he could not rely on the sporadic correspondence they had exchanged when he had first attended the Academy. His memories of her could be false, or she could have changed significantly. Even if she was still that same girl-child he had called friend, would she understand why he had come to her, or dismiss him with contempt, humiliated by his presumptuousness? He could not know until he saw her again. Then it would be much too late, for he was rapidly running out of time.

The night wore on as he fought himself, the need so long dormant, growing stronger, powerful, and impatient. Finally, he could no longer deny that he desired T'Pavan as he had never desired T'Pring, that he must have her or die. With that knowledge uppermost, he quickly made his way back towards civilization, his mood reckless, intent on his purpose, and uncaring now of the consequences.

He retained enough wit to realize, however, that he could not intrude unceremoniously upon her unannounced, with the dust, sweat, and weariness of the backwoods upon him. T'Pavan was Keh'sarin, Heir and First Consort, born to rule Nevas'ashar as her mother had done before her. She could not do other than consider it an insult if he should turn up on her doorstep like a vagabond.

Unlike Vulkhanir, the Nevas'asharn welcomed outworlders and it was not difficult to locate a place that offered lodgings. The room was sparse, tiny, but he needed little more than a sleeping dais and washing facilities. The concom unit he found hidden from direct view, proved a bonus. Once he had scrubbed himself clean, he dressed in the simply tailored sirwal, kibr, and shintiyan that was stowed away in his hand luggage, and finally turned to the con. He sat down, placing his hands over the code buttons, smooth, and cool beneath his fingertips, hesitating even then. He shook off his indecision, panic-stricken, punching in the numbers he needed to make his connection before he had time to vacillate further. A chime-tone sounded and although the screen remained blank, the cultured voice of a woman asked, "Who is calling?"

He answered with stiff formality. "Spock, son of Sarek, First Officer of the Federation starship U.S.S Enterprise. I would speak with Es'sarha Keh'sarin T'Pavan."

"One moment, Spock, son of Sarek."

There was a pause, and Spock leaned his hot forehead against the coolness of the com screen while he waited for T'Pavan to answer his call. His fingers were shaking and he ruthlessly used his strength of will to quell the tremors. He jerked upright as the remembered voice, thrilled and somewhat breathless, sounded beside his ear.

"Spock-neha, can it really be?"

The silver oblong of the screen shivered and disappeared. At first sight of T'Pavan's face, Spock could not stop the fiery pleasure surging through his veins, startled at the change in her appearance. He caught his breath, imprinting on his memory the shape of her face, the texture of her skin, the vibrant color of her green eyes. The last time they had met, on the eve of his departure for Starfleet Academy, she was still a half-wild, boy-like creature, indulged by her parents, headstrong and spoiled, so very different from any he knew on his homeworld. He remembered how generous she always was with him, how honest, and kind-hearted.

"Spock-neha," she repeated. "Are thee really a First Officer? Where is thy ship? And why have thee not come to Es'sarhan? Father."

"So many questions, lady," he interrupted swiftly, hiding the agony that sight of her had caused. "Must I answer them all now?" She smiled, her whole face alight, open, and eager, but he could not smile back. He ought to have known that he could not hope to conceal anything from that penetrating cat-like gaze. Without warning, she leaned closer to the screen, eyeing him with speculation, reading everything from his too rigid stance, the drawn and weary look of his face.

"Attend me, cousin, if thee will, and we will talk further. Es'sarhan welcomes thee, as always."

Spock inclined his head, gratified for her continued understanding, even after so many years, thankful that the empathy they once shared continued as if never interrupted. "The honor will be mine."

Admitted without question to an inner chamber on his arrival, the murmur of voices and the occasional sound of polite laughter floated into him. There were strains of music, a single thread of melody, lingering on the twilight air. Impatiently he stalked the room like a caged le-matya, distracted by the idle party chatter as he waited for T'Pavan, wondering how he could say what he must, ask what he had to ask, while she was occupied with other guests. Anger burned slow and hot, spiraling into murderous rage as he distinguished the obvious male cadences over the lighter intonations of female voices. Insane with fury, uttering a wild, animal cry, he sprang across the room, the thought of T'Pavan surrounded by rivals a spur to his abrupt and violent intentions.

From the far side of the chamber rose a flight of broad steps and T'Pavan appeared in the arch at the top of them, just as he reached it. To his eyes, she seemed to glow in the light from the room beyond. Over a white gown of finely pleated, transparent linen, she wore a long, sleeveless sirwal of emerald silk. A deep pectoral of crystal beryllium, set into silver, hung at her neck, and a high diadem of the same silver and emerald crowned her cloud of dark hair. Spock stopped short, the madness ebbing slowly as she looked down upon him in silence and he gazed back unmoving.

He had never seen her looking the way she appeared that evening, like a great Keh'sarin of ancient days, calmly majestic, her eyes appraising as she gauged his expression, the coiled spring tightness of his body. She was aware of his affliction, of course. He read the intimate knowledge from her impassive, patrician features, the way she greeted him with courteous understanding withholding, for his sake, the usual light embrace of fingers and palms while he fought the shame that washed over him in a hot tide, seeking a measure of composure. "Cousin, I welcome thee to my home."

"I am disturbing thee, lady." His voice was hoarse, his breath still rasping jerkily in his throat, aware of her in every cell of his body, intoxicated by her nearness. "Thee already has guests to attend."

It came out as an accusation, and he groaned inwardly at his own insolence and audacity, waiting for the contempt that must surely follow. Yet, she continued to look at him in gentle consideration, her generous lips curving in a tender smile.

"Acquaintances of my father, Spock-neha. Do not fear that we will be disturbed. Soon they will be gone."

"Gone?" he echoed, trying to escape the tendrils of confusion that wrapped him round.

"Thee has perhaps forgotten that it is chamsat'ash-ur. As you know, it is one of my father's rare pleasures to attend the first ash-ur'i performance."

Spock belatedly recalled past memories of chamsat'ash-ur, his own attendance of the ceremonies that culminated in the ancient drama of the ash-ur'i. The performance was long, lasting through the night, divided into five or six individual parts. Like meditation, immersion in ash-ur'i was to transcend the ordinary, the everyday, to lose oneself in the All. It was an experience few missed.

"Forgive me," he said, his hands nervously clenching into fists. "I was unaware of how far I had intruded. Thee must accompany thy father, of course."

The brilliant emerald eyes penetrated his disintegrating self-control, noted his lack of conviction. "Is that what thee really wants, Spock-neha?"

Spock flinched, too far gone in the blood madness to lie with any sincerity. His voice a tormented whisper, he admitted reluctantly, "No, T'Pavan I want... want..."

"Do not explain, cousin." She hushed him gently. "Kaiidth. What is, is. Come, there is food prepared for us. As for the rest -- we will take care of that in due time."

He followed her out into an open court where myriad stars shone out of a clear sky and the air was thick with the heady scent of flowers, still uncertain that she fully realized his dilemma. Globe lights flickered, illuminating a rectangular pool, and a low table set with food, luxuries he had not tasted for many years. But he was not hungry for food. He sank down upon a cushioned floor stool at T'Pavan's direction, accepting the bowl of sheekuya she handed to him, draining it in one gulp. And when it was empty, she filled it again, and again, responding in the way she had been taught from childhood, binding the demon that lurked behind his eyes.

"T'Pavan, I do not have the right to ... ask this of thee. We are not bonded."

Her eyes were tranquil, inviting him to sink into their cool depths, quench the fires that burned his soul. "Thee is friend to me, almost-brother. Should I forsake thee in thy need?"

"I am ashamed of my need," he whispered anxious and disturbed, his voice vibrating from the intensity of his emotion. With a groan of despair, he lowered his head, refusing to meet her steady gaze. "T'Pring challenged my right of bonding. She would not accept me."

"I know of what thee speaks, Spock-neha. No more needs to be said of it. Within the Family all is silence." In one flowing movement she was on her feet, extending a hand to him at last. "Let us walk the sands of Es'sarhan, Cousin."

Afraid to hope, Spock lifted his face, intensely aware of her in the hazy light, the fullness of her mouth, and the quick beat of the pulse at the base of her throat, the way her breasts lifted and fell at each quickened breath, the scent of her skin. But mostly he was aware of her heat, the tangible warmth that impelled his urgent nefandous desire. Shivers ran deep within him. His condition was known and accepted. T'Pavan, though still a child in many ways, was neither repulsed nor afraid. The plak-tow burned in his eyes, in his face, as he rose to his feet and took her proffered hand.

He could not control the shudders that constantly shook his lean frame as they walked hand in hand through the gardens of Es'sarhan, the fever escalating at the touch of her flesh upon his own. His blood resounded to the rhythm of his pounding heart, filling the very air with its booming double beat, a throbbing, heavy sound that threatened to overwhelm him.

As they reached the sands, T'Pavan loosed the vice-like grip of his fingers about her hand to slip free of her sandals and he followed her lead, only half aware of what he did, bereft at the abrupt severance. The shoreline was deserted, the sand still warm from the heat of the day, and the torpid phosphorescent waters of the sea hissed and surged around their naked feet as they wandered through the surf.

"Does thee remember, cousin, how first we met?" The sound of T'Pavan's voice came as a further shock and Spock was torn out of his chaotic self-absorption, trying to make sense of her words.

"I ... remember," he said thickly, his voice so husky with repressed longing that it hurt his throat.

"It was the Feast of Children, Ienh'ssel, and thee stowed away in Cousin Sirak's flyer because thy father had forbidden thee to attend." She laughed softly, tenderly, glancing up at him, her eyes luminous in the starlight, a little wild, a little sad that such days were gone.

In answer to that look, Spock moved closer to her side, without conscious volition, almost touching. "T'Pavan."

Her name seemed dragged from him, huskily deep, almost a plea, but she was not yet ready to hear.

"Thee entered the boat race through my teasing, although thee had never been aboard such a vessel before, and fell into the canal. Semnek was jealous and refused to rescue thee and so it was I who jumped in and pulled thee from the water."

At mention of her half-brother, her steps faltered and she turned towards Spock, her face suddenly childlike, imploring, acutely sensitive to him, of his warm breath stirring her hair, the hot and spicy fragrance of his skin, the feverish heat of his body subtly penetrating her thin layer of clothing. For a long moment, she stared up into his face, her imagination taking her down paths she had never previously wanted to tread. The sea at their feet sang an insistent, insidious rhythm and T'Pavan's pulses echoed it.

"Spock, I want thee to take me. Take me, now."

Spock's voice cracked with emotion, his heart leaping in a response so deep it was almost pain, the words torn out of him as all his barriers shattered into nothing.

"Lady, I do need thee." He shuddered as she swayed against him, driven by instincts she barely understood, sliding her fingers over his chest, insinuating them inside his robe, fumbling inexpertly at the closure of his kibr to caress his hot, hair-roughened skin.

Her touch wrenched an immense, deep-throated groan from him, yet he remained rigid, his hands balled into fists at his sides and T'Pavan realized that he was still holding himself in check despite the frenzy of plak-tow that ignited his brain and blood and heart, terrified of losing what little control he still retained. She looked wonderingly into his tense, weary face, her eyes skimming the angular points of his cheekbones, his gold-flecked brown eyes beneath the slitted lids, glazed and cloudy with passion.

"I am not afraid, Spock-neha," she whispered huskily as her hands glided up his rib cage, his skin on fire under her caressing fingertips, knowing it for truth as her concern dissolved in the furnace of his ardor.

His heart thundered in reply, rapid and uneven beneath her hands. "The madness, T'Pavan, I ... will do thee injury."

"Thee will not," she encouraged softly, with gentle concern. Locked together now, close but not close enough, their clothes an unbearable barrier, she felt him tremble. "I want thee, Spock-neha. I want all thee can give. Take me as thee must."

Her words undid all his determined resolve. With a feral cry, he swung her effortlessly up into his arms and carried her swiftly down the beach to where a secluded pavilion lay hidden among a stand of blood trees, known to them both since childhood. Lowering her onto a soft bed of leaves and drifted sand, blown in by the sea breeze, his trembling hand glided the length of her throat, along the sculptured plane of her shoulder, pushing at the pleated linen that covered her breasts. His fingers explored her flesh, urgent, hungry, and she stirred against him, reaching for his cheek, his temple, forming a tentative link between them. The soft folds of her gown settled around her hips, strange fires burning under her skin as he stroked her from breast to thighs, his touch fervent and intense. Inflamed by his caress, she embraced him in return, aware of her own ingenuousness, yet her naïve touch only served to arouse him more.

T'Pavan pushed his robes aside, a strange confidence surging through her, as she pulled him closer, the abrasive hair on his lean chest tantalizing her exposed nipples. His body was completely bare now and T'Pavan had a vague memory of tearing his robes apart to enable him to shrug more easily out of them. His skin gleamed in the starlight and she felt her remaining shyness evaporate as she explored his flat stomach, the thick pelt at the apex of his thighs. He groaned feverishly as she reached to stroke the flesh of his lower back, hands sure and unhurried, inciting the endocrine glands that lay just beneath the surface of his skin, and which produced the specific androgen that compelled his retracted genitals to descend.

She played him as she would her ka'ithirah, a finely tuned instrument, and he shuddered in response, reacting to her touch. She kneaded him with all her strength, running her fingers down his spine, over the smooth, velvety skin of his buttocks, and squeezed his burgeoning scrotum. Sweat streaked the skin of his chest and abdomen, matting the covering of hair into tight curls. His face was dark with blood, his pupils dilated. His genitals swelled and pulsed as she continued to stroke him.

Spock plunged into her at last and T'Pavan's mind exploded in a confusion of pure energy, an assault that swept through her female core in a howling firestorm. The unconstrained force battered at her unmercifully, thundered through her blood, roared in her ears, smothered, overwhelmed, and threatened to devour her. Waves of coruscating fire flared through her veins as she melted in the raging volcanic fury of his need, her identity reeling on the brink of oblivion.

It was a warning, a danger signal she could not ignore, and with a supreme effort, she isolated a fragment of her consciousness from the primitive compulsion that engulfed them both. While she cried out, blazing in the flames of their joint ardor, part of her psyche watched from a distance, observing with concern as Spock, in complete thrall to the plak-tow, arched above her, his spine bowed, his face a fierce mask as waves of frenzied pain-pleasure absorbed him.

The intellectual, remote processes of her mind remaining apart, came to her defense, binding the elemental demon, focusing the incandescent energy, and redirecting it into safer channels. As he strained for an end, teeth exposed in a violent grimace, she moved with him, feeling the hard urgency of his body, the expected pain flaring arrow-swift and piercing through her abdomen. She heard his hoarse throbbing cry vibrate through the pavilion as he reared up once more, eyes mere slits, before he finally collapsed, his chest heaving, breath coming in huge gasps.

He pulled away from her instantly, groaning her name as he buried his face in his hands, fighting his way free of the nightmare. However, she refused to part from him and caressed his shoulder, teeth grazing the smooth verdant skin, the beat of his heart like the pulse of the universe under her hand.

"Forgive me," he managed hoarsely. "Forgive me, T'Pavan."

She was amazed that he could combat the blood fever enough to talk. "There is nothing to forgive, my t'hy'la."

T'Pavan kneaded at the stiffness in his shoulders, her hands gliding along the bony protuberances of his spine, caressing and stroking the taut muscles of his lower back and the long, lean flanks. He stirred under her fingers, the hunger to possess her again gnawing at him, his body consumed by fresh desire. He tried to keep it within the bounds of his control but lacked the strength. His hands trembled on his knees as he attempted to disguise his growing unrest but T'Pavan was aware of his agitation. She clung to him, feeling the hard urgency of his flesh, the need that she did not wish to deny. "Thee must take me again, Spock-neha."

He knew it for the truth, though it was difficult to admit to the fact. Gently, she turned him to face her, reaching for his temple, initiating the mental linkage that enabled them to share sensation, their minds joining as their bodies came together with a fierce intensity, driven by a wild concupiscence. They were no longer separate bodies, one heartbeat thundered between them, and the throbbing passion of their union built toward a mutual orgasm rocking them with a violent delirium that neither of them could restrain.

Their last mating as morning approached set in motion a savage urgency, T'Pavan's body matching Spock's in the fierceness of need. They clung together as the night waned and the shimmer of dawn illuminated the pavilion, his breathing a twin to hers, their bodies poised on the edge of an excruciating pleasure that increased from moment to moment until, at last, T'Pavan cried out his name, the sound wrenched from her in a primal scream. He clasped her to him as the storm of feeling slowly subsided and they slid together into calmer waters, exhausted and replete.

* * *

Spock struggled up from his thoughts of the past, abruptly aware that T'Pavan had just spoken to him.

"I asked only if thee would perhaps take more sheekuya now, Spock-neha," she murmured placidly, lips curved in an eloquent smile. He became conscious that they were alone again. The maid had produced the wine and departed, all without him being aware of it. Still enmeshed in his memories, he accepted the sweet, fermented essence and swallowed it, mindful of his throbbing heart and dry throat, his pounding blood suffused with heat. Again, she offered the wine, her fragrant perfume carried to him on the light breeze, her cat-like eyes glowing as if she was aware of his thoughts.

Spock closed his eyes, opened them again, befuddled, and light-headed. "Thee should not serve me now. It is undignified."

"Should I not?" she asked, apparently unconcerned, holding the bowl out to him, filled with riman now, and when their fingers accidentally brushed, he jerked away as if shaken by her touch. T'Pavan, seeing his reaction, felt her heart turn a little in her breast, knowing that her own fragile calm was a charade, and that if she did not act soon all would be lost. As it was, countless times during the meal she had been on the point of confessing everything, of asking for his aid, but the knowledge that T'Pavahna's life was at stake kept the words unsaid. Spock had no reason to help her now and even if he did not refuse outright, he would demand details from her that she would find politically as well as socially embarrassing. The truth would cost too high a price, one that she was unwilling to pay. The game must continue to its inevitable conclusion. Kaiidth. What was, was.

Yet, looking at him with the lamp light making deep pools of his dark eyes, she knew quite clearly what had possessed her on that night six years ago, the naïve madness which had made her throw all caution to the wind, grasping childishly at a few hours of stolen happiness that Tradition would soon deny her for the rest of her life. She had not taken the time to consider what impact her gift would have on Spock beyond the moment, she had known only that she wanted him as he wanted her, and that she would not be vetoed in that desire.

When he had asked her to be his bondmate, it had the affect of icy water dashed into her face. Of course, she ought to have realized, knowing Spock and his ubiquitous sense of duty, that once he had committed himself so completely and intimately he would not be able to walk away and let go as he should, as he must.

Even if he had not realized it then, T'Pavan had known that he could never truly belong to anyone, least of all herself, despite what they had shared. He was his own creature, not free to give himself to her or anyone else. He had been struck with wanderlust, the need to travel, and would never be content with the role of husband and father, encumbered with the irksome duties of a planet-bound existence. His life was his ship, his Captain, and the obligations of a first officer in the Starfleet.

Looking back, T'Pavan appreciated that she could have shown Spock more kindness when she refused him, but she had been a child, as torn by divided emotions as he was. Nevertheless, she had hidden behind her rank, behaved with arrogant insensitivity when she had rejected his offer.

"Thee is a good man, Spock-neha, friend from childhood, almost-brother. Nevertheless, thee has forgotten who I am. I cannot become thy consort or thy bondmate."

She had watched as shock made him recoil, his back stiff with sudden tension, bewildered by her imperious tone.

"I do not understand, Keh'sarin."

"In two days I go to the appointed place in Chennoch to be joined with Semnek."

He had looked back at her in despair. "If this is so, why did thee welcome me, knowing that I had no prospect, and that I could not refuse the gift thee offered? Thee knew how it was with me, T'Pavan."

"Was I to ignore thy need? Should I have condemned thee to die in madness and pain?" She faced him beseechingly, one hand raised in a gesture of supplication.

"I do not want Semnek. I am afraid of what our bonding will bring. However, because I am Keh'sarin and also Es'sarha, Heir and First Consort, that is my fate. Kaiidth. I wished to comfort thee and therefore gain comfort. Was that so cruel, Spock-neha?"

Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding but he would not hear. He had pushed himself to his feet, put distance between them with one faltering step after another, but she had known, as he would eventually come to recognize, that wherever he went, however much space he put between them, he would never be truly complete again. Spock was a part of her as she was a part of him and some fraction of each of them would always be achingly aware of the other, whether they were desolate or content, wretched or euphoric. Not even death could separate them now. Although they were not bonded, something irrevocable had formed between them, their old empathic relationship widening into something more, ancient, and deep, forged in the fiery blaze of plak-tow. So it had been in the Beginning, and so would it be for all time.

"Perhaps as the son of a mere Vulkhanir noble, I lack good manners in not taking joy in thy gift as thee expected, Lady. I am a proud man, and thee must give me time to rediscover the respect I once held for myself."

He slipped into his robes, picked up his sandals, and dismissed himself from her company with a perfunctory inclination of his head. T'Pavan watched him depart with his lean back ramrod straight, stiff under her gaze as he strode back up the shimmering beach, the wavelets brushing sympathetically over his bare toes. That same morning he took his leave of Nevas'ashar to rendezvous with the Enterprise, abandoning her to the lingering tangle of emotions and the knowledge that she had lost him forever. The scars on her soul had by no means healed fully even now. Spock ... parted from me and never parted, always touching and touched.

Now the wheel had turned full circle and here they were again, the betrayer and the betrayed, playing out a further bout in the Great Game, where there could be no victor.

She offered him the sheekuya out of the new flask, and he took it, tasting the pleasant coolness ... and the hint of something else, a subtle tang, foreign to the sweet wine of Vulkhanir, a bitter, slightly acrid flavor. Spock paused, the bowl still held to his lips, analyzing the aftertaste of it on his tongue. T'Pavan was sitting very still, watching him.

"There is something in the wine."

"It is gagny'soJ s'Hinmai, a soporific. Thee has heard of it, perhaps?"

"S'Hinmai?" he repeated, eyes widening in surprise. Translated from the original Klingon it literally meant 'damned food from the s'hin,' an intriguing little aquatic vertebrate that puffed itself up to beach ball size when endangered. The Klingons regarded the fish's testes as a delicacy but its liver and ovaries contained a potentially lethal toxin that spread through the flesh unless deftly removed. At least two hundred Klingon males died from s'hin poisoning each season. A highly diluted derivative was in use as an effective sleep-inducing medicine throughout the Empire and beyond.

"Why?" Spock asked, breathless and disorientated, his voice slurring, his hand unsteady as he tried to place the bowl on the table. It fell from his fingers when he swayed drunkenly, shattering into fragments on the stone flags of the court.

"It was ... necessary." Though spoken softly, T'Pavan's voice reverberated through Spock's skull, crashing through his head like the wind tossed surf upon the cliffs at Chennoch.

"I do not ... understand." He raised a trembling hand to one temple, head spinning as he staggered clumsily to his feet. For a moment, one long frozen moment, when the flags seemed to be slipping from beneath him, he looked into her face. It seemed to him strangely calm, composed, and serene, the electric green eyes unaffected by his dilemma. "What has thee done, T'Pavan?"

Above him, the starlight shook and dissolved, transformed by a deeper lividity that engulfed him whole. He called out her name a second time but it was too late. The air roared in his ears, and a light burst behind his eyelids while he whirled in confusion, dragged down into the waiting darkness until Spock, the son of Sarek, was no more.

* * *

They came just after the temple bells sounded the twelfth hour and she waited for them, kneeling in the darkness, Spock's head cradled against her breast. The servants had all gone, leaving her quarters empty and deserted. Furtive and ill at ease, she heard them in the darkness, fearing even now a trap. Yet, there were no traps. For her enemies she had kept perfect faith! The thought made her smile sardonically, welcoming the twist of remorse sharp as a knife blade as she gently eased Spock onto the flags, rising to her feet as someone softly tried the doors to the court. There was a hurried, whispered question, followed by a brusque command before they opened wide. The Klingons entered Es'sarhan as if they belonged there, sure now that she had not played them false and she met them with contempt, hating herself no less than she did them. They came and looked upon Spock lying defenseless before them, indifferent to him, seeing only a means to an end as she had.

"So, it is done. My Lord will be pleased, Noble Lady," the Klingon sneered mockingly at her. "The Vulqangan is a great prize."

"What do you intend with him?" T'Pavan asked, displaying a disinterest she did not feel.

The Klingons grin widened. "We shall not harm him, Lady ... overmuch. We must wait and see if his Captain feels the same."

He reached inside his tunic and took out a small hide pouch, tipping a tiny, faceted crystal onto the palm of one dark, calloused hand. "This is a transputer and once implanted in your Vulqangan friend, he will have to obey ... or lose his sanity. A cruel price to pay for a few sweet words from a pretty woman, would you not agree, Lady?"

T'Pavan's face remained enigmatic, though she could feel her fast beating heart, thumping unevenly. "It may not work with him."

The Klingon laughed a low, sardonic chuckle. "Have faith, Noble Lady. It will work well enough. We have tested this little device too many times for it to fail us now."

He signaled imperiously to his men and they lifted Spock between them. As T'Pavan watched, he stirred feebly, his eyelids flickering as he moaned, fighting towards consciousness.

The Klingons eyes widened in interest. "Does he try to resist even now? We must be swift about our preparations. Take him away."

He bowed swiftly to T'Pavan, a brief, derisive salute. "Farewell, Lady. Do not look so afraid. You have my Lord's word that your agreement with him will be honored. When we are sure of our prize, your daughter's welfare is assured. Sleep well."

And she was alone once more.

Chapter 4: Enterprise.

Spock stepped from the transporter pad of the Enterprise, his expression remote and tight-lipped, still impeccably dressed in his formal Vulkhanir attire.

Ramos, the young transporter ensign moved from behind the console as if to meet him, dark, Latin eyes, speculative. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Spock."

"Ensign." Spock's eyebrow arched as he returned the young crewmember's regard, rather less warmly. "Have the Nevas'asharn artifacts been transported yet and is the Captain aboard?"

"Yes to both questions, sir." Ramos grinned, his eyes full of mischief. Ship's scuttlebutt had been rife over the last couple of days since the First Officer's precipitate departure planetward. Somehow, news of Spock's unusual call had circulated at unprecedented speed through the all-talk channels of the Enterprise, and only someone who was blind, deaf or brain damaged would have missed the comprehensive and wide-ranging gossip that had engaged everyone's attention from then on. Ramos, lucky enough to be the one to beam Spock back up, knew he was going to be in demand from a bevy of female crew who would want to know the least little detail, from what the Vulcan was wearing to how he appeared, either happy or sad, dejected or in high spirits. Though how Ramos was supposed to know that he had yet to determine. No doubt he would find a way if it kept his audience sweet.

"The Captain was just inquiring about you, Mr. Spock. He was worried when you failed to check in--"

Failed to check in? The First Officer's expression did not change and yet, behind the façade, Spock felt a shiver of unexpected disquiet provoked directly by Ramos' comment. There was a noticeable increase in his heart rhythm, and a sudden shift of perspective as all his attention focused on the young ensign. The transporter room and all its fixtures dimmed and he felt an overriding and wholly illogical panic as he continued to stare at the boy standing uncertainly before him.

"Mr. Spock, are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Spock echoed flatly, suddenly aware of his clothing, the heaviness of Vulkhanir robes instead of his Starfleet uniform. "Nothing is wrong, Ensign."

Unreasonably, inexplicably his fear increased, became a ferocious sandstorm that raged about him until he was unable to think. His mind stuttered in anguish trying to make sense of what was happening to him but the terror was too acute. His breath hammered in his throat as he shuddered, swayed, and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. He thrust out an unsteady hand, grasping at the edge of the transporter console, clinging to it for support.

"You're unwell, sir. Let me get Doctor McCoy--"

Spock straightened, stared at him out of deep-set, satanic eyes, his winged brows drawing together in a frown. "I said there is nothing amiss, Ensign Ramos."

"I heard you, Mr. Spock, but I still think--"

Spock's expression hardened perceptively, his voice assuming an inflexible edge that Ramos had never heard before. "You are not required to 'think', Ensign. Do I have to remind you who is in authority here?"

Ramos' jaw dropped in surprise. He came stiffly to attention, his eyes directed forward. "No, sir, Mr. Spock."

The First Officer paused, growing disinterested, aloof, and cold, as he looked the Ensign over. "Very well. I shall excuse your insubordination this time. Inform the Captain of my arrival. I shall report for duty in precisely fifteen minutes. Is that understood?"

"Aye, understood, Mr. Spock. Sir." And Ramos only began to breathe freely again when the First Officer finally left the room.

Spock found himself outside the transporter room door although he could not recollect leaving. The corridor was deserted and he leaned back against the support of the bulkhead, his heart rate increasing from fast to frantic as his robes once again attracted his attention. Somber colored, heavy and substantial, the sirwal lapped his booted ankles, reminding him of -- of --

A strange burning, prickling sensation washed over his scalp and Spock rubbed at his temple, clenching his teeth as an explosion detonated deep within his cranium, followed by a further violent stab of pain that made him lurch dizzily. Intense fear swamped him again, and he suddenly realized that he faced a terrible menace. He was unsure of what it was or where it came from, only knowing that he must flee or perish where he stood. It was irrational, even perverse, but the terror allowed him only one thought. Escape or die.

From then on he was insensible to everything around him as the ship faded away and he plummeted through a nondescript location, robes flying, long legs carrying him heedlessly along. It was day shift and there must have been other crewmembers in the corridors that he shunned, or evaded, or sidestepped, but he did not remember. He reacted only to the need for escape, blind and deaf to all but the fear that pursued him.

Minutes later when the haze cleared, he found himself slumped against the door of his quarters, knees drawn up to his heaving chest, arms crossed protectively over his head. His throat ached, his mouth was dry, and he was at a complete loss as to how he had arrived there. Gradually the panic diminished, his heartbeat steadied and he found himself breathing almost normally. He raised his head, blinked, and looked wearily around at his darkened cabin. The weighty material of the sirwal was smooth beneath his fingertips.

"Computer," he said, clearing his dry throat, his voice strained and husky as if with disuse. "Bring up the lights, Vulcan normal daylight."

Instantly, bright, ochre-colored light bathed the room. The relief he felt was almost immediate and he pushed himself to his feet, ashamed and embarrassed by the slight tremors of disquiet that still shivered deep within him. He strode over to his desk, sat down before the computer station. His robes, the heavy material of the sirwal, he felt sure, had been the trigger to his devastating terror. However, he had no idea why such insanity should possess him?

Why should the sight of his own Vulkhanir clothing overwhelm him with such horror? Baffled and confused, he strained to remember the scene in the transporter room but it remained unclear, as insubstantial as a dream -- or nightmare, he conceded somewhat ruefully. What had he been doing there, dressed as he was, and out of uniform, beaming down or beaming back from--

He almost had it, but an abrupt tingling across the top of his scalp warned him not to pursue that line of thought. Quietly, he began to recite aloud the forty-fifth prayer of T'Lala concentrating on the sonorous ancient Vulkhanir words of the chant celebrating calmness and serenity, while at the same time manually accessing the records of Doctor McCoy's interspecies cyclopaedic medical dictionary. He found the entry he was looking for without difficulty. It told him no more than he already knew, and yet to see the words in hard print proved alarming. He read the close-written information while his lips continued to chant the rhythmic mantra of his home world.

"Fugue: a pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. This serious personality dissociation, characterized by leaving home or known surroundings on impulse, is a condition usually resulting from severe mental stress and may persist for as long as several months."

The back of his neck was suddenly damp, but his fingers remained steady on the computer control. A brain tumor was his initial prognosis, a familiar affliction endured by the typically cerebral Vulkhanir, and one easily eradicated by a simple mind technique if caught early enough. It needed only an hour of undisturbed meditation for him to enter a shallow healing trance and deal with the disorder. A solution that would, moreover, eliminate any need for the involvement of Doctor McCoy. With a definite course of action outlined, he stripped off his robes, folding them into a neat pile at the end of his bed, before heading for the sonic shower. Minutes later, with precisely thirty seconds to go before his fifteen-minute deadline, he entered an empty turbolift, dressed in a fresh uniform, his hair immaculately groomed, ready to resume his duties on the bridge.

* * *

"But Jim, you must have noticed it yourself," McCoy complained to Kirk a few days later, with the Enterprise headed back towards Starbase 12 to deliver her priceless cargo of Nevas'asharn artifacts. "Spock is definitely acting irrationally!"

"Come on, Bones," Kirk objected, smiling at the worried look on his Chief Medical Officer's expressive face. "Spock irrational? That's almost a contradiction in terms."

"I know, I know." McCoy grinned wryly. "It sounds unlikely even to me -- but there is something wrong."

"His medical checked out I take it?"

"His most recent medical checked out. He was, as always, in perfect/perfect health," Bones acknowledged. "Let's just say I have a hunch where your Vulcan first officer is concerned. And I've learned to trust in my intuition over the years -- especially when it relates to Spock. Believe me, Jim, something's way off the line."

Kirk sighed deeply, ran a hand through his hair, letting his fingers rest on the back of his neck. He looked up finally, the amused glint still in his hazel eyes.

"You think this has something to do with his -- uh -- visit planet-side."

"He was gone two whole days and without checking in. Definitely 'unSpocklike' behavior, wouldn't you agree? And not even mention of a logical reason why. I tell you, I don't like it, Jim. Not one little bit."

Kirk smiled. "I still don't see how two days on Nevas'a could have affected him. Although, I guess, he has been a little more distracted than is usual--"

"Distracted," McCoy exploded, setting the glass of brandy he had been nursing, onto Kirk's desk. "He's been downright broody ever since coming back on board. And what was he doing down there, that's what I want to know? I got the impression the last place he wanted to be was on Nevas'a. Or was it in connection with that all-important research of his?"

Kirk pulled at an ear lobe in sudden embarrassment. "I made a few -- uh -- discreet inquiries about that myself. It seems Lieutenant Uhura had a message from the planet soon after we left. Spock took it in his quarters."

"Oh?" McCoy's sharp blue eyes widened. "Did Uhura know who it was?"

"Sure."

McCoy leaned forward in his chair expectantly. "So, who was it?"

"Apparently an old friend from way back," Kirk replied innocently.

"I didn't know he had any!"

"Bones, really."

"Are you gonna tell me or not?"

"T'Pavan. The Ambassador's daughter."

McCoy gaped. "A female friend? The Heir to Nevas'a? Now that would explain a lot -- if Spock were anybody else! As it is--!"

"You're letting your prejudice show, Doctor," Kirk laughed. "But I agree, I can't exactly imagine my erstwhile, unemotional First Officer going hoopdie-swoop over any woman. Not in two days! Spock's too -- too--"

"Logical?" McCoy asked, grinning ingenuously.

"That's -- the word." Kirk grinned back, then frowned, "You really think he's gone broody?"

"He's got all the symptoms." McCoy's answering chuckle was irreverent. "He's not eating. Can't sleep, if his prowling around the ship is any indication, and what about these damned battle drills he keeps springing on us all? I've not had a good night's sleep myself for days. Half the ship's crew is on a charge because of him -- and the other half are walking on eggshells waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm telling you your crew is getting spooky, Jim."

"It's gone that far?" Kirk asked. Now that he thought about it, there had been more than the usual glassy-eyed, shell-shocked junior officers left in Spock's wake.

"Yep, it's gone that far," McCoy agreed, twirling a thimbleful of liquor around his glass.

"Surely it's too soon for--?" Kirk refrained from putting his daunting suspicion actually into words. However, McCoy wasn't about to hum and haw on the essentials.

"The beginning of pon-farr?" He shrugged. "Who's to know? After the last time I just don't want to take any chances."

Kirk sighed again, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Have you spoken to him about this?"

"God knows I've tried," McCoy answered. "So far he's given me the run-around. Last time I cornered him, he had the Vulcan gall to accuse me of persecution!"

Well, on that he might just have a point, Kirk thought. Aloud he said, "I gather you want me to have a word."

"You betcha, Captain, sir!" McCoy was abruptly cheerful again as he swallowed the last of his brandy in one satisfied gulp. "A fatherly chat from you might just tip the balance."

"Bones, he's six years older than I am!"

"In age, maybe." McCoy grinned. "But we're talking experience here, Jim."

"Get outta here, Doctor!"

"Okay, I'm going." He pushed himself to his feet, sauntered over to the door, and paused. "Uh, don't forget, Jim --"

"Hmmm?" Kirk was already reaching for the intercom that would connect him to the bridge.

"Be gentle with him, huh?"

Kirk groaned in mock disgust. "Bones!"

"Don't worry, Captain. You'll do just fine. I'll be waiting in sickbay--"

However, when Kirk finally got through to the bridge, Spock was no longer there. It was Uhura in the center seat.

"Uhura, this is Mr. Spock's duty watch, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is, Captain. He left the bridge--" She paused to check, "five minutes ago."

"Did he give you a reason, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. I thought -- that is, I assumed, he was acting on your orders, Captain."

"How did he seem, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked seriously. "Was he preoccupied, or -- anxious?"

"Now that you mention it, he did seem more thoughtful than usual, even a little vague, sir."

The frown creasing Kirk's forehead deepened. "Put out a general call, Lieutenant Uhura. I want Mr. Spock to report to sickbay immediately."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

Somewhere at the back of Spock's mind, there remained the memory of leaving the bridge while still officially being on duty, but the information was meaningless to him. Deep in his own introspection, his eyes curiously unfocused, he strode deliberately into Engineering and without haste, made straight for the control computers that stood partly screened from the rest of the department by a grilled partition.

Unobserved by the night crew, he slipped quietly behind the screen and began to unscrew the panel on one of the primary consoles. With a look of intense concentration on his lean and pallid features, Spock's long fingers played like a virtuoso over the closely packed banks of the central processing unit's selectors, sequences and regulators while the computer continued to hum busily, relays clicking and beeping as his new instructions were assimilated without question or alarm. Outwardly, nothing changed; the telltales on the main boards went on blinking normally, the Enterprise deviated not one iota from her scheduled course; the note of the engines remained constant. However, thanks to Spock, the ship was a time bomb primed to explode, a bomb at the command of the Klingons.

Spock straightened from his task his eyes refocusing as the fugue passed and he was once more aware of his surroundings. He stared at the uncovered console, his heart freezing in sudden cold terror, knowing instinctively what he had been about. A cry escaped him, cut short as pain discharged inside his skull, and he fell to his knees, his hands pressed to his temples as he tried to make sense of what he had done.

A voice shouted inside his mind -- escape or die -- and everything around him started to dissolve. He knew that he could not stand before it long, his resolve swiftly melting, as panic swooped in to claim him. Although not a fanciful man, his heart hammered so hard against his lower ribs that he half believed it would burst through flesh and bone. With a groan of despair, he reached back in among the connections and thyristor switching loops, his fingers trembling, his eyes dazed with pain, working blindly, fighting against the compulsion that held him.

Drained, shivering with more than cold, he fixed the panel back into place. As he pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck where pain coiled and twisted footsteps sounded behind him.

"Mr. Spock?" It was Montgomery Scott, the Chief Engineer, none too pleased apparently at the First Officer's intrusion into what he considered personal territory. "I didnae see ye enter."

"That is because you weren't meant to see me, Mr. Scott." Spock's brow arched as a brief smile touched his lips. However there was nothing humorous about the look in his eyes. Dark and unwavering, they fixed menacingly on Scott.

The Chief Engineer's lips pursed, Scottish burr hardly noticeable, but anger quite plain. "Oh, I wasnae, was I? And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Your Department's results in the last series of battle drills have been sadly lacking, Mr. Scott. I came to find out why."

"You were spying?" Scott's voice was no longer angry, it was outraged. "Why, you green-blooded excuse for a--"

Spock's eyebrows flared upwards as Scott choked on the rest of what he was about to say. "Please, continue, Mr. Scott. I understand how Humans need to 'blow off steam', especially when frustrated by events. Is that not correct?"

Scotty's lips tightened. It wasn't just steam he wanted to blow off. Not that the First Officer would particularly miss that part of his anatomy, although recent gossip on the all-talk channel had intimated otherwise! However, he knew that Spock was only waiting for the slightest excuse to put him on a charge. Most likely working on it right then from the expression -- or lack of it -- on his face. One more rash word from him and he would see only the inside of the brig for the next few days.

He wondered silently what was wrong with the First Officer. The Vulcan certainly had acquired a devil on his shoulder since returning to the ship. Perhaps his behavior was due to 'woman trouble' as scuttlebutt none too discreetly implied, although Scott could not quite believe in that explanation. Spock had never before been swayed by any female as far as Scotty knew, though the First Officer had a strange effect on many of them, Nurse Chapel being a case in point with her daft infatuation. He had always thought that a serious waste of a good woman, often wondering why Spock continued to let it go on. It would only need a word or two to end Chapel's misery and let her move on.

However, Nurse Chapel apart, though they had never become friends, Scott had more than a sneaking regard for the Vulcan. He was a perfectionist, like Scotty, who had little patience for what he considered indolence, ineptitude, or carelessness. The First Officer could be scathing on occasion, and if he caught some young crewmember shirking their responsibility, he made sure they knew about it -- exactly as Scott would do. But to run the whole ship ragged with drills and sneak inspections and then to come down to Engineering to spy on his Department as if he was still wet behind the ears--! That he would not abide.

If that's what he had truly been about. Scotty's eyes narrowed as he thought back to the start of the encounter. Spock had been doing something to the control computer, had he not? Abruptly suspicious, his glance slid past the First Officer to settle on the primary console panel.

Spock's eyes smouldered out of his hawk like face; his lips thinned to a bloodless line, Mephistopheles incarnate. "Is there something more I can do for you, Mr. Scott?"

All the First Officer needed, Scott thought, was a pair of horns and a pitchfork, and he could almost believe he had died and gone directly to Hell. He shook off the fancy and cut directly to the point. "Don't give me any of that bullshit about battle drills, Mr. Spock. You were fiddlin' wi' control. Deny it if ye can."

Spock surfaced as if from a bad dream to find himself in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Chief Engineer Scott, heated on Scott's side only he trusted, groaning inwardly, for he could recall absolutely nothing of the conversation so far.

"Control--?" he repeated, hoping that Scott would elucidate further. What was happening to him?

"Aye, Mr. Spock, ye were fiddlin' wi' control. Ye heard me the first time, I'm thinkin'. What were ye about when I chanced across ye just now?"

Abruptly, Uhura's voice, sounding over the intercom, cut through the tension. "Bridge to Mr. Spock. Mr. Spock, please acknowledge."

Massaging the back of his neck and ignoring Scott, Spock crossed to the wall unit. He punched the control. "Spock here, Lieutenant."

"Mr. Spock, Captain Kirk orders you to report to sickbay immediately." Her voice was crisp, business-like, without any emotional overtones. "Doctor McCoy is waiting. Uhura out."

The illogical fear returned with a vengeance, overwhelming him with even less warning than on the previous occasions -- the ones he was able to recall at all. In an instant, his attention focused entirely on the speaker grid as the room faded out, diluting into vagueness. Terror rushed at him from out of the murk, stark wings of apprehension, thrashing wildly about him --

Spock heard himself whispering the words of T'Lala's prayer as if it were a talisman against the dark.

Sho'eyb chiorehn angsar ikat,

Essar sujatah' sondeth rai-mai,

Tsoi ryhas moha ridh asaht,

Pailinh kantha chah'karavai.

Oblivious to Scotty watching, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal and plastic of the bulkhead, pressing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples, his scalp on fire. Escape or die, the cry rang in his ears.

Footsteps came echoing out of the fog as Scotty crossed the deck, still suspicious but concerned by the First Officer's evident distress. "What ails ye, man?"

Spock frowned, eyes scrunched shut, enmeshed in a torment of shame and confusion that was rapidly dragging him into the depths.

Worried, Scott reached out as if to touch him on the shoulder, although he knew how the Vulcan felt about that. "Are ye ill, is that it? D'ye need help gettin' to sickbay?"

Scott's voice reverberated through Spock's skull, resounding in his ears. He jerked away from the reaching fingers, staggering back against the bulkhead.

"Do not touch me, Mr. Scott."

"Verra well, I'll not be lendin' a hand where it's not wanted, y'ken. However, ye canna continue as ye are. I'll be sendin' for Doctor McCoy."

Dizzy, bemused, the roaring in his ears growing louder as his panic increased, Spock fought against the rising tide of psychosis.

"No." He clenched his teeth on the word, vaguely aware of the thin sheen of sweat on his face, of his jagged breathing, T'Lala's Way repeating in his mind.

Once thee know when to withdraw thee has strength.

The moment thee has strength thee can be serene

After thee has liberty thee can reflect.

As soon as thee prepares thee can attain thy purpose --

He had to find a way to stop the madness. It was certain he could not continue as he was. Reluctant to admit the truth, Spock realized he needed Doctor McCoy's help. Wrenching himself away from the bulkhead, he focused on Scotty.

"Thank you, Mr. Scott. I am quite able to make my own way to sickbay--"

"Are ye sure, man?"

"Quite sure." He swayed, steadied himself, voices whispering sibilantly within his skull, thinking only of the curious stares, the busy mouths that would spread this news throughout the ship should anyone see him. Aware of Scott's eyes on his retreating back he made it to the exit and from there to the turbolift. The doors whooshed shut behind him as he reached for the control horn, his knuckles yellowing at the tightness of his grip. He snapped out a single command.

"Sickbay."

Scotty waited until the Vulcan disappeared into the corridor before moving to the wall communicator. Hesitating briefly, he finally reached for the control button, uncertain whether he was overreacting.

"Scott to bridge."

Kirk had just arrived from his quarters. "Yes, Mr. Scott."

"Captain--" Scotty paused, shaking his head as he recalled Spock's strange behavior, before continuing hurriedly. "I thought ye ought to know--"

"Know what, Scotty?"

"I found Mr. Spock in Engineering, sir. He didnae look in the best of health and I believe he may ha' meddled with the computer, Captain!"

Kirk closed his eyes, opened them again, his thoughts racing. "Are you sure about that, Mr. Scott?"

"As sure as I can be, sir. I found him near the primary console and he wouldnae explain what he was doin'."

"Is Mr. Spock there now?"

"No, Captain. He said he was goin' to sickbay -- as ordered. He wouldnae let me help him, sir."

"Uh-huh." Kirk thought that over for an instant. It sounded very like the Spock he knew and he retained a slight hope that his First Officer was still marginally in control, though if he was suffering from the effects of another pon-farr, it might be tenuous at best. "Very well, Scotty. I'll handle it from here. Kirk out."

* * *

Spock clung to the control horn with both hands, the only thing keeping him on his feet as countless white-hot needles pummeled up the back of his neck, over his scalp and across his forehead. Voices muttered and mumbled inside his head but he refused to give into the fear and panic.

"The mind rules," he intoned thickly. "There is no pain. No -- pain."

The mist gathered around him as the turbolift greyed out, dissolving at the edges of his sight, until the shadows consumed him. The voices had grown raucous, guttural, and harsh. Run, they cried as one. Run or die. He groaned as the pain escalated, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing, his heart drubbing against his lower ribs, swift and irregular. The control horn tore out of his grasp as he slid to his knees, and he realized weakly that he must get behind the pain, that his sanity depended on finding out what was happening to him. Yet even as he tried to impose order on the chaos, the agony tripled, forcing him towards the darkness that waited to drag him down.

"McCoy--" His shout reverberated in the enclosed space of the lift, shocking him back from the edge of madness. Shuddering, still on his knees, he reached blindly for the control horn and twisted it. Instantly the elevator shifted from the vertical to the horizontal, carrying him the length of the ship. Again, he cried out McCoy's name but it was weaker, less defiant and the voices were gaining strength once more. The blackness was closing in, whittling away at his flimsy command.

"No, I am Vulcan. The mind rules. There is no -- is no pain." It was a useless catechism, powerless, ineffectual, and yet he knew that if he gave in now he would be lost. McCoy was his last hope. If he could only reach the Doctor in time, he would have a chance.

Desperately, he visualized the doors to sickbay, held on to his image standing before it. The Doctor was waiting for him he knew, would be anticipating the moment when Spock came wholly under his authority and could be humiliated under the guise of professional obligation. Spock had always abhorred the ritual of his three monthly physical, avoiding it with any and every excuse until the Chief Medical Officer had virtually ordered him to attend. The First Officer sometimes wondered if the barrage of tests was entirely necessary. It was as if McCoy was deliberately looking for some illness and, if truth were told, actually disappointed when Spock was pronounced in perfect health. At least now, his time would not be wasted.

The turbolift stopped. Spock uncurled from the foetal position he had assumed, struggling wearily to his hands and knees before climbing unsteadily onto his feet. He was just a few short steps from sickbay now and as he stumbled, exhausted and trembling, into the corridor, he was immeasurably grateful that the Enterprise was on night status and there were no prying, inquisitive, Human eyes to record the manner of his passing.

With both hands splayed against the bulkhead, he edged systematically towards those very important doors. Shudders wracked him from head to foot and his breathing came in ragged gasps. He was moaning softly, unable to stop, as those inner voices yammered and cajoled. The nearer he got to McCoy's office the worse the pain escalated until it was beyond even a Kolinaru adept's ability to keep in check, and Spock was tired, so very tired --

* * *

Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, glanced up at the chrono on the far wall for the fourth time in five minutes, wondering yet again what was taking Spock so long to arrive. On the screen before him were the Science Officer's full medical records from the time he had first joined Starfleet. To say the least, comprehensive they were not.

McCoy shook his head, scanning the entries with a swift and practiced eye. He was now reminded that Spock only had twenty-eight teeth as he lacked one pair of back molars; his brain case was approximately 0.2 cm thicker than that of a typical Human, although his actual brain was the same overall size and thickness.

Spock's eyes were less acute in daylight but more efficient at night and were protected by a clear inner nictitating membrane that filtered out harmful radiation, heat and dust -- all present on his home planet. Ears and nose were developed specifically for filtering sound and air in Vulcan's higher gravity and thinner atmosphere.

His heart was located where one normally found the Human liver, leaving room for the somewhat larger lung assembly and beat, in a normal rest state (normal for a Vulcan that is), 242 times a minute. Blood pressure was 80/40, systolic over diastolic. The First Officer's blood was a copper-based compound and green in color, utilizing the low oxygen, low atmospheric pressure conditions on Vulcan to the best advantage.

All very good as far as it went, but the records told him nothing about Spock's state of mind or what neuroses might conceivably affect him. Apart from pon-farr, the Vulcan had very rarely been ill; at least to McCoy's knowledge. The three-monthly checks had merely confirmed that he was in perfect/perfect health. There had been injuries, of course. No long-serving officer in the fleet, dealing with jeopardy on a daily basis, could have escaped a few knocks and breaks, and Spock had been no exception. Those incidents, all fully recorded, along with McCoy's personal notes on Spock's use of the healing trance, made the doctor's presence superfluous once the First Officer had instigated it.

The Vulcan had made it plain, on more than one occasion, what he thought of McCoy's treatments, not to mention his qualifications, and the doctor derived a distinctly anomalous pleasure at this chance to aggravate him. Spock would certainly not be pleased by the order to report to sickbay, McCoy decided in gleeful anticipation.

He grinned lopsidedly as he thought about the First Officer's likely reaction. He knew that to an outsider, his response to the Vulcan appeared antagonistic, even hostile, and certainly, their relationship was a hard one to define. Philosophically, they stood in opposite camps. McCoy, though he hid it behind a gruff façade, was a dyed-in-the-wool Humanitarian, while Spock actively pursued any means to rid himself of his own Human qualities, eschewing those character traits that marked him out from a full-blooded Vulkhanir. It was as if Spock purposely challenged the Human crew, and McCoy most of all, to make him appear less Vulcan than he was.

And McCoy wasn't slow in accepting the gauntlet thrown at his feet. Both officers indulged at every opportunity in teasing each other unmercifully, but serious arguments were rare, although sometimes it was hard, even for them, to tell whether their enmity was real or feigned.

Not that I'm going to let that, or any other consideration, get in the way of my professional diagnosis, he thought grinning wickedly. He had always thought a little suffering was good for the soul and, oh boy, was he about to make Spock suffer!

It's a tough job but somebody has to do it, he thought, just as the doors opened and the errant First Officer stalked in, a panther in humanoid appearance. Lean and with an austere elegance, Spock was most definitely on the hunting trail.

"You wanted to see me, Doctor."

McCoy rose from the chair, coming from behind his desk to lean nonchalantly against it, arms crossed in front of him. "Well, well, Mr. Spock, so the Enterprise has finally managed to spare you at last. I expected you half an hour ago. Come on in, the equipment's all ready."

Spock straightened his shoulders and for one breathless moment subjected McCoy to the piercing scrutiny of deep-set, burning eyes. "Doctor McCoy, if I am not mistaken my last medical was only 2.4 months ago."

McCoy regarded the First Officer with amused tolerance, pleased that he had the upper hand and wanting Spock to know it. "I've been waiting to see you ever since you returned from Nevas'ashar, as you well know, Mr. Spock. You aren't getting away that easily."

A spasm of some description crossed the First Officer's face, quickly masked. Anger, McCoy wondered, or more likely pain. He weighed up the signs of deterioration in Spock's physical condition without difficulty, noting the deathly waxen-yellow tinge of his skin, the haunted quality of his eyes and the dark shadows beneath them. There had been some weight loss, not much, but enough to give the First Officer's features and frame a gaunt appearance, a look of abstinence, or self denial. His face was now all angles and dark shadows, disconcerting and somehow, sinister.

"Nevas'ashar?" Spock repeated, staring into the distance his eyes unfocused, his brows gathering in a frown. McCoy had noticed the same thing happen with increasing frequency over the last few days. The First Officer seemed entirely unaware of the temporary fugue state, but McCoy was almost sure that whatever was causing it, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the onset of pon-farr.

"You were gone for two days," McCoy prompted softly.

Spock blinked and rubbed at the back of his neck before refocusing on McCoy, feeling as if he were looking at two images, one vague, dreamlike, the other sharp and well known. Baffled, disorientated, he decided to bluff it out. "You are mistaken, Doctor. I never left the ship."

"Do you want me to show you the transporter logs? Your visit is documented -- and so is your return." McCoy ruthlessly squashed any compassion he felt for the Vulcan, knowing that Spock was immune to his bedside manner -- and would not appreciate his efforts anyhow. "What happened down there, Spock? Don't you remember?"

"I -- did not leave the ship," Spock protested, but it was half-hearted, uncertain.

"Yes, you did. You were gone two days and you didn't check in."

"Come to the point, Doctor. You do have one, I assume."

Spock's voice, deceptively quiet had acquired a menacing quality, McCoy had never heard before.

"You having an emotional reaction, Spock?" McCoy chided, his expression hardening, unwilling to let up on the pressure just yet. "You know as well as I do that something happened to you on Nevas'ashar. Something you aren't too keen to have anybody know about."

"Even for you, these are paranoid fantasies, Doctor."

"Humor me, Mr. Spock. Or I might take my paranoid fantasies straight to the Captain."

Spock sighed, irritated by McCoy's continued insouciance, and shook his head in denial. His memory was quite clear. He had been doing research in the Science laboratory and had never left the ship. And yet, there was a fleeting recollection of -- of --

He reached for the memory, trying to hold onto the images that formed in his mind's eye. His heart started to pound, his pulses raced as he concentrated on the fleeting inner visions, unaware of McCoy who watched so intently. There was pain, bone deep, arching through his skull. He recalled shadowy figures seen through a haze of muted, bluish light, wavering and insubstantial, as if he were under water. The atmosphere was thick, choking, and it was hard to breathe. Hands clutched at him rough and insensitive; tight fetters held him down, cutting into his flesh, while harsh voices whispered, whispered -- words he could no longer remember clearly.

The First Officer shuddered, the blood draining from his already ashen features as he teetered on the brink of understanding. The throbbing started up, a fiery blaze across his scalp and he withdrew hastily, letting go the elusive thread of understanding.

His eyes narrowed on McCoy. "Do as you please, Doctor McCoy. Go ahead and advertise your incompetence to the Captain, if that is what you wish. I have nothing to hide. Now, if that is all--"

Unexpectedly, McCoy grinned. "Nice try, Spock, but it's not going to work. I already have the Captain's authorization on this. Either you submit gracefully to a full med scan -- or I call security and we do it under restraint from the brig. Your choice."

Spock's eyes glittered from beneath hooded lids but McCoy knew he had just played his ace. The First Officer would back down -- if only to save himself from the indignity of immobilization while McCoy carried out his examination.

He capitulated with reluctance, mouth thinned. "Very well, Doctor. I submit to your assessment. For all the good it will do you."

Cheerily, McCoy nodded. "Go through and undress. I'll be with you as soon as I wash up."

* * *

On the bridge, Kirk leaned forward in the command chair, frowning in apprehension with no option than to believe Spock had, indeed, blown a fuse. It was far too easy to overlook the fact that even Vulcans had their vulnerable spots. His First Officer was usually such a paragon of virtue, it came as a shock to realize that he could go off the rails like anyone else now and then. On Vulcan Kirk knew, Spock would still be considered little more than an adolescent, and if he had suddenly discovered a libido with a girl on Nevas'a, his reaction might not fall into any known pattern.

Remembering his own adolescence, the raging hormones and resulting angst, he could well imagine the Vulcan having some serious trouble adjusting. Certainly, altering the computer was not beyond his capabilities, though why he should want to tamper with control was still a mystery.

"Lieutenant, disengage computer control and switch to manual systems."

"Aye, sir." Sulu's hands ran an impromptu arpeggio over his boards as he followed Kirk's order. The reaction was immediate and startling. A klaxon began to scream fitfully.

Sulu turned in his seat to glance back at Kirk, raising his voice above the sound of the alarm. "Sir, we can't disengage. The computer won't respond."

"Damp that klaxon," Kirk yelled and the sound cut off instantly. Kirk sighed in relief, reaching for a button on the arm of his command chair. "Computer control, come in."

"Working." The voice was light, female, but mechanical.

"Release the helm to manual systems."

It took less than a second for the answer to come back. "Unable to comply."

Kirk's voice hardened slightly, although he knew the machine would not respond to his Human emotions. "Computer, this is the Captain. On my voice command, you will override all previous instructions and release the helm. Voice command."

The computer hummed softly, checking its thousands of systems, but to Kirk it appeared as if the machine was thinking over what he had said. He let out his breath in a long sigh of pent up tension as the computer replied once more.

"Unable to comply. Any attempt to override will result in the total destruction of the Enterprise. Computer control can only be disengaged on the specific order of Commander Spock."

So, there it was, the worst-case scenario. This is turning out to be one hell of a night, he thought as tension gripped the bridge personnel, stunned by what they had heard.

Would pon-farr have affected Spock to such an extent? And what would he accomplish by taking over the ship? Did he have some misplaced belief that he could return to Nevas'a?

Kirk groaned, torn between his friend and the welfare of his ship, but with only one line of action open to him. Swinging his chair in Uhura's direction he ordered quietly,

"Lieutenant, contact Security. Mr. Spock is to be placed under immediate arrest and taken to the brig."

Uhura caught her breath, eyes widening in surprise, but she complied with the order. "Aye, sir."

As she turned back to her boards, Chekov pivoted in Spock's chair at the library computer, his slight Russian accent strained. "Kepten, sensors are picking up readings of another wessel."

Kirk looked at him sharply. "Configuration, Ensign?"

Chekov swallowed. "It is a Klingon battle cruiser, sir."

Kirk unclenched his fingers from around the arms of his seat, rubbing at a suddenly throbbing temple. "That's all we need right now."

Although the Empire and the Federation weren't officially at war, the peace was an uneasy one, kept only by the treaty forced on both sides by Organian intervention. "Mr. Chekov, activate deflector screens, sound the yellow alert. I want phasers on standby. If there's going to be trouble I want the Enterprise to be ready."

The alarm blared throughout the ship and Kirk pictured his crew scurrying to their assigned stations. It looked as if Spock's recent training in battle readiness was about to pay off after all. Then Sulu turned to look at him, his face inscrutable.

"Sir, phasers are inoperative," he said flatly. "Computer control refuses to function -- unless on Mr. Spock's express orders. The Enterprise is defenseless, Captain."

Kirk drew back in surprise, unable to believe what all the facts were telling him. Could Spock really have set us up? He brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the command chair in frustrated rage. "Damn, Spock. What's he trying to do to us?"

* * *

"Well, Doctor, what is your prognosis?" Pushing himself up on his elbows, seemingly uninterested by the whole operation, Spock looked McCoy full in the face.

"Hold still," McCoy returned testily, thrusting the First Officer squarely back onto the med couch. "How do you expect me to get any readings with you jumping about all over the place?"

Inwardly sighing, he ran over his findings for the third time but despite cross-checking the results of every test in the book -- and a few that weren't -- Spock still appeared to be completely healthy. McCoy found no disease, injury, or congenital defect that would account for the Vulcan's increasingly odd behavior lapses. And yet, McCoy was unable to forget the new, and worrying, indirectness to the Science Officer's beta and theta waves, plus the imbalance in the medial reticular system. The trouble could be psychological. Given the symptoms, a diagnosis of incipient schizophrenia would be the most rational conclusion, but McCoy found that to be wholly unbelievable. Therefore, if it wasn't physical or psychological it had to be --

"You been having trouble sleeping lately?" he asked unexpectedly, already knowing the answer.

Spock, who had stoically endured all the cranial scans, EEG, sonograms, tissue biopsy and blood tests, plus a lumbar puncture -- which despite modern techniques and sophisticated technology, still proved a harrowing procedure -- tensed as McCoy reached for his feinburger.

"My duties--"

"Aren't that heavy!" McCoy supplied sarcastically. He grunted in disgust at Spock's attempt at evasion and picked up the instrument, sweeping it over the prone First Officer's body whose sudden restiveness tautened abruptly into rigidity.

"Relax," McCoy directed, puzzled by Spock's reaction as he swept the scanner higher, over the Vulcan's chest, throat, and face. He saw it almost at the same time as the scanner picked up the discrepancy, the innocuous beep-beep changing to a continuous warning note. McCoy's eyes narrowed in thought.

"Any signs of blurred vision, or giddiness?" he asked, intent on the tiny, triangular cicatrix just above the Vulcan's mastoid bone, pale against the surrounding darker skin; a good piece of surgery, unnoticeable unless you happened to be looking for it.

"Negative," Spock answered tightly.

"Any vomiting?"

"No -- Doctor."

"Uh-huh." McCoy gently touched the scar tissue with the tip of his index finger. "What about headaches?"

Spock jerked upright, his face twisting with pain.

"Hmm, I seem to have hit a tender spot there. Hurt much?"

"Only for a moment." Although Spock's voice stayed detached, McCoy recognized the tension in the First Officer's lean body.

"Okay, you can sit up now, Spock." Ignoring the eyebrow raised in inquiry, he watched as the Vulcan swung his bare legs to the floor.

"Well?" Spock asked at last.

McCoy frowned. "You want my evaluation of your state of health?"

"I assumed that was why Starfleet employed you, Doctor. And why I was subjected to your particular brand of -- mumbo-jumbo."

"Well, Mr. Spock, you may be interested to learn that my 'mumbo-jumbo' has provided quite a few 'fascinating' details about your condition."

He grinned quickly as Spock flashed him a meticulous withering look, one the Vulcan had schooled to perfection.

"Okay. There's been a marked change in your behavior since returning to the ship. You've been reclusive, cantankerous, and tense. Food has lost its appeal and you've not been sleeping. Even when you do snatch an hour or two, it's usually broken by violent nightmares-- Right, so far?"

Spock's eyebrow rose at McCoy's use of the term 'cantankerous' but said only, "Go on, Doctor."

McCoy's blue eyes were watchful, attentive as he continued, "There have been long periods of mental confusion, absent-mindedness that almost borders on amnesia, accompanied by severe pain seizures that leave you incapacitated for minutes at a time--"

Spock did not deny any of it. "And -- the cause?"

"Do you need to ask?"

"You have mentioned Nevas'ashar several times. My return to the ship." Spock grimaced as fiery needles pierced his neck and scalp, a foretaste of what would happen if he did not leave well alone. "I still have no definite recollection of going there--"

He explored the ache behind his ear, the place where McCoy had touched him only moments before, fingers gently searching. Something had been done to him on Nevas'ashar. But for what purpose?

"Someone has tampered with -- with my mind." The throbbing worsened and Spock grasped at his temples, biting at his lower lip in an effort to stop from crying out.

"Yes," McCoy agreed, giving Spock only enough information so that he was able to work the whole thing out himself. "There's no indication of intracranial pressure, no cerebral bleeding. It's not a brain tumor, or any physical illness. Nor are the symptoms caused by neurosis."

Spock choked back a groan, the taste of blood in his mouth as his teeth worried at the flesh of his lower lip, feeling his senses blur as sickbay opaqued into greyness.

"An implant, then," he ground out, thickly. "Something -- beneath the ear?"

"You're getting there!" McCoy had him by the shoulders, the only thing that kept him upright. "But why, Spock? Why? You have to remember."

The First Officer shuddered as the throbbing within his skull swelled to an unbearable level, his face contorting in agony as he fought to summon up hidden memories. He raised a trembling hand, tried to push McCoy away, but no longer had the control or physical stamina. Instead, his fingers caught at the doctor's tunic, balling the cloth into a tight wad at the shoulder.

"Fight it, Spock!" McCoy urged as the high collar pulled against his throat. "You have to fight the pain."

Spock shook his head from side to side, clinging to McCoy, gasping for breath. Someone was sobbing inarticulately nearby, a low keening, and the First Officer realized belatedly that it came from him. Horrified, he compressed his lips on the sound, burying his face in the hollow of McCoy's neck to stifle the noise he was making.

Suddenly, a memory pulled free from the miasma that was quickly overtaking him. He grasped at it, breaking forcefully through into his cerebral cortex; unmindful of the damage he left behind -- to find himself caught in a familiar nightmare. He could not see much; the light was dim, the atmosphere moisture-laden, and thick. It was difficult to breathe and he was choking violently. He knew that he was dying, that he had been poisoned. Then two men came close. Klingons. Spock recognized the swarthy complexions and bone-crested foreheads that extended almost down to the bridge of the nose. Both were in uniform, the thickly armored leather and steel regulation issue of the Empire. They talked to each other as if he was unable to understand and he gradually realized that they were medical technicians.

The scene blacked out, replaced with another. He was strapped down, unable to move, although he could breathe again. He felt vulnerable, weak, and powerless, unable to resist as one of the Klingons prepared a hypo and injected him with it. Spock grew disturbed, light-headed as they hooked him up to various instruments, but he was able to hear for a time even when his sight had faded completely away.

"We must work swiftly. This Vulqan