Black Fire (19 page)

Spock covered his eyes with his right arm, blocking the offending light. His sensitive hearing magnified every sound in the cell block: breathing, the rustle of men turning, the flush of a commode, all were intensified. He didn't plan on getting much sleep this first night in his new home.

A full forty-five minutes and five seconds passed. The sound of even breathing indicated to Spock that most of the men in the block were asleep. Even the jolting movements of Bull Macklen below him had quieted. The usual solace of Vulcan meditation eluded him—the more he tried to relax, the less he was able.

Suddenly the bunk convulsed again. Bull Macklen rose, towered above Spock's bunk, and grabbed the unprepared Vulcan by the arm, throwing him roughly off the bunk onto the hard concrete floor. Bull had raised his foot over Spock's head when a quick, strong hand pulled the huge man off his feet. Bull snorted an obscenity, pulled himself up, and lunged for Spock's protector, who moved quickly aside, letting Bull's momentum throw him off balance. He crashed into the side of the bunk. Bull came to his feet again, charging at Spock with fury. Like a matador, Spock slipped to the side, raising his hand to Bull's shoulder. The Vulcan nerve pinch brought Bull crashing senseless to the floor.

"Thank you," Spock said to his protector.

Responding to Spock's overture this time, his bunkmate spoke. "I am Desus."

"Romulan," Spock commented.

He was answered with a smile.

"What is a Romulan doing in this place? I thought we …" he considered his statement and then continued, "the Federation exchanges Romulan prisoners."

Desus gave Spock the needed boost up to his bunk. "Ordinarily, yes. But I am not a military prisoner. I was apprehended for piracy."

"A Romulan of military age, a pirate? That seems illogical." Spock lay prone, easing the ache in his back.

"No more so than a Vulcan convicted of treason." Desus' statement echoed in dead silence.

The groggy Macklen got up off the floor and returned to his bunk. By the time the guard checked the disturbance in cell 621, all was quiet.

The next morning Spock reported to the Labor Division office for his work assignment. He had no notion as to how assignments were designated, but logic dictated that a man's skills would be influential in the decision.

He was wrong. It was hard, even for Spock, not to react openly in dismay when he was told what his work would be. He was assigned to the care and feeding of the hogs. He had no objection to physical work, but raising animals for food was against all of his beliefs. For him to be a part of the process was particularly distasteful, but he made no complaint.

Because automation had made most time-consuming labor obsolete, the normal mechanical devices were omitted on Minos. Heavy work was needed to keep the prisoner population busy and in check. When Spock arrived at the livestock area, he was immediately handed a container of slops to carry over to the feeding pens. The bucket was oversized and heavy. With his back still healing, he wanted no extra strain on the area, so he dragged the bucket over to the pens.

As he was lifting the bucket to dump the rancid contents, a well-placed foot was extended, tripping him. Losing his balance in the slippery mire, he fell, splattering the mess from the bucket. Gales of laughter from the other prisoners accompanied his fall.

Covered with slime and sitting in a dirty puddle, Spock brushed himself off. A dirty but welcome hand was provided to help him up. It was Desus. "Thank you again," Spock said, brushing off as much of the refuse as he could.

"It's the least I could offer under the circumstances. Your arrival has switched their attention from me."

"What's this? Playing in the mud?" a guard barked.

The other prisoners snickered.

"I slipped," Spock answered quickly.

"Back to work," the guard ordered. "Help him, Desus."

"Yes, sir," the Romulan answered, following Spock, who went back to get another bucket.

"It seems the guards are not going to be helpful," Spock observed.

"The guards watch and don't permit them to get too much out of hand, but don't expect them to intercede for you. I've heard the prison gossip. Your crime is not a popular one."

"Treason never is," Spock said seriously.

"From my sources in the Romulan Empire, I have heard some of the details… ." Desus probed.

Together they hefted a heavy bucket. "I simply kept my word, Desus. I do not wish to discuss it. It is done."

"And you are here."

"That, my friend, is obvious."

"Hurry up, you two, this isn't a picnic," the guard shouted, spurring them on.

Returning to the hog pen with the bucket, Spock and Desus dumped it and were heading back for another when they were confronted by Bull Macklen, his huge body effectively blocking their progress. Trying to avoid a confrontation, they backed off and tried to go around him, but Bull moved quickly for a man of his size and blocked them again. The guards' backs were turned, whether deliberately or not, Spock couldn't tell. Bull gripped Desus' jump suit, twirling the Romulan around like a toy. Seeing that no one was going to restrain the bully, Spock went into action. With a strategically placed blow with the side of his hand, he sent the huge assailant flying.

Bull, brushing off the clinging mud, charged at Spock, knocking the wind out of him. Desus, waiting for his opening, seized Bull's ankles, sending him sprawling face down in the mire. As long as the confrontation provided an amusing distraction, the other prisoners didn't care who came out ahead. They roared with laughter when the huge man righted himself and spit the muck out of his mouth.

Picking up the bucket as if nothing had happened, Spock and Desus continued on their way. "A minor victory," Desus Warned, "but he'll be back for more."

The last thing Spock expected so soon was a visitor. Awaiting him in the small room set aside for the infrequent visitors to Minos was James T. Kirk. He smiled when Spock entered the room.

Sitting stiffly upright in the chair provided for him, Spock remained silent.

"Not even a hello, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"You should not have come here, Captain. Association with me can only cause further difficulty."

"We were cruising in this sector, Spock. What kind of friend would I be if I passed up an opportunity to see how you are doing?"

"A wise friend," Spock answered.

"Not funny, Spock." Kirk sadly noted the dirt-encrusted, broken fingernails on the slender, tapering fingers that were used to playing on a computer console. As Spock adjusted his position on the chair, his sleeve moved up, revealing a large greenish-yellow bruise. He quickly let the sleeve drop to cover the injury when he saw Kirk's eyes resting on his forearm.

"Are you all right?" Kirk demanded.

Spock's silence was distressing. Kirk had seen Spock in all of his moods, and he knew the Vulcan would say nothing rather than admit anything was wrong.

"I'm not leaving here without an answer from you, Spock! Now, what's wrong?"

He knew he had to answer Kirk or he'd have no peace.

"Nothing, Jim."

"That bruise nothing?"

"An accident. I tripped."

"You lie badly, Spock."

"I cannot lie, Captain. It's against my …"

"Oh, please, Spock! I've seen some of your better performances. The truth."

"If you insist," Spock replied with resignation. "This place does not represent Starfleet's finest. It was a slight altercation, nothing serious I assure you."

"And I should see the other guy, right?"

"Exactly."

"That's more like it. McCoy wants an update on your back."

"Getting stronger. The forced exercise seems to be helping."

"That's good …"

The guard interrupted. "Time's up, Captain Kirk."

Kirk went to the door with the guard. "Remember, Spock, if you need anything, anytime …"

The last look he had of Spock was of the Vulcan standing immobile, silent. The visit did not ease Kirk's mind.

Desus sat next to Spock in the prison cafeteria, aware of the Vulcan's lack of appetite.

"Why don't you eat, Spock? The food is not good, but it is nourishing," the Romulan said with concern.

"I prefer to fast," Spock answered. "Vulcans can go without food for extended periods… ."

"So can we Romulans, Spock. Our common ancient ancestors passed on rugged traits, but we Romulans can't go without food indefinitely and still work. And neither can you, for all of your pride."

Spock's silence was the only response.

"All right, I'll say no more about this. However, if I've noticed, others will. I believe you should ask for a less strenuous work assignment. You seem to be having difficulty with your back."

"An old injury," Spock explained. "It's almost entirely healed."

"You must have other qualifications which would be more useful here."

"They don't seem to need the services of a science officer, Desus, and they have their own staff computer experts."

"Understandably," the Romulan observed. "The entire place is computer-controlled. They wouldn't risk having a prisoner near any computer terminal on the planet."

The buzzer indicating the mealtime's end sounded, cutting their exchange short.

Before lights-out, Spock perched on his upper bunk trying to relax. He thought of Kirk's visit, wishing he'd never come. It was better not to have contact with him at this point. He lay down, shielding his eyes from the offending light with his arm, and stretched his muscles, trying to ease his fatigue. He could hear his cellmates move about, strip, and one by one retire before the lights dimmed. The cell block settled down and became quiet.

Spock was in that vague state between wakefulness and sleep when the bunk shuddered and he heard Bull get up. The large man's paw reached for his arm. Spock turned quickly, reaching for Bull's shoulder, but missed by just an inch as the giant of a man pulled him off the bunk.

"Please," Spock said, "I have no desire to hurt you. I have strength beyond your knowledge. It is unwise to provoke me."

In a surprising move, Bull suddenly backed away. There was hardly any time for Spock to react as Bull swiftly withdrew a knife from beneath his mattress. Desus came up behind the angry giant, preparing to strike him, when Harry Needham reached out and grabbed the Romulan's foot, sending him sprawling.

Bull slashed at Spock, cutting deeply into the flesh of the Vulcan's upper arm and bringing forth a gush of green. Spock, ignoring the injury, hit the large man with all of his might, throwing Bull against the bunk. He came up thrashing the knife in the air. Desus made another grab for him and was slashed in the chest with the point of the blade before he managed to get in a blow. Spock tossed a warning look at Harry, who wisely backed off. With what little strength was left him, Spock reached for Bull's shoulder, forcing his fingers into the precision nerve pinch that rendered the giant unconscious.

When the guards finally arrived, they found Spock standing in a corner with his right arm dangling limply and his left clasped tightly over his bleeding upper arm in an unsuccessful effort to staunch the flow of blood. They looked to Deus; the cut across his chest oozed green.

One guard, phaser in hand, gestured Spock out of the cell, while another prodded Desus. His phaser on heavy stun, one of the guards checked Bull, who was just regaining his senses. They escorted all three to the infirmary for treatment.

Doctor Lucas Freed was not pleased to be awakened for yet another medical emergency. He had been assigned to Minos three months earlier, straight out of Starfleet medical school. The few months he had spent on Minos had been tiresomely monotonous, with moments such as this night's emergency periodically relieving the boredom.

He knew why the service assigned doctors only one-year tours of duty on the prison planet. It was almost a form of punishment, but necessary, so the lower-ranking doctors took turns, loathing the assignment.

This night's emergency, however, proved to be exceptional. The passive bleeding Vulcan standing before him was a surprise, the Romulan another. He knew the aliens had been assigned to Minos, but being the only doctor in the facility and frightfully overworked, he was behind with his routine physical exams and had not seen either of them until now.

A quick examination of Bull assured the doctor that he was all right. While one of the guards escorted Bull to a high-security cell, Freed quickly assessed the other two patients' wounds, turning first to Spock's more serious injury. It was a very deep slash, almost to the bone. Freed draped a sterile cloth over the wound before beginning his surgical repair. He had never treated a Vulcan before, so he called up the appropriate computer records, hoping for additional information on Vulcan circulatory systems and trauma. The bleeding, disheveled man before him hardly fitted the descriptions he had read of the proud Vulcan race.

The doctor knew the wound had to be painful, but there was no sign of discomfort from Spock as he cleaned, repaired, and dressed his wound. Satisfied that it would heal well, and awed by his patient's tolerance for pain, he administered a series of shots to block the pain and fight infection, and then turned his attention to Desus.

"You two are really a pair," Freed said, swabbing the unfamiliar green blood from Desus' chest. "I never before treated a patient from either of your races, and here I have the two of you, both bleeding green all over my infirmary." Looking up to Spock, he commented, "I thought I read that Vulcans were dedicated to peace and nonviolence."

"We are," Spock assured him. "However, when provoked, we will defend ourselves from harm."

"Not always successfully," Freed observed, continuing to minister to Desus.

Spock preferred not to address himself to that last statement. He was becoming woozy and leaned heavily on the wall for support.

"Shot taking effect?" Freed asked, coming over and offering a hand. "Let's get you to bed."

He led the Vulcan into the ward, helping him onto a bed. A guard took Desus' arm and guided him to the bed next to Spock's. "They'll both be out until well past morning roll call," Freed told the guard. "Account for them on the sick list for the next day or so."