Paradise Bought: Chapter 6 - Memory
Chapter 6: Memory
O wolves of memory!. . .
One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
far-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.
Sad Steps by Philip Larkin
Over the course of the next six hours, to Jim’s best estimation, they took Spock two more times, leaving Jim to worry, alone in the cell. When Spock was returned, there was evidence that he had been beaten yet again and of course, each time, he was drenched in the ice-cold water. The temperature had dropped to the point where even Jim was shivering. He did his best to keep Spock warm, but as he became more and more unresponsive, Jim realized he wouldn’t survive much longer under these conditions.
Every couple of hours, T’ken appeared and asked Jim for the codes, but was not terribly disappointed when they were not forthcoming.
The third time they returned Spock, Jim knew they had done something different. Spock was conscious and struggling in the guards grip, as if he were delirious. When they lowered the force field and pushed him inside the cell, Spock crawled to the disposal pipe in the center of the room and began to retch. Between bouts, Spock moaned, muttering under his breath in Vulcan.
Jim put aside his fear for his friend and crouched beside him, holding him steady and placing his discarded tunic over his trembling shoulders. Meanwhile, Spock’s body did its best to expel what ever he had been given. Jim knew this was humiliating for his First Officer and it stoked his rage at T’ken and his minions even higher.
T’ken watched Jim minister to Spock, arms crossed with a slight smile on his face. Jim threw him a disgusted glance, trying to keep Spock conscious and on his knees.
“What did you do? What did you give him?” Jim was beyond anger.
“Oh, a special little cocktail the Romulans dreamed up to use on their own prisoners. It dissolves the chemical bonds in the brain, breaking down mental controls and telepathic shields. It shouldn’t kill him but it is quite unpleasant. You may find he becomes violent. Of course, it could also render him completely insane . . . Codes?”
“Are you kidding?” Jim used his sleeve to wipe Spock’s face, in addition to everything else, he was dripping with sweat.
“I assure you I am not. If you give me what I need, I will kill you, or him if you prefer, before I send the other to the Consortium. They are growing impatient and expect delivery soon. I am sure I can get away with only sending one of you alive. Of course, they’ll want the body of the other but I don’t suppose either of you would care at that point.”
“Go to hell!”
“Possibly.” T’ken smiled broadly at that. “If you don’t appreciate my treatment of you and your companion, I assure you, you will like the Consortium’s even less. Their technology is far superior to ours and I understand they have perfected torture techniques that they are hoping can break even a Vulcan. Now, Captain, what will it be? The codes and a painless death for one of you? Or do I just hand you both over?”
Jim remained silent. Neither option was appealing. He would kill Spock himself if it came to that. He knew Spock would do the same for him.
T’ken tisked. “Well, I will return later for your answer. Maybe your friend’s pain will be more persuasive.”
Spock had stopped retching for the moment, adding dehydration to the long list of what ailed him. Jim managed to move him back to the pallet against the wall, laying him on his side.
Spock was drifting in and out of consciousness; occasionally a moan passed his lips. Jim lay down beside him, curling around his torso, trying desperately to keep him warm. He was surprised when Spock turned over so he was facing him and grabbed both of his hands, interlacing his long fingers with his.
“Jim,” Spock whispered, his sour breath puffing over Jim’s face. “Help me.”
Jim tightened his grip on his hands. “Anything. What do you need?”
“I need . . .” Spock’s voice trailed off, shivers rocking his body. “I need your mind.”
Jim’s stomach clenched. If Spock had no emotional controls and no mental shields, this might not be a good idea. Still, if it kept Spock alive and sane, well, it was worth it. Jim disentangled one hand and brought Spock’s fingers up to his face.
“No!” Spock jerked his hand away and grasped Jim’s fingers again in an almost crushing grip. “Not . . . not like that!”
“I don’t understand! Tell me what you need me to do, then!”
“Tell me a story.”
Jim frowned, “What? What kind of story?”
“A memory, a detailed memory. I will create a light telepathic link I can use as an anchor. With your emotions, it will hold my mind while I try to rebuild my shields.” Spock stopped suddenly, a seizure hitting him hard enough that he bit his tongue, bloodying his lips.
“Jesus! Ok, any story?”
Spock nodded, barely aware.
Jim wildly cast about in his memories, trying to think of something engaging. On the edges of his thoughts, he felt Spock struggling with the blackening chaos of his own mind. Jim visualized Spock’s struggle as a whirlpool. Right now he was riding the edges of it, trying not to fall into the swirling eddies. Whatever memory Jim came up with, it had to be strong enough to keep Spock from falling any further into the confusion of his mind.
Jim suddenly thought of something. It had happened long ago, when he was a child, but there was enough emotional connection to it to perhaps hold Spock together.
It was late summer in Riverside, Iowa and Jim was enjoying the last few days of freedom before he had to return to the stifling halls of his elementary school, fourth grade to be exact. He grabbed a sack lunch and a bottle of water and threw it into his daypack, just past dawn. He was intent on avoiding his Aunt and his older brother Sam, who no doubt would have chores planned to whittle his day away.
Jim stepped off the front porch and gave a shrill whistle for Tabasco, the red tick hound who pretended to be a working dog but really was Jim’s best friend and companion during the long lonely summer months when his mother was away on a deep space mission and his father was busy at yet another conference. Tabasco bounded to his side, whining and circling, tail wind milling behind him. Jim gave him a pat on the head and took off at a trot towards the dusty cornfields behind the old barn.
Dodging the automated tractors, Jim walked the dirt roads that bisected the fields. He was alone, relishing his freedom, occasionally stopping to pick up a rock to throw at the crows circling the rows of corn. Tabasco stopped capering beside him, finally settling in at a trot at his heels. Jim took a deep breath, smelling soil, growing plants and the hint of water in the distance.
After walking for about an hour, singing softly and off key, Jim left the fields and made for a copse of cottonwood running along the edge of Rebman’s Creek. There was an old game trail that snaked through the dense trees. Jim knew enough to stay away from the poison oak and stinging nettles and still maintain a fast pace. Tabasco occasionally disappeared with a sharp bark into the bushes with Jim shaking his head and calling him back before he went too far and got into trouble.
Jim visualized this so strongly, he knew Spock was right there with him, a ghost walking beside him through these childhood woods. When he pulled even slightly out of the memory, he felt a push from Spock, urging him to continue as though his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.
The dry woods opened to a meadow sloping down to a creek running along the north edge. In spring, the meadow would be green and fragrant with grass and wildflowers. The creek would be loud and bubble along its outer edge, dancing around boulders, moss green. In late summer, the grass was brown and so dry, it crackled under his feet. The drooping leaves and bushes surrounding the meadow rustled for Jim’s ears alone and he congratulated himself that he had remembered the jar to capture some crickets.
By the time Jim made it to the creek bed, he had kicked off his shoes and socks to enjoy the squish of black mud between his toes. Tabasco padded down to the water and took a long drink. Jim cupped his hands and helped himself, utterly forgetting his Aunt’s warning about tainted water. Jim splashed his face, cooling his slightly sunburned skin and followed the creek bed around a bend to a small pool.
Bug’s Pond had been there since before Jim’s father George, had been a boy. Decades ago, a cottonwood had failed and fallen across Rebman’s Creek, creating a natural pool which waxed and waned in size depending on the rainfall. Now in late summer, it was no more than twenty meters across, filled with murky brown water that was cold under the trees and bath warm in the direct sunlight that dappled its surface. The name, Bug’s Pond, came from the many insects that used it to spawn and provide sustenance to the few small fish that made it their home.
Jim pulled off his daypack and spread out an old towel on the dark mud next to the pond. He stripped off his t-shirt and jeans and threw them into a pile on his pack and clad only in his briefs, ran to the edge of the pond and jumped in, cannonballing into the cool water. Tabasco stood on the edge, barking furiously until Jim surfaced and whistled him in. Tabasco launched himself at Jim, landing virtually on top of him, sending them both under for a few moments until Jim came up for air, laughing and sputtering. Tabasco, clearly proud of himself, began to circle Jim, dogpaddling and barking with excitement.
Jim felt Spock calming. The chaotic whirlpool marking his mind was slowing as he fully immersed himself in Jim’s memories.
Jim chased Tabasco around the pool, whooping and splashing, while Tabasco barked happily. Eventually, even a dog gets tired and he swam to the edge of the pool, and with difficulty crawled out, paws slipping occasionally in the mud. Tabasco walked over to Jim’s pack, and with an action repeated many times over that long summer, shook water over Jim’s piled clothes, soaking them. Tabasco walked to the towel, spread out on the dry grass, circled three times, before settling down with a contented sigh.
“Stay away from my freakin’ sandwich!” Jim warned the dog in the sternest possible tones. Tabasco opened one eye and huffed into a nap.
Jim, without doggie entertainment, decided that he would play crocodile. This involved floating face down in the pond, kicking stealthily toward the shore in the hopes of trapping an antelope. Before reaching the shore, he dived below the surface of the water; eyes open in the murky water, looking for trapped animals. When he saw one, in reality, a tree branch, he grabbed it and kicked to the surface, rolling in the water for the kill.
After indulging in and consuming several imaginary antelope and one hippo, Jim made his way to the shore, clambered up the steep slope and pushing Tabasco out of the way, fell onto the towel like a downed tree. Jim reached for his daypack, and uncovered a ham sandwich (real ham, mayonnaise, no mustard or tomato), leaving the apple and chocolate chip cookie for later. Tabasco, annoyed at being usurped from the towel, lay down in front of Jim, nose to nose, drooling and hoping for a handout.
When Jim finished his sandwich, he took a sip of his water, and took a nap. He had a most peculiar dream, one where he flew on the back of a silver bird, not through the sky, but through space. He turned his head one way and his father sat beside him. When he turned the other way, his mother smiled at him, pointing to a passing star and laughing. The dream seemed important, somehow, but no matter, he knew he wouldn’t remember the details when he woke up.
When Jim finally stirred, the shadows were growing long beside the pond and the heat of the day had passed. He heard a squirrel chattering and watched Tabasco turn a suspicious head toward it. Jim’s skin stung from sunburn and itched from insects that had bitten him. With a sigh, he stood and pulled his jeans and shirt back on, picked up his daypack and the remains of his lunch and whistled for Tabasco, who had strayed in search of the errant squirrel.
Jim’s memory changed from what had actually happened to a waking dream. He was still a boy, Tabasco at his heels, but Spock was no longer a ghost; he was walking, a shadow, slightly behind him, on the narrow game trail. Jim looked behind him occasionally, noting that Spock wasn’t the tall efficient Science Officer he knew now. He was a boy of about eight years old, shorter than Jim and thin as a rail. His hair was longer than Jim was used to seeing and fell into his eyes. His large brown eyes were dark, shining with intelligence. Jim would know that expression and the set of his jaw, anywhere.
Once they reached the road, Jim slowed and reached for Spock’s hand. They walked side by side; hands clasped, Jim occasionally stopping to kick the dirt on the road. Spock raised his head and looked at the endless cornfields and the vast blue sky in astonishment. Seeing it through Jim’s eyes was fascinating.
As they neared the house, Tabasco took off, barking joyfully at the figure that appeared on the porch. Jim recognized him immediately and tugged Spock along, picking up a trot.
George Kirk waited on the wood porch, hands on his hips, a delighted smile on his face. Spock was a brick behind him. Jim pulled him along though, a dead weight.
Once he reached the porch, Jim dropped Spock’s hand and ran into his father’s arms. George hugged him tightly. He grinned at Spock and dragged the young boy into an enthusiastic one-armed hug.
“Hey, Spock! I’m glad you finally made it.”
Spock stepped away from the crushing embrace and raised an eyebrow.
“How do you know who I am? When I was of this age, I had never been to Earth, much less had the opportunity to meet you.”
“Spock! This is Jim’s mind! You’ve been here for years. You’ve always been welcome in our hearts and home. Jimmy? You must be starved. Let’s go inside, you can clean up and we’ll have some supper. I have a surprise for you.”
Jim looked at his father adoringly. He pushed Spock through the door ahead of him and heard his father’s chuckle. Once inside, his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he saw his surprise, his mother bustling about the kitchen, cooking their supper. His older brother Sam was being a pest, trying to dip dirty fingers in biscuit batter, while Winona Kirk held him off with a wood spoon.
Jim laughed out loud. This was not the way the memory went; somehow Spock’s presence had changed it.
Winona turned as Jim and Spock entered the old farmhouse. She was flushed from cooking and still waving the spoon. She dropped it and smiled, walking quickly across the room to envelop Jim in an embrace. She was a warm presence, soothing to Spock’s shattered mind.
“And Spock! Finally, you grace us with your presence!”
“Win, leave him alone. Ignore my wife, Spock. She is delighted as I am to have you here.”
“Quite right. Now, if you expect to be fed, get upstairs and get cleaned up for supper.”
Jim gave his mother a quick kiss and with a last look over his shoulder at George, he grabbed Spock by the shirtsleeve and dragged him up a narrow staircase to his room.
Jim watched Spock take in his childhood bedroom. He looked around, curious about what his mind had conjured up. It had the best elements of every stage of his childhood. Bookshelves lined the room, filled with his favorite novels and prizes he had won and found over the years. One shelf alone boasted beloved books, Tom Sawyer, Wizard of Oz, Chronicles of Metium, right next to his adolescent attempts at whittling, and pictures of Jim showing his old quarter horse, Mango.
Jim sprawled on the bed watching Spock. He was older now, in his early teens. Jim glanced down at himself and realized he too, was thirteen or fourteen years old. Jim ran a shaky hand through long dark blonde hair. He was the age when he just returned from Tarsus IV. Not the best of times and he wondered why his mind had conjured this time over anything else.
Spock sat on the edge of Jim’s bed, uninvited, legs tucked underneath him. Jim envied him the ability to sit so still in such an uncomfortable position.
“This is your mind, Jim? Why is it I am here? Why did your parents expect me?”
Jim considered his answer and decided to go with the truth. “You are here because this place, these people, are home to me. You are home to me as well. Makes sense that I would scramble this together in my head.”
Spock looked confused. “How can I be home?”
“Because home is simply the best, warmest, and safest place to be. Of course you are here. I think you have been here for a very long time.” Jim looked down at his lap, embarrassed.
Spock stared at him for a moment and then tipped his chin up with a long finger. “You are my home as well, Jim. I can imagine no other mind as welcoming and generous as yours.”
“Then, I have another confession for you, Mr. Spock.” Jim lay down on the bed, resting his head on his elbow. He needed a little physical distance now from the brooding young man sitting on the bottom of his bed.
Spock lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“Well, I haven’t had a lot of luck with relationships.” Spock nodded. “And I come with a fair amount of emotional baggage.” Spock looked confused for a moment but then his face cleared. “And . . . I love you.”
Spock stared at him, frowning. “You love me . . . You love me? How is that possible?”
“Fishing for compliments, Mr. Spock? Here, let me show you.” Jim leaned forward and brushed Spock’s lips with his.
Spock tolerated the contact for a moment and pulled back, curious, not affronted.
“Jim, I do not understand.”
Jim sighed, scooting closer to Spock. “This is my mind. You don’t have to understand. You just have to accept. I have loved you for a long time. As my friend, as my brother, as . . .”
Spock looked uneasy. This was not the reaction Jim had hoped for. “Look, I know you are with Ericksson. I think that’s when I realized that I wanted you in the same way. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’m jealous. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I don’t want to come between the two of you. It . . . just hurts. I’m sorry, I can’t lie to you when you are in my head.” Spock’s expression was unreadable to anyone else. To Jim, it signaled regret, grief even.
“Spock, it was just a missed opportunity. It never occurred to me that being with you was even possible. I . . . want, I wanted to be him, to be with you the same way. I wish . . .”
Spock interrupted, his eyes betraying his tension. “Jim, would you like to see? What it was like, what I wanted it to be?”
Of course he did. At the risk of seeming like a voyeur, he wanted to understand what it would take to be with Spock, the way every atom in his body wanted to be. He nodded, no longer able to articulate his feelings.
The dream changed again, instead of sitting on Jim’s childhood bed, he was in a nondescript room on an unnamed Star Base. Jim saw two figures, moving together as one, on a simple white bed. One was dark and ardent, the other blonde and graceful, weaving together, arms and legs twining like vines, bodies seeking each other as though they were the only solution to an unasked question. They were young, barely more than boys, but searching for an emotional resonance, which had been denied to both.
Jim took Spock’s cold hand, watching the memory, becoming aroused by these beautiful boys, locked together in passion. Spock leaned toward him, touching his lips with his own. Jim opened his mouth, tongue seeking Spock’s as they fell into the present, two men, adult enough to choose, to know what they wanted.
On Jim’s bed, tucked under the eaves of his family’s old farmhouse, they made love. Spock was unerringly responsive to each caress. Jim felt touched to his inner core. It was not so much about sexual completion as the joining of two souls, Spock seeking something that had always eluded him, Jim reaching for the upper edge of emotion.
Finally, sated, they lay tangled in each other, drifting toward sleep.