Postmortem
(Kirk/Spock slash)

2.

Spock was forced awake as his lungs shuddered breath into his body. His eyes tried to blink but would not open. Neither would his mouth. He was sucking in air in gasps through his nostrils, his chest heaving with the effort. He felt – *awful*.

It took him a moment to realise that this meant he was not dead.

If he had believed in heaven or hell, he might have speculated that he was in hell – or perhaps purgatory, at the very least. As it was, the only explanation for the extreme illness he felt was that he was alive to feel it. His heart thudded in his side as his body released adrenaline at that incredible fact, before he had the control to suppress the emotional reaction and begin to assess his situation.

He was lying on his back on a very uncomfortable surface, his arms folded up on his chest and his hands over where his heart would be, were he Malkerian. The very discomfort of his position – the pain of stones and debris pressing into his *living* tissue – was a beautiful truth at that moment. Heat washed around him, and a bright light like sunlight was pushing through his eyelids. The scent around him was appalling – the air heaved with the smell of meat left warm too long. Then his awareness narrowed down to the building tension in his stomach, and he raised his hands to his mouth and ripped away the tape that was holding it closed.

He just had time to roll stiffly onto his side before he vomited profusely, the bitter taste of the drug that was in his system lingering on his tongue. He lay long enough to be sure he had emptied his stomach, then rolled back onto his back, panting and exhausted. Only now did he register that his hands were bound together at the wrists.

He lifted his hands to his face and carefully pulled the tape off his eyes. At first the increase in light was almost unbearable. His head ached so much that he could not focus, but he gradually managed to force his eyes into seeing with more clarity. He blinked into the sunlight, taking in the sight of a cloudless blue sky and a burning sun almost exactly above his position. There was the slight shimmer of some kind of transparent material not far above his head, but beyond that, there was nothing but the depths of the sky.

He lifted his hands again to examine what bound them. It was the same tape as had been on his eyes and mouth, wrapped round and around his wrists. It was obviously designed not to fetter, but simply to keep the body in a certain position after death. He pulled hard, and finally the tape broke.

Spock drew in a deep breath, and began to sit up. The skin of his chest and stomach seared as he moved, stiff and burnt from the blazing sun. As he moved he smelt a pungent smell, and felt a dampness under his buttocks, and realised that at some point in his unconsciousness he had succumbed to violent diarrhoea as his body tried every method to rid itself of the poison. The same bitter taste that was in his mouth was evident in the scent of the diarrhoea, and in the sheen of sweat that covered his skin. Presumably the drug he had been given was calculated to kill Malkerians, and had not been adjusted to suit his Vulcan physiology. For that, he could only be grateful.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady the pounding and dizziness in his head. Then, finally, he allowed himself to look around.

A moment of shock ran through his body before he could suppress it. He had been lying as just one in a long line of bodies, all in various stages of desiccation under the hot sun. All were lying in the same position he had been, all with their mouths and eyes taped shut, and with their hands held neatly together on their chests. Some looked moderately fresh, while others were completely mummified by the drying action of the sun above. They were all lying in a metre deep trench that had been cut into the red soil, that was not much wider than the length of a human body, and that stretched away from Spock on either side for at least a hundred metres.

Spock closed his eyes again. He felt seriously unwell.

He could not allow himself to feel unwell. He had to concentrate on escape, a feat which he did not imagine would be simple. He was completely naked from head to toe. He would have to travel on bare feet, without any protection from the elements. He could only be glad that he was built for a hot climate, so he was at little risk from this hot sun beyond superficial sunburn. But he was thirsty, and his stomach was empty, and his entire body was suffused with a debilitating sickness.

Spock took a deep breath, and raised himself to his knees, moving himself away from the pungent patches of vomit and diarrhoea where he had been lying. He was guessing that the shimmer above him was a force field. He lifted his hand slowly, and touched the barrier. It was not painful to touch, but it was unyieldingly solid – it was simply there, he assumed, to stop wild animals, or perhaps even people, from entering the pit and desecrating the bodies. That perhaps meant that there were carnivores – or at least scavengers – in this area, lending another level of danger to his flight.

The first problem, however, was how to get past the forcefield and exit the trench.

Spock sighed. He would have to do something distasteful.

The bodies around him were all fresh ones. The trench to his left was empty but for one body, unnaturally stiff with rigor mortis, that had presumably been deposited after him. Further to his right they gradually became more and more desiccated until they were virtually mummified. Spock crawled down the trench, trying to ignore the fact that he was crawling over bodies, until he reached one that was desiccated enough for his purposes.

Spock closed his mind to the moral implications of what he was about to do. He was simply making a tool with the resources at hand. He closed his hands firmly about the corpse’s arm, and snapped it quickly just below the elbow. The bone was brittle, but strong enough. He ripped away the dry remnants of flesh and sinew until he was holding the bare ulna in his hand, then rapidly turned his back on the unfortunate corpse and made his way back to where he had been lying.

It was at that point that he remembered the transponder that had been inserted under his skin shortly after his conviction. It was too dangerous to leave it in there. He felt for the slight bump under the skin of his upper arm. Then, after a couple of seconds of mental preparation, he used the fractured end of the bone he held to gouge into his skin. After what seemed an interminable length of time he found the tiny chip, and picked it out with his fingernails. He placed it carefully on the ground, then peeled away a short length of the adherent tape that had bound his wrists and used it to press over the wound in his arm that was seeping blood.

That done, he turned to the one corpse that had been to his left, removed its own transponder, and slipped his between its lips. He placed the other transponder on top of a flat pebble, and ground it to dust with another stone. He picked up the scraps of tape that had been on his body and attached them to the bone he held, reasoning it was best to remove all evidence of his presence, and also to keep hold of a possibly useful resource. Then he carefully manoeuvred the body to lie where he had been lying, and crawled away from it to the empty end of the trench.

Spock allowed himself a moment of rest, and then he took the arm bone and set it to the purpose he had taken it for – scraping away at the side of the trench to make himself a hole he could slip through to bypass the forcefield. It took a long while to create an opening big enough, but finally there was a gap just as wide as his torso, and he heaved himself up and over the edge of the trench.

He lay for a moment flat on the ground, looking around as well as he could. There were no buildings, no guard towers, no fences. This was simply an isolated spot where bodies were deposited, and there was obviously no need for any kind of outpost to watch over it. Behind him lay trench upon trench, the lines of them receding into the distance, presumably each holding bodies like the trench he had been in. The thought of that much methodical, deliberate death chilled him. No matter what the victims had done to receive that fate, he could not believe that they had deserved to be put through what he had been put through, without even Vulcan mental disciplines to help reconcile themselves to their deaths.

He turned his back on the trenches, endeavouring to put them out of his mind, and turned towards what he hoped would be his avenue of escape. He appeared to be on some kind of high plateau, that began to descend very near his position. There was scrubby vegetation beginning very near to where he lay, and further down he could see trees and grass. At least that meant food and moisture, even if that food was just leaves and grass. From this height he could see no signs of towns or infrastructure. He imagined from the geography that he was somewhere in the sub-equator region of Prendist - the planet’s principal continent and the place where he had been imprisoned – but it was impossible to be certain. With no idea of how long he had been unconscious he couldn’t even tell if he was on the same longitude. He must be miles and miles away from the city where he had been held, but he was certain that there would at least be isolated dwellings at some point in this area. There looked to be spots of cultivation, so surely there would be farms.

A shiver of fever pushed over him, but he had to ignore the feelings of sickness. It was paramount that he get himself to a place of concealment as soon as possible. Spock crawled on his belly away from the pit, making for the closest patch of vegetation. He carried on crawling for some time, ignoring the scratches and bruises he gained as he pushed through briars and crawled over rocks. Finally, when he judged himself to be far enough away from the plateau, he rose to his feet, oriented himself towards the forest below, and ran.

He only stopped when he was far enough below the tree line to be certain he was safe from being seen from the plateau above. He sat down heavily on a mossy rock, taking stock of his situation as he gasped air into his lungs. He was naked. He was extremely unwell. He had nothing with him but the broken arm bone and some tape. His only advantage was that technically he was no longer a wanted criminal, since, officially, he was dead – so there would be no search parties out looking for him.

His first priority at the moment was to find a source of water, and soon after that a place to shelter and rest through the night. He needed to recover his strength and throw off the effects of the poison. He had been sick two more times as he crawled away from the trench, and it seemed likely that he would be sick again. In the absence of any kind of medical help, the only thing he could do was rest. Anything else could come later.

******

It took him little more than half an hour to find a stream in the woods that seemed clean enough to drink from. First, Spock sated his thirst by scooping up the clear water in his cupped hands, washing the bitter taste out of his mouth and giving his stomach something to fill it, even if it was nutritionally useless. Then he moved downstream and crouched close to the water and cleaned his diarrhoea soiled buttocks and thighs, using handfuls of leaves to try to keep his hands as clean as possible. Then he moved back upstream, and looked about himself for some way to keep himself warm through the night.

There were plenty of stands of short, shrubby trees around, something like Earth’s hazel trees. He had no tools to cut wood, but he thought perhaps he could form some kind of shelter by weaving the branches of some of the trees together. There were also fern-like growths in abundance, whose big leaves would serve to weave into the sticks to insulate his shelter. He set to work intently, and after an hour he had formed himself a low, windproof shelter that was just big enough for him to curl up in. He covered the ground inside with a generous layer of dead leaves and more of the verdant ferns, and turned to the next problem – food.

Spock had seen plenty of appetising mushrooms, nuts and fruits about the forest as he had gathered fern leaves for his shelter, but he could not tell whether they would nourish him or kill him, so he left them well alone. The same was true of roots or seeds, or even leaves, on this alien planet. One scan with a tricorder would tell him everything he needed to know, but he was without such useful devices, so he resigned himself to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, and wait until tomorrow, when perhaps he would be able to find something more obviously safe to eat.

Since it was growing dark, and there was nothing more to be gained from sitting out here in the forest, Spock crawled into his low shelter and curled himself up on the leaves, pulling more fern leaves over himself as a rudimentary blanket. He had slept very little in the week leading up to the failed execution, and his body had obviously been under great strain since the supposedly lethal chemical was released into his bloodstream. He felt truly exhausted, and did not have to wait long before sleep claimed him.

******

He was woken by the early light of dawn piercing the leaves of his shelter. He had slept remarkably well on his bed of leaves, and felt less ill than he had the day before. He lay still for a moment, then wriggled carefully out into the forest where he could stretch his stiff limbs. As he looked down at himself in the daylight he realised just how filthy he was, covered in dust and mud and trickles of dried blood from his crawl away from the trench. The stream served him again as a makeshift bath. This time he slipped into the chill water of a deep pool and tried to scrub the blood and dirt and toxin-tainted sweat from his body. He emerged shivering, but refreshed, and allowed his own body heat to evaporate the water away from his skin as he stood beside his shelter. The shelter had served him well, but he saw no sense in remaining here longer than necessary, so he took the time as he dried to dismantle it, strewing the limp leaves about in an effort to disguise his presence here. Then he began to journey down through the forest.

He saw very few wild animals as he picked his way through the trees. He could hear birdsong, and caught an occasional glimpse of furred mammalian creatures in the undergrowth or in the branches above. He was most wary of snakes or insects that might prove poisonous, especially with his bare feet, but he saw none. He was also acutely conscious of the catastrophe that might result from injuring his feet. He needed to be able to travel, and to keep travelling, until he found some way to contact the Enterprise and arrange a rescue. He imagined the Enterprise had probably stayed in orbit until news of the supposed execution had reached them, but he had no idea whether Captain Kirk would be allowed to stay past this point, or even whether he would deem it necessary.

He had walked what he judged to be around three miles, following the stream he had found, when a noise caught his ears. It was a shriek – the sound of a humanoid child shouting in excitement, echoing through the trees off to his right. He altered his course and moved towards the noise cautiously. As he came closer he caught glimpses of a structure through the trees, and eventually made out a house that was standing in a wide clearing in the woods. He halted, suddenly highly conscious of his nudity. As he stood concealed behind a tree he saw a woman step out through the house door, and call out into the trees. After a moment two dishevelled children appeared, disappeared into the house, then reappeared some minutes later with the woman, looking far more presentable. The three of them got into an aircar which rose and hovered for a moment above the trees, before accelerating, and disappearing.

Spock crept closer to the house, then crouched behind a low shrub, listening intently. He could hear no other signs of life. The hum of the aircar had faded away. He needed to take his chance now.

He pelted across the clearing to the house door, and tried the handle. It was not locked. Spock slipped inside and assessed his surroundings rapidly. He was in a hallway with three doors opening off it, and stairs on his left. He could see through the open doors that these downstairs rooms were bedrooms. He found what looked like an adult’s room and began to search the cupboards inside. He found underwear, socks and trousers, only a little too big, and then a shirt and a sweater to go with them. There was a pile of shoes in the hallway, and he rifled through them until he found a pair which should fit him well enough. He snatched a hat off a hook in the hall that he could use that to pull down over his glaringly alien ears and eyebrows.

Then he crept upstairs and made a quick survey of the rooms there. He was looking for some kind of transmitter, but he didn’t see one. Next he searched for the kitchen. It didn’t take long to gather together some choice pieces of fruit and other food into a bag, carefully picking small pieces that he hoped would not be missed. He found an old plastic bottle in the bin which he cleaned quickly and filled with water. He took a look around to satisfy himself that it was not obvious he had been here, then left as swiftly as possible.

******

He crouched in the wood, pulling on the clothes with careful speed. The man who owned them was obviously a little taller and a little more heavily built than him, but he found use in the sticky tape he had kept, in binding the two of the belt loops of the trousers a little closer together to stop them from slipping down. It did not matter so much that the shirt and sweater were a little large, and the shoes were close enough to the right size with the thick pair of socks he had stolen. The hat was like so many others he had been forced to wear in the past – knitted and stretchy enough to pull down over his ears and, if necessary, his eyebrows. It was, he admitted, a relief to be fully dressed once again. At least the strangeness of his situation would not be immediately evident, now he was not naked and filthy.

His next priority was to move away from this location, and in the process to find a house that contained some kind of transmitter with which he could contact the Enterprise. He moved closer to the building again, assessing his surroundings. There was no real road to the house – presumably access was usually by aircar. There was a narrow track leading away from the place through the woods, but, considering the inhabitants of the house, it was just as likely to lead to a favoured picnic spot or secret den as to anywhere of use to Spock. He acted on the only information he had, uneasily relying on supposition instead of facts. He began walking in the direction in which the aircar had flown, which also happened to be downhill, in the hope of finding himself led closer to civilisation.

******

After an hour of walking he was forced to admit that he was not yet well enough to travel. He had managed to suppress his body’s protests until now, but they were coming back with a vengeance. The only small morsel of food he had been able to bring himself to eat he had vomited back onto the ground almost instantly, despite his hunger. His head was pounding again, and his legs felt barely able to support him. He sank onto the ground and rested his head on his knees, trying to steady his breathing and the trembling sickness throughout his body. Perhaps it would be necessary to find somewhere to rest again for a while, while his body continued to fight off the poison permeating his cells.

It was twenty-seven hours – the length of a full revolution of the Malkerian globe – before Spock came across another house that he was able to consider entering. He estimated he had walked less than five miles, but that walk had been broken up by the necessity of frequent rests and a twelve hour sleep through the darkness of night. He crouched, watching, until he judged all of the occupants to be out, and then streaked across the open garden surrounding the place and searched until he found a window that he could force open.

This house was much neater and tidier than the previous one. He did not imagine it would be as easy to steal small items or cover his tracks, but this place did, at least, have a communications device. He stood in front of the console, familiarising himself swiftly with the controls. He had beamed down to Malker with very little knowledge of the main language here, but two months in a Malkerian prison cell had provided him with some opportunity to study the orthography. He was by no means proficient, but he could understand enough of the onscreen instructions to use the device. It should be relatively easy to convince the console that he was an authorised user, and to cover the traces of his signal.

He worked at the controls for a few moments, then keyed in the required frequency to reach the Enterprise and Captain Kirk.

There was a long, heart-stopping pause. Spock began to wonder if the frequencies were correct, or if the ship was even in range - and then the captain’s voice said, ‘Kirk here.’

His voice was laden down with tiredness.

‘Jim,’ Spock said, the relief audible in his tone. ‘This is Commander Spock.’

There was a silence, then Kirk’s voice said bitterly, ‘If this is supposed to be a joke, it’s not remotely funny. Commander Spock is dead.’

‘Jim, I am not dead,’ Spock insisted. He had expected difficulties in reaching the ship, but he had forgotten that the news of his supposed execution would be taken as fact there. ‘Jim, please believe me. I am who I am.’ He hesitated, then remembered, ‘In our last game of chess I beat you by taking your king with my final remaining rook. You laughed, and ordered me to lose the next game. We were in my quarters, sat either side of my desk, you drinking Saurian brandy and I *sh’var*. No one else witnessed that game.’

‘Spock?’ Kirk asked, the glimmerings of belief in his tone. ‘Spock, explain?’

‘The drug they attempted to use to execute me was not compatible with Vulcan physiology,’ Spock said briskly. ‘It gave the appearance of death, but I did not die.’

‘Are you all right?’ Kirk asked in amazement.

‘I am not well. Jim, I have very little time. I require rescue. If I am discovered there is little doubt that their mistake will be rectified.’

‘Spock, where are you?’ Kirk asked, sounding totally bewildered.

Spock sighed. This was not going to be quick or easy. ‘I am not certain. You must trace this signal. I believe I am somewhere on the main continent of Malker.’

‘Give me a moment.’ The channel fell silent, presumably as Kirk put another call through to communications. ‘We’ll have your position in a minute, Spock.’

‘Are you able to extract me at the present time?’ Spock asked urgently.

‘Spock, we’re tied into a mission to deliver to supplies to Magna 4,’ Kirk said, his voice loaded with guilt. ‘It’s absolutely vital. We’re already four days out from Malker. It’ll take us two weeks at top warp to get to Magna 4 and back.’

‘Unfortunate,’ Spock murmured. ‘Then you left Malker – ’

‘Just a hour after – ’ Kirk trailed off, and Spock knew that the captain had ordered the ship away from Malker as soon as he had been assured of his friend’s death. That meant that he had been in his death-like coma for over two days.

‘Can you access this terminal again?’ Kirk asked quickly. ‘I can update you with our progress.’

‘Uncertain,’ Spock said tersely. ‘I have broken into this house. I cannot stay long without risk of discovery.’

He fell silent for a moment, and grew aware of the familiar background noises of an Enterprise rec room. He felt a moment’s pang of something which must be homesickness, that he pushed away instantly. Regretting his situation would not help him.

Then he heard noises that were immediate and undistorted by the communicator. There were people outside, talking merrily, approaching the house.

‘Do you have my position?’ he asked urgently. ‘I must sever the communication.’

‘Yes, just,’ Kirk said quickly. ‘Spock, try to contact us again in a week.’

‘I will. Be aware I may be forced to move to find food and shelter,’ Spock said quickly, then cut the communication.

He had no time to try to cover the traces of his communication. The front door of the house was being unlocked. He would have to rely on the usual ineptitude of most people with technological devices to blind them to the fact or the destination of his call. As the owners of the house entered at the front door Spock slipped out through the window through which he had made entry, and dropped to the ground as silently as a cat.