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The ceremony had been long, and Spock, in whose honor it was being held, found it more than a little tedious. Once, receiving the highest honor the Vulcan Empire had to offer would have impressed him. He had, in fact, spent most of his life working toward this day. Now that it had arrived, he wanted only to get it over with and return to his rooms for a hot bath, then bed. He was weary, and above all else, indifferent. Perhaps he felt a small spark of pride for his Father. He was incapable of anything else. He was not even satisfied that he had finally achieved another lifelong goal – the suppression of all emotion.
He lived. He ate and slept, performed his duties to Family and Empire, occasionally used the nearest available body to satisfy physical desire. Nothing more. There had been nothing more to life for months. Only he knew that today was a mockery; they were honoring the dead with a prize reserved for the greatest living warriors. Had he felt inclined to laugh, no one would have understood it. There had been someone once who had understood every gesture, known the true meaning of every word, whose eyes saw clearly and too deeply. Spock rarely thought of that, although he was well aware it was the all-pervading grief of that loss which had killed his being.
The Emperor’s audience hall glittered with jewels, glowing with the bright flame colors of the courtiers. The black and silver uniforms of the officers gave just the proper contrast, just enough reminder of the warrior blood that flowed through them all. The naked slaves who moved silently through the crowd were the most beautiful of every species Vulcan had conquered. Their nakedness and loose flowing hair offered yet another contrast to the many layered robes and braided hair of their conquerors. Spock noted without comment that he was served exclusively by Human and Andorian slaves; members of the two races that he had spent most of his career devastating.
He also noted another Human seated in the back ranks of the nobles, dressed in the robes and translucent veil of a senior wife. His mother, with her now-greying golden hair and round ears discreetly covered, was being allowed to share the honor being bestowed upon the son she had given Sarek. Spock was momentarily puzzled at this, then recalled that T’Pon, his Father’s most senior wife, had recently died. Sarek must have fulfilled the promise made to his mother on the day Spock had been born. Spock had always called his Father a fool for such behavior toward a possession. It was only recently that he had come to understand the hold a Human could have over the spirit of even the strongest warrior. He no longer thought his Father weak. Bewitched, to be sure – as he himself had been. As he himself would be still, if not for...
He gave his mother only the most cursory glance, determined, as always, not to draw attention to the fact that he was as much Human as he was Vulcan. Vulcan had finally forgotten it and so must he. His mother, understanding after all the rebuffs he had given her over the years, did not even lift her eyes to meet his. It seemed she had learned to act with propriety at last.
It was late in the night after the last speech, the last course of the banquet, the last entertainment, that Spock was finally able to escape to privacy. He returned alone, walking the short distance through the night-chilled gardens between the palace and his Father’s great house. At his own gate he passed first the ceremonial guard that required only the night’s password from him, then the more elaborate but subtle security systems that scanned his genetic pattern, recognized him and unlocked all doors it would be appropriate for the heir of the House to enter.
He went immediately to his own wing, kicked the bath attendant awake and spent an hour trying to soak the tension away in the hot scented water. He rejected the attendant’s request to massage and bathe him. He wanted no hands on him. Whatever the girl’s undoubted skill, she would seem clumsy next to what he had once been used to. And any hands touching him would stir memories better left undisturbed. He sent the girl, a Klingon of perhaps fourteen, back to her pallet after sternly warning her that he would have her blinded if she ever looked at him with such boldness again. She whimpered and ran, leaving Spock to bathe and redress himself.
So good and yet so empty. Sulu had performed silently and expertly, giving his body for Spock’s pleasure. No master could ask for more. Spock was drained, but not exhausted. The physical was sated but his mind remained painfully restless. Sulu lay in his arms, head nestled on his chest, his long, silky black hair spread like a blanket across them. It was a very artful arrangement. He had been trained to perfection; every move, every gesture, every breath was calculated to please. Someone had done what Spock had never really been able to contemplate; turn a vital, free spirit into a courtesan. He had made use of an object tonight and knew that he would do so again. Here was a possession to cherish, a treasure too exquisitely trained to refuse, a prize any Vulcan would gladly accept and keep until its death, or pass on to his sons should it outlive him.
But what had happened to the man he loved?
I should never have learned to love. This is worse punishment than the emptiness of being without him.
He is here, accept it.
How?
The bitterness welled inside him. Once, this Human dared to look at him, to meet his eyes with bold contempt – or knowing warmth. Now, Spock knew, he would never look into anyone’s eyes ever again. His smile would be as alluring as in their most private moments, but now it would be vacant. He would smile the same for anyone. Spock could question him, try to hold a conversation with him, and his voice would sound as soft and as pleasant as it ever had, but the words would be echoes. He would speak only as a master would want to hear. Pain rose to join bitterness, and Spock knew that, though his treasure rested in his arms, he was as alone as he had been two hours before. And the deepest pain was the irony of it: someone had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to do him honor. His escaped slave had been returned to him not as a chained, abused prisoner but trained by the most expert of telepaths to loyally serve him.
Fool! You have done me great honor indeed and you will die for it!
No, such a course was not open to him. Revenge would have been pleasant but was now impossible. If he had beaten Sulu and sent him away, retribution could have been exacted. But since he had accepted the gift, proven by his use of it, duty required that he thank the giver.
I had thought you free and safe, beloved. Perhaps it would have been better to let you die. Better to end as a warrior than to come back and haunt me in this fashion. Yet, how much worse must it be for you?
No, you remember nothing.
All choice was taken from slaves such as these, and Sulu, like all others so trained, would live the rest of his days in mindless obedience to the commands that were so deeply implanted that they could not even be consciously recalled. Such slaves had been known to starve to death simply because their master neglected to mention to them that they should eat.
“I will care for you,” he heard himself say.
Sulu’s eyes fluttered open. Although he did not look directly at Spock, his head lifted gracefully, the full lips curved with the trace of a smile. His hands immediately began to caress the pale olive skin of his master, his whole body rapt with subtly eager attentiveness.
Spock was abruptly repelled, horrified at that which he had found so arousing, so sating. It taxed all his control not to fling the Human from him. Memory of the intelligence and discernment and strength that once lived in Sulu’s being tormented him. He had lost, lost it all, not only his Human companion, but hope, joy, contentment...
Accept it! he ordered his raging emotions. Deal with it with logic and calm. You took him for no other reason than to master your emotions. Master them...
And remain empty.
How had he come to this? Who was to blame for this unforeseen end to his life’s ambitions? Surak, the ancestor who founded the sect that rejected emotion? His Father, Sarek, with the alien concubine who he had dared to love and who he allowed to give him a half-breed child? Sulu, the vibrant Human who had stolen his soul?
Himself?
Spock pushed Sulu gently away, told him to rest and climbed out of the bed. He moved out onto the balcony and stood, staring somewhere between the stars and the garden. The night breeze was cool on his naked skin but he hardly noticed it. He did hear the familiar scrambling noise and searched until he found its source. Another alien crossed the roof with lithe, stalking grace; his mother’s cat, safe, protected, cherished. His Father had obtained it at great expense from some trader and brought it to Amanda while it was still very young. It had grown arrogant and proud, thoroughly independent, assuming that it and not Sarek ruled this house. It had always liked Spock and Spock had always ignored it. It came to him now, dropping at his feet, looked up at him with its wide amber eyes and began the strange rumbling noise it made whenever it was near him. Spock glared at this further reminder of his Earth heritage then looked away. He tried to forget where he was, what had occurred, to meditate, but when he turned his thoughts inward all he found were memories.
It had begun with a battle, one of countless battles Spock had fought and won since taking his first command. There had been four small Human ships against the Le-Matya. Within two hours there was only one and it was crippled.
The captain of the alien ship chose to surrender. Spock took a security force and beamed to the bridge of the damaged vessel. There were only four living beings on the bridge among the wreckage and corpses. Spock’s eyes scanned them quickly, resting a moment longer than necessary on the young man who was leaning heavily against the helm console. His uniform tunic was ripped, revealing a smoothly muscled expanse of chest. Spock noted the superb body, but was struck more by the young man’s handsome face, twisted now by defiance and anger. The alien’s eyes met his without hesitation, refusing to drop under his stare. It was Spock who looked away first, before the communication between them had a chance to turn into words.
He let the security team round up the small group of prisoners who remained on the bridge. The three crewmembers were all males, the captain of the vessel, a female. Spock questioned her himself. She answered instantly all inquiries concerning the damage to her ship and the whereabouts of the survivors of her crew. When Spock began to ask questions pertaining to the Earth fleet and defenses, she simply remained silent. He decided that a full interrogation would be a waste of time since the Empire already had excellent sources of information about this particular enemy. Having no further need for the woman, he set his phaser on kill and did away with the useless prisoner.
He was not surprised at the attack; in fact, he half expected it, and shouted for his security team to hold their fire before he even turned from the captain’s body.
The boy moved fast despite an apparent leg injury, driven to take suicidal action by a sense of outrage and a longing for revenge. Spock understood. He would have been as loyal to a captain of his. Perhaps he would even have behaved the same under similar circumstances. Spock, however, had no intention of allowing himself to be attacked. Nor did he intend to allow this lithe and very sensual creature the chance of perishing quite so soon after being captured. It was easy to stop the headlong rush – simply by grabbing the arms that reached for his throat and effortlessly forcing them to the boy’s side. His captive was obviously startled by Vulcan strength, and wise enough not to continue struggling in the unbreakable grip. He was no less defiant though, as he proved by disdainfully spitting in Spock’s face.
The security men remained immobile, but Spock’s bodyguard, Senen, moved instantly, his ahn-woon circling the alien’s neck before even Spock had time to react. Spock dropped his hands from the Human’s arms and he fell, choking, to the deck. Senen still held one end of the weighted leather strip that was the most ancient and effective of Vulcan weapons. Spock saw that hand begin to move in a quick, fatal jerk and called “Kroykah!”
Senen froze. The ahn-woon dropped from his hand and Spock bent to unwrap it from the Human’s throat. He pulled the boy to his feet, slapped him twice to pay for the offense, blows that would mark that attractive face for days. He spoke to him then, softly and in Anglo-Terran. “She was no longer young or attractive and would have ended her days as the most menial of slaves. That is no fate for a starship captain, even a Human one. Death was more merciful.”
The Human didn’t look at him, but color flooded beneath the marked flesh of his cheeks, then drained away, leaving the bronzed skin pale as his mouth tightened in a hard line. Seeing that he would get no other reaction and wondering why he had bothered, Spock pushed his would-be attacker back among the group of prisoners.
Spock went to his quarters at the earliest available opportunity. He needed to be alone, needed time to meditate and order his thoughts before the staff dinner and subsequent victory celebration that always followed a rich capture. He must face his crew, his officers, and never for an instant show even a hint of the weakness they were always searching for.
His behavior towards the Human had left him badly shaken. He had spoken to him, not to give orders but to offer explanation. And the words had been not in strong clear Vulcan but the hated native language of the woman who had borne him. He had not even punished the insolence properly. Spock could not afford weakness. He was strongly attracted to this Human, he reacted too quickly, too impulsively to him. Impulse was a weakness, one of the many Spock fought to keep at bay. Emotion was dangerous. He had discovered the writings of the philosopher Surak while still a teenager. They had been a revelation and guide to him. Surak spoke of logic as a means to overcome emotion and Spock had devoured the philosopher’s words. He had applied to and been accepted by the small academy that taught the disciplines necessary for the mastering of Vulcan passions. He used the discipline to master the Human taint in him as well. He did well, won respect and not only among the minority of the nobility that embraced the belief in logic. He combined the mastering of emotions with the skills of a warrior and leader and rose quickly in the Imperial Fleet. He had fought hard and become powerful and feared. All because he kept his emotions under control.
Now he had a Human prisoner on his ship that could pose a danger to the control which he had begun to believe had become second nature. How to handle this danger? He could simply ignore him, leave him to whatever fate befell him. He need not even see the prisoners again. It was the duty of the ship’s quartermaster to dispose of all captured cargo. All Spock had to do was sign a report to be handed to him some weeks in the future. Or Spock could accept the challenge to his control that this opportunity offered him. That was the solution Surak would have approved of. He could take the Human as his personal prize, keep him until the ship reached Vulcan, then sell him, give him away, or kill him; whatever action was the most logical. Spock realized that this second course was the proper one, but he hesitated. He found the alien’s beauty and fire a most disconcerting combination. His sexual encounters had always been fleeting. He had set rules for himself long ago. He never took Household slaves. He preferred brothels or to accept the offer of a night’s companion when staying at another’s house. He never spent more than a few nights with anyone, and never sequentially. He never took a lover of his own rank. He never allowed himself a preference for either male or female sexual partners. And never, never, never would he touch a Human. He had heard much praise of Humans, not only for their beauty and skill, but for their emotional capacity as lovers. Lovers. Surak had wisely considered love to be the most dangerous of emotions for the Vulcan warrior race. Physical passion, when properly directed, could be beneficial and had its place in a warrior’s life. Emotional passion was a killing weakness. Spock had seen his Father suffer from this weakness all his life and was determined never to fall into the same trap. Another would never control his life the way the Human Amanda controlled his Father’s.
Now, in order to prove his strength to himself, he must break several of his own rules, all because he had reacted without thought to a Human with flashing black eyes.
A temptation to be mastered, he told himself, a tool for refining the mind, disciplining the body. Nothing more.
The quartermaster had inspected the crew of the Earth ship and chosen the six most attractive of the prisoners to be brought to the officers’ common room at the end of dinner.
Spock watched from a chair across the room from the doorway as the three men and three women were brought in under guard. He studied the stunned, angry and humiliated expressions on their faces. It had been explained to them that Vulcan did not take prisoners of war. Their surrender, instead of the honorable course of suicide, had deprived them of all rights. They were members of an inferior species and therefore they had become the property of those they had surrendered to. They were no longer warriors, but slaves. They would not be permitted clothing or to cut their hair. Spock had ordered the women sterilized, a practice he wished was universally accepted. He did not have his prisoners branded, or have the most attractive young males castrated, considering that the prerogative of the slave’s eventual owner. His duty was essentially over with the capture of the Human’s ship. Now his crew would enjoy the Human cargo until they transferred them to a station or a transport ship, whichever was more convenient to the Le-Matya’s schedule.
The best went to the senior officers who, along with their commander, watched the six chosen Humans being made to kneel in the center of the room. Spock’s Human was, of course, among them, his leg injury having been attended to by the ship's healers. He didn’t look at anyone, although he had to be painfully aware that he was the object of a great deal of pleased attention and speculative conversation.
Spock listened to the conversation as well. Although he refrained from comment, he agreed with Sairn’s estimation: “That one will fight.” Spock heard the anticipatory relish in Sairn’s voice and wondered why he had never before noticed that this colleague of many years enjoyed violence in his personal life as much as he did as a warrior.
It was, in fact, Sairn who approached his Human first. Spock did nothing to interfere, but watched passively while Sairn demonstrated his superior strength. As predicted, the Human gave him a fight. He was well trained, agile and strong for one of his species. Unfortunately for him, all his strength and skill corresponded to no more than a ten year old Vulcan child.
Sairn quickly had him subdued and in the proper position – on his knees, his arms held behind him, head to the deck as his captor stood over him. Spock could see his eyes, flashing still though he was intelligent enough to realize the futility of further resistance. Spock approved. He did not want this Human marked unnecessarily. Then he swiftly quelled the thought.
Sairn bent to stroke the bronze skin, making the Human shiver. Then he pinched the flesh hard. The Human cried out, then drew his lips firmly together and Spock knew Sairn would get no more reaction from him. The harsh caresses continued, Sairn’s strength bringing painful pressure on the Human’s arms. Each time he tried to raise his head, Sairn’s foot was at his neck, forcing it down with a thud. There were appreciative chuckles from the other officers and Spock was only vaguely aware that one of the other prisoners, an exotic dark-skinned female, was starting to sob quietly. She was disciplined immediately, a sharp crack of the quartermaster’s whip. His Human’s head came up again, a word forming that was choked off as Sairn’s boot flew sharply into his throat.
Spock restrained himself though his heart leapt.
The Human collapsed to the deck and Sairn laughed derisively, reveling in his power. Sairn pulled the Human back to his knees and moved behind him, opening his robes. He knelt and grasped the boy’s waist, pulling him backwards while his own hips thrust forward, impaling the Human on his erect penis. The Human screamed with agony, once, then closed his eyes and bore the brutal rape in silence.
Spock wanted to stop it yet could not. He wanted to turn away but would not. He watched until Sairn was finished and pushed the nearly unconscious body away from him. Spock saw the red Human blood, and considered calling for a healer. Valuable property should not be so misused.
Why not? He is only a Human, valuable yes, but ultimately replaceable, Spock told himself. He waited, and watched as another of his officers approached the Human, grasped him by the hair and pulled his head toward his groin. The Human offered no resistance and Spock’s officer was soon satisfied.
Another, Selos, immediately called for the guard to force the Human before him. He gave an amusing mock-lecture on Human body structure and its obvious limitations and inferiority. He paid particular attention to the genitals, noting that, though clearly lacking when compared to Vulcan length and girth, the Human organ was truly remarkable in its responsiveness. He then proceeded to demonstrate, stroking the Human with cloth, and feathers, and a leather-gloved hand. He finally took the Human, holding the bronze limbs up and apart so that all could see the reaction of the Human’s body.
Another demanded use of him, and a fifth, and he drank from yet another Vulcan organ. The dark eyes were glazed, the body now completely unresisting. When the attention of his officers turned to another captive, Spock motioned for his bodyguard. He gave Senen his orders, and the older man went to the Human, lifted him, and carried him to Spock’s quarters
Spock did not return to his rooms for several hours. When he did, he found the Human, washed but with none of his injuries seen to, curled upon the deck. Spock approached and nudged him with his foot but the Human did not stir. Frowning, he strode to the ship’s intercom and ordered the ship’s healer to his quarters. When he arrived, the man looked surprised at his captain’s orders.
“You wish him attended to, Lord Spock?” the healer asked dubiously.
“I wish to have him fit,” Spock replied, then added, “I intend to make much use of him before we reach home.”
The healer nodded with sudden understanding. “He is of incomparable beauty, my Lord,” he agreed, and bent to his task. At his touch, the Human suddenly burst into motion, fighting with all his strength. It, of course, proved insignificant, even matched against a Vulcan who was not a warrior. The healer cuffed him as one would a child, taking stern hold of his wrists.
“Stop this nonsense,” Spock ordered, again in clear Anglo-Terran. “The healer is here to aid you.”
“I’d rather die,” came the savage response.
“So you shall,” Spock assured, “as do all living things, in your proper time.” He nodded to the healer, who subdued the Human with a properly placed nerve pinch.
When the healer was gone, Spock was more than tempted to sample the body his officers had found so pleasing. He had made use of unconscious slaves before, but there was something inside him that relished the idea of the resistance this one would give him. He would master this Human warrior, master his passions – and prove his worth once and for all.
As Selos had demonstrated, Humans were responsive. They were also, Spock had found, resilient. Even so, he was mildly surprised – and more than a little pleased – when the Human returned to consciousness in less than an hour. It was also pleasing that he did not start, or cry out, but simply opened his dark eyes, taking a slow, cautious breath. Spock himself had been watching him, evaluating and formulating how to best handle this opportunity. First, of course, was to establish command.
He rose from his seat and approached the Human. As expected, he did not move until Spock was within reach. Then his arm shot out, grasping for the ankle beneath the elaborate robes. Spock bent, taking hold of the Human’s arm just above the elbow, pulling him upright with smooth strength. The Human’s nails raked against his shin, but he ignored their bite. He put the young man away from him, gently for a Vulcan, but the Human still winced when his backside hit the deck.
Spock moved the few feet to stand before him. “You are intelligent, Human,” he said in Anglo-Terran, keeping his voice low. “You can see the futility of struggling. I am far stronger than you. Come, save yourself unnecessary pain.”
He watched the alien eyes harden, and actually backed a step when the Human leapt at him from the deck. Again he caught the attack, again throwing the cool body casually back down. The third time, and the young man lunged for his lower torso, intending to ram his skull into Spock’s genitals. But again, Vulcan reflexes and strength proved superior and Spock caught him by the jaw. He forced the fiercely expressioned face to look up and murmured, “Gently, Human. I will give your mouth what it craves.” He actually smiled at the flush that reddened the Human’s cheeks, then pulled him back to press the lips firmly against his engorged penis. He felt the mouth move, and pulled away before the Human’s teeth attempted to tear through the material of his robes.
“Are you eager for violence?” he asked, and cuffed the young man across the ear as he would have a disobedient child, then dropped him to the deck. “Or it is necessary to call your intelligence into question?” He turned, ready for but not really expecting another attack. He was pleased when he reached his bed with no hindrance. The Human was staring at him. “Attend me,” he said, and began removing his robes. The Human did not move. Spock allowed the disobedience until he was clothed only in the light, floor-length sleeping jacket, then turned so that his captive could appreciate the strength of his erection. “Come to me, Human,” he said. “Things will go harder if I must force you.”
He watched the Human slowly begin to rise, saw the wince as his injuries from earlier in the evening made themselves evident. “Swallow your pride,” Spock told him. “You cannot walk.” The flash of bitterness was unmistakable, but the Human crawled across the deck. When he reached Spock’s feet, the Vulcan reached down, gently moving his long fingers through the silky black hair. Eyes flashed up at him.
“I will taste your service this night,” Spock murmured. “But I will offer you this choice. Give me your mouth freely and I will allow your other orifice to recover from my officers’ enjoyment. Fight me, and I will take you as I wish.” Since his hand was touching the Human’s head, it was easy to hear the thought; Some choice. “It is better than no choice, yes?” he replied aloud, and stifled a smile at the Human’s start. Again, the thoughts came unbidden: You can read my mind?!
“All Vulcans are telepaths. Did you not know?” Spock returned mildly. He felt a confused rush of emotion and reaction, and the Human’s face again reddened. Come, little one, Spock said in his mind, then stared down to watch as the ruddy lips were moistened by an equally ruddy tongue, then opened to slowly engulf his dark olive flesh.
The next day, Spock’s impression of the Human was of a pair of dark, almond-shaped eyes that stared at him as he gave instructions to his servants before leaving for the bridge. “Tend the Human’s injuries well. Ensure that he eats and drinks. Inform him of my routine and my expectations. He will attend me this evening.”
The eyes burned into his back as he walked across the room and out the door. The image of those eyes and of the attractive, kneeling man they belonged to were with him all day, yet he did not hurry through his work so that he could return to his quarters. In fact, a staff meeting, followed by several important messages that arrived from Vulcan, kept him in his office late into the evening.
His rooms were quiet when he entered. The Human was sleeping, or at least feigning sleep. Spock stood over him for several minutes, studying with aesthetic appreciation the lean and supple body, then he nudged him with his foot. The dark eyes flew open and the Human scrambled to his feet. Spock placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him harshly to his knees.
“Apologize.”
“What for?” came the insolent response.
“A slave does not stand in the presence of his master unless so ordered.”
“I’m not a slave.”
Spock raised one amused eyebrow. “Did not last night with my officers offer you enough proof?” The young man’s jaw tightened. “I can arrange for...”
“No!” The refusal exploded from the Human’s lips, and Spock knew he had been thoroughly humiliated. He nodded.
“Apologize,” he repeated.
The Human muttered, “Sorry.”
“You will call me ‘master.’”
“I’m sorry, master,” the Human repeated grudgingly.
Spock walked past his slave and seated himself at his desk. He still had several reports to read before he could allow himself to rest.
“My name is Sulu.”
Spock stopped reading but did not look up from the reader. The Human’s shadow had fallen across the desk a moment before. Spock had been expecting an outburst and decided that he might as well let the Human get it over with. Spock did not move or speak, merely waited for what would happen next.
“Sulu Takeda,” the Human continued. “My rank is lieutenant and I’m a helmsman.”
“No longer.”
Spock’s cold, precise words were ignored. “The woman you murdered had a name as well. She had a husband and two children, in case you’re interested. You – ”
Spock cut him off with a curt, “I am not interested, Human.”
“Conscienceless son of a – ”
Again, Spock stopped the Human’s words. “I know your language quite well,” he snarled, “well enough to be familiar with some of your cruder insults. Vulcans take ancestry and family honor very seriously. I would be obliged to kill you were you ever to call me the son of a bitch.” He paused. “And you are standing.”
He could feel the young man’s stare, but chose not to look at him. He heard the sound of a long let out breath and sensed the tense muscles being forcibly relaxed. He watched the shadow of a fist unclenching with rapt fascination. Then the Human slowly, gracefully dropped to his knees. That he had chosen to retreat from the catharsis of anger that was so necessary to his adjustment to his new life disturbed Spock. He had assumed that he had offered sufficient provocation. Perhaps not. He had never dealt on such terms with an untrained slave before. As long as he obeys, his emotional state may remain his own affair, Spock concluded. I am doing this for my benefit, not his. He switched the reader back on. “I require proper preparation of the sleeping area for my repose.” He waited a long time for the Human’s response.
“Yes, master,” Sulu finally answered, his voice holding no trace of sarcasm or any other discernable emotion. “And after I turn down the bed, master?"
Spock did not like the sudden, ridiculous feeling of being challenged, though he did not show his self-conscious anger. Sulu had asked a simple, appropriate question. He replied equally simply. “The controls of the bath are easy to work. You will study them and when you have learned their operation you will prepare me a hot bath.”
There was no trace of satisfaction in Sulu’s, “Yes, master.” But Spock was well aware that Sulu had just won a small battle. What he could not understand was how.