NEW: Nothing more than...S/LonSuder,1/1,NC-17

Title:  Nothing more than...
Author:  Dread Nought
Pairing:  S/Lon Suder
Rating:  [NC-17]
Series:  post-TOS
Summary:  Lon Suder as a youth is hired as an assassin
Feedback:  All kinds welcome
Archive:  Can't imagine, but sure

Warning: This story contains non-consensual homosexual sex.  If
you are under 18 or have a problem with this, don't read farther.   

Disclaimer: These characters are owned by Paramount and probably
Viacom or some other multi-national (multi-planetoid) conglomerate,
the likes of which typically send the bulk of us screaming on to the
Net for a little creative breathing room.  This is an amateur work. It
makes me no money (on the contrary, if you knew my hourly rate...). It
is not intended to violate copyright.

This is a submission for the Spock-fuh-q-fest. I nominate it for most
mundane submission. God, am I this boring in RL???


           "And a rock feels no pain,
               and an island never cries."
                        --Simon & Garfunkel


                     Nothing more than...


So easy.

The sleek craft slipped unseen into the hub of the Alpha Quadrant. The
pilot dropped the ship out of warp into the sensor shadow of this
system's asteroid belt. He mused over the last few jobs as he mentally
walked through the plan for this one. As the star's rays lit the screen
he glimpsed his elfin, boyish face reflected in the forward viewing
portal. His most potent weapon. It led people, especially of high
rank, to a natural trust of him. Trust, what a strange state of being.

A graceful hand moved the impulse lever to full thrust, gripping hard
for a moment, the cords standing up on the back of the hand marring
the smooth, youthful skin.

So good to be free. Every turn of the ship, every course adjustment
released him further from the bonds of home.  From myriad faces that
held pity. From a planet that held no place to hide.

Perhaps freedom isn't an emotion.

The Tyrellian ambassador had resisted death the most, he reflected.
Denied it even as it overcame him.  So fascinating, the play out of
emotions as the blade pierces.  So many emotions, one after another,
simultaneous, conflicting.  Always regret. Always.

The spacelanes around Alpha Base were busy as usual, filled with
ungainly ships plying the spaceways for profit. He sailed along with
these slow behemoths until he spotted the target: a particular
Starfleet vessel.  In its homespace.  Unshielded.  So easy.

His employer insisted that the odds of being detected when he dropped
the cloak to engage the transporter were almost zero. But it would be
more interesting if they did detect him. Ah well, he wouldn't get paid
then and money was freedom.

-----

Captain Spock regained consciousness with a dullness that indicated
the after-effects of a stun.  He tried to shift to a better position
and discovered that his hands were tightly bound behind him and his
tunic with its monitor badge was missing. He opened his eyes and
studied the bare durasteel floor where it met the bulkhead.  Tooled
not crystalline grown.  He shook his head: meaningless information.

A booted foot rolled him onto his back.  He looked up into a young
face with non-Earth-normal eyes. Rigellian or Betazoid, Spock's mind
supplied. He locked down his thoughts with all the discipline of Gol
in case of the later. The being held a heavy dagger firmly in his hand
with an amateurish grip. He reached down and grasping the collar of
Spock's thermal shirt, slit it open. Then with something resembling a
pounce he surged forward to stab the blade upward under the left side
of Spock's ribcage straight through his heart. No reaction.

The being froze in that position, one leg across the Vulcan's thighs,
hand on his chest, knife point under the skin into the muscle. The
pointed chin turned one way, lifted, dipped, looking to Spock like an
Earth lizard trying to determine which eye to observe its prey from.

"You do not mind dying?" The being asked.

Spock held completely still. "I am Vulcan, I am prepared to die at
anytime." A voice inside of him tried to point out that his human
companions were not prepared for him to die at anytime, but he
squelched it.

"The last Vulcan I killed was not prepared to die." His head shook
negation with an odd side-to-side tilting. He withdrew the knife and
pushed off of Spock to stand up.  The thin lips twisted. "I am
supposed to kill you, but you apparently want to die" He paced to the
control board. "I am certain I am not supposed to do you any favors."

Spock worked his bound feet under him and pushed himself up the wall,
bracing one bare hand against the cold metal to keep from falling
sideways. He gauged his captor and considered what Jim Kirk would do
under the circumstances. He frowned a bit; Jim would be rehabilitating
the young man. It was not something the Vulcan would attempt. He had
been forced to admit to himself over the last half year that he would
never equal Kirk as a commander due to lacking this skill. It was an
acceptable limit of his abilities: for every starfleet crewperson who
needed that kind of special handling there were ten more who did not.

A memory of a sidebar report from Command last week about a wave of
assassinations came to Spock's mind.  If this were indeed the
perpetrator then Spock bore a responsibility to stop this being at
any cost. He looked like a mere human teen, though age can be
deceiving in other races.

"What is your name?" Spock asked.

The being turned to look at him, registering no surprise that he had
managed to become upright. "Lon. Not that it matters."

A Betazoid name. A Betazoid who had killed and gone mad or a mad
Betazoid who killed? Neither scenario seemed to fit.

"You stated that you killed another Vulcan. Have you killed others?"

The lean form sat down at the command chair and fussed with the
controls.  The small ship turned in space.  Spock saw the Nelson
parked in orbit only a klick away. Her utilitarian lines slid by the
view port.  We must be cloaked, Spock thought, the orbital deflection
sensors would have set off an alarm on the Nelson otherwise.

Lon finally replied. "Some. Many."

"Why?" Spock asked, curious as to who had put a price on himself.

Lon thought for a moment. "Why not?" He tilted his head as if
listening to something beyond the ship. "It pays well and I don't want
to have to go back home."

"Who hired you to kill me?" Spock asked neutrally.

The lanky alien jumped up wiggling his fingers in the air. "Not
supposed to tell!" He said, then twisted his face in thought. "It is
fascinating though, much better entertainment then the tridee. I have
learned a lot watching the emotions on people's faces as they die.
Have you ever seen it?" Lon was walking forward with his hands now
encircling, clenching an imaginary object.

"On occasion." Spock turned that sentence over. What Betazoid needed
to read another's face?

"You are a telepath." Lon said. The pointed face was close to Spock's
now. Spock couldn't see the knife on the console.  He assumed Lon
still had it. "Have you ever *felt* someone die?"

Spock considered his options. Only his shoulders and head and perhaps
his feet were free for use in an offensive attack on his captor. "I
have." He answered to stall for time. Lon was of below-average build
and Betazoids of average humanoid strength. Spock estimated his
chances of disabling Lon with minimal risk to himself to be
twenty-three point nine percent.

"Tell me about it." The odd eyes narrowed and he spoke quieter, "Show
me it in a meld."

Spock shook his head.

The other's eyes narrowed farther and his upper lip trembled. "You are
a stuck-up bastard like everyone else in Fleet. You know that?"

One angled eyebrow went up with a quizzical look.

With a snarl, Lon's arm came up fast with the hilt of the knife. Spock
started to duck and managed to convert a blunt force blow to the side
of the head into a glancing one.  It was enough anyway: his legs gave
out beneath him. 

More blows fell, feet and fists, on his body though Lon's strength was
only a fraction of a Vulcan's and therefore fell harmlessly after he
curled up protectively on his side. Spock applied himself entirely to
preserving his basic functions with his head ringing ominously. Lon's
continuing tirade regarding Betazoid social classes and Federation
cockiness did not help. The strict disciplines were not enough, he
faded in and out of consciousness.

A red veil of fury had descended over Lon's vision. He thought of the
req officer who had offered him passage off Betazed as an apparent
kindness only to hold Lon captive in his quarters, hiring out his body
to the passengers and crew. Had he not been a crippled fool he would
not have fallen for the betrayal. Lon never took the few opportunities
he'd had to pay the man back. So cowered in his own skull from years
of trying to hide inside himself on Betazed, it never occurred to him
that he was now free to plot the man's death. Only later after being
dumped at a atarbase did it occur to him that he was free: free to
think as he pleased.

Spock became aware in a head-pounding haze that Lon was tugging at his
pants, leaving stinging lines of nail scratches on his thighs as they
were exposed.

Lon spit in his hand the way many of the req officer's customers did
and rubbed the liquid on himself.  He was hard in an unfamiliar way,
as if his cock were an extension of the red zone in his head. He
jammed his cock home. The freedom to payback was the best freedom of all.

Spock had other more pressing things to concern him besides Lon's
frenetic pounding into him, such as stabilizing his heartrate and
respiration despite a head injury.

Lon ceased without completing and pushed himself away.  Shaking, he
pulled up his pants and sat back at the control board. His erection
had faded as quickly as it had appeared.  An empty gorge was yawning
inside of him.  "God, I want to hate you. Hate you. You bastard." He
shouted, pulling at his hair. "No one understands..." He moaned.

Spock found his center of control and pulled himself to a sitting
position, ignoring the chilly durasteel on his exposed skin.  His
captor sat with his head in his hands, vulnerable. As quietly as
possible Spock shifted along the floor, realizing as he did so that
the plasma bindings over his boots had loosened or the synleather
material of the boots themselves had stretched.  Either way, he found
he could pull his feet free of his boots and therefore the binding. He
did so silently, willing Lon to remain in his unaware position.

One more shift forward and he would be in reach.  Lon's head began to
lift in awareness just as Spock's foot contacted the alien's shoulder,
knocking the other off of the control seat, into the console, and onto
the floor in front of the chair.  Spock crabbed over in two smooth moves
to apply an awkward neck pinch, sparing a thought to consider that he
probably struck the humanoid harder than was necessary.  An emotional
reaction that would require examination later.

He studied the boyish face a moment.  It would be advantageous to know
who had contracted Lon.  Spock shifted his bound hands to his side as
far as possible and reached for the meld points. His descent into the
preparation for the meld was interrupted by the memory of McCoy's
voice. "You aren't going to meld with that thing are you?" He
chastised himself for the stray thought and focused harder, rebuilding
the walls he had needed at Gol. As the meld opened he was assaulted by
a maelstrom of pure violence and hatred.  A core of outcast-driven
loneliness beyond the violence began to resonate dangerously within
him.  He closed the doors of his mind firmly and meditated a moment
before recovering himself. This was Federation Security's job anyway
he realized.  They were welcome to him.

He sat up and considered the controls, looking for and finding the
cloaking and communication panels.  Before activating the comm, he
took nearly a full minute in the interest of dignity to pull his own
regulation trousers back up.  With his wrists tightly bound, it
required contortions that made him grateful for the rigorous athletics
and flexibility routines all Vulcan children were put through. He
salved his logic with the argument that it was exactly the order Kirk
would have handled it in.

When he once more resembled a respectable starship captain, he hit the
comm control. His mind painted a picture of the Enterprise bridge, the
pride of Starfleet, in a tizzy searching for him. He made his voice the
calmest possible, "Spock to Enterprise."

"Sir! Uh, Kiptin. Ver are you?" Lt. Chekov's voice came back.

A smile may or may not have teased at the Vulcan's mouth at
confirmation of his expectation of the state of the Enterprise bridge.
"I am at coordinates point zero five sixty-seven mark four, Lieutenant."

Some scrambling could be heard in the background.  Finally McCoy's
voice came through. "Spock, there's nothing at those coordinates."

"Just a moment." Spock said and disengaged the cloak after verifying
that Nelson was now out of range.

"Holy..." Came over the comm before being cut off. 

Spock shut down the engines. "Beam me aboard and lock a tractor on
this craft. Uhura, notify Federation Security that we have a delivery
for them."

"Yes, Sir." The silken voice of the communications officer confirmed.

As Spock materialized Lt. Chekov asked, "Kiptin, Federation Security
ees asking what we have for dem."

"Tell them we have an assassin that they are undoubtedly looking for,
and if they aren't looking for him, they should be." Spock said as he
stepped off of the platform.  McCoy met him at the base of the
transporter with his scanner.  The human balked at the readings.

McCoy stared his captain down, "Sickbay. Now." He stated in a voice
that said arguments would be ended with a hypo.  The doctor's stern
command was illogically relieving. 

"Chief, call Mr. Scott to sickbay to remove this." He shrugged his
shoulders to indicate the bindings.

In sickbay Spock sat down on the examination table.  McCoy prepared a hypo
and administered it with an efficiency even the Vulcan had to
admire. "This is for the headache you probably have." He said as the
device hissed against his shoulder. He then tossed the remains of the
thermal shirt aside and examined the puncture wound. "Hmmm."  Was all
McCoy said as he turned and stowed the scanner.  Dr. Chapel was also
moving around sickbay.  Spock found himself hoping she did not decide
to also run a scan on him.

Mr. Scott bustled in with a tool box. "Aye, What kin I do for you
Captain?" Spock twisted to show him the bindings. "Aye." He pulled out
a tricorder.

Chapel came over and glanced at them as well. "They're plasmacord,
popular for S&M bondage.  You just need a high-frequency electrical
pulse to get them off."

Everyone turned to look at her with varying levels of surprise and
consideration. She met all gazes calmly and then shrugged. "I worked
the Berkeley ER for a year. I've seen a lot more than that."

Scotty pulled out a voltage tester and had them off in less than a
minute.  Spock stretched his long fingers in relief then picked up a
spare wrist communicator from Scotty's box after the engineer
acknowledged the loan. As soon as he configured it, his newly acquired
comm beeped. "Captain, Transfer of the shuttle to Federation Security
is complete."

"Acknowledged." Spock replied into it.

McCoy pulled the comm back off of his wrist and handed him an
uninsignied medical tunic. "Your quarters. Rest." He said.  An eyebrow
went up though with a hesitation the human had never seen
before. "Or... you can rest here in our luxury accommodations,
twenty-four hour service, no waiting." He swooped his arm around the
room.

Spock shrugged into the oversized shirt, bowed his head in aquiesence
and hopped off of the table. As he walked down the corridor to the
lift he had a sense of being let off too easy by the doctor. His
quarters and the flickering firepot brought a sense of peace to him
instantly that put everything out of his thoughts.  He changed into a
meditative robe and knelt before the gargoyle-like figure.

-----------

Agent Assistant Rudolph Shaanp walked past Lon's cell, stopped and
came back again.  "Gary, you mean this kid?" He yelled down the
corridor. An affirmation came back, echoing in the unadorned
corridors.  "Huh." Shaanp said as he lifted the coverplate to enter
the access code. "Can't imagine why they're sending you to Doctor
Burke." Burke was the senior interrogator in FS. "Maybe the doc's
bored."  Burke mumbled. 

One force screen came down.  Shaanp used his palm to disengage the
second screen.  "Come on then." He said, turning to lead the way to
the lab.

Agent Assistant Shaanp was dead before he struck the floor.

----------

At the second level of meditation Spock was forced to stop due to
fatigue and he began to suspect the good doctor of slipping him a
sedative in the potion he gave him. Surpressing the annoyance at this
thought he moved to the bed instead.

He slept deeply. Deeply enough to go unroused when the door slid
open. Deeply enough to not hear the quiet footsteps of a figure moving
with some stealth. The tilting of the mattress toward his back as the
figure sat on the edge of the bed did wake him, however. He opened his
eyes and turned his head and felt an even stronger surge of annoyance
than before.  Regulations stated that a shipwide announcement be made
when a commander of flag rank boarded a starship.  Spock lay back down
facing away. "Admiral." He failed or didn't try to keep the annoyance
from tinging his voice.

"How are you, Spock?"  A hand came to rest on his arm.

Spock considered that his earlier concern over McCoy's lack of
grilling was entirely justified.  He was not to get off easy. At all.
"Quite well, Admiral." He replied.

Kirk smiled at the annoyed tone, grateful that the Vulcan couldn't see
it.  McCoy warned him that he'd given Spock a mild sedative.  When
Kirk questioned it the doctor replied that it was either a sedative
and rest now or emergency brain surgery tomorrow. He studied the other
in the flickering red light and the usual swelling of affection
rushing into him. He stroked the arm under his hand. "You are
certain?" He asked with a soft compassion.

No reply was immediately forthcoming. Kirk glanced around the
retrofitted quarters that used to be his own. He thought over the
second five year mission that seemed only yesterday and seemed decades
ago. He brushed back dark bangs of unbelievably soft hair and wondered
at what point Spock had become just another old love. He supressed a
sigh.

Spock rolled over onto his back and met his gaze. "I have not fully
considered the ramifications of today's events, but I do no think
there are any."

"So, you don't need me?" Kirk said, half teasing. He knew despite the
annoyed tone and stiff language that Spock gained some peace from
his presence.  He could sense it through the link. 

He cherished that link. They had been lovers for the first few years
of that second mission when Spock had wanted to explore what he had
been missing.  But the Vulcan had eventually outgrown him and the
passion between them faded. Kirk still missed it.

Spock spoke as Kirk's hand moved to his chest, "I will admit, your
affection is a pleasing contrast to the violence earlier today."

"You can call me anytime, you know." Kirk said and Spock nodded. "I
don't care if you are on the edge of the Andromeda Galaxy and you just
feel like a chess game..." Kirk was rewarded with a flickering smile.

The yellow alert sounded and the comm interrupted. "Bridge to Captain." 

Spock thumbed the comm above his head without needing to look for
it. "Spock here."

Kirk had to fight the instinct to run for the bridge himself.

"Tractenburg here, Sir. Federation Security reports the assassin has
escaped their incarceration and is abroad in his own ship.  We've
brought the shields up as a precaution."

"Thank you, Ensign. Keep me informed." Spock thumbed the comm off and
shook his head.

"There ought to be a little hell to pay for that." Kirk said through a
stiff jaw.

"He is easy to underestimate, Admiral."

"That's no excuse."

"Indeed not."

They sat in silence for a few moments before the admiral stood.
"They're planning to use the Enterprise for some trainee runs in a
couple of months so I expect you won't be sent out far for a
while. Give me a call if you want to visit." He bent over and melded
his lips against the Vulcan's for a moment.  There was no heat in
the kiss, just acknowledgment.  I really must be getting old, Kirk
thought as he straightened and headed for the door. He turned at the
last. "You know my number." He said coyly before stepping into the
door trigger.

As the door closed, Captain Spock had to resist the urge to go after
the human. He was much stronger than those emotions now, though he
didn't used to be.  

He meditated lightly, floating on the sedative.  The link glowed with
a golden warmth as it did whenever Kirk was, or had just been,
near. Perhaps he would call Kirk. When his head felt better.


====================================================================
Disclaimer revisited: Take pity, my canon for Lon Suder is weak and I
admit it.  I don't know the lifespan of a Betazoid and neither did
anyone I asked.  For the purposes of this story, it is a little longer
than one may have thought.  It was either that or use TNG Spock and I
really wanted to use (abuse?) pre STII Spock. Especially since there
is some nice murkiness in there to work with.