The Price of the Phoenix sttos(n-4 Read online

  “You would be willing to see Spock go free—with your—other, and willing never to see Spock again? You would stay with me for that?”

  Kirk felt his jaw set. “Not-willing,” he said. I would grudge even—the other—the life that should have been mine. But he must have it if I can’t. Spock is not to see me die—twice. You have me. I’ll fight, but you want that. I’ll stay—and see you damned.”

  Omne grinned. “Good! That also I wanted to learn. Yes, I’ll have you, fighting—and I want that. You will learn to acknowledge me as your natural master. You’ll learn to bend your stiff neck. You will be my final hostage against Spock, and he against you.” He moved closer. You are on your knees, but not to me. You will kneel and bow and beg for Spock.”

  Kirk smiled without amusement. “Only to be reminded that you are not a man of honor?”

  “Perhaps,” Omne said smoothly, “but with the certainty that you will see him die if you don’t.”

  Kirk rose to his knees without a word, finding his face too close to the big man, but arching back a little and bowing his head. I beg for Spock,” he said easily, stressing the ease.

  The gloved hands clenched into his hair, jerking his head up, pulling his chest against the corded thighs, his face almost against the great body.

  Omne’s face was the face of the wolf, the beast—the face of jungle and night “Now beg for yourself. I am alpha here, and you will—now—yield.”

  One big hand twisted his head down and forward and the other ran down the back of his neck, feeling it cord and crackle with the resistance.

  “Yield,” the low voice snarled. “Let it happen.”

  Very suddenly Kirk released every muscle, letting the power of the big hands smash his forehead down into the target his knee had missed.

  A roar, and as the giant doubled and the hands threatened to snap Kirk’s neck, Kirk’s arms caught tree-trunk legs at suddenly bending knees and toppled the hulk over backwards to the floor.

  This time the giant fell heavily and was stunned, writhing. Kirk heaved himself forward with an abandonment of caution into the arms which could crush him, but going for the target again with his knee and with his hands for the throat and eyes. Omne flung him off and halfway across the room to smash against a wall. He could barely haul himself to his feet against the wall.

  But the giant was rising again with a terrible vitality.

  Murder was in the black eyes now, beyond mistake. Slow murder after much screaming.

  Well, Kirk thought, that was what he had bought and paid for.

  Spock’s freedom, and his own.

  It seemed the only way to buy both. He would not be the final hostage. Now it remained only to goad the dark fury.

  Kirk gathered himself, using white fury against the pain, and dashed in, rapier against broadsword, with a quick stabbing punch, and out again, narrowly evading the slashing blind reply which tried to catch him.

  He must not be caught, not until it would be killing, and he must not let the giant regain his mental balance.

  Spock’s freedom, he told himself like a prayer, and danced tauntingly again. Whatever this cost the Vulcan, it would free him to act. Whatever the difference, no replica would ever be quite the same to him as—the original. Nothing which happened to a replica would be quite the same. He could spare Spock that and himself.

  Even if Omne did not lie and the automatic machinery were already set for Kirk—which Kirk doubted that it was, so soon—but if it was, even if it would seem to him—to his successor—that death was scarcely an inconvenience, still it would not be quite the same.

  In some sense there would still be old-fashioned death, his old enemy, and now perhaps a friend.

  Curious how hard it was to feel that. Illogical.

  Omne rushed him and he vaulted half-over the big man’s shoulder, bull-dancer against bull.

  Kirk had no illusions. The giant would regain sight and speed and precision in a moment. Kirk could not beat him. And the uncanny strength, the vicious imagination, could cause the Human body pain beyond its capacity to endure.

  And the soul, also. Humiliation. A sickness of soul which could be felt through the body.

  At some point he would beg abjectly, and for himself.

  No illusions. Tough universe. It could be done to a man, any man. He had always known that it could be done to him. He had been very lucky.

  And here his luck ran out

  One last hand to play. Raise and call with the last stack of chips. Pay the forfeit

  He had always known that there were things worth dying for.

  He must learn now that there was something which he could not bear, which he would die not to have to bear.

  Kirk ducked a sudden chop to his neck, rolled quickly away and to his feet

  And straightened very slowly.

  So. His body knew it, then, if his mind did not. That chop of the massive hand would have killed, and quickly. It was the death he had courted, and he would not stand still for it.

  In the end, then, he would choose life and bear what he had to bear. He would even bear what it would cost the Vulcan, as Spock would.

  He felt his head lift with a sudden pride.

  And he saw Omne stop, his black eyes reading the decision in the lifting head and the eyes that met his.

  There was sight now in Omne’s black eyes, and control, and a sudden glint of savage laughter which was both admiration and envy—a wish to possess some element of soul he did not own and to own the man who did—to punish the man who had the effrontery to own it.

  The gloved hands dropped to the gunbelt and slowly drew it off, drew the heavy leather strap through the loop of the holster, tossed the bolstered gun carelessly aside to a couch—stressing no need to use it, no need to fear that it could be used against its owner.

  Omne doubled the black strap and cracked the doubled end into a gloved palm with a sound like the snap of doom.

  So that was how it would begin, Kirk thought, feeling the dryness in his throat and refusing to swallow.

  But Omne smiled, the smile reaching the black eyes, underlining all of the possibilities. Then he tossed the belt after the gun. “No,” he said. “That does not belong to the jungle.” He began to strip off the black gloves. “Nothing which does not will touch you, and you will wish that it had been that simple. He tossed the gloves after the belt, flexing the massive, muscled, long-fingered hands. “Have you ever cried, Captain, since you were a child?”

  No,” Kirk said, somehow wanting this man to know it. When Edith died, Miramanee—no, worse than cried, possibly, but no. Other times—No.

  Omne nodded. “Men don’t cry, Captain. Curious how widespread the necessity of that lesson is.”

  “Necessity? Or error?”

  “Both,” Omne said. “The alpha male must protect, defend, cannot afford to cry. The jungle knows, but we must learn. We must choose when we choose the hard path. It is harder for us because we can cry.”

  Even Vulcans can, Kirk thought. And why not? But was that it? Was it the alpha choice? Was that why he never had, never could? “Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud. “We choose what we choose.”

  The choice can be broken,” Omne said, “for—any man.”

  “For you” Kirk said with sudden certainty.

  “Once,” Omne answered, the black eyes clearing to the final depth again. “And now—for you.”

  “Not by this. I choose.”

  Omne shook his head. “Oh, no. You could bear to choose to cry, as you could choose to beg—for Spock, for your choice, for others. Not for yourself. There will be no choice here. You will cry—for yourself—like a child, like a woman, and not be able to stop, and know that you have broken.”

  “No,” Kirk said flatly-and then felt the unbidden amendment coming. “Not if I can help it.”

  Omne laughed. That is the point, Captain. There is the point beyond help or endurance. You will cry—and then you will beg. You will know the real right of the man
who can best you and master you.”

  “I’ll see you in Hell first,” Kirk said.

  The laugh rumbled again. “Captain, this is Hell.”

  And then Omne came for him, this time with the speed which could not be matched—and making it look lazy, relaxed, even—playful.

  Kirk dodged—and the black figure was already where he dodged.

  Omne cuffed him lazily, great bear cuffing troublesome cub.

  The blow caught only his shoulder, padded muscle which would take any ordinary blow. But he felt agony shoot through his body and he was slammed across the room, unable to catch himself. He slammed against the sharp metal corner of a cabinet, and it tore a gash across his back as he fell.

  He got up slowly and turned to face the man again, ready to go at it again with all the Star Fleet and gutter-fighting skills he could still muster, but he knew already that he had lost. It remained only to keep on taking it to the last.

  He caught a glimpse of horrified faces in the viewscreen, watching in helpless agony. But he had eyes only for Omne.

  See him in Hell.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Spock ducked blindly into an alcove, slammed his hands flatly into the wall, and fought for control. He could not follow this, could not permit himself to follow it, while he must act for Kirk’s life.

  He fought to close down the link to the mere thread of contact, not to this wild and ravening torrent of emotion.

  Kirk’s own emotion Spock might have borne—the doomed courage which could be read in the fine face. But the link was to the—other—the other Kirk. Spock’s—He hardly knew what to call him. James. He had started to make it James; he would have to make it James.

  ‘James!’ he called.

  But James was shouting at Omne through the viewscreen, finally unable to bear his helplessness to stop what it showed.

  He jerked to sudden awareness of the expansion of the link, an awareness Spock had retained the strength to shield him from since it happened.

  ‘Spock?’ he faltered, almost saying it aloud, closing his eyes against the viewscreen to focus on the inner call.

  ‘That’s right, James. Keep them closed. Help me to—withdraw. I must get to him.’

  ‘You’ve seen—?’

  ‘Through your eyes, your—feelings. From when Omne and the Commander came to you. The strong emotion triggered the link. It was not your fault. My apologies.’

  James was stricken. ‘Oh, God, Spock. You can’t have—How could you stand—?” He took a breath, with effort. “He’s—alive, Spock. Focus on that.’ The effort came through again. ‘Get to him. Where are you?”

  ‘On my way. There was no time for subtlety. I “clobbered” a guard…’

  The mind-touch dissolved into a ripple of quicksilver laughter—painfully, but the Human couldn’t resist it. He always loved it when his Vulcan broke form. “You appropriated the accoutrements,’ James divined, flashing the Vulcan a small, swift vision of Spock in black jeans, silk shirt, antique boots with spurs. Hat? No hat. No need to hide the ears this time. ‘Fascinating,’ James remarked in Spock’s manner, reaching for the trace of humor to steady himself, as Spock had wanted.

  ‘Utilitarian.’ Spock registered Vulcan approval for the steadiness. I have reached the maze, but must move carefully to maintain the guard’s character. There are too many other guards. The turbo-lifts are off, apparently for security. You must stay where you are, even when the door yields.’

  Spock felt the other’s refusal, the effort to mask it, not to argue. There was the sound of a blow ringing on flesh, and the impact registered in James’s flesh, and came through to Spock. Was it imagination? No. Some singular land of—resonance? Some species of link to the too-similar body, too well-matched mind? James had been feeling more and more as if he were with Kirk’s body from the first contact of the fight. Now James’s eyes snapped open to see Kirk reeling from the blow, and James came close to reeling, too. He fought for balance, fought the agony, finally fought his eyes closed again to block the sight.

  That is another reason why you must not try to move,’ Spock flashed sternly. ‘You must help me to tune down the link so that I can.’

  Once again James gave obedience—to that last order at least. He threw himself into the effort, not fully knowing how, but helping. He fought for emotional control, the Human’s own kind. It was hard, very hard for him. He fought for withdrawal. That was even harder. But he was trying. Making it. Making it perhaps better than his Vulcan. Slowly James was screening out the terror of the flesh as he had screened out the sight of the eyes.

  Spock focused on the need to move, denying the need to feel, to see, to know, to be—with. He was narrowing everything down to the central vision of a tunnel opening before him. Narrowing, with the effort of his life. Now, when it counted to be a Vulcan.

  At the edge of the narrowing, Spock felt hands shaking his shoulders—whose shoulders? Kirk’s? Which Kirk? James? A slim hand slapped a face, and it registered on Spock’s face, but he knew then that the Commander had slapped James.

  ‘“Captain!”’ The woman’s voice, as from a distance. “The door, Captain. Now. James T. Kirk! Jim! My—Kirk—”’ She slapped him harder.

  Spock pulled out as James Kirk opened his eyes and caught the Commander’s wrist. Spock must leave-James—to her now. There was no time—

  Spock found his eyes looking at a blank wall inches from his face. His mind was—yes—clear. Only a slender cable of a link remained.

  Then he felt a heavy hand impacting against his jaw, crushing flesh against bone, this time one fraction of force from snapping the neck. No, not Spock’s own neck—Kirk’s. Jim Kirk’s. Spock felt the shocking vulnerability of the Human—the power of the black giant against that more delicate flesh.

  And then Spock knew that he was going to feel it all, as James would—as—Jim—would. James could screen the sight out of the link, but not the singular resonance, growing stronger now with Kirk’s agony. It was beyond tuning out.

  A slap rocked Spock’s head again, but he set Vulcan muscles against it, stopping the movement down to a convulsive jerk. Yes, he would feel it, but he was a Vulcan. It was beyond his capacity to want to tune it out.

  But he could see now and he could move.

  He moved.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Commander took her Kirk’s face in her hands as if she could soothe his cheeks, which bore white imprints of hands. Had her hands done that? She had thought she had been gentle enough even for a Human. This Human.

  Where had he been?

  He was here now. Trembling, but here.

  The door,” she repeated, turning his face to it, away from the screen, averting her own eyes. There was work to do. “Jim—?” she said tentatively.

  “Call me—James,” he said distantly. And then brought his eyes into focus on her face. “I’m sorry. Let’s go.”

  She started to release him, but the cheeks tightened convulsively under her hands to the sound of a heavy blow. Every muscle in his body—She held him against it.

  She felt her eyes widening. She had seen him in glimpses while she worked on the door, seen his helpless rage turn to trancelike absorption, seen the faint movements of body language backing the other’s fight

  But he was feeling it in truth, in his own body.

  “Are you—able?” she said, shocked.

  He set himself with monumental effort, as if drawing on some strength he did not own. There was another slap and he reeled, but caught himself. “I’ll move. Let’s move!”

  “Behind me,” she said, leveling the nearly exhausted sidearm and impacting the heel of her boot solidly against the last of the lock to snap it.

  She followed the motion of the kick through into the candled room, prepared to fire but finding the candles guttering out in emptiness.

  So, the doubled or tripled guard would be out in the corridor. Count on Omne for that. He knew they would try to come.

  The last remnants of th
e weapon’s charge which she had saved might or might not get them through the first contingent—might get them no more than a dozen yards.

  She saw no chance, in fact, of reaching Kirk.

  But she could not tell this one that he could not try.

  “Crawling with guards,” the Human said quietly.

  She nodded.

  This door, she had noted, did not lock. It opened out, in fact, in the antique fashion which Omne maintained throughout much of the place.

  She turned the knob silently and burst out, feeling the door slam into hard flesh.

  She mowed the guards down without word or hesitation. The sidearm’s stun effect accounted for four before she cut it off, jammed it in the holster, and went for the two shaken ones behind the door with her feet and the edges of her hands.

  It was over before the man behind her could get past her and into the action. She bent and collected two of the ancient guns, jammed them in her belt, indicating one for him. “Useless until we reach him,” she said. “They make too much noise.”

  She saw him looking a little stunned, but she turned toward the turbo-lift.

  He caught her shoulder. “No turbo-lifts.”

  She raised an eyebrow. How would he know?

  “Spock,” he said. She nodded and turned him toward the emergency slide-poles and ladder tubes Omne had cheerfully pointed out to her on his guided tour. He had been proud of his miserable maze, confident that it could block any effort to break it. Letting her know that. And now—

  A dozen levels down and an unknown horizontal distance through unknown turnings. U-27-E-14.

  She kept her hand on the Human’s arm, feeling him fighting against turning his attention inward-winning, but losing at certain moments when he could not suppress the reaction of his body.

  She locked her hand into the stretchy velvet tunic and the wide hip-band as she stepped off before him to catch the slide-pole.

  For an instant his startled eyes said damn it, he could look out for himself. Then he countered the argument himself and caught the pole a little above her, letting his legs circle her thighs around the pole, and locking one arm around the pole, one around her, until she felt that she had a more secure hold than the thin material—but did not let it go. Was there another Human male in the galaxy who would not have delayed, defending his pride? She kicked her foot out of the stop-stirrup and let them slide.