Sondra Marshak: The Price of the Phoenix

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.

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.’