Sondra Marshak: The Price of the Phoenix

“It would require a whole new theory,” Spock said with a heavy effort to focus on the fact.

“Yes,” Omne acknowledged. “After which the hardware was relatively easy—merely requiring some years of development. What is real can be recorded. It required only a new type of recorder, and a means of playing the recording back into combination with the basic biological matrix of a transporter scan.” He straightened and faced Spock gravely, for a moment without challenge or hostility, merely as if presenting the fruits of his work to a mind capable of understanding. “Every cell, every molecule. And now—every thought, every memory. Identity, Spock, indistinguishable identity. Immortality.”

“There would be a difference,” Spock whispered, not as a scientist.

“Illogical, Mr. Spock. A difference which makes no difference is no difference.” Omne moved, dismissing the moment of naked communication. “I do not speak of the philosophical problem, of course. A—replica—is a created object, and therefore property. My property, and it is for sale. Would you care to inspect the merchandise?”

The Commander was suddenly in front of Spock, her hands on his shoulders. “Spock, don’t! He is dead. You must think of him as dead. One step and you are lost.”

“Yes,” Spock said, to her or to Omne, and put her aside.

Omne smiled and bowed Spock toward a door.

Spock snapped to the discipline of logic. There was purpose again now. The door had to lead to the vast underground complex which his tricorder had detected on their first visit—detected but could not penetrate, any more than it could penetrate the outer shields or Omne’s whole compound with its huge gates, any more than the starship’s sensors or weapons could penetrate the shields of the whole planet.

They moved through the door into corridors of a size to stretch for miles, but turning at odd intervals. There was a turbo-lift, with guards following them in. The lift answered to Omne’s voice, giving a number code. Spock’s memory took the code in, compared it against numbers he had seen in the short stretches of corridors they had traversed. There was something very odd about the numbering system. He set his senses and the sub-thought level of his mind to calculate acceleration, time, and distance in the turbo-lift. The calculations were accurate, of course.

He did not expect them to do him any good.

A hundred levels—his calculator methodically computed size of the complex and the number of places to hide a captive. He did not bother to reduce it to a number of sufficient accuracy to irritate a Human.

He did not permit himself to hope that he would ever play that game again with a certain Human.

They stepped off the lift near a door.

Omne opened the door and bowed Spock through, unctuously. Spock had expected a laboratory. It took him a moment to recognize the ancient Earth ritual of candles, flowers, and lying in state.

A flame-pot, glowing coals, and a faint scent of incense: the Vulcan equivalent.

Omne was trying to play on his nerves, Spock recognized with cold clarity, and succeeding. But nothing could divert his attention from the slow rise and fall of breath in the broad chest, the flicker under the eyelids in the peaceful, dreaming face.

He moved to stand over the catafalque.

“Sleeping beauty,” Omne said. “You may perform the awakening—in the traditional manner, if you like.”

Spock shot him a savage look, but could not spare eyes for it for long.

He looked down and was stopped for a moment. He could not use the name. If he used the name he was certainly lost. He unlocked a hand from behind his back and closed long fingers on the bare, warm shoulder.

Surprise. And then a smile played on the still sleeping lips.

Then Spock saw the face relive the moment of astonishment, unbelief, belief. Veins stood out in ridges. The lips formed “Spock!” Stomach muscles knotted and flung the wide shoulders up into arms which caught them. The hazel eyes snapped open.

After a moment they focused! The waking voice whispered, “Spock?” The arms closed on Spock’s shoulders.

“Shh—” Spock said and held for a moment, then disentangled and eased the shoulders down, pulled up the fallen sheet. “Rest.”

“Rest?” The figure rolled up on an elbow, a sudden wry grin celebrating. But there was puzzlement around the eyes. “In peace—I thought. How—?” The keen eyes searched the room, took in the atmosphere, the two figures in the background, the pointed-eared Romulan guards. “Not a bad version of Hell.” The eyes looked back at Spock. “Or—Heaven.” A faintly mocking smile. “However, I take it, it is neither.”

“Both,” Spock said

“Exactly, Omne cut in. “Allow me to explain. I do not believe that Mr. Spock is able.” He moved to Spock’s side and looked down, meeting the challenging hazel eyes. “You, sir, presumably remember almost to the moment of death. You would not remember more if you were the real Kirk. You are, however, not Kirk. You are a replica. Kirk revisited.”

“In a pig’s eye!”

Spock sighed. It was a perfect imitation of McCoy’s inflection on a certain similar occasion. This—replica-was trying to tell him that he was Kirk. And in fact it was going to be almost impossible not to think of him as Kirk.

“Spock,” the familiar voice said. “You haven’t answered.”

“No,” Spock said.

“Then—you believe him? You saw me die?”

“I saw—the house fall,” Spock said precisely.

“Damn.” The voice was very soft. Spock saw the eyes trace out the progression which would have brought Spock here, the steps, the effort “I’m sorry, Spock.”

Spock nodded without denial, acknowledging the understanding.

“Don’t apologize,” Omne said, smiling down at the figure. “You are as innocent as any virgin. More than most. A grown man without sin.”

“Go to hell.” The voice still had that surprising mildness which it gained when the going was toughest. The eyes dismissed Omne and shifted to Spock. “Consider all the alternatives, Spock, but I can tell you—I’m here, Spock. Ask any question. Use the mind link. Whatever. I don’t know how he’s worked it, but I’m here. Mind, body, everything.”

“That is what he claims,” Spock said. “Perfection.”

“Precisely,” Omne said. “My replica would be Kirk and know it was Kirk. It would, however, still be my replica.”

Spock saw some purpose forming on Omne’s face, but could not read it. “Guards. Commander,” Omne called, and as the guards came up: “Position yourselves in back of Mr. Spock and on the other side of this one under the sheet. See that neither makes any sudden moves.” He turned to his right toward the foot of the bench where the Commander was now standing. “Commander, there is a question of identity-end—perfection. I believe you knew the late Captain?”

“I have known him to be ‘ late’ before,” she said.

Spock winced. He had always suspected that there would come a time when they would rue the day they had faked Kirk’s death before her eyes, as they had faked so many other things. There was no likelihood of forgiveness or sympathy.

The figure shifted as the man became aware of his position, trying to arrange it, becoming aware that the sheet was a shimmering thinness—at best, translucent; from certain angles, almost transparent He bowed his head faintly, putting his best face on the situation. “Commander, he said.”

She inclined her head gravely.

No answering name, no title, Spock noted. The unperson treatment. Even as he was doing. Even he.

Omne put his hands on his hips, resting them on the low gunbelt. “Now, my replica. I do not know how well the Commander knew your predecessor, although Captain Kirk was legend for being well known on short acquaintance. However, Commander Spock has certainly shared ship and shore leave for many years. Hardships, injuries, dangers, gym workouts. He must know the Captain very well. Every contour. Every scar. Every injury. There is a half-healed one on your leg. You will therefore stand up and display that identity and perfection.”