Sondra Marshak: The Price of the Phoenix

“You have to take the ship and go.’

“Not possible.’

‘It has to be possible. Otherwise, he can buy you.’

‘He can.’

Deep breath. “No, Spock! I won’t have it. Jim Kirk is dead. Go and bury your dead. That’s an order, Mr. Spock.’

‘A dead man is in a poor position to give orders.’

‘Don’t chop logic with me, Spock. You said—no difference.’

‘None. But your logic is not in the best order, Captain. And you are—temporarily—not in a position to command. Has it escaped you that if he can buy me, he can also sell you—all over the galaxy?”

Stunned silence. The old oaths, suppressed below the level of the mind-voice.

‘You see, I cannot leave you here—alive.’

‘I see.’ Breath. Then you have to leave me here dead. Now.’

‘No.’

‘Spock—’

‘You are not to think of yourself as expendable. Would I kill Jim Kirk? You are he, no less. No difference. You have been a captive before.’

‘I will not be—your price.’

‘You have been that before, too. ‘

Spock felt the stunned silence in the other’s body. Then the Human sighed deeply. ‘All right, Spock.’

Spock found himself wanting to retreat behind the wall of Vulcan restraint, but he did not. ‘You are exceptionally obedient for once, Captain. I approve.’

The ripple of quicksilver responded to the Vulcan’s effort at lightness, as he had intended. “Yes, Captain Spock, sir.’

That is better. We may not have much time. You will kindly endeavor to apply logic to the problem—’

‘Spock,’ the quick mind cut in, sobering. “You said-mark me. How? Wouldn’t that duplicate, too?”

“No. I would attempt—a special kind of mind-link. It would lead me to you. This underground is a labyrinth, designed as such. You can be moved, hidden in the maze. That link is our only chance. If you—died, I would feel it—go. If he—copied you, I would feel-something. A difference.’

“What are you waiting for? “

“It requires your permission.”

Well?

‘With—knowledge. There is a danger. I am primarily a touch-telepath. This link would have to be deep, directional, binding at a distance. It has never been attempted for such purpose. I would—take care. But you would still find the depth disturbing.’

There was a tap on Spock’s shoulder.

Kirk felt the tap, too. Do it, Spock. Now!’

Spock shifted his grip on Kirk’s face. There was no precedent for this, no words which could be used. Only the necessity of reaching deep, quickly, deeper than ever, a swift agony of barriers to be broken, reaching through to layers and levels and hidden places which wanted and did not want to be touched, gathering up gossamer strands of the link into a slender, indissoluble thread.

The Human gasped and sagged against the Vulcan. A moment of rebellion, no, not to be so close, so open, no. The rebellion put down. Necessity. Then, finally, being able to bear it, to reach for it, to reach back. Yes.

A gloved hand ripped Kirk’s hand off Spock’s shoulder.

Words, after all. Quickly now. ‘Gates of Hell, James.’

Breath. Weak ripple of quicksilver. Solemn sunlight glinting off silver waves. ‘Shall not prevail… Worse places, Spock.’

Omne was pulling Spock away, flinging Kirk toward the bench. The Human turned and caught himself against it, sagging, fighting now also against the pain of the sudden tearing out of the upper levels of the link.

Spock set his teeth and fought also—with that, with Omne, with himself not to try to kill Omne now. There would be no chance against all of the guards. Worse, there could be no way to keep the Human out of it—against the Vulcanoid muscles and bones of the Romulan guards. And against—this Omne. Of Vulcanoid strength, at least, although he looked Human. But there was nothing Human in the giant’s weight, strength, speed—and the size—outreaching Spock in every dimension. Omne. What was he?

Spock strained against the giant, carefully, gauging strength against the time when it would be in earnest, leashing the blind desire to kill, until Romulan guards caught and pinned him, and he stood quiet.

Kirk was regaining his composure, pulling himself up.

Omne smoothed down his jumpsuit with an unruffled look and smiled savagely. He waved the guards off Spock and turned to him challengingly, hooking a thumb at Kirk.

“Well?” the big man demanded.

Spock made a pose of having difficulty remembering the question. In fact, it was not entirely a pose. And there was the question of the answer. One must take exactly the right line with Omne. “Oh,” Spock said finally, “the—fidelity of the reproduction is excellent.” He took a breath. May I ask the price?”

Omne grinned with a certain appreciation. “The usual,” he said. “Your soul. Your honor. Your home. Your flag.”

“Done,” Spock said. “Wrap him up and I’ll take him with me.”

Omne rumbled. He roared. He threw back his head and wiped his eyes. “I do like your style, Mr. Spock!”

“Spock!” the Romulan Commander said.

“Never mind, my dear. I’m sure Mr. Spock understands that it isn’t quite that easy.” Omne looked at Kirk. “We shall have him around for a time yet. We—deliver, Mr. Spock. See that you do the same. “

Spock bowed faintly.

Kirk straightened and turned, putting on his best Kirkian manner like a suit of armor. “See that you do nothing of the sort, Mr. Spock. That’s an order.”

“I shall give it due consideration, Captain.”

“Mr. Spock,” Omne said, “I will buy you a drink while we work out the details.”

The details will suffice without the drink,” Spock said mildly.

Omne looked at him rather grimly, but finally decided to grin. “Very well, Mr. Spock, we won’t haggle. Everybody out! Captain, you will find somewhat more comfortable quarters through that door, but no exit. My compliments on your fidelity. And your First Officer”

“My compliments—to him,” Kirk said.

They left him still standing naked amid candles and flowers. But Spock felt a slender bond stretching between them like a strand of steel and gold.

Omne started to seat the Commander at the green baize-covered poker table near the bar. She froze him out quietly with her soldier’s manner and sat down as though she were dealing herself into the game.

Spock gave her a small salute with an eyebrow, suspecting that she did not like Omne’s “my dear” approach any more than she had liked the faint trace of it in Kirk’s manner years ago.

There might be some use in that, if Spock could determine what game she was playing.

Spock sat down, watching Omne turn a chair to straddle it and reach out to pour a drink, pass one to the Romulan Commander, riffle a stack of chips which were ancient American double-eagles. Spock was becoming insufferably tired of the man, his macho mannerisms, his toys. That was danger, Spock recognized. The man used all of that, for that very purpose.

But Spock had learned poker from Jim Kirk. He betrayed no impatience, made Omne speak first.

I see,” Omne said. “Very well, Mr. Spock, we understand that you have not, after all, conceded so easily. We have merely established the value of the stakes, have we not? A no-limit game.”

“No limit,” Spock said. “State your details.”

“Quite simple. Have you wondered why this was aimed at you?”

“The thought has occurred.”

“A convergence, Mr. Spock On you. As Vulcan goes, so goes the galaxy. As you go, so goes Vulcan. I have become aware of the importance of your family there and the effort of your father and yourself to keep Vulcan from breaking with the Federation over the matter of Human interference with alien customs.”