Sondra Marshak: The Price of the Phoenix

Spock shrugged. “That effort does not depend upon me. My father—and Vulcan—will not be impressed by anything I do under duress.”

“Ah, but you will not appear to be under duress. Therefore, the necessity of giving you a plausible reason to appear to recognize the error or the Federation—and of your friend—in his very death. More in sorrow than in anger, you will denounce him—and the galaxy rallies to the cause of the great, brooding figure from Vulcan. That is your script.”

Spock felt his jaw hardening and a gulf opening in front of him. The man had an understanding of what would work. And an unlimited evil. Poker, Spock told himself. “There is a flaw in your theory,” he said. “By that script you could not intend to let Kirk leave with me alive. Therefore I would not do it.”

“Second point of convergence, Spock,” Omne said, looking again at the Commander. The Commander-wants you.” He shrugged and spoke to her. That’s your business, my dear. But as you go, so goes the Romulan Empire. My script for Spock will benefit you, too, by bringing my alliance to life, and you will commit the Empire to defend it. That combination will free you of the trap of the Romulan Neutral Zone and make you strong enough to challenge the Federation. You get your brooding Vulcan—and the bonus of a slightly disguised friend whom you can hide in the vastness of the Empire.”

“The flaw in that theory,” she answered smoothly, “is that you need the Empire far worse than I need you.”

“The flaw in that” Omne said, “is that I have the price of the priceless Spock.”

She shrugged. “Mr. Spock is not my price or he could have bought me long ago. I am the buyer.”

Omne spread his hands. “Perhaps he was not for sale at your price.”

Her shoulders stiffened, but she smiled at Omne. “I will make you a counteroffer: immediate support of the Empire, which should breathe life into your alliance without benefit of the Spock script. And all I want is—a certain reproduction. The print and the negative. The matrix.”

Omne laughed. “All? That would give you Mr. Spock’s price. And—the priceless. That would very likely give you enough information to figure out the process, and the process could buy the galaxy.”

The Commander nodded. “That thought has occurred.”

“Very astute, my dear.” Omne leaned back, gripping the back of the chair, flexing the muscled arms which the thin black silk sleeves of the jumpsuit displayed to advantage. “Perhaps more than I had thought. What would you like to be? Empress of the Empire and Commander in Chief? With Spock as Prince Consort and Kirk as an attendant lord? You could do it with my process. There is no Empire, no Federation, no planet, no starship, which does not have a key man with a wife, a child, a friend. Of course, I have no intention of releasing the process. However, I might use it for you on occasion. I fear you are a trifle squeamish, my dear.”

“If I wish murder done,” she said, “I will do it myself. You understand that while you have the process, you cannot be allowed to live?”

Omne laughed. “The lady raises the bet.” He shook his head. “No, my dear. You don’t have the chips or the cards for this game. I cannot be threatened. The man without love gives no hostages to fortune. While my shields hold, your three ships are as powerless as Spock’s Enterprise. If I cannot deal with you, I can deal with the Empire—eventually. And if not, I do not truly need the Empire. It would merely be a convenience at the moment. The Federation is the great, unbalanced power to which I must pose a counterweight—for the freedom of the galaxy.

“Do not pose as a champion of freedom,” Spock said flatly, gesturing toward the screen, the underground, Kirk. “You buy and sell—slavery.”

Omne shrugged. “There is the political, Spock, and the personal. You are apt to believe, as the day reveals its surprises, that my purpose is merely personal, merely malevolent. I caution you against that. No man of importance is merely a villain, and none can act without some belief in the worth of his cause.” He smiled. “Even an outlaw is entitled to a hell-busted ideal or two.”

“A murderer is not,” Spock said, losing the sense of the playing of poker. Jim had taught him to play, and Jim was—dead.

Omne shrugged. “I am at war, Spock. I have made no separate peace. The galaxy is being taken over by super-empires, including yours—especially yours, with its noble pretensions and even noble aspirations. Nothing is more dangerous than nobility. Your Kirk has been the noblest and deadliest peacemaker in the galaxy. If he were allowed to go on, there would soon be one wall-to-wall empire, sickeningly sweet and subtly oppressive. In conflict there is room for enclaves of freedom.”

“Where you can keep a slave?” Spock said implacably.

Omne spread his hands. “There is also the personal, the elemental. Domination is the natural instinct of man, Spock, born of the jungle. We are all wolves here.”

“One of us is,” Spock said, looking at Omne. He let the fire flare in his own eyes. “Two.”

Omne smiled a curious smile—rather like the smile of a wolf. “Three,” he said, “even the she-wolf.”

“You have no political purpose,” Spock said, “only the malevolence of the wolf.”

“There you are wrong, Spock,” Omne said soberly.

“However, it is also true that I have a personal stake in seeing your own performance.”

“What stake?” Spock said.

Omne laughed. “When I buy the man without price, I wish to see whether you have the honor to stay bought, Vulcan.”

Spock shrugged. “What else?”

Omne looked at him very solemnly. “Call it-enduring purpose, Mr. Spock The lie you speak will be a truth a certain man learned decades ago when he watched love die.” The black eyes looked through Spock into some distance, then snapped back with a glint as cold as space. “Or say that I cannot stand to see a man who dares to love even in the face of death—even when he gives such a hostage to fortune.”

Omne’s gloved hands suddenly shoved the stacks of golden chips into a heap in the center of the table and clenched into fists in the heap. ‘The best either of you can do is call. Spock! Your word on your script. Commander: the alliance and refuge for two fugitives. If Mr. Spock’s performance lacks luster, I will give you a slightly used copy—when I have finished with it.”

Spock knew that he kept the muscles along his jaw from jumping. “I will not accept damaged merchandise,” he said, “and I advise you not to believe that I cannot threaten you.”

Omne inclined his head. “If there is a man alive who could, Mr. Spock, you are the man. But I hold the high card. Do you call?”

“I call,” Spock said.

“Commander?”

“I am in,” she said.

Omne dismounted from the chair and stood up, took his untouched liquor glass, and raised it in salute as the Commander and Spock stood up. “Spock, the delegates meet in two hours to discuss the implications of the shocking event of this morning. It should give you time to compose a suitably convincing script along the lines sketched. It must convince me. I need hardly say that the hostage answers for your behavior with his person. Commander, a word with you as my new ally—and I believe that we should see to the comfort of the merchandise.” He lifted the glass. “To business—the buying and the selling.” He drained the liquor in one smooth sweep, but the black eyes remained cold and unblinking. “Guards, escort Mr. Spock out”

The Commander had watched the Vulcan out, and known how close he had come to making his stand there across the gold-heaped table—with the lone six-shooter against Omne and a dozen guards.