The Price of the Phoenix

CHAPTER XVI

The Commander ducked in through the door with the Human, steadying him on his feet and stepping back to put her back against the door.

A quick sweep of his eyes determined that there was no other door in the small office, as she had remembered from their searches. Then his eyes met hers and said that he would go through her, one way or another.

When low, urgent words had not worked as she carried him out and down the corridor, he had tried plain effort. He could not quite bring himself to hit her, but he had arched and twisted and strained, skillfully, with all his muscle and quickness.

He could not believe hers.

And then he had hit her. A double chop to the shoulder nerves.

That was not to be taken lightly. He was powerful for a Human. But she had not let it loosen her grip.

But she had been holding him too tightly, hurting him too much. And if guards had stumbled across them…

“I cannot move you through the corridors like this,” she said.

“No,” he answered. “Commander, you know that we have to get back to Spock. It’s not true. I won’t throw my life away—and we can’t let him do it. Please. It’s Spock.”

“It is—Spock—for me, too,” she said heavily, feeling that fact pounding in every nerve. It was Spock—and he had no real chance at all without her. He was covering their retreat with his life, whatever he said, and their retreat was not possible unless this one yielded. Even if she knocked him out, not even her strength was equal to forty-odd floors of ladder tubes under his weight.

“I know it is Spock to you, too,” he said softly. “Don’t you see, we can’t leave him. You can’t take me and leave him. Double or nothing. He said it himself.”

She nodded. “But he gave me—a trust.”

But he said, “I’ll be careful. My word on it.”

Somewhere she found a smile. “I would take your word—for anything else.”

He found the grace to grin, but his eyes crackled with anger and burned with desperation. “Damn it, I am not fragile. I’m a Starship Captain. I’ve fought the Gorn. I’ve fought Spock. I’ve fought Omne.”

She nodded. “And you lost.”

She saw him swallow, and knew that his body still burned with the memory of that loss.

“So, I lost,” he said firmly. “There would be three of us now. But if I lost again, that would still be better than leaving Spock.”

“Not for Spock. And not for me.”

His brows furrowed, half following the thought, half dismissing the notion that he could mean more to her than Spock. He caught his lip between his teeth. “Then you go. Leave me. Lock me in if you don’t trust me. But go to him now.”

She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, in silent token of how much that must have cost him. This one—first among men wherever he roamed—to let her do his fighting for him? There was depth beyond depth to this one. It might even give him some slim chance to survive when—”Not even that,” she said, shaking her head regretfully. “Locks might not hold you—or might hold you too well. Guards could find you. Omne would find you if I lost with Spock. Spock would not forgive me. Nor I, myself. Spock has made his choice.” She drew a deep breath and put her other hand lightly on his other shoulder. “And—I have made mine, James.”

He took her face in his hands, promising the fullness of the kind of choice he could make, too. Then—for me. Please.”

He could melt stone, she thought, looking into the expressive face. Melt stone hearts. Vulcan. Romulan. The galaxy could not stand against him. How many hearts had he melted, how many faces warmed with those gentle, demanding hands? And yet she would have his innocence, this one who knew—and had never been touched. She would have him, if she let him have his way now. And if not, she could lose him forever. But she would lose him forever if she melted now.

“No,” she said, not trusting herself to say more.

He backed away, disengaging his hands and hers. “Then listen. If you do not go, I will not move from this spot. If you carry me, you will never get me away. I guarantee I will fight you and slow you and try to break free, until we go for Spock—or Omne finds us. And when he does, I will renew my offer, for Kirk. You will never have me. But if you should, by some thousandth chance, get me away, you will still never have me if Spock dies. Unless you care to keep me as a captive.”

“I would,” she heard herself saying, and saw it jolt him. She lifted her chin. “I will. I am. Impasse, Captain.” She threw back her shoulders in the stance of the Fleet Commander. Two can play at that game.”

His eyes suddenly believed her, and they were very close to tears, burning with rage and sheer frustration, one breath away from drowning in grief. “It is no game to me, and I am not playing.

“I know,” she said. “Nor I.”

He stood silent and she saw him struggling for thought against the impulse to take her by the throat. “Very well,” he said in the voice of the Starship Captain. “What I said goes. But I don’t play alpha games with lives, or—fight in a burning house. Someone must always command. Command, Commander. Find something useful to do, for both of us.”

She found herself breaking into a smile. “You’ll do, James,” she said, nodding. “I wonder if Jim could do as well? Let’s go.”

He did not even say, “Where?” He followed her through the door.

Kirk thrashed in nightmare, knew it was nightmare, would not permit himself to dream it.

He twisted and rolled up, clawing his way to his knees, two nightmares mingling. Omne—No, that was the old nightmare. Reach for the new one, the quiet, bitter one. The one with the knowledge that Spock was dying at Omne’s hands-Kirk snapped his eyes open with a convulsion of his whole body.

He was in the study. No, some other room. Darker. There was some flicker of light. The surface under him was a broad leather bench.

The second nightmare—where had it come from? It seemed to be with him still, and he couldn’t shake it. He pried himself up and leaned his hands on his thighs. A natural enough fear, he supposed. Spock and Omne. Yet Spock could not be in here. But it had seemed so vivid, not a fear but a fact. Leaden, in the pit of his stomach. Burning in his scalded thighs and raw hands. What?

He snatched his hands up to examine them, put them down to touch the insides of his thighs, the aching ankle-No. That was not the pain of his own body. There was no pain in his own body. Well, damn little, considering. And yet the pain was there. And the grief in his mind. How-Did it matter?

Spock—

He dragged himself off the bench, fighting unutterable weariness but calling on some last reserve. Get moving. Find out. He saw that the flicker of light was from a Dank of monitor screens. Good.

He tottered a little but did not sag—until his eyes froze on the two figures in black, locked in primordial combat Omne and—dear God—Spock.