The Price of the Phoenix

CHAPTER IV

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.”

“Don’t be absurd!” the man snapped. His face had been slowly coloring.

“You are property, replica,” Omne said. “Move!”

The figure remained carved in stone. “Even if I were a creation, I belong to no man. Spock doubts me. Therefore I am prepared to consider the possibility that James Kirk died. I know, equally, that I am James Kirk—whatever my origins. And I know that I am a man, and a mind. A mind cannot be owned, and a man will not be, must not be. You may be able to kill me, perhaps even to keep me, but you will never own me.

“I own you now! Omne’s gloved hand blurred with the speed with which it would reach for a gun, and stripped the sheet away.

Spock’s hand closed on Omne’s offending wrist, and he learned that it was not Human when it did not break. For a moment he locked with a strength to match his own, perhaps more than match. Then too many Romulan arms locked around his shoulders from behind.

And one vulnerable Human was coming off the bench with fire in his eyes, undeterred by extraneous and unpreventable problems.

“No, Jim!” Spock ordered.

And was obeyed.

The Romulan arms locked around Spock were a kind of needed support. Vulcan eyes locked with Human, and the Human’s were very bright and full. It had always been a part of what they were, Spock thought, that his Captain would know the moment to obey.

“This is my Captain,” Spock said. “I require no inspection.”

“But I require it,” Omne answered.

Kirk’s eyes never left Spock, acknowledged no other presence. “And I require it,” he said. “Your faith was what I wanted. It is your certainty I need—and my own. Use the mind-touch, Spock.”

Spock bowed his head, knowing also how to obey.

“By all means, Mr. Spock,” Omne agreed. “Feel free to verify the—fidelity of the reproduction.”

The guards eased their holds and Spock straightened.

“It requires privacy,” he said.

“It does not, Mr. Spock,” Omne said. “I am a student of matters Vulcan, as you will learn.” He turned and smiled at the woman. “So much, again, for the legend that Vulcans cannot lee, my dear. But you knew that, of course.”

“Mr. Spock is fond of unspoken truths,” she said. “This one is that he requires privacy, most urgently, for his friend.”

“He is in no position to require it,” Omne said. “But tell me, my dear, what think you of the reproduction?”

“Quite perfect,” she said archly. “The original, to the life.”

Spock felt an eyebrow rising and subdued it She was not above needling him. There had, of course, been that long trip to drop her off when she was their captive—and their guest. He had thought she had spent it absorbing Human cultures. She would not see Spock, but…

Kirk’s face was unreadable, for once.

And Spock prided himself that his own was inscrutably Vulcan.

Then it came home to him what a change there had been in her attitude—and his own.

The almost metaphysical horror was gone. This Kirk was real.

The horror returned to Spock with sickening force. This same Kirk—his Kirk—had been killed! This living body was dead on the Enterprise.

And yet it was still impossible not to take this Kirk as real, not to take him as a blessing. Could this, indeed, be the defeat of death—even if it were born of murder?

Spock moved forward and flexed his hands, hastening and delaying the moment of the mind-touch. What if he found—imperfection? A less-than-complete copy? There was still so much. What if he found even-fraud? That biological android? Some life-form which could mimic, to the life? Would even that still be-enough?

And what if he found the real Kirk?

Too much?

For the first time in his life, Spock declared a plague on all philosophical questions.

He took Kirk’s face in his hands, not asking this time a permission which had always been granted.

His fingers found the stylized position of the mind-touch and he cleared his own mind of the vision of the flames. He could do it now. He swept mind and body clean of the horror that must not be in the touch.

And he saw the same land of clearing in Kirk’s face, the steadying down to quiet control, the fine courage of the willingness to open.

“How touching,” Omne drawled.

Spock felt murder knot in his shoulders again. He did not let it reach his hands.

And then Kirk’s hands reached to ease the shoulders and to draw him surprisingly close. “We are alone, Mr. Spock,” he said. “Quite alone. Do you understand?”

Indeed, Captain. Quite alone.” And he made it true.

The mind-touch was a lowering of personal barriers. If it did not require privacy, it nonetheless cried for it.

Spock slipped in easily at the level of warmth. He had been here before. It knew how to accept him.

Spock fought to keep the touch narrow, to move quickly up to the cooler level of consciousness. ‘Jim?’

‘My God, yes! It is yes?” Spock heard the soft mind-laughter. Hell, yes! Spock?”

“Yes. Indeed, yes!’

Laughter again, rippling like quicksilver. “Where is my logical Vulcan?’

‘Here.’

Sudden catching of breath, “Even if—it’s not—me, Spock?

‘It is you, all of you, irrespective of anything which has happened. That is my certainty, and your own.’

A shudder, caught and held to stillness. Then—it has happened?” Steadiness, open steadiness.

Impossible to lie to that.

‘I—see no other possibility, but I do not rule one out.’

Deep breath. That’s it, then.’ Spock felt the Human’s shock, felt sadness like soft music, anger like flaring fire. His hands felt the fine face steady itself, the head lift. ‘It will be hardest for you, Spock. Don’t feel—you must force it to be—the same. Its only that I—can’t feel—any different.’

‘“A difference which makes no difference is no difference.”’

Spock felt a small, startled ripple in the quicksilver. And a large jolt of gratitude in the stomach muscles. Felt something trying to burst the heart “Logician’s paradox, Spock? A Vulcanism?’

‘Also a Terranism. And—a truth. You have another. “And the gates of Hell shall not prevail against us.”’

Perhaps the Human’s heart did burst then. The answer was not at the level of words. There were words running suddenly along below the level of mind-speech, ancient words, intoning, but the Human thought that he could not say them. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil… for thou art with me… There was a bracing of the wide shoulders and a ripple of quicksilver. ‘Gates of Hell’, Spock. ‘We’ve broken out of worse places.’

It was for Spock to draw breath now, and he felt as if he had forgotten how for a long time. He drew his consciousness back, reaching for the calculation of necessity which had been proceeding at the sub-thought level. Yes, the logic was clear and must be faced, whatever the cost.

‘Jim? ‘ he called, ‘James.’ It was a name he never used.

Kirk’s head lifted. “Yes?

‘I am going to—mark—you now. It will be—my way back to you, for I think that he will keep you from me.’

‘Keep—me?” Cheeks moving to swallow. Jaw firming. ‘Mark me, Spock? ‘

In the mind. Not to be seen, or counterfeited.’

Puzzled reaching. Sudden jolt “You think he could make more—copies?”

‘A—possibility.’

My God!’

Ragged breath. Brow furrowed in thought. Thought racing through consciousness and beyond it, lightning fast and adding to a sum. ‘Spock, you have to leave me. He can hold me over your head—forever. He can—kill me before your eyes—and bring me back.’

“Yes. We must assume so.’

“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.