The Price of the Phoenix

CHAPTER VIII

Spock ducked blindly into an alcove, slammed his hands flatly into the wall, and fought for control. He could not follow this, could not permit himself to follow it, while he must act for Kirk’s life.

He fought to close down the link to the mere thread of contact, not to this wild and ravening torrent of emotion.

Kirk’s own emotion Spock might have borne—the doomed courage which could be read in the fine face. But the link was to the—other—the other Kirk. Spock’s—He hardly knew what to call him. James. He had started to make it James; he would have to make it James.

‘James!’ he called.

But James was shouting at Omne through the viewscreen, finally unable to bear his helplessness to stop what it showed.

He jerked to sudden awareness of the expansion of the link, an awareness Spock had retained the strength to shield him from since it happened.

‘Spock?’ he faltered, almost saying it aloud, closing his eyes against the viewscreen to focus on the inner call.

‘That’s right, James. Keep them closed. Help me to—withdraw. I must get to him.’

‘You’ve seen—?’

‘Through your eyes, your—feelings. From when Omne and the Commander came to you. The strong emotion triggered the link. It was not your fault. My apologies.’

James was stricken. ‘Oh, God, Spock. You can’t have—How could you stand—?” He took a breath, with effort. “He’s—alive, Spock. Focus on that.’ The effort came through again. ‘Get to him. Where are you?”

‘On my way. There was no time for subtlety. I “clobbered” a guard…’

The mind-touch dissolved into a ripple of quicksilver laughter—painfully, but the Human couldn’t resist it. He always loved it when his Vulcan broke form. “You appropriated the accoutrements,’ James divined, flashing the Vulcan a small, swift vision of Spock in black jeans, silk shirt, antique boots with spurs. Hat? No hat. No need to hide the ears this time. ‘Fascinating,’ James remarked in Spock’s manner, reaching for the trace of humor to steady himself, as Spock had wanted.

‘Utilitarian.’ Spock registered Vulcan approval for the steadiness. I have reached the maze, but must move carefully to maintain the guard’s character. There are too many other guards. The turbo-lifts are off, apparently for security. You must stay where you are, even when the door yields.’

Spock felt the other’s refusal, the effort to mask it, not to argue. There was the sound of a blow ringing on flesh, and the impact registered in James’s flesh, and came through to Spock. Was it imagination? No. Some singular land of—resonance? Some species of link to the too-similar body, too well-matched mind? James had been feeling more and more as if he were with Kirk’s body from the first contact of the fight. Now James’s eyes snapped open to see Kirk reeling from the blow, and James came close to reeling, too. He fought for balance, fought the agony, finally fought his eyes closed again to block the sight.

That is another reason why you must not try to move,’ Spock flashed sternly. ‘You must help me to tune down the link so that I can.’

Once again James gave obedience—to that last order at least. He threw himself into the effort, not fully knowing how, but helping. He fought for emotional control, the Human’s own kind. It was hard, very hard for him. He fought for withdrawal. That was even harder. But he was trying. Making it. Making it perhaps better than his Vulcan. Slowly James was screening out the terror of the flesh as he had screened out the sight of the eyes.

Spock focused on the need to move, denying the need to feel, to see, to know, to be—with. He was narrowing everything down to the central vision of a tunnel opening before him. Narrowing, with the effort of his life. Now, when it counted to be a Vulcan.

At the edge of the narrowing, Spock felt hands shaking his shoulders—whose shoulders? Kirk’s? Which Kirk? James? A slim hand slapped a face, and it registered on Spock’s face, but he knew then that the Commander had slapped James.

‘“Captain!”’ The woman’s voice, as from a distance. “The door, Captain. Now. James T. Kirk! Jim! My—Kirk—”’ She slapped him harder.

Spock pulled out as James Kirk opened his eyes and caught the Commander’s wrist. Spock must leave-James—to her now. There was no time—

Spock found his eyes looking at a blank wall inches from his face. His mind was—yes—clear. Only a slender cable of a link remained.

Then he felt a heavy hand impacting against his jaw, crushing flesh against bone, this time one fraction of force from snapping the neck. No, not Spock’s own neck—Kirk’s. Jim Kirk’s. Spock felt the shocking vulnerability of the Human—the power of the black giant against that more delicate flesh.

And then Spock knew that he was going to feel it all, as James would—as—Jim—would. James could screen the sight out of the link, but not the singular resonance, growing stronger now with Kirk’s agony. It was beyond tuning out.

A slap rocked Spock’s head again, but he set Vulcan muscles against it, stopping the movement down to a convulsive jerk. Yes, he would feel it, but he was a Vulcan. It was beyond his capacity to want to tune it out.

But he could see now and he could move.

He moved.