loop of the holster, tossed the bolstered gun carelessly aside to a couch—stressing no need to use it, no need to fear that it could be used against its owner.
Omne doubled the black strap and cracked the doubled end into a gloved palm with a sound like the snap of doom.
So that was how it would begin, Kirk thought, feeling the dryness in his throat and refusing to swallow.
But Omne smiled, the smile reaching the black eyes, underlining all of the possibilities. Then he tossed the belt after the gun. “No,” he said. “That does not belong to the jungle.” He began to strip off the black gloves. “Nothing which does not will touch you, and you will wish that it had been that simple. He tossed the gloves after the belt, flexing the massive, muscled, long-fingered hands. “Have you ever cried, Captain, since you were a child?”
No,” Kirk said, somehow wanting this man to know it. When Edith died, Miramanee—no, worse than cried, possibly, but no. Other times—No.
Omne nodded. “Men don’t cry, Captain. Curious how widespread the necessity of that lesson is.”
“Necessity? Or error?”
“Both,” Omne said. “The alpha male must protect, defend, cannot afford to cry. The jungle knows, but we must learn. We must choose when we choose the hard path. It is harder for us because we can cry.”
Even Vulcans can, Kirk thought. And why not? But was that it? Was it the alpha choice? Was that why he never had, never could? “Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud. “We choose what we choose.”
The choice can be broken,” Omne said, “for—any man.”
“For you” Kirk said with sudden certainty.
“Once,” Omne answered, the black eyes clearing to the final depth again. “And now—for you.”
“Not by this. I choose.”
Omne shook his head. “Oh, no. You could bear to choose to cry, as you could choose to beg—for Spock, for your choice, for others. Not for yourself. There will be no choice here. You will cry—for yourself—like a child, like a woman, and not be able to stop, and know that you have broken.”
“No,” Kirk said flatly-and then felt the unbidden amendment coming. “Not if I can help it.”
Omne laughed. That is the point, Captain. There is the point beyond help or endurance. You will cry—and then you will beg. You will know the real right of the man who can best you and master you.”
“I’ll see you in Hell first,” Kirk said.
The laugh rumbled again. “Captain, this is Hell.”
And then Omne came for him, this time with the speed which could not be matched—and making it look lazy, relaxed, even—playful.
Kirk dodged—and the black figure was already where he dodged.
Omne cuffed him lazily, great bear cuffing troublesome cub.
The blow caught only his shoulder, padded muscle which would take any ordinary blow. But he felt agony shoot through his body and he was slammed across the room, unable to catch himself. He slammed against the sharp metal corner of a cabinet, and it tore a gash across his back as he fell.
He got up slowly and turned to face the man again, ready to go at it again with all the Star Fleet and gutter- fighting skills he could still muster, but he knew already that he had lost. It remained only to keep on taking it to the last.
He caught a glimpse of horrified faces in the viewscreen, watching in helpless agony. But he had eyes only for Omne.
See him in Hell.
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-
