James straightened his own shoulders and looked into the eyes which matched his. “Those are mine. They make the choice possible—not only because it is necessary. Jim—will you take my word?”
Somewhere the matching face found the same smile. “Always, James.”
James turned to the woman beside him. “Commander, will you?”
She lifted her head. “Always, James.”
He reached up to touch her face, brush her hair back from the swift, lifting ear. “That should be-almost—long enough,” he murmured.
Through his fingers he almost thought that he could feel the fire of her mind, and he knew that he could see it in her eyes. “Why don’t I know your name?” he said. She would know the one he meant, the private one which Spock had said once still meant “dawn of springtime” in the ancient tongue their peoples had once snared.
“You will,” she said, and her eyes promised that he would know much more.
He nodded and turned to the others: Spock—well, there was nothing which could be said to Spock, and nothing which needed to be; Jim—it had been said; McCoy, doing his best not to hover anxiously, and failing.
James grinned. “Take your time with the ear job this time, Bones—” he jerked his head toward the Commander and Spock,—or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“We never will anyway,” McCoy grumbled, rallying. But his hand seemed to be shaking and he steadied it on James’s shoulder. “There’s no pleasing anybody around here.” He reached to touch Jim, too. “Thank God,” he said.
And he seemed to have gotten the last word again.
But as they moved to go out, James heard Jim say softly, “Stay a moment, Spock.”
The Vulcan turned back, and James felt a moment of hollowness which was more than just the medication creeping up on him. But it would be the first moment Jim had had to be alone with the Vulcan, It was Jim’s right, their right. They looked natural together, as if they were about to settle down to a command problem.
James made himself walk through the door, and in a moment McCoy had him in a small treatment room and had slapped him with another hypo. He tried not to eavesdrop through the link, but he was aware of Jim’s saying something about checking on the message from the delegate commission, which James doubted was what he wanted to say at all.
James found the Commander holding his hand, and his vision was dimming. “I’m in your hands,” he murmured a little ruefully.
“Yes,” she said with satisfaction.
But as he dropped off, his mind was not entirely with her; it kept drifting off along the link, and he almost thought that he felt another mind entering—Jim? But that had to be an illusion. Still, it would have been Jim’s right… He couldn’t quite feel Jim’s body anymore—the drug was soothing, dimming Jim’s pain.
James drifted off… difference, when he woke there would be even a different face…
CHAPTER XXII
When he woke, there was—and James wasn’t quite used to it when he went to Jim.
Quite? Would he ever get used to it?
He would, he told himself firmly. The Commander had held a mirror for him, as firmly, and briefed him on how it had been done. She and Spock and Bones—quite a team; she had risen through the ranks as a science officer, too, it turned out. He almost hadn’t followed her explanation: it was more than he had bargained for. Not only the ears, the eyebrows, a subtly different face—so subtly that he couldn’t entirely pin down the difference. Still his face, but changed by one or two crucial millimeters. And they had found answers to questions he hadn’t dared to raise. An injection transplant of bone marrow cells quick-cloned from Spock; they had determined somehow that the Human factors in Spock’s blood were compatible with his own, and the Vulcan ones were sufficiently different not to give him the collywobbles or anything—he hoped. She hadn’t said collywobbles. She’d said his immunity had been shocked into adapting to the Vulcan elements. And the bone marrow cells would produce enough Vulcan blood cells with their strong pigmentation factors so that he would bleed green. A little off-green, possibly, since it still had to be mostly his blood, and it wouldn’t stand medical examination, but it wouldn’t give him away at the first scratch or blush.
Then, a subcutaneous injection of Vulcanoid skin pigmentation-producing cells, also cloned from Spock. And spray-injected all over. But maybe he wouldn’t sunburn now.
Hair—a more normal cosmetic process, self-renewing color from the roots out. But they hadn’t tried to go dark—more a copper gold color. There were fair Romulans. She said they were “highly prized.”
He didn’t like the sound of it
He didn’t ask.
He put the thought aside.
It remained to show Jim—the difference.
James moved through the door.
Jim wasn’t sleeping—hadn’t slept at all, Bones had complained—and of course he could feel now that James was coming, as James could feel that he wasn’t sleeping.
But his eyes were closed and he looked drawn; pain still reverberated in the resonance, and it wasn’t James’s pain.
Jim had put Omne’s big black robe on over his uniform. Was he having a chill? But James couldn’t feel it.
What he could feel was a kind of waking nightmare, and he knew which one.
Jim didn’t turn it off as James crossed to the diagnostic bed, didn’t open his eyes—then did both deliberately, looking at the new face.
James put a hand over Jim’s eyes, closing them gently. “Don’t look at me just yet. Get used to the idea. Finish with the—dream.
I’m finished with it,” Jim said flatly.
“I doubt that either one of us is going to be finished with that for a long time,” James said. He softened his voice. “Don’t go Vulcan on me now. Haven’t we both been deviling a certain Vulcan about admitting to his emotions? And now we both have to admit that we can cry. Hell of a universe sometimes, isn’t it?”
Jim laughed in the way that had always been a substitute for crying, and would still do. “Seems to be the only one we’ve got.” He took a breath. “Let me look at you, James.”
James took his hand away. He grinned fractionally and saw Jim realize that he had raised his hands to touch his ears where he didn’t have ears.
But James did.
And he saw Jim register that this time they were right for the face—not the hasty cut-and-paste job, hardly better than a makeup job, which McCoy had done in the heat of battle when he had needed Vulcanoid ears. Spock had said that they were not “aesthetically pleasing” on the Human face—and Kirk had known that the Vulcan meant Kirk’s face, and was dead serious, for once, in an ear joke.
Kirk couldn’t have agreed more. He had looked and felt like an idiot.
But now Jim’s eyes said that this Kirk didn’t. He looked as if he were born to them and they to him.
James grinned. “Spock and the Commander,” he said. “Bones said they designed ‘em by computer and stood over him with a club.”
Jim laughed. “But of course he takes credit for the artistic touches.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it—logical—for me to tell you—my compliments?”
“We might both have to admit to being insufferably vain.”
Jim grinned. “Enough admissions for one day, already.” He sobered. “Almost. I have one for you. But first—Spock—You’ve been very close to him today. Seen him through hell. Now he has to see you go off into—a good enough version of hell. Your opinion-will he be all right? Between you and me?”
“Between you and me—he will be,” James said. “He’s as all right as he’s going to be for a while—and as all right as he’s always been. He’s—not so close to me, now. But you would know as well as I. I’d say he’s withdrawing a little behind the Great Wall of Vulcan. Needs it, after this day. There’s no way he could not react on an elemental level. My emotions—yours. And—he does not even deny it—his own. He descended into hell and brought you back, an
d me into the bargain. Threaded the labyrinth, fought the monster.”
“Legends,” Jim said suddenly. “As if the script were written by Omne.”
James nodded. “It was. The man of a thousand legends from a thousand worlds. But Spock wrote the ending.”
“Except that it will not end.”
“No. And Spock will need all the control he owns. He still believes we must express our emotions, and he must master his.”
Jim looked up to meet the eyes which no longer quite matched, But matched in this. “We may all need to be Vulcans, for a while.”
“Yes,” James said. “Take care of him.”
Jim smiled. “That’s supposed to be his act.”
James laughed softly. He’ll be hovering over you like a hen with one chick.”
Jim shook his head. “He has two chicks now. And—this chick doesn’t have to be a Romulan. How are you going to pull that off, by the way? And—what kind of designs does the Commander have on you, exactly?”
James shrugged and grinned. “Beats me. I’m not sure whether she owns me or I own her—or both. Neither. Whatever.”
“Doesn’t worry you?”
“Worries the hell out of me.”
They laughed together.
“Seriously—”Jim said after a moment.
James smiled. “Never more serious. I think the girl finally got the Captain. Or a reasonable facsimile.”
“Reasonable? You ought to have your head examined.”
“I have,” James grinned at Jim. “I come by it honestly.”
Jim made a rueful face. “I guess you do.” He let the face dissolve into seriousness. “James, are you all right? No metaphysical qualms? Philosophical hangups? Questions about—rights? The difference? You’re not just going off into the night?”
James shook his head. “All right—yes, as all right as I’ll be for a while. Night—no. For the rest: qualms—I don’t think so; questions—sure. Things I don’t know how to give up—yes. I’ll take some of them with me, find new ones, keep in touch with some old ones.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know any other logical solution. As for the difference, that may be the one saving grace. I have something you don’t have now, something which is mine—and she is my future, not only because she has to be.”
Jim looked solemnly into the new face as if wondering whether he couldn’t already see a difference that was not surgical. James knew that it was the way Jim would have wanted to take it himself, and that he wondered whether he would have had the courage. Some part of it, they both knew, would be the same kind of putting one foot in front of the other that he had been doing, would have to keep doing for a while. But some of it was more: the sense of a new challenge opening ahead. That, also, Jim understood. That would make it bearable. In time—all right. As all right as it could be.
“I can see it,” Jim said and reached out his hand. They locked arms for a moment in more than a handshake.
And then James remembered the Romulan gesture she had taught him. He released Jim’s arm and closed his hand into a fist, inviting the crossing of wrists Jim had seen.
There was a signal at the door to McCoy’s office and Kirk said, “Come,” but he answered the gesture and held it for a long moment before they turned, releasing it.
The Commander bowed her head and her eyes were very bright.
Spock stood quietly very close behind her with the stressed pose or Vulcan control, but with much the same look in the eyes which fastened on the two men who might have been brothers now—even if of different worlds—and not quite, twins.
McCoy stepped quietly around the small island of silence and went to Kirk. “Come on, let’s get on with it,” he grumbled softly, and his eyes swore at both of them a little. “I agreed with James that you’d want to say good-bye—assuming that anybody can—but you’re still my patient and you need a long rest.”
“Doctor’s orders,” Jim said with a sigh of mock resignation, accepting the cussing-out with his eyes and mustering a small grin. “The patient has a complaint.” He nodded toward James. “Why is he so infernally chipper and healthy? “
He hasn’t been through what you have, the eyes said accusingly. But McCoy rallied to the old kidding tone. “You can’t please anybody around here,” he grumped. “Why can’t you just tell me that he’s gorgeous?
Jim laughed silently. I wouldn’t touch that one with a pole, Bones. Anyway, that’s more in the Commander’s line.”
“He’s gorgeous,” she said, rallying too and bowing faintly to Kirk. “He always was.” Her eyes took on the slight crinkle of serious mischief. “But now he would make a very satisfactory Romulan—say from one of the matriarch colonies where men are properly treated as delicate creatures and not permitted to fight.”
She was at it again: James saw that Jim knew it with perfect clarity, and nonetheless couldn’t help bursting out with “That isn’t going to be your cover story?”
She shrugged, the eyes crinkling. “A logical possibility. I have to stop back to finish a matter which this crisis interrupted. There is such a planet which owes me a princeling as tribute and hostage. And a Warrior Princess there—the Ruler, the terms do not translate—who owes him to me as a debt of honor, and would as soon keep him if she had to hide him in the hills.”
“What worries me,” James chipped in with a rather feeble grin, “is that I’m not sure that you are kidding.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And if I am not?” She moved to stand near James at the foot of the bed. “It would solve a number of problems, you know. You would not be expected to fight, or to exercise with the warrior-men. And no one would think twice about your being under my protection as my property.”
It really was not possible to tell whether she was kidding, James thought. Teasing, certainly, but kidding?
“I would,” James said carefully. “And how would that be any better than being your Human captive and bed warmer? Or—help me to rise in the Empire?”
“Oh,” she said innocently, “infinitely more status. A noble tribute-liege is highly prized. An accomplished one is highly regarded. A gorgeous one is to be envied. It is not rare for one to become court favorite and center of intrigue, the power behind the throne—or the command chair.”
“Like a—” Jim could not stay out of it and could not finish.
“Woman?” she finished smoothly. “Captive princess? Gift to the conquering ruler? Why not? You have had those customs. Your ancient history even includes matriarchies, and even an occasional society where the roles were truly reversed and men regarded as delicate, vain, talkative, rather silly creatures. I learned a great deal about Human and Vulcan culture while I was with you, and I have been something of a student since.”
“We also had slavery,” Jim said. “Doesn’t prove we haven’t outgrown it—or that attitude toward women.”
“No?” she said. ‘Then why object so strongly to some aspects of that role for James? Actually, even our warrior-men have grown surprisingly tolerant of such men from the reversal planets. Consider them rather poor dears to be protected and cherished, but permit them in quite high noncombatant positions. Rather like women in Star Fleet.”
“We have women who can fight,” Jim said, but looked as if he heard a certain tone of defensiveness in his own voice.
She raised a commenting eyebrow. “You would not care to contend that there is no difference?”
“No,” Kirk conceded glumly, “but then, there is a difference. Physiological. No matter how much we try to be fair about it, when it’s a matter of muscle—”
“Precisely, Captain,” she said, and Jim’s eyes widened as he saw the trap close. “That is exactly the difference for James, where he’s going.”
Jim was stumped for a moment, James knew and considered letting his face concede it. But he was prepared to argue for both of them. “No,” he said. “That’s not all of the difference. Your princeling idea won’t work It’s a waste. Illogical—and dangerous. James has all
the instincts, reflexes, mind, will, guts, of a fighting man. Bluff. Presence. Whatever it is that makes most men concede without testing. It’s your if-you’ve-got-it-you’ve-got-to-use-it principle. Try to suppress that and you’ll not only cross-circuit all his reflexes, but everybody else’s. Subconsciously they’ll respond to him half as ‘poor dear’ and half as alpha male—and he’ll really be in trouble.”
She raised an eyebrow with a lift of admiration. “Neatly argued, Captain. And I perceive that you do not scruple to call him gorgeous when it counts.
Jim’s face flushed, and James wondered whether he, also, was blushing—and was he blushing Romulan?
“Well, it’s a—metaphysical problem,” Jim said sheepishly. “But what I said is true.”
“It is,” Spock cut in, “but it is also true that you are a most accomplished actor—both of you.”
“Whose side are you on?” James complained.
“Both,” Spock said. “I cannot quite imagine you as a ‘poor dear,’ but your imagination might be equal to the task. There would be major advantages. A princeling who gradually became a power. It is possible that this is a case for thinking outside the reflexes.”
“I’m not sure I want to get that far out,” James said. “In fact, I’m sure I don’t.” He looked down at the Commander. “And I’m sure your fertile mind has considered other alternatives.”
“You would be surprised at what my fertile mind has considered,” she said. “I can write you fourteen scripts for rising through the ranks—provided that I can train you sufficiently to keep your stiff neck unbroken. I can write you seven in which I own you, one way or another.”
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