Kirk felt an odd jolt on some level he couldn’t even name. Or—wouldn’t. Perhaps somewhere on the level of what he was refusing to name, even to himself. Let it be blunt, brute fact.
But this—
He had snapped out the questions as fury, as release, half-hoping to goad an admission of cowardice.
But what frightened him was to learn that the big man was not a coward. The man was pathological about death, he knew it, he didn’t let it stop him.
And yet—”At—any other time,” Kirk said carefully, “your only thought would have been for your life—or—some game.”
Omne smiled with the look of being understood. “Yes,” he said.
“And—this time—it didn’t even occur to you.”
Omne nodded gravely. “No.”
The jolt he had—it was something very like pride, Kirk realized, and was shocked on some deeper level. It was as if this man had said: What I did to you, what I made you show of what you are, makes you worth more than my life.
And it was as if that could matter to Kirk.
But that was what the man had said.
And it did matter.
In some terrible way, it did matter.
“But—you did break me,” he said against the tight agony in his chest. “I did—cry.”
“You cried,” Omne said. “You didn’t break.”
“How—do you know?” Kirk blurted. How do yon know—when I don’t? He choked back into his throat, but he thought that Omne heard it
“You never—begged,” Omne said.
Didn’t I? Somehow he still stopped the words in his throat. It could not be for this man to know. It could not be for Kirk to ask this man for confirmation, for—comfort.
“No,” Omne said, answering the unspoken question, giving the confirmation, perhaps even the comfort.
But wasn’t it begging? Kirk thought. The crying and the words which had screamed in his mind, even if he had somehow stopped them at his throat. Hadn’t he cried because he could not speak, would not—and wasn’t that a kind of begging, too?
No. He answered himself this time. No, it was not the same.
But the knowledge did not seem to help. Something had still broken, and he was not sure what. But—there was also something which had not.
Hold to that.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t beg. Does it matter?”
Omne nodded. “I never wanted to break you.”
Kirk laughed harshly, finding breath for it somewhere. “You did your damndest!”
“Certainly. How else would I know that I never can?” He smiled. “Or you—that you never will?”
“You said—any man can be broken.”
Omne shook his head. “I said—any man can cry. Until he does, he doesn’t know whether that will break him.”
“And if it doesn’t.” Kirk said bitterly, “then—you try again?”
Another shake of the massive head. “I will not have to try again. And—will never want to.”
Kirk frowned. “Never want to break me to play beta to your alpha?”
Omne’s smile held a hint of the wolf, but the eyes were grave, almost gentle. “Ah, but don’t you know? That was what you did lose tonight when you decided to live. But it wasn’t—breaking. You know what kind of victory it was.”
Omne smiled at him as if he had invented him, and said, “That is why a thousand years will not be long enough.”
Kirk felt his breath catch sharply. The black eyes glowed as if with banked flames.
The big man turned abruptly and took something from a drawer, a long, slender silver tube. Kirk thought finally that it might be some odd kind of spray can.
Omne came back to the couch.
“Turn over,” he ordered.
Kirk tried not to flinch away, tried not to ask. But he did ask. “What—what are you—?”
“I am going to fix your back.”
“What—?” Kirk found himself laughing on the edge of hysteria, the tears threatening to come again. “While your Wild West plays shoot-‘em-up over our heads? While your ally and your—replica—get hunted through the corridors? While the delegates wait and Spock waits, somewhere. And you are going to fix my back?”
“Among other things,” Omne said. “Turn over.”
“Go to hell.”
“As you please, Captain. I can begin on the front”
“I don’t want it. Go tend to your knitting.”
“If I do, it will be tended much more effectively. I will get the Commander. And my replica. The Wild West will, too. But it may take longer. That would give them some sporting chance. Spock will have a little longer to stall before his performance. They can all wait, while I restore the original.”
“You’d need a sickbay—not a spray can,” Kirk said bitterly, and knew that it was concession.
Omne sat down on the edge of the couch. “I have a sickbay—in the can,” he said. His hands ripped free the last fragments which held Kirk’s shirt, not asking permission. “A growth-forcer,” he continued dispassionately in the tone of a scientific dissertation. “Local metabolic accelerator. Antiseptic. Anesthetic, with deep-pain extensors. Cleansing. His hands unfastened the belt which still held what was left of the tough Star Fleet uniform. Kirk started to protest, realized that it was no use. “In a few seconds, you will be free of pain. There are no broken bones or grave internal injuries. I was careful. In a few more minutes there will be delicate new flesh and skin, swelling will go down, bruises clear, cuts and contusions begin to mend. In a few hours—you will be good as new.”
He finished with the clothes, boots and all, almost in the manner of a doctor. Kirk set his teeth and tried to take it as medical, wishing devoutly for Bones McCoy, then retracting the wish. Better Bones didn’t have to deal with this.
Omne picked up the spray can again. “This place is, among otter things, probably the finest research laboratory in the galaxy. You would be surprised to learn how many first-rate scientists from how many planets find refuge here. They are on holiday today in honor of the conference. Some of them are delegates.”
Kirk was surprised, and let it register a little. He had seen the place only as a great, empty setting for Omne’s evil.
“You would be shocked to learn how many new products we market through how many channels.” Omne hefted the can. “It pays the rent. This one happens to be one of mine. My—public—lab is not far from here. The private one—” he shrugged and smiled. “Lie down.”
Kirk caught his lip between his teeth. It was not that he wanted to obey, he told himself. It was only that his arm really wouldn’t hold him any longer. It was for the Commander, for—the other. Even for Spock. Buy time. That was it.
But he knew that he believed Omne even in his boast about his power for good. He knew why the man needed to make that boast now in the face of the evidence of his power for evil and to the man who had felt all his power.
Kirk knew. He knew this man very well.
With sudden, numbing force it came home to Kirk what had broken, and why he had cried.
He had been hurt before, terrified before. He had been terrified by experts. Tortured. Faced with more than he could take. It had never broken him.
The physical pain was as bad as any he had ever taken, but it was not worse.
But this time he had met his match.
His breath caught and he made himself say it. No. It was worse than that. Omne had said it, and it was true.
This man had played with him, overreaching him in every direction—mind, body, will. So easily. Lazily. Beyond possibility of resistance.
And Kirk had almost felt some ancient jungle law telling him that this man was his natural master, this man had, even, the right.