Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
This story contains violence. And it stomps all over canon.
Thanks to my husband for coming up with the word "celester," and for understanding my reluctance to name the bar Roddenberry's. And special thanks to Kathleen, for a couple of incredibly creative brainstorming sessions, and for being so gracious when I went off in an entirely different direction.
Last night Spock made love to me for the last time.
We didn't know it then and only I know it now. But I can see no other ending for us. I look back on last night, the nights before that, the nights with him, and the nights before him, and it all leads inexorably to this. A final lie and farewell.
There. Will that do? The simplest lies are usually the best.
But Spock deserves better. He deserves the most complex, elaborately imagined falsehood I can invent. But I don't think I can come up with what he deserves. I never have. Come to think of it, neither has he. He's always given me what I need...but what I *deserve*?
I certainly didn't deserve the gift of last night.
Yesterday, we offloaded our passengers and now the Enterprise is simply waiting to ferry them all back again in a few days. For the six nights of the journey, I pled exhaustion, pretended to be asleep, and once--god help me--once I even said, "Spock, I have a headache."
But last night, he finally used his strength against me. Pinned me to the bed and forced me to accept his touch, soft and feather-light, but burning hot. Is it a violation to forcibly subject someone to what he needs? If so, I have been violated. But no worse than what I'm about to do to him.
He touched me all over, pressing his fingertips everywhere except the meld points. At first, I couldn't give in, even though every nerve in my body was screaming with pleasure. I kept remembering why I would have to stop him if he tried to initiate a mind-meld. And sensing my fear, he held me closely and said, "I will not ask it of thee."
Then I relaxed, secure in the selfish knowledge that I was safe.
I'll never understand why he chose to give to me as he did. Some foresight, some prescience of what is to come? No, my logical first officer doesn't believe in intuition. But something made him act the way he did. Something told him to make it count. And he did. Tenderly, selflessly, lovingly, he made certain that I will never forget.
He stroked me gently for...I don't know how long. It just went on and on until there was nothing but his touch.
"For thee, my t'hy'la," he murmured. "This is for thee."
The elegance and grace of that language used to make me uncomfortable. But I've learned to accept it and love it in him.
Several times I reached for him, wanting to touch him, to give to him. And each time he stopped my hand. With anyone else, I would have thought it was a punishment for all the times when I gave him only what I wanted to give, instead of what he needed. But not Spock. That sort of callousness isn't in him. So he stopped me, firmly pulling my hand away from his body, and went back to stroking me. And there was nothing I could do except feel his touch and follow where it led.
Towards the end, his voice floated over me, whispering the things I needed to hear.
"There are no demands on thee. Take what I offer. All I ask is to be near thee, to hold thee, to know that I give thee pleasure. To be warmed by thy light, my k'harai."
I twisted and sobbed against his shoulder when I came.
My k'harai. My shining one. My golden one.
The Golden Boy. I'd been at the Academy less than a month when someone called me that for the first time. I was foolish enough to be flattered. Since then, it's followed me around, used in both admiration and jealousy.
"The golden boy's legendary luck."
Sometimes I played up to it, and other times I shook my head and said, "If you only knew." Once or twice, I congratulated myself on the deception. And for a very short time, in a very small way, I believed it.
If I ever hear that hideous phrase again, if anyone is ever stupid enough to say it to my face, I'll break his neck.
I should go back to the Enterprise, but I can't. I'm just not ready to face Spock. Not after what I've learned. Maybe if I stay away long enough, he'll give up and go to sleep. Maybe if I get drunk enough, tomorrow's hangover will get me through what I have to do. Maybe if I get into a fight, I'll be killed and never have to see tomorrow.
I can't believe I found this place. I passed several bars after I left the enclave and rejected them all, knowing they'd be full of uniforms, carefully sipping their liquor and making civilized conversation. But this place is exactly what I was looking for. It's so much like the First Contact that I half-expect to see Gary Mitchell leaning against the bar.
The First Contact. For over fifteen years, I've consciously avoided thinking about that sleazy dive.
About midway through our freshman year, Gary introduced me to its charms, such as they were. It was within staggering distance of the Academy, the booze was cheap, and nobody asked for ID.
Nowadays, I can afford better and no one has asked me for proof of age in quite some time. But my instincts are sound--this is the perfect spot in which to contemplate my sins.
The bartender asks what I want. Good question.
I want to get roaring drunk away from the disapproving stares of my fellow officers.
I want to figure out what the hell I'm going to tell Spock.
I want to find a fresh-faced Iowa farmboy and tell him to run for his life.
"Jesus, Mitchell, what kind of place is this?"
"It's the kind of place we can afford."
"So you'll wash your hands when we get back to the dorm. Grab that table. I'll order at the bar."
I sat down and Gary disappeared into the darkness. Literally. The First Contact might've been more appropriately named the Black Hole. It took at least a full minute before I could see anything further away than two feet. And what I saw shocked me right down to my seventeen-year-old toes.
There were small groups and couples huddled at the tables and in the corners. Occasionally a laugh would ring out, but, for the most part, everyone spoke in hushed tones as if they were in church. There were a few loners at the bar, studying the room from under hooded lids and managing to look desperate all the same.
Humans and aliens. Aliens and aliens. It was like a slow-moving dance as they matched up or moved on in search of fresh partners.
And suddenly I knew why my roommate was never short of cash.
It's been at least two hundred years since humans worried about the gender of anyone's partner. But a lot of people still disapprove of mating outside your own species. And in a number of alien cultures, it's one of the strictest taboos. And hence, all the more desirable. Forbidden fruit, you know.
San Francisco is famous for the number and variety of its celester bars--second only to Paris. As for how a rural teenager knew the term 'celester'...well, at the tender age of fourteen, I read the memoirs of Celeste de Kuyper, an early space explorer who claimed to have had sex with every sentient species she encountered. As well as a number of non-sentients. There's a statue of her in the Castro. She looks very happy.
But there were very few non-humans in my corner of Iowa, and if there were any celesters, they kept quiet about it. When I left for the Academy, my mother tried to warn me about the big bad city, in her tipsily quaint way. Something about being careful around "strangers." My brother Sam was more blunt.
"Don't suck any alien dick, kid."
I loved my brother but he wasn't exactly what you'd call enlightened.
"What monetary recompense do you require to perform fellatio?"
A tall, elegant creature slid into the chair opposite me and repeated his question. He pushed back the hood of a dark cloak, and his beauty stunned me even more than his request.
The pointed ears and upswept eyebrows should have repelled me. He looked very much like an illustration of Satan that had given me nightmares as a small child. But his eyes, his stance, his absolute stillness made it impossible to move or even look away. His face had a strength and authority that my prick of a father would have killed for.
He folded his hands on the table as he waited for my answer. Before I could formulate a response, my roommate's voice jolted me out of my stupor.
"What is your role in this negotiation?" the Vulcan asked.
"I'm his manager," Mitchell replied smoothly.
I grabbed Gary by the arm and dragged him away from the table.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded.
"Helping you earn the easiest seventy-five credits you'll ever make."
"Look, I don't know what gave you the idea that I--"
"Jim. Face facts. You need the money. And you'll never keep up with your classwork if you have to get a job."
"And you're easily worth seventy-five." He grinned. "I can't believe you've been doing me for free."
When I came out of the back room, Mitchell had a beer waiting for me. I downed it quickly, desperate to clear the taste, if not the memory, of bitter cinnamon pouring down my throat. The beer didn't do the trick so I reached for his drink. He stopped my hand and said, "There's a lady at the bar who will be happy to buy you a drink."
I looked over and saw an Alganite female eyeing me. With all three eyes.
"Gary, I don't know about this."
"Relax, kid. I've done her before. She gets off quick and she doesn't haggle over price. Ask for a hundred."
"Anything. A goodnight kiss. I told you--she won't argue."
I could see his attention wasn't really on me anymore. He had business of his own to conduct. He turned away from me and started a low conversation with an Andorian.
I felt something very close to panic. I stood up and took a step away from the table. To this day, I don't know if I intended to leave or approach the Alganite, but, before I could make a decision, the Vulcan stepped out of the darkness and blocked my path. I clenched my fists and didn't know why. Then he asked my name.
"George," I said. Take that, Dad, you arrogant bastard. Feigning a little arrogance myself, I added, "What's yours?"
Was there a hint of amusement there? Even now, knowing the nuances of what passes for expression among Vulcans, I look back and I simply can't say.
Then he pulled the hood up over his head and left.
I made over three hundred credits that night. I embraced my new line of work and never looked back.
Although I doubt it will become a required exercise at the Academy, a week or so in a celester hangout wouldn't hurt some of those uptight, sanctimonious jerks. After a few months, I'd scored so many different beings that I knew I'd never be thrown by the biological variety of the galaxy. All in a day's work.
Male, female, unknown, it didn't matter. I did them all. And I loved it. And that surprised the hell out of me. Because it wasn't just the sex that I loved.
I loved getting paid for it. I loved how much they hated parting with their money. I loved knowing they would, because I was worth it. I loved being the most sought-after, highly paid hustler the First Contact had ever seen.
I worked one or two nights a week. Dressed in carefully chosen civvies, I'd sit at the bar and cruise the crowd, deciding who I would favor. I still find it unbelievable that I could actually *choose* my customers.
It was just so damn easy. Some of them were so fascinated by humans, they'd pay just to watch me jerk off. I charged extra if they wanted to touch me. And even more if they wanted to suck me. Top dollar if they wanted me to come. Like I said, unbelievable.
I remember the first time I fucked an Andorian female. I didn't know their cunts rippled. I can't describe what it felt like. Spectacular? Yeah, spectacular is pretty close. But then her boyfriend's icy tongue started lapping at my asshole and I shot right past spectacular and out of the realm of spoken language. Ah, youth.
But it wasn't all beer and skittles. Not by a long shot.
After a couple of unpleasant surprises, I refused to go down on any of the women. I've yet to meet the alien female whose juices won't make me gag. When it comes to eating pussy, make mine homegrown. So the ladies got fingered or fucked. No exceptions.
With the males, it was mostly hand jobs and blow jobs. Very few of them wanted me to fuck them. Apparently they had also read Ms. de Kuyper's memoirs and, according to her, the human male has the smallest penis in known space.
I soon learned that the intrepid explorer of galactic sexuality had wronged the men of her own species. No matter what you hear, most alien dick is within the normal human range, sizewise. I'd been in enough locker rooms to know that my equipment was more than adequate to the task, and Gary wasn't the only man I'd slept with. So if the patrons of the First Contact thought my mouth and hands were more impressive than my tool, I figured it was their loss.
But when it came to taking one of those exotic rods up my ass, I'll be honest--I was scared. I wasn't a virgin, but some of the organs I encountered at the First Contact were downright bizarre.
After I jerked off my first Rigellian, I realized how lucky I'd been up to that point. His penis was enclosed in heavy, stiff petals. I thought maybe I was supposed to peel them away, but he showed me how to stroke them until they opened and curled back. He moaned loudly and I realized he'd had an orgasm. He rubbed my hand against the second layer of petals. I kept stroking, they opened, he came. And there was another layer of petals. I was starting to wonder how hard I'd have to work for my fifty credits. After four layers, I finally saw what I recognized as a cock. He gave me an extra hundred to suck him off and he finally ejaculated. Afterwards he bought me a drink and lectured me on Rigellian sexuality.
"Many of my kind," he explained in a grating voice that sounded like subspace static, "long for the gratification of feeling the layers unfold during copulation. Painful for the partner, but I would be willing to compensate you--"
I told him to forget it. I found out later that there wasn't a hustler on the strip who'd allow a Rigellian to fuck him.
I wanted to ask Gary about some of the stories I'd heard, but I was getting very tired of jokes about the naivete of Iowa farmboys. The bartender and the other hustlers were starting to make wisecracks about "George" saving it for his wedding night. I realized that if I wanted to demand the highest rate, I was going to have to put out. But not for a Rigellian. As far as that race is concerned, my ass is still cherry.
That's when Sydan made his move.
I'd been working at the First Contact for about two months and the Vulcan was my most regular customer. Always a blow job. After a few times, I got gutsy and raised my price. I felt it was justified--he had a lot of staying power. Time is money, right? I also heard that when I wasn't there, he usually left without hooking up with anyone.
On this particular night, I'd just jerked off a Fragan and was relaxing at the bar. A long, elegant hand came around from behind me and placed a one-thousand-credit token on the bar. Even if I hadn't recognized his ring, I would've known it was Sydan. Unlike a lot of the regulars, he had a pleasant smell--dry and sharp with a tantalizing hint of spice.
I turned and faced him, leaning back against the bar with my hips pushed forward. A true professional.
I wasn't foolish enough to jump at that, not even for a thousand credits. Since my introduction to the First Contact, Gary had pretty much left me to find my own way, make my own mistakes. So I had taken it seriously when he warned, "Never leave the bar with a customer."
Sound advice. But I also knew better than to piss off a high-paying regular. I coolly asked what he had in mind.
"I have a place that is clean and comfortable. It will afford us more space for our activities."
Clean definitely sounded appealing. But how much space do you need for a blow job?
"I am aware that you have not allowed any of your clientele to penetrate you. I wish to do so."
I studied Sydan carefully. He was easily the most appealing of the creatures I'd serviced. I was familiar with him and his responses. Unless the act of penetration set off something new, I was fairly certain that his cock wasn't going to change shape or grow to twice its normal size. I knew that violence was almost unheard-of among Vulcans. But then, so was solicitation of a prostitute.
"I do not intend to harm you, George."
The gentleness in his voice startled me. Irrationally, I wished he had called me by my real name. But of course, to him, George was my real name. I looked at him and his eyes drew me in, just as they had that first time. And, yes, there was a hunger there, but it wasn't demanding or desperate. It was warm and inviting, and it spoke to a hunger of my own.
Sydan took me to an apartment in Diamond Heights. It was elegantly furnished and had a view that took my breath away. My first thought was that he was a lot better off than I thought. My second was that this wasn't his home.
I knew nothing of luxury, but I could see how carefully the apartment had been decorated. Nor was it as warm as I later learned he would have liked it. To my surprise, I felt completely at home there, which is how I knew that he wasn't. I've always listened to my instincts, and, at that moment, they were screaming that he had furnished the place with me in mind. I couldn't help being flattered. He'd even put in a stock of expensive liquor.
As I undressed, surrounded by the power and security of wealth, I realized I'd better do more than bend over. Sydan wanted something very special from me, and I figured out what it was when I stood before him naked for the first time. He studied me from across the room, drawing long, careful breaths. Finally, he approached me almost reverently, and I knew what he wanted.
He wanted to be my first. Not my first alien. Not my first-for-money. My first ever.
Well, he was close. I've always been a good pitcher and a reluctant catcher. I could still remember my first time and figured it wouldn't be too difficult to replay it. The sounds, the moves, the nervousness. Yeah, start with nervousness.
"Hey, Sydan? Go easy, all right?"
And with those words, it became frighteningly real. That night I acted scared and it became the truth. An important lesson that's taken me a long way. All my decorations for courage are really awards for acting. Acting calm and brave and making everyone believe I knew what I was doing.
But that night, I didn't understand the power of pretense. So when my voice trembled and caught, I thought it was a nice touch until I realized that it was unplanned. It felt real and that scared me.
And my fear pleased Sydan no end. Luckily, he wasn't some sick fuck who was into pain. He wanted me nervous and reluctant, not screaming and hysterical. He wanted to coax me into new territory. He wanted to make me want it more than I feared it.
He was gentle and patient and seduced me masterfully. It shouldn't have hurt. And it wouldn't have, except at the last minute, I pulled back--I still don't know why. I said, "Wait, not yet--" but who listens to a hooker? He didn't, and I didn't really expect him to. I think it was that little bit of panic at the end that won him. It was so human.
The next time I went to the First Contact, Sydan was there, obviously waiting for me. He handed me a five-hundred-credit token and nodded toward the exit. I looked at the money and frowned.
"Last time it was a thousand."
He raised an eyebrow and explained, "Last time I paid for the privilege of being the first."
As we left together, I told myself that five hundred was more than I usually made in one night. And that I was going to stand firm on that price.
Within a month, I would have paid him.
Gary said that enjoying your work is the worst thing that can happen to a prostitute. Unfortunately, he trotted that little axiom out about three weeks too late.
After my first night with Sydan, he never hurt me again. Except in the "hurt so good" sense of the word. I worked hard at pleasing him, and in return, he paid me well and pleased me as no one had before. Even without Gary's words of wisdom, I knew this wasn't the standard operating procedure and I asked Sydan about it.
"Why do you do this? Why does my response matter to you?"
"I find you...and your responses...fascinating."
"What is this--some kind of scientific study?"
"Indeed not. Although you would be worthy of such a study. I have never encountered a being with a sexual need greater than yours. And even as you congratulate yourself on making me pay for this, you give to me as if my need matches yours. That is not a gift to be taken lightly, George."
When I first realized that I could deny him nothing, I thought it was the money. Until the night I was leaving the apartment and he reminded me that he hadn't paid me yet. Flushing with embarrassment, I mumbled something about trusting him until next time. He pressed the money into my hand and said, "It would be dishonorable if I were to allow you to leave without that which you have earned."
Was money all that I had earned? I look back on that night and it's pathetic how much I wanted more from him. And I still don't understand all the reasons why.
There's the obvious, of course. He was the hottest thing I'd ever encountered, of any sex or species. In all those blow jobs I'd given him at the First Contact, I didn't realize what he held back. But once he let go, let me see that aching need, let me know that I could satisfy it--there was no turning back. I wanted to be his, and I was. When we were together, the world outside the apartment disappeared and he was my reality, the sweetest I'd ever known.
He wasn't always gentle, but he was always fascinated by what he could make me do and what I could do to him. There were nights when he spent hours exploring my body and I'd be almost insane with joy. Having that beautiful, elegant man so openly enchanted by me--it was like coming out into the sun from a dark cave. He'd murmur, "Human. You are so human," and I knew that he wanted to own every weakness, every imperfection, every illogical thought that crossed my mind. He would gather me into his arms, hoarding me like a dragon with his treasure.
And he would *make* *me* *come*. With others, I was always in control, always *taking* my pleasure. But he *made* me come. Every time.
Once when I was right on the edge but struggling to hold out, he said, "Give yourself to this. Give yourself to me."
And I exploded, just from the sound of his voice, low and rumbling like far-off thunder.
Then he turned me over and fucked me. It almost always ended like that. Sometimes I'd suck him off, but that wasn't what he kept that apartment for. The apartment enabled him to take his time, indulge himself, turn the lights up full so he could watch my face when I came. And I could watch his.
When he fucked me face-to-face, and I saw his eyes close in ecstasy when he entered me--I could almost come from watching the sweat glisten on his forehead. It was the sweetest triumph, knowing I could do that to him. And as he slid in, I'd squeeze hard, even though sometimes it hurt to do that. Something about that double ridge. I'd leave the apartment, sore and shaking, but thrilled to the bone that I'd made Sydan--my beautiful, sexy Vulcan--
I'm getting carried away. I'm romanticizing this. I realize now it wasn't love. I was impressed by his wealth, his looks, his overpowering sexuality. A schoolboy crush and nothing more. He's appeared in some highly-charged dreams, but in my waking hours, I rarely think of him.
Thinking back, I'm reminded of the old saying "Power is the greatest aphrodisiac." Control is a form of power, isn't it? That Vulcan control was the most erotic stimulant I'd ever encountered. To see him lose himself in passion--it's hard to describe what it did to me. I'd never come with anyone the way I came with him. And with only one person since.
The luxury of a hot shower was one of the things I loved most about Sydan's apartment. All the Academy showers were sonic. They cleaned, but they didn't refresh.
We were standing together under that delicious spray, soaping each other with a rich lather. Sydan turned me and traced slow circles on my back. I closed my eyes and sighed happily. My entire body was suffused with something I don't believe I ever felt before and damn few times since. Ease. I was completely at ease.
I heard Sydan's rich voice commenting that even Vulcan desert-dwellers were not as mesmerized by water as I was. It took me a second to realize that he was teasing me. It was such a sweet moment--in my mind, a lovers' moment--that I came very close to telling him about myself. Who I was, my life at the Academy, the fear and violence of my childhood. I wanted him to know me. I wanted to hear him call me Jim.
"I wish to propose an arrangement between us."
Jolted out of fantasy, Jim retreated and George coolly took over the negotiations.
"I do not wish to continue meeting at the First Contact. I will provide you with a communications device. When I activate it, it will mean that I wish to meet you here that evening."
"You are of course free to refuse me at any time. As you are free now."
He stepped out of the shower and I followed.
I considered carefully as I dried us with the soft, thick towels. Was he toying with me? Couldn't he see that I wasn't free to refuse? That I'd do anything he wanted?
I was addicted to him. But I was determined to retain at least the appearance of independence, so I asked in my most arrogant tone, "How do I get in touch with you?"
"I will logically reach that conclusion when you fail to appear."
"What if I want to see you?" So much for independence.
He raised an eyebrow, puzzled by my question. And that said it all. Who's paying who here? You are not in a position to make demands. Your wants are unimportant, of no concern to me.
I retaliated in the only way I could.
"Then forget it. I'm not interested."
To my chagrin, I sounded like a spoiled child.
He sighed. "Very well, George. I will give you an access code with which you can contact me. But it is not to be used unless it is an emergency."
I agreed, thinking that I'd won some sort of victory.
It was a long walk back to the Academy, but it gave me time to remind myself that I was in it for the money. When I got to the dorm, I woke Gary, and we celebrated my good fortune.
Afterwards, we fell asleep in my bed and I dreamed of Sydan. Do voices have texture? In my dreams, his always did. Rough-grained at first, rasping against my skin, then changing to the softness of rolling hills and wrapping itself around me.
Gary's laughter woke me and I realized I'd come in my sleep.
"Jesus, Jim," he teased as we cleaned ourselves up. "I just sucked you off not an hour ago, not to mention all the other action you've been getting lately. I would think you'd simply run dry at some point."
We were too tired to change the sheets, so we moved to his bed. After a few minutes, he whispered, "I could fall in love with you so easily." I pretended to be asleep. But I lay awake the rest of the night, dissecting those words and the reasons why I wanted to hear them from someone else.
I stopped going to the First Contact. I met Sydan at the apartment once or twice a week. The financial aspect of the agreement was more than generous and I wanted to believe that it was a sign of his affection for me. But I knew he saw it as insurance for my continued willingness and availability. He didn't ask me not to go the bar, but he stressed that discretion was an important component of our arrangement.
Then one night, Gary casually mentioned that some of the regulars were asking for me.
Asking. Not summoning me with a "communications device." Not certain that I would respond, come hell or high water. Not amusing themselves with the knowledge that I would refuse nothing.
I still believe that if things had somehow been different between me and Sydan, I would never have gone back. But as it was, I needed something that I would never get from him. I needed to rape someone's wallet, giving satisfaction but nothing of myself. I needed to humiliate some pathetic creature, turning it down just because I didn't like the look of it. I needed to be in charge.
For the next few months, I was sitting pretty. I had Sydan, his money, and mind-blowing sex. On the occasions when I needed something different, I had the First Contact. When I needed to be the person I assured myself I really was, I had Gary, girlfriends, and a bright future in Starfleet.
Then Sydan went off-world. He told me the night before he left. He said it was family business and he would be back as soon as possible. I was furious with him for not telling me sooner, for not wanting me to go with him. I couldn't have gone, of course, but I was hurt just the same.
We didn't argue--Vulcans don't argue. And they certainly won't be baited by an irrational boy. But I tried to take control. He had never let me fuck him and, that night, I tried to force him into a submissive position. I never stood a chance against his superior strength and he out-maneuvered me easily. But I kept trying. Finally, he got fed up and backed me up against the wall.
"Do you want me to strike you, George?" he asked calmly.
"You wouldn't. Vulcans don't--"
"It is surprising how little you know of other races." There was an edgy undertone to his careful words, and I swallowed hard, a little frightened at how far I had pushed him. "A Vulcan will strike another to bring him out of a healing trance. And I will strike you, if it will end this hysteria, which is only making you unhappy."
He didn't hit me, of course. I cooled down and apologized. I wish I could say he was tender and gentle with me after that, but he wasn't. He wasn't cruel, but he was rougher and more demanding than usual, and I knew I was being put in my place.
While he was gone, I went to the First Contact much more often and jumped on Gary--or whoever else was handy--every chance I got. Not because I was lonely and horny--which I was--but simply for the distraction. And the longer Sydan was away, the angrier I was at him for leaving me so easily, for not saying he would miss me, for not acknowledging how much I would miss him.
It was a Saturday night and the First Contact was closing up. The owner offered Gary and me a drink. The three of us sat down at a secluded table. He made a toast in some dead language and we drank.
"You boys are making a lot of money."
"Yes, we are, Torvald. And you're not doing too badly either," Gary pointed out evenly. "We bring a lot of business into the bar."
I smiled at my roommate's rather obvious tactic. True, if Torvald was going to hit us up for a larger cut, we'd just go to another bar. But I wasn't a Vulcan's kept boy for nothing. If there's one thing I learned from Sydan, it's this--humans talk too much and too soon.
"Don't get hasty." Torvald was all warm smiles and reassuring words. "I want to propose something special. Something that we'll all profit by."
After hearing the offer, I was ready to agree to it on the spot. However, Gary was obviously reluctant so I told Torvald we'd let him know. We went back to the dorm and argued most of the night.
"Jim, it's too dangerous. We'd have no control. Anything could happen."
"Nothing that hasn't happened before."
"Torvald intends to advertise. The place will be filled with creatures we've never done."
"We can handle it. Come on. What are you afraid of?"
"What'll you do if Sydan hears about it? What if he forbids it? You shouldn't jeopardize the cushy deal you've got with him."
Oh, Gary. Big mistake. Sydan had been gone for more than three weeks, and I was almost sick from swinging back and forth between hurt and wanting.
What a lie. But once it was out of my mouth, I had no choice but to make it true.
"Jim, think about this. Really think about it. You don't need the money. Why would you want to take such a risk?"
I grinned and sidestepped his question. "I dare you."
I think he wanted to hit me for being so facetious. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted, "You stupid jerk, can't you see how dangerous it would be?"
Someone next door pounded on the wall and yelled, "Will you shut up! It's after 0400!"
Gary pushed me down on his bed and whispered urgently.
"Up until now, we've been discreet. The risks have been minimal. Torvald is talking about something very public. If anything goes wrong, if word gets out, we can forget about Starfleet. They're not going to give us five demerits and a week's punishment duty. We could be pissing away our futures."
God, what an idiot I was. All of his arguments were completely valid, and I responded with childish taunting. As if Torvald had proposed a silly prank, like staying out after hours.
It was almost dawn when Gary put his hands to my face and sighed. I knew he was about to give in, and I smiled.
"I don't know why you're so eager to do this," he said, "but it's obviously important to you. So I'll go along with it, if only to see that you get out in one piece."
There was something very tender about it, and I suddenly wanted to feel some real warmth. Not the parody I played out at the First Contact. Not Sydan's Vulcan heat that chilled me, even as it scorched my skin. Just Gary. My friend. I reached for him, wanting to be held and reassured that, whatever he felt for me, it was genuine.
He pulled away and said, "You may thrive on danger, Golden Boy, but I have a little more sense. And I'm starting to see just how dangerous you are."
The exhibition. The contest. The display. Call it whatever you like. I've always thought of it as The Show.
On Friday afternoon, Gary and I signed out of the dorm for the weekend and checked into a suite in one of the city's most elegant hotels. After all, in a few hours, each of us would be more than one thousand credits richer. I was looking forward to a couple days of unbridled luxury. Without Sydan calling the shots.
That night, the First Contact was packed with creatures from all over the galaxy. Gary was right. There were several kinds that we hadn't done before. The performers and Torvald's employees were the only humans in sight. But since my days as a novice, I'd done some research. I was reasonably certain that we wouldn't have any trouble. I scanned the bar and, to my relief, there wasn't a Rigellian in sight.
It was quite an event. Cover charge and everything. Torvald had hung stage lights and set up a make-shift stage opposite the bar. He even hired an emcee--a woman named Myn who managed a line of girls. She was in her late thirties and mildly attractive, in a bossy sort of way. She took center stage, and Gary and I made ourselves comfortable at the bar.
The first "act" was pretty tame. A man and woman started off with some standard foreplay and then they fucked. Missionary position. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I think I was more inventive on my first date. But the aliens went wild. Like I said, they were fascinated by humans.
Next Myn brought on two girls. Again just standard stuff. But at least they were pretty.
After that, we watched two guys go at it. Not very impressive by my standards, but the crowd loved it.
I recognized the next performer. His name was Eduardo and he occasionally worked the First Contact. His specialty was masturbation, and, that night, he raised his artform to new heights. He took his time, stroking himself slowly as he swayed in and out of the light. The crowd watched breathlessly, and the bartender quietly took bets on endurance and distance.
What made him so good was that he really looked like he was enjoying it. He seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings. As if he was doing it for his own pleasure--not to entertain a roomful of galactic trash. When he closed his eyes, I swear he looked like he was having a religious experience. Some jerk leaned on the bar and yelled for a drink. Gary cuffed him and growled, "Shut up, asshole."
When Eduardo finally came--well, I know this sounds ridiculous but the graceful arc of his jism as it flew through the streams of light was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. And the place was so quiet that I actually heard the splat when it hit the floor. The crowd exploded--cheering, screaming, stomping. I saw two Orions crying. Hell, if I'd had flowers, I'd have thrown them to him.
Then of course it was time for one of the girls to have a go at it. I couldn't imagine how she would top Eduardo--the guy was an artist. But after a few minutes, she was joined by two men and they made a very nice sandwich. Not exactly earth-shattering, but it seemed like a lucky break for Gary and me. We were up next.
"Order your drinks now because we'll be starting the audience participation section of tonight's entertainment in just a few minutes."
Gary and I ducked into Torvald's office. We could hear Myn's amplified voice hawking liquor as we undressed. I noticed that Gary was barely hard and, thinking he had stage-fright, I knelt down and sucked him into a full erection.
Then James T. Kirk, that paragon of sensitivity, offered his nervous roommate the following comfort.
"There's nothing to be worried about. That last act was so lame, they'll go wild over us."
I was too excited to realize that's what he was afraid of.
"Let's have a great big First Contact welcome for two of the loveliest boys you'll ever meet--in and out of Federation space--George and Mark!"
Stark naked and fully erect, we climbed up on the bar and preened to the appreciative cheering.
"Aren't they pretty? Don't you just want to eat 'em up? Well, here's your chance. Yes, indeed, for a few measly credits, you can suck on one of these lovely...hard...*human* cocks! That's right, enjoy the tastiest delicacy ever produced by Mother Earth. Now what would you be willing to pay for something like that? I mean, look at these boys! The handsomest hunks of manflesh in all of SF!"
I glanced over at Gary and almost laughed out loud. Of course, she meant San Francisco, but to us, SF meant Starfleet.
"You can slurp your way up and down one of these divine Terran rods for as little as thirty credits! That's right! The first three players will pay only thirty credits. The next three pay forty. And the price goes up ten credits every three players. And why is that? Because the longer you wait, the greater your chance at winning the prize! Unless you wait too long..."
Myn chuckled lasciviously and the crowd roared in response.
"And what a prize it is. If you're the fortunate--or should I say skillful--creature who makes our boy lose control--he's yours! You heard me. Make him come and you'll be doing him right here on the bar. If you've got a cock, he'll take it down his throat or up the ass--your choice! If you're the proud owner of a pussy, he'll get you off with his hands or his mouth--or both, if that's what you want!
"Now listen up. These are the rules. No touching. No teeth or fangs. Mouths, lips, and tongues only. Each player gets thirty seconds to do his damndest. When I call time, that's it. You can't buy a second turn unless you go back through the line. Each of our boys will be blindfolded to keep it fair and square. He won't be able to play favorites."
Right. But I'd bribed Myn to tap me on the hand whenever I was being sucked by a female so I'd be able to avoid climaxing.
"First up at bat--the First Contact's own Golden Boy--let's hear it for George!"
I sat down on the bar and spread my legs, resting my feet on two of the stools. Someone tied a blindfold over my eyes. I leaned back on my elbows and settled in for a nice, long blow job. And a thousand credits plus forty percent of the take.
I felt like I could last all night without even trying. For one thing, most of the players didn't know jackshit about sucking dick. And for another, Myn never shut up. She kept up a raucous commentary, describing each player's technique and my responses.
Every now and then, she'd tap my hand at the beginning of a round, and I'd start calculating warp equations. Too bad, because, for the most part, the females were the best of the bunch. But finish the evening throwing up in the head? No way.
Now with the males, I got playful. Every now and then I'd gasp or moan, and the crowd would scream their encouragement. And Myn would shriek, "Is he gonna blow? Is he? Nah, he's just toying with you. Yeah, George is a big tease."
Once I even yawned. Thought it was pretty funny until Gary whispered, "Are you insane? You just insulted something that looks like a bear's first cousin."
After that I stuck to positive responses.
The Golden Boy. Oh yes, I was the Golden Boy and I was having the time of my life. All those creatures lining up to pay homage to my beautiful rod. Paying to give me pleasure. I could have held off for hours just riding that high. Getting my dick sucked wasn't half as gratifying as having my vanity stroked.
"Let's have a winner here, Georgie," Torvald whispered behind me. "They're getting impatient."
Whoever was on the other end of my cock thought I was talking to him and sucked harder.
"I mean it, wise guy. I'm onto you. If there isn't a winner in the next five players, I'm gonna tell Myn to stop warning you about the pussies."
I blew my wad two players later.
"We have a winner!" Myn shrieked.
The losers responded with groans and curses.
Someone turned me over the bar as the crowd roared its approval. I'd guessed it was an Andorian from the temperature of his mouth and his accent confirmed it. I'd had plenty of them before. They usually didn't take long.
"Hold on, big boy. Not so fast. Lube yourself up while I take care of George here."
Myn shoved some goop into me. I hoped the Andorian was doing a more thorough job on himself.
I felt a cool slender dick enter me and heard Gary murmur, "Andorian."
Gary caught the pun and groaned.
Yes, I knew it was an Andorian. And yes, I'd had enough foresight to give myself an enema before leaving the dorm. Andorians--and a few other creatures--can shoot out a cup or more of cum. The aftermath can be pretty embarrassing if you're not prepared.
"I'll have the towels ready, kid."
The Andorian's tool began throbbing, and I knew it wouldn't be long.
On the floor behind the bar, I sat on a pile of towels and let the winner's chilly cum run out of me. I grinned stupidly, wallowing in my luck. An Andorian with a modest tool and a short fuse. I'd barely even felt him.
Torvald passed me a whiskey--the good stuff, too--and said, "Nice work, George."
I sipped the drink and listened to Myn describe Gary's performance.
What? Gary couldn't have done more than four or five players. Impossible. Yeah, he was nervous when we first came out, but he seemed to have settled down. I realize now that he just wanted it to be over.
I shot to my feet and ran to the other side of the bar. I got there just in time to see Myn turn my roommate over to a Rigellian.
I grabbed Torvald and yelled, "You can't let him do this!"
"I agree your friend didn't do so well--"
"No Rigellians, Torvald! We never do them! Nobody does!"
"Tough titty. They'll tear the place apart if I try to stop it. So just settle down--"
I turned to Gary and took hold of his arms, intending to pull him off the bar. Two of Torvald's men pried me away and dragged me into the office. They threw me into a corner and left. I ran to the door, but it was locked. I pounded on it furiously, howling Gary's name.
Gary could barely walk when they brought him to me. I cradled him in my arms and kept saying how sorry I was. He never made a sound.
Myn came in and clicked her tongue at the sight of the two of us.
"Poor babies," she drawled sarcastically. "What did you expect? They can suck dick any night of the week. They won't pay a cover charge unless there's something different. Danger is the name of this game, you pussies. You just got lucky, Golden Boy, with that pencil dick Andorian."
"Here. There's a cab waiting for you at the side entrance. Torvald says you're both banned from the bar for a month."
I helped Gary into bed and lay down beside him. Once I was certain he was asleep, I got up and went out to the other room. I pulled a chair up by the window and sat there for hours, lost in my own dark thoughts.
Some people might say I should be angry at Gary for introducing me to that life. But I loved it. The sex, the money, and most of all, the attention. To be noticed, petted, appreciated. I finally faced up to how starved I was for it. And realized there probably wasn't enough approval in the entire galaxy to feed my appetite. I *had* to do the show. And if Torvald offered, I'd do it again. Even knowing what happened to Gary, I'd do it again. God help me.
I've never shied away from risk. More than one person has pointed out that I run toward it. Well, I have a lot to prove.
A lot to prove? The Golden Boy?
Hell, yes. Until I arrived at the Academy, I was anything but the Golden Boy. From the time I was seven years old, I'd been told that all that stood between me and failure was my father's determination to make me into something worthy of bearing his name. I can still hear him ranting after he threw Sam out of the house.
"A scientist! Jesus H. Christ, a scientist! I've never seen anyone who was so obviously cut out for command! Sam could've gone all the way to the admiralty."
Then he looked at me. Finally, my father looked at me. After all the years of shining his light on Sam--Sam who truly was the golden boy, who was everything my father wanted in a son, who was even named after him--*finally* my father turned to me. The second son. The afterthought. It was a heady moment, and to this day, I'm glad I had the sense to savor it. Because in less than a minute, it was over.
I smiled and opened my mouth to say that I would never let him down as my brother had. But before I could speak, he slapped me across the face, and I knew I'd just been judged and found wanting.
"You're the only son I have left and, by god, you're going to toe the line. If I have to beat you every day for the next ten years, I'm going to turn you into Starfleet material."
The strange thing was I never had any doubt that I would join Starfleet. It was all I ever wanted. But when Sam turned down a place at the Academy to study at Northwestern University, the burden of the family honor fell on me. And nothing I ever did convinced my father that I was capable of carrying it.
As for beating me every day--well, it wasn't quite that often. And a couple of years later, he was assigned to space duty on the Fortitude so Mom and I only saw him about once a year.
On his last leave before he died, he gave me the worst beating of my life. He came home unexpectedly and caught me in the living room with my hand down my girlfriend's pants. I still don't understand why he lost control like that. He kept yelling at me that only an idiot would ruin his life for a piece of ass.
"You get someone pregnant and you can forget Starfleet, mister!"
Well, maybe accidental pregnancy was a big concern in his day, but everyone I knew had been using contraception since the first day of puberty. And like a fool, I opened my big mouth and told him so.
I remember screaming. I remember pain so dark and overwhelming that I couldn't even feel it anymore. Only the sound of the leather strap against my skin told me it wasn't over. And just before I blacked out, I remember being afraid that I'd die before I even got to apply to the Academy.
I stayed home for a few days, hiding in my room and avoiding him. A couple of friends called, and I told them that I wanted to spend time with my father during his leave. Same thing Mom told the school.
"You okay, Jimmy? Yeah, you can take it. You know what I meant about the girls, don't you? You gotta be careful. Starfleet is very serious about responsible behavior. And I'm serious about Starfleet. So we understand each other, right? I wouldn't be doing you any favors by letting you slide, right? Right?"
"Good." He patted my shoulder and laughed. "I want to see you downstairs for dinner tonight. A little discipline never hurt anyone."
A little discipline? I could hardly walk. Not to mention the humiliation of receiving a bare-ass whipping in front of my girlfriend, who, incidentally, I never saw again.
I managed to stay out of trouble for more than a week. He even smiled when I told him I had sent my application to the Academy. For a brief, dizzying moment, I thought I'd actually won his approval. Then he snorted derisively and said, "You're too young, Jimmy. They won't take you."
The sound of Gary calling my name roused me from the restless sleep I'd fallen into.
I shook myself awake and ran to the bedroom.
"What is it? Gary, what's wrong?"
God, yes. The sheets and blanket on his side of the bed were soaked through. I tried to stay calm.
"Don't worry, Gary," I said. "You're going to be fine. Everything's going to be all right."
I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to make that come true. We couldn't go to the infirmary at the Academy. They'd patch him up and expel us both faster than you can say "conduct unbecoming."
I dismissed a hospital emergency room as too dangerous. There was no way we could explain Gary's injuries as anything other than assault. And if the cops showed up, we'd not only be thrown out of school, we'd have police records. Sexual commerce wasn't illegal for consenting adults, but we were on the wrong side of that law by a few years.
"Shut up, Mitchell," I snapped. "I'm trying to think."
Not much of a bedside manner, but my anger helped me focus.
I called the First Contact, thinking that Torvald could put me in touch with some discreet physician. But he wasn't there, and the bartender didn't know how to reach him. He offered me some advice that wasn't exactly comforting.
"Whatever you do, don't involve the cops. If Torvald gets shut down for letting you work here, he'll cripple the both of you. Don't fuck with him, George. Try it, and you might not end up dead, but you'll wish you were."
Jesus Christ. I'd never felt more helpless in my life.
"Gary, listen. We have to go to the infirmary."
"Well, what the *fuck* do you suggest we do?"
He stared at me for a long time. Then he shook his head ruefully.
Sydan. Of course. He'd been back for four days. We'd seen each other twice and practically burned the place down each time. I was back in his good graces, and he in mine, not that his standing with me mattered. But he had money, position, and connections. He was somebody. I punched up the access code he'd given me. Only in an emergency, he had instructed me. If this wasn't an emergency, I didn't want to know what was.
He answered with a short "Yes?"
I quickly described the situation. Within twenty minutes, a doctor arrived and shooed me into the sitting room.
An hour later, he came out and told me Gary was asleep. He gave me a couple of bottles of medication and explained how much and how often. He said he would come back the next day.
The doctor came back on Saturday and again on Sunday. He never told us his name, but he seemed competent. By Sunday evening, Gary could almost walk normally.
Monday morning, we went back to the Academy. Gary got through his classes, stoically masking his pain. He couldn't take his pills during the day because they made him groggy. That night he took a double dose of painkiller, and I did the homework for both of us.
Tuesday afternoon, we were on opposing teams in a soccer match. One minute into the game, I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. He was nowhere near the ball, and the coaches and other players were appalled by my "unsportsmanlike conduct." But I couldn't think of any other way to get him out of play.
I was thrown out of the game. As Gary limped off the field, blood streaming down his leg, he grinned and gave me a thumbs up. With a friend like Jim Kirk, who needs enemies?
I wished I was still in the match so that perhaps someone would kick me. Hard. In the balls.
"How is your friend?" Sydan asked.
We'd just finished making love. I lay half across him, my head on his shoulder. I loved being with him like that. It felt safe.
"Much better. Thank you for...what you did."
After a long silence, he asked, "How did he come to be injured?"
I briefly considered lying to him. I could tell him that Gary contacted me after the fact, and I was just trying to help him. I didn't know about mind melds then, but I knew Sydan could catch me out by simply asking Torvald what had happened. So I took a deep breath and told him how Gary "came to be injured."
There are many ways a human might react to that story. Push me away in disgust. Hold me tightly out of pity. Comfort me with soothing words. Slap me for my stupidity.
Sydan did none of those things. When I started talking, one of his hands was resting on my shoulder and the other was at the back of my head, his fingers buried softly in my hair. They were still there when I finished. He listened to the entire story and never moved, never tensed, never reacted in any way.
Finally, he turned away from me, got dressed and went into the living room. I got up and pulled on my jeans. It took me a few minutes to work up the nerve to follow him. I found him sitting in front of the firepot with his eyes closed.
I knew better than to interrupt his meditation, I told myself to wait, but the suffocating quiet was unbearable.
He held up a hand and I backed away. I sat down on the sofa and waited. After a few minutes, he straightened decisively and joined me.
"George, I regret that I have misjudged you. My affection for you clouded my judgment and I was overly generous in my assessment of your character. Your actions have demonstrated that you are too immature for an arrangement such as ours.
"You are a danger to yourself and to those around you. You do not temper your impulses with even the meager reflection that passes for retrospection among your kind. Regrettably, I must discontinue our relationship before your lack of discretion endangers me, my position, and my family."
"I must ask you to return my communication device."
I argued with him. I begged him to give me another chance. I finally told him that I loved him.
The words slammed into me with heavy finality. I realized that there was no point in talking to him. My feelings were nothing against the cold wall of Vulcan logic. I gave him the communicator, went into the bedroom, and finished dressing. When I came out, he was gone. My pay for the evening--along with a sizable bonus--was on a little table near the door.
Gary and I never went back to the First Contact. When our money from the contest and my "severance pay" ran out, I began selling the gifts Sydan had given me. I didn't know the value of fine things, and I was bowled over when I had them assessed.
I practically had to force Gary to take half. He said he didn't blame me for what happened, and I told him I believed him.
Our graduation gift to each other was the promise that, whichever one got a command first, the other would be his exec.
But ten years later, when they gave me the Enterprise, Gary was still in regen, recovering from injuries suffered during the battle of Ghioghe. Injuries incurred once again under my leadership. But this time it was different. I wasn't acting out of vanity or a desire for self-gratification. I had the medal to prove it. "In the finest tradition of Starfleet." And my reward was the Enterprise.
When Admiral Komack first informed me that Captain Pike's science officer was staying on as my first officer, I tried to talk him into leaving the position open until Commander Mitchell could join me. He turned me down and made it very clear that the discussion was over. I immediately began planning how I would replace this unknown Vulcan as soon as my friend was onboard.
There was no reason to think I couldn't pull it off. I'd already beaten astronomical odds and at age thirty, I was the youngest starship captain in the fleet. Everything was going exactly as I'd planned. I was in complete control, unstoppable, invincible. Until the day I assumed command of the Enterprise and felt the universe shift on its axis.
"Captain Kirk, this is your executive officer, Commander Spock."
I didn't hear another word the admiral said.
They say that a Deltan's sexuality will overpower everyone within five meters. Well, I've never met anyone, of any species, who could hold a candle to Spock for sheer impact. I saw everything that first instant--the power, the passion, the heat--and I wanted it. I wanted to peel away that cool veneer and hear him beg. I could already hear myself. I was reeling and, in that second instant, I saw that I wasn't the only one.
I looked into those dark eyes, and I hardly dared to believe what I found there. The famous Vulcan control was cracking. You had to look to see it, but it was unmistakable.
I smiled. What is it they say--love is a battlefield? Well, I wasn't above using every weapon in my arsenal, and I turned on the charm full force. He raised an eyebrow that asked a question at the same time it answered it. I suddenly realized that all the seductions of the past had been a warm-up for this moment. My stomach lurched with anticipation.
Komack cleared his throat, and I realized that the silence was becoming awkward. But only for the admiral. There was plenty of communication going on between me and my first officer. Even someone as thick as the old man should have been able to pick up on it.
Spock said something about having served on the Enterprise for eleven years under Captain Pike. His voice went through me like electricity. Poured over me and washed away everything I'd ever believed about myself. I pulled myself together and suggested he give me a tour. He agreed. When we were out of the admiral's earshot, I proposed we start with my quarters.
For my first act as Captain of the Enterprise, I fucked the First Officer.
You couldn't call it lovemaking. It was more...primitive. I want, therefore I take. Later we came to know each other's minds and hearts, and love what we found there. Later our bodies spoke for us because there were no words. Later the physical act was a manifestation of what we were.
But at first, it was desire, raw and uncomplicated. I can almost wish that's all it ever was.
In those first weeks, I was so captivated by Spock's sexuality that I barely noticed his remarkable talents as a first officer. But by the time Commander Mitchell joined the Enterprise, I'd have sooner cut off my right arm than risk losing Spock in any capacity.
I knew I'd betrayed Gary--I could see the accusation in his eyes. But I couldn't help it. Because I believed I'd finally found myself--the man I wanted to be, the man I was meant to be.
When Spock looked at me, when I saw myself reflected in his shining brightness and transformed by his admiration, I felt strong and clean in a way I never had before. To Spock, *for* Spock, I was untarnished. I was the Golden Boy.
Not quite three years. How did all that time slip away? Where did I get the idea that Spock and I would go on forever, captain and first officer, t'hy'la and k'harai? Where was my famous instinct for survival when fate got tired of toying with us?
It started with biology. Vulcan biology. Ironic, isn't it? A few years earlier, I had earned my living satisfying a Vulcan's biological needs. But I hadn't heard of pon farr.
I was stunned when Spock explained it to me. It sounded...well, ridiculous. *Dying* from horniness? Impossible. Spock assured me that it was "indeed possible, and imminent."
We headed for Vulcan, and I watched Spock slipping away from me. By the time I thought to offer myself in T'Pring's place, the plak tow was stripping away his control, and he lashed out at me.
"We are not *bondmates*! You can scarcely bring yourself to grant me the comfort of a mind meld. I know very little of T'Pring, but I am certain that she understands the duties of a mate!"
We didn't speak again until we beamed down to Vulcan.
The duties of a mate. And the options. That bitch understood both sides of the equation. She coldly calculated the price of her freedom and who should pay it. So Spock and I fought each other.
He fought for his life and I fought...well, for the same reason I did The Show at the First Contact. I told McCoy I didn't want to look cowardly in front of T'Pau, but that's just a fancy way of saying I wanted to show off. To prove myself, parade my worth. Despite my hurt over his angry words, I wanted Spock to see that I *would* fight for him. I wanted him to acknowledge that, even without melding or bonding, I was what he wanted. I wanted to force him to his knees and make him say, "Enough. This is enough. You are enough."
Luckily, for once Bones retained his professional detachment, because if he had been just a little slower on the uptake, I would have died that day. I thought I did die. My last thought as I lost consciousness was, "I'm losing Spock. To *her*."
That night in my quarters, we held each other so tightly that we both had bruises the next day.
It took me about a week to work up the courage to ask him what would happen in seven years.
"If I do not bond before then, my family will choose a mate for me."
And he will bond with her and she will bear his children and know his soul, as he will know hers. And I will have nothing.
I thought about that for nearly two months. Every time we made love, I was reminded that this was all I would ever have of him. Every time I pressed his hand to my mouth so that he wouldn't reach for my temple, I was ashamed of myself. I had treated the celesters in the First Contact better. At least they got what they paid for. Spock offered all that he was and was cheated in the exchange.
So I proposed. I didn't get down on one knee, but I took his hand and told him that I wanted him for the rest of my life. Under any and all circumstances. He was very cautious and I think a little disbelieving. I finally had to say it straight out.
"I can't live with the thought of losing you to someone else. If you were human, I'd say, 'let's get married.' But you're Vulcan, so...let's get bonded."
I thought it sounded pretty lame, but Spock told me how to say it in Vulcan and I repeated the words after him.
It means "I pledge thee my soul."
My soul. Until that moment, when Spock's eyes brightened with fierce joy, I wouldn't have said I even had one. But once again, his belief in me made me think I could be something better than I was. I thought I was a long way from my past, and Spock was my future.
As we made love that night, I told myself that soon, very soon, I would tell him who his intended really was.
Very soon. But not soonest. And somewhere between those two, a man and his wife stepped out of a shuttlecraft and onto the hangar deck of the Enterprise.
"Captain James Kirk," I introduced myself quickly.
"Captain," responded the Vulcan I knew as Sydan.
I reminded myself that I intended to tell Spock about him anyway. I realized Sydan wasn't about to embarrass either of us by acknowledging our past relationship. No cause for alarm.
"Captain. The ambassador and his wife are my parents."
The rest of the journey is just a blurred parade of images and emotions...
Amanda explaining to me that Spock's father hadn't approved of his career choice. Wanting to laugh hysterically and say, "Neither did mine"...
Entering a room packed with aliens, seeing Sydan among them, feeling almost sick with deja vu...
Spock looking at me strangely and realizing that he expected me to ask why he hadn't told me about his parents before. Knowing I couldn't ask, couldn't risk having any sort of discussion about Sydan--*Sarek*...
Breaking up a fight between the Vulcan and Tellarite ambassadors, and that brief moment alone together. Staring at him and feeling relief that no passion flared between us...
How close I came to spitting in his face when he contemptuously refused to discuss his meditation with 'earthmen'...
My anger at the news that Spock had told his mother about our intent to bond...
Trying to deny the part of me that rejoiced in the possibility of Spock's father dying in surgery, taking our secret to his grave...
And lastly, the non-expression on the ambassador's face when he realized that he owed his life to my willingness and ability to deceive his son...
"You wanted to see me, Ambassador?"
I was sweating and I told myself it was because of the Vulcan-normal atmosphere maintained in that portion of the diplomats' enclave on Babel. I suddenly realized that was the reason he hadn't requested we meet on the Enterprise. He had barely spoken to me when we were on my ship, where I called the shots. No, he wanted to meet here, where the heat was almost unbearable for an 'earthman.' Well, there wasn't anything I could do about sweating, but I refused to squirm.
"My wife informs me that you and my son intend to become bondmates."
I nodded. I thought I knew what was coming. I just wanted to hear the logical explanation of why I was completely unworthy of the honor.
"Are you aware that such a union would make my son an outcast among our people?"
"It's not going to increase my popularity at home either."
"I am not talking about a quaint Terran prejudice. A small number of Vulcans disapprove of interspecies relationships, but that would be of no concern to Spock. He is the product of such a union. I am speaking of our greatest taboo, which you and my son have unknowingly violated."
"What taboo is that?" I sneered.
I thought he was going to say love. Over the years, I'd convinced myself that Vulcans were incapable or ashamed of love. I thought Spock was the exception. I thought that only his human half loved me.
"I believe it is still forbidden on earth. I speak of incest."
"Our relationship is not incestuous."
"By Vulcan law and tradition, your relationship is exactly that. Both father and son have shared the same mate. On the day of your bonding, and for every day after that, Spock will know the deepest shame."
"Look, Sarek, if you're trying to scare me off, I'm not buying it. Spock and I have melded before. He's taught me enough about it so that I can protect myself. And he respects my shields when he encounters them. The only way he'll find out about you and me is if you tell him."
"I see he has not told you about the mil'n k'har--the light that reveals all. Perhaps he does not fully understand it. He left Vulcan at a very early age and is unaware of much of his heritage. Or perhaps he feels that there is nothing about you that could surprise him. Is this true, captain? Have you told him of your early career?"
"I thought not. At the moment of bonding, the mil'n k'har flares brightly for a brief instant. Your katra- -or soul as you earthmen call it--will be as easily read as text freshly printed on a page. Neither of you will be able to conceal any part of your being. Nor can such knowledge be refused or denied. It is a purifying fire that can also destroy. Some pairings cannot withstand it, even when the bond has been prepared in childhood, as was Spock's to T'Pring. The pol n'katra--the refusal of the partner's soul--is the only circumstances under which bondmates can divorce."
"And did your wife accept your soul? Did she see and approve of the sort of relationship you had with me?"
"My relationship with my wife is no concern of yours. However, I will tell you that she does not object if I pursue casual relationships outside our marriage, providing, of course, that I am discreet."
Casual relationships. Discretion. My past rose up and destroyed my future.
"If you bond with Spock, at that moment, he will see all that you are, and all that you have been. He will see whatever led you to that life, and I have no doubt he will understand and forgive. But he will also see you with me and know what we were to each other. He may understand and forgive it in us, but never in himself. My son is a man of honor, and I do not wish to see him shamed. I ask you to think of Spock and make this sacrifice for his sake, as I do."
"What great sacrifice are you making?" I asked bitterly.
"Has he told you so little of our culture?" Sarek sighed in dismay. "Because of my past relationship with you, I will never be able to share my mind with my son. Nor will I be able to reveal my reasons for denying him this. The sharing between father and son is not as revealing as the mil'n k'har, but it is as important and beautiful. And it is a joy that he and I will never know. The breach between us will never be fully healed, and I will never be able to tell him that the fault is mine, not his."
Fathers and sons. Do they all end like this?
The last thing I would ever have wished on Spock is my final gift to him.
His father's approval, the knowledge of his own worthiness--I have stolen those things from him. I know that as surely as I know they were stolen from me. I know what it is to live without them, to want them past all reason and logic. And knowing that, I think my sin is worse than my father's.
I remember the last time I saw my father.
I came home from school on the last day of his leave, and he was waiting for me. He told me he'd just heard about my latest prank. I'm very drunk now, but even sober, I've never been able to remember exactly what I had done. It took me years to realize that it didn't matter, it could have been anything. Our final confrontation came about because I had talked a friend into joining me in the caper.
I waited for the order to get the strap out of the closet. But for once, he beat me with words instead of his strong right arm. His voice was as cold and sharp as ice, and, god, I can hear it echoing in this dirty place.
"I give up on you. You're not Starfleet, and you never will be. I would pity anyone serving with someone like you. You're nothing but a cunning, selfish manipulator. You charm people into doing what you want, and you think that's leadership. You're no son of mine."
He looked very tired as he disappeared in the transporter beam.
Eight months later, I received a letter of acceptance from the Academy. A handwritten note from the Dean congratulated me on being the youngest ever admitted.
That same day, we received word that Commander George Kirk had been reported lost, presumed dead. Mom crawled into a bottle, and I thanked God for finally answering my prayers.
I try to tell myself my father was wrong. Every medal and commendation I have says he was wrong. The reports of every officer I served under say he was wrong. The fact that I command the Enterprise--the flagship--says he was wrong.
But the truth is he knew me, and he recognized what I was.
Less than three years. We've had less than three years together.
If you could hear me now, Spock, you'd say something like, "Thirty-two months, six days, seventeen hours, and twelve-point-four minutes." I would smile at this gentle correction because I am still utterly enchanted by your "Vulcan-ness." You would cock an eyebrow at me, but you wouldn't smile. You wouldn't have to.
I'd like to see that once more. I'd like to make some outrageous statement just to watch your non-reaction. I'd like to explain myself by simply saying, "I'm human, Spock," and see you apply yourself to the newest puzzle, knowing that, in the end, you will quietly accept me, as you always have. I wish you would cut yourself the same slack.
You Vulcans have an interesting expression. 'What is, is.' I think it's supposed to be comforting. To you, perhaps it is. Perhaps you've found some comfort in letting me be the man I am. But there's none there for me. The man I am brought us to this.
Perhaps if you'd been more demanding. Perhaps if you had taken what I cannot give. Perhaps if you had forced it on me when I pushed your hand from my face, it would be all right now. You could have done it. And I would be yours. Because I understand force. I understand pain and I understand helplessness. I do not understand tenderness and patience.
How could you let me refuse the mind meld time after time, when you needed it? And on the rare occasions when I agreed to it, I held back, never really losing myself in our heat, for fear of dropping my shields. You saw this, you felt it, you *knew* it--how could you not?--and yet you called me on it only once.
It's the one thing that might have spared us this. If we had truly shared ourselves when we didn't know what was at stake, we might have had the strength to withstand whatever comes. But I was too afraid, too human to risk baring myself to you. And you were too Vulcan to strip me of my facade.
You may not believe in intuition, but you believe in me. You weren't being ironic last night. You didn't realize how your words would sting. You spoke from the heart when you called me "my k'harai."
I wish I could go to you now, t'hy'la. To hold you one last time and hear you whisper my name. But I can't. The knowledge that what we do is wrong--not by my standards, but by yours--makes it impossible. I have shamed myself with my actions many times, but I believe that the things I did with you were pure, as you yourself are.
I know how harshly you would judge yourself. You would never believe that the guilt is mine, that my deceit makes you innocent of any wrongdoing. The truth about me and my past would strip you of your pride. You would believe yourself unclean. You, the only clean thing in my life that I haven't soiled. You're the noblest man I've ever known, and no one can take that from you, least of all me. But you won't believe that. You would deny your goodness and cloak yourself in shame. And that must not happen.
So once again, Sydan and I share a secret. And this time, I understand the need for discretion, perhaps better than he does.
Tomorrow I will ask you to come to my quarters. I will calmly explain that my feelings have changed and I find myself unable to bond with you. I will say whatever it takes to drive you away. I will ask you--order you--to transfer off my ship. Our ship.
I will watch the reflected gold in your eyes fade to ashes.
My t'hy'la, my friend, what little I know of honor, I have learned from you. But I know very little and understand even less. I think honor to me is like color to a blind man.
Is it honorable to hurt you as I must? Is it honorable to manipulate you, to deceive you as I have others? Is it honorable to make you hate me, because I hope to make it easier for you to leave me?
It must be. It hurts so much, and it feels so foreign to me. It must be honorable.
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