The KiScon Zine: 2004

OUT OF PRINT

First Published in May 2004
99 pages
15 short stories, 7 poems, one play
Cover by Iracema Marianne Mueller; no interior art
Poetry by Robin Hood, T’Guess, Helen, Carolyn Spencer
All except the play submitted as entries to the KiScon 2004 writing contests
The short stories needed to include one of three words—toy, bucolic, or cutthroat—and they were required to be no longer than ten pages long

McCoy was incredulous “A toyshop? On this bucolic nightmare of a planet? You must be joking!”

Kirk looked around at the rolling fields and spreading forest curving gently down to the distant sea. Bucolic this planet certainly was, a nightmare, definitely not, although he was well aware that his taste in shore leave differed from that of his city loving CMO. He smiled and breathed in another deep breath of the cool, fresh, non-recycled air. Much as he loved his ship, he had to admit that the sweet scent of growing things combined with the salt tang of the ocean was a great improvement on the faintly chemical odours they lived with on board.

Despite his testy comments, Kirk noted that McCoy looked undeniably relaxed, his eyes closed as he exposed his face to the setting sun, his feet up on the wooden handrail of the veranda around Kirk’s isolated cabin. McCoy hadn’t been alone in needing this leave; the entire crew had benefited from the few days of rest and relaxation. Kirk knew that the lines of exhaustion had disappeared from his own face and he had slept better than he had for months, passing the nights in dreamless peace beneath a wild purple sky littered with shooting stars.

And he had spent every one of those nights alone. No doubt he could have found some willing local to spend time with, but he hadn’t bothered to look. He had already found what he wanted and he was now enjoying the interesting, although somewhat slow, process of achieving it. He was deeply and passionately in love with his first officer and his first officer felt exactly the same way in return. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name, and Spock knew he knew although not a word had ever been exchanged between them on the subject. Eventually one of them would have to make the first move; Kirk had no idea who it would be, or

how it was going to happen, or when, but unusually for his generally impatient nature he was content to allow things to develop as they would.

For a year now he’d carried it, close to his heart, guarding it carefully. A secret that brought both joy and sorrow.

From the start he’d found himself drawn to the Vulcan. His aloof, mysterious demeanor was a challenge, something Kirk could never turn from. Time and patience had been needed, and there had been many misunderstandings and hurts along the way. But trust and respect had grown, deepening to friendship. The friendship of a lifetime. Anticipating each other’s thoughts, unfailing support that went well beyond duty, companionship and sharing. Their lives were woven tightly together, friendship eventually, inevitably, evolving into love.

It was not unrequited, either. Kirk knew the Vulcan loved him as well, measure for measure, their journey into emotion and desire a joint venture, as they did everything else—in unison, as a team. Kirk sighed. A love that was doomed before it could even find expression. The very life that had brought them together kept them from taking the step that would make them lovers.

Oh, there weren’t any specific regulations against it, but the brass generally didn’t favor the command team being personally involved, and Kirk basically agreed with them—there was a risk of favoritism, a possible perception of impropriety among the crew. Spock agreed with it also, he knew; the Vulcan’s silence was in part in deference to his commanding officer, partly due to his reserved nature, but mainly, Kirk knew, because Spock would never do anything to jeopardize his captain’s image or standing.

So here they were, in love with one another, both knowing it and unable to do anything about it. They couldn’t even say it, bound by duty to keep their silence or risk giving in to temptation. Sharing an untold secret. The chime of his door broke him from his glum reverie. “Come,” he called out, knowing who it was. He didn’t look up, closing his eyes and just letting the other’s presence sink into his being.

The resounding slap on his naked ass startled Kirk. He yelped in surprise and crawled forward quickly—hopefully out of range of a second ‘love-tap’ from his Vulcan lover.

“You presume to toy with me and attempt to escape unscathed?” Spock caught the slim hips, dragging his squirming lover back through the pile of autumn leaves they had chosen for their impromptu sexual romp on this unusually warm afternoon. Instead of administering another gentle chastisement, he leaned down and bit playfully at the protruding and tempting flesh. Then slid his tongue along the tight crevice of…. The low, sexy chuckle confirmed that Kirk was, indeed, teasing him, goading him on.

“I like to show-off what you can’t have. At least, not at the moment.” Kirk had instigated the al fresco sexual session. Unfortunately, they were not prepared for intercourse.

Spock sighed and gently kissed a sweet, reddening cheek. “A blanket and even a small tube of lubricant would be most welcome.” He brushed red/gold leaves from the flawless skin and wondered where the flannel shirts and jeans they had tried to spread for cover had gone.

Kirk rolled over, crackling leaves and displaying a full erection. “I have something that might compensate.” He pushed his hips up, flaunting himself shamelessly. “And you have something I definitely need to check out.” Kirk licked his lips. Spock was sitting back on his heels, the long green penis erected tightly, and looking very tempting.

During the leisurely woodland stroll through the pines and oaks, they had stopped underneath a bare-limbed tree to kiss for a while and excitement had escalated rather more quickly than expected. Then again, with McCoy along on this camping trip,

they’d had less privacy and fewer opportunities. But Kirk knew how to make do.

“It is said, Spock of Vulcan, that you are Kirk’s toy—that you follow his commands in the bedroom as well as on the bridge. Is this true?” Commander Haidux loomed over the first officer of the Enterprise, who was sprawled on the ground at the feet of the huge Mergan, his hands bound tightly behind his back.

Spock met Haidux’s leering gaze impassively and remained silent. Behind the jutting rock that concealed him from the small band of Mergans, Jim Kirk’s fingers fairly bit into the rough stone as his hazel eyes grew steely with anger.

“Nothing to say, Vulcan Whore?” Haidux’s lips twisted into the cruel grin of a born cutthroat as he studied the helpless Vulcan. “Lift him up,” he snapped at his men. “I want to look Kirk’s Toy in the face.” Two of the huge Mergans reached down to obey, hauling Spock to his feet effortlessly. As soon as he was upright, Haidux wound his thick fingers into Spock’s silky hair and pulled the Vulcan’s face close to his. “Perhaps he does this to you?” he sneered, and kissed Spock hard on the mouth.

Kirk saw Spock struggle unsuccessfully to move away from the unwelcome caress. The Mergans who held him merely tightened their grip and laughed as their leader deepened the kiss and pulled Spock closer to him before he finally drew away. Spock turned his face from his tormentor, allowing Kirk to see a shiny bead of green blood upon his bottom lip.

With a sharp intake of breath, the starship captain strove to reign in the fiery hatred that smoldered within his belly: it was imperative that he think, and think clearly.

Kirk sighed and rubbed his hand around the back of his neck trying to ease the tension that had taken up permanent residence there. The last several missions aboard the Enterprise had added layers of stress to an already exhausted crew. Their last shore leave had been cut short to handle a conflict in the Alpha Quadrant. Then came the transportation of the new Rigelian ambassador and her family of concubines/mates. She had wanted to expand it further to include Uhura. It had taken all Kirk’s patience and diplomacy (and with Uhura, fast talking) to maintain equanimity without a diplomatic incident occurring. Then there was first contact with the new species on Argelious 1V with numerous waving, sucking, spurting appendages protruding from every patch of their bodies. Combine that with an new diplomatic intern over eager to meet a new life form—well, Sulu stopped him just in time before an intergalactic misunderstanding occurred—or perhaps even a marriage. And finally the continued negotiations with the Romulans over the territorial boundaries near the Federation colony near Mudd’s old planet. He just knew they thought those robots were still hidden there somewhere. Kirk rubbed his forehead hoping his headache would just disappear. Nope, not working.

Kirk needed a distraction. His usual one, his bondmate, was still performing delicate experiments in the science lab and could not be disturbed until they were completed. It had been several nights now that they had been on separate shifts. Gods, how he missed him. They had not been bonded long. He still could not believe how lucky they were to have finally found the courage to speak to each other of their feelings. And finally, to make the commitment to bond.

With a sigh, Kirk could feel his pulse speed up as he imagined that hot body standing close behind him. He missed Spock rubbing his shoulders, his companionship, those dark eyes gently caressing his body, those long fingers playing over his chest, that sensual mouth sucking on his nipples, that magnificent jade cock rising from between his long lean legs asking to be…with a groan, Kirk shook his head.

Kirk slammed his clenched fist on his desk, unleashing some of his frustration and apprehension. His future hung on Spock’s answer; a future of either prosperity or adversity.

The first officer who stood calmly before him looked the same, but he was not—and Kirk had detected the change almost as soon as he had reappeared on his own ship, the I.S.S. Enterprise.

It wasn’t what Spock said or did. The Vulcan was too shrewd and disciplined not to act in his customary manner. But his dark, piercing gaze glittered with a newfound light, a peculiar gleam that Spock couldn’t conceal whenever Kirk looked him straight in the eye. Kirk was convinced that the Vulcan was hiding something or he was formulating a plan that excluded Kirk, and that could only mean one thing—mutiny or assassination. Kirk had always trusted his gut feelings to survive, and now his instincts screamed ‘danger’.

Marlena had been more transparent, almost an open book. She could barely hide her scorn when he stepped down from the transporter pad. He hadn’t expected that they would run into each other’s arms in slow motion, like some stomach-turning romantic film, but he hadn’t anticipated such a display of blatant loathing. In the beginning, she had done everything in her power to become his mistress, although he knew that she loved the status of being ‘the captain’s woman’ more than she cared for him. Their tumultuous affair had soured recently, so if she wanted out, he’d be happy to see her go, helped along from a swift kick of his boot. But if Marlena and Spock had joined forces and were plotting against him, they would both pay dearly.

He silently cursed his misfortune. Marlena wasn’t worth a second thought – women like her, however beautiful, were a dime a dozen. But Spock was the only person on board whom he had trusted; a trust not based on affection or loyalty, but on simpatico interests, an alliance that had brought each of them wealth and power. It was a pact with the devil that both had enjoyed to the fullest.

Yellow Federation Security Bureau of Investigations crime scene tape barricaded the entrance. Together they sliced through it, but a new lock had been added. Spock confounded the Fleet lock and the door slid aside without further protest. Night had already fallen, so only a weak glow came in through the picture window by the bay. Dim dots from the polka-dotted patterns of lights on the water, on land and in the sky. Jim signaled the overhead utilities and the room was suddenly bathed in white.

Jim grimaced wryly as he picked the way through the debris that had been their belongings. “Yes, Starfleet Investigations is nothing if not thorough. I should know; I approved the search protocol myself.” Not that there had been anything to find except one half-empty bottle of Romulan Ale. His desperate trip back to Genesis had been so quickly planned and executed that there was no telltale evidence to find, either here or in his office.

Stepping over the remains of some shelving, Spock picked up a model of a ship, which lay in two pieces on the floor. Jim watched him turn it over in his palm.

“Yes, yes,” Jim prodded impatiently. “But do you remember why we had it?”

“It was the vessel you commanded during stardates 7423.6 to 7447.2, while the Enterprise was in refit, to survey the temporal anomalies in the area of the V’ger effect. It was a gift to you from the crew, as I recall.”

Jim waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. He took the pieces of the model from Spock’s hand. “It was a gift to us,” he stressed, “from the crew.” And not just the standard parting token from crew to captain, but a personal memento given with best wishes. The card had read, “May your fuel be rich, your course be true, and your journey be unending.” It was on that survey mission that they had sealed the plans for their bonding. Six hours later, the whole crew had somehow known. Thus are the mysteries of space.

Jim turned the fragments over in his hand, then tossed them back on the floor along with the rest of his shattered life. The day after tomorrow he would face court-martial and he was guilty of each and every count. After all he had worked for, all he had done, his life was now reduced to rubble. This mess was only the physical manifestation of the broader situation.

Sometimes he comes to you and throws the full weight of his naked body over you, smothering you with his passion. He takes you fully back in his throat and sucks and pulls until all the heat within you flares like raging wildfire though your chenesi and shoots out in one staggering explosion through your slit, leaving you reeling and bereft of strength or speech. Then he lays his hands tenderly upon your hips ands works you gently with his mouth, coaxing with all the skill of lips and tongue and teeth, until you swell a second--or third, or fourth--time. And then he begins to pleasure you all over again.

Sometimes he comes to you trembling and needy, as needy as you feel yourself, too far gone to voice the cravings of his fervor. He strips and bends and offers himself to you any way, in every way, and he waits silently prepared for whatever you might choose. Sometimes you take him in your mouth and feed your bottomless hunger at his expense. Suckling like a newborn baby, you draw him deep within and hold him through and past his spasms, quite content just to never let him go. Other times you take him from atop, hard and rough and fast. You all but crush him, both with your weight and with the urgency of your desires. It’s not important if it hurts. You need him too much.

Spock did not personally understand why physical pain should cause pleasure in certain beings, but as an observer of diverse cultures, he had encountered the phenomenon frequently enough that discovering it in Jim Kirk was not as disconcerting as one might suppose. For Spock, indulging his bondmate in his unorthodox but harmless fancies did not require his comprehension, only his open-mindedness, prudence, and love. Both men were mature and competent enough to ensure that Jim’s creativity stopped just short of causing actual bodily damage. The concept was even acceptable to Spock’s logical Vulcan mind—was it not logical to accommodate the desires of one’s bondmate, provided one’s own opinions on the matter were in the positive to neutral range?

And so Spock spanked him. He spanked him hard, lightly, and in between. He spanked him in their cabin, in and out of his uniform, sometimes in the bed, sometimes bent over a chair. They discovered that the shower was not a good idea because the floor was too slippery and there really wasn’t enough room in a starship stall anyway. And Jim liked it, and nuzzled up to Spock afterwards, kissing him on the underside of his chin and murmuring raunchy thoughts. Before Jim, Spock hadn’t even realized his chin had an underside, but Jim could transform it into his favorite body part with a few breathy slurps.

Spock was pleased that he was able to give his Jim so much pleasure. He knew it was an activity outside of the Vulcan culture, but inside their cabin they were safe—and conjugal privacy was held in high regard by his people. What a couple chose to do was their affair.

Valentine’s Day was coming up and Jim wanted to talk about it. “What’s your biggest fantasy?” he asked lazily one night, pushing the pillow down so that it didn’t block his mouth when he opened it to speak.

Spock checked the transporter panel and computed there was sufficient power for one more transport. He punched in the coordinates of Kirk’s last known location, stepped onto the grid, and beamed down into absolute chaos.

Spock immediately obeyed the command as a chair flew through the space previously occupied by his head. A large Klingon quickly followed the chair, crashed head first into a nearby wall and slowly slid to the floor.

“Are ye alright, Laddie?” Montgomery Scott crawled through a tangle of bodies and overturned furniture. He gestured for Spock to follow him behind a massive, mirror-backed bar.

“Damned if I know. Everything was fine at first, then about three hours ago…all hell broke loose. It’s like the computers went crazy.”

“He left to find the Keeper. Not now, Tinkerbell.” Scott brushed a tiny translucent female with wings off his nose. “But that was over two hours ago. McCoy’s next door playing poker with Snow White and a bunch of dwarfs. Maybe, he’s seen him.”

The last Spock saw of the chief engineer, he was diving headfirst into a battalion of Klingons, with the Tinkerbell creature clinging persistently to his shoulder.

Spock shook his head and pushed through a pair of swinging doors. He found himself standing in what was obviously a gambling establishment of some kind. Garish machines lined one wall, disgorging circular metal tokens when a handle was pulled. A large wheel spun around, eliciting screams from various onlookers when it stopped and a small white ball fell into a particular slot. Tables covered in green felt, filled the rest of the area. And that was where he found his usual sparring partner. McCoy was seated at a table next to a young girl with extremely red lips, and seven little men dressed in very peculiar clothing occupied the remaining chairs.

“Pan.” McCoy peeked at his cards, then placed them face down in front of him. “I’ll call that bet, Dopey, and raise you a thousand,” he said, pushing fifteen red-colored disks into the center of the table. “Look, Spock, go bother someone else. I’m busy.”

“I would be delighted to go…bother someone else, if you would be so kind as to tell me where the captain is.”

McCoy waved a hand in a northwesterly direction. “He wandered off a while ago when he couldn’t get a seat. Probably hooked up with that Ruth android again.”

The sun was starting to set as Jim returned home from his late afternoon run. He slowed his pace as he came up the path, then jogged up the sagging steps of his family’s farmhouse. A few minutes after he came into view, he came to rest on the porch. His mother and Spock smiled at him from their respective perches. Jim gave each of them a peck on the cheek and murmured something about refreshment. Both rose to fetch him something from inside, but he shooed them back to their chairs and went in to the kitchen. He returned in a few minutes with a large glass of icewater in his hand and a kitchen towel around his neck. Fairly glowing with health and happiness, he leaned against the wall of the house and sighed. Both mother and mate favored him looks that were obviously pleased and affectionate appraisals. A few peaceful moments passed. All three basked in the sunset as they looked out on the bucolic scene. As the sun touched the horizon, Jim spoke.

“Whew…well. I have to tell you, Spock…you were right about running. Its perfect for me. I feel so…good.” He shrugged, laughing a little at his lack of eloquence.

Spock turned slightly in his chair to face Jim, and his eyes swept over the Human like a warm wave. Jim suddenly felt the urge to shiver despite the lasting warmth of the look and the sunlight. The Vulcan’s eyes took in the slight movement as he spoke. He surprised both people by choosing to do so in Vulcan. Jim spoke it well enough to understand. His mother understood it poorly enough to be very curious.

“I am glad, t’hy’la. That you feel good. That was my original intent, when I recommended running. Your well-being is, of course, of great concern to me. I am glad that it has been improved by this activity.” He paused. “It seems that running has had another effect on you—one that was unintended, but not unexpected. It is not only obvious that you ‘feel good’. It is also quite apparent that you look…good. As you know, Jim, you have always looked good. To me, and to almost all others. You look as good as you are. You are the best of men. And you are beautiful. Yet lately you look…better. Indeed, you look your…best.” Spock’s slight smile grew slightly wider, as if amused by his own lack of eloquence. But more so, as if aroused his partner’s lack of composure. Jim was finding it increasingly hard to swallow, and it was becoming obvious.

Spock, First Officer of the I. S. S. Enterprise, watched as the doppelganger disappeared in the shimmer of the transporter wave and his own captain materialized in his place. He had considered the plea that the alternate Jim Kirk had made to him to be the ‘one man’ to start the ‘revolution’ to end the Empire’s reign of terror, correlated it with the mandate for the Empire’s destruction from the Vulcan High Council (something the alternate had been unaware of) and made his decision. He greeted his returning Captain with a drawn phaser. The instant the transport was complete he fired. As Kirk slumped to the deck, Spock targeted Scott, Uhura and finally McCoy.

He then turned his attention to Lt. Moreau. He was pleased to find her, if considerably shaken, still quite in control of herself. He chose to overlook the fact that her voice quavered slightly when she spoke. Her attitude and her words were satisfactory.

“You may return to your duties or the Captain’s quarters as you choose. I will contact you later to discuss our future association. You will speak of this to no one.”

Spock exchanged salutes with her and watched her exit the room. His estimation of her abilities and worth was increased by her facade of normalcy; not an easy thing for a human, considering the recent events. He then turned back to study the four bodies lying on the transporter pad. The first step of his plan was completed. It had been the simplest to take. Those following it would be much more distasteful and, in the matter of Kirk, much more difficult. Crossing to the pad, he moved the bodies until only Kirk’s remained on the pad. Returning to the control console, he transported Kirk to the private interrogation room attached to the First Officer’s quarters. Then, steeling himself to deal with the savage and disorderly states of their minds, he knelt in turn by each of the other three and blanked their memories of the few seconds of his attack.

With McCoy, Spock did more. He spent an extended time in his meld with the doctor, carefully sifting his memories and comparing them with those of his doppelganger. This was not only a fascinating study in the effects of environment on inborn nature but could also be useful in his plans for dealing with Kirk.

I love the way your body molds exactly to mine, twist for twist at every contour, like chocolate and vanilla in a soft-serve ice cream cone. Except it would be chocolate mint, love. Your skin is flushed green and if the lights were brighter than just candlelight, I’d have to take time to admire the delicate contrast of our alien flesh together.

Your Pon Farr is long since satiated, but why should we dissolve this beauty we’ve finally let bloom? I wanted to do this ages ago. It’s a tribute to how much I care about you that I didn’t try. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

You don’t seem uncomfortable now. Your ankles are rubbing slowly against mine, reassuring you of every cell of my existence, and that I’m really here. Close to you like this for the first real time, I can smell you now—that intimate smell of a person that only a lover can sense, for all others are too far away and you yourself are too accustomed to notice. I breathe deeply. My Spock. My Spock.

Overwhelming emotion—something you still haven’t faced entirely, my handsome Vulcan—can only really be expressed in a few ways if it is to be truly satisfied. We can cry, we can laugh till we shake, we can seek sexual relief. We can punch things, but that’s not usually very constructive.

Overwhelming affection, in my opinion, finds its most satisfying fulfillment in a kiss. I feel such affection in this moment, floating in the undeclared space between friendship and romance with you. I know it can’t last forever, like the island of time between the first and last strikes of midnight. We emerge from this night in a new relationship, like a hypercube expanded in dimensions we can’t imagine from our original friendship. But for this moment, we are still wrapped in our chrysalis together, not speaking, only breathing. I will mark it with a kiss.

The Vulcan stood apart from the others. Apart even from Captain Pike. Stood there watching their fun—their messy, inefficient, unproductive fun. Watching especially the ones who were dancing, to a slow, minor-key, heartbreaking piece of Earth music. Heartbreaking to one whose heart was messy, inefficient and unproductive, that is, such as a human. Not heartbreaking to Spock, though. “Heartbreaking” was an observation, that was all. An observation of an emotional state that this music could probably evoke in a person if….

He watched those ones dancing slow, their bodies pressed closely together. He pressed his back against the wall just to feel his body in contact with something; he folded his arms more tightly against his chest. He tried to imagine someone holding him, imagine holding someone…. Unproductive. He dropped his arms, straightened his spine, took a deep breath.

They did not even know he was there, or if they were aware of him, standing at the wall watching everyone not watching him, they thought of him merely as the Vulcan. An invaluable commodity on a starship.

Even to Captain Pike he was first and foremost a Vulcan, an invaluable commodity. Captain Pike, who did not join in the messy, inefficient and unproductive fun, either. Captain Pike was tired, did not have the stamina and creativity to continue carrying on this demanding tour of duty. His reassignment would have him flying a desk, as the humans said.

Now Spock had to let go of what little he had—a comfortable service relationship. Pike asked of him nothing of a personal nature; he gave nothing personal and, with the captain, was spared the messy, inefficient and unproductive interchanges he had to work to avoid with the crew. The captain never expected an emotional response from him.

He will touch me. He says that I have gone too long without touch. Even a day, he says, even an hour, would be too long. The look he gives me is bittersweet and tinged with regret; his eyes fill with memories. I know he is thinking of the times when duty or propriety prohibited touch between us. When there was a conscious choice to be made. When finally the cold implacable wall of a reactor chamber took away all our choices, separating us and preventing the touch that would have eased my dying.

He has a great deal to make up for, he says. Years when I went without touch. All those long years. He tells me he will touch me now. Tonight. He will put his hands on me tonight, and we will touch.

I do not know how to respond to this. Despite the knowledge I have gained from him over the years, the words do not flow smoothly for me. I suppose the sparking heat that flares in my chest, my side, my groin is an answer of sorts, but of course it is one he cannot hear. He says he knows how I feel. He says he does not need to hear the words. He says that the last thing he wants is to change me, make me into something I am not.

I reach for him. That I can do. The fabric of his uniform is heavy, warm beneath my fingers as I grasp his arms. Just the barest wisp of his thoughts reach me, teasing me with the knowledge that soon we will be skin to skin. Slowly even this thins and fades away. He is shielding from me. He has learned the lessons I taught him years ago far better than I had ever anticipated. That is both pain and pleasure.

He steps backward to the limit my arms can reach without moving forward. I am tempted not to release him even though I know this is what he wishes me to do. He waits, patient as he always is with me. Waits for me to follow his lead in this. As if I have a choice. As if all my choices were not made years ago. My hands drop back to my sides, empty and tingling faintly, echoes of my need.