Title: Idol
Author: J S Cavalcante
Codes: Spock/Isis, K/S
Rating: NC-17 for sex: m/f, m/m, and a mere soupçon of non-con
Summary: Spock found himself "strangely drawn" to Gary Seven's black cat,
Isis, in "Assignment: Earth." At the very end of the episode, we saw her
as a cat-eared woman. She explains to us why, and demonstrates to Spock
why he should go after his heart's desire.
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount; I borrow only for fair and
transformative use, and make no money from it. No violation of copyright
is intended.
Archive: Spock-Fuh-Q-Fest and ASCEM; anywhere else, ask me first.
Warning: The NC-17 rating is your warning. If you are underage, or if
explicit scenes of grown-ups doing grown-up stuff with other grown-ups, of
opposite or same gender, are not your cup of tea, please take your tea and
go elsewhere.
Acknowledgments: Heartfelt thanks to Islaofhope and Roisin Fraser for quick
and witty beta-reads, and to Animasola for oohs and ahs. Thanks also to
Roisin's and Animasola's cats, who helped in their own feline ways.


******************************

IDOL*
by
J S Cavalcante



I am Isis.

I took that name millennia ago, when my race first visited the planet
Earth, and nowhere was the blue planet more fertile and lovely than in the
Nile Valley. The people never knew that the very incarnation of their
goddess of fertility and motherhood walked among them, for my
transformations are perfect and I am discreet.

I am Isis, who can be anyone or anything she chooses.

I have stood beside pharaohs. I walked with several as they surveyed the
construction of their monuments. I stood next to their biers as they were
entombed a pitifully short time later. I stood in the still air in the
complete darkness of their tombs as the entrances were being sealed,
surrounded by the riches of this planet, both monetary and intellectual,
and listened for a sign that the pharaohs were being taken to the Land of
the Dead. But I heard no whisper. So I became a beetle or a scorpion and
I slipped out unnoticed while the last stone was being placed.

In one century that I remember fondly, I became a sloe-eyed female with
long black hair and exquisite honey-colored skin. I went thus among the
pharaoh's concubines, and because my adopted form was so beautiful, no one
ever questioned who I was or whence I had come. Perhaps they thought I had
been born a Hebrew or Babylonian slave.

The pharaoh, with a little subtle telepathic influence from me, never
questioned me either. I became his favorite until I tired of it, but in
the meantime I bore him a son, who grew up and also proved fertile, and so
I became the mother of many of these humans that still inhabit the planet
centuries later.

I am keenly aware also of the other species upon this world, for I have
often taken animal form--a whale when I wished to swim Earth's mighty
oceans, a snake when I longed to feel the earth and rock. But I have taken
most often the form of an exquisite black cat, and of late that is the form
I choose when I visit my adopted planet.

I have learned, for one thing, that humans will say things in the presence
of a cat that they would never say in front of anyone else. Sometimes they
will tell their darkest secrets to the cat. I laugh, but I do not ridicule
them. I love these humans. Whenever one of these Earth people has spoken
a heartfelt wish to me, I have done everything in my power to make it come
true.

None ever recognized that it was the slow-blinking cat who brought them
their heart's desire.

I am Isis, granter of wishes, and today I am again a cat, sleek and black,
wearing a simple collar of platinum with diamond pavé. Never let it be
said that I did not dress well, even as a cat. I find myself in the period
called on Earth the late twentieth century. I have traveled back to my own
world many times since my interlude with the pharaoh, but always I seem to
return to Earth to see how my descendants are progressing.

Their development is variable. At times they make great leaps forward--in
their communication, in their technology, in their acceptance of each
other--at other times, I look upon war and territorial behavior and I
marvel that this species has not yet killed itself off.

Of late I have become much concerned with that issue, for they have
developed weapons that could lay waste to their beautiful planet.

My people and I, having observed this phenomenon on other worlds, have
taken measures to prevent such destruction here. My power is considerable
even though I am not the mythological Isis to whom people prayed for
fertility of land and body. For my culture's technology is ahead of
Earth's by millennia, so it is nothing short of magic.

There is a Terran who went among us by the name of Seven--we thought the
name clever, as he has six older siblings--but since he is now undertaking
missions to Earth, we have begun calling him also by the name his mother
gave him, Gary.

He is an intelligent one. My people brought his
many-times-great-grandparents from Earth to our planet some seven hundred
years ago. There, they and the other humans we had chosen lived long and
happy lives, and we trained their descendants in some of our ways so that
they could assist us in our great purpose for Earth.

Gary is about to complete an important task toward that purpose, and we are
well pleased with him. He will prevent the nation known as United States
of America from placing a very destructive weapon into planetary orbit, and
the circumstances by which Gary will detonate the thing will cause all
humans to realize the terrible power for destruction they hold. We hope
they will have the courage to step back from the brink.

I have accompanied Gary, as usual, and this time we are treated to a most
unusual occurrence: we are intercepted by some humans from three centuries
hence. These have discovered rudimentary time travel, and they are here in
their starship observing what they call "Earth's primitive warlike period."
Their own time is such, as well--my people move through time as easily as
through space, and we see their battles--but they have made great strides
for peace. In their time, Earth is at least at peace within its borders
and with many other planets as well.

I find these twenty-third century people interesting, but the one among
them who intrigues me most is the one they call Spock, a Vulcan. It is a
little odd, I think, that I am so drawn to one who is not human, I who have
made Earth my exclusive hobby for centuries upon centuries. So I--in my
cat form, of course--leap up into the Vulcan's lap at the first
opportunity, and take a little look into his surface thoughts while he is
busy petting my silky fur.

Two things I notice at once--first, that he is after all the son of a human
mother and only looks fully Vulcan. And two, that his entire being yearns
toward the dynamic young human male who is with him in the starship
briefing room. It is a most intriguing situation, for Spock believes that
this man, his captain, does not know.

Oh, *that* is interesting. There is not much same-sex fooling around
taking place on Vulcan, at least as far as Spock knows. Vulcans betroth
their children at a very young age, perhaps to prevent that very thing.
Their tendency is to fall in love with another's mind, regardless of
gender, so if not for these betrothals, there might be a lot less
procreation than nature had originally ordained. Unlike the humans, who
have in his time tampered extensively only with their environment, the
Vulcans have tampered with their genetics, and they are not quite in
control of the results.

Spock's quandary is that he cannot justify his desires with his people's
insistence on logic and emotional control. No matter what argument he
concocts--and he has, late at night, concocted many--he cannot make such an
arrangement seem the logical thing to do. There is, he tells himself,
great risk, for if he were to have what he desires, he might easily lose
emotional control and possibly hurt Captain Kirk. There is a chance he
would not, for Kirk is resilient, but there is one certainty: choosing Kirk
would betray Spock's heart to all and tear down his carefully constructed,
properly Vulcan persona.

It is safer to assume that the captain would not even want such a liaison.
Surely he has given no such evidence. That is what Spock tells himself.

"What do you make of the cat, Mr. Spock?" the human asks, watching Spock
holding me, looking right at us, and yet seeing neither my truth nor
Spock's. But he is giving Spock a bemused smile, enjoying the Vulcan's
pleasure. Is that, I ask myself, the smile of a man who does not love
Spock? I decide that Spock is the one who does not see.

"Quite a lovely animal," Spock answers, his large hands caressing my coat,
making me shiver and purr. "I find myself strangely drawn to it."

Of course he is drawn. He senses my intelligence and power underneath this
feline illusion that I wear, and yet I send him feelings sufficient to
distract him from understanding and answering the question his captain is
really asking: *Is this really simply a cat?*

And his captain, trusting Spock's magnificent mind, and seeing only a very
catlike cat responding in an instinctive way to Spock's caresses, decides
his quite intuitive suspicion is ill taken and drops the subject. They go
on to discuss Gary and the situation before them. I can see all their
possible choices, and I know that as they choose they will set themselves
upon one path out of the several they might take. Thus, they will live out
one probable future from the many that lie before them.

It concerns me not at all, for I plan to assist them to choose a good one.
At this moment I am content to sit and let Spock stroke my fur, and as I
relax on his taut thighs, I think that sometimes there is no better thing
in the universe than to be a cat.

Gary summons me. I stretch and pull away from Spock, who lets me go
reluctantly. I am reluctant also, but duty calls. Gary has escaped from
the primitive force-field detention cell they put him in, and he is ready
to proceed with the mission. He is irritated. He thinks the starship crew
has delayed him and perhaps threatened his mission. *Darling,* I send to
him, *all is well. Everything happens at the proper time.*

It is a simple reminder, for Gary was raised in such knowledge. As a human
he is prey to human emotion, of course, but he is a calm and placid person
overall, without the need for extraordinarily rigid emotional repression
such as Spock practices.

It is this repression, it occurs to me, that is at the heart of Spock's
unfulfilled yearning. It is not that he thinks his captain does not love
him sufficiently: although Spock believes a male would not be Kirk's first
choice of partner, he does know that Kirk's is a generous and daring
spirit. It is not even that Spock fears disrupting his ship's precious
military discipline. It is that he feels the power of his own emotion and
fears it. Emotion seems a terrible black hole to him, like those
burned-out, transmogrified stars that eat whole sectors of space at a gulp.
Spock fears that if he gives any quarter, he will be drawn in, flattened
forever on the event horizon in an eternity of non-time, unable to free
himself from emotion's inexorable pull, lost and unable to save anyone.
Least of all himself.

I feel sad to perceive him thus, but I look beyond the moment. I can see
many of his probable futures laid out before him, and since I am a meddler
from a planet of meddlers, I decide that I shall have a hand in guiding him
toward one of those futures that will satisfy him well. For although he
did not voice it, I have learned his heart's desire. I shall do whatever
is in my power to help him have it.

First, however, Gary and I must deal with the planet and the warhead.

***

It is done. The mission went well: the warhead was detonated, and the
apparent interference of the Starfleet officers caused it to happen at the
correct time and altitude. Gary seemed rather surprised at this, but I
have explained to him that all is in order.

For the moment, we have returned to the starship, this time as honored
guests. Gary, having proved his good intentions toward Earth, is being
given the grand tour by Captain Kirk. Miss Lincoln is with them, because
the starship officers realize that she has already been extensively
"contaminated" with knowledge of the future, and that she will not
understand any technology she sees, anyway. She will be left with a
positive vision of the future, and that is a good thing.

What's more, after consulting their historical database, the officers have
realized that in the timeline they think of as their past, Miss Lincoln
worked with Gary on his missions and therefore had regular access to
technology even greater than theirs. Gary, being a time traveler as well
as a space traveler, knows all about the Federation, and so will see
nothing today that will upset this timeline. If Miss Lincoln's memories
need to be adjusted in any way, Gary or I will see to it.

The three of them go to look at the ship, and everyone conveniently forgets
about me. In my feline form I can go almost anywhere on the Enterprise. I
take my own tour, winding my way around corridors and then using the
turbolift when I wish to ascend. I go up to Deck Five, which is where *he*
is. I notice that it is now ship's night, even though it is only late
afternoon in New York below us; the lights in the Deck Five corridors are
dimmed.

He does not lock his cabin door. It opens when I step up to it and extend
my aura to the sensor.

He is inside, changing out of the Earth costume called a "business suit"
and preparing to meditate. Here in his quarters, the light is brighter,
more like evening on Vulcan. I glance appreciatively at the red-swathed
walls in his bedchamber. No doubt Spock would say that they are necessary
to the health of his Vulcan eyesight, but I think he enjoys the drama.

He looks up as I enter. "Isis?"

I meow. One of his eyebrows goes up to his bangs, slightly mussed from
their usual glossy perfection because he is undressing. He stands holding
the necktie, looking at me as though expecting me to explain my presence.
The rest of the suit is on the bed, and he is wearing only a pair of tight
black briefs.

That is when the idea of how to assist him comes to me. I was not the
pharaoh's courtesan for nothing. I approach him and wind myself around and
between his ankles, purring loudly. I rub the back of my neck against the
inside of his ankle. He drops the tie onto the rest of the Earth costume
and sits down on the bed, picking me up. I am whisper-light in his arms.
He scratches behind my ears.

I purr with abandon. He smiles, slightly.

I smile, too, but he would not understand a cat's smile. It is time to let
my little secret out. But first--I extend my aura throughout the room,
finding the communication circuit and disabling it, and with it the
computer. I lock the door that he never locks.

Spock is looking at me oddly, as though he senses something out of the
ordinary. I stand on his lap on my hind legs, planting my forelegs on his
chest and staring him in the eye. It is not a very catlike pose. I see
him react, his eyebrow ascending again, his dark eyes probing mine.

"Isis?" he says. "Are you indeed a cat?"

I laugh. And gradually shift my form to that of the pharaoh's love, she of
the long black hair and the golden skin. I keep my cat ears, though. I
rather like them. I am still laughing when the metamorphosis is complete,
and now my mirth is expressed not as a silent cat laugh but a bell-like
human laugh.

I am still sitting on his lap. I wear only a simple, sleeveless linen
shift such as I wore in my pharaoh's day. It would be rude, after all, to
be overdressed while sitting on an almost-naked Vulcan's lap.

To his credit, Spock does not shout and throw me to the floor. He
encircles my upper arms with a steel grip. It is a good thing I am not
really a human woman. I strengthen my form in those areas and ignore the
discomfort. Spock stands, lifting me off his lap and setting me on my
feet. He lets go my arms, still not saying a word.

He lifts a finger to my chin as he searches my face, noticing the little
black cat ears poking through my hair, and then drops his hand. I am
grinning mischievously.

He clears his throat. "Thank you," he says, finally. "I did not expect
such a rapid and thorough answer to my question. What sort of lifeform are
you?"

Ah, he is most intelligent. He does not assume, as so many have done, that
the forms he has seen are the only ones I might take.

I smile. "I am from the planet Gary Seven mentioned, the one your people
do not and will not know in this era."

His eyebrow ascends again. I have said exactly the right thing, for here
is a man whose ultimate value is knowledge, and I have enticed him with the
opportunity to learn the unlearnable.

"Have your people made contact with those of my era before?" he asks. He
already knows we have been extensively involved in Earth's past.

"I believe I will not answer that," I say. "However, I know of your
people, of course."

"Have you been altering events on Vulcan as well?"

I sigh. "Spock, none of that is important. We have the highest intentions
for Vulcan as well as for Earth, and we do not interfere lightly. But I am
not here to 'talk shop' as the Earth people say. I am here for rather more
personal reasons."

"Personal?" He swallows. It is only then, I believe, that he even notices
the fact that he is standing in his bedroom, almost naked, with a beautiful
female stranger. His face heats--I can feel it, rather than see it, for he
has one of those sallow complexions that never betrays a blush.

"You are drawn to me," I say. "I am drawn to you. It is reason enough, is
it not?"

He folds his hands behind his back. He is not a physically modest one, I
can see, but he more than makes up for that with emotional restraint.
"Madam," he says quietly, "I admit I voiced such a sentiment, but at the
time you were a cat."

I laugh again. "I can be again, if that is what you prefer, but I for one
would rather converse in this form. Cats, even very intelligent ones,
cannot speak Standard." I step forward. "And there are other things they
cannot do," I say silkily.

"Madam . . ."

"Isis," I correct, raising my hands to his shoulders, sweeping them up to
his neck. He is warmer than a human, his skin intensely soft--a
delightfully unexpected feature.

"You have a human name," he persists, slyly finding another way to keep
asking his questions while evading my advances. Ah, but he has no idea
what is coming.

"I fancy it, and Gary can pronounce it," I say by way of explanation,
adding, "and the Earth goddess Isis was most interesting." I push him
easily down to a seated position on the bed, and then I realize my mistake.
His eyes narrow; he sees that my strength far exceeds his. Well, I will
not bully him--much. I push him again so that he lies flat, and I climb on
top of him. "Do you know much of Earth history?"

He swallows and lies still, wary. "Some," he answers.

"Do you know of the worship of Isis?"

"The cult of Isis flourished in Ancient Egypt for centuries, and later
Ancient Greece and Rome until the spread of Christianity there." He sounds
as though he has swallowed a library file.

"Quite correct. And do you know of the priestly rites of Isis?"

He shakes his head. "I know that she was considered a fertility goddess."

"The rites were the scandal of Rome." I smile. "Allow me to show you some
of the finer points." I scrape one long, enameled fingernail over the firm
swell of his pectoral to the nipple. It hardens.

"Isis," he says, sounding desperate. "Please do not--I would rather talk."

"Really? This--" I slide my hand over his stiffening manhood, which I
have been feeling respond to me ever since I got on top of him. "Tells a
different story. You are drawn to me."

He shrugs. "It is a reflex. I can will it away."

"No, you can't."

He looks at me suspiciously.

I blink in innocence. "I am not tampering with you, if that is what you
are thinking. I was merely stating fact. You can't will it away, because
you don't want to."

He makes a half-hearted attempt to sit up. It is just enough to convince
himself that he really does want to get away, so he can tell himself later
that I was just too strong. His eyes are impenetrably black.

"Let me show you how good it felt," I whisper, "when your beautiful hands
stroked my fur." I take one of his hands in both of mine and begin to
stroke it, first with my whole hand, then with my first two fingers. I
stroke his palm, the back of his hand, and between the fingers. He shivers
and squirms under me, and I feel heat spring from his groin. I slide over
to lie next to him and put my hand down to feel him. He is hugely erect,
so much so that his briefs no longer contain him. The dusky green head of
his cock has escaped the waistband, and it weeps clear fluid.

I smile. "Do you still believe that you wish me to stop?"

"Isis," he chokes out, "I am a Vulcan." His voice portends danger. I
understand. One does not awaken the sexual desires of a Vulcan lightly,
because it is difficult to put that particular genie back into the bottle.

"You think I do not know what that means?" I ask him. I trace my paired
fingers over his face, over the nerve contacts for his people's melding
ritual, and he suddenly wears a look of comprehension. I have already been
making love to him as one Vulcan would to another, and he did not realize
that until now. I think that he has never been with another Vulcan. I
smile to myself. *I* have.

"I am safe," I tell him. "I am a safe outlet for your unexpressed sexual
longings. You know you cannot harm me, no matter what you do. So why not
surrender? It is logical."

As I speak, I am caressing his belly, and just at the moment I say the word
"logical," I grasp his cock, still half trapped in the black briefs. I
stroke him, hard, once. He gasps. His hands, which have been on my
shoulders as though to push me away, fall back on the bed and the fingers
go slack. It is acceptance, of a sort.

I pull his briefs down, exposing him. He is beautiful: long and engorged.
I run my paired fingers down his dusky olive shaft with its elaborate,
double-ridged head, and then cup the firm plump balls beneath. I scratch
these lightly with my fingernails, thinking of how gently he scratched
behind my cat ears. He moans. His eyes roll back for one second, and then
with a roar, he flips us both over on the bed so that he is on top of me,
and lowers his mouth to mine.

I lose myself in his kiss.

In human form I have had human lovers; in Vulcan form I have had Vulcan
lovers--but I have never experienced from this human perspective the
ferocious hot need of a Vulcan male who has decided to let down his guard.
It robs my breath and makes the pulse hammer in my neck.

He plunders my mouth. I run my long nails down his back to his buttocks,
and I know I have left angry little green welts. He arches his back up
into my hands, so I do it again, leaving new trails.

His lips descend on my throat.

I make my shift disappear, and I reach down to where his briefs constrict
his thighs and tear the offending cloth away.

He is on top of me. I am not holding him down; he is at the moment free to
move off me and get away. He does not do so. Instead, he props himself up
on one elbow so that his free hand can explore my body; his hand makes
sweeping circles over my breasts and belly, and then he presses his fingers
between my legs, finding the wet and yielding place. The heel of his hand,
slick now, massages my clitoris as his fingers move inside me. Electric
pleasure courses through me. Then he moves his hand away, leaving behind a
sweet ache.

"Do it!" I hiss.

Apparently, my logic has convinced him. He pushes my legs apart and rolls
between them, supporting himself on his elbows. I arch back on the bed,
wanting him. But he only teases me with that heavy cock, letting the head
touch my sex and then slide away, once, twice, three times. He watches my
face. I arch a brow at him--a gentle mockery of his characteristic
gesture--and then I moan as he rubs his cock over my sex, over the most
sensitive parts, and stops.

He looks as though he is cataloguing my reactions. I pull his hips to me,
but he does not enter me. He lifts himself up by straightening and locking
one arm. And he looks at me, thoughtfully.

I wait, transfixed.

Then, with a growl, he shoves his beautiful cock into me, all the way in
one stroke, and I cry out. He takes my hips in his large hands, securing
me, and pulls out, slowly, then slides back in, so slowly, letting me feel
every millimeter of his
hardness in me. I want to purr, but at present I am not a cat. So I sigh
into his elegant ear, my breath touching him and being reflected back to
tickle my upper lip. Ah, I love these human bodies; they are capable of
such fine sensory distinctions.

He thrusts, his rhythm smooth and just fast enough to keep me slightly
unnerved; I am never quite able to catch my breath before the next stroke.
But his timing is precise, that of a musician. I raise my hands to his
jaw, to his ear, and remember my purpose in coming here. Odd that I should
have forgotten, even for a moment. Well, maybe not so odd. I find him as
mesmerizing as he does me.

"Spock," I whisper, knowing he will hear me even over his harsh breaths. I
have barely enough breath to speak, myself. "You asked what form of life I
am. I will tell you that I can be anything, anyone. I have a message . .
. a gift. . . for you."

His eyes are closed. He pulls out and starts one more thrust, this one
slow.

In that instant I become his captain.


***************************


His eyes snap open, and I can see too much of the whites. As he beholds my
new form, he looks like a man who is about to go over a cliff. His face
pales. But his body is an avalanche of need that will not be stopped.
Time seems to slow. He watches helplessly as he thrusts again, this time
into the delicious tightness of his captain's ass, something he has never
dared to imagine, at least while awake. It is his captain's muscular legs
that are around him, not the slender ones of the pharaoh's favorite. His
captain's hands are on his face. He is clutching his captain's hips, and
worst of all, as he does this he is gazing into his captain's eyes.

I adjust to the new form quickly, considering the state of arousal the
other was in when I abandoned it. Spock inside me is a burning, white-hot
pleasure, but at the same time, my cock aches, needing touch. It grazes
Spock's belly, and that is not quite enough. I stroke myself, pressing my
hardness into his belly, loving the friction of the line of black hair
there, and Spock, watching this and watching his cock disappear into me,
squeezes his eyes shut and moans--a low, grief-stricken, lost sound that
goes on forever--"Nooooooo!"

The cry coincides with his orgasm. He stills within me and hot liquid
bathes me; I cry out, too, and come on his belly and mine, and my pleasure
mingles with sorrow for him. I knew, of course, that he might react so. I
hope I can make it right for him.

Spock, pulling out of me, falls to the bed, clutching his belly and
pressing the back of his fist to his eyes. "Please," he rasps. "Please
become the woman again. Or the cat." *Anything but the image of my
captain.*

But I do not comply. "Spock," I say in James Kirk's voice, "I must give
you the gift first. I must give you the knowledge that you can have what
you desire."

"How do . . . you know . . . what I . . . desire?" He is trying to catch
his breath and regain control and his efforts sound like, but cannot be,
sobbing. "I did not feel . . . your thoughts touch mine, but . . . you
must be . . . telepathic."

I am not so sure telepathy was required to know such a thing--indeed, on
the mission, I saw him follow his captain as though they were invisibly
attached--but I will not alarm him by telling him that. "I sensed your
thoughts when I climbed into your lap the very first time."

He looks up at me at last. I see a trickle of green where he has bitten
his lower lip. I reach gentle fingers to it, but he clamps a hand around
my wrist before I can touch him. He turns my hand over, examining both
sides. He shakes his head, amazed. It is a perfect facsimile. His hand
grazes my chest, two fingers following a long, white horizontal line just
above the nipples. It is barely visible, slender as a thread, but to Spock
it is a beacon. I see in his thoughts that he gave his captain this scar,
mere months ago.

"Your methods," he says to me, "are obviously far beyond our
understanding."

"Go ahead," I say. "Do what you are thinking of doing."

"It is illogical."

"I know. But it will help."

He cocks his head, then sighs. I feel his acquiescence. A true scientist,
he will experiment. He lowers his head to my chest and kisses that white
line of guilt. Then he pulls back and shakes his head. "You are not he."

"For the moment, I am his image," I say, "and for that moment, his image
wishes you to know that he enjoyed making love with you." I offer him my
lips. For an eternity, I think he is going to decline.

But he does not. He presses his lips to my Kirk-identical ones, gently and
then more determinedly, putting all his longing and his unrequited love
into the gesture. I yield and allow everything he wants. One of his long
hands goes into my hair, the other grasps my shoulder. Spock ends the kiss
and pulls away a few inches, but before he releases me completely, he cards
his hand through my hair and pushes the unruly, light-brown forelock back.
He watches it fall forward again.

"A perfect reproduction," he says. His fingers go to his lips. He is
willing into memory the feeling of kissing his captain.

"That memory will not substitute for the real thing."

His eyes are dark as space. "I cannot have the real thing."

"Nonsense."

His steel hand clamps over my wrist as before. It is intensely painful
now, and I feel it, as deeply as I felt pleasure. His other forefinger
traces the white line on my chest. "See what I did to him."

I flash on his thought. "You did not dare to love him, then. If you had,
you would not have fought him at Koon-ut-kalifi for a woman."

"He would not want me," Spock protests further.

"He loves you," I counter.

Sharp eyebrows spike upward. "You have intruded on his thoughts also?"

I laugh. "Of course not. But look at me; I am in his form and thus I know
his mind as though I were his twin from birth. How could I not know how he
feels? How delicious it is in this body to feel you inside me! He would
love this. He is a deeply sensual, sensitive man."

"He loves women," Spock says.

"He beds women," I correct. "He *loves* you. He will see the logic of
fulfilling both needs in the same place. He just needs to know that *you*
will be secure in doing this."

"I will lose myself," he says finally.

"What happened," I ask him, "when you tried to exert your control against
the pon farr?"

"I did not succeed. The ancient drives were too strong."

"What happened just now," I go on, "when you allowed ordinary Vulcan desire
to determine your actions?"

"I lost control," he said, dropping his gaze. "If you were really a human
woman, or really he, I would have hurt you."

"Not so. You bruised my arms twice--neither time during sex."

I see him remembering his strong grip on me. "I beg forgiveness."

"No need. You know I am stronger than you. Yet during sex, when you lost
your control, as you put it, you were gentle. Delightfully enthusiastic,
but gentle. Your captain need not fear physical harm."

Spock still does not raise his eyes. "To lose emotional control is
considered a transgression on Vulcan."

"Not at times like this!" I practically shout. "Don't you see--that was
*normal* Vulcan sexual behavior. There wouldn't *be* any little Vulcans if
your people practiced the kind of emotional restraint you seem to want to
impose on yourself. By the River of Time, how have you managed?"

His eyes close. I realize it is a bit difficult for him to have to hear my
exhortations in Kirk's voice. Yet I chose this form for a reason. He
listens to this voice.

"I have mostly," Spock answers wearily, "*not* managed. I avoid emotional
entanglements. Sexual behavior has been more an accident than a choice,
when it has taken place."

I almost laugh to hear him explaining his own behavior as detachedly as
though he is charting the mating habits of a lab rat.

I shrug my muscular, Kirkian shoulders. "You chose tonight, Spock. I
could have overwhelmed you easily, but I did not." I do not mention to him
that he never once tried to escape or call his shipmates for aid.

"Your logic was persuasive," he says.

"Then let me give you some more. Spock--there could be so much more to
life for you, if you would take a chance on him. Does it frighten you to
think you might know joy?"

He puts his hand to my face, a whisper touch. "I could almost believe
you," he says. A look of weariness crosses his angular features, and he
lies back on the bed. "Isis," he begins, "Please cha--"

"Shh--look." I am the woman with the cat ears again. I am even wearing my
shift. I feel on the floor for his briefs, find them without glancing
down, and toss them to him. They are torn, but possibly serviceable.
"Dress. The captain is almost finished giving Gary and Miss Lincoln the
tour, and Gary will be looking for me. Please consider what I have said."

He does not answer, but his face is thoughtful. He will consider it.

It is enough. When one tampers in a timeline, one must use a fine hand.

He washes, and dresses in his uniform, and I silently undo the mischief I
did to his door and his computer. When he leaves the room, he is
accompanied by a small, very pretty black cat in a jeweled collar. She
switches her tail, looking like the proverbial feline that breakfasted on
the canary.

***

They beam us--Gary, Roberta, and me--back down to the planet, to the New
York apartment that will be Gary's base for a while. The Enterprise plans
to orbit for another two days, examining its "past," before it returns to
its own time. I have no wish to time-travel at present, so I find myself
hoping that Spock will make his move while they are still here.

My wish is granted. The very next evening, when I check on him
telepathically, I sense that Spock is with his captain. I take my female
human form long enough to appropriate one of the servos from Gary's jacket,
and I transport to the Enterprise, putting the transport officer and one
security guard to sleep before they can call for help.

I mimic the form of the sleeping guard and walk quietly and purposefully
toward Deck Five. I can *feel* where Spock is, and he is very close to his
own cabin. Ah, he is in the cabin next door. I examine the nameplate.
James T. Kirk, Captain. I smile. Since there is no one else in the
corridor at the moment, no one sees the security guard transform into an
Arcturan flea and squeeze under the door.

I become the cat again, but an invisible version. It is easy enough to do
by bending the light a bit differently. I open my mind, fluff my fur, and
settle myself calmly against the bulkhead, thankful that there are no real
Arcturan fleas on this ship.

Spock is seated across from Kirk at the captain's desk, looking anything
but comfortable. They are apparently playing a game of chess, but the
Vulcan is moving his pieces without thought and sometimes without even
looking at them.

Oddly enough, he wins.

Kirk looks surprised. "Spock," he says, "I thought unpredictable chess
moves were my specialty. Want to let me in on your strategy?"

Spock's eyes unglaze, gradually. "Forgive me, Captain. I am afraid my
mind is not on the game."

"Then you should play while distracted more often. You could win the
all-galaxy tournament." Kirk starts to put the pieces away.

"Jim," Spock says, his voice deeper than I have ever heard it.

River of Time, I know it is coming. My little invisible ears perk up.

Kirk sweeps the chess set out of the way. "What's wrong, Spock?" He hears
the difference in Spock's voice, the clash of conflicting impulses. He has
never heard quite that tone from Spock.

Spock gives him the shadow of a smile and speaks haltingly. "Nothing is
wrong, but what I have to say to you . . . may be unexpected. Perhaps
unwelcome. You must tell me."

Kirk's eyebrows arch. "Say it," he urges.

Spock swallows. "I have come to realize . . . to understand . . . that . .
."

Kirk waits, but finally loses patience. "Spock," he urges softly.
"Whatever it is, you know you can tell me."

Spock gazes at him for a moment, then reaches daringly across the table and
takes Kirk's hand. I have my thoughts wide open, so I feel Kirk's surprise
flare for a moment, but he keeps his expression as steady as any Vulcan
logic master's. I am impressed. Kirk turns his hand over in Spock's grip
so that they are palm to palm and returns the little embrace of fingers.
He smiles. "Spock," he says with such warmth that even I feel the glow.

Spock does not blink. "It has to do with . . . emotion."

Kirk nods, his expression calm and steady. I feel his thoughts: *Of course
it does. Emotion is the only thing that ever puts Spock at a loss for
words. That and--*

"And . . . biology," Spock says. His mouth quirks into one of his
not-smiles. His saving grace. For all his emotional repression, he does
not take himself too seriously. It is a charming trait.

"Uh-huh." Kirk waits, but I feel his blood heat. Oh, I was entirely
correct about him. I did not explain it to Spock, but assuming someone's
form connects you to that person in an incredibly deep rapport. I lick my
forepaws and watch, excited.

Spock turns his hand so that he now cradles Kirk's hand, palm up, in his.
He extends the first two fingers of his other hand and runs them slowly
over Kirk's palm. He turns the hand over and repeats the gesture on the
back. Kirk is holding his breath, unable to tear his eyes from the sight
of Spock making love to his hand in this uniquely Vulcan fashion, and under
the desk, Kirk has become instantly, achingly hard.

Spock lets his fingers trail off Kirk's wrist. He lifts Kirk's palm to his
lips and places a gentle kiss right in the center.

Kirk, swallowing, finds his voice. "You mean emotion . . . and biology . .
. as in . . . "

Spock tilts his head. "Not precisely reproduction, Jim."

Kirk laughs softly. "Uh, no, I guess not. That would be impossible,
wouldn't it?"

"Agreed," Spock says. He stands, still holding Kirk's hand, drawing Kirk
up with him. Kirk rises awkwardly, his tight trousers making his condition
obvious, at least from my perspective.

But Spock does not see; he is looking intently into his captain's eyes. He
raises his paired fingers to Kirk's face and touches Kirk with just the
first two, lightly, from the precious golden forelock to the temple, over
the fine cheekbone and around the curve of the jaw. His fingertips settle
on Kirk's lips.

I feel Kirk considering, rapidly, what response to make, and deciding just
as rapidly. He kisses Spock's fingers. It is the answer to the question
Spock hasn't even come close to asking yet, and the Vulcan's heart thrums
with joy. His dark eyes glow.

Kirk's hold a mischievous glint. "Emotion . . . and biology . . . as in .
. . love and sex, Mr. Spock?"

"You are most perceptive, Captain."

"You want me, Spock?"

"Yes, I . . ." Spock swallows. "I *love* you, Jim."

Kirk's face is alive with happiness. I can practically hear his heart
pounding in the small, quiet room. He steps forward, into Spock's waiting
arms, and his lips find Spock's. Before Spock can quite think, Kirk has
him pressed up against the grille dividing the office from the bedchamber,
and he is plundering the Vulcan's sensual mouth with his own. Rapt, I
accidentally bite the paw I am grooming.

Spock eventually breaks away, breathing hard. "Jim, there is much to
discuss--"

"No, there isn't," Kirk says calmly. "We've been discussing this from day
one." With my mind open to their thoughts, I easily perceive the truth:
they have been courting each other, Kirk consciously, Spock unconsciously.
And Kirk has been waiting for Spock to be ready to face his own emotions,
without terms or conditions.

I see the realization dawn on Spock's face. He is not controlling his
expression very well, and I find that touching. His control apparently has
never been much good under the white heat of Kirk's discerning awareness.
I wonder if he knows that.

"Jim, I am Vulcan. I cannot simply release my emotions--you could be
hurt."

"I'm not worried," Kirk is saying as he strips his shirt off and keeps
Spock pinned against the grille at the same time: no mean feat.

"Perhaps you *should* be concerned." Spock is still, incongruously, trying
to sound logical, but his voice is rough, the tone unsteady. He touches
the faint white scar on Kirk's chest. "Do you not remember?"

"I remember. That was caused by a Vulcan who needed sexual release so
desperately that he was going to die--and he didn't get it. He lived
through it, somehow, because his captain's life was more important to him."

"Yes!" Spock gasps, letting his head drop to Kirk's chest to kiss the scar
along its length. Kirk's hands play in the silken black hair. It is the
absolution Spock has needed. Cats cannot sigh, but I swear that is what I
am doing.

Kirk's hands slide under Spock's blue tunic, insisting that it come off,
along with the black undershirt, and they do. The men press together, bare
chest to bare chest, and Kirk's fingertips trace a small circle near the
center of Spock's chest, searching under the dark hair as though looking
for something. He has found it, a pattern of small white scars forming a
solid circle. "Here is the mark," Kirk says, "of the poison darts you took
for me on Gamma Trianguli Six."

"Clumsy of me," Spock says, but his mouth quirks up in a half-smile again.

"Here," Kirk continues, rubbing his hand over Spock's left shoulder, "is
the shoulder you dislocated while rescuing me from the sand bats on Manark
Four."

"Long healed," Spock says, but he slumps against the grille as Kirk's lips
kiss the shoulder in question.

"Here," Kirk continues, touching the muscle at the juncture of Spock's neck
and shoulder, "is where I hit you with a steel bar in the transporter room,
in orbit over Omicron Ceti Three." He kisses Spock there.

"I was relieved you did not press charges for mutiny," Spock says.

Kirk chuckles. "But you take my point?"

"You have forgiven me, as I forgave you."

"Yes. And I'm not frightened of you in any way, and as for losing
control--my Spock, I am going to *make* you lose control. You are going to
surrender it to me and beg me to do it to you again."

Spock's eyes are wide as space. Part of him obviously cannot believe this.
But another part--the human part, free at last?--is embracing the idea
with open arms. "Jim," he moans.

Kirk pulls him into the bedchamber, their booted feet narrowly missing me
as I scramble to the other side of the room. He pushes the Vulcan down
onto the bed in much the same way as I did yesterday, only this time Spock
yields instantly. Kirk pulls his boots and socks off and helps Spock
divest himself of his. Then Kirk lies down full length next to Spock and
pulls him close and kisses him. It is a kiss such as I have never seen,
despite all that I have seen over the centuries--a Vulcan male and a human
one, strong, beautiful, so in love.

The captain's full lips press Spock's sculpted ones; the Vulcan makes a
tiny sound, "Mmm," and his lips yield, and Kirk invades him, pressing
forward, exploring. Spock yields his greater strength and gathers Kirk on
top of him; Kirk's hand touches Spock's chest, and when the kiss ends, Kirk
lets his lips follow his hands down the Vulcan's body, kissing his chest
and belly. He finds the waistband of Spock's trousers an obstruction and
tears it open, unthinking, and Spock, completely beyond his customary
control, helps him rip both the trousers and the briefs clear away. They
drop the resulting tatters on the floor. Kirk encircles the olive cock
with his hand, bends his head to taste it. Spock arches back on the bed,
and his heels dig into the coverlet. He pulls Kirk back up into his arms.
*Later for that,* I can hear him thinking, *I want you to kiss me.*

And Kirk does; he kisses Spock as though he's been thinking about doing it
for more than two years, and I happen to know that is so.

Two sets of hands push Kirk's trousers down and don't even get them all the
way off before the men are thrusting against each other, helpless before
their need for this mutual release, this confirmation of what they are, and
will be, to each other. They freeze in completion, almost simultaneously,
and then Spock is growling, turning Kirk over and covering him, pressing
his head to the smooth chest, his pointed ear no doubt hearing Kirk's
heartbeat as loud as rolling thunder.

Kirk catches his breath. He puts his hand down to stroke the other pointed
ear. "I almost can't believe it," he says. Spock is here with him, at
last, and neither one of them came close to death's door today. Kirk had
apparently thought it was going to take something similarly cataclysmic to
bring Spock around. "I'm happy, Spock." It is possible, I think, that the
starship captain has never felt such a simple joy before. "I don't know
what changed for you"--he hugs Spock--"but I'm glad it did."

"That," Spock says, his voice half muffled against Kirk's chest, "is a very
long story. Which I will tell you. Later."

"Much later," Kirk says.

And that is when I remember that *I* am here, and I am certainly not
supposed to be. Gary, with his quaint human ideas, will be quite shocked
when I tell him that I actually stayed and watched.

Oh, well. Humans will be humans. And Vulcans, I suppose, will be Vulcans.
I flick my tail, stand up, arch my back, and glance back at the lovers.
Kirk is pushing off the rest of his clothing and holding Spock close at the
same time, his handsome human face relaxed and blissful. And Spock--ah,
Spock. He puts his arms around Kirk so gently, as though Kirk might
evaporate if Spock were not careful. The unguarded look on Spock's face is
that of one who has been given his heart's desire.

My little cat form is so filled with joy that I cannot contain it. I have
Spock's preoccupation to thank for the fact that he does not notice. I
become a Tarkanian tribble mite for the two seconds necessary to slip under
the door. Then I resume the aspect of the sleeping transporter officer--it
is easier, and no one will trip over me--and walk back to the transporter
room, where the minute power surge from my own transportation device will
not be noted.

***

It is Day Three of the Enterprise's visit to this time period, and we are
on my beloved Earth again. Spock and Kirk are about to take their leave of
us. I recline on a chair, Gary speaks to the Starfleet officers, and
Roberta Lincoln paces the floor. The neon-orange and pink outfit she is
again wearing is again offending my sight. I make a mental note to tell
Gary to get the girl some more clothes. In more felicitous colors.

Kirk is speaking to Gary; I glance over at Spock, and for a moment I become
a woman with cat ears, only I give myself a fairer complexion and light
eyes, more like Roberta's, which I have decided are very nice. Spock, to
his credit, does not flinch as I gaze at him. But Roberta, seeing me also,
stops her pacing in front of me and looks at me with belligerent offense.
It is jealousy. She is already very fond of my Gary. She will be
delighted to know that not only am I old enough to be his
hundred-times-great-grandmother, I probably *am* his ancestor. But I will
not be telling her this today.

I rather enjoy the little harrumph she makes and the flash in her eyes as
she turns back to Gary and demands to know who I am.

Gary, glancing over, sees me in the cat form to which I have
instantaneously shifted, and says calmly, "That, Miss Lincoln, is simply my
cat."

Roberta has seen enough strangeness in the past three days to fill a
lifetime, and so she makes no retort. I laugh my silent cat laugh,
thinking of the fun we will have.

Gary sends to me, *Now, Isis . . .*

But he is distracted by the Enterprise men, who are saying goodbye. When
Spock lifts his hand in the Vulcan salutation, his eyes include me in the
sentiment. I smile and stretch my foreclaws into a semblance of a furry
little *ta'al*, separating the tiny digits as far as they will go without
deliberately altering their structure. Spock doesn't smile or even look
faintly surprised; he merely gazes at me with his fathomless stare. I
watch his aura. It is shining gold, with blue streaks at the top, as
usual, but there is a new pink cord extending out to his captain, linking
them heart to heart. It is most beautiful.

I do not know if Spock thanks me, yet--he may still be in shock over my
methods--but he does wish me peace and long life. Those I definitely shall
have, for I am Isis.

Unblinking, I watch Spock and his captain dissolve into coruscating light.
I purr, and scratch my ear inelegantly. I am Isis, and today I choose to
be a cat.


--end--

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*Idol: 1) an image of a god. 3) an object of ardent or excessive devotion.
5) [obs] a. any image or effigy b. an impostor 6) In logic, a material
fallacy resulting from some common prejudice. Excerpted from Webster's New
World Dictionary, 2nd College Ed.

******************