  RECOVERY
  By: J. M. Dillard
  Synopsis:
  Admiral Kirk, dissatisfied with his
paper-pushing desk job, is finally sent on what
is supposed to be a routine test of a newly
invented automated rescue ship. But with the
Tholians, Clingons and Romulans involved,
plus a federation scientist who isn't what he
seems to be, things don't stay routine for very long.
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  37 Bloodthirst
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  bledj Timetrap
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  bled Survivors
  28 Here There Be Dragons
  5 Strike Zone
  29 Sins of Commission
  6 Power Hungry
  30 Debtors' Planet
  7 Musks
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  8 The Captains' Honor
  32 Requiem
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  33 Balance of Power
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  34 Blaze of Glory
  Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
  Warped bled The Big Game
  The Search
  5 Fallen Heroes
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  POCKET BOOKS
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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
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  An Original Publication of POCKET
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  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon and
Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas,
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  Copyright 1995 by Paramount Pictures. All
Rights Reserved.
  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of
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  ISBN: 0-671-88342-9
  First Pocket Books printing March 1995

  POCKET and colophon are registered
trademarks of Simon and Schuster Inc.
  Printed in the U.s.a.
  For Kathy, with love and gratitude
  Acknowledgments
  Let's get right down to it: this book exists because
my collaborator, the divine Kathleen
O'Malley. Kat[ wrote a huge portion of the
first draft and provide emotional hand-holding for me
during a very difficult year. (and, since we live
on opposite coasts, we have the phone bills
to prove it!) For those of you that don know, Kath is
an author in her own right; run, don walk, to your
nearest bookstore and pick up copies of her two
collaborations with Ann Crispin, the Starbridge
books Silent Dances and Silent Song (and
while you're at it, buy the rest of the Starbridge
series, too.)
  Thanks, Kath. I couldn't have done it without you.
  The next person that deserves long-distance hul and
kisses is editor Kevin Ryan, who has been
incre, ibly kind and incredibly patient in waiting
for this book. Thanks, Kev. I won't
forget it.
  I'd disal like to thank every STAR TREK fan who
read The Lost Years and who is now holding this
book Without you, I wouldn't have had the opportunity
to write about some of my favorite characters and the: continuing
adventures in the Lost Years series ....
  Prologue
  "You're going through with it, sir?"
  Admiral James T. Kirk turned away from
his office window and its sweeping view of the San
Francisco Bay; above the choppy, leaden water,
dark clouds sailed swiftly in an ever-changing
panorama.
  Kirk released a silent sigh and faced his questioner.
  Beneath his trimmed golden brown beard,
Lieutenant Commander Kevin Riley still had enough of
an Irish baby-face to give the appearance of a
man much younger than the thirty-odd years Kirk
knew him to be. People often underestimated Riley because
of it.
  But when Kirk looked at his aide, he could see
the hard-won maturity etched around his blue eyes
and the corners of his mouth.
  Over the past year and a half, Riley,
likewise, had come to know Kirk. Maybe
not as well as Leonard McCoy or Mr.
Spock had... but well enough. They'd watched each
other change as they worked together at Starfleet
Headquarters. For Riley, the changes had meant
real growth, a burgeoning strength of character, but for
Kirk... the adjustments had not nearly been so
positive.
  "You don't think I should do it?" Kirk asked his
aide. Not that another opinion world make a difference
at this point--he had made his decision, and nothing
could shake him. But over the past several months, he
had come to value Riley's input; a friendship and
trust had developed between the two.
  "Now, that's a true Irish answer,
Admiral," the younger man said with a slight smile.
"caret question for a question. I know you, sir. Once your
mind is made Kirk shook his head, wanting
Riley to believe he wasn't shrugging him off.
"I respect your opinion, Kevin. You should know that
by now."
  Riley glanced shyly away as if embarrassed
by Kirk's high regard, and the unexpected use of his
first name.
  "Tell me," Kirk insisted quietly. "You
don't think I should do this? When you, more than
anyone at Starfleet, knows what's happening to me
here? You've watched this job, this "exciting
opportunity" they promised me dwindle into nothing
but a bureaucrat's dream. You've seen the work rathe
paperwork--pile up and up until we've both been
buried under it. You, even more than my wife--" He
paused abruptly, his voice catching on the last
word.
  It had been two months since his one-year
marriage contract had expired. Two months
since Admiral Lori Ciana had stoutly
refused to renew that contract. Two months since
she had moved out of his home, his life, his bed.
  Kirk swallowed, gritted his teeth, then nodded
at his own error. "--t is, my ex-wife... even
more than Lori, you've watched what they've done
to me.
  It's been more than six months since I've
been out of this office. Six months since I've
done something, anything, even remotely worthwhile.
And a year since andmiddot;.. I've been in space
...."
  He paused, that phrase almost whispered, and left
it hanging there between them. He smiled at Riley
conspiratorially. "Do you remember,
Kevin? What it was like? Six months... on the
Enterprise?" He couldn't help himself. His voice
dropped into an almost reverential hush when he mouthed
her name.
  "I remember," Riley murmured.
  Kirk turned back toward the view of the
windswept sky. "In a year we might've
discovered two new class-M planets, mapped
a couple of solar systems, contacted two or
three alien races. Spock would've found time
to translate four new languages, improve
five computer programs, write two new ones,
and author half a dozen scientific papers. And
Bones...
  Bones would've discovered a handful of vaccines,
isolated a bunch of unknown organisms... and
found a dozen new ways to get under Spock's
skin."
  He was smiling now, in spite of his melancholy,
until he turned back and caught sight of his
aide's pitying expression.
  Damn, Jim-thought disgustedly, as Kevin lowered
his eyes to spare him. I must sound like the ancient
marinert But the only albatross around my neck is
this job. "Don't you miss it at all,
Kevin? Don't you miss working in space?"
  "I don't know, sir," Riley admitted
honestly. "For a long time I thought I'd never go
back. But lately...
  maybe because I've been working with you... I find
myself wondering .... Are you sure it's really
space you miss so much, Admiral, or is it the
responsibility?
  All those people under your command, a million decisions
to make a day--you thrived on that, sir. It was the
responsibility I couldn't handle for a long time.
But now... I think maybe... yes. I guess
I do miss it. The responsibility of working in
space."
  Kirk pointed a finger at him as if his aide had
just pinpointed the problem. "And that's where we're going,
Riley. Into space. You and I. We've done our
bit for God and country. We've written enough
reports and refitted enough ships to satisfy
anyone." He'd even had to oversee the refitting
of the Enterprise.
  He'd done it, too, knowing all the while he was
refitting her for another captain--Will Decker.
"We deserve a better assignment. And today,
I'm going to tell Admiral Nogura just
that. Let the chips go ahead and fall."
  Jim could see both admiration and fear warring in
Riley's eyes. A confrontation with the old man, the
most powerful figure in Starfleet, was quite the
calculated risk. Kirk could very well have to live
with whatever ultimatum he delivered. But did that
matter any longer? I've lost Lori. I've
lost the Enterprise. Lost Bones, Spock, and the
only work I ever cared about.
  What else have I got to lose?
  Just Starfleet. He remembered the day, almost
two years before, When he'd been on leave at his
mother Winona's home in Iowa, and Nogura had
come, determined to talk him into the admiralty. Jim
had been just as determined not to give up the
Enterprise.
  "Make your pitch," he'd told the old man.
"I'll go ahead and refuse the promotion . . . and
if you want to, you can drum me out of the Fleet.
But I won't be kicked disupstairs."
  And Nogura, his tone as smooth and brittle as
glass, had said quietly, "God knows, I
don't want you to resign if I can help it. But
I can't stop yeaf leaving the Fleet."
  .x might very well come to that; having
to resign, to walk away from his years in Starfleet,
to become...
  what? A commercial pilot hauling cargo and
passengers?
  Captain of a crew of thirty on the border
patrol?
  No matter; he could not envision what his future
might be without Starfleet. But he had seen what it
was in the Fleet, without a ship, without the exhilaration
of being in space--and that future he could live with no
longer.
  Perhaps he could not reclaim the Enterprise--but at
the very least, he would force Nogura to make good his
promise that Kirk would be a diplomatic trouble
shooter, not a deskbound bureaucrat...
  Or he would resign.
  "Wish me luck," he said softly, and strode
toward the exit.
  "Admiral!" the younger man called after him.
  Kirk paused in the doorway, knowing that, whatever
Riley might say, he would not be swayed.
  "Just make sure he knows, sir," Riley said
firmly, "that this decision... goes for both of us."
  Kirk blinked, taken aback.
  "I'm not willing to spend my life pushing
anyone else's papers, sir... with all due
respect."
  Kirk gave his aide a questioning glance; but
Riley's gaze was unwavering, his jaw set with a
determination that matched the admiral's. Jim did not
smile, but his expression warmed with admiration and
gratitude.
  He nodded, and headed silently for the staircase that
would lead him to the lion's den.
  The short flight up wasn't so brief that Jim
didn't have time to remember in vivid, exasperating
detail every warning both Spock and McCoy had
given him about allowing Nogura to promote him.
  His first day as a new admiral at Starfleet
Headquarters, he'd reported to Nogura's
office and discovered McCoy there, chewing out the
Starfleet head.
  McCoy's voice had been carried clear out
into the corridor:
  "dis . . he doesn't belong here. I told you,
and every one of your damnable psychiatrists torn you...
but you don't care, do you? You don't care about
what's best for him, you only care about what's best
for you."
  Kirk had been furious at the doctor;
now he remembered the incident with painful
gratitude for his friend's concern. McCoy had been
right; and now Jim didn't know if he'd ever forgive
the old man for the way he'd manipulated both
Kirk and Lori to get exactly what he wanted
out of them. In his head, Kirk 'new that to Nogura,
Starfleet was worth any price, but in his heart,
Jim felt too used to be able to sympathize with his
superior's priorities.
  He entered Nogura's aide's office, fully
prepared to bully the young Vulcan male into gaining
admittance into the old man's well-protected
lair. But the aide caught him up short.
  "Admiral Kirk," the Vulcan said
smoothly. "Admiral Nogura is waiting for you,
sir." Efficiently the tall, slender aide moved
around the desk and opened the connecting door into the
senior officer's quarters.
  Kirk tried not to feel nonplussed--a reaction
he'd had much too often to suit him since working for
Nogura--and entered the admiral's spacious
office warily.
  Behind his desk, Nogura rose, smiling. The
head of Starfleet was silver-haired,
golden-skinned, diminutive; yet
despite his unprepossessing appearance and
demeanor, the small, elderly man radiated
power, presence, unshakable calm.
  As Jim entered, Nogura moved around his desk
to greet his subordinate. "All those years with
Spock must've given you a dose of telepathy,
Jim," the admiral said pleasantly. "I just
called down to your office to find you were already on your
way up. I wish the rest of my officers were able
to anticipate my needs disz well as you do."
  Kirk said nothing, sensing Nogura's flawless
timing was again at work. How often, in the last year,
had he tried to argue for better assignments, only
to have the old man head him off at the pass? Not this
time, Admiral.
  "conJim, do you realize it's been over a year
since you've been in space?" Nogura's
deep-set black eyes furrowed in concern even as
Kirk had to keep from grinding his teeth out loud.
"Too long, way too long for a man like you. I know
you, Jim, you're not happy planet bound." The
aged admiral shook his head as if it were somehow
Kirk's fault for not bringing the subject up
sooner.
  "That's exactly why I was coming to see you,
sir," Kirk interjected. "It has been a year
...."
  "conA very productive year, I must say,"
Nogura reminded him. "Your work on those starship
refittings has changed the very shape of the fleet. Just
wait till you see the Enterprise again, you won't
recognize her.
  Our engineers tell me the expected efficiency
of the new designs..."
  ""Thank you... sir..." Kirk interrupted
bluntly.
  "Those are kind words... but they're no longer
enough. This job hasn't turned out to be what I
expected."
  "And that's my fault completely, Jim, I
know," the admiral agreed, too willingly. "But
Starfleet needed your expertise. No one else
could've given us your knowledge, your ideas. I don't know
if you'll ever reply understand how much your work this past
year and a half has meant to Starfleet."
  Is this what they tell all paper pushers?
Kirk wondered bitterly. It didn't matter.
He wasn't going to let the old man talk him
into any more bureaucratic ,exercises. He
deserved better. "I was supposed to be
using my expertise as a troubleshooter ...."
  'That's what I promised you, and that's what
you'll be," Nogura agreed, but Kirk no longer
believed him.
  He'd heard the promise too many times. "That's
why I was calling you. To discuss a new
assignment."
  Kirk's eyes narrowed. "In space?"
  "In space. A very interesting part of space.
Near the planet Zotos Four." Nogura moved
over to his wall screen and activated it, showing the
mapped coordinates of the sector.
  Jim recognized it at once, and, despite
himself, his interest level picked up. "That's right where
Federation, Tholian, and Klingon space
intersect."
  In spite of the nearness of the Klingons, it was
actually the Tholians that were the bigger problem. A
paranoid and territorial spacefaring race, they were
known to declare wide-ranging neutral areas as "theirs"
and then defend them by obliterating unsuspecting ships
that wandered into them. They'd had a number of
skirmishes with the Klingons and one with the Enterprise
herself.
  "Are the Tholians showing any signs of
admission?"
  Kirk asked. Old reflexes kicked in and he
began formulating strategies for dealing with the
belligerent aliens. If he could only talk
to Spook! The Vulcan had actually communicated
with the Tholians while handling the ship's crisis.
Kirk had been trapped in a space-time continuum,
and his only direct experience with the Tholians was from
what he'd learned from his first officer's logs.
  "No," Nogura assured him. "Nothing like that.
The Tholians and Klingons both have been very
respectful of the. boundaries lately. Do you
remember that lengthy report you spent a month
reviewing and writing a rebuttal to?"
  Kirk stared blankly. There'd been dozens like
that.
  "Myron Shulman's report on the ship he
designed, the Recovery," Nogura prodded.
  Oh, Kirk recalled irritably, that one.
"Yes. The"
  Recovery, according to her designer, would be a fully
automated, high-speed rescue vessel capable of
evacuating large populations without needing to call in
dozens of starships or risking Fleet personnel.
It was an ambitious project, and a
well-researched, well-written report."
  "Which you trashed," Nogura recalled.
  "I gave my opinion," Kirk corrected.
"You told me to be honest, to spare no one's
feelings."
  "An order you've never had trouble obeying," the
admiral remarked, looking decidedly amused.
"Your response was exactly what I expected,
as did Shulman.
  That's why he asked for it. After all, you were the
man who'd lived through, and defeated, Daystrom's
M-Five fiasco. Shulman was particularly
interested in what you had to say about his project. He
took every one of your suggestions to heart. They
refitted the Recovery from stem to stem as per your
recommendations-and now she's ready for her maiden
ran. And you'll be there."
  Kirk saw right through Nogura's hype. "You're
talking about a simulation ...."
  "That's true, but the scale of the simulation
is..."
  "A simulation, in space. With all the
appropriate bells and whistles. This is my
troubleshooting assignment?
  In the report, you stated you'd e sending
the vice-chief of operations, Admiral D nuba,
to the initial simulations."
  "I did," Nogura assured him. "The ship
had ten different trials under ten different scenarios
and performed flawlessly each time. Right down to the
pinpoint accuracy of the transporters. Think of the
changes to space travel, Jim, with intraship
beaming a possibility--"
  "Then why do It" Kirk tried to interrupt.
  Nogura held up his hands. "Hear me out,
Jim.
  Zotos Four has been used as a science station
for the last ten years. There are maybe two hundred
scientists and staff there. The planet is largely
inhospitable but, because of its evolutionary stage, was
valuable as a working lab. But the project that'd been
set up there is complete now. We need to pull those
people off, and all their belongings, equipment, everything, so
that Zotos can continue to develop without interference.
  Sure, a starship or two could do the job in a
few hours, but we want the Recovery to handle it.
Evacuating Zotos, or planets with even larger
populations, is exactly the job she was designed
for. Zotos has a difficult atmosphere,
communications are a problem, homing in on
coordinates is tricky--just the kind of conditions
she's going to face in a real evacuation scenario.
This will be her real test, her true maiden run."
  Nogura paused, as if wanting to be sure he
had Kirk's full attention. "Because of the size and the
scale of the Recovery and the nature of this evacuation
--there'll be several starships on hand, mock
distress signals being sent, even a simulated
attack--we felt it necessary to warn our
"neighbors." Moving that much hardware close to a
border could make anyone nervous Ambassador
Sarek has handled that part of things for us, and his
suggestion was, due to the humanitarian nature
of the Recovery's mission, that we invite the
Tholians, the Klingons, and the Romulans to watch
the exercise at a respectable distance, so that there could
be no misunderstanding about what we are doing. I don't
really think he expected them to accept. But they
did. Once that happened, Shulman and Sarek both
insisted you be there."
  "The Tholians, the Romulans, and the Klingons
are all going to be present?" Kirk was amazed.
The Recovery's completely automated nature
made him wary right from the start. He'd been
skeptical about a rescue ship that worked on
its own, without human direction. He'd been
particularly nervous about the humanitarian
vessel's need for defense capabilities--which
felt as wrong to him as a twentieth-century Red
Cross transport's being armed with cannons--and
he'd said so. His report had posed a host of
what-ifs that came straight from his vast experience with
computers which needed no mortal hand. "What if
something goes wrong?"
  "Shulman will be there, ready to intercede. Sarek will
remain in touch, through onscreen communications, with our
neighbors, and--"
  "When did the Klingons, the Romulans, and the
Tholians become our neighbors?" Kirk demanded
to know. "They're our enemies, sworn to overrun us,
or destroy us."
  "Which is why this goodwill gesture is so
important.
  It's the first time these four groups, all sworn
enemies of one another, have agreed to participate,
however marginally, in a peaceful activity. This could be
a pivotal moment in Federation history, Jim."
  Kirk found his arguments strangling in his throat.
  Finally, he could only ask again, "What if
something goes wrong?"
  "That's why you must be there," Nogura assured
him. "Who better to find solutions on the spot,
solutions Shulman will be too busy to think of,
solutions Sarek will be too removed to suggest? If
something goes wrong, I want you there, Jim. Y.
  The one man who, no matter what happens, will
never forget where he is, what is happening out there, and
who his enemies are."
  Kirk contemplated that for a moment, even as his mind
told him he'd heard this speech before.
  "Admiral--let me be candid." He forced his
tone to be as even, as calmly controlled, as
Spock's would have been in the same situation. "I
came this morning to remind you of your original
promise [o me: that I was to be a troubleshooter.
It was because of that promise that I accepted the
promotion to the admiralty.
  Frankly, sir, you haven't kept your
promise. If you do not intend to, tell me--because
in that case, I resign,"
  Before the last word was out of Kirk's mouth, the older
man countered, "But this is exactly what I'm
offering you, Admiral; a fresh troubleshooting
assignment."
  "Is it, sir? Sounds more like I'm going
to be twiddling my thumbs along with all the other
observers.
  With all due respect: No more evasions,
Admiral."
  A long silence passed between them; Nogura
looked toward the window, and his own view of the Golden
Gate Bridge beneath dark, swift-moving clouds,
and sighed.
  "I know you're unhappy, Jim," he said at
last. "I'm sorry about that. I can't make you
understand how important it's been that you be here doing
what you've done for me. Get through this simulation, and
we'll talk again. If this goes right, I"'1I
owe you."
  Now, that was something Jim had never heard before. He
stiflened slightly; by the time he came back, the
Enterprise refitting would be finished. Maybe he
could go out with her on her maiden run ....
  "You'll owe me," Kirk repeated, looking hard
into Nogura's dark, unreflective eyes. When
the older man did not flinch from that statement, he
yielded. "All right, Admiral. I'll pack
my dress uniform. And I'll remember this
conversation."
  Nogura nodded, and Kirk was surprised
to see that the old man actually looked relieved.
"Take Riley with you. He needs new
experiences. He can't spend his whole life
nursemaiding you, even if that's what you'd like.
Besides, he's one of the Enterprise's original
crew. I expect his career to move forward, as all
the others have."
  Kirk nodded and, as he left the admiral's
office, tried to squelch the traitorous thought,
All the others :.. except their captain.
  Myron Shulman sat before his computer and blinked
the sweat out of his eyes. He was tired, too tired,
really, to be trying to finish up this programming.
  But it had to get done. It had to be right. There had
been some slight hesitation in response time in the
last simulation. He wasn't happy with it, not
happy at all.
  He blinked again, trying to focus on the program
even as the symbols, abbreviations, and special
codes swam before his eyes. What was the problem again?
  For a moment, the tall, lean, brown-eyed man
couldn't remember.
  He had worked so long on this, so hard. That was all
right. He was a marathon runner, he was used to going
the distance. Myron ran a hand through his
longish, curly black hair. The program was so
important. So important. Why couldn't he
focus?
  He blinked and stared again at the screen, where his
program shifted and changed until it reformatted
itself into a three-dimensional image. Myron shook
his head. Now he could see the problem. It was there, in
the safety margins. He manipulated the images,
nudging them, moving their edges, reformatting them
into new shapes. She had to protect herself, the
Recovery. Kirk didn't understand that; he was
paranoid, and rightly so, after his experience with the
Daystrom computer.
  But Daystrom had been too involved with his
machine, had put too much of himself into it.
To Myron, the Recovery was nothing more than a
superhuge ambulance. She wasn't his, she
belonged to the universe, to anyone who needed her
services. She would be a true emergency vessel,
equipped to handle anything.
  Once he got the programming right:
  No, not right. Perfect.
  She had to be able to defend herself, and all the people she
held in her cavernous holds. Once aboard the
Recovery, people had to believe they were
absolutely, positively safe.
  Safe.
  Myron manipulated his program, unwilling
even to blink, until it was completely reformatted,
reshaped into its new, improved, configuration.
  "Now," he murmured, "now she'll be safe.
Kirk will see. He'll see and understand. She'll
keep her wards safe now ...."
  As Shulman worked amid tottering piles of
cassettes and shifting stacks of filmsics, his
program codes grew into more and more complicated
patterns --patterns based on a language
Shulman had never learned, built in a matrix
he couldn't understand. But he kept at it--to show
Kirk, to insure Recovery's success... and
to give honor to the holy triad.
  Chapter One
  "WELCOME caret BOARD DR. McCoy!"
Dr. Angelina Mola greeted the civilian
physician warmly.
  "Why, thank you, ma'am," Leonard replied as
he stepped aboard the massive rescue vessel
Recovery. It was the first time in eighteen months that
he'd set foot on a vessel larger than a
ten-passenger shuttle, and the sensation was rather
overwhelming. "I consider this invitation quite an
honor."
  "The honor is ours, Doctor," the stately,
eighty-year-old matron declared, with a soft
Spanish lilt. She was a head taller than
McCoy, and stood as straight as a tree.
  An oak, Bones thought, admiring her.
  The dark-skinned, black-eyed woman seemed,
to him, to be the consummate professional, from her cap
of close-sheared, tightly curled black and silver
hair, to her trim, austere FDRA uniform, to her
no nonsense work shoes. Not a hair out of place,
not a seam out of line, that was Dr. Mola. She
hadn't changed a bit from the stern, all-business
professor who had first introduced Leonard
McCoy to the idea of joining Starfleet when he had
taken her course, Medicine on the Cutting Edge
--Practicing in Space, as a premed student.
That was about a hundred years ago, wasn't it? he
thought wryly. Yet despite her perfectionistic
demeanor, there was an irresistible warmth in her
voice.
  "I almost didn't recognize you, Leonard,"
Mola said, with a hint of fond disapproval.
  "Ah." McCoy's smile grew
sheepish as he stroked the beard covering the lower
half of his face. It had grown faster and more
thickly than he'd anticipated, a fact that
made him quite proud. But he couldn't get used to the
silver hairs that were beginning to outnumber the black.
"Well, it was just one more thing I had to try, now that
I'm a civilian."
  She lifted a thin black brow, but made no
further comment. "The suggestions you made to Dr.
Shulman," she continued as they walked down gently
curved corridors, "regarding the setup of
sickbay and some of the more advanced medical equipment,
opened up a whole new area for us to explore as we
worked on this ship. Because of your input, Leonard,
Recovery now carries the most complete--and
automated--medical facility in all of
Starfleet. It will be possible for rescued
personnel to be able to diagnose and treat one
another, regardless of the severity of their ailments,
even if there is no doctor among them."
  "Now, there's a scary thought!" McCoy
quipped, bringing the slightest of smiles to the dour
face. "This place could put old country doctors
like myself right out of business!"
  She hmphed at him. "I don't think
there's much concern there, Leonard. If anyone's in
danger of being put out of business, it's Recovery;
that is, if your old comparlero had half the chance."
  McCoy glanced at her. "Now, Angie, come
on.
  Shulman asked Jim for his opinion, and got just
what he asked for. You can't damn a man for having
his say.
  Besides, you told me the ship had been vastly
improved by his suggestions."
  She nodded, acquiescing. "You're right. The ship
has been improved, thanks to both Kirk's and your
input. Here, Leonard, look at this." She
stopped beside a wall panel that had a computer screen
set into it. "Computer, where are we?"
  A map of the ship suddenly lit up the screen.
The huge, elliptically shaped vessel was shown
overhead; then the image was rotated so that the viewer
could see a cutaway section.
  "You are located on deck seventy-five, in the
central core," the feminized voice of the computer
intoned as a place marker lit up in red on the
map. "You are seventy meters from the entrance to the
primary sickbay." Another twinkling light, this
one in blue, marked the place and the direction
to travel. "You are eight meters from the nearest
food and beverage servitor." A green marker
blinked, revealing its location.
  "You are twelve meters from the nearest relief
station." McCoy lifted an eyebrow as that marker
showed up in yellow. "Are you in need of any
services?"
  "Not at this time, computer," Dr. Mola said, and the
screen instantly went blank.
  "Pretty nice "you are here" sign,
Angie," McCoy drawled.
  "That's not all there is to it," she told him.
"If a person reaches a screen and then passes out
and can't ask for help, the computer automatically
beams the victim to an empty cot in sickbay and
begins diagnostics." She must've interpreted his
questioning expression.
  "And yes, the computer can definitely tell the
difference between an unconscious state and normal
sleep."
  "But... intraship beaming! That's enormously
dangerous--"
  Her lips pursed in a small smile. "Not
aboard Recovery. Shulman has perfected the
transporters; they have pinpoint accuracy and
numerous safety features. His improvements will
revolutionize space travel."
  "Yeah? Well, I'll let someone else try
them out.
  Those things scare me enough without my having to worry
about materializing inside a wall."
  "They've been tested countless times, Leonard--more
times, in fact, than any other system on this ship.
I've used them myself, with complete confidence."
  Ignoring the disbelieving glance he gave her, she
indicated the now dark wall viewer. "These screens
are located every thirty meters throughout the ship. They
are accessible by anyone aboard the vessel.
  Eventually, I believe stations like these will become
standard throughout the Fleet. The computer will tell the
questioner where they are, answer their needs, help them find
their way to their quarters, help them obtain food and
equipment from the replicators, almost anything. The
computer will even be able to tell those aboard how
to manage certain repairs, should the ship develop
a problem. She can suggest various rescue
remedies, even defense plans, should she come under
attack. Once inside Recovery, those who're
been rescued can be given the means to handle anything that
occurs."
  "If you say so," the doctor remarked
amiably.
  "You sound skeptical." Mola raised a coal
black brow.
  "Well, I've seen more than one of these
"answer to all your prayers" machines," he
told her. "In my experience, the reality often
falls far short of the dream."
  "That's what tests and simulations are for, mi
amigo. And that's why I insisted you come along as our
honorary civilian observer. I know if you see,
firsthand, the ship in action, I can convince you of
Recovery's value. If I can do that, then I can
convince anyone. Even Kirk."
  "Yeah, well, convincing me is one thing. Convincing
the admiral..." McCoy made a sound of fond
exasperation. The mention of Jim made him
homesick for his old friend, and the Enterprise. For the
past year and a half, the doctor had lost himself in
researching the Fabrini and applying their medical
expertise on far-flung planets. Being on a
huge ship again brought back memories of another
ship, another time .... "I mean, to him this'11
be just another report that crosses his desk. It's
not like he'll actually see the ship's
performance."
  She smiled, as if she'd anticipated his
argument.
  "Oh, yes he will. Nogura's sending him. There
was too much pressure on them; Kirk had to come."
  McCoy's eyebrows furrowed. "To a
simulation?
  That hardly sounds important enough--"
  She glanced about them as if to insure their
privacy.
  "No, not just for the simulation. Recovery's already
been through the paces on testing. This... is different.
  There are other factors involved."
  He glanced at her sideways. There was something
she was holding back.
  "Por favor, Leonard, forgive me," she said
softly, "but I cannot say what they are. It is hard
for me to refuse you, but... you are, after all, a
civilian now."
  He grinned, clearly surprising her. "Oh,
don't apologize, old friend. I'm just your
average, retired space dog, and glad of it. I
had my fill of classified information when I was in
uniform. You can keep your dark, disturbing secrets.
I get more sleep at night these days then
I ever did when I was in the Fleet."
  "Thank you for understanding," Dr. Mola said.
  "You always were the perfect caballero."
  Looking away from her, he asked as casually as
he could, "So, Jim's coming out to watch the show,
huh?"
  "Yes. We'll be there before him, of course.
I'm sure there'll be some free time before the
evacuation actually gets under way. Certain...
things regarding the scenario must be set up ahead of
time. It would be a simple matter for me to call
him, and let him know you're here."
  "No!" McCoy said, a little too quickly.
"We...
  haven't seen each other since we left the
Enterprise.
  Jim beams over to the Recovery, and before you know
it, it'll be old home week. Both of us will be
expected to write reviews of the test. If people see
us together, and if our reviews agreed..." He
trailed off, hoping she'd pick up the thread. The
fact was, the thought of seeing Jim again unnerved
him; he was not so sure his old friend wanted to see
him. Not after the way McCoy had burst
into Admiral Nogura's office and chewed
him out for talking Jim into that promotion.
  But he hadn't been able to help it. Nogura had
gone over his, McCoy's, head, ignored his
recommendation that Jim be permitted to keep his command,
and kicked Jim upstairs.
  He wondered vaguely whether Jim was happy-.
  then forced his attention back to Dr. Mole, who was
nodding.
  "... could make the test look tainted," she was
saying. "You're right, of course. We can't risk
even a hint of collusion. That's noble of you,
Leonard. I'm sure you would've liked to have seen
your friend. I'll make sure there's no mention of your
name. Of course, after the test is run, he'll no
doubt want a tour of the vessel ...."
  "It's a big ship, Angie. I'll manage
to avoid him."
  She looked at him oddly. Before she could comment
again, a tall, ascetically thin man approached
them.
  Dr. Mola's face brightened. "Dr.
Shulman! Are we about to depart for Zotos Four?"
  "Yes, Dr. Mola," the soft-spoken man
replied.
  "We'll be under way within the next ten
minutes. I'll be watching the computer reports from
my quarters.
  Have you checked the guest register? Is everyone
aboard and ready to go?"
  McCoy watched the man with a doctor's eye.
He was olive-skinned, but there seemed to be a flush
about his color, as if he were slightly feverish. The
barest hint of sweat stood out on his brow. Well,
after all, the doctor reminded ,hmf, this ship's
been his life's work. He wouldn't be human if this
voyage didn't have him in a complete lather.
  "Absolutely, Dr. Shulman," Angelina
assured him.
  "All sixty-four invited guests are on
board. The planetary delegations of the FDRA
arrived an hour ago, and Dr. McCoy, our
civilian guest, was the last to arrive."
  "Excellent," Shulman muttered. "Then
I'll set the programming in motion and we'll be
on our way. It won't do to be late. Not at
all. Good evening, doctors."
  The tall man nearly jogged away from them in his
urgency, and McCoy found himself staring after the
designer.
  "Don't mind Myron," Angellna
explained. "He's been twitchy ever since he
heard Kirk would be there.
  He'll be fine once the ship goes through her
paces."
  "No doubt," McCoy murmured distractedly.
  "Didn't I read somewhere that Shulman is a
long-distance runner?"
  "That's right. Won the bronze in the Federation
Olympics five years ago."
  McCoy nodded and turned back to his gu'de.
"That explains it. Those marathon runners always
seem as hyper as greyhounds to me."
  Dr. Mola laughed. "As laid-back as you
usually are, Leonard, your reaction doesn't
surprise me." She stopped them before a pair of
sliding doors with a medical symbol beside them. As the
doors whooshed open, she waved him inside. "Ah,
here, finally, we arrive at sickbay. I can't
wait to show you my favorite toys!"
  Sarek gave a single nod to dismiss his
white-robed guide, a young Vulcan female with
downcast eyes, and stepped out onto the balcony that
overlooked the horizon. To the east, Mount
Seleya, black, jagged, and impenetrable,
spiraled upward against the darkening purple
sky. The last rays of the fiery sunset had faded,
leaving the thin air cool; within minutes, the
temperature would drop some thirty or forty
degrees, and the burning desert would metamorphose
into a cold wasteland. He had purposely timed his
journey to avoid crossing the plain of Gol during
the most intense heat.
  For a moment he stood motionless, save for the lock
of wavy silver hair lifted from his forehead by the
breeze, and gazed out at the mountains.
  Silence permeated his surroundings. The young
postulant who had led him to the balcony had glided
noiselessly upward over the black steps, leaving
Sarek intensely conscious of the echoing ring of his own
boot-heels against the stone. Hewn millennia before
from the dark mountains, the retreat housed some few
hundred students of Kolinahr, the pursuit of
nonemotion; but Sarek had seen no one save the
student who had greeted him at the great stone
archway, and in the deep silence on the balcony, it
was simple to imagine that he was entirely alone in the
desert.
  VuIt was, to Sarek's mind, the most
quintessentially place on "Vulcan. The
retreat at Gol had existed even before
Surak's peaceful revolution, when Kolinahr
adepts were much-feared practitioners of the art of
mind-control: the mind-lords, who ruled through terror and
manipulation. After Surak, the adepts turned their
control inward, and mastered their own minds and emotions
rather than those of others.
  Adepts were now held in reverence; Vulcan
families were privately proud to count a
Kolinahr student among their members.
  But in this hallowed and quiet place, Sarek found
himself struggling to suppress not pride (though he did
feel an inkling of that emotion, at the thought that his son
'had chosen such a consummately Vulcan life) but
concern.
  More than a Terran standard year before, when James
Kirk had been promoted to admiral and
relinquished command of the Enterprise, Spock had
re.signed his Starfleet commission and returned
to Vulcan to accept a teaching position at the
Science Academy. Sarek had been pleased,
especially when Spock had announced his engagement
to a much-respected Vulcan scientist,
T'Sura. Sarek felt certain that his son would
become comfortable among his own people at last.
  And then Spock had taken two human
friends on a visit to Gol. Such a thing was not
uncommon; the Kolinahru welcomed visitors
seeking a quiet retreat.
  But one of those friends, Dr. Leonard McCoy,
was kidnapped-under bizarre circumstances, and the other,
Keridwen Llewellyn, accompanied Spock and the
Kolinahr High Master, T'Sai, on a
successful rescue mission and was killed.
  Sarek knew little of the details; Spock
remained resolutely taciturn on the subject.
But when he returned from the mission, he immediately
called off his marriage to T'Sura and retreated
to Gol.
  Sarek had at first assumed that Spock's sudden
interest in Kolinahr was due to his short visit with
its practitioners, and the subsequent mission with the
High Master. But Amanda, Spock's mother, insisted
that her son's decision must have been somehow related
to the human woman's death. Sarek was now beginning
to consider whether his wife's all-too-human
instincts were correct.
  He had put off this confrontation for almost a year,
until it could be avoided no longer, because of his growing
conviction that Kolinahr was the wrong path for Spock.
Perhaps, many years ago, he would have approved
--just as he had disapproved of Spock's decision
to join Starfleet and work among humans.
  But years of reflection had caused him to alter his
original assessment; Spock was, after all,
half-human, and to deny that fact was to deny Spock
himself, and the heritage given him by his mother.
  Kolinahr would require Spock to utterly
reject that part of himself.
  Yet until that moment, as Sarek stood waiting
in the cooling, desert-scented breeze, he had not
fully acknowledged his discomfort with the idea. And, in that
instant, he realized what he was required to do;
realized it, but did not relish it.
  He turned at the whisper of footsteps against
stone, and let his gaze fall upon his son.
  "Father," Spock said, with perfectly neutral
inflection, as he lowered the hood of his white
postulant's robe.
  Sarek's mind returned involuntarily to an
encounter of some twenty years before, when he and his son
had disagreed intensely over Spock's choice of
Starfleet.
  But this Spock bore little resemblance to the one of
twenty years ago. This Spock was no stubborn,
passionate boy, but a gaunt, severe
Kolinahr adept. He had grown thinner on a
spartan diet, so that the sharp angles of his jaw were
even more pronounced; in the dimming light, shadows
gathered in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His dark
hair fell midway between his jaw and shoulders quite
straight, Sarek noted, like his mother's, and the ends had
taken on a faint reddish cast from the same pitiless
sun that had browned his skin. His bangs were long and
brushed to one side.
  And beneath his upswept brows were eyes whose gentleness
had been replaced by a depthless, disturbing cold.
  Sarek heard that same chill in his son's soft
voice.
  "You have come to take your leave?"
  tn the context of Gol, the question had a deeper
meaning. Before the great Ritual, in which the student's
mind was joined to that of the High Master and all emotion
was obliterated, the student was encouraged to sever all
emotional bonds with family and friends. This was most
easily accomplished through mind-touch. Shared
memories would be acknowledged, all attachments and
obligations dissolved.
  Amanda had already grudgingly acquiesced, and
taken her leave several months before she had made
her disapproval clear to her husband, if not
her son. It was Sarek's turn now, for Spock
would undergo the Ritual in a matter of weeks. This
Sarek knew not because he had been in contact with his
sonmGol permitted no communication with the outside
world but because traditionally, the Ritual was performed after
a year's study and preparation.
  Spock's year was almost up.
  Sarek drew in a breath and replied, "No. I
have come to explain why I will not."
  Spock said nothing, only remained consummately
still, awaiting the promised explanation; his muscles
did not tense, nor did his rate of breathing
change. But he blinked once, swiftly
  "I cannot approve of your decision," Sarek
continued.
  "And, unlike your mother, I cannot be party to that of which
I disapprove." He paused, searching for words as
Spock remained as still and unreactive as the black
stone surrounding them. "You are half-human,
Spock. While I commend your choice of the
Vulcan way, I cannot condone a path which requires
the utter denial of that fact."
  "I do not follow your logic." Spock spoke
in the same soft, passionless tone. "You disapproved
of Starfleet; and approved of my return
to Vulcan, and the bonding with T'Sura. It was my
assessment that you preferred I 'deny," as you put
it, my human half."
  "I.. 2' Sarek heard the faint heat in his own
voice, and forced himself to adopt the same calm
intonation as his son. "... merely do not wish for you
to deny either heritage. It is very simple logic.
And it is not coincidence that both I and your mother
disapprove, Spock. Surely your friends,
Admiral Kirk and Dr. McCoy, agree."
  "I would not know."
  Sarek's surprise did not show on his face.
"They have not come to take their leave of you?"
  "I have not requested it of them," Spock said, and
Sarek thought he heard the faintest trace of
contempt as his son continued: "They are, after all,
human."
  "And closer to you than I or your mother," Sarek
countered. "If you do not dissolve your ties to them, then
the achievement of true Kolinahr will be extremely
difficult, if not--"
  "I have noted your opinion," Spock interrupted
swiftly, with a hardness that made Sarek lift an
eyebrow and fall silent. "However"--and his tone
grew soft once more--com"I am determined
to achieve Kolinahr. With or without your assistance."
  Sarek paused at the faint, distant keening of a
bird; ,he inclined his face toward the sound, away
from his son, and felt the evening breeze, now cold,
upon his cheek. He turned back to Spock. "Then
further discussion is unwarranted."
  "'Agreed." Spock lifted a hand, parting third
and middle fingers to form a @y. "Live long and
prosper, Sarek."
  And with those words, he proclaimed them no longer father
and son, but Sarek and Spock; even though Sarek
had not agreed to take his leave, Spock was stating
that, in his own mind at least, the relationship had been
formally dissolved.
  Sarek raised his own hand in salute. "Live
long and prosper, Spock." For a few seconds,
no more, he remained gazing on his former son for what,
according to Kolinahr tradition, would be the last time. The
encroaching gloom had muted the details of
Spock's face; his skin appeared silver-gray,
his eyes and brows and hair had begun to fade into the
black stone behind him, just as the jet mountains on the
horizon were disappearing into the backdrop of night.
  And then Spock turned and disappeared silently
through the archway, a flash of white swallowed
up by darkness. Sarek remained outside in the cold
for a few moments more, then slowly, reluctantly,
followed.
  Back in his cell, Spock sat cross-legged
on the floor in front of an old-fashioned oil
lamp.
  Ool was just as it had always been from the time of
Vulcan's earliest history--free from the comforts of
civilization. Spock's cubicle, like that of all
Gol residents, consisted of a room of just
sufficient dimensions for a tall Vulcan to lie
down without head or feet touching the walls. It was
unadorned, without furniture save for a small
closet carved into one corner.
  Postulants slept and sat upon the floor, yet
Spock had come to consider it quite comfortable. The chill of
night was countered by the warmth held by the glittering
black rock that formed walls, ceiling, floor;
by morning, the rock had grown cold, and retained a
pleasant coolness during the worst of the daytime heat.
  Night had fallen completely. Without the glow of
nearby cities, the sky was black as the
jet-colored stone; impossible, save for the glowing
stars, to tell where the window--a simple hole carved
in the wall--ended and the sky began.
  From his pocket, Spock drew out a
palm-sized, circular disk with an esoteric
geometric design etched onto its burnished
metal surface. He set it respectfully down
in front of the oil lamp and fixed his gaze upon it.
The meditation mandala had belonged to an accomplished
adept, now deceased, who had followed custom and
willed the mandala to the Gol retreat, that it might be
used by another aspirant to achieve the enlightenment and
freedom of Kolinahr.
  The mandala's precise age was unknown. It
was, at the very least, several centuries old, its
original pink-gold surface long tarnished to a
dull greenish bronze by the fingerprints of generations
of adepts.
  Spock released a long, slow breath and paused
before beginning his meditation to examine his thoughts.
  He had believed, after so many months at Gol,
that he had nearly succeeded in purging all emotion;
but Sarek's arrival had brought with it a revelation
to the contrary. Perhaps in the purified, controlled
atmosphere of Gol it was easy to maintain
equilibrium. But Sarek had brought with him
memories of life outside, and his stinging refusal
to take leave of his son had xeleased in
Spock the recollection of another bitter encounters
the day Spock had informed his father that he intended to join
Starfleet.
  Sarek had insisted that life among humans would
damage Spock's ability to control his emotions.
  'Every time your control falters, you reflect
poorly on all of Vulcan ...."
  .and Spock had hotly countered, "I wonder
how my mother wouMore react if she knew you were warning
me against being contaminated by her species."
  But Sarek would not be reasoned with; he had
proclaimed Spock vrekasht, an outcast--no
longer his son.
  Spock could not help seeing the curious
parallels between this evening's encounter and that of twenty
years before. ('Except that this time he, Spock, had
been the one to willingly sever the fatherstson relationship;
and now it was Sarek who argued that Spook ought not deny
his human heritage.
  CouMore it be possible, Spock pondered, staring
intently at the mandala's design as if seeking an
answer there, that my desire to achieve Kolinahr
sprang from a desire to please my father?
  A year ago, he would likely have suppressed
such an embarrassing, distressing thought. But
Kolinahr demanded extreme introspection,
extreme self-honesty.
  Unexamined emotions and memories could not be
purged.
  Yet he knew that he had come to Kolinahr for a
different reason: because, just as his father had
  warned twenty years before, Spock's control had
  faltered--and caused the death of an innocent
  woman.
  Or so he had believed at the time. Now, after
  months of intense contemplation, he had come to
  realize that she might very well have died despite
his
  failure; indeed, perhaps he and Dr. McCoy and
High
  Master T'Sai might all have died as well
even had he
  not suffered an emotional lapse. It was
impossible to
  know such things, and guilt was illogical and
unproductive. He had overcome it after a great
internal
  struggle.
  Now, he knew, he would have to overcome a fresh
  welling of anger at Sarek, for refusing
to assist him in
  releasing all emotion associated with the memory of
  his father proclaiming him vrekasht. Such anger
  would not be easy to overcome, for his conflict with
  his father had been one of the most painful incidents
  in his life.
  And he would also have to overcome a troublesome
  doubt provoked by Sarek's words: "If you do not
  dissolve your ties to your friends, then the achievement
of true Kolinahr will be extremely difficult his
  He had not thought of Jim Kirk and Leonard
McCoy in many months. He had not considered that he
had many issues to resolve concerning his former
shipmates.
  True, he had felt some faint stirrings of
betrayal when Kirk had revealed his decision
to give up command of the Enterprise, and to accept a
promotion to the admiralty; but Spock had long
ago overcome that emotion. He had focused instead
on freeing himself from the emotional bonds to his
family, and his sense of insecurity concerning his
identity as a Vulcan.
  Yet (though, Spock noted with irony, it was
difficult to admit) Sarek had been correct in
stating that Spock had been closer to James
Kirk and Dr. McCoy than he had been to his
own parents. Perhaps it would be wisest to investigate his
father's claim.
  Spock closed his eyes and summoned a mental
image of his friends.
  First came Dr. Leonard McCoy. Spock
had last seen the doctor a year before, shortly before
the Vulcan's retreat to Gol.
  Their last encounter had been overshadowed" by the
recent tragic death of McCoy's associate,
Dr. Keridwen Llewellyn.
  An aura of sadness surrounded the memory;
sorrow had been etched on McCoy's haggard,
unshaven face, in his red-rimmed, bloodshot blue
eyes. But he had shown no sign of blaming
Spock for Llewellyn's death; indeed, he had
accepted Spock's decision to pursue Kolinahr
with grace and compassion.
  "Maybe those Kolinahr folks have the right idea.
Maybe we'd all be better off without emotions."
  To his astonishment, Spock found himself
repressing a fond inward smile at the mental
sound of the doctor's voice. Impossible; he had
relived the memory completely many months ago,
had used the mind-control techniques
to banish all emotion associated with Leonard
McCoy.
  And yet... affection for the doctor stubbornly
persisted. And if he still possessed fondness for
Dr. McCoy...
  Spock drew a breath and evoked the image of
James Kirk, as he had been on his first day as
an admiral at Starfleet Headquarters in San
Francisco.
  To Spock, who had called from Vulcan, the
admiral had seemed curiously uncomfortable in his
new uniform and office, though his face had been
alight with typical Kirkish enthusiasm at the
thought of conquering something new, something unknown.
  That brightness had faded quickly when Spock revealed
that he had resigned his Starfleet commission.
  "TI-LIKE miss you, Spock. You've been a
damn fine officer--and a good friend."
  S. Sarek had again been correct. There were still
emotional bonds that needed to be broken. The
memory had brought with it a glimmer of pain.
  And more: As he contemplated his friends, Spock
felt a sudden unmistakable curiosity.
  Where are you now, Dr. McCoy?
  And you, Jim--are you still at Starfleet
Headquarters?
  Still convinced that you made the right decision?
  Spock opened his eyes and rose--a reflexive
reaction to the faint but unmistakable sensation of
contact, as though another mind had attempted
to contact his across the ocean of space.
  The sensation had been too weak to identify the
source, but Spock immediately considered whether the few
mind-molds he had accomplished with Kirk and
McCoy had produced a subtle mental link.
  Impossible.
  Impossible, yet Spock stepped over to the
window and gazed out at the stars--at Sol, the source
of light and life for Earth, where Jim Kirk
dwelled--and sensed unmistakable danger...
  Chapter Two
  THE SCENE BEFORE Kirk's eyes wavered a
bit as he materialized, then gradually
solidified into clearer view. For a heartbeat, he
imagined he had just beamed aboard the Enterprise.
The thought triggered a wave of homesickness for his own
ship, his own crew; it had been nearly two years
since he had last set foot aboard her.
  But this was a different ship, a different
transporter room; her crew was not his
to command, but that of the woman standing alongside the
transporter console before him.
  Dressed in sedate Starfleet gray,
Starhawk's captain was not a tall person, but she
nonetheless projected the illusion of height by holding
herself perfectly erect. Her shoulderlength black
hair, shot through with silver, the exotic tilt of her
eyes and high cheekbones all spoke of Tatar
ancestry.
  For a glimmering instant, Kirk got the
impression of extreme dignity, extreme serenity
that was almost Vulcanlike; and then the captain grinned
broadly, dispelling the illusion.
  "Admiral," she said with unfeigned warmth,
moving forward to extend a hand as Kirk stepped from the
transporter pad. "Welcome aboard. I'm
Captain Zhanya Akhmatova."
  "Captain." Kirk clasped her hand; her grip
was delicate, determined. "A pleasure."
  She hesitated, peering at the empty
transporter pads behind him. "Is your aide
arriving later?"
  "Commander Riley will be helping Captain
Romolo coordinate his part of the simulation," he
answered smoothly. In truth, when Kirk
had realized that his aide's ex-wife, Anab
Saed, was a security officer aboard the Starhawk,
he had offered Riley the option of a little busywork
aboard the Paladin. The younger man had jumped at
the chance.
  Akhmatova brightened at the mention of the other
captain's name. "Ah. Well, he's in good
company.
  Baldassare is an old friend of mine--we go
all the way back to the Academy. I had hoped
to have some time to say hello to him myself since we're in
the same neighborhood, but a captain's duties
don't exactly allow for reunions." She
gestured toward the exit.
  "May I show you to your guest quarters,
Admiral? My staff was fighting over who would get
the honors, but I picked the longest straw."
  "The privileges of rank?" Kirk asked
lightly.
  "Of course," Akhmatova allowed cheerfully.
"I always win. Don't you?"
  He gave a small grin. "Always. Lead on,
Captain."
  Flanking Kirk, she spoke as she led him into the
corridor. "There's to be a formal dinner
tonight in the officers" mess, preceded by a small
reception at nineteen hundred hours. You have an
hour or so to rest up, take a tour of the ship,
or.. 2'
  "Or?" Kirk lifted a bemused brow at the
sudden coyness in her tone.
  "Or you could have a drink with the captain.
  Frankly, I'd relish the chance to sound you out
privately on this whole Recovery issue."
  "That sounds fine," Kirk said. "But I'd
better warn you--my private view is the same as
my public."
  dis"...Really?" She tilted her head to regard him
sidewise.
  "You don't sound like you believe me."
  Akhmatova's outer office was equipped with the
luxury of a wall servitor. She stood smiling
across the small conference table at Kirk, who sat.
"What'aa it be, Admiral?"
  "Saurian brandy."
  She swiveled toward the bulkhead. "Computer.
  One Saurian brandy, one Water."
  "Water? Wait a minute, Captain. I'm not
so sure about allowing this interrogation if I'm going
to be the only one imbibing ...."
  But Akhmatova did not hear. The computer almost
instantly interrupted with, "Ship's stores do not
include Saurian brandy. Please make another
selection."
  "Water," Kirk sighed. Akhmatova made a
wry face.
  "Now, Admiral, how do you expect me
to grill you if you're entirely " *"
  sober.
  Kirk laughed and felt himself relax. He liked
Akhmatova--and it occurred to him that it was because she was
treating him as an equal... another captain,
instead of one of the brass.
  "Computer, two waters."
  Two frosted glasses appeared almost at once;
Akhmatova set one in front of Kirk, then
took one herself and sat down opposite him.
  "So," Kirk said. "For some reason, you're
desperate to know my opinion about Recovery. So
here it is: I hope it works. I sincerely do. But
I have my doubts."
  "Because of the Daystrom incident." She took a
sip of water, all the while holding him in her
careful gaze.
  He gave a single, slow nod.
  "Well, forgive me, Captain, but I'm not so
sure I wish Myron Shulman success.
Rescue missions are still one of the main duties of
starships. And I, for one, am in favor of keeping
starships busy."
  Kirk shrugged. "They'll stay busy. They'll
just be free for other missions: Peacekeeping.
Diplomacy.
  Most importantly, exploration. That is their
disprimary task."
  "Yes..." Akhmatova fell silent and fingered
her glass thoughtfully, as though debating something.
  Then she looked up, and, with a sudden intensity that
made Kirk blink, said:
  "Of course, I really didn't bring you here
to talk about Recovery. I don't give a damn
whether she succeeds or fails."
  A shrill whistle interrupted. She swiveled
smoothly in her chair toward the intercom and punched
a toggle. "Akhmatova here."
  "Captain. Ambassador Sarek's party has
arrived and is being escorted to their quarters."
  "Very good. Ou."
  She turned back to Kirk and hesitated,
gathering her thoughts.
  Kirk's eyebrows were still lifted in mild
surprise, but otherwise his expression never
changed. "You were saying, Captain?"
  She clasped her hands, elbows resting on the
table, and leaned forward; there was no lightness in her
tone now. "I want your advice, Admiral.
You've been where I'm about to be. I'm due for
promotion next month. I figure I've got
three choices: accept it and be kicked upstairs;
refuse it and pray Nogura will let me keep my
ship; or retire and be done with it." She let go a
measured sigh, and for the first time Kirk saw a flicker
of anxiety in her expression. "Are you happy with the
choice you made?"
  The final question caught him off-guard. He liked
Akhmatova; her toughness reminded him of his own, and
he wanted to be honest with her, to help if he could.
  At the same time, his happiness was none of her
damned business. Because, over the days and weeks and
months since leaving the Enterprise, he had grown
increasingly unhappy. And seeing Akhmatova now
was a reminder of what he had once had, and lost.
  Abruptly he saw Lori in his mind's eye,
on the day she had left him.
  "Just promise me one thing."
  They had been embracing for a final time; his lips
had brushed her hair as he asked, "What's that?"
  "Get a ship again. It's what you want most,
Jim.
  More than anything else. More than me..."
  He had told himself then that she had said it because she
was hurting and had projected that hurt onto him. But
with the passage of time, he was beginning to believe more and
more that she had been right. Hr words had never left
him.
  He took a long drink from the sweating glass in
front of him. The water was refreshingly sweet and
cold going down. At last he said, "I'm not you,
Captain. You're the person who has to live
inside your skin. What may be right for
  "I understand, sir." Akhmatova"...ness tone had
grown quiet, respectful, showing that she understood
what a deeply personal question she had asked a
superior.
  "What's heaven for one is hell for another. But
--I don't think we're all that different, you and
I. I'd value an answer to my question."
  He drew a breath, stared fixedly at a bead of
moisture leaving a shiny trail down the side of the
frosted glass. "All right. I think I was
happy. andmiddotbbandmiddot; at first. Nogura
made me a deal--that I'd see excitement,
adventure. Travel." He looked up and
straightened in his chair. "This is travel... but
does it seem like excitement to you?"
  She said nothing, only nodded somberly.
  "Now you answer my question, Captain--can you be
happy without this ship?"
  'She stared at him as though he were speaking
gibberish, another language. He almost repeated the
question, but she finally said, "I try to imagine it, and
can't. The Starhawk is my life."
  "Then fight for her," he said--and felt a shiver
run through him. It was as if someone else had spoken
the words to him--someone who understood Jim Kirk
well enough to know precisely what he needed to do.
  Akhmatova's voice grew whisper-soft.
"Did you fight for Enterprise?"
  "Not hard enough." He tried, and failed, to keep
the bitterness from his tone.
  conHe left shortly after, and found his way back
to the guest quarters. Their sterility left him
restless, and he had briefed himself completely on the
Recovery trial run.
  And so he wandered down to the botanical
gardens.
  Each ship's garden had a personality all its
own, Kirk realized; the Starhawk's began as an
English flower garden, filled with roses,
camellias, tiger lilies, neatly sculpted
hedges of blue-green rue. It was far different from
the Enterprise, with its stone meditation garden
designed by Spock, and the stand of bonsai trees
artfully tended by Hikaru Sulu.
  Kirk drew in a breath of flower-scented air as
he strolled. The order quickly gave way to an
untamed Terran herb garden, with blooming clumps
of rosemary, lavender, rose geranium. Beyond, a
straight, motionless figure sat cross-legged upon
a bench beneath a lemon verbena tree, near a small
stone waterfall that filled the air with cool mist.
  A Vulcan, Kirk realized, and for an
unsettling moment, the figure looked uncannily
like Spock. But this Vulcan was slightly older, more
Solidly built, with streaks of pure white in his
iron gray hair.
  Kirk quickened his pace as he recognized
Ambassador Sarek--and stopped two seconds
later, as he realized the Vulcan's eyes were
closed in meditation.
  conHe hesitated, then turned to leave quietly.
  "Admiral Kirk."
  He turned to look behind him at Sarek, who 'had
opened his eyes and risen from the bench.
  "Ambassador." He smiled. "I didn't
mean to disturb you ...."
  "It is no disturbance. As coincidence would have it,
I was just finishing my meditation." He paused; his
dark eyes flickered over Kirk. "I trust you
are doing well since we last met. My belated
congratulations on your promotion."
  "Thank you. I'm fine. And I hope you're
doing far better than when we last--"
  Sarek brushed any concerns away with a small
sweep of his hand. "Yes, my health is far better
than it has been in some years."
  "And your family?" Kirk repressed the
desire to ask, Your son?
  ,'Amanda is quite well." Sarek hesitated.
Had he been human, Kirk might have said that a
shadow passed over the ambassador's face; but this
was a Vulcan, Spock's father. Surely, Kirk
told himself, it must have been his imagination. "As for
Spock, I saw him recently for the first time in
several months."
  Kirk frowned, puzzled. "I thought Spock was
living in ShanaiKahr with you. Did he move?"
  Again Sarek paused, as though choosing his words
carefully. "Spock has elected to pursue
Kolinahr."
  "Kolinahr?"
  "The ancient Vulcan path of total
nonemotion. It is an arduous procedure; it
requires retreat, solitude, intense
contemplation."
  S. Spock must have felt the necessity to purge
himself of the "emotional contamination" of all those years
around humans. But Spock had always seemed to Jim
quintessentially Vulcan; if anything, he
overcompensated for his human half, trying to--as
Bones had been so fond of putting
it--"out-Vulcan the Vulcans." Kolinahr
seemed like overkill; yet Kirk kept his
expression pleasantly neutral. "You must be very
proud, Ambassador."
  Sarek looked away, at the crystalline
waterfall; when at last he spoke, his tone held
something far different from pride. "It is... a
decision that will have a profound impact upon his life,
his career as a scientist. For once he
performs the final Ritual and achieves total
Kolinahr, he will remain at the mountain retreat
for the rest of his life, and be allowed no contact with the
outside world."
  Kirk stared at him, too stunned to believe he
had made correct sense of the ambassador's
words. "You mean...
  Sarek looked back at him with that dark,
penetrating gaze. "He will not see friends or
family again."
  "I see." And yet he did not see--could not
believe or understand that Spock would have done such a thing
without saying good-bye. He had thought the Vulcan his
closest friend; perhaps he had been wrong.
  "His mother is, naturally, quite distressed by his
decision."
  "And you, Ambassador?" An impertinent question
to ask a Vulcan, perhaps; but if Sarek took
offense, he showed no sign.
  "I am--quite logically concerned. Spock's
talents could best be utilized elsewhere."
  Agreed, Kirk told himself--comsilently, for he
knew that he and Sarek would not concur on precisely
where those talents should be applied. Sarek no doubt
felt his son belonged on Vulcan; but
Jim knew that Spook belonged in Starfleet.
  The image of Edith Keeler rose unbidden in his
mind. She had accused Jim and Spock of seeming
out-of-place in Earth of the 1930's; and Jim,
smiling, had asked where she thought they belonged.
  She had nodded at Spock and said: "Him? By your
side, as if he's always been there, and always will be."
  .kirk had always agreed with the sentiment. The worst
thing about the admiralty--besides the loss of his ship--
had been the 10ss of his friends. Perhaps, now, he was
experiencing what Spock had felt upon learning that
Jim would not return as captain of the Enterprise:
the sting of abandonment.
  To never set eyes on his friend again... It was as if
Spock had died.
  When does this ritual take place? he almost
asked, but was interrupted by the appearance of a slender
young Vulcan female, who had approached them so
quietly that he started at the sound of her calm
voice.
  "Ambassador? The reception will begin
shortly."
  Sarek dismissed her with a brief nod of
acknowledgment, then turned to Kirk. "Shall we,
Admiral?"
  Jim let go a slow sigh, and looked up at the
face that so reminded him of his friend. "Let's go."
  In a large conference room aboard the Paladin,
Lieutenant Commander Kevin Riley sat
comfortably watching the crew members who had just begun
to filter in for the captain's briefing. Almost all of
them were cadets. Riley had known Romolo's ship
was a training vessel, but he had been unprepared
for the ratio of wet-behind-the-ears kids to experienced
personnel.
  He was one of a handful of seasoned officers aboard
Paladin, and at the moment, the only apparent
adult in the room; obviously, the brass had seen
the simulation as a milk run.
  Cadets notwithstanding, Riley felt both
relieved and unhappy to have taken Admiral Kirk
up on the all-too-obvious offer to assist
Romolo--relieved, because he dreaded seeing Anab
again; unhappy, because he wanted desperately to see
her.
  He knew that he should have remained on the
Starhawk, encountered her at the reception, and said a
polite hello, but each time he considered it, his
courage failed. Besides, he had nothing to say to her.
  They hadn't spoken for six months, ever
since she had contacted him to coolly announce that
she was canceling their marriage contract. The decision
had left him devastated; until then, he had
convinced himself that she would return to him.
  Correction, he thought grimly. He did have
something to say; or rather, something to prove. He'd been
a different person when Anab left eighteen
months before to serve on the Starhawkman
indecisive, insecure person who had remained in
Starfleet simply to please her.
  The day she'd shipped out, she'd begged him,
"Get out of Starfleet. Find out what it is you
really want to do with your life. You're not doing
Kirk any favors by working for him halfheartedly,"
  "Mr. Riley?"
  He glanced up at the sound of his name, and gazed
into a pair of bright blue eyes. Their owner, a
pale-skinned woman with a smooth, shoulder-length
cap of red-gold hair, extended a hand. Riley
noted at once the insignia on her gray uniform,
and realized who she was in the instant before she
introduced herself in a clipped British accent.
  "Commander Ruth Pulver, first officer."
  Riley smiled and took the proffered hand.
Pulver's alabaster features and large,
heavy-lidded eyes reminded him of holos he'd
seen of Victorian-era beauties; but her grip was
firm, her attitude clearly no-nonsense. She
did not return the smile. Riley noted at
once that the cadets in the room had suddenly hushed.
Perhaps Pulver's rigid demeanor was a necessity
on a shipful of trainees.
  "Commander," he said, instinctively straightening in
his chair; something about Pulver's perfect posture
demanded it. "Please..." He gestured at the
empty chair beside him.
  "Thank you." She sat with exceptional disgrace.
"So, Commander... have you had an opportunity to tour
the ship yet?"
  Riley did not reply. At the sound of the doors
sliding open once again, he chanced to break eye
contact with Pulver and glance up, in the direction of the
entrance...
  andmiddot;.. just in time to see Anab enter the
room.
  At once he understood the metaphors that
related emotional pain to the heart; for the instant his
gaze rested on her, it was as though someone had
abruptly inserted a fine steel wire through the center
of his chest, then drew it out, slowly. His
breath left him in a small, involuntary gasp,
and mixed in with the realization that he was still in love with her
were anger and disgust with himself that he could have allowed such a
thing. Surely he was stronger than that ....
  But he had forgotten how painfully beautiful she
was. Dressed in her security uniform, which blended
in with the moving palette of neutral-colored
uniforms, Anab herself stood out from the crowd. She was
statuesque, long-limbed, graceful, her skin the
color of rich brown earth, her hair shaved close
to the scalp to accentuate the long, graceful sweep
of her neck. She was walking alongside the chief
engineer, the two of them chatting animatedly, And then
she caught his eye.
  They gazed at each other in utter astonishment for a
second, no more; then each looked quickly away.
  Impossible. Impossible. She was not supposed
to be here, but back aboard the Starhawk, attending the
reception.
  Riley tried not to watch as she took a seat behind
his, out of his line of view, and forced his attention
back to his conversation partner.
  Pulver had finished speaking and was staring at him
quizzically.
  "Ah," he said, flustered. "Sorry...
I'm afraid I.
  didn't quite catch--"
  Her demeanor grew even more coolly formal.
"I was offering to take you on a tour of the ship,
Commander, once the simulation was over."
  "Yes," Riley responded, trying
unsuccessfully to ignore the rapid-fire beating of
his heart at the knowledge that Anab was somewhere behind him,
watching him. "Thank you. I would enjoy that."
  Pulver opened delicate rosebud lips
to reply--and closed them again as the briefing-room
doors again opened, and the captain entered.
  Waving his hands to prevent his staff from standing at his
arrival, Captain Baldassare Romolo, a
portly, handsome blond Italian, moved to his
seat with his usual economy of motion. "We're
all here?" With an ease that was in sharp contrast to his
first officer's stiffness, he gazed appreciatively
at the crowd, then gave a satisfied nod. "Good,
let's get started. We're approximately
five hours away from Zotos Four.
  There, we'll rendezvous with the U.s.s.
Starhawk.
  The Starhawk's captain, an old friend of mine,
Zhanya Akhmatova, has pulled the
short straw, I'm afraid." His lips stretched
in an amiable half-moon over pearly teeth, his
dark green eyes twinkling in amusement. "They have
to haul the brass."
  There were twitters from the cadets around the table.
Riley managed a small smile--he was, after
all one of the brass himself--a fact Romolo had
apparently forgotten.
  "Of course," Romolo continued, "we haven't
gotten away scot-free. The admiral traveling
on Starhawk helped in the refit the Paladin
received just before the mission, so I'm sure he'll
want to come aboard and see the ship and review the
crew. Expect it. We have his aide here with us now
--Lieutenant Commander Riley, who has
graciously offered his assistance with our part of the
simulation." He gestured at Riley, who rose
slightly in his chair and nodded at the crowd.
  Once again, he caught sight of Anab; this time,
she did not look away, but managed a strained
smile.
  Riley returned it, knowing his own must have seemed
sickly.
  "What admiral will we be entertaining,
Captain?"
  the chief engineer asked.
  "They're sending the very best--the chief of operations,
James Kirk."
  A muffled yelp came from across the room. The
captain gazed casually over at his bridge crew,
and the cadets seated behind them.
  "I hope there's no problem with that, Mr.
Diksen," the captain said quietly, but Riley
could tell he found the situation amusing.
  The short brunette female blushed
furiously, but managed to stabilize her voice.
"No, sirstationo problem at all. On the contrary,
sir, it's quite the honor andmiddot;.. sir ...."
  "Fine, Diksen," the captain assured her.
"I'm glad you see it that way. If you have any
questions about the admiral, you might direct them
to Lieutenant Commander Riley."
  Riley felt every cadet's gaze turn to him;
Diksen's eyes were as big as saucers as she stared
openmouthed at him.
  "Riley served under Kirk's command on the
Enterprise's five-year mission, didn't you?" the
captain asked congenially.
  Riley nodded in uneasy affirmation.
  The captain turned back to the staff and
outlined his plan for their immediate mission. "Once the
evacuation of Totos Four has been completed,
Lieutenant Anab Saed from Starhawk security
and two representatives from the Paladin will depart
in a shuttle. A shuttle from the Paladin will be
sent at the same time. That ship will fire upon you and
disable your vessel. Lieutenant Saed will be in
charge. Saed I expect you to make sure your people
are prepared for the attack, but the attack will be real,
and while shields will be employed, the ship will
actually be disabled. If all goes as planned, the
Recovery will protect and rescue you, beaming your
entire ship inside it."
  Riley watched as Anab nodded, her expression
intent as she focused on the captain's words. And
then Romolo paused; the seriousness left his face
and voice. "Am I correct in thinking you two know
each other? Seems I remember seeing something in
your files ...."
  Anab's expression slackened with dismay;
Riley glanced back at Romolo and realized that
the captain was addressing him.
  "Yes, sir," he said softly, doing his best
to maintain a pleasant expression.
  "Well, then, Riley, how about a chance
to kill two birds with one stone? Get out of the
office and see a little action, plus have the chance
to spend some time with an old friend?"
  Before Riley could reply, the captain turned
toward Anab. "He's a capable officer. And he
knows the simulation inside and out; in fact, he
briefed me on it.
  Any objections?"
  For a beat, Anab remained silent, her
expression unreadable as she avoided Riley's
gaze. At last, she replied, her voice firm.
"No, sir."
  And then Romolo turned his wide, smiling face
toward Riley.
  He could not imagine why Ahab had been called
over to the Paladin to head the simulation--unless there were
simply not enough seasoned, qualified officers on
board. For the briefest glimmer of an instant,
Riley considered refusing, but in the surprise of the
moment, he discd think of no reasonable excuse.
He and Anab were adults, after all; and if there was
no way out of it, then he might as well be
gracious.
  After all, the simulation would be over quickly enough;
and then he would be able to return and retreat
to the safety of his quarters aboard the Starhawk:
  He drew a breath and managed a forced smile.
"I'm looking forward to it, sir."
  Chapter Three
  CADET REESE DIKS@LN sat at the
communications station and tried to force herself to concentrate
on the boring, mundane duties that were required of the
officer manning the board. They'd be at Zotos
IV within the hour. Within the hour. That meant that within the
hour she might find herself in the presence of
Admiral James T. Kirk. She swallowed.
Kirk, himself Distantly her mind registered incoming
and outgoing messages, most of which the computer handled
automatically. There were only a few she had
to actually make any decisions about. She hated being
at communications, especially during high-speed
travel.
  She had to compensate for time differentials, and
subspace interference--but to her, it was nothing but
maintenance work. This was not the job she envisioned herself in
when she fought to be the highest honors student in
Starfleet Academy. Except for messages to the
captain, how important could this job be anyway?
  Messages to the captain.
  It suddenly occurred to her that Kirk would
have to call over for permission to beam aboard. That
meant, more than likely, that she would have to handle the
call... that she would be the first person to speak
to Admiral James T. Kirk.
  Admiral Kirk. Now, that was the biggest
travesty in Starfleet history. Why he ever let
them kick him upstairs, she could not imagine. A
man like that driving a desk--it was a waste--no,
worse than a waste: a crime.
  Kirk.
  What it would be like actually serving under him?
  "Mr. Diksen!" the first officer, Commander
Pulver, called out to her sharply, breaking her
reverie. The by-the-book officer was standing right by her
shoulder, looming over the daydreaming cadet.
  "Uh... yes, sir?" Reese glanced down at
her board. Every telltale was lit, blinking
angrily.
  "You have failed to properly correct for
subspacial interference," Pulver intoned
crisply, in her perfectly modulated British
voice. "Communications is at a standstill.
Correct your board, please."
  "Yes, sir," Diksen said smartly, her ears
burning with embarrassment. She could almost
feel the captain's eyes boring into her back, that
perpetually bemused expression on his face. In
contrast to Pulver's rigidity and the Vulcan science
officer's cool nonemotionalism, Romolo was so
fatherly to the cadets it was downright patronizing.
Diksen knew he thought the "youngsters" were "cute" in
their role-playing seriousness.
  "Sorry, Captain," she apologized, as her
hands flew across the board, making the adjustments in
record time. She didn't relax until Pulver
moved away, peering now at some other cadet's
performance.
  "I know the routine aspects of communications are
dreary, Diksen," the captain said softly. She
could hear the smile in his voice, which only
irritated her further. "But in a crisis,
communications can be the most critical dispost on a
ship. It's a lot like being an emergency worker--a
whole lot of sitting around until you're really
needed, and then everything moves at warp speed.
Don't underestimate your post, Diksen. Stay
alert." He paused significantly, then added,
"We wouldn't want to miss the admiral's call,
would we?"
  Reese knew her ears were a brilliant
scarlet. "No, sir," she said respectfully.
  His quiet chuckle sounded blaring among the soft
noises of the bridge instruments.
  Getting her board back in order helped to get
her mind in similar shape. She was training to be an
officer. What might happen to her career if she
screwed up this simple task?
  An intership call came in for the captain, and she
routed it to his chair. She heard him murmur
to his comm port, then was surprised when the first
officer said to her, "Diksen, you're due for a
half-hour break."
  Her eyes strayed to the chrono. "It's a little
early yet, sir."
  Pulver's icy reserve never budged. "We'll
rendezvous with the Starhawk in an hour. Once that
happens, you will remain at your post for the rest of the
shift. Therefore, for efficiency's sake, you,
Changsom, Kjolner, and Schell will take your
break now, so we can have continuity when the admiral
arrives."
  "Aye, sir," multiple voices replied.
  "And Diksen," the captain added as she rose from
her station and was replaced by a senior officer,
"Cadet Ngo has requested your presence
on the hangar bay. Don't be late returning."
He smiled affably, as if he were reminding his
daughter about their agreed-upon curfew after a dance.
  It only made Reese act more professional.
Pulling her uniform in place, she replied
crisply, "Aye, sir!"
  His Chuckle followed her out the bridge doors
right onto the lift.
  She fumed silently, until she noted that the
other three members of the bridge crew dismissed with
her were all cadets. She noticed, too, that they
hung back from her a little in the confines of the small
lift. But she was too annoyed to hold her tongue.
"The grown-ups needed some private time," she said
sarcastically.
  "They sent the kiddies off to play! What an
insult."
  Thira Changsom, a young man who had a
wrestler's powerful build but a scientist's
serious, gentle demeanor, glanced quickly with dark,
almond-shaped eyes at the others, then responded
evenly to Reese, "Of course they need some
private time. Part of their job is to find meaningful
assignments for us, so they can evaluate our
potential. They can't very well do that with us
sitting there."
  Reese's lip curled faintly. He wouMore come
up with that. Most of the cadets were just like sheep, doing
whatever they were told. But Kirk had never gone with the
herd--he'd questioned everything, right down to the Kobayashi
Maru. Reese was determined to model Kirk every
way she could. And if that meant being a bit of a
Thorn in Starfleet's side, fine. Even as
respected an establishment as Starfleet needed a
little goading now and then. She thought for a moment maybe
that was why Kirk took the promotion. To be in a
better position to prod that sedentary, too-comfortable
establishment right in its- "Do you want us to get
something for you to eat?"
  .laura Kjolner asked politely, as the
lift stopped at the cafeteria.
  She shook her head. "No. Thanks. I'll
meet you guys back on the bridge."
  As the three cadets left her in the lift
mbarely masking the questioning looks they threw back at
her--Reese had to suppress the urge to make
"baa-baa" noises at them. If they were what
Starfleet considered officer matedhal...
  Suddenly the doors whooshed open on the hangar
deck, and Diksen stepped out, refocusing
her attention.
  Where was Josiah, and what could he possibly
want with her here? She moved across the deck until
she noticed his lithe, long-limbed dark figure
crouched in one of the shuttles. Reese moved toward
him across the spacious hangar, curious.
  When she came up beside him, she realized he was
running some kind of diagnostic test on the
shuttle.
  Nodding, Josiah gazed up at Reese with
large dark eyes set in a narrow taupe-colored
face, and ran long, thin fingers through tightly curled
chestnut hair.
  Crouching over the inner works of the shuttle, with his
long skinny arms and legs and large hands and feet,
he disreminded Reese of a nesting stork.
  "I screwed up today, Reese," he said, his
voice weary. "I messed up a
matter-antimatter alignment by such a huge margin
I could've--theoretically--blown up the whole ship.
I screwed up major, but the funny thing was, right
after I got lucky and found that problem with the deck
plating and had the chief engineer ready to canonize
me."
  It wasn't like Josiah to dwell on his
errors. But the last thing he needed, Reese knew,
was to be coddled.
  "Maybe it was just the thing you needed to get your head
out of the clouds!"
  When he looked at her, startled, she went on more
gently. "Listen, Josiah, why do you think they
call this
  'training"? They expect us to screw up.
You're not the first! That's why there was a senior officer
hanging over your shoulder, to save your butt--and
everyone else's--if you made a mistake."
  He shrugged, clearly not wanting to argue with her,
but still doubtful. "Yeah, well--it's made me a
little --insecure. I was assigned to safety-check
the shut-ties, especially the ones they'll be using
for the simulation.
  I started worrying that maybe I'd missed
something." He gestured with a huge, large-knuckled
hand. "Sometime tomorrow two people are going to be locked in this
box, and if I screw up the safety check--it
could mean their lives."
  "Come on," Diksen prodded her friend, "I
watched you run those checks. You've been over this thing
from stem to stem, with every diagnostic tool you have. You
know very Well it's got specially designed
shields, that the walls are double-thick, that all the
equipment has special insulators on them. This
shut-tie has extra fire-response units.
And the people in the simulation will be in pressurized
suits, just in case the ship does spring a leak."
  Josiah shook his head worriedly. "This isn't
school anymore, Reese. This is no simulation.
This ship will be hit with phaser power. It's my job
to make sure she's ready for that. I guess I
started feeling--maybe I'm in over my head."
  Diksen sat in front of Josiah, and stared him
down.
  "What are you talking about? We used to stay up
late at night and imagine the day when we'd get
to do this stuffing. I'm stuck on a communications board
like some overdressed corem technician, while
you're actually working in the field you always wanted
to! When we got our assignments you were rubbing your
hands together and gloating!"
  She took her friend by the shoulders and made him
lift his dark eyes up to stare into hers. "You've
spent your whole life waiting for this moment! How many
times did you tell me that, growing up, you never
imagined yourself doing anything but serving aboard a
starship? You told me "Engineering's the
place to be!
  The place where all the action is." Now you've
got a chance to see what it's all about. You've just
got the cadet first-time jitters. You've got
to snap out of it!"
  Josiah blinked his large eyes rapidly and
nodded briskly, as if suddenly accepting everything
she'd said 'z faith. But that was always the way it had
been between them. Reese had always believed
Josiah's pep talks whenever she had those moments
when it all seemed too much to handle. That's why they
had been such good friends through their entire Academy
years, and why they'd worked to get assigned to the same
ship. They couldn't imagine starting their careers without
having the other nearby to lean on.
  "I know you're right, Reese," Josiah said, his
angular, handsome face lighting up with his normally
cheerful nature. "You always know just what to say.
  Maybe that's why they put you in communications!"
  Grinning, she slapped his shoulder, and they both
laughed.
  When Reese finally slid into her station, relieving
the senior officer who'd been sitting there, it
didn't escape her attention that she was thirty
seconds late.
  "Nice to see you, Diksen," the captain said
smoothly, before Pulver could say something more pointed.
  "I was afraid you'd decided to order out."
  The bridge crew, used to the peculiar brand of
their captain's humor, chuckled along with him.
Except, of course, for Sonak, the Vulcan,
who merely lifted an eyebrow, and Commander
Pulver, who stared at her disapprovingly.
  Diksen was about to apologize for her tardiness when
her empty stomach growled so loudly the entire
bridge turned toward her. There go my ears, she
thought, feeling the warmth bloom in them. Even
Sonak was staring at her, both slanted eyebrows
lifted in an expression of curious disdain.
Apparently, this managed to amuse even the stiff first
officer, who, Reese noted, had to turn away
to hide her expression.
  Diksen ignored them all and hunkered down over
her board.
  Then she saw the telltale to her left light up
at the same time a voice spoke into the receiver
nestled in her right ear.
  "This is the U.s.s. Starhawk hailing the
U.s.s.
  Paladin." The voice was the Starhawk's
computer, Reese realized with some disappointment.
  "Captain," she announced, "we're being hailed
by the Starhawk."
  "Good thing you got back, Diksen," he said
amiably, "or you would've'missed this. They're
early. Put it on screen."
  Her hands moved across the board and a new image
filled the huge viewscreen. The bridge of a
starship appeared before the Starhawk's crew, with an
exotically beautiful mature woman sitting in the
captain's chair.
  "Zdrastvuitye, Paladin," the woman said with a
smile, sweeping a lock of silver-tinged dark
hair from her face.
  "And to you, Starhawk," Captain Romolo
replied.
  "It's good to see you again, Captain
Akhmatova."
  There was something about the tone of his voice
andmiddot;.. Reese looked over her shoulder, but
wasn't in any position to see Romolo's
expression. But there was a warmth and familiarity in
Akhmatova's as she looked at him that made her
think these two must have had some special, long-term
relationship.
  She never thought about starship captains and normal,
human relationships. Scanning the hours of research
on Kirk she'd sifted through for her reports, she
could not remember finding much about his personal life.
There was, of course, information about his father, his
parentage, his early life and schooling, but once he
entered the Academy, there was really nothing. It was as
if his whole life focused on the Enterprise and the
five-year mission. He had been, for Reese, so
long an invisible mentor, so long the one person she
modeled herself after, she'd never given much time to the
blanks in the records. How did starship
captains develop relationships? How could they
last? How did they function? were they even
possible? She'd have to do some more research ....
  A familiar name snapped her out of her reverie.
  "Admiral Kirk is sorry he couldn't be here
to greet you himself," Akhmatova told Romolo,
"but he's down in Engineering looking over some of the
refitting we had done there."
  "Perfectly understandable," Romolo agreed. "Will
you convey a request to him?"
  Akhmatova nodded agreeably.
  "Ask the admiral if he'd allow us to show him
the Paladin. We have a good group of
cadets that would be honored to be reviewed by him."
  "I'll pass that suggestion on," Akhmatova
assured him.
  "It's good to be working with you again, Captain,"
Romolo said warmly, as the two of them signed off.
  Diksen sighed disappointedly and sagged back in
her chair. Now, wasn't that just the most mundane
communication possible?
  As Kirk stared at the big matter-antimatter
chamber while the Paladin's chief engineer
explained some new hardware toy, he found himself
fuguing out. I wonder what Scotty wouMore have
to say about all these new gimmickand "Aye,
Captain, they be lovely, it's true, but can ye
rely on them under fire, I'd be wantin" to know?"
This was his second ship review in the last four
hours, and when he'd learned of Captain
Romolo's invitation, he'd dreaded it. In the last
half hour, however, Kirk had almost forgotten his
misgivings.
  The captain of the Paladin was so laid-back, so
comfortable, that in just a few moments after their meeting,
Jim had felt as if he'd known the man for years.
Romolo's obvious expertise, his total comfort
with the responsibility of command, shone in every
area Kirk visited. Yet, he could've sworn
there'd been no last-minute hysteria to prepare for the
inspection.
  All this, in spite of the fact that the ship carried
a large number of totally raw cadets. Cadets
who somehow didn't seem that raw irader
Romolo's tutelage.
  They were in Engineering when that concept was really brought
home to him.
  "Admiral," Romolo said, introducing him to a
young man, "I'd like you to meet Mr. Josiah
Ngo.
  Cadet, tell the admiral what you found on
inspection just before we left the starbase for this
mission."
  Slender and tall, with light-brown skin crowned
by reddish dark hair, Ngo nodded at his captain,
then turned to Kirk. With a bony, skillful hand,
he lifted a section of what appeared to be standard
deck plating from a nearby console, then with the other hand
picked up a diagnostic tool--one of
Scotty's favorites if Kirk remembered
right.
  "This piece of plating," Ngo explained, "was
part of the flooring that supported the
matter-antimatter chamber. Usually, anything that
supports that equipment has been examined so many
times you begin to take it for granted. I was assigned
to review the whole area, and run diagnostics on
structural integrity, which is simple enough given a
Reichman analyzer.
  The analyzer said the plates were okay, but... but
I wasn't satisfied with that. Something about the
plating... well, it just didn't feel right. When you
walked on it... the give was different. So, I
kind of "married" this Reichman analyzer to a
Vulcan T'Pell molecular reorganizer, and
decided the readouts contradicted each other."
  "Those two instruments were never designed to work
together," Kirk murmured with surprise.
  "I know, sir," Ngo agreed, flashing a shy
smile, "but making them work together showed us that there was
definitely something wrong with the plating. Something that
wasn't showing up under any other analyzer."
  Chief Engineer Gambeta, a handsome African
woman with skin several shades darker than Ngo's,
stepped forward. "When Josiah brought his concerns
to me, I immediately replaced the plating."
  Kirk's eyebrows rose. That simple statement
belied the tedious, labor-intensive, and
dangerous job that was involved in working around the
matter-antimatter chamber.
  "I had no choice, really," Gambeta
insisted, "since the safety of that chamber was
involved. We almost had to scrub this mission. But
once we had the plating removed, it was easier
to determine that it had suffered a very subtle
molecular damage, perhaps while the ship was being
refitted. It would've deteriorated slowly until
the plating finally disintegrated. If that had happened
while we were in space, perhaps at warp speed..."
She shot Kirk an ominous look. "We worked
round the clock to keep on Recovery's schedule."
  Kirk nodded, looking admiringly at Ngo.
"And you did all this, just on a feeling?"
  Uncomfortably, the cadet shifted his weight from
one long, cranelike leg to the other. "I know it
doesn't sound very scientific, sir ...."
  "Don't apologize," Kirk insisted.
"Trust your instincts, your feelings. They were right.
They will be again. Listen to them. That kind of instinct
can't be learned. Good work, cadet."
  "Thank you, Admiral," the young man said,
smiling shyly as Romolo moved Kirk on through the
rest of Engineering.
  "So, you didn't know we'd be showing up here for this
exercise with a crib full?" Romolo asked as they
left the area.
  "Tm a little surprised, actually," Kirk
admitted as they walked through the curved corridors.
"With the presence of hostile--" He interrupted
himself, then corrected, "That is, of our neighbors"
--he was gratified to see Romolo's. knowing
smile--"I wouldn't think Starfleet would consider this
a training exercise."
  "Well, it really is only a simulation,"
Romolo reminded him, "and the ambassador will be
interacting with our neighbors on the Starhawk, so
it's not like we'll see any action. At least it's
a good shake-up drill for the cadets. They'll be
taking part in an important exercise, and get
close enough to the neighbors to remember what they
smell like. It's a good group, too."
  "So they seem. I was impressed with young Ngo--
even if he did look to be about twelve. Which
reminds me--he should be part of the team that's on the
shuttlecraft part of the simulation. I have a feeling
about him." He eyed Romolo knowingly. "I
suspect this assignment falls to you fairly
frequently, Captain."
  Romolo's lips curved easily into a smile,
brightening his full, handsome face; his tone was one of
distinct fondness for his young charges. "I'm not
afraid of green troops, sir, that's well known.
I was lucky myself coming up, to have a good captain. It
can make all the difference in an officer's training."
  Kirk nodded, eyeing the rotund man warmly.
He suspected serving under Romolo would make quite a
difference in this crop of cadets. He had a
humanity that could often be lacking in a captain. With
all the stress and demands of the position, it was hard
to hang on to that. Bones wouM've liked this guy,
he found himself thinking. Then he recalled the conversation
he'd had with Akhmatova in her quarters.
  Baldassare is an old friend . . . but a
captain's duties don't allow for reunions.
  "While we're just walking and talking here like two
old friends, Captain Romolo--" Kirk began
suddenly.
  "If we're talking as old friends, the name's
Baldassare," the affable man corrected.
  Kirk nodded, pleased. "All right,
Baldassare. Then I'm Jim. I wanted
to mention that I've spent some time with Captain
Akhmatova. We had an...
  interesting conversation. She's not afraid to put an
admiral on the spot!"
  "I can imagine," said Romolo with a fond grin.
  "Zhanya's a hell of a captain, and quite an
impressive human being. We came up together in the
Academy.
  Zhanya was the head of our class--and I must
admit I wasn't even in the top ten. But whatever
grades I did excel in, I did with her
help. We've been friends all these years. Served
on our first ships together. But then the promotions
came, and time passed. And it gets harder and harder
to be with old friends."
  It was the first thing Romolo had said in Kirk's
presence that had an air of melancholy about it. "I
understand completely, Baldassare," he replied, his
own tone rich with regret. "And because I really do
understand, I've been wondering when you might--ask me
a favor."
  The captain shot him a look of genuine confusion
that made Jim smile. "You know," Kirk continued,
"I can't remember the last time I've been on a
ship and some officer didn't have a favor to ask of
me--usually having something to do with a petition
to Nogura.
  Then, after meeting Zhanya and then talking to you,
I kept waiting for you to ask something of me." Kirk
gave the captain a reassuring smile, but
Romolo only seemed more baffled.
  "You and Captain Akmatova are old friends. You
go back to the Academy. You spend very little time together
these days. Lately... I've found myself
remembering old friends I no longer see--and it
really put me in your shoes. Why don't you give
the conn to your first officer while I'm aboard your
ship? I can stay on the bridge--just for appearance"
sake. I've no doubt your first officer can handle
anything that comes up. This way, you can visit with your
friend."
  The way I wouMore with mine, if I could...
  The request took Romolo by surprise.
"Admiral andmiddot;.. I couldn't take
advantage--"
  Kirk shot him a look, and the Paladin's
captain corrected himself immediately. "I mean--
Jim-what about the simulation?"
  "That's the point--it's a simulation. The last in
a long series of simulations. And, I don't mind
admitting to you, Baldassare, that the feel of your
ship...
  well, it reminds me too much of the Enterprise.
I don't even mind admitting that it would be a
thrill to hang around the bridge again. Even for a
training exercise."
  "It's a very generous offer, Jim," Romolo
agreed, still hesitant. "I could visit with
Zhanya and be back before the demonstration with the
shuttle."
  Kirk shook his head. "Don't worry about it.
It's just
  routine. We can keep this between the two of us. I
  don't think Starfleet has any idea the
price starship
  captains pay to sit in that chair. The human
pricet
  friendships, relationships..." He trailed off,
thinking of Lori Ciana, of Bones, of Spock
"Really, Baldassare, I know very well how
rarely these kinds of opportunities present
themselves. So, take advantage of it. And hope I
don't ruin your cadets for you?
  Romolo chuckled. "That would be my least concern!"
  Chapter Four
  "THE RECOVERY is onscreen now," Commander
Pulver's precise, cool voice
announced from the captain's chair.
  Reese turned to face the screen, and her jaw
dropped just a little as the massive evacuation vessel
moved into her prearranged position between the two
starships.
  She'd seen models of the rescue vessel, but
only now, with her va/s filling up the space between
the starships, could the cadet really appreciate the
rescue ship's scale. Both the Paladin and the
Starhawk looked like a couple of hovering
hummingbirds beside the monster ship. One of the senior
human officers, a red-haired man with a neatly
trimmed mustache, whistled appreciatively.
  "An accurate assessment," Sonak, the
Vulcan science officer, commented, "if I judge
your reaction to be complimentary, Mr. Sandover.
Recovery is the first of her kind, a truly
unique endeavor." He paused significantly,
then mentioned, "As is this opportunity.
  If you will turn your attention to the upper-right-hand
corner of the screen, you can just see three vessels
there. One of them is Klingon; one, Romulan...
and the last is Tholian. A most unique
assembly."
  Reese gazed in silent awe at the
sight: An ungainly Klingon Bird-of-Prey
hovered near a sleeker, more elegant Romulan
Warbird; flanking them both, like a reluctant
sparrow trapped between two hawks, was the tiny,
triangular Tholian ship. It was one thing
to recognize the enemy vessels during an
Academy training exercise; quite another to see them
in the flesh.
  "Well said, Mr. Sonak," Captain
Romolo's rich voice agreed from the direction of the
turbolift.
  The entire bridge turned, then snapped
to attention as a man wearing admiral's braids
stepped out from behind their captain. Reese had been so
engrossed in the image of Recovery, she'd never
heard the lift doors open.
  In the split second before Romolo could
introduce the man, realization dawned on Diksen.
He was wearing admiral's braids. That broad,
handsome face beneath brunette hair, those hazel
eyes, it could only be...
  "Looks like our timing was perfect," Romolo
re marked, checking his @chrono. "Recovery's right
where she should be. That means the simulation will begin in
about fifteen minutes. Crew, allow me
to introduce Admiral James T. Kirk."
Romolo moved around the upper bridge area,
introducing Kirk to his officers. "At navigation
we have Mr. Leandro Sandover his
  The captain moved around the bridge giving the
admiral the time to learn everyone's name and station.
  As they did, Diksen forced herself to remain standing
at attention, her knees locked rigidly, in
spite of the flight-or-fight reflex her body was
undergoing.
  She'd studied everything official on Kirk she
could get her hands on, and now he was here. The greatest
starship captain the Federation had ever produced.
  Here. She blinked for a moment and realized the
captain had arrived at her station. That he was about
to introduce Kirk to her. Her brain struggled
to process the information.
  "At communications, we have Cadet Reese
Diksen," Romolo was saying. "This is her first
assignment in deep space." The captain smiled
warmly at her. "I don't know how much time you have
to keep track of Academy affairs, sir, but
Mr. Diksen won the Vulcan Award of
Excellence this year."
  Reese felt as if every molecule of
blood just rushed to her head, battling its way to her
lips. No. No. He wouldn't tell the admiral
about that.... Kirk's eyebrows roch"every. in
appreciation. "Is that so?
  Congratulations, Mr. Diksen. You're only the
fourth human who's ever won that award."
  I know, she tried to say, but nothing would come out.
You were the first.
  "What was your study about?" Kirk asked her.
  She opened her mouth, but for once in her life,
nothing happened.
  "It was on you, Admiral," Romolo said
cheerily.
  Kirk turned to him, surprised, and Reese
prayed to gods she didn't know she believed in that
he would not look at her again. But he did, as
Romolo continued, "She won for a report weighing
the political value of the Prime Directive,
as opposed to its practical application. She used
your experiences, your difficulties in following the
Prime Directive, as evidence of the problems
starship captains have to face trying to marry
philosophy with action."
  How many times had Reese wanted to discuss that
study with him? A hundred, a thousand times,
she'd wanted to interview him over his record, find
out why he did this, instead of that, why he chose one
road over the other. But now that the opportunity was
here, she just wanted to sit down, catch her breath, and
try not to throw up.
  "I'm impressed, Cadet," Kirk said as if
he meant it.
  "I'm sorry I haven't had time to keep up
with the Academy's academic reports, but I
assure you, as soon as I get back, I'll
look up your study. If the Vulcans thought that
highly of it, it must be interesting indeed."
  He smiled, and it lit up his face, making his
hazel eyes sparkle. "I hope you didn't
choose my career because of my well-known... problems
following the Prime Directive."
  Her eyes widened. "Oh, no, sir, no, to the
contrary!"
  She realized she was on the verge of babbling and
bit her cheek to get a grip on her seesawing
emotions. "That is... your record is the best
example of the real-life difficulties facing any
captain on active duty who tries to follow the
Prime Directive."
  Suddenly, the words active duty
seemed to hang there between them like something unmentionable.
  Kirk's face seemed to cloud over for a moment,
but he recovered.
  "Your record, sit," Diksen said firmly,
back in charge of herself again, "is one any captain
could learn from--that was why I chose it."
  Romolo chuckled at her forthright honesty, and she
realized, too late, that another captain might've
taken offense at that.
  "I'm complimented, Mr. Diksen," Kirk
assured her. "Perhaps we'll find time to discuss this
again."
  "Yes, sir," she mumbled. "Thank you, sir."
  As the captain and Kirk moved away, she heard
Romolo tell the admiral, "She finished first in
her class in the Kobayashi Maru as well."
  But I didn't beat the scenario, she thought
disgustedly.
  Ever since Kirk had the opportunity to change
the programming, security had been extra tight
on the simulation.
  Then Romolo introduced the science officer,
Mr. Sonak. Sonak stood at the science station,
hands clasped behind his back. She saw Kirk
immediately mirror his position, instead of
extending his hand as he had for each member of the human
crew.
  Vulcans would handshake when they absolutely had
to, but it was not their custom, and, she knew, most of the
touch telepaths found contact with the unshielded thoughts
of humans unpleasant, if not actually rude.
  Kirk inclined his head respectfully toward
Sonak as the captain introduced them, but never
attempted to move any closer. However, Reese
didn't miss the change in his expression.
  It was subtle, mostly something about his eyes, but
she couldn't help but think that meeting Sonak brought
back memories of all those years Kirk had worked
with the Vulcan Spock. Sonak's features were so
similar to every other middle-aged male Vulcan she
had ever met that at times she wondered how Vulcan
females could distinguish them. He had the same
black hair in the bangs-over-forehead style that
Vulcans affected, the same brown eyes as she'd
seen in Spock's images. His height and build
were similar, and Reese knew Vulcans had a
body language that was so alike it was scary.
Sonak was younger than Spock, but with Vulcans between
the age of thirty and one hundred, that hardly
mattered.
  While studying Kirk, Reese also learned a
great deal about the crew that had worked with him,
especially his closest associates, his first
officer, Spock, and the human doctor McCoy.
McCoy had left Starfleet rather abruptly after the
five-year mission--for reasons she could never
determin but even more baffling was the fate of Spock.
He, too, left Starfleet, then seemed
to disappear. She could find no information about him in any
records, anywhere. She wondered if Kirk
knew, and if that knowledge colored his meeting Sonak?
Reese watched the men interact with a voyeuristic
interest that surprised her.
  "Mr. Sonak," Kirk said, "have you served with
Captain Romolo long?"
  "Three years, ten months, two hundred
twelve days, six hours, and..."
  "Yes," Kirk interrupted before the Vulcan could
recite minutes and seconds. He smiled then, and
again, the look was full of warmth, changing his face.
  "I... served with a Vulcan science officer
aboard the Enterprise."
  "Yes, sir," Sonak replied. "You served with
Spook, who was also your first officer. He had a very
distinguished career. It serves as a model
for the rest of us.
  His understanding of human beings, of their culture, and
even their humor, was remarkable." Sonak sounded
almost admiring for a Vulcan.
  Kirk nodded. "I will admit to you that I found
serving with a Vulcan an experience that was nothing short
of... fascinating." The merest ghost of a grin played
at his lips; he wore the look of a man who'd
waited his whole life to use that line.
  Sonak raised an eyebrow in muted ryness as
Romolo led Kirk to the captain's chair where his
first officer still stood at attention. Pulver was as
coolly collected as ever--not a smooth copper
hair out of place, not a hint of anxiety in her
ice blue eyes.
  When the captain introduced the two, Kirk
extended his hand and said to her, "Commander, your career is
known to me. I understand you've been approached about a
command of your own." Diksen had to admit Pulver
seemed much more like a starship captain than the cheerful
Romolo. She'd be a demanding one, too.
  Pulver gave a single, solemn nod, her
shoulder-length hair swinging slightly; Diksen was
amazed that it could move at all, since the woman
seemed chiseled from stone. "I have been
approached, sir, and I've taken 'x under serious
advisement," the first officer agreed primly.
  "I'm dreading her promotion," Romolo confided
to Kirk, sotto voce. "When she finally does
leave me for her own ship, then I'll really have
to act like a captain.
  I'm not looking forward to it!"
  The two men grinned; Pulver acknowledged the
compliment by allowing the corners of her mouth to lift
slightly the closest Diksen had ever seen her come
to a smile.
  "If you ever need to. discuss your decision,
Commander," Kirk assured her, "my door is always
open to you."
  "Why, thank you, Admiral," she said, sounding
genuinely flattered.
  "Well!" Romolo said congenially. "I can see,
Admiral, that you and my bridge crew are going
to get along fatuously!" Turning to his staff,
he told them, "The admiral has graciously
offered to relieve me for a short while."
  Reese blinked as she heard those words. Kirk was
taking command of the Paladin7 Everyone seemed a little
nonplus by the action, and even the unflappable
Pulver blinked several times rapidly,
before regaining her composure.
  "Mr. Pulver," Romolo continued, "you'll have
the conn, of course, with the admiral remaining on the
bridge as... a helpful observer."
  An observer? Reese could barely believe it.
The greatest starship captain of all time was just going
to stand around and watch Pulver give her clipped little
commands.
  "You all know what's expected of you in the
simulation," Romolo said affably. "Let's show
the admiral what a good team is capable of." He
turned to Kirk, and shook his hand. "Thank you again,
sir."
  "My pleasure, Captain," Kirk said, and it
seemed to Reese he really meant it.
  Could it be she was right? Had the admiralty turned
out to be less than Kirk imagined? How could a
bureaucrat's job ever compare to the Enterprise's
five-year mission?
  Romolo left the bridge quickly, and as he
did, Pulver moved with a hint of wariness toward the
captain's seat, eyeing Kirk speculatively.
  "Please," he said, addressing the bridge
crew, "it's only a simulation, but it'll be hard
to get through if you all remain at
attention." He smiled again, and this time it seemed
to relax most of the staff. "At ease, everyone.
Resume your posts."
  Gingerly, the crew did as they were told. But
only Sonak seemed to be able to comply with any
sense of normalcy. Then again, when had she ever seen
the Vulcan lose a moment's aplomb?
  As Reese forced her attention back to her board,
she tried not to think about the man strolling casually
around the bridge, as if it were the first time he'd ever
been on one. But she couldn't help herself. It was
happening, really happening. She was serving under
Kirk.t Sort of...
  She almost jumped when Josiah's voice
whispered in her ear, then realized it was coming over the
receiver nestled there. She touched her board, made the
reception clearer. What could he want now?
  "Have you met him yet?" Ngo hissed at her.
No doubt he was still in Engineering, making an
extracurricular call. He'd know she wouldn't be
able to say much. And Reese knew very well which "he"
Josiah referred to.
  "Uh-huh," she responded softly, so as not
to be overheard. It wasn't that unusual for the
communications officer to communicate
directly over the comm in low tones. Not everyone that
wanted to get through to the Captain should be given that
access. Part of her job was screening.
  "He was okay down here," Ngo reported.
"Has he left yet?"
  "Unh-unh."
  "Still on the bridge, huh? Well, don't
stare, and don't let your ears turn red!"
  Reese glowered at the board, both bits of
advice coming far too late to do her any good.
  "Kirk assigned me to go on the
shuttlecraft!" Josiah told her. His voice
was'tddinged with excitement. Gone was the hesitation
he'd voiced earlier.
  She was thrilled for him. Quietly, she asked,
"You okay about this?"
  There was such a long pause, Reese felt a
flash of anxiety. At last Josiah said with a
sigh, "Yeah, I'm okay. We're all suited
up and ready, just waiting for the word to go."
  "Any feelings?" That was their own shorthand.
  Josiah had on more than one occasion saved them
both through his instincts. He seemed to know when something,
usually mechanical, was about to go amiss.
  "No. Everything feels fine. I'd
better go. We're on standby alert."
  "Right. Good lucid" Diksen severed the
communication.
  Feeling as though she were being observed, and fearing that
if she turned, she'd find Kirk at her shoulder,
she looked to see Sonak watching her
impassively.
  She wondered if his fine-tuned Vulcan hearing
had picked up the word "feelings." She might've
said something to him, but just then another voice spoke in
her ear. Diksen sat bolt upright. It was the
Recovery.
  "Captain. I mean, Admiral... I mean,
Commander--" She stopped, completely flustered,
trying to remember just what was the proper form of
address, and who she was supposed to give it to. It
didn't help that he was nearby, smiling down at
her.
  Pulver turned in the chair and directed a
frosty stare at her. "Yes, Mr. Diksen?"
  She swallowed and settled herself. "commander, we're
being hailed by the Recovery."
  "Very good, Mr. Diksen," said the British
officer.
  "Put it on screen, please."
  Dr. Mola ushered Leonard McCoy into a
large auditorium-like bay that had been equipped
with a podlure, a huge viewscreen, and
amphitheater-seating for the assemblage. Most of the
fifty other representatives from the FDRA were
already there, making Bones and Angelina choose seats
near the back.
  "Dr. Shulman will help narrate what the ship
will be doing during the simulation," she explained.
  Leonard nodded. He was trying not to be distracted
by the knowledge that, just a short distance away--in spatial
terms at least was a man he had once considered his
closest friend. A man he hadn't spoken to in over
a year. A man he had thought never to see or speak
to again. Why was this bothering him so much now?
  Suddenly, Shulman entered, the last to arrive.
He moved to the podlure so naturally he seemed
to belong there. But, in spite of Shulman's easy
gait, Leonard thought the ship's designer looked
ragged.
  McCoy wondered if, after the simulation, he
might have a chance to run a diagnostic over the man.
Of course, if anything serious was wrong with
Shulman, the ship, according to Mola, should've picked it
up.
  "And so, we come to Zotos Four," Shulman
announced from the podlure without preamble, "the final
test for Recovery." He touched something on the
podium, and the viewscreen came on, showing the view
of the hazy planet.
  To either side of Recovery's camera, two
starships hovered nearby. McCoy wondered which one
Jim was currently on, then forced his mind away from
the thought.
  "This planet," Shulman continued, "covered by a
dense, almost impenetrable atmosphere, sent out a
weak distress call twenty-four Terran hours
ago. Without any direction from me, Recovery
intercepted the call and began her jouncy. Now, again
without my assistance, she will proceed to evacuate
Zotos Four."
  And with that, Shulman took a seat in the front of the
group that had been left vacant for him.
  "Now what?" McCoy asked Mola, sitting
beside him.
  "You must wait and see!" she chided him.
  Suddenly, McCoy heard the unmistakable
sounds of a channel being opened, as if he were standing right
beside Uhura's board. The feminized computer voice
of Recovery cut through the air.
  "Scientific Station Thirteen on Zotos
Four, this is the rescue ship Recovery--are you
reading me?"
  There was a significant pause, so the ship
repeated the hail. Finally, before it could repeat the
message a third time, there was the crackle of
static and the central image of the revolving planet
changed. The new picture was broken, full of
interference and hard to see, but there appeared to be a
fair-haired Terran male at its center.
  "We read you, Recovery."
  "Evacuation can begin on your go-ahead," the ship
said. "Are personnel prepared?"
  The picture steadied a bit; McCoy
recognized the leader of the Zotos IV
scientific team, Alain Deveraux. "As ready as
we'll ever be," Deveraux answered.
  "Evacuation will proceed in the following order," the
ship announced. "Healthy personnel first, then
injured, then dead."
  That made good sense, the doctor thought. Healthy
personnel could assist the in when they arrived.
  "Finally," the ship continued, "we will beam up
equipment, and lastly, buildings and structures.
  Healthy personnel will receive further
instructions once they are on board."
  "Buildings?" McCoy asked Mola in
surprise.
  "The ship can beam up buildings," she assured
him, "but there's no need to reconstruct them on the
ship. Their patterns are stored in a special
replicator."
  "This is the FDRA ship Recovery," the ship
continued, "hailing the U.s.s. Paladin and the
U.s.s.
  Starhawk. You are in the vicinity of an emergency
evacuation. If necessary, you may be called upon
to provide assistance."
  Suddenly, the bridge of the Starhawk appeared on
the left of the large viewscreen, while the center
portion of the screen reinstated the view of Zotos
IV.
  The officer in the command chair was not the captain
--something that didn't surprise McCoy--but most
likely the Starhawk's first officer. He knew how
boring captains perceived simulations to be. Jim
used to make Spock suffer through most of them on the
Enterprise.
  The striking Eurasian woman in Starhawk's
command chair nodded at her own viewscreen
and acknowledged the ship's hail. "This is Starhawk,
Recovery. We read you and stand ready to assist. And
good luck to you, Dr. Shulman."
  From his seat at the front of the auditorium, the
scientist nodded an acknowledgment at the screen.
  The left side of the screen changed to show the
nearly identical bridge of the Paladin.
McCoy felt the breath leave him in a gasp as
an all-too-familiar figure came to'stand beside
the captain's chair.
  Jim Kirk, dressed in his gray admiral's
uniform.
  The doctor's eyes widened and he stared
unbelievingly as Kirk grinned broadly at the
viewscreen--apparently having a fine old time.
  Beside him, the woman in Paladin's captain's
chair said in a precise voice, "And this is
Paladin, Recovery, likewise ready and waiting
your orders. We, too, wish to send our best
wishes to Dr. Shulman, Dr. Mola, and all the
representatives of the FDRA."
  The images of the two 'bridges hung
side-by-side on the viewscreen in front of
McCoy's disbelieving eyes, as he stared at the
many-times-life-sized Kirk. The sight
caused a wave of homesickness to wash over him;
for the first time in over a year, he realized how badly
he missed his old friend--and being aboard the
Enterprise, despite all his noise about how
glad he was to be out of the Fleet. At the same
time, he felt a fresh surge of the same frustration
and anger he'd experienced that day at Starfleet,
when he'd told Nogura Jim belonged in command of the
Enterprise, not a desk at headquarters.
  Even now, Jim looked out of place standing beside
Commander Pulver. No doubt it was the closest he'd
come to that chair since he'd been promoted.
McCoy didn't have to wonder if Kirk's
seemingly cheerful expression had to do with his
proximity to the bridge even if was only to last for
this moment.
  "What's he doing there?" McCoy whispered,
aghast.
  "He must be relieving Captain Romolo,"
Angelina whispered into his ear. She paused as she
watched the doctor's expression, and said, "It's
all right. He can't see you."
  He started visibly, then turned sheepishly
toward her.
  "All he can see is the officials,
such as Shulman, in the first row," Mola said, her
expression kindly. "He won't spot you back
here."
  For once in his life, McCoy was at a
complete loss for words. He watched his old mentor
as she examined his stricken face and knew he did
not have to say a single word, that she knew and understood
everything.
  Her dark eyes softened with sympathy. "I
didn't realize things were that way between you. I'm
sorry, Leonard. I know you were once good friends.
And good friends are hard to lose."
  He could not answer her, so merely swallowed and
turned away, unable to keep his eyes off Kirk's
amiable, relaxed visage.
  No wonder you're smiling, Jim, he thought
bitterly.
  Being on the bridge was the only thing that ever made
you happy ....
  He paused, scrutinizing Kirk. Except for the
change in uniform, he might as well have been
aboard the Enterprise. That had to be the first officer
at the conn.
  Then McCoy blinked incredulously as he
realized that a Vulcan sat at the science
station, and fought back a dizzying rush of d6jh
vu.
  Beside him, Angelina stiflened in her chair, no
longer paying attention to his momentary angst.
  McCoy followed her gaze to the front of the big
room, where Shulman had jumped up from his seat. The
scientist's back was stiff, his whole demeanor
tense.
  "So, you're front and center, eh, Kirk?"
Shulman called, addressing the admiral's
image. "I expected you to sit this one out in your
comfortable VIP quarters! Or are you here to witness
firsthand your hoped-for failure of Recovery?"
  Angelina rose abruptly. "Excuse me,"
she muttered, and without even glancing at McCoy,
hurried to the front of the auditorium.
  Several officials in the front row had leaned
forward, murmuring together. What was going on? Was
Shulman so upset by Jim's report that he
couldn't bear the very sight of the man?
  In an instant, Dr. Mola had arrived at the
front row and slowed her approach, dearly not
wanting Kirk to see her rush to Shulman's side.
With a businesslike gait, she moved to the
scientist's left, as though her very presence
might defuse the situation.
  Before Kirk could respond, another member of the
front-row dignitaries shot out of her seat.
McCoy recognized the well-known disaster-relief
specialist, Dr. Chia Noon. "You're Out of
line, Dr. Shulman!"
  the petite Indian woman declared. "Admiral
Kirk's careful examination of Recovery's early
flaws kept us from making costly mistakes. And
who better has the right to question this project than the
man who confronted the M-5 disaster?"
  The man beside Dr. Noon said, "Just one moment,
Chia, now you're out of line ...."
  Good Lord, thought McCoy, the whole group's
gonna go for each other's throats.t Jim, you
sure have the charm ....
  "Please, doctors!" Angelina begged her
colleagues, but it was Kirk's voice that brought
order to the quarreling assemblage.
  "Dr. Shulman," Kirk said in his smoothest
tone, "only a fool would not wish you well in this
venture."
  He stepped away from the command chair as if
to remove any semblance of authority it might
give him.
  His overly reasonable delivery took the fire out
of everyone's opinion as the group subsided to hear
him.
  "Recovery holds out hope for the victims of
untimely disasters. Why would I wish for her
failure?"
  Shulman's hands were balled into fists and he took
an aggressive step forward, as though ready
to challenge Kirk physically. "To prove yourself
right, of course. There isn't a person in this room
that doesn't know how you feel about self-sufficient
computers, about a ship capable of functioning on her
own, even of defending herself...." Shulman's
voice grew angrier until it shook with irrational
rage.
  McCoy could see that the Kirk's borrowed
bridge crew seemed rattled by the discussion, as
did the officers aboard the Starhawk. He found
himself feeling sorry for his old friend. Is this the kind
of bureaucratic bull-hockey you have to put up with
at Starfleet quarters, Jim"...And if it is, how
do you ever get anything done?
  Angelina reached out, took hold of Shulman's
arm, but the scientist shook her off.
  "Be fair, Dr. Shulman," Kirk
insisted, still moderating his voice to a degree of
reasonableness that impressed McCoy. "I'm not the
only person that's questioned the need for a rescue ship
to be armed with state-of-the-art weaponry."
  "Defense!" Shulman shouted. "Defense
weaponry!"
  "Yes, of course," Kirk agreed calmly.
"Defense weaponry."
  "I'm glad you're here, Kirk," Shulman
gloated.
  "Because Dr. Noon is right, very right. And no one
has wanted you to know more than I, that without you,
Recovery could not have become the vessel she is.
  Without you and your damning report, the scattered,
diversified emergency-relief organizations that
backed my work could not have formed the strong coalition we
have."
  McCoy snorted to himself. He was well aware that
Mola, Shulman, and the varied consort of
organizations forming the FDRA would be forever at each
other's throats. How they'd managed to ever get this
ship spaceborne was a source of amazement to him.
  As if answering the doctor's skeptical thought,
Shulman announced, "You see, Kirk, it's
easy to become organized when one has a
common enemy."
  On the screen, Kirk set his jaw. McCoy
imagined how Jim felt getting the riot act read
to him not only in front of his bridge crew, the
entire ship under his command, another starship that was
observing--but in front of three enemy vessels!
Look out, Shulmanm you've done it now/y're
making" him mad....
  "I think, Dr. Shulman," Kirk said with
deadly calm, "that to call someone who disagrees with you
an enemy is a little strong."
  Dr. Mola stepped in front of Shulman and
faced Kirk, physically preventing the researcher from
saying anything more, and holding her arms out toward the
admiral in a placating gesture. "Admiral...
forgive Dr. Shulman for speaking from his heart about a
project that has taken so much of his effort. Let
me assure you that I and the rest of the FDRA
welcome your presence here. Recovery's success
today will be witnessed by her most demanding: challenger--and
without a challenger, how could we have developed the high
standards we have? We all owe you our thanks."
  "Speak for yourself, Mole," Shulman barked
irritably.
  "Watch closely, Kirk! See how
much more efficient, safe, and reliable the right machine
is over the weak and ineffectual efforts of mere
humans!"
  Abruptly, the scientist sat down, crossing his
arms, his whole body rigid with anger.
  His jaw still set, Kirk chose his words with painful
care. "Dr. Shulman, Dr. Mola, I meant
what I said. I look forward to Recovery's
success."
  As if she sensed the time was right to interrupt the
tense atmosphere, Recovery announced her next
action.
  "Beginning beam up of Zotos Four
personnel."
  The center portion of the screen changed abruptly,
and the image of the mist-laden atmosphere of Zotos
IV was replaced by a picture of another large
auditorium like the one McCoy was in. He forced
his gaze away from Kirk's face, remembering he
was here as an official observer, and studied this new,
unfurnished auditorium. Suddenly, figures
began materializing within it, dozens of figures, more
than a starship could've ever managed at a time, even
with all its transporter pads. Each figure was
at least ten feet from the other so there was no
danger of regenerator-beam crossover. Every
figure forming in the auditorium completed its
materialization at the same time, so there was no
danger of someone accidentally walking into another
person's field. McCoy realized that he could not
count the number of people who'd been instantaneously
beamed up into that large room.
  Dr. Mola moved to the podium, claiming
everyone's attention.
  McCoy had the feeling she was standing in for
Shulman, who remained in his seat still glowering at
Kirk. "Since Zotos only has a complement of
two hundred scientists, Recovery has beamed
them all aboard at the same time with the exception of a
few staff members who are in need of minor
medical care.
  Had this been a fully developed planet, this
scenario could've been duplicated in over a
hundred such hangars, simultaneously."
  Even McCoy was impressed. He glanced at
Kirk's face to see that he, too, seemed
surprised.
  The voice of the ship spoke up, and McCoy
realized the computer was addressing the people it had just
"rescued."
  "There are four individuals who require
medical attention. Which of you here can assist in their
care?"
  Two Zotos IV scientists identified
themselves as doctors.
  "Then both of you," the computer intoned, "and the
individuals in question will be beamed directly
to sickbay."
  No Sooner had the computer announced that than those
two people, a man and woman, were beamed out. The screen
changed once more, showing the sickbay where six people
materialized. Amazingly, four of them
materialized directly onto diagnostic beds.
Talk about precision work. t McCoy mused.
  For a moment, he forgot about Jim looming up there
on the screen as he watched Recovery diagnose,
prescribe treatment, and provide care for the four
different people with four different ailments that had been
brought into her sickbay. Then Jim turned to speak
to the Vulcan behind him, and that simple act brought
back too many memories for the doctor.
  There seemed no point in suffering through any more
auld-lang-syne fantasies; McCoy rose and
headed for the rear exit, knowing he'd be far better off
experiencing this scenario in the one.place he
actually belonged: sickbay.
  In hangar bay four, Riley stepped toward the
shuttlecraft with a mixture of anticipation and
dread.
  Despite his discomfort at seeing Ahab again, the
process of suiting up and preparing for the drill
brought back his days aboard the Enterprise--not the
fear- and guilt-ridden days after one of his command
decisions had resulted in the death of a colleague,
but the early days, when he had been full of
optimism and exhilaration.
  At the same time, Anab's presence made him
acutely self-conscious. As he moved toward the
shuttlecraft Grace Hopper, Anab fell
into step beside him, her helmet under one arm. Behind them,
the cadet accompanying them approached; she spoke
quickly, softly so that only Riley could hear.
  "K.t ...."
  He looked at her, trying to ignore the pain
evoked by hearing the special nickname only she
used.
  Her full lips curved in a faint, wry grin.
"This is what comes of us both trying to avoid each
other. I volunteered to be the experienced officer
aboard the shuttlecraft, since they're
at a premium aboard Pala He let go a
small gust of air that was not quite a laugh, thankful for
her attempt to break the tension.
  "So... we wind up together. I just wish Romolo
would read his files more carefully."
  "Well, even though it's awkward..." She
lowered her lashes, not quite meeting his gaze. "It's
good to see you again."
  "It's good to see you, too," he said,
half-truthfully, then fell silent as the cadet,
a young man, as tall and willowy as Anab, with the
same graceful, long Somali-an features and
dark chestnut skin, caught up to them at the
shuttle's entrance.
  Anab's tone grew abruptly professional.
"Commander Riley, this is Cadet Josiah Ngo.
Ngo will be serving as your navigator." She
gestured toward the pilot's seat.
  Riley turned to her. "No, thanks... I'll
let you do the honors, Lieutenant. This was your
assignment; I'm just here as an observer. As far as
I'm concerned, you're still in charge."
  "Well, if I'm to be in charge with all due
respect, sir," Anab said formally, as though their
relationship had never been more than that of an
officer and her superior, "our original plan was that
I would oversee two cadets, one who would pilot
and one who would navigate. The captain hasn't
reversed his order, and with your permission, I would like
to continue this simulation as we had rehearsed it."
  "Fine. Best to stick as closely as possible
to the original. plan." Riley climbed into the
shuttle and the pilot's seat; Ngo took the seat
next to him, and Anab sat behind them both. The three
of them secured their helmets in place.
  Riley started at the fleeting touch of a hand upon his
shoulder.
  "Thank you, sir," Anab said softly, then
leaned forward to speak into the comm. "This is
shuttlecraft Grace Hopper. We're ready,
Commander."
  Pulver's cool, precise voice filtered
into the small craft. "Very good, Lieutenant.
Prepare for takeoff."
  "Aye, sir."
  She nodded to Riley, who discovered, to his
surprise and pleasure, that none of his Academy
training had deserted him. With an ease that felt as
if it had been days, not years, since he had last
piloted a shuttle into space, he touched
the controls that would void the air inside the hangar
bay and open the airlock doors.
  The great hangar doors rose, and the infinite
starlit darkness of space yawned before them, in stark
contrast to the brightly lit shelter of the hangar.
Riley pressed a few more controls; the tiny ship
lifted gently, then silently left its home.
  As the Grace Hopper followed her preplanned
trajectory and its mothership fell farther and farther
behind, her inhabitants were finally able to view the true
size and scope of the vessel they were about to test.
  Riley let out a silent gust of air, beside him,
Josiah Ngo's lips parted in amazement.
Recovery's shape was rectangular, much like that of
her infinitely smaller cousin, the Grace
Hopper, but sleeker, smoother, and enormously
vast.
  "Heads up," Anab snapped behind them.
  Riley glanced up to see the Starhawk's
"enemy" shuttle approaching just as Ngo spied the
ship and squawked, "Unknown vessel approaching
at two o'c.t"
  Caught up in the sudden immediacy of the
simulation, Riley searched his instruments.
"Scanners say they're arming photon
weapons. Shields up."
  "I'm hailing them," Ngo announced. His
voice had calmed down a notch, but the excitement
and tension could still be plainly heard. "Friendship
messages in all languages."
  "Changing trajectory to avoid collision
course," Riley announced; oddly, Ngo's
excitement calmed him, made him appreciate the
value of his years of experience aboard the
Enterprise. "Maintaining shields."
  "They're going to fire!" Ngo announced,
clearly trying hard not to shout. He sounded like he
couldn't believe it was going to happen, in spite of the
fact that it was all part of the planned simulation.
  "Swerving to avoid--" Riley began, but his
voice was cut off by the photon blast.
  He knew it was just a fraction of a real photon
hit, andmiddot; but it still jarred the little ship badly,
bouncing them all around. Each of their pressure
suits immediately went into self-diagnosis,
automatically checking and reporting on itself so that the
wearer could be sure it was ready if the ship was
suddenly breached.
  "Wow! Shields are down thirty percent!"
Ngo announced in amazement, then, as if
realizing his unprofessional outburst, amended it with a
subdued
  "sir." He hesitated, glancing down.
"There's something wrong with my suit. I think it's the
pressure ....
  Riley leaned over to help Ngo check out his
suit diagnostics.
  "No!" Anab leaned forward, her expression one
of frustration and alarm. "This isn't the time or
place to worry about that! Send the distress!"
  Riley straightened at once. She was right of
course; he shouldn't be helping Ngo, but should have
taken over his duties--checking the instruments,
supplementing the shields, and, more important, sending
the distress signal.
  But before he could do so, they were hit again, suddenly,
and his awkward position caused Riley to careen
forward wildly against the console, smacking his head
inside the helmet hard enough to daze him.
  His teeth came down on his lower lip with a
clack; the metallic taste of blood filled his
mouth. Damn.t The distress call.t The
ship...ddment The last blast had hit the small
vessel at an odd angle and sent it spiraling
wildly like a poorly tossed football.
Riley tried to fight the fog in his mind and reach for the
controls to restabilize the ship.
  Dimly, he was aware of Commander Pulver
calling, "Lieutenant Saed? Commander Riley?
Shall I pull you in? Transporter room, can you
get a lock?"
  He was aware of Anab reaching past him,
grappling for the instruments. But before she could reach the
control, the Grace Hopper suddenly slowed her
out-of-control spinning, then righted herself, seemingly of
her own accord. A computer-generated voice
spoke.
  "This is the FDRA vessel Recovery. We
are in control of your ship. Do you require
assistance?"
  Before anyone could utter an affirmative, the
second shuttle answered for them by firing another
round of photon fire. Riley watched it emerge,
a small firestar of red tumbling almost slowly their
way, and automatically braced himself for it. He
glanced at the board; shields were down sixty
percent. Beside him, Ngo gaped, mesmerized, at the
bolt of power coming their way. This one would breach the
ship. Ngo's suit When the torpedo fragment
hit, instead of being blasted, the tiny
shuttle just rocked slowly, as if the powerstorm of the
photon blast had somehow been absorbed.
  "You are in no danger," the Recovery told
them.
  "You are being protected by a projected force
field.
  Your attacker is being subdued by the same
technology.
  They will not be able to fire on you again. They will be
brought aboard this ship via tractor beam until
they are secured in a confined, shielded berth, where they
will be safely contained until further instructions are
received."
  Recovery was as good as her word. Riley could see
the "enemy" shuttlecraft, cocooned in a golden
glow, being slowly towed toward the rescue ship.
  "My sensors show your ship has sustained minor
damage," Recovery continued, unasked, "that one of
your pressure suits has a malfunction, and that
one of you is injured."
  Anab leaned forward. "Ngo? Are you all right?"
  Ngo looked down at himself in wonder, then
snapped to. "Fine, sir."
  The two of them gazed at Riley. "I'm
fine," he said shortly, and again tasted
blood; his lip seemed twice its normal size,
and he was certain his forehead was bruised. He lifted
a hand to it, and lowered it sheepishly when he struck the
smooth, unyielding surface of his helmet.
  "Your ship will be beamed aboard so that these problems
can be tended to," Recovery continued.
  "Once you are safely aboard, your injured party
can be brought to sickbay, and w Riley interrupted
curtly, "I don't need to go to sickbay!" The
realization that he had fatally erred in trying to help
Ngo filled him with embarrassment. He had been
trying to prove to Anab that he was a changed person,
capable and unafraid; but here he was making
mistakes like the greenest cadet.
  "Your injuries will be tended there," the ship insisted
implacably, "and the malfunctioning suit can be
repaired."
  Before he could protest further, Riley felt the
familiar pull that indicated he was caught in a
transporter beam. When the universe reassembled
itself around him, he found himself looking out the front of the
shuttlecraft into an enormous, empty hangar.
  "Recovery," Riley asked, even as he opened
the door of the shuttlecraft and stepped outside it,
"what's wrong with Cadet Ngo's
pressure suit?" He removedhis helmet and
dabbed at his bloody lip with his glove. If the
ship could detect the problem, it could also tell them
how to fix it.
  "The problem is a minor malfunction," the ship
announced, as Ahab and Ngo debarked and stripped
their own helmets. "His pressure gauge has
failed. The pressure itself was always correct. A
new gauge will solve the problem."
  Anab frowned as she faced Ngo, and said, in a
tone frostier than Riley had ever heard her use,
"Any first-year student should've been able
to anticipate that gauge's failure with a proper
diagnostic check ahead of time. What's your
explanation, mister?"
  To his credit, Ngo held her gaze calmly
and did not wilt. "I checked everything before we
left, sir. It must have failed when we got hit."
  "That faulty gauge nearly got us killed,"
Anab began, when Riley interrupted.
  "If you want to blame someone, Lieutenant,
blame me. I violated emergency procedure.
I should never have taken my attention from my board."
  Anab's eyes narrowed; she opened her mouth
to reply when Riley felt the familiar
tingle.
  "Damreit, nost" He shouted at the rescue
ship even as the transporter whine hummed in his ear.
"I don't want to go to sickbay.t"
  Chapter Five
  "I MUS-THAT ADMIT," Iirk told the
Palodin's bridge crew as the huge Recovery
went through her paces, "that's pretty
impressive." But belying the mildness of his voice,
his head pounded with anger and embarrassment.
  Who the hell did Shulman think he was to dress
down an admiral?
  When no one responded, Jim realized the crew
was still tense from the previous scene. He had to snap
them out of this uncomfortable moment and reintegrate them
as a team. He approached the Vulcan.
  "What do you think of the ship's performance, Mr.
Sonak?"
  The science officer stood with a most Spock-like
stance, his hands clasped behind his back. It was
impossible to tell that he'd just witnessed a distasteful
scene rife with human emotions. Sonak was
shorter, slighter of build than Spock, with a
rounder face and more prominent ears; but those were not the
only differences. The Paladin's science
officer seemed more relaxed than Spook had ever
been--but Sonak, as a pure Vulcan, had never
had to prove worthy of his own heritage.
  "I will hold my opinion, Captain," Sonak
said carefully. "At least until the scenario has
run its course."
  Kirk nodded. "That's playing it safe." He
moved back towards the captain's chair. "Mr.
Pulver?"
  "It's quite an ambitious concept, isn't it,
sir?" she mused, her posture as perfect and
reserved as the Vulcan's. "And ambition can lead
to progress--or problems."
  Kirk addressed the helmsman. "Mr.
Sandover?"
  The navigator shrugged. "Letting Recovery
handle evacuations will save a lot of wear and tear
on the ships."
  He was about to ask the resident Kirk-expert
what she thought when Dr. Mola addressed both
ships.
  "Paladin and Starhawk, it's time to employ your
shuttles."
  Kirk glanced surreptitiously at the chrono.
Everything was happening right to the minute, in
spite of Shulman's display.
  Pulver hit her comm button. "Transporter
room, stay sharp. We might have to beam our people up
at a moment's notice."
  She ordered the shuttlecraft away, then all
they could do was watch as the little ship was battered by a
shuttlecraft from the Starhawk. As the second shot
sent the small craft into a spin, Pulver quickly
asked if they needed transporting When Recovery
finally grabbed hold of the vessel, Kirk let out the
breath he'd been holding with a whoosh. The Grace
Hopper stopped its sickening tumble, stabilized,
then dematerialized in a familiar transporter
shimmer. Kirk applauded politely, pleased when
the bridge crew joined in his congratulatory
gesture.
  "Well," he said brightly, glancing at the
chrono, "neither our work nor Recovery's is over
yet. Can someone give me Captain Romolo's
plan for the robot drone attack?"
  "It's here, sir," Diksen said, handing him a
pad and stylus. He noted Pulver eyeing him
curiously as he mulled over Romolo's
design. The small, aggressive war-game
drones would harass the big ship during the
evacuation to test her response.
  Glancing at the screen, Jim thought of the irony
of that. There sat the representatives of the most
hostile forces the Federation had ever faced. These tiny
drones could hardly simulate the cleverness of a
cloaked Romulan vessel, the aggression of a
Klingon warship, or the mechanical entrapment of a
Tholian web.
  But the drones were all they had, so they would have to do.
He glanced again at Romolo's pattern, and started
to smile as inspiration struck. He picked up the
stylus and began to manipulate the program.
  "Mr. Pulver," he said as he worked, "I'm
making changes in the attack pattern. I'd
appreciate it if you'd rearrange your command
sequence so that I can have more direct control of the
drones."
  When her answer was long in coming, he glanced up
to "see her gazing at him, her blue eyes and
porcelain-pale face composed in an expression of
cold disapproval beneath a smooth cap of copper
hair. "Excuse me, Admiral," she said
stiffly, "but isn't that somewhat irregular?"
  Before Kirk could respond, Sonak turned in his
chair, his expression mildly perplexed.
"I would like to remind the admiral that the drones are
capable of remembering hundreds of prearmed
patterns and using them in the way that gives them the
best chances of survival."
  In reply, Kirk fixed both officers with a
cool look.
  Two beats passed; at last, Pulver backed
down, her tone reluctant. "Aye, sir.
Rearranging command sequence.
  Drones will be at your command through the engineering station."
  "Thank you," Kirk said graciously, ignoring
Reese Diksen's bemused expression. "Mr.
Pulver, Mr. Sonakmyour opinions are
appreciated." As the first officer moved over to the
vacant engineering station, Kirk fine-tuned his
program, then signaled her. "Release seventy
drones, Commander."
  The navigator turned to him and started to remind
Kirk that he was supposed to release a hundred, but
before he could, Jim murmured, "There are no rules
in warfare, mister."
  With a soft sigh of disapproval, Pulver tapped
her comm, relaying Kirk's command. He watched
avidly as the small army of drones left the ship
--just seventy of them. The Starhawk
released her cloud of one hundred identical
passive soldiers at the same time.
  As the two groups met, they resembled a swarm
of angry bees floating through space, hovering around
the big vessel.
  Abruptly, one of Jim's drones fired on the
ship, immediately ducking behind an "innocent" bystander.
  Then another drone fired, again ducking behind a
cluster of innocents, then another and another. Now
two fired at once, then three.
  The ship took the pounding for several moments before she
finally took action. Using a reverse,
narrow-focused tractor beam, the rescue ship
"shoved" the innocent drones out of the way, then fired
upon the instigators taking refuge behind them.
  Again and again, she nudged the covering, innocent
robots out of the line of fire and destroyed the chivying
satellites. Her accuracy was unerring, never
once injuring any innocent drones.
  Kirk enjoyed himself immensely as he worked the
board. He increased the drones" speed, number of
hits, and evasive maneuvers, but Recovery
seemed up to the challenge. It made him wonder if
he had been wrong about the ship's need for weapons.
Or maybe Mola was right; maybe he just
hated seeing something that could do the job better than a
starship and her captain.
  Finally, over twenty of his drones had been
nullified.
  The aggressive robots' distinctive movements
must have revealed their identities because, suddenly, the
great ship beamed her attackers into a waiting bay as
a group, leaving the others untouched.
  "Now, that would be a novel way of dealing with a
Romulan Bird-of-Preyea*". Kirk commented,
amused.
  "Simply beam her aboard."
  Sonak raised an eyebrow. "It would certainly
be a more pacifistic technique."
  At the sound of a small "hmmpff" emanating from
communications, he turned to face the cadet there.
  "You don't agree, Mr. Diksen?"
  Her dark brown hair was cut short, revealing the
entire sweep of her pale neck--and the tips of her
ears, which to his secret amusement colored
brilliant red, the way they had when Romolo had
introduced her to him. Hesitantly, she said,
"It's just--" Her gaze went beyond him to the screen,
and focused on Recovery's vast bulk. "Look
at them." She pointed at the three
observer ships, floating in triangular formation at
the top of the screen. "They're watching this, too.
To them, this makes us look weak."
  "In what way?"
  "While we're struggling to perfect this rescue
ship, they're pouring all their efforts into aggressive
war technology. How does this research help us in
dealing with them?"
  Before Kirk could respond, Sonak interjected.
"As we speak, Ambassador Sarek sits on the
Starhawk communicating with those same hostile forces
in an unprecedented bid for mutual understanding. If
the Recovery accomplishes nothing else, her
existence has provided this single moment of
cooperation."
  How Spock would have agreed.
  Diksen shook her head. "Is that why Starfleet
exists? To become a perpetual, passive
do-gooder?
  That's not why I joined."
  The cold statement traveled down Kirk's
spine like ice. "Why did you join, Diksen?" he
asked, in a tone so quiet it immediately caught
everyone's attention.
  "For the action? For the chance to prove yourself in
combat? Have you ever seen combat, especially combat in
space?"
  She did not answer, only shook her head
slightly.
  "Do you have any idea how quickly an organic
life-form can die in space? An exploding computer
station can cripple or kill in less than a
second. Have you ever heard the shrieks and screams
of the wounded and dying, ever been there when life-support
fails? There's nothing but the crushing reality of a
vacuum--a place where life can't exist."
  He gazed back at the enormous bulk of
Recovery surrounded by a cluster of passive
robots, a hundred shining metal gems bejeweling
her dark body. "No flash. No drama. Nothing
but over two hundred lives saved in less time--
far less time--than either of these two starships could've
done it. And time, in any life-threatening emergency,
is ultimately the most critical factor."
  He paused, his recitation bringing back too many
raw memories. "Trust me, Diksen. The
Federation spends plenty on the dogs of war. I
pray you never see any real action." He suddenly
felt the real weight of his loss for the first time since
he'd left the Enterprise.
  That feeling--what had Riley called it?--the
responsibility for the ship, for her people.
  He sighed just as the screen shifted, the right side
now showing the auditorium where Dr. Shulman again
stood at his podlure. The researcher was smiling
once more, talking about the success of the simulation.
  A sudden notion seized Kirk; he turned
toward communications. "Make sure they can't hear
us, will you, Mr. Diksen?"
  Diksen caught Pulver's eye. The first
officer, who still seemed to be smarting faintly from
Kirk's intervention with the simulation, directed a
single, curt nod at the cadet.
  "Aye, sir," Diksen repffied, and muted their
channel.
  "Mr. Sonak," Kirk said, "I want
control of those passive drones. Can you get it for
me?"
  For a beat, no one replied. With the defeat of the
warrior drones, the planned simulation was officially
over. The remaining drones still out there were not
Paladin's, but Starhawk's. Even so, Sonak
must have remembered Kirk's earlier statement about the
lack of rules in warfare, for he finally said, "I
believe I can handle that, sir."
  Kirk turned to Pulver. "Release the last
thirty drones."
  "The Starhawk's drones will now respond to your
commands, Admiral," Somak assured him. Kirk
fancied the Vulcan's tone sounded faintly smug.
  "A few new firing patterns, Mr.
Sonak," Kirk told him, as he finished his work.
"A few surprises. Enter new patterns,
now." The pattern was one Kirk had been
victimized by in an encounter with terrorists in the
Xenia system; as he watched the kaleidoscoping
design of weapons fire from the rapidly moving,
interweaving drones, the memory of that attack
surfaced with painful intensity. The Enterprise had
been nearly torn apart that day. If it hadn't been
for Spock -- As Kirk pulled his attention back
to the split viewscreen, he could tell that the
Recovery was taking too long to analyze the firing
pattern of the drones.
  She kept turning this way and that, but the ever-changing
patterns of chivying robots clung to her like fleas,
first under her belly, then over her flanks. So far,
she'd been unable to make even one direct hit.
Kirk was not at all pleased, and rather surprised.
Or was this response more typical of an
attack that hadn't been planned?
  On the right side of the screen, Shulman stared
agape at the unexpected attack. "This is your
doing!"
  he shouted at the admiral.
  Jim shrugged, not at all sheepish. "I
confess, Doctor.
  You've caught me red-handed."
  "You're cheating, damn you, Kirk! Call off
those drones."
  The admiral stiflened at the escalating fury in
the other man's tone. "Sorry, Shulman, I still
had soldiers at my call. Your ship is here to be
tested. Do you think that the only tests she should endure
are those you prearrange?"
  The Recovery had finally begun her response,
but it was inexplicably slower than the last. Instead
of a swift reprisal, she fired randomly, striking
only one out of three targets.
  "Commander Pulver," Sonak said with a faint hint
of surprise in his tone, "Recovery seems unable
to determine innocent drones from aggressive ones now
that the admiral controls them all."
  Pulver glanced over at Kirk with an
expression of concern, faintly laced with
accusation, yet she remained silent. Kirk himself
could think of nothing to say; he had never believed that
Recovery could exercise the kind of judgment necessary
during an attack without a militarily
sophisticated commander at her helm. But he found
no joy in seeing his fears realized.
  "Looks like you're having some trouble with your
defense. systems, Dr. Shulman," he said at
last, with quiet regret. "It's one thing to set up
a response pattern when you anticipate an
attack, but those of us who work in space"--he almost
hesitated at that moment, but caught himself--"are
aware that's a luxury we rarely have."
  "You've planned this all along, Kirk,
planned to destroy this ship!" Shulman screamed,
spittle spraying from his lips.
  Jim recoiled, shocked to silence by the intensity
of the scientist's fury.
  "I knew you would never be satisfied until you'd
made sure Recovery did not survive her
simulation," Shulman raged, flailing his lean
arms. "I knew it, and made sure she knew it,
too!"
  "Commander." Sonak's voice cut through
Shulman's ranting, "The Recovery has
just destroyed every drone surrounding her."
  In the captain's chair, Pulver straightened, and
it seemed every member of the bridge crew tensed along
with her. Glancing briefly at Kirk, she turned
to the science officer. "Every one?"
  "Even the innocents," the Vulcan confirmed.
"She is now analyzing their behavior--determining
who was responsible--"
  Kirk moved out of his seat to make a suggestion.
  Sonak, bent over his science screen, suddenly
sat bolt upright in his chair, then whipped his head
around to face Pulver. "Commander... to was he called.
  Kirk needed no other warning. It didn't
matter that the scenario was impossible, that the
Recovery was a vessel of peace, designed
to rescue the helpless.
  "Shields up!" he shouted, no longer concerned
about protocol or Pulver's feelings. "Shields
up! Red alert!
  Battle stations, everyone... to was
  He could hear Pulver parroting him in her
clipped, precise accent over the captain's comm.
As the klaxons sounded, the bridge crew rushed
into action like a well-practiced machine.
  Kirk clung to the back of his chair, and
managed to stay on his feet; he could sense, from the
feel and direction of the blast, even before Diksen
called out the damage reports, that Recovery's
phaser fire hit them broadside near the lower
decks, where the Paladin's shields were the weakest--
dangerously close to Engineering. The bridge
rocked wildly, but quickly stabilized.
  "She can analyze our vulnerabilities,"
Kirk shouted to Pulver, "so fortify those shields!
Keep the strongest part between the two ships."
  The commander snapped out orders that followed
Kirk's recommendations exactly as he wanted,
her cool tones the perfect response to the
organized chaos of the bridge.
  Kirk charged up to the viewscreen "Shulman!
What have you done? What the hell did you meanre'she
knew it"?"
  Before the wild-eyed doctor could respond,
Dik-sen's strained voice called out, "Commander!
We're being hailed by the Starhawk."
  "On screen," Pulver ordered.
  Shulman's side of the screen was replaced
by Captain Akhmatova at her conn. Beside her
stood a worried-looking Captain Romolo.
"Admiral Kirk," she said, "what's
Paladin's status?"
  On the opposite side of the screen, Kirk could
see Recovery hurl another volley of phaser
fire at the Paladin's shields. The ship rocked
harder and he nearly lost his footing, but once more,
she stabilized.
  He could hear Pulver and Diksen sorting out
damage reports.
  "Uncertain," he told Akhmatova.
"We're weak in our aft shields, but we haven't
had time for damage assessment."
  "I need to be there with you, Admiral," Romolo
insisted, his green eyes narrowed with concern beneath thick,
golden brows.
  "Can't drop our shields now, Captain,"
Kirk reminded him. It was true, despite the
exhilaration he felt at being in command almost command, he
thought, with a guilty glance back at Pulver. But
he had no desire to keep Baldassare from his own
bridge at such a critical time.
  Akhmatova leaned forward to address her
navigator.
  "Move us between I.he Recovery and the Paladin.
  She won't fire on us; we've been neutral
through the entire simulation."
  Instinctively, Kirk warned, "No,
don'Us," but it was too late. The Starhawk's
navigator obeyed his captain and moved the starship
into Recovery's line of fire.
  "It is a logical move, sir," Sonak
advised Kirk over the din on the bridge. "The
rescue ship has no motivation for perceiving a threat
from the Star-hawk."
  Logic be damned, Kirk thought with frustration.
  That move is all wrong. He opened his mouth
to protest, but before he could, the Recovery spun about
and fired a photon torpedo at the unshielded
Starhawk.
  On the right side of the viewscreen, the bridge
of the innocent ship erupted in flames--then faded
into darkness like an extinguished candle.
  Kirk wheeled toward Pulver. "Can we extend
our shields to cover the Starhawk?"
  f She hesitated; for the first time, she seemed
less than totally collected. "It will weaken them,
sir--"
  He wasted no time arguing with her. "Mr.
Sandover, extend shields to protect the
Starhawk!"
  His freckled face pale but composed, the
navigator glanced over his shoulder at Pulver,
who sat, her eyes narrowed at Kirk. For a
split second, no more, he wavered, then caught
sight of the admiral, who met him with a determined
stare. "Aye, Admiral. Extending shields..."
  The viewscreen image of Starhawk's bridge
was replaced by a view of her hull, suspended in a
golden aura as the two Federation ships,
dangerously close to one another, shared one shield.
Another photon struck the wounded ship, then another
in rapid-fire volley. Even under shielding, the
Starhawk was racked by the blows.
  Paladin's bridge shuddered violently under
Star-hawk's beating, telling Kirk that the extended
shields were spread too thin. He staggered over
to navigation, where he could see the readouts that confirmed
his worst suspicions.
  "Logic has nothing to do with this, Mr. Sonak,"
Kirk shouted, then turned again to Sandover. "Hard
about, helm, and fire on my order."
  Pulver came to herself. "Fire, Admiral?
On the Recovery? But our people are over there!"
  His carrot-colored eyebrows knit together in
confusion, Sandover swiveled to face first her, then
Kirk.
  The admiral straightened to his full height and
met the first officer's stare with a stoniness that matched
hers.
  "As they are on the Starhawk and the Paladin,
Commander."
  "With all due respect, Admiral..." Her
tone grew even more clipped and disapproving. "I must
protest."
  "Protest noted," Kirk said swiftly; there was
no time to waste arguing over who had command. Without
taking his gaze from Pulver's, he ordered, "Mr.
Sandover! You heard me: Prepare to fire!"
  A tense second passed--one in which Kirk could
almost palpably feel the shift of power; and then
Sandover said softly, "Yes, sir."
  "Full' phasers? Kirk demanded, in a voice
that brooked no argument. "Fire, now, then hard
about.
  Keep those shields extended, at full power?
  "Aye, aye, Admiral. Firing now."
  The crew watched the viewscreen breathlessly as the
dazzling golden blast streaked through the darkness toward
the massive rescue ship. Recovery took the
blow better than Kirk had dared hope, but the
confused and frightened scientists in her
auditorium swayed under the powerful blows.
  The attack accomplished his goal: It gave
Starhawk time to move behind Paladin. She still had no
shields of her own, and Kirk feared that first direct
hit might have knocked them out. How long could they
protect her?
  "Admiral," Pulver said, with an icy calm that
signaled both her capitulation and resentment, "we
need to get both vessels out of range quickly."
  He nodded. "Go to the engineering station and guide the
helm. You'll need to watch the sensors closely,
make sure we don't hit." She moved away
promptly and he started to follow to add something to his
directions when Sonak called out.
  "Admiral, Recovery is arming phasers--"
  Sandover at navigation shouted, "Shields are
weakening.
  Down to sixty percent--"
  Kirk halted. "Deflect power from the warp
engines to strengthen those shields!"
  From engineering, Pulver called, "Starhawk is
moving away from us faster than we can safely catch
up.
  It's taxing the shields." Her hands flew over
the board, trying to make adjustments.
  With preternatural calm, Sonak announced,
"Recovery is firing phasers and photons--"
  The deck beneath Kirk's boots lurched--again.
  Again. For a full second, the bridge lost
gravity; he felt the odd sensation of lightness as his
feet began to lose contact with the deck...
  And then gravity returned, slamming him down.
He rolled, easing the impact, and managed
to regain his footing just as a rain of sparks erupted
to his right. He raised an arm, shielding his eyes
from the dazzling blast, his face from the rain of
debrismthen lowered it to see that the engineering station had
overloaded, exploding up and out, as though a
malevolent genie had burst from its interior.
  Backlit by the brilliant orange-red of the
flaming console, Pulver's dark form dropped
backward with terrible, limp grace.
  Sonak bolted from his seat, but Kirk got to her
first and cradled her head in his lap as the Vulcan
crouched nearby. Her pale, delicate features
were unrecognizable: singed with soot, peppered with
shards of shrapnel, spattered with bright blood that
jetted from her throat onto her auburn hair,
Kirk's sleeves, the legs of his trousers. He
pressed his fingers to the spurting artery in a
frantic effort to stanch the flow, even as he tried
to gauge the extent of her chest wounds--a task
made impossible by the amount of blood.
  "Sickbay!" Diksen called, in a voice that
came close to breaking. "Medics to the bridge--
stat!"
  Behind them, the fireglow dimmed as. the ship
extinguished the flames, blessedly throwing Pulver's
stunned, scorched visage in shadow. Kirk
listened, his heart sinking at sickbay's reply:
  "Administer whatever first aid you can manage.
  Ye'e'll get someone up there as soon as we
can... we're swamped with emergencies down here!"
  Pulver stared at Kirk and Sonak, her pale
blue eyes wide with shock. "The ship," she
gasped, reaching out blindly and catching hold of
Sonak's sleeve. "The ship .... to was She
broke off with a strangled gurgling sound and coughed;
blood sprayed from her lips as her arm dropped
weakly by her side.
  The Vulcan shot a darkly meaningful glance at
Kirk, who understood: @ddonak must have gotten a
brief, telepathic sense of her condition as her hand
brushed his arm. Kirk had seen the same look in
Spock's eyes more than he cared
to remember. Pulver was dying.
  "Sonak, return to your station," Kirk ordered
the Vulcan with a tone of soft regret. "We've
got to know if Recovery--" His
  "Understood, sir." with a final, frankly concerned
  glance at Pulver, the science officer rose,
leaving Kirk
  with his charge.
  "The ship? Pulver demanded again, crimson froth
  bubbling from between her lips; she failed feebly
  again, and this time grasped Kirk's arm. Her eyes
  suddenly cleared, and focused, fierce and
horribly
  lucid, on the admiral's. "The ship, Kirk
--to was
  "I'm here, Commander. I'll take good care of
your
  ship," he promised solemnly. "As good a
care as you
  took." Her gaze remained on him, intent,
demanding, full of suffering. "You did everything you could
...."
  The surging blood under his fingers subsided, then
stopped, as the frantic demand in Commander Ruth
Pulver's blue eyes faded to an
open-eyed endless stare.
  The body in his arms relaxed with a gurgling sigh;
gently, he eased it back to the deck, aware of the
stricken gazes of the bridge crew.
  He rose, wiping Pulver's blood from his hands
onto his soaked uniform, and drew a slow, shuddering
breath, clearing his mind of everything except those thoughts
necessary for survival. Whatever it took, he would
keep his promise to the Paladin's first officer.
  Fortunately, Recovery had not fired again. The
image of the wounded Starhawk on Paladin's
view-screen was abruptly replaced by Myron
Shulman, who shrieked, with a madman's wide-eyed
hysteria, "You'll pay for this, Kirk! You've
deliberately sabotaged this simulation. You'll
pay!"
  I'LL pay? Kirk thought bitterly, clenching his
bloody hand. "Why, Shulman? Just tell me
why?!"
  Dr. Mola and Dr. Noon tried to pull the
agitated scientist away from the podium, and
futilely attempted to calm him, but Shulman
pulled free of them and raced away. The scene
blinked off, leaving the entire viewscreen filled with
Recovery's huge, ominous bulk.
  Kirk glanced up at the three enemy ships,
hovering in triangular formation nearby. What must they
be thinking? If Recovery turned on them- As if
the aberrant vessel had read his mind, she turned
ominously in the direction of the three observers.
  "Admiral," Sonak said in a voice
absurdly calm, as if the universe hadn't just
tipped on its edge, as if his commander were not lying dead
on the bridge, "Recovery is analyzing the
presence, the weaponry, and the strength of the three
non-Federation vessels."
  "Diksen, warn those ships!" Kirk ordered
instantly, snapping out of his morbid reverie.
"Tell 'them to power up their shields, to get the
hell out of thereto"
  "Admiral," Sonak announced heavily, even
as Diksen scrambled to obey Kirk's command and the
viewscreen filled with a blinding flash. "It is
too late.
  Recovery has just fired on the Romulan
vessel."
  Minutes earlier aboard the Starhawk's
bridge, Ambassador Sarek stood to the left
of the captain's chair and watched, outwardly
impassive, inwardly astonished, as
Recovery fired broadside on the Paladin.
  Fortunately, the blast was reflected
by Paladin's shields without causing much harm. But the
tension among the human crewmon Starhawk's
bridge did not abate.
  "Good God!" Captain Romolo, who stood
at Akhmatova's right elbow, exclaimed. "What
in blazes is that thing doing firing on my ship?"
  Unruffled, Akhmatova watched the viewscreen
with the intensity of a lioness sizing up her prey she would
have made a credible Vulcan, Sarek thought
approvingly then swiveled toward her communications
officer. "Open a channel to the Paladin."
  Almost immediately, James Kirk's face appeared
on the viewscreen just as the bridge he was on
shuddered from the impact of another blow.
  But Paladin managed to weather the blast.
  "Admiral Kirk, what's your status?"
  "Uncertain," Kirk said swiftly. "We
haven't had time for assessment."
  Romolo took a step toward the screen, his
voice full of frustration. "I need to be there with
you, Admiral ...."
  "Can't drop our shields right now, Captain."
  Akhmatova addressed her
navigator. "Move us between the Recovery and the
Paladin. "In reply to the sudden dismay on
Kirk's face, she said, "She won't fire on
us; we've been neutral through the entire
simulations"
  "No, don't!" Kirk ordered over her words.
  Sarek witnessed the exchange with a calm sense of
fatalism; he had heard of the human's legendary
instinct in critical situations and had heard from his
son that the admiral's judgment in such situations
generally proved correct.
  Yet it was too late; the navigator moved
quickly in response to the captain's command, and Sarek
sensed the Starhawk moving.
  And in a blinding millisecond, there came a
tremendous roar, as if Sarek's cortex had
erupted in thunder.
  He was lifted from his feet and slammed against something
--the deck, a console; impossible to judge in the
blind chaos that followed.
  He lay stunned for a disoriented second, then
opened his eyes to brilliant green. He wiped his
eyes, and stared, uncomprehending, at the blood on
his hand until he realized that his forehead was bleeding.
  He soaked it up as best he could with a
sleeve, then looked again.
  The bridge itself was red; smoldering red, from the
fires blazing on the consoles, and hazy with smoke.
  "Secondary-hull breach," the computer intoned
overhead. "Temporary force field is in effect.
Please commence repairs as soon as possible."
  Sarek took a deep breath, coughed, then
repressed a wince at the stab of pain in his side.
Inconvenient, but not fatal; a quick internal
assessment suggested broken ribs, one of which had
slightly punctured a lung.
  There would be sufficient time to deal with it and the pain--
later. He pushed himself to his knees, then squinted
through the haze at Captain Akhmatova's chair.
  Empty.
  "Captain?" he called hoarsely. It seemed
logical to raise the ship's shields as quickly as
possible--but none of the human crew appeared to be
at their stations.
  No reply. The ship lurched again, hard, throwing
Sarek once more against the deck.
  "Emergency!" the computer called.
"Primary-hull breach. Emergency force fields
are in place. Commence evacuation immediately. Five
minutes of life-support available."
  "Captain!" Sarek called again. "Captain
Akhma-tova!"
  A figure appeared out of the haze; not
Akhmatova, but her first officer, Commander Marsten.
Marsten's pale face was bruised and contorted in
frank pain; he clutched his thigh as he staggered
over the navigator's motionless body to the unmanned
console, and dragged himself up into the chair. Sarek
watched as the human worked the console with
life-or-death urgency.
  "Shields up," Marsten croaked.
  The third blast came no more than a second
later.
  This time, Sarek was able to ride it through by grabbing the
side of the console. The shields held.
  "We've lost warp power," Marsten said, as though
reporting to his captain."
  "Impulse functional." He worked a few more
controls, then sagged back in the chair with a hitching
sigh. "We're out of range."
  And then Marsten turned and Sarek turned at the
sound of soft coughing and movement. The first officer
punched a control on the helm comm grid.
  "Sickbay! Get medics up to the bridge,,
stat! We've got a hull breach and
wounded up here!"
  Seconds passed before the response came, and
then: "Bridge! We've got an emergency down
here, too!
  Science and medical labs are badly damaged.
We've got wounded trapped. Everyone who isn't
injured is working to dig the injured from the rubble. We
don't have enough personnel..."
  As he listened, Sarek glanced up at the
viewscreen, just in time to see Recovery turn
to face the Romulan, Klingon, and Tholian
vessels.
  If Recovery fired on the unshielded
observers, the incident could easily detonate an
interstellar war.
  Sarek moved swiftly over to the communications
station. The officer there lay slumped on the deck beneath
the console; Sarek carefully stepped around him and,
after a few false starts, intuited how the board
functioned. He at once opened a channel to one
of the observer ships.
  "Romulan vessel! Raise your shields
immediately and move out of Recovery's firing range!
She is malfunctioning ...."
  As he spoke, the glare from the
viewscreen captured his gaze. He peered through the
smoke at the screen, just as a brilliant phaser
beam streaked from Recovery toward the Romulan
ship, and seared her bow.
  Sarek closed his eyes at the sound of screams
coming from the Romulan bridge; and then all was silence
as the comm link dissolved. He tried once more
to reestablish, without success. On the screen, the
wounded vessel drifted, defenseless.
  Again, he attempted to open a channel, this time
to a different observer ship.
  "Tholian vessel! This is Ambassador
Sarek aboard the Starhawk. . ."
  But there was no reply. "Tholian vessel--"
Sarek began again, but Marsten swiveled toward him.
  "They're not there anymore, Ambassador."
  "Destroyed?" Sarek asked, detecting a
trace of heaviness in his own tone.
  "Hard to tell." Marsten squinted at his console.
  "I'm picking up some debris. Could just be from the
Romulan ship, but the Tholian vessels are so
small, they might have been--"
  He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from another
blinding flash on the viewscreen. Sarek forced himself
not to look away from the unsettling sight of
Recovery firing on the Klingon Bird-of-Prey.
  Sarek initiated another signal with inhuman
speed, taking his gaze from the screen only long enough
to work the controls. "Klingon vessel! Respond!"
  As he and Marsten watched, the Bird-of-Prey's
image wavered, then vanished smoothly into nothingness,
replaced by stars and darkness. The blast dispersed into a
wide field, then dissolved.
  "They're all right," Marsten said tersely,
glancing up from his console. "They must have cloaked--"
  "Klingon vessel!" Sarek demanded. "If you can
hear, respond. Recovery has attacked her own
vessels.
  Take yourself to safety and allow the Federation the
honor of avenging what has happened here.
Recovery is our ship; we must destroy her
ourselves, and deal with whoever is responsible for this
sabotage his
  No response.
  "I doubt they're listening, Ambassador."
Marsten's tone was glum.
  "Two minutes of life-support remaining," the
computer warned.
  Marsten rose, his balance wobbly, and grimaced as
he clutched his wounded thigh, where a dark red
stain was spreading. "Come on, Ambassador.
Help me get the wounded out of here."
  Sarek hesitated for a millisecond, no more.
The diplomatic situation was critical; if 'he
failed in the next moment to convince the Tholians,
Klingons, and Romulans that Recovery's attack
was not intentional, that failure could lead to a war that would
cost billions of lives.
  Yet there seemed to be nothing at the moment he could
do for those potential billions--only for those few
lying wounded on the Starhawk's bridge.
  He looked down to see the communications officer
pulling himself up. He proffered a hand; the human
seemed shaken, bruised, but otherwise unharmed.
Sarek motioned him toward the lift, then made his
way through the eye-stinging haze to Akhmatova's still
form. She lay facedown between the command chair and the
helm, her arms tangled with Romolo's.
  Apparently, she had freed herself from the command
chair's passive restraints and tried to catch the
other captain.
  The Vulcan gently turned her over. She was
bleeding profusely down the left side of her
face and neck.
  Seeking the source, he swept away
salt-and-pepper hair, sticky and stained crimson,
at her temple he found the deep gouge there that
,revealed splintered bone and whitish-gray matter.
  Impossible for her to be alive; but she was breathing
barely--and he managed to find a weak, thready
pulse. Carefully, he scooped her up, mentally
dismissing the insult to his ribs, and carried her
toward the lift, and Marsten's waiting arms.
  And then he hurried back into the thickening smoke,
in search of survivors.
  He found the dead navigator, whose neck had
been snapped. Only Romolo was still alive. Like
Akhma-tova, he was unconscious, but his breath
came in hitching, gurgling gasps. He lay on his
back, the chest of his uniform soaked with blood; a
piece of shrapnel had apparently struck him in a
lung.
  "One minute before life-support systems
fail," the computer announced. A klaxon began
blasting Sarek's eardrums. Ignoring the pain in his
ribs, he hoisted Romolo into his arms and staggered
to the safety of the lift.
  The lift doors closed over the blaring, smoky
chaos that had been the bridge. Sarek released a
slow breath and permitted himself to settle
against the cool metal wall, thinking not of the
destruction surrounding him, but of the destruction that
might come ....
  Chapter Six
  McCoy WAS ALMOST HAPPY to be in the
primary sickbay. It was a beautiful facility,
and only one of the many aboard the massive vessel.
He observed as the ship diagnosed and recommended
treatment for the four scientists who'd been beamed here
for medical treatment, then, after they'd been released,
wandered over to where one of the security Officers had
been brought after being bounced around in the
shuttlecraft.
  Hell of a way to earn a living, he thought as he
approached the diagnostic bed. Well, perhaps he
could help. He was surprised to see that the
reluctant patient was someone he knew.
  "Riley... ?"
  The officer looked the same as he had during his
youthful Enterprise days except, of course, for the
light brown beard, stained now with a small trickle
of blood from his swollen bottom lip. At the
sight of McCoy, Riley flashed a grin--then
grimaced and gingerly fingered the offending lip.
  "Dr. McCoy! I almost didn't
recognize you with the beard."
  McCoy stroked it proudly. "Just following your
lead."
  Riley managed another pained grin. "Good
to see you, sir! What are you doing here?"
  "Observing! Something old, retired doctors
get to do a lot of, it seems. Keeps us from
feeling totally useless." McCoy returned
Riley's smile, surprised at how good it felt
to see an old fellow crewmate again.
  "I might ask you the same. Was that you that got
hurt aboard that shuttlecraft?"
  "I'm fine." Riley lifted a hand to his
bruised forehead and winced.
  Recovery, it seemed, did not share his opinion.
  "The patient has a mild concussion," the computer
insisted, sounding almost peevish, "and an oral
laceration.
  However, the patient refuses reasonable treatment
...."
  Riley groaned in pure annoyance.
  McCoy couldn't help but chuckle. "Now, this
here is a serious facility, Mr. Riley.
Half sickbay, half brig.
  How 'bout if I just participate a little
here--I don't think it'll ruin my 'observer"
status too much." He picked up a cell
regenerator and a Simpkins cranial device.
"Now, just hold still."
  Riley sighed and obeyed. McCoy attached the
tiny cranial stimulator to the area of his head that
had received the blow and left it there to neutralize the
damage of the concussion, while he waved the cell
regenerator over the nasty cut on his lip.
  After a few moments of attention, McCoy
addressed the ship. "How's that, computer? Will the
patient live?"
  "The patient's life was never in danger," the
ship replied humorlessly.
  "Well, we'll grant you that," McCoy
grumbled.
  "Can he leave now?"
  "The patient has recovered sufficiently
to retire to his assigned quarters."
  "See?" the doctor told him. "You just gotta
know how to deal with these machines."
  "You're a lifesaver, Doc," Riley
admitted, getting off the diagnostic bed.
  "Not according to Recovery." McCoy smiled. "So,
Riley... you never said what you were doing on
the shuttlecraft."
  "I came with Admiral Kirk to monitor the
simulation.
  And I... volunteered to do a little active testing
of Recovery's capabilities." As though they had
mutually agreed on it, they. both left sickbay
and began wandering down the ship's curving corridors.
McCoy imagined Riley wanted to get reunited
with the shuttlecraft crew.
  "A little more exciting than you bargained for,
especially after a driving a desk for a few years,
eh?"
  McCoy asked, and when Riley replied with a
wry grin, continued: "So, tell me... how is
Jim?"
  "He's well," Riley said carefully; his tone
made McCoy think he was debating whether or not
to say more.
  "That's good." McCoy paused for a few
strides.
  "Look, Riley, I'm sure you heard about that
day I went to headquarters and had a little...
disagreement with Nogura. I'm sorry for any
embarrassment I caused Jim."
  A small smile settled over
Riley's boyish features.
  "I'm sure he understood, Doctor. You were
only doing what you thought best."
  "Damn straight," McCoy said. "Jim was my
closest friend." He came to an abrupt halt and
faced the younger man. "Tell me, Riley... is
he happy with what he's doing? Nogura being good
to him?"
  Riley's gaze fastened on a far-distant point
in front of them; his expression grew opaque,
unreadable.
  "He... he's done an outstanding job in the
admiralty.
  Nogura's very pleased with his performance."
  "I didn't ask that. I asked whether he was
happy."
  Riley shrugged and dropped the mask; the corner
of his lip quirked wryly. "I can't say,
Doctor." He sighed. "I think he's...
restless. Looking for alternatives..."
  "I knew it!" McCoy said, with a burst of
passionate anger. "The man belongs on a starship,
but Nogura's too damned stubborn to admit it.
I hope Jim's at least coming to his senses."
  Riley inclined his head and parted his lips
to answer but his words were drowned out by the sudden blare of a
klaxon. The deck beneath McCoy's feet dropped
out from under him, causing him to hurtle downward and
into Riley.
  "All hands clear the corridors," the computer
droned over the klaxon's wail, "and report to your
quarters for safety."
  Dazed, McCoy clambered to his feet, leaning
against Riley for support, each man steadying the
other shakily.
  "You all fight?" they asked each other
simultaneously, even as they tried to stabilize
their footing.
  Before either could reply, frantic shouts emanated
from the far corridor.
  McCoy turned in the direction of the approaching
yells. It was all happening too fast; one minute
the deck was heaving, the next Myron Shulman was
pounding down the corridor toward them, outdistancing
a slew of pursuers.
  "Dr. Shulman, stop] Stop!"
  McCoy at once recognized Angelina
Mola's voice.
  "Grab him, somebody] Don't let him get
away]" a male voice admonished.
  Confused, McCoy stepped into Shulman's path,
prepared to reason with him.
  "Doctor, don't!" Riley shouted over the
klaxons and moved to block him. Then the deck
shuddered again, and they all landed on the floor in a
chaotic heap.
  Are we being fired upon? McCoy thought
incredulously.
  Had the Klingons, Romulans, or Tholians
taken advantage of this situation somehow and begun an
attack?
  Shulman and Riley made it to their feet at the
same time.
  "Don't move, Dr. Shulman," he warned,
his tone dangerous, but his eyes bright with fear. "I
don't want to use force ...."
  Shulman swung with a madman's power, but
Riley somehow managed to block the blow, and the
next.
  But Shulman's third blow landed right on the
commander's mouth, on the freshly healed split lip.
Bright blood burst forth, trickling down into his
beard; Riley reeled, his head bouncing against the
nearby bulkhead.
  McCoy moaned in sympathy with him.
  Before he had a chance to help, Shulman was free,
racing away down the endless corridors. The other
scientists caught up to McCoy and Riley, then
passed them in pursuit of Shulman. Even as they
passed him, the computer repeatedly insisted that everyone
clear the halls and retire to their quarters.
  Like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, McCoy
thought crazily. He grabbed Angelina's upper
arms as she ran by and forced her to stop.
  "What the bell's going on here, Angie?"
  "Shulman's gone completely paranoid," she
explained, gasping for breath, "and it's as if the ship
has gone mad with him."
  "What are you talking about?"
  She rested a thin, dark hand on her heart.
"Recovery attacked the Paladin, the ship Kirk
was commanding.
  He was running an unplanned scenario and
Shulman got furious--and the next thing we knew,
Recovery attacked well, it looked as if she
attacked Kirk. I know it doesn't make any
sense. We think Myron's done something to the
programming. Recovery's attacking anything that
moves near her--she's hit the Paladin, the
Starhawk, and the Romulan vessel, and
almost hit the Klingon ship. We think the Tholians
got away before it was too late."
  McCoy's eyes widened. "Wait a minute
Klingons? Romulans? Tholians? Good
Lord..."
  She closed her eyes and released a slow breath,
clearly realizing what she had just revealed; and then
she opened them again, and steadily held the doctor's
gaze. "I forgot myself in the excitement,
Leonard. But I know I can trust youbled"
  "Of course you can, Angie," McCoy
interrupted hastily, "but let's get one thing
straight. You mean that the Klingons, Romulans, and
Tholians all came to watch this simulation--and
Recovery hit them... in an unprovoked
attack?"
  Angelina nodded as McCoy raised a hand
to his forehead and groaned. "We've got to get
Myron under control," she said, her normally calm
tone rising with panic, "get him medicated, and find
out how to take control of this ship, before--before there's an
inter-stellar war! Leonard, try to communicate with the
other ships. Tell them it was an accident. Tell
them we need help!"
  She pulled free from McCoy's grip
and went tearing down the hall after the other scientists
who were still pursuing Shulman, and soon disappeared from
sight.
  McCoy said nothing as he helped Riley to his
feet, just tried not to think of Jim on his injured
vessel.
  Riley voiced the concern they both shared. "The
Paladin was attacked? Was anyone hurt?
Admiral Kirk is on that ship ...."
  "I don't know," McCoy said heavily. "But
we've got to get you back to sickbay."
  Riley touched the back of his hand to his lip,
stared at the blood there, and made a sound of disgust.
  "Someone's got to stop Shulman."
  "There's no point chasing him," McCoy
assured him. "He can't go anywhere. Let's treat
your head and lip--again!--then we'll get you connected
to your crew."
  Riley nodded. "Anab.--that is, Lieutenant
Saed" --a look passed over his face that
McCoy could not decipher--"is with me. She's
Security, and a little better equipped to find and
secure Shulman than a bunch of theoretical
scientists."
  As soon as he got Riley settled
on the same diagnostic couch he'd just left,
McCoy instructed him on how to use the devices
to treat himself. While he was occupied with that, the
doctor moved to a nearby computer screen. Would the
ship answer his requests now? All he could do was
try.
  "Computer," he said, in as calm a voice as he
could muster.
  The screen came to life. "How can I assist
you?"
  "Give me an open channel to any Federation
vessel within range."
  "Your channel is open and your message will be
broadcast, but there are no Federation ships within
range to see or hear your message. The only
vessels within range are classified as enemy
ships."
  What is she talking about? McCoy wondered,
confused.
  Sure, the Romulans and others are out there, but the
Starhawk and Paladin are both within range.
  "Listen, there are two Federation vessels right
nearby.
  If I send my message out, will they be able
to communicate back to me?"
  "You are mistaken," the ship corrected him.
"There are no Federation vessels within range. The
only vessels within range are enemy ships. Your
message will be broadcast in the hopes that some
Federation ship will hear it and respond; however, there
are no such vessels currently in range."
  McCoy closed his eyes in frustration. The ship
was acting as crazy as Shulman; Angelina was right.
Recovery considered the two Federation ships to be
enemies; either that, or it had already destroyed them
both. He tried another tactic. "May I
communicate with the enemy vessels?"
  "All communications with enemy vessels are handled
automatically. It would be inappropriate--and against
regulations--for visitors to communicate with hostile
forces. You may broadcast your message when you are
ready."
  "Thanks," McCoy grumbled sarcastically.
"That'll be just fine." He moistened his mouth, and
wondered if there was anyone out there to hear him. With his
luck, only the Romulans or Klingons were
left. No, he decided, I can't accept that.
Jim's out there. He wouldn't let this oversized tin
can get the drop on him.
  So, what was he supposed to say to his
old friend?
  "Run like hell for the hills, we're trapped on
an ambulance that's gone plumb loco"? He took
a deep breath and faced the lit screen, knowing the
sensors beside it would transmit his image.
  "This is Leonard McCoy aboard the FDRA
vessel Recovery. I don't know exactly
what's happened here, except that the ship's
designer has had some sort of breakdown--and it
appears he's somehow affected the original
programming of his ship. No one aboard knows what
Recovery might do under these circumstances.
  Right now, she'll let me broadcast for help,
but she won't let you respond. Please, be
cautious.
  The scientists aboard this vessel will do whatever
they can to get to the root of this problem and correct it.
  But we may need help. If I can update you
on the situation here, I will--if Recovery will let
me. This is Leonard McCoy, signing off."
  At his command, the screen cooperatively went
dark again.
  Jim Kirk stood on his battered bridge and
stared incredulously at the figure on his
viewscreen. He took a step forward,
then another, as if he could only get close enough
he'd be able to see that the person addressing him was no
left-brace really- Leonard McCoy?
  "Bones!" he murmured. The doctor was
dressed in casual civilian clothing, and sported
an impressive salt-and-pepper beard that would have
made Jim smile in less treacherous
circumstances; otherwise, McCoy looked and
sounded the same as ever, as if it had only been
days, not years, since they'd last stood together on the
Enterprise bridge.
  "He cannot hear you, sir," Sonak said
quietly.
  "What's he doing there?" Kirk asked the
bridge, not really expecting an answer.
  "He's listed in the roster as an "official
observer,"" Diksen informed him.
  "He's on the Recovery?"
  "That is correct, sir," Sonak said.
  He hadn't seen Bones in over a year, and the
last time they'd been together, they hadn't exactly
behaved as two good friends should have. And now, he was
trapped on that ship gone mad .... Kirk began
to wonder if this was some kind of bizarre karmic
vengeance meted out to him for accepting a
promotion he should've never taken a promotion
Bones had specifically warned him against taking.
  "Sir," Sonak interrupted, "apparently
Ambassador Sarek has convinced the Romulans
not to retaliate.
  However, the Klingon ship, though injured, has
veered off and cloaked herself. i I cannot say where she
might be. And there is no way to determine, with the
amount of debris from the battle, what has happened
to the Tholian vessel. It might have escaped, or
it may have been completely destroyed. It is
impossible to determine at this time."
  Kirk nodded, pulling his eyes forcibly away from
McCoy's image on the viewscreen. Sonak
must're gotten some crew members to remove the
body of Ruth Pulver, since there was nothing now but
a stain on the floor to mark her existence. He
checked his hands for the tenth time, since they still felt
sticky with Pulver's blood, even after he'd taken
a moment to clean them.
  "Mr. Sonak," he said, with more calmness than
he felt, "you're getting a field promotion. I
need a first officer. You're it. You may remain at
the science station, and cover your duties there as
well."
  There was only the briefest of hesitation from the
Vulcan as he said, "Aye, sir, as you wish."
  What we both wish is that Pulver were still alive,
but she's not, Kirk thought bitterly.
  "Admiral," Sonak said, once more bent over
his science viewer, "Recovery is starting to move."
  "Move?" He had to snap out of it. Bones
wasn't the only innocent person trapped on that
ship. Kevin Riley was there, too, with his ex-wife
and Josiah Ngo.
  In addition, there were over two hundred valuable
scientists, and the entire FDRA contingent some of whom
were considered to be the finest minds in the universe.
"Move where?"
  "I believe..." Sonak peered intently
into his science screen. "The ship is aiming... for
Tholian space, sir. And she's picking up
speed."
  Kirk spun toward the navigator. "Follow that
ship!
  She can't violate that border. The Tholians will
capture her in one of their webs and then have access
to state-of-the-art Federation technology. Plus
they'll probably use her trespassing as an
excuse to start an intergalactic war--if
the Klingons and Romulans don't beat them to it."
  "Sir, we've got damage in Engineering," the
navigator told him regretfully. "We might
be able to get up to warp six, but the Recovery can
make it to warp nine!"
  "We've got to catch that ship, mister," Kirk
ordered the officer. "There's over two hundred people
aboard herrand millions more depending on us to stop this
conflict. Diksen!"
  "Yes, sir?"
  "Get me Engineering?" Even as he said it he
knew there would be no Scotty there to work miracles
for him this time. Any miracles produced today would have
to be of his own making.
  Hours before Gol's dawn, Spock woke
abruptly, pushing against the warm black rock to a
sitting position. For a fleeting instant, an image
from a dream glimmered in the darkness before him.
  It was Dr. McCoy, standing upon the deck of an
unfamiliar ship, speeding through time and space and
stars, his pale blue eyes wide with fear.
  This is Leonard McCoy. We need help.
  Help us, Spock. . . .
  So urgent, so convincing was the doctor's tone that
Spock was catapuRed inffconsciousness; he
drew a deep, calming breath and dissolved the
impulse to rise, to rush to McCoy's aid.
  Unsettling; but a dream, no more. Yet the sense
that McCoy was in danger did not ease.
  "Impossible," Spock murmured aloud. He
had struggled the previous evening to rid himself of the
sense that Kirk was in danger. Byet the feeling
persister, despite Spock's efforts to break all
ties to the admiral. And now, this overwhelming sense
that McCoy, too, was in danger...
  Impossible, for he felt he had done all that was
necessary to sever his ties to his friends.
  He rose quietly, setting aside the cloak
that served as his bedclothes, and moved purposefully
through the darkness to sit in front of the cold oil lamp
and meditation mandala, which shone dully in the starlight.
  His eyes had adjusted to the dimness; and though his
night vision was not as keen as a full Vulcan's,
he saw well enough to focus on the mandala's
intricate design, and use it to trigger a deeply
meditative state.
  The dream returned with full clarity;
McCoy's face appeared in his mind's eye, as
clearly as if the doctor had been standing before him.
  This is Leonard McCoy. We need
help....
  His image triggered another, this one from Spock's
recent memory: that of Jim Kirk, trapped in
an interstitial rift, floating ghostlike in his
spacesuit on the Enterprise bridge.
  Jim had been calling to hir absilently, his
voice unable to carry across the partition of space and
time, but Spock had read the words his transparent
lips had formed:
  Spock. Help me, Spock. . . .
  The Vulcan rose, a swift, sudden movement,
and strode quickly to the window, breaking his meditation.
  The memory had evoked such strong emotion that he
had been unwilling to sit still, to confront it.
  He had fled as if to escape, to leave it sitting
there, before the lamp and mandala.
  He leaned, arms folded against the warm stone window
ledge, and breathed in a lungful of desert air, as
cold and piercing as the brilliant starlight.
  He had thought himself no longer capable of such
emotion. Bbut here it was, undimmed, all the
grief and anger he had experienced during the
Tholian affair.
  Grief, because he had thought the captain, his
closest friend, dead; anger, because he had
failed to save him. And there was anger, too, at
McCoy, whose own pain had caused him to strike out
at the nearest target: Spock.
  He gazed up at the onyx sky, at the dazzling
diamond stars, and saw instead the captain's
quarters aboard the Enterprise, heard instead of the
silent mountains the faint hum of starship engines.
He had gone with McCoy to view the captain's
last orders--a painful enough task, which had tested the
limits of his control. And then McCoy had lashed
out, his tone ragged with sorrow.
  "He was a hero in every sense of the word, yet his
life was sacrificed for nothing. The one thing that would have
given his death meaning is the safety of the
Enterprise. Now you've made that impossible
...."
  "You could have assured yourself of a captaincy by leaving
the area... but you stayed. Why?"
  Because, Spock had explained calmly
to the'doctor, he was legally and morally bound
to ascertain the captain's status. That was true. And
yet, there had been another reason as well, one he
had scarcely admitted to himself: He had been unable
to accept his friend's death.
  Indeed, he had felts with the
inexplicable, irrational certainty of intuition--that
Jim was still alive.
  Perhaps it had been a bond forged by friendship, or by the
times they had mentally linked; perhaps it was something far more
human.
  In his memory, he heard once more Jim's
voice, as he delivered his last orders to his first
officer: "Temper your judgment with intuitive
insight. I believe you have those qualities ...."
  Whatever the sensation's cause, Spock
experienced the same certainty now that his friends both
Jim and McCoy--were in mortal danger... and
that it was in some way connected to one of the most emotional
episodes in his life.
  He turned from the window, took a step back
toward the lamp and mandala, and sat cross-legged on
the warm stone in front of them. Perhaps it was for the best
that this dream and the incident with Sarek had occurred, for
they alerted him to the need to eradicate the last
vestiges of emotional attachment for his human friends.
  Using the image of the mandala, Spook cleared his
mind. There was but one way to proceed; he would remain
in meditation until he succeeded in breaking the
emotional ties to Jim and McCoy. For only if
such bonds were broken could he hope
to achieve Kolinahr.
  And he would not rise until he also determined how
to help them, if such help was indeed required.
  Drawing a deep breath, he began ....
  Chapter Seven
  "WE'RE ALL SCIENTISTS HERE,"
Angelina Mola insisted to her associates as she
sat staring at the implacable computer screen in
front of her. "Surely, there must be something in this
place that can help us."
  Beside her, Dr. Chia Noon and this young
doctoral student they were mentoring, Jason
Albrecht, stood in Myron Shulman's
quarters, hoping that either the vanished scientist would
eventually show up or they would discover some clue
to his shockingly aberrant behavior. But finding that
information might take an archaeology expedition,
Mola thought as she gazed disconsolately about the
small quarters.
  Angelina had worked with Shulman for years,
spending hundreds of hours with him in a dozen
offices on as many planets. The Myron
Shulman she knew was a man who always kept his
materials rigidly organized, impossibly
neat. She'd never known him to work with
rimsics; he abhorred putting anything on paper.
She couldn't remember ever seeing him accumulate more
than a dozen data cassettes on any project
he was working on. It didn't matter that Myron's
work took him to many places and planets.
  He was always prepared to pick up and move with all
his data neatly organized and concisely contained
mat a moment's notice. He called no place
home, and every place work.
  As she gazed about the ramshackle mess that was
Myron's workplace, she would've thought that someone had
ransacked it, except for the fact that every object was
covered with his familiar scrawl. Cluttered with
piles upon piles of small data cassettes
mmany spilling over onto the floor where they mixed
randomly with jumbled masses of rimsics and
notepaper, which, in turn, were buried under dozens of
noteboards strewn over every available surface--
Shulman's workspace was a disaster area. What had
he been doing here that had made him abandon the
habits of a lifetime? She carefully picked up a
few sheets of paper and tried to make sense of the
senseless symbols on them.
  "Isn't there a way to locate him through the
computer?"
  Dr. Noon asked, her black eyes narrowed with
anxiety; a deep furrow had appeared directly
above the small red caste mark on her brow.
  Chid peered down at the mess scattered across the
deck, her slender golden brown hands clasped behind
her back to avoid touching anything, as though she feared
their trespass here would be one more transgression the
paranoid doctor would not tolerate.
  "Well," Angelina mused, "we had no luck
getting the computer to tell us his whereabouts when we were in
the corridors." Even now, throughout the ship, other
members of the FDRA were still trying to track the
elusive Shulman, using tricorders and other
instruments, but it was as if Recovery herself were
conspiring with her creator to cover up his escape.
  "But this station is the one he uses himself," Chid
countered.
  Angelina looked at the blank screen with a
thoughtful nod. "Very true. His station might not have the
information overrides the public stations have. It's
worth a try."
  "But this computer is still the ship's computer,"
Jason interjected. He looked like Chia's
opposite; pale, blond, blue-eyed, as tall
as the dark-skinned Noon was short. "It's
still Shulman's invention. He has designed this
entire ship. Protecting him could be one of her
prime objectives."
  Mold shook her head.. "Myron didn't
program that type of reaction into Recovery. He
said that was where Daystrom went wrong, putting too much
of himself and his own personality into his computer. No,
to Myron, Recovery was not an extension of himself."
  "Perhaps," Jason said quietly as he rifled
through a stack of fiimsies, "he had a change of
heart regarding that philosophy."
  The two women glanced at one another, but Chid
only shrugged, having nothing to offer her friend.
  We're all in way over our heads, Mold
thought, fighting off an inner surge of panic. Even
if we find him, what will we do with him? She had some
vague hopes of running a full diagnostic on
him and finding some organic problem--a virus,
perhaps, or a brain tumor --something she could
treat... something she could cure. That hope was really
all that was keeping her going now, so she refused
to examine it, refused to listen to her analytical
self, who would recognize how futile a hope it
was.
  Unconsciously, she rolled the
filmsics still clutched in her hand into a tight tube
as she sat in front of Shulman's station.
"Computer, tell us where Dr. Myron Shulman
is right now."
  "That information is classified," the pedantic,
ferninized voice told her.
  Angelina closed her eyes. It was the same thing
the stations in the corridor kept insisting.
Information-any information--about Shulman was
classified. But Dr. Mola had hoped that the
screen in Shulman's quarters--the place where he
continued to fine-tune his programming--might have
better answers. She couldn't face the fact that it,
too, would merely parrot the same illogical
nonsense.
  "This is Dr. Angelina Mola," she said
forcefully. "I am the head of the FDRA, and have a
priority-one clearance. There is no information that I
am not entitled to know! I repeat, where is Dr.
Shulman?"
  "That information is classified. Only Dr.
Shulman is cleared to receive that information."
  Chin ran her fingers through her close-cropped jet
hair. "This is madness. The only thing that was
supposed to be classified was information about
the defense system, so that no passenger aboard
Recovery could take command of the ship or her
weaponry.
  Why, just this morning the computer told me where
Shulman was when I asked."
  That was this morning, Angelina thought morosely.
  Before Recovery had gone mad. Before she'd
attacked two Federation vessels with their own people
aboard, and the Romulan, Klingon, and Tholian
observer ships besides. Perhaps she could get other
answers from the computer--answers that might lead
to Shulman in another way.
  She unrolled the flimsies and stared at them.
There were notations in Myron's round, rolling
script, but interspersed with them were figures and
symbols she had never seen before. "Computer, Dr.
Shulman seems to have been working on some sort of
code as part of his programming. Can you tell me
anything about that?"
  "No," the computer said simply, "I cannot."
  She sighed and once more twisted the battered
fiimsies. "Computer, can you at least tell me where
we are headed?"
  "We are traveling to coordinates
five-seven-point-two-zero," the machine
intoned.
  Angelina had no idea where that was, and by the
looks on their faces, neither did her
associates. "And where is that?"
  "Seventeen light-years from Zotos Four."
  She felt a chill creep over her. "Is that
quadrant within Federation space?"
  This time the computer paused for an uncomfortably
long time. Normal[ong, its answers were
instantaneous, pausing only long enough to simulate
normal human conversation. "That information is
classified," it finally responded.
  The three scientists exchanged glances.
  "I believe those coordinates are well inside
Tholian space," Dr. Noon said quietly.
  Angelina shot her a look of dismay. "Why are
we going to those coordinates, computer?"
  "We have received an urgent call for help and are
responding with all haste."
  "And who has sent that call, computer?"
  There was another pause, longer than the last.
  "That information is classified."
  "Computer, is Dr. Shulman permitted access
to this classified information?"
  "Dr. Myron Shulman has access
to all areas of information."
  "Is Dr. Shulman working with you to improve your
efficiency, your response time, and determine who
has access to classified information?"
  "That is correct."
  "And where is Dr. Shulman working on these
  lSS-LLES.
  "Dr. Shulman works on my programming at this
  station," the computer insisted.
  Angelina made a small sound of exasperation as
she
  shook her head. "Isn't he working on your
program ming now? Somewhere on the ship? Where is he
  working now?" She clenched her teeth in frustration.
  There was only the slightest chance that the computer
  would consider the importance of the question centered around the
issue of work rather than location
  and might accidentally tell her where Myron was at
  this moment.
  "Dr. Shulman works at this station alone. His
  current location is classified," the machine
insisted.
  "This is useless," Jason said, tossing the
unrevealed cassettes down. "It'll never tell
us where he is. If
  we can't physically find him--"
  "You'll never be able to defeat me," Shulman's
  choked voice said from the doorway.
  The three scientists spun to face him, and stared
at
  the wild-eyed man. His gaunt, narrow face
glistened
  with sweat and his chest heaved, but the hand he used
  to hold the phaser was perfectly steady.
  "Myron! Thank God we've found you!"
Angelina
  said softly, trying to change her stricken
expression
  into one of relief and concern--not an easy thing to
  do, given the crazed look in Shulman's eyes.
"We've been looking everywhere "But she found it
difficult to take her gaze off the weapon in
Myron's grasp. Impossible that he should have it;
Recovery was supposed to scan forand remove
personal weaponry.
  "You mean hunting everywhere, don't you?"
Shulman's voice was hard, accusing.
  "Please, Myron." Mola spread her hands
placatingly, made her tone as soothing as possible.
Beside her, Noon and Albrecht stood
frozen by fear. "You're not a well man. We
only want to help you."
  "You only want to destroy me." A spasm of
pain flickered over Shulman's face; for an
instant, he leaned forward, on the verge of doubling
over.
  At once, Mola and Albrecht began to move
toward him--but before they could take so much as a step,
Shulman recovered and raised the phaser again. A
twisted, triumphant grin spread over his lips.
"Me and Recovery. You're working in collusion with
Kirk. I know it. And Recovery knows it, too!"
  Angelina shot a glance at Noon and
Albrecht. From their grave expressions, they
clearly understood what she did--that Shulman's
paranoia was fixed, unflappable. Like all madmen,
he knew his reality was the only reality. There could be
no reasoning with him... but someone had to try.
  Mola looked again at his phaser, gripped so
tightly that his knuckles had turned ivory pale.
"We're unarmed, Myron," she said, with a calm that
amazed her. "Would you shoot your own colleagues, the
people you've known and worked beside for years?"
  "You would ask that when you are trying to destroy me and
all my work?" He hesitated, swaying
slightly after the shrill outburst, then gathered himself;
his wide madman's gaze came to rest upon the
flimsies Angelina clutched. The sight fueled
his rage. "You enter my quarters, try to sabotage
my computer, steal my notes, then call yourself my
colleague? You are nothing but my enemy. You and
Kirk. My enemies!"
  And then he moved, barely perceptibly, the hand
that held the phaser.
  A blinding flash; Mola gasped at the blow that
struck the center of her chest, that propelled her off
her feet and slammed her back against a table,
scattering cassettes, noteboards, flimsies
onto the desk. She came to rest atop a pile of
debris and watched with odd detachment as Jason
lurched across the room and tackled Shulman.
  "Angelina?" Chia whispered. The small
Indian woman's creamy brown countenance appeared
above her, blotting out the sight of the two struggling
men; and then Chia's face began to recede, as though
Angelina were being pulled back and away, down a
long, dark hallway.
  Then the second blow came; this one far more
agonizing, radiating from Mola's chest into her left
arm and shoulder. For an instant she thought
Shulman had fired on her again--but there had been no
flash. She groaned aloud with the paim
  "Angelina?" Chia said, but the sound seemed
muted, faraway.
  It's my heart, Mola realized, with the same
ethereal detachment. I'm having a heart attack
brought on by the stun blast. I'll die if someone
doesn't do something.
  andmiddot;.. But there were more important problems
at hand, weren't there? She turned to her old friend,
Dr. Noon.
  "Tell Leonard," she gasped, unable to draw
enough breath to make her voice sound clear. She waved
the twisted fiimsies feebly at Chia. "Tell
Leonard...
  about the symbols. Tell Leonard... to tell
Kirk his
  Chia was shaking her head, completely baffled.
  Dios mio! Mola thought disgustedly. I'm dying
here and can't even make myself understoodst "Tell
Leonard what, Angelina?" Chia asked. Then,
suddenly, the voice of God interrupted.
  "My sensors indicate you are in a critical
medical condition."
  How odd, Angelina thought, her eyes
straying up heavenward.
  God sounds just like the computerst "You will be beamed
directly to sickbay," God continued, "where there
are qualified people to assist you."
  "Angelina!" Chia cried out, just as Myron
broke away from Jason's grip. The phaser
felt to the floor, clattering between them, but Shulman
lurched, snatched it up before Jason could stop him,
and ran away down the corridor, firing a last
shot back toward his attacker. The blast missed the
younger man, but forced him to give up his pursuit just as
Dr. Mola felt the hand of God gather her up and
absorb her, while an odd whine filled her head.
  "Angelina! Angelina?" Dr. Noon's
panicked voice cried out, but that sound faded too,
as a powerful force pulled Dr. Mola toward the
light.
  "The ship is designed to control all outgoing
transmissions," McCoy was telling the recently
rehealed Kevin Riley. Riley had just finished the
last of enforced curatives the ship insisted he
endure; now he sat with a concerned impression,
massaging his neck.
  "That would prevent evacuees from jamming
communications," the doctor continued, "or
hostile political forces from communicating with any
accomplices outside the vessel. But the ship is
supposed to let people send outgoing transmissions if
they're deemed "reasonable," such as broadcasting
a call for help.
  Unfortunately, the standards for what's reasonable
are Shulman's, and in his state of paranoia--"
He shook his head. "Then again, Shulman was able
to establish bidirectional communications with two
ships, so you would think we could find a way to do the
same."
  Riley made a low, unenthusiastic noise that
was not quite a growl. "Somehow, I just can't believe
we'll be that lucky." He kept rubbing the back of
his neck as though he were still feeling repercussions from the
repetitive head blows he'd endured. McCoy
wondered if the medical sensors on this wayward
bucket could be completely trusted.
  "You sure you're okay, Riley?" he asked.
  He straightened. "Fine. At least, I must be
if this hyperactive nursemaid is willing
to release me. We need to find Anab--
Lieutenant Saed and the cadet.
  He's an engineering student. I've been thinking,
Doc --maybe you and he could work together. You
know your way around science computers, so maybe with
Cadet Ngo's help, the two of you could try
to override Shulman's programming. In the
meantime, the rest of us could search for our mad
scientist."
  "Well, maybere" McCoy began, but the
familiar sound of the transporter whine made him
break off just as Recovery intoned:
  "You have been identified as a doctor. There is
an incoming patient that requires assistance.
Please return to sickbay station four."
  McCoy and Riley both glanced around the
facility.
  Nearby, a tall, dark-skinned figure began
materializing on a bed. The diagnostic screen was
activated automatically as soon as the form
completed transport.
  With Riley beside him, McCoy jogged over to the
reclining body--and recoiled as he recognized the
elderly, black-haired woman.
  "Angelina!" McCoy gasped. Her normally
warm brown skin had taken on a grayish cast, her
breathing was shallow, and her face was contorted with pain.
He glanced up automatically to the screen above
her.
  "She's having a heart attack!"
  Even as Riley moved around to the other side of the
bed, prepared to offer whatever assistance he could,
McCoy heard the transporter hum again. On the
table beside the sickbed an array of cardiac equipment
suddenly materialized. McCoy reached for a
cardiac stabilizer and oxygenator without a second
thought.
  "Hold this against her throat, here," he directed
Riley, indicating the precise spot. "It'll
compensate automatically for the reduced oxygen going
to her brain and other organs. Keep it there till
I tell you otherwise." He activated the
stabilizer and placed it over her chest. "What the
hell happened to her?"
  "The patient has been struck by a phaser stun
beam at close range," the computer responded
obligingly.
  "Well, who in blazes would fire on Dr.
Mola?"
  "Dr. Shulman fired on her," Recovery
stated dispassionately.
  "It was self-defense."
  That brought McCoy up short. He and Riley
exchanged worried glances. "I thought no
one was allowed to bring weapons aboard this vessel,"
McCoy said quietly.
  Before Riley could offer a response, the computer
answered, "That is correct. No one is
permitted to bring weapons aboard Recovery."
  "Excuse me," McCoy said angrily, without
looking up from his desperate efforts to save his friend's
life, "but to paraphrase a former associate of
mine, you're not being very logical!" If no one is
permitted to bring weapons aboard, then how is it
Dr. Shulman is armed?"
  "Dr. Shulman is outside of normal
parameters," the computer explained.
  Riley narrowed his eyes and glanced faintly
upward as he addressed the invisible computer. "Not
according to regs, he's not. That was One of the things
Admiral Kirk's report really harped on, that
the computer aboard this ship shouldn't be able to delineate
one individual as being more important than another.
Otherwise, in the evacuation of a planet, the first
political party to get on board could order the ship
to abandon its enemies."
  McCoy nodded as he chose the appropriate
drugs that would aid Angelina's condition. "I
remember that was one issue Shulman
actually agreed with Kirk on," he said to Riley.
"He hadn't wanted to risk anything like the Daystrom
incident with Recovery.
  So, what's happened? Why has the computer
decided Shulman's "outside of normal
parameters"? What made him bring weapons
aboard and when did he decide to use them--against his
colleagues?"
  Before either of them could pursue their questions further,
Angelina started to stir. Her eyelids fluttered
and she groaned weakly. McCoy leaned over her so
she would see someone she knew. "Easy,
Angelina.
  Easy. You're in sickbay. We've got
everything under control."
  She grimaced and stared at him as if baffled.
Then, to both McCoy and Riley's surprise,
she chuckled weakly. "I don't think so,
Leonard. Not this time."
  She attempted to rise to a sitting position, but
McCoy placed a hand firmly on her shoulder.
  "Whoa, there! Just where do you think you're going?
You're in a bit of trouble here, Angie. You just
can't go strolling away."
  She shook her head, as if he were the one
who couldn't understand. "Shulman--shot me. He's
armed. He's..." She pointed a bony brown
index finger at her temple and waved it in a
circular motion, then dropped her arm. "... loco
en la cabeza.
  Something--something is seriously wrong with him ...."
  "I know all about it, now, and we're gonna
take care of it," McCoy soothed. "But you're in
no shape to participate."
  With a sudden spurt of strength, she grabbed hold
of his tunic with one hand and pulled him closer.
  "We're heading for the Tholian border!" she
gasped, her face contorting once more with effort and
pain.
  "We'll be there in a matter of hours! If we
cross into their space, it could mean intergalactic
war! We've got to find Myron, find out why--
Why? Why--?"
  "Take it easy, Angie." McCoy gently
tried to disengage her hand. "Just let me get you
stabilized here, then we'll worry about the condition
of the universe."
  Flailing in her agitation, she struck him in the
chest with her other hand, which clutched a sheaf of
flimsies rolled into a tube.
"Shulman's notes," she whispered hoarsely.
"Shulman's notes. Take them, Leonard."
  Her breath grew even more labored; McCoy had
to lean close to hear her final words. "Shulman--
never took notes on paper .... "He took the
fiimsies just as her eyes rolled up and she fell
back, unconscious, on the table.
  "Dr. McCoy," Riley warned. "Her
signs..."
  McCoy looked overhead and saw his friend's
vital signs plunge. He dropped the
fiimsies onto the floor and reapplied the
cardiac stabilizer--but Angelina's vital
signs continued their rapid downward descent.
  The stabilizer indicated that damage to the heart
muscle was so severe resuscitation was hopeless.
  "The heart's destroyed," he barked at the young
commander. "We've got to do an emergency
transplant.
  Computer, I need an artificial heart here,
now!"
  "This patient was critically injured during combat
with Dr. Shulman," Recovery replied, in her
aggravatingly calm voice. "Implanting an
artificial heart would allow the patient
to regain normal function. It would be unwise
to allow a criminal to be resuscitated.
  An artificial heart will not be provided."
  For a scant moment, McCoy was stunned
into silence. The computer was supposed to preserve
life at all costs. It wasn't designed
to make value judgments about an individual's
worth. "This woman is no criminal! She's a
scientist who's personally responsible for improving
the lives of hundreds of people and she's dying!"
McCoy yelled at the air. "You give me that
device! Give it to me now!" He glanced at the
diagnostic screen; Angelina's vitals were
nearly past the point of no return.
  "Request denied," the computer intoned. "What
is your interest in reviving this criminal?"
  McCoy let go a sound of pure rage. With
all the problems he'd had with computers in his long
career, he couldn't remember the last time one openly
defied him and caused the death of his patient.
Grimacing, he looked at the ceiling, wanting
to focus his frustration on something, anything. Just as he
opened his mouth to scream again at the damned machine,
he felt Riley's grip on his arm, and looked
up.
  The commander held his gaze with such somber intensity
that McCoy fell silent as Riley addressed the
computer. "This man is a doctor. He is
obliged to save all life, regardless of its
guilt or innocence."
  "Understood," the computer said.
  Riley's afraid that thing might go after me, brand
me an "enemy of the state," McCoy realized.
Looking back at Angelina's still form on the table,
he swallowed back the lump of grief and fury in
his throat.
  They'd been such good friends, and he was failing her
completely. Maybe--if he could get her in
stasis, then get her to a real hospital-
"We've got to get her in stasis," he murmured
to Riley, "preserve her until we can get to a--
was He glanced around nervously. "--a more secure
facility and arrange for a transplant or
artificial heart. Computer, in order to bring
this--criminal--to justice we will need to revive her
later, for, uh--for her trial.
  Give me a stasis chamber, nowst"
  "That assessment is appropriate. Stasis
chamber prepared and ready," the computer agreed
willingly.
  McCoy's eyes filled as the helpless form of his
friend dissolved before him to be transported into a cold,
dark place, alone. There'd been so many years, so
much caring and friendship. And now this woman--his
mentor, his teacher, sometimes his confidante--was
consigned to a sterile place where life was put on
hold. Considering what was happening aboard this mad
ship with its even madder captain, he knew the chances
were great that Angelina would be in that stasis chamber
forever--or until the ship was destroyed, by either old
enemies or their own people.
  He felt Riley's hand tighten on his arm,
only now the commander wasn't restraining, but trying
to comfort.
  McCoy looked up, his eyes blurry with tears
his anger would not let him shed.
  "We need to be careful here, Doctor,"
Riley said softly, glancing around them, indicating
the omnipresent computer. McCoy nodded.
  "I wouldn't be a doctor if it weren't for that
woman," he whispered.
  "I'm sorry," Riley said. He paused, then
bent down and scooped up the rimsics. Taking the
doctor's elbow, he led McCoy silently out
of the sickbay into the corridors. The
doctor stumbled along numbly, trying to figure out
what possible good he could do here when he wasn't
even able to save the woman who had taught him so
much.
  "We've got to communicate with Admiral
Kirk," Riley said after a time, as they walked--
aimlessly, McCoy thought--along the winding
corridors. "If we're heading toward Tholian
space--"
  "Don't you think he might already know that?"
  McCoy said heavily, forcing himself to reply.
"He can track the trajectory of this ship,
estimate its travel time--" He could almost hear
Speck coming up with an accurate estimate of where
they were going and when they would get there, without ever using the
computer. But then, Speck wouldn't be with Jim, would
he? How did they ever come to this, scattered to the solar
winds? The thought intensified his sense of bitter
loss.
  Riley was scanning the rimsics. "These things
make no sense to me. I've never seen this kind of
writing before. It's not Romulan. Not Klingon,
either. You ever see anything like it?"
  He handed the doctor a page where the symbols
outnumbered the human script.
  McCoy touched the artificial paper reverently,
as if he could still feel Angie's warmth on it.
Staring at the symbols, he frowned. There was something
disturbingly familiar about them. Fabrini? No.
Vulcan?
  No, not that either. But he had seen them before.
  "Guess there's no point in asking the computer
what they are?"
  Riley shook his head. "That may just bring more
trouble on our heads."
  McCoy sighed, and forced himself to take stock of
their location; he was totally lost. "By the way, do you
have any idea where we're going?"
  "To the hangar bay," Riley replied. "That's
where the shuttlecraft should be."
  "Oh," he said, realizing Riley'd never lost
track of their goals. Time to snap out of it,
McCoy, he scolded himself. Angie would chew you
out big time if she found you moping around over her, and
not getting down to business. He swallowed, and
picked up his pace. He could mourn later. Now
they had work to do.
  Work he would have to accomplish without old friends--
Kirk, Spock, Angie--to help him.
  Because of Angelina, he was a doctor.
And a doctor fixed what ailed you. And this place
needed more fixing than any he'd been in in a real
long time.
  Without consciously realizing it, he started rolling
up his sleeves.
  Chia Noon sat disconsolately at the head
of the conference table as Jason Albrecht briefed the
top-ten representatives of the Federation Disaster
Relief Agency on what had transpired between them
and Myron Shulman. As the titular head-- His
  Now that Angelina is dead... Angelina is
dead...
  Angelina is... --of the FDRA, it was Chia's
job to brief them, but she couldn't. She couldn't bring
herself to relive that terrible scene in Myron's
quarters, especially the horrible moment when Myron
had shot Angelina at point-blank range. Now
the computer insisted she was dead, being held in stasis.
  Intellectually, Chia tried to tell herself that there
was some hope for her friend if they could get control of the
computer, if they could get the ship to an advanced
planet like Vulcan, if they could- She stopped her
mind from its futile optimistic speculation. The
fact was, they were hurtling toward Tholian space
--and Angelina was probably the luckiest
among them.
  Jason finished explaining the situation as the ten
scientists around them stared at him, astonished.
  Chia knew they could barely accept what he was
telling them. Most of them had worked with Myron
Shulman for years. There were protests around the
room, but they died out quickly. It was hard to argue with the
reality of Angelina's death.
  Finally, Nassar Omar, who was next in line for the
chair after Chia and had listened while nervously
stroking his silver mustache, said softly, "What in
the worlds can we do?"
  For once, Jason had no answer and all eyes
turned to Chia. She sighed, wondering why they thought
she had any solutions to this dilemma. And then she
remembered: She was in charge now that Angelina-
Noon swallowed and found her voice. "We must
warn the others, the rest of the FDRA, and the
evacuees. Everyone must stay in their quarters,
secure their rooms, and avoid any contact with
Shulman."
  "How can they secure their quarters," Omar asked
pointedly, his cobalt blue eyes narrowing with
skepticism, "when Shulman's in control of the
ship's computer?
  He can go anywhere, hear anything--"
  Chia shook her head. "It's all we can do.
None of us worked on the computer, that was Myron's
alone. The evacuees are all environmental and
evolutionary specialists.
  The design and scope of this computer will be
completely unfamiliar to them. The only people on
board who might have any idea how to cope with it would
be Starfleet personnel."
  "Well, aren't there several of them on board?"
  Jason asked.
  "Yes, six altogether, counting Leonard McCoy,
who's an honorary member of this team and a retired
Starfleet medical officer. But two of them are
confined since they were in the attacking shuttlecraft
during the simulation, so they won't be released. Of the
three remaining, one is a cadet, the other an
admiral's aide.
  Only one is a Security officer. So, you
see, there will be little help from that quarter. We can
only hope that the two starships that were part of the
simulations weren't damaged too badly, and can do
something to--"
  She swiveled in her chair at the sound of the door
sliding open, and fell silent at the sight
of Myron Shulman standing in the doorway.
  His dark hair stuck out at crazy angles from his
skull, his skin shone with a slick sheen of sweat even
the front of his tunic was soaked, as though he'd
been running a marathon, which Chia suspected he
had. He quivered like a tuning fork, except for the hand
that aimed a phaser steadily at the group.
  With eyes so wide the whites were visible all the
way around the golden-brown iris, he moved his
gaze from face to face--a gaze that held a dark
cunning Chia had never seen there in all the years
she'd known the man.
  No one in the room stirred.
  "You're all in collusion with Kirk," Myron
said, with glistening lips that trembled though his voice
sounded remarkably normal, almost as if he were
lecturing a class. "All of you. Everyone in this
room, everyone in this ship--and especially our
precious honorary member, McCoy. Kirk's
after us, trying to destroy us, but won't he be
surprised when we destroy hm.t Him and all his
conspirators. Starting with you."
  He gestured with the phaser at Noon, who sucked
in a breath and held it; and then he waved it at each
of the others in turn. "5411 of you. Then
the others. One by one. First, the FDRA, from the
leadership on down, then the invaders, the parasites
that have snuck onto this ship. Then finally, Kirk.
Only then will the holy triad be avenged--to was
  He winced as if something hurt him suddenly,
unexpectedly. The weapon's aim wavered; with a
boldness that astonished her, Noon took
advantage of his distraction and rose'from her
seat.
  "The holy triads" Shulman murmured,
grimacing again in pain as he buried his knuckles in
his disheveled mop of hair and clutched his skull.
  The holy triad? The man's clearly raving
.... Chia glanced at the others in confusion, then
took a slow step around the table, spreading her hands
in a peacemaking gesture. "Myron, what is it?
Something's hurting you. Let me help."
  He blinked in seeming confusion as he raised his
face to regard her. For a moment his face seemed as
it always had, and the man she once knew as a
colleague looked back at her. "Chia, it
hurts," he said, with a childlike plaintiveness that
she found oddly touching.
  He rubbed his skull, just above his right forehead.
  "Even when I do what it wants. It
always hurts."
  Angelina was right; there's something organically
wrong with him, something in his brain. She took
advantage of the moment, and took a step closer.
"I can help you, Myron," she said, letting the
honest concern she felt for him show in her voice.
"Come with me to sickbay. We'll get something for the
pain, and find out what's hurting you. Come with me
there."
  No one moved as Chia took another step
forward, and extended her hand, palm up, as if she were
approaching a wild animal that needed taming.
  Shulman looked totally exhausted and almost
relieved as he turned to her, and lowered the weapon.
  She barely dared to breathe. Would he let her
help him?
  A sudden blur of motion to her left.
  She swung about, startled, and saw Jason
Albrecht lunging toward her and Shulman--reaching
for the weapon.
  "NO!" Chia shouted, with horrifying certainty
as to the outcome, as the younger athletic man grabbed
Shulman's arm and the two grappled for the weapon.
  The transformation in Recovery's creator was
astonishing; the fatigued scientist became
all predator again. Shulman fought the muscular young
student with a strength and vicious skill that astonished
Chia.
  The two slammed to the floor fighting wildly for
control of the phaser, Jason clearly struggling for his
life.
  The other scientists tried to help, grabbing
Shulman's limbs, even his feet, but he shoved
them off with shocking ease.
  "Run!" Jason screamed at them, as Shulman
overwhelmed him. "Run! Hide!"
  His words echoed as the whine of the phaser filled the
air.
  Chia watched, too stunned to move, to react, as
Jason's body glowed with impossible, blinding
brilliance, then dissolved into nothingness.
  Never had a group of eminent scientists ever
responded so efficiently to a command. The group
scattered, racing wildly out of the room before
Jason's body had even completely
discorporatedand All except Chia, who stood
transfixed with horror and amazement at the ease with
which an entire human being could be dispersed into all its
billions of separate atoms.
  Shulman got to his feet, staring
wide-eyed at the spot where Jason's body had
lain against the carpet.
  The ship would clean the spot as soon as they
vacated the room, Chia knew, removing every
molecule that remained of Jason; and then no
trace of that brilliant young man, a man with all
his life and all its promise still before him, would exist
at all.
  She looked up to see Shulman turn his gaze
on her.
  The quivering was more pronounced now. It was as though
he stood on a deck panel that trembled from metal
fatigue and threatened to blow apart at any second.
And yet there was something about this physical symptom that
seemed more pleasurable than painful. That realization
frightened Chia even more.
  "Myron," she said softly, even though she knew
that the moment she might have reached him, might have helped
him, was irrevocably gone. She searched his wild
eyes and tried anyway. "Myron? Are you still in
there? Is my friend still alive in there at all?"
  His lips pulled back into a rictus of a grin.
"Oh, yes," he assured her, his voice a
parody of its normal self. "Yes, Myron is
still in here. Deep. Deep inside."
  The quivering increased, and as Shulman raised the
phaser and aimed it at her with a hand that trembled not a
bit, she told herself the trembling was the visible
manifestation of Myron's battle for control with
whatever it was that had possessed him. Even so, she
knew it was a battle he was doomed to lose.
  Noon's fear transformed into an entirely
physical phenomenon. Although a renewed rush of
adrenaline quickened her heartbeat and sent a fresh
chill coursing down her spine, her mind became
detached, serene as she stared at Shulman's index
finger, which tightened now on the trigger. She felt a
sudden surge of compassion for him; how tragic, that
he should have gone mad on the verge of what should have been
his life's greatest achievement. How tragic,
too, that the madness should have caused him to murder his
friends and colleagues. The real Shulman, a gentle
man whose goal was to save lives, not take them, would
have been horrified.
  Yes, Angelina was lucky to be floating
mindlessly in the dark void of stasis; lucky to have
been spared the protracted terror that was sure
to face the survivors on the doomed vessel.
Chia felt something akin to relief that her own
journey aboard Recovery was about to end.
  "He's in here," Shulman told her, almost
gleefully, his grin widening to reveal huge white
teeth, glistening with saliva. "He's watching.
Watching everything. For the triad. The holy triad."
  A fat tear spilled from the corner of his eye.
  He's crying, Noon thought with pity. The real
Myron is crying.
  In a small, barely perceptible movement, his
index finger tightened on the trigger.
  Chia Noon watched, with compassion and regret, as
the resplendent flash filled her vision painfully,
dazzlingly, yet she did not look away, but let
herself be blinded. And in the instant before dissolution, her
last conscious thought was that Angelina had been lucky
--lucky, indeed.
  Chapter Eight
  "HELLO? HALO? Anyone? Everyone? This
is Nassar Omar!"
  Ahab Saed paused as the booming, nearly
hysterical voice filled the corridor. She and
Ngo had climbed out of the shuttlecraft to find
themselves in a large empty hangar. After spending some
time running diagnostics on the war-weary Grace
Hopper, Anab had grown restless and had consulted
the computer for Riley's location. She and
Ngo were enroute there when the sudden announcement
interrupted them.
  "Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?" Omar
wondered breathlessly over the shipwide system.
"We are all in grave danger. Myron
Shulman is insane, homicidally insane.
Angelina Mola has been murdered.
  Chia Noon has been murdered. And now every
member of the FDRA is in danger of assassination.
  Shulman will not rest until the Recovery is a
ghost ship. He's taking us into Tholian space!
There's nothing we can do! Secure yourselves. Hide.
Be cautious--oh, Allah, no!"
  Scuffling sounds. Omar's voice, already
frantic-sounding, grew frankly hysterical.
"Shulman, don't-pleaset"
  A strangled cry, followed by a phaser's whine.
  Anab started at the terrible sound, and exchanged
looks with Josiah; his full lips were parted, his
eyes wide with the same shock Saed knew her own
expression revealed.
  An uncomfortable silence ensued; and then, another
male voice--this one strained and weary, but carrying
an edge of rage--filtered over the ship's
speakers.
  "This is Myron Shulman. Monique
Thibeau, according to the FDRA'S rules of succession,
you are now the new head. Congratulations. But don't
go to the trouble of selecting a chief of staff...."
  The transmission ended.
  Ngo gazed upward at the speakers, then
uncertainly back at Saed. "I don't
suppose this is a... surprise part of the
simulation, sir?"
  "No," Anab replied shortly, and began
moving again in the direction of the indicated sickbay.
As much as she had resented Riley's presence on
the simulated shuttlecraft rescue, she was
beginning to worry about him. In the brief time she'd
been married to him, he'd shared only negative
memories of his time in space, aboard the
Enterprise; and though she'd heard from Earthside
friends at headquarters that Riley was a changed man
now, a competent, confident officer, she had trouble
believing it. The Riley she had known was a fearful,
timid soul, one who had begged her not to go into space
because of its dangers; one who had languished for years
in Starfleet without a single promotion. She had
loved him even then, had tried to holster his confidence,
had encouraged him to find what it was he
really wanted to do.
  But his unhappiness had come close to destroying
her. She wanted nothing more than to be in space;
Riley wanted nothing more than the security of
Earth.
  In the end, she had had to leave, even though it had
torn at her heart.
  Now here he was, promoted to a full commander, with
Kirk's recommendation. The sight of him inspired
both pain and hope: pain because she knew how she had
hurt him, hope because her love for him had not
entirely dimmed, and she could not help wondering
whether there might be a chance for a real relationship at
last.
  But on the shuttle, she thought she saw hints of the
old Riley; he had, after 1, made a
near-fatal error in judgment in checking Ngo's
suit at the wrong time.
  And he had been gone "too long for such minor
injuries; perhaps he'd been hurt when Recovery
had been fired upon, or maybe Shulman...
  "Get a move on, Cadet," she said
firmly. "We need to locate Commander Riley and
figure out a plan."
  With a nervous backward glance at the
corridor behind him, Ngo complied.
  When asked, Recovery's computer had calmly
told them about "enemy attacks," which Anab
decided were just part of the simulation. It was odd
Romolo hadn't warned her about them, but she figured
it was just one of his little surprises. And listening
to Nassar Omar's frantic message, she'd been
tempted at first to think it, too, was some sort of
test.
  But even Romolo, with his renowned sense of
humor, wouldn't have rigged something so bizarre.
  And K.t.m That's Commander Riley now, and
don't you forget it.
  Riley should've been back by now, or should have
communicated with them.
  Something was happening aboard this ship, something
unplanned. And if it was really true--if Myron
Shulman had gone crazy and was determined to murder
everyone on board one by one--then she was the only
trained Security officer on board.
  A Security force of one aboard the largest
vessel Anab had ever seen.
  "Keep your eyes open," she told Ngo as they
rounded a curve in the corridor. "If
Shulman's armed and--"
  She broke off as they both nearly collided with
two men hurrying in the opposite direction. For a
split second, her training took over; she
recoiled, arms raised, ready for combat--until
she recognized one of them.
  "Easy, Anab--it's me!" Riley said,
holding up his hands in a placating gesture. Beside
him stood an older, bearded man. "I take it
you've been listening in to the shipwide intercom."
  She nodded, annoyed with herself that the sight of him--
unbruised and unbloodied now--brought such relief.
"It's true, then? About Shulman?"
  He and the older man nodded grimly.
  "Then we need to get back to the shuttlecraft,"
she said. "It carries a standard complement of
weapons."
  "Guess again," the man beside Riley responded,
in a Southern drawl. Anab eyed him curiously.
He was dressed in casual civilian clothes,
clearly not Starfleet --not with that salt-and-pepper
beard. And he didn't seem an FDRA type,
either, but looked more like he was enroute to a camping trip
than a meeting of bureaucrats. His warm, relaxed
manner reminded her of Captain Romolo, which
made her like him immediately, and his ease around
Riley suggested the two had known each other before.
  Riley shot him a startled look. "You really
think--?"
  "You can check if you want. But I'll bet my
bottom credit Recovery's removed them."
  "Impossible," Anab said scornfully.
  The older civilian shrugged as Riley turned
to him and sad,, "Maybe we ought to be sure. Just in
case...
  The four of them returned quickly to the hangar
deck. Glancing at Anab for approval and
getting it, Josiah clambered back on board the
small craft.
  "Hey? he cried out in surprise. "Who
emptied these storage bins?"
  "I can't believe this," Riley muttered.
  "It's a very sophisticated, specialized
tracking program that locks on to ,weaponry,"
the bearded man explained to Ahab, "then
fine-tunes the coordinates, and beams it out of there.
It can do that even to weapons on your body."
  "That kind of precision intraship beaming's not
possible!" Josiah declared, emerging from the shuttle.
  "Really?" The man cocked a black eyebrow.
"Then where are your weapons?"
  Riley released an annoyed sigh. "Maybe
it's time for introductions. This is Dr. Leonard
McCoy, formerly chief medical officer of the
Starship Enterprise.
  Dr. McCoy, this is Cadet Josiah
Ngo, the engineering student I told you about, and
Lieutenant Anab Saed --who's in
Security." His voice carried a tone of regret
--or was it merely her imagination? She kept her
face carefully neutral. Riley wasn't the
only person ruing his decision to come along for the
simulation.
  "What's going on, Commander?" Josiah asked.
  "I don't think we know the half of it, but
we'll give you the short form," Riley replied.
  McCoy told them about the simulation's disruption
and the ship's bizarre reaction. Riley told them
why he'd been detained, and all about Shulman's
breakdown and the runaway ship they were currently on
board: a ship heading for Tholian space while being
pursued by an injured starship with Admiral Kirk
in command.
  "Sounds like we've got a problem," Ahab said,
when he was finished. "A big problem."
  What she didn't say was that the only people
aboard Recovery with any training to handle the
situation were a retired Starfleet doctor, a
bureaucrat from headquarters, and a weaponless
Security chief saddled with a raw cadet. But she
could see from K.t."...ness face that he knew she was
thinking it.
  She opened her mouth, ready to start issuing
orders; but Riley spoke first, so she closed it
again. When they had parted, they'd shared the same rank
of lieutenant; it was hard for her to remember that he
had had two rapid promotions under Kirk and was now
her superior.
  "So, here's the course of action," he said, with a
confidence she had never seen in him before. "Mr.
Ngo, you and Dr. McCoy are going to develop a
working relationship with the Recowery's computer."
  Josiah's eyes widened with a mixture of
intimidation and delight. "The Recoallyery's
computer?"
  "That's right, son," McCoy drawled, looking
amused. "On this vessel, you'r the closest thing
to a senior engineer we've got. I'll try not
to get in your way."
  "And you'll make sure,, Mr. Ngo," Saed
interjected sternly, "that nothing happens
to Dr. McCoy." She turned toward the older
man. "As much as I hate to bring this up,
Doctor, you are on Shulman's list, and with your
past close association with Kirk, I'm afraid
--"
  "Yes, well," McCoy interrupted her,
"let's not dwell on that."
  "I'm afraid we have to," Anab insisted, and
began to speak again when a single, pointed look from
Riley stopped her.
  "Mr. Ngo," he said quietly, "we need
to communicate with the outside world and find a way to stop
this machine from violating Tholian space. While you
and the doctor try to figure out where the problem is in
this monster's brain, I'm also charging you with the
personal safety of Dr. McCoy."
  Ngo's widened, then narrowed with dread; he
dropped his gaze, and muttered, "Yes, sir."
  "I'm pretty familiar with this animal's
physical layout, Josiah," McCoy said
amiably as the two walked toward the exit. "I
think I can line us a fairly secure place
to work."
  Anab watched the two. men walk away, then
finally faced Riley. "I didn't mean
to overstep," she said softly. "But you said I was in
charge of the simulation-was
  "You were. But something's gone wrong." He
turned away from her and clambered into the shuttle,
talking over his shoulder. "The simulation's over.
  And now we've got to find some way to arm ourselves that
the computer will not perceive as technologically threatening,
and then we've got to find this Thibeau woman, and
whoever it is that's next in line of succession."
  She followed him in, watching as he gazed
critically around the shuttle's interior for a
second, then seemed to find inspiration and headed
toward the vessel's rear. "K.t "Her tone
softened, grew personal.
  He moved over to a piece of metallic rail
trim near the ceiling of the vessel, then glanced
expectantly at her.
  "K.t., you're not Security. And you haven't
been on active duty for years." She paused,
tried to find the right words to soften what she was about
to say, and failed. "The only sensible thing for you to do
is sequester yourself."
  "And let you deal with Shulman by yourself?."
  Reaching into the tool chest, he took out a device
and proceeded to detach the rail. "You used
to be pretty good with the javelin at the Academy,
didn't you?"
  He pulled the sleek rail, tapered to a point
at both ends, off the wall and handed it over to her.
  She took it and hefted it, testing its weight,
then lifted it over one shoulder. "Yes. But you're
not listening to me, K.t."
  "I'm listening," he said, rummaging through the tool
chest and pulling out a length of nearly invisible cable.
He paused then to stare up at her and spoke, his
tone hardening with that certain firmness that meant he had
made his decision and would brook no argument.
  "Ahab, I'm command track--which means I had
security training. And I'm not as rusty as you might
think."
  "You were rusty enough to stop and check Ngo's suit,
when you should have been sending the distress signal and
paying attention to your board," she said, with more heat
than she'd intended.
  He frosted at once, and for a split second
regarded her in silence. And then he said, "That's
true; and I won't make the same mistake.
Need I remind you, Lieutenant, that I'm your
superior?"
  She stiflened involuntarily at that; he
saw it, and his face and voice softened. "The fact
is, you'll need help with Shulman. And right now,
things are critical. Our lives and the lives of
everyone on this ship could depend on how well we work
together. Like it or not, you're going to have to trust me.
What I'm trying to say is... we need to forget the
past and worry about the present situation."
  "Understood," Anab agreed coolly, as she
pulled off a matching piece of trim for another
javelin.
  Riley unrolled the length of cable, cut it
into two-meter-long sections, and started tying the ends
to the weights in pairs. As he fastened the last
knot in the final piece of flexible cable, Anab
asked curiously, "What's that you're working on?"
  Riley rose and stepped where Ahab could see
him.
  Tying part of the cable around his waist like a belt, he
hefted the last cable at its center, then graced
Ahab with a sly little smile. "You don't know
everything about me, Lieutenant. It's a little something
a certain Vulcan taught me to make; with it, I
can bring down Shulman at thirty meters at a
dead run. It's an ahn-woon."
  And as Anab watched,. even more
surprised, Riley made the weapon sing over his
head.
  "I'm already giving you all she's got,
Admiral," Chief Engineer Gambeta
explained, exasperation in her soft South African
lilt. Kirk could scarcely blame her; no doubt
his command style was nothing like her regular captain's--
and no doubt she'd never been in a situation quite like this.
"We've had damage to the engines, sir,
especially to the warp drive. I've lost three
critical staff members. And you sent my best
assistant, Josiah Ngo, over to the Recovery.
The speed we're achieving now is due more to prayer
than engineering skill. I can't even promise you
I can maintain this."
  Kirk flinched when she mentioned the dead crew.
  His first command in two years, and there were deaths on
board within hours of his stepping on the bridge.
  Deaths here and on the Starhawk--all his
responsibility.
  If he hadn't changed the simulation- And now,
McCoy and Kevin Riley were speeding away to an
uncertain fate aboard Recovery. Bones, his
best remaining friend in the galaxy, now that Spook had
cut himself off. And Riley- He felt a
special kinship, a special responsibility
toward Riley. Unbeknownst to Kevin, a
fourteen-year-old Jim Kirk had rescued him
decades before from death on Tarsus IV, under
Governor Kodos's rule. He had always felt
that Riley had survived to fulfill a special
destiny; it was one reason he had taken Riley on
as his aide at headquarters, and encouraged him to reach
his full potential.
  Riley had not disappointed him. But now, to have
brought him this far, only to see him die aboard a
runaway vessel, one Kirk had helped create-
He forced his mind away from the thought. If Recovery
hadn't failed now, she would've failed later, perhaps
with more lives on board. Yes, he'd been the
catalyst, but all he'd done was find the chink in the
armor. He didn't have time to waste
second-guessing his command decisions--not while they were
pushing warp seven and barely keeping the Recovery in
sight.
  Kirk wanted to congratulate the engineer for her
resourcefulness and an expertise that could be
favorably compared to the best engineer he'd ever known;
but the medals would have to come later. Now he needed more.
  "Look, Admiral." Gambeta's
tired voice spoke softly into the pause. "I know
as well as you that we'll never catch up to the target
at this speed. And I know we have to. Maybe--
maybe if I reroute the power coupling so that it
'borrows" energy from weapons systems while
they're not in use, I might be able to get more warp
power--assuming we don't shake apart if I do."
  Kirk had to smile and remind himself that, while there
might be no Scotty aboard this ship to pull their
irons out of the fire, the Paladin's chief engineer
was proving to be something of a miracle worker herself.
  "Whatever you can do, Mr. Gambeta--I'11 be
grateful.
  And Engineer--?"
  "Yes, sir?" He could hear the dread in her
tone at the prospect of being asked for more of the
impossible.
  "While you're praying, throw in a few from me as
well."
  She said, with a hint of relief, "I'll do that,
sir."
  "Mr. Sandover." Restless, Kirk leaned forward
in his chair toward the red-haired navigator. "Is
there anything else we could be doing to catch the
Recovery?"
  Sandover turned his freckled face toward him, his
expression and tone apologetic. "So far, the best
I can do, sir, is maintain our pursuit at this
distance."
  Jim ground his teeth.-The Paladin was hurt, and
already giving him all she had, and that was plenty. It
wasn't her fault she wasn't the Enterprise.
  But he needed the Enterprise now.
  He pushed himself out of the chair, too impatient
to sit any longer. "I understand, Mr. Sandover, but
stay on it. If the Recovery slows, speeds up,
or changes direction, you'll have to respond
instantly. We've got to close this gap, mister."
  "Aye, sir," the experienced off fleer declared,
his eyes moving between the viewscreen and his instruments,
his pale, freckled hands steady on the controls.
  Kirk strode over to the science station, where
Sonak spun in his chair, arms folded across his
chest, anticipating the admiral's next question.
  "I have analyzed this situation, sir, and cannot find
any weaknesses in either the Recovery's abilities
or defenses. Someone has changed her programming
radically, but the changes follow a narrow,
specifics yet, I believe, illogical--
path."
  Kirk gave a thoughtful nod, trying to repress
the sudden painful wave of nostalgia that accompanied
the act of seeking his Vulcan science officer's
advice.
  "Only Shulman could have altered the ship's
mission, and he's had some sort of breakdown. It
stands to reason he'd program in illogical
reactions."
  Sonak considered this with a faint lift of a
brown-black eyebrow. "Perhaps, sir, but
inaccurate, and illogical programming normally
renders computers useless. Yet Recovery
functions quite efficiently. Even now, she is
marshaling her energy while speeding toward a precise
destination."
  Kirk looked into his science officer's eyes.
The dark orbs and slanted brows were so similar
to another Vulcan's on another ship that he could've
sworn it was Spock's voice who said, There is
too much logic in Recovery's illogic to be
coincidence, Jim.
  He blinked and said, "Excuse me?"
  "What I mean, Admiral," Sonak said
clearly in his own voice and tone, "is that a human
suffering a nervous breakdown is hardly a
likely candidate to devise a new, complicated
neural program for this very advanced computer."
  "You think someone else is programming the
computer?"
  "I think it is highly likely, sir."
  Kirk sighed, and looked back over his shoulder
at the viewscreen, which revealed only darkness and
stars. Who could've sabotaged Recovery, and how?
  "Any signs of pursuers?"
  Sonak released a small, soundless sigh. "The
Romulan observers were disabled, but a cloaked
Romulan vessel would be impossible to discover
until she was near enough for her ion trail to give her
away.
  Whether the Klingon observers who cloaked their
vessel are following us, again, I cannot determine.
But I am scanning for them, sir. And, of course,
we do not know if the Tholian vessel survived."
  "Expect anything and everything, Mr. Sonak,"
Kirk warned, and the Vulcan nodded in agreement.
Staring again at Recovery's fleeing form, Kirk
wondered, "What are the chances of beaming those people off that
ship and just letting Recovery violate Tholian
space all by herself?."
  "Impossible to calculate, sir, but,
assuming she could be convinced to drop her shields..."
Sonak hesitated for a fleeting instant. "For the
entire complement of people aboard using the few
transporter pads we have, it would take
two-point-six hours. Assuming the transporters
are at maximum efficiency."
  "But Recovery could beam them all over here at
once," Kirk told him. "If she would."
  "Theoretically true. However, I would remind the
admiral that Recovery has not, of late, been very
cooperative. We know so little about the Tholians, it
would be safe to assume that even a hollow invader could
precipitate hostilities."
  Kirk nodded. "Sonak, we have five people aboard
that ship--two effectively incarcerated. That leaves
a trained Security officer, my personal aide,
and an inexperienced cadet with some engineering ability
to deal with this problem from within. What do you think the chances
are that they can stop that ship?"
  Sonak seemed faintly nonplussed by the question
--a query Spock would have expected from Kirk. The
younger Vulcan then said quietly, so that the rest of the
crew could not hear, "Admiral, that ship has the
most sophisticated computer and the most advanced
technology the Federation is currently
capable of.
  Most of the veteran computer science officers in
Starfleet could not successfully reprogram it. I
do not believe that a cadet with an engineering
background or a Security officer, no matter
how experienced in her field, has the knowledge required
to interact with Recovery in a meaningful way."
  "No chance at all, huh?" Kirk asked
grimly.
  Sonak blinked. "I believe that is what I
said, sir."
  Kirk nodded grimly. "If we could only bring
the ship to a stop we'd be ahead of the game." As if
that made him think of a new possibility, he added,
"Since we could use a little optimism right now, have
cargo bay three emptied. Make sure it's got
full life-support.
  If we can ever convince Recovery to give up her
guests, we'll need to have a place to put them."
  The Vulcan's expression remained bland, even
though Kirk was sure he thought that last request
pure wish-fulfillment. Sonak reached for a piece
of equipment at his station. "We need to communicate
with our people, sir, but Recovery is refusing
transmissions.
  Paladin's communication station was retrofitted with the
rest of the ship; however, it was the first one done.
  More advanced upgrades were available later, and
I requisitioned the parts, but we were given our
orders before they could be installed. I have taken the
liberty of ordering a cadet to bring me the new
meta-inhancer assembly from storage. Installing it
now may enable us to force a transmission through."
  Kirk brightened. "Good work. Let's do it."
  "I'll get right on it, sir." Sonak rose.
  "No, not you," Kirk interjected. "You've got
more important things to do."
  Sonak glanced past Kirk to the communications
station where Cadet Diksen worked, and said, sotto
voce, "With all due respect, Admiral, the
cadet does not have the experience to--"
  "I understand, Commander. I'll show her how to install
it."
  "You, sir?" Both Sonak's eyebrows lifted
in unison.
  "I think I still know how to soup up a corem
board," Kirk said wryly. "Besides, if I spend
another minute sitting in that chair staring at that
screen I'll wind up as demented as Shulman."
  Both eyebrows remained lifted, but the
Vulcan merely said, "As you wish, sir," and handed
him the equipment.
  As Kirk walked the short distance to communications,
he examined the complicated circuitry, trying
to recall just where all its connections went and how the
new modules interfaced with the old. He didn't
remember it being quite this complicated the first time he'd
installed one.
  This was not the way things were supposed to go.
  Reese moved her hands over the comm board and
sequenced in another. transmission on yet another
frequency. This was supposed to be the most boring
spot on the bridge. This was supposed to have been a
mundane simulation. She was not supposed to get her
first taste of action by watching her ship get the hell
kicked out of it by friendly fire and watching Commander
Pulver die on the bridge. They were not supposed
to be racing pell-mell after a runaway vessel
piloted by a madman that was about to plunge them
into intergalactic war. And her very bt friend wasn't
supposed to be helplessly trapped on a ship he
couldn't even communicate from. No, this was not the way
things were supposed to go at all.
  Every time she started thinking about Commander Pulver or
Josiah, her throat tightened and her
vision blurred, so she drew in a breath. There was
no time for that, no time at all. She blinked her
eyes until they cleared and registered the rejection
of her latest transmission. She reformulated it,
trying another frequency.
  Something had to get through. Something. Something.
  "Mr. Diksen."
  The sound of her own name made her start.
  "Sorry, Mr. Diksen," the admiral
apologized. "I didn't mean to startle you. Mr.
Sonak's given me a booster for your comm board.
I thought I'd give you a hand putting it in."
  She blinked up at him stupidly, as if the words
"booster,"
  "comm board," and "give you a hand," made no
sense to her.
  "Unless of course you've found a way to get through
to Recovery without it," Kirk said, with a faint
smile.
  "Uh, no, sir. Not yet." Diksen glanced
at the board, but the only communications coming in were
overlapping reports from all parts of the ship that were
pouring in so rapidly she couldn't even assimilate
them all. The ship was badly damaged. Everyone was
scrambling to make repairs and get
defenses back up to a hundred percent. And people had
been killed.
  People killed. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that
such a thing was possible on her first mission.
  "Mr. Diksen," Kirk said softly close
to her ear, "are you all right?"
  She exhaled. "I'm fine, sir," she said in a
surprisingly clear voice. "Let me get those
tools." It allowed her to get out of the seat and bend
down, away from him, away from those hazel eyes,
eyes watching her for any inefficiency, any
weakness.
  She gulped and opened the cabinet beneath the console
to retrieve the specialized equipment they would need
for the upgrade. "Is that a Kuniko
twelve-fifteen, or a Miloslav R
seventy-four?"
  When he didn't answer her she pulled her head
out of the cabinet. He was turning the device over and
over in his hands, as if looking for the information.
  She stood up and took it from him. She found the
identification information on a tiny inset chip.
"Oh, wow, it's a Moroz ten-eighty! This thing
is so new I've never even seen one."
  She glanced at him and realized he
looked pained.
  "What's wrong, sir?"
  He looked around to make sure no one could hear.
  "I don't like admitting this, Diksen, but...
well, I've never even heard of the first two
upgrades you mentioned, and this one is completely
foreign to me. If you're unfamiliar with it as
well"
  "Most upgrades are similar in design--at
least as far as installation is concerned. This one might
have some special quirks, but I think--between your
experience, and my more recent training--we should be able
to work it out. In fact," she added, as she went back
to the cabinet to look for more tools, "if this is as good
as it's cracked up to be, we might have a chance at
forcing Recovery to accept our transmissions."
  "Then let's get it plugged in and see what
she'll do."
  "Aye, sir." Diksen opened up the panel beneath
the console and looked underneath, suddenly grateful that
she hadn't skipped any classes in communications
circuitry, no matter how boring.
  Crouched beside her, Kirk removed an extra
panel; with a pang of nervousness, she realized he
intended to crawl under with her. She tried not
to let it bother her when she slid beneath the console on
one hip only to find him doing the same, facing her
so they could work together side by side, inches apart.
  It would take more than two hands to install this new
equipment, she told herself, but damn, she wished it
were Josiah. She wouldn't feel like such a bloody
fool then when she barked her knuckles or shocked
herself plugging into the wrong port. Why did it have to be
Kirk?
  Because right now he has the least to do, she realized,
with a sense of wonder. He was bored waiting to catch
up to Recovery, and was desperate to be of use.
  "Let me hold that stuff," he suggested, taking
the tools from her. "You have smaller hands; it'll be
easier for you to move things around and open up a stage
for the enhancer."
  "Aye, sir," she said without looking at him, and
proceeded to unhook several ports and rearrange the
layered boards.
  "Look, Diksen, as long as we're working together,
you can relax a little," he told her, as he handed her
tools then took them back when she no longer needed
them. "I figure you're the senior technician right
now.
  I've been away from all this too long.
And it occurs to me that it's not so easy to be in such
close quarters with an admiral you've done a
major study on."
  She tried to school her expression to deny the last
charge, but he only remarked, "Your ears are red,
Reese."
  She nodded, and rearranged boards. "Thanks,
sir. I mean, Admiral. I mean--thanks. And
could you hold this in here?"
  As he assisted her, she restacked her boards in
a new configuration that would leave an opening for the
extra equipment, then started reattaching everything in
sequence. Wanting to take her mind off Kirk's
nearness in the tight place, she decided to heed his
advice and reassign him a new role as a
fellow cadet.
  "Okay, now move that there, no not there, to the left
--right! I mean, correct! So, how long has it
been since you've done this kind of work?"
  He sighed, adjusted his equipment, then gave her
the right tool when she needed it without missing a beat.
"A captain has to know how to do everything aboard his
ship. The last time I worked on a corem board
was..." His eyes looked past her at some
far-distant memory. "A lifetime ago,
aboard the Enterprise. I helped Spoek when we
were in orbit around the Omitton Ceti Three
colony."
  She frowned and held his gaze. "That wasn't in
the records, sir. At least, I don't think it
was ever reported that--"
  An unreadable expression came over his face;
he shifted in the tight spot, then handed her another
tool, bringing her attention back to her task.
"You'll find out, Diksen, that not everything goes
into those reports. There are some people who would've felt
that wasn't the best use of my time."
  "Like now?"
  "Like now. You ready for this?"
  She nodded and he handed her the upgraded
equipment.
  She wondered how many other things never got in those
reports.
  "You have a friend aboard the Recovery, don't you,
Reese?" he asked suddenly. "Josiah Ngo--
correct?"
  His question so startled her that for a moment, she couldn't
answer. There were over three hundred people aboard the
Paladin. When did he have time to learn they were friends?
  "You should know that Josiah wasn't
scheduled for that trip, Diksen. I sent him. I was
impressed with his performance and wanted to reward him.
But sometimes a captain's plans don't work out quite the
way he envisions them."
  He wanted her to forgive him, she realized.
While she was agonizing over Josiah and the people who'd
died aboard the two ships Recovery had fired
upon, he was taking the blame for it. The
responsibility for those lives, those deaths, was on
him.
  But each one had hurt him, she knew now--
another fact that would never be recorded. It suddenly
made him very human to her, something she'd never
expected him to be.
  "Ngo knew it was a reward, Admiral," she
said finally. "He was so proud, he couldn't wait
to tell me.
  All Josiah ever wanted to do was serve in
Starfleet. I know he hasn't changed his mind about
that, no matter what happens to him now."
  He didn't say anything, just continued helping her
install the upgrade. Then finally, he murmured,
"Thank you, Diksen."
  There was an uncomfortable pause as she struggled
with the last connection, but eventually she
blurted, "Sir, if I could be so bold... You
made a wonderful captain. I was surprised when
you accepted the promotion to the admiralty. Why did
you?"
  She didn't dare look at him as she spoke,
just kept making the minute adjustments that would allow the
new enhancer to work properly with the other upgrades in
the console.
  He released a slow, steady breath. She was out of
line, Diksen realized, with a surge of panic; the
question had been far too personal.
  When Kirk finally responded, his tone had
noticeably cooled.
  "I imagine things look very black-and-white from
your point of view, Diksen, at the beginning of your
career, but you'll find--as the years pass--that there are
many shades of gray in every decision. For example:
I imagine your attitude about engaging in battle
may have changed some since we last spoke."
  She halted in her work, then resumed it. "Yes,
sir," she murmured softly. "Yes, that's true.
I--I see that whole issue differently now."
She swallowed hard as the image of Commander
Pulver's scorched, unrecognizable face came
to mind.
  "Well, that's why time is the great equalizer.
It was time for the members of my crew to go on and do
different things. And it was time for me to do that as well."
  There was no enthusiasm, no joy in his voice;
Diksen didn't believe him for an instant. She
should have dropped the issue then--but she would never have such
an opportunity again in her life to candidly question
Kirk about this topic that perplexed her so much. With a
boldness that stunned her, she pressed: "Then you're
glad you accepted the promotion to the admiralty?"
  This time he remained quiet for so long that she
stopped what she was doing to look at him. He met
her gaze and said, "I was glad about it once.
Lately--I've reconsidered my choice. Perhaps
--if I'm lucky--the time will come for me to do something
different again."
  "I hope so, sir," she said sincerely.
  His gaze softened for a moment. "Keep sight of
your dreams, Diksen. No matter what happens.
Never forget your true goals."
  "Yes, sir," she said, her voice barely a
whisper. She cleared her throat and said, more loudly,
"I think we're ready to try this thing out, sir."
  Before he could answer her, Sonak's voice
came from the area of her knees and she
looked over to find the Vulcan's head halfway
under the console with them.
  "Admiral," the science officer said, "if I
might bother you a moment--I believe you should see
this."
  "Of course," Kirk said, all business again.
As Sonak left to return to his station, the
admiral began to extract himself from beneath the console.
But just before he stood, he said quietly, "Don't
forget what I told you, Reese."
  "I won't, sir. Never."
  I must be getting old, Kirk reprimanded himself,
in can let a green cadet get me so flustered. But
she'd hit him where it hurt, right in the Enterprise.
He straightened his uniform--and his emotions--as he
moved back to Sonak's station.
  "Engineering reports we are now at warp eight
and holding steady," Sonak reported
matter-of-factly, "and closing the gap between us and
Recovery. Also, shields are at ninety
percent."
  "That's good news, Mr. Sonak," Kirk
replied, "but that's not why you called me out here. How
far are we from the Tholian border?
  "At this speed, approximately
thirty to forty minutes, sir."
  "That's a rather inaccurate time estimate for a
Vulcan, isn't it, Science Officer?" Kirk
asked pointedly.
  Sonak didn't look the least offended. "If the
Tholians would remain constant as to the location of their
actual borders, my time estimate might be more
precise, Admiral."
  "Point taken. And the reason we're at your
station?"
  Sonak hesitated, then gestured at his viewer,
where data flowed over the screen at a pace faster
than normal human vision could follow. "I have
mentioned this to no one else, sir," he said
quietly. The Vulcan made an adjustment, and the
data slowed, as did the graphically enhanced image
on the screen.
  Kirk frowned and looked closer, then glanced
over his shoulder at the larger viewscreen, as though it
might confirm what Sonak's board was telling him.
  "It's not visible, sir," Sonak remarked as
Kirk scanned the larger screen and found only stars
and black void.
  "So, what is it?" Kirk asked the Vulcan in
a voice only he could hear. "And how
long has it been there?"
  "I suspect it's been hovering right on the edge
of our sensor range for some time," Sonak began.
"I can tell you what it is not--it is not a Federation
vessel. As to its identity, I do not have enough data
yet to--"
  Kirk interrupted him. "Speculate, mister.
What is it?"
  "Speculate?" The Vulcan was dearly
surprised by the request.
  "Guess, Mr. Sonak," Kirk ordered.
"What do you think it is?"
  "But, sir, speculation with so little data will have no
scientific validity--"
  Kirk interrupted again. "Mr. Sonak, it's
been my experience that Vulcans are the best
guessers in the galaxy. I want to know what you
think."
  Sonak grew still, glanced at his board one more
time, then drew a faintly annoyed breath. "I
believe it is a ship, sir. And since it is not a
Federation vessel, it would have to be a hostile ship.
Therefore, it would have to be either Romulan, Klingon,
or Tholian. That, sir, is my best...
guess,"
  "Totally logical," Kirk said, with a small
smile.
  "Captain," Sandover called out, "the
Recovery's slowing down. I think she's become
aware of us. How do you want me to respond?"
  "Hold your speed, Mr. Sandover, i want
to close some of this gap. How's our communications
upgrade, Cadet Diksen?"
  "Fully functional, sir," she reported
smartly. The console was closed up and she was back
in her chair, hands moving over her board. "I
don't want to get your hopes up, sir, but--I
think someone on Recovery is trying to transmit
something. It keeps breaking up.
  However, the ship still rejects our
transmissions."
  "Do what you have to, Diksen, but try to get through
to that ship. If you can lock on to the ship's outgoing
transmission, put it on screen." He turned
back to Sonak. "Well, Mr. Sonak, they
say that timing is everything. I'd say things are about
to catch up to us on several fronts. Are our friends
still there?"
  "Present and closing, sir. At their current
rate of speed, they will appear on the
viewscreen in three minutes, twelve seconds
--unless they can cloak their vessel. " His
  "And Recovery has chosen this moment to slow her
retreat? How do you feel about coincidence, Mr.
Sonak?"
  "I am a Vulcan, sir. I believe true
coincidences are extremely rare and can usually be
explained mathematically.
  This situation does not appear to fall into that
category."
  "I couldn't have said it better myself." Kirk
strode across the bridge, settled back in the
captain's chair, and hit the intercom. "Red
alert! Battle stations, everyone. Shields up.
Possible hostile forces dosing in." As the
klaxon sounded, he closed the intercom and swiveled
toward Diksen.
  "I want you to expand your sphere of influence,
Cadet. Keep trying to nail down that
transmission from Recovery, and at the same time,
hail the vessel that's just out of range off our
starboard bow. Let's see how sharp that new
equipment is." He swiveled back toward the main
viewscreen, then glanced back at her with a faint
grin and added, "Can you handle all that?"
  Diksen barely missed a beat as her hands moved
over her board, working on each task. Her voice
was clear as she replied, "Aye, sir. Hailing
frequencies open!"
  Chapter Nine
  WITH ONE HAND fingering the makeshift ahn-woon
hung on his utility belt, Kevin Riley stood
beside Anabas the two stared at a visual display in
one of Recovery's vast corridors. The effect
was agoraphobic; Riley felt exposed,
vulnerable--a condition not entirely due to his
recollection of Nassar Omar's frightened voice,
followed by the phaser's whine. Being so near to his
ex-wife, being forced to work with her, made the situation
doubly tense. The sight of her triggered a
cascade of memories, some happy, some painful.
  Yet if Anab found the circumstances
difficult, she showed little sign. Knitting two
ebony brows together while squinting at the computer's
display, she seemed almost calm. Almost... but
Riley noticed that her grip on her "javelins"
never eased, and that she kept ,bblancing from time to time
over her shoulder at the empty, quiet corridor
behind them.
  "There she is," Anab said, pointing a
dark, elegant finger at the blinking grid that
appeared on the screen in front of them. "Looks
like Monique Thibeau's decided against the advice
of her predecessor."
  The blinking light slowly moved across the map of the
huge, nautilus-like vessel.
  "She's not the only one." Riley watched as the
personnel locator tried to pinpoint the various people
who were all in the line of succession of the FDRA.
  "Monique and her colleagues on the FDRA
board have obviously decided that many moving targets
are better than stationary ones," Ahab said, her
depthless black eyes tracking the woman's location
as it changed moment to moment. "But how long can she
keep that up?"
  "Computer!" Riley ordered. "Based on
mathematical probability, can you project where
Monique Thibeau is likely to be in the next
fifteen minutes?"
  As they watched the screen, a grid outline in
contrasting colors appeared that extended beyond the fleeing
woman's previous path. "This projection is
based on statistical hypothesis," the computer
in-toned.
  "It is only sixty-four-percent
reliable."
  Anab glanced briefly at Riley. "We can
probably intercept her here"--she indicated the
fourth-level living quarters--"unless she does
something radically unexpected."
  Impulsively, Riley asked, "Computer,
has anyone else requested this projection?"
  "Dr. Shulman has requested this information."
  He exchanged a pointed glance with Anab.
"Let's He began jogging toward the nearest lift,
with Anab beside him.
  When the lift doors opened on deck four, he
followed Ahab's lead, crouching and flattening against
the opposite wall while scanning the empty
corridor beyond. Riley forced himself to stay as far from
Ahab as possible, which would force a weapons-beating
enemy to choose one target over the other... but for the
first time, the meaning of that phrase, one which had been
drilled into him years before during his Academy
training, struck home.
  He and Ahab were targets; and one of them might very
well be killed so that the other could live.
  He could deal with the notion of his own death. But even
after the hurt she had caused him--could he bear to see
it happen to Ahab?
  Not now, Riley. He focused his mind on his
surroundings, crouching low as he moved behind Anab up
the corridor.
  The stalk seemed endless as they made their way through
the empty corridors and sealed quarters of deck
four. Riley's nervousness but not his vigilance
Malm began to ease.
  A sudden whoosh as a pair of doors opened down
the corridor, Riley tensed, ready to wield the
ahn-woon, but Anab blocked his view. Riley
caught only a rapid blur of waving arms before the
Security officer hurled herself forward and executed
a: perfect body tackle, bringing the runner down.
  Trembling from the sudden adrenaline rush, Riley
ran forward, toward the source of a high-pitched
shriek, and saw Ahab struggling to pin the flailing
arms of a handsome woman with long auburn hair.
  "Thibeau!" Ahab gasped, as the smaller
woman delivered a solid kick to her midsection.
"Thibeau, stop! We're Security. We're here
to help you."
  The fighting woman abruptly ceased fighting and
stared through an errant lock of hair with fear-stricken
green eyes at her two rescuers. "Security?
  There's no Security aboard this ship."
  "We were part of the simulation." Anab slowly,
reluctantly let go of Thibeau's arms, as though
anticipating another sudden blow. "We know
Shulman's coming for you. We were hoping to intercept him
before he could get to you."
  "We have to keep moving." Thibeau glanced
anxiously over her shoulder at the closed doors as
Ahab helped her to her feet--keeping one hand on
her arm, as if to hold her forcibly in place. "The
computer tells him everything," the Frenchwoman
hissed. "He knows where we are every minute! If we
don't keep moving, he'll catch up to us and--"
  "Bring an end to your constant betrayal," a weary
voice said from the far end of the corridor.
  Riley glanced up to see a thin, shivering man with
sweat-dampened, curling black hair. He seemed
more like a terrified, trembling rabbit than a
murderer--but Riley had no doubt that this was Myron
Shulman, for in his hand rested a phaser, aimed
squarely at Thibeau's chest.
  Instantly, Anab fell against the same doors
Thibeau had just emerged from, dragging the woman with her.
  The doors opened automatically, and the two
dropped back into the multiperson quarters.
  There was no time for Riley to think, to be
afraid, to do anything but react--which he did, to his
amazement, precisely as his old Academy
training had taught him. He hit the deck rolling
as the phaser whined over his head, blasting a hole in
the bulkhead.
  He stumbled over Anab's dropped javelins
and, snatching them up, crawled into the same room as
Anab and Thibeau.
  The two had already disappeared; but if Riley
guessed right, Anab would plant Thibeau somewhere,
then separate from her to create more targets for
Shulman. There were at least twenty stacked bunks
in this room, with enough underbed storage to hide as many people.
Riley slid into one of the bunk's cabinets, kept
it cracked only wide enough to see out of, and made
himself as still as possible.
  Within seconds, the doors opened again. "So,
Monique, you found yourself a staff after all,"
Shulman. announced, in a voice that cracked with
fatigue. Riley held his breath as the madman
walked into his line of vision. Shulman looked
terribly in; his skin was pale, his eyes
glittering, feverish. Rivulets of perspiration
trickled down his glistening forehead.
  Physically, he was thin to the point of
gauntness; without the phaser, Riley decided, he
could take him down easily.
  This shattered hulk of a man was what they were all
running in fear of?.
  Riley waited until Shulman turned his
back, then--trying to ignore the renewed hammering of
his own heart--counted the seconds as the scientist
bent over to check the underbed cabinet directly across
from Riley.
  The commander drew a deep breath and, with mindless
adrenaline-inspired energy, burst from his hiding
place and lunged with the javelin.
  Shulman moved with a spurt of speed and agility
that such a sickly-looking person had no right
to possess. The javelin thrust between his calves, and
as he recoiled from the close-quarters attack, he
tripped over it, crumpling the thin trim and getting
tangled up in it.
  He fell, and the force of his momentum pulled
Riley down nearly on top of him. The commander was
near enough now to see the madness in the scientist's stark,
wide eyes, to feel the heat of Shulman's
labored breath on his face as he gripped the
sickly man's sweat-damp arms.
  Shulman was too close to his victim
to fire the phaser without endangering himself--but that
situation could change all too quickly. With a strength
born of desperation, Riley wrestled him for the
phaser; but Shulman's power was much greater--too much
greater for a man his size and age.
  But there was no time to contemplate the source of his
impossible strength. With a terrifyingly mad grin,
Shulman jerked free from Riley's grasp.
  He saw a swift-moving blur and realized,
too late, that it was Shulman's fast coming toward
him. There came a sharp pain to his temple,
followed all too suddenly and inarguably
by blackness.
  "Shulman.st" Anab screamed.
  Seconds earlier, she had rolled off the high
bunk she'd been hiding on in time to see Riley
tackle Shulman. But before Anab could assist, the
scientist had landed a serious blow to K.t."...ness
head. It was precisely what she had feared--that
K.t. would try to do something heroic, and find his
skills unequal to the task. Instinctively, she
had screamed the scientist's name.
  The distraction worked. Shulman glanced up a
split second before delivering a second--and,
Ahab feared, deadly--blow; his strength
seemed inhuman. The scientist almost lost his balance
as he struggled to free himself from the tangle of twisted
javelin and unconscious Starfleet commander, his
inability to take aim won Anab a moment of
safety. She ran toward him, and was about to close in
when Thibeau bolted from her hiding place and ran for the
door.
  "No!" Ahab yelled at her, even as
Shulman dodged around a bank of beds and took off
after the FDRA official.
  By the time Ahab got out into the hallway,
Shulman had a perfect line of sight on
Thibeau, who had run out of options as she raced
mindlessly down the corridor toward the turbolift.
  "Computer!" Shulman shouted. "Freeze all
entrances on this level, and deactivate
turbolift until my command?"
  Thibeau ran dead center into the lift doors, which
refused to open.
  Gasping, Anab sprinted toward Shulman, but
there was no time: Thibeau turned, eyes wide,
straight long hair falling across her stricken
face, and faced her stalker.
  Shulman's face contorted in a spasm of
maniacal glee--or was it agony?--as
he lifted the phaser and took aim.
  "NO," Ahab shouted, but her cry.was lost in
the whine of phaser fire and Thibeau's horrified
scream; there came a brilliant flash as the
frightened woman vaporized before Anab's shocked
gaze.
  Shulman released a deeply relieved sigh, and
sagged --for a second, no more--then casually
approached the lift, which opened for him instantly.
He entered, turned, and stared at Ahab, who
stopped in her tracks as Shulman, his face a
grinning skull, raised the phaser.
  There was no cover, nowhere to hide. She stood,
defeated. His
  And then Shulman, still smiling, lifted back his
head and shouted, "Computer, eradicate all human
life on this level. Cease life-support!"
  The lift doors slammed shut.
  Anab paced, waiting for the gravity to fail, the
oxygen to dissipate; waiting for her death. Her heart
was racing wildly, her adrenaline pumping, but there was
nothing she could do to battle the unseen dangers.
  There was nothing to do but wait--and die.
  She walked over to where Riley lay
unconscious, feeling a deep sense of
failure; she had been unable to save Thibeau, and
now ICT., too, would die. She placed a hand
gently on the back of his head, stroked his soft
hair as she had done only months before, and waited.
  And kept waiting.
  Blinking, she looked around. Gravity was still at
full norm, oxygen levels perfectly
adequate. She lifted her face and asked
softly, "Computer? Why hasn't life-support
failed?" Nothing like asking for trouble, Saedst
  "To suspend life-support would end all life
on this level," the computer replied. "That is in
direct violation of my core programming. The
central purpose of this ship is to rescue and
salvage life. There is no command that can override
this principle."
  "Really?" she murmured, a smile playing over
her lips. She put a hand to her forehead and released
a deep, guttural moan of pure relief.
  At the sound, Riley's golden-brown lashes
fluttered.
  "K.t.?" Ahab knelt over him and rested a
hand on his shoulder.
  His eyes opened--both pupils normal, Ahab
noted with satisfaction, though a bruise was
already darkening on the side of his forehead beneath an
errant lock of light brown hair.
  Riley sat up abruptly and put a hand
gingerly to the wound as he emitted a soft moan.
"Anab? You all right?" He stiflened, then glanced
around, panicked.
  "Shulman--"
  "Shulman left," Ahab said grimly. "I'm
afraid we lost Thibeau."
  "Damn..." Riley leaned his head against his
knees. "That was my fault--losing Thibeau."
  She sighed, shaking her head. "Always blaming
yourself, K.t. Won't you ever learn?" It had been
the reason he had left the Enterprise--his
willingness to take all the blame for a crew
member's death. "You were out when Thibeau was shot. It
was my fault.
  Shulman got away from me, and Thibeau bolted
from the hiding place I'd put her in. If I'd
stayed with her, she might still be alive."
  Riley blinked as though thinking everything through. "You
left her to save me from Shulman, didn't you?"
  Ahab stiffened. "Let's not analyze this to death,
okay?" She helped the dazed man to his feet,
both of them awkward at the notion of touching
each other again. "We've got to get going and help
whoever's next on Shulman's list." She glanced
up at the overhead speakers. "Computer. I need
to know who Dr. Shulman is pursuing now, and I
need to know where Dr. McCoy is located."
andmiddot;
  "Dr. McCoy's location is displayed on the
screen in the hallway," the computer told them
helpfully. "And Dr. Shulman's next target
is Dr. McCoy."
  "Dr. McCoy?" Riley tensed in alarm.
"He's not next in line of succession."
  "He is closely allied with the criminal,
Kirk, and currently is the only stable target.
All other targets will require more time to track and
locate."
  "Great," Anab growled under her breath. "Come
on, Commander--let's get moving."
  Riley began to move, then paused in
midstride.
  "Computer--if your core programming is
unchanged and your purpose is to save lives, how
is it you permit Myron Shulman to track down
individuals and vaporize them?"
  "I have no control over any human's
actions. I assist Myron Shulman as he
requests while he searches out criminals that are
aboard this ship. I cannot anticipate his actions
once he finds them."
  Despite Anab's warning glance, Riley
didn't at tempt to hide the anger in his tone.
"Computer, Myron Shulman has now killed four
people. He hasn't arrested them, or incarcerated them,
he's destroyed them. On a statistical basis
alone, you should be able to predict his behavior when he
locates his next target."
  "I have no control over the behavior of any
individual human."
  "You should be ashamed of yourself," Riley scolded the
machine, as Anab led him toward the corridor.
  "You sound like a damned politician."
  "Scanners indicate that this man has a minor
head injury," the ship suddenly intoned.
  "Uh-oh," Anab murmured. "You're not thinking
of sending him to sickbay, are you?"
  "The injury is minor, but could be improved
by medical attention," the computer informed her.
  "There is a doctor currently working in
sickbay sixty-four."
  Riley opened his mouth to protest then
hesitated.
  "What doctor?"
  "Dr. Leonard McCoy is in sickbay
sixty-four. He could assist in affecting complete
recovery for this individual."
  They grinned at each other. "Great idea,"
Riley said. "Send us both there."
  As he felt the familiar pull of
dematerialization, he thought, Who'd have believed that
I'd be happy to get transported back to another
damned sickbay on this ship?
  McCoy ushered Josiah Ngo into the small
suite of medical offices with a strange sense of
nostalgia. He had not allowed himself to think of the
Enterprise or his former crewmates in months; now
everything conspired to remind him of them. The feeling of
camaraderie he felt toward Riley and now this bright
young cadet as they worked together in a dangerous crisis
evoked fond yet painful memories of Jim and
Spock. How many times had the three of them battled
impossible odds in impossible situations and won?
  Even Josiah reminded him of other Enterprise
crew members, The dark, warm brown of his skin, and
something about his large, long-lashed eyes reminded
McCoy of Uhura; and the young man's
engineering skill was reminiscent of another, much
older miracle worker.
  But the cadet seemed so young. Josiah's
shoulders and chest hadn't even filled out yet. A
retiree and a kid, McCoy thought. This isn't the
Enterprise, and Jim and Spock are a long ways
away. Can we really pull this off.
  "You weren't kidding, Doctor," Josiah said,
gazing around as they entered the outer medical office.
"This place is obscure."
  "Well, we were looking for privacy," McCoy
reminded him, as they moved to a small console.
  "There are at least two fully equipped
sickbays on every deck, most of them
minihospitals in themselves.
  But down here on the lowermost deck there's only this
small one. According to projections, this would be a
backup unit in case the others were filled. In
actuality, they expected it to be rarely used.
Hardly anyone even knows it's here."
  There were two small rooms attached to this central
care unit, but the other rooms held only
diagnostic beds and stored equipment. This central
room had all the computers, and that was what Josiah
and McCoy were interested in.
  "All the medical computers are linked directly
into the ship's main brain," McCoy told
Josiah, "just like on any starship. This way, the
medical computer can take advantage of all the knowledge
in the central computer, and all the memory as well.
So, why can't we use the med computer as a back
door into the workings of the main brain?"
  "Sounds good in theory." Josiah opened up the
case he'd packed the shuttle's tools in.
"Let's see what happens in practice." He
pulled his tricorder around and coordinated it with the med
computer. "I want to go deep into the programming,
Doctor. Suggest a path for me."
  McCoy leaned over him and stared at the
tricorder screen, then manipulated the controls.
"Let's go through the diagnostic program. It's the
most pervasive one in the system everything done in
sickbay has to use that program."
  Josiah nodded as information began to scroll by on
the screen in front of them. "Doctor... is it
true you used to be on the Enterprise?"
  "Yes," McCoy allowed cautiously, hoping
that the fact wouldn't cause the young engineer to expect
too much from him. "That's true."
  "My friend Reese Diksen would love
to speak to you! She's become an expert on the
Enterprise's five-year mission, and the career of
Captain Kirk.
  She's serving with him now, aboard the Paladin
...."
  Josiah's voice trailed off as he looked
away. "That is if it's still out there..."
  McCoy rested a hand on the cadet's bony
shoulder.
  "The Paladin's still out there, son, don't you
worry.
  Your friend is getting the education of her life with
Jim Kirk at the conn. And our chances of
survival are a hell of a lot better with him out
there."
  Josiah looked up and managed a wan smile
--until something scrolling across the screen caught his
eyes.
  He scowled down at it. "What in all the worlds
is that?"
  McCoy stared at. the strange hieroglyphics,
mixed with standard code, and knew immediately that he had
seen them somewhere before. He rummaged in his pocket and
produced a rumpled flimsy; sure enough, mixed
in with Shulman's notes, there was the same
strange code. He held it out so Josiah could
see.
  "Here it is again, in Myron Shulman's
handwriting.
  I can't tell you what it means, but it's not
language--computer or spoken that I'm
familiar with. I've been racking my brains about
it."
  "Well," Josiah said, "let's see if we
can get around it." He went past the primary
programming, deeper into the computer. McCoy
watched as he followed codes down deep into the
program, but everywhere he went, the same
incomprehensible glyphs filled the screen. "This
is crazy," he told McCoy at last. "I
can't get around this stuff--these strange symbols are
everywhere. I'm going down into the binary."
  McCoy waited as the young man slowed down his
progress and wandered around the binary field of the
complicated program. But soon the bizarre
symbols again filled the screen.
  "Not good," the cadet said, "not good at all.
I'm going to try and erase some of this stuff and see
what happens. It's a risk--I could be erasing
critical information, but I have to try
something." He worked furiously for a moment, then
turned to McCoy with a defeated expression.
"Whatever this stuff is, at some level, it's
self-generating. We'd have to have a special
program just to eradicate it. This stuff has
infected the program right down to the binary level,
Doctor! What now?"
  And he turned his hopeful, trusting face up
toward McCoy.
  The doctor hesitated as he tried to imagine
what Jim and Spock might do. With a cheerful tone
that belied his lack of confidence, McCoy said,
"Well, let's just try to stabilize the patient
until help can arrive.
  Can you work through diagnostics to override the
computer's communications control? If we could send a
message out, we might get some critical information
in."
  Josiah nodded, brightening. "What are our
priorities on messages--I mean, if I
get through, what's the most important thing to send?"
  "I'd say we need to send copies of this weird
programming. Maybe someone aboard the Paladin can
tell us what it is, and how to countermand it. If
Spock were there--" He faltered for a
moment, remembering the last time he'd seen the
Vulcan.
  Spock had looked drawn and severe, dressed
entirely in black, as though he were in mourning, and
had announced he would become a postulant in
Kolinahr.
  We shall not see each other again, Leonard
McCoy.
  Live long and prosper.
  McCoy cleared his throat and finished. "--I'd
bet he could." He fell silent again and stared at the
strange writing on the flimsy in his hand. It was
true; Spock would know what it was, and for a moment,
the image of the Vulcan, staring at his viewscreen
with the same gibberish scrolling past, filled
McCoy's mind.
  You know what it is, don't you, Spock? If
only you could help us now ....
  He brushed his fingertips reverently over
Shulman's strange scrawl, as though by touching them,
he could reach across time and space to Spock. And for an
instant, no more, it seemed to McCoy that it was not a
painfully young human that sat beside him, but his
Vulcan friend. He could almost hear Spock's
voice: What assistance do you require,
Doctor?
  And then he looked down to see Josiah gazing
curiously at him. McCoy shook his head to clear
it.
  "We'll just have to hope there's someone there with
similar abilities. I'd say after that, we need
to find out where we can send over two hundred people."
  Josiah's expression remained blank.
  "Our rescuers will have to give us coordinates where
we can beam everyone out of here," the doctor
explained. "This ship is determined to violate
Tholian space. She'll last about three minutes
over there before the Tholians trap her in a web..."
He shuddered at the prospect, wondering what would
become of them all if that happened. If the
homicidal Shulman remained aboard, at least
they wouldn't have to face a lingering death ....
  McCoy pushed the thought away and continued.
  "... then use her invasion as an excuse to start
war.
  Only Recovery has the power to beam everybody
out of here all at once, but we have to be able to tell
her where to send them."
  "So you're telling me that after communications,
I've got to get control over
teleportation--through the diagnostics program."
Josiah's Adam's apple bobbed as he
swallowed hard.
  McCoy forced a smile and patted the young man's
shoulder. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, son.
First things first. Let's try and send that distress
call."
  The cadet sighed and got to work. McCoy
watched, feeling rather useless, as the young man
unsuccessfully attempted to manipulate the
program from every possible angle. At last, he
reached for a device from his bag and plugged it into the
tricorder, then tapped in a new series of
codes. From what McCoy could see, the data
started scrolling past in Vulcan.
  "What in the world are you up to, son?" McCoy
wondered aloud, peering over Josiah's shoulder.
  "Something different," the young engineer mumbled.
  "It's a T'Pel analyzer. Now if this
violated program doesn't blow up in our
faces--" Suddenly, McCoy heard the sound of a
communications channel opening; the two looked at
each other with glee. And then, just as quickly, it closed
down.
  "Hey, that was it!" McCoy crowed,
slapping Josiah on his slender back. "Well,
almost it. You're on the right track!"
  Josiah bit his lip and manipulated the
tricorder and its new spouse. For an instant,
McCoy heard nothing but static--until,
suddenly, the channel opened again, and stayed open.
  Josiah's handsome young face split with a wide
grin. "This is Josiah Ngo on the U.s.s.
Recovery. Is anyone receiving me?"
  The channel slammed shut before a reply could be
received and he struggled to get it reopened. At last,
he turned to McCoy. "Doctor, it's taking
all my attention just to keep communications open.
You've got to handle the actual call."
  "Got it," McCoy agreed. "Okay, this--this
is Dr. Leonard McCoy--"
  Jim Kirk stared, once more startled by the image
of his oldest and best friend staring at him from Paladin's
bridge viewscreen.
  "This is Dr. Leonard McCoy calling from the
U.s.s.
  Recovery, and if I've forgotten formal
protocol it's because I'm retired."
  Still dressed in civilian clothing, McCoy
seemed no worse for wear. Beside him,
busily working to keep the channel open, sat the young
engineering cadet, Josiah Ngo.
  McCoy seemed to look straight at his old friend
with his piercing sky blue eyes. Look, Jim, I
know you're out there.
  Kirk's gaze never left the screen. "Can he
hear me?
  See me?"
  "No sir," Diksen said behind him, her tone
regretful.
  "It's a one-way only. I still can't get the
ship to take incoming."
  "Jim, I can't explain what's happening over
here,"
  McCoy said, "but I know that whatever it is,
you've got the staff to figure it out. All we've
got is a crazy researcher and some bizarre
programming." He glanced down at the cadet.
"Josiah, can you send them some of that stuff?."
  "Transmitting now, Doctor," Ngo said.
  Kirk barely glanced behind him at communications.
"Mr. Diksen, are you getting that?"
  "Coming in clear, sir."
  "Reroute that information to Mr. Sonak's board,"
the captain ordered. As he watched,
McCoy held up an old, battered flimsy before
the screen.
  "These are Shulman's notes, but I can't tell
you what they mean. This strange writing here"...McCoy
pointed to it--"shows up in that programming you should've
received by now. Maybe you can figure out what it means
and how to counteract it. Josiah and I haven't had
much luck from our end."
  Kirk nodded and almost smiled.
  "Now, listen, Jim," the doctor continued,
"we've got to figure a way to get these people off this
ship. I know you, so I know you've been worrying about
this as well. None of the standard starships could handle such
a big job quick enough, so Josiah and I figure
we've got to convince Recovery to do it. We're
working on that. But you've got to get us coordinates.
You haven't been able to get a transmission through, so
I don't know how you'll manage it, but you'd
better find a big empty space for all of us.
Once we get over there..." McCoy's
expression warmed, and his tone grew faintly
apologetic. "I figure you and I can share a little
Saurian brandy and talk over some things.
  I'm... looking forward to that."
  A figure suddenly loomed on the
viewscreen behind Josiah and McCoy, who were too
intent on their task to notice.
  Instinctively, Kirk lurched toward the screen
and yelled, "Bones! Look out! It's Shulman!"
  Uncannily, McCoy sensed the stranger's
presence at the same moment Kirk warned him, because
he spun in time to dodge the phaser fire aimed at
him. Josiah's head whipped around m And the
viewscreen darkened.
  Kirk swung his chair around to face Diksen.
"Get them back!"
  The cadet frantically worked her board.
"They've stopped transmitting, sir, and I still
can't get through Recovery" s defenses!"
  "Keep trying!" He swiveled toward the science
station. "Sonak, what have you got?"
  The Vulcan looked up from his viewer and shook his
head. "Unknown, sir. Apparently, they've sent
me a piece of Recovery's programming at the
binary level.
  It's somewhat confusing since some of it seems
to be... in Vulcan."
  Kirk lifted his brows in surprise.
  Sonak continued. "Once translated, however,
it appears to be standard programming,
except for an excerpt I cannot decipher. Whatever
symbolism is being used to countermand Recovery's
normal programming is unknown to Paladin's
computer. The computer is using the piece of
programming and the recorded symbols on the flimsy
to come up with a translation."
  Kirk sat back in his chair and slammed a fist
on the arm in frustration. "Is that cargo hold
ready?"
  "Aye, sir," Sonak replied, his coolness in
sharp contrast to his superior's agitation. "I would
suggest, Admiral, that Mr. Diksen send any
transmissions from Recovery to my board as well.
Since the transmissions are often fragmented, yet
with pieces of critical information, the science station
might make the best and timeliest use of them."
  "Excellent idea, Mr. Sonak. Mr.
Diksen, did you hear that?"
  "Aye, sir."
  "One more thing, Diksen. If you get a chance
to get through to Recovery, have the coordinates of that
cargo hold ready."
  "Prepared to transmit, sir," she reported.
"Hailing frequencies still open, but no word from the
approaching vessel."
  "Sir," Sandover interjected, "Recovery is
coming to a complete halt."
  Kirk turned back toward the viewscreen, which
now revealed Recovery's sleek, massive form.
"Well, let's not run into her, Mr. Sandover.
Screens up, and maintain a distance of a hundred
thousand kilometers.
  All hands maintain battle stations--and be
prepared for anything."
  McCoy almost didn't hear the transporter
whine over the myriad sounds of the sickbay computer and
Josiah's odd combination of diagnostic tools.
He jerked around just in time to avoid the phaser blast,
then bolted away from the cadet and the computer.
  Josiah turned, his expression one of bald
shock.
  "Keep working!" McCoy shouted, as' he ran
into the next room. "I'm the one he wants!" He
dodged behind a cabinet, knowing Shulman would follow
him.
  McCoy stayed tight behind cover, moving from
cabinet to desk, to closet, to cabinet again, barely
daring to glance behind him. He heard another
transporter whine, but didn't dare hope it meant
that Shulman had left the area.
  "Shulman!" a familiar, feminine voice
called.
  McCoy peeked over the top of a desk--and
saw, only meters away, Shulman's back. The
scientist held a phaser at chest levelwand it was
aimed at Ahab Saed, who stood purposely in
the line of fire.
  Several meters behind her, next to a diagnostic
bed, stood Kevin Riley. Riley held a
length of cable in his hand and was slowly swinging it.
  "Here I am, Shulman!" Anab shouted
recklessly, drawing back what looked to be a thin,
silver lance.
  McCoy tried to close his eyes, tried to look
away; there could be no hope of her hitting Shulman
first, and he couldn't bear to see her killed. But he
couldn't pull his gaze away.
  Dammir, Lieutenant Saed, do you have to be
altruistic at a time like this? But he understood what
she was doing. To the Security officer, a doctor
had more value in an emergency than she did. No
doubt, she was hoping to dodge the blast at the last
minute, and maybe that was possible. But she couldn't
see what her cohort, Riley, was up to. The
way they were lined up meant Shulman could
kill them both with one shot.
  McCoy knew he'd have to do something--but if he
called out, Shulman might have time to kill all
three of them. Crouching, he crawled hurriedly to the
nearest cabinet and searched for what he needed.
  In his peripheral vision, he saw everything happen
all at once, before he ever had a chance to do anything
about it.
  Lieutenant Saed hurled the lance.
  Almost simultaneously, Shulman ducked out of
its way and fired, keeping his aim true.
  At the instant the lance went airborne, Riley
flung something--a length of cable, it looked
to McCoy--that whistled through the air toward Shulman.
But the cable struck Saed in the legs, taking her
by surprise and slamming her to the ground.
  The deadly beam passed harmlessly over Saed's
prone body and struck Riley square in the chest.
  Both Saed and McCoy screamed "NO!" at
the same instant that the young commander's body was
enveloped by the phaser blast. McCoy clutched one
of Recovery's hyposprays helplessly in his hand
and watched in horror as Riley's form was limned
by the deadly glow- And stood firmly as the powerful
ray glimmered over his body.
  As McCoy watched, stricken to silence,
Riley began to move."
  He walked forward, pushing the ray ahead of him as
he approached Shulman slowly.
  For an instant McCoy froze, unable
to comprehend what was happening. Saed looked equally
as dazed as she rolled out of the way and struggled
to free her ankles from the cable.
  With a start, McCoy came to himself and ran up behind
Shulman--who stood transfixed, firing and
retiring his useless weapon and touched the hypo to the
scientist's carotid ai'tery, injecting a
paralytic anesthetic into his bloodstream.
  With a gasp, Shulman sagged into McCoy's
arms.
  The phaser clattered harmlessly to the deck.
  Looking as stunned as the others, Riley bent
over the Security officer reduced now to a tangle
of long dark limbs--and proffered a hand. Saed
took it in both her hands and simply held it
aealong moment while gaping up at him. "Are you
all right, Anab? I didn't break anything when
I hit you with the ahn-woon, did I?" There passed
a look of such intense relief between the two of them--
and something else much deeper--that McCoy
decided they had once been much, much more than mere
acquaintances.
  Ahab Saed was too shocked to speak. At last,
she let go of Riley's hand and, refusing
assistance, struggled to her feet, still staring in
openmouthed amazement at her rescuer. At last,
she found her voice.
  "ICT.--" She glanced shyly in McCoy's
direction and corrected herself. "I mean, Commander
Riley- what happened? You took that phaser shot
dead center!"
  Riley was grinning, his tone cheerful, easy; but
McCoy noticed that his fingers trembled slightly as
he picked up Shulman's phaser and switched the
setting to stun. "I'm not sure. I think
Recovery threw a force field--a personal
shield around me at the last second. I was just as
surprised as you were. It took me a second
to realize I was completely protected." Even as
he spoke, the phaser began to glitter, then quickly
disappeared.
  Anab looked around the room. "The ship can do that?
It's unheard o0. Computer. Why--and how-did you
protect Commander Riley from Shulman's
attack?"
  "His previous question caused me to reanalyze
my reactions to certain situations," Recovery
replied, in typically dispassionate tones. "Some
faulty programming existed in my logic
circuits. Some I could not repair, but I was able
to reprogram certain logic patterns to be
consistent with my core programming.
  If Dr. Shulman requests, I will
incarcerate criminals that are on this vessel.
However, I cannot permit anyone to take a life,
even a criminal one, and remain consistent with my
core programming. This was accomplished by a
reorganizing of my defensive capabilities
into a much smaller pattern than has been required
in the past."
  My God, McCoy thought, completely humbled,
it's creating solutions to new problems. No
Federation computer has ever been able to do that on such a
complex level before.
  Still grinning faintly, Riley shook his head.
"Okay, I take it back. You're not a
politician." Then he realized McCoy was still
hanging on to the collapsed Shulman, and moved
to help him. Together, they wrestled the limp body
onto a diagnostic couch.
  From the other room, McCoy heard Josiah
yell out, "Anyone care to give me an update out
there?"
  "I ordered him to remain on the computer,"
McCoy explained. He called into the other room,
"We're okay, Josiah. We've got
Shulman secured."
  "Why don't I give him a hand?" Ahab
volunteered; Riley nodded, and she went into the
next room.
  Within moments, McCoy put Shulman in
restraints and analyzed his physical condition. The
paralytic anesthetic was having a much greater effect
on the researcher than it should have, so McCoy
carefully administered an antidote. The man's
bodily resources were depleted past exhaustion--
impossible for him to have kept going at all, much
less to have displayed such prowess and agility. The
doctor worked to stabilize Shulman's physical
condition, giving him needed sugars, proteins,
fluids, and some corticosteroids.
  "What's wrong with him?" Riley stepped
alongside.
  "And what do you want me to do?"
  "Just be ready to offer a set of hands if
I need it," McCoy told him. "And beyond the
worst case of exhaustion I've ever seen, I
haven't the slightest idea what's wrong with him--
yet. He's got major heart strain, his
kidneys are nearly shot, all of his fat stores
are depleted, and I don't think he's slept in
over a week. What he's been through would've killed
a Vulcan; I can't understand why he's still alive.
He probably wouldn't be except that he was an
Olympic marathoner before all this happened."
  Satisfied that his patient's physical condition
was stable, McCoy ran his diagnostic scanner
over Shulman's forehead, then studied the readout.
"Good Lord..." He glanced up at Riley.
"There's...
  something... embedded in his brain."
  Riley recoiled. "A parasite?"
  The doctor shook his head. "It's mechanical.
Yet chemical. And alien. Given the organic
damage, I'd say it happened about a week before
the' Recovery started out on this mission."
  "Can you get it out?" Riley wondered.
  "I don't think so. Not here anyway. I'd
need a few other doctors to help me, but even then
--this is totally out of my experience. Part
of his brain has actually changed all the way down
to the cell structure.
  This thing is fused right into his neurons, with its
control mechanism located directly in his
pleasure center."
  Riley looked grim. "What better way
to control him? Perfect pleasure--perfect pain.
Is it Romulan?"
  "Doesn't look to be. It's mechanical,
self-contained.
  Apparently, it functions on several levels--
there's evidence of it releasing certain drugs
directly into the brain. Only Myron can tell us
anything about it. I'm going to ease him up--be
ready to deal with him. I'm .... im"
  not sure just how much strength this tlamg gves n .
  Riley tensed and watched Shulman as McCoy
adjusted his medications slowly.
  Shulman's eyelashes fluttered; and then he
opened his eyes and gazed up into McCoy's face.
To the doctor's relief, the scientist's soft
brown eyes seemed gentle and sane, though
disoriented.
  "Leonard?" Shulman whispered, blinking.
  "Leonard.. andmiddot; McCoy?" His
head lolled to one side as he took in his
surroundings; he glanced at Riley without
recognition. "We're on Recovery ....
  "Yes, Dr. Shulman." McCoy smiled
warmly.
  "You've been in; I'm trying to help you. Can you
tell me what happened to you?"
  Shulman gazed at him for a moment; and then his
eyes clouded. McCoy shot a warning glance at
Riley.
  As they watched, the scientist's eyes rolled
back; his body started to tremble violently.
  "The three? he whispered, straining against the
restraints. His mouth contorted into a riotus, the
muscles on his neck standing out like cords. "The
three. I swear I serve the holy triad?
  Riley leaned forward and pinned Shulman's
shoulders to the bed with great effort.
  McCoy hurried to adjust the man's medications.
As his hypospray hissed again, Shulman's body
fell back against the cot and relaxed. "Myron,"
McCoy asked, "can you still hear me? Who did this
to you?"
  "It's all for the three," Shulman said
drowsily. "I didn't want to, but I
had to. I had to serve the three.
  But I fought them. In the beginning while I still
could."
  "You fought them?" Riley asked. "How did you do
that, Doctor?"
  Shulman chuckled with laughter of a gentle man.
  "I preserved the core programming." His
muscles began to tense; as he spoke, his tone
rose shrilly. "If they knew, they would kill
me. But that was my greatest work. The core
programming!" His eyes widened as his back arched
against the straps and he let out a high-pitched
screech.
  McCoy swore and administered more drugs. "That
thing is shocking the hell out of him! ,He must be in
agony."
  Within seconds, the scientist's body relaxed and
his eyes shut in sleep. McCoy shook his head
grimly and turned toward Riley. "I've got
to dose the daylights out of him just to counteract the flow
of stimulants from that implant. We're never
gonna get anywhere this way."
  "Maybe not, Doc," Riley said, his
expression hopeful.
  "That's one of the things Ahab--
Lieutenant Saed--and I wanted to tell you when
we got here. The Recovery's core programming
is intact--I saw it function myself. That's what
prevented Shulman from killing me a few minutes
ago. It just needed its conscience pricked a little.
Don't you think Admiral Kirk should know that?"
  McCoy brightened. "Go tell Josiah. He'd
established a comm link a little while ago. If he
gets through again, he can transmit that. I'll work on
Shulman. You go on. He's not getting off this bed
now."
  Riley nodded and left to bring Cadet Ngo his
message.
  "Mr. Diksen," Commander Sonak said
quietly.
  "Yes, sir?" Now what? Diksen wondered as
she juggled her board, leaving channels open for
Josiah and the new ship coming up on them, and managing
the critical communications going on within the ship.
  She couldn't believe she once thought this post was
boring.
  "You are still unable to communicate with Recovery?"
  "Yes, sir." Out of respect for the Vulcan,
she tried to keep the frustration out of her voice, but
knew she wasn't succeeding very well.
  "I may have a solution. I've prepared a
prerecorded transmission that begins and ends with the
alien programming signals. It is possible that
Recovery may accept communications couched in her
invader's language."
  Kirk must've heard him, because he spun in the
chair. "Excellent idea, Mr. Sonak.
Let's do it, Mr. Diksen."
  She nodded, tickled to be trying something new.
  "The transmission has the coordinates for the
empty cargo bay, Captain," Sonak explained
as he returned to his station. "It also suggests
Mr. Ngo try this method of transmission as
well. If we succeed, we might establish
two-way communications. Sending now, Mr.
Diksen."
  "Got it, sir. Transmitting." She blinked
as she heard a new sound in her ear. "Captain,
we're being hailed --by the unknown ship."
  Kirk paused, then turned in his chair. "On
screen, Mr. Diksen."
  The meditation proved unsuccessful.
  During it, Spock's sense of connection
to McCoy and Jim Kirk had only increased, as
had the uneasy sense that they were in
danger...
  And the irrational conviction that he, Spock, could
somehow help.
  And so he had risen from his place on the
now-cooling stone and, in the gray, numinous hour just
before the desert dawn, had stepped silently from his
small cell and moved down the long, dark
passageway carved from the mountain's heart, past a
hundred unlit doorways like his own.
  He did not slow at the stone stairway at the
passageway's end, but glided swiftly down the
steps, down level after level, until he found the
hidden passageway known only to those joined
to Gol's mind-tree--the passageway that led down
into the very belly of the mountain.
  At last, before the great glittering black archway,
engraved countless aeons before Surak's peaceful
revolution with symbols sacred and profane,
Spock paused, and reflected on the gravity of
what he was about to do. The technique he was about to use
to purge himself of emotional ties was to be done only
when all other efforts failed--and then not lightly,
or with skepticism.
  He collected himself, and stepped through the archway,
past the two eternally burning oil lamps
flanking the entrance, into deep shadow.
  The sight that awaited him was one from Vulcan's
far-distant past: an ancient stone altar on which
blood was once spilt, and before it, a great graven
statue calculated to inspire adoration and terror.
  This was the shrine of a warrior goddess, her image
sculpted from Gol's black rock to show the body
of a comely Vulcan female and the fierce, grimacing
face of ale matya, fangs bared for the kill.
Sekhet: the goddess of the desert, of heat, fire,
destruction.
  In ancient times, the mind-lords had enlisted
Sekhet's aid in destroying their enemies. Then,
the mountain retreat had been a fortress, a
stronghold for those determined to control Vulcan; and
Gol had been a shrine devoted to her worship. A
passionate, war-loving deity, she had been defeated
by Surak's cool logic and the transformation of the
mind-lords into the peaceful Kolinahru. Worship of
violence, of ancestral and pagan gods, had long
ago ceased.
  But even now, millennia later, her shrine was
maintained, guarded from prying eyes of outworlders.
  The ritual of Sekhet was used in extreme
circumstances by those Kolinahr initiates
who could dissolve emotional links no other way.
Sekhet still destroyed--not enemies, but emotions; and
though the Kolinahru generally did not believe in the
existence of personal goddesses, they understood the
effect of ritual upon the Vulcan subconscious,
and the power invested in the ancestral group mind by a
thousand centuries of worship.
  So Spock entered, head bowed, and approached the
great stone image, five meters tall and backlit
by flickering oil lamps. He stood in the deep
shadow cast by the statue and turned his mind inward..
  As he stood, eyes half-closed before the
ancient image of Sekhet, a vision came to him
with such compelling vividness that he was at once
stricken to silence.
  He no longer stood before the millennia-old stone
goddess in a sanctuary carved from the base of a
mountain, but instead sat in the captain's chair
aboard the Enterprise. Leonard McCoy stood
beside him, and together they stared at the remarkable sight on
the viewscreen: the creature that called itself
Loskene, veiled in a glittering red shroud against a
background of unbearably intense indigo.
  At the same time, there was pain: the pain of grief
over his inability to save Jim; the pain of
anger at Loskene, at McCoy for his irrational
attacks.
  A fresh image overlaid the other: the moment that
he turned to McCoy and said, "Tin sure the
captain wouMore have said, 'Forget it, Bones.""
  McCoy falling forward, into his arms.
  Into his arms...
  Sekhet and Gol were forgotten; Spock could see
the doctor before him, feel his cool human flesh in
his hands. It was as though he had reached across time and
space to physically touch his friend.
  And the sensation of touching McCoy melded with the
brilliant crimson and indigo vision of the
mysterious Loskene ....
  Chapter Ten
  ABOARD THE Paladin's bridge, Reese
Diksen's fingers played a mindless arpeggio over the
controls of the brilliantly blinking comm board.
Managing the critical communications aboard the ship
as well as leaving channels open for Josiah and the
anonymous approaching vessel had kept her
blessedly busy almost busy enough to forget her shock over
Pulver's death, her fears for her friend, her bitter
disappointment when attempt after attempt
to communicate again with Josiah failed.
  Almost.
  "Mr. Diksen."
  She started at Commander Sonak's calm voice
nearby, and glanced up to see him standing beside her, hands
folded behind his back.
  "Yes, sir?" She swiveled to face him,
half expecting to be given another task to add
to her mounting list.
  To think she had once considered communications
boring...
  "You are still unable to communicate with Recovery?"
  "Yes, sir." Out of respect for the Vulcan,
she tried to keep the frustration out of her voice, and
failed utterly.
  If her oh'vious dismay disturbed him, he showed
no sign--only gave a curt but gracious nod.
"I may have a solution. I've prepared a
prerecorded transmission that begins and ends with the
alien programming signals. It is possible that
Recovery may accept communications couched in her
invader's language."
  Kirk must've heard him, because he spun in his
chair toward them. "Excellent idea, Sonak.
Let's do it, Mr. Diksen."
  "Aye, sir," she replied vdth a
grin of relief, grateful to be trying something new.
  "The transmission has the coordinates for the
empty cargo bay, Captain," Sonak explained
as he returned to his station. "It also suggests
Mr. Ngo try this method of transmission as
well. If we succeed, we might establish
two-way communications. Sending now, Mr.
Diksen."
  "Got it, sir. Transmitting." A sudden
burst of static came through her earpiece. She
grimaced and tuned into the newly incoming channel,
then blinked in surprise at the strange sound: the
Universal Translator had chosen to represent
the voice not as one, but a multitude of voices.
"Captain, we're being hailed--by the unknown ship."
  "Mr. Ngo," Lieutenant Saed said, as she
moved to the cadet's side, "Dr. McCoy has
set a high priority on transmitting certain
information to the admiral.
  What's the status on communication?"
  Josiah ran a brown hand through his tightly
curled hair and sighed; communications were a mess.
"It looks like my tampering may have caused new
problems, sir. This code can generate itself, like an
old-style virus. Since I made that
brief communication breakthrough, it's overwritten every
pathway I'd made and created new barriers. It
doesn't look good."
  It wasn't easy, either, trying to do creative
counterprogramming in Standard and Vulcan, with
Shulman screaming maniacally in the next room about
"the three!" The chant was like an annoying song
Josiah couldn't get out of his mind. The three.
  The three. The holy triad...
  He had to get a bigger view of things than what
was contained in this tiny room. For all he knew, the
Recovery could have already violated Tholian space,
which would give them all time for nothing more than a quick
prayer, anyway. He circumvented communications
and rerouted over to sensors.
  The screen on the diagnostic computer flickered
to life with images of the space around the ship.
Josiah could see part of what seemed to be a
Federation starship--the Paladin"...mand part of the
Recovery's hull and little else. But the flow of
data over the screen told him plenty.
  "Sir..." He straightened in his chair as disthe
lieutenant leaned over him. "We've come to a dead
halt.
  Looks like the Paladin's out there,
too."
  "Is Recovery preparing to fire?" Saed's
dark velvet brow was furrowed with worry. "Can you
get into her defense system?"
  He shook his head. "That's too heavily
secured; I'm not even sure Shulman could get
into it now. It doesn't look like she's arming,
anyway but something's going on. The computer's
analyzing and scanning like crazy."
  No sooner did he finish saying that than a
telltale lit up by his left hand.
  "An incoming communication!" Josiah crowed, and
scrambled to grab the transmission. For a split
second, he almost groaned as he recognized the
same alien gibberish that had appeared in the code; but
then the clear, calm voice of Commander Sonak
filtered through the grid.
  "This is the Starship Paladin calling Federation
officers aboard the Recovery. Cadet Ngo, if
you can hear me, I advise you to begin and end your
communications with the same preface and suffix matrix
we used. It might permit us to establish two-way
communications.
  Transmissions will have rough spots, but even so--"
Abruptly, his voice broke up
into squealing static.
  But then it came back, seemingly at the point it
had been interrupted. "tit should suffice. Prepare
to record the following coordinates for relocating
Recovery passengers."
  "Is the recorder working?" Saed asked
excitedly.
  "Yes, sir." Josiah captured all the
information the Paladin was sending. "Now, if we could
only lower the shields..."
  "Can you fix our communications the way Sonak
suggested?" Sued asked, as Josiah manipulated
the tricorder and Vulcan analyzer.
  He nodded. That wouldn't be too hard, and it made
sense. Wrap the transmission up in dressing the
weird programming could accept. Wrap it up
in-The three. The three. Three. Three.
  Josiah blinked.
  Three. Three. The damned programming
wasn't binary--it was tertiaryst Tertiary
programming, in some alien language. Looking at
the code again, he could see the repetitive pattern
of symbols stand out as if it had been highlighted.
And if he could get Sonak working on it- He
started manipulating data furiously,
finding. a chunk of alien programming to wrap his
message
  "The programming is tertiary," Josiah said,
grinning broadly up at Lieutenant Saed.
"Whoever planted this has got to have a really different
biology or brain or something, because they program in
tertiary, while all the other races we currently
know program in binary. If Sonak turns this
over to the Paladin computer with that information, we should be
able to translate this stuff. That's the key. We could
drop the shields, turn this baby around, and all go
home!"
  Josiah worked doggedly over his instruments. "If
I can couch this just right and establish a two-way
interface--it'll be clumsy with this alien stuff
tacked on, but--"
  "Admiral," Sonak called from his station, "the
vessel hailing us is Tholian. And... they have
lowered their shields."
  Jim glanced over at the science officer to see the
Vulcan gazing back at him with an expression of
frank astonishment--an emotion shared by everyone on the
bridge. "How polite," he said, swiveling
back to contemplate the viewscreen, where Recovery
hovered, vast and forbidding. "But we'll
keep our shields up."
  He was not particularly surprised that the ship was
Tholian. After all, Recovery was nearing the farthest
boundary of their border--according to what they considered their
latest "territorial annex"--and the Tholians were
obsessed with trespassers. However, he was startled
--and wordfed--by the open-handed gesture they presented with
their lowered shields. Recovery was in range of both
ships, and she was totally unpredictable. Would the
rogue ship also recognize the peace gesture and
respect it--or again take advantage of it?
  "On screen, Mr. Diksen," he ordered, and
settled back into his chair. Captain
Romolo's chair, he corrected himself. If
Baldassare is still alive. Mine only for the
moment. And this moment might be all there The image
on the screen wavered, then re-formed--distorted, the
colors not quite right, the shapes not quite formed.
  He almost ordered Diksen to check the screen for
malfunctions when he realized: This is what
Spock and the crew saw while I was trapped in the
spatial rift.
  The Tholians, it was said, belonged to a race of
creatures whose visible spectrum was so alien
to humans they could be viewed only by having
the computer filter out all unaqceptable spectra.
Likewise, the Tholians required special
visors to be able to view humans. It also gave
them an excuse to hide their forms; they were nothing if
not compulsively private.
  The Federation believed they belonged to a
technologically advanced, tightly controlled
society--but in truth, almost nothing was known about them.
The only thing the Federation had learned during the
incident between the Starship Enterprise and the Tholians
almost three years ago was that the Tholians"
technology--as manifested by their unusual force
web--had developed along a different path than the
Federation's.
  Kirk had had no involvement with the aliens--
Spock had been in command--and had seen them only when
reviewing the ship's logs of the incident.
  Spock had always regretted that the incident had
been marred by violence.
  He squinted at the image of the Tholian commander
--a featureless figure draped in a shimmering
ruby shroud against a backdrop of wavering
brilliant blue. The being peered out through two
opaque triangular slits that served as its
visor.
  Kirk hesitated. There was no identifying
legend beneath the image in either Federation Standard or the
Tholian language to tell him who he was about
to address.
  "This is Commander Lokara of the Tholian vessel
Skotha." The creature spoke in a voice that was
neither male or female, not one but a hundred
different voices, a chorus of octaves ranging from
the highest to the lowest Kirk's ears could register.
  "Admiral," Sonak said quietly. "The
@.kotha was the Tholian observer ship at the
simulation site."
  Kirk nodded in acknowledgment. So... they hadn't
been destroyed at the simulation after all ....
  ,Admiral Kirk in command of the Starship
Paladin. I thought all the observer vessels had
been attacked by the Recovery at the simulation."
  The Tholian's shimmering red veil made it
impossible to read its expression; its voice
remained more perfectly toneless than a Vulcan's.
"We evaded damage by the closest of margins. When
we realized the rescue vessel was aiming for our own
border, we understood the gravity of the situation. Should
Recovery trespass into Tholian space, the
Tholian Assembly will view it as a
deliberate act of war."
  "We are doing everything in our power to stop that from
happening," Kirk assured him.
  "We had hoped you would say that, Admiral
Kirk," Lokara said, in a multipitched
cascade. "That is why we have approached you with
shields down. We were impressed by the Federation's
invitation to observe the Recovery's activities,
and the performance of the rescue ship. We believe that this
is a terrible accident, a mechanical failure that
was completely unintentional.
  However, we may not be able to convince the
Assembly of this. Is there some way that you and I
might work together to prevent Recovery from violating
our border?"
  "That is--a possibility," Kirk said, careful
to keep the wariness from his tone. With Romulan or
Klingon adversaries, he could at least try to read
an expression, a tone of voice--but it was
impossible to try to judge Lokara's veracity.
Even so, something about the Tholian made him
distinctly uneasy. "We have been hoping to rescue
the innocent people trapped aboard because of your added
presence. She is probably trying to determine your
intentions. Your peaceful show is admirable,
but I warn you to be cautious. You are vulnerable
without your shields, and we have no control over that
ship."
  "I am comforted that you are concerned for our welfare,
Admiral Kirk. May I respectfully
suggest that your defensive posture might be
interpreted as hostility by Recovery, who even now
scans us both?"
  Sonak moved over to the admiral's side, and
said, loud enough so only Kirk could hear, "Lokara
is telling the truth, Admiral. Recovery has
been analyzing us ever since she halted. She is
fully ,aware of our capabilities--and our
limitations."
  "Close audio," Kirk said softly
to Diksen, then turned toward the Vulcan. "Are you
suggesting we drop our shields?"
  Sonak paused for a beat. "It is a logical
course of action, Admiral, considering
Recovery's previous aggression toward ships with
defensive capabilities. And it would be a
gesture of good faith to Lokara. It might even
buy us time with Recovery--time we could use to come up
with a feasible plan of action with the Skotha."
  It was precisely what Spock would have
said quintessentially logical, and an opportunity
to make up for the unfortunate incident years before with the
Enterprise.
  Even so, instinct insisted on keeping the shields
up, as strongly as he could hold them.
  As the Vulcan returned to his station, Kirk
turned back toward the viewscreen, where Lokara
waited, motionless, unfathomable.
  Finally, Sonak's soft baritone broke the
silence.
  "Recovery's sensors show activity,
Captain."
  "She's arming herself?." Kirk asked.
  "No, but she is assessing her defenses.
She's taking inventory and comparing her armature against
ours."
  "Ours," Kirk repeated. "Not the
Tholians'?"
  "That is correct, sir."
  "Diksen," Kirk said, "any communications from
Recovery?"
  "Negative, Captain."
  The admiral turned back to stare at Lokara.
  Reese Diksen watched Admiral Kirk
speak to the painfully brilliant image
of the Tholian and forced herself to counteract the adrenaline
rush by breathing slowly and not thinking about the fact that they
might very well decide to fire on the Paladin,
or worse, the Recovery .... She tried
to distract herself from the fear by recalling all the times
during the Enterprise's five-year mission that he
had lowered shields in dangerous situations. Sometimes
he had done it willingly, sometimes not. Judging from the
tension in his body and voice, this time it was
definitely the latter.
  And that made her nervous--because Kirk's experience
had sharpened his uncanny instinct. And if Kirk
didn't trust the Tholians...
  She forced herself to drop the unsettling train of
thought.
  "Admiral," Sonak said quietly,
"Recovery continues her defensive inventory."
  Kirk never relaxed a bit, as though he hadn't
heard his science officer. The admiral just kept one
arm folded at his waist, the other elbow resting atop
it so that one fist could support his chin as he frowned
at the split image on the viewscreen--on one
side, the Skotha, the Paladin, and the Recovery,
all poised in a deadly triangle, and on the other
the faceless Tholian Lokara.
  Audio communications were still closed to the Tholians
as Kirk said softly, "All hands--maintain
battle stations." Then, with a taut nod, he
signaled Reese to reopen the audio channel.
  "Lokara," Kirk began, obviously hedging,
"you said there might be some way that we can work together
to prevent Recovery from violating your border.
We've been unable to affect the actions of the ship at
all. What do you suggest?"
  "I have sent communications to the ships that guard our
border," Lokara said, in his--her? Reese
wondered; impossible to judge--peculiar
high-pitched chorus.
  She glanced back at her board, and saw another
light blinking furiously there: a communication was coming
in from outside the ship. Glancing from the viewscreen
and the communication with Lokara to this new signal, she
deliberated on what to do. Now wasn't the time
to interrupt the admiral, but this could be a
transmission from Josiah. Had he received the last
transmission she'd sent, the one Sonak
programmed?
  Keeping one eye and ear on the viewscreen, she
screwed her receiver even tighter in her other ear and
cued in the new transmission, signaling
Sonak and sending it to his science station at the same
time. The Vulcan, as the senior officer, could
decide when to interrupt the admiral.
  "I have told the commanders of our guardian ships,"
Lokara continued, "all that has happened with
Recovery. I have explained about the vessel's
mechanical breakdown. I have tried to make them
understand that if Recovery does violate our
territorial annex, it will be because of the actions of the
ship itself. I am currently awaiting their
response."
  Reese only half registered this information as she
heard the whistle of the alien programming followed by a
burst of silence, then Josiah's voice. She
glanced at Sonak and he nodded at her, indicating
he was hearing the same. His hands moved efficiently
over his board and suddenly she had bidirectional
communications.
  "This is Josiah Ngo on the Recovery.
Hope you can hear this, Reese. Tell Commander
Sonak that the strange programming in Recovery's
system is a tertiary-based code. That's
tertiary, not binary."
  "He's receiving your transmission at the same time
I am, Josiah," Reese told him,
knowing the smile on her face could be heard in her
voice, "and he's established dual communications.
What's your status?
  Did you halt Recovery?"
  "Negative. Recovery is still operating
independently.
  Commander Riley, Lieutenant Saed, and myself
are all okay. Dr. McCoy has Myron
Shulman under medical care, but he hasn't gotten
many answers yet.
  Oh, and Lieutenant Saed reminds me that
Shulman has confirmed that Recovery's core
programming is still intact. However, how that will
BR-EESE, I'm losing!"
  His voice broke up into static and squeals again,
then finally was lost:
  Lokara gazed upon the countenance of the human who had
caused its triad such anguish, and was grateful for the
fine layer of opaque mesh that hid the hatred and
frustration etched deep into its features.
  Its specially designed visor allowed Lokara
to view the bizarre shapes and drab colors of the
Federation's worlds.
  So far, Lokara had been unsuccessful in
convincing Kirk to lower his shields, in
spite of Recovery's scanning and the Skotha's own
lowered shields. The despised' alien was entirely
too paranoid, and Lokara was running out of convincing
arguments. Seeing its partner, Srillk, signaling
for attention, Lokara wondered if Srillk might
have some information that might resolve this.
  "Excuse me, Admiral Kirk," it
politely told the dark image wavering in its
viewscreen, "but one of my subordinates needs
to address me. Perhaps there might be news from the
Assembly."
  "I understand, Lokara," Kirk replied.
"I'll be waiting."
  With your shields still raise!! Lokara thought
disgustedly.
  The Skotha's commander signaled for the audio to be
terminated from its communications with the Paladin, then
moved to a private area where it could consult with its
subordinate.
  Srillk, diminutive and graceful,
approached, its head bowed low in a gesture of
respectability so that its veil draped forward
elegantly. "Lokara, our agent is failing."
  "Dying?" Lokara asked, and even through the
protective visor it could see the concern
etched in its subordinate's expression. They were so
close to their goal, so close
  "Perhaps, but damaged beyond repair. The mental
adjunct has pushed the frail body and brain far
beyond its normal abilities. Yet, the agent has
successfully prevented the Federation staff aboard
Recovery from affecting the outcome of our actions."
  Even as its subordinate--who was also its life
partner--said this last, Lokara prayed that Srillk was
correct. Srillk's connection to the agent had been
shattered by the alien substances that had been introduced
to the agent's body, and Srillk could only
surmise what had happened. But Srillk had to be
correct. Lokara could not believe that they would get
this far and fail. How else could they ever face
Lanra?
  Glancing back at the grotesque human named
Kirk, Lokara remembered all the work they had
done to achieve their end. Through it all, Srillk had
handled the assignment brilliantly.
  It was Srillk who had managed to have the human
Shulman captured, and have the brain device--a
mechanism Lokara had had designed--implanted
only weeks before the Recovery's scheduled
simulation around Zotos IV. The
device had worked even better than they had hoped,
causing Shulman to be obsessed with the drug-induced
suggestion that his program was imperfect. It became
impossible for the human to rest until he completed
redesigning it for Lokara's ends.
  "Srillk," Lokara said affectionately, "I
have faith that all will evolve as we have designed it.
After all your diligence, your work, there could be no
other outcome."
  The smaller Srillk waved an appendage as
if to negate its work; the nest of tentacles at the
end of Srillk's golden arm writhed nervously.
"None of it would have happened had you not obtained the
necessary classified information ...."
  That was true, Lokara thought. The Assembly's
research into human physiology and the proposed use
of mind-altering drugs delivered by a computer-driven
internal device were critical to the mission.
  Fortunately, the humans had many enemies, and
those enemies were shockingly easy to bribe.
  Srillk added, "And if your family had not
provided the funds--"
  Lokara stopped its companion. Gently, the
soldier's own finger-tentacles captured
Srillk's. "It is not my family, but
our family. Are you not one of my own mates? Are
you not also Lanra's partner?" The very sound of that one's
name stirred an emotion inside Lokara's'being more
fierce than even its pride, even its ambition.
  "Lanra's partner until death," Srillk said
sorrowfully.
  Srillk peered through its own helmet
into Lokara's, looking through the eye shields to fasten
its gaze on its partner's image hidden behind
optical protection. "I visited Lanra before
coming to the bridge. I told the loved one what we
had done, how we would exact our revenge. I
told Lanra that Kirk was near, that our vengeance
would soon be complete. Lanra...
  touched me, Lokara. I think our partner understood
andmiddot;.. and approved."
  "I pray you are right," Lokara murmured.
  The Tholian commander had visited Lanra just that
morning. The lovely breeder who had been their chosen
partner, the one who would have borne their many offspring, was
nothing now but a scarred, mindless hulk, incapable of
breeding, incapable of loving, incapable of anything
except experiencing the pain of injuries that would never
fully heal. In spite of this, Lokara and
Srillk both prayed every day for their
breeder's life, even though their partner's tortured
existence prevented them from bringing another breeder
into their triad, prevented them from producing the
offspring that, for a Tholian, was the manifestation of a
completed, full life. Without their breeder, Lokara
and Srillk were two-thirds of nothing, without
purpose, without desire. Yet they prayed for
Lanra's life.
  The three partners had been on Loskene's
vessel when it encountered the human starship
Enterprise.
  There had been an exchange of phaser fire, and
Lanra's station had exploded. No part of the
lovely breeder's body had been spared. So now
instead of children, Lanra gave Lokara, and its partner
Srillk, a different reason for living. It was their
prime focus, a task they had applied themselves
to all this time.
  Vengeance.
  When the Federation had made its clumsy gesture
of friendship, Lokara had decided that the human
Myron Shulman--who was already in a fierce
disagreement with Kirk--would be the perfect instrument of
that vengeance: a vengeance that would encompass all of
humankind, a vengeance worthy of a
Tholian.
  There were other considerations as well; Lokara had
long possessed political ambition. It was his
hope to transmute his personal vengeance into a war,
one that would unify the annexes and cause them to rally
around its instigator--and appoint Lokara to a
much-coveted position on the Assembly.
  "The agent's action will suffice," Lokara said
confidently.
  "Even with complete failure of the agent,
Recovery's altered program can now function
well enough on its own to fulfill the plan. Nothing will
stop that ship from violating the border with all her
passengers. She will be captured in our webs and
all her technology and power will be ours to take.
There will be war--and finally, we will have the edge over our
enemies. Our triad will be the catalyst, and will grow
in power, even with a damaged breeder. And Kirk, before
he dies, will know this is the result of his actions, and
those of his subordinates."
  Srillk relaxed. "You are right about the
programming, my partner."
  Lokara touched its companion. "Yes. The
Recovery itself will be our agent now." The @.kotha's
commander turned back to the viewscreen
to face the human--for what would be the last time.
  "Myron, can you hear me?" McCoy murmured
into the man's ear. He had hit upon a combination of
anesthetics and a cortical stimulator, which worked
together to produce a calm, hypnotic state in his
patient. "We're heading for Tholian space. Do
you know why? Can you stop the ship? Myron? Can you
hear me?"
  "I hear you," the researcher mumbled.
  "Open your eyes, Myron, and look at this. Can
you see it? Can you tell me what it is?,"
  Shulman opened his eyes and peered blearily at
the wrinkled flimsy the doctor held before him.
  "Notes," he whispered finally, letting his head
loll away from it and his interrogator. "Notes.
My notes.
  Their notes."
  "Who are they, Myron? Tell me who they
are."
  "You know. You know. Y. And Spock. And
Kirk.
  You know. You know the three."
  "How do we know the three?" McCoy, asked
pointedly.
  "You invaded their space on the pretext
of saving Kirk. You violated the territorial
annex." Shulman's voice remained deep and
dreamy, but grew faintly accusing. "You remained
there even after being told to leave. You disregarded their
laws. When they engaged you in legal combat, you
returned fire and destroyed the breeder. The breeder
lives, but deformed, unable to breed. You destroyed the
three. Y. And Spock".
  And Kirk."
  McCoy felt a rush of d6jh vu so powerful
he almost lost his balance.
  Territorial annex...
  He stared at the alien writing and suddenly knew
who it had belonged to.
  '7 am Commander Loskene. You are trespassing
in the territorial annex of the Tholian
Assembly ...."
  He had been standing beside Spock on the
Enterprise bridge.
  I remember now," Spook was in command. Jim
was lost in a spatial rift and we were trying to save
him before he ran out of air. The effects of the unstable
space were making the crew crazy, and made roe
fight with Spock irrationally. We almost lost the ship
because of our warring. It was viewing Jim's
" orders" that snapped me out of it and made us work
like the team we were supposed to be. I can't speak for the
Vulcan, but I was pretty damned embarrassed
by the whole thing.
  He swallowed, remembering the incident vividly
now. For a brief second he felt Spock's
presence like a palpable thing, and could hear the Vulcan
say clearly to him "I understand, Doctor. I'm
sure Jim would've just said, "Forget it,
Bones."" It was one of the warmest, most human things
Spock had ever said to him.
  He was suddenly flooded by the memory of empathy
and understanding he'd received from his Vulcan friend. It had
been a terrible, emotional time, all of it taking
place while the Enterprise was slowly being trapped
inside the Tholian web.
  This whole thing was Tholian--not accident or bad
design, but revenge against him and Jim, revenge that
would involve intergalactic war.
  He had to tell Jim. Suddenly his patient
clutched at his sleeve.
  "I fought them--other ways" the sickly man
gasped.
  "How, Myron?"
  "I saved Angie!" Shulman's
lips twitched in a pale attempt at a smile.
"I set the phaser on stun. It was the only time
I got away with it. Every time after that, they made me
set it to kill. I tried not to but--" He groaned
and squeezed his eyes shut. "But I saved
Angie."
  McCoy swallowed and lied, "That's right. You
saved her." He took a second to get his
emotions under control, then he asked, "Myron.
How can we get Recovery to transport everyone
on board to another vessel, another set of
coordinates?"
  The suffering man gasped and blinked. "Universal
evacuation command. Didn't want to risk Titanic
scenario. One of the first safety margins. Even
Kirk noted it. They couldn't make me rewrite
that. But they made me narrow the scope. On my
override codes only. My pocket." He
struggled with every word.
  McCoy checked every pocket in his suit before
finally finding the tiny card. "Insert this in any
port, and give the evacuation command and
coordinates?"
  Myron smiled. "Plan B."
  McCoy returned his smile. This was
another part of the original programming he'd
preserved while the Tholian device in his head
tortured him into doing what it wanted.
  "What's Plan B for stopping the ship from
crossing the Tholian border?" McCoy pressed.
  Myron started to weep big, huge tears and the
trembling began again. McCoy knew he'd asked
the wrong question, but in spite of more drug manipulation,
he couldn't stop the brain chip inside the scientist
from punishing him.
  "Can't--stop--her--from going home!" Shub man
gasped, each word sounding as if it had been torn out
of him. "Sheand I--are going home together."
  "The hell you are," McCoy grumbled, and
administered enough anesthetic to put Shulman
completely out ran into the next room.
  under Countless light-years distant, in the wavering
shadow-limned shrine of Sekhet, Spock opened his
eyes and let go a silent sigh as the troubling vision
of Loskene, Kirk, and McCoy faded. The
sensation that he sat in the captain's chair aboard the
Enterprise had vanished as well; now he perceived
only the black, glittering interior of Mount
Seleya, the stone altar, the fierce, bestial
image that towered above him.
  Yet the conviction that his two friends remained in
danger persisted was did the sense that he had done
all that he could to help them.
  Irrational, Spock knew; utterly irrational.
It could only mean that further effort was necessary to sever the
emotional bonds.
  And so, drawing a breath, he began once more
to turn inward ....
  "Have you got Paladin?" Josiah heard
McCoy ask, as the doctor dashed up, nearly out
of breath, to the diagnostics computer now a
substitute for the communications station.
  Josiah ground his teeth while manipulating the
tricorder and Vulcan analyzer's interphase with the
diagnostic computer so quickly that Lieutenant Saed
had given up trying to help him. He had
to recapture that lost channel, but Recovery was
fighting him through every line of code.
  "We had them," Saed explained to Dr.
McCoy, "but then we lost them."
  "We'll get them back in a minute,"
Josiah promised --mostly just to reassure himself.
  McCoy leaned over the console, his blue eyes
bright with excitement, his words coming out in a barely
comprehensible rush. "Shulman told me--
this whole thing is Tholian! It's bound to be their
programming.
  From what I could ascertain, their mating cycIe
involves three. Kirk has got to be told!"
He thumped the console for emphasis.
  "Dr. McCoy," Riley said tensely,
"where's Dr. Shulman?"
  "Completely under sedation and restrained, Commander,"
McCoy snapped back. "I know better than
to leave a patient in that condition uncontrolled."
He looked down at Josiah. "Look, we've
got to transmit this information right away. Did you
tell Kirk about the core programming?"
  "We told Commander Sonak," Josiah
assured him.
  "He'll relay it."
  Unable to make any progress on communications,
Josiah went back to the viewscreen and tried
to get more information from the sensors. The picture on the
viewscreen moved, and Josiah realized suddenly
there was a third ship in the picture that had been
hidden by Recovery's huge bulk. He squinted.
What kind of ship design was that? He'd never seen
anything that sleek, that triangular--then he heard
McCoy nearly strangle on an
expletive.
  "That-that ship!" the doctor stammered. "That's a
Tholian ship! You've got to open a channel!"
  "I'll do what I can," Josiah replied,
straightening in his chair and swiveling it closer to the
console as the small group stared in unison at the
diagnostic computer's screen. He reached
determinedly for the controls- And stiflened at the sudden
jolt of hot, electrifying pain that pierced his
back, his ribs, his entire left side.
  He looked down in amazed agony to see a thin
strip of metal--a piece of trim, he realized
with disbelief, from a Federation shuttle--protruding from
between two ribs. A bright red stain spread like an
expanding sunburst on the front of his uniform.
  "Oh, no," he moaned in frustration more than
pain.
  I don't have time for this now....
  He glanced up to see the startled faces of
McCoy, Riley, Saed staring at something behind
him... at the source of the fiat, mechanical
voice that said, "There is no help. For Kirk, for
you, there is only this--revenge for the three!"
  Myron Shulman's voice, he realized, with
dreamlike detachment. The last word became
an agonized groan ... and then was followed by the
sound of a body dropping heavily to the floor.
  Riley's and Saed's faces disappeared;
McCoy's loomed closer, then dimmed as the room
began to spin. As he lost consciousness, Josiah's
mind repeated the damnable phrase over and over:
  The three/the three/the three... still
  Chapter Eleven
  ARMS FOLDED TIGHTLY in front of his
chest, Kirk stood awaiting Lokara's return;
the nagging sense of unease kept him from settling
back into Romolo's chair. It made all the
sense in the worlds to accept the Tholians" peaceful
overtures; they had, after all, agreed to take part
in the simulation.
  Yet there was something about Lokara he simply could
not trust. Perhaps it was just the veil, which kept him from
seeing his opponent face-to-face; or perhaps it was
simple prejudice, based on the Enterprise's
unfortunate encounter.
  "Admiral," the communications officer called,
interrupting his uncomfortable reverie. He turned and
gazed at her impossibly young face, with its
trace of childish plumpness at cheek and jawline.
  Communications cadet, he reminded himself
with a ghost of a mental smile. All of these kids have
corn ported themselves like a seasoned crew.
Baldassare shouMore be proud.
  As he was proud, even though this was not his ship, his
crew. There had been little time, ever since he had
taken command of Paladin, to reflect on how it
felt... but suddenly, with a sense of infinite
gratitude to Romolo, to his ship, to his
battle-weary crew, to the cadet staring at him, he
realized that, for the first time in two and a half years,
he felt alive.
  "There's been a call from Recovery," Diksen
told him, her large brown eyes a bit wide as
she glanced anxiously beyond his shoulder at the interior
of the Tholian vessel on the screen. "Would you like
to see it now?"
  "Yes, on screen. Flag me as soon as
Lokara hails again."
  "Aye, sir."
  The split viewscreen image was replaced by a
dim, static-ridden picture that had been
transmitted from one of Recovery's medical
computers--Bones had a hand in that, no doubt. He
noted that McCoy wasn't onscreen, then realized
he must be tending to Myron Shulman while
Ngo, Riley, and Lieutenant Saed worked on the
transmission.
  He nodded as he heard Ngo's report about the
tertiary programming, and the fact that Recovery's
core programming was still intact. Interesting, but...
  He glanced over his shoulder toward the science station
--it was easy, if he did not look carefully,
to imagine that it was Spock huddled there over the
viewer. "Commander Sonak, any speculations on
who's responsible for that tertiary programming?"
  The shorter, younger Vulcan shook his head. "I
am totally unfamiliar with it, sir. However, knowing
its basis gives us an opportunity to break its
code. The computer is working on it now. If we can
translate the code quickly enough, we might be able
to use it to gain control of the ship before she travels
into Tholian space."
  "Keep me informed." He forced himself back to the
command chair and sat on its edge. "Diksen, any
luck getting through to the Recovery again?"
  "Working on it, sir, but no breakthrough yet. The
ship's computer seems to be able to build walls
faster than we can break them down." She paused,
listening, her furrowed-brow expression of distant
concentration instantly recognizable. "The
@.kotha is hailing us, again, Admiral."
  "On screen, Mr. Diksen," he said
automatically, swiveling back to face the
viewscreen.
  "Forgive the delay, Admiral," Commander
Lokara apologized, as the Tholian's wavering
image reappeared.
  "I have been able to address the Assembly."
  For the first time, Kirk gazed at the alien and felt
a glimmer of hope.
  "Don't touch that lance!" McCoy barked at
Riley and Lieutenant Saed. The wicked piece
of metal trim perforating the back of the padded
chairback Josiah sat in protruded some six
inches from beneath the cadet's next-to-last rib, and,
no doubt, through his lung and perhaps a few internal
organs as well.
  However, it was low enough to miss the; heart.
  McCoy couldn't believe the raw physical
force the Tholian implant had been able to produce
to make Shulman overcome the sedation and the sickbay
cot's restraints, then throw the makeshift lance with
such power. He glanced over at Shulman's still form
and wondered whether the scientist was dead.
  Why didn't the computer protect
Josiah the way it protected Riley? McCoy
fretted, but only for a minute.
  No doubt the computer had been unable to interpret
a piece of shuttle trim as anything dangerous.
  "Easy, son," McCoy said gently to the
critically wounded young man pinned in his chair.
Josiah's ashen gray face wore an expression
of complete startlement, but he'd said little when he was
hit.
  "We're gonna get you out of this." He tried not
to listen to his mind screaming about Tholians and
communicating with Kirk and the incredible urgency they were
in.
  The doctor glanced over at Riley and Saed,
who were crouched over the motionless scientist. "I
don't want to move Josiah," McCoy said
softly. "But I do want to stabilize him as much as
possible. Riley, go.
  into sickbay and wheel the cabinet I was working will in
here. Most of what I need is on it. And can you
tell me if Shulman--"
  "He's alive," Riley said softly as he
leaned closer over the unconscious man. "Breathing
shallow, some eye reflex... no reaction to mild
stimuli." He rose, keeping his gaze
on Shulman as though he still didn't trust him, then
finally exited.
  "Can I help?" Anab Saed returned
to Josiah's side, her face taut with emotions that
struck McCoy as oddly familiar: concern and
guilt. It took him an instant to recall where he
had seen that precise expression--on Jim
Kirk's face, many times in the' Enterprise
sickbay as he came to visit an injured crew
member. Of course; Ngo had been her charge.
She felt responsible for him.
  "Your hands steady?" McCoy asked.
  The lieutenant straightened with a dancer's grace
to her full height. "Of course."
  "Good. We'll need them," the doctor answered,
as.
  he stepped around to the back of the chair. Saed
foliowed. McCoy took hold of the shuttle trim
about six inches from the chair and touched it carefully--
any move it made would be keenly felt
by Josiah. "I want you to hold this steady, just like
I am. Don't let it move a micrometer. Can
you do that?"
  She nodded, her expression growing determined, and
grasped the lance behind his hands, letting him
release it.
  "Steady, now," he told her. "That's it."
  Riley was suddenly beside him. "This everything you
need?"
  He glanced over the medical equipment and nodded.
  Taking a diagnostic scanner, he evaluated
the young man's condition. The lung was pierced, the
spleen nicked, and there was some foreign matter in the
interperitoneal cavity from the chair. Josiah was
going into shock, his temperature and blood
pressure dropping. Not as bad as it could be; not as
good as McCoy would've liked it.
  "Josiah had a bunch of tools from the
shuttle," he said to Riley. "Does he have
anything that'll cut that lance?"
  "In the bag," Josiah whispered. "The laser.
It'll cut anything." He coughed weakly; a thin
trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his
mouth.
  "Just stay still, son," McCoy chided. Riley
was already rummaging for the tool.
  "Got it," he said.
  "Cut the length of that trim off," McCoy
ordered, "but be careful--don't move the lance.""
  "Got it, Doe."
  McCoy loaded his hypospray and moved in
front of the young man. "Now, here's a little something for
shock, bleeding, and some general good soup we give
soldiers who get run through. It'll relieve some
pain--but don't think that means you can move.
Okay?" He pressed the hypo against Josiah's
neck and administered a battery of drugs, pain
suppressants, and electrolytes, and an
artificial plasma that would replicate once it
got into Josiah's body, replacing any
additional blood he might continue to lose.
  Hearing a clatter of metal, he saw that the
bulk of the lance had been cut and fallen to the deck;
only a stump protruded from the back of the chair.
He nodded at Riley and Saed, who was cleaning her
hands of the cadet's blood.
  Picking up a cell regenerator, he was
grateful--if this terrible thing had to happen--that it had
happened in sickbay. He was able to seal off some of the
internal damage, but without taking Josiah
into surgery where they could safely remove the lance, this
temporary respite would be all he could provide.
He took bandaging material from the cabinet.
  "I'm going to tape you into this chair, Josiah,"
he said as he proceeded to do just that.
"We've got. to prevent you from doing any more
damage by moving until we can get you into surgery.
Try to be still, okay?"
  The cadet's eyes were clearer, some of the raw pain
gone from them. He licked his lips and said, "There's
no time for that. We've got to call the Paladin."
  McCoy drew a deep breath and looked from
Josiah to the two officers. How in blazes could
they do that now? Hurriedly, he started taping
Josiah into the chair, stabilizing his body.
  Josiah tried to lift an arm to point to the
console where his equipment sat, but couldn't do it.
"They're your computers. You've got to do it
Doctor. Warn the ship."
  The young man was right; there was nothing more to be done.
With a sinking heart, McCoy handed Riley the
hypospray, and gave Saed the scanner, pointing
at the readings. "If this mark dips past this point,
tell Riley to give him ten more milligrams of the
stimulant2"
  Saed nodded and watched the diagnostic tool
solemnly.
  McCoy glanced once more at his young patient,
then turned to face the cobbled-together pile of
technojunk they were using to create a comm
link.
  He felt a moment's panic as the Vulcan
analyzer glittered with symbols and words he couldn't
understand.
  But the tricorder was still functional, and he
understood that. It would help him figure out whatever
he had to do. He swallowed and got to work.
  They'd been trying to get through using the diagnostic
computer, but the alien programming had pretty much
wiped out all those pathways. He had to find another
route. He thought for a moment.
  Reports. He touched the tricorder, scanning
the diagnostic computer's program banks. The
reports program was designed to send detailed,
complicated medical reports to anyone the doctor
wanted them sent to--the captain, other labs, even
Starfleet. He should've thought of it sooner.
  He plugged into the reports program, and
scanned it quickly. It looked amazingly clean. It
was an obscure little program, though powerful. Could
he use that to break through to the Paladin? He felt
excited at the prospect and worked faster on parts
of the ma-ohine that were long familiar to him. He
manipulated the program with the tricorder and had
gotten tantalizingly close to his goal
when he received an indication of another transmission.
  "It's closing the channel up when I send it,"
he told the others. "Paladin's receiving another
transmission, and it's intercepting us--my program
is waiting its turn."
  "You've got to override it and break through,"
Riley said. "They're probably talking to the
damned Tholians!"
  McCoy devised the most dire emergency code
he could imagine, demanding that Recovery place her
formidable power at his disposal to override the current
transmission for the sake of saving a life. It was
hardly a lie. There was a moment's hesitation ....
  "Does your Assembly accept your explanation
of the course of events?" Kirk asked Lokara.
  "They are taking it under advisement," Lokara
assured him. "I have reason to hope that will accept
our viewpoint on this issue. I have explained how
we have discussed working together to solve the problem of
Recovery's aberrant aggression."
  Could it be possible? Kirk wondered. Could this
disaster turn into a chance at dialogue with this
advanced, aggressive species? Recovery had
been quiet the whole time he and Lokara
communicated. Could she be observing them?
Could the pause in her flight have caused her
to reconsider her mission, her purpose?
  Her core programming was still intact. Was it
finally reasserting itself and regaining control?
  "Admiral," Sonak said quietly,
"Recovery has focused all sensors on the
Paladin. She may be preparing to arm phasers."
  Intellectually, Kirk knew what he should do,
but instinct rebelled. Had the months he'd sat behind
a desk so affected him that he feared to take risks
when they most needed to be taken? He let out a slow
breath, and finally said, "Mr. Sandover. Lower the
shields."
  "Aye, sir. Shields are down."
  "Recovery's scans have ceased, sir," Sonak
called.
  "She is replotting her course toward the
Tholian border."
  "Lokara," Kirk began, his voice edged with his
new optimism, "have you any ideas how--?"
  Before he could finish, the Tholian commander's image
wavered, then faded; the big viewscreen began
to blink madly. "Diksen?"
  "Some weird emergency signal from Recovery
is overriding everything, sir."
  McCoy's bearded, anxious face filled the
screen, his voice booming unnaturally. "Jim--
it's the Tholians.t They changed the programming--
planted a device in Shulman's head--they--"
  Kirk's heart stopped; he spun toward the
navigator while McCoy kept shouting. He
heard Sonak's voice a split second before his
own as both men shouted, "Shields upst"
  Too late. In the millisecond before the blast
hit, Jim realized distractedffity that Sonak must
have seen the discharge of the Tholian phasers in his
science screen as Kirk and Lokara exchanged
pleasant fides and called for shields just as Jim
heard McCoy's warning.
  The deck beneath Kirk's feet rose like the swell
of a tidal wave, pitching him in Romolo's chair
as if he were on some antigrav amusement-park
fide. The passive restraints kept him in but he
was snapped and swung around wildly. Sonak,
who'd been standing at his station, was thrown badly; he
rolled, but caught himself on the railing support and
clung to it with Vulcan strength.
  And then the deck dropped out beneath them as the
Paladin struggled to right herself; the crew lurched
around, consoles cracked under the pressure,
smoke rose into the air. Kirk heard the sound of the
ship's fire extinguishers and in his mind's eye,
saw once more the dreadful image: Pulver, hqr
dark form backlit by orange fireglow, falling
backward with morbid grace ....
  The Paladin righted herself with a jerk; instantly, the
bridge came alive with the wail of the klaxon, the
chatter of damage reports. He heard Diksen
responding, trying to sort through them quickly to give him
a report. Sonak struggled back to his chair,
then checked his station. He'd barely settled into it
before the second blast caught them; this time, Kirk and
his crew managed to weather it through at their stations, but
he knew the Tholians were tearing them apart--an
unshielded ship.
  "Report!" Kirk shoutec right-brace
  "Damage in Engineering," Diksen called out.
"And decks five and seven..."
  McCoy's image had disappeared, leaving now just
the sight of the Tholian ship battering the hell out of
them, with Recovery sitting behind her like a placid
observer... as though she'd planned the whole thing
herself.
  "Shields, Mr. Sandover!" Kirk demanded
  "Shields are gone, sir. That was the first
thing they hit."
  "Fire phasers!."
  Before Sandover could oblige, they were hit again,
twice more in rapid volley. The entire crew was
bounced around violently as Kirk gripped the arms
of Romolo's chair.
  "Phasers are gone, sir," Sandover reported.
"We've lost..." He peered down at his console.
"... all but three photon torpedoes as well."
  "Arm the remaining three, and fire on my word,"
  "Warp engines are off-line," Sonak
reported, gazing over at Kirk with a grim
expression. "Three photon torpedoes may
damage the Tholians, but are unlikely to defeat
them."
  Kirk stared at the screen knowing the Vulcan was
right: They had no shields, no phasers. And
Recovery wasn't doing a damned thing to help them.
To the Tholians, it must look like the Paladin had
run out of options.
  Not all of them, if I have anything to say about it.
I didn't bring the Paladin this far just to lose
her....
  With a sudden keen exhilaration, he drew a breath.
  "Mr. Sandover. On my word", drop
the ship ten thousand kilometers at minus ninety
degrees. Mr. Sonak, aim those photons mark
four-point-five, wide scatter."
  Sonak looked up from his board in surprise;
Kirk met his gaze with one of utter determination.
"Aye, sir," the Vulcan said, dropping his
gaze.
  "Ready, Sandover... Fire photons!"
  He turned back to the screen and saw the
torpedoes flare away from the screen; the view
immediately shifted as the Paladin plummeted down in a
straight line from their previous position.
  The torpedoes found their mark: the massive,
gleaming surface of Recovery.
  Like a slumbering giant roused by a stinging bee, the
big ship shifted position, then swatted back
hard, firing her heavy phasers in the direction the
torpedoes came from. But the Paladin was no longer
there--only the Skotha remained.
  The blast caught the Tholian vessel dead on,
crumpling her shieldseaphysically knocking the ship
back from her position.
  "The Skotha has been seriously damaged,
Admiral," Sonak reported as he leaned over
his viewer. "Her shields are totally
destroyed, she has no weapons, and has major
damage on several decks, including Engineering."
  "Sounds like she's hurt just as badly as we are,"
Kirk said wearily, "but she's in Federation space.
  Diksen, hail the Skotha, if you can. See if
she'll surrender. Maybe we can get some answers
out of them yet."
  "The Skotha is answering our hail, sir,"
  The viewscreen showed the giant Recovery
shifting from side to side as if trying to determine which
of the two ships was her true enemy, as the tiny
Skotha tilted abnormally, hanging in space. The
screen flickered, then showed the bridge of the damaged
Tholian vessel. The color variation on the
screen quivered so much it was painful to the eyes;
Kirk winced at the too-brilliant colors that
strobed there.
  "Commander Lokara," Kirk said to the cloaked
  231'
  image on the screen. "Surrender, and we'll
assist you as well as we can."
  "Surrender?" Lokara chorused tinnily.
"To you, Kirk? Perhaps you should consider this. My true
discussion with the Tholian Assembly explained the
chain of events that have led to this moment. They
know exactly why this has all happened."
  Kirk frowned, wishing he did himself.
  "You see, Admiral," Lokara explained
patiently, "I and my partners have always served
aboard the same vessel, as is the custom of our
people. While we served under Commander Loskene, the
Enterprise fired upon us--crippling my partner, the
breeder, Lanra, and destroying our future."
  There was a pause as if Lokara found it
difficult to speak. "But now, my partner Srillk
lies dead. And the breeder, Lanra, suffers no
longer. Only I am left alone, without them. But
the vengeance we have lived for will continue without us. Your
Recovery will follow its own plan, and you will not be
able to stop it. Your rescue ship will enter Tholian
space, be captured in a web we are even now
constructing, and plumbed for every Federation secret
aboard. Learn this about us, Kirk, and it will be enough:
Tholians do not forgive.
  And we do not surrender."
  Before Kirk could speak, Sonak warned,
"Admiral, the Recovery has determined who was
responsible for the photon torpedoes."
  He did not say the obvious, but Kirk thought it
as he stared at the behemoth on the screen:
  And we have no defense of any kind....
  McCoy watched the battle with growing dread and was
relieved when Jim's ploy worked. Riley had
already given Josiah another dose of medication, and
McCoy knew he had to get the young man
into surgery immediately. Shulman needed intensive
care, and surgery also, if there was any hope of
saving him. The doctor fingered the coded cassette
Shulman had given him, and glanced at his screen.
  Recovery was engaged in quite a few different
activities, not all of which he could interpret. But
one pattern of data he understood with no problem.
  "She's getting ready to move," he told
Riley and Saed. "She's gearing up to go."
  "Go?" Riley asked. "Go where?" Then it
seemed he remembered. "You mean--into Tholian
space?"
  McCoy nodded. "Computers never forget their
original assignment. That was the whole point of this in
the first place. Make the Recovery violate the
border, start intergalactic war."
  "We've got to get out of here," Lieutenant
Seed said sensibly.
  McCoy shot her a wry look. "I'd say
that's an understatement."
  "Shields!" Josiah gasped. "Shields are
up!"
  "Don't worry, son. Shulman told me how
to evacuate everyone and gave me his codes.
Recovery will send us all to the coordinates Jim
sent us." Then he paused, wondering if those
coordinates hadn't been blasted into the vacuum of
space.
  McCoy moved to Josiah's side to check his
readings, and suddenly realized the young than could see the
screen again, and the data running across it.
  Josiah blinked a few times, then said softly,
"Recovery's going to fire upon the Paladin.
She'll destroy that ship. There's no way to stop
her."
  All four pairs of eyes stared, mesmerized,
at the screen, as McCoy prayed that just this once,
the cadet was wrong.
  Kirk's mind raced as Sonak intoned
impassively, "Recovery is arming phasers."
  The admiral punched the arm of his chair.
"Engineering?
  Engineering!"
  "Here, Admiral," a tired voice replied.
  He grinned, unable to believe his luck.
Lieutenant Gambeta was still at her post,
alive!
  "Gambeta, shut down power on the starboard
side immediately. Everything but minimal
life-support.
  Keep everyone off communications."
  The engineer never even paused at the strange
request. "Power off, Admiral."
  "Now shut down the port side. And the bridge.
  Essentials only."
  Lights shut down until the crew was on
emergency lighting only, augmented by the dim glow of the
telltales. The soft throb of the engines that
experienced spacefarers never noticed became
conspicuous by its absence. Everyone grew still, stopped
moving.
  "Let the ship drift, Mr. Sandover," Kirk
said softly.
  "Diksen, cut off Lokaram keep everything off
that board."
  The officers he spoke to nodded agreement, as if
fearing that, by speaking aloud, they might elicit
Recovery' s attention.
  "Diksen, broadcast an emergency distress
Signal.
  Engines damaged, warp drive unstable,
matter-antimatter unbalanced--losing
life-support. Keep broadcasting until you
get a reply."
  The young woman's hands moved capably over the
board as she spoke softly into her receiver.
  Kirk took a deep breath and settled back in
his chair, aware that every eye on the bridge was watching
him.
  I took my best shot, Baldassare. If she
takes us down, it's not because we didn't try hard
enough.
  He could hear the creaking of their seats, the soft
sound of his own breathing. He imagined that all across the
ship, the crew watched viewscreens anxiously and
waited. So many cadets, he thought ruefully.
  So many at the beginning of their careers. To end here-
"Admiral, we're being hailed," Diksen's
steady voice broke through the silent reverie.
  "On audio."
  After a scant pause, a feminized computer
voice announced,. "This is the rescue ship
Recovery. We have received your distress signal.
How may we assist you?"
  Kirk felt the beginnings of a grin
spread over his lips. Thank you, Myron
Shulman. And thank you, Bones. The core
programming really is still intact.
  "Recovery, we need... personnel," Kirk
suggested, swiveling toward communications, where
Reese Diksen smiled broadly, revealing
teeth, as she tended her board. "Doctors,
engineers, scientists--to help us repair our
vessel.""
  "Admiral," Sonak said, his tone
perceptibly more placid, "Recovery is scanning
us--and she has lowered her shields."
  Riley pointed to the tricorder. "Look!
Recovery's dropped her shields!"
  McCoy looked away from Josiah's readouts
to glance at the screen. "Looks like a good time
to evacuate."
  "Are we sure about those coordinates?" Riley
wondered.
  Paladin had taken a hell of a pounding.
  Josiah wet his lips and said, "Recovery will
check them. She won't send two hundred people into a
vacuum. Core programming."
  "Right!" said McCoy. "Riley, help me."
  The commander followed him over to the still form of
Myron Shulman. McCoy ran the scanner over
the researcher. He didn't like what he saw, but if
he could get him to Paladin's sickbay, he might
be able to keep him alive, put him in stasismlike
Angie--until they could get to a better
facility. Shulman deserved that much.
  "I want him placed near the rest of us, so
t.hat he has to be transported with us,"
McCoy explained to Riley.
  "Is that safe?" Lieutenant Saed
interjected. McCoy could tell that the Security
officer wasn't fond of the idea of bringing Shulman
along. "He nearly killed Commander Riley,
he's mortally wounded
  "And he's singlehandedly responsible for saving
all our lives with this programming card"...he held it
up to show her"...andfor maintaining the core programming The
man's a hero, and one of the finest minds of this
century. He deserves to have anything done that can
save his life."
  She sighed in acquiescence as Riley leaned
down and scooped the man up in his arms like a child.
  "Damn!" Riley swore softly. "He
hardly weighs anything!"
  McCoy ushered them back over to the
computer.
  "Everybody stand close. Don't move." He
glanced at Josiah, who looked a little more ashen.
Plugging in the card, he gave Recovery the
evacuation command and Shulman's personal code.
  Leonard McCoy never thought he would ever again so
look forward to having his molecules scrambled as he
did at that moment.
  "Admiral!" Reese Diksen nearly shouted in
her excitement, "people are materializing in cargo
deck four! Dozens--no, hundreds of people--and
a...
  stasis chamber?"
  Kirk spun to say something to her, bat Sonak
interrupted.
  "Admiral, the Recovery has transported
all her personnel onto the Paladin. She is
now completely devoid of life."
  "We're getting requests for emergency medical
aid, Admiral," Diksen said.
  "Is sickbay operational?" Kirk asked her.
As in any Starfleet vessel, Paladin's
sickbay was in the most protected part of the ship,
"Fully operational, sir," Diksen reported,
"though its staff is busy dealing with our own
wounded."
  "They'll have to use triage," he commented.
"Make sure the people in the cargo bay get all the
help they need." He frowned as Diksen's
expression grew abruptly dismayed. "What's
wrong, Cadet?"
  "The personnel from Recovery have one seriously
injured party they need help with." She faltered,
then, composed herself and straightened, suddenly every inch the
officer. "It's Josiah Ngo, sir."
  He paused. "Do you want to give them a hand,
Diksen?"
  She wavered for only a second, then sat up
straight again. "No, sir. I'll remain at my
station. Sickbay reports enough hands available."
  He stared at her admiringly and was about to say
they'd both go down to sickbay later, when this was over
--when Sonak interrupted again., "Excuse me,
Admiral, but--I seem to have made an error;"
  Kirk turned in genuine surprise at this
confessior "You, Mr. Sonair?"
  The corner of his lip quirked almost
imperceptibly in admission. "My apologies,
sir, but I reported that Recovery was devoid of
life. According to my readouts that was true--for a
moment. However, there now seems to be one lone
human--a single male--aboart her,"
  Not Rley or Bones, Kirk prayed
silently. "Can we beam him off?"."
  Sonak lifted a thoughtful brow. "I believe it
would be safer to request that specific person's
presence."
  "Then see if you can pinpoint an identity.
Diksen, open a hailing frequency to the
Recovery."
  Myron Shulman was only dimly aware of being
lifted from the deck by the strong arms of Commander
Riley. He remembered feeling sheltered for that
brief moment--almost comforted. He had been so tired
....
  He felt the gentle pull of the transporter,
felt his atoms disassembling--then reassembling
back in his own quarters, in his own bed. He lay
there, helpless, sick, in pain, yet absurdly
glad to be there. This room, this bed, for the last two
years had been his only home, from the moment the
physical construction of Recovery's shell had
been completed. There had been so much work. So much
work.
  All destroyed.
  Yet he would not weep. He'd saved the core
programming.
  Recovery had used it to send everyone to safety--
everyone except him.
  In the moments of lucidity that had finally
returned, and the vague memory of his" conversations
with McCoy in sickbay, he realized now what had
been done to him: the Tholians had wedded him to this
ship with their incredibly advanced brain device, and
their unusual tertiary programming. Even as he'd
struggled to overwrite the real programming of his
rescue ship, the researcher in him had had to admire
the Tholians' advances. Now the Federation would learn
what they could from the Tholian programming.
  Some of the things the Tholians had made him do had
actually improved the Recovery. Perhaps in time the
Federation would glean the good from it and improve their
technology.
  Whatever happened, it would all be done without him.
He wondered--as many humans do when they face death
--if anyone would mourn for him, or if he would be
forever remembered as a traitor to his species.
  He had never meant for Recovery to be anything more
than a rescue vessel--but because of what had been
done to him, he had come to think of the ship as
something else--as part of himself. And now he and
Recovery would have to bring this to an end. He didn't
want to, but it was the one piece of programming he
simply could not work around.
  At least they would be together. He would have to trust
Kirk to solve the problem he and Recovery were about
to create. If any man could, it would be Admiral
Kirk. For the first time in a long while, Myron was
able to think clearly about the admiral, and realized
how, even when he had opposed Myron, he had still
been the scientist's ally. Shulman trusted
Kirk to solve this problem somehow. It was what the
admiral was best at.
  He struggled to lick cracked, dry lips.
"Computer-was he croaked, his voice barely
audible. "Take us home."
  "Admiral," Diksen reported, "the
Recovery is ignoring my hail."
  "I believe the identity of the man on board,"
Sonak told Kirk, "is Myron Shulman."
  Kirk gazed at the screen in helpless
frustration.
  "Recovery has raised her shields,
Admiral," Sonak warned.
  Jim tensed. Surely she wouldn't
fire on them now, when they were helpless, and held the
entire crews from both ships ....
  "She is once again reconfiguring her course
into Tholian space," Sonak continued, then
paused, frowning slightly as he noticed something on
his readout. "However, her scanners are reacting
to something nearby--something our sensors cannot detect-was
  Kirk swiveled back toward the viewscreen, his
instinct sending out alarms as loud as any red alert.
  He rose from his chair, training his eyes on the
empty va/s of space surrounding the odd trio
of the Paladin, the Skotha, the Recovery. "Not
now..." he murmured. "Not now...
  He spotted it at the same time Sonak
reacted to the data on his science screen. The
space directly above and between the two smaller
ships suddenly wavered, and something vast began
materializing out of the vacuum.
  Like a vampire out of the mist, Kirk thought
morosely, as a Klingon Bird-of-Prey
solidified on the screen
  Chapter Twelve
  JIM KIRK STARED with a sense of foreboding
into the garish unblinking eye painted on the hull of the
Bird-of-Prey. The Paladin now held
over three hundred crew members--many of them
cadets plus over two hundred people beamed from the
Recovery.
  He had felt a deep sense of relief at first
knowing that Riley, Bones, and all the others were
rescued but that relief was short-lived. The
Paladin still had some weaponry, but she had no
shields and Jim doubted that Recovery could be duped
twice. The next time she was fired on, the behemoth
would simply blow them all to kingdom come and let
someone else sort them out.
  And if the Klingons played their usual gambit
--shoot first, don't bother asking questions at all--
none of them would have a chance.
  But how in God's name could he reason with
Klingons?
  As he turned to tell Diksen to open a hailing
frequency, she interrupted with, "We're being
hailed, Admiral. By the Klingon ship. They're
hailing the Tholians as welLike"
  Jim shared a look of candid amazement with
Sonak. "On screen."
  The image of the ungainly vessel dissolved, then
coalesced once more into the ominous vision of a Klingon
officer bedecked in full warrior's
armor; his long dark hair and beard, streaked with
auburn, spilled down onto a breastplate of
black leather and dully gleaming metal. "This is
Captain Qo'dar of the Klingon warship Fury,"
  "And I am Admiral--"
  "I know who you are!" the Klingon thundered; beneath his
bony skull ridge, tiny, glistening eyes blazed
with rage. "We have been monitoring all ships'
transmissions. At first, I was convinced that this was
Federation treachery, but now I know that the Tholians have
staged this event to acquire a piece of advanced
Federation technology!" He slammed a
metal-clad fist against his console; it struck with a
loud clank. "Technology they will use to conquer the
Klingon Empire!"
  "Admiral," Sonak called softly from his
station, "the Recovery is showing keen interest in the
shielded Klingon ship."
  "Qo'dar, wait!" Kirk demanded. "If you've
been observing, you know that if you fire on the.
Tholians, Recovery will destroy us all! Your
shields alone are causing her to focus on you,
scan your vessel--"
  The Klingon turned to another officer on his
bridge and growled something in his language.
The officer's reply caused Q'odar to recoil
angrily and whirl back toward the viewscreen.
"Are you telling me to act as you do and feign
helplessness, just to satisfy the sensors of an
unoccupied vessel?"
  Sonak's perfectly modulated voice
intruded. "Recovery is arming her phasers."
  "You heard that, Qo'dar," Kirk said quickly.
"You have a choice: Keep your shields up, and be
destroyed morfeign helplessness, and survive
to help us outwit The officer nearest Qo'dar
snapped something at his captain. The Klingon clenched
his gauntleted fists, his bronze face suffused with
frustration. Finally, he shouted out a clipped command.
  For an instant, Kirk dared not breathe.
  "The Fury is lowering her shields, Captain,"
Sonak told him at last. "And Recovery is
taking her weapons off line and lowering her own
shields."
  Aware that the Klingon must be getting similar
information, Kirk turned to the warrior, searching for the
right thing to say, the common ground they might use
to devise a solution to this problem. For the Klingon was
right about one thing the Tholians gained total control
of Recovery, they would use the knowledge of the
advanced Federation technology to overwhelm their
neighbors--and the first to go would be the nearby Klingons.
  "Captain Qo'dar," he began reasonably,
"you said yourself that you've learned we are not the cause--
was
  "Admiral," Diksen interrupted, "the
Tholians are sending out a standard Federation distress
signal.
  They're sending it directly to--"Her eyes
widened with astonishment as she swiveled to face him.
  Recovery, sir."
  "Damn!" Kirk swore softly, even as on the
viewscreen, Qo'dar argued with his own officer.
  "Sonak?"
  His gaze intent on his viewer, the Vulcan
replied, "Recovery is responding, sir. The
Tholians report that their ship is severely
damaged, but insist they must remain aboard her for their
specific life-support requirements.
Recovery is analyzing the ship's coordinates."
  "Lokara!" Qo'dar roared, shaking a fist at his
invisible adversary. "I will blast you out of space
before you take refuge aboard that ship?
  Sonak glanced up from his viewer to gaze
pointedly at the admiral. "I believe,
Captain, that the Klingons are preparing to fire on
the Slotha."
  "Qo'dar, don't!" Kirk shouted. "Recovery
will destroy us both and still save the Tholians.
You'll gain nothing!"
  The Klingon hesitated, as if Kirk's words
rang too true to deny; but his face remained
contorted with anger, and beneath shaggy red-black brows,
his eyes narrowed mistru/lly. "You will let those
skulking cowards gain access to that ship, Kirk?
Better we should destroy the Tholians now, and
face death ourselves than--"
  "Recovery is beaming the Tholian vessel
into one of her large hangar bays," Sonak
intoned, leaning over his viewer, his severe features
bathed in its blue glow.
  The Klingon howled his rage as the Skotha
alematerialized--so loudly that Kirk repressed
a wince and nodded irritably at Diksen, who
lowered the volume.
  He drew a breath andwitha calmness he did not
feel told the Klingon, "The Recovery is
programmed to go into Tholian space. Once she's
there, it would just be a matter of time before she was
captured in a Tholian power web where they
could study her and reprogram her at their leisure.
Destroying that one ship would have accomplished nothing."
  The Klingon listening in grudging silence, then
leaned closer to the viewscreen, his leather armor
creaking. "And what will stop her now, Kirk? Your
crippled junkheap? Or my lone warship?"
  "Admiral," Sonak warned, "Recovery is
still dealing with the injured Tholian vessel now aboard
her, but she is also preparing to restart her journey--
into Tholian space."
  Kirk knew Recovery considered Paladin's
problems solved by the personnel she'd transferred
over. Even if the Klingon ship imitated
Kirk's actionwand the admiral knew better than
to suggest that the only likely response Recovery
could have to their distress call would be to beam the Klingons
aboard. He had a sudden image of a dozen
battle-raged Klingons swarming through the
Recovery's corridors as they searched for the
Tholians, and shook his head. That wouldn't stop the
ship from crossing the Tholian border, and a crew of
Klingons wouldn't be able to prevent the Tholians from
eventually capturing and controlling the rescue
vessel. He had to do something to keep Recovery
here, something that would prevent her departure,
then disable her ....
  He took a step over to the science station and leaned
over Sonak's shoulder. "Has the computer finished
translating the tertiary code?"
  The Vulcan straightened and released an inaudible
sigh, his expression composed; but a faint crease
remained between his brows. "Negative, Admiral.
We need more time."
  "Mr. Sonak," Kirk said softly, "if ve
can't find a way to control her, disable her..." He
did not complete the sentence, but turned his gaze
back toward the implacable giant on the
viewscreen and finished the thought silently.
  andmiddot; . . we'll have to destroy her.
  With her creator still on board.
  It was an unacceptable solution; but he could not
permit that ship to cross the border. First things first--
to keep the vessel from leaving.
  "Qo'dar, are you carrying any drones?"
  The Klingon studied him a moment, then replied
warily, "You mean, the kind we use for target
practice?
  Yes. One hundred."
  "Can the drones be sent to a target, yet not arm
themselves until they arrive?" Kirk asked.
  Qo'dar hesitated. "If you are asking me if
the drones can be used for surveillance--that is
possible."
  Kirk nodded, grateful for the admission. He
knew that Klingons viewed automated surveillance
as cowardly, preferring a more direct approach.
He turned to the Vulcan. "Tell Engineer
Gambeta we'll need a special shuttlecraft
--one that can send out life-form readings, readings that can
convince Recovery there are living humans aboard.
And we'll need it in five minutes."
  Sonak replied smoothly, "Aye, sir," and
addressed his board'..
  "You are planning on recreating the simulation?"
  the Klingon asked incredulously. "Need I
remind you, Kirk, that it was the simulation that nearly
caused our destruction?"
  Kirk held up his hands in a placating
gesture. "In the simulation, Recovery herself was
under attack.
  Think about it, Qo'dar--her central programming
is still intact. Her responses have been
appropriate when someone else is under attack.
Can your drones fire on a target if they have the
coordinates?"
  "Of course!"
  "Good." Kirk took a breath. If his next
words sounded like a command he would never gain the cooperation
of the honor-bound warrior. "Qo'dar--if you would
please send out a stream of, say, twenty drones,
a few at a time, just to give Recovery some thing
to analyze until we can release our
shuttlecraft... ?"
  There was a pause, then Qo'dar grumbled a command
to another officer.
  Huddled over his viewer, Sonak said quietly,
"The Fury is releasing her drones--two--
five-eight-twelve...
  Recovery is putting her departure on hold
to analyze them and determine their purpose."
  "Thank you, Captain Qo'dar." Still facing his
reluctant ally in the viewscreen, Kirk said
deliberately, "Sonak, while there is no
central command post or bridge aboard Recovery,
there is a core brain. The schematics for its
location are in Paladin's computer.
  I want the location of that brain sent to Captain
Qo'dar."
  The Klingon's astonishment was plain on his
sculpted bronze face.
  There was a moment's pause before Sonak
responded coolly, "As first officer, sir, I
must remind you that that is classified information."
  "Thank you, Commander," Kirk replied, without
taking his gaze from Qo'dar's. "Now, send the
information.
  Captain Qo'dar will need it." He addressed the
Klingon. "If you will take this information, sir, and
program the remainder of your drones with it, we
might smuggle them into the Recovery in an unmanned
shuttle--with her cooperation,"
  Qo'dar's expression remained one of
suspicion even as the information was relayed to him."
He gave orders to the soldiers around him, who
scurried into activity.
  "I am taking your... suggestion... and acting on
it, Kirk, but what good will it do to get the drones
aboard the vessel? We have been told the ship
confiscates any weapons brought aboard."
  "That's why the drones must not be armed," Kirk
insisted. "Set them to arm themselves and fire only upon
reaching the target. If they're armed too early,
Recovery will simply beam them into space.
Unarmed, they're no more dangerous than
tricorders, or other sensor-laden
equipment."
  The Klingon's eyes slitted in amusement.
"Yes. Yes.
  I see your plan. If the drones destroy disthe
brain, then the ship will simply die in space. She
will not cross the border and be captured by the Tholian
army waiting there. We may yet confront Lokara
face-to-face!" The warrior stroked his beard
thoughtfully as he made a decision. "Five of my
warriors will accompany the drones."
  Kirk stepped closer to the viewscreen. If he
didn't phrase this just right, he'd insult the
Klingon's honor and everything would be lost.
"Qo'dar, this plan...
  is contingent on our ability to have the drones hit the
target before the Tholians inside Recovery can
take control of her. If you send warriors over
there, their weapons will be confiscated, and they themselves
might be immediately confined. The chances of their
accomplishing anything are slim. If anything goes
wrong, their lives will be forfeit for nothing. Where is
the honor in that?"
  Qo'dar frowned as he considered this. "This is always
the Federation way. You send in robots to do your most
dangerous work. You talk and talk, saying
anything you can to avoid war. You spend valuable
resources on a vessel whose whole purpose is
to save lives." He shook his shaggy head
imperiously. "I will never understand your people."
  Kirk felt Diksen's eyes on his back, and
recalled their previous conversation about how the Federation
must be viewed by more warlike species.. He was about
to respond when Sonak interrupted.
  "Admiral, Mr. Gambeta reports that the
shuttlecraft is ready."
  "Quickly, Sonak. Release the shuttle; send
its coordinates to Captain Qo'dar." He
turned to the Klingon officer. "If you will
transport the remainder of your drones into the
shuttlecraft--?"
  Qo'dar barked his orders.
  "The shuttlecraft is moving toward
Recovery,"
  Sonak reported seconds later as he stared
into his viewer. "Cadet Diksen, please split
the viewscreen so the admiral can see what is
happening."
  Diksen obliged. Beside Qo'dar's image, the
view of space and Recovery's massive bulk
appeared. Kirk watched the shuttle's
activities even as Sonak reported them from his
sensors.
  "The shuttle has halted, and is holding
position fifty kilometers from the rescue
vessel. According to sen-sots, the shuttlecraft
holds two humanoid passengers --and now contains
eighty Klingon drones. Paladin's sensors
report that they. are surveillance devices, nothing
more. Recovery has noted the shuttle's
activity."
  "Qo'dar, the twenty drones that are floating in
space," Kirk suggested, "have them surround the
shuttlecraft and fire upon it. Two, three times,
light hits, that's all we'll need. Be sure they
don't fire on Recovery herself, or either of our
ships."
  The Klingon nodded and snapped orders to his
crew.
  Suddenly, the small flock of drones suspended
in space turned and swarmed the tiny shuttlecraft.
  Quickly, three of the drones blasted the ship
randomly.
  , "The shuttle is issuing a standard Federation
distress call, Captain," Diksen called out.
  "Good," Kirk murmured to himself,
waiting for the ship to dematerialize and be brought
into Recovery's womb. No one moved or spoke
for seconds, but nothing happened.
  "Kirk?" Qo'dar growled.
  Jim turned to Diksen questioningly.
  "Distress signal still being sent, sir," she
reported.
  "What's happening?" the admiral asked the air.
  "Why isn't she getting beamed aboard?"
  He imagined he heard a faint edge of
disappointment in Sonak's voice. "Sir, it
seems that Recovery is not convinced that there are
life-forms aboard. Her sensors are more
sophisticated than ours are"
  Suddenly, Qo'dar shouted another command to his
crew, and the Klingons aboard the Fury scrambled
to obey. Kirk didn't like what he supposed they
were being ordered to do. "No, wait!" he implored,
but it was too late.
  "Captain," Sonak reported, "five
humanoids have just beamed aboard the shuttle."
  Before "he could protest Qo'dar's move,
Kirk watched the shuttlecraft dematerialize and
disappear from the viewscreen.
  "The shuttlecraft is now aboard
Recovery, Admiral," Sonak assured him.
  "Now you will see how a Kiigon faces death,
Terran!" Qo'dar boasted, waving his clenched fist.
  "And the Tholians will see it as well. But I have
taken your advice. My warriors have gone unarmed;
a Klingon warrior is weapon enough."
  Kirk swallowed, and forced himself to say, "Good
luck to your brave warriors, Qo'dar. May they
succeed in their mission."
  "Captain," Sonak remarked, "Recovery
has raised her shields and has departed for
Tholian space on impulse power."
  Suddenly, the viewscreen blinked sporadically
and Kirk turned to find Diksen working frantically
at her station. "What is it, Diksen? What's
happening?"
  "It's Recovery, sir," the cadet told him,
never taking her attention from her work. "She's breaking
in- forcing a transmission on us."
  "Let it through, Cadet."
  The distorted image of Lokara once again faced
him across the screen. Qo'dar was gone.
  "Sensors indicate this transmission is being
sent simultaneously to the Klingon ship," Sonak
told Kirk.
  The screen showed the bridge of the damaged
Tholian vessel. The color variation on the
screen quivered so much it was painful to the eyes, and
Kirk winced at the too-brilliant colors
strobing there.
  "Kirk!" Lokara exhorted in a
multioctave cascade, andmiddot; "I have control
of Recovery's communications. Soon I will control
the ship's brain. Meanwhile, Recovery will follow
its own plan, and you will not be able to stop it.
  This vessel, and all the weapons and knowledge aboard it,
will belong to the Tholian Assembly."
  "Commander Lokara." Kirk forced a reasonable
expression and tone, uncertain whether the alien would
even understand the subtleties of human expression.
  "You're condemning your people to a long, protracted
warm"
  A burst of muffled, mechanically distorted sounds
came over the speakers. Lokara's veiled image
turned as it consulted its console; meanwhile, the
sound intensified.
  "Sonak, what's happening?" Kirk demanded.
  The Vulcan raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I believe, Captain, that is the sound of
Klingons who have located their
objective2"
  As he spoke, the noise became distinguishable as
the impassioned shouts of Klingon ,warriors on the
kill.
  On the screen, Lokara moved swiftly,
jerkily, apparently adjusting controls to no
avail. Kirk wondered if the Klingons had taken
laser tools to cut their way into the ship. Would
Recovery let them do that?
  "Kirk!" the Tholian shouted at the screen, with
rage rendered comically shrill by the mechanical
voice distortion, "this is your treachery again!"
  The viewscreen flashed, and Lokara was gone, his
image replaced by the dark, looming figure of
Captain Qo'dar. "You dare to give Kirk the
credit?" he boomed. "Those are Klingons at your
door, Lokara!
  You may as well invite them in--since
Recovery will protect you no longer!" Then he
shouted an order to a subordinate.
  "Captain, the drones have found their target,"
Sonak said, "and have armed themselves and fired immediately.
The Recovery's brain is effectively
destroyed.
  She was unable to achieve warp, and is
traveling on inertia at impulse velocity.
Shields are down."
  Kirk did not allow himself the luxury of
relief; the situation was not yet resolved. ,Mr.
Sandover, can you get a tractor beam on that ship
bef'she's out of range? We've got to stop her from
crossing that border."
  Sandover turned toward him, his normally pale
skin flushed beneath his freckles with excitement and
alarm. "Captain, if we try to put a tractor
beam on something that big in the shape we're in,
she'll pull us apart!"
  Kirk realized he was right, and turned to Diksen.
  "Hail Qo'dar! His ship's in good shape.
"Maybe they can stop her momentum."
  Suddenly, the Klingon was on half the
viewscreen, even as beside him, Recovery moved
farther and farther away. "Your communications officer
relayed your request, Kirk. I'm sorry, but that
vessel is too large for us to affect." Qo'dar
paused a beat, then said gruffly. "We will have
to destroy her."
  With Shulman still on board. "No," Kirk
countered.
  "Your men, Qo'dar--"
  "It is every Klingon warrior's dream to die in
battle, Kirk. My men will roar their way to death
in joy."
  "Mr. Sonak," the admiral called, with a
sinking sense of failure. He knew even before
Sonak responded what the Vulcan's answer would
be.
  "Still no success in breaking the tertiary code,
Admiral." Sonak paused. "You should know,
Admiral, that there are no longer any human
life-form readings aboard Recovery."
  So Shulman was gone; but there were still five
Klingons and the Tholians aboard her. He stared at
the sight of the rapidly receding vessel on the
screen, then said heavily, "Mr. Sandover. Arm
all phasers.
  Load torpedoes. Fire all on the
Recovery on my order."
  "On your command, Kirk," Qo'dar said, with a
respect that made him gaze back in gratitude
feeling he had never thought to feel toward a Klingon.
  "Know that my warriors will welcome it."
  "Mr. Sandover," he said softly, bitterly,
"fire all weapons."
  The Klingon captain uttered a hoarse
monosyllable.
  On the viewscreen, dazzling photon bursts
emerged like hurtling supernovae--from Paladin, from the
Fury--and converged on the retreating vessel just as the
rays of both ships" phasers burned into her
hull.
  Recovery rocked from the concussion, and began
to drift off course--damaged, but not destroyed.
  The Klingon cursed. "What a ship this is!" he
spat, and Kirk realized his complaints were
admiration.
  "Had this been a Klingon vessel--to was
  The viewscreen flickered once more and Diksen
called out, "Transmission from Recovery,
Captain," and he gestured for her to pull it in,
get it on screen.
  It was Lokara, its image so grotesque and
distorted, it took a second for Kirk to realize
the Tholian had lost its visor and stood revealed
before them. He got a brief impression of shimmering
golden skin shot through with rainbow sparks, of sinuous,
waving tentacles... but the picture was so wavering,
so bizarre and canted sideways that Kirk could not
clearly describe the alien even though he looked
right at it. The shouts of the Klingons had not
dimmed; if anything, it sounded as if they were nearly
beside the beleaguered Tholian.
  "It is over, Kirk!" Lokara babbled, in a
cacophony of voices grown grotesquely
shrill. "Over, forever. I told you--Tholians
never surrender!"
  Then the grainy, broken-up, but unmistakable
image of a Klingon warrior loomed behind Lokara.
As the Klingon grappled the Tholian in a deadly
embrace, Lokara screamed and slapped a writhing
golden appendage down on the console before him.
  The viewscreen exploded in searing white
incandescent light. Kirk raised a hand,
momentarily blinded, until Diksen closed the
channel and returned the view to darkness of space
and the smaller image of the drifting Recovery.
  "Admiral," Sonak called out, "the
Tholians have caused their ship to self-destruct.
This explosion has caused a warp-core breach
aboard Recovery; a second explosion will follow
in seconds. Without shields, we do not have the
ability to withstand the blast--" He broke off and
peered at his viewer, one brow lifted in
puzzlement.
  Before Kirk could ask for an explanation,
Qo'dar once again shared the viewscreen with the image
of Recovery.
  "Hold on, Kirk! Hold on, with all your
might!" the Klingon roared.
  He stared at the commander's shaggy image,
uncertain whether the Klingon was gloating or mocking
him; the Fury, after all, was well shielded and would
no doubt survive the blast.
  On the screen beside him, poised just before the border
of Tholian space, within sight of the fleet that
waited to claim her, Recovery exploded.
  It was eerie in its silence, as the massive ship
dissolved into a blaze of light and hurtling debris.
  Kirk watched helplessly as the shock wave
rolled toward them, unimpeded in the vacuum of
space.
  "Hold on," he said uselessly to his crew.
His mind spun with a million thoughts in the blink of
millisecond--Bones was here, aboard this ship,
yet he hadn't had a chance to see him, and now it was
too late--Diksen, with her whole career in front
of her, modeling on him, and now she would die--
Sonak, a fine scientist who would make an
excellent first officer --Gambeta, Ngo,
Riley and his wife, Sandover--all who'd
worked so hard, pushed so much, followed his every
ordermall of it to end like this?
  I'm sorry, Baldassare. Sorry that I
couldn't tell you myself about your gallant crew...
  The shock wave hit hard. Kirk felt his
body torn by the force as he rocked in his chair.
He heard the alarms, saw Sandover's station burst
into flames, watched the helmsman battle
to extinguish it, even as the bridge was buffeted.
Someone grunted in pain behind him; he heard fabric
tear, synthetic and metal break and splinter. The
Paladin was coming apart.
  And this was how it would end- He shut his eyes,
felt the power of the blast tear through him, through his ship--
then ebb and subside, even as the vessel rocked like
a wind-tossed cradle and started to restabilize.
In amazement, he opened his eyes. His crew was
scrambling to put out fires, responding to emergency
calls from all over the ship.
  They had survived. But how--his
  He turned to Sonak.
  "I had no time to tell you, sir," the Vulcan
said, straightening his uniform, "but the Fury--extended
her shields around us at the last minute. We're
badly damaged--we'll have to be towed to the
nearest starbase for repairs--but we still have
life-support, and the ship is holding together."
  Kirk turned toward the viewscreen that was now
nothing nothing but static and white noise. "Diksen,
hail the Fury--" He paused and swiveled back
toward the cadet's comm board. "Diksen, are you
all right?"
  He could see her hands trembling from where he sat,
but she squared her shoulders and said, with only the
slightest quaver, "My board is fine, sir.
Hailing frequencies open. I mean, I'll
raise the Fury, sir."
  The viewscreen came back on as she
manipulated the board, and soon Qo'dar filled it
with his dark presence.
  "I see you did as i suggested, Kirk, and
held on. You survived the blast. Too bad. That
means one more Federation ship to deal with." Qo'dar
struggled to maintain an expression of disdain, but
couldn't quite manage to hide a slight smirk of
satisfaction.
  "You extended your shields, Qo'dar," Kirk
accused.
  "Don't deny it. You deliberately tried
to save us, a Federation ship! What will the
Klingon High Command say about that?"
  "They cannot address that which they never hear of,
Kirk. As far as I know, you are not in the habit of
willingly communicating. with them. We both achieved
what we wanted even if our goals were different.
No doubt you would have rather talked the Recovery
into surrendering."
  "And you would have preferred she fought bach; against your
warship," Kirk commented wryly.
  Qo'dar threw back his head in a mucous,
good-natured laugh, "I hope your warriors died
gloriously," Kirk offered sincerely.
  The Klingon's merriment faded. "And I regret
we could not have saved your rescue ship. It was an
honorable experiment."
  "Captain," Diksen said softly, "we're being
hailed by a Federation vessel who's responding to the
distress signal we broadcast earlierandmiddot;
They... are concerned about the Klingons' presence,
sir."
  Kirk nodded. "Captain Qo'dar, one of our
own ships is coming to our aid. But your assistance will not
be forgotten. Perhaps, someday, in the future--"
  Qo'dar only chuckled. "You think in the
future, someday, Klingons will be like you, and
will sit and talk and talk, Kirk? I hope not!
I, too, dream to die like a warrior!" With a sharp
command in Klingon, Qo'dar closed communications, and the
viewscreen returned to the image of
ever-brilliant stars and space--and countless pieces
of debris floating away in gravityless vacuum,
all that remained of the rescue ship Recovery.
  I'm sorry, Myron. More sorry than you'll
ever know.
  He sagged back in Romolo's chair, more
exhausted and more exhilarated than he had been in
two years.
  "We're being hailed by the Cavalry, sir,"
Diksen reminded him as the Klingon ship warped
away.
  Kirk swung around to grin quizzically at her.
"The andmiddot;.. cavalry?"
  "Aye, sir. The captain of the U.s.s. First
Air Cavalry is hailing us."
  He chuckled, remembering the hubbub surrounding that
name when the ship was christened. But the First Air
Cavalry had been a famous fighting unit in
history and deserved the acclaim, and all the
resources that the huge starship offered were
desperately needed by the Paladin right now.
  "On screen, Diksen."
  When the familiar visage of Captain Marie
Childress appeared, with Ambassador Sarek
standing beside her, Jim allowed himself a broad smile.
  "Marie! You're a sight for sore eyes. As
are you, Ambassador." He enjoyed watching
Sarek raise one eyebrow ever so slightly in the
blandest display of surprise. "How did you get
here so fast?"
  "Jim, several ships were stationed in the
neighborhood of the simulation," Childress
answered, "simply because of the proximity of the
Romulans, Klingons, and Tholians. We heard
about the Recovery's breakdown and have been chasing you
ever since. There are a few more ships tailing us, and
several stayed to assist the Starhawk."
  "Is Captain Romolo with you?" Kirk asked
hopefully.
  He wanted nothing more than to tell Baldassare
--in front of his crew--just how valiantly they'd
served their "stand-in" captain.
  Captain Childress shifted in her seat, her
brown eyes searching Sarek's face. The
ambassador lowered his gaze for the briefest of
instants; when he raised it again, his eyes
and voice were somber. "I'm sorry, Admiral.
But I'm afraid that Captain Romolo--did not
survive the attack on the Starhawk. To you, and to the
entire crew of the Paladin, may I say--I
grieve with thee."
  Kirk could say nothing--could only exhale
abruptly, as though the wind had been knocked from
him. A moment of silence passed, and then Sarek
said, his pitch rising ever so slightly with
curiosity:"
  "Captain Akhmatova was critically wounded and
is still in sickbay. She wished me to relay a
message to you .... "He paused. "She says
to tell you that she knows what to do now. She says--
tell Kirk Baldassare made the right choice.
The fourth choice."
  "The fourth choice," Kirk repeated, too
stunned by the news to make sense of the words. And then his
conversation with Akhmatova returned to him.
  "I figure I've got three choices:
accept the promotion and be kicked upstairs;
refuse it; or retire and be done with it."
Baldassare Romolo had made the fourth choice,
the right one: he had died in action, as a captain on
a starship.
  A small sound behind him caused him to glance over
his shoulder. At communications, Reese Diksen
sat stone-faced, staring at her board, her fists
clenched in fury.
  With a sigh, he turned back to the screen.
  "Marie. This crew is hurt, hungry, and
exhausted.
  Many of them will need to beam over directly onto
the Cavalry for medical care. We need a
relief team--especially for the bridge crew--and
lots of hands."
  "I'm sending my best, Jim," Marie assured
him.
  "You should be off that bridge within the hour."
  He nodded his thanks and thought, There's got to be
some Saurian brandy somewhere on this vessel. Once
I locate it, all I have to do is find Bones...
  Epilogue Aso caret Ro 'rEvery Peazov,
Kevin Riley settled down 'agst the
all-too-inviting bunk with a gusting sigh.
  The events aboard Recovery had left him
feeling exhausted and years older; after a brief
exchange with Admiral Kirk, he had returned
to his guest quarters to clean up and change from a
uniform spattered with Josiah Ngo's
blood. The admiral had looked as weary as his
aide, his uniform likewise blood-smeared. But
unlike Riley, Kirk had seemed rejuvenated
by the experience, and Kevin had no doubt that the
admiral would make good his promise to procure a
starship of his own.
  But at the moment, Riley could not bring his tired
mind to contemplate it. He was due now for a long
rest. His body ached for it; yet even as he lay,
unwilling, unable to move, against the bunk's soft
firmness, he contemplated rising. Anab and he would
not be aboard the Paladin for long. He wanted
to seek her out, to see her alone, removed from the
insane backdrop of the Recovery, before duty and
space separated them again.
  He lay there some moments, fatigue warring with
desire, and when the door at last chimed softly,
he smiled to himself and rose.
  "Come."
  The door slid open to reveal Anabmas always,
to.
  Riley, breathtaking in her dark beauty, her
elegance--smiling shyly, her uniform also now clean
of Ngo's blood. She ran a hand over her
close-cut hair and lingered in the entryway
a moment, unsure of her welcome.
  "Come in, please," he said easily, and
gestured toward a chair. "I was just thinking about going
to see you."
  She crossed to a chair and sat in front of him,
crossing her long legs as he settled onto the
bunk. "I came to apologize, K.t."
  He blinked, sincerely unable to figure out what
she referred to, and gave a short laugh. "For
what?"
  "For the way I treated you on Recovery. I
couldn't accept that you'd changed. You have, you know.
  You're not the man I left."
  He felt a faint surge of warmth on his
cheeks and realized, to his amazement, that he was
blushing like a cadet. "Oh... well I guess
I have changed. In some ways, at least. But...
let's face it, Anab. You had a point. I
make a rotten Security officer."
  He said it so ingenuously that she laughed aloud, and
he joined in with her.
  "I know," she said, smiling, her teeth a pearly
half-moon against red-brown lips; and then she
suddenly grew somber. "You almost got yourself
killed.
  Twice--once because you saved me. I wanted
to thank you."
  "You did the same for me. Remember?"
  histo remember." She lowered her face for an
instant, then raised it shyly, looking up at him from
beneath long, dark lashes? and released a sigh. "I
really came because I miss you, K.t. I couldn't
leave without letting you know--even though I had to leave
to do what I wanted with my life--that I still care."
Her voice 'grew suddenly soft, so that he had
to lean forward to hear. "It's not like I can just stop
loving you."
  Her words pierced him just as that first sight of her in
the Pastadin's briefing room had; but this time, there was
sweetness with the pain. "I know." He leaned forward
further, and touched the hand that rested in her lap. "Being
apart... hasn't really changed the way we feel,
has it? I've just... learned to get used to She
took his hand, gently, and again lowered her face; this
time, she did not look up. "I wish..." she
whispered. "I wish there were some way we could be
together.":
  A year before, a month before, perhaps even the day before
the events aboard Recovery, he would have prayed
to hear those words. But now he let a long
silence pass between before he answered, lightly:
  "We can't. Because I've learned something: I'm not
cut out for active duty in space. There's no
reason to blame myself not everyone belongs aboard a
starship.
  And I've learned that I don't."
  She looked up at him and said bitterly, "And
I do."
  "And you do." He stroked her cheek softly with the
back of his hand. "I really see that now."
  Another silence passed; and then she asked, "So
you're going to stay with Kirk? In San
Francisco?"
  He paused, remembering Kirk's determination as
he went to demand a better assignment from Nogura.
  Seeing the exhilaration on Kirk's face now,
he suspected he knew the precise assignment the
admiral would demand.
  Just as surely, he knew that he was not meant
to accompany him.
  He gazed beyond Anab, at a far distant point
somewhere in his future, and murmured, "I don't know
...."
  McCoy sat by Josiah Ngo's bed, waiting
patiently for the young man's lids
to flutter. He should be coming up right about...
  The eyes under the dark lids rolled, the lids
blinked.
  Josiah glanced around warily from beneath a fringe of
brown-black lashes.
  "You're okay, son," McCoy said kindly.
"You're coming out of cell regeneration. You've been under
quite a while. How do you feel?"
  Josiah tentatively raised a hand and touched his
chest, then patted it more firmly.
  "It's gone," McCoy reassured him. "You
came through surgery just fine. You've been in cell
regeneration for over two days. You'll be out of
sickbay in two more, so we can use this bed for someone
who really needs it."
  Josiah nodded, still dazed. McCoy lifted a
glass of cool water to his mouth and let him have
some.
  "We--we on the Paladin?" the cadet
croaked, his voice rusty from disuse and probably the
remnants of blood in his trachea.
  McCoy nodded. "We started your surgery in
sickbay and were ready to close up when you gave us
some trouble" He shook his head, remembering the
boy's blood pressure dropping, all
the vitals going zero, as though the kid had just
suddenly given up.
  "We had three doctors--including myself--working
on you. Once we got you through the worst of it, we
brought you here for cell regeneration and recovery.
  And you've been doing fine. You haven't been
critical for the last twenty-four hours. You'll be
dancing by tomorrow."
  Josiah shot him a skeptical look, but
managed a wan smile. "Lieutenant Saed and
Commander Riley?" Reese?"
  "All" safe." The doctor grinned at the
thought.
  "Your friend Reese'11 be coming to visit you
soon."
  "Did you--ever get to have that drink with Admiral
Kirk?"
  McCoy looked solemnly into his patient's
dark.
  eyes. "No, "fraid not. Jim hasn't been
free to talk--and you and I were in surgery. But
I'll get with him, soon as he gets everything on
Paladin squared away."
  In truth, he'd been hesitant about seeing the
admiral again. The events with Recovery
had only served to underscore the fact that Kirk
belonged on the bridge of a starship, and the doctor
wasn't so sure he could hold his tongue and keep
from telling Jim so.
  At the same time, he yearned to see his old friend
once more. But what's the point of rehashing old
times? he thought bitterly. They can never come again
....
  Josiah nodded, then blinked sleepily. Regen
patients never could stay awake for long. "Hey,
Doc--you did it. You got that call through. You're a
doctor --and a computer expert!" In spite of his
condition, Josiah managed a brief grin.
  "A temporary condition, I'm sure,"
McCoy reassured him. "Now, go on back
to sleep." He dimmed the lights and within seconds
Josiah had obeyed him, allowing him to leave the
room quietly.
  Outside the private quarters, McCoy rubbed
a hand over his tired eyes. He felt about three
hundred years old. His first nap had only been a
few hours ago; he had felt compelled to be there
when Josiah had his first conscious moment after the
surgery. Now he wouldn't have to worry about the boy
waking up terrified on a strange ship,
without anything recognizable around him.
  It was time for him to take his own advice now, and
get some sleep. He moved wearily two doors
down and entered the quarters that had been assigned
to him. As he crossed the threshold, he saw a
shadow, and, still jumpy from all the violence he'd
experienced on the Recovery, he froze, poised
for flight.
  A figure stepped out of the shadow, then asked the
computer to brighten the lights.
  McCoy blinked, then stared at the tall, dark
specter.
  "Angie?" he whispered hoarsely.
  "Leonard, are you all right?" Angelina Mola
moved to him with the same fluid grace he
remembered. It was a hallucination, he knew,
probably part of post-stress syndrome and lack
of sleep. But it was so good to just see her again.
"Didn't they tell you, Leonard?
  Didn't you hear? Oh, Dios, poor dear,
what a shock.
  Just what you didn't need."
  She took his hands and hers were warm, the same
warm, long-fingered, strong hands that could move so
agilely in any surgery, so assuredly
in any emergency.
  McCoy could do nothing but gape at them in
wonder.
  "The Recovery preserved me perfectly," she
explained, "and maintained the stasis chamber
exactly the way she was supposed to. My chamber
--still fully functional--was beamed aboard the
Paladin with the rest of you. They brought me up while
you were still in surgery on the young cadet. I have a
new, artificial heart"--she thumped her chest--
"complete with a five-year warranty! If it
fails, I get my money back!
  You've been so involved with your case guess, after
a while they just forgot to tell you. I'm so sorry.
It must've been like seeing the dead."
  As she spoke, his eyes filled; he had to blink
rapidly to clear them. "More like seeing a saint.
Angie, it's so wonderful to see you--to was He
embraced her, hugging her to him, and she returned it,
her arms strong.
  Swallowing the emotions, he pulled back and said
gently, "Have they told you--?"
  "That I was the only one so... lucky?" She
closed her eyes for a moment; grief slackened her
features.
  "Chia. Nassar. Monique. It's so hard
to believe. And Myron... For him to die as he
did, such a gentle soul taking so many with him..."
  McCoy shook his head, as though trying to negate
the horror of it. "He--he was so proud, Angie.
So proud that he'd saved you. I thought you were gone
forever, but I humored him. He died believing that
he'd saved you on sheer will alone. He saved us
all, in the end."
  She opened dark, lustrous, intelligent eyes,
so full of pain that he was forced to look away from them.
He let go a long, tremulous breath and continued:
"When we materialized in the cargo hold, only a
few of us knew where we were. There was so much panic
by then. Some Starfleet people were with me, and they had the
force of will to get everything under control pretty quickly.
Then I told anyone who would listen in the cargo
hold how we'd gotten there--that Myron had saved
the core programming. It took some fast talking
but--by the time they brought Josiah and me to sickbay,
they had started a service for Myron right there in the
cargo hold. There were ten men from Zotos Four
who'd worked with him over the years and they were saying
a--a kaddish right there. I wish t could've stayed for
it."
  "You haven't spoken yet with Kirk," she said
knowingly.
  He shook his head. "The Paladin's a mess,
hanging together with spit and wire. Jim's really the
captain with Romolo dead, and has been too busy
for some thing so personal. And I was in surgery
for--I don't know, it feels like days ...."
  He looked up, remembering something. "Angie,
did they tell you--all of it?"
  She lowered her gaze and suddenly looked her age
--shrunken, old. "Yes. Myron's death. The
loss of Recovery.
  He knew the two deaths were, in many ways, of
equal value to her.
  "Leonard, the advances we'd made on that ship
--all lost."
  "It can't all be lost, Angie! Myron's
data exists other places. The things he created can
be reproduced."
  She shook her head. "In time, some of it, no
doubt, will be. But Recovery is a lost dream.
You can't know the effort it took to get the original
built, the money, the politicking, the resources,
the staff. And now there's no Myron Shulman
to pull it all together. He was a genius,
Leonard, and his creativity and inventiveness is gone
forever."
  The aged, stately woman looked at him
squarely.
  "The FDRA will not be the only organization
to suffer in this. The Federation will feel it. This
setback will slow down technological
development. The loss of Recovery will taint many
activities, many discoveries.
  The investigations alone will go on for years."
  She was right, he realized gloomily.
  "Of course, if another individual,"? she
said cagily, staring at him, "with popular clout, with the
savvy to think on his feet, and the respect of
Federation higher-ups brought the proposal to them--"
  His eyes widened. "Keep talking like that, lady,
and I'm gonna have to check you for brain damage.
Forget it, Angie. There's no way I'd have the
patience to even try all that wheeling and dealing,
and--after what I've been through, I don't even know
if I could believe in the project myself. Some things
--might be better off left to rest in peace." He
looked away from her guiltily, avoiding her
disappointed gaze.
  He shook his head again, talking more now for
his own benefit. "That joyride on Recovery was
my last bit for God and country. The only way the
Federation's ever gonna get me to work for them again will be
to forcibly draft me. And that's a promise."
  The two old friends stood silently in his chambers
for a long, long time, holding a memorial service
of their own.
  "It's pretty amazing, Admiral," Riley
was saying the following morning as they walked through the
Paladin's battle-scarred corridors, "that with
all the chaos going on, the scientists managed
to save all the data they'd brought aboard from
Zotos Four."
  Kirk had been surprised by that information himself.
  "They worked damned hard for it, which made them very
cautious. Not only did they have it stored in the
Recovery's main computer--where it was destroyed when
the ship was--but they kept duplicates of all the
computer work on cassettes right on their bodies!
So when they were beamed aboard Paladin, the data
all came with them. Good thing they were wary of the new
ship." His
  The last two days had been nonstop,
minute-to-minute stress as a thousand decisions had
to be made about Paladin's repairs,
crew transfers, data transfers, and
Recovery's survivors. Food was a
catch-as-catch-can situation, and sleep was worse.
Jim couldn't remember when he'd had the latter, but
it had been in a chair somewhere, a quick catnap, then
back to the grind..
  He'd never gotten to talk to McCoy. He'd
tried to get to sickbay, but in spite of Captain
Childress's reassurance, he hadn't left the
bridge for hours. By the time he did get free,
Bones was deep in critical surgery on
Josiah Ngo. The two were transferred onto the
medical vessel while Jim was working with the engineers
on the warp-drive realignment. He never even
knew about it till it had long passed.
  He was relieved, at least, that Kevin Riley
was once more by his side.
  "Admiral." Riley's tone grew suddenly
formal; his pace slowed. "If I could have permission
to speak freely, sir..."
  Kirk raised an eyebrow. "I always expect
you to speak freely with me, Riley. You know that."
  He grinned sheepishly, revealing a flash of
white teeth in the midst of golden-brown beard.
"Yes, sir. I have the feeling that you've
made some decisions--being out here again. I can see it
in your face. The whole time I've been here with
you--you've been, well--it feels just like when we were
onw"
  Kirk held his hand up. "No. Not quite like that.
I'm taking Paladin home. She may be
decommissioned, since she's taken quite a beating, but
if she is, I'll be part of the decision. Iowe that
to Baldassare. And I'll take her on her last
trip. She deserves that. But w you're right about the
decisions. I've already sent my reports to the old
man. And my request."
  Riley's expression grew sly. "You mean,
your demand."
  Kirk smiled and inclined his head, a gesture that
allowed the truth of the last remark. "Nogura will
see it that way--but he can't deny me now. Not after
this." He glanced at Riley. "I want the
Enterprise back. And I'll get her. No more
being distracted by Nogura's promises to make the
admiralty into something it's not."
  "I believe you, sir."
  Kirk grinned saucily. "Want to come along?"
  Riley shared his conspiratorial smile
briefly; then his boyish countenance grew
somber. "I know I said earlier that I'd follow
you, sir--but... my time aboard Recovery has
made me think twice about serving aboard a starship
again." His shoulders lowered as he released a small,
silent sigh, and Kirk watched a glimmer of
uncertainty and guilt cross his features. "I
don't belong with you there, sir--but I meant what I
said about not pushing someone else's papers: I have no
desire to serve at headquarters without you."
  The two men stopped walking; Kirk turned
toward him thoughtfully. He'd always felt that
Riley's destiny lay somewhere beyond a desk at
Starfleet Headquarters; he'd hoped that it would be
with him, aboard the Enterprise. But if that was not
to be...
  He spoke swiftly as inspiration struck.
"Kevin... I spoke with Ambassador Sarek
today. He lost two of his closest aides in the
attack on Starhawk. If you're interested, it could
open up a whole new career for you--in
diplomacy. Interested?"
  Riley brightened. "Yes, sir! The time I
assisted you in diplomatic troubleshooting was the best
part of the job. That is, if you think--"
  "I'd be happy to recommend you to him."
  "Thank you, Admiral." He let go another
sigh and grinned. "Thank you. Frankly, I was
worried about how you'd react. I'll be sorry
to leave you. You've helped me more than you can know."
  "As you've helped me," Kirk said softly.
He extended his hand; the two men clasped palms
warmly.
  "With your permission, sir." Riley straightened.
  "I'd like to contact the ambassador as soon as
possible ...."
  "Go right ahead, Kevin. We'll catch up with
each other later." He let go of Riley's hand and
watched with a sense of nostalgia as his aide--his
former aide--strode confidently away from him down the
hallway.
  By the time he reached the turbolift, Kirk was no
longer sure where he was going. They'd certified the
ship safe for travel--as long as she didn't
exceed warp four--and now they were finally under way.
Maybe this would be a good time to find some quarters and
actually try to sleep horizontally for a few
hours.
  The lift opened, and Reese Diksen stared at
him in surprise.
  "Captain Kirk, I mean
Admiral, I mean--" She stopped stammering and
collected her thoughts. Stepping out of the lift, she
started again. "Admiral. Nice to see you. Everything
all right?"
  "For the last ten minutes," he assured her.
"Where are you heading?"
  "My quarters. They're on this floor."
  Without discussing it, the two of them started walking
together. "I could use a little advice on that
subject, Diksen," he remarked.
  "Excuse me, sir?"
  "Any ideas where I can bunk tonight?" It suddenly
occurred to him how she might take that and he almost
blushed. He'd asked her in all innocence, since,
after all they'd been through, he'd come to view her as a
fellow officer--coma comrade-in-arms--not an
available female. But, in truth, she was.
  She mulled over the questions, and her expression never
showed any discomfort. "I take it you'd rather not stay in
the captain's quarters.;"
  "Correct," he said too quickly. Romolo's
ghost would haunt him as it was. He wouldn't get a
wink of sleep in the dead man's bed.
  "Well, actually," she suggested helpfully,
"the quarters next to Sonak are empty,
sir, up on deck two--unless someone's
appropriated them because of damage on other
decks."
  But that was unlikely, he knew, since so much of
their crew had been transferred to the Cavalry.
Diksen had stayed. As had Saed. Ngo, he had
no doubt, would
  have stayed had he not been wounded A glimmer of
guilt assailed him at the memory.
  As though she'd heard him thinking about Ngo, she
said, "I heard that you recommended Ngo for the Medal
of honor. I think that's wonderful, sir. If he
gets it, he'll be the first cadet ever to earn it in
action."
  Kirk' smiled slightly. "Oh, I don't
know. He may actually be just one of the first cadets."
  Diksen's brows furrowed; then, as if she'd
finally figured out what he was suggesting, her ears
burned a furious red.
  He had to laugh. "There'll be enough medals to go around
after this, Diksen." Then he grew serious. "I
remember how I gave you the chance to leave the
bridge, to be with Josiah--and you stayed."
  "I couldn't have helped him. I could're helped
you."
  Kirk nodded. "You did help me. Through the
whole thing. You show a lot of promise, Diksen."
  She held a breath, then let it out with control and
faced him. "I'll remember what you told me.
I'll never forget my ambitions."
  He looked at her attractive, youthful
face, saw all the hard choices coming before her--and
envied her for it. "I'll remember, too. I
promise you."
  Her. eyes widened. "You--you're going back
to space?"
  "I'm going to fight for it." He grinned.
"Want to come along?"
  "Yes, sir! Absolutely!"
  "That's a deal, Diksen. It won't be
communications, this time--"
  "That's okay, sir. A captain has to know how
to run everything on her ship!"
  Laughing, he continued, "And you can bring Ngo
along, too. I'm thinking of talking to Lieutenant
Saed, as well." He was already planning on his
staff, he realized. Could he pull his old crew
off their new assignments? Would they come with him again?
He'd talk McCoy into it somehow, despite all
the doctor's grumbling that he'd had enough of the
Fleet.
  But Spock...
  The presence of his Vulcan friend had been so real
at times during this mission, he had almost heard his
voice. But Spock was on Vulcan, studying
Kolinahr.
  That was one relationship he would never enjoy again.
  Then he remembered Sonak.
  "What deck were those quarters on again, Diksen?"
  A few minutes later he approached the rooms
the cadet had told him about. The doors slid open
to reveal a puzzled Vulcan on the other side.
"Admiral Kirk? Can I help you?"
  "Sonak! Forgive me. I must've confused the
room assignments. Diksen said there was an empty
one, but I could've sworn it was this one."
  "There has been an error, sir. These are my
quarters.
  But I can show you a vacant one." The Vulcan
walked down the corridor with Kirk, just one door
from his own. The doors opened onto a clean but
empty room, with a bunk neatly made--an inviting
sight.
  "Thank you," Kirk said. "It's been a while
since any of us have had adequate rest,"
then, he amended, "that is, any of us humans."
  Sonak merely quirked an eyebrow.
  "Since I have this chance, Commander, I wanted
to thank you for all the help you've given mere"
  To his surprise, Sonak interrupted. "It
is illogical to thank me for my help,
Admiral, when I failed in the two most
critical functions I needed to perform in our
confrontation with Recovery."
  "Failed?
  "I could not decipher the tertiary code quickly enough
to gain control of the vessel," Sonak reiterated
calmly, "nor did I determine the Tholian
Lokara's intent to fire upon us until it was too
late to raise the shields. If you will remember,
sir, it was my recommendation to lower the shields."
  Kirk nodded, recognizing the sense of defeat the
Vulcan felt, even if he never expressed it.
"Mr. Sonak, you will find in your career that sometimes
the most logical decisions don't always work out. Not
even Spock could've translated that code quickly enough
to stop that ship. And our lowering the shields probably
kept Recovery from doing to us what she did to the
Skotha. I'm satisfied with your decisions and your
actions. I may be a mere human--"
  Sonak nodded all too willingly.
  "--b I know a good science officer when I see
one. I'm hoping to get another vessel, to go back
on active duty in space. If that happens--would
you serve with me?"
  Sonak drew himself up into that tall, stately
Vulcan stance and met Kirk's gaze. "I would be
honored to serve under you, Admiral, on any
vessel."
  Kirk nodded, knowing Sonak would not extend his hand
as Riley had. "Thank you, Mr. Sonak. A
good rest to you."
  As Sonak left him in the empty room
"Diksen had correctly told him about, Kirk
collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It
didn't take long for him to realize, as his eyes
moved back and forth in the dim light, that sleep would
evade him, as he couched all the arguments he would have
to use on Admiral Nogura to get his way. But
he had made up his mind how it would end. The events
aboard the Paladin had brought home too keenly the
memory of what he had been--and what he was
determined to be again.
  No more double-talk, tteihachiro. This time, I
won't back down. You'll either have to give
me a starship or drum me out of the Fleet.
  And not just any starship. Sooner or later, he
would be back in spacerback aboard the
Enterprise-where he belonged.
  In the midst of his reverie, the door chimed
softly; he sat up, ordered the lights on.
"Come."
  He steeled himself, half expecting Diksen, or
another Paladin officer, with news of some other
forgotten task, some detail that demanded his attention
before he could rest. Or perhaps it was Riley, with news
of his meeting with Ambassador Sarek ....
  The door slid open, revealing a lean figure,
its face hidden in shadow. For a fleeting moment, the
visitor remained silent; Kirk frowned, opening
his mouth to speak, but before he could, the figure
moved...
  Slowly, leisurely, raising an arm to lift
something dark and gleaming in its hand. A flask,
Kirk realized, and as the light glinted off the amber
liquid inside, he said, with a grin:
  "That had better be Saurian brandy."
  "Damn straight," McCoy said, stepping into the
light.
  Deep within Mount Seleya's cold
heart, Spock opened his eyes.
  Outside, Vulcan's sun burned relentlessly
in the desert sky, but inside Sekhet's dark,
windowless shrine, shadows leapt, quivering, in the
silent gloom.
  For days he had meditated, motionless and
undisturbed, without drink, without food, determined
to break the bonds that connected him to Kirk and
McCoy.
  And at last in the middle of his vigil's third
day, the stubborn conviction that his friends were in danger
eased.
  He lifted his gaze to Sekhet's stone visage
before him, and observed the play of light and dark over
her fearsome face as he recited the customary
prayer of thanks.
  Yet even as he whispered the ancient words in an
ancient tongue, a strand of doubt wove its way
into his consciousness. The sense of danger to his friends
had comvanished; but did that truly mean all bonds
were dissolved? That his friendship with these two was forever
consigned to the past?
  Spock completed his recitation, then turned and
made his way back through the great archway, out into the
passageway. At the spiraling stone
stairs, he paused.
  Faintly, as though from a far, far distance, someone,
something brushed his mind.
  Jim Kirk?
  He hesitated, softening his breathing, quieting his
thoughts to better understand the source of the transmission.
  Leonard McCoy?
  But the sensation disappeared as abruptly as it had
come.
  He dismissed it as the aftereffects of the fast and
meditation, no more. He had completed the ritual of
Sekhet; he would have to trust that all ties now were
truly severed, and that he was prepared to undergo the
ritual with the High Master.
  Spock drew a breath and began slowly to climb
the stairs with an odd sense of destiny, of moving
toward the unknown future ....
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