STAR TREK NEW FRONTIER

BOOK THREE

THE TWO-FRONTWAR

by

PETER DAVID

POCKET BOOKS New York London

Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

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Printed in the U.s.a. MACKENZIE

I. Captain's Log, Stardate

50926.1-The Excalibur has been

endeavoring to provide humanitarian aid to the

stranded vessel Cambon

and its four dozen passengers presently in

sickbay. However, we now

find ourselves face-to-face with an unexpected

intruder, who has opened fire on us.

First Officer's Log, Stardate

50926.1-Our attempt to effect repairs

on a stranded private crew ship, the Cambon,

populated by refugees from the fallen Thallonian

government, has been interrupted by the

appearance of an unknown vessel, which is reacting

in a hostile manner to what is undoubtedly perceived

as our trespass. Ideally, Captain

Calhoun should be able to handle this matter in a calm

and reasonable

manner.

"I WANT To BLOW THOSE BASTARDS out of

space." The Excalibur had just been rocked by the

opening salvo from the black-and-silver ship that

hung 100,000 kilometers to starboard. The

phasestplasma cannons had

pounded against the starship's shields, firing

specially created

"phaserstplasma" essentially designed not

to smash shields apart, but

instead to determine the wave harmonics of the

shielding and basically eat through them with violent force.

The first of the blasts went a

long way toward cracking through the primary

shields, and the Excalibur was jolted by the impact.

Nonetheless, even though the starship had

been subjected to this most undignified and

unprovoked attack, Captain Calhoun's

angry order prompted a

startled gasp from Commander Shelby. "Captain-to "

"Save the

indignation, Commander. I didn't say I would .

. . merely that I wanted to. Still, the

day's young," and Calhoun rose from his chair, looking

energized and confident. "Lefler, damage

report." "Some damage on

primary shields," Robin Lefler reported from

ops. "No structural

damage. Forward shields at eighty percent and

holding." "McHenry . . ." began Calhoun.

And to his surprise, the normally laid-back

helmsman said in staccato fashion, "I've

angled the ship to protect the damaged shields,

sir. Taking evasive action." He caught

Lefler's look

from the corner of his eye and turned to glance at the

captain. "Was

that jumping the gun, sir?" "Yes, but I'll

let it go this time,"

replied Calhoun, who had in fact been about

to issue exactly those

orders. "Mr. Boyajian, have you raised them

yet?" "Not yet, sir."

Boyajian, a tall, black-haired

tactical specialist, had stepped in to

cover for Zak Kebron while the security

chief was off-ship. Calhoun

spoke briskly and forcefully, yet in a

manner so unhurried that it gave the impression he

felt fairly unthreatened by the present situation.

Whether that was truly the case or not was impossible

to tell. "Keep

trying, but meantime see if you can determine where their

key points of vulnerability are and target them."

"Trying, Captain. Tough to scan

them through their shields."

"Do your best." He turned toward the science

station. "Lieutenant

Soleta, any thoughts on the ship's pedigree?"

"Although the vessel

bears passing similarities with Kreel

vessels, it is not of that race," she said as she

checked her scanners. "It will take time to make a

full analysis." "Fine, you've got twenty

seconds." "I appreciate the

leisure time, sir." "They're coming around again,"

warned Shelby.

"Firing again!" Boyajian warned. Two

phasestplasma bolts streaked out from the underside of the

black-and-silver ship.mark McHenry's eyes

seemed to glitter with an almost demented glee as his

fingers flew over the controls with such speed that

Lefler, sitting not ten feet away, couldn't even

see them.

The twin blasts arced right for the front of the saucer

section, and would have struck it cleanly had not the

Excalibur suddenly-with alacrity and

grace-executed a forty-five-degree roll on

her horizontal axis. Terms such as

"sideways" had no meaning in the depth of space

when there was no other body, such as a planet,

to relate it to. Nonetheless, "sideways" was what

the Excalibur suddenly was as the plasma blasts

shot past her, bracketing her on either side.

"Excellent!" Shelby called out. McHenry

had had no more vocal critic or detractor than

Shelby when she had first seen him at his post,

apparently unfocused and uninterested. But faced with a

crisis,

McHenry had reacted with ingenuity and full

capability.

McHenry's response to Shelby's

spontaneous praise was to turn and grin at her.

Soleta, who appeared oblivious

to McHenry's maneuvering, glanced up from her

science station. "Sir, I believe that bulge to their

aft section is the key to their propulsion

system . . . some sort of a concentrated ion

glide."

"Mr. Boyajian, target it, ready phasers

for a threesecond shot at full strength. Then put

me on ship-toship."

"Aye, sir, but I can't promise they're

listening."

"I'll take that chance. Oh, and the moment I get

to five, fire."

"You're on intership, Captain," said

Boyajian, "but what did you mean by-?"

Calhoun didn't give him the opportunity

to finish the question. Instead, in a no-nonsense tone,

he said, "Attention alien vessel. This is

Captain Calhoun of the Federation starship

Excalibur. Your attack is unprovoked. We

will give you to the count of five to back off, or we will

open fire."

Understanding the earlier order, Boyajian's finger

hovered over the firing control.

And Calhoun, without hesitation, said, "One. . .

two . . . five. his

Boyajian fired the phaser reflexively upon

hearing the command, acting so automatically that the

phasers had already been unleashed before he

real- 8

ized that a few numbers had been missing in the

countdown.

The phasers lashed out, striking the attacking

vessel directly in the section that Soleta had

suggested. The attacker rocked wildly, the

phasers coruscating off the shields.

"Direct hit," Boyajian reported. "Their

shields held, but I don't think they were

particularly thrilled."

"I didn't expect to damage them," said

Calhoun. "Not with a three-second burst."

"A warning shot," Shelby realized. "To let

them know that we've targeted a vulnerable area."

Calhoun nodded, and that was when Boyajian said,

"We're getting an incoming hail, sir."

"Good. Let them sweat a few moments before

putting them on."

In a low voice so as not to sound openly questioning of

her superior officer in front of the rest of the

bridge crew, Shelby murmured, "If you

wanted to warn them, you could have fired at

half-strength. Perhaps even fired across their path rather

than an invasive direct strike."

"If I have a bow and arrow, Commander, I

don't shoot a padded shaft to my target's left

in order to express my annoyance. I fire a

steel-tipped arrow into his leg. That's my idea

of a warning shot."

"You're the Gandhi of the spaceways, Captain."

He smiled and then said, "Put me on with them,

Boyajian."

"You're on, sir."

"This is Captain Calhoun of the Excalibur,

was he said. "Identify yourselves and prepare to stand down

from hostilities. Otherwise I can assure you that you

will not leave this confrontation in one piece."

The screen shimmered for a moment, and the commander

(presumably) of the opposing vessel appeared.

Although distinguishing gender was frequently a bit

problematic in any first encounter, the Excalibur's

opponent looked distinctly female. Moreover,

by Earth standards she appeared almost angelic. She was

hairless, her skin golden, her brow slightly

distended in a manner that was-amazingly

enough-still attractive. It was difficult to make

out the color of her eyes, but when she tilted her

head they seemed to glow with an almost purple sheen.

When she spoke, her voice had a vibrato to it that

gave it a somewhat musical quality.

"I am Laheera of Nelkar," she replied.

"Do you wish to discuss terms of your surrender?"

"Surrender?" Calhoun cast a skeptical

glance at Shelby as if to say, Do you hear this?

He looked back to Laheera. "You expect me-a

Starfleet captainto surrender my vessel on

our maiden voyage to the first opponent who looks

to pose a challenge? Sorry. That's not my

style."

"And is your style trespass, then? We know your

type, Calhoun," said Laheera. Her voice was

such that, even when annoyed, she had a tone of

amusement 10

to her. "Our once-orderly sector is now

subject to the attentions of

scavengers and pirates. People who will take every

opportunity to ravage us, to feed on helplessness.

We must protect ourselves."

"I can appreciate that," replied Calhoun,

"but you've misjudged us. We're here only

to help."

"How do we know? Why, there is a transport

vessel right next to you that is empty and damaged.

How do we know you haven't picked it clean of

whatever it might have had to offer?"

"The transport vessel's crew is aboard this

ship. We were lending

humanitarian aid. If you wish, I can have you

speak to its captain and a delegation of its crew."

Laheera glanced to the side of the screen and

murmured something, as if consulting with someone unseen.

Then she looked back and said, "That would be

acceptable."

"Give us five minutes. Calhoun out." He

didn't even wait for the screen to blink off as he

said, "Bridge to sickbay."

"Sickbay, Dr. Selar here," came the

crisp response.

"Doctor, I'd like you to get Captain Hufmin

and a couple of representatives of the Cambon

passengers up here immediately. Whoever is healthiest and

is qualified to speak on their behalf. And make it

fast."

"Will three minutes suffice?"

"Make it two. Calhoun out." He promptly

turned to Boyajian and said, "Can you raise the

Marqudnd?"

"Aye, sir."

"Good. Get me Si Cwan on subspace.

I want to see what he knows about these

"Nelkar" people."

He looked to Shelby and he knew what she was

thinking. She was musing that if Calhoun hadn't let

Si Cwan and Zak Kebron head out in the runabout

for the purpose of rendezvous with the ship Kayven

Ryin, then he would be aboard the Excalibur now,

in a position to be of some use. Shelby, however, was

far too good an officer to voice those thoughts . . .

at least, while other crewmen were around. So instead

she nodded noncommittally and simply said, "Good

plan, sir."

"Zoran, it's slowing down!"

Aboard the Kayven Ryin, a group of

Thallonians had been watching the approach of the

Marquand with tremendous interest and smug excitement.

For what seemed the hundredth time, Zoran had

checked over his disruptor, making certain that the energy

cartridge was fully charged. But with the alarmed shout from

one of his associates, Rojam, Zoran tore

himself away from his preoccupation with his weapon.

Rojam was correct. The Marquand, dispatched by the

Excalibur and bearing the unknowing target of

Zoran's interest-named Lord Si Cwan, former

prince of the Thallonian Empire--had been

proceeding at a brisk pace toward the

Kayven Ryin.

"They suspect," muttered Rojam.

"Do something, then," snapped Zoran. "We can't

be this close to having Si Cwan in our hands,

only to let him slip through our fingers now! I must have

his throat in my hands, so that I can squeeze the

life from him myself!" The other Thallonians nodded

in agreement, which was hardly surprising. Whenever

Zoran spoke, the others had a tendency to concur.

Reactivating the comm. channel, Rojam hailed

the oncoming runabout. He tried not to sound nervous,

apprehensive, or all that eager, although a little of

any of that would have been understandable. After all, they were

representing themselves as frightened, stranded passengers

aboard a crippled science vessel. A degree

of nervousness under the circumstances would be right in line

with the scenario they were presenting. "Shuttle craft

Marquand, is there a problem? You seem to be

slowing." He paused and then added, "Aren't you going

to help us?"

There was no reply at first and another of the

Thallanians, a shorter and more aggressive man

named Juif, whispered, "Target them! Target

them! Use exterior weapons and blast them

into atoms! Hurry, before it's too late!"

"They're at the outer edge of the firing range,"

Zoran noted angrily. "We likely couldn't do

them any significant damage, and they'd still be in

a position to get away. Hell, their instruments would

probably inform them we're locking on to them.

They'd leap into warp space and be gone before we got

a shot off." The edge to his voice became more

pronounced as he said in a threatening manner,

"Rojam . . ."

"They're not responding."

"That is unacceptable. Get them on the line."

"But if they won't respon-was

Zoran's large hand clamped down on the back

of Rojam's neck, and the latter felt as if his

head was about to be torn from his shoulders. "Providence

has delivered Si Cwan to us," snarled Zoran,

"and I will not have him escape. Now get them on the

line!"

Never had Rojam been more convinced that his demise

was imminent. And then, as if in answer to unvoiced

prayers, a gravelly voice came over the

speaker. "This is Lieutenant Kebron of the

Marquand. Sit tight, Kayven Ryin. We're just

dealing with a communique from our main vessel.

Kebron out."

"Raise them again!" urged Zoran.

"I can't. The channel's gone dead."

"If they get away," Zoran said meaningfully,

"that channel won't be the only thing around here that's

dead."

Si Cwan stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The

Nelkarites, eh?"

"You know them?" Calhoun's voice came over the

subspace radio. "Are they trustworthy?"

"Nowadays, there are few in Sector 221-G

whom I would consider absolutely trustworthy,"

Si Cwan told him. "Relatively speaking, the

Nelkar had been fairly harmless. Never started

any wars, more than happy to accept Thallonian

rule. However. . ."

"However?" prompted Calhoun when the word seemed

simply to dangle there. "Well . . . they're a

scavenger race, by and large. Fairly limited in

their design and potential. They tend to cobble their

vessels together from

whatever they can find, using technology that they

don't always understand."

Soleta's voice was audible over the link as she

commented, "That would explain the somewhat haphazard

design of their vessel."

"Does that answer your questions, Captain?" asked

Si Cwan, not quite able to keep the urgency out of his

voice. "Because if it's all the same to you-was "Stay

on station. Do not proceed to the Kayven Ryin until

you hear back from us."

"But Captain-to "

"I want to get matters sorted out on this end

before you board that vessel, and I want to know I can

get in touch with you. If the comm system on the

Kayven Ryin goes out, you'll be

incommunicado."

"Captain-to " Si Cwan tried to protest.

But Calhoun wouldn't hear any of it. Instead he

said preemptively, "Did you copy those orders,

Lieutenant Kebran?"

Without hesitation, Kebron said, "Understood,

Captain."

"Excalibur out."

Making no attempt to cover his anger, Si

Cwan sprang to his feet and slammed his fists

into the

ceiling of the shuttle craft. Kebron watched

him impassively. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm getting angry!" snapped Si Cwan.

He began to pace the interior of the shuttle

craft like a tiger. "Why, don't you ever get

angry?"

"I try not to," said Kebron evenly. "If

I lose control, things tend to get broken."

"Things. What kinds of things," demanded Si

Cwan without much interest. "Oh . . . heads . .

. backs . . . necks . . ."

Captain Hufmin of the damaged vessel

Cambon, along with two of the

refugees--a husband and wife named

Boretskee and Cary, who had developed into a

kind of leaders-by-default-sat in the conference

lounge with Calhoun and Shelby. On the screen was

Laheera of Nelkar, and it was quite apparent

to Calhoun that Hufmin and company were spellbound

by her.

"You understand that we were only concerned about the welfare

of your passengers," Laheera said to Calhoun in that

wonderfully musical voice of hers. "Let us not

lose sight of one simple truth This is our

sector of space. You are merely a visitor

here. It is to our interest to watch out for one another.

It is difficult to know whom to trust."

"Understood," Calhoun said neutrally.

"Captain Hufmin . . . I extend

to you and your . . . cargo, was she seemed amused by the

notion, "sanctuary on Nelkar. We welcome you

with open arms."

Boretskee and Cary looked at each other with

undisguised joy and relief. "We accept your

offer," they said.

"Excellent. I shall inform my homeworld." The

screen shimmered and she was gone.

"Now, wait a minute," said Shelby. "Are you

quite certain about this?" "Commander, we are not pioneers,"

Cary replied. "We are not intrepid adventurers

like yourselves. We're just trying to survive, that's

a1Like Whether we survive on their world or somewhere

outside of the Thallonian Empire, what difference

does it make?"

"Isn't there an old Earth saying about any

port in a storm?" Hufmin

reminded them.

"Yes, and there's also one about fools rushing in,"

said Calhoun.

Boretskee bristled a bit. "I can't say

I appreciate being considered a "fool,"

Captain."

"I didn't say that-was

Cary cut in. "We are grateful to you

for all you've done for us. You saved our lives. For

that our next generation of children will be named for you. But,

Captain," and Cary gestured as if trying

to encompass the whole of the galaxy, "this environment

you sail through-space-you're comfortable in it. You've

made your peace with it. But myself, Boretskee, the

others in our group . . . we're not spacefaring

types. This vacuum . . . it presses on us.

Intimidates us. We almost died in it. If the

Nelkarites offer us safe escort and a life on

their world, we'll happily embrace it."

Hufmin took in both Shelby and Calhoun with a

bland shrug. "Look . . . I'm just a hired gun

here. They're the passengers. Barring desires that

run contrary to the safety of my vessel, I'm

obligated to take them where they want to go."

"Perhaps. But I'm not," Calhoun said.

They looked at him, a bit appalled.

"Captain . . . you wouldn't," said Boretskee.

"I have to do what I think is right. And I'm

loath to thrust you into a potentially dangerous situation

. . ."

"We're already in a potentially dang erous

situation," Cary pointed out. "We're in the depths

of space. That's dangerous enough as far as

we're concerned. It almost killed us once. We have

no desire to give it a second opportunity."

"With all respect, Captain, this shouldn't be your

decision," Boretskee said.

"With all respect, sir . . . that is

precisely what it is," replied

Calhoun. He rose from his seat and turned away

from them, his hands draped behind his back. "I'll let

you know what I decide presently. That will be

all."

"Now wait one minute-was

"I believe, sir, that the captain said that would be

all," Shelby said calmly, her fingers interlaced

on the table in front of her. "Temporary quarters

have been set up to house you and your fellow

passengers. Perhaps the time could be well spent

discussing your options with them . . . just in the event that

you're not all of the same mind."

"Apparently what we decide is

irrelevant," said Boretskee challengingly. His

fists were tightly clenched; it was clear that he was a

bit of a

scrapper, just waiting for Calhoun to react in some

aggressive manner. When Calhoun did not even

turn, however, Boretskee continued

angrily, "Wouldn't you say so, Captain?"

Calhoun turned to look at him, and his purple

eyes were as sympathetic as a black hale.

"Yes. I would." The air turned more frigid with

each word. To his credit, Boretskee didn't

seem inclined to back down. But Cary headed off

any continuing hostility as she tugged on

Boretskee's arm and he allowed himself to be led out

of the roam. Captain Hufmin paused at the door

long enough to say, "Look, Captain . . . I

don't give a damn either way. I'm making almost

no money on this job as it is. But for what it's

worth, these are people who have lost everything. Be a shame

if they lost their

self-respect, too."

Shelby waited until the moment that Hufmin was

gone and out of earshot, and then she said- to Calhoun,

"It's not your choice, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Begs are clear on this. These people know where they

want to go. You don't have any conceivable grounds upon

which to overrule their desire."

"Yes, I do."

"That being?"

.. my gut-was

She leaned back, arms folded. "Your gut,"

she

said, unenthused. "Funny. I don't remember

reading about that in my Intro to Regs class back

at the Academy. Guts, I mean."

"Nelkar smells wrong."

"First your stomach, now your nose. Are you a

Starfleet captain or a gourmet?"

And to her utter surprise, he slammed the

conference table with an iron fist. The noise startled

her and she jumped slightly, but quickly composed herself.

And just as quickly as she reined herself in, so did

Calhoun. "I'm dealing with subtleties, Commander.

Regulations aren't created for

subtleties. They're created as sweeping

generalizations to handle all

situations. But not every situation."

"And it can't be that every situation, you do whatever the

hell you want. Nor can it be that you let your

frustration get to you so quickly and so easily."

"I'm not frustrated," Calhoun said. "I

simply know what I know. And what I know is that

Nelkar seems off. I don't trust Laheera."

"Be that as it may, Mac . . . do you want

to be a dictator? With your history, do you

feel comfortable with that label?"

He smiled thinly. "You always know just what

to say."

"Long practice." She sauntered toward him,

stopping several feet away. "Look, Mac . .

. for what it's worth, I respect your gut, your

nose . . , all your instincts. But that has to be

balanced against conducting ourselves in an orderly

fashion. We're the only Starffeet vessel out

here. We're here at a time of 20

disarray. We have to stand for something, and we can't

simply come in and throw our weight around. It's

patronizing; don't you see that?"

"Yes, I see that. By the same token, should I

deliberately allow people to go into a dangerous situation

when I can prevent them from doing so?"

She was silent for a long moment. "You mean like with the

captain of the Grissom?"

With a deep sigh, Calhoun told her, "Eppy

. . . you know I admire you. Respect you. Still have

deep feelings for you, as much as I hate to admit it

. . . although certainly not romantic, God knows.

. ."

"Of course not," she quickly agreed.

"But so help me, if you bring up the

Grissom again, I may become violent."

"Really. Try it and I'll kick your ass.

Sir."

And he laughed. "You know . . . I'll bet you

could, at that." But then he became serious again. "Very

well, Commander. But this will be done on my terms."

"Your terms being . . . ?"

For reply, he tapped his comm unit. "Bridge

. . . open a hailing frequency to the Nelkar

ship. Pipe it down here."

Within moments Laheera was smiling at them in that

beatific manner she had. "Greetings," she said.

"Are you preparing to transport your charges over

to our ship?"

"Actually," replied Calhoun, "I was

anticipating that we would transport them ourselves, if

it is all the same to you."

Shelby looked from Calhoun to Laheera, trying

to get some hint of her state of mind. But if

Laheera seemed at all disconcerted by Calhoun's

statement, she did not give the slightest sign.

"That would be perfectly acceptable. I will send you the

coordinates for our homeworld. Laheera out."

When she blinked out, Shelby asked, "What about

the Cambon? We can't haul it along at

warp speed."

"We'll cut her loose and leave her here

to drift until we come back for her," he said after

a moment's thought. "Considering the condition she's in,

I hardly think we have to worry about scavengers."

"Bridge to Captain Calhoun," came

McHenry's voice.

"Calhoun here."

"Captain, we've gotten coordinates for

Nelkar." He paused. "Were we

expecting them?"

"Yes, we were. Warp five would get us there

when, Mr. McHenry?"

"At warp five? Two hours, ten minutes,

sir. They're not all that far."

Shelby commented, "Considering their own vessel

isn't exactly the most advanced I've seen, I

can't say I'm surprised. That still leaves us with one

outstanding problem."

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that. McHenry, set

course for Nelkar, warp five. Then have Mr.

Boyajian patch me through to the Marquand. Let's

make sure we're not leaving them in the lurch."

"You're making the right decision, sir," said

Shelby.

"I'm so relieved that you approve, Commander."

He grimaced. "My only problem is . . . you

know that unpleasant feeling I've got about the

Nelkar- ites?"

"Yes?"

"Well . . . now I'm starting to get it about the

Marquand and its

rendezvous with the Kayven Ryin. I hope that

wasn't a mistake as well."

"Captain, if you keep second-guessing your

judgments, you're going to make yourself insane."

"Why, Commander . . . I thought you decided I was

insane the day I broke off our engagement."

Andwitha contemptuous chuckle, she said, "Captain

. . . I hate to inform you . . . but I broke it

off. Not you." She strode out of the conference lounge,

leaving an amused Calhoun shaking his head. But then

the amusement slowly evaporated as the reality set

in.

He didn't like the situation. Not at all.

For years he had basically been his own boss.

He had answered to no one except, in a very distant

manner, Admiral Nechayev. He had been bound

by no rules except those of common sense, and made

decisions that were answerable only to himself. It

had been an extremely free manner in which

to operate. But now . . . now he had rules

hanging over him whichever way he turned. He had

operated under

rules before, yes . . . but he had been the one

making the rules. Back when he'd been a

freedom fighter on his native Xenex, his wiles

and craftiness had earned him the respect of those around

him and they obeyed him. They obeyed him unthinkingly,

unhesitatingly. Had he told them to throw themselves

on their swords, they would have done so with the firm

conviction that there was a damned good reason for it.

But that wasn't the case here. Yes, he was

captain. Yes, he was obeyed. But that obedience

came as a result of along tradition and history

that dictated that obedience. They answered to the rank,

not to him. When it came to he himself, he could sense that

there were still double-takes or second

thoughts. His crew-Shelby in particular-gave

thought to his orders,

questioned him, challenged him. It irked him, angered

him.

And yet . . . and yet . . .

Shouldn't that really please him? Shouldn't that be

something that made him happy rather than

disconcerted him? After all, he had lived in an

environment where blind obedience was expected as a

matter of course, and punished if not given. The

Xenexians had lived under the thumb of the

Danterians, and during that time the Danterians had

not been exactly reluctant to show who was boss at

any given moment. They had unhesitatingly used the

Xenexians as their objects, their toys, their

playthings to dispose of at a whim or exploit as

they saw 24

fit. Young M'k'n'zy of Calhoun had seen those

activities and a cold fury had built within him.

Built and built until it had exploded

into rebellion, and through sheer force of will he had brought

an entire race with him.

Yes, he had indeed seen firsthand the dangers of

requiring unquestioned obedience. At the same time, he

was frustrated that the same rules under which he oftentimes

felt constricted were what guaranteed that his own people would

do what he told them to. He wanted more than that.

Time, a voice in his head consoled him. These things

required time. He had always been impatient, always

wanted everything at whatever moment he wanted it. It

was an attitude that had, in the past, stood him in

good stead. When tribal elders had told

him that someday, someday in the far future, the

Xenexians would be free, young M'k'n'zy had not

settled for that. "Someday" was too ephemeral, too

useless a concept for him. He wanted "someday" to be

right then and there. He would make his own "somedays."

He smiled at the absurdity of it all.

Despite everything he'd gone through, everything he'd

seen, there was still an impatient young Xenexian within

him who did not understand the need for patience. A young

Xenexian who wanted everything immediately, and who had

no use whatsoever for "someday."

He tapped his comm badge. "Calhoun

to Shelby." 25

"Shelby here," came the prompt reply.

"Have we been in communication with Kebron and Si

Cwan?"

"Yes, sir. They, in turn, have spoken with the

crew of the Kayven Ryin. Although they are in

distress, there is no immediate danger to them. They

report life-support systems are still on line.

Kebron and Cwan intended to board the Kayven

Ryin and lend whatever aid they can until we

rendezvous with them."

"Very well. Best speed to Nelkar, then . . .

on my order," he added as an afterthought.

"On your order, sir," she said. Then there was a

pause. "Captain. . ."

"Yes, Commander?"

"We're waiting on your order."

He smiled to the empty room. "Yes. I

know." He paused a moment longer, then said

simply, "Now."

"Now it is, sir."

It was a small pleasure, making them wait in

anticipation of the order. Childish, perhaps. A

juvenile reminder of who was in charge, but he found that

it gave him amusement. And lately he'd had very

little of that.

"Oh, and Commander," he said as an afterthought.

"Yes, sir."

"Just for your information I broke it off. Calhoun

out."

On the bridge of the Excalibur, Lefler

turned in her seat and looked quizzically at

Shelby. She noted that it seemed as if Shelby's

chest were shaking in amusement. "He "broke it

off"," Commander?"

"So he claims, Lieutenant," replied

Shelby.

From the science station, Soleta inquired,

"Will he be needing someone to reattach it?"

And then she stared at Shelby in confusion as

Shelby, unable to contain it anymore, laughed out

loud.

Still CWAN

ZORAN THOUGHT THAT HE was going to go out of his

mind.

He felt as if the damned shuttle craft had

been hanging there forever, tantalizingly,

frustratingly just out of reach. He had wanted to send

multiple messages to it, telling them to get

over to the ship immediately, that help was desperately

needed, that they were going to die within seconds if immediate

aid were not provided. But Rojam had cautioned against

it. "They have their own instrumentation," he advised

Zoran. "If we try to trick them, if we

tell them there's immediate danger when there isn't,

they'll be able to see through it."

"Maybe we should take that chance," Zoran

urged.

"Then again, maybe we should not," fired back

Rojam. "What should we say? That our engines

are in danger of exploding? That our life-support

systems are failing? These are not possibilities,

because their own onboard readings will. tell them that

we're lying. And if they know that we're lying, then

they're going to start to wonder what the truth is. And

if they do that, then we have a major problem."

"Damn them!" snarled Zoran, pacing the room.

His long and powerful legs carried him quickly around the

perimeter, and his blue body armor clacked as he

moved. His red face was darker than usual as he

mused on the frustration facing him. "Si Cwan

wasn't part of the plan, but now that he's here . . .

damn him and damn them all!"

"Damning them isn't going to do a bit of g-was

Rojam began to say. But then he stopped as a

blinking light on the control panel caught his

attention. "Incoming hail from the Marquand, was he

said.

"It's about time!" Zoran fairly shouted.

"Will you calm down?" Juif said in exasperation.

"If we're in communication with them and Si Cwan

hears your bellowing, that's going to be the end of that!"

With effort, Zoran brought himself under control as

Rojam answered the hail. "We were beginning

to wonder, Marquand his

"We needed to speak with the Excalibur, was came

the deep voice that they knew to be the passenger other

than Si Cwan. "What is your present

emergency status? How long can you survive aboard

your vessel?"

Zoran was gesturing that Rojam should lie, but

Rojam was quite certain that that was not the way to go. He

believed in all the reasons that he'd put forward

to Zoran, and there was one other element as well If

Si Cwan was aboard the Marquand, not all the hosts

of hell would get him to depart without his sister at his

side.

" Lie!" Zoran hissed in a very low voice.

"They're going to leave if we don't?" And the way

his fist was clenching and unclenching told Rojam a very

disturbing truth namely, that if answered the question from the

Marquand accurately and then the shuttle craft

turned and left for the mother ship, Rojam would very

likely not live out the hour. Not given the mood that

Zoran was presently in..

But he felt he had to trust his instincts, and on

that basis, he said, "Life-support systems are

presently holding together. Our main problem is in

engineering; our propulsion systems are out. Our

batteries are running down and we likely could not

survive indefinitely, but for the very immediate future, the

danger level is tolerable."

There was a silence that seemed infinitely

long, and Rojam could

practically hear his life span shortening. But

then the voice said, "This is the Marquand. With your

permission, we will come aboard and give what aid we

can, while we wait for the Excalibur to rendezvous

with us. Will that be acceptable?"

"Yes. Absolutely acceptable," said

Rojam, relief

flooding through him. Behind him he could sense Zoran

nodding in approval. "Just one thing . . . ?"

"Yes, Marquand?"

"Please put the passenger called Kalinda on

with us. Her brother would like to speak with her."

"Uhm . . ." Suddenly sweat began to beat

on Rojam's crimson forehead, his grimacing

white teeth standing out in stark relief to his face.

"Just a moment, please." He switched off the comm

channel and then turned to Zaran. "Now what?"

"Now?" Zoran smiled. "Now.. . we give

them what they asked for."

Si Cwan stared in confusion at Zak Kebron.

"Why did you ask them to put Kalinda on?"

"Because," Kebron said slowly and

deliberatelywhich was more or less how he said

everything-"I am being cautious. It's my

job to watch out for everyone on board the

Excalibur. That even includes those who have no

business being there at all."

"I appreciate the thought."

"Don't. As noted It's my job." He

paused. "Would you know your sister's voice if you

heard it.

"Of course." He waited for a response, but

none seemed to be immediately in evidence. Concern began

to grow within him. "You don't think there's a problem."

"I always think there's a problem," replied

Kebron. "It saves time. And lives." He

checked his instruments. "Their life-support

appears stable. Pity. If they had lied about that, I

would have known that there was something wrong. Perhaps it is a more

subtle trap."

"Or perhaps they're truly in distress. But then .

. . why hasn't Kalinda come on-?" It was a

disturbing thought. He had simply taken for granted

that his sister was truly a passenger on the science

vessel. The notion that she might not be was agonizing

for him. To have his hopes raised and then dashed in such a

manner . . .

But even more disturbing, he realized, was the concept

that he had not questioned it for one moment. One did

not acquire or maintain power by being easily duped.

Had he let his love for his sister, his desire

to try and reconstruct some semblance of his former

life, completely blind him to all caution? That was a

very, very dangerous mind-set to have.

And then a girlish voice came over the comm

system. "Si Cwan?" it said. Si Cwan came

close to knocking Kebron asidear as close as

one can come to budging someone who is essentially a

walking mountain of granite. "Kally?" he

practically shouted.

"Si Cwan, is that you?"

"Yes . . . yes it is . . . Kally, everything

is going to be all right. . ."

"I'm so glad to hear your voice, Si Cwan

. . ."

Si Cwan felt himself choking with relief, but then

Kebron said in a sharp whisper, "Ask her something

only she would know."

"What?" He seemed to have trouble focusing, which of

course bugged the hell out of Kebron.

"Something only she would know," he repeated.

Slowly, Si Cwan nodded. "Kally . . .

remember that time? That time shortly before we had

to leave? Remember that? When I said that I

would always be there for you? Remember, when we spoke

at our special place?"

There was a short hesitation, one that made Si

Cwan wonder ever so briefly, and then her voice

said, "You mean that time by the Fire Falls? That?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. Kalinda,

meanwhile, naturally couldn't see him as she

continued, "Si Cwan? Is that what you're talking

about?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Why did you want to know about that?"

"Just being careful. You understand. These days, we can't

be too careful."

He looked triumphantly at Kebron, who

merely grunted and edged the ship forward toward the

Kayven Ryin.

"Okay, Si Cwan . . . whatever you say."

"We'll be there in a few minutes, Kally.

Don't worry. We'll be right along."

"Okay, Si Cwan. I'll see you soon."

And the connection broke off.

And the moment that happened, Kebron brought the ship

to a dead halt in space. Si Cwan was

immediately aware of it. "What are you doing?" he

demanded.

Zak Kebron turned in his chair. "I don't

like it."

"What?"

"I said I don't like it."

Si Cwan appeared ready to explode. His

body was trembling with repressed fury. "Now, you

listen to me," he said sharply. "I know what this is

about."

"Do you," asked Kebron, unimpressed by Si

Cwan's ire.

"It's not enough that you con tinue to resent me, or deny

my right to be aboard the Excalibur. But now . .

. now you'd hurt a young girl whom you've never met

. . . who's never done anything to you. . ."

"It must be nice to be a prince," Kebron said

evenly, "and know everything there is to know about everything."

Then he glanced at the control board. "They're

hailing us."

"Of course they are! They're wondering what's

happening." Si Cwan came around his seat and

confronted Kebron, fury building. "They have no

idea that a resentful Brikar is endeavoring to make

my life impossible!"

Kebron ignored him, instead bringing the hail on

line. He began to say, "Marquand here," but

he wasn't even able to get that much about before an

upset voice said, with no preamble, "Why are you

backing o@."?"

"We are returning to our vessel," Kebron

said 37

flatly. "A situation has come to our attention.

Marquand out." And with that he severed the connection.

"What are you hoping to accomplish?" demanded Si

Cwan.

"Merely being cautious."

"The hell you are. This is all part of your

attempt to upset me, to

interfere with-was

Unperturbed, the Brikar cut him off with a terse

"This solar system, like all others, does not

revolve around you. I do not like that she severed

communications with us. If I were a young woman,

connecting with my brother who might have been dead for

all I knew, I would keep talking to him until

he was aboard. I wouldn't shut down the connection, as

if I were afraid he might figure out that I was

an impostor."

"That is-was

And then a light began to flash on the control

panel, a sharp warning beep catching their

attention. Kebron immediately began to bring the ship

around as Si Cwan demanded, "What's happening?"

"We're being targeted. They're going to fire on

us."

"They're . . . what?"

Si Cwan looked out the main window, catching a

glimpse of the Kayven Ryin as the shuttle craft

started to angle away from it. A motion on the aft

section caught his attention. Despite their distance,

his eyesight was formidable and he zeroed in with 38

impressive visual acuity. What he saw were

two gunports opening, and twin heavy-duty phaser

cannons snapped into view. And the last thing he saw

before their view of the science ship was cut off was the

muzzles of the cannons flaring to life.

"Brace yourself!" shouted Kebron. "I'm trying

to bring the warp drive on line before-was

He didn't have time to complete the sentence before the

Marquand was struck amidships by the phaser

cannons. The runabout spiraled out of control as

Kebron fought to regain command of the battered ship.

To his credit, he never lost his cool. Indeed, it

might not have been within his makeup to become

disconcerted.

Si Cwan was not strapped into his chair.

As a result, he was tossed around the interior of the

cabin, reaching out desperately to try and grab hold

of something, anything, to halt himself. He crashed against

one wall and felt something in his shoulder give way.

Sparks flew out of the front console as Kebron

tried to institute damage procedures. The

shuttle craft was rocked again, and Kebron shouted,

"We have to abandon ship!"

"What?" Si Cwan was on his back, looking

around, stunned and confused. There was a gash in Si

Cwan's head which Kebron hoped wasn't as bad

as it looked. It wasn't going to look good in his

service record if he'd left with a live

passenger and returned with a corpse. The nation 39

that the status of his record might be utterly

moot didn't enter into his considerations. He was not

prepared to admit that as a possibility. "Warp

en- gines are down. We're perfect targets out

here. We have to assume that they're going to keep

shooting until they blow us to pieces,"

"Why are they doing this?"

"As a guess because they want to kill you. I'm

simply the lucky

bystander." He grabbed Si Cwan by the arm and

Si Cwan howled in such agony that

Kebron quickly released him. He knew he

hadn't pulled on Si Cwan with any force; the

mere movement of the arm had been enough to elicit the

screams, and he realized that Cwan's arm was

injured. "Get up!" he said, urgency entering his

voice for the first time. "We have to go."

"Go where?"

"There!" Kebron stabbed a finger in the general

direction of the science vessel that they had come to aid.

Si Cwan was staggering to his feet and Kebron

grabbed him by the back of the neck, which somehow seemed a

less injurious place to hold him. He

propelled him toward the two-person

transporter nestled in the cockpit of the shuttle

craft.

Fire was beginning to consume the main console,

smoke filling up the interior of the shuttle craft.

Moving with surprising dexterity considering their size,

the Brikar's fingers yanked out a small panel from

the wall next to the transporter, revealing a red

button which he immediately punched. It was a failsafe

device, provided for a situation precisely like

this one, where voice recognition circuitry was

failing and setting

coordinates through the main console was an

impossibility.

The emergency evacuation procedure was

activated, an automatic five-second delay

kicking in, providing Kebron and Si Cwan that

much time to step onto the transporter pads. Si

Cwan was nursing his injured shoulder as Kebron

half pushed, half pulled him onto the pads and

hoped that they actually had five seconds remaining

to them.

The transporter automatically surveyed their

immediate environment and locked on to the first, nearest

destination that would enable them to sur- vive. And an

instant later, Si Cwan's and Zak Kebron's

bodies dissipated as the miraculous transporter

beams kicked in, sending their molecules hurtling

through the darkness of space to be reassembled in the

place that was their only hope for survival the

science vessel Kayven Ryin. The vessel which had

assaulted them, and now provided their one chance

to live . . . if only for a few more minutes, at

best.

When Zoran saw the Marquand backing away, he

began to tremble with fury. "Where are they going? We

gave them what they wanted. Si Cwan spoke

to his sister. Get them back here!" And he

cuffed Rojam on the side of the head. "Get them

back!"

Rojam barely felt the physical abuse.

He was too concerned with the

Marquand suddenly moving away from the station, as if

they had tumbled to the

trick. More on point, he was concerned with how

Zoran was going to react, and what precisely

Zoran might do to vent his displeasure. Hailing the

shuttle craft, he tried to control the growing

franticness he was feeling as he asked, "Why are

you backing off?"

From the shuttle craft there came nothing more than a

brief, to-the-point response "We are

returning to our vessel. a situation has come to our

attention. Marquand out."

"They know! They know!" roared Zoran.

Rojam's mind raced as he tried to determine the

accuracy of the assessment. "I . . . I don't

think they do. Suspect, perhaps, but they don't know.

They want to see what we'll do. If we're just

cautious . . ."

"If we're cautious, then they're gone!"

"We don't know that for sure! Zoran, listen

to me-to "

But listening was the last thing that Zoran had in mind.

Instead, with a full-throated roar of anger, the

powerfully built Thallonian knocked Rojam out

of his seat. Rojarn hit the floor with a yelp as

Zoran dropped down at the control console.

"Get away from there, Zoran!" Rojam cried out.

"Shut up! You're afraid to do what has to be

done!" Even as he spoke, Zoran quickly

manipulated the controls.

"I'm not afraid! But this is unnecessary! It's a

mistake!"

"It's my decision, not yours! You're lucky I

haven't killed you already for your incompetence! 42

And if the phaser cannons you rigged up don't

perform as you promised . . ."

But the need to complete the threat didn't

materialize, for the phaser cannons dropped

obediently into position, even as their targeting sights

locked onto the Marquand.

"In the name of all those whom you abused, Si

Cwan . . . vengeance!" snarled Zoran as he

triggered the firing command.

The phaser cannons let loose, both scoring

direct hits, and the cries of triumph from the

half-dozen Thallonians in the control

room was deafening. Actually, only five of them

cheered; Rojam pulled himself to sitting, rubbing the

side of his head where Zoran had struck him. "This

isn't necessary," he said again, but he might as well have

been speaking to an empty room.

The shuttle craft was pounded by the phaser

cannons, helpless before the onslaught. The

Thallonions cheered every shot, overjoyed

by Zoran's

marksmanship. Even an annoyed Rojam had

to admit that, for all his faults, Zoran was a good

shot. Of course, having computers do all the work

certainly helped.

"Hit them again!" crowed Dackow, the shortest and

yet, when the mood suited him, loudest of the

Thallonians. Dackow never voiced an opinion

until he was absolutely positive about how a

situation was going to go, at which point he supported the

prevailing opinion with such forcefulness that it was easy

to

forget that he hadn't expressed a preference one

way or the other until then. "You've got them

cold, Zoran!"

Zoran fired again, this time missing the shuttle

craft with one phaser cannon but striking it

solidly with the other.

But as Zoran gleefully celebrated his

marksmanship, Rojam commented dryly, "What

happened to having Si Cwan's throat in your hands,

enabling you to squeeze the life out of him?"

The observation brought Zoran up short for a

moment. "If you had done your job better, I

might have had that opportunity," he said, but it

seemed a hollow comeback. The truth was that

Rojam's statement had taken some of the joy out of

Zoran's moment of triumph. Granted he had

won, but it wasn't in the way he would have liked.

And t hen a flash consumed the screen as the shuttle

craft erupted in a ball of flame.

Automatically the Thallonians flinched, as if the

explosion posed a threat to them. Within mere seconds

the flame naturally burned itself out, having no air

in the vacuum of space to feed it. The fragments of the

vessel which had been the hlarquand spun away

harmlessly, the twisted scraps of duranium

composites no longer recognizable as anything other

than bits of metal.

"Burn in hell, Si Cwan," Zoran said

after a long moment. The others, as always, nodded in

agreement.

Only Rojam did not join in the self-congrat-

ulations. Instead he was busy checking the

instrumentation on an adjoining console. "What are you

doing?" asked Zoran after a moment.

"Scanning the debris," Rojam informed him.

"Why?" said Juif, making no effort to keep the

sarcasm from his voice. "Are you concerned they still pose

a threat?"

"Perhaps they do at that."

The pronouncement was greeted with contemptuous

guffaws until Rojam added, "They weren't

aboard the shuttle craft."

"What?" The comment immediately galvanized Zoran.

"What are you talking about? Are you positive?

It's impossible."

"It's not impossible, and they weren't there,"

Rojam said with growing confidence. "There's no sign

of them among the debris. I wouldn't expect to find

any bodies intact . . . not with the force of that

explosion. But there should be something organic among the

wreckage. I'm not detecting anything except

pieces from the shuttle craft."

"Are you saying they were never aboard? That it was some

sort of trick?" Zoran's anger was growing by the

minute.

"That's a possibility, but I don't think so.

If they were never at risk, then they went to a great

deal of trouble to try and force our hand. But here is a

thought Same of those Federation shuttles come

equipped with

transporter pads."

"You think they may have evacuated before the ship

blew up."

"Exactly."

"But the only place they could have gone to . . ."

And then the growing realization brought a smile to his

face. "dis . . is here. Here, aboard the ship."

Rojam nodded.

Beaming with pleasure, Zoran clapped a hand on

Rojam's back. "Excellent. Excellent

work." Rojam let out a brief sigh of relief as

Zoran turned to the others and said briskly, "All

right, my friends. Somewhere in this vessel, Lord Si

Cwan and his associate, Lieutenant Kebron,

are hiding. Let's flush them out . . . and give

our former prince the royal treatment he so richly

deserves."

SELAR

III.

SOLETA GLANCED UP from her science

station as she became aware that McHenry was hovering

over her. She glanced up at him, her eyebrows

puckered in curiosity. "Yes?" she asked.

Glancing around the bridge in a great show of making

certain that no one was paying attention to them,

McHenry said to her in a lowered voice, "I just

wanted to say thanks."

"You're welcome," replied Soleta

reasonably, and tried to go back to her studies of

mineral samples extracted from Thallon.

"Don't you want to know why?" he asked after a

moment.

"Not particularly, Lieutenant. Your desire

to say it is sufficient for me."

"I know I was "spacing out' earlier, like I do

sometimes, and I know that you were defending me. I just

wanted to say I appreciate it."

"I was aware that your habits posed no threat to the

Excalibur, was she said reasonably. "I informed

the captain and commander of that fact. Beyond that . . .

what is there to say?"

"Why'd you leave, Soleta? Leave

Starfleet, I mean."

The question caught her off guard. Now it was her

turn to look around the bridge to make sure

that no one was attempting to listen in. She needn't

have worried; eavesdropping was hardly a pastime in

which Starfleet personnel habitually engaged. Still,

she was surprised over how uncomfortable the ques-

tion made her feel. "It doesn't matter. I

came back."

"It does matter. We were friends, Soleta,

back at the Academy. Classmates."

"Classmates, yes. I had no friends." She

said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that there was no

hint of self-pity in her tone.

"Oh, stop it. Of course you had friends. Worf,

Kebron, me. . ."

"Mark, this really isn't necessary."

"I think it is."

"And I say it isn't!"

If they had been trying to make sure that their

conversation did not draw any undue attention, the

unexpected outburst by Soleta put an end to that

plan. Everyone on the bridge looked at the two

of them in unrestrained surprise, attention snagged

Soleta's unexpectedly passionate outburst.

From the command chair, Calhoun asked, "Problem?"

"No, sir," said Soleta quickly, and

McHenry echoed it.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain, yes."

"Because you seem to be having a rather strident

dispute," he said, his gaze shifting suspiciously

from one to the other.

"Mr. McHenry merely made a scientific

observation, and I was disagreeing with it."

And now Shelby spoke up, observing, "It's

rare one hears that sort of vehemence from anyone, much

less a Vulcan."

"Lieutenant Soleta cares passionately about

her work," McHenry said, not sounding particularly

convincing.

"I see," said Calhoun, who didn't. "Mr.

McHenry, time to Nelkar?"

"Twenty-seven minutes, sir," McHenry said

without hesitation, as he turned away from Soleta and

headed back to the coon.

Calhoun never failed to be impressed over how

McHenry seemed to carry that knowledge in his head. Only

Vulcans seemed nearly as capable of such

rapid-fire calculations, and McHenry seemed

even faster than the average Vulcan.

Which Soleta, for her part, did not seem

to be. Her outburst had hardly been prompted by some

sort of scientific disagreement. But Calhoun

didn't feel it his place to probe too deeply

into the reasons

for it . . . at least not as long as he felt that his

ship's safety was not at issue.

If it did become an issue, though, he would not

hesitate to question Soleta and find out just what

exactly had caused her to raise her voice

to McHenry despite her Vulcan upbringing.

"Vulcans," he muttered to himself.

Soleta turned in her chair and looked questioningly

at Calhoun. "What about Vulcans, Captain?"

she asked.

He stared at her tapered ears, which had naturally

zeroed in on the mention of her race, and he said, "I

was merely thinking how what we need on this ship is more

Vulcans."

"Vulcans are always desirable, Captain," she

readily agreed, and went back to her analyses.

The main lounge on the Excalibur was situated

on Deck 7 in the rear of the saucer section, and was

informally called the Team Room, after an old term

left over from the early days of space exploration.

It was to the Team Room that Burgoyne

172 had retired upon hish returning to the ship.

Ssthe had felt a certain degree of frustration

since ssthe had not had the opportunity to complete

hish work on the Cambon. If there was one thing that

Burgoyne disliked, it was leaving a project

unfinished.

And then ssthe saw another potentially unfinished

project enter the Team Room. Dr. Selar had

just walked in and was looking around as if hoping to 52

find someone. Burgoyne looked around as well and

saw that all of the tables had at least one occupant.

Then ssthe looked back at Selar and saw an

ever-so- brief look of annoyance cross the

Vulcan's face. That there was any readable emotion

at all displayed by the Vulcan was surprising enough,

and then Bur- goyne realized the problem. Selar

wasn't looking for someone to sit with. She was trying

to find an unoccupied table.

Her gaze surveyed the room and she caught

sight of Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hish part,

endeavored to stay low-key. Ssthe gestured in a

friendly, but not too aggressive manner, and waved at

the empty seat opposite hir. Selar hesitated

a moment and then, with what appeared to be a profound

mental sigh, approached Burgoyne.

Burgoyne could not help but admire her stride

she was tall, almost regal of bearing. When Selar

sat down, she kept her entire upper body

straight. Her posture was perfect, her attitude

unflinching.

"I believe," Selar said in her careful,

measured tone, "that our first encounter was not properly

handled . . . by either of us."

"I think the fault was mostly mine,"

Burgoyne replied.

"As do I. You were, after all, the one who was rather

aggressively

propositioning me. Nonetheless, it would not be

appropriate to place the blame entirely on you.

Doubtlessly I was insufficiently clear in making

clear to you my lack of interest."

"Well, now," Burgoyne shifted a bit in

hish chair, "I wouldn't call it "aggressively

propositioning' exactly."

"No?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Burgoyne leaned forward and said, "I would call

it . . ." But then hish voice trailed off.

Ssthe reconsidered hish next words and discarded

them. Instead ssthe said, "Can I get you a drink?"

"I am certain that whatever you are having will

be more than sufficient."

Burgoyne nodded, rose, disappeared behind the bar,

and returned a moment later with a glass containing the

same dusky-colored liquid that was in hish

glass. Selar lifted it, sniffed it experimentally,

then downed half the glass. It was only her

formidable Vulcan self-control that prevented her from

coughing it back up through her nose. "This . . . is

not synthehol," she said rather unnecessarily.

Ssthe shook hish head. "It's called

"Scotch." Rather difficult to come by, actually."

"How did you develop a taste for it?"

"Well," said Burgoyne, and it was obvious from

the way ssthe was warming to the subject that ssthe had

discussed this topic a number of times in the past.

"About two years ago, I was taking shore leave

on Argelius Two . . . a charming world. Have you

ever been there?" Selar shook her head slightly and

Burgoyne continued, "I was at this one pub, and it

was quite a lively place, I can tell you. It was a

place where the women were so . . ."

Burgoyne was about to rhapsodize about them at

length, but the look of quiet impatience on

Selar's face quickly dissuaded hir. "In any

event," continued Burgoyne, "I felt very

much in my element. We Hermats are sometimes

referred to as a rather hedonistic race. That's

certainly a sweeping generalization, but not

entirely without merit. In this pub, however, watching

the Argelians and assorted visitors from other worlds

engaging in assorted revelries and debaucheries,

why . . . I felt that my humble leanings were dwarfed

in comparison.

"And then my attention was drawn by one fellow

seated over in a corner. A Terran, by the look of

him, with hair silver as a crescent moon."

"You are attracted to him, no doubt," said

Selar dryly.

"No, actually. He was a bit old for my

tastes. But I was interested in him, for he seemed

to be watching everything without any interest in

participating. Furthermore he was wearing--

believe it or not-a Starfleet uniform that hasn't

been issued in years. A costume, I figured.

I asked the bartender about him, and apparently he'd

simply wandered in one day some weeks previously and

just-I don't knowtaken up residence there. He

hardly ever left. So I went over and chatted with

him. Asked him what he was doing there. He told

me he was "reliving old times," as he

put it. Remembering friends long gone, times left

behind. He was reticent at first, but I got him

talking. I have a knack for doing that."

"Indeed."

"Yes. And he seemed particularly intrigued

when

I told him I was an engineer. He claimed that

he was as well. Claimed, in fact, that he wrote

the book on engineering."

"A man with drinks in him will claim a great many

things when he seeks the attention of a pretty

face," observed Selar.

Burgoyne was about to continue when ssthe paused a

moment and, with a grin, said, "Are you saying you think I

have a pretty face?"

"I am saying that, with sufficient intoxication,

anyone may seem

attractive," replied Selar. "You were

saying-?"

"Yes, well . . . as I said, he boasted of a

great many things. Sufficiently intoxicated, as you

noted. Came up with the most insane boasts. Said

he was over a hundred and fifty years old, that he

served with Captain Kirk . . . all manner of

absurd notions. And he also had no

patience at all for-how did he put it-?" And

Burgoyne made a passable attempt at

imitating a Scots brogue as ssthe growled, was

"The wretched brew what passes for a man's

drink in this godforsaken century." He was drinking

this," and Burgoyne tapped the glass of brown

liquid.

"That very drink?"

"Not this specific one, of course. It was two

years ago, remember. But he seemed to have a

somewhat endless supply of it. We seemed

to communicate quite well with one another. At first, I

believe, he took me for a

standard-issue female, and he openly flirted with

me. When I informed him of the Hermat race and our

dual gender, at first he seemed amazed

and then he just laughed and said," and again Burgoyne

copied the brogue, was "Ach, I would have loved

to set up Captain Kirk with one of ye on a blind

date. There would have been some tales to tell about that

one."" Burgoyne paused and then added, by way of

explanation, "There are some who find our dual sex

disturbing."

"Is that a fact," said Selar noncommittally.

"Yes." Burgoyne swirled hish

drink around in the glass. "Tell me, Doctor .

. . are you among them?"

"Not at all. I find you disturbing."

Burgoyne's smile displayed hish fangs.

"I'll take that as a compliment," ssthe said.

"As you wish."

"So anyway, the Terran offered me some of what

he was drinking, and I tried it, and I swear to you I

thought that it was going to peel the skin off the inside of

my throat. I quickly realized that he was right The

stuff they've gotten us accustomed to in Starffeet

is nothing compared to genuine Earth alcohol. Hell,

even Hermat beverages pale in comparison to," and

ssthe rubbed the glass affectionately, "good of

Scots whiskey. He told me if I had any

intention of being a genuine engineer, that I should be able

to drink him under the table. So I matched him drink for

drink."

"And did you succeed? In drinking him under the table,

I mean."

"Are you kidding?" Burgoyne laughed. "The last

thing I remember was his smiling face turning at

about a forty-five-degree angle . . . or at

least that's

what it seemed like before I hit the floor.

But before that happened, I really let him have it."

was "Have it'?"

"I told him that I thought he was being gutless. That

he was sitting in this pub hiding from the rest of the

galaxy, when he could he out

accomplishing amazing things. That he might be

telling himself that he was being nostalgic, but in fact

he was just being gutless," and ssthe tapped one long

finger on the table three times to emphasize the last

three words. Then ssthe winced slightly and said,

"At least I think that's what I told him. It

got a little fuzzy there at the end. When. I came

to, I was in a back room at the pub with all

sorts of debauchery and perversity going on all

around me. Reminded me of home, actually. And I

found that he'd left me something a bottle of

Scotch, and a message scribbled on the label of the

bottle. And the message was exactly two words

long He'd written, "You're right."

[*macr]

was "You're right." That was the message in its

entirety."

"The whole thing, yes. Never saw him again, but I

can only assume that he decided to get back out

to where he belonged."

"And where would that be?"

"Damned if I know." Burgoyne leaned

forward.

"Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Doctor?"

"Oh. Well . . . not really, no. I had

simply assumed that this was a long and fairly

pointless

narrative. Why? Is there something to this story beyond

that?"

"What I'm saying, Selar, is that we shouldn't

be afraid to try new things. We Hermats have our

. . . unusual anatomical quirks. But-was

She put up a hand. "Lieutenant Commander. .

."

"An unwieldy title. I prefer

Burgoyne from you."

"Very well. Commander Burgoyne . . .

despite a valiant endeavor, this conversation is not

proceeding in substantially different fashion than

our previous one. I am not interested in you."

"Yes, you are. You simply don't know it

yet."

"May I ask how you have come to this intriguing,

albeit it entirely

erroneous, conclusion?"

"All right . . . but only if you promise

to keep it between us."

She pushed the drink of Scotch several inches

away from her as she said, "I assure you, Chief

Burgoyne . . . nothing will give me greater

personal satisfaction than knowing that this conversation will

go no further than this table."

Ssthe leaned forward conspiratorially and gestured

that Selar should get closer to hir. With a soft sigh,

Selar did as Burgoyne indicated, and the Hermat

said in such a low voice that even the acute hearing of the

Vulcan could barely hear hir

"Pheromones," whispered Burgoyne.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pheromones. Hermats can detect an

elevated pheromone level in most races. It's

a gift. It cues us to rising sexual interest and

excitement."

"I see. And you're detecting an elevated

pheromone level in me."

"That is precisely right," Burgoyne said with

such confidence that even the unflappable Selar felt a

bit disconcerted. "You're becoming sexually excited

. . . more so when you're with me, I like to think, although that

may simply be wishful thinking on my part.

I have always been something of a romantic."

"Commander . . . I am certain that you are quite good

at your job . . ."

"I am."

"But you are unfamiliar with Vulcan biology.

It is . . ." And then she caught herself,

surprise flooding through her mind. She had been about

to discuss such delicate and personal matters as

Pon farr with an oifworlder. What was she thinking?

Why was she having trouble prioritizing? "dis . . it

is impossible that I would be interested in you, in any

event."

"Impossible why?"

"I cannot go into it."

Burgoyne leaned forward with a look of genuine

curiosity on hish face. "Why can't you go into it?"

"I cannot," Selar said, her voice rising a bit

more than she would have thought appropriate. The volume

of her response didn't quite penetrate. "Look,

at the very least, I'd like to be your friend. If there's

some problem that-was

And Selar was suddenly on her feet, and her

response was a roar of fury. "7 said I cannot go

into it! What part of "cannot' did you not

comprehend."...P"

The silence was instantaneous throughout the Team

Room. Selar had managed, with no effort at

all, to focus all attention in the room on herself.

It was hardly a position that she desired to be in.

Slowly her gaze surveyed the Team Room.

Fighting to recapture her normal tone of voice,

she asked, "May I assume you have something of greater

importance on your minds than me?" The crewmen

needed no further urging to return to their

respective

conversations, although there were assorted quick glances in

Selar's

direction.

Automatically she put her hand to the underside of

her throat. Her pulse was racing. The sounds of the

room suddenly seemed magnified. Her temper had

flared with Burgoyne, and although ssthe might be one

of the more irritating individuals that Selar had ever

met, ssthe was hardly enough to warrant the Vulcan

tossing aside years of training and indulging in an

emotional

outburst.

"I have to go," she said, exerting her magnificent

control over herself. All flirtation, all smugness,

was gone from Burgoyne. Instead ssthe took

Selar's hand firmly in hish own. Selar tried

halfheartedly to pull clear, but Burgoyne's

grip was surprisingly strong. Belatedly Selar

remember ed that Hermats had physical strength

approximately two and a half times Earth norm.

"Selar . . . if nothing else, we're fellow

officers. If a fellow officer is in trouble,

I'll do everything I can to alleviate that trouble.

Whatever is wrong with you, I want to help."

"I do not need help. I merely need to be

left alone. Thank you." And she exited as quickly

as she could from the Team Room. This left everyone

staring in confusion at Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for

hish part, merely raised a glass. "May the

Great Bird of the Galaxy roost on your

planets," ssthe said to the collective Team

Room. Ssthe finished off the contents of hish

glass and then, with a shrug, ssthe reached over,

picked up Selar's glass, and knocked that back,

too.

Selar ran as quickly as she could down the

Excalibur corridors. Twice she almost

knocked over passing crewmen before she made it

to sickbay. Upon seeing her return, Dr.

Maxwell promptly proceeded to give her

a quick precis on the status of the four dozen

passengers from the Carnbon. But before he could get out

more than a sentence, she cut him off with a sharp

gesture. "Is there anything wrong, Doctor?"

asked Maxwell, now clearly concerned about the

condition of the chief medical officer. "Any problem

that I can help with?"

"I am fine," she replied in a

less-than-convincing manner.

"Are you sure? You seem rather flushed. Is there

a-was

"Are you an expert on Vulcan

physiology?" Selar demanded.

"No . . . no, not an expert per se, although

I'm certainly well versed in-was "Well, I

am an expert, Doctor," she shot back. "I

have been living inside my particular Vulcan

physi-

ology for quite some time now, and I assure you that I

am in perfect

health."

"With all due respect, Doctor, I don't

know as I'd agree."

"With all due respect to you, Doctor, your

agreement or lack thereof is of no

relevance to me whatsoever." And with that she stalked

quickly to her office, locking the door behind her

to guarantee privacy.

She had no desire to subject herself to a

medical scan in sickbay in full view of every one

of her staff and technicians. She had no

particular concern over the privacy of other crew

members when it came to getting physicals or

having problems attended to. But now that it was she

herself who was in question, her right to privacy had assumed

paramount importance, it was ironic, and yet an

irony that she was not exactly in any condition

to truly appreciate.

She opened an equipment compartment in the wall and

extracted a medical tricorder. Adjusting it for

herself, she began to take readings.

Pulse, heartbeat, respiration . . . everything

was elevated. Moreover, she was having trouble

focusing on anything.

Selar reached deep into herself. A calm, cool

center of logic was drilled into Vulcans at such

an early age that it became utterly ingrained into their

nature. Yet Selar was having to relive that

training, finding that cool center and tapping into it. Her

body, her system, was entirely at the command

of her mind and she would force it to obey her com-

wands. Slowly she quieted her hurried breathing.

She cleared away every noise, every distraction, until

she could hear the accelerated beating of her own heart.

She slowed it, bit by bit, replacing the dim red

haze which seemed to have taken hold of her with a

sedate, serene blue.

She thought back to her first days at the Academy,

the first time that she had encountered the Academy pool.

Such things were virtually unknown on Vul- can, an

arid planet with a steady red sky and a sun so searing

that Vulcans had even developed an inner eyelid

to shield themselves against its effects. The pool might

well have been an alien artifact; indeed, in many

ways it was to her.

Clad in a bathing suit, she had stood on the

edge of the pool, dipping a toe into it, unsure of

what to do. Every logical bone in her body had told

her that there was nothing to fear. That fear was besides the

point, as it so often was. And yet she could not bring

herself to ease herself into the water . . . until the

decision had been taken out of her hands when a passing

cadet named Finnegan had thought it the height of

hilarity to shove her from behind into the pool. She had

fallen feet-first into the deep end of the pool

. . . and proceeded to drown, since naturally people who

are born on a desert planet have absolutely

no idea how to swim. The selfsame Finnegan,

chagrined, had immediately leaped into the water and pulled out

the sputtering Vulcan. But Selar had taken that first

unpleasant experience 64

as a challenge, and every day found her at the pool

until she was as good a swimmer as anyone at the

Academy. Many was the time where she would simply

float in the water, arms outstretched, bobbing with the

gentle lapping of the water.

Now she was projecting herself back to that time. She

imagined herself floating, floating ever so gently,

buoyed as if by lapping waves. Bit by bit, she

fashioned her recollections of the Academy pool

into a place of escape. The rest of the world, her

worries, her concerns, her uncharacteristic confu-

sion, all melted away as she bobbed in the water

with no distractions. She felt her composure

returning to her, her ineffable logic controlling her

actions once more. Whatever was happening to her, it was

nothing that she couldn't control. Nothing that . . .

"Hi," said a voice. And there, swimming past

her in a tight bathing suit that accentuated hish

firm breasts, hish curvaceous hips, and

also what seemed an impressive male endowment, was

Burgoyne.

Seiar snapped forward in her chair, the pool

vanishing along with the Hermat intruder. She looked

around and found herself, of course, still in her office. A

quick scan with the medical tricorder told her that her

bioreadings were back to normal. But the image of

Burgoyne was solidly rooted in her mind.

She leaned forward toward her computer terminal and

said, "Computer."

"Working."

"Personal medical log, Stardate 50926.2

. . ."

There was a pause, sufficiently long enough for the

computer to prompt, "Waiting for entry."

Selar could only think of one thing to say, really.

Five words that

summarized her present situation with simple

eloquence.

"I am in big trouble," she said.

KEBRON

"PFFO""

"How MUCH TxotraLE would you say we're

in, precisely?" Si Cwan asked in a low,

tense voice.

"A good deal," replied Zak Kebron.

Between them they had precisely one phaser, the

sidearm that Kebron

habitually carried whenever embarking on any sort

of mission. They'd had no time to grab anything else

off the shuttle before the unfortunate ship had blown

up.

The science vessel was not terribly large-only

eight decks deep-and it was one of the oldest models

of such ships. Stairs or ladders between decks instead

of turbolifts, and flooring made of grated

metal that made a

hellacious racket whenever Kebron, in

particular, walked on it. Moreover the lighting was

dim. Whether it was because they were on battery backup,

or had deliberately made it that

way just to throw off Kebron and Si Cwan, was

impossible to say.

They hunched in a corner as best they could,

considering Si Cwan's height and that Kebron

wasn't exactly built for hunching. "This is

insane," muttered Si Cwan. "Why did they

shoot at us?"

"When you're trying to kill someone, that's usually a

reliable method."

"But why were they trying to kill us?"

"Immaterial. The fact of it is all we need

to deal with." From the shadows that surrounded them, he was

surveying the area as thoroughly as he could. "We

need a plan," Si Cwan said urgently.

Kebron appeared to consider it a moment, and then

he said simply,

"Survival."

"That's obvious. Are you being deliberately

obtuse, Kebron? Our lives are at stake .

. ."

Kebron glared at him, and there was extreme

danger in those eyes,

glittering against the dusky brown skin. "Our

lives are at stake because you insisted on trying

to rescue your sister. Do not forget that."

"Of course not. Now that we've properly

assigned the blame, can we deal with the problem at

hand?" Si Cwan waited, but the only response

he got was a grunt. Taking that to be a "yes,"

he considered the situation a moment and then said, "I

say we should split up."

"And I say you're a fool," replied

Kebron.

"Why? We're less of a target that

way."

Kebron scowled at him. "Look at me.

Look at 70

you. Look at our size and build. Singly or

together, we're targets.

Individually, neither of us can watch each other's

backs."

"As if you'd watch my back," Si Cwan

snorted disdainfully. "Good luck to you, Kebron.

I'll take my chances." He started to move out of the

shadows, and suddenly he felt Kebron's powerful

hand clamp on his shoulder. Before he could utter so much

as a word of protest, Kebron had hauled him

back and slammed him into the wall behind them. It

shuddered slightly with the impact. "You're not a

prince here, Cwan," Kebron said tightly.

"You're not a lord. You will do what I say, when I

say it, or so help me I'll crush your head with

my bare hands and save whoever's out to get us the

trouble. Do we understand each other?"

There were a hundred responses that Si Cwan

wanted to make, but he choked them all down . . .

which wasn't especially difficult, since he was

choking from the grip that Kebron had on him. So all

he managed to get out was a very hoarse whisper

of, "Perfectly."

Kebron released him and Si Cwan rubbed the

base of his throat as he glared at Kebron.

"You're supposed to be on my side?"

Zak Kebron didn't bather to dignify the question

with an answer. Instead he was listening. "Here they

come," he said slowly, his voice dropping to nearly

a whisper.

Si Cwan was listening as well. "Two of them.

Do you think that's all there are?"

"Safer to assume it's not," observed Kebron,

and this was a sentiment that Si Cwan couldn't disagree

with.

Kebron pointed silently upward, indicating that

he was hearing them from overhead. Si Cwan nodded, and

then he looked behind them. Ten feet to the rear was a

stairway angling to the upper floor, with spaces between

the steps. Cwan chucked a thumb in the direction

of the stairs, and Kebron immediately intuited what Si

Cwan had in mind. They dropped back and tried

to duck behind the stairs, but the space was too narrow

for the both of them to fit. Kebron pointed a finger at

Si Cwan and said, "Decoy."

Being a decoy was not exactly Si Cwan's first

choice of responsibilities, but there was

no time to argue the point. Besides, there was something in the

challenging way that Kebron looked at him that

angered him. As if Kebron was certain that Si

Cwan would never present danger to himself and trust

Kebron to bail him out of it.

Si Cwan took up a station directly in

front of the stairs, standing about five feet back.

Kebron took up a position behind the stairs. There

was clattering from overhead and then two pairs of feet

descended the stairs. Cwan gasped when he saw that

they were two Thallonians. They slowed as they came

within view of Si Cwan. Each of them was cradling

a strange-looking weapon that Si Cwan didn't

recognize at first, but then he did. They were

plasma

Masters, and there were few weapons in existence that were

nastier.

The two of them stopped several steps above the

floor. "Where's the other one, Si Cwan?"

demanded one of the Thallonians. "The one with the voice

like rumbling thunder."

"He died during the first bombardment of your

ambush," replied Si Cwan. "He didn't

make it off the ship."

"Now, why don't I believe you?"

asked one of the Thallonians. "Are you trying to deceive

us, Si Cwan?"

"Where is my sister? Who are you?" he demanded.

They hadn't budged from their place on the stairs.

"You are in no position to ask quest-"one of them

started to say.

"Where is my sister, and who are you?" There was a

dark, fearsome tone to his voice, and the

Thallonians found themselves shuddering to hear it. Once

upon a time, to hear such a tone would be tantamount to a

death sentence. Even though the unarmed Si Cwan was

staring down the barrels of weapons aimed squarely

at him. from point-blank distance, it seemed as if

he was the one who was in charge.

"My name is Skarm," one of them finally said, and

he indicated the

Thallonian standing next to him with a nod of his

head. "And this is Atol. It is only fitting,

I imagine, that you know the name of

the ones who are about to kill you. As for your sister,"

and Skarm smiled lopsidedly, "that's for us to know."

He touched a small button on the side of the

plasma blaster and took a step down. He aimed

it squarely at Si Cwan, and the former prince

merely stood there, dark eyes sparkling with

cold fury.

And Zak Kebron's hands snaked out from underneath

the steps, grabbing Skarm's ankles. Skarm,

confused as to what was happening, let out an alarmed

yelp, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to halt his

forward plummet. He didn't succeed and he

crashed forward, even as the one called Atol

frantically tried to figure out what had just

happened.

The blaster tumbled out of Skarm's hand and

clattered to the floor. Si Cwan lunged for it and

Atol immediately fired off a shot from his own blaster.

It was like having a weapon that fired molten lava.

The plasma blast stream blew directly in

front of Si Cwan, and only Cwan's speed

saved him as he ducked backward. The stream hit

the fallen weapon, immediately rupturing the

cartridge that contained the plasma field.

Si Cwan had a split second to react, and

he did the only thing he could think to do. He leaped

straight up, fingers desperately grabbing the

grillework of the rampway directly above him, and

he swung his body upward just as the crippled gun

exploded. A stream of flame ripped right beneath him,

and he could feel the back of his jacket

catch on fire. Instantly he shucked the

jacket, allowing it to drop into the 74

flames beneath him, and he felt them licking at him

hungrily.

Atol was blistered by the heat, but even so he tried

to look down beneath the steps. He had only a

splitsecond warning as he saw the terrible eyes of

Zak Kebron, and then Kebron-disdaining the

subtle approach-smashed upward, tearing the stairs

out of their moorings and sending Atol pitching forward

into the flames of the burning plasma. Skarm rolled

off the steps as Kebron shoved them upward, and it was

clear from the lolling of his head that he was already dead.

When he'd fallen, he'd snapped his neck.

Atal let out a truncated shriek as the flame

consumed him. It had all happened within the space of a

few seconds, and then the ship's automatic

firefighting defenses kicked in. High-powered

spray hissed out from hidden pipes lining the sides

of the corridor, battling the flames and quickly

extinguishing them.

Si Cwan dropped to the ground, landing in a

crouch. Kebron tossed aside the twisted remains

of the stairs as Cwan went immediately to the fallen

Atol. Atol's body was a mass of

burns the plasma had done its work quickly,

efficiently, and horribly. Clearly he was done

for, but Si Cwan was not inclined to let him depart quite

that easily. He grabbed Atol by the side of the

head, yanking him upward. This did him no good, as

the skin he was gripping peeled off in his hand, no more

than a large, blackened, and charred fi/l of

flesh. With a grunt

of disgust, Si Cavan tossed it aside and

elected instead to snarl into Atol's face, "Where

is my sister? Is she on this vessel? Who's behind

this? If you have any hope of greeting your ancestors

with a shred of

integrity--the ancestors who swore fealty to my

bloodline before the birth of your father's father's father-then

answer my questions now!"

Atol's mouth moved, but no word emerged.

However, Si Cavan could still make out what Atol

was saying, even without sound. A two-syllable name that

he'd hoped not to hear ever again. "loran?" he said with

dread.

Atol managed, just barely, to nod, and then his

body began to tremble. "Go to your ancestors," Si

Cavan told him, and as if obeying a final order

from his former liege, Atol's head

shook-although whether in compliance or from final spasms,

it was impossible to tell. And then his eyes rolled

up into the top of his head.

Kebron stood over the two fallen

Thallonians, looking at his handiwork. His phaser

was still snugly in its holster, untouched. "I was under

the impres- sion," Si Cavan said, "that

Starfleet security officers usually give people the

option of surrendering."

The Brikar appeared to consider that a moment as he

nudged Skarm's body with the toe of his boot. Then

he replied, "Ugly rumors." He paused, and

then asked, "Who is loran?"

"A very unusual man. He's someone who wants

to kill me."

Kebron looked at him and, with the famed Brikar

deadpan, said, "I hope you don't think that

wanting to kill you makes him unusual."

Si Cwan grunted in a tone that almost indicated

morbid amusement, and then he stepped past

Kebron. Cwan was a natural leader, and his

tendency was to take the point, to be in the forefront,

during any situation.

This time it almost cost him his life.

Kebron only noticed at the last

second that a shadow was separating from other shadows

farther down the hallway. The two had been

accompanied by a third, and he'd come down and around

while the first two were engaging them by the stairway.

Zak only had a moment to react. With a sweep of

his massive arm he knocked Si Cwan to the

floor, yanking his phaser clear and firing . . .

. . . not in time. The assailant at the far end

of the hallway saw the phaser being brought to bear on

him, and he dodged under the beam even as he fired off

a shot with the plasma blaster. The blaster struck

Kebron in the upper right shoulder, and the Brikar let

out a pained grunt, which was the most he would do

to acknowledge pain. With any other species, the

plasma would have torn off the shoulder right down to the

bone. The Brikar's hide was considerably tougher

than that. Even so, the Brikar was clearly in pain,

the plasma sizzling on his shoulder and the ghastly

smell of burning flesh filling the air.

He dropped his phaser, and Si Cwan snatched

it out of midair. He caught it, aimed, and fired

in one smooth motion, and the phaser blasted the

Thallonian 77

assailant back. He smashed against the far

wall, the plasma blaster

spinning out of his hand, falling to his side.

Clutching his chest, the Thallonian tried to lunge

for the blaster, but then he saw that Si Cwan was

targeting him again, and he leaped away in the other

direction, disappearing down a cross corridor before

Si Cwari could nail him with a phaser shot. Si

Cwan charged after him, not even stopping to check on the

condition of the fallen Brikar. His focus was

entirely on catching up with this latest

assailant and finding out whether or not Kalinda was

anywhere on the ship. Even if he had to beat it out of

him, he was going to find out.

He rounded the corner, not even stopping to pick up

the plasma blaster, because he was in such a hurry

to catch up with the Thallonian. There was no sign of

him, and Si Cwan moved around another corner and

started down another corridor.

He never even saw the iron bar that lashed out. But

he felt it as it slammed into the arm that was holding the

phaser. To his credit he held on to it and he

tried to bring it up to bear on his attacker, but

another swing of the bar crunched his fingers and knocked the

phaser out of his hand.

"Afraid to face me man-to-man, O great

lord?" taunted the Thallonian. The bar he

was holding was ab out three feet long, and he was

gripping it firmly at the base.

"I know you. Dackow, isn't it," Si Cwan

said slowly. One of his hands was throbbing, but the

other was functioning just fine, and his fingers curled

around the floor grating beneath him. He felt a bit

of give in the flooring, and realized that it wasn't

one solid piece, but instead fitted in sections, the

edges of the crisscrossed metal fitting neatly

into slots in the base of the hallway flooring.

Dackow paused, surprised. "I'm impressed

that such a great man as yourself would remember a humble

nothing such as me."

"It's difficult to forget someone quite as

sycophantic as you. As I recall, you preferred

to hover around the fringes of the great court, laughing at

the right times when the right people spoke, scowling when others

fell out of favor. And when the tide turned against

my family, you were one of the first to switch to the side of

those who wanted us out. You bend with the wind, Dackow,

and doubtlessly congratulate yourself over your foresight,

when the fact is that you're just a coward. A coward through

and through."

With a roar of fury, Dackow drew the bar back

over his head and swung it down in a fierce

arc. Had it landed, it would have caved in Si Cwan's

skull. With a quick twist, Si Cwan ripped the

metal

flooring out from under himself and held it up as a

shield. The bar crashed into the grating, the reverbe

ration of the metal almost deafening. Dackow

switched angles and tried to strike Si Cwan

across

the ribs. Again, no good. Si Cwan intercepted

it,

down on one knee. Again and again, fury building

with every stroke, Dackow tried to slam his bar into the

Thallonian prince. Left, right, up and down, and

every time Si Cwan blocked it.

Dackow, with a roar of rage, reversed his grip

on the bar and tried to drive it downward as if staking

a vampire. Si Cwan backrolled, putting a

short distance between himself and Dackow, and then he threw

the flooring as if it were a discus. Dackow saw it

coming, but there was no room in the narrow corridor

to get out of the way. The grating lanced into him with

tremendous force, the edges driving into his solar

plexus. Dackow howled in pain and Si Cwan was

on his feet, his powerful legs thrusting him forward, his

hands outstretched. He caught the edges of the

grating and shoved as hard as he could. The force of the

lunge drove the edging of the grating right into Dackow,

penetrating half afoot, and the charge lifted

Dackow off his feet. His back crashed into the wall

and there was an audible snap . . . the sound of his

spine breaking, as if being impaled wasn't enough.

Blood poured from his mouth as Si Cwan stepped

back, releasing his grip on the grating and allowing

Dackow to fall to the ground. "Where is Kalinda?

Where is my sister?" demanded Si Cwan.

Dackow gathered some of the blood that was pouring from his

mouth, and managed to transform it into a contemptuous

spit which he hurled at Si Cwan. It was the last

thing he would ever do.

There was a heavy step behind Si Cwan and he

whirled, his arms in a

defensive position, but it was 80

only Kebron standing behind him. The Brikar was

massaging his damaged shoulder as he said, " First

question . . . then kill. More productive."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," shot back

Si Cwan. He stood, feeling momentarily

shaky. The wear and tear of the running fight was beginning

to take its toll. "How many more do you think there are?"

"I have no idea," replied Kebron.

"That's what bothers me." He picked up the

fallen phaser, returned it to its holster. He was

cradling one of the plasma Masters and pointed out the

other one, which had fallen. "Grab it and let's go."

Earlier, Si Cwan might have been annoyed at

the commanding tone of Kebron's voice. But now he

simply nodded and picked up the fallen plasma

blaster. "I don't generally like weapons," he

commented. "They can malfunction or be taken from you."

"Really. I'm the same way. Use them if I

have to, though." He pointed with authority. "That

way."

"Why that way?"

"Why not?"

Having no ready answer, Si Cwan shrugged and

they headed off in the

direction that Kebron had indicated. But then they

heard a small,

high-pitched sound from behind them. They stopped,

turned . . .

. . . and realized that Dackow was beeping.

In the control center, Zoran was staring at

Rojam in disbelief. "You can't raise any of

them?"

Rojam shook his head. "I've lost

contact with all 81

three of them. They're not responding on the comet

links at all."

"Three armed Thallonian ravagers against a

single Startleet fool and an effete snob,"

snarled Zoran. "How is it possible?"

And Rojam lost patience with Zoran, which was a very

dangerous thing for him to do, but he no longer eared.

"Because Starlleet is not composed of fools,

Zoran, and because Si Cwan-for all that you dislike

him, for all that any of us dislikes him--is anything

but an effete snob. He's as formidable a warrior

as they come, and you'd do well to remember that."

"I would do well to remember that? I would do

well? And you would do well," snarled Zoran, his

hands flexing in fury, "would do well to remember-was

He didn't have the chance to finish the sentence, however,

because the comet panel beeped. Rojam punched the

link-up, noting the identifier assigned to it, and

said, "Dackow? Progress?"

There was a pause, and then a familiar voice

said, "Dackow isn't making much progress at the

moment." They could hear a soft chuckle, and then

"Hello, Zoran."

Low and angry, Zoran snarled, "Si

Cwan."

"It has been a long time, hasn't it."

"I'll kill you for this."

"For this and for every other imagined insult." He'd

sounded amused, but then he became deadly serious.

"Where is Kalinda, Zoran? She has done 82

nothing to you. And you are nothing but a sadistic

pig." His tone became mocking. "I would have thought

you'd release her so that this could be between us, Zoran.

Between men, without the threat of a girl's welfare

overshadowing it. You always held yourself up to such a

"high" standard. Always thought yourself so much better

than I. And this is how low you have fallen, consumed

by your jealousy and anger. Posturing and presenting

yourself as some superior individual, when you don't

have the courage to-was

"She's dead, you idiot!"

Rojam turned and looked m shocked disbelief

at 2oran, and for once Zoran couldn't blame

him. The phantom of Kalinda had been an upper

hand that they would have been able to wield against Si

Cwan. Perhaps force him into some situation where he

couldn't possibly get away. But he had now

tossed that aside.

Zoran turned away and Rojam

suspended the transmission, crossing quickly over

to Zoran. "Why did you do that? Why?" he demanded.

Zoran whirled to face him and hissed, "Because I

want to hurt him. I want him to die inside first.

You heard him! Heard his insults, his smugness-was

"He was baiting you and you fell for it! We had an

advantage! We could have made demands on him!

Instead you've removed that!"

"We have an advantage! We're armed! There's

more of us! There's-was

But now Juif stepped forward and pointed out, 83

"They're likely armed, too. We have to assume

they took weapons off the others. They're roaming the

ship, and they're very much in a position to hurt us."

Zoran, with apparent effort, focused on

Juif. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying we

cut our losses, abandon the vessel, and blow it

up from a safe distance."

"And let him get away?"

"We were never supposed to capture him! He was

never part of the plan!" Juif said. "You've lost

sight of that! You've lost sight of everything because Si

Cwan wandered into the middle of all this, and suddenly

your priorities changed! Well, my

priorities are to get out of this insanity in

one piece! And if that isn't yours, then there's

something wrong with you."

"Wrong with me?"

"Yes!"

A calm seemed to descend upon Zoran, and

truthfully the calm was more frightening than the anger.

"Ten minutes," he said.

Rojam and Juif looked at each other.

"What?" asked Rojam.

"Ten minutes. I want ten minutes to hunt the

bastard down. If I don't have his head in ten

minutes, we do as you suggest. How say you?"

The truth was that neither of them was especially enthused

with the plan. But they saw the cold look in his eyes

and realized that this was the best they were

going to get. Slowly, and reluctantly, they

nodded in agreement.

"Rojam," said Zoran, sounding almost

supernaturally calm, "set a bomb for fifteen

minutes. That will allow me the ten minutes to which

we've agreed, and another five to get to our

vessel and clear the area. More than enough."

More than enough for someone with a death

wish . . . Rojam thought, but he didn't dare

say it aloud. He had the feeling that he'd

already gotten away with saying mare than he would have

thought possible.

" She s dead, you idiot!"

The words lanced through Si Cwan's heart, chilled

his soul. He didn't even realize that he was

wavering slightly until he felt Kebron's hand

on his arm, steadying him. His red face became dark

crimson, as it was wont to do when he was truly

upset. He was gripping the comet unit they'd

lifted off the fallen Tliallonian, gripping it

so tightly that he was on the verge of breaking it.

"Si Cwan . . . calm down," Kebron said

forcefully. "I need you calm. They're trying

to make you angry. Anger will put you at risk.

At the very least, it will make you less useful to me."

It was impossible to tell whether Si Cwan

heard him or not. He snarled into the comet unit,

"You're lying! You're lying!"

There was no response and he shook the comet

unit furiously until Kebron forcibly

pried it out of his hands, even as he said, "You're

wast ing your time. He's not responding."

Si Cwan spun to face the Brikar, and there was

murder in his eyes. Kebron had felt mostly

disdain for Si Cwan since they'd met.

Disdain, annoyance, anger. Never, however, had he

felt the least bit intimidated. The Brikar, with

their massive build and the confidence that came from having

as sturdy hide as they did, tended to make them rather

hard to scare. When Kebron looked into Si

Cwan's eyes at that moment, however, he was not

exactly scared. But he knew beyond any question that he

would most definitely not want to be this Zoran

individual.

"We're going to find him," Si Cwan said

tightly. "We're going to find him and when I kill

him, Kebron, understand I cannot use this," and he

indicated the plasma blaster. "He must die with my

hands on his throat. No other means will be

acceptable."

"There are alternatives to killing him,"

Kebron told him.

The temperature in the corridor dropped about

twenty degrees from the chill of Cwan's voice

alone. "No. There are not."

And suddenly the comm unit beeped. Kebron

tapped it and they heard Zoran's voice say,

"Hello, Si Cwan. I assume you can hear

me."

Si Cwan was about to snap out a harsh

response, but Kebron put a finger to his lips.

At first Cwan was confused, but then he realized the

wisdom in this 86

course. Conversation with Zoran would only cause

Si Cwan to become angrier, more inclined to lose his

temper, and that would simply give Zoran even more

confidence. Cwan had to forcibly bite down on his

lower lip, and several drops of blackish blood

dripped out.

"Si Cwan," Zoran was saying slowly, "you were

so easy to fool. All I had to do was reprogram

the computer to synthesize her voice. Only took

thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to get your

hopes up." His voice dropped. It sounded like an

obscene purr. "She died crying your name, Si

Cwan. Over and over, she called for you. I

won't tell you how she died. I won't tell you

what was done to her, or how long it took, or any

details at all. Do you know why? Because you'll

envision every worst-case possibility. I wouldn't

want to take the chance of the truth being less severe

than whatever you might conjure up in your imagination."

Si Cwan was visibly trembling. It was all

he could do to contain himself. "I'm looking for you, Si

Cwan," came Zoran's taunting

voice. "Come and find me . . . if you can." And

he shut off the comm link.

"Si Cwan . . . Get a grip." Kebron

saw that Si Cwan was inarticulate with fury, and

he gripped him firmly by the shoulders.

His voice was a strangled whisper. "I'll

kill him. . ."

"If I were you, I would, too. No question. But right

now, in your state of mind, he'll kill you first.

Again, no question. You're giving him exactly what

he wants a target who's out of control." But

Si Cwan wasn't hearing him. He was completely

internalized, muttering to himself, not at all

relating to their environment. His head was filled with the

imagined dying screams of his sister. Kebron shook

him and said, "Cwan, I know how you feel."

With effort, Si Cwan focused on him. "No,

you don't . . . you can't. . ."

"Oh yes I can," Kebron shot back. "My

parents, on a mining colony . . . killed

by Orion pirates who stripped the colony,

looking for anything they could steal. They worked to send me

to the Academy, and while I was there, their dedication was

repaid with murder. And when I heard, I took

leave from the Academy and tracked the

pirates down. And you know what? I almost got

killed. When Starfleet reps caught up with me,

I was near death. I was in the hospital for two

months while they put me back together. I never

caught up again with the ones who destroyed my family,

and I was lucky to survive the encounter, all because I

was blinded by rage, just like you are now. Now snap out of

it."

It was the longest speech Si Cwan could ever

recall Kebron making. For that matter, it was the

longest speech Kebron himself could recall making.

And he had to keep on speaking quickly, while he had

Si Cwan's attention. "This Zoran . . .

tell me all about him. Tell me what

to expect."

"Zoran . . ." Si Cwan took a deep

breath. "Zoran. . . he'll probably have

company, besides

the ones we already disposed of. One named Rojam,

the other named Juif. They're a trio."

"How do you know?"

"Because," Si Cwan said coldly, "we used

to be a quartet." He paused a heartbeat. "Have

you ever had to kill your best friend? Is that in our

mutually shared experience as well?"

"No," admitted Kebron.

"Well... good," and Si Cwan gripped Zak

Kebron by the elbow. "Come along, then. I'll show

you how it's done."

"ISN'T IT AMAZING?" murmured

Calhoun, as the planet Nelkar rotated below them.

He gazed at it upon the screen. "One planet

looks so much like another when you're up here. Sometimes

you want to take planetbound races who are at war

with each other, bring them up here, show them their world.

Make them realize that it's one world that they should all

be sharing, rather than fighting over it."

From her position next to him on the bridge,

Shelby asked, "And if someone had done that for young .

. ." She hesitated over the pronunciation, as she

always did, gargling it slightly, "M'k'n'zy of

Calhoun . . . would he have stopped fighting?"

"No," he said with amused admission. He thought

of the short sword mounted on the wall of his ready

room. "Mr. Boyajian," he said in a

slightly

louder voice, deliberately changing

subjects, "have you raised the planet's surface

yet?"

"Not yet, sir. As of this point, I'm

. . . Wait. Receiving transmission now."

"On screen."

The screen wavered ever so slightly, and then a

male Nelkarite appeared. He had much the same

angelic look as Laheera did . . . that same

"too good to be true" appearance that Calhoun had

felt so annoying when they'd first

encountered the Nelkarites.

"Greetings," he said in a musical voice

evocative of Laheera's. "I am Celter,

governor of the capital city of Selinium.

Welcome to Nelkar."

"Mackenzie Calhoun, captain of the

Excalibur. Laheera informed us that you were willing

to provide sanctuary for the passengers we have

aboard."

"That is so. And she informed us," and clear

amusement tinged his features, "that you did not trust

us."

"It is my duty to be judicious when making first

contacts," Calhoun said reasonably. "I would be

remiss if I did not have at least some concerns with

depositing four dozen people on an alien world."

"I remind you, Captain, that you are the aliens

here. If anyone has the right to be concerned,

it is we. Yet we welcome you, trust you. We

would like to think that we should be accorded, at the very least,

similar

consideration."

"Point taken," said Calhoun. "Nonetheless, if

it is all the same to you, we will send an escort

down with 91

our passengers. I'd prefer a firsthand report

of the environment where we're dropping them off"

"As you wish, Captain," said Celter with

polite indifference. "We have nothing to hide. We

are merely doing our best to be altruistic. These

are, after all, unusual times."

"All times are unusual, Governor. Some are

just more unusual than others. Please send us the

coordinates for an away team, and we will prepare

your new residents for landfall. Calhoun out." The

screen blinked off before Celter could say anything

else.

And then, before Calhoun could give any order,

make any pronouncement, Shelby said crisply,

"Captain, request permission to head the away

team, sir."

The request stopped Calhoun in rnidthought, and

he turned to Shelby. One look into those

deep purple eyes. of his, and Shelby

instantly knew that her surmise had been

correct Calhoun had intended to lead the away

team himself, despite Starffeet's policies to the

contrary. Had he voiced the composition of the away

team before she'd said anything, she would have had to try and

talk him into changing his mind after already speaking it.

She had no desire to get into a contest of wills with

him; by the same token, she had every intention of

fulfilling her obligations as first officer of the

Excalibur. And one of those obligations was

to spearhead away teams so that the captain could remain

safe within the confines of the bridge.

All this was conveyed by a silent look passing

between the two. It was so subtle, so understated, that it

went past

everyone else on the bridge. Calhoun knew

Shelby's mind, and she knew his. He knew

precisely why she had jumped in, and he didn't

seem particularly

appreciative of it. By the same token, he was

also aware that she was trying to be respectful of his

position and feelings. She had volunteered in such a

way that her presence on the away team could now come

across as a snap com- mand decision

by Calhoun, rather than a point of order over which the

two of them would have to argue.

Slowly he said, "very well. Commander Shelby,

you'll take an away team composed of yourself,

Lieutenant Lefler, and Security Officer

Meyer."

Robin Lefler looked up from her station. "Me,

sir?"

"I want an assessment on their level of

technology. Your engineering background makes you the

appropriate choice. Plus you finished in the top

three percentile of your class in First Contact

Procedures at the Academy."

She blinked in surprise, clearly impressed

by her captain's apparent command over the minutiae of

her academic career. Even she didn't remember

exactly where she'd ranked in that one particular

class. "Uhm . . . yes, sir." She rose from

her station, and Boyajian, a solid "utility

player" on the bridge, stepped in to take her

place. She headed out at Shelby's side.

"Captain," McHenry said the moment they were

gone, "haw did you know that Lefler scored so

high in the F.c. Pro class?" Calhoun

smiled. "I didn't. But who's goi ng

to deny doing well in a class?" "Captain."

He turned to face Soleta, who had just

spoken. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Dr. Selar would like me to come down to sickbay."

"Are you ill, Lieutenant?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. I'm not entirely certain

why she wants to see me. She just now contacted me

privately over my comm badge. I assume it

is some sort of personal matter. Permission

to leave the bridge?"

Calhoun considered it a moment, wondering whether

he should go directly to Selar and ask after her. But

something told him to keep a distance from the situation.

"You're asking my permission for something as simple as

leaving the bridge?"

"Regulations state, sir, that during a time of

contact or in the midst of a mission, all hands are

to remain on station and must request permission for any

reason if-was

"I know the regs, Lieutenant, but the person

who wrote them isn't here. You're a big girl,

Soleta. Just tell me you're going and don't

drop your comet badge down the commode or something so

I can't reach you."

"Sir, leaving the bridge."

"Have a nice trip."

She headed into the turbolift and Calhoun sighed

inwardly. What was going to be next? Shouting

"Captain on the bridge!" whenever he set foot

into the place? Part of him appreciated the endeavors

to have respect for proper procedures. By the same

token, he had seen people follow procedures so

rigidly that others had died because of it. Died

needlessly.

An inner voice warned him not to dwell on it

excessively, for that way lay madness. And so he

turned his attention back to the planet that was spinning

below them.

He felt the hair an the back of his neck

rising.

He didn't like the feel of this one bit.

The Excalibur didn't have the facilities

to beam all four dozen passengers from the Cambott

down at one time. So they were sent down in groups of

six, with Shelby, Lefler, and Meyer in the first

group. Meyer was slim but wiry, and he had piercing

blue eyes that seemed to take in everything that was

happening around them. He also had the fastest quick-draw

on the ship. Lefler immediately began studying the

architecture of Selinium, as well as

recording her observations on her tricorder. They

had materialized in what appeared to be a main

square of the city. They were standing on an upper

walkway, constructed above roadways upon which

traffic was moving at a

brisk clip. Lefler noticed that the vehicles

were strictly low-tech, moving on wheels rather than

any sort of antigrav or mag-lev basis.

The city towered all around them. However, it was not a

particularly large place, which was unusual considering

it had been mentioned as the capital. In point of

fact, the initial scans of Selinium didn't

seem to indicate more than a hundred thousand people

residing there, which was-relatively speak-

ing-puny.

Still, there was something about the buildings that seemed. .

. off a bit. Lefler promptly began scanning

them. She was so involved in it that she didn't even

see the welcome party approach the away team, and

didn't look up until she heard Shelby say,

"Hello. I'm Commander Shelby, U.s.s.

Excalibur. Captain Laheera, as I

recall."

Laheera, flanked by several other officials,

bobbed her head in

acknowledgment. was "Captain' would be more your term

than ours. The more accurate equivalent would a term

along the lines of "First Among Equals." But

"Captain" will suffice, if you are comfortable with

that."

Lefler was struck by the fact that Laheera was

relatively short. Indeed, of the group of them,

none of them was much above five feet tall. And yet

there was something about them, some sort of inner light that

made them appear-it was hard to say-bigger than they

actually were. Bigger, more impressive . . .

something.

Certainly her clothing did not leave much to the 96

imagination. As opposed to the more "official" look

of the outfit she'd worn when they first saw her,

Laheera was now dressed completely in clinging

white a tight white top with a hem just below her

hip, and white leggings under them. The cloth adhered so

closely to the line of her figure that Shelby had

to look twice to ascertain whether it was, in fact,

body paint. It wasn't, but it certainly could have

been.

Shelby made quick introductions, and then found that

Captain Hufmin of the Camban was hovering nearby.

He had been one of the first to come down,

concerned with making sure that his charges were being properly

attended to. Although Shelby could tell, from the

slightly panting way that he was looking at

Laheera, that there had been more to Hufrnin's

cooperative attitude than merely wishing

to honor the desires of his passengers. He was

clearly taken by the indisputable beauty of their

hosts. And considering Laheera's current ensemble,

his interest was on the rise. Laheera could likely have

asked him to stick a phaser in his mouth and pull the

trigger, and he would gratefully have complied, with his

last words being profound thanks for the honor of serving

her.

Lefler, meantime, turned her attention back

to her duties while the

introductions were being made. Shelby sidled up

to her as Laheera, along with her, associates,

moved beyond them to meet and greet the rest of the

refugees, who were continuing to beam down.

"Opinions, Lieutenant?" asked Shelby.

"Commander. . . you're familiar with the Borg, as

I recall."

"A bit," Shelby said dryly.

"Well . . . this place reminds me of them a

little bit, in that the Borg have . . . what's

the word . . . ?"

"Assimilated?" suggested Shelby . . . always

a good word when discussing the Borg.

"Right. Assimilated technology from throughout the

galaxy. The thing is, the Borg have integrated it

smoothly into one, uniform whole. Here, it's . . .

it's a hodgepodge. Look around you." She

indicated the buildings.

"Everything's just sort of strewn together, with no

rhyme or reason. You can't get any sense for the

character of the environment. Over there, for instance," and she

pointed. "Look at the dome of that building."

"What about it?" said Shelby, but then she slowly

started to answer her own question. "Wait a minute . .

. isn't that . . . ?"

"Andorian, yes. You can tell by the markings along

the lower rim."

"What's a dome from an Andorian building doing

here?"

"There's an abandoned Andorian colony on the

border of Sector 221-G. My guess is that

at some point, the Nelkarites picked it clean.

They took whatever caught their interest. That person

over there, with Laheera? Wearing a cloak of

Tellarite design. That gold

iris-eye door fitted into that build- ing over

there? It's off an Orion slave ship. This

place is like a giant jigsaw puzzle. It's

like," and she tried to find the right comparison. "It's like

walking into a cannibals' village and finding

clothes or trinkets taken from previous . . . uh

. . . meals."

"Are you saying we have to worry about becoming the

Nelkarites' consuming interest?" Shelby said

slowly. She noticed that Laheera and the others had

finished greeting the refugees, and were now heading

back toward herself and Lefler.

Lefler seemed to consider the notion for a moment, but

then she discarded it. "No . . . no, I don't

think so. They just seem interested in technology,

that's all. I don't think there's anything

particularly dangerous about them. They're just a

small, scrappy race, trying to make use of

whatever they happen to get their hands on, for the

purpose of getting ahead. I'll wager they even

cobbled together the ship we confronted."

"Yes, Soleta made the same observation. Not

saying it was "cobbled

together," but it seemed to be a patchwork of other

technology, most

conspicuously Kreel."

"It's possible that Kreel raiders tried to show

up here to take advantage of them . . , and paid for

it with their ship."

"Which means that the Nelkarites are fully capable

of protecting

themselves," Shelby mused. "Certainly that's good

news for the refugees. They could use some

protection."

"Commander," came Laheera's musical voice.

"Did I hear you saying something about . . . pro-

tection?" She seemed almost amused by the notion.

"Certainly you don't think we pose a threat to

your"

Captain Hufmin sauntered up on the tail end

of the comment, and before Shelby could say anything, he

announced confidently, "Oh, I doubt that Com-

mander Shelby ever thought such a thing. Right, Commander?"

Shelby smiled noncommittally. "I'm rather

curious, Laheera," she said. "We're

depositing four dozen refugees on you. Where do you

intend to put them?"

"Oh, that's not a problem at all. I'm glad

you asked that, in fact," and indeed Laheera seemed

more than glad. She seemed delighted out of

all

proportion to the question. "We have some wonderful

facilities which we've prepared."

"Not some sort of camps or something equally

uninviting, I trust?"

"Not at ail, Commander." Laheera leaned forward,

sounding almost

conspiratorial. "They're so luxurious that you

might want to stay on yourself instead of returning to the

Excalibur. his

Doing a fair impression of Laheera's almost

giddy, singsong voice, Shelby replied with faux

excitement, "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

Lefler put a hand to her mouth to cover her own

laughter, although the slight shaking of her shoulders

betrayed her amusement.

"Come," said Laheera, and then she waved to the

refugees who were

congregating in the square, look-

ing around in wonderment at their new home. "Come

along, all of you. I'll show you to your residences."

She turned back to Shelby and said, clearly

pleased with herself, "And then you can return to your

captain and let him know that your people are in safe

hands." As she spoke, she hooked her arm

through Hufmin's and together they sauntered off.

Shelby and Lefl er exchanged looks.

"I think I'm going to be ill," said Lefler.

"I BELIEVE I AM ILL. Mentally

ill. And I require your services to ascertain

that."

Dr. Selar and Lieutenant Soleta were in

Selar's private quarters. Soleta had

reported to sickbay as Selar had requested, but as

soon as she was there the Vulcan doctor immediately

decided that her office did not provide

sufficient seclusion, and so she had requested that

they relocate the

meeting.

Soleta was impressed at how utterly stark

Selar's quarters were. It was as if she didn't

really live there; as if her entire life were

sickbay, and her quarters was simply where she

retired to in order to attend to the minimal

requirements necessary to her perpetuation. There was her

computer (standard issue), her bed (standard issue) .

. .

. . . and a single light.

The fact that there was nothing else in the room

to draw her attention naturally prompted

Soleta to focus on it. It was tall, about a

foot high, and cylindrical, and shimmered with a blue

radiance. She found something

unutterably sad about it, and she couldn't

exactly figure out why. Why would a light have a

sadness about it?

Selar saw what had drawn her attention She

didn't smile, of course, or frown, or in any

way evince any emotion. "You have not seen a

Shantzar? A Memory Lamp?"

"No, I . . . have not," Soleta said. "A

tribute of sorts?"

"Of sorts, yes. To someone . . . long gone."

Briskly, she turned to Soleta and said, "I am

in a . . . somewhat difficult position. I must

ask your indulgence, not only as a crew woman,

comb as a fellow Vulcan . . . indeed, the only

other Vulcan on this vessel. I ask . . ."

She cleared her throat. "I formally ask you

to grant me Succor."

Soleta was not quite as skilled as Selar when it

came to covering her surprise. "A formal

request? You could not simply ask for my help, and

assume that I would give it?"

She looked downward. It was surprising

to Soleta that Selar was having trouble meeting her

direct gaze. "We comspeak of delicate

matters and

uncertainties. I do not wish to impose on

friendship."

"Are we friends?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Selar. "That is disthe point."

"I cannot say I understand, because that would be lying."

Selar looked around her cabin, looked anywhere

except at Soleta. "I do not . . . interact

well with others," she said after a time.

"A curious admission for a doctor to make,"

Soleta couldn't help but observe.

Another might have taken that as a criticism, but

Selar merely nodded in acknowledgment. "As a

doctor, I do not see myself interacting with

individu- als, but rather with their ailments. It is no

more necessary to make an emotional investment in patients

than it is for an engineer to bond with a power coupling.

If it breaks, it is my job, my vocation,

to repair it. That is all."

"But engineers do bond, do they not?" asked

Selar. "Humans in particular. They tend to invest

inanimate objects with a sense of life. They even

ascribe genders to their vessels, calling

them "she.""

"Granted. It gives them . . . comfort, I would

imagine. Humans are

frequently in need of comfort." She looked

imperiously at Soleta. "Vulcans are not. That

is one of the elements which has been our greatest

strength."

Andwitha sigh, Soleta replied, "Or weakness."

Selar seemed inclined to reply to that, but clearly

she changed her mind. "We have gotten off the

subject," she said, and once again seemed

intensely interested in looking anywhere but at

Soleta. "I have formally requested Succor. Do you

understand the parameters of such a petition?"

"I believe I do," Soleta said slowly.

"You are asking that I oblige myself to help you with some

matter without knowing the nature of it, or what that

obligation binds me to. It gives me no option

to state that the request is beyond my ability to help

you. Gives me no opportunity simply

to refuse, for whatever reason. It is generally an

application made by a fairly wretched and frightened

individual who feels that she has no one on whom

she can count."

"I would dispute the accuracy of the last

statement . . ."

"Would you?" asked Soleta with such sudden intensity

that it virtually forced Selar to look directly at

her. "Would you really?"

"I. . ." Her Vulcan discipline was most

impressive. Her chin

ever-so-slightly outthrust, she said, "Since I

am presently in the process of asking you for

Succor, it would not be appropriate for me to engage

in a dispute over your opinions. Believe what you

wish. But I would appreciate an answer to the

question."

"The answer is no."

Soleta turned on her heel and headed for the

door. She was almost there when Selar halted her with a

word . . .

"Please."

There was no more emotion, no more inflection in the one

word than there had been in any of the words preceding it.

And yet Soleta was sure that she could hear the

desperation in Selar's voice. She turned back

to the doctor and said flatly, the words

in something of a rush, "I hereby, of my own free

will, grant you Succor. In what way may I be of

service."

Selar took a step forward and said, "Mind-meld

with me."

"What?"

"I am concerned over my frame of mind. My

concern is that my mental

faculties are beginning to erode. I have been

experiencing . . , feelings. Sensations. Confusions

which can only be deemed inappropriate in light of

my training and experience."

Slowly, Soleta sank into a chair, not taking

her eyes off Selar. "You want me to mind-meld

with you."

Selar paced the room, speaking in a clinically

detached manner that made her feel far more comfortable

than acknowledging the emotional turmoil she was

straining to keep at bay. "I believe that I may

be suffering the earliest stages of Bendii

Syndrome, causing the disintegration of my

self-control."

"If that is what you believe, then certainly there

must be medical tests . . ."

But Selar shook her head. "Bendii

Syndrome, at this point, would not be detectable through

standard medical technologies. There are physical

symptoms, yes, changes in certain

waves patterns. But these are ascribable to a

variety of possible ailments. It could also be Hibbs

Disease, or

Telemioistis . . . it could even be Pon

farr, although that is an

impossibility."

"Impossible . . . why? Timing is wrong?"

Selar suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "Yes."

"When was the last-?"

"It cannot be, believe me," Selar told her in

no uncertain terms. Clearly considering the

subject closed, she continued briskly, "In this

situation, diagnosis via mind-meld would be the

accepted arid appropriate procedure to follow

on Vulcan. There are doctors, psi-meds, who

specialize in the tech- nique."

"But we're not on Vulcan, and I'm not a

doctor," Soleta reminded her. "This is not a

situation with which I am comfortable."

"I fully understand that. However, it would not be

required that you have any medical training. During the

mind-meld, I will be able to use your "outside'

perspective as if it were a diagnostic tool. were

I not a doctor myself, and were I not thoroughly

trained in such procedures, it would be

impossible. As it stands, it is more cumbersome and

inefficient than simply to have a psi-med conduct the

process. But I am willing to make do."

A long moment went by, during which Soleta said

nothing. Selar was no fool; Soleta's hesitation

was evident. But she was not about to back off. "You have

granted me Succor," she reminded her, as if the

reminder were necessary. "You cannot refuse."

"True. However," and Soleta stood, squaring

her shoulders. She seemed even more uncomfortable now

than Selar had moments before, and she did not have the

self-discipline or control to cover it as 107

skillfully as Dr. Selar. "dis . . however,

I am within my rights to request that you release me from

my promise. I do so now."

"I will not."

"You would force me to mind-meld with you?" Soleta

made absolutely no effort to hide her

surprise. "That is contrary to . . ." She

couldn't even begin to articulate it. Mind-meld was

a personal, private matter. To force someone

to perform it upon you, or thrust your own mind into another

. . . it was virtually unthinkable.

"Lieutenant, I understand your hesitation,"

Selar began.

"No, I do not think you do."

"We barely know one another, and you feel

pressured," Selar began. "Such a mind'-meld

will require you to probe more deeply than one

normally would. The sort of meld that is either performed

between intimates, or by extremely well trained

psi-meds who are capable of such private intrusions

while still shielding the-was

But Soleta waved her off impatiently.

"It's not about that. Not about that at all."

At this, Selar was bit surprised. "Well,

then . . . perhaps you wish to explain it to me."

"I do not. Now release me from my promise."

"No."

The two women stared at each other, each

unyielding in their resolve. It was Soleta who

broke first. She looked away from Selar, and in a

voice so 108

soft that even Selar almost missed it, she

murmured, "It is for your own good."

"My own good? Lieutenant, I need your

help. That is where my "own good' lies."

"You do not want my help."

"I believe I know what I want and-was

"You do not wart my help!"

The outburst was so unexpected, so uncharacteristic, so

un-Vulcan, that-had Selar been humanshe would have

gaped in undisguised astonishment. As it was she could

barely contain her incredulity. Soleta looked as

if someone had ripped out a piece of her soul. She

was fighting to regain her composure and was only partly

successful. Selar, in all her years, had never

encountered a Vulcan whose emotionality was so close

to the surface. All she knew was that she was beginning

to feel less like a supplicant and more like a

t ormentor. "I release you," she said slowly.

Soleta let out an unsteady sigh of relief.

"Thank you," she said.

Clearly, now, she wanted to leave. She wanted

to put as much distance between herself and Selar as she

possibly could. But the reasons for her outburst, and

Selar's open curiosity, were impossible

to ignore. She could not pretend that it had not

happened, and-despite the size of the

Excalibur-it was, in the grand scheme of things,

a small place to live when there was someone whose

presence was going to make you uncomfortable.

Particularly when

it was someone such as the ship's CMO; not exactly

the type of person one could hope never to have

any interaction with.

Soleta leaned against the wall, her palms flat

against it, as if requiring the support of it. She

weighed all the possibilities, and came to what

she realized was the only logical decision. Still,

she had to protect herself "If I tell you something

relating to my medical history . . , will you treat

it under the realm of doctorstpatient

confidentiality."

"Does it pose a threat to the health or safety

of the crew of the

Excalibur?"

The edges of Soleta's mouth, ever so slightly,

turned upward. "No. No, not at all."

"Very well."

She took a deep breath. "I am . . .

impure," she said. "You would not want me in your

mind."

"How do you mean "impure'? I do not understand."

"I am not . . . full Vulcan."

Selar blinked, the only outward indication of her

surprise. "Your records do not indicate that."

She paused, considered the information. "It is an

unexpected revelation, but it is hardly

cataclysmic. Your attitude, your

demeanor, indicates you consider your background

to be . . . shameful in some manner. Some of the

greatest Vulcans in history do not have "pure'

parentage."

"I am aware of that. I am personally

acquainted with Ambassador Spock."

"Personally." Selar was impressed, and made

no 110

effort to keep it out of her voice. "May I

inquire as to the circumstances?" "We were in prison

together."

Selar found this curious, to say the least, but she

decided that it was probably preferable not

to investigate the background of that statement.

Clearly there were greater problems to be dealt with.

Selar was all too aware that bedside manner was not

her strong suit. And her experiences since the death

of her mate, Voltak, had done nothing to soften her

disposition. She knew that she had become even more

distant and remote than her training would require,

but she had not cared overmuch. Truthfully, since

Voltak had died those two long years ago, she

had not cared about anything. Nonetheless it was clear that

Selar had to put aside her own concerns and deal with

those of Soleta.

She placed a hand on Soleta's shoulder.

Soleta looked at it as if it were an alien

artifact. "Neck pinch?" she asked.

"I am endeavoring to be of comfort," Selar said

formally.

"Nice try." The words had a tint of humor

to them, but Soleta did not say them in an amused

manner.

Slowly Selar removed her hand from Soleta's

shoulder. Then she straightened her uniform jacket and

said, "I do not recall your service record

indicating any mixed breeding. Although I will

respect the bond of doctorstpatient

confidentiality, falsifying your record is frowned

upon. In some instances, it

could even result in court-martial in the

unlikely event your parentage included a hostile

race such as..."

Her voice trailed off as she saw Soleta's

expression, anticipating the word. Selar barely

dared speak it. "Rornulan?" she whispered.

Soleta nodded.

"You . . . lied about one of your parents being

Romulan?"

But at that Soleta shook her head.

Slowly she sank back down into the couch.

"My mother was Vulcan," she said softly. "I

thought my father was as well. They were colonists . . .

scientific researchers. Several times, in the

throes of Pon furr, they had endeavored to conceive a

child, but each time the pregnancy had resulted in

miscarriage. It was a tragic circumstance for

them, but they dealt with it with typical Vulcan

stoicism. Besides, they had their work to keep them

occupied.

"And then there came a day when my mother was on a

solo exploration, my father occupied with something else.

To her surprise, she came upon a downed ship, a

small, one-man vessel. Deciding that there might

be someone in need of rescue, she investigated. She

found someone. He was a Romulan, injured from the

crash. He said he was a deserter."

"A deserter?"

"So he claimed. He begged my mother not to inform

anyone of his presence. His concern was that the Federation

would turn him back over to the 112

Romulan government . . . or else put him

in prison. She informed him that she could not make that

promise. It would have been logical for her to lie,

but my mother could not bring herself to do so. He was

very angry with her, tried to stop her. She fought him and

then she. . ." Soleta lowered her voice. "She

learned the true nature of his background. He was

not a deserter. He was an escaped criminal. A

violent, amoral individual, and he. . ."

Her voice trailed off. But there was no need

to finish the sentence. Selar said nothing. She did not

trust herself to be able to speak without emotion.

"When my mother returned home, she was already

pregnant," said Soleta. "She contemplated

having an abortion . . . and rejected it. It was not

a logical decision."

"Not logical." Selar, who prized logic no

less than any Vulcan, couldn't quite believe what

she'd heard. "Had she aborted the pregnancy, you

would not be here."

"True enough. But considering the circumstances of

my conception. . . the nature of my sire . . .

making certain that I was not born would have been the

logical choice. But my mother and . . . the man I

thought of as my father . . . they felt it . . .

illogical . . . to dismiss my existence simply

because of who my true father was. They were willing

to take the chance that I would not be some sort of violent

criminal. That their care, their

training, their guidance, would be more than enough

to overcome

whatever unfortunate tendencies my genetic

makeup might carry with it. It was a foolish

gamble, but one they were willing to make. Perhaps they were not

thinking clearly because of their frustrated encounters with

Pon fart. Or perhaps they were too . . . disoriented

. . . by the recent events to come to a more sensible

decision. Whatever the reason, they chose to let the

pregnancy proceed. This time, she did not

miscarry. There is a great irony in that, I

suppose."

"And you did not know the nature of your true

origins?"

"No. No, I was raised in the belief that I was

a full Vulcan. Neither my father nor my mother

told me the truth. They saw no point in it. They

felt it was information that I did not need to possess.

I was, after all, my mother's daughter, and my father

could not have been more devoted to me had he been my

genetic parent. So you see, Doctor, there was no

attempt at deception on my part. When I

enrolled in Starfleet Academy, the information I

provided Star- fleet was correct and true, to the

best of my knowledge. You should have seen me back

then, Doctor. I was as pure Vulcan as anyone

could ask. Cool.

Unflappable. My training was thorough, my

mindset absolutely ideal. I spoke in the

formal English dialect favored by our people. You would

never have known who my true father was. How could you?

I never knew."

"What happened to him? After he. . . after the

incident with your mother, was he caught? Returned

to the Romulans?"

It took an effort for Soleta to get the words

out. "When my mother first returned to the colony city .

. . after her violent encounter . . . my father sought out

the Romulan who had abused her. But he had

disappeared-repaired his ship sufficiently

to escape. He eluded capture."

"And he was never found?"

"Oh . . . he was found. . ." And Soleta

laughed. It was a most unusual sound, and it startled

Selar profoundly. She had never heard a

Vulcan laugh. "The fates, if such there be, do

like their little pranks. He was caught many years after the

"incident," as you call it. He had built up

quite a

reputation for himself; had a very

impressive smuggling operation set up. A

Starffeet vessel, the Aldrin, put an end to his

illegal activities. And there was a

junior-grade science officer aboard that vessel

by the name of Soleta. She had heard about

Romulans, you see, but had never had the

opportunity to see one up close. She considered

them to be of scientific interest, what with their being an

offshoot of the Vulcan race. Her scientific

curiosity drove her to walk past the brig,

to observe him, to approach him and begin to ask him

questions.

"And he noticed something. Something she had in her

hair. A family heirloom which her mother had always

worn, but had passed on to her daughter when

Soleta went off to the Academy."

Selar realized immediately, saw it glinting in

Soleta's hair. "The IDIC."

"Yes." Soleta tapped the IDIC pin she

customarily wore in her hair.

"Precisely. He was quite given to talking, the

Romulan. He was rather proud of his achievements,

particularly the more debased ones. I think he was,

in his way, as interested in me as I was in him. I

believe that he desired to see whether he

could "shock" me somehow. He proceeded to tell

me the exact circumstances in which he had

previously seen such a pin. The Vulcan woman

who had worn one, and how he had knocked it out of

her hair when he had . . . taken her forcibly.

He went into intimate detail of the event. To shock

me, as I said. And he did, but not in the way he

had thought. For he simply believed that the recitation

of the events of his brutality-his painting a vivid

picture of how he had abused a Vulcan

woman-would be disco ncerting to me. He would have failed,

for my training was too thorough. But he spoke of the

world upon which he had crashed, spoke of when it

happened, and there was the connection with the pin . . ."

Soleta took a deep, shaky breath. "He had

no idea. No idea to whom he was speaking. He

thought it was simply an

identical pin. A mere coincidence. And that's

all it should have been, truly. I mean, the truth .

. . the truth was too insane to contemplate,

wasn't it. Father, all unknowing, telling his daughter

the details of the rape that had led to her conception? It

was..."

Her shoulders started to tremble, and her disci-

pline began to crack. A single tear

rolled down her cheek. Selar went to her then,

tried to put a hand out, but Soleta shoved it away.

Realizing the vio- lence inherent in her move, she

quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand as she

said urgently, "I'm sorry, I-was

But Solar waved dismissively. "No apology

necessary. Considering the circumstances . . ."

"After my encounter with my . . . with the Romulan .

. . I informed

Starffeet that there was an emergency of a personal

nature which required my immediate attention. I had

to speak to my parents in person. This was not something that

could be dealt with over subspace. I returned

home, returned to Vulcan, which was where my parents

had relocated to in the interim. I confronted them and

they . . . admitted to the true nature of my

parentage. They even pointed out that they had never lied

to me . . . and they had not, you know. What child, living

in a normal environment, thinks to ask her father

whether he is truly her father? No lie was

required, for the question had never been posed. They told

me that it should make no difference. That it did not

diminish me, or make me less of a person than

I was." Slowly she shook her head. "No

difference," she repeated in clear

disbelief, and then she said it again, her voice barely

above a whisper, "No difference."

Selar waited. When Soleta said nothing after a

time, Solar asked gently, "Did you return

to Starfleet?"

"Not immediately. I could not. I felt . . .

unworthy. Despite my parents' urging, I

felt I was less than the woman I was. It

affected the way I conducted myself, deported myself.

The way I dressed, the way I spoke . . .

even to this day. Habits that I'd learned, training

I had had . . . it all seemed a sham to me,

somehow. Things learned by another person who was not me,

but had only pretended to be me. I extended my

leave of absence, and I roamed. Roamed for so long

that eventually

Starfleet got word to me that if I did not

return, I would simply be dropped from the

service. They put me in a position where I was

forced to decide what to do with my life."

"Obviously you decided to return

to Starfleet."

"Obviously, yes, considering that I am sitting

here in a uniform. But it was not, to me, an obvious

decision to make."

"What prompted you to make it, then?"

"It was my mother's dying wish."

Selar lowered her eyes. "I am. . .

sorrysorry. for your loss. She must have been quite

young."

"All too young. Vulcans have a long life

span under ideal circumstances, but that is no

guarantee."

"I know that, I assure you," Selar said. Had

Soleta been less

self-involved, she would have detected the slight

ruefulness in 5elar's tone, but she did not.

Instead Soleta found herself staring at the Memory

lamp which Selar had burning in her cabin. "I

asked to be assigned as a teacher upon my return,

and considering my lengthy departure, Starfleet saw

no reason to deny my request. I was more comfortable

with that situation than with the thought of continuing to wander the

galaxy. However, circum- stances arose so that my

presence was required here."

"And you never told Starffeet of what you had

learned, about your true parentage."

"No. Technically, it is withholding information. I

imagine that they could make matters

difficult for me, were they to learn of it. But . . .

in the grand tradition of my family . . . they did

not ask, and so I have had no need to lie. Convenient,

is it riot?"

"V."

Soleta said nothing for a time, appearing to consider

something. Finally Selar told her, "For what it is

worth, Soleta . . . I do not consider you

"impure," as the humans might say. A

tortured soul, yes. But impure? No. I

consider you a person of conscience and integrity. No

matter what happens in the future of this vessel,

I will always consider it an honor to serve with you."

"Thank you. I appreciate that. Truly, I

do. And in your saying that, you've enabled me to make up

my mind about something." She clapped her hands

briskly and said, "Clear your mind."

"What?"

Soleta waggled her fingers and indicated that

Selar should bring herself closer. "If you still desire

that I probe your mind . . . that I meld with you .

. . I will do so. After your sitting here patiently and

listening to my life's story . . ."

"I do not wish your help out of some misplaced

sense of gratitude," Selar told her.

Soleta looked at her skeptically. "Pardon

me, but as I recall, a short time ago you were

endeavoring to force me into aiding you through a binding blind

promise, am I correct? And now you are concerned

about the ethics involved in my helping you?"

"Matters are different now. Abu were," and

clearly she hated to admit it, "you were correct

before. I was . . . "desperate," if we must

discuss the situation in human terms. I did not

wish to depend on such relationships as friendship in

order to accomplish what I felt needed to be done.

But now that you have unburdened yourself. . ."

"You feel closer to me?"

"Not particularly, no. I simply feel that you

have more problems than I do, and it is probably

unjust to burden you with mine."

This once again prompted Soleta, in a most

shocking manner, to laugh out loud. It was not something she

had great experience in doing. It was a quick, awkward

sound, closer to a seal bark than an actual

laugh. "Your

consideration is duly noted," she told her. "But

I tell you honestly now, Doctor, that if you are

comfortable with the situation-knowing about me what you now know-then

I will assist you in your self-examination.

If I say to you that it is the least I can do, I

ask that you accept that in the spirit in which it's given."

Selar nodded briefly. "Very well."

She drew a chair over to the couch and sat down,

facing Soleta. She cleared her thoughts, her

breathing slow and steady, relaxing into the state of mind

that would most facilitate the meld. Soleta did

likewise, almost with a sense of relief.

Soleta did not have a tremendous amount of

experience in the technique of the mind-meld, but she was

certain that Selar's experience and superior training

would more than make up for whatever Soleta might

herself lack. Slow, methodical, unhurried, she

waited until she sensed that her breathing was in

complete rhythm with Selar's. Then, gently, she

reached out, touching her fingers to Selar's temples.

"Our minds are merging, Selar," she said.

Their minds, their thoughts, their personas drew

closer and closer to one another. The tendrils of their

consciousness reached toward each other, gen- tly

probing at first . . .

. . . and then . . . contact was made . . .

. . . drawing closer still, and their thoughts began

to overlap, and it was becoming hard to determine where one

left off and the other began . . . . . . and

Soleta had a sense of herself, she did not lose

it, it was still there, still vibrant and alive, but she had

a sense of Selar as well, she was Selar, and

Selar saw herself through the view of Soleta,

outside her own consciousness, looking inward . . .

. . . and Selar felt uncertain and fearful, and

she wasn't sure whether the insecurities rose from

her-

self as Soleta and the knowledge of her true lineage or

from herself and her concerns over her own state of mind, and

she fought past it . . .

. . . and Soleta saw images flashing past

her, images that were herself but not herself, images and

sensations and experiences that were as real for her as they could

possibly be, except none of them, absolutely

none of them, had ever happened to her . . . and she

began to scrutinize herself with an expertise that she

had never before possessed, except it was not herself that

she was scrutinizing, and yet it was, and it was with a

facility that she had never had, except she did .

. .

. . . and Selar felt herself slipping deeply

into her own consciousness, gliding into Soleta's mind

and using it as an ancient deep-sea explorer would

use a bathysphere. Waves of her own

thoughts and unconsciousness rippled around her as she

descended further and further, moving through her psyche,

and she felt waves of light pulsing around her.

No, not light . . , life, her life, spread

all around about her ...

. . . and Soleta felt pain, waves of pain,

and she heard voices crying out, and one of them was her

own, her very own voice, and one of them was not, it was a

male, it was someone she had never met in her life,

and his name was Voltak, and she knew him with greater

intimacy than she had ever known herself, and she could

feel him moving within her ...

. . . and Selar felt him slipping away, and

Soleta

called out his name, and Selar felt his loss

ripping at her, and then Soleta was suddenly yanked

downward, further downward, left looking upward

at Voltak in the way that a swimmer trapped beneath

a frozen lake sees the face of someone above, on

the ice, staring down at them . . .

. . . and Selar's mind was left naked and

exposed, Soleta probing with Selar's

expertise, burrowing down to the core of her psychic

makeup, seeking, searching, and buffeted with wave upon

wave of heat, red heat that washed over her

in delicious wav es of agony that she could not

ignore, that swept into every pore of her skin,

enveloping her, caressing her, and she moaned for the

exquisite torment of it all ...

. . , and she felt something calling her, driving

her, and it was voices, not just hers, not just Soleta's

and Selar's, not just Voltak's, but Vulcans,

hundreds, thousands, millions of them, driving her

toward the heat, toward the red waves, as if they were

trying to pound her into an inferno shore, and she

welcomed it, she welcomed the heat and the waves, she

could not, would not turn away from it, she embraced it,

wanted it, wanted it more than she had ever wanted

anything, and her breath was coming in short gasps, their

minds slamming together . . .

my God...

The separation was violent. Soleta yanked away

from her, and Selar tumbled backward, the chair

overturning and spilling her onto her back.

Soleta fell over, rolled off the couch and onto

the floor. She

lay there panting, gasping, her fingers still spasming

as sensations shook her body. Sweat was dripping off

her forehead, spattering onto the floor. With

supreme effort she managed to look over

at Selar, who didn't appear to be in much better

shape. Seiar was lying on her back, her arms

outstretched, sucking in air gratefully, as if she

had forgotten to breathe for however long they had been

joined. It clearly took tremendous effort but

slowly Selar turned her head and managed to look

at Soleta. Soleta, for her part, felt

embarrassed, like a voyeur, even though it had been

Selar who had asked for the probe.

Selar was trying to mouth a word. Soleta propped

herself up on one elbow and angled herself closer

to Selar, just close enough to hear her say it

"Impossible" was the low whisper. Selar had now

actually managed to muster enough strength to shake her

head, and again she murmured, "Impossible."

"Apparently . . . not." Soleta was

surprised, even impressed, with the calm in her

voice. Ever since learning the truth of her

background, stoicism had not been something that she had

always been able to maintain. Here, though, she was

clearly capable of rising to the occasion. "Apparently

it's not impossible at all."

"But it was . . . it was barely two years ago .

. .

I . . . I went through it . . . not time

. . . not for years, it is not time . . ."

"Perhaps it's because of the way that it ended the first time,"

Soleta said reasonably. "The urge was 124

never truly satisfied, but because you were mindmelded

at the time . . . it sent you into a sort of psychic

shock . . . numbed you . . . but it's finally worn

off . . ."

"You . . . you do not know . . . what you are

saying. . ." Selar's face had gone dead white.

"Maybe not," agreed Soleta. "Maybe I

don't know what I'm saying at all. Maybe

I'm completely crazy . . . except I know

what I saw, Selar. I know what I felt and

experienced. Whether you like it or not, whether you want

to admit it or not . . . what you're going through right

now is the first stages of Port farr. Your bad

experience the first time threw your system off, but now the

mating frenzy is back with a vengeance. And I have

absolutely no idea what you're going to do about

it."

And Selar had the sick feeling that, somewhere in the

ship, Burgoyne was sniffing the air and grinning. And

she wasn't far wrong.

THROUGH THE CORRIDORS Of the Kayven Ryin,

Si Cavan moved with the utmost care,

flexing his arm to work out the kinks in his shoulder.

He was alone.

He had given Zak Kebron the slip, for

Kebron had quickly made it clear he had no

intention of letting Cavan handle matters the way

he wanted to. The idea of not using any of the hand

weapons, for starters, was intolerable to Kebron. In

his arrogance-at least, arrogance the way Si Cavan

saw it-Kebron felt that he himself did not have

to depend on weapons. But he was of the forceful

opinion that if Si Cavan had the opportunity

to use a weapon on Zoran, he should take it. That

nothing was going to be accomplished by treating the situation

as a grudge match.

But this had gone far beyond grudges. Si Cavan

knew, beyond any question, that he was going to kill

Zoran. He simply had to. Honor would not

allow anything less. And he had to do it with his bare

hands. This was not a question of honor allowing anything

less, but rather his simple determination to make

Zoran's punishment as painful as possible. So

Si Cwan had, moving quickly, left the Brikar

behind. He'd been subtle about it; give him some

credit. He'd darted down a corridor at a

faster clip than the Brikar could maintain,

and then run oh' down a connector, slid through a

maintenance tube, and next thing he knew, he was on

his own. And if he should live long enough to be in a

position where he need make excuses, he could always

simply claim that they had become accidentally

separated from one another. Accidents, after all,

did happen.

He heard a noise.

It was definitely not Zak Kebron. He already

knew that rock-steady

footfall. No, it was quick, extremely

light-footed. He would almost have thought it was the

movement of a small animal, so fast and nearly

insubstantial was it. But Si Cwan wasn't

fooled, not for a moment.

He crouched down and moved like a giant spider,

arms and legs operating in perfect synchronization.

He presented as minimal a target as possible,

should it come to that.

He moved past one room, the door to which was

closed, and from within he thought he heard something. A quick

footfall, or perhaps something on a table within that was

slightly jolted and sent skidding. 127

Something. He paused outside the door, crouching

to one side, trying to determine whether or not

he should burst into the room. It could very well be that

someone was waiting for him to do precisely that, and had a

vicious weapon aimed squarely at the door.

Or perhaps they had anticipated that he would think

entry through the door was a trap . . . and were instead

aimed at the ceiling, or at a vent, hoping that he

would make his entry that way.

He still had the plasma blaster slung across his

shoulders, and

practicality began to rear its ugly head. He

still had every reason to want to throttle Zoran . . .

but by the same token, he had a few more reasons

to want to continue to live.

Well . . . perhaps using the plasma blaster

wouldn't be such a crime after all, as long as the

killing blow was struck by hand. That was, after all, the

important thing.

He unslung the blaster, aimed it squarely at

the door, and fired. At such close range, the

plasma blast plowed through the door like acid through

paper, and Si Cwan leaped headlong through the door,

shoulder rolled and came up to face . . .

. . . nothing.

He was inside a laboratory, and there was no

evidence of anyone else there. There was a

beaker rolling across a table. Other than that, nothing.

He muttered a curse as he slung the plasma

blaster over his back. The noise of the plasma

blaster would undoubtedly attract Zoran or his

compatriots there. 128

Or else Kebron himself, which would leave Si

Cwan with explaining to do and an undesired ally at

his back. Si Cwan felt that if there was one thing

he did not need, it was someone watching out for him.

He thought that up until the moment that the ceiling

crashed in on him. . It caught him completely

by surprise as an overhead grating slammed down

onto him, driving him to his knees. A split

second later, Zoran dropped down from his hiding

place overhead inside one of the engineering service

ducts, and landed squarely on Si Cwan's

back.

He drove a vicious blow to the base of Si

Cwan's neck, to the hard cluster of muscles

situated there, and by all rights it should have paralyzed

Si Cwan from the neck down for approximately

five minutes. In the short term, it did the job.

Si Cwan thudded to the ground, unable to feel anything

in the rest of his body. The fall spilled Zoran

to the floor as well, but Zoran rolled

away and came quickly to his feet. Si Cwan

struggled furiously, trying to regain command over his

movements, as a sneering Zoran approached him.

"Too easy. Much too easy," he said.

The humans had a phrase for it mind over

matter. The mind belonged to Cwan, and the matter

wasin this instance-his own body. He refused to

acknowledge the physical reality that he was

helpless. He would not allow himself to die helplessly

in a paralyzed condition. It simply could not, would not

be done. His brain sent commands to the rest of

his body to respond, sending synapses roaring through

him like photon torpedoes.

Against all odds, against anything that Zoran would have

deemed possible, Si Cwan's legs slammed

upward. They did not do so with all the force that they

usually possessed. But it was sufficient as his legs

scissored around Zoran's at the knees. Before

Zoran could move, Si Cwan forced himself to twist

at the waist. He felt sluggish, torpid, but

slow for Si Cwan was still lightning for most anyone

else. The move was enough to collapse Zoran's

leg, and Zoran went down to find himself on the

floor, face-to-face with the enraged Si Cwan.

Si Cwan rolled over, half leaping

and half lunging toward Zoran. He landed

squarely on his opponent, grabbed him firmly by the

ears, yanked upward and then down, slamming

Zoran's head onto the grated floor.

Zoran's head rang from the impact, andwitha roar and

an effort fueled by the explosion of pain behind his

eyes, Zoran shoved Si Cwan off himself. Si

Cwan rolled over toward a table, saw an

opportunity, and quickly upended the table, sending it

tumbling toward Zoran. Zoran barely managed

to scramble out of the way, and by the time he was on his

feet, so was Si Cwan.

They stood there for a moment, catching their

respective breaths, their chests heaving, their hatred

almost palpable.

"It 's been ages, Si Cwan," snarled

Zoran.

"Where are the other two? Rojam and Juif, they

must be nearby."

"You don't think I'd give away our

strategic position, do you?" In point of fact,

they were nowhere nearby. The confrontation was strictly

between Zoran and Si Cwan, which was how Zoran had

wanted it.

Yet Si Cwan smiled with thinly

veiled contempt and said, "Did you embark on this

stupidity on your own? Or, even better . . .

did they accompany you on this endeavor and then take

the opportunity to abandon you? Is that it? Have your

cheerfully domineering ways managed to grate on them

after all these years? That would not surprise me.

No, not in the least."

Rallying himself, Zoran said, "Tell me, Si

Gwan, what it is like knowing that you are a complete and

total failure?"

Si Cwan did not even deign to answer the question.

He merely tossed a disdainful look at him.

"I see you have a weapon on your back," continued

Zoran. "And yet you would not use it."

"I've known you too long, Zoran. I knew

that you would desire to settle this hand-to-hand, between the

two of us. In many ways, you're sadly predict-

able."

"In many ways, so are you. The difference between us

is, I make use of that predictability . . .

and you don't."

And Zoran snapped his arm forward in what seemed

an oddly casual gesture, as if he were endeavoring

to shake hands- A short blade hurtled out from his

sleeve, thud-

ding deeply into Si Cwan's already injured upper

shoulder. Si Cwan let out an angry roar and

tried to pull it out, but the tip was barbed and it

wasn't going to be easy to remove. Nor was

Zoran giving him the time, for Zoran vaulted the

distance between the two of them, grabbed the blade by the

handle, and twisted it. Pain screamed through Si

Cwan, and he howled in fury, "Enjoying your

vengeance, Si Cwan?" asked Zoran as he

wrenched the dagger around in place. Blood fountained

from the gaping wound in Si Cwan.

But in order to handle the dagger, Zoran had had

to get close in to Si Cwan, giving him

opportunity to strike back. The base of Si

Cwan's hand slammed into the bridge of Zoran's

nose, and the crack-Tike a

ricochet-sounded in the room. The world hazed red

to Zoran, and suddenly he felt Si Cwan's

hands at his throat. Cwan's thumbs dug in and

upward, seeking out the choke hold, cutting off

Zoran's air.

"I don't care what happens to me," Si

Cwan said hoarsely, his voice a growl, "and I

don't care how I die, as long as you die first."

Zoran drove a knee up into Si

Cwan's gut. Si Cwan grunted, ignoring the

pain, beyond its ability to influence him. He was

focused on one goal choking the life from Zoran.

His hands were locked securely on, all his strength

dedicated to the effort. The rest of the world seemed

to evaporate around him. There was just Zoran, and him,

and the feel of Zoran's pulse beneath his fingers which Si

Cwan was determined to extinguish.

He started to force Zoran down, down to his

knees, and Zoran cried out in pain and fear. And in

desperation, Zoran managed to slam his head forward

against the hilt of the dagger, driving it in even deeper.

Si Cwan had no choice. The knife struck

a muscle which, as a reflex, caused Si

Cwan's hands to flex open just for a moment. It was

all Zoran needed as he tore himself away,

literally throwing his body the distance of the lab. He

crashed to the floor just inside the door.

Dark liquid covered the entire front of Si

Cwan's tunic, but he didn't care. Like an

unswerving juggernaut, he lurched toward Zoran,

fingers still opening and closing spasmodically as if he

still had Zoran's throat between them. As if he was

positive that it would only be a matter of moments

before he once again had Zoran's life in

his hands.

There was much that Zoran had fancied about Si

Cwan, for it had been several years since he had

actually set eyes on him. There was much that he had

managed to convince himself of. Once upon a time, he

had spent days hunting by Si Cwan's side. He

had wrestled with him, sparred with him, con- fided in

him, given Si Cwan his confidence and received it in

return. For the purpose of rationalizing the split that

had occurred between them, Zoran had indulged in that

habit which most sentient beings engaged in when

separating from old friends demosizing. Zoran had

told so many people that Si Cwan was a fake, a

fraud, a lazy bastard who was more

lucky than skilled, and of whom everyone had been

afraid because of his station in life, that Zoran had more

or less convinced himself of that as well.

So it was very disturbing for Zoran to find himself in

combat with Si Cwan now and come to the stark realization

that his memory had played tricks on him. He had

convinced himself that, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, he

could easily handle Si Cwan.

Now he realized that, at the very least, he could

handle Si Cwan but with extreme difficulty.

Extreme difficulty meant that a good

deal of time was going to be occupied accomplishing it.

And time was something he did not have in abundance.

He tapped the comm-link unit on his wrist even

as he backpedaled into the corridor. "All right,

enough! Beam me out!"

That was when Zoran felt the ground starting to tremble

beneath him. He glanced off to his right and saw what

appeared to be a walking landmass advancing on him.

Zak Kebron charged forward, arms pumping.

Then Zoran heard a defiant war cry and his

attention was yanked back to Si Cwan. Cwan had

actually ripped the barbed dagger from his shoulder, which should

have been impossible. At the very least, any normal

person would have collapsed in agony by that point. But

if there was any doubt in Zoran's mind that Si

Cwan was far from normal, it would certainly have been

settled by now.

The dagger was dripping with Si Cwan's blood.

He

could not have cared less. He tossed it aside,

sending it clattering across the floor leaving a trail

of red behind him. And then he lurched forward toward

Zoran.

One hand was outstretched, his palm covered with

thick, dark fluids; his own.

He didn't care.

He had a weapon still strapped to his back.

He didn't care.

He was injured, wounded, every muscle in his body

aching, and weak from blood loss. And Si Cwan

didn't care.

The only thing he cared about was getting his hands on

Zoran. Which, ultimately, he was unable to do.

A sound filled the immediate area. Although it was of a

different timbre than the noise produced by a

regulation Starffeet transporter, nonetheless it was

easily identifiable as a matter transporter

sound.

" 1Vo!" howled Si Cwan in outrage, and

in desperation he leaped at Zoran. His hope was that

if he managed to leap into range of the transport

effect in time, he would be brought along to wherever it was

that Zoran was heading. But he was too late.

Zoran's form became just insubstantial enough for Si

Cwan to fall right through it. He hit the metal

grating of the floor as Zoran-along with Si

Cwan's chances for revenge-disappeared.

"Get back here, you bastard!" shouted Si

Cwan, slamming his fists on the floor in

frustration.

"I doubt he'll hear you," observed Kebron,

who had chugged to a halt just short of running Si

Cwan over.

Then the comm unit that Si Cwan had taken off

of the fallen Thallonian beeped. There was no question in

his mind who it was who was endeavoring to get in touch with

him. He activated it and said angrily, "I

call you coward, Zoran!"

"I call you dead, Si C tilde disvan,"

Zoran replied with just a touch of regret. "But if

you wish to discuss it further, I suggest you adjourn

to a location two decks below you, aft section." And

he clicked off.

Without hesitation, Si Cwan. pivoted and started

off in the direction that Zoran had indicated, but he

was brought to an abrupt halt by Kebron, who had

gotten a firm grip on his arm. "No you don't.

Not again."

"I'm not going to let him get away!"

"You already did. If you mean you won't let him

get away again, that's up for debate."

"Kebron, let go of me!" he said with angry

imperiousness. And then, in a tone that was a bit more

pleading, he added, "Please."

"We go together. On your honor. Say

it."

Si Cwan gritted his teeth and nodded

reluctantly. "Together. But you will not interfere in the

outcome. On your honor. Say it. Say you will do

nothing to interfere in the outcome of the battle between

Zoran and myself."

"If you insist. On my honor, I will not

interfere in the outcome of the battle."

"Very well. Let's go." And he charged off, but

slowly enough that Kebron could keep up.

Zoran stared out at the depths of space which

beckoned to them. Rojam and Juif stood on either

side of him, fidgeting nervously, staring at the

dark- ened navigation console of their escape

vessel. It was not a particularly large ship;

indeed, joined as it was to the airlock of the Kayven

Ryin, it had actually avoided the Marquand

detecting it. It had room enough for three people, and also a

single transport pad, which Rojam had used to get

Zoran off the science vessel to which they were still

attached.

"Zoran, get us out of here," Juif said

urgently.

It was difficult to tell whether Zoran had

actually heard him. He simply sat

there, jaw set, anger flickering in his eyes.

Rojam crouched down and said sharply, "loran .

. . I wish, for your sake, you had defeated him in

the manner you desired. But we had a deal. We

gave you your ten minutes. The bomb is set.

Further delay risks all our lives."

In a faintly mocking tone, Juif added, "It

is the province of Si Cwan and his ilk to make

promises that they do not keep."

Slowly loran turned to them, appearing to notice

them for the first time since he'd been beamed aboard the

escape vessel. "I am curious," he said.

"If I had not rigged this vessel so that its flight

s ystems would only respond to my voice commands .

. . would you have left me on the ship? Left me behind

to die with Si Cwan? Or did you only stick

to our plan because you needed me in order to escape?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Rojam said

flatly, and Juif echoed the sentiment. Zoran

looked into their eyes, tried to see the true feelings

there. "You are afraid," he said after a moment.

"Of course we're afraid!" Juif told him

in mounting exasperation. "We're attached to a

vessel that's going to be space dust in a few

minutes, and you're quizzing us over our

devotion as your friends! Cut us loose from here and

let's be done with it! We can discuss this all you

want later, but if we don't break off now,

there's not going to be a later!."

Zoran stared at them for a moment that seemed

to stretch out into forever, and then he said, "Nav computer,

voice ID, Zoran Si Verdin."

"Voice 1Do confirmed," the computer replied

indifferently.

"Nav systems on line. Detach vessel from

airlock. Set heading to 183 on the y-axis.

Activate."

"Activating."

There was a slight jostling, the sound of huge

metal clamps releasing, and a moment later they were

free of their moorings. The escape vessel

dropped away from the doomed science vessel

Kayven Ryin and arced away into the blackness of

space.

And they didn't even notice that, far in the

distance, something was starting to ripple into existence , . .

Si Cwan crept forward, and then was very unnerved

as Zak Kebron strode by, making no attempt

at subtlety. "Kebron!" he hissed

angrily. "Zoran is just ahead! A little

stealth would be appreciated!"

Kebron looked at him blandly. "I'm

Brikar," he informed him. "I don't do

"stealth.""

Si Cwan rolled his eyes.

"Besides," continued Kebron, marching ahead,

floor rattling beneath him, "I suspect that the question will

be moot. I don't think Zoran is there."

"What?"

"It would be foolish to blithely give away a

position or the advantage of surprise in that

manner."

"you don't know Zoran as I do," said Si

Cwan, moving just behind Kebron. "No, I do not.

As a result, J assess him calmly and

coldly, rather than letting my opinion be clouded

by hatred. I tell you that such a move on his part would

be sheer foolishness, and nothing that you've told me about

him indicates that level of stupidity."

"What do you think to expect, then?"

"A trap."

Si Cwan blew air impatiently out between his

teeth. "I can handle any trap of Zoran's."

They rounded a corner and then Kebron came to such

an abrupt halt that Si Cwan banged

into his back, crunching his face into Kebron's

spine. He stepped back, rubbing his nose, about

to complain angrily . . . and then he saw it. It was

large and cylindrical, with moorings that

had fused it to the floor, ceiling, and walls so that

it was impossible to move. It beeped

imperturbably, and it was counting down.

Si Cwan's face darkened as Kebron turned

to face him. "All right, Cwan. All yours.

Handle it."

Si Cwan approached it tentatively. There was

a small display on the face of it, counting down.

"I think it's a bomb," he said.

"Yes. A superheated thermite bomb, if

I'm not mistaken. From the readings and the power

escalation, I'd say it's going to detonate within

two minutes. If I had to guess, I'd

surmise that Zoran is long gone, and has left

us to the bomb's nonexistent mercies."

Trying to fight down desperation, Si Cwan's

fingers explored the outer casing. It was seamless.

"Kebron, I'm no munitions expert. You have

to disarm it."

"I have sworn I would not interfere in the outcome

of the battle. The bomb was obviously

left by Zoran; it's part of the battle. For me

to take any action would be in violation of my oath.

It would be dishonorable. I'm afraid I can't do

that."

Si Cwan looked at him with undisguised

incredulity. "Is this some Brikar idea of a

joke?"

"I'm quite serious." He paused. "You could, of

course, release me from my vow. . ."

"i release you! I release you!"

The moment he heard that, Kebron crossed quickly

to the bomb and began to look it over. Putting his

strength into it, he attempted to twist 140

open the casing. When it resisted his efforts, he

pulled experimentally at the moorings, and then with greater

force. The metal bars held firm. He paused,

contemplated the situation a moment, and then turned

to Si Cwan and put a large hand on Cwan's

shoulder. "May you have the eyes of the gods upon you, and

success and glory in all future endeavors."

"Don't just yammer at me! Do something!"

"I am doing something," he said unflappably.

"I'm wishing you well in the afterlife. Aside from

that, my options are somewhat limited."

"Disarm the bomb!"

"With two hours to work on it and a Starfleet bomb

squad backing me up, that might be an option. As

it is . . ."

"You have a phaser. Shoot it! Disintegrate it!"

"Any attempt to do so will set it off.

Furthermore, do you see this

indicator?" and he pointed to one panel. "It's

a motion sensor. Any attempt to move the bomb

will also set it off."

Si Cwan was already in motion. "Let's go."

"Where?" asked Kebron curiously.

"To the far end of the ship!"

"Cwan, when this thing goes off in under a minute

now, every part of the ship is going to be the far end. It's

going to be scattered all over the system."

In helpless frustration, Si Cwan stared at the

bomb and came to the same realization that Kebron

had come to the moment he'd seen it.

There was a long silence, and then Si Cwan

turned

to Kebron and said, "I want you to understand I am

not afraid of death. In some ways, it's almost a

blessing. But it angers me that I die while Zoran

gets away. It angers me very much."

"Life is loose ends."

Si Cwan nodded, watching the bomb tick down,

and then he patted Kebron on the shoulder. "You are

a fine warrior, Kebron. I regret that we

did not have more time to work out our differences. At least .

. . at least I go to be with my sister, as you go to be

with your parents."

"My parents." Kebron looked at him

blankly.

"Yes. Your parents. Killed on the mining

colony by Orion . . . pirates . . ."

"Oh, that," and Kebron's massive shoulders

moved in something akin to a shrug. "It seemed like a

convenient thing to tell you at the time. Actually, my

parents live on Brikar. My mother is a

politician, my father a salesman of motivational

programs. They're alive and well. Thank you for

your concern, though."

Si Cwan stared at him. "You made it up?"

"Of course I did. I wanted you to feel we

had something in common so that you'd listen to me rather than

run about like an idiot. So much for that plan."

The bomb ticked down to zero.

"I hate you," said Si Cwan.

And the ship blew up.

LAHEERA

CALHOUN WAS ON HIS WAY up to the

bridge, anxious to speak with Shelby and Leffer,

who had just returned from the surface of Nelkar. In

heading to the turbolift, however, he met Selar in

the corridor. "Doctor," he greeted her, his

voice carefully neutral.

"Captain," she replied, inclining her head in

return and continuing on her way.

Unable to resist, he turned and said, "Dr.

Selar . . . is everything all right?"

She stopped and faced him, her arms folded across

her chest. "That is a broad question, sir. Could you be

more specific?"

"I could. Are you going to force me to be?"

She simply stood there, staring at him with feigned

disinterest.

"All right." He took a step forward. "I-was

Then his comm badge beeped, and he tapped it.

"Calhoun here."

"Captain, we're receiving a communication from the

Nelkarites," came Shelby's voice.

"On my way," he said. "Doctor . . .

we'll continue this later."

"I look forward to it, sir," she told him, and

it was only after Calhoun had walked off that

she came to the startled realization that she'd just told

her first lie.

Calhoun walked out onto the bridge, noting that

Soleta was back at her science station, and reasoning

that it would be pointless to pump her for information regarding

Selar. From the tactical station, Boyajian said,

"On screen, sir?"

"Not yet. Shelby, Lefler . . . report,

please." He sat in the command chair and steepled his

fingers.

"The facilities that we were shown for the refugees,

although hardly luxurious, are far from Spartan,"

Shelby informed him. "The Nelkarites seem

genuinely interested in providing aid, and accepting the

refugees into their society."

"And the refugees desire to remain there?"

"They have made that quite clear. I even suggested that

they return to the Excalibur for a final

debriefing; instead they voted amongst themselves, and it was

unanimously requested that their possessions be sent

down to Nelkar. They wish to stay. They seem

happy there."

"I'm overjoyed," Calhoun said with what seemed

a significant lack of enthusiasm. "Lefler?"

"Their society is not terribly

advanced by our standards. They seem . . .

"lazy" doesn't seem the right word.

"Unmotivated," perhaps. They have no major

scientific research programs. They merely

acquire things from other races and use those things

to advance themselves. They sort of "piggyback" on

the accomplishments of others."

"All right. Recommendations?"

"There doesn't seem to be much to offer in that

department, Captain," Shelby said. "The

refugees have made their desires clear. They wish

to stay on Nelkar. We cannot interfere in their stated

wishes, nor should we. It would be contrary to the

Prime Directive. More than that . . . it would

border on the tyrannical."

Calhoun looked at her with mild surprise.

"Commander . . . I may be many things. But

"tyrant' is hardly among them."

"I'm very aware of that, sir," she said

reasonably. "That's why I'm afraid there really

isn't much choice."

He drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment.

"It certainly appears that way. All right,

Boyajian . . . put them on screen."

A moment later, an opulent room

appeared on the monitor. There was Captain

Hufmin, swathed in fine blue robes. There was a

smile plastered on his face, and considering the drink

in his hand and the manner in which he was swaying, the smile

wasn't

the only thing that was plastered. Next to him was

Laheera, and the somewhat inebriated Hufmin was no

longer making any attempt to hide his leering

appraisal of hex.

"Hello, Captain Calhoun," Laheera said,

in that musical voice of hers. "Greetings,"

Calhoun replied evenly. "From what my first

officer tells me, you've made quite an impression

on our passengers. And, if I might note, on

Captain Hufmin as well."

"Yes, so it would appear," she commented. "And now

we have matters to discuss, Captain."

"I'm told there isn't much to discuss,

actually," Calhoun said with a subtle glance at

Shelby. "We'll be beaming down our passengers'

belongings, and be on our way. It is my hope that

they'll be happy in their new home."

"I'm certain they will be, Captain Calhoun .

. . once you cooperate."

Although her voice never lost its

pleasant inflection, there was an

undertone to the words that was not lost on anyone on the

bridge. It was, however, lost on Hufmin, who

was leaning against Laheera and grinning in a lopsided

fashion.

"Cooperate?" Calhoun said slowly.

"Yes. You see, Captain, you have very advanced

technology. Computer

systems, weapons systems, warp drive

capabilities that far exceed-was

"Not to be rude, Laheera, but . . . you might

as well stop right there. Don't think that we're not

grateful that you've opened your home and hearts to

the refugees. But I simply cannot turn over

technology to you." He rose from his chair and walked

slowly to the monitor, sounding as reasonable as he

could. "There are rules we live by, laws we

follow, just as I'm sure you have your own laws. Your

society is at a certain level, and it wouldn't be

right or proper for us to aid you in jumping to the next.

You have to reach that point yourselves." "We have selflessly

extended aid," Laheera said with a slight pout that

made her look, frankly, just adorable. "Can't you

do the same for us? It makes

you seem a bit selfish." "It sure

does!" Hufmin agreed. Then again,

in his condition and with the nearness of Laheera adding to his

intoxication, he would have agreed that the sun was

actually made of

steamed cabbage. "It does make us seem that

way," Calhoun

acknowledged. "But believe me, Laheera, it's

for the best." "I'm

afraid I can't agree with that," said Laheera.

"That's right,

Captain," Hufmin echoed, "she can't agree with

this-was It happened so

quickly that Lefler, who happened to be blinking at

that exact moment, didn't see it. But the others on

the bridge did. The knife was in

Laheera's hand, and she grabbed the grinning

Hufmin by the hair with

her other hand, snapping his head backward. The

most eerie thing was

that her smile never wavered as she expertly

yanked the knife across

Hufmin's throat. Blood poured out and down, his

blue robes turning 149

deep crimson. Some of it spattered on

Laheera's face, red speckling

the gold. She didn't appear to notice or

care. Hufmin did not even

realize he'd been murdered. He reached up in

a vague manner for the

gash and he was grinning insipidly, probably

feeling the warmth as it

gushed all over him, and then he sank down and out

of sight. Shelby,

horrified, looked to Calhoun. His face

looked dead. There was no

expression at all-not anger, not

revulsion-nothing. But then she saw

it, saw it in his purple eyes a deep,

burning, savage fury that was

barely contained. In an almost absentminded

fashion, Laheera reached down to wipe the blood

off the blade. It was obvious, even though they

couldn't see it, that she had cleaned it on the fallen

Hufmin. "Now,"

Laheera said conversationally, "I did that in order

to show you that we will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary

to get what we want. We

will kill the refugees. All of them. Men,

women, children. . . makes no difference. We shall begin

killing them shortly and continue to do so

until you supply us with the technology we need.

We will give you one

hour to think about it and get back in touch with you at

the end of

that ti-was x tilde f No. The word sounded like a

death knell. Calhoun had said it with no hesitation,

no remorse, and no sense

of pity whatsoever. Laheera tilted her head

slightly, like a dog

trying

to hear a high-pitched noise. "You mean you've

already decided to

cooperate with us?" "No," said Calhoun. "I

mean no, there will be no deals. No, there will not be a

discussion. And no, you needn't wait.

Kill them." Lefler gasped upon hearing this.

Soleta kept her

composure, but McHenry paled, and even Shelby

appeared shaken. Calhoun looked at her and she

mouthed the word, Negotiate. Laheera didn't

quite seem to believe she'd heard or understood

Calhoun correctly.

"Captain . . . perhaps you don't appreciate

the severity of the

situation . . ." "My first officer," Calhoun

cut in, "appears to be

of the opinion that I should negotiate." "She is

wise." Calhoun

walked up to the main screen, his back straight,

his eyes now cold.

"Laheera . . . the refugees made their own

decision. I gave them

advice. They ignored it. Whatever situation

they're in now is of their own making. I have no

sympathy for them that you can play upon. No

guilt. No compunction about letting them die.

They made their free

choice, and they die as free beings. Nor do I

wish to negotiate with

terrorists. There is no point to it." "My

understanding, Captain,

from what the late Captain Hufmin told me,

is that you were something

of a terrorist yourself once," Laheera said. It was

frightening how the singsong tone of voice never wavered.

"Who are you, then, to judge

me?"

There was dead silence on the bridge for a

long moment. And when

Calhoun spoke, there was something terrifying in his

voice. No one on

the bridge had ever heard anything like it. It was as

if an approaching natural disaster, like a tornado

or an ion storm, had been given voice to declare the

dreadful damage it was about to inflict. "You desire

negotiation, Laheera? That I will not do. I

don't negotiate. That is an immutable law of

my universe. Another immutable law, however, is

one of physics that for every action, there is an equal

and opposite

reaction. Kill the refugees, Laheera.

Kill them all. I don't care. I've seen

too much death to let it be used as a club against me.

But when

you're done killing them, be aware that you've killed

yourselves.

Because I will order this ship to open fire on your

capital city and

blow you all to hell. Who am I to judge you,

Laheera? I am someone who knows what it's like

to deal with someone like me. Calhoun out."

TO BE CONTINUED

152