  BY

  DAVID DVORKIN

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney

Tokyo This book is a work of

  fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either the

  product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual events or locales or

persons, living or dead, is

  entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET

BOOKS

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  Copyright (c 1984 Paramount Pictures

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  ISBN: 0-671-70095-2

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  Printed in the U.s.a.

  Captain's Log: Stardate 7521.6

  Standard orbit has been established around the

outpost colony on

  Trefolg. Due to the sensitive nature of this

mission, I had planned to

  beam up the prisoners and return directly

to Star Fleet Headquarters.

  However, the governor of the colony, Lerak

Kepac, has issued a formal

  invitation to me to pay a courtesy call. This is

a request I have of

  course agreed to honor.

  Kirk thumbed the log recorder off and took a

moment to look around

  the bridge in satisfaction. His crewmen and

officers sat at their

  stations working with calm efficiency or walked

briskly with firmness

  and purpose. No wonder these outpost colonies

along the perimeter of

  the Romulan Neutral Zone felt safer,

reassured, when one of the great

  starships stopped by. Especially, he thought with a

touch of

  smugness, this starship. The elevator doors

swished open and the

  ship's doctor ambled in, wearing his dress

uniform, and strolled over

  to the command chair. "Well, Jim,"

  Doctor McCoy drawled. "How do I

look? Good enough to impress a

  colonial governor?" Kirk smiled and looked

his friend up and down.

  No matter what uniform McCoy wore, he

managed to make it look somehow

  crumpled, as if he had just finished a long evening

of card playing

  while wearing it. Kirk shook his head. "It'll

do. At least you're

  wearing your dress uniform. More important,

you're wearing your old

  country doctor persona. That's just right." "Thought

it would be

  for a colony. Mind telling me what's up?"

Kirk stood up and

  stretched. "Come to my quarters. I'll have

to change quickly before

  we beam down." He didn't speak again until

they were in his spartan

  cabin with the door closed. "Sorry,

Bones. I didn't want to discuss

  it any further on the bridge." As he spoke,

he stripped his uniform

  off quickly and chucked it into a small vent in the

wall. It

  disappeared with a faint swooshing sound. He drew a

fresh dress

  uniform with the insignia of a Star Fleet captain

from its packaging

  and pulled it on, checking his appearance

perfunctorily in a mirror.

  "I'm sure you know, since everyone else on the

ship already seems to,

  that we're here to pick up some prisoners. This

courtesy call on the

  governor I told you to dress up for is an

extra. Partly it's to

  reassure the colonists that, even though the

Neutral Zone is right

  ahead of them, the Federation and Star Fleet Command

are behind

  them." "Nice turn of phrase you have." Kirk

grinned at him. "In

  addition," he said, walking to the door,

"Governor Kepac said he had

  a message he had to give me in person, something

he preferred not to

  broadcast to the ship." As they walked down the

corridor toward the

  transporter room a few minutes later,

McCoy remarked, "You know, Jim,

  it sure is nice to see you looking relaxed for a

change. As if you're

  enjoying your job." "Relaxed, yes." Kirk

pondered for a moment.

  "There's little to wear on you on this type of mission,

no real

  tension, in spite of the kind of prisoners we're

picking up. And yet,"

  he shrugged, "I can't really say I enjoy it that

much. It's--well-it's

  just too routine!" McCoy laughed. "Okay,

then. Worry about it being

  too routine." Four Security guards were

waiting in the transporter

  room, ordered by Kirk to meet them there. Sometimes

he wondered how

  Star Fleet Security managed to keep finding

new recruits; the job was

  probably the most dangerous on any starship.

Looking at the four, all

  tall, heavily muscled, and self-confident, he

wondered how Security

  managed to find so many recruits whose faces all

looked alike. It was the expressionlessness that did

it, along with that air of power, readiness, and competence.

The answer, he

  knew, lay in their training, a training as long and

rigorous, in its own

  way, as his had been; they were well equipped

to handle trouble, and Kirk

  was confident that these four would be more than enough to handle the

nine

  manacled prisoners waiting for him on the

surface of Trefolg.

  Kirk, McCoy, and the four Security guards

stepped onto the transporter

  platform and arranged themselves on the six available

positions. On the

  return trip, Kirk planned to use one of the

cargo transporters, so that the entire group, which would

then number fifteen, could beam up together. He

  wanted to avoid the complications of sending the

prisoners up in two or

  more groups, splitting the group of Security

guards up, and having to have

  more Security men sent to the transporter room

to cover the prisoners as

  they arrived. The ship was operating smoothly and

easily, with no problems; the crew calm and as

relaxed as he was himself. He didn't want to take

any

  chance of upsetting that.

  Kirk spoke briefly to Chief Engineer

Scott, who had come to the transporter room himself

to operate the controls. He preferred to be in charge

in

  person when

  the captain or any of the other chief officers, such

as the ship's doctor,

  were beaming up or down. "Scotty, it shouldn't

take more than three hours to satisfy Governor

Kepac's social requirements. Have the

transporter in Cargo

  Bay Number Two kept ready and cleared and

beam up all fifteen of us there

  when I contact you."

  was his

  Aye.

  "Whenever you're ready."

  Engineer Scott moved the levers on his control

panel forward, listening as

  he did so to the whining hum that grew in the

transporter platform

  mechanism; he was not even consciously aware that

he always did this,

  listening, with the instinct born of so many years"

intimacy with the

  machinery, for any flaw in the sound, any indication

that the transporter

  was functioning less than perfectly. The six men

on the platform wavered,

  changed into six vague, manlike outlines

composed of winking, twinkling

  lights, then vanished. Moments later, the

Transmission Confirmed light

  blinked on on his panel, signifying that they had

appeared on the surface

  of the planet below. Scott sighed and relaxed,

shaking off the tension that invariably gripped him when

Captain James Kirk was among those being

  transported.

   As Scotty's square face faded away and the

functional buildings of the

  colonial administration center on Trefolg

replaced the control room, James

  Kirk felt his own tension rising again. Sometimes,

as during the last few

  days, he could relax while onboard the

Enterprise, but he felt somewhat

  unprotected and on guard when he left the

ship's protective walls and

  beamed down to a planetary surface.

  Governor Kepac came hurrying out of the

building in front of them in person to greet the party

from the Enterprise. He was accompanied by an aide.

Kirk remembered having met Kepac some years

earlier, before he had assumed the

  governorship of the Trefolg

  colony, and he remembered him as having been

short, chubby, carefree, and

  constantly cheerful. Now Kepac was almost thin, his

clothes hanging on him

  indicating that he had lost a great deal of weight

quite recently. His

  carefreeness was gone, and his once-smooth face was

creased with permanent

  worry lines. Nonetheless, he smiled broadly

as he came up to Kirk.

  "Captain Kirk! I'm delighted to see you

again."

  Kirk nodded and shook the outstretched hand.

"Governor. This is Doctor

  Leonard McCoy, my chief medical officer.

I thought you might like to have

  him look over your medical facilities and

supplies. We might be able to

  provide some things from ship's stores."

  "By all means. We'd be delighted. Mr.

Johnson," he nodded toward the man

  who had accompanied him, "will show your guards where

the prisoners are

  being kept and we can meet them there later."

  There was a refreshing lack of ceremony and large

groups of subordinates on these frontier

colonies. After they had dropped McCoy off at

the colony's

  main hospital-a small and primitive affair

compared to the medical

  facilities on the Enterprise-Kirk and

Governor Kepac were alone. "Well,

  Lerak, you said you had a message for me?"

  They had reached a large open field beyond the

buildings. Shapes, trash of

  some kind, were scattered all over the field. There

was something familiar

  about the shapes that Kirk could not pin down.

  "Yes," Kepac said. "I do. After Star

Fleet had dispatched your ship here to pick up our

prisoners, we received a coded subspace

message from

  Trellisane. Very weak. It's only because our

receivers are so powerful out

  here that we picked it up at all."

  "Trellisane," Kirk murmured thoughtfully.

He knew something of that world

  because of its unique and sensitive position. Could

this be the trouble

  that the Federation had feared for so long?

  As if reading his mind, Kepac said, "I don't

think the worst has happened.

  But they did request that Star Fleet send a

ship. I doubt if their

  transmission even reached Star Fleet

Headquarters in any coherent form, so

  I thought I'd let you know and leave it to you." He

hesitated. "I didn't

  want to broadcast any of thus, either up to your

ship or to Star Fleet,

  because I was afraid I'd start some sort of

panic here. This colony always

  skates along the thin edge of panic. We're

next-door neighbors to the

  Neutral Zone, and if the Romulans decide

to start a war, we'd be the first

  to go."

  "Of course, Lerak. I understand." Kirk thought

he understood, too, why

  Kepac had changed so greatly over the last few

years. "I hope the

  Enterprise's presence will at least reassure

your colonists that they

  haven't been forgotten. Now, tell me what this

place is." He pointed toward the field.

  "I thought you might find this interesting. Shows the

length to which

  fanatics will go. As I told Star Fleet

Command, the prisoners you're here

  to pick up are members of the United Expansion

Party. They were about to

  enter the Romulan Neutral Zone, hoping

to provoke a war between the

  Romulans and the Federation, when one of our ships

intercepted them."

  Kirk shook his head. "In spite of what the

United Expansion Party may

  think, the Romulans have grown more tolerant. They

wouldn't go to war over

  an incursion by a group of fanatics in a

civilian ship."

  Kepac grunted. "It was more serious than that.

They had bought an old cargo ship, but they added an

enormous amount of metal superstructure and

plating to it so that from the outside, visually at least,

it resembled a Star

  Fleet scout ship. They knew enough to make it

look to the Romulans like a

  military provocation."

  "But the Romulans would have known better as soon

as they boarded her."

  "They wouldn't have gotten the chance. The prison-

  ers have been telling us all this quite freely, by the

way. They're proud of it."

  "Because they see themselves as the true patriots and you

as the traitors

  for stopping them, I suppose," Kirk remarked.

  "Exactly. They planned to put up the

appearance of a fight-enough anyway to make the

Romulans destroy them. Then the

Romulans would have no way of

  knowing what they really were, and they would be convinced the

Federation

  was planning to take over the Neutral Zone, in

violation of the treaty."

  "They would have died when the Romulans destroyed

their ship!"

  "Of course. No price too great to pay.

All of this in front of us," he

  swept his hand in a broad arc, encompassing the

piles of jumbled metal all

  over the field, "was their ship. I ordered it

dismantled so no one else

  with the same ideas could use it, and also so that we could

use the parts.

  We can always do with more metal, especially when it's

already been refined and alloyed for us."

  Kirk looked over the piles of scrap metal,

and he had a sudden vision of

  the Enterprise itself ending up the same way some

day, piles of anonymous

  junk from an old and decommissioned vessel, that

left him shaken. Quickly,

  he said, "The message from Trellisane-did

they say what their problem was?" Kepac's

face turned grim. "Not really. However, they did

refer to the

  Klingons. That's another reason I wanted

to tell it to you in private. The

  message was weak and garbled and that's virtually all

we could understand.

  Let's get back to my office and I'll have a

recording of it played for

  you."

  The prisoners were three Earthmen, two very

humanoid women from Nactern, and a four-sex

marital grouping, physically bonded for life, from

Onctihis.

  Since the latter creature was amorphous in

shape, an almost featureless ball about a meter in

diameter, only the Earthmen and the Nactern women were

  manacled. Had Kirk never heard of the

surprising strength and agility of the innocuous-looking

Onctiliian group creature, he might have made

the mistake

  of taking the least care with that prisoner. As it

was, he knew better, and

  he didn't need Lerak Kepac's warning

to order the Enterprise Security men to take

special care with it. "They move without

warning," the governor told

  Kirk. "And fast. One of our colonists was

crushed by the thing before we

  learned to keep weapons trained on them at all

times."

  When the group had all been beamed up to the

Enterprise, Kirk personally

  saw the nine prisoners safely installed in

detention cells in the Security

  section before he returned to the bridge. McCoy

had preceded him and, on

  Kirk's orders, was telling Spock what he

had seen of the prisoners. Kirk

  sat in the raised commanding officer's chair in the

center of the bridge

  and allowed himself a full five seconds of

blank-minded

  relaxation. Then he said, "Navigator, I

want a course for Trellisane.

  Helmsman, take us out of orbit as soon as the

course is available. Warp 3

  all the way."

  Behind him, Spock and McCoy exchanged a

look of surprise. McCoy made as if

  to speak from the raised platform where he had

been talking to Spock, but

  the Vulcan first officer raised his hand in a

peremptory gesture, left the

  platform, and walked casually over to a position

behind the captain's

  chair, and only then spoke to Kirk, quietly,

in a voice no one else on the

  bridge could hear. "Captain, I must remind you

of the high priority Star

  Fleet Command has placed on our putting these

prisoners under its control

  as soon as possible. This incident has great

political ramifications."

  Without turning around, and suppressing a smile,

Kirk said, "I'm well aware of the political

aspect, Mister Spock. However, the prisoners

will have to

  keep for a while. I'll want you, Scotty, and

McCoy in the conference room

  in an hour, and I'll tell you why we're going

to Trellisane. Tell them."

  Kirk got up and walked over to the communication

officer's console.

  "Lieutenant Uhura," he said quietly,

"send the following message to Star

  Fleet Command, scrambled. "The following

message was received at Trefolg

  from Trellisane. I am proceeding

to Trellisane immediately to investigate.

  James T. Kirk, commanding, U.s.s.

Enterprise." Then follow with this." He

  handed over a small disk, a copy of the

recorded message he had heard on

  Trefolg. He waited until the message had

been sent and acknowledged from

  the other end, then retrieved the disk from Uhura

and turned to leave the

  bridge.

  "Captain," Uhura said in surprise, "aren't

you expecting a reply?"

  When Spock had referred to the incident's

political ramifications, he had

  been as accurate as always. Kirk chuckled at the

thought of the command

  echelon at Star Fleet Headquarters trying

to balance the two 13

  explosive issues, the prisoners and the mention

of a Klingon threat.

  "Eventually, Lieutenant." He left the

bridge, thinking that by the time a

  reply arrived, he would have reached Trellisane

and would possibly be too

  involved to be ordered to leave until the problem was

solved.

  The first officer, the chief medical officer, and the

chief engineer were

  gathered in the conference room, waiting for the captain,

who had not yet

  arrived. Star Fleet law, Star Fleet

custom, and the particular interplay of personalities

aboard the Enterprise had given these men a triple

role to

  play with which they were not always comfortable. Each had

charge of major

  functions involved in running the ship. Together, they

formed something of

  a council of advisers to the captain. And each,

in a different way, was

  James Kirk's personal friend. Against these

duties, they had to balance

  their duty to Star Fleet, the Federation, and, most

immediately, the

  hundreds of men and women on the Enterprise whose

well-being depended upon

  them. If they agreed that the captain's

behavior was due to mental illness, or that his command

abilities had been impaired significantly

by physical

  illness, or even that he was simply behaving

contrary to the best interests of Star Fleet, the

Federation, and the personnel of the ship-for example,

  for reasons of personal gain or advancement-then it

was their duty to

  remove him from command and to place one of their number

in command.

  Personal friendship and admiration inevitably

clouded such judgments, and

  every one of them would give James Kirk every

benefit of the doubt before

  suggesting such a drastic step. Still, Kirk knew

he would make their lives

  easier if he briefed them immediately on his

reasons for ignoring his

  orders and heading for Trellisane. His reasons,

in fact, had been the

  subject of their discussion in the conference room

while they waited for

  him.

  "Mr. Scott," the first officer was saying, his

calm, Vulcan face and even

  tone giving no hint of the tension he felt, "you

seem to be unaware of the

  dangerous nature of the prisoners we have

onboard. I'm sure the captain

  feels he has good reasons for proceeding

to Trellisane immediately, but I

  also believe he is mistaken in not being more concerned

with getting these

  prisoners to a safer place of detention, such as

a starbase, or preferably

  Star Fleet Headquarters."

  Scott snorted. "That bunch? Three spindly

men, two women, and a ball of

  flesh. The Enterprise can handle them!"

  "Appearances and your prejudices have deceived you,

Mr. Scott. One of the

  Earthmen is Hander Morl, a brilliant

organizer and rabble rouser. The other two are his

bodyguards, and although you may consider them

unprepossessing, they are both members of the

ancient cult of Assassins, able to kill

  quickly with every weapon known to civilization or with no

weapons at all.

  The two women are the products of a warrior

rite on Nactern and in their

  own way just as dangerous as the two Assassins.

And as for the ball of

  flesh-well, perhaps you'd best tell Mr.

Scott what you saw on Trefolg,

  Doctor."

  Scott turned to McCoy, who grimaced and

said, "One of the most smashed-up

  human bodies I've ever seen. Squashed

flat by that creature, the

  Onctiliian. And apparently it happened before the

victim could even get his weapon out."

  Scott's confidence had been noticeably

shaken. "It looks so harmless," he

  muttered. "Almost like a pet."

  "I would advise against stroking it," the First

Officer remarked mildly,

  causing the other two to wonder if this was a rare

case of Vulcan humor or

  a sober caution. "The Onctiliian consists of

four separate creatures, but

  they are physically bonded for life. The

Onctihians are unique in the known Galaxy for

their, ah, tetrasexual method of reproduction.

However, the

  bonding serves

  other purposes, as well. In particular, it

creates beings who have four

  distinct personalities residing in them but are still

roughly four times as

  strong and as fast as a single Onctihian. The

four can pool their

  intelligence to a degree when necessary, and they will

react with utmost

  speed and violence to any threat to their physical

integrity. If one of them dies, all die: once

the bonding has been completed, there is no way

back for them. Instead of making the group creature more

cautious, more timid, as one might expect it to,

the opposite seems to be the case. An

Onctiliian group

  creature attacks any threat ferociously, but

also very intelligently, hoping to disarm and destroy it

before the Onctiliian itself comes to harm."

  Scott shook his head, his expression one of

distress. "Och," was all he

  said.

  Kirk strode briskly into the room. "I'm

sure you're right, Mr. Scott.

  First, I want all of you to listen to this." He

drew from his pocket the

  small recording disk he had earlier given

to Uhura and slid it into the

  small combination console on the center of the table.

"Computer, play that

  back."

  A voice filled the room. "To the United

Federation

  of Planets, or any associated planet or

colony that

  receives this broadcast. Greetings from

Trellisane."

  The weakness of the voice indicated a speaker of

  advanced age, but the four men had the impression

of a

  mind that was both strong and wise. They listened

  quietly, intrigued. "We are not accustomed

to asking

  for help from others, and we are reluctant to do so

now.

  However, we believe the threat to Trellisane

is great,

  and the source of that threat will surely be of concern to

  you as well." At that moment, the voice faded

away,

  replaced by a wash of subspace noise,

whispers of dying

  stars and interstellar dust. Through it, they caught

only

  fragments. "dis . . growing power of Sealon . .

. definite

  signs of Klingon influence . . . military

vessel to help

  us . . ." After that, the message faded

entirely, and only the ancient

  noises of space could be heard.

  "That's enough, computer," Kirk said softly, and the

noise died away. The

  room was silent. Kirk broke the silence.

"Both Governor Kepac on Trefolg

  and I interpret that to mean that Trellisane is

being threatened by their

  neighboring world, Sealon, and that the Klingons are

behind it. That makes

  it of concern to the Federation. Furthermore, I

consider the last fragment

  to mean that they request help from us in the form of a

military vessel.

  The Enterprise is the only ship in a position

to get to Trellisane in a

  reasonable amount of time."

  Scott, concerned more by the technical aspect of the

problem than anything

  else, asked the room at large, "Now, why

didn't they keep repeating the

  message? That way, we might have eventually put

together the whole thing."

  "Perhaps they couldn't," McCoy said. "Jim, we

can't do anything against the Klingons anyway, because of the

Organian Treaty."

  "It's not a matter of us against the Klingons,

Bones. The whole situation

  is a very complicated one. Computer, display a

map of the Romulan and

  Klingon Empires and the Federation exploration

territory, designating the

  stellar system containing Trellisane. Look

at this, gentlemen."

  The wall before them was converted into the requested map,

a map whose

  general outlines were as familiar to all of them as the

corridors of the

  Enterprise. In the center of the map, which

represented the Galaxy as if it were

two-dimensional and they were looking down at it from

above, was the

  circular area which constituted the treaty exploration

territory given over to the United Federation of

Planets. Far smaller, to Galactic east

along

  the Perseus and Orion arms of the Galaxy,

stretched the Romulan Empire,

  separated from the Federation territory by the shaded

Neutral Zone. To 17

  the west, its boundaries denoted as indefinite,

lay the Klingon Empire,

  larger than the Romulan territory but still

smaller than the Federation, at

  least as far as the computer knew. The barrier between

Klingon Empire and

  Federation was titled ORGANIAN TREATY

ZONE. Kirk, for one, was oppressed as

  always by what the map made so obvious: the Federation

was considerably

  larger than either of its two great antagonists

now, but the only direction

  available to it for expansion was toward the

Galaxy's center, a most

  unpromising direction, while both the

Romulans and the Klingons could swell

  outward along the Galaxy's spiral

arms until they met a power great enough

  to stop them. The Irapina might do that job with the

Romulans, and before

  too many more centuries had passed, but there was no

reason to think the

  Klingons would be limited at all. They might

yet become the Galaxy's

  dominant power, and despite the Organians"

prediction of a future alliance

  between Klingon Empire and Federation, Kirk was

often pessimistic about the

  Federation's distant future.

  Near the limits of the map, in a fuzzy area where

the Romulan Neutral Zone, the Organian

Treaty Zone, and the Federation Treaty Exploration

Territory

  itself all merged, a tiny red light winked. "That,"

Kirk said, pointing at

  the light, "is the location of Trellisane.

To say it's in a sensitive

  region would be an understatement. Trellisane

has had occasional contacts

  with the Federation, primarily in the form of trading

vessels from some of

  the outpost colonies along the Romulan

Neutral Zone. They have also

  independently invented subspace radio and have had

some spotty communica-

  tion with Federation planets that way.

Currently, the conditions are very

  unfavorable for subspace communication in that

sector, and so no one has

  heard much from them for a few years. When last heard

from, the

  Trellisanians were on the verge of exploring

their own stellar system in

  ships driven by impulse engines. 18

  Obviously, they are a gifted and inventive people,

and the Federation would

  be glad to have them as soon as they qualify for

membership. Also obviously, both the Romulans

and the Klingons could be expected to object violently

to

  that as an intrusion by the Federation into the treaty

zones. Trading

  vessels are one thing, permitted by both

treaties, but actual membership

  would be another."

  "I'd like to see either of them stop us," Scotty

said hotly. "If those

  people want to join us, of their own free will, no one can

object."

  "There is a complication," Kirk said mildly.

"Mr. Spock, perhaps you'd like to explain the

complication."

  "Certainly, Captain. I believe, Mr.

Scott, that there is another habitable

  world in the same stellar system as Trellisane.

That is Sealon, to which

  the subspace message we just heard must have been

referring. Sealon is

  further from the primary it shares with Trellisane,

larger, cooler, and

  almost covered with water. The only known

intelligent species on Sealon is

  an aquatic mammal, large, strong, and

primitive. It is also quite barbaric

  and warlike. These animals have reached a stage of

aquaculture of plants

  and animals along the world's few continental

shelves, and have rude

  settlements in the shallow water-the beginnings of

city states. There is a

  perpetual string of raids and small wars between these

settlements, with

  much killing and plundering of the lower animals and

plants the Sealons

  cultivate. I would say that you humans should find

them far more compatible than you will the Trellisanians,

who are said to be quite civilized and

  peaceful."

  "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Kirk said

hastily. "Any questions?"

  "Just one," McCoy drawled. "Why do we need

any computers on this ship when

  we have Spock?"

  Spock opened his mouth for a quick reply, but Kirk

spoke first, firmly and

  loudly. "To return to the matter

  at hand, gentlemen. If the message from

Trellisane does indeed mean that the Klingons have

visited Sealon and are arming the natives, or in

any way

  trying to absorb that world and extend themselves in that

direction, then we cannot remain aloof. Even if the

Sealons are willing recruits, the expansion of the

Klingon Empire into that star system threatens

Trellisane, and we

  can't simply ignore that."

  "It's the same thing all over again, then,

isn't it?" McCoy burst out. "War again, ships

lost, men crippled. We're just starting all over

again. What

  the Organians tried to do to stop us-it doesn't

matter, after all. We and

  the Klingons are finding a way around it."

  "Bones, perhaps the Organians shouldn't have

interfered," Kirk said gently. "If we and the

Klingons do manage to come to terms some day, we'll

do it on our own accord, and not because some outside force

has made us do it. Right now, however, we have an

immediate problem. I'm sure you wouldn't want us

  to let them conquer a peaceful, progressive people like

the Trellisanians

  while we sat back and did nothing to stop them.

I'm also sure Star Fleet

  Command will agree with me, when it finally gets around

to making up its

  mind and sending me new orders."

  McCoy sighed and slumped down in his chair.

"Yeah, I suppose so. I'm sorry, Jim.

It's just that I'd like, some day, to be able to look

forward to a

  career of just fixing up minor injuries from

shipboard accidents. Phaser

  burns and explosion wounds are so messy and

unpleasant."

  Kirk said to the room at large, "I'd like to think

that what I'm doing will help make your wish come

true sooner."

  Captain's Log: Stardate 7526.4

  The Enterprise is in orbit about

Trellisane. I have spoken to Veedron, a

  member of one of Trellisane's many gemots,

or ruling councils. Veedron's is

  the voice in the message recorded on

Trefolg. He has promised to explain to

  me how their system of government works, but his more

immediate concern is

  the threat to Trellisane. I am scheduled to beam

down and speak to him about it shortly.

  Kirk hesitated for only a moment before adding,

"Since Star Fleet Command

  has not yet responded to my message, I am

proceeding on my own initiative

  in this matter."

  Perhaps such malice was ill-advised.

Upper-echelon resentment could kill a

  career quickly, no matter how illustrious an

officer's accomplishments.

  There would still be time, however, before the contents of the log

were

  transferred to Star Fleet central records,

for Kirk to "correct" its

  contents.

  He thumbed the communicator button on the arm

of his chair and said

  briskly, "Security Section Chief."

  A moment later, the reply came. "Kinitz

here, Captain." The calm, confident voice,

radiating strength and efficiency, gave a true

image of the man.

  "What's the status of the prisoners from

Trefolg, Mr. Kinitz?"

  "All secure, Captain." A faint tone of

puzzlement. Prisoners under Kinitz's control were

always well secured, so why was Kirk bothering him?

  "Thank you, Mr. Kinitz. Carry on."

  At that moment, Sulu said, "Captain!

Vessel approaching from dead ahead.

  Collision course."

  Kirk's response was swift and virtually

automatic. "Full power to screens.

  Lieutenant Uhura?"

  There was a short pause while Uhura

tried to contact the other ship. "No

  response on any frequency, Captain."

  The other ship loomed on the screen that covered the

wall facing Kirk.

  While Uhura had tried and failed to contact it,

the ship had grown from a

  negligible, moving dot among the stars to an

onrushing juggernaut that

  filled the screen, blanking out both the stars and the

curve of

  Trellisane's horizon. There was no time for

evasive maneuvers.

  Instinctively, Kirk clutched the arms of his

chair. The design of the

  attacker was familiar: a Klingon warship, even

though its hull lacked any

  markings.

  The attacking ship veered off at the last moment,

and sighs of relief

  filled the Enterprise's bridge. "Mr.

Sulu, arm main phaser banks. Spock.

  Klingons, trying to warn us off?"

  "So it would appear, Captain," the Vulcan said

thoughtfully, "although

  there are subtle differences in the design

that suggest otherwise. If it is a Klingon ship-was

  "Captain!" Sulu broke in. "Here it comes

again! Should I fire?"

  "Calmly, Mr. Sulu. Only if I give

the word." Kirk had completed for himself Spock's

unfinished sentence:

  "If it is a Klingon ship, then they cannot truly

attack without violating

  the Organian Treaty." But then, Kirk thought,

there's never an Organian

  around when you need one. He watched the screen

tensely. Once again the

  other ship grew from a small point to a

screen-filling monster, and once

  again it veered off in time.

  When the ship appeared ahead of the Enterprise for the

third time, instinct told Kirk that this would be it. The

Federation ship had not changed

  course, had given no evidence that it intended

to leave Trellisane. If the

  attacker's purpose had been to frighten the

Enterprise into leaving, then

  they must know by now that they hadn't succeeded. They still

hadn't

  responded to Uhura's attempts

to communicate. They were almost surely

  planning to attack on this pass.

  Instinct was right. This time the attacker did not rush

headlong at the

  Enterprise. Instead, it established orbital

station keeping near the limits of phaser range,

did nothing for a moment, and then fired its phasers at

  the Enterprise. The jolt to the ship was less than

Kirk had expected.

  Malfunction in the enemy's weapon? A warning

shot? That was the enemy

  commander's problem, not his. "Mr. Sulu, fire

main phaser banks."

  "Aye, Captain."

  Kirk prepared himself mentally for a long and hardfought

battle. He could

  only hope that no civilian areas on the

planet below were damaged by badly

  aimed shots. The twin beams of the main phasers

shot across the screen and

  met at the distant object that was their attacker.

A flash of light, a

  soundless explosion, and the other ship had disappeared.

There was a

  stunned silence on the bridge and a bad

taste in Kirk's mouth. The enemy

  had been unprepared; the fight had scarcely been

fair.

  Spock, his eyes covered by the face-fitting

molding of the science

  officer's readout device, broke the silence.

"Captain, the explosion

  byproducts indicate that was definitely not a

Klingon ship. The alloys were not the

  Klingon fleet's standard, and there is a very high

proportion of water

  vapor."

  "Water vapor, Mr. Spock?"

  "Ice now, Captain, but I presume it was

water that was vaporized when the

  ship blew up."

  "Uhura, get me Veedron on Trellisane

immediately. Mr. Spock, conclusions?"

  "Tentatively, Captain, that the ship was built

on Sealon and crewed by

  Sealons. In that case, Klingon interference in this

system has progressed

  even further than you had feared."

  Kirk nodded. "Yes. I was hoping you'd have

concluded something else.

  Uhura?"

  "I have him, sir."

  The picture on the large screen-stars in the

upper half and the planet's

  rim m the lower, the lighted half slipping away

as the Enterprise moved

  over the terminator-was replaced by an image of

an older man, dressed in

  colorful robes. The background indicated a

richly furnished and hung room.

  His face, however, showed signs of great fatigue

and worry. "Captain Kirk.

  I am Veedron. Thank the gods you survived

that attack!"

  "Veedron, surely you could have warned us it was

coming?" Kirk made no

  attempt to hide his anger.

  Veedron shook his head. "No, Captain. We

keep watch on objects in orbit,

  but nothing further than that. I will explain the

reasons when I see you."

  The picture faded away.

  Kirk drummed his fingers on his chair arm. Then

he contacted the Security

  chief again. "Mr. Kinitz, I'll

want a Security detail in the landing party, after

all. Three men. Send them to the transporter

room right away." After

  Kinitz had acknowledged, Kirk spoke into the

communicator again. "Medical

  Section. Bones, you're going down

to Trellisane with me. Meet me in the

  transporter room." He swiveled his chair

  around and stood up. "Mr. Spock, you will come,

too."

  Spock raised his eyebrows in silent

surprise. Kirk smiled. "I would say

  it's time to show the flag and impress the natives.

I get the impression

  that something has scared the Trellisanians

witless, and I'd like our visit to have a real impact

on their morale."

  "And their allegiances, Captain?" Spock

asked.

  "That, too. Mr. Sulu, you have the con."

  When they were alone in the elevator, Spock said

to him, "Captain, the idea of fighting a war against the

Klingons via proxies has disturbing

  ramifications."

  "I know that, Mr. Spock. But so does

letting the Klingons take over this

  system by force without any action on our part. Other

uncommitted worlds

  will be paying attention to what happens here, and so will

the Romulans.

  Nothing exists in a vacuum, Mr. Spock, not

even in space."

  Spock's expression was pained, but he said

nothing.

  Veedron was taller than Kirk-almost as tall as

Spock comb he managed to give the opposite

impression through frequent bowing and repeated

apologies.

  After suffering through this for some minutes, Kirk could

stand it no more,

  and he said firmly, "I assure you, Veedron,

we don't blame your people for

  that attack. I wish you had been able to warn us, but

I accept your word

  that you couldn't. Now, I'd like to get to the reason for

your distress

  call."

  "The attack!" Veedron said. "That is our

problem. We are under frequent

  attack, almost constant. We never know when

it will come, or what they will bombard. The ship you

destroyed was probably on its way to attack us.

They

  noticed you, and you seemed a more tempting target."

  was "They'?" Kirk asked.

  "Sealons, of course."

  "But, sir," Spock objected, "according to our most

recent information, the

  Sealons are still far too primitive to have

achieved space flight. Even

  with Khngon help, it will take them a generation

to reach that level, and

  we know the Klingons have not been interested in this

system for that

  long."

  Veedron sighed. "It wasn't the Klingons who

helped

  the Sealons along: it was we Trellisanians,

to our infinite regret. One

  moment, gentlemen." They had been standing in the

room from which Veedron

  had spoken during his earlier contact with Kirk; the

landing party had

  beamed down to that spot. Except for the

communicator on one wall and the

  handsome tapestries on the walls, the room was

empty. The furniture Kirk had noticed in the

background during his conversation with Veedron from the ship

was missing. Now Veedron clapped his hands once,

and servants entered from

  doorways concealed by the tapestries. They carried

small tables, chairs, and trays with food and

drink. The room was converted to a low-key banquet

hall

  within minutes. Veedron seemed transformed at the

same time-from the

  obsequious, frightened man who had greeted them

upon their arrival to the

  dominant figure in the room. Kirk could more

easily believe now that this

  was indeed the man who had sent the message he had

heard on Trefolg; now the man more closely

matched the impression the voice had given. "You

see,"

  Veedron said, smiling, "we can still be civilized

and treat guests properly, no matter what the

external problems might be. Let us put off

discussion of

  Sealon, please, and eat and drink and talk of

other things."

  The time seemed interminable to Kirk, but experience

had taught him to put

  on a good front for diplomatic purposes.

He chafed at it, though, and

  wanted to get right to the point of their visit. Should

he show his

  impatience, no doubt Veedron would classify

him and his companions as

  barbarians. Too much depended upon making the right

impression, so Kirk

  schooled his face to an expression of polite

enjoyment and waited.

  The food and drink were delicious, and the variety and

quantity were both

  abundant. The cuts of meat, especially, were

exotic and exquisite. Kirk

  could not detect on his companions' faces the

same impatience he felt. At

  last, however, it was over, and, with a sigh of 27

  regret, Veedron assumed a more businesslike

pose and returned to the main

  subject.

  "Well over a generation ago, Captain, our

ships made the first voyage to

  Sealon. By Sealon standards, that would be

two generations ago. As you

  probably know, they area warlike people, killing or

subjugating each other

  without compunction." He shuddered at the thought. "The

first Trellisanian

  expedition was almost wiped out when it tried to make

contact with the

  Sealons. The few who survived were able

to return and tell us their horror

  story." He took a reflective sip of wine

from an ornate goblet. "After a

  lengthy discussion between the leaders of the gemots, we

decided that the

  Sealons needed to be helped along the path of

civilization and

  peacefulness. It was clear to us that their belligerence

was due to their

  undeveloped state. With our help, they could

outgrow all of that." An

  expression of deep pain crossed his face.

"We lost many more of our

  citizens before we could establish contact with them.

Their hostility and

  cruelty were virtually mindless. Those we sent were

killed before they

  could communicate our intentions. We persisted,

though, seeing it as our

  duty to our lesser developed brothers, who are

after all children of the

  same star." He paused, staring off into space.

  "Obviously, then, you managed to make contact with

them eventually," Kirk

  prompted.

  "Oh, yes, of course. We persisted, trying

different locations on their

  planet. In time, we came across one Sealon

city state whose leader was a

  being of some vision, one who ordered his underlings to let

our people live until they could learn his language and

explain their mission. When they

  had done so, he welcomed them and all the help

we wanted to give him.

  They're quick learners, the Sealons. They passed

through the stages of

  civilization much faster than our own ancestors

did." He said this with

  some bitterness. "Before long, this 28

  leader, Pongol, had extended his domination over

much of his world. Seaton

  has few land masses, and those are

small. Pongol chose one such land area as his

technical center. Under his successor,

Matabele, we led them to the

  stage of space flight and subspace radio.

On the land mass chosen by Pongol, they now have an

impressive technically and industrially oriented

city, and

  their own space port. We had expected them

to use both their radio and their ships to increase their

cultural and commercial contacts with us, to our

  mutual benefit. Alas, that was not to be."

Once again, he became lost in his thoughts.

  Kirk, growing increasingly impatient at

Veedron's circuitous, drawn-out

  style of storytelling, prompted him again. "I

suppose their warlike nature

  remained."

  "Yes." As if he wanted to get through the next

part of his explanation as

  quickly as possible, Veedron spoke much more

briskly than before. "Yes,

  they hadn't changed, after all. Once they had

learned what they could from

  us, they killed all the Trellisanians within their

territory and cut off

  contact with us. Unknown to us, they had already used their

subspace radio

  to speak to the Klingons, and now they invited the

Klingons in. Under

  Klingon tutelage, they learned to arm their space

ships, and then they

  undertook a war against us."

  "They also modified their ships along Klingon

lines," Spock remarked.

  "Yes. In general, they found the Klingons far more

to their taste than they did us."

  Kirk snorted. "They might change their minds

when they learn the Klingons'

  true intentions."

  Veedron's hand fluttered, dismissing that argument.

"I doubt if they have

  any delusions about that, even now. The Sealons,

and Matabele in

  particular, are a supremely confident

species, possibly with some justifi-

  cation. I'm sure they plan to absorb all

they can from 29

  the Klingons, just as they did earlier from us, and then

turn against them.

  No doubt the Klingons will react more

vigorously to that than we did."

  "How did you react?" Kirk asked the question, but

he thought he could

  anticipate the answer.

  "We retreated. Quite simply, we turned inward

completely. We were filled

  with guilt as much as with fear. There was an

extraordinary council of all

  the gemots at which the decision was made to abandon

all space flight and

  concentrate on our remaining domestic problems.

We had done evil on Sealon; we had also put

ourselves in danger from them. We hoped that, with our

  space ships gone, they would choose to ignore us

and go their own way."

  Kirk shook his head. "Of course that didn't

happen. That path never works."

  Veedron said, "I was one of the few who opposed

that path of action.

  Fortunately, I was able to gain a compromise:

we retained our subspace

  radio installations. The Sealons did not

ignore us. They soon began to

  attack us here, on our own world. At first, we

couldn't decide what to do.

  We still feared going back into space ourselves, and we

were afraid we

  would antagonize them even more if we tried to.

Then the Klingons

  approached us with an offer. If we would join their

empire willingly, they

  would protect us from the Sealons."

  McCoy blurted out, "Don't trust them, for

God's sake!"

  "Calmly, Bones," Kirk said. "He's right,

of course. You can't trust them.

  They would never try to take over by open force. They

know that would bring us in in a hurry. However, if they

can honestly say that you invited them,

  as the Sealons already have, then we have no excuse

to intervene. That was

  when you tried to contact us?"

  Veedron nodded. "We agreed we had no

choice but to reopen contact with the

  noticed, we have no defenses. We no longer have

any detection devices beyond orbital sensors.

Trellisane also has a large ratio of water

to land

  area-about two to one-with very large continental

shelves. The Klingons

  implied they would gladly equip the Sealons

to make landings on those

  shelves so that they could begin to colonize

Trellisane. We would be left

  with nothing when it was all over, not even our

lives."

  "If we agree to defend you, I hope you

realize fully what sort of Galactic

  politics you'll be getting involved in."

  Veedron was about to answer when Kirk's

communicator bleeped. He took it

  from his belt quickly and flipped it open. "Kirk

here."

  Sulu's voice. "Captain, we're under

attack again. This time, there're three of them." His

voice was interrupted by loud noises and the gabble of

voices in the background.

  "Sulu! What's happening up there?" The men from

the Enterprise sat tensely, mentally projecting

themselves back onto the ship and trying to imagine

  what was happening onboard. "Sulu!"

  "Sorry, Captain. It was a bit worse this

time than last. They have screens, so we couldn't get

at them so easily. We've taken one of them out of

  action, but the other two are still making

passes. There's been some

  damage. We can't beam you up while this is going

on. I'll get back to you

  as soon-was There was a loud crash, followed

by silence. Kirk looked around

  the room helplessly, imagining the worst.

  Endless minutes passed. Veedron went

quietly to the wall communicator and

  spoke in low tones to the central office which

coordinated the orbital

  sensors, but they could add nothing significant

to what Sulu had already

  said.

  The communicator bleeped again. "Captain

Kirk?" A smooth voice, well

  modulated, unhurried.

  "Yes! Who is this? Where's Sulu?" 31

  "Sulu is well, Captain, for now. This is

Hander Morl. I am now in command

  of your ship, and I have some unfinished business

to attend to, business

  your treasonous friends on Trefolg interrupted.

I thought I would do you

  the courtesy of informing you before the ship departed from

orbit. One

  commander to another. Console yourself with this thought: your

ship will be sacrificed to the good of the Federation, and you will

survive its

  destruction. You may lose your commission because of

this, but once the war with the Romulans gets well

underway, there should be ample opportunity for an able

man like you to work your way back up the command ladder

again.

  Good-bye, Captain." The communicator

clicked off, and there was no further

  response, despite Kirk's repeated

attempts at contact.

  "My ship," Kirk muttered disbelievmgly.

"They've got my ship." Beside that

  fact, Trellisane and all its troubles faded

into insignificance.

  Sulu had been overconfident. When the three

attackers were first detected,

  he ordered only half power to the ship's

defensive screens, convinced that

  this enemy's weapons would be no more potent than the

first attacker's.

  These three came in with their own screens up and they

were therefore not as vulnerable to the Enterprise's phasers

as Sulu expected them to be.

  Nonetheless, the Enterprise's first shot put one of

them out of action, even though it didn't destroy it.

  The remaining two fired simultaneously and at

the same point on the

  Enterprise. The Enterprise's defense computer

responded quickly, decreasing screen power elsewhere

in order to reinforce the point under fire, doing

  the best it could under the constraint Sulu's order of

half power had

  placed upon it. It was not quite quick enough. During the

picosecond delay

  before the computer issued its command and the few

nanoseconds following

  that before the command was implemented and screen power could

build up,

  the Sealons' beams sliced through the weak screens.

What struck the hull

  was much diminished in strength by its passage through the

screen, but it

  was strong enough.

  The beam hit the main hull and ruptured several

layers of the metallic

  outer skin. This was where the

  Security section was located. The impact sent

Security personnel reeling

  against furniture and walls. Kinitz, the

section's chief, was off duty and

  was resting in his quarters; the concussion threw him from

his bunk. He

  landed on the floor in a half-crouch, snapping

awake and reacting

  instinctively at the first shock. For a few

moments, the lights in his cabin went off. The

Sealons' phaser be.ims had cut through the main

power supply

  to the Security section; by an almost impossible

coincidence, the shock

  waves from the exploding outer skin had so degraded

the section's

  self-contained emergency power unit that seconds

passed before the lights in Kinitz's cabin came

flickeringly and weakly to life again. In that dim

  half-light, Kinitz waited impatiently for the

door of his cabin to open

  slowly. As soon as he could squeeze through the

opening, he ran down the

  hallway. His worry approached frenzy:

uppermost in his imagination was the

  image of the guardian beams of the detention cell

doorways cutting off for

  those few vital seconds. Uncharacteristically,

Kinitz made a mistake. He

  neglected to use the communication module in his

cabin to alert his men to

  the possibility of an escape.

  Kimtz's worst fears were justified. The beams

had cut off for a few

  seconds, and one of Hander Morl's bodyguards

leaped instantly through the

  doorway and into the corridor beyond. The other

Assassin, in an adjacent

  cell and not quite as quick-witted as his colleague,

didn't move until he

  saw the other man already in the hallway. By then, the

beams had come back

  on, although weakly, and the second Assassin was

flung back against his

  cell's far wall, unconscious from the blast

to his nervous system.

  Hander Morl himself and the two Nactern women

watched all of this with no

  reaction. But the Onctiliian group-creature,

estimating the weakness of the beams from the dimness of the

flash they made when the second Assassin hit

  them, gauged its own chances

  differently. It rolled back to the far wall of

its cell and then threw

  itself forward at the doorway. There was a flash and the

smell of burned

  flesh, but the creature's momentum carried it through.

It rolled to a stop

  in the corridor, weak and exhausted. One of its

four components, the one

  most exposed to the beams, had been knocked

unconscious. The other three

  Onetiliians quickly reorganized their mental

union, reassigning life

  functions so that the unconscious member was

properly cared for; the

  resulting intelligence, reduced though it was, was

still greater than a

  man's.

  Recovered thus far, the Onctiliian took

note of its surroundings again. It

  saw the Assassin vanish around the curve of the

corridor, and it saw

  nothing by the doors of the detention cells that would enable

it to turn

  off the beams and release the others, so it rolled

down the corridor in the direction

opposite to that taken by the Assassin.

  The Assassin found the control panel only a

short distance further on. A

  young Security guard had been seated at a

small desk before it, reading a

  book while keeping a desultory watch on the

corridor, but the impact

  seconds earlier had thrown him from his chair. He

had hit his head on the

  floor and was only now climbing groggily to his

feet. He never quite made

  it. The Assassin reached him before he could get his

feet under him or his

  hand on his weapon or the alarm button. With the

guard lying dead next to

  his desk, the Assassin studied the labels on the

control panels briefly,

  then pushed a series of buttons. He picked

up the dead guard's phaser,

  looked at it for a moment in contempt, then shrugged,

put the weapon in his belt, and headed back toward the

cells.

  Meanwhile, the Onctiliian, still feeling somewhat

disoriented, came across

  three Security men in the corridor and

stopped in momentary confusion. The

  men were rubbing their bruised shoulders and elbows and

discussing their

  although a Condition Red had been announced and the men

knew the Enterprise

  was under attack, they had no specific

defensive duties, and they were

  griping loudly to dispel their feelings of tension and

helplessness. One of

  them happened to glance down the corridor and

noticed the Onctiliian sitting quietly in the

middle of it, as if it were listening to their complaints.

  "Look," the Security man said softly,

nudging his neighbor, "what's that?"

  The other man looked over his shoulder, then shouted,

"Jesus, it's one of

  the prisoners!" He grabbed his phaser from his

belt and fired at the alien. Without conscious thought,

the Onctiliian had stopped with its

  nonfunctioning component facing the humans. The

phaser was set on "stun,"

  always the standard setting for men under Kirk's command,

but the comatose

  Onctiliian caught the full force of the blast.

Because of the smaller size

  of the individual Onctiliian body and the greater

complexity of its nervous system, what would stun a

man could be a dangerous shock even to a healthy

  Onctiliian; weakened as it already was, the

unconscious component died.

  The shock of its death tore through the three

surviving Onctiliians. A

  high-pitched, three-voice scream echoed down the

corridor-an astonishingly

  sweet sound, a Siren song. The cry

momentarily paralyzed the three security men. The

Onctiliian, enraged and bewildered, flashed down

the hallway, a

  blur the men could scarcely see. It left two

of the men as long red smears

  along the walls and the third one with a crushed side.

Deranged, the

  Onctiliian rolled down the corridor,

randomly killing or crippling some of

  those it encountered and ignoring others.

  Spock had been somewhat mistaken in his information

about Onctiliians. In

  this, he could be excused, since little was known about them

in the Galaxy

  at large. While it was true that the death

of one of the four 36

  physically bonded individuals had doomed the

groupcreature as a whole to

  death, that death would not come as rapidly as Spock

had implied. The first

  effect had been madness: physically powerful and

mentally potent as the

  three-part creature still was, its sanity could not

survive the sudden loss

  of one-fourth of what had been itself. It was not that which

doomed it,

  however, but rather the poisons from the dead member even

now spreading

  through the bodies of the other three. Even if it had

stayed sane, it could

  not have divested itself of the corpse. The attachment between

the four was

  profound, thorough, and eternal. The dissolution of a

dead Onctiliian was

  rapid, and its effect on the others-the effect of the

proteins, digestive

  acids, and other biochemicals its death had

released into their

  bloodstreams-was inevitable and irreversible, but

it could take hours or

  even days to finally kill them.

  Kinitz appeared before it. He fell into a crouch,

his phaser pointing at

  the Onctiliian, but it suddenly swerved to one

side and through an open

  archway. Kinitz hurried forward. The archway was

the entrance to a cargo

  and service ramp that led downwards in a spiral

path to lower levels, and

  by the time Kinitz got to the opening, the

Onctiliian had disappeared. He

  hesitated for a moment, afraid of the damage the

creature might cause

  below, but he knew the greater danger lay ahead of

him: it was far more

  important that he find Hander Morl, the leader

of the prisoners, and take

  him captive again if he had escaped.

  Further along the corridor, Kinitz came

across bodies and parts of bodies.

  He also found the survivors. He had no time

to talk to the well or help the injured. He ran

faster. At last he came across a tableau that

brought him

  to a quick halt, his phaser coming out. Hander

Morl stood in the center of

  the corridor, tapping his foot impatiently,

while his bodyguard bent over

  the other Assassin, lying on the floor, and

slapped his face 37

  hard and regularly, trying to bring him back

to consciousness. The man on

  the floor stirred and groaned and tried to raise his

arm to protect his

  face.

  "All right," Hander Mori snapped. "That's good

enough. Get him to his feet

  and let's get moving."

  "Moving back into your cells," Kinitz said

calmly. Mori and the Assassin

  spun around, and the bodyguard poised himself.

"Don't," Kinitz said,

  grinning at him. "I know what you are, but this is

faster." The Assassin

  relaxed again.

  Kinitz had made his second, and last, major

mistake. Worried first about

  Hander Mori, the prisoners' leader, and then more

immediately about the

  deadly Assassin bodyguard, he had

dismissed as unimportant the Nactern

  warrior women. They had both pressed themselves up

against the corridor

  walls when they'd heard his footsteps, and they were

hidden from his sight

  by the bulge of a turboelevator shaft. "Back

into the detention cells,"

  Kinitz repeated, stepping forward, his phaser

held unwaveringly on the two

  men before him. They backed away as he moved

forward, drawing him past the

  two women's hiding place.

  He saw the movement from the corner of his eye, but

before he could react,

  a boot slammed into his wrist, knocking the

phaser flying, and something

  hit him in the small of the back with a crushing,

stunning blow. Kinitz's

  legs folded under him, and even as he fell, he

was hit on the side of the

  neck.

  Kinitz lay helpless on the corridor floor,

his vision fading. He heard a

  man laugh, and he could see one of the Nactern

warriors' boots in front of

  his face. At the end, he realized it had been the

women, not the Assassin,

  who had broken his back and neck. He willed his

lungs to breathe, but the

  will that could cow the strong men who worked in the

Security section could not control his own body, and

Kinitz's consciousness and life slipped away.

Hander Mori wasted no time on triumph. "Pick

up 38

  his phaser and follow me," he snapped. He

himself had the phaser the

  Assassin had brought back with him. The

Assassin and one of the Nactem women halfcarrying

the other bodyguard between them, the group hurried after

Morl. The other Nactern warrior caught up with

him. "What about the Onctiliian?"

  she said.

  Morl shrugged. "If he shows up, he can

rejoin us. I never entirely trusted

  him, anyway." From the plans he had studied

while designing his substitute

  starship, Hander Mori knew enough about the

Enterprise's layout to be able

  to find the turboelevator that would take them to the

bridge. By the time

  they all piled into it, the second bodyguard had

recovered sufficiently to

  stand unassisted, and they were all armed with phasers

picked up along the

  way from the dead left behind by the Onctiliian. The

wounded they passed,

  they finished off.

  The elevator hummed and lurched along

silently. The group of United

  Expansionists within it waited stolidly, weapons

at the ready. When the

  doors swished open, showing them the bridge spread

out before them, they

  moved quickly.

  Sulu was in the command chair, talking into the

communicator. "I'll get

  back to you," he was saying. Morl raised his

phaser, aimed at Sulu, and

  pressed the firing stud. Sulu jerked as the beam

hit him, then collapsed

  against one arm of the chair. Until that moment, the

attention of everyone

  on the bridge had been concentrated on the huge

viewing screen at the front of the room, where the two

Sealon ships could still be seen maneuvering for

another pass at the Enterprise. Now they found

themselves staring into the

  muzzles of the phasers held by Hander Morl and his

followers, and there was nothing any of them could do.

  Hander Morl stepped jauntily over to the command

chair, rolled Sulu out of

  it onto the floor, and sat down. "All right,

everyone," he announced. "I'm

  in command here. Get back to work and get us out of

here. I 39

  want this ship headed for the nearest point in the

Romulan Neutral Zone as

  soon as possible and at the highest speed

available. You," he said to Uhura, who was still staring

at him in openmouthed amazement, "you're the

  communications officer, right? Where's your captain?"

  "Uh, he's down on the surface of

Trellisane," Uhura replied, her response

  to a question from the command chair virtually automatic.

A moment later,

  she cursed herself for having said anything.

  Morl laughed. "Wonderful! Get me in touch

with him, right now." Uhura

  turned grudgingly to her equipment, and Mori

spoke to Chekov, who had

  turned around to stare at him. "If your captain's

down there," Mori asked

  him, nudging Sulu with his toe, "then who's this?"

  "That," Chekov said, anger thickening his accent,

"is Mr. Sulu, and if

  you've hurt him, all your weapons won't help

you."

  Hander Morl smiled. "A commendable sentiment, but

the welfare of the

  Federation should count for more to you than the well-being of

your

  friend." He gestured one of his bodyguards over.

"Now this man, you see,

  will wake your friend up and then see to it that Sulu

dies in grotesque

  agony while you watch, unless you follow the

orders I gave a moment ago."

  Chekov looked at the tall, heavily muscled

Assassin and at the man's

  utterly cold expression; then he gritted his

teeth and turned to his

  console to plot the course Mori had requested.

  "I have the captain," Uhura said, her voice

sullen.

  "Captain Kirk?" Mori said into the

chair's communicator.

  "Yes! Who is this? Where's Sulu?"

  "Sulu is well, Captain, for now." As

Mori spoke, the Sealon ships made two

  more passes. After the first attack, Sulu had

corrected his mistake and had ordered full power

to the ship's defensive screens. The Sealons'

  phaser beams now caused only a slight

tremor to run through the hull of the

  Enterprise, and there was no damage. The

personnel on the bridge didn't

  notice even that, for their attention was riveted on

the drama happening

  near them and on Mori's taunting words to their

captain. "Good-bye,

  Captain," he said at last and signaled

Uhura to break the contact.

  Chekov had laid in the course and alerted the

engine room. He felt there

  must be some way he could relay the appropriate

orders to Scotty, some

  cryptic phrase he could use, that would alert the

chief engineer to the

  situation on the bridge. His mind seemed

frozen, though, and he could only

  speak and act mechanically, as if the man in the

command chair were Captain Kirk himself and the orders

Chekov was following were routine. He thought

  of laying in a course to the nearest starbase instead

of to the Neutral

  Zone, but something in Hander Mori's intelligent

face told him that the man would know if he did so,

and Sulu's life would then be forfeit. Well,

Pavel Andreievich, he told himself, it will take

a couple of days to reach the

  Neutral Zone. There are only a few of them,

against more than 400 of us.

  That should be time to think of something. What would

Captain Kirk do in

  this situation?

  But while Chekov searched for alternatives, the

Enterprise responded to its engines, left orbit

under impulse drive, and then headed from the

  Trellisane system at warp speed, leaving the

puzzled Sealons behind.

  Whatever small encouragement Veedron had

drawn from the arrival of the

  Federation officers on Trellisane had

instantly deserted him once he

  realized that, with the loss of their ship, they were now as

weak and

  ineffectual as he was. "I'd better request

another council of the gemots, his

  he said gloomily. "We must decide on a

new course."

  Kirk had been staring into space, not lost in thought,

but helpless and

  hopeless, stunned by the loss of his ship. He had

never felt quite so

  abandoned, so lost, his very foundation removed.

McCoy leaned toward him

  and said softly, "Jim. Captain Kirk!"

  Kirk shook himself. "Thank you, Bones.

Veedron, you said you had abandoned

  space flight. What about your ships?"

  "We destroyed them, I'm afraid. Those few

that were left, that is, after

  the initial Sealon attacks. None of our

ships had weapons or defenses, you

  see."

  "Of course not," Kirk said bitterly.

  "Captain," Spock said, "the

Trellisanians' ships could not have been used

  to pursue the Enterprise, in any case,

since they lacked warp drive

  technology."

  "That wasn't quite what I had in mind, Mr.

Spock."

  A tremor shook the room and there was a muffled

booming noise from overhead. "The Sealons,"

Veedron said, collapsing still further. "Now that your

ship

  is gone, they've gone back to their original

mission of bombarding us." He

  shook his head. "I cannot bear to think of all the

deaths."

  "You surely have medical emergency teams,

don't you?" McCoy asked.

  Veedron looked bewildered. "We have our

hospitals, of course, and

  physicians, and emergency services for

individual medical problems. Much of that becomes

inoperative during these attacks, however.

Ambulance pilots

  cannot fly during bombardments. Power supplies

to hospitals are disrupted.

  We pride ourselves on how well we handle

individual medical emergencies,

  but the system breaks down in these conditions.

Even if we could get all

  the wounded to hospitals, the staffs could not handle such

numbers."

  "Good Lord, man," McCoy said angrily,

"don't you ever have natural

  disasters or wars?"

  Veedron's distaste was evident. "None of us

lives where there is a chance

  of natural disaster. All of our cities are

restricted to the safest zones.

  And we have not had a . . . war . . . since the

most ancient times. Surely

  you don't have wars in the Federation now?" His voice

rose. "Surely such a

  civilization as yours can avoid natural

disasters?"

  McCoy's mouth quirked into a wry smile.

"Let's just say that a starship

  medical officer learns to handle large numbers of

injuries under less than

  ideal conditions." He turned to Kirk. "Jim,

maybe I could help these people organize teams,

medical strike forces. That all right with you?"

  "Yes, Bones, of course. Veedron?"

  "Do you mean you could help us deal with the

injured?" the Trellisanian

  said. Hope appeared on his face for the first time.

"Come with me, Doctor!

  We'll

  give you whatever support you request." He

jumped to his feet and led McCoy

  from the room.

  After they had left, Kirk said quietly,

"Well, Mr. Spock, I see now even

  more clearly what we're up against here. The

Trellisanians have an enviable reputation for

ingenuity and ambition, but it seems they avoid

adversity.

  rather than meeting it face-to-face."

  "Yes, Captain. I noted that Veedron offered

Dr. McCoy whatever support he

  feels he needs, rather than asking him just to help

them with his broader

  knowledge. They expect him to take the lead, to provide

all the initiative, because their dilemma is

unprecedented and frightening. Captain, you

  expressed a desire a few minutes ago

to use a Trellisanian ship in some

  manner, but not to pursue the Enterprise. May

I ask what your plans are?"

  Kirk hesitated for a moment. "I don't think

I should tell you too much, Mr. Spock, for your

own sake. Even if I manage to bring all of this

to a

  successful conclusion, it won't look too good

on my record. We're in this

  situation because of my insistence on heading for

Trellisane with the

  prisoners still on board. If I don't pull

off what I have in mind, then my

  career is certainly over." He laughed, but it was

a bitter sound. "You

  don't attain command of a starship in Star Fleet

without making some

  enemies along the way, and they don't go away.

They stay around, waiting

  for their chance. I may have just given it to them. You're

still clean, and I want to keep you that way. You made

your objections known to me when I

  first decided to come here before delivering the

prisoners; that was your

  duty. If you know what I plan next and help

me despite knowing, and if I

  fail in the end, then your own career might be ruined

along with mine. I

  don't want to be responsible for that, too."

  Spock nodded. "Sufficiently logical,

Captain. Tell me only what you wish."

  "Good. What I wantis to get in touch with the 44

  Klingon naval commander on Sealon. However, I

want to be able to speak to

  him from a position of strength. Therefore, I don't

want the Trellisanians

  to contact the Klingons and surrender abjectly.

I wouldn't want them to do

  that, in any case, but without some sort of meaningful

Federation

  protection, I expect that's just what they're

going to end up doing."

  Spock raised his eyebrows. "There is a

limit to how much interference we

  can risk, Captain. We cannot violate either the

Prime Directive or the

  Organian Peace Treaty."

  "I'll keep all that in mind, Mr. Spock,

but the alternative may be a

  full-fledged war between the Federation and the Romulan

Empire. The choice

  of risks is a clear one for me."

  Those below had no hint of it at first, but this

attack on Trellisane was

  to be different from all those which had preceded it. The

bombardment

  tapered off, but the Sealon ships didn't depart

from orbit and return to

  Sealon as the Trellisanians had learned

to expect. Instead, the two which

  had not been disabled by the Enterprise raised the already

high

  inclinations of their orbits until both ships were in

virtually polar

  orbits.

  The high inclinations of the three ships' initial

orbits had been chosen to allow them to pass over the

major industrial, scientific, and urban

targets in both the northern and southern

hemispheres. To the Trellisanians manning the

radar stations and other orbital sensor installations

on the planetary

  surface, nervously watching their screens and

readouts, the purpose of the

  change to polar orbits seemed obscure. But

to Kirk and Spock, who were with Veedron when he was

told of the orbit changes, a reason suggested itself

  immediately.

  Veedron had been conducting them on a depressing

tour of a rubble-filled

  site-the aftermath of a recent Sealon attack.

The damage was cleared away

  and the buildings replaced as soon as the

Trellisanians could

  manage, but destruction always takes less time

than construction, and the

  Sealon attacks had been so frequent and

closely spaced that the

  Trellisanians could not hope to keep up. The

site Kirk and Spock were being

  shown when the message was delivered had been the

last remaining subspace

  transceiver on Trellisane. The Sealons

must have intercepted the

  Trellisanian appeal for Federation aid, for it

was immediately after that

  initial transmission, the recording of which Kirk

had heard on Trefolg, that Sealon ships had

appeared at Trellisane for another attack; the

transceiver

  had been their primary target.

  In the middle of explaining all of this to the two

Star Fleet officers,

  Veedron stiffened and his eyes took on a glazed

look. The three of them

  were standing on the edge of the crater that had been the

subspace radio

  emplacement. What had once been parkland

stretching away from the

  emplacement in all directions was now sterile,

blasted earth, with here and there a jumbled pile of dead

tree trunks. Veedron's bright, ankle-length

  robes stood out sharply against this dreary

background, making him look

  like an exotic bird creature from elsewhere who

didn't belong here. He

  stared abstractedly into space, ignoring his two

guests.

  "Spock," Kirk said softly to the Vulcan.

"Some kind of seizure?"

  Spock looked up from the handful of soil he was

examining and glanced at

  Veedron's face. "I would say, Captain, that

Veedron is in communication

  with someone."

  "Telepathic contact, you mean?"

  Spock frowned. "I've received no hints of that

since our arrival, no

  impression of telepathic communication."

  Veedron sighed suddenly and shook himself.

"Captain Kirk. Mr. Spock. I must

apologize for my rudeness. I've just been told

that two of the Sealon

  vessels still in orbit about Trellisane have

shifted into polar

  orbits rather than leaving for home. This has not

happened before, and I

  fear it cannot be a good sign, although I am at a

loss to explain their

  actions."

  "Only two?" Kirk asked. "Three

attacked the Enterprise."

  .

  "The third was crippled by your ship. It remains

in its original orbit, but its altitude is low.

Drag is significant, and its orbit is

decaying."

  Spock said, "Sir, a polar orbit suggests

a detailed mapping mission."

  "Perhaps you're right," Veedron said dispiritedly.

"Perhaps they're

  choosing targets for future bombardments."

  "Or," said Kirk, "sites for a landing.

The beginning of their invasion."

  Veedron's reaction to this suggestion was a

mixture of amazement and

  horror. "Invasion! We thought we had much more

time! Please excuse me. I

  must seek seclusion and summon another council

of the gemots. I fear this

  will tip the scale in favor of an immediate appeal

to the Klingons."

  As Veedron hurried off, Kirk said

angrily, "Councils! Discussions! That

  seems to be their response to everything. There

seems to be no one here, no individual, with the

authority to act quickly in the case of a crisis."

  "I would surmise, Captain, that Veedron and this

world's other leaders or

  council members are linked electronically,

by means of some sort of brain

  implant. That would explain both the manner in which

he received that

  message and his current desire for seclusion.

My inability to detect any

  form of telepathic communion supports my

belief. If the ruling elite can

  all communicate instantly with each other,

no matter where they are, their

  deliberations might be speedier and more efficient

than one would at first

  think."

  "Not efficient or vigorous enough to suit me. I

can't let them invite the

  Klingons in. That would take away

  what little bargaining power I might have, and you know

what would happen to this world under Klingon domination."

  "I don't see what we can do to stop them."

  "Perhaps not much by ourselves, but there must be someone on this

planet

  with the guts and the will to fight back! We're going

to find them, whoever they are."

  Hander Morl did not delude himself that he and his

four remaining followers

  were a match for the more than 400 trained personnel

of the Enterprise. If

  he exercised sufficient care, there should be no

confrontation: outside the

  bridge, no one would know that anything out of the

ordinary had happened.

  On a long trip, he knew, he could never have

hoped to pull it off. There

  would have had to be relief crews for the

bridge. Those off duty would have had to be guarded, which

would have necessitated splitting his own tiny

  group up into two or three pieces. Food would

have become necessary,

  eventually, and he could not imagine how he would have

handled that. And it would have been inevitable that someone from

elsewhere in the

  ship-Engineering, perhaps, or Medical-would have needed

to talk to the

  officer in charge of the bridge. As it was, though,

the trip should take no more than a day and a half, according

to Morl's estimate, and he would

  simply keep the bridge sealed to outsiders, with

his own two Assassins

  guarding the turboelevator doors rather than the

usual two Security guards, and keep the

present crew on the bridge for the duration. Once

the

  Enterprise entered the Romulan Neutral

  Zone and was destroyed, his purpose would be

accomplished and he would no

  longer have to worry about these petty details.

  Petty as the details were, though, Hander

Mori was forced to admit to

  himself that they held a surprising appeal for

him. It was as much the

  emphasis on order, duty, and obedience preached

by the United Expansion

  Party as its philosophy concerning the destiny of the

Federation to grow to dominate the Galaxy that had

attracted Hander Morl to it. He believed in

  the Federation's duty and destiny to expand and conquer,

but he also

  believed in an individual citizen doing his

duty even to the point of

  personal sacrifice. That, of course, was why

he and his followers were

  willing to die on this mission, and why he was angry

at the knowledge that

  the crew of the Enterprise would probably not be

willing, if he gave them

  the choice, to do the same. Personal death was a

high price to pay, but it

  was a small price in exchange for forcing a war of

conquest upon the

  reluctant weaklings who ran the Federation. It was

not impossible that the

  crisis would bring down the government and that the war

against the

  Romulans, when it finally came about, would

be conducted under the control

  of the United Expansion Party itself.

  Morl had always derived great pleasure from

submitting himself to the will

  of the UEP leadership. He obeyed his orders

without question, just as he

  expected his own subordinates to obey his

orders. He had hoped that some

  day he would be invited to join the leadership himself, but

if that never

  happened he would still school himself to be content. This

mission was his

  idea; party leadership had jumped at the idea and

immediately placed Morl

  himself in command of the mission. Now he would never rise

higher in the

  UEP: he had known from the start that there would be no

returning from this mission. He accepted that, too.

To be chosen for this task was honor

  enough, even greater honor

  than commanding some section or brigade of the party.

In the future, school

  children of the Galaxy-spanning Federation of Planets

would learn of his

  exploit, would study his life. He would

be one of the greatest martyourselfigures in Federation

history. Still, sitting at this hub of power, feeling

the

  lines of command stretching throughout this magnificent

space vessel,

  binding more than 400 people into an obedient whole, and

converging in the

  raised chair on the bridge where he, Hander

Mori, sat-this was a pleasure

  and an honor, too, even if he had not attained

the position legitimately.

  No, he told himself quickly. Put that thought from you.

My goals confer all

  the legitimacy I need. If the Federation were being

run as it should,

  someone like me would already be sitting here.

  The Enterprise was still in an alert status. Hander

Mori had heard the

  alert sounded via the wall speakers outside his

cell. So far, despite the

  ship's departure from the scene of the battle, the

alert had not been

  canceled. He had no idea if a day and a half

was a long time for an alert

  to be maintained or not-if that might make

someone outside the bridge

  suspicious-but maintaining it had at least one

advantage. As long as the

  alert was in force, everyone on the ship would be too

worried about what

  was going on invisibly outside the hull to concern

themselves with the lack of crew changes on the bridge.

Or so Hander Morl hoped. And there was a

  good excuse for maintaining the alert status: the

escape of the prisoners

  from the Security section!

  He motioned one of the Nactern women over and

pointed at Sulu, who was

  still lying on the floor where Morl had dumped him

but was stirring and

  groaning. "Get him on his feet. Quickly."

If there were any announcements

  to be made, Mori didn't want alarm spread

by a stranger's voice on the

  ship's speakers.

  The warrior woman picked Sulu up easily

and held

  him on his feet. His head lolled on his chest and

his legs were rubber. "I

  meant, wake him up!" Mori said

impatiently.

  She shook Sulu and slapped him hard a couple

of times, and at last he could stand by himself. He held

his head in his hands and tried to make his

  stomach settle itself. The phaser had been set

on "strong stun," and Sulu's head felt as if it

would fall to the deck in pieces if he let go. As

his

  vision cleared, he looked around the bridge and

saw the armed intruders,

  their weapons moving slowly back and forth

to discourage all thoughts of

  heroism. His mind was still fuzzy from the phaser

bolt, and he had no idea

  who Hander Mori and the others were, but it was clear

enough to him that

  they were in at least temporary command of the

Enterprise.

  "Sulu!" Mori snapped. "Come over here. I

want you to make an announcement."

  His knees still weak but growing stronger, Sulu

obeyed. Following Mori's

  orders, he thumbed a button on the command chair

arm and announced the

  continuation of the Red Alert. "The escaped

prisoners could be anywhere on

  the ship by now," he said, half listening to the

amplified sound of his

  voice echoing faintly through the walls of the

bridge. "Red Alert will be

  maintained until all have been recaptured. They

are to be considered

  extremely dangerous. Alert procedures will be

followed until further

  notice. Bridge out."

  Mori nodded. This one at least knew his duty and

did it. "Return to your

  normal post on the bridge, Sulu." His tone

came close to being kind.

  In the Medical section, Nurse Christine

Chapel muttered in annoyance. With

  McCoy presumably still down on

Trellisane, and his other assistants off

  tending to the wounded in the Security section, where the

damage seemed to

  have been confined, she was virtually alone in

Medical. Normally, she could have handled that with no

difficulty, equipped as she was both by training

  temperament to keep everything running properly. Quite

a few badly mangled

  Security personnel had been brought to her,

however, and the automated

  medical equipment was getting badly overloaded.

She needed more than two

  hands to stay on top of things. For that matter, long

exposure to Dr. McCoy

  had prejudiced her in favor of the human touch and

against the mechanical,

  so that she felt morally bound to tend to each patient

herself, no matter

  what the machine knitting the patient back together

said about the patient's progress. The continuation of the

Red Alert, just announced over the

  speakers, meant that she could not requisition any

kind of help: everyone

  who could fulfill a duty had one assigned

during such alerts, and no one, of those who might be of

use to her, would be available to come down to Medical and

place himself under her orders. Dr. Goro, who would

normally have taken

  charge of Medical in McCoy's absence, had

called in only minutes earlier to

  tell Chapel that he was staying in the Security

section because of what he

  called "the carnage here" and had no idea

when he'd be able to get back to

  Medical section.

  It was while she was sitting by the bedside of a young

woman from Security, whose pallor seemed

to indicate to Chapel that she was not doing at all as

  well as the life-support equipment claimed,

that she heard a thin,

  high-pitched noise behind her that she knew didn't

belong here. She turned

  quickly, then gasped in astonishment.

  At the far end of the room, jammed up against the

  wall as though using it for support, was a

creature

  unlike any she had seen before. It was a roughly

  spherical thing, perhaps a meter in diameter, its

color

  somewhere between pink and brown. She had not been

  present when the prisoners had been brought

aboard,

  and she had heard nothing about them since then.

  Knowing nothing at all about Onctihis and its

four-sex

  group creatures, she had no idea what this thing

was.

  Her first reaction to it, nonetheless, was fear.

Its high-pitched,

  sweet-sounding cry continued, and it cut through her,

fascinating and

  repelling her at the same time.

  Then Chapel saw that one side of the being, turned

almost away from her,

  was oozing fluids; and as she watched it, the

Onctihian began to lose its

  spherical shape and to slump down, flattening more

and more against the

  floor until it had no recognizable shape.

"Why, you poor thing!" Chapel

  said. "You're badly hurt." It was due more to a

feeling she received from

  the creature, this conclusion of hers, than

to analysis. After all, she

  knew of shapeless creatures whose slumping down

to the floor was no

  reflection on their state of health; similarly,

she had seen beings who

  oozed fluids as part of their normal functioning.

Somehow, she felt a

  communication of some kind come across the room to her,

an impression that

  all of the Onctiliian's defensive

ferocity had left it and that it was

  pleading for help.

  Chapel's instincts and training asserted themselves, and

she got up and

  went quickly over to the Onctiliian, filled with the

desire to help this

  latest patient. Essential as speed so often was

in medical emergencies, she had long ago learned

not to seem to be attacking a frightened, wounded

  alien. She kneeled slowly before it and gently

placed her hand on it, near

  the place the fluids were oozing from. The

high-pitched cry softened and

  stopped at last. She could almost feel the dying

creature relax under her

  comforting touch.

  Earlier that day, rushing about trying to take care of the

needs of all the wounded and nearly dead being brought

into Medical, Chapel had cut her hand badly,

stripping off a few square centimeters of skin and

flesh on her

  palm. Her own wound had been minor, in her

opinion, compared to those of

  the patients being brought in, and if it hadn't been

for the way it had

  interfered with her ability to function properly, she

would have ignored

  it. As it was, she had dressed it

  hastily and forgotten about it. Now, losing

consciousness at last, the

  Onctiliian twitched, and Chapel momentarily

lost her balance and fell

  forward. Her hand slid across the smooth, wet skin

and plunged into the body of the dead Onctiliian.

  Disorganization, putrefaction-these followed quickly

upon death for an

  Onctiliian. Indeed, it was largely this

rapidity of decay that doomed the

  other three Onctiliians in a bonding to death,

for a longer grace period

  would give them time to expel the dead member and find

a replacement.

  Chapel's hand sank into the flesh up to her wrist,

and she cried out in

  horror.

  A fragment of bone within the dead creature had

caught on the dressing as

  Chapel fell forward, and now the dressing and the

scab beneath it were torn off together. Her hand sank through

the almost liquid body of the dead

  member and came to rest at last against the junction,

the boundary, with

  one of the living three, her flayed palm resting

full length against the

  communication nexus and the fluid interchange.

  Chapel toppled over onto her side, her

eyes glazing. She felt herself

  falling and falling, and then held firmly, both

comforted and trapped. She

  opened her mouth to cry out again, this time in renewed

fear rather than

  horror, but the sound that came from her, echoed by the

group-creature, was that high-pitched, utterly

inhuman Onctiliian cry of pain and bewilderment.

A new communication was established, a new joining

had begun, stranger and

  more exciting than any that had gone before.

  Had nothing out of the ordinary happened on the

bridge--neither the

  takeover by Hander Morl and his men nor the

attack by the Sealon ships

  which had made the takeover possible-the bridge

crew would all have been

  relieved within a couple of hours after Morl's

phaser had knocked Sulu out. As it

was, those on the 55

  bridge had already spent two normal shifts

trapped in that relatively small

  place, and they were all dreaming, not so much of

freedom from the phasers

  pointed at them, as of hot meals, hot showers, and

warm bunks with warm

  companions in them. It was very surprising, Ensign

Chekov told himself, that he should keep thinking about and

missing all those little pleasures and

  comforts of daily fife, rather than worrying about the

deeper issues: here

  the Enterprise was in the hands of a gang of

criminal madmen, headed for the Romulan Neutral

Zone, Chekov and his comrades apparently unable to do

  anything to retake the ship, and all Chekov could

think of was his growling

  belly and his drooping eyelids. Ah, Pavel

Andreievich, he thought, it's just that your backside

is killing you from sitting here for so long.

  Chekov reached both arms up and stretched slowly

and thoroughly. It didn't

  do anything for his aching buttocks or cramped

legs, but it helped relieve

  the tension in his shoulders and back. He

turned his head from side to

  side, wincing at the throbbing of a growing headache.

For the first time,

  he noticed the Nactern warrior standing near his

chair and gazing at the

  huge front screen in fascination. Well,

well, he asked himself, what's

  this?

  Her expression was one he had seen before, one he

had worn on his own face

  for days on end when he was first assigned to the

bridge. It was virtually

  impossible not to be captivated by the star field as

seen on the forward

  screens of a ship in warp drive. Color

shifts and relativistic distortions

  were compensated for automatically by the computer

controlling the screen

  display, so that what showed on the screen was what

Spock liked to call "a

  Newtonian analogue" of the scene a suited

crewman on the forward hull would see, but in a way

the result was even more entrancing. Dead ahead, in the

  center of the screen, the stars seemed motionless, as of

course they were.

  Toward the edges of the screen, 56

  however, the ship's incredible velocity showed in the

way the multicolored

  sparks crawled radially away from the center. Some

stars were close enough

  to the ship's path to seem to move independently of the

others, crawling

  past in front of them with an increasing speed that could

induce vertigo in

  the inexperienced viewer.

  Never mind that the Galaxy was stable, moving only

with astronomically slow majesty, and that what the

screen showed was merely an artifact of the

  ship's motion and the computer's ingenuity: still, the

unwary viewer could

  easily find himself lost in the illusion that he was the

only fixed point

  in a twisting, flowing Universe, where constellations

formed and dissolved

  as he watched, and the Galaxy rushed past on all

sides, hurrying off to

  some unimaginable destiny behind him. Despite the

simulations he had been

  shown beforehand and the warning he had received, Chekov had

fallen prey to that illusion during his first

days on the job, and it had kept him

  bewildered for days. He had experienced the

phenomenon then himself, and he had seen it happen often

enough to other newcomers, but he had scarcely

  expected to see it happen to one of these singleminded

fanatics, and

  especially not to this cold and rather masculine woman.

Use whatever the

  gods give you, he told himself.

  Chekov leaned toward the woman and said, "It's a

dangerous illusion."

  She shook herself at the sound of his voice and said in

a bewildered voice, "What?"

  "I said that it's a dangerous illusion. You can

lose yourself in it and

  become nonfunctional." He explained quickly

how the display on the screen

  was produced and how it differed from what they would be

seeing if it

  weren't for the computer's processing of the image.

She smiled at him in a

  friendly way. Chekov relaxed and began both

to put more effort into it and

  to enjoy himself. Among the things he had always

admired most about James

  Kirk was the captain's ability to switch 57

  from terrifying martinet to charming and tactful

gentleman.

  Behind Chekov, Hander Mori watched and smiled

cynically. Let the young fool try, thinking he's so

clever, Morl thought. It will keep him occupied.

  Destinv is only hours away.

  What arrived to take up a

circum-Trellisane orbit only hours after

Veedron's departure was quite different from anything

Sealon the Trellisanians had

  seen before. It was huge, dwarfing the Sealon

attack ships they were growing accustomed to. By all

their sensors" indications, it was virtually

  amorphous, utterly lacking that Klingon-inspired

bird-of-prey configuration

  they so feared. This strange, blobby thing circling

their planet at low

  altitude and low inclination-it was an

anticlimax, it was almost a laughable object. The

leaders of Trellisane, Veedron and the other heads

of the many

  gemots, felt hope revive at last: perhaps the

Sealons had come to their

  senses and would cease their aggression!

  The crippled Sealon attack craft, left

behind in a low orbit when its two

  companions had raised their altitudes and shifted

to polar orbits, had long since succumbed to drag,

spiraling ever lower until it deorbited and

  screamed down through the atmosphere, a brilliant

fireball, its remains

  impacting on a large, uninhabited island near

the equator. Ever highly

  moral, ever softhearted, the Trellisanians

had rushed one of McCoy's new

  emergency medical teams to the spot to care for any

survivors. Of course

  there were none. Now the

  huge new arrival, in just as low an orbit,

began to break up. The

  Trellisanians watched the destruction-hinting

at a loss of life far greater

  than the earlier disasterwith utmost horror. How could

they watch such a

  tragedy and stay unmoved? They summoned the

temerity to broadcast a message

  to the huge craft: "Raise your orbit! Can we

help you in any way?" There was no reply from the

Sealon vessel.

  At last the Trellisanian observers realized

that the great ship's breakup

  was no accident. The pieces that separated from the

main bulk were all of

  roughly the same size, and they detached themselves at

regular intervals,

  deorbited under apparent control, and splashed

gently into Trellisane's

  oceans. Soon all that was left in orbit was a

giant framework, the skeleton of the monster that had

arrived in orbit, with one end bulging out to form

  the housing for impulse engines. This skeleton

left orbit and departed upon the long coast back

to Sealon. The invasion was underway.

  Kirk and Spock had managed to obtain

transportation back to Veedron's

  headquarters building, which was in fact the

administrative headquarters

  only of the Protocol Binders gemot, the

gemot of which Veedron was head.

  With the advent of the Sealon crisis and because of

Veedron's acknowledged

  eminence among the council of gemot leaders, the

building had become the

  closest thing Trellisane had to a

governmental center. Observation of the

  orbital sensors had been transferred here from the

headquarters of the

  Orbit Traffic Controllers gemot on

another continent, and it was here that

  Kirk and Spock watched helplessly while the

Sealons' invasion force

  deorbited and vanished beneath the surface of the seas,

unhindered by

  Trellisanian vessels in space, in the

air, or on the seas.

  "They used to call them "beachheads,"" Kirk

said, forcing a smile. "We'll

  have to coin a new word." For just. a moment, he

feared the Vulcan would

  take him seriusly and try to provide the new

word.

  Veedron was not there when they arrived. Nor did

he show up as the hours

  passed and the evidence accumulated that the Sealons

were establishing

  themselves in Trellisane's oceans with an air of

permanence and an attitude of aggression. Spock

remained impassive, but Kirk fumed at his own

  impotence. Reports came in a steady

stream, detailing the Sealons" cool

  destruction of what little remained of the

Trellisanians' ability to resist them. First,

ships already at sea began to disappear. From the few

  eyewitness reports from aircraft, whose pilots

told of seeing explosions

  dotting the surface of the oceans, it was clear that

Trellisanian shipping

  would be destroyed immediately upon detection. Shortly

afterwards, contact

  began to be lost with the aircraft themselves, those that were

over the

  open sea. The Sealons had not only come

prepared to stay; they had also

  brought with them weapons that could eliminate any

craft flying over their

  new domain. All too obviously, it would

only be a short time before they

  attacked the Trellisanians on land. Even

those few Trellisanians with the

  courage to resist would by then be too weakened to do

anything, for the sea was their main source of food, and that

was to be denied to them.

  A subtler kind of attack soon manifested

itself. Kirk, raging inwardly but

  knowing how futile any outward display of anger

would be, left the

  operations center, where Spock remained to watch with

detached, clinical

  interest, and roamed the halls of the great building.

Kirk felt that he

  needed to do something physical,, anything, even if

that was no more than

  aimless wandering. And he came across Veedron,

curled into a ball on the

  floor up against one wall of a corridor, still in

his colorful robes, like

  a tropical bird that had been crushed by some winged

predator and then cast aside.

  Veedron was still alive, but he didn't respond

when Kirk spoke his name and grasped his shoulders.

His eyes were open, but they stared unseeing at

  Kirk, with no hint of either recognition or

intelligence in them.

  Kirk cursed and looked quickly up and down the

hallway. No one was in sight. He pulled his

communicator from his belt and flipped it open.

"Bones! Where

  are you?"

  There was a few seconds' delay, and

then McCoy's voice spoke from the

  communicator in miniature. "McCoy here.

Jim? What's wrong?"

  "That's what I want you to tell me, damn it."

He told the doctor where he

  was. "Get one of your teams here as soon as you

can. Something's wrong with Veedron." Silently he

added, Veedron's not much but he seems to be the best

we've got, and I want him preserved.

  "Veedron. Well, in that case, Jim, I'll

come myself. Sit tight."

  Kirk bit off an angry response, saying

instead only, "Kirk out," and

  dipping his communicator closed. Won't do

to take my feelings out on one of the two good men on

the planet. Restraint is the word. Sit tight,

he says!

  Subjectively, it seemed forever before McCoy

arrived, but Kirk checked his

  timepiece half unconsciously and realized that the

time was very short. He

  was mightily impressed by the speed of McCoy's

response; it indicated to

  him what a fine job the doctor had done of

organizing an emergency response

system under these very trying conditions. All he said,

however, was, "Can

  you bring him out of it?"

  McCoy was kneeling beside the curled-up

Trellisanian leader in the hallway. Now he

straightened, drew a hypospray from his equipment

pack and pondered

  its settings for a moment. "Probably." He

fiddled with the device for a

  moment, then shook his head. "And to think my

instructors used to spend so

  much time worrying about what's ethical and what

isn't. I'd like to see one of them deal with a war."

He leaned forward again and applied the spray to

  Veedron's arm. There was a faint whoosh. "No

physical damage that I could

  detect," McCoy said, meanwhile preoccupied

with

  another tricorder examination of his patient.

"Some sort of mental shock,

  I'd guess. What I just gave him should shock

him out of it, at least

  temporarily."

  As if at a signal, Veedron groaned and

relaxed from his fetal curl. He

  muttered something, scarcely understandable. He cleared

his throat and

  tried again. "Captain Kirk? Is that you?"

  Kirk kneeled beside him. "Here, sir. I found

you on the floor,

  unconscious." He chose not to mention the

wide-open, empty eyes nor the

  position of Veedron's body.

  "Yes, yes. Thank you for helping." Veedron

struggled to his feet and stood

  swaying, the two Star Fleet officers

supporting him on both sides. "I was

  standing here, in the hallway, engaged in a worldwide

meeting of gemot

  delegates." He looked around as if in

wonder, still dazed. "There was no

  one here," he explained, his voice almost that of a

trusting child whom

  someone had injured, "and I thought it would be a good

place to be while

  communicating with the others. Suddenly, there was a

blast of sound, of

  noise, in my head! The others went away,

disappeared. Not all of them, just those on other

continents." He wailed in despair:

"They're gone! I'll never talk to them again!"

Tears streamed down his face and he pulled his arms

  from the supporting hands and fell to his knees, his

shoulders heaving with his sobs.

  McCoy took out his communicator and quickly

called his Trellisanian

  helpers. "We'll keep him m bed and sedated

until he can recover enough to

  take care of himself," he said in a low voice, as

if he were speaking more

  to himself than to Kirk. "Damn it, I shouldn't have

shocked him awake,

  after all. That trance may have been a natural

Trellisanian defense

  mechanism against trauma. I hope I haven't

done any permanent harm."

  Kirk listened but didn't respond. "Worse

and worse," he muttered. "Or

  down, close to Veedron. "Veedron!" he said

sharply, but the Trellisanian was too deeply

sunk in his sorrows to hear. "Veedron!" Louder this

time, but

  still no response.

  McCoy pulled him away, his face suffused with

rage. "Damn it, Jim, leave

  him alone! We may already have done him irreparable

harm."

  Kirk ignored him and took out his communicator

again. "Mr. Spock."

  "Spock here, Captain."

  How Kirk valued those calm and calm-inducing

tones at such times as these!

  "Mr. Spock, do you have any indication that the

Trellisanian leaders'

  communications with each other may have broken down, that

their implanted

  communicators may no longer be operable?"

  "One moment, Captain. I shall enquire." A

minute of silence; two minutes.

  Then Spock's controlled voice again. "Indeed,

Captain, the technicians

  monitoring those channels locally say they can no

longer establish contact

  with their opposite numbers on the other continents.

It would seem that the Sealons have instituted some type

of blocking or jamming action to prevent

  such communication. I cannot guess whether or not they

will be able to

  extend that jamming over the airspace of the continents

themselves."

  "It scarcely matters if they do, Mr.

Spock," Kirk said thoughtfully. "Kirk

  out." Merely by cutting the gemot leaders on each

continent off from those

  on all the other land masses, the Sealons had

managed to paralyze the

  already ineffectual Trellisane governmental

structure. The natives had

  managed little enough in their own defense before this; now they

would be

  able to do nothing.

  "Jim," McCoy said, "what was that about an

implant?"

  Kirk quickly explained Spock's surmise

to him.

  "Hmm. That's interesting." McCoy put his hand

  his pocket and fiddled with a centimeter-long

cylindrical capsule he had put there only

minutes earlier. He had recovered it from the brain

of a dead

  servant, victim of a head injury in an earlier

Sealon bombardment, whom he

  had been vainly trying to save. Kirk's

communicator call had come just as

  McCoy was admitting defeat: another loss

to his oldest adversary.

  By now, the medical team called in by McCoy had

arrived and were removing

  Veedron on a stretcher. McCoy went with them,

casting an angry glance back

  at Kirk, who told himself, not for the first time, that

McCoy's protective

  feelings toward his patients were just about the only thing

that could ever cause the doctor to really seriously

consider mutiny.

  Kirk headed rapidly back toward the control

center where Spock was still

  observing. As he walked, he pondered the latest

change of conditions and

  tried to estimate the impact on his already bizarre

circumstances. On the

  one hand, the dissolution of the local tenuous

governmental system, based

  on long-distance meetings between the leaders of the various

gemotswhatever in God's name those were,

anyway-meant that the organization, the

  infrastructure, needed to organize some kind of

resistance had effectively

  disappeared. On the other hand, though,

Veedron himself had predicted that

  that government would have capitulated to Klingon; even

if that hadn't

  happened, what Kirk had seen so far on

Trellisane made him feel sure that

  the government would have been more of a hindrance than a

help. Now that it was out of the way, he could feel

unconstrained, could do whatever he felt

  was necessary. What that might be and how he could go about

doing it,

  without the Enterprise being available, was another

question, and perhaps

  a far more difficult one.

  Kirk reentered the control center's main room and

found Spock standing

  where he had left him, watching the technicians

bustling about, on his face an 65

  expression as close to one of interest as Kirk

could expect to see on a

  Vulcan. Kirk beckoned Spock to follow

him out of the room. In the hallway

  outside, Kirk said, unknowingly echoing the thoughts

of Ensign Chekov on the bridge of the

Enterprise, now so far away, "It's very strange,

Mr. Spock,

  but in the middle of this disaster I find myself most

concerned with a

  sudden, overwhelming hunger. Do you know how we can

get some food to fuel us for what comes next?"

  "From observing Veedron, I would say it is

simple enough, Captain. Follow

  me." Spock set off down the hallway, and

Kirk, after a moment's hesitation, followed him.

The First Officer led the way to a room that Kirk

recognized

  as the one in which he had first met Veedron. That time

seemed years ago

  now; indeed, he thought, the change in

Trellisane's condition since that

  time is of such a magnitude that, in peace time, it

would have taken years

  or even generations to come about. "And now, Captain,

I believe we need

  only do this." The Vulcan clapped his hands

sharply, once. However, nothing happened.

"Curious," he murmured.

  Kirk grunted. "Veedron must have a flair that

you lack, Mr. Spock."

  Calmly, unperturbed, as if hunger and

frustration

  didn't exist, Spock said to his hungry and

frustrated

  captain, "By the way, Captain, I took the

liberty of

  questioning some of the technicians in the control

  center concerning these gemots and their method of

  government. A fascinating system. It seems that

gov

  ernments of the type we know never really evolved on

  Trellisane, and neither did a religious

hierarchy. What

  took their place was a vast collection of

professional

  organizations, each representing a profession

or trade

  or craft, much like the guilds of medieval earth.

Those

  guilds are what they call gemots. Each

handles matters

  within its area of competence. Any matter not thus

  covered is overseen by cooperative councils of

gemot

  representatives, such as the supreme council

to which Veedron belongs."

  Kirk nodded. "That would explain their

reluctance to do anything out of the ordinary, to take

drastic action at a time like this. Even on earth in the

  Middle Ages, the guilds that ran the towns in

Europe were often a force for conservatism, for things as

they were. They protected the status quo as a

  shield against the hostile outside world."

  "Precisely, Captain. And since there is no

equivalent of the medieval

  overlord to oppose the gemots and threaten their power

on Trellisane, there is no impetus to change

and advance for their own sake."

  "Fascinating, indeed, Mr. Spock, but my

most immediate concern is my

  growling belly. Perhaps if I try." Kirk

clapped his hands sharply, trying

  to imitate Veedron's manner of superior

self-assurance.

  This time, there was some success. The hangings on one

of the walls parted

  and a servant entered the room. He approached the

two officers hesitantly

  and bowed quickly. "Sirs, you wish something?"

  "Yes, indeed," Kirk told him. "We'd like

some food, a meal."

  Anger flickered on the servant's

face for an instant, then disappeared. He

  bowed again. "Many are dead, sirs, or

requisitioned to help in the

  rebuilding and rescuing, but I will try to find

someone to prepare food for you. Forgive me for any

delay."

  The man's anger and his manner, which indicated that the

anger was still

  there but held rigidly in check, hinted at something

important, and Kirk

  momentarily forgot his hunger. "Just a moment.

"Requisitioned," you said?"

  The servant's eyes darted from side to side

nervously and he licked his

  lips quickly. He knew these two were from somewhere

other than Trellisane,

  but clearly he did not know how far he could trust

them. "Yes, sir," 67

  he said at last, reluctantly, "I said that.

The Man Healers gemot

  requisitioned some, but most of them were taken away

by the Builders gemot.

  And of course the Food Provenders gemot has

requisitioned, too."

  "But what about your own gemot?

Doesn't it object to its members being . .

  . requisitioned . . . this way?"

  The servant laughed harshly. "Our gemot! You

must be joking." He looked

  them over and decided they were serious. Kirk could

almost see the man make up his mind to trust them.

"We have no gemot. Didn't the illustrious

  Veedron explain that to you?"

  Spock said, "Veedron explained nothing to us about

this world's social or

  governmental system. We have found out some things on

our own and deduced

  others."

  The servant's anger had returned, and this time he

made no attempt to

  conceal it. "Then you didn't find out or deduce

enough. Those of us who

  serve and tend our masters-we have no gemot, and

we never have had one. No

  one protects us, no one pleads our cases.

The only time a gemot or its

  members notice us is when we do something wrong.

Anyone can punish one of

  us, and there is no gemot to stand in the way."

  "Fascinating, Captain. This class of

helots was never mentioned to us

  before, nor do I remember seeing any word of it in

the reports I reviewed

  on the way to Trellisane. his

  Kirk's face was grim. "No, Mr.

Spock, and it's clear enough why not. These

  aren't servants: they're slaves. The Federation

would not have approved,

  and any negotiations over Trellisane's

admission to the Federation would

  have gone by the board until this system was reformed.

Now listen, Spock,

  I don't want to hear anything from you about the

Prime Directive. Clear?"

  Spock gazed carefully in a neutral

direction.

  "Fine." Kirk turned back to the slave, who

had listened with both evident

  interest and confusion. "If your world can be saved from the

Sealons and

  the

  Klingons, then it will be obliged to turn to the

Federation of Planets for

  future protection; it will almost certainly

petition for membership. That

  will be to your advantage."

  The servant snorted. "Klingon, Sealon,

Federation, or the ones we have now. One master is no

better than any other."

  "No, damn it! The Federation is no one's

master. Each world that belongs to it is the equal of

any other world. And every single Federation citizen is

  the equal, before the law, of arty other citizen.

Do you understand that?

  It doesn't matter how many arms and legs you have,

or eyes, or what things

  used to be like on your world before it joined the Federation.

To become a

  member, a world has to guarantee every single

citizen legal equality, and

  it has to adhere to all Federation legal and social

principles in that

  regard."

  "Equal!" The servant's eyes shone. "Does

that mean we'd have a gemot of our own?"

  Kirk laughed. "A gemot! Better than that:

you'd have the entire Federation

  government behind you whenever you needed it-the biggest

gemot in the known universe!" Then he said,

harshly, breaking through the man's sudden

  reverie, "But not if the Sealons and Klingons

succeed here. If they take

  over, Trellisane will never join the Federation.

It'll become part of the

  Klingon Empire instead, and then you'll find out that

some masters can

  indeed be much worse than the ones you're used to.

We're no longer able to

  protect you, because our ship has been taken from us.

The gemots are

  virtually paralyzed, both because of this communications

breakdown and

  because it seems to be in their nature to be

paralyzed. It's up to you-you

  slaves. You're the only ones left who can

save this world."

  "And then," the slave whispered, "we'll join your

Federation, and we'll be

  in charge!" He turned and ran from the room.

  "Captain-was Spock said quietly.

  Kirk held up his hand. "I know, Mr.

Spock. But what other reaction could we have

expected? At any rate, we've found the men we

want, the ones I said

  must exist somewhere on this world: those with something

to fight forand

  the guts to do it. Let's try to win this war first, and

then we'll worry

  about reeducating them." He paused for a moment.

"Funny. I've lost my appe- tite."

  McCoy was puzzled more than he was disturbed.

He had found the tiny capsules in the brains of

all the slave corpses he had examined, but not

yet in the

  brains of any other corpses. Of course, he

had not yet happened to have

  access to casualties of the uppermost

classVeedron's class, the gemot

  leaders, and he knew from what Spock had told

Kirk that that class had brain implants of some

kind.

  Very strange, he thought, that only the topmost and

bottommost classes

  would have it. Assuming it's the same gadget in

both cases. Communication

  for the rulers, Jim said. But what about the slaves?

What's it for? So that they can be given orders? Why

not just speak to them, for that? In fact,

  they do speak to them, to give them orders. I can't

get anything out of the Trellisanians.

They act so ignorant and innocent.

  The next day, as McCoy and his

Trellisanian assistants were having a

  working lunch together-truly excellent steaks, very

uncommon for the

  apparently vegetarian Trellisanians-when

one of the slaves who'd brought in the food and was now

standing in the background against a wall suddenly

  slumped to the floor. McCoy rushed to his

side, tricorder out. "Com-

  plete brain death," he muttered. "My God.

What the Hell . . . ?" Only then

  did he notice that none of his assistants had

stirred from his place. All

  were staring at him with puzzled expressions. One of

them-Pellison, the best of the lot-said, "Sir,

Dr. McCoy, it's only a yegemot. his

  Only then did it occur to McCoy that injured

slaves had never been brought

  to him for treatment. Those he had worked on, he had

come across on his

  own, while exploring the sites of Sealon

attacks.

  Two slaves came into the room, their faces

expressionless. They picked up

  their dead fellow silently and moved toward the

door.

  "Hey! Wait a minute!" But they ignored

McCoy's yells and tramped silently

  through the doorway with their burden. "Who called those

guys? How'd they

  know to come? Who called them?" He looked around

angrily. He got no answer.

  Pain. Searing pain, dull pain, throbbing pain.

  One hurts. Why?

  Kidneys. Cannot cope. Other organs, too.

  Kidneys? What are those?

  Waste eliminators. Cannot cope. They will

fail. One will die. Pain

  throughout, then death. Release one. Release one!

  Release? Meaningless. We are one.

  Release me! LET ME GO!

  The shouted thought, and its freight of hatred and

fear, shrieked along the communication network. The

creature recoiled in horror of its own, and

  Chapel rolled free, to lie gasping on the

floor, vomiting.

  At last she regained enough strength to climb

unsteadily to her feet and

  minister to herself. Christine Chapel,

research biologist with respected

  credentials and impressive achievements, as she

had been before personal

  matters had led her to join the Enterprise crew

as a nurse: apart from

  those instincts that urged her to 72

  help the wounded being, she was driven by the understanding that

she faced

  a professional challenge as great as any in her

previous career and far

  greater than any she had encountered on the

Enterprise.

  Still shaking, she injected herself with a metabolic

booster and certain

  blocking agents. She had more than guesswork to go

on. Dim but present were memories of a greater,

clearer intellect, which she remembered as having

  been her own, and an intimate knowledge of alien

biological processes and

  how they had meshed with hers. She knew what the

alien fluids were and

  their dangers and roles; and she knew of the mental

dangers and rewards.

  What she had injected into herself should at least

protect leer body.

  Thus fortified and forewarned, Chapel approached

the slumping Onctiliian

  again. She steeled herself and placed her hand very

deliberately on the

  darkening, oozing surface of the dead one. She

paused there for a moment,

  took a deep breath and held it. Then,

firmly, smoothly, and without haste,

  she forced her hand through the viscid flesh until it

contacted the nexus.

  I have returned. I am here.

  Ensign Chekov picked himself up slowly from the

deck of the Enterprise and

  put his hand gingerly over his right eye. The flesh

around the eye was

  already swelling out, forcing the lid shut. "Why," he

demanded through

  gritted teeth, "did you do that?"

  The Nactern warrior glared back at him, her

eyes level with his. "You're

  lucky you're still alive!" she hissed. "Don't

try that again, or I'll

  forget we need you on the bridge."

  A bad miscalculation, he told himself, trying

to convince himself that he

  was calm and collected. Let's try the innocent

approach. "Why, I don't

  understand," he said, his tone denoting hurt

bewilderment. "I thought you

  wanted me to kiss you. Was I wrong?"

  "Wrong!" She laughed, a harsh, barking sound, but

  her posture relaxed. "You're a harmless fool,

after all. No one kisses me

  but my mate, and even she doesn't when we're in

battle status, like right

  now."

  "She-was At last a bright light dawned for

Chekov. The other warrior woman on the bridge,

of course, he thought. That's not a mistake I've

made very

  often before. Now, what would Captain Kirk do in

a situation like this?

  "I'm sorry," he said, looking as contrite as

his swollen-shut eye allowed.

  "I didn't realize, or I certainly wouldn't

have tried anything. Look, let's just forget what

happened and continue collecting the food." They were in

  a deserted recreation room near the bridge,

collecting the meals they had

  ordered through the small wall dispenser.

Hander Morl had decided to make

  this small concession to human needs, believing that

letting the bridge

  crew have a meal would help keep them from causing

him trouble. Chekov had

  instantly volunteered himself and the warrior woman

to do the job; to the

  ensign's considerable surprise, Morl had first

laughed heartily and then

  agreed without argument. Turning to the trays of

food he had ignored during his unsuccessful

attempt at starting a seduction, Chekov said,

"These

  should be enough. We can probably handle them between us.

Look, there's no

  reason for hostility now that I understand, is there?

We are on the same

  side, supposedly."

  Unexpectedly, the warrior smiled at him.

"Hander keeps telling us we are,

  but I'm not so sure, from the way the rest of your

crew behaves toward us

  and our mission."

  "Perhaps the others don't see the issues as

clearly as I do," Chekov

  suggested. He walked over to a nearby table and

sat in one of the chairs

  propped up against it. "Come on. There's no

rush. Why don't you explain to

  me just what you people are really trying to do? All

I've heard so far is

  the captain's version, and I'm sure that's

biased. You can tell me the

  truth."

  With all the eagerness of the true believer sensing the

  presence of a possible convert, she took a chair

next to his and began an

  impassioned lecture. She started with a complete

history of the United

  Expansion Party, and the minutes ticked away.

  On the bridge, Hander Mori began to worry.

He struggled to keep his

  feelings from showing on his face. What was keeping

those two? He didn't

  dare send one of the Assassin bodyguards to find

them, for that would leave him with only two accomplices

to keep the bridge under control, and he

  feared that might not be enough, not with the obvious fraying

of tempers as time passed without food or

sleep. The Enterprise personnel were growing

  both more desperate and more frustrated, and

simultaneously, he and his

  three subordinates were losing their edge from the

accumulation of tension

  and fatigue.

  If he did send someone, he thought, it would have

to be one of the

  Assassins. The Nactern woman would be more

motivated, but she would also be more likely to behave

rashly if Chekov had somehow succeeded in his very

  obvious intention. Mori needed Chekov; he

knew that. He couldn't have

  succeeded, could he? Not with a Nactern warrior

woman! Mori realized he was chewing his fingernails

nervously, and he quickly and angrily pulled his

  hand away from his mouth.

  None of the surgical hoods could be adjusted so

far that they would

  accomodate the Onctiliian. Chapel was

reduced to working with small,

  portable equipment. The capabilities of the

portable devices were limited

  at the best of times, compared with the full-scale

devices she would have

  preferred to use, and this was not the best of times: she

was working

  one-handed, operating the equipment with her left hand

while her right,

  still buried deep within the group-creature's body,

maintained her mental

  link with her pain-wracked patient.

  Fluids were injected, blocking the action of the

decay 75

  agents released from the dead member's body.

Chapel herself was hooked into

  her machines via a separate set of tubes and

wires, and fluids pumped

  rapidly through these in response to her commands; even

while the human and

  Onctiliian metabolisms were joined through her

hand, they had to be fed,

  boosted, and controlled separately by the machines.

She had no help in this, had had no time to call for

it, and felt oddly furtive, even ashamed, about

  her intimate communion with the alien. But she had

hope, hope that she would succeed after all.

  The first priority was to save the lives of the three

surviving Onctihians. Normally, all would have

been long dead. Perhaps it was the

Earth-normal

  gravitation on the Enterprise, considerably

less than that on Onctiliis,

  that had slowed the deterioration so far. Perhaps it was the

political

  commitment of this particular individual to the United

Expansion cause, for most Onctiliians, once

they had become part of a group mating, became

  fairly apolitical. Whatever the reason, the

three living members, while

  close to death, still lived.

  Even so, their death would have been certain in

  time. They had an intimate knowledge of and contact

  with their own biology, the inner processes of their

  group body, that probably surpassed that of any

other

  creature in the known Galaxy, but they had few

means

  of affecting those processes under such extreme

condi

  tions as these. They might know what was happening

  inside themselves, but they could only watch it happen

  helplessly. With Christine Chapel's intervention,

that

  had changed. The technology available

to her and the

  training and professional experience in her

background

  would not have been adequate equipment for the

  rescue, either, under normal circumstances. But

added

  to that was her psychophysiological link with the

  Onctiliian: what they knew, she knew; what

they felt,

  she felt. She had little doubt that, if she were not

  interrupted, if she were granted the time, she could

  save them. What she would do next, was rather more

problematical.

  The Nactern warrior broke off her lecture

on the aims of the United

  Expansion Party suddenly and stood up. "Come!"

she commanded. "Too much

  time has passed. We must gather the food and

return to the bridge."

  Chekov protested, "But there are a lot of things

I still don't understand.

  For example equals his

  "Enough! Now I understand what you're trying to do.

You're not interested

  in our cause at all. We've wasted

enough time. Come!"

  He stood too and sighed. "You're right. I'm not

really on your side

  politically. It was just an excuse to try to spend

some more time alone

  with you, that's all." He grimaced ruefully.

Long ago, a girl he had known

  well had told Chekov that he reminded her of a

little boy and that brought

  out the mothering instinct in her. Now he tried hard

to look as little-boy

  as possible. "Everything is so grim when we're

on the bridge. Down here, we can talk and try

to forget that we're all going to die soon."

  "I never let myself forget what's important,"

she said harshly, her tone

  all grim and filled with duty. But her

expression softened. She patted

  Chekov on the shoulder. "Come, now. When it

happens, when the Romulans

  destroy us, it will be quick and painless, and I will be

near you. Come."

  Chekov picked up the trays and went along

obediently, trying to convince

  himself that he hadn't failed entirely.

Think of it as an investment, he

  told himself. Nothing comes of it immediately, but in the

long run, the

  return can be significant. I hope the long

run isn't too long, though.

  When they reached the bridge, Chekov watched the

invaders" reactions

  carefully. Morl tried to act nonchalant, but

his relief was obvious. The

  no attention. The other Nactern warrior looked

her comrade and Chekov over

  carefully, then set her jaw as if she sensed

something she didn't care for

  and moved pointedly away from her returned mate.

  Chekov distributed the food and then returned

to his post at the

  Navigator's Console. Sulu turned to look

at him with seeming casualness,

  but his eyes held a question. Minutely, Chekov

shook his head: no luck.

  Sulu turned to the front again, his disappointed

hopes hidden from their

  captors but not from Chekov. I tried, damn it,

Chekov wanted to say. We'll

  just have to hope for something else.

  Done: they would live. She didn't know it, but this

was the first time in

  the history of the Onctilhan race that a group

creature had survived the

  death of one of its members. Chapel had already

earned herself a footnote

  in medical history, should she care to exploit her

achievement. But what

  was to come would dwarf even what she had already done.

She had already

  made the beginning; now she was to confirm the creation

of a being that had never existed before.

  Sure that her patient was stable, Chapel at last

relaxed her mental

  concentration and gently withdrew her hand from the

communication nexus.

  The dead member, she had already removed. Now she

covered the exposed nexus with a dressing and told the

creature to extrude flesh and skin to provide

  a permanent covering. Only when that had been

accomplished, under her

  careful scrutiny, did Christine realize that she

had given that last

  suggestion, maintained that communion, without any

physical contact.

  No, she reminded herself, there was still one channel of

contact: the

  portable machine that was steadily measuring the

prescribed fluids and

  drugs into her bloodstream and the system of the

Onetiliian. There was no

  more need for that, however, and she carefully detached it

from herself.

  Still the communion persisted. 78

  It was not so strong as before. She no longer felt

her identity threatened

  by it. Or was it just that she had learned not to fear the

others, their

  mental embrace, the merging of selves? The fear

was gone, the revulsion, the primitive flight

reaction. The joining itself remained, and now it was not

  a threat to her, no longer frightening; instead, it was

warmer, dearer,

  sweeter, deeper than she could have imagined. She

had an old, old wound of

  her own, as old as her service in Star Fleet,

where a part of her had been

  torn away, and that wound had never really finally

healed. Now at last that

  ancient pain had faded: wound to wound, the

incomplete Onetiliian and the

  incomplete human had joined to form something far

greater and more complete

  than either Earth or Onctihis had ever seen before.

  Spock stood on the beach, staring thoughtfully out

to sea. "It seems to me,

  Captain," he said at last, "that the

inconsistency between the

  Trellisanians' excessive concern for the

well-being of others and their

  treatment of their slaves is highly

significant."

  Kirk, pacing back and forth along the narrow strip

of sand between towering black cliffs, was giving Spock

at best only half his attention. The other

  half was divided between chewing over their plans,

looking for a major

  flaw, and wondering when their coconspirators would

appear. "What's that,

  Mr. Spock?" he said absently.

  "Their utter lack of concern for the slaves

implies to me that they do not

  really consider those slaves much more than machines,

or perhaps

  domesticated animals."

  Kirk stopped pacing and looked at his Vulcan

First Officer in astonishment. "Are you saying they're

robots, Mr. Spock? Surely Dr.

McCoy would have no-

  ticed that while treating the wounded."

  "No, sir. You misunderstand me. I'm not saying

that the slaves are

  machines. Indeed, matters would be simpler if

they were. Rather, their

  masters seem to regard them as little better than

machines-or animals, as

  I suggested. Only by adopting such a view of

their

  slave class can the members of the ruling

classes, such as Veedron,

  reconcile the wretched treatment of the slaves with

this world's high-minded attitude toward other sapient

beings in general."

  "I'm not sure that follows, Mr. Sock. There

have been many societies in

  Earth's history with slave classes. These were

treated badly in many cases, but they were usually

considered to be fully human."

  Spock shook his head. "I must disagree with you,

Captain. The ruling

  classes may have professed to consider those beneath them

as human, but I

  doubt whether they really did. I'm convinced that

Veedron and his equals do not so consider their

slaves. If all goes well for us and

Trellisane does

  indeed petition for membership in the Federation, that

issue will come to

  the fore most painfully. Our actions here today-using

the slave class to

  strike back at the Sealons, and encouraging them

to look forward to full

  equality with their present masters-will simply have

exacerbated the

  inevitable tensions when that day comes."

  Kirk felt momentarily angry, but he

responded in a calm voice. "That sounds like

another criticism of me, Mr. Spock, for

violating the Prime

  Directive."

  Spock nodded slightly. "Yes, Captain.

The Directive's wisdom becomes more

  apparent to me every time we behave in the proscribed

manner."

  Still keeping his voice calm, Kirk

said, "Since the odds currently seem to

  favor Trellisane's destruction and a major,

Galaxy-wide war, I suggest we

  postpone this abstract discussion for whatever future

we might have."

  Spock nodded again. "Indeed, Captain, logic

seems to favor that course."

  In spite of the determined pacifism of

Trellisane, such jobs as mining and

  demolition demanded a supply of high

explosives. Similarly, the world's

  high level of technology meant that the means

to use those explosives for

  purposes other than mining and demolition 81

  to adapt them, for example, to warlike

purposesabounded. Most of the men

  most competent to do such a conversion were members of

various technicians'

  and engineers' gemots, but not all. Often, a

slave assistant to one of those technicians or

engineers would be given enough responsibility to pick

up a

  fair amount of pragmatic technical skill but

would not be highly ranked

  enough to belong to a gemot. And among such

assistants, some, Kirk had felt

  sure, would have been sufficiently badly treated

to be as filled with

  resentment as the slave he and Spock had asked

to bring them food in

  Veedron's headquarters building. Enough

resentment, he hoped, to put their

  skills at his disposal.

  At last he heard a faint crunch from the

direction of one of the cliffs.

  The sound was repeated once, cautiously, and then

grew to a succession of

  faint crunching noises. Footsteps, a group

of men, headed toward them.

  "Spock," he said softly. The Vulcan's

alert pose showed that he had already heard the sound,

probably long before the human had.

  A small group, half a dozen men, all

dressed in the nondescript, plain

  clothing Kirk had already come to associate with the

slave class, came up

  to them. The newcomers looked over their shoulders

furtively, clearly

  afraid that they would be caught and punished for what

they were doing;

  they hung back from the two Star Fleet

officers, their faces, even in the

  pale moonlight, betraying their distrust.

  "Godor sent you?" Kirk asked them. Godor

was the slave in Veedron's

  building, and Kirk had expected him to be with this

group. "Where is he?"

  They didn't answer him. After a few more

uncertain glances about them, the

  group lost their faint courage and began to back

away. A moment more, Kirk

  knew, and they would break and run, and that would be the

end of all his

  hopes for resistance to the Sealons. He

hesitated, uncharacteristically

  firmly to them, it might steel them, impart to them

some of his own strength of will and determination, or it

might just as likely panic them and send

  them running off all the faster.

  Suddenly there were sounds of running feet from the other

end of the beach. The group of Trellisanians

froze for a moment in terror. Before they could

  flee, Kirk hissed at them, "It's only one

man! Wait!" They hesitated.

  Godor came up, panting, unable

to speak, but his eyes blazed fiercely. He

  carried a large box under one arm. Kirk could

tell from the way he handled

  it that the object was heavy; that the man would run with

it showed his

  determination. Gulping for breath, Godor gasped

out, "Here! What you

  wanted!" He stood still for a moment, waiting

until breath came more

  easily, then said to the other Trellisanians,

"Quickly, take us to your

  boat. Now you'll see what we can do!"

  The other Trellisanians on the beach were a

group of fishermen whom Godor

  had recruited earlier, after Kirk and Spock

had explained to him what they

  would need to attack the Sealons. Now the fishermen

grunted their

  acquiescence and led Godor and the two officers

back in the direction from

  which they had approached minutes earlier.

  "Captain," Spock said softly, "these men have not

yet said a word to us."

  Kirk nodded. "Yes. They'll talk treason

to Godor, but we're strangers, and

  they still don't trust us. I hope they won't

lose their nerve." He asked

  himself the question Spock had left unspoken: Have I

really found rebels I

  can rely on?

  The tide was rising; water lapped about the base

of the wall of cliff the

  fishermen led them to. They walked through the

ankle-deep water to skirt

  the cliffs, an occasional wave splashing up to their

knees, and sometimes

  their waists, and breaking against the cliff face with a

roar. Kirk

  staggered under the impact of one of 83

  the higher waves and would have fallen had Spock not

caught his arm. "I'll

  take the seas of space," Kirk said, forcing a

smile. He repressed the urge

  to tell their guides to hurry up, before the tide

rose any higher. It was

  not so much the water itself that bothered him; the sea was

generally calm,

  except for the occasional swell, the beach was still

near, and he was a

  strong swimmer. Rather, it was the everpresent

idea that the calm, rolling

  surface, with the moon marking a beautiful, silver

trail upon it, hid the

  mysterious, deadly Sealons. This sea was

suddenly not a friendly one. It

  belonged to the unseen enemy.

  At last they reached an opening in the cliff face

and turned inwards, away

  from the open sea, into a small cove where the water

was even calmer. The

  moonlight flooded in through the opening in the cliff

face, illuminating

  the small, concave beach and the large fishing boat

pulled up on it.

  Kirk pulled Godor aside and said to him,

"Isn't there some kind of gemot to control fishing?

Why do these men operate from this place instead of a

  built-up harbor?"

  Godor shook his hand off. "Why do you care? Of

course there's a gemot, and

  it doesn't allow men like these to own a boat or go

fishing on their own.

  They have to work in secrecy, and sell their fish

secretly."

  Kirk grimaced. "I should have guessed.

Do they understand that this might

  destroy their boat?"

  "Yes. I explained that. Right now, they can't

use it at all, because the

  Sealons destroy any boat that goes out far enough

to reach the good fishing grounds. They have nothing to lose.

I told them that when we've killed the

  Sealons, we'll join the Federation and destroy the

gemots, and then they

  can have their pick of the fancy fishing boats in the

harbors."

  Kirk looked at him in astonishment but held his

peace. After a pause, he

  said, "All right. Let's get that gadget

loaded and push off."

  They placed Godor's box carefully in the

boat, and then Kirk, Spock, and

  Godor climbed in to adjust and set the

mechanism contained in the box. When they were finished and

straightened from their work, they found themselves

  alone on the beach. The fishermen's courage had

deserted them at last, and

  they had silently faded away, using the hidden

paths up the cliff face that only they knew.

Godor cursed them for their desertion, but

Kirk, in

  reaction to the controlled tension of the past hours,

burst into a hearty

  laugh and could not make himself stop. Godor looked

at him openmouthed, but Spock, raising one

eyebrow, provided the needed verbal slap:

"Sir, I must

  say that levity seems inappropriate."

  Kirk sobered instantly. "Right as always,

Spock. Now, if you'll climb out

  on the beach again and help me push this thing off the sand

and into the

  water, I'll show you how to row a boat."

  As they were straining against the boat's reluctant

bulk, their feet

  slipping on the sand, Spock managed to gasp,

"Surely, Captain, many rowers

  are required for a boat of this size."

  Kirk, sweating heavily with the effort in the chill,

damp air, grunted and

  said, "Star Fleet warned you that being first mate is

a tough job, Mister."

  Spock said nothing in reply. He threw his great

Vulcan strength even more

  fully into the job and the boat, accelerating

suddenly, slid the last few

  feet into the water and sat rocking gently on the

slow swells of the

  sheltered cove. Kirk whooped with joy and waded

into the waist-deep water

  and pulled himself over the side into the boat.

Spock followed him, and as

  Kirk leaned over to offer him a hand to help,

Spock was amazed to see that

  his captain's face wore a broad grin. It was

something beyond simple levity or the release of

long-suppressed tension, Spock thought; it seemed

more

  the joy of a young boy on a long-awaited,

long-delayed holiday. Spock's

  attitude toward naked

  human feelings had always been complex, a

mixture of envy at the freedom

  humans possessed and revulsion at their lack of

self-control. In James Kirk, he had found a

human being he could admire, one who, with no

Vulcan blood at all, seemed remarkably able

to control his emotions for the sake of a higher goal, an

integrated personality, a fine example of the

ideal defined by an

  ancient Earth philosopher-"a life guided

by reason and inspired by emotion."

  Now, suddenly, the control seemed to have disappeared.

In this earnest,

  deadly business, James Kirk was behaving with

boyish glee rather than the

  calm determination Spock might have expected.

Kirk was dropping to the level of the average human,

and Spock, who would have been greatly insulted had

  anyone suggested to him that he was capable of

hero-worship, was deeply

  disturbed.

  Dr. Leonard McCoy wrapped up his brief

staff meeting at his operational

  headquarters and watched his Trellisanian

assistants drag themselves from

  the room. No one had complained about the long hours

and the psychological

  burden, but even without their obvious physical

deterioration, McCoy could

  guess how they felt. Their feelings and state of

health, he knew, matched

  his own. No, he thought, theirs was probably

worse than his: he had at

  least the toughening effect of his Star

Fleet background; no matter how

  deeply he might feel the pain of others, he

had at least seen the effects

  of war so often that his reaction must be mild compared with

that of these

  Trellisanian medical men.

  The irony was that the current flood of victims

would

  very soon abate, and it was that that worried him most.

  The bombardments from space had slackened and

  would probably soon stop. The Sealon ships that

  arrived now were more invasion craft, rather than

  attack ships; even the smaller ships that came

to

  Trellisane from Sealon must be supply ships

for the

  Sealon bases being built and expanded on the

ocean

  floors, for the new spaceships landed in the seas rather

than bothering with bombing runs against land targets. The

current glut of bombing victims would probably

be the end of it, and when they healed up enough to go home, the

  logistics of the situation would improve

remarkably.

  But McCoy was even more worried about the

inevitable next stage. The

  psychological effects of the invasion were already

appearing, and those

  were much harder to deal with. The comgemot leaders

seemed paralyzed by their loss of communication with their

colleagues, and he suspected that

  paralysis would soon be followed by a deeper and more

serious form of

  mental breakdown. But most of all he awaited

with dread the apparently

  inevitable mass starvation his Trellisanian

subordinates assured him was on its way. The world

depended so heavily on food from the sea, that the

loss

  of the oceans to the Sealons would probably prove

to be a mortal blow.

  Once, before realizing how futile it was,

McCoy had exploded at them. "Well then, why

not do something about it, damn it all! Start right now with

  extensive agricultural programs and food

rationing. And attack the Sealons

  on the sea bottoms. For God's sake,

let's take the fight to them! You can't just roll over

and die!"

  But they could do just that; they almost seemed

to want to do it. McCoy's

  own organization was virtually the only functioning

government left on the

  planet. It was, however, not that disorganization that

gave him most of his problems, but rather the

Trellisanian nature itself: malleable,

retiring,

  timid, and so excessively humane that they would

rather suffer pain from

  their enemies than inflict it.

  The war between the two worlds-if "war" was even the right

word, given the

  lack of any Trellisanian defense-reminded

McCoy painfully of the time James Kirk had

been split into two beings by a transporter

malfunction. One had

  been the beast, the wolf in every 87

  man, the animal left in us from our most

primitive days, amoral, wanting

  only the satiation of every desire. The other being had

been the softer side of man, what Spock had

called "the positive side"; but it had been unable

to make decisions, especially the harder, less

humane ones. Together, the two

  beings were the remarkable and admirable

Captain James T. Kirk; apart,

  neither could survive for long, and both had come near

to dying before a

  transporter repair had made it possible

to recombine them. He saw Trellisane and

Sealon as the same sort of division: one

society overly bestial, the

  other overly humane. And perhaps both were doomed

if they could not somehow

  unite, unlikely as any such union looked

now. Sealon, probably, would

  complete the destruction of Trellisane and would

then be itself destroyed by Klingon.

  McCoy sighed, put his arms on the table, and

leaned his head on them for a

  moment's rest. Beneath the cynic was the hopeful

romantic, but this time

  cynicism seemed more justified. Pessimism,

rather. Unity through diversity, he thought as he drifted

away into sleep. That's what that pointy-eared,

  green-blooded walking computer likes to espouse.

What does he know about

  it? If he could convince the Sealons and the

Trellisanians to try it . . .

  His dreams were filled with explosions and

blood.

  Far from shore, surrounded only by the gently

swelling, moonlit ocean, the

  three men in the fishing boat waited tensely for

an explosion to end their

  own voyage in blood. They had already journeyed

further from the shore

  without being detected and destroyed by the Sealons beneath

them than Spock had predicted they would. The oars

had been wrapped in cloths to muffle

  their sound, in the small hope that this would make the

Sealons' detection

  devices and computers dismiss them as

insignificant. They had not spoken to each other

except in an occasional whisper.

  Now they halted and sat still in the boat for a few

minutes. Spock had laid his tricorder at his

feet and, at regular intervals during their trip

away

  from the shore, had pointed it downwards. Now he

did so again. "Well?" Kirk whispered. "Anything

stronger here?"

  "Yes, Captain. The earlier readings indicated

the fringes of a base beneath us, but now we must be near the

center. The readings may not be reliable

  through this depth of water, but the density of life forms

and machinery

  here is remarkable."

  Kirk could almost hear McCoy's voice

muttering, "Long-winded son-of-a-gun,

  isn't he?" Kirk's own euphoria continued,

had even increased since they'd

  left the shore, and he grinned at the imagined

conversation. "Let's get

  this overboard," he whispered, pointing at the box

at their feet.

  The three of them picked up Godor's box and,

all leaning over the side

  together and ignoring the extreme tilt this gave to the

boat, they lowered

  it onto the calm surface of the water and let it

go. With only a faint

  splash, it sank beneath the surface and dropped

quickly out of sight.

  "Row!" Kirk ordered. He and Spock grabbed

their oars and bent their backs

  to the task, while Godor kept nervously

scanning the water's surface for

  Sealons. Had all the fishermen been with them, as

Kirk had planned, they

  could have made good speed, but as it was, the boat

moved away from the

  site of their primitive depth-charge with

agonizing slowness.

  An enormous concussion slammed the boat

upwards. Kirk and Spock were

  tumbled from their seats onto the boards, but

Godor, who had been half

  standing to see further, shot out of the boat into the

water. He surfaced

  instantly, his face filled with terror, and

screamed wordlessly at them.

  Kirk gathered himself quickly and dove in. He

swam to Godor, who was still

  screaming, and who now looked at Kirk with blank

fear and tried to keep him

  away. Cursing, Kirk grabbed the

Trellisanian's clothing with his left hand

  and punched him savagely on the jaw with his right.

Godor's eyes rolled

  upwards and he went slack in the water. Pulling

him by the hair, Kirk drew

  him back toward the boat. Spock drew them

both back onboard.

  "I would recommend warp speed,

Captain," Spock said, calmly picking up his

  oar again. Kirk granted him one brief look of

surprise, but picked up his

  own oar and began rowing vigorously without comment.

Spock's rare attempts

  at humor, he thought, came at strange times,

almost as if the Vulcan wanted to point out to his

human companions just how immune he was to panic

or any other overemotional reaction

to circumstances.

  Behind them, the sea heaved itself up in a huge bubble

that turned white

  and then exploded into a fountain of spray. It

rose high into the air and

  then rained down on the surface of the sea and into their

boat, almost

  swamping them. Unidentifiable bits of metal

pattered on the water and the

  boat and its occupants. Something much like a human

hand landed on Kirk's

  lap. Half repelled, half fascinated, he

picked it up and stared at it.

  "Webbed," Spock observed quietly. "We

seem to have found our target."

  Suddenly overcome with disgust, Kirk

threw the hand overboard and began

  rowing again. "Let's get the Hell out of here,

Spock," he said through

  gritted teeth.

  The slave's name was Spenreed. His friends had

  brought him to McCoy, and he was suffering from

  nothing more than a minor leg wound that had become

  infected. It was bad enough by now, though, that he

  couldn't put any weight on the leg and needed

support

  from a fellow slave on each side, and he was

drowsy,

  obviously having trouble with clouded thoughts. Clear

  ly, without treatment he would die quite soon.

McCoy

  had already deduced that slaves were generally not given

treatment, except

  in those rare cases where they were both vital and

irreplaceable; in most

  cases, though, the vast pool of replacements

made it easier to let them die. I wonder if

we're fighting on the right side, he kept asking

himself. I

  don't see how the Sealons can be any more

callous than this.

  Word of McCoy's treating slaves' wounds had

got around, following the

  branches of one of those mysterious grapevines that

slave classes always

  seem to develop on any planet and in any

age. As a result, more and more of them were bringing sick

or injured fellows to him. He could usually fit

  them in, leaving his Trellisanian assistants

to take care of the patients

  who weren't slaves. It couldn't continue, of

course: as word spread

  further, he'd quickly be overwhelmed; after all, his

assistants would

  refuse m horror to help him in this work, were he

to make the mistake of

  asking them.

  McCoy followed what had become his usual

practice. He beckoned Spenreed's

  bearers to follow him with their burden, and he led them

into a small

  operating room, lined with shelves, where they would be

uninterrupted. This had been a storeroom before

McCoy's appearance. The two slaves helped

  Spenreed onto the table, and McCoy applied the

hypospray to his arm.

  Spenreed went under immediately. Whistling, McCoy

set to work on cleaning

  and dressing the leg wound. Of the two slaves,

standing by the operating

  table, only one turned pale. The other watched

what McCoy was doing with

  interest. McCoy grunted. "Look carefully.

Maybe you'll be this world's

  first slave surgeon." The slave grinned and

nodded.

  Making sure the slave was watching what he was

doing, McCoy opened up

  Spenreed's head. Gently, he reached a

microprobe into the brain and

  extracted a small capsule. He held it

up for the openmouthed slave to see,

  then closed Spenreed up again. He busily

applied glue and synthetic skin,

  the nearby wall and dropped the capsule onto a

shelf, into the dozen or so

  that were already scattered there.

  The watching slave clenched his jaw. "Three days

after birth, our children

  are taken away. for a medical examination. The

defective ones aren't

  brought back. The others . . ." He bent his

head toward the scattering of

  capsules.

  McCoy nodded. "Um-hmm." He used the

hypospray again, and Spenreed opened

  his eyes, groaned, and struggled to sit up. "How

do you feel?" McCoy asked

  him.

  Spenreed groaned again. "I've got a

headache," he complained.

  McCoy chuckled. "You shouldn't. I just

exorcised you."

  Security couldn't pull itself together. If Kinitz

had had one serious

  failing, it was his inability to delegate authority

properly. He had had two prime assistants,

either of whom could have taken over Security section upon

his death, but both were now unconscious and close

to death in Medical.

  Beyond them, Kinitz had not provided for command in

case of his death, for

  that situation-his defeat and death-had been simply

unimaginable to him.

  That personality flaw of overconfidence had

proved to be his fatal one.

  Now a power struggle was underway in Security

section. The surviving

  subordinates, all nominally of equal rank,

were squabbling, each trying to

  assert his own claim to temporary command. They

needed a strong-willed

  superior to enforce order upon them, and now Kinitz

was gone. The matter

  could have been settled quickly enough by an appeal to the

bridge, and they tried that, but the bridge was

strangely uncommunicative. Calls up there

  were always answered by Sulu, who they knew had the

con in the captain's

  absence, and he consistently refused to issue an

order that would halt the

  confusion. "Wait until the alert is over" was

all they could get out of

  him.

  Kinitz would have been made suspicious by this, but

  the men struggling for control of Security were not.

Nor did they correlate

  Sulu's unresponsiveness with the escape of their

prisoners. Star Fleet

  Security's recruitment and training emphasized

physical strength and

  competence and an unquestioning acceptance of a superior's

orders; original

  thought was not a Security man's strong point.

  Chief Engineer Scott uttered a mighty

curse and slammed his hand down onto

  the metal housing of the warp reactor monitoring

computer. One of his

  assistants, working nearby, looked at him in

amazement and almost asked for a translation into English

of Scott's exclamation, but then thought better

  of it and went on silently with his work.

  Scott had caught the glance, however. "Aye, you

may well ask, lad," he

  grumbled. "Here we are heading off somewhere under warp

drive, leaving the

  captain down there in the middle of a war, and Mr.

Sulu up on the bridge

  won't tell me what's going on. The alert's

still on, and I don't understand that, either. I've asked

for permission to turn it off for a few hours for

  maintenance, and he won't even let me do that! I

can't get a straight

  answer out of him. I've a mind to go up there myself

and force it out of

  him."

  His subordinate was appalled. "But, sir,

there's a Red Alert on! You're

  supposed to stay here."

  Scott snorted in disgust. "An alert! That's

fishy, too, I'm telling you.

  I've decided. I'm going up there and put a

stop to all this right now." He

  listened to the faint sounds of the laboring warp drive

reactor and shook

  his head in mixed annoyance and concern. He

didn't need the monitoring

  computer to tell him all was not well. He headed

for the exit, grumbling to himself, and made for the nearest

elevator. As soon as it opened, he

  stepped in and snapped "Bridge!" at it,

putting all his frustration and

  anger into the word.

  A computer's voice replied: "Bridge has

been declared closed to all

  personnel not on duty there now."

  "Och, you stupid-was Scott stopped and brought

himself under control. "This

  is the chief engineer, and this is an emergency.

I'm ordering you to

  override that and take me to the bridge."

After a pause, as if the decision were a painful one,

the elevator lurched into motion. Scott rebuked

himself for taking his feelings out on the machine, which was

doing no more than

  following the orders of fallible humans. He

suppressed the desire to utter

  an apology. He liked certain people, and he

liked certain brands of Scotch

  whiskey and some brandies, but he liked virtually

every machine he had ever encountered.

  When the elevator reached the bridge level, the

doors refused to open. The

  computer spoke again, almost sounding apologetic this

time: "Bridge is

  closed." Scott could almost imagine it adding,

"Sure you don't want to

  reconsider?"

  He lost his temper again. "You know my

voiceprint. Open the damned door!"

  The doors swished open this time, and Scott

stormed out onto the bridge.

  "Mr. Sulu," he bellowed, "I want to know

just what's-was Too late to retreat, he saw the

phasers leveled at him from all sides. Someone

he didn't know

  sat in the captain's chair and stared at him

appraisingly. "Who are you?"

  this stranger said coolly.

  Scott forgot the phasers and strode forward

until he stood next to the

  captain's chair. "Who are you, that's what I

want to know, and what's going on up here? Why are you

in that chair?"

  "Scotty." Sulu's voice, tired,

defeated. Scott turned toward him, disturbed

to find that Sulu, who he had been told was to have the

con, was on the

  bridge though obviously not in command. "Scotty,

just cooperate with them."

  Scott looked around and measured the situation.

  Strangers, all armed and all alert, and all

looking at him hostilely. The

  bridge crew sitting slumped at their stations,

all looking as tired and

  defeated as Sulu sounded. Uhura looked up

at him, her gaze dull, almost

  without recognition, and then she turned back to her

communications console. Only Chekov showed anything

approaching liveliness, and even that was far

  less than he had learned to expect from

the young Russian. Scott did a quick mental

calculation. If he remembered the latest duty

roster correctly, most

  of these people shouldn't even be here, should have gone off

duty hours ago. He turned back to the man in the

command chair and glared at him. "Okay,

  mister, I'll tell you that I'm the chief engineer

of this ship, and now

  you'd better talk."

  Hander Mori, to his own surprise, felt

intimidated, in spite of the four

  armed killers on the bridge who were at his instant

beck and call. He

  couldn't show that, however, or his control over this ship

would become

  even more precarious than he feared it already was.

He smiled at Scott

  calmly, superciliously, and told him just who

he was. "I'm in control of

  this ship, Engineer," he said, "and in not too many

hours, I'm going to

  take it into the Romulan Neutral Zone and

start a war."

  "A war! Good God, man!" Scott took a

deep breath and tried again. "Now let

  me tell you what's really going to happen. Our

speed is already dropping,

  and it's going to keep on dropping. If we're

all lucky, this ship will come to a stop and drop out of

warp into normal space. If we're all

unlucky, the whole scow will disappear in a cloud of

vapor when the warp reactor blows.

  I've got repairs to do! I've been calling

up here to tell you that, and

  I've been getting doubletalk." He glared at

Mori. "And I suppose you were

  behind that, too.

  Mort licked his lips, ignoring the chief

engineer. He muttered, "We can't

  stop. Or slow down." Suddenly he stood up

and pointed his phaser at Chekov. His voice 96

  shook with rage. "You! You must have known we were

slowing down, and you

  didn't tell me!"

  "You didn't ask me," Chekov said sweetly.

He reminded himself that he had

  always wondered what it felt like to die by phaser; it

looked like he was

  about to find out.

  The Nactcrn warrior with whom Chekov

had been so unsuccessful earlier

  stepped between him and Morl and said firmly,

"Don't be a fool, Hander. You know we need him.

A small delay won't hurt."

  Sulu flashed him a quick look, but Chekov

kept his face impassive. Perhaps, he thought, his

investment was already paying dividends.

  Morl sat down m the command chair again,

trembling from the reaction to his own anger but also from a

sudden fear that all was going to end m disaster

  after all. "Let me think," he whispered. Could

he take the chance of

  continuing as they were? The man obviously knew his

job-Morl respected the

  capabilities of Star Fleet personnel,

even if he thought their motives

  smacked of cowardice. If the ship blew up,

nothing would have been gained;

  Morl and his people would have died without purpose, without

starting the

  war. Even if the warp engines blew or failed

without destroying the ship,

  they'd be reduced to impulse powers and Morl

knew that it would take months or even years to reach

the Neutral Zone. They might be caught

and stopped

  long before that. Everything was falling apart! His grand

plan, the

  wonderful opportunity this fortuitous seizure of

one of Star Fleet's

  proudest vessels had provided-it had seemed

at first as if the Fates them-

  selves were on the side of the United Expansion

Party, as indeed Morl had

  always thought they were. Now he was faced with

failure no matter which

  course he took.

  He licked his lips again. "How long would that

maintenance you mentioned

  take?" he asked Scott, and he couldn't keep

the uncertainty and fear he

  felt from showing in his voice.

  Scott smiled slightly. "Two hours.

Maybe three. Mind you," he added,

  holding up a cautioning hand, "if there are certain

parts that need

  replacement, well, then, it could take a day or

more."

  A day or more! Impossible that he could keep

control of the bridge for that long! Mori's

suspicious nature asserted itself. Was the man

lying? How

  would Mori be able to find out even if he were?

Then he noticed that his

  own subordinates were watching him, disturbed at his

indecisiveness. So

  were the Enterprise personnel, becoming alert and

hopeful again as they

  thought they saw a weakness in their captors. "All

right," he snapped, his

  voice firm. "All right, Engineer. I'll

allow that maintenance, but no

  replacements that take too long. I want you

done with the whole thing in

  three hours at the outside." Scott turned

to go. "Wait a minute!" Mori

  shouted. "You think I'm a fool? You're not going

back down there alone!" He hesitated for a moment

more, then gestured to one of the Assassins. "You'll go

with him," he told the man. "Keep an eye on

him all the time so he

  doesn't betray us. Keep your phaser hidden,

but be ready. Don't let him

  talk to anyone else down there except for the

technical matters." He turned

to Scott. "As for you, remember that I have all these

people here under my

  control. If you try to pull anything, I'll

kill them. All of them."

  Scott looked around at the bridge crew, his

face grim. "I'll remember," he

  said. He stared wordlessly at Mori for a moment.

"I'm not about to forget

  about you, you can be sure of that." He strode back

toward the elevator,

  the Assassin close behind him.

  Only minutes later, the faint lurch of

transition between normal space and

  subspace, more psychological than physical,

hit Mori. On the great screen

  in front of him, the star field disappeared

momentarily and then shimmered

  back into existence. But now it was static, the motion

apparent because of

  the enormous velocities of the higher warp speeds

utterly absent. The

  illusion of a flowing universe had given way to the

illusion that the ship

  was absolutely still in a static universe. Although

Mori ordered Sulu to

  press on at the greatest speed the impulse

engines would provide, he knew

  that those speeds were so low in comparison to the vast

distance yet to be

  covered, that the Enterprise might as well be standing

still. Their

  pursuers, if there were any, would surely not be so

limited. It must have

  happened when the ship was damaged and he and his

partners had escaped. Why

  had the fool let his ship be damaged that way?

If Mori had been in charge

  already, it would never have happened! But it had

happened. Mori groaned.

  He was too preoccupied to notice the rush of

hope that had buoyed up the

  slumping Sulu. He knew from his console that the

ship's speed had been

  constant before, under warp drive. Scott had lied,

quickly and

  extemporaneously, but apparently convincingly.

Now they had gained a few

  hours, another ally in the form of the chief engineer,

and their captors

  had been weakened by one. It had taken a

lot to make Sulu's natural

  cheerfulness go dormant; now it came bubbling up

again.

  At the sound of a throat being cleared, McCoy

looked up from

  report from an assistant he was reading.

Spenreed stood in the

  doorway, looking stricken. "Doctor. I

wanted to thank you for

  helping me. I'mMy call has come."

  "Your what?"

  "My, uh, my call. So you won't see me

again."

  "I don't understand," McCoy said. "You're

going somewhere?"

  Spenreed choked back a sudden sob. "No.

No, I'm not. Yegemot

  don't go anywhere. We just die."

  "Die!" McCoy thought he began to understand.

"Are you trying to

  tell me you've received some sort of premonition

of death?"

  Spenreed nodded. "The call. I was officially

informed by a

  representative of the Food

Provenders gemot. He said it must be

  before the banquet for gemot leaders."

  "Oh, yes. That damned banquet. I have to be

there, and I'm sure

  not looking forward to it. Now, you listen to me,

Spenreed. I've

  run into this sort of superstition, this fortune telling

and

  forecasting men's deaths, on other worlds, and I can

tell you

  it's nonsense. It doesn't

  matter where in the Galaxy you run into it, it's still

nonsense. You come to me after that banquet, and I'll

repeat everything I just said, and we'll see how you

feel about it then."

  Spenreed laughed suddenly and grinned a fierce,

broad grin. "You may see me at the banquet,

Doctor. Tell me then." He stalked off down

the hall,

  leaving McCoy to wonder at his sudden anger.

  McCoy pondered both that anger and the rest of the

curious episode for some minutes. Finally, he

shook his head and dismissed it all. "Damned

  ignorance," he muttered. Maybe I can

force-feed some science into these

  slaves. If their masters don't object.

Well, their masters better learn

  very soon to change their attitudes, because if

Trellisane joins the

  Federation, things are going to be very different on this

world. And

  speaking of feeding, he thought, how the Hell can I

get these people to

  start growing their own food on the land? Now that the

seas are lost to

  them, or soon will be, they've got to stop

depending on those sea plants

  supplemented by fish meat. Maybe they're going

to cut down on what they

  feed the slaves, to make what's left go

further. Damned if I'll stand for

  that.

  He shook his head in annoyance and then forced his

attention back to the

  report on his desk.

  Their success emboldened the fishermen. Groups of

  them set out in their boats with explosive

devices

  delivered to them by Godor. He refused to tell

Kirk

  and Spock who made these for him. As foreigners,

they

  were obviously still not entirely to be trusted; who

  knew if, the present crisis being over, they would

not

  betray Godor and the other conspirators to their mas

  ters, despite all their fine talk now about the

Federation

  and its rules of equality. This was maddening

to Kirk,

  for he knew how fickle war is. Godor went

out on the

  boats often, success having returned all of his

courage

  and more, and it was inevitable that the Sealons would

eventually strike

  back. If Godor was lost, Kirk would have no

further access to the

  explosives.

  Spock agreed with him, something that had become

unusual. "Indeed, Captain, the Sealons'

quiescence so far is surprising. I can only

assume that they

  have been preoccupied with plans for the next stage of

their invasion.

  Perhaps they expected more resistance than they

encountered in fact. That

  would explain why they landed in the deeper waters, rather

than along the

  continental margin. Now that they have gained confidence from

the lack of

  any Trellisanian response, they are

probably planning to move their

  installations wholesale into the shallower water. We

must have caught them

  at that stage, and they have tried to ignore us so far.

That cannot

  continue."

  "Yes, I'm sure that's true." They were on the

same beach where their small

  resistance movement had started, waiting for the

return of a boat carrying

  a depth charge. Kirk looked at his timepiece.

"It's taking them a long

  time," he muttered. "Ah, there!" Out on the

horizon, the water rose up in

  a dome that exploded upwards into a fountain of

spray. Some distance from

  the site of the underwater explosion, the boat showed as

a small speck on

  the surface of the sea. Kirk could imagine the

fishermen rowing frantically away from the explosion.

  Spock, watching the boat too, squinted and said,

"Captain, something in the water . . ."

  "I can't see as well as you can, Spock." But

then even he could see it:

  things in the water around the boat, furious

splashings. He could barely

  see the movements as the fishermen tried to beat the

attackers away with

  their oars. The shapes swarmed over the sides into the

boat, overwhelming

  the Trellisanians. Then there was a mass

movement back over the sides into

  the sea, almost a liquid pouring, as if the

attackers were boneless and

  they had reduced their victims to the same 102

  state. In minutes, only the empty boat was

left, bobbing up and down on the

  waves still spreading outwards from the explosion. "So

much for them

  ignoring us, Spock."

  "Captain, if the Sealons had chosen simply

to eliminate the threat, they

  could have destroyed the fishing boat from beneath,

from a distance,

  without attacking the crew directly. That was the

nature of their previous

  attacks upon Trellisanian merchant

vessels, and it entails far less risk to themselves."

  "You seem to think they must have had more in mind this time

than defense."

  Spock nodded. "Indeed, sir. I would guess

they wish to interrogate. Our

  attacks upon them have been atypical; they break

the pattern. The Sealons,

  or perhaps their Klingon masters, would wish to know what

has caused this

  change." .

  The two turned away from the sea and began to walk

slowly up the beach. The sun was bright, and the

white-yellow sand reflected it back into their

  faces. "It's probably pointless to send out

any more boats, now," Kirk

  said. "We'll have to come up with something else. If

they really are

  preparing to move closer to the land, it becomes even

more difficult."

  "Captain!" Spock said sharply. "Listen!"

  In the distance, some sort of sea bird was

wheeling about in the air above

  the cliff face, uttering an unpleasant

high-pitched cry. From behind came

  the steady lapping of waves on the shore. Beyond that,

Kirk could hear

  nothing. Knowing how acute a Vulcan's hearing

was, however, he stood still

  and strained his ears. "Well, Mr. Spock?"

  Spock shook his head. "I'm sorry,

Captain. I was sure I heard voices. Very

  faint and muffled. Wait! There it is again."

  This time, even Kirk could hear something, though it

sounded more like the

  cry of an animal, and muffled, than a human

voice. He thought the sound had come 103

  from the base of the cliffs to their left. Then it was

answered from behind. Kirk spun around, but at first he

could see nothing. The sun, dazzling off

  the sand and water, almost blinded him.

  Shapes rose from the water and shambled onto the

sand. They were bulky,

  shapeless, larger than a man, and they called

back and forth to each other

  eagerly, with something vicious in the sound. The

calls were repeated from

  the directions of the cliffs at either end of the beach.

  "Quickly, Captain, before they, can cut us off!"

Spock began to run toward

  the rising land where the beach ended and the undergrowth of the

interior

  began. Following him, Kirk told himself, at

least they probably can't move

  fast on land.

  Something hit him, like a great electric shock

coursing through every nerve pathway simultaneously,

flinging him forward onto his face. Paralyzed, limp

as a rag doll, his limbs flopping helplessly,

Kirk rolled a couple of times and ended up on his

left side, facing toward the water. He was still

half

  conscious, but he couldn't regain the slightest

control over his body. A

  phaser of some sort, he thought. On low stun.

Even without being able to

  turn and look, he knew Spock must be lying not

too many meters away, in the same condition.

  Kirk's eyes were open. He hadn't the power

to close them even if he had

  wanted to. Helplessly, he watched the

Sealons-he had never had any doubt,

  from the first instant, that that was what these creatures

werestruggle

  across the sand toward him. He could tell that they were

making as much

  speed as they could, perhaps afraid that Kirk's

followers would show up to

  rescue him. Before he had sensed both viciousness

and triumph; now he

  caught the hint of something unstoppable, of a driving

force that knew no

  moral restraint. Kirk struggled without success

to move his arms and legs.

  His body was as paralyzed as ever.

  The first Seaton to reach him reared itself up over

  him, one arm raised, aad Kirk prepared himself

mentally for the crushing

  blow that would end his life. But apparently it was

only a signal to the

  others, for the creature lowered its arm again without

harming Kirk, and the others began to appear within his

field of vision.

  The creatures' colors ranged from pale brown

to almost black. Their skin

  seemed to be covered by short, wiry

hairs, covering them like a shield.

  Their general shape seemed humanoid, but he could

see webbing between the

  fingers and toes. They were obviously heavily

muscled, beneath a surface

  layer of fat. Their legs were short and apparently

unable to support them

  well on land. He couldn't turn his head to see

more, so he was unable to

  see what their faces looked like.

  He was grasped roughly by powerful hands and lifted.

His body sagged, his

  arms, legs, and head flopping from side to side as

they carried him back

  toward the water. Had they spared him so far only

to let him drown

  helplessly, unable to control his limbs and swim?

  Just before they reached the water, however, his head was

grasped and

  something opaque was forced over his face. He

couldn't resist in any way;

  no control had yet returned. Straps were

tightened around the back of his

  head to keep the device in place. The opacity

was complete; he was in utter blackness. But

he could feel water lapping over him and then rising

up over his head. The hands still grasped him, pulling

him deeper and deeper under

  the ocean he could not see.

  McCoy was trying without success to find someone who

could and would assume responsibility for food

distribution. None of this fell within the scope of the

duties McCoy had volunteered for, but what little

government Trellisane had had seemed to have

entirely disappeared, and he knew he couldn't just

  matters and let starvation creep up on them. There

must be someone-or some

  gemot-who dealt with food storage and so on, and

if he could only find them, he could perhaps talk them

into trying to forestall the inevitable. Was it

  the Food Provenders he'd heard references

to? But no one he questioned

  seemed to know or care who had the

responsibility. Much as he admired the

  humane attitudes of Trellisane-at least,

during peace time-and what little

  of their art and culture he had happened to see,

McCoy was beginning to have strong doubts whether this world

could be saved. Surely the natives must

  contribute to the effort too!

  It was while he was pondering this mixture of

practical and abstract

  problems that Veedron stalked into his small

office and confronted him.

  This was a face of Trellisane McCoy had not

seen before: angry and

  imperious, and chastising. "Those friends of yours,"

Veedron snapped.

  "They've done something to anger the Sealons!"

  McCoy's astonishment gave way to an anger of

his own. "Anger the Sealons!

  What are you talking about? They're invading your

world, killing your

  people! Whatever Jim and Spock are doing against them

is what you should be doing."

  "No!" Veedron yelled. "You're wrong! If

we don't do anything to fight back, they'll

realize how foolish they're being to do this, and they'll

stop and

  go home."

  "Do you really believe that? Even after what they've

already done to your

  world?"

  "Yes, Dr. McCoy. Yes, I do.

They'll leave, and then everything will be the

  way it was, the way it should be. Everyone on

Trellisane will settle back

  into his rightful place and be happy with it."

  For the first time, McCoy became aware of the terrible

fear underlying

  Veedron's bluster. He spoke calmly,

gently to the Trellisanian, trying to

  ease that fear. "I'm sure Jim and Spock

know the dangers. We've 106

  dealt with interplanetary wars before, Veedron. You

simply can't try to win

  by letting your enemy destroy your world. That never

has-was

  "Your friends are destroying this world!" Veedron

interrupted. "It won't

  matter even if the Sealons leave. After what

those two have started, things will never be the same again."

  "There's a great deal of destruction to repair, of

course," McCoy said

  soothingly, feeling puzzled by Veedron's near

hysteria, "but if we can just end this war and get back

in contact with Star Fleet, the Federation will

  help you rebuild."

  "But it's not the destruction, not the buildings."

Veedron's voice cracked. "It's our

society they're breaking down. After this, the slaves

. . . the

  slaves will swallow us whole."

  "The slaves!" The real cause of Veedron's

fear began to become apparent at

  last. Things he had seen during the last two days

but had ignored began to

  coalesce for McCoy. "I think I've been

too preoccupied," he muttered.

  Veedron flopped into a chair. "Oh, you

offworlders just don't understand

  how things are here, how things have to be in order to have a

civilized

  planet! You have all those other species from all

over your domains, who

  look so different from you, to do your work for you. You

don't have to face the moral and ethical burdens we

have running this world."

  McCoy burst out laughing. "If you only knew

how much you sound like some

  very old relatives of mine back home! Sit

still, my good man. I've got a

  lot to tell you about how the Federation operates. I

don't think you're

  going to like all of it."

  Veedron looked at him with distaste, but he made

no move to escape.

  The pressure on Kirk's body increased

steadily. He yawned desperately,

  stretching his jaws inside the 107

  flexible breathing mask the Sealons had fitted

over dishis face, hoping he was avoiding damage

to his eardrums. Only after he had been doing this for

some

  minutes did he realize that the paralysis was

wearing off. He jerked his

  arms free of the hands holding them and kicked in what

he thought was the

  direction of the surface. He couldn't spare the

time to take his mask off so that he could see the light

of the surface. Something hard hit him on the

  back of the head, stunning him and stopping his

escape. Strong hands gripped his arms and legs again

and started pulling him along once more. Another

  heavy blow to the back of the head, and his consciousness

faded.

  When Kirk recovered consciousness, he was first

aware of a grotesque

  headache and next that he was lying on a hard, dry

surface and was

  surrounded by warm air rather than cold water. He

couldn't quite focus his

  eyes.

  "Captain." Spock's voice. Nearby, and

full of concern. "Jim. Are you

  functional?"

  Kirk suppressed a mad urge to giggle.

"Yes, Mr. Spock," he said, the words

  coming out in a slur. He could hardly control his

tongue, and he could

  still make no more than a blur out of his surroundings.

"I'm adequately

  functional."

  "Here, Captain," Spock said. "Have some of

this."

  Kirk's head was raised and something was placed against

his lips. He sipped a hot liquid, acrid

both to taste and smell. He forced a few sips

down, and his headache faded and his vision cleared. He

could see Spock leaning over

  him, looking at his face with concern. As soon as

Spock realized his

  captain could now see him, the look of concern

disappeared, quickly

  replaced by the normal impenetrable

Vulcan stolidity.

  From Kirk's right, a harsh voice spoke.

"Captain Kirk. You're lucky they

  didn't crush your skull. A Sealon is very

strong, and it isn't wise to make them angry."

  Kirk pushed himself shakily to his feet and

squinted in the direction of

  the voice. A Klingon stood there, trying to mask

his arrogance and

  hostility behind an assumption of polite interest.

"Aha," Kirk said. "At

  last we find the puppet masters."

  The Klingon flushed, his false politeness

vanishing. He growled, the sound

  of a beast, the strange, almost instinctual hatred

between Klingons and

  humans nearly overmastering him. With an effort,

he assumed his mask again. With an even greater

effort, he smiled at the two Star Fleet

officers. "We

  know who you are. Captain James Tiberius

Kirk of the U.s.s. Enterprise, and the ship's

science officer and first officer, the Vulcan,

Spock. We could

  tell from what our other captives . .

. uh, revealed to us that you two

  were behind the sudden eruption of resistance. We

advised the Sealons to

  capture you so that the resistance would end."

  "You "advised' them, you said?" Kirk said.

"Wouldn't "ordered' be the right word?"

  The Klingon smirked. "I think you're missing the

whole point, Kirk. We're

  here merely in an advisory role. It's

obvious to us which of these two

  races is the more qualified to rule this star

system. It must be obvious to you, too. If we're

doing anything, it's only to help the Sealons in their

  natural progress to mastery. It's they who

expressed the natural and proper desire to expand

and conquer; we only provided the means. You have no

right to compidin if we chose to back the stronger faction

and your faction

  loses."

  "Sir," Spock said, in that dry tone that alerted

Kirk to the beginning of

  a theoretical disquisition, "the distinction you have

drawn is surely moot. The Trellisanians

provided the Sealons with space flight, it is

true, but

  they did not teach them to arm their ships. Nor did

they provide them with

  phasers; indeed, that is a device the Sealons,

as an underwater culture,

  would surely not have originated on their own and would not

  have desired or known how to use. It was not until

your own intervention

  that the possibility of attacking and invading

Trellisane arose. By creating that possibility,

you in effect led the Sealons into their present path.

  Klingon must be held accountable for the present

war-if not in the eyes of

  the Organians, then in the view of the Federation

Council. There will surely be retribution."

  The Klingon officer laughed at Spock.

"Vulcan, in a few days, it won't

  matter what role we played. When the Sealons

move onto the land, your weak

  friends will be killed off, and then it will be too late

for the Organians

  or the Federation government to do anything about it."

  "Correction," Kirk said. "In a few days,

you can expect a Romulan fleet to

  arrive and take over this system."

  The Klingon whirled on him, his hand

dropping to the phaser on his belt.

  "What? What lie is this? Speak quickly,

Kirk, or you're dead!"

  Kirk grinned at him, deliberately goading

him into losing his temper. They

  were alone in the office with the Klingon, and if he could

force the

  officer into acting hastily, moving within range of

them, he and Spock

  could surely disarm him. But the Klingon seemed

to realize his danger, and

  he stepped back again, drew his phaser, and held

it aimed at a point in the air midway between Kirk

and Spock. "Now, Kirk," he said in a voice

held

  deliberately calm, "explain what you mean."

  Kirk hesitated. There was no longer any

security reason for not telling

  this Klingon the whole story; it was rather that he felt

a great reluctance at admitting how he had lost his

ship. "A group of fanatics have managed to take

over the Enterprise, and they're on their way right now

to the Romulan Neutral Zone, hoping to attack

a Romulan vessel or base and start a war

  between them and the Federation."

  The Klingon laughed uproariously. "The great

Cap-

  tain Kirk has lost his ship!" he shouted.

"Wonderful! Why should that worry

  us, Kirk? You've destroyed your career, and now

your stupid Federation and

  the Romulans will destroy each other. That's good

news for us-the best

  possible. With both of you eliminated, there'll be

no one to stand in our

  way."

  Spock said, "Sir, you underestimate the

Romulans. They will quite possibly

  manage to capture the Enterprise without

destroying it, and then they will

  find out from the crew what has been happening here.

Even if they do

  destroy the Enterprise, they will surely wonder

why the Federation would

  initiate a war with them by sending a lone ship

to attack their empire. In

  that case, they will surely become suspicious that

something quite

  different is underway and will explore the star

systems in the neighborhood of the

Neutral Zone to try to determine what it is. In

either case, they

  will be greatly angered to find that Klingon is trying

to encroach in this

  area, which they regard as something of a no-man'sland

between the three

  spheres of influence. That is precisely why the

Federation has moved so

  cautiously here. Klingon has made a serious

mistake by not emulating us. I

  doubt that your empire is prepared at this point

to undertake a war against the Romulans and the

Federation-or more properly, the Organians--at the

  same time."

  The Klingon glared at Spock for a moment,

obviously wanting to find the

  words to destroy the Vulcan's argument but unable

to do so. "Why should I

  believe any of this?" he asked finally.

  Before Spock could generously explain why,

logically, he was not obliged to believe it, Kirk

broke in. "You can check on the whereabouts of the

  Enterprise quickly enough."

  The Klingon thought for a moment, then called in a

guard from outside,

  another Klingon, and left the room quickly. After

some minutes, he returned looking shaken. "The

base on Sealon verifies some of what 111

  you've said," he told them, his manner almost

friendly. "The Invasion

  Commandant wants you both sent to him on Sealon

so he can discuss what to do next. If it were up

to me, I'd kill you both instead of cooperating with

  you."

  "And me without my swimsuit," Kirk said.

Invasion Commandant, he thought.

  At least they're being honest with themselves about what

they're doing.

  As if completely unaware of the Assassin

looking over his shoulder,

  Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott,

chief engineer of the U.s.s.

  Enterprise, pulled his head from the crawl space

beside the main warp

  reactor and muttered, "Well, Scotty my

boy, that's probably the best you can do without

replacing those parts." Shaking his head, he walked

across the

  open space in the center of Engineering Section to the

warp reactor

  monitoring computer and stood in front of it

clucking his tongue.

  The Assassin had followed, moving soundlessly.

"What's wrong?" he asked,

  outwardly unperturbed but in fact disturbed

by Scott's obvious worry.

  "Hmm? Oh, it's you. Well, you'see, I've

done the maintenance your boss so

  kindly permitted me to. Now at least we

won't blow up when the drive fails. But it'll still

fail unless I'm allowed to remove some parts from the

  reactor and completely replace them. And he

won't allow me time for that."

  "How long before it gives out?"

  Scott shrugged elaborately. "No way of

knowinguntil it happens. No one

  tests the things that way, because a real starship

captain knows enough to

  let his

  chief engineer have his way where the engines are

concerned."

  The Assassin said impatiently, "Just so they

last long enough to get us to

  the Romulans."

  Scott forced his anger down. The thought that

his beloved engines-and the

  ship itself-were only tools to these madmen

infuriated him. They would let

  his ship be destroyed, and for no purpose other than

their own madness!

  Still, he could tell that if he attacked this man

he would accomplish

  nothing except to get himself crippled or killed.

He could do the ship and

  the Federation more good by keeping himself m working condition

until some

  sort of opportunity presented itself.

  One of Scott's assistants strolled into the

room at that moment, his arm

  cradling a clipboard on which he was checking off

various status points as

  he verified proper operations. He stopped in

surprise when he saw his

  chief. "Sir, I thought you went off duty a

couple of hours ago."

  "Just finished the warp engine maintenance, Bill,"

Scott told him, hoping

  the young man would have the wit to accept that explanation

for now.

  Instead, the young engineer frowned and looked

over the papers on his

  clipboard. "But none of that was scheduled, sir.

I thought I remembered

  that we took care of that last week."

  "Right. That was the regular maintenance. We had

bad problems because of

  the shaking up the engines took during that attack

at the beginning of the

  Red Alert."

  "Oh, yes, sir, I see." Diligently and

scrupulously, the young man wrote a

  few remarks on his check-off fist. "In that

case, sir, I'd better look it

  over so I know what to tell the man who

relieves me." And before Scott

  could think of the right words to stop him without making the

Assassin

  suspicious, the engineer had stuck

  his own head into the crawl space, still uncovered, that

Scott had vacated

  only minutes before.

  Scott stole a quick glance at the Assassin.

The man was watching the

  younger engineer and flexing his hands unconsciously.

Scott sensed

  immediately that his assistant was close to death, and he

said, in a

  cheerful tone, "We'd better get back to the

bridge, now, and tell them that we're done down

here." But the Assassin motioned him to silence.

  The young engineer came out of the crawl space

frowning. "But, sir-was

  "Yes, yes, lad, I know," Scott cut

in. "Those parts need to be replaced, or they'll

give out soon. But with this alert on, the bridge just

won't give

  me the time to do that." Star Fleet engineering did

such a fine job of

  recruiting young men and women of high technical

competence, he thought

  bitterly. Why couldn't they manage to send him

some who were also quick on

  their feet in the nontechnical aspects?

  The younger man was obviously not reassured.

"Yes, but sir-was

  "Damn it, laddie," Scott said, the anger in

his voice quite real and based

  on his fear for the young man's life. "I know that's

not good engineering

  practice, but we just don't have a

choice. Now, don't you mess around with

  what I've done in there. It's all just on the

verge of not holding

  together, and I don't want you sticking your mitts

in there and spoiling

  what little I was able to do."

  The other engineer looked hurt, but he said only,

"Yes, sir," and passed

  on, sedulously checking things off on his

clipboard. Scott couldn't tell if he had at

last got the message that all was not what it should be

or if he

  had been browbeaten into silence. Either way, he had

escaped a brutal death that had been, for some

minutes, closer than he could have realized.

  The Assassin grasped Scott's upper arm in

a grip of

  iron. Scott kept the pain from showing. The

Assassin stared down into his

  face for a long moment, perplexity mixed with anger

in his expression.

  Whatever he might suspect, his suspicions were

clearly not precise enough

  for him to act on them. At last he shoved

Scott toward the doorway and

  growled, "Back to the bridge. Move."

  Scott moved, releasing the breath he had been

unconsciously holding. He

  knew how close to death he had been, but he

told himself with some smugness that it had been worth the

risk: in the end, the chance he had taken might

  entirely save his beloved engines and ship from this

gang. Suppressing the

  cocky grin that kept trying to break out on his

face, he headed for the

  elevator.

  It could have been called a data exchange, but that

does not convey the

  deeper interchange that was taking place. Christine

Chapel sat quietly in

  a chair in Medical Section, her eyes

closed, looking as though she were

  napping briefly to recover from the rush of wounded.

A meter or two away

  from her, also unmoving, the Onctiliian rested on

the floor. Now it was a

  three-part creature; the once-gaping wound of the

dead member was healing

  rapidly. The three and the new fourth member were

reliving each others'

  lives.

  Simultaneously puzzled and entranced, the three

Onctiliians experienced

  Chapel's upbringing on Earth, her academic

career, her early professional

  triumphs, and then the personal loss that had led

her to become a nurse in

  Star Fleet. They ached and wept with her when she

found the lover she had

  thought lost, only to discover that he was even more

irretrievably lost

  than she had known. They comforted her, supported

her, wept with her, loved her.

  And she lived their childhoods in the marshes of

Onctiliis, growing through the many stages of life of

that watery world's highest life form. Each life

story was repeated three times, though each time differed

  from the others in some details. Hauntingly, through the

memories of the

  three survivors, she lived the life of the

fourth, the one who had died but

  would never be forgotten or fully relinquished.

She relived their meeting in the fern forest that was their

tribal mating ground, and then she relived

  their inexpressibly joyous physical union

into a four-part adult. Finally,

  with them, she lived through their discovery of

interplanetary politics, the United Expansion

Party, and Hander Morl and his small party of

fanatics, and the near-fatal trauma of the death of a

member.

  Each member contributed something to the personality

of the whole. The one

  who had died had been the most aggressive of the

four, and the one most

  given to sudden and extreme enthusiasms. The being

which now included

  Christine Chapel was not only more intelligent

than any other four-part

  Onctiliian, because the human woman was far more

intelligent than any

  single Onctiliian, but was also more

introspective and pacifist. This

  creature would not have followed Hander Morl. Its

memories of what had

  happened, and the part it had played, horrified the

being it had become.

  We must correct this evil.

  We shall act.

  The woman stood up and moved slowly, almost

dreamily, from Medical Section

  into the corridor beyond. The other three, no longer

quite able to attain

  sphericity and thus moving more slowly than

normally, followed. The

  four-part view of the hallway and the four-part body

of sensations of

  smell, sound, and vibrations were a revelation to the

member that still

  called itself "Chapel." It strolled along the

corridor, absorbed,

  delighted, reveling in the profound complexity of the

Enterprise.

  Hander Morl laughed with pleasure as the stars on

the main screen dissolved into chaos and then reformed, but

this time in evident motion. The

  was once more under warp drive, and once again his

race toward destiny was

  on schedule. He pushed himself from the command chair and

stretched his

  cramped muscles, then turned around to grin at

Scott, who stood calm and

  relaxed on the raised platform where Uhura's

communications station was

  located. "Thank you, Chief Engineer. The ship

feels good. We're going to

  make it."

  Scott inclined his head slightly but said nothing.

Uhura, both puzzled and

  angry at Scott's complicity with their

captors, said, "Thank you indeed,

  Mr. Scott. That was just what they needed."

  In a voice scarcely above a murmur,

Scott said, "Don't thank me yet, lass.

  The best is yet to be."

  The office in which they had spoken to the Klingon was in

an underwater dome housing a series of such rooms.

As they were led along a succession of

  corridors under guard, Kirk saw many other such

rooms, and they were passed

  by many Klingons, both singly and in groups. The

dome was surely not

  necessary for the aquatic Sealons. Clearly it had

been built only for the

  sake of their Klingon "advisers," and just as

clearly the number of those

  "advisers" must be very large. The air in the dome

was heavy with moisture,

  and the temperature was too low for human

comfort. Water beaded on the walls and dripped from the

ceilings. In places, the prisoners and their guards

  walked through puddles. It was surely well within the

abilities of the

  Klingons to build a more pleasant underwater

habitat than this. Kirk assumed that they must see

this as only temporary; before too long, they planned

to

  be established on the land and to rule this world, through their

Sealon

  allies, from the surface.

  At last they were led to an airlock. Beyond it, they

found themselves in a

  long, pressurized, flexible tube laid on the

sea bottom. The tube was well

  lighted and the walls were partially transparent. As

they were marched

  along it, Kirk could see various sea

creatures,

  shaped much like the fish and sea snakes of his

native Earth, nuzzling the

  outside of the tube, drawn there by the smaller

animals that clung to it

  because of the escaping light and warmth. Under any other

circumstances, it

  would have been a fascinating place to spend some time

sightseeing. As it

  was, he and Spock were hurried along to the end

of the tube.

  The end was another airlock, on the other side of

which they found

  themselves in a small shuttle craft. The cabin

had only one window, small

  and reinforced to withstand more than normal atmospheric

pressure. Kirk and Spock were seated away from the

window and manacled to the arms of their

  acceleration couches. So the Klingons haven't

given the Sealons

  transporters, Kirk thought. Insufficient

trust, for true allies, or perhaps it's

insufficient faith in their dependability in the

future.

  Noises came from beyond the airlock, and then the

shuttle was free and

  rising up through the sea. Startled shapes moved beyond

the window, sea

  creatures disturbed by the sudden motion of their new

habitat. Once,

  something large swam up and a face that looked like a

cross between a man's and a frog's stared in

at them. A Sealon, Kirk realized, either a

curious

  one or a suspicious one, checking up on the

latest movements of the

  Klingons. The Klingon guard seated by the window

recoiled m open disgust

  and put his hand reflexively to his phaser. Then

the Sealon face

  disappeared. Kirk glanced at Spock and saw that

the Vulcan was watching the Klingon with the same interest

he felt.

  The shuttle broke the surface and lay bobbing

for a few minutes on the

  swells in bright sunlight. The window showed

alternations of bright blue

  sky and green waters as the waves broke against the

vessel's side. Then

  there was the rumble of engines and, sluggishly at first,

the shuttle

  raised itself into the air. Gathering speed, it flashed

upwards at a steep

  angle, the blue sky outside the window giving

place to a 120

  deeper, darker color and then finally to the

starspeckled black of space.

  This was a rare experience for Kirk, who was

accustomed to using the

  Enterprise's transporter and could only rarely

allow himself the luxury of

  traveling by shuttle. Time was usually so short for

his many duties that he

  normally considered the shuttle as much an

inconvenience as a luxury. Now,

  with no choice in the matter, he could revel in the

sense of community the

  experience gave him with the first men to leave the Earth

atop their

  chemical rockets and thrust into space. James

Kirk had few heroes, but those men were among them.

Then the craft turned slightly and beyond the window

  part of a Klingon-inspired Sealon ship came

into view, and Kirk's fantasies

  evaporated.

  The manacles were unlocked, Kirk and Spock

were transferred to the large

  ship quickly and efficiently and placed in a

detention cell, and the ship

  left orbit for Sealon. Except for the

Sealons who had captured them on the

  beach and the enigmatic face at the

shuttle's window while it was still

  underwater, Kirk had seen only Klingons. He

began to wonder if the Klingons had already followed

their usual pattern of reducing their vassal

peoples

  to slavery, without even waiting for the invasion of

Trellisane to be

  completed. were there even any Sealons aboard this

apparently Sealon ship?

  He filed the anomaly away for future

reference, along with the reaction of

  the Klingon guard to the face at the shuttle's

window, not knowing yet what use any of this information

might be but hoping that it would be of some

  use in the future. If I have a future, he

reminded himself.

  Veedron had heard enough. He leaped from his chair

and stalked to the door

  of McCoy's office. He paused there, turned

his head, and said to the

  doctor, "I had no idea your Federation had such

stupid laws. We'll

  certainly have to reconsider any idea of joining

it.

  You'd expect us to share political

power with the yegemot--creatures whose

  ancestors weren't even human!" Head high with

anger, he started to leave the room.

  McCoy stared speechlessly at him for a moment,

then called him back before

  he was out of earshot. "Veedron! Wait just a

minute. What was that last

  thing you said?"

  Veedron came back into the office

reluctantly and seated himself again.

  "The yegemot, those with no gemot. That's what

we call them, the ones you

  call our servants. I haven't explained this

to you before because we don't

  talk about it to outsiders when they come here to trade.

We try to spare

  the yegemot the embarrassment. After all, even

they have some feelings,

  almost as we do."

  "Oh, I'm sure that's true," McCoy said,

but his irony was apparently lost

  on Veedron.

  "Yes," Veedron said, "they do, although not everyone

seems to realize that. You see, McCoy, the

yegemot are actually descended from

domestic animals

  that our ancestors bred to human shape ages

ago. Unfortunately, that sort

  of biological skill has been long lost to us,

but fortunately the yegemot

  breed true. I'd be the first to admit that our

economy depends upon

  continuing their breed. There's never a shortage of

them." He sniffed in

  contempt. "I suppose that's one advantage of

their lack of a moral code.

  Now, I know that you have various animals as pets

and for some work on

  Earth. Would you ever consider letting them vote or

share in the running of your world? Of course not! And

yet that is just what you expect us to do

  here on Trellisane."

  "Then a . . . yegemot may achieve as high

a level of competence in some

  field or profession as possible and still not be

accepted as one of you?"

  "Of course not. Anyway, they are not mentally

capable of reaching a very

  high level of competence in anything."

  "Because they're really animals in human

guise?"

  "Precisely!" Veedron was triumphant.

"There, McCoy, now you begin to

  understand. Now perhaps you can sympathize with our point

of view."

  "Veedron, I'm probably better equipped

to understand your attitude than

  anyone else on the Enterprise. Tell me,

though. Has it ever happened that

  a yegemot has, um, mated with a human and

produced young?"

  Veedron stiffened in anger. As McCoy had

anticipated, this was a question

  that struck a bit too deep for comfort. Then the

Trellisanian relaxed again and said, slowly, as

if each word were being dragged from him painfully,

  "Yes. It has happened. Our deepest shame.

Such children are considered to

  be yegemot themselves."

  McCoy put his hands behind his head and leaned back

in his chair, looking

  thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Your ancestors must have

been smarter than

  you realize. They've made biological

history here."

  Veedron smiled, his anger forgotten. "I'm so

glad that you, at least,

  understand our position."

  "Oh, I do indeed," McCoy said. "This does

change matters in some respects."

  Veedron left the office again, but this time not in

anger. There was a

  bounce in his step. McCoy watched him go

thoughtfully, then got up and

  followed him.

  They were brought down from orbit by shuttle craft

again. The vessel landed on a strip on a small

land mass that Kirk, searching his memory for the few

details Veedron had told them when they arrived

on Trellisane, guessed must be the land capital

built by Pongol, the great leader who had united

  Sealon. The land was covered with huge buildings,

topped by tall chimneys

  from which black smoke belched. Land and air

traffic moved about busily.

  Nature had forced the Sealons to build all of

this on land, no matter how

  much their own biology might make them prefer the

sea.

  A Klingon guard-again, no sign of

Sealonsmarched them from the shuttle to

  a small surface craft. In that they were taken

to a large office building,

  much like an administrative center on any

planet. The grounds and the

  corridors of this building bustled with Klingons,

striding about with

  evident purpose.

  They were taken to a large, grand office in the

building. A Klingon

  officer, his high rank indicated by the braid on

his uniform, waited behind a large desk for them. As

their guard ushered them in, he rose and greeted

  them in a surprising display of politeness. He

was tall, broad, heavily

  muscled-huge for a Klingon, and gigantic

by Earth standards. He wore the

  short, well-trimmed beard common among

Klingon officers; his skin color was even darker

than most. He radiated power, confidence, and an

unstoppable

  will. His voice matched that impression-deep,

resonant, powerful. He spoke

  quietly, almost gently, for a Klingon.

"Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. I

am

  Fleet Leader Kaged, commandant of all

Klingon forces in this system. I am

  quite pleased to meet both of you after all these years."

  "Quite pleased to have us captive, you mean," Kirk

said.

  Kaged inclined his head slightly. "Of course

that. But in addition, I'm

  pleased to meet you in person. I've followed your

career with interest and

  admiration, Captain. There is surely no other

officer in Star Fleet who has performed so well

against us. Therefore, I am pleased to have you captive

  and no longer able to act against us; but I am also

glad to have the chance to speak to you."

  This reception threw Kirk momentarily off

balance. To keep that from

  showing, he said, "You know the situation with my ship.

There won't be any

  time for talk if the Romulans arrive here and

attack your installation. You don't know them as we

do, Kaged. They're capable of just such a

response."

  Kaged laughed suddenly, a loud, booming laugh

  an undertone of cruelty and threat-the true

Klingon in him peeping out from

  behind the mask of politeness. "We don't fear the

Romulans, Kirk, any more

  than we fear the Federation. They worry more about

fighting honorably than

  about winning. Fortunately, we aren't hampered that

way." He pursed his lips in momentary thought.

"Still, it would be inconvenient to have to deal with

  them now, before we're ready. They're on our

schedule, you know," he said,

  suddenly conversational and polite again, "but the

Federation comes first."

  He's talking too much, Kirk realized

suddenly. He wouldn't say all of this

  to us if he expected to ever let us go. Somehow,

Kirk had always thought

  he'd die in battle, as a warrior, not that

he'd be coldbloodedly executed

  while a prisoner of the Klingons. "The more you

talk, the closer the

  Enterprise gets to the Neutral Zone."

  Kaged nodded. "Preparations are already underway.

After this problem is

  solved, I must extract from you the story

of your loss of the Enterprise.

  Captain Kirk, of all men-our great

nemesis. You've destroyed so many

  Klingon vessels, you and your ship. To have you lose

your own to an attack

  from the inside-why, it astonishes me!"

  Kirk gritted his teeth but said nothing. Kaged

watched him carefully for

  signs of some response, but Kirk's control of

his expression was firm

  enough that the Klingon looked away finally,

disappointed. "Yes," Kaged

  said. After a pause, he continued, "I'm going

to give you something you've

  probably long desired, Kirk: a ride on

a first-line Klingon battleship. I'm sure you'd

prefer to be in command of her, having captured her in

battle,

  but you'll have to settle for being a prisoner."

  "What do you have in mind, Kaged?"

  "Unfortunately, I have only a small fleet

here at my command, and I'm

  reluctant to divide it. I've decided to send

the largest ship off after the Enterprise. Its speed

is greater than anything the Federation has, so

it

  should be able to cato the Enterprise before it reaches

Romulan territory.

  The new higher speed we've been able to attain

is something I wouldn't

  normally want you to know about until you met us in

battle, but," he

  shrugged his shoulders and smirked, "in your case it

hardly matters what you find out. You'll be on the

ship as an expert adviser to its captain. After

  all, who knows more about the Enterprise and its crew

and capabilities comand

  how to find, fight, and destroy her-than the great

Captain James T. Kirk?"

  "You expect me to help you destroy my own

ship?" Kirk was as amazed as he

  was angry.

  Kaged looked at him shrewdly. "I don't

think your Federation is any readier to fight the

Romulans than we are, Kirk. We watched you

carefully when the

  Romulans first attacked you. You gave back,

nearly collapsed. You just

  barely managed to hold your own against them. Had

we only been ready at the time to take

advantage of it, we could have mopped you up afterwards in

no

  time. Since then, we believe, the Federation has

grown even more pacifist

  and weaker, while the Romulans, hidden behind their

Neutral Zone comwell, who knows what time and

resentment might have done for them? Kirk, I

respect

  you personally, even admire you, as many Klingon

military commanders do. If you were typical of Star

Fleet ship's captains, it would be a different

  situation. As it is, your Federation is doomed as

soon as we Klingons can

  find some way around the Organians and attack

you. That might take

  generations, however; certainly, the Federation should

survive during your

  lifetime and mine. Unless you go to war with the

Romulans, of course, in

  which case they will probably wipe you out before we have

the chance to do

  so. It's your ship, your Enterprise, against the

survival of the

  Federation. I'm offering you the chance to save the

Federation by helping

  us."

  In the meantime weakening the Federation by the 126

  loss of the finest ship and crew in the fleet,

Kirk thought bitterly.

  Spock said, "On the face of it, Captain, a

logical argument."

  "On the face of it!" Kaged exclaimed.

"Logical all the way through, Vulcan.

Moreover, you will stay behind with me. Kirk, to ensure

that you won't try

  one of your famous stratagems, Spock remains

here as a hostage. I think we

  could manage to make even a Vulcan feel a

great deal of pain before he

  died, despite their mental disciplines."

  "An interesting challenge, sir," Spock said

thoughtfully. "I shall be most

  curious to see whether your methods of torture

are indeed so efficacious as you seem to think."

  Kirk shuddered involuntarily at the thought and at

Spock's coldblooded

  discussion of his own fate. "It won't come to that,

Mr. Spock," he said

  quietly, wearily. "I agree, Kaged."

He came closer in that moment to

  admitting total defeat than he had ever done in

his career.

  The quiet, small sounds of utensils against

plates, the gentle tinkling of

  glasses being filled with exquisite wines, the

low murmur of civilized

  conversation. Half a dozen men were present at the

banquet, besides Leonard McCoy; they were the ones

who had happened to be on this continent when the Sealons

cut off transoceanic travel. Still, they were the

leaders of most

  of this world's most powerful and important gemots,

and thus, sitting in

  council, they were what government Trellisane

had. McCoy was an honored

  guest, and in fact he was being treated by these powerful

leaders as one of them.

  The food was exclusively vegetarian. This

puzzled McCoy and annoyed him

  somewhat. The fish he had had before was missing.

Well, of course, no

  in his right mind would go out on the sea, with the current

conditions, and

  on this world, fresh-water fish weren't considered

sufficient delicacies to

  be served in such elevated company. The marine

plants the Trellisanians

  ate-and which McCoy was already learning to detest, after

eating them three

  times a day every day-had previously been harvested

on the high seas but

  were now being grown on shallow bays and inland salt

pools. But what he

  particularly missed was the meat he had been fed

upon arrival. He longed to

  sink his teeth into a juicy, medium-rare steak.

That stuff was raised on

  land, of course, so what was the problem? Or have

they, he wondered, killed

  off all the herds already in panic over coming

shortages? He turned to his

  neighbor on his right, a distinguished, elderly,

greybearded gentleman

  wearing the subdued robes of the Building

Erectors gemot. "You know," McCoy

  said to him in a low voice, "I wouldn't mind some

food with a lot less

  crunch and a lot more blood in it."

  His neighbor nodded and murmured, "Indeed.

I'm quite shocked that, with a

  guest such as you present, proper food was not

provided. I must have a word with Geldop about this."

  "Ah, of course, you wouldn't know. Geldop is

the current head of the Food

  Provenders' gemot." He raised himself

slightly in his chair and looked

  around. Then he sighed heavily. "I see he is

not with us. Perhaps he was

  trapped elsewhere by the war, or possibly even

injured or killed, poor man. Still," he said,

looking righteous again, "that gemot has many able men in

  lower positions, and this laxity is inexcusable."

He gestured over his

  shoulder at the line of quiet waiters standing against

the wall behind

  them. "Just feast your eyes on that row of healthy,

young yegemot. Truly

  shocking."

  McCoy bridled. "Well, now-was But at this

point, he 128

  was interrupted by the beginning of a speech, and by the time

it was over,

  he had lost his train of thought.

  Later, as he was leaving the banquet hall,

satisfied with the drink if not

  with the food, McCoy encountered Spenreed strolling

down the hallway,

  looking jubilant. "Doctor!" the yegemot

burst out, grabbing his hand. "I

  was hoping to find you here. I don't know what you

did to me when you

  operated on me, but I think you saved my life

twice. I'm still alive!"

  "I've noticed you are," McCoy said,

extracting his hand from the slave's

  powerful grip. Flexing his hand, he added, "But it

wasn't anything I did.

  Don't you see, it was just some foolish

superstitious idea you had, and as

  I told you, those are nonsense no matter what

planet you're on."

  Spenreed laughed joyfully. "Oh, yes,

Doctor. It's all nonsense, all right.

  You've changed my attitudes about a lot of

things." He walked on down the

  hallway, whistling, with a bounce in his step.

McCoy grinned after him,

  shook his head, and went about his own business.

  Honorable warriors they might be, but the

Romulans were not above monitoring Federation

communications from within the Neutral Zone. They had

caught even less of the message from Trellisane

than had been recorded by the colony on

  Trefolg, so they had no idea the Klingons were

in any way involved.

  Nonetheless, a war within the no-man's-land, in a

system not too far removed from their own borders, and

an appeal for help to the Federation disturbed

  them mightily. Patrols in the general direction

of Trellisane were increased both in number and

strength, special bases were established to listen for

  more messages, and military forces in the area were

ordered to be even more

  alert than usual. If a patrol should

occasionally, overcome with zeal and

  devotion to duty, stray beyond the Neutral Zone

in order to patrol more

  effectively, no one was reprimanded. There were

powerful factions within the Romulan military command and

high imperial circles who were eager to renew

  the war with the Federation.

  Sulu watched the four points on his screen for

long moments, wondering

  whether patriotism would be better served by speaking

out or remaining

  silent. At last, loyalty to his ship won out

over other questions and he

  said, "Something's headed our way." There was

  no response from the command chair, where Hander

Mori was staring at him

  uncomprehendingly. "I'll put it on the main

screen," Sulu said, hiding his

  sneer with only partial success.

  The starfield on the main screen wavered and

dissolved and was replaced

  with a view that at first glance seemed similar.

However, near the center

  of the image, four bright points moved together against the

background

  stars. Sulu looked over his shoulder quickly at

Mori, but the man who

  should have been issuing commands was staring at the screen in

obvious

  puzzlement. "Ships, probably," Sulu said,

open contempt in his voice. "I'll magnify."

Again the image wavered, dissolved, then

resolidified. This time, the dots took shape as

four strangely shaped warships, growing steadily

  larger as they sped toward the Enterprise. Sulu

felt a prickling at the

  back of his neck. "Romulans," he whispered.

In the sudden, tense silence on the bridge, the

whisper carried to every corner.

  Hander Mori sat frozen, his eyes bulging.

Earlier, he had reveled in the

  feeling of being in control of this great weapon, at the

nerve center of

  this embodiment of Federation might. He had looked

forward to the final

  confrontation with the Romulans, the moment that would both

end and

  epitomize his career. Now that moment was here, and

he was suddenly

  paralyzed with fear. Those ships, those fiendish,

evil shapes rushing down

  on them! How could they survive? How could they

escape? He looked around

  the bridge. The Enterprise personnel were

concentrating on their instru-

  ments, sparing only an occasional glance at the

screen, and Mori was

  overcome by a wave of admiration for their courage

and sense of duty. His

  own people were watching him for a cue. "Have we reached the

Neutral Zone

  yet?" he tried to ask Sulu, but his voice

came out as an incoherent croak.

  He cleared his throat and repeated the question, this time

intelligibly.

  "No." It was Chekov who answered him.

"We're

  some distance from it yet. Those ships penetrated beyond

it."

  Moil felt relief and triumph. "Then

they've already precipitated the war by violating our

space!"

  Scott, still standing calmly next to Uhura, said,

"I doubt it. This area

  wasn't covered in the treaty. It's outside

both our space and theirs."

  "Then we can't fight them here!" Mori said

desperately. "We've got to reach the Neutral

Zone first. Increase our speed!"

  Sulu shook his head. "Sorry. We'll need

the screens up if they're chasing

  and firing at us, and that means no more speed than we

already have." He

  doubted if Mori would know better.

  "I'm getting something," Uhura said. "They

want us to kill the warp drive

  and stand by for boarding. They want to know what we're

doing here."

  "Boarding!" Mori went pale. If he allowed

the ship to be boarded and

  captured, that would be the certain end of all his

plans. "All right. Kill

  the warp immediately." Sulu and Chekov exchanged a

glance of triumph,

  thinking that Mori was defeated at last; their

pleasure kept them from

  noticing the sudden determination in his voice.

Sulu's fingers moved over

  the buttons of his console and, with that

psychophysical wrench, the

  Enterprise dropped back into normal space.

  "Speed at zero," Sulu said happily. It

would be more honorable to be taken

  prisoner by the Romulans, he reflected, than

to be part of a plot to cause

  a war.

  While Sulu, Chekov, and the others turned from

their work to watch the

  Romulan ships approach ever closer on the

main screen, Mori asked Scott,

  "How will they board us?"

  Scott shrugged. "Hard to say. They might use

a shuttle, or they might

  decide to beam directly onto the bridge."

  Mori nodded in satisfaction. He pushed himself

  the chair and strode energetically over to Sulu's

chair "Out," he said.

  "Quickly."

  Sulu laughed but stood up. Mori sat down in

his place. Sulu grinned at his

  back and said, "Don't touch anything, kid."

  But Mori ignored him. His fingers moved

carefully but rapidly over the

  buttons of the helmsman's console. He had

spent months studying the

  blueprints and operating manuals for such starships

as this one, and he had spent the last many weary hours

carefully watching Sulu's actions. This and his

intelligence stood him in good stead now. Sulu,

watching him, lost his

  grin and felt instead grudging but genuine

admiration. Mori finished

  composing the series of commands, checked them quickly on

the small screen

  on the console, and then stopped with his finger

over the button that would start the execution of the commands.

With everyone else, he watched the

  Romulan ships in the main screen.

  The four ships were arranged as the vertices of an

almost precise square.

  They retained that formation, approaching and slowing

until the Enterprise

  was at the center of the square. There they stopped. The

tension of waiting increased. Nothing further seemed

to be happening. Scott stepped quickly to the science

officer station and pressed his face to the visor of the

small

  computer console. "They're scanning the bridge

now," he announced.

  "Probably trying to establish coordinates for

their transporter. Yes, here

  it comes."

  Simultaneously, half a dozen vaguely

manlike shapes began to resolve

  themselves on the Enterprise bridge in the display of

twinkling lights

  characteristic of a transporter, and Mori pressed the

button on the console firmly. There was a sudden

jolt of impulse power and the six shapes, fixed

  in space, seemed to move sideways

sharply and out through the walls of the

  bridge into space as the Enterprise moved away

from them. Almost

  immediately, the warp engines cut in and the Romulan

ships on the screen

  disappeared. Mori grinned at Sulu 133

  who, struck with horror at this callousness and

imagining himself in the

  position of the Romulans in the transporter

beam, yelled at Chekov, "Get

  that on the screen! Full magnification!"

  Chekov fumbled with his console for a moment, then

succeeded. The scene was shrinking rapidly as the

Enterprise sped away, but even so Sulu could

make

  out the six shapes in airless space, writhing and

struggling as they

  suffocated and their tissues ruptured. Just as they

were lost in the

  distance, he thought they twinkled out of sight, brought

back aboard their

  ships by transporter, but he knew it was

probably too late to save their

  fives. For a Romulan above all, he thought, that

must have seemed a filthy, evil death,

killed by trickery and dishonesty. And cruelly and

uncleanly.

  The Romulans would not let them go now.

  Morl stood up and returned to the command chair, a

spring in his step.

  "That's how to do it!" he said, not trying to hide his

pleasure. "That's

  how a patriot takes care of those animals.

Now, get the screens up if they

  get close enough to fire. Otherwise, just keep us

ahead of them until we

  can penetrate their home space."

  Sulu returned to his position, feeling ill.

He raged at himself. Wasn't

  there something they could do against this madman, despite

his underlings

  and their weapons? For the first time that he could

remember, he felt more

  kinship with the Romulans than with his own kind.

  Unity through diversity. That is the philosophy

of the unit called Spock.

  Spock: the new union had not destroyed old

emotions. Nor were feelings

  hidden from the new partners, even if those feelings

had once been

  partially, unsuccessfully hidden from herself. The

wave of feeling ran from the human body to the other

three and rebounded. But with it came warm

  support and commiseration, sympathy and empathy for

unrequited love.

  A good philosophy. It describes our

union and its beauty.

  It is what Hander Morl and the others do not

see-what we did not see,

  before . . . before . .

  Before the death of the original fourth member. This

time, it was the human partner who supported and soothed

the others, calming the panic-hurt of the terrible wound.

  Therefore the United Expansion Party must be

stopped. Hander Morl and his

  followers must be shown their error and persuaded

to halt.

  The being moved toward a turboelevator, waited

until the doors swished

  open, and then stepped inside. The process

happened twice, for the being

  had two bodies, and one of those was in three parts

and moved with

  difficulty. A momentary pause, while the

memories of the human member were

  searched and sheChapel to herself, still, but less so with every

passing

  minute--struggled to speak. "Bridge."

  "Bridge has been ordered closed to all

personnel not already working

  there." The voice was almost apologetic.

  Again the memories were searched. "Medical

emergency. This is Nurse

  Christine Chapel. Check my voice pattern

and comply with my first command."

  The pause was long, as if the computer, presented

by a second demand to

  override its command from the bridge on the basis of

an emergency, had

  grown suspicious. The voice pattern did not

match precisely that in its

  files for Chapel, but the deviation was within the

allowable amount,

  despite its strangeness, and it had no choice but

to comply. Had the bridge foreseen this, it would have commanded

the computer to notify it of any

  override, but Morl had not thought of that.

  As the elevator began to move, the ship's warp

drive cut off once more, and the Enterprise dropped

back into normal space. The effect was

insignificant to the

  machines onboard, and even to most humans; once

they had had a chance to

  grow used to it, the wrench of transition, more

psychological than physical, was only a minor

nuisance. To the new being m the elevator, however,

the

  transition was a shattering blow. The transition

took place when the

  elevator was passing through a region of the ship where

the shielding

  against its effects was inadequate. The wrenching

effect would have been

  much greater than normal for any other being, but still

bearable. Not so for this four-part creature.

  Chapel crumpled to the floor nervelessly and lay

there unmoving and

  unthinking for long minutes. The other three cried

out in pain as she fell

  and then grew silent, watching her in confusion.

Shakily, bewildered, she

  rose to her feet.

  Who is this strange human with us?

  A threat!

  Shall we kill it?

  She stared back at them, filled with an

unutterable loss. Contact had been

  broken, communion lost. She remembered her

previous state, but they,

  reeling from their earlier losses, their subsequent

brush with death, and

  the new union with so alien a mind as Chapel's,

scarcely remembered her.

  She felt their intentions and pressed herself against the

farther wall in

  fear. They poised themselves for an attack.

  And then the elevator passed into a well shielded

area and even the

  transitory effects still remaining from the

transition to normal space

  vanished. Slowly a trickle of telepathic

contact began, growing quickly to

  a rush, a flood of sensation and memory, and the

four minds rushed together again into the communion with a cry

of gladness both physical and mental.

  The merger was deeper than ever. Chapel and the others

knew with even

  greater keenness than before what they had gained and how

fragile it was.

  Hander Mori raged futilely as he

paced about the bridge. "You!" he

  screamed, pointing at Scott. His finger and his

voice both shook, but he

  was beyond noticing either. "Why did this happen?" He

had ordered Sulu to

  demand warp speed again from Engineering section, but the

reply from below

  had been that the warp reactor had stopped and could not

be restarted. Mori knew what Scott would reply

--that he had warned Mori this would happen if

  he was not allowed to replace those mysterious parts in

the reactor-and he

  could even guess at the smugness of Scott's

smile as he gave this answer.

  Therefore he gave Scott no chance to answer.

"Never mind. Just get back

  down there and fix it as soon as possible." As

Scott headed for the

  elevator doors, Hander Mori motioned quickly

at one of his Assassin

  bodyguards to follow the engineer. But even as he

did so, he wondered why

  he was bothering. Did it make any difference now?

He had a sinking feeling

  in the pit of his stomach. Something: there must

still be something he

  could do, even now.

  The Romulans had been caught by surprise by the

shift from warp drive and

  had overshot the Enterprise, but not by much. Now they

too had returned to

  normal space and were heading swiftly back

toward their prey. "Full power

  to shields," Sulu ordered calmly, filled with

that icy coolness that

  overcomes some men in battle, all the more so when

they are sure they will

  not live through it. With so little room or power

to maneuver, the

  Enterprise must either surrender or face the

concentrated fire of the four

  Romulan ships. Her shields would not hold up

for long under such a

  bombardment. Perhaps there would have been a chance with a

superb tactician like Captain Kirk in command,

Sulu thought. He had pulled them out of even

  worse situations before. But with this madman in

control, either surrender

  or death was inevitable.

  The small display above the elevator

doors indicated that another elevator

  had arrived and was queued,

  waiting its turn, waiting for Scott to leave for

Engineering in the elevator already there. Scott noted

that fact with some surprise and then noted that

  no one else was aware of it. It might be help

on its way, he told himself.

  In that case, I can do much more good up here on the

bridge than down in

  Engineering.

  The doors had not yet opened, since Scott had

not yet stepped within range

  of the sensors. He turned to the Assassin walking

close beside him and said conversationally, "Sometimes you have

to keep reminding these elevators

  that you want them, or else the computer forgets about

you." He stepped to

  the side and pressed the array of buttons beside the

elevator doors

  quickly, appearing to be summoning an elevator.

In fact, he had issued an

  override command, ordering the computer to dispatch the

waiting car

  elsewhere and instead allow the queued one to come up

to the doors. Then he stepped back to his

previous position, trying to look calm, but burning

  with hope.

  "Here they come," Sulu muttered. The four

Romulan ships swept down upon the Enterprise and

matched trajectories with her. The Federation ship was

at

  the center of the square, with a Romulan at each

corner.

  "They demand surrender," Uhura said.

  Hander Morl gritted his teeth. "No!" he

hissed. "Fight the animals!"

  Sitting ducks, Sulu thought. That's what we

are. Aloud, he said, "Arm

  photon torpedoes."

  It had been a few days since McCoy had had

the opportunity to remove a

  capsule from the brain of a slave. Now he had just

done it again, and after

  closing the patient's skull, be stepped over to the

shelf where he had been

  keeping the capsules removed previously to add

the new one to the

  collection. To keep them from rolling away, he

had put the lot of them in a

  bowl. Now, bowl and capsules were gone,

and so was part of the shelf. Where

  the bowl had stood was a hole in the shelf. The

wood had been burned through in an almost perfectly

circular pattern, with charred edges bearing mute

  witness to the heat required. He bent down

to examine the underside of the

  shelf above, and it too was blackened, although it still

seemed strong

  enough to hold the beakers he had placed on it. Below

the hole, on the next

  shelf down, he had put replacement units for the

hypospray charge. Some of

  these, directly beneath the hole, had melted,

spilling their contents across the shelf. The others were

discolored, the fluids in them opaque. McCoy

  cursed. "Spenreed!"

  The slave had attached himself to McCoy as

permanent assistant, assuring

  the Earthman that he would no longer be needed at his

previous place. Now

  he came

  running. "Look at this mess!" McCoy said.

"These hypospray units are

  worthless now. Throw them out and see if I have any

more in the stuff I

  brought down with me from the Enterprise. Do you have

any idea what happened here?" He pointed at the

hole in the shelf.

  Spenreed shook his head, looking mystified.

  "All right, all right. Get going." As the

slave hurried from the room, the

  bundle of ruined hypospray units clutched in

his arms, McCoy muttered, "I

  wonder if there was something funny about that bowl . .

. ."

  There was a crash from the next room, and a bellow in

a voice McCoy

  recognized as Veedron's. "Animal!"

Veedron shouted. "How dare you!"

  McCoy ran in to find the two

Trellisanians facing each other, both red

  faced. The hypospray units littered the

floor. "Animal yourself!" Spenreed

  shouted. "You think the world belongs to you, your kind!

Watch your step

  next time."

  Veedron's eyes widened in disbelief. Then

stern anger ruled his face. He

  pointed at the slave and closed his eyes, his

expression becoming one of

  deep inner concentration.

  Spenreed sank back against a wall, collapsing

to the floor, his hands over

  his face, and moaned. His impertinence had

vanished, and he was white and

  trembling in terror.

  And nothing happened.

  Veedron opened his eyes and said smugly,

"There!" Then he saw Spenreed

  rising to his feet again. Now it was the

aristocrat's turn to pale with

  fear. "Oh, no!" Veedron muttered. He

ran from the room.

  Spenreed's cockiness returned as quickly as it

had left him. His voice,

  though, was still shaky when he said, "I think you've

saved me three times

  now, Doctor! I've got to tell others about

this." He skipped from the room.

  It can't be, McCoy said to himself. It just can't be

what I think it is. My God, what kind of a world

is this?

  The Klingon ship was huge, perhaps three times the

size of the Enterprise.

  The bridge was considerably more than

three times as big as the

  Enterprise's bridge, and thus seemingly out of

all proportion to the size

  of the ship. During his long, weary hours there under

guard, Kirk realized

  why this was so. The operation of this monster vessel was

apparently

  divided into sections, just as a Federation starship, but

the emphasis was

  different. The Klingons" Medical section was

tiny: the Klingon Empire

  preferred not to expend its resources on the ill

or wounded, with the

  inevitable exception of the upper-level officer

cadre. Security, on the

  other hand, was enormous, representing, Kirk

guessed, about half the ship's personnel. This was

so, simply enough, because everyone was under almost

  constant surveillance-even the Security

personnel themselves.

  The center for this operation was not in some distant,

removed area of the

  ship, but rather right on the bridge. That way, the

ship's captain could

  keep his own eye on the Security men.

One whole side of the bridge, almost

  half the available area, was given over to these men,

sitting patiently and quietly before their banks of

miniature screens, watching ship's personnel

  throughout the vessel and listening to their conversations. Who

was

  watching the captain? Kirk wondered. He

remembered being told by the

  Klingon Commander Kor on Organia that every

Klingon official was always

  under careful scrutiny, every action and word watched and

weighed. Perhaps

  someone, somewhere, in some hidden cubicle, was watching

the bridge, the

  captain, and Kirk at that very moment, ready

to report instantly to his

  superiors on Sealon if he saw or heard

anything smacking of treason or

  weakness.

  One thing at least was on a smaller scale than

its equivalent on the

  Enterprise, and that was the main viewing screen on

the bridge. Had this

  been the bridge of a Federation ship, with the main

screen showing as

  bizarre a sight as this one, everyone on the

bridge would have been

  watching it. Klingon crews were much more strictly

disciplined; on this

  bridge, only Kirk and Karox, the Klingon

captain, were watching the screen. Five points of

light were displayed there, moving at sublight speed

against the background of stars. Four of them were arranged

in a square, with the

  fifth at its center. Karox called out, "Full

magnification!" But even

  before his order was implemented, Kirk knew what

he would see. The

  magnified picture verified his premonition and

sent a chill through him. He scarcely heard

Karox's next order, to kill the warp drive and

maintain

  present distance from the action depicted on the

screen.

  There in miniature was the Enterprise, under

attack by four Romulan

  vessels. All five ships were surrounded by the

haze of defensive screens.

  Even as they watched, twin photon torpedoes,

visible as two brilliant

  points of light, streaked from the Enterprise toward

one corner of the

  square. One torpedo missed, continuing off the

screen, but the other hit,

  and the hazy glow of the Romulan's shield

flickered and momentarily died.

  The Enterprise followed with a quick barrage of

phaser fire. The

  defenseless Romulan ship flared up in a bright,

explosive glow and then

  vanished.

  Karox pounded his fist on the arm of his command chair

and shouted, "Good

  shot, Kirk! Well done! You're better

fighters than I thought." He sat back

  in his chair and said, more calmly, "But the end is

inevitable. The

  Romulans won't let that happen again. Your

ship is doomed."

  Kirk knew he was right. The glow around the

surviving Romulans brightened

  as they increased their shield power. They began a

steady phaser attack on

  the

  Enterprise; even with their phasers' power

reduced because of their

  increased screening, the total effect was still

enormous. The glow of the

  Enterprise's own screens slowly faded as the

ship's energy reserves

  dwindled. The Federation ship fired off her

remaining photon torpedoes, but

  the increased screens of the Romulans protected

them from serious damage,

  and the Enterprise didn't try any more phaser

attacks, since to have taken

  any more power from her screens would only have hastened

the inevitable.

  "Something must be wrong with her warp engines,"

Karox muttered, "or she'd

  get herself out of there." His interest was obvious, but

he was detached.

  The scene that wrenched Kirk so was to the Klingon

merely an impersonal

  tactical problem.

  Kirk was manacled to the arms of his chair, set

firmly into the floor near

  Karox's. He ached to do something for his ship, but he

was heavily guarded

  and could not have made a move even if he

could somehow have removed the

  metal bands around his wrists. "Karox," he said

hoarsely. "You've got to do something to stop it. You were

ordered to keep the Enterprise and the

  Romulans apart. This is a powerful ship.

Attack the Romulans!"

  Karox laughed at him, enjoying the distress

Kirk could no longer hide.

  "We're not ready for that war quite yet, Captain

Kirk. We're not going to

  fight the Federation's wars for it! We attack

only when we feel prepared."

  He paused for a moment, thinking over his words.

"My orders were only to

  catch up with the Enterprise and destroy it. It

appears that the Romulans

  are going to do that job for me, so that my ship will

remain unharmed. It

  occurs to me that we are not yet within the Romulan

Neutral Zone. I'm not

  sure of the ramifications of the Romulans being out

here, beyond the

  Neutral Zone, and attacking a Federation ship,

but in any case we're too

  late to prevent that from happening. If the

Romulans destroy the Enterprise without

  boarding her, as I think they're about to do, then they

won't know where she came from, and there will be no

Romulan threat to our operations on Sealon

  and Trellisane."

  "But their suspicions will be aroused," Kirk said

desperately. "They might

  decide to investigate this whole region of

space."

  "They're even more likely to do that if I attack

them and they get word of

  it back before I can destroy, all three of them."

Karox leaned toward Kirk

  and said m a low voice, "Kirk, if

Romulan suspicions are aroused, and if

  it's not my fault, then it will be clear that it's

Kaged's fault. He will

  be removed in disgrace, and I will move up to his

position." He sat back,

  smiling at the thought. "I should have been promoted

into that in the first place. No, I think we'll just

stay where we are, beyond the sensor range of those four,

and watch to the end."

  Beyond sensor range, Kirk thought, his military

training reasserting itself even in this moment of

ultimate despair. That must mean that, in addition

  to the great ship's enormous speed, which he had already

found

  frighteningly impressive, she could obtain clear

visual images at a range

  that was greater than that of both Federation and Romulan

sensors. He knew

  his higher duty: to survive himself, no matter if

his ship was lost, so

  that he could get word back to Star Fleet of this

double Klingon military

  advantage.

  "Now," Karox said, leaning forward toward the

screen. The Enterprise's

  screens had gone down completely, and she was a

helpless target. Kirk

  watched helplessly, wanting to look away but

somehow unable to as he waited for the final Romulan

attack that would disintegrate his ship.

  For what seemed an eternity, nothing happened.

Then the Romulan ships

  rearranged themselves to form an equilateral

triangle, still with the

  Enterprise at the center of their formation, and faint

yellow lines sprang

  inffbeing, linking each Romulan ship to each of the

other two and to the

  Enterprise. "What is that?" Karox demanded.

  One of the bridge personnel inspected the

instruments before him and

  answered his captain. "Some sort of tractor

beam, sir. Very unusual

  characteristics."

  Karox glared at the man, then returned his

attention to the screen.

  Suddenly, all four ships vanished. Karox

cursed loudly in Klingon. "Warp

  drive," he muttered. "How did they manage

to pull something with the mass

  of a starship into warp with them? Worthy opponents,

those Romulans."

  "Karox," Kirk said quickly, "don't you see

what they're doing? They're

  taking my ship back into the Neutral Zone with

them, and then they're going to board her and interrogate

the crew. They'll find out about Sealon and

  send a force there. And it will be your fault, for

letting them take the

  Enterprise!"

  Karox looked at him for a moment and then

cursed again. "You're right,

  Kirk, damn you." He barked a string of orders

at his helmsman, and the

  great Klingon warship shot into warp drive in

pursuit of the Romulans and

  their captives.

  "Reduce it again," Hander Morl ordered, and

Sulu complied reluctantly. With each fresh

barrage of phaser fire from the Romulans, he had

been ordered to reduce the Enterprise's shield

strength. At first, this had seemed to him

  to be simply further madness. Suddenly he saw

the point. The shield would

  give way eventually anyway, under the combined

effect of fire from the

  three enemy ships. Keeping it at the fullest

strength the ship could manage would only buy them a

small amount of time. But by reducing the shields

  steadily, so that it looked to the Romulans as though

the shields had

  already failed, the Enterprise would keep something in

reserve for possible future action. Sulu's

admiration was grudging but genuine.

  Sulu reduced the shield strength the last,

small step, and the Enterprise

  was defenseless. Damage reports started

flooding in, tinny voices in his

  earphones filled with fear and confusion. Sulu

gritted his teeth and

  ignored them: he could see from the main screen that the

phaser fire from

  the Romulans had already decreased; at last it

stopped entirely.

  "They're giving us one last chance to surrender,"

Uhura said.

  Morl nodded. "Accept. Tell them we

surrender."

  The main viewing screen showed the strange beams

springing up, linking the

  Romulans and the starship. There was a small jerk

as tractor contact was

  made.

  "Now what?" Chekov said.

  Sulu shook his head. "Never seen anything like that

before," he muttered.

  "Tractor beams? What do they want to do that

for?"

  The transition to warp drive was totally

unexpected but unmistakable.

  "Engineer!" Morl shouted. "I thought it

wasn't working!"

  Scott's jaw dropped. He stepped forward a

few paces, away from the elevator doors, to get

a better look at the viewing screen. "By God!"

he said. "It's not ours! They've got some way

to take us into warp drive with them!"

  Hander Morl relaxed, his face breaking into a

broad grin. "This is better

  than I could have hoped. They're taking us into the

Neutral Zone, at least, for interrogation, and we

still have some shield capability and our

  phasers. We'll get the battle we came for,

after all!"

  All attention was riveted on the strange sight

on the main viewing screen.

  Unnoticed by anyone on the bridge, the

elevator doors swished open.

  Before the combined stresses of fear and isolationheld

captive on a small

  island on a hostile world, seeing no one but

Klingons-a human being might

  have given way before long. Not so a Vulcan. The

Klingons had Spock's cell

  under constant surveillance, of course, but it was they

who were giving way

  before Spock's imperturbability. Klingons are

an excitable, impatient

  species under the best of conditions, and the sight of

Spock sitting on his

  bunk, staring blankly into space for hour after

hour, his face as impassive

  as always, drove the watchers to distraction.

  Spock's application of Vulcan mental

disciplines was suddenly broken by a

  shout and crashing noises from down the corridor.

Spock sprang to the door

  of his cell, leaning as close to the dangerous force

field as he dared, to

  try to see into the hallway. But the archway of the

cell's entrance

  extended outward too far because of the thickness of the

walls, and he

  could see nothing. Now Spock was showing a hint of the

impatience and worry the Klingon watchers had been

waiting for; however, they were now otherwise occupied and

could spare no glances for their spy screens.

  There was a succession of unidentifiable soundsloud,

harsh growls with a

  shrill overtone--4ollowed by

  more crashes. And then the lights in the

cell and the corridor went out and

  Spock found himself in utter blackness. Without

even a moment's hesitation,

  Spock stepped forward. His estimate of the risk

was justified by the

  results: the force field had vanished with the

lights.

  He walked down the narrow corridor in the pitch

black, carefully, his arms

  out to either side, fingertips trailing along the

walls. His finely tuned

  Vulcan hearing was strained to the utmost, listening for

what he could not

  see. Spock thought it more than likely that a

Klingon or two might be

  walking down the same hallway in the same

manner. But not even a Vulcan can calculate

odds correctly when important data are

missing, and there were

  factors involved of which Spock as yet knew

nothing. He encountered no one. A vague,

prickly feeling on his chest and a sensation of

pressure against

  his face alerted Spock that something solid lay

ahead. He reached forward

  cautiously. His hands encountered a smooth metal

surface, and his exploring fingertips told him it was

a door. The surface was warm, wardher than the

  walls of the corridor. Spock hesitated, then

leaned forward and placed his

  ear against the door. Faint noises, a groan

cut short, then other noises

  which slowly receded into silence. All he could hear

was a crackling sound

  that seemed naggingly familiar. Suddenly it

struck him: fire.

  Spock could afford to wait no longer in the

interests of caution. The power failure that had freed

him had also killed the sensors and motor that would have

opened the door at his approach. He thrust his

fingers into the narrow emergency slot, set his feet

firmly, and heaved at the door with all his

  Vulcan strength. It slid open reluctantly

on warped slots, the mechanism

  squealing in protest.

  Now there was light-the flickering glow of a fire in

the guardroom beyond

  the door. The blaze snapped and crackled at

one corner of the otherwise

  a small fire but spreading rapidly,

leaping to the wall hangings the

  Klingons affected even while Spock watched and

rolling across the floor,

  feeding on the piles of smashed furniture.

Spock headed quickly for the door at the far side of the

room, holding his breath. The wreckage of what had

  been the room's electronic equipment crunched

beneath his boots.

  Spock was intent on getting out of the room in

safety and then out of the

  building, but by the increasing glow of the fire, he

noticed a Klingon

  lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head.

The Vulcan stepped over to the prostrate guard

quickly and knelt beside him. The Klingon was dead,

  or soon would be: from this close, Spock could

see the multitude of bloody

  rips in the clothing, evidence of gashes and stab

wounds beneath, and the

  misshapen head that surely meant a crushed

skull. A fight of some sort?

  Spock asked himself. A mutiny of Klingon

forces was unthinkable, but

  perhaps some sort of private grudge. But then,

why hadn't the other Klingon simply used

his phaser? Spock bent closer and examined the

Klingon's head

  carefully. His analytical Vulcan mind was

drawn by the mystery, and he knew he could hold his

breath for some time yet, if necessary, so that the gases the

fire must be producing were as yet no danger to him.

  However, closer examination yielded nothing. The

Klingon's head was covered with clotted blood,

masking the true nature of the injury, and Spock

  finally decided that this was not the time or the place for

an autopsy.

  Regretfully, he rose to his feet and left

the room.

  The hallway beyond was not utterly dark, for to one

side lay another room

  with yet another fire burning in it. Spock

quickly revised his estimate of

  his danger. He remembered enough of his trip through the

building to the

  detention cell, he was sure, to be able to find his

way out now. But the

  dark, punctuated only by the wavering, uncertain

light from so

  many-fires degraded even his orientation, and he

found himself forced to

  exhale and draw another breath before he could find

the exit. The gases he

  drew in affected him less than they would a

human, but they did affect him,

  and Spock's quick analysis of his senses told

him that he would not be able

  to carry on for much longer.

  It was the shouting that led Spock to the exit. A

multitude of voices,

  crying out m rhythmic unison; through the chant,

despite the unintelligible alien sounds, ran an

unmistakable exultation. He would have been drawn

by

  the sound of voices in any case, as promising

safety, but he was especially drawn by these, for they

were the same fluid, whistling cries he had heard

  once before, on the beach with Kirk-the voices of

Sealons.

  Spock staggered through a smashed doorway

into nighttime lit by the burning building behind him. He

drew deep breaths gratefully, then turned to find

  that flames were now flaring out of every window and

doorway of the huge

  office building. He turned away again, facing

toward the darkness, and

  deliberately accelerated his eyes' dark

adaptation. It took longer than it

  would otherwise have, because of the aftereffects of the glaring

fight of

  the fire at which he had just been looking, but after a

moment a silent

  crowd of figures took shape out of the darkness.

They were ranged in a

  rough line, parallel to the building's front, and

just beyond the immediate glow of the fire. Their chanting had

stopped, and they were gazing

  indecisively at the Vulcan.

  Sealons, as Spock had anticipated. Not a

Klingon

  was in sight: all dead within the building, Spock

  guessed, or else in hiding. Moments before, he

had

  suddenly wondered whether the situation inside the

  building might be due to a Sealon uprising against

their

  Klingon masters. Clearly that was the case. His

main

  concern now was whether the Sealons would be able to

  distinguish him from the Klingons, or whether they would

see no difference.

  He strode purposefully toward them.

  As he drew close, they didn't move,

apparently unintimidated. He stopped

  and stared at them, looking cocky and

self-assured, but in fact not sure

  they would interpret his body language

correctly. The Sealons had been

  almost standing--crouching, balancing on their haunches

and the knuckles of their forepaws. Now, slowly, they

all sank forward into their normal

  resting posture on land, lying almost prone, their

powerful upper portions

  resting on their elbows. Spock knew this was as

close to a backing down as

  he could hope for.

  Spock stepped forward again, slowly this time but with

determination. The

  Sealons shuffled aside to make room for him, the

movement spreading across

  the ranks of dark, aquatic bodies like

ripples. He walked forward steadily, the crowd of

Sealons separating before him. Finally they stopped

moving

  away; there was no sign of danger or defiance,

but they simply refused to

  move out of his way. Before him rested a huge

Sealon, still massive and

  powerful despite the sagging folds of skin around his

mouth that probably

  signified advanced age. This one was still standing, or

as close to it as

  a Sealon could manage on land, without the

slightest sign of fear or

  hesitancy. Even without his great size and almost

upright posture, which

  combined to make him tower above the others, there was an

air of authority

  and self-confidence that made this Sealon stand out from the

others.

  Despite his translator's inability to deal

with the unknown Sealon

  language, Spock guessed that this was

Matabele, the ruler of the Sealons

  who had made the mistake of inviting the Klingons

in.

  The Vulcan advanced slowly, raising his hand

toward the Sealon's head.

  There was a stirring and growling among the other

Sealons, but their ruler

  stayed where he was unflinching and allowed

Spock to place his long 151

  fingers gently on his broad, frog-like face. The

Vulcan mind-meld began.

  Yes, it was Matabele. As the Sealon stiffened

with amazement at the contact with the powerful Vulcan

mind, Spock was sifting fascinatedly through the

  flood of images pouring into him from the brain of the

Sealon. Clearly,

  this being and his culture were more complex than the

Trellisanians had

  realized. But then a more specific image

surfaced for a moment, and Spock

  grasped it quickly and fished urgently for the more

submerged details.

  There! He had it. This uprising was part of something

greater, and on

  Trellisane, even at this moment . . .

  It was rare for the Klingons to overlook military

details, but their long

  string of successes with subject peoples had

made them overconfident, and

  it had come to seem impossible to them that anyone would

even dream of

  revolting against their rule. The dome on the sea

floor of Trellisane had

  no external defenses, since the Klingons

knew the Trellisanians would not

  fight back and they simply did not think their

tame Sealons would attack

  them.

  When the environmental monitors indicated a

leak in one segment of the

  dome, a call was automatically dispatched through the

surrounding water for a Sealon maintenance team

to repair any damage from the outside. The Sealon

team leader quickly signaled back that he and his

fellows were already at

  the site, working on the damaged area. Indeed, that

was quite true, since

  it was that team of Sealons that had created the tear in

the dome in the

  first place, and now they were clustered around the tear,

working

  vigorously at enlarging it. Beneath them, on the other

side of the tough

  fabric, were store rooms, and the Sealons were

betting that the leak would

  therefore not be noticed directly by any Klingons,

and that the monitoring

  send out a call for Klingon attention

until it was too late. Occasionally

  one of them would have to swim up to the surface for

air; then he would

  force himself quickly down again to rejoin his comrades

sawing, cutting,

  even chewing away at the fabric of the dome.

Elsewhere along the swelling,

  smooth surface, other groups of Sealons were

doing the same. There were some waterproof bulkheads

within the dome, and the Sealons wanted to be sure that

there were no safe pockets of air left where

Klingons might survive.

  In his office within the dome, the Klingon officer

who'd interviewed Kirk

  and Spock when they'd been taken prisoner was

poring over some papers

  detailing the next steps he was to take. The

conquest of the land would be

  gradual, by usual Klingon standards; that was

largely to ensure that the

  Sealons weren't able to kill all

Trellisanians off-the upper strata, the

  technically capable, were to be kept alive, for they

could be of great

  service to Klingon in the future.

  A sudden tremor shook the floor of his office

and made the stylus lying

  near his hand roll back and forth. The Klingon

frowned in surprise:

  Trellisane was supposed to be a geologically

inactive world. He sneered at

  the thought. That probably had much to do with the

Trellisanians' repellent timidity.

Dismissing the matter as unimportant, he

returned to the

  documents before him. Another, even sharper,

tremor shook the room, and

  this time he rose from his chair and started toward the

door, flaring into

  furious anger. It is Klingon nature to find

an underling when something

  unpleasant happens and to blame and punish him for

it, even if the

  unpleasant thing is utterly beyond his

responsibility and control. The

  officer, disguising his deeply buried fear from himself

as annoyance,

  stalked through the door to look for some lower ranking

Klingon to punish.

  He turned into the corridor and stopped.

The air pressure shot up

  unbearably, lessened suddenly, and 153

  then shot up again. He fell to his knees

clutching his ears in agony.

  Despite his ruined ears and his hands over them, he

could hear a rush of

  sound in the abnormally dense air-a scream, and a

roaring, thundering noise, then groaning, ripping sounds

from the fabric of the building. The floor

  heaved violently, flinging him forward onto his

face. Dazed, he got his

  hands underneath himself and raised himself, unwittingly

imitating the

  common Sealon posture. The walls at the end

of the corridor before him

  swelled inward and then burst, disappearing into the vast

wave of foaming

  green seawater that rushed through. He opened his mouth

to shout an order or a curse, but before any sound

came out, the water smashed into him, carrying him before it

like any other piece of flotsam, and crushed him

against the

  farther walls of the corridor.

  Only then did the water elsewhere in the dome

reach the central power

  generators, and all lights went off, leaving the

few Klingons who yet

  survived in trapped pockets of air in the

dark. Their commander's body

  bobbed limply against the ceiling in his own office,

up and down, as the

  sea's abrupt entry into one open room or

corridor after another sent waves

  and ripples through the whole body of water inside

the dome. Finally that

  ended and the water became still.

  The Klingons who survived called out to each other

cautiously and began to

  organize themselves, increasingly confident that,

despite the pitch

  blackness, they could regroup and somehow escape.

But their calls to each

  other provided all the signal the Sealons,

inside the dome for the first

  time, needed. The silent, black water was their

pathway to revenge. Not all the surviving Klingons

were stabbed or bludgeoned to death. Some were

  dragged beneath the surface where crowds of Sealons,

their eyes evolved to

  see dimly at these depths, could watch

them struggle and drown.

  Veedron put his hands over his face and groaned.

"How awful! To die out

  there, under the sea."

  McCoy snorted. "My heart bleeds for them."

When Veedron had come to tell

  him of the huge bubbles filled with debris that had

been seen bursting upon the surface of the sea and had

said that Trellisanian experts were sure

  that it was a sign of the collapse of the Klingon's

underwater base, McCoy

  had not tried to hide his pleasure. He still

didn't try.

  Veedron looked up at him in outrage and

horror. "How can you be so callous? You're a

medical man!"

  McCoy nodded. "Yes, I'm a medical

man. I'm also humane and compassionate,

  and I have a high empathy rating, which I try hard

to hide beneath a crusty exterior. But I've also had

many contacts with Klingons over the years, and I can

tell you that the only good one is a dead one. To coin

a clich6. If

  I hadn't felt that way before, what I've seen

in this system would have

  convinced me."

  Veedron was outraged. Before he could say anything,

a messenger came into

  the room and muttered something to him. Veedron's

face lost what little

  color it still had. "The Sealons are bringing the

Klingon bodies ashore all along the coastline and

leaving them just above the high tide line." He

  rose to his feet, his face suddenly brightening.

"Perhaps this is their way of asking for help or offering

peace!"

  "They could contact you directly if they wanted

to do that, Veedron. Don't

  be so na1ve. I think this is a warning of

what's in store for us, and also

  an attempt to intimidate us before the invasion

begins. Undermine your

  courage, so to speak," McCoy added with heavy

sarcasm. "I just wonder what

  they're waiting for." And I wonder why I've

been waiting so long to

  initiate my own confrontation. "Veedron,"

McCoy said suddenly, not giving

  himself time for second thoughts, "I want to change

the subject

  considerably. I've discovered that the yegemot have

a brain implant of some kind put in

  them when they're children. Now, I know that you and your

class have

  something like that, too, but I suspect they serve a

very different function in your case."

  "True," Veedron said distractedly. "Ours

are for the purpose of

  communication."

  "And theirs?"

  "Oh." Veedron waved his hand. "For control."

  "Hmm. There're different kinds of control,

aren't there? Behavior control,

  population control . . . Those occur to me right

away. What kind of control do you mean?"

  Veedron shook off his distraction and stared at

McCoy. "Why, for both of

  those, of course, as well as others. Come, come,

Doctor: surely you've

  noticed how well discipline is maintained in our

society."

  So it's as bad as I feared, McCoy thought,

remembering Veedron's vain

  attempt to discipline an impertinent Spenreed from

whom the brain

  transplant had been removed, and remembering,

too, a hole burned in a

  shelf. "So you give "em the evil eye, and their

brains get vaporized!

  Handy. The ancient Romans would've loved it."

But what about that waiter

  who collapsed? Total brain death. He

hadn't insulted anyone. And the

  capsules on the shelf-Spenreed talking about his

death being forecast, or

  whatever. So it wasn't just a superstition . . .

. "And you schedule lots

  of them for death even if they haven't done anything

to offend anyone,

  don't you?"

  "Of course," Veedron said offhandedly. "I

assumed you were aware of that."

  "Aware of it! Scarcely! Hell, I thought you

were civilized beings, not

  barbarians. You're worse than barbarians.

They at least don't hide from the facts. When they

kill each other, there's blood involved, and the

killers

  know what they've done. You've tried to sanitize

it, so that you can be

  coldblooded about being bloodthirsty, and all the

while you can pretend

  that you're not doing anything out of the ordinary. They

  just drop to the floor, nice and clean, and you go on

about your business.

  And then I suppose the bodies have to be carried

away by other yegernots,

  poor bastards. And all this time, you've been

trying to pretend to us that

  you're somehow better than the Sealons."

  Veedron responded with anger of his own. "Who

are you to assume a pose of

  moral superiority? We made you and your

shipmates welcome on our world, and you partook

gladly enough of our hospitality. You ate our meat

with us, and yet you must have known how ritually and

symbolically important that is to

  us."

  McCoy was thrown off balance by this seeming non

sequitur. "We knew that

  you're vegetarians, mostly. I don't

understand."

  Veedron sneered. "Then it's time you did. Come

with me." He grasped McCoy's arm and

pulled him from the room. Ignoring McCoy's

protests and struggles,

  and displaying a surprising strength, he dragged the

Earthman along behind

  him. They hurried down corridors until they

were outside the building.

  Still moving, Veedron pulled McCoy down a

quiet street, a beautiful avenue

  marred by the rubble of an earlier Sealon attack.

To McCoy's repeated and

  increasingly angry questions, Veedron at last

replied that they were going

  to observe food preparation, and then he would say

no more. Finally they

  reached a small, isolated building that seemed

to be Veedron's destination. Breathing heavily, the

Trellisanian paused for a moment before it, and then

he strode into the building, still dragging McCoy behind

him. A sickeningly familiar smell attacked

McCoy; he knew what it must be, but he

refused to

  admit that truth to himself.

  They entered a large, high-ceilinged room. A

group of Trellisanians stood

  with their backs to the door, hard at work,

hands rising and falling

  steadily. By the noise and the motion, they were chopping.

They became

  aware of the presence of the newcomers, and some of

  them turned to see who it was. They knew

Veedron, of course, and one of them came forward

to greet him subserviently. Now McCoy could

see everything.

  The men wore butcher's aprons, and they were

spattered with blood. Beyond

  them was a long table, and upon it lay a dismembered

corpse. And m a far

  corner of the room, McCoy now became aware,

halves and quarters of torsos

  hung upon a row of hooks.

  "Too late!" Karox growled, slapping his

palm against the yielding arm of his command chair. "Too

late. The Romulans know we're approaching their

  territory."

  The peremptory challenge had come over the ship's

communications a moment

  earlier. Karox and his ship had stayed well beyond the

sensor range of the

  Romulan ships they were pursuing, but the

Romulans were now beyond the

  boundaries of the Neutral Zone, and the Romulans

had powerful installations along that frontier to watch for

approaching vessels. These installations

  had detected the Klingon approach and issued the

challenge. That Karox had

  not foreseen this was strong evidence to Kirk that the

Klingon captain's

  confidence and relaxation were masks for a worry and

tension that were

  interfering with his judgment.

  "I'm not ready to fight them," Karox muttered.

"I'll have to stop soon to

  avoid penetrating the Zone, and if I do that, the

Enterprise will escape

  from me. I'll have to attack now, risk a war."

  "Wait!" Kirk said. "Release me. Take

me to your transporter room. You can

  send me to the Enterprise before she's out of range.

Her shields are down,

  and the Romulans won't be expecting that. I'll

bring her back out."

  Karox looked at him with scorn and anger, but then

his expression changed

  suddenly. "Yes. With Klingon guards

to go with you." He sat up, his chest

  swelling, eyes blazing. "I won't destroy the

Enterprise-I'll capture her!

  My most glorious victory." He barked a

string of commands.

  Kirk's wrists were freed, and then he was pulled

to his feet and marched

  quickly from the bridge and through a short but bewildering

series of

  intersecting corridors. At the end, he found

himself in what was obviously

  a transporter room, much like the one on the

Enterprise, but larger, as

  most things were on this ship, with many more transmission

stations.

  There was a short delay, and then three heavily

armed and heavily muscled

  Klingons marched in and took up positions

wordlessly on the stations beside Kirk's. Karox entered

the room.

  "Kirk. I know this handful of men isn't enough

to take over the Enterprise, but they are enough to keep

an eye on you and control the bridge. When

  you're back in command, bring her out and surrender her

to me. If you

  betray me, they'll kill you and I'll destroy

your ship. Well?"

  Kirk nodded. He understood the conditions well enough

and accepted them

  only because he had no choice.

  Karox motioned to the technician at the

transporter console. The man's

  fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard, and

Karox's sneering face faded

  from Kirk's view.

  The elevator door opened and the four-being group

creature came onto the

  bridge unnoticed by those already there. The Chapel

component moved quietly in one direction, and the other

three rolled off the other way.

  It was Sulu who noticed them first, catching a

movement from the corner of

  his eye. He looked up

  quickly to see the three Onctiliians bearing down

on one of the Assassins,

  the one still standing close to Hander Morl. The thought

flashed through

  Sulu's mind in an instant that this weird

creature, who had been brought up

  from the surface of Trefolg, must be in

some way on the side of the

  Enterprise crew now; even if not, its attack

on its former comrade could

  only help Sulu and his friends. Even though

Sulu managed to stifle the

  exclamation which had risen to his lips at first,

Hander Morl had noticed

  his astonished expression and had followed the

direction of Sulu's gaze.

  Morl turned his chair around just in time to see the

Assassin crumple

  before the Onctiliians" unexpected assault.

Then the Onctiliians changed

  direction and charged toward Morl. But Morl was

already in motion, flinging himself desperately from his

chair.

  The new mental integration with Chapel was

complete, but physically the

  three were still not quite balanced, missing the contribution

of their dead partner and slightly disoriented by the need

to reconcile visual images

  from two physically separate locations, theirs and

Chapel's. They crashed

  into the chair, bending its base so that it spun about

at a crazy angle.

  But they could no longer redirect themselves quickly enough

or move fast

  enough to catch Morl, who scrambled frantically

along the floor, then

  pulled himself across Sulu's console.

  The bridge had erupted into life, with personnel

shouting at each other and trying to keep out of the way of the

Onctiliians. The Chapel component

  stepped up to the side of one of the Nactern

warriors, moving warily

  because the memories provided by the Onctiliian

components revealed how

  deadly a threat the Nactern could be to the safety

of the Earthwoman body.

  She pressed a hypodermic against the Nactern's

side, pressing the trigger

  as she did so. The Nactern whirled about, hands

coming up for a fatal chop; but her legs wilted beneath

her even as she turned, and she 161

  collapsed heavily to the deck. The other

Nactern sprang to her side,

  oblivious to Chapel's presence or the

maneuverings of Morl and the

  Onctiliians.

  The Assassin standing near Scott

stepped forward to enter the fight, and

  Scott, breathing a quick and silent prayer, stuck

out a foot so that the

  man tripped over it and fell forward into the

depression holding the com-

  mand chair. Scott was on him before he could get

up again, chopping

  repeatedly at the back of his neck. The

Assassin slumped forward with a

  groan, unconscious, and Scott rose to his

feet, breathing heavily, but

  inordinately pleased with himself. "Don't mess with

my engines, laddie," he muttered.

  Hander Morl and the Onctiliians were moving about the

console cluster in a

  deadly dance that struck Chekov as curiously

stately. Morl's phaser had

  fallen out during his mad dash to get out of the

Onctiliians' path, and he

  had not been able to get back to it. It lay

unnoticed on the floor near the command chair, and

Morl could not see how he could reach it. Meanwhile,

he

  circled the consoles slowly, trying to keep them

between him and the

  Onctiliians. He wanted to call for help,

but some instinct told him, even

  though he was afraid to take his eyes from the

Onctiliians to look around

  the bridge, that he was on his own. He grasped the

console nearest him for

  support, his knees shaking with the fear that

overwhelmed him.

  Step by step, placing one foot carefully after the

other, Morl forced

  himself into motion again. He passed behind Chekov's

seat, but his eyes

  were fixed on the menacing ball of flesh; it had no

visible eyes, but Morl

  could feel its gaze following his every movement.

Chekov jumped from his

  chair and shoved Morl away from the consoles.

Morl stumbled and fell

  heavily onto the floor, well away from the

shelter of the consoles. He saw

  the Onctihians rolling toward him; he slithered

toward his phaser, lying

  nearby, but knew he wouldn't be able to reach it in

time.

  A phaser beam sliced across the bridge

and transfixed the Onctihians. The

  Nactern warrior, satisfied that her comrade and

lover was only unconscious

  and not harmed, had at last turned her attention to the

excitement around

  her. Seeing Mod cringing back as the

Onctiliians rushed toward him, she had drawn

her phaser quickly and fired at her former ally. The

Onctiliians

  glowed white and disappeared: the final, ultimate

disruption of union and

  communion. Chapel screamed at the same instant

and sank down nervelessly.

  Morl rose shakily to his feet, his face

drained of all color, clutching his phaser. He

pointed it at Chekov. "You tried to kill me!"

he screamed. The

  gun was waving so wildly that he could not keep it

aimed at the young

  Russian, and he had to grip it with both hands in

order to point it

  properly. "You," he screamed again, but his throat

constricted with fear

  and fury and he couldn't get any more words out.

  The Nactern warrior stepped forward in

front of Chekov, shielding him. She

  held her arms out to either side. "No, Hander,"

she said simply.

  Morl, his hands still shaking, fired. The beam

caught the Nactern full in

  the chest. For an instant, just before she vanished in the

glow of

  disruption, Morl saw a look of surprise and

accusation cross her face.

  Morl sat down heavily in the command chair. Because

of its tilted base, the chair swiveled under him and

dumped him on the floor. The horror and self-

  hatred on Morl's face made what might

otherwise have been a bizarrely comic incident

into tragedy. Sulu, Chekov, and the others on the

bridge watched

  Morl's collapse into tears with something

approaching pity. His follower,

  his subordinate, entrusted to him and trusting in him!

She had not been a

  sacrifice to the cause, like the Onctiliian:

she had been killed by a

  stupid accident, by his doing, through his own

ineptitude and stupidity.

  That was the kind of leader he really was:

inept to the point that he

  endangered his own

  people, or even killed them himself through sheer

clumsiness. Kirk would not have done something like that, he

admitted to himself; Kirk and these other

  Star Fleet personnel he'd been dealing with would

never be guilty of this

  kind of failure. He knew that the pain of

remorse was not enough to give him the punishment he felt

he deserved.

  Four shapes twinkled into existence on the

bridge. The Enterprise

  personnel, still rocked by all that had happened

to them, were scarcely

  able to react to this latest shock. The twinkling

lights resolved

  themselves into James Kirk and his Klingon guards.

The Klingons had their

  guns already drawn, and they arranged themselves quickly

along one side of

  the bridge, guns covering the Federation

personnel.

  Kirk glanced around quickly, trying to size up the

situation. "Mr. Scott?"

  "Sir. Enterprise secure internally

but within Romulan space. Do you have

  orders?"

  Kirk turned to the Klingons behind him. "As you can

see, gentlemen, the

  Enterprise is already under Federation control again.

Thus by boarding you

  are risking war with the Federation as well as with the

Romulans. I'd

  advise you to put away your weapons and accept the

situation gracefully."

  He could almost feel the growing tension behind him, the

instinctive

  reaction of the crew to the presence of Klingons,

armed, aboard their ship. If the Klingons didn't

back down, and soon, someone would make a move,

  breaking the tense restraint, and then the situation would

be beyond his

  control.

  The Klingon squad leader hesitated, his

instinctive

  hatred of humans warring with his prudence and sense

  of duty. He had the humans at a

disadvantage, confi

  dent that three Klingons with weapons drawn were

  immeasurably superior to any number

of soft and

  unarmed humans. And yet he was an ambitious

young

  officer, and he suspected that Kirk was right about the

  legal situation. If he acted hostilely

anyway and Kirk

  was right, then he would suffer both loss of rank and

further, and probably

  painful, punishment. He decided the risk was

probably too great. Another

  thought struck him suddenly. Success on

Kirk's side could scarcely help

  Karox's career, and with Karox out of the way, the

squad leader stood a good chance of moving up a step

or two in rank. He holstered his phaser and

  motioned his men to do the same.

  Kirk released a breath he hadn't realized

he'd been holding. "Lieutenant

  Uhura, contact the commander of the Romulan fleet

that has us under tractor beam." While Uhura

moved to comply, Kirk said to the Klingon squad

leader,

  "And I want you to contact Karox and explain

to him what the situation is

  here."

  The Klingon uttered an exclamation of

surprise.

  Kirk grinned at him. "That's right. Tell him.

And also tell him that he'll

  have to beam over here himself immediately to settle this

situation once

  and for all."

  The Klingon officer looked openly doubtful, but

he drew his small

  communicator from his belt nonetheless and spoke into it

quietly. The voice that replied was far from quiet:

Kirk could hear Karox's miniaturized bel-

  lows from across the bridge. But the Klingon captain

had little choice,

  Kirk knew, except to give up entirely on

ever getting the Enterprise under

  his control. Sooner than giving up so readily

what Karox had hoped would be his greatest victory,

Kirk hoped, he would risk coming aboard the

  Enterprise in person, even though she was now under

Federation control

  onboard and under Romulan control from the outside.

  The Romulans had at first refused to respond

to Uhura, fearing that another betrayal like the first one

was on tap. Eventually, however, she received

  a grudging reply, and then Kirk took over.

"This is James T. Kirk,

  commanding the U. S. S. Enterprise," he

rapped out, glorying in the words,

  in being able to say them again. "I must speak to your

fleet commander

  immediately."

  After a pause, a new voice boomed out over the

bridge, calm, unperturbed,

  strong-Romulan. "This is Tal, fleet

commander. You have much to answer for, James T.

Kirk. You tricked us twice before, but you will not do so

again.

  You misled the brave woman who was my commander,

leading her to weakness,

  dishonor, and death. And you murdered my warriors

most cowardly and

  unfairly. You must be taken where you and your crew

can be punished

  properly."

  Tal: Kirk had dealt with him before, during the

incident Tal had referred

  to, but then Tal had been only a subcommander.

He must have distinguished

  himself to have risen, in the relatively

short time that had passed, to

  command of a fleet of ships entrusted with this

sensitive mission. Despite

  all the differences between the Federation and the Romulan

Empire, Kirk

  knew that such a rise must require the sort of

professional competence and

  dedication a similar advancement would require in

Star Fleet. This was a

  man much like him, one he could respect and

admire; an equal. It occurred

  to him, not for the first time, that there was a kind of

professional

  community building between the stars; he and his crew had

more in common

  with the commanders and crews of the Romulan ships, and

even with Karox and the Klingons under him, than they did

with the teeming millions confined to the surfaces of the many

planets that made up the Federation. Kirk smiled

  slightly. "Fleet Commander Tal,

congratulations on your promotion.

  Considering your high rank, I'm sure you have been

told something about the activity in the

Trellisane-Sealon system. You'll agree that

that situation

  is More important to your empire's well-being

than taking revenge on me and my crew."

  "We have monitored your communications recently,"

Tal said reluctantly.

  "And those of the Klingons in this area. We know you are

both heavily

  involved in some sort of local war there. However,

that scarcely

  affects us. You are no threat to us at this moment,

and the Klingons have

  assured us they have no ambitions in our space."

  Kirk laughed. "And you believed them, of

course?"

  There was a long pause before Tal answered.

"What do you want to discuss

  with me?" he said cautiously.

  Kirk relaxed, aware only now that he had been

holding himself tensely until this moment. "Not only

with you, Tal, but with the Klingon commander of a

  ship you can't even see as well."

  "Can't even see? What are you talking about,

Kirk?"

  "They can detect your ships from beyond your sensor

range. Chew that over

  for a while. While you're digesting that

fact, arrange to have yourself

  beamed over here for a three-way, face-to-face

conference. We have

  something important to arrange, and I think it can be

done more quickly and satisfactorily by three commanders

like us than by distant governments."

  "I will be there," Tal said simply.

  After you dispatch a message to your home base

to tell them what's happened and about the Klingons'

new superiority, you mean, Kirk added mentally.

  That was something that Romulans seemed to lack,

compared to both humans

  and Klingons: the willingness to break out of their

rigid adherence to duty and obedience and display some

independence, some autonomy. It was their

  strength as an empire, but their weakness as

individuals. If the war

  between the Romulans and the Federation ever started up

again, that might

  provide Kirk and his fellow officers with the edge

they needed.

  Kirk turned to find himself face to face with a

grinning chief engineer.

  "Captain," Scott said, his burr returning

for a moment, "we've been busy.

  Look." He pointed at the command chair, which a

crew of two technicians

  from Engineering were just finishing with, having replaced its

base with a

  spare and reconnected the communications leads.

  Kirk grinned back at him and sat down

gratefully in his command chair.

  "Fits perfectly, Mr. Scott. Thank

you."

  Scott looked faintly sheepish. "Och.

Welcome back, sir."

  A growl from the direction of the squad of Klingons

drew Kirk's attention.

  Karox had arrived and was standing in the midst of his

men, being briefed

  on recent events by the squad leader. He pushed

the squad leader away

  angrily and stalked over to face Kirk.

"Kirk!" he snarled. "Why did you

  tell them about our new long-range sensors?

What treason are you up to?"

  Kirk smiled at him, knowing it would only

increase the Klingon's fury.

  "You're stretching the meaning of that word quite a bit,

Karox. It's not

  treason for me to neutralize your advantage a

bit. Relax and enjoy our

  hospitality. The Romulan commander will be beaming

over here shortly, and

  then the three of us will have a few things to discuss."

  Karox howled his anger. "Kirk, it won't work!

I know what you're up to, but Trellisane and

Sealon are ours now, and you're not going to deprive

us of

  the system."

  "I think events have overtaken you, Karox.

Surpassed you, perhaps. There

  are situations that Klingon bluster and aggression cannot

master. You will

  have to realize that you face such a situation here. You

know Klingon

  forces cannot face an alliance of Federation and

Romulan ships, and that's

  just what you'll have to contend with if you don't

cooperate."

  Karox drew back, his face relaxing.

"Yes," he nodded, speaking calmly.

  "Neither of you has the courage to face us alone.

I believe you would

  combine to defeat us, because you each fear us

so."

  Kirk shrugged. "Put it in those terms, if it

preserves your self-respect.

  The results are what matter to me. Consider this,

too, Karox." Kirk sat

  forward in his chair. "You could be the one who pulls

a stalemate, at

  worst, out of what is otherwise shaping up as a

disaster for Klingon. You

  won't retain the Trellisane-Sealon system

for long if you alarm the Romulans as much as you've

already alarmed the Federation. I'm offering you the

  chance-you, personally-to retain some promising

options for Klingon, instead of losing the system

unequivocally."

  Karox grew thoughtful. "Yes," he nodded, a

smile growing on his dark face.

  "Yes, Kirk, you're right. I would be a hero,

and . . . certain others . .

  . would be villains. Yes," he laughed loudly,

"yes, it grows more appealing by the second."

  Kirk disguised his scorn. "Good, Karox. I

think we have our third

  negotiator now." The preliminary signs of a

transporter beam transference

  had appeared on the bridge not far from him and

Karox. The lean form of

  Tal, so startlingly like Spock's, began to take

shape. The pointed ears,

  the sharp features, remnants of the Romulans'

Vulcan ancestry-Kirk knew

  he'd have to guard himself carefully during the upcoming

negotiations, lest those Romulan features

mislead him unconsciously inffbeing overly

  trusting. This was no Vulcan; this was a

Romulan, a deadly enemy, as deadly in his way

as Karox and the other Klingons. Kirk rose to his

feet and

  uttered some formal words of welcome, meanwhile

thinking that what was to

  come might be harder than any physical battle

he had ever fought. "Tal,

  Karox, please follow me. Mr. Sulu, you have

the con. I will be in the

  conference room with our two guests, and I do not

want to be disturbed."

  Sealons are not given to psychological warfare.

Direct, physical, frontal

  attack has always been their favorite method of

making war, the attacks

  launched as soon as the warring parties feel

adequately prepared-or even

  before, if the blood lust and desire for conquest are

stronger than their

  rudimentary feelings of caution. Even Pongol and

Matabele, the greatest

  leaders and organizers in Sealon history,

greater rulers than any of the

  heroes in Sealon's many sagas, were never able

to change this basic nature.

  Pongol and Matabele led their nation to triumph

over its neighbors, not by

  using the gentle arts of persuasion on their

subjects, but rather by having

  greater strength of will, more dominating

personalities, than those among

  their advisers and subchiefs who opposed their

plans. They simply imposed

  their own ideas of strategy upon their followers,

brooking no opposition.

  Thus the long quiescence of the Sealons in the seas

of Trellisane was highly uncharacteristic.

  It was also completely destructive of what little

morale remained among the Trellisanians. Had

the Sealons been intending to conduct

psychological war- fare, and had they known enough about the

working of Trellisanians' minds

  to do so, they could not have done

  better than to wait beneath the calm sea surface

as they did. Even the

  yegemot, whose defiance had already diminished as their

numbers dwindled at

  Sealon hands, became quiet, waiting

uncertainly for the next move from the

  deadly invader hidden beneath the seas.

  Veedron's reservoir of courtliness had

deserted him. "How can we get more

  organized?" he screamed at McCoy. "We

don't know what to organize for!"

  McCoy shrugged and pressed his palms against his

eyes. He felt enormous

  fatigue, and he seemed to be incapable of feeling

anything else. It was as

  if the long, hard, thankless hours of dealing with

Trellisane's in-

  creasingly uncooperative leaders and the nausea

resulting from his latest

  discovery had drained him of even the ability

to experience anything but

  weariness. He let his hands fall to the

table. "I don't know what to tell

  you, Veedron. Perhaps it's not worth doing anything,

after all. We're all

  doomed. Give up and face the inevitable. I

know 1 don't care any more."

  This was enough to at last reduce Veedron to silence.

He stared at McCoy,

  realizing for perhaps the first time just how much of himself this

alien

  had given to Trellisane, how unselfishly he

had given it-and how little

  thanks he had received for his sacrifice.

Veedron searched for the words to apologize to McCoy

and to thank him: if they must all perish, then

Veedron

  wished all the more to restore Trellisane's

honor before it was too late.

  Before he could formulate the long, elaborate

circumlocution he intended to deliver, however, a

yegemot entered the room and hurried over to him.

  "A ship, Your Honor," the man said

breathlessly. "A ship of the Sealons has arrived."

  Veedron glared at him. "You interrupted me for

that, creature?" he snapped. "More invasion forces,

that's all."

  "Sir, this one has come down on the ground near

here, not in the sea."

  Veedron exchanged a glance of surprise with

McCoy.

  "Either they're overwhelmed with confidence," McCoy

said, "or they want to

  talk to us."

  Veedron shook his head. "They could have done that

earlier. A special ship

  from Sealon wasn't necessary."

  "Then maybe there's someone special onboard,

someone the Sealons here have

  been waiting for."

  "Matabele," Veedron muttered. He turned

to the yegemot messenger. "Take me

  to the landing site," he ordered. He turned back

to McCoy, his tone of

  voice respectful. "Do you wish to come with me,

Doctor?"

  "I wouldn't miss this for the world!" He had noticed

Veedron's changed

  manner. It was almost back to the politeness of

earlier days, before

  Veedron's revelation concerning the slaves.

Wonder how he'd act if he knew

  I've been taking those damned capsules out of every

slave I can get my

  hands on ....

  The landing site was near the Sealon-blasted sub

  space transceiver Veedron had shown Kirk

and Spock

  some days earlier. McCoy had never seen this

place

  before, and now his attention was drawn to the huge

  vessel resting in the midst of what head once

been

  parkland, rather than to what was left o do' the

recreation

  ground. There was no activity around the great

vessel;

  a crowd of Trellisanians watched nervously

from a

  distance, waiting for someone in a position of

sufficient

  authority, such as Veedron, to show up and take

over.

  As he and McCoy approached, one of the watching

Trellisanians broke away

  and hurried up to them. It was one of the doctors

working under McCoy, and

  he addressed himself to the Federation doctor rather than

to Veedron. If

  Veedron had been an Earthman, he might have

resented this, but as a

  Trellisanian, and especially as the chief of the

Protocol Binders, he gave

  way to McCoy's position of authority almost

instinctively.

  "There is no sign of life at all,

Doctor. I happened to see the ship coming down, and

I came here immediate-

  ly in case I was needed, but no one has been

injured. This crowd gathered

  fairly quickly; however, the Sealons have not

attacked it. The ship could be automatically

operated, for all I've seen."

  McCoy thanked the man absentmindedly and

walked toward the Sealon ship,

  scarcely noticing the crowd of Trellisanians

parting respectfully for him.

  He had never seen a spacegoing vessel this

large

  down on the surface of a planet before. The

largest

  vessels he had seen on the ground in

previous experi

  ence were shuttles, such as those of the Enterprise.

This

  enormous mass of metal, resting quietly on

the ground,

  had the indefinable aura of deep space about it, that

  place where he had already spent so much of his life.

  The ship sat lightly, as if it were ready at

any moment,

  at any hint of a command from its masters, to leap

  joyously back into space, its proper home.

McCoy had

  spent the days on Trellisane immersed in the

details of

  his grim duty-body counts and hospital beds,

limited

  manpower and nonexistent medicines comand until this

  moment had not thought about space. It was his proper

  home, too, he realized, and the ship was a

magnet to

  him. Did the Sealons love space, too? Was

that why

  their ship spoke so eloquently of the beauty of the

great

  blackness? Why, then, he had some things

in common

  with them, after all, perhaps more than he had with

  that crowd of jellyfish muttering nervously behind

him.

  He walked forward slowly. Veedron called out

to him:

  "Doctor, please be careful!" And then louder:

"Doc

  tor!" But McCoy ignored him and kept

walking toward

  the Sealon ship. Matabele: there must be a

man-no, a

  being-he could admire and respect, certainly more so

  than he could feel anything of such emotions toward

  Veedron or the other gemot leaders.

  At the base of the ship, a door slid open,

eliciting a gasp from the

  Trellisanians. McCoy stopped moving,

overcome himself, at last, with the

  realization that he

  had not behaved with prudence in exposing himself this

  way. He was well away from the crowd, alone in

the space directly before the Sealon ship, and he

would be the obvious first target if Sealon warriors

  should emerge from that silent facade and

launch an attack.

  A ramp slowly extended itself from the bottom of the

doorway, covering the

  short drop to the ground. A man could have jumped

down with no trouble, as

  could a Mingon. This, McCoy realized, was an

adaptation so that Sealons,

  whose bodies he had already examined carefully, could

slide to the ground

  without injuring their small, weak legs. At last

he would meet some live

  Sealons, perhaps Matabele himself. So what if

he was about to die? He would at least go bravely,

even adventurously, perhaps in combat with the great

  Sealon king himself.

  The sunlight was bright, while the space beyond the

doorway was quite dim.

  A figure appeared in the opening, but McCoy

could not make it out. Then it

  stepped forward onto the ramp and descended

calmly to the ground to stand

  before McCoy, and the doctor opened his mouth in

astonishment but found

  himself unable to speak.

  "I trust you are well, Doctor, and

that your speechlessness has no

  pathological cause?" Mr. Spock asked.

  The negotiations were taking place in a large

room onboard the Sealon ship, and they were not going

well.

  A raised platform had been constructed near the

door for the Trellisanians' use and provided with

comfortable chairs and a small table. The sunken

  floor of the room was covered with a meter and a half

of water, and it was

  here that the Sealons relaxed during the discussions.

Their great shapes,

  far more fluid and graceful in the water than on a

dry surface, flowed

  swiftly back and forth across the room. Against a

far wall, Matabele rested on the surface of the

water, huge and silent, raising himself occasionally

  to stare at the Trellisanians with his penetrating,

discerning, 174

  discomforting gaze. Sealons normally squint in

sunlight, but here in the

  gloomy, humid interior of the ship,

Matabele's eyes were wide open, huge,

  black, and impenetrable. The Seaton

negotiators would carry the words of the

Trellisanians to him, receive his instructions, and then

dart back across

  the room to the platform to resume the bargaining.

  Spock, drawing on knowledge gained during the intimacy

of the mind-meld,

  had managed to reprogram both his and McCoy's

translators to handle the

  fluid, whistling speech of the Sealons. Thus

communication was possible

  through the medium of the two Star Fleet officers

even though none of the

  few Trellisanians who knew the Seaton

speech was available. Matabele had

  already sent messages to his forces in the seas

to halt their interference

  with Trellisanian communications; thus Veedron

and the other gemot leaders

  were once again in contact with those of their equals who

survived on the

  other continents. However, it had proven far easier

for Spock to work out

  such practical details of communication than it

was to design a settlement

  acceptable to both Trellisanians and Sealons.

  The Trellisanians in fact had

nothing to bargain with, and they knew it,

  and this had elicited in the gemot leaders a sudden

and surprising

  stubbornness founded on wounded pride. Matabele

demanded that the seas of

  Trellisane, most of its small island chains,

and certain inlets along the

  continental coasts be given to his people. In fact,

all of this and far

  more was already his for the taking, if he chose that route.

In return,

  Matabele offered extensive fishing rights in what

would become, under the

  agreement, sovereign Seaton territory on

Trellisane and even in the oceans

  of Seaton. The oceans of the two worlds were the only

territories

  attractive to the Sealons; as far as

Matabele was concerned, large land

  surfaces, including the moons of the system and

whatever other planetary

  surfaces Trellisaman technology could

make habitable, were free for 175

  Trellisane to take. Above all, the

increasingly technological Sealons would

  become trading partners and peaceful allies of

Trellisane.

  The agreement proposed by Matabele was so

balanced and logical that McCoy

  was sure he saw a Vulcan mind behind it. He

leaned toward Spock and

  whispered to him, "You've been a busy little boy,

haven't you, Spock? Just

  what have you been up to since I saw you last?"

  Spock cast a short glance of annoyance at him

and turned his attention back to the Trellisanian

gemot leaders. It was clear to him that it was the very

magnanimity of Matabele's offer that offended them.

If they had shown this

  sort of backbone earlier, he reflected, they

might not be in this situation now; as it was, their

argumentativeness was little more than petulance. "I

  think, sir," Spock said calmly to Veedron,

"that the Sealon terms are more

  than generous."

  Veedron glared at him. "How do we know we can

even trust these animals to

  keep their word? Agreements don't mean the same

to them as they do to you

  or me."

  Part of the Trellisanian anger, Spock

realized, was a way of masking a

  particular and peculiar fear: to survive under the

proposed agreement,

  Trellisane would have to move outward into its

system aggressively, expand

  rapidly and with determination, colonizing moons and

planets wherever

  possible. Veedron and his colleagues feared this

prospect more, perhaps,

  than they feared annihilation. Indeed, perhaps their

fearfilled, retiring

  souls would welcome destruction as the ultimate

escape from challenge and

  responsibility. "Sir," Spock said

firmly, in a tone that made it clear that even

Vulcan patience has its limits, "you do not

speak for all the people

  of Trellisane, but only for those who are

members of gemots. There are

  fishermen and other slaves, as I know quite well,

who belong to no

  gemot and who would welcome total control of this

world, even under Sealon

  terms."

  "Yes, indeed," McCoy chimed in, scarcely

able to keep a grin off his face.

  "And for that matter, why aren't they represented

here?"

  "You're quite right, Doctor," Spock said

gravely. "A serious oversight on

  my part. I should have arranged for the presence of a

member of the slave

  class."

  The Trellisanians all began talking at the

same time. McCoy was finally

  able to impose silence on them and gain their attention

by pounding his

  fist on the light table, which jumped off the floor

in response, and

  shrieking, "Shut up!" at them at the top of his

voice. They obeyed him

  largely because they were stunned that someone they had

recently grown to

  respect as an equal could be guilty of such a

breach of etiquette. Spock

  stared at McCoy with a hint of amusement on his

almost expressionless

  features. The high-pitched communications at the

far end of the room ceased and Matabele and

his subordinates turned their dark eyes and

froglike faces toward McCoy.

  "Well," McCoy said, affecting heartiness,

"now that

  you're listening, I think I'd better point out a

few things

  to you." He drew a deep breath. "There are two

facts you of the gemots need

  to consider. First of all, you need our protection-the

Federation's, I mean- whether or not you decide

to become members, and you must have realized from what

I've already told you that you won't be able to get it with

your

  present governmental setup. You'll have

to rearrange things so that the

  yegemot have a voice.

  "Second, as Mr. Spock has already pointed

out, the yegemot themselves won't accept the status

quo. They've fought the Sealons. They've tried

to defend

  this world, and you can bet they didn't risk their

lives-lose them, in too

  many cases-just to save your privileges. You know,

I've been a busy little

  boy.

  Removing brain implants, for instance . . .

Face it, gentlemen: you have no

  choice."

  Veedron licked his lips and looked around at his

fellow gemot leaders, but

  they all looked down at the table, refusing

to meet his eyes. At last,

  convinced his colleagues would not offer him any

support, Veedron spoke.

  "Doctor, I know those arguments," he said

reluctantly. "I've used them with myself. I

suppose I-we-would be willing to accept a small

degree of

  participation in the government by the yegemot, since

we seem to have

  little choice, were it not for one insurmountable

difficulty." He stopped,

  his evident distaste for the subject seemingly making

it almost impossible

  for him to say more.

  "And that difficulty is?" Spock prompted.

  Veedron forced himself to continue. "They are

animals, beasts." Anger

  flared in him again at the thought. "They serve us because

they were bred

  up from bestiality for that purpose only! We

can't-was

  "Just a moment," McCoy cut in, his face

stern. "You tried that one on me

  before, and this time I can't just let it go by. As

soon as you confirmed

  that you and the yegemot are cross-fertile, I

knew the story abbut their

  ancestry was rubbish. If your medical men

weren't as prejudiced as the rest of you, they'd have

drawn the same conclusions as I did. It could be

proved easily enough with tissue samples in a lab,

but that's not even necessary:

  you have to have common ancestors, and fairly

recently, you have to still

  be the same species-by definition-to be able

to breed together."

  The Trellisanians were speechless. McCoy

wondered whether the cause were

  confusion or outrage. He became aware for the first

time of Matabele and

  his Sealons watching the scene with a calculating

silence. One of the

  Trellisanians finally found his voice. "But

your colleague, the Vulcan . .

  . I was told he's half Earthman. What you

said is obviously not true." The

  rest of the group nodded vigorously and muttered their

agreement.

  "Sorry to destroy your last defense,"

McCoy said, feeling like a hypocrite

  because he wasn't sorry at all, "but Vulcans

and Earthmen are both

  descended from an ancient race who colonized

most of the known Galaxy.

  Almost all the humanoid races we know of are

descended from them, and that

  probably includes you. Of course there has

been genetic drift and

  adaptation to extreme conditions, producing

anomalies like the Vulcans. The races who

don't have those common ancestors are precisely those

races who

  are not crossfertile with humanoids from other

worlds."

  Veedron said, "This is a great deal to ask us

to accept, Doctor. To

  overturn the ways of generations on your word . .

." He shook his head.

  "Damn it," McCoy flared at him,

"I'm not asking you to take just my word!

  When you first told me that cockeyed theory about the

yegemot being bred up from domestic animals, I

went right out and collected tissue samples from

  various corpses, victims of the bombardments,

both yegemot and your own

  kind. The results are all available for your

biologists, well documented,

  genetic analyses and everything. You could have done that

yourselves at any time. Now I've done it for you. Now

you'll have to face the truth!" McCoy

  realized he was on his feet and shouting. Feeling

suddenly foolish, he fell silent and sat down.

  Spock's almost-smile was even more apparent

to McCoy. "Well?" he snapped at the

Vulcan. "Do you have something to add on the

subject?"

  "Not at this moment, Doctor." Spock added in

a low voice, "Implants? You

  must explain that to me later." He turned to the

Trellisanians. "I don't

  think you'd be wise to put off your decision much

longer, gentlemen. I've

  come to know Matabele quite intimately," he

paused, darting images of

  dark, deep oceans of Sealon surfacing in his

memory, "dis . . intimately, and

  I believe that despite his pragmatism and

magnanimity, was he emphasized the

  word, "the usual Sealon impatience is very much a

part of him. If you delay

  any longer, he might withdraw his offer and launch

the final attack. His

  followers in the seas must be chafing at the delay as

it is."

  Perhaps it was the thought of murderous Sealons swarming

out of the seas,

  slithering across the beaches to kill and destroy, perhaps

it was the

  cumulative effect of Spock's well

orchestrated attack; whatever the cause,

  defeat was evident on the faces of the

Trellisanians. Even though they

  performed the ritual of discussing their reply among

themselves and with

  the invisible host of other gemot leaders linked

to them mind-to-mind, the

  result was clear long before they announced it. At

last, with a deep sigh,

  Veedron said to Spock, "Please

tell the king we accept his terms."

  Before Spock could say anything to the expectant

Sealons, who were now

  swimming back and forth impatiently near the

platform, McCoy raised his

  hand to stop him. "And what about our terms concerning the

yegemot?"

  An expression of great distaste crossed

Veedron's face. "Yes, we agree to

  your terms as well."

  Spock turned toward the Sealons and spoke a

few words quietly in Vulcan.

  His voice was drowned out by the fluting, whistling

sounds that came from

  his translator and sent the Sealons gliding

swiftly across the room to tell Matabele that the

oceans of Trellisane were his.

  The Sealons erupted into wild gyrations of

triumph, flashing across the

  room and leaping out of the water in front of the

platform, whistling

  shrilly, and splashing the Trellisanians as they

crashed back into the

  water.

  A new Sealon arrival darted in through

the doorway, looked around for a

  moment until he spotted his king, and then glided

swiftly to Matabele. At

  first the Trellisanians and the two Federation

officers on the plat-

  form didn't notice the new Sealon, partly because

all Sealons looked alike

  to them, and partly because the Trellisanians were too

busy wiping water off themselves and rearranging their

robes. Those on the platform finally

  realized that something important had happened when the

Sealons, Matabele in the lead, churned through the

doorway and vanished, leaving behind a trail

  of bubbles and foam that slowly dissipated.

  "I think, Veedron, that we'd better return

to your headquarters," Spock

  said. He rose and led the way to the exit, using the

narrow ledges that ran along the walls just above water

level. The Trellisanians followed

  spiritlessly, defeat heavy upon them, as if nothing they

did mattered any

  more.

  Outside, it was already dark and the crowd had drifted

away. The group made its way as quickly as

possible to the headquarters building of the

Protocol Binders gemot. The building gleamed

in the dark, every light on, and people hurried in and out. The

illusion of organized pandemonium was shattered

  when they entered: there was no organization, only

pandemonium.

  Spock tried unsuccessfully to stop passersby

to find out what had happened. Veedron finally

succeeded when one of the hurrying functionaries

recognized him. "Sir," the man said breathlessly,

"I'm glad you're back. We've all

  been worried-was

  "Never mind that. What's caused this excitement?"

  "You don't know?" He looked at the impatient

faces before him and explained quickly. "A fleet of

ships just arrived. Klingons, Romulans, the

  Federation- combined. They're in orbit now, demanding

that we and the

  Sealons surrender to them!"

  Captain's Log: Stardate 7532.8

  The Enterprise will be leaving Trellisane

orbit for Starbase 28 in a matter

  of moments. Upon arrival, I will deliver our

surviving prisoners. I will

  also dump to the Starbase diplomatic computer the

full details of the accord I have signed

with the Romulans and Klingons.

  Kirk raised his thumb from the log recorder

button and let his mind drift

  for a moment. Would Star Fleet Command and the Federation

Council accept

  the new treaty with only minor quibbling? Or would

his actions be condemned as an overreaching of his

authority? He shrugged and pressed the log

  recorder on again.

  "Perhaps this is the beginning of the cooperation between us and the

  Klingons forecast by the Organians. It goes

beyond that forecast by

  including the Romulans as well." Kirk

hesitated, then, grinning, added,

  "This is surely one of the most significant

opportunities for peace we have had in this century,

and I sincerely hope we will not fail to grasp it."

He released the button to off and sat back,

feeling satisfied. "Helm, initiate new

course on this orbit."

  "Aye, Captain."

  Back in control, Kirk thought with satisfaction.

Giving orders again, the

  orders that moved this enormous machine and its

400-odd crewmen-a different kind of

machine--sending it across the Galaxy if he,

James T. Kirk, simply

  desired it. The surge of power from the engines, the

faint vibration under

  his feet: it was all in obedience to his will; the ship

and its amazing

  energies were virtually extensions of him.

  McCoy had come to the bridge a few minutes

earlier and now stood beside

  Kirk's chair, watching the main viewing screen

with him as Trellisane

  receded rapidly. The planet dwindled to a

point of light, which was joined

  on the screen by the much brighter point of the system's

primary. Both

  disappeared into the field of stars.

  "Warp speed, Captain."

  Kirk nodded his acknowledgment.

  The first officer left his station and crossed

to Kirk's chair, taking up

  his familiar position on the side opposite to that

chosen by McCoy.

  "Captain," Spock said thoughtfully, "it has

occurred to me that under

  better circumstances Hander Morl could

have made a fine Star Fleet officer, perhaps even a

ship's captain."

  Spock's eyes were on the screen, and he couldn't

see the flash of anger

  that crossed Kirk's face, then quickly vanished.

"How so, Mr. Spock?"

  "Considering his lack of training, Captain, he

managed the Enterprise

  remarkably well under most difficult

conditions."

  McCoy, who had caught Kirk's momentary

display of annoyance, said, "Why, I

  believe you're right, Mr. Spock. Trust a

Vulcan to see it. Morl was

  arrogant, ruthless, singleminded, egomaniacal.

Yes, Spock, the perfect Star Fleet

captain." He turned toward the screen, nodding

sagely, feigning

  unawareness of Kirk's glare.

  Kirk rose. "Mr. Sulu, you have the con.

Bones, Spock, come with me."

  He led them to the conference room. When all three

had entered and the door had slid shut behind them, Kirk

relaxed his self-control and allowed the

  anger he had been suppressing ever

since his return to Trellisane to come

  to the surface. "All right, gentlemen," he said,

his jaw clenched, "I want

  to know what you two thought you were doing down there while

I was away."

  "Captain?" Spock said in a puzzled tone.

"I don't understand your

  question."

  "Don't play games with me!" Kirk roared.

"I finally regained control of the Enterprise,

managed to browbeat the Klingons and Romulans into a

treaty

  concerning Trellisane and Sealon, only to find

that you and McCoy have

  drawn up some sort of agreement of your own."

  "Jim, that's completely unfair," McCoy

said, unable to entirely keep his

  own temper. "We weren't trying to undercut your

authority. Spock

  accomplished something on Sealon that I think is

damned near miraculous,

  and you should be congratulating him for it. You weren't

here, we didn't

  know what had happened to you or if you were even

alive, and we both acted

  as we thought best in the circumstances. Read what

the Star Fleet Manual

  says about officers "showing initiative and

enterprise when not under

  direct orders."" He paused for a moment, then

laughed suddenly. "Hell, did

  you want to amend that to read "when not under direct

orders to do

  otherwise"?"

  Shamefaced, Kirk said, "I suppose I

overreacted. Look, I knew at the time

  that both Karox and Tal signed the agreement I

worked out for a tripartite

  commission because they both thought it would give them

control of the

  system in the end. Neither of them would have willingly

given up that idea. They wanted to back out, Karox

especially, when we got back to

  Trellisane and found that the other Klingon forces

in the system had been

  killed and control was now in the hands of the Sealons.

The way you two set

  things up, the system has achieved real

independence. The combination of

  Sealon aggressiveness and

Trellisanian technology and science probably

means that the alliance will become a real force in the

Galaxy in the near future. Both the Klingons

and the Romulans could find themselves threatened. They

  wanted the Tripartite Commission to have control over

the Sealons and the

  Trellisanians, partly to prevent that very thing from

ever happening."

  "Sorry if we ruined all that Great Power

politicking for you, Jim," McCoy

  said. "I, for one, think this situation is

preferable."

  "I'm sure you're right. I apologize to both

of you. You understand, of

  course: it was the tension, even the humiliation, all

coming together."

  McCoy grinned at him. "Plus, of course,

that you wanted to be the one who

  solved everyone's problems, to make up for having

your ship stolen from

  under your nose, and instead you found that we'd already

done most of the

  work. Captain."

  Kirk stared at him, trying to will himself to anger but not

succeeding. He

  gave up the struggle and let his face relax

into a smile. "It's a good

  thing you weren't with me on the Enterprise, after

all, Bones. You're a

  marvelous ship's doctor, but you're a lousy

diplomat."

  "Aye, aye, Captain. I won't argue with that

at all."

  "Nor would I," Spock said. "May we be

excused, Captain? I believe both the

  doctor and I have much work to do to repair the

damage done during the

  takeover."

  "Yes, of course, Mr. Spock." He

dismissed them with a wave of his hand and

  watched them leave. As the door was closing behind

them, the speaker on the wall behind Kirk spoke out with

Uhura's voice.

  "Captain, I have a response from Star Fleet

Command to the message you sent them when we left

Trefolg."

  Kirk had to think for a moment to dredge that one up from

his memory. Ah,

  yes, that had been his message that he was going

to Trellisane to

  investigate the plea for help from that world rather than

immediately

  taking his United Expansion Party prisoners

to a starbase. At the time, he

  had been worried, even without Spock's warning,

that he was placing his

  career in jeopardy. His concern over that had been

displaced by much more

  immediate problems during the subsequent days, but it

returned now. He felt his muscles tightening.

It had taken Star Fleet Command long enough to

  respond, as he had thought at the time it would. At

the time, he had

  convinced himself that so long a time would be virtually like

eternity,

  that he could simply not think about it. Now eternity

had arrived, and he

  was surprised at his own tension as he said, "Read

it to me, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir. First they acknowledge receipt of

your message, then they say,

  "Kirk, do not forget the sensitive location of

Trellisane. Investigate the

  situation, but tread warily and do not antagonize

the Klingons. However, do what is necessary

to guarantee the independence of Trellisane. J.

  Potgieter, Rear Admiral." That's all

there is, sir."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be on the way

to the bridge shortly." He knew

  Potgieter; the man functioned more as a liaison

with the diplomatiq corps

  than as a regular staff officer. What a

wonderfully noncommittal order:

  investigate, tread warily, do not antagonize,

but do what is necessary to

  guarantee Trellisane's independence. Kirk

laughed aloud with the sudden

  relief of tension. He would have inter Qreted that

command to mean he was

  on his own, had it arrived in time. As it was,

matters had drawn themselves to a conclusion, and the

message really meant that he would be commended

  for his actions when he returned to a

  starbase, just as he would have been reprimanded had he

failed. Star Fleet

  Command had decided not to decide after all: Kirk

had a free hand, but if he failed to bring things off

properly, then the fault would be entirely his.

  But it had always been that way, from the start

of his career, as it was for any other officer in a

major command position. Eventually it might give

him

  an ulcer. In the meantime, though, he admitted

readily to himself, it made

  his one of the most exciting and satisfying lives in

the Galaxy. Perhaps no

  one else on the ship would be able to fully understand

that. Probably only

  Tal or Karox could sympathize. His enemies

and his colleagues

  simultaneously. The three of them justified

each others" existences. What a

  wonderful joke that was on Star Fleet Command and the

equivalent in the

  Klingon and Romulan empires!

  As they left the conference room, Spock said

to McCoy, "By the way, Doctor, I'm sure

you're aware that your argument concerning the necessity of

common ancestry for cross-fertility is neither

correct nor logical. The idea of an ancient

race from whom we humanoids are all descended

is an hypothesis that has never been proven. The

archeological evidence is skimpy and

  inconclusive. Moreover, your argument

was a tautology: two races have

  recent common ancestors because they are

cross-fertile, and they are cross- fertile because

they have recent common ancestors. It is fortunate

that the fallacy in your words didn't strike the

Trellisanians as quickly and

  forcefully as it did me."

  McCoy snorted, which he considered a sufficient

dismissal of all that Spock had said. "Don't

try to confuse a simple country doctor with that

sort of

  verbiage, Spock. It worked, and that's what

counts. And speaking of logic,

  I noticed that when you arrived back on

Trellisane in Matabele's ship, you

  showed definite pleasure and relief that I was

unharmed and had come

  through the Sealon attacks unscathed. That wasn't

logic, at all. You can't fool an old country

  doctor: it was genuine human feeling I saw

peeping out." He held his

  hand up quickly before the Vulcan could reply.

"Wait a minute, I know

  just what you're going to say-that you were merely

expressing your

  relief that Star Fleet's investment in me was not

wasted and that the

  ship needs my professional services for

optimal functioning. Right?"

  Spock remained imperturbable. "Not quite,

Doctor. What is of most value

  to the Enterprise's optimal functioning is your

country-doctor,

  anti-technology pose. It's good for ship's

morale, since humans have a

  curious need for someone like you as a means of

vicariously expressing

  their romantic delusions. Any competent

medical technician could cure

  their physical ills as well as you do, but no one

but you can do such

  a good job of playing the court jester." McCoy

opened his mouth to

  say something biting, then closed it with a snap,

turned on his heel,

  and stalked off down the hallway. Spock watched

with a faint hint of

  a smile. "Mr. Spock, that was cruel." He

turned to find Christine

  Chapel standing before him, her expression

disapproving. "I heard the

  last part of your conversation. You shouldn't have said that

to him.

  He's really a very sensitive man." Spock

nodded. "Yes, he is a

  sensitive man. He's also a remarkable

doctor, and the Enterprise is

  fortunate to have him. However, he needs occasional

correction. More

  than that, though, I believe he derives great

pleasure from insulting

  me and having me insult him in return. That is

the only way he will

  allow himself to express affection to a being as alien

as L" Aquatic

  images overwhelmed him momentarily. "Unity through

diversity," he

  murmured. "That is our strength. That is what

Hander Morl and his party

  could not understand, even though his group consisted of

alien,

  diverse creatures. It is our ability

to communicate and empathize

  despite our racial differences that

makes

  the Federation strong and healthy." Somewhat

brusquely he added, "Of

  course it is virtually impossible for anyone but

a Vulcan to

  understand that, because only we, of all the races we

know, can

  perform the mind-meld with beings alien to us. Please

excuse me, Nurse

  Chapel. I am needed on the bridge."

Chapel watched him as he hurried

  away. "Only a Vulcan," she whispered. This

was her first trip outside

  sickbay since her collapse on the bridge,

when the Onctiliians had

  died. No one else on the Enterprise, least of

all Spock, knew of her

  experience, of her union with alien beings on a far

deeper level than

  any Vulcan mind-meld had ever been. And no

one else ever would know

  of it. She had been walking slowly down the

corridor because she and

  the Onctiliians had passed this way

together on their way to the bridge

  .... It had helped to calm and soothe her.

Unity through diversity:

  no one, not even a Vulcan, would ever understand that

idea as deeply

  as she did. And she knew she would never really

experience it

  again-not as she had for that one, brief, brilliant

moment, that

  too-short time of love, light, and fulfillment.

She sighed and walked

  on, still shaky. The door of the conference room opened

and Captain

  Kirk came out. Yes, he was back in control

and everything was once

  again where it should be in his private universe, but one

thing still

  rankled, and that was Dr. McCoy's depiction

of the perfect starship

  captain as "arrogant, ruthless, singleminded,

egomaniacal." Kirk

  could not put those words from his mind. Was that what it

took,

  really? Was he that way? Or am I less than

perfect? he asked himself

  with self-conscious irony. He walked slowly

toward the turboelevator

  entrance, entered, and said, "Bridge." As the

elevator sped toward

  the control center of the Enterprise, Kirk

returned to the question.

  Was it arrogant to be aware that he was the best

qualified of anyone

  to command 189

  this great ship and its diverse crew? Or ruthless

to expect his orders

  to be obeyed because he was the captain and knew what

was best? Or

  singleminded to be more concerned with this magnificent

vessel's

  wellbeing than with anything else, including his own

wellbeing?

  Egomaniacal? "Say that again, Bones," he

said aloud, "and I'll have

  you drawn and quartered." He chuckled. The

doors opened and the

  bridge lay before him. He could sense the air

of-not tension, but

  extra alertness as he appeared, as if everyone was

suddenly concerned

  to be on his best behavior now that James Kirk

was present. Was it

  egomaniacal to feel more than faintly pleased

at that response? he

  asked himself. Yes, he answered, it is. But he

felt no less pleased

  as he strode toward the chair to resume control

of the Enterprise.