CORONA

By Greg Bear

Synopsis

"just a small-planet girl" may hold the key to the future of the

Universe! Join the crew of the Enterprise as they struggle against

weird aliens, the fourth estate, and Star Fleet monotirs as they once

again try to save the Universe!

Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes... "I need help," he

said.

Mason backed away, hands clutching her throat.

"I am about to be controlled by Corona," Spock said. "I only have a few

minutes of resistance left. I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its

thoughts... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use...

And it is about to destroy... everything!" His eyes widened.

He's afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifies him.t

POCKET BOOKS London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

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

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright 1984 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

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ISBN 0-671-74353-8

First Pocket Books printing April 1984

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

For the Saloon

Acknowledgments

My wife, Astrid, and friends Karen Schnaubelt Turner and Kelly Turner

were particularly helpful. Always useful for reference and authority was

Bjo Trimble's and Dorothy Jones Heydt's Star Trek Concordance, which,

incidentally, I helped illustrate in its original publication. Does

that mean I'm a trekkie?

You bet.

Alan Brennert has always been helpful, especially when we bearded the

producers of Star Trek's abortive second TV series in their dens during

story conferences. The idea for Corona arose during one such session.

The glaring errors--if any remain--are my own. More subtle differences

from the canon are probably matters of interpretation.

Prologue

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,

broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. T'Prylla felt the

crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her boots, the only sound besides

that of her breathing and the space-suit's instrumentation. She had

left the station to be by herself for a while, and to watch the rise of

the new suns, suns barely a year old.

Station One sat on a planetoid on the outer edges of the Black Box

Nebula. The station's crew consisted of T'Prylla, her husband Grake,

their two children and two research assistants, Anauk and T'Kosa. In

reservemthat is, in the cold storage of suspended animation, to save

limited resources--were thirty volunteers, whose expertise ranged from

astrophysics to space medicine. T'Prylla herself had once been the most

renowned physicist on Vulcan, quite a rarity for her youthful sixty

years; but she had run afoul of the Vulcan Science Academy by using

unorthodox methods of logical analysis--methods which had brought

charges of heresy--and had imposed this kind of self-exile on herself

and her family to avoid an even more painful confrontation.

Ultimately, then, she was the one to blame for all that had happened.

Discoveries had been made---but not in time to save the thirty in

cold-storage, who were as good as dead. She had learned more about

Ybakra radiation than any previous scholar--but at what a cost! And she

had learned other things she might never be able to tell.

Forty-eight hours earlier, Grake had broadcast the normal-space message

they had prepared together. They had deliberately concealed their action

from the children. Day by day, the children grew stronger, more

willful, directed by a force neither she nor Grake understood; the power

the children had over their parents and the station crew was disturbing,

to say the least. Had she been human, she might have been near panic.

But there was nothing more they could do. In ten years, the message

would reach a Federation buoy far beyond the nebula's outpouring of

radiation. The buoy would re-broadcast Grake's words and the science

report by the faster medium of sub-space radio. Shortly thereafter,

perhaps...

But it was too much to hope for. She thought briefly of her distant

relative, Spock, a science officer aboard a Federation starship. What

would Spock do in a situation like this? She had never had the chance

to know Spock well. Despite his human ancestry, he had always been held

up to her as an example of what a Vulcan could be, could achieve.

The glow on the horizon brightened. The asteroid was turning inexorably

toward the source of their new knowledge, the source of their

difficulties--the infant stars.

One by one they appeared, huge oblate reddish blobs of light, their

edges diffuse and irregular. They were triplets, collapsed from the

nebular dust and gases. Gravity had drawn them into mutual orbits,

their own growing mass finally cooking off the fusion of hydrogen deep

within the stellar envelopes.

The final stages of their birth-4he final collapse into true

protostars--had taken less than a month, catching the researchers by

surprise. Theory had predicted a much longer period; the discovery of

huge sub-spacial mass anomalies in the region of the triple stars had

come late, and the intensity of Ybakra radiation had not been foreseen.

The resulting interference completely ruled out sub-space communications

and all but the most concentrated

tight-beam radio signals.

"Mother."

T'Prylla turned as quickly as her suit and the low gravity allowed,

facing her son, Radak. He was live years old, too young even for the

most basic ritual of Vulcan maturity, ka nifoor. His expression was

peaceful, contented.

"Mother, we know what Father has done."

He motioned for her to follow, and they returned to Black Box Nebula

Station One. There would be no further messages.

And no answers, for at least ten years.

Chapter One

Rowena Mason stood transfixed at the window of the personnel transport.

She had spent her entire life on the small, yellow-orange planet Yalbo,

more known for its spacedock facilities and mining colonies than its

natural beauty. Yet now Yalbo, rotating slowly below, was the most

beautiful thing she had ever seen. Banks of dusty yellow clouds drifted

over the tan and pink Erling Mineral Massif, casting umber shadows

across the rills and valleys where her family had labored for three

generations. She had never been off-world before, and pictures could

not compare with reality.

The personnel transport rolled to face the huge orbiting spacedock, a

spider-web-delicate framework of thin cylindrical supports laced

together by lateral beams. Huge banks of work-lights were being

switched off and spacedock work crews were withdrawing from the U.S.S.

Enterprise. Mason had researched the Enterprise thoroughly after

receiving her assignment the first Constitution-class ship to be

equipped with warp drive, on a continuing mission

of research and exploration, she was easily the most famous ship in

human history.

The quarterdeck of the Enterprise seemed to be the only peaceful

location on the ship. Officers and crew had already boarded, but stores

were still being loaded through the shuttle bay, and preparations were

being made for casting off. Rowena Mason stepped off the transport,

uncertain, as she walked through the passageway, exactly at what moment

she boarded the Enterprise.

She was greeted by the Officer of the Deck in Spacedock, a shiny-faced

junior lieutenant who, to Mason's relief, was quite human. Starfleet

tended to group humanoid oxygen breathers together as crews to avoid

expensive ship refitting; non-humanoid types were grouped in various

other categories, aboard ships appropriate to their needs. She could

not have met, say, a Medusan (she had had nightmares about them as a

child), but she was none too sure what she would do when she encountered

a Vulcan or Andorran, both reputedly stationed aboard the Enterprise.

She was glad for a brief reprieve.

She presented her credentials to the OD, who smiled with formal courtesy

and passed them through the security device mounted on one side of his

podium. "Permission to come aboard?" she asked, unsure of the

procedure.

"Permission anted, Mister Mason. Welcome to the Enterprise.

That was another thing she'd have to get used to. By calling her

"mister," they were extending her a courtesy sually reserved for

officers, both male and female.

"Thank you. I'd like my arrival announced to the Federation News

Service as soon as possible. And when do I meet the quartermaster?"

"Uh... quartermaster? I'm sorry. You must mean Army usage. There is

no 'quartermaster' aboard the Enterprise. All quarters are allotted by

the ship's computer. Your escort will meet you in a few minutes. You're

a bit late." "I know," Mason said. Only six hours before, she had been

happily at work on her history of twenty-second century approaches to

quantum electrodynamics, her major at the very small Yalbo University

of Humanities. She had managed a fairly stiff curriculum despite her

work as an FNS reporter. Mason's parents had disapproved of her

academic pursuits, preferring that she immediately join her father in

the Union Rare Earths C ompany as a filial apprentice; her decision to

continue at the university had resulted in their cutting off all

support. She had gone to work as a stringer for the Federation News

Service to keep off the despised Student's Dole, and had gradually

worked her way up to a staff position, one of only two in Yalbo's FNS

Bureau. The other was held by her boss, a crusty ex-demolisher and

closet philosopher named Evanric. Yalbo supplemented its mining income

(and kept its chronically idled mining engineers employed) by serving

the Federation as a repair and outfitting station. It was no small

story when the Enterprise was ordered to put into spacedock around Yallo

for new equipment installations. Mason had covered what aspects of the

story she could from planetside. When FNS had asked Evanric to release

her for an off*planet assignment, she could have refused, but she had

been sitting around, calm and happy, for entirely too long... and she

was, after all, a reporter. Reporters were supposed to be in the thick

of things, not puttering on academic projects in the middle of nowhere.

If FNS thought her small-planet articles were good enough to merit such

an assignment---and if she happened to be the only reporter in the

vicinity other than Evanric, who adjudged himself too old and set in his

ways--who was she to refuse? "There may be some confusion at first,

Mister Mason," the OD said. "We've just spent twenty days undergoing

repairs and refit. New installations." "That's why I'm here," she said.

"To catch us while we're vulnerable?" Ah, the military mind resenting

the intrusion of the press, she thought. "No. To report on the new

monitors, observe the reaction of the crew. How the Enterprise

behaves." She smiled. The junior lieutenant returned her smile. Such

discipline, she thought sarcastically. He didn't exhibit a trace of

masculine interest in this new addition to the ship's female population.

Correct and polite in every particular---except, of course, for that

brief probe of her intentions. "Mister Mason?" a woman asked. It took

her a second to recognize her own name. She wondered if she would always

assume someone was asking for her father. She turned and saw a

dismayingly beautiful woman in a red regulation uniform standing in the

quarterdeck elevator. "I'm Lieutenant Uhura," she said, stepping

forward and offering her hand. "Communications officer. Star-fleet

thought since we'd be working together off and on, we might as well

share quarters." Mason blinked. No wonder the OD hadn't shown any

interest in her. Were all Starfleet women so depressingly, exotically

gorgeous? "Lieutenant Uhura is your escort, Mister Mason," the OD

explained. "Yes, I understand, thank you." She shook the communications

officer's hand and followed her into the elevator. "My luggage--" "It's

coming through the shuttle bay," the OD said behind them. "It's all

taken care of." "It better be," she said, half under her breath. "There

are two FNS mobile recorders, and if they're damaged it'll take me four

years to pay for them." As the elevator door closed, Uhura looked Mason

over quickly. Her smile seemed quite genuine,

something of a contrast with the OD. "You're going' to do a story on

the Enterprise's new monitors?"

"Partly. I'm also interested in the new medical equipment."

"Looks like we'll have quite a shakedown ahead of us. If we ever get to

the shakedown... Starfleet keeps us very busy, you know. Most of our

training and shakedown cruises have turned into the real thing. I don't

see any reason this time should be different."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a real adventure," Mason admitted. She

could look forward to a nice, safe bit of investigative reporting---but

life among mining engineers had taught her that adventure was a

euphemism for serious injury or death. "If an emergency comes up, will

I be put off at an outpost or starbase?"

"Not on your life. The captain will make sure you're with us every step

of the way. If Starfleet wants monitors, and the Federation wants press

coverage, they'll have both, and he won't blink an eye or complain

once... or let them off the hook. You'll see. You could write a whole

book just about Captain Kirk."

"You seem to admire him."

"Seem? Honey, he's the captain. I don't think there's a man or woman

on board who wouldn't

follow him down the mouth of a naked singularity." "And how does he feel

about the press?"

"I don't think the question's ever come up. At any rate, l'rn happy to

see you. They've upped my quarters allowance and lowered my mess bill,

just to show you around, duty permitting. And I've already worked my

way up to the best quarters in junior officers' country. Plenty of room

for two. Privacy, even."

"Sounds like a luxury cruise."

Uhura shook her head. "Like I said, Mister Mason--"

"Rowena, please."

"Rowena. Like I said, I don't think there'll be much time for luxury."

"Ship's quarters, junior officers' sector," the elevator announced. The

doors opened with a wheep, revealing a stark .white and gray corridor

with impressively massive bulkheads outlined in red.

"Welcome home, honey," Uhura said, leading the way.

Chapter Two

"Jim, I swear, if I'd wanted to be a lawyer, I'd have gone to Tharsis

University and transferred to Star-fleet Internal Affairs." Dr. Leonard

McCoy pulled all the homey lines of his face into an exaggerated scowl

and shook his head. "Ten thousand new rules and regulations." "It's

just a watchdog, Bones." "I feel more out of my element every year.

First they change my tools, then they tell me the computers can run

surgery betterwand what's that make me, an electrician?--and now they

say that a starship medical center has--" he assumed an air of great

dignity and self-importance, "has a 'potential for social disruption.""

His eyes protruded slightly as he stared at Captain James T. Kirk,

demanding a response. Kirk's look of sudden humor and mildness was

almost equally exaggerated. "It's all part of the new Federaticm

monitors. They just don't want you to become a god, Bones."

McCoy's explosion of breath showed he didn't appreciate his friend's

humor. Kirk walked between the banks of equipment in the rebuilt medical

center. Starfleet had shipped the Transporter Emergency Recovery unit

to Yalbo's spacedock months before the Enterprise had finished her last

mission--along with the command and medical monitors. "If I'm going to

have a Federation-programmed watchdog system breathing down my neck, why

should you get off--with our chief engineer's pardon--Scot free?" He

stopped, turned to look at McCoy, and gestured at a man-sized

cylindrical vat filled with transparent green fluid. "If it's any

comfort to you, I find it all a bit much, myself. This... this..." He

shook his head. "In my day, the TEREC would have been called a miracle.

But now, if there's a transporter accident, you--you, Bones! Good o1'

country doctor--you can direct the last memory bank impression of a

transporter passenger into this machine, and a virtually exact duplicate

can be recreated. No more transporter deaths, Bones." "It could be a

damned nightmare." "Yes, indeed. A mad doctor could ransack the memory

banks for impressions of passengers, combine them, run them through the

TEREC... create entirely new people. So we have the medical monitors,

and the new regs." Kirk knew all too well that McCoy was simply blowing

off steam. McCoy's pretended distaste for new medical equipment, new

techniques for saving lives and preventing misery, was a front, behind

which the doctor carefully adjusted all his past medical experience.

Kirk played along with the theatrics, but not without having some fun of

his own. "Why, without the new regs, you could make your own nurse,

Bones. She would "Sexist," McCoy accused. "She," Kirk reiterated,

"would be about five feet ten, an excellent physical specimen, brainy

and 'as obedient as a Tau Cetian fawnbird. And when you were done

creating her, you'd promptly marry her, and Starfleet would lose its

best ship's doctor."

McCoy seemed about to either laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a

lengthy defense whefi the corn chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck

to Captain Kirk. Wellman, Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her

equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure

the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right

corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate

aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch

your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she

wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with

his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he

instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister

Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the

officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost

indetectable.

Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly

worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment

and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,

tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment

of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely

sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.

Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betray ed

Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic

modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the

ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the invi

laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a lengthy defense whefi the corn

chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck to Captain Kirk. Wellman,

Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure

the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right

corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate

aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch

your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she

wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with

his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he

instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister

Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the

officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost

indetectable.

Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly

worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment

and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,

tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment

of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely

sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.

Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betrayed

Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic

modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the

ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the

invitation to the captain's table for dinner. There was little time for

anything beyond a quick cleanup.

She greatly appreciated the Enterprise's lavatory facilities. They were

perhaps ten years more modem than the general run of bathrooms on Yalbo.

She

wondered how she'd adjust when they returned her to her home. Perhaps...

and it was just an idle fantasy... perhaps this story would be her

ticket to better things. In the officer's mess, she seated herself at

the end of the six-place table, where her name was illuminated in

ghostly green beside a setting of ship's stainless and a dimpled plastic

plate. It wasn't her style to be early, but she had miscalculated the

time it would take her to get to the mess. The elevatormalso called a

"turbolift," she reminded herself--was very fast. A few minutes later,

officers began to come in. From the pictures Uhura had shown her, she

recognized the chief engineer, Scott; the chief helmsman, Sulu; the

science and first officer, Spock, and the computer officer in charge of

the monitors, Veblen. Seated at another table was an Andorran

lieutenant, an expert in navigation, like many of his race. The sight

of the Andorran and Spock made her stiffen. There were no aliens on

Yalbo, only humans--no indigenous life forms, no visitors or advisors or

tourists. She had heard stories from her mother and father about aliens

carrying strange diseases, preaching strange and perverse

philosophies... and while she had rejected much of that during her years

in school, enough of it had taken to make her uneasy. There was, first

and foremost, Spock's severe handsomeness and his ears. The color of

his skin---a warm, light brownish-green---was disconcerting, but not

that unusual. She had met humans from other star systems who hadn't

looked much different. But she knew. He was half human... half

Vulcan. And he was seating himself at the same table, in the seat next

to Kirk's on the right, directly across from her. While she examined

Spock, Scott sat on her left. To Spock's right was a stocky,

boyish-looking lieutenant who introduced himself as Jan Veblen. Next

came Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy sat at the end opposite Kirk's place,

greeting her with a nod and a warm smile. "Welcome aboard," he said.

She took to McCoy right away. He reminded her of her father--or rather,

of her father on one of his better days. "I hope. you're finding

everything to your satisfaction." "I haven't been aboard very long," she

said. "It seems fine." "The food here is quite tasty," McCoy said. "But

I wouldn't order whatever Mr. Spock is having." Spock surveyed Mason

coolly. "Dr. McCoy is well aware I take my meals in my quarters. I am

here purely for the social aspects of dinner with one's fellow

officers." "Spock is a very social fellow," McCoy added. Spock raised

one eyebrow but said nothing more until the arrival of the captain. As

Kirk approached the table, everyone in the mess rose. She slowly

followed suit. Kirk approached her and held out his hand. "On behalf

of the officers and crew, may I extend a formal welcome aboard the

Enterprise?" "My pleasure," she said. Kirk was roguishly handsome,

perhaps forty-five or slightly older. He seemed fit and looked perhaps

eight years younger. He took a seat at the head of the table. The rest

of the officers resumed their seats and a mechanical steward began

carrying a column of stacked plates from table to table, starting with

theirs. "Tonight," McCoy said, "we have the boon of the ship's best New

Orleans chicken gumbo. One of my favorites, if I must choose." "We

regret not having the time to visit your planet or allow any sort of

liberty," Kirk said. "We've been quite pressed. Our last mission was a

difficult one, and we'd have enjoyed the time off." "Well, there's

really not that much on Yaibo," she said. She so hated that name. As a

girl, she had called it Yellow, which at least had the virtue of being

descriptive. "For tourists or visitors, I mean." "Just very fine

engineers and excellent drydock facilities," Scott said

enthusiastically.

"Yes, well, we're just about the only spacedock for a hundred parsecs. I

imagine that's why you were instructed to come here."

Kirk nodded. "How long have you been a reporter?"

"Three years. On staff, that is. I'm also finishing my doctorate at

Yalbo University of the Humanities." That sounds so provincial, she

thought.

"The only FNS reporter on Yalbo?" McCoy ventured.

"There's my boss," she said. "His name's Evan-tic. He used to be..."

She hesitated. "He's a very good reporter. He used to be a

demolisher... ran a B and B machine... uh, Boring and Blasting. He's

my taskmaster here. I mean, on Yalbo. He taught me most of what I

know."

"We plan to spend a week on shakedown," Kirk said. "Though I imagine

Mr. Scott would rather we spend a month."

"A week should do it this time, Captain," Scott said, taking a spoonful

of the savory soup. "They didn't tear the guts out of her and make us

stuff them back in. Only minor modifications."

"Minor if you stayed out of sickbay for three weeks," McCoy said.

"I assume you were briefed on what's happened to the Enterprise," Kirk

said.

"I was given an outline. I'm here to fill in the rest."

"Perhaps Mister Veblen could help," Spock said. Before him on the table

was carafe of cloudy water. He poured a glassful and sipped it

reflectively.

"Certainly," Veblen said. He was a short, chunky man with blond hair

cut shorter than regulation length, a bulbous nose, and penetrating,

elfishly-upslanted green eyes. He had come aboard the Enterprise the

year before to coordinate the upcoming monitor installation, serving

first as Spock's assistant and chief computer officer. Though Veblen

didn't look like the most representative Starfleet

Academy graduate, Kirk had come to respect him---grudgingly, and with a

healthy list of reservations. "The Enterprise is now outfitted with a

Federation monitoring system. The Federation has been worried for years

about the power of Starfleet vessels, and the possibilities of gross

misuse, and not without justification... even within the captain's

experience, as I've learned. There have been safeguards in the past,

but nothing like these. The monitors are planned to eventually oversee

all of ship operations. For this voyage, there are two basic

systems--command, the largest, and medical, to oversee the new TEREC."

"Terec?" Mason asked.

"Transporter Emergency RECovery unit," McCoy explained.

"If and when the monitors decide that a Starfleet vessel is operating in

a manner not beneficial to the Federation's interests," Veblen

continued, "they will take over until the situation has been normalized,

or until the Enterprise has withdrawn from her difficulties. The command

monitors contain the experience memories of six past Starfleet

commanders whom the Federation regarded as superior in all categories.

These surrogates are now machine combinatoriai personalities, checking

and rechecking with each other--"

"Bridge to Captain Kirk. Uhura here, Captain. We have an urgent message

from Starfleet."

"Is there any other kind?" McCoy grumbled. "They request an immediate

answer."

"I'll be right up, Lieutenant." He pushed his chair back from the table.

"Excuse the interruption. Please proceed."

Mason felt a little shiver of anticipation. "They can't leave us alone

even for the space of a good meal," McCoy said, shaking his head.

Chapter Four

In the time it took Kirk to reach the bridge--less than two

minutes--Uhura had a heads-up projector ready, aimed at the captain's

chair, an d scrambled channels on subspace open for his reply. Kirk took

his seat. In less than a second, he was deep into the dispatch. The

heads-up display projected an image into his eyes alone, and

bone-resonance speakers in his neck brace fed him audio.

BuUnexTerr HighPri Message, Relay Starbase 19, Capt. James T. Kirk

ONLY. "Kirk."

He recognized the voice of Admiral Hiram Kawa-kami, in charge of

Starfleet's Bureau of Unexplored Territory.

"Captain, we've received a status geometry message from Octant 7, Black

Box Nebula Station One. It took ten years for that message to reach the

nearest Federation automatic relay buoy."

"I thought the Black Box station had been written off years ago," Kirk

muttered.

"The message is partly visual. Here it is, Jim."

A strong-featured Vulcan face, with the deeper greenish-tan caste common

to a purebred member of one of the old families, appeared before him,

surrounded by what looked like an orderly communications center aboard a

slightly under-funded research station. The display identified the

Vulcan in bright red letters as Grake, a physicist, husband to T'Prylla.

T'Prylla was well known, one of the finest Vulcan physicists and, Jim

believed, related in some way to his own science officer--though

precisely how, he couldn't remember. Vulcan family ties could be very

complicated.

Grake was speaking High Vulcan, which the language implant at the base

of Kirk's skull translated, matching Grake's intonations perfectly.

"Had we not a strong suspicion of something amiss, we would not be

sending this preliminary message. With three protostars entering the

main sequence within the Black Box Nebula, all subspace communication

has been disrupted. Nevertheless--" The signal faded and Kawakami's

voice returned. "We have high-speed equipment transmission, along with

the interrupted visual. Science channel on that MC is very interesting.

We now have a great deal more information on which to base our opinion

of the ultimate fate of the Black Box station. Switch to high-speed

ingest, Captain."

Kirk mentally adjusted his implant. His mind was immediately flooded

with information. He cringed slightly; in some ways he was more afraid

of technology than McCoy, especially technology which messed with the

inside of his head. The ache left by high-speed information absorption

didn't endear the process to him. Nevertheless, in a few seconds he was

able to sort out the key facts.

The conversion of the Black Box Nebula from a dark cloud to a starwomb

had not been sufficiently violent to destroy the research station. The

sudden silencing of the station, and the fusion ignition of the

infant stars, had inevitably been associated. Failure to re-establish

contact had led Starfleet to send an unmanned rescue vessel to the

nebula. When it disappeared without a trace, Starfleet deemed it

inadvisable to mount a full-scale rescue mission---a decision Kirk

personally had disagreed with. Still, he disliked second-guessing his

superiors.

Grake's message was incomplete, but from his tone and manner, it seemed

reasonable to assume that most of the station personnel-4f not all--had

survived. Still, there were unexplained problems. After the protostar

ignition had run its course, the station should have been able to use

sub-space. While there was a reference to high levels of Ybakra

radiation in the science data, that couldn't interfere with sub-space

unless there were previously uncharted sub-spacial mass anomalies in the

area. It appeared the science data was incomplete, as well.

"Captain, most of the personnel aboard the station were kept in deep

freeze. Our physicists say there's a strong possibility that Ybakra

radiation from the vicinity of the collapsed protostars has degraded the

myelin sheathing on the nerves of all frozen "sleepers"... and the

Enterprise is the only starship presently equipped to deal with such a

medical emergency."

Emergency! Not much of an emergency after ten years, Kirk thought.

Still, if the sleepers hadn't been revived...

"Your orders are to proceed to the Black Box at maximum warp, relieve

survivors--if any-nd do a complete procedural and scientific

investigation. All

prior assignments are postponed. The Romulans and Kshatriyans have

given permission for Enterprise to

cross neutral zones in their vicinity, up to star date 4386.5, after

which time Enterprise will be regarded as hostile and fired upon."

Cutting it close, Kirk thought. Even at Warp eleven, maximum without

giving Scotty severe angina

, it would take them two weeks to cross the galaxy into octant 7.

"Representatives from the Vulcan Spyorna have made their concern quite

clear. T'Prylla is an extremely valuable Vulcan, Jim, even if something

of a renegade."

The Admiral gave his formal sign-off as Kirk ordered all senior watch

officers to the briefing room. He suggested Mason should be present.

"Mr. Sulu to the bridge," he concluded, "and rig for prolonged warp

maximum."

Mason took a seat in the corner of the room, watching the officers file

in and making notes about their physical appearance and apparent mental

states. One of the two FNS mobile recorders assigned to her for the

story floated beside her, sensors and lenses extended. The recorder was

an older model, a flat rectangular prism about fifty centimeters long

and twenty wide.

When the senior watch officers had absorbed the information from the

transmission, they sat attentively around the consoles and briefing

table. Spock had lifted one eyebrow, seemingly for good, and intently

examined a science display. McCoy made notes on his electronic

scratchpad, while Scotty--much as Kirk had expected---shook his head and

muttered.

"Any comments, gentlemen?" Kirk asked. "Captain," Scott began.

"I am aware of condition of engineering, Mr. Scott," Kirk said. Then,

softening, "But... I would appreciate an update."

"I was not expecting a prolonged warp maximum, Captain. E'en with our

time in spacedock, we need at least a day at warp two for a Jeffries

refit, or we could blow an entire bus in bottle seven. I've been

nursing that one along until we could log travel time--it cannot be done

stationary."

"Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where will we be when the refit becomes

necessary?" Scott looked distinctly uncomfortable. "We are seventeen

days from the Black Box at maximum warp. If we go all out for the first

part of our trip--" "Which we will," Kirk said. "Then we'll be right in

the middle of the Kshatdyan neutral zone." "Do what you can now. I'll

give you four hours at warp two. We won't have the luxury later." Scott

knew better than to offer further argument. He nodded and stared darkly

at his work forms. McCoy was next. "The crew has been ridden hard, Jim.

Our last mission was no piece of cake. Even with a month in drydock, we

haven't had opportunity for liberty." "So what can we do about it,

Bones?" McCoy shrugged. "Keep a stiff upper lip, as

"Can we handle it?" "Of course we can. But--" "That's what I need to

know. Mr. Spock, you're looking pensive." Spock glanced up, eyebrow

still raised. "The captain must be aware that I am a blood relative of

T'Prylla." "Yes. I'd like that clarified, Spock." "She is my father's

second brothefts daughter by his fourth trilya marriage. She is married

to a former pupil of my first discipline master. This situation

presents an interesting dilemma, Captain. By now, both T'Prylla and

Grake have been ceremonially interred and their social positions

refilled. If they are alive, they will have to compete for a new social

position--" "Were they mourned, Spock?" McCoy asked sarcastically. Spock

raised his other eyebrow. "That is not the dilemma. Why should the

Spyorna have any further

interest in a Vulcan they have officially decreed to be akspra---the

follower of an inadequate philosophy? It is my guess the Spyorna is

about to recognize T'Prylla's kind of logic as useful. This could be

very important to Vulcaus, Captain; moreso if she is still alive and can

guide us in our progress." "That's very interesting, Spock, but I'm

really interested in your assessment of the difficulties involved in

reaching the station." Spock assented with a nod to one side. "The

Black Box Nebula is one of seven hundred collapsing nebulae accessible

to us, Captain. It is by far the largest and most complex, principally

because of the extreme turbidity within the nebula proper. The three

newly created stars are likely to become hot, middle-size B-class stars.

If, as surmised, there are sub-spacial mass anomalies nearby, in their

early years they will have released a tremendous amount of Ybakra

radiation. Such radiation operates in a fractional space and is not

dangerous to normal carbon-based life forms--unless they are in a frozen

state associated with suspended animation. Bodily defenses are then

incapable of making the minute but constant repairs necessary to the

myelin sheaths which act as insulation in both human and Vulcan nerves."

"Which is where I come in," McCoy said. "If the sleepers haven't been

revived, the new equipment in the sick bay might be able to save them.

But there's a problem, Jim--" "Was that all, Spock?" Mason sat quietly

in her corner, noting the style of the meeting, and the often informal

give-and-take between Kirk and his officers. "No, Captain," Spock said,

unperturbed. "We know very little about protostar formations of this

sort, and with the silencing of the station in the Black Box, there have

been no updates until now. The information relayed by the buoy is

incomplete

and highly inadequate. In short, the Enterprise will' be entering

unknown conditions, with unknown consequences."

"Yet again," McCoy said. "How cheering." "You mentioned a problem,

Doctor?"

"The equipment. It's easy enough to operate, even within the guidelines

of those damned... excuse me, the guidelines of the monitors. It

practically runs itself. But I don't think Starfleet has taken the

monitors into account in evaluating this situation. The best way I can

figure out to save the sleepers is to beam them up frozen, rescue their

transient form-memories from the transporter and feed them into the vat,

two by two. Mr. Veblen here will tell you the difficulties involved

with computer storage of transient form-memories."

"Enormous difficulties, Captain," Lieutenant Veblen said.

"Such as, Mr. Veblen?"

"Transient form-memoties are stored by a kind of quantum trick, Captain.

There are well over a hundred and fifty million gigabytes of information

needed to restore one human body after beaming. All of that is kept in

fraction space storage for less than five minutes. It then

deteriorates. Any attempt to re-beam from a deteriorated form-memory is

disastrous. Until now, there were no facilities to provide a medical

back-up for restoration with the failure of a transporter."

Kirk tapped his fingers on the table. Veblen saw, and swallowed back

his expanding explanation. "Sir, we can store the memory of six

transporter malfunction victims but we only have facilities to rebuild

two at a time. To store any more, we'll have to use ship's computer

memory, which operates on a different process entirely. If there are

thirty sleepers on the station, we could put two of them per week into

the

TEREC. That would take--"

"Fifteen weeks."

"Which means we'd have to stay in orbit around

the planetoid for at least the time necessary to retrieve all the

sleepers. Or we could dump the entire Enterprise library to store the

form memo-ties."

"Against regulations, Mr. Veblen." "Precisely."

"Why-not beam them up frozen, then beam each into the unit as his time

comes?"

"There's the rub, Jim," McCoy said. "With radiation damage, we can only

risk transporting them once. The second time, they're dead."

"Was that the problem with regs you mentioned?" "No. Even if we do get

them up here, we'll have to program changes into the vats to restore

their myelin sheaths. The best way I can figure out to save the

sleepers is to beam them up frozen, rescue their transient form-memories

from the transporter and feed them into the vat, two by two. Mr. Veblen

here will tell you the difficulties involved with computer storage of

transient form-memories."

"Enormous difficulties, Captain," Lieutenant Veblen said.

"Such as, Mr. Veblen?"

"Transient form-memoties are stored by a kind of quantum trick, Captain.

There are well over a hundred and fifty million gigabytes of information

needed to restore one human body after beaming. All of that is kept in

fraction space storage for less than five minutes. It then

deteriorates. Any attempt to re-beam from a deteriorated form-memory is

disastrous. Until now, there were no facilities to provide a medical

back-up for restoration with the failure of a transporter."

Kirk tapped his fingers on the table. Veblen saw, and swallowed back

his expanding explanation. "Sir, we can store the memory of six

transporter malfunction victims but we only have facilities to rebuild

two at a time. To store any more, we'll have to use ship's computer

memory, which operates on a different process entirely. If there are

thirty sleepers on the station, we could put two of them per week into

the

TEREC. That would take--"

"Fifteen weeks."

"Which means we'd have to stay in orbit around

the planetoid for at least the time necessary to retrieve all the

sleepers. Or we could dump the entire Enterprise library to store the

form memo-ties."

"Against regulations, Mr. Veblen." "Precisely."

"Why-not beam them up frozen, then beam each into the unit as his time

comes?"

"There's the rub, Jim," McCoy said. "With radiation damage, we can only

risk transporting them once. The second time, they're dead."

"Was that the problem with regs you mentioned?" "No. Even if we do get

them up here, we'll have to program changes into the vats to restore

their myelin sheaths. The monitors may not let me do that. I told you

I wasn't sure the regs made much sense."

"You told me you didn't want to be a lawyer. Is there any reason why we

can't ferry the sleepers up in the shuttlecraft?"

"There could be risks," McCoy said. "Hibernacu-la require very stable

power sources, and constant low temperatures. We may have to take the

chance, but I wish we had other choices."

"Gentlemen, is there anything further I should know before we begin our

rescue mission?"

"Very likely, Captain, there are a great many things you should know,"

Spock said. "None of which we are able to tell you."

Mason made a note of that, as well, and underlined it twice. "Captain,"

she said as the officers stood to return to their duties. "Since this

is such an unusual mission, am I to be dropped off on my planet before

you depart?"

Kirk hardly looked at her as he passed. "Not unless you directly

request it."

She watched him follow Spock out of the briefing room door, mentally

kicking herself. She couldn't back down now. The man was so arrogant!

Why couldn't he have made it easier on her, instead of

throwing the ball in her court? She'd show herself to be a complete

coward, and if she did come back to Yalbo, word would get around... and

she would be accused of shaming them all. In front of non-humans, too.

She gripped her notepad tightly, chewing on her lower lip and trying to

still the nagging voice in the back of her mind, a voice saying she was

too young, too inexperienced; saying that FNS had made a bad mistake

sending her to the Enterprise.

Chapter Five

Kirk was eternally fascinated by the procedures for making the

Enterprise ship-shape for a long voyage. He was as familiar with every

action as a man watching his wife dress in the morning, and yet... it

had that same sort of fascination, of responsibility mixed with a

perverse and impossible kind of ownership. No individual could own a

starship, any more than a man could actually own his wife. Still, the

Enterprise was his. He wondered what the day would be like when he had

to give her up, and whether, if any of his Starfleet colleagues assumed

her command, they could possibly remain friends.

From the captain's chair, he watched preparations on the various

displays accessible to him, the largest being the forward viewing

screen. At the touch of his fingers--resting on buttons set into his

chair arms--and at the sound of his voice, he could make the Enterprise

come alive. Stroking...

He put such errant nonsense from his thoughts

(and a good thing neither Spock nor McCoy could' read minds at a

distance) and concentrated on a report from Scott. The preventive

maintenance procedures had been completed in record time, though they

would still need four hours at warp two for the Jeffries refit.

Scott had suggested that three of his engineering crew receive notes of

commendation. Kirk composed the notes on his command console and

directed they be entered into the ship's record and individual crew

files; Scott's recommendations were as good as gold, as far as he was

concerned.

The Andorran, Lieutenant Yimasa, came on the bridge and took his

position in the navigator's chair.

"The Enterprise is responsive, Captain," Sulu said, turning to grin at

Kirk.

"Yes, indeed," Kirk said. His crew should have been on the edge,

exhausted, ready for at least a month of shoreleave--yet here they were,

seemingly eager, almost chipper. He felt a flood of warmth behind his

eyes and blinked the emotion back.

"Fix your bearings, Mr. Sulu, Mr. Yimasa. Await

my command to exit spacedock."

"Bearings fixed, Captain."

McCoy stepped up behind Kirk's chair and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Jim," he said softly. "I want

to talk to you about the Mason girl."

"What about her?"

"Are you sure it's best--"

"Bones, she's a professional. Besides, Starfleet ordered that we should

cooperate with the FNS."

"Jim, she's an outposter. She wouldn't know her way around a small

town, much less the Enterprise, much less the Enterprise on an emergency

rescue mission."

"I don't foresee any danger. Do you, Bones?"

"Every time we go someplace there's that potential."

"True enough. What makes you think she can't handle herself?."

"Instinct. I may be wrong, but she just doesn't look comfortable. Have

you seen the way she looks at Spock and Yimasa?"

"There are no non-humans on Yalbo. They may be the first she's ever

seen."

"I suspect the FNS picked her because she was the only one they could

slip on the Enterprise before the shakedown. So I'm making my

suggestion for two reasons---"

"What suggestion?"

"That we put her down on Yalbo now. Two reasons, Jim. She's not up to

it, and I'm not sure I'd want the responsibility if I were you."

"I left it up to her. If I put her planetside now, both FNS and

Starfleet would pin my ears back. She's FNS's choice. I must assume

they know what they're doing."

"Hmph." McCoy looked highly dubious. "Did you happen to read the last

story FNS did on a Starfleet vessel?"

"No. I'm not much for the dailies, Bones."

"A correspondent from Mars spent two days aboard a heavy duty freighter.

By the time he was through, he'd unveiled rampant corruption, the

possible existence of an unknown space plague and the general

incompetence of the captain. None of which charges, I might add, was

regarded seriously by a special review board."

Kirk sighed. "Bones, she doesn't want to leave. ! can't make her go.

She has a job to do."

"Oh, she wants to leave; you just didn't give her any easy way out."

McCoy's eyes widened. "Jim, you' d like her to stay, wouldn't you?"

Kirk regarded MCoy with a level stare. "Doctor, I have a ship to take

out of spacedock. We can discuss this later, if you... haven't caught

on by then." He turned his chair forward. McCoy straightened, shook his

head and backed away a few steps. It was the doctor's policy to be on

the bridge for the first hour or so of any voyage, whenever possible.

Nurse Chapel was in control of the sickbay, so he could indulge his

little quirk. "Engineering," Kirk said. "Scott here, Captain."

"Outfitted and ready to sail, Mr. Scott?" "Boilers at superheat, sir."

"Strain your gaskets, Mr. Scott." "Aye, sir. Gaskets already

strained." Kirk smiled. "Dead slow, Mr. Sulu. Lieutenant Uhura, send

our sincere thanks to the spacedock crew, and our compliments to the

orbital advisory committee on Yalbo." Mason came on the bridge, looking

apprehensive. Her recorder followed at a discreet distance. She fixed

her eyes on the forward screen and stood beside McCoy. "Are we

leaving?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am." "How long before we use warp drive?"

"Not long at all." "Impulse power, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said. "All ahead

full." "Aye, Captain." The Enterprise, heir to three thousand years of

human and Vulcan experience on sea, sand and in space, had exited the

spacedock with majestic slowness. Now she gently stretched the

gravitational bonds of Yalbo and spiraled outward, lining up with the

corkscrew magnetic fields of Yalbo's small yellow sun. Kirk could feel

the vibration of the impulse engines, smooth enough but always coarse

when compared with the steady power of the warp drive. "Aligned for

solar system exit, sir," Yimasa said. "Very well. Warp one, Mr. Sulu."

Kirk felt his chest strain at the sensation of the Enterprise's sudden

ignorance of gravitational bonds. She was now at the beck and call of a

higher geometry, one which propelled her at just above the speed of

light away from the tiny ochre planet of Yalbo, and away from her yellow

star. Kirk briefly called up a virtual display of the outside view. The

entire universe seemed compressed to a coruscating band of light,

rotated and bent away from the direction of the view cameras. "Warp two

and hold until Mr. Scott okays us for final warp sequencing," he said.

"Aye, Captain." He- switched the virtual display off. The forward

screen now showed a computer simulated display of the stellar system and

distant stars. When the Enterprise reached warp four, some of the

closer stars themselves would appear to move on the display. Kirk

glanced at Mason, wondering if she was feeling what he felt. Like a

tune in his bones, the warp drive sang, a beautiful siren pushing the

ship faster in relation to status geometry--the home universesyet

retarding its speed in relation to the higher spaces they now traversed.

The secret of the warp drive, in fact, was that it did not allow the

Enterprise to reach an infinite speed in alien geometries, which would

turn them all into a single tiny, very dead black hole. "Welcome to warp

drive, Mister Mason." "Thank you, Captain. It's quite an experience."

She wondered if she was going to be ill. And where was the science

officer, the Vulcan? Wasn't he supposed to be on the bridge at a time

like this? As if in psychic response, the elevator door opened and

Spock stepped out, walking to his station at the computer console.

Lieutenant Veblen followed, smiling at her in passing. "At this speed,

we'll exit your system in two hours," Kirk said. "I venture you've

never traveled that fast before." "I've never been off Yalbo until now.

I'm just a country bumpkin, Captain." She was embarrassed by her own

tone. "I hope to get sophisticated fast." "Don't rush it, Mister

Mason," Kirk said. "First experiences are to be savored." "I'll savor

them in my off-duty hours, Captain. And please call me Rowena."

"Certainly, Rowena. I see you've requested an interview with me in the

ship's computer bay. Will 1600 hours be okay? If Scotty... Mr. Scott

gets his refit done in time, we should be at warp maximum by then, and I

can spare about fifteen minutes."

"I'll be there." She swallowed and decided she needed a place to sit

down. Since there was no seat on the bridge not already taken, she

returned to the elevator. As the doors closed, McCoy frowned and tapped

his finger on the railing.

"Captain, Scott in engineering..We've finished the refit. She should

take warp maximum without too many problems."

"What, no complete certainty?" Kirk asked. "Nothing will go wrong that

we won't be able to take care of," Scott said. "And if something does

go wrong, you'll be the first to know. After us, Captain."

"Ready, Mr. Scott?"

"As we'll ever be."

"Good. Mr. Yimasa, final adjustment to bearings."

"Yes, sir. We'll exit the galactic arm in two hours ten seconds of

ship's time. Catchary curve through four selected geometries as soon as

we hit warp seven."

"Sequence us through warp five, Mr. Sulu." "Sequencing."

The tune in his bones quickened its tempo. "Three, Captam. Four. And...

five." "Sequence through warp eleven, Mr. Sulu. Mr. Yimasa, compute

our entry point into Romulan neutral zone as soon as you can and put it

on my console display."

"Warp six. Seven."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Eight," Sulu continued. "Nine. Ten. Maximum

warp eleven, Captain."

Warp eleven was a special treat for James Kirk. The tune in his bones

became a symphony. Secretly, he relished the thought of evading status

geometry for seventeen days--even if the course did take them through

contested territory. If they were lucky, they would spend less than an

hour in the neutral zones...

That is, if they were not interfered with. He knew some of the Romulan

and Kshatriyan commanders who patrolled those regions. Good officers,

good commanders--and very anxious to test their abilities and their

ships against his.

Ah, peace, he thought. Like seduction. Sometimes much more exciting

than the act itself...

He made a mental note to set the sonic shower for a very cold cleansing

before his next sleep period.

"What can you tell me about T'Prylla, Spock?" Spock sat stolidly on his

immaculate stone meditation plank, eyes closed, deep in the mathematical

exercises he had taken up lately, conditional to his entry into the

third stage of Vulcan life at age seventy-nine. Kirk knew he wasn't

interrupting his friend; Vulcans had the remarkable ability to devote

their attention to several things at once.

"She is a most extraordinary Vulcan, Captain. I regret not knowing her

better. She has pioneered new ways of logic, ways heretofore regarded

as unacceptable by the Spyorna. She mated outside of family

pre-arrangements--"

"A tradition you've had difficulties with, if I recall," Kirk

saidruefully.

Spock nodded his head to one side. "In my case, the contamination of

human blood could be brought to account. But T'Prylla is pure Vulcan,

and in many ways her approach harks back to a very famous Vulcan

Strovadorz--a philosopher--named Skaren, who recommended the prevalence

of inductive over deductive reasoning. Inductive reasoning is

essential, but not a Vulcan's favorite."

"You're saying she uses feminine intuition?" "A statement worthy of Dr.

McCoy, Captain."

"Yes. My apologies. At the very least, she's been regarded as

wayward."

"And quite brilliant. For Grake and T'Prylla not to have foreseen and

prepared for the dangers of their research is highly unlikely. I must

assume that something completely outside Vulcan and human experience has

occurred in the Black Box Nebula.

We must ready ourselves accordingly."

"How will we do that?"

"I have been studying Mr. Veblen's texts on the new computer systems.

The principle of stochastic algorithm is quite intriguing. To set up a

portion of the ship's computer which simply models possibility after

pbssibility, always throwing in some unlikely variable, until it

produces a situation which matches our own, could be quite helpful."

Kirk regarded the Vulcan for several minutes, thinking. In some .ways,

this was shaping up to be a routine rescue msson. But Spock's

statements bothered him. They could certainly do worse than let Veblen

loose----within limits. Kirk wasn't sure he trusted Veblen completely;

he deviated from the Starfleet norm in much the same way Spock said

T'Prylla deviated from the Vulcan norm. But setting aside a stochastic

modeling program seemed reasonable enough.

"I'll get him working on it right away," Kirk said. He stood up. "We'll

cross the Romulan neutral zone tomorrow at 1536 hours."

"1536 point 42," Spock said.

"Of course. Forgive my interruption."

"Krawkra," Spock said, a complex Vulcan term roughly equivalent to the

Spanish de nada.

Chapter Six

The computer bay was a small room barely ten feet on a side, located

several decks beneath the bridge in the Enterprise's saucer. The ship's

main computer was lodged in the walls, which were little more than an

inch thick. The room was empty save for a pedestal in the middle and a

metal mesh pathway leading to the pedestal. Mason stood on the pathway,

notepad in hand, bemused by the complete silence. Here, even the

ineffable sensation of being in warp drive was missing. Kirk stood by

the pedestal, waiting patiently for her next question. They were ten

minutes into the interview and thus far Kirk had given only a precis of

his career, which she had duly recorded, knowing she would have to go

elsewhere to flesh it out. "I suppose we should get down to the

inevitable."

"What might that be?" Kirk asked warily. "How does a starship Captain

feel, knowing that his every decision is going to be second-guessed by a

machine?"

Kirk hated being diplomatic to the point of misleading, but this was

clearly a time when evasion w as necessary. "Starfleet has the interests

of the Federation in mind. If a starship captain engages in erratic

behavior, the monitors will act as a safeguard. They'll take away the

captain's command. It's my duty not to be... erratic." "Surely

Starfleet is very careful in choosing its captains. Isn't it impossible

for a man or woman who's passed all the tests to be a bad apple?" Again

she was leading him into delicate matters. Kirk knew of fellow officers

who had "gone bad." They were rare, and the unfortunate results had

never extended beyond damage to Starfleet vessels --and crew deaths--but

there was always the possibility... "It's never impossible for a human

being to make a mistake. The monitors have been installed to catch

me--us... if a mistake is made." "But what if it's a difference of

opinion, a judgment call, and you're not allowed to follow your own

judgment?" "That hasn't happened yet." "The system hasn't been tried,

Captain." "True. But I dislike speculation. By the end of this

mission, we should have enough experience to know whether modifications

are necessary." "Do you expect them to be?" Kirk smiled. "No." I

certainly hope not, he thought. "The monitors really consist of the

experiences of six of our finest starship captains. It's much as if

they were staring over my shoulder, offering friendly advice. I don't

really expect to ever disagree with six of Starfleet's finest." "Yes,

but I'm sure no captain enjoys having his commands questioned by even

the most brilliant of his peers. Isn't a captain supposed to be

autonomous, the ruler of all the surveys?" "A starship captain is part

of a chain of command. He is never his own man." And how often had he

strained that dictum past the breaking point?

"Sometimes the romance of command is overblown, wouldn't you say? I'm

always aCCountable for my actions. In fact, I'm accountable for the

actions of the Enterprise and all aboard her. If the monitors can help

me in my work, I welcome them. Perhaps you should speak to Lieutenant

Veblen. He can describe'the technical details, those that aren't

classified." "That would be very useful. Is he available now?" If he

isn't, Kirk thought, I'll make him available. He motioned her out of the

computer bay and called the computer control center, where Veblen was

likely to be engaged in his endless checking and re-checking of the

monitors' peripherals. "I'll need Mr. Veblen on the bridge with me in

forty-five minutes," he told Mason. "Please don't keep him any longer

than that." "I won't," Mason said. She watched Kirk enter the elevator.

She had learned nothing important --nothing she could substantiate, at

any rate---and he had only given her thirteen minutes. But one thing

was perfectly obvious to her, perhaps moreso than it was to Kirk

himself. The captain of the Enterprise loathed the thought of being

second-guessed.

Everything was running smoothly on the bridge. Kirk took his chair and

paused before beginning an entry in the ship's log. Was it

possible--barely possible--that the Enterprise could run herself better

without him? He put the doubt aside almost before he had a chance to

notice it, and made a routine status entry on the compact chair arm

keypad. Veblen came on the bridge a moment later. "Good day, Mr.

Veblen," Kirk said. "I trust you had a pleasant interview with Mister

Mason." "Yes, indeed," Veblen said, smiling. "She's a very pleasant

person. May I listen in on the monitors' communications with the

command console, Captain?"

Kirk looked at him, vaguely irritated. "Yes. of course." Veblen made

the necessary patches through the science console and plugged in an

earphone. His face assumed an air of blissful atten-tivehess as he

listened to computer voices discoursing with each other in various

machine languages. "Mr. Veblen," Kirk said a few minutes later. "Yes,

Captain?" Veblen had plugged a diagnostic tricotder into the science

console. The display on the console screens was spectacularly complex.

"Mr. Spock recommends that the Enterprise be prepared for any exigency,

and I concur. We'll need--"

"Sir, I've already initiated a stochastic algorithm ilable. He motioned

her out of the computer bay and called the computer control center,

where Veblen was likely to be engaged in his endless checking and

re-checking of the monitors' peripherals. "I'll need Mr. Veblen on the

bridge with me in forty-five minutes," he told Mason. "Please don't

keep him any longer than that." "I won't," Mason said. She watched Kirk

enter the elevator. She had learned nothing important --nothing she

could substantiate, at any rate---and he had only given her thirteen

minutes. But one thing was perfectly obvious to her, perhaps moreso

than it was to Kirk himself. The captain of the Enterprise loathed the

thought of being second-guessed.

Everything was running smoothly on the bridge. Kirk took his chair and

paused before beginning an entry in the ship's log. Was it

possible--barely possible--that the Enterprise could run herself better

without him? He put the doubt aside almost before he had a chance to

notice it, and made a routine status entry on the compact chair arm

keypad. Veblen came on the bridge a moment later. "Good day, Mr.

Veblen," Kirk said. "I trust you had a pleasant interview with Mister

Mason." "Yes, indeed," Veblen said, smiling. "She's a very pleasant

person. May I listen in on the monitors' communications with the

command console, Captain?"

Kirk looked at him, vaguely irritated. "Yes. of course." Veblen made

the necessary patches through the science console and plugged in an

earphone. His face assumed an air of blissful atten-tivehess as he

listened to computer voices discoursing with each other in various

machine languages. "Mr. Veblen," Kirk said a few minutes later. "Yes,

Captain?" Veblen had plugged a diagnostic tricotder into the science

console. The display on the console screens was spectacularly complex.

"Mr. Spock recommends that the Enterprise be prepared for any exigency,

and I concur. We'll need--"

"Sir, I've already initiated a stochastic algorithm in the strategy and

forecasting centers."

"Of course," Kirk said. He bit his lip. "Precisely. Any results yet?"

"It's only been running for an hour, sir." Veblen smiled almost

gleefully. "Last I checked, it was running a model on the development

of Hoyle

clouds under protostar conditions."

"Hoyle clouds, Mister Veblen?"

"Large sentient masses of interstellar gas, Captain. Named after a

twentieth-century astronomer."

"Yes. The Enterprise has encountered similar creatures several times.

Why should that be amusing, Mr. Veblen?"

"By itself, no reason, sir. But the algorithm was speculating on the

possibility they were chess masters." His smile widened, as if he were

filled with some hidden joke he couldn't possibly explain.

"I assume that is in the nature of the algorithm, Mr. Veblen, and we

shouldn't be alarmed?"

"Quite unnecessary, Captain. The program does not expect to be

interrupted while preparing its required list of nonsense situations. It

will select useful scenarios on its own."

"Thank you," Kirk said. Somehow his sense of humor faded when he was in

the presence of the young computer officer. Perhaps it was Veblen's

seeming inability to wear a uniform properly... "Please disengage the

command console now, Mr.. Veblen."

"Yes, sir." Velen withdrew his tricotder and patches and returned the

privacy of his chair to Kirk.

McCoy came on the bridge, looking mildly jubilant. He stood to one side

of Kirk, smiled, and shook his head. "Captain, I think I've got the

hang of working with the watchdogs. I'm learning to reason with them,

God help me. We shouldn't expect too much trouble." He lowered his

voice. "Unless we run into anything just the tiniest bit unusual." He

cast a meaningful glance at Veblen.

"Glad to hear it, Doctor. When you've mastered them, perhaps you'll

inform me how to deal with Mr. Veblen's command override."

"That's simple, Jim," McCoy said. "Just don't screw up. Use your own

judgment, but for God's sake don't make any decisions."

Kirk laughed. "Status report on your weapons tests, Mr. Chekov."

Chekov swiveled his chair. "We are ready for almost anything, Captain."

Captain's Log, Stardate 4380.4.

I'm going back through my tapes and trying to find all the information

on hand about Kshatriyan Vice Commodore Uligbar Dar Zotz-chen. VC Dar

Zotzchen is the last confirmed commander of the Kshatriyan stretch of

the neutral zone. As anticipated, the Romulans gave us no trouble

during our brief passage; the Kshatriyans, however, are not likely to be

so cooperative, even with the acquiescence of their Federation

representatives.

I last had dealings with Dar Zotzchen when I was a very green exec

aboard the Bonne Hornme Richard, escorting treaty software to the

presiding regent Dom Hauk. My impression was that VC Dar Zotzchen is a

devious

son of a bitch, and nobody to trust when you're' in a hurry-

INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTERRUPT / INTER

Kirk was on the bridge in less than a minute. Vebten smoothly disengaged

the command override, which thankfully had done nothing in the meantime,

and Uhura played back the message.

Kirk listened intently. Yes, indeed, the voice--even in

translation--was that of Dar Zotzchen. Unforgettable.

"Defender of the Kshatriyan God's Endowment, Prime Commodore Uligbar Dar

Zotzchen to the inept commander of the easily recognizable Federation

starship Enterprise. Your course will take you across Kshatriyan

neutral territory. That is regarded as an act of war. Are you prepared

to violate all that our treaties stand for?"

"Greetings," Kirk said, "to the Righteous Defender Dar Zotzchen.

Congratulations on your pro motion, and all proper respect to the

Presiding Regent." Kirk deliberately left out the regent's name, in case

there had been reshuffling in the royal house. "The Prime Commodore's

servant officers must be lax in their duties, not to inform His

Vigilance that we have already sought and received permission to cross.

We are on a rescue mission."

Uhura listened closely, then swung her chair around to face Kirk. "There

is no reply, Captain."

"Sir," Veblen said, "the monitors suggest the Kshatriyan will probably

broadcast a conciliatory reply on an obscure channel to"

"Lieutenant Uhura and I are quite aware of that, Mister," Kirk said,

perhaps too sharply. "Lieutenant, repeat my signal, and add the

substance of the message from the Kshatriyans granting Starfleet

permission."

Spock came on the bridge, took his position at the science center, and

surreptitiously checked on Veb len's points of access to the computers.

Kirk noticed this and smiled his appreciation. He didn't like being in

a conspiracy against one of his own officers, but in a possible

emergency, it was best to know everything in advancemincluding whether

the new systems would allow him a full range of actions.

Mason came on the bridge a moment later. Her expression was more

harried than scared, but this changed to stiff-faced control as she

caught on to the situation.

"Still no reply, Captain," Uhura said, glancing back at her new

roommate.

"Distance to the neutral zone, Mr. Yimasa." "Three light hours and

closing rapidly, Captain." "Maintain warp maximum. Ensign Chekov, load

torpedo bays with decoy targets and prepare to launch. Shields on

maximum."

"Reply coming in now, Captain."

"Let's hear it."

"Captain Kirk, is it not?" The Kshatriyan had altered his tone to take

advantage of human inflections. "Our records are not so precise, but I

remember a young officer with a voice very much like your own. I assume

you have achieved your own command, and my congratulations. I measured

you as a worthy adversary then, despite your inexperience. Our machines

are even now searching for such a message. Until then, please reduce to

impulse power and skirt the neutral zone."

Kirk grimaced. "Reply, Lieutenant Unable to reduce to sub-lightspeed.

Repeat, we are on a rescue mission and time is of the essence. We have

already broadcast your own government's response, complete with uniquely

coded identifiers. Please allow us to pass. Your hostility could be

considered the first step toward a very undesirable situation."

Uhura listened for a few minutes. The bridge was silent, except for

Mason's somewhat uneven breathing. Kirk looked at Veblen and saw flushed

excitement on his face, but no fear. Mason was beginning

to show her distress in various twitches and nerVOus motions. "No reply,

Captain." "Maintain warp maximum, Mr. Sulu. Mr. Chekov, clear the bays

of two decoys and load two photon torpedos. Do we have the Kshatriyan

ships, Mr. Yimasa?" "They are still out of range and hiding, sir."

"Sir--" Veblen said. "No interruptions, please, Mr. Veblen." "But this

could be important, sir--" For God's sake, Mason wanted to scream,

listen to him! "Please!" Kirk shot an angry glance at the computer

officer, who nodded and backed away a step. "Distance, Mr. Yimasa."

"Two light hours from neutral zone buoy eighty-one, the closest, sir."

"Yellow alert, gentlemen." The sirens began on all decks. "General

quarters." There was a piercing whistle, and a mechanical echo of his

command. On his console, a display ticked off the stations reporting

fully manned and ready. The bridge screen showed a reconstructed image

of the stars immediately ahead, and postulated positions of the

Kshatriyan battle fleet. "We have them, Captain," Chekov said. Yimasa

concurred. "They are in the classic Warp-E formation. They look very

combative." Kirk nodded. The green postulated positions of the fleet on

the forward screen were replaced by red confirmeds. In the Warp-E, the

outlying lines of ships would be in warp drive, traveling between warp

minimum and warp three, while a rear line and center piercing line were

on impulse power. If the Enterprise were caught in that formation, no

matter what tactic she used, she would be confronting fully prepared

ships. Kirk saw that McCoy had come on the bridge. He stood near

Mason, hands gripping a

railing, wearing his tailored expression of overbearing interest. "Mr.

Sulu," Kirk said. He paused. Sulu turned, waiting. "Maintain course,

steady as she goes." "Sir, we will pass within range of their

formation," Yimasa said. I assumed as much, Mr. Yimasa. Any signals,

Uhura?" "None, Captain." "Steady, then. Steady." He sounded as if he

were reassuring a horse, Mason thought. Kirk patted the chair arms and

stared intently at the forward screen. Veblen stood to one side, trying

to look chastened and not entirely succeeding. It was at a time like

this that Kirk felt he was almost in telepathic communication with

Spock. The science officer's mere presence was enough to make Kirk

believe that, somehow, he was doing what Spock would suggest.

"Fifty-seven light minutes." "Status report." "All stations manned and

ready, Captain." "Conditional red alert." Again the sirens, and the

ticking off of acknowledgements on his command console. Always the rush

of adrenaline, which the caveman had used to prepare for the wolf or

cave bear... and which Kirk was now using to prepare himself for a fleet

of high-technology battle cruisers, deep between the stars, between

dimensions. Veblen swallowed audibly. His first time, Kirk thought.

Good for him. Mason hadn't moved. She kept glancing between Kirk,

Spock and McCoy. "No reply, Captain," Uhura repeated. "Spock, are we

tapping their ship-to-ship?" "Yes, Captain. They do not appear to be in

a state of great alarm. Other than that, I cannot read the signals

clearly. They may be false." If that Kshatriyan son of a bitch was

making him

put his crew through a conditional red, just to get his jollies... "Two

light-minutes," Yimasa said. "Within range." "Warp-E shearing and

closing," Chekov said. "Full red alert," Kirk ordered. "Impulse ships

going to warp minimum," Chekov said. "Formation closing on us, sir,"

Sulu reported. "Prepare for combat, damage alert imminent." "Captain!"

Uhura held her hand to her ear. "A message from the Prime Commodore. He

wishes us the best of Creator's luck, and acknowledges receipt of our

permission to pass through the neutral zone... Kirk, McCoy and Mason let

out their breaths at almost the same time. Kirk looked at the computer

officer with a wry grin. "Well, Mr. Veblen?" "Captain?" "What did the

monitors suggest?" "That we shouldn't worry, sir. The Kshatriyans are

unable to engage in a full-scale war at this time, have no need to do so

and are renowned for enjoying testing their adversaries. The monitors

concurred down the line with your actions, sir." "Very glad to hear

that, Mr. Veblen. Why was the message so urgent, then?" "Why, sir, I

felt there was no need for tension, if all was to go well. Wasted

energy." "Quite, Mr. Veblen," Kirk said, glancing at Mason. "Quite."

Chapter Seven

When Mason entered Uhura's quarters, the communications officer had just

come off duty and was changing into a flowing orange and red robe,

decorated with a fringe of leopards stalking through jungle grass. Uhura

smiled at her and offered a glass of wine from the cabin autochef. "That

was really something," Mason said, sitting on the edge of her bunk. "I'm

not sure I've ever been more scared." "It was a bluff," Uhura said. "I

think most of us were aware of that. I'm sorry there wasn't more time

to prepare you." "The captain didn't behave like it was a bluff." Uhura

laughed. "Poker face." "And everybody seemed relieved when it was

over." "Well, you can never tell what a Kshatriyan might do. Do you

know much about them?" Mason shook her head. "Only what I've read in my

schoolbooks and picked up from the subspace bulletins. The dailies."

"They're quite an admirable race, actually. Very tough, very

defensive... and well they should be. They remind me of the Zulu.

They're an old race, surrounded by the Romulans and the Federation,

threatened by the Klingons... and still they hold their own, even

against better technologies."

"They're the same basic stock as Commander Spock, aren't they?"

"They're part of the third octant Dakhrian migrations, if that's what

you mean. The Vulcans, Romulans, Klingons and Kshatriyans are all

related if you go back far enough."

"And Spock doesn't feel funny, siding with humans against his own

blood?"

"I'm afraid the ties go too far back for any of them to feel much

kinship. Besides, who knows what Spock feels?"

"I don't understand."

Uhura gathered up her gown and pulled a chair near to Mason's bed. "He's

a Vulcan. They have very rigid codes governing emotions."

"Yes, I know that." She felt slightly irritated. "We're not that

isolated on Yalbo. But doesn't he hold opinions?"

"Not unless there's a lot of evidence behind them. Personal opinions are

anathema to a Vulcan. In fact, anything having to do' with petty

personal traits is subdued during Vulcan education. But enough talk

about Spock. I'd like to learn more about you."

Mason shrugged. "I'm a reporter. I come from a very small, isolated

planet. What else is there to say? Besides, I'm not important. Only

the story."

"I'm sorry none of us could get down to Yalbo," Uhura said. "I like to

visit all sorts of planets, even small ones."

"It started out as a mining colony," Mason said, one hand stroking the

back of the other. She looked down at her hands and clasped them. "Full

of metals, rare earths... We can't drink the groundwater. It would

poison us. The atmosphere is fi lled

with nitric acid vapor. When we go outside the compounds, we have to

wear full body suits. It's not what you call a paradise."

"Still, I bet you like it." Uhura leaned forward, her dark eyes

glittering. Mason grinned and shook her head.

"We all like something about where we grow up." "The people, maybe?"

"Sure. There are good people on Yalbo." "You're proud of Yalbo. Admit

it."

Mason considered. "Of course. We've done some really remarkable things

there. Like, we stayed alive until the Federation chose us for an

outpost. That wasn't easy. Yalbo became productive just when there was

a metals glut in the second octant. We'd have had to ship our output a

thousand parsecs to even begin to be competitive. Those were hard

times."

"How old were you?"

"Oh, I hadn't even been born then. But my parents told me all about

them. Some people would have starved if it hadn't been for Starfleet

rescue ships."

"My father served on a rescue ship," Uhura said. "Maybe he came to

Yalbo."

"Accepting charity was hard. My people were Hippies, you know. They

wanted to be self-sufficient, to get away from the Galactic government

and set up their own commune. Most came from the Martian mining towns

originally. They needed the rescue ships, but they weren't glad to see

them. We never have approved of military venturing."

"I thought Hippies were from the 20th century." "Communes on Mars

started them up again. People on Yalbo changed a lot of things. We're

Humanists. We believe that everything in the Galaxy centers on human

beings, and that all other species are subordinate."

Uhura made a face. "Doesn't sound like a very useful philosophy."

"It works well enough on a planet where there aren't any other species.

And you have to admit, somebody like Spock takes a little getting used

to."

Uhura stood and folded her arms. "Rowena, I don't suggest you try to

apply Yalbo philosophies on a starship. We've been too many places,

seen too many things. If you really want to know what we're all about,

you might spend some time going through the ship's open log." She

paused, then bent over the reporter. "I've met non-humans who make us

look like worms. We crawl into their sight, and crawl out again, and

the only reason they don't step on us is they aren't at all like us.

Humans aren't the center of anything."

"I'm sorry," Mason said. "I don't have anything against other species,

but I do believe humans are important."

"Important, yes. More important, no. Now let me get down off my

soapbox and fix us some dinner. What would you like?"

They ate quietly, a little wary of each other. When the sleep period

was over, Uhura rose and sprayed on her uniform in the cabin sonic

shower. She stood by the door as Mason dressed. "I have the bridge

watch until 1800 hours. Come by just before then and I'll show you what

I do. Then we can catch dinner in the mess and watch some

entertainments in the wardroom."

"Uhura," Mason said as the lieutenant was about to leave.

"Yes?"

"Do you have trouble sleeping during warp?" "Heavens, no. Why?"

"Just wondering." Perhaps it was being away from Yalbo, away from the

smells and company of the compounds. She felt so alone, so very much

among strangers. If she let it, her isolation could easily depress her

and begin to affect her work, and she would never stand for that.

And she was angry. Uhura was human; whatever

her experiences, surely she felt more allegiance for humans than for

other species! How would any species survive if it didn't feel more

allegiance for its own kind? Did everyone on the Enterprise think

Humanists were backwater reactionaries?

She checked over her equipment. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea to do some

research in the ship's open log. She had fifteen more days before the

Enterprise reached the Black Box, time in which to steep herself in the

lore of Starfleet, in the history of the Enterprise--time in which to

find a chink in all that serf-righteous military armor.

Chapter Eight

WARNING! YOU ARE ENCROACHING UPON SECURITY SECTOR/ UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY

MAY RESULT IN PROSECUTION--

Spock sat before the monitors console in the computer control center and

regarded the message on the screen with mild distaste. As far as he and

Veblen had been able to tell, there was nothing against Starfleet

regulations---or even against the monitors' codes--in what he was about

to do. Still, the human designers had studded every aspect of the

monitors' programming with warnings and ambiguous threats. He knew a

way around the warning--a path was charted in the system instructions

themselves--so he erased the screen and proceeded into the heart of the

system, the memory banks which contained the experience memories of six

Starfleet commanders. Of the six, four were now dead and two had retired

from active duty. One of the dead was a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever

reach command rank in Starfleet, Admiral Harauk. Spock was very

interested in Harauk's thoughts on certain matters, and from what he

could tell, the monitors were perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to

a certain degree. So long as Spock did not attempt to change the memory

or tamper with the system in any way which would affect its function,

the worst he was doing was affronting the monitors' sense of

dignity--which was how he characterized the intent behind the messages.

(Machines as complex as the monitors were often best dealt with in terms

of quirks and personalities, especially when they had been designed by

human beings.)

WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE

EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN

Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over

his head. He heard a distant hissing noise--not interference but the

carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this

point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock

pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and

prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda

Grayson of Earth. I am science and firstnitors console in the computer

control center and regarded the message on the screen with mild

distaste. As far as he and Veblen had been able to tell, there was

nothing against Starfleet regulations---or even against the monitors'

codes--in what he was about to do. Still, the human designers had

studded every aspect of the monitors' programming with warnings and

ambiguous threats. He knew a way around the warning--a path was charted

in the system instructions themselves--so he erased the screen and

proceeded into the heart of the system, the memory banks which contained

the experience memories of six Starfleet commanders. Of the six, four

were now dead and two had retired from active duty. One of the dead was

a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever reach command rank in Starfleet,

Admiral Harauk. Spock was very interested in Harauk's thoughts on

certain matters, and from what he could tell, the monitors were

perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to a certain degree. So long as

Spock did not attempt to change the memory or tamper with the system in

any way which would affect its function, the worst he was doing was

affronting the monitors' sense of dignity--which was how he

characterized the intent behind the messages. (Machines as complex as

the monitors were often best dealt with in terms of quirks and

personalities, especially when they had been designed by human beings.)

WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE

EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN

Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over

his head. He heard a distant hissing noise--not interference but the

carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this

point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock

pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and

prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda

Grayson of Earth. I am science and first officer aboard the U.S.S.

Enterprise." "Live long and prosper, Spock," came the reply. Harauk's

voice was steady and even, though a little tinny. "Have the monitors

been activated?" "No, sir, they have not. I am asking questions of my

own initiative." "To what end, Spock?" "The Admiral is well aware that

the first concern of a Vulcan is his duty. My commanding officer is a

human, Captain James T. Kirk. The humans have created and installed

the monitors aboard Starfleet vessels, but I am not convinced they have

used the greatest wisdom in doing so."

"Still, it is your duty to follow Starfleet regulations, as I do."

"And I will. But I also have a duty to my captain, a duty to discover

whether or not the monitors will hinder his performance. And... I am

interested in a Vulcan's response to the monitors."

"I cannot communicate to you as Vulcan to Vulcan, Spock. I am not alive

in this system, I am merely an advisory program."

"It is advice that I have come for."

"Humans have been known for erratic behavior. At their best, they are

less disciplined than even an inadequate Vulcan. They have created the

monitors to circumvent possible difficulties with their own kind. I see

nothing wrong with the idea in principle."

"But in execution?"

"I am not aware of the actual functioning of the system. Vulcans were

involved in its creation, and the very best human designers worked hard

on it for years. Still, it must be obvious that I approve of the idea

in principle, since I agreed to be part of the system."

"And if a situation should arise which is outside the experience of the

monitors--outside of the experience of the advisory programs?"

"That possibility has surely been taken into account . It is obvious that

a starship commander will encounter unfamiliar situations."

Spock thought for a moment. "I am worried. The system has never proven

itself in actual use, and I do not believe we are going into an ideal

situation for such a test."

"Then there is only one thing for you to do." "Yes?"

"Your duty is foremost."

"I am well aware of that, Admiral."

"Your duty is foremost."

No matter how Spock phrased and rephrased his questions, that was the

only answer Harauk's experience memories could give This was far from

reassuring. Which duty was Harauk referring to--duty to captain, ship,

Starfleet? Duty to obey the monitors?"

No Vulcan supported a creed that bound him to self-destruction without

purpose, or the destruction of others for the sake of duty alone.

Obviously, Harauk's experience memory was trying to impress upon him the

necessity of a hierarchy of duties. Among Vulcans, such a hierarchy was

seldom necessary. But among humans, in this situation-

WARNING/ THE CORRECT USE OF THE

MONITORS DEPENDS UPON THE INTERACTION OF THE SIX EXPERIENCE MEMORIES

CONTAINED WITHIN THE SYSTEM.

Spock returned the monitors to their normal mode and removed the direct

com headphones. The door to the computer control center beeped and

Veblen entered with a notepad in hand, busily making calculations. "Mr.

Spock! You might be able to answer a question--"

"And you, Mr. Veblen, might be able to answer one as well."

Veblen stopped and stared at Spock, obviously

nonplused. "Anything you wish, Mr. Spock." "Your question first."

"Oh, it'll wait." Veblen was intrigued by the very possibility that the

science officer would have a question to ask of him.

"I have not yet had an opportunity to study the monitors' failsafe

operations. If they should malfunction, in the estimation of the

officers and crew of a vessel, can they be disengaged?"

"Such a failure is highly unlikely, sir."

"That does not answer my question."

"I... don't know myself, sir."

"Then it is time we studied the failsafes in more detail, wouldn't you

say?"

Veblen regarded Spock shrewdly. "Sir, if I may ask another question

entirely--what is it you expect us to find in the Black Box?"

"I am like the Federation Interstellar Scouts, Mr. Veblen. I believe it

is necessary to be prepared."

Mason had spent her life in the compounds of Yaibo, and did not find the

corridors and spaces of the Enterprise completely unfamiliar. Still,

there was something about the size of an enclosed, self-contained ship

like the Enterprise which was awesome. There were few areas of the ship

off-limits to her, and even fewer reaches where she was not allowed to

go for reasons of safety, at least with an escort, so exploring became

one of her favorite past-times.

Even as a child, she had been fascinated by the recesses of the

compounds, places where unused equipment was stored, or where the

automated processing plants hummed and chugged in lonely efficiency.

When Ensign Chekov procured a plastic map of the ship for her, she

looked forward to days of walking, crawling, climbing. With the story

foremost in her mind, however, she visited the sickbay first.

Nurse Christine Chapel--an efficient, somewhat spinsterish woman still

firmly holding on to her classic beauty--showed her the diagnostic beds,

both older and newer models, and explained the organ farm. The organ

farm---official name, the Genotype Conservancy Center--was a large bank

of shiny gray cabinets at the rear of the sickbay. "It's the forerunner

to the TEREC unit," Chapel explained. "We have genetic records on hand

for every member of the crew. In case of injury, we can grow a new

replacement for any body part--except, of

course, those which are deeply personalized, like the brain. We can

grow a brain, but it will be quite blank. The major advancement in the

TEREC is that we can replicate the present individual. And while you're

here, you might as well make your contribution..."

With her fear of needles, it took some self-control not to protest when

Chapel brought out a biopsy tomer. The nurse deftly and painlessly

removed a section of cells from the inside of her cheek and closed the

tiny gap with an electronic suture.

"We'll put this in the organ farm, and---heaven forbid!--if anything

unfortunate happens, you'll have some insurance on file."

Chapel thought it would be best if McCoy gave her a tour of the TEREC

itself, and McCoy was busy "playing poker with the monitors," as Chapel

described it. "He's like a cardshark with a new victim. He should be

human again in a few days."

Is it possible the Enterprise personnel are taking delight in .finding

ways to circumvent the monitors? Mason wrote in her notepad.

On some of her sojourns, she brought along the FNS recorder and made

short documentaries of various ship activities. She expended an entire

fifteen minutes of recorder file time on games played by the crew in the

gym. Highly competitive, she noted, the Enterprise crewmembers take

delight in testing each other, and exhibiting their own prowess. While

there is little braggadocio, per se, there is a firm' commitment to

doing one's best in all circumstances. In team activity, the degree of

cooperation is impressive. Teams can be reshuffled at will, and yet the

players mesh instantly and seamlessly, as if they have been mates all

their lives--as indeed they have, where shipboard lives are concerned.

Chief Engineer Scott was only too glad to show off the engineering

decks. During an hour off duty, he took her on a single-minded

"spelunking expedition" (his term) through the access tubes and

maintenance corridors of the ship's impulse power plant." She held her

hand, at his insistence, on the outer shield of one of the huge, oblate

"bottles" where matter and antimatter were precisely mixed, and felt the

indescribable tingle of controlled total destruction. She

recorded--though she knew it would never pass FNS muster--his technical

description of power plant theory, but was more interested in his

Summing up. "We could travel from one end of the universe to the other,

if we could only fine tune our understanding of what we already have..."

He shook his head and smiled. "She's a lovely engine, but I've seen

engines on alien ships which make her look like a bicycle chain, and I'm

the monkey pedaling. What I wouldna ha' gi'en just to peek at the

manuals o' one of those!" When McCoy finally got around to showing her

the TEREC, she was somewhat disappointed. The d doctor explained the

basic operation of the unit, and touched briefly on how it was

integrated with the monitors, but smiled when Mason asked if he believed

the monitors would cause him difficulties. "I'm working on it." he said,

and would say no more. While Spock and MCoy tried to understand the

function of the monitors, and while Mason toured and took notes, the

starship Enterprise rode a shock-wave of warped spacetime above and

through ribbons of stars and interstellar gas clouds, across galactic

arms and obscured abysses, at speeds too great to be entirely real.

Through the mysteries of advanced physics, she shed her natural

tardiness in scattered, dissipating ghosts and sleeked across realms

incomprehensible to the minds of most of those inside her hull. Within

two weeks, sensors could easily reconstruct the looming shape of the

Black Box Nebula, no longer entirely dark. Mason, looking at the nebula

on the screen in Uhura's cabin, thought she detected a sinister

resemblance in the nebula's new aspect. Where the light of the

protostars shined through, it outlined three distinct, clawed talons. As

the Enterprise approached, hour by hour the talons seemed to spread

wider. Then 'the reaches of the nebula closed around them, and the

Enterprise and her crew were drawn back to genesis itself.

Chapter Nine

Station One was now embedded in a twisted strand of gas and dust at the

nebula's perimeter. The Enterprise advanced through the clouds at less

than one quarter lightspeed; any faster, and the buffering of the

diffuse nebula material would be dangerous. Uhura attempted to contact

the station numerous times, without result. The nebula's brilliant

shapes and patterns, seen from several dozen light years out, were now

reduced to a constant transparent glow which bathed the Enterprise in

dreamlike purple light.

Kirk examined the readouts on the forward screen, not at all happy with

what he saw. Spock stood at his side. The Enterprise was on alert and

the bridge was fully crewed. Mason stood near the elevator, recorder

hovering nearby. "It looks like we've come here for nothing," Kirk

said. Spock did not disagree. Graphs laid over the display of the tiny

planetoid which had once held Station One showed no signs of life

whatsoever, and the Enterprise had scanned the world from all sides.

"Unless there was a failure in the life support systems of the station

itself," Spock said, "the condition of the planetoid gives us no reason

to

suspect any further harm could have come to them." "Then maybe they're

shy," McCoy said. "Serious suggestions are what I need now, Bones." He

glanced at Mason and was annoyed to find her noting his words on her

pad. He was annoyed, in fact, that he was being recorded at all, but as

McCoy had said often since their journey began, he alone was to blame

for Mason's presence. He could have defied Starfleet; it probably would

have resulted in a fracas, hard words here and there, but he would have

prevailed. No; he strongly suspected that he had an ulterior motive for

wanting her aboard. If the monitors failed miserably, an objective

observer would record the failure.

And if he failed miserablyw

McCoy was in the middle of a sentence when Kirk resumed listening. "--so

I concur with Spock. There's no evidence the environment in the nebula

was any harsher after the ignition than during."

"Mr. Veblen," Kirk said. The computer officer stepped forward smartly.

"What do our computers say?"

"If you're asking for the results of the stochastic

algorithm--"

"I am."

"I haven't had much time to enter these findings, sir. I can do so, and

the algorithm can be re-selected."

"I'm curious to know what the algorithm came up with before we arrived."

"Sir, three possibilities were presented. Two were

clearly in error--"

"Oh? Spock?"

"Mr. Veblen is referring to deviants which the computers themselves

later rejected as unlikely. One referred to the take-over of the

station by an outside force. The other considered the madness and

suicide

of all the station members. Neither of these possibiii-ties were taken

seriously in the final selection."

"The third scenario is quite interesting, Captain," Veblen said. "One

or more of the Vulcan researchers aboard the station has been affected

by the Ybakra radiation--"

"Vulcans are less capable of adapting to heavy doses of Ybakra," Spock

said, "just as they are not as well suited to cold as humans are. Still,

the differences are minor."

"---and has suffered a mental breakdown. The scenario diverges at this

point. Either the other members of the team have been imprisoned,

or--and this could be more likely, if we adjust the algorithm to the new

findings--they have been murdered."

Kirk frowned. "I'm not sure ! like your algorithm, Mr. Veblen. Spock,

let's sweep the planetold again. After that, a boarding party will

assemble with full environmental gear and portable shields in the main

transporter room."

"May I go down with you?" Mason asked. Kirk looked at her sharply.

"No," he said. "I'm not going down with the first team. Starfleet

frowns on its commanders taking unnecessary risks. You may instruct one

of the party in the use of your recorder, but we will not be responsible

if it is lost or damaged."

Mason nodded, somewhat relieved.

With the failure of the final sweep to locate any signs of life, Kirk

met the boarding party in the transporter preparation area. The party

consisted of six crewmembers, headed by the chief of security,

Lieutenant O!aus. Mason's recorder followed Olaus rather like a puppy;

Olaus regarded the device with amused embarrassment as Mason tuned and

adjusted it for its new task.

"This is to be a quick reconnaissance," Kirk said. "Mr. Devereaux will

take tricorder readings and Mr. Mason's recorder will back up our

observations. You will be down for less than two minutes; after that,

you will automatically be returned to ship. Any one of you can signal

for immediate return. You will be preceded by a transporter test

device, as usual. Mr. Shallert, release the TTD. Mr. Oiaus, assemble

your team in the transporter."

The TTD was beamed down first and reported that the interior of the

station was environmentally normal, and that the area appeared deserted.

"Temperature is twenty-nine degrees celsius, Captain," Shallert reported

from the transporter controls. "Oxygen level twenty-three percent, all

other gases as expected for an operating life support system."

Spock advanced to Kirk's side. "The higher temperature is quite

comfortable for Vulcans, Captain." "Yes. Mr. Shallert, beam them

down."

The transporter wrapped the shapes of the party members in pulsing lines

of disintegration, mapping and disassembling their bodies. Gradually,

the lines shrank and the shapes were reduced to nothing. Shallert

checked the stored form-memories, then pulled the sliding switch which

beamed them across five hundred kilometers to the interior of Station

One.

"Could the station still be operating if all the researchers are dead?"

Mason asked Kirk.

"It's conceivable," he said. "But not likely." "Then why haven't you

picked up any life signs?"

"We'll know a lot more in just a few minutes," Kirk said. "Patience is

a virtue. Right, Spock?"

Spock stared stoically at the transporter control displays. "Arrival

signal has been sent," he said. "They are in the station."

Chapter Ten

A warm breeze pushed quietly through the empty corridor. After ten

years, the station was immaculate, everything in order, as if waiting

for its guests to arrive. And arrive they did, in six beautiful columns

of structured fire, lighting up the utilitarian gray walls and adding a

faint electric smell to the clean, dry air. "Fan out," Olaus ordered.

The team spread rapidly up and down the corridor, Ensign Devereaux

aiming his tricorder in the prescribed patterns. Mason's recorder

stayed close to Olaus, humming faintly. Olaus flipped open his

communicator. "Landing party to Enterprise, Olaus reporting. Station

appears to be in good shape. No signs of damage. Devereaux scanning.

One minute thirty until return." He closed the communicator and inserted

it into his belt. "Let's move!" The six ran in two groups of three to

each end of the corridor. At one end, where Olaus stood at ready, was a

door leading into a storage chamber. The door was secured but not

locked. At the opposite end, the corridor branched into a T, each

subsequent hallway ending in a bulkhead with an airtight hatch.

Devereaux advanced quickly to the left end of the T and punched a

standard code into the hatch controls. The hatch sighed and slid open.

He aimed his tricorder into the space beyond- And narrowly missed the

head of a young Vulcan boy. "Hello," Radak said in perfect Federation

English. Devereaux stared at him in astonishment. "Lieutenant!" he

called out, stepping back. "Lieutenant Olaus!" Radak held out his hands

in greeting, but the transporter effect had already begun. Their time

was up; again, they were transformed into pillars of fire and pulled

back aboard the Enterprise, as if they had been attached by a flexible

string. The transporter grouped them together as they had left, but

Deve-reaux was hunched slightly, tricorder held out, and Olaus had been

caught in mid-run. He bounded from the platform and into Mason before

he could recover. As he apologized, Mason's recorder switched its

allegiance and returned to its former master, still humming. "There's a

Vulcan child in the station!" Devereaux said. "He speaks English--or,

at least he said hello." Spock gently removed Devereaux's tricorder from

his hands and played back the science data. "Your device shows no

Vulcan, child or otherwise," Spock said. "Who else saw the child?" "I

saw someone standing beyond Devereaux," said another member of the

party. "But I couldn't see him clearly." Spock adjusted the tricorder

and still came up with negative results. "Mister Devereaux, please

describe this Vulcan child." "I'm no expert, Mr. Spock, but he seemed

about twelve Earth years old, dark purple eyes, wearing a

green uniform of some sort. He looked a bit like you." Spock lifted an

eyebrow and glanced at Kirk. "The tricorder shows no life other than

the landing party. I cannot presume Mr. Devereaux was halluci-hating,

Captain, because T'Prylla's son, Radak, would be about fifteen Earth

years old, and has dark purple unusual for a pure Vulcan. The landing

eyeSi'ssued no specific descriptions of station party was

Mason scanned the contents of the recorder's immediate memory. "It was

with the wrong guy," she said. "It should have been with Devereaux.

There's nothing on visual and if anybody said anything besides the

landing party, I can't hear it. I might be able to pull it out after

enhancement---" "No need," Spock said. "The tricorder picked up no

sound waves except those from the landing party. Nor was there any extra

infrared or microwave radiation in the corridor, as might be expected if

an actual living body had presented itself to Ensign Devereaux." "So I

was seeing things?" Devereanx asked, chagrined. "Not necessarily," Kirk

said. "I'll expect your reports in fifteen minutes in my quarters

annex. Mr. Spock, I'll want you and Doctor McCoy... and Mr. Veblen...

there in fifteen minutes, also." He turned to Maspologized, Mason's

recorder switched its allegiance and returned to its former master,

still humming. "There's a Vulcan child in the station!" Devereaux said.

"He speaks English--or, at least he said hello." Spock gently removed

Devereaux's tricorder from his hands and played back the science data.

"Your device shows no Vulcan, child or otherwise," Spock said. "Who

else saw the child?" "I saw someone standing beyond Devereaux," said

another member of the party. "But I couldn't see him clearly." Spock

adjusted the tricorder and still came up with negative results. "Mister

Devereaux, please describe this Vulcan child." "I'm no expert, Mr.

Spock, but he seemed about twelve Earth years old, dark purple eyes,

wearing a

green uniform of some sort. He looked a bit like you." Spock lifted an

eyebrow and glanced at Kirk. "The tricorder shows no life other than

the landing party. I cannot presume Mr. Devereaux was halluci-hating,

Captain, because T'Prylla's son, Radak, would be about fifteen Earth

years old, and has dark purple unusual for a pure Vulcan. The landing

eyeSi'ssued no specific descriptions of station party was

Mason scanned the contents of the recorder's immediate memory. "It was

with the wrong guy," she said. "It should have been with Devereaux.

There's nothing on visual and if anybody said anything besides the

landing party, I can't hear it. I might be able to pull it out after

enhancement---" "No need," Spock said. "The tricorder picked up no

sound waves except those from the landing party. Nor was there any extra

infrared or microwave radiation in the corridor, as might be expected if

an actual living body had presented itself to Ensign Devereaux." "So I

was seeing things?" Devereanx as ked, chagrined. "Not necessarily," Kirk

said. "I'll expect your reports in fifteen minutes in my quarters

annex. Mr. Spock, I'll want you and Doctor McCoy... and Mr. Veblen...

there in fifteen minutes, also." He turned to Mason. "You're welcome to

come, needless to say." "I wouldn't miss it," Mason said. "A haunted

station... wouldn't miss it for a lifetime supply of filters."

For the first time in nine years, Grake became aware of a separate

existence. He looked down at his body and stretched out his arms, then

brought his hands closer to his face. Oh, yes, there were memories...

but the memories weren't his, alone. "Grake." He turned and saw T'PryHa.

He extended one hand and they touched fingers with what, for Vulcans,

amounted to deep passion. "We haven't been apart," T'Prylla said, some

confusion evident. "Yet we have been separated. Where are the children?

And where are Anauk and T'Kosa?" "I- remember them. We were all

together." "Yet... not." They stood in the middle of the research dome,

surrounded by jumbled mounds of reassembled equipment. The devices they

had used to chart the birth of the protostars had been inactive for nine

years, most of their parts scavenged and used to create the engineer's

nightmare which filled the dome. "What is your last memory... your own

memory?" "Radak and T'Raus, together..." Grake hesitated. "Telling us we

were not going to be hurt, just--" "Adapted," T'Prylla finished. "And

so we have been. How much time has passed? Why call us back?" Grake

gestured at the massed machinery. "We must destroy thisimmediately!"

Radak appeared out of nothing in front of them. "Honored parents," he

said. "It is necessary to return the station to normal operations." "My

son," Grake said. "What we have been doing is maut akspra. It must

stop, now!" Grake held out his hand to Radak. The boy looked at his

father's outstretched fingers, blinked slowly, then turned away. "Much

has been accomplished," he said. ,'We are grateful to you. But we have

guests now. Those that you summoned, ten years ago, have finally

arrived." "There is a ship?" T'Prylla asked. "A large and well-armed

ship," Radak said. "A group of humans appeared in the reshek corridor."

The station's sections were named according to the symbols of the Vulcan

alphabet, of which reshek was the third.

"Where are they?" T'Prylla asked. "They returned before I could do more

than greet them. Why were no Vulcans among them, Mother?" T'Prylla

approached her son--or the image of her son, she did not know

which---and slowly reached for his shoulders with her hands. She

grasped solid flesh, covered with perfectly tangible green clotIv--the

same children's uniform Radak had worn for a decade, but altered to fit

his growing body. "There isn't much time," she said. "These are our

rescuers. We sent them a distress signal. They will not leave until

they have discovered what happened, and corrected the situation. Or

until they have taken us all away." Radak's eyes widened with alarm,

"That would be horrible," he said. "We must stay." "Why?" Grake asked.

"It is not for you to know, yet," Radak said. "But they have seen you.

They know we are here" "They have seen me, but they know nothing else.

They do not know anybody else is alive on the station. We have masked

everything, and we have not replied to their messages--" "Why so

devious?" Grake asked. "They are here for our good." "Not so. The good

is realized by our staying here, by continuing our work... not by

leaving. We do not need to be rescued." "Who are you?" T'Prylla asked

suddenly. Radak focused his eyes on her coldly. There was no hint of

affection, only a curious kind of heightened interest. "I am your son,"

he said. "Where is T'Raus?" "She is involved in work. You must

cooperate with us" "And the others?" "They are well. They work with us,

just as you have." "We cannot cooperate," Grake said slowly, circling

his son. The boy followed him from the corners of his eyes, his body

betraying no sign of tension. "You hold us prisoner. You allow us no

freedom, no true participation. You make us your slaves, and you tell

us nothing This cannot be tolerated. You are not behaving as a son

should--" "Because I have higher duties now," Radak said. "You do not

choose to cooperate?" "No," T'Prylla said. There was no use lying. They

could hide nothing from this form of Radak, whatever he was. "Then we

have no choice but to adapt you again. There is no harm---" Grake's arm

shot out for his son's shoulder, fingers and thumb configured to pinch a

sensitive nerve and render the boy unconscious. But Radak vanished even

as the fingers closed. His voice whispered in the air around them. "I

am sorry, my parents." T'Prylla watched in horror as Grake's face grew

rigid, then softened. All resistance vanished in her husband's

features. Then her own will seemed to melt, and she was returned to the

undifferentiated state in which they had both spent the past nine years.

Deep inside, however---below all the carefully nurtured, civilized

levels, in the regions of her personality that emulated the violent

Vulcan figures of the past--T'Prylla hated, and fought, and screamed

with rage...

"Mr. Veblen, I have to say I don't place much trust in your stochastic

algorithm. Still, since nothing else seems to make much sense, what do

the new versions tell us?" Kirk sat in his favorite chair, a worn

manually-operated Delkin he had purchased while on shore leave some

years before. On the cabin's more modern conference chairs sat Spock,

Veblen, McCoy, Ensign Devereaux, Lieutenant Olaus and Mason, who carried

a simple voice recorder.

"Sir," Veblen began, swallowing. "The computers suggest the algorithms

are not appropriate at this point. We are close to having information

we can use to find out what really happened--" "Oh? How close are we?"

Kirk turned to Spock. "Are the enhancements any help?" "Whatever Ensign

Devereaux saw in the station corridor, it does not register on the

tricorder. And Mister Mason's opinion to the contrary, we are fortunate

the tricorder was present, and not her own press equipment; the

tricorder is far more diversified and sensitive." "Mr. Devereaux?" "The

picture of the boy--he was only three years old at the time the record

was made. I can't be positive. But it does resemble the older boy I

saw in the station." "Spock, any chance there would be other Vulcan

children on the station by now?" "Not of that age, Captain." "Of course.

So how does Radak become so disembodied that he doesn't show up on a

tricorder?" "There is only one way to find out, Captain. We must send

down another landing party." "Spock, I've been known to take risks, but

I'm not sure that's one I want to take right now--" Uhura's voice broke

in over the com. "Captain, a signal from Station One has just come in."

Kirk sat up. "Relay, Lieutenant." "With visual, Captain." Kirk reached

over and activated his cabin screen. The image was hazy at first, but

quickly sharpened. Kirk recognized Grake immediately; the Vulcan looked

tired, but sounded as enthusiastic as possible for a Vulcan. "This is

researcher Grake on Black Box Nebula Station One. I wish to speak to

the captain of the Federation starship Enterprise." "I'm Captain James

T. Kirk. We're relieved to see you alive and well, Grake. We've had

some alarming moments in your station."

"Yes, my son informed me. I apologize for the confusion. We have been

rather isolated here, and all of our communications equipment has been

deactivated to transfer power to other projects. We are all indeed

well; Captain--with the exception, unfortunately, of our colleagues in

suspended animation." "Tell him we have to come down soon," McCoy said.

"Request permission to enter your station and carry out our orders,"

Kirk said. "We are acting on your distress call, Grahe." c"Yes, of

course. It has been a very long time, aptain, even for Vulcans. Much

has changed... and some of the changes may be startling. May I suggest

that only essential personnel be sent down first?" "Of course. Spock,

myself and Dr. McCoy will be in ,t, he second landing party." Yes, how

marvelous. T'Pry!la and I will be very pleased to see Spock again. And

of course, all of you. have been long awaited." Kirk glanced at Spock,

who was out of range of the console cameras. His first officer's

expression was troubled, verging on a frown. "Please give us proper

coordinates, Grake," Kirk said, "so we won't interfere with any of

your... ah... projects." Grake read them transporter coordinates and

repeated his gladness at seeing them, then signed off. "Spock?" Kirk

asked when the screen had gone da,r,k,. "Something wrong?" I cannot be

sure, Captain. I knew Grake only briefly, and that more than twenty

years ago." "And?" "I must inspect the situation more closely before I

voice any hypothesis," Spock said. His look said, in a way that Kirk

was quite capable of interpreting, that a Vulcan could maintain a record

for accurate observations only if not pressed at a premature moment.

"Very well. Thank you, Ensign, Mr. Oiaus.

Rowena, you'll be allowed on the planetoid as soon as we decide it is

safe. The second party will transport as soon as Dr. McCoy has

assembled his equipment."

"I'll be ready in ten minutes, Captain," McCoy said. "I'll want Nurse

Chapel with me."

"Fine." When he was alone in his quarters, Kirk played back the message

and searched Grake's face closely, trying to find what Spock had

found... something so vague and uncertain the Vulcan couldn't yet

express it. Kirk sensed something, too...

Something very disturbing.

McCoy was in a fever of activity. He ordered the nurses about sharply,

efficiently, his southern drawl becoming so pronounced that occasionally

he had to repeat his or ders to be understood, which exasperated him no

end. The TEREC analyzer--a box about a foot on each side--waited on its

floating pallet as other medical supplies were added, including the

TEREC remote probe, a diagnostics tricorder and McCoy's "little black

bag," a customized Ieneral practice unit now equipped for the Vulcan

inhabitants of Station One. Mason watched and recorded and did her best

to stay out of his way, not that McCoy would have said a harsh word to

her. Already, she felt a very father-daughter relationship blossoming

between them, though few words had been said. She wondered if it was

her gamine personality that attracted McCoy, but suspected it was her

small-planet-girl handicap.

The pallet, full to overflowing, was rushed by a harried ensign to the

elevator. McCoy followed,

Chapel in tow, as both donned pocket-studded medical field jackets. "He

handles that pallet like it was a mule," McCoy undertoned, passing

Mason. Mason grinned and fell in behind.

In the transporter room, Kirk and Spock were strapping on their security

belts and phasers as McCoy and Chapel entered and positioned the pallet

over its disk on the platform.

Shallert stood ready at the controls. When Kirk and Spock were in

position, they were joined by Chekov, who doubled as part of Olaus's

security team. Shallert switched on the transporter. McCoy muttered

something beneath his breath until his eye caught Mason's, and he

flashed a brave and utterly false smile.

"Let's go, Mr. Shalleft," Kirk said. Shalleft initiated beaming.

While in the transporter beam, there is no sensation of time or event.

At the most, one feels a slight tickle at the base of the neck (Dr.

McCoy cannot explain this, but the sensation is experienced at least

once by anyone who has ever been transported.) Rumors of spiritual

experiences, of the feeling that one has died and returned to life, or

seen what lies beyond death--or even more pervasive rumors of those who

have the talent to see the future while being transported--have never

been substantiated. And yet...

Spock, the least likely to put any credence into such rumors, feels a

touch, the merest feathery whisper of inquiry, as if the scattered

particles that will reassemble as himself are being individually

examined... "Spock. Spock!"

They stood in the broad equipment storage dome of Station One, clustered

around Spock, who lay flat on his back, not moving. Kirk bent over his

first officer, while McCoy checked the Vulcan's pulse at his armpit.

Spock's eyes fluttered and he turned his head. The first face he saw

was that of Radak, watching him with curious interest from behind the

larger forms of Grake and T'Prylla.

"Jim, I want that transporter torn apart top to bottom," McCoy said

softly. "I've never liked that thing, and so help me, I'll shut it

down--"

','Done. Spock, are you okay?"

'I do not seem to be injured," Spock said, getting to his feet with

McCoy's help. The dome interior was empty, the flat gray aggregate

floorin[ marked by pressure and skid marks where supplies had once

rested.

Kirk flipped open his communicator and ordered a

thorough maintenance check on the transporter. "Am I the only one

affected?" Spock asked. "I'm fine," Chapel said, aiming the diagnostic

tricorder at Spock's chest. Chekov agreed that he, too, felt no ill

effects. Kirk turned to the group awaiting them.

"I apologize for a very clumsy arrival," he said. "But it appears to be

a minor problem. I'd like to introduce the ship's doctor and his

assistant, Dr. Leonard McCoy and Lieutenant Christine Chapel. I'm

Captain James Kirk, this is Ensign Chekov, and this... as I'm sure you

are aware," he said to T'Prylla, "is my first officer and the science

officer of the Enterprise, Commander Spock."

"Welcome to the Black Box Nebula, Captain," T'Prylla said, extending her

hand. Her grip on Kirk's hand was firm and dry, warmer even than

Spock's. "If it is possible for the members of such a small team to

welcome anyone to such a vast territory. My husband has already

extended his appreciation, and I wish to reiterate. I am T'Prylla. This

is our assistant astrophysicist, Artauk." The Vulcan male divided the

fingers of one hand in the traditional greeting. "This is his

clan-mate, T'Kosa. And our son, Radak, whom some of your crew have

already met. Our daughter, T'Raus, is involved in a project at this

time."

"Our first priority is to give all of you a thorough medical exam,"

McCoy said.

"That will not be necessary," Grake said, nodding

graciously at McCoy. "We have an excellent medical center here. I am

afraid those who most need your help, are quite beyond it." "If you're

referring to the sleepers," McCoy said, "we may be able to save them.

And as for your health, Starfleet regulations require that I make my own

judgment." "Dr. McCoy is right," Kirk said. "And while he and Nurse

Chapel are doing that, I'd like to begin the debriefing." "Of course,"

T'Prylla said. "Anything we can do to oblige our rescuers. Though we

must warn you, the situation is not nearly as desperate as it seemed

when we issued our distress signal." McCoy asked to be taken to their

medical facilities. Grake led the way, and Kirk turned to Spock and

Chekov. "I want you to keep an eye on Radak," he said when the others

were out of hearing. "Is there anything wrong with the boy?" Chekov

asked, puzzled. "He isn't a ghost. Just watch him." "Yes, sir." Kirk

took a deep breath and motioned for Spock and Chekov to come along.

Spock was interested in Kirk's tone of voice. As usual, Kirk was

attuned to the same incongruities as his first officer, though he

reacted quite differently--with an irritated, almost angry brusquehess.

"Spock," he said. "I seem to recall that this dome was supposed to be

full of emergency supplies." "It is so described in the inventory of

Station One," Spock said. "Then where is all of it? Would they have

used it all by now?" "It is conceivable, Captain, though not if damage

was as low as we're being led to believe." They walked to the hatch

leading out of the storage dome and into the reshek corridor. "What

does your tricorder say about Radak?"

Spock held up the instrument and showed Kirk the readout. "He is a

quite normal fifteen-year-old Vulcan boy. His data are very distinct."

Kirk nodded and increased his walking speed. Chekov broke into a short

run to catch up.

The station medical center had been altered drastically. McCoy looked

around in dismay at the barely concealed evidence of tampering,

rebuilding of equipment, removal of furniture and diagnostic machines.

"This place is a shambles," he said to Chapel. "What in God's name

happened here?" Grake stepped forward and removed an unfamiliar chromium

sphere from a plain black metal box. "T'Kosa has made important

advances. This is the only device we use for medical attention now. The

rest of the equipment, wherever possible, has been converted to help us

with our research." He handed McCoy the chromium sphere. It weighed at

most a pound, and had no visible surface features. "It is quite easy to

use. I highly recommend it." "How..." McCoy began. "If there is a

medical problem, the device diagnoses the problem and cures it upon

request. It responds to Vulcan now, but it would only take a moment's

effort to have it respond to Federation English." "I'm more familiar

with my own equipment," McCoy said. "Thanks, but I'll stick with that

for the time being." He gestured at the pallet of medical supplies.

"I'll examine the children first. Could you bring T'Raus in here? And

while we're waiting for her..." He smiled and crooked a finger at Radak.

The boy stepped forward and submitted to Chapel's quick pass of the

diagnostic tricorder over him. Grake went to a wall-mounted comm

terminal and spoke a few words of Vulcan into it. McCoy dug into the

contents of his bag and

brought out the subcutane, loading it with a vial of nutrients and

vitamins. Radak pulled away from Chapel as McCoy wielded the automatic

syringe over the boy's arm. "No!" Radak protested. McCoy put on his

most soothing expression.

"It's quite painless. Just a warm pressure--"

"My son is saying that supplements or any other medications are

unnecessary."

"And I'm saying that it's my dutyt"

"Never mind, Bones," Kirk said, entering the medical center. A step

behind him was a slender young Vulcan girl, perhaps two years junior to

Radak, walking hand-in-hand with Spock. Chekov maneuvered through the

door around them.

"Jim, there are regulations I have to follow if we're going to interact

with personnelt"

"I have T'Raus's guarantee that the staff of Station One is healthy."

McCoy regarded Kirk with pained confusion. The girl, her straight and

flawless black llair cut shoulder-length, let go of Spock's hand and

stood beside T'Kosa. "We have done remarkable thins here," the girl

said, "and you may require a little time to get used to them. Until

then, please do not force your regulations upon us. You may examine us,

as you wish, but we are quite capable of treating ourselves."

McCoy recovered his decorum almost immediately. "Then, if I'm allowed,

I'd better see to the people in cold storage. That is, unless I'm

preempted there, too..."

"We do not object to your efforts," T'Kosa said. "For us, they have been

dead ten years."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," McCoy muttered. As T'Kosa made a

move to come with McCoy and Chapel, the doctor stopped her by holding up

his hand. "The captain needs you here more than I do. If nothing's

been changed, we should do just fine by ourselves."

"Then we will begin formal debriefing right

away," T'Prylla said. "There is so much to tell, and so many records to

show..."

Even as they gather in the room where meals are shared, T Prylla

struggles to find her own memory of the past ten years. She cannot

control her speech or her actions but perhaps she can recall all that

has happened, as she witnessed it...

But it is confused. There was thotested. McCoy put on his most

soothing expression.

"It's quite painless. Just a warm pressure--"

"My son is saying that supplements or any other medications are

unnecessary."

"And I'm saying that it's my dutyt"

"Never mind, Bones," Kirk said, entering the medical center. A step

behind him was a slender young Vulcan girl, perhaps two years junior to

Radak, walking hand-in-hand with Spock. Chekov maneuvered through the

door around them.

"Jim, there are regulations I have to follow if we're going to interact

with personnelt"

"I have T'Raus's guarantee that the staff of Station One is healthy."

McCoy regarded Kirk with pained confusion. The girl, her straight and

flawless black llair cut shoulder-length, let go of Spock's hand and

stood beside T'Kosa. "We have done remarkable thins here," the girl

said, "and you may require a little time to get used to them. Until

then, please do not force your regulations upon us. You may examine us,

as you wish, but we are quite capable of treating ourselves."

McCoy recovered his decorum almost immediately. "Then, if I'm allowed,

I'd better see to the people in cold storage. That is, unless I'm

preempted there, too..."

"We do not object to your efforts," T'Kosa said. "For us, they have been

dead ten years."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," McCoy muttered. As T'Kosa made a

move to come with McCoy and Chapel, the doctor stopped her by holding up

his hand. "The captain needs you here more than I do. If nothing's

been changed, we should do just fine by ourselves."

"Then we will begin formal debriefing right

away," T'Prylla said. "There is so much to tell, and so many records to

show..."

Even as they gather in the room where meals are shared, T Prylla

struggles to find her own memory of the past ten years. She cannot

control her speech or her actions but perhaps she can recall all that

has happened, as she witnessed it...

But it is confused. There was the construction of the Transformer,

completed without the aid of any of the adults, using equipment in the

storage dome... And the memories of that are mixed, not hers alone.

Although she does recall the wonder and terror of her realization that

her own small children had accomplished something beyond the ability of

the most brilliant Vulcan engineers. Will the rescuers be told of the

Transformer? Or of the Eye-to-Stars?

McCoy and Chapel stood in the cylindrical cold room, wearing environment

packs that projected a curtain of warmth around them. The helium

atmosphere outside the shimmering curtains was a brisk -260Celsius; the

temperature within the hibernac-ula suspended around the chamber was

only a few degrees above absolute zero.

McCoy had examined the freezing and revival equipment, and everything

seemed to be in order. Chapel went from hibemaculum to hibemaculum,

taking detailed tricorder readings. McCoy checked the last available

medical records of the individuals suspended in the cold room and

compared them with Chapel's findings. As he expected, the individuals

had aged perhaps one hour in ten years... and yet all were clinically

dead. The myelin sheathing on virtually all of their nerves had broken

down under unprecedented levels of Ybakra radiation.

McCoy had a bizarre vision of what would happen if they were revived

now...

The hiberuacula would open on cue, and the people within would try to

move. Each would experience a horrible, agonizing convulsion, but

within seconds they would be isolated from their misery and from life

itself. "I thought I had them licked, but those damned medical monitors

are going to fight us every step of the way," McCoy said. "Or I'm back

on the farm playing OB-GYN to the chickens." Chapel suppressed a smile

by looking at the cold, frozen face of one of the thirty suspended

team-members. "These people are technically dead, and I'm not going to

be allowed to play God by bringing them back to life." "Yes, but they're

not physically dead," Chapel said. "Not yet..." "Hell, they've been

dead for ten years. Total nerve damage, through and through... that's

one of the definitions of irreversible death fed into the monitors. It

hardly matters that they're very well-preserved." "But... can we save

them? I mean, is it possible?" McCoy shook his head. "Only if I play

Clarence Darrow to a robot with a tin ear for rhetoric."

According to Orake, the station had been swept for months by intense and

intermittent storms of radiation. The planetoid had been propelled a

few degrees from its former position by fierce particle bombardment.

Fortunately, the station had been in the planetoid's shadow for most of

the violent buffeting, and they had spent the first two months in a

shelter proofed against all harmful radiation but Ybakra. Sensors on

the other side of the planetoid had fed the researchers the data they

required to determine the position and spectral type of the new stars.

Initially, there had been eighteen possible protostar clouds in their

section of the nebula, but at least seven of them---those most likely to

begin fusion--had been disrupted and destroyed by their precocious

siblings. "That was just as well," Grake said, though with

some hint of regret in his voice. "We could have used more data on

other starbirths, but our time in the shelter was running out, and the

particle bombardment would probably have killed ns." When the'situation

had stabilized and the stars had settled on their path to the main

sequence, the researchers had emerged from the shelter to discover that

their comrades in cold storage had been severely injured. "The

hibernacula are heavily shielded against most forms of radiation,"

T'Kosa explained. "We were not prepared for so much Ybakra, and

believed that proximity to the planetoid would keep levels down. There

is no other way to shield against Ybakra... we could have done nothing

more, anyway." Spock intercepted Kirk's glance but said nothing, and

Kirk likewise kept his counsel. "We were able to repair most of the

damage to the station, and to resume our work," Grake said. "We

realized we could never use sub-space radio to communicate with the

Federation, since in the presence of the mass anomalies the Ybakra would

totally block all fraction-space transmissions, so I set about creating

a very powerful tight-beam radio signal transmitter. I knew the

location of a Federation buoy beyond the boundaries of the Black Box,

but only approximately, since our position had been changed and our view

of other stars was obscured by the expanding nebula gas clouds. Still,

I was able to send the signal..." Radak looked up from the table at

Spock. "We assume the message was only partially intercepted." "Yes,"

Spock said. "We received a fair amount of science data, but very little

of Grake's audio-visual transmission." "That, too, is for the best. We

were pessimistic about our chances, and the message may have caused

undue alarm. As it is, we have done quite well. And we have made

significant advances in our understanding--not only about stellar

processes, but about physics in general. We will soon be able to show

you our new research center, perhaps after Dr. McCoy has finished with

the sleepers."

"We may have problems rescuing your people quickly," Kirk said. "We

were not prepared to take on such a large job. It could take weeks."

"There is also some doubt that the nebula has stabilized," Spock said.

"We strongly recommend you all come aboard the Enterprise, and return

with us to the nearest starbase as soon as we've transported the

sleepers."

Radak shook his head once, firmly, and Grake did likewise. "That is

impossible, Spock," T'Prylla said. "There can be no interruptions in our

work. We do not require rescuing, as you can plainly see. And if the

nebula should be agitated again... we have survived once. We are much

more prepared now. You will better comprehend how safe we are when

you've seen the research dome."

"Do not misunderstand," Radak said.

"We have been here, out of touch with everyone, doing our work,"

T'Prylla continued, as if on cue from her son. "To have fellow beings

with us, to compare our findings with the work of other scientists--with

what has been happening in the Federation in the last ten years---is

marvelous." She looked at Spock with an expression that on a human face

would have been interpreted as stern. Spock lifted an eyebrow and

withdrew a data pack from his belt pouch.

"I anticipated such a need," he said, handing the pack to T'Prylla.

"Here you will find all the research results published in your fields of

interest. There has been considerable progress in understanding

subspacial mass anomalies." He paused. "And there has been much change

in the Spyorna on Vulcan."

T'Prylla did not react to Spock's last bit of information. She took the

proferred pack and passed it to Grake. "In return, we have prepared a

report on our protostar and Ybakra studies." Severely edited

.. "How quickly can the sleepers be moved to the Enterprise?"

"For the moment, we can only beam up six at a time," Kirk said, "and

reconstruct two a week. We're investigating rigging the shuttlecraft to

ferry the hibernacula, but even that would take time and present some

risks." And for that reason, he thought, we could certainly use a little

more cooperation...

Chapter Twelve

The TEREC analyzer, at McCoy's request, sent its remote probe around the

cold storage chamber for a second time before returning a final answer.

McCoy and Chapel waited outside the cylindrical cold chamber, watching

through t he glass port as the probe floated from hibernaculum to

hibernaculum, calculating the mass and complexity of each of the thirty

frozen researchers. The remote probe acted as a scan-only transporter,

with neither the power nor the equipment to actually disintegrate and

reintegrate anything. It fed its results to the analyzer, which

considered the situation and decided what the TEREC was capable of

doing, practically and legally. McCoy had few doubts what the answer

would be.

"Slow as molasses," he grumbled, pulling up a seat and squatting with

the back pulled to his chest, legs straddled on either side. Chapel

stood by the port, arms crossed, with her hands gripping her shoulders.

"Just looking in there makes me feel frozen," she said. "Ten years in

cold storage..."

"Yes, and even without Ybakra, I don't think there's been such a

prolonged freeze in a century. They were only supposed to be in there

two or three years, until the preliminary work had been done by T'Prylla

and her people."

"I wonder what it would be like to work with Vulcans... I mean, almost

everybody being Vulcan but you." There were four humans in cold storage;

all the rest were Vulcans.

"They were volunteers. I suppose they knew what they were getting into.

From what Spock says, T'Pryila isn't exactly your straight-forward

Vulcan.

She's even odder than Spock, not that you'd notice." "Analysis

completed," said the analyzer. "Well, let's have it," McCoy urged

impatiently. "These individuals have all suffered severe nerve damage in

cold storage. They are legally dead. The TEREC unit is forbidden by

its monitors from reviving beings who are dead by the definition

established for each category of being." "Damn," McCoy said.

"There would be practical difficulties, as well. Since the bodies can

only be transported once, without suffering even more severe damage due

to the dangers of transporting deep-frozen specimens, and since

therefore they must be fed directly into the TEREC, only six may be

transported at a time. The TEREC can hold two form-memories for

restructuring, and four in auxiliary banks."

. "Yes, yes, we knew all that. If we have to, we can bring them all up

on the shuttle... though Scotty alone knows how we'll rig the power

supplies and safeguards. Show me a profile on the typical case for

Vulcans and humans." The analyzer displayed a multi-dimensional chart in

three separations, giving the scanning results for a Vulcan and a human.

The doctor stared at the results for a moment, repeated

the display, and frowned. "Something isn't right here. The bodies have

been tampered with, or I'm greatly mistaken. But that doesn't make

sense. Maybe the probe needs adjusting." McCoy shut off the analyzer and

rested his chin on his crossed wrists.

In the station mess, Kirk was not encouraged by McCoy's expression when

the doctor and Chapel returned.

"If the transporters are working properly, we can move up the first six

patients now. The rest we may be able to transport in the shuttle.

Either way, it'll take us fifteen weeks to reconstruct the people in

cold storage. The major problem is whether we can work our way around

the monitors."

"They're going to block it?" Kirk asked.

McCoy pursed his lips and lifted his hand. "Hold on a minute. We're

not out yet, just down. We have to return to the ship and discuss

strategy. Since these people are all in prime physical condition and

don't seem to need us right away, I presume that's allowed?"

"We have completed our first debriefing," Spock said. "I believe it

would be useful to return to the Enterprise. We can be replaced by a

security team."

Radak protested. "We have no need for protection."

"It's part of the regulations," Kirk said. The boy irritated him.

"Station One is now in extended status. There has to be a team in the

station at all times." He flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to

Enterprise."

"Enterprise, Uhura here, Captain."

"How does the transporter check out?"

Uhura brought Scott on the line. "Captain, there's not a thing wrong

with it. It's in prime condition."

"Any explanation for what happened to Mr. Spock?"

"No, sir. But I cannot blame the machines. My crews have been over

them four times."

"Will he guarantee my atoms won't be spread over known space?" McCoy

asked.

"Aye, Doctor," Scott said. "That I will, or throw out my engineering

degrees and become a brewmaster."

"Not a fair exchange," McCoy said under his breath.

"We'll need a security team to replace us. Transport all of us but

Chekov, and send down two replacements for the next watch period. Kirk

out." He turned to Chekov. "Brief your replacements and stay with them

until the change of watch. Then I

want you back within four hours."

"Yes, sir."

Spock, Kirk, McCoy and Chapel began to transport seconds later. When

they were gone, Chekov smiled nervously at the Vulcans and stood stiffly

by the door of the mess. "I hope the presence of my men won't inhibit

you," he said.

"They are most welcome," Radak said, passing him to leave. Grake,

T'Prylla and T'Kosa followed. Anauk ordered Vulcan food from the

autochef, then followed his comrades out the door to eat in privacy.

"I'm sure we all have questions," Kirk said as they stepped down from

the transporter stage.

"And I'm sure you know what my question is," McCoy said, guiding the

medical pallet.

"In my quarters. We need to talk. Let our hair down." He looked at

Spock. "Most of us, anyway."

McCoy left the pallet in Chapel's charge and followed Kirk and Spock to

the elevator. Just as the doors closed, two ensigns began beaming down

to the station.

Kirk walked through the doors to his cabin and ran his hands through his

hair. "God help us," he said. "There's something--"

"Why did you usurp my authority as ship's doctor?" McCoy asked sharply,

confronting him. "Because they were clearly reluctant to be treated,"

Kirk said. "And T'Raus hinted they would refuse if the issue was

pressed. Regulations are regulations, Bones, but can we actually force

them to submit?" McCoy backed off, hands on hips. He had no immediate

answer, but his anger still hadn't subsided. "Spock, why shouldn't we

tell them about Ybakra shields?" Kirk asked. "I cannot answer that

question at the moment, Jim. But there is something clearly amiss on

Station One, and we should come to grips with it right away." "I'll tell

you one thing that's wrong," McCoy said. "The TEREC analyzer picked up

some anomalous data. It had no immediate bearing on the case, but it

doesn't make sense." "And what's that?" "Jim, the people in cold storage

have been interfered with. I couldn't figure out the analyzer displays

until a few minutes ago, but I'd swear something has been tapping them,

drawing information from their brains, or storing information there. Now

while we're talking about regulations, may I point out how illegal that

is?" "Jim," Spock said, "T'Prylla evinced not the slightest interest

when I mentioned that the Spyorna had undergone change. That is not

characteristic. Nor, I must say, is the behavior of their son and

daughter. A Vulcan youth is not allowed to guide the conversation of

his elders, certainly not past the age of ka nifoor." "So what does it

all add up to?" "There's trouble in River City," McCoy said. "I beg your

pardon, Doctor?" Spock said, genuinely puzzled. "Never mind. Jim, we

should clear them all out and comb that station centimeter by

centimeter. I don't trust any of them."

"For once, Doctor, we are in agreement," Spock said. "Though I am

reluctant to detail all of my misgivings, there is something definitely

wrong on Station One." "Okay, we're agreed on that. Now for the next

problem. The monitors aren't going to let us revive the sleepers."

"That just confirms our worst fears," Kirk said. "Yes, and I'm not

totally unprepared. I'm going to go up against the monitors. I'm going

to fool them, Jim, and to do that, I'll need--" "Bones---" "I'll need

both of you to help me." "Bones, if we mess with the monitors, it means

my command. Worse, it means all of us will face court-martial." "They

sent us here to rescue the people on Station One, and we can't do it

because of a prissy computer with prissy laws built in! My job is to

save lives, Jim, whether regulations allow it or not!" "Clearly,

technology has outstripped Federation laws," Spock said. "I, too, have

investigated the possibility of failings within the monitors." McCoy

stared goggle-eyed at Spock, then smiled. "By God," he said. "I'm

beginning to like this tall green--blooded fellow." Kirk sat down

heavily on his couch and !aid both palms on the low table before him.

"It would take two weeks for a subspace message to go out to Starfleet

and come back. I've taken risks in my career, and I've stretched the

regulations often enough that you should know I'm not squeamish. But I

do worse than disobey Starfleet if we circumvent the monitors. I

disobey my oath to serve the Federation. Every one of us owes our

allegiance to the Federation, the civilian branches of government."

"Jim, I don't ask that we shut the monitors down. Only that we tickle

them a bit."

"And how do you suggest we do that, Doctor?"; Spock asked.

Kirk glanced between them. "I never thought I'd see the day when you

two would be in cahoots."

"Why, Spock, seeing that you're so sympathetic, I was hoping you might

be able to suggest something."

Chapter Thirteen

Mason stepped up to the door of the computer control center and braced

herself. The door opened, and she was vastly relieved to find Veblen

inside; Spock was not present. "The captain says I can find all the

debriefing materials in the open log."

Veblen looked at her blankly, then leaned his head back and opened his

mouth in an O. " You can access the open log through your quarters

terminal. You don't have to come down here."

"I do," she said, "if I want to find out what's really going on Is

there anything not being put in the open log?"

Veblen smiled and shook his head. "I'm not the one to ask, Miss Mason."

She sat down in the console chair across from him and sighed deeply.

"Thank God for someone who's willing to call me Miss instead of Mister.

The captain did it once, but I'm sure he was being tactical. Why

shouldn't I ask you?"

Veblen looked away, still smiling. "No comment to the press. But it

should be obvious."

"I shouldn't come to you just because you're the odd man out, that's

what you're saying?" He nodded. "It's only natural. I bring the bad

news. Since I'm staff instead of line, I don't get to do much else but

bring bad news. And the bad news this time is in the open log; the

captain put it there himself." "Save me the trouble. I have to file a

dispatch soon and I can't afford the luxury of deep research." "The

monitors are refusing to revive the frozen station personnel." "In God's

name, why?" "Because they are legally dead." "That's nonsense. If they

can be revived, they aren't dead!" "I only bring the news, I don't

justify it." Mason leaned forward. "Are the monitors questioning Kirk's

abihty to command?" This took Veblen aback. "Not at all," he said. "The

captain has satisfieu the monitors completely."

"And Dr. McCoy?" "Dr. McCoy hasn't done anything but ask the monitors

to make a judgment." "There's no possibility Dr. McCoy is doing

something wrong, and the monitors are balking because of that?" "No

possibility at all," Veblen said. He finished typing a series of

commands into his console and pushed his chair back. "I think we should

go... what's the phrase... off the record now."

"Certainly," Mason said. The door opened and Spock entered. Mason sat

straight up in the chair and avoided Spock's eyes. "Thank you, Mr.

Veblen," she said, her voice higher pitched than before. "We'll talk

later." After she had left, Veblen prepared the screen for Spock's file

work. "I don't think she's used to you, Mr. Spock," Veblen said. Spock

did noand shook his head. "I'm not the one to ask, Miss Mason."

She sat down in the console chair across from him and sighed deeply.

"Thank God for someone who's willing to call me Miss instead of Mister.

The captain did it once, but I'm sure he was being tactical. Why

shouldn't I ask you?"

Veblen looked away, still smiling. "No comment to the press. But it

should be obvious."

"I shouldn't come to you just because you're the odd man out, that's

what you're saying?" He nodded. "It's only natural. I bring the bad

news. Since I'm staff instead of line, I don't get to do much else but

bring bad news. And the bad news this time is in the open log; the

captain put it there himself." "Save me the trouble. I have to file a

dispatch soon and I can't afford the luxury of deep research." "The

monitors are refusing to revive the frozen station personnel." "In God's

name, why?" "Because they are legally dead." "That's nonsense. If they

can be revived, they aren't dead!" "I only bring the news, I don't

justify it." Mason leaned forward. "Are the monitors questioning Kirk's

abihty to command?" This took Veblen aback. "Not at all," he said. "The

captain has satisfieu the monitors completely."

"And Dr. McCoy?" "Dr. McCoy hasn't done anything but ask the monitors

to make a judgment." "There's no possibility Dr. McCoy is doing

something wrong, and the monitors are balking because of that?" "No

possibility at all," Veblen said. He finished typing a series of

commands into his console and pushed his chair back. "I think we should

go... what's the phrase... off the record now."

"Certainly," Mason said. The door opened and Spock entered. Mason sat

straight up in the chair and avoided Spock's eyes. "Thank you, Mr.

Veblen," she said, her voice higher pitched than before. "We'll talk

later." After she had left, Veblen prepared the screen for Spock's file

work. "I don't think she's used to you, Mr. Spock," Veblen said. Spock

did not react. "Mr. Veblen, Dr. McCoy

requests a list of the monitors' medical reference files." "Yes, sir.

I've finished processing the station data on Ybakra. As soon as I've

made a hard copy for the doctor, I'!1 take a rest, unless you have

further need of me." "Thank you, Mr. Veblen, no." Veblen caught up with

Mason at a crew reference terminal outside the non-commissioned

officers' lounge. "Could we talk for a moment?" he asked. "Off the

record, or on?" "Off. About you, and about what I said just a few

minutes ago." "Sure." They took the elevator to Area 39, the all-crew

recreation room, and found a seat at an empty games table in an isolated

corner. "First," Veblen said, "I don't appreciate your coming to me as

if I were the weak point in the Enterprise crew." "That wasn't my

intention at all" "Second, I think you're on the wrong track, and I

think you have some problems of your own to solve." "Where do you get

off---" "Wait a minute. You said you'd hear me out." He stared at her

with an intensity which cut off any further protest. "I'll tell you why

I'm angry all of a sudden. Sure, I wear my uniforms a little out of

regulation, and I'm not in the best shape compared to the rest of the

crew. And I'm staff, the only staff officer aboard this ship. But I am

no weak point, and my work proceeds no matter what anyone else's

attitude to me is." "It wasn't my intention--I mean, I've never thought

of you as a weak point." "Good. Then maybe my next shot will be more on

target. I'm in charge of maintaining and testing the monitors.

Incidentally, I work with Mr. Spock on all the ship's computers, because

the monitors interface

with virtually every system on the Enterprise. And I work with the

captain because the monitors are very complex, and no command officer

should be expected to be completely familiar with such a new and

difficult system." "Yes," Mason said, watching Veblen closely. "If you

think there's a story in the captain's problems adjusting to the

monitors, that's fine. We may be uncomfortable with that kind of

coverage, but that's the way things are; it's a legitimate story. But if

you think you're going to find material proving that Captain Kirk is

trying to frustrate the monitors, to somehow get around them, I'm here

to tell you that's a dead end. I've had the captain question me, even

harangue me, about some point or other, but not once has he suggested I

was at fault, or that I am not a part of the Enterprise. Any alienation

you see is largely due to me, not to the captain or the crew." "I have

to follow my instincts, Mr. Veblen." "We're in a very tough situation

here. Even tougher than you know." Veblen looked down at the table.

"I'm sorry if I've been angry with you. What I say next has to be

doubly confidential..." To Mason, it was obvious that despite everything

he had just said, Veblen needed to let his hair down with someone.

"We've been off the record. I keep my word." "The monitors---aren't

perfect. They're only as good as the people who programmed them, and

the laws they follow are not perfect. Dr. McCoy is up against a brick

wall. I'm not going to say why, just yet, but I want you to understand.

I want somebody to understand. They're going to have to do something,

and if worse comes to worse, they're going to have to find a way around

the monitors. And I am going to have to oppose them. I don't want to,

but I will." Mason regarded him with new understanding and respect.

Veblen was deeply troubled; Why, she

thought, he's probably as enamored of Captain Kirk as the rest of the

crew! "So maybe that's where your story should be. If the Federation

wants to keep track of every little thing a starship does, perhaps we

should find ways to monitor those who make the laws and expect us to

carry.them out. It should work both ways." "What's the doctor going to

do?" "I don't know. I don't want to know. What I don't know won't hurt

me, right?" She nodded. "So we're both outcasts here," she said. "By

occupation, if nothing else." "I hope you'll excuse me," Veblen said,

flushing now. "But I believe you're having some problems, tOO." "Oh?"

"Yes. I beYseve you're having difficulty facing up to Mr. Spock,

perhaps even to Mr. Yimasa." "What gives you that impression?" It was

Mason's turn to redden. "When I joined Starfleet, I came from an all-

human enclave on Titan." "Where's that?" "Saturn's largest moon. My

folks were among the terraformers. They were great people, but they fed

me a lot of nonsense about Vulcans and Andorrans and all the others--not

those who don't have human shape; we hadn't even met any--but humanoids.

I had a lot of garbage in my head to overcome. From the way you avoid

Mr. Spock, ands" He paused. "Well, I've read parts of the file FNS sent

up from Yalbo." "My file?" He nodded. "I think you have some of the

same garbage to throw out. If it proves to be a problem, perhaps I can

help." "Thank you for the offer," Mason said, standing. "And I hope I've

helped by being a sounding board."

Veblen shrugged. "But from here on in, I think I'll want our interviews

on the record. I have to get down to the station. I can't file reports

when I haven't even been on the scene." She nodded curtly at him and

left Area 39.

Chekov briefed his replacements, ensigns Pauli and Wah Ching, then

called the Enterprise to be beamed back on board. As the transporter

effect began, he saw Radak watching from the storage dome hatch.

Parallel red lines crossed his vision as the beam disassembled his

visual cortex; there was nothing unusual in that. But the expected

reverse effect, and the appearance of the transporter room on the

Enterprise, did not follow. Instead, Ensign Pavel Chekov found himself

in a very dark, very lonely place, filled with a multitude of precisely

phrased questions...

"Transporter interrupt?" Shallert punched the engineering alert button

and immediately brought the backup systems on line. The transporter

hummed a deep bass tone, which began to rise in frequency until it was a

sweet, high whistle. Then the bass tone repeated. "What is it, Mr.

Shallert?" Scotty asked from the main engineering control deck. "There's

a delay in Ensign Chekov's assembly," Shallert said. "I have the

backups,--" "Is he in form memory?" Scotty asked. "I don't know, sir.

The transporter isn't reporting anything." "I'm on my way." Just as

Scott left the corn, a single transporter effect began on the assigned

disk. Shallert watched in amazement as Ensign Chekov assembled on the

transporter deck--precisely forty seconds after he had been

disintegrated on Station One.

"There's nothing wrong with the equipment," Scott repeated. He stood

between McCoy and Kirk in the transporter room, his short black hair

hanging in strands across his forehead, his uniform smudged and his

hands clutching a pair of engineering diagnostic tricorders. "Well,

until you find out what is wrong," McCoy said, "I'm decertifying that

monster." Scott turned to Kirk, his face betraying the most extreme

anguish. "Sir, if there had been ennathin wrong, Chekov wouldna' ha'

come back at all!" "Scotty, there was a delay. He wasn't beaming

through solid steel, he was coming up through vacuum. There has to be

some explanation. I believe the transporter is operating correctly, but

I must go along with Dr. McCoy. Until we find out what caused the

anomalies, we will take the shuttle and avoid transporting personnel."

Scotty agreed with a nod, but his shoulders slumped. 'TII take enna

suggestions you have, gentlemen."

Chekov surveyed his quarters with wide-eyed interest. He picked up the

glass artifact he had purchased from an Andorran crewmember two years

before; it scintillated in his hands, appearing as spiky as a

sea-urchin, but feeling like a smooth sphere to the touch. "Glass with

the same index of refraction as air," he said to himself, in his own

voice, though he did not do the talking. He turned to the screen and

touched the keyboard beneath hesitantly. "Perhaps I should speak to the

ceptain," he said. "This does not feel right. I should not feel like

this." He forced himself to reach out to the wall comm, but his hand

slowly withdrew before touching the button. Sweat broke out on his

forehead. "I only wish to be left alone, and to feel well," he said.

The

presence interfering with his actions, and using his voice, did not

respond.

Mason finished composing her dispatch and handed the data pack to Uhura

on the bridge. Uhura plugged it into her console and asked, "Are we

making the grade?"

"It's a very tame report, if that's what you mean," Mason said. "I

can't get close enough to the action."

Kirk and Spock came on the bridge. "Rowena, we're taking a shuttle to

the station," Kirk said. She stared at him expectantly.

"Dr. McCoy doesn't like the idea, but you're invited." "I'll go," she

said firmly. "I'll go, and thank you."

Chapter Fourteen

Very early in his life, McCoy had learned to disguise his deepest

emotions. He had reached the conclusion that most other people did not

feel as he did, or hid themselves even more effectively; either way, it

was best not to demonstrate the extremes he often felt. The best

disguise, he had discovered, was camouflage--hence, the brusque exterior

he showed to even his oldest friends.

He was deeply romantic, even chivalrous, constantly feeling the urge to

protect the "fair sex"; yet one couldn't treat female coworkers with

such deference. The solution? Be brusque. And when his passionate

respect for all living things became too painful to bear, he even hid

from himself. In centuries past, he knew, he probably would have become

an alcoholic; the stresses and strains would have produced an unbearable

hormonal mix, and he would have turned to drink. Now, by tightly

controlling his diet, taking adjustment drugs and engaging in various

meditative therapies, he managed to keep the most destructive parts of

himself under control.

He ragged Spock so unmercifully because he found himself dismayingly

similar to the Vulcan. McCoy's colleagues and friends--and one was very

seldom not the other---soon came to accept the contradictions, and

intuit the reasons behind them. They did not tender advice; it would

have been useless. And, as Kirk well knew, however distressing McCoy's

characteristics were to himself they .resulted in a damned fine doctor.

What McCoy lacked in heady brilliance, he more than made up for in

insight and compassion. Even Spock respected the doctor's courtly

bedside manner, since it was so effective, and not just on his human

patients. Spock well remembered the healing of the silicon-based Horta,

years before, accomplished by tenderness and the application of methods

better Suited to the building trades than formal medicine. Now, McCoy

faced a dilemma which put more than usual strain upon him. He had

thirty patients which he had the technical means to save from living

death, and yet he was being prevented from doing so. To circumvent

those barriers, he had already hinted to Kirk, one of his finest

friends, that they would have to bend or break the law. ("Shatter"

would probably describe it best.) For Kirk to do so could mean the end

of his career. And of course, it could mean the end of McCoy's career

as well. While McCoy focused on this problem, he could not avoid the

other problems they were facing the erratic functioning of the

transporter, the peculiar situation on Station One, and the presence of

a civilian journalist ready and waiting to record it all for public

posterity. McCoy sat in the shadowy darkness of his quarters, making

notes on a piece of paper with an antique fountain pen beneath the

concentrated beam of a small lamp. "With the transporter decommissioned

until further testing, all the patients on Station One will have to be

ferried to the Enterprise by shuttle. The shuttle is being outfitted

for this job right now, but I'm not happy with the arrangements. Moving

people in cold storage is risky business. The usual vibrations

associated with travel in a small vehicle could be hazardous to those in

deep cold. Even with special field suspension on each hibernac-ulum,

there's risk. And rigging the shuttle with the special equipment means

we can only carry two hibernacula at a time. Spock says the conditions

in the nebula cloud are not ideal for small craft; the shuttle can't

produce as stro,n,g a shield against radiation as the Enterprise... He

rubbed his face with both hands and decided to put off his worries about

the transfer. "How to get around the monitors..." He began his list of

choices, none of which he was sure would work. "I've been considering

some crazy scheme to rig a false message from the Federation, conveying

new rule changes... a new definition of death. To that end, I've had a

hard copy made of all the medical references in the monitors. But I'm

certain Jim would veto any such scheme. And if Veblen found out about

it... not good form to antagonize shipmates. Similar objections to

finding a way to temporarily deactivate the medical monitoring

functions. But now Spock--" He lifted his fountain pen and stared off at

a hologram of the salt marshes of Chincoteague Island. "Good old Spock,"

he resumed. "Spock has been laying hints all around about a way to get

even deeper into the monitors, legitimately. The command monitors

contain the experience-memories of six command-rank Starfleet officers.

And in the medical monitors, there are six more--all ship's doctors..."

What was Spock's motivation in passing clues to McCoy? The doctor knew

the answer immediately. As a Vulcan, Spock was primarily obedient to his

duty, then to his commander, then to the mission. Spock's motivation was

to eliminate a dilemma

which could wreck not only their mission, but' his commanding officer as

well. Vulcan duty required no great respect for laws, especially human

laws, that were self-defeating. Trust a Vulcan to find a legitimate way

to get around human inadequacies. McCoy smiled. If all else failed,

Spock would arrange for him to have a direct dialogue with the

experience-memories in the medical monitors. There were no guarantees...

"But it's smarter to avoid taking the bull by the horns, when you can

lead him around by the tail." He put the paper away in his loose-leaf

diary and screwed the pen back into its cap. Before he could proceed

with Spock's help, he had to make sure they had the means to shuttle the

hibernacula in the first place. He had long since learned to tackle

problem. in order of increasing difficulty; that way, if an problem was

insoluble, no time was wasted on th, next, tougher step.

Chekov jack-knifed abruptly in his bed and stared around the cabin,

wide-eyed as if from some nightmare. Then, slowly, his eyes narrowed and

he sank back onto the pillow. "Time," he requested. "1207 hours," the

console replied. In twenty minutes, he would be returning to the

planetoid on the shuttle. He had slept very poorly, trying to resist

the growing insanity--or so he interpreted the feelings of loss of will

and unmotivated activity. He had tried to resist going to the console

and doing what the new Voice requested, and had so far succeeded. But

now it was too insistent. He knew he would stand up-- --He stood. And

go to the console. --He went to the console. He would call up a chart

with the interior of the Enterprise laid out in graphic detail.

--He typed on the keyboard, trying to make mistakes and fai ling. He

would ask questions of the library computerm questions pertaining to

specific details of the ship's engines, the matter-antimatter drives,

with which he was not familiar. --He typed more instructions. He made a

hard copy of all the information he had called up. He inserted the copy

card into his pouch. Then he went to the lavatory and made himself look

presentable, ready for duty, though he could not eliminate the shadows

around his eyes. Thank you, said the Voice. You are not in the least

welcome, Chekov replied.

Chekov smiled and held out his arm, ushering Mason into the interior of

the shuttle. Kirk and Spock were already inside, along with Chapel and

McCoy. McCoy was carefully inspecting all the equipment newly installed

to ferry the hibernacula. Chapel checked off items on her notepad as

McCoy ran through all the crucial points. He stood up, pushing on his

knees With his hands, and nodded to Kirk. "They're as good as they'll

ever be," he said. "Who's going planetside with us?" "Spock and

presumably Rowena," Kirk said. "I'd like to stay down there and file my

reports from the station," Mason said. "We'll need as much room as we

can get on the return trip," McCoy said. "I'd like to bring up two

hibernacula each trip." Kirk looked around the group, then nodded.

"Prepare for shuttle launch," he said. They took their seats--which had

been rearranged around the area the hibernacula would occupy--and

strapped themselves in. Mason turned around to watch the shuttle cargo

doors being sealed, then attached the recorder to an equipment grip

overhead, making sure the visual scanner could see out her port.

Chekov, seated next to her, observed closely but said nothing.

Outside the shuttle walls, the roar of air being evacuated from the

shuttle hangar gradually reduced to a whisper, then a faint hiss. The

deep grumble of the hangar doors opening was commuuicated to the shuttle

through its landing supports, and ceased abruptly as the shuttle lifted

off.

They exited the hangar on a reverse tractor beam, then switched on the

impulse engines and descended to the planetoid.

T'Raus and T'Prylla dematerialized and crossed the space between the

station and the Eye-to-Stars. It felt a bit like flying; unlike the

transporter beam, their particular form of travel involved sensation and

memory. T'Pry!la enjoyed the journey much less than T'Raus; she could

never quite be sure where they were going, or what would happen when

they arrived.

The Voice she had heard so often inside her headassociated with the

outburst of Ybakra from the triple stars--was familiar enough for her to

give it a name Pau, or in Federation English, "Corona." Corona never

explained; all she had learned in the past nine years, she had deduced.

She suspected her children were more privy to Corona's secrets.

They stood on the airless surface of the planetoid without suits,

surrounded by a faint green envelope. T'Raus stretched out her hand and

touched a meteoroid-searred rock. Overhead, the constant purple glow of

the nebula--very bright on the night side of the planetoid---seemed to

bubble and distort. Gradually the distortion became perfectly round, and

the Eye-to-Stars opened like a great black disk. T'Raus smiled and

clapped her hands once. T'Prylla held out the astronomy tricorder, as

she was willed to do, and let it record what the Eye-to-Stars saw.

When they were done--when the curiosity of Corona had been

satisfied---T'Raus took the

tricotder and played its information back. "This is very fine," she

said. "Soon the work will be done." Then she frowned. "We cannot

return to the precise position from which we left. There are more

visitors. It is very orniaga."

T'Prylla had to think hard to remember what the Vulcan. word T'Raus had

used meant. It meant "irritated." She hadn't' heard the word for

decades; it was virtually never used in polite Vulcan conversation. She

said nothing; she had no power to say anything. Her opinion was not

wanted; only her scientific abilities, and her labor.

Her arm itched abominably, and she could not even scratch it...

Chapter Fifteen

The shutt station and the Eye-to-Stars. It felt a bit like flying;

unlike the transporter beam, their particular form of travel involved

sensation and memory. T'Pry!la enjoyed the journey much less than

T'Raus; she could never quite be sure where they were going, or what

would happen when they arrived.

The Voice she had heard so often inside her headassociated with the

outburst of Ybakra from the triple stars--was familiar enough for her to

give it a name Pau, or in Federation English, "Corona." Corona never

explained; all she had learned in the past nine years, she had deduced.

She suspected her children were more privy to Corona's secrets.

They stood on the airless surface of the planetoid without suits,

surrounded by a faint green envelope. T'Raus stretched out her hand and

touched a meteoroid-searred rock. Overhead, the constant purple glow of

the nebula--very bright on the night side of the planetoid---seemed to

bubble and distort. Gradually the distortion became perfectly round, and

the Eye-to-Stars opened like a great black disk. T'Raus smiled and

clapped her hands once. T'Prylla held out the astronomy tricorder, as

she was willed to do, and let it record what the Eye-to-Stars saw.

When they were done--when the curiosity of Corona had been

satisfied---T'Raus took the

tricotder and played its information back. "This is very fine," she

said. "Soon the work will be done." Then she frowned. "We cannot

return to the precise position from which we left. There are more

visitors. It is very orniaga."

T'Prylla had to think hard to remember what the Vulcan. word T'Raus had

used meant. It meant "irritated." She hadn't' heard the word for

decades; it was virtually never used in polite Vulcan conversation. She

said nothing; she had no power to say anything. Her opinion was not

wanted; only her scientific abilities, and her labor.

Her arm itched abominably, and she could not even scratch it...

Chapter Fifteen

The shuttle landed at the cargo lock of the storage dome, its landing

fields disturbing years of microme-teoroid dust and ejecting it in

straight rays from the pad. A boarding tube automatically stretched

from the lock to the shuttle's rear cargo doors and connected with a

sigh of equalizing pressures. Mason's ears popped. She reached up to

release the recorder.

As the Enterprise party left the storage dome, Chekov broke away from

the main group and encountered T'Raus in a side corridor near the

research dome. Part of Chekov stared curiously at the closed hatches.

No one had yet seen the station's rebuilt science areas. T'Raus held

out her hand, and he gave her the hard copy of the Enterprise charts and

specifications. She nodded, and without a word exchanged, he hurried to

catch up with his shipmates before his absence was noticed.

The group passed by Wah Ching and Pauli, standing the current watch.

Chekov relieved them and told them to return to the shuttle and wait for

the rest of the group to join them. "Nothing to report?" he asked,

wondering if they, too, were being controlled. The burst of hidden

anguish he felt was so intense that tears came to his eyes.

"Nothing unusual," said Pauli. "It's a bit chilly down here,

society-wise, but I suppose that's not unusual." He grinned. The

understood words were, "for Vulcans." Chekov watched them return to the

storage dome.

McCoy and Spock went to the hibernaculum chamber, escorted by Anauk and

T'Kosa. They turned on their environment fields and entered the chamber

lock. The lock doors closed behind them, and they stood in the cold and

silence. Outside, T'Kosa and Anauk waited to take them to the medical

center for the scheduled meeting with Grake and T'Prylla.

Spock scanned the hibernacula with his science tri-cotder while McCoy

took final measurements. The doctor bent down beside the hibernaculum

closest to the inner chamber lock door and examined the connections on

the power supply cables. "We'll have to move them quickly," he said.

"The pallets can keep them cold for about five minutes. Then we'll hook

them to the shuttle power supply."

Spock motioned for McCoy to examine the display on the science

tricorder. "Your suspicions are correct," Spock said. "There is no

further damage, but they have been tampered with."

"Why? What would the others gain?"

"As you suspected, the sleepers seem to have been utilized for

information storage."

"That seems highly irregular, Spock. Besides, they're too cold for

their brains to have any chemical activity."

"At their current temperature, their brains would have superconducting

properties. No chemical activity would be needed; they could store

enormous amounts of information without benefit of normal memory

operations."

"If that's the case, thawing them would destroy'

the information... erase it."

Spock nodded.

"So what do you think the others will say?"

"if we are finished here, we can only go to the medical center and find

out."

"Spock, you've been tight-lipped since before we arrived. You behave

like a cat who knows where a whole cageful of canaries is hidden.

Sometimes I get the willies just looking at you."

"I would assume that is a normal state of affairs, Doctor."

McCoy handed the tricorder back to him and shook his head. "Jim thinks

we're conspiring on something. Maybe we are. If so, don't you think

co-conspirators should share all their secrets?"

"Perhaps later," Spock said. McCoy knew better than to press him any

further. They exited the cold lock and accompanied T'Kosa and Anauk to

the meeting.

"We cannot allow removal of the sleepers," Grake said. He stood before

the Enterprise visitors in the stat ion medical center, hands gripping

the edge of a stripped-down diagnostics table. "There is too much

risk." T'Prylla, the children, T'Kosa and Anauk regarded the visitors

with a calm isolation which, to Kirk, seemed like contempt.

"I've evaluated the risk," McCoy said. "There is some, but it's

minimal." Kirk glanced at Spock to gauge his reaction to this turn of

events. Spock stared intently at Grake, who refused to meet the first

officer's eyes.

"While we respect Dr. McCoy's expertise, we have learned much about

Ybakra radiation in the past ten years. We are constantly bathed in it,

but at a level which cannot cause any more damage to the sleepers. The

Ybakra is considerably reduced by proximity to our planetoid. In the

shuttle, however,

that protection is taken away. More damage may result."

McCoy stood and pointed a finger at Grake. "Your sleepers are as good as

dead now. What can you do for them here?"

"We can protect them until a way is found to transport them to the

Enterprise safely. Or until we devise a means of treating them

ourselves."

"The Enterprise can't stay here indefinitely," Kirk said. "Frankly, I'm

puzzled by the level of resistance we've met here. We are your

rescuers, not your enemies." His voice was level, ominously so. "I

stand by Dr. McCoy's decision to move the sleepers to the sickbay of

the Enterprise."

T'Kosa stepped close to Grake. "I believe it is time we convince our

visitors of how well we have done here, without their help."

Grake nodded. "There have been many delays, Captain, but now would seem

to be a very appropriate time to show you the research dome."

"We're avoiding the issue," McCoy said, exasperated. "Jim, we're wasting

time if we don't move the sleepers and begin reconstruction now!"

Kirk felt at a loss what to do. It was obvious that Spock still did not

wish to reveal the existence of Ybakra shields, but mention of the

technique now would save a great deal of trouble and argument. (Or would

it? Would they find another excuse? And why didn't they know about

Ybakra shields themselves? Their research on Ybakra had been

comprehensive... ) He disliked making decisions which would further

antagonize McCoy, but he couldn't think of a way around it. "I think

there's time enough to take a brief tour before we make our decision."

He hoped McCoy could sense what was going on. The doctor looked even

more exasperated, but did not protest further.

"Good," Grake said. "As I said before, I believe we have many surprises

in store for you..."

Veblen finished checking the form-memory and experience-memory units of

the transporter and shook his head. Scott waited anxiously a step

behind him.

"I have to agree," Veblen said. "There's nothing wrong with the

circuitry."

"Then it must be outside interference. Perhaps the radiation... ?"

"Ybakra operates in a different layer of fraction space than the

transient memories," Veblen said, frowning. He took a data pack from

his belt and hefted it, thinking. He had neglected to feed the new

information from the station's researches on Ybakra radiation into the

stochastic algorithm. "I don't think it would have any effect. However

."

"I'm at my wits end," Scott said. "I've checked every aspect of

transporter functioning, from power supplies to the memory coordinators.

There is nothing wrong with the transporters." He put on a look of

defiance. "It is not my machinery that's at fault! And I've never heard

of a delay in transporter assembly."

"It's a puzzle," Veblen admitted. "I'll back your report as much as my

expertise allows."

"Thank you," Scott said, relieved. Veblen left the transporter room and

took the turbolift to the computer command center. He plugged the new

information into the algorithnr--which had been sPpecilaced on temporary

hold--and then asked for a tic level of inquiry. Is there any chance,

he

typed on the console, that personnel aboard the station have learned to

manipulate Ybakra, and are using that knowledge to cause anomalous

events aboard the Enterprise? He restarred the algorithm and leaned

back in his chair, biting a tingemail and waiting for any coherent

result.

Mason tugged the recorder closer to her and

walked behind Radak. She felt completely out of

place, and yet she had a strong sensation of something very important

about to happen. Grake led the way to the research chambers, followed

by T'Prylla and Spock. The others squeezed through the open hatchway

after them, and all stood in a loose grouping to one side of the

station's largest dome.

It was easy to see now where all the equipment in storage had been put

to use. The dome was crowded with every conceivable combination of

hardware, electronics and computers jury-rigged together in' large

piles, without much apparent regard for placement or visual order. To

Mason, it looked like a child's playroom--a Vulcan child's playroom,

perhaps, the child having been given anything he wished for. She

glanced at Radak and T'Raus and met the girl's eyes. For a moment they

stared directly at each other. Mason shuddered--and not just because

the girl was Vulcan. She thought she was getting used to being around

Vulcans. For all his quirks and strange appearance, Spock was certainly

no ogre. But T'Raus...

There was a cold appraisal in her eyes that went beyond the constrained

emotions of a Vulcan.

"Very impressive," Kirk said diplomatically. Grake walked them around

the perimeter of the dome until they came to a raised platform, on which

was mounted a small control panel. The FNS recorder positioned itself

near the edge of the platform, motors within whining softly as its

lenses followed Grake up the steps.

"It is a preliminary construction," Grake said, motioning for T'Prylla

to join him. Radak followed his mother. "But what it does is much more

impressive than its appearance suggests." Radak stood at the control

panel. Grake seemed to hesitate before continuing his explanation.

"With the Transformer, we are in control of all forms of matter, energy,

space and time within the vicinity of the station. Our researches have

given us mastery of the very foundation of the universe, from which all

creation arose. Our work is tentative, but we have accomplished a greMat

deal."

ason saw McCoy's lips move. He seemed to be

saying something about madness.

"My son will prepare a demonstration."

Radak reached out to the dimly lighted switches on the panel and touched

a few with the conservative grace born of long experience. He knows the

system better than his father, Mason thought, wondering why Grake

himself didn't perform the demonstration. The machinery in the dome made

itself felt with a sensation beneath sound, a reminder of the presence

of great power.

Then, very slowly, Radak faded. It took the visitors some seconds to

realize what was happening.g. Chekov, even tightly controlled, jumped m

startlement as the boy simply vanished. Mason believed she saw a

flicker in the spot where the boy had stood, but it could have been a

trick of her eyes. Spock observed the dematerialization without

reaction.

While Radak's exit was quite interesting, Spock had noticed something

very peculiar while walking around the dome's perimeter. Some of the

equipment had been scavenged from a Starfleet unmanned rescue vessel--no

doubt, the one that had been sent out years before, never to return.

Some of the puzzle, for him at least, was starting to fall into place.

Shalleft was standing the watch in the main transporter room, duty which

did not require constant vigilance, so he spent much of the time

studying updated equipment manuals.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move on the

transporter platform. He looked up. A smiling Vulcan youth stood on

the reference disk. Shalleft blinked, and the boy was gone. Mouth

open, he checked the transporter console. It was not turned on; besides,

there had been none of the characteristic sound or transporter effect.

He hesitated; then called for security on the corn. "Olans here," came

the reply.

"Edward, Jonathan here. Clear out the padded cell in the brig. Are you

registering an intruder?"

"No," O!aus said. "What's up? Wait a minute... there's a warm body in

quadrant 2, deck 7... nobody was there a second ago."

On deck 7 of the saucer, or primary hull, in a corridor just outside

engineering and the. impulse power plant, Radak walked alone, staring

at this and that, marveling at the construction of the metal ship. He

stretched his hand out to touch the door to engineering. It was locked,

but that did not matter to Radak. It opened and he peered into the

multi-level chamber. Engineering was almost empty; only one junior

watch officer stood on the second level, facing the grid which divided

engineering from the impulse engines. The impulse engines were shut

down; very little orbital adjustment was required by the Enterprise at

the moment, and that could be handled by the docking and positioning

engines mounted at various places around the outside of the ship's

engineering and primary hulls. Very quietly, very boldly, Radak

strolled by the control panels without attracting the officer's notice,

and quickly realized that this was not the Enterprise's main power

plant. He visualized the outboard nacelles housing the main propulsion

units, but decided against touring them for the moment. He had been

gone for thirty seconds, and it would be best to return...

"We're rather used to that sort of coming and going," Kirk said as soon

as he had recovered. "We do it often ourselves." He was aware of the

difference between transporting and what Radak had just

done, but he wasn't about to reveal his astonishmentr to (rake.

"The boy has not been dematerial ized and assembled by a transporter,"

T'Prylla said, stepping on to the platform. "He has had his body

exactly replicated at another point in space-time, balancing the event

with a complete transformation of his past structure. In essence, the

individual disturbances of all his atoms have been unwound and rewound

at different coordinates. Some would call it controlled coincidence. We

can now master synchronicity itself, Captain."

Radak reappeared next to his mother, reached to the console, and touched

another series of switches. T'Prylla stared at Spock as if searching for

understanding.

"I assume," Spock said, "that the apparent identity of certain subatomic

particles with like particles, wherever and whenever they may be in the

universe, has been taken advantage of. What is the range of your

ability to transform coordinates?"

"Under the present circumstances, two hundred kilometers," Radak said.

"I was in the process of just such a transform when I encountered your

first landing party."

"That would explain the anomalous tricorder readings," Chapel said.

"Would it, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"I would assume so, Captain."

"We're doing a lot of assuming here," McCoy

said. "We could take advantage of this to move the

" id sleepers to the, Enterprise. assumtng, he sa

emphatically, that your technique has none of the disadvantages of the

transporter."

Grake shook his head. "No, Doctor. Theoretically, it is possible, but

not now. At the moment, our equipment can only handle masses not much

larger than my son. Not even I can be transformed, though my wife fails

just within the Funits. We could not

transform hibernaculum and sleeper at the same time But we are not

through with our demonstration. T'Raus has been working on her own

special project." He held his hand out to help his daughter onto the

platform.

"At the scale of the very smallmwhat Vulcans call numosma and humans

call the Planck-Wheeler length--space breaks down into a maze of

singularities," T'Raus said, standing at the edge of the platform with

her hands clasped in front of her.

"She looks like a student about to give a piano recital," Chapel

whispered to Mason. Mason thought she looked a lot more self-confident

than that.

"Until now, we have had no way of studying these extremely small

regions, and have had to deal with them in theory alone. Yet we know

that it is at these levels that the nature of matter and energy is

determined. Now, through the transformer, we can create virtual

simulations of small regions of space and time--and of very large

regions as well, up to the size of a universe. These simulations are

correct in every detail but one--they are not themselves 'real." Soon,

we may in fact be able to recreate regions of space-time with that final

touch of reality, and our work will near completion."

She was almost offhand in the way she pronounced her next words. "Our

goal must be quite obvious, of course. We intend to create a new

universe, on a scale where we can control and study its development.

When we can do that, we will be close to understanding the most

interesting period of our own universe--the first few minutes after

creation. Everything after that interval has been decay and decline."

"Not quite that bad, I hope," McCoy said. "Fascinating," Spock said.

Mason was more confused than fascinated. Kirk hardly blinked an eye.

T'Raus lifted an arm and touched several but'-tons on the console with

the same easy, familiar grace of her brother. "Please watch the

transparent chamber to the right of the platform. It is there that our

demonstration of the very small will begin."

Chapter Sixteen

The glass sphere, mounted on a single silver rod, filled with what

looked like the shadows of trees. The shadows began to-whirl together,

drawing dark bands around the sphere's perimeter. The bands smeared and

merged until the sphere's interior was a uniform neutral gray.

"Our eyes can only perceive things they are familiar with," T'Raus said.

"For that reason, most of the simulation will be lost to us. And again,

because our eyes rely on light to carry information to them, what we

perceive will not be totally accurate. Still, the simulation contains

all the information necessary for a thorough understanding of the

foundations of space-time. What we have difficulty perceiving, our

machines can interpret for us." The sphere was now filled with elusive

colors, rising from the neutral gray and being absorbed back into it.

Mason felt as if she were being hypnotized. Even at a distance of five

or six meters, the display soon filled her field of vision. For an

instant she thought

she saw the sphere fill with snakes, but the snakes became clouds of

floating balls. In turn, the clouds became twisting sheets of

rubber--sheets soon rid-died with holes which flexed inward and touched

other holes. Then the sheets disappeared, leaving only the holes, which

pulsed and seemed to both grow and shrink at once, following some

outlandish rhythm both regular and chaotic. Next, the sphere was a

haven for nested tunnels. The tunnels shrank and became strands of

spaghetti. The spaghetti turned a wondrous blue-gray and danced so

vigorously the entire dome seemed to spin around her. Kirk saw something

completely different. He was reminded of the propellers on

old-fashioned airplanes--thousands and thousands spinning, varying in

pitch, the blades lengthening and joining until all were connected, yet

still spinning individually. Chekov felt a kinship with what was in the

sphere. He recognized it---or rather, what was controlling him

recognized it, with the same bizarre nostalgia one might hold for the

burned-out wreck of an old home. It made no sense to Chekov but he

participated nevertheless. Chapel saw an infinity of bizarre flowers,

their petals linking and unlinking. Spock made an effort to see only

what was there. He could not. There was nothing real in the sphere,

nothing on to which he could hook the rigid logic of his race. He was

instantly and uncomfortably aware of the limits of his con to them, what

we perceive will not be totally accurate. Still, the simulation

contains all the information necessary for a thorough understanding of

the foundations of space-time. What we have difficulty perceiving, our

machines can interpret for us." The sphere was now filled with elusive

colors, rising from the neutral gray and being absorbed back into it.

Mason felt as if she were being hypnotized. Even at a distance of five

or six meters, the display soon filled her field of vision. For an

instant she thought

she saw the sphere fill with snakes, but the snakes became clouds of

floating balls. In turn, the clouds became twisting sheets of

rubber--sheets soon rid-died with holes which flexed inward and touched

other holes. Then the sheets disappeared, leaving only the holes, which

pulsed and seemed to both grow and shrink at once, following some

outlandish rhythm both regular and chaotic. Next, the sphere was a

haven for nested tunnels. The tunnels shrank and became strands of

spaghetti. The spaghetti turned a wondrous blue-gray and danced so

vigorously the entire dome seemed to spin around her. Kirk saw something

completely different. He was reminded of the propellers on

old-fashioned airplanes--thousands and thousands spinning, varying in

pitch, the blades lengthening and joining until all were connected, yet

still spinning individually. Chekov felt a kinship with what was in the

sphere. He recognized it---or rather, what was controlling him

recognized it, with the same bizarre nostalgia one might hold for the

burned-out wreck of an old home. It made no sense to Chekov but he

participated nevertheless. Chapel saw an infinity of bizarre flowers,

their petals linking and unlinking. Spock made an effort to see only

what was there. He could not. There was nothing real in the sphere,

nothing on to which he could hook the rigid logic of his race. He was

instantly and uncomfortably aware of the limits of his conditioning;

Vulcans sought total logic in a universe built on controlled chaos. The

effort ultimately had to be futile. The display saddened him,

depressed him, aroused his human haft... And he suddenly became aware of

the paradox. Vulcans had done this research, ostensibly; created these

displays. T'Prylla, for all her unorthodox methods of logic, was still

as constrained as he was, perhaps moreso. Such researches should have

been

extremely difficult, perhaps impossible for her, for any Vulcan. Then

who, or what, had performed the research? The human physicists who

might have aided the researchers and shared such insights were all in

cold storage. Spock turned away from the sphere, unwilling to. tolerate

much more. McCoy turned away also, for similar reasons. For him the

sphere was filled with faces, and the faces were turning into skulls,

the eye-sockets of the skulls elongating into infinite corridors of

death and misery, the teeth glinting and flashing. The insight that

forced him to turn away was that all the stars in the universe were

simply reflections from the teeth of skulls. The sphere showed him how

he could go mad, if he ever lost control. T'Raus touched the buttons

lightly, and the sphere once again became a vacant ball of glass.

Throughout the demonstration the observers had been completely silent,

and the silence lingered. Kirk spoke first. "I'm not sure I'm capable

of judging your ac.omplishment," he said, touching his hand to his

forehead. "Breakthrough or not, I also fail to see what all this has to

do with our immediate problem." Radak stood near Kirk. He turned slowly

toward the captain, his face betraying very un-Vulcan signs of

agitation. "In a year, our mastery will be so complete that we can

duplicate the bodies of our sleepers without the apparatus on your ship,

without any machinery at all. All this will be discarded, and with our

minds alone we can travel wherever we wish, transform anything." He

stared fixedly at Kirk. "We will no longer be confined to our planetoid,

nor will we require Federation starships." That is not the truth!

T'Prylla agonized, struggling to break through to Spock, anybody. Corona

would finish its work long before such things could be accomplished.

Kirk turned to Grake. "Does your son speak for all of you?" Grake and

T'Prylla nodded simultaneously. "I can appreciate the magnitude of

your... future accomplishment," Kirk continued. "But I have to deal

with present realities. And Federation law dictates that I do

everything in my power to save its citizens from harm. The sleepers are

in danger. We must do as our medical expert says. I... I can guarantee

that your fears for their safety are unwarranted. They will not be

injured during their journey to the Enterprise." McCoy nodded with

satisfaction. "There are several more things which must be done to our

shuttle to make travel completely safe for the sleepers," Spcok said.

"We will return to the Enterprise, perform the final installations, and

ferry the sleepers as soon as possible." "Very well," T'Prylla said,

acquiescing with a nod. That, Mason thought, was entirely too quick and

easy after all the objections they had made...

Chekov returned to the storage dome first. Wah Ching and Pauli stood

outside the boarding tube. He conferred with them briefly, then walked

down the tube and closed the shuttle hatch. Inside the small craft, he

looked around with drugged slowness and walked forward through the

passenger cabin to the pilot's seat and control panel. With a service

hex wrench, he unfastened the top cover and peered at the maze of glass

cables and power beam guides. He took his phaser and set the beam for

minimum width, shallow penetration. At low power, the phaser would

spall insulation off the beam guides. The shuttle self-diagnosing

system would detect a fault, but since there were no sensors directly

attached to the insulation, the shuttle computer would not be able to

explain the trouble, only to locate it. It would be difficult to notice

any difference just by looking... The shuttle would be disabled.

He fought every step of the way, until his body ran rivers of sweat...

but to no avail. He belted the phaser, mopped his forehead with his

sleeve, and opened the hatch. He put on an angry face and stormed back

through the tube. "Who's been in here?" The guards looked at him, .as.

to. nished. "The panel cover is open," he said. Kirk, Spock, McCoy,

Chapel and Mason walked .across the decking. Chekov approached them,

wishing he could simply die and get the misery over with. "Mr. Spock..."

he began.

Spock emerged from the shuttle and shook his head. "I suspect sabotage,

Captain." McCoy swore under his breath. "I feel like we're wading

through glue, Jim. They're thwarting everything we do." Kirk glanced

across the storage dome. "Spock, run a tricorder check for listening

devices or... anything else suspicious. Chekov, keep a guard on the

dome entrance." Spock ran his check and announced there were no

detectable listening devices. "But I cannot guarantee we will speak in

privacy." "Then we'll take the risk. Spock, what in hell is going on

here?" ".Something is seriously wrong, Jim. I have seen eqmpment in the

research dome which I am certain was removed from the unmanned rescue

probe. Apparently, at the time of the probe's arrival, Station One was

reluctant to be rescued, but in need of all available instrumentation

and raw material. Furthermore, the station personnel are not behaving as

Vulcans should behave. They are not even behaving like insane Vulcans.

The excuses they offer are weak and contradictory. The children appear

to be more in control than Grake and T'Prylla, and that is totally

uncharacteristic." "Couldn't that be explained by the isolation?" Mason

asked.

"No," Spock said. "There is a pattern to their behavior, but it does

not match any pattern for my people. It is the pattern of a controlling

presence, with goals dissimilar to our own." "But there's no life here,"

McCoy said. "We know protostar clouds are completely sterile. Oh,

there are the usual organic molecules--" "I do not believe they are

being controlled by. a? organic life form," Spock said. "The ewdence

po?.ts to something very knowledgable, very interestea tn the processes

the researchers claim to have mastered." "Any ideas what that might be?"

"I suggest we contact the Enterprise and see how Mr. Scott is doing

with the transporter. I doubt that he has found anything wrong. If my

hypothesis is correct, the transporter is in perfect working order, but

the beam itself is being tampered with. That could explain my clumsy

arrival in the station, and it could also explain Ensign Chekov's

difficulties." "Then what the hell are we going to do?" McCoy asked. "We

are going to play our hidden ace, Dr. McCoy. We are going to request

materials be sent down to repair the shuttle."

Veblen looked at the algorithm models, biting his lower lip. Half on

impulse, he typed on the keyboard. Are you serious? These are the best

models the stochastic algorithm can currently produce, the computer

replied on the screen. Veblen had shut the voice off; he much preferred

working with displays. It was so much easier to track programming

errors. "Mr. Veblen to the bridge," Uhura called over the com. Veblen

transferred the model data to his portable notepad and ran for the

turbolift. Scott was on the bridge, talking to Kirk in the station. "I

find Mr. Spock's conclusions a great relief," he said.

"We don't," Kirk said laconically. "Is Veblen there?" "Present,

Captain," Veblen said. "Mr. Veblen, Spock has a special request for

shuttle repair parts." Veblen and Scott looked at each other; Veblen was

certainly not the man to handle parts replacement. "Mr. Veblen," Spock

said, "the Galileo II requires the following kits." Spock recited

twenty-six separate kit numbers, apparently from memory. Veblen took

them down quickly, then handed them to Scott. Scott looked them over.

Only five had anything to do with the shuttle, and none, surprisingly,

with the hibernacula. "I am also interested in how the algorithms are

adjusting to the new data. Has there been an advancement of model C in

probability?" Veblen's eyes widened. "There has indeed, Mr. Spock.

Model C is now the prime model, with enhancements. The Ybakra--" "Thank

you, Mr. Veblen. Please expedite the delivery of the parts. Until the

shuttle is repaired, we are confined to the station." Spock signed off

and Scott shook his head. "What are they requesting, Mr. Scott?" Veblen

asked. "Some of the kits will replace beam guide insulators in the

shuttle instrument panels. That makes sense. But these other

kits--they go together to create an Ybakra isolation field." "For the

sleepers?" "I don't think so," Scott said. "Or Dr. McCoy would have

mentioned field dimensions. I don't believe these will create a large

enough field for two hibernacula." Veblen hefted his notepad

thoughtfully. "Model C, I belteve, has been confirmed."

T'Prylla experienced the irritation at one remove, but Corona's

indecision was more immediately distressing. She was jerked back and

forth, sent first t do this, then that. She had never felt Corona so

confused and uncertain. She worked for a time adding more machinery to

the equipment in the research dome. Briefly, she saw Grake doing similar

work. T'Kosa and Anauk, she sensed, were waiting outside the storage

dome. T;Raus and Radak were nowhere to be seen.

The Vulcan children stood beneath the purple nebula sky, watching a

horizon-to-horizon ribbon of green unwrap at zenith. It was nothing

significant, simply the unveiling of a deeper region of gas, but it

served for a moment to distract Corona. Of all the things in this

strange, ancient realm, the clouds of dust and gas in the nebula were

most pleasing. Their abstraction reminded it of...

But there was no conclusion to the thought. T'Raus touched the rock

again and opened the Eye-to-Stars. Its goal was so close, but time was

growing short. Where would the next appearance be?

The Eye-to-Stars was more than a telescope. It searched across probable

universes, as well as the distances of space and time. The only

probable universe it could not scan was on the line of present reaFty;

Corona could not know the exact outcome of its work.

In the early years, Corona had sought out young, amorphous galaxies

buried in hot clouds of gasbut had not found any. Instead, it had found

evidence of its own handiwork, its own halting experiments and

mistakes---buried in the ancient past, barely visible across the

light-cons. After nine years of patient search, feeling a growing

frustration and awareness of its limits, it had found the region where

it would be most likely to make its next appearance, if it should fail

in the Black Box Nebula.

In the beginning, it had had an easier time of things. Conditions had

been hostile, but not nearly

as hostile as they were now. Now, Corona had to rely on yet another

unlikely conjunction of sub-spacial masses and collapsing protostars.

Just such a region had been found by the Eye-to-Stars.

But it knew the opportunities there were unlikely to be as satisfying as

those in the Black Box. In fact, nothing in all its strange travels

could compare. The novelty of the situation lay not in the nebula

itself---a rather typical starwomb--but in the Vulcan visitors, in

living and intelligent beings made of matter. Corona had never

encountered such before. It had no idea how widespread organic

intelligence would b e in the future, on the next leg of its journey. So

getting the work done now was extremely important.

And all it needed was a few more hours, unhindered, a miniscule length

of the bizarre dimension that time had become in this old corpse of a

universe.

But how would it continue its work in the dome, and deal with the new,

troublesome visitors?

It was this indecision which affected T'Prylla worst of all. Finally,

Corona made a choice. The visitors were much too dangerous. They could

destroy some of the most useful information it had gathered if they

removed the sleepers. If they managed to repair the shuttle, the

transfer would begin...

Corona had learned too late that humans resisted its intrusions even

more than adult Vulcans. Only by slightly rearranging his qualities in

the transporter beam had it been able to gain control of the one called

Chekov, and that by a stroke of luck. The new half-Vulcan combined the

worst properties of Vulcans and humans; the first few times in the beam

had been insufficient to control Spock.

But Corona had learned from failures. If Spock used the transporter

just one more time ..

Scott had trouble controlling the direction of the beam. It veered

wildly first one direction, then another. Veblen watched the chief

engineer swearing and adjusting the control slideshere Was nothing in

the beam but a test device; the kits Spock had requested were stacked on

two floating pallets near the transporter platform. "Is there any

transporter effect?" Veblen asked Kirk. "None yet," the captain replied.

"Wait a minute just a trace." "Aligning the beam," Scott said grimly.

"It whips about like a snake. The probe should be assembling "Here it

comes," Kirk said. "It's intact!" "Bringing it back," Scott said. When

the probe had returned, he motioned for Shallert to position the pallets

over the reference and number two disks. "We're preparing to send the

kits now," Veblen said. He checked the display on his portable

terminal, hooked up to the ship's computers. The erratic beam behavior

was being analyzed in detail to provide more data to confirm and expand

on Model C. "Whatever's mucking with the beam must be operating a field

as wide as the planetoid itself," Scott said. Veblen's display indicated

the field was much wider than that, perhaps as much as a hundred

thousand kilometers in diameter. The picture he was constructing of it

showed a complex structure on several levels, operating in both status

geometry, subspace and at least three fraction-space geodesics. The

Enterprise's sensors were now alert to certain clues, sweeping deep into

the Black Box, toward the murky triplet of infant stars. "Sending now,"

Scott said. "And I'm glad it's not people I'm sending." "Effect

beginning," Kirk said. "We're getting two assembly patterns... they're

forming. Down and intact!" Scott cut the transporter beam and stretched

his arms out to relieve muscle tension. He groaned and smiled at

Veblen. "Like taking a boat through a storm," he said. "A very

interesting storm, too," Veblen said. "I'd certainly like to talk with

Mr. Spock about it, but nobody seems willing to engage in a straight

conversation down there." The sensors had traced the origin of the

field. Wrapped in an intense oblate spheroid of Ybakra radiation, the

three young stars--orbiting each other across distances of hundreds of

millions of miles--were themselves the source.

Chapter Seventeen

Kirk and Spock assembled the Ybakra cage within the shuttle's cargo

compartment, without comment or any clue as to what they were planning.

Indeed, to a great extent Kirk himself didn't know. When they were

through, Chekov and McCoy inspected the device---Chekov paying

particular attention. The shield was a cubic cage about two meters on a

side, made of black pipe with smaller red cubes at each of the eight

corners.

Mason sat on a fold-down chair opposite the cargo doors, watching the

proceedings disconsolately. She had never felt so useless and

out-of-place. They were obviously in trouble, but she wasn't a part of

the team; they couldn't confide in her, or give her something to do. She

was excess baggage. Chapel gave her a reassuring smile, but for all her

sincerity it only deepened her distress.

"Now for a test," Kirk said. "We'll need somebody inside holding a

tricorder. Bones?"

"Not me," McCoy said. "I outrank Chekov. Let him stand inside."

Chekov's face paled noticeably. Spock held the tricorder out to him,

but he backed off a step, hands raised.

"There's no danger," Kirk said, eyes narrowing. "It's just to protect

the hibernacula."

FoThere was no way out of it without raising a scene.

r the first time, Chekov knew that the alien will

within him was unable to control things completely. It contemplated

creating a commotion in the dome, but decided the risks were too small

to get upset about. It forced Chekov to smile.

He accepted the tricorder and stepped into the cage. "Switch on," Kirk

said. Spock flipped a switch on the top of an upper cube. There was no

sound or any other effect; the cube was simply cut off from exposure to

Ybakra.

Chekov collapsed. McCoy instinctively made a move to enter the cube but

Kirk restrained him. "Jim, he's--"

"Wait a moment, just a moment," Kirk said. "Spock?"

"I believe my hypothesis is correct, Jim. Ybakra radiation carries the

controlling messages. Chekov has not been himself the past few hours."

Spock stepped through the shield and knelt next to Chekov. The ensign's

eyelids fluttered and opened and he stared at Spock with an expression

of blissful relief. "Mr. Spock... bad, so very awful and horrible..."

Spock motioned for McCoy to join them. McCoy ran his tricotder over

Chekov and pronounced him fit, but exhausted from severe nervous strain.

"I've

been fighting," Chekov said softly.

"Fighting what?" Kirk asked.

"Taking me over. Making me... I sabotaged, it sabotaged the

shuttle..."

"We know," Kirk said. "Spock had switched the security recorders on.

You were caught in the act. What does... it... feel like? What is

it?"

"I don't know," Chekov said. "Deliberate, very

large... angry, searching. I don't know." His eyes closed. "He should

be in the sickbay," McCoy said. "He cannot be moved from the shield, or

he will be controlled again," Spock said. "When did it take him over?"

Kirk asked. "I believe I felt its presence just before I collapsed after

transporting," Spock said. "I assume it was able to take command of Mr.

Chekov in the transporter beam. That would explain the delay before his

assembly on the Enterprise." "Why didn't it take over all of us, then?"

Kirk asked. His quick glance at Mason made her straighten in her seat.

She was about to protest, but Spock cut her off. "Perhaps it was

adjusting to humans. So far, it has only controlled Vulcans. Much as I

dislike the idea, it may have an easier time assuming control of Vulcans

than humans... though why I was spared, I don't know." "Your human

blood, no doubt," McCoy said. "Does this mean everyone in the station is

possessed?" He injected a nutritive restorer solution into Chekov's arm

and stood up. "That's what we have to assume," Kirk said. "By whom, or

what... or to what end, is anybody's guess." "We do know some things

about the influence," Spock said. "It uses Ybakra radiation, which we

have always thought to have a negligible effect on human nervous

systems, and a relatively minor effect on Vulcans unless, of course,

high exposure occurs under cold storage conditions. Apparently the

effect can be more profound. I have already notified Mr. Veblen that

Model C has increased in probability--" "What in the devil is 'Model

C'?" McCoy asked. "Mr. Veblen's stochastic algorithms produced some

rather far-fetched models, which we originally rejected. Model C

postulated that the inhabitants of the station had been taken over by

some outside agency. The algorithm returned to the model when we fed it

more information about Ybakra radiation and the behavlike? What is it?"

"I don't know," Chekov said. "Deliberate, very

large... angry, searching. I don't know." His eyes closed. "He should

be in the sickbay," McCoy said. "He cannot be moved from the shield, or

he will be controlled again," Spock said. "When did it take him over?"

Kirk asked. "I believe I felt its presence just before I collapsed after

transporting," Spock said. "I assume it was able to take command of Mr.

Chekov in the transporter beam. That would explain the delay before his

assembly on the Enterprise." "Why didn't it take over all of us, then?"

Kirk asked. His quick glance at Mason made her straighten in her seat.

She was about to protest, but Spock cut her off. "Perhaps it was

adjusting to humans. So far, it has only controlled Vulcans. Much as I

dislike the idea, it may have an easier time assuming control of Vulcans

than humans... though why I was spared, I don't know." "Your human

blood, no doubt," McCoy said. "Does this mean everyone in the station is

possessed?" He injected a nutritive restorer solution into Chekov's arm

and stood up. "That's what we have to assume," Kirk said. "By whom, or

what... or to what end, is anybody's guess." "We do know some things

about the influence," Spock said. "It uses Ybakra radiation, which we

have always thought to have a negligible effect on human nervous

systems, and a relatively minor effect on Vulcans unless, of course,

high exposure occurs under cold storage conditions. Apparently the

effect can be more profound. I have already notified Mr. Veblen that

Model C has increased in probability--" "What in the devil is 'Model

C'?" McCoy asked. "Mr. Veblen's stochastic algorithms produced some

rather far-fetched models, which we originally rejected. Model C

postulated that the inhabitants of the station had been taken over by

some outside agency. The algorithm returned to the model when we fed it

more information about Ybakra radiation and the behavior of station

personnel. The model, I believe, is now confirmed." "At least the ship

is aware something's going on," Kirk said. "Do we dare tell them

everything?" Spock nodded. "It may already be too late to disguise our

awareness. What we must do is take advantage of any confusion the being

might be feeling, with the loss of its sole human puppet. We must bring

one of the Vulcans here, by force if necessary. I would suggest

T'Prylla." "Any suggestions as to how?" McCoy asked. "By gentle

persuasion, if at all possible. If it still has doubts, we must play on

them." "How can I help?" Mason asked. Kirk turned and shook his head.

"By maintaining your objectivity," he said sharply. "You're an observer.

Observe." "Jim..." McCoy said, but Kirk waved his hand. "We're in very

deep trouble, Bones," he said. "I'll tender any apologies later."

In orbit around the planetoid, the Enterprise once again passed over the

station within the two hundred kilometer limit. Radak appeared briefly

in several of the ship's cabins and corridors, found them occupied, and

finally materialized in a narrow, deserted service corridor below the

ship's computer, between decks 8 and 9. Light cables and beam guides

clustered thickly on the walls and ceiling. There was no artificial

gravitation in the service corridor, so the boy floated for a moment

while deciding what to do next. Suddenly, as if a finger had been lopped

off, Corona lost one of its extensions. The human called Chekov was no

longer under its control. Corona had focused too much of its attention

on Radak. Things were happening on the station. Yet it

could not just withdraw Radak from the Enterprise, not when there was

such an opportunity to learn. If there was a way to control the ship

itself, its problems would be over. It would be allowed to finish its

work. But now the humans were approaching T'Prylla, and it could sense

the Vulcan female was about to make her move.

'Radak had been under the control of Corona for so long that it was

possible to release the young Vulcan for hours at a stretch, to carry

out commands already given. In a sense, Radak, T'Raus and Corona had

developed together, and their relationship was fixed; without the young

Vulcans, Corona would not have had a sense of place and time, not in the

way these organic beings had. They acted as conduits through which it

could perceive and interpret what the other Vulcans and humans did.

Radak would be left aboard the ship to finish his task; Corona shifted

its full attention to the station, but not in time to prevent further

disaster.

"There is no need for me to inspect your work," T'Prylla said in the

reshek corridor. Kirk and Spock stood on each side of her. McCoy and

Mason stood behind them.

"We wish to demonstrate how safe the sleepers will be in the shuttle,"

Spock said.

"That is more for T'Kosa to determine," T'Pry!la said. She looked at

Spock, and for the briefest moment, Spock saw a glimmer of rebellious

awareness, a personality behind the mask. T'Prylla's lips moved, saying

"Force me," silently in Vulcan. The mask returned almost immediately.

"Nurse Chapel, take her left arm," Spock said. Chapel grabbed the arm

and held it tightly. "Doctor, the right."

McCoy held the right and Spock reached for her shoulder. T'Pryila's

body gave a sudden jerk and she slammed McCoy and Chapel against a

bulkhead.

Chapel fell back, stunned, and Kirk moved in to take her place. Mason

jumped to one side as the recorder deftly maneuvered out of everybody's

way. Spock grabbed T'Prylla's shoulder and pinched it sharply. Her

upper body contorted but she did not collapse. McCoy brought out his

subcutane and tried to place. it against her arm. She whipped around

violently, her breath ragged, her face darkening to brown. McCoy found

his opening and the subcutane connected, injecting its tranquilizer.

Kirk and McCoy released her and stepped back. She leaned against the

bulkhead, chest heaving. She tried to stand straight but couldn't. It

was awful to see her struggling, especially for Mason, who was reminded

of an injured animal resisting the ministrations of its keepers. Then

T'Pfylla seemed to wilt. Nine years of almost constant possession could

not prevent the action of McCoy's drug. Spock and McCoy caught her as

she slumped.

"So much for subtle persuasion," McCoy said. "We must get her to the

shuttle immediately," Spock said. Kirk drew his phaser and set it for

stun.

With his other hand, he opened his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise."

"Enterprise. Uhura here, Captain."

"Move the ship out to a synchronous orbit. Now." "Yes, sir."

"And tell Scott--"

The communicator crackled. He adjusted it, but to no avail.

"Interference," he said. On a hunch, he turned the phaser on a bulkhead

and tried to fire it. The button produced no effect whatsoever.

"It is indeed a master of energy," Spock said. Kirk belted the useless

weapon. He reached out to help Spock and McCoy lift T'Prylla; Mason

lent her shoulder to Chapel.

Olaus had passed word to Scott; they still had a track on the intruder.

Veblen came on the bridge

with Shallert and they watched the forward screen as the ship's internal

scanners displayed the unsecured sector.

"He's in the service corridor under the ship's computer," Scott said

tersely. "Recognize him?"

"He's the one I saw in the transporter room," Shallert said. "Thought I

was going crazy . . . until now. How did he get there?"

"I don't know," Scott said. "Mr. Olaus and I aren't quite sure what we

should do with him."

"Tell security to stay away from him," Veblen said.

Scott looked at the staff officer with a dubious expression. "He's in

the middle of the ship's most delicate equipment."

"They should at least stay out of sight. We're tracking him; we can

stop him before he does anything disastrous, if that's what he's here

for. We need to know more about him---or whatever's controlling him.

What they want to do."

"I canna' accept that risk," Scott said. "Scott to security team A.

Move into the corridor and attempt capture."

The service corridor formed a circle around and beneath the computer.

Devereaux and his men had pressed themselves against the equipment

insulation plates around the curve from where Radak floated. Now they

gripped the guide ropes and pulled themselves swiftly and silently

along.

Radak was aware there was trouble on the station, but he had been

temporarily left to himself. He knew what he was looking for, and what

he had to do when he found it--Corona could rely on Radak. He peered

behind the beam guides for the ship's central data conduit, not yet

aware of the security men approaching from behind.

When Kirk's abrupt transmission was received, Scott acted on the orders

immediately. The Enterprise accelerated and pushed herself into a

higher orbit, maneuvering until she was in synchronous

movement with the station four thousand kilometers below. The whole

action took less than five minutes, and in that time- Radak twisted

around, stared at the guards, and tried to transform back to the

station. He could not transform by himself, however, and Corona had not

yet returned. The guards floated toward him, phasers drawn. 'He tried

to deactivate the phasers, but he could not. He backed away, feeling

his weakness acutely. Then he realized the ship was moving, that he was

already too far from the station to be transformed even if Corona did

return.

"He's not doing anything," Scott said.

"Maybe we have him," Veblen said.

Devereaux backed the boy up against the end of the corridor. "We'renot

going to hurt you," he said. "How in hell did you get here in the first

place?"

For the first time in ten years, Radak felt completely lost. His

instructions said nothing about how to behave if he was captured.

Chapter Eighteen

They lay T'Prylla in the cage next to Chekov. McCoy changed the ampule

in the subcutane and injected her with an antidote to the tranquilizer.

"She'll come around in a few minutes," he said. "But she'll be weak for

an hour or so."

"I wonder if any Vulcan can ever be weak," Chapel said, massaging her

shoulder.

"Ceptain, I do not think she is the center of the being," Chekov said.

"I think it concentrates on the children."

T'Prylla's eyes opened. She stared intently at Spock. "Nine years,

three months, two days and twelve hours," she said. "That is how long

we have been slaves. My gratitude, Spock." She tried to sit up but her

arms collapsed under her. Mason held her shoulders as she fell back.

"I have many questions," Spock said, "and not much time to obtain

answers."

"Then the questions must wait. For all that time, I have been

considering ways to overcome Corona."

"Corona?" Kirk asked.

"Yes. It manifests as a huge corona of Ybakra radiation emanating from

the infant stars. It has a specific purpose---to create a new

universe--and we must not allow it to succeed. Spock, Radak was the

first to be taken over. T'Raus was next. Through the children, it

extended its control to the rest of us. You must touch minds with

Radak. You must communicate directly with Corona force it to listen--or

it will never understand."

"How do you force an all-powerful, hostile intelligence to listen?"

McCoy asked.

"It is neither all-powerful, nor hostile," T'Prylla said. "It is merely

dedicated. It is the last of its kind, and there will be no more like

it unless it succeeds. It is quite weak--it is not accustomed to a

realm of matter, and only' through us can it manipulate small amounts of

matter."

"Yet it is a master of energy, of space and time," Spock said.

"You have deduced that much. We could never have come so far in our

researches without its help--yet I can hardly say the new machines

belong to us, or fulfill our work. Spock! You must find

Radak, and you must administer ka nifoor." "What's that?" Kirk asked.

"He was just a child when he was taken over," Spock said. "Neither he

nor T'Raus have undergone the discipline of Vulcan adulthood. If I can

administer ka nifoor, it is possible the being's influence will wane."

"It controls all of us through them," T'Prylla said. Spock looked

troubled. "Well, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"There is also the possibility the being will occupy my mind," Spock

said. "I have resisted so far, though I am not certain whyre"

"You just won't admit it," McCoy said.

"Doctor, Chekov is totally human, and it possessed him quite

effectively?"

"In the beam of the transporter," T'Prylla said.

"Which is why we aren't going to use the transporter," Kirk said.

Outside the shuttle, there was a high-pitched whining sound, followed by

a sharp, loud crack. "What in hell was that?" Wah Ching ran down the

boarding tube, phaser drawn. "Captain, they're all in the storage

dome--all but the boy. They're heading this way!" "Get Pauli inside the

shuttle," Kirk said. "Spock, we're going back." "Yes, sir." Spock went

forward to the shuttle controls. T'Prylla was now strong enough to sit

up on her own, and Mason released her, instinctively wiping her hands on

her pants. Pauli rolled into the ship just as the boarding tube seal

separated. The shuttle was filled with roaring as air exploded through

the crack. Mason screamed in silence, holding her ears with both hands

and keeping her eyes tightly shut. Pauli rebounded from a bulkhead and

reached up to slap the hatch lever down. Air screamed into the cabin

from emergency repressurization valves, and Mason felt the horrible,

straining emptiness in her lungs fill until she could breathe normally.

"They tried to kill us!" Pauli shouted hoarsely. The shuttle's landing

lifters pushed them a few meters off the station platform. McCoy quickly

looped cargo cables across the deck and over Chekov and T'Prylla. "Get

into a seat!" he shouted at Mason and Chapel. "And secure that damned

machine!" Mason pulled the recorder forward and slammed it against a

magnetic grip. She buckled herself in just in time to avoid a lurch

which propelled McCoy across the cargo compartment. The Ybakra cage

creaked ominously. Kirk grabbed hold of the navigator's chair and

steadied himself. "They're not going to let us go without a fight."

Spock struggled with the controls. Warning buzzers sounded and alert

lights came on across the instrument panel.

"Didn't we fix it?" McCoy called from the passenger cabin as he fell

into a seat. Kirk's communicator beeped. He strapped himself in and

flipped the device open. "Kirk here." "Captain! We've been trying to

get through for hours---" "Scotty! Lock a tractor on to the shuttle!

Pull us in!" "We canna', not at this angle through the planetoid,

Captain. What's happening?" Kirk glanced at Spock for an explanation.

"Our engines are being neutralized," Spock said grimly. "We will not be

able to lift off. It does not wish to let T'Prylla go." "Scotty," Kirk

said. "This may be a mistake, but can you get a transporter fix on us?"

"Aye, that I can. But--" "Risk it, Scotty! Get everyone in the shuttle

aboard the Enterprisemand the Ybakra shield, as well!" Kirk met Spock's

questioning glance and shrugged. "Either way, Spock... let's just hope

Corona doesn't have its mind on the transporter." As the transporter

effect started, Mason began to pray, gripping the chair arms tightly.

She closed her eyes. Across the aisle, McCoy let out a long and

expressive string of expletives... The shuttle fell from an altitude of

two hundred meters and crashed onto the scarred gray surface of the

planetoid.

"We have them all," Shallert announced from the transporter room. "But

the goddamned thing's interfering again!" "Isolate each form-memory,"

Scott said grimly from the elevator. Veblen rode beside him. "They're

isolated. We're racking up delay time .. thirty seconds." "Triage,"

Veblen said. "How's that, Mr. Veblen?" Scott demanded. The elevator

doors opened and the engineer leaped to

the transporter controls. Shallert transferred the controls and Scott

began to play them like the keys of a piano. Veblen stayed to one side,

watching the fitful sparklings above the assigned disks.

"I've already dumped the radiation cage," Shalleft explained. "Even

so..."

"We only have a firm grip on seven," Scott said, looking as if he were

about to cry. "It's wrestling us for them!" The transporter whined and

groaned alternately. The air became thick with the sweet electric smell

of unrealized transporter ghosts, and a special ventilator switched on.

"Ye canna' ha' them, damn ye!" Scott screamed, pulling all the slides

down at once and switching for emergency power. The transporter room

floor hummed and one of the unassigned disks began to smoke.

One by one, the assigned disks displayed transporter effects, until

seven were occupied. The remaining two showed clear shafts of white

light, signifying lost signals. Even before the effects were well

formed, Scott redirected the two stray people. "I'm sending 'em to the

station," he said. "They canna' return to the shuttle. I'm sending 'em

back and God help them get there in one piece."

Corona gave up its attempt to control all the form-memories in the

transporter beam. The task was simply too much without the help of

Radak and T'Prylla; Corona felt their loss keenly. Even though it

realized T'Prylla was one of those in the beam, her data was confused

with the form-memory of the cage, and Corona could not differentiate

them in so little time.

By the time the cage was cut from the beam, Corona had already

concentrated on two others in the beam, separating them. The

half-Vulcan, half-human science officer, Spock, and the only other

female in the group, Mason, began to assemble in the storage dome, where

Scott had redirected them.

Corona reached deep into the form-memory of Spock, and exulted...

Kirk, McCoy, Chapel, T'Prylla, Chekov and the two guards lay fully

formed on the transporter platform. Kirk got up on his knees and looked

at the other disks. "Spock? The girl? Where are they?"

Scott's expression was pitiful. "I couldna' hold them, Captain. There

was too much interference."

Kirk cringed and held his head in his hands. He looked up almost

immediately and asked where the cage was.

"Dropped from the beam," Shalleft said.

"We'll need another. A large one--and some portable shields, too." He

stood above Chekov and T'Prylla on adjacent disks, looking down on them

suspiciously. McCOY helped T'Prylla to her feet while Kirk and Shalleft

saw to Chekov and the two guards.

"Get stretchers up here," McCoy said, looking around for someone to take

his orders and fixing on Veblen. "And get sickbay ready!" Veblen nodded

and went to the wall corn to relay the commands.

Kirk opened and closed his hands helplessly, then bounded on still-shaky

legs for the elevator. Veblen followed, reaching out to steady him as

he wobbled. The doors closed. "Bridge," Kirk said.

"Captain, we've captured the Vulcan boy, Radak. Somehow he reached the

Enterprise and was found in the service corridor below the computer

center. And as for Ybakra shieldsthe boy is in one right now. We've

shielded an entire brig cell."

"Then we have two of Corona's main extensions," Kirk said. "And Radak

was the one T'Prylla wanted Spock to touch minds with..." He shook his

head fiercely. "We may be in worse trouble than we think, Mr. Veblen.

T'Prylla said something down there that scares me, especially after what

we saw."

"Captain, I'll need as much information as possible to feed the

algorithms."

Kirk looked at Veblen from the corner of his eye, prepared to tell the

computer officer to go to hell, and take his algorithms with him. But

he controlled his anger and worry and nodded. "On the bridge," he said.

"I'll put as much as I can into the log while we're deciding what to do

next."

Spock rolled onto his back, his eyes tightly shut. Mason had assembled

on her feet, and she looked around with no real comprehension of what

had happened. Where was the transporter room, where was the Enterprise?

She was in the storage dome--and the dome was empty. Then she saw Spock

struggling near her feet, moaning. Oh my God, she thought. Now was the

time to panic. She was alone in the station, alone with Vulcans...

Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes. He rose to his knees

and shook his head, then braced a hand on the floor and pushed himself

upright. He looked dazed, preoccupied. His lips worked and he closed

his eyes again. "I need help," he said. Mason backed away, hands

clutching her throat. "I am about to be controlled by Corona," he said.

"I only have a few minutes of resistance left. You must... help..." He

swiveled and held out a tense, half-closed hand. "Please," Mason said.

"I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its thoughts. It does not know

how to listen... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use.

And it is about to destroy... everything." His eyes widened. He's

afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifiies him.

Whatever reserves of pragmatism and toughness remained in her,

evaporated. She was a little girl again, listening to scary stories

about incredible off-world monstrosities, alien horrors, unseen inhuman

demons. Standing before her was living proof of all the stories--an

alien, strange and

repugnant, himself taken over by a demon. The storytellers on Yalbo had

told t he truth! "I cannot hold it back. I must enter a trance state.

But I cannot do that..." Spock's expression was pleading. "You' must

take part of me within you." He twisted in agony, ahell, and take his

algorithms with him. But he controlled his anger and worry and nodded.

"On the bridge," he said. "I'll put as much as I can into the log while

we're deciding what to do next."

Spock rolled onto his back, his eyes tightly shut. Mason had assembled

on her feet, and she looked around with no real comprehension of what

had happened. Where was the transporter room, where was the Enterprise?

She was in the storage dome--and the dome was empty. Then she saw Spock

struggling near her feet, moaning. Oh my God, she thought. Now was the

time to panic. She was alone in the station, alone with Vulcans...

Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes. He rose to his knees

and shook his head, then braced a hand on the floor and pushed himself

upright. He looked dazed, preoccupied. His lips worked and he closed

his eyes again. "I need help," he said. Mason backed away, hands

clutching her throat. "I am about to be controlled by Corona," he said.

"I only have a few minutes of resistance left. You must... help..." He

swiveled and held out a tense, half-closed hand. "Please," Mason said.

"I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its thoughts. It does not know

how to listen... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use.

And it is about to destroy... everything." His eyes widened. He's

afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifiies him.

Whatever reserves of pragmatism and toughness remained in her,

evaporated. She was a little girl again, listening to scary stories

about incredible off-world monstrosities, alien horrors, unseen inhuman

demons. Standing before her was living proof of all the stories--an

alien, strange and

repugnant, himself taken over by a demon. The storytellers on Yalbo had

told the truth! "I cannot hold it back. I must enter a trance state.

But I cannot do that..." Spock's expression was pleading. "You' must

take part of me within you." He twisted in agony, arms held up in the

air, and shouted a string of Vulcan words. She backed away two more

steps, horrified--and fascinated. "I must pass on the ritual. It is

not aware... it is blind inside me while I resist... I can pass

everything on to you, give you instructions, a temporary part of my

mind--" "NO!" But she did not back away any farther. Spock shuddered and

appeared to draw himself together. "I am aware of your prejudices. I

am aware of your fear. You must overcome them. Your life, your

existence... perhaps the existence of our entire universe... are at

stake. We are not enemies. I need your courage!" He reached both hands

out to her. All right, a voice said away from all her repulsion and

horror. Time to cut the crap and get down to business, don't you think?

You can either live the rest of your life--however short that may

be--slipping and sliding on all the muck your fellow Yalbans laid down

for you, or you can rise above it. You can help the nasty, alien

Vulcan, whom you've come to know and respect, underneath all your stupid

bigotry, or you can let everything go to hell. Your one chance,

Small-Planet Girl. She took a step forward, her stomach contracting to a

tiny ball. Everything was elongated and strange. She grasped Spock's

warm, dry hands and guided them to her temples. He lowered one hand and

clasped the base of her neck. He said something in Vulcan and there was

a fire in her brain, writing very tiny letters over every available

centimeter of darkness... And then she understood his Vulcan words "You

have the courage and grace of an ahkor," he

had said, and through Spock she remembered the most beautiful, the

largest, the brightest bird she had ever seen, its feathers copper and

gold and chrome, its eye red as the sun, flying over the sand and

jagged, smoking mountains of Vulcan. Part of the Vulcan was inside her.

He lay on the floor, limp, his face peaceful. He was locked in trance,

useless to Corona. But, along with Spock, she could feel another touch,

weak but still present. Corona--or some part of it--had also made the

transition. She was now not one, but three...

Chapter Nineteen

The guard cleared the brig field from his path and Kirk entered the

cell. T'Prylla sat with Radak in one corner, on furniture transferred

from the rec room; Chekov sat in the opposite corner, still debriefing

onto a ship's log notepad. A makeshift curtain had been arranged across

the diagonal for some privacy; it wasn't much for luxury, however, and

Kirk felt called upon to apologize. "We understand perfectly," T'Prylla

said. She touched her son's shoulder. "You have returned Radak to me.

That is luxury enough for the time being. What has happened at the

station?" "Spock and Mason didn't make it back with us. We assume they

are in the storage dome, but we simply don't know. Uh... Corona is

blocking all transmissions and jamming all sensor readings." His face

was pale and lined with worry; he hadn't even changed uniforms after the

narrow escape. "We are all in very great danger," T'Prylla said calmly.

She looked at Radak. "I know the broad outlines of Corona's plans, but

my son is much

better informed. He will not tell us, however." Radak regarded Kirk

with icy contempt. "Corona apparently gave him some measure of

autonomy, and he is waiting for his contact to resume. It is all he has

known for ten years."

"I'm worried about two things," Kirk said. "Most immediately, the fate

of Mason and Spock. And this attempt of Corona's to create another

universe I don't like the sound of that."

"Nor do I, Captain," T'Prylla said. "I assume that it means Corona

would like to re-create conditions he is more familiar with."

"And what might those be?"

"Corona is a fugitive, Captain. And a kind of scientist. His world

ended fifteen billion years ago

.. when it gave birth to our own."

It was all well and good to be brave in the abstract. She had always

been impulsive. But there were parts of her mind not nearly as noble

and flexible as her conscious self, and right now they were twisting her

thoughts into knots. Spock's distinctive voice spoke within her, trying

to reassure.

--Do not be afraid. I have abstracted knowledge from Corona---stolen

it, if you will. That is what you feel.

---(confusion, panic) You are in my mind!

--You are in control. I am only knowledge, not Spock. I can only

suggest, and answer questions. I am like the monitors aboard the

Enterprise, except that I cannot even veto your actions. Spock is in a

trance. I am only part, a very small part, of him, within you.

Mason stood unsteadily, feeling worse than if she had discovered maggots

erupting from her skin. How much of her memory was available to

him--details of her life, her intimate moments, her embarrassments and

shames?

--What do you know about me?

--Nothing. It is not important that I know. But we must do several

things...

--I... don't... think... I... can... take

..this...

--There is very little time. Grake, T'Raus and the others will return

soon, and we must be prepared. You are temporarily safe from Corona's

intrusion. It cannot take you over now, and it will not try. Here is

what we must do first- --Vulcan.t Get out of my mind.t Suddenly, there

was nothing. Just herself, and silence. She couldn't even feel the

wisp of complete unfamiliarity that had been Corona's trace within her.

Across the dome, she heard footsteps. T'Raus and T'Kosa materialized on

each side of her. Grake and Anauk entered the dome through the

hatchway.

Mason glanced between the two females, her jaw muscles clenched to still

a scream. Moaning sounds came from her throat. Her fingers dug into

the fabric of her pants and the flesh beneath.

Grake and Anauk picked up Spock's limp form and carried him toward the

hatchway. T'Raus touched Mason's elbow.

"Come with us," she said.

Mason didn't move.

"We mean you no harm."

It was an effort to push one foot forward. Something was rising behind

the fear, howevert something even more irrational and stubborn. What

would Vulcans think if she acted like a coward? What would the Spock

within her think? T'Kosa took her by the arm and she shrugged the hand

away. "Leave me alone!" she growled.

"You cannot stay here," T'Kosa said calmly. "The boarding tube

emergency seal is defective. Air is leaking out. We must close off

this dome." Mason turned and saw the hatch to the landing pad tube. A

small crack in one corner was rimed with white; the hissing was quite

loud.

Then Spock's voice returned--gentle, unobtru2 sire.

--You must touch T'Raus. She must be given the disciphne of ka nifoor.

"All right! All right!" Mason said. --All right...

T'Pry!la took Radak by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. She

was neither rough nor gentle; she simply handled her defiant son in the

most efficient manner possible. Radak did not resist. She spoke to him

in Vulcan. The boy did not answer.

McCoy entered the cell and was about to speak when Kirk held up a hand.

T'Prylla pulled the boy forward and grasped him just under his left ear.

"Grake was to have administered ka nifoor to his son when he turned

twelve," T'Prylla said in Federation English. "He could not. Now he is

not here, nor is Spock, so I must do it myself. That is irregular, but

not unheard of." She had not taken her eyes from Radak's face.

"Pstha na sochya olojhica, sfisth inoor Gracka?" she asked. "Are you

not blood of my blood, searching for the peace of maturity?"

Radak tried to turn his head away, but she grabbed his chin with her

other hand and held him steady. Otherwise, he did not resist.

"Ages past , Vulcans bore the mark of heat, the scar of blowing sand and

burning sun. The ground opened to eat us, the wind danced on our crops

and leveled our cities. We wept for the pain, and we fought--"

Quick as a snake, Mason struck T'Kosa between her shoulders with knurled

knuckles, instructed by the Spock within. T'Kosa went down as hard as

the planetoid's light gravity allowed. Mason spun on the balls of her

feet and administered a similar blow to T'Raus, who was not much better

prepared to receive it. Then, she bent over the prone gift and placed

her hand under her left ear. T'Raus was

aware, but paralyzed temporarily. Mason suddenly found herself speaking

Vulcan

"Pstha na sochya olojhica, sftsth noor numkwa Gracka?" She listened to

herself, fascinated. T'Raus's eyes widened. Mason wondered if the girl

would suddenly just disappear. In the corridor ahead, here was the

sound of scuffling. "None of your blood may administer, but are you not

ready for the peace of maturity?"

--The question, Spock explained, may not be ignored by any Vulcan who

knows how to speak our language. It is the signal for the activation of

years of prior training, begun just after birth.

Mason began to intone more Vulcan words. "Ages past, Vulcans bore the

mark of heat, the scar of blowing sand and burning sun. The ground

opened to eat us---"

It took less than a minute. Radak's resistance seemed to melt as his

mother progressed through the ritual. For a moment, Kirk thought the

boy was going to cry-or scream with anguishbut T'Prylla continued,

invoking all the ingrained responses subtly built in by Vulcan

upbringing, eliminating--with the tacit consent of the child--the last

vestiges of childish attitudes.

When she was done, she released Radak. The boy took a step backward,

faltering, then sat down in his chair and rubbed his temples. "All that

allowed Corona to move into you with such ease--all that is now gone,"

T'Prylla said. "There is very little time. What is it Corona plans to

do, and how can we stop it?"

Kirk motioned for McCoy to turn on the translator recorder. Radak's

eyes were the eyes of a very young Vulcan now, but with something more

in them--the experience of ten years of Corona's presence. He seemed

confused for a moment, but as T'Prylla sat across from him, he stammered

and began to speak. He used Vulcan, but not a child's Vulcan. Kirk

thought he sounded very much like Spock, though he hesitated now and

then and scowled at the difficulty of expressing some of the concepts.

"Corona's universe was at nearly perfect thermal equilibrium," Radak

began "and in that respect, it was very similar to the interior of a

star. All was light and energy, extremely dense, and time was not as we

know it today. Corona has a way to make this galaxy, at least---and

perhaps the universe itself--as it was in the past, by altering local

geometry. He wishes to shrink all matter down to where it will return

to energy, and to re-create the monobloc--the fireball at the beginning.

Then his kind can arise again, and the universe will become a place of

life and activity, rather than the empty deadhess of cold matter and

stretched radiation."

"What's he talking about?" McCoy asked softly. It took a moment for the

meaning to sink in to Kirk. "He's describing the creation," Kirk said.

"Corona wants to make our universe like it was in the first few minutes

of creation."

"But what's he mean by 'empty deadhess?"" Radak heard and turned to

McCoy and Kirk. "In the first three minutes of creation, there were

more events, more complexity, than in the entire fifteen billion years

since. Corona was a being of those times, and to its kind, the first

three minutes seemed like an eternity. But the eternity came to an end,

and they had to struggle to survive. The fireball cooled as it

expanded, particles began to form into atoms, and all of Corona's kind

perished. Only Corona remained, for it had discovered a way to 'echo'

itself into existence wherever conditions were favorable. For the first

few billion years after creation, Corona was able to appear frequently.

The average temperature of the universe was much hotter than now, and

the galaxies were forming. He was able to perform many experiments,

some taking millions of years, and not succeeding.

"When the galaxies had formed and the universe

had cooled, Corona appeared much less frequently. Where mass anomalies

in subspace disturbed the formations of young stars, it could resume its

experiments. But only when it located our station did it find a way to

work reliably with matter itself. Through us, it built machines to alter

the structure of space-time, to expand the qualities of the very small

into the very large.

"What will happen to us if he succeeds?" McCoy asked.

T'Prylla answered. "We are products of the 'dead' universe. We are

like germs in a corpse. If the corpse comes back to life, the germs

will be destroyed. We cannot survive in the world of Corona. The

experiments which failed in the distant past---and which Corona tracked

down with the Eye-to-Stars---involved the destruction of entire young

galaxies. The results are quite familiar to us, though still mysterious.

"We call them quasars."

Mason wasn't sure what she had done, but she sat on an unresisting

T'Raus. T'Kosa stood to one side like a mannequin. The sounds of

struggle between Spock, Anauk and Grake had stopped. She got to her

feet, uncertain what to do next.

--The ritual is finished. Now T'Raus must choose .. Corona cannot

impose its will on her.

Spock himself came down the corridor toward them. His face was bruised,

and there was a cut over his right eye, but otherwise he was unhurt. As

soon as she saw him, the Spock within her melted away like a flake of

snow landing on a fingertip.

"You have administered ka nifoor?" he asked, bending over T'Raus.

"You have," she said. Spock touched the young female's face and she

turned toward him.

"Is Corona within you?" Spock asked. The girl shook her head. "It was a

bad thing," she said. "It trapped mother

and father." She touched Spock's hand and Spock nodded his

understanding.

"T'Raus isonce again a young Vulcan," he said to Mason. "She does not

have the experience, though she is mature. Corona must have

concentrated on Radak, working first through him, then through his

sister, then through his parents and Anauk and T'Kosa." He helped T'Raus

to her feet. "Captain Kirk will have to make a decision. We must

communicate with him soon, or we may not survive."

Mason felt a calm numbness. "Why?" she asked. "Corona isn't in charge

now--" And suddenly she knew why. The "stolen" part of Corona was still

inside her, and what it wanted to do became clear almost as soon as she

asked. She didn't know whether to be awed or horrified.

"The process has already begun," Spock said. "The machinery in the

research dome will soon begin altering the local structure of our

universe. We must find a way to stop it, and to communicate with the

Enterprise, before Kirk has to destroy the machinery., the station,

perhaps the entire planetoid."

Chapter Twenty

Kirk sat in his chair on the bridge and ordered Sulu to bring the

Enterprise to a new heading. "Ready phasers, full power. Load photon

torpedoes."

Uhura repeatedly tried to contact the station, but received no reply.

Kirk looked at her hopefully, but she had to shake her head. Veblen and

McCoy came onto the bridge and without a word Veblen sat at the computer

station. He checked the monitors and found them vigilant; Kirk had

already fed them Radak's information. McCoy stood near the railing,

knowing better than to say anything; knowing the decision Kirk now had

to make.

Kirk leaned forward in his chair, watching the displays on the forward

screen. The planetoid rotated slowly beneath them, a dead gray stretch

of agglomerated rock. "Full mag on the station," he said. The screen

image shifted several times in rapid succession and the Enterprise

sensors tracked the station on multiple frequencies, displaying visible

light. The two domes---research and storage- showed up dearly. He

could even make out the wreckage of the Galileo H on the landing

platform. "Mr. Veblen, are there bodies in the shuttlecraft?"

Veblen swiveled his chair to the science console and keyed certain

questions to the computers interpreting sensor data. "No, sir," he

said.

"How many people within the station?"

"We can't scan the station interior, sir. Too much interference."

"Any idea what's happening inside the research dome?" Kirk asked,

knowing the question was futile.

"No, sir," Veblen replied.

Kirk tapped his fingers on the chair arm edge. "Lieutenant Uhura,

maintain open channels on all frequencies Spock might use to contact us.

Mr. Veblen, what can we do about Corona itself?"

Veblen pursed his lips and shook his head. "The only manifestation is

the radiation field and its extension around the planetoid, Captain. We

cannot hope to shield anywhere near the area required to cut off its

contact with the station."

"How about photon torpedoes applied along the extension of the field?"

"They would have no effect, sir. Photon torpedoes

are not destructive on the level of fraction spaces." "Then what in hell

can we do?"

Veblen did not answer; the question was obviously rhetorical. The

monitors knew what had to be done, however.

Kirk resumed tapping his fingers. He could not believe Spock was dead;

somehow, he still sensed the reassuring presence of the Vulcan. He was

certain Spock was alive and doing everything he could from within the

station. Corona simply wasn't allowing them to communicate.

Communication--that was what was needed, and not just between the

Enterprise and the station.

They had to find some way to communicate again with Corona. "Release

T'Prylla and Radak and

bring them to the bridge, Devereaux," Kirk said. "Under guard."

"Without the Ybakra shield, sir?"

"Without the shield."

The security guard, standing at his station to the right of the elevator

door, nodded and left the bridge.

Corona felt blind and deaf. After contact with the material

intelligences, and so many years spent in their scale of time, observing

through their sense organs, it took a while for Corona to adjust. There

were still machines whose functioning it could monitor; but it had not

planned for the loss of its Vulcan extensions, and so it could not

immediately change what the machines were already doing.

This did not disturb Corona. The machines were working smoothly,

expanding the foamlike space of the extreme basement of this dead

universe. Corona felt as if it existed among the bones of its old

universe, seeing hints of the distant past, but little more. It would

be glad to have all things collapse through the expanded wormholes and

singularities the machines would soon create; there would be a kind of

joy in witnessing the sudden shrinking of the galaxy, from the viewpoint

of Corona's fraction-space consciousness. And if the machines did

succeed in creating a self-replicating singularity, weaving through all

dimensions and subdimensions, Corona would gladly accept its own

destruction. There would always be the final satisfaction of knowing

that the universe had been rejuvenated.

And yet... there was a touch of regret. Strange as they were, the

material intelligences had been quite interesting. Corona had never

expected to find such complex beings in the bones of the old universe.

If it was impossible to regard them with the same respect and affection

Corona would have felt for its own kind, at least it acknowledged their

usefulness. And they had shown remarkable flexibility in fighting back,

ultimately wresting themselves from its control. That, too, was

interesting.

But they would not survive if Corona succeeded. Nothing remotely like

them would survive.

Tentativd, sir?"

"Without the shield."

The security guard, standing at his station to the right of the elevator

door, nodded and left the bridge.

Corona felt blind and deaf. After contact with the material

intelligences, and so many years spent in their scale of time, observing

through their sense organs, it took a while for Corona to adjust. There

were still machines whose functioning it could monitor; but it had not

planned for the loss of its Vulcan extensions, and so it could not

immediately change what the machines were already doing.

This did not disturb Corona. The machines were working smoothly,

expanding the foamlike space of the extreme basement of this dead

universe. Corona felt as if it existed among the bones of its old

universe, seeing hints of the distant past, but little more. It would

be glad to have all things collapse through the expanded wormholes and

singularities the machines would soon create; there would be a kind of

joy in witnessing the sudden shrinking of the galaxy, from the viewpoint

of Corona's fraction-space consciousness. And if the machines did

succeed in creating a self-replicating singularity, weaving through all

dimensions and subdimensions, Corona would gladly accept its own

destruction. There would always be the final satisfaction of knowing

that the universe had been rejuvenated.

And yet... there was a touch of regret. Strange as they were, the

material intelligences had been quite interesting. Corona had never

expected to find such complex beings in the bones of the old universe.

If it was impossible to regard them with the same respect and affection

Corona would have felt for its own kind, at least it acknowledged their

usefulness. And they had shown remarkable flexibility in fighting back,

ultimately wresting themselves from its control. That, too, was

interesting.

But they would not survive if Corona succeeded. Nothing remotely like

them would survive.

Tentatively, almost nostalgically, Corona extended tendrils of radiation

to see if any of the Vulcans or the human had been made available to its

touch again. And, somewhat to its surprise, it found Radak and T'Raus

waiting.

It sensed a trap, but could not conceive of any way the material

intelligences could harm it. They only had minutes, on their time

scale, to prevent the machinery from completing its work.

"Corona is here," Radak announced. The boy looked to T'Prylla for

guidance.

"Allow it in, give it a voice, but do not let it

control you. You can resist it now." "roWelcome," Radak said.

Corona did not reply, staring through the boy's eyes at the bridge of

the Enterprise, at the human called Kirk and his companions.

Simultaneously, on the planetoid, it touched T'Raus. She could not be

controlled, either. To Corona, then, conversation was merely a matter

of amusement until the final transform began.

"Mother," Radak said. "I can feel T'Raus. Corona links us."

"Who's with them?" Kirk asked.

"Our colleagues, your science officer and the human woman Mason."

"I need to speak with Corona," Kirk said. "And to know what is

happening on the planetoid."

Radak reached out to touch T'Prylla. T'Prylla felt Corona's presence

again, and steeled herself for the flood of undesired emotionsmfear,

resentment, hatred--but they did not come. Corona was undemanding,

relaxed. Then, through Corona, she joined with T'Raus and saw through

her eyes. "I am T'Raus," T'Prylla said.

"Spock!" Kirk demanded. "I need to speak with my science officer.

Corona must stop the interference with our communications."

Radak spoke slowly and precisely--the voice of Corona. "I no longer

interfere with your communications. There is disruption at the smallest

levels of space-time between your ship and the planetoid. This I cannot

stop."

In the background, Veblen checked the ship's most sensitive scientific

equipment and ran diagnostics that could tell him more. He was

particularly interested in certain peculiarities in the spectrum of

excited hydrogen atoms; such a test was part of the warp drive

diagnostics built into the ship's engines.

"Spock wishes to speak," T'Raus/T'Prylla said. "He will also accept

Corona's touch now." T'Prylla's voice altered. "Captain, Spock here.

Corona has succeeded. We cannot communicate because the machinery in

the research dome has already begun altering the local continuum."

"Confirmed, Captain," Veblen said. "Ship's instrumentation is being

affected."

"We must convince Corona of our worth," pock said. "We have only

minutes to spare, and there is nothing I can do here to stop the

process."

A bright red light flashed on Kirk's command console-the monitors'

warning signal. "What's that, Mr. Veblen?"

"The monitors are about to take over, Captain. You haven't acted quickly

enough to destroy the station."

"Hold them off, Mr. Veblen!" He turned to Radak. "Corona! You must

listen to me. We have the means to destroy everything you've tried to

accomplish here. I won't be able to hold back the destruction for long.

We must... come to an understanding. If we don't..." His face was

anguished. "Good people will die. Friends, fellow workers, brilliant

scientists. Do you know the meaning of friends?"

"All of my... friends... are eons dead," Corona/Radak said. "The

universe is dead, and I will bring it back to life."

"No!" Kirk said. "The universe is not dead. We are here... and

millions of other types of beings, occupying planets around the stars of

this galaxy, and presumably all the other galaxies. There are even

beings like yourself, not made of matter--beings like gods in comparison

to Vulcans and humans. We have seen so little of what you call this

dead universe, but we have seen enough to know .. it is filled with

life! With thought, and action, and hope... with the potential to

grow, and develop. Your time is past... but ours has just barely begun

To try and bring back the past--"

"Captain!" Veblen cried out. The red light on Kirk's command console

glowed steadily. "The monitors---"

Had taken over. "Mr. Sulu, bring the ship into firing position," their

distinctive voice ordered. Sulu glanced at his captain, and in that

moment of hesitation, the monitors assumed control of his post and the

weapons console.

"No!" Kirk shouted, standing before his chair, holding out his arms.

The weapons console beeped, and below the bridge, the distant,

shuddering bellow of emptying photon torpedo bays announced the

Enterprise's final course of action.

The torpedoes rushed toward the planetoid, their casings already

dissolving in a fiery plasma of heavy bosons. Corona regarded them with

interest; they tended to mimic the plasmas of the monobloc, though in a

very crude way. A few seconds later, and Corona wouldn't have bothered

with them, but they would impact before the machinery in the station was

finished. Corona reached out and touched the torpedoes; they were not

unlike the toys of its infancy, and there was a simple trick that could

be

worked on them. Corona disrupted their local parity. The torpedoes

struck the planetoid and began

their work of tearing it apart from a subatomic level.

Then, abruptly, all the residual energy in the torpedoes was poured

into a time-reversal. What little

destruction they had accomplished was meticulously

stitched back together in millionths of a second. The

casings reformed and flew back toward the Enter prise, empty and

harmless The Enter rise's shields . rejected them and sent them gliding

off into space.

For Corona, that had been amusing. But the

infantile magic had disrupted .the delicate machinery

within the research d ome, which was now automatically resetting itself

before picking up where it had

left off..

On board the Enterprise, the monitors ordered

the ship to fire its phasers at the station, and

maneuver for more photon torpedoes. Kirk sat

helpless in his chair, and Veblen looked on with a

fascinated kind of horror as the sensors once again

showed a rapid decay in local reality.

Chapter Twenty-one

For Mason the sense of urgency was reduced by a kind of calm. She had

little idea of what was actually happening. The Vulcans around her

seemed to be steeling themselves for some cataclysm. Even Spock stood

tall, hands folded behind his back, lips set grimly. There was nothing

anybody could do; Corona was going to destroy them all. And why? As

near as Mason could figure out, searching through the fragments of its

memory within her, because Corona felt they were all bits of flotsam in

a dead universe. Corona did not grasp what the new universe was really

like. Mason stared from face to face for seconds, then walked across to

the control platform where T'Raus and T'Kosa stood. She kept her eyes

away from the demonstration sphere, which was filled with nonsense even

more disturbing than what they had been subjected to before.

I am a writer, she thought. It's my job to communicate. As often as

not, I simply act as a chaperone for the recorders, jockeying them here

and there so they can record everything. Then I sit down and edit and

maybe try to make some sense out of it; not always, the machines are

pretty good at that, too. But now and then, even on Yalbo, I get a

chance to write--to communicate. God knows I'm not much of a talent,

and I have all sorts of parochial views--hell, I'm bigoted--but...

-Sometimes, I know it, I can feel itml can communicate. I can put my

views across, perhaps better than anybody else. I can explain things.

And I think I'd better start explaining, right now--nobody else seems to

be getting the job done.

She reached inward, probing deeper into Corona's memories, and recoiled

at their alienness. With an effort, she put away her revulsion and

removed the last barriers separating Corona's memories and her own.

She looked up into T'Raus's eyes, now turned toward her, conveying her

image to Corona.

"It's obvious you don't understand," Mason said. "If all these brilliant

people can't explain it to you, I don't know how I will. But I hope you

listen, anyway. I hope there's time.

"You see, we're all very young. Not nearly as old as you. And our

world is very different." She mounted the platform and reached out for

T'Raus's face, clenching her jaw hard and laying the tips of her fingers

under T'Raus's temple. T'Raus reciprocated, and Mason was able to pass

what she was thinking directly to Corona.

When Corona's memories mixed with her own, a specific image was cast up

from her childhood--Yalbo's great billowing orange clouds, filled with

nitric acid, deadly to breathe, absolutely marvelous to watch at sunset.

From the broad viewports of the school, or the smaller windows of her

home module, she had thought Yalbo's sky the most beautiful in the

entire universe, with its oranges and greens and reds and yellows and

warm mud colors. In the clouds she had built great floating palaces,

magnificent curving highways; she had imagined creatures of all shapes

and sizes. When the wind blew the clouds along so briskly they crossed

the sky from horizon to horizon in seconds, she could not imagine

anything more lovely and free.

And then she had found tapes of Earth in the school library, and played

them back.

"It was a shock," she said. "The skies of Earth seemed even more

beautiful. You didn't need a suit to stand out under them. You could

walk up mountains and touch clouds--or let them touch you. Right on

your skin."

She felt Corona shudder at the thought of a constraining skin. She

reached for an analogy, and found one. "Skin is like an event horizon

in your world," she said. "In the earliest times, your people had to

wait for the universe to grow broad enough that you could communicate

with each other directly. You were all in little bubbles of space-time,

unable to reach out. There was always Ybakra--you could talk, but you

couldn't be with each other. Our skin sort of does that. We have to

touch, talk, communicate so many ways because we cannot cross the

barrier of our skins."

"Tell me more about clouds," T'Raus/Corona instructed.

Mason expanded on the topic. The clouds of matter in the early

universe--created thousands of years after Corona's kind had diedmhad

drifted in expanding space-time, slowly starting to clump and separate.

"Then they lost their character, gave it up," she said, "to let other

kinds of existence begin." That seemed confused, but she let it stand.

"What would become clusters of galaxies formed out of the clouds, and

then galaxies themselves. At first the galaxies were huge fuzzy

spheres, but as they grew older, they flattened out. Then stars

condensed from the clouds of gas in the young galaxies--"

I destroyed many of those young galaxies, Corona confided. My failed

experiments.

Mason tried not to appear nonplussed. "Don't you see? They all had to

share. Now, I can't be sure, but don't you suppose it's possible that

the first clouds of matter were once capable of thought--and the

clusters of galaxies, and the galaxies themselves? But as things

changed, they died--they had to make way for new forms--"

Corona reacted in a way she could only describe as skeptical.

"Suppose they did," Mason continued. She was getting in way over her

head. "And suppose that at some point, a galaxy rebelled---refused to

change. And discovered that by doing so, it was dooming millions of new,

smaller forms of intelligence to extinction. Wouldn't it be a..."

She had difficulty finding another analogy; she kept wondering how many

seconds until they were all dead. She frowned in concentration. What

was there in Corona's experience that could compare with what Corona was

about to do now... "In your time, certain of your fellows refused to

expand beyond their youthful event horizons. They wrapped themselves in

very tight bubbles of space-time, because they were afraid of change. At

first, they were tolerated, but as more and more individual realms

joined, and as the universe grew larger, these hold-outs became

dangerous. They could actually destroy others. They were murderers,

not out of viciousness, but because they refused to change. Eventually

they had to be hunted down and destroyed, in order to allow others to

live. That's what the Enterprise is doing now--protecting itself

against you."

She had kept her eyes closed as she spoke and thought all these things,

but now she opened them. T'Raus was still regarding her steadily. "We

all have to change," Mason said. "We all have to die, to make way for

the new. If we try to live forever, we get in somebody's way, we stop

something from

happening... someone from being born... and who knows, maybe the new

will be an improvement on the old. Does that make sense?" T'Raus did

not convey an answer. She lifted her hand away from Mason's face, and

Mason backed off a step, biting her lower lip. She felt very strange,

all her thoughts caught somewhere between Corona's "memories" in her

brain and her own childhood ruminations about clouds. "I'm sorry," she

said, holding back a sensation of horror and sudden panic, believing she

had wasted their last chance, when somebody else--perhaps Spock--could

have been more effective. "I'm sorry!"

Despite the usefulness of the material intelligences, Corona had been

convinced they were little more than peculiarities of the universe's

decline. After all, they contributed nothing overall to the local

universe but entropy; that is, they used energy but did not reduce the

tendency to disorder which so characterized a dead continuum. In

Corona's time, entropy had been the rule also, but the decline had

barely been noticeable; the second law of thermodynamics had seemed a

distant and unimportant possibility. To Corona's way of thinking, the

only significant intelligence would be one which at least hoped to

rejuvenate its world... Through T'Raus, Corona had listened to the human

woman. Her words and thoughts served to occupy the long minutes before

the continuum altered. But they did more than that. Particularly

effective was her concern with "clouds," which suggested (again,

crudely) the beauties of Corona's time, when solid things had been

impossible, and all was beautiful flux. Among the Vulcans, Corona had

never encountered the concept of "freedom"; the Vulcans were more

concerned with adhering to a rigid code and following strict principles

of logic, which rather puzzled Corona. So now it contemplated "freedom"

as applied to the random motions of "clouds" and the behavior of

material intelligences. Freedom to move, to think, to accomplish;

freedom to follow the dictates of one's needs. To exist. Freedom was a

very tricky concept Too much could result in imposition on the freedom

of another being; freedom could be contradictory. When the human woman

pointed out that Corona was imposing on her own kind---and on many other

material life-formsby trying to end local reality, the image in her mind

had been of clouds blown apart by a harsh, hot wind... And that was

something with which Corona could empathize. Thousands of years after

the last generations of his kind, during his first reappearance, the

universe had suddenly become transparent to the irritating little

wavicles known as photons, light; instead of being bounced from particle

to particle, the photons had streamed through the universe, conveying

energy from place to place, blowing like a hot wind through the space s

that had once contained free and intelligent beings. The photon wind

had dispersed the final remnants of Corona's kind. By today's measure of

time, the existence of Corona's people their "eternity"mhad spanned only

a few minutes. They had survived many changes, but their end had

finally come. Only Corona had found the means to travel the seemingly

endless reaches of time, reappearing under certain conditions to

reconstruct its Ybakra field. These material beings knew what freedom

was, then. And responsible freedom--as Corona construed it--meant a

fight against entropy.

The phaser blasts had no effect, and all further torpedoes simply ceased

to function, dissipating harmlessly against the planetoid. On the

bridge of the Enterprise, the air seemed misty and electronic controls

no longer functioned reliably. The ship's

computers, to Veblen's fascinated dismay, became little more than random

number generators. The monitors struggled valiantly to maintain their

control, but could not. They relied more on quantum subtleties than

organic minds did; consequently, while the crew continued to function

with only minor effects (so far), the monitors had no choice but to shut

themselves down. It made little difference.

Kirk felt giddy. The sensation was not unlike the rush of exhilaration

he felt when first entering warp drive--but tinged with a numbing sense

of failure. The bridge seemed to be underwater; everything rippled in a

way that was both nauseating and entrancing.

Veblen passed on his interpretations of data from the few instruments

still functioning, those diagnostics built to survive warp engine

stresses. Kirk listened as closely as he could; he was thinking of what

he had seen in the demonstration sphere, when Corona had first tipped

its "hand" about what it was up to. Would everything dissolve into the

hypnotic chaos of the very small? Where would the Enterprise be in such

a maelstrom? Where would Kirk be?

McCoy had never been more terrified. If everything came unwound, he was

convinced he knew what lay on the other side--and that was nothing less

than Hell. No ministrations possible, no healing, only endless lack of

control, giving in to the tortures imposed by those inner forces which

he could not face. "I pity poor Spock," he thought, feeling a rush of

cameraderie for the Vulcan he had pestered so mercilessly over the

years... and had felt so much respect for.

Spock, however, still stood in a sea of comparative calm. The machines

in the research dome had created a tiny, unaffected bubble about

themselves to keep working properly until they had finished their task.

Spock had listened to Mason's words, had Croked up on some of the

thoughts passed through na, and had been puzzled and intrigued by this

extraordinary and irrational approach. Pleading a case was alien to all

of Vulcan culture; either a thing was, or it was not. Persuasion and

opinion had little role in Vulcan life.

Grake, T'Kosa, Anauk, Spock--and on the Enterprise T'Pryllaall had made

their final peace with existence.

Chapter Twenty-two

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,

broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. Mason felt the

crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her shoes, the only sound besides her

breathing. The new suns were coming into view beyond the irregular edge

of the planetoid, swathed in the dusty, gassy yoke of their recent

birth. She reached out her hand, uncertain why she was here, or how she

was surviving. The faint greenish iridescence of the envelope

surrounding her, flashed briefly as if in answer to one question, and

then, overhead, the Eye-to-Stars unfolded and threw a brilliant

spotlight beam on her. She looked up and shielded her eyes with her

hand. "Behind you, please," a voice said. She turned and jumped back in

surprise. An indistinct orange cloud was in the envelope with her,

roiling and .spading under the influence of unfelt winds. "This Is a

shape you have taught me, which I find very pleasing. I am what

T'Prylla calls Corations possible, no healing, only endless lack of

control, giving in to the tortures imposed by those inner forces which

he could not face. "I pity poor Spock," he thought, feeling a rush of

cameraderie for the Vulcan he had pestered so mercilessly over the

years... and had felt so much respect for.

Spock, however, still stood in a sea of comparative calm. The machines

in the research dome had created a tiny, unaffected bubble about

themselves to keep working properly until they had finished their task.

Spock had listened to Mason's words, had Croked up on some of the

thoughts passed through na, and had been puzzled and intrigued by this

extraordinary and irrational approach. Pleading a case was alien to all

of Vulcan culture; either a thing was, or it was not. Persuasion and

opinion had little role in Vulcan life.

Grake, T'Kosa, Anauk, Spock--and on the Enterprise T'Pryllaall had made

their final peace with existence.

Chapter Twenty-two

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,

broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. Mason felt the

crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her shoes, the only sound besides her

breathing. The new suns were coming into view beyond the irregular edge

of the planetoid, swathed in the dusty, gassy yoke of their recent

birth. She reached out her hand, uncertain why she was here, or how she

was surviving. The faint greenish iridescence of the envelope

surrounding her, flashed briefly as if in answer to one question, and

then, overhead, the Eye-to-Stars unfolded and threw a brilliant

spotlight beam on her. She looked up and shielded her eyes with her

hand. "Behind you, please," a voice said. She turned and jumped back in

surprise. An indistinct orange cloud was in the envelope with her,

roiling and .spading under the influence of unfelt winds. "This Is a

shape you have taught me, which I find very pleasing. I am what

T'Prylla calls Corona."

Mason didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. "Where are you

from?" She stammered, caught herself, and tried to answer smoothly

"From a planet called Yalbo." This is a dream, she thought. I'm almost

dead and I'm dreaming. "It must be a very beautiful place," Corona said.

"Is it?" "That you see so much beauty in it. That formations in its...

atmosphere can convey the notion of freedom to you, and through you, to

me." The cloud darkened as if passing beyond sunset. "Or perhaps it is

that you are beautiful, to find Such beauty wherever you may be."

"I'm... I'm very frightened," Mason said. "You are the strangest

thing--being--I've ever known." "And yet, you have some of my memories

within you, conveyed by the Vulcan-human Spock. Your kind is strange to

me, as well. Perhaps we can overcome our unfamiliarity if we exchange."

"Exchange?" "There has been much teaching in the past few ... hours...

but not nearly enough. I have an imperfect understanding of your mode

of being, your human kind. Even after ten years, it is now apparent I

understand little about your fellows, the Vulcans. I request an

exchange of experiences. I will complete the memories within you, as

much as you wish to have, and you will share your experiences with me. I

will take them with me... to the region you see now, in the

Eye-to-Stars." "Where is that? A new stellar system?" There was silence

for a moment. "It does not exist in your here-now. It is a distant

possibility. Much time must pass. All the stars and galaxies will grow

old and fade, the universe will be filled with black holes, the black

holes will return their mass to the emptiness and become naked

singularities. Time itself will grow old, come to a stop. What happens

after is difficult to understand-emptiness, even more desolation than

now."

"That doesn't look very empty," Mason said, shielding her eyes.

"You have given me a notion of alternatives... other means of achieving

my goal than destroying this universe. What the Eye-to-Stars shows is

an alternative, if I survive beyond the emptiness and darkness. When

all else has come to a stop, and the universe seems completely dead, I

will be a focus. There will be nothing but the radiation of fraction

spaces---what you call Ybakra. I will channel that radiation and fill

the void once again. There will be no need for machinery, matter,

anything extra... only myselt"

She had a wild hope that perhaps she wasn't dreaming.

"Is this what you wished?" Corona asked. "That your reality be spared,

so that you might all pursue a course to freedom?"

"Are we being spared?" she asked.

"Yes. The machines are reversing themselves now. I have returned the

others in the station to the Enterprise, all but the frozen ones. I

await instructions on their disposition."

Of all the things to occur to her next, Mason had to resort to her

reporter's suspicious nature and ask, "But I thought you couldn't

transform anything much larger than a child."

"While the machinery was absorbing so much energy, no," Corona said.

"Why did you stop your machines?"

"Because you made me aware that in ages to come, we may share the same

goal. Perhaps your kind will succeed in controlling entropy," Corona

said. "In which case, the universe will not die... at least not in the

way that seems most likely. And I will not be needed. Still, you could

fail. You are youngeven those mentioned by the human Kirk, those who

seem god-like to you. You have a long

time in which to grow, and prepare yourselves, and you could make

mistakes. You could fail. If you do not succeed, then perhaps I will."

"You mean, my descendants could save the universe?"

"Your kind. You are kin to all beings made of matter, or which arose

from matter. In my eyes, yo u are all very much the same. Any

differences are minor."

Mason stared straight into the middle of the cloud, so very like the

clouds she had seen and wondered about as a child. So very like the

clouds that had haunted her dreams. "Yes," she said, swallowing hard.

"You will trade full memories with me?"

She nodded. "As many as I can."

Chapter Twenty-three

"Dr. McCoy."

The voice interrupted his reverie. He had been contemplating

death--more death than he had ever before conceived of, the death

perhaps of everything ---on the bridge of the Enterprise. There had

been a moment of disorientation, an unpleasant sensation of travel, and

now- He saw T'Kosa standing before him. "What in the name of--"

"Mason tells us you are the one to speak to." McCoy glanced around. They

stood outside the cold storage cylinder on the station. His amazement

would have been comical to a human, but not to the Vulcan female. "About

what?"

"Where the sleepers should be transformed." "I... I don't understand."

"There is not much time. Corona's remaining time here is less than

three minutes. The shuttle is destroyed, arid the personnel cannot be

quickly brought up to the ship by transporter. Only Corona

can move them now." T'Kosa watched him closely, obviously interested in

his reaction-time and flexibility. And McCoy--whatever the

situation--was not about to let her find him inadequate.

"Of course," he said, pulling himself together. "Space has been cleared

in the sickbay, battle casualties section. Each hibernaculum has a

power hookup, and the... transform will have to be smooth enough so

that there's no fluctuation in their temperature."

"Very well," T'Kosa said. "We will accompany them."

"Nowait!"

But it was too late. As far as McCoy was concerned, transforming was

far worse than transporting. This time, he was fully aware every step of

the way.

Chapel stood at one end of the battle casualty ward, mouth open. The

medical slate dropped from her hand as, one by one, thirty hibernacula

appeared in their assigned positions. Energy conduits whined at the

increased power load. The sickbay lights dimmed briefly, then returned

to normal.

In security, Olaus registered an invasion of the Enterprise's hull by an

extraordinary amount of mas--at least thirty metric tons.

In engineering, the assistant watch officer made note of an extra power

load.

On the bridge, McCoy reappeared in his accustomed position behind the

railing. Uhura witnessed his materialization, but was too stunned by

the chain of events in the past few minutes to react. Then, beside him,

Spock and four other Vulcans materialized, just as Kirk swiveled in the

captain's chair. "Bones--"

"Don't ask," McCoy said. "There isn't time. I have to get down to

sickbay." He entered the elevator.

',',ISp of what has happened,

am completely unaware Captain. Where is MasOn?" Kirk gaped. "How the

hell should I know? And what in God's name is going on?" Veblen

finished his sensor sweep and turned to Kirk. "Captain, the local

continuum has returned to normal. Ship's instruments are functioning

properly." "We're not dead," Sulu said, and that seemed to sum it all up

very well. All eyes were on Kirk when Mason materialized next to his

chair. They stared at each other and Mason smiled--almost smugly.

"Corona suggests the Enterprise retreat to a distance of at least a

billion kilometers," she said crisply. "Corona's presence in this

nebula is waning, and it can no longer vouch for the stability of the

machines in the research station." "Helmsman--" Kirk began. "Course laid

in," Sulu said. "Executing." The Enterprise's impulse engines cut in

and vibrated every deck in the saucer with their sudden burst of power.

The ship spiraled away from the planetoid, flattening the orbital curve

to very nearly a straight line as Kirk ordered maximum acceleration.

Mason continued to stand near the captain's chair, but she was hardly

aware of the activity. She was receiving the last of Corona's Ybakra

signals. Deep below the measures of status geometry, the subspace mass

anomalies were separating and breaking up on several geodesics

impossible for the human mind to visualize. The conditions which had

allowed Corona to manifest in the nebula were now ending--perhaps not to

be duplicated for billions of years. And Mason knew that even if the

conditions did arise again, Corona would not return. Only at the very

last--if all else failed, if all their descendants in the new universe

of emptiness and free-traveling photons and matter could not halt

entropy's triumph

--only when there was nothingness and death and no freedom-- Only then

would Corona return, to fulfill a promise made at the beginning of

time. One more favor, she asked. What might that be? came the weakening

response. There is still a minor problem... And she specified the

problem. Can you solve it? The reply was almost too weak to make out,

but she thought it was an affirmative. Then she said, "Good-bye," but

no reply came. The contact had already been severed. Spock stood next

to Veblen, watching the sensors as the Enterprise sped away. "Captain,

the planetoid is breaking up," he said. He switched on computer

graphics to interpret what then occurred. Mason watched the forward

screen, feeling Corona's past within her, almost as real as her own. On

a small scale, the screen showed what Corona had planned for an

incomprehensibly larger region of space-time. The planetoid slowly and

smoothly turned inside out, revealing all of its amorphous interior as

if through a distorting lens. Behind it, two elongated darknesses

yawned, drawing the planetoid out into an ellipse, then a cylinder,

flaring the ends, swallowing them... and stretching what remained into

a fine thread, which vanished below the limits of resolution. For a

half million kilometers around, the nebula's gases were sucked into the

space-time chasm. At the center of the invisible thread, a tiny and

incomplete new universe blossomed. At first it was only a few

centimeters in diameter, releasing very little light and appearing dull

brown in color. Then, as all the matter within the half-million

kilometer slice of the nebula rushed back into normal space, transformed

into pure energy, the orb expanded and turned a mottled, brilliant

orange. The orange be-

came green, and the green became a blue so intense the sensors shut

themselves down. The forward screen went black. The brilliance faded

quickly. The new universe was not stable, and all the potential within

it could not compete with the established stresses of status geometry.

Its energy was squandered. All that remained was a tiny sun, joining

its slightly older companions, a weak and inconstant sibling. It did not

last long. By the time the Enterprise had reached its position of

safety, the glow had vanished completely, and there was nothing to

distinguish the Black Box Nebula from any of the other emission nebulas

dotting the spiral arms of the Galaxy.

Chapter Twenty-four

McCoy wasted no time thinking about what had just happened to him. He

walked through the battle casualties section of the sickbay, medical

tricotder in hand. The hibernacula were in place and the sleepers had

not been damaged any further. Theoretically, their reconstruction could

begin at any time. And yet after all that had happened, the medical

monitors still blocked the way. Chapel stood beside him when he was

finished. "Mr. Spock is waiting in the computer control center," she

said. "I'm tired," he said abruptly, closing his eyes. "Is this any

time to ask me to argue with a bunch of computerized ghosts?" Chapel

tried to appear sympathetic. "Mr. Spock--" "Yes, yes, I know," McCoy

grumbled. "Time's awastin'." He stood for a moment longer, his muscles

aching with tension, peering down the two rows of hibernacula. "God

knows why any of us is still alive."

In the computer control center, Spock waited' by the monitors'console.

Veblen sat nearby, hands folded tightly in his lap. Only because of

Spock's assurances that they were not about to do anything illegal had

Veblen given them access. Even so, the unorthodox approach bothered

him. Like McCoy, the stress of the past few hours pierced his stomach

and muscles like dull leaden needles. The last thing he wanted was a

fight over the monitors. He had come to hate them, both for their

inadequacies and for the duties they forced upon him. Still, he would

not relent. McCoy sat down at the console. Spock called up the first of

the experience memories within the medical monitors, and arranged for

vocal communication. "Whom am I talking to?" McCoy asked him. "And is he

or she alive or dead?" "Dead now, I believe," Spock said. "You will

speak to the memories of Commodore of the Medical Corps Elias R.

Rostovtzev." "Hell, Spock, he was my professor at Starfleet Medical

Academy!" "I realize that, Doctor. He is the only one you have had

prior acquaintance with." "He damned near flunked me." Spock raised 'an

eyebrow. "I can call up another experience memory if you wish." "No,

no... he'll do. How much of a personality is left in there, Spock?"

"Only patterns, Doctor. For this function, the monitors provide basic

reasoning and question-and-answer abiYties. The Commodore is not alive

in the system, if that is what you are asking." Still, Spock had his

doubts that was a completely accurate assessment. Admiral Hatauk had

been rather more active in the system than he had expected---active, and

independent. "Okay. I'm ready." There was nothing for McCoy to look

at--only the console display, blanked for vocal communication.

Carrier frequency hiss filled the speakers, and a

sensation of someone waiting... a definite and

very spooky presence.

"Commodore Rostovtzev?"'

s. the vince was tinny but r gn' "Who's speaking?"

-eeo zable. McCoy, Do(tor Rostovtzev. Leonard McCoy" Lieutenant JG

Leonard McCoy?"

' "Lieutenant Commander now, Doctor. Medical

officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise."

"Why haven't you made commander, Leonard?

Been s-lacking again?"

McCoy flushed. "No, sir. I'm not quite sure where

to begin . . ."

"At the beginning, Leonard," the voice said patiently.

"There's a decision you'll be called upon to

make--" McCoy began. Veblen rose from his seat to

protest---this was coming much too close to tampering with the

monitors--but Spock stopped

him. Veblen sat down reluctantly, poised to interrupt.

"Yes. There are six of us here, Leonard, if I

remember correctly. Not that any of us are actually

here, you understand."

"It's rather a fine distinction, sir."

"Be that as it may. Continue."

"You're to administer laws regarding the TEREC

system aboard the Enterprise--"

'.Ah, yes," Rostovtze said. "The thirty

subjected to Ybakra. I believe this probleg has

presented to us already."

"Yes, sir. I was hoping to discuss the case with you

in more detail."

"Why? The monitors have given their go-ahead.

We won't stand in the way of reconstruction."

McCoy's and Veblen's jaws dropped simultaneously. "But sir--"

"Get busy, man! I'm---we're--very interested in

the procedures. Surely you're anxious to proceed."

"Yes, sir!" He stood, glanced at Veblen and Spock, and shrugged. "I'll

get right on it." Veblen sat at the console as soon as McCoy was out of

the room. He checked all program codes and safeguards. None had been

tampered with. The monitors were intact. "Mr. Spock, this is

impossible..." "Clearly not, Mr. Veblen. It has happened." Spock left

the control center. Veblen ran his checks several more times, without

finding any hint of why the ruling had changed. On his last sweep,

however, he played back the laws governing the use of the TEREC. He

specifically called up the law regarding resuscitation of inanimate

beings, and set his search for embedded definitions of "inanimate." The

definition ran on for several paragraphs of text. As he read through

the paragraphs, he sensed a subtle shift in tone, nothing he could quite

pin down... until he scanned the last line. His eyes widened. It

read "There shall not be any attempt to stand in the way of that which

could further the cause of life, freedom or the war against entropy, no

matter what laws may read, or duty may require." This was followed by an

equation which had no place in medical definitions. He puzzled out the

equation for several minutes, and then realized what it was. The

equation precisely described certain active states of fraction space

radiation--Ybakra, to be precise. It was a signature. Veblen began to

laugh, and then to cry, and laugh again, burying his head in his arms on

the console keyboard.

Chapler Twenty-five

The Enterprise began its return voyage, with two stops scheduled between

the Black Box Nebula and Starbase 19. First, they would return Mason to

Yalbo. She was not particularly upset by the thought of becoming a

small-planet girl once again. Because of what she now was---what she

held within--wherever she spent her time would be an exotic place.

Corona had provided her with an unfailing sense of the new and

unexpected. The Enterprise would then make a long loop to the stellar

system of Epsilon Eridani, where they would drop off the Vulcans of

Station One on their home world. Grake and T'Prylla received Spock in

their quarters with old-family Vulcan ritual, offering him first a

favorite aphorism engraved on an expended dilithium crystal, then a

brief session of meditation, followed by a formal Vulcan supper. No

apologies were offered for what had happened; obviously, none were

necessary. They behaved as if the Black Box incident had been some

far-off dramatic performance, fascinating and puzzling, but hardly

worthy of recriminations. After the supper utensils had been cleansed by

the entire group, Radak and T'Raus performed the honor of wiping their

visitor's hands. T'Prylla then spoke. "Spock, there was mention of a

change in the Science Academy. What sort of change?"

Spock returned his cleansed hands to the sleeves of his robe. "I

believe there is interest in accepting your logical methods as

alternative paths to the Way. Perhaps, in the past few days, we have

seen the inadequacies of a too-rigid approach to the teachings of Surak.

Only through the mind of a human did Corona begin to understand the

inadvisability of its actions. How are we to understand this failure on

our part?"

"If my alternatives had been of value, surely Corona would have realized

error while occupying our minds. My family and colleagues are all

well-versed in my methods."

"Then there is room for debate and progress all around." Spock bowed

from his seated position as Anauk and T'Kosa entered.

"We have been aiding McCoy with the TEREC," T'Kosa said. "I must revise

my estimates of human behavior. He seems to harbor no ill-will toward

us."

"Humans, unlike Vulcans, are hardly predictable," Spock said. Among the

Vulcans, this truism aroused the equivalent of a humored response; they

lifted the last three fingers of their left hands in appreciation.

Mason revealed what she could about her role in the affair before Spock,

Kirk and McCoy in a senior officer's closed-door meeting in Kirk's

quarters. When Spock questioned her about Corona, she replied, quite

truthfully, "I know very little about it... not much more than you left

in my mind, Mr. Spock." But she was learning every day. "I do know that

the medical monitors have been tampered with.

I requested it, and I will take responsibility." "You... requested it?"

Kirk asked.

"Yes. If you military types can't get your act together, then it's up

to us civilians to help you out." Kirk was about to protest when he saw

the twinkle in her eye--and that now-common touch-of-smugnk and T'Raus

performed the honor of wiping their visitor's hands. T'Prylla then

spoke. "Spock, there was mention of a change in the Science Academy.

What sort of change?"

Spock returned his cleansed hands to the sleeves of his robe. "I

believe there is interest in accepting your logical methods as

alternative paths to the Way. Perhaps, in the past few days, we have

seen the inadequacies of a too-rigid approach to the teachings of Surak.

Only through the mind of a human did Corona begin to understand the

inadvisability of its actions. How are we to understand this failure on

our part?"

"If my alternatives had been of value, surely Corona would have realized

error while occupying our minds. My family and colleagues are all

well-versed in my methods."

"Then there is room for debate and progress all around." Spock bowed

from his seated position as Anauk and T'Kosa entered.

"We have been aiding McCoy with the TEREC," T'Kosa said. "I must revise

my estimates of human behavior. He seems to harbor no ill-will toward

us."

"Humans, unlike Vulcans, are hardly predictable," Spock said. Among the

Vulcans, this truism aroused the equivalent of a humored response; they

lifted the last three fingers of their left hands in appreciation.

Mason revealed what she could about her role in the affair before Spock,

Kirk and McCoy in a senior officer's closed-door meeting in Kirk's

quarters. When Spock questioned her about Corona, she replied, quite

truthfully, "I know very little about it... not much more than you left

in my mind, Mr. Spock." But she was learning every day. "I do know that

the medical monitors have been tampered with.

I requested it, and I will take responsibility." "You... requested it?"

Kirk asked.

"Yes. If you military types can't get your act together, then it's up

to us civilians to help you out." Kirk was about to protest when he saw

the twinkle in her eye--and that now-common touch-of-smugness grin.

She did not reveal any more than she had to about Corona. That was a

private thing, and if someday it had to be made public--as she

acknowledged it almost certainly would--well, she would be better

prepared, more mature. Less bigoted. Corona was her ticket to inner

peace.

Spock--who probably knew there was much she wasn't saying--did not press

her, and she was grateful.

The next morning, another meeting was held--more formal and more

somber--in the main conference room.

"Gentlemen, this inquiry is hereby called to order. Captain James T.

Kirk presiding." Kirk banged the ceremonial gavel, feeling slightly

grand and very foolish as he always did in such circumstances. "Our duty

is to judge the efficacy of the monitors aboard the Enterprise,

especially in relation to our recent mission. Dr. McCoy, I believe you

have an opening comment to make."

McCoy stood and glanced around the table at Kirk, Spock, Scott, Veblen,

Olaus and Mason. Mason's replacement recorder floated near her

shoulder. "I'm not much of a legal wizard," he admitted. "I don't know

how we will overcome further difficulties with the medical monitors." He

glanced at

Mason, then at Veblen.

Veblen said nothing.

"I'm just grateful we've solved our present problems. The reconstruction

is well under way, and in

four days we'll have the first two healthy and in need of temporary

living quarters. Mr. Veblen, however good an idea the medical monitors

were in Federation chambers, out here, they don't work. The Enterprise

was sent on this mission specifically because we had the new equipment,

but our mission came very close to being hamstrung from the beginning.

Too close. I dislike relying on miracles." "Thank you, Dr. McCoy. Mr.

Spock, your analysis of the monitors' role in the Corona incident?"

"Captain." Spock stood, looking at nob ody in particular. "The command

monitors backed up your decisions until the very last moment, when they

decided you were not acting quickly enough to stop the threat. On

examining the monitors' internal records, Mr. Veblen and I have found

that all six of the experience-memories of Starfleet command-rank

officers agreed unanimously that you did not act soon enough. Yet the

outcome may not have been affected by the monitors' takeovermindicating

your judgment may not have been faulty. Further analysis is necessary."

Spock sat down and Kirk nodded at Veblen. The computer officer stood,

his eyes meeting Mason's on the other side of the table. "The monitors

functioned exactly as intended. In that sense, they are successes.

However..." He pulled a datapack from his belt. "I believe the monitors

have some severe drawbacks, not the least of them being... they can be

tampered with. That is, they can be affected by... quantum

instabilities. The medical monitors have clearly been shown to be

inadequate. I sympathize with Dr. McCoy's frustration. I believe we

will have no difficulty convincing the Federation that certain

strictures should be lifted, and certain advancements in medical science

be taken into account." He glanced at Mason as if looking for an

explanation. She returned his look with a pleasant smile.

"With regard to the 'command monitors... Personally, I believe Captain

Kirk should not have been overridden, that he was conducting himself in

the best manner possible, and that his action, or inaction, did not

jeapordize the Enterprise, the mission or..." He had almost said "the

universe," but that sounded comically grandiose. "Or anything else. I

will recommend adjustments in the command monitors as well." There was

no further testimony. Kirk adjourned the meeting, and after the room

was cleared, walked alone to his quarters. Halfway there, he was hailed

by Mason. "May I speak with you, Captain?" "Certainly." She walked

abreast of him, looking down at the deck. "What do you think of the

monitors, Captain? Personally, I mean." "Finishing your story?" "I don't

know," Mason said. "Perhaps. I don't feel much like a reporter now. I

don't know what I am, exactly. I've... become very involved in the

story. I'm no longer objective." They arrived at the door to his

quarters. "Personally, I'll tell you. But only off the record." "All

right." "Off the record," he reiterated, "I think the monitors were

correct. I have a hunch that firing at the station gave us a few extra

seconds, maybe minutes. I don't know how, but that's what I feel. I

hesitated, because I was concerned about Spock, the Vulcans, you... I

was too concerned." He opened the door and stepped inside. "Will you

request that the monitors be removed?" Mason asked. He shrugged. "You

know, there's another aspect..." "Still off the record?" "Yes. If the

monitors hadn't been there--if I hadn't sensed they would take over, and

remove the

responsibility from my shoulderswould I have fired on the station?"

"Would you have?" "I don't know. It's a question I'll have to live

with." He shut the door and went to his desk to make an entry in his

personal log, but it was several hours before he could bring himself to

begin.

Mason joined Veblen in the officer's lounge. "Share a table with me?"

Veblen asked. She agreed and they picked up their trays of food from

the autochef. "I suppose you know what the ship's scuttlebutt is,"

Veblen said. "Word's gotten around about your debriefing." "I wasn't

the only one. I wasn't even the only human. There was Chekov, Spock

and the six Vulcans from the station." "But you were the only one who

could testify about Corona's motivation. That's the scuttlebutt,

anyway. Is it true?" She shook her head in dismay. "I'm supposed to be

a reporter. I'm not supposed to be the center of a story." Veblen urged

her to continue. When she refused, he reminded her of an earlier

conversation. "As one outcast to another," he said. "How do you know

about Corona's motivations?" "You're so very curious," Mason responded.

Her grin was thoroughly wicked. "I have my reasons," Veblen said. "I

thought you might be able to clear up some mysteries." "Why don't you

ask Corona yourself?. Through me, if you believe that's possible." "You

mean... "Eat your lunch. We've all got problems." In the next sleep

period, in Uhura's quarters, she listened to the communications officer

singing old

African lullabies. There 'was a song about children harnessing the

clouds of a very old mountain, and riding them from sleep to dawn.

Within Mason, there was a reaction not entirely her own... a feeling of

the deepest pleasure, and nostalgia. It did not alarm her. It was, in

fact, something of a comfort. "You know," she said when the song was

over, "that Mr. Spock is quite a fellow..." Uhura laughed and reached

out for Mason's hand. "That a girl," she said, squeezing her fingers.

Captain's Log, Stardate 4997.54. While I wrestle with some very

troubling thoughts, I look back over what's happened ... and a

sensation of the deepest astonishment overcomes me.- My crew,

myself--we're all fallible, capable of many different kinds of failure.

The Vulcans are... I was about to say "only human," but I mean in the

sense they, too, are limited. Now I look back over Mason's confidential

testimony... and though I suspect she has hardly told us everything, I

marvel. What other group of human beings has ever experienced a life as

broad, as surprising, as full as the crew of this ship? We have seen

things, been places, accomplished missions almost beyond imagining... at

least for a staid, romantic fellow like myself. Sometimes, however, I

think I would have been just as content to pilot some system craft

between planets. At least then, I wouldn't have to live with this ache,

this fear that I am not fitted for my task... that if I had been left

to my own devices, perhaps the Galaxy... the universe! Dear God...

would no longer

exist. Can anyone face such a test, such a judgment?

What an incredibly strange universe this is, that a cry from its very

infancy can echo across all eternity... and pose such challenges for

me, for us all.

Coming in September...

Q IN LAW

by Peter David

During an important wedding ceremony that will determine the future of

two great families from an aiien race called the Tizarin, Captain Picard

must play host to two surprise guests the all-powerful Q and the Deanna

Troi's Betazoid mother Lwaxana. Suddenly, the festivities are in

turmoil, the Tizarin are on the verge of war, and Lwaxana Troi is

determined to teach Q a lesson in love that he will never forget...