Star Trek - The Original Series - Battlestations

Chapter One

THE ENEMY SHIP cut across our port bow, forcing

to heel off to starboard, but our captain gripped

forward rail and refused to give more than a meter.

"Keep her to," he said, the quiet of his vo

somehow reaching us over the roar of the ship str

ing.

"Jim, this is crazy."

"Don't swing off, no matter what your stoma

says."

Space overhead was bristol blue, the crashing ,

even deeper azure and marbled by green swells a

white foam. The older officers called it cadet blue.

"Stand by to come about. Piper, stand by the bm

stay. Bones, you take the foresheet. And watch yc

head."

"Don't worry. My head's not going anywhere."

Below and around us white hull and green de

tilted to a sickening forty-five degrees that buried I

boom tips in brine and put us straight alongside a s

gust of wind. The bowsprit bobbed in thirteen-f

arches. We crashed against the waves, skating alo]

side our enemy's beam for a moment of reasonle

risk.

I freed the backstay on the port side so it would]

be in the way when the big main boom swung abol

then slid down the inclined deck to the starboa

backstay and got ready to pull it up tight once the s

swung by. There, shivering, I awaited the order

come about. With the ship at this hideous angle, my

thigh cut into the rail. I was almost lying on my side.

Just over the rail, an arm's-length away, the tree-trunk

boom dug furrows into the seawater with every long

dip of the schooner. Arching out and rising away from

the water, the mainsali's bright white canvas tightened

with air and became stiff as cast rhodinium. This was

drama of the highest order, and my heart thudded

testimony to the pure insanity I'd gotten myself into.

Of course, I couldn't exactly decline the honor.

This old ship had been bending to the winds for

something like a century and a quarter on this planet,

revived to splendor by the very fading of her own

kind. Originally built as a nostalgic replica of a nine-

teenth-century pilot schooner, she was a working ves-

sel, not a yacht. That "y" word wasn't allowed on

board. And there wasn't a winch to be found. Every

line had to be hand drawn, no matter how heavy the

load. The acres of canvas, caught to the masts by big

wooden hoops and lashed with rope to the gaffs and

booms, made a puzzle of stitched white overlapping

rectangles and triangles overhead and together formed

a great seagoing pyramid of sailcloth and rigging.

Pretty. But sitting here in excitement's grip, with

abused timber groaning under me and the booms biting

the tops off eight-footers, it was hard to see the pretti-

ness. Not even in the echo of ourselves as the other

ship, a bluff-bowed ancient ketch two meters longer

than our schooner, carved away from our starboard

stern and came about for another match.

"Here he bloody well comes again," uttered Mr.

Scott at wheel watch, his Scots rumble getting thicker

as tension grew. He was standing at the helm rather

than sitting, gripping the spokes of the wooden wheel

tightly, and narrowing his gaze forward. His eyes

narrowed to dark wedges. His dark hair, matted

against his forehead by spray, was laced with the first

hints of silver. He wasn't watching the sails, though.

2

He was watching the captain. And the captain was

watching the enemy ship.

Amidships, Dr. McCoy squinted accusingly at the

captain and held on tight to the foresheet. Wind tore at

his hair and spray battered his face.

Our bow [ifled high out of the water, coming into the

air like some flying fish, until half her keel was clear of

the sea. Almost immediately she crashed back into the

chop like a descending guillotine, burying the fo'c'sle,

burying thirteen feet of bowsprit and the whole bottom

of the Genoa jib. I winced and drew my shoulders in.

Heeled to starboard, the other ship was a mirror

image of ours, except that her mast heights were

reversed, her fore-tops'l wasn't flying, and her bow

was bluff- instead of clipper-curved. When our captain

first started talking about the enemy, I'd thought he

was saying "catch"; one of many visits to his aft cabin

library had set me right. She was the ketch Gavelan.

We were out to get her, and she us.

My hands cramped as I gripped the backstay line.

Awaiting orders, i looked at the captain and wondered

what he was waiting for. Fu[t sail in this kind of chop

was crazy enough without waiting until the last second

to execute a tack.

He stood on the forward deck, his eyes hard and

pinched at the corners. In a heavy brown sea jacket

with the collar up he looked like a hoio on a tour spool

from some planet-pushing travel agency His hair,

sandy and shimmering on top, darkening at the sides,

shone nicely but couldn't upstage that glare of his. I

could see him trying to put his mind into the head of

the other captain before making a decision. He wanted

more than anything to be inside Gavetan's hold, se-

cretly listening to what the other skipper was saying--

more, though, he wanted to know what the other was

feeling, thinking, breathing. He thought he could get

there if he stared hard enough.

"Come about," the captain said. "Now."

Dr. McCoy let go of the foresheet a moment too

soon, forcing Mr. Scott to haul hard on the wheel to

keep from losing the fores'l into the waves. I held on

as long as I could, but the ship wheeled and bucked,

reversing herself in the water and cutting a pie wedge

in the chop as she tacked. The rigging whistled over-

head, the timber groaned, and the hoops grated so

loudly I thought they were going to shear right

through the mast.

Barn--the fore boom elunked to port. The sail

luffed, then filled and tightened. An instant later--and

Mr. Scott ducked just in time to avoid a ringing head-

ache--the main. The schooner twisted back in the

water with the grace of a shorebird's glinting wing.

"Haul in tight," the captain called. "I mean you,

Piper. Put support on that main, then bring the sheet in

close."

I shook myself, skidded across the tilted deck and

drew in the main until we were so close upon the wind

that we threw up a sickle of spray with every dive of

our prow. He was watching me. I could feel it. Oh, he

was looking at the other ship, but he was watching

me.

"Closer," he said.

I drew down harder, sacrificing three more finger-

nails and one knuckle's skin.

Plunging toward each other like two Gloucester

packets of a different age, our two schooners glided

through walls of spray. The tapered lines of the sails

and weaving mastheads conjured images of wave

troughs deep enough to hide entire ships. I leaned

harder against the teak rail, plain scared. From two

sides of an angle, we speared for each other.

"Jim, I didn't come out here with you to become a

damned South Sea walrus!" Dr. McCoy informed the

captain, clinging desperately to the fore hatch and

glancing wide-eyed at the oncoming schooner.

The captain didn't respond. Even now, there was a

distant tranquility on his face. '['his was his blood and

beef--another man's peace was this man's boredom.

When he wasn't wrestling the irabalances of interstel-

lar space and intersystem politics, he was here, tasting

death in the same seas our mutual ancestors called

their own interstellar void.

The captain of the other ship was no Rigellian slugfin

either. Silver spume spilled over Gavelan's rail as she

held tight into the wind and rocketed through jumping

seas toward us. We were both pointed at the same

square foot of ocean, and we both wanted to own it.

Overhead, rigging whined. Tension buzzed through the

halyards.

l drew in a breath, held it, and closed my eyes. The

captain said I should learn to hear the ship, so I could

hear what was wrong when it happened. Sometimes he

made me close my eyes and covet' my ears too.

Feeling what's wrong, he called it. Even times like

this--especially times like this---could teach.

Sails moaned. Waves smacked the keel. Gaffs and

booms creaked. The wind rushed inward, filling the

main tight. On collision course, our two schooners

sliced through the seas toward each other. When our

ship's prow dug deep into the waves, met a trough that

matched its shape, and phmged six feet deeper, the

deck dropped out from under my feet. Only catching

my elbow around the backstay kept me aboard. t

heard Dr. McCoy yell something as my feet left the

deck, wobbled on the rail for three hideous seconds,

then skated off. Down I went for a ride across twenty

slippery feet of green deck, on one knee, until the

fisherman's sail-bag stopped me.

"All right, lass'?" Mr. Scott bothered to call from the

wheel.

I took a moment to nod at him while I rubbed my

knee. It was the wrong moment.

"Get your feet under you, Piper," the captain

snapped. "Prepare to come about."

"Again?" McCoy complained. "What are you? A

blasted porpoise?"

"Lay alongside, Scotty," everybody's devil called

firmly. 'Tm not going to let him work our windward.

Piper, bring in the jib sheet two pulls. You left it too

free."

Always the cut. Always the barb. Why? Didn't he

have enough laurels to sit on? Not ten people in a

million had his status. Why pick on me?

But as I glared at the captain, ire mixed with a stab

of sympathy for him. Most humans could afford to

cloak their flaws. A starship captain--the captain of

any vessel, I was learning---constantly had his flaws

thrown up in his face, with nowhere to deflect them.

Not only could he see them, but he must see them

displayed before all who wish to Iook--a galaxy ready

to criticize. That would beat anyone into humility.

Anyone but the strongest.

If he could be strong, if he could bear his flaws and

mine too, then I could at least haul my end of the

halyard.

Gripping the ship's rail, I got to my feet and moved

carefully along the high side toward the bow. Battered

by salt spray, the rail had gone from a burnished

ribbon to a chipped ridge. It spelled work for deck

hands. Like guess who.

I loosened the jib sheet, cranked it in, feeling the

pressure of the wind as we heeled deeply, and belayed

it without another screwup. Just when 1 was breathing

my sigh of relief, I made the mistake of looking at the

oncoming Gavelan.

"What--!" l choked. The other ship was so close

I could almost count the planks in her hull. Wreathed

in spray, she was crashing toward us out of a night-

mare. I couldn't breathe anymore.

The captain cupped his hand around his mouth.

"Now, Scotty!"

Mr. Scott closed his eyes and cranked the big wheel

hard, then took a dive for the backstay to free it. The

main boom began to swing. The sails, towering above

us like wings, luffed for only an instant.

The schooner hung in midair, shuddered as shock

waves thrummed through her wooden hull, then dived

like a seal. Her bowsprit carved across our enemy's

bow and forced the other ship to fall off the wind.

No one but the possessed would try such a move.

The booms swung around and slammed home.

Climbing the wave, the ship shook off a wash of green

seawater, filled her sails tight, and heeled in.

The captain leaned back. If he'd had a pipe, he'd

have smoked it. "Fall off," he said. Mr. Scott stiffly

complied.

Dr. McCoy slumped down on the fore hatch. "Shore

leave, my eye."

I panted silently and got my footing on the deck. A

few breaths later my thoughts came out in a mutter.

"All we need is an aft phaser..."

Gavelan was upright in the choppy water, fallen off

the wind. Her sails luffed uselessly, flapping and shud-

dering, in search of air.

Turning to me, the captain raised both straight

brows and queried, "Did I hear you say something,

Commander?"

Still out of breath, I blinked at him and tried to look

steady. "Not me."

His lips pressed flat. Kind of a grin, and kind of not.

"Good."

I watched, numb, as he walked casually down the

long green deck, unaffected by the angle, and took

charge of the wheel. Slowly now, he brought the ship

about in a stylish tack that hardly let the sails flutter

the last turn of the blade before coming abeam with

Gavelan.

Aboard the other ship, the skipper's familiar Mid-

6 7

Eastern features glowed in the sun behind a dark

cropped beard. "Brilliantly executed, Captain!" he

called. "I concede the match."

"Accepted, Ambassador," the captain returned.

"I'm looking forward to my lobster."

"And you shall have it," our former enemy re-

turned. Behind him, his crew, an unlikely collection of

individuals, watched us coast by. "The best available

in the next port of call. And my liquor cabinet is yours

to raid.'

"Faster than you can moor a dinghy."

The ambassador roared with laughter. Gavelan

caught the wind and fell in behind us. Finally, finally,

we were back on course.

I watched our captain as he steered the ship with

damnable leisure. San Francisco was long behind us

and I still tended to stay on the other end of the ship

from where he was. A respectful distance, it might be

called. A little chicken was another way to put it. He

always saw the imperfection, that halyard belayed one

turn tess than the others, the backstay not hauled up

tightly enough, the rope tied in a granny knot instead

of a square knot . . and there was nothing in this

.galaxy more soul-galling than coming up out of a hatch

in time to see James Kirk correct your little error.

James Kirk. An enigma in his midthirties. And here

he was, commanding seventy-two feet of timber and

sailcloth with every ounce the commitment he used to

head up the multidepartmental city-in-space we call a

starship. The whole scope of that became scarier to me

with every minute I spent in his company. He wasn't

an easy man to get to know. He guarded himself. Oh,

he talked often enough, but he spoke little. Curiosity

boiled up in me, enough to turn a Star Fleet command

candidate into a petty snoop. Despite the integrity I

was trying to imitate, I often found myself haunting

the open aft hatch, hoping to---accidentally--catch a

line or two of the conversation between him and

McCoy and Scott during one of those quiet personal

sessions. I seldom got more than a sniff of kahlua and

coffee. In fact, the silence said plenty. My curiosity

remained intact. So did the sting of knowing 1 wasn't

yet welcome in that inner sanctum. I hungered more

for it with every passing wind.

And the mysteries about Captain Kirk seemed to

grow deeper as I knew him longer. I looked away from

him and leaned over the ship's rail for the dozenth time

to see black letters outlined in hunter-green scrolls

Edith Keeler.

Letters no one would explain. I knew "Edith" was a

feminine name on Earth, not very popular anymore.

Since sailing ships had always been named after both

men and women, knowing the name's gender nar-

rowed my curiosity by 50 percent. The rest remained a

darkness.

It was nearly three o'clock, Earth time. I seldom

knew what time it was, but as I came below, through

the aft cabin, I happened to glance at the old-style

ship's clock that lay half-buried in navigational charts

on the captain's desk. The clock I could read. The

charts--well, I could read the clock.

The aft ladder was easier to climb with a tray of

coffee mugs than the forecabin ladder, so that's the

way I went. I came up on deck just in front of the

ship's wooden wheel. Behind it, the captain was grin-

ning at himself and steering Keeler through waves that

seemed to grow calmer at his behest. What had been

eight-footers had smoothed to a light chop as we

stopped fighting them and continued sailing into the

middle of the Caribbean,

I relayed coffee to Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy as they

relaxed amidships, then returned with one for the

captain. He took it with a silent nod, settled back in

the helm chair, and eyed me with those hazel-browns.

"Something on your mind, Commander?"

9

"That sounds like something Spock would say."

"Oh, no, Jim. Spock would comment on the waste.

You know, exertion and risk with no true gain. Can't

you just hear him say it, with a 'most illogical' pinned

on the end of it?"

Bidden as though by drug, I indeed heard Com-

mander Spock's rough baritone cadence knitting those

words into his own kind of commentary on races and

contests.

"Now, Captain, there's a proposal I'd like to see

worked on," Mr. Scott said, as he cocked one leg on

the cooler and gripped the loops of rope that held the

mains'l to the big boom. "Mr. Spock on board this

kind of starship. I wonder ha' he'd look in a slicker."

"Earth's a water planet, Scotty," Kirk said, be-

mused. "One of very few. Sailing ships grew with our

culture. Besides... wouldn't you hate to see Spock

even greener than usual?"

The three men laughed, enjoying their moment of

teasing bigotry at the expense of their absent friend,

forgetting that although I was human, Earth was not

my home either. I had no reason to feel envious, yet I

couldn't laugh along with them.

"Where are we headed, sir?" I asked.

"We're supposed to rendezvous with the other flo-

tilla participants at New Providence."

I waited for him to finish the sentence. Perhaps it

was his tone, perhaps the flicker in his eye, or the fact

that I'd learned to expect more from him than what-

ever was obvious. After a moment, I assisted.

"But..."

McCoy's rooster-tail brows arched up. "Tell her,

Jim. What are you saving it for? She's been looking at

you like a suspicious cat for a week now, even if she

doesn't know it."

I flushed again, but McCoy's hilarious glare made

me duck my head and smile in embarrassment. One

thing was for sure we weren't going to New Provi-

dence.

That half-grin stretched one side of Kirk's mouth.

He gazed at me from the corners of his eyes. "We're

sailing toward your future, Piper."

"A banana republic," Kirk explained, putting one

foot up on the rail, still fingering the ship's wheel

lightly. "A quaint local epithet used to describe island

settlements in semitropical areas here on Earth. The

Virgin Islands .... Greater and Lesser Antilles ....

Jamaica, the Caymans, the West Indies in general."

"Because of the banana trees?"

"Banana trees, banana vendors, a generally banana

life-style is what you'll find there."

He gazed at the sea between McCoy and Scott. "I

guess we taught Ben Shamirian a good lesson today,"

he said, enjoying the sight of Gavelan plowing along

several ship-lengths behind Keeler.

"That you did, sir," Scott said. "And bonnily too.

'Course, Doc and I'll ne'r be the same for wear..."

"What, Scotty? Thinning out already, at your age?

I'm dismayed."

"And I'm ocean-sick," McCoy drawled.

Meanwhile, I was itching to find out what he meant

about sailing toward my future.

When I spoke, my voice seemed not to fit in among

theirs. "Are you tampering with my future, sir?"

He nodded, dawdling through a sip of coffee. "Your

first command."

He was teasing me again. Bad enough when I did

know what he was talking about, much less when 1

didn't. I sat down on the rail and leaned back against

the lifeline. "A lobster scow, right?"

Kirk shook his head, saying, "A space vessel."

Through my astonished stare he continued, "With

atmospheric and stellar capabilities."

12 13

The stare started to hurt. My eyes watered in the

wind. Mr. Scott was chuckling.

"Are you . . ." I stammered. "Are you kidding

me?"

" Commander, it's a Star Fleet-commissioned space-

going passenger vessel, and it's waiting at Man-o-War

Cay for you to take command." When Kirk saw my

expression--'ff by any reach of terminology I still

appeared human at all--he buried a flicker of amuse-

ment in a blink.

McCoy leaned forward on the rail, supported by

both hands on either side of his legs. Those demonstra-

tive eyes widened at me. "How hard did you think it

would be to wangle a light command for the youngest

person to receive the Federation Medal of Valor?"

"But... but... but... but why?"

My question started in McCoy's direction, shifted to

Scott, and ultimately landed on Captain Kirk. After a

moment, he said, "Oh, I've got a little mission for you.

Call it a... mail run."

"Space... a space... a mission out in space?"

"That's right."

I took a deep breath, and shook the seaweed out of

my head.

"Think you're up to it?" he asked.

"No!"

Captain Kirk chuckled openly. "That alone tells me

you are," he said. "We'll be there by tomorrow after-

noon. Start getting used to the idea, Commander. As

of tomorrow, you've got a ship of your own."

14

Chapter Two

"Anything you might say has already been taken down in

evidence against you."

--The Squire of Gothos

MY OWN COMMAND.

Gladiator. Excalibur. Odyssey. Mountaineer. Trou-

badour.

Since she would be acquired during my stay here on

Earth, shouldn't my ship have a Terran name? This

planet might be just a little squeak that started a big

rumble, but Earth's history had plenty to offer. More

so in plain gallantry and intrepidness than in many

more, dare I say, civilized cultures. I was just begin-

ning to appreciate that. Earth, planet of my ancestry,

had been the subject of my fascination, my study, even

my curiosity, but never my respect.

As Star Fleet hung in political suspension a few

thousand kilometers behind us, subject to tense

purges, and courts-martial, I contemplated the name

of my ship. Had I earned this? I had fallen into a bad

situation and forded it. That was Star Fleet's hope

when they created the Academy to mine the crude ore

of future command, wasn't it? The cost had been long

and wide--the lives of a Star Fleet destroyer's entire

crew; no, not my fault, but inevitable because I

refused to give in. I felt victorious about the failure of

Vice Admiral Rittenhouse's clandestine attempt to

trigger the collapse of Star Fleet and set up his own

intersystem'republic, but I still didn't feel good about

15

it. Victorious... good... too different for peace of

mind. And now Star Fleet trembled in the wake.

I stood in Keeler's galley, heating coffee on what

seemed an archaic gas stove. Though I'd grown used

to it, I still marveled at Kirk's purity of cause. Dr.

McCoy had told me that when Kirk had purchased this

ship, she'd been half-restored and in bankruptcy. He'd

completed the restoration, rope for rope, halyard for

halyard, binnacle for binnacle, keeping true to the old

style. Hence, gas stove.

Maybe a feminine name, so everyone would know

the captain was female. Edna St. Vincent Millay. Too

long. Summer Rain. Myth. Siren. Or a famous name

Zuriak. Boone. Philip of Macedon. James T. . . .

He didn't seem worried about the tumult at Star

Fleet Command. After all, here he was, one of only a

handful of starship commanders, cruising his home

planet in the slowest possible fashion. Shouldn't he be

back there... helping? Weren't there decisions to be

made? I'd bet that somebody, somewhere, was turning

to his second and grumbling, "Damn, I wish Jim Kirk

was here."

Thunderbird. Chimera. Cumulus. Egyptian.

The coffee wasn't even hot enough to send up an

aroma when an unexpected whine shook me from my

plans. The whine turned to a hum, then caused a faint

but recognizable oscillation of air particles around my

face and arms, where the skin was bare. My ivory

cotton flight suit shielded the rest of my skin from the

particle jump, but the cause remained perfectly identi-

fiable, even if it was totally out of place. I must be

delirious, imagining things. A transporter beam?

The hum grew deeper. I dashed to the forecabin

ladder and climbed up enough to get my elbows onto

the deck, and froze in place, astonished. Three forms

were indeed materializing onto the aft deck. The syn-

16

thesis of old and new hit me like the smell of bad

weather. Invasion.

"How rude!" I exclaimed. My breath was stolen by

the wind flushing into the fores'l. Beaming down!

What raw nerve!

Still hardly more than bands of shimmering light, the

forms were steps away from where I'd left Captain

Kirk and the others on the aft deck when I escaped to

collect my thoughts. Kirk obviously wasn't going to

divulge any more information about this so-called mail

run he'd slotted me for and I'd seen no reason to gawk

at him. So I came down to the galley, to gawk into the

coffee.

But with people beaming onto the ship without the

slightest announcement, I had another direction to

gawk in. The affrontery of it held me to my place half

out of the hatch, peering around the main mast.

Three Star Fleet Security Division uniforms distilled

into being and stopped shimmering. Two men, large.

And a woman, compactly built but still somehow

imposing in her own subdued way.

Kirk got up from the helm chair, moving to them like

a prowling ghar-tiger. Sharply he demanded, "Just

what is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Captain James Kirk?" a big goon of a lieutenant

began. It was a formality only, the beginning of a

recitation. "Yes."

"Lieutenant Alexander, sir. Sir, I am instructed to

escort you to Star Fleet headquarters regarding an

inquiry issued by Star Fleet Command and the Federa-

tion Military, Advisory Committee---"

"Why?" Kirk asked with typical bluntness.

"For questioning regarding the theft of special tech-

nology by a member of your crew."

Kirk's voice changed. "Which member?"

"Lieutenant Sarda."

17

I bumped my head on the hatchway in a bolt of

shock. Sarda... only weeks ago my biggest concern

about Sarda was helping him find a channel back into

the Vulcan disciplines he'd been denied by his race's

pacifist prejudices. Only weeks ago we were fighting

side by side. How did he get himself embroiled in

espionage while on shore leave? I gripped the hatch

rim and dug my fingernails in, seized with a sudden

need to talk to him, to find out why--

"What in the devil!" McCoy blurted.

Scott moved to stand beside Kirk, a united front. He

glared at Lieutenant Alexander. "You'd better have

your chevrons on straight for this one, lad," he

warned. "Lieutenant Sarda is a recipient of the Silver

Palm."

The lieutenant shrugged. "Anyway."

Mr. Scott bristled. "You don't just go about tossing

accusations at Federation honorees."

Alexander took a breath, ignored him, and ad-

dressed the captain again. "I am authorized to escort

you to Star Fleet Command Headquarters for ques-

tioning regarding this theft. If you do not choose to

cooperate, I am authorized to place you under special

arrest---"

"In other words, I go with you either way," Kirk

finished, his eyes narrowing.

"Correct, sir." Alexander pivoted on one foot and

faced Mr. Scott. "Chief Engineer Montgomery

Scott?"

"Aye..."

"Sir, I am instructed to escort you to Star Fleet

headquarters regarding an inquiry issued by Star Fleet

Command and the Federation Military--" "A' right, mister, I've heard it."

"I'm authorized to escort you to Star Fleet Com-

mand Headquarters for questioning. If you choose not

to cooperate, I am authorized to place you under

special arrest."

lg

I ducked back into the forecabin. Even beyond the

complete surprise and unlikelihood of this turnabout, I

sensed a deeper wrongness. Slipping aft through the

cabins, I hid at the bottom of the aft hatch and lis-

tened. Half expecting Alexander to have turned to

McCoy with his recitation, I had to recalibrate when

he turned instead to Kirk and said, "Sir, I must

request that you inform me as to the whereabouts of

Commander Spock, who has also been named in the

inquiry."

There was a pause.

Kirk's voice was low-toned. "Mr. Spock is not

aboard."

"Where is he, sir?"

'"On leave. I don't know specifically where." His'

vocal timbre stiflened then. "Lieutenant, this is a

gross breach of protocol as well as a serious accusa-

tion. I demand to know who's responsible for levying

these charges."

"Sir, there are no charges. This is only an emer-

gency inquiry. I must also request that you inform me

as to the whereabouts of the following Fleet personnel,

who have also been called in for questioning Lieuten-

ant Commander Hikaru Sulu, Lieutenant Nyota

Uhura, Lieutenant Commander Piper."

While I crouched in the forward hatch, my heart

shriveled up and ran into the fo'c'sle. I couldn't swal-

low anymore.

"I'm not in the habit," Kirk went on, very steadily

measuring his hidden message, "of monitoring my

crew's shore leaves. None of those people are here."

"Then if you and Mr. Scott will please gather your

things, I'!1 signal the cruiser to beam us up."

The lack of immediate alternatives showed in Kirk's

voice; though I couldn't see his face, I knew exactly

what his eyes were doing. "Dr. McCoy isn't able to

pilot this schooner alone, Lieutenant. You'll have to

wait until we make port."

19

I ducked back another step into the aft cabin. His

message was gaining poignant clarity, if not explana-

tion.

"Yes, sir," Alexander said. "A Star Fleet low-

atmosphere tug is on the way to take control of this

vessel. The sailing plan you filed with the San Fran-

cisco Maritime Authority specified New Providence as

your next port of call. The boat will be taken there,

unless you specify somewhere else. We could have the

boat beamed somewhere, if necessary, but it's offi-

cially impounded until further notice." I caught a

glimpse of Alexander's gesture toward the sober fe-

male guard. "Yeoman Philotoff will remain on board

until the tug arrives. She knows how to steer it."

Beam the whole ship? Wow...

"Now just a minute," McCoy interfered, blustering

"How can we be expected to supply any useful infor-

mation, considering we've been sitting on this ocean,

out of touch with everybody and everything? How do

you explain that?"

"I don't, sir."

The sound of shuffling feet replaced the voices for a

moment, then relented again.

"Captain," Alexander said. "I have here a warrant

of permission to search this boat, the North American

Maritime Registry vessel Edith Keebler, as issued by

Supreme Congressional Judge Michael Riley, stardate

4720.2."

Kirk bristled. "It's Keeler," he said, taking a nip at

what little flaws he could find in Lieutenant Alexan-

der's efficiency. Alexander had been handpicked, no

doubt. Most security people would have been more

intimidated by the monumental assignment of con-

fronting the captain of the Enterprise.

"If you don't mind," Alexander continued. "Lieu-

tenant Harsch and I will take a look underneath."

"Below," Kirk corrected. "And I do indeed mind,

20

Lieutenant. My privacy has been ruptured. No matter

how stringent your orders., I doubt they included

beaming without notice onto private property. Be

assured I'll have a discussion with your superiors

when we return to Command."

"Nevertheless, sir, I'm going to have to search the

boat."

Rushing back into the forecabin, I spun around

frantically. No, not the head--they'd look there. The

galley cabinets were too small . . . the berths were

military-neat, without any convenient piles of blankets

or clothing to hide under. I might have been able to

hide in or under a sail bag, but I couldn't get on deck

without being seen... unless the fo'c'sle hatch was

open...

Alexander and Harsch finally picked their way

through Kirk's stubbornness and started their search

of Keeler. In my mind, supplemented by careful listen-

ing and imagining how I would do it, I saw the Security

men investigate the ship's tight little hold, the engine

room where the now-quiet engine---of course, an old

restored dieseltsometimes throbbed, the supply

shelves in the aft hatchway, both heads, the forecabin

closet, and every other nook they could find. I wished

desperately for Vulcan ears as their slow footsteps

scraped on the upper decks. Poking the sail bags,

peering around the sea sides of the fores'l and jib, then

finally the walking and poking and opening and closing

stopped. There were voices, but I could barely hear

them. My hands were cold, sweating. I bunched them

up under my chin and tried to make sense of this. Was

Kirk being framed? Had someone pinned these

charges on Sarda in order to entrap Kirk? Or to

distract from other crimes surfacing during the purge?

A half-dozen members of the Admiralty had come

under suspicion--two had been court-martialed, one

actually jailed. Captains of other starships had been

21

dismissed--four of them! I'd made myself ready to

accept almost any change at Star Fleet Command--

but not this.

My skin tingled. The air around me vibrated ever

so faintly My ears buzzed for a long instant, then

everything settled again. Only the sea wind hummed

now.

I burst out of the larder, shoving upward against the

wooden board that made a lower berth and a seat

behind the madiera table in the forecabin. The seat

cushion bounced off as I climbed out. I unfolded my

legs and winced at the creases left in my thighs and

sides by cartons and tins of stored food. I'd been on

board Keeler weeks before I even knew that compart-

ment was there.

I quietly gained the top of the forecabin ladder and

peeked out, past the mainmast, rigging, and sails, to

the helm. Yeoman Philotoff was at the wheel, scanning

the blue sky. Looking for the low-at tug, no doubt.

McCoy stood near the aft hatch, hanging onto a block-

and-tackle, scanning the deck. He spied me. His head

craned forward and his brows shot together; but he

clamped his lips tight. With a roll of his eyes he told me

to stay hidden. He, too, evidently understood Kirk's

efforts to stall the search. Hide Piper, give her a

chance to act. But act how? What did Kirk want me to

do? Sarda was no thief, certainly no traitor, and if

anyone knew it, I did. Kirk was giving me some kind

of advantage. The captain knew what he would do if

Mr. Spock were in this position. Now I had to figure

out what that was, so I could do it too. That was all.

The low-atmosphere tug appeared on the distant

horizon, approaching rapidly. I ducked deeper into the

hatchway. The tug was a flattish aidspace vehicle with

bumpers all around its turtle-shaped hull just below

Star Fleet insignia and call letters. Typical of Security,

the vessel had no aesthetic catalog name.

ArthurJan . . . Culloden . . . Pioneer... Corinthian

22

. . Versailles, America, Proxima---could I name a

ship before I'd even seen it? I wouldn't want anyone to

impound my ship; I wasn't going to stand by while

Keeler was trussed up under Fleet red tape. She was

going to the port her captain wanted her in.

My hands shook now as I heard the low throb of the

tug's engines whine down t idle beside the schooner.

I scoured my brain for some memory of the crew

complement of a low-at--two or three, no more. Plus

Yeoman Philotoff, above decks. I'd wait. I'd let them

take us in tow. Then . . . phasers. There had to be

phasers on board somewhere. Jim Kirk was a cautious

man. Any sailor learned to anticipate pirates. I

wouldn't leave my ship or crew without some kind of

tangible protection; I guessed he wouldn't either. They

had to be aboardrebut where?

"This is Gavelan calling Keeler. Jim, is there some

problem aboard?"

My heart took a dive. "Damn it!" I hissed. The com

unit in the aft cabin! Ambassador Shamirian had no

idea what he was doing if Philotoff decided to come

below.

I was trying to crawl back into the compartment

under the bench when I froze, hearing voices.

"Do you mind," McCoy was saying, "if I go down

there and answer that? Our sister ship over there

wants to know what's going on."

"Go ahead, sir," Philotoff replied. Her voice had a

rough texture, but her tone was almost conciliatory

The vision appeared before me of McCoy's brow

rising in indignation. He grimly uttered, "Thank you."

Caustic bitterness was uncloaked in the doctor's tone.

I met him in the aft cabin, but waved him to silence

and motioned to the corn unit. He picked up the

transceiver and responded, "Ambassador Shamirian,

this is Leonard McCoy."

"Yes, Doctor. What's happening? What has the tug

come for?"

23

"We're... well, we're being impounded, Ambassa-

dor. Captain Kirk's been called back to Star Fleet

Command for, uh, administrative reasons."

"Ah. I'm not surprised. Do you need help?"

McCoy shifted the question to me with a look. I

shook my head, wide-eyed.

He swallowed, then spoke into the transceiver.

"Not right now, Ambassador. We'll let you know."

"We'll be here, Doctor."

"Apparently so will we. McCoy out."

He replaced the transie and started to say something

to me, but I pressed a finger against my lips. I opened

my palms in an encompassing gesture and whispered,

"Phasers?"

The sharp blue eyes grew huge. He stared at me as

though I'd grown cauliflower ears. With a paranoid

glance up the hatchway, he exaggerated a shrug and

his eyes got even wider. Evidently it hadn't occurred

to him to rupture the flow of events planned for us by

Star Fleet security.

Above decks, we heard voices

Someone hailing from the low-at "You know how

to steer this fossil, Yeoman?"

Philotoff answering "I can keep it on course, but I

don't know how to change course. It's a museum-

quality relic, but it sure is slow."

"Can you fold up those membranes?"

"They're called sails, Vallo. And... we could try it.

I'll need help. I've never seen anything like this be-

fore. I'm used to automatic sail furlings." "Stand by."

Keeler rumbled as the low-at pulled up alongside,

hovering at a pace so slow as to strain the heavy-duty

tug engines. We heard a "thunk" as the tug officer

dropped onto the aft deck. "All right," he began,

"how do we do this?"

"Doctor!" I hissed from the bottom of my throat.

"Phasers!"

24

McCoy touched his mouth in thought, paused

through a few long moments, then whispered, "If I

know Jim, they'll be near his own bunk." He pointed

broadly to the captain's berth.

We went through every drawer and cubbyhole, ex-

panding our search away from that focal point, until

McCoy stifled a little yelp of victory; sure enough

there were phasers--hidden nicely in a dull wooden

box in the aft cabin head. In the head, of all places.

Knowing Kirk, he probably asked himself where any-

body who knew him would guess he might keep phas-

ers, and he went immediately in the opposite direction.

I crossed the cabin in one step. Mceoy watched,

wordless, as I separated the gun-handle unit from the

power pack of one phaser and stuffed it into the pocket

Of my flight suit. Good thing it had been a little chilly

during my wheel watch this morning, or I might have

been wearing a water suit or shorts and not been

prepared for this at all. As it was, I could barely

assimilate what had happened and what to do about it

in the time I had.

"What do you--"

"Shhh!"

He lowered his voice considerably. "What are you

going to do with that?"

"I'm taking this ship, sir," I told him. "The captai n

had something like that in mind... do you have any

idea?"

"Me? I'm a doctor, not a spy. Nobody tells me

anything. It does look like he left the ball in your

court, though."

At that, I stared at him and gushed, "What ball?"

"Are you going to take over the tug?" the doctor

asked.

"And leave it behind, yes."

"Wouldn't it be faster than Keeler?"

I nodded, struggling with shaky fingers to set the

phasers on heavy stun, and explained, "But they can

25

track the tug. Once we're in crowded Bahamian wa-

ters, the schooner becomes just another ship in the

flotilla. Stay here," I told him. With a second phaser,

the complete gun, wrapped in my clammy fist, 1

slipped through the ship's innards to the fo'c'sle, a

dark and cramped quarter in the pointed bow. Above

me was an open hatch, with no ladder. Beyond that,

bobbing high aloft, was the foremast. I would have to

climb out just right if the sail was t hide me. The

dangerous moment would come just as I surfaced, for I

would have to balance myself and had little option of

ducking to one side or the other. Turbulence . . .

Counterattack... Identity Crisis . . . the S.S. Nerve

Pinch...

I straddled the fo'c'sle, one foot on each bunk, and

hoisted myself up and out in a single motion, my head

low, coming out straight up so the mast itself would

hide me for a moment.

I crawled forward, squirming along the green deck,

keeping the big sail between myself and the invaders.

The ship shuddered and faltered. A loud scraping

noise filtered forward through the wind. I couldn't see,

but I felt the mains'i drop, felt the slackening of

control over the wind. I winced, thinking of those two

security clods trying to furl the main. Getting it to drop

was easy enough once the ropes were tracked back to

their sources, but folding up all that yardage of sail-

cloth was something I hadn't come close to mastering

even under Captain Kirk's tutelage. Not unex-

pectedly, Philotoff started yelling obscenities, both at

the sail and at the tug crewman.

The phaser pistol was warm in my hand. Within its

power pack, restrained compressed energy kept the

whole weapon warm even when not in use. It doubled

the sweatiness of my palms as I arranged it in police

position, one hand holding the phaser, the other

steadying that wrist. I backed as far to the schooner's

bow as I could get--right up against the jib--braced

26

my buttocks on the rail, and aimed at the position

where one of the men would have to stand in order to

drop the fores'l.

"It's good enough," Philotoff was calling. "We can

fix it later."

"I dunno... you really want to leave Captain James

T. Kirk's float looking like that?"

"I'm not so sure it isn't supposed to look like that.

And it's a boat, not a float." "Okay, okay."

It's a ship, my tense mind corrected. Typical secur-

ity inertia for brains.

Several more seconds I went on like that, brewing

up animosity for them, for their churlish intrusion, and

their offhanded treatment of Keeler. I gathered every

last annoyance into a lump and sat on it until my teeth

gritted and my finger itched on the phaser trigger. By

the time the fores'l began to drop, I hated security

people from the bottom of my... bottom.

The sail dropped. Wooden hoops scraped the mast.

Sailcloth luffed and piled up on the boom. The ship fell

out of the wind altogether. Soon the gaff was at my

eye-level. I tightened my grip on the phaser.

The gaff settled as two sets of hands pulled it down

from the other side. Thenmtwo faces.

They gaped at me for an instant. Then Vallo went for

his phaser.

I hunched my shoulders, and fired.

27

Chapter Three

"Sailor's luck, Mr. Spock."

--Amok Time

A PHASER IN full fire is a hot thing. All that energy so

tightly contained causes flushback into the phaser

casing, making it warm to the touch. The weapon

reminds the user of the power in hand. A weapon with

a conscience. My hands sweated as the beam pro-

pelled Vailo backward down the deck. He collapsed

against the rail, then tumbled to the deck. I didn't mind

using the phaser, but using it without a clear reason

took me down with my prey.

Perhaps it was guilt that made me hesitate. Caught

in the complexity, I held my breath as Vallo crumpled,

and gave Philotoff the time she needed to react. I saw

her phaser come up in my periphery, even saw the

infinitesimal glow as the beam gathered inside the tiny

muzzle perforation, and I would have loved to take

credit for the response of my nerves. Maybe Star Fleet

trained me better than I remembered or maybe prime-

val responses took over, but I found myself shoulder

down on the deck as the blue beam lanced over me.

Footsteps vibrated through the deck wood and I

knew she was coming around to find me. Scrambling

like a puppy on ice, I somehow made it to the foredeck

and hid behind the jib, the only sail still flying. The

schooner's forward movement had slackened to al-

most nothing when the fores'l luffed and went down,

28

and the jib was doing little more than providing some

stabilization as we bobbed in the choppy lapis seas.

"You're just making things harder on yourself,

Commander," Philotoff called as she circled the fore-

mast and carefully came toward the bow. "Come on. I

know who You are. Kirk cooperated, so why don't you

do the same?"

I didn't answer. I held my phaser close to my chin

and stepped carefully in the tight deck area on the

pointed bow. There was no place to go but overboard.

On a ship this size, even that wouldn't hide me. The

rope netting under the bowsprit provided no solutions

either. I would have to stay on board.

On the canvas sail I saw the ominously clear etching

of Philotoff's silhouette kindly provided by Earth's

vulgar yellow sun. She wasn't built so much differ-

ently from me, except that she was a little shorter and

her hips were rounder. She looked well trained and

strong in that silhouette, a uniform-bound power pack

just like the phaser she carded. She was about to come

around the sail. Her phaser was preceding her. Her

hand caught the edge of the canvas. The sail started to

luff.

Philotoff snapped the sail out of her way. The boom

waggled. I moved--fast. I caught a glimpse of the

phaser bolt as it struck out and sizzled into the sea

beyond the starboard rail, and I was pinched with a

sniggering little regret that I didn't hang around to see

the look on Philotoff's face. I heard her scrambling

around on the deck as she searched frantically for me,

heard her drop into the fo'c'sle through the open

hatch, and heard her shuffle through the galley, the

forecabin, the main cabin, and finally up the aft hatch-

way, but by then I had the advantage. When she

popped up through the aft hatch and the sun turned her

dun hair to umber, I was there and so was my phaser.

A second later, Yeoman Philotoff was heaped over the

hatch stairway, twitching and numb.

29

She wasn't alone; I was numb too. My arms ached

from the stiffness as I held them locked before me,

joined at the phaser in a tangle of fingers. I stared at

Philotoff's !imp form, and at Vallo still crumbled be-

yond her. If only I could know this was right...

"Freeze right there, lady."

By the time the new voice cut through me, I'd

already lowered my phaser, and my guard. I'd forgot-

ten the tug. I looked over my shoulder, toward mid-

ships. The tug hovered just above the chop off our port

side, casting a jade shadow on the water. A burly

guard hung his arms over the bumper rail, his shoul-

ders hunched, and a phaser trained square at my heart.

"Don't turn," he said. "Drop the phaser."

Defeat swarmed over me. Evidently being at sea for

so long had dulled my thinking processes more than I

realized. I would have to remember this---for future

shore leaves. My phaser thunked to the polished

wooden hatch-top at my feet. Only then did the guard

climb carefully onto the tug bumper and hop from

there to Keeler's rail, and finally onto the deck just

port of the foremast. I stood on the aft hatch, helpless,

my back still to him. I didn't turn, but I was watching

the guard as he kept the phaser firmly raised. He knew

better than to trust me. Kirk's face passed by in the

shadows cast by the guard's bulk as he slowly crossed

the green deck. What was I supposed to do? What did

the captain want of me? Should I take these people

down--that was out of the question now; the guard

had a solid drop on me.

High above me, the mainmast groaned in a stern

gust of wind over the ship, echoing my feelings. The

guard was big; I'd have a hard time taking him physi-

cally, if he ever gave me the chance. Not likely. He

was very cautious, approaching me with suspicious

slowness. A few more steps and he would have my

phaser.

All at oce, the fores'i boom, with the sail sloppily

30

bracketed between it and the lowered gaff like a rum-

pled bedspread, swung hard over from the starboard

side where Vallo and Philotoff had left it. The guard

threw his hands up when he saw the heavy tangle of

wood, rope, and canvas swinging toward him, but he

was no match for the sheer weight. The boom and gaff

thudded into his chest and knocked him hard into the

blocks and tackles of the rigging that supported the

mainmast. He howled his pain and anger, and the

expression on his face told me he wanted nothing more

than to have my right arm in his gritted teeth. His big

body shuddered and recovered in spite of the deadly

blow. Somehow he stayed on his feet and shook the

boom off with a mighty heave. Swinging freely, the

boom wobbled back over the forehatch.

But I hadn't waited. The phaser was back in my

hand. I leaped from the hatch onto the deck for a clear

shot, and took it. The stun beam caught the guard in

the shoulder and raced through his body, its energy

force knocking him onto the rail. He pivoted over it,

his eyes wide with shock, and tumbled into a mild

white froth.

My shoulders shook with tension as I straightened. I

broke my stare from the floating guard as his body

bobbed under the blue surface. I looked to starboard.

Dr. McCoy was just getting to his feet, leaning on the

raised deck amidships.

"I forgot all about you!" I blurted on a gust of relief.

He crawled under the lobbing boom and reached

over the rail to catch the stunned guard's left arm as

the body bobbed to the surface. I tucked the phaser

into a pocket and rushed to help him. Using the loose

jib halyard, I tied the guard to the side of the ship,

ensuring that he wouldn't go under anymore. "What are you doing?" McCoy asked.

I looped the rope under the guard's armpits two

more times for good measure and said, "I'll be right

back." I stepped up onto the polished rail and made a

31

crazy leap for the tug--it was farther away than it

looked. The bumper squeaked under my deck shoes

and keeping my balance was a fight to be remembered.

I wasn't going to be surprised again. In moments, the

tug had been thoroughly searched and I could stop

worrying about having another face pop up behind me

when I wasn't looking. I climbed back onto the tug's

turtle-backed deck and called, "All clear. Help me get

those three on board the tug."

McCoy glanced at the waterlogged form of the

guard, then back at Philotoffand Vallo, both still safely

under stun on the aft deck. "Pull closer, then," he

called in a frustrated tone, waving his hands in surren-

der.

By the time the doctor and I had wrestled the three

security people onto the tug and dismantled the navi-

gational beacon so the tug couldn't be tracked too

soon, yet another forgotten presence had pulled along

our starboard rail.

"What's happening?" Ambassador Shamirian

called as three of his crew held the two ships together.

Gavelan's bumpers were over the side, squeaking with

effort between the vessels. The ketch's sails were

being dropped and her movement soon stopped alto-

gether. We were adrift.

"Oh ...."I buried the phaser deep in my flight-suit

pocket as I followed McCoy back onto Keeler's boa-

green deck. Quickly I crossed to the port rail and

stepped up onto it, holding the rigging. "Ambassador,

I need your help."

Shamirian was a barrel-shaped man with a scruffy

black beard and ink-spot eyes, his swarthy complex-

ion softened by the gentle way in which his features

came together. A collarless yellow shirt flapped

against salt-and-pepper hairs on his massive chest as

he inhaled thoughtfully. He was an adventurous sort,

as he had aptly proven in the constant tournaments

32

with Captain Kirk over the past few weeks, but the

adventurer was always hidden behind an innate father-

liness. Lacking Kirk's presence, I needed someone

like that right now.

He squinted his eyes in expectation, even a touch of

amusement.

"You name it," he said.

We sailed for days and I counted every hour. My

only respite came in the dream-dogged sleep Dr. Mc-

Coy forced me to catch while I could get it, and there

was little more to do while sailing a straight course.

Ambassador Shamirian led the way in Gavelan, while

two members of his crew and I shared constant wheel

watch in his wake. Four hours on, four hours off.

Frustration nagged at me, as well as the dreams that

jarred my sleep, dreams of James Kirk nodding at me

to follow him into a very black void. I keenly missed

his easy gestalt with the ocean, that gourmet blend of

sea and eye. For a while 1 thought I might be losing my

high sense of trust for him, and that frightened me. If 1

couldn't trust Kirk, then who?

Frustration .... If we had the facilities and the

cooperation, we could have beamed to our destination

in a matter of seconds. Instead we plodded tediously

up one swell and down the other, creeping along the

Earth's wet surface like insects and there seemed no

end to it. I plied Dr. McCoy with questions, suspecting

that Kirk would have told him what was going on if he

told anyone, but all I got was various versions of "I'm

a surgeon, not a secret agent." After a while I began to

believe him. Perhaps even Leonard McCoy was kept

from certain information. That made me more ner-

vous; what could be so touchy that Kirk wouldn't tell

McCoy about it?

Shamirian's crew members aboard Keeler set my

mind at ease more than anything. I hadn't wanted to

33

admit to him that Earth's wind patterns sometimes

deceived me, and the ambassador's offer to lend expe-

rienced crew had taken at least one of the rocks out of

my stomach. Captain Kirk had told me I should be

able to feel the wind's direction on my face. I never

could. I wanted to.

By the time we swung into the quiet Caribbean cove

at Man-o-War Cay in the Abaco Islands of the Baha-

mas, I felt like an old woman. I took no time to breathe

in the pure air or enjoy the mixed scents of the

settlement, or even to marvel that the tiny semitropical

island had managed to avoid the touch of the dilithium

age. This was Keeler's home port, the place where she

had been rebuilt and rerigged, a place where small

sailing vessels had been built for centuries, as far back

as the American Revolutionary War, Ambassador

Shamirian told me. Blond settlement natives, still car-

rying the fair coloring of ancestors centuries removed

who had been shipwrecked here, and a strain of Hai-

tians still made up the population. Since space travel

had become common and the discovery of marvelous

off-world resorts whetted Earth folks' appetites, the

tourist trade had fallen off to a trickle in the Caribbean

side-islands. Now, Man-o-War Cay shuffled along her

own peaceful way, serving passing travelers and re-

pairing water vessels as she had for generations. So

what was I doing here?

"What now?" Dr. McCoy asked as he straightened

from helping me take the main halyards down.

My spine clicked as I straightened. "The captain

said there would be a ship here for me. A space-going

ship. There can't be that many of those on a dot of land

this small."

He shrugged. "Let's find it."

I was glad he suggested that. I didn't want to seem

like I was giving orders to Leonard McCoy. Though he

was technically my superior, he was not an officer of

the line---and he liked it that way. Captain Kirk had

34

left me holding the bag, and evidently McCoy was

happy to let me keep it. The doctor seemed to under-

stand how much I needed to get that bag by the throat

and shake it.

We left the schooner in Ambassador Shamirian's

care, took his good wishes, and went ship hunting.

Indeed it was a banana republic. There was even a

doddering Haitian native bent over a wheelbarrow

filled with bananas, hawking his island fruit. So there

were we, Star Fleet officers both, meandering along

the sand-crusted dock area, each carrying a bunch of

bananas. We questioned our way across the island to

another cove, where we were told there was a hangar

used for space hoppers and air transport vehicles.

Indeed Man-o-War Cay did have its area of modern

contamination, despite first impressions. The hangar

was large enough for several space-going shuttles.

When we first walked into the square blue building we

saw four Federation shuttles being worked on. Beyond

them were two private hover-cars, and beyond those a

huge, ugly, patched-up wreck probably being salvaged

for parts. It took up most of the hangar area and

prevented us from seeing beyond it.

"Maybe it's behind that wreck," I mentioned.

"We could just be in the wrong place," McCoy said.

"I'm not sure the fellow who directed us here was

actually speaking English. Or maybe Jim's connec-

tions didn't hook up."

"Let's at least look."

My heart sank as we stopped to get under the

wreck's twisted nose, taking care not to be cut by

jutting pieces of metal and fibercoil hull. From here on,

the hangar was empty. I strode a few paces into the

area, and sighed. Would the pieces of this puzzle keep

backing out of my reach?

"Nothing," McCoy commented as he came to my

side. "Maybe we should just contact Star Fleet and

see if we can reach Jim."

35

My lips pressed tight. "Not yet. I assaulted Fleet

Patrol officers to get here. I'm not leaving until I'm

sure there's no ship here meant for me." I continued

glaring, unseeing, into the empty space of the hangar

as though to clear my head and let revelations pour in,

but none came. The only interruption was a drawling

voice of someone singing, and the corresponding clank

of tools from inside the wreck behind us. At least

somebody was enjoying himself.

"Hello rha baby, hello ma honey, hello ma ragtime

gaaaaaaaal. Send me a kiss by wiiiire ....Baby ma

heart's on fiiiiiiire. Hello ma baby, hello ma

honey..."

I closed my eyes and moaned. "Oh, no. No."

McCoy moved beside me. "What?"

My head drooped. "I know that voice." Collecting

every bit of self-control I owned, I turned around and

soaked in the panorama of dented, mangled, patched,

time-battered hullscape. With a deep breath and grit-

ted teeth, I bellowed, "Scanner!"

There was a bump from within the coilplate under-

belly and an illustrative "Ow! Goddang it." A face

bloomed from a hatch in a place where no sane life

form would put a hatch. The familiar boyish features,

brown eyes, and sloppy brown hair at once relieved

and enraged me. "Piper!" rolled the Tennessee pro-

nunciation of my name. "Ya'll're late!" He crawled

out of the hatch head first, and I was there to catch him

by the--orange and blue floral?--collar. Ignoring the

tropical shirt where a Fleet uniform usually lived, I

rammed him up against the scored hul l.

"Why are you here?"

Scanner's smile dropped and he pressed back in my

grip. Though I didn't have a man's strength, I had

three things that worked on Scanner Sandage five feet

nine inches, a full clip of impatience, and his respect.

"Now, whoa, Piper," he began carefully. "Don't cold

36

start your warp engines. I know what you're think-

ing."

"Then tell me."

"Mr. Spock said you might be surprised to have

your own command all of a sudden, but I figured--"

"Spock was here?"

"Well, sure, for a while... when we installed the

warp engines and the computer bank."

I let go of him to step back and stare in sinking

disbelief at the ship. It was a piled design, but the

original hull shape was lost in additions and modifica-

tions, each with its own shape and color. Only the

original blunt nose and some of the starboard hull

remained unfettered by extra equipment. It looked like

a displaced prehistoric lizard, and the observation slits

engineered into the sides looked like gills left over

from a bad stint of evolution. I held my breath. "This

lumbering, obsolete junkyard has warp speed?"

He touched his heart, flexed his knees, and uttered,

"Oh, yeah! She'll go warp four!" He glanced help-

lessly at Dr. McCoy, then back at me. "Aw, Piper,

have a heart. A ship hasn't even got any personality

till it's at least twenty years old."

"Oh?" I shot back. "And what part of this ship is

only twenty years old?"

Dr. McCoy followed, wordless, as Scanner took my

elbow and escorted me slowly along the rutted hull.

Names of people and projects were illegibly etched

into dents and over patches, cut or burned in by

whatever tool was being used at the time. "You got the

wrong attitude," Scanner insisted. "When Captain

Kirk asked me ff I knew where there was a ship for a

covert mission, I jus' naturally suggested this one. I

got my pocket money when I was at the Academy by

doing Federation construction jobs on this rig."

"You're responsible for this being my first command

ship?"

37

"Yeah! It's got cutting lasers, it's got tractor beams

tied fight into the warp engines, it's got pinpoint

disruptors for demolition, it's got a presser beam, it's

got a containment field, it's got grapples, it's got a hull-

tool bank, it's got passenger quarters, and it's got

state-of-the-art computer capabilities that yours truly

helped put in. It's got a full architectonics library and

. . . and it's got Star Fleet registry." He poked his

finger into the hollow of my shoulder with each of the

last three words. "Federation-wide clearance."

"With Kirk's name all over it," I muttered.

He squared off in front of me, staging himself

against the construction rig, and struck a dramatic

pose, his brown eyes expressive and intent. "Remem-

ber the First Federation's giant tug? Doc, you remem-

ber!"

"Oh, yes," McCoy droned, rolling his eyes as the

memory flooded back in. "The commander of that

ship took a real fisk. He bluffed us down and we fell

for it. We could've bypassed his shutdown of our

systems and blown that ship to bits with a few phaser

shots. It didn't even have any shields or weapons. Just

an incredibly powerful tractor beam." He shook his

head and clasped his hands behind his back thought-

fully. "Jim was impressed by the theatrics."

"Right," Scanner said. "It was a supervessel de-

signed to yank asteroids out of orbit and haul 'em in

for mining purposes. All that power, and it turned out

to be a giant space-faring truck. But think what we

learned from it! Think of the mining boom after we set

up relations with the First Federation! That's what this

is!" He swung both hands endeafingly toward the

ship. "It's a Fesarius!" "It's a barge!"

My head started to throb.

I backed off a few steps to see if the rig looked any

better, and was greeted with yet another---as though I

needed one--surprise. From the main air lock ap-

38

peared a second familiar face, one which confirmed

my guess that I'd been set up. I watched in silent

astonishment as the slim young woman caught sight of

me, narrowed her slightly tilted almond-shaped eyes,

the only suggestion that she might be other than hu-

man, and strode down the long ramp toward us. Her

short beige-blond hair was a shade or two lighter than

the last time I'd seen it, a gift from Earth's relentless

sun. My hair, too, bore a few streaks of extra gold

after so long at the schooner's helm, but it would never

reach the pearl shade of hers.

"Merete," I breathed, almost a groan, confirming

what I saw as she came down the long ramp and

approached us.

"Hello, Piper," she said. Her tone of voice told me

that she knew exactly what was going through my

mind. She reached for McCoy's hand. "Dr. McCoy,

how are you?"

He took her narrow palm in subdued greeting.

"Well, I'm just fine, Dr. AndrusTaurus. What are you

doing here?"

She shrugged. "Medical duty. Or so I was told. I

only recently started to doubt it."

That was enough formality for me. I rounded on her.

"Do you know what's going on? All I've got so far is

Scanner, this bizarre excuse for a space vessel, and a

pile of unanswered questions. And I hope this thing

really can fly, because I'm guilty of assaulting Star

Fleet officers to get to it."

Merete pressed her delicately colored lips into a line

and gave me a look of intense sympathy, but she

plainly had no answers for me and, knowing that,

declined to complicate my mood. As she had in the

past, Merete AndrusTaurus gave me her best prescrip-

tion a steadying presence.

Scanner shook off my words and recalibrated.

"Piper, it's a good ship. It's got heart. Here... look

over here. See that dent? That happened when they

39

built the very first outersystem communications relay

station. And this patch over here? That's from the

superstructure for the Martian Colonies' Orbital Medi-

cal Center. And up yonder, that's what happened when

they built the new docking bay for Star Fleet Com-

mand itself. I was there." He poked his own chest.

"There's my name. See? Judd Sandage, light-etched

right in. And there--see that name? Liex Muller? He

died on that job. Piper, this ship... this is a memorial

to construction projects all over the Sol system. It's an

archive of local history! And it's all yours!"

His enthusiasm was almost pathetic. I backed away

a few steps and leaned toward Dr. McCoy while

Scanner waited anxiously near his prize.

"He loves the ship," I whispered to the years of

experience beside me. "What do I do?"

Dr. McCoy folded his arms and rocked in contem-

plation. ,Give him the benefit of the doubt. The ship is

innocent until proven obsolete."

With a surrendering little nod, I tried to change the

look on my face to give the impression I might be

having second thoughts. "I... I see what you mean,

Scanner," I said. "It does have a certain... unique-

ness."

He nodded so hard his hair flopped over his eyes.

The massive blue hull, patched with vari6us colors

of coiiplate, scored with Scanner's precious chroni-

cles, stretched out across the hangar, begging for

approval. Even the silly carnivorous teeth somebody

had painted onto the bridge hull seemed to be trying to

smile. I licked my lips, gazing across the veteran

fibercoil. I had to clear my throat before I could speak.

"Does it have a name?"

Scanner puffed up and squared his shoulders. With a

nod he announced, "Tyrannosaurus Rex."

My nerves jarred against each other. I felt Dr.

McCoy shift beside me, moving away. Must have been

the steam coming out of my ears.

40

In a feeble attempt to shield my disappointment, or

perhaps to shield Scanner from it, 1 ignored his hopeful

expression and stepped past him, tersely stating, "Not

anymore."

"This is U.F.P. Construction Transport S.S. Ba-

nana Republic requesting clearance for space access."

"This is Star Fleet Planetary Patrol, Banana Repub-

lic. Specify your registry code."

"MTK 4247, Patrol. It's a new code."

"We copy. That's not a new code, Banana Republic,

it's a reissue. Please confirm and specify the old

code."

"All right, confirmed. Scanner, take over."

Scanner leaned forward in the mate's seat beside

mine as we sat in front of a slapdash control cockpit

which bore the scars of having been overhauled and

added to with each new phase of engineering science

over its disturbingly long life. He tied his console into

the communications link and said, "Patrol, this vessel

was formerly registered as Construction Tug 87, S.S.

Tyrannosaurus Rex, registry number MKT 1187." He

leaned back as far as the newly installed command

lounge would pivot. "You sacka wet socks."

I shushed him with a glance. "I don't want any more

delays!" I hissed at him. "If we can get atmospheric

clearance we can be at Star Fleet headquarters in

fifteen minutes." Leaning closer to the corn system, I

asked, "Patrol, are we clear for space access?"

There was an annoying silence. They had no reason

to hold us back but their own petty show of power

over civilian vehicles. After a moment the same voice

returned "Affirmative, 4247. Take a heading of point

five seven seven by two six two. Have a good trip."

"No thanks to them," Dr. McCoy commented from

the passenger couch behind us. The foreman's cabin

had been refurbished, storage compartments removed

and altered for passenger seating. The renovations

41

were considerably more pleasant to look at than the

conglomerated hull, with its damage repairs and its

added chunks of hardware that had been tacked on

with each new technical innovation. The construction

transport looked less like any kind of ship than a

collection of odd-shaped containers somehow welded

together. Dr. McCoy had wasted no time in settling

back into the cushions of the new pivot chairs and

acquiring a professional slouch. Beside him, Merete

AndrusTaurus gazed thoughtfully out the observatory

gaps in the coilplate casing of the ship. Beside us,

coasting through the clouds, flew a Star Fleet Plane-

tary Patrol Cruiser. Merete waved at them, her slim

eyes narrowing as she smiled in an attempt to smooth

out anything they might have overheard. Merete

wanted nothing more than peace of mind--my peace of

mind.

"Well, Commander Piper," McCoy said. "Once we

clear the atmosphere, you're officially the captain of a

space-faring vessel. Quite an accomplishment, consid-

ering you've hardly been aboard a space-faring vessel

long enough to change uniforms. If you don't watch

out, Jim Kirk'11 think you're upstaging his dazzling

career." He was smiling, both arched brows raised in

amusement.

I blushed, but not from pride. "Doctor, this wasn't

my idea," I reminded him, burying my humiliation in

adjusting a navigational mapping beam.

"Ah, but that's usually how it happens, Com-

mander," he pointed out in his wise drawl.

Scanner nodded. "Sir's right, Piper. You know, in

all the years ol' Rex has been alive, all the uncounted

projects this ship hauled on, she's never had a captain

before. She's had crew chiefs and construction bosses

and foremen, but never ever a captain. You're the first

one!" He slumped back in his chair, raised one foot

high on the other knee, and stared at the mangled

42

ceiling circuitry. "Captain Piper. Has a kind of a nice

ring to it."

Perhaps the designers put too much pivot into the

pivot chairs. I stood up, shoulders bunched beneath

the cotton flight suit, and placed my hand on Scanner's

chair. It gave a satisfying groan when I pushed it, and

it reeled backward. Scanner yelped, hit the floor on his

side, and rolled over, his face plastered with astonish-

ment.

"What'd I do?" he bellowed. "What'd you do that

for?"

I stood over him, one foot on either side of his

sprawled left leg. For long moments I glared down at

him, so intently that he dared not get up. McCoy and

Merete were frozen to their chairs.

"Don't call me that," I said. I stepped over him.

"Notify me when we're over San Francisco."

"Is it gone yet?"

The soft voice was consummately feminine. Noth-

ing about it suggested its source might be other than

human. There wasn't much about Merete that couldn't

be human if she wanted to give up her Palkeo citizen-

ship or heritage. The Palkeo Est people of Altair Four

were one of the independently evolved cultures closest

to humans so far discovered, at least in their habits and

attitudes. Only physiological exceptions set them

apart, such as genetic code differences, blood com-

pounds, and certain nucleoplasms or some other bio-

technical terminology that I could throw around.

Merete's similarity to a human, spiced with that ves-

tigial hint of aiienness, comforted me somewhat, but

unfortunately also reminded me of Sarda.

Sarda--a cultural foundling. A Vulcan, displaced by

his own people, trying to dig a trench that would lead

him back to the main river of Vulcan tradition from the

separate pool fate had eddied him into. Had he broken

43

under the pressure, the sorrow?.Could a Vulcan deal

with that kind of humiliation in the midst of personal

honor and pride? Or would he reach a snapping point?

"Is your headache gone?" Merete asked again with

her customary patience.

An added pressure on the heat cloth over my eyes

let me know I was being touched.

I thought about giving her an answer and waited to

decide ff the pounding in my skull had receded.

"Nope," was my conclusion.

Merete's weight tipped the edge of my bunk mat-

tress. "I don't want to medicare you ff I can avoid it."

"It's only a headache, Merete," 'I said. "I'll live." I

puffed the heat cloth from my eyes and blinked into the

dim light of the foreman's cabin. My cabin, now. It

was a cramped and inglorious place. Constructags

simply weren't bu'flt for comfort, and room remained

at a premium even when renovations were attempted.

"It'll go away as soon as I get to talk to the captain. As

soon as he tells me what's going on."

"You don't have any idea?" she asked, diminishing

the seriousness by casually arranging the heat cloth in

her medikit.

"I know sarda's in trouble." I sat up, scooting back

against the cold metal wall. "It's got to have some-

thing to do with that. Kirk deliberately made sure

those security officers didn't find out I was on board

the schooner. And I think he knew how I'd react once

I found out Sarda had gotten caught up in espionage."

I pulled at her wrist, forcing her attention away from

the medildt. When she looked up, I asked, "Are you

sure, absolutely sure, Mr. Spock didn't say anything

about this so-called mail run?"

In deference to me, she took the time to think about

it for a moment. Finally she shook her pale head and

shrugged. "Not a word. He provided instructions for

the ship, and for a while there were several Star Fleet

technicians and engineers down here working on it.

4

Scanner and I didn't even know the ship was intended

for you until a week ago, when the last of the Fleet

crew left. I thought I was here to tend to injuries in the

tech crew. I certainly didn't understand orders to stay

behind. Then Mr. Spock told Scanner that you'd be

coming. We assumed you'd beam in any minute after

that. What were you doing on that sailing boat?"

I dropped back. Good question, Doctor. "It's Kirk's

private ship. He offered to authorize shore leave for

me aboard the schooner if I was willing to crew the

ship during the Annual International Battle at Sea

Flotilla for Masted Ships. War games. A collection of

sailing buffs get together and try to outmaneuver each

other. I thought it was a little primitive and silly until a

couple of ships actually went over in the fervor for

victory points. Smaller ships than Keeler, of course,

but even we carne close to being rammed a few times.

They're pretty serious about it." I stared at my knees,

suddenly unblinking, aware of little more than my own

heartbeat. "Few more serious than Jim Kirk. I never

saw such intent to win. He's a bedeviling man,

Merete. He leaves me in awe . . . confused .... He

tries to force me to figure out what he's thinking. He

pushes the odds. This time, he miscalculated. Some-

thing went wrong. He meant to tell me what was going

on, but he got pulled off the schooner before he could

do it. I've got to find him, Merete," I told her, lost in

conviction. "I've got to know what to do."

If she was unsettled by my intensity, she did a prime

bedside job of concealing it. She nodded slowly, mak-

ing sure I knew she had been listening. "You will," she

assured. "We'll be there soon. It may all turn out to be

much simpler than you expect. Just a mix-up of some

kind. It may even be fixed by the time we arrive at Star

Fleet."

"I hope so," I said. "I don't mind a struggle, but I

can't stand not knowing."

An unfamiliar whine interrupted our conversation,

4S

followed then by several clicks, and I knew somehow

that Scanner was trying to shake the bugs out of the

new intercom system. I was about to punch the trans-

ceiver button beside my berth when his voice franti-

cally crackled through the hastily installed circuits.

"Piper! You better get up here! This danged ship is

warping out of orbit all by itself!"

46

Chapter Four

"Make the most of an uncertain future."

--The Squire of Gothos

"STATUS !"

The command seat sighed as I angled into it and

squared off before a band of flickering instrument

lights.

Scanner was trembling slightly, but trying to conceal

it as he frantically interpreted the readout screen.

"She pulled out of orbit as soon as we reached the

descent plane for the West Coast."

"Malfunction?" I asked as we reeled past the daz-

zling display of Jupiter and her moons.

"Naw, Idon't think so. She's got a mind of her own.

She's powering up to warp. Betcha the computer's

behind it. Looks like this trip is going to take a lot

longer than you thought. We might have to tote

lunch."

The control panel was like the rest of the ship a

sloppy amalgam of new instruments shoved in wher-

ever the old instruments could be moved or rear-

ranged. I felt like a piebe as I tried to familiarize myself

with the controls. "Get into the system. Countermand

what it's doing."

"I tried."

"Well?"

He gave me a desolate look. "It's locked up."

A chill ran through me. I glanced over my shoulder

to the passenger seats, where the two doctors sat in

47

expectant silence. Merete was noticeably stiff. McCoy

appeared relaxed but wide-eyed. I felt uncomfortable

under the sudden weight of responsibility for their

lives, not to mention the self-consciousness of know-

ing how often McCoy had watched James Kirk per-

form under pressure.

No--I couldn't think about that now. I couldn't

waste time and mental energy comparing myself to the

captain. As I turned once again to the blinking control

panel, I noticed with a shuddering apprehension that

Jupiter was already far behind.

Scanner's face was patterned in blues and grays as

he peered into the visual readout screen. "We're about

to warp, Piper."

"Dr. McCoy, Merete, strap yourselves in, please."

"What's going on?" McCoy asked. "Why's it doing

this?"

"You've been here all along, sir. You know as much

as we do. Scanner, confirm that the computer has

navigational control, or the warp could tear us up."

"Computer has full control," he responded. "Rex

knows what she's doing, even if we don't."

"Stupid machine," I grumbled. "Project course and

tell me where we're going."

"How? " he blustered. "He could go flyin' forever at

warp speed. The computer's the only thing that knows

where it'll stop us. How you gonna get it to tell you?"

We glared at each other for a long moment as I

reviewed the fact that I didn't have any real answers.

Something in Scanner's words had awakened the rebel

in me. I shrugged. 'TI! ask it." My hands lingered

over the Controls until I figured out which ones to push

to revive the computer, or at least distract it. "Compu-

ter tie-in, command authorization."

The board began whirring and clicking as though it

didn't have the slightest idea what I was talking about.

Then the firm, resonant imitation of a female voice

48

requested, "Specify identification code for authorized

command, please."

I looked at Scanner. He blinked at me,'then back at

the computer console. "O1' Rex has delusions of being

a starship," he said, obviously taken aback.

"But it gives me some power," I surmised, "if it

knows it was to answer to a particular person."

Dr. McCoy leaned as far forward as his safety straps

allowed. "Let's hope it knows that person is you,

Commander."

"Going to warp speed on automatic," Scanner said.

To the instant, the stars before us blended into a segue

of spectral color and we were at warp. A flush of

helplessness caused silence on the cramped bdge.

We waited to see if the ship could stand the strain.

"Warp two," Scanner advised. "Two-point-five...

warp three. Entering cruise mode." He shook his head

and sighed. "Well, here we are."

When my skin stopped crawling, I renewed my

computer access and fed in my personal identification

code. The gratifying result came almost instantly.

"Accepted. Lieutenant Commander Piper, Star Fleet

clearance, Star Date 3988.1, command status ac-

knowledged. Thank you."

I took a deep breath and glanced at Dr. McCoy.

"I'm alive," I told him. He looked a bit dazed, but said

nothing. I tried to think clearly, readjusting my mind to

talk to a computer. "Computer."

"Working," the gentle voice answered with just the

perfect touch of question that invited me to continue.

"Release navigational control to the helm."

"Not possible."

"Why not?"

"Current navigational programming includes a pre-

empt encoding which prevents change of program

until destinational code is satisfied."

"Damn."

49

"At least we know it's not a malfunction," Merete

pointed out. "There is a destination."

I cleared my throat. "Computer, specify destina-

tion."

More clicking. "Tau Ceti Quadrant, Ciatella Star

System, planet Argelius."

"What?" McCoy blustered.

"The plot thins," Scanner drawled.

I sat back. "Argelius? Why Argelius? It's the sleep-

iest planet in the Federation! There's no place in the

known galaxy where less goes on. Why would he send

us there?"

All three of my hijacked "crew" blinked at me like a

gaggle of curious birds. Then Merete and Scanner

chimed, "Who?"

My brows lowered over my eyes in a scurrilous

frown. "Who else?"

They backed off. Space was black, velvety, deco-

rated, and ominous as we streaked through it, the old

ship reveling in a mission that included no anchoring

or pulling. For the first time in her existence, an ugly

old tug had a chance to fly. Aside from a few shaking-

down tremors, Rex took to the new warp capability

with unexpected grace, maintaining her cabin warmth

and keeping us all in quiet comfort despite the unaes-

thetic surroundings. I felt that, somehow, this old dog

loved her new trick.

"What's our ETA?" I asked.

"Ninety-two hours," Scanner said. He watched the

control board, his expression sunken, as though his

old friend had betrayed his trust. In that moment of

helplessness, when I could do absolutely nothing to

change the situation, my senses finally opened up to

someone's feelings other than my own.

"It's not a mistake, Scanner," I said mildly. "It isn't

your fault."

He shook his head, brows knitted in perplexity. "I

50

wish I knew what was going on. I dunno what to say. I

helped put in all this equipment. It wasn't pro-

grammed, I swear it wasn't."

I slouched in the command chair. "You feel bad

about being outwitted by Mr. Spock, and I feel bad

about allowing myself to get dropped into this by

Captain Kirk. I knew he had something on his mind,

but I never had the nerve to ask until it was too late. If

this is anybody's fault, it's mine." "Yours?"

My lips pressed into a mockery of a grin. "Privilege

of command."

"Aw, that stinks."

I shrugged. "But it's one thing they kept grilling into

us at command school. Command is more than getting

all the credit. It also means getting all the blame."

Scanner sighed and got to his feet, casting one

pathetic look back at the computer console and instru-

ment panel before saying, "I'm gonna get some sleep.

Nothing else to do. Poor Rex... first space mission

and all we can do is sit here like a buncha Dunsels."

My first command. I'd dreamed about it since enter-

ing my senior year at Star Fleet Academy, when I was

offered the privilege of choosing whether or not I

wished to go on to command candidacy. A singular

honor, given to only a handful of graduates each year.

Not just a chance for high rank, but a chance to

command a Star Fleet space vessel. Then along came

the mangle of events that had led me into the Rit-

tenhouse conspiracy and finally to the Federation

Medal of Valor, and I knew the meaning of being

plunged into the unexpected. How long ago? How long

had I served aboard Enterprise--a matter of weeks? It

seemed like years. And I wasn't ready to have that

feeling of years.

I glanced surreptitiously around the dull little com-

mand area of Banana Republic. I was alone now.

51

Merete had retreated to her cabin, McCoy to the one

he and Scanner must share. The computer and instru-

ment panels had settled down into a humming elec-

tronic euphoria of knowing exactly what they were

supposed to be doing and quite simply doing it.

Ninety-two hours. Almost four days before I would

hax, e any answers. Four days of being Dunsel. Not exactly a command dream.

The hours crept by, each one ridiculing me, until I'd

finally had enough and something snapped.

Scanner jumped about twice his height when 1

whacked him out of a sound sleep. "What--what? Red

Alert? Whassa matter? he babbled.

"Scanner, get up," 1 said. "We've got work to do."

He raked a hand through his hair and mumbled,

"Are we there already?"

"Hardly," I said, trying to cut through his disorien-

tation.

On one of the other berths in the crowded cabin,

once part of a storage compartment, Dr. McCoy rolled

to his feet. "Is something up?"

"Yes, sir," I answered. "My patience."

Scanner shook himself out and got up, wobbling

slightly as he asked, "l hope you got a good reason for

wakin' me up from that nice shore leave I was taking."

"I do. We're going to break into that navigational

program. I want control of this ship."

If he hadn't managed to wake up completely, the

shock of that statement brought him fully around.

"You're gonna what? Are you fishin' in the right

crick? The computer's been programmed by Com-

mander Spock on Captain Kirk's orders !"

I straightened my shoulders, despite the low ceiling.

"Well, you just get ready to unprogram it. He might be

Captain Kirk," I said solidly, "but this is my ship."

I turned, strode out of the cabin, and stepped onto

the interdeck ladder, not staying to examine the look

of abject amazement the two men exchanged. It really

52

wasn't meant to be a dramatic exit; I just wanted to get

out of there in case they started laughing.

Scanner and Dr. McCoy followed me back to the

bridge. As we passed Merete's cabin, she too realized

something was up and hurried into the corridor. In a

way, I was glad they followed. Their presence forced

me to stay in the mode of defiance I'd reached, and

gave me no opportunity to reconsider. I had to be in

control of the ship. Suppose there was trouble? What

ff we were attacked or damaged? How would I live

with myself ff all I could do was shrug and say it was

Kirk's problem?

I kept thinking about Captain Kirk, my mind divid-

ing between trust and rebellion, obedience and insur-

gence. I respected him, certainly, but could I ever

respect myself as much if I settled back and accepted

whatever he or anyone dished out to me without so

much as an explanation? Possibly I could have done so

this time, if another element, deeper and harsher,

hadn't been eating at me. Sarda.

Lieutenant Sarda, recipient of the Silver Palm and

Star for Conspicuous Bravery. Young Vulcan techni-

cal scientist, a weapons specialist. In fact, a weaponry

pioneer, much to his own embarrassment. My fellow-

classman at Star Fleet Academy. The only person

who'd stayed relentlessly at my side during the dread-

nought affair just weeks ago---I kept saying that to

myself just weeks ago, only weeks.

What was happening to him? Was this computer

setting carrying me farther away from helping him? I

had to know the entire truth. I couldn't get it here, on a

space ship streaking toward passivity. My Vulcan

friend had somehow strayed from the route back to the

Vulcan teachings to one lined with suspicion. Theft of

Federation-owned technology, the security lieutenant

had said. Which technology? Sarda hadn't been work-

53

ing on any particular project that I knew of, not after

the destruction of the dreadnought that carried the

image projector he'd invented. That episode had been

enough to drain the inventive urge out of anybody, at

least for a while. Especially poor Sarda. He kept

trying to turn his talent for weaponry to devices for

defense, and Star Fleet Command, in its unending

military wisdom, kept interpreting Sarda's inventions

to be used aggressively if necessary. They kept giving

him awards and commendations that did nothing more

than shame him before his Vulcan culture. So far none

of his inventions had been used punitively, except by

Vice Admiral Rittenhouse. But Rittenhouse was dead

now, and his dream to force galactic war was dead

with him.

So what had happened? What had changed since I'd

gone to sea with the intrepid James T. Kirk?

I forced myself back to the immediate present,

jabbing a finger at the computer console. "I want to

know how that thing's tied into the navigational sys-

tem. I want every circuit examined until we find a way

to interrupt the programming. You're the electrical

specialist," I said to Scanner. "Start tracing. I'm going

to get into the mechanics. I want control of this ship

and I don't care how we get it."

Scanner gaped at me, hands on hips. "It must be

autumn in Piperland, 'cause the leaves are dropping

off your tree !"

I struck him with a cold glare. "I'm not joking,

Scanner. I'm not going to be anyone's pawn. Not even

Kirk's."

Dr. McCoy caught my arm as I stepped past him, on

my way to the engine area. "Do you know what you're

doing? The computer program may be tied into other

things. Life support, engine control..."

"We'll have to find out," I said.

"But if Jim did this on purpose---"

"I'm not letting anyone dictate my command with-

54

out an explanation. I'm going to get control of this

ship's helm."

Scanner grasped the back of the command chair and

shook it. "Piper," he whined, "don't you get it? This

is Captain James T. Kirk you're dinkin' around with!"

If I ever doubted my decision, the last lingering

regrets now dissolved away as I gazed into Scanner's

desperate annoyance and realized that I had neither

control of the ship nor control over those who were

supposed to be my crew. To him and Merete, I was

merely a fellow Academy graduate. To Dr. McCoy, I

was a talented upstart. The obstacles before me grew

as I began to perceive them. Control of the ship;

respect of my crew. The weight kept my shoulders stiff

as I squared them. "That's exactly right," I said

coolly. "And he wouldn't let anybody do this to him."

By the look in Dr. McCoy's face, I could tell that I

had hit upon an unmoving truth. I took my note of

victory and escaped to the engine room.

For the next forty hours I drove them and myself to

every physical and mental limit, making demands

upon them that strained both their patience and my

own. McCoy set himself up as Mess Officer, and, true

to his word, that's what he made of the galley. We

didn't eat well, but we did eat. At least we wouldn't

faint from hungermthat is, if the broccoli with peanut

butter sauce didn't kill us first. As the hours passed,

we found out how the computer system worked, found

out how the warp engines were tied into it, found out

which circuits, foils, trip-joints, and conduits were

responsible for the navigational lockup. I allowed

them time for sleep, but only barely enough, and only

on Dr. McCoy's insistence as senior medical officer. I

catnapped, but only when he exercised his medical

authority, and even then I did nothing but dream about

which circuitry panel I was going to try next. I refused

to believe the obvious that we were trying to break an

unbreakable program. The more obvious it became,

55

the more determined I was to find that one flaw, that

one backdoor that would give me access to control

over the ship I supposedly commanded.

By the third day of this, we were all showing effects

of the strain. Scanner, especially, since most of the

pressure--and my wrath--landed on him. I wasn't a

technical specialist, but I did have a way with ma-

chines, only because I didn't compltely understand

them and they didn't completely understand me. Deep

down, I knew they were stupid, no matter how brainy

they pretended to be. There was a way to wheedle

into, out of, past, or through just about any system,

any program, and if I had to force unprecedented

performances, I would do it. There was a way to hack

into that navigational programming and I would find it.

"If it kills me, you'll find it!" Scanner finally ex-

ploded when I muttered my intents as we both lay on

our back under the dismantled bridge panel. He

crawled out, unfolded himself, and got to his feet,

primed for a tirade. His face was drawn and pale, his

eyes ringed with exhaustion. Behind him, Merete had

been trying to piece back together one of the circuit

boards I'd picked apart. She paused to listen, but did

not interrupt as the volcano bubbled up in Scanner's

face. "We've tried everything we know. Logic over-

ride, process of elimination, systems confusion, drop-

snag, memory-circuit jumping--I don't know what

y'ali want anymore! It's Mr. Spock's program! Where

d'you come off thinking there's a flaw?"

I stood up and brushed several years' worth of

construction dust from the legs of my flight suit.

"Even Spock knows better than to design a com-

pletely impenetrable system, Scanner. You know he

could get into it if he had to." "He can. We ain't him!"

"I don't care. There's a way. I'm going to find it."

I stepped past him. My own momentum swung me

around when Scanner clasped my arm and pulled me

56

back to face him. I hadn't realized until then the extent

of the frustration he felt. Nor, I think, had he realized

the extent of my determination. We squared off, sepa-

rated only by a circuit-drenched expanse of bridge

space.

"Look," he said hoarsely, "I know you got Lieuten-

ant Commander slashes on your sleeve. I know you're

the youngest hoo-hah ever to get the Medal of Valor,

and if you pulled my socks off and tickled my feet I'd

have to admit you deserved it. But one big bang don't

add up to eight or ten years of experience and if you

scratch the surface you're gonna find out you're just

like me and Sarda and everybody else, just fresh outa

the plum tree, and we need help to do this! You can't

just 1olly in here and pop off orders to break program-

ming by somebody like Spock, you just can't! You

can't!"

His words grated on my bones. The truth of them,

the spark within them, lit the burning need to establish

myself beyond the boundaries that had been set for

me, the cavernous desire to be worthy of Kirk's

expectations, even beyond my own. And even beyond

the deep humiliation of being told off by someone who

was supposed to be under my command, there rose a

special indignation. Closer and closer it came to the

surface, until finally, in a rumbling, chilling tone of its

own, it broke free.

"You hear me, mister." I narrowed the distance

between myself and Scanner, hardly recognizing my

own voice. "You can report status to me. You can tell

me what's happening, and what might happen, and

what happened in the past. You can tell me I'm suck-

ing antimatter. You can tell me anything you want to

tell me. But don't ever tell me what I can't... do."

The words sizzled in the air between us. They had

been hardly more than a whisper, the hissing voice of

some command demon that had been dormant within

me.

57

Scanner stared at me. Evidently he expected my

reaction even less than I did. I'd never seriously

exercised those commander slashes before.

He blinked slowly, and his eyes went down. For the

first time both he and I understood the separation we

must work within, and I genuinely felt--for the first

time in my life----the intense desolation of command.

Rather than waiting for the situation to thicken, I

turned and walked off the bridge. Merete was waiting

in the narrow corridor as I stepped through. Our eyes

met. Her tolerant expression manifested itself in a

gentle tone of voice. "He's right, you know."

And the demon flushed back into power. My chin

snapped upward. Wrong time, wrong mood.

"I'm in charge, Doctor," I snapped. "I'll tell you

when he's right."

The desolation followed me as I made my way deep

into the ship, trying to find a moment of peace in the

midst of my obsession. I didn't like the sounds that

had come out of me. I wondered if Captain Kirk had

ever found himself in a situation like this, standing

alone against the people he was trying to protect.

What was it like for him? He had close friends too--

Spook, McCoy, Scott--how did he manage to com-

mand them, order them around when he had to?

Where did he draw the line? Where was the distinction

between _fi??nd and commanding officer? Perhaps

ere wasn t any distinction at all. Perhaps the friend-

ship had to be sacrificed altogether. Did I dare believe

that? It seemed the easiest way right now, for me, ira

lonely way.

The engineering circuit-boards to the steering mech-

amsms on the transport were spread around me as I

lay on my side before an open access-chamber, drown-

ing my insecurities in snapping voltage, when I be-

came aware of a second presence. I didn't feel guilty,

so it couldn't have been Scanner. I didn't feel any

waves of sympathy, so it wasn't Merete either.

58

"Feel better now?" the tolerant voice began.

"I'm not sure," I admitted.

There was a shuffle beside me, and Dr. McCoy

slipped into view as he sat down near me. I continued

working. The beleaguered circuits crackled their fa-

tigue.

"Are you going to tell me I'm behaving irratio-

nally?" I asked him.

He shrugged, one brow raising into an arch. "Irra-

tionally? Not yet. Obsessively... maybe." "And obsession isn't irrational, sir?"

"Depends on who's displaying the tendency," he

said casually. "Question is, do you think you're acting

irrationally."

It might have been in question form, but something

about it wasn't a question at all. I paused in my circuit

junctioning and looked at him. "Defiance is a perfectly

rational process," I said, hoping it sounded reason-

able.

Now both brows went up. "New one on me," he

muttered. Then he looked directly at me and asked,

"Are you sure, really sure, that you want to break the

captain's programming?"

I settled back to work, rather as a buffet around my

answer. "Yes, I do."

"We'll be at Argelius in twenty-eight hours," he

pointed out. "Maybe your answer will be there."

"And maybe it won't." I tried not to sound flippant.

"Sir, you know Captain Kirk. You know he'd never

allow this to happen to him. I can't help but think he

expects the same from me."

He tipped his head calmly. "You'll tear yourself

apart if you keep comparing yourself to him."

My hands, now scored with a dozen tiny electrical

burns, felt hot and clammy inside the access chamber.

I pulled them out, knowing I was fooling myself about

gaining entry into the system by any mechanical route.

I scooted out and leaned up against the bulkhead.

59

"I'm comparing myseff to me," I told him.

McCoy pursed his lips and said nothing more about

it, though I could see and sense him thinking deeply,

possibly analyzing my mental state with his years of

experience with deep-space psychology. Actually, I'd

have relished the chance to talk to him, to sift out my

conflicting feelings, perhaps even to ask his advice,

but there wasn't time.

"Sir, you know Commander Spock. How would he

program a system ff he wanted it to be impermeable by

anyone but himself?"

McCoy spread his hands out. "You're asking me? I

don't even know how he makes the computer play

chess with him. He'd do it logically, of course... one

by one eliminating every possible flaw. He'd probably

get the computer to help him set up the system in the

first place. Double indemnity."

"But there's a way into any system," I persisted.

"It's just a matter of--" I scouted for a better word,

but there wasn't one. "Odds," I said.

He puzzled for a moment, then held up a finger.

"Oh. You mean like ff you fire an infinite number of

shots at an infinite number of monkeys..."

"You'll eventually kill Shakespeare." A grin broke

my frown and some of the tension flowed away.

"But you're overtaxing our resources, Piper," the

doctor suggested. "There isn't the technical knowl-

edge on board this ship to outguess a computer expert

of Spock's level. From what I can see, you've already

tried every possible way of getting into that system.

You've exhausted your options."

As we sat on the floor, leaning up against opposite

bulkheads, Dr. McCoy's untechnical presence and his

obvious emotional empathy for my situation gave me a

portal to slip through. In that quiet, sequestered place

I found a clarity of purpose that had eluded me, no

matter how directed my goals seemed, and a simplicity

that just might be my salvation.

6O

"All the options," I murmured on a sigh. A sigh of

surrender, perhaps.

He too had been lost in thought, and now looked up.

"What? Oh. Yes. At least, looks that way to me."

I stared into the access chamber. The circuits snick-

ered back at me.

Scanner appeared, or shall I say peeked, through the

narrow doorway, his fatigue-drawn face wearing its

most puppyish expression. "Permission to come aft?"

I peered at him for a moment, then felt myself relax.

"Granted."

He crouched near Dr. McCoy in the cramped area

and sighed, hanging his head and not looking at me

until he absolutely had to. "I thought about trying to

cross-connect the spiral circuits into the computer

bank, but I thought I'd better get your okay before I

blow up the ship."

I dropped my gaze for a moment of private amuse-

ment, realizing the lengths I'd pushed poor Scanner to

in his attempt to satisfy me. He seemed completely

serious. He was that desperate. A faint shudder passed

through me. Cross-fed spiral circuits. Br,,,.

"Sit down, Scanner," I said. "Take a break. Believe

it or not, I'm not out to wear you down."

He slumped onto his haunches against the bulkhead

and waved a weary hand. "Nah, s'okay. I'm just the

comedy relief."

McCoy shifted his legs on the cool metal floor and

said, "I think we should all get some rest." Then he

paused and regarded me soberly. "Assuming we've

admitted we're going to Argelius."

My next words tasted bad coming up, but I let my

pride slide away long enough to say them, for the

sakes of the people I was responsible for. It wasn't

desperation that was driving me, after all; I didn't have

the excuse of trying to save lives or the success of my

mission. It was, as Scanner had muttered at me a day

ago, "plain cussed mulishness." Lacking any honor-

61

able excuse for my behavior, somewhat deflated by

Dr. McCoy's accuracies about trying to imitate Kirk, I

sank into remission and said, "We've done our best.

Even Kirk couldn't ask more of us. We've tried every

normal way of breaking the programming."

Scanner rubbed his eyes. "Everything but voodoo

conjurin'."

My neck ached as I wearily nodded. I stared with

unfocused eyes past my arms as they ,ested on my

knees, past the circuit cleaver still hanging from my

fingers. Aware of everything, I saw nothing. Voodoo,

he'd said.

"Every normal way," I mumbled. I continued to

stare.

Vague movements in my field of vision, McCoy and

Scanner shared a glance, then looked at me again.

"Uh-oh," Scanner moaned. "Lookit that. I'm

scared of that smile."

Maybe I was smiling. I wasn't sure. My fatigue-

stiflened cheeks did feel tighter, but I wasn't paying

attention. Inside my head a tiny schooner suddenly

came hard about in the face of its enemy and slashed a

new course across lmpossible's bow. My fingers be-

gan to tingle.

"We've been going about this all wrong," I said.

Scanher's head drooped between his knees. "I knew

it, I knew she was gonna say that... I knew it..."

"Come on!" I got up and led the way back to the

bridge, hardly aware of my own movements and the

aches of strain and fatigue. They followed me, proba-

bly as much out of curiosity as to follow my order, and

even Merete, who could sleep through a supernova,

was awakened by the electric anticipation in the air.

She came out of her cubicle and followed, groggy but

aware that something was happening. We emerged

onto the bridge amid the scattered mechanical debris

of Scanner's second attempt to reroute the computer

62

program through the main guidance system. I settled

into the command chair.

"We've been sailing the wrong tack," I said.

Scanner shook his head, and his bangs fell over tired

eyes. "What's a tack?"

McCoy and Merete crowded near us as I continued.

"Instead of thinking about the programming, we

should have been thinking about who programmed it."

Scanner grimaced in perplexity. "Spock pro-

grammed it."

"Of course. A perfectly rational program, impos-

sible to break by rational means."

"What are you getting at?" McCoy asked.

"I'm going to force the machine to be irrational."

"You can't do that," Scanner argued. "This is a

computer. You can't fool a computer."

"It's a machine, Scanner. Machines are idiots.

They're marvelous tools, but they're stupid. You

know why they don't put legs on computers? Because

they'd walk off a cliff if you told them to."

Drained and now confused, Scanner dropped into

the nearest seat and slumped. "Okay," he resigned,

"but the only one who knows what's going on inside

that machine is the machine itself."

"My thoughts exactly." I settled into the command

chair and punched into the computer link. "Computer,

identify my voice pattern."

"Working. Lieutenant Commander Piper, Star Fleet

identificationre"

"Now identify the commander of this vessel."

The instruments quietly hummed. "Lieutenant

Commander Piper, command status authorized Star

Date 3374.4."

"Verify my personal authority to engage Class A-1

priority command under master's voice pattern."

The humming took a little longer this time. "Veri-

fied."

63

"Good," I murmured. "Computer, establish Clas

A-1 priority command as specified."

"Working. Priority established. Please go ahead."

"Question is there a way to countermand current

navigational program?" "Negative."

No surprises there. I pressed on. "Is there a way to

bypass current programming and engage a new pro-

gram in its place?"

"One moment, please." Click, buzz, whirr. "Af-

firmative."

"How?"

"Under Star Fleet Regulations for Emergency

Command, Section Z-12, subparagraph B, current

authorized command must declare critical emergency

computer activation."

"Ah. Computer, this is Lieutenant Commander

Piper. As commander of this vessel, I now declare

critical emergency computer activation according to

specified Star Fleet regulation." "Acknowledged."

"Compute method for overriding current navigation

programming and engaging a new program in its

place," I said nervously, taking great care with my

words. "Specify how to free helm to manual control."

"Immediate answer is not available. Will advise

upon completion of circuit analysis." With that, the

computer board settled into a happy whirr.

Scanner's lips fell open. "I'11 be danged!"

It took the computer only four minutes to figure out

a way around its own programming. Before any of us

dared break the expectant silence, the pleasant female

voice returned, rife with directions which Scanner and

I carefully followed.

"Reroute navigational circuitry through CKC-

Bank, sections 72R through 197X, via Dexter-Nelson

noncontiguous file cluster. Arrange file allocation

64

along following index pattern." A long list of number

bunches appeared on the readout screen. Scanner

wordlessly, even numbly, fed them into the appropri-

ate systems, one by one. It was clear by the way he did

it, slowly and with nervous care, that he didn't really

understand what he was doing.

"What's happening?" Merete asked quietly, as

though she might disturb the computer's concentration

if she spoke too loudly.

"It's telling us how to get helm control," I said

simply.

McCoy shifted forward eagerly, with a strange en-

thusiasm that I didn't quite know how to interpret.

"You're actually breaking Spock's programming?"

"No, not breaking it," I answered. "It can't be

broken or stopped. He knew that's what we'd try to

do, if we tried anything." "Then what--?"

"It can't be stopped. But it can be replaced."

He gave me an amusing frown. "Sounds like rheto-

ric to me."

"Ah, yes, but Rex has never been taught the art of

rhetoric. It can't tell the difference, so it just does what

it's told. The computer has no reason not to help us

override the programming, so that's what it's doing.

Didn't I tell you? Stupid!" My delight actually

squeezed a giggle out of me, but I was too pleased to

be embarrassed.

"That's it." Scanner sat back. Fine beads of sweat

glistened on his upper lip. "Now we wait."

We settled down. The computer console did every-

thing but spit bubbles. Lights glowed, then flickered,

then changed intensity. Numbers on the readout

screens flashed by faster than human eyes could as-

similate them, backgrounded by jangles, grinds, and

general electronic braying.

Soft lights played across our faces. Faces of human-

ity itself, reestablishing the true wonder of our own

65

power. Think of a machine... design a machine...

build a machine... be carried into the farthest reaches

of space by a machine... yet still rule over it. Still

outthink it. Quite a partnership, quite a symbiosis. Our

lives were in the hands of the machine, and its in ours.

The patterns of lights grew pale. The clicking fell

away, leaving only a whirr and hum. The whirr

stopped. The hum faded. The readout screen went

blank.

Then, three simple words, flashing calmly, outlined

in red

HELM IS MANUAL

The computer's firm voice echoed the words, once,

in simple punctuation, then fell silent.

My eyes drifted closed. My head drooped on 'aching

shoulders.

Behind me, Dr. McCoy and Merete shifted, sharing

looks of disbelief that confirmed our success.

Even Scanner, in his silence, radiated bone-deep

amazement. One hand reached for the readout screen

and tenderly touched it, in a silly human gesture. After

a moment, his face, bathed in the gently flashing light,

turned to me. "Well... you got control, Commander.

I never woulda bet on it." He clapped his knees to

renew the moment. "So, it's all yours. Where do you

want us to go?"

I forced my eyes to focus and stood up slowly,

gazing out over the beautiful elegance of space as we

cruised along at warp three.

"To Argelius," I said. "But on my order."

66

Chapter Five

"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?"

--The Changeling

I THINK SCANNER was plotting to have me assassi-

nated. Merete was contemplating my mental condi-

tion, and Dr. McCoy was shaking his head a lot. So,

after another smooth escape disguised as a dramatic

exit, I spent much of the next day's travel tucked

safely in my quarters, gazing into the computer access

screen.

I'd been in there alone for three hours before any-

body missed me during the next day-cycle. No sur-

prise it was Merete who finally opted to peek in.

"Disturbing?" she asked.

My eyes flipped up from the computer screen--my

only movement.. My preoccupation held for a long

moment as I gazed at her, then I moved my hand from

its parking place against my lips and said, "No. Come

on in."

She invited herself into the chair beside the bunk

and looked at the screen. "Tech manuals?"

"Look at this," I said flatly, punching the controls

on the side of the access screen. The screen went

blank for a moment, then flickered with new data.

"I've been through this a dozen times already and I

stl can't fathom it."

"What is it?"

67

"Vulcan training."

She inhaled, held it, and sighed. "Oh. Sarda's still

on your mind. Any particular aspect this time?"

"Sarda's clan."

Her delicate eyes narrowed. "Sarda's clan specifi-

cally? How did you ever find data that obscure?"

I made a guttural sound to double the impact of her

question. "Obscure is right. The Vulcans are noto-

riously secretive. However, Doctor dear, the Federa-

tion's liaison committee to the Confederation of 40

Eridani isn't without its muscle. They convinced the

Vulcans to loosen their grip on cultural secrets at least

enough that off-worlders could understand enough

about them to respect them at a little less distance. I'll

bet that day saw logic fly."

"Even so," Merete countered as she sat at the end

of my bunk, "Sarda's clan isn't exactly the visible elite

of ShiKahr City, like Mr. Spock's. Isn't Sarda from

somewhere below the Vulcan equatorial zone?"

"He wouldn't tell me. I've been hunting through the

library systems for weeks. Before 1 put out to sea on

the Keeler, I left a search worm in the mainframe

library computer at Starbase One. It's been picking

through its indices, looking for information on Sarda

and his tribe, or whatever they call themselves. All 1

had to do was key into that system from here to get the

results of the search."

"So Mr. Spock's new computer for this ship is

coming in handy." "Sure is."

"What have you found?"

"I found," came the answer, "the Lyr Zor."

My revelation was lost on her. "Clan or region?"

Self-consciously, I clarified. "Clan. The region is

called Lyr T'aya, as closely as the computer can put it

into English alphabet. It's way south, in the Vuldi

Gorge. The nearest city is Jia'anKahr. Does that mean

anything to you?"

68

She nodded, eyes widening. "It means remote. I

knew Sarda wasn't from the city clans who usually

gravitate to Star Fleet, but I had no idea..."

I leaned forward. "Can you imagine the pressure it

would take to force a Vulcan from a clan that remote to

venture away from the planet? Do you realize how

alone he must have been? And he knew he'd stand out

at Star Fleet too. We don't exactly see fair-haired

Vulcans every day."

"And all this is teaching you something," Merete

prodded gently, probably thinking my state of mind

was as delicate as Sarda's.

I took a deep breath. "I've found that Vulcan clans

pretty much keep the teaching of their respective

children as a private matter. Only when a Vulcan child

reaches what they call Norn-La-Hal do they take on

the blanket training of all Vulcans. So there's a plane-

tary unity, but only after a certain point, if you get

what I mean."

"I do," she assured me. "And you're angry at the

Lyr Zor for their particular method."

This earned her a good long stare. How did she

know? Was it etched so clearly in my expression? A

passing flush of denial swept over me, a self-defense

mode of pretending to keep an open mind--oh, what

the hell. She saw through it anyway.

I waved her closer to the computer screen. "Well,

look at that. Just look."

Together we read the rare data from Vuldi Gorge,

the air around us heavy with implication.

TRAINING FILE UI-77. LYR ZOR CLAN, LYR T'AYA REGION,

VULDI GORGE CRESCENT, VULCAN. CONTACT SUNVAR,

MAGISTRATE OF INTERPLANETARY RELATIONS, JIA'ANKAHR,

VULCAN.

NEWBORN-4 YEARS. VISUAL MATHEMATICS, BASIC CALCU-

LATION, BEGIN NEUROLOGICAL ORGANIZING. LYR ZOR

IDENTITY MELD.

69

FOUR YEARS. MATHEMATICS AND SPECIES IDENTIFICATION,

PHYSICAL COORDINATION, ALGEBRA, GEOMETRY, PHYS-

ICS.

EIGHT YEARS. PRELIMINARY TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION

AND ETIQUETTE. LYR ZOR CLAN HISTORY. VULCAN AN-

THROPOLOGY. CALCULUS. QUANTUM PHYSICS.

TEN YEARS. SUPPRESSION OF CORTICAL STIMULAE IN

DOMINANT HEMISPHERE. VULCAN CULTURAL HISTORY.

STUDY OF VULCAN RITES OF PASSAGE.

ELEVEN YEARS. PRESSURE POINTS OF MIND MELDING.

MEMORY ACCURACY. INTERNAL-TIME COUNTING. INTRO-

DUCTION TO LOGIC AND DEFINITION. PRINCIPLES OF

ANALYSIS. CONCRETEHESS OF THOUGHT. PHYSICAL DE-

PORTMENT.

THIRTEEN-FIFTEEN. FORMAL TRAINING BEGINS.

"Have you ever seen anything like that?" I blus-

tered, deep in useless empathy. "That's what a Lyr

Zor child goes through."

"Have you got that in VulCan years or Earth Stan-

dards?"

"Earth Standards. But, my God, Merete, look at the

pressure. Think about the incredible mental discipline

involved. Not only that," I said, turning to her, "but

notice how much of it involves social approval. Look

.. cultural history, physical deportment, no less...

and that's supposedly before formal training. It's prac-

tically child abuse."

Merete leaned back in her chair, her medical train-

ing showing as she gave me both the benefit of the

doubt and a moment to cool off. "You're right," she

said patronizingly. "But don't forget they're born to it.

Chances are a Vulcan child would be mentally unbal-

anced if those tremendous brains of theirs weren't

given something to grasp, even early on."

I held out my hand to argue, then shook it and said,

70

"All right. Just keep watching and see what you think.

Computer, continue rundown of Lyr Zor training."

The screen unit buzzed, then moved ahead with

colored letters on the screen.

FORMAL TRAINING. TAL T'LEE. FIRST MEDITATION ASSISTED

BY AN ADEPT OF LYR ZOR COUNCIL. CONTROL OF SUB-

DOMINANT CORTICES. DWEMISH HI-AN. IDENTITY ISOLA-

TION. BRAIN CONTROL WITH NUMBERS SYSTEMS AND

EQUATIONS. MULTIPLICATION LEFT TO RIGHT. ENOK-KAL FI

LAR. PROCESSES OF DEFINITION. CONCEPTS OF GIVENS.

SIXTEEN-NINETEEN. AN-PRELE. PAIN CONTROL MEDITA-

TION WITH COUNCIL ADEPT. READINGS INCLUDE ESSAYS

OF DISCIPLINE BY SURAK AND ANALYSIS OF PSEUDODOXY

BY T'VEEN OF JlA'ANKAHR. LOBE SEGREGATION OF BRAIN.

"Piper," Merete interrupted patiently, "why are

you doing this to yourself?. Your becoming an expert

on Vulcan training won't help Sarda."

"Won't it?" I countered. "As I understand it, Sarda

should have already gone through the stage called

Venlinahr. That's the stage a Vulcan should have fin-

ished by Sarda's age in Earth years. It's the stage of

most Vulcan adults, and it's two stages ahead of--

well, let me show you. Look. Here's the part about the

Katra. Now just watch."

With reluctant tension, Merete looked into the

screen. Its faint blue lights played across her skin.

TWENTY-TWENTY-FOUR. THE RUNES OF T'VISH, LOGIC

PARADIGMS. BEHAVIORAL MODIFICATION. MULTiPLICA-

TION RIGHT TO LEFT, DIAGONAL, AND CROSS-MULTIPLI-

CATION. ISOLATION OF THE KATRA.

TWENTY-FIVE-TWENTY-NINE. SELE-AN-T'LEE COMPRISED

OF LESSONS IN SUBDOMINANT BRAIN ORGANIZATION,

ADVANCED PHILOSOPHY AND LOGIC, MUSCLE COORDI-

NATION, AND CONTROL OF WILL. FIVE STEPS. BELIEF DISCI-

71

PLINE, REALITY AWARENESS, SENSORY ACUTENESS, VISUAL

CALCULATION, FACT ANALYSIS. READINGS INCLUDE LOGIC

AND DEFINITION BY LYRAS, THE INTERIOR BY TAL LUXUR

OF ROMULUS, EQUATIONS BY SCORUS, SYSTEMS OF LOGIC

BY SURAK, PURPOSE AS PRIME MOTIVATOR BY SURAK.

ALSO INCLUDES ADVANCED MIND MELD TECHNIQUES.

"Now, that's where Sarda was when he was trying

to teach himself the Vulcan controls," I told her.

"Sele-an-t'lee, he told me. Can you imagine trying to

do all that by himself? It was probably tearing him

apart. How was he supposed to learn the techniques

for advanced mind melding if there was no one to meld

with? And he was still two stages behind. No, don't

talk. Read."

THIRTY-THIRTY-FIVE. NORN-LA-HAL. SUPERIOR CONTROL

MEDITATION AND NEUROLOGICAL ORGANIZING. IMPOR-

TANCE OF DIGNITY AND TRADITION IN VULCAN IDENTITY.

CONTEMPLATIONS OF INFINITY. VENLINAHR. STATE OF

MOST VULCAN ADULTS. MEDITATION BY INDIVIDUAL DIS-

CRETION. FURTHER STUDY OF VULCAN DHARMA. AD-

VANCED READINGS OF THE MYSTAGOGUES SURAK,

SCORUS, T'ENNE, T'VISH, PRISU, AND SELTAR.

"See?" I said, tapping the place on the screen with

one cracked fingernail. "That's when they can relax.

Venlinahr. That's when they're true Vulcans by their

own standards. Sarda should have reached that by

now. Then there's the next one, the real killer."

"I see it." Merete's voice was funereal. Just as the

words on the screen were.

KOLINAHR. FINAL DIVORCE OF THE BRAIN, BODY, AND

KATRA FROM ALL EMOTIONAL RESPONSES. IF NECESSARY,

KOLINAHR WILL BE ACCOMPLISHED BY MEMORY ABERRA-

TION.

LIST COMPLETE.

72

I leaned back. "Computer off."

The screen went blank. The blue glow was gone,

fallen off Merete's delicate features like shimmering

leaves from a scale tree on Proxima. The fleeting

thought of home gave me no comfort today.

Neither of us cared to rupture the dangerous silence

we'd fallen into. Only Merete's calm courage allowed

her to finally bridge the deepening gap. "Rigorous,"

she commented, curbing her tone of empathy.

"Killing," I corrected. "There's no excuse for that.

And even worse, what's the excuse for denying that

training to someone who was born to need it? Why

would they do that to him? A half-trained Vulcan could

go mad just trying to fill in the gaps."

She looked at me, and I could see her mind working

as she tried to slowly reassess the information that had

flashed by us in truncated form. Years and years of

relentless mind training encapsulized on a computer

screen, yet every bit as burdensome as those big

words and wide concepts implied. Merete tipped her

head, feathery brows lowering. "Is that what you

think might have happened to Sarda?"

Silence this time was a noisy answer.

"Piper, you saved him from it," she said. "You set

him up with Mr. Spock, and Spock arranged for a

Vulcan teacher for him. It's only a matter of time

BOW."

"No, not now," I snapped. "Now is the whole

issue. Now, he's in some kind of trouble, and it

doesn't make sense. Espionage? That's not Sarda. Not

a healthy Sarda, anyway. Maybe . . ." I paused,

hunting for the hurt, "maybe I was too late. Maybe,

when he went back into training with another Vulcan,

it was too much. Maybe he snapped."

Instantly Merete got up and stepped out into the

skinny corridor to the food dispenser and came back

with two cups of steaming coffee, sweet, with cream.

She pressed my fingers around one of the cups, then

73

sat down very slowly, taking every last possible sec-

ond to let time slide between me and my paranoia.

"Piper, listen to me," she said. "You could be right."

I looked up. "What?"

"You could be right." Her tone was tolerant, not

patronizing. "But don't rule out another possibility.

There are still many things about this that we simply

don't know yet. And one run through the computer

library about Vulcan training doesn't make either of us

experts on Vulcans. We're not Vulcans. It may be as

normal for them as learning to fly a skimmer is to us."

"Then why was it tearing him apart?" My palm

connected with the bulkhead. In my other hand, the

coffee sloshed. "What's he doing in the middle of this,

Marete? Did he snap?"

She shrugged one shoulder and sipped her coffee.

She swallowed deliberately, stalling for more time.

Her rotten tactic was working too. I was starting to

realize the truth in her words, and the damning fact

that I would just have to wait.

"What do you think?" Merete asked after several

long moments. "What do you really believe?"

More moments. They were beginning to sap me dry.

Kill me, but don't make me wait anymore.

"I don't know," I murmured, staring. Coffee steam

wreathed my face.

I was rescued from myself by the intercom whistle,

and Scanner's voice coming on before I could re-

spond.

"Piper, we've got a ship on scope. Approaching

rapidly, no identification, no signals, won't answer a

hail, and the design is unfamiliar. You want me to slow

down?"

I dived for the intercom button and mashed it. "No!

Don't touch anything. Does Rex have shields?"

"Kinda. Enough to put off maybe one phaser shot.

We just didn't figure--"

74

"Put them up. Don't alter course or speed. I'll be

right there !"

Whoever it was, they had a fast ship. In the few

seconds it took Merete and me to skim through the

Rex's walkways, the triangular gold and red shuttle

had pulled alongside and was matching our speed.

"Anything?" I asked.

Dr. McCoy, who had been lounging in the captain's

chair, wheeled out of it and out of my way in the same

movement. "Not a peep. Yet."

"No classification on that design, Scanner?"

He looked nervous. "Nope." The communications

receiver hung in his ear as he stared, shoulders

hunched, out the portal at the large shuttle. "Beats me

what it is."

"What they are," I corrected. Anticipation hung on

me like sweat. No... that really was sweat. Sticky. A

captain shouldn't be sticky. Damn. "Ship to ship."

"Channel open. Fire away."

I cleared my throat. "This is the S.S. Banana Re-

public requesting your identification and purpose.

Translator is tied in. Please respond."

The board crackled on my echo. The massive gold

wing dwarfed our main viewing portal, making us all

strain upward to see it. It was imposing, and we felt

adequately imposed upon.

Scanner stiffened. "Something .yeah. . .

static..."

"Pull it in." I knew he was trying, but I still had to

say it.

Merete and Dr. McCoy huddled together near the

port viewing slots, peering out at the unidentified

vessel, their silence an ominous reminder of the un-

avoidable dangers humankind had given to ourselves

when we first ventured out into space. We could live in

space, we could keep ourselves alive with the most

75

basic of methods, but we could never be completely

safe.

Scanner listened, lightly touching the audio receiver

in his ear. "They're requesting visual contact."

I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

"Visual on."

The screen flickered, an ominous instant of seeing

the screen superimposed against the unidentified ship

that hung half-visible beside our bridge portal. Then it

settled down to a somber, elegant face, familiar in its

saturnine reserve.

"Spock!" McCoy blurted. Yet I could tell he wasn't

altogether surprised.

While Kirk's face was built on curves and McCoy's

on squares, Spock's features were a montage of trian-

gularities framed by trim black hair and those orna-

mental Vulcan ears. The flush of comfort I felt at the

sight of him was banked by fresh thoughts of Sarda.

"Permission to come aboard, Commander," he re-

quested.

"By all means, come aboard," I said.

"Thank you. I shall arrange hookup and be there

momentarily. Spock out." The screen went blank.

Merete reached over for a generous squeeze on my

forearm. "Time for answers," she said quietly.

Scanner grunted. "Good, 'cuz we sure got the ques-

tions."

We waited with false patience as Spock organized

his shuttle to dock with Banana Republic. His ship

moved out of our main view, now visible only through

the ribbed portals on the side of the ship. Rex moaned

and bumped hollowly as the ships joined and the

breezeway was sealed off and pressurized. By the time

the starboard loading-dock door slid open, we were

already there, waiting.

The doors parted. Commander Spock stepped in.

We gaped at him. He no longer wore his usual Star

76

Fleet colors. This was an altogether different Spock. A

dun-colored cowl framed his jawline, his shoulders

broadened by a burgundy thigh-length cape. His lean

form was even further elongated by dark azur e vel-

vet--a belted tunic. Those, simple leggings, and calf-

wrap boots made him look like a planet-traipsing ven-

dor or someone out of a medieval story, depending on

who was doing the imagining. Only his fluid dignity

reminded us that he was who he was. That and the fact

that he carried a handful of computer cartridges--

cookies to feed Rex's new main frame library.

"Sir," I began, "you're..."

"Out of uniform," McCoy supplied boldly.

Spock looked at him with an almost quizzical twin-

kle in his eyes. "Astute reckoning, Dr. McCoy," he

drawled. He strode onto my bridge, the cape swinging.

"A gift from the Organians some time ago."

"Thought that getup looked familiar," McCoy re-

plied.

"It proved convenient," Spock said. He obviously

didn't care for his current apparel in lieu of Star Fleet

issue. "Once on Argelius, we must not divulge our

military attachments. Our mission there requires that

we travel incognito."

McCoy frowned. "You mean I'm going to have to

dress like that?"

Spock had been scanning the bridge controls as

though to refamiliarize himself with them, but now he

straightened and natled the doctor with his gaze again.

"Doctor, I am actually anticipating the spectacle."

I felt my eyes widen, and ridiculously squinted in an

attempt to curb it. McCoy folded his arms and cocked

his head, but said nothing more about Spock's unlikely

raiment.

Spock deposited his computer spools on Rex's main

navigational board and turned to me, markedly casual

in spite of the circumstances. His presence, entirely

unforeseen as it was, had a pronounced effect on mo--

77

a rush of apprehension, curiosity, the sense of teeter-

ing on some tightly stretched wire just about to fall into

a pile of very spiny answers. I might know soon what

was going on, but I was ready to bet I'd come out with

bruises.

"Sir," I began, "can you tell me what's going on?"

He frustrated me and entertained McCoy with a

thoroughly Vulcan response "Yes."

My palms started to get moist. I rubbed them

against the ivory fabric of my flight suit and licked my

lips. McCoy surveyed me, rolled his eyes, and mur-

mured, "You'll get used to it."

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock said tersely. "I shall

explain fully once I've released the navigational pro-

gramming to Commander Piper's control. It will be

necessary to have manual control to maneuver into

orbit."

Scanner coughed and hid behind Merete.

I didn't have anybody to hide behind. Although I do

confess to a quick glance around the bridge for any

handy camouflage.

McCoy came once again to life, approaching Spock

with a noticeable swagger. "Don't bother, Mr.

Spock."

Spock rewarded him with a perplexed gaze and

waited patiently for the explanation McCoy was bub-

bling to give. I think my feet were sweating by then,

too, but they were too numb to tell.

"The controls are all freed up," McCoy said. A grin

tugged at his lips.

Spock's brows lowered. "I... beg your pardon?"

"Free. Unlocked. Piper did it."

Any previous beliefs that a Vulcan couldn't be

stricken speechless were quickly flushed. Spock held

his gaze on McCoy for a moment of incredulity, then

turned to the controls, spidering one square-fingered

hand over them, and ran headlong into one of the

snags of being Vulcan. Surprise flared, tempted him,

78

pushed up one Panish eyebrow, then fied. "Remark-

able," he uttered. When he turned to face me, he was

in control again.

However, that didn't stop his expression from freez-

ing my blood.

"I'm impressed, Commander, though mystified," he

admitted. "How did you manage it?"

"She outhumaned you, Spock," McCoy crowed,

delighted.

Spock appeared annoyed--and I use the word ten-

derly. He looked one more time at the navigation

board, as one looks at a pet who suddenly turned wild.

After a steadying moment, he breathed deeply and

said, "Obviously there was some element I failed to

consider. I shall anticipate your giving me a full

description, Commander, once our mission is com-

pleted."

Whew! Lifted off the hook by the Vulcan sense of

priority. I started to feel my feet again. "Yes, sir.

Won't you sit down?"

It was clearly an invitation to do more than relax.

Spock knew that, and swiveled his chair to face us all.

I settled into the helm chair beside him, while the three

others took passenger seats, and we became---pardon

the punwall ears.

"Captain Kirk was apprised of the current situation

by Dr. Boma," Spock said, typically direct, "who,

you'll recall, was involved in the science behind the

dreadnought project."

"Believe me," I said with guttural inflection, "I

remember."

"Doubtless." Spock nodded, and not without empa-

thy. He spoke to me with an easy clemency he could

only have learned from humans, and only have

learned to express without Vulcan shame after years of

hard experiences among humans. As he spoke, I was

the one to be impressed. "Those involved with the

dreadnought project were a select few," he went on.

"The late Vice Admiral Rittenhouse used only people

he trusted or people whose expertise he could not do

without. He tried to keep his choices to a minimum."

"And the minimum included Sarda?" I guessed.

"Yes," his voice rumbled, giving away his inner-

most regrets. "Lieutenant Sarda's innovative skill

with weapons technology made him indispensable to a

man who was trying to trigger a galactic conflict.

Rittenhouse wanted Sarda's image projector. Along

with Sarda, there were three others in the dread-

nought's special science team who were not killed

aboard Rittenhouse's ship when it exploded." He

slipped one of the library cookies into the slot and

touched the controls lightly. A picture blinked

onscreen, a dignified black man with a iongish face and

cutting eyes, his age shown only by a frost of silver at

his temples. "Dr. Samuel Boma, of course, who devel-

oped the dreadnought's actual hull material and struc-

tural design. Charges of conspiracy against him have

been greatly reduced due to his cooperation with Star

Fleet of late." Spock tapped the controls again and the

face changed. A woman this time, human, midfifties.

Her hair was pitch-black, short but shaggy, framing a

translucent complexion and small blue eyes. She

looked like she could be many things, none of them

scientific.

"Professor Ursula Mornay of the University of Tar-

rigor, Altair Six," Spock introduced. "She perfected

the theory for transwarp, and is one of the top theo-

rists in the Federation. Professor Mornay is known for

her unscrupulous behavior. We believe she is the key

agent. The determinant." "Of what sir?"

He swiveled his chair to face me again, shifting our

attention from the viewscreen to his words. Every-

thing he did, every movement, smacked of poignance

for us who had been waiting. "The transwarp technol-

ogy has been stolen."

80

He said it so simply that its full implication didn't hit

any of us at first. Seeing that, he went on. "Mornay

contacted Boma with an ultimatum. She said she and

the 'others' were appropriating all information about

transwarp and evacuating their lab."

McCoy leaned forward. "But why?"

Spock had anticipated the simple question and was

right there with an answer. "Mornay is a subversive.

She has never displayed loyalty to any system or

person, and has accepted funding from dubious

sources, intent only on her own personal advance-

ment. She is known for her contempt of governmental

systems."

"The Federation government?" McCoy asked.

"Any government, Doctor. She is not particu-

lar."

"Then why was she working on a top project like

this?"

"Because, Doctor, she developed the theories."

"And nobody watched her more closely?"

With a Vulcan version of a sigh, Spock carefully

outlined the reason. "Until now, she has done nothing

overtly threatening. Therefore, she has enjoyed safe

haven as a Federation citizen and scientist. She was,

however, openly committed to Rittenhouse and his

plan to aggregate the galaxy into one ideology. She

fears for her life and status now that Rittenhouse is

dead. This is her attempt to preserve that status."

I leaned forward, barely able to keep from clawing

the arms of my chair. "She means to ransom the

transwarp technology?"

"Virtually. And more. The scientists intend to

throw it open for purchase by any bidder, knowing the

galactic powers will welcome such opportunity and

that the Federation dares not allow itself to be outbid.

Unfortunately, Professor Mornay's understanding of

politics is simplistic. If she succeeds in throwing the

technology up for grabs, as it were, she will likely

81

instigate something too forbidding for her to conceptu-

alize. A cosmic scramble."

The phrase was unfamiliar to me, yet it hit me like

the smell of bad weather. Sensitive to the glances of

Scanner and Merete, who were taking all their cues

from me, I squinted and forced myself to add up the

sketchy evidence and paste it into something familiar.

Galactic powers plus hot technology plus trigger-

brained scientists equals .... "A feeding frenzy."

Spock pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "An

apt comparison. Cosmic scramble is a colloquial term,

of course, but an accurate one. Mornay underesti-

mates the severity of her actions. When cosmic scram-

ble begins, individual lives and galactic peace are

forfeit. Mornay is virtually sentencing herself and the

other scientists to violent deaths."

"And Boma wants to head it off, but the other

scientists wouldn't listen to him."

"In a word, yes. Boma approached Captain Kirk

because--"

"For the same reason Paul Burch did when he

wanted to foil Rittenhouse's plan," I guessed. "He

knew Captain Kirk would be dependable and discreet.

Right?"

"Correct. He also knows the consequences of cos-

mic scramble. A dozen petty wars could erupt that

could pull down the structure of the galactic order as it

now stands. If a hostile government gains the

transwarp technology, the balance of power could

shift drastically. Whoever has it could become a super-

power, both economically and militarily."

"It's that special?" McCoy interrupted. "Isn't it

just another form of propulsion?"

Spock frowned. "In simplistic terms, it is. How-

ever, the added complexity is this Mornay and her

team were spearheading special research for a process

for the extreme refinement of dilithium into tri-

lithium."

82

He stopped talking, his black eyes landing on Dr.

McCoy. I watched the exchange in silence, as did

Scanner and Merete, and recognized a sort of repartee

going on. Spock remained silent, obviously waiting,

punishing McCoy for his earlier jibes and forcing him

to betray his own ignorance.

McCoy shifted uncomfortably, pursed his lips, and

glanced around. He soon broke under the you-igno-

rant-boor treatment. "Well, all right," he blurted. "Go

ahead."

"Trilithium," Spock said, hiding his victory and

thus doubling it, "existed only theoretically until four

years ago. It is the compound that allows the advanced

flow of energy to be compacted into transwarp drive.

Dr. Mornay managed to synthesize it in solid form, but

it exists only in a matter/antimatter-fiux environment.

In other words, once the power source is turned off,

the trilithium instantly degenerates. Last year, Mor-

nay, Perren, Boma, and Sarda combined their abilities

and devised the mechanism that would allow trilithium

to retain its integrity for a workable period even when

the system was not in flux. And that, Doctor, is far

more than just another form of propulsion."

Spock spoke his words carefully, knowing the situa-

tion had become tangled. It was imperative that we

understand; he knew that too. And because of the way

he spoke, with concise eloquence, we accepted the

cruciaiity. Slowly I began to understand. ff the

Klingons, the Romulans, the Orions, the Tholians, the

K'zinti, or any of a handful of hungry governments

thought they could get this new high science... truly a

feeding frenzy. And the Federation would participate

just to keep the science out of hostile hands. It would

have no choice. Just as Rittenhouse had believed the

Federation could win any war he induced, Mornay

was probably making the same bet.

I licked my lips. "Her deal includes unconditional

amnesty for herself and the others?"

83

Spock's chin went up a little. "How did you know?"

I shrugged. "It makes sense." I declined to tell him

it was what a desperate human would do. I didn't need

any more embarrassment.

Nodding slowly, Spock once again touched the con-

trol, and once again the face dissolved into a new face.

The consummately human features of Ursula Mornay

fizzled and reformed into the angularity of Vulcan

features. Resisting those plaguing thoughts of Sarda, I

forced myself to get familiar with the new person. He

was a young Vulcan, though not as young as Sarda,

and his hair was the same black as Spock's, but

untrimmed. It hung almost to his shoulders, caught

back only by Vulcan ears that were slightly more

backswept than Spock's. His silver-gray eyes bore a

glimmer of defiance--or was I imagining it?

"The third team member," Spock continued. "His

name is Perren. He is a specialist in interspace phys-

ics. He and Mornay have worked closely for eight

years on the science of transwarp. While Mornay is

the theorist, Perren is the applied scientist. She refined

the concept, and he developed the actual hardware for

transwarp, the engineering itself."

"Another Vulcan working on an instrument of vio-

lence?" Merete asked.

Spock acknowledged her with a tip of his head.

"The transwarp is not an instrument of violence in and

of itself. However, you're correct in implying that

Perten has deviated from approved Vulcan lines of

morality."

"You mean he's like Sarda," I bridged. "Ostra-

cized. He doesn't fit in on Vulcan because of his

propensities."

"He is like Sarda," Spock agreed, "but only to a

point. Sarda regrets his . . . divergence from Vulcan

practices and is trying to mend it. Perren," he said,

"makes no apologies."

84

I was only half listening as Spock explained our

reasons for being at Argelius. That Mornay and her

team had escaped to this distant planet, near the edge

of disputed space, to use the passionless culture and

neutral standing of Argelius as a fortress against

everybody. Odd. The threat of cosmic scramble on the

most sedate planet in the known galaxy. It was posi-

tively poetic.

"Even the Federation is not formally aware of the

theft as yet," Spock was saying. "So far, Mornay has

made no announcement, but time is of the essence.

Boma wanted Captain Kirk to get here first. He wants

the captain to convince the science team of the danger

they're causing and find some other means of negotia-

tion before the major powers go into scramble."

I straightened my back and it cracked. But I had to

ask. "And me?"

"You, Commander Piper, are the captain's ace in

the hole, as you say. Sending Enterprise to Argelius

would be rather conspicuous--"

"Yeah," Scanner grunted, only then pointing out

how quiet he'd been. "Like a battleship in a bath-

tub."

Spock paused, trying to visualize that, and finally

opted to ignore it. "I will return to my shuttle and we

will approach the city in question from two directions.

Your assignment is to locate Lieutenant Sarda and

separate him from Morhay and Perren. I will then

attempt to isolate Perren, leaving Professor Mornay

for Captain Kirk to handle."

"Divide and conquer," McCoy said.

"Essentially. Also, if the scientists are separated,

they will be unable to give over the complete technol-

ogy. The threat will be effectively cleaved."

The edge of my chair creased into my thighs. "But

Captain Kirk is back on Earth," I protested. "He was

yanked right off the schooner and taken under guard

for questioning--"

85

"Captain Kirk," Spock said, "will be here when the

time is right, Commander." "Butre"

His confidence in Kirk, even lacking the explanation

I craved, squeezed away every last suspicion that I

might be part of a plan that hadn't been thought out

and carefully executed, with me playing the part of

some cog in the middle of the mechanism. Spock's

glare bored through me, and when it was disrupted by

a slow blink, we both understood our concepts of

Captain James Kirk.

I let it go. Part of command was learning to live with

half the answers.

"Sir," I began slowly. "I know things look bad for

him, but I can't--I don't believe Sarda is a willing part

of all this. He's a victim of circumstance. I'm sure of

it."

"Based on what, Commander?"

Now I froze. Had it been Kirk asking me that

question, I'd have given him an unqualified "intui-

tion." But this was Spock. Spock, who required all

parts to all equations. Whose manner demanded preci-

sion from me. Why did I feel Sarda was innocent?

Finally I said, "He'd have no reason to run, sir.

He's a Federation honoree. He's been on the 'right'

side all along."

"And?" The steady eyes probed me, Unfiltered and

discerning, cutting straight through to the most human

part of me.

So I said it.

"And I trust him."

Spock nodded, evidently satisfied by something a

Vulcan shouldn't really understand at all. He slowly

said, "I agree with you."

In my periphery, I saw Scanner's jaw slacken as he

stared at Spock. Whether his awe came at my sudden

credibility or Spock's almost human display of faith in

Sarda, I couldn't tell. Guilt stabbed me. Doubt came

rushing back upon me from my conversation with

Merete. Now that I'd spoken my piece, could I back it

up? Or, more crucially, would Sarda back it up?

"However," Mr. Spock went on, "we must main-

tain our caution. You know of Sarda's struggle to

become fully Vulcan, and of the intense strain he was

under until you brought the problem to me. I must take

partial responsibility for his welfare, since it was I who

recommended a Vulcan tutor for him and bridged the

relationship."

My skin bristled as I added up the infinitesimal clues

in his tone. My teeth sank into my lower lip, and I

tasted the dryness of complication. Quietly I said, "Perren."

A deep silence fell behind my voice. Suddenly the

situation took a dive for the intricate. Its entangle-

ments shone in Spock's expression as he watched us

all add it up in our minds, for he more than any of us

knew the labyrinths of being Vulcan.

He shifted his long legs and started talking again.

"Sarda and Perten knew each other already. Perren

had the advantage of not possessing typical Vulcan

prejudices against Sarda's talents. Yet, while he is a

renegade in his own way, Perren is older than Sarda

and had already advanced through Vulcan training. He

was the logical selection." Spock fixed his eyes on

nothing for a fleet moment. Was he apologizing, in his

way? He knew we had both interfered with Sarda's life

and, no matter the noble purpose, may have placed

him in a compromising position. Or a position whose

temptations were too much, even for a Vulcan.

Spock jarred me out of those gray thoughts when he

asked, "May I speak with you privately, Com-

mander?"

"Oh.. 2' I glanced sheepishly at the others.

"Right.". Scanner slapped his knees and stood up.

86 87

Merete and McCoy tried to disguise their curiosity in a

casual stroll aft, and I l onged for their presence once

we were alone.

"Commander, this is rare information I must give

you now," Spock began, steeping me in the elegance

of his control. "There are certain things you must

know before you can effectively deal with Lieutenant

Sarda."

I nodded. "I understand."

This wasn't easy for him. I could see that. He

evidently had put much thought into whether or not to

tell me whatever it was. Finally he made his commit-

ment. "Vulcan training methods are matters of great

privacy. They are more than simple passings-on of

information. They provide my only cause to question

Lieutenant Sarda's part in this incident."

He was stalling. He might even be hoping I would

come to those unspeakable conclusions on my own, to

spare him the trouble of speaking them. In deference

to him, I tried.

"You're saying," I began, "Sarda might be loyal to

Perren in some way?"

My question made him uneasy. He gazed downward

at nothing, saddled with a decision no Vulcan wants to

make whether or not to let a non-Vulcan in on the

privacies they guard so dearly. Yet there was another

perception pressing him, beyond just the rupture of

Vulcan privacy; we both felt it. A human who could be

friends with a Vulcan is an instant complication. The

weight sat on me now.

Slowly he said, "The mental training of young Vul-

cans cannot be simplified, Piper. It cannot be reduced

to a matter of mere words."

"But, sir, it's a matter of computer record," I told

him. "I was just reading the library tapes--"

"The computer record," he interrupted, "is not

Vulcan." Troubled by what he was trying to say, or not

to say, Spock indulged in a sigh and sought for words

88

to explain what could not be explained. Something too

deeply personal for words. "On the screen, there are

words in print," he said. "There is no clinical way to

convey the depth behind the words. It is the difference

between a dictionary definition and the intimacy of

personal interaction." He looked at me now to see if I

understood, and his eyes no longer wavered.

I nodded for his sake. "You mean a kind of symbi-

otic relationship, beyond the learning of facts and

controls? Something social?"

The eyebrows, their change of position on his

stately face, gave me my answer.

"Vulcan training involves a mental endowment, tu-

tor to pupil and vice versa. A... spiritual bond, if you

will. And it is accomplished by meld. Under normal

circumstances, I consider it illogical that Sarda would

willingly take part in espionage. However, his liaison

with Perten, at so crucial a time in his disciplines, does

change the facts."

For the first time my doubts, my questions, about

Sarda took body. To my shame, I had to fight through

an ugly twinge of jealousy in order to think with a clear

head. "A sympathetic relationship," I murmured.

Spock nodded. "And potentially dangerous now.

Quite frankly, I am dubious of Perren's state of mind

also. Ordinarily, a Vulcan would never condone the

conditions Mornay has presented, would never so

offhandedly gamble with countless innocent lives. If

Perren's Vulcan attitudes have so completely con-

torted, there is cause for worry."

With a deep breath I concluded, "Meaning we have

no idea what mental condition Sarda's in right now."

His tone of voice sank low. "Yes."

89

Chapter Six

"May we together become greater than the sum of both

of US."

--The Savage Curtain

AROELIUS IS ONE of a handful of planets bordering

disputed space, relatively safe and unravaged on the

edge of the Federation envelope. Relatively, of

course, being the key word. These planets also tend to

draw occasional undesired attention because of their

proximity, and if there is some galactic incident it is

quite likely to involve one or more of them. Most of

those border planets handle their teetering rather well.

Argelius, however, is a planet of insipid passivity. Its

people, like the Vuicans, had once been warlike and

snappish, but evolved, unlike the Vulcans, into a re-

gresslve society that stresses extraordinary complais-

ance. Its people, even its children, rarely quarrel even

among themselves. They can't even work up a good

brood. As a result, along with anger, out are ambition,

growth, technology, a free-market mentality of any

kind, and just about everything else that allow a soci-

ety to depend upon itself. They are nice people, but

they are helpless. They bring administrators in from

other planets because they can't administer them-

selves, trade their location and benevolent hospitality

for foodstuffs, medical services, in fact most neces-

sary goods and services of any kind. They are a

professional shore leave planet. It's all they do well.

The culture itself has its colors. The buildings are of

90

natural stone and wood, clothing reminiscent of

Earth's Middle East during the classical period. Veils,

slippers, turbans, belly dancing, mosaics, simple musi-

cal instruments, and so on. Several Federation anthro-

pological studies had been made on the hypothesis that

the Argelians are one of a handful of human-origin

races scattered around the galaxy by a superior culture

who'd sought to preserve them. The biggest fly in that

ointment was a faint but definite telepathic ability that

appeared hereditary in some of the women. But none

of that was my problem. Even though Argelius has

only three major population clusters that could be

called cities, the clusters are disorganized and very

old. Some streets--many, in fact--had never been

named even in the hundreds upon hundreds of Arge-

lien years they'd been in use. There are no class

structures; everybody is poor. As such, there is no

quartering of Yelgor City, no way to guess which end

of town might attract a group of fugitive scientists.

So, here we were. Orbiting. We were waiting for Mr.

Spock to devise a plan for finding the scientists. I

suppose each of us assumed Spock would be the only

one of us who would be able to solve the problem, a

problem without many clues. As we watched him scan

bits of new and old data about the scientists, trying to

pick out some little propensity that would give a hint of

where they might be hiding, we slowly digested the

idea that even Spock, unfortunately, wasn't made of

magic.

He knew that too. It showed in the taut lines of his

jaw as he calmly, even hypnotically, pored over screen

after screen of drab information about Mornay and

Perten. When that store was exhausted, he unceremo-

niously began the whole process again with reams of

data about Yelgor City and the huddled villages that

surrounded it like a litter. Dr. McCoy and Merete

confiscated Spock's information about the scientists

and went to another terminal to go over it again, to

91

apply their knowledge of human psychology. Maybe

they could find something Spock missed. Meanwhile,

Spock and I slowly analyzed the city itself. We looked

for architectural styles that might be conducive to a

band of renegade scientists, places that had multiple

escape routes, natural shielding, seclusion within a

populated area, that kind of thing. But it wasn't easy to

try to think like a renegade scientist, mostly because I

wasn't a scientist and Spock wasn't a renegade.

Scanner, meanwhile, bided his time watching the

readouts of the planet while we quietly orbited. Nor-

mal fluxes of magnetic and heat energy that heave and

sigh as a planet turns were enough to keep him satis-

fied. Come to think of it (which until then I hadn't) I'd

never known Scanner to ask for more to do. So he had

a hobby, and thus took his place as the least of my

worries.

Only when Scanner suddenly stopped humming one

of his obscure collection of folk songs and leaned

forward did I realize how long we'd gone without

uttering a word. His abrupt motion drew both Spock's

attention and mine. Scanner's nose was almost touch-

ing his readout monitor. "What the blue peepin' hell is

that?"

Spock turned in his chair. "Mr. Sandage?"

Scanner blinked, shook his head, grimaced, then

shrugged. "Sir... I've never seen a wave like this

before."

Spock keyed in his own viewscreen, giving us both a

split-second glance at the computer's simulation of

jagged waves streaking upward from a small portion of

the planet's surface. The glance lasted only an instant

thanks to Spock. He vaulted sideways, diving for

Scanner's navigational controls, long fingers dancing

over the board. His shoulder struck the chair, sending

Scanner tumbling onto the deck. Just before Scanner

would have struck the port bulkhead, the ship around

92

us tilted violently away from the planet, yanking free

of our orbit.

The engines groaned and wheezed. The artificial

gravity lost its center of balance, giving our individual

weights to the centrifugal force that sent us crashing

into the starboard bulkheads. Scanner was thrown the

whole width of the cabin space, and the side of his

head hit the emergency door handle as he slammed

hard into the bulkhead between McCoy and Merete.

I clawed at one of the passenger chairs, but couldn't

hold on. I felt myself being sucked starboard. My

shoulder hit the rim of the viewing portal and my own

weight crushed me against Merete, who was trapped

between my legs and the bulkhead. Dr. McCoy strug-

gled against the crushing pressure to slip his hand

under Scanner's bleeding head, but that was the best

he could do.

Banana Republic's engines sounded like one of

those old freight-train locomotives trying to drag an

overload. Spock was still somehow holding himself to

the control board, his cape flying across his shoulders,

flapping toward the starboard side. Pure determination

kept him clinging there as the ship wrenched herself

and the attached shuttle out of orbit in a whine of

strain.

My eyes watered. I forced them to stay open, trying

to understand why Spock had inflicted such danger

upon us. Just as the pressure began to slacken and the

ship's gravity to regain control, a shock wave hit us.

It came from outside, down there. I felt its alienness

with an almost psychic intensity and knew that it

hadn't come from my ship. Nausea fluttered through

me as wave upon wave rocked us--but these weren't

just waves of energy. With them came distortion.

Detachment from reality. Before my eyes the walls of

the ship stretched and yawned, even faded to show

stars of the wrong colors and placement. My arms

93

changed length, shape... then reality settled again,

for an instant. Then another wave.

A hull seam somewhere on Rex's outer skin sud-

denly ruptured. Loud hissing filled the cabin as the air

spat out into space, then a sucking sound replaced it as

the automatic sealants went to work. The ship, at

least, was trying to take care of itself. But for us, the

fabric of consciousness was fraying.

Between each wave was a moment of unsettling

reality, as though the reality was the dream between

waking times. Power waves, maybe. Dimensional tam-

pering. Whatever it was, I hated it.

My nervous system buzzed. Everything in my body

felt out of sync---heartbeat, breathing, everything--I

lost count of the energy waves wracking us as we

drifted just out of orbital distance. Even this far out,

the waves shuddered through us, horridly potent.

Through my sluggish mind came the realization that

Spock had just saved our lives by getting us out of

direct contact with the power waves.

Finally the last wave grumbled through Rex's shell,

passed through our vibrating bodies, and passed out

into space. We held our breaths, waiting for another

wave, but no more came. I pushed myself off the

bulkhead to Spock's side.

"What happened? What did they do?"

Spock straightened, then immediately bent over the

readout screen. He was ominously silent.

, McCoy knelt beside Scanner, helping him to sit up.

"What did who do?"

"Mornay and the others," I said. "Nobody else on

Argelius could create that kind of power emanation."

"Quite right," Spock confirmed. In a move particu-

larly human, he looked over the computer readout

screen and gazed through the big main portal at the

serene planet, almost as though he only partially

trusted the computer. He tapped the controls to test

them, then asked, "Commander, I suggest we veer

back into orbit."

I paused. "Sir, you're senior officer on board."

"Yes," he said, "but you misunderstand the nature

of the conditions under which this ship was commis-

sioned for you. Captain Kirk arranged a special prior-

ity command for this transport. No one, regardless of

rank, can supersede your authority on this vessel."

My expression carried an unmistakable "you're kid-

ding," but I forced myself not to say it. After a

moment, I collected myself and asked, "What if I was

killed?"

He tilted his head. "Obviously, the senior officer

would have no choice but to take over. That officer

would be authorized to command the ship, but not the

mission. The ship itself is considered expendable.

Your presence on this mission, however, is not. Shall I

attain orbit?"

Dulled by his words and by his sense of courtesy, I

simply nodded. I was about to ask again what had

happened to us, when Scanner moaned and drew my

attention. McCoy was probing the head wound while

Merete ran a Feinberger over Scanner for vital signs.

I crossed the deck and knelt beside them. "Got

bonked, huh?" I uttered sympathetically.

Scanner leaned his head back against the bulkhead

as McCoy tended the swollen spot on his temple and

dabbed at the blood. Though pale and disoriented,

Scanner gave me a best-effort shrug. "I guess I'!1 just

sit on the floor from now on. I keep endin' up down

here anyhow. What kinda high-intensity flush was

that? I never saw nothin' like that."

"It disrupted our autonomic nervous systems," Mc-

Coy said. "And if I'm not mistaken, attacked the brain

thalamus too."

"It didn't seem real," Merete commented, still

tensely running the Feinberger over Scanner. "No

94 95

concussion," she said to McCoy. "Dural contusion,

and very slight subdural bleeding."

"I hope all that means 'headache,'" Scanner

grumbled.

"Orbital status," Spock reported. He continued

contemplating the planet below us, one hand still

resting on the controls.

"Mr. Spock?"

"Commander?"

"Was it... unreality?"

"Perhaps," he said. "A crude description, but appli-

cable." He leaned forward, puzzling over the readouts

as they flashed before him. The ship's new computers

were still waffling on what to tell him. Tensely then,

Spock straightened. "It was the transwarp antimatter

flux," he said.

Evidently that announcement, coupled with the dis-

tortions we'd felt during the attack, meant more to

McCoy than to the rest of us. Or maybe he simply read

something in Spock's tone that we hadn't yet learned

to hear. "You mean they're down there tampering with

the fabric of reality?" he said.

Scanner moved his legs gingerly and commented.

"Reality's gonna have stretch marks."

Spock nodded thoughtfully. "I know comparatively

little about the transwarp flux pattern," he said.

"However, I do know that the energy requires sophis-

ticated housing in order to be safe. I believe we have

just experienced the result of an accident."

Stiff and cold, I murmured. "They must be trying to

build it!"

Spock looked at me. The eyebrow went up in stern

punctuation. "Undoubtedly."

"But they can't possibly have the right facilities on

Argelius," McCoy said. "Not for something like

that?'

"Why would they want to actually build a transwarp

device?" Merete asked.

96

I clenched my fists and answered, "To raise their

advantage. Now they not only have the technology,

but they have the threat." I turned to Spock. "Unless

the accident..."

Spock returned my stare, only to finally break it

with a deep sigh. "Such contained antimatter power,

engaged in a flux of that magnitude, could theoretically

have obliterated the entire planet had it not somehow

been focused out into space."

"Including whatever Mornay is using as a labora-

tory," I said. I didn't mean to sound accusative, as

though I might be blaming him in my rush of irrational

human concerns, but I couldn't help it. "It could've

taken the whole lab with it, couldn't it? They could all

be dead. Couldn't they?"

He saw the intensity of that thought tighten my face

and knew what it meant to me that Sarda might already

be dead, that all hopes to rescue him from a tangled

situation might be nothing more than useless risks.

Declining to give me the silly Vulcan statement that,

yes, they could be, he pressed his lips together and

lowered his eyes, assessing his long experience with

humans and the honesty it had shown him how to use.

He gave me the answer no other Vulcan might even

have had the courage to

"I don't know."

It was a long time ago. Maybe it wasn't really so

long ago, when the shadows of memory start to fold

with time. Like warp drive--a thought, and you're

there.

The planetoid was hairy with jungle and brush.

Inside that foliage lurked unspeakable danger. Ene-

mies. Enemies who knew us, knew what we had and

what we were capable of. We needed an advantage.

Something they didn't know about.

I felt Sarda beside me, looking over my shoulder

through a hole in the heavy ferns. We watched as a

97

pair of our enemies passed through the ravine below,

too far away for our weapons to be of any use. These

mock phasers were only good at a distance of ten

meters. We needed that extra advantage if we were

going to survive.

"Any ideas?" I asked, crouching low.

Sarda crouched also, keeping his head down. His

light, brassy hair stood out too clearly amid the green-

ery, and he was careful not to let it give away our

position. "We are all equally armed and provisioned.

If you and I are to gain some advantage, it will not be

through our possessions. We must find some way to

pool our knowledge. Our particular talents are the

only things we have that they do not also have." I sighed. "All right. What have we got?"

His amber eyes lost their focus for a moment as he

analyzed us. Sarda and I had known each other all the

way through Academy, but not particularly well. A

greeting-in-the-corridor sort of association, along with

a couple of terms as lab partners. And now we had

been chosen as a team, pitted against the best of Star

Fleet Academy. Even knowing each other better

would have been an advantage, but we didn't have it to

call upon. We had no idea then that the future would

weld us together with a bond of ordeals.

And this would be the first. Contrary to belief, truly

enduring friendships are founded not on time, but on

trial. Lasting relationships have to be forged, not

simply discovered. We had no idea that this would be

our first trial, this random pairing off for the Senior

Field Endurance Maneuvers.

It was an exclusive privilege to be recommended for

these maneuvers. With only reserved amusement and

even a little contempt, upperclassmen referred to

these as "Outlast" games, and intimately as "the

Outlast." That was the purpose, after all, to outlast the

other teams. Not easy. These opponents of ours were

the cream of Star Fieet's crop. Each participant had to

98

be not only recommended, but actually sponsored by a

ranking member of the Academy faculty. We not only

carried our own reputations, but the reputations of the

office rs who'd stuck their necks out to put us here.

The odds were by no means equal. Though each team

consisted of one command candidate and one science

specialist, that's where the equity ended. The com-

mand candidates could be anything from tactical ge-

niuses to wizards of offensive improvisation. And each

knew how to apply that specialty to incapacitate an

enemy.

The science specialists filled an even wider spec-

trum life science specialists in Earth or alien medi-

cine, chemists, biologists and every other kind of

-oiogist, including neurophysiologists who could

short-circuit a whole nervous system given the right

circumstances, electrical experts, sound wave theo-

fists, astrophysicists, speed/time people--anything be-

yond knitting, and sometimes they could even do that.

And Star Fleet twisted itself into curls to keep any two

teams from being alike during any one Outlast. There

was no help, no planning ahead, no cramming for this

test. Survive or don't. We would endure solely on our

talent for guerrilla improvisation. How well we could

use and merge our respective talents would tell the

test.

The Outlast was not exactly the kind of honor

anyone really wished to get. One thing, however, was

sure if you got it, you'd better not turn it down. You

might go in scared, sick, or alone, but you go.

"I am a specialist in energy-wave direction and

mechanics. You are versed in the history and applica-

tion of strategy and tactics," Sarda began. "I am a

Vulcan, therefore I have audio, visual, and muscular

capabilities superior to those of our opponents. I can

sense life form presence within roughly twenty me-

ters. I have typical Vulcan sensory capabilities for

estimating distance, volume, and speed. Since I am the

99

only Vulcan participating in this particular Outlast, we

may consider those to be advantages." "Okay," I agreed. "What else?"

"You are human. All of our other opponents are also

human, with the exception of the Skorr entomologist

in team six. We may assume that they expect you to

behave in a human fashion. You are not an Earth

native. Three of the other team commanders are also

not of Earth. Of the three, we are aware of only

Vesco's home planet, Altair Nine, which is primarily

an ice planet. He will have no natural advantage in the

jungles of this planetoid." Sarda tipped his head, then,

and looked directly at me in the midst of his analysis.

"You, however, come from Proxima Beta, which is a

swamp and jungle planet. This environment is more

natural to you. How well can you reconnoiter in this

kind of terrain?"

"Well enough," I agreed. "I know how to move

through thick growth without making noise. I know

how to test the ground before putting my weight down.

I know how to use plant organisms to make ropes,

nets, camouflage, shelter, and a few other tricks." I

shrugged, hoping it would all mean something to him.

Immediately, though, I was dissatisfied. "It's not

enough. We've got to have advantages, not tricks."

Sarda sat down heavily in a way that, for a human,

could have been interpreted as surrender. "We cannot

gain advantage against the unknown."

Then the rustling began... a sound both distant and

near, as piercing as the Red Alert klaxon. Enemies!

Stunned, almost as though we'd forgotten, we

stared at the gently waving ferns, then at each other,

then scrambled for cover. It was early in the Outlast, a

wise time to let someone else be the aggressor. Let

them take each other out for a while and leave fewer

teams for us to deal with. Of course, that also meant

we would have to deal with the best teams.

But that was for later. For now--hide!

lOO

We squirmed backward, kneeling low, finally crawl-

ing on hands and knees. I caught a glimpse of one of

our opponents, Gruegen, a honey-mouthed Norwegian

who was much more clever than his demeanor sig-

naled.

"Down," I whispered.

"We can ambush them," Sarda suggested, almost

inaudibly.

"Not ready."

We flattened ourselves to the moss and let the ferns

and cycads close over us. The rustling sounds grew

closer, then began to fade. Soon we were alone again.

Sarda stood up cautiously to check the surround-

ings. "They've gone," he said. He turned to me

sharply. "Why did you not attack them? They were

perfect targets."

"I told you I'm not ready. I'm not going on the

offensive without a plan of action. Gruegen's not the

type to let himself be trapped that easily. The last thing

I'm going to do is underestimate my enemies. Lesson

number one in basic tactics at the Academy."

His response was caustic. "And lesson number two

is not to allow opportunities to slip by."

"That doesn't make sense. We've got all the time it

takes. There's no reason to rush into a confrontation

that would give away our position before we have any

advantage. When we do confront them, we don't want

the odds to be equal, do we?"

Sarda's arms stiflened at his sides. "I would be

satisfied simply to make a good showing during these

games. Winning is an outlandish goal considering the

odds. I find myself... wishing for early defeat," he

murmured. The tone was quiet, weary.

I looked at him and frowned. "Don't you care

whether we win or not?"

His amber eyes caught the deep greens of the ferns

again as he met my glare. "I am a scientist, not a

strategist. These games are of no use to me. I find them

101

an unnecessary strain and can see no way for us to

emerge as the superior team. Had I not been recom-

mended--"

"But you were recommended," I snapped, slicing

off his self-pity. "This is an assignment, Lieutenant, a

mission. You might not care whether we win or not,

but I do. You're not going to drag me down. I don't

know how Vulcans feel about mission purpose, but if

they're all like you, why do they bother to join Star

Fleet?"

He bristled at my attack on his race, having no

defense against my caustic, almost mocking tone,

though he nearly shook with the effort to contain his

feelings. The coldness returned to his face; the eyes

dropped, shaded by drab russet lashes. Neat brassy

hair flashed in a ray of sunlight filtering through the

twisted trees overhead.

I stood up, fists clenched. "We're not under any

time constraints other than the need for food and

water. Eventually hunger and thirst will force us all to

forage. I'm not going to wait. I'm going to build up a

food store now, and we're going to hole up here and let

the other teams take each other out. When only three

or four teams are left, that'll be the time for us to take

the offensive." I paced the mossy clearing, scanning

the foliage and cultivating my analysis as I moved.

This was my little bridge, the think tank of my ship.

Here I would make my decisions and our "lives"

would depend on them. This was the core of the

Outlast. From here I would decide how we could take

out the minimum two teams we would need to claim

our superiority in the games, provided, of course, we

were the last to survive. The two-team kill was re-

quired for good reason; to prevent the teams from

simply hiding until all the others were down. It was a

participation event, and I would indeed participate--

later.

"Our strongest weapon," I thought aloud, "is infor-

102

mation about the other teams. Rule number one know

the enemy. This high'round is a vantage point. We

can see pretty well down into the ravines on both

sides. Maybe we can get an idea of the tactics the

others are using." I pushed down a puff of ferns and

looked between them, scanning the lush, dark ravine

below. All around us, insects and seedpods fluttered

on the hot thermals. Eerie fingers of sunlight glowed

with dust particles and tiny life forms. Behind me, I

could feel Sarda's unenthused glare. "We'll wait here

for a while. We'll hide."

"Hiding is not a very honorable tactic," he pointed

out, sharply reproving me.

I twisted around. Revenge? From a Vulcan? I was

right; I didn't know him very well at all. "I've got my

reasons," I said. "I'm going after food. While I'm

gone, you survey our supplies and see if there's any

way to use them offensively."

His brow crinkled. "Offensively? Our supplies are

not--"

"Just do it, all right? You can argue its logic with me

later." Resentment rode my tone. Or perhaps it was

nerves. Deep in my mind's basement I knew I was

attacking him as part of a defense against my own

apprehension. I really did want to win, and I also did

understand the odds against it. I was blaming him for

my own insecurities and disguising it in that I'm-in-

command tone of voice. That tone... it could be quite

a tool. For a moment there it almost convinced me. I

hoped it convinced Sarda, at least that I was serious.

As I cautiously gathered nut clusters and wild fruit

for our store, my disgruntlement with him slowly

dissipated. Maybe it was my fault. As the command

element, wasn't I supposed to be able to generate

enthusiasm, or at least loyalty, in my crew? His atti-

tude would be a reflection of my own success as a

commander. Ouch--that was a chilly discovery. Could

I be that powerful? Powerful enough to fire a Vulcan's

103

sensibilities? Damn it all! It was tough enough to be on

the Outlast, much less to be teamed up with a Vulcan.

If only we were both Vulcan, or both human... our

differences were too much of a burden.

I wondered what his problem was, why he resented

his selection to attend the Outlast.

No. I wouldn't think about it. It didn't matter. Only

winning mattered. One way or another, I would entice

him to cooperate, even if I had to find some "logical"

reason to dangle before him. Somewhere out there in

theoryland, there had to be logic in the shape of a

carrot.

Thus, we waited. We wat ched. The first three teams

went down quickly, within the initial five hours of the

Outlast. We actually saw two of the teams ambushed

by others, saw their frustration when the dye darts hit

them, and we knew the third had gone down when we

heard the subtle hum of the transporter beaming them

back up to the monitoring ship orbiting somewhere

above us. Two more teams were eliminated just before

sunset.

Sarda and I hid on our shaded escarpment, deep in

the ferns and palmettos, trying to get a feeling for what

we were up against. This planetoid had no moons, so

after dark there was nothing but starlight to see by.

Anyone with any common sense would settle down

and not attempt to move about. Movement or light

could only draw attention, and none of the remaining

teams wanted that, including us. Night came, and was

accepted. Even for command candidates, there is a

time when rest is part of the strategy.

Morning dawned hazily over the five remaining Out-

last teams. It was time for us to move out. At least two

of the four other teams had to be ours.

For two hours we hunted our opponents, doing little

more than homing in on their locations and move-

ments. My classmate Vesco and his Skorr scientist

104

were the most aggressive, setting some very creative

snares while Sarda and I watched enviously. Why

hadn't we thought of those? Vesco was a devious

young man and he worried me. As we'd watched over

the past hours, he had been the victor in three

matches----one more than he needed to claim superior-

ity in the Outlast for himself and his teammate. Now

all he had to do was arrange for his team to be the last

alive. But from what we could see, that wasn't enough

for Vesco.

Nor was it enough for the Norwegian command

candidate and his sultry science specialist. Those two

had looked like a guy-and-girl advertisement for Al-

pine skiwear--tight skiwear--when we'd all met for

the initial briefing before the Outlast. They hadn't

seemed like they could discuss anything more compli-

cated than theft latest romp at the lodge, and I was

taken down a notch when I realized they had devel-

oped a crude kind of communication system using the

lights on their medical sensors. As I huddled behind a

palmetto, the rough texture of the trunk scratching my

arm, their code flashes deflated my creative ego as

they arranged an ambush. I wasn't usually concerned

with my own levels of femininity, certainly not at

times like this, but I got a funny twinge of jealousy

when I realized a woman that luscious could also be

inventive.

Sarda evidently saw my shoulders sink. "Is some-

thing wrong, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"They're communicating," I groaned. "It's only

Jacob's Elementary Light Code, but it's giving them

an advantage."

"Why should that disturb you?"

"Why? Because I should've thought of it, that's

why."

He paused, probably trying to assimilate my dis-

gruntlement, but finally gave up on that and said,

105

"Communication is decidedly an advantage. However,

theirs is limited to the distance from which the Fein-

berger light can be seen during daylight hours."

"Right," I admitted. "It also has another flaw."

"And that is?"

I held out a flat palm. "1 just read it."

Sarda contemplated that revelation, then flattened

his lips and nodded.

"It also gives away their position," I added. "We

need something better. We need some way to pool our

abilities and still put distance between us. We need a

communicator that can't be visually read."

"We aren't allowed communicators," he said.

"Wrong," I told him. "We weren't given communi-

cators. Nobody said we weren't allowed."

He shifted to one knee and balanced himself in the

more comfortable position. "You're playing with

words, Lieutenant. We have no private auditory means

to communicate if we are separated. We shall have

none."

"And you're being pessimistic," I accused. "Try

opening your mind."

"Neither an open mind nor blatant optimism can

change the facts," he countered irritably.

The irritation was catching. "For a Vulcan, you

don't know how to think very well," I snapped.

"There are alternatives. We just have to find them, or

invent them, or something. I mean to win."

Sarda's expression hardened at the thrust of my

words, and he icily pointed out, "The others do also.

Determination is not in short supply during Outlast

games, Lieutenant Piper. Your human obstinacy will

gain you no ground here."

There were times when I hated the truth, and this

was one of them. I hated him for telling me what I

already knew. Yet something inside me refused to

believe that I didn't have just that fraction more grit

than anybody else in the Outlast, just that extra bit of

106

tenacity that would help me win if I used it right. He

was a Vulcan. He'd never understand. I dropped the issue.

"Let's add up our supplies," I said. "Maybe we'll

get an idea."

"We have already done that."

"Let's do it again."

Frustrated, he glared at me before unrolling his

landing-party kit. Before us lay the usual sparse pro-

visions, things any ordinary landing party might have.

There was a Feinberger mediscanner, an electronic

match, Sarda's mock phaser, a hook and line for

fishing or snaring, a standard emergency beacon, and

a simple steel knife. No compass, no tricorder, no

communicator. We each had one of those kits, but two

times sparse is only double sparse.

"Nothing there," I muttered. I rolled the Feinberger

in one hand, then plucked the electronic match. "Un-

less these mechanical components could be altered

somehow. Could you build a communicator?"

"Without tools?" he answered. "Without a transta-

tor/capacitor? Withouta"

"Think in terms of 'withs,' not 'withouts,'" I de-

manded. "What's here that could be used to build any

kind of communications device, anything that could

allow us to separate and still keep in touch? Maybe

the Feinberger sensors could be readjusted or some-

thing. Use your imagination."

Sarda glared rather corrosively at the useless collec-

tion of gadgets, fingered them, contemplated them,

then continued staring them down. One by one he

raised them for an individual 1ookwthe mediscanner,

the match, the beacon--and put them down again.

Eventually he shook his head and pressed his lips

together. "I can see no provision here that would lend

itself to the creation of any kind of sophisticated

communications circuit."

I slumped down, shaking my head. "It doesn't have

107

to be sophisticated. All it has to do is relay and

receive. Or even just relay. It doesn't have to be able

to signal a starship, for crying out loud."

He frowned at my unfamiliar phrase, glowered se-

verely, and tried once again to envision the impossible

thing I demanded. After watching his battle, I plugged

myself into the same circuits and tried to help. "This

planetold has the same basic geological makeup and

energy fields as Earth, say, before the Industrial Age.

What was on Earth then that we could use now?"

I really hoped he wouldn't start explaining it to me,

but just apply whatever came up. Maybe if I tossed

enough questions his way, one of the answers would

strike a chord, preferably before we tore each other to

bits. I'd never worked closely with a Vulcan before,

yet I still got the idea that Sarda wasn't displaying the

usual Vulcan level of patience. Instead of that elegant

control, his was more of an induced frigidity. I kept

sensing movement under the icy surface, a movement

that frustrated him even more than my wild aspirations

did. Sitting only inches from him, I now watched the

internal fight tug at his stern expression and realized

suddenly that, no matter what he said, victory in this

Outlast meant as much to him as it did to me. I

couldn't have substantiated that in a thousand years,

but I felt it as surely as if he had engraved it on the skin

of my hand. His lips tightened again, his amber eyes

tinted green with the reflection of ferns, and his hand

tightened on the Feinberger again.

Then the ferns flickered. No... the flicker was in

his eyes. He gazed tensely at nothing, his lips parting

in perception. He stared, no longer at the kit, but now

into the ferns, yet not seeing them. He was listening.

I tensed. "What?"

Still longer he stared, now tilting his head slightly,

raising his eyes until the amber in them was corrupted

by the cloud-strung sky. "An approach," he said.

"Very faint."

108

"Sure?"

"Yes."

The kits rolled into our hands as if by some strange

kinetic force, and we sank into the dewy ferns. I drew

my mock phaser and set it for close range. My shoul-

der shook, a giveaway of rookie tension as my fist

closed around the weapon. If I was this nervous during

Academy games, what would it be like some day on a

real mission, when the phaser was set to kill?

Ignoring the nagging signal of my own inadequacies,

I pushed Sarda behind me and listened. Now I too

could hear the rustle of approach. One of the teams

was near, growing nearer.

"Any hints?" I whispered. "Who is it?"

"No way to tell yet," Sarda responded quietly.

"Could be any of them."

"I'm not ready to move on Vesco, but if it's the

Norwegian or--"

The jungle parted.

Two people crept into view, weapons drawn. My

heart sunk when I saw that they were wrapped in vines

and leaves for camouflage. Should've thought of that,

too. Everyone was getting the drop on me, and I was

letting it go on. Something had to break, something...

there had to be a way.

I aimed my mock phaser, carefully. The enemy team

was moving toward us. They sensed our eyes and

paused, then moved forward again, ready for us,

somehow knowing we were here. Both were human,

both male, one tall and wiry, the other stocky but light

on his feet. The vines covering them made it difficult

for me to take aim in the jungle's dimness, but I tried

anyway. Somewhere between those heavy leaves

were human forms to hit. I tried to estimate down from

the filtered blobs of faces in the overgrowth, and fired.

A dye dart lanced away from me, swishing through

the ferns. One of the faces dodged fast, and bright blue

dye sprayed all over a palmetto.

109

We scrambled. Sarda went one way, and I the other,

while the enemy team raced through the ferns trying to

get to us before we got another clear shot at them. The

jungle burst into pandemonium. Vines tangled around

our legs as we plunged behind thick bushes and

avoided stinger plants while trying to keep our heads

down.

"Circle!" I hissed at Sarda. Just then, a dye dart

whizzed by, just over my ear. I turned in time to see

yellow dye smatter across a lichen-covered stump, and

lost precious seconds staring at it and absorbing the

horrible fact that I had almost been disqualified from

the Outlast. In the same thought as my vow that they

wouldn't come that close again came the awareness

that I was entirely vulnerable to those dye darts. I took

a broad dive for a wall of ferns just as another dart

sang by.

I'd lost track of Sarda. Frantic, I risked standing up

straight and trying to get a bearing on him. If he went

down, that was it. Half the purpose of the Outlast was

teamwork. We had to work together, protect each

other, and jointly survive. Separating might not have

been the best idea. Where was he?

The ground took a sharp dip without warning, and I

slid down a bristly bank, just managing to keep control

of my descent and land on my feet at the bottom.

There, I paused and listened, crouching warily. Every

muscle in my body quivered with anticipation, and I

began to wonder if I could handle an actual survival

episode, where lives really were at stake. After all, this

was only a game. What would reality be like?

I shook off that thought and put my mind back in the

present, where it belonged, remembering what one of

my Academy professors had said about distraction

being deadly. Sarda . . . I had to find him. If we

couldn't communicate, separation could also be

deadly. What if he'd already been hit? We could

already be disqualified and I wouldn't even know it.

110

What if that happened? What if I'd been eliminated

from the Outlast before I'd even made a single kill?

What if--

Sounds... rustling... over there.

I crouched deeper into the ferns and crawled in the

direction of the sounds. My legs ached as I moved

forward, keeping my hand tightly around the mock

phaser. Thorns caught my hair and pulled it, but I kept

moving forward, letting them tear at me rather than

adjust my position and give myself away. Only when I

heard the voices, hissing at each other from deep

within the steamy overgrowth, did I pause and realign

my approach. They seemed to be moving away from

me, but that could easily be an illusion of the jungle. I

didn't trust it.

Good thing, too, because in seconds I was almost

beside the rustling. With a howl I hoped was ferocious,

I plunged from the protection of the rough cycads,

aimed at the noise, and fired.

Instantly, a dye dart buzzed toward me and I

plunged to one side. The ground came up to meet me,

but the dye dart missed, splattering instead over the

twisted roots and vines behind me. Blue paint flecked

the shoulder of my uniform--blue? Blue!

"Sarda!" I burst out of the cycads again.

He was wide-eyed and waist-deep in some kind of

brown and yellow cane growth, his mock phaser aimed

squarely at me.

"What about the others?" I gasped.

"I thought--evidently I was mistaken," he said,

brows drawn.

"They've got to be here somewhere! Get behind

me!"

We joined forces and hunted. We found our prey, all

right, and they found us. Dye darts flew, but none

scored hits before one of us ran afoul of a trip wire

strung across an open space, and down came a string

of giant leaves brimming with stagnant water.

111

"Yuuuuuuuuck !" blurted one of our enemies. Gasp-

ing and sputtering, we split off in different directions,

drenched in the most ghastly rank stuff a jungle could

offer.

Sarda and I staggered back up our escarpment and

rolled onto the moss, choking and definitely reeking.

"What the--what the--what is this stuff?" I gasped.

"A trap, obviously," he murmured, shaking drop-

lets of stagnancy from his sleeves.

"Oh, gaaack," I choked, my nose shriveling. "This

is... underhanded!"

"And obviously not set by that team."

"Somebody's playing practical jokes!"

As the echo of my words looped down through the

ravine, Sarda cautiously advised, "Keep control of

yourself, Lieutenant."

"But this isn't the time or place for practical jokes!

The Outlast just isn't the time for jokes !"

Sarda grasped my arm to calm me down, only to let

go when the sleeve squished and let loose a new waft

of stink.

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists tight, glaring

off down the escarpment with an acid scowl. 'Wesco!

That slug. It could only be him. He used to do the

same things to his dormmates at the Academy!"

Sarda sighed and looked at his drenched uniform. "I

believe he has turned that particular epithet back upon

us," he commented.

"Come on. We're going to take him out."

I struck off down the ravine.

"Piper! Wait!" Sarda chased me down the incline,

catching desperately at my uniform parka. "Piper,

stop before you give our position away."

Somewhere down very deep, I realized that I was

losing control, letting anger get the better of me. Vesco

and his tricks had prevented me from conquering the

other team, and for no apparent reason. Why would he

rig such a booby trap? Only when I started wondering

112

how he'd known where we were clustered did I re-

member that his teammate was a Skorr and could fly.

All this time, Vesco had had aerial reconnaissance at

his disposal and we'd forgotten all about it. Anger hit

me again. In my rage, I plowed right down the clearest

areas of the jungle, just ahead of Sarda as he tried to

force me to stop. Only when my feet sank into an

unseen hole and I stumbled forward was he able to

catch me.

I clawed at the ferns and pulled myself up. Honey.

My boots were dripping with honey. I looked around,

down. Yes, there it was... a neatly dug hole brimming

with raw honey, covered with dead bugs. Now the

honey, and the bugs, were all over my legs.

"That's it," I growled. "He's mine." The contami-

nated honey sucked at my boots as I pushed myself up

and turned once again down the incline, but Sarda

caught me and, this time, held fast.

He yanked me around. "Lieutenant," he began

firmly, his pale eyes boring deep, "you must control

yourself!"

"Vesco's not playing fair," I insisted, then accused,

"You're not human. You don't understand."

Sarda grasped my shoulders and forced me to face

him. "And ff he were playing fair, you wouldn't be

walking into his trap. We can beat him as you desire,

but not if you let him conquer you even before there is

a confrontation. If I can try to think like a human for a

few hours," he said with quiet punctuation, "I ask you

to think like a Vulcan."

Until he saw the fury fade from my face, he refused

to let go of my arms. Determination narrowed his

eyes. And in those moments of fire and ice, the trial

that forged our relationship found its power of crea-

tion.

The moment drew itself out. How much real time

passed, I've no idea. We read each other, communi-

cated more deeply than words can manage, and made

113

not a move until we both knew I had completely

absorbed and accepted his pact. Think like a human;

think like a Vulcan. The ultimate empathy--trade

minds.

I nodded.

"You're right," I said. "You're right."

Sarda took a deep breath. Relief layered the deter-

mination in his eyes. For a few uncomfortable seconds

he struggled to regain the stiff composure of his race.

"I would estimate that Vesco has littered this area with

such traps."

"I should've remembered. Vesco's specialties are

reactology and reflexology," I told him. "He's out to

rattle us."

"And very nearly succeeding," he said, his scowl

putting me in my place.

I held my foot up so the insect-laden honey could

drip off, then moved aside as carnivorous plants

slinked out to lick at the vibrations of drops they

hoped were blood. "Yeah . . . sorry. Well, Vesco's a

psychologist. I should have expected he'd use it. Let's

start using our own specialties."

Immediately, Sarda unrolled the kit and began prov-

ing that he hadn't been entirely unaffected by my

earlier insults either. Evidently he had found his way

through my bitterness to that faint ring of truth at its

core. He'd opened his mind as I'd dared him to and

discovered that he could readjust the receiving mecha-

nisms on the mediscanners to read old-style carrier

waves. A couple of hours work and pop, communica-

tion. Of course, it wasn't as easy as it sounded, but we

did manage to arrange a rough kind of transceiver.

"It's called a radio," Sarda explained. "Very low

gain vibrations, not very efficient."

"Efficient enough," I said, fondling the mangled

Feinberger, now removed from its shell and hooked up

with about a dozen spidery additions from pieces of

114

uniform, parts of the electric match, and anything else

we could jury-rig to our purpose. It wouldn't work

very well, but it would work.

We put it to use almost immediately. Sarda took a

place in a tree high on the escarpment, and I made my

way down into the ravine, hoping against hope that the

three other tea ms still remained for me to beat. If there

was only one team left, I had already forfeited the

Outlast.

From his high vantage point, Sarda was able to

pinpoint the positions of the two-man team we'd just

missed, and with his superior ability to judge distance

he helped me zero in on them. In minutes, their

uniforms were stained a satisfying bright blue. Defeat

rose in their faces---I empathized, believe me--but

they weren't allowed to utter a sound, They were

"dead." According to the rules, they sat down right

where they were and the leader engaged his locator

beam. I watched, probably out of paranoia, as they

were unceremoniously beamed up to the monitor ship.

Now... the Norwegian. And Vesco.

I had to wait, straining my patience, not to mention

my courage, while Sarda tried to locate the two most

dangerous teams. While on the bottom of the ravine, I

ran into two more of Vesco's unfriendly little traps--

one involving a sizable spider and the other layering

my right arm with needleplants--but my promise to

Sarda held true. I buried my anger and remembered

Think Vulcan.

"Piper!" the faint crackle of the receiver buzzed in

my ear.

I twisted the two metallic fibers that would engage

my transmitter. "Here."

"Piper, do you copy?"

I twisted the fibers tighter and brought the mangled

unit to my lips. "Affirmative. I copy. Where are

they?"

115

"I have spotted Gruegen and his teammate. Take a

course bearing point-five degrees south. They are

roughly 200 yards from you. Be on guard."

"Moving."

He kept me apprised of their shifts in position as I

made my way through thorny, steamy jungle toward

my prey. Finally, in spite of torn clothing and leftover

needleplant spines, I spied the two blond heads, gath-

ered my legs under me on a small moss mound, and

drew my mock phaser.

In my ear came the faint sizzle of warning. "Piper,

they're turning toward you."

I nodded to myself, not taking time to engage the

transmitter. The fronds in front of me started rustling.

They were coming.

I raised my weapon.

"Piper! Vesco and his Skorr are behind you!"

My skin prickled. Behind me! Damn.

"They're closing on you from both directions,"

Sarda warned, his concern coming through strained

circuits. "You must retreat---quickly! Piper--"

I could feel them now. That unmistakable, indefin-

able sensation of warning ran up my arms as I tucked

the mock phaser to my chest and hunkered down on

the moss hill, glancing behind me at the bobbing heads

of Vesco and the Skorr. Close enough to see. Not

good.

"Piper!" Sarda hissed, his desperation breaking

through that fragile Vulcan shell.

I tore the receiver from my ear and stuffed it into a

pocket, then lay the mock phaser down on the moss

beside me. Folding my legs, I sat down and arranged

my hands in the most unthreatening position possi-

ble-hanging over my knees.

Vesco and his teammate broke through the ferns

first. They stopped short when they saw me, frozen in

astonishment for an instant. I made good use of that

116

instant; I shrugged despondently at them, then put one

elbow on my knee and rested my chin in my hand.

Vesco's brow knitted. He glanced at the bird face of

his companion, then grinned in a sort of deflected

victory. As I hoped, he didn't bother to check me for

dye-dart stains.

The jungle rustled like stiff taffeta. Vesco dropped

his grin and stared. He drew his weapon. The Skorr

took his cue and sank into a shadow, careful of huge

golden wings.

Dark green jungle ptterns gave birth to the muscle-

man shape of Gruegen, soon followed by his shapely

scientist. The Norwegian spied Vesco and drew his

weapon with a shout just as a dye dart flashed between

him and the woman. Everyone ducked for cover,

except me. I sat quietly on my moss hill, head in hand,

as dye darts whined in from four directions. It took

every ounce of control I had in me to keep from

reacting. I sat still, tense as drawn string, ignoring the

whistles of darts ringing around me and splattering on

the foliage and rocks. In my pocket, the muffled buzz

of Sarda's frantic calls vibrated faintly.

A howl from my left accompanied the thud of a dye

dart against a human form. Gruegen rose from the

ferns, his shoulder and the right side of his face bathed

in purple dye. His teammate came out from her own

hiding place, staring at him. In a silent chorus, their

expressions sank.

Misery crumpling his face, Gruegen wordlessly

drew his locator and signaled to be beamed up. Vesco

emerged from the bushes near me, followed soon by

his scientist, and beamed his unabashed victory as

Gruegen and the woman dissolved into bands of light

and disappeared.

In his rush of triumph, Vesco never bothered to

wonder why I too hadn't been beamed up yet. His

shoulders straightened and he puffed up, believing

117

himself the ultimate winner of the Outlast. He rubbed

his hands around his mock phaser, rather lovingly, I

thought, and grinned at his teammate. Striding fully

into the clearing, he looked at me and opened his

mouth to say something.

That's how he got ultramarine dye all over his teeth.

He blinked, and his eyes widened. Then widened

some more. Arms spread, he dropped his gaze to the

splotch of blue on his uniform. He stared at it. The

Skorr stared at it. They both stared at my mock

phaser, now firmly back in my hand.

I continued to sit rather sheepishly on my moss hill,

my lips pressed tight. Ali's fair in the Outlast, after all.

Vesco started to shake. Pure rage rumbled up

through his body. His fists balled up tight. Only the

stern rules of the Outlast kept him from tearing into

me.

Great golden wings drooped in despair as the Skorr

scientist drew its locator and went to stand beside the

rosy and rabid Vesco. Their last sight of the Outlast as

they were beamed up was little old me sitting on my

moss lump, quietly being the commander of the cham-

pion team.

I don't know. Three words a Vulcan hates. And I

hated them too when they referred to Sarda's life. That

friendship had been won on the Outlast, lost when I

found out about Sarda's talent for weaponry and un-

knowingly humiliated him by making it known to Star

Fleet, then finally won back when we had stood to-

gether against Admiral Rittenhouse's power-seeking

campaign. I fought to absorb the idea that our relation-

ship might have been cut off before its chance to grow.

I fought not to be jealous of Spock as I stood near him

on Rex's bridge. Spock had had years with Kirk to

cultivate their unique mutual understanding. It seemed

unfair that Sarda and I might be denied the same

chance.

118

For all the pain it brought me when I recalled the

Outlast, the privileges and honors and parties and

advantages it gave Sarda and me at Star Fleet Aca-

demy, the vividness of that episode brought with it a

glimmer of hope, a faint star of chance to brighten

Rex's dim bridge and sweeten my determination. If

Sarda was dead, I would make sure he hadn't died for

nothing.

If he was alive, I now knew how we could find him.

I moved a few steps forward, to where Mr. Spock

was tensely scanning the energy readouts of the fast-

fading transwarp flux. "Sir," I began.

He turned his head. "Commander?"

"About locating Mornay and the others..."

Sensing something even I, in my numbness, didn't

feel yet, Spock stood up and faced me. When he

spoke, I knew he understood.

"You have a plan?"

119

Chapter Seven'

"How fallible of me."

--The Squire of Gothos

"RAmo? You MEAN like... radio?"

"That's right, Scanner. Old CalTier waves. Go

ahead. Do it."

He gawked at me a moment longer, waiting for the

punch line no doubt, then faced his sensor equipment,

altogether dubious. He touched the console plain-

tively, and gave up before even beginning. Twisting

around, he accused, "You say 'do it' as though all it

takes is spittin' on a twig. I'm not even sure this kind

of equipment can be tuned down that far. You're

talking about a frequency that's lower than a hog in a

waller, you know that?"

I pointed at the console's transmitting panel and

said, "Try to aim them in the general vicinity of the

transwarp flux, and when we beam down, we can

continue to track them with tricorders." "But I'm tryin' to tell yawl--"

"Lieutenant Sandage," Spock interrupted fluidly,

"if you set your frequency balance at submedian, then

gradually adjust the energy level according to the

correct bands, you may find carrier waves accessi-

ble."

"It'll all have to be manual, sir." Scanner sounded

apologetic. "Otherwise the computer'11 tell us it can't

be done."

"That's all right," I told him. "Just don't listen to it.

120

It's like flying an atmosphere craft and keeping altitude

with throttle instead of wing angle."

Spock nodded. "Correct. If those frequencies are

accessible with these sensors, it will be through energy

power rather than actual adjustment of the wave

bands."

Scanner threw up his hands. "Okay, okay. S'worth

a shot." He settled down to the tricky adjustments,

which had to be recalibrated every few seconds. "Do I

have any idea what I'm waiting for?"

"Response," I told him. "If Sarda's alive and in a

laboratory of some kind and picks up those waves,

he'll know who's sending them."

"That's a 1otta if's." Scanner sighed and wiggled his

fingers before hunching over the sensor console and

searching for the delicate balance of energy and wave

output. So low they were affected even by our move-

ments in the ship's orbit, those waves had to be chased

by hand and eye. A starship's sophisticated computer

sensors could have kept up with them, but Rex's

ragtag system could not do anything so refined. Scan-

ner sat the re for an exhausting two hours, painstak-

ingly sending low-gain waves toward the location of

the transwarp flux. As the time passed, I grew more

respectful of Scanner's talents with the sensor equip-

ment as he made adjustments with his fingers that were

even too tiny to show up on the screen. I soon gave up

trying to follow what he was doing and simply sat back

in amazement.

Below us turned the outskirts of Yelgor City. I was

dying to get there, to get things going, to find Sarda

and rescue him, or, if he was dead, to begin dealing

with his death. Kirk would be along soon, ready to

deal with Dr. Mornay, yet Spock and I hadn't even

been able to begin our mission of separating her from

Perren and Sarda. Time began to sit on me, smothering

and prickly with responsibility. I'd expected the ap-

pearance of Spock to siphon the weight of that respon-

121

sibility, but it hadn't. Less and less was I able to shift

away the pacts I made with myself when I accepted

the stone of command.

Frustration of this caliber, this feeling of sitting at

the core of a storm yet being completely impotent to

take action, drove me to confront Spock when other-

wise I never would have. He was still trying to pin-

point the transwarp flux origin, even though the waves

had long since dissipated, leaving only the faintest

traces of disruption in the fabric of space. Speaking in

a low voice so as not to bother Scanner, I began, "Mr.

Spock?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Where is Captain Kirk, sir? Is he on his way? Do

we have any clues?"

Spock's honesty, both of word and expression, was

easy to appreciate. "He may be," he said, swiveling to

face me. "Even he was unsure of his moment-to-

moment plans. I know he was reticent to bring Enter-

prise to Argelius at the outset. He did obviously intend

to join us at some point, but he himself didn't know the

point. Beyond that, I cannot say."

I nodded, staring at the floor, contemplating.

"Thank you," I said slowly then. "That leaves me free

to move."

At this, McCoy elbowed his way between us. "How

does it do that?"

"It gives us two choices," I explained. "Either we

sit and wait for the captain to show up, or we take

action according to what we already know. The cap-

tain wanted us to do one of those, and it can't be the

first choice because he apparently didn't know when

he'd be able to get here. I don't think he'd expect us to

make a decision based on an unknown, so we'H act

based on what we do know." McCoy's brows went up.

Spock pursed his lips. "Logical."

From the passenger seat on the port side, Merete

122

said, "Then it's our move. But what move do we

make?"

She had to ask, didn't she? I licked my lips, hoping

some revelation would slide out. "Well . . . make

ourselves indigenous to the planet, I guess. Get down

there and start looking. We're not getting very far

sitting around in orbit. Sir, you said you have Argelian

costumes for us?"

"Yes, aboard my shuttle," Spock said. "Mr. San-

dage and I will remain aboard and continue broadcast-

ing the signal. In the meantime, I shall use connections

in the government of Argelius to arrange for a base

from which you'll be able to prowl the area. The

prefect is already advised of the situation. You should

have no trouble."

The Argelian prefect's idea of a base was a squalid

little alley cantina deep in Yelgor City's north quarter.

Spock had also arranged jobs for us, so no one would

wonder what three strangers were doing there. At least

we would have a central core to start from.

I led the way, feeling conspicuous, as Merete and

McCoy followed me through the streets according to

Spock's directions once we'd beamed down in an

unpopulated dock area. Through the narrow, foggy

streets we walked, flanked closely by scowling Gothic

buildings of wood and stone, passing natives and their

guests, the latter consisting of Star Fleet personnel on

shore leave, Klingons and Romulans likewise, and

even the occasional nonhumanoid, though those were

rare. Argelius simply wasn't conditioned to make itself

comfortable to a wide range of life forms. Of course,

even the serene atmosphere couldn't dissolve military

prejudices, much less racial ones. The Fleet people

watched the Klingons and the Romulans, the Klingons

watched the Fleet people, and the Romulans watched

everybody. I felt everyone watching us. It might have

been my imagination. It might have been the veils and

123

the beaded curly-toed slippers. Or the plume pants. Or

the feathers. Purple and chartreuse just weren't my

colors. Somehow I got the feeling the clothing didn't

completely hide our foreignhess.

"I'll get Spock for this," McCoy vowed, glancing

over his shoulder at a passing group of Argelians who

had just given him the curious eye. Self-consciously he

tugged at the tight brocaded vest and cummerbund.-

Purple wasn't his color either, especially under the

bright orange fez. He looked like an animated piece of

tapestry as he adjusted the shoulder bag that carried

our tricorders.

"I hope we're not far from this cantina we're sup-

posed to go to," Merete said. "It's damp in the

streets."

"Don't complain," I told her, briefly scanning her

ankle-length blue robe. "You're the only one of us

who's not dressed up like a tropical bird." I clutched

the wad of flight suit and boots under my arm. Spock

had suggested I leave them behind, but I couldn't

reconcile the idea of staging a phaser raid on extortion-

ists while wearing feathers and veils.

"This is it," I said, turning down a loud alley and

into a low-slung doorway. Acrid and dim, the cantina

was crowded with laughing patrons. Sagging curtains

decorated each of five walls, then' colors and fringes

faded by smoke and time. The patrons squatted on

cushions or lay on long, low couches, munching con-

fections I wouldn't have touched with a field prod.

Squeaky music twanged from one corner, where a

clutch of musicians wavered to their own questionable

melody, and on a velvet podlure a young girl twisted

and spun in some kind of dance.

We were barely inside the door when a fat, surly-

looking man approached us, babbling in Argelian, and

grabbed my elbow to drag me farther into the cantina.

"What?" I blurted. "What do you want?"

He shook his head in disgruntlement and switched

124

easily to English, practically on the attack for an

Argelian. "You're late! I do a favor for Chamberman

Yiri and what do I get? I'm expected to operate

shorthanded on the first night of the Archtide. You...

take this tray." He shoved a wide metal tray heavy

with confections into Merete's arms and ordered,

"Serve those Klingons over there. Keep them happy.

And you," he said, gesturing to McCoy, "pour more

drinks. Over there."

Within seconds, I was alone with this charming

round curmudgeon and he was walking me through a

sea of legs and pillows. "It'll be your turn soon. Do

you know the litika ?"

"I... might," I stammered, stepping over a sleep-

ing Argelian. "Have you seen any Vuicans around

lately?"

His hands waggled in the air. "Who can tell? Vul-

cans, Romulans, they're all the same." He led me to a

shimmering curtain and told me to stand there until he

came back, which was fine with me. I took the moment

to slip behind the curtain and retrieve my communica-

tor from the folds of the veils, which had sounded a lot

easier when I'd told Spock and Scanner I could hide it

there. The communicator chirped when the antenna

screen flipped up. "Piper to Rex," I said quietly.

"Spock here."

"Any change, sir?"

"None as yet. I am continuing to send the carrier

waves. Since only one of us is needed here, Mr.

Sandage requested to join you on the planet, and I

agreed. He has changed clothing and should be meet-

ing you there within a few minutes. What is Your

situation?"

"I think we've just been hired on for the season. We

won't be too conspicuous here. I'll be able to ask a few

questions, maybe get some answers or a lead to fol-

low. Sarda's alive and he's in the area--I can practi-

cally feel him."

125

There was a stern, reproving silence after my exu-

berant claim, a kind of logic-to-nonsense wrist slap-

ping, but he didn't make any direct comments "Yes.

.. Advise me if there is any change of plans. I shall

hail you in thirty minutes for a check-in."

"Affirmative. Piper out."

I tucked the communicator into the pocket of my

folded flight suit, dumped the whole wad behind the

shimmery curtain, then slipped back out into the can-

tina, only to get a faceful of chubby proprietor.

"There you are! I told you to stay here and where

did you go? Behind a curtain. Those cubicles aren't

meant for you. You stay out in the open and do your

job. Well? Go ahead!"

The music had stopped. The patrons were all look-

ing at me. I blinked back at them. "Well?" the proprietor urged.

"Yes .... Well .... "I straightened my veils. The

patrons started banging their hands on squat tables

Finally I asked him, "What am I supposed to be

doing?"

"Doing? Dancing, of course! What do you think

you're dressed for?"

"Ah. Of course. Sorry."

"Don't 'sorry.' Dance!"

From across the cantina, McCoy's eyes became

very wide when I stepped hesitantly onto that velvet

podium. The podium, fringed with silver, looked fairly

nice from a distance, but up close I saw that the

threads were separated and rotting from years of being

trod upon. It felt mushy. I could barely stand on it,

much less dance.

Dance? Me, dance?

The pounding grew louder. A gaggle of faces leered

up at me in brutal expectation. Klingons, humans,

Argelians, two Mengenites in the back... not a very

promising group as audiences go.

The proprietor got impatient and clap ped his hands

126

sharply. The band groaned to life. Their music once

again whined. The audience kept pounding the tables.

I raised one veiled arm and lowered it, letting the

veil softly fly. Then the other. Two steps left, two right

.. dance, huh? Now I could see Merete also frozen in

place, staring at me with the same saucer eyes I was

getting from McCoy. And now there was Scanner at

the doorway dressed in a waiter's ecru shirt and red

vest and holding a tricorder. Wasn't this nice? What a

privilege to have my Star Fleet colleagues on hand to

watch my un-Fleetlike gyrations.

Whatever I was doing, I was doing it wrong. The

audience howled their complaints, and I tried to im-

prove my twisting to imitate what I'd seen the other

girl doing earlier. Not to much avail. I simply wasn't

trained to move in those combinations. After a few

minutes of this, I managed to find the beat of the tune

they were assaulting us with and was able to improve

my act by making the veils and feathers fly. Eventu-

ally, the audience started to treat me better. It was

probably just sympathy.

The Klingons at the table to my left began showing

their appreciation by snatching at my veils, and suc-

ceeded in yanking some free before I got possessive

and yanked back. They hooted at my un-Argelian

defiance and raised their mugs of a favorite Klingon

wine involving distilled butterflies. The smell identified

it quite well. They took my reaction for encourage-

ment-as I should have guessed Klingons would.

Their sooty complexions shined in the torchlight, cut

by bright teeth and sharp black beards One of them

grasped my ankle.

"For an Argelian woman, you're a supernova," he

snarled upat me. "Come down here." "Can't," I said. "I'm working."

"You'll still be working." He stripped off my slip-

per, brought it to his face and started sniffing it while

he leered at me. "tlhlngan Hol Dajatlh'a' ?"

127

I didnlt know what he was asking me and wasn't

about to get into a discussion with him anyway. I

twisted my foot, hoping to break his grasp, but he held

fast to my ankle.

"You're not much of a dancer," the Klingon Said.

The only female member of the group threw her

head back and laughed." 'elaS-ngan ghaH." What-

ever she said, they got a roar out of it at my expense.

The first gorilla pulled harder on my foot. "Kyrtu

calls you a woman of Elas. Is that why you fight? You

don't look like an E!asian!" More laughter.

Another male downed the last gulp from a dented

goblet. "There are other things Argelian women can

do, Gelt. She's not working in this place without

qualifications."

I stopped dancing. I glared down at him, gritting my

teeth to keep in what I was thinking.

Gelt laughed along with his companions, then

turned that gray face up to me again and gave my ankle

a rough tug. "Enough dancing," he said.

My eyes grew narrow. My voice rumbled across the

cantina. "Let go of the foot," I suggested, "or you'll

be wearing it."

The laughter faded. A moment later, the music.

"I will teach things to you," Gelt said. "Things of

Klingon. Strong things. A salute to things of Klingon !"

He raised his mug and addressed the others, still

holding my foot. "May you die angry !"

After a group swig, they watched for my reaction.

My lips grew flat. "Not bad for somebody who just

learned to walk upright."

He had no misconceptions of my meaning. The grip

on my ankle tightened. In my periphery, the

tavernkeeper had his fists clamped to his mouth in

frozen panic. McCoy was poised for trouble. Scanner

and Merete were out of my line of vision. This wasn't

the time to worry about them. This was the time to

kick the lard out of a Klingon.

There was no sense in trying to talk my way out of

this; that was clear in the Klingon's eyes. So I closed

them with my other foot--a good, clean, Star Fleet

kick to the bridge of his nose. His hand fell away from

my leg, but the blow that would've floored any human

merely echoed briefly within the misshapen Klingon

skull. Gelt collapsed backward, his face crumpled in

astonishment, but he was soon clawing his way back

to me through a forest of his companions, who were

also grabbing for me. I felt myself going down in a sea

of Klingons, and caught a glimpse of Scanner's. body

flying head-on into the clutch like a giant brown-haired

torpedo.

Star Fleet self-defense tactics did their best to keep

our heads above those slimy waters, but there were

five of them and only two of us. McCoy was trying to

reach us, but the flood of Argelians who were trying to

escape kept him from making much headway. Merete,

too, was lost somewhere in the rush for the door. A

party of three human vacationers hesitated for a mo-

ment, then cast their lot with Scanner and me, smooth-

ing out the odds a bit, but we still had that awful

Klingon ruthlessness to deal with, as well as their

superior strength. I heard a bone crack somewhere in

the forest of arms and legs before I fully compre-

hended the Klingon bar-fight mode. After that, I quit

playing Star-Fleet fair.

I pulled ears and gouged eyes and even took a bite

out of a fuzzy forearm. Scanner flew by me at least

twice, neither time in control of his course, and by

now McCoy had discovered the art of smashing bot-

tles over Klingon heads. But Klingon heads are hard,

and the Klingon temper short-fused. Gelt was still

furious and he kept me occupied. I could barely keep

him from getting a grip on me much less worry about

128 129

helping my friends. I landed a few good blows, still

kicking at that tender spot on his forehead where I'd

kicked him before, and this dazed him. He was slow-

ing down, though his copper-gray face was still

screwed up with rage. Where moments ago this had

been only a saloon free-for-all, something had

changed. The Klingon sense of pride had taken charge.

If Gelt got a good hold on me, he would kill me.

It was a lucky thing that Argelian edicts prevented

the possession of any weapons while on the planet, or

I'd have been dead already. As the Argelians

scrambled into the alley, the cantina slowly emptied

out, leaving only a tangle of humans and Klingons, and

one petrified tavernkeeper who was frantically ringing

an alarm bell. The sound of an alarm on Argelius

usually translated into, "Run in the other direction,"

so if help was to arrive, it wouldn't be soon enough.

Gelt was circling me. I had managed to get the

podium between us. Roaring, he dived over it, fingers

waggling at my throat. I slithered clumsily to one side,

feeling his scratch rake across my upper arm, and I

tore one of the veils from the waistband of my plume

pants. I jumped up onto the podium and for a frantic

moment lost my balance. Gelt rolled over, but a solid

slam on the ear rocked him back onto his stomach. I

looped the veil around his neck, dropped onto his

back, and twisted.

He clawed at me, scoring my wrists. I kept pulling.

His throat grew taut against the veil, and he drew

blood on his own neck in an attempt to free himself.

He gagged and spat, then twisted around to grasp the

veil near my hands. Neck muscles stiffening, he made

me believe he wasn't going to let himself black out. So

I snatched up the nearest stone jug and introduced it to

the side of his head. He wavered under me, and at the

first sign of recovery, I clubbed him again. This went

on three, count 'em, three more times. Finally his eyes

rolled UP and he drooped back. As soon as I felt his

130

struggle slacken, I let go of the veil and leaned over

him long enough to be sure he was breathing. It was a

ragged, throaty kind of breathing, but the job was

done.

I rolled off the podium only to realize that I was

wrong; the job was far from done. Scanner was being

pummeled by a large Klingon, two of the human

vacationers were trying to rescue him while holding off

their own problems, and Dr. McCoy was grappling

with the spitting Klingon woman--and losing. With a

deep breath, I steeled myself for more.

Hardly had I drawn the breath when the ogling

crowd at the alley door parted and the cavalry sailed

in. Meret followed by Mr. Spock, cape flying, and to

my astonishment, Captain Cavalry himselfmKirk.

Though I was stunned with relief, McCoy knew

exactly what to do. He grimaced with effort and

shoved the Klingon woman straight at Spock, who was

able to down her with a slightly modified version of the

Vulcan nerve pinch. Evidently he'd bothered to learn

how to numb a Klingon nervous system in his years of

dealing with them. Handy data.

Kirk was not so subtle. He ran headlong into the

fight, took a leap, and bodyslammed two Klingons

right into the tavern wall. He was on his feet before

they had a chance to shake off the surprise. He picked

one, hauled him to his feet, and let fly a classic right

cross that rearranged the Klingon's jawline. In spite of

the victory, I saw the captain wince and shake his

aching hand before turning to deal with the second

Klingon. Number two was quickly dispatched, but it

took an extra punch.

The cantina was littered with bodies. At every door

and window, Argelian faces goggled at us, amazed at

our willingness to defend ourselves and each other

with physical force. This would keep their gossip lines

buzzing for years.

Kirk rubbed his knuckles, surveying his happy hunt-

131

ing ground. A quick glance around the room gave him

a head count, and he seemed satisfied when he turned

to me. "Ah, Piper. On the job as usual. And looking

dapper."

I turned red, quite aware of the torn veils, the one

bare foot (which was almost as bad as the foot still

wearing the absurd slipper), the filmy harem pants,

and the sca nty top. I would've told him it wasn't my

idea, but that meant having to tell him it was Spock's

idea, and I decided not to do that. Of course, Kirk

wasn't in uniform either. He also wore some version of

Argelian clothing a simple toast-brown tunic, beige

trousers, and Federation boots. Well, riobody's per-

fect.

Limply I said, "I think I blew my cover."=

Captain Kirk raised his brows and blinked. "Yes,

you do seem rather uncovered." He surveyed the

clumps of Klingon. "Well, it was worth it."

Scanner stumbled to my side, holding his elbow.

"Bet you're a fun date,"

"Klingons !"

We all turned abruptly at Merete's warning call as

she stood near the dockside window.

Kirk took a step toward her. "Where?"

"Heading this way," she told him. "They must've

heard the noise."

McCoy joined her and leaned out the window for a

better look.

The captain asked, "How many, Bones?"

McCoy pushed himself off the windowsill and

blurted, "Too many!" "Let's go. Move."

The captain led us out of the tavern and down the

alley, stepping aside to herd us through a narrow

doorway into the next building, then out again into the

open Argelian night. He'd barely given me time to

132

retrieve my gear, but we got away before the Klingons

discovered us standing over their fallen comrades.

Panting, we slipped behind a huge stone cistern and

knelt there for horrible moments while a barrage of

Klingons thundered past, looking for us and frothing

for revenge. 'We held our breath as their hard-soled

boots clattered down the docks.

Scanner slid to his knees between Merete and Spock

and pressed his shoulders back against the cool stone.

"Gawd-a-mighty. Klingons really give me the colly-

wobbles. Ugly with a capital ug!"

"Predictable human reaction," Spock commented. I

watched his expression and McCoy's double take and

decided it was another of those odd Spock-McCoy

barbs that I was only beginning to pick up on.

I stanched the scratches on my arm with a veil and

turned to Captain Kirk. "Sir, we didn't expect you so

soon."

He shrugged. "Professor Mornay won't expect me

so soon either. That's our extra playing card. Besides

you, of course."

"Weirdest game I ever seen," Scanner complained,

wincing as he stretched his arm.

I pressed on. "What happened when they took you

in for questioning?"

Kirk shrugged. "I answered them." His casual air

deflated the bureaucratic web he'd probably had to

untangle before making good his promise to meet

Spock here. He hadn't said, of course, that the an-

swers had been truthful--only effective.

"You could're told me what was going on," I said,

facing the captain, surprised at my boldness and some-

how urged on by it. In that moment of bald honesty, I

was talking to the captain of my starship, the captain

of my schooner, and the captain of my destiny. He

knew what I was feeling. I might as well have the

satisfaction of speaking the words. "It wasn't neces-

133

sary to leave me holding an empty bag out in the

middle of an ocean on a ship I didn't know how to pilot

... sir."

He nodded, one shoulder cocked and his brow

furrowed. "I see. Anything else?"

' I dropped the crumpled flight suit and started peel-

ing off excess veils. "Well, I could mention something

about getting stuck in a smelly tavern and being pawed

by some K!ingon with no neck and a face like a

macaque...

"But," he prodded.

"But... I think I'd rather know what you want us

to do next."

"I want us all to fulfill our respective missions. Go

ahead, Spock."

Spock shifted as he crouched beside McCoy. In his

tunic and cape, he seemed forbiddingly natural to this

guerrilla life-style, as though he only half fit in any kind

of world. He addressed me directly with his serene

Vulcan approach, and any other identity but that of

science officer dropped softly away. 'I was attempting

to hail you when the captain beamed aboard unex-

pectedly from the ship that transported him from

Earth. You were correct about Lieutenant Sarda and

your carrier waves."

Scanner inhaled sharply and grinned. "Did we tree

him?"

Spock hesitated, lost for a moment in the colloquial

assault, then recovered and said, "Yes, we... treed

him. Shortly before the captain arrived, I began re-

ceiving low-gain impulses from what is apparently an

abandoned dairy farm on the northern outskirts of the

city, just over that rise." He gestured to a shadowy

ridge just behind a densely populated slum area. In the

twilight, we could see it clearly. "The pulses were

regular and definitely geared to be picked up by sen-

sors attuned to radio waves. Logically, the sender

could only be Lieutenant Sarda, since those waves are

134

tricky to broadcast. Congratulations on your guess.

We now have a location."

I slumped back and closed my eyes for a moment.

He was alive. Alive and answering me. Cold and still

since the first transwarp waves had hit Rex, my heart

started beating again. Merete reached over and

squeezed my arm in much-needed reassurance. She

was grinning that silent fairylike grin. He was alive.

"The Enterprise isn't here?" I blurted, turning to

Kirk.

"Not yet," he said. "Too conspicuous. Scotty's in

command and the ship is on its way... slowly."

"A decoy? Mornay thinks you'll be on board the

starship?"

"Yes. And Dr. Boma is on board. He may be of

some help when it comes down to the wire. He's

worked more closely with these scientists than any of

US."

I crouched between the cistern and a wooden build-

;ng long enough to squirm out of the harem pants and

back into my flight suit and boots. Ahhh, that felt right.

"So we'll go ahead with our plan to split up into three

teams and separate the scientists, sir?"

"They'll be easier to handle that way," Captain Kirk

added. "But I'm also counting on your relationship

with Sarda to shed light on Mornay's mental state

before we try to deal with her. We don't want her

pushing the wrong buttons in a panic. With any luck,"

he said, peering over his shoulder at his closest col-

league, "Mr. Spock will be able to pull out his bag of

Vulcan logic tricks with Perren and weaken Mornay's

stand by taking away her support. Her possession of

transwarp loses its potency if she doesn't also possess

Sarda and Perren."

Fully dressed and loving it, I stepped Out to put on

my boots. "What if you can't reason with her? We

have reason to suspect they're actually building a

transwarp device---"

135

"Which makes them a thousand times more danger-

ous." He paused, driving home the seriousness of that

one change. "Spock told me. We can't afford to wait

too long," he said, his voice taking on an abrupt

strength. "Every minute that goes by heightens the

risk that other governments, hostile ones, might get

word of Mornay's plans and descend on Argelius.

We've got to shut her down before that happens. It's

up to you to give that process a strong beginning." The

captain's finger pointed at me in illustration, pinning

the responsibility right back on my shoulders. "Mot-

nay doesn't know you. That's an advantage," he said.

"Use it."

"Aye, sir, I'll do my best." Of course, I was really

saying that I would fake it to the best of my abilities. I

hoped he took it as that kind of promise. Nothing was

guaranteed.

"We'll go in teams," he said, calculatedly making

eye contact with each of us as he spoke. "Piper, you

and Sandage go first. Isolate Lieutenant Sarda and get

him out of the red zone. That'll leave Spock and me

free to move in on the others."

Charming .... I get to go first. "How are we going

to pinpoint the location without the ship's sensors?"

Spock retrieved a tricorder from Merete, who had

kept her presence of mind during our foray with the

Klingons and made sure our equipment got out of

there safely. Checking the tuning, Spock then handed

the tricorder to Scanner. "These tricorders have been

adjusted down to the carrier wavelength. There's in-

sufficient power to send the waves, but the tricorders

can now receive them adequately to home in on the

source. The signal will be faint. You'll have to con-

stantly tune in. It may be tedious."

Scanner shrugged. "They don't call me Scanner for

riothin'." His eyes made a self-conscious flick and he

added, "sir."

"We'll give you forty-five minutes to get into posi-

136

tion outside their compound," Captain Kirk said. "At

that point, Mr. Spock and I will create a diversion,

giving you the opportunity to get inside unnoticed."

His tone, abrupt and poignant, insisted on success

"It's critical that each of you understand. Don't under-

estimate the gravity of this situation. Those scientists

. . each of us . . . even this entire planet are

expendable. Mornay has to be stopped, even if the

cost is all of our lives. Understood?" He paused, a

long, measured pause until he received the depth of

awareness from us that he demanded. With a nod, he

said, "Good luck."

The clock started ticking again.

137

Chapter Fight

"There are some things that transcend even the discipline

of the Service."

--Amok Time

IT TOOK US almost thirty minutes to wind our way

through the Argelian slums and up that rise to the

dairy farm. A motley collection of old wooden shacks

and stone-processing buildings, the farm also now

possessed an incongruous sophistication guards.

"How many?" I asked as Scanner crouched beside

me in the nearby overgrowth.

He turned his tricorder and squinted at the screen

"Twelve or more. These buildings are armed with

screens. Sensors can't penetrate, but I read twelve

guards on this side. You think they're Argelian?"

I smirked at him. "Not if M ornay's worth her salt.

Look at those phaser rifles."

"Yeah, so much for Argelian law. Those guys don't

look very affectionate, do they?"

"They look like hired guns to me," I said. "Mornay

must've scraped the bottoms of some seedy bar-

rels."

"Tell you what . . . they got a sensor wall around

this place that's steady as a docked ship. A butterfly

couldn't get in without them findin' out."

"But it isn't a force field..."

"Negative, just sensors."

"We only have twelve minutes before the captain

and Spock make their diversion. Let's find a door to

target."

"What kind of a diversion you think the Captain'll

come up with?" Scanner asked as he followed me in a

wide arch through the surrounding trees and reddish

Argelian scrub growth.

"Who knows?" I answered. "He'll use whatever's

at his disposal. The ship he came in, the ship Spock

came in... maybe even Rex. Whatever it is, it'll be

fast and sudden. We'll have to be ready."

"We're ready for anything," he said with a little

snarl of confidence.

"This is a good place," I said, hunching down and

scanning the farm area below. "On the far side from

the city... only one door, and only three guards. See

any others?"

"Yup, right behind that wall. Two of 'era."

"Where?"

"Next to that lopsided shed."

"Oh... I see them," I said, peering down the grade

at the guards as they lazily paced. "Look at their

clothes. All different. And they're all humanoid, too.

Quick and good with hand-held weapons."

"Those scientists ain't takin' chances, are they?"

"No," I said, feeling the weight again. "They're

not." I gazed over the buildings, plugging myself into

the faint lights that shone from tiny windows. Those

were probably set up as labs, probably set up quickly

and without safety measures. Sarda would be in one of

them, confined somehow. Each of those thoughts

made me stiff with worry. If the scientists, in their rush

to produce a transwarp device and up their ante, could

have one "accident," then certainly they could have

more. Sarda wouldn't be safe as long as he was forced

to cooperate with them.

The three stone buildings were attached to one

another with lath-ribbed breezeways covered with

138 139

some kind of tarp. The only opening on this side of the

compound was a heavy wooden double door, warped

by time and the elements, and guarded by two sentries

with phaser rifles.

"Any time now," I breathed. Captain, make it a

good show for me.

Soon phasers would lance from the sky, or perhaps

he would use photon torps for a brighter effect. A

distraction, he said. If I was in Kirk's position, I'd

have drawn the guards away by hitting a target down

the glen, near enough to see very well and far enough

to get the guards out of my way. Nervously, I glanced

at the sky.

"Are you ready?" I asked Scanner, more out of

need for the sound of a voice, even my own.

The night was dead quiet. The two nearest planets in

the Argelian system wheeled blue and pink overhead,

conflicting with the two moons for attention. "Yeah,

I'm ready," he whispered, also watching the sky.

"Any time," I said again. I licked my lips and

pushed my mind right through that door. All I had to

do now was join it. "Any minute."

"I'm still ready."

"Good... good..."

"Wish we had phasers."

"Use your imagination," I scoffed. "What did they

do before phasers were invented?"

He shrugged. "They used photons."

A smirk was the best I could manage for his com-

ment. I watched the sky. It was time. Where was the

captain?

Fleeting and horrible, the idea struck that Scanner

and I might be in the wrong place, about to break into

the wrong compound. Could that be it? Was I screwing

up already? Frantically I started scanning the country-

side, looking for the right compound or some signal of

Kirk's diversion, but... nothing.

Besides, why would they have phaser rifles if this

140

wasn't the right place? Right, right, that made sense.

"Hey, Piper?"

"What?"

"You see what I see?"

I swung around to him. "Where?"

"Yonder." He pointed down at the compound and

the slope behind it.

I squinted through the purple Argelian night, trying

to home in on a strange snorting noise that was groan-

ing its way up the slope. A moment later a score of fat

animal faces popped up over the hill, followed by

!umbering gray bodies, then more faces and more

bodies. Resembling, more than anything, a cross be-

tween Earth rhinoceroses and those clodheaded mud-

pigs discovered lurebering around Rigel Four about a

century ago, they were Argelian currbucks. Big, genr

tie, and clumsy, they shook their horns in confusion

and gallumphed toward the farm. Nobody would ever

have bothered to keep them around except that their

milk made up about 90 percent of Argelius's export

trade, considered a delicacy for its alcoholic effects

without the usual hangover. The animals themselves

were born with a case of industrial strength stupidity.

"Warthogs!" Scanner blustered. He watched in as-

tonishment as three chubby Argelian shepherds franti-

cally waved prods at the animals, evidently trying to

get them under control, but to no avail. The currbucks,

wide-eyed and snorting in panic, thundered over the

crest of the hill and headed straight for the guarded

farm area.

We watched, tense and unsure, as the currbucks

lumbered right through the compound's sensor

screens and set off the alarms. The night filled with

flashing lights and whooping klaxons. One by one, the

guards around the compound ran to help herd the

curtbucks away from the farm. Eventually, when it

was clear the herd was out of control, when currbucks

were running snout-first into the compound walls in

141

blind panic, even the guards at the rear door drifted

away toward the scampering herd.

Scanner stared downward. "Was that it?"

"I don't know," I said quickly, tensed on bent knees

and ready either to go or stay, or go... or... "What

do you think?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"What do you think?"

"You're the one who's always tryin' to think like the

captain. You tell me! Would he send hogs after us?"

"Maybe that's it."

"We can go if you wanna go..."

"Maybe we should go."

"But what if that wasn't it?"

"But what if it was?"

"You think it was?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Let's go."

We went. A diversion is a diversion. And 100 Arge-

lian currbucks can be plenty diverting.

The mercenaries were shouting at each other, be-

cause with mercenaries there's usually too much ego

to elect any one leader, and they made a silly spectacle

trying to direct an impossible roundup. By the time

Scanner and I reached the door, the klaxons and

flashing lights had thoroughly terrorized the currbucks

and the guards were sufficiently distracted with what

they thought was just an accident from a neighboring

farm. With a last glance over our shoulders, we slipped

inside the wooden doors and closed them tightly be-

hind us, locking out the flashes and most of the

sounds.

The silence of danger closed in around us. My skin

quivered with anticipation. "Lock it," 1 said.

Scanner pulled the bolt with a shaking hand.

The hallway was simple, made of stone blocks,

unadorned except for small filament lights that cast a

cold glow.

142

"I can't believe that worked!" Scanner gasped.

Until then, I hadn't noticed how nervous he really

was. He gawked at me. "What?"

"The bit with the hogs!"

"Well, it wouldn't have except that they didn't

know we were coming," I said.

Only then did we sense the presence at the end of

the hallway. We paused, looked at each other, then

turned and stared into the muzzle of a phaser.

From the end of the hall, a soft voice emerged.

"Greetings, Commander Piper. Your presence is

most gratifying."

There was no mistaking him. Even among his own

kind, lost among the people who bred him and taught

him so thoroughly to fish the ice patterns of the mind,

he would have stood out. Only for an instant was he a

stranger to me. Unfamiliarity lasted no more than a

second. Suddenly, I knew himmpersonally, intensely.

He carried the gravity of the situation with polished

Vulcan composure. His hair, a mass of soft ebony

waves, was longer now than it had been in the photo-

graph Spock had shown us. It fell over his shoulders,

drawing attention down to a splendidly sculptured

tunic of sage-green quilt, and up, to graceful back-

swept ears and canted eyes. The eyes--they were pale

gray, almost silver, striking in raven hedges of lashes

and upswept brows, and they held an undefined wild-

ness. The deeper I looked into them, the more surely I

saw that touch of self-indulgence, even turbulence.

Vulcan ways could bridle him, but only to a certain

point. He wore his attire, his long hair, his Vulcanness,

and his independence like a crown.

Perten raised an arm in a beckoning gesture. Dol-

man sleeves on the surcoat, slashed with crescents of

silver hiding between quilted green panels, immedi-

ately created the illusion of a cape. His beautiful

143

clothes might have seemed pretentious--he had obvi-

ously been well paid for his talents--had it not been for

a bawdrick of platinum clasps sloped across his hips,

enameled with the cool azures and greens Vulcans

dream of as they mediate on their hot red planet. There

were chips of semiprecious metals in the belt that

caused a faint glitter, but all were very small and

tasteful, providing subtle reminders of Vulcan heri-

tage. Only the phaser in his left hand, held casually

downward, but ready, jarred the image we saw before

US.

Embarrassment made me resist Scanner's glance. A

do zen questions flashed into my mind, all beginning

with "how."

I swallowed hard, straightened my spine, and

walked forward. Scanner stayed behind, his hand on

the door bolt.

"I greet you, Commander," Perren said. "I presume

you wish to speak to Sarda. I shall escort you to him.

There are automatic defenses that will injure you if

you go unaccompanied."

He raised his arm again and stepped backward,

gesturing down a dim corridor. The phaser also came

up just enough to maintain the subtle intimidation.

Only his eyes spoke now

In my defeat, so sudden and quick, I couldn't think

of anything to say to him. What does prey say to its

conqueror? My throat was tight with anguish. I

pressed my lips and moved forward.

Perren herded us both into a small laboratory annex.

High stone walls were lined with computer crates,

discarded equipment, and storage boxes. Two sturdy

folding tables held more equipment and stacks of

computer spools.

"You will remain here," Perren said. "I advise you

strongly against attempting to escape. This farm has

been impregnated with rather sophisticated defense

devices that will be unmerciful should you encounter

144

them. You must be confined, of course, but I have no

desire to see you injured."

Scanner turned his back on Perren and leaned to-

ward me. "This is the bad guy?"

I cleared my throat. "We're only here because of

Sarda," I said, hoping the lie couldn't be discerned in

my tone of voice. With a little luck, I could deflect

their attention from whatever Captain Kirk and Mr.

Spock would be doing next. "I don't care about any-

thing else. Where is he?"

Perren bowed his elegant head, tipped one shoulder,

and punched a button on a portable communications

unit. "Sarda."

Breath froze in my lungs. Beside me, Scanner

tensed.

"Yes," came a voice that was chillingly familiar.

I stared at the corn unit as though it had bitten me.

Perren spoke quietly, but with poignance. "Have

you completed repairing the circuit usher?"

"Very nearly. 1 will need your assistance to recali-

brate."

My chest tightened as I heard his voice. Mornay and

Perren might have brought Sarda here against his will,

but I knew very well there was no physical threat that

could make a Vulcan work against his will. Perten

knew that too. His eyes touched me as he spoke into

the eom unit. "Your visitors are here now."

There was a pause. My mind screamed in an effort

to define that long moment. The communications unit

beneath Perren's hand zoomed up and swelled to fill

my field of vision. My eyes blurred.

"Very well," Sarda responded distantly. "I shall be

right there."

It ended with a heartsickening click. Perren straight-

ened and observed us coolly. I wondered if he could

see my turmoil, the pain I felt as the idea rammed

home that Sarda might actually be here voluntarily. He

wasn't a prisoner... he was free to move around. My

145

mouth clamped tight and my whole body went torpid. I

was forced to stand there and add up the obvious. A

trap.

A trap... a trap.

In my periphery I saw Scanner looking at me with

concern, but I couldn't respond. I couldn't move. The

deep wound burned.

There was a noise in the hallway. A faint shuffle.

He appeared. Amber eyes struck me like a hard

wind. He wore only his standard Fleet uniform, the

tenne gold fabric catching lights from his brassy hair,

as though nothing had happened to spoil his right to

wear it. His brow was slightly furrowed even before

we spoke. He strode past Perren with familiarity that

hurt me and stopped before reaching us. His lips

parted.

Scanner burst out from behind me, clutched Sarda's

collar, and rammed him backward into a wall. Sarda's

arms flared outward, but he did nothing to resist the

attack as Scanner growled, "You mule-eared son of a

Romulan, I oughta pin you up like a fish !"

Perten took one step, then wisely stopped.

Sarda accepted Scanner's acid glare and hot breath

with a calmness that said he had expected it. "Things

are not as they seem, Judd," he said quietly.

"They seem dang plain to me, you rock-hearted

rat," Scanner seethed.

Sarda shifted his eyes to me. With his Vulcan

strength he could have thrown Scanner off like a

snowflake, but he waited under that malicious grasp

and did nothing.

I moved up beside them, making no effort to get

Scanner under control. He was acting out my most

frightening feelings, giving vent to a piece of myself I

was just as glad not to see right now. Even with

Scanher's fists jarred up against his throat, Sarda

merely gazed at me, and I at him.

"We thought you needed us," I said. Obviously, I

146

was struggling. The quiver gave it away. I wished I

could be Vulcan too, so I wouldn't have to feel this.

But capped inside this human casing, the anguish

bubbled to the top.

"There are things I must tell you," he said.

Scanner bumped him harder against the wall again.

"You mean explain, right?"

Perren came closer. The phaser was raised now.

"No," Sarda said to him, bringing a hand up to his

colleague, his mentor. "No need. Please leave us."

The phaser went down, but cautiously. The other

Vulcan nodded once in acknowledgment of Sarda's

right to privacy even above his right to safety. "As you

wish."

When Perten left, closing the door behind him, the

tension remained.

"Okay, Points," Scanner growled, "start tawkin'."

In a rare tactile moment, almost in relief, Sarda hung

his hand on Scanner's arm. He was still looking at me.

Moments ticked by. The silent communication con-

tinued.

When it had done all it could, words had to come. I

took a deep breath and swallowed. "Scanner."

"You gotta be kiddin'."

"Back off, please."

"Not till I get what I want."

"You'll get it. Back off."

He hated what I asked. Perhaps he even hated the

fact that I wasn't really ordering him off, but just

asking him, friend to friend. Somehow that made it

different, more potent. With one more threatening

bump against the wall, he let go and backed away.

Suddenly it was almost as though Sarda and I were

alone on a rock somewhere in the middle of nothing.

Sarda lowered his hands slowly to straighten his

tunic. Still we gazed at each other in that uncomfort-

able knowing silence. The answer was there he was

no prisoner. If he started out that way, it hadn't lasted.

147

On top of the pain of having been betrayed by my

friend came the hurt of being overshadowed in our

friendship, being displaced by Perten. I'd been con-

gratulating myself for a bond that might have already

become secondary.

I dug deep, and found my voice. "Why did you

answer our carrier signal if you knew we were walking

into a trap?"

The complexity of the situation shone in his eyes.

"It was not I who answered your signal," he said. "It

was Perren."

"Because you told him."

Even through the Vulcan shields, he flinched. The

misery now showed itself in his eyes, too, but for

different reasons. With effort, he went on. "I would

never have told him. I hoped you would know me

better."

Guilt swarmed in. We both felt it, both felt victim-

ized by the situation.

"There's no other explanation," I said. If I was

wrong, at least the truth would have to come out now.

Insult was a strong medicine.

He didn't respond immediately. He seemed embar-

rassed. With a momentary glance at the floor, he

steeled himself to tell us things no Vulcan would

ordinarily volunteer--unlesS the reasons were gravely

important to him.

"Perren knew about you because he knows me," he

struggled. "Through our training meids, he has come

to know you... what to expect from you. When the

stampede diverted our sensor system and the guards,

he knew there was a 98 percent probability it was

you."

The effort of saying that in front of Scanner, much

less to me if we had been alone, drained him. For a

moment his breathing was ragged. He quickly recov-

ered, though, and contained his discomfort.

148

With a tremble of relief, I continued, "And the

signal we sent?"

Fortified somewhat, he answered, "Perten also un-

derstands about the Outlast. He had no trouble inter-

preting the appearance of the carrier waves."

Behind me, Scanner slumped back to sit on one of

the tables and hung his head, disgusted. He crossed his

arms and heaved a rumbling sigh.

"We were worried about you," I said to Sarda. "I

thought you'd been kidnapped. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he admitted, even though I got the feel-

ing he would much rather have given me the answer

I'd hoped for that he'd been shanghaied at phaserpoint

after a grueling ambush and beaten into cooperating.

"You weren't kidnapped," I concluded.

"Not precisely, no. I . . . elected to come. I am

needed here."

"You're helping Mornay and Perren hold the galaxy

hostage?"

He bristled. "I am not helping them, per se," he

insisted. "I designed the correct containment equip-

ment for transwarp energies. I alone know how to use

the safety and backup systems properly. Mornay is

attempting to build a transwarp device. Had I allowed

them to build the device without my help, I would

have been endangering countless lives on this planet. I

could not... do that." The weight of responsibility

was plainly still pullinghim in two different directions.

He was exhausted. "The experiment is too delicate for

me to ignore. There has already been one slippage, but

I managed to deflect the waves into space at the last

moment."

"You bet you did!" Scanner exploded. "And we

were right in the middle of 'em when they came

through!"

Sarda stared at him. His face went ashen. He even

stopped breathing. I hadn't quite realized th e depth of

149

the transwarp danger until he supported himself on the

edge of the table and physically fought for control. He

won, but he had to close his eyes to do it.

Even Scanner was affected by the sight. With a

shake of his tousled head, he sighed, "Damn it,

Points."

Sarda's brassy head dropped slightly. He gazed at

the table, ashamed, yet committed.

"In other words," I continued, "you didn't elect to

come at all. They blackmailed you. Your inaction

would have cost lives, so you came with them."

"Yes," he said softly. He didn't look up.

Silence settled around us like fog. Without taking a

step, we waded through it.

I was the first to move. I strode to the table, beside

Sarda, turned and leaned against the edge. Now only

inches separated us. When I looked up, so did he.

My words were careful, sincere. "I understand."

If there was anything more, any lingering regret or

guilt, we beamed it out. If Sarda had betrayed us, I

didn't want to know about it. There was no profit in

repaying a mistake with another mistake.

He gathered himself with a solemn nod. "You're

wise," he said. His gratitude was there, but sheltered.

Neither of us made any attempt to uncover it further.

"Tell me about Perren," I asked. "What makes him

tick?"

Sarda blinked, confused by the slang, then remem-

bered what it meant and tried to find the best words to

explain a complex individual. "You saw him," he said,

as though that explained something. "He is supremely

in charge of himself. He believes in the rationality of

Vulcan philosophy, but he cannot abide the Vulcan

tenet of not making moral judgments, even rational

ones. Like Vice Admiral Rittenhouse, Perren believes

there is an overwhelming moral difference between

Federation philosophy and those of the Klingons,

Romulans, and the handful of minor hostile powers.

150

He believes the illogic lies in ignoring the differences."

"Are you telling me he doesn't believe in the Vulcan

philosophy of pacifism?"

Sarda's eyes flared in a wave of frustration. Maybe I

didn't completely understand Vulcan ways, but now

wasn't the time to chastise me for it. He realized that

and continued, "Even on Vulcan, logic continues to

evolve. Minor points in logic can extrapolate into vast

differences in philosophy. Contrary to common belief,

there are those among my people who do not accept

the Vulcan system of pacifism. Things do change,

Piper," he said, raising a hand to emphasize his point.

"Even Spock was a renegade at one time. He dis-

agreed with cloistered Vulcan ways. Since then, the

Vulcan patterns of logic have grown outward to in-

clude our place as a major Federation contingent.

Someday, Perren's ideas may be accepted, as Spock's

have."

Scanner crossed his arms over One knee and argued,

"That don't excuse putting the whole galaxy on the

edge of a cosmic scramble, bud."

Sarda struck him with a deadly look. "No," he

snapped, "it does not. But even pacifism has violent

results when those who embrace it refuse to defend

others' rights to peace." His tone was sharp, carrying

echoes that defended himself as well as Perren. The

flare faded then, quite abruptly, and humility returned.

He was troubled; it was easy to see.

"You're saying he believes Rittenhouse was basi-

cally right," I said. "That moral unity has to be

established, even by force. Right?"

"All Vuicans have the same basic beliefs," he went

on, making it suffice as his answer. "But the right to

individualism includes the right to disagree. Unfortu-

nately, that also means there is disagreement on how

to achieve the goals of peace. Perren's talents as an

applied scientist have given him comfort all his life,

and he feels an acute awareness of those who have no

151

such opportunities because of their governmental sys-

tems. He feels a responsibility for the oppressed peo-

ples of the galaxy and wants to bring down the govern-

ments that oppress them. He . . . thinks it will be

simple."

I saw Sarda's embarrassment for Perren as he

spoke, once again staring into the tabletop, unable to

meet my eyes. This, however, was no time for delica-

cies. If Sarda had come here and was staying here out

of loyalty to Perren, I would have to rupture that bond

enough to get Sarda back. Our friendship, and the

success of our missionwthat peace he spoke of so

reverently--depended on it. Time would come later

for kindness.

"He's wrong, Sarda," I said, slicing across the lines

of tolerance. "His mistake is assuming the Klingons

and others will automatically give in when they're told

the Federation will use the power of transwarp against

them. He doesn't think they'll fight back against im-

possible odds. He doesn't understand irrationality.

Am I right?"

Reluctantly, he admitted, "You... are correct."

"And Mornay. She wants power as much as Perren

wants peace." "Yes."

"And he doesn't see through Mornay any better

than he sees through irrationality. He doesn't under-

stand why anyone would simply want power, because

it's an emotional goal." "Yes..."

"And where do you stand?"

He stiffened. His shame deepened. I had succeeded

in putting him on the spot. My appearance here, and

my dedication to my own mission, nailed him down.

Would he come with me, or stay with Perren?

"Where he stands doesn't matter anymore," came a

harsh voice from a corner behind Scanner.

152

Sarda and I turned abruptly. Scanner slid off the

table and whirled around. Several guards stood there,

sighting down their phaser rifles at us. They flanked a

stout woman with sharp, flashing eyes framed by a

bowl of dark gray hair. Her mouth was curled into a

forbidding grin, a sign of victory, as she took a few

steps toward us. Comfortably flanked by her guards,

Ursula Mornay had us at a stunning disadvantage.

She had aged considerably since the photo we'd

seen aboard Rex. Now her hair was peppery with the

years, her features harder, her small blue eyes creased

with lines and time. Her shoulders were slightly

stooped, but her youth had not been entirely sacri-

ficed. She still appeared strong and steady as she held

a phaser on us, evidently not satisfied to put her trust

completely in her hired guards.

"You've done good work, Sarda," she said, still

grinning. "Plenty well enough that we can t/ke over.

Now it's only a matter of time before I have all I

need."

"What is it you need?" I asked.

Her quick eyes flashed at me. "You'd love to know,

certainly. So you're Sarda's bold rescuers. Well

enough. I don't need him anymore."

Sarda's brow creased and he stepped forward, put-

ting himself between Mornay and us. "You dare not

activate the flux device without my safety systems,"

he said with a startling emphasis.

"I have your systems, don't I? I don't need you."

"Professor, you cannot--"

"I'm putting you away for safekeeping. If I need

you again, I'll have you. But under control." "And my friends?"

"Your friends' lives will guarantee your coopera-

tion. The logic of it is simple enough even for a Vulcan,

isn't it?"

I thought of what Spock had told us about her, about

153

her tunnelbound view of politics and her hunger for

power. Spock had postulated that Professor Mornay

didn't understand the true consequences of her

actions. With a little luck, I could manipulate that.

Deep breath... and dive.

"Professor," I began, "you're in great danger here.

You're too far out and too close to contested space for

the Federation to protect you. If you throw the

transwarp technology up for bid way out here, there's

going to be--"

"I know what there's going to be," she said. The

grin widened.

"And you don't care?"

"I have everything under control, don't I?" she

said. Quite plainly, she agreed with herself, and that

was the only person she cared to consult.

I took a step. "And where does Perren fit in? Does

he understand the repercussions of your plan?"

She shrugged, her little mouth twisting. "Perren's

ideas are quaint. He has no real perception of the

scope of possibilities within my grasp, now does he?

Why should he? He only cares about his work, and I

let him do his work. I'm the only one who lets him. I

do the thinking and he does the building. He doesn't

argue with me. It's a good working relationship."

"For you," I said.

"Where else can he go?" She paced to our right,

keeping the phaser leveled. "He wanted to force the

Federation to look at our device, to realize the poten-

tial. I want the same thing. Except that I want the

whole galaxy to realize the potential. Scope, you see. I

said that before. Scope." Her tiny eyes narrowed with

excitement at the idea and for a few moments she was

seeing her vision of the future instead of us.

In a bold gamble, I decided to test the vision. I

moved toward her.

And stopped shortmher phaser twitched and her

154

eyes cleared. Behind her, the guards' phaser rifles

snapped up. My reflection wavered in a half-dozen

cross-hair sights.

So much for that theory.

"Oh, Piper, you're not that silly, are you?" Mornay

taunted. "You're too military, aren't you? You think

dreamers can't be sensible, can't see the whole pic-

ture. Well, you're wrong!" Her tone became a bark,

her eyes sharp as fangs. "Scope! Once my device is

tested, I'll be a major bargaining force in the new

Federation."

"You sound like Rittenhouse," I accused.

"He had his plans. He failed. Now the turn is mine.

The starship will be here soon, and I willdemand that

Captain Kirk act as the Federation's emissary. When

we meet, it will be on equal ground." Her tone was

casual, but her manner had a cruciality about it. Not

the kind that could be argued with. Even Rittenhouse

appreciated the capabilities of his ene mies. It seemed

Mornay didn't. That trait made her wilder, more dan-

gerous. I closed my mouth and stiflened my jaw,

determined not to argue with her. It was plainly a

waste of time. Kirk was right to save her for himself to

deal with. She didn't take me seriously. Not yet.

She turned slightly when Perren walked in behind

her, threading his way through as the guards parted for

him, but her attention stayed with us.

Immediately I changed my course and raised a hand

to him. My own impotence struck me when I saw my

hand trembling. I had to force myself to speak. "Per-

ren, are you sure you understand what you've gotten

yourself into? Do you know that Professor Mornay

intends to ransom transwarp to the highest bidder?

Have you thought about the lives that would be lost in

a cosmic scramble?"

Mornay laughed out loud at my prattle of questions.

155

Perren merely inclined his head. "I have thought it

out," he said simply. "The resulting advantages are

worth the risks."

"But there is a moral imperative even more impor-

tant," I told him. "Would you have transwarp and the

trilithium technology fall into Tholian hands? Or Ro-

mulan hands? Or Klingon hands?"

His angular eyes swept toward Mornay, though he

didn't turn.

"Give it up," I implored, "before it gets too big to

control. Transwarp can do great good under the right

control. Don't make it a volleyball. She can't do

anything without you and she knows it. Don't cooper-

ate with her."

For an instant, a fleeting and definite doubt crossed

Perren's emotionless face. His brows came together

just that fraction of an inch, enough to tell me my

words struck a disharmonic chord he recognized and

feared. His chin lowered a fraction, cementing the

flicker of uncertainty in our minds. Even Mornay saw

it.

"I have... had to wrestle with my motivations,"

Perren admitted. "There is not always a right and

wrong to choose between. Some circumstances re-

quire a choice between a wrong and a wrong. I have

struggled with myself, but a commitment requires

decision, which I made long ago."

"Then decide again," I prodded. "Isn't there honor

in altering logic when the patterns of facts change?"

Mornay laughed at me again, a sound that could

have been pleasant in other circumstances. She nod-

ded at Perren.

"You'll cooperate," she told him. "You've put fif-

teen years of your life into this project. The risks

aren't so great that you'll abandon it and give up the

chance to bring total peace to the galaxy, are they?"

She turned to us again and deflated Perren's impor-

tance by talking about him as though he wasn't here.

156

"How would he go back to Vulcan and explain to his

family and his sponsors that he sacrificed galactic

unity to a theoretical risk? The humiliation would be

too great3'

Affected by the stalled logic and the danger of losing

Perren to Mornay's cooing, Sarda stepped forward to

address his mentor directly. "You must reconsider,

Perren," he said. "There are acceptable moral rea-

sons_?,

Mornay opened fire on him. Phaser-stun hit him full

in the chest, catapulting him backward over a table.

His arms and legs convulsed as he struck a wall.

Scanner plunged in to catch him, barely keeping him

from slamming to the floor. When I flinched toward

them Mornay moved between into my path. I could do

nothing but look on, quaking in the realization that the

Vulcan friend I'd come here to rescue was now a

tangled, tingling, !imp symbol of Mornay's violent

nature.

For a horrid instant as the phaser bolt struck Sarda,

I thought the weapon was set to kill. I hadn't come

here to get Sarda killed. The stun setting at least

proved that Mornay was sincere about using Sarda's

abilities again if she needed them. She wasn't ready to

kill him. Or perhaps that was for Perren's benefit. If he

hadn't been here, might she indeed have killed?

Her zeal to use that phaser kept the threat alive.

"You see?" she said. "I do not play." She warned

me off with a wave of the phaser. She must have seen

something, some active fury, in my eyes that even I

wasn't aware of. When she once again had control, she

eyed Perren. "Our goals will be realized. Things will

settle our way3'

Sensing the end of this dubious conversation, I

opened my mouth to say something, anything, that

would keep Mornay here and bfiy time for Captain

Kirk to act. My lips parted, and imagine my surprise

when I chirped like a communicator.

157

Every muscle in my body locked up.

Mornay blinked. "Of course!" she said. "Help from

outside! I should have expected that, shouldn't I?"

She turned to bark at one of the guards. "Find the

communicator and bring it to me."

Easily done. A moment later, Mornay possessed

both my communicator and Scanher's tricorder. She

held the communicator and waited, and sure enough it

chirped again. Kirk's signal! The check-in!

Scanner, still holding Sarda against his shoulder,

tried to contain the bugging of his eyes and delib-

erately bit his lip.

I pressed my knuckles into my thighs. Now what?

Mornay came to me and held up the communicator.

"Answer them. I'm sure you know what not to say."

There was hunger and victory in her tone. She was

about to find out who we were working with, how

powerful we were.

Sweat trickled down my neck. The captain would

give himseft away when I answered that signal. I

pressed my lips tight. My eyes stung.

Mornay caught the whiff of defiance. Without a

pause, she made dramatic affair of switching her

phaser to the "disrupt/kill" setting and turned it on

Scanner and Sarda. Her expression said the rest. I took the communicator from her.

Scanner tightened his grip on Sarda. "Piper..."

His message was clear enough. Find another way,

and fast.

There was no other way. Think fast--that's what

heroes do in these kinds of situations. So why was I

still clicking along at sublight? With a shallow breath, I

put my trust in the captain and flipped the antenna

shield up. "Piper here. Is that you, Merete?"

The name shot from my lips a little too sharply. I

could only hope Mornay would attribute it to my

nerves.

158

A faint shuffle from the receiving end accentuated

the tension as we waited for response. Then--

"Yes, this is Merete. Where are you, Piper?"

I took a deeper breath, all primed for a sigh of relief,

then remembered the sigh would tell Mornay some

thing. I stood there like a balloon, letting my breath

out so slowly that I started turning red. "We're in one

of the lab buildings," I said, stalling.

There was a pause. In my mind, a softly etched face

stood beside her and told her what to say.

"Have you isolated Sarda?" she asked carefully.

"He's... with us."

Mornay's phaser jerked toward my friends in warn-

ing. The hints would have to stop, or Scanner and

Sarda were finished. I'd never learned to lie, to bluff.

Why didn't the Academy have a class in bluffing?

"Can you get out?" Merete asked, her tone telling

me things.

"Not right away," I said. "The compound is booby-

trapped." I watched Mornay to see if I'd said too

much, but she didn't move. "It'll take time."

Another pause. Kirk's image nodded in my head.

"I'll contact you again in thirty minutes," Merete

said. "ff you've found a way out, we'll beam up and

vacate the system before Enterprise arrives. It's time

to haul in tight."

She had difficulty with the nautical phrase. She

didn't know where the emphasis should go. The words

were too even, too careful. But the message was real

he knows.

My shoulders trembled. I squeezed them tight and

brought the communicator closer to my lips. "I agree.

They've already worked our windward."

Mornay was practically under my chin in an instant.

Her phaser now hovered between my eyes, conveying

a message entirely different from Merete's. Sign off or

die.

159

Why bother talking out loud at all? These subliminal

messages, coming at me from a dozen different direc-

tions, were grating enough.

"Piper out," I said quickly, and closed the commu-

nicator.

Mornay snatched the instrument from my grip, her

fingernails raking the side of my hand. She backed

away. "Code words," she said bitterly. "And not even

subtle." Without a single consideration for the privacy

between the two Vulcans among us, she turned to

Perten and demanded, "Who is Merete?"

Perren, however, very much realized the unethical

uglies behind her question. His face went verdant with

bottled emotions as, with effort, he answered, "An

associate. Merete AndrusTaurus. A Star Fleet physi-

cian. She was loosely involved with Piper and Sarda

when they interfered with the dreadnought affair."

His humiliation was obvious, even through the Vul-

can shields. He knew damned well he was betraying

something sacred when he defiled the privacy of the

training melds he had shared with Sarda. Was it habit?

Had Mornay exerted subliminal control over him for

so long that he had forgotten his responsibilities to

anyone else?

Ursula Mornay thought about what he had told her,

then nodded and put her needly glare on me again.

"Your friends out there can be traced. You've kindly

supplied me with the means to attract their attention."

She awkwardly gathered the tileorder into the same

hand that held the communicator and said, "They'll be

sure to answer a distress call from one of their own

signals." She handed the two instruments to a guard

and reset her phaser, then looked up at Perren. "See

that they are locked up in the storage room. I promise

you they won't be hurt unless they themselves force

me to act. Such things are sometimes necessary, aren't

they? For the ultimate kindness, we must fortify our-

160

selves. Take them immediately. The guards will go

with yore Then meet me in the main lab."

Mornay knew Perren's weaknesses very well after

all their years together. My heart sank to see it work-

ing.

Once again I locked my lips, redirecting my frustra-

tion long enough to help Scanner lift Sarda. Con-

sciousness was seeping back as the phaser stun dissi-

pated, but he needed help to walk. A short, cold walk

to a small, cold room.

When we got inside, I let Scanner take Sarda to a

crate where he could sit down. I turned instead to

Perren. The mercenaries remained outside, and with

my voice low, only Perten could hear me.

"Can you really think of selling transwarp to hostile

powers?" I asked, my tone one of unexpected inti-

macy.

He tossed his head in a motion of frustration and

said, "I assure you, Commander, I will destroy

transwarp and myself if necessary, before I allow the

flux technology to leave Federation hands."

That took me by surprise. For a moment I just

gawked at him in confusion, then blurted, "So it's all a

bluff."

"No," he said. "Not a bluff. Ursula will do what she

threatens to do. She has her purposes and I have mine.

For the moment, they are parallel. When the time of

divergence comes, I will be able to control her."

"How can you be sure?"

"Question me no more, Commander!" he snapped.

"You begin to irritate." That was obvious enough,

judging from the way his lips curled in when he said it.

With a fan of dark hair, he spun and left. The door

clanged shut. We heard the grinding of a mechanical

lock.

"Huh," Scanner grunted. "Vulcan is skin-deep."

He glared at the door for a count, then turned back to

161

Sarda. The contempt he felt earlier for Sarda had

apparently found new targets. There was none left

here. He began busily rubbing sensation back into

Sarda's arms and knees, ignoring those tiresome pro-

tocols about not touching Vulcans. Scanner never did

pay much attention to them, and this wasn't the occa-

sion to change him. "Come on, Points, you're okay.

Here, lean on this. Atta boy. Got any feet down there

yet?" He paused, then asked, "How are you?"

Sarda blinked to focus his vision and slowly said,

"Unwell."

I flinched at the weakness of his voice and the effort

he put behind it. I lowered myself onto the next crate,

facing him. "Do you feel horrible?"

Only then did the whole impact of his regret surface

and only for an instant. A sadness touched his down-

turned face. "I feel foolish," he murmured. The in-

tense honesty startled us.

Scanner stared in amazed empathy and started to

say something. I cut him off with a quick shake of my

head.

Carefully rephrasing, I asked, "Do you think you're

hurt?"

Sarda made a laudable effort to straighten himself,

though his arms and thighs shook. Without thinking,

Scanner and I each caught an elbow. "Nothing perma-

nent," Sarda uttered weakly. "She has always . . .

resented my association with Perren."

The effort drained him and he fought a bone-deep

shudder, but the gloss was returning to his eyes now

and his complexion was regaining its luster.

"We've got to talk," I said. "Come up with a plan of

action."

"What action?" Scanner howled. "She's got us

hemstitched?

"Never stopped us before," I muttered back. "The

captain's out there somewhere, expecting us to be

ready for him."

162

Sarda blinked hard and straightened a little more.

"Captain Kirk? Here?"

"Yes, with Spock, McCoy, and Merete."

Scanner added, "Yeah, and now they know we're in

trouble."

I nodded, my nose wrinkling at the reminder. "And

thanks to my bad acting, Mornay's ready for them.

They'll walk into a trap."

"Maybe," Scanner agreed, "but she still doesn't

know it's the captain, and that's goana make her

underestimate."

Nervous now, I slid off the crate and paced to the

room's only opening, a newly mounted metal door

with a wide, tinted duraglass window. I pressed my

shoulder against the glass and peered into the stone

corridor, where four mercenaries were eerily lit by

those inexpensive little diogen torches. Those guards

looked too casual about their job, casual in a danger-

ous way. Casual as though they did this for a living.

Casual as though the phaser dries were extensions of

their own arms. My nervousness doubled. "We've got

to buy Captain Kirk time. Mornay thinks he's on

board Enterprise. The starship should be here soon."

"When?" Sarda asked.

I threw my hands up, only to have them clap down

onto my thighs. "How do I know? Kirk never tells me

anything! All I know is that Mr. Scott and Dr. Boma

are bringing the ship in while Kirk lurks around here.

We were supposed to break you out, and here we are

locked up like penned ducks! We've got to get out of

here and get on with our mission."

"Uh-uh," Scanner complained. He took that as a

cue to lean back against the wall next to Sarda and put

his hands behind his head. "Our mission was to sepa-

rate Sarda from the witch and the warlock. We done

that. He's separated."

I ignored him. It was that or whack him one, and I

figured I'd save my strength. A few strands of thick

163

hair fell around my face as I stared at the floor,

cloaking me from their eyes. I'd have liked to think of

my hair as golden, but somehow it never got past

pyrite. The worse the situation got, the browner my

hair felt. Even after all those weeks under Earth's

gaudy sun ....

How did my hair get into this? I widened my eyes

and shook my head to clear it. A deep breath helped

me cope. "There's something weird about this," I

grumbled, my brow knitting until it gave me a head-

ache. "Something about Mornay isn't fitting with what

we were told. I don't think she's as unenlightened as

Spock thought. She was careful not to say things to us,

as though she..."

I faltered, staring into a convenient wall.

"As though she what?" Scanner prodded.

My eyes narrowed as I thought harder, forcing

myself to add up things that were abstract at best.

"Perten doesn't know much about humans, does he?"

Sarda frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"He can't see through her. She's stringing him

along. Saying the things he wants to hear. Like I said,

she's not so ignorant. I don't think we should underes-

timate her. She knows better than to try to ransom the

technology by itself. She knew enough to build the

device. Is that going to be enough for her? You heard

her talk about testing transwarp. It's the next logical

step. She intends to take her leverage as far as it'll

go!"

"Piper," Sarda said calmly, "your logic is accept-

able, but Mornay has no support for such a project.

Beyond ransoming the technology, she has no lever-

age. The dreadnought was supposed to be the test for

transwarp, but it's not an option any longer." He

paused then, fatigued by the long talk, and closed his

eyes. Soon they opened again, slightly dulled from the

strain. He was recovering, but I knew what full phaser

stun felt like, and I frowned sympathetically.

164

"She might have more support than we realize," I

went on, pacing now. "Rittenhouse had plenty of

support. Star Fleet is only scratching the surface of the

corruption. Who knows how deep it runs? Mornay

probably knows exactly who to contact when she

needs something."

"Even so," Sarda argued, "she will need special-

ized scientific help to mount transwarp on a ship, and

that is assuming she can call upon people who know

how to select an appropriate vessel. That takes spe-

cialized knowledge. She cannot simply call upon new

scientists. Herself, Perren, and I are all who remain of

Rittenhouse's science team."

I stopped pacing. Scanner and Sarda both gazed up

at me, and I down at them, and I think we all stopped

breathing. "No," I said. "You're not. You're not at

all!"

The little stone room echoed.

"Boma," Scanner murmured.

"And he's already on board Enterprise," I finished.

Sarda's eyes widened as he stared at me. We had the

same thought at the same time. We said it together.

"The test ship!"

165

Chapter Nine

"1 suppose most of us overlook the fact that even Vulcans

aren't indestructible."

--Amok Time

"IN HIGHER PHYSICS, concepts are not expressed as

laws and certainties, but as probabilities. There is only

a 62 percent chance that transwarp will work. The

danger is not that it will fail, but that the test ship

would fail to return from interdimensional warp travel.

Professor Mornay and Vice Admiral Rittenhouse were

willing to take that chance. Perren does not realize that

Mornay still intends to."

Sarda struggled to hide the vestigial weakness left

by Mornay's phaser attack. He knew we didn't quite

understand the science he was talking about, but it

didn't matter. We understood the danger. ff from

nothing other than the careful lack of inflection, Sarda

made us understand the nightmare of being forever

caught between dimensions.

"Seems there's a lot about Mornay that Perten

doesn't realize," Scanner commented. "She said she's

got no more use for you," he told Sarda. "How long

before she doesn't need Perten anymore?"

By this time I had been standing silent for many

minutes. All the parts of this puzzle were wild. A

deviant professor whose theories, when twisted into

reality, became a galactic threat; a renegade Vulcan,

no less, whose thought patterns could barely be pre-

166

dicted by another Vulcan, much less a 1oopy pack of

humans who'd come into this wholly unprepared; a

starship about to become a sitting duck, no doubt

sabotaged from inside by Boma--but how? Could one

man shut down a whole starship crew? Even ff he was

a leading astrophysicist, even if he had built some of

the finest war machines of the past decade, even if he

did resent Ente rprise officers for a court-martial that

ruined his military career--then again, maybe he

could do it.

More than anything I hated being trapped. If I had to

fail, why did it have to be this way? If determination

was a factor for Boma, then it would have to become

one for me. I was on the inside, the captain was on the

outside. I should be the one getting him in, not him

getting me out.

I began to stalk the doorway, The guards knew they

were being watched. They glared at me and shifted,

lips twisting. Sometimes they rearranged the phaser

rifles in their arms. They looked dirty. They looked

ready. Exactly the kind of people Mornay would hire.

Not an ethic to share between them.

I stared at them. Moved to the opposite wall. Stared

some more.

One of the guards kicked the bottom of the door and

swore at me, his lips curled back in silent rage.

My eyes narrowed. I kept staring. This was a deli-

cate art. I had to hate them.

"Piper," Scanner warned quietly, "those blizzard

brains are gonna come in here and gently reprimand

you if you don't cut that out."

The wall was gritty against my shoulder, its stone

cold and forbidding. It fortified my burgeoning resent-

ment. I continued to irritate the guards with my eyes.

"You can feel it," I murmured. Then, more strongly, I

said, "There's a rift between Mornay and Perren. I

mean to widen it."

167

"Yes. We must," Sarda agreed. "If Perren supports

Ursula now, he will be immoral. He is in a dangerous

dilemma for a Vulcan to face."

I spun around. "And we can use that. Perren's

already vacillating. I saw it in his eyes."

His doubt surfaced immediately. "Piper..."

"Don't tell me I didn't," I snapped immediately.

Under the sharp wave of my hand he fell silent. "The

lives of the test ship crew--that's the angle to take

with him. Either Mornay hasn't told him about using

Enterprise as a test ship, or she's somehow convinced

him it's safe enough to risk. But what are they going to

do with over 400 crewpeople? It doesn't seem rossible

that two scientists could take over a whole stafshj'p full

of military personnel."

"The logical assumption is that they will incapaci-

tate the crew in some way," Sarda said.

"Or trick them into beaming down," Scanner

added.

"Or blackmail them into beaming down." Once

again the stone floor rolled beneath my feet. Back and

forth, back and forth, pause for a heavy stare at the

guards, back and forth again. "This is getting us

nowhere. We could guess all night and still be wrong.

We've got to get out of here and deactivate that sensor

screen or tie up the guards or something, anything to

help Captain Kirk get in here and do what he wanted to

do in the first place. He's got to be informed about

Boma and Enterprise."

Scanner stretched and arched his back. "I've heard

of pipe dreams before, but not Piper dreams."

I returned to the window. My reflection was caught

in the blue caste of the duraglass. Did I really look so

tired? I felt old, but not experienced. Years had passed

in minutes, all laden with this terrible impotence.

Outside somewhere--my mind went out to the Arge-

!ian hills with their red and blue foliage, bathed in the

light of the banded moonsmthere, somewhere, Kirk

168

was waiting for me to take action. Had he understood

my message? Did he know he was on his own?

The mercenaries in the hall started moving around,

casting rude glances at me. The more I stared, the

more they twitched. I couldn't get out, but they could

get in. Their anger would bring them in. It was only a

matter of degrees.

A fierce man with missing teeth and a long grassy

moustache was the first to lash out. He struck the

duraglass window with the butt of his phaser rifle. It

bounced off. The glass hummed.

I refused even to flinch. My stare became a leer. I

mocked him with my steadiness. Never mind being

frozen with fear, of course. This seamy type of planet-

trotter would have no trouble killing all of us with

nothing but a shrug as explanation. In the reflection I

saw Scanner tensely reach for the lid of a crate. Not

much of a weapon, but ff I had him scared, imagine

what I was doing for the guards.

I didn't have to imagine. Vexation colored the faces

outside the blue duraglass.

"Piper," Scanner began, a tremor giving him away,

"people are morons until proven otherwise. You're

courtin' live examples."

Several responses popped into my mind, but to

answer him would be also to destroy the string of rage

building outside the door. By now I had pressed up to

the blue window tight enough to see both ends of the

short corridor and keep all four guards itchy. They

mumbled at each other, but they couldn't speak out

loud. They didn't like my intense interest. Grass

Moustache could barely stand to blink his eyes any-

more, because he knew I would still be there when

they opened. His three compatriots had better control,

but were slowly losing it.

But I had singled out my target.

I focused on the pair of large coffee-brown eyes

above that moustache. Eyes that loathed me. Ah, but

169

there is no peace in the land of pensionaries. You hire

yourself out for a questionable living, you take what

you get. Sometimes you get stared at.

This was more than being stared at. As the moments

ticked by, I owned him.

His lips peeled back again as the rage boiled up-

ward. His shoulder blades hammered against the op-

posite wall as he pushed himself off and brought the

phaser rifle up. One coal-hard eye snapped shut, the

other lining me up instantly in his sights. ff only it had

been courage holding me there, I would have had a

better story to take home.

My legs turned to jelly. I was held in place only by

sheer astonishment that my ploy had worked--too

well.

"Piper, get down!" Sarda shouted. He slid off the

crate, but not soon enough.

Grass Moustache fired his phaser rifle. A single

lance of bright orange light decorated the gray corridor

and made the diogen touches glow. I dropped to a

crouch, covering my head. Above me came the sicken-

ing sizzle of cooked metal and melting duraglass. As

the window disintegrated, I also heard Grass Mous-

tache's fierce growl. Then shuffling, and another

voice.

"Idiot! Cease firing. We haven't got any place else

to keep them!"

"We'll keep them in an old shoe!"

"Get hold of yourself! Don't lose your pay over

nothing."

Cautiously I looked up when the sizzling began to

fade. The upper corner of the door was dissolved,

along with a ragged portion of duraglass. Along the

edge of the glass, a phosphorescent red glow was

darkening as it cooled. Not enough. Not big enough.

My hope sank.

I pressed my hands on the floor, wondering if I

dared stand up and show myself again through what

remained of that window.

The chance never came. An explosion rocked the

lab, a great boom that threw us all to the floor and

vibrated in our bones. It was very close--maybe even

this building. The ceiling crumbled and dropped

chunks of plaster and stone in dusty clouds.

"Take cover!" I shouted across the room. I was

gratified to see the two of them huddled beside a huge

cooling cabinet as part of the side wall expanded into a

barrier of loosened bricks. Unfortunately, it didn't

collapse. On the other hand, if it did, would it take the

whole ceiling--and us--with it?

From across the compound came another explosion,

much more distant this time, but much more powerful.

It set off a string of popping noises, as though pressur-

ized containers were being exposed to too much heat.

Commotion broke out in the corridor. From the

floor, I listened.

"What's happening?"

"Hellfire, that's what! Come on!"

"We're assigned here, not out there."

"Move, I said!"

Then, new voices from down the corridor

"Where's Lugrode?"

"I don't know. I can't find anybody from the city

side."

"What do you mean, you can't find 'em?"

"They're gone, that's what I slavin' mean!"

"Two of you come with me 2'

"Ain't movin' 2'

There was a distinct thud and a groan as authority

was rudely reestablished.

"You! Stay on that door."

I got warily to my feet, still hunched down, but now

able to peek through the bottom of the duraglass at the

scampering mercenaries. The voices were a cacoph-

170 171

ony now, impossible to separate. Only when a man

skidded in from the south side with a startling an-

nouncement did I begin to feel the revitalization of

hope.

"The security signal on the weapons locker is

jammed !" the man howled, as though somehow it was

pinching him to be cut off from his weapons supply.

I spun toward Scanner and Sarda, fanning my way

through settling stone dust. "They're cut off! And

people are missing! He's in!"

"Huh?" Scanner blustered. "Who's in?"

"Captain Kirk! I don't know how, but-he's inside!"

He slumped and rolled his eyes. "Aw, Piper, I wish

yawI'd get off that nag and ride a real horse for a

change." He sat down wearily.

I dragged him to his feet. "Get up," I growled.

"We're getting out of here."

He stiflened, but the doubt lingered. "How?"

I had been gazing at the mutilated bricks of the wall,

but now I spun on him. "Stop asking that and start

thinking it! You heard. They're down to two guards on

us and they're stuck with the weapons they have in

hand."

"Sure," he complained. "Those puny little phaser

rifles you could shoot a moon down with !"

"Get used to it, mister, we're getting out. Now."

Scanner raked both hands through his hair. "Dang!

You're even starting to sound like him!"

His statement caught me by surprise. And an even

bigger surprise--I didn't like it. My own silence sat on

me like a rock. My lips clamped shut, my face aching.

The smoke hurt my eyes.

Sounds of demolition continued to filter through the

outside walls, punctuated by electrical crackling.

Sarda was already palming the damaged wall. If he

carried any of Scanner's doubts, he never let me see

them. He may or may not have believed we could

172

break through that wall somehow, but he knew none-

theless that I would never be satisfied unless we tried.

What he didn't realize yet was that I would never be

satisfied until we succeeded. I'd die in this place

before I would force Captain Kirk to have to rescue

me. Somehow he had already managed to get inside,

confound the guards, put several of them out of com-

mission, cut off their weapons supply, and set off a

chain of explosions to cripple Mornay and Perren. He

was a tough act to follow. I would never be satisfied to

merely applaud. If I went down on Argelius, this stage

would have the marks of my fingernails in it.

Scanner's words, fraught with annoyance and the

truth of fatigue, haunted me. I began to question my

driving force even as .we picked at the bucking stone

wall and tried to wedge leftover computer parts be-

tween the large bricks. No more bursts of courage

came to mask my fear; now I had to deal with it all.

With the silence came an overwhelming need to get

back into space, into space vehicles, to systems I

knew and weapons I understood, to the place where I

had experienced one great triumph before. I began to

focus on that. If only I could get back into space...

Before you can outguess an enemy in three dimen-

sions, you've got to be able to maneuver in two.

"Fine," I spat under my breath.

This drew unwanted attention. Sarda hesitated. "I

beg your pardon?"

"Both of you get back." I moved in on the wall, not

really knowing what I would do when I felt the cool,

broad bricks beneath my palms. The bricks had shifted

against each other, leaving uneven gaps where mo-

ments ago there had been only creases. There had to

be a weak spot somewhere. "All right," I said through,

gritted teeth, agreeing with yet another unheard urge

from you-know-who in my memory, "when in doubt,

do it the hard way."

173

"I'm afraid t'ask," Scanner muttered.

"Where's something we can throw at it? What's in

those crates?"

I moved toward the heavy metallic storage crates,

ignoring the shuffle behind me and the errant conver-

sation.

Sarda's voice was lowered. "... useless to attempt

to talk her out of it."

Then Scanner, more like a hiss. "Talk her out of it?

Hell, I'm not even going near her!"

"Keep an eye on those guards at the door. Make

sure they're not watching," I said as I shoved one of

the crates toward the weakened wall, then doubled

back for a second crate. "Help me lift this."

Insanity must be contagious, because I didn't get

any arguments. Scanner heaved a doubtful sigh but

made no comments as the three of us wrestled the

second crate onto the top of the first. Sarda's Vulcan

strength allowed him to serve as anchorman while

Scanner and I lifted and steered the crate into place,

wincing at the screech of metal against metal.

"Okay," I said. "One more."

"One more?" Scanner howled. "We jus' barely got

that one up there!"

"That one in the corner should do."

"But that one's empty!"

"I know it's empty. How else could we lift it that

high?"

"Piper, I think yawl need shore leave."

"No thanks. I just had all I need of Captain Kirk's

idea of shore leave. Come on. We haven't got all day."

The empty crate was soon in place easily enough,

high atop the other two crates, looming just under the

plaster ceiling.

"Now what?" Scanner asked. The same question,

silent now, hovered in Sarda's expression.

I wiped my palms on my thighs. "Help me get up

there."

174

"What?"

"We'll never find enough junk in here to add up to

the weight of a person, so I'll provide the weight to

break the wall. It's simple."

"It's nuts! You'll kill yourself."

"Beats staying in here. Come on, help me."

I didn't want to have to make it an order, yet they

both sensed the nearness of that extreme. I wasn't yet

comfortable with command status, but if I had a

phaser I would use it, and rank was a kind of weapon.

Beside me, Sarda stood silent, hardly blinking. I

looked at him.

Softly, perhaps seeking approval, I told him, "It has

to be done. There isn't time for alternatives."

His hands disappeared behind his back. Slowly he

nodded. "I would prefer to take the risk myself," he

said.

"I know." My voice hovered between us. "But it's

my responsibility."

Chivalry wasn't dead; they helped me climb into the

highest crate. The metal was cold against my thighs

and shoulders as I huddled inside and shut the crate,

then braced myself as well as possible. A shiver

wracked my arms and legs. Seconds passed as I fought

to control it. I had to be ready, body and mind. My

weight had to be used correctly.

"Ready," I said. Lying, of course. "On three."

Three came a lot sooner than I expected. I rocked

the top of the tower while Scanner ticked off, "One

.. two... three!"

Into my small, dark world came the sickening sensa-

tion of the ground dropping out from under me. The

planet tipped. My head struck the crate's metal wall.

My own weight crushed down onto the back of my

neck, forcing me into a ball. Then came an abrupt jolt

as the crate struck stone. Within the crate, nose

doubled on itself and pummeled my eardrums. I was

falling again, turning again.

175

Another jolt. This one bent the crate into a weird

geometric form, and me with it.

The crate struck the floor and continued to tumble at

least one whole turn. The door was ajar now, bathing

my confused eyes with raw yellow light. Diogen! The

corridor!

Twisting painfully around, I kicked the door out-

ward and rolled out of the crate onto a pile of de-

stroyed bricks in time to see Scannerand Sarda stum-

ble through a ragged opening in the wall. At the same

moment, the two remaining guards, eyes bugged with

astonishment, skidded around the corner to gawk at

us, too stunned even to raise their phaser rifles.

It was Scanner who bolted to action first. He swept

up a chunk of brick and pitched it hard. It flew down

the corridor and struck one guard where his hand was

gripping the phaser rifle. He choked and dropped the

weapon between his knees.

Sarda was ready. He moved in quickly, wrestling

the guard down, bracing the phaser rifle between them.

Without thinking, I grasped a brick and gave it a two-

handed heave at the second guard. He saw it coming,

but never had a chance to dodge. The square of gray

brick slammed into his chest and drove him against a

door. He collapsed, gasping. Only then did Sarda

succeed in pinching his own opponent unconscious.

He swirled around, his eyes afire, his arms flexed

and ready.

For a head-clearing moment I remained on one knee

among the rocks, gathering eye contact with my crew

before plunging onward into the storm. We needed

it.

I shoved myself to my feet, quaking with conviction.

"Let's get out of this squirrel cage."

The outside of the lab building was even in more

disarray than the inside. Once we escaped into the

dark openness, my sense of immediacy was prickled

176

with a sense of vulnerability. Caution returned where

moments ago it would only have been a burden. Sarda

and Scanner followed me as we twined our way across

a compound, hiding from running mercenaries who

were scattered about, desperately looking for some-

thing to shoot at. Us.

I pressed my shoulders back against a wall as I

peeked around its corner, motioning for Scanner and

Sarda to close up tight behind me. My fingers made the

shape of a phaser.

Keeping his voice low, Sarda asked, "What are you

planning?"

"Find the captain," I said. My skin tightened as

three mercenaries trotted past our hiding place, head-

ing for the main lab. Surely by now they knew we were

free. Well, we were out; free was something else.

"How we gonna find them without communica-

tions?" Scanner asked. "They could be anywhere in a

kilometer radius."

"They're inside this compound, Scanner," I in-

sisted. "The explosions we've been hearing have got

to be Mornay's booby traps. Somehow Kirk and

Spock are setting them off. It's just a fabulous tactic,

that's all, letting the enemy provide the firepower

behind the confusion. I should've thought of it the

minute Perren mentioned the security system. Kirk

should've been an urban guerrilla."

"With his track record," Scanner pointed out, "he

prob'ly was. I dunno if we should try horning in on his

business."

I relaxed for a moment and peered at him. "You

never want to try anything. You're always afraid to

take a risk. Why'd you ever join Star Fleet? Why

didn't you stay in Tennessee and raise pigs?" "I'm 'fraida pigs."

Simple question, simple answer. He ducked a swat

from me, and I shook my head, unable to hide the grin

that pushed its way up.

1 77

"If Mornay's going up to Enterprise," I thought

aloud, "we've got to get back to Rex."

"Like I said," Scanner pointed out, "we need a

communicator to key into the automatic transporter

link."

"Ursula may not reach the starship," Sarda said

then. His voice was a sudden, steadying buffet against

the frantic compound noise and Scanner's Tennessee

twang. "Captain Kirk may be able to prevent her from

doing so 2'

"I can't make that assumption," I said, more

sharply than I intended. "I won't let him down again."

The determination in my voice caused silence be-

hind me. It swelled up like a cloak and covered my

s houlders. Whatever happened, I had to make it true.

He was counting on me.

As I stood there against the cold stone, every mus-

cle in my body knotted, knowing that lives depended

on my next decision, I realized the essence of the

schooner Edith Keeler. Whoever the woman was,

_ whatever she had been to James Kirk, she was now

personified in square yardage of sailcloth, gleaming

brightwork, brass, and bowspritmshe was what saved

him from the horror of these hard moments in the life

of a starship officer. It didn't get easier, as I had once

hoped. I understood that now. I would never get used

to these moments. I could only save myself from them,

find some ship to sail away on, to become sane again

and gather up what I needed to go back to space, just

as he had learned to do. Even with cold ground

beneath my feet, I felt once again the surging of the

deck under me, with the deadly and beautiful ocean an

arm's length away, nicely mastered. I heard once

again the wind whistle inside the main, and I almost

looked upward. If I could learn to pull those halyards

and sheets at the right moments, maybe... just maybe

. . I could pull the fight ropes here and get us out of

this alive.

178

Key word maybe.

No---I didn't want to hear that Shut up, Piper, and

get to work.

"Come on," I said before I'd even planned where to

go from here.

We made it safely across to the next building, a shed

of some sort with a maze of wooden fences in pathetic

disrepair, but terrific material to hide behind. Unless

they spotted our actual movements, they'd never be

able to pick out our forms in this mess.

"Sarda," I began, "they must have some kind of

communications board around here."

He moved close, keeping himself balanced in an

awkward position by holding onto the cross beam of a

crooked fence. "Indeed. In Ursula's main lab. She had

to be able to contact supply ships, and her guards, of

course."

"Just point in the right direction, will you?"

He ignored my irascibility and quite simply pointed.

We skulked across the paddock area, skirting fences

upon fences, halfway around the farm until only a

short expanse of open area lay between us and the

main lab.

"I'11 go alone," I said.

Both arms. Not even a chance to get up. I looked to

one side--a stern Vulcan truth. And the other side--

Tennessee smoke.

I let my head drop for a moment and took a deep

breath. "Listen, both of you. ff I fall, then you'll still

be free to try again. You heard what Captain Kirk said.

This mission is more important than any one of us.

Maybe more than all of us."

Sarda's expression never flickered. He had no inten-

tion of arguing, any more than he intended to let me go

in there alone.

It was Scanner who spoke. "ff we let you go,

how're we gonna know what crazy thing to try next?

Face it, Piper. Nobody thinks like you."

179

"Oh, thanks, Scanner, thanks a lot. And here I was,

waiting for an oath of loyalty."

"Oughta know better by now."

I stole a glance at Sarda and was relieved to see that

his mouth was drawn upward on one side and he was

deliberately not looking at Scanner.

"All right," I conceded. "I've got enough to fight. I

don't need to be fighting you too. But stay in close

formation. Sarda, you know the way in."

"Roughly. I was not permitted to roam freely."

"You lead then. Scanner, right behind him."

Scanner moved into position. "Bet you wish you

had a phaser," he teased as he shifted past me."

"Hell, I wish I had a slingshot," I admitted. Only

then did it occur to me that I probably could have

made one out of available materials if I'd had my

training screwed on straight. Luckily, neither of them

thought of that, and I got away with it. "Go," I said

quickly, taking advantage.

My nerves electrified as we hurried across the open

area, dodging searchlights as the beams swabbed the

ground in search of us. Mornay must have been plan-

ning the theft of transwarp for some time--at least

since the failure of Vice Admiral Rittenhouse's scheme

with the dreadnought. She must have had this com-

pound set up immediately afterward, and had the

security system already activated when she, Perren,

and Sarda arrived, though I now believed Mornay and

Perren had planned this from the moment Vice Admi-

ral Rittenhouse died. Even now, sporadic explosions

and crackling voltage told us the chain reaction of

sabotage was still running. Kirk must have found some

way to trigger those booby traps. It was the only

explanation that made sense--and I really needed

things to make sense right now.

Except the part about Dr. Boma. My heart withered

as I remembered that element. I deeply wished it

hadn't made such sense. I had a sudden, absurd,

180

overwhelming desire to stand up straight and yell at

the top of my lungs, "CAPTAIN KIRK, YOUR SHIP

IS IN DEEP TROUBLE! WHERE ARE

YOOOOOOOOO?" Luckily, I managed to keep it to

myseff for the moment. Somehow, I'd find him. To-

gether we'd make our way back to that distant

schooner with the mysterious name.

Even as the reassuring thought filled me with

strength, we slipped into an alcove and were met with

a sight that siphoned the strength out again.

A few meters away, between the main lab and a

carefully arranged pile of file crates, stood Ursula

Mornay and four mercenary guards. They held their

phaser rifles sighted coldly upon Captain Kirk and Mr.

Spock.

I crouched, almost by reflex alone, and pulled Sarda

down beside me. Scanner saw our movements and

dropped instantly. Our blood cooled as we watched

and listened.

The captain and Spock stood side by side, unflinch-

ing before the phaser rifles, but definitely sobered. She

had them. Somehow she had caught them. But what

about McCoy and Merete?

"How'd she get them?" Scanner whispered.

"Shh. Listen."

"... really think you can pilot a starship with a

handful of hired guns?" Kirk was putting to Mornay.

"I have crewpeople, Captain," Mornay said as she

opened and tuned a hand communicator. "All I have

to do is pick them up. And you'll help me do that, or

your crew will remain in their semicoma until they die.

I have a knife at your throat, Capta'm Kirk. I promise,

I will cut you."

Scanner's voice buzzed faintly at my ear. "What's

she tawkin' about? She got 'em strapped down in front

of old movies, or what?"

"Obviously she has the crew hostage somehow,"

Sarda whispered back, even more faintly.

181

"A whole starship?"

I shushed them with a swipe of my hand, and myself

was stilled by the expressive glance Kirk exchanged

with Spock. I ached to read his mind the way Spock

could. I saw a thousand thoughts in that one glance,

truly a trade of minds, perhaps of plans. So close...

I pressed my hands on the jut of wood that partially

hid us in our alcove shadow, pressed until the wood

cut hard into my palms and forced me to accept the

damning reality that Captain Kirk was out of reach, at

least for the moment. My drumming message would

have to stay inside my head even longer.

Mornay brought the communicator to her lips.

"Samuel? Have the guards beamed aboard?"

From the instrument in her hand came a dull buzzing

voice. "All who checked in are aboard now. Some are

still missing and we can't seem to find them."

Mornay paced a few steps and eyed Captain Kirk,

who remained carefully impassive. "I'm not sur-

prised," she said. "As soon as you're ready, beam up

the captain and Commander Spock. I'm sure they'll be

cooperative, but have the guards ready just in case."

"They're ready, believe me. We've dealt with those

gentlemen before."

The voice was distorted by the distance between us

and the communicator itself, but there was no mistak-

ing that arrogant cadence. Boma.

My message to Kirk fizzled within me. He already

knew. And Boma had already won. The Enterprise

was in orbit, and Boma was in control. It seemed

unfathomable that one man could incapacitate 400-

plus people who were supposedly Star !eet's best,

but then again, I was supposedly Star Fleet's best too.

I drew my shoulders inward, fighting a terrible

shiver. Luck does run out, even for Star F!eet's best.

Perhaps my luck had been spent on the dreadnought

affair. Maybe that was the best I'd ever do. Maybe I

couldn't beat that act. It was hard enough trying to get

182

used to being called Lieutenant Commander when I

hadn't even completely gotten used to being called

Lieutenant. Everything I did seemed to be running

about ten minutes tardy.

Incapacitate a whole starship crew? Damn her, that

wasn't fair! I gritted my teeth and forced my insecurity

to become anger. Anger was workable stuff, and she

could only kill me once.

I dug what was left of my fingernails into the slat of

wood and listened harder.

Mornay was fiddling with the communicator. "Per-

ren, are you there?"

Static from the damaged electrical system caused

the frequencies to jump, but soon the cool voice came

through. "I am making final installments in the porta-

ble memory."

"Hurry up. We're ready to go."

"What about the guards?"

"They're already aboard the starship. We'll prepare

to leave the solar system as soon as you beam up.

We're going now."

"I shall be there momentarily."

Without the courteous, if mechanical, sign-offs usu-

ally used over communications channels, Mornay

flatly readjusted her instrument and hailed the ship

again. I kept my eyes on Kirk. He was absolutely

unmoved, as relaxed as he had been during those long,

quiet hours of ocean crossing when there was nothing

to do but watch the sea roll. He wasn't tensed, ready

to attack, waiting for that minute flinch that would give

him h is cue. Spock also stood calmly. Only when the

eerie whine of a transporter beam caused my skin to

tingle did I realize why the two officers made no effort

to free themselves; they wanted to get back on board

the starship. If there were fights to be fought, at least

Enterprise would know its guardians were where they

belonged, doing what she needed them to do.

As we watched, the clutch of oddly matched person-

183

alities dissolved into elongated prisms, and dissap-

peared.

Without a pause, I redirected my thoughts. "Let's

go. The main lab, Sarda." "This way."

We got about three steps before Scanner grabbed

my arm and said, "Hold it. Yawl aren't gonna believe

this. Look what I see."

What he saw was two familiar figures clumsily

skulking their way across the compound, heading in

the opposite direction from where we were going.

Before I could stop him, Scanner had stuck his fingers

in his mouth and let fly a. shrill whistle. Seconds later,

McCoy and Merete were gathered into our little nest.

"Where've you been?" McCoy hissed, eyes wide.

"Where're you been?" Scanner retorted.

"Looking for you."

"I can top that," Scanner crowed. "We bin lookin'

for everybody."

I squirmed between them. "Scanner, shut up or I'll

cork your face. Doctor, what do you know?"

"Didn't you hear that conversation?" Dr. McCoy

flipped a hand back at the now-empty compound.

"Only the end of it."

"Oh." His eyebrows worked as he steadied himself

to tell us what he had hoped we already knew. In one

way he hated having to repeat it. In another, he was

quaking to get it out. The conflict within him showed

on his face, at once anguished and enraged. "Boma

waited until the ship was in Orbital status, then he

gassed the whole ship with a hypnogenetic com-

pound."

"A who?" Scanner blurted.

"A narcotic. Sleep-inducing gas. Deep and danger-

ous sleep. It causes severe reduction of metabolic

rate." He inched closer, as though to intensify his

words and used one hand to illustrate the terrible,

intangible truth. "Anyone who ingests it can literally

84

sleep himself to death unless an antidote is provided

soon enough."

"The knife at Kirk's throat," I murmured.

"It's more than that," Merete said, glancing at Dr.

McCoy as though she knew what he was thinking,

what he was feeling. "It's a progressive coma. The

time element makes a difference. Mornay didn't tell

the captain that. Maybe she doesn't even know it."

"That class of drug is an idiot's playground," Mc-

Coy insisted, his fist now clenched. Suddenly I saw

something in him that I hadn't before. He'd always

seemed amusing to me in his moments of exaspera-

tion, but now he moved beyond exasperation to down-

fight bitterness. He seemed to feel about the Enter-

prise crew the way Mr. Scott felt about the ship itself.

The crew was his. His children. His expression grew

stony with violence as he thought of what Mornay had

done to them. "Many drugs in that category don't

have antidotes at all," he said, nearly growling. "She

might not know that or even care. She might just as

easily be lying to Jim by telling him that she can undo

what Boma's done. The crew might already be dead."

His fatherly wrath, and the accompanying sense of

helplessness, spurred me to convictions even beyond

my own. I leaned toward him and promised, "You'll

get your chance to turn the tables, sir. We'll get there

somehow."

"Yes, we must," Sarda interrupted. "Perren cannot

possibly know about this aspect. He would never

participate. I'll take you to the lab." He started away.

The quickness, the suddenness of his movements trig-

gered a foreboding deep inside me. He was hurrying

now, but his motivations had shifted. Some hidden

imperative in his movements told me that, and the

echo on his heels was Perren, Perren, Perren. Was

there enough logic in the galaxy to turn Perren now?

Sarda disappeared into a narrow doorway, leaving

only the question behind.

185

I motioned Dr. McCoy and Merete after him, mean-

ing to bring up the rear guard.

Scanner stepped past me. "Don't worry. It's just

hero worship."

Sharply I answered, "I can't count on that."

Unease set in on top of the fear. I set my determina-

tion on kill and pushed my motley group onward into

the lab building after Sarda. My memory kept scouring

the vision of Kirk's face, his glance at Spock, Spock's

silent response, for some hint of their plans, or at least

their opinions. No answers yet, though. I was still on

my own. Rats! Things were really getting bad when I

couldn't even pretend that Captain Kirk had all the

solutions in his pocket.

Sarda paused at the end of one hallway, confused by

the dimness and trying to remember which corridor

held the main lab. The passages were narrow and

moist, the stone walls considerably older than those of

the building we'd been held in. We had no idea how

long the farm had been abandoned, but a faint animal

scent still clung to the mossy walls. The corridor was a

dead end, with only one doorway at the left.

"Sarda," I called quietly before he reached the

door.

He stopped, halting the whole line of us, and I

squirmed past the others into the lead.

"Stay behindme," I told him. Leading with my

shoulder and a good dose of nerve, I peeked into the

lab. Nearly stripped bare, the lab held only a few

engineering consoles, a computer outlet, and a few

empty metal crates. There weren't even any chairs

left, if there had ever been any in the first place. I

motioned the others inside. Scanner nudged the door

shut.

There was only a little more lighting in here than in

the corridor, though these lights were electrical rather

than the diogen filament torches that ran through the

hallways for function rather than for close work. Evi-

l86

denfly Captain Kirk's handiwork with the electrical

system had depleted the power leading to the labs. But

that didn't matter any more. There wasn't anyone left

but ourselves. The work done in these labs was omi-

nously complete.

Sarda appeared beside me. "The communications

board should be near the mainframe outlet. They

would have no reason to take it with them." As he

spoke, he hunted through the piles of discarded equip-

ment and storage crates. "Yes, here it is. Partially

dismantled."

The two of us lifted the portable console up onto a

nearby cabinet. It looked like a computer board with a

hangover.

"Can you fix it?" I asked, grimacing in empathy

with the mangled board.

"They likely did not intentionally dismantle it,"

Sarda said, "but merely cannibalized some parts. We

may be able to bypass those and create enough signal

to trigger your ship's transporter." "Scanner, what do you think?"

He moved in between us and thoughtfully twisted

his mouth. "Doesn't look too bad. You want me to

try?"

My shoulders drooped. I gave him a deadly glare.

"Okay, I'll try," he said, and put his hands on the

console.

The doctors and I spent several minutes gathering

the bits and pieces that fit Scanner and Sarda's

descriptions of what they needed, and the communica-

tions console quickly began looking more like its own

kind. Scanner pulled up a crate and sat down before

the tilted mechanism, and began attempting to contact

the automatic pilot aboard Rex. "He's up there, I

know he is," he muttered self-consciously.

"Can you boost your gain?" I asked.

"Rex'11 answer, don't worry."

I couldn't help it. I still had trouble trusting a ship

187

that looked like the remains of a brewery explosion. I

leaned over his shoulder, trying to make sense of the

red blips on the tiny screen as they ran through white

cross hairs, seeking matched waves. "Maybe you

need more power. There's got to be a--"

Nonregulation bulldozers hit us from behind. We

never even heard them coming. Only their vicious

warning growls preceded the impact, and only by a

fraction of a second. I was struck hard in the middle of

my back with just enough balance of force and re-

straint that I was momentarily stunned but still quite

conscious. The room spun, a whirl of pain and faces.

My legs withered under me as the pain in my back took

hold and my nervous system responded. Something

gripped my arms and pulled me up and around, then

crushed me back against a pile of crates, and a gnarly

hand cupped my throat. For an instant I almost tried to

strike back. Mercenaries were only human, after

all--

But these weren't Mornay's hired guards. These

faces hated us well beyond the value of a credit

payment.

A Klingon disruptor brushed my cheek. Stale breath

wreathed my face.

His head at a menacing tilt, Gelt snarled his satisfac-

tion. "Dance with me."

With great effort I pulled my eyes from his and

confirmed the nightmare four Klingons at attack

stance held disruptors cleanly on Sarda and the others.

"Where is it?" Gelt demanded. "The science you're

making here."

"We're not the scientists," I choked past his grip. I

tried to keep the pain out of my voice for the sakes of

my friends. "As you can see, they took their equip-

ment and left. We're not even sure what they were

doing."

Nary a flicker of belief damaged his anathema.

188

"Transwarp," he whispered. Well, so much for that

bluff. "Where is it?"

All right, if he wanted answers; I'd give him an-

swers. "About 35,000 kilometers away from here by

now, I'd say."

His grip at my throat tightened, clawing inward

under my ear. My carotid artery pounded, and I had to

drag in what little breath he let me have. Starved for

oxygen, my lungs began to ache and the pain in my

back throbbed enough to make me dizzy. "Straight up, I'll wager," Gelt said.

His smugness enraged me, as it had once before. I

bumped my arms against his hard chestplate just to

show him how I felt, and forced my voice to rasp past

his grip. "That's right, fossil face, and there's nothing

you can do against a starship."

There was something intensely satisfying about be-

ing despised by a Klingon. Not particularly pleasant,

but satisfying anyway. If my mouth hadn't been rock

dry, I'd have spat at him. Past his ugly face, McCoy

and Scanner were refining the art of astonishment.

Gelt's lips peeled back in hatred as he fanned his gun

arm outward and barked at his nearest fellow taran-

tula, "Hlch Qorch.t Toogh!"

As soon as his hand was free, Gelt ripped open his

belt guard and pulled out the kind of dagger that's so

mean looking it draws blood with appearance alone.

And it was still in a sheath! Gelt wanted to see the

blade, though. With a snapping motion, the sheath

struck the floor and bright silver glinted between his

face and mine. "Your friends are corpses," he said.

"But you... you are what we call bortas choQ. Do

you know the words?" His hand pressed tighter on my

throat. His teeth were gritted, his whisper one of

hunger. Only his lips moved. "Revenge meat."

The blade rasped wide. Now there were claws on it.

Never let it be said that Klingons had no sense of

drama.

189

I tensed, waiting for the impact. Die with a Klingon

blade between my fibs?

The room erupted into flaming lances. From a hid-

den alcove came a burst of phaser fire. First one

Klingon, then another were blasted across the room

into heaps. Not really understanding, I reacted first

and thought about it later. I jammed my knuckles hard

into Gelt's right eye as he turned to look. He howled,

and lost his grip on my throat.

Two more Klingons were sighting down at that

alcove, exchanging disruptor fire for phaser bolts

while trying to take cover behind a table and a lighting

stand. Sarda dropped back onto a counter and brought

his legs up, and nailed one of the Klingons in the side

of the head with both heels. The Klingon went down,

but roBBed over and staggered up again, to be caught by

a phaser shot. He skidded into Gelt's legs, and both

went down.

Free now, I fought to stay up on thready legs. Gelt

was trying to get up from an awkward position, tan-

gled with his unconscious cohort, and I knew I had

only seconds. I reached upward, grasped a heavy air-

conditioning unit from a newly carved wall outlet,

braced my feet on the wall, and heaved. It stuck. With

an inelegant shift of my weight, the unit jolted loose

and I pulled it down on Geit's head, adding what

strength I had left to the already weighty object. Gelt

convulsed once, and went limp.

I slumped against the waft, gasping. My vision dis-

solved into a black tunnel before I could assimilate

what was happening with the last Klingon. My ears

roared, then whined, then began to accept the gift of

blood and air again. I hung a hand on the open collar of

my flight suit, glad it wasn't a turtleneck.

I hadn't realized I was slipping down the wall until

Dr. McCoy's voice beside me was accompanied by

firm support from both sides. "Are you all right?"

Scanner was there too. "Did he cut you, Piper?"

790

I shook my head and blinked down at the fuzzy

shape of a Klingon disruptor, still clenched in its

owner's hand. "How come," I rasped, "we're the

only ones obeying... Argelian law?"

A sigh of relief fell from Scanner. He looked first at

the inert form of Gelt, then at me. He shook his head,

struck by my raw invertebrate-level hatred of

Klingons. "You know, I think you must have some

tribble in you," he observed.

My vision was starting to return now that I could

breathe. I coughed once, mostly to make sure I

wouldn't make a fool of myself when I answered them.

With an indelicate shove, I straightened up. "Scanner,

get back to work."

"You all fight, though?"

"Sure . . . go on." I pushed him back toward the

communications console. Not very convincing; I was

still leaning on Dr. McCoy, surprised at the strength in

his slender form.

What had happened? Had I been imagining it when I

saw Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock being beamed away?

Were they here? Had the cavalry come in again?

I blinked and took deep breaths, willing my vision to

clear.

But the form in the alcove was neither Kirk nor

Speck.

Perren moved somberly from the archway. The

phaser was still held upward, but he was looking down

at the last of the Klingons, now a quivering lump at his

feet. He was carrying a nondescript metal case by the

handle, which left his right hand free for the phaser.

Now he looked up and made a fleeting eye contact first

with Sarda, then me. Clutching the metal case tightly,

he moved out of the alcove, keeping his back to the

wall and the phaser firmly raised.

I moved away from McCoy. Walking was an effort.

My back throbbed where Gelt had bludgeoned it. I

didn't stop until my own crew were all behind me.

797

Sarda came up at my side, though, and I knew there

was nothing that would wave him back. "Thank you," I said.

Perren nodded a single, simple nod. "You're quite

welcome."

Disturbing moments shuttled past as we wondered

if we were captive again. Five of us against one Vulcan

and a phaser... incalculable odds indeed.

Perren, perhaps sensing that, provided the answer.

"I have no intent of challenging you," he said, not

quite able to mitigate the edge of warning in his tone.

He moved sideways, toward the door, the rich green

quilt of his tunic making a shock of color against the

gray stone. "I am sorry our goals cannot harmonize.';

"Neither do yours and Professor Mornay's," I told

him, also moving slowly toward the door, hoping he

wouldn't feel threatened yet. "Mornay intends to use

Enterprise as a test ship for transwarp. She doesn't

care about the safety systems or the lives of the crew."

"The crew will be beamed down when we reach our

destination," Perren said. "They will live."

"They may already be dead," Dr. McCoy spoke up

forcefully, a distinct blade of professional experience

giving credence to his statement. "Mornay's either

lying or fooling herself about how easy it is to provide

an antidote. Narcotic gases shouldn't be played with,

and to her it's all a game." He nailed the words to

Perren's chest with a hammering truthfulness.

"She's finished with safety, Perren," I carried on.

"If transwarp fails, she'll take over 500 people with

her into interdimensional hell, and if it doesn't fail, the

crew of Enterprise is already forfeited. She's fooling

you. Don't let her."

Doubt flickered on his fine Vulcan features, but only

a flicker, and soon controlled. He swallowed stiffly.

"Ursula has planned carefully. The narcotic is not

lethal."

192

"She's a theorist," Merete interrupted in the tough-

est tone I'd ever heard from her. "She's not a medical

specialist. No one can learn how to handle hypnoge-

neticides overnight. It takes months just to isolate

correct dosages. Are you going to believe her or Dr.

McCoy?"

Perren wrapped his arm around the metal case, and

I was stricken with the undeniable image of a child

clutching a stuffed toy. For many seconds he never

moved, nor even blinked. The inner battle slimmed his

eyes and drew his blade-sharp brows together. Beside

me, Sarda tensed with a kind of empathy only Vuicans

could understand, a remote kind of blending in which

the integrity of personal privacy was constantly at

risk.

The wild, impossible victory against a sister ship

recurred in my mind, and Captain Kirk fed me one of

his favorite tactics from the reaches of my memory.

Push, push, push till it explodes in your face.

"You're being used," I insisted. "She'll turn on

you. Hundreds of lives will be the cost."

"Piper is right, Perren," Sarda said. "I entreat you,

believe her."

He hadn't used the word "correct." He had said

"right." A subtle difference; a moral difference.

Perren stepped.over one of the unconscious Kling-

ons and reached the doorway, then hesitated. He

seemed unwilling to leave us until he had made his

conclusions and then explained them to us. That alone

showed me his unsureness. His need to explain proved

to me that we were breaking through.

'I must tread a center course," he said finally, and

not without some diffidence. "I must stand by my

calculations and my hardware. I am willing to do so

for the sake of my goals. This---" He waved his phaser

once over the fallen Klingons. "--is the sort of event

I am trying to stop." The twitching bodies of our ene-

193

mies, still caressing their weapons, illustrated his point

neatly. "Ursula underestimates Vulcans. It is a perfect

cloak for me to wear."

Sarda stepped toward him, now standing slightly to

one side between me and Perten. "It is illogical to

sacrifice the lives of an entire starship crew," he said,

reverting to simple didactics.

"It is illogical to sacrifice all I have worked toward

on the basis of a danger that is only theoretical."

Perren's voice jumped a shade toward that irritation

I'd heard before. "If the starship crew is already dead,

then they are no longer a factor. You are free now. I

shall neither help nor hinder you. There is nothing

your ship can do against a starship." He looked from

me to Sarda, the change evidenced by only the barest

tightening of his mouth. "I regret that we must

part."

Sarda remained absolutely still. Only I, standing so

near to him, perceived the advance of his tension and

his efforts to hold himself back. "We need not part,"

he said.

Older and fully trained in his Vulcan controls, Per-

ren had less trouble subjugating his regret. Having

been caught up in the rare experience of human-

Vulcan friendship, I'd wondered for a long time now

what friendship would be like between two Vulcans, if

indeed this was friendship and not merely that strange

training bond necessary between mentor and pupil. As

Spock had pointed out to me, Perren and Sarda had

much in common from the beginning--mostly the fact

that each had had trouble fitting in to current Vulcan

conformity. It must have been comforting for Sarda to

find another Vulcan who understood his awkward

place, someone of his own race that he wasn't obli-

gated to explain himself to. I wished I had thought of

these things earlier. I'd have been more prepared for

what was coming.

Perren nodded, but not in agreement. It was some-

194

thing different entirely. "Then I regret that we part

before our objectives can be shared. It remains only

for me to wish that you live long and prosper." He

spoke slowly now, without the edgy tone of underlying

rebellion that had always been there before. Backing

out into the corridor, maintaining his expression, he

vanished.

My hand reached out for Sarda, who was already

moving.

"Sarda, wait!" I gasped.

He paused at the door, cast a glance back at me, and

fitfully gripped the stone for an instant as though

hoping to find something to say that would explain. He

was torn in half. Even a Vulcan couldn't hide that

much torment.

He pushed himself off the door frame. We heard his

boots on the hard floor of the passageway.

"Sarda!" I started for the door.

Scanner's voice caught me back for an instant.

"Piper, I got it!"

I drew an invisible circle around him and the doctors

with my finger as I skidded to a stop at the doorway.

"Beam up! I'll contact youl"

Deep Argelian night had thoroughly penetrated the

stone building now that most of the electricity had

been strangled. I was tired of feeling cold. I'd only felt

warm once since leaving Earth, and that was because

of a Klingon growling at my throat. Even running

through the building failed to heat my blood. The

injured muscles in my back screamed with each stride,

and my head pounded now whenever I took a breath.

At every turn I caught a glimpse of Sarda. He was

healthy and fast; keeping up with him was terrible

work. At the turn of the last corridor, I gave in to a

useless urge and called once again, "Sarda, wait--"

To my utter amazement, he whirled around and

stopped. Was he surprised that I followed? Had he

forgotten so much?

195

He turned again, in time to see Perren's distant form

retreat into a smaller building.

I jogged to a halt a few feet from Sarda and steadied

myself with a hand on the wall. He turned once again

to me, hesitantly at best.

"He's probably getting the last of his equipment," I

said, drawing a deep breath, "before he signals Mor-

nay to beam him up."

Sarda gazed once again through the night at the

other building, now still and darkened. When he

turned back to me, the quandary in his eyes was

frightening. His fists balled up. I doubt he was even

aware of it.

"I cannot leave Perren in this situation," he said.

I closed the space between us by another step.

"You're not leaving him. He's leaving you."

With a step of his own, he widened the gap. "Piper,

you do not comprehend Vulcan complexities. I have

no time to explain them to you."

With a nod I showed him that he was right. Slowly I

asked, "Do you really think Perten doesn't under-

stand what he's involved in?"

Inner struggle tightened his mouth. "That is no

excuse to abandon him."

My shoulders sagged as I tried to think of logical

arguments. But even a partially trained Vulcan knows

his own thoughts. If he had made up his mind to forfeit

the past for the future, even a hazy future, I knew no

power in the universe could pull him back.

When arguments were not enough, when logic could

only fail, it was time to go beyond them. My shoulders

squared as I backed away a pace, showing him that I

was ready to accept his decision.

"Then you'll have to choose."

Sarda no longer glanced indecisively at the building

that had swallowed Perten only moments ago. His

eyes lost their focus as he gazed at me, and I felt

196

utterly unseen. Perhaps he was searching for a way to

explain the inexplicable. With my silence I hoped to

show him that no explanation was necessary. As for

my own message, my presence on this planet would

have to speak for itself.

Sarda privately navigated his sea of uncharted emo-

tions without help from me, for I could no longer help

him, no matter how much I wanted to.

He raised his chin a fraction. "There is only one

choice," he said, his voice solemn and low.

I willed myself not to nod, to flinch, or even to

breathe. I wouldn't show the tiniest hint of feeling

betrayed. I hadn't been betrayed, after all; he had

simply made the best decision for himself. That was all

I had any right to ask of him.

Searching for the final words, the words that would

get me smoothly out of this terrible last encounter,

gave Sarda an extra few moments.

His arms relaxed at his sides. "I go with you."

197

Chapter Ten

"The trigger has been pulled. We've got to get there

before the hammer falls."

--Errand of Mercy

WHEN WE GOT back to the ship, it was unfortunately

in the same shape as when we left. I finally had to

admit Rex wasn't just an industrial nightmare but the

ship I was stuck with. It felt pathetic and small as we

gazed out the viewing portals at the pure beauty of

Enterprise, her design still striking me as elemental. I

would probably always get this shock of awe at a

glimpse of a starship, and I would probably never get

used to it or take it for granted. Engineers and space

technologists may have designed her, but they shared

the heart of an artist.

"Are we in one piece, Scanner?" I asked, leaning

over his shoulder, still peering at the starship in orbit

several degrees farther out.

"Functional," he answered with a shrug. Even so,

he tapped several linkages just to check.

"How long will it take them to install transwarp?"

From behind me came a mellow voice finally free of

its stress. "Perren has become most efficient in his

engineering," Sarda said. "He and Boma can install

the complex into a starship's warp system in roughly

eighteen hours. Likely they will not do it right away,

but retreat to a safe haven where 'they have access to

other people who are also followers of Rittenhouse."

I nodded my thanks to him. His presence still sur-

198

prised me, but I was finally warm. In our crisis aboard

the dreadnought those few weeks ago, he had been

forced to stay at my side because of circumstances.

Today the decision was his own. For the first time in a

long time, I stopped worrying about what Captain

Kirk thought of me. Sarda's testimonial was all I

needed. Even now I felt the warm buzz of telepathic

support from him, a subtle echo behind my thoughts

that gave me that extra supporting nudge. I still

couldn't interpret that buzz--whether it was inten-

tional or not, whether it was normal for Vulcans or

not--but it was welcome, deeply so.

"We have to act immediately," I said, sliding into

the command chair. The new leather breathed under

me and cradled my legs and back as though it knew 1

was still fiercely aching from Geit's assault. As ff to

remind me, the Klingon disruptor I'd taken from one

of the unconscious swine dug into my rib. I pulled it

from my belt and handed it to Merete; Sarda did the

same with his. Scanner wisely vacated the seat beside

me and moved to the navigation/sensor station farther

to the right, allowing Sarda to take the place beside

me.

"What do you have in mind?" Dr. McCoy asked

with a controlled touch of incredulity. He was leaning

forward in one of the passenger chairs, watching his

home ship and no doubt wishing he was there to do his

part.

I empathized with his frustration, and it kindled my

sense of purpose. "We've got to keep them from

warping out of orbit."

Every eye in the ship struck me. Scanner straight-

ened up like a long skinny balloon and yelped, "Oh,

yeah? While we're at it, let's rearrange the solar

system so the planets all line up in a row."

McCoy leaned even farther forward. "This ship

against a starship?"

"Sure," Scanner mocked. "If you can get me within

199

fifty meters, I can cut 'em up with my little laser torch.

If you can get me within ten, we got a claw. S'pose

they'd notice?"

The doctor ignored him. "Wouldn't it make more

sense just to get away and notify Star Fleet?"

"By the time Star Fleet could get out here," I said,

"Mornay could have taken Enterprise anywhere in the

known galaxy. They're not leaving this system if I can

help it."

"Piper, we don't even have phasers big enough to

carve a moustache on that ship's face," Scanner said,

pointing descriptively.

An unexpected voice interrupted us. "Leave her

alone."

Gazes shifted again, this time aft. Merete stood

alone in the obscurity of the hatchway, one hand

braced upon the ship's gnarly bulkhead as though to

say she trusted it. Her face was eclipsed by a band of

shadow. The hem of her robe made a purple wedge in a

walklight, and at the shadow's top a crescent of pearl-

blond hair shone in the glow of a tiny bulb near an

electrical access. Beyond that, there was nothing of

her to focus on but her intense presence of purpose.

"Piper is our commanding officer," she said. "We're

going to do what she says and we're not going to argue

anymore. ff we die," she added softly, "then we die

well."

Merete was so quiet and unobtrusive that I often

forgot how much I told her, how much of my past and

my present thoughts she kept diligently stored for me,

things I'd said both intentionally and unintentionally.

Only when one of those things surfaced at exactly the

right moment, thanks to her sensitive timing, did I

remember to appreciate her. I wouldn't forget again

for a long, long time.

True to the drama of the moment, she never moved.

She let her words sink deep into the fabric of what was

to come, and drew no more attention to herself. She

200

wanted me to have the attention, we all knew. Even

Dr. McCoy settled back as though he too somehow felt

better about all this.

Sarda moved slightly, switching from helm tracking

to the computer readout screen before him. It cast a

fine blue glow on his pale alien features. "The Enter-

prise is moving out of orbit on impulse power. Taking a

heading of point three-seven."

"Heading out of the solar system," I uttered.

"When they get clear of the planets, they'!! go to

warp. Follow them. Just don't get so close that they'll

want to fire on us. They'll know we're coming."

"I can already hear 'em laughing," Scanner said.

"Let's hope they are, Scanner," I countered imme-

diately. "It's an advantage not to be taken as a threat

tOO soon."

"They won't fire on you," Dr. McCoy pointed out.

"It's a waste of energy. They know they can outrun us

at warp."

I looked at Sarda, and he silently confirmed the

logic. Obviously Leonard McCoy hadn't spent all

those years aboard a starship without learning a thing

or two about military logistics.

"Thank you, sir," I said to him, then hunched

forward on my command console as we eased out of

orbit and slipped into the path of the distant star-

ship.

Rex's old impulse engines grumbled, but soon

pushed us up to the speed of Enterprise and even a

little beyond. We gained on her slowly, while three of

the system's planets rolled by. Four other planets were

well out of our trajectory and only one remained for us

to pass before we cleared the solar system.

"Scanner, how do these terrific tractor beams of

yours work?" I asked.

His boyish face screwed up. "Huh?"

"How do you haul something that's heavier than

your engine thrust capacity?"

201

"For short range, you anchor on the nearest planet

or moon and use it for traction."

"Can we brace on a planet and hold Enterprise?"

"Hold Enterprise? Well, I guess so, long as she's in

orbit or somethin', but--" "No buts."

"You gotta have some buts, Piper." He spun his

chair around to face me. "We can't hold a ship the size

of Enterprise against her own thrust, not even if we

hang onto a whole sun. We could tow her, but only if

she was adrift." The acrid tone was gone from his

voice, likely driven out by Merete's blanketing prom-

ise. I particularly noticed it.

"How closely can you pinpoint the tractor beams?"

"Hell, I could pull the yoke out of an egg at 20,000

kilometers."

"Good," I murmured. "That's good."

"I give. Why's it good?"

My right shoulder went up and down once. "You

said this ship is a Fesarius. Let's see what it can really

do."

Scanner puffed up at that comment. He had no idea

what I had in mind, but he was suddenly anxious to

prove the truth of his own promise. Even if it killed us.

ff it didn't work, none of us would be around to flay

him with an 1-told-you-so.

"Sarda," I began, "pinpoint the joist where the port

warp nacelle is attached to its strut and feed the

coordinates into Scanner's tractor beam. That's what I

want, Scanner. Put a lariat of traction right around that

joist."

It was so wild he couldn't even think of anything to

say. He blinked hard and took a deep breath, then

glared accusingly at his equipment as though to get a

mental running start on it.

"Make the beam as tight as possible," I instructed. I

punched the nearest computer access switch. "Com-

puter."

202

"Working," the pleasant voice answered.

"Release all safety monitors, overload capacitors,

and limiters for the tractor system to manual control at

the helm station."

"Acknowledged."

Good. No arguments from underneath either. I

needed that.

Scanner shook his head, unable to resist a 50 per-

cent grin. "That's the first time I ever heard anybody

ask a ship's permission to rip its guts out." He

squinted and peered at me over his shoulder. "You

sure you got enough authority to do this?"

I gripped the arms of my chair. "Power up the warp

engines. Zero thrust. Power only. Sarda, feed the

energy through to that tractor beam. We've got a lot of

starship to pull on."

"Powering up. Maximum in twenty-point-seven

seconds." Even as he spoke, Banana Republic began

humming with bottled warp power.

"Hold at maximum," I said. "Go to two-thirds

sublight, heading sixty degrees subport."

"At that rate," Sarda read out slowly, "we will be

within tractor range of Enterprise in... one minute,

eighteen seconds."

"When will we be in tractor range of that last

planet?"

"We are nearly there now."

"Scanner, get ready to grab onto the planet. I think

you know what I want to do."

Perhaps it was fortuitous that he only nodded. He

bent close to his sensor console, coordinating the

impossible.

I put my glare unfiinchingly upon the ivory essence

of Enterprise. In my mind the starship had sails. She

surged now through an ocean of splash and stars, but

there were no steady hazel eyes gazing over her bow.

She knew he wasn't on her bridge and she felt help-

less, like a warship with no rudder, rampaging franti-

203

caUy through a blockade. She was calling out to me.

I had finally reached the point at which sacrifice is

more than bravery's flag. Finally, my life meant less

than my mission. Never before had I truly believed 1

would die, much less take these four fine lives with

me. Fail, yes. Die... no.

But now, this time, I was ready.

"Piper, they're outrunning us," Sarda said, urgency

spiking his words.

I clutched the command console. "Don't let them. If

they warp out before we can engagemMerete!" I

snapped. "Get to Scanner's station and keep your

eyes on the matteffantimatter flux monitor for Enter-

prise. Tell me exactly when she's about to go to

warp."

Her footsteps announced that she was crossing the

limited deck space, and I resisted the glance that

would have confirmed it.

"They're at point five . . ." she read out. "Point

five-five... six..."

"Scanner--"

"I'm ready."

"Just the nacelle."

"Ready."

Tension crackled in the cabin.

Around us the sound of our engines drummed their

effort.

My hands left sticky prints on the command board.

"Sarda, get us up there..."

"Closing. One-hundred-fourteen kilometers now."

"Warp point-eight," came Merete's soft voice.

"Seventy-thousand kilometers."

"Point eight-five . 2'

"Forty thousand kilometers."

"Point nine..."

"Twenty-five-thousand kilometers."

The old ship thrummed. Its voice made a solemn

backdrop for the voices of my crew as they ticked off

204

the elements of chance. In range, in range, in range

... we've got to get in range...

"Point nine-two, Piper," Merete read out, unable to

control a quiver of warning. "Point nine-five... nine-

eight... nine-nine... warp sp--" "Now, Scanner!"

A massive jolt sent us all rolling. Neither human

strength nor Vulcan could hold against the sudden

force. Banana Republic used the planet for an anchor

and set itself up as a pulley between natural stationary

force and the science of propulsion. Every casing,

baffle, strut, crosspiece, and joist on the old tug was

abruptly put to the test of its lifetime. I was plastered

to the port bulkhead, crushed between the emergency

exit and the forward claw control, unable to turn or

even move at all. Banana Republic went up on an

invisible axis like a bead on a taut string, tilting in

space between the planet and the starship, finding its

own best angle against the killing forces that were

tearing it inside out. Never before had it been asked to

hold a piece of a starship against warp thrust.

The cabin lights dimmed and sagged out as their

power was sapped, leaving us with only the off-angle

light of the Argelian sun to see by. Even the tiny

emergency bulbs flickered along the walkways. Staticy

crackles splintered through the electronics. Around us

the roar of our engines expanded to a deafening whine.

The engines were coming forward for a visit, or at least

a last meal. The grating noise of coilplate being

stretched like muscle tissue was as sickening as it was

terrifying.

Artificial gravity lost its grip. As it struggled to

regain control, it pulled our bodies in a dozen direc-

tions at once, as though it meant to tear us apart limb

from limb. I heard someone yell, but the words were

indiscernible under the din of mechanical torsion. I

ached to help, but all I could do was cling to the base

of a nearby chair and wait for the hull to rupture and all

our precious atmosphere to hiss out into space before

we exploded into a billion bits.

As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The great

yank was over. The tractor beams automatically com-

pensated for the lack of thrust, luckily, or we'd have

found ourselves buried in that planer's surface.

Moans filled the cabin. Behind them, the engines

sputtered and groaned, slower and slower, grinding

like old batteries. The power was gone, no matter how

the backup circuits combed the system for more.

McCoy was pulling Sarda to his feet as we gathered

ourselves on a pitched deck. The artificial gravity was

off kilter, and not likely to improve.

I dragged myself back to the helm after doing a

quick head count. They weren't in good shape, but

they were all alive, which relegated them to my second

concern. Scanner and I made it to the viewport at the

same time. Sarda, limping noticeably now, was soon

to follow.

The Enterprise was still there... sort of.

"Goddang!" Scanner gasped. "You twisted it!"

Sure enough, the starship's port nacelle was off

kilter on its strut. Not broken off, but wrenched

enough that the delicate balance needed for warp

speed was quite impossible.

"Remarkable.. 2' Sarda breathed.

Dr. McCoy peered between Sarda and me. His

expression was easy enough to read. Very low, witha

strange and solemn intimacy, he murmured, "The

angel falls.. 2'

I stared at him. The grimness of his message, sent

across space to our captain, caught me by the

heart.

Merete broke the sweaty silence with a prophetic

truth. "So much for the test ship."

McCoy straightened his thin form and poked a

thumb outward. "If I were you, I'd fix that before the

captain sees it."

Several seconds lolled by while Rex--and l--panted

for life. Beside me, Sarda was stiff and silent, his

breathing also ragged as we shared an unbelieving

glance.

"Status," I choked.

He pulled himself to his station. "Checking."

Scanner still gawked at the starship as Enterprise

rotated slowly in space on a bizarre angle. The

wrenched nacelle made her look like a chiid's broken

toy. "How you gonna explain to Kirk that you twisted

his ship?"

"They can't go to warp," I thought aloud. "When

help arrives from the Federation, we'll all still be

here."

"I dunno about you," he rasped, "but I left back

when you started tawkin' about tractor lariats. I may

never come back."

"Sarda, where's that status report?" I must have

really wanted to know, since I asked twice.

Sarda bent tightly over the readout hood. "Warp

power depleted... tractor capacity down 86 percent

.. impulse drive out... major structural damage to

central bracings and all main couplings . . . stress

damage in major underpinnings and the matter/anti-

matter containment baffle . . . emergency leakage

control is still in operation, but all other electrical

maintenance systems are at tolerance." He fell silent

for a moment, not to speak again until he straightened

and directed his quiet words to me. "Piper... life

support is completely down."

Beside me, McCoy stifled himself from repeating

what he had just heard. Hearing it twice wouldn't

make it less true or provide a solution. Merete,

though, couldn't keep from struggling upward to Sar-

da's station and peeking into his readout hood.

I had to push my voice out. "How long, Sarda?"

"On remaining battery power, no more than eight

minutes."

206 207

I pressed a hand to my pulsing forehead, took a deep

breath, and shook myself. "Uh-huh... well... this is

a good time to go see how the captain's doing."

"Are we within transporter range?"

"Barely," Sarda answered tonelessly.

I struck him with a look. "That's a yes."

"Yes."

Merete asked, "They'll pick up our transporter

beams, won't they?"

"Undoubtedly," Sarda said.

McCoy pushed close. "I'm no engineer, but it's my

business to know how the ventilation system on that

ship works. They can flood any compartment with

narcotic gas at the touch of a button. We won't last

two minutes."

"No choice, sir," I told him. "We'll just have to

hope they're in disarray right now and can't move that

fast."

"You know better than that," he warned, and he

was right.

I turned to Scanner. "Are there oxygen masks on

board Rex?"

"You mean portable ones? Nope. Just the kind

that have to stay tied into the wall units. Quit lookin'

at me like that, Piper, I didn't design the damn

things."

"We'll have to use the emergency masks aboard

Enterprise."

"Beaming in one at a time? We'll never get the

chance."

"We'll have to make the chance. Sarda--"

Without a pause Sarda answered, "Six minutes,

twelve seconds left."

"There's our alternative." I led the way aft toward

our tiny transporter alcove. "Sarda, how long to beam

five people from one pad?"

Calculating on the run, he called, "A total of one

208

minute, thirty-three seconds if we beam consecu-

tively, including recalibration time for, each beaming,

plus preset time for the operator."

"I'll operate it," Scanner volunteered. "I know this

unit like the inside of my mouth." "Get it ready. Merete--"

She was beside me in an instant, and we were both

looking down at the Klingon disruptor she held. "It's

basically the same as a phaser," she said. "This word

indicates the force ray, the kill/disrupt setting. That

doesn't leave a body. This is kill/intact/heat. It does

leave a body. These are stun settings one, two, and

three, one being the lightest strike. Three is the worst;

it causes instant viral rotting of living tissue. It's

technically a stun setting, but the victim isn't meant to

live long. And this toggle gives you narrow beam, wide

field, or microbeam."

"Got it." I slipped the disruptor into my belt again

and handed Sarda his own, repressing a shudder of

disgust at having to use weapons of such calculated

cruelty. "Merete, Dr. McCoy," I addressed, turning in

the narrow passage as Scanner set the coordinates,

"you go first. Don't wait for us. As soon as you

materialize, put on the nearest emergency masks.

Then head for sickbay and get that antidote process

going."

"You bet we will," McCoy said with a thorny nod.

"Good luck."

"Good luck, Piper," Merete echoed solemnly as

McCoy maneuvered her onto the pad first.

I scowled and nodded my best response, which

wasn't much considering the circumstances. It was

definitely a yeah-right-get-going acknowledgment, but

I just had to hope she understood. Certainly she

deserved better from me.

"Energize," I said, and Merete dissolved into a pale

spectrum. "Hurry, sir," I told McCoy instantly,

"you're next."

209

The transporter hummed once again, flushing us all

with the faint nausea common to nearby dissolution,

and McCoy was gone.

"Sarda," I said with a terse motion.

"I prefer--"

"No arguments. Go."

Logic, thankfully, told him i was fight. He pressed

his lips flat and moved into the cavity, where, a second

later, he buzzed into nonexistence.

Scanner busily reset the mechanism, working with

calm assurance.

"You go next," I said. "Captain's last off the ship

and all."

His hair flopped over one eye as he shook his head.

"Not this time." "Scanner--"

"Nope." He nodded toward the chamber. Then he

grinned. "No arguments."

I was relieved that I could still smile.

A touch of regret surged through me with the first

sensations of dissolution, to be leaving my first com-

mand vessel behind and derelict. Rex's rumpled inner

hull blurred around me, disintegrated, and reassem-

bled into the clean white bulkheads of Enterprise's

hangar deck.

"Good choice, Scanner," I mumbled as the last

quivers of dissolution faded and reality became whole

again. The hangar deck was the emptiest place on the

ship, and the biggest single space, thus the hardest to

fill with any kind of gas. Sarda stood a few feet away,

plainly relieved to see me materialize. Per orders, the

doctors were already gone.

I stepped immediately away from the beaming area;

Banana Republic's transporter was just about old

enough not to have the safety devices that modern

equipment had, and I had no particular desire to merge

molecules with Scanner. Sure enough, he hummed

into being only three seconds later, exactly where I'd

210

been standing. True to his word, he was fast with that

geriatric transporter.

"Masks?" I blurted.

"Yonder." Scanner led the run across the hangar

deck to what he knew was the nearest emergency-

provisions locker. Of the three of us, he had served

longest on' Enterprise in a true crewing capacity. For

Sarda, the starship had been a science assignment,

drawn only shortly before I too had found myself

unexpectedly Enterprise-ing.

Scanner pulled himself to a halt on the Iocker's

handle and yanked it open. There were small fire

extinguishers, but the hooks for four oxygen masks

were empty. "Dang! Mornay musta had her people go

round and collect 'em in case the captain got away

from her."

Sarda shifted as though he was about to explain the

illogic of that, then changed his mind when he remem-

bered that Ursula Mornay had plenty of illogic to go

around.

"There've got to be others, Scanner!"

He glanced around the hangar bay, then made a

decision. "Right. And I know where. Come on."

Since we were already on the starboard side, we

dashed with him to the small hangars where the Arco

attack-sleds were stored. Had we been closer to the

port side of the hangar deck, the big Galileo and

Columbus shuttlecraft would have provided perfect

protection and plenty of masks, but this was much

faster at a moment when time was crucial. Mornay

undoubtedly knew we were on board by now, and

would soon take action against us. We had to be ready.

Sarda got the hangar door open and Scanner

squeezed through immediately, scrambling to the top

of the nearest sled and forcing its hatch open. That was

when a telltale hiss in the vents told us that Dr. McCoy

had been completely right. Gas!

"Scanner, the gas!" I shouted.

211

His arm disappeared up to the shoulder and he

grimaced with effort, but soon pulled out a mask. He

straightened and tossed it to me, then buried himself

deeper in the Arco's hatch, searching for another

mask. Above him, ghostly pink fog shot from the

ceiling vents.

"Scanner, put your own on!"

In a moment he resurfaced and glanced up at the

pink gas, then called, "Sarda! Here!" A second mask

flew.

"Scanner, hurry!" I called.

He was still digging deep into the attack sled when

the gas started to spread around the sled. He finally

came up with a third mask securely in hand, and

struggled to balance himself on the slippery hatch

bracings. Had he been at floor level, he might have had

a chance. But there were ventilators directly over his

head, spewing gas. It spread ungodly fast.

"Judd!" Sarda's voice was muffled by his mask.

Scanner wavered. He made a final effort to bring the

mask to his face, but his muscles flagged and he

collapsed onto the lid of the hatch as it drifted shut

beside him. He slid onto the solar wing with a hollow

bump and sagged into our arms. Though he was al-

ready unconscious as we eased him down, his hands

clutched at our clothing. He was still fighting. His

sheer determination affected us both, perhaps Sarda

even more than me. He supported Scanner's head and

gripped one limp hand, but there was nothing we could

do.

Sarda's brows knitted in anguish as he put his hand

on Scanner's chest, then looked at me. "He took a full

dose. His heartbeat is too slow."

My fist struck the Arco's photon sling to vent a burst

of rage. "We can't help him. I just hope the doctors

made it to sickbay. It's up to them." In the next

seconds, I made one of the hardest decisions of my

life and for someone who was only twenty-five years

212

old, I'd had too many of those. I stood up and said,

"We have to leave him. Mornay'11 be sending her

guards down here. Let's be gone by then."

Sarda forced himself to agree, and we crossed the

hangar deck at a run.

The corridor shocked us with the sight of a dozen

crewpeople collapsed in midstride. They were pale

and pasty, as though phasered down. Sarda quickly

knelt among them, checking pulses. "These people are

barely breathing," he said, unable to keep the heavi-

ness of disgust out of his voice. "This midshipman's

already dead."

One, and counting. I thought of Scanner. Dead.

What a word.

The hiss of a turbolift door down the next corridor

drove us quickly up the nearest deck-to-deck spiral

crawlway. We barely made it, and I had to draw my

feet up, out of sight, while several of Mornay's hired

lizards ran past the opening toward the hangar deck.

I listened until there was nothing left to hear of their

footsteps. Above me, Sarda climbed a few rungs, then

stopped. I felt his concern.

"It's not likely that they will move him, Piper," he

said, keeping his voice down.

Until he said it, I hadn't been sure of what I was

thinking. I squinted upward into the brightness of the

tube. "I guess you're right."

He pulled off the uncomfortable mask and attached

it to the communicator belt under his uniform shirt.

"Where are we going?"

Nice handy ladders... empty tube... big ship... I

stripped off my own mask, hooked it to a belt loop,

and shrugged. "Up."

And yet, a more specific destination kept turning in

my mind, no matter how I tried to apply logic to the

situation. Sarda had surmised that Mornay, Perren,

and Boma wouldn't try to install the transwarp device

until they reached a comfortable location where they

213

were totally in charge. They wouldn't be in Engineer-

ing, then. No point in going there. The doctors didn't

need my incompetence in medicine to help them find

the antidote for the narcotic gas, so no point in going

that way. Besides, Merete and McCoy weren't the

people I needed to see right now. I had prevented any

hope Mornay might have of taking the starship out of

the solar system on warp power, and surely they knew

by now that nothing but several weeks in spacedock

would realign Enterprise's delicate nacelle balance.

They wouldn't bother trying to repair such wild dam-

age. All that sounded perfectly logical, and I was ready

in case Sarda asked, but my real motivation was

nothing more than a subliminal echo deep in the least

logical corners of my thoughts. It was an irresistible

call. Rotating and growing ever stronger in my mind

was a single word bridge.

The Enterprise was as quiet as a floating coffin.

Each entry into a new deck, a new corridor, chilled us

with the sight of co!lapsed crewpeople dropped in their

tracks by Mornay's ruthlessness, then mashed to-

gether on the starboard side because of our little trick

with Rex. The starship was worse than empty. It was

cataleptic.

And traveling through it, thanks to me, was like a

maze of dead ends. Everywhere we turned, doors

refused to work or were jammed partially shut, turbo-

lifts scraped and rasped in their tubes, or refused to

open for us at all because they were simply too dam-

aged to allow passengers to trap themselves between

decks. The ship's automated maintenance system was

fully enabled, cutting off many access routes through

the ship that were now dangerous.

Even worse---I couldn't feel the presence of Captain

Kirk. Common sense told me he was here. I'd seen

him and Speck beamed on board. But I couldn't feel

him. Where was he? Had Mornay, in some fit of

unpredictability, beamed him somewhere else to corn-

214

plicate any bid he might have for freedom and the

welfare of his ship and crew? Might she have gassed

him and Spock along with their crew, in case she

needed to impress Star Fleet with the caliber of her

hostages?

As we wended our way through the innards of the

great ship, I kept trying to find Captain Kirk with my

intuitions. I clamped my mouth shut when the inclina-

tion arose to tell Sarda my feelings. Vulcans already

thought humans were a little short of a harvest, and 1

didn't need to throw more fodder on that field.

Finally we were spared any more sights of the

crippled crew when we reached a direct turbolift to the

bridge. We stood side by side and looked at it as

though there was no lift inside and we'd just fall away

into eternity if we stepped in.

"Disruptors," I uttered, clueing us simultaneously

in to the missing element. As with a single motion, we

drew the weapons from our belts.

"Set for light stun?" Sarda asked.

"Heavy stun."

He looked up. "Not the third setting."

"No. Second."

I looked at my weapon after setting it, unable to pull

my eyes or thoughts away from the dial. I knew Sarda

wondered why I was hesitating, but I had no clear

answer yet. My fingers moved like separate beings on

the disruptor dial. An extra three clicks. And a lock.

Kill/disrupt.

"Kill?" he asked. Whether he was surprised or

disappointed, I couldn't yet tell. He hadn't been with

us when Captain Kirk made me believe in the urgency

of the situation--that any single life was expendable,

even my own. The time had come to act on that sour

truth.

Sarda left his own weapon on stun; I was glad he

did. It fit into my plan.

Even through the conviction, his question made me

215

think twice, forced me to make the awful decision a

second time. "I have to be taken seriously," I told

him. "It's imperative."

Neither of us liked it very much. Only that, the

evenness of our regret for what we had to do, kept

Sarda from controverting my decision. That, and other

things between us that still defied definition.

With a sigh of commitment, I stood up. Fortified

against my own decision, I led the way back to the

bridge turbolift.

There were no words between Sarda and me as we

rode to the bridge, flattened against the sides of the lift.

Words had lost their value. And my mind was already

on the bridge.

The doors hissed open. With a shout of warning, I

burst out, followed by Sarda, led by my disruptor.

Several faces snapped around in shock. Weapons

came up.

I picked a target and fired. A scream filled the bridge

as one of Mornay's mercenaries withered into gory

lights and smoke. I turned my disruptor on Mornay,

my readiness to kill confirmed by the leftover scent of

incinerated flesh and bone.

The first voice was a distantly familiar one. I hadn't

heard it in a long time, and then only briefly, but it

hadn't been soon forgotten.

"You again!" Samuel Boma's face flushed beneath

its deep brown complexion.

Professor Mornay, gripping the handrail on the up-

per walkway, glared at him. "I told you someone had

invaded the compound to get Sarda out," she said

roughly.

Boma drew in his brows and pointed. "You didn't

tell me it was her! I could've warned you!" "Why? Who's she in particular?"

Boma shook his head. "You don't want to know." It

was hard to believe this was the man who had designed

the dangerous dreadnought that was meant to put the

216

galaxy on the edge of war, who had kept his cool

enough to fool Star Fleet into accepting his help, and

who had somehow managed to take a prime com-

mander like Montgomery Scott by surprise and gas

down the entire crew. I forced myself to remember

those things and not slacken my guard.

By now I'd assured myself there was no one on the

bridge but who I saw Mornay, Boma, and three

remaining mercenaries who were manning helm, navi-

gations, and command intelligence stations. There was

no sign whatsoever of the bridge crew--Mr. Scott, Mr.

S ulu, Uhura... the bridge looked raw without them.

"Sarda," I said, the order silently following.

He took careful aim, holding the disruptor in both

hands, and one by one struck each guard with a stun

bolt. Mornay and Boma had no choice but to watch

and wait until the four of us squared off across the

bridge from each other.

"Where's PerrenT' I asked. "Did you leave Arge-

lius without him after all, Professor?"

She gave me a smug nod. "Keep guessing, hot

spur."

I battled against the quiver of my voice and de-

manded, "Where's the captain?"

"Held tightly hostage, that's where."

"Those aren't answers, Professor."

"I don't owe you answers. My guards are on their

way up here. Do you think I'm foolish enough to let

myself go unprotected? The instant you entered the

bridge, my security forces were alerted. When the

turbolift doors open, you're dead."

That word again. I ignored Sarda's glance. !

wouldn't have known what to tell him anyway. I

waggled the phaser at Mornay and Boma, who were

standing near each other near the Engineering subsys-

tems monitor. "Down there, please, both of you."

Boma hesitated, but Mornay merely widened her

weird little grin. Now what? What could I do if she

217

wasn't even intimidated by a Klingon disruptor set on

kill?

"Gladly," she said then. "Out of the line of fire."

She led the way down to the command module, step-

ping over the crumpled body of one of the guards.

Boma followed.

I hated the fact that she was right; putting them

down there made it easier for her marauders to fire

freely at us when they appeared. "Sarda, can you jam

that turbolift?"

He moved immediately to the communications sta-

tion and placed his disruptor down on the console to

free both hands. What I asked of him was no easy task.

The turbolifts were especially designed to counter-

mand any artificial jamming, to avoid trapping passen-

gers anywhere on the ship. Sarda would have to

reroute its programming both through the computers

and through the engineering of the ship. If he had time.

If, if, if. Another word, like dead.

When he had done what he could at Engineering, he

crossed by me to Communications and started tamper-

ing.

I snaked sideways along the handrail past Sarda and

down the gangway, trying to put myseff in a position

where my single disruptor could protect Sarda from

whatever came out of the turbolift while still keeping a

wedge of threat over Mornay and Boma.

"Hurry, Sarda," I urged.

"Trying."

The communications station clicked and whirred

under his hands, but I could see in the tension of his

jawline that he wasn't succeeding against the auto-

matic resistors of the turbolift system. That was con-

firmed when the turbolift doors puffed open.

Sarda rolled away from the station to give me clear

aim. His disruptor, left on the Engineering console,

was out of commission for us.

My finger flinched on the trigger, ready to kill again.

218

The phaser that came out of the lift to aim at me was

also quite ready to commit murder.

"Nobody move!" a strong voice shouted. A single

phaser. Human eyes behind it. A hero's eyes. A

captain's eyes. They reflected his ship.

"Captain!" Like an idiot, I was still holding the

disruptor on him.

He recovered sooner and redirected his weapon at

Mornay, quickly assessing the situation, lumped-up

guards and all. He was still wearing the brown tunic

and beige trousers from Argelius, which told me he'd

been too busy to slip back into a uniform. Either that,

or the uniform had nothing to do with who he really

was deep down.

I forgot to breathe. "You're here !"

He nodded. "Commander, would you mind?" He

pointed at me, then down at Mornay and Boma.

The disruptor. Oh, damn. My hair bounced as I

looked from him to Mornay, back to him, and back to

Mornay. Finally comprehension sank in and the dis-

ruptor in my hands moved itseft to the people it was

supposed to be guarding. "Right .... "I murmured.

"Sir, there are guards on the way up here," I said

breathlessly.

"Yes, I know. They had a little trouble getting by

Mr. Spock and me."

I readjusted my feet. "Oh." So much for the guards.

"Where were you, sir?"

"Before or after we broke out of our cells?"

"Uh... after."

"We've notified Star Fleet Command," he said,

"given Bones the specific name of the drug the crew is

under, incapacitated most of the professor's guards,

and put an isolation field around the transwarp mecha-

nisms," he now looked at Mornay in prime connec-

tion, "so even the Professor and Dr. Boma won't be

able to engage it."

The bridge fell silent.

219

I lowered the disruptor slightly. "Is that all?"

Numb, dreaming, drunk . . . I could're taken my

pick.

"By the way, Piper," the captain began, circling the

upper deck with his phaser still steady on Mornay and

Boma.

"Sir?"

He raised a brow at me. "You wrinkled my star-

ship."

A ball of compunction blocked my throat. "Aye, sir,

I know that, sir. You should see what it did to my ship.

I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."

"No apologies," he said. "I was considering the

self-destruct sequence myself." I blinked. "You're joking."

"It wouldn't be the first time." His strong words

were directed every bit as much to the two on the

lower deck as to me. He meant to have his message

clearly given. "A starship commander must always be

ready to use the last resort. You'd be surprised."

Darn right I would be. "Aye, sir," was all I said.

Behind us somewhere, my first command ship drifted,

derelict. I heard its noble moans in my mind.

Mornay and Boma exchanged an unreadable look.

I should're blown the doors off that damnable tur-

bolift when I had the chance. The contemptible thing

opened again behind Captain Kirk. Presuming it would

be Mr. Spock, the captain didn't turn soon enough.

"Phasers down! Don't move, Captain." The form

was Vulcan, but not Spock. Perren held his own

phaser square at the captain's spine. He reached

around and pulled Kirk's phaser away from him, put it

on the floor, and kicked it down the gangway where

nobody could reach it. "Now yours, Commander."

My glance connected briefly with the captain, but

there was nothing I could do. Perten was unpredict-

able, I'd seen that for certain. The captain's face grew

rosy with anger. He didn't like being caught off

guard--another thing we had in common. I lowered my weapon.

"Down here," Perren instructed.

Until I could think of something better, I did as he

instructed. Soon, both weapons were lying down the

gangway, out of reach.

"Now move over there, Captain Kirk."

The captain stiffly obeyed, but ! noticed his true

nature remained unsmudged he made sure he was

standing between that phaser and me.

"That's right," Mornay spoke now. Her voice

seemed strange after all the fluxes of victory and

defeat that had passed the bridge in the last few

minutes. The weird grin was gone, though. Her

transwarp mechanism was out of commission for quite

a while. Isolation fields couldn't just be pulled down

overnight. "My turn again, isn't it? I'm not giving up.

I'll get away." She tapped her graying temple. "It's all

up here. And you'll never interfere again, any of you.

Perren," she said, her tone rising, "for the good of the

galaxy... kill them."

Vulcan or not, he was quite liable to do it. He'd let

us go once before, and we'd returned to haunt him.

The horrifying thought arose that Mornay might in-

deed know him much better than Sarda did, and might

have more control over him than we guessed. No time for analyses.

Perren hesitated, but it wasn't the kind of hesitancy

that gave me any confidence. He leveled the phaser on

Captain Kirk.

Suddenly I said, "No." I stepped past the captain,

and, in the boldest bet of my lifetime, walked straight

into the line of fire. Perren's stare flickered at me.

"You know I understand you," I said to him. "Maybe

better than she does. And I think you know her

220 221

opinion of you. You can't keep retreating under her

banner. You're going to have to make a new decision

for yourself, right now. Because I'm going to take that

phaser away from you."

If I died doing it, I would be the only one to die.

Perten knew the captain and Sarda would be on him in

an instant. He'd never have time to recover with me

standing so close to him. And everything would grate

to a halt once again, and for good.

Forced into confrontation with himself, Perren

parted his lips as though silently trying to explain--to

himself, probably.

I lifted a hand. Put it out. Touched the phaser.

He raised his chin, eyelids drifting down as he

looked now at our hands, cupped on the same weapon.

His fingers tightened, then relaxed. With a tug, the phaser was mine.

Perren, his head lowered in deep contemplation,

dazedly joined Mornay and Boma on the lower deck.

But the hatred was not over. It boiled now in the

pitch black of Boma's eyes. Perhaps I had ruined his

plans one time too many, and with too much finality.

Even as Perren stepped down, Boma's rage stripped

him of caution and propelled him across the bridge; his

target my throat. Not entirely a tactic of momentary

insanity, his sudden action took me by surprise. Fro-

zen, I never had a chance even to raise the phaser.

Taking advantage, Ursula Mornay hunched her

shoulders and grabbed for the discarded weapons lying

on the upper deck. The bridge burst into wild motion.

This time, though, I wasn't alone on the summit of

Mount Danger. A flash of beige and boot--the captain

braced on the bridge handrail and vaulted into Boma

without so much as a pause for breath. He caught

Boma cleanly in the chest just before the astrophysi-

cist's hands would have torn me bodily from the upper

deck. Boma went down hard against the helm, the

wind gushing from his body, and he fell limp.

222

Mornay's eyes widened in astonishment, but she

had the phaser by now and backed against the weap-

ons console, trying to get a better grip on the handle.

Before her, Captain Kirk appeared over the handra'd

and straightened, his eyes full of warning. He had no

weapon, he had no advantage. Only his eyes. The

blades of truth.

He lowered his chin slightly, almost as though scold-

ing her. "It... is... over." The bridge fell to silence.

Challenge rumbled between them. Then, like thun-

der in the distance, it ended. Ursula Mornay narrowed

her small eyes, her face shriveling into a sneer, and she

lowered her phaser. The captain relieved her of it.

With a sigh, he reached down and hauled Boma,

staggering, to his feet and gave him a heave toward the

upper deck. "Mr. Sarda."

The voice beside me was almost a whisper. "Aye,

sir."

"Escort the professor and Dr. Boma to the brig. If

they so much as flinch," he added with a stern look at

both prisoners just for effect, "paralyze them."

"Aye, sir." Sarda glanced at me, and whether or not

he meant to be asking me for it, I handed him Perren's

phaser. He gestured Mornay to the turbolift, careful to

keep the weapon keenly trained on the little woman we

had learned not to trust. He glanced at Perren, who

remained near the viewscreen, awaiting his own fate.

Clearly Perren was no longer part of the threat. The

captain said nothing, but silently waved Sarda on with

his assignment, confirming that he intended to have

Perren handled in some other way. Soon Sarda was

gone with Mornay and Boma.

Captain Kirk came to my side of the bridge, still on

the lower deck below me, instantly at ease. He leaned

one hand on the deck rail and said, "I like your style."

A deep breath came out of me a bit more gustily than

I would've liked. "You should," I said. "It's yours."

223

Chapter Eleven

- "It should be hauled away AS garbage?

---The Trouble With Tribbles

I wns TRYING to absorb the end of the nightmare when

Captain Kirk extended his hand to me. Why did he

want to help me down from the gangway? Almost on

the thought, the answer wrapped itself around my

heart. The captain's handshake suffused me with

honor, a thousand times more than any promotion

ever had, or ever could.

As if sensing my need for a moment of not being the

center of attention, Kirk moved to his command chair

and thumbed a button. "Kirk to Engineering." When

there was no response, he punched again. "Kirk to

auxiliary control." "Spock here."

Ahhh, that sonorous voice! How welcome it was!

"Mr. Spock, the bridge is secure," the captain in-

formed him.

"That is satisfying news, sir. Congratulations. May

I ask the condition of the prisoners?"

He wanted to know about Perren, I guessed. From

opposite sides of the bridge, the renegade Vulcan and I

exchanged a meaningful regard, but nothing more.

This was the captain's moment.

"Professor Mornay and Dr. Boma are on their way

to the brig. Perten is still here with us."

A brief pause gave weight to Spock's next question.

"And Mr. Sarda?"

224

The captain peered at me from the corner of his eye.

"He's in charge of the prisoners."

Relief went through me like a knife. I closed my

eyes and breathed deep, then let myself stare at the

floor as Kirk's support for us soaked in. Had he been

in my place before? Did he know what it felt like?

"Ship's status, Spock?" he was asking.

"Very poor, Captain, as you might guess. However,

we do have maneuvering capabilities on impulse

power. We should be able to ambulate back to Arge-

lius, 0e we take care not to strain the systems. I am

presently attempting to re-engage electrical support

for the guidance systems."

"Keep me posted. Bridge out." Again the command

chair clicked. "Kirk to sickbay. What's the antidote

situation?"

McCoy's voice shot through the com system with a

reassuring confidence. "We've isolated the antidote,

synthesized it, and introduced it into the circulation

system, Captain. The crew should start waking up

within about fifteen minutes, depending on the individ-

ual."

"Will they be functional, Doctor?"

"The intoxicant was wicked stuff. They'll wake up,

but for the next six hours or so we're going to have a

mighty sick crew on our hands, Jim."

Kirk lowered his voice noticeably. "Any count on

fatalities yet, Bones?"

"No way to tell yet." McCoy sounded edgy.

"Guess."

"We hope to hold it under a dozen. Doing our best,

Jim. Ipromise."

I felt the presence of Merete when Dr. McCoy said

"our best," and knew she had found her own way to

contribute to the situation. She could easily have

stayed behind on Earth and gotten safe transit back to

Star Fleet Command to await her next orders. Her

presence had seemed so natural that, until now, I

225

hadn't remembered to appreciate it. I sent her a tele-

pathic good luck and, remembering how she always

managed to get to the core of my tensions, flexed my

shoulders in an attempt to relax the muscles in my

neck. With that I also took a deep breath and caught

traces of a sweet odor, heavy and lingering descending

from the upper vents. Merete's silent response---the

antidote.

The captain addressed me quietly. "Piper?"

I shook myself into focus. "Aye, sir?"

"Where did you moor Keeler?"

"She's docked, sir. At Man-o-War. I took the liberty

of arranging to have her brightwork sanded and refin-

ished as long as she's just sitting there. I left Ambassa-

dor Shamirian in charge of her."

"I thought you would." Leaning that way, with one

elbow on the command arm, clasping one wrist as

casually as a tiger rolling onto its back in the sun,

Captain Kirk became everything a human could be.

His soft hazel eyes brushed me and hovered beneath

feathery brows that minutes ago had defined his sense

of purpose. The purpose relieved, his face returned to

the portrait of wisdom I'd known on board that lovely

schooner so far away. For that instant, he and I were

everything and everyone in the universe, mentor and

pupil, captain and mate, captain and captain.

The communication was real. It drew his lips out-

ward into a restrained grin. "Good job," he added.

I smiled. "Thanks." Funny that I felt as gratified by

his trusting me with his schooner as I was by his

trusting me with this mission. Of course, after many

weeks at sea with James Kirk, I knew what the

schooner meant to him. The mission only meant risk-

ing death. The schooner meant life itself. The

schooner, the starship... a strange and provocative

mirror image.

"That was quite a wrenching you gave us," he said

then, reinstating the paranoia. "I had no idea a con-

struction tug could do that."

Several possible responses flooded my brain. "Nei-

ther did I."

His brows went up and down in a dismissing motion.

"Well," he said, "I won't want to be around when you

explain it to Mr. Scott."

The moment's elation sank out of me. I muttered,

"Me neither." Maybe there was something to be said

for narcotic gases after all.

The captain moved around the back of his command

chair, caressing the leather. All the while he was

looking at Perren, who stood on the far bridge, swal-

lowed by his own thoughts, or perhaps by the empti-

ness of them. Abandoned by his scruples, Perren was

caught between the gears of bad and good, for the

moment quite content to surrender himself to the

wisdom of others. A sudden and completely unex-

pecteA sorrow rose inside me, touched with pity for

him. Was he so wrong to wish to free the countless

conquered worlds in the neighboring hostile empires?

He felt guilty for the privilege of having been born

Vulcan, of being born into the Federation, .where his

abilities were able to flourish without leash. I had once

thought of the Klingons' right to be what they were,

had once armed weapons to defend that clause in the

Articles of Federation that guaranteed the privilege of

serf-rule to any government that didn't wish to join the

Federation as much as to those who did. Never before

had I thought so sympathetically of those billions of

beings who might never get the choice at all. Perren

made me think. The sacrifices were his, and I had

mined them. I would do that again, of course, but

would things always have to be this way? Was freedom

of choice only a matter of proximity in the galaxy?

Where your borders lay?

As I gazed at Perren now, these thoughts folded in

226 227

on me and I became confused. I tried to isolate my

regret, but after all we'd been through I couldn't clear

my head enough for simple rationalities, much less a

complex moral question. When all this was over and

there was time to read, time to ask, time to listen, I

promised myself I would keep learning. Perren's face,

all angles and soft shadows under the bridge lights,

evoked from me a warrant of teevaluation.

Kirk shook me out of these half-thoughts. "Piper,

take the communications station and put out a dis-

patch to Star Fleet. Advise that we need an interstellar

tow to the nearest starbase, and that we'll meet them

at Argelius."

Striding across the bridge, I spontaneously asked,

"What about the Banana Republic, sir?" It was out

before I had a chance to bite it back.

His straight brows went flat on his eyes as he turned

slowly. "What about the what?"

I whirled around and froze again. Well, tunnel-

mouth, how do you get out of this one? "Um... by

the way, Captain, I never had a chance to thank you

for arranging a command for me. So... thank you."

"You're welcome. Banana Republic?"

Hang him, he was going to annoy me into explain-

ing. Strapped, I fabricated a graceful, diplomatic lie

and served it on a silver shrug. "First thing that came

to mind, sir..."

Okay, so it wasn't graceful or diplomatic. It got me

off the hook.

His brows did a little dance again, but he let the

subject die young and waved me onward to communi-

cations.

It felt good to sit down. The bridge chair groaned

lazily as I relaxed into it, confirming the illu sive idea

that things were settling down. Only a fleeting glance

at Perten, and his at me, kept us clinging to past

actions. Captain Kirk probably intended to have me

escort Perren to the brig, as Sarda had escorted Mor-

228

nay and Boma. Perren was unpredictable and the idea

of ushering him below brought on a clutter of possibili-

ties. I would still have to be careful. I swiveled around,

putting my back to him. He wasn't my problem any

more. Feeling taken care of for the first time in too

long, I quietly tapped out the dispatch to Star Fleet

Command and put it on a priority band. After all, it

wouldn't do to have a starship hanging around in the

middle of nowhere any longer than absolutely neces-

sary. When the message was intact, I committed it to

the system and pressed the Subspace Send-Code.

Then I leaned back, my wrist still resting on the rim of

the console. The board hummed merrily, doing what it

did best. Machines were easy to please. A small grin

tugged at my lips. Poor old Rex. Quite a show.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz.

I sat bolt upright. The tamper alert light was going

wild. Somewhere in the system, the dispatch was

jammed. Raking a hand through my hair, I chided

myself for still being on edge, flexed my shoulders, and

bent over the board. I didn't know much about com-

munications cross plays, but I hadn't given up without

a fight yet.

"Clanky plumbing," I accused, realizing that, of

course, I had done this to the starship myself. If things

wouldn't work, it was because I had made damn sure

they wouldn't.

I pecked away at the toggles and inputs, trying to

clear the system before Kirk got the idea that I needed

help. All the electrical routes seemed to be working,

butmthere was an intrusion of impulses. From out-

side !

"Captain, we're being jammed!" I shouted.

He was beside me in an instant. "From where?"

"Port astern. Transmitters are being impeded. I

can't get the message out!"

In a single motion he flew from the upper deck to the

helm control and rattled orders into the board. As we

229

watched in growing awareness, Perten moved away

from the main view screen and gave us clear sight of

our port astern space. The screen solidified quickly,

with only a waver of sensor shift before focusing on

two hawk-shaped warships just coming out of cloak.

I vaulted from my chair and grasped the deck rail,

staring. "They must've moved in while we were play-

ing musical phasers !"

Kirk reached back and nailed the corn link on his

command chair. For all the good it would do to an

unconscious crew, the captain's urgent words echoed

through the corridors of the crippled starship. "Bat-

tiestations! All available hands to battlestations. Mr.

Spock, to the bridge."

"Piper, take the helm."

The Red Alert klaxon howled. Bridge lights dark-

ened and became the warning scarlet that told us we

were in trouble. The helm was sluggish under my

hands.

"Raise all shields," the captain said. Calmness had

returned to his voice. Somehow he had gotten it back.

Even emptied of its human elements, the bridge

came alive. The computer systems fought the damage

and sucked energy into themselves to do their jobs.

Diagnostic readouts of the ship in tiny skeletal duplica-

tion, all done in computer blues, greens, and reds,

were constantly shifting across the upper display

boards, giving visual reality to the damage I'd done.

And on at least two dynoscanners loomed the configu-

ration, distance, and approach data on a pair of

Klingon warships. Bigger than birds of prey, these

were of the older, sturdier design, engineered for

firepower and engine thrust. My throat closed as I

watched the actual ships growing nearer in the main

viewer. Because of me, Enterprise was helpless.

I wiped a trickle of sweat from my chin and pecked

at the helm control board, trying to think my way

through unfamiliarity with these controls. "Only half-

screens available, sir," I told him.

"They certainly didn't waste any time finding us,"

Kirk said to no one in particular. That was me, that no

one.

In a fit of self-deprecation, I grumbled, "Klingons

are stupid, but they're not that stupid."

Still dressed in cape and tunic, Mr. Spock shot out

of the turbolift, cast one glance at the main viewer, and

rounded on his library computer station. It started

spewing data at him the instant he touched it, like a

child jumping up and down to tell a parent about its

troubles. "Captain, we're being scanned," he said

immediately.

"Jam their frequencies," Kirk ordered. His scowl

told how much he resented the invasion. "Let them

guess."

Able to tie into many divisions of the bridge from his

board, Spock fed the order through and prevented the

Klingons from knowing the details of our damage.

Anything more complicated would have to be done

from the home consoles in each division. "Their weap-

ons are armed, Captain, but they're not coming within

firing range. They are separating... coming about to

flank us on either side."

As he spoke, the scenario took place on our viewer.

The two ships peeled away from each other and disap-

peared out opposite corners of the screen. The captain

circled his command chair, his eyes narrowed like a

fox in a hunt. Prey or predator? Which role would he

take, and why?

"Do we have phasers, Spock?"

"Nonoperational, sir." Spock was quiet and termi-

nal about it. He knew perfectly well what he was

saying and, Vulcan or not, made no attempt to hide the

heaviness he felt. A basic hopelessness was evidenced

230 231

by his lack of explanation. Phasers weren't working,

and they weren't going to be working any time soon.

Not soon enough.

Was there anything on this starship that we hadn't

destroyed?

The captain prowled the bridge. He was trying to

think like the Klingons, and I was trying to think like

him. I caressed the helm's edge, feeling very, very

small. This was my fault. If I hadn't jumped to conclu-

sions, assumed Kirk couldn't handle Mornay--if I

hadn't crippled the ship-

Spock turned to us, a communications hook in his

ear. "Sir, the Klingon commander is hailing us."

Kirk acknowledged it with a wry look. I felt a snide

comment coming, but he repressed it and said, "Vis-

ual, Mr. Spock."

Velvet space dissolved, replaced by craggy Klingon

features. It wasn't Gelt, I noted with some relief,

though there was little doubt about how Klingon Cen-

tral had found out about us. Once again I cursed

myself for my common altruism. I'd left Gelt and his

crew alive when I had the chance to put them out of

my misery. As I watched, aching inside, the Klingon

captain spoke. "Commander, Enterprise, this is your

captor. Your ship is disabled. We will take her in tow

and return to the Klingon annex on the opposite side

of the Federation Neutral Zone. As soon as we touch

Klingon space, you will be classified as salvage."

Kirk grew rock still. "Captain, you draw this ship

into Empire territory and it'll be the last thing you do.

I'll detonate her the second we leave Federation

space, and you with her."

His words chilled me to the marrow. I believed

those words, that tone. He would. And I would help

him. I no longer felt death lurking at my door. I'd kick

the door open and go in style, along with the finest ship

in the universe and her captain.

The screen wobbled and turned to space again. Kirk

232

looked over his shoulder; Spock frowned and shook

his head. "They've cut us off," he said.

Kirk bent over his command console. "Kirk to

sickbay."

"McCoy here."

"Bones, what condition is Scotty in?"

McCoy took his time answering. "Still unconscious.

But his metabolic rate is increasing and he's respon-

sive. Why? Are we the only ship in the quadrant

again?"

Captain Kirk sliced through what sounded like a

private joke. "I've got to have him on the job. You've

got to bring him around."

McCoy's tone changed. "Jim, I don't know if that's

possible," he insisted. "A direct dose of this stuff

could kill him."

"Can't you try--"

A crunch of energy shuddered through the ship.

Spock squinted into his graphic readout. "Tractors,

Captain, from both sides."

"Can you feed back their energy?"

"Not without overloading our impulse field flux. In

our present condition, the firing chambers would over-

flow into the magnatomic tubes." "Heading?"

Spock straightened so abruptly that it hurt my back

to see him do it. "The Neutral Zone. They're taking us

home." His statement rang of the cryptic.

Behind Spock, framing his caped form, the string of

graphic schematics and bar charts across the rim of the

bridge was nothing less than beautiful, in spite of their

data. The Red Alert glow made them shine brightly

against crisp geometrical insets. Who ever had the

chance to contemplate the beauty of a ship's bridge

while in Alert condition? The klaxon had stopped,

having done its job of waking the dead, leaving only

the red glow and wildly flashing CONDITION AL-

ERT signs. I suddenly wondered about Sarda. Had

233

Mornay snatched the opportunity of the call to battle-

stations and somehow overtaken him? Taken him by

surprise? Sarda knew humans better than Perren did,

but Mornay was clever and abrupt in her methods. l

pushed my thoughts through the deck platings and

deep into the ship. Don't trust her.

"Spock," the captain asked, "how long till they can

take us into warp?"

The first officer tilted his head, piercing me once

again with a contagious confidence. "It will take them

approximately seven minutes to adjust their tractors,

compensate for our bulk, and balance their combined

engines for warp speed."

Behind me, the captain sp oke urgently. "Bones,

I've got to have Scotty on the job. I don't care how

you do it."

McCoy sounded strung out. "Jim, what do you want

me to say? It'd take me half a day to calculate the

right dosage of this antisomnial for a man Scotty's

age, weight, and physical makeup. Now, I'd love to

put him on the bridge, but it's not going to happen

because nothing, nothing is going to make me pump

this explosive into his system."

"I'll be right there. Kirk out. Spock, take the con.

Keep me posted on those ships." He said all this on

the fly to the turbolift, and I got the distinct impression

that nothing was bloody well going to get in his way.

Not all crucial starship decisions, it seemed, are made

from the bridge.

"Mode of resistance, Captain?" Spock asked at the

last minute.

"None till I get back. Get on those repairs. I want

full shields and photon torpedoes." The lift panel whispered shut.

Spook turned to me. "Switch to forward visual."

I punched buttons. The screen melted and solidified

again to show us the fantails of both Klingon cruisers,

coordinating their energy to tow us along. Spock nod-

234

ded thoughtfully, but said nothing about it. Instead he

moved around the gangway toward the weapons con-

sole.

"Commander, if you will assist me, please," he said.

He swung onto his back under the defense subsystems

monitor and peeled off the panel.

To get to him I had to step past Perten. The young

Vulcan's face was sallow as he stared at those Klingon

ships. He wasn't even aware of me as I passed him. As

much as Enterprise was disabled because of me, those

Klingons were out there because of him. Come to

think of it, everything was because of him. He knew it,

too. It shone in his eyes and the set of his lips. Not

exactly regret, though. Perren wasn't the kind to re-

gret too much. Had his plans gone as he intended,

transwarp would not have been at such risk. The

Klingons knew we had it, no doubt. Gelt would have

told them. And even if he hadn't, information like that

spreads faster than Troyan bullet-bacteria. NOW

wasn't the time to be searching for blame.

Take your own advice, girl, my inner guardian

warned.

"As I feed these synchrotron pulsors through the

system," Spock was saying, "confirm connectivity

with the graphics on the scanner above."

"Aye, sir. Go ahead." One by one, we fed and

confirmed each patch in, trying to cram a week's

repairs into a few minutes. The end result would be

power for just a few photon shots, but those were

better than nothing. Small talk kept trying to squeeze

out of me, and I kept mashing it down. All I needed

now was to be asking Spock a gaggle of stupid ques-

tions. My nerves were whining like the Keeler's rig-

ging. My hands were cold, and I had to use the head

oh no! Not now. Please, not now. Heroes never go to

the bathroom! Horatio Hornblower didn't, Superman

didn't, Cyrus Centauri didn't--but I did. Which

proved who was a hero and who wasn't. As Spock

235

worked under the console, I finally asked, "Uh, sir?

Permission to step updeck?"

He paused, then resumed working. "Certainly."

I dashed into the bridge head, and by the time I

dashed out again, the Romulans had arrived.

Yep, there they were. I knew I should never have

gone to the head.

Red Alert was whooping again, signaling intrusion

into our immediate space, and Spock was clawing for

the intercom. "Spock to Captain." "Kirk here."

"Romulans in the area, Captain, three ships. Light

fighters 2'

"Maintain Alert status.. Enable the Engineering

control board. We've got partial staff back in engi-

neering, Mr. Spock. Put them to work impulse-drive

integrity. I'm on my way."

He would never know how much his last four words

meant to us, or at least to me. Spock rose to his full

height, eyeing the viewscreen with Vulcan fierceness.

We watched, unable to take action, as three Romulan

ships looped in front of the Kiingon cruisers and fired

on them. Lancets of red energy cut hard into the

Klingon screens. Without a pause the Klingons re-

turned fire, cross-secting space with blue beams. Sev-

eral of those missed entirely, but a few hit the Romu-

lan birds and scored damage. Smaller ships had

smaller shields, and the Romulans were vulnerable

that way, in spite of superior maneuverability at sub-

light. They veered off and circled for another attack.

"Why are they firing on each other?" I wondered.

"They're allied, aren't they?"

Spook raised a brow. "Transwarp is bigger than

their alliance," he said.

Like animals protecting their kill, the Klingon ships

turned in space to keep between the Romulans and us.

Even as they did, I caught a glimpse of color in the

236

high left side of the viewscreen and pointed ridicu-

lously at it. "Mr. Spock, look!"

He stared for an extra moment, then moved to his

scanner and shook his head. "Unidentifiable. We have

no cataloguing of that configuration." He straightened

and watched the new ship reel in to fire on the Romu-

lans, then attempt to cut the Klingons off from us. "I

daresay," Spock murmured, "we are in scramble."

Cosmic scramble. An intragalactic, military feeding

frenzy. The phrase had come a long way since, in

Rex's quiet cockpit, I'd first heard it glide out on

Spock's resonant voice. Once, it had meant little to

me. Now it spelled gruesome danger. This kind of

battle would be far from neat, far from a simple two-

sided dispute. And we were sitting in the middle of it,

stark helpless. We were the nested egg about to be

fought over by every form of alligator.

The feeling was devastating--to be put on hold like

this, to be an ignored piece of torn meat, while others

fought around us. Shots of light energy in bright colors

splintered around us. Enterprise rocked in the ebb of

energy bolts that passed too near us. The Klingon

ships continued to tug us along, distracted now by the

other ships, bolts of enemy fire keeping them from

launching into warp speed. For the moment, at least. It

bought us time.

The unidentified ship cut across our bow, giving us a

sharp, shocking view of its forked hull and fierce

colors. We hardly had time to blink before two Romu-

lan birds sliced by us so close that I stumbled back into

the command module, and Perren swayed backward

into the bridge rail.

"Take your helm, Commander," Spock said, his

tone rising and lowering as though he was reading a

fairly interesting caf6 menu. His eyes strayed reso-

lutely on the screen action.

237

I maneuvered in that general direction, letting my

hands lead me along the command module, unable to

pull my stare from the battle. I winced as the Romu-

lans sliced through the screens of one Klingon vessel

and disabled it, only to dodge into green plasma blasts

from the unidentified ship. The Klingons then took

their own revenge, firing hard on the nearest Romulan

wing.

The turbolift opened behind me, stealing my atten-

tion. The captain appeared, then Sarda, on either side

of a gray-faced apparition of Mr. Scott. I held my

breath in empathy. Scott looked iH and in pain, proba-

bly the effect of whatever the doctors had to do to

wake him up and get him on his feet. The captain and

Sarda supported him heavily, brought him across the

bridge, and eased him into the chair at Engineering.

Mr. Scott pressed his hands hard on the console. I

could almost feel the effort going into his concentra-

tion as he assessed the ship's available energy.

Sarda moved across the upper deck until we were

side by side, but on different levels. A brief glance told

me he was all right. It felt good to have him here. Until

now, I hadn't let the emptiness take hold.

Kirk pressed ScoWs shoulder in mute reassurance

and looked at tl.te viewscreen. "Situation, Mr.

Spock?"

"Unchanged. Three Romulans, two Klingon cruis-

ers, and one unidentified vessel, all counterattacking.

One Klingon cruiser is damaged but functional. They

have not as yet fired on us."

Kirk nodded. "Piper, have you got an opinion?"

I blinked. Piper who?

His asking constrained me to find an opinion even if

I didn't have one. So I invented one. "I'd say . . .

concentrate on the Romulans and the unknown ship."

"Based on what?"

"Based... on Klingon tendencies."

"Explain."

238

Deep breathe, let out slowly, start talking.

"Klingons are like grizzly bears. They attack straight

on, with sheer brute force. Even though they're a

threat in firepower and ruthlessness, they're predict-

able. If we just watch them, we should be able to tell

what they'll do next." I stopped to lick my lips, which

had dried up when I realized that Mr. Spock had

stopped his scanning and was also listening to me, and

Perten had turned my way too. Another deep breath.

"Even though the Romulans have lesser weapons,

they understand the concept of subtle attack. Things

like sneaking and bluffing. They're cunning. It makes

them dangerous. I'd watch out for them. I'd even

disable them if I got the chance." "Spock?"

I tensed, waiting.

"I concur," Spock said.

"So do I," was the captain's response.

Before I had a chance to exhale, Kirk demanded,

"Disable them how?"

It's not as if he didn't have ideas of his own. He was

testing me and using my reactions to test himself.

Evidently he was as curious about what made me tick

as I was about finding out what drove him. But

couldn't it wait for a better time? Sir?

Trying to push ideas through the whiskerbugs infest-

ing my brain, I shrugged and said, "Maybe... use

their distraction with each other... launch someone

in a shuttlecraft or one of the attack sleds and make for

open space to get a distress call out to Star Fleet..."

"They'd be caught in traction by one of those ships

and tak en prisoner."

"Yes... of course... sorry." And on top of being a

bad suggestion, it wasn't even the answer to what he'd

asked.

Luckily, James Kirk wasn't James Kirk for nothing.

He took his good question and my bad answer and

combined them into a wild card. "Shuttlecraft," he

239

murmured, watching the interplay of ships before us.

"Spock..."

They exchanged a long look--not a word, just a

look.

Spock nodded. "Excellent," he uttered. Had I

missed something?

Stepping down to the navigations console beside

me, he tapped through to the automation of the hangar

deck and computer-moved one of the shuttles into

launch position. As he worked, the only sounds were

the whirr-beeps of electrical cooperation and the muf-

fled, strained voice of Mr. Scott as he fed orders

through to the few engineers back on duty below

decks.

"Shuttlecraft Columbus ready for launch, sir,"

Spock said then. "Automation system locked in."

The captam nodded his acknowledgment.

Why was he taking me up on a stupid suggestion?

And an empty shuttlecraft at that . . . of course! A

decoy. Make the enemy waste their time following an

apparent escape. Like I said, he wasn't James Kirk for

nothing.

"Go ahead, Mr. Spock," he said, calmly watching

the enemy ships wheel and fire on each other like

dancers in some erotic alien ritual. As if to give my

analysis life, the small Romulan ships were using

supreme strategy, working together against more po-

tent enemy vessels, coordinating their attacks then

retreating to the rim of the solar system to regroup and

attack again, from different angles. The Klingons were

unable to tell where the Romulans would dive in upon

them next. The only surplus danger was that unidenti-

fied ship. The Klingons had their hands full trying to

maintain their pull on Enterprise and the unnamed ship

knew how to use that. Its forked hull lanced past us

several times, that green plasma ray cutting deeply

into the Klingon shields, only then to swing around

and potshot the Romulans into falling out of forma-

240

tion. All the while we continued slowly moving toward

the outside of the solar system, where, once clear, the

Klingons might be able to take us into warp speed.

Another clutch of guilt caught me by the heart. Tan-

gled motivations looked for excuses in my head. Si-

lent, I watched the battle tighten before me.

A small white speck appeared at the corner of the

screen. It drew my attention. The shuttlecraft--veer-

ing away for open space. As Kirk had anticipated, the

unnamed ship and two Romulan wings turned on their

tips and angled after it in a strange race. Because they

were closer in the first place, the Romulans overtook

the shuttlecraft first. Pulling it against its own thrust,

they drew it up alongside and tucked it under one

wing, then warned off the unnamed ship with a volley

of particle-beam fire.

The unidentified vessel peeled away, barely dodging

the milky white gauze of particle beam, leaving the

Romulans to their catch. They drew the shuttlecraft in

tight to their hull. Not large enough to bring the

shuttlecraft on board, they made good their possession

with magnetic couplings on their ship's underbelly.

When the shuttle was firmly attached, Captain Kirk

said, "Now, Mr. Spock."

Sarda and I both looked at Spock at the same

moment, after a questioning glance proved that neither

of us knew what was happening. As Spock's long

finger leaned on a toggle. It flipped.

The entire left side of the viewscreen lit up. Blue-

white particles spun through space, then redoubled as

a matter/antimatter explosion bubbled inside the first.

The Romulan ship was memory, nothing more than

scattering bits of fibercoil melting and dissolving in a

pyrotechnic bloom.

I came halfway out of my chair. "Wow!"

Sarda's cool gaze washed over me, and I got the

feeling that only my yip of delight kept him from an

embarrassing smile. He probably saw how ridiculous I

looked and decided to interiorize that grin pulling at

his upper lip.

Spock bent over his readout screen at the library

computer. "One Romulan ship obliterated... another

slightly disabled from impact fallout."

"Good, Spock, good," the captain murmured.

Victory earned us a slap on the wrist. The third

Romulan ship flashed by us at attack angle and lay

open the skin of Enterprise's forward half-shields with

a shot full of revenge. The bolt crumpled our shields

and burst through with just enough remaining energy

to send us staggering. I was thrown out of my chair

altogether, and Sarda careened backward, barely

missing Mr. Scott, who was clinging to his board with

whatever strength he had. When the bolt faded and the

ship stopped shuddering, Sarda was picking me up and

Perren was picking himself up. Kirk and Spock, darn

them, were already up.

Kirk was holding tight to the bridge rail, his eyes

ablaze with satisfaction. I felt it too---that rare sense of

triumph that came from outthinking an enemy when

the enemy already had an upper hand. It was worth

that spanking they'd given us. Suddenly I understood

the captain's advantage. He knew what I had forgot-

ten. None of these ships dared destroy Enterprise. We

had what they wanted.

"I think they're annoyed, Mr. Spock," the captain

crowed.

"Yes," Spock agreed. "They do seem... vexed,

Captain." With that, he returned to his readout screen.

That comforting thought left only the possibility of

being dragged into Klingon space, or being acciden-

tally blown to bits by wild shots, or being boarded by

the enemy, or--

Spock straightened abruptly and glared at the

viewscreen. "More ships, Captain! Veering in from

various directions in open space," he said, his tone

edged with surprise.

242

Kirk raised his voice. "Scotty, where's that shield

power?"

Mr. Scott turned slightly, even that an effort since

he was standing up--leaning, really--and running a

protosensor rod over the board. "Nearly there, sir...

up to 83 percent." His eyes narrowed in discomfort,

and he was breathing heavily. "Working on impulse

thrust--" He slipped and collapsed forward over his

console. By the time Captain Kirk reached him, he

was wiping his face with a blanched hand and pushing

himself up.

The captain took him by the arms and steered him

back into his chair. "Scotty? Can you make it?"

Scott fought for his part in the play, forcing his eyes

to meet Kirk's without a flinch, in spite of the pain

showing in his face. "Aye, sir... those spine-headed

pirates'11 not have this ship if I can help it." The

promise drained him, but he pulled on an inner sturdi-

ness and straightened under the captain's grasp.

Even in the midst of trouble, Kirk found a personal

moment to pat Scott's arm. "Good, Scotty. We need

you."

"Captain, forward deflector power is impaired,"

Spock reported. "Unlikely to regain."

"Identify those ships," Captain Kirk ordered.

"Attempting to do so."

I leaned toward Sarda, who still had a grip on my

arm, and said, "We're trying to get photon capacity."

"All right," he said simply, and moved to the weap-

ons control console on the upper deck. Mirroring that,

I dashed back to the helm and drifted into my chair. At

least it looked like we were helping.

"Come on, Spock," the captain urged. "I want to

know who I'm up against."

Spock nodded, very slightly, then gave voice to

what he was seeing on his monitor. "Tholians, sir. At

least four. Sensors are unsure. And at least three more

v. essels... checking design catalog to identify." He

243

moved across his computer, arms sweeping the board

as he tapped into the fabulous memory system. Even

in that short time, the cuneiform shape of the Tholian

ships had become clear on our screen. Behind them,

other vessels appeared, all different--claviform, tur-

nip-shaped, biform, full-orbed, all different colors.

When Spock returned to the monitor and the blue light

once again washed his features, the answers were

there. His brows went up. "Captain, they are

Klingons. However, not Empire-sanctioned vessels.

One is of a configuration currently being used by the

Rumaiym, a racial tier of the Empire."

Captain Kirk moved to the deck below Spock, draw-

ing the two of them together into that intangible bubble

they shared when I looked closely. "Analysis,

Spock," Kirk softly invited.

Spock tilted his head, observing the action in space,

then turned his gaze downward to his captain, as if

they were alone. "It's not surprising that sections of

the Empire might attempt to gain a bargaining weight

within the power structure. In fact, if current intelli-

gence is accurate, we are seeing agents of at least four

Klingon strains Klinzhai, Rumaiym, Wijngan, and ff I

am correct about that triformed vessel, the race calling

themselves Daqawlu--the Remembered."

With a dry nod, Kirk commented, "Oh, they'll be

remembered, all right."

"Obviously the Klingon Empire is not so unified as

they would have us believe."

"Obviously. Well, we can't keep feeding them shut-

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

Kirk circled the command module, giving me a clear

view of the harsh determination that brought his brows

together and tightened his lips. His words hummed

with bottled ferocity. "I don't like being the pawn."

I cast a brief glare at him, but broke it off before he

saw it. Neither did I.

Kirk spun suddenly, and I braced for a reprimand.

244

But it was Spock he caught in his net. "You told me

about a transwarp accident while you were aboard

Piper's ship."

"Yes," Spock acknowledged. "Quite unsettling."

"Unsettling enough to disable those ships?"

Spock hadn't thought of that, judging from his ex-

pression. As he added up the elements, Sarda, Perren,

and I turned to watch, and wait.

With a nod of contemplation, Spock said, "Possi-

bly."

Kirk inhaled deeply. "Describe it."

"I believe improper imbalance in the matter/anti-

matter flow through the holding chamber caused the

trilithium to degenerate. The result is not thrust, but

dimensional warp. Am I correct, Mr. Sarda?"

Sarda shifted his feet and nodded. "You are, sir."

The captain gripped the raft harder. "Can it be

repeated?"

"Repeated in what form?" Spock asked.

"If the transwarp mechanisms were patched into the

Enterprise's defense system, could those conditions

be duplicated?"

Spock held the hot potato for a few seconds, then

tossed it across the bridge. "Mr. Sarda?"

Sarda dropped his gaze as he contemplated his

safety equipment and, knowing him, about a thousand

other alternatives. He hated having his inventions

used for military offense, but it was that or imprison-

ment behind Klingon lines. His innermost struggles

shone faintly behind his eyes. I tensed, wishing there

was some way I could help him. For a long self-

conscious moment, our eyes met. Perhaps he drew

strength from me, for he straightened and faced the

captain. "It could be done," he said. "We could not, in

fact, prevent it from happening, considering the condi-

tion of the Enterprise. Rather than the defense system,

the mechanisms would have to be connected into the

propulsion system, the warp drive itself, then expelled

245

through the sensory in order to do what you require

with any control. However... I do not trust myself to

a task so complicated. At least, not alone. The dangers

to ourselves, with an untested system--"

"I'll help." I was on my feet already. Kirk and

Spock looked at me. Ridiculous! What I knew about

transwarp would fit under a fingernail. Then, in an

instant, I knew what I could do. I rounded on Perren.

My words were potent as sharp wind. "You'll help

tOO."

Perren's narrow features paled, but his eyes grew

intense.

"You know what I'm talking about," I pressed. In

my periphery, Kirk and Spock waited, knowing when

silence was the key to winning.

"Yes," Perren murmured. "Yes, I must." He ap-

proached Captain Kirk. "You must let me. I can cut

installation time by two-thirds. I beg you, allow it."

Kirk glared at him, partially in threat, partially in

disbelief, partially in that special way he had of cutting

through the thoughts of others. Put his ship in the

hands of a traitor? Even now, Perren's face was

backed by a tangle of enemy ships firing on each other,

haloed by the fluorescent sparkles of direct hits.

I couldn't stand it. I couldn't let the doubt dangle. I

rushed around the command module in a move I hoped

was dramatic and arresting, until I was nearly at

Perren's side, and faced the captain. "Sir, you've got

to let him. He means it."

Kirk's glare carried a definite how-do-you-know as

it snapped to me, yet he said nothing. I knew I'd better

be right.

"How long?" he demanded.

Perten tensed. "Roughly . . . seventy minutes. An

estimate only, of course."

A commanding hand swept from Perren to Sarda.

"Both of you, get to it." The hand folded into a point,

246

and swung straight at me. "Piper, I want you down

there too."

I swallowed a lump of liability. "Aye, sir. I under-

stand."

A brief glance from me sent Sarda toward the turbo-

lift, Perren close behind, and I brought up the rear

guard, deliberately not picking up one of the discarded

phasers in a vote of faith for Perten. Kirk noticed, and

raised a brow at me as though he knew what I was

thinking. No real surprises there, though. Gambling

was part of the game--sometimes the wiser part. We

both knew it.

I reached the back of the bridge and was about to

join the Vulcans in the turbolift when a crack of energy

struck the port side of Enterprise, and rocked us hard.

My shoulder, with the rest of me behind it, rammed

into the frame of the turbolift, and I managed to catch

myself and hang there until the ship stabilized. In the

wide viewscreen, the unidentified ship streaked out

from the underside of our primary hull and vectored

out into space toward the Klingon cruisers.

The captain moved toward the helm console and

turned briefly to me. With deliberate poise, he said,

"Hurry."

The Engineering deck was disturbingly quiet, jarred

only by rumbles of energy from outside that told us the

enemy ships had opened fire on us and the K!ingons

who possessed us. Perren, Sarda, and I were reso-

lutely silent as we gathered Perren's equipment and

carefully--so carefully--followed the directions

Spock fed through to us on how to dismantle his

elaborate isolation field around the transwarp mecha-

nism itself. The mechanism made little engineering

sense to me; it looked like something out of a child's

coloring book, a quincunx contraption with several

arms and a central core of funnels and circuitry.

247

Evidently that was the reaction chamber for the tri-

lithium. I didn't even try to understand it.

Perren and Sarda worked feverishly to wrestle the

various attachments into the central feeder unit for the

ship's energy/matter matrix restoration cowl. Okay, so

I didn't understand that either. It didn't matter, as long

as they understood. Even with their combined Vulcan

strength and a few good shoves from me, the installa-

tion of transwarp into a damaged warp propulsion

system was the work of more than three people. I

didn't bother asking what this or that was, especially

if, by some miracle, it happened to fit. I followed their

directions through the most muscle twisting sixty-two

minutes of my life. It seemed more like six minutes.

Finally the work dwindled down to minute delicate

adjustments and all I could do was watch. It was as

though Perren and Sarda had fallen into a different

language; though I was watching, their science was so

specialized that I might as well have been a thousand

solar systems away. My thoughts began to drift, jarred

each time the ship shook under us from enemy fire. I

held on to a nearby pylon and tried to keep hold of my

self-control. The frustration was building again. I

hated having to just watch.

I started thinking about the enemies out there. Tho-

hans, Romulans, Klingons of every breed, and that

persistent forked ship whose configuration we couldn't

pin down. Living beings, tangled in a web of power

grabbing. Each had a history and a goal of his or her

own. And so did I.

Without pausing between thoughts, I suddenly

blurted, "What's going to happen? When we imple-

ment this, what's the effect?"

Only when both Vulcans paused at the same time

did I realize I'd forced them to face something they

had been trying not to think about. Not only face it,

but put words to it.

They exchanged a disturbing glance. Perten gripped

248

the micropincer he was using. "We . . . have never

postulated the effect of an accidental imbalance. Our

efforts, of course, have always been directed toward

canceling out or circumventing any such occurence,

with the hopes of eventually preventing them alto-

gether. We take great care to stabilize the integrity of

the trilithium before funneling matter/antimatter

through the field core."

Spock's face filled my mind, completely unbidden.

Perren, so unlike him, was turning logic inside out to

avoid simply saying that he didn't know. Suddenly I

longed to hear those words; there was something

reassuring about the honesty in the phrase I don't

ktlow.

Anger boiled up in me and I snatched Perren's arm.

"I've got to understand! You've got to give me some

idea of what it's going to do to those ships out there."

Perten jerked away. His eyes flashed with the on-

slaught of my emotions coursing through him. Long

black hair waved when he pulled his arm free. I went

after it again, but Sarda caught my wrist.

A swell of perception washed through me, cooling

my nerves, running up my arm, and spreading through

my body. The anger didn't go away, but like the

distortion of transwarp flux, Sarda had turned it out-

ward and away from Perren. For a moment he took it

upon himself, seeing perfectly well that I was reaching

the limit of my patience with Vulcan ways. He slowly

absorbed my need to understand, and with his grip

forced me to comprehend what could be foretold and

what couldn't be.

Seconds passed, long ones. Sarda broke his gaze

from mine only once.

He nodded briefly to Perten, who collected himself

with difficulty and went back to work on the microcir-

cuits. When the triad of conflict faded to the two of us,

Sarda turned back to me.

"Piper," he began, "even we do not fully compre-

249

hend why transwarp works as it does. It is not meant

to be a weapon."

Though I knew how deeply he believed that, I

pressed, "I'm in the command line. I've got to have

some concept of what that thing's going to do to other

life forms. The captain has to know."

"We would tell you, if that information could be

gained without actually using the imbalance." Glints

of blue and yellow light from Perren's snapping panel

flickered in Sarda's bronze hair and in his troubled

eyes. Guilt gnawed at him. Would he ever have peace

from it? "The wave effect," he tried again, "is a reality

solvent. We may liken it to pouring water on a sand

castle. The sand remains, but.. 2'

The transwarp contraption trilled to life, singing an

electrical song, and saved him from having to find the

words for the terrible vision he saw. For a moment we

simply watched the equipment whirr and glow and

hum.

Sarda's expression filled with omen. "We cannot

allow hostile hands to possess this."

"And we shall not," Perren agreed, that rebellious

thorn sur facing again.

My opinion stuck its neck out again. I couldn't stop

it. I glared at Perren. "You should're thought of that a

long time ago."

Sarda watched me, silent.

Perren retreated to his work. The instrumentation

whistled and chirred happily under his hands. Even

poorly hooked up, fed into a damaged system, the

transwarp mechanisms showed the effort of years of

work.

"I can complete the calibrations," Perren said.

"Correlating the flux ratios of transwarp drive with the

sensors must be done from the sensor control room."

Sarda gathered the necessary computer disks and

said, "Contact me there when you're ready to begin."

250

"Very well," Perren said. "It may take several more

minutes to make the correct calculations."

Sarda only nodded. He knew all that, apparently. As

he stood up, his amber gaze caught fast to my own and

I felt that wash of telepathy again. Was I really feeling

it, or had I learned to imagine it as I came to know him

better? He'd never confided in me about whether or

not these mental waves were normal for Vulcans--if

he even knew. I hadn't asked, and a good thing too.

He might be supremely embarrassed if my feelings

were induced by his inability to control that inherited

telepathy. He seemed so different from Spock, as

different from Spock as Spock was from Perrenm

Sarda, even more different from most Vulcans who

came to Star Fleet. Very few of Sarda's fair-haired

clan ever roamed from their home planet, yet he was

here, rare, and of great value to me. As we stood

together over a mechanism that might either save or

destroy us, I found myself hoping he never would

learn to control the soft inner communication.

"Where will you be?" he asked.

My answer was deceptively simple. "Where I'm

needed."

"I know you will do well."

"Thank you. For everything."

His expression remained stoic, but he dropped his

eyes, then raised them again. "And I thank you," he

said, almost whispering.

"Good luck," I responded.

Before we got into a chain reaction of thank-yous,

he wisely dipped away and left the area. I lingered

there long after he was gone.

Below me, Perren drew my attention when he

paused and put a hand to his lips. I knelt down.

"Something?"

His brows came together in contemplation. "This

arrangement must be coordinated from the bridge, at

251

the engineering subsystems monitor. If you can do

that, I can monitor and adjust the intermix according

to your readouts from pulse to pulse."

"I can do that," I told him. I could do it, if only I

knew what he was talking about. Let's hear it for blind

optimism.

Perren's face went blank for a moment, then twisted

in confusion.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I'm unsure about the sensor

output system. I can correlate the thrust ratios for

warp drive, but I do not know how to adjust them to

run through the sensory."

It sounded like a bigger problem than I could

solve--surprise, surprise---and I bit my lip before

making a wild assumption. My feet were tingling when

I stood up. "I know who does. I'll contact you when I

get to the bridge."

I started toward the exit. Before reaching the door,

though, I remembered my charge from a higher au-

thority--a trust I wouldn't betray.

Perren saw me turn, saw the tangle of emotions in

my face, the sensation of being torn between two

distinct duties. Even though I said nothing at all, the

problem was obvious.

He read my hesitation--even I couldn't say ff he

read it correctly--and paused fine-tuning the

transwarp to seal his credibility with a promise. "I

give you my word."

The throb and hum of Enterprise's sensor system

trying to accept the new energy of transwarp became

the pulsing of some great heart. I absorbed Perren's

promise. Think like a Vulcan.

With my tone, I charged both of us to fulfill the vow.

"I accept your word."

The hangar deck was cool with freshly circulated

air, sweet with the lingering odor of the antisomnial. I

252

swung around the corner of the alcove where the Arco

sleds were anchored down, and was only superficially

surprised to see Sarda there, kneeling beside Scanner.

He'd evidently decided to make good use of those

extra few minutes Perren said he had. He was holding

Scanner in a sitting position against the attack-sled's

folded solar wing.

I knelt beside Scanner, but my question was for

Sarda. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze was penetrating. He didn't want to explain.

"Deviating."

That was all I was going to get, too.

Scanner's face was clammy as I touched it and

turned him to me. "Scanner? Look at me. Are you

okay?"

He blinked past the pain left over from artificial

sleep and unnatural awakening and moaned. "If this is

life after death . . . I'll take death." He folded over,

and only Sarda's grasp kept him upright. When he

raised his head, his face was pale and his eyes glazed.

"You got... trouble upstairs."

Good. Sarda had been filling him in, probably trying

to distract him from his own discomfort.

I took him by the shoulders. "Scanner, listen to me.

We've tied the transwarp into the warp drive and

we've got to correlate the thrust ratios with sensor

issue. Can you tell me how to do tl,at?"

"Aim it... you mean?"

"Yes, aim it."

"Yeah... oh, worm guts... they killed me, Piper."

He let his head sag back against the solar wing. Pinch-

faced, he fought the gaspy breath of nausea and

cramps. Sarda and I shared a glance of penetrating

empathy and waited.

"We'll get you to sickbay," I promised.

"Can't y'just... bring sickbay down here?" Scan-

ner closed his eyes tight. When they opened again,

, some of the color was returning to his face, as well as

253

his wits. "Yeah... that transmitter on the bridge... a

dead jellyfish could work it. Y'all can do it easy."

"Gee, thanks. How?"

"Same way you aim sensors, except . . . push the

impulses through weapons override . . . even if the

safety system says you can't." I frowned. "It'll burn out."

He took a choppy breath. His cheeks flushed with

heat. "You can't stop that. It's all there is. That crazy

transwarp hookup won't last long anyway. You

might's well force a human heart to breathe air."

Cramps took hold of him again, piercing all three of us

and making me realize what Mr. Scott, with his hands

full of starship, was going through. Scanner pressed

his arm under his ribs. His free hand made a loop

toward Sarda. "Tell her, Points."

Sarda's lips flattened, a strange reflection of his

hand on Scanher's arm as it gripped tighter. He felt

responsible; I sensed it simmering. "Probably true,"

he admitted.

Obviously, none of us had possessed the courage to

say it before this. The captain's plans suffered as I

waded through the truth. Enterprise's systems were

sturdy, but not meant to funnel the shared energy we

would soon demand of them, the hazardous intermix

with its deliberate irabalances. In perfect condition,

possibly--but not with the damage I'd inflicted. The

K!ingons were towing us closer by the minute to the

system's edge where, at warp speed, they could easily

rush us into their home territory. Time now worked

against us. All we had was this one chance. Mutual

disablement.

'TI! tell the captain," I said. "We'll make it work

somehow."

Scanner managed a weak smile. "I was hopin'

yaw!'d say that."

"Sarda, can you manage with him? I've got to get

back to the bridge."

254

Sarda nodded. "I'11 contact you from the sensory."

I started to get up, but faltered when Scanner caught

my sleeve. When I looked down, he said, "Don't let

the bastards beat us, Piper."

My hand caught his and squeezed. "You count on

it."

Comforted, he slumped back against the solar wing.

I didn't stay to help Sarda get him on his feet. The

bridge of Enterprise was waiting--and all the clocks

were ticking.

Make it work, make it work, make it work...

255

Chapter Twelve

"Risk is our business."

--Return to Tomorrow

THE BRIDGE WAS organized chaos. Captain Kirk was

leaning over the helm, his medieval costume incongru-

ent with the geometric surroundings, doing the jobs of

ten. The scarlet lights of Alert status were distorted by

blasts of color energy from enemy ships as they swung

by, lashing out at each other, and catching us in the

crossfire. Iridescent damage on the nearby Klingon

cruisers lit up our faces. To my right, Mr. Spock was

bending over his readout hood, its blue light on his

face clashing with the scintillas from the main viewer.

He had to hold on to the edge of the console to keep on

his feet as enemy fire cut at our battered deflectors. He

and the captain were alone on the bridge.

As I came out of the turbolift, a strange thought

flushed over me. Getting to the bridge hadn't been

easy, and I'd been thrown down at least twice as the

ship was rocked by battle turbulence. I'd had to ignore

the groggy, nauseous crewpeople just coming around

after having had their lives risked for them. When the

turbolift doors opened, ;,t occurred to me that precious

few of those people were authorized to come to the

bridge. Yet here I was, privileged to be at the hub of

decision, alone with Captain Kirk and Commander

Spock.

Kirk spoke into the intercom, correlating something

256

I couldn't hear clearly, and Mr. Scott's voice came

back up at him through the corn system. I looked

toward the engineering panel, confirming to my jarred

senses that he wasn't there anymore.

"Nominal but coming back slowly," Kirk was say-

ing. "Good work, Scotty, keep it up." Fighting from

inside a cage, he adjusted the navigational controls and

Enterprise pivoted against the Klingon tractor beams

until we had a clear view of a Romulan ship veering

toward us, with one of the cuneiformed Tholians close

behind. Instantly Kirk struck a firing launch. Space

filled with bright red-orange lancets. Phasers! They'd

gotten phasers working! And the captain was using

them to keep the enemies busy out there, protect our

weakened deflectors, and complicate the Klingons'

effort to protect their prizemusmwhile they also tried

to beat off attackers who were determined that if they

themselves couldn't have us, nobody could. Including

the Klingon Empire.

The pastel Tholian vessel swerved to miss our pri-

mary hull, one of her wedges blazing with melted hull

material. The Romulans cut upward on short notice

and fired their particle beam at us, but the Klingons

fired and detonated the particle beam before it reached

our screens. Enterprise rocked and whined in the

dispersing waves. I caught myself on the bridge rail

and managed to stay upright.

From one side, Spock's voice overlapped the snap-

ping of tangled voltage as Enterprise trembled back to

life. "Port side Klingon cruiser is keeping in contact

with the other cruiser, Captain," he was saying, his

hand to the com receiver in his ear. "Distorted . . .

they are attempting to contact their Empire or other

Empire ships... I believe to request help that... may

be on stand-by already, if I decipher these transmis-

sions correctly."

"Cut off their broadcast. Make sure those transmis-

257

sions get scrambled. They can tow us," the captain

said to the screen, "but they'll have to do it alone.

Scotty, ready secondary phaser banks."

"Secondary banks are dry, Captain. I'm trying to

funnel in some power. It's only a matter' a time before

the hull in D-section ruptures and that'll be the end of

our reserve. We've taken too many hits there, sir."

Scott's voice held the timber of a man possessed.

But I was staring at Spock. Just last year I'd finished

a top-of-the-line course in computer cryptography and

I blasted well knew that with the new wave-maze

technology the Klingon Empire had developed, we

couldn't possibly tie in to their transmissions. Profes-

sor Eufinger had made that indelibly clear. But there

was Spock, blithely doing the impossible.

Well, Eufinger had always been a cretin anyway.

The captain's voice shook me awake. "What's the

status on the transwarp appliance?"

I had to clear my throat. "It's tied in, but... a little

shaky. We have to correlate from here to the engine

room and over to the sensory. Perren's standing by,

and Sarda should be in the sensory any minute."

Kirk left his station and approached me swiftly on

the lower deck, shooting me full of the moment's

urgency. Even though I was standing over him, the

sense of eminence he radiated was staggering. I felt

drawn to his presence, even comforted, in spite of the

battle blazing on the screen behind me. "Do you know-

what to do?" he asked.

"It's been explained to me, sir," I said, obviously

avoiding the real answer.

He seemed to like that response even better than if

I'd told him I knew all about it and understood it

perfectly and could pull it off without a hitch.

"Go," he said. We crossed by each other as he went

to join Spock.

The engineering subsystems monitor was sluggish

under my hands. The functions override and critical

258

regime indicators took too long to respond. Oh, well

... I didn't know for certain what they meant anyway,

so let them take their time. I tapped the com through to

engineering. "Bridge to Perren." "This is Perren."

"I'm at station. Hold while I tie us to Sarda."

"Acknowledged."

Another tap. "Bridge to sensor broadcast."

A few seconds passed. I was about to call again

when the breathless response came. "Sensory. Sarda

here." He'd been running.

"I'm feeding the coordinates through to both of you.

Keying weapons cross feed now."

"Acknowledged. Drawing power to transwarp."

"Broadcast ratios are confirmed, Piper. Standing

by, J'

My eyes drifted closed. I inhaled and turned. "Cap-

tain? We're ready when you are."

Kirk's expression pasted me to my controls. "Target

the Klingons who have us under tow. I'm going to

move us up into their tractor to tighten the range. We'll

go for a short incursion first." He skipped the steps

altogether, going from Spock's side back down to the

helm, and introduced the controls to their heading.

Beneath us, Enterprise whined against the strain of

impulse power fighting the tractor beams to push

forward into them. Not as impossible as trying to pull

away, but not easy.

"Aye, sir. Targeting." I had to force my fingers to

move. Green lights on the board blinked, confirming

that Sarda was receiving the coordinates.

"Romulan ships moving in for another rush on the

Empire cruisers," Spock reported.

"Just as well," the captain muttered. "All right,

Piper. Ready transwarp flux..."

"Range is uncertain," Sarda warned. "There may

be an echo effect. Brace yourselves."

I held my breath, waiting for the captain's next

259

word, as the two Romulans vessels wheeled into near

space. Echo effect? Did he mean- "Execute !"

I leaned on the emissions toggle. The controls went

wild.

Enterprise's electrical noises drooped out to long

howls. My arms became elastic. I felt my knees fold in

the wrong direction.

The edge of flux--we still felt it, even though the

waves were deflected outward at the attacking ships.

The flushback twisted reality around us. I heard Kirk's

voice as he shouted something to Spock, but the words

made no sense. Still, I clung to the sound.

While Sarda's safety systems directed the actual

flux at our enemies, the dimensional distortion

couldn't be controlled. It fed back on Enterprise,

engulfing us in the same peripheral effect we'd felt

aboard Rex. If this was the fallout, what was it like out

there, in the main stream?

The ship lurched and bolted to starboard, then

righted.

My arms came back. The queer feeling subsided

abruptly, leaving us all breathless.

"Status, Spock!" Kirk demanded.

The answer took too long. "Tractor beams have

released us." Spock's report carried a ring of triumph.

"We are free to maneuver."

He turned to the main viewer. We all did.

The scan of immediate space was horrifying. Parti-

ally dissolved ships floated by us, dismembered, or

spliced together wrong, completely rearranged--when

a Tholian ship drifted past with a Romulan wing pro-

truding from the side of its hull, I had to look away.

Spock, still staring at the screen, stepped down to

the captain's side. Together, with expressions frighten-

ingly alike, they watched what we had done. The area

looked like an interstellar junk yard. The only vessels

260

left maneuverable in immediate space were one Rum-

aiym ship, the unidentified ship, and... Enterprise.

Far off at the edge of the viewer, there was move-

ment. The remaining Tholians, their hatred of disorder

apparently stronger than their desire for transwarp,

cashed in their chips and retreated at high speed. So

did the ships Spock had identified as Wijngan.

The first ship left to move on us was the Daqawlu

vessel, a streamlined yellow and black ship made

mostly of curves. It gathered speed gradually, then

faster, and fired full disruptors.

Enterprise rocked under us. I felt myself hitting the

floor, my hip smashing the edge of the engineering

console as I went down. In the corner of my eye I saw

Kirk dive for the helm control. Impulse power

hummed up from the lower decks, and the starship

tipped away from the Rumaiym beams.

"Shields four and seven down completely, Cap-

tain," Spock shouted over the combined din of disrup-

tor fire and impulse rumble.

Kirk struck an intercom button. "Kirk to Engineer-

ing. Scotty, divert all available power to photon torpe-

does."

"They're too weak, sir," Scott's voice filtered up

from distant decks. "I'll need four minutes to re-

charge. Buy me that time and I'll give you disruption

potential." He sounded better than he had when he'd

been on the bridge. Typical, for Scott, health was

directly related to proximity to the engines.

The arcuate Daqawlu ship had vectored out into

deep space and was diving on us again at attack speed.

"All right," Kirk growled. "We'll do it the hard

way. Piper, enable the flux. Execute on my mark."

The yellow and black ship swooped toward us. Her

phaser port glowed faintly with gathering energy.

"Now, Piper."

Had someone said something?

261

"Piper!"

I flinched, drawn abruptly back to my role in this

awful drama. "Oh... aye, sir... enabled."

"Execute!"

I bit my lip, and fed the impulses through as Scanner

had instructed.

This time the dimensional flux wasn't as distorting.

Had it lost its power? Were we drained already? A

wash of nausea, loss of vision, dizziness... and it was

over. I blinked, and worked to focus on the

viewscreen.

Before us, the Daqawlu ship shimmered briefly as

reality short-circuited. They fell out of attack pattern,

turned belly-up, and swept to one side of us. The ship

left our viewscreen, then veered back in and came to a

stop at a respectable distance. There seemed to be no

other effect.

Kirk moved around the helm module, his eyes fixed

on the drifting enemy vessel. "Spock? No effect on the

ship?"

I'd never seen Spock hesitate. This time, though, he

did. When he moved to his scanners, it was with a

distinct force of will. Slowly, he said, "Confirmed...

the ship is intact." He straightened then, his saturnine

features limned with empathy, gaze rooted to the

Daqawlu ship. "But there are no life forms aboard."

The captain turned sharply. "You mean..."

"Whatever happened during that flux," Spock co n-

firmed, "it took them all with it."

Astonishment filled the captain's face. He stared at

the screen. My nausea returned, and I was surer than

I'd ever been that he and I were nursing the same

thought. It was easier to kill an enemy than condemn

him to eternity between dimensions.

Involuntarily, we moved toward the viewer. Only a

step or two. Enough to seal the horror. Water on a sand castle.

We were shaken from our stupor by the Red Alert

262

klaxon as it whooped to life again. My heart hit my

boots. It couldn't be. It couldn't.

The captain looked at Spock. Feeling it, his first

officer lifted his head from the scanner hood and

somberly confirmed, "More ships, Jim." His nitaglase

eyes shined in the Alert's red glow as he uttered words

more awful than plain information could be. "Battle

cruisers of the Empire."

Go through it all again? We couldn't. I couldn't.

Kirk struck the comlink. "Scott, weapons?"

"Best I can offer is 70 percent range on photons,

sir," the engineer reported stiffly.

From another side of the engineering deck, Perren's

voice interrupted through my monitor's intercom.

"We do have remaining power for another transwarp

flush. Shall I enable?"

Damn him. That meant I had to report to the cap-

tain. I hated myself. "Captain... transwarp is stand-

ing by."

"Man your post," Kirk snapped. "Ready photon

torpedoes."

With a burst of energy, I smacked the comlink and

said, "Stand by, Perren. Do not enable. Repeat, do not

enable." I swung around the chair to the weapons

station and went after the photon controls, steeped in

resurging faith for the man on the lower deck. My

fingers tingled on the triggers, stiff with both relief and

anticipation. We were back on familiar territory--my

kind of ground, and his.

"Captain," Scott hailed. "I canna guarantee that

photon capacity. Energy was drained severely by

those flux beams. I'm rerouting power through im-

pulse reserve."

"Speed it up, mister," Kirk demanded, suddenly

fierce as he dragged his senior officers together and

made them stand in the fire with him. "We're at

battlestations. I want fighting capacity."

The intercom crackled. "Aye, aye, sir."

263

"Piper, man the exterior scanners," the captain

ordered, sending me dashing around the bridge to the

dynoscanners at the opposite side. While I was mov-

ing, Kirk spoke into the intercom. "Mr. Sarda, report

to the bridge immediately."

I almost passed out when I heard that. We were

going to be together--right when we needed to be. I

was glad for that--and for the fact that Captain Kirk

refused to use the transwarp flux again.

"Piper, report the range of those ships."

The scanner light flickered with numbers. I squinted

into it. "Point six-zero light years and closing."

A few moments of silence gave us no comfort.

During that time, the captain took the helm himseft.

"Spock, divert more power to impulse drive for the

best speed out of the area."

"Very well," Spock said. He crossed to engineering

and played with the controls as fluidly as if he'd

accepted a challenge to play chess. Yet this time, I

knew he was deliberately hiding a deeper concern. It

showed, if subtly, in the way he moved.

I peered into the space scanners. The three Empire

cruisers moved in on one monitor. Hope sank as I

watched them grow nearer, the schematics of their

configuration flashing on two other monitors. And on

the scanner at my right a distant flicker showed me we

were finished. More ships on the way.

I watched the monitor, hypnotized. Four equidistant

points of starlight bloomed against black space. Only

my training kept me from sinking into a chair and

waiting for the end.

"Captain," I murmured, "four more."

Our eyes connected.

Anything he would have said to me was drowned in

the hiss of the turbolift. Sarda glanced at me, a fulfill-

ing glance, ff fleeting, and took in the conditions we

faced.

"Sarda, take weapons control," the captain or-

dered.

Sarda nodded, but said nothing as he hurried to his

station.

Though the captain surely knew there was nothing

left to try against the odds coming at us through open

space, we both knew we would try anything to keep

surviving. Beyond our own survival was the scientific

integrity of the Federation. We would destroy our-

selves to preserve that.

I watched the scanner. Behind the K!ingon battle

cruisers, four new points of light became ivory pearls,

closing at warp speed.

"Scotty, I want those photons, now!" Kirk made no

attempt to hide the urgency.

"Working, sir. I can give you 78 percent range, and

two-thirds power."

"It'll have to do. Sarda, target those new vessels."

"Targeting."

"Range," I rasped. "Two-hundred-eighty-thousand

kilometers and closing." Damn it, did we have to keep

doing this?

"Stay sharp." Kirk's voice was bracing.

In my scanner the four ivory jewels separated like

exploding fireworks, preparing to surround us. They

were closing fast, all teeth bared. As they peeled away

from one another in classic formation, their shapes

flattened into graceful disks and grew limbs. Sound

caught in my throat. I choked it out.

"Captain, hold your fire! Starships!"

All eyes struck the viewer.

"Spock, confirm!" Kirk snapped.

Spock hung a receiver in his ear and fingered his

controls. He met the captain's disbelieving gaze.

"Confirmed, sir. Commodore of the Fleet Lyle Craig

aboard U.S.S. Hood--"

The captain burst to his feet.

264 265

Spock went on, his voice strong now. "Captain

Jarboe on the U.S.S. Yorktown... Captain Andreoni

on board Exeter, and Captain Long with the destroyer

Majestic. Commodore Craig suggests we sit back and

.. watch the nickelodeon." His brow rose over the

unfamiliar word.

But it wasn't unfamiliar to the captain. His face was

alight with triumph as we watched the starships move

in around us, and saw the sudden action of the sur-

prised Klingon cruisers. Kirk slapped the command

console with both hands and roared, "Advise they are

welcome, Mr. Spock!"

"With a capital 'well,'" I whispered. We made it

work, Scanner. Rest easy.

The United Federation of Planets dumped politics

on the floor and moved in as ff to a trumpet carillon.

Three Klingon battleships wheeled to meet four

Federation starships, and we could nearly taste the

surprise. From our Alert-darkened bridge, we

watched as the starships took on the battle cruisers

and the destroyer Majestic peeled off after the uniden-

tified ship that was still haunting us. Two of the

Klingon vessels suddenly moved in on Enterprise.

They were going to use us as a backdrop--a safety net.

Kirk saw it. His sharp words cut through my fasci-

nation with the screen. "Piper, take the helm! Plot a

course astern, z-minus thirty degrees. Lock and exe-

cute. Give them a clear field to open fire. Sarda, arm

photon torpedoes. Wide dispersal. Fire!"

I should have known he wouldn't just sit back and

watch the nickelodeon, whatever that was. Jim Kirk

would fire a bologna sandwich out the photon tubes if

he had to, but he'd do something.

Photons burst through inner space, blasting a

Klingon ship out of our way as Enterprise descended

gracefully out of the center of battle. The Klingon ship

pivoted away, its hull dazzling with crackles of energy,

and nearly collided with the nameless forked ship as

266

the latter reared away from our fire. We could nearly

taste their rage.

Cut free from us and roaring like teased animals, the

Klingon ship recovered and whirled around on an

imaginary axis, bringing its full disruptor banks to bear

on us. A bright glow opened on their firing ports, and

the bolt streaked toward our bare port hull. Instinc-

tively, we braced for an impact that would tear the

skin right off the ship.

But the cavalry was still here. From the top of our

viewer came a gleaming ivory disk, immense and

instantly blanking out the whole screen. Massive call

letters flashed by, black against the creamy plated hull,

and we heard the thunder of disruptor fire striking full

shields. Hood!

The other starship flooded past our viewer and was

gone almost as suddenly as she had appeared. She'd

taken the bolt on her own shields, leaving us intact to

move downward and out of the way. Now she was

turning on the Klingon who had attacked us, slicing

hard into the damage we'd done, redoubling it.

We descended into a clear spaceway. Hood and

Yorktown moved in over us, taking our place among

the clutter of ships. They opened fire. The Empire

cruisers cut away suddenly, swinging after each other

in retreat, and disappeared into light speed.

Exeter was chewing Romulan bones. By now, there

was nothing left of the Praetor's ships to return to his

distant Neutral Zone. Even the dangerous forked ship,

after firing three final shots on Yorktown and learning

what it was like to have a starship turn on it, turned on

a pointed hullfoil and streaked into open space. Majes-

tic wheeled after them, nipping at their heels.

"They did it!" I shouted. At least one foot left the

deck. From opposite sides of the bridge, Sarda and I

shared a penetrating gaze. His relief was plain. He

slumped back on the weapons control console, sur-

veyed the screen, and looked at me again. Against my

267

flight suit, I raised a thumb in silent tribute. Perhaps it

was the space between us, or the red dimness of the

bridge, but I thought he almost smiled.

Kirk rested a hand on his command chair, but said

nothing. That was all right; he didn't need to say

anything.

Spock was standing near communications, receiving

a message. "Sir, Hood is hailing us." His voice was

soft now with that charismatic smoothness that said

the danger was over and we had survived in high style.

"Commodore Craig reports this sector is clear. He and

Ambassador Shamirian are awaiting your reply."

Kirk's cheeks grew round with a repressed grin. He

pounced on the intercom. "Ben! You old sea gypsy.

You're late."

"Now, Jim, you know as well as I do what it takes to

round up four starships. Pardon my saying so, but

Enterprise looks a little ill around the mainmast."

"Don't worry about my ship," Jim Kirk countered,

pleased with himself. "We're still in one piece." "I never worry about you, Jim."

Another voice interrupted now. "Jim, this is Craig.

Don't ask me how you stayed in that one piece in the

middle of a scramble. I'm impressed right down to my

birthday suit."

"That's one I owe you, Lyle."

"Deduct it from the three I owe you. What else can

we do for you while we arrange to tow you to star-

base?"

"We have a medical emergency here," Kirk told

him. "We need as many medical personnel as you can

spare, a damage control team, and a skeleton crew

while my crew recuperates."

"You've got it. Patch me through to Leonard. I can

tie in my ship's surgeon and let them share details. No

sense in us captains horning in." "Thanks again, Lyle."

"Glad to help, Jim. Craig out."

268

The captain settled into his command chair and

surveyed the bridge before turning to Spock. "Mr.

Spock," he said, a definite lilt in his voice, "secure

from Red Alert. Patch our sickbay through to Hood."

"My pleasure, Captain." Another lilt, clear as bells.

The bridge lights came back on.

Within an hour we were under tow, this time toward

home territory. Yorktown and Hood were towing En-

terprise, and behind us, Majestic was towing Rex.

Exeter had stayed behind in the Ciatella Star System to

make sure the area was secure. Starbase Four had

been alerted and was preparing its space dock to

accommodate a heavy cruiser. Breathing time.

And that's just about all I was doing breathing. And

gazing in disbelief at the beautiful starships ahead of us

as we rolled through open space. When Captain Kirk

appeared in my periphery, I hardly noticed.

"Everything all right, Commander?"

"Hm? Oh . . . yes, sir, of course. Everything's

fine," I said, trying to convince myself. I wasn't used

to this. I kept waiting for things to start going wrong

again. "Captain.. 2'

His eyes narrowed. "I thought so. What is it?"

"Sir... what's going to happen to Perren? I mean,

what do we do with a Vulcan? Lock him up and throw

away all that brilliance? He did help us..."

"Yes, and I'm sure the Judicial Committee at Star

Fleet Command will take that into consideration. I'm

going to submit a recommendation that he be re-

manded to the custody of his home planet. We'll let the

Vulcans decide. That's equitable, I think. Don't

you?"

This time I couldn't stop the nonregulation sigh of

relief. "Yes, sir, I sure do."

He stayed by me for a few minutes. Together we

watched the elegant starships as they towed us along.

Finally, he urged, "What else?"

269

I looked at him. He was watching me carefully, his

head at a slight angle. How did he always know?

But he did know. I made no more attempts to hide it.

I looked once again out into space. "That unidentified

ship..."

The captain nodded, and clasped his hands behind

his back. He thought about it for a moment before

answering. "A blemish on the art of war, Piper," he

told me. "You don't always get the comfort of know-

ing."

At least he understood. It made me feel better. The

sniggering doubt would always remain, but at least it

was a shared doubt. Now only one question remained.

"Sir, how did you get out of trouble at Starfleet

Command?"

He resisted a grin and tipped his hat. "Trouble is

only a minor annoyance when you've engineered it

yourself. And don't worry. The assault charges against

you were dropped due to extenuating circumstances."

"Before I ever laid a hand on those security people,

I'll bet."

Now he did smile. Then he said, "You'd win."

I shook my head and sighed. The captain watched

me passively.

"We've got a lot of cleaning up to do," he said. "Go

to your quarters and get some rest."

"My quarters, sir? But I thought--"

"You're still officially assigned to my command."

He paused then. "Banana Republic or not, Enterprise

is still your home ship."

Swelling in the compliment, I hardly knew what to

say anymore. I let my hips rest against the bridge rail

and, finally, I relaxed in his company. "I seem to be

thanking you a lot lately, sir."

A little shrug softened the soldier in him. "And we

don't thank you enough. It evens out. Go on. Get

some rest."

I flexed my shoulders. "Aye, sir. I will."

270

"Oh, and Piper--"

"Sir?"

"The Annual Atlantic Wind Ships Race is coming

up. I need crew. Interested?"

The deck of Enterprise felt as if it was surging on a

wave. "Just try setting sail without me," I said.

"Wouldn't think of it. Good night, Commander."

"Fair weather, Captain."

271

Chapter Thirteen

"A little suffering is good for the soul."

--The Corbomite Maneuver

SICKBAY WAS A ZOO. Several doctors, nurses, and

orderlies had beamed over from the three ships escort-

ing us and were preparing to beam back to their own

ships with groups of our ill crewpeople. All four sick-

bays were hard at work trying to ease the aftereffects

of the heavy drugging. Some people were on their feet.

Others were still unconscious. Many still hovered in

between. Sarda was here already, apparently for the

same reason that brought me here before following the

captain's suggestion to rest.

Scanner was one of those in-betweens still in bed,

but the light had returned to his eyes and the whip to

his tongue.

"Piper! You daughter of a snake. How are yawl?"

I tweeked the forefinger that waggled at me and said,

"You don't want to know. Are you all fight?"

"Naw, I died. I'm just here as an example of what

not to do."

Sarda offered a straighter answer. "Merete esti-

mates he will be duty-fit in a day." The sentence

sounded awkward until I realized I'd never heard him

call Merete anything but "Doctor." Sarda had

changed. Not for the human, but for the better.

Scanner tugged at the lapel of my flight suit. "So

how's it gonna feel carryin' a rank of full Com-

mander?"

272

I backed off a step. "Oh, no, not again! Not a

chance, not a prayer! Maybe they'll promote you, but

they're not going to do that to me again, not for a long,

long, long time! I'll resign first!"

"Okay, okay... forget I mentioned it."

"You'd better forget you mentioned it, because ff

Star Fleet gets any bright ideas I'll know where they

came from."

"Hey, this is me forgettin'." He held his hands up in

surrender.

Luckily for him, a roll of laughter from a group of

recovering crewpeople distracted me from my reaction

to that unsavory idea. "What's going on over there?"

"Oh, nothin'," Scanner said. "Really nothin'."

I looked at Sarda. A Vulcan version of a shrug

tightened his shoulders. "Judd has evidently rigged

some holographs into the patients' lounge, to entertain

the crew as they recuperate. I have not as yet seen

them, but they seem to be efficacious."

"Are you telling me," I began, "that we actually

have a visual record of Scanner's idea of entertain-

ment? What is it, Scanner? Old Laurel and Hardy

tapes? Films of test flight crashes? What?"

"Ain't teHin' 2' Whether he wanted to tell or not, his

cheeks grew rosy.

"This I've got to see."

"Piper, it's dull, I'm telling you!"

"Sure. I know a setup when I see one. Come on,

Sarda."

We elbowed our way through the lump of crewpeo-

ple--easy, because most of them were still weak.

Laughter is the best medicine, Confucius or somebody

once said, and it showed in the blanched faces around

us as health slowly returned. When we got through to

the specially rigged holo platform, I saw why. I also

remembered that a certain Tyrannosaurus Rex lover

had been armed with a tricorder during a particularly

opportune moment.

273

The group rippled with laughter again, in time for me

to see a small holographic version of myself, engaged

in a vigorous dance. Veils whipped in and out of the

image periphery, as did a grasping Klingon hand from

below. Veils!

Sarda's voice was fuel on the fire. "Piper, I had no

idea you were so... athletic."

"Scanner!"

It took three strong orderlies, but eventually peace

reigned again and I was forced to accept my share of it.

In a ship still empty of most of its crew, I discovered

what quiet really meant. It was nice, for a change;

soothing. My quarters were the same as I had left

them Merete's bunk pleated and pin straight, mine a

little rumpled. I never could make a bed.

That didn't matter now anyway. I planned to add to

the rumples. I ordered all the lights off except the one

tiny courtesy bulb in the head. Darkness folded

around me, welcome as a warm cloak, and my head

felt like an iron ball when it hit the pillow.

One deep breath to usher me into sleep---and the

door buzzer sounded.

Ease off, guys, I'm under orders to sleep.

My voice triggered the door. "Come."

The doorway was dark, and as the panel opened,

bland corridor light molded around a stock authority.

"Commander Piper..."

I struggled into a sitting position. "Oh---Mr. Scott.

Come in, please."

Still silhouetted, he moved into my lightless quar-

ters. "Lassie... I'd like a worrrd wi' you."