THE DISINHERITED

Chapter One

"Today is the last day of the rest of your life."

Jak Eisman grinned lopsidedly at the

man who had just spoken. He stabbed a finger at

him and said, "You, Delacort, are jealous."

Delacort took a step back, miming having

been shot in the heart. Delacort was several

decades Jak's senior, but that didn't stop

him from engaging in behavior that belied his years.

He shook his white-maned head and gravely

placed a hand on Jak's shoulder. "I worked with

you, trained you," he intoned. "Tried to instill

all the good values that have so guided me through my

life. And what happens? You're going to go and

get married anyway."

Jak shook his head and tapped the computer

screen in front of Delacort. "Don't you

think," he observed, "that maybe you'd better

get to work? There's a full schedule packed for

today." Jak's blue eyes snapped in

amusement. His long red hair was tied back in a

ponytail that he had only recently started

sporting; it had garnered quite a few comments from the

other members of the Gamma Xaridian colony

research team, but he had ignored them all. Because

the only thing that mattered was that L'rita liked it.

She had told him that, combined with his rather large jaw,

it made him look quite heroic, very much the

swashbuckler. He liked the sound of that. Jak

Eisman, swashbuckling aide to the

administrative head of the Gamma Xaridian

colony. It had a bit of zip to it.

Delacort, with a sigh like a stray zephyr,

plopped down behind his desk. His office was not

only the largest in the building, it was the largest

on the planet. The glorious Gamma

Xaridian sun was just coming up over the horizon,

its rays cutting through the window and illuminating the

vast variety of glass and crystal

knickknacks that Delacort had been so fond

of collecting. They lined many of his shelves, and the

early mornings in Delacort's office were

usually very impressive. Rainbows glimmered off

all of the white reflective surfaces. While

Jak detested having to rise so early to meet his

duties as Delacort's right-hand man, there was

some aesthetic value to it.

Delacort scanned his duties for that

day. "The same as yesterday," he said gravely.

"And the same as the day before that--debates,

discussions. I swear to Kolker, we have--what is

it?--seven committee meetings scheduled for today?"

"Eight," Jak corrected.

"Eight. How many scientific committees

does this colony support, anyway?"

Jak knew quite well that Delacort knew the

answer, but he said it anyway.

"Eighty-three."

"Eighty-three." Delacort shook his head

incredulously. "Eighty-three," he repeated.

"You know"--and he waggled a meaty finger at Jak

--?when I first started this colony ..."

"Back in the old days," Jak said with

extreme seriousness. "Back in the days before

space travel, when you had to walk here from earth.

Ninety million miles, in the snow. Uphill

all the way."

"That's right," Delacort said gravely. "With

dinosaurs nipping at our heels the entire

time." He smiled briefly, and then continued.

"No, seriously, Jak. When we first started

things up here, there was exactly one committee. It

was headed up by yours truly. And it was called the

Committee to Get Things Done. And I swore

that we weren't going to fall into the old trap of

parceling out every damned responsibility. And you

know what happened?"

"We did," said Jak.

"We did," affirmed Delacort. He

waved his hands vaguely. "Well, Kolker

take it. In three months I'm retiring off this

rock and it's going to be all yours. Yours and your

lovely bride's."

"Right. Sure you're going to retire," said

Jak. "You said that last year and the year before that."

Delacort affected an air of being stricken.

"What are you, disappointed that you're not rid of

me?"

Jak made a dismissive gesture, and then there

was a buzz at the door. "Come," Delacort

called.

The doors hissed open and L'rita peeked

in. She knew in what high regard Jak really

held Delacort, and although Jak covered it with

good-natured banter, L'rita was too open an

individual to cover her feelings in that manner.

So she always acted a bit shy around Delacort.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked

tentatively.

Delacort gestured for her to come in. "Not at

all," he said. "I was just chatting with your victim

here."

"Victim?" She blinked, not entirely

getting it. L'rita was the absolute top of the

heap when discussing quantum astrophysics, but

subtleties such as humor and gentle sarcasm

went right past her. "You mean my fianc@e?"

Delacort shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

"Ignore him, honey," said Jak. He

gestured for L'rita to come to him, and when she did

he ran his fingers affectionately over her bald

pate. He felt the slightest hint of fuzz and

knew that meant she'd be shaving her head again quite

soon. "What's up?"

"We just have a few last-minute things to go over

for the wedding reception tonight."

"Last-minute?" said Delacort. "I'll

say last-minute. If you waited any longer, you

wouldn't be discussing them until after you were"--he

shuddered slightly--?married. And to think that I, as

head of the colony, have to perform the ceremony."

She tilted her head slightly, her pupilless

black eyes studying Delacort carefully.

"You react so negatively to the notion of

marriage, Mr. Delacort," she said

curiously. "Why?"

"An unnatural state of affairs, my

dear," he boomed. "Do you know what the difference

is between marriage and death?"

L'rita looked from Delacort to Jak. Not

wanting to let it dangle, Jak sighed and said,

"We don't know. What's the difference, boss?"

"I don't know either," replied Delacort.

"But until I've got it figured out, I'm not

ready to commit myself prematurely to either one."

That was when the sirens went off.

L'rita gasped, instinctively moving closer

to Jak, pressing herself against him. She looked

around in confusion. "Jak?"

The air of camaraderie, of gentle banter,

had evaporated in an instant. Delacort was

immediately behind his computer screen once more, shouting,

"Computer! Damn it, clear the screen! Give

me a perimeter report!"

Jak had moved to the comm unit on the wall and

was already demanding updates. At that moment the

doors whooshed open without preamble, and scientists

were pouring into Delacort's office like

lemmings. The air was filled with the babble of

voices shouting either updates of the unexpected

situation or demands to know what was going on.

In the courtyard far below Delacort's

office, the Klaxon continued to scream its alert,

and various colonists, in assorted states of

dishevelment, were staggering out into the main areas,

pulling on clothes or robes to cover their

nightclothes. Only crazy people like Delacort and

his immediate staff were insane enough to be up and around at this

hour.

Delacort was waving and shouting in irritation,

"Shut up! All of you, shut up!" He was

unable to hear the computer report, and he had

to bellow, "Computer, repeat!"

"Six vessels have dropped out of warp space

within the planet perimeter and are approaching the

surface at accelerated speeds," said the computer

voice in its deep baritone. "Preliminary

sensor scans indicate their weapons are armed and

ready. The general size and configurations of the

vessels indicate a ninety-three percent

likelihood they are the same vessels that

attacked the Alpha and Beta Xaridian

systems within the past four months."

"Nearest planetary defense system?" he

asked.

"Bravo station."

"Direct communication link now. Now!" he

added, as if the additional shouting would somehow speed

up the computer's instantaneous communications

capabilities.

A moment later a calm drawl came over the

intercom. "This is Sloan at Bravo station,"

they heard. "You ringing me up to tell me we're

having company, chief?"

Delacort drew an arm across the sweat that

seemed to have materialized on his upper lip. He

breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the

protective spirit of Kolker. Sloan was the most

experienced man they had in a planetary defense

position. If they had to be under attack, they

couldn't be in a better situation. "Yeah,

Sloan. What've you got?"

"I'm tracking them," said Sloan. "Fast

puppies ... but nothing I can't handle. Phaser

cannons are locking on. We'll have target

confirmation in about four seconds."

Delacort nodded and cast a quick glance at the

people crowding his office. His people. Their faces

were a uniformly pasty color. He imagined that his

was as well. He didn't see Jak, and he

raised his voice slightly as he called out,

"Jak! Get an emergency broadcast off

to Starfleet! Tell them--"

"Just did it," said Jak. "Figured I should

take care of it, just in--" He glanced at

L'rita, whose arm was around his waist. She was

trembling against him. "Just in case things get too

confused later."

It was not, of course, what he was originally

going to say. Delacort knew it all too

well, and the unspoken completion hung there--..j in

case we don't make it.

But that wasn't going to happen.

"Talk to me, Sloan," said Delacort.

There was a long moment in which Delacort saw his

life passing before him, and then Sloan's comforting

voice sounded through the office. "Targets

acquired," he said. "We have positive firing

signatures."

Delacort's response was succinct. With

what had already happened to Alpha and Beta

Xaridian, no chances could be taken. No

presumptions made. If the intruders even

seemed to smell hostile, the only thing to do was

proceed on the assumption that they .were hostile.

He licked his lips once and said, "Blow them

to hell."

"Look!"

One of the committee heads was pointing out

Delacort's large bay window. Far, far to the

east, they could see small balls of fire

lighting up the sky. The g round phaser cannons

were unleashing their armament on the incoming hostiles.

Moments later the sight of the cannonfire was

accompanied by the sounds, but they were coming over the comm

link that the computer had established. The

high-pitched whine of the ground-based phaser

defenses had always given Delacort a

headache. Now, though, they were the sweetest sounds

he'd ever heard.

And then he heard something not so sweet.

"God damn!" came Sloan's angry

voice. "They're fast little buggers, I'll

give 'em that! Stoner! Dini! Reacquire

targets, damn it! Get them before--"

And suddenly, there at the horizon line where

Bravo station was firing at the incoming vessels,

a ball of fire leaped into existence and

arced upward, as if trying to reach for the sky and

caress it with fingers of sizzling heat. There was no

sound except for a sudden burst of static that came

over the comm link.

"Communications ended," the computer said with

dispassionate calm.

At first there was no sound, and then Delacort

managed to get out a question "Reason for end of

communication?"

"Bravo station has been destroyed."

There was barely time for the people in the office to digest

that bit of information, and then they saw them--the

attackers--seeming to dive straight out of the sun

that was now rising. It was as if they were being spit

straight out of a gateway to hell.

From toward the back, Jak spoke, in a

voice that was barely above a whisper. "Del ...

what do we do?"

When Delacort replied, he felt as if it

were someone else's voice. As if he were speaking

from a million miles away.

"Jak--send on all frequencies, so those

bastards can hear us."

"You're on, boss."

Delacort raised his voice slightly and

said, "This is Administrator Delacort.

Break off your attack immediately. Starfleet has

been informed of your hostile activities. You do

not have a chance. Reply, please."

He waited for a reply--something, anything. A

boast. A threat. A demand. Something.

What he got was the screaming of air as the

vessels descended. They made a low pass that

shook the walls, caused the still morning air to thunder

around them. The floor beneath Delacort's feet

shook, and his glass and crystal pieces toppled

off their mountings. The room was filled with the sound of

shattering fragile things--things like sculptures,

Delacort thought, and dreams.

The vessels came around, and this time, when they

made their pass, they opened fire. Delacort

closed his eyes, but was unable to shut his ears as the

sounds of ray blasts filled the courtyard

outside. From below him came the screams of his

people--p whom he had been unable to protect. His

office, too, was filled with screams and shouts, the

thundering of feet and the stink of sweat and death. He

heard buildings crack and crumble beneath the

assault and went to his window, pressing himself

against it as if to present the greatest

possible target.

Below him the colony was in flames. He saw

mothers clutching the broken bodies of their children, and

then buildings collapsing forward upon them. He

saw decades of his life going up in blazing

ruins. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, and

when he turned he saw that his office was empty

except for Jak and L'rita. Her face was

buried in Jak's chest, her back shaking from

racking sobs. Jak was chewing his lower lip,

running his hands across her head and trying to tell her

that everything, everything, was going to be all right.

Delacort stared at them.

And once again, in a voice that seemed to be coming

from someone else, Delacort was speaking. "Do you,

Jak, take L'rita ... to be your lawfully

wedded wife, to have and to hold till death do you

part?"

They looked up at him, as if he'd lost his

mind. Incredibly, he was smiling. "Well?"

"Del ... are you--"

"I don't think we have much time," Delacort

said, prodding gently.

"He does," L'rita said quickly. "And I

do, too."

Jak looked down at her and a second later

was kissing her hungrily, desperately, drowning

in her.

"Then by the power vested in me--" said

Delacort.

The window blew inward, the air frying around

them. The explosion drove Delacort forward, and

he wondered about the distant stinging pain in his chest.

He looked down and saw the huge shard of glass

projecting outward and stared at it in stupefaction

before falling.

Jak took a step toward him, and then the

building was hit again. This time it was no near

miss. This time the ceiling exploded, and debris

rained down upon him. L'rita screamed his name

once and leaped into his embrace as the ceiling

fell in on them completely. Then the floor under

them collapsed, plunging to the ground five

stories below.

For another five minutes the raiding vessels

continued pounding the research colony. They made

pass after pass, until they were satisfied that no

life remained beneath them.

And then ...

Then they took ...

Nothing.

Instead the raiders circled around, their sleek

triangular vessels glinting in the morning light

that Delacort had so loved. They arced away

toward the rising sun, leaving behind them death and

destruction and no reason whatsoever for their

massacre.

The emergency signal, of course, had already

gone out to Starfleet. But the raiders did not

particularly care about that.

They had their own concerns.

And, surrounded by death, they did part.

Chapter Two

The Comm Unit on Uhura's wall beeped

once. She walked over to it and tapped it with the

side of her hand. "Lieutenant Uhura here,"

she said.

"Lieutenant, a moment of your time in my

quarters, to go over the final details of your

mission."

"Yes, Captain," she said. "Right away."

"Take your time, Lieutenant. We don't

rendezvous with the Lexington for another five

hours."

"Yes, sir."

Walking out into the corridor, she headed for the

captain's quarters, no.ing or smiling to crewmen

as she passed them. She had a way about her that

caused people to relax almost immediately.

Abruptly she frowned as she heard something that

was rather unusual in the corridors of the

Enterprise--the sound of running feet. For a

brief, giddy moment she thought that perhaps the ship was

on red alert and somehow she'd simply been

oblivious to the signals. But no, others passing

her by heard the footsteps, too, and exchanged

slightly confused glances with her.

And then, around the corner, his arms pumping

furiously, sped an ensign. It was only at the

last moment that he realized he was on a direct

collision course with Uhura, and he pinwheeled his

arms and backpedaled quickly, without allowing for his

momentum. The result was that his feet shot out from

under him and he hit the floor, landing bone-jarringly

on his rump.

Uhura stood over him, her arms folded and

her lips slightly puckered. Her instinct was

to reach down and help haul him to his

feet, but she intuited--correctly--t he would

simply be further mortified if she aided him.

He rose quickly, hurriedly brushing himself off and

murmuring abject apologies.

"Are you all right?" she asked, trying to fight

down her amusement.

He blinked in surprise, as if his own

physical condition was of such little significance as

to be completely irrelevant. "Oh. Oh,

yes. Never better."

His feet were shuffling slightly, and he was

clearly anxious to keep moving to wherever he was

heading. But protocol required that he now stand

there until the superior officer--who had

acknowledged his presence--made it clear that she was

done with him.

"Ensign Chekov," she said, one eyebrow

slightly raised in a mannerism she'd picked

up from Spock. "You're in a great hurry,

Ensign. Accidents can be caused that way."

"Yes, Lieutenant," he said, bobbing his

head nervously.

"Where were you off to in such a hurry?"

"The bridge, ma'am. To my post."

"Were you under the impression that you were going

to miss the bridge somehow?" she asked. "That it was

going to leave without you?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," he said in a very serious

tone. "I did not think that at all. But I was

... am ... late reporting for duty."

"How late?"

"Forty-five seconds, ma'am," he said, and

then amended, "Well ... now a minute

forty-five."

"Yes, well, you'd be even later if you

broke a leg or sprained an ankle en

route, Ensign," she said, fighting to keep the

corners of her mouth from twitching. "Take it a

bit more slowly next time."

"Yes, ma'am. I did not want the keptin

to notice that--"

"The captain is in his quarters, waiting for

me," said Uhura. "So he doesn't know about

your ... indiscretion."

Chekov looked at her apprehensively, and

she added, "He won't hear it from me, if that's

what you're thinking."

He nodded gratefully. "Thank you,

ma'am."

They stared at each other for a moment, and

then Uhura inclined her head slightly

to indicate that Chekov should go on his way.

Immediately Chekov was off, starting to dash, and then

braking himself before Uhura could say anything. He

walked quickly, his hands balled into fists, his feet

just bordering on a run. It was clearly all he

could do to contain himself. Indeed, it was the same for

Uhura, who barely was able to wait until young

Chekov was gone from view before bursting into laughter.

Just as quickly as she felt cheered, she became

saddened again. The casual encounter had simply

underscored for her that she was about to go off and be a

stranger on another ship. No matter how

crowded a starship was, it could be extremely

painful if it was filled with 429 strangers.

Kirk did not look up from his work when he

heard the buzzer at his cabin. "Come," he said

simply.

The door hissed open. He did not even have

to bother to raise his gaze. There was a distinctive

scent of perfume, and the slight tinkling of that

particular pair of large earrings t hat his

communications officer occasionally favored. Kirk

usually had to look up to confirm the identity of a

male who entered his cabin, but for females he had

almost a sixth sense. "Sit down,

Lieutenant," he said. "Be right with you."

Uhura, for her part, was surprised at the

casual manner in which her captain was able

to identify her without looking up at her.

She sat down obediently, momentarily

unsure of what to do with her hands before finally resting

them in her lap.

Kirk shut off the computer screen and turned

to look at her. "Nervous?" he asked.

She let out a soft sigh. "A bit,

Captain," she said. "Being away from home ..."

"You don't think of Earth as home?" he

asked.

She shrugged slightly. "Not for some time," she

admitted. "And you, sir?"

He pursed his lips. "Not even when I was

living there," he said candidly. He rose from behind

his desk. "But you don't have to worry,

Lieutenant. I've known Commodore Wesley

for years. A good man. I might go so far as

to say he's the second best starship commander in the

fleet."

"Second best?" asked Uhura.

"And the first ...?"

Kirk smiled. "What's life without mystery,

Lieutenant? Take your own guess." Then the

gently bantering tone evaporated, and Kirk was

speaking in all seriousness. "The Lexington is

a damned fine ship. I wouldn't be sending one of

my officers there if I thought otherwise."

"With all due respect, Captain ...

you're sending me because of Starfleet orders."

Kirk shrugged slightly. "There are orders and

then there are orders, Lieutenant. A captain

has a certain degree of leeway when it comes

to requests for personnel to be moved around. If

he feels that a move is going to be contrary to the

best interests of the personnel involved, he can in

various official and polite ways tell

Starfleet precisely what they can do with their

request. With this Lexington business, however,

I would be hard-pressed to fault either the

reassignment or the reasons for requesting it."

He walked around the desk and sat on the edge

of it. "Look, Lieutenant ... nine times out

of ten, your duties on Enterprise tap only

the barest fraction of your true abilities. But

these diplomatic meetings with the Rithrim that

Lexington is involved with ... they are really

going to push you. The mixture of verbal and sign

language that constitutes the Rithramen tongue

is difficult for even the most accomplished

diplomats to master. You, however, are one of

Starfleet's premiere linguists. It's about time

you had a chance to show that ability off."

"Yes, sir," she said, bobbing her head

slightly. "Have we gotten any further ^w on

what precisely it is the Rithrim want us

for?"

Kirk shook his head. "No," he confessed.

"Starfleet would like to build an installation for

deep-space observation in Rithramen space,

to replace the one that the Gorn destroyed not too

long ago. Partly for observation of deep-space

phenomena and partly--and no one makes any bones

about this--ffkeep an eye on the Gorn, since the

Rithrim border is so close to Gorn space.

And the Rithrim, in turn, say that they're willing

to talk--providing we aid them in averting some

sort of danger that threatens their population. But

they have yet to clarify just precisely what that

danger is."

"Could that be due to the difficulty in

communicating with them?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Either that or they're just being

cagey. That's one of the things you're going to have

to determine, Lieutenant. And since part of your

pre-.Enterprise experience involved dealing with

cultures and languages similar to those

employed on Rithra, Starfleet felt that you

would be well suited to the job."

She didn't say anything at first, but Kirk

knew something was on her mind. "Lieutenant?"

he gently prodded her.

"Well, if they were so anxious to have me as part

of this mission, Captain, I don't see why they

didn't just assign the Enterprise to handle the

entire thing."

"Yes, you do, Lieutenant."

She sighed. "Because Rithra is in

Lexington's sector, yes, sir. I know."

He looked at her, not unsympathetically.

"What's really on your mind, Lieutenant?"

She looked up at him, with an air that

projected strictly business. "I'm only

concerned about the effect on Enterprise that my

absence might have, Captain," she said.

"Communications will be understaffed. I have good people under

me, but they don't carry a great deal of

experience. I wish Starfleet had given me more

notice. I dislike the idea of just leaving you in the

lurch, as it were."

"As it were." Kirk nodded. "Lieutenant,

I think you're underestimating your own ability

to train people. They'll do a fine job in your

temporary absence."

"Temporary."

The way she said that ^w was more than enough to confirm

Kirk's suspicions about the true nature of

her concern. "Lieutenant," he said, assuming that

slightly bigger-than-life air he put on when

he was speaking in a tongue-in-cheek manner,

"I get the distinct feeling that you think we're

going to rent out your quarters while you're gone."

She didn't understand. "Sir?"

Kirk folded his arms across his chest. "Bob

Wesley likes to refer to himself as--and I quote

here--a good judge of horseflesh, unquote.

Meaning that he is able to recognize some of the best

and brightest officers in the fleet, and he will

occasionally do what he can to wangle them onto his

ship on a permanent basis. That is part of what

makes the Lexington such an excellent

vessel."

"I see."

"On the other hand," Kirk continued, "part of

what makes the Enterprise the talk of the

fleet-- You do know we're the talk of the fleet,

do you not, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, subspace chatter is just burning up

about us, Captain," she affirmed gravely.

"Yes. And what contributes to that is the

uncanny ability of the Enterprise captain to do

the exact same thing as Commodore Wesley.

Meaning, Lieutenant, that as far as I'm

concerned, this is only a temporary assignment.

Your place, for as long as you want it, will always be

here."

She nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

"We'll keep a candle burning for you in the

window, Lieutenant."

"I'll be looking for it, Captain."

Upon returning to her cabin, Uhura logged on

to her desktop computer and quickly scanned her

personal section for messages, looking only for

those she would have to answer before leaving the

Enterprise.

To her surprise, there was a congratulatory

note from Lieutenant Palmer, her number

two. She sighed briefly; never a secret on

this starship. Nothing else seemed urgent, and she

quickly filed the messages into a buffer for

retrieval after her mission.

Quickly surveying her quarters, Uhura

mentally prepared her packing list, not wanting

to leave anything behind. A touch of a stud on the

side of her bed opened a small panel, and she

deftly grabbed her Starfleet-issue

carryall. Then she turned around and began opening

drawers in her dresser, trying to think through the

necessities for a diplomatic mission.

Class-A uniform. Dress uniform. Her

favorite tricorder. A handful of her music

discs. Her ... but the thought was stopped when her

door beeped.

"Come," she said, thinking it was Captain Kirk

with more information.

Her look of concern was quickly replaced by a

smile as Lieutenant Sulu sauntered in.

Making himself at home, the helmsman plopped

himself on top of her neat bed next to her growing

pile of belongings. He looked around the

room, admiring the cultural artifacts

decorating the walls and her dresser.

"Hi," he began. "I just got the ^w down

on the rec deck and thought I'd wish you well.

^w spreads pretty quickly around here, you know."

She laughed and waved an arm to move him

aside. After opening the carryall, she began

folding her uniforms and placing them inside it.

"Of course. Isn't that what our computer

bulletin board is for? Besides, you couldn't keep

a secret if your life depended on it. After

all, who spilled the beans about Riley's

surprise party? We all know about you, Mr.

Sulu."

He smiled ruefully. "Guilty as charged.

So, what's the deal with the Lexington?"

"A diplomatic mission, and they need me.

I'm pretty flattered. The captain told me

in person instead of having Mr. Spock do it.

Must be important to the Federation."

Uhura smiled as Sulu started folding her

dress uniform.

"I think the captain just wanted to protect his

communications officer. Commodore Wesley has

two reputations One, he's a stern commander.

Two, he'll move mountains of paper through

Starfleet to get a crew member he likes.

That's how we nearly lost Styles and Dr.

Noel, you know."

"Mere rumor," she replied, although her tone

said otherwise. Walking into her other room,

Uhura called out, "Would you mind grabbing my

extra boots? They're under the bed."

No.ing, he placed the dress uniform gingerly

inside the carryall. Sulu then reached under her

bed and pulled out the extra pair of boots.

Absently he began polishing them with a

shirtsleeve, although they were shiny enough to begin with.

Uhura returned from the other room, her arms

filled with final items for her bag. She placed

those belongings in the carryall and then stared

into space, quickly reviewing her mental packing

list. Satisfied that all was ready, she closed

the bag and placed a security code on the

lock.

"When do we rendezvous?" she asked.

"Another few hours. Chekov was heading up

to the bridge early to double-check the course."

"He seems like a good kid," she said, sitting

beside Sulu on the bed. "Kind of nervous

at times, but he certainly knows that board."

"He'll do fine. Being under the captain's

scrutiny can be pretty intimidating at times."

"Then you have to loosen the boy up," she said with a

smile. "After all, you'll be sitting right there with

him. And just think--w ithout me around, you can start in on

him."

Sulu slowly smiled at the comment. "And just

what does that mean?"

"Fencing. I'm tired of being your main sparring

partner. He's younger and more impressionable than I

am, so you can easily get him down to the gym.

He might even think of it as an order from a

senior officer."

"Thank you for your support," he said with a

smile. "We'll see which one of us is more limber

in our dotage. Come on, shift's going

to change."

They stood together, ready to leave for the bridge.

Both of them were always eager to get up there. Not

only was it the hub of all activity on the ship,

and a special place for both officers, but it

allowed them an opportunity to be part of the

decision-making process, part of the action.

For Uhura, the bridge was the beginning and end of

every assignment. She was privy to Kirk's log

entries and was certainly aware of who got--or

didn't get--messages from loved ones. Even

though there were 429 people aboard the ship, she could always

sense who needed a little moral support or who

should get a pat on the back.

As for Sulu, he was always the first to catch sight

of the unexpected, and he could treat himself to a

particularly good view of each cosmic event.

He truly felt challenged guiding the massive

starship through the heavens and from star to star. It was he

who steered them away from trouble or toward something

new and exciting.

That feeling of finding the unknown, he'd told

her often enough, was what had led him to Starfleet and

kept him tied to the helm after a brief stint in

astrophysics. Nor would he have traded his

current assignment for anything else.

Out in the corridor they walked along, no.ing

to the fellow crew members they knew. The pace

was leisurely for Sulu, steady for Uhura.

He always paced himself so as not to force her to hurry.

She, in turn, always teased him about walking like

an old-fashioned Earther and about needing to ease

up on himself. But by now she knew it was a

lost battle. Sulu was too irrepressible,

too full of energy, to work at any speed slower

than fast.

Still, she enjoyed being challenged by him and learning

about new things. While Uhura had her music and

her communications computers, he had so many other

interests. There was botany for about a year and then

theater, and he never stopped exercising, citing

fencing as the best way to keep the reflexes sharp.

The sport had its challenges, Uhura had

agreed early on, though she preferred swimming for

building up her muscles and endurance.

"I heard that Ensign Berganza and

Lieutenant Pittarese broke up," Uhura

mentioned as they stood before the turbolift doors.

While it usually took less than a minute

to get a lift, it always seemed to be a long

wait for her.

"Too bad," Sulu noted. "I thought they were

a cute couple. But you know the old saying Never

mix biophysics and astronomy." The doors

swished open, revealing an empty cab.

"I never heard that before," she said as they entered

the lift. She gripped the handle, turned it

slightly and commanded, "Bridge."

"Of course not. You hear the best sayings down

in the gym."

"Don't start with me, mister."

"Aye-aye." There was a pause; when Sulu

spoke again, it was in a quieter, deeper voice.

"You'll be okay out there, won't you?"

"Of course. I'm excited about the contact and

about getting a juicy landing-party assignment. It

doesn't sound as if there's going to be trouble."

He smiled. "Fine. Just come back. Don't

let Wesley's charms lure you away."

She smiled back, appreciating his friendship.

They made a good pair, but neither truly

entertained romantic thoughts about the other. Sometimes

a straightforward friendship was more rewarding, and

Uhura cherished this one.

"I like it fine right here," she assured him.

"But thanks. It's always nice to be

appreciated."

"All part of the service," Sulu told her.

The doors snapped open with a soft swoosh,

allowing Sulu to step out with Uhura beside him. He

quickly checked the personnel, noting that it was

business as usual. Spock was in the

center seat, awaiting Captain Kirk's

arrival; Chekov remained at navigation,

hunched over his readouts; Lieutenant Leslie

was over the engineering and environmental displays, and a

yeoman was taking down data from the library

computer.

The helmsman tapped Chekov on the shoulder

as he slid himself into his seat. The ensign's

head bobbed up and he smiled.

"Hello, Mr. Sulu. Ve're steady at

varp two, and I've made the final course

adjustments."

"Good." Sulu studied his own readouts and was

satisfied that things were normal. "Another dry

run to Gamma Two after this ... and then more

mapping. Should be boring--m so without Uhura

to keep things enchanting in the rec rooms."

"She does have an excellent voice,"

Chekov agreed. He then fell silent,

worrying over his board.

"The readouts won't change anytime soon,"

Sulu said. "Relax a bit. We're how far

from the Lexington?"

Chekov looked down at the astrogator.

"Two hours, twenty-seven minutes."

"So they won't be in sensor range for a

while. Enjoy the view." Sulu turned back

to his board, checking some of his own settings.

Chekov wrung his hands to flex them and then

leaned back--j a bit. Relaxing was obviously

not something that came easily to him. The ensign was still

very much a newcomer on board the Enterprise,

someone who felt he had much to prove. Relaxing

between ports of call was something he still had to learn,

and something Sulu was determined to teach him.

The navigator looked over his shoulder and

watched as Uhura settled into her seat and

scanned the latest flow of information. Although

messages directed just to the Enterprise took

priority, the starship computers received and recorded

hundreds of messages a day. Some were

Starfleet news updates for the senior staff.

Others were the steady stream of chatter coming from ships

in the quadrant, personal messages for crew,

and stray signals picked up by the sensor array.

Uhura's staff was quite good at sorting things out,

Sulu knew, and they always kept an eye out for a

juicy tidbit picked up from the strays. These were

the kinds of facts that wouldn't be needed for formal

reports but found their way onto the

ship's bulletin boards, an area run by the rec

director but aided and abetted by the communications

staff.

Uhura caught him watching and smiled.

"Anything good in the ether?" Sulu asked.

"Seems quiet," she replied. "Some more

border skirmishes with Klingon ships. The

Vulcans have some new discovery that Mr. Spock

will no doubt find "fascinating."' And I think

Angela Martine will be disappointed to learn her

Meteors lost the championship magno-ball

game to the Pipers."

Sulu nodded and then returned his attention to the

systems checks he liked to run at the start of

each shift. Finally, satisfied that his board was in

order, he toggled his communicator and called

down to the phaser room. Specialist Angela

Martine responded cheerfully and they did a quick

run-through on weapons status.

"We're showing green on the board," Martine

responded at the end.

"Good." Sulu snapped off the communicator

and gave some thought to Martine. She was an

experienced officer who had suffered a deep blow

when her fianc@e, Tomlinson, died during a

skirmish with the Romulans. The first contact with the

Romulans in a century, Sulu mused, and

Tomlinson was the only casualty. He shook

his head.

Fortunately Martine had handled the situation

pretty well, recovering as quickly as could be

expected. She was once again one of the top

weapons specialists in the fleet. But her

loss had left her a little stiff in social

situations.

Recently Sulu had tried to get her

to loosen up with his fledgling musical theater group

--but it turned out she couldn't carry a tune.

Maybe he could get her to help him with his

botany garden. With Yeoman Rand no longer

aboard, he needed help with the temperamental

plant-form he'd named Beauregard. Yes,

maybe a little relaxing botany would be good for

Martine, he thought.

Unfortunately it would be a long time between thought

and action.

Chapter Three

"Sir, we are being hailed by the Lexington."

Despite their talk, Uhura still sounded the

slightest bit apprehensive. Kirk smiled

at her as he said, "On screen,

Lieutenant."

The image of the Lexington vanished from the

viewscreen and was replaced by the visage of

Commodore Wesley.

Kirk had never forgotten his first encounter with

Robert Wesley--it was when Kirk was being

considered for command of the Enterprise. Wesley had

been on the review board and had been the most

vocal in stating that James t. Kirk was too

young to receive such an important assignment.

"Despite all the education that Starfleet

Academy can provide," Wesley had stated,

"the greatest single teacher that our officers can learn

from is experience. And in that respect James

Tiberius Kirk is sorely deficient."

But Wesley had been outvoted--he had, in

fact, been the lone holdout--z the rest of

Wesley's associates had been mightily

impressed by all that Kirk had accomplished in his

relatively short time as a Starfleet officer.

His performance at the Academy had been

faultless; the recommendations from such luminaries as

Matt Decker, who had had dealings with Kirk

since the would-be captain's days as an

Academy plebe, and Kirk's subsequent

commanding officers; the knack for original thinking that

such already legendary maneuvers as Kirk's

performance on the Kobayashi Maru test had already

proven--all had been factored into the decision

to give Kirk the Enterprise command.

And it was Wesley who had delivered the news

to him. Hell, the commodore had insisted on it.

For Wesley, who had fought the assignment,

wanted to make it clear to the novice captain

that--now that the decision had been made--Wesley

had every intention of honoring and supporting it, and

dealing with Kirk just as he did with any other

starship captain.

"We are a fraternity, Kirk," he had

said. "A brotherhood. Brothers can disagree with

each other, but the bottom line is that we have

to support each other. We have to trust each other.

Because trust is something that Starfleet runs on, and

if we don't have that, then pretty damned soon

we don't have a fleet. Follow?"

Kirk had nodded and shaken Wesley's hand and

found that the towering commodore's firm opinions were

backed up by an even firmer handshake. So

firm, in fact, that Kirk fancied he could

feel the bones cracking in his fingers.

That had been only a few years ago, and yet

when Wesley nodded at him on the viewscreen,

it seemed an eternity ago. "Captain

Kirk," said Wesley.

"Commodore," replied Kirk with a brief

inclination of his head.

"Is Lieutenant Uhura prepared to come

aboard the best starship in the fleet?" Wesley

asked.

"No, Commodore," replied Kirk evenly.

"She's prepared to leave it."

A grin split Wesley's face.

"Touch@e, Captain."

"The commodore's reputation precedes him,"

Kirk said, interlacing his fingers. "Actually,

Bob, I'm amazed you're out this far. Usually you

can be found hanging around the exit door of the

Academy saying, "I'll take that one, that

one, and that one."'"

"Now, now, Jim," Wesley replied,

waggling a scolding finger. "A few good people still

slipped through my net. I've heard good things about

Riley."

"One of my more colorful junior officers,"

Kirk deadpanned. Although Kirk had been

generous enough to keep the details of his various

officers' behavior during the recent Psi

2000 incident out of the official log, he still

couldn't think of Riley without remembering endless

choruses of "I'll Take You Home Again,

Kathleen," piped over the ship's intercom. It

wouldn't have been so bad if Riley had sung on

key.

Wesley was ticking off names on his fingers.

"And Kyle is a top transporter man. And

M'Benga ... well, from what I understand, they

refer to him as the new McCoy."

"I'm sure that will come as news to the real

McCoy," said Kirk, turning an amused

glance at Spock. The Vulcan,

unsurprisingly, made no comment.

Wesley seemed to squint slightly. "Who's

that stalwart-looking fellow over there?"

He was indicating the Enterprise bridge

tactical station. A square-jawed man

with dark gray hair looked up in surprise,

then glanced at Kirk.

"That's Security Chief Giotto," said

Kirk.

"I like the cut of his jib," Wesley told

him. "Put him on the list, too."

"Bob, are you giving me your Christmas wish

list here?"

"Just admiring your people, Captain."

"Admire them from afar, if you don't mind,

Commodore."

The tongue-in-cheek banter was abruptly

interrupted when Uhura suddenly turned

to Kirk. "Captain," she said. "Receiveg a

communication from Starfleet. We--" She

interrupted herself and said, "You are to report to the

Xaridian systems. Details to follow."

"Xaridian," Wesley said, all hints of

joking immediately dropped. "It's where they're having

that problem with raiders, isn't it?"

"That's my understanding," Kirk affirmed.

"Be damned careful, Jim," said Wesley.

"From what I hear, those raiders are pretty

nasty customers." He paused a moment, seeming

to consider possibilities. "We're going to be

practically breathing on the Gorn's scales

once we get to Rithra. If there's going to be

a nasty reception, we should know about it. What are

the odds that these Xaridian raiders are with the

Gorn?"

Kirk swiveled in his chair to face Spock.

The Vulcan science officer needed no further

prodding. "Ever since the difficulties began,

we have been studying the methods of the raiders'

attacks. They do not fit the profiles of the

Gorn ... or, for that matter, those of the Klingons

or Romulans. It would appear that they are not

individuals with whom we've had much contact."

"And from that we can surmise ...?" asked

Kirk.

Spock cocked his head slightly. "Not a

great deal at this time."

"Once you have the full particulars from

Starfleet, please send us the information on a

coded frequency," said Wesley. "I'd like

to be kept apprised of the situation."

"What are you thinking, Bob?" Kirk asked

slowly. "That somehow the Rithra business is

connected with the raiders?"

"I don't know," Wesley

admitted. "There's no rational reason to assume

that."

"None whatsoever. The two systems are nowhere

near each other. And the Rithrim haven't

reported any raids."

"Nonetheless," said Wesley, allowing some of his

frustration to show through, "the Rithrim have been so

damned vague about everything, their request could be

about almost anything."

"In that event, you be certain to keep us

apprised," Kirk said. "And I'm sure I can

trust you to do so, Commodore. After all, you'll have

the best communications officer in the fleet on your

ship."

"Ah, yes. Lieutenant Uhura."

Wesley inclined his head slightly in her

direction. "It will be a pleasure to have you working with

us."

"The pleasure is mine, Commodore," she

said, rising from her station.

"Uhura ... you'd better be on your way,"

said Kirk, hoping he didn't sound

peremptory. They were wasting too much time on

social niceties.

"Just a few last-minute things, Captain,"

Uhura said.

"Anything Lieutenant Palmer can't handle?"

Uhura looked at the blond woman who had

already arrived on the bridge. She had been on

alert to report there as soon as the Lexington

came within range. Palmer raised her

eyebrows, as if curious whether there was something

Uhura thought she could not deal with.

"No, sir," said Uhura.

"All right, then," said Kirk. "Good luck,

Lieutenant. We'll be seeing you back here

soon."

"Aye, sir."

Kirk turned back to Wesley as Uhura

exited into the turbolift. "The lieutenant is

on her way, Bob. She should be aboard within

three minutes."

"Good. We both have other business to attend

to."

"Commodore--"

"Yes, Captain?"

Kirk regarded Wesley with a tolerant

look. "None of the formidable Commodore Wesley

charm. You can be a very pleasant taskmaster."

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

Wesley.

"Whatever you wish," Kirk said agreeably.

"But I'd like Lieutenant Uhura back, if

you don't mind."

"Well"--and Wesley smiled broadly--?t

will be up to the lieutenant, now, won't it?

Lexington out."

Wesley's image vanished as the Lexington

reappeared. The ship waited only long enough

to confirm the beaming over of Uhura before pivoting and

shooting into warp space. Kirk watched them go as

Sulu turned in his chair.

"Captain," he said, his curiosity piqued,

"do you think there's a chance that Lieutenant

Uhura will choose to remain on Lexington?"

Kirk stared at Sulu for a moment and then made

a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entirety

of the bridge.

"And give up all this?" he asked

incredulously.

Uhura and Commodore Wesley materialized

side by side on the Lexington's main

transporter platform. She was holding her

duffel bag in one hand, despite the commodore's

gallant offer to carry it for her.

She looked around--at the room itself and at the

woman behind the transporter console. There was

something disconcerting about seeing someone other than

Kyle or Scotty there, but she took it in

stride.

You're not on the Enterprise now, she

reminded herself. And you're not reporting to Captain

Kirk. There are bound to be a few differences.

Just as she and Wesley stepped down from the

platform, the doors whispered open and a couple of

blue-shirted officers came through them. One was

muscular and athletic-looking, with dark hair and a

reddish-brown beard. The other was tall and bony,

with pale skin and hair the color of straw.

"Ah," said Wesley dryly. "Better

late than never."

The bearded man regarded him. "Sorry,

sir. A last-minute course correction.

Seems there's a series of comets in Beta

Ganymede." Turning to Uhura, he grinned through

his beard and held out his hand. "Good to have you aboard,

Lieutenant. The name's Samuels--Wynn

Samuels."

"Mr. Samuels is my first

officer," Wesley noted. "And a damned good one

at that." He indicated the tall man. "I'd

also like you to meet Peder Coss, my ship's

surgeon."

Coss trained his piercing blue eyes on the

newcomer. "Welcome to the Lexington," he

said, his voice deep and a little harsh-sounding, though his

smile seemed warm enough.

"Thank you," Uhura told him, returning the

smile. "I look forward to working with both of you

gentlemen."

"Good," said Wesley. "Now that that's

settled, I'm sure Lieutenant Uhura would

like to unpack. Mr. Samuels, I'd

appreciate it if you'd see the lieutenant

to her quarters. The doctor and I have some business

to conduct in sickbay."

The first officer's brows came together in what

seemed like genuine concern. "Business, sir?

Anything I should be aware of?"

Wesley sighed. "A physical," he

replied, so softly Uhura could barely hear

him.

Samuels's eyes crinkled ever so slightly

at the corners. "I'm sorry, Commodore, I

didn't quite catch that. Did you say a

physical?"

Wesley frowned. "You know I did, Mr.

Samuels. And I don't appreciate the

sarcasm." But his voice told Uhura he

didn't mind it a whole lot, either.

Coss placed a hand on the commodore's

shoulder. "Tell me," he asked Uhura. "Have

you ever seen a commanding officer who so absolutely

refuses to look after his health?"

Uhura suppressed a grin for Wesley's

sake. "As a matter of fact, Doctor, it's

not an entirely foreign concept to me."

The commodore turned to Coss. "You see?"

he remarked. "Kirk's probably even harder

to corral than I am."

The communications officer nodded. "I wo uldn't be

surprised, sir."

Wesley regarded her warmly. "You know," he

said, "you haven't been here two minutes,

Lieutenant, and you've already helped me more than

you know. This could be the beginning of a beautiful working

relationship."

Uhura inclined her head slightly. "Glad

to be of service, sir."

The commodore grunted appreciatively and

followed the doctor out of the transporter room.

Uhura turned to Samuels; he returned the

scrutiny with a sunny cheerfulness to which she couldn't

help but respond.

"I hope we haven't offended your sense of

decorum," said the first officer. "We just like to have a

little fun around here. It makes the time go faster."

Uhura shook her head. "You haven't offended

me at all," she assured him. "In fact, it

makes me feel right at home. Speaking of which

..."

"I hear you," he said. "Follow me."

And without any further ado, he led the way

to her quarters.

In the conference room, Sulu dropped down

into the seat next to McCoy and was unable to avert his

glance as he saw McCoy studying records off

a medical tricorder. The name on the file

surprised him.

"Chekov?" he asked. "Does Mr.

Chekov have a medical problem, Doctor?"

McCoy glanced at Sulu, clearly

hesitating a moment as to whether he should reprimand

the helmsman for prying, however unintentionally, into the

private circumstances of others. But then he

considered how closely Sulu was working with the young

navigator--the helmsman and the navigator had

to work as much in harmony as did a doctor and a

nurse during surgery. If anyone had a vested

interest in the Russian, it was Sulu. Mentally

and physically, McCoy shrugged.

"Nothing major," he said. "Just his routine

preliminary physical. If anything, he's

unduly nervous."

"Nervous?" Sulu frowned. "About something one

of us said or did?"

Of course, McCoy realized what Sulu was

really saying "Was it something I did?" The

ship's surgeon shook his head. "Not

necessarily. Chekov is just driven to succeed.

He wants to impress everyone immediately, and he

keeps trying to come up with ways to do it. But he's

not sure precisely how to go about it, and gets that

much jumpier because he doesn't have any guaranteed

methods."

Coming in on the tail end of the conversation were

Scotty and Security Chief Giotto.

Scotty glanced from McCoy to Sulu.

"Who's jumpy? Who're we talking about?"

"We are not talking about anyone," McCoy

said stiffly.

"Ensign Chekov," Sulu told them.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Why don't we

just broadcast it all over the damned ship?"

"Are ye sure that would be wise, Doctor?"

Scotty deadpanned. "Ye think it's

everybody's business?"

"No, I don't think it's everybody's

business!" McCoy said in exasperation. "I

don't think it's anybody's business!"

"Well, Doctor, ye were the one suggesting we

broadcast it."

"I wasn't suggesting that!"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor," said

Giotto, "but I heard you. We all did."

Heads all around the table nodded in agreement as

McCoy's head sagged into his hands. At that

moment Kirk and Spock entered.

Kirk looked at the bobbing heads around the

table. "It's nice to see you all in agreement

on something. Anyone care to tell me what that

might be?"

Sulu spoke up helpfully. "That Dr.

McCoy shouldn't broadcast to the ship that Ensign

Chekov is jumpy."

For a fleeting moment McCoy looked as if

he wanted to slug him.

Kirk looked at McCoy, appalled.

"Were you going to do that, Bones?"

"ationo!"

"Aye, we talked him out of it," Scotty

said proudly.

"What does Chekov have to be jumpy about?"

Kirk asked.

McCoy huffed, "Maybe he's worried

he'll become an officer and lose his mind, like

most of the men at this table."

Spock appeared to consider this. "If Ensign

Chekov is worried about his psychological

stability, he should seek out the chief medical

officer for assistance. Then again ... perhaps he is

worried, Doctor, that you might broadcast his

concerns throughout the ship."

"That would make me jumpy," Giotto

affirmed.

"I'm going to kill somebody," McCoy said.

"Precisely the kind of declaration any crew

member wishes to hear from a ship's chief

medical officer," Spock observed.

McCoy shot him a lethal stare.

"Gentlemen," said Kirk, "before we further

examine the undoubtedly vital question of Mr.

Chekov's jumpiness, I think we'd best

address the reason for this conference the attacks on

the Xaridian system. Mr. Spock?"

Spock immediately brought up on the computer

screen the Starfleet dossier on the attacks.

Not that he truly needed it; he had already committed

the information to his formidable memory. But the

Vulcan was efficient enough to want to have all the

information handy in the unlikely event of his memory

becoming faulty.

"The attack on the Gamma Xaridian

colony was the most recent of three attacks on

the Xaridian systems," Spock said. "The first

was on Alpha Xaridian Two several weeks

ago, and Beta Xaridian Six was next,

barely a week later."

"Alpha, Beta, Gamma," said McCoy.

"Am I the only one here noticing a pattern?"

"I think it is somewhat self-evident,

Doctor," Spock said dryly. "All of the

inhabited planets in the Xaridian systems are

colony worlds. The attacks in the Alpha and

Beta systems left a handful of survivors.

The attack on Gamma Xaridian Three did

not; the patrol ship Viking has already inspected

that site, and the crew found no survivors."

"The bastards are getting more efficient," said

Giotto.

"Crudely put, Mr. Giotto," said

Spock, "but accurate. Local authorities

and small ships such as the Viking are

insufficient for the job at hand."

"Which is where we come in," said Kirk.

"Descriptions of the raiders, Mr. Spock?"

"Reports vary. Some survivors sighted

four ships; others saw seven," said Spock.

"These ships were extremely maneuverable,

extremely deadly; they appeared to fire with

impunity on their targets, and none of the raiders

has ever been captured or, to the best of our knowledge,

so much as inconvenienced by conventional ground

defenses. The scant details in the single

broadcast from Gamma Xaridian were consistent with

other reports."

"Can we take them?" asked Kirk.

Scotty snorted in disbelief that the

subject would even be broached. "They're

cowards," he said disdainfully. "Hit-and-run

techniques and guerrilla tactics. They

won't last five minutes against a real

opponent like the Enterprise."

"A foe with ships described as maneuverable

and deadly, Mr. Scott, is not one whom I

would hold in such open contempt," Spock said.

"These raiders can dodge phaser fire and

photon torpedoes, and they can batter our

shields. Ultimately the Enterprise could be

as vulnerable as any of the colonies."

Scotty said nothing, but his expression clearly

showed that he disagreed with Spock's assessment of the

situation.

"Contact Viking," Kirk said. "Make

certain that they relay their findings to us. Mr.

Sulu, which colony will we encounter first, given our

present heading?"

"Alpha Xaridian Two, sir. The

colony that was attacked first."

"Very well. Go to warp five, and inform the

colonists that we'll be arriving in ...?"

Sulu didn't even pause. "Eleven

hours."

Kirk nodded. Sulu's ability to predict

ETA at any given point, at any given

speed, was nothing short of amazing. "Eleven

hours. Mr. Spock, I want a list of

colonies that have yet to be visited by these

raiders. Determine, if possible, which of them

faces the greatest likelihood of being the next

target.

"Mr. Scott, check the sensor arrays and

tricorders. Expand the normal search radius

to include some of the unusual ranges in

electromagnetic and subspace spectra.

If there's any unusual signature to these

ships, I want to know about it.

"Mr. Sulu, we're not on yellow alert,

but if the raiders show up while we're around, I

want this ship to switch to a defensive posture in

no time at all."

Kirk quickly scanned the room. "Do we all

understand our assignments, gentlemen?"

There were nods around the table. And then Kirk

fixed McCoy with a stare. There was just the barest

hint of amusement in his eyes as he added, "And,

Bones ... try not to broadcast any of this,

okay?"

McCoy turned and looked at Sulu, who

had started the whole thing. "I am never going

to discuss a medical situation with you again--and that

includes your own." He stood up and added, "And

you can broadcast that!"

As Uhura entered the cabin assigned to her,

she did a double take. Looking around, she saw

a space much larger than she'd expected,

furnished with alt too much furniture.

These were VIP quarters, not crew

accommodations. Obviously somebody had goofed.

And she hadn't picked it up when she'd gotten

her room assignment because the residential

corridors of every starship were set up a little

differently.

With a sigh, Uhura dropped her duffel on the

floor and crossed to the intercom grid on the

bulkhead. After tapping the appropriate stud,

she called up to the first officer's station on the

bridge.

"Samuels," came the response.

"Mr. Samuels, this is Lieutenant

Uhura. I think there's been a mistake.

I've been assigned a guest suite."

There was a brief pause as the first officer

traced the source of her communication, brought up the

cabin assignment listing on his monitor, and

compared the two.

"No," he said finally. "No mistake. In

fact, the commodore assigned you those quarters

personally."

Uhura shook her head. "I don't get

it."

Samuels grunted. "It's his way of trying

to make you feel comfortable, Uhura. At home,

you might say."

"Ah," she said. "ationow I get it.

Thanks, Samuels."

"Don't mention it," he told her, and ended the

communication.

Uhura couldn't help but smile a little.

Wesley had promised Captain Kirk he

wouldn't try to steal her away--but it seemed the

commodore's definition of "stealing" left room

for a wide range of interpretations.

Not that she had any objection to being romanced this

way. What woman would? But no amount of

flattery would induce her to leave the

Enterprise, and that was that.

She picked up her duffel and brought it back

to the sleeping area in the rear of the cabin. Then, after

swinging it up onto a synthetic wood cabinet,

she began to unpack. Uhura had filled two

of the three drawers before she realized the wood

wasn't synthetic at all.

It was real. Delighted, she ran her fingers

over its grained surface. It was unexpectedly

sensual.

Maybe there .were some advantages to serving under

a commodore.

Abruptly she heard a soft, almost musical

beeping. Even the door alarm sounded better in

here, she noted. Emerging from behind the mesh barrier that

defined her sleeping area, she said "Come on

in."

The door slid aside, revealing a tall,

slender man with skin the same color as hers. His

eyes were hard and black, like pieces of

obsidian, and his prominent cheekbones gave his

face a certain ... what? Nobility? Or

hauteur?

Inclining his head slightly, he introduced

himself. "Jerome Baila. I'm the communications

officer."

Uhura had heard more enthusiasm from Mr.

Spock. She inclined her head in turn.

"Uhura. I'm with the Enterprise."

He nodded. "Yes. I know." And then

"Uhura means "freedomea"' doesn't it?"

"Why, yes. How did you--" She came up

with the answer to her own question. "You're Bantu."

Baila shrugged. "More or less."

Uhura started to inquire further--and then

stopped herself. The man's response hadn't

exactly invited further conversation on that point.

Baila took in the accommodations. "Not half

bad," he judged. "Looks like Wesley's

rolling out the red carpet for you."

Suddenly she realized how all this might look

to him. Uhura felt the blood rush to her face.

"Lieutenant," she said, "I wasn't brought

here to replace you, if that's what you're thinking.

This is just an ad hoc assignment. When it's

over, I'm history--bblieve me."

Baila smiled humorlessly. "Really," he

responded.

"Really."

"That may be your take on it--but I don't

think it's Commodore Wesley's." A

beat. "You see, the commodore and I haven't

seen eye to eye lately. I wouldn't put it

past him to do a little recruiting."

There was an undercurrent of resentment--of

bitterness--in Baila's voice. And though she

didn't know him well enough to be sure, Uhura

had a feeling it went beyond his apparent feud with

Wesley.

"Well," she said, "I can't speak for the

commodore, but as far as I'm concerned, I've

already got a job--on the Enterprise."

That seemed to take some of the edge off Baila's

hostility. He nodded. "Fine. In any case,

we should talk about the Rithrim." Looking past

her to her sleeping area and her half-full

duffel, he frowned. "That is, when you're

ready."

"I'm ready now," she assured him. "Though

I'd prefer to have this discussion in"--she searched

for the right ^ws, found them--?less controversial

surroundings. All right with you?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you say ...

Lieutenant."

Chekov was thankful that the captain had given the

bridge crew a fifteen-minute break so that they

could eat something in the mess hall before resuming their

duties. After all, if things got tense, no

one was going to eat anything for a while, and without

food some people might be distracted.

Wiping sandwich crumbs from his hands, Chekov

sat back in his chair and surveyed the room.

Everyone seemed to be speculating about the current

mission. He certainly had his ideas, but he

didn't feel comfortable offering them to crew members

he barely knew.

Uhura had assured him more than once that

he'd meet everyone before long. That gave him

cold comfort now, since he didn't see anyone

he really knew in the room. Well, he

corrected himself, he did know Sulu and

Lieutenant Palmer, the relief communications

officer. But he'd just finished a stint on the

bridge with them and didn't want them to think he was

a leech.

He watched as Sulu silently caught the

eye of Lieutenant Peterson, a new officer

assigned to the shuttle deck. The

auburn-haired woman smiled back and gave

him a small wave. It occurred

to Chekov that Sulu had met Lieutenant

Peterson only once or twice before, but here

he was having a grand old time flirting while a

dangerous mission was shaping up.

Such self-confidence, he thought; it was something he

lacked. He became aware of the tension that pervaded

his body and willed himself to relax. If he tensed

up during a stupid meal, what could he expect

during a red alert? Muscle cramps?

Apoplexy?

After finishing his drink, Chekov disposed of his

dishes and walked out of the mess room as casually

as he could. He proceeded slowly toward the

turbolift; a moment later he found him being

whisked up to the bridge.

Once there, however, he started. Somehow,

Sulu had managed to beat him back to their post.

"Welcome back, Pavel," Sulu said

brightly.

"Thanks," Chekov acknowledged, with no little

surprise in his voice. He restrained himself from

asking how the helmsman had managed that trick.

Seating himself at the navigation console, he

quickly called for a standard systems diagnostic.

The green telltale flashed within seconds and he

nodded slightly, pleased that nothing was wrong.

Next to Chekov, Sulu worked hard on his own

system checks. Neither had spoken a ^w since

returning to work. Not unusual, as the crew

prepared for potential problems. Chekov found

himself running his diagnostics repeatedly, keeping

his head bowed.

"Something wrong, Chekov?" Sulu asked.

The Russian shook his head. "I just vant

to make sure. After all, ve have no idea vhat

ve're going to find."

"Probably nothing, at this point. If your

board meets with your satisfaction, then let it

be."

"Are you sure there's nothing out there now?"

Chekov took his hands off the controls, but his

eyes kept scanning the displays.

"You can see for yourself that long-range sensors

show nothing unusual." There was a pause. Then,

quietly, Sulu asked, "Are you worried about

something?"

"Not vorried, exactly. It's just that ve

might find the raiders who destroyed the

colonies, and ve know nothing about them. Just how

powerful are they? Vhat are they after? Can

ve stop them?"

"Good questions, Ensign." Chekov spun in his

chair and saw Captain Kirk standing in front

of the turbolift surveying the crew.

Satisfied with what he saw, Kirk moved

down to his chair. "In fact, Mr. Chekov,

they're very good questions." He turned to Spock.

"Status?"

"Sensors show no signs of disturbance," the

Vulcan replied. He moved from his station to the

captain's chair just as a yeoman brought Kirk

the fuel-consumption report.

Kirk looked at the data pad, signed it,

and returned it to the young yeoman. Turning

to Spock, he sighed. "Why do I always get the

fuel-consumption report before we go into action?

If there was a problem, Scotty would be crying about

his "bairns"' by now."

"Given the nature of the matter and antimatter

supplies and the dilithium crystals, it would be

logical to review our fuel status prior

to entering into anything beyond the normal."

Kirk looked at Spock and realized

rhetorical questions still went over the Vulcan's

head. Figuratively biting his tongue, he just

nodded and looked at the viewscreen. The stars

streaked by in warp space, and there was a peaceful

look to them. Once more into the unknown, he mused,

and decided it was time to prepare not only himself but the

bridge crew as well.

Looking at the personnel, Kirk realized that

he had been in few tense situations with Chekov,

who seemed so young, or with Lieutenant Palmer,

despite her being ranked number two at

communications.

And Chekov was right. There were a lot of

unanswered questions--too many for the captain's liking.

"Let's review what we know about these

raiders we're after," he said in a louder than

usual voice. This made the crew pause at

their stations, giving Kirk their immediate attention.

"We know that the attacks appear to be random,"

Spock replied. "Also, we know that the raiders

will not hesitate to take lives."

The captain nodded. "Fortunately our

shields are a lot stronger than the

colonies'."

Sulu spoke up. "Sir, is it possible that

the raiders--whoever they are--h a

justifiable reason for their actions?"

Kirk shrugged. "It's always possible,

Lieutenant. Andof course we'll hear them out.

But we will not let them endanger any more lives."

He looked around the bridge, but no one seemed

to have anything else to contribute.

Finally his gaze settled on Chekov.

"Ensign, your opinion of the situation."

The young Russian turned in his seat. He

seemed pale as he replied. "With all due

respect, sir, I don't think we can

accomplish anything by speculating. We von't

really learn anything until we find the ships."

Kirk didn't comment on the ensign's reply.

He merely turned to the communications station--and was

mildly surprised to see Palmer there instead of

Uhura.

Damn. Not having Uhura was going to take some

getting used to.

"Lieutenant Palmer," he said, "did the

colonies attempt to communicate with the

raiders?"

Palmer quickly lowered her earpiece and looked

at the captain with bright eyes. "All reports

from the colonies show their universal

translators were operational. Apparently the

attackers weren't much for conversation."

Chapter Four

Kirk, Spock, Chekov, and McCoy

beamed down into the middle of the ruined colony and,

apparently, the middle of a loud argument.

The second thing that Kirk noticed was the

smell of something burning. He turned in a slow

circle, surveying the site of Alpha

Xaridia n II.

At present there was nothing burning at all.

But there hung in the air a sort of omnipresent

blackness, a charnel stench that had not yet

dissipated. It took Kirk a few moments

to realize that the smell resulted partly from the

fact that the raiders had managed to hit power

plants, and the resultant conflagration had left

the air so severely fouled that the odor remained

even after the fires had been extinguished. That stench

had blended with the gag-inducing smell of burned

human flesh.

He looked at McCoy. The doctor had

been present at any number of scenes

of devastation, and he had naturally managed, like

any accomplished physician, to assume an

air of detachment. But McCoy was such a lover

of humanity andof life that Kirk could see that such

a mind-set continued to be a struggle for him.

Spock, naturally, was impassive. Kirk

noticed that Chekov appeared to be the most shaken

of all. That was to be expected. He made no

comment on it, but instead said simply, "Mr.

Chekov ... you're with Mr. Spock. Check the

ruins out for what you can find."

Spock nodded. He flipped open his

tricorder and, without a ^w, headed toward a

section of ruins to begin his inspection. Chekov

joined him and then, following Spock's order,

moved toward a separate section of the rubble to begin

his investigation.

There was no shortage of ruins to choose from.

There was, in fact, almost nothing but ruins. All

over were charred and shattered buildings, smashed

vehicles. Over to Kirk's right, a sign had

come through unscathed that read Botanical

Gardens. Affixed to the sign was a small

hand-made award cut out of blue paper. On it

someone had written "1/ Prize" in a childish

scrawl. Kirk wondered about the story behind that

award and about the quality of the gardens that had

inspired some child to carefully craft the citation.

Of the gardens, nothing remained except a few

stumps of trees that might have stretched hundreds

of feet in the air. There was charred wood and

scorched ground everywhere he looked. Off to one

side were the remains of a bush, which appeared to be

all that was left of a very complex topiary. What

its full shape had been in its prime, Kirk

hadn't a clue.

Some of the buildings had been cleared away, and the

skeletons of replacements were being erected. But

the work was far from finished.

The loud argument going on nearby, Kirk

realized, was part of some sort of town meeting. The

captain looked at McCoy and inclined his head

slightly in that direction. McCoy hesitated.

"Didn't they know we were coming down?" he asked.

The Enterprise doctor had grown accustomed

to getting some sort of reception upon arriving

planetside. Being totally ignored in favor

of a loud and boisterous argument was a new experience

for him.

"We told them," Kirk confirmed.

"Their administrator--a fellow named Jeff

Gelb--sd, in essence, "Come down if you

want to. We're busy. Don't expect us

to make time for you."'"

"Looks like he meant it."

They made their way toward the edge of the gathering,

which numbered about twenty. Everyone was shouting at the

same time. One man was calling for silence and not

getting it. Kirk noted that he was lean and

haunted-looking, with a scraggly brown beard.

Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances. Then

Kirk filled his lungs with air and, utilizing

all his inherent powers of command, bellowed,

"Quiet!"

Whether it was the abrupt introduction of a new

voice or the authority that Kirk projected or

the fact that he was simply louder than everyone

else ... it worked. The bickering ceased immediately,

to be replaced by a very soft and confused buzz as the

colonists sought and found the source of the order.

The bearded man looked at Kirk with a

degree of grudging gratitude. "Captain

Kirk?"

"Mr. Gelb?" Kirk replied.

Gelb nodded briskly.

"This is our ship's doctor, Leonard

McCoy. First things first--d you require

medical assistance?"

"We require Starfleet to do something other

than just come in after we've had the crap kicked out

of us!" shouted someone in the crowd.

Kirk didn't even look in the direction of the

protester. He knew it was important, in a

situation like this, to deal only with the acknowledged head

of the group. Otherwise the entire scene could quickly

deteriorate into chaos. "Mr. Gelb," he said

again, very slowly, "do you require medical

assistance?"

"No, Captain," said Gelb. He had

stepped up onto a pile of rubble, and now he

took a step down. "We've treated those who could

be treated and buried the rest. And although I would not

have expressed it so rudely"--he stressed the

last ^w and paused a moment before continuing--?we are

truly in need of Starfleet's help."

"We need to get off this planet and out of this

system is what we need!" someone shouted.

"This is our home!" came a reply. "Are

we going to be chased out of our home

by terrorists?"

"This isn't home! It's a burned-out

shell!"

"We can reclaim it!"

"We should move someplace safer!"

"There is no safe place."

The last statement came not from any of the

colonists but from Kirk. "Nowhere is safe,"

he said again, more quietly but with no less

conviction.

One of the colonists--a short,

belligerent-looking man--stepped forward.

"Starfleet is supposed to make it safe!" he

said.

"Starfleet makes it safer," said Kirk.

"But to live is to face hazards every day. If you

want utter safety, climb into a sensory

deprivation capsule and live your life cut off

from humanity--and even then, a building could fall

on you or a groundquake could open up under you and

swallow you. Or an undetected blood clot

could cause you to drop dead on the spot, with no

warning, at any time. The only safety in life

is death."

The colonists looked at one another,

puzzled. Gelb cleared his throat. "Captain

... is that somehow intended to make us feel

better?"

"It's intended to let you know that colonists are

the hardiest, most defiant breed there is," said

Kirk. "The type who not only aren't afraid

of life but are willing to challenge it directly

and meet whatever challenges it might throw at

them."

There was silence for a moment, and then the short man

gestured toward the ruined colony and said, "This

isn't difficulties. This is cold-blooded

murder. They came flying in here and slaughtered

us. Women, children--all died screaming. The work of

years--destroyed in seconds. And I want

to know what in bloody hell you are going to d about

it."

Kirk looked at the faces surrounding him,

full of anguish, full of fear, wanting

to believe that something would happen for them, but afraid

of what further might happen to them. They had

fearlessly taken on the challenges that a strange

planet could throw at them, but this ... this

devastation, this wanton and murderous violence ...

Kirk's jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed.

When he met the gaze of the colonists

again, there was an angry fire in his eyes.

"We're going to nail those bastards to the

wall," he said.

McCoy blinked in surprise, but said nothing.

"We're counting on you, Captain," Gelb

said after a long moment of silence.

Kirk nodded once and then turned and walked

off toward Spock. McCoy followed close

on his heels and said in a low voice as Kirk

took quick strides, "That's a tall order,

Jim. We can't be everywhere. If the raiders show

up here while we're elsewhere, the colonists

will--"

"Die cursing my name," Kirk said. He

looked once again at McCoy. "We're going

to get them, Bones. This ... brutality is not

going to happen in my sector. I will not permit

it. I will not."

McCoy said nothing. Somehow he felt that that was

the only thing he could say.

Spock was crouched over one severely

carbon-scored area, studying his tricorder

readings and making adjustments. Kirk came up

behind him and said tersely, "Report, Mr.

Spock."

If Spock noticed the edge in his captain's

voice, he gave no indication of it.

"Curious, Captain. Preliminary tricorder

readings indicate atypical residual

radiation." He rose, straightening his shirt

slightly. "It would seem to indicate a weapons

technology unfamiliar to our science."

"How will it do against our shields?"

"I am unable to determine that at this time. Are

you anticipating battle, Captain?"

Kirk looked at Spock coldly.

"I'm counting on it," he said.

Stalking through one of the colony's burned-out

buildings, Chekov scanned the place with his

tricorder. The air was thick with smoke and dust,

and a number of small fires added to the black

haze that hid the sky. As he approached a

cabinet, his tricorder showed him something unusual

and he stopped suddenly. Crouching, he reached for the

cabinet door, grabbed the handle, and swung it

open.

Despite the tricorder reading that had tipped

him off, he was shocked to find a boy inside--a

boy who had sought refuge in the cabinet.

The grimace on his face told Chekov that the

youth had been asphyxiated.

Chekov took a ragged breath and lifted the

body out of its hiding place. After gently

stretching it out on the floor, he turned away and

bit back the tears.

Damn. So much destruction, so much waste.

Images of what they'd found at the other

colonies flooded his mind unbidden. He shook

his head.

None of his training missions had prepared him for

anything like this. In fact, the only scenes of

devastation he had seen were in historical

briefings on the old Federation-Romulan wars

or the classic Russian Revolution of

1917. It had just never occurred to him that this would be

a part of his Starfleet experience.

He wanted to travel among the stars, sure

enough--but there was definitely a downside

to exploration, and this was it. Stepping cautiously

around the rubble, he couldn't help but glance back

at the boy.

People weren't supposed to be blasted by beings from

space--t was the stuff of old Earth stories.

Who would want to make that gruesome fiction a

reality? Part of him wanted to grasp a phaser,

just to feel secure that this kind of attack would not

happen to him.

Instead, Chekov raised his tricorder, forcing

himself to recalibrate its sensor pickup to find

more examples of the radiation Spock had detected

earlier. The best samples were to be gathered and

beamed up to the Enterprise for forensic inspection.

His fingers, slick with sweat, slipped twice before

he finally got the adjustments right.

Bending low, Chekov waved the tricorder in

front of a burned-out gray street lamp. The

reading was too low to be useful. This is good, he

thought. This is making me concentrate. Chekov

liked puzzles, and this kind of work was good for him;

it kept him interested in minutiae and how everything

formed a larger picture.

He walked several meters away and then bent

again, this time aiming the tricorder at a small

storage building. The radiation and

spectrographic readings were within the range

specified by Spock. The source of the radiation was

a small portable computer that had apparently been

near a direct hit. Perhaps the memory was still

intact, Chekov mused.

The ensign knelt to study the device more

closely and gave some thought to the kind of beings who

would slaughter an entire population so far inside

Federation boundaries. Surely they must have realized

this would bring about some sort of Starfleet action.

What could the stakes be? So far no one, not even

Captain Kirk, had a theory.

Unfortunately the computer's memory had been

wiped clean. Chekov rose and started back

toward the beaming site.

As he walked among the blackened shells of

buildings, his mind turned back a few months

to his graduation from Starfleet Academy. With his

high grades in just about everything, it had been a

certainty he'd find a berth aboard a starship,

but he had not known which one.

He would have settled for any one of the twelve

Constitution-class vessels currently

commissioned, although his preference was definitely the

Enterprise. It had a unique legacy,

stretching back through the heroic captaincy of

Christopher Pike to the command of the legendary

Captain Robert April.

Even more impressive, however--at least

to Chekov--was the ship's current captain,

James t. Kirk. Skippers like Commodore

Decker on the Constellation and Bob Wesley

on the Lexington were older men with great

accomplishments in their record. But it was the young

Captain James t. Kirk who had fired

Chekov's imagination.

At thirty-four, Kirk had done more and seen

more than Chekov imagined possible. It was Kirk

who had helped draw up the Organian Peace

Treaty, Kirk again who had gone head-to-head

with the Romulans and actually return unscathed.

The Enterprise was the first ship to discover the

First Federation and to make that critical first contact

with the heretofore unknown Gorn, who were near this

system. So much adventure. Chekov had been so

certain he wanted to be a part of it.

But now there was a nagging doubt in the back of his

mind. Was he really up to serving on this ship? He

was no longer sure he had what it took to serve

under Kirk.

He recalled vividly how, during his first

shift on the bridge, he'd nearly navigated

the ship in the wrong direction. Sulu had helped

cover up the mistake, and the two had become

friends, but Chekov kept comparing himself to those

other navigators who were paired with the always cheerful

lieutenant.

Chekov started when he heard a noise coming from

within a collapsed building--but it turned out to be

some lab rats scurrying with newfound freedom.

Chekov's thoughts settled again. He sighed.

Even when he beamed down as part of a landing party,

he never quite felt he was giving it his best. It

always seemed to him he could do something more or something

better, despite the fact that most of the time the

landing parties were surveying lifeless worlds.

It was doubly distressing to know that Captain

Kirk was taking note of his every shortcoming.

Kirk was his idol, his standard. The man was a

living legend, even though he never acted like one--

not even the time they were on Beta Damoron Very and

found themselves in the middle of a revolution.

Trying to measure up to someone of Kirk's

stature was a discouraging task at best--one that

made him nervous on some occasions and depressed

on others. On the other hand, if he was going

to become a captain himself one day, he'd have

to measure up.

All this thinking had Chekov walking blindly, not

even listening for warning sounds from the tricorder.

He trudged through the debris, glancing now and again

at his tricorder for signs of something that might be

of value.

At one point he rounded a corner of a burned

husk of a building and tripped on a chunk of

plastisteel. When he tried to get up, he found

himself face-to-face with another corpse.

This time he wasn't sure if it was a man or

a woman because the skin had been charred and all

traces of hair were gone. The face was a mask

of terror, the mouth forever caught in a rictus of a

scream. Chekov could almost hear the corpse's

voice crying out as death staked its claim.

Breath came raggedly to the Russian as he

scrambled to his feet. The sweat that had begun

to bead on his forehead now seemed like a torrent; his

shirt stuck uncomfortably to his back.

Swallowing hard, Chekov began to walk away

from his close encounter. He gulped air a few

times, trying to steady himself as he resumed his

search.

What brought him back to attention was a resounding

crunch. Looking down, Chekov saw a pile of

data tapes under his boot. He stopped to look

around and realized he was in a research

center that had been pretty much leveled. Husks

that might have been dead scientists lay under desks

or in metal closets.

After bending to wave his tricorder over the

debris, Chekov tried to see if any of the

data on the tapes could be retrieved. No

way, he concluded after a moment or two. He'd

destroyed them when he stepped on them. They were now

as useless as the computer he'd found earlier. He

prepared to redouble his efforts at being vigilant--

He sensed the presence of someone behind him.

Whirling, he was startled to see that he was right.

But it was only Captain Kirk, standing there with

his hands on his hips, looking none too pleased.

The ensign's hands fumbled with the tricorder, which

would have hit the ground had it not been for the safety

strap slung over his shoulder. As he quickly

scrambled to attention, a fresh torrent of sweat

covered his body, and Chekov cringed at what he

knew was to come.

"Ensign, have you any idea what just happened?"

"Yes, sir. I accidentally stepped on these

computer tapes, ruining the information encoded on

them."

Kirk stepped closer to Chekov, narrowing his

gaze. The ensign, for his part, actually thought he

could feel his pores opening up, letting sweat

roll over his body.

"Those tapes may have contained information recorded

during the attack."

"Aye, sir. I know, sir."

"In fact, we may have lost a chance to discover

who the raiders are ... thanks to this haphazard

approach you have decided to take on a landing-party

assignment. Just what are they teaching cadets these

days?"

"I don't know, sir."

"No, I suppose you don't. You're not a

cadet anymore, mister, and I expect my

crewmen to perform better than cadets. Better

than any other crew members in the fleet, in

fact. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. It von't happen again, sir."

Chekov felt his accent growing thicker as his brain

threatened to freeze up on him.

There was a long pause, and then Kirk seemed

to change tactics. "Of course, we don't know

what was on those tapes. They may have contained

something as useless as fuel-consumption reports.

"But"--and now Kirk began to circle

the ensign--?now we'll never know. I dislike not

knowing things, Ensign. I do not want any more

mistakes on this mission. You understand that?"

"Yes, Keptin. Perfectly."

"Good. Now let's salvage what we can.

Dismissed."

Ensign Chekov did as he was told. For the

rest of the day he tried not to allow himself to become

distracted. When Spock informed him it was time

to return to the ship, he glumly joined the rest

of the landing party. His last thought before beaming up was an

idle one How did one avoid beaming back

aboard a starship?

The Lexington's main rec room was a lot

like that of the Enterprise, not only in appearance but

in tone as well. Though the faces were unfamiliar

to her, the hum of conversation was easy and subdued,

and the occasional riff of laughter sounded hearty and

sincere. The only thing that was missing, Uhura

told herself, was someone playing a Vulcan harp--

or crooning an old African ballad.

Then again, she told herself, it was just as well that

the place was relatively quiet. Otherwise

she and Baila would have had to sequester themselves

someplace stuffyou, like the ship's library.

"As I understand it," her fellow communications

officer was saying, "the Rithrim have a rather rigid

caste system."

"That's right. The population is divided

into governors, builders, gatherers, and

procreators. There is a strict division of

responsibilities."

"Like a Terran insect hive."

She nodded. "Good analogy."

"And we don't know what they want of us?"

Uhura shook her head. "We haven't got

a clue."

Baila looked at her, his finely shaped

nostrils flaring. "Of course, you're going to find

out."

She recognized the remark for the jab it was,

but that didn't make it sting any less.

"We're going to find out," she reminded him.

"I will do my part--and you will do yours."

He cocked his head to one side. "Come on,

Lieutenant. You're the e xpert on nonverbal

communication. I'm just window dressing, so the

Rithrim can see we're taking them seriously."

His voice was calm, smooth. But it

didn't disguise the tinge of animosity in his

hard, black eyes.

Uhura sighed. "First," she told him, "I

am not an expert. I am merely more knowledgeable

about nonverbal communication than other available

personnel. Second, I'm going to need all the

help I can get. Understand?"

"Sure," he replied. "I understand." He

looked away from her, as if suddenly interested in

something else. "Wouldn't I be an idiot not

to? I mean, without me, there's no way this

mission could succeed."

Uhura shook her head. "You know," she said,

"you're not making this easy, Mr. Baila." She

sat back in her chair. "I've already told you

I'm not after your job. What more do you want of

me?"

He started to answer, then bit back whatever

he was about to say. Finally he told her "You're

right. This isn't very professional of me. I'm

sorry. Whatever problems I've got are my

own."

When he met her gaze again, the fire was gone

from Baila's eyes. In its place there was a

hollowness. Almost a ... sadness.

Uhura's heart went out to him. Inwardly she

cursed herself for being too soft.

In the few moments she'd spent with this man,

he'd been either cold or downright insulting. She

didn't owe him anything--least of all her pity.

"Look," he said, "maybe we ought to continue

this discussion later." He stood. "I'm afraid

I'm not very good company right now."

And without another ^w he left her there in the

rec cabin.

A few crewmen looked up to watch Baila

go. After the doors had slid closed behind him, they

turned to Uhura.

She smiled self-consciously. They smiled

back, or shrugged, and then returned to their own

conversations.

Uhura bit her lip. This was certainly going

to be an interesting assignment.

It was some hours later before hunger won out and

Chekov left his cabin. He walked to the nearest

mess room, hoping not to be seen by too many people

along the way. Even though Kirk had dressed

down Chekov in private, he was certain ^w had

somehow leaked out. All eyes would be on

him.

But when he entered the mess, he was relieved

to see just a few people relaxing, finishing meals, or

chatting over coffee. He walked over to the food

slots and picked up the data tapes with the day's

menu. Just holding them made Chekov think of his

mistake, and he was tempted to return to his

quarters. The rumble from his stomach made him

reconsider. Ah, well, better some food

than no food at all, he decided.

After carrying his tray to the table, Chekov took

the lid off his soup bowl and let the steam soothe

him. A whiff of vegetable-beef was all he

needed. He grabbed his spoon and attacked the

soup eagerly.

"So, how bad was it down there?"

Chekov stopped in mid-slurp, certain he was

in trouble again. Looking up, he saw the smiling

face of Lieutenant Palmer. She took the

seat opposite him and placed her own tray on

the table. Company was the one thing he did not

desire right then, but the ensign realized he was

outranked.

"Bad" was all he felt comfortable saying in

reply. He hoped that would be enough. Palmer ate

a forkful of her chicken salad and nodded. Chekov

debated scalding his mouth in an attempt to rush

through his soup and go back to his cabin.

Before he could settle the argument with himself,

Palmer looked over and said, "You know, in all

my time on the ship, I've never been on a landing

party. And here you are, an ensign aboard for just a

few months, and you've been to what, six or

seven worlds?"

"Four."

"Four. That's four more than me. Not that I'm

really complaining, but it would be nice to actually

meet some of these people I deal with by communicator.

It used to be that way aboard the Trudeau. It

was a much smaller ship, so we all took turns

visiting worlds, even though we never left the

Federation."

She paused to eat and Chekov felt

obligated to maintain the conversation. Anyone over

the rank of ensign held sway over his life,

he knew, and at that moment he didn't need any

more people thinking ill of him. Captain Kirk was

enough.

"So why did you transfer to the Enterprise?"

he asked, assuming it was a safe enough question.

She finished a bite and patted her lips, her

eyes wide. "Why? Same reason most people

transfer aboard. This is the ship with the reputation

--the Talosians, the Klingons, the

Romulans. It's the ship on the cutting edge.

"What I didn't count on was being shipbound.

I should've known, though. I don't mind being

number two in communications; I mean, Uhura

is absolutely inspired. I guess I just

want to see a planetary surface other than

during a shore leave. You know, I want to do

something exciting."

Palmer finished her meal and adjusted a stray

blond hair over her ear. "I want to see

other races, learn who else is out here. If

I'd just wanted to play at communications, I could

have stayed at Starfleet Command. No, sir, I

want to be a part of the action. Don't you?"

"Yes ... of course. But don't you worry

about making mistakes? Or being blasted by some

unknown enemy?" He watched her carefully,

checking to see what seasoning did to a crew

member's perspective on those basic questions.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Ensign. But

we're supposed to learn and prosper by the learning.

At least that's what Mr. Spock tells me

whenever I screw up. As for being blasted, I

guess it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Of

course, serving under Captain Kirk gives one

a certain level of security in that regard."

Chekov nodded and thought about her ^ws. She was

right, of course, he told himself. Feeling more

relaxed about his situation, he finally admitted,

"I made a bad mistake today. Worse,

Keptin Kirk saw me do it."

"And?"

"And? I considered resigning my commission right

then and there. The keptin really rode me. He said

he expects the best and I didn't give it."

"So give it next time. Come on. Shift's

about to change, and you look as if you need some

sleep."

Chekov felt tired, all right. He wasn't

surprised that it showed. Standing, he noted that he

hadn't finished his meal; maybe he hadn't been

as hungry as he thought.

Or maybe it wasn't just food he'd been

hungry for. Maybe his conversation with Palmer had

given him the energy he needed.

If she could correct her mistakes,

so could he. Maybe he could even regain favor

with his commanding officer. All he had to do was become

the best navigator one could ask for.

But are you up to it? he asked himself. That nagging

doubt was still there.

With no ready answer, he accompanied

Palmer back to the turbolift and programmed it

for the bridge.

Chapter Five

Spock leaned over his hooded science station,

studying the full spectral analysis the lab was

sending up from the debris gathered on Alpha

Xaridian II. He sensed, rather than saw,

Kirk standing just behind him.

The captain rarely displayed great patience when

he was waiting for information.

"Records indicate," Spock said after a

moment or two more, "that there is some similarity between

the radiation traces left by the raiders' weapons

and those produced by the weaponry used by Landorian

pirates."

"Landorians?" Kirk frowned at that.

"They're a bit far from home."

"Indeed," Spock said. "The concentrated

activities of the raiders suggest two

possibilities either they are fairly local,

or they are, as humans would put it, "f out of

town--"'"

"And they're clustering their activities to make

it look as if they're local," said Kirk.

"If it's the latter, our job will be that much more

difficult. S"--he walked briskly around the

perimeter of the bridge to the viewscreen--?let's

operate on the presumption and hope that it's the

former. Let's check out the neighbors. Put the

entire Alpha Xaridian system up on the

screen. Let's see who else is in the area."

The view screen now displayed a schematic

of the entire system--all five planets that

constituted the worlds orbiting the star of Alpha

Xaridian. Kirk indicated each one, and

Spock, using his flawless memory, recounted the

specifics.

"Alpha Xaridian One, devoid of life.

Alpha Xaridian Two, site of the colony that

was attacked. Alpha Xaridian Three, also

devoid of life. Alpha Xaridian Four,

we believe, was the site of an atomic

war a century ago that ripped away the

atmosphere and obliterated the populace; no

signs of life there. Alpha Xaridian Five

is populated and called by its inhabitants

Parathu'ul, which means, in their language, Our

World."

"Parathu'ul," Kirk said slowly. He

continued to stare at it as he said, "We'll run

sensor sweeps on One, Three, and Four.

If any of the raiders' ships are hiding there,

they'll be that much easier to detect." He paused

again, then repeated thoughtfully, "Parathu'ul."

He tapped it on the screen. "I know that race.

They applied for Federation membership, didn't

they?"

"That is correct," Spock confirmed.

"Three years ago. But it quickly became

apparent to all concerned that their prime motive was

to obtain certain information about Federation technology

that would enable the ruling regime to further its

despotic hold on the populace."

"And the Federation refused them membership," said

Kirk, "stating that the regime would certainly

become even more oppressive if they had access

to advanced technology. Hmm. A

totalitarian regime with an ax to grind and a

hunger for weaponry ... practically neighbors

with a Federation colony that was attacked, and within

striking distance of two other beleaguered star

systems." Andwith no warning, he suddenly turned

to Chekov. "What does that suggest to you, Mr.

Chekov?"

Chekov tried not to act as startled as he was.

"That a wisit to the Parath'aa might be in

order."

"It might indeed. Set course for

Parathu'ul. Let's"--and he sounded almost

jaunty--?stop by and say hello, shall we?"

Because the Enterprise was proceeding slowly, in

order to run sensor scans on the other planets

in the Alpha Xaridian system, it was nearly

an hour before the starship fell into orbit around

Parathu'ul. Within moments after they did so,

however, Palmer looked up from the communications

board. "We're being hailed by the Parath'aa,

Captain," she said.

"Are we, now?" Kirk put on an air of

mild surprise. "Imagine that."

"Shall I put them on, sir?"

"Scan the area, Mr. Spock," Kirk

said, deferring his reply to Palmer. "Any sign

of ships matching the description of the raiders?"

"No sign of any ships in the area aside from

ourselves, Captain."

"And on the surface of Parathu'ul? Could the

Parath'aa be hiding them?"

"Unlike the Enterprise, the raiders have

space-to-ground capabilities," said

Spock. "In fact, Parathu'ul has a

relatively advanced technology, though it is

not on par with that of the Federation. Ships could be very

easily masked on the planet's surface, and

it would be most difficult for our sensors

to detect them. Unless, of course, they give off

a significant energy discharge, and we happen

to be looking in the right place at the time."

"I see." Kirk rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Palmer spoke up again. "Captain, the

Parath'aa are becoming quite insistent."

"Are they? Very well, Lieutenant ... on

screen."

A moment later one of the Parath'aa came on

the screen. Inwardly Kirk winced, but his

expression never faltered. He had been a

starship captain for far too long to let a little thing

like aesthetics throw him.

And the Parath'aa were, by human standards, among

the least aesthetically pleasing beings in the galaxy.

Their skin was so thin as to be nearly translucent,

and thus shadows and hints of their inner workings were

visible.

The epidermis around their skulls was

particularly tightly drawn. Their eyes seemed

to float in the sockets, and the Parath'aa looked

like a perversely cheerful race, since their teeth

seemed set in a permanent grin. The Parath'aa

had acquired an under-yr-breath nickname in the

Federation the Dead Heads.

"We are hailing the Federation starship in orbit

around us," the Parath'aa said formally.

Kirk inclined his head slightly. "This is

Captain Kirk, in command of the starship

Enterprise."

"You are here about our reapplication to the

Federation?" asked the Parath'aa. He sounded almost

eager.

Kirk covered his surprise quickly. He'd

had no idea that the Parath'aa were once again

lobbying the Federation for membership. This,

however, could quickly be turned to his advantage.

"We are exploring the possibility, yes," said

Kirk neutrally.

"You are coming then to surface of Parathu'ul?"

"If that is acceptable," Kirk said.

"We are in expectation of you, then," said the

Parath'aa. "I am being planetary head

Silva."

"We are being on our way, Silva," Kirk

told him. "Enterprise out." He stood as the

rather difficult image of the Parath'aa blinked off

the screen. "Mr. Spock, ready the

transporter room to beam a landing party to the

surface myself, Dr. McCoy, Mr.

Sulu, and Mr. Giotto."

"I am to continue sensor sweeps of the planet

to see if there is any evidence of the raiding

ships," said Spock.

"Mr. Spock, you read my mind."

The landing party arrived on Parathu'ul a few

minutes later, materializing in the center of

Silva's office. Several other Parath'aa were

standing in a small semicircle, and Silva

introduced each one of them in turn. Their names were

virtually unpronounceable, and Kirk suspected

that Silva's real name was, as well.

Probably he had used a more human-sounding

equivalent for the convenience of the Enterprise

captain and crew. It was a rather considerate

gesture for Silva to make.

And another considerate, or at least somewhat

fortunate, aspect was that the Parath'aa disliked

being touched. Instead, they bowed slightly from the

hip, or the equivalent of the hip. Their bodies

were oddly structured; their waists seemed to be

situated just under the human equivalent of the

armpits.

"Captain Kirk," said Silva softly, "you

honor us with your presence. And you surprise us,

I must admit. It was only several days ago that

we sent our transmission to the UFP regarding

our reapplication for admittance. That you would

arrive so quickly ... I am impressed."

"We happened to be in the area," said Kirk.

"Think of it as one of those serendipitous things."

"You are being also fortunate to catch us on a

pleasant day," he said. "Weather on

Parathu'ul is notoriously unpleasant, yet

here ... look. The sun is shining," and

he gestured to the window of his office. "You are

bringing good climates with you, Captain. A good

omen."

Kirk glanced out the window, and the view was

extremely pleasant. The buildings of the

capital city were tall, gleaming spires. The

streets looked extremely clean. There was a

good deal of bustling about on the main avenue below, but

the crowd was orderly and well mannered.

"Matters have improved on Parathu'ul since

our previous UFP contact," Silva continued.

"Our population is being much more content. Vastly

improved mass transit has improved the

quality of life. Peoples are happier,

wealthier than they have ever been. The air is being

cleared. Unlike the previous regime, we are

being more lenient with those who speak their mind. We are

being"--he paused, searching for the right term, and then his

face brightened--?vacation spot."

"Vacation spot?" Kirk smiled lopsidedly

at that. He looked at the other members of the landing

party for confirmation as he said, "Well ... that would

hardly seem likely, what with the problem with the

raiders."

"Raiders?" Silva seemed genuinely

puzzled.

"The raiders who attacked Alpha

Xaridian Two," Sulu now spoke up.

"Certainly you were aware of it?"

Silva frowned, and one of his advisers leaned

over and whispered in his ear--or at least the

equivalent of his ear. Silva's temples

visibly throbbed. "Oh! Of course. Yes, the

unpleasantness of a short time ago. That is being very

unfortunate." He shook his head. "Very

unfortunate."

"It appears," McCoy said, "that you were

lucky enough to be spared."

"You've had no contact with the raiders at

all?" Giotto asked.

"None," said Silva. "We agree, yes,

we are being lucky. It would seem that the luck of the

Parath'aa is changing, yes? Only short

years ago, UFP wishes to have nothing to do with us.

And now be looking at us. Healthy, prosperous.

No trouble with raiders, with--"

There was a noise from the street below. Kirk

frowned. "What's that?"

"What is being what?" asked Silva. His

mouth was drawn back in that typical

rictus smile.

"That shouting, from the crowd."

Kirk went to the window and looked down.

Approaching the front of the building was a

small band of protesters. They were carrying

placards, waving signs and shaking their fists in

anger. It was clear that they were unhappy about

something. He turned to Silva. "What's the

problem there?"

"H-nots," said Silva.

Kirk and the others exchanged a glance.

"H-nots?" asked Sulu.

Silva patted himself on the chest and indicated

the others as well. "Haves." He pointed out

to the street, toward the protesters. "H-nots.

Always are being, yes? Always being case. Always are

being small, small minority who are unhappy

about being h-nots. But it will not be spoiling lovely

day, yes?"

Now there were the sounds of scuffling, and the noises

of protest were abruptly drowned out by the sounds of

weapons fire. The Enterprise team looked

down at the street in horror as, before their eyes,

the Parath'aa who had been leading the protest were

cut down at close range. The deadly and

efficient Parath'aat blasters were being wielded

by what appeared to be armed security guards who

did their job very efficiently and very brutally.

Bodies were cleaved clean in half, upper

sections falling away from the lower, heads being

severed at the neck. Others in the crowd who had

been shouting agreement with the protesters now quickly

faded into the safety of the mob, getting as far from the

scene of the slaughter as quickly as they could.

Kirk turned toward Silva and made no

attempt to hide his anger and disgust. He pointed

a shaking finger toward the window in disgust as he said,

"You support that ... that hideous display of

oppression ... and you still claim that you're being more

tolerant of those who speak out against you!"

"Not tolerant." Silva corrected him

politely. "Lenient. Our predecessors would

arrest protesters and then torture them publicly

before killing them. We are being"--he mimed a

throat-cutting gesture--?merciful. We are being

lenient, yes? Those who are being publicly

unhappy, openly protesting--they are knowing there will

be no torture. Instead, quick death.

Improvement, yes?" He looked from one man

to the other with almost puppy-dog eagerness.

McCoy could barely get a ^w out, and when he

did, he whispered it, sarcastically "Vast."

Kirk's communicator beeped, and he

flipped it open. He tried to keep his voice

neutral. "Kirk here."

"Captain," came Spock's voice, "the

survey we discussed is completed.

Possibilities of camouflage still exist, but

at present there is no sign."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock. Prepare to beam

us up."

"Is there being problem?"

"No problem, Silva," Kirk assured

him. "None at all."

"You are being recommending of us, then? Tell

UFP of our softening of our stance?"

"I'm sure they'll be interested to hear every

detail," Kirk said.

"About cleanliness and better life here on

Parathu'ul?"

"Absolutely."

"Mass transit. Tell them we are having

trains running on time."

Kirk looked at him ask ance. "Somehow,

Silva, I don't doubt that. Mr. Spock,

four to beam up."

Moments later the landing party vanished in the

shimmer of the Enterprise transporter beams.

Silva turned and grinned the perpetual

Parath'aa grin at his associates.

"We are being in for certain," he said.

Chapter Six

Down in Engineering, lights flickered on the

portable scanner being waved over a vast

collection of junk--all of it remnants of the

Alpha Xaridian II colony. Frowning

over the readouts, Scott tried adjusting the

scanner. There was no change in the readings--a

result that did not improve the engineer's mood.

"I canna understand why someone would want

to destroy a colony," he muttered. Scott's

hand went out for his coffee cup, and he absently

raised it to his lips. Cold. It figured.

Replacing it on the table, he returned his gaze

to the scanner.

While Scott enjoyed ripping mechanical

things apart, he hated seeing someone do it for no

apparent reason. Like the captain,

Scott hated mysteries. He wanted to understand

what had happened in the Xaridian systems, which was

why he'd personally taken over the inspection of the

material that had been beamed up from the ruined

colony.

Another reason, he had to admit, if only

to himself, was that with the ship just moving through space, things

were too normal, too close to the edge of

suspense for him. Instead of pacing back and forth in

his engine room, which he knew like the back of his

hand, Scott preferred studying the debris.

Of course the investigative teams from the

science division had gone through the material under

Spock's scrupulous supervision. But they had

agreed that Scott might have a different point of

view. At his request, some members of the landing

party were assisting him--including Ensign Chekov,

who was taking measurements of some charred, melted

equipment with a tricorder.

Snapping off his sensor, Scott looked about

him and sighed. He had been going after this for two

hours and seemed no closer to a clue than before.

He thought maybe some walking about would clear the

mind.

Scott stretched and began pacing the room,

watching the others at work. He stopped at the

food dispenser and summoned another cup of hot

coffee. Sipping at it carefully, he continued

to watch the others. He noted that Chekov was

readjusting his tricorder, so he walked over

to observe.

Chekov and Scott had not worked much together, but the

engineer considered him a fine young man.

"Something, laddie?" Scott stepped closer as

Chekov finished adjusting the tricorder.

Chekov looked up briefly and then returned

his gaze to the screen. "Maybe, Mr. Scott.

I am trying to boost the lower-range readings. I

think we may have something new."

"Aye. Try using the Feinberger attachment for

more detailed readings," Scott suggested.

Chekov opened a small hatch on the front

of the tricorder, and out popped a small circular

device, which was electronically connected to the main

tricorder. While medical science teams used

the devices more than any other crew members, the

Feinberger scanners had a multitude of

uses. Waving the small, twinkling device within

an inch of the machinery, Chekov looked carefully

at the tiny read-out screen.

"Ah, I think I have something. The spikes on

the lowest electromagnetic column may be an

energy signature. Maybe Mr. Spock can

extrapolate from this and find out just how powerful these

cossacks really are."

Scotty looked at Chekov's tricorder and

took a cautious sip of his coffee. He thought

for a moment and then looked again at the tricorder.

"I don't think so," he said, taking the

Feinberger from the surprised ensign. Scotty

waved it in front of the slagged metal and then

looked at the tricorder for confirmation of his

suspicion.

"What you found here is a signature, all

right--but it's nae from the weaponry. It's

residue from the equipment's own power supply.

See how it follows a very standard pulse

pattern? It's the same on dozens of different

machines. Sorry, laddie, but you've found nothing

new yet." Scott reached out and tried to put a

reassuring hand on Chekov's shoulder, but he

felt the younger man tense.

"Damn!" the ensign exploded through clenched

teeth. The vehemence of his tone took Scott

by surprise. "When am I going to get something

right? I follow the book, I do as I'm told,

and I keep getting it wrong! Tell me, Mr.

Scott, is there some reason I'm always

wrong?" The pained look on the ensign's face

caused Scott some serious concern, and he tried

to defuse the young man's anger.

"Ye're an ensign, laddie. Haven't ye

learned by now that ensigns are never right?" He

grinned. "I dinna do any better when I first

shipped out. Look at it this way if ye start

off perfect, you've got a very dull life ahead

of ye."

Chekov shook his head and sighed loudly.

"I've done what I can here. I'll log my

report--vhat little I have to tell--and return

to the bridge," he said in a monotone. Standing,

he snapped shut his tricorder and restored it to the

cubby near the door.

"Laddie, I could use a hand with this larger

piece," Scotty said quietly. While he

had been reviewing it for hours already, Scott

thought he could at least try to diffuse the ensign's

frustration with work--even though it might double the

frustration the chief engineer felt himself.

Hefting the larger engineering scanner,

with its triangular design, the engineer aimed it

directly at the center of the molten metal.

Chekov slowly walked over to Scott's side

and watched.

"Here now," the engineer said, gesturing to the

remnant. "I'm tryin' the opposite of what

you just did. We'll go to the upper end of the

spectrum, with a more powerful diagnostic tool.

Check my readouts, would ye?"

All right, so maybe it was make-work, but long

ago Scott had learned that if people were to keep

performing and learning, they had to stay busy. Too

much time with their thoughts and they sooner or later

couldn't figure out how to turn on their computer.

Using Scott's own tricorder, Chekov

matched readings with the larger device. Scott

slowly moved the scanner over every millimeter of the

metal. Narrowing his eyes, Chekov appeared

to be absorbed in the activity--looking for something,

anything.

For what seemed like a long time there was nothing out

of the ordinary. The scan bars on Chekov's

tricorder remained flat and steady.

Suddenly there was a color jump into the blue

portion of the spectrum and then a powerful spike

downward. Scott watched Chekov blink and

moved the tricorder closer to his own eyes.

Another blue shift and then a deeper spike

downward. The pattern was repeated with the downward

motions remaining at a constant depth.

"Meester Scott, you found something!" Chekov

exclaimed.

"Aye? What is it, lad?"

"I do not know ... yet. But it is

definitely showing as a radiation reading--and it is

not anything the tricorder recognizes."

"Now, that's something. Let's have a look,"

Scott said, and held out his hand. He read the

tricorder screen more closely, relieved that

Chekov had accomplished something worthwhile. Of

course he should have thought of checking the upper

register earlier, but that was water under the bridge;

this was definitely something to study further.

He resolved not to forget to mention Chekov's

contribution when he made his report. Anything

to help the young man, Scott figured. He

recalled that it was not that long ago he was a

junior engineer on the Enterprise under

Captain Christopher Pike, and there had been

many frustrating moments when he thought his

skills were less than a match for the expectations

of his superior officers.

"Thanks for the assistance, laddie. Now off with

ye, while I finish this up. The briefing is

to start in a little while and I've got that' have this

report ready."

Chekov looked up suddenly. "I did not know

of any briefing."

Scott coughed to cover his surprise. He should

have realized Kirk was going to keep Chekov in the

dark until the ensign regained the captain's

confidence. "It's for senior officers," he

managed to get out.

"That usually means bridge staff. That usually

means ... me," Chekov stammered. He

slumped his shoulders and left the room.

Scott watched with sympathetic eyes. I'll

have to talk with that boy, he thought. But first, we have this

problem to deal with.

As Rithra came up on the main

viewscreen, it became obvious to Uhura that it

was a class-M world. It was somewhat bigger than

Earth, but its gravity, atmosphere, and

meteorological characteristics were well within the

limits of human tolerance.

Of course, class-M status didn't

necessarily mean a world would be aesthetically

pleasing when seen from space. As it happened, this

one was positively breathtaking in its

cloud-wreathed umber-and-aquamarine majesty. And

from her vantage point beside the commodore's command

chair, Uhura certainly had the time

to appreciate the view.

"Approaching the planet," announced

Berriman, Wesley's pretty redheaded

helmsman.

"Slow to half-impulse," the commodore told

her. "Prepare to enter orbit, Mr. Ito."

"Aye, sir," responded Ito, the stocky,

dark-eyed navigator. "All preparations in

place."

Wesley's orders were phrased a little

differently--perh stronger in tone--f the ones

issued by Captain Kirk, Uhura noted. But

then, Kirk and the commodore were different people. And

anyway, it was the results that really counted.

"Open hailing frequencies," Wesley said.

"Hailing frequencies open," Baila

confirmed.

Uhura experienced a twinge; it felt

strange to hear someone else say those ^ws. She

couldn't help but glance back at the communications

station, where Baila was running through the required

protocols. With a small sigh, she turned

back to the screen.

"Something wro ng, Lieutenant?" Wesley

looked up at her, expecting an answer.

Uhura clasped her hands behind her back as she

turned back to the viewscreen. "No, sir.

It's just that I'm not used to ... well ..."

"Approaching a planet without having to open

hailing frequencies?"

She shrugged. "Something like that."

Turning back to the main viewscreen,

Wesley chuckled. "Nothing like a new

perspective to make you remember why you signed

up in the first place--eh, Lieutenant?"

Uhura returned his gaze and finally nodded.

"I suppose so, sir."

For a moment the commodore continued to study her.

Then Baila spoke up.

"I have a response from the Rithrim," he

reported.

Straightening in his seat, Wesley addressed the

viewer. "On screen, Mr. Baila."

A fraction of a second later the image of a

Rithramen governor appeared--though it was

difficult to make out at first, given the amount of

ambient illumination that accompanied it. Uhura

had to squint to compensate, though the brightness didn't

surprise her; she'd learned about the Rithrim's

love of light in her studies.

As her eyes adjusted, she was able to see more of the

governor. Like all Rithrim, he was basically

humanoid, with pinkish orange skin, small

black eyes, and a feathery crest on his head.

Though the viewscreen showed only his head and

shoulders, Uhura knew that his body was tall and

slender--a trait peculiar to the governor

caste.

"Welcome," said the Rithrim. "I am

Endris, present-cycle governor of

Rithra." As he spoke, his hands danced quickly

but gracefully.

Uhura frowned, trying to keep up. She

hadn't expected the Rithrim's hand language

to proceed at such a breakneck speed.

"Lieutenant?" Wesley breathed without

looking up at her.

"He's embellishing the greeting," she

explained, though some of the details had eluded

her. "You're not just welcome, you're very

welcome."

The commodore smiled. "I'm very pleased to have

such a gracious host," he told the governor.

Uhura made the necessary signs for emphasis,

so Wesley's remark would be overlaid with the same

enthusiasm as the Rithrim's.

"I see," observed the governor, "that you have

brought along an interpreter."

The commodore nodded. "As you know, our

translation devices do not supply us with the

complete meaning of your communications. Lieutenant

Uhura is familiar enough with your gestures to give

us the information we lack."

The Rithrim eyed Uhura for a moment. He

said nothing, but his hands pantomimed approval of

her.

"If you would like to beam down now," Endris

suggested, "we can supply the necessary

coordinates." Again his remarks were accompanied

by a series of quick, deft signals.

The more she saw of the governor's hand

language, the easier it was for Uhura to follow.

"Interesting," she said, low enough so only Wesley

could hear it. "He seems impatient. There's a

definite note of urgency in his gestures."

"Any idea why?" asked the commodore, also

speaking sotto voce.

"None," she told him.

Wesley grunted softly. "We would be

happy to beam down now," he informed the Rithrim,

raising his voice again. Uhura reinforced his

statement, to make it clear he had no reservations

whatsoever.

"Receiveg those coordinates, sir," Baila

reported from the communications station. "And relaying

them to the transporter room."

As if that were the cue he'd been waiting for, the

governor inclined his feather-crested head. A

moment later his image vanished from the screen,

to be replaced by the regal aspect of Rithra.

"Thank you, Mr. Baila," said Wesley.

He stood and turned to Uhura. "Let's see

what that urgency's about, shall we?"

"Let's," she agreed.

The commodore cast a sweeping glance over his

bridge. "Berriman, you've got the conn.

Samuels and Baila, you're with me."

Before the ^ws were entirely out of his mouth, he was on

his way to the turbolift.

As Uhura materialized with the others, she was

glad for the precautions Dr. Coss had insisted

they all take to protect their eyes. Even with

her polarized visor, which curved around the top

half of her face, she found the ambient light

too bright for comfort. The viewscreen, with its

automatic compensating filters, had only hinted

at the intensity of this world's natural illumination.

Looking around to get her bearings, she found herself

in a large, ancient-looking courtyard constructed

of a material that looked very much like sandstone. An

abundance of frescoed walls, carved corner

pillars, and freestanding statuary made of the same

material as the basic structure gave the

place a feeling of vigor and enthusiasm--of

teeming, joyful energies yearning for application.

The focal point of the courtyard was a small

pool, a perfect square of still water that

reflected the vibrant blue-green sky

overhead. On either side of the pool was a bench.

And one of the benches was occupied by five tall

figures wearing black robes.

"The governors' council," someone whispered--

Uhura wasn't sure who. She was too busy

watching the nearest robed figure as he rose and

gestured to the bench on the opposite side of the

pool.

The lieutenant recognized him as the

present-cycle governor, Endris.

"Please," he said. "Sit."

"I don't think we need a translation for

that," commented Wesley.

As one, Uhura and the others crossed to the

proferred bench. Only after his guests had made

themselves comfortable did Endris himself sit down.

For a moment each group surveyed the other,

careful not to actually stare. Beside Uhura, the

commodore cleared his throat.

"It is our understanding," he began, "that the

matter which brought us here is an urgent one. If

it's all the same to you, we'd like to dispense with

protocol and hear how we can help."

A little blunt, Uhura reflected, as she

used her hand gestures to soften Wesley's opening

just a bit. But then, as she was learning, the

commodore wasn't one to mince ^ws.

Some of the governors exchanged

glances, though Endris continued to regard Wesley

and his party. "We appreciate your candor," the

Rithrim said. There was no trace of irony or

resentment in his hand motions.

As Uhura waited for more, she saw movement

at the far end of the courtyard. Squinting, she

picked out three figures--Rithrim, like the

governors, but squatter and more powerful-looking.

Also, they were dressed in more functional outfits.

And they were carrying some sort of tools.

Builders, she guessed. That would explain the

physical discrepancies they were of a different

caste than Endris and his companions.

Glancing at the Federation personnel but passing

no comments, the newcomers moved unobtrusively

to a corner of the yard. After putting their tools

down on the ground, they seemed to inspect a

portion of the carvings--a portion that, now that Uhura

took a closer look, appeared to be in need of

repair.

Then she had to forget about them for a while.

Endris was speaking again.

"It is in the spirit of that candor," he went on,

"that I will tell you this there is a place called

Girin Gatha, not more than a few hundred

kilometers south of here. It is the site of an

important Rithramen facility--and it is

threatened by an active heat."

Uhura felt her companions turning to her.

"A heat?" asked Samuels.

"Obviously a ^w that has many different

meanings in this culture," noted Baila. "The

nonverbal modifier will determine its specific

meaning here."

Ignoring the exchange, Uhura focused on

the governor's hand signals--but failed to catch

their meaning. Apparently understanding her difficulty,

Endris repeated himself.

"Ah," she said. "I get it now. A heat,

in this case, is a volcano."

"Lousy planning," muttered Coss, "to put

an important facility next to a volcano."

The commodore shot him a discouraging look, then

turned again to the governor. "If I may ask,

what's the problem? A force-shield should protect

your facility from a ... a heat." He waited for

Uhura to differentiate the ^w from its various other

meanings. "And our data on Rithra indicate that

you developed shield technology some time ago."

"That is correct," Endris

agreed. "What is more, we have successfully

employed this technology at Girin Gatha for

many years. However, the molten minerals produced

by the heat in recent months have been marked by a

certain amount of radioactivity."

"So that's it," said Samuels. "The radiation

is playing havoc with shield integrity. I've

seen that sort of thing before."

The governor signed his agreement. "Our

shields are failing to hold back the molten

flow. And though it advances slowly, it may be

only a matter of weeks before our facility is

destroyed." He paused. "The Federation's

shield technology is more advanced than ours.

It is our hope that you will be able to construct a

shield generator at Girin Gatha that will render

the facility secure again."

The governor--indeed, all the governors--

seemed calm as this information was dispensed. However,

judging by their hand movements, there was a terrific

emotional charge behind that calm. Uhura reported

as much to her commanding officer.

"I see," said Wesley. Then,

to Samuels "How long will it take to rig up a

shield generator for these people?"

The first officer shrugged. "Depends on the

size of the area being shielded, the terrain, and the

nature of the lava flow, of course--xs

volume, its speed, things like that. But I'd be

surprised if we couldn't do it in a few days.

Maybe less, if we really pushed ourselves."

Wesley turned to the Rithrim. "How's that

sound?" Again Uhura softened the edges of his question

with a series of polite, graceful gestures.

Endris signed his exhilaration. "It sounds

most pleasing," he answered. "Most pleasing

indeed."

"Good," said the commodore. "I have to warn you,

though--I don't know about your shield

gener ators, but ours have been known to go down from time

to time. If I were you, I'd plan on relocating

the facility to a safer place."

"We cannot," replied Endris. His hands moved

more quickly, more forcefully, to underscore his

inflexibility on that point.

"Why not?" asked Samuels.

Again the council members exchanged glances.

And again the present-cycle governor remained

steadfast in his attention to the visitors.

"You see," said Endris, his hands

proceeding slowly again, "the facility is one of

our major reproductive centers. It is used

by our procreator caste to produce new generations

of Rithrim. And procreators can perform their

function only in the place where they were born."

"That's right," said Coss. "I remember

reading about that. The Rithrim are like salmon back

on Earth--they have to return to their birthplace

to spawn."

Samuels grunted. "What a complimentary

analogy, Doctor."

Wesley regarded the benchful of governors.

"That answers my question," he assured them.

Endris signed his satisfaction that the

commodore had been accommodated. And there was a

pause as Wesley prepared to broach the second

topic they'd come to discuss with the Rithrim.

Uhura took advantage of the respite

to observe the builders again. They were continuing their

inspection of the carvings, running their fingers over them

and communicating with one another by means of gestures

alone.

As she watched, they seemed to reach a conclusion.

One of them picked up a tool and, as quietly

as possible, began to chip away at one of the

carvings under consideration. No doubt, the

lieutenant mused, a preliminary to repair.

Then her attention was drawn back to the

commodore, who'd finally decided on the right

approach. "There is another matter," he told

Endris and the others, "which is unrelated to the one

we've already discussed. And that is the Federation's

desire to establish an observatory here on

Rithra. I take it you've had time to digest the

detailed plans we sent you?"

Uhura used her hands to emphasize the ^w

"unrelated," making it plain that this was not a quid

pro quo situation. In other ^ws, it wasn't

necessary for the Rithrim to allow the observatory in

order to obtain help in protecting their

procreation center.

When both Wesley and Uhura were done,

Endris replied. "We have indeed had the

opportunity to review your plans. And we see

no reason for work on the observatory not to begin as

soon as possible."

Like Uhura's gestures a moment earlier, the

present-cycle governor's made it clear that the

observatory issue was separate from that of the

procreation center. She couldn't help but

smile. Apparently the Rithrim had decided

to allow the Federation its facility regardless of

what else transpired.

During her tenure on the Enterprise,

Uhura had seen a number of negotiations start

out promisingly and end in frustration or failure.

It was nice to see this one going so well.

"Thank you," said the commodore. "We

appreciate that. And I'd like to pursue the

matter further--.af we secure the procreation

center." Then, looking at his fellow officers,

he added "Unless anyone else has something

to contribute, I suggest we get back to the ship

and organize an engineering team."

Uhura had contributed all she could;

apparently, so had everyone else. When the

commodore stood, they all followed suit. A

moment later the Rithrim stood as well.

"We are indebted to you for your assistance in this

matter," said Endris.

"Think nothing of it," replied Wesley.

Uhura made sure to soften the edges of that

remark, too.

The commodore took out his communicator and

snapped off a command "Beam us up,

Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir," came the response.

It took a couple of seconds before they started

to dematerialize. As she waited, Uhura was

able to concentrate a little more on the builders at the

far end of the courtyard.

They were all chipping away now, though their

actions were still confined to a small area. Momentarily

she had a funny feeling--t they weren't

repairing the carving, but obliterating it.

But that's silly, she told herself. Why would

anyone want to destroy an ancient carving?

Perhaps it had seen better days, but it certainly

didn't present a danger to anyone.

Then the transporter effect claimed her and

she found herself back on the Lexington.

"You've been very fortunate, Miss Jarvis,"

Kirk said.

Sharon Jarvis, the colony administrator of

Beta Xaridian IV, nodded in agreement with the

captain's assessment.

They were walking down the center street of the

colony. Kirk thought there was nothing particularly

impressive about the settlement--

unlike the more elaborate colony in the

neighboring Alpha Xaridian star system, this

outpost on Beta Xaridian IV seemed almost

rough-and-tumble. The colonists that Kirk noticed

going about their business were more of a mix than the

largely human population of Alpha Xaridian

II. The colonists of Beta Xaridian IV

seemed grittier, tougher ... and also, it seemed,

at least two-thirds of them were female.

Administrator Jarvis was typical of the

population. She was not a particularly tall

woman; she was a bit stocky, solidly

built, and muscular, with short hair shot through with

gray.

Montgomery Scott approached them,

accompanied by Giotto. Scotty was

absentmindedly wiping his hands on his uniform

legs, as if to rid himself of some grease that he

might have acquired. That wouldn't have surprised

Kirk in the least. Scotty had a tendency

to get right into the thick of things--bbhavior far

better suited to lower echelon engineering

personnel than to the chief engineer. But Kirk was

certainly not going to be the one to tell Scotty

to change the way he did things.

"Planetary defense systems check out,

Captain," Scotty said approvingly.

"I could have told you that," said Jarvis, taking

a drag on her cheroot. "My people are the best--

no insult intended to your own, of course."

"None taken, Miss Jarvis," said Kirk.

"There's room in the galaxy for several

"bestsea"' I've always thought."

"Captain," Giotto spoke up, "it might

not be a bad idea to evacuate the colonists."

Jarvis looked at Giotto in surprise.

"Now why in hell should we be evacuated?"

"As the captain said," Giotto observed,

"you've been lucky. The raiders who have been

savaging colony worlds in the Xaridian systems

have, thus far, not attacked you. Perhaps it would be

best for you to leave before there is some sort of

unpleasantness."

Jarvis looked him up and down, then turned

to Kirk. "Do you concur with this opinion,

Captain?"

Kirk pursed his lips. "Over on Alpha

Xaridian Two, we came in in the middle of a

fairly heated discussion on that very topic. The

colony had been ravaged, and the

population was debating as to whether they should leave or

not."

"What did you tell them?"

Kirk cleared his throat. "I ... told them

they were brave individuals facing a galaxy

filled with danger."

"And they stayed."

"They stayed, yes," Kirk said. "But so far

the raiders have not attacked any given world more than

once. Relatively speaking, those colonists

are safe where they are. You, on the other hand,

remain a viable target ... and judging from the

destruction over in Gamma Xaridian, the

raiders are getting more, not less, vicious.

Perhaps it might make more sense for you to--"

"Run like hell?" she asked, her eyes

twinkling slightly. "Captain, this wouldn't have

anything to do with the fact that this colony is run by,

and has a high population of, females, would it?

Making you feel a bit more protective?"

"Certainly not, Miss Jarvis," Kirk

said, bristling slightly more than he needed to.

"Because if you were, I'd understand it. I think it

would show a rather charming streak of chivalry in you."

"In that case"--Kirk allowed a small

smile--?there might be some protectiveness at

work here."

"That's what I thought," said Jarvis. "You men

are all alike. This is the twenty-third

century, and you still figure that we women need your

strong arms to protect us."

Kirk was taken aback. "Wait a minute.

You said you thought chivalry was charming."

"I lied."

He stared at her for a moment and then laughed.

After only a moment's hesitation, she joined him.

"Miss Jarvis, I believe you when you say

you can take care of yourselves. Still ... considering the

track record of these raiders, I think my

concern can be chalked up to something other than

misplaced chivalry."

"Understood, Captain," replied Jarvis.

"But the bottom line is, my people and I are not

going to be scared off."

"Perhaps that's the intention of the raiders," Kirk

admitted. "To try to get everyone off the colony

planets. And fear is just as effective a

weapon as anything else."

"More efficient, too," commented Scotty. "You

dinna have to worry about casualties or

expending energy."

"But why do they want us to leave?" said

Jarvis. "Even if the reason for the attacks is

to get people off the worlds ... that can't be the sole

motive. There must be some further incentive.

Territorial gain, maybe. Or maybe there's

something on the planets that they want."

"We're exploring all the possibilities,

Miss Jarvis, I can assure you of th--"

The communicator beeped, and Kirk quickly

answered.

"Captain," came Palmer's voice,

"we're receiveg a distress call from Gamma

Xaridian Eight."

"Another planet in the Gamma system," said

Kirk grimly. "The raiders?"

"It would appear so, sir."

"Beam us up immediately. I want the helm

ready with warp speed the second my foot hits

the transporter pad. Kirk out."

Scotty and Giotto stepped closer to Kirk

as Jarvis stepped back. "God watch over you,

Captain," she said.

"If He will," said Kirk. "And the same

goes for you."

"If She will," replied Jarvis, and she

not ed Kirk's small smile as the

Enterprise officers beamed away.

Please don't let me screw up.

Chekov was certain that his hands were trembling as

he laid in the course that would take them, via the

most direct possible route, to the beleaguered

Gamma Xaridian VIII. He was dimly

aware of Sulu's eyes on him as he worked, but

said nothing. He performed a last-minute check on

his calculations just before he entered them into the computer,

but then his hand stopped in midair above his

instruments. Something was not right. He was overlooking

some detail. And then he realized what it was even

as Sulu said in a low, amused voice, "So you

noticed it, huh?"

He turned to Sulu, feeling the blood drain

from his cheeks as he said, "I was about to make the

correction."

"Good," Sulu said affably. "Following a

course straight through the Gamma Xaridian sun

might not have left us in very good shape to stop the

raiders once we got there."

The turbolift door hissed open,

and Kirk entered quickly. Spock rose from the command

chair as Kirk took his place. "Take us out

of orbit, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, sir."

"Course plotted and laid in, Keptin,"

said Chekov. He glanced at Sulu, but the

helmsman was busy and didn't spare the young

ensign so much as a glance.

"ETA at warp seven, Mr. Sulu?"

"Twenty-two minutes, Captain."

"Let's hope to God it's fast enough. Warp

seven, helm. Take us out of here."

The Enterprise whipped out of orbit and

launched itself into warp space the moment it was clear

of the planet's atmosphere.

The blare of the red alert signal sounded

everywhere, but it was loudest in Chekov's head. There

was room in it only for the noise andforthe recurring

thought that was almost a mantra Please don't

let me screw up.

Chapter Seven

Like the rest of the Federation team, Uhura had

been briefed by the Rithramen builders whom

Endris had put in touch with them. But no amount of

briefing could have prepared her for what she saw when

she beamed down.

To the west, a volcano of staggering proportions

was discharging a steady tide of lurid liquid

rock. The tide was deflected by the invisible

barrier of the Rithrim's shields some fifty

meters beyond the facility, but that didn't make it

any less frightening.

To the north and south the deflected lava

crawled along the shields and flowed into the blinding

expanse of blue-green sea that surrounded the

procreation center on three sides. Where cool

water and red-hot rock collided along the

shore, massive sizzling clouds of steam rose

up to fatten the clouds overhead.

The facility itself was simple and boxlike--

perhaps fifty meters by fifty meters and two

stories high. Though it was apparently constructed

of the same kind of stone as the governors'

courtyard, the place was much more stark and

modern-looking, like the statuary surrounding

it, which celebrated all four Rithramen castes.

"Damn," breathed Wesley, who'd

accompanied Uhura. He adjusted his visor.

"Ever see a place quite like this one,

Lieutenant?"

"Can't say I have," Uhura muttered, taking

a few steps toward the shield.

She watched the lava roil against it. It was like

a struggle between force and restraint, between order and

chaos. And a small Rithramen building where

babies were conceived and nurtured stood amid this

clash of elemental powers--and survived.

It was remarkable. It was more than remarkable.

"Welcome to Girin Gatha," called a

robust and familiar voice. Turning, Uhura

saw Samuels trekking across the humpbacked

sweep of sandy rock that fronted the facility.

The first officer had been down here for nearly an

hour, helping the Lexington's engineering people

survey the terrain.

He wiped his brow as he approached; his

tunic was marred by dark sweat stains. "Nice

place to visit," Samuels remarked, "but I

wouldn't want to have to procreate here."

Uhura smiled. "Good thing you don't have to,"

she told him.

The man was beginning to grow on her, she

decided. Even if you didn't like his sense of

humor, it was hard to argue with his dedication; no

officer she had seen worked harder than Wynn

Samuels.

Turning to the commodore, he asked, "What

brings you down here, sir?"

Wesley shrugged. "The lieutenant here thought

it might be a good idea for us to see the place."

He cast Uhura a sidewise glance. "If the

subject comes up again, she says, we'll be

better off knowing what we're talking about." A

pause. "And after a moment's reflection I had

to agree with her. So here we are."

"I see," said the first officer. "In that

case, you might want to do your observing from inside

the building. It's a lot more comfortable in there."

He swept a lock of sweat-matted hair out of

his eyes. "Just because I'm nutty enough to be out here

doesn't mean you have to be nutty too."

Wesley looked at Uhura. He indicated

the procreation center with a tilt of his head. "Shall

we?" he asked.

Uhura hesitated. "With all due

respect," she said finally, "I'm not that eager for

comfort, Commodore. I don't mind a little

perspiration if it means being able to see something

I've never seen before. I mean, isn't that the

reason we signed up in the first place?"

Wesley regarded her, remembering where he'd

heard the ^ws before, and from whom. Slowly, a

smile spread across his face. "Right you are,

Lieutenant. And thanks for reminding me." He

turned to Samuels. "You see?" he said. "Now

that's a communications officer."

The first officer cleared his throat, obviously

feeling awkward about participating in any implied

swipe at Baila--particularly in front of

one of Baila's peers.

"I'd best be getting back to the engineering

team," he said. Andwitha nod that was meant for both of

them, he turned and made his way back across the

humpbacked front yard of the building.

As he vanished from sight, the commodore

regarded Uhura. "I didn't mean that to sound like

an indictment of Mr. Baila, Lieutenant--

even though it came out that way."

"It's all right, Commodore. I understand."

Wesley frowned. He seemed to be thinking about

something. Finally he said "Can I ask you something

off the record, Lieutenant?"

That caught her a little off-balance, but she

nodded. "Sure."

The commodore's frown deepened; he actually

looked angry. "You've spoken with Baila a

few times now--and you're obviously a

perceptive woman. Can you tell me what's

made him stop caring?"

Uhura didn't know quite what to say to that.

"Stop caring?" she echoed.

Wesley held up his hands. "Listen, if

I'm intruding on a confidence, or if you just

plain feel uncomfortable talking about a

colleague, I'll back off. It's just that he

used to be a good officer--a very good officer. And

now he's something less than that."

The communications officer swallowed. So

Baila wasn't far off the mark at all. His

job .was in jeopardy.

Unfortunately Uhura couldn't answer

Wesley's question. She said so.

The commodore accepted her response. "Just

thought I'd give it a shot," he told her.

"No harm in trying, eh?"

"No, sir. No harm in that."

Wesley rubbed his hands together. "Well then,

we came down here to look around. Let's look

around, for God's sake. Any idea where you'd like

to start?"

Uhura scanned the area. "Well," she said,

"we've seen the volcano side. Why not take

a look around back?"

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

As they walked in that direction, the hissing

produced by the meeting of lava and seawater grew

louder. By the time they reached the space between the

procreation center and the sea, the sound was almost

deafening, though the droplets of water in the air

offered them some relief from the heat.

For a while the sputtering clash of molten rock

and lapping tide mesmerized Uhura. Then she

turned to the commodore and saw that he wasn't

looking at the shoreline anymore.

He was staring back at the building itself. And as

she followed his gaze, she saw what had caught

his eye.

There were several gaps in the ring of statuary around

the back of the procreation center--places with

pedestals but no figures. It was as if someone

had vandalized the grounds, cutting down the statues

at their ankles. And yet, all their intelligence

on the Rithrim indicated that there was no crime

on this world.

Wesley grunted. "What do you suppose

happened there?" he asked. "Those statues don't

look old enough to need replacement."

At first the communications officer was at a

loss. Then she remembered the builders back in

the courtyard--and how it had seemed to her, if

only for a moment, that they were defacing the carvings rather

than repairing them.

Was there a connection or was she jumping

to conclusions? And even if she was right, did her

observation have any significance with regard to their

mission?

"Sir," she said finally, "I may be

completely off base, but I think the Rithrim

are making some changes in their public statuary

policy."

He looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"Back in the courtyard, there were some

builders--"

"I remember," he said. "I saw them working

on one of the reliefs."

"That's right," Uhura confirmed. "At first I

thought they were just doing some repairs. Then it

occurred to me that they might be obliterating what was

there. And now, seeing these statues missing, I'm

wondering if there isn't some sweeping change

taking place in Rithramen society--some

philosophical overhaul that requires them

to reject figures they used to honor."

The commodore's brow furrowed. "Makes

sense. And if that's the case, I'd like to know about

it. It may be nothing of concern to us, of course.

But then again, it may be significant--if not

now, then down the line."

Uhura agreed. "Maybe we should ask the

governors," she suggested.

Wesley nodded. "Maybe we should." Taking

out his communicat or, he flipped it open. "Two

to beam up," he instructed the transporter

chief.

But before the order went into effect, Uhura

noticed, he took a last glance at the gaps in

the statuary. Nor could she help but look that way

herself.

"Damnedest thing," said the commodore just before they

left the procreation center behind.

Back in her quarters, Uhura stood in

front of the bathroom mirror and ran a comb through

her hair, grateful for the opportunity that

Wesley had afforded her to shower and change her

clothes. It felt good to be clean again, to be

wearing a freshly laundered uniform and to hear

nothing but the subtle hum of the Lexington's

engines, after the relentless furor of Girin

Gatha.

Fortunately the commodore hadn't deemed the

missing-statuary question so urgent that they had to contact

the governors immediately. The lieutenant grimaced

now at the idea of having to wear her

perspiration-soiled one-piece through an extended

session with Endris and the others.

Considering herself one last time in the mirror, she

put down her brush, smoothed her uniform, and

left the bathroom. The lights, she knew, would

switch off a few moments after the room's

sensors recorded her absence.

Wesley had asked her to be on the bridge in

half an hour; she had ten minutes left. But

with nothing to keep her here, and the answers to her questions

awaiting, Uhura decided to report

early.

She was halfway to the door when she heard the

beeping that signaled the presence of someone

outside. It surprised her. Who could it be?

she wondered.

"Come on in," said the communications officer.

As the doors slid aside, they revealed

Jerome Baila. His expression was as guarded as

ever, Uhura noted. But there was something different

about his eyes--something soft, almost vulnerable, where

before they'd been hard and unyielding.

Taking a step inside, he said "Can I

talk to you?"

She shrugged. "Sure. I'm due on the

bridge soon, but I can spare a few minutes.

Have a seat, won't you?"

Baila crossed to the overstuffed chair in one

corner of the room and sat down on the forward edge

of it. Uhura positioned herself just opposite, on

the chair's twin. There was a free-form glass

table between them, supported by more of that real wood that

had so impressed her when she arrived here.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

His one hand kneaded the other; the man seemed

full to brimming with nervous energy. "Tell me

about your village," he said. "Your family.

What kind of place you come from."

After he'd kept her at such a distance until

now, these weren't exactly the kinds of questions

Uhura had expected. She was tempted to ask

about the change of tack--but refrained.

"I come from Koyo," she told him. "It's a

small town just west of Mombasa, though not so far

west the ground's not good for farming. My father is a

professor of African history with the

University of Kenya; my mother was a

sculptress. I was their only child." She

paused. "What else would you like to know?"

"Where did you learn sign language?" he

asked.

Uhura smiled as she thought about it. "When I

was ten, my cousin Epala came to stay with us for a

summer. Epala had been deaf since birth; she

spoke with her hands. I remember thinking they were like

flitting birds, and that I would never understand what

she was saying. But she was older than I was by a

year, and very pretty, and I wanted to be just like

her. So I learned the language of the flitting

birds." Her smile grew broader. "In

fact, that's what first got me interested

in communications."

Baila nodded. "And what did they think, this

family of yours, when you decided to go out

into space?"

She shrugged. "They weren't thrilled about it at

first; it meant I'd be gone for long periods at

a time. But they accepted it after a while." She

looked at him. "Why?"

He swallowed. "I just wanted to know." And much

to her surprise, he got up and headed for the

door.

"Whoa--hang on just a moment there!" The ^ws

were out of her mouth before she knew it. And they weren't

the kind she usually spoke. There was a distinct

tinge of anger to them.

Baila stopped, turned. "Yes?" His eyes

were opaque again, arrogant. His very bearing was a

challenge.

For a moment, as Uhura's anger subsided,

she wondered what she was going to say next. Why

was she angry, anyway? What had he done but

ask her some questions?

No, he'd done more than that. He'd asked her

for a part of herself. And in that request had been an

implicit assurance that he would give something of

himself in exchange. Now he was trying to renege

on that promise, but she wasn't going to let him

get away with it.

"You asked," she told him, "and I answered.

Now it's my turn. Sit."

Baila hesitated, but only for an instant.

Then he did as he was told.

Uhura sat down again, too. She looked her

visitor square in the eye and asked "Where are

you from?"

The muscles in his temples worked ever so

slightly. "Potayu. Near Lake Nyasa."

"And your background?" She could see that she was

going to have to drag it out of him.

"My father was a farmer, my mother a farmer as

well. I have six brothers and sisters. And the

ground there was never as good for farming as it was near

Mombasa."

He spoke the last ^ws like a whip, as if it

were her fault his family hadn't had an easy

time of it. Uhura, like any East African, was

familiar with the crop failures that had taken

place a decade ago around Nyasa. She

couldn't help it if she'd lived in a more fertile

area.

"You make it sound as if I was the one who

withheld the rain," she said.

He shrugged. "That wasn't my intention."

Uhura bristled at his insolence, but she still

wanted to understand him. In fact, she wanted

to pierce that attitude of his more than ever now.

What else might she ask him? Then she

remembered the last thing he'd asked her.

"What did your family think of your joining

Starfleet?"

Before she'd gotten the last ^w out, Uhura

saw the look in his eyes. It was relief, she

realized. He'd wanted her to pose that question,

hadn't he? That was what he'd been angling for

all along.

"They disapproved," he told her. "They

disapproved mightily."

Bits and pieces of information Uhura had

heard as a child floated to the surface of her

memory. And suddenly she understood. She

understood everything.

"Potayu was one of the towns that followed

Beccah Talulu, wasn't it?"

"It was," he admitted. "My parents were

among her first and most loyal supporters. They

took up her ways even before I was born."

"So when the crops failed--"

"We starved," he said, finishing the thought for her.

"No one actually died, of course, but a lot of

us came close. And if the rains hadn't finally

come when they did ... I probably wouldn't be

here talking to you now."

Uhura shook her head. It was the

twenty-third century. People weren't supposed

to starve to death, or even come close. But Beccah

Talulu had persuaded entire villages

to give up the techniques of modern science and

embrace the primitive virtues she espoused.

Not that it had been all bad. Civilization

had a way of distancing people from their roots; it was a

good thing to be reminded of one's kinship with

nature. But Talulu, a self-styled

prophetess who claimed to be descended from the

great kings of the region, went too far, it seemed

to Uhura.

"As a child," Baila said, "I wasn't

allowed to read about anything even vaguely

scientific. But I had this curiosity--th

desire to know about things beyond our town and its ways.

So when my parents took me into one of the

larger towns to sell their baskets and their pottery

in the market, I stole from the booksellers and

hid the books in my robes. After a while I

got quite good at it. But the books didn't

satisfy--they only fanned my desire."

His eyes flickered, as if he were reliving

everything he was saying. "Finally, when I was

eleven, I couldn't contain myself anymore. I

ran away to my aunt's house in Quelimane.

My aunt didn't approve of Talulu. She

was more than glad to have me."

Uhura looked at him. "Quelimane is

on the coast. You traveled all the way there from

Potayu--at the age of eleven?"

He grunted. "It was the longest journey I

ever made. Earth to the Klingon Neutral Zone

seems like a short hop by comparison. But I

made it."

"What about your parents?" she asked.

"Didn't they want you back?"

Baila shook his head. "Aunt Kisal

told them why I left. They didn't try

to convince me I was wrong. They just wrote me

off."

Such a thing was incomprehensible to Uhura. She

couldn't imagine parents who would give up their child

without a fight. But then, she hadn't lived in a

Talulu village, had she?

"Thanks to my aunt," he went on, "I had

a proper education. And I fell in love with the

idea of Starfleet--of going out where no one had

gone before. Sometimes I couldn't sleep for thinking

about it. I worked hard. I worked very hard. And on

my second try, I made it into the

Academy."

"Your aunt must have been very proud," Uhura

commented.

He shook his head. "My aunt passed away

before I was accepted." He sighed. "My first year

at the Academy was fascinating, exciting, but very

lonely. No matter how many friends I made, there

was a void in my spirit that cried out for the woman

who'd raised me." He licked his lips. "When

summer break came, all the other cadets went

home to their families. I had no one to go home

to, but I desperately didn't want to stay in

San Francisco all by myself. And then I had

an idea I would go back to Potayu."

"You went?" she asked.

Baila nodded. "I went. But as it

turned out, it wasn't a very good idea. My

parents, my brothers and sisters ... they acted as

if they didn't know me. It was as if I'd never

existed for them. And when I protested tha t I was still

me, I was still Jerome, my mother said that Jerome

was long dead and that the dead don't come back

to life, no matter what I'd been taught in the

great Academy.

"You see," he said, "it was so long since

I'd been there, I'd forgotten what Beccah

Talulu had said about going out to the stars in ships

that it was wrong, that it was an insult to the soil that

gave us birth. My family believed that what

I was doing, what I was planning to do, was an act

against nature." He hung his head, and the

muscles in his temples worked even harder than

before; when he spoke, it was ever so softly. "After

all, Beccah Talulu had said so."

Uhura regarded him. There was no haughtiness

left in him, no arrogance. There was only a man

who had been cut off from his past and his people--a man

who, in gaining what he believed was his heart's

desire, had lost all that was dear to him.

He looked up, his chiseled nostrils flaring.

"So now you know," he told her. "You've heard

a story I didn't dare tell to anyone on this

ship. And make no mistake, if you hadn't come

from Koyo near Mombasa, I wouldn't have told

you, either."

She understood. There was no need to say so.

What was it Commodore Wesley had asked

her, back at the procreation center? "Can you

tell me what's made him stop caring?" he had

said. "He used to be a good officer--a very good

officer. And now he's something less than that."

Uhura knew the answer to the commodore's question

now. Slowly but surely, Baila's dedication

had been undermined by his heartsickness. His

curiosity had been ground down by his family's

disapproval of what he'd become. And over the

long years the loss had made a husk out of him,

a hollowed-out imitation of an officer.

Baila stood. "We're probably overdue

on the bridge," he told her. "We should be

getting up there."

She cursed inwardly. She'd been so

enthralled by Baila's confession, she'd forgotten

all about Wesley's orders. Shooting to her

feet, she headed for the door. But before she got

halfway, she noticed her companion

hadn't moved.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

He held her with his gaze. "What I told

you--it goes no farther than this room. I don't

want anyone else to know."

Uhura frowned. It was a confidence; she

hadn't planned to discuss it with anyone anyway.

"No one else," she agreed.

He nodded. "Thank you."

Then they went out the door and headed for the

turbolift.

The Enterprise dropped out of warp space,

and the first thing Kirk saw were large pieces of

metal floating in front of them. The debris

appeared to be the remains of some sort of ship,

andfora fleeting moment Kirk thought that some starship

had arrived ahead of them, perhaps even dispatched the

raiders before they could engage in their terrorist

activities.

"Spock--"

"Analyzing debris, Captain," Spock

reported, anticipating Kirk's request. It

took only a few moments before he looked up from

the science station. "It would appear to be the remains

of the Viking, Captain."

Kirk cursed to himself. The Viking, the

patrol ship that had come to offer aid to Gamma

Xaridian IV, although it turned out there was none

to be given. What had been the captain's plan,

then? Had the Viking and its crew remained in the

system, perhaps hidden themselves nearby, waiting to see

if the raiders would strike again? Whatever had been

their intention, that act of bravery had been their

last.

Kirk's blood boiled as he said, "Ahead

full."

"Approaching Gamma Xaridian Eight,

Captain," Sulu called out.

And suddenly Chekov was pointing at the screen,

almost jumping to his feet. "There they are!"

"Imprecise but enthusiastic, Mr.

Chekov," said Kirk. "There they are indeed."

The raiders were swarming toward the eighth planet

of the Gamma Xaridian system, and the sensors

quickly determined that their number was an even dozen.

"They appear to be arriving only now," said

Spock. "It would seem that the Viking's

battle tactics were able to slow the raiders down

sufficiently so that the emergency signal

reached us in time."

"Let's make sure that Viking's

sacrifice wasn't in vain," said Kirk

sharply. "Uhu--Palmer, open a channel.

Warn them off from Gamma Xaridian Eight."

"Hailing them on all frequencies,

Captain," said Palmer. "No reply."

And suddenly the raiding ships came together,

angled around, and hurtled directly toward the

Enterprise.

"I think we're about to get their reply," said

Kirk.

The raiders dived toward them in two staggered

rows of six, and then their weapons came alive,

raking the much larger starship with a series of

hammerlike blasts that shook the Enterprise

over and over.

"Repeated hits on the starboard shield!"

Sulu called out.

"All phasers, fire!" called Kirk.

The Enterprise phasers lashed out at the

foremost of the ships--but a split second before there

was contact, the raiders peeled away from one

another, gracefully forming twin arcs, and the phaser

blasts went straight up the middle, passing them

by harmlessly.

"Stay ahead of them, Mr. Sulu," said

Kirk. "Anticipate their moves and fire where

they're going to be."

Chekov looked at Sulu nervously and

whispered, "He wants you to read their minds?"

Sulu made no reply. Instead his fingers

flew over the targeting devices as he watched

carefully the sweeping curves of one set of the

ships. Mentally he counted down, looked to where their

course was going to take them, and fired.

And the half dozen ships, incredibly, suddenly

angled down and away, dodging the phaser blast with

only kilometers to spare.

Meanwhile the other half dozen ships swept

in from port and again fired on the Enterprise,

blasting away and then shooting off into the either before the

starship could return fire.

"Starboard and port shields each down

seventy percent," reported Spock.

Kirk grimaced upon hearing the news. Draining

off power from one shield to supplement the other would

leave them virtually unprotected on one side.

"Status on the raiders?"

"We have yet to hit any of them. The

size of their engines would not indicate warp

capabilities above factor two, but they are

far more maneuverable at impulse than we are.

Their size and speed make it possible for them

to stay extremely close to the ship and increase the

effectiveness of their weapons without suffering

damage from ours. Their fighting style does not

correlate with any known tactics."

"They're coming up behind us!"

"Bring us around!"

"Too late!"

The raiders hammered them from aft. Kirk could

almost hear the screams from the engineering section; the

shield generators were stretched to the breaking point.

"Phaser and photon array, full spread!

Fireffwas

The Enterprise cut loose with all the

armament at its command, andwith speed and maneuvering that

bordered on the supernatural, the raiders danced

in between the bursts from the mighty starship. In the

meantime the ship shook yet again; its defenses were

wearing down quickly.

Damage reports were being screamed to the

bridge from all parts of the ship. "Forward phasers

out!" called Spock. "Starboard shields

buckling. Port shields can sustain only

another hit or two."

"Keptin, the Turnoga defense!" Chekov

suddenly shouted. "In a situation like this--"

"Not now, Mr. Chekovffwas said Kirk.

"But, sir, against multiple enemies, the

Turnoga defense--"

"That's for use against vessels considerably

larger than these, Ensign, and I don't have time

to turn the bridge into an Academy lecture

hall. Bring us around at four-nineteen mark

six. Drop forward shields, prepare for warp

speed."

"What?" Chekov couldn't believe it.

"Captain, even minimal warp will kick us right out

of the system! The colony will be defenseless. Andwith

no shields, we'll be defenseless. They could

fire on us before--"

"Carry out your orders, Ensignffwas

"Yes, sir!" But even as his hands flew over

the controls, he continued. "But I know if we

adapted Turnoga--"

"Ensign, you're relieved," said Kirk

sharply. "Palmer, take over. Mr. Chekov,

get the hell off the bridge. You're

confined to quarters."

Chekov's hands froze, and he felt the

blood pounding through his head. He tried to get ^ws

out, and then Palmer was at his side, shoving on his

shoulder. The Russian staggered to his feet, the

world seeming to swirl around him, and from a distance he

heard Palmer saying, "Course laid in,

sir."

"Bring us ahead, full impulse."

As Chekov moved to the turbolift, he saw

Dr. McCoy standing there. The ensign had been so

focused on the battle, he hadn't even

noticed the CMO arrive on the bridge.

Saying nothing, Chekov shoved past him into the

lift.

But he wasn't getting rid of McCoy so

easily. "Come on," said the doctor. "I'll

escort you to your quarters." And without waiting for a

response, McCoy followed him into the lift.

Putting the incident with Chekov aside,

Kirk focused on the task at hand. The raiding

ships had come together again, and the Enterprise was on

a collision course with the small fleet.

"They aren't firing," Palmer said in

surprise.

"It's because we dropped our shields. They

don't know whether we're surrendering or just

suicidal. On my order I'll want warp

four."

"Direct acceleration, Captain?" Sulu

half turned in his chair. "Sir, the stress

could--" But Kirk's expression prompted

Sulu simply to turn back to his station and

say, "Aye, sir."

They drew closer and closer to the raiders,

until the smaller, hovering ships were filling the

screen.

Kirk punched his direct line to the engine

room. "Scotty!"

"Aye, Captainffwas The chief engineer sounded

even more beleaguered than usual. Not surprising,

considering the circumstances.

"On my order I want you to reroute all

power from the rear deflectors and shore up the

forward."

"We'll hav e our tails hanging out, sir."

"I know that, Mr. Scott. Get ready."

Still the raiders seemed to hesitate, uncertain

of what sort of trick the Enterprise

might have up its sleeve.

"Collision course," said Sulu. "Counting

down, eleven ... ten ... nine ... eight ...

seven ... six ... Raiders are bringing their

weapons on line."

"Now, Scotty! Reroute shields!"

The deflectors to the rear of the Enterprise

faded almost to nonexistence, and the forward shields

powered up. Several experimental blasts from the

raiders bounced harmlessly off the starship's forward

defenses.

Realizing that the Enterprise was now in a

position to ram right through them, the raiders performed the

same maneuver they had used earlier--they split

off, coming in tight on both sides of the starship.

"Sir, they're coming in right on top of us!"

Kirk counted under his breath and then shouted,

"Now, Sulu! Full ahead, warp four!"

The Enterprise leaped forward. The crew

slammed back in their seats, and all around Kirk

were the sounds of the ship's infrastructure creaking

under the sudden acceleration.

"Captain!" Spock shouted over the roar of the

engines. "Seven of the raiders were caught in our

warp field when we accelerated!"

"Excellent!" Kirk bellowed back.

"Sulu, slow us down! Take us out of warp!"

Obediently the mighty engines of the

Enterprise reversed, and warp space began

to break up around the ship. And so, too, did the

ships of the raiders. Pieces flew apart everywhere

as the ships shuddered, trembled, and burst apart.

"They couldn't stand the stress of warp four!" said

Palmer in amazement.

"I surmised as much, since their engines

weren't designed to exceed warp two," said

Kirk briskly. "Because they were staying so close

to our hull, I thought we could drag them along if

we hit fast into warp space. Palmer, plot a

course back to Gamma Xaridian Four."

"Already got it, Captain."

"Good. Mr. Sulu, best possible speed.

Get us there in one piece but quickly. Some of them

managed to slip past us, and we'll still have them

to deal with."

The Enterprise swung around and an instant

later was hurtling back through space. They arrived

on the outskirts of the Gamma Xaridian system

just as the remaining raiders were pulling themselves back

together.

The sight of the returning starship clearly

unnerved the smaller ships; they started to peel off

in all directions, and all of those directions were

away from Gamma Xaridian VIII.

Obviously they had had enough for one day.

Kirk, however, was not quite finished. "Tractor

beams, widest possible field!" he called.

Spreading the tractors that wide would weaken their

overall effect, but the ships were small enough that it

might not take that much to hold them.

And as it turned out, it didn't. One of the

ships was just a hair too slow, and before it could put

enough distance between itself and the Enterprise, it had been

snagged by the tractor beams.

"Got it, Captainffwas Sulu crowed.

"Reel them in, Mr. Sulu. Let's see

if any of their friends come to rescue them."

Such was not to be the case. The other ships

hurtled away, leaving the one captive and at the

mercy of the starship. At the moment Kirk wasn't

feeling particularly merciful. Nevertheless, he

saw his opportunity he could now find out who was

behind these destructive and seemingly random raids

on the Xaridian colonies.

"Open a hailing frequency to--"

And at that moment the trapped raider ship blew

up. It was all the Enterprise's weakened

shields could do to protect the starship from the

surprisingly large blast that the ship generated.

As it was, the overburdened forward shields went

down completely. So all-consuming was the

destruction that there weren't even fragments of the

raider ship left. Within moments space around them

was empty. The other raiders had disappeared in a

variety of directions, and the one that they had

captured had exploded in their face.

Chapter Eight

McCoy stole a glance at Chekov. The

ensign had remained silent for the entirety of the

turbolift ride. Then again, what could he say?

He'd made a mistake, and a big one.

When they reached deck six, where Chekov's

quarters were situated, the ensign turned to him.

"You don't have to keep me company anymore. I

am all right, I assure you."

The doctor shook his head. "Nothing doing. I

said I'd escort you to your quarters, and that's what

I intend to do."

Sighing, the Russian headed for his cabin. The

corridors were very, very quiet, McCoy noted.

The deck was mostly crew quarters, double rooms

for all, but during a red alert, few of the crew were

in their rooms.

It occurred to the doctor that he rarely

visited this deck, since most patients came

to his sickbay. Still, the silence was uncanny.

That would certainly be tough on Chekov, he

mused.

Before long they'd reached the ensign's cabin. The

doors slid aside for them, and they entered.

Once inside, Chekov took a seat by the

desk while McCoy leaned against a dresser, his

arms folded across his chest. The doctor looked

around. He'd forgotten how cramped it could be in a

younger officer's quarters.

Ah, well, he thought, at least it was better

than the hammock and kit bag sailors started

off with centuries ago. He paused,

reconsidering the place. Not by much, though.

"Well, Chekov, what now?"

"Do we maintain a firing squad?" the younger

man asked.

"Of course not. Why?"

"Because the keptin vill vant to assemble one after

ve get out of this."

"Poppycock. You screwed up. Big deal.

We all do it sooner or later; you just did it

at a worse time than others. Something about you

navigators, always going off half-cocked and

getting yourselves into trouble. First Bailey, then

Styles, then Riley, and now you. Is it something

they teach at the Academy?"

"No, Doctor. I ... I just can't

explain it. I vas sure I had the

right maneuver and--"

"And you picked the wrong time to tell Captain

Kirk. Maybe you've been through too few red

alerts to understand. Simulations are close, but never

confuse them with the real thing. There are times and

places for making suggestions to the captain--and when

we're surrounded by marauders isn't one of them."

"I knew that," Chekov began helplessly.

He looked as if he was going to try again, but

instead he slumped into a brooding silence. Staring

at the table top, the ensign ignored the doctor.

McCoy moved around the room for a moment,

trying to find the right tack to take. Chekov was

feeling bad enough, and he did not want to push him

too far one way or another. Still, the

psychiatrist in him didn't want to leave

until he could ease Chekov's pain, even a

little.

"Chekov, the captain had his own options

to consider." He stopped himself when he saw the

ensign's reaction. Though what he'd said was

true, it wasn't the right approach. And then

another one occurred to him. "How did you do on the

Kobayashi Maru test?"

There was a long pause. "I blew up my

ship," Chekov said finally. He hung his head.

"At the time I thought I was being original.

Took the Klingons with me, too."

"You sacrificed yourself and your ship?" McCoy

asked incredulously.

Chekov let out a long sigh and nodded.

"That certainly was unique." McCoy walked

over and leaned forward, making sure he was in

Chekov's peripheral vision. "Son, you'll

learn. And you'll learn quickly. You never would have

made it to deep space if Command didn't think

you were ready. There must be a demon or two you

need to knock out of your head. And then it'll be

clear sailing."

The doctor then sat down right beside Chekov and

leaned over. He lowered his voice to an almost

conspiratorial whisper.

"I'll let you in on a little secret. Do you

remember that Captain Kirk had to take the

same test you did? Face the no-win scenario?"

"Of course," came the soft reply.

"Do you know how the captain did?"

"I guess he lasted a long time and then lost.

Everyone does."

"Oh, no, Ensign," McCoy

said. Andfora moment Chekov's head bobbed up. The

doctor flashed him a happy grin and said, "Oh

sure, he did that the first two times. But he

insisted on a third trial--and you know what he

did then?"

Chekov only shook his head.

"He sneaked in and, with some help,

reprogrammed the computers. He actually beat the

scenario."

"Vhat?" Chekov stared at McCoy as if

the doctor had suddenly sprouted a third arm.

"I'm told no one ever did that before. And they

certainly saw to it that no one would do it again. Now,

can you keep that to yourself?"

"Yes, sir." McCoy could see Chekov

pondering the fact Kirk had beaten the game

by rewriting the rules. Such thinking had probably

never occurred to him.

"Now, you get some rest. If you need me, come

on down. Door's always open." Satisfied

he'd done some good, the doctor knocked on the

desk top twice with his knuckles and walked out

of the cabin.

* * *

Chekov looked up after the door slid closed

with its familiar whoosh, and shook his head. Kirk

had beaten the Kobayashi Maru!

The ensign tried to rerun the standard command test

in his mind. There was the disabled ship in Klingon

territory. When his turn had come, he chose

to send his ship, the Yorktown into the Neutral

Zone to perform a rescue mission. Then all of a

sudden he was surrounded. He remembered gripping

the command chair arms with his hands. The sweat began

to bead on his brow from phantom memory. ...

Engineering reported casualties and coolant

leaks. His medical officer reported radiation

burns and casualties already in double digits.

The Yorktown managed to weaken the shields on

one Klingon ship before his own shields were down

to critical limits.

His voice, calling the self-destruct

sequence, echoed in his mind. He had to shout down

his first officer, Ravi Akbar, who adamantly

refused to give the code authorization. Then the

countdown and the blinding white lights. ...

It was a month before Akbar was civil to him again.

Chekov strained to imagine which part of the computer

program Kirk rewrote to allow him

to win. Was it the number of enemy vessels? The

strength of his own ship? How did Kirk come up

with such thoughts at the tender age of twenty? With much

to ponder, he returned to his bunk, thankful that

his roommate was at Weapons Control and wouldn't

be back for a while.

A long while, thanks to the blunder of a young

navigator named Pavel Chekov.

* * *

As Uhura emerged from the turbolift with

Baila a step behind her, Wesley glanced in their

direction. While casual on the surface, his

scrutiny conveyed the intended meaning. Officers were

not to report late to his bridge--unless they had

a damned good excuse.

However, as she didn't have a good excuse,

Uhura simply made her way to the commodore's

side and stood there silent. She could hear the soft

padding of Baila's boots behind her as he

exchanged places with the communications officer from the

previous shift.

Wesley seemed intent on the viewscreen, with

its sweep of Rithramen landscape. But he

wasn't nearly as intent as he seemed.

"You're a little tardy," he acknowledged, rubbing

it in--though he spoke too softly for anyone but

Uhura to hear him.

"It won't happen again," she assured him,

also sotto voce.

He looked up at her, the beginnings of a

smile softening the line of his mouth. "Good. Then

we can get to the bottom of this statuary question."

Without turning, he addressed his communications

officer, who'd barely had a moment to settle

in. "Raise present-cycle governor

Endris, Mr. Baila."

"Aye, sir," came the response.

It took a while for Endris to appear. Which was

understandable, Uhura mused, given the fact that the

Rithrim weren't expecting a communication right

now. As she waited, she went over the kinds of

signals she might use to convey their curiosity

about the statues.

Abruptly the image on the viewscreen

shifted, and there was Endris. As before, he was

surrounded by the kind of brightness that made Uhura

squint.

"Greetings," said the Rithrim. "I have been

told you wish to speak with me." His hands posed the

question why?

Wesley smiled. "Nothing terribly

important, I think. However, part of the reason

we're here is to gain a better understanding of your people,

and if we're to understand you, we must ask questions."

There was no need for Uhura to do very much; the ^ws

would speak for themselves, even to a Rithrim.

"I agree," Endris assured him. His

gestures underlined the sentiment.

"Good," said the commodore. He cleared his

throat. "Back at the procreation center, I

couldn't help but notice the statuary around the

building. Fine workmanship, too. But it looked

as if some statues had been removed." He

leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Is there a

reason for that?"

This time Uhura had a bigger part to play. She

had to expand on Wesley's praise for the

statues, then make his request as polite as

possible.

Whether it was her doing or not, the Rithrim

seemed unperturbed by the query. "The conditions at

Girin Gatha have not been kind to some of the

statuary," he explained. "We have found it necessary

to repair or replace certain pieces." His

signs invited further inquiries if Wesley

thought they would be productive; Uhura said as

much.

The commodore shook his head. "No. I think

we've got our answer. Thank you for your

patience, Present-cycle Governor." The

lieutenant embellished the expression of

gratitude.

"It was no trouble," Endris told him. His

expression seemed to change subtly;

likewise, Uhura noted, the position of his

hands. "Unfortunately, I must convey some news

you may not find pleasing."

A crease developed in the center of

Wesley's forehead. "Oh?"

The Rithrim clearly didn't know how

to respond to that. Uhura used her signs to turn

it into an appeal for additional information.

"There has been an alteration of plans," said

the governor. "We have decided against providing a

site for your observation facility." He

eloquently indicated his regrets. "I hope

this does not represent a great inconvenience."

Uhura didn't get it. Apparently neither

did the commodore; the crease in his brow grew more

distinct.

"I'm at a loss," said Wesley. "If

I may ask, what happened to change your

minds?"

Even before Endris spoke, Uhura could tell

by his sign language that he was loath to disclose

any more. "I am not at liberty to discuss the

matter further," the Rithrim told them. "Again,

I apologize for the inconvenience."

The commodore took a breath, let it out. "Have

we offended you in some way?"

"In no way have you offended us."

Stymied, Wesley looked up at Uhura.

"Any idea what's going on here?" he asked,

keeping his voice to a whisper.

She shook her head. "I wish I did,

sir."

Wesley turned back to the screen. "How

does this decision affect what we're doing at

Girin Gatha?" Uhura added a question Will we be

allowed to continue our work there?

Endris appeared to hesitate. Finally he

said "We will no longer require your assistance

at the procreation center. I believed I had

made that clear; if not, allow me to make it

clear now."

The commodore held his hands out, as if in a

plea for sanity. "Present-cycle Governor,

we're willing to help you with your problem

regardless of what happens to our observatory.

If you recall, I said those were separate

issues."

Uhura did her best to emphasize the concept

of separateness. It seemed to have no effect.

"I can only repeat our position on this

point," the Rithrim replied. His gestures

made it clear there was no room for debate--a

fact which she conveyed to Wesley.

Nonetheless, the commodore wasn't one to take

no for an answer. Fixing Endris with his gaze,

he chose his ^ws carefully. "While I concede

that this is your world and that it's your right to do what you

want with it, I would be remiss if I didn't

remind you that there are lives at stake here--^th of

your young, no less. If I were in your position,

I would be reluctant indeed to make any

decision that jeopardized those lives." He

paused. "It's been my experience that any

difference can be worked out, any obstacle to cooperation

overcome, if both parties are committed to the

task. I cannot imagine that this instance would

prove an exception."

The Rithrim's signs were firm--unyielding

almost to the point of rudeness. "You may remain in

orbit around our world while you recover your people and

your equipment," he said. "Then you must leave,

albeit with our thanks for your kindness."

"I don't believe this," Wesley muttered.

"They're going to send us away--let innocents

die when we could help them--without even telling us

why. It's absurd."

Uhura felt the same way. But neither she

nor the commodore could do anything about it, because in the

next moment Endris's visage vanished, to be

replaced by the majestic image of Rithra.

The raiders streaked through space and started firing

on the Enterprise, their weapons exploding off

the ship's hull.

"Freeze it."

Obediently the raiders' ships came to a

halt.

In the conference room, Kirk, Spock,

McCoy, Scotty, Sulu, and Giotto sat

around the table, staring at the frozen image on the

central computer screen.

"Would have been a bonny thing if we could have done

that during the battle," said Scotty ruefully.

There was glum no.ing of heads.

"Analysis, gentlemen," said Kirk.

"What are we dealing with here?"

"We've run a thorough analysis on the

types of weapon discharges used during the

battle," said Spock. "Without any question, these

are the same individuals who struck at the

colony at Alpha Xaridian Two and,

presumably, the other colonies as well. The

radiation traces are unmistakable."

"But we still don't have any record of who

uses weaponry of that sort."

Spock shook his head. "Nothing directly.

Furthermore the ship design"--he indicated the

odd angles of the ship--?is unique in Federation

records. Either this is a race that we have never before

encountered or else they have customized their ships in

order to disguise their origins."

"And did they customize their sensor and helm

abilities as well?" Sulu wondered out loud.

"I've never seen maneuvering like that."

"How fast were they going?" asked Kirk. "It

almost seemed as if they were going faster

than impulse power but below sublight--at some

sort of bizarre speed in between."

But Scotty was shaking his head. "No. That's

not it at all. One of the lads ran a graphics

breakdown. Computer File Pavel-One,

please."

The computer screen immediately switched to an

image of one of the raiders, with a blue grid

superimposed on it. The ship was positioned in the

right-hand corner of the screen.

"Run the graphics, please," said

Scotty.

The ship, a frame at a time, made its way

from the upper right to the center of the screen and then veered

off to the lower left. Another raider following

precisely the same trajectory was visible coming

in behind it. A trailing red line that delineated the

ship's course was left behind, and at nine points

along the line there were small boxes with numbers

next to them.

"Now you'll see here"--Scotty indicated the

upper right--?t when we first start tracking the ship,

it's moving at zero-point-eight light speed.

A nice clip, I'll be granting ye that ...

but not warp speed. And the speed remains steady

along all these points, until here"--and he

tapped the center of the screen--?where she suddenly

changes course like a bat out of hell."

"How fast was it going then?" asked Kirk.

He leaned forward and blinked in surprise.

"Zero-p oint-eight? It didn't change

speed?"

"No, sir. Not at any time during its arc."

Giotto whistled. Sulu and McCoy leaned

forward, staring in disbelief. "Can you run that thing at

normal speed?" asked McCoy.

"Computer," said Scotty, "run graphic

at normal speed."

McCoy blinked and almost missed it.

"Incredible."

"The way they were going, I took it for granted

that they were changing speeds," said Sulu. "I was

amazed at the technology they had that enabled them

to accelerate and brake so quickly."

"Well, they dinna have it," said Scotty.

"Incredible skill and precision in maneuvering,

yes, like nothing I've ever seen. But their speed

is constant."

Kirk nodded. Well, at least we're

beginning to have some idea of what we're up

against. Mr. Scott, my compliments to whichever one

of your lads worked up that computer study. That was good

thinking."

"Yes, well,"--Scotty cleared his throat

loudly--?he isn't exactly one of my

lads. He's one of yours, actually. And he had

some time on his hands, what with his being confined

to quarters."

For a moment Kirk frowned, having no idea

what Scotty was talking about. Then the light

dawned. "Chekov."

"Aye."

"Yes, well ..." Kirk harrumphed

slightly and then said, "Good work on his part. I

knew he was in Starfleet for some reason."

Sulu spoke up. "I'll let him know you were

pleased, Captain."

"Yes, Mr. Sulu. You do that."

Chapter Nine

Sitting at his desk, Chekov engaged the

ship's computer in yet another battle

simulation. On the screen a red blip

representing the Enterprise maneuvered against a

series of yellow blips, which stood for the

marauders.

Thinking about the Kobayashi Maru test and

how Kirk reprogrammed the simulation had set the

ensign to thinking. At the Academy he had

studied the use of computer models; it had just never

occurred to him before to actually use them on the

Enterprise.

What was more, he was finding it infinitely

instructive. The first time he ran the program,

Chekov followed Kirk's actions and watched a

near-perfect repeat of what actually happened.

Then he asked the computer to implement his own

maneuver and watched for the results. They were the

same each and every time a victory for the

Enterprise, hands down.

Chekov had been right. And his idol, Captain

Kirk, had been wrong--though it was unlikely the

ensign would ever get any satisfaction from the knowledge.

He was about to store the last simulation when the

door buzzer sounded. Given his level of

concentration, it startled him, but only for a moment.

"Come in," he said, steeling himself.

After all, he expected to see Kirk or

Spock, ready to rake him over the 185

coals for his actions up on the bridge. He was

surprised and relieved to see the smiling face of

Sulu instead.

"Hi there, Ensign. We missed you at the

briefing, and I thought you should know what's going

on."

"You mean they haven't kicked me off the

bridge yet?"

Sulu's smile broadened as he sat down

on the edge of Chekov's bed. "No. But I can

imagine the captain is pretty sore about what

happened. You know, Pavel, he had every right

to discipline you after that stunt you pulled."

"But my plan would have worked. Here--look."

Chekov leaned back in his chair and had the

computer rerun the last computer simulation. As

Sulu watched, the red blip representing the

Enterprise emerged victorious.

"See?" asked the ensign, when it was all

over.

The navigator shook his head. "You don't

get it, do you? You weren't in command, Pavel--the

captain was. It was red alert. Attacking

ships were flying around like butterflies, and you

stopped everything to offer a suggestion."

"Did you really think Captain Kirk would

call a time-out to discuss the merits of your plan--

even if it .was sounder than his?" The

navigator paused to let his ^ws sink in. "As

long as the captain's in command, he's got to call

the shots. You know full well that when there's time,

he'll ask the bridge for suggestions and

opinions. But they must be offered when the time is

right. Understand?"

Chekov thought about it. At last he nodded.

"Yes. I think I do. Thank you. But where do

we go from here?"

"At the briefing the captain decided that

we're going to find those ships again--but this time

we'll be better prepared to deal with them. We

all know they must be stopped before they destroy

another colony.

"In the meantime we're on yellow alert and

Spock is riding the sensor teams real hard,

making sure we scan for every possible emission

trace. We'll find those raiders--it's just a

matter of when."

"Do I still have a job up there?" Chekov

asked, no.ing upward.

"I think you'll be riding the board again 187

before you know it." Sulu smiled once again, and

Chekov was impressed at how such a simple

gesture could transform his mood. He found himself

feeling a bit better.

"I hope so. Othervise I may as vell

start filing for a transfer." He frowned. "If

I've lost Keptin Kirk's confidence, then

there's no place for me here."

Sulu stood and said, "True. But don't

forget he's left you on the duty roster, and he

still hasn't been down to take you to task. Those are

both good signs. Now I'm going to catch some

sleep, just in case. See you back upstairs."

With that, he patted Chekov on the back and left

the cabin.

Chekov glanced at his chronometer and realized

his shift was due to begin in a short while. He

quickly shut off the simulation scenario and called

up the active-duty roster. To his relief he

was still scheduled for a shift on the bridge. A quick

change of uniform, some water to help smooth down

his longish hair, and Pavel Chekov was ready

to report for duty.

Uhura sat on a stool in sickbay and

watched Dr. Coss shake his head. "I don't

get it, Commodore. We're supposed to pack

up and take off, just like that?"

Wesley nodded. "I'm afraid so."

Absently he picked up a medical tricorder

and examined it. "That's what the present-cycle

governor has asked us to do, and we have no choice

but to comply."

Coss sputtered. "That's insane. Those people have

got a serious problem on their hands--one that's

likely to produce a whole slew of birth

defects, not to mention claim some lives--and

they're turning down help it'd cost them nothing

to accept?"

"That's about the size of it," said the commodore.

The doctor turned to Uhura. "Are we

missing something here, Lieutenant? Could we be

misinterpreting their message somehow?"

She shook her head. "It's pretty clear.

They just don't want us on their planet."

"But they wanted us a few hours ago.

What's different now? What's changed?"

Wesley shrugged. "Damned if I know.

It's a mystery, Doctor. And as much as I

hate leaving a mystery unsolved, 189

we've got to--"

"Commodore?" It was Baila's voice coming

over the intercom.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, I'm receiveg a call from the

Rithrim."

Wesley grunted. "From Endris?"

"Maybe they've come to their senses," muttered

Coss.

"No, sir," came Baila's response.

"Not from Endris. In fact, it's not from the

governors at all. It's from a procreator."

The commodore exchanged glances with Uhura.

"Come on, Lieutenant. You're with me."

"And so am I," the doctor insisted. "I

want to know what's going on here."

As they left sickbay and headed for the bridge,

Uhura could feel her pulse accelerate. For a

procreator to want to speak with them directly,

something big had to be in the offing.

When Chekov walked back onto the bridge,

he felt as if all eyes were on him.

Fortunately Scotty had the conn; Kirk and

Spock were off somewhere else; likewise Sulu

and Palmer. Thanking the Fates for small

favors, the ensign briskly crossed the

bridge and took his place behind the navigation

console.

Of course, even there, he wasn't safe from the

scrutiny of others. Everyone on the bridge

knew Chekov had erred badly. And no one

knew that better than Chekov himself.

"Good to see ye back, laddie," Scott said

to break the tension. His voice was calm, even

friendly.

"Thank you, Mr. Scott" was all the ensign

could manage. Chekov ran a quick systems

diagnostic and then studied the course and setting.

"Ye missed the fireworks. The rogues got

away, but we'll engage them again, no doubt."

"Aye, sir."

Time passed. The chronometer moved with aching

slowness. With the starship moving at warp three, there

was little for Chekov to do from his post. He would have

to remain alert, in case sensors discovered the

attackers' ships, but until then, it was business

as usual.

Scott stood up from the center seat and moved

over to the engineering station. As the chief 191

engineer's fingers flew across the console, Chekov

saw Scott scrutinizing the readouts on the

highest screen above him. Looking down at the

console again, the engineer touched two more buttons and

then watched the screen shift color. Harrumphing

a bit, he walked back to the center of the bridge

and stood right near the ensign.

"I still canna figure out the power curve on

those beasties. They move faster than they should and

turn like figure skaters, not hunks of tin.

What do you think of that?"

Chekov realized Scott was trying to help

him. Gratefully he concentrated, running

options through his mind as fast as possible.

And then it came to him. "Ve could use the

sensor readings to program simulations, study

vhat it vas they vere doing," Chekov offered.

"Ah, that we could. Come, give a hand, eh?"

For the next half-hour, the two men worked at

their respective stations, Chekov at the science

post and Scott at engineering. They didn't have

to say much to each other, but Chekov certainly

felt glad to make a contribution.

At last, the study done, Scott walked

over and clapped a hand on Chekov's right

shoulder. "That's the answer , laddie. They can

maneuver far better than we can, making it seem

as if they're more powerful. Tricky but not

invincible."

"Yes, sir," Chekov acknowledged and

smiled. "Thank you for letting me help," he

said in a very quiet voice.

"Say nae more about it. Now, shift's over.

Go get some rest. I'll bring this up at the

staff meeting. The captain's left ye out of it

again, but I'll let 'im know ye helped. Might

make things easier the next time ye're together up

here."

"Thank you, again, Meester Scott. I mean

it." Chekov stood, straightened his gold shirt,

and left the bridge, feeling like a competent

officer for the first time in days.

But no sooner had he entered the turbolift

than his spirits fell again. The captain had left

him out of a key briefing--ag--and might even

replace him on the duty roster with another

navigator.

Left out of the flow, he reasoned, he might just

end his career on the Enterprise. Inexorably

he fell back into his funk. It was 193

getting to be a familiar place, given how much

time he'd spent there of late.

"My name is Dab."

The procreator looked nowhere near as imposing

as Endris had. Her eyes were small and black,

but that was where the resemblance ended. While the

governor was tall and slender, Dab was short and

squat, with exaggerated musculature in the area

of her hips. Where Endris's crest was high and

feathery, the procreator's was short and

stiff-looking, almost spiny.

There was another difference as well the pitch of

Dab's voice. Uhura knew from her studies

that each caste sounded different; the builders had the

deepest voices and the procreators the highest.

"Greetings, Dab. I'm Commodore

Robert Wesley, commanding the Lexington." A

pause, giving Uhura time to complement his speech

with her gestures. "How can I be of service

to you?"

The procreator seemed hesitant. "Before I

answer your question, I must tell you this it is not

customary for those of my caste to speak directly

with those of other races. In fact, it has always

been our right to speak with anyone we pleased, but it

was a right we never exercised, trusting to the

governors to embrace our best interests."

Her signing was not as fluid as Endris's,

nor as eloquent. But Uhura found it easier

to understand.

"We do not feel," Dab went on, "that the

governors are embracing our best interests in the

present instance. The procreation center must be

protected; for our caste, that is of paramount

importance."

Wesley glanced at Uhura.

"Lieutenant?"

Uhura took a deep breath. "She wants

us to remain here, Commodore. That's very clear.

She wants us to stay and help--despite the

decision of the governors."

Wesley considered the Rithrim on the

viewscreen. "Tell me, Dab. How much

authority do you have in this matter?"

"I have sufficient authority," she said.

"An understatement," Uhura noted,

interpreting Dab's hand signals. "She has as

much authority as Endris, though she seldom

uses it." 195

"You mean we can stay on her say-s?" asked

Dr. Coss. "And finish our job at Girin

Gatha?"

Uhura looked at him. "According to Dab,

yes."

"Of course," Wesley told the

procreator, "we'll have to confirm this with the

present-cycle governor. But if he doesn't

object, we'd be only too glad to follow through

on our promise of help."

"That will be appreciated," said Dab. And the

viewscreen went blank.

"Well, I'll be damned," muttered the

commodore. "Mr. Baila, put me in touch with

Mr. Samuels."

The first officer's robust voice seemed

to fill the bridge. "We're almost packed up,

Commodore."

"Well, unpack, Mr. Samuels.

There's been a change of plans."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. We just received ^w from the

procreators--and they want us to stay. I've

still got to clear it with Endris, but I don't

expect any trouble there."

Samuels grunted. "We'll start setting

up again, sir. That'll probably go pretty

quickly, too. You get better at these things with

practice."

The commodore chuckled. "No doubt you do.

Wesley out."

"Sir?" said Uhura.

Wesley turned to her. "Yes,

Lieutenant?"

"I'd still like to know why the governors changed their

minds. And I'd like permission to explore that

issue with the procreators."

The commodore mulled it over. "I don't

see why not," he replied at last. "After all,

they've opened the lines of communication with their

caste. You want to try this alone?"

Uhura found her gaze drawn to the

communications officer. "Perhaps Mr. Baila could

accompany me."

If Wesley was surprised, he concealed it.

"Very well, Lieutenant. You've got my

blessing. But be careful. I don't want the

procreators to change their minds on us the way the

governors did."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," she 197

assured him.

Kirk lay back on his bunk, his hands behind his

head, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling, he

noted, never seemed to give him answers

to anything. But that was why human beings commanded

starships.

At the moment, the Enterprise was cruising the

Gamma Xaridian system like a shark, moving from

one end to the other, as if daring the raiders

to return. The crew members might very well have

been wasting their time.

While the Enterprise patrolled Gamma

Xaridian, the raiders might return to Alpha

or Beta ... or anyplace else, for that

matter. But if the Enterprise went to one of the

other systems and the raiders returned to Gamma

...

Kirk rubbed his temples. That was the sort of

second-guessing that could make someone

absolutely crazy.

He was so distracted that at first he didn't

hear the beeping of his door. Finally he looked

up. "Come," he said.

He expected it to be either Spock or

McCoy; anyone, else would have used the

communications system. As the door hissed open,

Kirk smiled at the sight of his first officer.

He liked the idea that he knew his crew so

well.

"Something, Spock?" Kirk prompted.

The Vulcan sat in the chair opposite

Kirk's Spartan desk. In his lap rested a

data padd and stylus, and he looked up with a

gravity that forced Kirk to pay strict attention.

"Yes, sir. It seems that the Xaridian

colonies--"

"The colonies? I thought you were studying the

marauder ships," the captain said with surprise in

his voice.

"I was, yes. But when further study in that

area proved less than fruitful, logic

suggested I turn my attention to the colonies."

He paused. If Kirk hadn't known better,

he'd have said it was for dramatic effect. "When

I got to Alpha Xaridian Two--"

"The first colony we visited," said Kirk.

"Yes, sir. I was going over a list,

supplied to us by the colony, of materials and

machinery that were destroyed ... and 199

presumed destroyed."

The way Spock hung on those last few ^ws

caused Kirk's ears to pick up just slightly.

"Presumed destroyed?"

"Aye, sir." Spock paused. "At first

I was concentrating only on those materials and

machines that were found. But I began to notice that

certain categories of scientific instrumentation

were missing from the debris--all state-of-the-art and

unobtainable outside the Federation."

The captain thought about it. "Are you suggesting that

the attacks were ... distractions, Spock? A

way for the raiders to beam down scavenger crews and

acquire certain technologies?"

The Vulcan nodded. "Perhaps not in all

cases; none of the other colonies have reported

any loss of equipment. On those worlds random

destruction was apparently the raiders' sole

motivation. But on this colony, at least, I

believe you are correct theft was a motive behind

the attack."

Kirk muttered a curse. "Someone killed

thousands for a ... a shopping list?" He shook his

head, feeling the anger build up inside him.

"That is perhaps a simplified description of the

events, sir, but an accurate one nonetheless.

What is more, the missing equipment would allow a

person or persons to construct some of our most

advanced machines."

"Which ones, Spock?"

The first officer picked up the padd, took a

glance at one of his notations, and then placed it

carefully on the edge of Kirk's desk. For

Spock, this act of familiarity was a subtle

sign of his comfort around Kirk, a comfort he

seldom displayed with other humans.

"A complete catalog can be prepared for you,

sir, but dozens of items can be built. If we

knew who the raiders were, we could more

accurately surmise the intent behind the theft of the

machinery."

"All right," Kirk said. He flicked a

switch to clear his computer screen, then swiveled

in his chair. Spock, always brought out his sharpest

thinking, just another of the many reasons Kirk

appreciated the Vulcan so much. "Let's go

about this a different way. The equipment is all

Federation-issue, which means that member worlds are not

now under suspicion. These small ships can't have

much in the way of fuel support, so they 201

have a limited range. Could we use the

Xaridian system as the center of a search pattern

and, from there, make a few educated guesses as

to which worlds might be under suspicion?"

Spock nodded. "Of course, Captain. I

suggest we assign this task to one of our

navigators, since I would like to continue my

research into the raiders' weaponry. It might

make a difference when we encounter them again."

"Of course. Who's at the top of the duty

roster?"

"Ensign Chekov, sir ... unless you wish

him removed."

Kirk paused to consider. He had recently

reread Chekov's file and was giving his newest

ensign a lot of thought.

Spock must have noticed the captain's

hesitation, because he had quietly raised an

eyebrow in lieu of repeating his question.

"He froze on the bridge," Kirk

explained. "He suggested maneuvers rather than

carrying out my order. I don't know if I can

trust him during this mission." The captain paused

and swiveled around in his chair, regarding his first

of ficer eye to eye. "What do you make of

Chekov, Spock?"

Steepling his fingers, the Vulcan looked

pensive. "I find his work quite good, and he is a

most efficient navigator. In fact, compared with

other navigators since you took command of the

Enterprise, he has displayed a range of

skills that is most admirable. He seems

to hold his homeland in high regard." A pause.

"He is, of course, young; his enthusiasm can get

in the way."

Kirk swiveled again and called up Chekov's

file on the desktop computer. He took a

moment to scan it.

"McCoy apparently thinks that Chekov's

love of Mother Russia is a defense

mechanism--a way to handle being thrown in with

older, more experienced people. I can sympathize with

that. The Enterprise can be pretty hard on a

newcomer."

"I agree, sir," Spock said quietly.

Kirk looked up, suddenly aware of the

sensitive area he had casually opened up. "Of

course you do, Spock." Kirk frowned. "Do you

think he can handle the pressure?"

"On his previous landing-party 203

missions, especially Sharikan and Beta

Damoron Five, Chekov served quite well, as

you are no doubt aware," Spock began. "His

natural curiosity has stood him in good stead

at the science station." He shrugged. "I believe

he has shown poise under tension. He may make

a fine officer in the future."

Kirk nodded and looked away. The Vulcan

sat and watched. After nearly a minute of thought,

Kirk turned in his chair and nodded. "Okay,

Spock, let's give him another chance. Have him

research the sector, and let's see what he can

do. But if we go to red alert, I want another

navigator ready in case he does not have what

it takes."

"Understood, sir." Spock stood and

collected his padd. He turned and walked out,

leaving Kirk to study Chekov's file on the

computer once again.

Chekov felt more nervous than ever on the

bridge, although everything was proceeding smoothly.

He had been called back to duty by Spock

himself and given a thorough briefing as to what they

needed to find.

The ensign was surprised, of course; he'd

thought for sure that the captain wouldn't ever trust him

again. But here he was, running astrogation maps

on the colonies and beginning to work with the theoretical

limits of the raiders' ships, as provided

by Mr. Scott.

Sulu sat beside him, as effervescent as always.

Some of his cheerfulness was finally beginning to rub off

on Chekov, who loved working this way.

Spock was in command, but he contented himself with

sitting at the science station and conducting further

studies on the attackers. Crew came and

left; the time seemed to fly by. Finally Chekov

was feeling more like a functional part of the crew again.

"Have you found anything yet, Chekov?" Sulu

asked.

"No, sir. Mr. Scott thought that the ships

would be capable of a four- or five-parsec

range, and that's a lot of space to study. But

I have figured out that, given the colony location,

it is not the Klingons. For that I am grateful."

"Me too," Sulu replied. "We've

dealt with them once too often for my taste."

"Aye. But ... vait a moment. ..."

Chekov trailed off. He ran his 205

fingers over one of his control panels and then

studied the small screen on his left. Once

again his fingers flew, rapidly depressing

switches. The telltales flickered in a

variety of colors. At last, looking over his

right shoulder, he beckoned Mr. Spock.

"What have you found, Ensign?" The first officer

stepped down to Chekov's station and looked at the

screen.

"The attackers may have come from some five or

six populated solar systems that we know about,

Mr. Spock. But that range also includes

Parathu'ul. Didn't they try to gain admission

into the Federation?"

"Indeed." Without another ^w, Spock

returned to his science station and began working with the

library computer.

Chekov looked to Sulu. The helmsman just

shrugged.

A moment later the Russian noted that

Spock's computer had been linked to his own

station. He watched in fascination as the Vulcan

worked the computer like a master chef in his private

kitchen.

"Fascinating." Spock stood and looked out

at the bridge viewscreen. Then he toggled a

switch and called out, "Spock to captain."

Within seconds the screen over the science station

snapped on with Kirk's image. He must have

been resting; his uniform shirt and his hair were a

bit rumpled.

"Yes, Mr. Spock. Have you found something?"

"Actually, Ensign Chekov found something.

He pointed out that one of the worlds the raiders may have

come from is Parathu'ul."

"But we know what their ship configurations are like

... what kind of energy resources they have. You

ruled them out some time back."

"Yes. And I still believe they are not the

raiders. However, when Mr. Chekov reminded

me that they once tried to gain admission to the

Federation, I reviewed their original

application."

As Chekov watched, Spock seemed to bend

closer to the captain's image. "They asked for

some of the very same components that are now missing from the

colony worlds."

"That still doesn't explain--"

"Mercenaries!"

Chekov had blurted out the ^w before he 207

knew it. He half expected a reprimand, but

instead, Spock nodded. "That would be my inference as

well, Ensign." He turned again to the captain.

"And once they gain the stolen equipment, they could

do what they originally intended build advanced

weapons, which they could use to completely

subjugate the rebellious elements in their

society."

"I see," Kirk said. "It would seem,

Mr. Spock--"

"That a visit to Parathu'ul is in order?" the

Vulcan responded.

"Exactly," said the captain. "Kirk out."

No sooner had the captain's voice faded

than Sulu leaned over and smiled broadly.

"I think you're out of the doghouse."

"Why?"

"Didn't you hear the captain?"

"All he said was "I see."' Hardly the

kind of praise that would signify being out of the

doghouse."

"It wasn't what he said," Sulu

explained, "so much as the way he said it."

Chekov shook his head, not taking his eyes off

the screen. "We'll see how much trust he has

in me when we find the raiders."

"You Russians are certainly good at

brooding," Sulu said good-naturedly.

"Ve inwented brooding," the ensign replied

solemnly.

Chapter Ten

Why had the governors changed their minds about

getting involved with the Federation? Wesley leaned

back in his command chair and turned the question around in his

mind, much as a jeweler would inspect a precious

stone.

But it got him no closer to an answer. He

didn't know enough about the workings of the Rithramen mind

to even venture a guess.

Maybe Uhura would have some luck down at

Girin Gatha. She had a good head on her

shoulders, and she seemed to enjoy a rapport with the

natives. If anyone could--

"Commodore?"

Rousing himself from his reverie, Wesley turned

to the junior officer at the communications station.

"Yes, Mr. Ling?"

"Sir, I have a subspace packet 209

from Starfleet Command. A mission report they

thought you should see."

"Unrestricted access?" asked the commodore.

"Aye, sir, unrestricted."

"Then put it on screen, Mr. Ling."

A moment later Jim Kirk appeared on the

forward viewscreen. Wesley smiled at the

surprise. Tempted to say something clever, he

had to remind himself that this was a recording and not the

genuine article.

"This is Captain James t. Kirk of the

Enterprise," the message began. Kirk

looked serious--v serious.

Not going too well, is it, Jim?

"In accordance with my orders, I'm keeping

you abreast of what's happening here in the Xaridian

systems. Naturally you'll want to relay this

to all ships in the vicinity." Kirk paused.

"First off, we've engaged the raiders, but without

satisfactory results. At one point we

managed to separate one of them from the fleet, but it

blew itself up rather than be captured by us." A

pause. "My chief engineer calls them

"warriors born."' It's an apt

description. "Bloody murderers"' would be

another."

The commodore grunted softly. Nasty

customers. But then, they'd expected them to be.

"Unfortunately," Kirk went on, "we

haven't yet found a way to track the raiders,

nor do we have any idea how to beat them if we

do find them. But just recently my staff came

up with a theory as to what their motive may be."

Wesley leaned forward in his chair. This he

wanted to hear.

"Apparently certain materials and machinery were

missing from the Alpha Xaridian Two colony

site. At first we thought they'd just been

destroyed, but now we think otherwise. It turns

out that the list of missing materials matches the

wish list of a race called the Parath'aa, which

applied for Federation membership not so long ago--

unsuccessfully, I might add. You can get more

on them from your ship's computers, but I can tell you

this their civil rights policies would make even

Colonel Green lose his lunch. These people are the

last ones I'd want poring over the pride of

Federation technology."

The Parath'aa? How interesting, the commodore

mused. 211

"Of course, Parathu'ul isn't generally known

for its military prowess. The only logical

conclusion is that its leaders have hired mercenaries

to do their dirty work."

On the screen Kirk's features hardened.

"We're on our way to Parathu'ul now to see

if we can prove its link to the raiders. If

we're lucky, we'll accomplish more than

that--maybe even find a way to stop these killers.

If not"--he shrugged--?we could always pull out the

old Ouija board. Kirk out."

Wesley smiled grimly. Ouija board

indeed. He knew Jim Kirk; quips like that

one were his way of letting off steam. The fact that

he'd included it in a message to Starfleet

Command was an indication of how thoroughly frustrated

he was.

What's more, the commodore didn't blame him.

In Kirk's place, he' d have been pretty

frustrated too. Hell, he was frustrated just from

hearing about it.

As he thought this, the screen reverted to an

image of Rithra. Wesley sighed. Good

luck, Jim, he said silently.

"That's the end of the message," his comm officer

reported.

"Yes, Mr. Ling, I noticed.

Acknowledge our receipt of the packet."

"Aye, sir."

The commodore made a mental note

to apprise Samuels, Uhura, and Baila of the

Enterprise's situation. Especially Uhura.

She'd want to know how her old ship was doing.

"My God," said Baila, peering through his

visor at the flood of red-hot lava on the

other side of the invisible barrier. He glanced

seaward at the clouds of steam. Again "My

God."

Uhura smiled. "I know. It kind of leaves

you speechless, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "Yes. Yes, it does."

On the other side of the humped front lawn

Samuels was directing the reassembly of the

shield generators. But the first officer hadn't

taken note of her and Baila, and Uhura could

think of no reason to disturb him.

Taking Baila's arm, she turned him in the

direction of the procreation center. "Come on.

Let's see if we can't get Dab 213

to talk to us."

He wiped his forehead and turned to her. "Tell

me the truth, Lieutenant. Why did you bring

me along? I mean, it's you who speaks their

language. You're the one they're most likely

to open up to."

She shrugged. "Haven't you heard? Two

heads are better than one."

Baila looked at her through his visor, his

eyes full of suspicion. "That's not the

reason."

"No? Then what is it?"

"I don't know. Trying to build me up,

maybe, in the commodore's eyes?"

"Or maybe in your own?" she returned.

He muttered something and walked past her, headed

for the procreation building. "I wasn't looking for

pity when I confided in you, Lieutenant."

She caught up to him. "Who said anything about

pity? I just want you to see your own worth--ffsee

that you've made yourself into something, despite what your

family may think."

Baila frowned, his black eyes smoldering in

the red light of the lava flow. "Made myself

into what? A failure?"

"A communications officer on a

Constitution-class ship, serving under one of the best

skippers in the fleet. Last I heard, that was

nothing to sneeze at."

"I don't think Wesley would say I'm so

terrific."

"I think Wesley would say you could be--if

you'd stop holding yourself back." She grabbed him

by the shoulder and spun him around. "Damn it,

Baila, your family was wrong to say the things they

did. Terribly wrong. Just because they've given

their souls to Beccah Talulu doesn't mean they

can give her yours!"

He looked at her, not with anger, but like a child.

His brow was beaded with perspiration. "What are you

saying?"

She touched his shoulder again, this time more gently.

"Can't you see, my friend? It's not you who's dead

--x's them. Put them past you now, amuntu.

Be a man."

Baila took a deep breath, expelled it.

"Be a man," he echoed.

Uhura nodded.

Something seemed to rise up within him, as if his

spirit were reawakening, sloughing off the bonds 215

of guilt and self-doubt. It was so obvious a

change that Uhura caught her breath.

Maybe that was all Baila had needed someone

to set him straight.

Of course he had a long road back. But the

Asians weren't the only ones who had a saying

about that first step; the Bantu had philosophers,

too.

Baila shook his head. "Blazes, woman,

you're something--y know that? Now I know why they

call you Freedom."

Uhura smiled.

The doors to the procreation center slid open

at their approach, revealing a foyer that was stark and

unadorned, illuminated by lighting fixtures

set in a double helix pattern in the ceiling. But

as Uhura led Baila inside, what struck her

more than anything else was the quiet.

Not that it was completely soundless; she could hear the

clack of their footfalls on the stone floor and the

distant cacophony of tiny voices that reminded

her the place was a nursery. But compared to what was

going on outside, the procreation center was silence

itself. And that was fine with the Enterprise's

communications officer, who'd had her fill of the

sizzling din during her first visit to Girin

Gatha.

There was no one there to greet them, not that Uhura

had necessarily expected there would be. However,

the corridors that projected from the foyer were bound

to be populated with caregivers for the Rithramen

young.

Baila looked at her. "Think we'll offend

anyone if we go inside?"

Uhura shrugged. "Not if we're discreet about

it."

He pointed to the central corridor. "How

about this one?"

"Looks as promising as any other," she said.

Together they set off down the hallway in search

of a guide. They hadn't gone very far before they

passed a nursery window.

It was set up much like a nursery in a

hospital back on Earth. Uhura almost

expected to see a crowd of parents and

well-wishers crowding around to see the new

arrivals.

Of course the babies inside didn't look

the least bit human. They were too pink, 217

their eyes were too small, and no son of Earth

ever had a crest on his head the way these Rithrim

did.

"Wonder which caste they are," Baila commented.

Uhura listened to their wailing, muted by the

transparent wall between them and the infants.

"Gatherers," she concluded.

Her companion looked at her. "How can you

tell?" And then, before she could reply, he came

up with the answer himself "That's right. By the pitch of

their voices."

Among the Rithrim, pitch was established at

birth, even if other physical characteristics were not.

It was nature's way of ensuring that infants would

be caste-identified and segregated immediately so that

their caste specialty could be honed.

Peering through the nursery window, Baila shook

his head. "Isn't it funny? When you listen

closely, they sound like adults instead of

babies."

"It is funny," she conceded.

"May I help you?" said a voice

directly behind them.

Uhura whirled and saw a procreator with her

hands clasped against her chest. They'd been so

enthralled with the young that they hadn't heard her

approach.

"I hope so," she told the Rithrim, as she

did her best to recover from her surprise.

"We're looking for Dab."

"Dab?" the procreator repeated. And then

"I can lead you to her, but ..."

"Is there a problem?" asked Uhura. "We

just spoke with her a little while ago, when we were up

on our ship."

The Rithrim seemed to think for a moment. Finally

she indicated with her hands that she'd come to a

conclusion, if an uncertain one.

"No," she said. "No problem. Come with me,

please."

They followed the procreator down the

corridor. Before they'd gone fifty paces,

they'd passed two other nurseries one for baby

builders and the other for newborn governors.

There was only one more window between them and the door.

Like all the others, this nursery was full, every berth

filled with a bawling infant.

Just out of curiosity Uhura listened for their

pitch. Judging by the tilt of his head, Baila was

listening, too. 219

But there was something strange here. The babies were

howling at a pitch she didn't recognize.

Stopping, Uhura listened more intently, just to be

sure. However, she'd been right the first time. The

pitch was off--not just in one or two of the babies but

in all of them.

Baila had stopped also. He regarded her.

"You hear it also?"

She nodded. "And I've got a good ear for such

things."

The procreator looked up at them. "Something

is amiss?" she asked.

"Not really," Uhura assured her. "We were

just wondering about these babies. Their voices are

too low-pitched to be governors and too

high-pitched to be gatherers."

The procreator looked at them helplessly.

"I do not understand your question." Her hands were

absolutely silent--a very unusual condition for a

Rithrim. "Perhaps Dab can answer it."

Uhura nodded. "Perhaps."

Obviously eager to get going, the procreator

hurried through the door, barely giving it time

to slide away. Exchanging glances, the

Starfleet officers followed her through.

Silva, the planetary leader of Parathu'ul,

smiled thinly, which of course was the only way he

could smile. He steepled his long, slender

fingers and glanced around the room at his visitors,

who were saying nothing.

"You are being joking with me, yes?" he asked

politely.

"We are being joking with you, no," replied

Kirk. Spock stood next to Kirk, largely

for effect. Kirk had noticed that the mere

presence of the forbidding, inscrutable Vulcan was enough

to unnerve anyone being questioned about a transgression.

Apparently, however, the Parath'aa were able

to suppress their terror. Silva even made a

sound that resembled a soft chuckle. "This is being

quite a surprise, Captain. Here we're being

open and honest about our knowledge of these raiders, which

admittedly is minimal. And now you are being

accusatory of us. Saying that we are somehow not

only aware of their identities, but are

supportive of them, or even their employers."

"The thought had occurred to us," said Kirk.

Silva sighed and shook his head. "Such

disappointment we are feeling now, 221

Captain. Such sadness. Here we are being

hopeful of joining the Federation, and you act in this

manner."

"I find it an interesting coincidence," said

Kirk, "that your petition to join the Federation came

very, very shortly after the raiders started their

attacks in this system. One could argue the

remarkable timing. On the one hand, you could be

pursuing your desire for technology through means of

conquest, while on the other hand you try to throw

suspicion away from yourselves by approaching the

Federation on peaceful terms."

"Intriguing the way in which your mind works,

Captain," said Silva calmly. He rose and

loo ked out his window, gazing across the great square.

"Now as for myself, I would be pointing out that the

presence of the raiders might simply serve

to underscore what a dangerous place the galaxy

can be and how important it is being to have friends and

protection. Is that not as reasonable an

explanation for events as your own? What do you

think, Mr. Spock?"

"It is not unreasonable," Spock said

carefully.

"There!" Silva said triumphantly. "It

is not being unreasonable. Of what higher vindication

can we be hoping than that of a Vulcan."

Kirk shot a look at his first officer, who

merely looked back impassively. "It is not

unreasonable, Captain," Spock said again.

"Besides," Silva added, "there is not being

absolutely conclusive proof that any equipment

or materials is being missing from Alpha

Xaridian Two. In fact, as you have yourselves being

telling us, other attacked worlds have not been robbed

at all. Destruction, yes. Terrible

destruction"--he shuddered slightly in sympathy

--?b not theft. Now, why would raiders being stealing

on one world and not on others? Other worlds have other

technology that we Parath'aa would like. Why are

they not being looted?"

"Yes, I was thinking about that very thing myself," said

Kirk. "I've been giving that a lot of thought.

And you know what I've come up with?"

Silva shook his head politely.

"ABC murders," said Kirk.

At that, Silva looked utterly confused.

He looked to his compatriots for an

explanation, but none was forthcoming. "I'm

sorry?" 223

"It's a method of murdering someone and disguising

your motive," said Kirk. "Let's say that you

want to murder Person A. But you're afraid

that this action will inevitably point to you as the

murderer, since anyone who might want Person

A murdered would doubtless be investigated."

"Oh, doubtless," confirmed Silva, still not

entirely following.

"So you murder Person A, and not too long

afterward, you murder Person B. And then Person

C, D, E, and so on. You do so using some very

obvious pattern that the authorities are certain

to notice. That way they will falsely conclude that

they are dealing with some sort of pattern serial

killer rather than with someone who really wanted only

one person dead but went to great trouble to cover his

tracks."

"I do not fully understand the parallel," said

Silva.

Kirk walked slowly toward him and stopped

barely a foot away. "Oh, I think you do,"

he said. "The attackers get much, if not all,

of what they need on the first colony world they

attack. But they don't want it to be obvious

that they're stealing technology which might be connected

with you. So they attack other colonies, focusing

purely on the devastation so that they'll be percvd

as engines of destruction rather than thieves. And they

continue on this course until they, and you, are

convinced that the trail toward you is ice cold.

Am I making myself clear enough now, Silva?"

Silva's body seemed to tremble for a moment,

and then in a low and deadly voice, he said,

"Captain ... we are being polite hosts. But

you are being rude visitor. We will be asking you

to leave."

Kirk glared at him through narrowed eyes and

waited for the Parath'aa leader to crack.

Unfortunately this technique didn't meet with

much more success than the strategy of bringing a

Vulcan with him. The Parath'aa were,

apparently, unflappable.

His gaze never leaving the Parath'aa, Kirk

flipped open his communicator. "Kirk

to Enterprise Two to beam up." He closed the

device and said quietly, "We'll be keeping

an eye on you, Silva."

"Enjoy the view, Captain Kirk" was

Silva's calm reply.

225

When Kirk and Spock stepped off the

transporter pads, McCoy was waiting for them.

"Well? How did it go?"

"They broke down completely and threw themselves

on our mercy," Kirk informed him.

"Hunh. Didn't admit to a thing, did

they?"

"Not a thing."

The wall communicator sounded, and Palmer's

voice came down. "Bridge to captain."

From the tone of her voice, Kirk already had a

hunch what this call was going to be about. He

walked quickly to the wall unit and punched a

button. "Kirk here. Who's being attacked

now?"

Palmer did not even hesitate despite

Kirk's small display of telepathy. "Beta

Xaridian Four."

"Lay in a course. Inform Engineering I'll

need warp eight. This time there are no ships buying

us additional time. I'm on my way up." He

clicked off and turned to Spock. "It would

appear," he said as they headed out of the

transporter room, "that Administrator

Jarvis and the colonists of Beta Xaridian

Four have just watched their luck run out. I hope

to God we get there in time to restore it."

Chapter Eleven

Dab's office, if it could be called that, was a

large room in which one entire wall was composed of

viewscreens--sixteen of them, each showing a

different nursery.

"I was not informed of your coming," said the head of the

procreator caste.

"Our apologies," Uhura told her. Her

hand movements echoed her ^ws. "I regret any

inconvenience we may have caused."

Dab eyed them. "It is no inconvenience"--

especially in light of the help the Lexington is

giving the procreation center, she added in sign

language.

"As you may have noticed," Baila said, "our

engineers have begun reassembling their shield

projectors."

Dab nodded. "I have indeed noticed." Her

hands asked How long before the shields will start

working?

"They should be up and running in three 227

to four days," said Uhura. "That's what I'm

told by Mr. Samuels, who is in charge of the

operation." She used signs to indicate that four

days would be the maximum.

"That is good." The procreator indicated her

approval. "Some of the offspring we nurture here

have gotten sickly in recent days. Your

assistance has come none too soon."

For a moment there was silence. Uhura considered the

best way of bringing up the governors' sudden

change of heart and finally decided that the direct

approach might be the most useful.

"Procreator Dab," she began, "we've

been unable to fathom the governors' reasons for

changing their minds about our helping you here. We

certainly don't mean to pry into anything that's not

our business, but we believe that the better we

understand Rithrim of all castes, the more helpful

we can be to you."

Dab nodded. "Your request is a reasonable

one. What is more, I have some inkling of the

governors' thinking on the subject, even if I

disagree with it." She paused. "However, I cannot

divulge the information you seek. Only the

governors may provide it."

Uhura didn't like getting stonewalled--but she

didn't say so. What she said was "Thank you for

your honesty, Procreator Dab."

"You are quite welcome." Dab sat back in

her chair. "If our business is concluded here,"

she told them, "various matters await my

attention." Her hands were already bidding her

visitors farewell, figuratively ushering them

out the door.

"Actually," said Baila, "there is one other

thing. Nothing important--j a matter of

curiosity."

"Ask," the procreator instructed him. "I

will answer if I may."

The communications officer licked his lips.

"Outside, in the hallway, we came upon a

caste nursery we had trouble identifying."

"Oh?"

"That's right," Uhura chimed in. "The pitch

of the babies' voices is different from that of any

of the four castes."

Dab shook her head. "You must be mistaken.

There are only four pitches; the pitch in the

nursery you speak of must be one of the four."

Her hands were immobile--j like those of the 229

procreator they'd encountered in the corridor.

Uhura noted the fact and wondered about it.

Baila must have noticed, too, because he

didn't press the issue. He just inclined his

head to the procreator.

"Perhaps we were mistaken," he said. "Thank you

for your indulgence."

"Again, you are welcome." Dab pressed a

button on her desk, and a moment later another

procreator came in--though it didn't seem

to be the one who had led them to this office.

"See to it that our visitors are escorted

out," instructed Dab. Her hand signals made

the order into a request.

"Gladly," said the newcomer. She signed

to the humans. "Come with me."

And so they left Dab's office--albeit with

more questions than they'd had when they entered.

The damage reports were coming in fast and

furiously to the emergency command center where

Administrator Sharon Jarvis and her closest

aides had secured themselves. Bunkers had been

hollowed out below the ground and lined with duranium,

affording the cowering colonists a sizable degree of

protection. Overhead Jarvis could hear the pounding

of the raiders' weapons, the roar of their ships, as

the deadly vessels strafed the surface of the

planet looking for new targets.

One of her aides, Joan Winston, had a

small communicator pressed against her ear. She

called out to Jarvis, "Ground defense crews

are keeping the raiders hopping! Our securing the

crews against mountainsides has given them added

shelter ... at least for the moment."

"Come on, Kirk," breathed Jarvis. "What

are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get

your interstellar ass over here."

"Coming up on Beta Xaridian Four,

Captain," Sulu said, as the Enterprise

dropped out of warp speed. "We'll be in range

within two minutes."

"Red alert. Raise shields. All hailing

frequencies," said Kirk, experiencing a

natural feeling of d@ej@a vu. By all

reason, there was no need to go through the pretense that the

raiders were going to be interested in chatting.

The call came up from Engineering. "Captain,

you can't be thinking of taking us into battle 231

again so soon?" came the voice of the chief

engineer, bordering on indignation.

"It had crossed my mind, Mr. Scott.

We'll need everything you 've got."

"Captain," Scotty said in horror,

"I'll need another three hours to fully

restore all systems! As it is, she's being

held together with spit and bailing wire!"

There was one thing to be said for Scotty, the

captain mused the engineer did not waste a great

deal of time recounting technical details. He

had once commented that it wasn't necessary to "waste the

captain's time with such trivia," but Kirk

suspected that Scott simply assumed the

details would be too complicated for Kirk

to understand.

"In that case, Mr. Scott, I suggest you

work up some more spit."

"Aye, sir," Scotty said wearily.

Clearly he was not happy with the way things were working

out.

"Sensors indicate power expenditures near

the planet surface," Spock announced. "It

would appear that the raiders have already begun their

assault. The colonists are defending themselves

adequately, but they cannot hold out forever."

Somewhere below the atmosphere, where the

Enterprise could not go, the brazen attackers were

assaulting the colonists. Kirk felt a cold

fury building in him.

"No response on any channels,"

Palmer announced.

"If we fire down on the raiders with

phasers set on maximum--" Sulu began.

"We risk killing the colonists, and there's

no guarantee that we'll hit any of the

raiders," finished Kirk. "Perhaps wide-range

phaser stun ..."

"That would most certainly stun the colonists, and

they could not protect themselves," said Spock. "And the

shielding of the raiders' ships--alth vulnerable enough

at close range with direct hits--wd seem

to be quite formidable at a distance."

Palmer added ruefully, "The likelihood

is that they wouldn't even be slowed down."

"Quite correct, Lieutenant."

"Send down shuttles?"

"They would be outmaneuvered and outgunned," said

Spock. "It would be suicide."

"We have to bring them to us, damn it!" 233

said Kirk.

Chekov's gaze went from one person to the other

as he followed the rapid conversation with wide-eyed

amazement. He was impressed with the smoothness with which

the crew examined possibilities, analyzing and

discarding them. And it occurred to him that frequently

such analyses went on right inside the captain's

head. Silently he would evaluate and select

strategies, then order them so smoothly and

efficiently that one never suspected the effort that

went into the decision.

And when the captain needed suggestions, the

bridge crew served as extensions of his own mind.

They verbalized the options that he might already be

reviewing, or that had not occurred to him. All of the

discussion centered around the captain, and in turn he

affected every part of the bridge. The steady flow of

information, delivered by trained professionals, was

dazzling and impressive.

Chekov opened his mouth as a fleeting thought

occurred to him. But he still felt abashed and confused

over the earlier business that had cost him--for however

brief a time--his valued position on the

bridge. He did not want to do anything to risk

such a fate befalling him again. So he closed his

mouth without voicing his opinion.

The momentary facial expression, however, was not

lost on Kirk. And Chekov blanched as he

heard Kirk's voice say, "Mr. Chekov

... you have something to contribute?"

"We have to protect the colonists," said

Chekov. "If we protect them, the raiders will

come after us."

"Yes, Mr. Chekov," said Kirk

impatiently. "Any thoughts as to how we can

protect them?"

Chekov glanced desperately at Sulu. The

message in the helmsman's eye was clear If

you have an idea, spit it out.

"The colony is only a few miles long,"

said Chekov. "We could erect shields over it

using our deflectors."

"Defensive shielding only covers the ship,"

Palmer said. "It won't extend all the way

down to a planet's surface!"

"Not those deflectors," said Chekov.

"The--"

And Kirk sat bolt upright, as if someone had

jabbed a cattle prod into his back. "The

navigational deflectors!" 235

"Yes, Captain. Normally they're fully

automated, extending miles in front of the ship,

shoving aside meteors and debris so they won't

strike the ship. But if the navigational

deflectors can be recalibrated--"

"Spock!" Kirk was already turning to the

Vulcan. "Can you do it?"

Spock was moving before Kirk got halfway

through the sentence. In an instant he was standing over

Chekov's navigational computer. Chekov started

to rise in order to give the Vulcan more room, but

Spock gestured him back down with a quick shake of

his head. His fingers were already manipulating the

computer controls.

"I've taken manual control of the

navigational deflectors," Spock said as if

talking from a great distance, "and am rerouting them through

the main deflector dish while I

reconfigure the beam."

The ^w "trivia" went through Kirk's mind,

said with a heavy Scottish burr. "Will it

protect the colonists?"

"It will create a barrier fashioned from

extremely narrow, but extremely effective,

deflector beams spread along the perimeter of the

colony andwitha pinnacle of"--he checked quickly--

"one thousand meters. Sir, the computer instruction

is on line."

"Perfect. However, that is the navigation station.

The navigator, by rights, should handle the finishing

touches. Ensign?"

Chekov nodded as he activated the

recalibrated navigational beam.

On the planet's surface one of the raiders

was diving straight toward the bunker in which Jarvis

and a number of other colonists were secured. The

bunker was squarely in the vessel's sights, and a

quick flip of a trigger would have been enough to rain

destruction down upon them.

The trigger, however, was not flipped, quickly or

otherwise, for the deflector beams materialized

directly in front of the raider, too close for

even the unusually agile ship to avoid. The

raider crashed headlong into beams that had been

designed to brush aside or pulverize floating

space matter. At the speed with which the raider was

moving, the deflector became the immovable

object against the raider's irresistible force. The

object resisted the force without 237

significant difficulty, and the raider

exploded into an extremely impressive

fireball that skipped along the edge of the conical

defensive shield and ended up several miles

away.

The other raiders were able to react quickly enough,

however, and they veered off from the defense screen in

time. They swarmed around it like maddened hornets,

firing in frustration.

"They're trying to batter down the navigational

deflector beams, sir," reported Sulu.

Kirk looked like a Bu.ha. "Let them."

He punched down to Engineering. "Scotty, I

want all power fed into those beams. Reserves.

Everything."

The engineer sounded worried, but said simply,

"Aye, sir."

Chekov turned in his chair. "You wish to leave

us defenseless, Captain?"

"Criticizing, Ensign?"

"Inquiring, Captain."

"Navigational deflectors holding, sir,"

said Sulu. "Our own shields are fading, but the

cone is holding steady on the planet."

Kirk hadn't looked away from Chekov.

"We don't need defenses, do we, Ensign?"

Chekov pondered the question for only a moment.

"No, sir. Not while they're down there and

we're up here."

"Precisely."

"But we can't keep the navigational force

shield in place indefinitely," Chekov

pointed out.

It was Spock who replied. "They do not know

that, Ensign."

"The question will be," said Kirk, "which will have greater

limits our power or their patience."

It didn't take long to learn the answer.

"Attacks on the defensive cone have ceased,"

Spock announced from his hooded station, and then, a

moment later "Raiders approaching at

three-two-two mark nine."

"Captain," said Chekov in a determinedly

neutral voice. "When they attack, we'll have

to shift defenses back to the Enterprise. The

colony will be unprotected. If they should leave

ships behind to continue the assault--"

"They won't," said Kirk.

"But--" 239

"I said," Kirk repeated with confidence, "they

won't."

"Incoming attackers!" called Sulu.

"Seven ... no, eight."

"So that wasn't their entire fleet we

encountered before," said Kirk. "Redirect power

to ship's deflectors. Mr. Sulu, are any

of the raiders still at planet altitude?"

"No, sir, they're all in space."

Kirk smiled. "Mr. Sulu, fire at will.

Phasers and photon torpedoes."

The Enterprise armament lashed out at the

raiders, and once more the ships bobbed and weaved with

alacrity. But Sulu was studying them carefully,

and even as he fired at what was on the screen,

he studied quick replays of their moves across his

helm display.

"I'm starting to notice some patterns," said

Sulu. "I think I can anticipate some of their

moves this time."

"Best guesses, Mr. Sulu. Fireffwas

Sulu quickly tracked two of the ships and fired

off a phaser blast directly into their path while

at the exact same time releasing an array of

photon torpedoes into the direction he was certain

that the ships would steer.

He was rewarded with partial success. Two of the

ships managed to avoid the torpedoes, but two

others were not so fortunate. The torpedoes caromed

directly into them ...

And bounced away. The ships were wobbling and off

kilter, but otherwise seemed unhurt.

Sulu took advantage of their momentary

disorientation to batter them with phaser blasts. But the

main battery of the Enterprise offense seemed

to have as little effect as did the torpedoes--ll

effect physically, that was.

Psychologically, however, it seemed that the

Enterprise had given them more than they wished

to swallow. The raiders suddenly came together,

swept down and around, and shot behind Beta

Xaridian IV. The clever positioning put the

planet between them and the starship; the only way the

Enterprise could fire on them was to shoot

straight through the pl anet. That would have been, to put

it mildly, counterproductive.

The Enterprise whipped around the planet as

fast as the impulse engines would drive it, but by that

time it was too late. The smaller ships had gone

into warp. 241

"Damn," muttered Kirk.

"They were moving slower," said Sulu. "They were

definitely moving slower. Maybe we're wearing

them out."

"Let's hope we have the opportunity to wear

them out even more," said Kirk. "Lieutenant

Palmer, signal Beta Xaridian Four that

all is clear. Mr. Chekov, restore the

navigational deflector to normal usage. And

nice thinking about the use of those navigational

deflectors."

Chekov bobbed his head slightly in

acknowledgment, then screwed his courage to the sticking

place and said, "Captain ... how did you know

they would attack us in full numbers instead of

splitting their forces?"

"They'd lost the element of surprise for the

planet raid," said Kirk. "If our theory

is correct, their goals are more on an z-need

basis than graven in stone. They could afford

to retreat. What they could not afford was to face the

Enterprise at less than full strength. If

they'd sent half their force up here and left the

rest planetside, they would have risked our

defeating the smaller number while the remainder were

stuck below. They had to face us in as large a

number as possible; it was their best chance for

accomplishing anything, including the possible

destruction of this ship."

"And you knew all that for sure?" said Chekov

admiringly.

Kirk sighed. "Mr. Chekov, the first thing they

taught us in command school is that the captain can be

right or the captain can be wrong, but the one thing the

captain cannot be ... is unsure." He paused

and then added, "Even if he doesn't have a

clue."

Chapter Twelve

Wesley leaned back in his chair, surveying

the two communications officers across his conference

room table. "Maybe you .were mistaken," he

suggested.

Uhura shook her head. "No chance, sir.

I've got perfect pitch."

"Dab and her people are lying," insisted Baila.

"There's something about that nursery they don't want

us to know about."

Uhura nodded. "I could tell by their 243

hands--they weren't moving them when they discussed the

nursery. I'll bet it's easier for them to deceive

with the spoken ^w than with their sign language."

Wesley digested the information. "All right.

Let's say for the moment that they're lying. What

does it mean?"

Uhura frowned. What indeed?

"Could it be," Baila suggested, "that there's a

connection between the mystery nursery and the missing

statues?"

That roused the commodore's interest. "Could be,"

he replied. "Care to venture a theory,

Lieutenant?"

Uhura heard the challenge in Wesley's

^ws, even if Baila didn't. The commodore

was daring the man to make a real contribution--

to prove his worth.

Baila thought for a moment. Finally he shook his

head. "No, sir. No th--" Suddenly, his

eyes lit up. "I take that back," he said.

"I have got a theory. And it's a whopper."

Uhura leaned forward. "Well? Don't

leave us in suspense."

"How about this What if there are more than four

castes in Rithramen society? What if there

are five?"

"Five?" Uhura echoed, starting to see the

possibilities even as Baila laid them out.

"That's right, five. But maybe there's something

about the fifth caste that makes the other Rithrim

want to disown them. Something they did--"

"Or maybe something the other Rithrim did

to them," Uhura interjected. "Something the other

Rithrim weren't very proud of."

Baila's temples worked. "Either way, the

fifth caste disappeared somehow. Maybe they were

banished to another world; maybe they died. And now

the governors and the gatherers and the builders and the

procreators are trying to sweep them under the

rug."

Wesley's eyes narrowed. "Then the statuary

they're destroying ..."

"Depicts the fifth caste," Baila finished

for him.

"But of course they can't obliterate the

caste's presence in society alt. It would still be

represented in the gene pool; infants would still be

born with fifth-caste characteristics."

Uhura saw where he was going with this. "It

makes sense," she remarked. "It 245

makes a whole lot of sense." She turned to the

commodore. "The babies in that nursery were

definitely not of any caste we know about."

Wesley looked from one to the other of them. "Now

that I think about it," he said, "we had just asked

Endris about the statuary when he told us we were

to leave Rithra. At the time, I thought nothing of

it; he made it sound as if the decision had already

been made. But now I'm not so sure." He

shook his head. "Could they be so ashamed of this fifth

caste that they'd sacrifice a procreation center

to keep us from the truth?"

"People have sacrificed more for less," Uhura

reminded him.

"Maybe you're right, Lieutenant. But what

could have happened that was so terrible? All the

Rithrim we've met are peaceful to a fault."

"Let's see," said Baila. "Governors.

Gatherers. Procreators. Builders." He

ticked the castes off on his fingers as he named

them. "All the basic functions of a society.

What am I leaving out?"

Uhura thought about it. What was the analogy

Baila had made early on? He'd compared the

Rithrim to ... Terran insects, right? Right.

So what did an insect colony have that

Rithramen society didn't? What--

"Oh, my God," said Uhura, without meaning

to speak out loud. She looked at Wesley and

Baila and saw the stares they were giving her.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" prodded the commodore.

Uhura leaned forward. "I think I've got

it, sir."

"It's not working. I'll never get it to work."

Overhearing the complaint, Scotty walked

outside his office and looked down into the engineering

section. He was never quite sure why the architects

had decided to put the chief engineer's office

atop a ladder, but there it was.

Down below, two engineers huddled over a

circuit board. One, a dark-haired man named

Washburn, was trying to reattach three small

circuits, using tiny tools. The other, a

tall, slender black woman named Masters, was

overseeing the job with a flashlight.

"Cheer up, Washburn," Masters said

gently. "We'll get it fixed. And remember,

this is a redundancy system we're repairing.

It's not like the warp engines depend on it 247

this instant."

Washburn wiped some sweat from his forehead with the

back of his hand. "You're right. I guess I've

just been working too hard." He went back to his

work, getting it right on the next try.

Scotty couldn't help but notice that all the

spirits aboard the Enterprise were flagging. Twice

now they had encountered these mysterious attackers and

twice they had gotten away, but the confrontations

were taking their toll.

Surveying the rest of his domain, Scotty

watched men and women repair minor damage and

reintegrate circuits that had fused. His

pride in his personnel and equipment was second

to none, probably not even to Kirk's pride in

the Enterprise.

"Mr. Scott?"

He followed the voice to its source. "Aye,

Mr. Stanley?"

"Sir, the dilithium chamber checks out just

fine. The power fluctuation you found was from a forward

converter."

"Did you repair the problem?"

"All done, sir."

"Good. Then you and Gabler should go down and check

the impulse integration relays. We may need

to maneuver quickly when we find those beasties again."

Stanley nodded and left the main engine room.

Satisfied that things were going as well as could be

expected, Scott went back into his office and

sat down behind his desk.

Sighing, he took another look at the mission

monitor board, a schematic of the Enterprise

on the rear wall. The controls rested on his

desk, allowing him to override just about all the

ship's main functions.

Scott studied the status of each system.

All signs were green, meaning the ship was ready for

just about anything. He paused to listen to the thrum of the

engines, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Warp two," he said softly and then looked

at a bridge monitor. Sure enough, they were

moving at warp two.

With all as it should be, Scott turned his

attention to the raiders again. Their design and

maneuverability intrigued him. He accessed the

library computer and tied in with his own files of

ship design--both those dealing with the practical and

those dealing with the theoretical.

While the raiders' exact 249

configuration did not register, Scott noted its

similarities to ships from the Orion worlds. He

shook his head sadly, thinking about how such fine

design was wasted on thieves and slavers.

Scott then asked the computer to display engine

readouts that the sensors had managed to record

during the two confrontations. The screen lit up

to display colorful charts showing engine output.

He was interested to see that the color flow was

steady, quite unlike most Federation ship designs.

The color charts were encoded with notations on

radiation residue, waste, chemical composition,

and other details, almost down to the microscopic

level. After studying the readouts for a moment, he

asked the computer to slow down the playback.

Scott watched intently as the colors slowly

shifted from one hue to another, with the accompanying

data changing accordingly. He flipped two

switches and asked the computer for a closer

detailed analysis of the engine section alone.

As the computer complied, Scott snapped on

an auxiliary console and ran some separate

notations. He could have spoken directly to the

computer and had it run the information, but he needed to do

something with his hands, and it was always good practice

to stay in physical contact with the equipment itself.

The engineering chief ran the information once more.

Wait a second. ...

"Damn!" he exclaimed out loud--and hit the

communications panel. "Engineering to Mr.

Spock."

"Spock here," came the almost instantaneous

reply. Didn't the Vulcan ever sleep?

"I think I've found a way to track the

marauders," Scotty said.

"Indeed. Continue, Mr. Scott."

The engineer licked his lips. "Like all

engines, the raiders' produce trace ions.

But unlike our engines; theirs are negatively

charged."

Spock was silent for a moment. "And we can use

that fact to follow them to their hiding place. Good

work, Mr. Scott. I will inform the captain.

Bridge out."

Scotty sat back in his chair and shook his

head. He'd just turned the whole bloody mission

around--andthe only thing Spock could say was "Good

work."

Ah, well. Another day, another miracle.

251

Spock snapped off the communication channel and

relayed Scott's discovery to the captain, who was

engaged in discussion with Sulu. Kirk's reaction

was as expected.

"Terrific, Spock. Mr. Sulu, tie in

with full sensor sweeps and find the marauders.

As soon as you find something, have Chekov lay in a

course. We may have something here."

"Aye-aye." Sulu's reply was tinged with

excitement.

"You know, Spock," Kirk began, "finding

them is only half the battle. We've still got

to beat them."

"Yes, sir. I am awaiting a final

analysis from Lieutenant Commander Giotto on

tactical maneuvers. He is replaying the

two confrontations and running simulations."

"At least this time we have that luxury," Kirk

said. He looked out at the bridge, noting how

all members of the crew set eagerly about their

tasks. Scott's good news had come at just the

right time.

"Sir?" Spock had taken up a position just

behind and to one side of the captain.

Kirk turned to him. "Yes, Spock?"

The Vulcan spoke in a low voice. "You

are about to begin your third consecutive shift on the

bridge. Is it not time to obtain some rest?"

The captain smiled. Though he hadn't really

thought about it, he realized that he could use a

rest. The last thing he wanted was to have to confront the

raiders without his wits about him.

"You win, Spock." Turning to his

helmsman, he said, "You have the conn, Mr.

Sulu."

"Aye-aye, sir," came the response.

As Kirk got up and headed for the turbolift,

he saw the first officer take his place.

Fortunately Vulcans could go a lot longer

without sleep than humans could.

A moment later he was inside the lift,

watching the doors close--but thinking about anything but

rest. After all, he'd engaged the mystery fleet

twice and barely managed a draw.

What could he do differently the next time? Part

of him wanted to ask Starfleet for a backup

ship. Maybe a second starship would help--and

then again, maybe not. Besides, the nearest vessel was

the Lexington, and Bob Wesley was busy

enough. 253

No, he'd have to handle this one himself, just as he'd

handled other tough missions in the past. He'd

rely on his wits, his officers' skills ...

and a little luck.

* * *

The governors' courtyard was every bit as

imposing now as it had been the first time Uhura had

seen it, and every bit as bright. As before, Uhura

materialized alongside Wesley, Baila,

Samuels, and Dr. Coss; as before, the

governors awaited them on the opposite side

of the small blue-green pool.

Of course there were some differences as well. For

one thing, the builders were no longer in evidence,

apparently having completed their labors. They'd

done a good job, too; the fresco they'd been

working on was as old- and venerable-looking as any

other.

The other difference, and by far the more significant

one, was the presence of Dab. As silent as any

of Endris's companions, the procreator stood

to one side of the governors' bench in a sleeveless

white garment.

The present-cycle governor got to his

feet. "Welcome," he said.

His hands conveyed a somewhat different message

one that was heavy with urgency. After all, the people from the

Enterprise had already been asked to leave,

hadn't they? What was this meeting about, anyway, and

why was it necessary for a procreator, even one as

high-placed as Dab, to be there?

All this Endris said with his hands. But Uhura

didn't translate; she'd made the commodore

aware of the governor's impatience before they beamed

down. Judging from Endris's gestures, she was

surprised he had agreed to this talk at all.

His attitude didn't bode well for the

outcome of this discussion. Wesley had hoped that

once the Rithrim's secret was out in the open,

they'd agree to let the Federation people stay and help

out at Girin Gatha. But Endris's impatience

put that hope in jeopardy.

Hell, maybe exposing the Rithrim's

secret would make the governors that much more

determined to kick them out. One never knew.

"Sit," Endris instructed the visitors.

"Actually," said the commodore, "I'd prefer

to stand. You see, where I come from, no one sits

unless there's a seat for everyone. And I don't

see anywhere for Procreator Dab 255

to sit."

Uhura expanded on the idea for the benefit of the

Rithrim. It was difficult to get across the very

human idea of chivalry, but she managed.

The present-cycle governor hesitated for a

moment. Then he said "There is no slight

intended to Procreator Dab--nor, I assure

you, does she perceive one. Of course, you may

sit or stand as you wish." And he sat.

"Nice start," whispered Coss.

"Thanks for the encouragement," returned

Wesley.

He cleared his throat. "Governors ...

Procreator Dab ... I am probably

overstepping my bounds with what I am about to say.

If I weren't so concerned about the health of your people

at Girin Gatha, I wouldn't even consider it."

He looked around the courtyard as if admiring the

stone-carving work that had gone into it. "This is a

beautiful place. An ancient place. And like

many ancient places, it hides a secret,

doesn't it?"

Uhura looked for the governors'

reactions--in their hands. She wasn't

disappointed. The Rithrim's fingers were clenched in

obvious anxiety. Only Dab seemed

relaxed--alm relieved.

"It seems to us," the commodore went on, "that

not so long ago, there were five castes on this

planet. A caste of governors, a caste of

builders, a caste of gatherers, a caste of

procreators--anda caste of warriors. There's

no crime in Rithramen society now, no

strife, but that couldn't always have been the case. There

had to be soldiers, defenders, police--p who

could bring force to bear in the protection of your

earliest pockets of civilization."

Uhura searched for some sign that they'd guessed

wrong. She saw none.

"Bingo?" muttered Baila.

"Bingo," she confirmed.

"But something happened to that fifth caste," said

Wesley, gathering steam. "Something that made your

society feel ashamed, either of the warrior caste

or of itself. So you decided to obliterate them and the

memory of them." He indicated the walls of the

courtyard with a sweep of his arm. "To wipe out all

trace of them, here and elsewhere."

The commodore eyed the governors again.

"Maybe when you invited us here, you 257

didn't think we'd notice what you were doing. But

we noticed, and we asked about it. And you thought we

were getting too close to your secret, so you asked

us to leave, choosing to sacrifice the lives of many

of your young rather than let us find out what happened

to your warrior caste."

Wesley paused. "Well, I'm here to tell

you I don't give a damn what happened to them.

Sure, I'm curious. But I'm not here

to judge you; that's not what the Federation is all

about. The only thing of any importance to me is

to make sure the procreators and the children are safe

at Girin Gatha."

Silence. For a moment no one moved. Then

Endris made a distinct and deliberate sign of

dismissal.

"You have come to an erroneous conclusion," he said,

perfect calm in his voice. His gestures

emphasized the ^ws. "There has never been a

fifth caste on Rithra. What is more, we

resent your temerity. We were under the impression that

when we asked you to leave, you would do so without

conducting an investigation."

It was painfully obvious to Uhura that Endris

was lying. But there was nothing she could do about it. It was

the Rithrim's planet, not theirs.

But Wesley had one more card to play. He

turned to Dab, who had been quiet all this time.

"Is this what you want, Procreator?"

For what seemed like a long time, Dab

returned the commodore's gaze. Finally she

spoke--but not to Wesley.

Turning to the governors, she said "It is

over; they know that. And I am glad, because there is

no longer any reason to let the little ones die."

If Endris was angry with her, he didn't

show it--not even in his hands. Rather, he signified

acceptance, even resignation.

Regarding the Federation team anew, the

present-cycle governor stood. His

black-robed figure was reflected in the still

waters of the pool. "You are correct," Endris

said. "There is a fifth caste, a warrior

caste. And we are indeed pained by the choices they

have made."

He paused--though his hands kept going,

eloquently expressing the depth of his distress.

"In the old days the warriors were a valued

part of our society. They enforced our laws; they

prevented us from inflicting harm on one 259

another. Then, when our race matured beyond

intraspecific aggression, we turned to the stars,

and the fifth caste found another function the

defense of Rithra against the peoples we

encountered in space.

"As it happened, we encountered few peoples,

and none of them turned out to be a threat. However,

that did not prevent the warriors from being prepared.

Over the years they honed their instellar battle

capabilities to a fine point, becoming

acutely skilled pilots and marksmen. But they

never got a chance to exercise their skills in

battle.

"It was becomin g increasingly obvious," Endris

explained, "that the warriors no longer had a

role on Rithra. Worse, given no other

outlet, they began to turn their aggressive

instincts on one another. For the first time in

centuries there was bloodshed among Rithrim--

internecine conflicts between growing factions of

warriors. Ironically, sadly, the caste

nature had designed to stem violence had become

the cause of it."

As Uhura listened to the governor, something

gnawed at her. An annoyance, she thought at

first, a distraction. She was so intrigued

by Endris's ^ws that she tried to dismiss it, to push

it aside.

But she couldn't. Because as the governor went on,

she realized where he was going with his speech--and that

what seemed to be a distraction was just her mind's

way of putting two and two together.

Nor was she alone in that, apparently. As she

looked at Wesley, Baila, Coss, and

Samuels, each in turn, she saw the first

glimmerings of realization in their eyes.

Baila turned to her. "Uhura ..."

"I know," she said. "I know."

In the meantime Endris went on, his hands

sculpting the bright air of the courtyard. He

seemed oblivious to the humans, oblivious even

to his fellow Rithrim, absorbed as he was in the

memory of his people's grief.

"Compelled by their genetic makeup to fight, but

unable to vent their aggression on or around Rithra,

the warriors decided to leave us. For the first time in

our history a caste planned to split off,

leaving its sister castes behind. What would they do?

Where would they go? We asked these questions.

"The warriors told us there were 261

numerous populations in the galaxy in need of a

proficient fighting force--planetary

civilizations that would welcome them with open arms.

To the other castes, however, the very idea was too

shameful to contemplate. The warriors were part of

us, and we were part of them; the procreators carried

their future generations. How could they hire themselves

out to some other race? It would dishonor us all.

"But the warriors would not listen. In fact, they

said, they had already agreed to serve an alien

government ... on a planet called

Parathu'ul."

"The Parath'aa," repeated Wesley.

"Damn!"

Endris looked up at him, suddenly conscious

of his surroundings again. "Yes, the Parath'aa. You

have heard of them?"

The commodore grunted. "You might say that.

And your warriors are working for them?"

"That is our understanding," the governor agreed.

"Though we have not heard from our fifth caste since

it left Rithra, so we have no way of knowing for

certain."

"The mercenaries in the Xaridian systems

..." Samuels began. "Captain Kirk

called them "warriors born."'"

The commodore nodded. "A bunch of top-notch

fighters, like none we've ever seen before. It

makes sense."

"I do not understand," said Endris.

The commodore frowned. "Not too long ago a

mysterious fleet began raiding some of our

colonies, killing innocent people for no apparent

reason. I've got a sneaking suspicion those

raiders are your warriors."

The governors looked at one another. Their

hands flew in rapid exchanges.

"They're discussing the possibility," Uhura

translated without being asked. "And they're conceding

that Commodore Wesley could be right."

Finally Endris turned to them again, remorse

etched in his face.

"We did not know," he said. "If our sister

caste has stooped to murder on behalf of the

Parath'aa, our shame is deeper now than ever."

He shook his head. "Our dishonor knows no

bounds."

"You could redeem yourselves," Wesley suggested.

"Our ships have been unable to stop your warriors.

Help us--give us some idea of their 263

weaknesses--and we'll be able to put an end to the

slaughter."

The governor regarded him. "Do you know what you

are asking? If we were to divulge our warriors'

weaknesses, and if our revelation led to their blood

being shed ..." He shuddered. "The fifth caste

has abandoned us, but we will not betray them."

"We don't want to kill them," Coss

interjected. "Just to stop them."

Endris's hands cut the air. "And can you

guarantee none of them will perish in the process?

Our warriors do not surrender easily,

Doctor. If we help you, our betrayal of

them will surely lead to their death."

"Sir ..." said Samuels.

The commodore looked at him. "Yes?"

"We already know one of their weaknesses."

It took Uhura a moment to realize what he

was talking about.

Wesley, too, apparently. Then a grim

smile took hold of his features. "So we

do," the commodore responded. "So we do."

Chapter Thirteen

Chekov sighed. Finding the raiders was proving

a lot tougher than anyone had expected.

Sitting beside him, Sulu raised his gaze from his

helm console, turned to the ensign, and said

"Narrow your range by another hundred thousand

kilometers."

The Russian complied. "Aye, Mr.

Sulu." And then "Nothing yet."

"Have you tried increasing the portion of the

spectrum you are scanning for?"

"Of course."

"Okay, then go to long-range sensors and try

heading three-fourteen mark two-four."

A pause. "Still nothing."

"Once again."

Chekov shook his head. Maybe Scotty had

been wrong; maybe the negative ions he'd

found were a red herring. "Still no sign of them," the

ensign commented wearily.

"Don't give up," said Sulu. "Let's

move over to section three-fourteen mark

one-six."

The ensign nodded. "Aye, scanning now.

Nothing." 265

Chekov swiveled in his seat, looking over at

the science console. "Is everything calibrated as

we discussed?"

"Aye-aye," said the officer who'd taken

Spock's place at the science station.

As for the Vulcan himself, he just sat and watched,

the picture of patience and decorum. No doubt

he'd have liked to be at the science station himself, but

with the captain elsewhere, Spock's place was in the

command seat.

Sulu turned back to his monitors and

resumed examining the detailed schematics of the

sector now under the sensors' gaze. A full

array of readings ran across the screen; Chekov

could see them from where he sat.

"Pavel, there's a group of free-floating

asteroids just at the edge of that sector." He

pointed to the quadrant in question. "Try focusing

there."

Chekov depressed three buttons, peered

into the controls, adjusted the round control on the

viewer's side, and then shook his head. "No

luck, sir." He sighed. "It's getting

pretty hopeless, isn't it?"

"Is that any way for the navigator of the

Enterprise to talk?" Sulu made a clucking

sound. "That's not the attitude that got you through the

Maltusian maze back at the Academy."

The Russian looked at him. "You know about

that?"

Sulu nodded. "News travels--y'd be

surprised how far. Even I had trouble with the

maze."

Chekov smiled a little at the memory. "Ah,

well, if you vant me to find your way through the

maze, that's one thing. It's all in how you handle

the third fork on the fifth level. But this--"

"Is nothing different, just a maze in an

unusual configuration," Sulu finished. "Now

try mark two-three before we move on." There was

a pause and then he added, "The fifth level, you

say?"

Chekov chuckled despite himself. Was this the

helmsman's way of bolstering his spirits? If so,

it was working.

"All right. Let's try heading

three-fifteen mark two-six."

"Aye," said Chekov. "Switching sensor

to three-fifteen mark two-six. Wait a moment

... Got it, Suluffwas 267

"Ensign?" came the Vulcan's voice.

The Russian swiveled in his seat. "I found

them, sir. I found the raiders!"

Spock was characteristically calm. "I see."

He turned to Palmer at the communications station.

"Lieutenant, call the captain to the bridge,

please."

Without waiting to be asked, Chekov laid in the

required course. "Heading now three-fifteen

mark two-six," he announced.

"Increase speed to warp four," said Spock.

"Increasing speed to warp four," Sulu

confirmed. As the engines began to whine a little

higher, acknowledging the change in speed, the

intensity of the bridge crew went up a notch as

well.

"Spock to phaser room, go to standby alert,

please."

A telltale on Chekov's board switched

from amber to green. He nodded to himself.

"Okay, Pavel, exactly where are the

raiders?"

"There is a cluster of asteroids in an

elliptical orbit just beyond the Gamma

Xaridian system. I found over a dozen

separate traces leading in that direction."

"Time until arrival?"

"Four hours, seventeen minutes."

"Plenty of time for the captain to map out his plan

... while we're still on shift." Sulu smiled

a wicked grin. "I wouldn't miss this match-up

for a month's worth of shore leave."

Chekov returned the smile, if a little

grimly, and replied, "Nor vould I."

"Look sharp, people."

The Enterprise slowly approached the

meteor swarm at the outer edge of the Gamma

Xaridian system. Ahead of them floated

thousands upon thousands of small chunks of space

debris, ranging from several millimeters

to several miles in diameter. The swarm itself was

miles wide, looking almost endless.

"Mr. Spock?" Kirk didn't even have

to complete the question.

"Difficult to be precise, Captain,"

Spock said. "A number of the asteroids contain

highly ionized ore that is interfering with our

sensor array. If the raiders are indeed hiding

within the asteroid swarm, it will be very 269

difficult to pin them down."

At the moment the Enterprise was still a safe

distance from the swarm, positioned behind the second

moon of Gamma Xaridian XII, the outermost

planet in the system. Kirk leaned forward,

studying the difficulties that lay before them.

"We don't have any choice," said Kirk.

"At least if we're having difficulty

detecting them, they'll have a problem detecting us.

Deflectors on full. Ahead one-quarter

impulse. Take us in, Mr. Sulu."

Sulu took a deep breath. "Ahead

one-quarter impulse," and he eased the starship

forward.

Slowly the Enterprise made its way into the

asteroid swarm. Sulu maneuvered the ship around

the larger obstacles, but it was impossible for a ship

the size of the Enterprise to have an entirely

smooth trip among objects that size. There was

a steady series of thuds as asteroids hit the

deflectors and bounced away.

"Where the devil are they?" said Kirk, trying

not to let his irritation show.

And then the Enterprise shook under the impact

of an explosion against one of the starboard shields.

"I believe we've located them,

Captain," Spock said.

Once again eight highly maneuverable, highly

deadly ships descended upon the Enterprise. This

time, however, their advantage of maneuverability

gave them a remarkable edge; they could hurtle

toward the Enterprise, fire, and then dart away

to hide among the asteroids.

The Enterprise phasers blasted out in every

direction, but it was impossible to target the ships.

The asteroids interfered with every shot as the smaller

vessels continued their deadly game of

duck-and-run. And every assault, along with the

ongoing hammering of the asteroids, was causing further

strain on the starship's shields.

"Sulu!" Kirk shouted over the sounds of

alarm and the reports of damage from throughout the ship.

"Using photon torpedoes, start targeting the

meteors themselves. Ignore the raiders and fire

on the meteors! If we blast them apart, the

additional debris will slow down the raiders!"

He did not bother to add, I hope.

The helmsman did as he was told, bringing the

torpedoes on line, picking some of the larger

asteroids, and firing. The torpedoes 271

hurtled from the ship and, carefully aimed at dead

center of the targets, blew the asteroids

into fragments. Sure enough, the raiders were forced

to slow down to contend with yet more space debris--

debris that the mch-larger Enterprise could

essentially ignore.

The sudden diminishment in the speed of the raiders

gave Sulu the slight edge that he needed, and the

phasers of the Enterprise suddenly started finding

their targets. The raiders lurched under the blasts

of the weaponry, but again Sulu found himself cursing

under his breath. "The raiders' shields are still

holding up against our phasers!" he called out.

The same could not be said of the Enterprise's own

shields. Blast after blast came in, and when the

alarmed call from Scotty came in, Kirk

wasn't the least bit surprised.

"Shields buckling!" shouted the chief engineer,

as the Enterprise bucked once more under blasts from

the raiders. "This jury-rigging isn't going to last

much longer!"

And at that moment Palmer suddenly spun in her

chair and called out, "Captain! Subspace

transmission from the Lexington!"

"Are they within range? Can they lend

assistance?" Kirk demanded.

"No, sir. They're still in orbit around

Rithra."

"Put them on, but it better be important and

it better be fa/!"

The Enterprise shook once more. Sparks

flew from the engineering station and Ensign Cortez

shrieked once and fell backwards.

"Chekov, take over at Engineeringffwas ordered

Kirk. "Palmer, what the hell happened

to Lexington?"

"This is Lexington, Jim," came the

surprisingly calm voice of Commodore

Wesley. He could, of course, afford to be

calm. He wasn't getting shellacked in the

middle of a meteor swarm.

Chekov eased Cortez to one side and slid

into place at the engineering station. The smell of

burning circuitry was thick in his nostrils, and

his eyes began to tear as the smoke stung him.

Cortez moaned softly on the floor as

Chekov tried to make some sense of the instrumentation

that was still functioning. "Shield power barely

holding, Captainffwas he called out. From 273

the station he could monitor the power rerouting that was

taking place, the handiwork of Scotty in

Engineering.

He was drawing reserves from all over the ship,

shutting down or dampening everything that was

nonessential for the purpose of shoring up the

phasers and shields. But he was running out of

options.

"I hope you've got something useful, Bobffwas

shouted Kirk. "We're under attack by the

raiders, and our phasers aren't punching through their

deflectors!"

"They're Rithrim, Jim! A warrior

caste--one we didn't know about!"

"Is knowing that going to be of any use to me within

the next minute or so?"

"One more hit on shield four will destroy it

completely!" Sulu informed him.

Wesley sounded unflappable. "From what

we've learned of Rithramen technology, the

raiders' shields should be vulnerable to radiation at

the higher end of the scale. Try adjusting your

phaser frequencies."

Sulu turned to look at Kirk, who gave

a quick nod. But Sulu couldn't do it alone.

"Chekov! Recalibrate the--"

Chekov turned and shouted, "I heard the

commodore, Captain. Already done. Phasers

recalibrated."

Kirk nodded in approval. "Sulu! Hold

off. If number four shield is that weak,

they'll undoubtedly come around and try to make that the

main target."

Sure enough, the eight agile ships arced around

and approached from the far side, clearly ready

to target and blast the number four defense shield

into nonexistence. They were not being particularly

subtle about it; their growing sense of

invulnerability, coupled with the damage to the

Enterprise, had bolstered their confidence.

"Now, Sulu! Fireffwas

Space was illuminated by the play of the phasers

against the raiders. On the bridge the offense

weaponry sounded different to Kirk--

higher-pitched, angrier, as if the Enterprise

were screaming in fury at such abuse from the upstart

smaller ships.

The phasers pierced the shields of the raiders like

knives cutting through butter. So powerful was the

impact that the lead raider was blasted 275

clean in half, exploding in opposite

directions. Raiders on either side of it were hit

as well, spiraling to get away and only partly

succeeding.

"Sulu! The asteroid at thirty-eight mark

nine!" Kirk was indicating a particularly large

one that had a flat surface. "Bank shot.

Fireffwas

Sulu immediately understood the verbal shorthand,

did rapid-fire calculations in his head that beat

out the computer by half a second, and fired a

pinpoint beam.

The unusual composition of the phaser beam

caused it to ricochet like a neatly placed pool

shot, catching another raider completely

off-guard. A raider from another angle saw it

coming, but it was a hair too slow, and the starboard

engine of the targeted ship was blown clear off.

Hopelessly crippled, the raider immediately

destroyed itself.

By then Kirk was on his feet. "They're going

to try to get away again. But not this time. Sulu,

wide-angle phaser blast. There's a hole in

the asteroid swarm at twenty mark one-one-four.

They'll probably make for that. On my mark,

three, two, one, and ... fire!"

Kirk was dead-on accurate. The

wide-angle phaser burst lashed out just as the

raiders turned into it. As the Rithramen

warriors realized that they'd swung straight into the

phaser blast, the Enterprise pounded their ships.

On such a wide dispersal, the phasers couldn't be

as powerful as they normally were. But they didn't

need to be, because Kirk's intention was not to destroy

but to stun.

In that respect he was completely successful.

In the cramped seats of their ships, the marauders

were hurled back as the vessels flipped end over

end or spiraled out of control. They tried to reach

their controls, tried to get away, even tried

to blow themselves up. But the phaser blasts cut right

through their shielding, and the pounding of the powerful

Enterprise weapons crushed the consciousness out of

their heads.

Four ships now remained in the fleet of

mercenaries, floating helpless and silent in

front of the starship.

Kirk licked his dried lips once and said,

"Mr. Sulu ... stand down from red alert.

Take the raiders' ships in tow. As 277

soon as we're clear of the meteors, I want

the occupants of those ships beamed aboard the

Enterprise. They have a great many questions

to answer."

"Jim?" came the voice of Commodore

Wesley. "Jim? You still there?"

"Right here, Commodore. It seems"--Kirk

studied his nails with an affected air of

relaxation--?theirthe shields were vulnerable to phasers

set at the high end of the scale. How fortunate

that we happened to discover that in time."

There was a pause, and he could almost see the grin

at the other end of the comm channel. "That's why

you're a legend in your own time, Captain. You

always know just what to do."

"True enough, Commodore. Thank you for your

kind ^ws. All of them."

"Since everything is calm there, we have some

business to finish up on Rithra. Can you

survive without us for a little while longer?"

"I don't foresee any problems,

Commodore."

"Good. Lexington out."

McCoy emerged onto the bridge, carrying his

medical bag. "You through getting the crap kicked

out of us?"

"All done, Doctor."

"Good. Chekov called me to ... oh,

okay. Hold still, Cortez." McCoy knelt

next to the injured engineering officer and immediately

applied painkiller to Cortez's scorched hands.

Kirk eyed Chekov. "You took it upon yourself

to summon Dr. McCoy, Ensign? To inform the

ship's doctor, a superior officer, that he should

leave sickbay and tend to wounded up here?"

Chekov suddenly felt as if he'd stepped in

something. "Mr. Cortez was injured. I thought

that--"

"You thought, Ensign?"

"Yes, sir."

Kirk hesitated only a moment and then

nodded. "Take your position at Navigation,

please. You've got a course to set."

Chekov moved immediately to the navigation station. Was

he in hot water again?

He didn't think so. On the other hand, the

damage he'd already done might have been enough to sour

the captain on him for goo d.

Chapter Fourteen 279

Dab stood in front of her procreation center

--at least, she thought of it as hers--and looked out

at the equipment left there by the humans. The

shield generator they had set out to build was

only partly finished.

And the humans who'd swarmed over the area a

few short hours ago were gone. Nor could she

blame them. Taken by a great shadow of mourning,

she shook her head.

Now the children would die--slowly, and in pain. And the

procreators who were tied to this place by ages-old

instinct would eventually die as well, though not before

the increasing radiation made them infertile.

It was the most terrible thing Dab could imagine.

And to think they had been so close to getting the

help they needed. ...

She heaved a sigh. It was the warriors'

fault. If they had not chosen to exercise their

instincts on helpless colonists, the Federation people

would still be here putting their device together.

No--not the fault of the warriors alone. Because

even after the warriors' role in the slaughter had

been discovered, the Rithrim might have remained in

the humans' favor--had it not been for Endris's

refusal to reveal facts that might have aided in the

warriors' apprehension.

Nor could Dab herself escape blame. Because

if Wesley and his people had asked her for the truth,

she could not have said any more than Endris did. It

was not something she could have found in her heart,

despite the consequences to the procreation center,

despite even what the warriors had done. The

fifth caste was part of all of them. How could she have

helped to hurt them?

And yet she had hurt them, hadn't she? The

warrior infants would die along with all the

others. Her head reeled with thinking about it. The

sequence of events was like a circle, a road with

no end and no way off. No matter what her

choice, or Endris's, Rithrim would have died.

The irony was that the humans had found the information

they were looking for; Wesley and the others had

realized it was in the palm of their hands. And the

warriors would be killed anyway, despite

Endris's attempts to protect them.

Dab contemplated the roiling flow of lava beyond

the barrier. She imagined she could feel its

killing rays as she recalled the meeting in the

governors' courtyard. 281

Wesley had said he did not care what had

happened to the fifth caste. He had said he was not

on Rithra to judge, that the only thing of

importance to him was the fate of the Rithrim at

Girin Gatha.

But that was before he learned what the warriors had

done to his people. That was before they gave him reason

to hate them.

It was not fair. The children had committed no

crime. But they would not be spared; no one would be

spared. So sad, so sad ...

Suddenly there was a glimmer of light near the

Federation's machines--barely brighter than the

ambient light of Girin Gatha, but discernible

nonetheless. As Dab watched, the glimmer gave

way to five figures.

Federation people, she realized, even before they had

become quite solid. Of course--who else would it

be? No doubt they'd returned for their

equipment. She bit her lip in despair.

And then she realized, amid all the pity she'd

been feeling for her own kind, that the humans

deserved pity too. After all, hadn't their kin

been killed in the warriors' raids? It would have

been the height of barbarism not to express her

sympathy for their loss.

Gathering herself, she made her way to them over the

humpbacked ground. As she approached, they

regarded her--with what kind of loathing, she could

only imagine.

"Procreator Dab," said one of them--the

female human called Uhura. "I'm glad

you're here."

Glad? Dab wondered if she'd heard

correctly. But Uhura's signs confirmed it.

She was indeed glad.

"Why?" Dab asked simply.

"Because I have to leave," Uhura explained.

She indicated her companions with a gesture.

"We all do."

"I see," replied the procreator, not seeing

at all. With her hands she said she understood the

leaving but not the gladness.

The human looked at her. "The gladness,"

Uhura explained, "is because I have a chance to say

good-bye. And to wish you luck with the procreation

center."

Now Dab was truly confused. "What kind of

luck can we have," she asked, "without your shield

to keep us safe?" 283

Uhura smiled. "Did you think we'd leave

you here without completing the job we started? Of

course you'll have our shield--and anything else you

need, if it's in our power to give it to you."

The procreator signed her bewilderment. "But

the warriors ..."

"Ah," said the human. "Now I see. You

thought we'd hold the warriors' attacks against

all of you." She shook her head. "The warriors

will be held accountable for what they did. But there's

no reason for the rest of you to suffer. All you did

was hang on to your beliefs. There's no crime in

that."

Dab felt giddy with disbelief. "Then before you

depart--"

"Mr. Samuels and his team will make sure the

shield projector is operational. In fact,

it's almost at that point now; they just had to return

to the ship for some parts." Uhura paused. "That

is what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

Speechless, Dab used her hands to respond in

the affirmative. It was very much what she wanted

to hear.

"Ready, Lieutenant?" asked Samuels.

Uhura cast a last glance at the tortured

vista of Girin Gatha. The place didn't

look any different with the Federation's shield in

place. Lava still boiled and writhed on the other

side of the barrier, and the sea still turned to steam on

the far side of the procreation center.

But there was a difference. The radiation that had

threatened the procreators and their offspring wouldn't

get through anymore. The Rithrim were safe in

their little building.

Turning to the procreation center, she saw Dab

and a couple of others standing at the front door.

She waved; they waved back.

Uhura could still see the gleam in the

procreator's eyes when she realized that

Commodore Wesley wasn't going to abandon them

to their fate after all. She could still feel the warmth

of Dab's gratitude.

Uhura nodded. "Yes, Commander. I'm

ready."

Samuels flipped open his communicator.

"Five to beam up," he said.

It seemed to the communications officer that the

transport took a little longer than usual--but

then, that was to be expected. While the first 285

officer's engineering crew was to remain on the

Lexington, she and Samuels were to be relayed

down to the Rithrim governors' courtyard.

And indeed, that was where they wound up. Adjusting

her visor, Uhura looked around and saw

Wesley, Coss, and Baila standing around their

regular bench, waiting for her and the first officer

to join them. Endris and his fellow governors were

there as well, on the other side of the pool.

Somehow, the place looked more cheerful than the

last time she'd seen it. Of course, the last time

circumstances had been a little different.

As Uhura and Samuels approached the

others, the first officer addressed the commodore.

"Come here often, sir?"

Baila and the doctor chuckled, but Wesley

wasn't laughing.

"It's about time," he told them. "We've

been staring at one another for the last five

minutes, waiting for our translator to arrive.

I was about to break out my holograms of the kids."

"Well," said Uhura, "we're here now. Shall

we get started?"

The commodore grunted. "Don't see any

reason why not." As Uhura and Samuels joined

the others at the bench, he turned to the governors.

"Again," he told them, "we are glad for the

opportunity to speak with you."

Endris, speaking for the others as usual, waved

away the suggestion. "It is we who are glad,"

he said sincerely.

"That may change when they find out about their

warriors," muttered Coss.

Wesley cleared his throat--his way of

demanding quiet from the doctor. Nor did Coss

miss the cue; he pressed his lips together in a

frown.

"No doubt," the commodore began, "you've

already communicated with Procreator Dab at

Girin Gatha. And you must know that the facility there

has been cured with one of our shield

generators."

"It is true," said Endris. "We have

spoken with her."

"That generator will be effective for years,"

Wesley remarked. "You needn't worry about the

procreation center for some time to come."

Uhura embellished the statement with

expressions of confidence, but they weren't really

necessary. The Rithrim trusted that what the 287

commodore had told them was true; she could see it

in their eyes.

"We are grateful," Endris said simply.

His gestures confirmed it. Then his expression

changed. "And what of our fifth caste?" he

asked.

"Here it comes," murmured Coss.

Wesley straightened. Without apology he

said "Our ship Enterprise encountered your

warriors and defeated them in a pitched battle.

Some of the ships were destroyed; many more would have been,

by the warriors' own hands, if the Enterprise

hadn't acted quickly. As it is, the surviving

warriors will stand trial for their crimes in the

Federation courts."

The present-cycle governor showed no anger;

Uhura wasn't even sure he was capable of it.

Instead, he made a single sign.

Not one of hatred, as they had feared. Not one of

resentment. No ...

It was a sign of relief.

"How about that," Uhura whispered.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" asked the

commodore.

"They're not angry," replied Baila.

"They're happy we stopped the warriors."

Wesley turned to his communications officer.

"I didn't know you knew sign language,

Mr. Baila."

Baila glanced at Uhura and shrugged. "It's

amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it."

Apparently, Uhura noted, Mr. Baila

had done his homework. She nodded approvingly and

then turned her attention back to Endris.

"You seem surprised at our reaction," the

governor observed. "Surely you did not think

we wished the slaughter of your kind to go on?"

The commodore smiled. "Of course not. We just

didn't expect your concern for our people to outweigh

your concern for your own."

Endris looked puzzled for a moment. "The

innocent are the innocent," he explained,

"regardless of whether they are Rithrim or

human."

Uhura couldn't help but smile at the

sentiment. What she really wanted to do was

applaud, but that wouldn't have been very

appropriate.

The governor looked to Wesley. "Do you still

wish to establish an observation post in 289

our space?"

"We do," said the commodore.

"Then it will be arranged. What is more, we would

like to have an ongoing dialogue with the Federation. We

are considering the possibility of ... applying for

membership in your organization."

Wesley smiled. "We'd be glad to have you,"

he told the Rithrim. "What kind of

dialogue did you have in mind?"

"Perhaps," said Endris, "a small delegation

of your people could remain here to facilitate an

exchange of information between our race and yours. Also,

they could aid in setting up the observation post."

He turned to Uhura. "This one has impressed

us with her grasp of our language--andwith other

qualities as well. We would be pleased if she

were to lead the delegation."

Uhura realized her mouth was hanging open, and

she shut it. "I ... I don't know what

to say," she sputtered.

The commodore turned a benign eye on her.

"Say what you feel, Lieutenant."

She shrugged. "I'm honored." For a moment

she tried to picture herself here on Rithra for an

extended period of time. It would be a great

opportunity to learn about the Rithrim and their

culture. The chance of a lifetime.

"Honored," she repeated. "However, I must

respectfully decline. I hope you understand,"

she told Endris. "My place is on a

starship. That's what I was trained to do; that's what

I love."

The present-cycle governor nodded. "I

understand very well, Lieutenant. Nor would I

wish to take you from your people against your will."

His hands carved signs in the air. Perhaps, they

said, the delegation wasn't such a good idea after

all. "Perhaps it is wrong to ask someone to live

among strangers," Endris said out loud.

"Not at all," Wesley replied. "The

Federation has specialists in xenology who are

trained to spend long periods of time in cultures

other than their own. I'm sure they--"

"Sir?" Baila interjected. He regarded

his commanding officer. "If you don't mind, I would

like to stay on Rithra."

The commodore returned his gaze. "Are you

sure about this, Lieutenant?"

Baila nodded. "Pretty sure, sir. You

see, when I saw those warrior infants 291

back in the procreation center ... well, I

felt that I was looking at myself, in a way. With the

adult warriors gone, those youngsters are going

to grow up without role models, without a heritage

to draw on. They'll be cut off from something

important. And as Uhura will tell you, getting

cut off from your heritage is one subject in which

I'm an expert." A pause. "I want to be

here to see how they handle it ... and maybe, in some

way, to give them a helping hand."

Wesley took a deep breath, let it out.

"Lieutenant ... this wouldn't have anything to do with

our differences of late, would it? Because as far as

I'm concerned, I'm looking at a new man."

Baila shook his head. "No, sir. My

decision has nothing at all to do with that."

The commodore frowned. "Well, in that case"

--he turned again to Endris and clapped Baila

on the back--?x looks as if we've got

someone to head up that delegation, Present-cycle

Governor."

Endris nodded. "I am delighted.

Welcome, Mr. Baila."

The communications officer inclined his head, then

made a rudimentary sign of gratitude with his

hands. "Thank you, Present-cycle

Governor." He addressed Wesley again.

"Commodore, if it's all the same to you, I'd

like to get started right now. I haven't got that many

friends on the ship anyway and--"

"I understand," Wesley interjected. "We'll

send your things down before we break orbit."

Dr. Coss turned to Baila and offered him his

hand. "I guess this is good-bye--at least for a

while. I'm going to miss you, Lieutenant."

"Same here," said Baila, clasping the

proffered hand. "Hell, I'll miss all of you.

Even you, Mr. Samuels."

The first officer feigned confusion. "Was that a

dig, mister? Don't forget, you're still under my

command until I say so--andthe comm board's long

overdue for a full diagnostic check." He

smiled. "Then again, what isn't? Have a hell

of a good time, Lieutenant."

"I will," Baila assured him.

Finally the communications officer turned

to Uhura. "What can I say?" he asked her.

"Say you'll keep in touch, amuntu."

He nodded. "I'll do that, Uhura. You can

bet your ancestors' teeth on it." 293

Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it. His

grip was as warm as a jungle breeze.

"Come on," said Wesley. "Let's get out

of here before I break down and cry. I don't

think that's the kind of image we want to present

to our new allies."

Reluctantly Baila released Uhura's

hand and took a step back. But she knew it would

be a long time before she forgot the look in those dark,

dark eyes of his.

The commodore turned to Endris and his fellow

governors. "We'll be going now. But you'll be

hearing from the Federation again before long. Andof course,

in the meantime you'll have Mr. Baila to keep you

company."

Endris was silent, but his gestures bade them

luck on their journey. "Perhaps we will meet

again," he said.

"You never know, Present-cycle Governor.

Good luck to you and to your people." Wesley took out his

communicator and addressed his transporter

chief. "Four to beam up, Lieutenant."

"Four, sir?"

"That's right," the commodore confirmed. "Mr.

Baila is staying here with the Rithrim for the time

being."

There was a pause, and then "I understand, sir."

Uhura cast a last glance at Baila. He

winked at her, as if to say, I'll be fine here,

really I will.

A moment later the transporter beam reeled

them in, and she was standing with Wesley, Samuels,

and Coss on the platform. The doctor removed

his visor as if he couldn't wait to get the darn

thing off.

"Remind me," he said, "to send some of these

down to Baila. He's going to need a bunch of

them."

"That he is," agreed the commodore.

"You know," Samuels remarked, "I hope

everything works out down there."

"For Baila?" Uhura responded. "I'm

sure it will."

The first officer shook his head. "Not for

Baila. I'm talking about the shield

generator." Reaching into his shoulder pouch, he

pulled out a machine component and shrugged. "Somehow

we had this piece left over. None of us could

figure out where it went."

"Damn it, Samuels," said 295

Wesley, his eyes darkening, "we can't leave

orbit until that generator is--"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," the first officer

assured him, holding up his hands. "It was just a

joke, sir."

Suddenly the commodore grinned. "I knew that.

Do you think after we've served together for as long as

we have that there's a trick in your bag I don't

know?"

And they all had a good laugh--even

Samuels. In fact, Uhura noted, it was the

first officer who laughed the loudest.

Chapter Fifteen

As Kirk rode the turbolift up to the

bridge, he thought about the Rithramen warriors'

code of honor. As distraught as they were over

having been captured rather than killed, they had no

compunction whatsoever about revealing the identity of

their employers--or, for that matter, about providing

the captain with a complete list of the components they'd

obtained.

However, they claimed to have no idea what the

equipment was for. Kirk hoped his officers had

made some headway on that count by themselves.

The doors opened and he stepped out onto the

bridge. A moment later Sulu turned in his

seat to greet him.

"Did your visit pay off, sir?"

"In spades, Mr. Sulu, in spades."

Turning to Chekov, he said "Ensign, lay in

a course back to Parathu'ul."

"Course plotted and laid in, sir."

"Mr. Sulu, engage at warp six."

"Warp six. Aye, sir."

"Very good, gentlemen." Moving to join Spock,

the captain overheard Chekov mutter, "I

feel like a soccer ball, the way we're bouncing

around this quadrant."

He also heard Sulu's reply "But,

Chekov, how else does one become a good

navigator? Practice, practice, and more

practice."

There was an anguished sigh from Chekov.

"Fifth level indeed," Sulu muttered under

his breath.

Rounding the deck, Kirk stopped at

Spock's side. The science officer was deeply

immersed in his study of the information 297

downloaded from the raiders' vessels.

Noting the captain's presence, Spock

straightened and turned off the hooded viewer. "It

is worse than I expected," he said.

Kirk looked at him. "What do you mean?"

The Vulcan frowned. "The Parath'aa now have

the technological components to build a rather

formidable weapon."

"Aye, that they do," Scott added as he

walked over from the engineering station. "Mr.

Spock, your hypothesis checks out with the

technical profiles I've got in me

office."

"Elaborate, gentlemen," Kirk

prompted.

The Vulcan complied. "The Parath'aa appear

to possess the wherewithal to build a plasma

cannon," Spock explained.

The captain whistled. "I remember reading

classicfied reports on that program.

Whatever happened to it?"

Spock shrugged. "Scientists at Starfleet

Command developed the technology up to the point of

manufacture. They even constructed a

small-scale, working model. Its range was quite

limited, but it did cause a great deal of

damage. A full-scale version could level a

world."

Kirk shook his head. "Wonderful."

Scotty nodded. "Aye, sir, it's a

treacherous beastie. The plasma it uses is

essentially ionized gas, with electrons and

positive ions combined in such a way as that'

neutralize the electrical charge and allow it

that' be controlled through magnetic fields. When the

plasma comes into contact with a force shield, the

conflict of energies can be devastating."

He harrumphed. "The weapons experts at

Starfleet could never find a good reason to include

that kind of weaponry aboard a starship. Not only

that, the damned thing would tax the warp engines beyond

safety limits. Personally I'm happy they

never built the full-scale model."

"But now the Parath'aa, under a belligerent

government, possess the ability to build just such

a cannon," Kirk stated.

"But why would they want a cannon if they already

rule their world?" Scott asked.

"Why indeed?" echoed Spock.

Kirk wrestled with the question in his own mind 299

--and came up with a grim possibility.

"Mr. Spock, which populated worlds are

closest to Parathu'ul?"

"You dinna ..." began Scotty.

The captain regarded him. "We can't rule it

out, Mr. Scott. Spock?"

"The Xaridian colonies, sir."

"And the next closest?"

The Vulcan paused to process the information in

his mind. It never ceased to amaze Kirk that

Vulcans could process and retain huge amounts

of raw information. On the other hand, to discipline their

minds, they gave up their capacity for emotion--

something the captain was sure he would never want

to do.

"The next nearest populated system,"

Spock began, "would be outside Federation

boundaries--perh within the Gorn Hegemony. Of

course the Parath'aa are also within reach of

unexplored territory."

"Do you suspect they would use the cannon to go

after the Gorn?" Kirk wondered out loud.

"Doubtful, Captain."

"Captain Kirk," Sulu called from the

helm. "I've picked up movement away from

Parathu'ul. A number of blips on our

long-range sensors."

"Course?" Kirk began swiftly moving

back to his command chair.

"At present heading," replied Chekov,

"they are going directly into unrestricted

space. Ships moving at warp five."

Kirk turned around to watch Spock process

the information from his station. "Are they the marauders,

Spock?"

"Negative," the Vulcan replied. "The

configuration is typical of the Parath'aa. They

are using their standard pentagon flight formation--but

our sensors detect something in the center of the formation

as well. Something held there by a tractor beam."

"My God," Kirk said quietly. "The

cannon!"

"Most likely, sir," confirmed Spock.

"And they have extended their shields to protect it."

Chekov turned to Kirk and added, "Sir, the

wessels are moving toward the Cygni Maxima

system. They will arrive in four hours, fifteen

minutes."

Before Kirk could even ask, he noted that the

Vulcan had already begun calling up 301

charts on Cygni Maxima. He smiled

grimly and waited a few moments for Spock

to issue his report.

As expected, the science officer turned and

said, "Cygni Maxima is a yellow star with

seven planets and two asteroid belts. The

Hood charted it some seventeen years ago; their

report indicated sentient life on the

system's fourth planet. At the time, the

inhabitants were rated several points below our own

society and their planet has been declared

off-limits to all Federation space traffic."

"Why would the Parath'aa want to go all the way

to Cygni Maxima, then?" Sulu wondered

aloud.

Kirk replied without looking at him.

"Conquest, Mr. Sulu. Those pompous

government leaders on Parathu'ul have already

subjugated their own people--and now they have the means

to subjugate other worlds."

"A logical premise, Captain,"

Spock noted dryly from his post.

Kirk was left with a hard choice. He could either

confront the government on Parathu'ul with his

suspicions or he could have the Enterprise

pursue the convoy. If he was right about the

Parath'aa's intentions, the convoy would use the

cannon to destroy a helpless race.

But what if there were other cannons under

construction--maybe on the verge of being launched?

And there was another, more practical question could the

Enterprise stop a weapon that was powerful enough

to tear through her shields?

There was no time to debate, so he chose to go with

his gut.

"Chekov, plot an intercept course.

Sulu, engage at warp six-point-five. Have

Engineering make sure the engines are in top

shape. Palmer, go to red alert."

"Aye, sir," came the crisp reply.

As Kirk took his center seat, the sirens

rang out and the lights flashed red. The captain

leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a moment

for introspection.

Once again, after a relatively short time,

he was asking his crew to go into battle. Sure,

they'd succeeded against the Rithramen mercenaries, but

now they were up against a different kind of threat, a

weapon of amazing power. Kirk needed to think

strategically, to plan his actions in 303

advance, so that little would be left to chance.

"Lieutenant Palmer, let me have

intraship, please," he called out. A beep

acknowledged that the communications system was

activated. Thumbing a button on his armrest,

he said "This is the captain. We are about to enter

politically unaligned space, where we may have

to engage a pack of Parath'aat ships. Please

prepare for combat."

Kirk paused. "I know this is the fourth time

I've asked this of you in the last couple of days.

I wish the circumstances were otherwise, but I

see no choice. All I can ask is that you

give me your best effort. Captain out."

Spock walked down to Kirk and offered, "We

have four hours. Do you require sustenance?"

"No, Spock. I require this to be over.

The Parath'aa are proving to be quite an annoying

race."

Spock nodded. "They have yet to gain the

wisdom to unite their planet with a singular

vision."

"All this fighting ..." Kirk said wearily.

"It's so pointless. Sometimes I'm a

diplomat, sometimes I'm an explorer--and now

I'm forced to be a soldier. And I don't think

there's much reason behind this insanity."

"I understand, sir. You do not seek the

battles; you seek only understanding. It is ...

most commendable."

The captain looked up at him with a small

smile.

"Why, thank you, Spock."

The two friends returned their attentions to the

bridge crew's pre-encounter preparations.

Lieutenant Commander Giotto reported to the

bridge a few minutes later, carrying a

tricorder.

"Captain," he said, "I've studied

Starfleet intelligence reports on the

Parath'aa. Their ships are conventional

warp-capable vessels. They tend to be smaller

than our starships and therefore have smaller crews.

And they prefer to design their ships for specific

functions." A pause. "Apparently the ships

we picked up on sensor scan match the

configuration recorded for defense."

"But now they're using them for offense," Kirk

noted. "Go on."

Giotto frowned. "They use standard 305

phaser arrays and photon torpedoes. I

don't see any reason why we can't outrun or

outgun them if it comes to that."

Kirk nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Giotto."

He turned to his helmsman. "Mr. Sulu,

work with the phaser room. Run simulations on such

attack patterns and see how good we are at

targeting their engines and weapons. I'll take

nothing less than one hundred percent accuracy."

"Aye, sir," Sulu said. He toggled his

communicator for a direct link with the phaser

room.

"Martine here," came the response.

The captain was pleased to see that Martine was on

duty. He always felt safer with her commanding the

phaser crew. She was quick-witted and thoroughly

efficient.

"Specialist Martine," said Sulu, "this is

the bridge. I'm sending down information on our

potential opponents, and we're going to run

simulations. We have about four hours before contact--

plenty of time to get ourselves ready. Agreed?"

"Agreed, Mr. Sulu. We're receiveg the

information now. It looks as if we can run our

routine patterns first, modifying as we go

along."

As always, Kirk noted, Martine was ready

to start with the rule book and then throw it out when things

got imaginative. Her skill had certainly

helped make a difference against the Rithramen

ships.

During the next few hours, Sulu and

Martine ran simulations. The first battle had a

computed accuracy rate of 67 percent. Far

too low for either one to be happy. They had

improved to an 89 percent rate before both

agreed they needed a break.

Meanwhile, as Kirk observed, the other

officers were busy with their own preparations. Chekov

was reviewing the star charts for this sector of

space. He and Spock compared notes on

space phenomena that previous probes had somehow

missed. With time on his hands, the Vulcan had his

science officers make observations of the nebula,

adding the information to the massive library computer.

Yeoman Martha Landon came up to the

bridge with a tray of cups, which she took to the

duty personnel. As usual, Spock eschewed

any drink, but the others thanked her for 307

her thoughtfulness. Landon lingered a moment by the

navigation console, where Chekov was painfully

intent on his readouts.

"How are you holding up, Ensign?" she

asked.

Chekov looked up, a bit startled by the question.

"Oh, ah, yes, yeoman ...?"

"Martha Landon," she replied with a smile.

"Thank you," he replied, apparently

noticing her tightly wound blond hair and bright

eyes for the first time.

Smiling again, this time with even more enthusiasm,

Landon spun on her heel and moved briskly

off the bridge.

Kirk watched the interplay and suppressed a

smile. This probably wasn't the best time

to build relationships, but it was hard to suppress

human nature.

He updated his log and had Palmer send it out

to both Starfleet and the Lexington. This way

Wesley would be as well informed as possible when

they met again near Parathu'ul.

" Captain, sensors have placed us within twenty

minutes of contact with the Parath'aat formation,"

Spock announced.

Kirk nodded. "Palmer, open a channel."

He paused, listening for the familiar beep-beep

announcing that the signal was open. "This is

Captain Kirk of the Enterprise. We know

what you're aiming to do, and we can't allow it. We

trust that you'll be willing to return the stolen

Federation equipment. Please reply."

It took a few moments, but a response

came in--on audio signal only. The

captain immediately recognized the speech patterns

of the Parath'aa.

"We are hearing you Kirk, but we are not

complying. I am claiming this solar system in the

name of the Parath'aa, and I am advising you to be

backing off. We are, after all, being prepared

to deal with hostile intervention."

Those ^ws caught Kirk by surprise, but he

recovered quickly. Leaning forward in his command chair,

he snapped, "The people of Cygni Maxima are in

no position to defend themselves; we will not stand by while

you attack them. This ship is ready to stop you any

way we can. You have been warned."

"Once again, Captain Kirk, we are

warning you. You may have been denying us admission

to your precious interplanetary clique, 309

but you won't be denying us this system. We are

having the means to be doing as we please. Now it

will please us to destroy your ship."

The signal ended; Palmer shrugged at

Kirk. No further communication was likely.

"Red alert," the captain ordered. "Sulu,

have phasers on line at full power. Let's

see what you and Martine have come up with. Shields

at maximum." Hitting his communications

button, Kirk said, "Bridge to Engineering.

Scotty, are we ready for battle?"

"If ye have to fight, she's ready, sir,"

Scott replied. "But I canna guess

what'll happen when they fire the plasma

cannon. I've got damage control teams on

standby, starting with life support and weaponry."

"Very good, Scotty. Sulu, bring us within

phaser range, but be ready to maneuver. Mr.

Chekov, be ready for some quick calculations.

Ultimately I want to position us between the

fleet and the planet."

Both Sulu and Chekov replied in the

affirmative and set about their work. The lights

dimmed to a red glow, and the bridge emptied of

nonessential personnel. Spock hunched over

his viewer while Kirk leaned over Sulu's

shoulder to watch the sensors.

"Captain," said the Vulcan, "I'm reading

a power buildup from the plasma cannon. If

they constructed it according to specifications, it will take

forty-five seconds to build to an initial

charge. After a discharge, it will recycle in

ten-second intervals."

Kirk turned to the helm. "That's your window of

opportunity, Sulu. We'll have that much time

to attack between blasts."

"Target the cannon, sir?" asked the

helmsman.

Kirk shook his head. "No, Lieutenant,"

he said grimly. "Target the Parath'aa

vessels." He grunted. "The question will be whether

we can knock out enough of their ships to loosen their

hold on the cannon--.bbf they knock us out."

"Aye, sir," Sulu acknowledged. "It'll

be tight." His voice always slipped into a deeper

register when the pressure was on.

The Enterprise moved within range, and the five

Parath'aat ships did not slow down. On the

viewscreen, the crew could see the plasma

cannon. It was large and bulky, about 311

half the size of one of the ships. Two boxlike

shapes were attached to either side of the mammoth

barrel; the whole thing was laced with wiring and

support equipment.

Not very elegant, Kirk mused. But then, it

had been built by the Parath'aa to be a weapon and

not an object of beauty.

His musings stopped when he saw that the cannon

--trapped in the center of the convoy by five bright

tractor beams--was beginning to glow at one end.

It was a dangerous, fiery red glow. The crew

watched the glowing end revolve slowly, moving

away from the planet and toward the Enterprise.

With every passing second, the glow increased in

intensity until it seemed like a volcano ready

to erupt.

"Hold on!" Kirk cried out. A moment

later the starship's shields crackled with the

impact of the plasma burst. Such was the power of the

plasma that while it sprayed the shields for only

a fraction of a second, the ship shook for what

seemed like an eternity.

The bridge personnel were buffeted in their

seats, and the red alert lighting blinked off for a

moment. When the ship regained its equilibrium,

Kirk demanded a status report.

"Shields held but are down to seventy-three

percent efficiency," Chekov announced.

"Sulu, fire phasers!" Kirk ordered.

Twin beams of crimson energy lashed out from the

starship and scored two direct hits on the

shields of the lead Parath'aat vessel.

"Three of their screens are down," Spock

observed, without straightening from his post.

"Fire again," Kirk snapped.

The ship's phasers slashed through space and

made direct contact with the Parath'aat ship.

At the same time, two of the Parath'aat ships

fired their own phasers. As the Enterprise's

shields absorbed the attack, the crew felt the

impact, but it was minor compared to that of the plasma

cannon.

Sulu announced, "Lead ship has lost

engine power. Plasma cannon will ignite in

five seconds."

"Sulu, hard to starboard," Kirk called.

"Aye, sir," came the response--j as the

cannon erupted once more. With the ship in motion,

the plasma hit only a portion of the shields, but

it was more than enough to overload a number of 313

ship's systems. The background speakers spit

out a steady stream of status reports and calls

for damage crews.

"We have lost the number six shield. Other

shields being deployed to compensate," Spock

reported. He turned to the captain. "Sir, the

plasma is eating away at shield integrity.

The two forms of energy are most volatile in

combination. We will not last long if we sustain many

more direct hits."

"Fire!" Kirk called out.

Sulu stabbed at the controls; the phaser beams

lanced through the shields of a Parath'aat ship,

hitting the hull. Then, swiveling the targeting

controls, he brought the phasers to bear on another

vessel, one directly before the Enterprise.

After firing again, he watched with satisfaction as the

phasers hit pay dirt a second time.

"We've knocked three ships out of combat,"

Sulu announced with a sly smile. "Plasma

cannon rebuilding its charge. One ship firing

photon torpedo."

Kirk gripped the arms of his chair and ordered

the ship to come about at increased speed. The

maneuver was successful; the torpedo missed by a

good measure.

However, the two remaining Parath'aat ships

managed to turn about and aim the cannon in the

starship's direction. The plasma beam lanced out

and smacked right into the starship.

Leslie was jarred loose from his position near

the engineering console; Chekov nearly lost his seat

as well. Sulu rode out the impact by grabbing the

sides of the helm and then righting himself. Again, lights

flickered, and the increased background noise told

Kirk the damage-control teams were going to be

busy.

He looked about the bridge quickly and then

studied the viewscreen. The cannon crackled

silently in space, like a snake ready to lash out

with its forked tongue.

Sulu looked at his board and said, "Cannon

will be ready in eight seconds."

"Another hit will cause structural

damage," Spock noted calmly.

"Sulu, z plus five thousand meters,

now!" Kirk called out.

Once again the maneuver was successful, and the

cannon fire missed them, but with less room

to spare than Kirk would have liked. 315

"Let's finish this," the captain said.

"Sulu, fire phaser barrage and photon

torpedo spread at the remaining ships.

Overload their shields--I want a good shot

at the cannon."

Sulu acknowledged the order and then spoke

into his communicator grid, "Okay, Martine,

let 'er rip as we practiced!"

Kirk watched the forward viewscreen with interest

as the image brightened with the light show. It became

apparent that their attack was overtaxing some of the

enemy ships' systems--but not so much as he'd

hoped.

Sulu turned in his seat long enough to tell

Kirk, "Both ships still have tractor locks on

the cannon, sir. It'll fire any second."

"Scott to captain. We're losin' system

controls left and right. Some o' the power couplings

are fused. Another plasma hit and we're

sure to go off line with the warp engines."

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the warning,

Kirk barked "Fire again, Sulu! Give 'er

everything you've got!"

Coolly, Sulu nodded, turned, and hit the

firing controls. All officers watched as

phasers and photon torpedoes twinkled in

space en route to their target.

Seconds before they got there, the cannon fired

again. The resulting explosion nearly whited out the

viewer and sent shock waves with enough force to shake the

crew up again.

Kirk hung on to his armrests for dear

life. "Spock," he called, "status!"

The Vulcan took a quick glance at a screen

above his station. "The cannon is no longer under

Parath'aat tractor control. However, they must

have some remote link with the firing mechanism; energy

in the cannon is building up for another discharge

in"--he consulted his monitor--?seven

seconds."

Scotty's voice was frantic as it came in

over the intercom. "Engineering to Captain Kirk!

The hull's been breached, sir! We're sealin'

off decks six and seven." And then "Captain,

we canna take any more o' this!"

Kirk stared at the clearing viewscreen, with its

perspective on the turning cannon. That's all

right, Mr. Scott, he thought. With any luck,

we won't have to.

"Lock phasers on to the cannon," 317

he said out loud. "Prepare photon

torpedoes."

"Phasers locked," Sulu announced

coolly. "Photon torpedoes ready."

"Brace yourselves, everyone. Fireffwas

On the screen the cannon s parkled with each

hit of phaser or photon torpedo. For a moment

nothing happened.

Then, with a massive burst of lethal energies,

it vanished.

Kirk knew what would come next. "Mr.

Sulu, heading two-one-three mark

fifty-four!"

Sulu's hands skittered over his board like

frantic insects, but the Enterprise wasn't

operating at peak efficiency. The ship felt

sluggish as it moved to avoid the imminent shock

wave.

Before it hit, the captain had time to think

Wouldn't that be ironic? To kill the thing and then

get caught in its death throes!

But even hobbled as it was, the Enterprise

proved fast enough. The shock wave hit the ship

almost as hard as the cannon impact, but it

didn't shake the Enterprise apart.

Kirk breathed a sigh of relief as Spock

rose and peered into his viewer. "The cannon is

destroyed, Captain. Shields restored, but still

at only minimal efficiency."

The captain nodded. "Palmer, open a

channel to the Parath'aat flagship."

"Hailing frequencies open, Captain."

"Enterprise to the Parath'aat commander."

This time the response was visual as well as

audible. "This is Commander Chak," said the

typically Parath'aat visage on the screen.

Chak was sweating profusely, and he had a deep

cut over one eye, from which blood was flowing

freely.

"Chak, we have shown that we mean business.

Cygni Maxima is off limits to the

Parath'aa. Your people are guilty of murder,

wanton destruction, and outright theft."

A smile crossed Chak's face "I am

being a warrior, Kirk. I am knowing no life

other than conquest. It has been taking our

faction years to be gaining control of our world. I

will not be going meekly."

Kirk nervously looked at Spock to see

if Chak was initiating any sort of 319

self-destruct mechanism, such as those used by the

Rithrim. Spock checked his equipment and

silently shook his head, indicating that suicide

was not a possibility.

The captain returned his gaze to the screen.

"Tell me, Chak, what did your people hope

to accomplish?"

"What you were denying us, Kirk. Our people were being

united under one rule; we were being ready to deal with the

other worlds in space. We were wanting to be a part

of your all-s-mighty Federation, but you were saying we

were too barbaric, that we were showing no respect for

"the rights of the individual."' Pah. Someone was

fearing us, Kirk, and was seeing to it we could not be

belonging.

"But we were being between the Gorn and the Federation, and

in too strategic a position to be being left

alone for long. We were deciding we would not wait

for someone else to be taking us over and controlling

our destiny. So we were making plans. We were

using some of our wealth to hire Federation scientists

and using them to learn everything your ambassadors would

never be sharing with us. So many skeletons in your

closet, Kirk. Tsk-tsk."

Chak seemed to be enjoying himself despite his

wounds, but behind him Kirk could see repair

crews putting out fires and a medic tending to an

injured crewman. The Parath'aat ship seemed

to have sustained far more damage than the

Enterprise.

"Your scientists," Chak went on, "were

telling us about the one weapon you did not possess

the plasma cannon. They were telling us how to find

the equipment we needed. So all it took was to be

finding a manner in which to be acquiring the necessary

components. Fortunately we were having an earlier

contact with the Rithrim and were knowing their services were

available. It was being mutually beneficial.

Everything was going along quite smoothly."

Chak's expression changed to one of restrained

bitterness. "Excepting for you. We did not be

counting on the Federation to be finding us out so quickly.

We were finding it necessary to be accelerating our

schedule and to be deciding to leave orbit with just one

operational cannon. There are being others, of

course, under construction. We are not being easy

to stop, Kirk."

The captain looked grim and angry when he

chose to respond. "On the contrary, Chak.

We're putting you out of business. Td. 321

Our sensors show that all five of your ships are

crippled and wouldn't make it through another

battle. And as for those other cannons under

construction--Starfleet will be wasto dismantle them and

recover the parts. In short, you're through."

Kirk walked in front of the helm, moving

closer to the viewscreen for dramatic impact.

"Now you can play your bluff to the hilt, or we

can talk about beaming your survivors aboard for

transport back to Parathu'ul. The choice is

yours."

The screen went blank just as surprise

registered on Chak's face. Kirk nodded,

having gotten some satisfaction out of the

confrontation. Then he looked around his bridge.

"Stand down to yellow alert, Mr. Spock.

What's our status?"

"We have sustained damage on four decks and

had one serious hull breach. Repair teams are

already working on the breach. Mr. Scott reports

that we retain limited warp capability."

"Not too bad, Mr. Spock," Kirk said.

He hit a button on his armrest and called

down to sickbay.

"McCoy here, Jim."

"How bad was it?"

"We lost a man in Engineering when systems

shorted out--a freak accident--and five more when the

hull was breached." A pause. "My God,

Jim, did you have to make that battle last so

long?"

Kirk grimaced at the toll. All this for a

few power-hungry despots. "I wish it were

otherwise, Bones. I'll be down soon.

Kirk out." He put his hand on the bridge of his

nose and squeezed. The tension and adrenaline that

had kept him going were gone now. He took a

deep breath and stood up.

"Mr. Chekov, plot us a course back

to Parathu'ul. Sulu, Palmer, please

coordinate with Chak's people and see if they

require any assistance. If not, we'll

follow them back. Let's get to it."

Next he turned to Spock. "You have the

conn," he told the Vulcan.

Spock nodded and moved to the command position even

as Kirk was abdicating it.

Satisfied that things were finally coming to a conclusion,

the captain stepped onto the upper deck and

surveyed his crew. A faint smile 323

crossed his face, and he paused before entering the

turbolift.

"You all performed quite well," he said. Faces

turned toward him. "Mr. Sulu, my compliments

to Specialist Martine and the phaser crew.

Enjoy your rest--it's well earned."

Then he entered the lift and went back to his

quarters, desperate for just a few hours' rest.

Chapter Sixteen

Uhura was packing up her things when she heard

the beep. Turning, she said, "Come on in."

She had a feeling who it would be. When the

door slid aside, it only confirmed her

hunch. Commodore Wesley smiled as he

entered.

"Getting set to go?" he asked rhetorically,

noting the half-full duffel and the odds and ends

spread out on the bed.

Uhura nodded. "I didn't want to leave the

packing for the last minute. It wouldn't do to keep

two starships waiting while I try to find my

toothbrush."

The commodore chuckled. "No. It wouldn't."

A pause. "Uhura, it's been a long time

since I proposed something important to a

beautiful young woman. But ... well, I've

lost Baila--j when I was starting to value his

services again, too. And that leaves me one

communications officer short."

She smiled. "Are you asking me to stay on?"

"I am."

Uhura folded her arms over her chest. "You

must know what my answer's going to be."

Wesley regarded her. "Lieutenant, if

there's one thing that's constant in this galaxy, it's

uncertainty. I don't take anything for

granted." And then, in a more congenial voice

"I'm in a position to offer incentives,

Uhura. Opportunities. A lieutenant

commandership wouldn't be out of the question."

She sighed. "I'm almost tempted to let you go

on. I can see how you get people like Samuels and

Dr. Coss; it's hard to say no when someone

makes you feel this wanted."

He looked rueful. Jilted, she thought. "But

..."

"But my heart's on the Enterprise. Where

she goes, I go." She shrugged. "I 325

guess that sounds pretty corny, doesn't it?"

The commodore shook his head. "No. Not at

all. That kind of loyalty is one of the

qualities I admire in you. I hope Jim

Kirk knows how damned lucky he is to have you on

his bridge."

"Well," Uhura said, "between you and me, it

wouldn't hurt if you were to ask after me now and then.

Just to, you know, remind him."

Wesley laughed. "I'll do that little thing," he

assured her. And then, as an afterthought "If you

change your mind, Lieutenant, let me know."

"If I change my mind," she said, "I

will."

Kirk sat back in his seat and contemplated the

vast sweep of Parathu'ul on the main

viewscreen. The Potemkin was visible as a

gleaming pindot on the horizon. The starship had

arrived only hours after the Enterprise, making

it obvious to Silva and his people that the Federation meant

business.

Tapping the appropriate stud on his armrest,

the Enterprise's commanding officer cleared his

throat. After all, they'd be listening to this back

at Starfleet Command.

"Captain's log, stardate 3034.6. We

have escorted what was left of the Parath'aat

vessels back to their homeworld. What's more, with the

help of Captain Callas and the Potemkin,

we've persuaded the Parath'aat leaders to give

up their dreams of conquest and to relinquish the

Federation equipment they were using to make additional

plasma cannons. Nor will they be able to hold

back any of their ill-gotten gains, thanks

to Mr. Spock's comprehensive list of missing

machinery and components."

Kirk paused. "As for the Federation scientists

who helped them ... we have no extradition

treaty with the Parath'aa. However, with nothing left

for them to do on Parathu'ul, I don't expect

they'll be welcome there much longer. And when they

leave, we'll be there to take them into custody.

We'd better be--un less we want them rubbing

elbows with the Romulans.

"As for the Rithramen raiders--or more

accurately, the survivors among the raiders

--I can't find it in my heart to forgive them, not

after all the bloodshed they caused. But I think

I'm beginning to understand them. I see them 327

staring out at me from their incarceration, and they look

lost--j as lost as I might be if I were

separated from the things that make me what I am.

It's unfortunate that their calling is such a

bloody one--unfortunate for all of us.

"In any case, the Lexington will be here

any moment to accept the Rithrim and take them

to Starbase Eighty-three, where they'll stand

trial for their crimes. At that point, I

expect, I'll also have my communications officer

returned to me."

The captain scowled, inwardly adding I

hope. There was no underestimating Wesley's

powers of persuasion. If he'd had to bet,

Kirk would have bet that Uhura would come back to the

Enterprise. But that was by no means a sure thing.

"End of log entry."

"Captain Kirk?"

He turned at the sound of his name. "Yes,

Palmer?"

"I have the Lexington, sir. Commodore

Wesley."

"Put him through," the captain told her.

A moment later Bob Wesley's image

filled the viewscreen. "Good to see you again,

Jim. I trust your prisoners are ready for

transport?"

"Good to see you too, Commodore. And yes--

they're as ready as they'll ever be."

Kirk could see Uhura behind Wesley, at the

communications post. She looked pretty comfortable

there. Had she fallen for the commodore's wiles after

all?

Only one way to find out. And why drag out the

suspense? "Do you mind if I retrieve my

communications officer before I start beaming over the

Rithrim? That way she won't get lost in the

shuffle--a possibility you're no doubt counting

on."

Uhura stood, and the look on her face made

Kirk's heart sink. "Captain, if it's all

right with you, I'd like to stay on the Lexington--"

Damn, Kirk thought. I should never have let

Wesley get his hooks into her. I should never have

let her out of my sight.

his--fora few hours," Uhura finished. "Just

long enough to see the Rithrim and give them an idea

of what's ahead for them."

Kirk tried to conceal his surprise. "For ...

a few hours?" He shrugged. "Of 329

course, Lieutenant. Whatever you feel you

need."

But his first reaction hadn't escaped the

commodore. "For a second there, Jim, you thought

she was leaving the Enterprise, didn't you? Come

on, admit it."

The captain didn't flinch. "Not even for a

fraction of a second," he replied. "Even

though I knew you'd give her your best shot, and

then some."

Wesley smiled. "Treat her right, Jim,

or I'll be back for her."

"I always have treated her right," Kirk assured

him, glancing at Uhura, "and I always will."

Uhura grinned. Fortunately she was the

modest type; otherwise, he'd have been afraid

this would go to her head.

"You know," said the commodore, "I started this

mission with two senior communications officers, and

now I've got none. Where's the justice in that?"

He shook his head. "Speak with you later,

Jim."

The captain nodded. "Later," he agreed.

And then, before Palmer could break off the link

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

The communications officer returned his gaze.

"It's nice to be back, sir."

Chapter Seventeen

The final sparkles disappeared and Lieutenant

Uhura stood on the transporter platform.

She beamed happily at Transporter Chief

Kyle, who flashed her a smile in return.

His reassuring demeanor always gave her an immediate

feeling of safety when she returned to the

Enterprise.

"Glad to have you back, Lieutenant," Kyle

said.

"Trust me, Chief, I'm the one who's

glad. See you on the rec dec later?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he replied. With that

covered, she hefted her bag and strolled out of the

transporter room, determined to get right back

into the swing of shipboard life. What she really

missed, she decided, was her own bed. Nice as

the guest quarters were aboard the Lexington, she

mused, nothing could replace her very own bed.

She'd learned that as a little girl back in

Koyo. 331

On her way to the officers' quarters, she

exchanged frequent greetings with crewmen. It

dawned on her just how many of the crew she knew

face-to-face, despite the fact that she spent

most of her duty time on the bridge. Sure,

she could recognize just about everyone's voice on

the comm channels, but faces, personalities,

individual traits--she knew so many of them.

And most were her friends, something people really needed on

extended deep-space duty.

As soon as she entered her cabin, she realized

she wasn't all that tired and decided to grab a

drink in the mess hall, hoping to run into her

colleagues. It was either that or sit in front of the

desktop computer, running the last few days'

worth of bulletin board messages. No contest

--she definitely needed the human touch. With a

smile she spun on her heel and headed right

back into the corridor.

Chekov and Palmer were finishing a meal when

Uhura entered the large mess room. Shifts were

about to change, and people were coming and going at a rapid

pace. Most stopped, though, to welcome Uhura

back in their midst. She went right to her fellow

bridge officers and exchanged brief hugs with

them. Palmer gestured for Uhura to sit while

Chekov went to get her a cup of coffee.

"So, how'd things go, Palmer?" Uhura

inquired.

"You heard about the fireworks, so you know it was

certainly no milk run," the other woman

replied.

"And how did our young navigator do?"

Palmer glanced at Chekov, who was just

removing the cup from the food dispenser. Turning her

attention back to Uhura, she answered, "He

had his rough times, but he came through when things got

tight. Oh, and I think there might be something

developing between him and Yeoman Landon. At

least she seems interested. He's barely

noticed."

She grinned as Uhura's eyes widened a

bit at the gossip. Palmer paused, looked

thoughtful, and added, "Still, he seems preoccupied.

You know, concerned about his performance."

As Chekov returned to the table, Palmer

smiled at him. The ensign returned the friendly

gesture and set the coffee in front of Uhura.

"Hmmm," she said. "Cinnamon. Nice

touch, Pavel. Thanks. How were things 333

for you?"

"Not as bad as they might have been. I'm still in

Starfleet, aren't I?"

Uhura chuckled and asked, "It wasn't that

bad, was it?"

Chekov suppressed a grimace and then

replied, "It felt like it, Lieutenant."

"And what's this I hear about you and Yeoman

Landon?"

Chekov snapped his head up in astonishment.

"What are you talking about?"

Uhura smiled and played with him. "We hear

these things, even on other starships, Ensign."

The Russian cleared his throat, too

embarrassed for ^ws. "Ah, yes, of course."

He stood a bit too quickly, hoping no one

saw the red creep up from his collar. "I'll

let you two talk. Yes, that's right, er, talk.

Me, I'm going to escape before Meester Sulu

vants another fencing partner." With that he rose and

walked slowly from the mess hall.

Uhura watched him go and then turned to Palmer

and commented, "I'm going to have to talk to that boy.

Soon."

Before Chekov could manage to make his way through

the mess hall door, Dr. McCoy walked

in, and Chekov had to pause to let the senior

officer by.

"Ah," said the doctor, "Mr. Chekov.

Well, Ensign, did you survive the ordeal?"

Chekov sighed inwardly. "Yes, Doctor.

I still have my job."

McCoy smiled at the comment. "I see.

Learn much in the process?"

A variety of answers formed in Chekov's

mind, ranging from amusing to acerbic, but the one he

felt most comfortable saying aloud was "Quite a bit."

"Drop by to chat, if you feel like it,"

McCoy said. "Soon. A healthy mind and all

that."

Chekov nodded and excused himself, seeking

safety from well-meaning people. He had not walked more

than ten yards from the room when he was nearly

knocked down by Sulu, attired in a bright teal

blue running suit.

After apologizing, the helmsman straightened

up and said, "I was looking for you, Pavel. Come

on, we're both off shift now. After I finish

this run, I'm going to get Angela 335

Martine into the botany lab to help me. We could

use an extra hand."

"Just vhere do you get all this energy?" Chekov

asked.

"Chocolate. The chocolate gives me the

pep, and the exercise keeps me trim.

Elegant solution, don't you think?"

"I suppose. Actually, Sulu, I vas

going to my cabin while I can still be alone. I

... I guess I still have some things to think about."

Sulu eyed his friend closely and nodded.

"Okay, but don't get mired in too deep.

If you do, call and I'll drag you out into the real

world." Smiling again, he turned and resumed his

jog, finally disappearing around a bend in the

corridor.

Chekov headed straight for the turbolift and

waited a few seconds while the computers routed

a compartment to his position. When the doors opened,

there stood Scotty, his arms full of data

padds. Chekov suppressed a chuckle, seeing

the chief engineer in such a situation.

"Don't laugh, laddie. Damnedest thing I

ever saw. Five yeomen get the same glitch in

their padds at the same time Ye can imagine the

trouble that might cause," Scott said with

exasperation in his voice.

"I suppose so," Chekov replied, entering.

"Deck six."

"What's troublin' ye, Ensign? Things

turned out pretty well for ye, didn't they?"

Chekov turned toward Scott and managed a

smile. "I suppose so."

"You said that already. Well, while I have you, I

do want to thank you for your help in our

investigations. Keep it up and you'll be a senior

officer in no time."

"Thank you, Mr. Scott." Then Chekov

lapsed into silence. Scott was perceptive enough

to take the hint.

Withi n seconds the lift deposited Chekov

on his own deck. With a measured gait he headed

for his cabin. At last, a refuge from

well-meaning officers and friends! Sure, they were

only trying to cheer him up--and he had done

well, finally.

But Chekov knew that if he had goofed

seriously once, he could do so again. As far as the

captain was concerned, he no doubt still had a lot

of proving to do. 337

He had not been to his cabin in a while, and the

sight of the repair crews working on the torn

metal bulkheads surprised him. The ship had

really been severely damaged in spots. What

was more, a number of crewmen had died; there had

been an announcement earlier about memorial

services. Such a waste, he thought, rounding a

corner--and was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he

didn't see the approaching figure of Spock

until it was too late to avoid a collision.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spock," Chekov

said, feeling a flush color his cheeks.

"No trouble, Ensign." Spock placed his

hands behind his back, signaling Chekov that they were

about to have a discussion, not a casual chat.

"Actually, I am glad I ran into you. Your

performance during the last few days has given me

ample opportunity to monitor your skills.

I find that you are more than a competent

navigator."

Chekov was surprised. Coming from Spock, that was

high praise.

"Nonetheless ..."

The Russian frowned. Why did there have to be

a "nonetheless"his

his... you also display proficiency at the

science station," the Vulcan finished. "I would like

to know if you have considered exploring

opportunities within my department."

Chekov went numb with disbelief. Not just a

compliment, but an invitation to join the science

section? What next?

"I, ah, well, Mr. Spock, I had not

thought about it. And I certainly do like filling in for

you. Yes, sir, I would like that opportunity."

"Indeed," Spock replied. The two men

paused a moment as Spock considered the new

information. "If I may ask, what are your

ultimate ambitions within Starfleet?"

"Command," Chekov said evenly, finally putting

into spoken ^ws his heartfelt desire since

he'd entered the Academy. "I want to work my

way up through the ranks."

"A logical approach, Ensign. I shall

keep this in mind as we evaluate duty rosters

and assignments. Your skills at more than one

station will certainly be taken into consideration. Thank

you for your time."

Understanding that the conversation was over, Chekov nodded

and waited for Spock to move away before 339

continuing back to his quarters. This was certainly

turning into the longest simple walk in his career.

Chekov picked up his pace and hurried to his

room before he ran into someone else wishing to cheer

him up. Everyone meant well, he realized, but

it was becoming overwhelming.

Unfortunately the only one whose praise

really counted was Captain Kirk. After his

outburst on the bridge during a battle

situation, would the captain ever have confidence in his

abilities again?

Chekov was scheduled for the landing party at Gamma

II, their next port of call. Would Kirk

trust him with something even as basic as studying an

automated astrogation station?

Finally reaching his cabin door, the Russian

sighed with relief. The door opened instantly;

at the same time, the automatic lighting system

brought illumination up to a normal setting.

Chekov plopped himself down on his bunk, hand behind

his head, and just let his mind drift.

He found the quiet of the room and the near-silent

thrum of the ship engines comforting. They told him

things were back to normal. There were no more threats from

the Rithramen raiders or the Parath'aa. And

especially no plasma cannon, a device he

had been seriously happy to see Sulu blow

up. The universe did not need any more engines of

destruction.

Just as he was about to drift off into some needed

sleep, Chekov was disturbed by the door buzzer.

Cursing to himself, he invited the visitor in.

He'd expected Sulu or Uhura--but was

caught off-guard when he saw the figure of

Captain Kirk framed in the doorway.

Quickly the ensign scrambled to his feet,

tugging at his shirt, wondering how messy his hair

was.

Kirk held up a hand and gestured for Chekov

to sit. To his credit, the captain also took a

seat in front of the ensign's desk. The captain

surveyed the room for a moment, allowing Chekov a

chance to regroup his wits.

"The double rooms were smaller when I was on the

Farragut," Kirk said quietly. "My first

roommate and I had to compromise on every

decoration. I placed a hologram of my

family over the dresser, and his girl friend's

picture stood right next to it. People thought she

dated both of us." 341

Chekov wasn't sure how to respond--or

even if he should. Kirk was obviously making an

effort to talk to him, not lecture, and he had

to see how this was going to go. Chekov did make

sure he sat up and paid attention. After all, this

was the first time he'd ever heard the captain

reminisce about his previous assignments.

Kirk went on. "It wasn't that long ago

I was an eager ensign, sure I knew something

from my Academy studies that the old man in the

center seat might not have known. The difference was,

Mr. Chekov, that I knew when to keep my

theories to myself.

"I want the best from my people, and I will ask for

opinions when time permits. You know our briefing

room meetings are always open forums for discussion.

B--and here's where you let me down--when I'm on

the bridge, I don't want any discussion. A

surfeit of options can be a distraction from the

matter at hand. Sometimes those few seconds are

critical--look what happened with the plasma

cannon. Ten seconds between charges. That's

precious little time for a debate."

Chekov nodded glumly and was waiting to hear his

impending demotion to auxiliary control.

"You've served me well in the months you've

been aboard this vessel," Kirk continued. "Your

navigational skills are quite good, and I like seeing

the way you and Sulu work together. Our planetside

experiences have certainly proved you a capable

field officer. So tell me, what should I do with

you?" The captain looked steadily at the younger

man.

Chekov pondered the question, looking up briefly

at his commanding officer. He felt so young in

Kirk's presence, though the difference was less a

matter of age than of experience.

Was that what it took to become a legend?

Battle-hardened experience? Was that all he was

missing? Chekov wondered. Or would he never be

the captain that Kirk was?

Abruptly he remembered that Kirk was

waiting for a response.

"I expect some form of discipline" was all he

could think of to say. "I am not proud of vhat I

did on the bridge during our first encounter vith the

raiders."

His voice was flat, monotone. He lowered his

eyes and waited for Kirk's reaction.

"I have been watching you, Ensign. So 343

have your friends. You've been beating yourself up pretty

good since your mistake. I can't think of a

better punishment than that." The captain paused.

"You know, I see something of myself in you, and that may

have clouded my judgment. I may have ridden you

harder at Alpha Xaridian than I needed

to. That may have caused you to overreact on the

bridge. But I also like to think that the experience

contributed to your excellent performance since that

incident."

Kirk stood, walked over to Chekov, and

held out his hand. "You have the potential for a fine

career in Starfleet," he said. "I know this ship

could use you."

The ensign couldn't believe his ears. He

couldn't believe that Kirk was letting him off so

easily.

But wait, he was punishing himself again, wasn't

he? He had to stop that--the captain had said so.

Silently Chekov stood and gripped

Kirk's hand. The two officers shook, and

Kirk gave Chekov his best smile--the one

alien leaders bent under, the one that had a legendary

effect on beautiful women. It was just one of the many

weapons in the captain's arsenal.

"Thank you, sir. You may treat me in

whatever fashion you choose ... just as long as I

can retain your respect."

"Acknowledged, Ensign. Now, with that said and

done, it's time I reported to the bridge."

Kirk turned to leave and then stopped in the opening

doorway. He looked back over his shoulder, a

grin on his face. "Oh, and good luck with

Yeoman Landon."

Chekov blanched. [ there no secrets at

all on this ship?

Kirk excused himself, chuckling at the

astonished expression on Chekov's face.

Things had been far too grim for far too long,

he noted, as he walked back to the turbolift.

The captain was satisfied that Chekov would be

around for a long time on the Enterprise, plotting

course after course. It was only fair that he'd

returned the favor by plotting a course for

Chekov--one that would ultimately enable him

to achieve his goals.

In the meantime there was a capable young officer at

the navigation controls. Andfor today,

that was enough. 345