STAR TREK

TRAITOR WINDS

by

L.A. GRAF

"THROW DOWN YOUR PHASER,"

LEONG SAID.

Trying to copy the air of cool defiance he'd

seen Captain Kirk use so many times, Ensign

Pavel Chekov locked his eyes on Leong's

crooked smile and flicked his phaser away. It

bounced with a soft thump, and Chekov

didn't dare turn his head to see exactly where

it landed.

But Leong glanced after the weapon and,

quickly as he could, Chekov dove for his

phaser.

Leong intercepted him less than halfway

there....

Look for STAR TREK Eiction from Pocket

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Star Trek The Original Series

Sarek 29 Dreadnought!

Best Destiny 30 Demons

Shadows on the Sun31 Battlestations!

Probe 32 Chain of Attack

Prime Directive 33 Deep Domain

The Lost Years 34 Dreams of the

Rayen

Star Trek Al The Undiscovered Country' 35 The Romulan Way

Star Trek V The Final Frontier36 How Much for Just the Planet?

Star TrekIV The Voyage Home37Bloodthirst

Spock's World 3S The IDIC Epidemic

Enterprise 39 Time for Yesterday

Strangers from the Sky40 Timetrap

Final Frontier 41 The Three-Minute

Universe

42 Memory Prime

I Star Trek The Motion Picture43 The Final Nexus

2 The Entropy Effect44 Vulcan's Glory

3 The Klingon Gambit45 Double, Double

I The Covenant of the CrownS6 The Cry of the Onlies

5 The Prometheus Design47 The Kobayashi Maru

6 The Abode of LifeS8 Rules of

Engagement

7 Star Trek n The Wrath Elf KhanS9 The Pandora Principle

8 Black Fire 50 Doctor's Orders

9 Triangle 51 Enemy Unseen

10 Web of the Romulans52 Home Is the Hunter

11 Yesterday's Son53 Chost Walker

12 Mutiny on the Enterprise5S A Flag Fua of Stars

13 The Wounded Sky55 Renegade

14 The Trellisane Confrontation56 Legacy

15 Corona 57 The Rift

16 The Final Reflection58 Faces of Fire

17 Star Trek llL The Search for Spock59 The Disinhented

18 My Enemy, My Ally 60 Ice Trap

19 The Tears of the Singers61 Sanctuary

20 The Vulcan Academy Murders62 Death Count

21 Uhura's Song 63 Shell Game

22 Shadow Lord 64 The Starship Trap

23 Ishmael 65 Windows on a Lost

World

24 Killing Time 66 From the Depths

25 Dwellers in the Crucible67 The Great Starship Race

26 Pawns and Symbols68 Firestorm

27 Mindshadow 69 The Patrian

Transgression

28 Crisis on Centaurus70 Traitor Winds

Star Trek The Next Generation

Dark Mirror 11 Gultiver's

Fugitives

Descent 12 Doomsday

World

The Devil's Hearr13 The Eyes of the

Beholders

Imzadi 14 Exiles

Relics 15 Fortune's Light

Reunion 16 Contamination

Unif cation 17 Boogeymen

Metamorphosis 18 Q-in-Law

Vendetta 19 Perchance to

Dream

Encounter at Farpoint20 Spartacus

21 Chains of

Command

I Ghost Ship 22 Imbalance

2 The Peacekeepers23 War Drums

3 The Children of Hamlin24 Nightshade

4 Survivors 25 Grounded

5 Strike Zone 26 The Romulan

Prize

6 Power Hungry 27 Cuises of the

Mind

7 Masks 28 Here There

Dragons

8 The Captains'Honor29 Sins of Commission

9 A Call to Darkness30 Debtors'Planet

10A Rock and a Hard Place

Star Trek Deep Space Nine

I Emissary

2 The Siege

3 B/ood/etter

4 The Big Game

5 Fallen Heroes

6 Betrayal

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For our favorite parents,

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Thanks for adopting one of us,

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Historian's Note

This adventure takes place shortly after the

end of the Enterprise's first five-year

mission, immediately following the events

chronicled in The Lost Years.

TRAlTORS

Prologue

U.S.S. DeGama Donatu Sector, Coordinates

Unknown Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269

2300 hours shiptime

"ALL HANDS, prepare for docking with enemy

vessel in thirteen minutes, seven seconds."

Admiral James T. Kirk looked up from his

coffee, tightening his hands around the warm

mug in unconscious frustration. He wanted a

window, or a viewscreen, or at least a place to

stand on the high-speed courier's bridge. He

wanted to know what DeGama's commander was

thinking, how the ship was feeling as they nosed

up to the alien security buoys, how the crew

would react when their communications officer

hailed the alien commander and requested

permission to board. He wanted to be something

more than a passenger waiting in a blind mess

hall for word of how the mission was going.

You want to be the captain, he told himself

reprovingly. But wanting that now wasn't realistic,

wasn't fair. He'd given up the right to stride the

cosmos when he'd accepted the promotion to

admiral all those months before.

Kirk glanced up at the chronometer above the

replicator array. 2304 hours. What was taking so

long?

"Admiral. I see that my son's characterisation of

your behavior was more accurate than I gave him

credit for."

1

L. A. Graf

Kirk turned from the chronometer with no real

surprise, fitting a polite smile to his features even

though he got no reciprocal expression from his

companion. He occasionally had to remind himself

that prolonged close quarters with aliens who

might not appreciate manners was no reason to

forsake them. "Spock served with me for a long

time, Ambassador Sarek. I would expect him to

amass some fairly accurate data as to my de-

meanor."

"Indeed." Sarek passed from the open doorway

with the smooth, silent grace Kirk had learned to

expect from Vulcans, even those as tall and

powerfully built as the ambassador. His feet

treading whisper-light on the bare deck, his robes

barely brushing one against the other, Sarek

rounded the long mess table to seat himself

directly across from Kirk. The admiral

straightened ever so slightly and pulled his coffee

a fraction of an arm's length closer, as if the

strong smell might be offensive to Sarek.

"Spock often remarked upon the human

propensity to expend emotional energy on events

which have not yet occurred. It was a behavioral

trait Spock found fascinating for its illogic." Sarek

folded his hands within the pools of brown fabric

that made up his sleeves, lifting one eyebrow at

Kirk's coffee mug without interrupting his speech.

Kirk had always assumed Spock was collecting

auxiliary information whenever he glanced at

something that way. He wondered what the

well-stained coffee mug told Sarek now. "I

informed Spock that you were an unusually

intelligent human being, with a clear under-

standing of temporal relations and your own

inability to influence them." The ambassador

cocked his head. "Was my assessment in error?"

"Not really, Ambassador, no." Kirk smiled

ruefully and took a mouthful of his coffee. It was

only lukewarm, and tasted bitter and stale. "I

think we humans view worrying as a way of

planning for the future of reminding ourselves of

all the things that might happen because of what

we do." Or don't do.

2

TRAITOR WINDS

Something in the focus of Sarek's dark eyes

shifted, constructing an echo of what Spock always

displayed as a frown. "That is highly illogical. You

cannot build models to any degree of accuracy

based on . . ." Distaste tried but failed to turn

down the corners of the ambassador's mouth. ". .

. imaginary information."

Kirk smiled, then remembered that amusement

might very well come across as rude, and

concealed his humor in a sigh as he pushed away

from the table. "Be that as it may, Ambassador,

you'll never convince humanity of it. Besides..." He

tipped the ruined coffee down the disposal bin.

"It's not the future I'm worried about."

"The past is equally beyond your reach."

"Yes..." Kirk punched up a new mug of coffee,

hotter and blacker than the last. "And so is the

present."

Sarek said nothing while Kirk retrieved his mug,

tasted it, and decided against adding sugar or

cream. For some reason, anything approaching

luxury seemed undeserved and sinful right now,

considering the intergalactic war that might result

from his failure here. He hadn't even let himself

sleep since leaving Earth sixteen hours ago. It

mattered to him that he be awake and aware for

every moment of this last-minute gamble to

prevent the galaxy from plunging into a conflict

that none of them could survive. It also mattered

that across the light-years of distance, Sulu and

Chekov could have faith that their captain

wouldn't abandon them to charges of treason and

murder. Kirk sincerely hoped they knew that.

"Why do you persist in assuming responsibility

for crimes other men have committed?"

Kirk snapped a startled look at the ambassador,

then bit back the first angry words that filled his

mouth. Sarek's face was as impassive as always,

eyebrows lifted in the faintest indication of

inquiry, head inclined as though listening intently

for the most subtle meaning in every sound. Kirk's

hostility "uttered when confronted with the

innocence of Vulcan curiosity.

"Because I'm their captain," he said, turning away

3

L. A. Graf

from the replicator to pace the narrow room.

"Because they're my crew."

"You were their captain," Sarek stated. gently, as

though correcting an equation for a child. He

pivoted in his seat to follow Kirk's progress. "They

are no longer your crew."

Kirk felt a searing flash of pain and anger, then

couldn't decide if his emotions were reacting to

the ambassador's coldness or the subject of the

ambassador's discussion. "It's about more than my

crew now it's about using my crew to try and

destabilise the entire Federation. That makes it

my concern." He stopped matching his passionate

stare to Sarek's stoic one, as if by sheer force of

will he could make the Vulcan understand all the

complicated feelings and beliefs that went into a

human's convictions. "I won't stand by and let my

crew be hurt. By anyone, for any reason."

"All hands, prepare for docking with enemy

vessel in four minutes, four seconds."

An almost forgotten sense at the back of Kirk's

brain confirmed the time estimate without his

even being sure how he knew the DeGama's

speed and direction. In contrast, Sarek glanced

briefly at the intercom, then the chronometer, as

if to verify the individual points in the data chain.

"It is because of your service to my son and myself

that I have made myself available for this negotia-

tion," the ambassador said, bringing his eyes back

to Kirk's. "However, I still fail to understand why

you believe anything you do here or with your

colleagues from the other side of the Neutral

Zone can affect occurrences back on Earth."

"Because it has to." Because nothing Kirk could

do on Earth would save everything, and he refused

to choose between Sulu's and Chekov's lives and

the Federation's future. Because taking daring

risks had never failed him before, and he wouldn't

accept that it would fail him now just because it

wasn't his starship racing toward the rendezvous.

Because if nothing he thought, or said, or did had

any hope of setting right the horrible wrongs in 4

TRAITOR WINDS

motion back home, then everything he believed

about life was a lie, and people really were

nothing better than powerless flotsam on the

mindless tides of circumstance. '-'It just has to,"

he said again, firmly enough to make it true.

"And if the war you seek to avert has already

begun?"

Kirk swallowed more coffee and resumed his

restless pacing, unwilling and unable to

answer.

EARTH

Chapter One

New Harborplace

Baltimore, North America

Terrestrial Date December 14, 2269

1730 hours EST

SMELLS.

That was what Uhura liked most about coming

back to Earth between starship

assignments rediscovering the unique scent of

every region and city on the planet. On board the

Enterprise, life-support systems recirculated the

air so efficiently that most smells got whisked

away before they even reached your nose. Older

ships and space stations tended to smell

unpleasantly like chlorinated hydrocarbons, while

the air on alien planets always held some note

that jangled on human senses, subliminally

warning you that you weren't really home.

But Earth . . . Uhura took a deep, happy breath

of the Baltimore night. Earth smelled of the sea

that ran in your blood, the trees that shared your

DNA, the perfumes and musks of all the other

human beings gathered with you in a city plaza

on a crisp winter night. Not to mention the sweet

smell of fresh-baked bread, the drift of smoke

from char-grilled fish, the rich, dark fragrance of

espresso

"I'm starving." Sulu voiced the thought in

Uhura's mind before she could say it. He leaned

over the harbor rail to peer into the

half-submerged geodesic domes of New

Harborplace. The lights of the underwater mall

9

L. A. Graf

glittered through transparent aluminumpanes,

illuminating the night-dark water from below. "I

hope Chekov gets us a table down there soon."

"Are you sure it was a good idea to send him

into the restaurant?" Uhura stood on tiptoe,

watching shadow schools of fish dart across the

undersea lights. Her wool tapestry coat threw a

fragmented glitter of rich colors across the water,

with the reflection of Sulu's flight suit a thin silver

slash beside her. As usual, the pilot had flown

himself out for their weekly reunion dinner. "You

know Chekov doesn't care if we ever eat. He

probably wouldn't even come to have dinner with

us here if it wasn't so close to Annapolis."

Sulu snorted. "That's true. But he's also been in

photon-torpedo mode ever since he entered

Security Academy give him a job to do, and he'll

do it, or explode trying."

Uhura turned away from the dark water to

frown at him, troubled by the uneasy note beneath

the usual mockery in his voice. It wasn't like Sulu

to worry. "Is something wrong?"

Sulu opened his mouth to reply, but a familiar

shout from farther down the dock interrupted

him. Uhura saw a red-sleeved arm waving at them

from the crowd around the mall entrance, and

blinked in surprise. "Chekov can't have found us

a table already it's Friday night!"

Sulu laughed, and this time Uhura heard only

merriment in his voice. "Let's hope he didn't have

to stun someone to get it." He pulled Uhura's

mittened hand through his arm and guided her

through the press of people. His distinctive flight

suit readily opened a path for them. It wasn't

often that people in eastern North America saw a

Starfleet test pilot, and a murmur of interested

comment followed them down the enclosed stairs

to the swinging glass doors. Chekov's head lifted

to scan the crowd as they approached, as if the

unusual ripple of sound had set off some new

warning instinct inside him.

10

TRAITOR WINDS

"Through here," he said curtly, holding the

revolving door so Uhura could step in, then giving

it a push that propelled her through and out into

the aromatic warmth of the mall's eating plaza.

Busy waiters threaded their way through crowded

tables with grav-platters of seafood and steaming

trays of Asian appetisers over their shoulders.

Uhura restrained an urge to hijack the nearest

one. She hadn't eaten since she'd boarded the

maglev from San Francisco earlier that afternoon.

Sulu emerged from the doors after another

minute, Chekov on his heels. "We're over on the

east side," the Russian informed them, not

sounding too pleased about it. He led the way

through the crowded geodesic dome and into the

spiraling tube that led to the next one. "Right up

against the east wall."

"Next to the aquarium tanks?" Uhura's eyes

widened in startled delight. "Chekov, how on earth

did you get us seated there?"

Sulu snorted again. "He must have bribed

someone. Those tables are usually reserved

months in advance."

"Security cadets don't make enough money to

bribe anyone," Chekov retorted. "I ran into some

friends, and they insisted that we join them."

"Friends?" Uhura scanned the eating plaza they

had just emerged into. She didn't see anyone

besides Chekov wearing the distinctive red and

black singlet uniform of the Security Academy.

"Old Starfleet Academy friends?"

Chekov's mouth curved into a reluctant smile.

"No. Old Enterprise friends."

He swung her around to face the two men

standing beside a table near the backlit aquarium

wall. Uhura let out a delighted cry, and ran to hug

the nearest one, a thin figure in civilian blue

sweater and brown slacks. "Dr. McCoy! How are

you?"

"Better now that I've seen you I think." The

ship's surgeon stepped back from Sulu's

enthusiastic shoulder thumping and got his hand

wrung by Chekov instead. He grinned at them,

and Uhura found the sight of that

11

L. A. Graf

familiar crooked smile inexplicably comforting. "I

thought I was seeing ghosts in the aquarium tank

when I caught sight of Chekov's reflection, but

you people look pretty damn real to me," McCoy

said.

"Real enough to treat you to dinner," Sulu

assured him. Uhura saw Chekov wince, and shook

her head at him reassuringly. Security cadets

might not get paid much, but senior Starfleet

Academy lecturers and experimental test pilots

had no such problems. Especially the test pilots.

"What are you doing in Baltimore, sir?" Uhura

asked, shrugging off her heavy wool coat w hile

waiters scurried up with additional chairs. "I

thought you had retired to Georgia."

"Oh, I have." McCoy tossed an amused look at

his dinner companion. "I came up to do some

guest lectures at Johns Hopkins, so I've been

hanging out with some of the local medical

riffraff. I think you know this one."

Uhura turned, eyes widening when she

recognised older man in Starfleet medical blues.

"Is it Dr. Piper?"

"Lieutenants Uhura and and Sulu, isn't that

right?" With a smile, the Enterprise's former chief

physician reached across the table to take the

hand Uhura extended. He returned Sulu's polite

handclasp, too, then glanced at Chekov and shook

his head. "I'm afraid I don't recognise you, young

man. Sorry about that."

Chekov gave him a restrained Russian nod.

"Ensign Pavel Chekov, sir. I came aboard the

Enterprise after you had gone."

"Chekov . . . hmm. Name sounds familiar to me

for some reason. I'll recall it in a minute." Despite

his fraying silver hair and stooped shoulders,

Piper's eyes still snapped with the intellectual fire

that had lifted him out of a field post and into the

highest echelons of Starfleet research. He

motioned them to take their seats at the round

oak table, the gold braid on his uniform sleeve

glinting in the light. "Can't say I expected to see

any of my old crewmates again. Pleased to find

out 12

TRAITOR WINDS

you're all still alive and in service." A tinge of

teasing humorcrept into his clipped New England

accent. "Unlike Leonard here."

"Now, Mark, don't you start harping on my

retirement again," McCoy growled. "After all, you

only spent one year putting up with this crew's

shenanigans. I was there for the other four I

deserve a rest!" He ran a hand across his thinning

brown hair, looking rueful. "Unlike the Enterprise,

I can't just put into an orbital station and get

Scotty to repair the damage."

Uhura had been pressing her nose against the

cold, blue-green wall of the aquarium tank,

watching in delight as the dappled shadows of

harbor seals blew sprays of bubbles against the

transparent aluminum, then chased them back up

toward the surface. The mention of the chief

engineer's name pulled her attention abruptly

back toward the table. "Have you seen Mr. Scott

lately, sir?"

McCoy snorted. "Seen him? I had to take him to

some horrible Scottish bar on his last shore leave.

He said he was having the devil of a time getting

a good haggis out of the new food replicators on

board."

Sulu made a horrified face. "I didn't think there

was such a thing as a good haggis."

"There isn't," McCoy agreed. "But Mr. Scott

won't admit that until he's eaten at every place in

the galaxy that serves one." He picked up his drink

and swallowed a large mouthful, as if the mere

mention of haggis had left a bad taste in his

mouth. "He says the refitting's going as well as

could be expected, given a planetful of engineers

who don't know a blessed thing about designing

for spaceflight at warp nine."

Chekov and Sulu exchanged amused looks.

"Probably because the technical manual says you

can't take a Constitution-class starship to those

kinds of speeds," Sulu suggested with a ripple of

laughter in his voice.

"No doubt." McCoy scrubbed a hand reflectively

across his nose. "Now, who else have I run into on

my lecture tour?" He lifted an eyebrow at Uhura.

"Did you 13

L. A. Graf

know Janice Rand has moved over to

Communications? She's stationed at the Iceland

Array."

Uhura's eyes widened. "At the main

Communications Center? Good for her."

Dr. Piper smiled. "I always knew that young

woman was too smart to stay a yeoman forever.

And speaking of smart where's Chris Chapel

these days?"

"Back in medical school," McCoy said proudly.

"Going for a joint M.D./Ph.D. in xenophysiology."

"At Stanford University," Uhura added, not

without some pleasure. "Right down the coast

from me. We see each other every few weeks."

Sulu chuckled. "Well, I can't say I see much of

John Kyle, but I do get to talk to him every other

day or so when I do the circumpolar test flights.

He's stationed at the big transporter platform

down in Tasmania. Says he likes the climate, but

misses North American food."

"And speaking of food . . ." Uhura eyed one of

the passing grav-trays with a wistful look. "Can we

get something to eat?"

"Coming right up." Sulu waved, and the flash of

silver in the darkness easily caught the attention

of a passing waiter. "Bring us all the appetisers on

your menu, to start with," he ordered, and tossed

the woman his account card. "All of it billed to

me."

Both Dr. Piper and Dr. McCoy objected

vociferously to that, and even Chekov muttered a

protest. Sulu merely grinned at all of them. "Hey,

I've got to spend my hazardous-duty pay

somewhere. What better use for it than a dinner

with old friends?"

McCoy's expressive eyebrows arched into his

furrowed brow. "Hazardous-duty pay, Sulu? On

Earth?"

"Yes." The pilot ran a proud hand across the

golden sun and mountain badge that glimmered

on the shoulder of his fligh-qsuit. "I told them I

didn't really need it not after five years on the

Enterprise but the base commander insisted. It's

not like I'm doing anything really dangerous...."

"Oh, of course not." Chekov made a skeptical

Russian 14

TRAITOR WINDS

noise. "Everyone knows that testing experimental

landing shuttles is just like taking a vacation."

Sulu laughed. "Well, it is a vacation for me. All

that New Mexican sun and sand and

wilderness it's better than a shore-leave port.

And the work is easy."

Uhura and Chekov exchanged mutually

exasperated glances. Despite weeks of argument,

they had never been able to get Sulu to admit that

his volunteer stint at the White Sands

Experimental Flight Center was any more

dangerous than a typical shift on the Enterprise.

And the problem was, Uhura reflected wryly, Sulu

was such a good pilot that, for all they knew, he

was telling the truth when he said it was easy

work.

"Let me get this straight." McCoy leaned back as

the waiter lowered a huge platter of steaming crab

cakes, oriental dumplings, and assorted other hors

d'oeuvres onto their table. "You turned down an

assignment as first officer on that deep-space

research vessel . . . what was it, again?"

"The Resolution " Sulu eyed the grav-platter of

appetizers with a quiet smile, then spun it so the

pickled herring ended up in front of Chekov. The

Russian gave him back an aggrieved look, but

Uhura noticed he forked some onto his plate just

the same. She hid a smile and reached for a roll

of seaweed and flying-fish eggs. "Scheduled to

explore out from Vulcan to Epsilon Eridani."

"Right some of the most promising sectors in

the Federation." McCoy pointed a barbecued

chicken wing accusingly at the pilot. "And instead

of doing that, you're out in the desert testing new

landing shuttles to see if they'll explode?"

Dr. Piper steepledhis fingers and regarded Sulu

over them, brow furrowed. "That's not what I'd

call a smart career move, son."

Sulu shrugged and speared his chopsticks

through a second lobster dumpling. "No, but at

least it's temporary." He pointed the chopsticks,

dumpling and all, at Uhura. "Just like her teaching

assignment at Starfleet Academy."

15

L.A. Graf

"Just like " Understanding dawned in McCoy's

blue eyes and his scowl slowly faded. "You two

want to get back on the Enterprise!"

The astonishment and hint of pity Uhura

heard in his voice made her duck her head and

fiddle with her crab cake. "It's not like it's never

been done before," she said, hearing the note of

defensiveness in her own voice despite her effort

to sound unconcerned. "A lot of line officers have

transferred back onto their ships after refitting."

McCoy grunted. "A lot of junior line officers.

Kids like Chekov here, who still need to climb a

few ranks before they take a lateral transfer." He

lifted an eyebrow at the Russian. "You're

scheduled to be reassigned to the Enterprise when

you finish security training, right?"

Chekov made a face that was neither

acknowledgment nor denial. "I doubt the crew

roster is finalized so far in advance, Doctor." His

plans after training weren't something he talked

about much around Sulu and Uhura.

"But you two," Piper took up the argument

while McCoy wrestled with a rack of spareribs.

"You should be ship-hopping for the next few

years, getting all the experience you can before

you put in for your own command."

Uhura shook her head definitively. She'd

thought about this a lot on the long journey back

to Earth, and she was sure about this part of her

decision. "I don't want my own command. And I

don't want to spend a lot of boring years touring

the same old systems on some merchant

patrolship or diplomatic envoy. I need new

worlds new communications problems, so I can

learn new communications skills." She met

McCoy's gaze calmly. "That means getting posted

to a starship and the next one due to be crowed

is the Enterprise."

"Hmmph." The doctor lowered his brows with

an expression that meant he conceded her point

but hadn't yet given up on the debate. "And what

makes you think Starfleet is going to let you sign

on her?"

Uhura shrugged. "They've got to have a few

old-timers

16

TRAITOR WINDS

on board to balance the ensigns they'll be

assigning. I've got as good a shot at those posts as

anyone."

"And it'll help to be stationed right here on

Earth when the call goes out," Sulu said quietly.

McCoy glowered at him. "Don't you tell me you

don't want a command post. Because I'm telling

you right now, I won't believe you."

The pilot smiled. "Yes, I want one. Eventually."

He swept the last lo bster dumpling up with skilled

chopsticks. "When I'm ready, and that won't be

for a while." He held up a hand when McCoy

would have spoken. "I'm not a Vulcan, Doctor,

but I come from long-lived stock. I've got a lot of

time yet."

"Hmmph." Stymied again, McCoy trained his

frown on Chekov. "And how about you, young

man? Why aren't you in Command School,

instead of wasting yourself on the Security

Academy?"

Chekov choked over a swallow of herring and

reached for the nearest water glass. "I'm not

wasting myself," he said at last, his voice gruff

from coughing. "Command officers can't command

if their security department can't keep them alive."

"Sounds like security dogma to me," McCoy said

bluntly. "You're too smart to get brainwashed by

the kind of physical and mental indoctrination it

takes to be a security guard." He gave the young

Russian a searching look. "Aren't you?"

Chekov scowled and tore apart another herring

without eating any. "I'm not being brainwashed."

He looked up at McCoy with a sudden fierce

directness. "And before you say anything else

about security guards, Doctor remember how

many times one saved your life at the loss of his

or her own."

McCoy had the grace to look abashed, and Dr.

Piper grinned. "That's telling him, Mr.

Chekov Chekov!"

The unexpected shout made Uhura drop

flying-fish eggs all over her plate, and brought the

security cadet to his feet. "What?" he demanded,

sounding startled.

"I just remembered where I've heard your name!" 17

L. A. Graf

Piper chortled and rubbed his hands together with

what looked like sheer delight. "You were with the

landing party that managed to capture the first

Klingon disruptors, weren't you?"

Chekov blinked, then slowly subsided into his

seat again. "I suppose I was, yes. I mean, I was on

that landing party, sir, but we didn't actually get

possession of the disrupters after we evacuated the

Klingons from their disabled ship."

"But you have seen a disrupter in use?" Piper

pressed, eyes serious now and fire-bright. "Close

up."

Uhura saw the puzzled look Chekov skated at

her and Sulu, and shrugged back at him in baffled

reply. "Yes, sir," the Russian replied at last. "We

all have.

"Along with almost everyone else who's ever

been stationed aboard a starship," Sulu pointed

out.

The older physician spread his hands. "I don't

doubt that, Lieutenant Sulu. But how many former

starship crewmen are stationed within fifty

kilometers of Baltimore?" He peered at them from

under craggy silver brows. "I'll tell you how many

none. Except for your friend here, just down the

bay at the Security Academy in Annapolis." He

pointed a triumphant finger at Chekov. "With your

starship background, I'll bet you already have a

Class A security clearance, don't you?"

Chekov scowled. "Yes, sir. But why should that

matter?"

Piper leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"Because the research project I'm working on up

at Johns Hopkins requires a Starfleet Class A

security clearance." He dropped his voice further,

to a murmur Uhura could barely hear over the

swash of waves outside. "I'm doing a study on how

to mitigate the medical effects of a disruptor blast.

Starfleet's given me everything I need disrupters

and schematics, beam analysis, medical histories of

victims everything except someone who could

show me how the Klingons actually used the damn

weapon!"

"That matters?" Uhura asked, blinking in surprise.

18

TRAITOR WINDS

"Of course it matters." It was McCoy who

answered her. "Short, sweeping blasts will give

you a completely different kind of trauma than a

long, trained shot. That's one of the reasons it's

so damned hard to build a tissue regenerator with

the right capacity to undo disrupter damage."

Piper was staring intently across the table,

ignoring their exchange. "So what do you say, Mr.

Chekov? I'll only need you to come up twice a

week or so, on days like this when you can get

leave. Are you willing to help me out?"

Chekov paused for a long moment, frowning at

the shreds of herring on his plate. "Willing, yes,

sir," he said at last. "But I don't know if I'm able.

I would have to ask for special leave from the

Academy commander...."

Piper nodded. "Commodore deCandido? I know

him. He'll give it to you." A smile crinkled the

lines around his eyes and melted their intellectual

fire to a gentler warmth. "Don't worry, Mr.

Chekov I don't think you'll regret this."

19

Chapter Two

Starfleet Security Academy

Annapolis, North America

Terrestrial Date December 14, 2269

2030 hours EST

WEATHER.

It was the one thing artificial environments

couldn't begin to mimic, and the only thing Pavel

Chekov had missed about planetary life. The

Enterprise always knew what day it was. It

reminded him of the change of seasons, or about

the upcoming Earth-bound holidays, but there

was never any character or wonder to those

climate-controlled days. You couldn't watch the

sky clear at dusk and feel your skin prickle in

anticipation of a thirty-degree temperature plunge

before dawn. You couldn't daydream out a

window while watching leaves the colors of

jewelry chase themselves in whirlwinds across an

open road. You couldn't bask in the stroke of sun

on your hair when a late-year thaw misted steam

like silk curtains into the crisp and thirsty air.

Compared with Earth, a starship was like an

android when compared with a human no

personality, no passion, no soul.

The sidewalk beneath Chekov's feet rumbled

faintly as the public transit rushed silently away

beneath it, hurrying on for some other stop with

barely a pause for Chekov's departure. He didn't

mind. He liked the night

20

TRAITOR WINDS

time silence once the transit was gone, the way the

slow, heavy snowflakes on the air made everything

look somehow much brighter, and more real.

Nothing in the physics texts could explain that

mystical broadening of winter horizons. Where he

was born, you either believed in the silent,

absolute power of snow, or you huddled in the

grip of a six-month darkness and failed to find the

magic that preserved the land around you.

Stopping halfway up the hill from the transit

stop, he crouched to splay one hand on the

sidewalk and smile up through the treetops at a

house light near the top of the rise. Snowflakes

swirled in waves and rivers around the soft golden

glow, flashing into brief, burning life just before

the wind whisked them back into darkness again.

It was like watching a tiny, silent melodrama with

players who enjoyed a life span of only mere

moments, displaying everything they had to offer

in that tragically limited time frame. How could

anyone not appreciate such splendor?

He'd made the mistake of slipping outside once

during a winter shore leave to breathe crystal

patterns onto a glass window as they passed. Sulu

had thought he was crazy.

"You're gonna catch pneumonia!" the helmsman

had declared, refusing to come any farther into

the cold than leaning out an open doorway. "Get

back in here!"

Chekov had scooped a handful of snow off the

window ledge, then dropped it by the path when

Uhura fixed him with a warning glare over Sulu's

shoulder. She was almost as bad as having a big

sister sometimes. "I like snow," he'd tried to

explain to them while Sulu swept the melting

flakes from his hair and Uhura scolded him about

getting his feet wet in temperatures lower than

zero degrees.

"Nobody likes snow," Sulu had avowed with the

certainty of superior rank and years. "You just like

winter sports. Skiing, ice hockey, that kind of

thing."

Chekov only sighed and shook his head. "You

like winter sports," he pointed out. "I like winter."

21

L. A. Graf

"Bull hockey."

"No," Uhura chided the helmsman. "I can

imagine what he means." Ever open-minded, she

closed her eyes and smiled at whatever enchanting

image she could conjure. "Sitting inside a warm

bungalow with a mug of creme de mocha and a

wool throw. There's nothing prettier than watching

a snowfall in the mountains from behind a plate

transparency."

Nobody maintained plate transparencies in

Russia, and luxuries like creme de mocha were

considered best appreciated beside the ice at

Gorky Park where you could watch the steam

climb up through the snowfall and crackle against

the frozen sky. Maybe it was genetic, he'd decided

at the time. He'd pitied them a little for their

inherited cold-blooded metabolisms, then snuck

away later, while they haggled over dinner, to

build snowmen with the colony's schoolchildren.

Watching the delicate patterns of ice crystals

build on the wool of his peacoat sleeves, Chekov

felt a stab of regret that his friends were too far

away now to argue with him about the weather.

He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets,

suddenly cognizant of the darkness and the lonely,

late-evening chill.

The gates to the Annapolis Security Academy

loomed like a fortress through the haze of blowing

snow. A spray of powerful backlighting seared the

sky behind it white, and the thermal conduits

under the road ghosted steam up to mate with the

overall brightness. There wasn't even a patina of

frost to sparkle the wrought-iron gatework, or a

dusting of crystals to lend color to the hollows and

symmetry of the ancient stone wall. Confronted

with such a symbol of man's defiance of the

weather, winter lost a little of its supernatural

charm.

Chekov stopped outside the tiny guardhouse,

sweeping a hand back through his hair to dislodge

the worst of the snowfall. "Ensign Pavel A.

Chekov," he announced himself. "Cadet Grade

One." The guard inside the kiosk keyed open the

tr ansparent window, and Chekov made an effort

to look cold and in a hurry.

22

TRAITOR WINDS

"Do you know what time it is, mister?"

At first, Chekov couldn't imagine why the

lieutenant would need to ask such an obvious

question. He nodded curtly at the chronometer on

the wall of the kiosk beyond the guard. "Twenty

hundred forty-four hours." He jogged for a

moment in place, trying to keep his temperature

up, then remembered to add, "Sir," before the

lieutenant could say something critical.

Apparently, he didn't speak fast enough. "Are

you aware that your grounds curfew goes into

effect at twenty-one hundred hours, Ensign?" The

lieutenant folded his hands on the counter as

though planning to be there for quite some time.

"You have left yourself only sixteen minutes in

which to place yourself on this base. Did you

know that, Ensign?"

"Yes, sir." Chekov ceased his fidgeting and

slipped his hands out of the peacoat's pockets to

stand a little straighter. "I know, sir." And it was

his own damned fault for having forgotten.

Not about the curfew, really, but about the

different world that lurked in wait for him behind

these rough-cut walls. This wasn't like the regular

Academy, where he'd been groomed and coached

and encouraged right up to the moment he'd

accepted his assignment as head navigator aboard

the Enterprise. Annapolis was a place of bitter

truth and hard reality; there wasn't room for

insecurity or ego when you were trying to

construct the finest human weapons. An evening

with Sulu and Uhura not to mention the

doctors had lulled him into believing that he

could still occupy a place as any officer's

intellectual equal. However true that might be

anywhere else in the galaxy, though, it couldn't be

part of his life as long as he answered to "Cadet"

within the Security Academy's walls. Not for the

first time, he found himself longing for the day he

could officially take up his new position and turn

his back on this place forever.

"You know, Ensign, if I kept you standing here

for another seventeen minutes, I'd have to report

you for violating regulations." He spoke in the

tone all the

23

L. A. Graf

upperclassmen used diffident and condescending,

and not because anything they said was personal.

"That would not look very good on your record."

"No, sir," Chekov agreed flatly. He'd learned the

Cadet One voice of stoic invulnerability pretty

well himself. "It would not, sir."

"So what do you think matters more, Ensign?

Your Academy record, or your social life?"

I haven't got a social life. The thought rose up in

him unbidden, but at least made his next answer

honest as well as easy. "My Academy record, sir."

"What?" The lieutenant's voice soared to that

level of hateful sharpness that always made

Chekov feel as if he'd been slapped at. He'd long

ago given up flinching, but had never learned to

quell the anger it inspired. "What did you say to

me, Cadet?"

Chekov had to breathe deeply twice to keep his

tone as cold and stiffly formal as required. "My

Academy record," he said clearly, meeting the

lieutenant's gaze and daring him to challenge the

statement again. "Sir."

The lieutenant reached under the counter in

front of him without taking his eyes off Chekov.

Something inside the kiosk buzzed loudly, and a

man-sized section of gate swung aside with a

squeal. "You be careful what tone of voice you

use with your superiors," the lieutenant warned

the ensign grimly. "You're going to get yourself in

trouble someday."

Chekov opted not to mention that there had

once been a time when his superiors could hear

what he said without forcing him to be sharp with

them. It seemed like a small eternity ago.

"You've got nine minutes to get into your

building. Move it."

He slipped through the gate with no more than

an impassive nod, then broke into a trot where

the lieutenant could still see him, just in case the

guard felt like haranguing him for not taking

orders seriously.

A tunnel carved of yellow light traced the sidewalk

24

TRAITOR WINDS

leading along the edge of King George Street.

Chekov cut into the road itself as soon as he was

past the view of the gatehouse guard he might

be fond of snow, but no one jogged on a slush-wet

sidewalk when the warm, clear street was

available. He had entered the Academy at the

Number Four Gate, as far from the Halsey Field

House as he could get and still officially be on

base. He'd never tried to cross the grounds in

under nine minutes before. With luck, he'd never

have to do it again.

Jogging down the middle of the deserted

roadway, he tried to guess which instructor lived

in which home by the pattern of lights and

curtains and holiday decorations visible in the

windows and front lawns. For just an instant, his

heart swept back to the elaborate sand paintings

that replaced most Muscovite windows in the

winter. He used to help his mother pour the

colored granules in between the panes of fragile

glass, marveling at how the pigments swirled and

curled around each other, but never truly mixed.

An incredible spasm of homesickness pulsed

through him at the thought. He shook his head

with a snort of disgust that chased the melancholy

away. It seemed all he was doing tonight was

feeling homesick for one place or another. Sulu

would have laughed at him.

He reached Halsey Field House with barely

three minutes to spare. Punching in his logon

while stripping out of his peacoat, he tossed the

heavy bundle toward a locker before the computer

had even accepted his access. He didn't like

coming in to a workout this late. The bunkard

called for lights-out at 2300, which meant not

even two hours to go through his paces, shower,

change, and ready himself for tomorrow's classes

before having to be in his billet for inspection

when the block commander made her rounds. At

least tonight his unplanned run had upped his

heart rate enough to register at the first level

checkpoint. It passed him through to the training

room without requiring a warm-up, and that saved

him almost fifteen minutes right there. He'd 25

L. A. Graf

learned to appreciate the value in such small

blocks of time.

"If you want to come in now, after five years of

riding a panel," his division commandant, Gloria

Oberste, had told him disapprovingly at the

beginning of the semester, "you've got a hell of a

lot of catching up to do."

She'd made no secret of the fact that she didn't

think he could do it. Nearly every other cadet at

the Academy was a lieutenant few of them had

enjoyed starship service, but all of them had

served at least three years in basic security before

moving on to the upper-level courses. Only

Chekov had made the lateral transfer from

command. While he'd never burdened anyone at

Annapolis with his reasons for that decision, he

was more aware than anyone of the disadvantages

he'd chosen for himself. Three years behind on

the physical conditioning. Three years behind on

the studying and practicingand handling of the

most sophisticated Starfleet weaponry. Three years

behind in learning the tempers and limits of his

body and soul.

Chekov wasn't sure himself that he could ever

make up the time. He paused at the top of an

overhead press and studied his reflection in the

mirror. This was the problem with growing too

used to success in every endeavor you turned to.

If he couldn't follow the path he'd originally

signed on for, and security proved impossible to

penetrate, he just didn't know what else he could

turn to. The thought of being completely adrift at

what should have been the beginning of his career

made his insides cringe. He brought the weight

back down more carefully than usual and seated

it firmly on the holding pins. Someone should

make a rule about not thinking too much when

you're trying to exercise.

Morning tutorials and nightly workouts had

gradually crept into his daily routine. An hour

before the start of regular classes, he dashed to

the library for curricula tutoring with one of the

younger lieutenants. Marina Franz was only one

year his senior, and the only other 26

TRAITOR WINDS

native Russian at the Academy. He enjoyed their

fortyfive-minute sessions more than anything else

he'd encountered yet at Annapolis partly

because speaking Russian for a little while each

day seemed to rest his brain after so many hours

of listening to poor and hastily spoken English,

and partly because Franz was so clever and pretty,

a reminder of the days when he'd had time to

appreciate a woman for something other than her

ability to distill a day's worth of class notes into a

comprehensible outline.

He left the training room less than thirty

minutes later Muscles warm and quivery, his

whole body awake and light, he jogged back into

the locker room to dig a sweatshirt out of the pile

of rumpled clothes. The last thing he needed was

to chill during his last hour of physical training.

Wiping a towel across his face to clear his eyes, he

dragged the sweatshirt over his head, then opened

the toiletry case on the top shelf of the locker to

retrieve the phaser pistol he'd hidden there among

his gear.

It wasn't a functional phaser. He'd never even

bothered to ask about keeping a working pistol

outside the Academy armory; besides, it didn't

matter if the gun could target or shoot. All he

needed was the size, and weight, and shape

exactly right, so he cajoled a broken model out of

maintenance by promising the tech in charge a

month's worth of ice hockey lessons. Thank God

those weren't supposed to start until after the first

of the year.

Hefting the smooth black pistol in the palm of

his hand, he slammed the locker door and trotted

into the open gym where he and a hundred other

cadets practiced unarmed defense combat for two

hours every single day. Standing in front of the

floor-to-ceiling mirror with eternally repeated

emptiness reflected in the other mirrored wall

behind him, Chekov had to swallow a feeling of

smallness as he reminded himself why he came

here all alone.

27

L. A. Graf

During his first few months on board the

Enterprise, he'd gotten turned around in the huge

starship's gym complex, trying to find a vacant

facility without having to actually admit to any of

the resident officers that he didn't know where he

was. He'd finally resorted to prowling the

observation balcony, looking down on the gyms

below, and was captured by the sight of the

Enterprise's captain working out in the training

room all alone. Kirk confronted his own reflection

in the mirror as if facing his direst enemy, a

phaser held out before him as though holding his

reflection at bay. When the captain first pitched

his phaser toward the opposite end of the room,

Chekov assumed Kirk had tired of whatever

private game he played. Then the captain dove to

retrieve the gun with grim determination, and

Chekov found himself impressed at the speed and

accuracy with which Kirk swept up the pistol and

kept running.

Over and over again, Kirk enacted the same

silent scenario. Sometimes farther, sometimes

closer, sometimes rolling to put himself in reach

of the gun, sometimes coming up onto his knees

once he'd finally retrieved it, sometimes swearing

into the bigness of the empty room and stalking

about in frustration before positioning himself to

start the sequence all over again.

Chekov didn't know when he realized exactly

what Kirk was doing. When awareness came,

though, the awe and respect that pulsed through

him in response never really faded again. Kirk was

practicing how far he could throw away his

sidearm and still retrieve it before some unseen

enemy could fire on him. He was actually practic-

ing a strategy for getting out of what anyone else

would consider an impossible situation. Sometime

during that hour he spent observing his new

captain, Chekov came to understand that the main

thing separating exceptional commanders from the

people who were merely in charge was the ability

to get whatever they wanted out of everybody,

including themselves.

As a navigator, he hadn't made any important deci28

TRAITOR WINDS

signs. It hadn't been his place to pass judgment on

what course of action was taken during any given

encounter, and he hadn't even been responsible

for choosing his own role during a mission, much

less anyone else's. Somewhere near the end of his

first month at the Security Academy, though, he'd

found himself awake most of a night with his

heart pounding and his stomach clenched in

anxiety because some now-forgotten nightmare

had filled him with the knowledge that he would

be the one in command when these two years of

training were over. He would pick the guards for

the planetary missions. He would decide who was

good enough and who could be let go. He would

make the subspace calls to the parents of

crewmen who didn't return at the end of a

mission.

He started practicing throwing away his phaser

the very next day.

He initiated practice tonight the same way he

had since the beginning with a few easy tosses

no more than an arm's length away, just to assure

himself he could land the phaser wherever he

wanted, and to remind his muscles how to stretch

and tighten in an ongoing quest for speed. Even

as a young man, playing intermural hockey in

secondary school, his main advantage had been

endurance, not speed. Unfortunately, endurance

wasn't particularly helpful right now. The illusion

of capability that rode on his postworkout

endorphins shattered all too easily. His

movements all seemed slow and awkward, as

though he were trying to perform gymnastics in a

two-gravity environment. He snatched up the

phaser on every retrieval, meaning to bring it to

bear on the same patch of the wall each time.

But, every time, his unconscious expectation of

where that target should be ended up frustratingly

wide of where his eyes told him it was only an

instant later. Chekov knew that an instant's delay

in an emergency was just too long.

He threw the phaser behind him this time,

closing his eyes so he would hear it land, rather

than watch it in the mirror. Then, eyes still closed,

he twisted to dive after it 29

L. A. Graf

with an awkward shoulder roll. He almost lost his

rhythm when his hand closed on the smooth metal

first try, but momentum worked faster than

thought. Coming to rest on one knee, he flashed

his eyes open and instinctively swept the phaser

toward a patch of dark movement on the opposite

wall

and ended up with the phaser pointing at

another cadet's smiling reflection in the

floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Embarrassment seared Chekov's face like a slap.

Lowering the phaser, he climbed slowly to his feet

and turned to offer the lieutenant behind him a

stiff but respectful nod. "Mr. Leong."

Jim Leong smiled, drifting into the open room

as though he had nothing better to do than

inspect the activities of his fellow students. It was

an attitude Chekov had learned to despise in the

last few months. He'd entertained illusions that he

and Leong might be friends when he'd met the

older lieutenant on his first day at the Academy.

Leong had greeted him with a handshake and a

smile, his exotic eyes and ready grin so

reminiscent of Sulu that Chekov had wanted to

believe that this slim, Canadian-born Asian would

also share Sulu's kindness and playful patience.

Instead, Leong had needed only an hour to prove

himself a self-important braggart with a stripe of

petty cruelty wide enough to strangle himself.

Chekov only considered it too bad that Leong had

never succeeded in doing so.

"Mr. Chekov." Somehow, Leong always managed

to turn even the most innocuous of greetings into

a thing of liquid insult. Chekov didn't know what

made him angrier the lieutenant's complete

disrespect for anyone and anything that couldn't

strong-arm him into behaving, or the way Leong

succeeded in making Chekov feel stupid and small

just in the way he smiled at him. "I'd think

someone as far out of his league as you are would

have better things to do than play around with

this kind of hotshot crap."

"It's not . . ." Chekov tightened his grip on the

phaser to remind himself he had more important

goals in his life 30

TRAITOR WINDS

than subjugating Leong. "I'm not playing around,"

he said, trying to sound civil.

"Sure you are." Leong slowed to a leisurely stop

in front of him, his head cocked speculatively as

he eyed the gun at Chekov's side. "Because if

you'd ever actually worked in security, you'd know

that the A number one rule for any security guard

is that you never" one hand whipped out with

stinging speed to slap the gun into the air between

them "ever" Leong snatched the phaser

one-handed and tucked it behind him before

Chekov had even completely registered it was

gone "give up your weapon." He smiled and

waggled the gun between two fingers. "To

anyone."

Chekov brought his hands slowly back to his

sides. He wasn't going to play this game. "It isn't

always that easy."

"It isn't always that easy, sir."

"It isn't always that easy," Chekov echoed

formally. "Sir."

Leong acknowledged that small victory with a

snort bordering on disgust. "Of course it is. Not

that you would know."

It always came back to that with Leong. "Are

you saying, sir, that if someone holds my landing

party at gunpoint, I should let them shoot a crew

member rather than throw down my phaser?"

"I'm saying that if you do your job right, no one

should be able to take your landing party

hostage."

The easy certainty of Leong's statement made

Chekov want to slap him. In four years on board

a starship, Chekov had seen more unpredictable

circumstances and unfair situations than he'd ever

dreamed of in Academy classroom discussions.

Even promising yourself you would expect nothing

and be prepared for everything wasn't the same as

facing a decision no commander had ever exactly

had to deal with before. So much of Kirk's

dynamic style had stepped outside the rule of

textbook teaching, but Chekov refused to believe

that Kirk was simply an incompetent commander

and that he was just too naive to realize it.

31

L A. Graf

Still, the heartless taskmaster inside him

reminded, Kirk isn't here, and you have to put up

with two more years of Leong What's going to do

you the most good here and now?

Chekov almost had to grit his teeth before he

could make himself hold out his hand in silent

request for the gun. "Thank you for your input,

Lieutenant Leong. I'll do my best to bear your

advice in mind.'?

Leong glanced down at Chekov's waiting hand

as though surprised to find it there. "You know,

Ensign, somehow I get the impression you don't

believe me. You want your phaser back?" He

suspended the gun above Chekov's palm, then

dropped it there and took two long steps

backward. "Prove to me you deserve it." He made

an L with thumb and forefinger and sighted along

it like a weapon. "Throw down your phaser."

A real hostage situation could not have felt

more immediate. Trying to copy the air of cool

defiance he'd seen Kirk use so many times,

Chekov locked his eyes on Leong's crooked smile

and flicked the useless phaser away from himself.

It bounced on the mat with a soft thump, but

Chekov didn't dare turn his head to verify exactly

where it landed.

Leong simplified matters slightly by tossing an

amused glance after the weapon. "So is this where

I keep talking to form my own distra ction?" the

lieutenant asked, turning his full attention back to

Chekov. "Tell you my fiendish plan for taking over

your ship, just in case the audience isn't clear yet

on the details?"

It isn't like he'll really kill me. It was all just a

matter of humiliation, anyway. Chekov assumed

maybe he'd even get used to it by the end of this

assignment. Diving for the gun, he told himself

that he didn't expect to come up with it he just

wanted to get this confrontation over with so he

could run back to his bunkard in time for curfew.

Leong intercepted him not even halfway to the

phaser. In his heart, Chekov knew he couldn't

twist aside and

32

TRAITOR WINDS

avoid the other cadet, but vanity made him have

to try. He skipped just outside Leong's reach,

dropping to dive for the phaser behind him, and

slammed up hard against one of the many

mirrored walls when Leong diverted his roll with

a single, well-placed shove. The glass hummed

with the force of his impact, and Chekov's

attention refracted into a thought of breathless

thanks that the whole wall hadn't shattered

around him.

"Well, that was pretty pitiful, Ensign." Leong

stepped back onto the mat and waved him to his

feet with ruthless impatience. "Do it again."

This time, Chekov ended up beneath the other

cadet's knee, not even sure how he got there, but

breathless with anger at the grin of smug disdain

bending over him. If Leong wasn't an officer,

Chekov would have tried to beat that grin away

with the same blunt force that had served him so

well in more than one shore leave imbroglio and

over a dozen schoolyard brawls. But trying to

explain to a court-martial jury that he'd thrown

his career out the lock because he couldn't stand

to look at his classmate anymore didn't seem

particularly preferable to where he found himself

now. He snaked a hand behind Leong's bent leg

and caught hold of that ankle in both hands.

The look of startled annoyance in Leong's eyes

almost made their brief battle worth it. "Do you

think I could break your knee if I twisted as hard

as I can?" Chekov asked him matter-of-factly.

Leong's face closed down in a flush of anger. "I

think I could break your jaw if you tried it. Want

to go for it?"

"Gentlemen . . ."

The quiet interruption splashed Chekov with

horror as blistering as molten copper. Freed

suddenly from the weight of Leong's body, he

scrambled back away from the other cadet,

scooping up the abandoned phaser as Leong

stiffened to attention. Somehow, even when pre-

senting himself for a senior officer's discipline,

Leong managed to do it with a swift efficiency

that left Chekov feeling hopelessly outclassed. The

young ensign snapped 33

L. A. Graf

upright a full three seconds behind his companion,

painfully aware of the delay.

Security Commander Gloria Oberste raked them

both with a cool grey stare, her arms folded across

the front of a black and red down jacket. Snow

sprinkled the shoulders of her coat, clinging like

bits of eiderdown to the braided knot of her blond

hair. If she'd been taller or more slim, her

measuring stare might not have seemed so keenly

masculine and brutal. Being faced down by a

woman who matched him well in both height and

solid musculature, though, Chekov always got the

impression Oberste had transcended the

conventionalism of both human sexes, thus making

herself more formidable than either.

She nodded shortly at the gun in Chekov's hand.

"A mutually respectful training spar, of course,"

she remarked without a smile.

Leong kept his eyes dutifully trained on the hall

behind her shoulder. "Of course, sir."

"Isn't that nice?" She tossed a glance at Chekov,

neither asking for his input nor discouraging it. He

felt a blush rise up into his cheeks, but opted to

keep his own opinion silent. "I'd hate to think you

were indulging in personal grudges at the expense

of your Academy studies," Oberste continued,

pacing slowly into the room. "After all, I'm sure

you're both aware that a security officer's duty to

protect and serve places him above such petty

behavior as brawling with his classmates." She

paused in front of Chekov just long enough to slip

the phaser away from him and slide it into her

jacket pocket. He let her take it with only the

tiniest sigh.

"Mr. Leong." Pivoting neatly, she thumped the

side of her fist against the lieutenant's outthrust

chest. "Since you are not qualified to instruct

underclassmen in unarmed combat, I'll have to ask

that you not skirmish with Mr. Chekov anymore.

Your skills far outmatch his at this point, making

you a useless example and an unfair opponent. If

I see or hear of you sparring with him again, 34

TRAITOR WINDS

I'll be forced to take disciplinary action." She

looked up sharply into Leong's staring eyes. "Am

I understood?"

"Yes, sir." He flicked only the briefest glance

aside at Chekov. "Perfectly, sir."

Oberste nodded and waved him toward the

door. "Then you're dismissed."

Leong slipped out the door almost as quickly as

he'd appeared. Chekov wondered if the lieutenant

ever felt the humiliation and frustration he visited

upon others, even while under a commanding

officer's lash, and found himself more sure than

ever that even Oberste's overt disapproval didn't

register on Leong as anything more than

inconvenience. How could someone put his life on

the line for three years in a security squad and

still have so little appreciation for the people he

was trained to serve? And why couldn't there be

another Security Academy on the other side of

the world so Chekov could transfer his studies to

someplace anyplace that didn't include Leong?

"Commodore deCandido tells me you'll be on

special assignment to Johns Hopkins for the next

several weeks. I'm not so sure that's a good idea,

considering the special difficulties with your

schedule."

Chekov jerked his attention back to Oberste,

surprised that she had spoken. "It's important

research, sir work that could save many people's

lives." He wasn't sure if she would value his

qualifier, but added anyway, "I want to help with

it, sir, if I may."

"You know that no one's going to grant you any

special considerations if you can't keep up with

your assigned work."

Chekov nodded. "I wouldn't expect that, sir."

"And you know that Mr. Leong is more likely to

slow down your progress than help you."

He couldn't help smiling a little, then erased the

expression before she could take offence at his

wry amusement. "Yes, sir. I'm very much aware of

that, sir."

Oberste surprised him by offering him a dry smile

as

35

L. A. Graf

she underhanded the phaser to him. "Well, that

said, then . . ." She unsealed the front of her

jacket with a flourish, nodding at Chekov as

though irritated with his obdurate lack of

movement. "We can start by correcting some of

the most obvious flaws in your defensive style.

Show me a Tal defensive position five . . ."

36

Chapter Three

White Sands Flight Center

Alamogordo, North America

Terrestrial Date December 15, 2269

0800 hours MST

GRAVITY.

Long before he actually set foot on Earth again,

Sulu knew what he missed most about it the

reassuring feel of 9.816 meters per second per

second. No other planet in the galaxy could tug at

a landing shuttle with exactly that gravitational

force, or support it with precisely the same air

pressure as Earth's. Those constants engraved

themselves so deeply into your neural pathways

when you learned to fly that no amount of

experience on other planets ever modified them.

Sulu hadn't even tried. Piloting the Enterprise

through the airless microgravity of outer space

was so immensely different from planetary Dying

that he'd simply discarded all his innate

assumptions about Dight and built new ones. And

on other planets, he'd found that his strength as

a pilot was his ability to measure alien gravity and

air resistance against his Earth-schooled instincts,

and translate his maneuvers accordingly.

But now that he was back on Earth itself Sulu

banked his shuttle over the night-dark bulk of the

Sacramento Mountains, orienting himself by the

spiderweb of lights to the south that he knew was

El

37

L. A. Graf

Paso the familiar gravity and air pressure felt

like long-denied luxuries. His great-grandfather

would probably say it was like being allowed to

speak your native tongue after long years in an

alien culture. To Sulu, it felt more like putting on

a comfortable T-shirt, shorts, and sandals after a

long day in an insulated fligh-qsuit.

He left the bumpy air resistance of the

mountain range behind, tearing a layer of cold

winter cloud to tinsel as he did so, then rolled the

shuttle into a dive that would have seemed

dangerously steep to anyone who wasn't a

Starfleet test pilot. A familiar blast of

mountain-funneled wind met him when he pulled

up a kilometer above the Alamogordo Valley

floor, dancing the usual dry patter of sand across

the shuttle's outer hull. After three months, Sulu

was so used to the skeletal sound that it now

seemed odd to land without it.

The rumpled landscape of White Sands unrolled

itself below his shuttle's wings as he descended, its

gypsum dunes glowing ghost-pale in the desert

moonlight. Between the empty darkness of the

Federation Wilderness Sanctuary to the south and

the even emptier darkness of the Starfleet

Experimental Flight Range to the north, Sulu

caught the small sprinkle of lights that was

Alamogordo. He toggled his chin-mike.

"Starfleet Shuttle Serengeti, requesting

permission to land at White Sands Residential

Shuttleport. Lieutenant Commander Hikaru Sulu,

pilot and sole passenger."

There was a pause as the base computer

checked his voiceprint, analysing its stress levels to

be sure he wasn't being held hostage and forced

to lie. "Hikaru Sulu, cleared to land, residential

lane five."

"Acknowledged." Sulu angled the Serengeti into

the wind, increasing its speed slightly to

compensate for the buffeting, then pointed the

shuttle's blunt nose at the landing lights and cut

its thrusters. Gravity promptly hauled the little

aircraft toward the ground, counterbalanced just

enough by forward momentum to produce a

smooth, parabolic glide. Sulu grinned and kept his

hand

38

TRAITOR WINDS

poised over the controls of the braking jets,

waiting until the shuttle was a scant meter from its

landing pad before he cut them in. Obedient as a

leashed puppy, Serengeti settled into its assigned

berth.

By the time his postflightcheck was done, the

firsts rose-grey light of dawn had crept over the

cloud-mantled Sacramentos and spilled into the

valley below. Sulu lifted the shuttle's hatch and

vaulted out, then simply stood and let the silent

morning chill of the desert roll over him. The air

smelled of mesquite smoke and ozone from his

cooling thrusters. He took a deep breath, savoring

the desert crispness after the miserably wet cold of

Baltimore.

"Yea' eh t'eeh, Sulu." An attention-getting slap

rattled against the shuttle's hull as a stocky form

in Starfleet coveralls ducked under it. Sulu barely

restrained himself from groaning as he recognized

his project design engineer. "Pushing the envelope

again, eh?"

"Yea' eh t'eeh, Dr. Nakai." The Navajo greeting

still sounded halting on Sulu's lips, but it usually

made the old man smile. Sulu hadn't found much

else that did, aside from an occasional successful

test result. Unfortunately, this time the tactic

didn't work. "Uh . . . did we have a test flight

scheduled for this morning?"

Hernan Nakai snorted, his flat-boned face

creased with disapproval. "And if we did?" He

poked an accusing finger at Sulu's rumpled

fligh-qsuit. "You in any condition to fly?"

Sulu blinked, then pulled on an impassive

expression. When the old aeronautics professor

was feeling querulous, the only defense was to play

by strict Starfleet rules. "Yes, sir. Regulation

eight-hour sleep, full breakfast, one hour of flight

time logged on the day. No alcohol, stimulants, or

depressants within the last forty-eight hours."

Nakai let out a bark that might or might

not have been laughter. "Forty-eight hours?

Heard you never use that stuff."

"Very rarely, sir," Sulu admitted. He eyed the project

39

L. A. Graf

engineer cautiously, trying to gauge his mood.

"Did you want to run another test of the Wraith

today, sir?"

"Hmmph." For a long moment, it seemed that

was all the response Sulu was going to get. Nakai's

gaze had gone beyond him, up to where the rising

sun had kindled the snow-covered western peaks

of the San Andres to molten gold. Around them,

White Sands Experimental Flight Centerwas

waking up in a hum of electric service vehicles and

a rumble of warming shuttle engines. Six distant

chimes echoed down the valley from the old

Spanish church in Alamogordo, followed by the

brief Starfleet whistle that meant the dining hall

was open for breakfast.

"Time to go." Nakai jerked his chin at Sulu

significantly, then swung around and started

toward the low adobe shadow of the base

administration building. Knowing better than to

question the old man when he was in this mood,

Sulu tucked his flight records under one arm and

followed Nakai across the sunlit tarmac. He

caught a sympathetic glance from two fellow pilots

emerging from the of fleers quarters, and saw one

of them make a zipping motion up her throat.

Warned, Sulu began to fasten up the flapping

collar of his fligh-qsuit.

"We're going in to see the base commander?" he

asked Nakai. The project engineer merely grunted,

but his turn into the smaller of the building's two

courtyards answered Sulu's question for him. He

straightened his rumpled sleeves and ran a hand

through his wind-rufRed hair, glad now that he'd

taken the time for a shower before he'd left his

hotel in Baltimore that morning. Commodore

Willis liked his test pilots to look as precisely put

together as the machines they flew.

The door on the far side of the leaf-dappled

courtyard had been pushed slightly ajar, a clear

indication that the base commander was expecting

them. Sulu reached out to hold it open for Nakai,

and got another wordless grunt in reply. Not a

good sign. Usually, that act of generational respect

would have earned him at least a contemptuous

snort from the old man, if not a lecture on the 40

TRAITOR WINDS

insignificance of age. Sulu began to wonder how

important this impromptu morning meeting was

going to be.

He got his answer as soon as the military

receptionist passed them into the commodore's

office. For the first time that Sulu could

remember, Commodore Adam Willis wasn't at his

old-fashioned wooden desk. Instead, the tall,

spare figure of the White Sands base commander

stood silhouetted against the morning sun, his

dark fingers resting on the transparent aluminum

of a highsecurity crate that sat beside his east

window. The sleek black device inside that crate

was the heart and the controversy of the

Wraith II project.

"Mr. Sulu." The commodore barely turned his

head when they entered, but his deep voice filled

the office with such resonance that he seemed to

be giving them his full attention. "You've been

flying the Wraith II shuttle for almost two

months. Give me your assessment of its safety

margin."

Sulu opened his mouth to answer, but Hernan

Nakai put out a hand and stopped him. "The

commodore is having second thoughts about

approving the second phase of our project," he

warned. "He thinks forty-five successful test runs

still aren't enough."

Sulu eyed both men warily, weighing the project

engineer's impatient scowl against the rigid set of

their commanding officer's jaw. He guessed that

this was the extension of an argument begun

earlier that morning, or perhaps even the night

before. The silence lengthened while he

formulated his reply.

"Lieutenant Commander?" Willis turned to face

him at last, his voice deepening with concern,

although his lean, coffee-dark face remained

impassive. "I asked you a question. I'd like to hear

your answer, not Dr. Nakai's."

Sulu straightened to his full height, insignificant

as he knew that was beside the towering base

commander. He picked his words with the same

meticulous care he would have used to pick a

flight plan.

"Commodore Willis, the Wraith never was and

never will be a shuttle safe enough for anyone to

fly." He heard 41

L. A. Graf

Nakai's hissed breath and went on quickly before

the old engineer could interrupt. "But in order to

carry out the surveillance mission it was designed

for, the Wraith can't fly any other way."

"If you can call what the Wraith does flying,"

Willis pointed out.

Sulu lifted a hand and dropped it again,

realizingonly after he saw Willis's lifted eyebrow

that he'd unconsciously imitated the Wraith's

flying style. "Sir, there's only so much you can do

to automate an antigrav propulsion system. It's

going to bounce a different way every time it

bottoms out and reboots, and that bounce will

always need a good pilot to control it. You can't

expect that kind of system to hold the same safety

margins we can build into the rest of Starfleet."

"But you think a good pilot can keep the safety

margin within Starfleet minimum requirements?"

"Yes." This time, Sulu didn't have to hesitate.

"Yes, sir. I do."

"Hmmm." The look of satisfaction that Sulu's

initial words had kindled in the base commander's

eyes slowly faded to grimness. Willis's fingers

drummed on the edge of the transparent

aluminum case, triggering interference ripples in

the sunlight refracting through it. "So you think

we should risk the second phase of testing?"

Sulk paused again, struck silent by the

immensity of the decision Willis was asking from

him. His gaze dropped to the gleaming black

device inside the security crate. This was the

critical decision, the one that had been haunting

the Wraith II program ever since its

inception long before Sulu had been selected as

the project's main test pilot. It was a decision

Starfleet itself was still grappling with.

The Wraith shuttle had originally been designed

to evade the primitive detection systems of

precontact civilisations, with its combination of

radiation-reflective hull and antigrav propulsion.

Now, Starfleet's Aeronautical Division wanted to

equip its planetary surveillance craft with

Starfleet's newest evasive device the cloaking

42

TRAITOR WINDS

mechanism whose Romulan prototype had been

obtained by Admiral Kirk and Mr. Spock only a

few short years before.

HernanNakai moved suddenly, crossing the

room to drop his gnarled hands on the security

crate's other edge, as if to assert his right to have

a say in its future. The old man met Willis's

hostile stare with one just as fierce, unintimidated

by the difference in height between them.

"Stop vacillating!" the engineer said harshly. "It

doesn't matter what Sulu thinks, or what I think

either, for that matter! The bottom line is, if we

don't use the cloaking device in the Wraith now,

it will rot inside this crate forever."

Commodore Willis flinched slightly. "That's not

true "

"Yes, it damn well is true!" Nakai overrode him

with a Starfleet engineer's usual disregard of rank

in a technical discussion. "In the two years we 've

had this thing, no one in Starfleet has ever found

a way to feed it enough power to cover a full-size

starship, much less figured out how to eliminate

the subspace radiation it spits out when it's used.

The only chance we'll ever get to use it is on a

short-excursion vessel like the Wraith, where we

can protect the crew with antiradiation suits."

Willis frowned at him. "The Romulans don't use

antiradiation suits. They must have some kind of

protective system that you haven't been able to

duplicate yet."

Nakai snorted. "Maybe. Or maybe they're just

lucky and their bodies don't react to subspace

radiation as badly as ours do."

"As badly as most species do," Willis reminded

him sharply. "Do you really want to risk this

device getting into the hands of a precontact

civilisation?"

"Han!" Nakai waved that objection away as if it

were a fly. "It's no worse than the risk we already

take with the dilithium in the damn antigrav

systems. I've got selfdestruct circuits plugged into

both systems, in case a Wraith is ever captured

intact." He pointed a finger at Willis. "Admit it.

It's not precontact cultures that you're 43

L. A. Graf

worried about it's the Klingons. With all the

recent skirmishes they've had along their border

with the Romulans, they'd love to get their paws

on this device. That 's. why you hate the idea of

risking the cloaking device on any unarmed vessel.

You're afraid it'll fall into their hands."

The base commander's expression didn't alter,

butSulu saw the effort it took. Muscles tightened

beneath the lean, dark cheeks, and for a moment

the dark lashes dropped, shielding whatever

emotion roiled in the senior officer's eyes. "That's

certainly a factor in my decision," he admitted.

Silence fell over the office, broken only by the

roar of a shuttle taking off across the valley. After

a moment, Willis's gaze lifted again, sweeping past

the tense figure of the project engineer to rest on

Sulu. His deep voice had turned very sober.

"Lieutenant Commander, I believe you were

briefed about the levels of radiation you might be

exposed to in testing the cloaking device on the

Wraith II. Are you still willing to participate in the

project if I approve it?,'

"Yes," Sulu said, again without hesitation. He

saw the surprise in Willis's dark eyes and added,

"I know there are a lot of officials who think we

should ban use of the cloaking device within

Federation space by ourselves or anyone else.

But I saw what Admiral Kirk and Mr. Spock went

through to obtain the device for the Federation,

Commodore. I'd hate to see that effort wasted

because of conservative political fears."

"Ah." Willis nodded slowly, then his broad chest

rose and fell with the force of his sigh. "Well, I've

made my decision. You can install the cloaking

device on the Wraith II prototype shuttle, Dr.

Nakai."

The engineer nodded once in silent response,

but Sulu saw his fingers splay triumphantly over

the security crate. Willis rapped sharply against

the aluminum to draw Nakai's attention back from

the gleaming black metal inside.

"We'll have to go off base to test the Wraith's evasive

44

TRAITOR WINDS

capabilities," the commodore reminded him curtly.

"That means keeping this project wrapped in the

highest level of security we can muster. Only you

and Mr. Sulu should know what you're doing and

why you're doing it. Understood?"

Nakai grumbled something to himself in Navajo,

then nodded reluctant assent. "Aye, sir. Whatever

it takes to get this damned project up and flying."

"Good." Willis gave the crated cloaking device

a last impassive look, then stepped back from it.

"Be very careful, gentlemen. The security

problems involved here could be enormous, and

those officials you mentioned will be watching for

any opportunity to sweep this all under the rug."

His gaze shifted to Sulu, and this time the

compassion in his dark eyes was easy to read. "I'm

usually jealous of my test pilots, but I don't envy

you this task, Mr. Sulu. I don't envy you at all."

45

Chapter Four

Johns Hopkins University

Baltimore, North America

Terrestrial Date December 17, 2269

0900 hours EST

THE TEMPERATURE that Monday reached a

high of minus five at sunrise. By 0900, the guards

at the Starfleet Research Center seemed more

concerned about that record low than verifying

Chekov's security clearance as they all huddled

together at the fringe of the university's restricted

grounds.

"We're supposed to get a windchill of minus

fifteen tonight," the older guard informed Chekov

through chattering teeth and a cloud of steam. He

had his shoulders hunched up almost to his

earmuffs, both hands shoved into a peacoatthe

same black-blue as Chekov's, if a good deal more

weathered and worn. From the way he carried on,

you would have thought he was standing naked in

the town square of Ulan Bator and not on a

relatively balmy North American street in the best

everyday thermal gear Starfleet had to offer.

The younger guard flipped Chekov's access card

over and over in his hands with a frown that said

he was clearly skeptical of its authenticity. "I'm

not familiar with any" he peered at the front of

the datacard again "Dr. Piper at this facility. Are

you sure you've got the clearance to be here?"

46

TRAITOR WINDS

For a fleeting moment, Chekov thought about

pointing out that he wore the same Starfleet black

and red they did, but decided that probably

wouldn't help him much in the long run. "He's a

medical researcher," Chekov volunteered with

helpful patience. "Dr. Mark Piper. If you have a

trauma treatment center, or an alien technology

division, he's probably associated with one of

them."

The older guard continued to hop frigidly from

foot to foot while his younger counterpart tapped

the datacard against his hand reader set as though

considering. Chekov quelled an urge to snatch the

device away from him and run the card through

the reader.

"He requested I report to his project here this

morning. I'm sure if you scan my card against

your main list, you'll find verification of my

clearance."

The younger guard sighed, as if he had a half

dozen better things to do than waste his time on

Chekov's security claims. Then, pushing the

datacard into the reader, he flipped the little

device in his hand and thrust it out in front of

him. "Put your hand on the pad, please."

Chekov pulled off his glove to comply. The clear

reader panel felt cold and impossibly smooth in

the subzero weather; his hand left an instant's

misty ghostprint behind when he finally withdrew

it to stuff it back into his pocket. As the young

guard bore the reader off into the enclosed

security booth, the older officer flapped the hem

of his peacoat and remarked, "I sure hope the

weather's not like this on Christmas Day my kid

and me, we're supposed to go ice fishing. I'd hate

doing that in this weather!"

It didn't seem the sort of comment that

required a reaction, so Chekov just turned a slow

circle to survey the university that surrounded

them and waited for the younger guard to return.

He read most of the historic landmark plaques

in sight by the time a hush of released air caught

his attention from the field beyond the guard

outpost. A Spartan glass turbolift rose up from a

grassy knoll several meters away, and the doors

whisked aside to release a white-coated lab

47

L. A. Graf

tech into the chill morning air. Until that moment,

Chekov hadn't realizedthat the glass-covered

stretch of park behind the hospital was the facility

he'd been assigned to. Some bright engineer at

Starfleet must have decided that underground was

the only place they could build the Research

Center without disturbing the quaint

nineteenth-century campus around it.

The coatless lab tech scampered with as much

dignity as anyone could manage with their chin

tucked to their chest and their hands jammed

under their arms. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair

tangled in the wind despite an attempt to ponytail

it at the back of her neck, and her broad,

scholarly face looked white and pinched in the

cold. As she waved a shivery acknowledgment to

the guard inside the kiosk, Chekov was

overwhelmed with an urge to strip out of his coat

and give it to her so she wouldn't have to suffer

the cold.

"I've got him," she chattered to the older guard

still keeping Chekov company. She returned his

nod with an amiable head bob of her own, then

flashed Chekov a miserable but charming grin. He

was beginning to feel guilty about being the only

one not incapacitated by this weather.

"I'm sorry no one was out here to meet you we

thought there were still some arrangements to be

made before we got you." Tugging one hand from

out of her armpit, she extended a hand already

shivering with cold. "I'm Yolande Stern, National

Science Institute. And you're Lieutenant . . . ?"

He took her hand for the barest minimum

shake, not wanting to keep her exposed any longer

than necessary. "Ensign Pavel Chekov, Starfleet

Security." It was the first time he'd addressed

himself that way, and he couldn't help feeling a

little twinge of peculiarity at the sound. ''I'm here

about the disrupter research. Dr. Piper said you'd

be expecting me."

"Yesfl' Stern beckoned with her shoulder as she

turned to start trotting back toward the waiting

turbolift. "Well, no, " she amended, "not you,

specifically. Mark just told us he'd be arranging

for a weapons expert from Starfleet. 48

TRAITOR WINDS

I thought . . ." She shook her head as though

deciding not to enter that part of the

conversation, and danced into the turbolift

without the benefit of such social niceties as

haggling over who should enter first. "I guess I

was just expecting someone older."

Chekov squeezed in as best he could without

crowding her in the confined space. "I'm not a

weapons expert, precisely. I'm just familiar

enough with disrupter technology to suit Dr.

Piper's requirements." Then, because some

explanation seemed appropriate once the turbolift

had started its descent and they were alone

without even the wind to fill the silences, "I was

with the planetary landing party who first

captured the disrupters you're using here."

"Ah." Stern nodded broadly, smiling. "Starship

duty. No wonder Mark pushed to get you." The

lift discharged them at a security door with no

humans left to guard it. Stern processed her card

and retina scan with the easy familiarity of

someone who'd worked at too many labs to

acknowledge the precautions anymore. "He's a

little snobbish about preferring the 'caliber' of

starship people," she went on as they pushed

through the door onto a long, skylit stairwell.

Doors to what could only be other labs branched

off at every landing, until Chekov gave up

wondering what could possibly be studied at them

all. "Mark served on board a starship for a while,

you know."

Chekov guessed that it wouldn't be politic to

point out that he and Dr. Piper had served on

board the same vessel.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be just as useful as

whoever else they might have sent us." The final

door swung open without the benefit of her touch,

and three other technicians bobbed heads up from

their computer screens and 3-D schematics like

some shy native species of wildlife. "Guess what,

guys? We finally got our guinea pig!" Stern lifted

an apologetic smile toward Chekov. "Sorry," she

said more quietly. "We had to have something to

call you till you got here."

49

L. A. Graf

Chekov shrugged, amused by her apology.

"That's all right. I've already been called worse."

Squeezing his arm in silent appreciation, Stern

pointed out her colleagues as she introduced

them. "Ensign Chekov, I'd like you to meet the

rest of our technical staff. Robin Wood, our

engineering designer. Peter Broad, our molecular

physiologist. And Tim Anthony, our particle

physicist."

They all nodded briefly, Anthony ducking his

head back over his work the instant his social

commitment was finished.

"I'm the token audiologist," Stern continued.

"After all, this is supposed to be a sonic weapon."

Wood and Broad replied with groans of tired

laughter. Some private joke among them, Chekov

assumed. It had never occurred to him that

disrupter research could be funny. "Everybody,

this is Ensign Pavel Chekov from the Security

Academy. Mark was impressed with his starship

experience."

Chekov shook hands all around, even disturbing

Anthony briefly, at Stern's indelicate insistence.

"Is Dr. Piper here?" he asked when the

introductions were finished. He hadn't yet been

able to shake the need to report to someone

whenever he was given a new place to be.

Anthony snorted without looking up from the

hologram in front of him. "I hope you didn't have

your heart set on talking to him this morning."

"He doesn't come in until well after lunch,"

Wood volunteered, somewhat more civilly, the

sharp glare she cast at Anthony going essentially

unnoticed. "He keeps a later schedule than most

of us."

"He's an old fart who can't be bothered to get

out of bed."

Broad added his own castigation as he stood to

carry a rack of test tubes across to another table.

"Tim . . ."

"Well, excuse me if I don't appreciate not being

told when to expect our consultant when I'm the

one who first bitched about wanting someone."

Anthony slapped both hands peevishly to his

desktop, and the model whirling

50

TRAITOR WINDS

and spinning there vanished as if chased into

hiding by the noise. "There were things I wanted

to take care of before we started this stage of the

testing questions I wanted to answer before

Piper started bringing up new ones. As it is, none

of my data's even ready to crunch at this point!"

"That's right, Tim." Broad tipped his head back

in appeal to the heavens, his voice and stance

betraying how many million times he'd heard this

refrain before. "Everything Piper does without

your knowledge is just part of some grand

conspiracy to keep you from completing your

graduate thesis! In fact, he told me only yesterday

that he plans to put an end to civilisation as we

know it just in case you have some chance of

graduating this semester."

"I resent your tone, Peter "

Stern slipped an arm around Chekov's shoulders

and turned him away before he'd had a chance to

witness too much of the men's argument. "As you

might have guessed," she sighed, leading him back

out of the lab and into an adjoining chamber,

"Peter and Tim don't always play well with

others."

"This works to our advantage, really." Wood

hurried in behind them, pulling the door closed

with a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes. "I

wanted to run some pretty specific trials

pertaining to the gun's mechanical design, and I

know Yolande's been waiting for a chance to cycle

the sonics through their full range." She grinned

prettily at Chekov and ran a hand through her

bob of bright red hair. "You wouldn't mind, would

you?"

Chekov slipped out of his peacoat, shrugging, as

Stern collected equipment from some other part

of the room. "That's what I was brought here for."

"Great!" Stern waved him over to a squat

duraniumalloy weapons locker in the farthest

corner of the room. "You're already cleared for

accessing the safe and handling the gun the only

one cleared, actually, except for Mark." She

handed him a notebook with the locker's security

sequence displayed on its tiny screen. "Is that

going to be a problem?"

51

L. A. Graf

"Not if Dr. Piper doesn't come in until noon." If

nothing else, Chekov couldn't afford to waste half

a day waiting for Piper when he only had

clearance to come to Johns Hopkins two, maybe

three times a week. "Besides, I'm the one they're

training to watch over things like this." He smiled

as he tapped in the code, then swung wide the

weapons locker door. "It's not like I'm going to

steal it or anything."

" and so, what do you suppose became the

primary mode of communication among the

A'Ila'Mos culture?"

Uhura paused after posing the question, trying

to hide the twinkle in her eyes as she scanned her

audience of Starfleetcadets. Only the very best of

the senior communications majors had been given

permission to enroll in her special-topics seminar

at the Academy, and she could see them racking

their brains, each trying to think past the obvious

answer and come up with something no one else

would have thought of. It was the way Starfleet

trained its best cadets to reason. But if there was

one thing Uhura had learned from her years

aboard the Enterprise, it was that sometimes the

obvious answer was the correct one.

"Remember the A'Ila'Mos had no written

language before they were colonized by the

neighboring postcontact planet in their solar

system," she reminded the silent classroom. "All of

their public decrees had been in the form of long,

alliterative poems recited in their markets."

One cadet in the front row raised her hand.

"Did they adopt the alphabet the colonists brought

with them, sir? The way our Japanese adopted

Chinese pictographs?"

Uhura shook her head. "No, although the

Naiilati colonists did try to teach the A'Ila'Mos

their own alphabet. Unfortunately, it didn't work.

You see, the word that meant 'writing' in Naiilati

meant 'excrement' in Ila'Mos."

The roomful of cadets erupted into stifled

chuckles,

52

TRAITOR WINDS

and Uhura didn't reprove them, remembering how

young they were, despite their serious faces.

"It really wasn't funny, though," she told them

after the wave of amusement subsided. "By the

time the Enterprise arrived in their system, the

A'Ila'Mos were on the verge of a bloody

revolution, simply because the Naiilati colonists

refused to honortheir tribal decrees unless they

had some written version to keep track of." She

spread her hands outward gracefully. "Put your-

selves in my place, gentlemen. What would your

solution have been?"

There was another long, mystified pause.

Finally, in the back row, a hand went up. Unlike

the others, it was wrinkled and dusted with age

spots, but it waved as energetically as a first-year

cadet's.

Uhura smiled again, recognising the

octogenarian who was permitted to audit her class

as part of his Starfleet retirement. "Yes, Mr.

Kahle?"

Despite his age, Jackson Kahle's voice boomed

easily across the auditorium. "I'd say, give 'em all

audio recorders."

"Exactly." Uhura swept the startled faces of the

young cadets. "The Naiilati colonists had already

violated the Prime Directive by settling on A'Mos

to begin with. By giving the A'Ila'Mos a simple

technology they could use to record their laws in

a manner compatible with their oral culture, the

Naiilati could keep track of tribal legislation and

honor it. The two species were then able to

coexist in harmony." She paused to let the lesson

sink in. "And that, gentlemen, is why a good

communications officer should always listen to an

alien language as well as translate it. Dismissed."

The class dispersed in its usual scatter, some

cadets bolting to make their next scheduled class

while others lingered to talk to each other or

clarify some point of the lecture with Uhura. She

finished giving the last one a reference to the

A'Ila'Mos recordings she had deposited in

Starfleet's Culture Library, then began to gather

up her notes and datacards.

53

L. A. Graf

"Now that was a good lecture, ma'am."

Uhura looked up, smiling a little at the

old-fashioned title with which Jackson Kahle

insisted on honoring her. The tall,

stoop-shouldered retiree was a familiar sight at the

end of her classes, but he usually came down to

argue some detailed point of military history or

alien contact procedure with her. Today, his

steel-blue eyes glinted with distinct approval. Since

the admiration was clearly intellectual, Uhura

laughed and accepted it.

"Thank you, sir. I must admit, though, that I

didn't come up with the A Ila'Mos solution all by

myself. I had some help from my colleague, Mr.

Spock."

Kahle thumped his slim black cane dismissively.

"Yes, of course. But it won't hurt those young

ones you're teaching to think they might have to

solve a problem like that on their own." He

politely held the auditorium door for her to pass

through. "Make 'em realize their job is more than

just memorising a jumble of languages."

Uhura nodded as she followed him outside,

pleased by his perception. "Yes, that's what I'm

trying to do."

She took a deep breath of the Academy's

redwoodscented air while they emerged into the

bright winter sunlight. Through the big trees, she

could see the gleam of the Golden Gate Bridge

over the clean blue waters of San Francisco Bay,

the forested slopes of the Tiburon Peninsula rising

like green-grey mist beyond it. This was the view

the Presidio had been famous for long before it

became Starfleet's headquarters and training

center, the view Uhura woke up to every morning

in her small apartment above the bay. It was

another of the many reasons she'd accepted this

temporary teaching assignment.

"Been meaning to ask you, ma'am," Kahle was

saying as he followed her up the stone-flagged

path, vigorous despite his advanced age. "Do you

generally have lunch plans after this class ?"

Uhura blinked in surprise. "Occasionally," she

admitted. "But not always."

"Good." Kahle nodded once with satisfaction.

"Like

54

TRAITOR WINDS

to ask you for more details on this A'Ila'Mos

affair, and some of the other Enterprise you took

part in. Pay you for your time with a nice lunch

down in Monterey. Sound acceptable?"

Uhura scanned Kahle's thin, Nordic face, seeing

the fire-bright intelligence and roving curiosity of

a former ship's captain, but nothing more than

that. She allowed herself a slight smile, and a nod

of acceptance. "Perhaps the first of next week?"

"Ideal, ma'am." Kahle switched his cane to his

left hand and shook hers gravely. "See you then."

Uhura watched in amazement as the

octogenarian strode away, then jumped when

someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned

to find a familiar wiry figure regarding her with

ironic hazel eyes, as fire-bright and curious as

Kahle's.

"Admiral Kirk!" This time, Uhura didn't have to

censor her brilliant smile. "How are you, sir? I

haven't seen you on campus for a long time."

"Diplomatic missions," Kirk said ruefully, and

Uhura nodded, knowing he couldn't explain

further. The admiral looked at her questioningly.

"So, Uhura, how do you know Jackson Kahle?"

She laughed and fell into step beside him,

heading for the Academy cafeteria. "He's auditing

my special-topics course. And believe it or not,

he's one of the best students in it!"

"Oh, I believe it." Kirk's voice held the same

ironic note she'd seen in his eyes. "Did I just hear

him ask you out to lunch?" He raised an eyebrow

at her when she nodded. "Well, be careful he

doesn't seduce you."

"Admiral Kirk!" Uhura threw him an indignant

glance. "He's eighty-five years old!"

Kirk grinned, the expression momentarily

erasing some of the lines of strain on his face.

"Into working for him, I meant."

"Work for him?" Uhura cocked her head at him,

puzzled. "I thought he had retired from Starfleet."

"Oh, he did. Over forty years ago." Kirk held the 55

L. A. Graf

cafeteria door for her, his grin widening wickedly.

"And then he went out and founded UniPhase

Incorporated. You've heard of them?"

Uhura came to a dead stop in the middle of the

cafeteria entrance, staring up at her former

captain. "Not the company that builds all of

Stardeet's ship's phaser banks?"

"That's the one." Kirk steered her toward the

stack of lunch trays. "Worth about half the gross

planetary product of Vulcan on the present

Federation market. And all still privately owned by

Jackson B. Kahle II."

"Oh, my God!" Uhura was so stunned by the

thought of a multimillionaire auditing her class

that she almost accepted the meat loaf platter the

cafeteria cook held out to her. Kirk's quizzical

look brought her back to her senses, and she

passed the dish on to him, then reached for her

usual yogurt and fruit plate. "What on earth is he

doing at the Academy?"

Kirk smiled and headed for the coffee urns. "Oh,

he's mostly retired from UniPhase these days,

too." He waited until Uhura had poured a cup of

tea for herself, then led the way into the main

dining hall. The room swarmed with its usual

lunchtime crowd, but a table was respectfully

vacated for them by a pair of second-year cadets

who wolfed down the last of their meals. Uhura

hid a grin. There were definite advantages to

having occasional lunches with an admiral.

"I think Kahle just likes to keep his finger on the

pulse of Starfleet," Kirk continued, stirring his

coffee thoughtfully. "His Peace Foundation

supports a lot of our cultural and medical research

programs, you know. And they were instrumental

in arranging the preliminary territorial conference

we're going to hold with the Romulans this

month."

"I knew that." Uhura shook her head in

amazement. "I mean, I knew the Peace

Foundation did that, but I didn't know it belonged

to him."

"Kahle likes to keep a low profile," Kirk said. He

pointed a warning finger at her. "The better to

recruit our 56

TRAITOR WINDS

cadets and senior officers to go work at his

foundation. Just keep that in mind when you

have lunch with him."

"Lunch!" Uhura had almost forgotten her

casual acceptance of Kahle's offer. She dropped

her fork, staring at Kirk in half-humorous

dismay. "Oh, my God! I've arranged to eat

lunch with the richest man in San Francisco.

What am I going to do?"

Kirk's eyes lit with sudden laughter. "Order

something expensive," he suggested helpfully.

57

Chapter Five

Starfleet Security Academy Annapolis, North

America Terrestrial Date December 19, 2269

1100 hours EST

A SILENT FLASH of phaser fire slammed him in

the chest, kicking the wind from his lungs and

knocking him back down below the barrier as

efficiently as if he'd been struck by a shuttle. Not

the most elegant method of obtaining data,

perhaps, but the only one Chekov could think of

in the artificial darkness of the crowded simula-

tion chamber. By the time the waspish whine of

the enemy phaser's report whistled over him, he

had already backed himself against the barrier for

protection as he caught his breath and checked

the time.

Compared to some of the other Academy

scenarios, this one was deceptively simple. A band

of terrorists (cleverly disguised as Security

upperclassmen) had ensconced themselves in a

Federation embassy, complete with optic weapons

and hostages. Chekov's class was expected to

make some sort of contact with the criminals, free

the hostages (preferably while all were still alive),

and come away from the encounter with minimal

casualties and damages. Chekov privately thanked

whoever staffed such scenarios that he hadn't

been picked as squad commander for this one.

They'd lost seven security officers already.

"Death," in

58

TRAITOR WINDS

this case, amounted to nothing more than a

sensordetected hit from one of the enemy's

phaserrifles the computer disconnected your

weapon, you were informed of your ill fortune,

and you slunk out of the scenario in defeat to face

the harassment of your classmates when the test

was finally over. Even the assumption that the

members of Chekov's team would be outfitted

with body armor giving them four separate

opportunities to be shot before the computer was

forced to admit they were "dead" hadn't done

much to salvage their scores.

Chekov had even seen one unfortunate

classmate take a phaser bolt in the face while they

were still deploying to their positions. He'd made

the mistake of scrabbling over to help her, and

took a hit to his body in the process, but didn't

gain anything for his heroics. A face shot was a

face shot, whether in real life or a scenario even

in Starfleet's best body armor, after one shot to

the face, you were simply dead, and the computer

knew it. Chekov had watched that latest "cadaver"

stumble from the scenario in silent surprise,

scrubbing at her eyes as if still blinded by the light

that had taken her down.

Since then, he'd tried to be more jealous about

his exposure. Lieutenant Franz, as squad

commander, had tapped Chekov to scout for

enemy snipers, abandoning him to find his own

way around the barriers and into enemy territory.

Chekov had accepted the assignment as expected,

without complaint, but he couldn't help feeling

just a little betrayed that she would single him out

for such a hazardous mission. As his tutor, Franz

knew his tactical abilities better than anyone else

in his peer group. She also knew that his

marksmanship scores hardly made him a good

choice to send sniper hunting.

Chekov didn't need four years of security

experience to recognise that he was being

sacrificed to preserve the lives of more valuable

me mbers of the team. It was the kind of command

decision he could understand quite well when

presented with it on paper he just hated being

on the receiving end of it, that was all.

Snapping his thoughts back to the present, Chekov

59

L. A. Graf

noted the .06 second time lapse between the

sniper's phaserflash and its report, then plugged

that into a wavelength/distance equation that he

hoped would help him pinpoint the sniper's

position. Maybe utilising knowledge he'd picked

up as a starship's navigator would give him an

edge the upperclassmen terrorists didn't expect.

"What's the matter? Worried you won't get out

in time?"

Chekov jerked his head up, startled, as Leong

sidled into the shelter beside him. "What?" For

some reason, knowing that Leong and he were

supposed to be fighting on the same side didn't

make Chekov feel any easier about the

lieutenant's proximity.

Leong sank into an easy crouch at his end of the

wall. "I hear you're leaving for San Francisco this

afternoon."

"Oh." Blinking to clear his thoughts again,

Chekov rose up on his knees to peek back over

the barrier and continue his figuring.

"First Johns Hopkins, now guest lectures at the

main Academy. Your dance ticket must look like

the Who's Who of Starfleet by now."

He flicked a scowl over his shoulder at the

lieutenant. "Don't you have anything better to do

than keep track of my extracurricular activities?"

he whispered.

Leong barked an acrid laugh. "You bet I do. I

have classes. I have tests and labs and physicals to

worry about." He crawled forward to grab at

Chekov's elbow, yanking the ensign back down to

his level. "Some of us actually have to work to

earn our grades we don't have the world handed

to us just because we were important enough to

spend four years doing nothing on a starship."

Chekov wrenched his arm from the other cadet's

grip. "Maybe it just looks that way to someone

who's never even spent four minutes on a

starship," he snarled. "Even doing nothing."

He wasn't sure what hit him first Leong's hand

or the butt of Leong's rifle. The barrier wall

thundered with the force of his slamming into it,

and another shot from 60

TRAITOR WINDS

the unseen sniper splattered against the floor a

half meter away as Leong pinned him, knee and

elbow, to the flimsy structure. Chekov froze with

both hands splayed flat against the wall behind

him, momentarily stunned at the thought of what

Leong could have done to him if he'd intended

more damage than just knocking him back.

"You know what your problem is, Chekov?" The

lieutenant shoved at him, then flushed with anger

when the barrier behind Chekov didn't back up

any farther. "You don't respect the position. You

think being a security chief is all about flying all

over the continent at a whim, and getting invited

to tell Academy classes whatever stupid things you

think about. You don't understand about the

discipline, or the danger, or just how much power

you'll hold. Does it even matter to you that

someone without your exalted background might

have needed the Johns Hopkins merit credits

more than you did? It mattered to me! I didn't

have a string of admirals and crewmates to help

me along, and I wanted that position!"

Chekov lifted one hand to try and ease the

lieutenant's arm away from his throat. "No one

said anything about you when they offered me the

assignment."

Leong's lip curled in disgust, but he didn't pull

his arm away. "Would it have mattered to you if

they did?"

"No." He wished he was able to lie, although he

couldn't see what difference it would make here

if he did. "A senior officer made a reasonable

request. I did my duty and obeyed." Chekov

tugged at Leong's arm again. "Isn't obeying orders

what we're being trained to do?"

Anger moved like a cold viper through the

depths of Leong's eyes. "You're right." He pushed

back away from Chekov as though suddenly

appalled with himself for the contact. "You're

right," he said again. "You have nothing but the

Federation's best interests at heart. And here we

are, keeping you from your duty in San Francisco

by tying you up in this silly war game! By all

means, Ensign Chekov, let me help you set things

right." The phaser rifle was suddenly at Leong's

shoulder, as swiftly 61

L. A. Graf

deployed as the lieutenant's hands. "You don't

want to be accused of shirking your duty."

Chekov didn't even have time to open his mouth

in protest before Leong squeezed the rifle's

trigger and banished him from the scenario in a

single, searing flash of light.

"Chekov, can you at least try to look like you

want to be here?"

Chekov glanced up from his study notebook,

momentarily unsure what Uhura's plaintive

question had to do with the ethical ramifications

of nonpeer judicial review.

"Oh, he's been in a mood ever since I picked

him up out East." Sulu hadn't sat down since they

arrived at the San Francisco Academy, wandering

happily up and down the corridor outside Uhura's

classroom as though expecting to find something

exciting at one or the other end. "I tried cheering

him up by showing him where I work, but he

wasn't impressed."

A forty-minute detour over the windy

Alamogordo Basin while trying to reread last

night's ethics assignment was hardly something

Chekov considered particularly mood-lifting. He

marked his place in the notebook and looked up

as Sulu wandered past again. "I'm just not sure

that I really have anything to add to this

discussion. This is a first-contact seminar. What do

I know about first contacts?" He stopped himself

just shy of adding, "I'm just a security guard."

"Don't underestimate your value." Uhura

bobbed up on tiptoes to sneak a look through the

window in her classroom door. "You've been in on

a couple first contacts, haven't you?"

Shutting down his notebook, Chekov came to

stand behind her. On the monitor just inside the

doorway, an edited ship's log displayed the events

and results of a recent alien encounter with some

species that looked distressingly like milling herds

of tattooed pigs. The notation at the bottom of

the screen identified the 62

TRAITOR WINDS

origination ship as the U.S.S. Resolution. Maybe

that was why Sulu didn't seem particularly

interested in watching.

Chekov winced as some junior officer on the

screen was swarmed with squealing piglets. "All I

ever did on contact missions was what the captain

told me."

"So?" Sulu peeked over Uhura's shoulder only

long enough to verify that the log was still

running, then resumed his explorations. "For the

first ten years or so, that's all any of these kids are

going to do."

"I just want you both to talk about your

experiences," Uhura explained. "The things you

remember, the things you noticed first, the things

that ended up mattering." She turned to lean back

against the door and grasped Chekov by the

shoulders. "This isn't a test!" She shook him gently

three times, and he finally had to smile at her

teasing. "I just want the class to see someone

else's viewpoint for a change. They get to hear

only from me all the time."

"There must be a hundred exstarship personnel

on the West Coast you could have brought in."

Chekov pointed beyond her to indicate that the

log had reached completion. "Why single out us?"

Sulu pushed open the door with one arm and

grandly waved Uhura through. "Because we're the

only ones who'll do it for free."

The communications officer aimed a prim scowl

up at him on her way past. "Not for free," she

scolded in a quieter tone. "You're both getting a

lunch out of it."

Chekov exchanged a shrug with Sulu. "So what?

I get lunch every night."

Uhura rewarded him with a swat on the

shoulder, and Sulu murmured as they followed her

to stand at the front of the room, "One of these

days, Pavel, we have got to civilize you." Chekov

had yet to figure out what civilization had to do

with food.

Hurriedly finishing whatever notes or questions

they'd been scribbling, Uhura's class responded to

her arrival with quiet attention, their faces eager

with interest, their eyes tracking her every

expression and mood. When she 63

L. A. Graf

smiled a greeting to them, more than half the

students smiled back. A semester's worth of

lectures at Annapolis had reminded Chekov how

incapable classes were of masking their affections.

These students truly enjoyed Uhura, he realized.

Suddenly able to view her in the context of

something other than a fellow bridge officer and

a friend, he experienced an unexpected moment of

jealousy that these cadets had such a good teacher

when he was saddled with some of the instructors

he sat through back home.

I'm turning into an academician, he thought

dismally. If he kept this up, he'd never be fit to

serve field duty again.

Mounting the podium at the front of the lecture

hall, Uhura motioned back toward the viewing

screen behind her. "A little scary, isn't it?"

A murmur of uneasy agreement ran through the

big room.

"No matter how many classes, seminars, or

lectures you attend, nothing can completely

prepare you for the experience of first contact.

The whole reason it's called first contact is because

it's not like anything else you've ever encountered.

First contacts are one of the rare privileges of

serving on a starship, but even those aren't the

orderly, well-structured affairs your textbooks

sometimes lead you to believe.

"Today, I've brought in two special guest

speakers with some firsthand experience in

initiating alien contact. Ensign Chekov and

Lieutenant Commander Sulu served as navigator

and helmsman on board the Enterprise during her

last five-year mission, and during that time . . ."

Chekov noticed the slight realignment of

Uhura's fo cus just as the doors at the top of the

hall swung open and a string of grim security

personnel ghosted into the room to fan out along

the perimeter. Students stood away from their

chairs, shifting unhappily and muttering questions

to the silent guards, to each other. "Everyone stay

in your seats," Uhura ordered calmly. Whoever

64

TRAITOR WINDS

could hear her obeyed. Chekov motioned the

other students down, trying to look as though he'd

brook no argument, while a second squad

swarmed in the lower doors and eddied around

him. His new scarlet tunic must have put him in

good stead as far as disciplining classes Uhura

and Sulu were the only non-security personnel still

standing by the time the plainclothes operative

displayed himself inside the main entrance and

started his arrogant stride down the room's

centeraisle.

Uhura intercepted him at the foot of the lecture

hall. "Can I help you, Mister . . . ?"

The plainclothesman darted measuring frowns to

left and right, stepping neatly around Uhura as he

did so. "Lieutenant Commander Hikaru Sulu?" He

clearly aimed the question at the pilot in front of

him, although his eyes never stilled to make actual

contact with Sulu.

Sulu nodded doubtfully. "Yes?"

"I'm from Starfleet Divisional Security, sir." He

flashed his identification too quickly for anyone to

read it, but Chekov glimpsed the metallic sheen of

the Judicial System's emblem and knew with sick

certainty that this was for real. "I'm afraid you'll

have to come with me, sir."

"Why?" Sulu jerked his arm sharply away from

the guard who reached for his elbow. "What's all

this about?"

Four months of security immersion warned

Chekov that Sulu shouldn't have resisted an

instant before the pilot shrugged off his escort.

Red and black converged into a knot, one of them

wrenching Sulu's arms behind his back while

another pushed him facedown across the podium

and a third clamped belt and restraining bracelets

into position around the pilot's waist. Chekov

caught at the tether between the belt and

bracelets, pulling them aside before the guards

could lock them down. "You have to have some

explanation "

He felt the cold brush of the plainclothesman's

phaser muzzle behind his ear and clenched his

mouth shut without continuing.

65

L. A. Graf

"Please, don't interfere, sir. I'm working under

strict orders." One of the guards looped an arm

around the front of Chekov's shoulders to pull

him with gentle firmness back away from the

turmoil. "I really don't want to have to hurt

anyone."

"Paver, it's all right I'm okay!" Sulu staggered

upright when the guards flanking him dragged

back on his collar. "I'm sure this is just some kind

of formality. I'll be fine." But he looked a little

too pale and uncomfortable for Chekov to believe

him.

As if sensing his friend's worried thoughts, Sulu

tossed him a crooked grin and suggested, "You

can always see what your contacts in security can

do about getting me a quick parole."

Chekov shrugged morosely. Even that made the

plainclothesman's fist tighten on the front of his

tunic, as though afraid the gesture heralded some

sort of escape. "None of my contacts in security

has graduated yet," Chekov said.

- "I'll talk to Admiral Kirk," Uhura promised as

the swarms of red and black made their way out

the open doorways, taking Sulu with them. "There

must be something he can do."

"I'd appreciate that." For the first time, honest

concern flashed across the lieutenant

commander's face, just before the classroom door

swung shut between them. "And hurry, okay?"

Uhura didn't even wait for the second security

team to make its exit. "Class dismissed." She spoke

over her shoulder to the milling students, pushing

the plainclothesman away from Chekov and

motioning the intruder fiercely out the door at the

same time. He departed with a last flip of his

identification and a respectful nod. "We'll have to

make up this lecture at another time. I'll post

messages to your study accounts about possible

changes in scheduling."

She turned to Chekov while the last students

were still filing out the doors. "Are you all right?"

66

TRAITOR WINDS

He nodded, nothing bruised except his ego. "Is

Admiral Kirk even on campus?"

"I don't know. We'll have to call his office."

"Ma'am " The wizened, white-haired old man

pronounced the word more like a command than

a greeting. Climbing down the steps against the

flow of younger student bodies, he clacked his

slim black cane against each riser, even though he

didn't seem to truly need its support. He spared

Chekov only a nanosecond's attention as he strode

up to grip Uhura's arm. "You know I'm not

without connections of my own. Is there anything

I can do to help you out?"

Uhura squeezed his hand in appreciation before

slipping it off her arm and back down to his side.

"Thank you, Mr. Kahle, but I don't really know

that you should get involved." A strange little

smile twisted her lips. "I'm not even sure what it

is we're getting involved with!"

"All the more reason to let me help you." Kahle

waved off her dismissal with a diplomat's grace

and ease. "I'm an old man with time and money to

burn, Commander. Take advantage of my quixotic

impulses."

"Unfortunately" Chekov squirmed a little with

embarrassment when they both turned as though

expecting something useful from him "I have

neither time nor money," he explained reluctantly,

"and I have to be back in Baltimore by five if I'm

going to meet Dr. Piper on the testing range." He

waved morosely toward the door Sulu had

vanished through. "And my ride just left."

"Piper? Mark Piper?" Blue eyes sparkling with

sudden keen interest, Kahle bent to peer intently

into Chekov's face and thump a finger against his

chest. "You the boy they got working on that

Klingon disrupter project out at Hopkins, son?"

Chekov blinked, surprised by the question. "Yes,

sir. Although I didn't think that project was

common knowledge, sir."

"Son, none of my knowledge is common."

Slapping a proprietary hand on Chekov's shoulder,

the octogenari

67

L. A. Graf

his new rank pins on the collar of his uniform. "I'd

be completely honest with you whether my future

in Starfleet on it or not," he said stiffly. "Sir."

"Good." Willis pulled a notepad from his breast

pocket and tapped out its light pen. "Where were

you at zero eight hundred hours this morning?"

"On day leave, flying a personal shuttle to

Annapolis." For once, Sulu found himself grateful

for the difference in time zones that forced him to

leave at dawn in order to meet Chekov at the

ensign's lunch break. "I logged in my completion

of flight at the Security Academy shuttleport at

eleven hundred hours EST."

Willis grunted and made a note of it. "And your

activities while in Annapolis?"

"I waited for Security Ensign Pavel Chekov to

meet me at the shuttleport, and we departed

immediately for Starfleet Academy in San

Francisco."

"You spoke to no one else in Annapolis during

your ground time there?"

"Only to the port controller, sir."

"Good." Another scribbled note, followed by a

few taps on the notepad's menu. "Flight control

records show you logging in at Starfleet Academy

two hours after leaving Annapolis. Why did the

flight to San Francisco take half an hour longer

than usual, Lieutenant Commander?"

Sulu cleared his throat, embarrassed now.

"I er detoured slightly to show Ensign Chekov

the base here, sir. I wanted to show him where I

worked."

The commodore scowled across at him. "And

had you received base permission for that

overflight?"

"No, sir."

"Despite the fact that you planned to show a

first-year security ensign some of the newest

shuttles in Starfleet?" Cold suspicion leached some

of the resonance from Willis's deep voice. "Were

you aware that you were violating security

restrictions?"

Sulu blinked at the base commander in surprise. "But

I 70

TRAITOR WINDS

ingtechnology couldn't keep out the skeletal sound

of sand pattering over the hull from the

gypsum-laden Tularosa Valley winds.

The knowledge that he was back at White Sands

Experimental Flight Center had calmed Sulu's

growing irritation. It told him his arrest hadn't

been a mindless bureaucratic mistake, but had

something to do with his assignment here. And,

given the nature of the Wraith II project, it wasn't

very difficult to guess what that something was.

So when the door finally opened on a tall dark

figure with a commodore's gold braid glittering on

his sleeve, Sulu demanded, "What happened to

the cloaking device?"

Commodore Willis stopped short, his expression

hidden by the glare of light from the hall behind

him. Then he let out his breath in a short, sharp

sigh and strode into the room, waving away the

security guard at the door as he did so.

"The trouble with Starfleet officers," Willis said

acidly, "is that they're just too damn smart." He

swung a chair around to face Sulu across the

briefing table, his strong, dark face looking grim

but not hostile. "Has it occurred to you,

Lieutenant Commander Sulu, that we've kept you

in protective isolation all this time expressly to

keep you from implicating yourself in what

happened here today? Asking about the cloaking

device before you've even been told that it's the

focus of our investigation does not exactly clear

you of suspicion."

"Oh." Sulu scrubbed a hand over his face,

abashed. "Sorry, sir. But it was the only reason I

could think of to arrest me."

The commodore frowned at him. "And,

unfortunately, you were almost the only one we

could think of to arrest. I'd advise you to be

c ompletely honest with me, Lieutenant

Commander. Your future in Starfleet may very

well depend on it."

Sulu straightened his shoulders, aware of the

weight of

69

L. A. Graf

an aimed a triumphant grin at Uhura. "Ma'am,"he

declared, "you go see about getting that pilot

friend of yours out of the hoosegow. I've got a

private shuttle and the rest of the day with nothing

to do." He turned the same fond smile down at

Chekov. "I'll take care of this boy."

Sulu had always thought of himself as a patient

man. His goals in life were long-term, and he was

comfortable with the knowledge that he might

have to wait years to achieve them. And, in times

of conflict, his natural spirit of buccaneering

recklessness had become tempered by his years of

service with Mr. Spock. The Vulcan had taught

him that it was generally better to tolerate situa-

tions about which you could do nothing than to

tear yourself to pieces trying to alter them.

But after being arrested in front of his friends

and led in handcuffs from the place where his

parents had watched him graduate with special

honors in piloting, Sulu found his reserve of

patience and tolerance wearing dangerously thin.

It didn't help that he'd been thrust into a

windowless security shuttle and flown for an hour

without being told their destination, then politely

blindfolded before being taken to what looked like

a Starfleet briefing room but had the airless,

locked feel of an interrogation cell. His two

security guards had left him there, removing his

blindfold and handcuffs but still not bothering to

tell him where he was.

That had been three hours ago. In the

meantime, Sulu had seen only one human being

a third silent security guard in an anonymous red

uniform who'd brought him a meal and led him

down a blank hall to a windowless bathroom.

Neither the silence nor the unmarked uniform nor

the lack of windows bothered Sulu, although all

had obviously been designed to keep him from

guessing his location. He'd known where he was

the moment their shuttle had begun to land. Even

the best Starfleet shield68

TRAITOR WINDS

wasn't, sir. Ensign Chekov has a Class A security

clearance."

The furrows in the commodore's dark brow

eased a little, but didn't completely disappear.

"Isn't that unusual for a cadet?"

"Not if he's served most of a five-year mission

aboard a starship."

For some reason, that unexceptional response

made Willis's scowl deepen. He scrawled another

note with his light pen, then glared up at Sulu.

"For future reference, Lieutenant Commander, I'd

prefer you request permission the next time you

decide to do an overflight of my base."

"Yes, sir."

There was a long pause. If it was designed to

goad Sulu into further admissions, it didn't work.

His patience had returned, along with his ability

to answer the charges levered against him.

Whatever those might be.

Willis tapped his notepad a final time and

grunted. "Well, Starfleet Flight Control confirms

the overflight. I'm not sure that's a vote in your

favor, but at least it shows you're telling the

truth." He sighed and slid the pad away. "And the

major point, of course, is that you're verified off

the base at zero eight hundred hours."

Sulu kept silent, waiting. This time, he knew

better than to betray himself with a guess as to

what had happened, although his mind spun with

speculation.

"Tell me, Lieutenant Commander." The

commodore leaned back in his chair and regarded

Sulu over steepled fingers, a new and more

thoughtful note entering his deep voice. "Who else

besides you and Dr. Nakai knew about the tests

you were doing on the cloaked version of the

Wraith?"

Sulu didn't have to stop and think about that.

"No one, sir. We installed the device ourselves last

Sunday, in a hangar we had security-sealed to our

retinal scans only. No one but us has accessed the

Wraith since then."

71

L. A. Graf

"And you don't think anyone could have

detected the presence of the cloaking device

during your test runs?"

"No."

"Even within Starfleet?" Willis gave him a

skeptical look. "Your flight records show you've

made two test runs this week. I assume you had

the cloaking device enabled."

"Both times, sir, and it made us completely

invisible. Dr. Nakai logged onto Starfleet's

planetary surveillance net while I was up, and said

there wasn't a whisper of response when the

Wraith passed through."

"Dr. Nakai said that?" The commodore's dark

eyes narrowed. "Now that's interesting."

"Sir?" Sulu decided it was time to risk a little

cautious probing. "Has someone outside Starfleet

found out that we're testing the cloaking device?"

Willis snorted. "You could say that. At zero

eight hundred hours, Lieutenant Commander,

someone broke into my office and stole the plans

for the Romulan cloaking device."

Sulu's breath froze in his throat. The worst he'd

expected to hear was that news about the Wraith

test program had somehow leaked to the press,

stirring up the usual public controversy about

whether precontact civilizations should be

monitored at all. To find out instead that the

plans for the cloaking device had been stolen his

stomach twisted miserably at the thought. It had

been his project, his responsibility, and it had

become an utter disaster.

"But " Sulu's mind darted after the first

coherent thought it could find. "Why were there

copies of the plans here at White Sands at all? We

had the cloaking device itself, we didn't need

plans "

Willis scowled at him again. "And what if the

Wraith had failed failed disastrously during one

of your test runs? How were we supposed to

figure out what had gone wrong if we didn't know

what was aboard?"

Sulu ducked his head, reluctantly acknowledging

the

72

TRAITOR WINDS

truth of that. "But, sir, how could a thief get into

your office?"

"He obtained a copy of my private locking code,

then cut in an external circuit that convinced the

computer it had gotten a valid copy of my retinal

scan." Willis's voice held grudging respect. "That

part of his plan was brilliant. Even though we

found the bypass circuitry, there's no way we're

going to trace it back to him. The whole thing

looks home-built."

Sulu considered that for a moment. "Whoever it

was still had to get past base security. How did

they do that?"

"By being authorised to get past base security,"

the commodore said grimly. "There were no

intruder alerts, no alarms. Once he was out of my

office, the thief was safe. And that means he had

to be one of us."

The sour taste of betrayal made Sulu wince.

"You keep saying 'he,' sir. Does that mean you

know who did it?"

Willis let out a long, unhappy sigh. "I'm afraid

we do. That's part of why we've kept you here so

long, Lieutenant Commander. I kept hoping our

security alert would pick him up somewhere

nearby, or at least discover an alibi for him. But

as far as we can tell, he's been missing since

dawn. We'll have to check with the Navajo Tribal

Police just to make sure he hasn't gone back to "

"Navajo Tribal Police?" Sulu's eyes widened.

"Commodore, you can't mean "

"Yes, Mr. Sulu." Willis's voice deepened in

unwilling conviction and regret. "It looks like the

cloaking device was stolen by Hernan Nakai."

73

Chapter Six

Johns Hopkins University

Baltimore, North America

Terrestrial Date December 21, 2269

0848 hours EST

THE THERMOCOUPLE beneath the sidewalks

at the Johns Hopkins shot tower had broken down

the night before. Chekov exited the transit stop

into a furry curtain of white, his feet slipping when

he came down on a sheet of ice instead of the

pavement he'd expected. A coarse ruff of wind

chased itself around the body of the brick shot

tower, and Chekov closed his eyes to breathe in

the stinging cold as it dashed over him on its way

toward the ocean. If this was truly the worst

weather Baltimore had seen in the last fifteen

years, Chekov was just grateful he'd been assigned

to the East Coast at the right time of year to

enjoy it.

Giving himself a little running start in the snowy

grass beside the walkway, he leapt onto a

promising patch of ice and traveled a good seven

meters before friction worked its evil magic and

slowed him to a sideways stop. Sulu was insane if

he thought New Mexico's winter climate offered

everything a man could want as far as late-year

weather. What could you possibly do for fun

someplace where it never snowed, or rained, or

froze up anything? With Sulu out of custody and

free to amuse himself with whatever local color

existed, maybe the

74

TRAITOR WINDS

pilot could investigate the subject of New Mexican

winter sports for the holidays. They all had some

free time coming up.

Aiming for a familiar figure another dozen

meters closer to the facility, Chekov launched

himself again in an attempt to cover the last

distance in a single slide. Tim Anthony plucked

another handful of tapes out of the snow, not even

looking up when Chekov skated to a stop beside

him. "Good morning, Mr. Anthony."

The grad student recoiled as though he'd been

asked to lick a petri dish. His problem wasn't with

Chekov, apparently, but with the concept of

coupling "good" with anything surrounding himself

right now. His knees and one hip were wet and

stained with road dirt, the sleeve of his disheveled

coat soaked all the way to the elbow. "What have

you got to be so chipper about?" he demanded

when the ensign squatted beside him to help

excavate and wipe off his belongings. "Haven't you

looked at the weather lately?"

"Well, yes, actually . . ." Chekov trie d not to

smile as he shook snow from another pile of disks.

Anthony evidently wasn't as comfortable as

Chekov with nearfrictionless surfaces and

blood-freezing winds.

"You're nuts." The lab tech snatched up his tape

case and shook it with inefficient fury. "I hate this

time of year."

Chekov held the bag open as Anthony jammed

his clammy tapes inside. "Winter?"

"The holidays! Everything's supposed to be so

happy goodwill toward men, peace, mercy, all

that stupid crap." He dragged himself upright on

Chekov's proffered arm, then jerked his pack back

into his arms as they started walking, more slowly,

toward the Research Center. "But you know what

you really get along with the weather and the

finals and the god-awful snow? You get a bunch

of greedy people too busy to look where they're

going, rude waiters, thoughtless shoppers . . ." He

swept them past the shivering guards with only a

cursory wave of his ID. They were on the tiny

elevator heading down 75

L. A. Graf

for the research levels before Anthony finally

grumbled, "Et's the time of year that's supposed to

make you glad to be a human being, and all it

ever does is make me hate human beings even

more."

Not sure how to respond to such an honest

display of anger, Chekov satisfied himself with

ducking out of the turbolift just ahead of Anthony

to run his own datacard through the retinal

scanner so he could hold the door open for

Anthony to pass. If his simple attempt at

politeness was recognized, Anthony gave no signal.

Chekov was still holding the door in wistful

chagrin when Piper hurried from the lab to shove

him back out the door.

"If I could have a word with you, Ensign . . ."

He stumbled after Piper, hurrying to keep up

with the arm the doctor had grabbed on his way

past. "Uh, Dr. Piper . . ." The turbolift doors

whisked shut on Chekov's coattails, rebounded

lazily open again, then drifted closed just slowly

enough for him to twitch his coat out of the way.

"Sir, I didn't expect to see you this morning."

"It was a nuisance to get up so early," the doctor

allowed, "but I wanted to make sure I caught you

before you got into the lab." He reached out to

hold the turbolift doors when they arrived at the

surface. "Have you had breakfast?"

Chekov hurried out into the weather. "Yes, sir.

At the Academy, sir."

Piper grunted. "In other words, garbage. Come

on." He slapped at Chekov's shoulder as though

redirecting a stubborn horse, and pointed at

nowhere in particular across the windblown plaza.

"Let's go someplace we can talk," he said as they

wound their way between snowmen and students

who scurried to and fro in their end-ofsemester

tizzy. Warm blossoms of illumination glowed from

the Research Center's skylights beneath a patina

of half-melted snow. "I'll buy you a bagel."

A somber carillon pealed the hour in slow,

stately tolls, vibrating the air with its ringing.

Flecks of color darted and swirled across the

plaza, between the buildings, as 76

TRAITOR WINDS

students disregarded the weather and sprinted

toward their various classes. Chekov followed

Piper into a river of parkas and backpacks, wading

upstream to the porch of some huge Victorian

mansion, then down a winding stairway to a

deserted mess hall that smelled deliciously of

warm potatoes and toasting bread.

After almost a decade of Starfleet's small and

convenient food replicators, Chekov had almost

forgotten what it was like to pass through a line

and choose from items displayed on a tray. "You

like working at the lab?" Piper asked him, picking

food out for both of them without slowing down.

"Getting a good feel for the people there, and the

equipment?"

"Yes, sir." He sniffed at the plate Piper handed

him. Warm cream cheese and something with the

sharp, inviting smell of smoke-cured salmon. His

stomach growled in appreciation. "At least, good

enough for the job you asked me to do there."

"Yes, well..." Two mugs of strong, black coffee

joined the rest of the items on their tray. Chekov

stopped Piper from dolloping either cream or

sugar into his. Late nights and long hours at

Annapolis had taught him how to drink the bitter

liquid, but he didn't see much point in wasting

other condiments on the beverage it never tasted

anything like what Chekov could consider good,

no matter what sort of things were done to it.

"Your job at the lab's what I wanted to talk to

you about," Piper admitted a little uneasily as he

lightened his own cup to taste. "I'm afraid I

misrepresented the situation somewhat when I

asked you to join this project. I wasn't interested

in you so much for your disrupter experience as

for your security position." He fed his account

card into the checkout with a sigh. "Ensign, I

needed a mole."

Chekov shook his head, sure he couldn't have

heard the doctor correctly. "Excuse me, sir?"

Piper retrieved his card, then motioned for

Chekov to pick up their tray as he led the way to

a vacant table in a far, quiet corner of the room.

"I needed someone on the 77

L. A. Graf

inside with the lab technicians," he explained.

"Someone I was sure I could trust. I'd already

made arrangements to get somebody in from the

Security Academy, but the fact that you served

under Jim Kirk made me sure you were the one I

really needed. I couldn't go to just anyone about

this." He seated himself while Chekov shrugged

out of his peacoat,then lifted both mugs of coffee

to offer one to the ensign as Chekov sank into his

own chair. "Mr. Chekov, I think one of my lab

technicians is a spy."

His first swallow of coffee suddenly diverted by

a gasp of surprise, Chekov coughed and thumped

his mug back down to the table. "What?" He could

barely find enough breath for that startled squeak.

Piper made a face and pushed Chekov's coffee

back into his hands. "Now, don't get your knickers

in a knot," he grumbled. "I mean a corporate spy,

from one of the civilian technical firms. They'll do

damn near anything to get first crack at any kind

of new design." He tore his cheese-smothered

bagel in half, but didn't show any real interest in

eating it. "Even something like an alien weapon

might hold components they could use for what

they consider more profitable undertakings. I'm

just worried that clicking around on the corporate

end will cause a security breach that endangers the

rest of the project."

Chekov stripped a small piece of salmon away

from the cream cheese. "Do you have any proof?"

The doctor sighed and shook his head. "Nothing

concrete nothing I could take to Starfleet. That's

why I need you. I've made arrangements to meet

Peter at lunch today "

"Peter?" The fish turned as tasteless as ashes in

his mouth. "Peter Broad?"

Piper drew back as though surprised Chekov

hadn't known who they were talking about from

the beginning. "I haven't been happy with his work

since he got here. He's not familiar with

procedures that ought to be second nature, and

there have been too many times when 78

TRAITOR WINDS

I think I've seen him running tests I didn't

authorize. Turns out he worked for UniMed

Technologies until about three weeks before he

landed the assignment here. The rest of the

information about his former employment is

sealed."

"Then what do you expect to accomplish at lunch?"

"I just want to talk to him," Piper said, tracing an

uneasy circle on the tabletop as though his mind

and hands were on two different missions. "I want

to see if I can get him to back down, or quit, or at

least say something damaging. All I need for you

to do is listen."

Chekov studied the doctor evenly across their

dismantled breakfasts and coffee. "You mean

monitor your conversation with him. From a

distance."

Piper tipped his shoulder in something that was

neither shrug nor nod. "He wouldn't agree to meet

me anywhere Johns Hopkins security systems

might see us, so I set up our meeting on the

sixth-floor stair landing. He'll never even have to

know you're involved."

"Dr. Piper, I'm not sure what you're asking me

is legal."

"You're Starfleet Security," Piper reminded him.

"This is a Starfleet research project. That makes it

legal."

"But there are procedures, and special

equipment ".

"I have the equipment." The doctor laughed at

Chekov's gape of surprise. "Old friends in high

places," he explained with a wink. Then, more

seriously again, "I just need you a few flights up to

see what we can get on tape. If I can't get Broad

to quit, I want to be able to bounce his ass clear

to Klinzai so he can never get a job like this again.

Do you think we can at least accomplish that?"

Chekov sighed into the last of his coffee and ran

a weary hand through his hair. "We can try."

"Ensign Chekov? Can you hear me?"

Chekov jumped, startled by the clarity of Piper's

voice over the surveillance link, as well as by the

booming, unaided echo that caromed up the open

stairwell around

79

L. A. Graf

him. Slapping a hand to the transceiver in his ear,

he played with the gain on the control set until

the dizzying overlap of voices resolved into a

single one. Why on earth he needed surveillance

equipment somewhere with acoustics like this was

beyond him.

"Dr. Piper, please don't talk to me. You're

supposed to be alone, remember?" He didn't even

have to make an effort to speak loudly enough for

the doctor to hear.

"I just wanted to make sure you're picking up

well enough for the recording buffer "

"I can hear you perfectly, sir." Better than

perfectly, he thought. "The recording buffer is

functioning properly. Now, please, be quiet until

Mr. Broad gets here."

An indistinct rumble of complaint tumbled

around the inside of the stairwell, but the

surv eillance equipment picked out the individual

"condescending whelp" and "smart-ass" with

phenomenal clarity. Chekov smiled and played

with floating the omnidirectional transmitter into

a more discriminate angle, just to see if he could

refine reception to Piper's heartbeat, or the

working sounds of his intestines. He was rewarded

with a grotesquely loud click-slosh that he

recognized belatedly as a magnified swallow; then

a heavy, rhythmic pounding overwashed all other

sound like peals of stunted thunder. A latch

clunked and the stairwell whispered with displaced

air as a door far below swung open. Then Piper's

voice exploded in blurred magnificence, "Ah,

Peter. Thank you for coming."

"Your note made it sound pretty serious,"

Broad's voice replied with a timid propriety that

sounded particularly artificial at such a high

volume. Chekov swept the transmitter back to its

original position before all these casual comments

could rupture his ears.

"Well," Piper said with a sigh. "This is serious,

I'm afraid." Tense, unhappy shuffling filled the

almostsilence. Then someone leaned against a

stair railing with the cool sound of hands touching

metal. "Peter. . . I have some questions about the

circumstances of your employment here."

80

TRAITOR WINDS

Nothing for a very long moment. "You aren't

hapw with my work?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I'm not." Someone

started pacing again. Broad, from the irresolute

sound of the footsteps. "You're not qualified for

this position," Piper told him. "You don't know

the techniques. You aren't familiar with the

equipment." Piper made some small move in

conjunction with the lab tech. "You didn't get this

job based on your lab qualifications."

"Dr. Piper, if you brought me here just to

insult "

"Oh, cut the crap, Peter. I'm trying to talk to

you like an adult, but we can make this childish if

you want to. I know you were slipped in here by

somebody associated with UniMed." One of them

mounted the stairs leading upward with a

thunderous bang. "I know you're after the

disrupter," Piper went on with inexorable calm.

Chekov touched the transceiver again, frowning,

as the pounding steps drew closer. No

reverberation of the actual metal stairs, he

realised suddenly. That's what was missing.

Neither Piper nor Broad was going anywhere.

"What I don't know is what could possibly be

worth putting yourself in this kind of danger. Are

you aware that what you're doing is treason?

What did they offer you? Money? Some kind of

management assignment? What7"

Then Broad's voice again, impossibly tiny. "Dr.

Piper, who told you this?"

"Give me some credit, son. I can figure some

things out for myself."

A crash like a shattering bulkhead smashed

across the signal, and Chekov leapt to his feet

with his shoulders pressed flat against the stairwell

wall. When the door down below swung shut

again, Chekov clenched his teeth against a

shuddering sigh and touched a grateful hand to

the door beside him. Even knowing that being

found with elaborate equipment wouldn't earn

him so much as a blink of surprise in a Starfleet

research facility didn't make him any happier

about the prospect of being stumbled across.

81

L. A. Graf

-"Do you mind?" Piper's voice spiraled up from

far below again, sharper this time but not quite

angry. "This is a private conversation."

"No," Leong's voice answered him, coldly. "It's

not."

Chekov nearly stumbled down to his knees in

shock.

"Peter's been broadcasting since you first started

talking with him, Doctor." No one moved in the

lower stairwell now, all of their fidgeting and

shuffling falling as still and silent as the snow

outside. "So tell me," Leong asked with casual

composure. "Who else have you talked to about

this little problem?"

"About employee difficulties within my own

lab?" Piper snorted. "Nobody!"

A howl of metallic sound blasted like a nova's

pulse through the stairwell. Broad shrieked,

covering Chekov's startled outcry as he jerked

back into the wall behind him and cracked both

elbows against the stone. His ears rang one from

the overloaded transceiver, one from the naked

sound of the disruptor's wail and he clenched the

surveillance control panel against his stoma ach

like a shield. Somewhere unseeable and impossibly

distant, the surveillance equipment transmitter

echoed with the splash of a body into a pool of

fresh-spilled blood.

"Oh, my God!" Broad, his voice high and

hysterical, clanged about on top of his own words.

"My God, Leong! What did you do that for?"

Two calm, firm steps that had to be Leong.

"You said we'd move at the right time." The sound

of flesh on flesh as someone turned over an

unyielding body. "It sounded like the right time."

"I thought nobody was supposed to get hurt. We

were gonna be all clean and quiet I'd take care

of things at the lab, and you'd have the kid

arrested out of his room at Annapolis!"

"Sounds good on paper, doesn't necessarily work

that way in real life." Leong manipulated

something on the disrupter with an eerie, sliding

clack. "I hate loose ends."

82

TRAITOR WINDS

Chekov bolted from the stairway without waiting

to hear any more.

The hall beyond was dark and silent. Everyone

gone to lunch, perhaps, or gone for the end of the

semester. He hadn't considered what he would do

if he ran across lab techsor students, yet now the

thought of being trapped alone in this

underground complex with no one but Leong and

Broad brought his heart up into his throat.

Switching off the control unit to preserve the

words trapped in its memory, he ripped the

transceiver from his ear and ran down the first

side hallway he found. It might not lead anywhere

immediately useful, but it didn't lead back to the

stairwells, and that was the only criterion he cared

about just now.

The doors to the glass-enclosed turbolift

loomed, closed and silent, at the opposite end of

the long central hall. Chekov sprinted the distance

with the surveillance equipment bundled tightly in

one hand, colliding with the lift almost without

slowing and slapping at the controls as though the

force of his request would speed up the turbocar

service. A sound like broken footsteps started,

then stopped, from somewhere unidentifiable

nearby. He spun, hand clapped over his mouth to

silence a cry, then backed quietly into the turbolift

when he heard the gentle shush of its opening

doors behind him.

The indicator above the door announced that

they were going down.

"No . . .'

Leong was down. Broad and the lab were down.

He punched every button above the lab, praying

he was fast enough to stop the lift before it

reached that level.

Folding the equipment, transceiver, and control

panel back into their pocket-sized carrying case,

Chekov found his fingers clumsy with adrenaline,

his heart hammering too hard for him to breathe

lightly. He'd left the transmitter somewhere back

in the stairwell. If Leong located it, he might be

able to trace the signal back to the unit in

Chekov's possession, but if Chekov had already

success

83

L. A. Graf

fully delivered the damning memory chip to the

authorities

The doors whisked open, and Chekov jerked

toward the back of the car with the surveillance

gear clutched behind him.

Stern mimicked his startled gasp with a smile,

then reached out to catch the doors before they

could whisper shut between them. "There you are!

Tim said he'd seen you come into work today."

"Yolande . . ." The indicator over the doors

changed to UP, and it took every microbe of

Chekov's control not to push Stern away from the

entrance and let the lift slide closed. "I'm afraid

I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"I'll bet you are." She smiled again and extended

her hand. Chekov stared at it for nearly thirty

seconds before he realized what she was asking.

"Please..." His stomach clenched around such a

knot of confused despair that it almost stung tears

in his eyes. "Please, don't be part of this."

Stern shrugged, but didn't withdraw her hand.

"Everybody's part of this." She wiggled her fingers

impatiently. "Give me the surveillance gear,

Pavel."

He shook his head with halting courage. "I can't."

"Sure you can. Because if you don't, I'll just kill

you and take it anyway."

Memories of the disruptor's scream ricocheted

all through him and made him shiver. "If I give it

to you," he said, very quietly, "you'll only kill me

anyway."

This time she laughed gently, and cocked her

head with all the fondness of a doting spinster

aunt. "Leon" warned me you were too smart for

your own good."

"Hold the elevator!"

The squeak and slap of running footsteps rushed

up on the open turbolift like a storm, and

Anthony pushed his way underneath Stern's

armpit with the oblivious rudeness of a prodigy.

Wood, rolling her eyes at Chekov in mutual

sympathy, waited until Stern had stepped clear of

the doorway before slipping herself into the tiny

space. "Thanks!" she breathed, flashing Stern a

smile and 84

TRAITOR WINDS

squeezing Chekov's hand with a friendliness he

thought he'd only imagined on his last visit to the

lab. "You guys don't mind us barging in like this,

do you? I hate having to wait for this thing."

Chekov shook his head, afraid to move his eyes

from Stern's. "No, that's all right. We were only

just leaving for lunch anyway."

"Great I'm starved." Anthony grunted to

reposition himself, an uncomfortable bundle of

bony knees and elbows. "Yolande, if you're not

coming, could you let this thing go?"

"Sure, Tim. I've still got things to take care of

here." Laying a hand on Wood's shoulder, she

winked at the girl as she leaned inside to pry the

surveillance case from Chekov's numb fingers. He

didn't even look down when she did it, afraid of

what she'd do to Wood and Anthony if he

resisted. "You guys go ahead without me. And

you " She tapped her finger on Chekov's nose

just before the doors hushed shut between them.

"I'll see you later."

85

Chapter Seven

Chesapeake International Shuttleport

Baltimore, North America

Terrestrial Date December 21, 2269

1630 hours EST

IT HAD TAKEN UHURA several

transcontinental calls to locate a suitable

restaurant for her usual Friday night dinner with

Sulu and Chekov. It had to be someplace close to

a public shuttleport,so Sulu could return imme-

diately to White Sands. For Chekov's sake, it

couldn't be as expensive as a steakhouse or as

unusual as a sushi bar, but Uhura drew the line at

a greasy-spoon diner. In the end, she settled for a

quiet Russian tearoom at the Chesapeake

shuttleport and made reservations for four.

"I hope you like Russian food," she said to her

companion.

Admiral Kirk made a noncommittal noise,

scanning the menu that the dark-haired waitress

handed him. "Well, I've never had anise-flavored

vodka before." He sighed and set the menu down,

shaking his head at the waitress. "And shouldn't

have any now. The Romulan Territorial

Conference is coming up next Tuesday, and I've

got a lot of diplomatic briefings to catch up on

before it."

"Next Tuesday?" Uhura looked across the table

at him, concerned. "But doesn't Starfleet

Command know that's Christmas Day?"

86

TRAITOR WINDS

Kirk snorted. "Starfleet does, Commander, but

the Romulans don't. They insisted on meeting

Tuesday." He sat up, alerted by whatever sixth

sense blessed starship commanders. "Ah, Mr. Sulu.

I'm glad you could make it."

Sulu materialised beside Uhura, for once

dressed in a nondescript civilian sweater and

trousers instead of his distinctive silver fligh-qsuit.

"I'm glad you could make it, sir." He slid into the

booth beside Uhura. "I know you're busy."

Kirk's mouth twisted in what was not quite a

smile. "Not too busy to try and figure out what

happened to our cloaking device." He cocked an

inquiring eyebrow at the pilot. "Chekov didn't

come with you?"

Sulu shook his head. "He's been doing some

research up at Johns Hopkins University. He said

he'd come straight from there to meet us."

"Ah." Kirk beckoned, catching the waitress's

attention with his usual ease. "Three coffees for

now."

The waitress tipped her head apologetically. "No

coffee, sir, only tea. Sorry."

"Three teas, then." The admiral waited until she

left, then speared Sulu with a flashing hazel

glance. "All right, Mr. Sulu. Rep " He caught

himself with a wry shake of his head. "Old habits

die hard. Update me on the situation down at

White Sands, Lieutenant Commander, if you will."

He cast a warning look at Uhura. "You've just

been authorised for privileged communication.

You know it goes no further than this table."

Uhura nodded while Sulu pushed back his

sweater sleeves and propped his elbows on the

table. He looked as calm as usual, but Uhura

noticed that there were fine lines of strain around

his eyes that hadn't been there last Friday.

"The plans for the Romulan cloaking device

disappeared at eight hundred hours Wednesday

morning." Sulu dove into the story without

preliminaries, the way Kirk had taught them to

relay information. "So did Hernan Nakai, the

Wraith's project engineer. Security

87

L. A. Graf

hasn't found him since, although they've searched

all of the area around Alamogordo and a lot of

the Navajo tribal lands, too. Commodore Willis is

convinced Nakai was the thief."

"But you don't think so," Kirk said, obviously

reading the same unease that Uhura saw in Sulu's

eyes.

The pilot shook his head. "No, I don't think so.

For one thing, Dr. Nakai and I were the only ones

who had physical access to the cloaking device in

the Wraith. Why would he take the risk of

breaking into the base commander's office for the

plans, when he could just stroll into our hangar

and walk out with the device itself?"

The tea arrived before anyone could answer,

steaming in an ornate silver samovar.The waitress

poured it into clear glass cups, then added a small

pot of something that looked like plum preserves

to each saucer before she handed the hot brew

around. "Order now?" she suggested.

Kirk glanced at his watch and frowned. "I think

we'd better. I have to catch the cross-country

transporter back to Starfleet Headquarters in two

hours." He handed his menu to Uhura with a

quirk of his lips. "Admirals learn real fast how to

delegate unnecessary work. You order for me."

"Me, too," Sulu added tiredly.

Uhura blinked and scanned the menu. "Three

smoked salmon appetisers and three orders of

braised beef with dumplings," she told the waitress,

who nodded and took the menus away.

"All right." Kirk pushed his tea aside untasted,

obviously more concerned with the matter at hand.

"Forget the question of who stole the cloaking

device for now, since we can't possibly answer

that. Let's ask a more productive question Why

did the thief take the plans rather than the actual

device?" He lifted an eyebrow at Sulu again.

"Would you say your locked hangar was impossible

to break into?"

The pilot frowned, drumming his fingers against the

88

TRAITOR WINDS

table. "Not impossible, Admiral. A thief would

only have needed the same things they used to

break into the commodore's office a copy of the

entry code and a circuit to bypass the security

computer's retinal scan."

"So we can assume the thief took the plans

because they wanted the plans." Kirk sat back as

the salmon arrived, glistening and garnished with

caviar. He forked some up, then pointed across

the table at them with it. "Now, tell me why."

Uhura felt the familiar sharp-edged joy of rising

to a commander's challenge, tinged with sadness

over the knowledge that she might never serve

directly under this particular commander again.

"Maybe the people who wanted the device

wouldn't have been able to figure out for

themselves how it worked," she suggested, stirring

a spoonful of preserves into her tea to sweeten it.

"Maybe what they really wanted was Starfleet's

analysis of it."

"So they'd know how to manufacture more,"

Sulu finished the thought for her through a

mouthful of salmon.

"Or maybe the thief whoever he was had no

way to physically transport the device to the

buyers," Kirk said slowly. "Plans are information,

and information can be transmitted."

Startled, Uhura dropped her fork onto her

empty plate. "Off-planet?"

"Why not?" Sudden understanding gleamed in

Sulu's dark eyes. "After all, that's where the final

buyers would be."

"Yes, and Earth is a free-communications

planet," Uhura said soberly. "We can't cut off or

control what's transmitted on privately owned

subspace frequencies. Much less "

" jam the old radio bands." This time, it was

Kirk's turn to finish her thought. "Even simple

shortwave could transmit a code-stream of

information to a ship sitting outside the system

limits. It would only take a few hours."

89

L. A. Graf

"But who do you think is behind " Uhura

broke off when their dinners arrived, medallions

of beef steaming on beds of tiny golden

dumplings.

Kirk glanced at his plate, as if it surprised him

to see it there. Then he eyed the ornate gilt clock

on the restaurant wall and frowned. "Is Chekov

usually this late for dinner?"

"No." Uhura threw an anxious look at the front

door, but no hurrying young Russian came

through it.

A faint line creased Sulu's brow. "Chekov would

have called by now if he was delayed in transit.

You know he's anal about things like that."

Uhura nodded. "Maybe something came up to

keep him at Dr. Piper's lab."

"Piper's lab?" Kirk's first forkful of beef stopped

halfway to his mouth, then clattered back onto his

plate. "You didn't tell me Chekov was working

with the Starfleetresearch sector at Johns

Hopkins."

"He just started this week," Uhura admitted. "Is

it important?"

"We'll see." The admiral fished a slim

communicator from the inside pocket of his black

civilian jacket. "One of the few privileges of rank,"

he said in answer to Uhura's questioning look.

"I'm allowed to access Starfleet's main

communications center in Iceland."

He flipped the communicator open, with only a

tastefully muted chime of its usual activation

whistle. Suitable for high-level Federation

meetings, Uhura guessed. "Kirk here. Give me

Reykjavik Central."

"Linking." There was a pause, then a startlingly

familiar human voice. "Starfleet Intelligence, Rand

here."

"Janice. This is Jim Kirk." A note of pleased

surprise entered the admiral's voice as he

recognised his former yeoman. "I'm glad I got you.

I need to contact Mark Piper's lab in Baltimore.

Can you link me there?"

"One moment, sir." Silence fell across the

communications channel from Iceland. Uhura

tried to eat some of her dumplings, but her

growing anxiety turned them 90

TRAITOR WINDS

tasteless in her mouth. She pushed her plate

aside, noticing that Sulu had done the same.

"Admiral Kirk." Janice Rand's voice came back,

still professionally crisp but sounding far more

grave than before. "I can't get through to Dr.

Piper's lab. My records show all subspacereceivers

there locked down by Starfleet Security as of

twelve hundred hours EST."

Kirk's frown jerked into a scowl. "Can you find

out why that was done, Lieutenant?"

"I'll try, sir." Another long, nerve-grinding

pause. "Admiral, right now the only explanation

coded into my computer records is that Starfleet

is investigating a Federation-level breach of

security."

"Damn!" Without closing the communicator,

Kirk gestured the waitress over, then pulled out

his account card and tossed it to her. She ran a

troubled look across their untouched plates, but

took the card obediently. "Rand, see if you can get

me through to someone in Security's East Coast

headquarters who knows what's going on up there.

Sulu, go flag us an autocab that can take us to

Hopkins. Uhura, call my office and tell Riley I

might be arriving late tonight."

"Aye, sir." Their responses chimed together as

effficiently as if they were all still aboard the

Enterprise. Sulu jumped to his feet at once, but

Uhura lingered just long enough to ask Kirk

worriedly, "is it trouble?"

"More than trouble," the admiral said grimly.

"Betrayal."

A drizzling mist met them when they exited the

autocab at Johns Hopkins University, not quite

solid enough to be rain, but still cold enough to

send a shiver through Uhura. She wrapped her

wool coat tighter, wishing the cloudy night wasn't

quite so dark. The glare of red and blue security

lights, flashing around some plaza close to the

center of campus, seemed doubly ominous in the

wet darkness.

"Something's happened," she said unnecessarily.

91

L. A. Graf

"Yes." Kirk glanced around, then chose a

rain-slicked sidewalk that seemed to lead in the

right direction. A murmur of crowd noise reached

them when they emerged from the shadow of the

ancient Victorian building that guarded this side

of the campus. On the far side, Starfleet Security's

light-emitting tapes ringed what looked at first

like a flat, abstract sculpture. Closer up, Uhura

could see that it was the transparent aluminum

crest of a modern underground lab building.

"Let's walk up to the security tapes and see if

we can catch any rumors," Kirk said quietly.

Uhura nodded and followed him, with Sulu a

silent shadow behind her. As they approached, she

could see that the crowd around the security tapes

consisted of a constant flux of college students,

each pausing to peer down inside the building and

exchange interested comments with their

neighbors before continuing on their way across

campus.

Uhura took the initiative when they threaded

into the crowd, partly because she knew her

warm, quiet voice would be less intimidating, and

partly because both men were intent on scanning

what they could see of the activity inside the

isolated lab below. She stepped up to the tape,

beside a young woman whose book-laden

backpack almost threatened to overbalance her,

and said, in what she hoped sounded like surprise,

"What happened here?"

The student gave her an amazed look. "You

didn't hear? There was some kind of break-in at

the Starfleet lab down there." She pointed with

her chin, since both her hands were occupied in

hefting her pack higher on her shoulder. "Some

kind of secret alien weapon got stolen."

"Really?" The one word was all Uhura could

manage to get past her tight throat. She was

aware of Sulu's and Kirk's sudden switch of

attention beside her, but both were smart enough

lo remain silent.

"Yeah. And one of my professors said someone

got killed trying to stop it." Unaware of her

fiercely intent audience, the student made a

disapproving face. "I don't

92

TRAITOR WINDS

think they should do research on something that

serious at a college campus, do you? How secure

can a Starfleet lab be with twenty thousand

college students noodling around it every day?"

She shrugged her backpack up again and turned

to go. "And hordes of them from off-planet, too!"

she called over her shoulder, then strode off,

shaking her head in teenage condemnation.

Uhura took a deep, shaking breath. "Someone

got killed trying to stop it," she repeated numbly.

"And Chekovnever came to dinner . . ."

"Steady." Sulu gave her mittened hand a quick,

reassuring squeeze. "Even if it was Piper's lab that

got broken into, we don't know for sure that it

was one of his team that got killed."

"If anyone got killed," Kirk added. "Rumors

always tend to exaggerate things like that. They

could just be holding everyone for questioning."

He paused, staring down at the brightly lit open

core of the underground lab. Far below, Uhura

could see the vague shadows of figures moving

around on one of the balconies. "However, given

the level of Starfleet involvement in this, I think

it's safe to assume that the 'secret alien weapon'

really has been stolen."

Uhura turned to frown up at him. "The one our

friend was working on," she said, mindful of the

press of student bodies around them. There was

no sense starting even more rumors flying around

campus.

Kirk nodded grimly. "And that being so " He

turned to Sulu. "You shouldn't be found anywhere

close to here. Not after what happened back in

New Mexico. I don't want any guilt by association

rubbing off on you."

The pilot's mouth tightened in frustration. "No,"

he agreed at last, reluctantly. He took one step

away from them, then paused to look back at

Uhura. "You'll call and tell me as soon as you find

out what happened to Chekov, right?"

"Before I do anything else," she promised.

"All right." Armed with that reassurance, Sulu

turned and vanished silently into the night. After

a moment, 93

L. A. Graf

Uhura became aware that Kirk had swung away

from her, too. She turned and followed him over

to the shelter of an ancient ginkgo tree, out of

earshot of the straggling crowd.

The admiral had pulled out his communicator,

but he wasn't talking into it. Uhura puzzled over

that for a moment, then remembered its nearly

silent chime. "Rand called?"

Kirk nodded, tipping the communicator

sideways so she could listen in. " reported the

disruptormissing at eleven-thirty EST," Janice

Rand said crisply. "The lab tech called campus

police first, but they knew enough to summon

Starfleet Security. Once they started searching the

building, they discovered Dr. Piper's body."

Kirk cursed and Uhura pressed both hands to

her mouth to stifle her gasp of shock. "How did

Piper die?" the admiral demanded, his voice steely

with the effort it took to keep it low.

"The preliminary medical scan indicated death

due to wounds inflicted by a Klingon disrupter."

Rand's voice shook, then steadied again. It

sounded as if she was reading from a screen.

"There's apparently an eyewitness, one of the lab

techs, who identified a suspect in the murder.

Someone who was seen leaving the building with

Dr. Piper this morning " Unexpectedly, her voice

broke off altogether.

"Rand?" Kirk scowled at the communicator.

"You still there?"

"Yes, sir. But this can't be right." Rand's

disembodied voice lifted in stark dismay. "It says

here that the main suspect in Dr. Piper's murder

is a security cadet named Pavel Chekov!"

94

Chapter Eight

Duke of Gloucester Street

Annapolis, North America

Terrestrial Date December 22, 2269

0307 hours EST

A CONE OF EIGHT swept the yards along Duke

of Gloucester Street, and Chekov ducked behind

a lighted plastic sleigh to crouch in the wet,

frost-brittle grass. He waited while the autocab's

tires hissed across the wet pavement and the

sleigh's sharp-edged shadow swelled to monstrous

proportions to crawl along the house's bare white

wall. When the autocab finished navigating the

corner and hummed serenely off toward the

intersection of Duke of Gloucester and Main, he

pulled himself stiffly to his feet and crept back

onto the sidewalk. The pause had done its

damage, though his knees felt packed and

swollen, and his skin had finally begun to chill. He

couldn't stop himself from limping as he hurried

to get out of the cold.

Sometime early yesterday evening, needle-fine

rain had replaced the blowing snow. It signaled a

rise in temperature, presumably, maybe even the

beginning of a warming trend and a chance to

clear the growing mounds of snow. Four hours

outside Baltimore, Chekov had been hard pressed

to appreciate the improvement. He'd left straight

from Johns Hopkins, without telling Wood or

Anthony where he was headed, without waiting to

see

95

L. A. Graf

how long it took Leong to mobilizeStarfleet

Security, without trying to circle back to the lab

and retrieve his peacoat from the coat locker. He

almost regretted that last omission now. The wool

mantle would have been nice while half-walking,

halfjogging along the overpopulated Maryland

coastal plains. As it was, its absence just gave him

one more reason to break into a blood-warming

run every time the breeze licked across his

exposed torso and wicked his heat away.

He hadn't set any cross-country records that

night. Thirty-seven shamefully flat kilometers not

even a full marathon and he hadn't run even

half of it Or maybe half, just barely. By the time

he reached the Annapolis outskirts, he was

weak-kneed and gut-sick, shaking as much from

pure fatigue as from cold. He wished he'd eaten

lunch before following Piper to his rendezvous.

He wished he'd refused when Piper first raised

the whole hateful, stupid idea of cornering Broad

about his credentials. He wished he'd never taken

this research job in the first place.

Oberste, Cmdr. G J., 213 Duke of Gloucester

Street. Chekov had found her in a combox on-line

directory, the only Oberste in Annapolis. He had

remembered some side comment during one of

their nightly training stints something about the

benefits of qualifying for off-base housing. He

didn't dare go back to the Academy. Not until he

knew e xactly what Leong had gotten him into, and

what Chekov could do to protect himself from it.

He worked one hand out from under his armpit,

unable to make himself untangle further from his

shivering huddle, and poked twice at her door

signal before finally making contact with the pad.

The broad-spectrum light above the door blinked

on, showering him in raw brilliance. He covered

his eyes with one hand and ducked his head away

from the light.

After what seemed a slow, arctic eternity, a

woman's hoarse voice asked bluntly, "Do you have

the faintest idea what time it is?"

He lowered his hand and looked up at the monitor.

96

TRAITOR WINDS

"Commander Oberste. . ." The light still wouldn't

let him open his eyes beyond painful slits, but he

could see well enough to tell that she'd activated

the door's monitor function so she could inspect

him without revealing herself in turn.

"Commander, it's me Pavel Chekov. I'm sorry,

I I didn't know where else to go." He hugged

himself against a sudden violent shiver. "I need

help."

Silence from the other side of the door. He kept

his attention riveted on the pickup, praying that

she hadn't left him, that he hadn't run all the way

from central Baltimore just to be abandoned by

the only security officer he trusted. Then, just

when he would have leaned into the buzzer again

just to hear her answer, she grumbled, "All right.

Wait there."

Three minutes later she appeared in the

doorway, blond hair loose and tangled about her

shoulders, a grey Annapolis Academy sweatshirt

pulled hastily over loose bottoms of flower-print

flannel. Grabbing him unceremoniously by the

arm, she dragged him across the threshold and

ordered the door to close while abandoning him

to stumble toward an inner doorway. Chekov

hovered, dripping, just off the edge of her

close-cropped almond carpet. He wasn't sure what

constituted appropriate etiquette in situations such

as this, and the touch of warm inside air already

had him feeling feverish and just a little heady.

Some other room woke up and filled itself with

light, and Oberste reappeared through that

doorway, face still sleep-dulled, feet still shuffling.

"We've got to have a talk about the importance of

keeping curfew," she muttered as she pushed him

onto the carpet and away from the door.

"Commander, I . . ." Chekov let her guide him

around the spartan furniture, finally breaking into

the light to find a small, neatly laid out kitchen

with both a replicator and a larger, more primitive

cooking device. The smell of brewing coffee made

his stomach spasm. "Commander Oberste, there's

been something horrible has happened." She

shoved him into a waiting chair.

97

L. A. Graf

"Yes, so I've heard." She dialed something into

the replicator while passing, then ducked into

another room, only to reemerge with an armload

of what looked like terry bathroom towels.

"You're a very popular fellow," she remarked as

she draped a couple of towels across his shoulders

and legs, then dropped one over his head and

began to scrub at his hair. "I can't turn on a news

broadcast anymore without you being all over it."

Chekov lifted one edge of the towel to peer at

her. "Me?"

She nodded and slapped his hand back down

into his lap. "Johns Hopkins. The authorities are

saying you killed a researcher there and took off

with some alien artifact." Finished, she tossed

aside the now-wet towel and unfolded another to

stuff it into his hands. "Strip and dry off."

He stared at her, too horrified to even realize

she'd made the suggestion. "No! That isn't what

happened I never killed anyone!"

"Calm down." Considerably more awake than

before, Oberste turned to shovel a tray of food

from the replicator and balance a full carafe of

steaming coffee on the edge. "If I thought you

were a murderer," she said as she crossed back to

him, "I would have never let you in that door. Not

conscious, anyway." She slid the food and coffee

onto the table, then hooked the leg of his chair

with her foot and scooted him around to face her

so she could undo the collar of his singlet. "Tell

me what happened."

He tried to pretend this was just another class

assignment, that he was quoting from someone's

written account of events too far away to damage

anything he knew. When that didn't work, he

thought of the worst of his missions on the

Enterprise, the trust he'd put in Kirk and the

courage that had given him to do what the captain

needed, no matter how unsure the outcome.

Neither strategy worked very well. In textbook

readings, you didn't know the victims or smell the

richly sweet odor of their blood; on the Enterprise,

he had never been

98

TRAITOR WINDS

completely alone in a crisis. Not like this. He

listened as his voice stumbled numbly into silence,

then looked down at Oberste as she knelt to finish

tugging off his singlet. "I don't know what to do,"

he admitted in a tiny, frightened voice.

Oberste didn't answer right away. Rolling his

uniform into a dripping bundle, she pitched it

without looking toward the other side of the

room, then stood and uncorked the coffee carafe

with a sigh. "This is serious stuff you're talking."

Chekov nodded, accepting the mug of steaming

liquid she pushed at him. "I know that, sir." The

warming ceramic made his fingers hurt as they

thawed.

"If what you're saying is right, we've got to be

careful who we take this to. Leong didn't get

those two lab techs smuggled into Johns Hopkins,

and he didn't get hold of a concealable listening

device to put on his buddy, without the help of

somebody a lot higher up than any of us." She

paused to commandeer one of the towels and

roughly wipe him down.

"So what does this mean?" Chekov finally asked

when she tossed aside the towel to pronounce him

dry and disappeared through the far doorway

again.

"It means" she returned with an armload of

clothes, neatly folded and dry "that you're in

some pretty deep trouble. But I think I've got an

idea." Refilling his coffee cup, she shook out a

soft rose turtleneck and presented it to him with

one hand. "If we get some food and coffee in you,

how much longer do you think you can keep

moving?"

Chekov accepted the shirt, then reached for the

heavy blue sweater she offered behind it. "As long

as I have to."

He only hoped that was true.

"We're there."

Blinking, Chekov straightened in his train seat,

momentarily confused about what he was doing

on a public transit line and where he was going.

Then Oberste plucked silently at the shoulder of

his grey down jacket,

99

L. A. Graf

and all the horrible events of the last two days

crashed over him. He slid into the aisle, awake

now, and limped after Oberste's retreating figure

as she left the train and wandered out into the

station.

The slog of predawn passengers dispersed like

rarefied atmosphere just beyond the mouth of the

train. Few of them professional commuters, or

unconcerned transients slowed to glance at the

transit maps and train schedules projected on the

station walls, and none of them so much as

noticed each other. Chekov wondered if Oberste

had expected such indifference during the early

dark before rush hour, even given her efforts to

dress herself and him as casual civilians. It had

never occurred to him that success as a security

professional might require an ongoing knowledge

of current clothing styles.

Oberste waited for him a few meters farther up

the station platform. "Don't walk out with me."

She picked up his hand and pressed an account

card into his palm. "Hold back a minute, then

come streetside and wait in the news kiosk at the

mouth of the station. Pretend you're reading the

sports page or something. I'll be in the combox

about two blocks to the south of here."

He nodded, tucking both hand and account card

in his jacket pocket, and she clapped him manfully

on the shoulder before turning away. The blunt

honesty of her approval flushed him with warmth,

but he gave no sign of it as he watched her mount

the stairs for the surface.

He stood with the huge wall maps beside the

schedules, trying to appear fascinated with the

details of urban Annapolis as he traced transit

routes just to watch the lanes light up with red,

blue, and green. The station indicator surrounded

by the bright yellow YOU ARE HERE was so far

from the Academy as to almost be in Virginia. He

let his finger glide from state to tiny state, and

marveled at the frightening closeness of everything

along the East Coast. He could be in the

Carolinas and still not feel far enough away.

100

TRAITOR WINDS

"We've got to get you out of Leong's reach,"

Oberste had told him as she'd hurried into her

clothes and he'd wolfed down two breakfasts. "Not

to mention out of the reach of whoever's directing

him." She'd sat on the edge of the table and

frowned at him very seriously while she tugged on

her boots. "Tell me straight, Ensign will your

Admiral Kirk stand up far you in something like

this? Even if that means going up against brass at

least as heavy as he is?"

"Yes, sir," he'd assured her, with all the certainty

four years under Kirk's tutelage had given him.

"I'd stake my life on that, sir."

Which was exactly what he was having to do.

They didn't dare send him cross-continent on

anything resembling public transportation.

Assuming state authorities hadn't already been

alerted that he was a flight risk, there were still

Leong and his people to worry about. Oberste

believed their best plan was to contact Kirk and

arrange for some kind of private pickup. "He

ought to have a personal shuttle," she'd explained

t o Chekov on their way to the Academy train

station, "or at least access to the transcontinental

transporters. If he can come pick you up

personally, I think there's a good chance we can

get you into protective custody somewhere safe on

the West Coast." After all, it was one thing to

persecute a single frightened young ensign,

another thing entirely to try the same tactics on a

top-of-the-line Starfleet admiral.

Three more trains quietly came and went,

disgorging no one, taking no one away. Suddenly

chilled by the ringing emptiness of the station,

Chekov turned away from the maps and schedules

to trot the steps up to street level a few minutes

behind Oberste.

Crisp dryness nipped the last of his grogginess

away as he mounted the open sidewalk. Roofs still

sported glossy caps of melting snow, and water

flowed like mercury from teeth of hanging ice on

every doorpost, street lamp, and window in sight.

Chekov slowed his stride as he

101

L. A. Graf

approached the hooded news kiosk, trying not to

seem obtrusive as he scanned the empty streets for

Oberste. He found her easily, waiting outside an

occupied combox several buildings away, hands

jammed into her coat pockets, toe splashing an

impatient tsunami in the puddles at her feet.

Except for Oberste, Chekov, and the young man

gesticulating wildly from inside the soundproofed

cam, the city might well have been deserted, for

all Chekov could tell. For some reason, he didn't

find that thought particularly comforting.

He slipped into the news kiosk just to keep

himself from staring at his commander while

waiting for her to make the call. The kiosk

welcomed him with a blast of warm air and a

softly spoken "Pon'Tok" from the unseen

voice-over speaker. He fed it Oberste's account

card "A'hde" then chose a selection at random

just to let the words scroll past his tired eyes.

Chekov couldn't read Vulcan, or understand it

when it was spoken. He'd always liked the liquid,

musical quality of the language, though, always

appreciated the intricate, artistic lines of Vulcan

written script. It seemed appropriate in a way he

couldn't quite identify and would never have tried

to express to Mr. Spock that a race so proud of

its accuracy and logic would develop such a

beautiful way of preserving and communicating

information. If knowledge was beauty, and

information was art, didn't that make written

language the most perfect blending of the two? Or

maybe that was just a silly human interpretation of

it all. He watched the words drift past without

division, a lovely, black-andwhite abstract darned

in colored spider's silk.

The sharp, blocky outlines of Cyrillic printing

interrupted the soothing flow just as the calm

Vulcan voiceover pronounced "Paver Andreievich

Chekov" in precise, flawless Russian. Chekov

flicked off the kiosk in disgust, evaporating both

text and language as if they'd never been there.

Nothing instilled one with quite the 102

TRAITOR WINDS

sense of despair as discovering your infamy has

made it to the Vulcan newslines.

A flash like the refracting of light against glass

caught his attention from out on the street, and he

leaned to one side in the kiosk to try and see out

the transparent aluminum walls. Oberste, alone

now in the distant combox, stumbled drunkenly

backward and slipped to the floor of the booth as

though suddenly robbed of her balance. Chekov

tried to lunge through the side of the kiosk,

slamming uselessly up against the hard transparent

wall, while another flash of rifle fire splattered

melted fragments of communications gear in a fan

across the booth's already blood-sprayed inner

walls.

"No!''

His cry was muffled by the kiosk's soundproofed

hood.

He scrambled out into the open without letting

himself consider the consequences. Oberste had

managed to drag herself from sight Chekov

glimpsed the bottom of the combox through the

kiosk's wall, took note of the box's empty,

blood-slickened floor but that wasn't the same as

having found her way to true safety. He swung

around the edge of the kiosk, scanning the

rooftops up and down the narrow road for sound

or sudden movement, and steam roared up in a

ferocious column off the wet sidewalk ahead of

him. Someone screamed in pain or shouted a

warning, he couldn't tell which. Then another shot

answered, and a figure peeled away from a

darkened doorway to point a phaser into Chekov's

face.

"Don't do it, Pavel."

Chekov slammed to a stop, backing up

involuntarily as Broad crept forward. The phaser

between them shone glossy black in the wet

streetlight; a twinkle of ruby picked out the

pistol's "kill" setting beside the blinking charge

indicator. "Get against the wall," Broad ordered in

a hoarse, uneasy monotone. He held the phaser

pushed so far out in front of him that he looked

as if he might fall over unless he was very careful.

"I'm sorry, but you've got to start moving."

103

L. A. Graf

"Peter . . ." Chekov tried to see beyond Broad's

shoulder, but the other end of the street was

silent, the play of fire against winter steam now

ominously still. His heel caught on the curb as he

edged backward, and he stumbled up onto the

sidewalk with a curse. "If you're going to kill me,

just go ahead and do it."

Broad shook his head slimy, nodding him to

keep retreating so they could preserve the distance

between them. "That's all right," he said,

incongruously eager. "I'm not supposed to kill you.

All I'm supposed to do is hold on to you until

Leong gets here. He's the one who knows what "

Broad's mouth started to form what might have

been a proper name, but he stopped himself

before giving voice to it. " what our employer

wants done with you. But they both know I'll kill

you if I have to." His second hand gripped,

white-knuckled, around the first. "I'm not afraid to

use this."

That, at least, was a pitiful lie. Broad was very

much afraid Chekov could almost smell it on

him.

As if recognising the transparency of his threat,

the lab tech tried to straighten his stance and pitch

his voice more firmly. "Now turn around and stand

against that wall," he commanded with brusque

audacity. "Hands over your head."

Chekov lifted his hands first, as slowly as he

thought he could get away with. A running figure,

lean and panthersilent, emerged out of the

surrounding dark and padded toward Oberste's

body where it sprawled across the sidewalk on the

other side of the street. He tucked a plasma rifle

upright across his torso, the way the Academy

trained guards to do when performing stealth

maneuvers. Oberste was dead clearly, horribly

dead but the sniper stopped to prod at her body

anyway. Chekov spun away in revulsion when the

gunman, ever cautious, dropped the muzzle to the

hollow of her throat and reached for the rifle's

trigger.

At the sound of the shot, Chekov finished his

turn with the full force of everything Oberste had

taught him

104

TRAITOR WINDS

during those long nights of hand-to-hand drill. He

contacted hard with the hinge of Broad's jaw,

hearing the meaty click! of dislocation and feeling

the warm strength .of his follow-through as he

staggered to keep from whirling himself to the

ground. The phaser clattered to the wet concrete

between them, and someone who was neither

Broad nor the sniper shouted a violent curse in

combination with Chekov's name. Aiming another

blow for the lab tech's face, he lifted his eyes for

the barest instant to locate the assailants on the

other side of the street and assess his options for

combat.

"Be careful where you decide to hit

someone not all the bones in a human body

were created equal." Oberste's basic lecture on the

opening day of combat class. Having never met

her before that autumn morning, Chekov had

been impressed by the reasonableness of her

advice and the straightforward manner in which

she expressed it. "Anything you throw designed to

break one of your opponent's bones is just as

liable to break one of your own if you're not

extremely careful."

The pain seemed to lift him straight out of his

body. He and Broad crashed to the cold sidewalk

in a tangle, and Chekov felt like no more than a

distant observer as he crabbed back away from the

lab tech with his arm cradled crookedly across his

stomach. The wall behind him bumped into his

back with the hardness of phaser strike. He

couldn't feel his own breathing anymore, but he

could see his palm when he knew it should have

been pressed flat against his side, and he could

feel a loose disconnection, as though his wrist was

no longer on speaking terms with his elbow. He

thought about moving, of trying to stand up to

Leong despite the pain, if he could just find

Broad's fallen phaser. Somewhere under the

layers of wool and parka, bone grated on bone

when he tried to curl his fingers into an

experimental fist, and twisted muscles ripped his

arm apart with pain. He couldn't stop himself

from screaming.

An angry voice, the singing of a plasma weapon's 105

L. A. Graf

power coil, then running footsteps woke Chekov's

conscious mind to the dangers still swarming

around him. Rolling to his knees away from the

wall, he lurched to his feet without using his

hands, strangling his scream this time by biting

into his lower lip. He struggled to hug his arm

against himself as he ran back for the

underground, waves of nausea and dizziness

chasing him along with the sound of rifle fire.

Brick exploded from the wall just behind him; a

crash of ice and snow shattered on the pavement,

warning him against slowing. He ducked around

the news kiosk in some half-formed belief the

little structure might shield him. By the time

plasma heat crac ked the transparent aluminum

siding, he had already reached the station mouth

and started his plunge down the stairs.

The train at the station stood empty, the

overhead voice announcing smoothly, "This shuttle

now departing," as the train's waiting doorway

slowly constricted in on itself. The last of his

hopes for survival would close behind that door.

Sobbing an incoherent prayer, Chekov dodged

clumsily between the two or three bodies milling

on the station platform and lunged for the

tightening doorway just as the overhead voice

advised, "Please do not attempt to board the

shuttle while it is departing." He toppled to the

empty car's floor, then scrabbled away from the

doors to give them space to finish closing behind

him. He still wasn't sure he had actually made it

until the train glided forward and settled into the

smooth, frictionless race of its normal function.

He granted himself the luxury of Iying where he

was for a moment, swimming in pain and not

trying very hard to fight off uprushing tears. He'd

have to get off at the very next stop. Leong would

already know by now which commuter line he'd

leapt onto, and precisely where it was headed. He

could abandon this train and take another without

even leaving the station. Yes, train hopping would

be his only chance. If he could ride and switch

randomly as far as the lines would lead him, 106

TRAITOR WINDS

maybe he could confuse things enough to risk

contacting Kirk again in another day, or two, or

three.

He didn't know where he might be by then.

He didn't know where he was going now. He

tried to find some fragile hope in the thought

that Leong couldn't very well outwit him if he

didn't even know his next move himself.

107

Chapter Nine

White Sands Flight Center

Alamogordo, North America

Terrestrial Date December 22, 2269

1700 hours MST

"COMMODORE WILLIS, are you sure about

this?"

Winter storm winds roared outside the open

hangar, cloaking Alamogordo's ink-blue twilight in

a haze of snow and sand. Suluthrottled down the

Wraith's impulse engines to compensate for the

buffeting noise, and tried to read his commander's

expression in the amber glow of the shuttle's

heads-up display on the pilot's viewscreen. Willis's

face remained enigmatic, but his resonant voice

echoed with assurance in the tiny cockpit.

"The order came straight from Starfleet

Headquarters today Continue testing." Willis

conscientiously checked the subspace radiation

counter on Sulu's flight helmet, then handed it

back to him. With Hernan Nakai gone, there was

no one else on base who could be trusted to help

with the Wraith testing program. "I told them

exactly what I told you that I don't like letting

the cloaking device loose anywhere on Earth but

the admirals insisted."

"Even though they know there's a thief at White

Sands?"

Willis flipped switches, changing the frequency

of the subspace transmitter to another of the

channels reserved

108

TRAITOR WINDS

for high-security Starfleet projects. The

commodore didn't seem annoyed by the additional

evening duty of monitoring the Wraith, although

Sulu had warned him that the run could last until

dawn. "Starfleet Security says Nakai's long gone.

And Headquarters seems to feel that if we don't

keep the Wraith II program going, we'll have lost

the cloaking device for nothing."

"But should we keep it going here?" Sulu

couldn't keep the sharpness of unease out of his

voice, not when he knew that Chekov was being

hunted across North America for a crime he didn't

commit. Uhura's assurance that Admiral Kirk

wouldn't let their friend be framed for the theft of

the Klingon disrupter stopped Sulu's instincts from

clamoring in alarm. That two such traitorous acts

could hit Starfleet within one week was mind-

boggling; that both should involve former

members of Kirk's acclaimed bridge crew was

beyond any kind of probability.

A thin flash of teeth in the twilight was all Sulu

could see of Willis's smile. "Not after the way my

security team has already botched this project," he

agreed ruefully. "In fact, I strongly recommended

moving the Wraith II program to a more

controlled site on the moon or Mars."

"So why didn't they do it?"

Willis stabbed a dark finger at Sulu's silver

fligh-qsuit, surprising a grunt out of him. "Because

of you, Lieutenant Commander. You're the only

pilot Starfleet Command wants running these

tests and until we've concluded our investigation

and found Nakai, you're legally required to stay

within Earth's security jurisdiction."

"I see." Sulu busied himself checking the status

of his safety systems on the viewscreen display, but

he couldn't keep his mind from spinning into a

disturbing whirl of speculation.

Was he being paranoid, or was something odd

going on? Sulu knew he was one of the best pilots

in Starfleet, but he certainly wasn't the only one

capable of flying the troublesome Wraith. That

meant someone high up in 109

L. A. Graf

StarfleetCommand must have other reasons for

assigning him to this particular project. Was

Admiral Kirk weaving one of his magnificently

clever strategies for outwitting a Federation

opponent, or flushing out a hidden spy? But then

why had Chekov's involvement in the Klingon

disrupter project taken the admiral so much by

surprise? Surely the two assignments had to be

related

Willis tapped on the shuttle's chronometer,

bringing Sulu's attention back to the here and

now. "Coming up on departure time," the

commodore reminded him. "Anything else you

need me for here?"

Sulu shook his head. "I'll check in with you once

I'm offthe base's visual tracking screens. I usually

engage the antigravs and the cloaking device

somewhere over the Mojave Desert."

"Affirmative." Willis swung up out of the

copilot's seat, swerving to avoid the sleek black

device that took up most of the small cargo space

behind the Wraith's cockpit. "I'll be listening for

you."

Wind wailed into the shuttle as the commodore

opened the hatch, then cut off with a thud and the

dying hiss of scattered sand. Sulu watched the tall

figure disappear off the edge of his viewscreen,

then donned his flight helmet and carefully sealed

it down against his radiation-blocking suit.

While he throttled the impulse engines up to

their usual smooth, soaring song, Sulu deliberately

emptied all other thoughts from his mind. Piloting

demanded absolute concentration, and Sulu's

ability to summon it had been tested under the

worst of planetary conditions. Later, the Wraith's

computer-controlled cruising program would give

him time to think. Right now, it was time to fly.

He reached out, kicking in the silent antigrav

generator for a second to lift the Wraith a meter

above the floor of the hangar. The impulse

engines cut in when the antigravity pulse faded,

thrusting the stubby-winged craft into the driving

snow outside. It might not be the

110

TRAITOR WINDS

recommended takeoff procedure, but it was the

easiest way Sulu had found to get the stubborn

Wraith airborne.

He toggled his communicator over to the

normal channels used for traffic control at the

base while he taxied out to the approach lane.

Eventually, he would try engaging the cloaking

device in the hangar to see if the Wraith II could

escape the intense ground-level detection systems

of a Starfleet test facility. For now, though, Sulu

simply filed a flight plan for unspecified

maneuvers over the Mojave, and tested the

cloaking device against the broader detection

systems of Starfleet's Earth Defense Array.

"Test shuttle WKI-2 requesting permission for

takeoff, flight lane one," he told his chin-mike.

Traffic control came back with unusual

promptness, and Sulu guessed that the bad

weather had caused most other training exercises

to be canceled for the night. "Request

acknowledged, WKI-2. Be advised that winter

storm conditions are causing strong downdrafts

along the eastern slope of the San Andres." A

glowing map of the experimental flight lanes

appeared on his viewscreen, with unsafe departure

paths highlighted in red. "Revise flight plan

accordingly."

"Affirmative." Sulu tapped the code for an

easterly departure into his computer and it

blinked back a lane change. "WKI-2 now

requesting permission for takeoff, lane four."

"Permission granted, WKI-2. Lane four now

clear for takeoff."

Sulu skated the Wraith across the bumpy wind

and steadied it above lane four, then cut in the

antigravs again, this time for a full moment. With

a gut-wrenching leap, the shuttle launched itself

up into the snowshrouded night, carefully aimed

toward the dim, whitecrowned peaks of the

Sacramento Mountains. Sand drummed loudly

against the hull as he broke through the Tularosa

Valley winds, and then the Wraith was up inside

the dark turbulence of the storm system. By the

time the antigrav pulse finally faded, the impulse

engines had

111

L. A. Graf

caught the ship's momentum and smoothly

transferred it into lateral cruising speed.

It was too bad you couldn't always use the

impulse and antigrav systems together, Sulu

thought while he called up the computer routine

that would take him to the Mojave.The trouble

was that even the smooth purr of well-tuned

impulse engines could be detected by a highlevel

precontact civilisation. Once inside a planet's at-

mosphere, the Wraith II was going to have to

maneuver on its silent antigravs alone. But unlike

its predecessor which depended on darkness and

its own ribbed reflective surface to remain

undetected this new Wraith class could also hide

behind a fully functio nal cloaking device.

Provided Starfleet's testing program succeeded.

The Wraith broke through the western fringe of

the towering storm system and emerged into a

star-frosted winter night, with only a few gauzy

wisps of cloud to obscure the broken Arizona

landscape below. Sulu saw the jagged volcanic rise

of the San Francisco Peaks cutting into the starry

horizon, with the lights of Flagstaff clustered like

fallen stars around its southern slope. The map on

his viewscreen told him what he already knew

that another few minutes of flying would take him

to southern California and its protected wilderness

of empty desert.

He toggled the communicator back to the secret

frequency Willis had selected for that night's run.

"Shuttle WKI-2 to White Sands Base. Come in."

"White Sands here." The base commander's

voice rang strong as a mission bell, even across the

subspace channel. "How's it going?"

"So far, just as we planned." Sulu spotted the

tiny splash of lights that was Barstow, with the vast

unlit lands of the Mojave beyond. He reached for

the impulse controls. "Switching to

antigravs now."

The thrum of the impulse engines died away,

replaced by a quiet rush of wind along the

shuttle's flanks. The Wraith slowed, then swooped

into a headlong dive 112

TRAITOR WINDS

toward the desert floor. Sulu waited until he could

see the coalescing shadows of dry rivers below,

then cut in the antigravs again. There was the

usual tense moment of lag time, as gravity

cancellation fought with downward momentum.

Then, a few hundred meters above the stony

ground, the antigravs took over and the Wraith

kicked itself up again. Even to Sulu's hardened

stomach, the switch from downward to upward

velocity seemed to come sickeningly fast, although

his brain knew there had to have been an instant

of standstill between them.

He kept his hand on the antigravs for a long

moment, enjoying their powerful upward surge.

"Antigravs functional. Engaging cloaking device."

He reached for the control beside his seat, bracing

himself for the unpleasant shiver that meant the

cloaking field had materialised around him.

Nothing happened.

"What the hell " Sulu toggled a systems check

on his display to be sure his senses hadn't misled

him. No fuzz of white appeared around the image

of the Wraith on his viewscreen. "Cloaking device

not operational, White Sands."

"Not operational?" Willis sounded very startled.

"That can't be right! Try it again, WKI-2."

"Running a glitch-tracking program first, sir." It

had always been one of Hernan Nakai's rules to

locate any break in operations before overriding

with more commands. Sulu looked down to tap

the correct code into the computer, and heard the

series of clicks that meant it had begun debugging

the shuttle's systems. When he looked back up at

his viewscreen, though, the heads-up display had

vanished.

Instead, silhouetted like a faint tattoo against

the outside darkness, the face of Hernan Nakai

scowled out at him.

Strings of colored lights coiled up the trunks of

naked trees, blinking and glowing, and casting

dainty holographic images into the nighttime air.

Starbursts, mim1 1 3

L. A. Graf

ing angelic choirs, tiny dancing creatures with

wings. Chekov stood, swaying slightly, and watched

a fine dusting of snow blur the double line of

footprints leading from someone's front door to a

tree-hanging bird feeder and back again. He had

no idea how long he'd been standing there. The

footprints were half-filled with snow.

No transit station was immediately in sight. He

must have walked here, through the still streets

and pretty yards of this quiet suburb, past God

only knew how many other people and things. No

one had seen fit to arrest him, so perhaps he

didn't look as fiercely criminal as he'd been afraid

he did all this long, awful day. Or perhaps the

people who lived in this dark and pleasant place

didn't care enough to worry about Annapolis

news.

He didn't even know for sure what country he was

in.

Probably still America. He couldn't believe he

had traveled all that far. Even ten or eleven hours

on what seemed like a hundred different trains

could only have taken him a few hundred

kilometers. From dark until dark, premorning to

early night. Two hundred kilometers, maximum.

He hadn't seen the sunlight all day.

He should probably keep moving, before he got

too cold to go on.

A horrible, grinding twist of pain wrenched at

his arm on the very first step, and he sagged to his

knees with a whimper. Some small,

almost-unconscious part of him remembered that

something like this had stopped him in the first

place, but that was too long ago to corroborate

any details. He crawled a hand across the front of

his coat to finger the opposite sleeve. He didn't

dare try to interact with the broken arm any

further than that he was dimly afraid he wouldn't

live to regret it once the pain spasmed over his

system.

Sometime on the third of fourth train he'd

boarded that morning, he'd gritted his teeth

against the pain and slipped his injured hand into

a coat pocket to try and hide any obvious

impairment. He'd been unconscious for almost an

hour afterward. Now, he couldn't bring himself to

repeat the maneuver, no matter how badly he

114

TRAITOR WINDS

wanted to inspect the damage. He was just too

afraid of what would happen, and what he'd find.

I can't keep going like this.

And yet a hospital was out of the question. Even

if he could find a tiny private practice, the

authorities would be all over him the instant his

ID hit the medical net. Without help, though, he

was going to go facedown on someone's

manicured lawn and no doubt be in custody or,

more likely, dead by morning. He pinned his

elbow to him with the flat of his good hand, then

climbed to his feet one slow, painful step at a

time.

He found a comboxsome hundred-odd meters

past the last residential dwelling. A park of some

sort, with a thick overgrowth of trees and almost

no snow brightening the muddy swath of ground.

At least if he curled up to hide here, no one was

likely to find him until spring. He squeezed into

the soundproofed booth, letting the door hum

shut behind him. The cool touch of the combox's

glass panels felt good to lean his head against as

he waited for the call unit to speak to him.

"Thank you for using TranSpace Link Lines." It

had a throaty, woman's voice that sounded like

warm caramel when compared with the bleak

snow outside. "Would you like to tell me the party

you wish to contact?"

That meant he had to open his eyes. Turning

awkwardly in the little booth, he picked out the

letters one by one on the unit's keyboard.

Assuming he could even talk clearly enough for

the unit to understand, he didn't want to leave a

record of his voice in the planetary communi-

cations systems. He didn't think there could be

that many Russians avoiding Starfleet authorities

in America.

"I'm sorry, but a residential code or direct

number are required in order to place that call."

Squeezing his eyes shut against a moment of

dizziness, he steadied one shoulder against the

wall of the booth and toggled HELP with his

thumb.

He only had to type four letters before the unit

recognised "Baltimore" and obligingly offered all

public numbers. When he called up everything

beneath the 115

L. A. Graf

name "McCoy," he groaned to see that there were

hundreds of them. But only one "Leonard, M.D.,"

listed at a temporary address in a hotel not far

from Johns Hopkins hospital. Unable to focus on

the keyboard any longer, he asked the unit to

place the connection for him.

"That call requires a long-distance connection.

Would you like me to proceed?"

Long-distance? Where could he possibly be that

would require a long-distance connection to

Baltimore? "Yes," he whispered hoarsely. "Place

the call."

"Thank you."

Wind rattled past the edges of the com booth,

shuddering it and the overhanging trees with the

kiss of winter's chill. Chekov watched the silver

glitter of snow-turnedrain-turned-snow-again

ripple like silk curtains underneath the bare

lamplight. It felt good to be away from the cold,

he realized. Good not to be moving, good not to

be standing, good to close his eyes and listen to

the combox signal long-distance Baltimore over

and over and over . . .

Chekov didn't mean to sink down to the floor

and curl up on himself next to the com booth's

heating vent. It just happened that way while he

was waiting, oh, so cold, for

someone anyone to acknowledge from the

other end of the line. He didn't mean to lie in

useless silence when the unit finally completed its

connection, or to be, by the time a crusty, older

voice finally rasped "Hello? Hello?" in irritation,

too deep in fever dreams to answer.

116

Chapter Ten

Somewhere over the Mojave Desert, North

America Terrestrial Date December 22, 2269

1740 hours MST

DON T SA Y. ANYTHING!

The silent command flashed across the Wraith's

viewscreenin fire-white letters, emblazoned with

Navajo thunderbolts and Starfleet danger symbols.

The warning was unnecessary Sulu had already

leaped from wordless surprise to the realisation

that he was seeing a pretaped message left for

him by his project engineer. By the time Nakai's

weathered face reappeared on the viewscreen,

Sulu had already retracted the subspace antenna

that guided his communications through the

Romulan cloaking field. A little burst of static

wouldn't alarm the commodore, especially on a

stormy night.

Beneath Dr. Nakai's face, a question scrolled in

smaller letters "White Sands listening in? If so,

retract antenna. "

Sulu nodde d, then realized there was no way the

computer could note that. He reached out and

typed "Antenna retracted" on his console.

"Good." Nakai's gruff voice replaced the letters,

and his face faded to give Sulu a view of the

desert floor rushing up toward him. The pilot

cursed in Orion and

117

L. A. Graf

slammed on the antigravs, then endured the agony

of lag time watching night shadows coalesce into

the distinct shapes of rocks and cacti and mesquite

trees. A hundred meters above the ground, the

antigravs bounced him back into the sky, and he

misted his helmet's faceplate with a sigh of relief.

" blamed for it," Nakai was saying when Sulu

finally turned his attention back to the voice in his

ear. He hoped he hadn't missed much of the old

engineer's recorded message. "I know it, because

I found the damned things under a loose

floorboard in our hangar."

"What things?" Sulu demanded, forgetting once

again that this was just the computer talking to

him.

But Nakai must have been prudent enough to

program some interactive loops into his message.

There was a pause, then the gruff voice said again,

"Good. You probably know by now that the

cloaking device plans have been stolen, and we're

getting blamed for it. I know it, because I found

the damn things under a loose floorboard in our

hangar. Got up early on Wednesday to work on

one of the Wraith's translator chips and caught

the transporter pulse on one of my subspace

monitors. I got curious and tracked it down."

The Wraith's momentum switched from up to

down, and Sulu hit the antigravs again. This time,

the shuttle's huge bounce took it west, toward the

looming darkness of the San Gabriels. Beyond

that dark mountain wall, Sulu could see the

massive, cloud-lit glow of Los Angeles. He guided

the shuttle toward the dark mountains north of it

that was the Tehachapi Federation Wilderness

Sanctuary.

"As soon as I saw there were scanner marks on

the plans, I knew they'd already been transmitted

somewhere, probably off-planet," Nakai's voice

continued. "But that still didn't clear us after all,

we both had access to high-security subspace

channels in the Wraith. I didn't have any record of

that damn transporter pulse I'd caught, and I

couldn't think how to destroy the plans

undetectable." The engineer snorted. "No matter

what, 118

TRAITOR WINDS

we were going to look guilty. Only thing I could

think to do was make just one of us look guilty.

"So I decided to take the plans and run."

California's jagged coastline solidified beneath

the Wraith as it descended. Sulu hit the antigravs

again and sent the little shuttle soaring toward the

shining darkness of the Pacific Ocean.

"Not that I'm any too worried about getting

caught." Nakai snorted again. "After all, if a

hundred generations of raiding Apaches couldn't

find the canyon where I'm going, there's no way

Starfleet can. And I'll be underground, where

satellite infrared can't find me. I'll be safe.

"But I won't be able to smoke out the real thief."

Sulu's eyes narrowed. "That's what you want me

to do," he said in dawning awareness.

"That's why I rigged the Wraith to play you this

message when you tried to turn on the cloaking

device," Nakai confirmed, almost as if he'd heard

him. The engineer's voice lost its southwestern

accent, and took on the almost-Vulcan precision

that meant he was thinking hard. "Here's what I

know It's got to be someone high up, maybe even

someone from off base. Someone who could have

smuggled a portable transporter unit into White

Sands. And someone who could have authorized

private use of a high-security channel with no one

listening in."

Sulu silently added a fourth criterion It had to

be someone who wanted the acts of treason to be

connected to the Enterprise's bridge crew.

"You'll have to be careful, Sulu." Gruffness

crept back into Nakai's voice. "Very careful.

Whoever these people are, they're well-organized

and they're ruthless. They might still decide they

want you framed along with me. Don't trust

anyone."

"Don't worry," Sulu muttered. "I don't."

A chronometer beeped on the prerecorded tape

and Nakai grunted. "Been five minutes. Better

stick your antenna out before White Sands gets

suspicious. Oh yeah once you figure out who's

behind all this, you just 119

L. A. Graf

stop by the old mission church in Alamogordo and

buy some raw turquoise. You don't have to say

nothing to nobody. I'll get the message. Nakai

out."

Silence fell in the shuttle's cabin, a tense and

lonely silence that made Sulu wish he could fly out

over the shining Pacific and never come back. He

sighed, then reached out to return the Wraith's

subspace antenna to its normal position.

"White Sands calling WKI-2, come in." The

raspy note in Willis's deep voice surprised Sulu.

Surely, the commodore couldn't have been calling

for him all that time. "White Sands calling WKI-2,

come in."

"White Sands, this is WKI-2." Almost without

thinking, Sulu kicked the Wraith into another

soaring leap. It was easier to estimate lag times

when your baseline was sea-level instead of

mountains. "Sorry about that static, sir. I hit some

t-storms over the San Gabriels." Which was a lie,

but Sulu doubted Willis had a weather map in

front of him.

The commodore let out an audible breath.

"Thought I'd lost you for a minute. Everything all

right?"

"All systems normal."

"Including the cloaking device?"

Sulu mentally kicked himself. He'd been so

distracted by Nakai's taped message, he had

forgotten all about the cloaking device he was

supposed to be testing. "The glitch-tracking

program just finished running, sir," he lied. "Looks

like just a temporary malfunction."

"Can you engage the cloaking device?"

Sulu reached down for the control beside his

feet, and this time felt the Wraith shudder as the

cloaking field materialised around it. "Cloaking

device engaged, sir."

"Acknowledged." Willis's deep voice regained its

resonant timbre. "Good work, Mr. Sulu."

"Thank you, sir." Sulu watched waves come into

focus as the shuttle swooped downward, each one

outlined by a delicate froth of phosphorescent

plankton. Six hundred meters above them, he hit

the antigravs and waited for the bounce.

120

TRAITOR WINDS

It was his instinct for gravity that warned him,

long seconds before the shuttle's alarms began to

wail. Instead of the gravitational braking he

should have felt, Sulu's senses told him that his

downward velocity was still increasing, at the

familiar and inevitable rate of 9.816 meters per

second per second. He smacked at the antigravs

again, to no avail, then tried to cut in the impulse

engines. Nothing happened.

Sulu cursed and slapped the communicator over

to normal channels while he tried to wrestle the

stubby shuttle into some semblance of a glide.

"Shuttle WKI-2 in distress. All systems failing.

Repeat, all systems failing "

Heaving with phosphorescent fire, the Pacific

rose to meet him.

"Don't say anything!"

Chekov stirred groggily against the press of a

body above him, and clutched at the hand

clamped over his mouth with a swell of rising

panic. Thin fingers tightened threateningly along

his jawline. He closed his eyes and fell back

against the floor of the combox, shivering.

". . . ambulance has already been dispatched to

your location. I cannot cancel the emergency

order without the direct instructions of a licensed

physician."

"I am a licensed physician, you glorified

answering machine! Commander Leonard McCoy,

Starneet, retired, Earth medical license number

41388X4. Now I'm telling you, cancel the damned

ambulance request! There's nobody here but me,

and I was fine until you started harassing me!"

Chekov reached up again to grip the doctor's

arm, and this time McCoy returned the frantic

pressure with a reassuring one-handed squeeze of

his own. Relief washed over Chekov in a wave.

Somewhere in the middle distance, ambulance

sirens stretched to encompass every corner of the

sky.

"Computer?" McCoy's words had taken on a

sharp, southern twang of concern. "Are you

listening to me?"

121

L. A. Graf

"Voiceprint verified for Dr. Leonard McCoy,

license number 4138884."

Abruptly, the sirens stopped.

"Ambulance order remanded, ambulance

recalled." Some invisible transition took place out

of sight or sound of the remote combox, and a

different, happier voice wished them, "Have a nice

day."

McCoy grunted and slapped off the com unit's

listening device. "The only thing we could have

possibly done to make medical science more

inefficient was to automate it." He bent over

Chekov again to scowl in doctorly warning. That

craggy southern face had never looked so

welcome. "Don't you even blink till I decide

whether or not it's all right to move you. If you're

gonna drag me out here in the middle of the

night, you're gonna have to put up with my

temper." But the hand he lifted from Chekov's

mouth was gentle as it began its swift probe of his

bones and muscles.

"Doctor . . ." The thin dryness of his voice

horrified Chekov. "How did you get here? How

did you find me?"

McCoy surprised him with a crooked half smile.

"Well, I don't get that many anonymous com

calls." He pressed his hands along the length of

Chekov's collarbones, across his shoulders, down.

"When the computer told me the booth was still

occupied but nobody was talking to me, I took a

wild guess that something was wrong and had it

play back the only thing you'd said while you were

here."

"Yes," Chekov remembered whispering into the

combox pickup. "Place the calf" He couldn't believe

he'd been stupid enough to sa y anything.

"You sounded like hell."

McCoy's hand slipped below his right elbow,

and pain slammed Chekov back against the wall of

the booth, causing a howl he didn't even have the

breath to sustain. The doctor clenched a fist in the

front of his parka to hold him when he would

have stumbled to his knees. "Don't move,

dammit!"

122

TRAITOR WINDS

"I'm sorry . . ." Chekov tried to relax, but the

reawakened agony burned him up like brittle

paper until even his breath could only come in

short, useless hitches. ". . . It's broken . . ." he

gritted between clenched teeth. "I'm sorry . . ."

McCoy nodded grimly, waving him back into

silence. "All right, I hear you." But he touched

Chekov's shoulder in quick apology before moving

on to continue his inspection elsewhere. "I got the

com unit to tell me what booth you'd called from,

then called an autocab to haul me out here." He

picked up his explanation as though the

interruption had never happened. "It's a good

thing for you the lecture circuit pays me so well.

Otherwise I never would have been able to afford

the fare."

"Why?" Chekov frowned out the clear-plate

sides of the booth, only to find the world obscured

by driving snow and endless, primal black. "Where

are we?"

"All the way out on the Delmarva Peninsula in

some little town called Pocomoke City. You're not

even on the map." Shifting clumsily, the doctor

ducked to pull Chekov's good arm across his

shoulders and work his own arm behind the

ensign's back. Their first step up and forward was

pure agony.

"I know it hurts," McCoy grunted, staggering as

Chekov stewed against him. "But it looks like all

we've got to deal with is that arm. I want to try

and get it set before the swelling gets any worse."

"No . . ." Chekov pulled weakly at McCoy's grip,

but only stumbled back into the doctor when

McCoy tightened his hold on him. "I can't go to a

hospital."

"I know that, son." McCoy kicked open the door

of the autocab and turned slowly sideways to

lower Chekov inside. "Don't worry I've already

made other arrangements."

McCoy's "other arrangements" turned out to be

an hourly motel along the coast of the Delmarva

Penninsula. None of the other rooms appeared

occupied when the

123

L. A. Graf

autocabeased to a stop outside their lodgings, and

once they'd made their way inside, Chekov could

understand why. A low, mirrored ceiling reflected

carpet and bedspread, both patterned in Andorian

erotic cuneiform, and a clashing wall display of

Klingon pillow art took up most of the opposite

wall. It occurred to Chekov that this was the only

place he could come to where the pain of a

broken arm would seem not so bad in comparison.

Pushing Chekov with gentle firmness onto the

edge of the bed, McCoy growled, "Lie down,"

before ducking back outside into the windy dark

and snow. Chekov looked after him a moment,

sweaty from the combox's heater vent and the

close confines of the autocab, then slowly started

the numb task of unfastening the front of his

parka. McCoy slipped back in the door when he

was only halfway down the coat's long front.

"Oh, hell, Chekov . . ." The doctor tossed both

black bags onto a nearby table, then hurried over

to gently move Chekov's hand aside so he could

quickly finish the job. "I was just going to cut that

off you."

"I need it," Chekov protested weakly. He let

McCoy reach behind him to slide his left arm out

of its sleeve. "I've already lost one coat to this

mess."

McCoy grunted, but didn't contradict him as he

started to carefully work the right side of the coat

off Chekov's body. "So," he said with deceptive

lightness. "You want to tell me what the hell is

going on?"

"I can't." Chekov clutched a rumpled handful of

blanket and squeezed his eyes tight against an

insane urge to jerk away from the pain. "I don't

want you to have to lie to Starfleet Security."

McCoy pressed both hands to Chekov's chest

until he finally relented and lay back across the

top of the bed. The mattress was hard and oddly

lumpy. "Then let's start with what I already know."

Chekov heard McCoy rise and go to pop the

latches on one of the little black cases. "I know

you didn't kill Mark Piper, son," he said above the

rattle of whatever equipment he was sorting. "And

Jim Kirk knows it, too."

124

TRAITOR WINDS

Chekov raised his head, startled by the mention

of Kirk's name. "You've talked to the admiral?"

"I didn't need to." Chekov's heart fell, but he

said nothing as McCoy came to kneel by the side

of the bed again. "Jim Kirk knows his crew. He

trusts you." Picking up the edge of one cuff,

McCoy tucked a cutting tool inside the sweater's

soggy sleeve and sliced it clear to the shoulder.

"Rose and aqua," he commented dryly as he did

the same thing to the turtleneck. "Not the colors

I would have picked for you, Chekov."

Chekov visualised Oberste shoving the

unfamiliar clothes at him in her kitchen, and a

rueful smile twisted his mouth. "My selection was

somewhat limited."

A hypo hissed against the bare skin of his

shoulder, washing him with cool relief and

dispersing the worst of the pain. When he opened

his eyes to meet his own haggard reflection in the

overhead mirror, he looked only long enough to

see the bruised, distorted ruin of his arm atop the

bedspread, then quickly turned his face aside. For

all his horrific imaginings on the train and in the

autocab, he still hadn't been prepared for the

brutal reality.

"Computer. World broadcast news." It was

something else to look at, at least, something to

take his mind off what he'd done to himself, and

what McCoy was about to do.

"You want my learned medical opinion?" McCoy

asked. He didn't wait for Chekov's answer. "Don't

watch. It'll just depress you."

"I need to know what they're saying." He

flinched again as McCoy slipped one half of a

melded splint beneath his arm. "I need to know

what they know." On the display screen, a sincere

weatherman made circles with his hands above a

storm off the coast of Florida.

"You're gonna hate me for doing this . . ."

McCoy's cool grip closed resolutely around

Chekov's thumb. "But, I promise, you'll thank me

when it's over."

He told himself he didn't know what was about

to happen, that he'd do better if he relaxed, that

nothing,

125

L. A. Graf

absolutely nothing, could hurt more than what

he'd already suffered through most of this horrible

day. Then the hand around his tightened, the

bones twisted and snapped back into place with a

crack, and he would have ripped out of his own

skin to escape that instant of soul-splitting pain.

But by the time his body registered it and took in

a breath to scream, he'd exploded out the other

side, into a foggy, floating limbo of relief.

"That's it all done." McCoy's voice sounded

farther away than before, soft-edged and blurry.

"The hard part's over." His arm responded with

only the most viscous throb of protest as the

doctor fitted the rest of the splint and began to

expertly tighten it.

Alertness crept back over him as the pain at last

receded into a distant, sickly ache. Chekov opened

his eyes to the muted colorsof the display monitor,

McCoy's soothing voice blending into a seamless

nonsense with the monotone announcer's

dialogue. When Sulu's slim, smiling face first

dominated the oversized viewscreen, Chekov

thought his mind had woven SQme reassuring

phantom from the threads of his longings, the

screen's presence, and McCoy's words. Then the

movement of the announcer's lips somehow fell

into place with his speaking, and Chekov bolted

upright in sudden horror.

"Chekov!" McCoy grabbed at him with both

hands. "Hold still!"

"Quiet!" Oh, please, let it be a lie, please, don't let

it be true!

" destruction of a military aircraft from the

White Sands Experimental Flight Center. Starfleet

officials aren't discussing details about the missing

aircraft, except to say that the night flight over the

South Pacific was part of a series of classified tests

conducted by Lieutenant Commander Hikaru

Sulu, who was declared dead upon the loss of the

aircraft."

McCoy broke the silence between them with a

rasping whisper. "Oh, my God . . ."

Chekov stared at the viewscreen until McCoy

ordered 126

TRAITOR

it off. Even then, the afterimage of Sulu's laughter

hung on the darkened screen, as though reluctant

to fade.

McCoy stood, hovering by the side of the bed as

though unsure where he meant to go. "There has

to be some mistake."

No mistake. Piper. Oberste. Sulu. However this

all fit together, it was connected by a chain of

corpses.

"I'm going to see if I can get in touch with Jim "

"Not from here." It was something Chekov felt

very strongly about, but it came out as a numb

suggestion, devoid of either emotion or strength.

"No' not from here," McCoy agreed. He'd

already retrieved his coat from somewhere, and

shrugged it over his shoulders as he talked. "I can

try to get through to him from the combox where

I found you. I want you to stay here and wait for

me. Whatever's going on, we'll be better off if we

face it together." He caught Chekov's jaw in one

hand and forcibly turned the young ensign's head

to face him. "You hear me? Stay here."

Lies came too hard for him to construct any

sort of proper answer, but McCoy didn't wait long

enough to force him into one. "I'll make that an

order if I have to, Ensign." He tossed a pale gold

account card onto the bedspread beside Chekov.

"See if the replicator will give you anything but

coffee and get yourself something hot to eat. I'll

be back in und er an hour." A swirl of snow chased

McCoy out the door, then settled into a fading

ribbon across the patterned carpet. The room felt

very cold and empty once he was gone.

"What is the first vow of a Starfleet security

officer?" Oberste's voice echoed grimly from

somewhere on the other side of death.

What difference does it make now? Chekov

rubbed at his arm, overwhelmed with his

helplessness to promise anything. A guard's first

vow is to protect and serve.

"And what one duty must you uphold above all

others?"

I must preserve the lives placed under my protec127

L. A. Graf

tion . . . He looked out across the night-dark

water and the smear of barrier island holding

back the ocean waves. The narrow stretch of land

reached into the darkness like a bridge between

realities, and the first flickers of a plan began to

form at the back of Chekov's brain. ". . . even at

the expense of my own."

128

Chapter Eleven

StarfleetAcademy San Francisco, North

America Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

1030 hours PST

6'SIR?7'

Uhura looked up from her desk, startled out of

her round of unhappy thoughts. If there was one

thing a semester of teaching had taught her, it was

that students never came in during Monday

morning office hours unless they were studying for

an exam. And finals week had ended last Friday,

just before Starfleet Academy had emptied for the

holiday break. Only the professors and senior

officers remained on campus, along with a scatter-

ing of off-planet students who hadn't been able to

afford the starship fare home.

The snub-nosed face peeking shyly around her

door belonged to the second category. Ensign

Dana Cercone had the dark eyes and easily

tanned skin of her Italian ancestors, but her lilting

accent marked her as a resident of Sherman's

Planet, an Earth colony whose native tongue was

New Esperanto. Uhura forced herself to smile and

greeted the student in that language.

Cercone switched to it herself, looking anxious.

"I don't want to disturb you, sir, if you're busy. Do

you have time to talk to me now?"

129

L. A. Graf

"I'm only grading papers. I don't mind being

disturbed when I do that." Uhura swept a stack of

exams from the chair beside her desk and

gestured Cercone to sit. "Did you have a question

about your test? I haven't gotten to it yet."

"Oh, no, sir." The ensign looked down, fingering

the winter-issue cadet cap she'd folded in her lap.

"I think I did okay on it. I really enjoyed your

class."

"So did I. You were all good students." Uhura

set her grading notepad down. "What can I help

you with, then?"

Cercone looked up, eyes dark and serious now.

"It's my senior honorsthesis in communications,

ma'am. I thought I'd work on it over winter break,

since I'm stuck here uh, I mean, since I decided

to stay "

Despite herself, Uhura smiled again. " 'Stuck

here' will do fine, Ensign. What's your thesis on?"

"Data compression in planetary subspace relays.

I'm trying to eliminate linear lag time by using a

transporterlike system to send data in

simultaneous intact bundles."

Uhura nodded. "That's a good idea. Does it

work?"

"Well, not yet," Cercone admitted. "I still have

to find a way around the quantum-gate problem,

but I've been running some promising tests down

at Starfleet's main transporter facility. The

problem is " Her smooth brow creased in

puzzlement. "I've been getting a lot of strange

interference in my subspace test messages, just

lately."

"And you'd like me to look at it," Uhura guessed.

"Yes, sir. I don't think it has anything to do with

my thesis problem," the ensign added hurriedly. "If

it did, I wouldn't ask you to explain it to me, of

course. But if it's just an extraneous planetary

elect well, I know you've had a lot of experience

untangling that kind of thing."

"And enjoy it a whole lot more than grading

papers." Uhura frowned at the stack of exams on

her desk, estimating the work she still had to do.

"Tell you what, Ensign. I should have the rest of

these done in about an

130

TRAITOR WINDS

hour. If bring your data back here then, I'll take

a look at it."

"Great!" Cercone sprang out of her chair with

the infectious energy of the young. "I'll go put

everything in order, just the way it came in.

Thanks, Commander."

"No problem." Uhura watched her out, then

turned her attention reluctantly back to the stack

of tests. She sighed. At least grading exams was

better than thinking about

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Uhura recognised the polite voice even before

she glanced up at the tall, stoop-shouldered man

in her doorway. "Good morning, Mr. Kahle." She

forced another smile. "Have you come to check

your grade?"

The multimillionaire snorted. "Never was much

of a grade-chaser, ma'am. Just took the test to see

if I could still handle the pressure." He cocked

one iron-grey eyebrow at her. "Did I pass?"

"With flying colors," Uhura assured him. "Would

you like to come in and see it?"

Kahle waved his cane regretfully. "Don't have

time today. I only stopped in to see if you'll be

going to the Academy Christmas party tonight."

"I was planning to." The thought of that

party and the men who had been supposed to

attend it as her guests brought Uhura

face-to-face again with the looming uncertainty of

what had happened over the weekend to Chekov

and Sulu. She bit her lip and said less steadily, "If

I can make it. Something might might interfere."

"Understood, ma'am." Kahle gave her a somber

nod of sympathy. It occurred to Uhura that there

weren't many secrets in Starfleet that this former

starship captain wasn't privy to. "Hope the news

will be good, and that we'll see you there. Your

old colleague Mr. Scott has promised to come

down for it." He snorted again. "Had to promise

him Saurian brandy to get him away from the

Enterprise, though."

131

L. A. Graf

"That sounds like Mr. Scott, sir." Uhura

managed a shaky laugh. "Tell him I'll try to stop

in and see him, even if I can only stay a little

while."

"Good." Kahle tipped his cap to her, then

departed with a stride not much slower than the

young ensign's had been.

Uhura sighed again and forced her attention

back to the exams she had to grade. She knew

that if she let herself think about her lost friends,

she would wind up repeating the same useless

cycle of worry, heartbreak, and outrage that she'd

spent most of yesterday trapped in. And none of

it would help Sulu and Chekov. If only she could

think of something that would help . . .

"Uhura."

She recognized the new voice and jerked her

head up, staring at the slim, wiry figure in her

doorway with mingled hope and fear. "Admiral

Kirk! Have you found out "

Kirk shook his head and came into her office,

letting the door swing shut behind him. "Still no

word on Chekov's whereabouts. And still no luck

locating the Wraith's crash site."

"Oh."

The admiral must have seen the dismay in her

eyes. "Uhura, that's good news. If Sulu really had

gone down near the coordinates of his last

transmission, we'd have found evidence of it by

now. The search team has scoured the ocean top

to bottom for fifty kilometers around the site.

They haven't found so much as an oil smear,

much less any trace of wreckage."

Uhura nodded. It was what she kept telling

herself, in between fits of being sure that the

Wraith had completely annihilated itself in some

freak explosion. "And is it good news for Chekov

that they haven't found him?"

Kirk sighed and pulled a chair around to

straddle in front of her desk. His face had the

usual sharp edge it took on in a crisis, and the

hazel eyes were smudged with uneasy shadows.

"That," he admitted, "I'm not so sure

132

TRAITOR WINDS

of. I wish that boy would turn himself in so we

could stash him away and find out who's out to

get him." Half-exasperated and half-chagrined, he

looked a quest lion Uhura. "Dammit, doesn't he

trust us?"

"I think it's Starfleet Security he doesn't trust,"

said a new voice from the door.

Uhura gasped, and Kirk swung around with a

curse, his hand dropping to a phaser he didn't

have. The familiar willowy figure in the hallway

looked back with calm blue eyes that defused

their tension, the same way they used to quell Dr.

McCoy's most irate tirades. Christine Chapel's air

of quiet composure had always seemed serene

enough to rival Mr. Spock's. Now that the nurse

had graduated from medical school and was

finishing her doctorate in research, her poise had

been strengthened by a great deal of

self-confidence.

"Christine!" Uhura sprang up and pulled her

friend into the office, closing the door more

securely behind her. "How on earth do you know

about Chekov?"

"Leonard told me, of course." Chapel perched

on the edge of Uhura's tape-littered desk, waving

Kirk back to the chair he'd offered her. "That's

why I'm here. I came to give you his news."

Kirk paused in the act of sitting down, looking

surprised. "Bones has news about Chekov?" Then

his face lit in swift comprehension. "That's right,

McCoy's been giving lectures at the Johns

Hopkins Medical School this month, hasn't he?

Don't tell me Chekov's hiding out with him?"

Chapel shook her head. "No, not anymore. Dr.

McCoy told me "

"In person?" Kirk interrupted grimly. "Or

through Starfleet channels?"

"Neither." She smiled faintly. "He said he

couldn't trust the official mail net, and you know

how he hates flying. So he sent a message on the

medical net from Johns Hopkins to Stanford,

coding it as a confidential patient file for my

consultation."

133

L. A. Graf

Kirk whistled approval. "Good work, Bones!

What did the message say?"

"That Chekov had called him from a public com

somewhere along Maryland's Eastern Shore on

Saturday night." Chapel's voice took on the

carefully measured tones of a doctor reciting a

case history. "He was injured " She heard

Uhura's gasp of dismay and added reassuringly,

"Just a simple ulnar-radial fracture to his right

arm. Leonard took an autocab down to meet him,

but Chekov refused to go to the hospital. They

managed to splint his arm at a hotel, but when

Leonard left to call for help, he walked right into

a swarm of Starfleet Security. He managed to talk

his way out of getting arrested, but by the time he

got back to the hotel room, Chekov was gone."

Her eyes crinkled with faint humor. "Along with

Leonard's account card, apparently."

Kirk scowled. "Did Chekov tell Bones where he

was going? Or how he got hurt?"

The doctor shook her head. "No. He said he

didn't want to force anyone to lie to Starfleet

Security. That's what makes Leonard think

Chekov doesn't trust them. Why else would they

need to be lied to?"

Kirk cursed and sprang out of his chair again,

pacing the narrow length of the office like a caged

cheetah. Uhura and Chapel exchanged glances,

both recognising the signs of impending action in

their former commander. If they had still been

aboard the Enterprise, the next words out of Kirk's

mouth would have been an order to fire photon

torpedoes.

But this wasn't a fight that could be won with a

starships weapons. Uhura could tell from his scowl

of concentration that Admiral Kirk knew that. He

paused in his pacing and cursed.

"That's why Chekov can't turn himself in to

anyone." Kirk smacked one fist into the other, so

hard that Uhura nearly jumped from her chair.

"Security must be in on this, at the highest level!

Even if the field patrol that arrested him was

loyal, somewhere along the line he

134

TRAITOR WINDS

knows he'd get turned over to the people who are

trying to frame us "

"Frame us?" It was the one thing Uhura hadn't

permitted herself to think, although her mind kept

circling back to it like a moth beating on a

windowpane. It was the thought that scared her

the most. "You mean, the crew of the Enterprise?"

"All my main bridge crew, at least." Kirk's

seething strides vibrated Uhura's desk when he

passed, sending her exams cascading unnoticed to

the floor. "Dammit, it can't be a coincidence that

Sulu and Chekov are getting blamed for the two

most serious acts of treason to be committed

against Starfleet in a century! Someone

someone very high up is arranging it to look like

my crew is behind all of this." Kirk paused again,

his mouth twisting as if he'd swallowed something

very bitter. "And I think I know why they're doing

it."

"To discredit you, " Chapel said quietly.

Kirk nodded grimly. "There are a hell of a lot of

factions in the Federation Council that don't like

me or any of the other admirals, for that

matter. But since I'm Starfleet's diplomatic

troubleshooter right now, I'm the best one to

attack." With a wordless growl of frustration, he

started pacing again. "I just wish I knew who they

were and who they found to do their work for

them inside Starfleet!"

Chapel frowned. "If we could find that out, we'd

know who the real traitors are."

"Yes. Which is exactly why they've hidden their

tracks so well." Kirk scrubbed a frustrated hand

across his face. "I've had Riley run every computer

check he can think of to pin down other suspects

in those thefts, but the damn traces keep coming

up blank. I don't know if it's because they're

getting interfered with, or if the thieves were so

damn clever that they left no trace at all."

Uhura pressed her interlaced hands against her

mouth, thinking hard. "But there's one place they

can't cover their tracks," she said into the taut

silence at last. "They 135

L. A. Graf

have to sell their stolen technology somewhere,

don't they?"

Kirk came to a dead stop, an arrested look on

his face. "And the buyers will want to know who

they're dealing with, to be sure they're getting the

real goods. All we need to do is find them and

convince them to testify . . ." He crossed the office

in three long strides and swept Uhura up into a

brief bear hug. "Bless you, Uhura."

"Thank you, sir." She stepped back, breathless

but happy. "Will you need help tracking the buyers

down, Admiral?"

Kirk drummed his fingers thoughtfully against

the edge of her desk. "I will, Commander, but I

don't think it's the kind of help anyone on Earth

can give me. The buyers are off-planet, and that's

where I'll have to go to find them. What I need is

a neutral being, someone all of our allies and our

enemies will talk to. Someone everyone knows and

trusts, and someone I can persuade to help us...."

"We saved Ambassador Sarek's life a little while

ago," Uhura reminded him. "He owes us a favor."

"So he does." Kirk's smile regained its gleam of

laughter. "And isn't it convenient that he's

stationed right here at the Vulcan consulate in San

Francisco? I think I'll go have a chat with him

right now."

"What should we do?" Chapel asked.

Kirk handed Uhura the rank pins he'd stripped

off his uniform. "Keep these for me until I can

convince Starfleet I deserve to get them back. And

call in all the communications contacts you have.

See if you can locate Sulu and Chekov without

anyone in Security finding out. Get them into safe

hiding, or at least put them in touch with Kevin

Riley. He'll know what to do." Kirk peeled his

wrist communicator off next and tossed it to

Chapel. "Doctor, I want you to take this with you

back to Stanford. If anyone calls for me, tell them

I'm undergoing my annual physical and can't be

disturbed."

Chapel lifted a dubious eyebrow at him. "lf l remem-

136

TRAITOR WINDS

her correctly, Admiral, you always come up with

an excuse to avoid your annual physical."

"Which is exactly why it's going to take me at

least a day to undergo all those delayed tests,"

Kirk retorted. "Right?"

A smile flickered across Chapel's face. "Right,

sir. Good luck," she added as he swung toward the

door.

Kirk glanced over his shoulder, suddenly somber

again. "I'm not the one who's going to need luck,

Doctor. Whoever the people are behind this plot,

for the next twenty-four hours I'll be completely

out of their reach." He pointed at Uhura. "But you

won't and with Spock off on Vulcan, you're the

only remaining member of the bridge crew. Be

careful they don't make you their next target."

"Don't worry, Admiral." Uhura squared her

shoulders so he wouldn't see the shiver that ran

through her. "I'll be safe enough here at the

Academy. After all, there's nothing that the

traitors can want from me."

A big, blunt fist pushed at Chekov through the

walls of the thermal sleeping tube, nearly rolling

him onto his side. He told himself he should

probably ignore it, but when another insistent

nudge jostled at his arm, the pain forced him to

pull aside the head nap and scowl at the long,

bewhiskered face hanging over him. "Do you

mind?"

The pony blasted a loud snort of surprise and

danced off, shaking its head as it minced a few

meters away to regard him. The four others

milling with it made a token dash toward the

underbrush, then all five seemed to forget their

resolve and wandered back to foraging. How

depressing to know you aren't even capable of

routing a band of wild ponies, Chekov thought.

Thunder pealed across the curdled black sky,

and a lash of wind whipped from no discernible

direction to scatter bits of frozen brush all over

the clearing. It could have been midnight or

midday; Chekov guessed from the

137

L. A. Graf

ponies' lazy wanderings that it was still fairly early

in the evening, and maybe not even that late.

Either way, he still had plenty of work to do.

He wormed his way out of the thermal tube, no

longer even bothering trying to keep the sand out

of it. The stuff was insidious. When he'd first been

struck with the "inspiration" to come here, he

hadn't realized the "island" was nothing more than

a long bar of sand, with just enough stunted

bushes and sparse grass to keep the whole thing

from washing away. He hadn't yet found a water

reservoir that wasn't stagnant and briny, as bitter

as the sea. Yet the ponies must be drinking

something. Or maybe not. He couldn't say for

certain how long a horse could go between

hydrations; he only knew you had to water

reindeer copiously and often.

Marina Franz had made Assateague sound so

charming and quaint when she'd talked about it. "I

spent a summer there with the World

Conservation Corps," she'd told him as they'd

walked between classes in the early part of the

year. "Except for park management and

emergency care of the ponies, no one's allowed to

interact with the island no visitors, no tourists,

not even full-time rangers. It's wonderful!"

Now, with his mouth dry for lack of water and

every inch of his skin itching from the blowing

white sand, Chekov couldn't begin to imagine why

visitors, tourists, or even ponies, for that matter,

would ever want to come to Assateague Island in

the first place.

All the more reason to stay here as long as

possible. No one who wasn't completely insane

would even think about camping on Assateague in

the middle of a stormy December. Which sums up

nicely what I've fallen to. He smiled ruefully as he

rolled up the sleeping tube and stuffed it into its

carry sack.

Franz had talked about the ranger stations

dotting the length of the island. "Along the main

road," she'd said. "These cute little ho uses where

the Conservation Corps would sometimes store

measuring equipment and com138

TRAITOR WINDS

munications gear." He'd been hoping to escape

the weather inside one of these "little houses"

when he'd first crossed the Assateague land bridge

two miserable nights ago. But, so far, a day of

walking along the island's only road hadn't turned

up so much as a hint of the promised stations.

Maybe, he figured wryly, they seemed closer

together when you didn't have to cross the island

on foot. Chekov was just glad he'd thought to

abscond with McCoy's account card so he could

buy camping gear. He promised himself he would

pay back the doctor's unwilling donation just as

soon as all of this was over.

He'd taken to walking the island at night simply

because that's when he'd first arrived there. After

walking as far as he could possibly push himself,

he'd sealed himself into the sleeping tube and

struggled to bite open the end of a packet of

winter camping rations. He fell asleep with the

packet unopened, the stubborn pull-tab still held

between his teeth.

It made for a convenient breakfast when he

finally roused again. The weather had deteriorated

into a perpetual angry glower, blanketing the sky

with blackness and pelting the already desolate

landscape with snow and rain in equal measure.

By the time he'd rolled himself into his sleeping

gear after that night's hike, he'd lost all track of

the hour or the day. All that mattered was that he

keep surviving long enough to locate someplace

better to hide.

Hefting the lightweight carry sack, he tugged his

mitten back on with his teeth and wished, not for

the first time, that the fingers of his right hand

were more useful than painful. At least the

discomfort hadn't crescendoed past the point of a

few warning stabs since McCoy had pulled the

bones back into alignment. He ought to be

thankful for even that simple

improvement fugitives couldn't be too picky

about the details of their exile. Squeezing between

two nervous, ice-slicked horses, he pushed into the

underbrush and headed resolutely for the road.

139

L. A. Graf

The flat, straight access lane made for the

easiest walking he'd known so far on this long

ordeal; his weary legs and aching back were

grateful. He didn't bother forcing himself to jog

anymore. What was the hurry? Once he reached

the end of the island, he had nowhere else to go,

no other brilliant plan to fall back on. He might as

well delay confirmation of his fate as long as

possible, since he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep

himself going when he no longer had a goal to aim

for.

The arrhythmic clop-clop of pony steps echoed

through the dark on either side of him. As

light-footed and quiet as they were among the

dunes, the horses clattered up a racket on the

roadway, covering any sound his own booted

footsteps might have made. He'd been shadowed

since his first night by the same five docile males.

The rangers must have offered handouts when

they came to stay among the horses. Or maybe the

lack of bothersome tourists kept the ponies from

learning just how dangerous human presence

could be. Whatever the cause, they'd proven

reasonably pleasant travel companions, and their

unflagging hootbeats had served as sensor pings to

sound out the width and distance of the road

ahead of him. As storm winds thickened the

darkness around them, he found himself relying

more and more on that ringing report.

So he noticed immediately when the hoofbeats

stopped.

Slowing to a careful tiptoe, Chekov felt his way

forward with his limited human senses. The wind

shredded all subtle sound, but he thought he

heard the smack and lick of open water, just

before his foot stepped over the precipice and

plunged him to the knee in frigid, foaming soup.

He caught himself against a pony's rump,

managing to stumble back out of the shallow lake

without soaking anything higher than his parka

hem. One trouser leg and hip, though, sloshed a

great splash of water across the road in his retreat.

A slice of wind cut through the wet

140

TRAITOR WINDS

fabric, and he cursed himself aloud for being too

stupid to look where he was going. Snorting in

reply the pony swerved out from under his hand

and flicked its heels in equine protest.

Waves and rain had washed out the road for a

good five meters or more. Chekov stood on the

edge of the drop-off and let water lap over his

toes. If he could hold on to one of the horses, he

might make an effort to slog through the dark,

frothy mess. But from the way they'd already

drifted out beyond his easy reach, he judged that

option to be just about as likely as his leaping the

expanse in a single bound. That left returning to

the underbrush and trying to pick his way around

the washout, with no guarantee he'd find a clear

passage back to the road.

"Oh, how much worse could it possibly make

things?" It wasn't like he'd find Leong or Broad in

ambush there, so it was already better than

anywhere else along the seaboard. Stooping to

squeeze as much water as he could from his pants

leg, he followed the last retreating pony into a

wall of bushes, on the theory that the horses at

least had some idea where they were going.

Sand slipped and moved beneath his feet;

branches snapped off in handfuls when he grabbed

them for balance. The ponies navigated a narrow,

winding path through the scrub growth, traveling

each with a nose to another's tail as though linked

together like big paper dolls. When they snaked

leftward as a group, Chekov marked it down to

whatever random whims guided ponies. Then the

final horse in the line exerted his independence by

stepping just as calmly right, and Chekov realised

with a start that they were making their way

around something that the brush and their bodies

hadn't at first let him see. He stopped to let them

trail away, then climbed into the weeds and

started digging.

The long metal hamper had managed to catch

every torn limb and kelp knot tossed up by the

encroaching storm. Chekov dragged the debris

away from the lid, then 141

L. A. Graf

groaned in disappointment when he saw the bold,

sandscoured lettering there RANGER STATION

13 ASSATEAGUE ISLAND WILDERNESS

SANCTUARY.

"Ah, Marina . . ." For some reason, when she'd

said "little houses," he'd.thought she meant

structures a human being could actually fit inside.

He bypassed the station's simple lock by

popping two circuits with his thumb. At least he'd

come away from security school with some useful

practical knowledge. Inside he found scientific

notepads, emergency medical kits (one for

humans, one for horses), a collection of various

sampling vials and data disks, and an inset

communications hookup. He kissed the little

transmitter before pulling off his glove and

punching in the connect code.

He hoped it wasn't too late Pacific Standard

Time. Without access to a Starfleet

communications node, he had to try and reach

Kirk at his office. Security was bound to have that

line monitored he'd prepared himself for that.

But if Kirk was there and if Chekov could talk

to him he was sure Kirk wouldn't let anything

happen to him. All he had to do was succeed in

making contact.

The communications circuit closed with a ping.

"Starfleet Headquarters, Admiral Kirk's office."

Chekov took a moment to wrestle his voice

under control, worried with a sudden spurt of

panic how the wind and thunder would sound

across the transcontinental channel. "Could I

speak with Admiral Kirk, please?" He would have

given anything to speak unaccented English these

last few days.

The voice at the other end of the line was silent

for a moment, as though distracted by too many

memos, or searching for the note that would

clarify when Kirk was allowed to be bothered.

When he spoke again, the secretary sounded stiffly

wary, his voice laced with concern. "I'm sorry, but

Admiral Kirk is in the hospital 142

TRAITOR WINDS

until further notice and can't be contacted."

Then, with careful interest, "Ensign Chekov? Is

that ?"

Chekov severed the communications with a

twist of his hand.

Admiral Kirk . . . hospitalised. He sank to the

ground beside the ranger station, propping one

elbow on the casing to bury his face in his arm.

143

Chapter Twelve

StarfleetAcademy

San Francisco, North America

Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

1130 hours PST

THE ORIGINA! MESSAGE transmitted to

Starfleet s main transporter facility had been

simple the word "peace" in New Esperanto,

repeated fifty times. It had come back

transformed into a nightmare gibberish of letters,

all meaning lost and no pattern discernible in it.

Uhura scanned the flimsy printout twice, then

shook her head.

"I can see why this confused you, Ensign." She

drew a dark finger across one line of text, noting

the total lack of gaps between the letters. "Did

you check this output against the Communications

Library's records of planetary interference?"

Ensign Cercone nodded. "The library computer

couldn't figure it out at all. That's why I came to

you, sir."

"Hmm." Uhura glanced across her desk at her

student's expectantly alight face, and couldn't

bring herself to say that she couldn't figure it out,

either. In any case, she reminded herself tartly,

puzzling over a communications problem was far

more productive than sitting here wondering how

Admiral Kirk could possibly find proof of his

crew's innocence in time to save them. Which was

144

TRAITOR WINDS

how she'd spent most of her time since she'd

finished grading the exams.

"Do you think it could b e neutrino interference,

Commander?" Cercone asked. "From solar

flares?"

Uhura found herself shaking her head before

she'd even thought about the question. She had to

stop and search her mind to find out what made

her so sure.

"I don't think it can be any kind of natural

interference, Ensign," she said slowly. She traced

a finger down the flimsy again. Every garbled line

was completely filled with English letters, just as

the original message had been. "You used

Federation standard transmission code to send

this, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know how many bits of information are

needed to correctly identify a single letter in

Federation standard?"

"Sixty-four," Cercone said promptly. "The

minimum number needed to transmit the seven

major alphabets and pictographs of Earth, plus

the five Vulcan alphabets, the six branches of

Andorian letters, and the entire Tellarite trading

symbology."

"Very good." Uhura hid a smile, remembering

when she had been just as quick to spill out

everything she knew in response to a simple

question. Admiral Kirk had cured everyone in his

crew of that habit except, perhaps, for Mr.

Spock. "Now, if natural interference was randomly

altering some of the individual bits of code you

sent, do you think all the altered packets would

still code out as English letters?"

The ensign's mouth opened to reply, but what

actually came out was a yelp of surprise and

dawning comprehension. "No, of course not!" She

skated her fingers accusingly over the all-English

letters on her printout. "Some of these should be

Russian shcha's, or Arabic qaf's, or Vulcan iluzal's

. . ."

"Precisely." Uhura tapped at the flimsy. "What

we have here, Ensign, is a deliberately miscoded

message." 145

L. A. Graf

Cercone looked stunned. "You mean someone's

trying to sabotage my senior honors thesis, sir?"

Uhura paused in surprise. She was so used to

encountering coded messages in distant and

unfriendly parts of the galaxy that it hadn't

occurred to her how odd it was to find one here

on Earth. "I'm not sure. The only way to find out

is to analyze and see if the miscoding's random, or

if there's a message embedded inside it."

"Can we do that?"

"Very easily." Uhura swung around and retrieved

her optic pen, then ran it across the flimsy

printout and transferred it into her desk console.

The computer beeped an error code and verbally

repeated the first line of the message.

"Eunhtuerrapirmiasleievne?" The console's

artificial monotone clicked and stumbled over the

awkward combination of letters. "Language

reference?"

"It's a coded message, of unknown cipher,"

Uhura replied soothingly. She couldn't break the

habit of being polite, even when talking to a

machine. "Run standard pattern analysis, spacing

two to begin."

"Analyzing." The console's pause was only an

eyeblink long. "Analysis complete. Ten-letter

pattern discovered at spacing two, repetition

frequency nine."

Uhura sighed, wishing computers could be pro-

grammed to foresee obvious questions. "And do

the ten letters make a word?"

"Affirmative. The word is 'Enterprise.'"

Uhura's breath froze in her chest, so numbly

that for a moment she felt almost phaser-stunned.

Enterprise?

"Enterprise?" Ensign Cercone's eyes rounded

with astonishment. "But, sir, that's the name of the

ship you oh!" Understanding flitted into her

dark, intelligent gaze. "Commander, that hidden

message is for you!"

"I think so." Uhura reached out to freeze the

console's analysis, afraid of what it might spit out

next. "But who could have known . . ."

"Someone who found out I was in your class, and

146

lRAITOR WINDS

hoped I'd consult you about this," Cercone

guessed. "Or hoped I'd bring it to you, if I

managed to decode it myself."

Uhura took a deep, steadying breath. "Do you

want to decode it yourself?" she asked the ensign,

then added, "Before you answer, let me tell you

that someone in the Federation is trying to make

Admiral Kirk look like a traitor. I don't want you

to get caught up in that fight, Ensign, but this

message is part of your research. I can't take it

away from you."

Cercone's brows drew together thoughtfully.

"Sir, I don't think I "

The beep of Uhura's communicator band

interrupted her. Uhura reached down to activate

it. "Uhura here."

"Uhura, this is Janice Rand in Iceland. Are you

alone?"

Uhura opened her mouth to say no, but the

click of her door's electronic latch stopped her.

She glanced up at her empty office, then down

again to see that Cercone had pushed her flimsy

all the way across the desk before she left, clearly

consigning it to Uhura's care.

"I am now," she told Rand. "What have you

found out?"

"A lot of things." The other communications

officer sounded bleak. "And most of them are

bad. Is it true Admiral Kirk's been hospitalised

for a day or two?"

"That's what I've been told." All good

communications officers knew the trick of

conveying official information that might not

necessarily be true. Rand's quiet indrawn breath

told Uhura that she understood. "He'll definitely

be out of touch with us for that long."

"Well, he couldn't have timed it worse," Rand

informed her. "I pulled a message this morning off

Security's communications net. Computers

reported an unauthorised transmission from the

Assateague Island Wilderness Sanctuary. I didn't

think much of it at the time, but just a few

minutes ago, Security's recon satellite reported

that there was one stray infrared signal on

Assateague."

147

L; A. Graf

"So?" Uhura tapped at her console while she

listened, programming it to remove "Enterprise"

wherever it occurred and to decode what was left

of Ensign Cercone's garbled message. Preoccupied

as she was, she didn't see why Rand's news had

made her sound so glum. "That infrared could be

from anyone out there a ranger, maybe, or a

visiting scientist. For heaven's sake, it could even

be one of the wild ponies!"

Rand snorted. "Uhura, have you looked at a

global newscast lately?"

"No. Why?"

"Because there's a Class Four hurricane about

an hour away from landfall on Assateague Island!"

Exasperation sizzled beneath the other woman's

competent voice. "All personnel were evacuated

early this morning."

Uhura bit her lip in gathering dismay. "But the

ponies must still be out there!"

"Yes, but believe it or not, the rangers know

exactly how many ponies they have. And what

they know, Starfleet Security knows." Rand paused

meaningfully. "There is one stray infrared signal

on Assateague Island."

"And that's Chekov." Uhura tugged helplessly at

her earrings, her ultimate gesture of frustration.

"And Admiral Kirk left just an hour ago "

"You can't call him back?"

"I doubt it." She stared unseeingly at the output

scrolling down her console's screen, her mind

sorting out possibilities. "I could call Riley. He

might be able to " Uhura broke off abruptly as

the console screen stopped scrolling and came

into focus.

"To do what?" Rand inquired, after a brief

silence. "Uhura, are you still there?"

"Oh, yes." Uhura stared at the console screen,

seeing the reflection of her incredulous smile over

the words printed there. "Don't worry, Janice. I

know exactly what to do now. Uhura out."

The coin-band beeped itself off and Uhura

hurriedly reactivated the console's audio output,

just to make sure

148

TRAITOR WINDS

she wasn't dreaming. "Uhura," the computer's

toneless voice said. "I'm alive in Tasmania with

Kyle. Tell Kirk Wraith sabotaged to blame us, but

now repaired. Chekov found yet? Reply through

transporter."

It was Sulu.

"Oh, Christ!"

Chekov jerked to his knees at the sharp,

distinctly human shout. Blind instinct warned him

to be frightened before his brain even identified

the source of the sounds. Ducking down behind

the ranger station, he listened to the crash and

rattle of pony feet through the dead brush around

him and tried to calculate how long he'd been

sitting since trying to contact Admiral Kirk.

"What?" The second voice sounded more

irritable than angry, almost drowned into a blur by

the thunder. "What is it?"

"Oh, just another one of those damned horses."

Delays between their speech were filled with

waves of rain and lightning. "What have they got

us out here for? If they've got some fugitive loose

on the island, leave him one night in this storm

and he'll be dead by morning."

"Come on, Adam, that would be inhumane."

"Sending us out. in this weather is inhumane.

Aw, dammit! The road's gone!"

Chekov crept away without listening to more.

Could they have traced his call to the admiral so

quickly'? Even if they'd been expecting him to

contact Kirk, he hadn't kept the line open long

enough for a trace to reach farther than the East

Coast multiplexer. Could there be some system

that registered unauthorised calls from the

wilderness ranger stations? That option seemed

more likely. Upon their recognising a linkup with

a long-distance node, it wouldn't have taken a

tactical genius to figure out Chekov must have

initialised the call. That meant they knew for

certain who they were looking for, and that his

options for evasion were drastically limited. He

rose up from his crouch and started to run.

The ponies led the way, as usual. Trotting and grum-

149

L. A. Graf

bring, they criticised Security's presence on the

island with their stamps and snorts and lashing

tails as they wended through the maze of brush.

Chekov didn't try to impose himself on their

pathways, keeping instead to the scrub on either

side. The tangled roots and weeds made for

treacherous footing, but he didn't dare push in

between the jostling horses there were dozens of

them now, all intent on their own destination and

indifferent to his frailties. He wasn't sure how

easily a man could be trampled to death, and

didn't want to find out.

As searchlights carved white tunnels out of the

sky, the scream of a passing flier dashed the

horses apart like startled fish. They melded almost

thoughtlessly together again, but Chekov had to

force himself to move from the thick cover when

the pack flowed up over the dunes and into the

open.

Cruel sheets of blinding ice rain crashed in from

over the ocean, chasing great, foaming waves up

onto the beach and eating at the sand there with

each hungry lick. The horses topped the rise and

scattered, directionless as autumn leaves as they

trotted onto the open beach. They had no point in

coming this way after all, no place of pony safety

where they could all hide and wait for the search

parties to pass. Chekov wanted to fall on his knees

and cry.

A roar like the rending of heaven exploded

across the storm front. Chekov recoiled to fall

full-length in the sand, startled out of his despair

by the violence of the sound, and the ponies

screamed into a chaos of flight. A long patch of

beach erupted into rooster tails of sand and sleet,

throwing tide debris everywhere. Kelp and grass

blasted upward to carve a deep, irregular pit in

the dunes, and the next wall of water to crash up

onto the beach caved in on itself to leave a huge,

misshapen hollow behind. Chekov had only

climbed as far as his knees when the spectacle of

ocean violence in front of him rippled and shred

to reveal the glossy black surface of an

interatmospheric shuttle.

"No criticisms!" a familiar voice declared as the side

150

TRAITOR WINDS

of the ship cracked open and slid inward. "You

try and land one of these things in the worst

weather since Noah built the Ark." Sulu had to

hold on to the doorway to keep from slipping

backward into the shuttle, thrown off-balance by

the uneven beach and the distinctly uphill cant of

the Wraith's blunt nose. "Well? What are you

waiting for?" He waved impatiently when Chekov

returned his shout with only a disbelieving stare,

and nearly slid out of sight beyond the doorway

for his efforts. "Don't just sit there like you've

seen a ghost get in!"

151

Chapter Thirteen

Assateague Island Delmarva Peninsula, North

America Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

1600 hours EST

ANOTHER CRASH OF rHuNDER shattered

lightning across the sky, and Chekov dug his fist

into the sand to duck away from the explosion.

Four days of running had scrubbed his nerves raw,

sensitising him to both his vulnerable position

here and the ever-looming danger of security

searchlights.

"Chekov? Are you deaf?"

He jerked his attention back to the eroding

shoreline. As if bolting awake out of a nightmare,

he was suddenly aware again of Sulu's silver

outline and the very real presence of the off-kilter

Wraith.

"Come on!" the pilot shouted, bending his knees

to weather the impact of another wave against the

Wraith's exposed side. "We've got about a

ten-minute window before either the storm or

your Security buddies kill us! Get in here!"

If this be madness, he thought as he clambered

forward, then let us make the most of it. He let the

wet sand drag him down the crumbling dune,

clawing back to his feet at the bottom and running

into the maelstrom as hard as his aching legs

would carry him. What difference

152

TRAITOR WINDS

did it make how wet and cold and filthy he got

now? He was on the verge of rescue or death, and

either way the ordeal was over.

When he tumbled against the too-high lip of the

Wraith's threshold, the pain of flesh striking

polished metal had never felt so good.

"What are you doing here?" He reached up to

clasp the hand Sulu stretched to him, pulling

against the helmsman's grip and scrabbling up the

wet bulkhead at the same time. "They said your

shuttle was destroyed! Why aren't you dead?"

"Because I've been ordained by the gods to be

the protector of wild ponies and dumb Russians.

Here" Sulu tossed him a scrap of silver

fligh-qsuit and signaled the outside hatch to

close "put this on." He darted back toward the

front of the shuttle without waiting to see if

Chekov obeyed.

"Wait a minute!" Gathering up the reflective

fabric, Chekov scrambled after him, wet boots

sliding on the awkwardly tilted floor. "Sulu, don't

do this to me I'm too tired to deal with

sarcasm." He threw himself into the copilot's seat

and- shook out the fligh-qsuit onehanded. "Why

aren't you dead?"

Sulu smiled and flashed his hands across the

Wraith's controls. "The persistence of antigravity."

Chekov bent to work his foot down one leg of

the flimsy suit. "What?" he prompted wearily.

As if in reply, the little shuttle bounced upward

and her forward thrusters roared into life. "See,

you can temporarily knock out an antigrav with a

negative phase generator, but you can't disable it

permanently. As soon as I figured out that the

source of the negative phase shift had to be my

cloaking device, I just turned it off and the

antigravs came right back on." Sulu shrugged as

though this were the most trivial of piloting feats.

"Of course, with both my thrusters and the

cloaking device out of commission, I had to spend

the entire trip to Tasmania bouncing from one

wave-top to another to avoid detec153

L. A. Graf

lion. I've never been so seasick in my life." He

made a face and swept the shuttle keenly

eastward. "Have you got that fligh-qsuit on yet?"

"No." Chekov squirmed into a more manageable

position, then growled when he still couldn't find

sufficient grip to drag the suit up any higher than

his hips. "I don't think these things were designed

to fit well over wet parkas."

"Well, make it fit,'' Sulu suggested. "I didn't fly

all the way through Hurricane Kevin just to toast

you when I turned on the cloaking device."

Chekov flashed his head up in surprise. "You

flew through a hurricane?"

"And we're going to do it again." Rain crashed

across the viewscreen with the fury of a demon.

"Now quit arguing with me and put that fligh-qsuit

on!"

Snapping the seals down the front of the parka

proved only the first of Chekov's problems.

Twisting sideways in his seat and using the console

as leverage, he managed to scrape his left arm out

of the sleeve; then he yanked his right arm free,

without worrying about what would happen if he

disturbed the splint. As it was, pain kicked him

twice as he struggled the parka off his shoulders

and out from behind him, but his arm lodged no

protest at all when he shoved it down the

fligh-qsuit sleeve and tabbed shut the throat

closure.

"All right." It was still too tight not designed to

fit over double layers of wool and heat-weave,

either but the front stayed firmly closed, even

when he bent to dig the helmet out from under

the panel between his knees. "I'm ready."

Sulu snapped down his own helmet's locking

rings. "Then here we go."

A crackle of coruscating lightning seemed to arc

through the enclosed cabin. Chekov felt the

invisible wave pulse skitter along his nerve

pathways; then the viewscreen flashed white and

a single darkened readout on Sulu's console

silently sprang into life. They were cloaked.

154

TRAITOR WINDS

"Sulu, if we're invisible, can't we please avoid

flying through Hurricane Kevin?" It felt weird to

be considering flight plans based on Starfleet's

inability to detect them. He suddenly knew how

the Romulans must feel.

"Sorry," Sulu told him. "With this much

precipitation especially the snow those

searchers will notice the turbulence in the air

when we fly past." His faceplate reflected a grim

Asian smile. "That's something Dr. Nakai never

thought of." He flicked bright eyes across a string

of readouts. "Our only chance of getting out of

here unnoticed is by cutting through the worst of

the storm where our pursuers can't follow."

Chekov felt around the edges of his seat for the

copilot's shoulder strap. "Does it count if we don't

actually make it through your escape route in one

piece?"

"What are you worried about? A Class Four

hurricane's no worse than your average ion

storm."

Chekov decided this wasn't a good time to

mention how many starships perished in ion

storms every year.

They smashed the face of the onrushing storm,

and sweeping curtains of sheeting rain hissed and

tore at the Wraith's outer hull. Chaotic waves

echoed the roiling sky, buffets of wind blasting the

ship like hammer blows. Chekov clutched the

panel in front of him, desperately wishing for

something constructive to do. A shot of anguish

up the bones of his right arm disabused him of

any thoughts of helping to pilot, and he made

himself let go of the console and settle both arms

back into his lap.

When the Wraith first burst into sunlight,

Chekov thought for certain they'd intercepted a

phaser blast and the light was just a trick of the

resultant explosion. He remembered they were

cloaked right about the time his eyes caught on

the debris-riddled ocean chop below, and Sulu

kicked the Wraith nose-upward to begin their final

climb. Chekov let the acceleration push him back

into his padded seat, closing his eyes against a

ringing surge of vertigo and counting the seconds

until the phantom pressure lifted.

He cracked one eye to steal a look at Sulu as the

Wraith

155

L. A. Graf

settled into a silent, lateral track. "Anything?" he

asked at last.

Sulu shook his head, but didn't look up from

scanning th e Wraith's sensor arsenal. "Nope." Just

watching the rapid, rhythmic movement of Sulu's

hands made Chekov's head loop in circles. "Looks

like we made it clear." Sulu pushed away from his

console with a sigh, dragging a hand across the

front of his helmet as though unconsciously

reaching to wipe sweat from his eyes. "You know,

being dead's a whole lot easier than having half of

Starfleet on your tail."

"But not as much fun." Chekov closed his eyes

again. The warmth inside the well-sealed Wraith

bordered on narcotic. "What do we do now?" he

asked when it occurred to him he should say

something.

Sulu sighed. "I've been thinking about that. We

can't hope to hide out on Earth for any length of

time somebody's bound to zero in on the

Wraith eventually, if only by tracking our ion trail.

But they didn't build this thing with enough range

to fly out-of-atmosphere to anyplace farther than

Luna."

"So we need to find somewhere within Earth

orbit that's big enough to hide both us and the

shuttle, but where no one will stumble across us

until we're ready to be found." Even as he said it,

Chekov saw the answer to their riddle like an

angel spread across a tapestry of silk and stars.

"Well," Sulu said slowly, "there's one place I can

think that just might fit the bill."

Chekov turned and flashed his friend a tired

smile. "The Enterprise."

"Uhura, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Hot and burdened with the weight of a coat she

wouldn't need until she reached Annapolis, Uhura

cast a harried glance back over her shoulder.

Christine Chapel stood somewhere behind her in

the crush of holiday travelers at Stanford Station,

the main West Coast termi156

TRAITOR WINDS

nal of North America's cross-continental maglev

train. The doctor's plaintive voice could barely be

heard over the multilingual chatter of reunited

families and the background jangle of harpsichord

music. Uhura didn't even try to reply. She was too

busy politely excusing herself into the line that led

to the ticket counter.

An austere congregation of Vulcan monks

parted as silently as a school of fish and let

Chapel emerge beside the waiting line. The doctor

lifted an eyebrow at the distance separating Uhura

from the nearest automated check-in position.

"You're never going to get a ticket before the next

train gets in," she said, not bothering to lower her

voice in the sound-swallowing din. "Why don't you

wait for Sulu to call before you go running off to

Assateague?"

"Because that might be too late." Uhura

refrained from looking at the chronometer on her

wrist, knowing it would only depress her. Janice

Rand had called with the news about Chekov just

before lunch, and it was already midafternoon.

For all she knew, the Russian could be in custody

at this moment. "If I can't get on this train, I'll just

wait for the next one. They're only three hours

apart."

Chapel's smooth brow creased with worry. "But

what if Sulu manages to rescue Chekov in the

meantime? How will they get in touch with you?"

"I told my office computer to route all my calls

to Admiral Kirk's office. Sulu will know he can

talk to Riley there, even if Chekov doesn't."

Uhura edged her way a step closer to the distant

ticketing machine, swallowing despair at how long

that tiny advance had taken. "Right now, it's more

important for me to go to Assateague and find out

if Chekov's been captured than to sit here waiting

to hear that he's safe. If he is safe, I've only

wasted a train trip. If he's in custody and I get to

him before Starfleet Security does "

" they can conveniently kill you both." Chapel's

refined voice held a more acid note than Uhura

had ever

157

L. A. Graf

heard in it before. "Uhura, listen to me! Just

because nothing's happened to you yet doesn't

mean you're somehow immune from this plot."

Uhura opened her mouth to reassure her friend,

but a sudden flux of red-and-black-clad security

cadets jostled past them and silenced her. She

exchanged dismayed glances with Chapel. "The

train from Annapolis must have just arrived,"

Uhura said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Would you go see if the return train is leaving on

time?"

"Uhura " The expression on her face must

have told Chapel further argument was useless.

The doctor sighed. "Oh, all right. Stay here."

Uhura managed a half-choked laugh, gesturing

at the sluggish line in front of her. "Don't worry.

I'm not going anywhere."

Chapel nodded and ducked back into the milling

crowd. Left alone for the first time since she'd run

into Christine on the commuter train down to

Stanford, Uhura felt her doubts and hopes rise in

a paralysing swirl of anxiety. If only she could be

sure that Hurricane Kevin wouldn't stop Sulu . .

. if only she could convince herself that the forces

sent to capture Chekov couldn't all be involved in

this spiderweb of treachery . . . if only she knew

where Kirk had gone and how much time he

would need to prove them all innocent . . .

"Madam, I'm a doctor, not an information booth!"

"Dr. McCoy!" Uhura spun around, searching the

passing crowd of westbound travelers in mingled

disbelief and delight. That caustic Georgian drawl

couldn't possibly belong to anyone else. She raised

her voice to a singer's practiced level of

projection. "Dr. McCoy, are you here?"

"Uhura?" A wiry figure draped in a coat a size

too large emerged from the passing stream of

security cadets. Uhura beckoned at the doctor,

unwilling to leave her place in line even for this

most welcome of chance encounters. McCoy

scowled and cut rudely across the queue toward

her.

158

TRAITOR WINDS

"What the dickens are you doing here?" he

hissed when he'd gotten close enough for normal

sound to carry through the din.

"I'm going to Assateague, to see if Chekov's

been captured."

"The hell you are!" With unusual force, the

doctor grabbed Uhura's wrist and yanked her out

of line. Ignoring the complaints that rose around

him, he towed her back across the queue and out

toward the station's main concourse. The

swarming mob of travelers parted around them, as

if they could somehow sense the urgency radiating

from McCoy.

Uhura started to protest, then noticed the lines

of strain etched into the physician's craggy face.

His blue eyes, creased sharp at the edges with

apprehension, scanned the crowd. "What's wrong?

Has something happened to "

McCoy turned and clapped a hand across her

mouth, shaking his head down at her in

exaggerated warning. "Not here," he mouthed

silently.

Uhura's eyes widened in sudden realisation. This

much caution couldn't arise just from McCoy's

one encounter with Chekov, she knew. Something

else must have happened to the doctor since then,

something much more threatening.

She bent- her attention toward finding

someplace they could talk safely, protected from

the surging hordes of maglev passengers. They

passed a game arcade along the concourse, noisy

and crowded with children, and then an even

more crowded cappuccino stand. Finally, just when

Uhura had resigned herself to the risk of going

outside the station to talk, she spotted a nearly

empty electronic newsstand.

She pointed it out to McCoy and he grunted,

then led them across the concourse toward it.

Antiphase sound mufflers dropped a soothing

curtain of silence across them when they entered,

broken only by the quiet whisper of someone

printing out a flimsy at one of the newsboards.

McCoy glanced around, then pulled Uhura

159

L. A. Graf

into the shelter of a Tellarite-language newsboard,

with its projected waterfall of glowing

three-dimensional symbols.

"Aha. Alone at last." Tension crackled under

McCoy's usual whimsical humor, turning it awry.

"Sorry if I scared you back there, Uhura."

She shook her head, ignoring the apology.

"What's the matter? Is someone following you?"

"Damned if I know." McCoy grimaced. "I've

never been much good at spotting that kind of

thing. All I know is..." The doctor paused, wiping

a hand over his damply furrowed brow. "Well, if

I was one of the people behind this damned

conspiracy, I'd have followed me."

"Then they probably did." Uhura turned and

took a step out from behind the cascade of

luminous Tellarite symbology, to where she could

keep an eye on the passing crowd. "What

happened?"

"I got a package this morning," McCoy said

bluntly, "Containing a recorded message from

Mark Piper."

Uhura threw him a startled glance. "Sent before

he died?"

"No. After." McCoy cleared the gruffness from

his throat. "The package came from his sister in

Boston. She said he'd left instructions to give it to

me in the event of his death."

"He knew something was wrong in his lab,"

Uhura guessed. She scanned the concourse,

hoping to spot Christine Chapel before she

returned to find Uhura gone from the ticketing

line. God only knew what Chris would think of

that. "And he didn't trust Starfleet Security with

the information."

McCoy nodded grimly. "That's why he asked

Chekov to come work with him at Johns Hopkins,

to help him catch the person he suspected of

treachery. He said he knew he could trust a

member of Jim Kirk's bridge crew."

Uhura felt her throat clench with regret. "But

that played right into the spies' plans, didn't it?

They killed 160

TRAITOR WINDS

Dr. Piper, and threw the blame for the disrupter

theft on Chekov."

"Yeah." McCoy blew out a snort of vast disgust.

"Makes me wish I'd just stayed down in Georgia

and drowned myself in mint juleps. If it hadn't

been for me taking Piper out to dinner that night

in Baltimore " The doctor caught himself with an

exasperated snap of his teeth. "Never mind that

now. The important thing, Uhura, is that Mark

Piper didn't underestimate how ruthless these

damned traitors could be. He guessed they might

kill him, and he took precautions."

A flash of pale blond hair in a distinctive

coronet caught Uhura's attention, far across the

train station's concourse. She stood on tiptoe to

peer out, trying to make sure it was Chapel before

she waved at her. "What kind of precautions?"

"He put all the evidence he had of the traitors'

identities into a package . . ."

It was Chapel. Uhura ducked around the corner

of the Tellarite newsboard and lifted a hand to

wave. From behind her, McCoy's worried voice

continued.

". . . and somehow managed to send it up to the

Enterprise. "

Without warning, the artificial silence of the

newsroom exploded into a roaring blast of fire.

Agony seared across Uhura's raised hand, turning

her reflexive outward dive into a screaming curl of

pain. She had just enough wits left to jam her

fire-glazed sleeve into the dense folds of her coat

and hug it suffocatingly tight, but somehow that

didn't seem to stop the burning. Gasping, Uhura

wrenched herself to her feet and turned to look

for water.

Strong hands caught her and yanked her hand

out from the smoldering folds of her coat. In the

blur of smoke that surrounded her, Uhura couldn't

see who it was, but she heard something hiss and

then felt cold foam spatter across her hand. It

smelled like ammonia and stung like wasp's venom

against her seared skin. Uhura shrieked in anguish

and tried to pull away.

161

L. A. Graf

"It's all right, it's all right." That was Christine

Chapel's voice in the smoke, cool reassurance

against the blaze of pain. Uhura closed her eyes

and leaned into the hands that held her, gathering

her strength to face the pain. Sirens wailed in the

concourse, overwhelming the gathermg shouts of

alarm that surrounded them. She clenched her

teeth on a long breath that threatened to become

a whimper, and opened her eyes again.

Most of the smoke was gone, letting Uhura see

the scorched circle of black that had engulfed the

little newsroom. Long fingers of fire still

smoldered in gouts across the floor, a strange

green-gold fire that smelled more like sulfur than

smoke. Halon mists drizzled out from darkened

newsboards, slowly drenching what was left of the

flames. Ignoring her pain, Uhura turned with

dread to follow the scorched pattern back into the

newsroom, past the Tellarite display that had

shielded her from the worst of the blast, and then

on to the blackened, crumpled form

"Don't look." Christine Chapel's voice shook

beneath its professional calm, but the hand that

turned Uhura's face away never wavered. "It's

Leonard."

162

Chapter Fourteen

Stanford Medical Center Stanford, North

America Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

1500 hours PST

THE FAMILIAR HUM of antigrav generators

sounded eerily out of place to Uhura, caged as it

was inside the antiseptic white walls of Stanford's

intensive-care burn unit. She edged her way

inside, careful not to jostle the intricate web of

tubing that shuttled oxygen, synthetic blood, and

bioplasma to the transparent aluminum

sarcophagus in the center of the room. Inside that

massive skin-regenerating unit, McCoy's gaunt

figure hung suspended by antigravs to protect his

burns from contact trauma. The stillness of the

doctors blistered face made Uhura wince.

"Christine, are you sure he's going to be all right?"

Dr. Chapel turned away from her intent scan of

McCoy's life-support computer and lifted a

quizzical eyebrow at Uhura. "Of course I'm sure.

I wouldn't have told you his condition had been

upgraded to good if I didn't know that for a fact."

"Sorry." Uhura rubbed at the plas-skin bandage

around her right hand and wrist. Despite having

spent an hour with her arm immersed in a

miniature version of McCoy's bioplasma unit, the

scorched nerves beneath her brand-new skin still

insisted they hurt. She suspected

163

L. A. Graf

that was why McCoy was so heavily sedated. "It's

just that I can barely believe he survived, with the

explosive device planted right on the back of his

coat."

"He was lucky," Chapel said soberly. "There's

only so much eruptive resin you can hide in a

button-sized bomb, and his coat absorbed most of

it." She tapped at the reassuring blue of the

human schematic on her medical scanner, freckled

in only a few places with urgent pinks and reds.

"The worst damage is to the back of his head and

neck where the resin hit bare skin. His clothes got

an instant dose of flame-retardant from the

Tellarite newsboard."

Uhura frowned, remembering the glittering mist

triggered by the heat of the explosion. "Whoever

set off the bomb must not have realized that the

newsboard would have fire extinguishers built into

it."

"Or they didn't even know you were standing

next to a newsboard." Chapel led her out of the

burn unit and into the quiet hospital corridor

outside. "I found some metal fragments buried m

McCoy's coat and gave them to the

nano-technician at the hospital this morning. She's

not a hundred percent sure, but she thinks there

might have been an audio pickup attached to the

explosive device. It couldn't have had much

transmission range, but the person who planted it

could easily have been out of sight when they

triggered the bomb."

"Eavesdropping on us." A shiver crawled up

Uhura's spine when she realized what information

that unseen listener had been given by McCoy.

"Then they know Christine, I've got to get out

of here!"

She began to turn away, her mind already

charting out the safest and quickest route from

Stanford to San Francisco. Chapel caught at her

shoulder before she could take a second step.

"Uhura, don't be stupid!" the doctor pleaded. "Do

you want to give whoever planted that bomb a

second shot at you? Stay here, where you're safe."

- "I don't know that I am safe here," Uhura told her

164

TRAITOR WINDS

friend bluntly. "Or that you are, if I stay here with

you." She saw an obstinate look appear on

Chapel's face and added unfairly, "Or Dr. McCoy,

for that matter. If the person who planted that

bomb followed the ambulance shuttle back here,

then they know where we are. Once they find out

we're still alive, they might try to kill us again."

That made Chapel pause and tap her fingers

worriedly against compressed lips. "They might,"

she admitted at last, then glanced at the

chronometer on her wrist. "Of course, it's only

three P.M. The hospital hasn't issued any official

statements to the evening news nets yet. If we

don't say anything about Dr. McCoy "

"The traitors will know he's alive." Uhura rubbed

at her aching wrist again, trying to think what

Admiral Kirk would do in a situation like this.

Her eyes narrowed with a sudden shrewd thought.

"But if you issue a statement saying he's dead, and

that I've been taken into custody by

StarfleetSecurity . . ."

Chapel frowned down at her. "Why would they

do that?"

"To question me about McCoy's death, or to

keep me in protective custody. Whatever sounds

good to you." Uhura set off down the corridor

again, and this time the doctor merely followed

her out to the main bank of elevators. '`By the

time the traitors find out it isn't true, I should be

safely back at Starfleet Headquarters." She saw

the unspoken question in the other woman's eyes

and answered it. "I have to go, Chris. Our

reputations and our lives may depend on it."

"But how are you going to get there?" Chapel

demanded sharply. "These traitors, whoever they

are, are going to be watching all the hospital

exits!"

"I hope they are, because we're going to give

them exactly what they expect to see." Uhura

tugged Chapel into the open elevator, then

pointed at the row of medical abbreviations on its

control panel. "Which of these is the morgue?"

* * *

165

L. A. Graf

Body bags, Uhura decided one uncomfortable

half hour later, were simply not meant for live

people to inhabit. The heavy plastic that

surrounded her was not only skintight and

sweat-sticky, but also bristled with bumpy handles

and information tags that stabbed at her ribs no

matter what position she squirmed into. At least it

was no longer airtight Christine Chapel and a

sharp pair of surgical scissors had made sure of

that before Uhura had left the morgue but it did

smell depressingly of formaldehyde.

Uhura squirmed again, trying to rub at the

persistent ache in her right wrist. The trip to San

Francisco had taken longer than she'd expected,

probably because the morgue's shuttle pilot had

elected to follow the coastline rather than use the

fast traffic lanes over the peninsula. As far as he

was concerned, this was merely a routine run up

to Starfleet's service mortuary. Only the two

morgue attendants who'd carried Uhura aboard

knew that the body inside their bag wasn't dead

yet.

The morgue shuttle banked and began to

descend at last. An anonymous outside hand

steadied Uhura against the inertial drag, and a

muffled voice said, "Almost there, ma'am."

A mixed blessing, Uhura thought wryly. As eager

as she was to get out of this body bag, she wasn't

necessarily looking forward to meeting the

Starfleet pathologist who opened it. Assuming he

or she survived the shock, there was always the

distinct possibility that Uhura might have to take

violent measures to prevent her unorthodox arrival

from being reported to Starfleet Security.

The morgue shuttle settled on the ground,

creaking like a rusty old chair. Uhura felt a

familiar San Francisco breeze buffet her when the

side door opened, but the brief exchange of words

outside was drowned under the whir of the

impulse engines. She felt herself being lifted and

carried, but only knew she was inside the mortuary

building when she was dropped on a surface so

instantly cold that it could only have been a stone

morgue slab.

166

TRAITOR WINDS

There was a long, nervous silence. Then,

somewhere far away, a door ganged shut. Uhura

held her breath, wondering if she was imagining

the rapid thudding of footsteps back toward her.

The hiss of the body bag's electrostatic seal

answered that question, dazzling her with a

sudden blaze of halogen light. Uhura shielded her

eyes with one hand and levered herself up with

the other, trying to see who had opened the bag.

The worried face that met her gaze was as dark as

her own, and startlingly familiar.

"Dr. M'Benga!"

A brief smile chased the anxiety from the

former Enterprise physician's eyes. "Lieutenant

Commander Uhura." M'Benga helped her shed

the rest of the clinging body bag and sit upright on

the morgue table. "I hoped it might be you."

Uhura's eyebrows shot upward incredulously.

"Hoped?" she demanded, pointing at the body bag

she'd arrived in.

M'Benga grinned down at her. "Well, I knew

you were alive." He twisted the body bag's

identification tag around to show her McCoy's

name. "But I wasn't so sure about Leonard. I saw

Christine announce his death on the news net just

a few moments ago, and I thought she didn't seem

upset enough for it to be true. He is alive, isn't

he?"

Uhura nodded, distractedly. "But what on earth

are you doing here, Ben? I thought you would

have transferred to another starship by now."

"And missed my chance to get back aboard the

Enterprise? Oh, no!" The doctor rubbed a hand

across the pathologist's badge on his uniform,

smiling. "Anyway, I've always thought I might like

pathology. This was a good chance to get a year's

experience without committing myself."

"But why didn't you tell me you were stationed

here?" Uhura demanded, feeling hurt. "I've been

working around the corner from you for three

months!"

167

L. A. Graf

M'Benga shrugged, his chiseledmouth tightening

a little with embarrassment. "Ah, well. I kept

meaning to call, but I didn't want you to think I

was urn pursuing you. Making a pest of

myself."

"But I wouldn't have " Uhura broke off,

shaking her head in disgust. "Men! I don't suppose

it occurred to you to let me decide whether or not

I wanted to see you?"

"No," M'Benga admitted, humbly. "Do you?"

"Yes." Uhura jumped down from the table with

sudden decision. "In fact, you can take me to the

Starfleet Christmas party right now, if you want."

M'Benga's thin face turned somber. "Why do I

get the feeling this isn't a social invitation?

Uhura" he gestured at the body bag behind

her "if someone's trying to kill you, shouldn't you

call Starfleet Security and let them handle it?"

"No. Especially not Security." Uhura met his

frown. "I don't know exactly who, Ben, but

someone in Starfleet is trying to frame Admiral

Kirk and his old bridge crew. And Security is

involved."

"Ah." The doctor's mobile eyebrows rose with

enlightenment. "That's why Sulu is missing, and

Chekov is on the run?"

Uhura nodded. "And why I have to get to the

Starfleet Christmas party tonight. Mr. Scott will be

there, and right now, he might be the only man on

Earth who can help us."

"Then we'll get you safely to him," M'Benga said

with firm decision. He cast a discreet glance down

at her clothes and cleared his throat. "You weren't

planning to wear what you have on, were you? If

someone in Security is looking for you, those

burns will be a dead giveaway."

Uhura glanced down at her uniform and winced

at the noticeable scorch marks across it. "And

after an hour in that body bag, I probably smell

like a pickled frog, too. I could try to sneak back

into my quarters and change "

M'Benga shook his head. "Too dangerous, and

unnecessary in any case. I have a whole stock of

dress uniforms

168

TRAITOR WINDS

right here." He led her out of the morgue and

down the mortuary's long main hall. It was

deserted in the Christmas Eve hush. "Try to find

one in medical colors.I have an idea that I think

will get us past Security."

"Yes, but . . ." Uhura peered through the door

he had politely paused outside of, and saw racks

of uniforms filed like spare parts on tall,

utilitarian shelves. It clearly wasn't a

quartermaster's shop. "Ben, why do you have all

of these?"

The doctor smiled at her wryly. "For funerals, of

course," he said, and left her there.

The main rotunda of Starfleet Headquarters

glittered like a miniature nebula, its soaring dome

filled with a thousand floating luminaries whose

candle glows warmed the dying afternoon with

light. The whispers of all those tiny antigravs were

lost under the sound of Andorian winter solstice

music being played by an interplanetary chamber

orchestra at the far end of the room. Nearer to

the doors, a receiving line of dignitaries greeted

the arriving officers and their spouses, shaking

each hand with a practiced blend of charm and

swift efficiency. Each name was announced by the

security guard at the top of the portico stairs.

Uhura took a deep breath when M'Benga

handed over their identification card, feeling her

borrowed blue medical uniform tighten around

her tensed shoulders. The security guard scanned

the card, then glanced up at them. His face

tightened a little.

"Dr. M'Benga?" he inquired.

"Yes," Uhura answered, trying to sound

matter-of-fact about it. The rigid line of the

guard's mouth was making her extremely nervous.

"And spouse?" The security guard looked more

carefully at the tall man in civilian clothes

standing behind her.

"Yes." M'Benga's hand dropped onto Uhura's

shoulder with an air of casual affection. "My first

visit here," 169

L. A. Graf

he confided to the security guard in an undertone.

"A little intimidating, isn't it. Good thing I have

my wife around to protect me."

"Yes, sir." The guard's mouth quivered into a

betraying smile, then was ruthlessly jerked flat

again. Uhura realizedthat it was suppressed

amusement at their contrast in heights, not

suspicion, that had made the man eye them so

oddly. She let her breath out in a silent sigh of

relief and gave the first elderly admiral in line a

dazzling smile. He blinked and smiled back at her.

"Dr. M'Benga, eh? Pathology, I think?"

"Yes, Admiral." Fortified by their initial success,

Uhura managed to make her voice sound

confidently merry now. She moved down the

receiving line, smiling back at all the warm faces,

answering all the cordial greetings, introducing her

polite civilian "husband" to one senior officer after

another. The only thing she was really aware of

was that the one face she would have liked to

see Admiral Kirk's was disappointingly absent.

They got to the end at last, only to be handed a

glass of champagne and efficiently swept into the

buffet room by an Academy student doubling as a

waiter for the evening. The ensign gave Uhura's

blue medical tunic a slightly startled look, and she

tensed. It would be ironic if she had managed to

deceive all of Starfleet's high command, only to be

exposed as an impostor by an ensign. But after

showing her where the buffet line started, the

young man nodded respectfully and left without a

backward glance.

"One of your students?" M'Benga murmured to

her, handing her a buffet plate. He'd obviously

noticed the sidelong look too.

"No." Uhura absently transferred salmon in puff

pastry onto her plate while she searched her

memory. "Probably just someone who's seen me

on campus regularly. Not many medical officers

serve as regular lecturers at the Academy, but

some do."

"That must have been why he looked surprised."

The doctor heaped his own plate with a salad

made of smoked artichokes, marinated asparagus,

and water buf170

TRAITOR WINDS

falocheese, then reached for the croissants.

"Uhura, have you thought about how we're going

to find Mr. Scott in this mob?"

"Oh, that will be the easy part." Uhura filled her

plate with steamed shrimp, baked Brie, and

crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms, suddenly aware of

how long it had been since her last real meal.

"It wills" M'Benga paused in the doorway that

led from the buffet room back out into the main

rotunda, looking harried and overwhelmed. The

huge room was already jammed with officers in

Starfleet colors and their spouses, not to mention

flocks of extraterrestrial dignitaries holding court

in various corners. The chamber orchestra was

now playing an ancient and energetic Earth waltz,

and the noise level in the room had risen

accordingly.

"Of course." Uhura joined him, scanning the

room with a practiced eye while she forked up

salmon and Brie. "All we have to do is look for

the bar." She spotted it after several more quick

mouthfuls of food, discreetly screened by a row of

luminous Orion fern trees. Even from here, she

could see the familiar burly figure leaning against

one end. "There it is. And there he is."

"Oh. Of course." M'Benga followed her through

the crowd. "So, if that was the easy part, what's

the hard part?"

Uhura smiled and handed him her plate. "The

hard part," she said, "is getting him away from it."

"Uhura, lass!" Montgomery Scott's brown eyes

lit with undisguised delight. "I was hoping I'd see

ye here!"

"Oh, Mr. Scott." Uhura had to restrain an urge

to hug as much of the stocky engineer as she

could encircle. She knew that would embarrass

him, though, so she smiled up at him instead.

" You have no idea how much I was hoping I'd see

you."

"Missed the old crew, eh?" Scott sighed and

shook his head. "Aye, lass, so have I. I was just

telling my friend" he motioned at the silent

bartender "how hard it is to

171

L. A. Graf

walk around the ship and not see the people who

ought to be on it."

"Yes, I know." Uhura glanced over her shoulder,

to where M'Benga stood guard outside the ferns.

The doctor interrupted his scan of the crowd to

give her a reassuring nod. "Mr. Scott, I need to

talk to you. Can you give me a minute?"

"For you, lass, all the hours in the world." Scott

drained his glass and handed it back. "Another of

the same, if you will, laddie. That's a fine, rare

vintage of the Saurian."

Uhura stifled a sigh, but she knew enough to

wait for the glass to be refilled and handed back

before she tried again. "The thing is, Mr. Scott, I

need to talk to you more . . . more privately. It's

very important."

Something in her voice must have broken

through the cheerful air of sociability she was

trying to project. Scott paused with his glass

halfway to his mouth, peering down at her with

real concern. "Lass, what's wrong?" His gaze

traveled to M'Benga's tall silhouette and

narrowed. "The doctor's behaving like a good

gentleman with you, isn't he?"

"No, it's not that." Uhura glanced around and

saw no interested faces close to them at the bar.

She stood on tiptoe and whispered to Scott, "It's

about what happened to Chekov and Sulu."

"Is it, then?" The engineer's intelligent face

remained totally unenlightened. "And what

happened to Chekov and Sulu?"

This time, Uhura's sigh was audible and

exasperated. "Mr. Scott, don't you ever read

anything but technical journals?"

"Not when I'm rebuilding a starship, lass." Scott

followed her with reluctant obedience when she

tugged on his sleeve, leaving the bar for a

sheltered niche between the luminous white ferns.

On the other side, the orchestra had segued into

a solemn Vulcan year-end chant. "Why?"

"Because if you'd listened to the news nets at all this

172

TRAITOR WINDS

week, you'd know that Chekov's been accused of

murder and Sulu's missing and presumed dead!"

Uhura saw the warning glance M'Benga shot her

through the ghostly fronds and forced her voice

back to a whisper. "Captain Kirk's gone off-planet

to try and prove they're not traitors, but I just

found out from Dr. McCoy that the evidence we

need is hidden on board the Enterprise."

"The Enterprise?" Scott lowered his voice when

Uhura winced and laid a shushing finger across

her lips. "But how can anything be hidden aboard

her, lass? She's barely half-reconstructed, and

there's not a speck of cargo in her."

"There's not?" Uhura stared up at him, appalled.

"But Dr. McCoy said that "

The lift of Scott's gaze warned her to fall silent,

long before she felt the tiny shift of air that

signaled another person's arrival. Expecting

M'Benga with a warning, Uhura swung around

and gasped.

"Evening, ma'am," said Jackson Kahle. The

former starship captain nodded sociably to Mr.

Scott, but his keen gaze never left Uhura's face.

She tried to arrange it into suitably welcoming

lines. "Have to forgive my barging in like this, I'm

afraid. After what I heard happened down in

Stanford, I wanted to be sure you made it back

here safe and sound."

Uhura's smile looked only a little forced. "Thank

you, Mr. Kahle. I appreciate your concern."

Kahle grimaced and waved his cane

self-deprecatingly. "I'm just a nosy old man, that's

all. Had some of my young classmates looking out

for you tonight, and I got a little worried when

they said you'd come out of uniform."

Uhura brushed her hand self-consciously over

her borrowed medical tunic. "I urn didn't have

time to make it back to my apartment, so I

borrowed some things from my friend Christine

Chapel in Stanford."

"The young lady who spoke on the news nets?

Ah, yes." The billionaire frowned. "Sorry to hear

about Dr. McCoy, you know. He was a good

man."

173

L. A. Graf

"Yes." Uhura reached out for Mr. Scott's elbow

as if to steady herself against grief, but her fingers

tightened in warning on the engineer's forearm.

He scowled but remained silent. "Yes, he was."

Despite her best efforts, something in her voice

must not have sounded right. Kahle's steel-blue

eyes caught and held Uhura's gaze with sudden,

relentless focus. "Is something wrong,

ma'am?Something I can help with?"

Uhura swallowed past tense throat muscles, then

decided that partial truth would serve to deflect

this well-meaning threat better than total

falsehood. "Yes, Mr. Kahle. I'm afraid a lot of

things are wrong. But I can't ask you or anyone

else for help with them."

"Sure about that?" Kahle cocked a grizzled

eyebrow at her. "I have lots of resources, you

know."

Uhura managed a slight smile. "I know, sir. But

the only resource I need right now is Admiral

Kirk, and he's not available."

The octogenarian snorted. "Easy enough to fix

that problem, ma'am. Just come to the Security

Academy in Annapolis tomorrow. Kirk promised

me he'd be there for the Romulan Territorial

Conference."

"He did?" This time, Uhura didn't have to fake

her smile. "Mr. Kahle, that's wonderful news!

Thank you."

"Glad to be of service, ma'am." Kahle nodded

politely at M'Benga, who had just slid breathlessly

through the ferns to check him out. "Evening to

you, Doctor. Enjoy the rest of the party."

M'Benga's eyes widened as he watched the

billionaire stride away. "Does that guy know who

I am?" he asked Uhura.

"I guess so." She shook her head in renewed

amazement. "Sometimes, I think Jackson Kahle

knows everything in Starfleet."

"Well, that explains why he knew to send me

over." M'Benga saw the question in her eyes and

shrugged. "He came by and told me one of the

Vulcan ambassadors had choked on something

and was having trouble breathing."

174

TRAITOR WINDS

Uhura frowned. "And was the ambassador really

choking?"

"Oh, yes." M'Benga rubbed at his fist, wincing.

"You have no idea how hard it is to punch exactly

the right place on a Vulcan's diaphragm."

Mr. Scott coughed abruptly and drained the last

of his drink. He shot Uhura a wistful look. "I

don't suppose I've got time for one more brandy,

do I?"

"No." Uhura threw a longing look of her own at

the mostly full dinner plate M'Benga had brought

with him, then took a deep breath and turned

away. "You heard Mr. Kahle Admiral Kirk will

be in Annapolis tomorrow. That means we have

to do it tonight."

Scott scowled down at her. "Do what, lass?"

"Find out who the traitors are." Uhura tugged at

his sleeve again. "Come on. You and I are going

to transport up to the Enterprise."

175

INTERLOGUE

U.S.S. DeGama

Donatu Sector, Coordinates Unknown

Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

2330 hours shiptime

"DEGAMA BRIDGE calling Admiral Kirk."

The tense edge in the communications officer's

voice jerked Kirk out of his seat and over to the

wall communicator in two long strides. He hit the

reply pad with more force than it required, then

winced at its howl of feedback. "Kirk here," he

growled over the noise, trying to ignore Sarek's

lifted eyebrow. "What's happening?"

"Sir, we've docked with the Kozain, but her

commander refuses to grant us entry to his ship."

This time it was Kirk's turn to cock an eyebrow

at Sarek. The Vulcan ambassador gave him back

an impassive stare, which Kirk assumed meant he

was thinking hard. They had discussed many

possible receptions on the way to this rendezvous,

but this had not been one of them.

"Have you asked the commander why he

bothered to dock with us, if he doesn't intend to

give us any kind of hearing?" Kirk demanded.

This time it was DeGama's captain who

answered, her crisp voice sounding more annoyed

than distressed. "Admiral, the Kozain's

commander says that he just

179

L. A. Graf

wanted to see if he could really get this far inside

Federation space without getting shot at."

Kirk snorted and took his hand off the

transmission pad. "That's a lie."

"Is it?" The Vulcan regarded him over steepled

fingers. "Given the tribal mentality of our friends

on the Kozain, Admiral, I believe their

commander's statement may well be true."

"Then why bother to dock with us at all? Why

not just leave us a message buoy and run for the

nearest neutral zone?" Kirk scowled and shook his

head. "NO, they're here to talk to us. This is just

a test to see how desperate we are."

Sarek absorbed that reasoning and meditated

over it. "We can accord that hypothesis a high

degree of confidence and proceed accordingly," he

agreed at last, with a scrupulous Vulcan precision

that made Kirk long for Spock's quicker,

half-human judgment. "How desperate are we,

Admiral?"

Kirk suppressed a sigh, knowing Sarek meant

the question literally. "Not desperate enough to be

stupid, I hope." He pressed his palm against the

communicator's reply pad, trying for some Vulcan

patience this time. The comlink opened with only

a tiny hiss of protest. "Kirk to DeGama bridge. Is

the Kozain keeping a communications channel

open to us??'

"Yes, Admiral."

"Then give her commander this message." Kirk

paused, gathering his words with care. "His next

war will not be waged against the Federation, but

humans will have started it for him. End of

message."

"Aye-aye, sir." The stifled note of complete

bafflement in the communications officer's voice

made Kirk grin. He turned away from the

communications panel and saw a milder echo of

that emotion in the dark gaz e Sarek slanted him.

"An illogical prediction, Admiral."

Kirk nodded, his grin fading. "But an accurate

one. And I'm betting that the Kozain's commander

knows it." 180

TRAITOR WINDS

Sarek spread the fingers of both hands, a highly

eloquent gesture for a Vulcan. "But what purpose

do you expect it to serve?"

The last of Kirk's coffee had congealed to bitter

syrup in the bottom of his cup, but he drank it

anyway. It gave his tense stomach something real

to protest about. "I expect it to make them mad,"

he told Sarek. "Preferably mad enough to demand

that we come over and explain."

181

ENTERPRISE

Chapter Fifteen

Starfleet Shuttle WKI-2

Somewhere over Earth

Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

1730 hours shiptime

"HEY Hey! It's all right! It's just me, okay?

Pavel? It's just me...."

Chekov pushed away from the hands that

reached to pinion him, and the side of his helmet

cracked sharply against the unyielding bulkhead

beside him. He flashed his eyes open, not

realising until then that they'd been closed, and

pulled both feet up under him in preparation to

bolt.

In the Wraith's pilot seat, Sulu stared at him

with his hands poised over his shoulders in the

age-old expression of surrender. "Hey, Pavel, are

you all right? It's me."

Chekov uncurled his fingers one joint at a time

from the edge of his seat's padded back. "Did I

hit you?" he asked, horrified.

Sulu nodded, lifting one shoulder in a quick,

dismissive shrug. "I shouldn't have startled you."

He deflected any further comment by aiming

Chekov's attention beyond the forward screen.

"We're there."

Scooting into a more conventional position, he

leaned across the console to follow Sulu's gaze.

More magnificent and stately than she had ever

seemed to Chekhov from inside, the Enterprise

filled the space around her

185

L. A. Graf

with a splendor heightened by the lacework of

scaffolding surrounding her frame. Her missing

main hull and dismantled warp drive made her

look even more like some infinite angel, stretching

on in all directions until she disappeared into

eternity.

Across the curve of the world, a blinding glare of

sunlight backlit the ship's fragile structure and

kissed a watery gloss across every brand-new strut

and plate. In only another few months, this ship

would shake off her restraints and race into

space's eternal darkness. Until then, Chekov

thought, it seemed only fitting that she be cradled,

and pampered, and worshiped for the mythic

creature she was. How could anyone content

himself with a land-bound existence, he wondered,

when something like this waited just beyond the

bell jar of his atmosphere?

"I've never seen her look so lovely."

"Yeah." Sulu sounded significantly less enamored

with the sight. "Now if only we could get inside

her."

Chekov turned to frown a question at him, and

Sulu waved dispiritedly toward the stern of the

ship's secondary hull. The shuttle bay's shell doors

stood shut tight and solid. There wasn't even a

rain of customary floodlighting from the

surrounding dry-dock orbital platform; everyone

gone home for the holidays, and everything closed

up behind them. "I hadn't thought about that."

"Neither had I." Puffing gently on the

maneuvering thrusters, Sulu eased them away

from the tail of the big starship, starting a leisurely

circuit of the dry dock. "It looks like there are

plenty of workbee ports along the orbital

platform." He nodded to the closest bay as they

drifted past. "Maybe we can park in the scaffolding

and get across on the maintenance catwalks."

"And do what?" Chekov wanted to know. "Leave

the cloaking device constantly engaged and hope

no one tries to park a workbee on top of it? No,

we have to put the Wraith in the docking bay if

we're going to stay here."

Sulu shrugged and ducked the ship neatly under one

of 186

TRAITOR WINDS

the many long, transparent catwalk tubes. "Well,

all I know is, we're not going to go in through the

hangar doors."

Chekov twisted in his seat to watch the catwalks

and hangar bay disappear behind them. "Maybe

we are." He turned to Sulu again as they glided

around the primary sensor shell. "Is there anything

like an environmental suit on board this shuttle?"

Sulu glanced at him, frowning, then looked back

up at the forward screen. "You're wearing it. The

fligh-qsuits won't withstand a vacuum forever, but

they're designed to make do in case of an

atmosphere breach. Why? What are you

thinking?"

"I'm thinking," Chekov said, starting to feel out

whatever atmosphere seals he could find on the

secondhand fligh-qsuit, "that Mr. Scott has been

too busy to change the manual access procedures

for the external bay doors. If we can key the bay

to open from outside, it should be much easier to

close it once we're inside."

Sulu busied himself with the pilot's controls for

a moment, nudging the Wraith gently starboard,

adjusting their attitude. "Look," he said at last, "I

don't want to talk down to you, Pavel. But there's

no way you'll be able to fly this thing, much less

make a controlled landing with it in a confined

docking space."

"I know." The thought of flying the Wraith had

not even occurred to him. "That's why I'm going

to be the one outside."

"Chekov, you're crazy! You can't even talk

straight, much less handle a spacewalk."

"All the more reason why I shouldn't try to fly."

He unlatched the copilot's shoulder strap, then

slipped carefully out of his station so that Sulu

wouldn't notice how hard it was for him to move.

His friend didn't look particularly mollified.

"Hikaru, listen If there's one thing I've learned

from all this, it's that we survive or fail on our

own. I'm not going to sit here until our

atmosphere runs out, 187

L. A. Graf arguing about what

we should or shouldn't do. Are you going to tell

me how to open your airlock, or do I have to

prove they teach us something in Security and

override your command code?"

Sulu studied him for a long, quiet moment, then

asked with no sign of rancor, "Can I give you just

one piece of constructive advice?"

Chekov scowled at him. "What?"

"Hook up your air module before going outside."

He yanked the package loose from under the

console and offered it to Chekov with a smile.

"Your suit will work better that way."

Silence.

Deep, eerie, bone-cold silence, the likes of which

Chekov had never experienced before. Even a

high-risk environmental suit journey involved a

helmet communicator and sometimes the sounds

of an on-board computer he'd never been

prisoner within a flimsy suit that didn't at least

provide contact back to some relay. Now, he had

only the deafening sound of his breathing against

the face mask and the heavy thud, thud, thud of

his heartbeat in his own ears. Neither sound struck

him as particularly soothing, especially in

conjunction with the other. He slipped along the

welds that formed the tip of the Wraith's dorsal

surface, then drifted slowly supine to walk hand

over hand toward the wing.

He would never have tried this with anyone but

Sulu at the controls. The slightest twitch, the

slightest quiver, and Chekov would have found

himself divested of any contact with the shuttle

and imparted with just enough momentum to

describe a pleasing arc before impacting with the

outer atmosphere. Inertia was an evil thing when

working in microgravity.

"I'm there." He said it uselessly, into the

vacuum, as he rose up onto his knees at the angle

of the wide, ribbed wing. It made him feel better

to go through the motions of reporting to

someone, to make believe someone could 188

TRAITOR WINDS

save him if he took a wrong step and headed

Earthward. "I'm going to try and land on the shell

door lip. That should give me some margin for

error." How much margin wasn't really at issue.

He would either make the leap or miss

it statistics beyond a certain point meant

nothing.

Committing to the step only required the

slightest tip of heel and toe. No drag against his

fligh-qsuit warned him. No sense of acceleration

substituted for seeing the bay doors approach. He

kept his eyes locked grimly on that tall, white

expanse and counted down the seconds aloud until

the instant before the doors passed inside his

point of focus and he made contact.

The full-body impact blasted pain off his splayed

fingertips and knocked him breathless in a short,

explosive grunt. A banshee of panic screamed at

him to flail. He smothered it, letting his body

gently rebound until the contour of the hull in

front of him drifted into reference, and he could

reach down slowly, easily, calmly to grasp the

external handhold to the left of the doors. After

he'd pulled himself into position and slipped an

arm through the grapple to anchor himself with

one elbow, he relaxed and let the tremors take

him.

The external controls sat not an arm's length

from him, open, blinking, the edge of their inset

housing crumpled as though someone had backed

a workbee into it. Crooking his elbow more tightly

through the grapple, he leaned to his left to punch

the activation pad, and heaved a monstrous sigh

of relief when it answered him with a bright green

glow. Contacts and circuits closed with blessed

smoothness, and he shoved the control rod

forward as far as his fingers could push it. The

ship beneath him seemed to rumble as the doors

glided majestically open.

Shivering, the inside of his fligh-qsuit now chilly

with sweat, Chekov clung to the outside grapple

with both hands and watched Sulu swing the

Wraith into position. He threaded the bay doors

like silk through a needle; 189

L. A. Graf

Chekov could have touched the black surface

when it passed, and felt the solid boom of the

Wraith's clean landing. Feeling for a grip around

the edge of the half-open doors, Chekov

abandoned his perch with but the tiniest push,

drifting inside to let the artificial gravity take him.

He landed with a silent thump on the inside lip

of the hangar bay. The ship felt good, and real,

and solid the Wraith looked proper stashed away

inside this alcove, and the reapplication of gravity

reminded him shrewishly that he hadn't had

painkillers since leaving McCoy in Delmarva. If he

didn't need to walk-the whole long length of the

bay to operate the inside door controls, he could

have stayed here forever, enjoying the relative

merits of simply sitting down.

Chekov didn't notice the doors trundle closed

behind him, but he noticed the growing pressure

of atmosphere on the outside of his suit, the

gradual blossom of sound in the hangar bay

around him. Looking up, he registered Sulu,

poised in the Wraith's open doorway with his face

a mask of horrified surprise, just before a

booming Scottish voice rang out, "Well, speak o'

the devil, and he shall appear."

Montgomery Scott ducked into sight around the

nose of the uncloaked spacecraft, hands on his

hips and a paternal scowl on his Gaelic features.

"It seems you lads got here just in time. If half of

what Uhura tells me is true, you've both got a lot

of explaining to do."

The Wraith II shuttle chattered to itself as it

cooled, steam rising off its ribbed black hull inside

the chill, humid air of the docking bay. Sulu

vaulted out through the open hatch, looking for

the source of the voices that had hailed them. He

saw Commander Scott's burly figure first; then the

slighter shadow of Uhura slipped around the

engineer and came to greet them. She was

wearing a blue medical tunic instead of her usual

uniform, but her smile was as bright as a fire on

a winter night.

190

TRAITOR WINDS

"How on earth did you two know to come here?"

she demanded, catching Chekov's gloved hands

between hers and squeezing hard.

The Russian didn't reply, looking as if the task

of undoing his silver fligh-qsuit, latch by careful

latch, was all his mind and muscles could manage

for the moment. Now that his hood and faceplate

were off, Sulu could see that Chekov's face was

haggard with exhaustion, frostpale except for

where a blasting wind had chapped it red across

his cheeks and nose.

"We didn't know." Sulu shed his protective

fligh-qsuit with the ease of long practice, then

went to help Chekov wrestle the rest of his suit

off. Beneath the metallic fabric, the Russian was

soaked to the skin and shuddering. "The Enterprise

was just the only place we could think to go that

wouldn't be swarming with security guards. Mr.

Scott, are there any emergency medical kits in

here?"

"Aye, lad." The engineer ran a knowing eye over

the skeletal girders that constituted the Enterprise's

new docking bay. "We have to keep a wee kit in

each sector for the workers. Ah, here it is." He

hauled up one of the heavy steel plates on the

floor with ease, and extracted a medical kit from

below.

Sulu took the case and rummaged in it, finding

one hypospray for shock and another that

contained a metabolic stimulant. Chekov sat and

watched with vague detachment while Uhura

rolled up the sweater sleeve over his left arm and

Sulu pressed both hypos to his skin. The

unwelcoming chill of the Enterprise seemed to be

making the Russian's shivering worse instead of

better.

"That lad needs to be somewhere a whole lot

warmer than here," Commander Scott said, sizing

up the situation with his usual blunt practicality,

then putting his analysis into action by the simple

expedient of stooping and lifting Chekov into his

arms. "Get a thermal blanket or two outside of

him and some piping-hot food inside, and he'll

do."

"Yeah." Sulu followed Uhura and the burly

engineer

191

L. A. Graf

out of the docking bay and down one rough hall.

Welded plates of steel and aluminum stuck out at

odd angles along the way, draped with tangles of

fiber-optic cables and insulated bundles of

superconducting power lines. Sulu felt his stomach

clench, a feeling almost akin to pain. He'd seen

other ships in this half-completed phase, of

course, but somehow it felt different seeing it

happen to the Enterprise. It was hard to believe

that anything could be built in this seeming chaos,

much less a top-ofthe-line starship.

Mr. Scott ducked under a low beam and turned

down another half-finished corridor. Sulu frowned

as he took his bearings. "Is this the way back to

the orbital platform?"

"No. We don't dare take you lads over there."

Scott turned down another, more smoothly

finished hallway. "There's naught a soul officially

up on the platform now but me and Uhura, and

the computer will be sure to notice that there's

two more life-forms aboard than should be. We'll

be safer staying here."

"But there's no place warm enough here," Uhura

said worriedly.

"There's one place." Scott paused before a

sealed door and palmed its lock. Lights

automatically brightened inside when the door slid

open, and a reassuring warmth floated out to

meet them. "Auxiliary sickbay. We had to finish it

first and gave it full life-support, in case of a

construction accident."

"Thank God for safety regulations." Sulu helped

maneuver Chekov over to one of the examination

tables. The Russian sank down on it with a groan,

while Uhura bent to tap the diagnostic panel and

bring it humming to life.

"We need to find out what's wrong with you,"

she told Chekov when he rolled a suspicious eye

toward her. The antishock medication must be

kicking in, Sulu thought in amusement. Chekov

now looked more grumpy than vague. "Hold still."

192

TRAITOR WINDS

The overhead medical computer probed at the

figure beneath it with ultrasonic whispers and a

shimmer of laser light. "Patient has ulnar-radial

fracture of the right arm, sustained approximately

seventy hours ago," it reported at once. "Patient

has also suffered severe exposure to cold, and is

both undernourished and slightly dehydrated.

Recommended primary treatment acoustic

stimulation to reduce posttrauma swelling followed

by carbon-resin casting of right arm.

Recommended secondary treatment oral intake of

hot fluids and nutrients, external application of

insulating materials, prolonged bed rest."

"There, didn't I tell you?" Scott had already dug

silvery thermal blankets out of a storage

compartment. He handed them to Sulu, while

Uhura went to pull out one medical equipment

drawer after another. "I'll just jog over to the

orbital platform and bring back a portable food

synthesiser, and we'll have Chekov shipshape in no

time."

The engineer ducked back out into the hallway,

letting in a clammy shiver of air while the door

opened and shut. Sulu shook out one of the

insulating blankets and laid it over Chekov's legs,

then wrapped another across his chest and torso,

carefully sliding it under the broken arm to leave

it accessible for treatment. By the time Sulu began

shaking out a third blanket, Chekov had recovered

enough strength to scowl at him.

"What's that for?" the Russian demanded.

"Your head." Sulu arranged the last blanket to

cover Chekov's damp hair and shoulders. "Don't

you know you lose most of your body heat through

your head?"

Chekov's eyes narrowed in an increasingly

irritated frown. "That doesn't mean you need to

wrap me in a turban." He jerked his head away

when Sulu tried to tuck the tail of blanket under

his chin. "That's enough!"

"You must be feeling better you're getting

grumpy." Sulu anchored all the blankets along the

sides and bottom of the bed, turning it into a

silver cocoon. "I

193

L. A. Graf

probably ought to bounce a coin off you to be

sure I tucked these in tight enough...."

"Try it, and I'll bounce you!"

"What are you two fighting about now?" Uhura

scurried back to the examination table with a

pen-sized medical device. A smile crinkled her

dark eyes as she took in Chekov's

blanket-wrapped figure. "You look just like an egg

roll."

"Thanks. Does that mean you're going to cut me

up with chopsticks?" The Russian was definitely

feeling better. He sounded hoarse but alert, and

Sulu noticed that a pale tinge of color had begun

to warm his waxy face.

"No, I'm going to use this acoustic stimulator on

your arm and get the swelling down." Uhura

paused beside the bed. "We'll have to take the

splint off to get at the swelling," she said

uncertainly. "Sulu, do you think you could? . . . "

Sulu winced, but bent over the plastic splint,

running careful fingers across its binding straps.

"Did Dr. McCoy melt these things shut?"

Chekov shook his head. "I think there's a release

tab at the top."

Sulu grunted and slid his hand up along the

splint. "I can't find oh, there it is." Something

popped and the plastic straps that held the sides

of the splint together sprang free. Chekov gritted

out a Russian curse, but managed to hold his arm

rigidly still while Sulu and Uhura unwrapped the

rest of the splint. Uhura flicked on the acoustic

stimulation pen and began to move it slowly

across the multicolor bruises that splattered

Chekov's arm.

Sulu reached out and swung a desk chair across

the aisle, then sprawled in it tiredly to watch.

"Exactly how did you do this to yourself?" he

asked Chekov.

The Russian let out a grunt that at another time

might have been laughter. "I hit someone too

hard," he said between stimy held breaths. "And

not in the right place. 194

TRAITOR WINDS

It's easy to break a bone in unarmed combat.

Especially when you don't know what you're

doing."

It sounded like a passage recited from a class at

the Security Academy, coloredfaintly bitter by

experience. Sulu frowned, noticing that some of

the marks on Chekov's arm were more faded than

others, and that they extended far past the actual

area of the break.

"And what about the rest of these bruises?" he

inquired. "How did you get those?"

Chekov tried to shrug one-armed, then winced.

"One of my classmates gave me those. The same

one who killed Dr. Piper."

"One of your classmates killed Piper?" Sulu

groaned and fell backward in his chair. "Don't tell

me a security cadet is behind this whole plot!"

"No, he was just the hired gun. There were two

others involved up at Hopkins. Peter Broad and

Yolande Stern. Lab technicians."

"Huh." Sulu swung himself back to a sitting

position, thinking about that. "Lab technicians and

security guards at your end and I have no idea

who at my end, except that it wasn't Hernan

Nakai." He reached out and tapped at the

plas-skin bandage visible under the sleeve of

Uhura's borrowed medical tunic. She jumped a

little, as if the skin underneath were still tender.

"And what happened to you? That bandage didn't

come from wrapping too many Christmas

presents."

"Dr. McCoy got attacked by a remote firebomb

at the Stanford maglev terminal," she said briefly.

"I was standing next to him." She saw their

worried looks and added, "He's all right, and safe

in intensive care. Christine Chapel promised not

to let anyone in his room unless she knew them

personally, and I sent Dr. M'Benga down to

Stanford to help her guard him. But Starfleet

Security hasn't arrested anyone for the

firebombing yet."

Chekov snorted. "Of course not. Whoever these

people are, they have someone in Starfleet

Security in their pocket."

195

L. A. Graf

"And someone at White Sands, too." Sulu'sfrown

had become a scowl. "Dammit, I hate to think that

career Starfleet officers can be bought that easily!"

"I know. I wish Admiral Kirk was back. Right

now, he's the only superior officer I trust." Uhura

finished running the acoustic stimulation device

over Chekov's arm.

Sulu cocked an eyebrow at her. "Chekov said

the admiral was in the hospital, too. Can't we just

go talk to him?"

Uhura sighed as she went to search sickbay for

the equipment they needed to cast Chekov's arm.

"He's not in the hospital that's just the story he

told his secretary to tell everyone. He took off this

morning in a high-speed courier with Ambassador

Sarek, saying he knew how to get some proof

against the traitors. I don't even know where he

was going." She stopped in front of some clear

shelving, her face a frustrated reflection in the

transparent aluminum. "And not three hours after

he left, Dr. McCoy got the evidence we needed

from Dr. Piper!"

"Evidence?" Sulu demanded.

"Dr. Piper?" Chekov demanded simultaneously.

Uhura glanced back over her shoulder at them,

looking startled. "Didn't I tell you no, of course

not, we haven't had time. The reason Dr. McCoy

came out to California was to tell me that Dr.

Piper had shipped some sort of evidence about

the disrupter theft up to the Enterprise. "

"Where is it?" This time, Chekov's and Sulu's

voices chimed together urgently.

"I don't know!" Uhura turned to face them, her

voice rising, as if the stress of the last few days

had finally broken through her rigid control. "Dr.

McCoy said it was in a package, but Mr. Scott

says there isn't any cargo aboard. I can't even

guess where to look for it. How am I supposed to

find anything in this mess?" She threw her hands

wide, helplessly. "I can't even find Chekov a

resin-casting machine!"

196

TRAITOR WINDS

Sulu made a wordless, reassuring sound and

came to help her. "There's the resin-caster," he

said, drawing her attention up to the top shelf of

the equipment case and the familiar curving

silhouette of the medical device. "Go get a cart,

and we'll bring it over to Chekov, okay?"

"Okay." Uhura dabbed at her eyes

surreptitiously before going to pull a cart from

across the room.

Sulu loaded the resin-caster onto it, then patted

at Uhura's hand. "See, don't worry. If we can find

this, we can find McCoy's package too. It only

seems impossible now because we're tired and

sick and hungry. When was the last time you ate?"

Uhura managed a quivering smile. "Actually,

about an hour ago." Sulu gave her an aggrieved

look, and her smile grew more real. "At the

Starfleet Christmas party. I had salmon in puff

pastry, baked Brie, and steamed shrimp."

Sulu groaned, pretending to collapse against the

cart while he rolled it across to Chekov. "You rat!

While poor Chekov was starving and I was eating

emergency rations out of the Wraith!"

"I hadn't eaten much the day before that, when

I thought you guys were dead!" Uhura defended

herself. She watched Sulu position the resin-caster

as low as it could go over Chekov's torso, then

carefully helped the Russian slide his arm into it.

The machine hummed to life immediately. Chekov

yelped out another curse when it began processing

his injury, but Sulu noticed his face didn't whiten

with pain this time. The analgesics in the

antishock hypospray must have finally made it into

his system.

"Maybe the food synthesiser will be able to

make some steamed shrimp and salmon for us."

Sulu looked up as the door slid open on a puff of

cold air and let in Commander Scott, a miniature

food synthesiser riding easily on his broad

shoulder. "Do you think your synthesizer can

make seafood, Mr. Scott?"

197

L. A. Graf

Uhura regarded the little box dubiously. "I'm

not sure something that small can make any

real food. Can it, Mr. Scott?"

"Well, I know it can make haggis." The

engineer straightened up, grinning at them

crookedly. "I just don't know if that qualifies as

food."

198

Chapter Sixteen

U.S.S. Enterprise

Earth Sector, Standard Earth Orbit

Terrestrial Date December 24, 2269

2000 hours shiptime

THE VIEW FROM the Enterprise was beautiful. As

always. Chekov stood as close as he dared to the

transparent aluminum airlock, carefully avoiding

all the moorings and temporary seals as he

watched the last wink of Sol's corona disappear

into the black of the southern Pacific Rim.

Nighttime closed across North America like a

sigh.

A fairy dusting of cities rimed the edges of the

continent, twinkling from the bottom of the

atmosphere like chips of Spican flame gem. Roads

and maglev paths intersected top to bottom, shore

to shore, until the landmass seemed to pulse and

breathe with the lifeblood of a thousand sparkling

arteries. A million kilometers away from that

beauty, Chekov could almost imagine that every

fleck of twinkle and color represented the strings

of lights so popular in the yards and houses of

North America at this time of year. So different

from the quiet ice sculpture and window paintings

of Russia. Still, it made for a better holiday

experience than hiding in the secondary hull of a

gutted starship, waiting for his career and maybe

even his life to come to an end.

"There you are."

Chekov glanced briefly over his shoulder,

incapable of

199

L. A. Graf

feeling startled by the helmsman's arrival. On a

ship so empty and distant from everything, it was

hard to believe anyone unexpected would appear.

"Uhura and Mr. Scott are trying to get

something foodlike out of the synthesiser," Sulu

volunteered as he padded up to stand beside him.

"You have any requests?;'

Chekov shrugged and turned back to the planet.

"At this point, anything warm would be fine."

"Okay." Sulu rose up on curious tiptoe, pressing

one hand carefully to the transparent portal. "So

what're you doing out here?"

"Looking for Moscow."

"Uh, Chekov..." Something very like amusement

fluttered in Sulu's voice. "We're in geosync over

North America."

Chekov spread his hand beside Sulu's on the

cold, transparent barrier. "I know."

"Oh." Sulu shifted to lean his back against the

last finished segment of hallway, stealing a look

down the skeletal framework that stretched out

ahead of the airlock, then looking resolutely

spaceward again, as though the sight of the

unfinished ship made him uneasy. "This isn't what

I intended to do with my holiday, either," he

admitted after a long, companionable silence. "I

was kind of looking forward to a nice, rainy

weekend in California with nothing better to do

than wander around Sausalito looking for

expensive restaurants."

Chekov shrugged one shoulder, then abandoned

his view and turned to Sulu. "At least you were

going to get to go home."

"That's true." Sulu reached across to clap

Chekov's shoulder with a sigh. It made a pitifully

wet slapping sound, and the helmsman recoiled

fussily. "I'll tell you what," he said around a

theatrical grimace. "We've got a little while before

the food's ready. Why don't you let me see what

I can do about curing those holiday blues?" He

fingered the front of Chekov's sweater and

wrinkled his 200

TRAITOR WINDS

nose clear up to his forehead. "I think I've just

figured out the perfect Christmas present for you

this year."

"Somehow, this isn't what I thought you had in

mind." Sulu glanced up from rummaging through

Scott's open bureau, his face alight with that blend

of mirth and mischief that marked the helmsman

at his most vexatious. "Then consider it your

Christmas gift to me and Uhura. I feel I can

speak for both of us when I tell you we have no

intention of sleeping in any sickbay with anyone

who smells the way you do right now. Don't sit on

that!"

Chekov leapt to his feet before even making

contact with the chair, and ended up halfway

across the small dry-dock quarters before stopping

to fix Sulu with a punishing glare. "You made me

walk through every corridor and catwalk between

here and the ship," he complained. "You dew me

through a hurricane! The least you can do is give

me a chance to sit down."

"And you're stealing Mr. Scott's clothes," Sulu

reminded him. "The least you can do is not get

ocean smell all over his furniture." He stood with

a tunic and trousers draped across either shoulder

and crossed the room to throw them both onto

the bed. "Strip down, Ensign that's an order. I

am going to throw out your current apparel. You

are going to take a shower."

"Mr. Scott and I are not even slightly the same

size." But he dragged the heavy sweater over his

head before Sulu could yell at him again.

Sulu took the sweater from him and dropped it

primly behind him. "Are Mr. Scott's clothes dry?"

"I assume so." Chekov tossed the turtleneck on

top of the sweater.

"Do they smell bad?"

"No."

Sulu kicked the whole filthy pile toward the

open cabin door. "Then the size is close enough.

Go get in the shower."

Whether or not stealing Mr. Scott's clothes was

the best idea Sulu ever had, Chekov thought, the

shower 201

L. A. Graf

more than made up for it. He stood under the

pounding -spray, almost tumbling into sleep as the

heat and steam and vibration scoured the salt

scum from his body and worked their magic on his

beleaguered sinuses. If he could have spent the

night in the shower, he would have. As it was, he

settled for a scoldingly twenty minutes, then

stumbled out into the humid lavatory and towered

himself dry for as long as was reasonably possible.

The clothes, as he'd expected, didn't fit.

"I'm going to be arrested for impersonating an

offficer." He tried rolling up the tunic cuffs, but

the gold commander's stripes kept getting in the

way.

"Hell, they already want to arrest you for

treason." Sulu slipped off his belt and held it out

for Chekov's taking when it became apparent the

trousers would never stay up on their own. "You

might as well be dressed as snappily as possible

when they get you."

The Russian told himself wryly that at least the

engineer's tunic was red.

The hike back to the sickbay only seemed to

take half as long as the journey out had. Chekov

wondered if he was simply better disposed toward

walking without twenty kilos of waterlogged

sweater weighing him down or if Sulu had looked

up some better route while he was fighting off

sleep in the shower. Whatever the answer, they

made it back to the better-insulated starship corri-

dors while Chekov was still trying to finger-comb

order into his wet hair, and the warm, simple odor

of replicated rations wafted out to greet them. His

stomach twisted around itself as a reminder of

how long he'd gone without food.

Uhura looked up from one of the workstations

as they entered, her hands stretched out in front

of her so she could balance a motley assortment

of cups, bowls, and platters on her arms. "Where's

Mr. Scott?" Sulu asked as he hurried forward to

take over half her burden.

"Down in the shuttle bay. He said he wanted to make

202

TRAITOR WINDS

sure Kyle serviced all the Wraith's systems

correctly before letting you leave Tasmania." She

smiled and rearranged the dishes into three equal

assemblies. "Personally, I think he just wanted to

get a closer look at how the Wraith goes

together."

"Who can blame him? It's not like you get to

see a lot of Wraith shuttles on a starship."

"Very true." Uhura settled into one of the chairs

around the workstation, raising a playful smile to

Chekov as he came to steal a glance at what

foodstuffs she'd collected. "So, Sulu, who's this

handsome, sweetsmelling young fellow you've

brought back with you?"

Chekov scowled sidelong at her, blushing, and

Sulu laughed as he dropped into a chair of his

own. "I picked him up over on the orbital

platform. He claims he used to work here."

"Does he?"

Chekov tipped one of the bowls of food, aware

from long experience that the best way to avoid

their bouts of teasing was to ignore them. "Did

you replicate this food for us to look at, or can we

start to eat now?"

"You can start to eat if you want to." Uhura sat

forward in her chair and tapped with weary

skepticism at his bowl. "Just don't hold me

accountable for what you might find."

Chekov lifted the bowl, sniffed at it, and

shrugged. "It looks like food. It smells like food.

It's better than anything else I've had lately." At

least he was fairly certain nothing out of a

replicator could kill him.

"What's this?" Sulu thrust out the steaming mug

in his hand accusingly.

Uhura didn't even glance at it. "I think it's

supposed to be gazpacho."

"It's warm!"

"I said, 'I think.'"

"And this?" Chekov asked. Whatever it was, it

smelled deliciously like cabbage.

"Salad." But she didn't sound completely certain.

203

L. A. Graf

Sulu, on the other hand, was scandalized. "It's

coleslaw!"

"I like coleslaw," Chekov protested. Sulu shoved

the bowl across to him without further comment.

"And then we have tortellini with" Uhura

angled an anxious frown into another of the

dishes "some kind of red sauce."

Chekov had to take only one bite to solve the

mystery. "Ketchup."

That earned him both their bowls, and a

strangled sound of disgust from Sulu. "But what

are you two going to eat now?" Chekov asked,

feeling a little guilty. "Don't tell me you both like

haggis."

"We," Uhura said with a sly lift of her eyebrows,

"get to eat dessert." She cradled a clear glass

goblet in the palm of her hand and offered it

grandly across the workstation to Sulu. It looked

as though it were filled with wet breadsticks and

milk. "Tiramisu."

"Tiramish? Out of this piece of junk?" Sweeping

up the tiny goblet, Sulu clutched it to his chest

and raised eyes skyward. "There is a God."

It still looked like soggy bread to Chekov.

"What's tiramisu?"

"A disgustingly rich dessert made with

ladyfingers, espresso, mascarpone cheese, and

rum."

He grimaced and pushed the dessert over to

Sulu, then nodded his permission to Uhura when

she stole his warm gazpacho. The coleslaw and

tortellini didn't complement each other as well as

Chekov might have expected, but after nearly

seventy-two hours of nothing really solid to eat, he

didn't feel much like complaining. When Sulu

finally lowered himself to steal a few tortellini

from the one remaining bowl between them,

Chekov climbed away from the table to refill the

empty water pitcher.

"Is it just me," Sulu asked after a moment, "or is

this really pitiful?"

Chekov clunked the refilled pitcher back into

the center of the workstation. "It's not just you."

204

TRAITOR WINDS

Uhura sighed at the bottom of her tiramisu

glass, but didn't offer a contradictory opinion.

"I had a lot of time to think on the way to

Tasmania," Sulu said. He dropped his fork into the

bowl with a Hatter. couldn't imagine why anyone

would want to do this to us, what they could

possibly hope to accomplish by getting us blamed

for such horrible acts of treason. Then somewhere

around Fiji I realized that this wasn't about us at

all it was about the one thing Chekov and I had

in common."

Chekov picked up Sulu's fork to scrape the last

of the food out of the bowl. "Admiral Kirk."

"We were both part of the admiral's command

crew." Sulu leaned back in his chair to prop his

feet tiredly on the edge of the table. "I don't know

why, but I think the traitors are trying to discredit

Admiral Kirk through us. Maybe they're planning

to manufacture evidence that he put us up to the

thefts, or maybe they just planned to let rumor

and innuendo do the dirty work after we'd been

tried and convicted. Either way, the admiral's

career is ruined along with ours."

"But how could the traitors have counted on you

both being assigned to projects this sensitive?"

Uhura objected. "I mean, you were already

assigned as executive officer on the Resolution

before the Enterprise even got back into port."

"True, but I turned down that assignment as

soon as I was offered the spot on the Wraith

project. Someone had to have submitted my name

to the project planners, then monitored whether

or not I accepted."

"But Dr. Piper didn't invite me onto the

disrupter project until the last minute," Chekov

pointed out. "They couldn't have known he would

do that."

"They probably planned on blaming Dr. Piper in

the beginning," Uhura said. "You were just a more

convenient scapegoat once you signed onto the

research team."

Sulu gave a snort of laughter and poked at

Chekov. "What she's saying is, if you'd gone off to

Command

205

L. A. Graf

School like you were supposed to, you wouldn't be

in this mess right now."

Chekov pulled his arm away from Sulu's

prodding, suddenly disgusted with the whole

discussion. "And if you'd taken the assignment on

board the Resolution, you wouldn't be in this mess,

either." It came out more harshly than he'd

intended, and that only made him feel worse.

"Don't criticize my decisions."

"Hey, Pavel . . ." Sulu pulled his feet down to

straighten himself in his chair. "It was just a joke.

I'm sorry."

"Well, it's a joke I'm tired of hearing. What

difference does it make to you what division I go

into?" He stacked the empty dishes into uneven

towers at the center of the table. "Can't I make

this one decision on my own, without everyone

feeling they have to second-gu ess me?"

"It's just..." Sulu tried to help, but aborted his

cleanup when Chekov snatched the small stack of

dishes from his hands. "Command School was all

you talked about for the last three months of our

mission. I guess we all just assumed that's where

you'd be while we were in dock."

"Well, I'm not! All right?" He swept their debris

into an armload and stood to stalk away from the

table.

"They turned down your application."

He froze, staring at Uhura in an agony of

betrayal, wishing none of this had ever come up,

wishing he could just turn around and walk away.

Apology sparkled in her wide, regretful eyes, but

she'd clapped a hand over her mouth an instant

too late to stop the damning sentence. No one had

told her, Chekov realised. She'd simply guessed,

and blurted out what to her seemed an impossible

answer. He wasn't surprised to find he couldn't

force himself to feel angry about the innocent

blunder.

Sulu finally broke the silent impasse. "They

didn't let you in?" He turned in his seat to look up

at Chekov, and the ensign retreated to the dish

recycler to avoid having to meet his friend's gaze.

"You've got to be kidding! Why?"

206

TRAITOR WINDS

"My . . . age," he said carefully as he fed the

dishes one by one into the chute. Actually, the

rejection had made specific, stinging references to

his "maturity." But he couldn't make himself admit

that to them out loud. "The command board didn't

feel I was ready for the responsibility of Command

School. Maybe with a little more 'seasoning,' they

said, I might be ready to reapply in another four

or five years." Almost a quarter of his lifetime. A

frustrating, private eternity.

"It's not as bad as it could be." Uhura meant

well, he knew, but her gentle words sounded

painfully like condescension. "You are awfully

young you've got plenty of time to reapply."

He smiled mirthlessly into the bank of

machinery in front of him. "Admiral Kirk was a

year younger than I am when he was accepted into

Command School."

"Yeah," Sulu agreed. "But we aren't all Admiral

Kirk."

Was it worth trying to explain how badly he had

wanted to be?

Uhura saved him from having to pursue the

question. "But why security?" she asked, obviously

fighting against whatever private prejudices she

held inside. "There are so many other positions

that would have made better use of your talents."

He sighed and leaned one shoulder against the

recycles. I was on the Enterprise, I always re-

spected and..." He had to think for a moment to

excavate the proper English word. ". . . appreciated

the strength and dedication needed to function in

security. In so many ways, a security chief is as

responsible for a starship's crew as her captain. I

thought maybe..." That it would be the next best

thing to actually having a command. That it would

feel useful and meaningful to a starship's

functions, in a way navigating never truly had.

That it would reveal something of the maturity the

Starfleet review board was so certain he lacked. "I

thought the experience of leading a security

division

207

L A. Graf

might give me the edge I need when I reapply five

years from now."

"So you're pretty sure you'll get another starship

tour after the Security Academy?" Sulu asked,

sounding hopeful.

Chekov smiled in appreciation of his friend's

concern, then realized the irony of standing here

when he told them this. "I already have another

five-year assignment on board the Enterprise."

Sulu blinked as though unsure how to process

this information, and Uhura blossomed into a

radiant smile. "Assuming, of course," Chekov

added with a hopeless shrug, "that any of us has a

career left by the time this is over."

The distant hiss of the sickbay door woke Uhura

the next morning, bringing her from restless

slumber to tense wakefulness in a few seconds.

She jerked up on the examination table that

served as her bed and tried to listen for voices

coming around the curve of auxiliary sickbay.

After a moment, her sleep-fuzzed brain recog-

nized the soft burr of Commander Scott's voice,

answered by Sulu's deeper murmur. Sighing in

relief, Uhura hopped down and went to comb her

hair and wash her face in their small bathroom.

She emerged into the part of the room where

the others had slept, in time to see Mr. Scott knit

his face into a familiar expression of beleaguered

worry. "But, lad, we've had thousands of deliveries

over the last few weeks," he told Sulu, pulling a

cup of hot coffee from the small food synthesiser.

Chekov still lay asleep behind them, tangled like

a puppy in his thermal blankets. The engineer

kept his voice considerately hushed. "If ye dinna

know what kind of shipment it was . . ."

Uhura glanced down at the chronometer on her

wrist and her eyebrows shot upward. It was only 4

A.M. Pacific time. No wonder she still felt sleepy.

"Why have we started looking for Dr. Piper's package

208

TRAITOR WINDS

so early?" she asked plaintively. The date on her

watch reminded her what day it was and she

added, "Santa Claus hasn't even come yet."

Sulu glanced over his shoulder at her with a

rueful smile. "We were both too tense to sleep," he

confessed, then tipped his steaming cup toward

her. "Tea or coffee?"

"Hot chocolate." Uhura came to join them

beside the food synthesiser, finding it, with the

warmth of its waste heat emissions, almost as

soothing as a kitchen stove. "If this little monster

can manage it, that is."

"I'll make it manage." Scott leaned over the

control panel, scowled when he couldn't find an

appropriate button, then punched an access code

directly into the synthesizer's memory. A moment

later, a cup of steaming cocoa emerged from the

tiny interior.

"So that's the trick." Uhura accepted the cup

with a smile. "You have to know its secret

machine language."

"The benefit of being an engineer, lass." Scott

drank his coffee thoughtfully. "That, and getting to

stay up here on the Enterprise while the rest of you

get yourselves into trouble down on Earth."

Sulu made a wry face, then turned to Uhura.

"Did Dr. McCoy give you any idea at all what kind

of package Dr. Piper sent up here?"

"I don't think so." Uhura closed her eyes, trying

to recall her hurried conversation with McCoy.

The shock of the firebomb had blurred most of

her memories. "All I remember him saying was

that Piper sent a package with evidence about who

the traitors were up to the Enterprise. He never

said how or from where."

"Well, the one thing I can tell ye is that it didn't

come from Johns Hopkins University." Scott took

a step down the counter and swung a medical

computer terminal around on its revolving pivot.

It came to life at the brush of his fingers across

the screen, its control menus flickering past as the

engineer worked his way into the ship's main

network. He finally pulled up what looked like a

209

L. A. Graf

standard stocking chart, and punched in a brief

command. "See? We've had no shipments received

here from Johns Hopkins, ever."

"Then it must have come from somewhere else."

Sulu laced his fingers around the hot tea, his face

taking on the Buddha-like inscrutability that

meant he was thinking hard. "The problem is, we

don't know what other Starfleet suppliers Piper

might have had access to. Have any shipments at

all come up from the Baltimore area?"

Mr. Scott punched another command into the

computer and grimaced. "No. The closest supplier

we've used is in upstate New York."

Uhura blew the steam from her cocoa and

sipped at it cautiously. "So much for that."

"All right, let's try a different approach." Sulu

hadn't given up yet. "If we could figure out exactly

when that package was sent up here "

" we could find the list of shipments it might

be inside. Aye, that could work." Scott pulled up

a different menu. "The computer's already got

deliveries sorted out by date and time. All we

need is an initial and final bracket, and we can

look at what falls inside the window."

Uhura frowned. "Well, I guess the final bracket

would be when Piper died. That would have been

about noon last Friday."

Scott lifted a bushy eyebrow at them. "And the

initial bracket?"

"That's harder." Uhura exchanged thoughtful

looks with Sulu. "Maybe when we met him at

Harborplace? Surely he wouldn't have asked

Chekov to come work for him if he'd known there

was something wrong at the lab "

A snort from the examination table behind them

stopped Uhura. "That's exactly why he asked me

to come," Chekov informed them gruffly. He

managed to untangle himself from the thermal

blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed,

steadying himself with his good arm. 210

TRAITOR WINDS

"He wanted me to help him prove that Peter

Broad was a spy."

Uhura rubbed at the frown line she could feel

forming between her eyebrows. "Then he could

have sent the evidence up to the Enterprise

anytime this month!"

"Possible, but unlikely." Chekov maneuvered

himself off the medical bed with care. "Can I have

some coffee?"

"Not if you're going to talk like Mr. Spock," Sulu

complained, but he punched the coffee button

obediently. "Why's it so unlikely?"

"Because I don't think Piper thought there was

much of a threat, at least not before the day he

got killed." Chekov came over and accepted the

cup Sulu handed him. "My guess is that he sent

the evidence up here early that morning. As a sort

of . . . insurance."

Uhura glanced at Scott, waiting patiently at the

computer. "That would have been Friday,

December twentyfirst," she told him. "Sometime

between zero hundred hours and twelve hundred

hours, Eastern Standard Time."

Scott punche d in the appropriate codes and

waited while the computer compiled its list. Even

from her place by the food synthesiser,hura could

see that the final menu produced was mostly

blank. The engineer looked up at them with

somber eyes.

"Sorry, gentlemen," he said. "There was nothing

at all shipped up to the Enterprise on that date."

Chekov frowned. "Try the day before."

Scott queried the computer, then shook his head

again. "All that came up that day were the

segments of the new Jeffries tubes. In fact, now

that I remember it, that was about all that came

up that whole week."

They sat in silence over their cooling drinks,

faces grim with frustration. After several long

minutes, Scott sighed and tapped up another

menu. "May as well check the refitting schedule

while we think," he said glumly.

"Or don't think. I'm out of ideas." With his usual

restless curiosity, Sulu leaned to read over the

engineer's

211

L. A. Graf

shoulder. "'Replace shielding circuits in the

primary hull'? But I thought the primary was

getting refitted down on Earth."

"Aye, so it is," Scott agreed. "But I'm still the

chief supervising engineer, so all the scheduling

and completion packets get transmitted up to me

every day "

"Packets!" The word broke from Chekov's and

Uhura's lips at the same moment. They exchanged

looks of growing understanding, but Chekov put it

into words first. "What if Piper told McCoy he

sent a packet of evidence "

" and McCoy translated that into package,

because he got a package from Piper " Uhura

continued.

" so we assumed it had to be a physical object,

rather than a subspacemail message!" Sulu

finished for them both.

Chekov looked a question at Mr. Scott. "Now

that the main computer's engaged, could anyone

on Earth send subspace mail up to it?"

"Anyone who could get through to the Starfleet

net," Scott confirmed. "Could your Dr. Piper do

that?"

"I'm sure he could," Uhura said when Chekov

hesitated. "After all, he was working on a Starfleet

research project."

"But the Starfleet net is monitored by Starfleet

Security," Sulu pointed out, frowning. "They'd have

seen whatever Piper sent."

Chekov let out a vehement Russian curse. "In

which case, his transmission probably never even

got here!"

"No." Uhura shook her head. "Dr. McCoy said

Piper had sent his message, which means he must

have gotten confirmation of its arrival "

"Dr. McCoy also said it was a package," Chekov

pointed out gloomily.

"Yes, but there are other nets Piper could have

used." Uhura had a sudden brilliant memory of

Christine Chapel and Admiral Kirk sitting in her

office, Chapel saying, "So he sent the message on

the medical net, 212

TRAITOR WINDS

coded as a confidential patient file," and Kirk

saying, "Good work, Bones!"

"Mr. Scott " Uhura swung around with such

fierce intensity that the engineer's eyebrows

beetled upward. "Can you call up medical files on

this computer?"

"I should hope so, lass. It's the sickbay

computer, after all."

"Then check to see if there were any data

packets received through the medical net on

December twentyfirst."

Scott's fingers drummed against the screen,

tapping through a cascade of menus. He grunted,

finally arriving at the one he wanted. "Well, I'll be

a Welshman's uncle!" He grinned and pointed at

the screen.

For the date of December 2 l, the medical net

log read, "One data packet received, contents

encoded patient file for James Tiberius Kirk."

"That's it!" Sulu crowed with laughter. "That's

got to be it!"

"But can we access it?" Chekov demanded.

Scott tapped at the screen, then growled as the

file stayed stubbornly closed. "Not until we

convince this damned computer that I'm the chief

physician of the Enterprise. Wait a minute." He

tapped back to the main menu and typed in some

arcane code, then flicked back to the medical net.

The file labeled "James Tiberius Kirk" was now

flashing its accessibility.

"Open it," said Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu in

unison.

Scott tapped the screen a final time, and the file

blossomed out into a scroll of words. All of them

leaned close around the engineer's broad

shoulders, reading in tense silence.

Piper's written message was blunt and to the

point. It read "Peter Broad came with attached

security clearance and technical certification from

project backer UniMed, Inc. Certification is

provably false, but the signature and thumbprint

of chief operating officer verified as authentic. I

think UniMed wants the disrupter." 213

L. A. Graf

Sulugroaned. "Some evidence! Now we know a

comany name, but not who at the company is

responsible."

"Wait, there's more." Scott paged down to an

electronic replica of a Starfleet security clearance,

and then once more to what looked like some

sort of technical certificate.

"There's a name." Uhura pointed. "The name of

UniMed's chief operating " Her voice broke off

abruptly.

For at the bottom, below the impressed seals

and fancy Latinate writing, was the strong,

straightforward signature of Jackson Kahle.

214

Chapter Seventeen

U.S.S. Enterprise

Earth Sector, Standard Earth Orbit

Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269

0700 hours shiptime

"JACKSON KAHLE?, Chekov blurted, and

realized Uhura had echoed him when Sulu and

Scott fixed them both with questioning frowns.

"You know him?" Sulu asked.

"He's a former starship captain," Uhura

explained with a dumbfounded nod. "The one

who founded UniPhase Incorporated. He he

audited my class at the Academy this semester."

She lifted her eyes from the screen at last. "But I

can't believe he'd ever betray Starfleet!"

"The man who practically invented starship

phaser banks?" Scott snorted a noise of utter

skepticismj then peered again at the signature on

the technical certificate. "You're right, lass. It

canna be him behind all this!"

Chekov glanced above the signature and felt his

heart fall into his stomach. "Yes, it can." He

pointed to the company name at the top of the

brief document. "UniMed. That's obviously some

sort of subsidiary of UniPhase Incorporated. If it's

also the company that was funding Dr. Piper's

disrupter research program, as it says here "

"Kahle could have set the whole project up just to

get

215

L. A. Graf

his hands on the Klingon disrupter!"ulu clapped

both hands to the top of his head, as though

overwhelmed by the thoughts whirling around

inside. "But why would he want it? What good

would it do him?"

Uhura brought one hand to her mouth in

shocked realisation. "He plans to sell it to the

Romulans." She glanced up at the startled looks

around her. "Admiral Kirk told me Jackson Kahle

had been instrumental in arranging the Romulan

Territorial Conference that's taking place at

Annapolis tomorrow. If he really is responsible for

stealing the disrupter, the timing is too close to be

a coincidence. He must be planning to give it to

them there."

"But why would anyone turn over technology

like that to enemies of the Federation?" Chekov

protested.

"Because he wants them to use it on other

enemies of the Federation." Scott stated the

suggestion with grim certainty. "You wouldna

know," he explained in answer to Chekov's

questioning frown, "being stationed down below

like you are, but there's been a lot of talk in the

space nets about hostilities between the Klingons

and the Romulans. There's already been a handful

of skirmishes along their border. I'll bet your Mr.

Kahle's hoping to help that war along."

"By giving the Romulans the Klingons' greatest

weapon?" Another piece of information snapped

into place with almost supernatural clarity. "Oh,

my God!" Chekov gasped, spinning on Sulu. "You

realize what this means?"

"Kahle sold the cloaking device to the Klingons."

The helmsman swore in a chain of Orion vile

enough to blister the walls. "How the hell did he

get the plans away from White Sands?"

"I'm afraid I know that." Uhura sighed. "Admiral

Kirk told me weeks ago that Kahle was known for

seducing Starfleet officers to work for him. If he

promised high-paying positions in his company to

people still in service . . ."

Bitter flashes reminded Chekov unpleasantly of

Leong. 216

TRAITOR WINDS

"Some of them would be willing to betray their

oaths for that kind of reward." The disgust he felt

toward the treacherous security lieutenant

sickened him.

"Well, all I " A high, frantic beeping

interrupted Scott and rocketed Chekov's

adrenaline straight into his head. He paced a tight

circle to wear off the worst of the jitters while

Scott consulted the notepad on his belt and

grunted. "Now, that's not the sort of thing I was

hoping to see."

"What is it?" Sulu asked.

Scott switched off the notepad's signal and

pursed his lips around a scowl. "It says here we've

got three people moving around on the orbital

platform." He raised a meaningful look to his

companions. "And none of them are us."

Chekov prowled back and forth outside the

catwalk's open airlock. "Why won't you let me

come with you?"

"Because it's most likely one of the repair crews

come back early," Scott said from the doorway of

the airlock. He'd carefully collected enough tools

and random equipment to make it seem

reasonable he'd spent so much time on the

Enterprise. "We can't afford to let 'em see any of

you if it is."

"And if it's not?" Chekov protested. He halted

his pacing long enough to lean between Sulu and

Uhura and appeal to Scott. "What if the traitors

have managed to follow us up here? What are you

going to do then?"

"Chekov," Scott interrupted with a sigh. "Going

into security doesn't mean you've gotta expect the

worst out of every situation you come across.

Nor" he raised a stern finger to cut off the

ensign's objection "does it mean you outrank me

and can willfully disobey my orders. I'm tellin' you

all to stay here and wait for me until I come back.

Do you understand me?"

Sulu reached back to clamp a warning hand on

Chekov's arm, nodding obediently to Scott. "We'll

be here, sir. You just be careful."

217

L. A. Graf

The engineer clapped both younger men on the

shoulder before signaling the lock to shut behind

him. "Don't you worry about me."

But worry was all Chekov seemed able to do.

"We have to get this information about Mr.

Kahle down to the Territorial Conference." He

paced to one side of the half-finished hallway,

fidgeted impatiently with the bare bulkhead

structure, then came back across to join the

others.

"Paver . . ." Uhura clasped his hand as he

stalked by. "You've got to stop

worrying everything's going to be fine now."

He pulled gently loose with a shake of his head.

"Nothing will be fine until we find someone to

trust with that information." They had a very long

way to go before fine; he was certain of it.

The deep, breathy hum of atmosphere flooding

the long catwalk tube drew all their eyes in an

instant to the airlock. "It hasn't even been five

minutes," Sulu pointed out, his voice hardly loud

enough to be a whisper. Chekov ducked around

him without commenting, trotting a short distance

down the corridor to find a portal still open to a

view of the dry-dock platform outside.

"Well?" Sulu called.

Chekov shook his head, unable to discern either

movement or shape through the translucent walls

of the catwalk. Then a quick, stealthy figure crept

into view, muted into anonymous shadow by the

distance, and he felt every nerve ending in his

body seize with fear. "It's not Mr. Scott."

Sulu came halfway to meet him as Chekov

dashed back to join the others at the airlock.

"What?"

"It's not Mr. Scott it's them!" He slapped at the

controls to open the inside lock door, then turned

to help Uhura with the bundle of cable she was

dragging across the hatchway. "I'll hold them off

the ship for as long as I can; you two get that

information to Admiral Kirk." The door crunched

a deep dent in the cable, but stopped before

forming a seal.

218

TRAITOR WINDS

"We can't just leave you up here," Uhura began,

but Sulu grabbed her arm to silence her.

"Find out what they did with Mr. Scott!" he

shouted as he dragged the communications officer

down the hall. "We'll send you some help as soon

as we're able!"

"Be careful!" Uhura called over her shoulder.

Careful was all he knew how to be anymore.

"Don't let anything happen to you!" he shouted in

return.

But by then Uhura and Sulu were already gone.

Chekov tried to turn his mind from them, to

pretend they were already as safe as he could

make them. Then the airlock door behind him

screamed against the superheated blast of a

phaser from outside.

Uhura slammed up against the skeletal

framework of a future doorway, and hung there

for a moment, gasping. Now that the noise of her

own running had subsided, she could hear Sulu's

thunderous footsteps chasing down the curving

corridor behind her. She wished hopelessly that

there was something they could do to lessen the

noise of their passage. The Enterprise's gaunt

interior amplified every noise they made into an

avalanche of sound. It made evading the unknown

enemy seem an impossible task.

She pushed herself upright when Sulu swung

around the corner, preparing to run again. But the

pilot caught her arm and pulled her to a stop.

"Are we safe?"

Sulu nodded, too winded to speak. "No echoes,"

he gasped after a moment, and Uhura, listening,

realised he was right.

"Now where do we go?" She glanced around,

disoriented by the faceless metal skeleton of the

secondary hull. "Do we even know where we are?"

"Not anymore," Sulu admitted. "But all we have

to do is find a viewport and we'll know where we

are in relation to the docking bay and the

Wraith."

They began to move down the corridor again,

this time with cautious steps that made the deck

plates chime and quiver beneath them. Now that

she wasn't running for

219

L. A. Graf

her life, Uhura had time to notice how much the

unsupported floor swayed under their weight. She

edged toward the wall, then froze when the

muffled sound of a phaser shot echoed from far

behind them.

Sulu paused beside her, head tipped back to

listen, but no other sounds followed the first. The

silence was worse than any noises could have

been, Uhura decided. She glanced worriedly at

Sulu. "Could Chekov have found a phaser?"

"Let's hope so," Sulu said grimly. "Come on, I

see a portable airlock up ahead. We must be near

the hull."

They followed a shaft of pale, shining earthlight

to its source a makeshift airlock plugged into

what looked like a torpedo bay door. The

transparent aluminum portal yawned over a view

of several unfinished torpedo bays gaping along

the curve of the secondary hull. Several decks up,

Uhura spotted the straight seam of the main

docking bay, fringed with tethered workbees and

scaffolded with gantries.

"If these guys are as smart as they've been so

far," Sulu muttered beside her, "they'll guess we're

heading for the Wraith. We'll have to take the

sneaky way in."

" 'Sneaky way'?" Somehow, Uhura had the

feeling that she wasn't going to like this plan.

"What does that mean?"

Sulu turned and headed back down the main

corridor, scanning the walls as he went. "There's

got to be one here somewhere," he said beneath

his breath. "They're the first things to go in . . ."

"What are?" Uhura trailed behind him,

frowning. "Sulu, what are we looking for?"

"An access panel." The pilot suddenly grunted in

satisfaction as he came to a halt in front of a

detachable metal plate in the wall. He tugged it

free to reveal a narrow vertical opening stapled

down its length with metal handholds. "For the

repair shafts."

"We're going to climb up Eve decks?"

"No. We're going to climb up six." Sulu turned

and grinned at her, the flashing grin that meant

he had begun 220

TRAITOR WINDS

to enjoy the adrenaline edge of their situation.

Uhura glowered at him and he said hurriedly,

"Because there's no direct exit into the docking

bay from the maintenance tunnels, and the one

direction they won't be expecting us to come from

is above."

The metallic-sharp stench of ozone stung

Chekov's eyes as the superheated airlock door

expanded with a popping creak.

"Warning," a computerised voice echoed politely

from somewhere farther down the hall.

"Unshielded use of a phase-shifted optic device in

a mooring catwalk could result in a loss of

atmosphere."

Chekov had thought of this when the first

transparent aluminum seal began to steam.

Dragging on the tangle of cable, he cleared the

hatchway with two long tugs, then slapped at the

airlock controls to slide the door closed across the

opening. It mated with the seals on the other side

of the hatch with a hollow boom.

"For your safety and the safety of others, please

erect appropriate shielding before continuing with

your work," the computer suggested with inhuman

patience. Then, without so much as a

conversational pause, "Inner airlock door

engaged."

And unable to open again as long as that outer

door was breached. At least, that was the way it

was supposed to work. Chekov didn't know if the

engineers had actually gotten that far.

If the assailant heard the computer's

announcement, the song of his phaser showed no

sign. Muted now by the thickness of two airlock

hatches, the high-pitched wail drummed flatly

against the bare starship superstructure, a peevish

reminder of how limited the options really were

up here. Chekov stepped against a half-finished

slope of wall and scanned quickly around the

corridor for inspiration.

"Rule number one in any security engagement,"

Oberste's voice barked inside his head. "Never

enter a combat that you know you can't win." He

could still see 221

L. A. Graf

her sweat-dampened face in the Academy gym,

scowling down at him after a particularly

humiliating hand-tohand encounter. "That doesn't

mean never fight back against an opponent. That

means choose your fights wisely."

Some stubborn remnant of the boy who'd first

set foot in the Security Academy all those months

before clenched a petulant fist inside his chest,

refusing to believe that advice. He didn't want to

run away didn't want to give the enemy the

satisfaction of walking onto the Enterprise to find

an empty corridor and no one left in sight to

challenge him.

"Stop thinking like a navigator who wants to

impress his commanding officer!" Oberste's voice

slapped at him like a lash from his memory. He

could almost feel the rough shove of her hands

against his chest. "Think like a security officer,

dammit! What is your first responsibility to the

success of this mission?"

The safe escape of his friends and the

information they carried.

"And how will that be served by you throwing

yourself against a superiorly armed opponent

without even a baseball bat to defend yourself?"

It wouldn't be.

Choose your fights wisely.

He pushed away from the wall, dashing aside

the last of his childish resistance. A scaffolding

draped with welding hookups screamed across the

decking as he dragged it in a circle to block the

mouth of the adjoining corridor. He scooped up a

few loops of cable, throwing them over the

scaffolding's rungs and legs in the hopes it wou ld

make the equipment look somehow more

permanent as though it had been there for days

or weeks, and not just moved there a few

moments before. With luck, the intruder would

discount that blocked passage as an avenue of

escape and follow Chekov down the only other

stretch of hallway, away from the docking bay, and

away from Sulu and Uhura.

The Enterprise's corridors felt chill and breezy, more

222

TRAITOR WINDS

vulnerable to the cold of space than they ever had

when Chekov had called this ship his home. He

resisted touching the exposed struts when he

crouched for shelter beyond a curve in the long,

sweeping tunnel. It felt too much like bothering

an uneasy sleeper, or handling a corpse's rib cage.

Neither image was one he found comforting just

now.

A thunderous clang rang out through the

hallway, and Broad clamored free of the airlock in

a wash of cursing and ghostly steam. He jerked

first toward the looming hulk of the rearranged

scaffolding, leading with his phaser, and Chekov

ducked back out of sight. Turning to face away

from both assailant and airlock, Chekov clenched

his uncasted hand for courage and shouted as

though to his companions, "They've gotten

through the airlock! Come on we've got to

hurry!" Then he pushed up from his crouch and

started to run.

Too much cold, abuse, and tension. Muscles

pulled and ached with every step, complaining

that he should demand so much from them after

so many days of hard living, promising to give out

in protest, to cramp. He put his head down and

ignored every twist and clench of threatened pain.

Stiff muscles loosened up within a hundred meters

or so, he told himself; the only way to ease the

stiffness was to work it. Besides, the consequence

of stopping now would surely be death, and he

couldn't very well prove helpful to the others

unless he stayed alive.

"Chekov, wait!" Broad's voice ricocheted, ever

thinning, from far behind him. "Don't make me

chase you you'll just make things harder!"

At least as hard as Piper and Oberste had made

things so far. That was Chekov's promise to both

of them.

The round, orange-lit portal of a functioning

airlock glowed through the dim internal lighting

where the corridor straightened out ahead.

Another catwalk, Chekov realised. The mooring

tunnels were scattered all up and down this deck,

providing service between the orbital platform and

the Enterprise for the countless 223

L. A. Graf

engineers who scurried back and forth every day.

If he could cycle the airlock and bolt the gap to

the platform before Broad caught up to him, he

might even be able to lead the technician back off

the Enterprise again, leaving Sulu and Uhura to

make their own way to freedom in the Wraith. It

was, at best, a desperate time-killing device, but

the thought of even that small a victory

nonetheless swelled his heart with hope for the

first time since he'd heard Piper die in the Johns

Hopkins stairwell.

He skated to a stop with his hands braced

against the big round doorway, then cried out in

despair when he reached for the controls and saw

the reading that was still left blinking on the

display.

Someone besides Broad had come across to the

Erterprise more than seven and a half minutes

ago, closing down the airlock and blowing free the

catwalk behind them.

224

Chapter Eighteen

U.S.S. Enterprise Earth Sector, Standard Earth

Orbit Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269 0830

hours shiptime

'WELL? Uhura tried to keep her voice low, but

her aching wrists and raw palms made it come out

sharper than she intended. "Is there anyone out

there?"

For answer, Sulu swung the access hatch open

above her and swung himself out onto the deck

outside. Uhura stifled a sigh of relief and pulled

herself up the last few rungs to join him, trying to

ignore the outraged complaints of her newly

healed burns as they stretched to accommodate

the motion. Compared with the icy draft of the

repair tunnels, the clammy air of the deck felt

almost warm. She shivered with gratitude and

hauled herself out to join Sulu.

"This way." The pilot's voice was hushed nearly

soundless, reminding Uhura that for all she knew,

one of their assailants could be hiding around the

nearest corner. The resulting surge of adrenaline

dulled the ache of her burnt wrist and let her

follow Sulu on silent, careful feet. They crept

down the curving corridor, following it until it

intersected with one of the straight, radial

hallways that bisected the hull, then following that

until they arrived at the central bank of turbolifts.

The shafts loomed dark and empty, waiting for

cars

225

L. A. Graf

that wouldn't be installed until after structural

renovations were complete. Sulu propped a hand

on either side of the nearest one and leaned out

into the darkness inspiring Uhura with a

surprisingly maternal urge to grab at the back of

his tunic. "There's the ladderway," the pilot said

after a moment, and swung down into the

darkness. "The engineers finally got sensible and

decided to put it on the front wall instead of the

back."

Uhura took a deep breath and followed him.

Once they were inside, the passage wasn't quite as

dark as she had feared, although her hands and

shoulders weren't any happier about climbing

down than they had been about climbing up.

Fortunately, this time she only had a single deck's

worth of rungs to navigate. Unlike the repair

tunnels, though, this shaft opened directly onto

the deck where the assassins had fired upon them,

so it was critical that the climb be slow and silent.

Uhura closed her eyes to better concentrate on

keeping her hands and feet from making any

noise. She knew they'd reached the deck below

only when Sulu reached up and squeezed her

booted ankle.

This time, Uhura knew better than to ask any

questions of the pilot. She watched in breathless

silence while his slim shadow slipped out into the

passageway and vanished. A moment passed, then

another. Uhura quietly began to climb down the

last few rungs, unable to bear the wait any longer.

Sulu ghosted back to the turboshaft entrance,

holding his thumb up to show Uhura the coast

was clear, then helped her out onto the deck. She

followed him back down the empty corridor to the

main docking bay, its access door exposed and

vulnerable in a wide conjunction of halls. Uhura

swung back and forth, trying to scan all the

corridors simultaneously while Sulu worked at the

door's control panel. It took him only a moment

to verify that the bay was closed and supporting

an atmosphere, but it seemed more like an hour.

"We're clear to go in." Sulu's hushed whisper

was almost drowned by the hissing of the docking

bay doors 226

TRAITOR WINDS

as they slid apart. Uhura stepped through the

entrance as soon as it was wide enough to admit

her, with Sulu treading on her heels.

A quick glance showed Uhura that no one else

was inside, and she swung back to the open doors,

looking for the control panel on this side. Sulu

was already heading -for the fligh-qsuits he and

Chekov had abandoned on the docking bay floor.

He scooped them up and came back to her just as

she found the door controls and pressed them.

Nothing happened.

"The doors won't close," Uhura said urgently.

"Forget the doors!" Sulu threw a fligh-qsuit at

her and began to slide into his own. "Maybe the

renovations have messed up their programming."

"Or maybe someone at a security station caught

us using them and locked them open." Uhura

squirmed into the too-large suit, then reached for

the helmet Sulu held out to her.

"Then the best thing we can do is get out of

here." The pilot caught Uhura's arm and pulled

her toward the Wraith. "Come on. Let's get inside

before we "

Without so much as a footstep of warning, the

whistle of a phaser bolt sliced through the silence

and chased them toward the shuttle's gaping

hatch.

When Chekov heard the buzz of a distant

airlock's breach warning from back the way he'd

come, he knew with sick certainty what Broad

intended to do. A resonant bang! confirmed his

fears, shuddering through the naked ship structure

like a death tremor before plunging into a silence

as flat and final as space itself. Chekov didn't even

need the benefit of a transparent portal to

envision Broad's catwalk curling lazily back toward

the orbital platform, blasted free of its ship

moorings by a ring of emergency bolts. No one

would be leaving the Enterprise by that route again

today.

Chekov pushed away from the airlock in front of

him with a whispered curse. How many catwalks

had they flown past on their approach to the

Enterprise's docking 227

L. A. Graf

bay? A dozen? Five? He suddenly wished he'd

been awake to notice. Whatever the answer, he

couldn't afford to lead Broad to them all not if

he intended to make it back to the platform and

search for Scott. Once the catwalks were

disconnected from the Enterprise, Chekov would

be trapped on board along with Broad and whoev-

er else had already come over. While he might be

able to evade Broad and Stern long enough to

wait for help from Earthside, he could never hold

off Leon" for all the hours it would take to rely on

outside intervention.

And where did that leave Sulu and Uhura?

Could they even reach the Wraith with a second

traitor hunting the passageways for them? How

would Chekov even know if they'd succeeded in

going for the help he was forced to rely on?

"If you're going to be a security guard, you've

got to forget all that abstract crap you did as a

navigator and learn to work with what's real and

what's known." A frustrating lecture on

methodology after he'd failed miserably on a

co mputer modeling assignment. Chekov had

claimed there wasn't enough information to

extrapolate what kind of answer the test program

wanted; Oberste had countered that he didn't

know how to keep his mind on the information in

front of him. "Don't worry about the variables you

can't affect and can't know. Tell me what part of

this problem is real, in front of you, immediate."

Peter Broad's footsteps echoed from around the

curving corridor, in a measured trot that never

quite broke into a run. From the overlapping

sound of his movements, he'd already covered half

the distance between them.

"Take care of that element first. Worry about

finding yourself more things to deal with once

you've got what's in front of you under control."

Chekov started away down the hallway again,

more quietly this time, wiping away extraneous

thoughts as if from a slate until only Broad and

the immediacy of Broad's ringing footsteps

remained.

228

TRAITOR WINDS

"Chekhov" It was not the call of a man who

could hear his quarry. Broad's voice faded into a

growl of muted grumbling, receding for a moment,

then growing in strength again just before rising

into a single sharp curse. Chekov heard the

dispirited thump of Broad drumming his fist in

frustration against the bulkhead. "Paver, it's not

gonna matter how far you go! Talk to me!"

Struts and equipment clogged the passageway at

his next turn. Chekov planted both feet, sliding

sideways to break his momentum even as he went

down on all fours to keep from toppling into the

disorderly stacks of metal. A grunt of pain forced

past his clenched teeth as he slammed into a

down-powered gravsled, and a crate of loose

couplings crashed to the floor from somewhere

farther back in the pile. So much for subtlety and

finesse. Scrabbling out from under an overhang of

bulkhead plating, he squirmed between the

gravsled and the unfinished wall, nearly shouting

in surprise when the deck beneath him dropped by

half a meter. Behind him, Broad's footsteps

increased abruptly in volume and speed.

Chekov grabbed for the exposed deck ribs ahead

of him, hooking one with his good left hand,

another with the elbow above his cast. Nothing of

this corridor was finished beyond power conduits

and simple framing. He dragged himself past the

last of the construction debris, banging knees and

elbows on the bare-floor framework as he

struggled to climb upright atop a string of girders.

Dancing from one to the other made his ankles

ache, but he didn't dare try and leap from pit to

pit, for fear he would trip or land on something

people were not meant to walk on. He would just

have to hope his own labored progress through

the construction was faster than Broad's, weary

legs and aching back notwithstanding.

He was barely ten meters from the original

tunnel blockage, heart pounding at the clamor of

Broad's clumsy pursuit, when he found the second

bulkhead pile and the portable transporter

console.

It was a small, automated cargo unit, its control

panel

229

L. A. Graf

stained with carbon and welding flux, its dais

scarred by all the crates and hulls and gravsleds

that had been dragged across it through however

many years of faithful service. Some engineer had

patched the unit directly into the deck's main

power grid. Taped and twisted cables snaked from

the open wall to the transporter on its makeshift

flooring, and the column housing the automatic

controls blinked serenely into the chill half dark.

The little backlit screen read simply

"STANDBY."

Chekov pounced across the last two girders and

threw the activation switch with the side of his

hand. Power hummed life into the transporter's

atomizing cells, and the controls requested

"PLEASE WAIT" while the unit began to sing. "I

don't have time to wait!" he informed it in an

unhappy whisper.

As if in reply, coordinates appeared on the

small control readout, a string of unattributed

numbers coupled with some kind of shipping

code. Chekov paged down through the list, and a

shiver of dread spread like ice through his system.

There were fifty-seven codes in all. He stopped

reviewing them somewhere around number

twenty.

Way back at the beginning of the semester, he'd

taken a weekend short-course on Departmental

Management Skills. The guest instructor a

specialist on Security Divisions who'd come all the

way from Bombay had walked fifteen students

through the vagaries of intership transporting,

stressing its incredible dangers as well as its

importance in certain high-risk situations. "If you

memorize nothing else about your transporter,

you should always know the coordinates for your

bridge, your brig, and your sickbays," the little

man had singsonged. "These are the places most

important to the security professional, and the

places you must never lose time in reaching." The

idea had seemed so sincere and reasonable at the

time that Chekov had spent the next week

memorizing those four sets of coordinates until he

could visualize them in his sleep.

But that had been four months ago. 230

TRAITOR WINDS

He started back through the coordinate list from

the beginning. The advantage to attempting an

intership transport now was the lack of a

functioning warp drive. Without a subspace field

to warp the beam, assuring materialisation at any

given coordinates became no more of a challenge

than placing a routine landing party. However,

without absolute certainty as to which of the

dozens of codes locked on to the auxiliary sickbay,

he ran the risk of beaming himself into a

nonenclosed section of construction, a sealed

cargo bay, or even open space itself. The bridge

and security holding cells were gone with the

primary disk, doing double duty as a tourist

attraction at the San Francisco navy yards while

she was refitted and rehulled. That left only the

auxiliary sickbay to aim for, with its promise of

laser scalpels and cutting tools and other potential

weapons.

He flashed back and forth between two codes,

each different by only the juxtaposition of three

digits. Are you certain enough? he asked himself

when he saw that his hand shook so badly he

could barely press the keys. Can you pick just one

and really make yourself step up on that platform

and believe you'll come through alive? Three digits

was a lot of meters' difference in result.

The whine of a gravsled's motor sliced across his

doubtful silence. Broad's voice shouted something

Chekov couldn't hear over the scrape and groan

of moving metal, and the question of certainty was

suddenly answered for him. Dead is dead you

might as well go down trying. He chose between the

two codes at random, then set the delay for fifteen

seconds and vaulted the last two struts onto the

dais. The air buzzed with a building charge as he

hurried to pull himself onto the glowing locus.

For the first time he could remember, the

itching tingle of the transporter's disassociation

almost made him want to scream.

Uhura saw the flash as their assailant's first shot

went wide, taking out a section of scaffolding

across the

231

L. A. Graf

docking bay. It must have been fired from far

down one of the outside corridors, because

another minute had passed before Uhura heard

the thud of distant running footsteps, a sinister

echo to their own. A second phaser shot seared a

long gouge across the docking bay floor, this time

only meters away. Uhura gasped and launched

herself into a final lunge toward the shuttle, with

Sulu a half step ahead of her and hauling her with

him while he ran.

The next phaser shot hit the Wraith just in front

of them, then shattered back off the shuttle's

reflective shielding in a glitter of refracted

radiation. Uhura felt more than heard Sulu take

the impact in front of her and collapse only a few

strides away from the shuttle door. She cried out,

bending to try and scoop the pilot up just as a

fourth phaser shot screeched over her head.

Adrenaline stabbed at Uhura so hard it hurt, but

it propelled both her and Sulu into the Wraith in

an ungraceful jumble of arms and legs. Sobbing

with desperation, Uhura squirmed out from under

the pilot's dead weight and slammed the door shut

behind them.

Another phaser beam crackled against the

shuttle's reflective shielding. Uhura ignored it,

bending over Sulu to see how badly he was hurt.

Her best defence now was to get the Wraith out

of here, and to do that she needed its pilot.

"Sulu, damn you, don't you dare be dead!" She

rolled him onto his back and flinched at the

burnt-flesh smell that rose from the torn and

blackened side of his tunic. Unbidden memories of

McCoy swept over her, making her vision blur for

a moment. Uhura took a deep breath and blinked

the tears away, suddenly aware that Sulu was

struggling under her hands.

"Hold still, hold still " She put both hands on

the unburnt side of his uniform. "Is there a

medical kit aboard?"

"Lock door " Sulu panted, still pushing up at

her. "Lock "

Groaning at her own stupidity, Uhura reached up to

232

TRAITOR WINDS

dog the hatch just as hands scrabbled across its

outer latch. The Wraith rocked under the fierce

tug on its door, but the lock held firm. She fumed

back to Sulu, to find him now squirming out from

under her. Uhura made a wordless cry of protest

and leapt up to steady the pilot as he staggered to

his feet.

"Sulu, you need medical treatment "

"No time " Sulu's voice came out thinned by

gritted teeth. "Have to get out of here."

He reeled unsteadily toward the pilot's seat

while Uhura scanned the walls of the tiny cockpit,

searching for the emergency medical kit she knew

had to be aboard. The familiar gleam of the

com munications panel caught her eye instead, just

as a long bombardment of phaser fire sizzled

against the hatch. The inside of the lock began to

glow cherry bright.

"We can't let them bum through " Sulu

glanced over his shoulder, fingers racing across

the control panel to start the sequence that

warmed the thrusters. "If we get breached, we

won't be able to leave the bay!"

"I know." Uhura slid into the copilot's seat

beside him and bent over the Wraith's

communicator, scanning all its channels in a

frantic attempt to find one that could make

contact with the Enterprise's on-board computer.

The phaser blast outside cut off, and she sighed in

relief. "They've stopped."

"And they're coming around the side." Even

over the rumble of the impulse engines, ominous

footsteps echoed outside the Wraith. Sulu slapped

at his obstinate thruster controls. "Hurry up, damn

you one shot through the viewscreen will breach

us for sure!"

As if his words had summoned her, a big-boned

woman in a nondescript medical tunic

materialised in the comer of their viewscreen,

phaser raised. Sulu shouted a warning and

slammed in the half-wammed thrusters. The

Wraith skated itself around in a dragging half

circle, just enough to deflect the phaser bolt

harmlessly off their radiation shielding.

A moment later, Uhura found her computer channel

233

L. A. Graf

and punched in an emergency command she had

never used before. A hurricane-fierce roar of wind

tore past them in response, skittering the Wraith

across the docking bay floor before it.

"What the hell " Sulu engaged the thrusters

again, sliding the Wraith to a stop just before

they'd have slammed into the docking bay doors.

Those shell doors were slowly pulling apart, just

as they'd been ordered to, letting out a giant's

breath of rushing air and ice crystals and one

tumbling, person-sized object. Uhura caught a

brief glimpse of the expression of sudden horror

now frozen forever on their attacker's face, and

then she spun out into the blackness of space.

Silence fell inside the shuttle, the silence of

mingled relief and regret. "How " Sulu

demanded hoarsely, then paused to swallow and

try again. "Uhura, how the hell did you get the

doors to open with someone still inside the

docking bay?"

Uhura took a deep breath, scrubbing the

dampness off her cheeks. "Emergency procedure

code one ninetythree," she told him quietly.

"Evacuation of crew on shuttles during a hostile

takeover of the ship."

She could see the pilot's eyebrows jerk upward.

The docking bay doors were fully open now,

revealing the Earth's turquoise disk below them,

framed in a receding crescent of night. "And you

had that code memorised?"

"I had to." Uhura made an ironic noise, not

quite a laugh and not quite a sigh. "It was the

answer to the last question on the final exam I

just gave."

234

Chapter Nineteen

U.S.S. Enterprise

Earth Sector, Standard Earth Orbit

Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269

0900 hours shiptime

AWARENESS FLASHED OVER CHEKOV on

the fading chime of the transporter effect. He

knew the instant his body solidified and his nerve

pathways fired their first impulse that he was in

free-fall that there was no deck under him and

no immediate pull of gravity to equalize his

perceptions. That he had chosen the wrong

transporter coordinates, and he was doomed.

Then his feet struck the deck hard enough to

buckle his knees, and he recognized the shelves

and carts and tables of medical equipment just

before landing on his bottom in the middle of the

sickbay's diagnostic center. Obviously, no one had

required transportation to sickbay since that

transporter pad was erected. Chekov would have

to remind Scott about aligning those codes when

this was all over.

Rolling to his knees, he pulled himself upright

on one of the nearby equipment carts, pawing

through the contents of its trays and medkits as

he stood. Antiseptics, new-skin sprays, a pack of

sealed laser-burn kits that he shoved aside

without opening their sterile casings. The closest

thing to a weapon in the whole collection was a

pair of angled scissors half-hidden beneath a roll

of

235

L. A. Graf

bandages. Even those were blunt-tipped and short,

though, useless for anything but conventional

cutting. He rolled both cart and scissors off to one

side between exam tables, and dashed to the wall

of pharmaceutical cabinets, with their array of

hyposprays and medicines.

Trazadone hydrochloride, dextromethrophan,

loperamide, sodium salicylate . . . Vial after vial

sported labels that wrapped almost completely

around their little cylinders to accommodate the

long strings of letters. Chekov groaned, digging

farther back in the cabinet to grab another

random handful. He didn't even know that any of

what he was reading was English, much less what

it was good for or how it was used. All hope of

finding anything useful among the medical jumble

evaporated like a hypospray's discharge. He swept

another shelf onto the worktable, praying for

something more straightforward than chemicals.

Shimmers of fusion discharge spattered the

room with brightness, and the hypersonic whine of

a transporter in close quarters yanked Chekov

around with a heartclenching gasp. Peter Broad

coalesced into an outline of coruscating energy,

then washed dark and solid with a flash and

dropped the same three feet Chekov had fallen

only a few moments before. He caught himself

after only a heavy stumble, though. Phaser still

outthrust, Broad flailed one hand to catch at an

exam table and keep himself from falling. Choose

your fights wisely, Chekov reminded himself when

Broad jerked upright and steadied his aim once

again. The phaser blinked to warn of a lowered

charge, but still carried enough power to kill him.

As long as you re living, you still haven't lost.

"I don't have a weapon," Chekov said aloud. He

tightened his hand around one of the useless vials,

wishing it were at least big enough to be worth

throwing. "You don't have to kill me."

As though surprised by Chekov's civil tone,

Broad eased into a more relaxed stance. He kept

one hand on the exam table, though, and didn't

lower the phaser. "I'm not supposed to kill you,"

he admitted, sounding almost 236

TRAITOR WINDS

apologetic. "Leon" just wanted me to bring you

back to him said he'd kill your engineer friend if

you didn't agree to come." A flush of color up his

cheeks darkened the bruises along his still-swollen

jaw. "I'm really sorry about this."

Chekov set down the vial behind himself,

standing away from the wall. "Then why are you

doing it?"

"I told you." Broad twitched the phaser a little

higher, not even seeming to realize he did so.

Chekov made himself stand very still again. "He's

got your friend hostage. Leong swears he's going

to kill him, and I just didn't want to see anyone

else get hurt."

"Even though Leong is planning to kill me, too."

Broad said nothing, only darting his gaze to one

side as though unable to face the private monster

he'd created. A curdle of dread twisted in

Chekov's stomach. It was real, then. There would

be no arrest, no charade for the media, no trial.

He'd been meant for swift removal all along.

Rubbing at his bruises with one hand, Broad

leaned forward over the exam table and dragged

a shaky sigh. "I want you to know, I don't do

things like this. Not for money, not for anything."

The tech was getting good at holding the phaser

straight and steady, so Chekov resisted making a

move against him. Broad laced his hands together

around the phaser and raised fretful brows to

Chekov. "I steal stuff stuff from corporations, not

stuff from people or anything. I never hurt

anybody."

Chekov wondered how many beings would be

hurt with the spread of the Klingon disrupter, but

decided this might not be the best time to bring

the subject up.

"When Mr. Kahle asked me about the job at

Johns Hopkins, I only took it to keep from going

to prison. See, he found out I was selling

UniPhase specs to Earth corporations off-planet.

He said he had friends in the judicial system who

could make sure I'd never get parole, and that no

amount of money was worth that." Broad shrugged

helplessly, eyes wetly bright. "He was right." He

sounded immeasurably ashamed of that fact. "Mr.

237

L. A. Graf

Kahle said he just wanted the plans. That's

all just the disrupter plans."

"And is that worth going to jail over?" Chekov

asked. As long as you're alive. . . "Peter, I know you

haven't killed anyone. I heard what happened to

Dr. Piper; I saw what happened to Commander

Oberste. If Leong has forced you to help him, you

need me to protect yourself." He risked taking

one earnest step forward. "I'm your witness, Peter.

We can speak for each other you about Kahle's

involvement in the technology thefts, me about

the murders and your unwillingness to participate.

You don't have to go to jail," he promised

solemnly. "We don't have to die."

Eyes focused thoughtfully on nothing, Broad

nodded faintly and bobbed the phaser. "Yeah,

that's the salient point.,' A tart wryness livened his

otherwise dull tone. "I've never been able to

figure out how Mr. Kahle was going to justify

keeping me alive once he had all the other loose

ends tied up. It just didn't make good business

sense." He looked up at Chekov again, and

something that was almost a smile quirked at the

edges of his lips. "I think we're really screwed, you

and me."

"Not necessarily." Chekov held one hand- out

expectantly. Broad blinked as though not sure

how to take the gesture, then seemed to come to

himself and stretched across the exam table to

drop the phaser into Chekov's p alm. The

reassuring weight of the pistol swept Chekov with

a relief that made him giddy. He stepped back

away from Broad, the phaser tucked discreetly out

of sight. "Do you know anything that we could use

against him? Anything that might help me get him

away from my friend?"

"Sure." Looking suddenly tired without the

threat of death to support him, Broad motioned

past Chekov with a weary lift of one shoulder.

"For starters, I can tell you what's in those vials in

the medical cabinet behind you."

A long time ago, Sulu had read a study proving

that human beings, unlike the rest of the animal

kingdom, felt

238

TRAITOR WINDS

more pain when they were under stress than when

they were at rest. It seemed vastly unfair. Given

the vital need to pilot Uhura and her packet of

evidence safely down to Annapolis through the

tattered but still-treacherous remnants of

Hurricane Kevin, Sulu considered that the least

his burnt arm and side could do was cooperate in

keeping their owner alive long enough to heal

them.

But logic didn't work on scorched nerves, unless

maybe you were part Vulcan. The ache in Sulu's

side got worse with every breath and every

motion, despite Uhura's best attempts at dressing

it with topical analgesics. Piloting rules forbid the

use of anything stronger, unless the pilot's life was

in danger. And unfortunately, the emergency

medical kit's diagnostic sensor had pronounced

Sulu's burns to be "minor surface damage." Sulu

had a suspicious feeling that the intensity of the

pain he felt might be due more to the

subspaceradiation that the rent in his suit was

letting in than to the wounds themselves.

For the umpteenth time since they'd left the

Enterprise, Sulu put that thought out of his mind

and tried to concentrate on his viewscreen display.

Hurricane Kevin was plotting as a spidery grey

mass in the West Atlantic now, just north of New

York City, the storm, having skipped across the

coast at Assateague and veered back out to sea

overnight. The original flight plan spit out by the

on-board computer had carefully skirted the hurri-

cane's outspread arms, taking them to Annapolis

by way of Ohio and Virginia. Sulu had considered

how many Starfleet bases existed in those states,

and decided to risk flying through the hurricane

fringe instead.

Uhura stirred in the copilot's seat, pointing a

gloved finger at the weather display on the screen.

"Won't Starfleet be able to track us because

you're receiving that?"

"No." Sulu's gaze moved from the map to the

view of Earth slowly enlarging below them. "That's

just a general piloting screen, broadcast from

satellite along with the global positioning signals

for any interatmosphere ship 239

L. A. Graf

to monitor. I haven't tuned in to any of the

ship-specific Starfleetchannels. They don't know

we're here." He felt the first tickle of atmosphere

along the sides of the Wraith and added, honestly,

"Yet."

"But they might?" Uhura demanded. "Even with

the cloaking device on?"

Sulu started to shrug, then felt the anguished

protest of his side and stopped at once. "Only if

someone's lucky and catches visual sight of our

turbulence inside the atmosphere. Once we're

inside the hurricane, we should be safe."

"Somehow, the words 'safe' and 'hurricane' don't

really go together," Uhura said wryly. "I hope you

know what you're doing."

Me, too, Sulu thought, but he didn't say it aloud.

He watched the wrinkled old mountains of the

Appalachians come into view through the

hurricane's outspread fingers, bleached white with

early-winter snow across the highest peaks. Sulu

oriented himself by the abrupt bend of the chain

in Pennsylvania and cut the Wraith's altitude,

heading south and east. The thrum of atmospheric

friction increased along the shuttle's ribbed sides.

"Do you think we should contact Starfleet and

tell them to send security guards up to the

Enterprise?'' Uhura asked suddenly. "I've been

racking my brain trying to think what we could do

to help Chekov . . ."

"Me, too." A grey wall of storm clouds loomed

ahead of them, torn ragged along its lower edge

by slicing rain. Sulu gritted his teeth and let the

Wraith descend into the maelstrom. The sudden

increase in turbulence felt like torture on his

scorched side. "But we can't do that without giving

our own position away. And even if we could,

Kahle's people would intercept the transmission

and run for cover before we'd have had the

chance to catch them."

Uhura fell silent. "I still can't believe it was

him," she said at last. "He was so nice."

Sulu let out an involuntary bark of laughter that sent

a 240

TRAITOR WINDS

ripple of pain down his rib cage. "So was Kodos

the Executioner."

The communications officer sighed. "Yes, that's

true. I guess I should say that I don't want it to be

him." She paused, and then her soft voice turned

unusually cold. "But if it is, I want him caught and

punished."

Sulu grunted agreement. "We'll have Admiral

Kirk send Chekov a squadron of security guards

as soon as we get Kahle arrested."

Navigation beacons began to flare on the

Wraith's viewscreenwhen they descended into the

lower levels of Earth's atmosphere. The circling

radar probes showed very few ships in their

vicinity. Air traffic control must have routed most

of the commercial flights farther south and west,

just as Sulu had hoped when he took this route.

The two or three blips that did show up wore

standard codes identifying them as armed Starfleet

vessels. Sulu fervently hoped they were there to

escort the Romulan delegation to the Territorial

Conference, and not to erect any kind of defense

screen over the Security Academy.

The small Annapolis navigation beacon came in

at last, fainter and less precise than those of the

major cities around it. Sulu got a fix on it, then

tapped a final course correction into the

computer. They were flying low enough that the

haze around them now was made of driving rain

instead of clouds, allowing an occasional glimpse

of the Maryland landscape below. The sharply

pinched ridges of the Appalachians softened into

the rolling winter pastures of the Frederick Valley,

then rose to the broad, snowcapped crest of the

Blue Ridge. All downhill from here, Sulu thought

in grim amusement, and began to ready the

antigravs for landing.

"Almost there?" Uhura sat very still against the

hurricane's buffeting, but her voice was edged

with stifled anxiety.

"Passing over Baltimore now." Sulu could feel

his own tension rise in a beating rush, drowning

out the pain of his side at last. They swung out

over Chesapeake Bay, its 241

L. A. Graf

grey waters almost invisible beneath the sweeping

veils of rain that thickened as they neared the

coast. "Thirty kilometers . . . twenty . . ." If there

was a defense screen set up, this was about where

they should encounter it, he knew. A brief jolt of

lightning on the horizon made Sulu's heart leap

into his throat, but the Wraith's placid sensors

told him it was only a natural part of the

hurricane. "Ten kilometers . . . five . . ."

He caught sight of the military sprawl of red

brick and slate roofs that was the old Naval

Academy, familiar to him from many previous

visits to Chekov. The Wraith's antigravs pulsed as

he cut them in and gradually throttled the impulse

engines down, searching for a good spot to land

on the wet grass of the school's central quad.

"There!" This time, Uhura's pointing finger

showed him the ripple of the Romulan and Earth

flags through the driving rain. The flags flew over

an ancient red-brick building, ornate with porticos

and balustrades, that wrapped around a central

stone-flagged courtyard. "That must be where

they're meeting."

"All right." Sulu maneuvered the ship over the

heads of two security cadets scurrying through the

rain, then cursed when he saw their heads jerk up

in wide-eyed amazement. He'd been depending so

much on the utter silence of the antigrav drive,

he'd forgotten that the Wraith itself would tear

the air it passed through. "We've been spotted,

Uhura. Get ready to run."

She scrambled out from between the seats,

tumbling over the cloaking device on her way to

the hatch. "What will you do?"

"Stay here and get arrested." Sulu brought the

Wraith down right in the center of the

stone-flagged courtyard, where its weight could

not indent the ground. "Okay, go!"

Uhura slammed at the door control, then cursed

when nothing happened. "I can't! The door's stuck

shut." She beat on it with futile fists. "That woman

aboard the Enterprise must have fused the latch

with her phaser."

Sulu began to swing around without thinking, then

- 242

TRAITOR WINDS

gasped when his ribs protested. "Blow the

emergency bolts."

"Where " Uhura's voice cut off when she

found the emergency controls, and a moment

later a dull thud rocked the Wraith and let the

door come crashing down. She dove out through

the hatch before the smoke of the explosion had

time to clear. Sulu heard the echo of her running

footsteps vanish beneath the roar of the rain.

Somewhere across campus, an alarm began to

howl. Sulu grinned and settled himself back in his

seat, waiting for the security guards to arrive. By

the time the first ones poked the business ends of

their phaserscautiously through the open hatch,

he had already lifted his hands m surrender.

"Lieutenant Commander Hikaru Sulu," he told

them gravely. "And you're arresting me for

unauthorised flight and trespass."

"No, Commander." The guards parted to let a

taller, darker man through, one whose deep voice

echoed resonantly inside the shuttle. Sulu stared

up at Commodore Adam Willis in amazement.

"We're arrestin g you for theft of restricted

Starfleet technology. And treason."

243

Chapter Twenty

StarfleetSecurity Academy

Annapolis, North America

Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269

0930 hours EST

SHEETING RAIN drove Uhura across the

courtyard and into the shelter of the nearest

portico she could find. She cut through a hedge of

neatly landscaped yews to reach it, then pulled

herself up and huddled behind the stonecarved

railing, wiping the rain from her eyes and taking

her bearings.

The first thing she saw was how lucky she'd

been. The Territorial Conference flags were flying

over the other wing of the building, and it looked

like Starfleet Security had concentrated its guard

posts there. This side stood dark and silent, the

old leaded panes of the windows revealing dim

shadows of beds and desks and dressers. A cadet

dormitory wing, Uhura realized, deserted for the

holidays.

She began to scurry along the portico on hands

and knees, hoping the heavy rain would keep her

movements hidden from watchful eyes across the

courtyard. Her caution was rewarded a moment

later when the gloved hand she'd been running

along the wall for balance suddenly met a slick

and yielding surface. Uhura glanced over at the

line of windows in surprise and saw that one had

been left slightly ajar.

244

TRAITOR WINDS

Blessing Starfleet's reluctance to tamper with

the architectural integrity of historic buildings by

installing Automated Uhura pushed the opening

wider and squirmed her way into the room?s

shadowed interior. The rain followed her in,

dampening a dark swath of the room's worn

carpet in the brief moment it took her to close the

window again. She waited, but no alarms went off

to betray her presence to the authorities. A dim

wash of light filtered through the open door from

the hallway, but the utter quiet that came with it

told Uhura that the entire wing was deserted.

She sighed in relief and ghosted to the door,

closing it, more for her own sense of security than

for any actual protection. Then she stripped out of

her conspicuous silver fligh-qsuit and stuffed it

into the room's oldfashioned wastebasket. A quick

search of the room's dresser drawers revealed only

large-sized security jumpers. Uhura bit her lip and

ventured cautiously down to the next room,

thanking God for the cadet discipline that kept all

doors open so superior officers could see at a

glance if the rooms were clean.

It took three more room searches before she

turned up a cadet uniform small enough to fit her.

Uhura made the change quickly, then scrubbed

her face and hands and dumped all her jewelry

and rank pins into the wastebasket, along with her

borrowed medical uniform. None of the boots

she'd found had fit, so Uhura finally contented

herself with just polishing the ones she had on.

Then she stepped over to the room's small

utilitarian mirror and regarded the result.

Clad in Security red and black, she looked

almost like a cadet, but not quite, and it took a

long, frowning moment to figure out why No

Starfleet cadet in the world had the time to wind

her hair into the polished and interwoven braids

Uhura wore. She winced, then took a deep breath

and went to fetch a pair of scissors from the desk.

Ten minutes later, a security cadet with a

cropped military haircut and an armful of

computer notebooks

245

L. A. Graf

and data readers approached the security guard

station at the entrance to the conference

halL"Iheard there were spectator seats at the

conference," she said with polite respect to the

middle-aged security guard who rose to meet her.

"Is that right?"

It was the usual Starfleet procedure when

conducting low-level negotiations to allow cadets

and ensigns to observe from behind a curtaining

forcefield. Uhura had heard Admiral Kirk say that

it not only showed the junior officers how to

negotiate, it also kept the senior officers who were

negotiating on their toes. Uhura wasn't sure that

standard procedures would be followed for a

meeting as sensitive as the Romulan Territorial

Conference, but she figured it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Only for the opening ceremonies this morning,"

the security guard warned her, then pointed at the

staircase that led up from the building's main

entrance. "It's up on the second-floor balcony."

"Thanks." Uhura bounded up the stairs with

what she hoped looked like a cadet's eager energy.

She didn't let herself collapse into gasps until

she'd reached the second floor. She waited several

more minutes to be sure her breath had steadied

before she ventured out onto the balcony itself.

The narrow, oak-paneled parapet wrapped

around three sides of what looked like an old

dining hall or gymnasium, now fitted out as a

negotiating chamber. There weren't many seats,

and most of those were unoccupied. The same

holiday break that had vacated the dormitory had

left only a handful of cadets here to view the

opening ceremonies, Uhura guessed.

She began to walk the balcony's perimeter,

pausing several times as if searching for a good

vantage point of the room below. In actuality, she

was looking for the forcefield generator. The

protective field threw an almost invisible shimmer

over the scene below, although Uhura knew that

from the other side it would look like an opaque

white wall. She spared one quick glance down at

the milling clusters of Romulan and Vulcan

diplomats, 246

TRAITOR WINDS

Starfleet officers, and civilians, whose rich velvet

tunics wore the star-cluster symbol of Jackson

Kahle's Peace Foundation. Admiral Kirk was

nowhere in sight, but it looked like the conference

was just getting started.

"Gentlebeings, please take your places at the

table." The familiar snap of Jackson Kahle's voice

sent a ripple of adrenaline racing through Uhura.

She paused again, shaken by one last spasm of

doubt as she stared down at the octogenarian

billionaire who had seemed so entirely trustworthy

in her class. Could this former starship captain

really be behind all the horrible events of the last

two weeks? Then she watched Kahle scan the

stillscattered crowd and saw the way his eyes lit

with impatient steel-blue fire. "Gentlebeings, I

said sit down. "

That whiplash voice broke through the milling,

and started the diplomats moving toward their

places at the circular negotiating table. It also

broke through Uhura's indecision, for some

reason reminding her of the ruthless and draconic

way McCoy had been attacked at Stanford. With

a deep, renewing breath, she pushed herself into

motion, circling the rest of the balcony.

She found the field generator midway along the

back section, where it could generate two

symmetrical wings of force. With a sigh of relief,

Uhura sank down into a chair next to it, putting

her data readers and notebooks down on the

chair beside her. The two or three cadets on the

other side of the balcony had begun to give her

curious looks, but now they turned their attention

back to the floor below.

A portly man in the uniform of a security

commodore stood and cleared his throat,

obviously waiting for the last few stragglers to sit.

Uhura's heart leaped when she recognised the

dynamic strides of the final figure to enter in

Starkest gold and black. Admiral Kirk was back,

along with a hooded figure in Vulcan robes who

she guessed must be Ambassador Sarek. Uhura

waited expectantly for them to denounce the

conspirators, but they merely took their places at

the table in silence. Her heart sank briefly, but

she reassured herself that she still had all the

247

L. A. Graf

proof they needed, safely riding on the computer

datacardin her pocket.

The portly commodore was speaking now, at

first hesitantly in Romulan and then more

confidently in Vulcan and English. Uhura

recognised the formal greetings of the other

planets and sat impatiently through the English

equivalent, waiting for an appropriate time to take

action. Her damp palm itched, and she scrubbed

it down her pant leg, then fished the datacard out.

Her other hand crept toward the field generator.

"Gentlebeings of Vulcan, Romulus, and Earth."

The officer straightened himself to his full height.

"I'm Commodore Keith deCandido, and on behalf

of Starfieet I'd like to welcome you to the Security

Academy, to Annapolis, and to Earth. There is no

better person to open our conference today than

the man who inspired this unprecedented first step

in communication between warring species.

Gentlebeings, I give you the founder of the Peace

Foundation Jackson B. Kahle II."

A polite splatter of applause from the human

delegates and a respectful silence from the

Romulans and Vulcans greeted the billionaire

when he rose from his seat. Uhura sat forward to

watch him, her fingers blindly searching out and

finding the field generator's power control.

Kahle nodded in curt response to the applause,

but typically dispensed with any other

preliminaries in his speech. "Gentlebeings, we

have gathered here today to heal some

long-festering sores along the Federation and

Romulan Neutral Zone." Disembodied voices

accompanied him as he spoke, translating his

words into simultaneous Vulcan and Romulan.

Uhura heard a closer second echo, and glanced

down the balcony to see moving lips and

microphones among the group she had taken for

cadets. Translators, she thought with satisfaction,

so engaged with their work that they wouldn't

even notice when she made her move.

" in this way, we can try to overcome our

mutual prejudices, move past our hostilities, and

create a climate of hope," Kahle concluded. "Even

if all we can 248

TRAITOR WINDS

accomplish now is to resolve a few border

disputes, we will be setting a precedent for the

future. A precedent for peace."

Uhura knew a cue when she heard one. The

applause that followed Kahle's speech completely

masked the whine of the field generator turning

off. As soon as the shimmer died away in front of

her, Uhura stood up and tossed the computer

datacard down to clang and skitter across the

negotiating table.

With an explosion of angry voices, all heads

below turned up toward the balcony, seeking the

source of the projectile. Uhura stood with both

hands clenched on the rail, praying that none of

the security guards below would feel threatened

enough to stun her with their phasers. She knew

she had only a few minutes to make her stand

against Jackson Kahle.

Uhura took a deep breath, pitching her trained

voice so it would carry to the far corners of the

room below. "What kind of precedent for peace

did you establish by selling the Romulan cloaking

device to the Klingons, Mr. Kahle?"

Her question dropped like a stone into the roar

below and silenced it. Uhura watched the human

expressions change from incensed to incredulous,

while the Romulans turned glaring scowls of

suspicion all around them and the Vulcans raised

a host of impassive eyebrows. If nothing else,

Uhura thought wryly, she had given the

participants at the conference something inter-

esting to talk about over lunch.

"Commander Uhura." Kirk's ringing tones broke

through the silence. The admiral stood up in his

place, her datacard prominently displayed in his

lifted hand. "Do you have proof of this

accusation?"

He knows, too, Uhura realised, hearing the

intensity behind her former captain's measured

words. He must not have gotten the

evidence he needs to proven', but he

knows. She nodded, then realised that the

nonhumans below might not recognise that head

signal. "Yes, I do, Admiral. That datacard holds a

replica of a security 249

L. A. Graf

certificate, signed by Jackson Kahle, that sent a

traitor into the Klingon disrupter at Johns

Hopkins. The signature and thumbprint are

verified to be authentic."

Kahle glared up at her. "But what the hell does

that have to do with the Romulan cloaking

device?"

"It it was all part of the same plan." Don't let

him rattle you, Uhura told herself desperately. The

aura of Starfleet authority projected in Kahle's

steely gaze made her want to stammer out an

ensign's quick apology. "You've already sold the

cloaking device to the Klingons, and now you'll

sell the disrupter to the Romulans, to to arm

both sides for interplanetary war." Footsteps

thundered down the balcony behind her, but she

refused to be distracted. "The people who stole

the disrupter came from one of your subsidiary

companies, and that security certificate proves it."

Kahle barked out a snort of laughter. "The

people who stole the disrupter came from Admiral

Kirk's old starship, and you, Commander Uhura,

are one of them!" He stabbed a finger across the

table at Kirk, grimly silent at his place. "I told

Nogura you were too young to be kicked up to

admiral, Kirk. Other men command ships for

decades and never get promoted. You pull off a

few flashy missions, get some commendations, and

leave boot prints on everyone else's forehead. Just

not enough seasoning, not enough years in the

field to be sure you could be trusted. And this

debacle proves it!"

Rough hands seized Uhura from behind as a

security squad converged on her. She didn't try to

struggle with them. "Commodore deCandido, what

do you want us to do with her?" one of the guards

called down over the balcony.

The commander of the Security Academy

hesitated, glancing first at Admiral Kirk and then

at Jackson Kahle. Neither man spoke, although

they exchanged a look that crackled between them

like an electric arc.

Commodore deCandido sighed. "Arrest her," he

said.

* * *

250

TRAITOR WINDS

Having finally braved the darkness of the orbital

platform, Broad exploded the mooring bolts on

the final catwalk while Chekov stood by and

fingered the resin on his newly casted arm. The

lightweight sheath hadn't hardened as neatly as

before; the angle of his wrist and palm made his

forearm ache with vague discomfort, and the edge

below his elbow gripped just a little too tightly

against the muscles there. Maybe the break had

started swelling again, he thought. Whatever the

cause, he couldn't keep from tugging at the

opening the way he would have a constrictive

tunic collar. And just like the collar would have,

his cast refused all attempts at afterthe-fact

resizing.

"That's it." Broad turned his back to the lock

the moment his hands finished freeing the

catwalk. It was as if he couldn't stand to witness

the destruction he'd set in motion, as if ignoring

the consequences made what he'd done not count.

"That's the last one I know about, at least."

Chekov nodded and stepped forward to watch

the catwalk's retreat through the airlock window.

"And what were you supposed to do after cutting

the last escape route free?" The sinuous tube of

cable, glass, and polycarbon curled back on itself

like a length of burning plastic, flashing in the

space-cold touch of the distant sun.

"I was supposed to take you back to Leong at

the dry-dock transporter platform."

Chekov cocked a frown over one shoulder,

pulling again at the edges of his cast. "What about

Stern?"

Broad only looked at him. His capacity to

answer uncomfortable questions had been steadily

deteriorating.

"She went over to the Enterprise, didn't she?"

Broad nodded.

"And Leong ordered you to abandon her

there?" Not that Chekov minded having her cut

off from the rest of the platform while they went

to meet Leong. The

251

L. A. Graf

Iieutenant's duplicity toward his own comrades

just shocked Chekov, even after everything else

he'd seen Leong do.

As if having heard Chekov's thoughts in the

empty corridor, Broad smiled weakly and offered

the ensign a little shrug. "This had something to

do with my growing conviction that Leong didn't

have my best interests at heart."

But you were still going to do it, Chekov thought

soberly. It occurred to him that he'd do well to

remember how many sides Broad had already

been on in this conflict; it wasn't as if Chekov had

recruited the most trustworthy ally ever.

"Stick with the problem in front of you,"

Oberste's voice reminded him, and Chekov

nodded impatiently as he moved away from the

airlock, with Broad following hastily behind.

While warmer and slightly better ventilated due

to a network of completed atmosphere ducts, the

dry-dock orbital platform was just as empty and

silent as the vacant ship had been. Chekov

threaded a trail as far away from the airlock

passage as he dared go, stopping at every

intersection to wave Broad forward and to check

his bearings. It wasn't the same dry-dock layout he

remembered from Academy tours as a cadet; at

least, he didn't think it was the same. But Broad

had confirmed that the transporter platform still

sprawled between the first deck's central support

pylons, and that the construction crew's quarters

still occupied most of the third through seventh

levels.

They'd blown the airlocks one by one in a line

leading away from the dry dock's central spine,

finishing as far from the platform's transporter

facility as Chekov could possibly contrive. Still, he

hated the loud clanging of their footsteps on the

grated floor, hated the long halls of openness

stretching from one end of the dry dock to the

other. He detoured into the second maintenance

tunnel they passed, unable to stand the exposure

anymore.

"Where are we going?" Broad hitched to a stop

inside

252

TRAITOR WINDS

the tunnel entrance, his voice echoing up the tall

ladderway.

Chekov, already three rungs up, squatted to

scowl a hush down at him. "I'm taking you to the

crew billets," he whispered. He reached out to

hook Broad's sleeve with the fingers poking out of

his cast and urged the tech two steps farther into

the tunnel. "It's only two decks up, and this will be

faster than following the normal pedestrian routes.

We need to be quick and we need to be careful."

Swift, Silent, and Deadly. He didn't remember who

at the Security Academy had first told him that

unofficial motto, but it chilled him to realize how

appropriate it had become.

"But if we don't go to Leong . . ."

Chekov straightened, climbing another few

rungs to give Broad room to grab hold of the

ladder below him. "I'll go to Leong," he promised,

starting upward with a deliberateness he hoped he

could make Broad believe in. "You're going to

contact Starfleet Command from one of the billet

radios and get someone to send help. I'll give you

the correct priority codes and show you how to

reply to them." An uncertain murmur from

somewhere beneath his feet made Chekov peek

past his elbow at the bruised and frightened face

below. "Remember we need each other as

witnesses. I can't afford to let you die, either."

Broad ducked his head in what might have been

an unsteady nod, then continued climbing in

silence.

By the time they could see the deck three access

above them, Chekov's legs had reached the point

of leaden numbness that had been lurking just on

the other side of fatigue. He crawled out into the

corridor on hands and knees, then used the

closest billet door to drag himself ungracefully to

his feet. Even so, he wasted three minutes of their

precious time with his casted arm braced against

the bulkhead and his ankle gripped behind his

back, trying to stretch some feeling back into his

thighs. Broad paced in tiny, n ervous circles,

unable to conceal his unhappiness about the delay

or about Chekov's slow 253

L. A. Graf

progress, before the ensign finally limped the last

dozen meters to the entrance of Scott's waiting

quarters.

"If we were this close," Broad whispered

peevishly, "why didn't you just tell me?"

Chekov opened the door without volunteering a

reply.

Once inside, Chekov dropped into the

comterminal's desk chair and rubbed at his thigh

while punching one.-fingered codes into the

keyboard as fast as his injured hand would allow.

The delicious swell of pleasure offered up by his

muscles the moment he relieved them of work

nearly pulled a groan from him. He fought it back

for the sake of his own dignity; besides, both

Broad and he had enough to worry about without

him admitting how shallow the reserves were he

was running on. Abandoning his efforts at

self-massage, he lifted both hands to the keyboard

and tucked his legs underneath his chair to bring

back a little of the discomfort.

"Give me twenty minutes before you start

transmitting." A crisp blue screen scattered with

stars and the ovoid Starfieet logo welcomed him

into the communications net. Chekov pushed back

from the terminal and carefully stood. His calf

muscles felt two inches shorter than they had only

three days before. "I'm assuming Leong has

communications monitored, so you have to give

me time to distract him or he'll know the minute

you open the call."

Broad sank into a chair without looking at

Chekov, staring at- the waiting screen and running

both hands through his hair as though preparing

to take on the worst Academy simulation ever

devised. "Is twenty minutes going to be long

enough? I mean, what happens to me if you

haven't got him distracted before I start the

signal?"

The technician's blatant self-interest seemed

oddly amusing against the backdrop of multiple

murders and interstellar intrigue. "If I haven't

managed to do something with Leong by twenty

minutes from now," Chekov said with a weary

smile, "then he's probably already killed me and

started looking for you. I'd suggest you ask 254

TRAITOR WINDS

Starfleet Command to hurry, because they'll be

the only ones who can help you then."

"Great." Broad took a deep breath and poised

his hands beside the keyboard, ready to pounce as

soon as the chronometer gave him permission.

"Just great."

Chekov left him that way, fearing only that

Broad would frighten himself into transmitting too

early and thus ruin everybody's chances for

survival. Still, it wasn't as if they had any other

options open, so he tried to anticipate Oberste's

advice and wiped Broad and the radio from his

thinking as he moved on to the second part of the

plan.

It took him only seven minutes to reach central

sector.

Easing down the ladder proved harder than

climbing up. With each rung, his knees refused to

support him beyond a ninety-degree bend; he

dropped heavily each time he stepped down to the

next foothold, always sure he wasn't positioned

correctly to keep from plunging the full three

stories, always finding the rung squarely with his

arch before he lost his balance. His hands

trembled from seizing tightly over and over again

the rods of chilly metal, and his jaw ached from

clenching. It was all he could do to slip quietly off

the last two rungs onto the decking, then pad out

into the open hall without stumbling about like a

bear.

Sneaking up on anyone in this echo chamber

was impossible; the very attempt would be made

conspicuous by its futility. So he tried to keep his

walk firm and confident, crossing the final

distance to the transporter room doorway as

though he had nothing to fear from it. He was

supposed to be Peter Broad, after all, returning

triumphant with his prisoner and his weapon. Let

Leong think Broad was stupid enough to walk into

his own murder without questioning. It was

Chekov who approached now with the phaser in

his grip, and he could use every haughty

assumption Leong could possibly spare.

He didn't mean to slow down just before the

open doorway, but he did it anyway, flexing his

casted hand

255

L. A. Graf

into a fist and bringing that arm down tight to his

side. As he tipped back the phaser to verify the

setting and dispersal, a light, teasing voice called

out, "Come on in, Chekov. I've been waiting to

see if I'd hear two sets of footsteps, or one. If I

don't see you in the next thirty seconds, I'll blow

his brains right through this wall."

"Don't worry about me, lad!" Scott shouted. The

engineer sounded defiant and angry, and Chekov

felt a pang of bitter guilt at the Scotsman's brave

words.

Chekov stepped around the doorway with the

phaser held stubbornly in front of him. It wouldn't

save him he knew that. All it would grant him

was the right to die with a gun in his hand. Still,

that was a right he wasn't about to let Leong take

away, not after the traitor had already stolen so

much else that mattered to him. `'AII right, I'm

here, damn you." Chekov jerked a stiff nod across

the room at Scott, too angry to even meet the

Scotsman's eyes. "Now let him go."

Feigning a look of hurt surprise, Leong quirked

a brittle smile and kept his phaser pressed to

Scott's temple with easy malice. "And have you

shoot me the minute you've got him out of our

way? I don't think so." Hatred glittered brightly

from deep inside his cold black eyes. "It's my call

this time, Ensign. Throw down your phaser, or the

engineer dies."

256

Chapter Twenty-one

Starfleet Security Academy Annapolis, North

America Terrestrial Date December 25, 2269

1000 hours EST

SINCE THEY D LEFT the Enterprise, the one

thing Uhura hadn't permitted herself to think

about was the possibility of defeat. Now that it

loomed in front of her, she felt more stunned

than anguished. She'd been so sure that Dr.

Piper's evidence would be enough to convict

Jackson Kahle of treason. Instead, the billionaire

had managed to twist her accusations and hurl

them back against the Enterprise crew. Uhura

wasn't sure what she'd expected after she'd

dropped her datacard into the conference, but it

certainly wasn't being hustled unceremoniously

out to whatever served as the Security Academy's

equivalent of the brig.

At the foot of the stairs, the security squad that

walled her in was met by a second group of

guards, coming m wet-shouldered and dripping

from the downpour outside. A handcuffed figure

in a scorched silver fligh-qsuit walked in the

center of this squad, setting their pace with his

painfully slow strides. Uhura opened her mouth

on an indignant protest, then caught sight of the

plas-skin bandages beneath the torn suit edges

and subsided. At least the guards who'd arrested

Sulu had been consider

257

L. A. Graf

ate enough to get him some emergency medical

care before they'd dragged him out into the rain.

The pilot's eyes met hers through the swarm of

silent guards, and his strides lengthened

noticeably. "Any luck?"

Uhura held up her wrists to show him her own

handcuffs. "I showed them the data-record," she

said hurriedly while their groups converged at the

foot of the stairs. "Kahle just accused us of

stealing the disrupter and shrugged it off. If they

take you in, see if you can "

"Prisoners will refrain from speaking." The

canyondeep voice came from the tall,

dark-skinned man who had followed Sulu's guards

into the building. He wore the rank of

commodore on his sleeves, along with the golden

sun and mountain badge of the White Sands

Experimental Flight Center. Uhura's eyebrows

arched in silent surprise. What on earth was the

White Sands base commander doing here in

Annapolis? She threw Sulu a questioning look and

got only a shrug in reply.

The doors to the conference room burst open,

and a figure in Starfleet gold strode out, sweeping

the entrance with a commanding hazel gaze.

"Bring both those prisoners in for questioning,"

Admiral Kirk ordered when he saw them, in a

tone that brooked neither uncertainty nor delay.

The security guards snapped into motion

obediently, then paused in confusion when the tall

commodore pushed in front and stopped them.

"I really don't think we should disrupt the

conference," he advised. "Admiral, if you could

just ask Commodore deCandido to come out "

"I said, bring the prisoners in." The quiet chill in

Kirk's voice told Uhura.he was furious. "That was

a direct order from a superior officer,

Commodore Willis. Are you going to disobey it?"

The White Sands base commander locked stares

with Kirk for a moment, but his dark eyes were

the first to drop. "No," he said stiffly. "Sir."

Kirk grunted acknowledgment and waved the

security guards into the conference room. Uhura

turned and 258

TRAITOR WINDS

climbed the three polished oak steps, only to be

greeted by a roar of angry voices when she

stepped through the heavy, carved doors. Thinking

that these accusations were directed at her, Uhura

froze on the threshold. The security guard at her

shoulder tugged at her, clearing the way for Sulu

to enter behind them. By the time Kirk had

followed, with Commodore Willis at his heels,

Uhura had begun to realizethat the shouting

wasn't directed at any of them. She could also see

why Kirk hadn't been worried about disrupting the

conference.

The Romulans had left the negotiating table,

gathering into a solid wall of outrage at the far

end of the room. Most of the Peace Foundation

officials and a few of the Vulcan diplomats

seemed to be trying to open a discussion with

them, but the sheer volume of Romulan

indignation made it an almost impossible task.

The remaining Vulcans and the Starfleet officers

had gathered into a quieter but equally tense knot

in front of the door. Several of them looked up

when Kirk entered, with expressions ranging from

suspicion to relief.

"All right, gentlemen." Kirk hauled Uhura and

Sulu out of their squads of security guards and

brought them with him toward the table. "Let's

see if we can make some sense of "

"No!" One of the strident Romulan voices finally

outroared the others and won a relative stretch of

silence in which to speak. "We will not negotiate

with you. We refuse to stay on a planet of such

shame!"

"Praetor, we don't know that these accusations

are true!" one of the Peace Foundation officials

protested.

"But we know." The stocky Praetor stepped

forward, drawing his metal-studded cloak around

himself. "Over the last seven Earth days, we have

detected the ion trails of a shielded vessel not our

own, probing from our Klingon Neutral Zone. We

assumed it to be merely some Romulan outlaw,

hiding in the bosom of our enemies. Now we

know" a thick finger pointed wrathfully across at

the group of Starfleet officers, cantering on

Admiral Kirk "the same treacherous human dogs

who stole our 259

L. A. Graf

cloaking device have sold it to the bloodiest of

our enemies!"

Kirk gave the Romulan leader a cold and

mirthless smile. "With your permission, Praetor,

I'd like to prove that it was not exactly the same

treacherous human dogs. Feel free to walk out,

unless you'd like to find out who your real

enemies."

The Romulan glowered, but made a gesture that

halted his second-in-command when the younger

man growled and tried to push past. "We'll stay,"

he said curtly, making another gesture that turned

the wing of officers behind him ominously silent.

"Do your inquisition,

The admiral nodded, then swung around to face

Uhura. "Commander, I'd like you to summarize

the sequence of events leading up to your

acquisition of this evidence against Mr. Kahle."

"Unnecessary." It was a new voice, and although

it came from the hooded figure who'd entered

with Admiral Kirk, it was not the voice of Sarek.

Uhura's eyes widened as the hood was thrust back

to reveal a scowling Klingon face beneath it.

"Kang!" Uhura shuddered as she recognised the

Klingon commander who had once tried to take

over the Enterprise. A hiss of indrawn breath went

through the group of Starfleet officers, and a

distinct space widened around the robed figure.

Kang replied with a contemptuous snort, striding

forward until he stood directly in front of Sulu's

security squad.

"There, Kirk." Kang spat the English words out

as if they tasted bad on his tongue. "There is the

traitor you brought me here to identify." Uhura's

heart leaped into her throat as the Klingon

commander took another step closer to Sulu and

the security guards closed their ranks in response.

"We bought the Romulan cloaking device directly

from him."

There was no warning. Motion exploded from

the back of the security squad, as if someone had

broken to run The attempt didn't succeed. With

one powerful Klingon 260

TRAITOR WINDS

lunge, Kang reached into the tightly packed knot

of men, and dragged out Commodore Willis.

"You heard me, Chekov. Throw away your

phaser."

Even though he'd expected this ultimatum from

Leong had counted on it, in fact Chekov still

found himself clenching his jaw in anger at being

forced into such a heartless decision. "I heard

you." He nodded toward Scott, bound with wire

and patching tape to some jumble of equipment

awaiting the end of the holidays for transport to

the Enterprise. Leong had just slapped another

length of patching tape across the engineer's

mouth, effectively excluding Scott from any

further discussion. "What's to keep you from

killing him the moment you have me unarmed?"

Leong shrugged. "Nothing."

A chain of Russian invectives flashed

untranslated into Chekov's mind, and he realized

with a twist of disgust exactly what it felt like to

want another living creature's death. No guilt, no

pleasure just a dull, aching hatred. "Weren't you

the one who told me that a security officer should

never surrender his weapon, no matter who the

enemy, no matter what the threat?"

"That's a rule for guards who honestly earned

their ranks." The loathing in the older officer's

voice was savage and bitter. "Not for command

school dropouts who only got their assignment

because they had a captain in Starfleet

Headquarters to pull for them." He motioned with

his phaser, more sharply than before, and Scott

recoiled almost unconsciously from the movement.

"I'm getting tired of saying this throw down your

gun."

Oberste's voice loomed up inside Chekov, as

sharp and insistent as if the commander was

standing firmly at his right shoulder. "Choose your

fights wisely," she warned him with a scowl.

That only works if you get to choose your battles.

He was being as wise as the situation would let

him. When this is all over, you can grade me on the

outcome.

His phaser clattered against the foot of the

transporter 261

L. A. Graf

console, then skated off at an angle to spin to a

stop halfway across the deck from Leong. The

lieutenant flicked a snake-quick look at the

sacrificed weapon, and caustic laughter rippled

through him. "Predictable," he declared, as though

pronouncing the name of a mineral specimen.

Chekov kept his anger focused tightly on Leong.

"So are you."

"We'll see about that." Stepping neatly away

from Scott and the clutter of equipment, Leong

displayed his own phaser grandly on the flat of

one open palm. Then with a twist, he pitched the

gun behind him onto the transporter platform,

where it slid behind the dais and disappeared

from sight. "Now we get to see who's right about

procedure and who's wrong. Go ahead." He jerked

his chin at the phaser between them and grinned

wickedly. "Pick it up and kill me before I break

your neck."

Scott struggled suddenly against the wiring that

bound his hands, his eyes wide with warning as he

tried to call out from behind the strip of patching

tape. But Chekov didn't dare break concentration

long enough to look at the engineer. Concern

would be too much of a distraction, fear too much

like believing Leong had already won. Chekov had

to ease himself into the timeless clarity of a

weapon had to absorb every breath and blink

and movement of his opponent until some

microscopic shift of weight registered in the

wordless depths of instinct and his body leapt into

action.

Chekov didn't even get to within arm's length of

the waiting phaser. Leong darted forward with the

playful grace of a dancer, slapping the gun into

another skittering slide with one foot and cracking

his heel against Chekov's shoulder to throw the

ensign backward. Rolling, knowing that distance

was his only protection against Leong, Chekov

tried to spring to his feet without pressing any

weight against his casted right arm. The loss of

balance brought him up irregularly, though, and

he was forced into taking a single wide step to one

side before gathering himself into a proper

defence. Leong all

262

TRAITOR WINDS

but materialised in front of him. Pain exploded,

blindingly bright, inside his skull, and some

distant, intellectual part of him recognized that

Leong must have hit him, although he never

actually saw the swing or felt the blow. Chekov

backed up hard into the bulkhead behind him,

and would have slid straight to the floor if Leong

hadn't caught him under the jaw to pin him

upright.

"Well, I'm disappointed." The older lieutenant

tipped his head as though considering, and

Chekov noted, almost absently, that the back of

Leong's hand was spattered with drops of fresh

blood. "I really thought we'd go a bit longer than

this."

Uncomfortably aware of the slimy drizzle of

blood down the back of his throat, Chekov

thought blearily, I didn't even want it to go this

long He wondered if his nose was broken, or if

Leong had done something even worse.

"I told you, Chekov you just don't understand

what it takes to survive in security. Between the

two of us, who would you rather have leading a

dangerous landing mission?"

In answer, Chekov uncurled the fist of his right

hand and swung as hard as he could for Leong's

exposed throat. He didn't really expect to connect

with anything vital Chekov wasn't fast even

without the cast to weigh him down, much less

with a half kilo of resin to restrict his speed. But

he hadn't expected Leong's keen reflexes, either.

In a blur of gold and red, the lieutenant's arm

shot up between them and caught Chekov's hand

palm-topalm as though he were planning to offer

a robust handshake. It was better than Chekov

could have possibly hoped for; he closed his eyes

in relief and dropped his head back against the

bulkhead with a sigh.

Leong seemed more surprised by Chekov's

sudden submission than he did by the hiss of the

hypospray. Peeling his hand away with dull

disbelief, he stared at the palm as though amazed

by something he saw there. He never did move to

inspect the hypospray embedded in 263

L. A. Graf

the palm of Chekov's cast, or even raise his eyes

in question of what had just been done to him. He

only folded slowly down to his knees, then toppled

over backward like an overweighted mannequin.

"I meant it for the best."

Uhura looked up from rubbing at her loosened

wrists in time to see Admiral Kirk and Sulu

exchange an ironic look over Commodore Willis's

bent head. The White Sands base commander sat

dejected and handcuffed, surrounded by a brace

of hostile admirals in lieu of security guards. The

other admirals and commodores had closed an

equally tight kno t around Jackson Kahle, although

so far Willis had refused to implicate him.

The proof that Sulu had not been involved in

the cloaking device theft had swung the tide in

favor of the Enterprise crew. Uhura had been

freed by a quiet word from Commodore

deCandido, who had also sent for a medical team

to treat Sulu's burns. The pilot had steadfastly

refused to leave the negotiating chamber, in case

he was needed to testify against Willis.

"Mr. Willis." It was the highest-ranking admiral

who spoke, the short and deceptively

placid-looking Hajime Shoji. Uhura noticed he

hadn't given Willis the title of his rank. "Are you

really trying to tell us that you thought the

Federation would benefit from giving the Klingons

the Romulans' greatest tactical weapon?"

"Yes!" Willis's resonant voice lifted in defiance.

"It will give them the ammunition they need to

take on the Romulans at their own game."

"And then turn the cloaking device on us when

they're done!" Kirk snapped. Across the room, a

growl of angry whispers arose from the Romulan

delegation, but Uhura noticed no one made any

attempt to leave. Kang stood off to one side, his

intense dark eyes never leaving Willis's face.

Uhura wasn't sure how Admiral Kirk had

convinced the Klingon commander to identify the

man who'd sold him the cloaking device, but it

was obvious Kang was angry at Willis, too.

264

TRAITOR WINDS

The base commander flinched away from the

murmur of agreement that followed Kirk's words.

"No! Armed with the same weapons, the

Romulans and Klingons will tear themselves apart

fighting each other." He looked up at the circle of

stern faces surrounding him, clearly searching for

support. "All we did was give them a level playing

field to fight on."

"And the motivation to blame us when they

lost," Shoji pointed out relentlessly. "Not to

mention the other negative impacts of having half

the galaxy immersed in a bloody interspecies war."

Uhura took a deep breath. "There's one impact

that won't be negative for some people.

Thousands of war contracts will go out through

neutral planets, for phaser banks and torpedoes

and planetary defense shields."

"But we won't be making any of that money,"

Willis protested, then jerked up in his seat as he

realized what he'd just said. "I meant to say "

"We know what you meant, Mr. Willis." Kirk's

voice had turned ice-cold. "You're due to retire

next year, and it's common knowledge that you've

been offered a top management spot at UniPhase

Incorporated."

"That that may be." Willis swallowed and

recovered his poise with an obvious effort. "But

what I said is still true. UniPhase is not going to

make any money from this exchange of military

technology."

"Oh, no?" Kirk turned away from the

commodore to pin Jackson Kahle with his cold

gaze. The billionaire stared back, clamping his

age-spotted hands together to still their tremors.

Uhura would have put the quivering down to fear,

if she hadn't seen the arctic glare of rage in

Kahle's pale eyes. "Then why," Kirk said slowly,

"has UniPhase just built forty thousand torpedo

drives at their Orion plant?"

Willis's handcuffs racketed up the arm of his

chair as he sprang to his feet. "Is that true?" he

demanded.

Kirk nodded grimly, but Uhura knew the

question hadn't been directed at him. The White

Sands base commander was staring at Jackson

Kahle. Uhura wasn't

265

L. A. Graf

sure what he read on the elderly billionaire's face,

but she saw the moment the surprise in Willis's

gaze became a feeling of betrayal.

"You promised me " Willis's deep voice

faltered for a moment under Kahle's whipping

look, then rose with anger. "You promised me you

were only doing this for the good of the

Federation. You swore you weren't going to make

any profit off it yourself."

Kahle spoke at last, his once steel-sharp voice

grating with failure like a rusty knife. "I won't.

Personally, I won't. If UniPhase does make

money, all the excess profits will go into the Peace

Foundation and its work "

"And that's supposed to justify the deaths of

millions of beings in the galaxy?" Sulu demanded

hotly.

Kahle shrugged. "Less of 'em for us to fight."

His icy eyes swept the furious Romulans and

Kang with one dismissive glance. "There's no way

those savages will ever come to terms with the

civilised galaxy. Every starship captain in the fleet

knows it. We'll have to fight them, sooner or later.

All I did was tip the odds in our favor."

"At the expense," Admiral Shoji said dryly, "of

destroying the reputations and careers of some of

the best officers and future starship captains in

Starfleet."

Kahle looked over at Uhura and sighed.

"Necessary evil," he said gruffly. "Someone had to

take the blame, and it seemed as good an

opportunity as any to leverage Kirk out of

Starfleet." His bushy eyebrows lowered slightly, in

what was either remorse or the simple ac-

knowledgment of a miscalculation. "I wasn't

counting on the whole damn Enterprise crew

pitching in to help out a couple of their former

bridge officers."

"Or on old enemies working together to discover

who was manipulating them into a war." Kirk

nodded at Kang, who snorted some kind of

Klingon reply back at him.

Admiral Shoji shook his head. "But most of all,

Mr. Kahle, you didn't count on the fact that

Starfleet is full of 266

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honorable men and women, who will not let

injustice be done to anyone if they can help it."

He gestured to the security guards at the doors

and they came forward in a rush. "Admiral Kirk,

I believe I'll let you give this order. It seems only

fitting."

"Thank you, Admiral." Kirk drew himself up to

his full height, hazel eyes gleaming. "Jackson

Kahle and Adam Willis, you are hereby placed

under arrest for murder, attempted murder,

conspiracy, theft of restricted technology,

and" Kirk paused to let his final words echo in

the waiting silence "high treason. Take them

away."

Chekov stumbled away from Leong's prostrate

body, his head swimming in thick, dizzy circles.

Right now, he wanted nothing so much as to find

someplace to sit down.

A muffled complaint from near the transporter

pad caught his attention before he'd made it very

far from the wall. Detouring somewhat groggily,

he stumbled across to fumble with Scott's bindings

while the engineer grumbled and pulled and

generally got in the way. Chekov was almost ready

to give up and leave him there by the time Scott

finally wormed one hand free to yank the tape off

his lips.

"Good God, lad!" He stood and half-turned to

squirm his other hand out of the bindings. "Are

you all right? You're bleeding all over the place!"

Chekov thought about nodding, but even

envisioning such a movement made his head clog

up with pain. "Trazadone hydrochloride," he said,

very carefully and slowly.

Scott looked up from disentangling the

kinked-up wire from the equipment. "What's

that?"

"Trazadone hydrochloride," Chekov said again.

He helped himself to a seat on the steps to the

transporter and rested his forehead in his hand. "I

don't know how many cc's. I knew Leong would

never kill me without giving me the chance to

humiliate myself. All I had to do

267

L. A. Graf

was let him do it." He rotated his cast palm up

and fingered the hypospray nozzle that Broad had

so carefully placed there after loading it with the

anesthetic of choice. Abruptly, a swell of nausea

rocked his stomach, and he closed up his hand to

lean back against the edge of the transporter pad

with a groan.

"Mr. Scott, could you restrain Mr. Leong for

me, please? I don't think I'll be able to stand up

and help you right now."

Before Scott could even respond, Chekov's

adrenaline released its days-long hold on his

system and dropped him down into blessed

darkness.

268

Chapter Twenty-two

New Harborplace

Baltimore, North America

Terrestrial Date January 1, 2270

0000 hours EST

PHOSPHORESCENT FIRE exploded in the

night over Baltimore's Inner Harbor, throwing

gold and crimson shimmers across the dark water

below. From her seat near the window of a

downtown tower restaurant, Uhura watched

spangles of afterglow cascade past in a shower of

glowing ruby and topaz embers. She sighed into

her cupped hands.

"If someone had told me a week ago that I'd be

watching fireworks here with you at midnight on

New Year's Eve," she informed her table-mate, "I

wouldn't have believed them."

Sulugrinned at her over the elegant dinner

candles. A few days of antiradiation treatments

had brought the pilot's face back to its usual

smoothness, and his subsequent "recuperation" at

a Colorado ski resort had windburned the color

back into his cheeks. Out of respect for the

four-star restaurant they'd selected for their New

Year's celebration, he'd exchanged his silver

fligh-qsuit for a more formal gold Starfleet tunic,

but the recent barrage of press attention still

made the other restaurant patrons glance at him

and whisper. The attention didn't seem to bother

Sulu, although it made Uhura want to go check

269

L. A. Graf

herself in the mirror and make sure she didn't

have a smudge on her nose.

"And what if they'd told you we'd be here

celebrating our reassignment to the Enterprise?"

the helmsman asked while he scanned the wine

list. "What would you have done then?"

"Pinched myself and woken up!" Uhura retorted

laughing. "What are you going to order for us to

celebrate with?"

"Altairean champagne." At her startled gasp,

Sulu grinned again. "Hey, I've got a week's worth

of hazardous-duty pay to spend. Not to mentio n

our special service bonuses for catching Kahle and

Willis. Speaking of which . . ." He reached in one

pocket and pulled out a bracelet, casually tossing

it across the table to her. Turquoise glowed,

lustrous as evening clouds, inside squash blossoms

made of authentic Navajo hammered silver. "Here.

I picked this up in Alamogordo at the suggestion

of a friend."

"Sulu! It's beautiful." Uhura draped the heavy

silver appreciatively over her wrist, then looked up

when a new wash of whispers swept through the

quiet restaurant. A figure in distinctive Security

red threaded his way through the candlelitdimness

toward them, his smile of greeting made only a

little crooked by the recognition he was getting.

"Chekov! You got your cast off"

The Russian nodded and took the seat beside

Uhura. Another firework painted the sky bright

teal and azure behind him. "And that's not all." He

held out his sleeve for her to see the new rank

stripes on it, laughing a little at her amazed look.

"Admiral Kirk just told me today."

"You made lieutenant!" Uhura reached over to

give him a quick, happy hug. "Oh, Pavel, that's

wonderful!"

"Jo bottles of Altairean champagne," Sulu told

the hovering waiter.

"And food!" Uhura interjected. "I haven't eaten "

" since you left California," Chekov and Sulu

finished in unison for her.

270

TRAITOR WINDS

She made a face across the table at them. "Well,

it's true. I want the vegetarian stuffed grape leaves,

the tabouleh salad, and the lobster couscous." She

gave her companions a laughing look. "And dates

and nuts baked in phyllo for dessert."

The waiter nodded, jotting the order down on his

tastefully old-fashioned notepad. "And for the

gentlemen?"

Sulu never hesitated. "I want the muhjadra

appetiser, the dandelions with fried onions, the

okra and lamb stew, and zalabee for dessert." He

glanced over at Chekov with a wicked grin. "The

same for you, Pavel?"

"No." Chekov leaned over the menu scrolling

down the tabletop. "I want a meat pie, some shish

kebab, and kibbe."

"Kibbe?" Uhura exchanged startled looks with

Sulu while the waiter discreetly vanished. "Chekov,

do you know what kibbe is?"

He gave her a surprised look. "Lamb, onions,

and bulgur wheat, all ground together. Why?"

"Do you know how they cook it?" Sulu demanded.

"They don't." Chekov grinned at their

dumbfounded faces. "I like it raw."

Sulu whistled in amazement. "Will wonders never

cease? He eats strange ethnic food, and he's a

lieutenant, too." The pilot leaned over to punch at

his friend's shoulder in elation. "God, you're not

even out of security school yet and already you've

gotten a promotion! How did you manage that?"

Chekov's grin widened until it almost matched

Sulu's. "By getting assigned to be the next security

chief on the Enterprise, " he said modestly, then sat

back and enjoyed their whoops of delight.

"Admiral Kirk put in a good word for me with the

assignment board. He said he was impressed by the

way I handled the situation up on the orbital

platform." The young Russian's dark eyes shone

with pride. "He said I demonstrated a lot more

maturity than the average ensign."

Sulu snorted with laughter. "By the time we came

up

271

I/

L. A. Graf

to rescue you, all I noticed you demonstrating was

your ability to snore."

Uhura swatted the pilot in exasperation.

"Admiral Kirk was right," she told Chekov. "You

not only rescued Mr. Scott and protected us, but

you did it with minimal casualties."

"That's what the assignment board said when

they accepted the admiral's recommendation."

Chekov's face turned sober. "But it's not true. I

probably would have killed Leong if I could have

thought of any safe way to do it. I just couldn't."

Sulu snorted again, this time more seriously.

"Oh, yeah? You mean you couldn't have found a

vial of synthetic adrenaline in one of those

medical cabinets? All you would have had to do

was put that in your cast instead of a tranquilizer,

and Leong would be dead now." He poked a stern

finger at Chekov. "You may have felt like killing

him, but you didn't want to kill him. There's a big

difference, and the assignment board knows it."

Uhura nodded. "That's why they picked you,

Chekov. Because you didn't have to stop and

decide to save lives your instincts simply worked

that way."

The Russian's cheeks darkened, but the arrival

of the Altairean champagne, jasmine-sweet and

fizzing pearlescently in its fluted goblets, saved

him from further embarrassment. Uhura smiled

and reached for the first ruby-red glassful, then

held it high above the table.

"To us," Uhura said. A gold and silver firework

blossomed in the night outside, throwing sparkling

shadows across the glasses Sulu and Chekov lifted

to meet hers. "And to another five years together

on the Enterprise. "

272

Epilogue

U.5.S. DeGama

Earth Sector, Standard Departure Orbit

Terrestrial Date January 1, 2270

0600 hours shiptime

THE ENTERPRISE s SECONDARY HULL

glinted silver-blue in the rising earthlight, a distant

angel whose wings were wrapped in a tinsel glitter

of scaffolding and wires. Kirk gazed at her

through the porthole of the diplomatic courier,

almost unconsciously assessing the newly

integrated lines of her pylon and struts, the

radically redesigned warp drive that would let her

attain cruising speeds he'd only dreamed of in his

days as her captain.

A snort misted the porthole and obscured the

view. "Your ship out there?" Kang demanded,

leaning across Kirk's shoulder with the blunt

curiosity that passed for politeness in a Klingon.

Kirk sighed and hitched his attention back to

the task at hand escorting his unruly temporary

ally out to his waiting ship. "The Enterprise, yes.

She's being refitted."

Under shaggy brows, Kang's eyes gleamed with

the dark intelligence Kirk kept reminding himself

not to underrate. "No longer under your

command?"

273

L. A. Graf

"No." At least he didn't need to worry about

how curt that might sound. The Klingon would

consider it normal conversation. "I've been . . .

promoted."

"Battle leader?" Kang demanded, the deepening

growl of his voice betraying aroused military

instincts. "Strategist?"

Kirk's lips twisted. "Diplomatic envoy." He

didn't try to hide the frustration coiling through

his voice. "In charge of conferences like the one

we just had with the Romulans."

A more contemptuous Klingon snort feathered

hot breath across the courier's windows. "Wars

fought with words instead of valor. They are

beneath a warrior's dignity, Kirk."

"That didn't stop you from taking part in this

one," Kirk pointed out ironically.

Kang grunted. "It was the lesser dishonor to

barter a few worthless star systems to the

Romulans than to fight them at some human

traitor's bidding." He pointed a scornful fist at

Kirk. "But I will never put aside my disrupter and

surrender my ship to another commander."

Kirk strangled the first, angry retort that rose to

his lips, letting his tension out with a grunt of

mirthless laughter. "Become famous for solving

intergalactic problems, Kang, and see if you can

still say that."

The Klingon regarded him in stymied silence. "I

had hoped to face you one more time on the

battlefield, Kirk," he said at last. "You and that

ship " Kang Jerked his chin at the silhouette of

the Enterprise, now dwindling to a distant silver

glimmer behind them. "Together, you would have

made me a worthy opponent."

Together. Kirk shrugged away the unwelcome

longing as that word shivered through him, like

waves from a carelessly thrown stone. Together

was a word for someone else to saver now, some

young captain at the

274

TRAITOR WINDS

beginning of his Starfleet career. It was not a

word that fit in an admiral's vocabulary.

"Another time, Commander Kang." Kirk tried

to keep his voice even, but a last phantom glint

of the Enterprise, orbiting high above the blue

and white skirt of Earth, turned his words

jagged with regret. "Another life."

275

--

Join the crew of the

U.S.S. Enterprises as they embark

on their final TV mission, before

they engage warp drive and head

off to the silver screen. . .

5d/-A

T]1E no J[T 6EnERaT/DII

ALL GOOD THINGS...

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