Dreams of the Raven 

  By Paramount Pictures
Synopsis:

A merchant ship's frantic S.O.S. sends the U.S.S. Enterprise speeding
to the rescue! But the starships mission of mercy soon becomes a
desperate struggle for survival against a nightmarish enemy Captain Kirk
can neither identify nor understand, an enemy he must defeat without the
aid of one of his most trusted officers the Leonard McCoy Kirk knew is gone.
In his place stands a stranger--a
man with no memory of his Starfleet career, his family, his friends.. or
the one thing James T. Kirk needs most!

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you
purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was
reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author
nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped
book."

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon &amp; Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the
Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright 1987 Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon &amp; Schuster
Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket
Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN 0-671-743562

  First Pocket Books printing June 1987

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon &amp; Schuster Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Dedicated to my mother and father

Prologue.

KYRON GENTAI-HANN, nephew by marriage to the Exalted House of Kotzher,
and captain of the IKF Falchion, was bored and angry. He had been in a
perpetual state of boredom and anger for an entire year, ever since the
Klingon Military Council had -"honored" him with a posting to the
Belennii star system, a worthless holding of the Empire set in a
position of supreme strategic unimportance in a fardistant corner of
undisputed space. That Kyron, a warrior of acknowledged skill and long
years of service to the Empire, should have received such an assignment
was directly attributable to his alliance to the Exalted House of
Kotzher, now exalted in name only. This last year had given Kyron
sufficient leisure in which to regret, with increasing bitterness, his
marriage into a family which had fallen into imperial disfavor. Of his
wife he thought nothing at all, confident that she returned his lack of
interest. Being a Klingon, Kyron did not feel compelled to keep his
growing resentments to himself. On the contrary, the privilege of
bullying the crew of the Falchion was one of the few meagre
compensations still left to him. His subordinates--no less bored Jot
angry, but perhaps even more resentful since they had less scope for bad
temper--had spent the first months of the long voyage to Belennii
engaging in frequent bouts of petty bickering which inevitably
culminated in physical violence. The resulting fatalities reduced the
somewhat crowded conditions of the crew quarters, thus easing the most
unbearable of the tensions. By the end of the first year of their tour
of duty, the remaining crew members had settled into a sullen acceptance
of the tedium of routine patrol over a quadrant of space that contained
one white dwarf; two yellow stars without planets; 4,020 asteroids of
sufficient size to merit a star-chart notation; and a periodic comet
which would reappear in their area in 845 years. On the 451st day of
that patrol, Captain Kyron was expatiating at great length on the
cowardice of the Imperial Ministry in advising the Emperor to accept a
truce with the Federation. Such criticism bordered on treason; however,
if the captain cherished any hopeful fantasies of being recalled to
Klinzhai in order to stand trial, he was greatly deluded. His crew had
long since ceased to hear his words, despite the loud and bellicose
manner in which they were delivered. "Peace is for the soft worms of the
decadent Federation dung-heaps?' screamed the captain from his command
throne. Beads of sweat gathered on his bronze-dark skin; his forked
eyebrows bristled stiffly with rage while his mustache drooped damply
from the exhalations of his oratory. "Peace is the corpse that feeds
their maggot growth!" He had reached a fever pitch of invective against
his own government and was now marching into a denunciation of its
former enemies. As he peered down into the red shadows of the crew pit,
his voice dropped in pitch. "Do not be fooled by their treachery," he
warned his listless navigator. "They are weak, but they are also
cunning..."

"Commander,' called out the communications officer. "I am receiving a
transmission."

"... and should be killed outright like defective newborns." Kyron
paused for breath, and only then did he realize that one of his crew had
spoken. In the last 451 days he had never been interrupted in the midst
of his diatribes; he was unprepared for such a novelty. "It isn't time
for a scheduled communication, Kath," he barked angrily at the offending
officer. Having built up a storm of temper, it made little difference to
him where it was directed. "No, my lord," agreed Kath with proper
subservience. He, too, seemed rather stunned by the occurrence. "But it
is not a message from Command Base; it is from an alien craft." At those
words, a hunched figure in a dim corner of the bridge came to life with
a guttural curse. The sound of frantic, if somewhat belated, computer
activity followed soon after. "Scanners reveal an unregistered scoutship
at 457 kilometers, approaching on an intercept course, rendezvous at
94-mark-12," announced the negligent science officer as calmly as his
anxiety allowed. Kyron gave an exultant howl of glee. "Imbecile! Eye of
a rotting cadaver!" He pulled a disrupter from his belt and stunned his
science officer into unconsciousness. Thus appeased, the captain turned
his attention to the intruding alien. "Raise shields," he ordered with a
spreading grin. "Lock phasers on target." An unregistered craft was fair
game for his battle cruiser. He cared little whether it posed any real
danger; the Falchion was long overdue for battle maneuvers. Almost as an
afterthought, he inquired of Kath, "Who are they?" Kath released the
broadcast from the alien. "... your Imperial Servant, most unworthy of
attention, beseeches most humbly..." came the bleating voice from the
communications translator.

"Gleaners!" spat out Kyron with disgust. He had little use for this race
of scavengers that eked out a subsistence living from the leavings of
the Klingon Empire. "Prepare to fire."

"We bring you great wealth and power," continued the voice from the
scoutship. Kyron stayed his next command. "What trickery does this scum
propose?"

"A wreck, such salvage we have found," whined the Gleaner. "We can offer
information..." The captain of the Falchion ordered Kath to open
communication channels.

"Where?" he demanded of the alien. "Where is this wreckage?"

"Ah, worthy ship chief," answered the Gleaner with humble solicitude.
"We would be only too glad to share this knowledge with you in the
privacy of your vessel..." And for a percentage of the haul, thought
Kyron with a touch of pragmatism. He loosed a savage kick at his stunned
science officer, urging him to regain consciousness with greater haste;
Jaeger was quite adept with the mind-scanner and would be needed soon.
"Very well," Kyron said grudgingly. "I will discuss terms with you.
Prepare to beam aboard." His toothy grin returned. He would have plenty
of opportunity to destroy the Gleaners later, after they had given him
the information he wanted.

Chapter One.

Captain James T. KIrk of the U.S.S. Enterprise stopped dead in his
tracks at the sight of the phaser rifle aimed at his chest. His two
companions followed his example. The weapon was impressive: its polished
metal surfaces were studded with jewel-like power settings which pulsed
with a hypnotic rhythm. The face behind the gun was impassive. "We come
in peace," declared the starship captain calmly. He was shorter and
stockier than the men who flanked him, yet he possessed an air of
command that owed more to force of personality than to his gold tunic
and braid. Kirk smiled his most winning smile and turned his hands palm
up in a gesture of friendship, but the sturdy form which stood in their
path showed no signs of giving way. The round face of the riflebearer
twisted into a scowl and his hands gripped the stock more tightly.

Passage through the narrow corridor remained blocked. "Try

"Take us to your leader,'" suggested the first of Kirk's companions, an
older man dressed in science blue. "Hardly original, Bones."

"To old troopers like us, perhaps, but he may never have heard it
before." The second of Kirk's companions tried his own approach. "We
require immediate access to the next area. Let us pass." The Vulcan's
tone was decidedly more emphatic than that of his captain, but just as
ineffectual. More so--the whine of the phaser's power pack grew in
volume. McCoy snorted. "Well done, Spock. Your diplomatic powers are
astounding. If you're not careful, you'll get us shot. And a loose
phaser bolt could pierce the hull and destroy this entire section of the
trading post." The broad wave of his arm included the corridor in which
they stood and a generous amount of the metal structure to which it
belonged. "I, for one, do not want to eat vacuum for breakfast." The
science officer stared coldly at the doctor. "The illogic of this
situation is not fascinating. It is tedious." He took a step forward.
"Steady, Mr. Spock," cautioned the captain, holding him back. "We
mustn't alarm the native population." He continued smiling down the gun
barrel. "In fact, I'm sure we'll all be friends before too long." This
time Kirk took the step forward. The phaser burst into fire and bright
bolts of red light rained over the bodies of the three officers. "Die,
Klingon pigs!" yelled their assailant. Loosing another salvo from his
gun, he turned and ran down the corridor. "Am I expected to fall to the
floor, wounded and dying?" asked Spock archly as the young boy
disappeared around a corner. "You're no fun at all," complained McCoy.
The three men continued their walk away from the outer docking ring of
the station and headed for its center hub. "See if I ever ask you to
play cops and robbers." The Vulcan could think of no reply to this
reference to traditions of Human childhood. The doctor took advantage of
Spock's silence to turn his attention to Kirk. "Better not let Star
Fleet hear of this fiasco, Jim. It could ruin an otherwise sterling
military career."

"You win some; you lose some," said Kirk philosophically, smiling at the
memory of the freckled face which reminded him of his own nephew, Peter,
at that age. When their corridor reached an intersection with the
station's third ring, Kirk looked to the left and right along the
curving walls, searching for another glimpse of the boy, but the small
form had disappeared amidst the adult crowds. Purple-suited station
personnel--mostly Human and Andorianstrode briskly about their duties;
merchants and traders of various species moved with more leisure,
passing in and out of the small shops that lined the ring. A group of
Tellarites waddled across the path of the two Humans and their Vulcan
friend; a single Crysallid sprinted jerkily ahead of them. "That young
child," said Spock, recovering the conversational initiative, "is a
prime example of the difficulties inherent in implementing a truce with
the' Klingons on a sustained basis."

"You mean to say that you found him hostile to the initiatives of
peace?" asked McCoy solemnly, lifting a rounded eyebrow to match the
cant of Spock's slanted one. Kirk noted that the doctor's impersonation
of the Vulcan was improving. ""Die, Klingon pigs,' does lack a spirit of
reconciliation," said Spock with equal solemnity. If he was aware of
McCoy's mimicry, he chose to ignore it. "That such attitudes are to be
found in one so young presages obstacles to extending amicable relations
with the Klingon Empire through the next generation."

"The truce didn't maintain that we had to like

Klingons, Spock," countered McCoy. "It just said we had to stop killing
them. And, more to the point, that they had to stop killing us." From
long experience, Kirk sensed that his two officers were laying the
groundwork for an extended argument, although the actual terms of their
conflict had not been settled yet. He launched a tactical diversion.

"I've always wanted one of those." Spock and McCoy followed the line of
their captain's outstretched arm and its pointing finger to the window
of a small tradegoods shop which specialized in used equipment for
asteroid-miners. The display held a familiar array of battered
environment suit accessories, solar cookpots, and out-of-date
entertainment tapes. From amidst the clutter, McCoy's eyes picked out
the one small item that had drawn Kirk's attention. "The knife."

"A Tyrellian blade, Bones. Fifth Dynasty." Spock contemplated the long
thin blade and its squat handle. "More likely Fourth."

"Whoa, Jim." McCoy grabbed Kirk's arm and pulled him back. "If that
trader gets one look at your face, he's going to double the price." He
waited until the eagerness in Kirk's eyes was properly subdued. "Okay,
now we can give it a try." As they crossed the threshold of the store,
the doctor looked back over his shoulder at Spock. "And you, don't say a
word." The Vulcan stood silent as his Human companions were greeted by a
short, plump man draped in the flowing robes of the local Trade Alliance
Guild. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries and engaged in the ritual
discussion of merchandise which was of no interest to either side. At
the first mention of the knife, however, the trader quickly pulled the
weapon out of the display window.

"A beautiful artifact, one that I am not often privileged to handle.

Tyrellian blades are prized for..." McCoy cut the speech short. "How
much?" The trader pressed the blade into Kirk's hands. "Feel the weight
and balance of a knife made by a true craftsman. You won't find its like
in the whole sector."

"How much?" insisted the doctor. Kirk was too obviously entranced with
the weapon, The trader paused for a quick assessment of his customer,
then named a price. "Two hundred credits?"

McCoy gave a soft hoot of derision. "Jim, this man heah thinks we're
tourists."

"Gentlemen, please." The trader shook his head forlornly.

"Two hundred credits is a bargain for this item. Planetside, this would
cost close to three hundred. It's your good fortune that this station is
a backwater and demand for antiques is low." Spock reached out to
inspect the blade but McCoy had already taken it from Kirk's hand. The
trader donned a well-practiced expression of sincerity. "Of course, I'm
always willing to give Federation officers a special discount." McCoy
and Kirk smiled back as if they believed him. "Just how much of a
discount are these stripes worth?" Kirk flashed the cuff of his sleeve
over the counter. "For you, Captain, at least twenty-five credits."

Spock opened his mouth, then quickly closed it as McCoy shot him a
warning glance. The doctor turned the knife around and around, peering
critically at its surface. "The handle is cracked."

"It's very old," said the trader, jerking it out of McCoy's hands. "Age
leaves its traces." He profferred it to Kirk again. "One hundred and
fifty credits."

"And the blade's edge is dull," pointed out McCoy. A swift kick to
Kirk's shin cued the captain to lose interest. The man behind the
counter studied the effect of McCoy's comments on his customer. "The
edge is worn because the knife has been used, Captain. This was a
working weapon, not a decorative toy." Kirk's interest appeared to
revive somewhat, but his enthusiasm was not high. The trader's show of
exasperation approached a genuine emotion. "One hundred and twenty-five
credits, and that's my final offer." This time the Vulcan first officer
spoke aloud before McCoy could stop him. "If that price is acceptable,
the item is either a forgery or illegally obtained." At those words, the
trader whisked the knife out of Kirk's grasp and under the counter. "I'm
so sorry. This item is not for sale after all." He removed his smile as
well. "Jim, it wasn't a forgery," declared McCoy as the three of them
left the shop and resumed their walk down the corridor. "No, it wasn't."

Spock could not confirm their judgement since McCoy had not given him an
opportunity to study the weapon. "Doctor, if it was indeed a genuine
Tyrellian blade, then it was certainly smuggled out of the Tyrelli
System."

"We're starship officers, not Interstellar Customs." The Vulcan was
unmoved. "There is little satisfaction to be gained in the possession of
an artifact which has been removed from its planet of origin against the
wishes of its native population."

"No, I suppose not," said Kirk in what he hoped was a convincing tone.
"It would have been one helluva bargain," muttered McCoy with regret.

Kirk saw that the lines of battle were now clearly established, but
there was no time left for McCoy and Spock to indulge themselves in
verbal sparring. The long corridor came to an end in an arched portal.

Beyond the portal lay a large domed area, the center hub for the
wheel-shaped Wagner Trading Post. The eyes of the starship officers were
drawn to the spectacular view provided by the room's construction. Both
the deck and the dome itself were formed of faceted clearsteel which
allowed the rich inky-black texture of space to spread over, around, and
beneath them. Above the dome, gleaming softly like a small moon, the
U.S.S. Enterprise hung motionless on the dark velvet backdrop of space.

Walking across the transparent floor to the railing which marked the
curving wall, Kirk feigned a casual interest in the sight of his ship,
but deep within he felt the same knot of excitement he experienced each
time he saw her from a distance. His eyes eagerly traced the familiar
lines of the diskshaped primary hull and the slim nacelles which powered
it. Spock, too, walked up to the dome's edge, but he looked out, not up,
to inspect the four concentric circles of the space station structure.

"Wagner Post was designed by T'rall of Vulcan, though admittedly in her
youth, before the full scope of her engineering powers was developed."

Kirk beckoned to McCoy to join him, but the doctor stood rooted in the
center of the circular deck, his eyes calculating the distance to the
nearest exit. "I don't mind being in space so long as it keeps a low
profile." He pointed an accusing finger at the invisible surface beneath
his feet. "This is definitely letting it get out of hand." Spock looked
up from his inspection. "True, there is no functional necessity for this
architectural feature. However, it shows evidence of the aesthetic
influence of her Andorian training. Andorians are susceptible to
claustrophobia."

The soft chiming of a chronometer rang through the air, bringing Kirk's
attention back to duty. If he didn't hurry, he would be late for his
meeting with the station manager, a lapse which might be viewed as a
sign of military arrogance. Small space stations such as this one, so
often ignored by a distant central government, were quick to take
offense when they were noticed. He reluctantly turned his back on the
Enterprise. Motioning to Spock, Kirk returned to the center of the room.

"Why, doctor, you look as green as my first officer."

"I'm not fond of heights," said McCoy irritably. "In the future I'll
know to avoid Andorian architecture. Hortas have the right idea--they
dig tunnels through solid rock."

Spock pointedly ignored the doctor's grumbling criticism. "Captain, we
are due to meet Post Manager Friel in eight point six minutes." He
pointed confidently to one of the eight portals, all seemingly
identical, that opened .into the dome. "That way."

"Coming, doctor?" asked Kirk, his legs straining to match his first
officer's long strides.

"No way," stated McCoy emphatically. He ducked his head as they passed
under three Pegasi hovering gracefully in the air. "I'm off-duty, which
means I can forgo official calls. This is a trading post, and I have
every intention of promoting interstellar commerce to the limits of my
credit line."

"Just stay out of trouble," called out Kirk as the doctor veered off in
another direction.

Led by Spock's unerring sense of direction, the two officers actually
arrived early. Unfortunately, they weren't early enough to suit Manager
Friel. "It's about time you got here," stormed a large, imposing woman
as they walked through the doors of her office.

Kirk suppressed a sigh of exasperation and prepared himself for an hour
or two of tiresome diplomacy. He feigned a smile and cast it in the
manager's direction. However, Friel made it immediately clear that her
impatience was not an expression of temperament, despite the reddish
glints in her hair and the fair Irish features of her face. "We're
receiving a Priority One distress call from an incoming freighter.

Captain claims they were attacked by a Klingon battleship."

Spock's eyebrows flew upwards. The corners of Kirk's mouth flew
downwards. "In Federation space?"

"I don't have the details," said Friel, sweeping a mountain of tape
cassettes and paper printouts from her desk onto the deck in order to
reach her computer terminal. She flicked a combination of switches that
brought forth the image of a slender cobalt-blue Andorian. "Timmo, have
you re-established contact with the Saucy Lady?"

"No," he whispered in the reedy tones of his race. Friel snapped off the
terminal with a moderately good rendition of an especially vile Orion
expletive.

"I couldn't agree more," said Kirk. He ignored Spock's obvious curiosity
concerning the translation. "What have you heard so far?"

"Static mostly. Timmo picked up the distress call fifteen minutes ago.

The priority code was clear enough, but the explanations were too
fragmented to get a full account of what happened. There was definitely
an attack," she insisted angrily, seeing the skepticism lurking in
Kirk's eyes. "Neil's an old spacedog. He's been on the Wagner run for
seven years and he doesn't get hysterical over an occasional sighting of
a Klingon battleship."

"An occasional sighting?" A slow burn worked its way up from Kirk's
collar to his face. "Just how often have Klingons crossed over into this
sector?"

Friel developed a rather unconvincing cough, but the delay was good for
only a few seconds. "Oh, well, now and again."

"When was the last time?"

Her attention was suddenly riveted by the tapes and papers scattered
across the floor. "Eight, maybe nine months ago."

"The truce negotiations were completed only last month," noted Spock.
The station manager addressed her reply to the impassive Vulcan rather
than face Kirk's stony rage directly. "We're all a long way from home
out here.

Klingon, Human, Andorian. After a few years of routine patrol, a crew
gets sick and tired of living on a ship. They need shore leave."

"And they're willing to pay top dollar for new provisions," said Kirk.
Friel shrugged. "I'm not a military post or a military target. I don't
shoot them and they don't shoot me. So what's the harm..." Her defense
was cut short by the bleep of her intercom. The communications tech
appeared back on the screen, his delicate antennae quivering with
agitation.

"Yes, Timmo?"

"Captain Neil on communication band 12," he announced.

Simultaneously, the broadcast from the freighter echoed into the office.

"... they need help in a bad way. One ship blasted--the other badly
crippled and leaking its guts out all over the sector. Need medical
assistance for heavy casualties and techies for engine repair. If it can
be repaired."

"Who needs help?" shouted Friel into the intercom. "Frenni merchant
caravan. Except it's not a caravan anymore. The Verella was destroyed
and the Selessan won't be going anywhere without help." Kirk drew a
sharp breath when he heard the ships named. He moved to the terminal.
"Who attacked them?"

"Klingons." The man's bitterness cut through the crackling of static.
"The caravan had established subspace contact--they were expecting trade
negotiations for ship's stores--but the battlecruiser attacked instead.
No explanation, no warning." The captain whisked out his communicator.
"Kirk to Enterprise," he called in a low voice, still keeping one ear
tuned to the report from the Saucy Lady. "... and we picked up their
distress call ten hours ago. I volunteered to change course and pick up
survivors, but they advised me to leave the sector fast and send back
armed rescue. So I got the hell outta there." Kirk's communicator beeped
in reply to his call. "Enterprise here, Captain."

"Cancel shoreleave, Lt. Uhura," he announced grimly. "Recall all
personnel to the ship and inform Mr. Scott that we'll be warping out of
orbit within the hour."

Chapter Two.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5302.1: Despite a recent truce which has
suspended formal hostilities and military engagements between the Empire
and the Federation, the Enterprise is responding to a report of Klingon
aggression... JIM KIRK BROKE off his narrative at the approach of his
first officer.

"Strictly speaking," said the Vulcan, moving to one side of the command
chair on the bridge, "Frenni space is not Federation territory."

"A civilian ship and its crew have been blasted to smithereens and
you're arguing the subtleties of diplomatic law," snapped McCoy from
Kirk's other side. "The distinction is hardly irrelevant, doctor,"
insisted Spock. "An attack against a neutral ship--in that ship's
territorydoes not constitute an attack against the Federation."

"He's right, Bones," said Kirk, stemming any more of McCoy's comments.
The captain amended his log entry accordingly. "By custom, the ancient
space routes of the Frenni race are invested with the rights of a
planetary system. These corridors of travel tunnel through both
Federation and Klingon space.

The nomadic merchants have 'maintained a strong neutral relationship
with both sides, a relationship based on commerce and trade. Now, for
reasons unknown, a Frenni merchant fleet has been attacked by the
Klingons." He paused to take a breath. "It's crazy," said Lt. Sulu
heatedly. His eyes were riveted to the helm, his slim, muscular frame
tensed with the effort of guiding a starship at faster-thanlight speed.
The captain had ordered maximum warp speed, which made piloting trickier
but more fun. "The Klingons have an import-dependent economy, which
makes it suicide to endanger relations with a primary trade source."
Ensign Chekov brushed ineffectually at the mop of unruly brown hair
which threatened to blind him. "The Klingons don't reason---they're
Cossacks," muttered the young Russian as he double-checked his computed
navigation coordinates for the starship. Kirk raised his voice to
override any more interjections.

"Nevertheless, such an attack raises concern for Federation security in
this part of the .galaxy. As the only starship available within this
quadrant the Enterprise is responding to the distress call from the
Selessan, Merchant Esserass commanding. Estimated time of rendezvous is
1.5 hours." This time when he paused there was an expectant silence from
the bridge crew. Kirk logged the entry with a jab at the panel on his
armrest. "Thank you, gentlemen. You may continue your discussion now."

The junior officers looked abashed, but Spock took the statement at face
value. "Current knowledge would support Mr. Sulu's contention that an
attack on the merchant caravan is indeed detrimental to Klingon
self-interest. Therefore, it is possible that the attack was that of an
individual acting without official approval."

"A rogue warship?" asked McCoy with surprise. "That's a rather fanciful
notion."

"It is merely one hypothesis," said Spock, quick to dispel the idea that
he possessed an over-active imagination. "An alternative hypothesis
would be that the Klingons have gained another source of trade, one
which has severed their reliance on the Frenni."

"That possibility would imply a new, and powerful, alliance for the
Empire," said Kirk uneasily. War. The word seemed to hover in the air,
unspoken yet reverberating. A shift in the balance of power could tempt
the Klingons to shatter the uneasy truce, or at least see how far they
could stretch its boundaries. Lt. Uhura was the first to break the
silence.

She flashed a brilliant smile. "It's so entertaining to be on the
cutting edge of diplomacy." Her exaggerated enthusiasm raised an
appreciative round of laughter from the bridge crew. Kirk grinned
ruefully. "Yes, we do seem to pull more than our share of galactic
quarrels." A small light on his armrest came to life. "And domestic
quarrels, as well," he sighed, flicking a switch. "Yes, Scotty?" he
asked, knowing full well what was on his engineer's mind. "Maximum
warp..." The Scotsman sighed. "Ah, well, I dinna need t' repeat
myselfmyou've heard it all before. Just consider it said again. If
you'll be wantin' me I'm in the main engine room."

"Having a fit," added McCoy. He cast a challenging glance at Spock.
"Really, doctor," said Spock. "Your habit of exaggeration is most
inappropriate. Mr. Scott is not throwing a tantrum--he is simply showing
his professional concern for the proper functioning of this vessel."

"He's spitting tacks," insisted McCoy. This time Spock's face froze in
concentration as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar idiom. McCoy
was searching for yet another colorful phrase with which to confound the
Vulcan when Kirk returned the conversation to factual matters. "Mr.
Spock, would you please continue the briefing."

"Certainly, Captain." Spock returned to his computer station and
direct'ed the crew's attention to a side viewscreen. Three dim stars
dotted the image; the rest was black. "The Selessan is currently adrift
on the perimeter of the Belennii star system, a small, undistinguished
holding of the Klingon Empire. It is an unstable trinary composed of one
white dwarf and two yellow stars.

Despite its proximity to Federation outposts and minor trade routes, the
system has never supported a Klingon military base. It is too far
removed from the core of the Empire to insure an uninterrupted supply
line. Neither are there targets which would justify the large
expenditure of resources necessary to invade this sector." Spock turned
back to the captain. "There is no logical basis for a single ship to
mount an attack. It is an exceptionally aggressive action with no
readily discernible benefit. One vessel, while capable of easing
considerable disruption of local commerce and transportation, would
still stand little chance of challenging Federation military forces. It
would be a senseless suicide mission."

"It could start an intergalactic war," argued Kirk. "Ships from every
planetary system in the Federation pass through those shipping lanes.
Random attacks could antagonize a sufficient number of voting Council
members to authorize a retaliation on the Empire. The truce would be
destroyed."

"It's barely gotten started," said McCoy. "And you're saying it's
already over?"

"Hardly an unexpected development," said Spock with clinical interest.

"Numerous factions in the military have strongly opposed the truce from
its first proposal. The success of the initiative is due largely to
recent strains in the Klingon alliance with the Romulans; the current
government wishes to avoid a battle on two fronts. However, they lost a
great deal of political favor in the process of accepting the truce
agreements."

"You mean they might not be able to stop a war?" asked McCoy with a
growing sense of horror. "Good Lord! The lives of millions of people
could be put in jeopardy? "It is only a hypothesis," said Spock blandly.
"Why you cold-blooded.." Uhura's voice overrode McCoy's.

"Captain, I'm receiving faint transmissions from the Selessan. We should
be in hailing range shortly."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk forestalled his first officer from
demanding an exact time estimate from the communications officer by
announcing, "I've met Captain Esserass, of the Selessan."

"Indeed, Captain." Spock allowed himself to be deflected from the
reprimand. McCoy was still fuming over the Vulcan's professed
callousness, but he also accepted the change in conversation. "Many
years ago," admitted Kirk, "when I was a lieutenant aboard the U.S.S.
Farragut. Our galley refrigeration units malfunctioned and we were
forced to trade for ship's stores. Unfortunately, all they had were
several tons of Orion demma." Rumors and innuendo about the nature of
demma, both its source and its effect on those who ate it, were common
folklore throughout the galaxy. An accomplished storyteller, Kirk let
his statement hang in the air until the full implications of the
situation were absorbed. A few anticipatory chuckles dotted the room.
McCoy grinned broadly. Even Spock took on a speculative air. "By the
time we arrived at Star Base 7, sick bay had run out of fertility
control ampules and..." The rest of the somewhat raunchy tale was cut
short by a loud burst of static from communications. Uhura dutifully
tuned the frequency. "Pleasss to hurry, we haft much need of
assisstance." Kirk recognized the soft slurring voice of a Frenni.
Casting aside his jovial air, he ordered Uhura to open a channel to the
merchant ship. "Selessan, this is Captain Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
We are due to drop out of warp speed in one hour." He waved aside
Spock's attempts to reply with greater precision. "Much gratitude,
Captain. We await your arrival with much happinesss." A long pause
ensued. "Kirrk... Ah, yess, it does recall. Did you enjoy the demma?" To
Kirk's discomfort the memory of that trip turned the tips of his ears
fiery pink. "Yes," he laughed self-consciously. "I did indeed, Captain
Esserass."

"For our rescue I will introduce you to other delicassies. Those that
can be salvaged," sighed the weary merchant. "Good trading, Kirrk." The
contact was severed. Despite his gentle banter, the alien's voice had
been ragged and weak. McCoy scowled in Spock's direction. "Casualties.
That's what war is all about." Spock sighed at the note of challenge in
the doctor's comment. "And in such circumstances your duty post is in
sick bay."

"Don't you dare lecture me on duty!" flared McCoy bitterly. "I'm the one
who has to patch together the living and autopsy the dead." He turned on
his heel and stalked off the bridge.

"He knows you didn't mean it that way," said Kirk to his first officer.

The Vulcan did not reply. He walked back to his computer station and
took his seat before the panel. "We will rendezvous with the Selessan in
1.2 hours." During that time the Enterprise crew prepared for the
forthcoming rescue operations by handing Kirk a staggering number of
data tablets which required his signature. When he wasn't juggling red
tape, he was dealing with Scotty's increasing concern for his engines.

After an hour's silence, a querulous McCoy began calling the bridge with
flimsy excuses in order to check on its activity. And alert status was a
constant reminder to everyone of the possibility of an encounter with
the marauding battlecruiser. "Sensor sweeps reveal no Klingon presence,"
announced the first officer as the starship dropped to sub-warp speed.

"We will reach the Selessan in 23.4 minutes."

"Can we use transporters for the rescue?" asked Kirk anxiously.
"Negative. As I surmised, radiation residue from the Verella's
destruction will render the transporters inoperative. Trace ionized
particles have already begun to affect instrument functions." Kirk
brooded on the risks created by that restriction. Using the shuttlecraft
to evacuate the Frenni crew meant a minimum of several hours with
shields dropped. The operation must be carried out as swiftly as
possible. "Uhura, notify sick bay that paramedic teams should report to
the hangar deck." Together they dispersed orders throughout the ship as
the Enterprise coasted towards its rendezvous. "Approaching the
Selessan, Captain." Sulu's hands danced rapidly over the helm. The faint
outlines of the merchant ship appeared on the main viewscreen. At the
same time navigational deflectors set off a barrage of sparks in the
darkness.

"That is what is left of the Vcrella," explained Spock as the debris in
their path was vaporized. The remaining ship grew larger on the screen,
It was an ungainly agglomeration of oddly-shaped cabins welded together
in a haphazard pattern. Perhaps the single engine nacelle had once
possessed sleeker lines, but now its metal surface was roughened and
scored by phaser fire. Spock huddled in communion with his computers.

"Sensor readings are degenerating. However, the Selcssan registers as
having suffered significant impairment of ship's systems. Life support
systems are barely functional; engines are idle; weapon power is
depleted." "Welcome, Kirrk. Are we not a ssory ssight?" Kirk had to
agree. "We'll have you out of there in no time," he said reassuringly.

He thumbed his intercom switch. "Bones..."

"Paramedic Team C has boarded the Galileo," came McCoy's crisp reply.
"Sick bay surgical teams are on standby." Kirk switched channels.
"Shuttle bay, prepare for launch." Out of the corner of his eye he could
see the launching sequence flicker across the engineering station
computerboard even as Scotty's voice acknowledged the command. Sitting
back in his chair, Kirk frowned at the image of the Selessan on the
viewscreen before him. "No visual from the interior, Lt. Uhura?"

"None, Captain. I can't trace the source of the trouble. Audio
frequencies are working with intermittent static, but the rest of the
signal transmission is dead."

He motioned her to engage ship-to-ship communications again. "Captain
Esserass, we are not receiving a visual signal from your ship."

"Not surprissing. My communicationss operator iss dead. I triess to work
the equipmenss, but there iss much damage."

"Understood." Kirk turned to his first officer and spoke quietly.
"Spock, can you run a bio-check for Klingons on that ship?" Spock
frowned. "The energy debris makes readings unreliable..."

"Do the best you can. I don't want my crew boarding that ship blind."

"Captain Kirk, technical and medical teams boarded. All shuttlecraft
ready for launching."

"On my command." The captain turned to the helm. "Lt. Sulu, prepare to
lower shields." Still he held off his final order. "Well, Mr. Spock?"

"There is considerable distortion, however bioscan readings are
inconsistent with Klingon anatomy and physiology."

"Shields down, Sulu." Kirk returned to the intercom.

"Launch shuttlecraft, Mr. Scott." A red light flashed on the engineering
board, confirming the launch. Kirk followed the action in his mind's
eye. The shuttle bay doors of the secondary hull would yawn open, baring
the hangar deck to the vacuum of space. One by one the shuttlecraft
would lift off the deck. Any moment now they would appear on the main
viewscreen as they headed for the... Spock's voice rang out. "Captain,
bio-scan readings are still fluctuating, but the life-form readings are
also inconsistent with our profiles of the Frenni race." A nasty tingle
crept up the base of Kirk's neck. "Instrument error?"

"Possibly," conceded Spock returning to his board. "I will need more
time to re-check calibrations." Kirk gnawed at his thumbnail. "Not
Klingons, but not Frenni either." Instinct rather than thought moved him
to action. His voice rang out to engineering. "Mr. Scott, recall the
shuttlecraft." He edged forward on his seat. "Sulu, prepare to raise
shields as soon as they hit the deck."

"Kirrk, what hass happened?" came the bewildered voice of the alien as
the shuttlecraft turned back towards the Enterprise. Kirk hesitated.
"Selessan, identify your crew."

"But Capsain, we hass idensified oursselvess," responded the merchant
with an overtone of anger. "Pleasse hurry, we hass injured needssing
medical care." The distinctive sibilant voice was that of a Frenni; the
merchant captain had remembered Kirk from their past encounter. "Spock?"

The Vulcan stood firm. "Systems checks maintain sensors are operational.

The readings are not those of the Frenni race." And the shuttlecraft
were still outside the ship. Kirk kept his voice calm and played for
time. "Esserass, we're experiencing systems malfunctions due to the
radiation debris in this sector. There will be a slight delay..."

"Capsain, why thees gamess with uss? We are friends of the Federasion
and muss be helped: We canss do no harm with thiss sship." Kirk turned
to his first officer. "Weapons?"

"Still no functional weaponry detected." Spock's brows quirked in
puzzlement. "But energy output levels in their engine room are
increasing." On the screen, the cruiser began to turn slowly.

The captain of the Enterprise felt the soft snap of a trap springing
shut. "Scotty, get those shuttlecraft landed! We'need to raise shields."

"Five seconds, Captain."

Kirk chanted the count to himself. "Now, Sulu!"

But even as the helmsman moved to obey, the Frenni craft burst into
motion, racing straight toward the ship.

Chapter Three.

McCoy PULLED AWKWARDLY at his surgical gown, the tabs and clips eluding
his fumbling fingers. Only minutes ago his hands had been sure and
steady, nimbly weaving a tangle of severed nerves into a functioning
spinal cord. Now surgery was over after fifteen grueling hours of human
cut and paste, tedious and dangerous work even with the aid of the best
medical technology Star Fleet could offer. Freed from the demands of
operating he felt exhaustion overtake him with numbing rapidity. The
loose gown dangled in his hands, then dropped to the floor. How many
times had he, as chief surgeon, lambasted any doctor or nurse for just
such a lapse?

There's no excuse for messy medical practice. Messy habits have a way of
staying with you.

He still made 'no move to pick the garment up. Instead he slumped down
onto an equipment locker. If it hadn't been there he would probably have
collapsed to the floor, next to his discarded gown.

The surgical washroom was a peaceful eye between the two storms which
had buffeted him relentlessly for nearly two days. Behind him, for the
moment, the operating room was empty, while the sounds of the recovery
ward ahead were muted by closed doors. The only voices were those of the
ship's intercom droning an interminable list of damage reports and
status updates. Scotty was busy with his own particular surgery.
"Doctor."

Nurse Chapel was standing by his side. He realized that she had been
standing there for a while, but the fact of her presence had barely
registered. "Who's next?" he asked automatically. He had started
receiving patients within minutes of the first impact against the hull.

Now, over a day later, he was still at work treating the lesser injuries
that had lost priority to those courting death. Two crewmen were in
bio-stasis, so badly injured that only a starbase, a very modern
starbase, could put them back together in a form resembling the human
body. Sixteen others would never wake up. The ship had not suffered such
heavy casualties in a long time. "That's all, doctor. Your shift is over
for the day." Chapel began to rattle off the duty roster for the medical
personnel in a no-nonsense tone that implied that any objection on his
part would be a professional insult to the capabilities of his
department. Four names were missing from the list; a team of paramedics
had been killed on the hangar deck. He had handpicked each of its
members... McCoy listened wearily, half admitting to himself that his
supervision would be useless even if he stayed. His head was throbbing,
his eyes were unfocused, and his response time was barely beyond
catatonia. Then he stopped short, mentally stifling a groan of
irritation. "I can't leave yet." He leaned forward with effort. "There's
Benson, the chest injury from Engineering. Those lacerations were only
stapled together until he stabilized." Chapel hesitated, then
reluctantly spoke. "That won't be necessary." McCoy's head snapped up.

"Dammit, Christine, don't coddle me! What's happened to Benson?"

She turned coldly matter-of-fact. "He's dead. Vital signs were low but
stable when he entered op-prep, but then..." . A burst of fury propelled
the surgeon to his feet. "Why wasn't I called? Where is he now?" Enough
death, dear God. Please, no more. Chapel blocked his steps bodily,
forcing him to a halt. "Doctor McCoy, crewman Benson is dead. You know
as well as I do that our staff took every possible action to save his
life, but it simply wasn't possible." The spurt of adrenalin gave out,
leaving him drained. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I just..."

He trailed off in confusion. What had he thought he could do--catch the
Angel of Death on his way and wrestle him to the ground? "Thank you,
Nurse Chapel." He looked into her face and saw the fatigue that blurred
the strong lines of her features. "I guess it's time for me to go away."

"Yes, it is." She still looked stern, but her voice had regained an edge
of tolerance. "How the hell do you put up with me?" he muttered as he
stumbled out of the room. Walking down the corridor revived McCoy
somewhat, at least sufficiently to enable him to dodge the scurrying
work crews and skirt the obstacle course of conduits, uncrated spare
parts, and the occasional body haft submerged in the floor or ceiling or
wall. Though it was early morning by Ship's time, the corridors were lit
at daylight intensity to accommodate repairs. The concept of morning and
evening in space was wholly artificial, but he hated such a blatant
reminder of that fact. "Gravity crews t'deck Seven... gravity crews
t'deck Seven. Prepare/or adjustment procedures in 4.5 hours. Repeat..."
, Scotty's voice sounded hoarse even through the filtered intercom.

McCoy idly wondered just how much damage the Enterprise had sustained.

As a doctor he was most concerned with the human wreckage, yet he had
been unusually alarmed by the gyrations of the deck during the attack.

With what little attention he could spare from his medical duties, he
had gathered that the identity of their assailants was still to be
determined. Pieces of the Frenni ship were stored in the shuttle bay;
pieces of strange bodies, salvaged from amidst that space debris, were
in stasis next to Ellison and Takeoka. With luck, the latter might
defrost in slightly better condition than the aliens. McCoy shook his
head as if to dislodge the relentless stream of sick bay concerns that
trailed after him. There wasn't much sense in dwelling on their chances
now--the ship wouldn't reach a sizable starbase for several weeks.

Uhura's voice rang out of the intercom. "Captain Kirk, to the bridge."

Then Scotty's voice sounded out. "Captain Kirk, come to phaser control."

"Kirk here. I'll be there when I get there." McCoy chuckled over the
conflicting demands and wondered how soon it would be before Kirk headed
for sick bay. The frustration in the captain's voice was the first step
to a tension headache. These musings kept the morbid ghosts at bay until
McCoy reached his cabin. Once inside he headed straight for the sonic
shower, stripping off his soiled clothes along the way. Sweat feels like
blood, he thought and shuddered at the persistence of dark thoughts.

Even the blast of cleansing vibrations failed to clear his mind. Out of
the shower, McCoy caught sight of his face in the mirror. It was the
same face he stared at unthinkingly, every morning. This time he studied
it carefully. The broad, regular features implied a stockiness that he
DEAUS OF H RAVEN did not possess. Fatigue accentuated the lines around
his mouth and forehead. The blue of his eyes was dulled to grey, the
whites veined with red. Above them his brown hair had not thinned, but
it was lightly flecked with white. I look more like my father every day.

Pushing away from the mirror, he wrapped himself in -a robe and turned
to survey a room littered with crumpled clothes and towels which he
hadn't bothered to stuff in the cycle bin. His plants looked wilted.

Unread medical tapes lay scattered over his desk, along with a pile of
printouts from the last batch of correspondence that had come with
sub-space communications from Star Fleet. Uhura had a way of wheedling
personal mail deliveries onto every official communications exchange. He
hadn't had time to read any of it yet, but a few more hours' delay would
hardly matter, since the messages had probably taken several weeks to
work their way across space channels. The doctor also resisted the
impulse to start cleaning up. He needed sleep desperately, yet had
reached that stage of nervous exhaustion that left him restless and
slightly nauseous. It was a familiar sensation, first encountered during
the grueling routine of a first-year resident. I'm too old for this. He
threw himself down on the bed and tried unsuccessfully to empty his
mind. Twice he sprang up to call sick bay as one question after another
invaded his thoughts. Had he actually entered the new dosages on
Vergalen's chart or only made a mental note that it had to be done? Then
he had a sudden sick feeling that he had failed to alert Dr. Cortejo
about the need for follow-up surgery on Galloway's abdominal wound. No,
Chapel would have passed that information on to the other surgeon
anyway. Dammit, he trusted her wits more than his own at times. Oddly
reassured by this, he finally drifted into sleep. The shrill whistle of
shipboard communications dragged McCoy out of unconsciousness. He awoke
slowly, the tendrils of a nightmare blending with reality, drowning out
the meaning of the words blaring out through the room. His fingers were
actually twitching in response to the dream, in which he had been
knitting together yards of nerves that lay scattered about the command
deck. "... commences in approximately 30 minutes." Blast Montgomery
Scott. Couldn't he fix this ship without creating such a public ruckus?
A glance at the chronometer showed the passage of only four hours, but
McCoy felt no desire to fall asleep again. A return to nightmares wasn't
all that inviting. As long as he was awake he might as well get some
work done. Jim had asked for a report on the alien tissue fragments as
soon as possible, and while the autopsy had been handled by Frazer, the
xenobiologist, it wouldn't hurt to translate the man's obsessive
technical jargon into a language somewhat more accessible to the
captain. Besides, McCoy was curious to see just what kind of life form
had wreaked such havoc in sick bay. He pulled himself out of bed, donned
his last batch of fresh clothes, then stumbled to his desk. Rubbing
bleary eyes into focus, he logged on to the computer system and called
up the autopsy file. ' The report opened with photos of the fragments--a
gory beginning but useful for a sense of the aliens' morphology. The
first two shots were ingless, just chunks of orange pulp that could as
have been anything from vegetable matter to foam insulation. They were
followed by a startling closeup of a massive head covered with
steel-blue skin, its round red eyes open and staring with a look of
almost human malevolence.

A blue-black crest of brushy hair ran from the forehead back over the
skull; a chitinous beak gaped open at the center of its face. McCoy felt
the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What the hell... He
stared at the image in surprise. Though somewhat grotesque in its
decapitated state, there was nothing inherently frightening about the
alien's appearance, certainly nothing to justify the tingle of
apprehension that was tickling his spine. Yet, he sensed a shroud of
menace in the features of this unidentified being. He continued to stare
at the head for several minutes, but no further chills developed, and
Frazer's technical discourse failed to loose any more impressions. "...
morphological structures evidence no congruency with established
configurations... DNA molecular sequences of amino acids reveal origins
considerably divergent from biochemical evolution of known alien
species." McCoy snorted. "In other words, you've never seen anything
like it and you don't know what it is." Picking his way through a few of
the most convoluted of the xenobiologist's sentences, McCoy amended a
less abstruse version to the explanatory text. He made no mention of his
own reaction to the alien; Spock would flaunt an intolerable
condescension if McCoy reported "vague terror" with no apparent basis to
support his uneasiness. The association, if indeed there was one, would
come in its own time. Still restless, McCoy snapped off the terminal and
turned to rifle through the printouts. Despite Spock's disapproval, the
doctor's professional correspondence was automatically printed by the
computer system. McCoy liked the feel of paper and the rustle of pages:
a flat screen filled with type was not a proper manuscript.

The first few packets were journal reprints and an unpublished report
from the ship's surgeon of the U.S.S. Welborne. These were tossed aside
for more careful perusal in the future; a long, limping voyage home had
certain advantages. Then, unexpectedly, he saw the single page of a
letter. Most of his personal correspondence came on tape, from a small
circle of people who were willing to pay the extra cost of transmission.

Here was an exception.

Puzzled, he glanced down at the signature. The name unleashed a sudden
flood of memories that left him weak with the pain of their return.

After the memories, he absorbed the meaning of the words written in the
terse, brief paragraph.

He crumpled the sheet convulsively. After all this time, it shouldn't
matter so much. Hell, it shouldn't matter at all. Yet his hands
trembled. One corner of his mind retained a clinical detachment, noting
that he had entered into a mild state of shock. The rest of him just
felt sick. For a moment, he considered calling Jim Kirk. But no, that
would mean talking, explaining, more remembering. And to what purpose?

He had talked himself out years ago and failed to... Well, he had just
failed.

McCoy stared at the wad of paper resting in his palm and fought against
a tide of bitterness.

God, I'm too old and too tired to start this battle again.

Pulling himself upright, he carded the letter into his bedroom and
placed it in the center of a decorated metal tray that lay on his
dresser. From the drawer beneath, he pulled out a worn travel pouch. His
fingers withdrew a small probe and deftly flicked a switch that lighted
the tip with a pinprick glow. At its touch, a small spot on the paper
began to darken, then smoke. In seconds the paper was engulfed in
flames.

"Alert, alert/There is fire in this room."

"That, my dear shipboard computer, is the smoke of a funeral pyre. It is
definitely against regulations." However, the brief burst on the tray
was over and the computer fell silent.

Sleep was out of the question now, but McCoy was too shaken to do
anything else. If he stayed awake, the recriminations would start
creeping in, a litany of anger and regrets that were almost like old
friends. With unsteady steps the doctor made his way to a small cabinet
and opened its door. Riskelian mescal, should do the trick just fine.

Using both hands to steady the shaking bottle, he soon filled a squat
glass to its rim with a pale red liquid.

"To the waters of Lethe!" Half the drink was quaffed in one gulp. His
body convulsed for a second at the jolt of hot fire that ran down his
throat. The Red Nova brand-label wasn't kidding. Before the remaining
contents could be downed, the door buzzer announced a visitor. Good, the
more distractions the better. "Come in."

Spock entered the room. The first officer's hands were full of memory
chip packs and data tablets. He was wearing the look of self-absorbed
concentration that accompanied every ship refitting. He launched into a
stream of technical jargon without any preamble; at times like these he
tended to forget Human social conventions.

"Hold on there," interrupted McCoy with a wave of his hand. With effort,
he could keep his voice steady. "I didn't hear, much less understand, a
word you said. I was prepared for a "Good morning, how are you?' or at
least a simple "Hello, Doctor'."

Spock did not argue the issue. "Hello, Doctor," he said flatly and began
to repeat his statements. "The electromagnetic pulse dampeners failed to
fully protect the circuit backup for the Medquiz PF-3500 internal
systems file..."

"And I don't want to understand a word," McCoy said emphatically. He
took another, tidier, swallow of his drink. "I'm off duty." The first
officer still could not be sidetracked. "I require your permission for a
systems adjustment to the medical department computers. It will in no
way interfere with patient care."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place. I thought you were in a
hurry to get these things done."

McCoy grinned maliciously as the Vulcan's mouth tightened. Baiting Spock
was the best restorative to be found on board the ship. "Sign here." A
data tablet was stiffly proferred. McCoy drained the last of the Red
Nova before putting his glass down. His hand was still shaking as he
reached for the tablet, a fact which did not escape Spock's notice.

"Don't look so disapproving, Mr. Spock." The doctor scrawled a hasty
initial on the form and returned it. "I'm not drunk. At least not yet.

Care to join me for a drink before you disappear into your computerized
briarpatch?" An arched eyebrow flew up. "Your species' preoccupation
with ingesting large quantities of alcoholbased compounds..." Gotcha,
McCoy exulted and poured himself another "... is a constant source of
puzzlement. Despite its known poisonous qualities, you persist in this
custom."

"Not despite, Mr. Spock. Because of its poisonous qualities." He
swallowed another mouthful of the fiery liquid. The first officer
frowned, suddenly aware that once again he had been maneuvered into an
argument that he couldn't win because his logic wasn't part of the game.
"I must attend to my duties." He ignored the smirk on McCoy's face and
turned to leave. "All hands alert. Gravity adjustment in 10 seconds."

"Oh, Spock," called out McCoy, reluctant to let his prey escape so soon.
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that little transaction you
botched for Jim at the trading post..." When the deck tremors began, the
first officer was already braced for the movement but McCoy immediately
lost his balance. Above the whine of the ship's engines came the shatter
of glass hitting a far wall and the crack of bone against metal.
"McCoy!" Spock fell to his hands and knees to crawl across the floor as
it heaved and buckled. By the time he reached the crumpled form there
was already a small pool of blood forming under the head. "Gravity
adjustment complete. Repeat, gravity adjustment complete."

Chapter Four.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5308.5: The Enterprise lies dead in space,
seriously damaged by an attack we still cannot explain... Kirk STARED at
the crumpled pylon of the Enterprise nacelle with a horrified
fascination. Its once elegant lines were twisted and bent, destroying
the parallel symmetry of the ship's profile. Its cracked and pitted
surface was encrusted with dark splotches, like the oozing blood of a
wound, for the impact of the alien craft had fused the Frenni metal into
the very fabric of the pylon even as it destroyed it. Around the deck
the bridge crew had lapsed into silence when the probe camera began
transmission. Scotty's first damage report had detailed the effect of
the alien attack within hours of the encounter, yet no verbal
descriptions could have prepared them for the sight. No miracle slight
of hand by the chief engineer could repair this structural collapse. "If
we hadna been stopped for the rescue, we'd be stardust now. The engines
would have imploded," said Scotty. They stood side by side at the
engineering station on the bridge. Unlike Kirk the chief engineer
avoided looking at the scene framed by the viewscreen. He had already
inspected the damage by shuttlecraft; a far more detailed image was
burned into his mind.

"If we hadn't stopped for the rescue, we wouldn't have been attacked,"
answered the captain bitterly. Yet, no matter how many times he went
over the events, he had to admit that he would have acted in the same
manner. It had been the wrong action, but there was no way he could have
known that. I should have known it anyway... Slowly, the camera panned
down the pylon to the secondary engine hull. Its rounded sides were
dotted with debris, as if a careless cosmic hand had sprinkled them with
grains of pepper. "The last of the breaches are being' sealed now. We
should have restored hull integrity within five hours, but we havna the
resources to repressurize all the decks. Two work crews will stay suited
to staff life support systems and ship's services." Scotty's long face
was grey with fatigue, but even more, with grief. The devastation which
had been wreaked on the Enterprise was weighing heavily upon him. "How
soon before we can get out of here?" Still mesmerized by the panorama
before him, Kirk was amazed that the ship could' travel without
disintegrating. Nevertheless, Scotty reassured him that it was possible
to return to the trading post dockyard. "The nacelle itself is fairly
much intact, but if we tried moving now, even at sub-warp speed, the
strain of the forward momentum would shear it loose. Once most of the
decks are repressurized, maintenance crews can start shoring the
juncture t' the hull. It won't be functional, but at least it'll stay
with us." The chief engineer fought off a slight shiver. The temperature
on the bridge had dropped several degrees as the brittle cold of deep
space gnawed at the ship's weakened energy reserves. "We willna recover
warp drive until we hit dry dock and replace the pylon entirely, but the
impulse engines are sound enough."

The viewscreen filled with the length of the right nacelle, undamaged,
pristine, useless without its twin. The bridge personnel resumed their
duties. A soft chorus of voices blanketed the deck. "Time estimate, Mr.
Scott?" The Scotsman sighed heavily. Kirk always wanted predictions of
the unpredictable. "At least 48 hours, maybe more. Dependin'." He was
too tired to elaborate on the plethora of factors which could further
complicate an already immeasureably messy situation. Kirk let it pass.

"Weapons?"

"Phasers are operational, but power levels are low. We cracked a
dilithium crystal when the deflectors hit the cruiser." Bad timing. The
Frenni cruiser had been crushed between the expanding shields, exploding
into the deadly spray of metal which had hit the Enterprise's engine
hull and propulsion unit with such destructive force. What would have
happened if our shields hadn't stopped them? wondered Kirk. There was no
way to know whether the approaching alien craft had intended to bring
its crew aboard the Enterprise by force or whether it had been bent on
annihilation of the starship. "Deflectors?"

Kirk had saved his worst fear for last. Scotty confirmed his pessimism.

"Like a leaky sieve. A handphaser could drill right through to the
ship's hull."

"At least we're alive," said Kirk, searching for some comfort. "Aye, I
suppose we are." Scotty's weariness was sufficiently deep to dampen his
enthusiasm about the prospect of existence. "Though we're sittin' ducks
for any other ship that feels like takin' a shot at us." Kirk was all
too aware of that fact. "That's my department, Scotty. You worry about
getting us out of here. In fourty-eight hours."

"Aye." The chief engineer looked very worried indeed. The captain
continued his rounds. "Lt. Uhura, are you sure space communications are
operational?"

"Yes, Captain. I'm receiving sector buoy signals on navigation
frequencies and normal static levels on hailing frequencies. We're a
little out of the way of local space broadcasts, but I've picked up some
faint transmissions from the trading post, apparently routine
communications. No more distress calls and no coded signals." Which
could mean the Klingons had left Federation territory. Or maybe not.
Regardless, the Enterprise was maintaining strict communications silence
on the assumption that either Klingons, or hostile aliens, were
somewhere in the sector. In its present state, the starship couldn't
risk betraying its location by using space communications channels. Two
messenger drones had been sent out instead: the first warned the trading
post to take precautions against attack, while the second sent a full
report of the incident to Star Fleet Command. Despite its miniaturized
warp drive the unit would take a full two weeks to reach the nearest
Starbase. Kirk gritted his teeth at the memory of his request for
assistance. He disliked asking for help; he hated needing it even more.
Still, given the time and distances involved, the chances were that
there would be no reinforcements available for quite some time. Time
enough to get his ship out of trouble, or beyond help. Uhura continued
her report. "Ship communications are another story altogether, Captain.
Chekov is disrupting the intercom system with his repair work on the
computers. I lose a different deck every hour."

As she talked, Kirk heard the soft sigh of the turbo-lift doors parting,
and felt, rather than saw, the quiet approach of his first officer. "Mr.
Spock, I'll need a status report on sensors..." Kirk's voice trailed off
as he turned around. The dark oil stains on Spock's tunic looked
distressingly like blood, but Human blood, not Vulcan. "Captain, your
presence is required in sick bay."

"Problems with the medical bank computers?" Yet he knew that wasn't the
case. There were subtleties in all of Spock's impassive masks, and this
particular look was grimmer than most. "Dr. McCoy has suffered an
accident. He's in surgery now... Human blood after all.

By the time he reached sick bay, Kirk had prepared himself for the
critical care area. He hated entering it, an aversion that in no way
deterred him from doing so when necessary, but for him this room was a
symbol of failure, his failure to keep his crew alive and well. The
sight of so many quiet forms made him ache inside. If he had detected
the Frenni trap, if he had reacted just a few seconds faster, this room
would be empty. "Captain." Christine Chapel was waiting for him. "Dr.
Cortejo has completed the surgery. Dr. McCoy is still unconscious, but
vital signs are stable." Her professional manner was on full force, a
shield against the emotional toll of her work. Kirk would have felt
better about McCoy's condition if she had betrayed more of her anxiety.
- "I want to see him." The memory of Spock's bloodsoaked shirt was still
too fresh in his mind. The nurse nodded. "He's in the resonance chamber.

Dr. Cortejo can fill you in on the details while they run the scan. Now,
if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my patients."

She's got to get some rest, thought Kirk as Christine Chapel left his
side. But then everyone on board, himself included, could use a good
night's sleep. Which didn't mean they were going to get it any time
soon. The captain worked his way deeper into the labyrinth of medical
sections until he heard the precisely enunciated accents of the man who
was now acting chief medical officer. Eduardo Cortejo Alvarez was not a
popular man on board ship. His somewhat portly figure was held rigidly
upright by an air of arrogance. The impatient disdain with which he
treated nonmedical personnel, especially his patients, was a discordant
contrast to McCoy's warmer style. Since the chief medical officer set
the tone for sick bay, Cortejo's imperious manner was a constant source
of irritation to the medical staff. Only a mutual respect for each
other's surgical talents kept the two surgeons from open warfare. McCoy
wasn't going to like having Cortejo in charge for the next few days.

However, when Kirk turned a corner and came face to face with the
contents of the resonance chamber, he realized fully that his chief
medical officer was in no position to care who was running sick bay.

Even in sleep the human body displays subtle signs of movement, but
McCoy's form was utterly still, devoid of consciousness. His face was
almost white, with the skin stretching tightly over the bones beneath.

Ironically, the head injury was marked only by a small medpatch behind
his right ear. "What's his condition?" demanded Kirk of the two doctors
standing outside the chamber. "He's in a coma, Captain." It was not the
surgeon who answered. Kirk vaguely remembered that the young doctor who
faced him was a Star Fleet resident 'finishing a training tour. He tried
to recall a name but failed; trainees came and went too fast for him to
keep track of them all. "Dr. Dyson, attend to the scan," snapped
Cortejo. "I will not waste my time pushing buttons."

The resident flushed at the reprimand, but with a hastily stifled scowl
that betrayed anger rather than embarassment. She returned to the
control panel. Kirk watched as McCoy's body passed back and forth within
the scanning rings of the resonance chamber. A narrow ,platform moved
him in slow increments through the rays so that the computer could
capture a series of images, atom-thin slices from a phantom dissecting
knife. Dyson's fingers skimmed over the controls transforming this
information into a holographic recreation of his body, a ghostly twin,
which formed outside the chamber. The head area was alive with colors
from the dense accumulation of scan slices. After ordering some
adjustments to the resolution, Cortejo began a monologue. "The injuries
are the result of a number of factors in the fall. The immediate impact
with the edge of the desk created a superficial scalp wound and a linear
skull fracture." His index finger traced a bright purple line on an
orange skull. "Fortunately, the blood loss from the laceration was not
excessive and the occipital bone is intact. There were no bone fragments
to penetrate the brain matter below. Thus, from a surgical point of
view, the damage was minimal and easily repaired. "However, the impact
to the free,moving head caused a rotational movement which resulted in
an acceleration concussion. The effects of this trauma could be serious,
though I'm more inclined to be optimistic from what we've observed so
far. Dr. Dyson is the real expert in neurological examination." The
surgeon relinquished center stage to the slight, darkfeatured woman at
his side.

Though somewhat discomfited by the sudden attention Kirk focused on her,
Dyson spoke concisely. "The major mechanism of primary diffuse brain
injury after blunt head trauma is the mechanical shearing and tearing of
nerve fibers and blood vessels. An examination of Dr. McCoy's brain
scans shows no discernible lesions or shearing of tissue. However,
there's no way we can detect whether the nerve fibers have been
stretched. The only indicator is neurologic function--and that can't be
determined until he wakes up. "As for secondary mechanisms, there was a
brief increase in intra-cranial pressure, but probably not sufficient to
damage the brain. No signs of brain shift, edema, or hemorrhage. It's
fortunate that Mr. Spock was present to summon the medic team.

Complications could have developed if there had been any delay in
entering surgery."

"Speaking of surgery," broke in Cortejo, "I must get back to my work.
This is no longer my field." He gave the captain a grudging nod of
acknowledgement but left without any further notice of the resident.
Kirk began to appreciate the depths of McCoy's exasperation with this
man, but the matter at hand overshadowed Cortejo's shortcomings. "This
stretching of the nerve fibers--what would be the result?" Dyson gave a
frustrated shrug. "Dysfunctions ranging from mild confusion to deficits
of memory, recognition, word association, motor coordination, any of
which could require months or even years of regenerative therapy.
There's no further way to measure the severity of the injury until he's
conscious. Usually, the longer the coma lasts, the greater the
likelihood of neurological impairment, but in this case it's difficult
to judge the source of unconsciousness. Dr. McCoy had just gone off duty
from a rather grueling stint in surgery. Nurse Chapel says he was
exhausted when he left. Also," there was the slightest trace of
hesitation, "his blood alcohol level was elevated. Not to toxic levels,
but certainly combined with the fatigue, and the blood loss, and the
blunt trauma... Well, he's certainly earned a spell of unconsciousness,"
she finished with a wry smile. Irritation at her gallows humor cut
through Kirk's worry. Perhaps that was the point. Beneath the usual
timidity of a junior officer dealing with a commander he caught a
glimpse of a keen medical mind at work. He wondered what McCoy's
professional assessment of Dr. Dyson had been. The scan was over. Two
nurses gently rolled McCoy's still body onto a grav-stretcher and
whisked him away under Dyson's supervision. Kirk could do nothing more.
What a stupid accident, the captain thought as he made his way to a
turbo-lift. After all the wars and murderous aliens and insane careening
about the galaxy, his chief medical officer had been injured during a
gravity adjustment. When McCoy recovered from this Kirk would make sure
he received a ship deckklutz award. The doctor had been only too willing
to pass them out to the parade of crewmen that collected scrapes and
bruises and broken bones by tuning out the general ship communications.
The turbo whined to a halt and disgorged the captain onto the bridge. At
his entrance, the crew looked up expectantly. Somehow, despite his
medical duties, McCoy had become an unofficial member of the bridge
personnel, always lurking on the fringes of its action. "He's
unconscious, but stable," announced Kirk, then turned to Uhura. "Dr.
Dyson will be sending continual reports. Alert me the moment his
condition changes." He circled over to the computer station. "Mr.
Spock." His first officer had practically disappeared into the circuitry
beneath his panel, leaving only two booted feet behind, feet which
flayed about at erratic intervals. A muffled Vulcan phrase seeped its
way up through the metal. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were
swearing."

"Curse words do not exist in the Vulcan language," said Spock somewhat
more distinctly as he heaved himself back out onto the deck. One hand
held a frame of circuit chips. Kirk was relieved to see him wearing a
clean tunic. "Unfavorable circumstances are changed by action, not by
symbolic verbalization of emotion."

"So what action are you taking?" Under better circumstances, Kirk would
have been asking these questions in the comfort of the briefing room,
with his officers grouped around him, answering in turin Spock's fingers
skipped nimbly over the frame, jabbing here and there to dislodge
particular wafers from their place in the frame. He made no attempt to
maintain eye contact with the captain; only his responses indicated he
was even aware of the man's presence. "Pulse dampeners have been
repaired. Damage to computer circuitry was sporadic, but all damaged
systems have been identified." He worked his way down a mental list of
priorities. "Mr. Chekov is leading a work crew in the installation of
back-up memory units in all areas essential to ship's operation or
defense." These last words seemed especially emphasized. Kirk guessed
that the rumor of lost drama tapes was true. Well, no one would have
much time for recreation anyway. "Short-range sensors will be
operational in seven minutes." Spock stopped his poking and began to
snap new chips back into the holes. "Rough calibration will take an
additional hour." No longer blind, but still fuzzy. "What about
longrange sensors?" Spock had already ducked back inside the computer's
entrails, but his acute hearing had discerned the question. Kirk, whose
ears were not so sensitive, was forced to bend down to catch the reply.
"That will take longer since they sustained direct physical damage. Mr.
Scott's repair estimate for the equipment is twelve hours. Calibration
will take another four from that time." Sixteen hours. "Spock, we still
haven't figured out who attacked us, or why. There could be a whole
battalion of those aliens staring us right in the face, and we wouldn't
know it."

"A somewhat disconcerting image, Captain." Above their heads a portion
of the computer station came to life with a series of self-satisfied
clicks and whiffs. "But essentially correct." As he straightened up, the
captain muttered some especially strong emotive symbols under his
breath. Not only had the alien kamikaze attack been completely
unexpected, the reasons behind it were still clouded. Kirk was a master
tactician, but even he needed some knowledge of the nature of his
adversary on which to base strategy. The bodies found in the wreckage
were not of any known Federation race or its allies. Neither were they
any of the Federation's known enemies. Yet, this alien's enmity was
unquestioned: Frazer, the xenobiologist, estimated that some twenty
individuals had annihilated themselves in an attempt to cripple the
Enterprise. This latter action held the strong implication of more
forces in the area. Forces which could be lurking just outside scanning
range... "Captain." Spock broke through Kirk's reveries. "Short-range
sensors are about to become operational." The first officer had risen
from the floor and was hunched over his terminal. His fingers flicked a
rapid combination of switches. "Right... now." At his words, yellow
alert sirens began to whoop across the bridge.

Chapter Five.

The slow, steady blink of the bridge's yellow alert was starting to
grate on Kirk's nerves. After ten hours there still wasn't more than a
faint shimmer of matter on the edge of sensor range; just enough
disturbance to warrant caution, but not enough for action. Not that
there was much action the Enterprise could take in her present
condition. Then again, there might in fact be no substance to the
shadow; it could be a relic of battle damage to the delicate equipment.

Certainly the viewscreen revealed no alien craft, only the faint glow of
stars. Drawing his eyes away from a futile search of the screen, the
captain slumped in his command chair, fighting the impulse to gather yet
another round of status reports from the bridge crew. If he stayed in
one place much longer his yeoman would load him with a stack of data
tablets needing signatures. Kirk got to his feet. He feigned a
fascination with the unchanging viewscreen, moved closer to study its
image, then veered off. He walked slowly behind the duty stations,
nodding absently at the crewmen as they worked, until he reached
Communications. "No change in audio reception, Captain." Uhura's bright,
hard tone signaled, to those who knew her well, a tightly checked anger.
"Communications sweeps are still negative."

Just as they had been ten minutes ago. Kirk assumed a look of innocence
which did not convince the lieutenant of his good intentions. He eyed
the computer station as his next target, but his courage failed him.

Spock was obviously pained at his inability to provide reliable data
from the impaired sensors and any interruption would only deepen the
Vulcan's chagrin and delay repairs. Perhaps his crew was too good,
reflected Kirk sourly. A less efficient performance would give him a
legitimate reason to harass the officers and thus absorb his
restlessness in overseeing their duties. As it was, everyone on the
bridge was competently engaged in repairs or surveillance, providing him
with no distraction from the nagging desire for some sort of resolution.

What the hell could he do now? As if on cue, Lt. Uhura looked up from
her station and smiled, genuinely, at Kirk. "Captain, Dr. Dyson requests
your presence in sick bay. It seems Dr. McCoy is waking up." The bridge
crew kept working without pause, but an unvoiced cheer ghosted across
the deck. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk breathed a silent sigh of
relief. His one brief glimpse of the doctor, pale and gaunt, had been
unexpectedly unnerving. "Mr. Spock, you have the conn," he announced,
heading for the turbolift. "Yes, Captain." The first officer
straightened up from the circuit panel beneath the science station. The
inevitable litter of discarded chips lay scattered on the floor beneath
him and the desk surface above. "And Captain..." Kirk paused, looking
back at the Vulcan. "Mr. Spock?' "When Dr. McCoy regains consciousness
he should be informed that the medical systems computers are fully
operational."

"Of course, understood." And he did understand.

Spock was incapable of voicing his concern for McCoy across the length
of the bridge, but it existed nevertheless. Enterprise medical personnel
were too professional to betray a personal interest in any one patient
over another, yet coincidentally a large proportion of them discovered
duties that brought them into the vicinity of the intensive care unit.

Kirk marveled at the vigor with which they ignored one particular corner
of the room, yet hovered on its perimeter. Dr. Dyson and Nurse Chapel
were flanking the chief surgeon's body, intently scrutinizing the vital
signs monitor on the wall. In contrast to other panels in the room, this
one was approaching a normal configuration. Kirk might not be a doctor,
but through the years he had become familiar with the medical equipment.

A cautious smile on Chapel's face was a confirmation of his diagnosis.

"He's coming out of the coma, Captain," she explained in a low voice,
her eyes switching rapidly between the panel, Dyson's actions, and the
unconscious form of Dr. McCoy. "What about brain damage?"

"Too early to say yet," muttered Dyson absently. "The brain is a tricky
organ and the monitor hasn't been built yet that can track all its
subtleties." Her head was nodding in concert with the jerky progress of
one particular indicator. "We'll get a rough idea when he wakes up,
which should be soon." She bent down and took hold of McCoy's shoulders.
"Dr. McCoy, can' you hear me? You've been asleep long enough." This was
followed by a very gentle shake. "You must wake up now. Answer me, Dr.
McCoy." The slightest flutter of eyelashes betrayed a response. "Bones,
wake up!"

Kirk tried to make his words an order; they came out more like a plea.

The limp body began to transform with the tension of consciousness.

"Thatta boy," crowed Dyson and began to slap at his cheeks. "Wake up and
give me hell for beating up on a patient." The flutter increased in
intensity, then the lids snapped open. McCoy groaned but his eyes were
clear and focused. "What happened?" His voice was little more than a
croak. "Can you tell me?" asked Dyson. "What do you remember?" Dark
eyebrows furrowed in thought. "I fell. Hit my head. And it hurts," he
added. "I'll bet it does. You gave yourself quite a fracture. Now tell
me who you are." Only the slightest hesitation preceded his answer. "Dr.
Leonard H. McCoy." Already the voice had gained strength. "And where are
you now?" Kirk smiled at her pedantic tone. If McCoy weren't so groggy,
he'd have balked at being put through his paces. Propping himself up on
one elbow, the doctor looked up at the three people grouped around him,
then at the room in which they all stood. "Well, it's got to be a
hospital, but I'll be damned if I've ever seen one like this before. How
far are we from the ranch?"

"Ranch?" Dyson kept her tone neutral, but her body tensed. "Yeah, the
Black Spur. I know breaking horses may not be the safest way to spend a
vacation, but I didn't think this area rated a high-tech ward just to
treat broken bones..." His voice trailed off in confusion as he took in
more details around him. His gaze stopped short at the sight of Kirk's
uniform. "I'm not in Waco, am I?"

"No, you're not," Dr. Dyson said genially. Her eyes flashed a warning at
the captain to remain silent. "Tell me more about the accident." McCoy
lay back down on the bed, gingerly resting his head on the pillow. His
voice took on a slight Southern drawl. "I don't really remember the fall
itself--not unusual for a head injury--but I can't have lost more than a
couple of minutes..." He raised his head for another vague look at the
area around the bed. "Anyway, I was riding this chestnut gelding with a
bad disposition and an iron mouth. We had a slight disagreement about
jumping barbwire fences. He wanted to, and I didn't. Somehow, I'm the
only one that ended up going over." His hand described a lofty are.
"Just as well to forget what that landing must have been like. "Say, I
must have knocked myself silly 'cause I don't remember getting here." An
edge of worry crept into his voice. "How long have I been out?"

"You were unconscious for a few hours," Dyson said easily. "And now it's
time for you to get some more sleep, real sleep."

She looked up at Chapel. "Nurse, prepare a sedative."

"I don't need a sedative!" The querulous tone was fully in character.
"I'm the attending physician here, and I say you do." This was clearly a
non-negotiable issue. She was a small woman in stature, but her strength
of will was a good seven feet tall. "Well, as a sign of professional
courtesy," said McCoy reluctantly, "I'll agree to the treatment." Chapel
placed a hypo against his arm and released the medicine with a soft
hiss. "You're going to be just fine."

"Thank you, nurse." His eyes closed slowly.

After his inspection of the service uniform, McCoy had never looked at
Kirk. Dyson began a soft rapid patter of instructions as she scratched
notes on a data tablet. ,Chris, arrange to get a private room set up,
even if it's just a supply closet. I know it's not going to be easy with
sick bay as crowded as it is, but we can't afford to have the crew
around him when he wakes up. I'll need a monitor but otherwise try to
keep the room as spare as possible--it'll lessen his disorientation when
he starts to take a good look around. And get the shipboard speaker
turned off in there so he doesn't hear any announcements." That's what
got him in trouble in the first place, thought Kirk. "Where's Dr.
Cortejo?" asked Dyson. The nurse paused a moment to check her mental
calendar. "Surgery. He won't be out for at least another hour."

"Mmm.

Well, there's nothing he can do now, but see if you can catch him when
he's out so he knows what's going on. It seems he'll be acting chief for
a while yet." Kirk was impatient with questions but held himself in
check. The effort must have showed on his face. Dyson gave him a quick
glance. "Just a few minutes more, Captain, then we can talk." She
signaled him to follow her out of the ward, still writing as she walked.

By the time they reached her office the data tablet was completely
filled. Dyson pitched her voice for the medical log. "Computer, enter
the following update on patient Leonard McCoy." She inserted the tablet
into a slot on her desk. "Reading." Only then did the woman turn and
face the Captain. "Aside from the memory loss, Dr. McCoy showed no signs
of verbal aphasia or speech disorders. Motor coordination appeared
normal, though there was limited time for observation. We'll have an
exact determination of any subtle disability when we can run some
in-depth performance tests. As for the rest, I won't pretend to be able
to give you any definite information; amnesia is one of the least
understood of brain disorders. It could be temporary--lasting only until
he wakes up again---or it could last for some months. Or he might never
recover his recent memory."

"That's not a very satisfactory answer." Kirk's statement was an
acknowledgement of frustration rather than a reproach. "He's obviously
forgotten the last several years of his life. He didn't recognize me or
the ship; I'm not even certain he recognized the Star Fleet uniforms.
Just how far back does this amnesia reach?"

"Well, that's one piece of information we may be able to determine now.
I want to have a good idea of just where in time he thinks he is before
explaining the situation to him. "Computer, pull a complete medical
history on patient Leonard McCoy."

"Acknowledged. Record on visual."

"From his description, that fall may have been serious enough to be in
his records." Dyson peered intently at the screen and began to scroll
the document backwards. Starting at the present, McCoy's life was
unraveled line by line. After what seemed a very long time, the screen
stopped. "This is probably it: "Slight concussion and a bruised rib.'
Hospitalized overnight at a clinic in Waco, Texas and released after
routine observations indicated no complications." She looked up at the
captain. "Twenty-five years ago."

Chapter Six.

The odors that permeated the autopsy lab made Kirk's stomach roil in
protest. The sights which the room offered only made his nausea worse.

He didn't mind the chunks of tissue floating in specimen bottles--these
were mangled beyond recognition--but the dismembered body which was
spread out on the slab before him was a definite source of discomfort.

The captain forced himself to concentrate on the scientific interest of
the display. "Of course, this is just a reconstruction of what they look
like," explained Lt. Steven Frazer as he placed the last of the pieces,
a severed foot, onto the table surface. "There were no whole bodies
available." Little wonder. The merchant ship had been reduced to twisted
fragments and molten slag. "But no Frenni or Klingons?" Kirk asked
insistently. "Nope." The xenobiologist was surprisingly colloquial in
his speech. It was only on paper that he became a stupefying bore. A
typical product of the Martian Colony school system, according to McCoy.

At the thought of his chief surgeon, Kirk's stomach gave another ominous
lurch. Steadfastly ignoring his body's traitorous behavior, he moved
closer to the table to better examine its contents. The decapitated head
was the largest, and most intact, piece in the anatomical puzzle. It had
survived the vacuum of space with surprisingly little disruption.
Whereas a humanoid would have shown extensive hemorrhaging of its skin,
this creature's outer surface was protected by a rubbery layer of
steel-blue skin. The large, liquid eyes were shielded by a dear lid.
Frazer believed that their venomous red color was probably natural. The
black fibers of the skullcrest bristled stiffly even in death. The only
concession to mortality was the open, gaping beak. The massive head
implied an equally massive chest, yet there were only a few pieces of
oozing orange tissue arranged haphazardly in the center area. Sections
of limbs were laid out on either side of them to suggest an upright,
bipedal figure with two arms. Only one clawed foot and one taloned hand
were present. "How accurate is this 'reconstruction'?"

"Not very, as far as the internal organs are concerned," admitted
Frazer, cheerfully rearranging the parts in question. He was tall and
attenuated, with ruddy skin and an unruly shock of black hair. "But the
basic shape is right. I haven't missed any extra legs, or the presence
of a tail."

"Mean looking," muttered Kirk. Normally, he could not be tempted into
such a xenophobic reaction, but dammit, these creatures had tried to
destroy his ship. "Mr. Spock entered a provisional taxonomic name into
the computer log," said Frazer, "but the crew has already dubbed them
"Ravens'." The word brought back the sharp scent of Iowa farmland in the
harvest season, and the shadowy memory of a spare, stooped old woman.

Kirk's grandmother had called ravens the harbingers of death, and as a
young child he had felt his pulse quicken at their harsh caws. The trees
near home had often harbored the sleek, blue-black birds whose cunning,
aggressive natures and rapacious appetites brought them into conflict
with farmers. The name was well chosen. Another connection formed in
Kirk's mind. Ravens could also be taught to speak, to mimic sounds.

Before the rescue attempt, Kirk had been convinced he was speaking to
Captain Esserass, and only a very strong faith in the abilities of his
first officer had shaken this certainty. How had they known so much?

Enough to trick him into lowering the ship's shields? "Are these aliens
telepathic?" he asked. Such an ability could account for the accuracy of
the impersonation--the "Raven" could have picked it directly from the
mind of the gentle Frenni merchant, or possibly even from Kirk's mind as
they talked... "Probably not," said Frazer. "Recent studies have
pinpointed the biochemical markers present in most telepathic species. I
didn't find any evidence of those properties in these aliens." Kirk's
cheek twitched in anger. Then Esserass had probably been tortured for
his knowledge. Mindprobers were quite effective, but one of the common
side-effects of the procedure was death. "But they have a fascinating
nervous system," continued the xenobiologist with boyish enthusiasm.

"I've never seen anything like it and Dyson says it has 'journal
article' written all over it." He snatched up the alien head and flipped
it over to reveal the back of the skull. One hand parted the fibers of
the crest. "Look at this!" Swallowing an upsurge of bile, Kirk did as he
was told. Underneath the crest was a deep groove which bisected the
skull neatly in half. "Yes?" he prompted Frazer for the significance of
what he saw. "The skull is divided into two lobes, but I mean really
divided," the lieutenant explained. "Each side is a fully developed
brain, with no neural connections between them. Each side has its own
brain stem as well, but these don't join until this knot on the spinal
cord." His fingers traced a line down the nape of the neck, stopping at
a slight bulge perilously near the point at which the head had left its
torso. "Cases of double-brained development are very rare in higher
species. And even then one brain has marked dominance, while the other
is simply an especially dense cluster of neurons controlling select
functions of the involuntary nervous system."

"A mutant?" suggested Kirk. "No. From what we can make out of the tissue
fragments it seems to have been a common feature of the Ravens." The
young man shrugged. "But we haven't figured out what purpose it serves
to have two brains. Under most evolutionary pressures it would be a
fatal handicap. We'll need a live specimen before we can learn any
more." Kirk winced. "The last thing I want to see right now is a live
version of this." He gestured at the lumps on the table. Frazer grinned.
"Yeah, I guess so. I certainly wouldn't want to face one without a
phaser." He set down the head and reached for the one hand. Grabbing the
limp appendage by the wrist, he waved it in Kirk's direction, oblivious
to the man's pale complexion. "These talons are not only razor-sharp,
they're also poisoned. Here, under each nail, is a venomproducing gland
that packs enough wallop to paralyze a horse."

Kirk felt greatly in need of just such a numbing tonic, but Frazer
seemed immune to the stench arising from the dismembered Raven. "The
venom is composed of various body fluids and a complex organic compound.

The medical department thinks it may have potential as a new anesthetic.

Of course, it won't be much use until we can counteract the effect. Once
the structural analysis of the venom is finished, I'll have a pretty
good chance of developing an antidote."

"Anything else of interest?"

Kirk asked with an attempt at sincerity. He regretted having eaten lunch
before entering this room, and his body threatened to redress that
offense at any moment. "Naw, that's pretty much it," finished Frazer,
letting the hand drop back onto the countertop with a soggy thud. Kirk
made his exit as quickly as dignity would allow. Possibly quicker. By
the time he reached the shuttle bay hangar, Kirk's lungs had cleared
themselves of the obnoxious odors of the autopsy room and his queasy
stomach had settled somewhat. He walked carefully over the uneven deck
and reflected on the significance of the torn and gouged surface. One
shuttlecraft, the one carrying a paramedic team, had been the closest to
the Selessan when the recall order was issued and thus the last to reach
the Enterprise. The pilot had known the starship was defenseless without
shields; she had also known Kirk would not raise shields until the last
shuttlecraft landed. So Prusinowski hit full speed on her return flight.

She won the race to reach the ship but miscalculated the approach
deceleration. All aboard were killed when the shuffle crashed into the
deck. Another two crewmen had been crushed as it skidded across the
length of the hangar and slammed into the back wall. The worst of that
damage had been patched, but the crumpled shell of the craft was still
lodged in its final resting place. Not too far from there was another
high jumbled pile of wreckage. Tractor beams had recovered portions of
the Frenni merchant ship from space; Scotty's repair teams had pried
more from the hull of the Enterprise where the pieces had been imbedded.

For the last five hours, Lt. Sulu had been seamhing the remains for any
insight into the nature of the alien attackers. "What have you found so
far?" asked Kirk as he threaded his way between rows of misshapen
fragments that littered the hangar deck. "I'm still working on the
initial organization, Captain." Sulu waved at the minefield he had
created. "It's a complicated puzzle." Kirk nodded vague approval at
Sulu's vague report, Privately he suspected that the search was futile,
but he needed more information about the Ravens. Sulu, whose usual duty
as helmsman was rendered irrelevant by the ship's current condition,
could be spared on the off chance that some clue existed. "Carry on, Mr.
Sulu."

"Aye, sir." Sulu gazed intently at the mangled piece of metal in his
hand until the captain was out of sight. Once the coast was clear, he
seriously considered flinging the chunk across the deck, but ultimately
decided there would be no gratification in the gesture. Sulu turned to
his right and carefully laid the piece down in a pile of others just
like it. A groan issued from the depths of the debris, as if the ghosts
of the defeated aliens were mourning their lost ship. "This is useless,"
wailed the phantom. "Well, it was a good idea.., in theory," said Sulu
evenly. Since it had been his idea, he felt constrained from voicing his
regret. "Perhaps." A tousled thatch of brown hair materialized on the
other side of the mountain of space flotsam. "But, in practice it is not
so good an idea." Chekov worked his way around to Sulu's side. "Ve rill
never find any useful information in this junk." The helmsman sighed in
agreement. He pulled a cracked ventplate from the heap and held it up to
the light. It was the most recognizable object he had found so far. The
Frenni ship had been twisted and torn by its impact with the pylon and
partially vaporized by the raising of the shields, a somewhat belated
response which had done little to save the Enterprise from damage and
much to erase any evidence of the attacker's origin. "And now the
captain will expect answers."

Chekov continued his list of grievances against Sulu's proposal to
inspect the wreckage. "Worse, Mr. Spock will expect answers. I do not
like. to disappoint Mr. Spock." A good portion of the ensign's waking
hours were spent in gathering and analyzing data for the science
officer. Chekov viewed the effort as a daily sacrificial offering to
appease a particularly demanding demigod. Sulu turned the ventplate
upside down. "This reminds me of free-form sculpture from Benega IV. My
academy roommate was Benegan and he showed me how to work the metal..."

Chekov drowned out the rest of the explication with an extremely loud
and guttural stream of Russian.

As soon as Kirk stepped out of the turbo-lift Spock rose smoothly from
the captain's chair. The Vulcan was never reluctant to exchange the
duties of command for those of science. "Have you read Frazer's report?"
asked Kirk, settling into the vacated seat. "Yes, Captain. Most
interesting." Spock's tolerance for teasing was high, but Kirk suspected
he had approached his limit in one area--lately Spock tended to avoid
the word "fascinating."

"I suppose you even understood it," sighed Kirk.

Not even McCoy's emendations had rendered the report comprehensible to
him, thus necessitating a personal acquaintanceship with its subject
matter. "It doesn't answer our most pressing question--why were we
attacked? Why were these Ravens trying to destroy this ship? And at the
cost of their own lives." Spock did not challenge Kirk's designation of
the aliens as "Ravens." The term had entrenched itself too quickly among
the science staff. "They do exhibit extremely aggressive tendencies,"
admitted Spock. "Their motivations, unfortunately, are not subject to
autopsy."

"Greed and lust for power are the most common excuses for fighting,"
mused Kirk. The Vulcan offered another.

"Territorial defense is also a frequent basis for warfare."

"Not this time. This wasn't their territory."

"Perhaps they believed it was," argued Spock impartially. "Or they don't
care who it belonged to, they simply want to take it over. Territorial
expansion is another popular attraction for slaughter, right up there
with greed and desire for power." Spock grew impatient with this
undirected speculation. "Alien minds and alien cultures are often
possessed of motives beyond our comprehension." Kirk groaned and laid
his head in his hands. "Do Vulcans suffer from tension headaches, Mr.
Spock?"

"No," said the first officer.

"But my Human half has proved troublesome at times."

"Well, at least the truce is still intact." Kirk kneaded his temples to
ease the pain that was taking root. "That tale of a Klingon attack was
faked--simply a ruse to draw us into their trap." Spock arched an
eyebrow. "That certainly is the most attractive interpretation,
Captain." He registered Kirk's annoyance and relented. "However, even in
the cold light of objectivity, it is also the most probable." Kirk
observed that the pounding in his skull had fallen into sync with the
yellow alert lights which had flashed with monotonous regularity for the
last fifteen hours. Spock followed his gaze. "One hour and twenty-two
minutes until long-range sensors are operational." And what will we find
then? Kirk wondered wearily.

Chapter Seven.

THE SECOND TIME Leonard McCoy awoke he was alone in a small featureless
room of metallic grey walls and a ceiling obscured by deep shadow. The
only light was a faint glow that came from the monitor above him; the
only sound was its soft hum. At first he was content to lie still and
let his thoughts wander idly over landscapes of scrub grass and mesquite
bush, to recall the sting of dust carried by a dry wind and the baking
glare of a summer sun overhead. Inevitably, these thoughts led to the
memory of his fall, which led him back to the bed on which he lay.

Ironically, this vacation had been an attempt to escape as far as
possible from the reminders of daily rounds and night shifts in ER. At
least he wasn't working, but McCoy wasn't sure he liked this side of
hospital life any better. Still, he shouldn't be here long, since only
his head seemed to have suffered from contact with the ground; the rest
of him felt remarkably whole. Starting at his toes and working his way
up, McCoy wiggled and tensed each muscle of his legs, arms, and chest
without experiencing a twinge. No broken bones, no wrenched tendons, no
bruises. This latter fact began to nag at him. He might not have picked
up any bruises from this last fall, but he certainly had the day before
when the gelding had unexpectedly bolted, leaving McCoy hanging in air.

Yet no amount of prodding or pinching could produce the expected tender
spots. This puzzlement served to direct his attention back to the scene
in the hospital ward. As a result his puzzlement deepened. He had the
vague recollection, that the place had not looked like an ordinary
hospital. Yet no one had actually said where he was. They had been full
of questions, not answers. They. There had been the doctor who talked
with him and the nurse who gave him the sedative. But the third, who was
he? The image of the man's uniform was blurred, his face indistinct.

Where am I? wondered McCoy with an edge of annoyance. He sat up in bed
to inspect the monitor. Its basic shape and function were certainly
familiar, but this was the most sophisticated model he had ever
encountered. Numerous indicators were newly configured and their
markings only cryptic letters and numbers. Could they have sent me all
the way to Dallas? The desire to find out where he was grew very strong.

McCoy flipped on a low room light and saw nothing around him that would
yield information. The small space was depressingly functional and
antiseptic. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up,
waited patiently for a wave of nausea and dizziness to pass, which it
did, then took an experimental step forward. Balance and muscular
reflexes undamaged, he noted with satisfaction. Then he took notice of
the black t-shirt and blue robe he was wearing; getting dressed was his
next priority. With increasing confidence he began a search of the room,
only to find no sign of his clothes, indeed no store of any personal
effects. However, tucked in a small shelf by the bed were a pair of
soft-soled shoes and a folded jumpsuit, all of which fit him
comfortably. He headed for the doorway.

The trip was short-lived. Before he had taken more than five steps, the
door swept open to admit the tall, blonde nurse he remembered from the
ward. "You're going in the wrong direction," she said genially, .and
pointed to a back corner of the room. "It's that way." McCoy flushed. "I
was headed for the hallway."

"There's no need. Just use the call button under the monitor and I'll
come in." Somehow McCoy found himself being led back to bed as she
talked on. "My name's Nurse Chapel. I'm here pretty much all of the
time, so don't worry about not being able to reach me. I realize you're
a little too big to need tucking in bed," she said doing just that, "but
if there's anything else you want, just ask."

As if from nowhere she presented him with a small capsule. "I'm sorry
you're having trouble sleeping but this should help you..."

"I want to be awake," replied McCoy warily. "I also want to know just
where I am and how long I've been here. That doctor said I was
unconscious for hours--how many hours?"

"Are you always this energetic at three in the morning?" asked the nurse
in a conversational tone. Despite her plehsant manner, McCoy recognized
the evasiveness of the response and felt his puzzlement turn into
uneasiness. "I'd like to see my medical chart." Chapel considered. "You
were in a coma for twelve hours, Dr. McCoy. Dr. Dyson is concerned that
you not overstress yourself early into recovery. Now you, as a medical
man, should recognize the advisability of getting some more rest. You
can read your medical chart in the morning with your attending
physician, and the two of you can argue treatments together to your
heart's content." With a smile, she again proferred the capsule. Her
performance was convincing, yet somehow the doctor sensed that it was
just that--a performance--and not the reasonable statement of fact it
appeared to be. "At the risk of being a difficult and demanding patient,
I'd like to see it now." Her pleasant facade held steady. "And I haven't
the authority to give it to you. What would you say to any nurse of
yours who gave a patient their medical chart?" He chuckled despite
himself. "Fine, you win. Just tell me what hospital I'm in and I'll go
to bed like a good little boy."

"Why, it's called Enterprise General." The hesitation had been slight,
almost imperceptible, but Chapel was better at evasion and diversion
than she was at outright lies. She was almost out the door when McCoy
spoke again. "I don't believe a word you've said, Nurse Chapel." He
stared straight into her startled face. "Now why would you lie to me?"
The words drawled out a challenge. Sighing heavily, she punched a button
on the intercom panel. "Dr. Dyson to sick bay." They spent the time
waiting in guarded silence, staring awkwardly about the room. Chapel
welcomed the entrance of the doctor with palpable relief. "Your patient
has some questions. It seems they can't wait until morning."

"Thank you," the woman answered with a sleepy yawn. Her long brown hair
straggled untidily out of a hastily tied bun; her blue science tunic was
rumpled in a manner familiar to all on-call doctors. "You can get back
to the ward now. Don't worry, I'll call You if I need you." Once the
nurse had left, McCoy burst out with impatience. "What's going on here?
I want to know where I am and why I can't get any answers about my
condition." Beneath the anger was fear.

"You'll get answers." Dyson did not make the mistake of adopting a
soothing manner. "But until you hear everything I have to say, you'll
get the answers in the order I choose to give them." She waited until
McCoy gave a reluctant nod before continuing. "As the result of a fall,
you sustained a linear fracture in the occipital region of your skull.

Due to the resulting concussion you were in a coma for just over twelve
hours. Based on informal observation I can say that organic damage does
not seem extensive." She gave him a disgruntled look. "Your verbal
abilities certainly haven't suffered. But you haven't escaped without
effect." She paused to search for the right approach. "Think very
carefully. What do you remember from after your fall at the ranch?"

McCoy's brows furrowed together. "Waking up here, wherever I am." A ball
of tension began to form in his gut. "Well, more than twelve hours have
passed between your vacation and now. The fall you remember, the one
from a horse, is not the accident from which you are recovering. At that
time you received a slight concussion, and a body bruising, but nothing
serious. You've awakened from a coma that was the result of a second,
later, fall. You've lost the memory of the intervening time."

"How much time? Weeks, months?" Then he looked up at the monitor, one he
had never seen before. "Not years?" he asked with disbelief. "Yes,
years," came the reply. "You don't recognize me or Christine Chapel, but
you'll remember us again, probably soon.

Alarming as your state may feel, bear in mind that your recovery has
barely begun." McCoy listened in silence. He recognized the careful
words of a physician trying not to alarm a patient. "Or I might never
recover."

"That is a possibility;" sighed Dyson in reluctant agreement.

"But I wouldn't get my hopes up. Despite the dramatic appeal, extended
amnesia is fairly rare. It's much more likely that you'll start
remembering bits and pieces, until the whole picture, or most of it,
returns."

"Well, I certainly hope I remember you," he said with a spark of humor.
"You have me at a disadvantage." She clearly knew the right tone to
strike with him, one that would deflate his self-pity before it had a
chance to take root. "Now where am I? And how long have I been here?"

"I think we've talked enough for tonight. "Is it that bad?" McCoy asked,
suddenly grim again. "So bad that I need to get my news spoon-fed in
small doses?"

"You've had a shock, more of one than you realize. If you just..."

"You don't give me much credit, do you, Dr. Dyson? Well, I'll have you
know that I'm getting mighty tired of this white-gloves treatment. A
little shock is nothing compared to the holy hell I'm going to raise if
I don't get some answers soon."

"Damn! You're a worse terror as a patient than you are as a doctor."
Dyson weighed the determination in his voice. "All right," she relented,
"you get the whole load of news in one session. At present you are on
board the U.S.S. Enterprise, a Federation starship assigned to
exploratory duty on the edges of mapped space. The man in uniform who
was with us when you woke up is James Kirk, the captain of this ship."

"What!" McCoy's voice held more than disbelief: he looked aghast at her
words "But I'm a doctor, not some star-happy spacerat."

"You are indeed a doctor. In fact, you're chief surgeon Of the
Enterprise." ' McCoy snorted "Then the Federation must be pretty hard up
for help. I'm a family doctor, not a surgeon. Hell, I've never been
beyond the Moon and you're asking me to believe..." He ran down and
began to look confused. "Why, reaching that rank would take .. years.
And you did say it had been years." His face paled. "How many?" This
time Dyson answered him. "It's been twenty-five years since you were on
that ranch."

"Sweet Georgia," he said in awe. "That makes me an old man now. Half a
lifetime and I don't remember any of it." He sank back into the bed.
"What have I been doing in all that time?"

"I can't fill you in on the details, Doctor," said Dyson. "But Captain
Kirk knows you well and he'll be able to give you a better idea..." She
was cut off by the blaring of a claxon. An emergency alert was
overriding the room's intercom silence "Red Alert--Red Alert. All hands
to battle stations."

"Not again," Dyson groaned. "Again?" McCoy demanded. "What in hell is
going on?" His words were addressed to her back. The doctor was already
at the door. "Sorry, I've got to go," she yelled over her shoulder.

"We're under attack. Stay here."

"Dammit, where is here?" But she was gone. As the klaxon continued its
wail, the lights dimmed briefly Through the walls came the sounds of
running feet and .shouting voices "Under attack! I must have been insane
to join Star Fleet." The lights went off completely. He waited, but they
did not return. "I resign," he muttered into the darkness, and began a
groping journey to the door.

Chapter Eight.

Arroors OF meaningless sensory gibberish, the input from long-range
scanners sorted itself into coherence. The image which appeared then on
the main viewscreen escalated the yellow alert to red. Of all the
scenarios which had filled Jim Kirk's mind in the last 24 hours, this
was definitely his least favorite: to be face to face with a Klingon
warship while the Enterprise had buckled shields and no warp drive. He
settled back into the command chair as if bracing himself for the combat
to come. "Can you get us out of here, Mr. Sulu?" The helmsman shook his
head decisively. "The nacelle is still unsteady. If I try to move the
ship now, we'll go into a spin. And even if it were anchored, we can't
outrun a battlecruiser with impulse engines." His voice was still ragged
from his frantic dash from the hangar deck to the bridge. "Chekov, what
kind of damage can our weapons do?"

"Not much, Keptin." The ensign wiped sweat off his forehead. He had kept
up with Sulu all the way but the run had cost him as well. "Phasers are
at thirty-three percent capacity. Even with a solid hit, that won't break
their shields." Kirk's fist hit a communications switch. "Scotty, I need
power!"

"There's no more t' give," came the frantic voice from the speaker.
"Ship's systems are pared t' the bone, and we've lowered life-support t'
a barely sustainable level. We can't fight, we can't run, we can't
defend ourselves... I need a miracle."

"Then get ready to cut life-support systems completely at my signal.

All power to phasers."

"What?"

"You heard me, Scotty. We can last at least fifteen minutes from
shut-off. If we get through that time, then we can worry about
breathing."

S-".Captain..' Spock's imperturbable voice cut through Scotty's
protests. That may not be necessary Sen gh macae minimal radiant ,,, -
Y... sors vessel--its engines are cold';;" ,mn me lhngon "But it's
moving."

"At an extremely leisurely, decelerating pace, consistent with that of a
drifting ship propelled only by inertia."

"Like our Frenni cruiser," said Kirk bitterly. The ploy had tricked him
once. Now, though forewarned, he had no defense against another attempt.
"And what are the bio-readings this time?"

"None." Spock seemed as surprised as his captain at the answer. "There
are no signs of living beings aboard, Klingon or otherwise."

"That would mean an entire crew dead.

Could the scanners still be dysfunctional?"' "Unlikely. All other
indicators are recording normal conditions." Spock continued his
observations, his tall form hunched over the science station. "At
present rate of drift, the warship will not be within phaser range for
at least five hours."

"My miracle," whispered Kirk to himself. Aloud, he said, "Uhura, secure
from general quarters, but monitor all hailing frequencies. If you hear
the slightest squeak from that ship, I want to know."

"Yes, Captain." As the call went over the ship's intercom, dimmed lights
began to brighten and the bridge air lost its edge of stale mustiness.
Then a beep from her communications panel called Uhura's attention. She
listened intently to the silent message, her hand pressed to the metal
spiral in her ear. "Captain, medical section reports a missing
patient--Dr. McCoy."

"Missing? What do you mean missing?"

"He seems to have wandered away from his room during the alert, and no
one has seen him since. He's nowhere in the medical section."

"Issue a ship-wide call for Dr. McCoy to report to sick bay, then alert
security to begin a deck-bydeck search." As if there weren't enough
problems.

"Mr. Spock, our puzzle seems to be growing more complex. We now have a
battle-damaged Frenni ship, but no Frenni; several unidentified alien
corpses; and a drifting Klingon warship, but no Klingons." Indeed,
Captain. A most intriguing set of variables with which to deal. It
reintroduces the problem of Klingon intrusion into Federation space."

"Yes, it seems our bogus "Merchant Esserass' wasn't lying about Klingon
involvement. But how are they involved? Who attacked the Frenni caravan?

Where did the Ravens come from? Why is the battle cruiser adrift?" Kirk
looked to his first officer. "Answers, Mr. Spock?"

"You have enumerated the questions fairly comprehensively, Captain.
Unfortunately, delineating a problem does not automatically illuminate
the solution. I need more data."

"Keptin, Mr. Spock!" Chekov had finished a series of navigation
calculations and the results were causing him great agitation. "I've
traced back the course of the warship. Its path intercepts that of the
Selessan." Kirk blinked in surprise. "But it's moving toward us, and it
certainly wasn't within sensor range when we first arrived here." Spock
stepped down to the helm and studied the instrument array.
"Interesting," he said evenly. His fingers touched the panel,
transferring a star-chart to the main viewscreen. "According to Chekov's
vector analysis, the Klingon ship and the Frenni caravan were probably
in close proximity at this point." Two ship icons rested side by side on
the map surface. "Ion particle residue indicates this as the site of a
battle, one which destroyed the Verella. Both remaining ships lost
engine power but continued to drift apart from the momentum of their
earlier flight." The icons moved several inches apart. "We encountered
the Selessan here." A starship icon appeared. "While the Klingon cruiser
was still moving out of sensor range. However, as its deceleration
continued, the gravitational forces of the Belennii system exerted
sufficient effect to pull it off course." The solitary icon began to arc
back toward the Enterprise. "Its heading is 83-mark-4, though, so it
will not come closer than 8.5 kilometers," said Chekov.

The map wavered and was replaced by a panorama of untroubled stars
amidst the void. "There's your additional data, Spock. What do you make
of it?" The science officer balked. "At this point, Captain, any
extrapolations of that occurence would more Closely resemble fiction
than reality. I still need..."

"... need more data," echoed Kirk sympathetically "Very Well, Mr.
Spock." It was best not to push Spock too far. Extended speculation
without hard facts tended to leave the Vulcan in a decidedly cranky
mood. The captain turned back to the helm.

"Lt. Sulu, we hardly need a helmsman on duty, since this ship isn't
going anywhere. You'll be more useful preparing a boarding party for
that cruiser."

"Yes, sir!" The young man's face split into an excited grin. Aside from
the lure of a new ship, this assignment would put a quiet end to his
fruitless search through the Frenni ship wreckage. Kirk did not fail to
catch a look of envy on the navigator's face. "You, too, Chekov. I want
every inch of that ship checked out; let's get Mr. Spock that extra data
he needs." Chekov offered a silent prayer to the patron saint of
down-trodden ensigns for this chance to appease the Vulcan.

Surely an intact Klingon battlecruiser would provide a satisfactory
quota of answers. "Captain," called out Uhura, "Security reports no sign
of Dr. McCoy."

"Damn. It can't be that hard to find a dazed and wounded man. How far
can he have gotten?" The doors of the turbo-lift snapped open. With a
muttered curse, McCoy jumped through the portal and glared back at the
doors as they snapped shut. He was far from dazed. "Bones!"

There was no reaction from the doctor. He turned around slowly, eyes
widening in surprise as they wandered over the glittering, humming
instrument panels that lined the bridge. When they reached the
viewscreen he gave a visible start and remained riveted in place. "I'll
be damned," he exclaimed softly. "I really am in space."

Kirk rose from the command chair and crossed over to him. "Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy pulled his attention away from the vision of deep space and found
himself the center of attention on the deck. He flushed. "Sorry to
intrude, but I've been trying to find 'sick bay.' If someone could give
me some directions..."

"Don't worry, I'll have a security guard show you the way." Kirk kept
his voice deliberately matter-offact. Off to his side, Uhura began to
whisper quietly into the intercom. "Thanks very much." McCoy's attention
sharpened on Kirk's face. "I remember you." The look of anticipation on
Kirk's face faded as McCoy continued. "You were there in the hospital
ward when I woke up. You must be Captain Kirk." He held out his hand in
greeting. Solemnly, the captain shook hands with his chief medical
officer. Still conscious of the crew watching him, McCoy glanced
nervously around the room, his gaze sliding quickly over the unfamiliar
faces. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble. Actually, I just got lost
trying to stay out of the way during this red alert commotion." "You
haven't caused any trouble," said Kirk. "We were simply concerned when
you didn't answer the ship's intercom."

"I heard the orders--I just couldn't figure out how to talk back." McCoy
gave another baleful glance at the turbo-lift doors. "Or how to get that
blasted contraption to work." Despite himself, Kirk smiled. "I'll see to
it that you get a thorough orientation to the Enterprise so you don't
get lost again." He watched as McCoy's eyes drifted back to the view
screen, mesmerized by the black velvet surface. "WOULD you care for a
tour of the bridge, doctor?" With all due ceremony the captain led a
curious McCoy to the communications station and introduced him to Lt.
Uhura. "This is the voice that has been ordering you to sick bay."

"Then I came in the right direction after all," said McCoy with a slight
courtly bow as he took her hand. She accepted the compliment with a
gracious smile, and only Kirk could detect the effort in her pretense of
formality. While Uhura held the doctor's attention with an explanation
of the sub-space transmitter, Kirk motioned for Spock to come closer.

Until now the first officer had stayed motionless at his station, but at
the captain's signal he rose quietly and walked towards the small group.

Without words the two officers came to a quick understanding of the
situation: the Vulcan's sudden presence might jolt McCoy's memory. When
McCoy turned around there was no doubt that the confrontation was a
shock, but the doctor's reaction revealed only amazement, not
recognition. "This is the ship's first officer, Mr. Spock," said Kirk
easily, though he couldn't stifle an inward stab of disappointment.

McCoy swallowed his surprise. "How do you do?" His hand made an abortive
move upwards, but Spock's stony countenance seemed too alien for such a
Human gesture as a handshake. Somewhat at a loss, McCoy clasped his
hands behind his back and rocked nervously on his toes. "Forgive me any
social blunders, but I've never met a Vulcan before." Spock nodded
impassively. "There is no need for apology. I have learned to
accommodate Human social conventions."

"Oh, really," answered McCoy weakly. He glanced sideways at Kirk, as if
appealing for help, but the captain only smiled. The need for further
conversation was forestalled by Christine Chapel's sudden emergence from
the turbolift. "Uh oh," murmured McCoy under his breath. "I'm in for it
now."

"Hmm. Perhaps we should continue your tour later," said Kirk as a
grim-faced Nurse Chapel swooped towards them. Her worry over the
doctor's disappearance was rapidly transforming into anger. McCoy
stepped forward meekly. "Don't shoot. I'll go peaceably." Her expression
did not lighten, but she came to a halt and showed no inclination to
drag him bodily off the bridge.

"Well, it's been a Pleasure meeting you, Captain." The doctor nodded
affably at Spock, smiled at Uhura, and turned to follow Chapel to the
exit. After several steps he hesitated; a look of confusion crossed his
face. Looking back briefly, he called out, "I guess I'll need to talk to
you later about..." He broke off and walked quickly through the opening
doors. With Chapel handling the recalcitrant turbolift, McCoy was free
to sag weakly against a wall. He closed his eyes and fought against a
wave of nausea. Throughout the duration of the alert he had been filled
with an energizing sense of wonder as he worked his way from corridor to
corridor, dodging the self-absorbed crew. In their wake, sliding doors
revealed quick glimpses of laboratories and offices all dimly
illuminated by the glow of emergency lighting panels. He had pushed
aside Dr. Dyson's disturbing words and concentrated on the novelty of
his surroundings, letting himself be drawn farther and farther away from
his room, until at last he had lost all sense of direction. But finally,
as he was leaving the bridge, the knowledge had caught up to him again,
bringing a wrenching sense of disorientation. I'm supposed to know these
people, this ship. I've been here for years. I'm never going home again.

He felt as if a chasm had opened beneath his feet, and a glimpse of the
depths had left him spinning from vertigo. "You're tired," said Chapel,
not without sympathy. "I'm old," McCoy responded bitterly, though he
still couldn't bring himself to accept that he had aged so much
seemingly overnight. "Forty-eight is hardly doddering," came the acerbic
reply. The abrupt change of tone opened McCoy's eyes in surprise. Chapel
was studying him with an expression of bemusement. "And you've been
sprinting through the Enterprise at an alarmingly sprightly pace for an
elderly man."

"This isn't funny!" he flared. "What do you care that.

I've lost half a lifetime? What does anybody care on this tinpot rocket?
I don't know you. I've never met you in my life."

Even as the doors of the lift opened, . all lies. I've opened he
continued shouting. It she's, been shanghaied off Earth and I want to go
back." Strong arms were taking hold of him.

"Let me go! Let me out of here?' Blind with fury, McCoy began swinging
his fists and grappling with the bodies which tried to restrain him. The
unseen forces prevailed, pinning him down to the floor. He heard a soft
hiss by his ear and felt a cold spot at the base of his neck. Then he
lost consciousness.

Chapter Nine.

THE WALK THROUGH the interior of the Falchion had a curious dreamlike
quality. Red boarding lights posted at irregular intervals created a dim
trail that wound its way through narrow shadowy corridors and cramped
crew quarters. The basic lines of the ship were familiar, yet form and
function were both oddly distorted for alien bodies and minds. An alien
ship devoid of alien life: no Klingons were on board. Spock's summons
had pulled Kirk from a deep sleep, moving him to action and the
appearance of alertness, but fatigue blurred the distinction between the
unconscious realm and his present surroundings. He half-believed himself
to be in a mildly disturbing dream. The Vulcan first officer, however,
was firmly grounded in the reality of the situation. "The sensor scan
readings have been confirmed by a thorough deck search. The boarding
party reports there are no living beings aboard the ship. No bodies,
either. Yet, the lifeslips are all berthed."

"I don't like the feel of this, Spock."

"The feel, Captain?" The obligatory challenge to Human emotions. "This
situation bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the disappearance of the
crew of an Earth ship of the sea, the Marie Celeste She was found adrift
with no sign of her crew. The mystery was never solved." Spock made no
reply to this bit of trivia. "What about the ship's log?" asked Kirk.
"Wiped clean. The complete record of this ship's activities has been
erased from the computer system. Therefore, the immediate history of
this vessel remains unknown. However, Star Fleet intelligence reports
indicate the Falchion had been posted on routine border patrol of the
Belennii system for nearly two solar years. The commander of the ship
was Captain Kryon, a seasoned veteran who should have deserved a better
assignment. However, there have been indications of political upheavals
in the current Imperial line of succession. He may have incurred
political disfavor." "Or he may have been placed there in preparation
for an attack on the Federation," said Kirk thoughtfully. He followed
Spock through a narrow doorway and found himself in the command center
of the warship, the rendezvous point for the boarding party. The
shadowed forms of half a dozen crewmembers, indistingnishable from one
another in the dim red light, were scattered about the cockpit, waving
tricorders in every direction. Here, more than anywhere else, the lack
of power was most evident: equipment panels lay dark and silent and the
viewscreen was reduced to a blank wall. "Captain, this is an
unparalleled opportunity to study Klingon technology." The disembodied
voice was that of Lt. Aziz. As one of Scotty's disciples, she was
enchanted by engineering systems. "Sorry you won't have more time to
check it out," answered Kirk, failing to identify her position in the
crowd that milled in the halflight. "That's all right. I've already got
enough information to keep me busy for months, but Sulu's dying to fly a
Klingon warship---he can't be trusted near the controls."

"It's the chance of a lifetime!" the helmsman's voice rang out
excitedly. He too was merged among the crew. "Is it functional?" asked
Kirk in surprise.

"As far as we can determine," said Aziz. Spock picked up the narrative.

"All ship's systems are in working order, though power levels are low
due to engine shutdown. Presumably, with sufficient time, levels could
be restored to normal capacity."

"So where are the Klingons?' It was a rhetorical question, another Human
response which Spock ignored. "It's just like the Marie Celeste," said
Sulu with relish. This time he made himself known by moving toward the
senior officers. "Abandoned at sea in the Bermuda Triangle, crew
vanished into thin air." Spock was pushed to a rebuttal. "I too am
familiar with the myths and legends associated with early shiptravel on
Earth's oceans. However, I see no need to delve into the realms of the
supernatural to explain our current situation. A rational"--he stressed
the word carefully--"explanation would be that the crew has boarded
another vessel."

"Leaving a functional warship behind, adrift in Federation territory?"
Kirk countered. "That may indeed be a rational explanation, Mr. Spock,
but only of very irrational behavior on the part of the Klingons. And
since the Selessan had no Frenni aboard, we are left with two missing
crews to account for. We've faced our share of cosmic mysteries,
encountered the unknown, the unexplained, the fantastic. Now we're
meeting the known acting out of character. I don't like it." Spock gave
no reply; on general principle he politely ignored the captain's more
blatant effusions of emotion.

Kirk's eyes searched the shadow-laden command deck. Where was the shade
of its former captain? Surely it lurked just out of sight... Sleep was
lulling him into fantasy even as he stood. Chekov's voice echoed weakly
over the ship's intercom. "Sir, I've completed an inspection of the
outer hull. There are signs of recent phaser damage." Those words
brought Kirk back to attention. "So the Falchion did attack the Frenni
caravan..."

"But, Captain," interrupted Sulu. "Where do the Ravens fit in?"

"It was probably a joint attack," said Kirk grimly. "Chances are the
Klingon Empire has found a powerful new ally, and together they've
decided to wage war against the Federation."

"And it must have been the Raven ship that carried the Klingon crew off
the Falchion," said Sulu with noticeable disappointment. This solution
was not as appealing as a metaphysical phenomenon. Kirk knew his science
officer was suffering under the weight of this rampant speculation. "Mr.
Spock, every new fact we gather seems to compound our difficulties."

"That is the inevitable risk of any scientific endeavor, Captain,"
.replied the Vulcan without apology. "All theories aside, one fact
remains: this ship is functional.

In fact, it's in better shape than the Enterprise." Kirk chuckled
softly. "Lt. Aziz, how long will it take to restore life-support systems
and bring the engines back to full power?" The boarding crew came to a
standstill at his words. "No more than four hours," replied the engineer
promptly. "Sooner, if Linguistics can decipher certain control
designations."

"According to Scotty's last estimate we have another ten hours before
the Enterprise is ready to depart. Sulu, that gives you six hours to
learn how to fly her."

"Yes, sir!" His assent served for all the boarding party. A furious
burst of activity signaled their enthusiasm for the project. "An armed
escort," noted Spock with appreciation. "With fully powered weapons and
shields."

"And a cloaking device which will make the Falchion our ace in the hole.

We'll need that card if there are any Ravens still lurking about this
sector." Kirk sent up a small prayer that those aliens had not learned
how to detect a shielded vessel. The Empire did not hand out such
knowledge freely, not even to its allies. "A small crew should be able
to handle this ship.

Sulu can double as pilot and commander, with Aziz as engineer..."

"I recommend Ensign Chekov as navigator and science officer," added
Spock.

"Since he has already familiarized himself with the ship, it would save
time to use his knowledge." Despite its back-handed delivery, the
suggestion was a definite compliment to the junior officer.

"Recommendation accepted," replied Kirk. The ship's speakers
reverberated with the effusive thanks of the ensign. Kirk suspected his
first officer wished to escape before Chekov lapsed into Russian. "if
you're ready to return to the Enterprise, Mr. Spock?"

"Quite ready, Captain." Kirk pulled out a communicator, activating
contact with the ship. "Mr. Kyle, two to beam aboard." When the shimmer
of the transporter beam finally faded, Kirk found himself swaying
dizzily on the platform. Spock steadied him with a touch. "Sleep is a
biological necessity."

"You're the one who woke me up," accused Kirk. He shook off Spock's grip
and walked down the steps.

"Besides, I suspect you've been awake for the last three "Four point
five to be exact. However, as a Vulcan, I find a short session of
meditation sufficiently energizing to forego extended periods of
complete unconsciousness."

"I get the same lift from a stimulant. If you need me, I'll be in sick
bay." By the time he reached the medical complex Kirk was racked by
yawns, and the presence of so many beds only increased his desire to lie
down in a dark corner and sleep for days. Unfortunately the relief he
sought proved to be more elusive than he had bargained for. "You've had
two stimulant injections within the last forty-eight hours," said Dr.
Cortejo with heavy disapproval. "I can't possibly authorize additional
medication for another twelve hours."

"I'll be comatose by then."

"It takes at least ten to twelve hours for the chemicals to dissipate in
your system," said the doctor didactically. His thin lips were set quite
firmly. "But I'm the captain," was the only reply Kirk could muster.

""There are times when it is necessary for me to remain awake." When
this produced no reaction, he continued unwillingly. "As chief medical
officer, Dr. McCoy was aware of the need to balance medical judgement
with a sense of perspective. The present tactical situation has priority
over my optimum biochemistry." The doctor's face betrayed his affronted
pride. "Very well, but I take no responsibility for the consequences of
your action." He motioned to Nurse Chapel. "And speaking of chief
medical officers, Captain. You should know that Dr. McCoy was carded
screaming into this ward after his little side trip to the bridge." With
a wave of. his hand, Cortejo dismissed himself from the room. "Another
five minutes with that man and I'd need a sedative to keep me from
breaking his neck," Kirk said to the nurse as she approached him. "You'd
have to stand in line, Captain." She tripped the plunger of the spray
against his arm. Within seconds a hot fire coursed through Kirk's veins;
the creeping fog of unconsciousness receded. "How much truth was there
in what he said?"

"I'm afraid that was a fairly accurate description.

But it was more of a .temper tantrum than the ravings of a lunatic.

Check with Dr. Dyson if you're worried." Chapel pointed him toward
Medical Records. Kirk found the neurologist hunched intently over a
computer terminal. At his approach, she flicked off the screen and began
an unrued update on her patient. "The results we've received so far are
very promising for a rapid physical recovery. But I can't form a final
prognosis until we've finished the full battery of tests."

"What about his.., temper tantrum?" asked Kirk. The description of
McCoy's departure from the bridge had been disconcerting. "The rage was
a good sign." She smiled at the captain's dubious look. "Delayed stress.

I would have been more worried if he had. taken the news calmly. Now
he's ready to absorb information about his past. In fact, it's important
that he get it soon.

The time lapse won't seem real to him until he's learned more about his
missing years." She picked a computer tape off the desktop. "Mr. Spock
pulled his personnel file. I'd rather that he read it with someone who
can fill him in on the personal details."

"That someone being me," agreed Kirk, accepting the tape.

She led the captain to a small alcove where McCoy was running through a
series of motor coordination trials. He stood bare-chested in the middle
of the area, his lean muscles tensed in concentration, as he faced a
panel set into the wall. Flat metal disks dotted the surface of his
skin, monitoring his responses. Dyson's assessment of his mood seemed
accurate. He was alert and apparently calm, despite the somewhat
aggravating task of trying to catch small colored spheres that popped
out of the testing apparatus before him. When the final ball had been
ejected, and missed, McCoy looked back at his audience. "What now, Dr.
Dyson: jigsaw puzzles, or skipping rope, perhaps?"

"History lessons.

Captain Kirk has your records and can answer any questions about what
you've been doing for the last two decades." She peeled the sensors off
his back. "Don't try to force a recall of the events he describes;
you're more likely to jog memories if you're relaxed."

"That's easy for you to say."

"That's why I'm the doctor and you're the patient." McCoy yelped as she
plucked a last sensor disk from his ribcage. "Take good care of him,
Captain," she advised before she left. "He's medical property."

"I'm beginning to feel like a lab specimen," muttered McCoy, pulling a
plain tunic over his head and fumbling with the unfamiliar fasteners.

The sleeves were bare of command stripes, a detail that bothered Kirk
more than he cared to admit. "Is there some private place where we can
dissect my life, Captain Kirk? I promise not to get hysterical or throw
fits."

"We'll go to my cabin," suggested Kirk, leading the way out of sick bay.

"A little Saurian brandy should steady your nerves."

"Really? I've never tried the stuff," McCoy said innocently. Kirk
whooped loudly, badly startling a crewman in the corridor. By the time
they reached a turbo-lift his laughter had subsided sufficiently for him
to call out their destination. "Well, your mind may not remember, but
I'll bet your body does. Your bloodstream has a long-standing
acquaintance with Saurian brandy. McCoy accepted the teasing in good
humor. "How many more vices have I picked up?"

"That's the worst of the lot, doctor. You've lived a clean life despite
my best efforts to corrupt you."

"How long have you known me, Captain?" asked McCoy. The seemingly casual
question was edged with wariness. ' "Many years."

Kirk's answer only increased McCoy's tension. The captain moved back to
a less personal topic. "Although the Enterprise is my first starship
command." A brief sketch of the ship's exploratory mission kept McCoy's
attention until they reached the senior officers' deck. The first
minutes inside the captain's quarters were comfortably familiar--Kirk
poured drinks while McCoy wandered about the cabin--but when Kirk
turned, glasses in hand, the resemblance wavered. The man he saw was
subtly different in stance and bearing. Ease and assurance had been
supplanted by a quick nervous energy. Kirk profferred a goblet to his
guest. "The best brandy this side of Rigel. ' Regrettably, his own
tumbler contained nothing stronger than Altair water. Kirk raised his
hand in a toast. ' To your health, doctor. McCoy took a cautious sip of
the oily liquid. Then another. "That's one hell of a vice," he gasped,
but the liquor had little effect on his restlessness. He paced the
length of the room's low shelves, fingering alien artifacts. "You're a
well-traveled man." The inspection of curios moved him into the bedroom
area, but there he caught sight of himself in a mirror and quickly
averted his eyes. "I'm still not used to that face," he said
apologetically, walking back into the study. "It's not a bad face,"
chided Kirk. "Not for an old man." Setting his drink aside, McCoy picked
up the tape on Kirk's desk. "So this is the sum total of my last
twenty-five years. Freezedried. Add water and walk directly into the
future." He peered suspiciously at the computer terminal. "Well, let's
not put this off any longer. How do you work this machine?" Kirk
inserted the tape and flipped the necessary switches to illuminate the
first file page. "Personnel record of Leonard H. McCoy." McCoy settled
himself into the desk chair. He tapped at the scroll key on the
terminal, muttering an impatient commentary as he watched the screen.

"Yes, thank you, I know when I was born and where. No surprises there."

The data unrolled line by line. Suddenly he hit freeze frame. "Next of
kin, Joanna McCoy." His brow creased with confusion. "Who the hell..."

"That's your daughter," interrupted Kirk. "My daughter?" repeated McCoy.

"I have a daughter?"

"Yes. She was only a few years old when you joined Star Fleet, so she's
been raised by your sister Donna, on Centaurus."

"A daughter. But that means she was born during my residency..." The
doctor did some rapid mental calculation. "Twenty-one! She's almost as
old as I am... I mean was..." Kirk sat down across from him. "We've been
on this mission for several years, but I know that before this voyage
you saw her as often as you could. Since then the two of you have kept
in touch through intergalactic communications. Though you once joked
that Joanna's at the age now where she's glad to have a parent a few
hundred light-years away."

"If I've got a daughter, then what about a wife?

That's the usual package deal, isn't it?" McCoy's eyes searched over the
computer screen. He read a name aloud. "Jocelyn? But I don't know this
woman." He fought against a return of the vertigo which had attacked him
on the bridge. "What happened to her?"

"You were divorced." Kirk pushed past his reluctance to talk about
McCoy's marriage. "It didn't last long.., and the parting was..,
bitter."

"I hope I wasn't romantically sloppy about it. Did I sigh and pine for
my lost love, Captain?"

"No," said Kirk tightly. "You never discussed it."

"Well, that's some comfort." He snapped off the computer screen. "I'll
bypass the Star Fleet commendations. I've got quite enough to think
about for the time being."

"Bones..." The captain broke off at the look of inquiry on McCoy's face.

"Sorry, it does sound a bit strange. That was my nickname for you."

""Bones' as in "Sawbones'?" Kirk chuckled. "You often claim you're
really a country doctor at heart." McCoy stiffened at the statement.

"Yes, Captain. It seems that my ideals were a casualty of my marriage
and divorce. I've never cared much for highpowered, technology-dependent
specialists---like surgeons. I had dreams of building a family practice
in a rural area where a good doctor can become a part of his patients'
lives. It never occurred to me that I might not follow through with
those plans."

"Time, and experience, can change a man's perspective." Kirk found
himself groping for words to justify his friend's actions. "You never
regretted your decision to enter the service."

"Well, I regret it now, Captain Kirk." McCoy's blue eyes darkened with
barely concealed anger. "I want to return to Earth as soon as possible."

Kirk choked on his drink. "So do I, doctor, but unfortunately it's not
that easy. This isn't a pleasure cruise. We're on a military ship facing
combat action. I realize you're not familiar with shipboard routine, but
surely you've noticed that we're undergoing battledamage repairs." McCoy
nodded slowly. "The wounded in sick bay.

And all those crewmen running around the corridors. I guess I've been a
bit too self-absorbed to draw the obvious conclusions?' His anger was
replaced by an edge of uneasiness. "It was a serious attack?"

"Extremely. Our shields are badly compromised and phaser power is
dangerously reduced. We'll recover impulse engines in another few hours,
but warp drive is out of commission until we reach dock facilities..."

Kirk stopped his narrative at the look of incomprehension on McCoy's
face. The words meant little to him. He had no damning criticism or
words of encouragement to offer the captain of a crippled starship. Kirk
pared his answer down to the basics. "We aren't going home for quite
awhile."

"Who attacked us?" asked McCoy with growing concern. The captain started
to reply, then gave a tired shrug instead. "It's a complicated
situation. And one you don't need to worry about. Worrying is my job."

McCoy's eyes narrowed at the underlying weariness in Kirk's words. "So
we may be attacked again?"

"That is a distinct possibility, as Mr. Spock would say." Kirk watched
his friend's expression mutate from puzzlement to' annoyance to
amazement. "I could die out here," McCoy protested. "Yes, doctor," said
Kirk grimly. "We all could."

Chapter Ten.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5524.2: The Enterprise is still badly crippled,
but we are proceeding under impulse power to Wagner Trading Post. Our
weapons power is halved, our shields fragile, and a Klingon
battlecruiser is our unlikely escort.

KIRK LEANED BACK into his command chair. Around him, the bridge
presented a satisfying appearance of efficiency. All posts were staffed,
indicator lights flicked on and off with pleasing regularity,
instruments hummed the melodies appropriate to their duties. "Ahead warp
factor two."

"Sir?" came a startled reply 'from the helm. The captain sighed. He
hadn't meant to verbalize the thought; now he had been caught out at
wishful thinking. "Quarter-impulse power, Mr. Leslie."

"Yes, Captain." The helmsman stifled a wry smile of sympathy. His own
thoughts were not so far from his commander's. With some trepidation,
Leslie tripped the sequence to fire the impulse engines of the
Enterprise. The starship began its movement slowly, without strain,
gliding smoothly forward into space. Kirk had half expected a creaking
and groaning of metal. He let loose the breath he had been holding.

"Increase to halfpower."

"Half-power initiated."

"Heading fifty-three mark six," intoned the navigator in turn. The
interplay of the bridge crew fell into its ingrained pattern. "Mr.
Scott," Kirk called out to the chief engineer. "Can we handle full
speed?"

"Aye, Captain. That we ken." Scotty's satisfaction was evident even over
the intercom. "For all the beatin' she's taken, the bonny lass is
hangin' together." His fond tone might have been directed at a
precocious child. "Ahead full impulse power." With this final prod, the
Enterprise attained the limits of her speed. Kirk watched the stately
progression of stars across his viewscreen with dismay. The ship was
crawling. With unnerving prescience, Spock stated, "At our present rate
of speed we will reach Wagner Station in twelve point six days." This
depressing fact was not new to Kirk--he had heard the estimate
beforehowever its implications were just now sinking in. A trip that had
lasted a matter of hours under warp drive was now stretched into weeks,
a humbling reminder of the vastness of space. Kirk had had his fill of
humbling events in the past few days. "Uhura, hail the Falchion." The
lieutenant activated the narrow-band frequency which had been
established for communications with the battlecruiser. "Lt. Sulu to
Captain Kirk. The Falchion is ready for impulse speed. Heading fifty-two
mark seven. We await your command."

"Acknowledged, Commander Sulu." Kirk echoed the young man's formality,
remembering his own nervousness as a junior officer faced with heavy
responsibility. "You may proceed." The viewscreen flickered to a shot of
the Klingon vessel. The bulging forward hull was pockmarked and its
metal wings were scarred with black streaks, but the of its design were
still evident. For several seconds the battlecruiser remained
motionless. A brief shudder rocked its frame, then it jerked forward in
a series of uneven bursts of speed. "Falchion under way, Captain,"
announced Sulu bravely. Within seconds his words carried more weight:
the cruiser settled into an even pace matching course with the
Enterprise. Sulu's formality gave way to exuberance. "We're learning
fast. I'll have this crate doing spins in no time." The warship began a
lazy roll onto its side. The lieutenant was an irrepressible stunt
pilot; this quality had saved the Enterprise from certain disaster on
more than one occasion. "Just keep your distance while you practice
battle maneuvers, Sulu. I don't want one of your loop-the-loops crashing
through our hull."

"Aye, sir. Falchion out." Pulling out of the roll, he dipped its wings
in a farewell salute. The viewscreen returned to the panorama of stars
lying ahead. Without warp drive distortion their pinpoint lights shone
steadily. Kirk studied the pattern of stellar bodies. Their positions
would change imperceptibly over the course of the next... "Twelve days?"

"Twelve point six," corrected the first officer pedantically. Impatience
was not a failing to which he would ever admit. "You'll have time for
sleeping now," said Kirk. Spock was not so easily tricked into a
revelation of his Human heritage. He turned the comment back at the
captain. "The effect of your stimulant injection is due to dissipate
within the next quarter-hour. You should remove yourself from the duty
log before your performance is impaired."

"How could anyone tell?" asked Kirk sourly as the science officer
stepped down to the side of the captain's chair. "At this speed I could
command while dead asleep." He duly initialed the tablet handed to him.

"Who's checking on your performance?"

"Dr. Cortejo." To Kirk's ears this unembroidered remark carried a strong
undercurrent of emotion. So Spock's endurance was not limitless after
all. "Yes, I agree. I'd like McCoy back at work, too." Spock raised an
eyebrow in token reproof, but he did not refute Kirk's interpretation.

"Has Dr. Dyson developed a prognosis?" This was the first direct query
Spock had made on McCoy's condition. "She was waiting for the final
results of the neurological testing," answered Kirk. Anyone unfamiliar
with the complexities of the half-Vulcan's character might have mistaken
his reticence for indifference, but Kirk knew the opposite was more
likely. The concern was too deep to voice. He remembered the bloodstains
on Spock's tunic and felt a twinge of sympathy for his first officer.

"I'm going to sick bay now."

Kirk sensed the tension as soon as he crossed the threshold into the
medical research lab. McCoy and Dyson barely acknowledged the captain's
entrance. Their attention was focused on the data that filled the
computer screen before them. The information meant nothing to Kirk, but
its significance to the two doctors was obvious. "Very interesting."

McCoy's gaze locked with the neurologist. "I'm not a fool, Dr. Dyson."

He seemed about to go on, but thought better of it after a glance at the
captain. He doesn't trust me, realized Kirk with surprise. "Anything
that concerns my crew, concerns me," he stated firmly. "And you are my
chief medical officer. You'll have to take my word for it that we also
happen to be friends."

"All right, Captain," said McCoy. "Then you Should know that your chief
medical officer is mentally incompetent.

There's no evidence here to suggest sustained physical injury to the
brain. Clinical indications are that I've entered an hysterical fugue
whose origins are pyschological in nature." He gave a wry grin. "In
laymen's terms, I've cracked."

"Dyson, do you concur with this diagnosis?" After all, McCoy was hardly
in any shape to be practicing medicine. She nodded her agreement.

"That's the most probable conclusion to be drawn from the data.

Posttraumatic amnesia is a prominent feature of closed head injuries,
but the extent of his retrograde amnesia would usually be associated
with substantial brain damage, certainly at measurable levels. Instead,
the response test results are consistent with a very mild
concussion---slight reduction of fine motor coordination and word
association. These symptoms should disappear within a few days." She
paused. "Actually, I suspected this might be the case after the first
session, but I couldn't be sure until I saw these figures." Kirk
considered her statement. "But this means the memory is still there,
undamaged. It can be recovered."

"Yes, that's the good news."

"The bad news," interjected McCoy, "is that we still can't predict when,
if ever, that event will occur." Kirk bit back his next thought, then
reconsidered. McCoy seemed able to discuss the subject objectively. He
released the words. "What if Spock were to..."

"That would be very dangerous." Dyson picked up on the idea immediately.

"For Dr. McCoy definitely, possibly also for Mr. Spock. If the
underlying factor is psychological, there will probably be a very strong
resistance to manipulation. The mind protects itself from pain with an
amazing store of defenses. Amnesia is a reaction to unbearable stress:
remove the memory, and the stress is gone. But if memory is restored
before the mind can cope With it, the results could be disastrous."

McCoy pushed down a surge of anger. He was getting tired of not
understanding what was going on around him. "What are you two talking
about?"

"The Vulcan mindmeld."

"Oh," he said, taken aback. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep my
psychopathology to myself."

"Isn't there any treatment?" demanded Kirk. "Surely psychiatric
counseling..."

"I'm not the one who needs analysis," said McCoy. "Considering the
circumstances, I feel just fine. It's the McCoy with the stress who
needs help, and he's out to lunch." Dyson ignored his flippan, cy.

"There has been some success with the use of hypnosis and narcoanalysis,
specifically sodium amylobarbitone. However, as a bioneurologist, it's a
procedure that is out of my field. Ironically, Dr. McCoy is probably the
only doctor on board who would be qualified to conduct such a session.

Starship crews rarely need such specialized treatment. "It's basically a
matter of time. Time to reach a starbase, or time for spontaneous
recovery.

Despite this episode, Dr. McCoy's records show that he has a very high
threshold for psychological stress. Somehow he's been pushed over that
edge, but it's not unreasonable to suppose that the lapse is temporary,
a way of bringing rest to the brain while it marshals more acceptable
coping mechanisms."

"An unofficial leave of absence?" McCoy quipped. "I trust it's not a
court-martial offense."

"Dammit, Bones, that's enough." Without thinking, Kirk lashed out at his
senior officer. McCoy pulled back as if slapped. "I'm sorry, Captain
Kirk," came the reply with all the deference and coldness of a stranger.

"I'm not accustomed to dealing with military commanders and military
protocol."

"Bones..." The name did not fit. The man standing before him would not
answer him back in kind with a "Dammit, Jim"; neither could he read the
apology in Kirk's voice.

"The fault is mine, Dr. McCoy. I forget that you don't really know me."

"Of course, Captain," said McCoy with the polite air of a sane man
humoring the mad. Dyson broke into the uncomfortable silence that
ensued. "My official recommendation is for Dr. McCoy to be granted a
medical leave of absence until such time as I can verify a full
restoration of his memory."

"Recommendation accepted, Dr. Dyson." The captain turned to face his
chief medical officer. "Lt. Commander McCoy, you are hereby relieved of
all responsibilities associated with your position as senior ship's
surgeon of the U.S.S. Enterprise." The words tore at Kirk's throat, but
the doctor listened impassively. "You may consider yourself as off-duty
personnel until such time as Dr. Dyson and Dr. Cortejo have certified
that you are fit to return to your post."

"Or until we reach one of those starbases and get me back to Earth,"
said McCoy firmly. Kirk gave a curt bow of his head in assent. He left
sick bay without another word. "I realize that this is a difficult time
for you..." began Dyson once they were alone. "Please, spare me the
lecture on emotional adjustment," McCoy pleaded. "I'll try to take this
whole preposterous situation as seriously as I can, but part of me keeps
looking for the stage exit. "Responsibilities as senior ship's surgeon.'
For crying out loud, I just finished my first-year residency." Dyson
gave him a speculative look. "So how did you do?" He groaned. "I'm lucky
I'm still in medicine. According to Andy Gildstrom, I'm the clumsiest,
most stupid..." He broke off. "What was that look for?"

"What look?" she asked innocently. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "When
I mentioned Gildstrom, you looked.., startled."

"Oh, it's just that I've never heard Dr. Anderson J. Gildstrom called
"Andy'."

"You know him? What airs is he putting on now? He is... was.., the most
insufferable know-itall second-year resident in Atlanta."

"He's Surgeon General of the Argelius System," she replied with a
strangled gasp of laughter. This time McCoy looked startled. "Surgeon
General. Good God, I wouldn't trust Andy to treat a case of the flu,
much less put the medical care of millions in his hands."

"He's probably improved his skills somewhat in the last twenty years,"
suggested Dyson. "Yeah, right." He frowned suddenly, looking around the
room. "Whereas I can't recognize half the equipment in this department.

There are nine patients in intensive care, but I wouldn't trust myself
to go near them. With coaching from Nurse Chapel I just might be able to
handle a few of the outpatient cases. Hell, the paramedics know more
about medicine on this ship than I do. If I ran this facility, that
means I've lost over two decades of medical knowledge and experience."

"Let's just say you misplaced it." Christine Chapel had entered the room
without their notice. "It's going to come back."

"You sound very sure of that, ma'am."

"I am," said the nurse. "But until that time, I'm going to have to work
under the supervision of Acting Chief Cortejo. Dr. McCoy, I'll get you
for that someday. And Diana, if you repeat that statement to anybody,
you'll also live to regret it. Now, the two of you get out of sick bay.
I'm tired of your faces."

"But I live here," protested McCoy. "Not any more," said Chapel,
pointing to the door. "You've been released as of now. You've got your
own quarters on this ship, and it's time you went back to them so I can
reclaim your bed for someone with serious problems. Go." Her mock glower
was directed at McCoy, who remained rooted in place. Dyson tugged gently
at his elbow. "You're not being cast out of the Garden of Eden on your
own. I'll show you the way to your cabin. Come on." She led him through
the bewildering maze of rooms which formed the medical complex,
carefully explaining the design of the ship's layout at each turn. "Are
you listening?" she asked finally. His muttered responses to her
instruction had taken on a distracted quality. McCoy stopped walking and
turned to face her. "Did I become a good doctor?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "One of the best in Star Fleet."

"Thank God." He slouched back against the wall of the corridor, arms
crossed over his chest. "This last year.., well, I was beginning to
wonder if I was cut out for medicine after all. Christ, I felt so stupid
at times. I hung on because I couldn't imagine doing anything else with
my life. I've always wanted to be a doctor--but it had to be a good
doctor." Dyson smiled. "The first year always makes you feel
incompetent. I still do sometimes, when I'm on the receiving end of a
blistering lecture from a senior physician. I've had a few of those
since I've been on the Enterprise."

"My lectures?"

"Sometimes," the neurologist admitted. "But they were always deserved,
and never vicious." He grinned suddenly. "Unlike those from a certain
acting chief surgeon?"

"Hush! Not so loud," she warned him, but her mouth twitched Up at the
edges. "Do you want to get me drummed out of Star Fleet?" She hauled at
his arm, setting him upright once more. "Onward to Deck Five, Dr. McCoy.

I've got rounds in fifteen minutes."

"Forget the guided tour, Dr. Dyson," he said falling into step by her
side. "Just tell me how you wound up here."

"Here, the Enterprise? Or here, Star Fleet?"

"Both. They seem equally improbable to me," he admitted. "I'd never
given much thought to space travel until I woke up on board this ship."

"That's because you're a dirt-walker," she answered without thinking.

She caught his look of annoyance. "Sorry, nothing personal. It's just
that since I've always lived in space, it's the thought of living on a
planet that seems rather exotic to me." They turned a corner into a main
corridor, not far from the turbo-lifts. She shepherded her charge
through the double doors and ordered their destination. "Go on," he
urged several minutes later when they emerged onto the deck of the
officers' quarters.

"Well, I grew up on Lost Acre, a space station not much bigger than the
trading post we're headed for now and just as far out into the fringes
of Federation territory. I wanted to study medicine and I wanted to get
nearer to civilization. Unless you're very rich, Star Fleet service is
the obvious solution. They paid my education expenses in exchange for a
ten-year hitch in the medical branch. I consider it a fair bargain."

"Well, you got into medicine," said McCoy.

"But you're still pretty far removed from civilization."

"Yeah," she admitted ruefully. "Still, the Enterprise has a bigger
library than Lost Acre did, so I'm ahead of the game." She waved him to
a halt. "Your cabin, sir." He read the neatly lettered plaque on the
door:

Leonard McCoy M.D. 3F Oddly, this was the most convincing evidence of
his lost memory that he had encountered: his name, written on a sign he
had never seen before.

Dyson coded the door open, taking time to show him the procedure, and
led him inside. The layout was similar to that of the captain's cabin:
the outer room served as a study, with a desk, chairs and shelves, while
beyond the mesh partitions lay a smaller sleeping area. Unlike Kirk's
room, this one was in fair disorder. The floor was strewn with clothes,
the desk and shelves were cluttered with paper and tapes, numerous
plants were dying. "Am I always such a slob?," asked McCoy viewing the
mess with distaste. "I wouldn't know," Dyson answered with arch
bemusement. "I've never been invited into your cabin before." McCoy
blushed furiously. She, unperturbed, proceeded to demonstrate the
operation of the room lights, the intercom, and the sonic shower
controls. "Do I tip you for room service?" He trailed after her as she
stepped out into the corridor. Dyson gave him a gentle push back into
the cabin. "No, I'll give you a tip: get some sleep." The door snapped
shut in his face and she was gone. McCoy sighed and manfully turned back
to face the waiting emptiness. He wandered from one part of the room to
another, playing with the panels Dyson had shown him, but he was soon
bored by the limited repertoire of beeps and colored lights. He watered
the plants, but couldn't bring himself to touch the soiled clothing. He
would have filed the tapes and papers but, having no idea where to put
them, he settled for making the piles heater. When all possible
activities had been exhausted, he undressed and lay down gingerly on the
unmade bed. Yet, tired as he felt, sleep eluded him. Only sheer force of
will kept him from tossing and turning. Instead of becoming more
relaxed, he could feel his muscles tighten. He grew uneasy without
knowing why. Finally he identified the feeling. It was a sense of
waiting--waiting for the real occupant of this room to return. The
feeling wouldn't go away. Each faintly heard sound of footsteps seemed
headed straight for the threshold of this room and each creak of metal
was the opening of the cabin door. After two hours of lying on another
man's bed, McCoy jumped up and put his clothes back on. In the end,
there was only one answer. Of all the ship's areas, sick bay was still
the least uncomfortable for him. If Nurse Chapel's given my bed away,
I'll sleep on the hospital floor. With a growing urgency, he escaped
from the cabin and paced quickly through the night-dimmed corridors to
the turbo-lift. He entered the parted doors to an empty compartment.

"Sick bay," he called out self-consciously. Damn silly way to run a
ship. "But his confidence grew as the machinery obeyed his order. When
he reached the ship's medical complex he gave a sigh of relief. Despite
its bewildering technological advances, the basic smells and sounds of
medicine were reassuringly familiar. McCoy strolled through the wards,
unchallenged by the night duty staff, until he found the small supply
room which had been cleared out for his use. The bed was still there. He
threw himself down on its surface. Taut muscles loosened in the
impersonal surroundings and fatigue quickly pulled him down into a deep
sleep. Hours later his body twitched in a vain attempt to escape the
torments of a nightmare, but he did not wake up.

Chapter Eleven.

"FEELS like swimming through borscht," exclaimed Chekov with disgust.

"The Falchion's navigation panel displayed a swirling cloud of fuzzy
magenta particles. In the center of the screen one especially dense
clump of particles marked the presence of the Enterprise. "This is an
early model cloaking system." Unlike Chekov, Aziz did not take the
distortion of the ship's sensors as a personal affront, largely because
the engineering section was unaffected. "Probably installed during the
first technology exchange with the Romulans."

"Then the Klingons got the short end of the bargain," observed Sulu with
amusement. "Da, and now so do ye." The ensign rubbed his eyes. "Maybe
eet is broken after all."

"There's nothing wrong with the cloaking device or the sensors," said
Aziz sharply. The unspoken corollary to her statement brought a flush of
anger to Chekov's face. "You are just as new at this as I am. Perhaps
the power distribution is not properly adjusted." The accusation was a
deliberate red flag. Sulu uttered a silent groan at the impending
quarrel. A direct order to stop arguing would only let their resentments
fester. So this was how Kirk felt when Spock and McCoy... The helmsman
smiled. He , had often noticed the captain's ability to distract his
senior officers with a sudden jump from one topic to another. The tactic
might work here--with some revision. "Gentlemen, our mission must not
fail," announced Sulu gravely. Chekov and Aziz broke off their exchange
in confusion. "The fate of this ship and its crew, the fate of the
entire universe, depends on us." He turned to Chekov. "You're my science
officer. I don't care how you do it, but make the sensors work!" Sulu
set his jaw in a line familiar to them all. Understanding dawned. "As
you wish, Captain," said Chekov, coming to attention. He wiped his round
face clean of expression. "Incidentally, the solution will require an
increase in ship's power consumption that seriously compromises the
safety of this ship and the lives of its crew." He tried, and failed, to
raise one eyebrow, Aziz leapt to her feet, hands beating her chest. "No,
no! Not me bairns! Let the crew die but dinna hurt me bairns!" Sulu
opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and dropped out of
character. "We need someone to be McCoy. I can't do my next lines until
McCoy gives his 'save the crew' speech." Chekov nodded in agreement.
"Dyson does the best McCoy impersonation. ,,Perhaps ve could develop a
medical emergency... "Under the circumstances, it would be in rather
poor taste to ask her," said Aziz. She picked up a data tablet and'
resumed her monitoring of the unwavering engine indicators. The two men
sighed and returned to the controls of the Falchion. "Prepare to
disengage cloaking device," ordered Sulu as a chronometer blinked
through the last seconds of the test period. "Cloaking device
disengaged." Chekov watched as the dancing snowflakes on his sensor
screen melted into a flat, featureless sheet of black. Uhura's voice
echoed through the cockpit. "Enterprise to Falchion. You are back on
visual. Maintain present course and speed to Wagner Post."

"Falchion to Enterprise. Acknowledged." The commander and crew of the
battlecruiser stared dutifully at the instrument panels of their
respective stations. The equipment, oblivious to the concentrated
attention lavished in its direction, operated with unceasing
dependability. A half-hour passed before Chekov spoke. "Somehow, I
thought having our own ship would be different, but it's just as..." He
stopped. "Boring," said Aziz in a flat voice. Sulu's jaw tightened, but
he could not suppress his own feelings, even if he was the ship's
commander. "Sub-warp is always boring." They lapsed into silence again.

McCoy re-checked the story listing in the entertainment logbook;
according to the brief description, he was watching a comedy. A row of
stars by the title seemed to indicate that it was quite popular. He
looked back to the D-stage in the corner of the rec room. It was bigger
than any three-dimensional imager he had ever seen, creating almost
life-size human figures. A man and a woman were standing on the
projection platform, talking to each other in low voices. The image
resolution was so exact that McCoy had mistaken the couple for off-duty
crewmembers until he had tried to ask them a question. Luckily, no real
crewmembers had been in the room at the time, thus sparing him certain
humiliation. The couple continued their desultory conversation. Most of
the words they used were familiar, but it must have been the ones McCoy
didn't understand that carried the punchlines. He found the dialogue
incredibly dull, but continued listening for lack of anything better to
do. The empty time felt unnatural compared to his frantic schedule in
the Atlanta emergency room. His first impulse was to eat. There was free
food at the crew cafeteria--a ticket to paradise for a povertystricken
young doctor---but his body was quite happily residing in the present
and it rejected the need for a meal. His next thought was that he should
sleep while he could .. but again his body rang a dissenting note. McCoy
finally lost patience with the program. He tried to call up some
familiar titles--they were lumped in the classics section--but the
computer informed him they were unavailable due to a "backlog in systems
adjustments.' Resisting the impulse to apologize to the man and woman,
McCoy wandered out of the room. Without making any conscious decision to
do so, he found himself headed toward sick bay. Though he had no
official reason for being there, at least the staff never questioned his
presence. Once on Deck 5, McCoy allowed himself to get lost in the
tangled layout of the medical complex. He passed idly through unfamiliar
corridors, one looking very much like another, until he spied two
cylinders of smoked glass, stretching from deck to ceiling, which stood
like sentinels outside a lab door. Curious, he peered into the interior
of the units, where blue liquid cycled endlessly through a tangled web
of coils. What's that stuff?. As if outraged at his ignorance, the
cylinders erupted with a sudden harsh bleeping. McCoy jumped at the
sound; his hands flew to the control panel on the wall, fingers pushing
here and there on its buttons. The insistent call was stilled; the
cylinder's cycling action slowed.

Seconds later a lab technician bolted out of an adjacent room. He drew
an involuntary breath at the sight of McCoy. "Sorry, sir," he cried. "It
won't happen again, honest." McCoy was too startled to make any comment,
but his silence only increased the crewman's discomposure. "It never
would have happened this time except we're running double shifts and I'm
covering for Tajiri..." Too late, he realized his betrayal of another
technician's negligence. "It's all right." McCoy tried to muster an
illusion of authority over a man not much older than himself... than he
had been. "We're all overworked. Just do the best you can."

"Yes, sir," said the young man with surprised relief. "Thank you, sir."

He bolted back into the lab room. "Any time." McCoy's sarcasm went
unheard. He turned at the sound of clattering footsteps coming towards
him. A disheveled woman in science blue was running down the corridor.

One hand held a cluster of data cassettes while the other pulled a comb
through her tangled hair. She looked up just in time to avoid a
collision. "Oh, damn."

"Tajiri, you're late," said McCoy sternly. "Get to work."

"Ye.s, Dr. McCoy!" With this single earnest cry, Tajiri disappeared
through the same door used by the first lab tech. McCoy was alone in the
corridor once again, listening wistfully to the muffled sound of voices
behind the closed door. He knew that if he entered the room the voices
would grow still and quiet. The cylinder gurgled its sympathy. McCoy
looked back at the mysterious blue liquid. Only then did he realize that
his hands had worked the control panel... A nurse's page over the
intercom sent Dyson running to the non-critical care ward. The room was
empty except for McCoy, but he was doing his best to fill its space as
he paced up and down its length. She quickly assessed McCoy's physical
symptoms: pale skin, physical agitation, increased respiration; no
obvious injury. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "I'm starting to remember.
At least, I think.., but, I still don't know how..." Dyson took his
announcement calmly.

"Don't push --you'll only confuse yourself. I'll get a sedative..." His
pacing stopped abruptly, as she had known it would at the first mention
of medication. "Now, what do you remember?"

"That's just it," he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation. His
hands took over now that his legs had stopped. "There's this tall
cylinder near one of the research labs..." He sketched a vague wave
toward the rear wall of the ward. "The stokaline processor?" McCoy
shrugged. "I don't know what it is, but when it beeped, I reset the
controls."

"Ah." Dyson's voice registered disappointment. She remained silent for a
moment. "What does this machine do?" She pointed to a gleaming metal box
nestled in a corner of the ward room. He shook his head. "Damned if I
know."

"It's a portable regen unit. Can you initiate a tissue regeneration
run?"

"Of course not."

"Try it anyway." She urged him to approach the control panel. "Go on." ,
McCoy edged up to the unit. "If I break this thing, Nurse Chapel will
throw me out of sick bay for good." He stared at the tidy rows of
switches that covered its side. "Now what?"

"Flip the first switch on the second row." He followed her order, but
then his fingers kept moving, changing the configuration of the entire
row. The machine came to life. He snatched his hand back as if it had
been burned. "What the hell.., is that right?"

"Yes," she answered. "But it doesn't mean you're recovering your
memory."

"You'll have to explain that statement, Dr. Dyson." McCoy's voice was
edged with bitterness. "My medical education is too outdated to make
sense of what you just said." She ignored his anger, trusting that it
would disappear as his understanding grew.

"Knowledge is stored in different ways and in different sites of the
brain. Right now, your conscious mind is blocking declarative
memory---the intellectual understanding of a particular task. But you
also possess a skill memory. Even without conscious control, your brain
can recreate a set of familiar physical motions, actions that have been
repeated over and over again. Your body remembers, even if your mind
doesn't."

"A false alarm," sighed McCoy. "So how will it happen, how will I
remember what I've forgotten?"

"I can't predict 'how' any better than I can predict 'when.' If your
memory comes back unassisted..."

"You mean before any Star Fleet psych technicians start poking around
inside my head." She didn't let him sidetrack her explication. "Some
very trivial incident could serve as a trigger. An object, or place,
even a few words could start the return of past memories. At first you
may recall only fragments of scenes, faces, conversations, then these
isolated incidents gradually will start to link together."

"That sounds like a rather lengthy recovery."

"Possibly," she acknowledged. "Or it could happen in a flash, like a
door opening. The time in between is often lost. You just pick up where
you left off when the head injury occurred."

"So what happens to me while I wait for that door to open?" asked McCoy.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a prelude to more pacing.

"Captain Kirk said this ship is going to be out in space for a long
time.' Dyson looked thoughtfully at the blinking lights of the tissue
regenerator. "You could assume light duties as a paramedic."

"Me?

A doctor out of the dark ages?"

"You still have the ability to operate current medical equipment. The
medical computer provides a training course that would explain what
you're doing." She caught his hesitation.

"On the other hand, you have a perfectly good excuse to, just relax,
read novels, hang out in the rec room... "When do I start?"

"I can set up the course now," she answered, carefully repressing her
smile. "After that, it's up to you to set the pace." At his insistence,
Dyson took McCoy to the Medical Library and showed him the proper log-on
for the training program. "Welcome back to duty, sir."

"No way," said McCoy vehemently. "I consider myself more in the nature
of a civilian volunteer." He was well into the first lesson before Dyson
had left the room.

The sound and feel of the engine room was all wrong. Kirk walked through
the cavernous room listening to the uneven breathing and high whine of
the Enterprise's lament. The almost imperceptible shiver of the deck
that ordinarily signaled impulse power was now magnified and distorted.

It tickled the soles of his feet with the intensity of warp-drive speed.

Even the familiar contours of the room were transformed by piles of
repair materials awaiting installation. The discarded debris from the
damaged sections was shoved aside into any unused space, where it would
remain until the ship hit docking facilities. Kirk hardly noticed the
sharp smell of burned insulation and wiring; it had permeated every deck
of the ship and the entire crew was used to it by now. "Becker, where's
Scotty?" The assistant engineer looked up from the circuit diagram laid
out on the panel before him. Dark eyes stared blankly into the captain's
face; his dark face was slack and without expression. "Becker?' Forget
Scotty, where are you? "Yes, Captain?" Kirk repeated his question,
talking slowly and carefully.

"He's on Deck 17, sir." Becker's answer was slurred and his hands were
trembling. He returned the glazed stare to his diagram. "Uh, that's not
exactly correct." Kirk turned around to find the source of the second
voice. A tangle of dark hair and two moss-green eyes peered up at him
from behind a teetering stack of flat boxes. Kirk grabbed at the top of
the pile before it went crashing to the deck, and uncovered a young
woman in engineering red. "Mr. Scott hasn't been on Deck 17 since
yesterday," she said, shifting the remainder of her load to maintain its
balance. "I'm delivering these cable connectors to him in Auxiliary
Control." Becker was oblivious to this correction. In fact, Becker
seemed oblivious to just about everything. "Don't worry, sir. He's not
on duty right now. I'm not even sure he's awake." She led Kirk away,
stepping carefully over the obstacle course of pipes and tools and
repair workers. As she had predicted, they found Scotty in Auxiliary
Control.

He was reclining on a massive coil of fiber cables. His head had dropped
forward on his chest and he showed no signs of life when Kirk and the
young woman dropped the load of boxes by his side. He was unbothered by
the clamor made by three crewmen working around and over him. The length
of cable which served as his bed was rapidly disappearing into a hole in
the deck. This had no effect on him either. Kirk thought back to
Becker's exhaustion and couldn't bring himself to disturb Scotty's
sleep. He pitched his voice low. "Lt. Kraft, perhaps you'd better give
me the current status report."

"Yes, sir." She didn't share his concern for the fragility of her
superiors slumber. Her lengthy report was delivered at a volume that was
guaranteed to override the noise of the repair team. Scotty didn't
twitch a single muscle. She reached the end of her recitation with "And
the oscillator frequency monitor has been re. calibrated...' "Nay,
lassie, we're still four hours away from finishing the calibration."

Kirk looked down at the sturdy form of the chief engineer. Scotty's eyes
were closed, but it had been his voice which corrected the lieutenant.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Go on with yet report, Kraft," Scotty ordered, still unmoving and
unseeing. "But tell the truth. The captain won't thank ye for making him
feel better if there's nae basis for Lt." Kraft finished the report
without any more reprimands, or reactions of any kind, from the
engineer. With a silent wave, Kirk sent her on her way.

"Aye?" The voice was alert enough. "I came by to issue an invitation to
my quarters. I'm having an informal gathering later today.". The
engineer's eyes blinked open in surprise. "Begging yer pardon, Captain,
but there's nae much time in my repair schedule for social events."

"It's for Dr. McCoy. I'd like to... introduce him to my senior
officers." Scotty roused himself to a stand. The last loops of the
coiled cable slithered away between his feet. "So it's true he's lost
his memory. I'd heard the stories, but I didn't credit them that far.

Introduction, is it. Well, I'll be there."

True to his word, Scotty was the first to arrive at Kirk's cabin; Spock
followed immediately after. Only the guest of honor was missing.

"Despite the amnesia, certain of the doctor's personality traits remain
consistent," observed Spock as the time set for the gathering came and
went without McCoy's arrival. The science officer sat down at the desk
computer and quickly immersed himself in a discussion with the central
data bank. Scotty simply stared into space. All he needed was a blank
wall and his mind's eye could trace the critical circuitry of the warp
engines in preparation for the next stage of repair work. Both men were
oblivious to Kirk's growing irritation. Ten minutes later the doors slid
open and McCoy stumbled into the room, obviously propelled forward by a
hand planted firmly in his back. The hand quickly withdrew, the doors
snapped shut, and he stood unmoving at the portal. Facing the three
officers, his body shifted into a posture which bore a vague resemblance
to command attention. "At ease," said Kirk, half in jest. McCoy's back
lapsed into a more typical slouch, but his unsmiling face did not relax.

For the first time, Kirk realized just how damnably awkward McCoy must
be feeling.

"I'm sorry I'm late," mumbled the doctor, but he gave no reason for his
delay. Kirk moved forward to greet him, all former irritation fading,
and pulled McCoy into the room. "You've already met First Officer
Spock..." McCoy self-consciously kept his arm by his side as he
exchanged nods with the Vulcan. "And this is Chief Engineer Scott."

McCoy turned to the second man and found himself unprepared for Scotty's
outstretched hand. "How do you do, sir."

"Don't ye be callin' me 'sir'," said Scotty sternly. "We've shared too
many nights over a bottle of scotch t' stand on formalities, amnesia or
no amnesia."

"Anything you say, Mr. Scott." The chief engineer frowned again.
"Scotty."

"Sir?" asked McCoy. Scotty shook his head sadly. "Ah, never mind." Once
the introductions were over, all conversation bogged down. Scotty was
still too preoccupied with his interrupted repair work to maintain
polite chatter. Spock's social manners were just this side of rudeness
even at the best of times; at the moment he was positively glacial.

McCoy remained steadfastly mute. Ordinarily, he would have punctured the
uncomfortable silence with an outrageous attack on Spock's dignity or
prodded the amiable Scotty into laughter. He had never been speechless
and sullen. Kirk tried to draw the doctor out, to determine how he was
adjusting to life aboard a starship, but the effect was more like that
of a prosecuting attorney dealing with a hostile witness. McCoy answered
each question with a simple yes or no and glared furiously down at his
feet.

Kirk took pity on his officers and signaled an end to their ordeal. The
alacrity with which both Scotty and McCoy took their leave was proof of
how great a disaster the gathering had been. "Spock." Kirk's call kept
the first officer from leaving with the other two men. Spock waited
politely for Kirk to speak again. "If McCoy were.., himself, I think he
would understand why I'm telling you this." After a moment's hesitation,
Kirk briefly outlined Dr. Dyson's explanation for McCoy's amnesia. "We
need to find out what he's trying to escape--to find a way to bring him
back out of it--before we reach a starbase." The Vulcan took a moment to
consider the issue. "Captain, logic may be of limited use in this
situation."

"I'm not asking for logic," said Kirk. "I'm asking for friendship."

Chapter Twelve.

"Am I boring you, ma'am?" Uhura's dark eyes widened into the semblance
of a waking stare. "Not at all, Dr. McCoy. I heard every word you said."

"Lt. Uhura, I haven't said anything for at least five minutes. I've been
waiting for you to topple over into your soup." He smiled at her
discomposure. "You'd better finish eating before it gets cold." He took
a bite out of his own sandwich. They were alone in their corner of the
mess; scattered groups of crewmembers, all wearily subdued, were sitting
at other tables. McCoy watched Uhura's head begin to droop downwards
again. "Doesn't anybody on this ship get a chance to sleep?"

"Not lately," said Uhura, planting an elbow on the table and resting her
cheek against her hand. "Not since the attack."

"About this war you're fighting..." wondered McCoy. "Oh, it's not really
a war." Uhura yawned hugely. "At least, not yet. We're still trying
to..." A sudden high whine erupted out of an intercom speaker and
reverberated throughout the room. Scattered curses and dispirited
grumbles from the crew were drowned out by its growing volume. After
several uncomfortable seconds the noise stopped just as abruptly as it
began. There was a moment of silence, then the low murmur of
conversations returned. "What are they doing now?" groaned Uhura, eyes
cast upward as if searching through the deck levels. "Every time I get
my equipment working the repaff teams mess me up all over again. The
Captain will have my hide if I don't clear up shipboard communications
systems, but I could be twins and still not have enough time for all my
work."

"Then you shouldn't be wasting your off-duty hours baby-sitting me,"
said McCoy. "For god's sake, go get some sleep instead." The lieutenant
shook her head. "I promised Diana I'd keep an eye..."

"Those blood-shot eyes can't see anything." McCoy waved a hand in front
of her face. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Seven," said Uhura laughing. "Just as I thought: advanced narcoleptic
hallucinations. A very serious condition if not corrected immediately. I
recommend plenty of rest in the isolation of your own room." She still
hesitated. "I really shouldn't leave you on your own."

McCoy's face reddened. "I promise not to wander into new territory
again." That morning he had stepped off the turbo-lift onto a strange
deck and taken a short stroll to look around, only to fall down an
engineering chute. Anti-grav safety fields had kept him from being
injured, but he had remained suspended for nearly an hour before a
passing crewmember heard his cries for help. "Besides, I can hardly get
into any trouble just sitting here eating a sandwich. If it makes you
feel better, I'll call for an armed guard to escort me back to sick
bay."

"That won't be necessary," said a clipped voice from behind him. "I'll
assume responsibility for the doctor's welfare." To McCoy's surprise, it
was the Vulcan first officer who had approached them. "Thank you, sir,"
said Uhura gratefully. With a parting smile at McCoy, she gathered up
her tray and rose from the table. Spock, carrying a mountain of green
salad, took her place. "Good day, Mr. Spock. Or should I use a military
title?" The officer's upright bearing made McCoy feel that a salute was
also in order. "My posting on the Enterprise is that of both first
officer and science officer. I am by rank a commander," continued Spock
with an air of gravity that increased McCoy's discomfiture. "And have
been addressed by that title on occasion, but such usage is usually
restricted to impressionable junior officers or to senior officers in a
situation of acknowledged formality." The doctor's face expressed a
faint look of apprehension.

"Mr. Spock is quite appropriate," concluded Spock. The doctor relaxed
somewhat. "I'm having a hard enough time remembering names---the fewer
titles the better. This morning I promoted some lowly crewmem~ her to a
lieutenant." McCoy paused, amazed at the quantity and diversity of
vegetable matter which was rapidly disappearing from Spock's plate.

"Actually, I'm going through a bit of culture shock on board this
Enterprise of yours. My knowledge of Star Fleet is minimal.., or at
least it was twenty-five years ago... Spock answered evenly. "Indeed.

Star Fleet is a world unto itself; it can be bewildering to the
uninitiated. I found it so myself upon leaving Vulcan." As the level of
greenery on his plate subsided, a squat glass revealed its presence on
the tray. Spock took a sip of the muddy orange liquid inside. "Carrot
juice?" hazarded McCoy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." He hastily
retracted the question in the face of Spock's momentary silence. "As I
said before, I do not take offense at human social discourse." Spock
lifted the glass as if it were a specimen under analysis. "Beta-carotene
is only one of the components in this formula." He detailed a long list
of organic vitamin compounds, not all of which were familiar to the
doctor. "I am actually half Human and haft Vulcan; this mixture is a
necessary supplement to my shipboard diet, since my particular
biochemistry is unique in its nutritional requirements." McCoy accepted
this revelation with polite interest. Spock continued. "We developed
this drink soon after your posting to the Enterprise. You dubbed it
'orange sludge' and advised that I drink it at least once a week."

"Oh.

Well, I hope it tastes better than it looks," said McCoy
sympathetically. "You considered it a noxious substance, nevertheless
after some initial experimentation you achieved a blend that I find
quite acceptable." He downed the remainder of the liquid. McCoy frowned
at the remains of his sandwich. "I didn't seem to be as concerned about
my own health." His brittle tone raised Spock's eyebrows. "According to
my medical records, I ingested a fair amount of another type of 'noxious
substance' just before cracking my skull." He looked across the table.

"You were there when it happened. I was dead drunk; that's why I fell."

Spock's gaze flickered away. "Yes, you were drinking." He cast his mind
back to the scene in McCoy's cabin. "But there was more," he said after
a moment's reflection. Slowly he searched through his memories, working
past the fog of preoccupation and irritation which had clouded his own
perceptions that day.

"Physical exhaustion.., and a tension." Spock's sensitivity to emotional
atmosphere was more pronounced than he cared to admit out loud, but
McCoy accepted his observations without pointed jibes. "You were upset,"
Spock stated firmly. "That, more than the alcohol, contributed to your
inattention. Humans are subject to such emotional distractions; it is
endemic in the species."

"Upset enough to misplace an odd twenty years of my life?" asked McCoy
ruefully. Spock appeared puzzled by the question. "I guess you haven't
heard. My amnesia is psychological in origin. No damaged brain tissue,
just a psyche that's too weak to handle stress. The head injury was
simply an escape trigger." Spock stopped his attack on his food. "An
escape from what?"

"Life, I guess. According to Nurse Chapel I was exhausted from long
hours in surgery and depressed over the high casualties."

"That is hardly sufficient justification for such an extreme reaction."

Spock brought his hands together, fingers lightly touching. "I know your
mind quite well, Dr. McCoy, and it would not give way to such routine
anxieties. Something out of the ordinary must have affected you.' "There
wasn't time. As far as we can tell, I stumbled out of sick bay and went
directly to my room."

"Where, by all logical considerations, you should have been sleeping.

Instead, when I entered your cabin, you had been awake for some time,"
said Spock. "The answer to what happened may lie there in your cabin."

Shoving a remaining green leaf into his mouth, the first officer rose
from the table and carried his tray to a disposal slot in the wall.

McCoy followed suit, then scrambled to match the first officer's brisk
pace out of the dining hall, down a corridor and into a turbolift. "Deck
Five," said Spock. They stood side by side in silence until the lift
came to a stop. "I don't even know what to look for," said McCoy as they
headed toward his quarters. "Neither do I, doctor. But even your
admittedly emotional behavior is based on a personal logic of cause and
effect. We know the effect; a reconstruction of your actions at that
time may reveal the cause." Spock came to a halt at the doctor's cabin
door. On the third attempt McCoy entered the correct security code. The
room was just as he had left it before. "I haven't cleaned up," he
muttered apologetically. Hell, it's not even my mess. "That is just as
well," said the Vulcan approvingly. "You might have removed valuable
clues." He remained at the doorway, studying the room before him. "You
make this sound like a murder mystery, Mr. Spock. Only I'm the corpse."

"A very talkative corpse," observed Spock. He stepped forward, carefully
avoiding a heap of clothing on the floor. "Surgical tunic. You usually
change in sick bay, but you were probably too tired to do so. After an
especially long surgery session, your first action would be to shower.

You would then change into clean clothes." ' "What color, Mr. Holmes?"
asked McCoy under his breath. "Grey," answered Spock. He stared
impassively at McCoy's look of astonishment, then continued. "At least,
that was the color you were wearing when I entered. I was standing
here." He paced his steps until he stood in the center of the outer
room. He looked toward the bedroom section of the cabin. "The bed was
unmade and the sheets were still crushed, so you had been sleeping for
part of the day, but upon my arrival you-were standing by the desk," he
waved McCoy into position, "with a drink in hand." The Vulcan closed his
eyes and stood in contemplation. "There was the smell of alcohol.., and
of smoke." His eyelids snapped open. "Yes, smoke.

Curious. This deck did not suffer from fire damage in the att ack." 'q
saw some ashes in the bedroom," recalled McCoy and led the way to a
metal tray by the bed. "Definitely against regulations," said Spock
sternly as they inspected the black smudges on its surface. "Don't look
at me," protested McCoy. "I don't live here." The first officer rubbed
the fine ash between two fingers. "Probably data paper. No more than a
single sheet." He strode back to the desk and rifled through the
manuscripts on its surface. "Despite your illogical insistence on
hard-copy printouts, you are normally quite orderly in dealing with your
paperwork. You clear your desk often. Therefore, these materials
probably represent a recent work session." McCoy picked up a manuscript
and scanned its first page. "They look pretty innocuous to me." Spock
nodded agreement. "They are also intact."

"Well, I seem to have burned my bridges," sighed McCoy. "We may never
know what was on that page."

"Not necessarily, Doctor." Spock sat down at the computer. When the
screen came to life he bypassed the menu lists and Swiftly entered into
the operating .system. A stream of cryptic symbols responded to his
promptings. "Fortunately, computer files leave evidence of their
activity. According to these records, your most recent computer activity
involved Lt. Frazers's autopsy reports on our attackers. However, there
was no printout from that session." His fingers tapped another sequence
of keys. "Your most recent printouts were from the last communications
contact with Star Base 11."

"And the paper I burned was in that delivery?"

"Possibly," hedged Spock. "Computer, access correspondence files for Dr.
Leonard McCoy. Screen all documents from the latest transmission,
Stardate 5289.1. Authorization Code 23.10.B" He looked up at McCoy.

"Since you have no memory of your computer code, I have taken the
liberty of entering it for you. However, ethically I cannot examine the
contents of your file.' "You've got my permission," said McCoy.

"After all, you know me better than I do."

"Under the circumstances, I'm not convinced that your permission is
valid," countered Spock. He crossed his arms across his chest. "You are
not in full possession of your mental faculties."

"But I may never recover those faculties unless we find the cause of my
fugue."

"An interesting philosophical quandary," said Spock reflectively. For a
moment, McCoy feared the Vulcan would continue to ponder the intricacies
of this dilemma indefinitely, but the first officer turned back to the
computer screen. "Unfortunately, my service experience has seriously
eroded my ethical standards. In the interest of expediency, I will
accept your authorization." With McCoy hanging over his shoulder, Spock
quickly ran through the file. The single correspondence page, when it
appeared, drew their immediate attention. "Well, Mr. Spock," said McCoy
after reading the message. "You were right about unusual events. This is
a letter from my ex-wife--announcing her remarriage.'

Chapter Thirteen.

McCoy Tried TO remember the source of the buzzing sound which he had
just heard. It was either the cabin door or the intercom. He reached a
hand out to the controls of the intercom and flicked a switch. He was
rewarded by the crackle of an open channel. "Hydroponics."

"This is Dr. McCoy," he said selfconsciously. "Yes, sir, Nelson here.'
The soft buzz repeated again. "Never mind, Nelson," McCoy severed the
contact. "Come in!" The door slid aside for Diana Dyson. The neurologist
crossed the threshold, allowing the door to close behind her, then
stopped. "It's clean in here," she exclaimed, looking around the cabin.
No sign of the room's previous disorder remained, and the dead plants
had been removed.

Even the desk where McCoy sat was bare of its clutter. A single opened
book lay on its surface. "You don't have to sound so surprised,"
grumbled McCoy. "I take no responsibility for the messy former occupant.

I happen to be a very tidy person."

"You're also a busy person," observed Dyson. The book was a medical
text; his desk terminal displayed an anatomical illustration. "I'll come
back later." She turned to leave.

"No, wait. Please." McCoy flipped off the computer screen and shut the
textbook. He stretched in place. "I've been at this long enough for one
evening--my brain will fry soon. Besides, I've just about finished my
paramedic course. Surely that deserves some sort of celebration." He was
smiling, but his voice held an edge of bitterness. "Dr. McCoy..." He
didn't let her finish. "Please, could you call me Len, or even Leonard?

I'm getting mighty tired of all of this bowing and scraping that goes on
whenever I'm around."

"What?" Dyson asked in disbelief. "Well, it's true," he declared with an
exaggerated frown of disgust. "And you're a prime example of a ship-wide
syndrome. There you stand, practically at attention, ready to escape my
presence just as soon as decently possible, and all because Dr. McCoy is
a senior officer. Either that or you just plain don't like me."

"You lead a hard life," she teased back.

"I do indeed. Sit down and join me for a drink while I tell you the sad
tale of a senior officer's life as seen through the eyes of a most
junior civilian." Despite his light tone there was a genuine appeal in
his eyes. "Very well... Leonard." She plopped down on a chair. He, in
turn, rose from the desk and bowed low. "And what will be my lady's
pleasure from the bar?"

"Wine," she ordered with an airy wave of the hand. "The best bottle in
the house."

"Not only the best," he said making his way to the wall cabinet. "But,
the only bottle. I haven't had many occasions to entertain in my cabin.

As I said, high command is a lonely place."

"You didn't say that."

"Well, I was going to say it in a few minutes." He picked up the bottle
and inspected the label. "I don't happen to remember this particular
year, but then most of the ones I do remember are now vintage brews." He
set about pulling the cork and pouring the wine. "The elder McCoy's
tastes seem to have run more to hard liquor to judge from the contents
of this shelf. Perhaps they were for medicinal purposes. I'll give him
the benefit of the doubt." McCoy balanced two full glasses on a small
tray and carried it deftly over to his guest.

"You keep referring to yourself as if to a third person," remarked Dyson
as she took a goblet from his hand. He nodded and sat down across from
her. "When I refer to myself, I'm speaking for Leonard McCoy, first-year
medical resident, twenty-three years of age. Due to an unfortunate twist
in the space/time continuum, I was catapulted through the future to an
unknown place, never to return to the home I love. As for the McCoy who
is commissioned in Star Fleet as a surgeon, well, I'm beginning to think
of him fondly as a close family member, a favorite uncle." He lifted his
glass in a toast. "To Uncle "Bones' McCoy, may he rest in peace. "Damn,"
he swore seeing a look of pain cross Dyson's face. "No wonder no one
wants to keep me company. Really, I wasn't trying to be morbid. In some
ways I think this memory loss is harder on other people than it is on
me. I feel fine, it's just the world around me that's changed, whereas
you keep seeing the difference in me. So, please excuse my attempts at
humor--they were in bad taste."

"No apologies necessary." She pulled the tag ends of a smile together.

"Except for the wine. It's abysmal." She viewed the contents of her
glass with distaste. McCoy grinned. "Dr. Dyson, you..." She didn't let
him finish. "If I have to call you Leonard, then you can't call me Dr.
Dyson. It makes me feel like an old lady. My name is Diana." To her
surprise, McCoy flushed. "You are most assuredly not an old lady." He
covered his momentary discomposure by whisking away the wine.
"Definitely a bad year. Just as well that I missed it." He opened a
drawer near the store of liquor bottles. "I'm not sure what any of this
stuff is." He pulled out a silvery pouch and puzzled over the alien
characters embossed on its surface. "That's stiegel," said Dyson. "A
delicacy from Brellian IV." McCoy tipped open the seal and peered at the
crumbly white crackers. He passed one to Dyson, then took another for
himself. "Much as I'd like to believe that you came by simply for the
pleasure of my company, I suspect it's actually official medical
business." He eyed his cracker warily. "More like unofficial medical
business." She crunched on hers without hesitation. "Your physical
condition is excellent, which removes you from my active patient list.
As for the amnesia, I'm not a psychologist so I don't know that I can be
of much use, but Captain Kirk thinks I have a better bedside manner than
Dr. Cortejo."

"Did he actually say that?" asked McCoy, nibbling tentatively at the
edge of the wafer. Dyson grinned. "Not in so many words. After all, it
wouldn't be politic to impugn the abilities of the ship's acting chief
medical officer."

"Not so different from hospital politics," he sighed. "That's one reason
I wanted to get away to my own practice. Bureaucracy brings out the
worst in my temper. My supervisor called it 'lack of respect for
authority.' I called it... Well, never mind what I called it, but it
didn't improve our working relationship." He glanced at the
neurologist's bemused expression. "I didn't get any better about that
over the years, did I?"

"No." She licked the crumbs of stiegel from her fingers. "You're one of
the few people on this ship who isn't in awe of Captain Kirk. You scream
and holler when you don't agree with him. You even scream and holler at
Mr. Spock, which nobody else does." McCoy stopped in mid-crunch. "You
can't be serious?"

"Your fights have assumed mythic proportions on the Enterprise," she
said mischievously.

"The crew keeps a running list of the insults you've thrown at him over
the years. No one else would dare use them, but sometimes just reading
them can make the science department feel better. Chekov swears by it."

"Chekov?" Dyson's gaiety faded away. "You still haven't remembered
anything, have you?"

"No," he answered evenly, popping the last piece of his stiegel into his
mouth. "When Mr. Spock and I found that letter, I stood there
thinking--"This is it. It'll all come back now.'--but nothing changed."

He reached for another wafer. "Say, these are good.

What are they made of?" The doctor shook her head. "Don't askme; you'll
enjoy them better that way." McCoy hastily dropped the wafer back into
its pouch. He left his chair and rummaged once again inside the drawer.

Dyson pulled his attention back to their discussion. "Still, the news of
your wife's remarriage must have been a shock."

"Not really." McCoy found another package and sniffed warily at the
seal. "In fact, I don't feel much of anything..I' don't know her."

"You seem quite unconcerned about what was obviously very disturbing
news."

"Disturbing to your McCoy, but not to me. I can't regret a marriage that
I don't even remember. Even if that news was the trigger for my fugue,
it certainly wasn't the key to bring me back out." He shook his head in
disbelief.

"That woman's name meant nothing to me the first time I saw it; her
remarriage means just as little. Seems strange that it caused so much
trouble." Empty-handed, he dropped back down onto the chair by the desk.

"Look, as far as I'm concerned, I've spent the last year eating,
drinking, and sleeping medicine at Atlanta General Hospital."

"So what were you doing in Texas?" Dyson asked. McCoy's face broke into
a wide grin. "That trip was my first vacation in years--for two whole
weeks I did nothing but ride horses and muck out stables. I had two more
days left, but I could have stayed there..." He stopped short.

"Forever?"

Dyson finished the sentence for him. "But it didn't last forever. You
got thrown off a horse and spent the night in a local clinic. Then you
went back to Georgia and..." She prompted him to continue. McCoy shook
his head stubbornly. "I woke up here. On the Enterprise."

"Still on vacation," taunted Dyson. "It's a hell of a vacation," shouted
back McCoy, but he didn't let his anger build. He took a deep breath
instead.

"And I know exactly what you're doing, Diana Dyson." The sarcasm dropped
out of her voice. "I never claimed to be a psychiatrist, Leonard, but
I'm doing my best. God knows, it's not easy trying to turn you into a
patient."

"Okay, okay, I won't fight it." He leaned back in his chair, stretching
his long legs across the floor, folding his arms across his chest. "But,
really, I don't remember anything after that fall."

"You could try some simple extrapolation," she suggested, deliberately
leaning forward to close the distance he had created. "What should have
happened after you woke up in the Waco clinic?"

"Well, I must have returned to Atlanta. Back to the emergency room, and
morning rounds, and 36-hour days.., the usual grind."

"Yet according to your personnel records, you were married within a few
months of your return."

"That soon?" he asked sharply. "I thought you went over your records
with Captain Kirk?"

"Not the details... I didn't really want to know." He shrugged. "After
all, what's the point?"

"Perhaps if you were to learn more now..."

"No." He sat up straight, hands clenched. "It doesn't have anything to
do with me." Dyson persisted. "It must have been a whirlwind courtship."

"With all too predictable results," said McCoy grimly. He slumped down
into the chair. "Reading my file was like meeting a stranger..." Dyson
let his silence continue. After several moments, he spoke again,
haltingly.

"I can't imagine doing the things this "Bones' McCoy did. What a mess he
made of my life. A bad marriage, a bitter divorce, this damn-fool leap
into Star Fleet .. ."

"Oood came of it also. A daughter, for one."

"Some father he was," said McCoy scornfully. "Leaving his own kid for
years on end. I've played some of their correspondence; she's a nice
young woman.

But hell, after listening in on those tapes I probably know her about as
well as he did, and I've never laid eyes on her. I wouldn't do that; I
wouldn't slink off and leave my family." His voice hoarsened with anger.

"I wouldn't.., yet, I did."

"You can't pass judgement without knowing the circumstances," argued
Dyson. "I wonder. Your Dr. McCoy seems to have given up his life without
much of a struggle." His dark brows knitted together in thought.

"Perhaps he agreed with me. That would certainly explain this
fugue--it's an escape from failure." Dyson's response was cut off by the
sound of the door chime. "I'm a popular man today," observed McCoy with
a shaky laugh. Their rapport was shattered.

"Come in!" When Kirk ended his Shift on the bridge, he had intended to
go straight to his own quarters. Instead, he had found himself following
the familiar route .to McCoy's cabin. As soon as he walked through the
door he realized that his old habit had led to bad results. "Good
evening, Dr. Dyson." He greeted the neurologist cheerfully, but fully
understood her icy glare and civil nod. He had just interrupted a
session with her patient, a session that he had ordered. McCoy jumped to
his feet, unsure as to proper protocol between junior and senior
officers, and even more unsure of the responsibilities of his own rank.

Dyson took charge of the situation. "Thank you for your hospitality, Dr.
McCoy." She, too, rose from her chair. "What? Oh, of course, Dr. Dyson,"
said McCoy, reluctantly escorting her to the door. Kirk bowed aside to
let her pass and winced at the polite smile that masked her anger.
Watching the two doctors exchange their formal goodbyes, he recognized a
charade acted out for his benefit. Neither was he fooled when McCoy
turned from the door to entertain his new guest. With the ingrained
manners of a Southern gentleman, McCoy gave no sign that he preferred
the company of Dr. Dyson to that of the captain. Moving to the desk
littered with glasses and opened food pouches, the doctor assumed his
duties as host. "Some stiegel, Captain?"

"No, thanks," said Kirk, restraining a grimace. "I know what it's made
of." McCoy shoved the package into the flush chute.

Now that he was here, Kirk wasn't sure why he had come. "Bones..."

"I'd rather you called me Leonard, Captain Kirk."

"Alright, Leonard. My name is Jim." McCoy nodded noncommitally. A good
host never contradicted his guest's wishes. An awkward silence
threatened to engulf them. Kirk plunged directly into the topic
uppermost in his mind. "I heard about Jocelyn's letter. I'm sorry..."

"It doesn't really concern me,,' said McCoy. After a moment's pause, he
added, "But I'm sure "Bones' would appreciate your sympathy." The
captain fought against a surge of emotion that dangerously resembled
jealousy. Obviously, Dr. Dyson had been able to draw McCoy out, whereas
Kirk could barely talk to the man. He searched for a way to break
through the uneasy silence which stretched out between them. Before he
could speak, the silence was ended for them.

"Red alert, red alert, all hands to battle stations," the call rang out.

A flash of scarlet bathed the room. "Captain Kirk to the bridge."

Chapter Fourteen.

THE CAPTAIN WAS still in the turbo lift when the first phaser burst hit
the Enterprise. The deck trembled beneath his feet and the turbo ground
to a halt. Pounding his fists against the closed doors, Kirk shouted out
a series of blistering oaths. As if in response, the compartment moved
again and seconds later he tumbled out of the doors onto the bridge. His
eyes flew immediately to the main viewscreen. The normally static view
of dimly glowing stars scattered on black was now a backdrop for
frenetic battle action. In the distance, a pack of small sleek ships was
whizzing around the Falchion, like flies around a dog. Much closer, more
silver shapes streaked across the viewscreen as they raced around the
Enterprise's hull. One vessel suddenly darted forward to deliver a blow,
then flitted away. The Enterprise shuddered, nearly throwing Kirk to the
deck. "Fire Number Two phasers." Spock issued the order calmly from his
position in the command chair. A wide pattern of glowing rays shot
forward, scattering the agile ships without scoring a single hit. Kirk
took advantage of the momentary lull to take command. "Report, Mr.
Spock."

"At least fifteen Class Five fighters, constructed for a crew complement
of two," said Spock as they exchanged places. "They approached in
single-file formation behind an asteroid, eluding our sensors until they
were practically upon us." The science officer hastened back to his
computer station and began a rapid patter of briefing data. "Enterprise
phaser power at fortythree percent capacity.

Shields are holding, but given our previous damage, we are vulnerable to
their lowcharged phaser fire." As if to prove his point, another of the
fighters dived straight toward them. "Fire phasers," shouted Kirk. A
full two seconds elapsed before the energy bolts were released, then the
attacking ship blossomed into a fireball that filled the screen with a
blinding glare. Before the explosion had faded another attacker ducked
beneath the starship, firing a jolting blast into the Enterprise's
midsection. "Evasive action, Mr. Depaul." The helmsman obeyed instantly,
but the starship was sluggish, moving far more slowly than the small
fighters. "They can run rings around us, sir." Kirk slammed a fist down
on the arm of his chair. His eyes flickered over the frantic motion on
the viewscreen. "Benus, lay down random phaser fire at tensecond
intervals."

"Aye, sir." A scattered stream of light beams spat forward into the
frame of the viewscreen. The twins evaded the phaser fire easily, but
did not attempt another direct attack. Spock looked up from his sensors.

"Captain, this tactic may keep them at bay for now, but it will
seriously deplete our energy levels." Kirk ignored him. "Uhura, open a
scrambled channel to the Falchion." Sulu's voice rang out almost
immediately. "They're all over us, Captain... They outmaneuver us at
impulse speed. Our shields are holding, but they've moved in so closely
that we can't hit them back..."

"Warp out of range, Sulu," ordered Kirk flatly. "But, Captain..."

"Warp out of range," overrode Kirk, then continued his plan. "Engage the
cloaking device, then return." Sulu fell silent as the implications of
Kirk's idea took hold. "The entire fighter pack will close in on us,
leaving themselves vulnerable to your sudden reappearance and attack."

"But we can't fire. on them without hitting the Enterprise."

"That's right," admitted Kirk grimly. "But we'll pull full power to
shields. If you fire a wide beam, it may disable the fighters without
penetrating the Enterprise hull."

"Aye, Captain." The prospect of firing on the Enterprise did not enthuse
the lieutenant, but he accepted Kirk's orders without argument. Kirk
swiveled his chair around to face his first officer. "Spock, compute the
time logistics for the Falchion's departure and return." The Vulcan
complied with his usual composure, but Kirk detected approval of his
plan. If only his chief engineer would react as calmly... A flash of
exploding light from the viewscreen interrupted his train of thought.

"Got another one!" yelled the ensign at the weapons console. "Yeah, only
thirteen more to go," snapped Depaul, ruthlessly squelching the young
woman's excitement. - Kirk opened a channel to the engineering section
and quickly outlined his plan to Scotty. "If that lad's nae got a soft
touch, those Klingon phasers will slice through us like butter," warned
the engineer. The ship rocked again as a fighter slipped through the
phaser barrage and fired into the primary hull's underbelly. "But we
canna take much more o' this poundin' so I reckon we havna any choice."

"Ready, Captain," announced Spock. "The Falchion has been briefed."

Uhura touched a series of switches on her panel. "Frequency open, sir."

"Go, Sulu," ordered Kirk. The Falchion executed a fancy roll to pull
free of the fighters for just an instant, then shot forward. Its solid
shape transformed into a stream of light, then vanished. Five small
ships hung in space, cheated of their prey. Kirk's face twisted into a
feral smile. "Fire phasers." Three of those ships exploded into fiery
fragments, but at the same time four of the eight fighters circling the
Enterprise sprang forward to deliver their own sting. As the starship
bucked under the multiple blows, the remaining two ships which had
dogged the Falchion promptly joined the main pack. "Maintain random
pattern!" shouted Kirk, arms straining to keep him from being thrown to
the deck. "Keep them back!"

"Captain, if we take another of those attacks, we'll not have any
shields left that can stand up to the Falchion's phasers."

"Understood, Mr. Scott." Kirk wiped his brow.

"Benus, don't lock on targets. That's an order." He underscored his
command. The ensign's instinct was to try to score hits; so was Kirk's.

He had yielded to that temptation in order to destroy three ships, and
the Enterprise was still reeling from the results of that action.

"Falchion due in six point seven minutes," Spock announced without
inflection. They were very long minutes for the captain and his crew.

The ten fighters swarmed around and over them, dodging phaser fire, but
drawing closer and closer. Ship's lights grew dim and the soft hum of
life support systems faded to a ragged whisper as Scotty channeled more
and more power into the deflector shields. "One minute," announced Spock
after an eternity. "Mr. Scott, prepare to divert all remaining power to
port shields," Kirk warned. "Ready, Captain."

"Thirty seconds."

"Go, Scotty." The lights of the bridge flickered. The helm lost control
of the ship's movement. Phaser fire died. Kirk stopped breathing as the
fighter ships hesitated, then dived forward en masse. "Now," said Spock.

The fabric of space rippled and swam and the Falchion erupted from the
center of the disturbance. It loosed bolts of flame that raked across
the bow of the Enterprise. Kirk had no time to count how many of the
attacking ships exploded before the Falchion rolled under the starship
and surged upwards. "Starboard shields, Scotty," shouted Kirk into the
intercom, as the heaving of the deck flung him from side to side. A
second fan of fire swept across the far side of the Enterprise. This
time Kirk lost his hold and was flung to the deck. The air was thick
with smoke, choking his lungs and fogging his eyes. Spock, who had clung
to his science station with amazing tenacity, continued to read his
sensors. "Two fighters remain, Captain." Kirk grasped the side of his
command chair and pulled himself upright. Through the haze on the
viewscreen showed two bright silver ing away into space. A dark shadow
the frame: the Falchion was closing in c ships.

"Sulu!" yelled Kirk. Uhura was already back at her station, opening the
channel for him. "I want those fighter pilots alive..." Even as Kirk
spoke, the two ships flamed into a shower of metal fragments. "Sorry,
Captain. They self-destructed," answered Sulu. "Damn." Kirk appealed to
his first officer. "Mr. Spock?" The Vulcan re-checked his instruments.

"Shortrange sensor scan reveals .no other space vessels in the immediate
vicinity." The recent malfunctions tad left him wary of the accuracy of
his science data. He was monitoring the readouts with greater attention
than usual. "Long-range scans show the ghost of... gone. Whatever it
might have been, we are moving away from it." Kirk shrugged
philosophically. "Good work, Lt. Sulu." He waved a hand in front of his
face. The smoke had not cleared from the bridge.. "Secure from general
quarters." The flash of the alert lights slowed in tempo then faded.

Kirk's fingers flipped a switch on the arm of his command chair.

"Engineering, restore power to ship's systems. Scotty, damage report."

His call was met with silence. "Scotty, report!"

"Intercom to Engineering is dead, Captain," said Uhura, frantically
punching circuits on her communications panel. The malfunctions in
shipboard communications had returned. Checking a curse, Kirk went to
general broadcast channels. "Engineer Scott, damage report to the
bridge."

Lights brightened and clean air began to circulate, but there was still
no answer from the engineer. Spock's voice began a soft drone of lower
deck reports. Uhura relayed a sick bay report of ten casualties and one
fatality, then continued her battle with the communications board. "...
bloody intercom... Aye, Captain, Scott here. We had a momentary hull
breach due t'.. ." Silence again. "... decks seven through ten suffered
minor damage," continued Spock. Then a second voice. "Paramedic Dorf
here, Captain. Mr. Scott is going to sick bay." The faint protests in
the background implied that the engineer's departure was not entirely
voluntary. "Acknowledged, Engineering. I'll meet you there." Kirk walked
to the science, station. "Who attacked us? Ravens or Klingons?" Spock
came very close to frowning. "Unknown at present. Detailed sensor
readings were impossible under the circumstances." The captain heaved a
frustrated sigh, then tempered it with a wan smile. "Send a shuttlecraft
crew to sift through the fighter wreckage. Let's give Frazer some more
bodies to work on." The Vulcan nodded. Kirk took a final look around the
bridge. "You have the conn."

When Kirk reached sick bay, Scotty was still blustering at the two
paramedics who had carried him in. "Why would ye drag me away for a
scratch like this one? I've got work t' do." His environment suit was
ripped from knee to mid-thigh and the edges of the fabric were stained
deep pink. At the captain's entrance, Scott struggled to a stand,
effectively preventing McCoy from tending to the bleeding gash. "Mr.
Scott, sit back down. You're not going anywhere until I get your
report," ordered Kirk, thus distracting Scotty sufficiently for the
medical aid to continue. "Captain, we've lost deflector shields in half
a dozen sections and an equal number are barely holdin'. One of the aft
shields for the primary saucer collapsed completely under Sulu's phaser
blast. The force of that Klingon beam drilled a hole through the hull
plates and stopped just short of the impulse engines themselves." He
broke off to scold McCoy, who was cutting the fabric away from his
wound. "Have a care, mom Yet ruinin' a perfectly good suit."

"Is the breach sealed?" Kirk insisted. "Oh, aye, Captain, but there were
a few moments of nastiness," admitted Scotty. His injury was proof of
that.

"How long to effect repairs?"

"At least fifteen hours, Captain. That's assumin' I can stop wastin' my
time down here..." But by this time Scotty's limb had been fully
uncovered. The engineer's cavalier attitude turned to concerned
selfinterest at the glimpse of bone beneath the bleeding tissue. "McCoy,
what are ye waiting for? A mon could bleed to death in the time it's
taking ye t' move."

"I'm working as fast as I can," said the doctor patiently as he ran a
sterilizer over the wound.

Kirk found himself distracted from the damage report he had been prying
out of Scotty. "Bones?' "No, just me, Leonard McCoy," answered the
doctor. "Nurse Chapel has certified me for paramedical work." With
quick, practiced motions he sealed the edges of Scotty's wound into a
single jagged weal. He looked up to see a look of apprehension on the
engineer's face. "Don't worry, sir. Basic emergency ward treatments
haven't changed that much since I learned them." McCoy aimed the beam of
a portable regen unit onto the engineer's injury. Kirk pulled his
thoughts back to the Enterprise.

"Scotty, I need the ship's shields back as soon as possible. Class Five
fighters never travel alone and we can't afford to meet their escort
without defenses."

"Even if I get shields up in twelve hours, they'll not hold up t' much
of a poundin'," warned Scotty. "We've been through two battles already
with hardly time t' pull ourselves together. A third attack could punch
holes through the ship that I can't patch."

"Not to mention that you're going to run out of room in here," said
McCoy, looking around the crowded confines of sick bay. He turned back
to the captain. "Just who are these aliens?"

"That's what I'd..." Kirk stopped short at the sound of Spock's voice
ringing out over the intercom.

"Bridge to Captain Kirk." The captain stepped over to the wall unit.

"Kirk here."

"Report from the hangar deck, Captain. The shuttlecraft crew has
identified the fighter vessels as Tennet Fives. One alien body was
recovered from the wreckage." A slight pause was Kirk's only warning of
the bad news to follow. "It appears to be that of a second alien
species."

Chapter Fifteen.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5539.4: Enterprise shields are operational again
after nine hours of repair work. We are still on course for Wagner Post,
traveling at impulse speed through a sector swarming with crazed aliens,
all bent on destroying my ship and my crew. And if I don't figure out
why, they may well succeed.

The ODOROUS commm of the autopsy room were filled to capacity. It.
Frazer, as the official expert on xenobiology, held the position of
authority at the head of the examining table; Spock and Dyson, his
research colleagues, flanked either side; Kirk, observer and layman,
stood at the foot. They all studied the prone figure laid out between
them. The slight figure on the slab was green in color; its eyes were
pale pink and its head was covered with downy white wisps of hair.

"Well, it's related to the Ravens," said Frazer wearily, "but I haven't
figured out just how related it is." The xenobiologist's normally
ebullient spirits were noticeably depressed by physical exhaustion. Kirk
was in no better mood--he wasn't as tired as the xenobiologist, but he
was infinitely more worried by the specimen which now occupied the
autopsy slab. His nausea was equal to that he'd felt during the last
session in the lab, but he listened intently as Frazer detailed the
similarities between the two species.

"Despite the superficial color differences, the skeletal and muscular
frames are built along the same lines. This particular specimen is
smaller and less developed than the blue-skinned Ravens, but I can't
tell if that's typical of the green species or simply a matter of
individual variation within the species. Same beak, same claws..."

"Same venom," said Dyson, speaking up for the first time. "It affects
the central nervous system almost instantaneously, paralyzing motor
functions and blocking pain receptors. I'm still exploring the exact
chain of chemical action."

"What about an antidote?" asked Kirk. Frazer waved a hand toward a small
beaker on another table. It was filled with a pale rose liquid. "I
synthesized a promising batch this morning. Would you like a
demonstration, Captain?" He grabbed the alien's hand and laid his wrist
bare to its raking claws. "No, that won't be necessary." The
lieutenant's disappointment was obvious but his mercurial temperament
soon found distraction in the alien's peculiar anatomy. "And of course
they've both got this crazy double-brained skull."

"So they come from the same planet." Frazer was about to nod agreement
but thought better of it as Spock corrected the captain's hasty
conclusion. "Morphological similarities are not sufficient proof of
common origin; equivalent environmental pressures may be conducive to
parallel evolutionary development. However, given the duplication in
basic amino acid sequences, probabilities are high that they share the
same planet of origin." If Spock felt any physical discomfort in the
autopsy room, it was well masked, but he was definitely pained by
Frazer's lack of verbal precision. "However, the extensive morphological
differences may indicate a separate species--or possibly even
genus--classification." He motioned to the young lieutenant and they
rolled the corpse over. The xenobiologist pointed to a large bulbous sac
bulging from the back of the neck, near the base of the skull. "We still
haven't figured out what this is, but it's probably related to the
nervous system functions. A series of ducts leads up to the left brain
chamber. There are traces of a similar organ in the Ravens, but it seems
to have atrophied."

"Of course, the differences could be exaggerated sexual dimorphism,"
noted Dyson speculatively. "Possible, but unlikely," said Spock.

"Cellular analysis reveals considerable biochemical dissimilarities."

"Besides," added Frazer. "I still haven't found any evidence that either
species has a sex." He poked a line down the rubbery green body. "Heart,
lung, stomach, all have a roughly analogous organ, but so far, no
obvious reproductive tract."

"Not a promising candidate for asexual budding," Dyson mused. "Not like
the soggy Oozers." Frazer's red complexion deepened in hue. "Hey, watch
it! Some of my best friends are Oosians."

"I was using the term descriptively."

"Their minds are far from soggy."

Spock's comment was carefully neutral. "In fact, their language is
admirably suited for expressing the basic precepts of the Unified Field
Theory." Kirk--who had never met an Oosian--indulged himself in a
display of temper. "I don't give a damn about anything but this alien,"
he shouted at the three scientists. "And I want to know more about this
alien just as soon as humanly possible." The captain looked over at
Spock; his voice dropped back to normal. "No offense intended, Mr.
Spock."

"None taken, Captain," said the Vulcan. His somber eyes lit up with a
glint of amusement. "However, I have no intention of limiting myself to
human standards of performance." The look of despair which passed
between Dyson and Frazer implied that the science officer applied his
own exacting standards to his subordinates as well, regardless of their
fully human heritage. At the science officer's signal, the junior
officers began preparing the alien for the painstaking dissection which
would provide more tissue specimens for the science staff. The clinging
vapors of bio-stasis fluid trailed after Kirk and Spock, reluctantly
losing their hold in the fresh air of the corridor outside the autopsy
lab. The captain drew a deep breath to clear his lungs. "I've broken
radio silence." Spock immediately abandoned his review of the data
tablet he had carried out of the lab. He focused his attention on Kirk,
noting the grim set of the captain's jaw. Kirk continued. "I ordered
Uhura to fire a communications burst to Wagner Post requesting a log of
registered flight itineraries. I need to know where those attack
fighters came from." Spock nodded thoughtfully. "Agreed. The knowledge
may well be worth the risk of detection." The first officer's comment
did nothing to allay Kirk's own uneasiness. "If it's not, I may have set
us up for another attack. I've been rolling snake eyes on every round so
far."

"The rules which govern craps are not generally applicable to reality."

Spock strongly resisted the concept of luck. Not even Kirk's legendary
reliance on favorable random factors could shake the Vulcan's firm
belief in the laws of probability. "Well, there won't be an answer from
Manager Friel for at least a few hours," said Kirk with studied calm.
"I'll be in my cabin." Spock headed in the opposite direction but
stopped abruptly when he detected the light steps of a man coming up
behind him. He pivoted around and marched back to face the acting chief
medical officer. "Dr. Cortejo, I had requested your presence at the
autopsy report."

"Ah, yes.

Unfortunately, I was detained elsewhere." The doctor turned away, only
to be jerked back by Spock's swift retort. "Perhaps you find your new
duties too demanding." The Vulcan's face displayed a deadly calm. "If
that is the case, I can arrange for you to resume your former position."

Cortejo's mouth settled into a grim line. "My time is reserved for the
living. I have no interest in rotting meat."

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant. They are also misguided. If
we do not concentrate sufficient attention on the aliens, this entire
ship's crew may be reduced to 'rotting meat.'" Spock rammed a data
tablet into Cortejo's hands. "For that reason, I am requesting a
temporary reassignment of these members of your medical staff to the
alien research project."

"This is a third of my department!" exclaimed Cortejo in amazement as he
scanned the list. "Twenty-seven percent to be exact."

"But..."

"You have the option to refuse my request," said the Vulcan, with a
steely edge to his voice. When the doctor did not respond, Spock offered
him a writing stylus. Ignoring the gesture, Cortejo produced one of his
own. He scrawled a signature on the tablet before tossing it back to the
science officer. His look of loathing was more obviously displayed than
Spock's disdain. They parted without another word. Seconds later, the
door to the autopsy room slid open, releasing another strong whiff of
stasis fluid. Dyson peered out into the passage and watched Spock cross
the threshold of the research library two doors down. Cortejo had
disappeared. "All clear," she called back to Frazer. 'i'lL see you
later." Before she had gone more than ten feet, McCoy stepped out of the
shadows of a cross-corridor. He grabbed Dyson's elbow and steered her
into an alcove. "We have a dinner date, remember?" She shook her head.

"Sorry, Len. I can't get away."

"Diana, you haven't eaten all day," protested McCoy. She shrugged. "I'm
up to my ears in autopsy reports.

Spock has both the science and medical departments working overtime."

McCoy gave a sudden grin. "Wait a minute. Aren't you part of my
department? As chief medical officer I could order you..."

"Don't try to pull rank around here," scolded Dyson. "Dr. Cortejo has
your authority now." She smiled wickedly. "But unlike you, he doesn't
have the guts to cross Spock." She bit her lip and made another quick
check of the corridor. To her relief, it was empty. "They absolutely
despise each other," she confided happily in a low voice. "Spock cuts
the man's ego into tiny pieces every chance he gets."

"Yeah," said McCoy. "I overheard him do just that a few minutes ago." He
thought back to the exchange between the two senior officers. "I'd just
as soon stay on that Vulcan's good side."

"So would I," said Dyson emphatically. "Which means I have to get back
to work." McCoy sighed and released his hold on her arm.

"Damn those aliens--they're mining my social circle. Say, can I look
over your shoulder while you run through those tests?" he
wheedled,,wistfully. "I could take notes or wash beakers or... "No,"
said Dyson emphatically. "I wouldn't get anything done with you
breathing down my neck." She choked at McCoy's mock leer. "Go away!" Her
eyes searched for a wall chronometer. She read the numbers on its face
and uttered a gasp of dismay. "Oh, hell! Spock will fry me in oil..."

"Okay, okay, I'll take a rain check," said McCoy, admitting defeat. He
laughed at her blank look. "Dirtwalker saying. I'll see you later," he
called out after her as she dashed towards the Research section. "If I
happen to have a free moment in my busy schedule," he muttered. He could
kill another hour by going to the mess hall alone, but his hunger had
ceased abruptly at Dyson's departure. He was weary of the confines of
his cabin, and the rec rooms were abandoned. More out of habit than
desire, he opted for a study session with current medical texts. Walking
a few steps down the corridor, McCoy peered into the research library.

Spock occupied the carrel nearest the door, his alien form hunched
intently over the computer terminal. Anxious not to disturb the first
officer's concentration, the doctor edged quietly into the room, but the
Vulcan's hearing Was sharper than he had realized. McCoy stopped,
impaled by two dark eyes. "Excuse me, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You have not done so. My literature search is finished." Spock turned
back to the screen with an upraised brow. "As it happens, I have been
consulting your opinion on this matter."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The xenobiological index referred me to one of your journal articles."

"One of my articles?" asked McCoy. "How many do I have?" Spock punched a
rapid series of keys and beckoned the doctor to the terminal. To McCoy's
surprise, his name ran down the length of the left column and
disappeared off the screen. The majority of the visible publication
dates fell within the last three years. "I wrote all of these? Aboard
this ship?" asked McCoy. "Thanks to Star Fleet resources the Enterprise
research laboratories are equipped with technological equipment that is
more sophisticated than that generally available in civilian facilities.

And due to the nature of our mission, the exploration of new areas of
space, we have encountered many phenomena that offered excellent
research opportunities. It is only logical that we should avail
ourselves of the data." McCoy scanned the array of titles. "Well, they
certainly look impressive, but then I can't tell if they're worth the
chips they're written on." He dismissed the listing with a shrug.

Spock's impassive face hardened at this show of indifference. "Your work
is that of a professional: always competent, frequently inspired, and on
occasion brilliant. You have achieved a widespread reputation as a
physician and a scientist on the basis of these studies."

"Thank you, but it's not my work you're talking about. I'm a small-town
boy who was on his way to being a family doctor. The Leonard McCoy who
wrote these," he waved his hand at the terminal, "doesn't exist anymore.
Maybe he never will again."

"An emotional reaction to traumatic injury is certainly understandable
in your species." Spock steepled his fingers in contemplation of Human
frailties. "However, you should not let these emotions cloud your
perceptions too far. Whether you recover your memory or not, the fact
remains that you are Leonard McCoy.

These publications are yours."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Spock." McCoy stopped short of his next statement;
he thought back to the scene in the corridor. "Perhaps I've said enough.

I'm in imminent danger of contradicting a superior officer." Spock
looked somewhat taken aback by this deferral. "I assure you that such
considerations have never intrud themselves on any of our previous
discussions." After a moment's hesitation, he offered, "I have always
valued the free exchange of our ideas." McCoy looked dubious, but he
perched on the edge of the desk and continued talking. "Then maybe you
can hear me out with Vulcan objectivity. You're free from any personal
interest in the ship's surgeon. "You say that I'm the same Leonard McCoy
who joined Star Fleet twenty years ago. Well, you're partly right." He
tapped his chest. "This body is certainly that of an old man. I guess
it's not in bad working order, but it feels stiff and sluggish to me.

Yet identity is more than corporeal existence. Personality accounts for
a great deal of our perception of a human being as a particular
individual, and personality is shaped by the accumulation of memory and
experience. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spock?" The first officer nodded,
but said nothing. "Well, then it follows that while my body has
maintained a continuous existence throughout the last forty eight years,
my mind has jumped the track. When I first awoke on board this ship I
had the personality of the young man who would eventually become "Bones'
McCoy, but within seconds of my awakening, I began to accumulate a
radically different set of experiences. We may share a common past, but
I've missed the incidents that shaped his final character, replaced them
with other events. I'm becoming a different person."

"Very logically argued." Spock leaned' back in his chair, arms crossed
over his chest. "But what happens when the lost memory, the personality
if you will, returns?"

"When?" challenged the doctor. "You mean 'if,' don't you?" He jumped up
and paced restlessly across the deck. "According to Dr. Dyson, recall
might occur gradually, with bits and pieces of his.., my... past
appearing sporadically, in which case the two personalities will
eventually assimilate into one." The line between his brows deepened.

"But in some cases the response is a sudden total recall, with the
intervening time lost in its turn."

"That eventuality seems to displease you," observed the science officer.

McCoy stopped short. With a faint look of surprise, he nodded agreement.

"It means my death."

"Conversely, if your memory loss is never recovered, it would mean the
death of... the other Dr. McCoy."

"The perfect murder, Mr. Holmes," said McCoy with a humorless laugh. "No
messy body to dispose of, just a non-corporeal psyche that won't be
missed!" Spock's eyebrows jerked upwards. "There you are wrong.

Dr. McCoy is much respected and esteemed by the crew of the Enterprise;
Captain Kirk feels his absence most keenly."

"So your captain loses a drinking partner," said McCoy defensively.

"When you think about it, that's a small price to pay for getting my
life back in order. I'm a lucky man really. A lifetime of mistakes have
been wiped clean off my slate."

"As have the maturity and wisdom you gained from those mistakes."

Spock's voice was colored by an uncharacteristic intensity"Mistakes that
you will inevitably repeat."

,, McCoy shook his head. "Not this me, he insisted.

"I'll be happy this time around. I realize that such a human goal may
seem irrelevant to you, but I have a feeling it meant a lot to "Bones'
McCoy. Enough for him to let go."

"Let go of what?" asked Spock sharply.

"All of this," said McCoy with a wave that took in the whole ship.
"After all, we found the trigger for the amnesia, but it didn't restore
my memory. The only reason for a continued amnesia is a personal desire
for escape."

He reached over and flicked off the computer screen.

"I think Bones is gone for good."

Chapter Sixteen.

"WAGNER POST REPORTS no authorization records for either planetary or
Federation military transport in this sector." Spock stood at attention
in the captain's cabin, calmly announcing the bad news to the man seated
before him. "Damn." Kirk's fist clenched tightly around a white rook.

The chess game, started several weeks ago, had not progressed since the
first Raven attack. In his darkest moods he wondered if it would ever be
finished. The first officer approached the desk and eyed the arrangement
of carved figures on their crystal tiers. "Yet Tennet Five fighters are
short-distance vessels, incapable of penetrating into deep space under
their own power."

"So, record or no record, there's probably a subwarp carrier somewhere
nearby. That ghost you caught on the sensor scan..."

Kirk set the rook down on another level of the board, ousting a black
knight from the game. "And thanks to my communications broadcast, it
knows we survived the fighter attack." Abandoning the game to Spock's
inspection, Kirk moved into. his sleeping quarters, perched on the edge
of his bed, and tugged a boot off his foot. Spock stared intently at a
black bishop which was now in danger. "The fighters' maximum flight
distance would carry just beyond the range of a fully functional ,
sensor scan, but our sensors are operating far below normal levels. This
impairment, coupled with our reduced speed, means a carrier could easily
escape our detection."

"I hope that carrier's trying to escape us, Spock."

Bootless, Kirk stood up and stripped off his shirt.

"Under the circumstances, I'm more worried about overtaking that ship
than losing it."

The science officer considered this statement. "Phaser cannons,
triple-field defense shields-, photon disrupter buoys ."

"Which wouldn't mean a damn thing if we had warp speed," said Kirk, now
fully unclothed, as he ducked into the sonic shower.

"However, at impulse speed we are less than evenly matched. Spock
weighed the strengths of the two sides as if 'evaluating another chess
game. "Our phasers would be hard pressed to penetrate its defenses. Our
shields could not withstand more than one direct hit.

The Falchion will be at a similar disadvantage. Our combined forces may
not be sufficient to counter an attack."

"And these aliens do seem determined to pick a fight," yelled Kirk from
inside the cubicle.

"Agreed," said Spock. His fingers lightly touched the bishop, but did
not change its position. He stud ied the board yet again and slowly
withdrew his hand. " Kirk stepped back into the room.

"It's cold in here, he complained, quickly pulling on a clean set of
clothes. Scott is conyes, replied the Vulcan. "And Mr. templating
another five-degree drop to conserve power expenditure."

"Maybe we should meet in your cabin. I promise not to complain about the
heat."

"In deference to our weakened power reserves, I have altered my
temperature controls to conform with the rest of the ship," explained
Spock. "Ship's stores has issued me extra thermal blankets. A primitive
but effective device for conserving heat." Kirk smiled in sympathy, but
his thoughts quickly returned to the ship's danger. "I need to know
where those fighters came from."

"They are definitely of Federation origin. The Tennet Five design is
commonly used in planetary defense systems on the frontier, though
strict measures are taken to insure that sales are to Federation planets
only."

"The black market in military equipment is very resourceful," said Kirk.

He sat down again to pull on his boots. "Tennet Fives have been around
for a long time, long enough to change hands several times over until
the Federation loses track of them; sales records can be forged, too, so
that's no real mystery. What I don't understand is what direction they
came from. They didn't follow established travel routes, or Wagner Post
would have detected their presence or received notice of their passage
from other Federation outposts." He stood up and stamped his feet for a
final snug fit. "That leaves Klingon territory or uncharted space."

Spock's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Both of which are equally
unlikely points of origin for a sub-warp vessel."

"Nothing in this mess makes any sense," said Kirk wearily. "Aliens
popping out of nowhere. Klingons and Frenni disappearing just as
suddenly." He pounded a fist into the open palm of his other hand. "We
go over and over the details and yet we still can't form a picture.
There's a missing element somewhere." He looked at his first officer.
"Logic doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere, Spock." Spock bowed his
head in silent acknowledgement of the captain's frustration. Kirk paced
nervously from the bedroom into the outer study. The quick shower had
done nothing to relax the knotted tension in his shoulders. "Dammit,
there has to be 'an explanation for these attacks. We've got to find it
so we know who we're fighting and why. I can't defend this ship, this
crew without..." The soft clink of bottle against glass stopped him in
mid-sentence. "I believe this is your usual drink, Captain," said Spock,
handing Kirk a goblet of dark brandy. "Why, Bones," laughed Kirk in
astonishment. "You've grown pointed ears." Spock did not allow himself
to smile. "Have you spoken to Dr. McCoy lately?" he asked the captain.

Kirk frowned and took a swallow of his drink before answering. "Not
really. Not since the last attack." With some reluctance, he admitted,
"We don't seem to have much to say to each other."

"Indeed," said Spock neutrally. "I, on the other hand, have just
finished a most fascinating conversation with the doctor. We discussed
the concept of discontinuous personality formation in a continuous
corporeal entity." Kirk stared blankly at his science officer. "What the
hell are you talking about?"

"Dr. McCoy can elucidate," said Spock. "I highly recommend it as a topic
of discussion, Captain."

"But..."

"You will have to excuse me," said Spock with a note of formal apology.

"I'm due on the bridge in two minutes." He left the room without further
comment, leaving Kirk to puzzle out his words.

McCoy's cabin had changed. Kirk felt the difference as soon as he
crossed over the threshold. His eyes swept over walls that were bare of
their usual art hangings.

Medical books and tapes were rearranged, spread over the shelves, taking
the place of McCoy's collection of personal effects. Kirk walked through
to the back section of the cabin. The doctor was in bed, struggling to a
sitting position, still half-asleep though he had released the cabin
lock to let Kirk into the room.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm just as glad you did. Crazy nightmare.., gone now," McCoy muttered,
rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked up at the captain. "Let me
guess--Mr. Spock sent you."

"Not exactly." Kirk spotted a jumble of stone and wood objects shoved
'onto a corner shelf of the bed room. "He simply mentioned that the two
of you had had a 'fascinating' discussion."

"And that sent you running here?" McCoy stretched lazily and swung his
feet off the bed. He was wearing standard issue service pants, but his
worn brown Sweater dated back to civilian days. He groped on the deck
for his boots.

. "He was worried about you." Kirk had no doubt that his first officer
had been conveying a new concern for McCoy's wellbeing.

"Worried?" asked McCoy. "What are you talking about? He's a Vulcan."

"He's also half Human." Kirk said out loud what neither of his two
friends would ever voice themselves. "That Human side is quite fond of
you, although the Vulcan haft never lets him admit it."

"I guess that speaks well for "Bones' McCoy," said McCoy grudgingly as
he rose to face the captain. "Not that it matters much anymore." Kirk's
eyes strayed over the altered cabin. The source of Spock's unease btcame
clearer to him. He strolled over to the discarded pile of artifacts and
hefted a carved stone head. "This was a gift from the High Teer Akaar of
Capella IV. You lived for several months among his people. The present
Teer is "Leonard James Akaar'--named after the both of us. You delivered
him, saved his life and that of his mother."

He proffered the figure to McCoy for inspection. When the doctor made no
move to accept it, Kirk carefully restored the statue to its usual
prominence on a higher shelf. The next item he picked up was a small
rough rock. "Not much of a souvenir, but then Vulcan doesn't court the
tourist trade." He held the dull red stone up to the light. "You saved
my life on Vulcan. Not for the first time, either." He flipped the rock
into the air. Surprised into action, McCoy caught it before it fell to
the deck. Almost as quickly, he tossed it back. "Look, Captain. I didn't
ask for this." McCoy tapped lightly at his temple."

"Bones' made the choice to leave and he doesn't show any signs of coming
back."

"I don't believe that," said Kirk shaking his head. "I know you,
McCoy.."

"Then tell me why I chose to forget you and this ship," said McCoy
defiantly.

"I Kirk shrugged his hands in helplessness, can't answer that." He
looked into the face of the man standing before him. A familiar face,
yet now that of a stranger. "But your memory will return. You wouldn't
choose to stay away."

"There's no place for me here," insisted McCoy.

"This boy is going home to Georgia.."

"Dammit, McCoy, you can't leave the service. You can't leave the
Enterprise." You can't leave me. McCoy angrily shook his head. "Captain,
once I get off of this ship, I'm never coming back." The scream of the
alert siren drowned out Kirk's retort.

Red pulsing lights invaded the room. Uhura's voice cut through the
wailing alarms. "Red alert, red alert. Captain Kirk to the bridge."

McCoy looked up in amazement. "Again? Don't you get tired of this?"

"Yes," said Kirk sourly, leaving the room at a dead run.

The image on the bridge viewscreen was deceptively untroubled. However,
the long-range sensors were more sensitive. They detected a presence
that could not be seen in the empty reaches of space. "Our ghost has
reappeared," explained Spock, vacating the command chair. He stood by
its side as the captain sat down. Kirk's face was still flushed with
anger at being caught off the bridge a second time. "The Tennet Five
battlecarrier?"

"Possibly," said Spock. "It is just inside sensor range, moving at a
speed consistent with a subwarp carrier. Its mass is also equivalent to
such a vessel. Visual contact in twenty minutes; course intersection in
one hour, twelve minutes."

"And we canna outrun it," said Scotty, stepping down from the
engineering station. "Not with our power reserves so low."

"Then we fight," said Kirk. He checked the reactions of his two officers
and sighed. "Any suggestions as to how we can win?"

"We do have the added resources of the Falchion."

Spock did not search for the warship on the viewscreen. Within seconds
of the red alert signal, the Klingon ship had vanished behind its
cloaking shield. "Aye," agreed Scotty. "An' if we had a third ship, it
might be an even match."

"If we can't beat them in a fair fight, we'll have to trick them." Kirk
smiled broadly. "We'll give them a taste of their own medicine."

"What dose did ye have in mind?" asked Scotty. Kirk leaned forward,
studying the viewscreen before him, but his mind's eye was reviewing
events of the past. "The Ravens in the Frenni ship could have attacked
us at once, as soon as we lowered our shields, but they waited. They
waited until we suspected a trap and recalled the shuttlecraft. If we
hadn't suspected a trap, what would they have done?"

He didn't wait for his officers to answer. "They would have taken over
the shuttlecraft and tried to board us. The Ravens didn't want to
destroy the Enterprise--they wanted to control her. So, perhaps the
carrier crew can be lured into boarding our ship, instead of attacking
it." Scotty looked appalled at the suggestion, but Spock showed no
surprise. Through long practice, Spock nimbly followed the quick twists
of Kirk's mind. "And in order to board us, they would have to drop their
shields."

"Aye! That they would!" The chief engineer began to smile just as
broadly as Kirk. Spock, however, withheld his approval and slipped
easily into the role of devil's advocate. "If the Tennet Five crews
consisted of only the second alien species, their motivations could be
different." Kirk gnawed at his thumb, then shook his head. "No, I don't
think so." He looked up at the Vulcan. "I can't prove it, but I'm sure
both Raven species are allied in the same cause. Another gamble, Mr.
Spock."

"Then I hope our cards come up aces," said Scotty. "A dice roll of
seven, Mr. Scott." Spock quirked an eyebrow at the engineer's confusion.

"Our current metaphor is craps."

"Whatever the game, Mr. Spock, 'this is a risky play."

"Mayday, ?,a, Mayday. This is the U.S.S. Enterprise. Ship in distress.

Uhura repeated the call over and over again, carefully edging her voice
with an anxiety that was not entirely feigned. Kirk concentrated on the
crackle of static from the broadcast receiver. His eyes were riveted on
the red, bullet-shaped carrier that grew like a blood stain on the
vewscreen. If there was no answer soon, the bait would be taken without
springing the trap. The Enterprise, adrift in space, was truly
vulnerable. Her engines were shut down, leaving the weapons systems and
deflectors without operating power. "Its hull emblems are those of an
Orion mercenary army," whispered Spock in his ear. "More allies?" asked
Kirk, wiping the sweat off his brow. Orion neutrality was more dependent
on selfinterest than good will. Spock shrugged. "Or more victims of a
Raven/ Klingon alliance."

"Either way, that's the battle carrier for the Tennet Fives," said
Scotty fiercely. "Look at all the empty fighter berths." A burst of
noise cut through the static, halting Uhura,s repetitious call. She
instantly tuned the frequency. "Enterprise, this , Captain Aeloran of
the Stellar Storm. We read you. The words which echoed over the speaker
were spoken in Federation Basic with a strong Orion accent. With a wave
of his hand, Kirk signaled a ragged cheer from the bridge crew and
raised his own voice to answer the call. "Stellar Storm, this is Captain
Kirk. Are we glad to see you!" He stepped down from his chair,
channeling his tension into movement, keeping his voice balanced between
a semblance of relief and weariness. "What happened, Captain Kirk? Your
ship looks dead in space."

We may be soon. "We were attacked by Klingons, a small fighter force
crossed over from their territory in the Belennii star system. We
destroyed them, but not before they damn near killed us. Our engines are
out of commission. No power left in weapons; our shields are gone." He
waved a hand over the darkened bridge, entering into his part fully.

"We're running life support systems from batteries."

"What can we do to help?'; asked the disembodied voice. Kirk laughed.

"You'll be sorry you asked that. I've got a list a foot long of spare
parts and supplies that we need to get going again./ and all I can offer
in payment is a Star Fleet credit voucher."

"I don't mind," answered the Orion captain cheerfully. "Federation
credit is as good as gold." Kirk hesitated. This voice sounded genuine
enough to create doubt where there had been certainty. The same'doubt
had delayed his reaction to the Frenni merchant impostor by a fatal few
seconds. "Uhura?" The lieutenant cut off ship-to-ship communications to
answer him. "They are accepting our visual transmission but only
returning audio." Just like the Serella.

More evidence that the Ravens were controlling the Stellar Storm, but
still not absolute proof. Uhura restored the ship-to-ship connection at
Kirk's thumbs-up sign.

"I lied," announced Kirk to the Stellar Storm's commander. "I do have
one item on board that's good for trade---Saurian brandy. If you'd care
to beam aboard, I'll open a bottle while I go over our requisition
list."

"That's the best offer I've had since I left home.!" crowed the voice.

"Give me your coordinates, and I'll be right there." There was a
momentary silence, then the voice returned. "In fact, I'll bring some of
my crew with me."

"You do that," said Kirk. "We'll be waiting." Uhura snapped off radio
contact. "Battle stations." Kirk's soft voice contrasted with the harsh
meaning of the words. "Spock, prepare to run a sensor scan as soon as
their shields drop." The first officer turned from his science station.

"Captain, if they detect the scanning..."

"They'll smell a trap and destroy this ship," said Kirk grimly. "Uhura,
transmit transporter coordinates, then open a channel to the Falchion."

"Aye, captain." She followed his order without hesitation. Scotty
monitored the results. "Their shields are dropping." The bridge fell
silent. The only sounds came from the computers at the science station.

The Vulcan officer's motions were controlled and deliberate and very,
very fast. Scotty looked up anxiously from the engineering panel.

"Transporter room reports grid activation... Captain, if they succeed in
beaming aboard..." Kirk kept his eyes trained on his first officer while
time stretched to the breaking point. Then Spock uttered the vital word.

"Ravens."

"Now, Sulu!" shouted Kirk. The Falchion rippled into existence,
Enterprise's views but providing the protection of its own deflectors.

Simultaneously, the Klingon warship loosed a bright stream of phaser
fire that cut through the metal hull covering the battle-carrier's
impulse engines. Seconds later the Stellar Storm no longer existed.

Chapter Seventeen.

"SENSORS DO not detect organic remains, Captain." Kirk stared past his
science officer, eyes fixed on the computer station indicators. Their
color confirmed the verbal report. "Run the check again, Mr. Spock." The
Vulcan's hesitation was slight, a brief betrayal of conflicting trains
of thought. A second search was unnecessary and would waste ship's
energy; logic dictated that he bring this fact to his captain's
attention. Experience counseled that Kirk was in no mood to listen to
logic. Spock tripped a switch for another sensor sweep. Kirk stepped
down from the duty station and stood by the side of his command chair.

The helmsman and navigator toyed impatiently with the ship controls,
eager to resume their course. Uhura was turned to her communications
station, too intent on her radio monitoring to notice that Spock had
initiated another, redundant, probe from his station. The main
viewscreen presented an empty, untroubled sector of space. No sign of
the Stellar Storm remained; the explosion of its impulse engines had
annihilated the entire ship. And its Raven crew. Which meant Kirk was no
closer to finding an answer now than he had been after the first attack.

His own orders had destroyed any possibility of learning more about the
aliens.

The computer chattered its soft report. Kirk tensed for the translation.

"Negative, Captain. No organic remains."

"Very well, Mr. Spock." Kirk's voice was equally impassive. "Helm,
prepare for impulse power."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Depaul and Benus sat up straight in their seats,
hands poised over the controls. They had calculated and entered the
course coordinates for Wagner Post several times over while Kirk
lingered at the site of the Stellar Storm's destruction. "Falchion
standing by."

Uhura relayed the report from Sulu aboard the Klingon battlecruiser.

Kirk heard the too-quick responses from every duty station on the
bridge. His officers had found the waiting tedious and were anxious to
move on. "Full impulse power." The crew fell into motion and the
Enterprise shuddered into flight. Kirk shuddered, too. It's too damn
cold in here. His mind shied away from another explanation for the
chills. "Long range sensor scan, Spock?"

"Negative. No signs of activity within this sector."

"Confirmed by communications monitor," added Uhura.

"Let's hope it stays that way," said Kirk wearily. "We're still several
days away from the trading post." Uneventful days, he prayed. Time
enough for the one event which could not be postponed any longer. He
rose from the command chair. "Mr. Spock, I'll meet you in my cabin in an
hour." Kirk spent the hour staring at the contents of a small leather
case. Command of a starship was a challenging and demanding calling; it
could also be a highstakes game of chance. Every mission required
decisions that affected the lives of the ship's crew and of countless
other beings. Most of the time, Kirk !mew the answer, the necessary
course of action. Every once in a while he had to guess. When he guessed
right, he got a medal. Kirk had many medals. He treasured them not as
symbols of glory but as markers for having made the right choice. How
many risks could he take, how many chances, before he guessed wrong? At
the rescue of the Serella, his momentary hesitation had led to the
crippling of the Enterprise. Despite that, Kirk had risked the
Enterprise once again when facing the Stellar Storm. If the sensor scan
had taken seconds longer, if it had been detected, the Ravens would have
attacked again. This time they might have won. A low whistle sounded
over the intercom, a dirgelike tone which would reach every corner of
the ship. The captain pulled his thoughts out of the past. He snapped
the case shut and placed it back in a niche in the wall by his bed. A
metal door slid over the opening, hiding the case from view. The
uncertainties remained. He pushed them aside and concentrated on
changing his clothes. When the door chime rang, Kirk was ready. Spock
entered the cabin with the air of formality which always accompanied his
visits to Kirk's private quarters. He was past considering his presence
an intrusion, but he still managed to convey a subtle sense of Vulcan
ritual when he crossed the threshold. Now that formality was
considerably heightened by the blue dress uniform he wore. Kirk tugged
at the sleeves of his own commandgold dress uniform. He had grown to
loathe the suit because of its association with tiresome diplomatic
affairs and Star Fleet courts-martial. And funerals. "Lt. Uhura confirms
that the chapel is prepared for the service," said Spock with
appropriate solemnity, but then he would use the same somber voice to
announce a wedding. "Ship's intercom will broadcast your address to the
crewmembers on duty." Kirk nodded absently at this recital of details,
his mind still caught in a tangle of doubt and confusion. Neither
officer had discussed Kirk's actions against the Serella or the Stellar
Storm. Spock, the first officer, would not question a command decision
unless asked for an opinion; Spock, the Vulcan, would probably see
little value in debating a past action. Certainly Kirk had no desire to
bring his doubts into the open. To give voice to his fears would give
them more substance. Only one man would have pressed the issue, before
and after. What would McCoy have made of Kirk's actions? Would he have
urged caution before firing or railed against the certain danger to the
Enterprise?"

"I knew there were Ravens on that ship, even without the scan." Kirk was
talking out loud before he could stop himself. "But I let them trick me
once again. I should have destroyed them as soon as possible." The
captain's outburst did not surprise Spock. He spoke quickly, as if his
response had been prepared before and held in check for just this
moment. "At the risk of destroying an innocent Orion crew?"

"Instead, I risked my own crew." Spock said nothing. There was nothing a
Vulcan could say to refute Kirk's --If-accusation. If he searched for
the words a friend might use, he took too long to find them. Kirk had
already left the room.

Diana Dyson could think of at least three good reasons why she should
stop by McCoy's cabin. What disturbed her was the apparent need to
justify that action to herself. Her tentative and reluctant
introspection came to an abrupt halt inside the cabin. As she had
expected, McCoy was immersed in his medical studies; most unexpectedly,
he was still in civilian dress. Dyson stared in dismay at McCoy's
rumpled sweater. "Why aren't you ready?" McCoy pulled his attention away
from the computer screen. "Ready for what?"

"The memorial service. It starts in ten minutes." McCoy's eyes dropped
back to the screen. "Oh, yeah, I heard something about it this morning.

I don't have to go, do I?"

"For god's sake, you're a senior officer!" She sprinted past his desk
into the bedroom and threw open the door to the closet. "Not to mention
the man who signed a death certificate for every crewmember who was
killed in the first attack." Her hands rummaged frantically inside the
compartment. "Oh." McCoy flicked off the power switch on the computer.

"I guess that means I have to go." Dyson emerged from the back room. She
held out a shirt made of a soft, shiny blue fabric edged with gold.

"Here, put this on." McCoy looked as if she was offering him the body of
a dead animal. "And hurry!" He rose to his feet, slowly unbending his
lanky frame, then giving his spine a backward stretch.

"Too .bad my back doesn't think it's 23 years old." Dyson's lips pursed
with obvious impatience. McCoy sighed heavily at her unspoken proddings,
but he stripped off his sweater and threw it aside."Dammn," it's cold in
here." Giving an exaggerated shiver, he took the uniform shirt from her
hands and tried to pull it over his head. "No, not that way." Dyson
tugged it off him and unfastened the front seam. She shoved the garment
back at him. "I hate funerals." McCoy put his arms through the sleeves
one at a time, then laboriously started to reseal the shirt edges.

"Never could see the point in deliberately choosing to be depressed and
unhappy for near onto an hour. Two hours if you get an enthusiastic
preacher." When he reached the neckline, his fingers fumbled clumsily
with the seal. "Dann collar. Are you sure this is my size?"

"Oh, will you please shut up!" McCoy was startled by the sudden attack.

"My roommate was one of the first casualties. This funeral is more than
just a formality for me."

"Sorry." He was still fumbling with the last fastener. "No, you're not
the least bit sorry. You're barely being polite." She swatted his hands
away from the shirt and roughly fastened the collar for him. "Well, four
of the casualties were paramedics from your department." Dyson stepped
back to survey his appearance. "And you chose each one of those people.

Hoffman, Russell, Wallace, Clark.

Remember those names when the captain reads them. Be glad you can't
mourn for them, because the man who was ship's surgeon nearly cried when
he heard they were dead." The stricken expression on McCoy's face
stopped her tirade. She stamped down on a pang of guilt. "Come on or
we'll be late." He followed her without protest. The chapel was little
more than an empty hall with a nominal stage and podium at one end.

Since Star Fleet did not wish to offend any creed or religion--and Star
Fleet members were affiliated with an amazing variety of belief
systems--the ship's designers had provided a bland, featureless room
that appealed to no creed or religion. Only on those few occasions when
the ship's crew filled the room to capacity did the unadorned walls
reflect dignity and serenity. Kirk stood erect behind the podium,
waiting for the late arrivals to find a place in the crowd. No spaces
were left on the long low benches arranged in the center of the room;
most of the crew was standing along the perimeters, against the wall.
Despite the large attendance, there was little noise beyond the rustle
of moving bodies.

As captain, his duty was to speak out into that heavy silence, to find
words of comfort and reassurance for the friends and companions of those
who had died. Captains were not allowed stage fright. Kirk smoothed flat
the list of names he had to read, wiping the moisture from his palms
onto the thin sheet of paper. The memorial service had been postponed
twice due to battle action and each time the list had grown longer.

Kirk's glance traveled idly over the room while his mind wrestled with
the wording of the approaching service. He saw a tightly huddled group
of engineering crewmembers step apart to !et Montgomery Scott into their
midst. They pushed him down onto a bench and closed ranks around him.

Bowed over with fatigue, his long face lined with sorrow, Scotty was
unaware of the fiercely protective spirit which he inspired. In
contrast, the members of Spock's science division were scattered
throughout the crowd. The loyalty of his department was not as obvious,
but ran as deep as that of engineering. The Vulcan challenged the minds
and the intellect of the scientists---their emotions were strictly an
off-duty concern. Yet, Spock was here, showing honor to the dead. He
stood tall and austere, in the midst of humans, but not of them. The
quality of silence in the room altered, signaling a concensus that the
service should begin. Kirk opened his mouth and words emerged. He
couldn't hear them but the men and women seated before him listened
intently. Even as one part of his mind found expression for the grief
they were feeling and spoke it aloud, another part was silently
observing the faces turned to his. Some, like Uhura, were easily moved
to tears, declaring an open and unashamed testament to the love they
bore for the fallen. Others released the tears grudgingly, with obvious
effort, coaxed by his voice to share a common pain. The words, sounding
so faint and distant in his ears, did not stop here. They were carried
out, beyond the confines of the room, to every corner of the ship, to
everyone who had to stay at a duty post. Were those unseen faces
transfigured as well? Kirk stood alone on the dais, unable to take in
the comfort of his own speech. The voice stopped. Have Ifinished?
wondered Kirk. He looked down to the podium's tabletop and slowly read
the list. A few of the names he uttered aloud wrung a stifled
exclamation from someone who was just now hearing of the death. At the
end of that too-long roll call, Kirk allowed a time for personal
meditation. He bowed his own head in silent prayer and tried to remember
the dead, to conjure up the faces of those who were gone, but he found
himself praying for the ones who were here now, that they might continue
living.

Chapter Eighteen.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5321.12: We are less than a day away from Wagner
Post, but even as we approach the haven of its dockyards, I am still
unable to explain the attacks which have crippled my ship.

A PANORAMA OF stars stretched across the horizon. Their soft light
illuminated the ground below, casting shadows from the trees, smoothing
the grass into a blanket of furred velvet. A soft breeze rustled through
the leaves with a gentle rhythm. McCoy lay flat on his back, hands under
his head, admiring his carefully calculated view. Ground shrubs hid the
bottom rim of the viewport frame; the !owlying branches of a willow
obscured the top edge. Deep space was magically transformed into a night
sky. All he needed now was a blade of grass to chew on. He resisted the
impulse to pluck a stalk of greenery. "Now if only the stars would stop
moving, I could almost believe this garden is in Georgia." Dyson,
sitting on a bench by the tree trunk, gave a small shudder. "Stars are
supposed to move," she declared. "If they aren't moving, it means the
station power supply has blown." McCoy heaved a deep sigh, his fragile
illusion shattered. He sat up to face her. "Humans were never meant to
live in space---it destroys the soul."

"My soul is doing just fine, Doctor, said Dyson with a hint of asperity.

He shook his head. "This is no replacement for Earth." McCoy waved his
arm at the lush greenery. "Synthetic breezes and recycled water. And not
a single insect in the whole damn lot."

"You miss insects?" she asked skeptically. "That's not the point,
sidestepped McCoy. "It's not real. ' ' Dyson shrugged her indifference.

"You mean it's not Earth. No hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, floods,
drought..." She stopped before his exasperation turned to anger. "It
sounds like a very dangerous place to live."

"It's also very beautiful." McCoy scrambled to his feet, absently
brushing non-existent dirt from his sweater and pants. "With a wild
beauty that you won't find in carefully manicured plots of grass. Here,
life has to be nurtured and protected, coddled into growth. On Earth,
life simply explodes from every square millimeter of air and ground."

The muted whistle of the ship's intercom effectively destroyed the last
tatters of pastoral ambiance, turning the garden back into a section of
the recreation deck. "Spock to Dr. Dyson." McCoy reached for her hand,
pulling the woman to her feet. "You need a better union. "Right. You
tell Mr. Spock I've gone on strike." Brushing aside a feathery branch,
Dyson revealed the intercom set neatly into a hollow of the willow
trunk. She thumbed the answer switch. "Dyson here." Shelve science
officer's crisply enunciated words echoed out. "Cellular imaging scans
on neurological tissue sample 21-Alpha will be completed in ten point
two minutes. We will examine the results in Medical Lab 5A." He cut the
connection without awaiting her reply.

"What happens after you finish sample 21-Alpha?" asked McCoy, still
holding her hand as they walked up the path leading to the turbolift.

She pulled out of his grasp. "Oh, then we analyze samples 21-Beta
through Gamma."

"It all sounds deadly dull." They turned a final corner of the molded
brick walkway. Bushes, trees, and rocky outcroppings gave way to the
familiar lines and colors of the ship's deck and walls. The turbo-lift
doors, flamed by an incongruous trellis of ivy, snapped open.

"Just what is it you're looking for?"

"Peace and quiet," answered Uhura, stepping out into the room as the two
doctor's took her place in the turbo-lift. "If you see Captain Kirk,
tell him I'm on Deck Twentyeight."

McCoy puzzled over the lieutenant's words as they sped toward the upper
levels. Dyson obviously found them humorous. "What's on Deck
Twentyeight?" Dyson's smile faded at his question. "There is no Deck
Twenty-eight, Len."

"Oh. Well, how was I to know that?" he grumbled, turning aside to escape
her searching look. "I've got amnesia, Dr. Dyson. I'm not supposed to
remember details like that."

"You're not even trying, are you?" The turbo doors swooshed open at Deck
Seven, cutting short her accusation. They walked in silence to the
medical lab. It was empty and dark, but as they crossed the threshold,
ceiling lights came to life and cast a dim glow over the long low
counters which filled the center of the room. McCoy was the first to
speak. "Did the captain order you to spend your off-duty hours probing
my psyche? Or are you bucking for a promotion?" Dyson flinched away from
his brittle sarcasm. Moving down an aisle, she snapped on the power for
the equipment around her and trained her eyes on the fluttering sequence
of colored lights that played across the control panels. "This is a
medical matter involving a member of this ship's crew and I'm a ship's
doctor.

What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to help me get off this ship!" he shouted after her. She
turned back around to face him. "Len, you can't give up like
this---you've got to fight this block."

"The hell I do!" He clenched his jaw, fought down his anger. When he
spoke again his voice was softened. "Diana, I've got my life to live
over again -- to do it right this time." He stepped closer, pleading his
case. "With a Star Fleet pension I can go back to Earth and set up a
general practice at home, just as I've always planned. Somewhere along
the way old Doc McCoy lost that dream, lost his family. I'm not going to
let that happen to me."

"You can't pull yourself into separate pieces and stay sane," cried
Dyson. "You're one individual, not two. And that person is a good man
and a brilliant surgeon. Every man and woman on this ship would trust
you with their lives. You may have joined Star Fleet to escape your
mistakes, but you've become as much a part of the Enterprise as Captain
Kirk and Mr. Spock. You mustn't throw all that away. You won't be
allowed to throw it all away."

"So I'm just a temporary aberration, like some damaged clone cells.

Wasn't it 'fascinating' to study young Len McCoy, but now it's time to
stick him back where he came from; let him rot in the faded memory
ingrams of your sainted chief surgeon." He grabbed her by the shoulders.

His eyes locked with hers. "Is that what you really want?" She dropped
her gaze, breaking their contact. "Yes!

It's got to be yes." Her fists pushed against his chest, but he wouldn't
release his hold on her. "Let me go, Len," she pleaded. "I'm losing all
my objectivity as a doctor..."

"Doctor be damned! I'm fed up with being your patient. Is that all I am
to you?" he demanded. "An interesting medical case?"

"You know very well that's not true," Diana shot back angrily. This time
it was her gaze that held his. "You may be young, but you're not that
much of an innocent."

"No," he answered in a husky voice. "No, I'm not." His hands loosened
their grip but did not leave her shoulders. She closed her eyes, as if
to ward off his approach, but she didn't pull away when he bent his face
over hers. "Which McCoy was that for?" he asked when the kiss had ended.

"The young one or the old one?"

"I'm not sure." Her fingers traced the edge of his cheek. "I just know
I've wanted to do that for a very long time."

"So the old man still had some charm left?" McCoy laughed gently. "But
he never tried to kiss you, did he?" Her body tensed once again and
jerked out of his embrace.

"No," she answered stiffly. "And when your memory returns, you'll
Probably be quite embarassed by this whole episode. Or you won't
remember it even happened. Yet it's my professional responsibility to
try to restore that memory. Even if I don't succeed, someone else will."

"Diana..." He tried to pull her back to him. She stepped away from his
reach. "So you see," she continued with a trace of bitterness. "Keeping
my distance is not only an ethical issue, it's also a matter of personal
survival. Some day, probably soon, your memory will come back, and when
it does there won't be a place for me in your life."

"That's not true." Dyson shook her head. "You see me as another
resident, just like yourself. To Chief Surgeon McCoy I'm first and
foremost a member of his medical department; strictly a professional
associate. Not to mention that I'm several ranks below him and years
younger in experience--two decades younger. We'll never be anything more
than colleagues." He searched for a way to deny what she said, but the
words wouldn't come. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, not half as sorry as I am, Dr. McCoy."

Spock walked into the silence that stretched between them. One swift
glance over the room raised a furrow on the science officer's brow. "Dr.
Dyson, readjust the calibration on the holographic microscanner." Dyson
quickly turned her flushed face towards the offending machinery and
busied herself with its controls. If the procedure took longer than
usual, Spock appeared too absorbed in his own equipment preparations to
notice. Erratic bursts of electronic noise were gradually transformed
into a rhythmic chorus under his direction. Indicator lights settled
into endlessly repeating patterns. Satisfied with the result, he spared
a glance in McCoy's direction. The doctor had edged into a corner of the
room, far away from the door. Despite his best efforts, he had not yet
become invisible. Spock did not challenge McCoy's presence, he simply
ignored it. He handed Dyson a holographic chip. "The dissection of the
brain tissue samples from the second alien species has provided a new
avenue of investigation." The image which appeared on her scanner
brought a low whistle from the neurologist. "Very intriguing," she
agreed. "The density of neural cells in the tissues of the left
chamber's brain-lobe is significantly higher than that of the right
lobe." McCoy leaned over a counter, craning his head for a glimpse, but
he could see nothing except a faintly luminous cloud hovering on the
scanner stage. His curiosity was further frustrated as Dyson and Spock
lapsed into the technical jargon of molecular neurobiology. As the
intensity of their discussion increased, so did his restlessness.

Reasonably sure that the two scientists were too absorbed in their
research to notice him, McCoy prowled quietly along the perimeter of the
room. Sheets of flat film were tacked to the darkened surfaces of
translucent wall panels. He idly scanned the row of dim images until one
photo drew him closer. A flick of a switch brought the light panel to
life, illuminating a shot of a decapitated head. McCoy studied the frame
with great interest and a trace of amusement, but he waited for a
prolonged lull in the exchange between the two officers before voicing
his question. "Are these the aliens that attacked the ship?"

"Yes," answered Spock distractedly. "Well, no wonder we're in such bad
shape--they're pretty vicious creatures. Back in Atlanta, I used to have
some pretty lively nightmares about them. I've even had a few bad dreams
since I've been here." Spock and Dyson turned to stare at him. Confused
by their sudden attention, McCoy stammered an apology. "I'm sorry, I
didn't mean to interrupt."

"What do you know of these aliens?" asked Spock, his tightly controlled
mask revealing no more than mild curiosity. McCoy shrugged. "Well,
nothing in the way of scientific information. I heard about them from
one of Ds of 'm Rven the patients in the Atlanta psych ward. I spent
hours listening to an old spacedog ranting on about his capture by
hideous aliens." He waved at the photos. "These aliens." He still had
Spock's undivided attention, so he continued. "Sager was pulled from the
wreck of a cargo freighter, half-starved and hysterical--the rest of the
crew was missing. He explained their absence by a tale that seemed too
outlandish to be true. The more likely explanation seemed to be that he
had survived by resorting to cannibalism, and the guilt had driven him
mad. McCoy smiled wryly in acknowledgement of the irony of the
situation. "The medical staff assumed that he had imagined the aliens to
relieve his guilt, and so did I, but his tales were so vivid that they
stuck in my mind even after I left his case. Poor devil--I wonder how
long it was before they realized he was sane." Spock arched a brow.
,"Unfortunately, he may still be in that psych ward:" He reached for the
intercom switch on the wall. "Captain Kirk to Medical Lab 3A." Then,
Picking up a voice coder from the desk, the Vulcan beckoned McCoy to
come closer. "Dr. McCoy, tell me what you remember of your patient's
discourse.' '

Chapter Nineteen.

"... The ALIEN parallyzes its victim with just a scratch from its claws.

Then it cracks the top of the skull open with its beak and plucks out
the living brain, swallowing it whole, like picking a kernel from its
shell. The body serves as food..." Spock stopped the tape at that point,
aware that the human occupants of the briefing room were reacting rather
emotionally to the narration. Engineer Scott was a shade paler than
usual; Uhura's dark eyes had widened with alarm. Even Frazer and Dr.
Dyson were subdued by the description. Captain Kirk, presiding at the
head of the conference table, had listened impassively until the break.

"McCoy, you said this man was insane..."

"I said we thought he was insane," corrected McCoy. "But that was
because he described an alien species nobody had ever seen before.

However, since the aliens do exist, he could have been telling the
truth." Kirk nodded reluctantly. He didn't like what he had heard so
far. "So which of the two alien species did he "There is only one
alien," said Spock evenly. He started the tape again.

"Once an alien has swallowed a brain, it begins to metamorphose, like a
caterpillar without a cocoon. Its skin changes color from green to blue,
its head crest darkens. When the transformation is complete, it begins
to speak in the voice of its victim."

"I dinna believe it," cried out Scotty. "The man was probably space
happy."

"No, it's theoretically possible," said Frazer excitedly. His scientific
curiosity rapidly overcame his initial reaction of horror. "The
physiological changes described imply a vast biochemical upheaval in the
organism's system. The green Ravens--the larval stage--possess an organ
at the base of the skull which is a powerhouse of amino acids. Their
release could signal an organic processing of the structural RNA of the
victim's brain. They could literally cut apart the old brain, while
recording the connections."

Dyson shared his excitement. "The unusual concentration of neurons in
the left chamber of the brain could serve as a blank template, awaiting
the information. Once a pattern is set, the brain tissue gradually
resumes a normal cell density."

"The result is two separate brains."

Frazer jumped back into the explanation. "Normally, this would be
dysfunctional, but not if the alien retains control over its secondary
memories. There's a cluster of neurons at the branching of the brain
stems that probably acts as a switching center between the two lobes."

Kirk listened to the theory without comment--three years in space had
taught him a healthy respect for the fantastic---but he looked to his
first officer for confirmation. Spock added his consensus to the idea.

"This process could account for many of the events which we have
encountered. Granted, this is only supposition..."

"Go on, Spock," ordered Kirk impatiently. The Vulcan could not be
hurried. He settled into the physical posture which accompanied his
theorizing--eyebrows drawn together, elbows propped on the table,
hands steepled before him. "The Klingon crew of
the Falchion, patrolling an especially isolated sector of space, may
well have fallen victim to the Ravens. If the theory of brain absorption
is correct, the aliens would then have had the knowledge to maneuver the
commandeered battlecruiser into Frenni space.., from Where they
exchanged a very conspicuous warship' for a neutral merchant liner
waiting unobserved. Waiting for the next passing ship to fall into their
trap," said Kirk. "Just like a hermit crab." The captain swiveled his
chair around in surprise. "What was that, Lt. Uhura?"

"The hermit crab moves from one seashell to another as it grows, always
looking for a larger home," explained Uhura. Spock's eyebrows raised in
appreciative consideration. "An interesting analogy, with disturbing
implications if this continual search for a larger ship also implies
growth."

"But the first attack on the Enterprise failed." Scotty puzzled over
this added information. "And the aliens were all killed. So where did
the battlecruiser and its fighters come from?"

"And how did they know we were here?" Kirk tried to pinpoint the source
of a growing unease... "Damn!" His fist 'thumped down on the conference
table. "The Saucy Lady.

We only received an audio channel transmission from the freighter which
passed on the Frenni distress call. The captain said his ship didn't go
near the caravan, but if he was lying, if his ship went to the aid of
the Selessan...', "Then we were actually speaking to Captain Nell's
Raveta persona, and the crew of his ship may have taken over Wagner Post
by now," finished Spock. He turned to the engineer. "In all likelihood
that is the origin of the sub-warp carrier and its fighters."

"Aye, and that's where we're headed now," Scotty pointed out. "We've got
to fight them," said Kirk decisively. "Every ship that docks at that
station will be vulnerable to attack. The Ravens could spread throughout
this sector." His gaze traveled over the officers seated around the
table. A plan began to form in his mind. "When the carrier crew fails to
send back a report, the station Ravens will be prepared for the arrival
of the Enterprise, but they won't be expecting the Falchion, and thanks
to the Klingons cloaking device they won't see it either. That's our
key. The Enterprise will be the bait, drawing their firepower and their
attention away from the Falchion's approach. A landing party will beam
aboard the station to take control of communications and docking
facilities." Even as he spoke, Kirk was selecting crew members for the
foray. "And if the landing party fails in that attempt?" asked Spock ...
"Then the Falchion must destroy the station, said Kirk without
hesitation. Spock nodded his agreement and understanding. If he
experienced regret at the proposed annihilation of T'rall's
construction, he did not reveal it. "Captain, "Yes, Mr. Spock," said
Kirk. "You were my first choice for the landing party." He then looked
to his communications officer. "I'm only accepting volunteers for this
mission." Uhura met his grim look with a wide smile. Her throaty voice
answered him without hesitation "I've been looking forward to shore
leave, Captain."

"Aye, 'tis a welcome chance t' stretch our legs," agreed Scotty
amiably.. , "Not you, Mr. Scott." Kirk overrode the engineer s protests.
"The Enterprise engines will need your supervision. As will the bridge."
Spock's lean frame stiffened. "Captain, on our last Star Base docking,
Admiral Bolles was most emphatic about ending your participation in
landing party forays."

"Yes, well, if I survive she can't fault me and if I'm killed her
censure can't hurt me." Kirk's grin had no effect on the Vulcan's stony
features. "Jim, you mustn't go. More than your death is at stake. If our
theory on the nature'of these aliens is correct, we cannot risk the
chance of your capture. The enemy would gain the expertise of a
Federation starship captain."

"And what of my first officer?" demanded Kirk. "There are certain
techniques of Vulcan mental discipline which would effectively disable
my mind." The clash of will between the two officers was fought without,
words and was over in seconds. With the briefest flicker of his eyes,
Kirk acknowledged the truth of Spock's argument. "You'll also need a
security force. Keep it small to lower the chances of detection. Stealth
will do you more good than phaser power." McCoy spoke up for the first
time since his voicetape recording had ended. "Captain, there's a strong
possibility that there are still people alive at the trading post.

Station personnel would be killed for their knowledge, but civilians
were probably paralysed and stored for .. future use. They'll be in need
of medical aid and the paralysis antidote which Lieutenant Frazer
synthesized."

"Good point, Bones," said Kirk absently. He did a double-take. The
concern was typical of his chief medical officer, and for a moment he
had hoped... but McCoy winced at the nickname. "Thank you, Dr. DRS of m
Rvn McCoy, I'll ask for volunteers among the medical team."

"That won't be necessary, Captain." The doctor's tongue flicked over dry
lips. "I'm volunteering to go as a paramedic."

"Len!" cried Dyson. "You can't be serious. You've never set foot on a
space colony before." She turned to the captain. "I'd be a much more
suitable choice. I know the workings of a space station and..." McCoy
gave a stubborn shake of his head. "At the moment I'm your resident
expert on the Ravens--you can't leave me here. Besides, it's not that
much safer on the Enterprise. If this attempt doesn't succeed, the
aliens will destroy your ship next."

Spock entered the fray on Dyson's side. "I have a complete record of
your knowledge in this matter, Dr. McCoy. Your presence is not
required."

"You have a complete record of what I've remembered so far," countered
McCoy. "But there's no telling what I might recall later. You can't take
the risk of missing any details about their behavior." He turned to
Kirk. "And any critter that eats my brain would probably have my
amnesia, too, so you don't have to worry about my giving away Federation
secrets."

"Do you agree with that, Dr. Dyson?" Kirk demanded.

Dyson remained silent for a moment, then gave a grudging answer, can't
say for certain but, it's possible." Spock was less reluctant. "Under
those circumstances, Dr. McCoy would be a logical choice for the landing
party. At present he is probably the most technically ignorant member of
the crew." Kirk automatically braced himself for McCoy s outburst. It
never came. This man accepted Spock's evaluation without comment. Once
again Kirk missed his friend, with a stabbing pain that surprised him in
its intensity. He shoved the feeling aside. "Dr. McCoy, you'll accompany
the landing party." Standing up from the conference table, Kirk brought
the meeting to a close. "We reach Wagner Post in twelve hours. To your
stations."

McCoy hefted the neatly assembled medical kit which Nurse Chapel had
handed him. "How did you know..."

"Let's just say I had a hunch." She slid the frosted door of the wall
cabinet to a close. "Based on long experience with doctors in general,
and you in particular."

"But I didn't expect to volunteer for this mission," protested McCoy.
Chapel and Dyson exchanged a knowing look that only increased his
chagrin.

"Since when does Star Fleet hire doctors with an instinct for
self-annihilation?" He opened the kit and sorted through its contents.

"No wonder I became chief medical officer. Promotion due to a high rate
of casualties."

"Not true," corrected Chapel as she headed out of the office. "You
replaced Dr. Boyce, who is quite happily retired."

"Now that's a man with a good sense of timing," McCoy called after the
nurse.

Finished with his kit inspection, he snapped the bundle shut. "It was
your choice to go." Dyson leaned back on the edge of the office desk,
watching him clip and unclip the heavy pouch to his belt, searching for
the proper point of balance for its weight. McCoy nodded. "Yeah, but
aren't you going to try to talk me out of it?"

"Would it do any good?" she asked. His eyes narrowed at her show of
detachment. "No, probably not, but I still wish someone would try." The
door to the chief surgeon's office whisked open again. Dr. Cortejo
walked into the room and stopped short at the sight of its unexpected
occupants. His irritation at their presence was obvious and he made only
a token effort to hide it. "Dr. Dyson, since you have been transferred
to the Science department, there is no need for you to report to sick
bay." She jumped off the desk. "No, sir. I was..." Cortejo did not wait
for an explanation. "And since you are no longer on the active duty
list, Dr. McCoy, your presence here is also unnecessary." McCoy's brows
arched at the brusque dismissal. A flush of anger warmed his face. "On
the contrary, Dr. Cortejo." The precise voice of First Officer Spock
rang out from behind the acting chief medical officer. "It is your
presence which is unnecessary." Spock walked into the room and placed a
stack of tape cassettes on the desk. "Dr. McCoy and I have a great deal
of work to do before our departure and his office will suit our purpose
admirably." He leaned over the intercom. "Lt. Uhura and security team A
report to Dr. McCoy's office for briefing." When the Vulcan looked
around again, both Cortejo and Dyson were gone.

Six hours later Spock handed McCoy a communicator. "You have become
separated from the landing party. What communications channel would you
use to contact them?"

"I wouldn't," answered McCoy wearily. The security team had left the
office two hours before and he felt like a slow student kept after
school. "The exchange would give away both our positions." The doctor
flipped open the cover with a flick of the wrist.

"But I'd activate the communicator grid so that I could be traced by the
landing party."

"Assuming all landing party members except yourself are dead, what would
be your next action?"

"Other than prayer?" Lt. Uhura smiled at the doctor's dismay over the
proposed scenario, but it was obvious that Spock expected an answer.

McCoy frowned in thought. "Well, I could head for the connecting spoke
that carries the ventilation pipes. Once I worked my way in deep enough
to hold off my capture for a few minutes, I'd try to contact the
Falchion." He twirled a dial on the face of the communicator and showed
Spock the setting. "With luck, Mr. Sulu would beam me aboard before the
Ravens ate me for supper." Spock nodded his approval. "And if you were
captured nevertheless?" McCoy tossed the communicator back onto the
table between them. "I'm a doctor, Mr. Spock. The next step would be
easy for me." The Vulcan's eyebrows traveled upwards. "A drastic
measure."

"I have a good imagination, sir.

After hearing Sager's stories, I'd prefer a quick escape." Uhura shook
her head in disagreement. "You say that now, but when you're actually
faced with danger, you'll find that it's not that easy to give up." She
glanced aside at Spock, expecting the first officer to interject a
comment concerning the illogic of Human emotion. Instead, he nodded in
agreement. Discomfited by Uhura's bemused expression, Spock brought the
examination to an end. "There is much more you should know, but there is
not sufficient time to conduct a thorough orientation. Humans possess a
limited capacity for absorbing new information."

"Amen to that," agreed McCoy, rubbing his reddened eyes. His head was
whirling with the details Spock had force-fed him for the last few
hours.

Spock inserted a tape into the computer terminal. "You and Lt. Uhura are
dismissed until 0700 hours. I suggest you use the time to sleep." He
turned back to the computer screen and was immediately absorbed in its
data.

McCoy waited until he and the lieutenant had reached the safety of an
outside corridor before speaking. "Diana must have been pulling my leg
about fighting with Spock. I'd rather wrassle a Bengal tiger than cross
that man."

Uhura answered him with a velvety laugh that echoed softly down the
dimmed passageway. "It was an even match, Dr. McCoy." She laughed again
at the confused mixture of emotions on his face. "Take it as a
compliment."

They parted company on Deck Five, but McCoy walked past his quarters and
did not stop until he reached a cabin on Deck Six. He tapped lightly on
the door, a quiet sound that would only be heard if the room's occupant
were still awake.

The door opened and he stepped inside.

Diana Dyson walked out of the back section of the cabin. She was wrapped
in the warm folds of a long, thick robe; her hair fell loosely over her
shoulders. Her face showed signs of fatigue, but her eyes were bright
with controlled tension. "Len, you should be asleep by now."

"So should you."

"No, I can't sleep." Dyson tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Nervous about tomorrow?"

"Who, me?" McCoy wiped his palms on his trousers. "I'm scared silly. My
heart's beating so loudly I can hardly hear myself think."

"Have you changed your mind?"

McCoy considered the question for a moment. "No. I've got to go. Bits
and pieces of what Sager talked about keep surfacing Words and phrases
that didn't make much sense--they still don't--but they could be
useful."

Her softly-spoken concern was replaced by a clinical crispness. "Len,
you must realize that this knowledge was .part of the trigger for the
fugue. You weren't just running away from your wife's remarriage--you
were trying to recover information that was vital to the safety of this
ship."

"All right." He crossed his arms. "Maybe that was the case, but I still
have the amnesia."

Dyson burrowed deeper into her robe. "This mission isn't over yet."'

"Yeah, and when it is over the whole matter may be academic. My muddled
brains will be walking around inside some blue-skinned...,, He stopped
when Dyson turned away. "Sorry."

She shrugged but still did not face him.

McCoy's eyes traced the curve of her back. The soft cabin lights edged
her dark brown hair with a golden aura. "I'd better leave," he said
abruptly.

"Please, don't." She turned around. "Not just yet. I could use the
company, too." She waved her hand around the empty quarters. "I'm still
not used to being alone here."

McCoy gave a shaky laugh. "Diana, you'll have a lot more company than
you bargained for if I stay here much longer."

"Oh." A pale pink touched her cheeks. "And I thought you were a
gentleman."

C)REAMS OF THE "That's why I offered to leave." She didn't so he spoke
again. "I'll go now. if you want me When her silence continued, he
turned away from the doorway and took her into his arms. After the long
kiss, he pulled back but did not let go of her. One hand caressed her
upturned face. "Diana, "No, please." She laid a finger against his lips
to still the words. "Don't say anything not until you come back." She
smiled, to take the edge off her words. "We'll have .plenty of time for
talking then." He bent down to kiss her again.

Chapter Twenty.

"You put human beings in that unholy device?" McCoy came to a dead stop
at the threshold of the transporter room. The platform which had held
Uhura was now empty. She, and a stack of cargo containers, had dissolved
in a glittering cloud. McCoy turned a look of horror on the chief
engineer who had effected their departure. "Dinna look at me as if I'm
Jack the Ripper," said Scotty indignantly. "We've got the best safety
record this side of Star Base 5." The engineer reset the levers of the
control panel and three more crewmen stepped forward to take their place
on the circular grids. McCoy edged back a step as the high hum of the
transporter beams emptied the chamber once more. Spock, data tablet in
hand, checked three names off his crew list and double-checked his
equipment list. Then, and only then, did he look up. McCoy had not moved
from the doorway. "It is your turn to board the Falchion. Take your
position on the transporter platform." This latter statement took on a
strong declarative tone in view of McCoy's mutinous reluctance to move
any further into the room. The doctor marched forward at Spock's
command, but only for a few steps. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
asked McCoy. "Yes," said Spock impatiently, but he stopped at the last
moment. The intended retort was never uttered. "The last twenty years
have brought about a high degree of sophistication and reliability in
matter transportation. Malfunctions are rare." McCoy followed the Vulcan
up the low steps of the transporter platform. "Maybe, but you can't tell
me I ever willingly went through that mattermixer." Scotty responded to
the doctor's words with a deep chortle. "You did in fact use the
transporter," said Spock as they assumed their positions on the circular
grids. "Though no one could ever have accused you of being enthusiastic
about the process."

"Glad to know I didn't lose all common sense in my old age," muttered
McCoy before he dissolved in a shower of particle beams. Lt. Palmer
touched hand to ear. "Captain, Mr. Scott reports that the last of the
landing party has beamed aboard the Falchion."

Kirk waved an acknowledgement to the communications officer. "That's it,
Sulu. We begin radio silence from this point on."

"Yes, sir."

a Klingon battlecruiser on the bridge's viewscreen faded into
nonexistence. Lt. Kyle checked the instruments on the science station
panel. "All sensor readings on the Falchion are gone, sir. Cloaking
device operational."

"Maintain course, Mr. Leslie. Full impulse power," ordered Kirk. "Aye,
Captm , answered the helmsman. Ensign Benus scanned the navigation
coordinates. "We'll reach Wagner Post in one hour and thirteen minutes."

Kirk's fingers drummed uneasily on the side of the command chair. Bridge
duty had always rotated among a hand-picked group of crewmembers, so
none of the voices or faces at the duty stations was unknown to him, but
the Falchion had carried away the best and most familiar of that select
crew all at once. He glanced to his left and right and frowned at the
empty space around him. McCoy and Spock often acted as if each side of
his chair was an official post they should fill. Their absence
exacerbated the changes on the bridge. "Frazer, come over here."

"Sir?"

The Martian scientist looked up from the bioscience station. "I still
have some questions about the Ravens." Kirk motioned Frazer to stand to
the left of the command chair.

"Eets like swimming through borscht," explained Chekov, having found a
useful metaphor for describing the shortcomings of the navigation screen
while under the effects of the cloaking device. "That is hardly a
scientific assessment," said Spock as he leaned over the ensign's
shoulder. "Whatever," answered Chekov recklessly. Time away from the
Enterprise, and Spock's repressing influence, had seriously undermined
his habitual struggle to maintain the dignity and solemn demeanor
appropriate to a starship officer. "It makes my job very difficult. The
cloaking device needs much improvement."

"Ensign, are you suggesting that you would approve of greater
technological advancement for the Klingons?" Spock judged that he could
spare sufficient time to instill a renewed sense of discipline in the
ensign. "No, sir! Certainly not."

Sulu and Aziz let Chekov flounder on his own. Older, and wiser, they had
snapped back to shipboard demeanor as soon as the landing party boarded
the Falchion. "I was simply... that is to say, I..." Spock continued.

"Intelligence reports, and our own experience in conflicts with the
Empire, have indicated that Klingon crews can operate a battlecruiser
with considerable efficiency while cloaked."

"Yes, Mr. Spock." Chekov tried to salvage the situation with an about
face. "Eet was only difficult at first, when I was new to the Falchion.

Now I am quite good at reading the sensors." Too late, he realized that
his words were a rather arrogant boast. "We shall see, Ensign." The dry
retort confirmed Chekov's worst fears. Now he would be held accountable
to an impossibly high standard. The ensign lapsed into a worried
silence, his concentration focused on the snowy navigation panel. The
Vulcan decided that this exchange had resulted in the desired effect and
turned his attention to Sulu. "Coordinates set for Wagner Post," said
the helmsman.

"Ahead warp factor four, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Mr. Spock." Sulu kept his comments to a safe minimum as he eased
the Klingon ship into warp drive.

"Just don't bump Scotty's tail end," cautioned a muffled voice from
behind them. Juan Cruz's head was enmeshed in the folds of his red
security shirt. His flailing elbows brought grunts of protest from
Archer and Rivera, who had already exchanged their ship's uniforms for
copies of the purple jumpsuits worn by the Wagner Post maintenance
crews. Uhura stepped up onto the captain's throne, out of the crowded
cockpit, and took a deep breath. "Forget a better cloaking device, the
Klingons need a bigger bridge." She leaned over the edge of the platform
to hand the first officer a neatly folded change of clothing. "Purple is
definitely not your color, Mr. Spock, but purple is all I've got." Spock
accepted the bundle without comment. Over the years, the Vulcan had
learned to recognize, if not completely understand, the role humor
played in releasing tension among his Human companions. He allowed the
banter of the crew to flow around him unimpeded. "Since we're
maintenance workers, these must be our wrenches." Archer began unpacking
pistol phasers from a cargo box and handing them out to the other
members of the landing party. He was left with one extra. "Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy eyed the weapon with distaste. He made no move to take it. "I'm
not a gunslinger." Uhura jumped back down into the crew pit. "You'll be
a corpse if you aren't properly armed." Taking the phaser from Archer,
she hung it onto the doctor's utility belt. "Ma'am, if my life depends
on firing that thing, you might as well bury me now. I couldn't hit the
broad side of a barn."

"Why would you wish to?" asked Spock. "Sir?"

"That was a Vulcan joke, Dr. McCoy," Uhura explained. Spock corrected
her immediately. "Lieutenant, Vulcans do not recognize the concept of
humor." Uhura's smile only confused McCoy more. "Mr. Spock, we're
entering the trading post scanning range." Sulu's words silenced the
room.

The clearsteel dome of Wagner Post glittered like a jewel dropped into a
black pond. Its four rings were golden ripples, spreading away from the
faceted center. Sparkling droplets marked the presence of ships moored
to its outermost docking ring. T'rall's creation appeared calm and
peaceful. "Sensor data?" asked Kirk as he studied the trading post image
on the bridge viewscreen.

"Indeterminate life forms, Captain," answered Lt. Kyle. "We're still too
far away to identi specific biological profiles." He adjusted controls
on the science station panel and heaved an audible sigh. "Even if we get
closer, I can't do much better. The patchwork repairs on the computer
systems are affecting all my readings."

"I can't attack this station on a hunch." Kirk's fist hammered an
insistent rhythm on the arm of his chair. "I've got to know that the
Ravens have taken over."

"Captain, I've established contact with the Wagner Post communications
officer," announced Lt. Palmer from her station. "Hailing frequencies
open."

"Welcome, Captain Kirk." came Timmo's soft, whispering greeting. "Stand
by for Post Manager Friel."

"For god's sake, Kirk, your ship is a wreck," boomed the station
commander. "I only hope the Klingons are in worse shape."

"The Klingons are dead," answered Kirk. Strictly speaking, it was the
truth, even though it was not his doing; but then Friel probably knew
that 'already. However, the Enterprise damage report Kirk gave her was
an exaggeration, although not nearly as much of one as he would have
liked. "Then you'll be laid up in our dockyards for weeks," said Friel
with the calculating tone of a woman whose profit margin was dependent
on ship repairs. "I'll clear anchor space for you right now." Kirk
lowered his voice. "Well, Frazer?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "I Can't tell from the voice. The Ravens
are perfect mimics, right down to the character quirks of their
victims." The captain looked back over his shoulder. "Palmer, request
visual contact with the communications center." Their refusal would
serve as confirmation of the takeover. "Enterprise, prepare for docking
instructions." The view of deep space was exchanged for the visage of
the cobalt-blue Andorian Kirk had seen on his last visit to the station.
Kirk stared in amazement at the technician. "Good God, I was ready to
fire on that station..."

"It's a trap," declared Frazer emphatically. "He's being coerced, or
possibly drugged."

"How can you tell?" Kirk saw nothing out of the ordinary in the alien's
stolid demeanor. "The set of the antennae," explained Frazer. His finger
traced the cant of the delicate appendages. "They're tilted back along
the skull, a position reserved for exchanges between family members.

With outsiders the antennae are held uptight to optimize heating."

"Captain, the pilot droids are approaching," warned Leslie. "Yellow
Alert," ordered Kirk. "Benus, lock phasers on droids."

"Phasers locked." At the captain's command she fired. "All droids
destroyed."

"Visual contact with Wagner Post has been severed," announced Palmer as
the main screen filled with meaningless squiggles. Kyle raised his
voice. "Engine activity increasing in all dockyard vessels..."

"Well, that's the diversion I wanted," said Kirk. He signaled the helm.

"180 degrees about and full impulse power. Let's get the hell out of
here."

The landing party materialized in the center of the crystal dome.

Chekov had declared the area empty after a hasty sensor scan and, as
he'd predicted, there was no one present to witness their sudden
appearance. As soon as the transporter beam faded, Spock activated his
tricorder, sweeping the unit across the darkened portals encircling
them. "No Ravens in the immediate vicinity." He checked another
indicator. "The communications center lies there." His index finger
pointed in one direction, then abruptly shifted several degrees to the
right. "But we shall approach from connecting shaft Delta."

Uhura silently motioned the three security guards forward to the
designated corridor, one of eight spokes in the wheel-shaped station
structure.

"Doctor," said Spock very softly. "There is indeed a solid floor beneath
your feet."

"Yes, I know that," replied McCoy calmly, though his eyes remained shut.

"I can feel it."

"Then I suggest you accept the evidence of your tactile senses.

Otherwise, I shall be forced to leave you here."

"No, that won't be necessary, sir." McCoy opened his eyes and gulped
audibly. By carefully keeping his line of sight centered on the back of
Spock's head, McCoy walked over the transparent deck, over the limitless
reaches of space yawning beneath his feet. He breathed a silent prayer
of thanks when he finally reached a surface that was solid to the eyes
as well as the feet.

Moving in single file, the landing party stalked quietly through the
long corridor. The translucent lighting panels set flush into the
ceiling were dimmed, limiting vision, but the passage appeared deserted.

At the juncture with the first station ring, the team members gathered
into a bunch. Spock crouched by the corner, phaser drawn, listening
intently. He peered around the edge to check out the wider passageway
which crossed the spoke, then turned back to Uhura. "The crew quarters
are located on this ring," he observed. The section was obviously
deserted.

"Looks like the Ravens have gobbled the crew up," muttered McCoy.

Rivera reached a hand toward his tricorder, but the Vulcan stopped him
from activating its sensors. "We shall have to rely on our own senses.

Continued operation of the tricorder will give away our position."

Lieutenant Uhura nodded. "Besides, the captain's diversion seems to have
worked. They're probably all chasing after the Enterprise."

She kept the lead as the landing party resumed its single-file
progression toward the next ring intersection; McCoy trailed last. His
initial fear had been subsumed by the effort of moving quietly and
quickly through a claustrophobic world of cold hard metal. The weapon in
his hand was heavy and uncomfortable and, if he wasn't attentive, it
displayed a disconcerting tendency to aim itself at Spock's back. The
soft echo of his own boots hitting the deck only increased McCoy's
disorientation... He turned to look behind.

"Spock!"

The Vulcan whirled about. He took immediate aim at the Raven as its
weapon sprayed red beams of light over McCoy and continued sweeping
across the corridor. Yet, even as the rays arced towards him, Spock did
not return fire. He delayed an extra fraction of a second, changing the
setting of his phaser before pulling its trigger. The two opposing beams
crossed paths, flared into brightness, then faded. The Raven dropped.
Spock remained standing. He rushed to where the doctor slumped against a
wall.

"Dr. McCoy, are you injured?" After a moment's silence, McCoy took a
shuddering breath and stood upright. "No, Mr.. Spock/' He rubbed the
side of his temple. "I just.., felt a little dizzy, but it's passed." He
met the science officer's piercing gaze. "Really, sir, I'm okay now."

"You did not fire your phaser." McCoy looked blankly at the weapon in
his hand. "No, I guess I froze." He winced again. "I told you I make a
lousy soldier." Spock studied the blue-skinned alien, its heavy body
sprawled face down, stunned into unconsciousness. The shattered remains
of its toy rifle, crushed by the fall of the massive chest, littered the
deck. "Your hesitation was not unreasonable. I'll explain later." He
grabbed McCoy's elbow and propelled him along the corridor to catch up
with the rest of the landing party. At their approach, Uhura ducked her
head back from an inspection of the juncture of the corridor and the
second station ring. "All clear, Mr. Spock. The communications center is
to our right, three doors down." Spock snapped his phaser to firing
position. "Proceed with extreme caution." The landing party stepped into
the empty passageway of the ring, moving along its gently curving wall.

Spock's acute hearing gave him only a splitsecond warning of the trap.

It was not enough time in which to react. Doors on either side of them
sprang open. Blue forms jumped out from the shadowed portals, moving
quickly to block both ends of the passage, cutting off any retreat. The
Enterprise crew was surrounded by armed Ravens. One tall, strongly
muscled alien strutted forward from the others. It was dressed in the
tattered remains of a Klingon uniform. "We have been expecting you,
Earthling worms."

Chapter Twenty-one.

THE RAVEN COMMANDER spat onto the deck. "So, Esserass and Aeloran failed
to capture the Enterprise. Typical Federation incompetence. If the Queen
had allowed me to leave, I would have led the attack myself, ensuring
victory. Instead, your ship has limped from battle to battle until this
foolish attempt to infiltrate the home nest." It thumped a fist against
its chest. Its black crest bristled. "I'm a Klingon warrior--your
shallow tricks cannot fool me." At their leader's signal, several of the
blueskinned aliens stepped forward to relieve the landing party of its
weapons. Gently, gently,' it urged. Do not scratch them just yet." The
blood-red eyes of the Raven commander ran over the Humans, studying
their faces. "I see only followers here." It stopped briefly before the
Vulcan, but shrugged away in disgust. "Second in command, but not the
leader. So, your captain lacks the courage to carry through his own
knavery. It matters little in the long run. Even now, my forces are
pursuing the Enterprise. Your captain will be killed in battle and his
ship taken from him."

"Commander Kyron!" With a scrabble of clawed feet against the metal
deck, a Raven messenger ran up to the group. It spoke with the
breathless voice of a young Andorian. "Report from Manager Friel.

Sensors can't locate the enemy vessel which activated the transporter
beams."

"Incompetents!" Kyron's persona took a halfhearted swipe at the bearer
of the news. "They didn't materialize out of thin air." It turned to
Spock. "Where is the craft which brought you here?" It did not expect an
answer and none was given. "Your silence is admirable, but it will not
last long. Very soon, you will tell me all your secrets, all I need to
know to conquer this entire sector. Just as Esserass knew how to lure
Captain Nell to his doom; just' as Nell knew how to trick Manager
Friel." A wave of its arm set the landing party into a forced march out
of the communications area and back into the connecting corridor. They
were pushed and prodded past the darkened third ring where tradingstore
display windows had been shattered and their goods plundered. In
contrast, the larger fourth ring was alive with light and activity.

Ravens walked purposefully through the curving passageways, dutifully
following the maintenance routine of their victims. The first larval
form of the Raven did not appear until the group had traveled nearly a
quarter mile through the docking ring. The green-skinned alien was
burdened with an odd assortment of cartons containing sealed food
pouches, vitamin supplement capsules, and boxed liquids. It carried the
supplies through a wide doorway ahead. "The Queen grows hungry,"
commented Kyron. "She has been producing many green hatchlings." The
commander paused briefly when they reached the open portal of the cargo
bay. Deep in the shadows, a massive blue-black form lay quivering on the
deck, dwarfing the shuttlecraft beside it. The round slug-like body of
the alien bore no head or limbs. It rested mute and immobile as
greenskinned Ravens scurried about the distended bulk, stroking and
petting its surface. The mass shifted at the approach of the hatchling
carrying its load of goods. A gaping pink orifice took form at the near
end of the shapeless creature; a soft sucking cry issued forth. One by
one, the green Raven tossed each of the packaged items into the mouth.
"Our Queen," announced Kyron's persona. "Quite a vision of regal
splendor. I long to introduce her to certain members of the Imperial
High Council." The Raven fixed Spock with its round eyes; its rough
Klingon voice took on an air of arrogance. "The Queen impels us to
conquest, but I have planned the details of our victories. She is linked
to our minds and controls our will, yet she has no real intelligence.
Not so different from those I once served." With a roar of laughter the
Klingon commander resumed the march along the docking ring. Its soft
chuckling continued until the group reached a cargo storage room. The
security doors were unlocked, opened wide to allow easy access to the
interior. The deck had been cleared of shipping crates; in their place,
the bodies of over a dozen paralyzed humanoids had been flung into a
careless pile. The commander kicked one of the unmoving forms. "These
civilians have no technical knowledge to offer us. They await their
proper use as food for the Queen. Fortunately, the hatchlings can live
for years before their transformation, waiting for a proper victim." It
looked over the landing party members. "But now we have many brains to
offer our young. The hatchlings will not have to wait." Kyron walked
over to Archer. "Who shall be first? You, perhaps?" It scraped the man's
neck with its claws, marking four lines of oozing blood. Archer fell to
the deck. "But do not worry that you will be ignored," the Raven assured
Rivera and Cruz.

"Eventually, you two will also join the ranks of the Queen's defenders."

It spread its arms out to embrace the two security guards, sinking the
needle-sharp tips of its talons into their shoulders. Like Archer, they
collapsed. The commander did not bother to taunt Uhura. "To think the
Emperor made peace with an army of women and children." It pointed to
the still bodies of the civilians. "Stand away, so there will be no
danger that you are chosen for our purposes. You will serve for food
when we grow hungry, but we want no part of your inferior spirit." It
approached McCoy next. One long finger stabbed at the doctor's medical
pouch. "What do you carry there?" The alien trailed the claw up the
front of McCoy's jumpsuit until it reached the neckline. The scaled hand
curled; its claws tickled McCoy's chin, but did not break the skin.

"Hmmm?" The doctor held his head very still. "Medical supplies." The
alien hissed. "A doctor?" McCoy could not nod, but he blinked his eyes
in assent. The clawed hand dropped away. "Typical Federation corruption.

We will not sully our fighting force with one who panders to the
weaknesses of mind and body." It pointed to where Uhura stood. "Go,
there, with the woman." Finally, it turned to Spock. "You, however, are
not weak." A hand lashed out, leaving a fine line of green across the
Vulcan's cheek. Spock remained standing. "I appear to be immune to the
paralyzing effects of your venom." He did not mention that the scratch
had numbed the right side of his face and that a deeper cut would
probably have the desired effect.

The alien hissed again. "Very well, you shall watch. And if you are
chosen, the hatchling shall feed on you without the pain-killing effects
of these." It fluttered its claws in Spock's face. "You shall feel your
skull cracked open." It pointed to one of the armed Ravens. "Jaeger,
bring a hatchling here, so that it may feed on the knowledge of our
prisoners."

"Yes, my lord." The Raven executed a Klingon martial salute and left the
room. It soon returned accompanied by a green alien. The tips of the
hatchling's beak rasped together as it caught sight of the motionless
bodies on the floor. With a low clucking sound it bent down and grabbed
one of the security guards. Oblivious to McCoy and Uhura's horrified
cries, it brought the head of its victim up to its powerful beak. The
sharp tips took hold at the top of the man's forehead and at the base of
the neck, piercing the skin. The pressure increased. Kyron's persona
listened appreciatively to the loud snap of cracking bone. "It must be
done quickly, while the body is still living, because the memory traces
deteriorate quickly." The crown of the skull split open, revealing the
soft tissue of the brain inside. With a swift thrust of its beak, the
Raven plucked the organ from the skeletal shell and swallowed it whole.

The body slithered from its grasp onto the deck.

Juan Cruz was dead. Smears of blood and clear liquid trickled from the
empty cavity above his forehead. The hatchling let loose a high-pitched
cry as its limbs first trembled then locked into rigidity. The bulging
sac on its neck swelled in size, growing like an inflated balloon that
threatened to engulf the alien's head. A brilliant blue color transfused
the distended skin, then spread quickly over the hatchling's body. The
limp pale down on its head bristled upright and darkened to black. The
swelling subsided gradually, but even before it had disappeared
entirely, the newly transformed Raven began to move again. Its eyes
widened. Its beak opened and closed. It stared unblinkingly at the
captive landing party. Then the voice of the dead Cruz issued from its
throat. "Commander, the cloaked Falchion beamed us aboard the station
while the Enterprise created a diversion." It pointed to Spock. "The
crew is waiting for his instructions."

"The Falchion? My ship?" roared the former Klingon warrior. "They found
my battlecruiser?" The Cruz persona continued its revelations. "The
Enterprise is leading the station ships into a trap. Captain Kirk
planned to lie about the damage to his ship---he still has enough power
to wipe out our forces."

"This treachery shall be avenged!" raged the alien commander. "Jaeger,
take these soldiers to the dockyards. Kath will need reinforcements in
his combat against the Enterprise. Go!" Kyron pulled one of the
commandeered phasers off its belt and handed it to the alien Cruz. The
transformed Raven trained the weapon on its former superior officer
without hesitation while the Kyron persona confronted Spock. "You shall
be next--your signal can recall the Falchion and your Vulcan brain will
ensure the defeat of this Federation starship."

"You will never have the.use of it," said Spock. "I can send my mind
into itself, beyond recovery." Silently, he began the first steps of
that process. The alien watched the Vulcan's skin turn pale in response
to his bio-control.

"Enough! You are a dishonorable race, but a truthful one. In this event,
I will kill you outright. Not such a great loss---your brain would
probably taste vile." The Raven aimed its disrupter at Spock's chest. A
talon curled around the trigger. Uhura's scream was precisely timed. The
alien's weapon jerked in her direction, but the cutting beam went wild
as McCoy's weight landed on its back. The hiss of a hypospray was lost
amidst the bellowing yell of the commander. One sweep of its powerful
arm dislodged the doctor and flung him across the room and against a
wall. Yet even as McCoy fell to the deck, Kyron crumpled as well. In the
same instant, Spock aimed a series of rapid karate chops at the Cruz
persona by his side. One blow loosened the alien's hold on its weapon;
subsequent punches had minimal effect on the alien's rocksolid physique,
but they served to distract its attention from Uhura. The lieutenant
picked up the discarded phaser. One blast on heavy stun stopped "Cruz"
from ripping out Spock's neck. The second blast rendered the Raven
unconscious. Spock gave the spreading green bruises on his hands a
cursory glance, then dismissed both them and the accompanying pain from
his mind. "Thank you, Lt. Uhura."

"Any time, Mr. Spock." She stood guard over the aliens while the Vulcan
moved quickly to where McCoy had landed. "McCoy?" - ... The doctor
haulled himself upright with a groan, HPMOVED again and winced. "Well,
I've been better."

"My commendations," said Spock, helping McCoy to his feet. "You
succeeded in stunning the alien."

"Oh, I think I did better than that," McCoy boasted.

One hand touched the nape of his own neck. "One night Sager grabbed me
and laid a plastic butter knife against the back of my neck. "Cut them
free right here,' he said, then laughed and let me go. Evidently, he had
used a knife to cut that portion of an alien's spinal cord." Spock
quickly grasped the effects of McCoy's action. "How long will the alien
nervous system be inoperative?"

"Damned if I know," the doctor answered. "That neural paralyzer is meant
for use on Humans." Spock raised one brow. "We shall have to rely on
your injection. I do not think the commander would welcome a knife wound
at our hands." He pointed to the Raven commander who was crawling
groggily to its knees.

Uhura dropped into a crouch, her phaser aimed at the rising alien. Only
Spock's signal stayed her fire. The Raven shook itself. Clawed hands
reached up to its beaked face. A stream of glutteral Klingon oaths
issued forth from its throat. "Vipers that dare take my ship! My crew! I
shall rend them until they are unfit to feed ship mites!" Spock
approached the alien. "Commander Kyron, we shall endeavor to help you to
that end."

"I need no help from weakling Humans to avenge this insult," roared
Kyron's mind, freed from its alien control. It staggered to its feet. "I
am a Vulcan," corrected Spock testily. "And I assure you I can be of
assistance."

"Mr. Spock," called out Uhura. Her phaser had switched its aim to the
Raven who had consumed Cruz's brain. The prone body was beginning to
twitch. "This one is also regaining consciousness."

"Uhura, set another stun...' "Kill it!" demanded Kyron looking down at
the guard. "Once awake, its agitation will disturb the Queen." When
Uhura did not obey the order immediately, the commander reached for its
disrupter. "No, wait," called out McCoy. "We can save his mind, too." He
pulled another hypo from his medkit and knelt by the Raven's body. The
tip of the slim metal chamber made contact with the right branch of the
divided spinal cord and hissed as its contents were ejected. The Raven
gave a low moan. Its blood-red eyes blinked; one hand reached up to
touch the bristling crest atop its head, then moved down to the beak on
its face. The beak opened and Cruz began to scream. Kyron stepped
forward. One savage blow of its fist stilled the cries. "Human scum.

Only Klingons have the true spirit of a conquering race." Spock's firm
grip on McCoy's shoulder kept the doctor from lunging at the commander.

"Dr. McCoy, attend to the welfare 'of the landing party and the
civilians. Lt. Uhura will assist you in reviving them." McCoy scowled,
but he reset the dials on the hypo and pulled ampules of the paralysis
antidote out of his medkit. While he and Uhura brought Archer and Rivera
back to consciousness, Spock and Kyron discussed strategy. "We have
little time in which to act," warned Kyron. "Soon the Queen will sense
my defection and her forces will organize against us." Spock pulled a
communicator out of a pocket. "Fortunately, we have the resources of the
Falchion..."

"We?" cried Kyron. Its taloned hand grasped the front of Spock's
jumpsuit and shook him fiercely. "My ship." Abruptly, Kyron released its
hold. "Even the Queen's influence could not make me destroy it. Now it
has become a hidden dagger with which to strike her down." The alien
threw back its beaked head and laughed. Spock tugged his suit back into
order. "We must devise a plan..."

"Silence?' roared Kyron. "I know what must be done." It snatched the
communicator out of Spock's hand. "I will go to the Queen's chamber and
transmit my coordinates to the Falchion. Your crew will beam a photon
mine to my location. The explosion will destroy the Queen who impels
these monsters. Then even you and your weaklling Human companions can
deal with her minions."

"There will be little time for you to escape," observed Spock. "There
will be no time for an escape," said Kyron scornfully. "What does that
matter if I destroy these walking excretions? Far better to die in the
glory of battle than to live in this blasphemous shell." It thumped its
blue-skinned chest. Spock nodded gravely. "Very well. I will arrange the
attack. However, the explosion will destroy the outer ring of the
station. Since We cannot beam aboard the Falchion without giving away
its existence, we must relocate to another section." McCoy was kneeling
by the side of a man still limp from the numbing effects of the Raven
poison. "I need more time! These people can't be moved yet." He waved a
hand at the eight civilians who were slowly regaining their
coordination. Uhura and Rivera had helped most of them into sitting
positions against the wall. Archer was administering stimulants, but
they were still weak and disoriented. "Why save defective refuse?" spat
Kyron. "Each moment we delay increases our risk of detection. Call your
crew, Vulcan. I go now." Pushing Spock aside with a sweep of its arm,
Kyron marched out of the room.

"We must leave before the explosion," announced Spock to the landing
party crew. "As soon as this ring loses pressure the damaged area will
be sealed off from the rest of the structure." Uhura and the security
guards began urging their charges to their feet.

Spock yanked a communicator from McCoy's belt. He flipped the top back
and set the frequency. His exchange with the Falchion crew was terse and
brief, giving Sulu no chance for questions or arguments and the Ravens
no chance to trace the origin of the transmission. As soon as the
contact was severed, Spock checked the progress of the evacuation. The
room was clear except for McCoy and a half dozen unmoving bodies. "We
must leave now, doctor, or we shall all be killed."

The doctor ran his scanner over the robed form of a Tellarite merchant.

"The other five are dead, but I'm getting a weak pulse from this one."

He administered a hasty injection.

Spock grabbed the Tellarite's arms and pulled him up, hoisting the bulky
body onto his shoulder. "Run," the Vulcan instructed McCoy, and set the
pace for their escape out of the room.

McCoy and Spock caught up with the others as they headed for the nearest
corridor leading off the docking ring. The civilians were moving more
quickly now. After an initial confusion they had absorbed a sense of
urgency from the landing party. Spock's furry burden was recovered
sufficiently to walk on his own feet, though he mumbled groggy oaths at
having been awakened from his sleep.

Archer was the first to reach the safety of the corridor. He inspected
the controls of the vacuum safety doors of the portal as Uhura and
Rivera herded the civilians across its threshold. McCoy and Spock,
covering the tail end of the procession, were still several yards away
when the communicator on the first officer's belt gave a warning beep.

"Kyron has reached the Queen's chamber--45 seconds until detonation,"
announced Spock calmly. He prodded the Tellarite merchant into a faster
waddle. "What's your hurry, Mr.' Spock?"

The first officer whirled around at the mocking words. A blue-skinned
Raven stood in the middle of the passageway. It held a phaser.

Spock froze in place. "Good evening, Manager Friel."

"The Queen will be most unhappy if you leave us so soon." The Raven
glanced at the small group standing behind the Vulcan. "All of you will
return now."

"The Queen wants me unharmed, for the information I possess. I will come
peaceably if you let the others go," offered Spock.

"You aren't in any position to bargain," laughed Friel's persona.

"Is this the way you treat your paying customers?" Spock nodded towards
the Tellarite merchant. "It seems a poor way of doing business."

When the Raven hesitated, Spock continued. "The Queen doesn't understand
the essentials of good management, as you do." Spock casually waved
McCoy and the Tellarite toward the entrance to the corridor. "Why
disturb business clients with the internal concerns of the station's
operation?"

The alien did not answer, but it made no move to stop the escape of the
doctor and the merchant as they ducked past the corridor portal. Spock
was left standing alone in the ring passageway.

The Raven beckoned him forward with a wave of the phaser. "No more
delays, Mr. Spock." A searing white light blossomed behind the alien,
etching a fiery halo around its body.

"You will come with..."

The words were lost in the roar of heated air that blew through the
length of the fourth ring. An explosive wind jerked the Raven high off
the deck; a rain of sharp-edged metal sliced through its body. Spock,
lifted by the same driving force--writhed in midair, striving to turn
his back to the fire and the cutting fragments.

He felt the jolt of shrapnel burying into his chest, the shock of his
body slamming against a wall. He blacked out before he felt the pain.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

"SURRENDER YOUR SHIP or die!"

"No reply, Lt. Palmer." Kirk leaned forward in the bridge command chair,
studying the viewscreen and the ships massed upon it. At half impulse
power, the Enterprise was just staying ahead of the motley assortment of
trading vessels, passenger liners, and scoutships. "The Vegan tradeship
is probably the most powerful," said Lt. Kyle, pointing to the source of
the radio transmission. "It's a renovated assault craft, but the basic
arsenal seems intact. Combined with the two Andorian scouts, it could do
some damage."

"We can't take any damage," warned Scotty, looking up from the
engineering station. "What's the maximum speed for an assault craft?"
asked Kirk. "Three-quarter impulse power," said Kyle, consulting the
computer. "The scouts are a bit slower."

"And what about the rest of the.., fleet?" Kirk knew his disdain for the
trading post forces could be dangerous. In its weakened state, the
Enterprise was no match for the rag-tag band if they attacked all at
once. Kyle took a minute to evaluate the capabilities of the remaining
ships. "Most are going to do little better than half impulse power."

"Then we can outrun the bunch of them," snorted Scotty. He was making no
attempt to hide his contempt. "If we outrun them," said Kirk
thoughtfully, "they'll just return to the station. We need to destroy
them. The trick will be getting the forces to spread out so we can take
them one at a time."

"This is Lord Kath, Captain Kirk.

Spare yourself and your crew an agonizing death--submit now to my
authority!"

"No reply, Captain?" inquired Palmer. "No reply." Kirk swiveled to face
the science station. "Kyle, run an intelligence check on this Lord Kath.

What do we know about him?" The captain waited impatiently for the
answer. Spock's ability to directly interpret computer language had made
his responses almost immediate. "There is no Lord Kath," said Kyle at
last. "Not on the Falchion and not anywhere in the Klingon military.

However, there is a record of a communications officer named Kath." The
news was met with scattered laughter from around the bridge. Kirk
grinned broadly. "So we're fighting a crewmember with delusions of
grandeur." And little tactical skill. "Lt. Palmer, open ship-to-ship."

"Hailing frequencies open, sir."

"Hear me, "Lord' Kath." Kirk dripped scorn on the title. "This is
Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. I won't surrender my
ship to the dregs from a Klingon cockpit. I wait to hear from a true
Klingon warrior... The roar of outrage from the communications officer
baffled the translators. On the main viewscreen, the image of the Vegan
assault craft pulled ahead of the Wagner forces. "That was even easier
than I expected," mused Kirk.

"Mr. Leslie, increase Speed to three-quarter impulse power. Keep that
Vegan ship on our tail, but make it work to stay there." Within minutes
the attack force had lost the tight structure of a single formation.

Instead, the Vegan flagship headed a long string of vessels, each moving
according to its maximum speed.-Kirk studied the line until he judged
the distance between ships to be sufficient. "Let's give the over-eager
Kath just what he's been waiting for. Cut speed, Mr. Leslie," he ordered
the helm. The Enterprise came to a dead halt in space. "Not yet, Benus,"
Kirk cautioned the ensign against firing phasers prematurely. "Let the
lead ship get closer.., closer..." Palmer's fingers touched the metal
spiral in her ear. "Another transmission from "Lord' Kath." The guttural
Klingon voiee,,,its anger barely under control, resumed its warnings.

You are a fool, Captain Kirk..We know your shields are gone and your
weapon power is depleted. Now your engines have failed."

"Take careful aim," ordered Kirk. "We can't afford to waste any phaser
power."

"Locked on target, captain. One blast should do it"

"Fire!" The bridge lights dimmed as ship's Power surged to the weapons.

"I shall return to see your brain torn from..." The threat was never
completed. A single beam of phaser fire reduced the assault craft to
blazing rubble. Seconds later the flames flickered out in the cold
vacuum of space. A cheer rang out from the bridge crew. EVEN Kirk could
not resist a fierce smile at the victory. He preferred a fair fight to
trickery of this kind, but in the final analysis he preferred to win.
"Well done, Benus." He allowed the crew an extra minute of rowdiness,
then pulled them back to order. "This war isn't over yet. Helm, one
hundred and eighty degrees about. Full impulse power." The Enterprise
swung around in a graceful arc, gaining speed as she faced her
attackers, overtaking them one by one, and dealing well-placed phaser
blasts. "Enterprise 8, Ravens 0," crowed Leslie as the ensign pick, ed
off another passenger liner. "Four more to go.. "Captain!" Lt. Kyle's
anxious voice cut throughthe air. "Sensor scans show another attack
force coming from the trading post. Tight V-formation, four Class Two
scouts led by a Tellarite escort."

"Damn."

Kirk knew the power of an escort vessel. The Tellarites used the heavily
shielded ships to guard their mining operations, especially the illegal
ventures. "The Ravens know I lied. Somehow they've been warned that the
Enterprise is strong enough to offer resistance." Which meant that the
landing party had been captured. "Open hailing frequencies." If the
tactic worked once Palmer shook her head. ,,They are not accepting radio
transmissions, Captain." So this commander was not to be tricked into
spreading his forces too thin. "Scotty ."

"Ye 'can have shields or ye can have phasers, but ye can't have both.

An' if we crack another dilithium crystal, ye won't have either." Fight
and be killed--or turn tail and run. Kirk had never run from a fight
before. "Kyle, what's our best time to reach the nearest Federation
outpost."

"On impulse power, over four months." The second attack force was now
close enough to appear on the viewscreen. Kirk studied the growing
image. Using the trading post as their center of operations, the Ravens
could do a lot of damage in four months. They could spread throughout
the entire sector, follow trade routes to a dozen colonized planets.
"Cut engines, Mr. Leslie. Let them come to us. All. power to phasers,
Mr. Scott." The starship phasers began firing as soon as the Raven ships
were in range.

"Three scouts destroyed, one crippled," counted out Kyle. "But the
escort is getting close enough to return fire..."

"Phaser power drained." Benus pushed futilely at the weapons control
panel. "Recharge in two minutes." ' The Enterprise rocked under the
impact of an energy bolt. "Shields buckling, Captain!" cried Scotty.

"The next one will blast right through us." Kirk tensed for the next,
and final, attack. It never came. The Tellarite ship hung in space,
unmoving. "Ship to ship, Palmer."

"Still no response from the Ravens," answered Palmer. "Phasers
recharged, Captain." Benus's fingers hovered over the weapons control
panel. "Target still in range."

"Hold your fire, ensign." Kirk turned to the science station. "What do
you make of it, Mr. Kyle?"

"Long-range sensor scans indicate an explosion at the trading post.

Given the strength of the energy reading, the station has experienced
substantial damage."

"He's done it!" exulted Kirk. "Spock found a way to hit them hard." Even
as he spoke, the Tellarite ship began to retreat. Leslie monitored its
direction. "The escort flight coordinates are for Tellarite space, not
Wagner Trading Post."

"Let them go," said Kirk. "At impulse speed, they'll be in deep space
for months. We can pick them up later. Right now the landing party will
need reinforcements. Helm, plot a course back to the trading post.

Scotty, what's our best speed for getting there?" The query moved Scotty
to an immediate concern for his engines. "You're asking' for speed when
it's all I can do t' keep the ship from fallin' apart? This last battle
round with the Ravens has probably ripped all my patches t' shreds. By
rights, we shouldna move from this spot for at least five hours."

"Five hours." Kirk looked askance at his chief engineer, yet before he
could challenge the estimate he was interrupted by Lt. Palmer. "Captain,
I'm receiving sub-space radio transmissions from a Federation starship.

The U.S.S. Lexington has entered this sector."

"Just. after the nick o' time," snorted Scotty. Kirk turned back to the
disgruntled engineer. "On the contrary, Mr, Scott. I'm sure the
Lexington will be glad to take us in tow to Wagner Post."

"Nay, Captain," cried Scotty indignantly. "We'll be movin' before
they're near us."

"I'm sure we will, Mr. Scott," said Kirk with a straight face. The main
viewscreen flickered to reveal the solid figure of Commodore. Robert
Wesley. "Enterprise, Star Base 10 received your message drone. We are
ready to provide all necessary assistance."

Kirk settled back in the command chair and assumed a look of
nonchalance. "Sorry, Bob. The excitement is all over."

"Then I missed quite a show," said the captain of the Lexington as he
surveyed the damaged Enterprise on his own viewscreen. "Jim, you do get
yourself into the biggest messes..."

"But I also get myself out of them," insisted Kirk. On my own. "Stand by
for transmission of my ship's log--it will fill you in on our current
tactical situation. We can still use some back-up at our destination."

The two commanders established a rendezvous time at the Wagner station.

With an operative warp drive, the Lexington would travel half the length
of the sector in the time it took the Enterprise to limp its way back to
the trading post. Lt. Kyle looked up from his sensors as communications
between the ships came to an end.

"Captain, I'm getting a reading for another ship, approaching from the
direction of the trading post."

"It's the Falchion," announced Palmer as,she play.ed the controls of her
communications board. Transmtssions are erratic.., too much interference
from ion debris in the area of the explosion." She strained to listen.

"Just one word, Captain--casualties..." 

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Medical Log Update: Landing party reports death of Security Chief Juan
Cruz and critical injuries to Commander Spock--prognosis unavailable at
this time. However, Enterprise crew has sustained minimal casualties in
last battle action.. Dt. Coxo's LOO entry was drowned out by the rumble
of running footsteps and shouting voices. He stepped out of the chief
surgeon's office in time to observe McCoy and two paramedics race into
sick bay, propelling a suspension stretcher ahead of them. The waiting
emergency staff burst into action. A doctor snatched the medical field
scanner out of McCoy's hand and shouted out its readings while Nurse
Chapel issued a stream of instructions to her nurses. The overlay of
voices appeared chaotic, but Cortejo unraveled the strands without
difficulty. With calm, unhurried motions he began preparing for surgery.

Dyson came up from behind McCoy and cast a quick look at the muddy
patches which spread across the front of his jumpsuit. "Is any of that
blood yours?" she asked as the paramedics lifted Spock's body off the
stretcher onto a diagnostic bed. McCoy shook his head. "No, just his."

The Vulcan's face and hands were smeared with black smudges and streaks
of bright green; his chest was soaked with blood, staining his suit to
the same dark colors splattered on McCoy's clothing. "Glad to hear it,"
she said crisply.

"Now get out of the way." McCoy stepped back from the bed to allow Dyson
to take his place, stepped back again to allow the paramedics to leave,
then was shoved even farther aside by a nurse wheeling in medical
equipment. By the time Captain Kirk barreled into sick bay, the doctor
was standing in a far corner of the room, towel in hand, methodically
wiping himself clean of Vulcan blood. Kirk automatically headed toward
McCoy. "Sulu filled me in on the tactical details of the attack on the
aliens. What happened to Spock?"

"He was standing in the docking ring when the mine detonated," explained
McCoy, dabbing ineffectually at his ruined clothing. "It's pure luck
he's still alive. An alien body shielded him from the direct effects of
the explosion and the force of the blast threw him into our corridor
just before the airlock doors snapped shut. He's badly injured--burns,
shrapnel wounds, several bone fractures and internal bleeding of the
major organs." Kirk scowled at the recital. "But he'll live." McCoy
recognized Kirk's adamant statement as a question. The doctor averted
his eyes. "I'm sorry, Captain, I really couldn't say. I'm not familiar
with Vulcan physiology." He finished wiping his hands and laid the
bloodied towel aside. "The civilians at the trading post still need
medical care. I'd like to return there with the security force..."

"The hell you will!" A passing nurse was startled by the savage
exclamation; McCoy's face turned stony.

Kirk quickly dropped his voice, but it was still tight with repressed
anger. "Dr. McCoy, your place is here in sick bay..."

"I'll go, Captain." Dr. Dyson had threaded her way out of the crowd
hovering around the medical bed which held the first officer. "My work
here is done." She followed Kirk's glance back to the diagnostic panel
which monitored Spock's readings. "Dr. Cortejo will operate as soon as
Mr. Spock's vital signs stabilize." Kirk gained control over his temper.

He spoke calmly. "What is his condition?" Unlike McCoy, Dyson faced the
captain squarely. "Not very good. The internal injuries are quite severe
and he's lost large quantities of blood. He'll lose even more during the
surgery. Since there's no match for Mr. Spock's bloodtype on board,
we're limited to the accumulated stock of his own donations. The crucial
issue will be repairing the torn tissue before the supply is exhausted.

However, if Dr. Cortejo can..."

"Thank you, Dr. Dyson." Kirk grimaced at the mention of the surgeon's
name, turning his face away from McCoy.

"You'd better hurry if you're going to the trading post. The first
security team has already beamed aboard the Falchion." Kirk abruptly
walked away from the two doctors. He circled the knot of people still
grouped around Spock, but did not stop there. Instead, he followed Nurse
Chapel as she rushed out of the emergency room. When Kirk crossed the
threshold of the hematology lab, Chapel was standing by an open storage
unit inspecting its contents. All but one of its racks held sacks of
bright red liquid; the last one displayed packets of emerald green. "Can
he do it?" Kirk demanded. Chapel looked up in surprise. "Sir?"

"Cortejo.

Can he do the surgery on Spock?"

"He's an excellent surgeon." The nurse dropped her eyes down to her data
tablet. "He seems to feel that..."

"I don't give a damn what he thinks," snapped Kirk. "I'm asking for your
opinion." She met his gaze with difficulty. "No, I don't think he's
qualified. He's never operated on a Vulcan before."

"Neither had McCoy when he performed heart surgery on Ambassador Sarek."

"Mr. Spock's injuries are more extensive this time."Chapel's voice
quavered briefly.

"And Dr. Cortejo hasn't studied Vulcan anatomy as thoroughly as Dr.
McCoy...', She shook her head, unwilling to go on. "Thank you, Nurse
Chapel." She returned to her inventory with an expression of fixed
concentration.

"That one," instructed Dyson, pointing to the top of the small alcove
in which she and McCoy were standing. The field expedition supplies were
stored on shelves that stretched from the deck to the ceiling, forming a
partial buffer from the noise and commotion of the sick bay emergency
ward.

McCoy reached up and pulled down the metal cases he had chosen "I don't
see why I have to stay here," he complained as she took the case from
him.

"I'll only get in the way of doctors who know what they're doing. At
least I can be of some use as a paramedic at the trading post." Dyson
popped open the locks of the medical pack and began an inspection of its
contents. "You're wasting your breath, Len. An order is an order." He
was not deterred from his protests. "I didn't enlist. That other McCoy
joined this outfit, so why should I have to follow orders?"

"Just try leaving this ship. Captain Kirk will have 'that other' Dr.
McCoy thrown in the brig, but you'll be the one who gets the leg irons
and the court martial."

"I'll plead diminished capacity. You can be the star witness and testify
that I haven't got the brains to be a ship's doctor." McCoy frowned when
he realized that Dyson had stopped listening to him. "I might not see
you again for days."

That brought her attention back. The corners of her mouth twitched.
"You've seen quite enough of me already."

McCoy flushed a bright red but he affected a look of wide-eyed innocence
even as his gaze flickered down from her face. "I'm the ship's chief
medical officer. It's my duty to keep a close watch on the crew."

Dyson choked down her laughter. "Oh, suddenly you're back in Star Fleet.
Well, listen here Lt. Com mander McCoy ."

The rest of her reply was cut short by Kirk's sudden appearance. "I'm on
my way, Captain." She hastily locked the field case and tugged it off
the table.

"I'd better help..." McCoy moved forward to accompany her, but Kirk's
hand shot out. Its iron grip on the doctor's arm stopped him from
leaving. ,, "We have some business to discuss in your office, said Kirk
as a sober-faced Dyson escaped from the alcove.

"It's not my office, Captain." McCoy yanked his arm free of the
captain's hold, but Dyson had already left the room. "Let me rephrase
that statement," said Kirk in a low voice. "You can walk into that room,
or I can drag you there myself." McCoy stared back at Kirk in surprise.

Whatever emotion he read in the captain's face muted his own response to
a quiet, Yes, sir. He remained silent until they reached the privacy of
the chief surgeon's office and Kirk issued his next order.

"You've got to operate on Spock."

"What?" exclaimed McCoy, half-laughing. "Are you out of your mind? I
don't have the surgical skill to operate on a Human, much less a Vulcan.

I'm barely qualified to assist Cortejo..."

"That's not true." The stiff posture of a starship commander melted
away. Kirk stepped closer, arms raised to urge his appeal. "You've got
the knowledge, McCoy--somewhere. Reach for it, use it." McCoy shook his
head. "You don't know what you're asking of me, Captain."

"I don't care," said Kirk fiercely. "It's your duty as a doctor, as my
ship's surgeon..."

"No!" McCoy pulled back in horror. "You can't just order me to cut open
a living being. I've never done that before."

"You've done it a hundred times," Kirk thundered. "God damnit, Bones,
Spock is dying!" The words had no effect on the man standing before him.

McCoy shrugged impassively. "I'm not your "Bones.' I can't remember and
I can't help him."

"Can't?" asked the captain bitterly.

"No, I think you won't remember. You're quite happy to forget the last
twenty-five years. They frighten you because they weren't tidy and
predictable--they were messy and full of nasty surprises. You're still a
boy--a boy who wants to go through life without making mistakes, the bad
mistakes that can't be set right again. To admit the mistakes means
facing your own weaknesses..."

"Stop it!" shouted McCoy. "... and finding your strengths." Kirk's tone
turned flat and harsh. "Listen to me, Leonard McCoy. You may not care
what happens to Spock, but somewhere inside of you is a man who would
stop at nothing to save his friend's life, to save any life, no matter
what the personal cost. It was that quality that made him the best
medical officer in Star Fleet. If you don't have that same passion for
the value of life, you'll never be half the doctor he was. Or half the
man." Kirk fixed his eyes on the doctor's pale face. "Can you really let
Spock die so easily?" McCoy flinched away from Kirk's gaze, then slowly
shook his head. "The first time I lost a patient, I kicked a hole
through a wardroom door.., cost me a week's salary to pay for the
repairs. The other doctors told me I'd get used to it."

"You stopped kicking doors," said Kirk, "but you never got used to
death." McCoy stood silent for a moment, staring past the captain at a
private vision. Then his eyes blinked as if to clear it away. "That's as
good an epitaph as any doctor could ask for." McCoy took a deep breath
and squared 'his shoulders. "I can't promise anything, Captain Kirk
---except that I'll try." Kirk's surge of relief was chilled by McCoy's
next words. "You'll have to show me the way to surgery."

When the captain stormed onto the bridge, his yeoman waved a data tablet
in his direction as a token gesture only. The past two weeks of battle
action had created a staggering backload of damage and repair reports
which Kirk had persistently pushed aside with contempt. To her surprise,
this time he seized the offering as if it were a lifeline. He scanned
the report with a deepening frown, then scrawled his initials on the
form. "This requisition is twelve days old, Yeoman," Kirk observed with
grave displeasure. "Why haven't I gotten it before?" He didn't wait for
an answer. "Bring me the updates," he ordered curtly. "Bring me
everything you've got."

He settled down into the command chair and began a determined attack on
the reports.

When Cortejo cracked open Spock's shattered chest, McCoy fought the urge
to race out of surgery. He just managed to keep from getting sick.

Pale-faced and sweating lightly, he watched Cortejo and Nurse Chapel
engage the bio-support system, lacing its lines and tubes around the
major organs inside the exposed body cavity. Over the course of his
first year at Atlanta General Hospital, McCoy had established an uneasy
mastery over the horror of seeing a body so brutally violated. Emergency
room cases were generous with blood and gore and demanded immediate
action; queasiness was a luxury that could cost a patient's life.

Walking into this room behind Spock's stretcher, he had mentally
prepared himself for the coming scene, but without making allowances for
the alien nature of the patient. McCoy's composure disintegrated under a
barrage of colors and shapes and smells that were all wrong. "Don't feel
compelled to watch," said Cortejo acidly. "Captain Kirk may feel better
having you in this room, but I have no intention of allowing you to
assist during this operation." McCoy took a deep breath and moved two
steps closer to the surgical table. "As a doctor, I welcome the chance
to observe new medical procedures." He forced himself to gaze past the
blue light of the sterile field. The interior of the Vulcan's chest was
awash with a -muddy green liquid. McCoy swallowed, yet did not look
away. "But I know my limitations. I'm here to learn, not practice."

"This is not a teaching hospital.. :"

"Bio-support engaged," murmured Chapel as she started the unit's
controls.

"... so don't expect a medical school lecture." The surgeon plunged his
hands into the body cavity. The fingertips disappeared into the pool of
blood, feeling their way across the tissues beneath. They stopped
suddenly. "Suction here." Chapel directed a dear length of tubing to the
site. The transparent tubing turned green and within seconds a severed
blood vessel was exposed as the liquid it pumped out was drained away at
a slightly faster rate. Silently, without instructions, the nurse
slipped the necessary clamps into place. Cortejo's scalpel beam sprang
to life, trimming off the jagged edges of the vessel. A suture beam
rejoined the ends. When the clamps were released, the vessel remained
whole. Yet the sea of blood still did not recede. A high-pitched bleep
from the support equipment brought a frown to Chapel's face. "Blood
volume has dropped to 68%."

"Maintain present transfusion rate."

"What is a Vulcan's loss capacity?" asked McCoy. "Theoretically, a
Vulcan should be able to tolerate another 10% loss."

"But Mr. Spock is not a full Vulcan," added Chapel, quietly but
distinctly. She addressed this statement to McCoy, but she uttered it
for Cortejo's benefit. "He probably can't withstand more than another
seven or eight percent loss of blood volume." Cortejo did not
acknowledge her comment, but the nurse knew he had heard and noted the
information. Without slowing his hand movements, the surgeon launched
into a lecture. "Given the expected duration of the surgical session,
our constricting parameter is the limited blood supply. Increasing the
transfusion rate while the patient is still hemorrhaging will rapidly
deplete the supply. Furthermore, until I can repair more of the bleeding
sites, the added volume will just get in my way." He exchanged the
suture gun for a scalpel with a dextrous sleight of hand that almost
escaped detection. McCoy followed Cortejo's surgical technique with
increasing fascination. The man's hands moved with a steady assurance,
wielding the scalpel to pare away dying tissue, then deftly sealing the
wounds with the suture beam.

Though the form and function of this body was foreign to him, McCoy
could still discern the pattern of the surgeon's movements, and
appreciate the rapid mental judgements which balanced the severity of
one damaged site against another without pausing for deliberation. The
return of the high-pitched alarm pulled McCoy's attention back to the
bio-support unit and the two empty blood packets now stacked by its
side. "Volume down to 62%," announced Chapel grimly. "Prepare to
increase transfusion rate." Cortejo continued his unhurried conversation
while his fingers flew even faster. "I've always enjoyed the challenge
of truly demanding surgery. Dr. McCoy, this is an excellent opportunity
for you to observe just such a situation."

"Wagner Post to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise." Uhura's voice crackled
over the loudspeaker, barely fighting its way through the static of the
dissipating ion clouds. Palmer's best efforts did little to clear the
channel. "Uhura, can you provide me with visual contact?" asked Kirk as
he gazed uneasily at the blank screen above the communications post.

"Sorry, Captain, but the video transmitter was blown away, along with
about a third of the docking ring. It's taken me hours just to get audio
channels functional. '

Kirk accepted her statement with a resigned sigh, but he suspected it
would be a long time before his confidence in radio contact would be
completely re stored. He leaned closer to the panel, as if his proximity
to the board would increase its efficiency. "What's your status on the
station?"

"All clear. The hatchlings were destroyed with the Queen and the
surviving Ravens have been placed under sedation.' "I "Sedation?" cried
Kirk. I want those aliens under confinement! With a 24-hour guard."

"I agree, Captain." Dr. Dyson's voice answered him. "But for medical
reasons rather than security. Once the Queen was destroyed, the
'borrowed' persona of each Raven's victim gained dominance, and the
resulting emotional trauma was fairly severe. Most of them were having
hysterics, so I've placed them under heavy sedation to prevent a mass
suicide."

"Most?"

"One... man--a Captain Neil--doesn't seem to care what he looks like so
long as his ship is okay. He may be useful in helping the others learn
to adjust to their situation, but for the moment, I've got my hands full
just trying to keep them under while I treat the civilian survivors. I
could use some help. Make that a lot of help."

"That won't be a problem, Dr. Dyson. The Lexington will arrive at Wagner
Post in a little over three hours."

"Well, it's about time."

"My sentiments exactly," said Kirk with a weary smile. His smile faded
at her next words. "Captain, what is Mr. Spock's condition?"

"I don't know yet. Cortejo and McCoy have been in surgery for over five
hours."

Uhura's repair work must have come apart, because the communications
link with Dyson was abruptly severed.

"This is our last packet of T-Negative." Chapel slipped the green pouch
into the bio-support system without interrupting the flow of blood
through the web of tubing. "Drainage 'recovery?" asked Cortejo as he
carefully explored the exposed organs for an injury still highlighted on
the surgical monitor. "Levels have dropped to 3% of infused volume."

"And what is the significance of that fact, Dr. McCoy?" The surgeon
gently worked his fingers around the edges of the left lung. A small rip
in the spongy tissue was easily repaired with a regen probe. Another
light died on the life systems panel. "The patient's condition is
improving," answered McCoy. As he spoke, he studied Cortejo's subtle
wrist motion in wielding the surgical tools. Every movement was
precisely calculated, and sheared of time-wasting excess. "His system is
retaining the administered transfusion, which indicates the internal
bleeding is under control." The surgeon nodded. "We must be ready to
close soon. This blood unit will just be sufficient for replenishing the
patient's minimum blood volume." He pulled his hands out of the open
chest and exchanged his probe for a newly recharged scalpel resting on
McCoy's palm. "There is only one more cut..." Cortejo aimed the
instrument tip at a blackened Patch of tissue and released a final burst
of the thin cutting beam. A thick orange fluid welled up from the site
and a new light flared into life on the surgical monitor. For the first
time in five hours, Cortejo's hand faltered.

McCoy looked across the sterile field at Chapel. "Nurse, have you got
any idea what..."

"I'm in charge of this operation," snapped Cortejo.

"What is it, then? What happened?" McCoy asked. "I don't know. It's not
Human...' The fluid continued to ooze from the wound. "Suture," the
surgeon demanded, throwing the scalpel aside. He razed the site with the
new beam but it did not staunch the flow. "Vital signs dropping,"
announced Chapel tersely. "Blood packet at 50% of unit volume." Cortejo
repeated his suture work, but the second pass had no effect. The life
system indicators continued their descent. McCoy stared first at the
open wound, then at Cortejo, whose hands had stopped moving. Spock was
dying.

Kirk was pacing the sick bay deck when the two doctors emerged from
surgery. A grim-faced Cortejo walked away without speaking. McCoy leaned
wearily against the wall, ignoring the captain's barrage of questions.

He peeled off his surgical gloves with maddening deliberation. He
unfastened the clasps of his gown and tugged at its neckline. He
stretched. Only then did McCoy speak. "He's out of immediate danger."

"What does that mean?" demanded Kirk as relief and worry clashed. "It
means that barring post-operative complications, Spock is doing just
dandy." McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn crazy-quilt physiology!

Vulcan this and Human that, plus elements his genetic code dreamed up
out of thin air. Every time I take him apart, I wonder if I can put him
back together again." A moment passed before the full impact of the
words hit the captain. "Bones?" he whispered, then grabbed the surgeon's
shoulders and shook him." ,, Bones! "Lay off, Jim," said McCoy
irritably. "I told you I can't be more specific than that. Have some
consideration for a tired man--I've been in surgery for days..." His
face contracted as if in pain.

"What happened in there?" demanded Kirk.

Passing a hand over his eyes, McCoy frowned in thought. After a few
seconds he looked up into Kirk's face, confusion deepening the lines of
his brow. "How did Spock get hurt, Jim? He wasn't wounded in the
attack..." McCoy's gaze turned inward--he contin ued as if talking to
himself. "And he was in my room, talking a blue streak about memory
circuits and back up chips, while I knocked down some absolutely vile
Red Nova.'

"What do you remember after that?" urged Kirk.

"In surgery... I thought we'd lose Spock when his liver ruptured." McCoy
was talking with some effort.

"I had to do some fancy suture work to patch the tissue together."

:"So you finished the surgery," said Kirk softly.

"But why was Cortejo operating?" demanded McCoy with renewed alarm. "He
may be a good surgeon, but he hasn't had enough experience with Vulcans
to handle an operation that complicated--this was no time to start."

The doctor shook his head as if clearing away a distracting fog. "I
don't even remember entering sick bay..." McCoy suddenly looked
horrorstricken.

"Jim, I can't have gone into surgery drunk. Nothing would excuse that,
not even..." He stopped short.

"Nothing," he reiterated grimly.

"Don't worry, Bones." Kirk savored the sound of the name. "You weren't
drunk, just sleepwalking." He smiled at McCoy's incomprehension. "I'll
fill you in on the details over a glass of that Red Nova. We can drink
to Spock's health." And to the memory of one Leonard McCoy, civilian,
who gave up his life in the line of duty.


Epilogue 


"Bones..."

"Yeah, Jim," answered McCoy absently as he scanned the over-long
requisition list displayed on his desk computer. An alarming number of
medical report tapes were stacked by its side. Acting chief Cortejo had
exhibited little interest in the more mundane duties accompanying his
temporary promotion. "Have you ever given any thought to quitting the
service?" asked Kirk with forced nonchalance as he inspected the wrapped
parcel with his name written on the front. A startled McCoy looked up
from the terminal screen. "Is that a not-so-subtle hint that your chief
medical officer should retire?"

"No, not at all." Kirk's fingers broke the seal and began peeling away
the paper. "I just thought maybe you preferred the idea of a practice
back home, in a small town..." ' "But I've got my practice right here,
Jim," said McCoy with a puzzled smile. "With this starship crew.

Besides, I'm a surgeon--a damn good one--and I wouldn't get much chance
for surgery in the boondocks. Not to mention the use of a better
research lab than you'll find anywhere in Georgia."

"Just checking." Kirk ripped through the last layer of wrapping. He
stared down at the contents of the package. "Bones!" The doctor grinned
broadly at his friend's reaction. "I meant to give it to you sooner, but
what with one thing and another ." Kirk raised the Tyrellian knife up to
the light, delighting in the glints of the blue and green that flashed
off the blade. "You went back for it." A sudden thought pulled his
attention back to the doctor. "How much did you have to pay?"

"None of your business," said McCoy firmly. "I'll settle for the
difference with Spock,' he added under his breath. The knife spun into
the air, hung suspended for an instant, then tumbled back downwards. The
handle landed in Kirk's palm with a satisfying slap.

"Just don't cut yourself," grumbled McCoy as he calculated the amount of
unfinished business still ahead of him. "I've got enough work to do as
it is."

"That reminds me. You're due for a ship deck klutz award. Injury due to
inattention to ship-wide .' "I knew it! I'm never going to live this
down."

"Just wait until Spock gets ahold of you." The captain laughed to see
McCoy wince. The Vulcan could be quite caustic when given a chance. Kirk
carefully wrapped the antique weapon again and tucked the bundle under
his arm. "Drop by my cabin when you're done."

"You can expect me next month," sighed McCoy as Kirk strolled out of the
office.

Seconds later the door whisked open again for Christine Chapel. Her
hands were filled with even more record tapes. Ignoring McCoy's warning
growl, she detailed each cassette as it was added to the existing pile.

"Personnel duty log. Surgical operations summary. Walkin patient log.

Critical-care patient updates..."

"Didn't Cortejo handle any of this?"

McCoy cried out as the stack teetered dangerously. Chapel began a second
stack. "Patient discharge log. Case review: tape one. Case review: tape
two." She handed this last cassette to him directly--"You're in that
one"--then continued as before. "Case review: tape three. Medical lab
supply inventory. Medical equipment maintenance log." A resounding click
heralded the end of her load. "Welcome back, Dr. McCoy."

"I wish I'd never left." He eyed the record tape in his hand. "Speaking
of amnesia, where the hell is Dr. Dyson? I've been trying to reach her
all morning."

"Oh, somewhere in the Research section," murmured Chapel vaguely. "She's
been working with Frazer on the final report on the Raven research
project."

"I'm gone for two weeks and this place falls to pieces." McCoy jammed
the cassette into his terminal. "Spock steals half my staff for his
science department, Gonzalo spoils an entire batch of stokaline..." When
he looked up again, Chapel had reached the door.

"Find Dr. Dyson and send her in here," he yelled after the nurse. Nearly
two hours passed before the buzzer to his office announced a visitor.

"Come in," he called out absently. . A woman in science blue stepped
across the threshold. "You wanted to see me, sir?" McCoy beckoned her
inside, but kept his eyes fixed on the terminal. "No wonder Gonzalo
botched that synthesis; he's been covering for Tajiri on the duty log.

Good thing that boy is in Star Fleet--he'd make a lousy forger as a
civilian." He snapped off the screen image and turned his attention to
the neurologist. "Have a seat, Dr. Dyson."

"Thank you," she said without moving. "But I haven't got much time,
sir." McCoy cocked an eyebrow at her impatience. "Mr. Spock will be in
sick bay for another few days. If I were you, I'd take advantage of the
lull to take it easy."

"Yes, sir."

"That wasn't a suggestion, it was an order," he said gruffly. "I'm not a
soft touch, like Cortejo." He was rewarded by Dyson's involuntary smile.

Now if she would only relax. "Nurse Chapel informs me that you were a
great help during my 'extended leave.' Unfortunately, I can't thank you
for any specifics..."

"That's quite all right, Dr. McCoy. You proved to be a rather
interesting case." Her brittle smile resurfaced briefly.

"Just be glad I'm not doing a journal article on you." He grinned
ruefully. "I feel like I've woken up from a night on the town. The kind
where you figure you had a good time because you can't remember what
happened." After a pause, he continued with some embarrassment. "And if
I did anything foolish, nobody would tell me." She shrugged. "Your drawl
was a bit thicker, but mostly you kept to your studies--you made it up
to the third year in current medical school curriculum."

"Good Lord," McCoy groaned. "My first vacation in years and I spend it
trudging through medical textbooks. What a waste."

Dyson stole a glance at the door. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. McCoy, I've
got a lot of work..."

"All right, Dyson. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," she said, wheeling away. McCoy noted her hasty
departure with bemusement. Still a bit green, but promising medical
material. He turned back to his work.