RECOVERY
by
J.  M.  Dillard

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POCKET BOOKS

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized.  If you
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This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents
are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any
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entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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Copyright 1995 by Paramount Pictures.  All Rights Reserved.

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First Pocket Books printing March 1995

10987654321

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

Printed in the U.S.A.

For Kathy, with love and gratitude

Acknowledgments

Let's get right down to it: this book exists because my collaborator,
the divine Kathleen O'Malley.  Kat[ wrote a huge portion of the first
draft and provide emotional hand-holding for me during a very difficult
year.  (And, since we live on opposite coasts, we have the phone bills
to prove it!) For those of you that don know, Kath is an author in her
own right; run, don walk, to your nearest bookstore and pick up copies
of her two collaborations with Ann Crispin, the Starbridge books Silent
Dances and Silent Song (And while you're at it, buy the rest of the
Starbridge series, too.)

Thanks, Kath.  I couldn't have done it without you.

The next person that deserves long-distance hul and kisses is editor
Kevin Ryan, who has been incre, ibly kind and incredibly patient in
waiting for this book. Thanks, Kev.  I won't forget it.

I'd .also like to thank every STAR TREK fan who read The Lost Years and
who is now holding this book Without you, I wouldn't have had the
opportunity to write about some of my favorite characters and the:
continuing adventures in the Lost Years series ....

Prologue

"You're going through with it, sir?"

Admiral James T.  Kirk turned away from his office window and its
sweeping view of the San Francisco Bay; above the choppy, leaden water,
dark clouds sailed swiftly in an ever-changing panorama.

Kirk released a silent sigh and faced his questioner.

Beneath his trimmed golden brown beard, Lieutenant Commander Kevin Riley
still had enough of an Irish baby-face to give the appearance of a man
much younger than the thirty-odd years Kirk knew him to be.  People
often underestimated Riley because of it.

But when Kirk looked at his aide, he could see the hard-won maturity
etched around his blue eyes and the corners of his mouth.

Over the past year and a half, Riley, likewise, had come to know Kirk.
Maybe not as well as Leonard McCoy or Mr.  Spock had...  but well
enough.  They'd watched each other change as they worked together at
Starfleet Headquarters.  For Riley, the changes had meant real growth, a
burgeoning strength of character, but for Kirk...  the adjustments had
not nearly been so positive.

"You don't think I should do it?" Kirk asked his aide.  Not that another
opinion world make a difference at this point--he had made his decision,
and nothing could shake him.  But over the past several months, he had
come to value Riley's input; a friendship and trust had developed
between the two.

"Now, that's a true Irish answer, Admiral," the younger man said with a
slight smile.  "^ question for a question.  I know you, sir.  Once your
mind is made Kirk shook his head, wanting Riley to believe he wasn't
shrugging him off.  "I respect your opinion, Kevin.  You should know
that by now."

Riley glanced shyly away as if embarrassed by Kirk's high regard, and
the unexpected use of his first name.

"Tell me," Kirk insisted quietly.  "You don't think I should do this?
When you, more than anyone at Starfleet, knows what's happening to me
here?  You've watched this job, this 'exciting opportunity' they
promised me dwindle into nothing but a bureaucrat's dream.  You've seen
the work rathe paperwork--pile up and up until we've both been buried
under it.  You, even more than my wife--" He paused abruptly, his voice
catching on the last word.

It had been two months since his one-year marriage contract had expired.
Two months since Admiral Lori Ciana had stoutly refused to renew that
contract.  Two months since she had moved out of his home, his life, his
bed.

Kirk swallowed, gritted his teeth, then nodded at his own error. "--that
is, my ex-wife...  even more than Lori, you've watched what they've done
to me.

It's been more than six months since I've been out of this office.  Six
months since I've done something, anything, even remotely worthwhile.
And a year since ·..  I've been in space ...."

He paused, that phrase almost whispered, and left it hanging there
between them.  He smiled at Riley conspiratorially.  "Do you remember,
Kevin?  What it was like?  Six months...  on the Enterprise?" He
couldn't help himself.  His voice dropped into an almost reverential
hush when he mouthed her name.

"I remember," Riley murmured.

Kirk turned back toward the view of the windswept sky.  "In a year we
might've discovered two new class-M planets, mapped a couple of solar
systems, contacted two or three alien races.  Spock would've found time
to translate four new languages, improve five computer programs, write
two new ones, and author half a dozen scientific papers.  And Bones...

Bones would've discovered a handful of vaccines, isolated a bunch of
unknown organisms...  and found a dozen new ways to get under Spock's
skin."

He was smiling now, in spite of his melancholy, until he turned back and
caught sight of his aide's pitying expression.

Damn, Jim-thought disgustedly, as Kevin lowered his eyes to spare him. I
must sound like the ancient marinert But the only albatross around my
neck is this job.  "Don't you miss it at all, Kevin?  Don't you miss
working in space?"

"I don't know, sir," Riley admitted honestly.  "For a long time I
thought I'd never go back.  But lately...

maybe because I've been working with you...  I find myself wondering
....  Are you sure it's really space you miss so much, Admiral, or is it
the responsibility?

All those people under your command, a million decisions to make a
day--you thrived on that, sir.  It was the responsibility I couldn't
handle for a long time.  But now...  I think maybe...  yes.  I guess I
do miss it.  The responsibility of working in space."

Kirk pointed a finger at him as if his aide had just pinpointed the
problem.  "And that's where we're going, Riley.  Into space.  You and I.
We've done our bit for God and country.  We've written enough reports
and refitted enough ships to satisfy anyone." He'd even had to oversee
the refitting of the Enterprise.

He'd done it, too, knowing all the while he was refitting her for
another captain--Will Decker.  "We deserve a better assignment.  And
today, I'm going to tell Admiral Nogura just that.  Let the chips go
ahead and fall."

Jim could see both admiration and fear warring in Riley's eyes.  A
confrontation with the old man, the most powerful figure in Starfleet,
was quite the calculated risk.  Kirk could very well have to live with
whatever ultimatum he delivered.  But did that matter any longer?  I've
lost Lori.  I've lost the Enterprise.  Lost Bones, Spock, and the only
work I ever cared about.

What else have I got to lose?

Just Starfleet.  He remembered the day, almost two years before, When
he'd been on leave at his mother Winona's home in Iowa, and Nogura had
come, determined to talk him into the admiralty.  Jim had been just as
determined not to give up the Enterprise.

"Make your pitch," he'd told the old man.  "I'll go ahead and refuse the
promotion .  .  .  and if you want to, you can drum me out of the Fleet.
But I won't be kicked .upstairs."

And Nogura, his tone as smooth and brittle as glass, had said quietly,
"God knows, I don't want you to resign if I can help it.  But I can't
stop you,from leaving the Fleet."

.It might very well come to that; having to resign, to walk away from
his years in Starfleet, to become...

what?  A commercial pilot hauling cargo and passengers?

Captain of a crew of thirty on the border patrol?

No matter; he could not envision what his future might be without
Starfleet.  But he had seen what it was in the Fleet, without a ship,
without the exhilaration of being in space--and that future he could
live with no longer.

Perhaps he could not reclaim the Enterprise--but at the very least, he
would force Nogura to make good his promise that Kirk would be a
diplomatic trouble shooter, not a deskbound bureaucrat...

Or he would resign.

"Wish me luck," he said softly, and strode toward the exit.

"Admiral!" the younger man called after him.

Kirk paused in the doorway, knowing that, whatever Riley might say, he
would not be swayed.

"Just make sure he knows, sir," Riley said firmly, "that this
decision...  goes for both of us."

Kirk blinked, taken aback.

"I'm not willing to spend my life pushing anyone else's papers, sir...
with all due respect."

Kirk gave his aide a questioning glance; but Riley's gaze was
unwavering, his jaw set with a determination that matched the admiral's.
Jim did not smile, but his expression warmed with admiration and
gratitude.

He nodded, and headed silently for the staircase that would lead him to
the lion's den.

The short flight up wasn't so brief that Jim didn't have time to
remember in vivid, exasperating detail every warning both Spock and
McCoy had given him about allowing Nogura to promote him.

His first day as a new admiral at Starfleet Headquarters, he'd reported
to Nogura's office and discovered McCoy there, chewing out the Starfleet
head.

McCoy's voice had been carried clear out into the corridor:

'.  .  .  he doesn't belong here.  I told you, and every one of your
damnable psychiatrists torn you...  but you don't care, do you?  You
don't care about what's best for him, you only care about what's best
for you."

Kirk had been furious at the doctor; now he remembered the incident with
painful gratitude for his friend's concern.  McCoy had been right; and
now Jim didn't know if he'd ever forgive the old man for the way he'd
manipulated both Kirk and Lori to get exactly what he wanted out of
them.  In his head, Kirk 'new that to Nogura, Starfleet was worth any
price, but in his heart, Jim felt too used to be able to sympathize with
his superior's priorities.

He entered Nogura's aide's office, fully prepared to bully the young
Vulcan male into gaining admittance into the old man's well-protected
lair.  But the aide caught him up short.

"Admiral Kirk," the Vulcan said smoothly.  "Admiral Nogura is waiting
for you, sir." Efficiently the tall, slender aide moved around the desk
and opened the connecting door into the senior officer's quarters.

Kirk tried not to feel nonplussed--a reaction he'd had much too often to
suit him since working for Nogura--and entered the admiral's spacious
office warily.

Behind his desk, Nogura rose, smiling.  The head of Starfleet was
silver-haired, golden-skinned, diminutive; yet despite his
unprepossessing appearance and demeanor, the small, elderly man radiated
power, presence, unshakable calm.

As Jim entered, Nogura moved around his desk to greet his subordinate.
"All those years with Spock must've given you a dose of telepathy, Jim,"
the admiral said pleasantly.  "I just called down to your office to find
you were already on your way up.  I wish the rest of my officers were
able to anticipate my needs .as well as you do."

Kirk said nothing, sensing Nogura's flawless timing was again at work.
How often, in the last year, had he tried to argue for better
assignments, only to have the old man head him off at the pass?  Not
this time, Admiral.

':Jim, do you realize it's been over a year since you've been in space?"
Nogura's deep-set black eyes furrowed in concern even as Kirk had to
keep from grinding his teeth out loud.  "Too long, way too long for a
man like you.  I know you, Jim, you're not happy planet bound." The aged
admiral shook his head as if it were somehow Kirk's fault for not
bringing the subject up sooner.

"That's exactly why I was coming to see you, sir," Kirk interjected. "It
has been a year ...."

":A very productive year, I must say," Nogura reminded him.  "Your work
on those starship refittings has changed the very shape of the fleet.
Just wait till you see the Enterprise again, you won't recognize her.

Our engineers tell me the expected efficiency of the new designs..."

'"Thank you...  sir..." Kirk interrupted bluntly.

"Those are kind words...  but they're no longer enough.  This job hasn't
turned out to be what I expected."

"And that's my fault completely, Jim, I know," the admiral agreed, too
willingly.  "But Starfleet needed your expertise.  No one else could've
given us your knowledge, your ideas.  I don't know if you'll ever reply
understand how much your work this past year and a half has meant to
Starfleet."

Is this what they tell all paper pushers?  Kirk wondered bitterly.  It
didn't matter.  He wasn't going to let the old man talk him into any
more bureaucratic ,exercises.  He deserved better.  "I was supposed to
be using my expertise as a troubleshooter ...."

'That's what I promised you, and that's what you'll be," Nogura agreed,
but Kirk no longer believed him.

He'd heard the promise too many times.  "That's why I was calling you.
To discuss a new assignment."

Kirk's eyes narrowed.  "In space?"

"In space.  A very interesting part of space.  Near the planet Zotos
Four." Nogura moved over to his wall screen and activated it, showing
the mapped coordinates of the sector.

Jim recognized it at once, and, despite himself, his interest level
picked up.  "That's right where Federation, Tholian, and Klingon space
intersect."

In spite of the nearness of the Klingons, it was actually the Tholians
that were the bigger problem.  A paranoid and territorial spacefaring
race, they were known to declare wide-ranging neutral areas as "theirs"
and then defend them by obliterating unsuspecting ships that wandered
into them.  They'd had a number of skirmishes with the Klingons and one
with the Enterprise herself.

"Are the Tholians showing any signs of admission?"

Kirk asked.  Old reflexes kicked in and he began formulating strategies
for dealing with the belligerent aliens.  If he could only talk to
Spook!  The Vulcan had actually communicated with the Tholians while
handling the ship's crisis.  Kirk had been trapped in a space-time
continuum, and his only direct experience with the Tholians was from
what he'd learned from his first officer's logs.

"No," Nogura assured him.  "Nothing like that.  The Tholians and
Klingons both have been very respectful of the.  boundaries lately.  Do
you remember that lengthy report you spent a month reviewing and writing
a rebuttal to?"

Kirk stared blankly.  There'd been dozens like that.

"Myron Shulman's report on the ship he designed, the Recovery," Nogura
prodded.

Oh, Kirk recalled irritably, that one.  "Yes.  The'

Recovery, according to her designer, would be a fully automated,
high-speed rescue vessel capable of evacuating large populations without
needing to call in dozens of starships or risking Fleet personnel.  It
was an ambitious project, and a well-researched, well-written report."

"Which you trashed," Nogura recalled.

"I gave my opinion," Kirk corrected.  "You told me to be honest, to
spare no one's feelings."

"An order you've never had trouble obeying," the admiral remarked,
looking decidedly amused.  "Your response was exactly what I expected,
as did Shulman.

That's why he asked for it.  After all, you were the man who'd lived
through, and defeated, Daystrom's M-Five fiasco.  Shulman was
particularly interested in what you had to say about his project.  He
took every one of your suggestions to heart.  They refitted the Recovery
from stem to stem as per your recommendations-and now she's ready for
her maiden ran.  And you'll be there."

Kirk saw right through Nogura's hype.  "You're talking about a
simulation ...."

"That's true, but the scale of the simulation is..."

"A simulation, in space.  With all the appropriate bells and whistles.
This is my troubleshooting assignment?

In the report, you stated you'd e sending the vice-chief of operations,
Admiral D nuba, to the initial simulations."

"I did," Nogura assured him.  "The ship had ten different trials under
ten different scenarios and performed flawlessly each time.  Right down
to the pinpoint accuracy of the transporters.  Think of the changes to
space travel, Jim, with intraship beaming a possibility--"

"Then why do It" Kirk tried to interrupt.

Nogura held up his hands.  "Hear me out, Jim.

Zotos Four has been used as a science station for the last ten years.
There are maybe two hundred scientists and staff there. The planet is
largely inhospitable but, because of its evolutionary stage, was
valuable as a working lab.  But the project that'd been set up there is
complete now.  We need to pull those people off, and all their
belongings, equipment, everything, so that Zotos can continue to develop
without interference.

Sure, a starship or two could do the job in a few hours, but we want the
Recovery to handle it.  Evacuating Zotos, or planets with even larger
populations, is exactly the job she was designed for.  Zotos has a
difficult atmosphere, communications are a problem, homing in on
coordinates is tricky--just the kind of conditions she's going to face
in a real evacuation scenario.  This will be her real test, her true
maiden run."

Nogura paused, as if wanting to be sure he had Kirk's full attention.
"Because of the size and the scale of the Recovery and the nature of
this evacuation --there'll be several starships on hand, mock distress
signals being sent, even a simulated attack--we felt it necessary to
warn our 'neighbors." Moving that much hardware close to a border could
make anyone nervous Ambassador Sarek has handled that part of things for
us, and his suggestion was, due to the humanitarian nature of the
Recovery's mission, that we invite the Tholians, the Klingons, and the
Romulans to watch the exercise at a respectable distance, so that there
could be no misunderstanding about what we are doing.  I don't really
think he expected them to accept.  But they did.  Once that happened,
Shulman and Sarek both insisted you be there."

"The Tholians, the Romulans, and the Klingons are all going to be
present?" Kirk was amazed.  The Recovery's completely automated nature
made him wary right from the start.  He'd been skeptical about a rescue
ship that worked on its own, without human direction.  He'd been
particularly nervous about the humanitarian vessel's need for defense
capabilities--which felt as wrong to him as a twentieth-century Red
Cross transport's being armed with cannons--and he'd said so.  His
report had posed a host of what-ifs that came straight from his vast
experience with computers which needed no mortal hand.  "What if
something goes wrong?"

"Shulman will be there, ready to intercede.  Sarek will remain in touch,
through onscreen communications, with our neighbors, and--"

"When did the Klingons, the Romulans, and the Tholians become our
neighbors?" Kirk demanded to know.  "They're our enemies, sworn to
overrun us, or destroy us."

"Which is why this goodwill gesture is so important.

It's the first time these four groups, all sworn enemies of one another,
have agreed to participate, however marginally, in a peaceful activity.
This could be a pivotal moment in Federation history, Jim."

Kirk found his arguments strangling in his throat.

Finally, he could only ask again, "What if something goes wrong?"

"That's why you must be there," Nogura assured him.  "Who better to find
solutions on the spot, solutions Shulman will be too busy to think of,
solutions Sarek will be too removed to suggest?  If something goes
wrong, I want you there, Jim.  You.

The one man who, no matter what happens, will never forget where he is,
what is happening out there, and who his enemies are."

Kirk contemplated that for a moment, even as his mind told him he'd
heard this speech before.

"Admiral--let me be candid." He forced his tone to be as even, as calmly
controlled, as Spock's would have been in the same situation.  "I came
this morning to remind you of your original promise [o me: that I was to
be a troubleshooter.  It was because of that promise that I accepted the
promotion to the admiralty.

Frankly, sir, you haven't kept your promise.  If you do not intend to,
tell me--because in that case, I resign,"

Before the last word was out of Kirk's mouth, the older man countered,
"But this is exactly what I'm offering you, Admiral; a fresh
troubleshooting assignment."

"Is it, sir?  Sounds more like I'm going to be twiddling my thumbs along
with all the other observers.

With all due respect: No more evasions, Admiral."

A long silence passed between them; Nogura looked toward the window, and
his own view of the Golden Gate Bridge beneath dark, swift-moving
clouds, and sighed.

"I know you're unhappy, Jim," he said at last.  "I'm sorry about that. I
can't make you understand how important it's been that you be here doing
what you've done for me.  Get through this simulation, and we'll talk
again.  If this goes right, I'1I owe you."

Now, that was something Jim had never heard before.  He stiflened
slightly; by the time he came back, the Enterprise refitting would be
finished.  Maybe he could go out with her on her maiden run ....

"You'll owe me," Kirk repeated, looking hard into Nogura's dark,
unreflective eyes.  When the older man did not flinch from that
statement, he yielded.  "All right, Admiral.  I'll pack my dress
uniform.  And I'll remember this conversation."

Nogura nodded, and Kirk was surprised to see that the old man actually
looked relieved.  "Take Riley with you.  He needs new experiences.  He
can't spend his whole life nursemaiding you, even if that's what you'd
like.  Besides, he's one of the Enterprise's original crew.  I expect
his career to move forward, as all the others have."

Kirk nodded and, as he left the admiral's office, tried to squelch the
traitorous thought, All the others :..  except their captain.

Myron Shulman sat before his computer and blinked the sweat out of his
eyes.  He was tired, too tired, really, to be trying to finish up this
programming.

But it had to get done.  It had to be right.  There had been some slight
hesitation in response time in the last simulation.  He wasn't happy
with it, not happy at all.

He blinked again, trying to focus on the program even as the symbols,
abbreviations, and special codes swam before his eyes.  What was the
problem again?

For a moment, the tall, lean, brown-eyed man couldn't remember.

He had worked so long on this, so hard.  That was all right.  He was a
marathon runner, he was used to going the distance.  Myron ran a hand
through his longish, curly black hair.  The program was so important. So
important.  Why couldn't he focus?

He blinked and stared again at the screen, where his program shifted and
changed until it reformatted itself into a three-dimensional image.
Myron shook his head.  Now he could see the problem.  It was there, in
the safety margins.  He manipulated the images, nudging them, moving
their edges, reformatting them into new shapes.  She had to protect
herself, the Recovery.  Kirk didn't understand that; he was paranoid,
and rightly so, after his experience with the Daystrom computer.

But Daystrom had been too involved with his machine, had put too much of
himself into it.  To Myron, the Recovery was nothing more than a
superhuge ambulance.  She wasn't his, she belonged to the universe, to
anyone who needed her services.  She would be a true emergency vessel,
equipped to handle anything.

Once he got the programming right:

No, not right.  Perfect.

She had to be able to defend herself, and all the people she held in her
cavernous holds.  Once aboard the Recovery, people had to believe they
were absolutely, positively safe.

Safe.

Myron manipulated his program, unwilling even to blink, until it was
completely reformatted, reshaped into its new, improved, configuration.

"Now," he murmured, "now she'll be safe.  Kirk will see.  He'll see and
understand.  She'll keep her wards safe now ...."

As Shulman worked amid tottering piles of cassettes and shifting stacks
of filmsics, his program codes grew into more and more complicated
patterns --patterns based on a language Shulman had never learned, built
in a matrix he couldn't understand.  But he kept at it--to show Kirk, to
insure Recovery's success...  and to give honor to the holy triad.

Chapter One

"WELCOME ^BOARD DR.  McCoy!" Dr.  Angelina Mola greeted the civilian
physician warmly.

"Why, thank you, ma'am," Leonard replied as he stepped aboard the
massive rescue vessel Recovery.  It was the first time in eighteen
months that he'd set foot on a vessel larger than a ten-passenger
shuttle, and the sensation was rather overwhelming.  "I consider this
invitation quite an honor."

"The honor is ours, Doctor," the stately, eighty-year-old matron
declared, with a soft Spanish lilt.  She was a head taller than McCoy,
and stood as straight as a tree.

An oak, Bones thought, admiring her.

The dark-skinned, black-eyed woman seemed, to him, to be the consummate
professional, from her cap of close-sheared, tightly curled black and
silver hair, to her trim, austere FDRA uniform, to her no nonsense work
shoes.  Not a hair out of place, not a seam out of line, that was Dr.
Mola.  She hadn't changed a bit from the stern, all-business professor
who had first introduced Leonard McCoy to the idea of joining Starfleet
when he had taken her course, Medicine on the Cutting Edge--Practicing
in Space, as a premed student.  That was about a hundred years ago,
wasn't it?  he thought wryly.  Yet despite her perfectionistic demeanor,
there was an irresistible warmth in her voice.

"I almost didn't recognize you, Leonard," Mola said, with a hint of fond
disapproval.

"Ah." McCoy's smile grew sheepish as he stroked the beard covering the
lower half of his face.  It had grown faster and more thickly than he'd
anticipated, a fact that made him quite proud.  But he couldn't get used
to the silver hairs that were beginning to outnumber the black.  "Well,
it was just one more thing I had to try, now that I'm a civilian."

She lifted a thin black brow, but made no further comment.  "The
suggestions you made to Dr. Shulman," she continued as they walked down
gently curved corridors, "regarding the setup of sickbay and some of the
more advanced medical equipment, opened up a whole new area for us to
explore as we worked on this ship.  Because of your input, Leonard,
Recovery now carries the most complete--and automated--medical facility
in all of Starfleet.  It will be possible for rescued personnel to be
able to diagnose and treat one another, regardless of the severity of
their ailments, even if there is no doctor among them."

"Now, there's a scary thought!" McCoy quipped, bringing the slightest of
smiles to the dour face.  "This place could put old country doctors like
myself right out of business!"

She hmphed at him.  "I don't think there's much concern there, Leonard.
If anyone's in danger of being put out of business, it's Recovery; that
is, if your old comparlero had half the chance."

McCoy glanced at her.  "Now, Angie, come on.

Shulman asked Jim for his opinion, and got just what he asked for.  You
can't damn a man for having his say.

Besides, you told me the ship had been vastly improved by his
suggestions."

She nodded, acquiescing.  "You're right.  The ship has been improved,
thanks to both Kirk's and your input.  Here, Leonard, look at this." She
stopped beside a wall panel that had a computer screen set into it.
"Computer, where are we?"

A map of the ship suddenly lit up the screen.  The huge, elliptically
shaped vessel was shown overhead; then the image was rotated so that the
viewer could see a cutaway section.

"You are located on deck seventy-five, in the central core," the
feminized voice of the computer intoned as a place marker lit up in red
on the map.  "You are seventy meters from the entrance to the primary
sickbay." Another twinkling light, this one in blue, marked the place
and the direction to travel.  "You are eight meters from the nearest
food and beverage servitor." A green marker blinked, revealing its
location.

"You are twelve meters from the nearest relief station." McCoy lifted an
eyebrow as that marker showed up in yellow.  "Are you in need of any
services?"

"Not at this time, computer," Dr.  Mola said, and the screen instantly
went blank.

"Pretty nice 'you are here' sign, Angie," McCoy drawled.

"That's not all there is to it," she told him.  "If a person reaches a
screen and then passes out and can't ask for help, the computer
automatically beams the victim to an empty cot in sickbay and begins
diagnostics." She must've interpreted his questioning expression.

"And yes, the computer can definitely tell the difference between an
unconscious state and normal sleep."

"But...  intraship beaming!  That's enormously dangerous--"

Her lips pursed in a small smile.  "Not aboard Recovery.  Shulman has
perfected the transporters; they have pinpoint accuracy and numerous
safety features.  His improvements will revolutionize space travel."

"Yeah?  Well, I'll let someone else try them out.

Those things scare me enough without my having to worry about
materializing inside a wall."

"They've been tested countless times, Leonard--more times, in fact, than
any other system on this ship.  I've used them myself, with complete
confidence."

Ignoring the disbelieving glance he gave her, she indicated the now dark
wall viewer.  "These screens are located every thirty meters throughout
the ship.  They are accessible by anyone aboard the vessel.

Eventually, I believe stations like these will become standard
throughout the Fleet.  The computer will tell the questioner where they
are, answer their needs, help them find their way to their quarters,
help them obtain food and equipment from the replicators, almost
anything.  The computer will even be able to tell those aboard how to
manage certain repairs, should the ship develop a problem.  She can
suggest various rescue remedies, even defense plans, should she come
under attack.  Once inside Recovery, those who're been rescued can be
given the means to handle anything that occurs."

"If you say so," the doctor remarked amiably.

"You sound skeptical." Mola raised a coal black brow.

"Well, I've seen more than one of these 'answer to all your prayers'
machines," he told her.  "In my experience, the reality often falls far
short of the dream."

"That's what tests and simulations are for, mi amigo.  And that's why I
insisted you come along as our honorary civilian observer.  I know if
you see, firsthand, the ship in action, I can convince you of Recovery's
value.  If I can do that, then I can convince anyone.  Even Kirk."

"Yeah, well, convincing me is one thing.  Convincing the admiral..."
McCoy made a sound of fond exasperation.  The mention of Jim made him
homesick for his old friend, and the Enterprise.  For the past year and
a half, the doctor had lost himself in researching the Fabrini and
applying their medical expertise on far-flung planets.  Being on a huge
ship again brought back memories of another ship, another time ....  "I
mean, to him this'11 be just another report that crosses his desk.  It's
not like he'll actually see the ship's performance."

She smiled, as if she'd anticipated his argument.

"Oh, yes he will.  Nogura's sending him.  There was too much pressure on
them; Kirk had to come."

McCoy's eyebrows furrowed.  "To a simulation?

That hardly sounds important enough--"

She glanced about them as if to insure their privacy.

"No, not just for the simulation.  Recovery's already been through the
paces on testing.  This...  is different.

There are other factors involved."

He glanced at her sideways.  There was something she was holding back.

"Por favor, Leonard, forgive me," she said softly, "but I cannot say
what they are.  It is hard for me to refuse you, but...  you are, after
all, a civilian now."

He grinned, clearly surprising her.  "Oh, don't apologize, old friend.
I'm just your average, retired space dog, and glad of it.  I had my fill
of classified information when I was in uniform.  You can keep your
dark, disturbing secrets.  I get more sleep at night these days then I
ever did when I was in the Fleet."

"Thank you for understanding," Dr.  Mola said.

"You always were the perfect caballero."

Looking away from her, he asked as casually as he could, "So, Jim's
coming out to watch the show, huh?"

"Yes.  We'll be there before him, of course.  I'm sure there'll be some
free time before the evacuation actually gets under way.  Certain...
things regarding the scenario must be set up ahead of time.  It would be
a simple matter for me to call him, and let him know you're here."

"No!" McCoy said, a little too quickly.  "We...

haven't seen each other since we left the Enterprise.

Jim beams over to the Recovery, and before you know it, it'll be old
home week.  Both of us will be expected to write reviews of the test. If
people see us together, and if our reviews agreed..." He trailed off,
hoping she'd pick up the thread.  The fact was, the thought of seeing
Jim again unnerved him; he was not so sure his old friend wanted to see
him.  Not after the way McCoy had burst into Admiral Nogura's office and
chewed him out for talking Jim into that promotion.

But he hadn't been able to help it.  Nogura had gone over his, McCoy's,
head, ignored his recommendation that Jim be permitted to keep his
command, and kicked Jim upstairs.

He wondered vaguely whether Jim was happy-.

then forced his attention back to Dr.  Mole, who was nodding.

"...  could make the test look tainted," she was saying.  "You're right,
of course.  We can't risk even a hint of collusion.  That's noble of
you, Leonard.  I'm sure you would've liked to have seen your friend.
I'll make sure there's no mention of your name.  Of course, after the
test is run, he'll no doubt want a tour of the vessel ...."

"It's a big ship, Angie.  I'll manage to avoid him."

She looked at him oddly.  Before she could comment again, a tall,
ascetically thin man approached them.

Dr.  Mola's face brightened.  "Dr.  Shulman!  Are we about to depart for
Zotos Four?"

"Yes, Dr.  Mola," the soft-spoken man replied.

"We'll be under way within the next ten minutes.  I'll be watching the
computer reports from my quarters.

Have you checked the guest register?  Is everyone aboard and ready to
go?"

McCoy watched the man with a doctor's eye.  He was olive-skinned, but
there seemed to be a flush about his color, as if he were slightly
feverish.  The barest hint of sweat stood out on his brow.  Well, after
all, the doctor reminded ,himself, this ship's been his life's work.  He
wouldn't be human if this voyage didn't have him in a complete lather.

"Absolutely, Dr.  Shulman," Angelina assured him.

"All sixty-four invited guests are on board.  The planetary delegations
of the FDRA arrived an hour ago, and Dr.  McCoy, our civilian guest, was
the last to arrive."

"Excellent," Shulman muttered.  "Then I'll set the programming in motion
and we'll be on our way.  It won't do to be late.  Not at all.  Good
evening, doctors."

The tall man nearly jogged away from them in his urgency, and McCoy
found himself staring after the designer.

"Don't mind Myron," Angellna explained.  "He's been twitchy ever since
he heard Kirk would be there.

He'll be fine once the ship goes through her paces."

"No doubt," McCoy murmured distractedly.

"Didn't I read somewhere that Shulman is a long-distance runner?"

"That's right.  Won the bronze in the Federation Olympics five years
ago."

McCoy nodded and turned back to his gu'de.  "That explains it.  Those
marathon runners always seem as hyper as greyhounds to me."

Dr.  Mola laughed.  "As laid-back as you usually are, Leonard, your
reaction doesn't surprise me." She stopped them before a pair of sliding
doors with a medical symbol beside them.  As the doors whooshed open,
she waved him inside.  "Ah, here, finally, we arrive at sickbay.  I
can't wait to show you my favorite toys!"

Sarek gave a single nod to dismiss his white-robed guide, a young Vulcan
female with downcast eyes, and stepped out onto the balcony that
overlooked the horizon.  To the east, Mount Seleya, black, jagged, and
impenetrable, spiraled upward against the darkening purple sky.  The
last rays of the fiery sunset had faded, leaving the thin air cool;
within minutes, the temperature would drop some thirty or forty degrees,
and the burning desert would metamorphose into a cold wasteland.  He had
purposely timed his journey to avoid crossing the plain of Gol during
the most intense heat.

For a moment he stood motionless, save for the lock of wavy silver hair
lifted from his forehead by the breeze, and gazed out at the mountains.

Silence permeated his surroundings.  The young postulant who had led him
to the balcony had glided noiselessly upward over the black steps,
leaving Sarek intensely conscious of the echoing ring of his own
boot-heels against the stone.  Hewn millennia before from the dark
mountains, the retreat housed some few hundred students of Kolinahr, the
pursuit of nonemotion; but Sarek had seen no one save the student who
had greeted him at the great stone archway, and in the deep silence on
the balcony, it was simple to imagine that he was entirely alone in the
desert.

VuIt was, to Sarek's mind, the most quintessentially place on 'Vulcan.
The retreat at Gol had existed even before Surak's peaceful revolution,
when Kolinahr adepts were much-feared practitioners of the art of
mind-control: the mind-lords, who ruled through terror and manipulation.
After Surak, the adepts turned their control inward, and mastered their
own minds and emotions rather than those of others.

Adepts were now held in reverence; Vulcan families were privately proud
to count a Kolinahr student among their members.

But in this hallowed and quiet place, Sarek found himself struggling to
suppress not pride (though he did feel an inkling of that emotion, at
the thought that his son 'had chosen such a consummately Vulcan life)
but concern.

More than a Terran standard year before, when James Kirk had been
promoted to admiral and relinquished command of the Enterprise, Spock
had re.signed his Starfleet commission and returned to Vulcan to accept
a teaching position at the Science Academy.  Sarek had been pleased,
especially when Spock had announced his engagement to a much-respected
Vulcan scientist, T'Sura.  Sarek felt certain that his son would become
comfortable among his own people at last.

And then Spock had taken two human friends on a visit to Gol.  Such a
thing was not uncommon; the Kolinahru welcomed visitors seeking a quiet
retreat.

But one of those friends, Dr.  Leonard McCoy, was kidnapped-under
bizarre circumstances, and the other, Keridwen Llewellyn, accompanied
Spock and the Kolinahr High Master, T'Sai, on a successful rescue
mission and was killed.

Sarek knew little of the details; Spock remained resolutely taciturn on
the subject.  But when he returned from the mission, he immediately
called off his marriage to T'Sura and retreated to Gol.

Sarek had at first assumed that Spock's sudden interest in Kolinahr was
due to his short visit with its practitioners, and the subsequent
mission with the High Master.  But Amanda, Spock's mother, insisted that
her son's decision must have been somehow related to the human woman's
death.  Sarek was now beginning to consider whether his wife's
all-too-human instincts were correct.

He had put off this confrontation for almost a year, until it could be
avoided no longer, because of his growing conviction that Kolinahr was
the wrong path for Spock.  Perhaps, many years ago, he would have
approved--just as he had disapproved of Spock's decision to join
Starfleet and work among humans.

But years of reflection had caused him to alter his original assessment;
Spock was, after all, half-human, and to deny that fact was to deny
Spock himself, and the heritage given him by his mother.

Kolinahr would require Spock to utterly reject that part of himself.

Yet until that moment, as Sarek stood waiting in the cooling,
desert-scented breeze, he had not fully acknowledged his discomfort with
the idea.  And, in that instant, he realized what he was required to do;
realized it, but did not relish it.

He turned at the whisper of footsteps against stone, and let his gaze
fall upon his son.

"Father," Spock said, with perfectly neutral inflection, as he lowered
the hood of his white postulant's robe.

Sarek's mind returned involuntarily to an encounter of some twenty years
before, when he and his son had disagreed intensely over Spock's choice
of Starfleet.

But this Spock bore little resemblance to the one of twenty years ago.
This Spock was no stubborn, passionate boy, but a gaunt, severe Kolinahr
adept.  He had grown thinner on a spartan diet, so that the sharp angles
of his jaw were even more pronounced; in the dimming light, shadows
gathered in the hollows beneath his cheekbones.  His dark hair fell
midway between his jaw and shoulders quite straight, Sarek noted, like
his mother's, and the ends had taken on a faint reddish cast from the
same pitiless sun that had browned his skin.  His bangs were long and
brushed to one side.

And beneath his upswept brows were eyes whose gentleness had been
replaced by a depthless, disturbing cold.

Sarek heard that same chill in his son's soft voice.

"You have come to take your leave?"

tn the context of Gol, the question had a deeper meaning.  Before the
great Ritual, in which the student's mind was joined to that of the High
Master and all emotion was obliterated, the student was encouraged to
sever all emotional bonds with family and friends.  This was most easily
accomplished through mind-touch.  Shared memories would be acknowledged,
all attachments and obligations dissolved.

Amanda had already grudgingly acquiesced, and taken her leave several
months before she had made her disapproval clear to her husband, if not
her son.  It was Sarek's turn now, for Spock would undergo the Ritual in
a matter of weeks.  This Sarek knew not because he had been in contact
with his sonmGol permitted no communication with the outside world but
because traditionally, the Ritual was performed after a year's study and
preparation.

Spock's year was almost up.

Sarek drew in a breath and replied, "No.  I have come to explain why I
will not."

Spock said nothing, only remained consummately still, awaiting the
promised explanation; his muscles did not tense, nor did his rate of
breathing change.  But he blinked once, swiftly

"I cannot approve of your decision," Sarek continued.

"And, unlike your mother, I cannot be party to that of which I
disapprove." He paused, searching for words as Spock remained as still
and unreactive as the black stone surrounding them.  "You are
half-human, Spock.  While I commend your choice of the Vulcan way, I
cannot condone a path which requires the utter denial of that fact."

"I do not follow your logic." Spock spoke in the same soft, passionless
tone.  "You disapproved of Starfleet; and approved of my return to
Vulcan, and the bonding with T'Sura.  It was my assessment that you
preferred I 'deny,' as you put it, my human half."

"I..  2' Sarek heard the faint heat in his own voice, and forced himself
to adopt the same calm intonation as his son.  "...  merely do not wish
for you to deny either heritage.  It is very simple logic.  And it is
not coincidence that both I and your mother disapprove, Spock.  Surely
your friends, Admiral Kirk and Dr. McCoy, agree."

"I would not know."

Sarek's surprise did not show on his face.  "They have not come to take
their leave of you?"

"I have not requested it of them," Spock said, and Sarek thought he
heard the faintest trace of contempt as his son continued: "They are,
after all, human."

"And closer to you than I or your mother," Sarek countered.  "If you do
not dissolve your ties to them, then the achievement of true Kolinahr
will be extremely difficult, if not--"

"I have noted your opinion," Spock interrupted swiftly, with a hardness
that made Sarek lift an eyebrow and fall silent.  "However"--and his
tone grew soft once more---'I am determined to achieve Kolinahr.  With
or without your assistance."

Sarek paused at the faint, distant keening of a bird; ,he inclined his
face toward the sound, away from his son, and felt the evening breeze,
now cold, upon his cheek.  He turned back to Spock.  "Then further
discussion is unwarranted."

"'Agreed." Spock lifted a hand, parting third and middle fingers to form
a ¥.  "Live long and prosper, Sarek."

And with those words, he proclaimed them no longer father and son, but
Sarek and Spock; even though Sarek had not agreed to take his leave,
Spock was stating that, in his own mind at least, the relationship had
been formally dissolved.

Sarek raised his own hand in salute.  "Live long and prosper, Spock."
For a few seconds, no more, he remained gazing on his former son for
what, according to Kolinahr tradition, would be the last time.  The
encroaching gloom had muted the details of Spock's face; his skin
appeared silver-gray, his eyes and brows and hair had begun to fade into
the black stone behind him, just as the jet mountains on the horizon
were disappearing into the backdrop of night.

And then Spock turned and disappeared silently through the archway, a
flash of white swallowed up by darkness.  Sarek remained outside in the
cold for a few moments more, then slowly, reluctantly, followed.

Back in his cell, Spock sat cross-legged on the floor in front of an
old-fashioned oil lamp.

Ool was just as it had always been from the time of Vulcan's earliest
history--free from the comforts of civilization.  Spock's cubicle, like
that of all Gol residents, consisted of a room of just sufficient
dimensions for a tall Vulcan to lie down without head or feet touching
the walls.  It was unadorned, without furniture save for a small closet
carved into one corner.

Postulants slept and sat upon the floor, yet Spock had come to consider
it quite comfortable.  The chill of night was countered by the warmth
held by the glittering black rock that formed walls, ceiling, floor; by
morning, the rock had grown cold, and retained a pleasant coolness
during the worst of the daytime heat.

Night had fallen completely.  Without the glow of nearby cities, the sky
was black as the jet-colored stone; impossible, save for the glowing
stars, to tell where the window--a simple hole carved in the wall--ended
and the sky began.

From his pocket, Spock drew out a palm-sized, circular disk with an
esoteric geometric design etched onto its burnished metal surface.  He
set it respectfully down in front of the oil lamp and fixed his gaze
upon it.  The meditation mandala had belonged to an accomplished adept,
now deceased, who had followed custom and willed the mandala to the Gol
retreat, that it might be used by another aspirant to achieve the
enlightenment and freedom of Kolinahr.

The mandala's precise age was unknown.  It was, at the very least,
several centuries old, its original pink-gold surface long tarnished to
a dull greenish bronze by the fingerprints of generations of adepts.

Spock released a long, slow breath and paused before beginning his
meditation to examine his thoughts.

He had believed, after so many months at Gol, that he had nearly
succeeded in purging all emotion; but Sarek's arrival had brought with
it a revelation to the contrary.  Perhaps in the purified, controlled
atmosphere of Gol it was easy to maintain equilibrium.  But Sarek had
brought with him memories of life outside, and his stinging refusal to
take leave of his son had xeleased in Spock the recollection of another
bitter encounters the day Spock had informed his father that he intended
to join Starfleet.

Sarek had insisted that life among humans would damage Spock's ability
to control his emotions.

'Every time your control falters, you reflect poorly on all of Vulcan
...."

.And Spock had hotly countered, "I wonder how my mother wouM react if
she knew you were warning me against being contaminated by her species."

But Sarek would not be reasoned with; he had proclaimed Spock vrekasht,
an outcast--no longer his son.

Spock could not help seeing the curious parallels between this evening's
encounter and that of twenty years before.  ]Except that this time he,
Spock, had been the one to willingly sever the father/son relationship;
and now it was Sarek who argued that Spook ought not deny his human
heritage.

CouM it be possible, Spock pondered, staring intently at the mandala's
design as if seeking an answer there, that my desire to achieve Kolinahr
sprang from a desire to please my father?

A year ago, he would likely have suppressed such an embarrassing,
distressing thought.  But Kolinahr demanded extreme introspection,
extreme self-honesty.

Unexamined emotions and memories could not be purged.

Yet he knew that he had come to Kolinahr for a different reason:
because, just as his father had

	warned twenty years before, Spock's control had

	faltered--and caused the death of an innocent

	woman.

	Or so he had believed at the time.  Now, after

	months of intense contemplation, he had come to

	realize that she might very well have died despite his

	failure; indeed, perhaps he and Dr.  McCoy and High

	Master T'Sai might all have died as well even had he

	not suffered an emotional lapse.  It was impossible to

	know such things, and guilt was illogical and unproductive. He
had overcome it after a great internal

	struggle.

	Now, he knew, he would have to overcome a fresh

	welling of anger at Sarek, for refusing to assist him in

	releasing all emotion associated with the memory of

	his father proclaiming him vrekasht.  Such anger

	would not be easy to overcome, for his conflict with

	his father had been one of the most painful incidents

	in his life.

	And he would also have to overcome a troublesome

	doubt provoked by Sarek's words: "If you do not

	dissolve your ties to your friends, then the achievement of
true Kolinahr will be extremely difficult 	"

He had not thought of Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy in many months.  He had
not considered that he had many issues to resolve concerning his former
shipmates.

True, he had felt some faint stirrings of betrayal when Kirk had
revealed his decision to give up command of the Enterprise, and to
accept a promotion to the admiralty; but Spock had long ago overcome
that emotion.  He had focused instead on freeing himself from the
emotional bonds to his family, and his sense of insecurity concerning
his identity as a Vulcan.

Yet (though, Spock noted with irony, it was difficult to admit) Sarek
had been correct in stating that Spock had been closer to James Kirk and
Dr.  McCoy than he had been to his own parents.  Perhaps it would be
wisest to investigate his father's claim.

Spock closed his eyes and summoned a mental image of his friends.

First came Dr. Leonard McCoy.  Spock had last seen the doctor a year
before, shortly before the Vulcan's retreat to Gol.

Their last encounter had been overshadowed' by the recent tragic death
of McCoy's associate, Dr.  Keridwen Llewellyn.

An aura of sadness surrounded the memory; sorrow had been etched on
McCoy's haggard, unshaven face, in his red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes.
But he had shown no sign of blaming Spock for Llewellyn's death; indeed,
he had accepted Spock's decision to pursue Kolinahr with grace and
compassion.

"Maybe those Kolinahr folks have the right idea.  Maybe we'd all be
better off without emotions."

To his astonishment, Spock found himself repressing a fond inward smile
at the mental sound of the doctor's voice.  Impossible; he had relived
the memory completely many months ago, had used the mind-control
techniques to banish all emotion associated with Leonard McCoy.

And yet...  affection for the doctor stubbornly persisted.  And if he
still possessed fondness for Dr.  McCoy...

Spock drew a breath and evoked the image of James Kirk, as he had been
on his first day as an admiral at Starfleet Headquarters in San
Francisco.

To Spock, who had called from Vulcan, the admiral had seemed curiously
uncomfortable in his new uniform and office, though his face had been
alight with typical Kirkish enthusiasm at the thought of conquering
something new, something unknown.

That brightness had faded quickly when Spock revealed that he had
resigned his Starfleet commission.

'TIl miss you, Spock.  You've been a damn fine officer--and a good
friend."

So.  Sarek had again been correct.  There were still emotional bonds
that needed to be broken.  The memory had brought with it a glimmer of
pain.

And more: As he contemplated his friends, Spock felt a sudden
unmistakable curiosity.

Where are you now, Dr.  McCoy?

And you, Jim--are you still at Starfleet Headquarters?

Still convinced that you made the right decision?

Spock opened his eyes and rose--a reflexive reaction to the faint but
unmistakable sensation of contact, as though another mind had attempted
to contact his across the ocean of space.

The sensation had been too weak to identify the source, but Spock
immediately considered whether the few mind-molds he had accomplished
with Kirk and McCoy had produced a subtle mental link.

Impossible.

Impossible, yet Spock stepped over to the window and gazed out at the
stars--at Sol, the source of light and life for Earth, where Jim Kirk
dwelled--and sensed unmistakable danger...

Chapter Two

THE SCENE BEFORE Kirk's eyes wavered a bit as he materialized, then
gradually solidified into clearer view.  For a heartbeat, he imagined he
had just beamed aboard the Enterprise.  The thought triggered a wave of
homesickness for his own ship, his own crew; it had been nearly two
years since he had last set foot aboard her.

But this was a different ship, a different transporter room; her crew
was not his to command, but that of the woman standing alongside the
transporter console before him.

Dressed in sedate Starfleet gray, Starhawk's captain was not a tall
person, but she nonetheless projected the illusion of height by holding
herself perfectly erect.  Her shoulderlength black hair, shot through
with silver, the exotic tilt of her eyes and high cheekbones all spoke
of Tatar ancestry.

For a glimmering instant, Kirk got the impression of extreme dignity,
extreme serenity that was almost Vulcanlike; and then the captain
grinned broadly, dispelling the illusion.

"Admiral," she said with unfeigned warmth, moving forward to extend a
hand as Kirk stepped from the transporter pad.  "Welcome aboard.  I'm
Captain Zhanya Akhmatova."

"Captain." Kirk clasped her hand; her grip was delicate, determined.  "A
pleasure."

She hesitated, peering at the empty transporter pads behind him.  "Is
your aide arriving later?"

"Commander Riley will be helping Captain Romolo coordinate his part of
the simulation," he answered smoothly.  In truth, when Kirk had realized
that his aide's ex-wife, Anab Saed, was a security officer aboard the
Starhawk, he had offered Riley the option of a little busywork aboard
the Paladin.  The younger man had jumped at the chance.

Akhmatova brightened at the mention of the other captain's name.  "Ah.
Well, he's in good company.

Baldassare is an old friend of mine--we go all the way back to the
Academy.  I had hoped to have some time to say hello to him myself since
we're in the same neighborhood, but a captain's duties don't exactly
allow for reunions." She gestured toward the exit.

"May I show you to your guest quarters, Admiral?  My staff was fighting
over who would get the honors, but I picked the longest straw."

"The privileges of rank?" Kirk asked lightly.

"Of course," Akhmatova allowed cheerfully.  "I always win.  Don't you?"

He gave a small grin.  "Always.  Lead on, Captain."

Flanking Kirk, she spoke as she led him into the corridor.  "There's to
be a formal dinner tonight in the officers' mess, preceded by a small
reception at nineteen hundred hours.  You have an hour or so to rest up,
take a tour of the ship, or..  2'

"Or?" Kirk lifted a bemused brow at the sudden coyness in her tone.

"Or you could have a drink with the captain.

Frankly, I'd relish the chance to sound you out privately on this whole
Recovery issue."

"That sounds fine," Kirk said.  "But I'd better warn you--my private
view is the same as my public."

."Really?" She tilted her head to regard him sidewise.

"You don't sound like you believe me."

Akhmatova's outer office was equipped with the luxury of a wall
servitor.  She stood smiling across the small conference table at Kirk,
who sat.  "What'11 it be, Admiral?"

"Saurian brandy."

She swiveled toward the bulkhead.  "Computer.

One Saurian brandy, one Water."

"Water?  Wait a minute, Captain.  I'm not so sure about allowing this
interrogation if I'm going to be the only one imbibing ...."

But Akhmatova did not hear.  The computer almost instantly interrupted
with, "Ship's stores do not include Saurian brandy.  Please make another
selection."

"Water," Kirk sighed.  Akhmatova made a wry face.

"Now, Admiral, how do you expect me to grill you if you're entirely ' *"

sober.

Kirk laughed and felt himself relax.  He liked Akhmatova--and it
occurred to him that it was because she was treating him as an equal...
another captain, instead of one of the brass.

"Computer, two waters."

Two frosted glasses appeared almost at once; Akhmatova set one in front
of Kirk, then took one herself and sat down opposite him.

"So," Kirk said.  "For some reason, you're desperate to know my opinion
about Recovery.  So here it is: I hope it works.  I sincerely do.  But I
have my doubts."

"Because of the Daystrom incident." She took a sip of water, all the
while holding him in her careful gaze.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"Well, forgive me, Captain, but I'm not so sure I wish Myron Shulman
success.  Rescue missions are still one of the main duties of starships.
And I, for one, am in favor of keeping starships busy."

Kirk shrugged.  "They'll stay busy.  They'll just be free for other
missions: Peacekeeping.  Diplomacy.

Most importantly, exploration.  That is their .primary task."

"Yes..." Akhmatova fell silent and fingered her glass thoughtfully, as
though debating something.

Then she looked up, and, with a sudden intensity that made Kirk blink,
said:

"Of course, I really didn't bring you here to talk about Recovery.  I
don't give a damn whether she succeeds or fails."

A shrill whistle interrupted.  She swiveled smoothly in her chair toward
the intercom and punched a toggle.  "Akhmatova here."

"Captain.  Ambassador Sarek's party has arrived and is being escorted to
their quarters."

"Very good.  Out."

She turned back to Kirk and hesitated, gathering her thoughts.

Kirk's eyebrows were still lifted in mild surprise, but otherwise his
expression never changed.  "You were saying, Captain?"

She clasped her hands, elbows resting on the table, and leaned forward;
there was no lightness in her tone now.  "I want your advice, Admiral.
You've been where I'm about to be.  I'm due for promotion next month.  I
figure I've got three choices: accept it and be kicked upstairs; refuse
it and pray Nogura will let me keep my ship; or retire and be done with
it." She let go a measured sigh, and for the first time Kirk saw a
flicker of anxiety in her expression.  "Are you happy with the choice
you made?"

The final question caught him off-guard.  He liked Akhmatova; her
toughness reminded him of his own, and he wanted to be honest with her,
to help if he could.

At the same time, his happiness was none of her damned business.
Because, over the days and weeks and months since leaving the
Enterprise, he had grown increasingly unhappy.  And seeing Akhmatova now
was a reminder of what he had once had, and lost.

Abruptly he saw Lori in his mind's eye, on the day she had left him.

"Just promise me one thing."

They had been embracing for a final time; his lips had brushed her hair
as he asked, "What's that?"

"Get a ship again.  It's what you want most, Jim.

More than anything else.  More than me..."

He had told himself then that she had said it because she was hurting
and had projected that hurt onto him.  But with the passage of time, he
was beginning to believe more and more that she had been right.  Hr
words had never left him.

He took a long drink from the sweating glass in front of him.  The water
was refreshingly sweet and cold going down.  At last he said, "I'm not
you, Captain.  You're the person who has to live inside your skin.  What
may be right for

"I understand, sir." Akhmatova"s tone had grown quiet, respectful,
showing that she understood what a deeply personal question she had
asked a superior.

"What's heaven for one is hell for another.  But--I don't think we're
all that different, you and I.  I'd value an answer to my question."

He drew a breath, stared fixedly at a bead of moisture leaving a shiny
trail down the side of the frosted glass.  "All right.  I think I was
happy.  ·· at first.  Nogura made me a deal--that I'd see excitement,
adventure.  Travel." He looked up and straightened in his chair.  "This
is travel...  but does it seem like excitement to you?"

She said nothing, only nodded somberly.

"Now you answer my question, Captain--can you be happy without this
ship?"

'She stared at him as though he were speaking gibberish, another
language.  He almost repeated the question, but she finally said, "I try
to imagine it, and can't.  The Starhawk is my life."

"Then fight for her," he said--and felt a shiver run through him.  It
was as if someone else had spoken the words to him--someone who
understood Jim Kirk well enough to know precisely what he needed to do.

Akhmatova's voice grew whisper-soft.  "Did you fight for Enterprise?"

"Not hard enough." He tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness from his
tone.

:He left shortly after, and found his way back to the guest quarters.
Their sterility left him restless, and he had briefed himself completely
on the Recovery trial run.

And so he wandered down to the botanical gardens.

Each ship's garden had a personality all its own, Kirk realized; the
Starhawk's began as an English flower garden, filled with roses,
camellias, tiger lilies, neatly sculpted hedges of blue-green rue.  It
was far different from the Enterprise, with its stone meditation garden
designed by Spock, and the stand of bonsai trees artfully tended by
Hikaru Sulu.

Kirk drew in a breath of flower-scented air as he strolled.  The order
quickly gave way to an untamed Terran herb garden, with blooming clumps
of rosemary, lavender, rose geranium.  Beyond, a straight, motionless
figure sat cross-legged upon a bench beneath a lemon verbena tree, near
a small stone waterfall that filled the air with cool mist.

A Vulcan, Kirk realized, and for an unsettling moment, the figure looked
uncannily like Spock.  But this Vulcan was slightly older, more Solidly
built, with streaks of pure white in his iron gray hair.

Kirk quickened his pace as he recognized Ambassador Sarek--and stopped
two seconds later, as he realized the Vulcan's eyes were closed in
meditation.

:He hesitated, then turned to leave quietly.

"Admiral Kirk."

He turned to look behind him at Sarek, who 'had opened his eyes and
risen from the bench.

"Ambassador." He smiled.  "I didn't mean to disturb you ...."

"It is no disturbance.  As coincidence would have it, I was just
finishing my meditation." He paused; his dark eyes flickered over Kirk.
"I trust you are doing well since we last met.  My belated
congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you.  I'm fine.  And I hope you're doing far better than when we
last--"

Sarek brushed any concerns away with a small sweep of his hand.  "Yes,
my health is far better than it has been in some years."

"And your family?" Kirk repressed the desire to ask, Your son?

,'Amanda is quite well." Sarek hesitated.  Had he been human, Kirk might
have said that a shadow passed over the ambassador's face; but this was
a Vulcan, Spock's father.  Surely, Kirk told himself, it must have been
his imagination.  "As for Spock, I saw him recently for the first time
in several months."

Kirk frowned, puzzled.  "I thought Spock was living in ShanaiKahr with
you.  Did he move?"

Again Sarek paused, as though choosing his words carefully.  "Spock has
elected to pursue Kolinahr."

"Kolinahr?"

"The ancient Vulcan path of total nonemotion.  It is an arduous
procedure; it requires retreat, solitude, intense contemplation."

So.  Spock must have felt the necessity to purge himself of the
"emotional contamination" of all those years around humans.  But Spock
had always seemed to Jim quintessentially Vulcan; if anything, he
overcompensated for his human half, trying to--as Bones had been so fond
of putting it--"out-Vulcan the Vulcans." Kolinahr seemed like overkill;
yet Kirk kept his expression pleasantly neutral.  "You must be very
proud, Ambassador."

Sarek looked away, at the crystalline waterfall; when at last he spoke,
his tone held something far different from pride.  "It is...  a decision
that will have a profound impact upon his life, his career as a
scientist.  For once he performs the final Ritual and achieves total
Kolinahr, he will remain at the mountain retreat for the rest of his
life, and be allowed no contact with the outside world."

Kirk stared at him, too stunned to believe he had made correct sense of
the ambassador's words.  "You mean...

Sarek looked back at him with that dark, penetrating gaze.  "He will not
see friends or family again."

"I see." And yet he did not see--could not believe or understand that
Spock would have done such a thing without saying good-bye.  He had
thought the Vulcan his closest friend; perhaps he had been wrong.

"His mother is, naturally, quite distressed by his decision."

"And you, Ambassador?" An impertinent question to ask a Vulcan, perhaps;
but if Sarek took offense, he showed no sign.

"I am--quite logically concerned.  Spock's talents could best be
utilized elsewhere."

Agreed, Kirk told himself---silently, for he knew that he and Sarek
would not concur on precisely where those talents should be applied.
Sarek no doubt felt his son belonged on Vulcan; but Jim knew that Spook
belonged in Starfleet.

The image of Edith Keeler rose unbidden in his mind.  She had accused
Jim and Spock of seeming out-of-place in Earth of the 1930s; and Jim,
smiling, had asked where she thought they belonged.

She had nodded at Spock and said: "Him?  By your side, as if he's always
been there, and always will be."

.Kirk had always agreed with the sentiment.  The worst thing about the
admiralty--besides the loss of his ship--had been the 10ss of his
friends.  Perhaps, now, he was experiencing what Spock had felt upon
learning that Jim would not return as captain of the Enterprise: the
sting of abandonment.

To never set eyes on his friend again...  It was as if Spock had died.

When does this ritual take place?  he almost asked, but was interrupted
by the appearance of a slender young Vulcan female, who had approached
them so quietly that he started at the sound of her calm voice.

"Ambassador?  The reception will begin shortly."

Sarek dismissed her with a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turned to
Kirk.  "Shall we, Admiral?"

Jim let go a slow sigh, and looked up at the face that so reminded him
of his friend.  "Let's go."

In a large conference room aboard the Paladin, Lieutenant Commander
Kevin Riley sat comfortably watching the crew members who had just begun
to filter in for the captain's briefing.  Almost all of them were
cadets.  Riley had known Romolo's ship was a training vessel, but he had
been unprepared for the ratio of wet-behind-the-ears kids to experienced
personnel.

He was one of a handful of seasoned officers aboard Paladin, and at the
moment, the only apparent adult in the room; obviously, the brass had
seen the simulation as a milk run.

Cadets notwithstanding, Riley felt both relieved and unhappy to have
taken Admiral Kirk up on the all-too-obvious offer to assist
Romolo--relieved, because he dreaded seeing Anab again; unhappy, because
he wanted desperately to see her.

He knew that he should have remained on the Starhawk, encountered her at
the reception, and said a polite hello, but each time he considered it,
his courage failed.  Besides, he had nothing to say to her.

They hadn't spoken for six months, ever since she had contacted him to
coolly announce that she was canceling their marriage contract.  The
decision had left him devastated; until then, he had convinced himself
that she would return to him.

Correction, he thought grimly.  He did have something to say; or rather,
something to prove.  He'd been a different person when Anab left
eighteen months before to serve on the Starhawkman indecisive, insecure
person who had remained in Starfleet simply to please her.

The day she'd shipped out, she'd begged him, "Get out of Starfleet. Find
out what it is you really want to do with your life.  You're not doing
Kirk any favors by working for him halfheartedly,"

"Mr.  Riley?"

He glanced up at the sound of his name, and gazed into a pair of bright
blue eyes.  Their owner, a pale-skinned woman with a smooth,
shoulder-length cap of red-gold hair, extended a hand.  Riley noted at
once the insignia on her gray uniform, and realized who she was in the
instant before she introduced herself in a clipped British accent.

"Commander Ruth Pulver, first officer."

Riley smiled and took the proffered hand.  Pulver's alabaster features
and large, heavy-lidded eyes reminded him of holos he'd seen of
Victorian-era beauties; but her grip was firm, her attitude clearly
no-nonsense.  She did not return the smile.  Riley noted at once that
the cadets in the room had suddenly hushed.  Perhaps Pulver's rigid
demeanor was a necessity on a shipful of trainees.

"Commander," he said, instinctively straightening in his chair;
something about Pulver's perfect posture demanded it.  "Please..." He
gestured at the empty chair beside him.

"Thank you." She sat with exceptional .grace.  "So, Commander...  have
you had an opportunity to tour the ship yet?"

Riley did not reply.  At the sound of the doors sliding open once again,
he chanced to break eye contact with Pulver and glance up, in the
direction of the entrance...

·..  just in time to see Anab enter the room.

At once he understood the metaphors that related emotional pain to the
heart; for the instant his gaze rested on her, it was as though someone
had abruptly inserted a fine steel wire through the center of his chest,
then drew it out, slowly.  His breath left him in a small, involuntary
gasp, and mixed in with the realization that he was still in love with
her were anger and disgust with himself that he could have allowed such
a thing.  Surely he was stronger than that ....

But he had forgotten how painfully beautiful she was.  Dressed in her
security uniform, which blended in with the moving palette of
neutral-colored uniforms, Anab herself stood out from the crowd.  She
was statuesque, long-limbed, graceful, her skin the color of rich brown
earth, her hair shaved close to the scalp to accentuate the long,
graceful sweep of her neck.  She was walking alongside the chief
engineer, the two of them chatting animatedly, And then she caught his
eye.

They gazed at each other in utter astonishment for a second, no more;
then each looked quickly away.

Impossible.  Impossible.  She was not supposed to be here, but back
aboard the Starhawk, attending the reception.

Riley tried not to watch as she took a seat behind his, out of his line
of view, and forced his attention back to his conversation partner.

Pulver had finished speaking and was staring at him quizzically.

"Ah," he said, flustered.  "Sorry...  I'm afraid I.

didn't quite catch--"

Her demeanor grew even more coolly formal.  "I was offering to take you
on a tour of the ship, Commander, once the simulation was over."

"Yes," Riley responded, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the rapid-fire
beating of his heart at the knowledge that Anab was somewhere behind
him, watching him.  "Thank you.  I would enjoy that."

Pulver opened delicate rosebud lips to reply--and closed them again as
the briefing-room doors again opened, and the captain entered.

Waving his hands to prevent his staff from standing at his arrival,
Captain Baldassare Romolo, a portly, handsome blond Italian, moved to
his seat with his usual economy of motion.  "We're all here?" With an
ease that was in sharp contrast to his first officer's stiffness, he
gazed appreciatively at the crowd, then gave a satisfied nod.  "Good,
let's get started.  We're approximately five hours away from Zotos Four.

There, we'll rendezvous with the U.S.S.  Starhawk.

The Starhawk's captain, an old friend of mine, Zhanya Akhmatova, has
pulled the short straw, I'm afraid." His lips stretched in an amiable
half-moon over pearly teeth, his dark green eyes twinkling in amusement.
"They have to haul the brass."

There were twitters from the cadets around the table.  Riley managed a
small smile--he was, after all one of the brass himself--a fact Romolo
had apparently forgotten.

"Of course," Romolo continued, "we haven't gotten away scot-free.  The
admiral traveling on Starhawk helped in the refit the Paladin received
just before the mission, so I'm sure he'll want to come aboard and see
the ship and review the crew.  Expect it.  We have his aide here with us
now--Lieutenant Commander Riley, who has graciously offered his
assistance with our part of the simulation." He gestured at Riley, who
rose slightly in his chair and nodded at the crowd.

Once again, he caught sight of Anab; this time, she did not look away,
but managed a strained smile.

Riley returned it, knowing his own must have seemed sickly.

"What admiral will we be entertaining, Captain?"

the chief engineer asked.

"They're sending the very best--the chief of operations, James Kirk."

A muffled yelp came from across the room.  The captain gazed casually
over at his bridge crew, and the cadets seated behind them.

"I hope there's no problem with that, Mr.  Diksen," the captain said
quietly, but Riley could tell he found the situation amusing.

The short brunette female blushed furiously, but managed to stabilize
her voice.  "No, sir/No problem at all.  On the contrary, sir, it's
quite the honor ·..  sir ...."

"Fine, Diksen," the captain assured her.  "I'm glad you see it that way.
If you have any questions about the admiral, you might direct them to
Lieutenant Commander Riley."

Riley felt every cadet's gaze turn to him; Diksen's eyes were as big as
saucers as she stared openmouthed at him.

"Riley served under Kirk's command on the Enterprise's five-year
mission, didn't you?" the captain asked congenially.

Riley nodded in uneasy affirmation.

The captain turned back to the staff and outlined his plan for their
immediate mission.  "Once the evacuation of Totos Four has been
completed, Lieutenant Anab Saed from Starhawk security and two
representatives from the Paladin will depart in a shuttle.  A shuttle
from the Paladin will be sent at the same time.  That ship will fire
upon you and disable your vessel.  Lieutenant Saed will be in charge.
Saed I expect you to make sure your people are prepared for the attack,
but the attack will be real, and while shields will be employed, the
ship will actually be disabled.  If all goes as planned, the Recovery
will protect and rescue you, beaming your entire ship inside it."

Riley watched as Anab nodded, her expression intent as she focused on
the captain's words.  And then Romolo paused; the seriousness left his
face and voice.  "Am I correct in thinking you two know each other?
Seems I remember seeing something in your files ...."

Anab's expression slackened with dismay; Riley glanced back at Romolo
and realized that the captain was addressing him.

"Yes, sir," he said softly, doing his best to maintain a pleasant
expression.

"Well, then, Riley, how about a chance to kill two birds with one stone?
Get out of the office and see a little action, plus have the chance to
spend some time with an old friend?"

Before Riley could reply, the captain turned toward Anab.  "He's a
capable officer.  And he knows the simulation inside and out; in fact,
he briefed me on it.

Any objections?"

For a beat, Anab remained silent, her expression unreadable as she
avoided Riley's gaze.  At last, she replied, her voice firm.  "No, sir."

And then Romolo turned his wide, smiling face toward Riley.

He could not imagine why Ahab had been called over to the Paladin to
head the simulation--unless there were simply not enough seasoned,
qualified officers on board.  For the briefest glimmer of an instant,
Riley considered refusing, but in the surprise of the moment, he .could
think of no reasonable excuse.  He and Anab were adults, after all; and
if there was no way out of it, then he might as well be gracious.

After all, the simulation would be over quickly enough; and then he
would be able to return and retreat to the safety of his quarters aboard
the Starhawk:

He drew a breath and managed a forced smile.  "I'm looking forward to
it, sir."

Chapter Three

CADET REESE DIKS£N sat at the communications station and tried to force
herself to concentrate on the boring, mundane duties that were required
of the officer manning the board.  They'd be at Zotos IV within the
hour.  Within the hour.  That meant that within the hour she might find
herself in the presence of Admiral James T.  Kirk.  She swallowed. Kirk,
himself Distantly her mind registered incoming and outgoing messages,
most of which the computer handled automatically. There were only a few
she had to actually make any decisions about.  She hated being at
communications, especially during high-speed travel.

She had to compensate for time differentials, and subspace
interference--but to her, it was nothing but maintenance work.  This was
not the job she envisioned herself in when she fought to be the highest
honors student in Starfleet Academy.  Except for messages to the
captain, how important could this job be anyway?

Messages to the captain.

It suddenly occurred to her that Kirk would have to call over for
permission to beam aboard.  That meant, more than likely, that she would
have to handle the call...  that she would be the first person to speak
to Admiral James T.  Kirk.

Admiral Kirk.  Now, that was the biggest travesty in Starfleet history.
Why he ever let them kick him upstairs, she could not imagine.  A man
like that driving a desk--it was a waste--no, worse than a waste: a
crime.

Kirk.

What it would be like actually serving under him?

"Mr.  Diksen!" the first officer, Commander Pulver, called out to her
sharply, breaking her reverie.  The by-the-book officer was standing
right by her shoulder, looming over the daydreaming cadet.

"Uh...  yes, sir?" Reese glanced down at her board.  Every telltale was
lit, blinking angrily.

"You have failed to properly correct for subspacial interference,"
Pulver intoned crisply, in her perfectly modulated British voice.
"Communications is at a standstill.  Correct your board, please."

"Yes, sir," Diksen said smartly, her ears burning with embarrassment.
She could almost feel the captain's eyes boring into her back, that
perpetually bemused expression on his face.  In contrast to Pulver's
rigidity and the Vulcan science officer's cool nonemotionalism, Romolo
was so fatherly to the cadets it was downright patronizing.  Diksen knew
he thought the "youngsters" were "cute" in their role-playing
seriousness.

"Sorry, Captain," she apologized, as her hands flew across the board,
making the adjustments in record time.  She didn't relax until Pulver
moved away, peering now at some other cadet's performance.

"I know the routine aspects of communications are dreary, Diksen," the
captain said softly.  She could hear the smile in his voice, which only
irritated her further.  "But in a crisis, communications can be the most
critical .post on a ship.  It's a lot like being an emergency worker--a
whole lot of sitting around until you're really needed, and then
everything moves at warp speed.  Don't underestimate your post, Diksen.
Stay alert." He paused significantly, then added, "We wouldn't want to
miss the admiral's call, would we?"

Reese knew her ears were a brilliant scarlet.  "No, sir," she said
respectfully.

His quiet chuckle sounded blaring among the soft noises of the bridge
instruments.

Getting her board back in order helped to get her mind in similar shape.
She was training to be an officer.  What might happen to her career if
she screwed up this simple task?

An intership call came in for the captain, and she routed it to his
chair.  She heard him murmur to his comm port, then was surprised when
the first officer said to her, "Diksen, you're due for a half-hour
break."

Her eyes strayed to the chrono.  "It's a little early yet, sir."

Pulver's icy reserve never budged.  "We'll rendezvous with the Starhawk
in an hour.  Once that happens, you will remain at your post for the
rest of the shift.  Therefore, for efficiency's sake, you, Changsom,
Kjolner, and Schell will take your break now, so we can have continuity
when the admiral arrives."

"Aye, sir," multiple voices replied.

"And Diksen," the captain added as she rose from her station and was
replaced by a senior officer, "Cadet Ngo has requested your presence on
the hangar bay.  Don't be late returning." He smiled affably, as if he
were reminding his daughter about their agreed-upon curfew after a
dance.

It only made Reese act more professional.  Pulling her uniform in place,
she replied crisply, "Aye, sir!"

His Chuckle followed her out the bridge doors right onto the lift.

She fumed silently, until she noted that the other three members of the
bridge crew dismissed with her were all cadets.  She noticed, too, that
they hung back from her a little in the confines of the small lift.  But
she was too annoyed to hold her tongue.  "The grown-ups needed some
private time," she said sarcastically.

"They sent the kiddies off to play!  What an insult."

Thira Changsom, a young man who had a wrestler's powerful build but a
scientist's serious, gentle demeanor, glanced quickly with dark,
almond-shaped eyes at the others, then responded evenly to Reese, "Of
course they need some private time.  Part of their job is to find
meaningful assignments for us, so they can evaluate our potential.  They
can't very well do that with us sitting there."

Reese's lip curled faintly.  He wouM come up with that.  Most of the
cadets were just like sheep, doing whatever they were told.  But Kirk
had never gone with the herd--he'd questioned everything, right down to
the Kobayashi Maru.  Reese was determined to model Kirk every way she
could.  And if that meant being a bit of a Thorn in Starfleet's side,
fine.  Even as respected an establishment as Starfleet needed a little
goading now and then.  She thought for a moment maybe that was why Kirk
took the promotion.  To be in a better position to prod that sedentary,
too-comfortable establishment right in its- "Do you want us to get
something for you to eat?"

.Laura Kjolner asked politely, as the lift stopped at the cafeteria.

She shook her head.  "No.  Thanks.  I'll meet you guys back on the
bridge."

As the three cadets left her in the lift mbarely masking the questioning
looks they threw back at her--Reese had to suppress the urge to make
"baa-baa" noises at them.  If they were what Starfleet considered
officer matedhal...

Suddenly the doors whooshed open on the hangar deck, and Diksen stepped
out, refocusing her attention.

Where was Josiah, and what could he possibly want with her here?  She
moved across the deck until she noticed his lithe, long-limbed dark
figure crouched in one of the shuttles.  Reese moved toward him across
the spacious hangar, curious.

When she came up beside him, she realized he was running some kind of
diagnostic test on the shuttle.

Nodding, Josiah gazed up at Reese with large dark eyes set in a narrow
taupe-colored face, and ran long, thin fingers through tightly curled
chestnut hair.

Crouching over the inner works of the shuttle, with his long skinny arms
and legs and large hands and feet, he .reminded Reese of a nesting
stork.

"I screwed up today, Reese," he said, his voice weary.  "I messed up a
matter-antimatter alignment by such a huge margin I
could've--theoretically--blown up the whole ship.  I screwed up major,
but the funny thing was, right after I got lucky and found that problem
with the deck plating and had the chief engineer ready to canonize me."

It wasn't like Josiah to dwell on his errors.  But the last thing he
needed, Reese knew, was to be coddled.

"Maybe it was just the thing you needed to get your head out of the
clouds!"

When he looked at her, startled, she went on more gently.  "Listen,
Josiah, why do you think they call this

'training'?  They expect us to screw up.  You're not the first!  That's
why there was a senior officer hanging over your shoulder, to save your
butt--and everyone else's--if you made a mistake."

He shrugged, clearly not wanting to argue with her, but still doubtful.
"Yeah, well--it's made me a little --insecure.  I was assigned to
safety-check the shut-ties, especially the ones they'll be using for the
simulation.

I started worrying that maybe I'd missed something." He gestured with a
huge, large-knuckled hand.  "Sometime tomorrow two people are going to
be locked in this box, and if I screw up the safety check--it could mean
their lives."

"Come on," Diksen prodded her friend, "I watched you run those checks.
You've been over this thing from stem to stem, with every diagnostic
tool you have.  You know very Well it's got specially designed shields,
that the walls are double-thick, that all the equipment has special
insulators on them.  This shut-tie has extra fire-response units.  And
the people in the simulation will be in pressurized suits, just in case
the ship does spring a leak."

Josiah shook his head worriedly.  "This isn't school anymore, Reese.
This is no simulation.  This ship will be hit with phaser power.  It's
my job to make sure she's ready for that.  I guess I started
feeling--maybe I'm in over my head."

Diksen sat in front of Josiah, and stared him down.

"What are you talking about?  We used to stay up late at night and
imagine the day when we'd get to do this stuffing. I'm stuck on a
communications board like some overdressed corem technician, while
you're actually working in the field you always wanted to!  When we got
our assignments you were rubbing your hands together and gloating!"

She took her friend by the shoulders and made him lift his dark eyes up
to stare into hers.  "You've spent your whole life waiting for this
moment!  How many times did you tell me that, growing up, you never
imagined yourself doing anything but serving aboard a starship?  You
told me 'Engineering's the place to be!

The place where all the action is." Now you've got a chance to see what
it's all about.  You've just got the cadet first-time jitters.  You've
got to snap out of it!"

Josiah blinked his large eyes rapidly and nodded briskly, as if suddenly
accepting everything she'd said 'as faith.  But that was always the way
it had been between them.  Reese had always believed Josiah's pep talks
whenever she had those moments when it all seemed too much to handle.
That's why they had been such good friends through their entire Academy
years, and why they'd worked to get assigned to the same ship.  They
couldn't imagine starting their careers without having the other nearby
to lean on.

"I know you're right, Reese," Josiah said, his angular, handsome face
lighting up with his normally cheerful nature.  "You always know just
what to say.

Maybe that's why they put you in communications!"

Grinning, she slapped his shoulder, and they both laughed.

When Reese finally slid into her station, relieving the senior officer
who'd been sitting there, it didn't escape her attention that she was
thirty seconds late.

"Nice to see you, Diksen," the captain said smoothly, before Pulver
could say something more pointed.

"I was afraid you'd decided to order out."

The bridge crew, used to the peculiar brand of their captain's humor,
chuckled along with him.  Except, of course, for Sonak, the Vulcan, who
merely lifted an eyebrow, and Commander Pulver, who stared at her
disapprovingly.

Diksen was about to apologize for her tardiness when her empty stomach
growled so loudly the entire bridge turned toward her.  There go my
ears, she thought, feeling the warmth bloom in them.  Even Sonak was
staring at her, both slanted eyebrows lifted in an expression of curious
disdain.  Apparently, this managed to amuse even the stiff first
officer, who, Reese noted, had to turn away to hide her expression.

Diksen ignored them all and hunkered down over her board.

Then she saw the telltale to her left light up at the same time a voice
spoke into the receiver nestled in her right ear.

"This is the U.S.S.  Starhawk hailing the U.S.S.

Paladin." The voice was the Starhawk's computer, Reese realized with
some disappointment.

"Captain," she announced, "we're being hailed by the Starhawk."

"Good thing you got back, Diksen," he said amiably, "or you
would've'missed this.  They're early.  Put it on screen."

Her hands moved across the board and a new image filled the huge
viewscreen.  The bridge of a starship appeared before the Starhawk's
crew, with an exotically beautiful mature woman sitting in the captain's
chair.

"Zdrastvuitye, Paladin," the woman said with a smile, sweeping a lock of
silver-tinged dark hair from her face.

"And to you, Starhawk," Captain Romolo replied.

"It's good to see you again, Captain Akhmatova."

There was something about the tone of his voice ·..  Reese looked over
her shoulder, but wasn't in any position to see Romolo's expression. But
there was a warmth and familiarity in Akhmatova's as she looked at him
that made her think these two must have had some special, long-term
relationship.

She never thought about starship captains and normal, human
relationships.  Scanning the hours of research on Kirk she'd sifted
through for her reports, she could not remember finding much about his
personal life.  There was, of course, information about his father, his
parentage, his early life and schooling, but once he entered the
Academy, there was really nothing. It was as if his whole life focused
on the Enterprise and the five-year mission.  He had been, for Reese, so
long an invisible mentor, so long the one person she modeled herself
after, she'd never given much time to the blanks in the records.  How
did starship captains develop relationships?  How could they last?  How
did they function?  Were they even possible?  She'd have to do some more
research ....

A familiar name snapped her out of her reverie.

"Admiral Kirk is sorry he couldn't be here to greet you himself,"
Akhmatova told Romolo, "but he's down in Engineering looking over some
of the refitting we had done there."

"Perfectly understandable," Romolo agreed.  "Will you convey a request
to him?"

Akhmatova nodded agreeably.

"Ask the admiral if he'd allow us to show him the Paladin.  We have a
good group of cadets that would be honored to be reviewed by him."

"I'll pass that suggestion on," Akhmatova assured him.

"It's good to be working with you again, Captain," Romolo said warmly,
as the two of them signed off.

Diksen sighed disappointedly and sagged back in her chair.  Now, wasn't
that just the most mundane communication possible?

As Kirk stared at the big matter-antimatter chamber while the Paladin's
chief engineer explained some new hardware toy, he found himself fuguing
out.  I wonder what Scotty wouM have to say about all these new gimmick&
"Aye, Captain, they be lovely, it's true, but can ye rely on them under
fire, I'd be wantin' to know?" This was his second ship review in the
last four hours, and when he'd learned of Captain Romolo's invitation,
he'd dreaded it.  In the last half hour, however, Kirk had almost
forgotten his misgivings.

The captain of the Paladin was so laid-back, so comfortable, that in
just a few moments after their meeting, Jim had felt as if he'd known
the man for years.  Romolo's obvious expertise, his total comfort with
the responsibility of command, shone in every area Kirk visited.  Yet,
he could've sworn there'd been no last-minute hysteria to prepare for
the inspection.

All this, in spite of the fact that the ship carried a large number of
totally raw cadets.  Cadets who somehow didn't seem that raw irader
Romolo's tutelage.

They were in Engineering when that concept was really brought home to
him.

"Admiral," Romolo said, introducing him to a young man, "I'd like you to
meet Mr.  Josiah Ngo.

Cadet, tell the admiral what you found on inspection just before we left
the starbase for this mission."

Slender and tall, with light-brown skin crowned by reddish dark hair,
Ngo nodded at his captain, then turned to Kirk.  With a bony, skillful
hand, he lifted a section of what appeared to be standard deck plating
from a nearby console, then with the other hand picked up a diagnostic
tool--one of Scotty's favorites if Kirk remembered right.

"This piece of plating," Ngo explained, "was part of the flooring that
supported the matter-antimatter chamber.  Usually, anything that
supports that equipment has been examined so many times you begin to
take it for granted.  I was assigned to review the whole area, and run
diagnostics on structural integrity, which is simple enough given a
Reichman analyzer.

The analyzer said the plates were okay, but...  but I wasn't satisfied
with that.  Something about the plating...  well, it just didn't feel
right.  When you walked on it...  the give was different.  So, I kind of
'married' this Reichman analyzer to a Vulcan T'Pell molecular
reorganizer, and decided the readouts contradicted each other."

"Those two instruments were never designed to work together," Kirk
murmured with surprise.

"I know, sir," Ngo agreed, flashing a shy smile, "but making them work
together showed us that there was definitely something wrong with the
plating.  Something that wasn't showing up under any other analyzer."

Chief Engineer Gambeta, a handsome African woman with skin several
shades darker than Ngo's, stepped forward.  "When Josiah brought his
concerns to me, I immediately replaced the plating."

Kirk's eyebrows rose.  That simple statement belied the tedious,
labor-intensive, and dangerous job that was involved in working around
the matter-antimatter chamber.

"I had no choice, really," Gambeta insisted, "since the safety of that
chamber was involved.  We almost had to scrub this mission.  But once we
had the plating removed, it was easier to determine that it had suffered
a very subtle molecular damage, perhaps while the ship was being
refitted.  It would've deteriorated slowly until the plating finally
disintegrated.  If that had happened while we were in space, perhaps at
warp speed..." She shot Kirk an ominous look.  "We worked round the
clock to keep on Recovery's schedule."

Kirk nodded, looking admiringly at Ngo.  "And you did all this, just on
a feeling?"

Uncomfortably, the cadet shifted his weight from one long, cranelike leg
to the other.  "I know it doesn't sound very scientific, sir ...."

"Don't apologize," Kirk insisted.  "Trust your instincts, your feelings.
They were right.  They will be again.  Listen to them.  That kind of
instinct can't be learned.  Good work, cadet."

"Thank you, Admiral," the young man said, smiling shyly as Romolo moved
Kirk on through the rest of Engineering.

"So, you didn't know we'd be showing up here for this exercise with a
crib full?" Romolo asked as they left the area.

'Tm a little surprised, actually," Kirk admitted as they walked through
the curved corridors.  "With the presence of hostile--" He interrupted
himself, then corrected, "That is, of our neighbors"--he was gratified
to see Romolo's.  knowing smile--"I wouldn't think Starfleet would
consider this a training exercise."

"Well, it really is only a simulation," Romolo reminded him, "and the
ambassador will be interacting with our neighbors on the Starhawk, so
it's not like we'll see any action.  At least it's a good shake-up drill
for the cadets.  They'll be taking part in an important exercise, and
get close enough to the neighbors to remember what they smell like. It's
a good group, too."

"So they seem.  I was impressed with young Ngo--even if he did look to
be about twelve.  Which reminds me--he should be part of the team that's
on the shuttlecraft part of the simulation.  I have a feeling about
him." He eyed Romolo knowingly.  "I suspect this assignment falls to you
fairly frequently, Captain."

Romolo's lips curved easily into a smile, brightening his full, handsome
face; his tone was one of distinct fondness for his young charges.  "I'm
not afraid of green troops, sir, that's well known.  I was lucky myself
coming up, to have a good captain.  It can make all the difference in an
officer's training."

Kirk nodded, eyeing the rotund man warmly.  He suspected serving under
Romolo would make quite a difference in this crop of cadets.  He had a
humanity that could often be lacking in a captain.  With all the stress
and demands of the position, it was hard to hang on to that.  Bones
wouM've liked this guy, he found himself thinking.  Then he recalled the
conversation he'd had with Akhmatova in her quarters.

Baldassare is an old friend .  .  .  but a captain's duties don't allow
for reunions.

"While we're just walking and talking here like two old friends, Captain
Romolo--" Kirk began suddenly.

"If we're talking as old friends, the name's Baldassare," the affable
man corrected.

Kirk nodded, pleased.  "All right, Baldassare.  Then I'm Jim.  I wanted
to mention that I've spent some time with Captain Akhmatova.  We had
an...

interesting conversation.  She's not afraid to put an admiral on the
spot!"

"I can imagine," said Romolo with a fond grin.

"Zhanya's a hell of a captain, and quite an impressive human being.  We
came up together in the Academy.

Zhanya was the head of our class--and I must admit I wasn't even in the
top ten.  But whatever grades I did excel in, I did with her help. We've
been friends all these years.  Served on our first ships together.  But
then the promotions came, and time passed.  And it gets harder and
harder to be with old friends."

It was the first thing Romolo had said in Kirk's presence that had an
air of melancholy about it.  "I understand completely, Baldassare," he
replied, his own tone rich with regret.  "And because I really do
understand, I've been wondering when you might--ask me a favor."

The captain shot him a look of genuine confusion that made Jim smile.
"You know," Kirk continued, "I can't remember the last time I've been on
a ship and some officer didn't have a favor to ask of me--usually having
something to do with a petition to Nogura.

Then, after meeting Zhanya and then talking to you, I kept waiting for
you to ask something of me." Kirk gave the captain a reassuring smile,
but Romolo only seemed more baffled.

"You and Captain Akmatova are old friends.  You go back to the Academy.
You spend very little time together these days.  Lately...  I've found
myself remembering old friends I no longer see--and it really put me in
your shoes.  Why don't you give the conn to your first officer while I'm
aboard your ship?  I can stay on the bridge--just for appearance' sake.
I've no doubt your first officer can handle anything that comes up. This
way, you can visit with your friend."

The way I wouM with mine, if I could...

The request took Romolo by surprise.  "Admiral ·..  I couldn't take
advantage--"

Kirk shot him a look, and the Paladin's captain corrected himself
immediately.  "I mean--Jim-what about the simulation?"

"That's the point--it's a simulation.  The last in a long series of
simulations.  And, I don't mind admitting to you, Baldassare, that the
feel of your ship...

well, it reminds me too much of the Enterprise.  I don't even mind
admitting that it would be a thrill to hang around the bridge again.
Even for a training exercise."

"It's a very generous offer, Jim," Romolo agreed, still hesitant.  "I
could visit with Zhanya and be back before the demonstration with the
shuttle."

Kirk shook his head.  "Don't worry about it.  It's just

	routine.  We can keep this between the two of us.  I

	don't think Starfleet has any idea the price starship

	captains pay to sit in that chair.  The human pricet

	friendships, relationships..." He trailed off, thinking of
Lori Ciana, of Bones, of Spock 	"Really, Baldassare, I know very
well how rarely these kinds of opportunities present themselves.  So,
take advantage of it.  And hope I don't ruin your cadets for you?

Romolo chuckled.  "That would be my least concern!"

Chapter Four

"THE RECOVERY is onscreen now," Commander Pulver's precise, cool voice
announced from the captain's chair.

Reese turned to face the screen, and her jaw dropped just a little as
the massive evacuation vessel moved into her prearranged position
between the two starships.

She'd seen models of the rescue vessel, but only now, with her vastness
filling up the space between the starships, could the cadet really
appreciate the rescue ship's scale.  Both the Paladin and the Starhawk
looked like a couple of hovering hummingbirds beside the monster ship.
One of the senior human officers, a red-haired man with a neatly trimmed
mustache, whistled appreciatively.

"An accurate assessment," Sonak, the Vulcan science officer, commented,
"if I judge your reaction to be complimentary, Mr.  Sandover.  Recovery
is the first of her kind, a truly unique endeavor." He paused
significantly, then mentioned, "As is this opportunity.

If you will turn your attention to the upper-right-hand corner of the
screen, you can just see three vessels there.  One of them is Klingon;
one, Romulan...  and the last is Tholian.  A most unique assembly."

Reese gazed in silent awe at the sight: An ungainly Klingon Bird-of-Prey
hovered near a sleeker, more elegant Romulan Warbird; flanking them
both, like a reluctant sparrow trapped between two hawks, was the tiny,
triangular Tholian ship.  It was one thing to recognize the enemy
vessels during an Academy training exercise; quite another to see them
in the flesh.

"Well said, Mr.  Sonak," Captain Romolo's rich voice agreed from the
direction of the turbolift.

The entire bridge turned, then snapped to attention as a man wearing
admiral's braids stepped out from behind their captain.  Reese had been
so engrossed in the image of Recovery, she'd never heard the lift doors
open.

In the split second before Romolo could introduce the man, realization
dawned on Diksen.  He was wearing admiral's braids.  That broad,
handsome face beneath brunette hair, those hazel eyes, it could only
be...

"Looks like our timing was perfect," Romolo re marked, checking his
¢hrono.  "Recovery's right where she should be.  That means the
simulation will begin in about fifteen minutes.  Crew, allow me to
introduce Admiral James T.  Kirk." Romolo moved around the upper bridge
area, introducing Kirk to his officers.  "At navigation we have Mr.
Leandro Sandover 	"

The captain moved around the bridge giving the admiral the time to learn
everyone's name and station.

As they did, Diksen forced herself to remain standing at attention, her
knees locked rigidly, in spite of the flight-or-fight reflex her body
was undergoing.

She'd studied everything official on Kirk she could get her hands on,
and now he was here.  The greatest starship captain the Federation had
ever produced.

Here.  She blinked for a moment and realized the captain had arrived at
her station.  That he was about to introduce Kirk to her.  Her brain
struggled to process the information.

"At communications, we have Cadet Reese Diksen," Romolo was saying.
"This is her first assignment in deep space." The captain smiled warmly
at her.  "I don't know how much time you have to keep track of Academy
affairs, sir, but Mr.  Diksen won the Vulcan Award of Excellence this
year."

Reese felt as if every molecule of blood just rushed to her head,
battling its way to her lips.  No.  No.  He wouldn't tell the admiral
about that.... Kirk's eyebrows ro§e.  in appreciation.  "Is that so?

Congratulations, Mr.  Diksen.  You're only the fourth human who's ever
won that award."

I know, she tried to say, but nothing would come out.  You were the
first.

"What was your study about?" Kirk asked her.

She opened her mouth, but for once in her life, nothing happened.

"It was on you, Admiral," Romolo said cheerily.

Kirk turned to him, surprised, and Reese prayed to gods she didn't know
she believed in that he would not look at her again.  But he did, as
Romolo continued, "She won for a report weighing the political value of
the Prime Directive, as opposed to its practical application.  She used
your experiences, your difficulties in following the Prime Directive, as
evidence of the problems starship captains have to face trying to marry
philosophy with action."

How many times had Reese wanted to discuss that study with him?  A
hundred, a thousand times, she'd wanted to interview him over his
record, find out why he did this, instead of that, why he chose one road
over the other.  But now that the opportunity was here, she just wanted
to sit down, catch her breath, and try not to throw up.

"I'm impressed, Cadet," Kirk said as if he meant it.

"I'm sorry I haven't had time to keep up with the Academy's academic
reports, but I assure you, as soon as I get back, I'll look up your
study.  If the Vulcans thought that highly of it, it must be interesting
indeed."

He smiled, and it lit up his face, making his hazel eyes sparkle.  "I
hope you didn't choose my career because of my well-known...  problems
following the Prime Directive."

Her eyes widened.  "Oh, no, sir, no, to the contrary!"

She realized she was on the verge of babbling and bit her cheek to get a
grip on her seesawing emotions.  "That is...  your record is the best
example of the real-life difficulties facing any captain on active duty
who tries to follow the Prime Directive."

Suddenly, the words active duty seemed to hang there between them like
something unmentionable.

Kirk's face seemed to cloud over for a moment, but he recovered.

"Your record, sit," Diksen said firmly, back in charge of herself again,
"is one any captain could learn from--that was why I chose it."

Romolo chuckled at her forthright honesty, and she realized, too late,
that another captain might've taken offense at that.

"I'm complimented, Mr.  Diksen," Kirk assured her.  "Perhaps we'll find
time to discuss this again."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled.  "Thank you, sir."

As the captain and Kirk moved away, she heard Romolo tell the admiral,
"She finished first in her class in the Kobayashi Maru as well."

But I didn't beat the scenario, she thought disgustedly.

Ever since Kirk had the opportunity to change the programming, security
had been extra tight on the simulation.

Then Romolo introduced the science officer, Mr. Sonak.  Sonak stood at
the science station, hands clasped behind his back.  She saw Kirk
immediately mirror his position, instead of extending his hand as he had
for each member of the human crew.

Vulcans would handshake when they absolutely had to, but it was not
their custom, and, she knew, most of the touch telepaths found contact
with the unshielded thoughts of humans unpleasant, if not actually rude.

Kirk inclined his head respectfully toward Sonak as the captain
introduced them, but never attempted to move any closer.  However, Reese
didn't miss the change in his expression.

It was subtle, mostly something about his eyes, but she couldn't help
but think that meeting Sonak brought back memories of all those years
Kirk had worked with the Vulcan Spock.  Sonak's features were so similar
to every other middle-aged male Vulcan she had ever met that at times
she wondered how Vulcan females could distinguish them.  He had the same
black hair in the bangs-over-forehead style that Vulcans affected, the
same brown eyes as she'd seen in Spock's images.  His height and build
were similar, and Reese knew Vulcans had a body language that was so
alike it was scary.  Sonak was younger than Spock, but with Vulcans
between the age of thirty and one hundred, that hardly mattered.

While studying Kirk, Reese also learned a great deal about the crew that
had worked with him, especially his closest associates, his first
officer, Spock, and the human doctor McCoy.  McCoy had left Starfleet
rather abruptly after the five-year mission--for reasons she could never
determin but even more baffling was the fate of Spock. He, too, left
Starfleet, then seemed to disappear.  She could find no information
about him in any records, anywhere.  She wondered if Kirk knew, and if
that knowledge colored his meeting Sonak?  Reese watched the men
interact with a voyeuristic interest that surprised her.

"Mr.  Sonak," Kirk said, "have you served with Captain Romolo long?"

"Three years, ten months, two hundred twelve days, six hours, and..."

"Yes," Kirk interrupted before the Vulcan could recite minutes and
seconds.  He smiled then, and again, the look was full of warmth,
changing his face.

"I...  served with a Vulcan science officer aboard the Enterprise."

"Yes, sir," Sonak replied.  "You served with Spook, who was also your
first officer.  He had a very distinguished career.  It serves as a
model for the rest of us.

His understanding of human beings, of their culture, and even their
humor, was remarkable." Sonak sounded almost admiring for a Vulcan.

Kirk nodded.  "I will admit to you that I found serving with a Vulcan an
experience that was nothing short of...  fascinating." The merest ghost
of a grin played at his lips; he wore the look of a man who'd waited his
whole life to use that line.

Sonak raised an eyebrow in muted ryness as Romolo led Kirk to the
captain's chair where his first officer still stood at attention. Pulver
was as coolly collected as ever--not a smooth copper hair out of place,
not a hint of anxiety in her ice blue eyes.

When the captain introduced the two, Kirk extended his hand and said to
her, "Commander, your career is known to me.  I understand you've been
approached about a command of your own." Diksen had to admit Pulver
seemed much more like a starship captain than the cheerful Romolo. She'd
be a demanding one, too.

Pulver gave a single, solemn nod, her shoulder-length hair swinging
slightly; Diksen was amazed that it could move at all, since the woman
seemed chiseled from stone.  "I have been approached, sir, and I've
taken 'it under serious advisement," the first officer agreed primly.

"I'm dreading her promotion," Romolo confided to Kirk, sotto voce. "When
she finally does leave me for her own ship, then I'll really have to act
like a captain.

I'm not looking forward to it!"

The two men grinned; Pulver acknowledged the compliment by allowing the
corners of her mouth to lift slightly the closest Diksen had ever seen
her come to a smile.

"If you ever need to.  discuss your decision, Commander," Kirk assured
her, "my door is always open to you."

"Why, thank you, Admiral," she said, sounding genuinely flattered.

"Well!" Romolo said congenially.  "I can see, Admiral, that you and my
bridge crew are going to get along fatuously!" Turning to his staff, he
told them, "The admiral has graciously offered to relieve me for a short
while."

Reese blinked as she heard those words.  Kirk was taking command of the
Paladin7 Everyone seemed a little nonplus by the action, and even the
unflappable Pulver blinked several times rapidly, before regaining her
composure.

"Mr.  Pulver," Romolo continued, "you'll have the conn, of course, with
the admiral remaining on the bridge as...  a helpful observer."

An observer?  Reese could barely believe it.  The greatest starship
captain of all time was just going to stand around and watch Pulver give
her clipped little commands.

"You all know what's expected of you in the simulation," Romolo said
affably.  "Let's show the admiral what a good team is capable of." He
turned to Kirk, and shook his hand.  "Thank you again, sir."

"My pleasure, Captain," Kirk said, and it seemed to Reese he really
meant it.

Could it be she was right?  Had the admiralty turned out to be less than
Kirk imagined?  How could a bureaucrat's job ever compare to the
Enterprise's five-year mission?

Romolo left the bridge quickly, and as he did, Pulver moved with a hint
of wariness toward the captain's seat, eyeing Kirk speculatively.

"Please," he said, addressing the bridge crew, "it's only a simulation,
but it'll be hard to get through if you all remain at attention." He
smiled again, and this time it seemed to relax most of the staff.  "At
ease, everyone.  Resume your posts."

Gingerly, the crew did as they were told.  But only Sonak seemed to be
able to comply with any sense of normalcy.  Then again, when had she
ever seen the Vulcan lose a moment's aplomb?

As Reese forced her attention back to her board, she tried not to think
about the man strolling casually around the bridge, as if it were the
first time he'd ever been on one.  But she couldn't help herself.  It
was happening, really happening.  She was serving under Kirk.t Sort
of...

She almost jumped when Josiah's voice whispered in her ear, then
realized it was coming over the receiver nestled there.  She touched her
board, made the reception clearer.  What could he want now?

"Have you met him yet?" Ngo hissed at her.  No doubt he was still in
Engineering, making an extracurricular call.  He'd know she wouldn't be
able to say much.  And Reese knew very well which "he" Josiah referred
to.

"Uh-huh," she responded softly, so as not to be overheard.  It wasn't
that unusual for the communications officer to communicate directly over
the comm in low tones.  Not everyone that wanted to get through to the
Captain should be given that access.  Part of her job was screening.

"He was okay down here," Ngo reported.  "Has he left yet?"

"Unh-unh."

"Still on the bridge, huh?  Well, don't stare, and don't let your ears
turn red!"

Reese glowered at the board, both bits of advice coming far too late to
do her any good.

"Kirk assigned me to go on the shuttlecraft!" Josiah told her.  His
voice was't.inged with excitement.  Gone was the hesitation he'd voiced
earlier.

She was thrilled for him.  Quietly, she asked, "You okay about this?"

There was such a long pause, Reese felt a flash of anxiety.  At last
Josiah said with a sigh, "Yeah, I'm okay.  We're all suited up and
ready, just waiting for the word to go."

"Any feelings?" That was their own shorthand.

Josiah had on more than one occasion saved them both through his
instincts.  He seemed to know when something, usually mechanical, was
about to go amiss.

"No.  Everything feels fine.  I'd better go.  We're on standby alert."

"Right.  Good lucid" Diksen severed the communication.

Feeling as though she were being observed, and fearing that if she
turned, she'd find Kirk at her shoulder, she looked to see Sonak
watching her impassively.

She wondered if his fine-tuned Vulcan hearing had picked up the word
"feelings." She might've said something to him, but just then another
voice spoke in her ear.  Diksen sat bolt upright. It was the Recovery.

"Captain.  I mean, Admiral...  I mean, Commander--" She stopped,
completely flustered, trying to remember just what was the proper form
of address, and who she was supposed to give it to.  It didn't help that
he was nearby, smiling down at her.

Pulver turned in the chair and directed a frosty stare at her.  "Yes,
Mr.  Diksen?"

She swallowed and settled herself.  "commander, we're being hailed by
the Recovery."

"Very good, Mr.  Diksen," said the British officer.

"Put it on screen, please."

Dr.  Mola ushered Leonard McCoy into a large auditorium-like bay that
had been equipped with a podlure, a huge viewscreen, and
amphitheater-seating for the assemblage.  Most of the fifty other
representatives from the FDRA were already there, making Bones and
Angelina choose seats near the back.

"Dr.  Shulman will help narrate what the ship will be doing during the
simulation," she explained.

Leonard nodded.  He was trying not to be distracted by the knowledge
that, just a short distance away--in spatial terms at least  was a man
he had once considered his closest friend.  A man he hadn't spoken to in
over a year.  A man he had thought never to see or speak to again.  Why
was this bothering him so much now?

Suddenly, Shulman entered, the last to arrive.  He moved to the podlure
so naturally he seemed to belong there.  But, in spite of Shulman's easy
gait, Leonard thought the ship's designer looked ragged.

McCoy wondered if, after the simulation, he might have a chance to run a
diagnostic over the man.  Of course, if anything serious was wrong with
Shulman, the ship, according to Mola, should've picked it up.

"And so, we come to Zotos Four," Shulman announced from the podlure
without preamble, "the final test for Recovery." He touched something on
the podium, and the viewscreen came on, showing the view of the hazy
planet.

To either side of Recovery's camera, two starships hovered nearby. McCoy
wondered which one Jim was currently on, then forced his mind away from
the thought.

"This planet," Shulman continued, "covered by a dense, almost
impenetrable atmosphere, sent out a weak distress call twenty-four
Terran hours ago.  Without any direction from me, Recovery intercepted
the call and began her jouncy.  Now, again without my assistance, she
will proceed to evacuate Zotos Four."

And with that, Shulman took a seat in the front of the group that had
been left vacant for him.

"Now what?" McCoy asked Mola, sitting beside him.

"You must wait and see!" she chided him.

Suddenly, McCoy heard the unmistakable sounds of a channel being opened,
as if he were standing right beside Uhura's board.  The feminized
computer voice of Recovery cut through the air.

"Scientific Station Thirteen on Zotos Four, this is the rescue ship
Recovery--are you reading me?"

There was a significant pause, so the ship repeated the hail.  Finally,
before it could repeat the message a third time, there was the crackle
of static and the central image of the revolving planet changed.  The
new picture was broken, full of interference and hard to see, but there
appeared to be a fair-haired Terran male at its center.

"We read you, Recovery."

"Evacuation can begin on your go-ahead," the ship said.  "Are personnel
prepared?"

The picture steadied a bit; McCoy recognized the leader of the Zotos IV
scientific team, Alain Deveraux.  "As ready as we'll ever be," Deveraux
answered.

"Evacuation will proceed in the following order," the ship announced.
"Healthy personnel first, then injured, then dead."

That made good sense, the doctor thought.  Healthy personnel could
assist the in when they arrived.

"Finally," the ship continued, "we will beam up equipment, and lastly,
buildings and structures.

Healthy personnel will receive further instructions once they are on
board."

"Buildings?" McCoy asked Mola in surprise.

"The ship can beam up buildings," she assured him, "but there's no need
to reconstruct them on the ship.  Their patterns are stored in a special
replicator."

"This is the FDRA ship Recovery," the ship continued, "hailing the
U.S.S.  Paladin and the U.S.S.

Starhawk.  You are in the vicinity of an emergency evacuation.  If
necessary, you may be called upon to provide assistance."

Suddenly, the bridge of the Starhawk appeared on the left of the large
viewscreen, while the center portion of the screen reinstated the view
of Zotos IV.

The officer in the command chair was not the captain --something that
didn't surprise McCoy--but most likely the Starhawk's first officer.  He
knew how boring captains perceived simulations to be.  Jim used to make
Spock suffer through most of them on the Enterprise.

The striking Eurasian woman in Starhawk's command chair nodded at her
own viewscreen and acknowledged the ship's hail.  "This is Starhawk,
Recovery.  We read you and stand ready to assist.  And good luck to you,
Dr.  Shulman."

From his seat at the front of the auditorium, the scientist nodded an
acknowledgment at the screen.

The left side of the screen changed to show the nearly identical bridge
of the Paladin.  McCoy felt the breath leave him in a gasp as an
all-too-familiar figure came to'stand beside the captain's chair.

Jim Kirk, dressed in his gray admiral's uniform.

The doctor's eyes widened and he stared unbelievingly as Kirk grinned
broadly at the viewscreen--apparently having a fine old time.

Beside him, the woman in Paladin's captain's chair said in a precise
voice, "And this is Paladin, Recovery, likewise ready and waiting your
orders.  We, too, wish to send our best wishes to Dr.  Shulman, Dr.
Mola, and all the representatives of the FDRA."

The images of the two 'bridges hung side-by-side on the viewscreen in
front of McCoy's disbelieving eyes, as he stared at the
many-times-life-sized Kirk.  The sight caused a wave of homesickness to
wash over him; for the first time in over a year, he realized how badly
he missed his old friend--and being aboard the Enterprise, despite all
his noise about how glad he was to be out of the Fleet.  At the same
time, he felt a fresh surge of the same frustration and anger he'd
experienced that day at Starfleet, when he'd told Nogura Jim belonged in
command of the Enterprise, not a desk at headquarters.

Even now, Jim looked out of place standing beside Commander Pulver.  No
doubt it was the closest he'd come to that chair since he'd been
promoted.  McCoy didn't have to wonder if Kirk's seemingly cheerful
expression had to do with his proximity to the bridge even if was only
to last for this moment.

"What's he doing there?" McCoy whispered, aghast.

"He must be relieving Captain Romolo," Angelina whispered into his ear.
She paused as she watched the doctor's expression, and said, "It's all
right.  He can't see you."

He started visibly, then turned sheepishly toward her.

"All he can see is the officials, such as Shulman, in the first row,"
Mola said, her expression kindly.  "He won't spot you back here."

For once in his life, McCoy was at a complete loss for words.  He
watched his old mentor as she examined his stricken face and knew he did
not have to say a single word, that she knew and understood everything.

Her dark eyes softened with sympathy.  "I didn't realize things were
that way between you.  I'm sorry, Leonard.  I know you were once good
friends.  And good friends are hard to lose."

He could not answer her, so merely swallowed and turned away, unable to
keep his eyes off Kirk's amiable, relaxed visage.

No wonder you're smiling, Jim, he thought bitterly.

Being on the bridge was the only thing that ever made you happy ....

He paused, scrutinizing Kirk.  Except for the change in uniform, he
might as well have been aboard the Enterprise.  That had to be the first
officer at the conn.

Then McCoy blinked incredulously as he realized that a Vulcan sat at the
science station, and fought back a dizzying rush of d6jh vu.

Beside him, Angelina stiflened in her chair, no longer paying attention
to his momentary angst.

McCoy followed her gaze to the front of the big room, where Shulman had
jumped up from his seat.  The scientist's back was stiff, his whole
demeanor tense.

"So, you're front and center, eh, Kirk?" Shulman called, addressing the
admiral's image.  "I expected you to sit this one out in your
comfortable VIP quarters!  Or are you here to witness firsthand your
hoped-for failure of Recovery?"

Angelina rose abruptly.  "Excuse me," she muttered, and without even
glancing at McCoy, hurried to the front of the auditorium.

Several officials in the front row had leaned forward, murmuring
together.  What was going on?  Was Shulman so upset by Jim's report that
he couldn't bear the very sight of the man?

In an instant, Dr.  Mola had arrived at the front row and slowed her
approach, dearly not wanting Kirk to see her rush to Shulman's side.
With a businesslike gait, she moved to the scientist's left, as though
her very presence might defuse the situation.

Before Kirk could respond, another member of the front-row dignitaries
shot out of her seat.  McCoy recognized the well-known disaster-relief
specialist, Dr.  Chia Noon.  "You're Out of line, Dr.  Shulman!"

the petite Indian woman declared.  "Admiral Kirk's careful examination
of Recovery's early flaws kept us from making costly mistakes.  And who
better has the right to question this project than the man who
confronted the M-5 disaster?"

The man beside Dr.  Noon said, "Just one moment, Chia, now you're out of
line ...."

Good Lord, thought McCoy, the whole group's gonna go for each other's
throats.t Jim, you sure have the charm ....

"Please, doctors!" Angelina begged her colleagues, but it was Kirk's
voice that brought order to the quarreling assemblage.

"Dr.  Shulman," Kirk said in his smoothest tone, "only a fool would not
wish you well in this venture."

He stepped away from the command chair as if to remove any semblance of
authority it might give him.

His overly reasonable delivery took the fire out of everyone's opinion
as the group subsided to hear him.

"Recovery holds out hope for the victims of untimely disasters.  Why
would I wish for her failure?"

Shulman's hands were balled into fists and he took an aggressive step
forward, as though ready to challenge Kirk physically.  "To prove
yourself right, of course.  There isn't a person in this room that
doesn't know how you feel about self-sufficient computers, about a ship
capable of functioning on her own, even of defending herself...."
Shulman's voice grew angrier until it shook with irrational rage.

McCoy could see that the Kirk's borrowed bridge crew seemed rattled by
the discussion, as did the officers aboard the Starhawk.  He found
himself feeling sorry for his old friend.  Is this the kind of
bureaucratic bull-hockey you have to put up with at Starfleet quarters,
Jim?And if it is, how do you ever get anything done?

Angelina reached out, took hold of Shulman's arm, but the scientist
shook her off.

"Be fair, Dr.  Shulman," Kirk insisted, still moderating his voice to a
degree of reasonableness that impressed McCoy.  "I'm not the only person
that's questioned the need for a rescue ship to be armed with
state-of-the-art weaponry."

"Defense!" Shulman shouted.  "Defense weaponry!"

"Yes, of course," Kirk agreed calmly.  "Defense weaponry."

"I'm glad you're here, Kirk," Shulman gloated.

"Because Dr.  Noon is right, very right.  And no one has wanted you to
know more than I, that without you, Recovery could not have become the
vessel she is.

Without you and your damning report, the scattered, diversified
emergency-relief organizations that backed my work could not have formed
the strong coalition we have."

McCoy snorted to himself.  He was well aware that Mola, Shulman, and the
varied consort of organizations forming the FDRA would be forever at
each other's throats.  How they'd managed to ever get this ship
spaceborne was a source of amazement to him.

As if answering the doctor's skeptical thought, Shulman announced, "You
see, Kirk, it's easy to become organized when one has a common enemy."

On the screen, Kirk set his jaw.  McCoy imagined how Jim felt getting
the riot act read to him not only in front of his bridge crew, the
entire ship under his command, another starship that was observing--but
in front of three enemy vessels!  Look out, Shulmanm you've done it
now/You're making' him mad....

"I think, Dr.  Shulman," Kirk said with deadly calm, "that to call
someone who disagrees with you an enemy is a little strong."

Dr.  Mola stepped in front of Shulman and faced Kirk, physically
preventing the researcher from saying anything more, and holding her
arms out toward the admiral in a placating gesture.  "Admiral... forgive
Dr.  Shulman for speaking from his heart about a project that has taken
so much of his effort.  Let me assure you that I and the rest of the
FDRA welcome your presence here.  Recovery's success today will be
witnessed by her most demanding: challenger--and without a challenger,
how could we have developed the high standards we have?  We all owe you
our thanks."

"Speak for yourself, Mole," Shulman barked irritably.

"Watch closely, Kirk!  See how much more efficient, safe, and reliable
the right machine is over the weak and ineffectual efforts of mere
humans!"

Abruptly, the scientist sat down, crossing his arms, his whole body
rigid with anger.

His jaw still set, Kirk chose his words with painful care.  "Dr.
Shulman, Dr.  Mola, I meant what I said.  I look forward to Recovery's
success."

As if she sensed the time was right to interrupt the tense atmosphere,
Recovery announced her next action.

"Beginning beam up of Zotos Four personnel."

The center portion of the screen changed abruptly, and the image of the
mist-laden atmosphere of Zotos IV was replaced by a picture of another
large auditorium like the one McCoy was in.  He forced his gaze away
from Kirk's face, remembering he was here as an official observer, and
studied this new, unfurnished auditorium.  Suddenly, figures began
materializing within it, dozens of figures, more than a starship
could've ever managed at a time, even with all its transporter pads.
Each figure was at least ten feet from the other so there was no danger
of regenerator-beam crossover.  Every figure forming in the auditorium
completed its materialization at the same time, so there was no danger
of someone accidentally walking into another person's field.  McCoy
realized that he could not count the number of people who'd been
instantaneously beamed up into that large room.

Dr.  Mola moved to the podium, claiming everyone's attention.

McCoy had the feeling she was standing in for Shulman, who remained in
his seat still glowering at Kirk.  "Since Zotos only has a complement of
two hundred scientists, Recovery has beamed them all aboard at the same
time with the exception of a few staff members who are in need of minor
medical care.

Had this been a fully developed planet, this scenario could've been
duplicated in over a hundred such hangars, simultaneously."

Even McCoy was impressed.  He glanced at Kirk's face to see that he,
too, seemed surprised.

The voice of the ship spoke up, and McCoy realized the computer was
addressing the people it had just "rescued."

"There are four individuals who require medical attention.  Which of you
here can assist in their care?"

Two Zotos IV scientists identified themselves as doctors.

"Then both of you," the computer intoned, "and the individuals in
question will be beamed directly to sickbay."

No Sooner had the computer announced that than those two people, a man
and woman, were beamed out.  The screen changed once more, showing the
sickbay where six people materialized.  Amazingly, four of them
materialized directly onto diagnostic beds.  Talk about precision work.
t McCoy mused.

For a moment, he forgot about Jim looming up there on the screen as he
watched Recovery diagnose, prescribe treatment, and provide care for the
four different people with four different ailments that had been brought
into her sickbay.  Then Jim turned to speak to the Vulcan behind him,
and that simple act brought back too many memories for the doctor.

There seemed no point in suffering through any more auld-lang-syne
fantasies; McCoy rose and headed for the rear exit, knowing he'd be far
better off experiencing this scenario in the one.place he actually
belonged: sickbay.

In hangar bay four, Riley stepped toward the shuttlecraft with a mixture
of anticipation and dread.

Despite his discomfort at seeing Ahab again, the process of suiting up
and preparing for the drill brought back his days aboard the
Enterprise--not the fear- and guilt-ridden days after one of his command
decisions had resulted in the death of a colleague, but the early days,
when he had been full of optimism and exhilaration.

At the same time, Anab's presence made him acutely self-conscious.  As
he moved toward the shuttlecraft Grace Hopper, Anab fell into step
beside him, her helmet under one arm.  Behind them, the cadet
accompanying them approached; she spoke quickly, softly so that only
Riley could hear.

"K.T ...."

He looked at her, trying to ignore the pain evoked by hearing the
special nickname only she used.

Her full lips curved in a faint, wry grin.  "This is what comes of us
both trying to avoid each other.  I volunteered to be the experienced
officer aboard the shuttlecraft, since they're at a premium aboard Pala
He let go a small gust of air that was not quite a laugh, thankful for
her attempt to break the tension.

"So...  we wind up together.  I just wish Romolo would read his files
more carefully."

"Well, even though it's awkward..." She lowered her lashes, not quite
meeting his gaze.  "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too," he said, half-truthfully, then fell silent
as the cadet, a young man, as tall and willowy as Anab, with the same
graceful, long Somali-an features and dark chestnut skin, caught up to
them at the shuttle's entrance.

Anab's tone grew abruptly professional.  "Commander Riley, this is Cadet
Josiah Ngo.  Ngo will be serving as your navigator." She gestured toward
the pilot's seat.

Riley turned to her.  "No, thanks...  I'll let you do the honors,
Lieutenant.  This was your assignment; I'm just here as an observer.  As
far as I'm concerned, you're still in charge."

"Well, if I'm to be in charge with all due respect, sir," Anab said
formally, as though their relationship had never been more than that of
an officer and her superior, "our original plan was that I would oversee
two cadets, one who would pilot and one who would navigate.  The captain
hasn't reversed his order, and with your permission, I would like to
continue this simulation as we had rehearsed it."

"Fine.  Best to stick as closely as possible to the original.  plan."
Riley climbed into the shuttle and the pilot's seat; Ngo took the seat
next to him, and Anab sat behind them both.  The three of them secured
their helmets in place.

Riley started at the fleeting touch of a hand upon his shoulder.

"Thank you, sir," Anab said softly, then leaned forward to speak into
the comm.  "This is shuttlecraft Grace Hopper.  We're ready, Commander."

Pulver's cool, precise voice filtered into the small craft.  "Very good,
Lieutenant.  Prepare for takeoff."

"Aye, sir."

She nodded to Riley, who discovered, to his surprise and pleasure, that
none of his Academy training had deserted him.  With an ease that felt
as if it had been days, not years, since he had last piloted a shuttle
into space, he touched the controls that would void the air inside the
hangar bay and open the airlock doors.

The great hangar doors rose, and the infinite starlit darkness of space
yawned before them, in stark contrast to the brightly lit shelter of the
hangar.  Riley pressed a few more controls; the tiny ship lifted gently,
then silently left its home.

As the Grace Hopper followed her preplanned trajectory and its
mothership fell farther and farther behind, her inhabitants were finally
able to view the true size and scope of the vessel they were about to
test.

Riley let out a silent gust of air, beside him, Josiah Ngo's lips parted
in amazement.  Recovery's shape was rectangular, much like that of her
infinitely smaller cousin, the Grace Hopper, but sleeker, smoother, and
enormously vast.

"Heads up," Anab snapped behind them.

Riley glanced up to see the Starhawk's "enemy" shuttle approaching just
as Ngo spied the ship and squawked, "Unknown vessel approaching at two
o'clock.t"

Caught up in the sudden immediacy of the simulation, Riley searched his
instruments.  "Scanners say they're arming photon weapons.  Shields up."

"I'm hailing them," Ngo announced.  His voice had calmed down a notch,
but the excitement and tension could still be plainly heard. "Friendship
messages in all languages."

"Changing trajectory to avoid collision course," Riley announced; oddly,
Ngo's excitement calmed him, made him appreciate the value of his years
of experience aboard the Enterprise.  "Maintaining shields."

"They're going to fire!" Ngo announced, clearly trying hard not to
shout.  He sounded like he couldn't believe it was going to happen, in
spite of the fact that it was all part of the planned simulation.

"Swerving to avoid--" Riley began, but his voice was cut off by the
photon blast.

He knew it was just a fraction of a real photon hit, · but it still
jarred the little ship badly, bouncing them all around.  Each of their
pressure suits immediately went into self-diagnosis, automatically
checking and reporting on itself so that the wearer could be sure it was
ready if the ship was suddenly breached.

"Wow!  Shields are down thirty percent!" Ngo announced in amazement,
then, as if realizing his unprofessional outburst, amended it with a
subdued

"sir." He hesitated, glancing down.  "There's something wrong with my
suit.  I think it's the pressure ....

Riley leaned over to help Ngo check out his suit diagnostics.

"No!" Anab leaned forward, her expression one of frustration and alarm.
"This isn't the time or place to worry about that!  Send the distress!"

Riley straightened at once.  She was right of course; he shouldn't be
helping Ngo, but should have taken over his duties--checking the
instruments, supplementing the shields, and, more important, sending the
distress signal.

But before he could do so, they were hit again, suddenly, and his
awkward position caused Riley to careen forward wildly against the
console, smacking his head inside the helmet hard enough to daze him.

His teeth came down on his lower lip with a clack; the metallic taste of
blood filled his mouth.  Damn.t The distress call.t The ship....t The
last blast had hit the small vessel at an odd angle and sent it
spiraling wildly like a poorly tossed football.  Riley tried to fight
the fog in his mind and reach for the controls to restabilize the ship.

Dimly, he was aware of Commander Pulver calling, "Lieutenant Saed?
Commander Riley?  Shall I pull you in?  Transporter room, can you get a
lock?"

He was aware of Anab reaching past him, grappling for the instruments.
But before she could reach the control, the Grace Hopper suddenly slowed
her out-of-control spinning, then righted herself, seemingly of her own
accord.  A computer-generated voice spoke.

"This is the FDRA vessel Recovery.  We are in control of your ship.  Do
you require assistance?"

Before anyone could utter an affirmative, the second shuttle answered
for them by firing another round of photon fire.  Riley watched it
emerge, a small firestar of red tumbling almost slowly their way, and
automatically braced himself for it.  He glanced at the board; shields
were down sixty percent.  Beside him, Ngo gaped, mesmerized, at the bolt
of power coming their way.  This one would breach the ship.  Ngo's suit
When the torpedo fragment hit, instead of being blasted, the tiny
shuttle just rocked slowly, as if the powerstorm of the photon blast had
somehow been absorbed.

"You are in no danger," the Recovery told them.

"You are being protected by a projected force field.

Your attacker is being subdued by the same technology.

They will not be able to fire on you again.  They will be brought aboard
this ship via tractor beam until they are secured in a confined,
shielded berth, where they will be safely contained until further
instructions are received."

Recovery was as good as her word.  Riley could see the "enemy"
shuttlecraft, cocooned in a golden glow, being slowly towed toward the
rescue ship.

"My sensors show your ship has sustained minor damage," Recovery
continued, unasked, "that one of your pressure suits has a malfunction,
and that one of you is injured."

Anab leaned forward.  "Ngo?  Are you all right?"

Ngo looked down at himself in wonder, then snapped to.  "Fine, sir."

The two of them gazed at Riley.  "I'm fine," he said shortly, and again
tasted blood; his lip seemed twice its normal size, and he was certain
his forehead was bruised.  He lifted a hand to it, and lowered it
sheepishly when he struck the smooth, unyielding surface of his helmet.

"Your ship will be beamed aboard so that these problems can be tended
to," Recovery continued.

"Once you are safely aboard, your injured party can be brought to
sickbay, and w Riley interrupted curtly, "I don't need to go to
sickbay!" The realization that he had fatally erred in trying to help
Ngo filled him with embarrassment.  He had been trying to prove to Anab
that he was a changed person, capable and unafraid; but here he was
making mistakes like the greenest cadet.

"Your injuries will be tended there," the ship insisted implacably, "and
the malfunctioning suit can be repaired."

Before he could protest further, Riley felt the familiar pull that
indicated he was caught in a transporter beam.  When the universe
reassembled itself around him, he found himself looking out the front of
the shuttlecraft into an enormous, empty hangar.

"Recovery," Riley asked, even as he opened the door of the shuttlecraft
and stepped outside it, "what's wrong with Cadet Ngo's pressure suit?"
He removedhis helmet and dabbed at his bloody lip with his glove.  If
the ship could detect the problem, it could also tell them how to fix
it.

"The problem is a minor malfunction," the ship announced, as Ahab and
Ngo debarked and stripped their own helmets.  "His pressure gauge has
failed.  The pressure itself was always correct.  A new gauge will solve
the problem."

Anab frowned as she faced Ngo, and said, in a tone frostier than Riley
had ever heard her use, "Any first-year student should've been able to
anticipate that gauge's failure with a proper diagnostic check ahead of
time.  What's your explanation, mister?"

To his credit, Ngo held her gaze calmly and did not wilt.  "I checked
everything before we left, sir.  It must have failed when we got hit."

"That faulty gauge nearly got us killed," Anab began, when Riley
interrupted.

"If you want to blame someone, Lieutenant, blame me.  I violated
emergency procedure.  I should never have taken my attention from my
board."

Anab's eyes narrowed; she opened her mouth to reply when Riley felt the
familiar tingle.

"Damreit, no/" He shouted at the rescue ship even as the transporter
whine hummed in his ear.  "I don't want to go to sickbay.t"

Chapter Five

"I MUSt ADMIT," Iirk told the Palodin's bridge crew as the huge Recovery
went through her paces, "that's pretty impressive." But belying the
mildness of his voice, his head pounded with anger and embarrassment.

Who the hell did Shulman think he was to dress down an admiral?

When no one responded, Jim realized the crew was still tense from the
previous scene.  He had to snap them out of this uncomfortable moment
and reintegrate them as a team.  He approached the Vulcan.

"What do you think of the ship's performance, Mr. Sonak?"

The science officer stood with a most Spock-like stance, his hands
clasped behind his back.  It was impossible to tell that he'd just
witnessed a distasteful scene rife with human emotions.  Sonak was
shorter, slighter of build than Spock, with a rounder face and more
prominent ears; but those were not the only differences.  The Paladin's
science officer seemed more relaxed than Spook had ever been--but Sonak,
as a pure Vulcan, had never had to prove worthy of his own heritage.

"I will hold my opinion, Captain," Sonak said carefully.  "At least
until the scenario has run its course."

Kirk nodded.  "That's playing it safe." He moved back towards the
captain's chair.  "Mr.  Pulver?"

"It's quite an ambitious concept, isn't it, sir?" she mused, her posture
as perfect and reserved as the Vulcan's.  "And ambition can lead to
progress--or problems."

Kirk addressed the helmsman.  "Mr.  Sandover?"

The navigator shrugged.  "Letting Recovery handle evacuations will save
a lot of wear and tear on the ships."

He was about to ask the resident Kirk-expert what she thought when Dr.
Mola addressed both ships.

"Paladin and Starhawk, it's time to employ your shuttles."

Kirk glanced surreptitiously at the chrono.  Everything was happening
right to the minute, in spite of Shulman's display.

Pulver hit her comm button.  "Transporter room, stay sharp.  We might
have to beam our people up at a moment's notice."

She ordered the shuttlecraft away, then all they could do was watch as
the little ship was battered by a shuttlecraft from the Starhawk.  As
the second shot sent the small craft into a spin, Pulver quickly asked
if they needed transporting When Recovery finally grabbed hold of the
vessel, Kirk let out the breath he'd been holding with a whoosh.  The
Grace Hopper stopped its sickening tumble, stabilized, then
dematerialized in a familiar transporter shimmer.  Kirk applauded
politely, pleased when the bridge crew joined in his congratulatory
gesture.

"Well," he said brightly, glancing at the chrono, "neither our work nor
Recovery's is over yet.  Can someone give me Captain Romolo's plan for
the robot drone attack?"

"It's here, sir," Diksen said, handing him a pad and stylus.  He noted
Pulver eyeing him curiously as he mulled over Romolo's design.  The
small, aggressive war-game drones would harass the big ship during the
evacuation to test her response.

Glancing at the screen, Jim thought of the irony of that.  There sat the
representatives of the most hostile forces the Federation had ever
faced.  These tiny drones could hardly simulate the cleverness of a
cloaked Romulan vessel, the aggression of a Klingon warship, or the
mechanical entrapment of a Tholian web.

But the drones were all they had, so they would have to do.  He glanced
again at Romolo's pattern, and started to smile as inspiration struck.
He picked up the stylus and began to manipulate the program.

"Mr.  Pulver," he said as he worked, "I'm making changes in the attack
pattern.  I'd appreciate it if you'd rearrange your command sequence so
that I can have more direct control of the drones."

When her answer was long in coming, he glanced up to 'see her gazing at
him, her blue eyes and porcelain-pale face composed in an expression of
cold disapproval beneath a smooth cap of copper hair.  "Excuse me,
Admiral," she said stiffly, "but isn't that somewhat irregular?"

Before Kirk could respond, Sonak turned in his chair, his expression
mildly perplexed.  "I would like to remind the admiral that the drones
are capable of remembering hundreds of prearmed patterns and using them
in the way that gives them the best chances of survival."

In reply, Kirk fixed both officers with a cool look.

Two beats passed; at last, Pulver backed down, her tone reluctant. "Aye,
sir.  Rearranging command sequence.

Drones will be at your command through the engineering station."

"Thank you," Kirk said graciously, ignoring Reese Diksen's bemused
expression.  "Mr.  Pulver, Mr. Sonakmyour opinions are appreciated." As
the first officer moved over to the vacant engineering station, Kirk
fine-tuned his program, then signaled her.  "Release seventy drones,
Commander."

The navigator turned to him and started to remind Kirk that he was
supposed to release a hundred, but before he could, Jim murmured, "There
are no rules in warfare, mister."

With a soft sigh of disapproval, Pulver tapped her comm, relaying Kirk's
command.  He watched avidly as the small army of drones left the
ship--just seventy of them.  The Starhawk released her cloud of one
hundred identical passive soldiers at the same time.

As the two groups met, they resembled a swarm of angry bees floating
through space, hovering around the big vessel.

Abruptly, one of Jim's drones fired on the ship, immediately ducking
behind an "innocent" bystander.

Then another drone fired, again ducking behind a cluster of innocents,
then another and another.  Now two fired at once, then three.

The ship took the pounding for several moments before she finally took
action.  Using a reverse, narrow-focused tractor beam, the rescue ship
"shoved" the innocent drones out of the way, then fired upon the
instigators taking refuge behind them.

Again and again, she nudged the covering, innocent robots out of the
line of fire and destroyed the chivying satellites. Her accuracy was
unerring, never once injuring any innocent drones.

Kirk enjoyed himself immensely as he worked the board.  He increased the
drones' speed, number of hits, and evasive maneuvers, but Recovery
seemed up to the challenge.  It made him wonder if he had been wrong
about the ship's need for weapons.  Or maybe Mola was right; maybe he
just hated seeing something that could do the job better than a starship
and her captain.

Finally, over twenty of his drones had been nullified.

The aggressive robots' distinctive movements must have revealed their
identities because, suddenly, the great ship beamed her attackers into a
waiting bay as a group, leaving the others untouched.

"Now, that would be a novel way of dealing with a Romulan
Bird-of-Prey,*'.  Kirk commented, amused.

"Simply beam her aboard."

Sonak raised an eyebrow.  "It would certainly be a more pacifistic
technique."

At the sound of a small "hmmpff" emanating from communications, he
turned to face the cadet there.

"You don't agree, Mr.  Diksen?"

Her dark brown hair was cut short, revealing the entire sweep of her
pale neck--and the tips of her ears, which to his secret amusement
colored brilliant red, the way they had when Romolo had introduced her
to him.  Hesitantly, she said, "It's just--" Her gaze went beyond him to
the screen, and focused on Recovery's vast bulk.  "Look at them." She
pointed at the three observer ships, floating in triangular formation at
the top of the screen.  "They're watching this, too.  To them, this
makes us look weak."

"In what way?"

"While we're struggling to perfect this rescue ship, they're pouring all
their efforts into aggressive war technology.  How does this research
help us in dealing with them?"

Before Kirk could respond, Sonak interjected.  "As we speak, Ambassador
Sarek sits on the Starhawk communicating with those same hostile forces
in an unprecedented bid for mutual understanding.  If the Recovery
accomplishes nothing else, her existence has provided this single moment
of cooperation."

How Spock would have agreed.

Diksen shook her head.  "Is that why Starfleet exists?  To become a
perpetual, passive do-gooder?

That's not why I joined."

The cold statement traveled down Kirk's spine like ice.  "Why did you
join, Diksen?" he asked, in a tone so quiet it immediately caught
everyone's attention.

"For the action?  For the chance to prove yourself in combat?  Have you
ever seen combat, especially combat in space?"

She did not answer, only shook her head slightly.

"Do you have any idea how quickly an organic life-form can die in space?
An exploding computer station can cripple or kill in less than a second.
Have you ever heard the shrieks and screams of the wounded and dying,
ever been there when life-support fails?  There's nothing but the
crushing reality of a vacuum--a place where life can't exist."

He gazed back at the enormous bulk of Recovery surrounded by a cluster
of passive robots, a hundred shining metal gems bejeweling her dark
body.  "No flash.  No drama.  Nothing but over two hundred lives saved
in less time--far less time--than either of these two starships could've
done it.  And time, in any life-threatening emergency, is ultimately the
most critical factor."

He paused, his recitation bringing back too many raw memories.  "Trust
me, Diksen.  The Federation spends plenty on the dogs of war.  I pray
you never see any real action." He suddenly felt the real weight of his
loss for the first time since he'd left the Enterprise.

That feeling--what had Riley called it?--the responsibility for the
ship, for her people.

He sighed just as the screen shifted, the right side now showing the
auditorium where Dr.  Shulman again stood at his podlure.  The
researcher was smiling once more, talking about the success of the
simulation.

A sudden notion seized Kirk; he turned toward communications.  "Make
sure they can't hear us, will you, Mr.  Diksen?"

Diksen caught Pulver's eye.  The first officer, who still seemed to be
smarting faintly from Kirk's intervention with the simulation, directed
a single, curt nod at the cadet.

"Aye, sir," Diksen rep!ied, and muted their channel.

"Mr.  Sonak," Kirk said, "I want control of those passive drones.  Can
you get it for me?"

For a beat, no one replied.  With the defeat of the warrior drones, the
planned simulation was officially over.  The remaining drones still out
there were not Paladin's, but Starhawk's.  Even so, Sonak must have
remembered Kirk's earlier statement about the lack of rules in warfare,
for he finally said, "I believe I can handle that, sir."

Kirk turned to Pulver.  "Release the last thirty drones."

"The Starhawk's drones will now respond to your commands, Admiral,"
Somak assured him.  Kirk fancied the Vulcan's tone sounded faintly smug.

"A few new firing patterns, Mr.  Sonak," Kirk told him, as he finished
his work.  "A few surprises.  Enter new patterns, now." The pattern was
one Kirk had been victimized by in an encounter with terrorists in the
Xenia system; as he watched the kaleidoscoping design of weapons fire
from the rapidly moving, interweaving drones, the memory of that attack
surfaced with painful intensity.  The Enterprise had been nearly torn
apart that day.  If it hadn't been for Spock - As Kirk pulled his
attention back to the split viewscreen, he could tell that the Recovery
was taking too long to analyze the firing pattern of the drones.

She kept turning this way and that, but the ever-changing patterns of
chivying robots clung to her like fleas, first under her belly, then
over her flanks.  So far, she'd been unable to make even one direct hit.
Kirk was not at all pleased, and rather surprised.  Or was this response
more typical of an attack that hadn't been planned?

On the right side of the screen, Shulman stared agape at the unexpected
attack.  "This is your doing!"

he shouted at the admiral.

Jim shrugged, not at all sheepish.  "I confess, Doctor.

You've caught me red-handed."

"You're cheating, damn you, Kirk!  Call off those drones."

The admiral stiflened at the escalating fury in the other man's tone.
"Sorry, Shulman, I still had soldiers at my call.  Your ship is here to
be tested.  Do you think that the only tests she should endure are those
you prearrange?"

The Recovery had finally begun her response, but it was inexplicably
slower than the last.  Instead of a swift reprisal, she fired randomly,
striking only one out of three targets.

"Commander Pulver," Sonak said with a faint hint of surprise in his
tone, "Recovery seems unable to determine innocent drones from
aggressive ones now that the admiral controls them all."

Pulver glanced over at Kirk with an expression of concern, faintly laced
with accusation, yet she remained silent.  Kirk himself could think of
nothing to say; he had never believed that Recovery could exercise the
kind of judgment necessary during an attack without a militarily
sophisticated commander at her helm.  But he found no joy in seeing his
fears realized.

"Looks like you're having some trouble with your defense.  systems, Dr.
Shulman," he said at last, with quiet regret.  "It's one thing to set up
a response pattern when you anticipate an attack, but those of us who
work in space"--he almost hesitated at that moment, but caught
himself--"are aware that's a luxury we rarely have."

"You've planned this all along, Kirk, planned to destroy this ship!"
Shulman screamed, spittle spraying from his lips.

Jim recoiled, shocked to silence by the intensity of the scientist's
fury.

"I knew you would never be satisfied until you'd made sure Recovery did
not survive her simulation," Shulman raged, flailing his lean arms.  "I
knew it, and made sure she knew it, too!"

"Commander." Sonak's voice cut through Shulman's ranting, "The Recovery
has just destroyed every drone surrounding her."

In the captain's chair, Pulver straightened, and it seemed every member
of the bridge crew tensed along with her.  Glancing briefly at Kirk, she
turned to the science officer.  "Every one?"

"Even the innocents," the Vulcan confirmed.  "She is now analyzing their
behavior--determining who was responsible--"

Kirk moved out of his seat to make a suggestion.

Sonak, bent over his science screen, suddenly sat bolt upright in his
chair, then whipped his head around to face Pulver.  "Commander...  !"
he called.

Kirk needed no other warning.  It didn't matter that the scenario was
impossible, that the Recovery was a vessel of peace, designed to rescue
the helpless.

"Shields up!" he shouted, no longer concerned about protocol or Pulver's
feelings.  "Shields up!  Red alert!

Battle stations, everyone...  !"

He could hear Pulver parroting him in her clipped, precise accent over
the captain's comm.  As the klaxons sounded, the bridge crew rushed into
action like a well-practiced machine.

Kirk clung to the back of his chair, and managed to stay on his feet; he
could sense, from the feel and direction of the blast, even before
Diksen called out the damage reports, that Recovery's phaser fire hit
them broadside near the lower decks, where the Paladin's shields were
the weakest--dangerously close to Engineering.  The bridge rocked
wildly, but quickly stabilized.

"She can analyze our vulnerabilities," Kirk shouted to Pulver, "so
fortify those shields!  Keep the strongest part between the two ships."

The commander snapped out orders that followed Kirk's recommendations
exactly as he wanted, her cool tones the perfect response to the
organized chaos of the bridge.

Kirk charged up to the viewscreen "Shulman!  What have you done?  What
the hell did you meanre'she knew it'?"

Before the wild-eyed doctor could respond, Dik-sen's strained voice
called out, "Commander!  We're being hailed by the Starhawk."

"On screen," Pulver ordered.

Shulman's side of the screen was replaced by Captain Akhmatova at her
conn.  Beside her stood a worried-looking Captain Romolo.  "Admiral
Kirk," she said, "what's Paladin's status?"

On the opposite side of the screen, Kirk could see Recovery hurl another
volley of phaser fire at the Paladin's shields.  The ship rocked harder
and he nearly lost his footing, but once more, she stabilized.

He could hear Pulver and Diksen sorting out damage reports.

"Uncertain," he told Akhmatova.  "We're weak in our aft shields, but we
haven't had time for damage assessment."

"I need to be there with you, Admiral," Romolo insisted, his green eyes
narrowed with concern beneath thick, golden brows.

"Can't drop our shields now, Captain," Kirk reminded him.  It was true,
despite the exhilaration he felt at being in command almost command, he
thought, with a guilty glance back at Pulver.  But he had no desire to
keep Baldassare from his own bridge at such a critical time.

Akhmatova leaned forward to address her navigator.

"Move us between I.he Recovery and the Paladin.

She won't fire on us; we've been neutral through the entire simulation."

Instinctively, Kirk warned, "No, don'U," but it was too late.  The
Starhawk's navigator obeyed his captain and moved the starship into
Recovery's line of fire.

"It is a logical move, sir," Sonak advised Kirk over the din on the
bridge.  "The rescue ship has no motivation for perceiving a threat from
the Star-hawk."

Logic be damned, Kirk thought with frustration.

That move is all wrong.  He opened his mouth to protest, but before he
could, the Recovery spun about and fired a photon torpedo at the
unshielded Starhawk.

On the right side of the viewscreen, the bridge of the innocent ship
erupted in flames--then faded into darkness like an extinguished candle.

Kirk wheeled toward Pulver.  "Can we extend our shields to cover the
Starhawk?"

f She hesitated; for the first time, she seemed less than totally
collected.  "It will weaken them, sir--"

He wasted no time arguing with her.  "Mr. Sandover, extend shields to
protect the Starhawk!"

His freckled face pale but composed, the navigator glanced over his
shoulder at Pulver, who sat, her eyes narrowed at Kirk.  For a split
second, no more, he wavered, then caught sight of the admiral, who met
him with a determined stare.  "Aye, Admiral.  Extending shields..."

The viewscreen image of Starhawk's bridge was replaced by a view of her
hull, suspended in a golden aura as the two Federation ships,
dangerously close to one another, shared one shield.  Another photon
struck the wounded ship, then another in rapid-fire volley.  Even under
shielding, the Starhawk was racked by the blows.

Paladin's bridge shuddered violently under Star-hawk's beating, telling
Kirk that the extended shields were spread too thin.  He staggered over
to navigation, where he could see the readouts that confirmed his worst
suspicions.

"Logic has nothing to do with this, Mr.  Sonak," Kirk shouted, then
turned again to Sandover.  "Hard about, helm, and fire on my order."

Pulver came to herself.  "Fire, Admiral?  On the Recovery?  But our
people are over there!"

His carrot-colored eyebrows knit together in confusion, Sandover
swiveled to face first her, then Kirk.

The admiral straightened to his full height and met the first officer's
stare with a stoniness that matched hers.

"As they are on the Starhawk and the Paladin, Commander."

"With all due respect, Admiral..." Her tone grew even more clipped and
disapproving.  "I must protest."

"Protest noted," Kirk said swiftly; there was no time to waste arguing
over who had command.  Without taking his gaze from Pulver's, he
ordered, "Mr. Sandover!  You heard me: Prepare to fire!"

A tense second passed--one in which Kirk could almost palpably feel the
shift of power; and then Sandover said softly, "Yes, sir."

"Full' phasers?  Kirk demanded, in a voice that brooked no argument.
"Fire, now, then hard about.

Keep those shields extended, at full power?

"Aye, aye, Admiral.  Firing now."

The crew watched the viewscreen breathlessly as the dazzling golden
blast streaked through the darkness toward the massive rescue ship.
Recovery took the blow better than Kirk had dared hope, but the confused
and frightened scientists in her auditorium swayed under the powerful
blows.

The attack accomplished his goal: It gave Starhawk time to move behind
Paladin.  She still had no shields of her own, and Kirk feared that
first direct hit might have knocked them out.  How long could they
protect her?

"Admiral," Pulver said, with an icy calm that signaled both her
capitulation and resentment, "we need to get both vessels out of range
quickly."

He nodded.  "Go to the engineering station and guide the helm.  You'll
need to watch the sensors closely, make sure we don't hit." She moved
away promptly and he started to follow to add something to his
directions when Sonak called out.

"Admiral, Recovery is arming phasers--"

Sandover at navigation shouted, "Shields are weakening.

Down to sixty percent--"

Kirk halted.  "Deflect power from the warp engines to strengthen those
shields!"

From engineering, Pulver called, "Starhawk is moving away from us faster
than we can safely catch up.

It's taxing the shields." Her hands flew over the board, trying to make
adjustments.

With preternatural calm, Sonak announced, "Recovery is firing phasers
and photons--"

The deck beneath Kirk's boots lurched--again.

Again.  For a full second, the bridge lost gravity; he felt the odd
sensation of lightness as his feet began to lose contact with the
deck...

And then gravity returned, slamming him down.  He rolled, easing the
impact, and managed to regain his footing just as a rain of sparks
erupted to his right.  He raised an arm, shielding his eyes from the
dazzling blast, his face from the rain of debrismthen lowered it to see
that the engineering station had overloaded, exploding up and out, as
though a malevolent genie had burst from its interior.

Backlit by the brilliant orange-red of the flaming console, Pulver's
dark form dropped backward with terrible, limp grace.

Sonak bolted from his seat, but Kirk got to her first and cradled her
head in his lap as the Vulcan crouched nearby.  Her pale, delicate
features were unrecognizable: singed with soot, peppered with shards of
shrapnel, spattered with bright blood that jetted from her throat onto
her auburn hair, Kirk's sleeves, the legs of his trousers.  He pressed
his fingers to the spurting artery in a frantic effort to stanch the
flow, even as he tried to gauge the extent of her chest wounds--a task
made impossible by the amount of blood.

"Sickbay!" Diksen called, in a voice that came close to breaking.
"Medics to the bridge--stat!"

Behind them, the fireglow dimmed as.  the ship extinguished the flames,
blessedly throwing Pulver's stunned, scorched visage in shadow.  Kirk
listened, his heart sinking at sickbay's reply:

"Administer whatever first aid you can manage.

Ye'e'll get someone up there as soon as we can...  we're swamped with
emergencies down here!"

Pulver stared at Kirk and Sonak, her pale blue eyes wide with shock.
"The ship," she gasped, reaching out blindly and catching hold of
Sonak's sleeve.  "The ship ....  !" She broke off with a strangled
gurgling sound and coughed; blood sprayed from her lips as her arm
dropped weakly by her side.

The Vulcan shot a darkly meaningful glance at Kirk, who understood:
$onak must have gotten a brief, telepathic sense of her condition as her
hand brushed his arm.  Kirk had seen the same look in Spock's eyes more
than he cared to remember.  Pulver was dying.

"Sonak, return to your station," Kirk ordered the Vulcan with a tone of
soft regret.  "We've got to know if Recovery--" '

	"Understood, sir." with a final, frankly concerned

	glance at Pulver, the science officer rose, leaving Kirk

	with his charge.

	"The ship?  Pulver demanded again, crimson froth

	bubbling from between her lips; she failed feebly

	again, and this time grasped Kirk's arm.  Her eyes

	suddenly cleared, and focused, fierce and horribly

	lucid, on the admiral's.  "The ship, Kirk--!"

	"I'm here, Commander.  I'll take good care of your

	ship," he promised solemnly.  "As good a care as you

	took." Her gaze remained on him, intent, demanding, full of
suffering.  "You did everything you could ...."

The surging blood under his fingers subsided, then stopped, as the
frantic demand in Commander Ruth Pulver's blue eyes faded to an
open-eyed endless stare.

The body in his arms relaxed with a gurgling sigh; gently, he eased it
back to the deck, aware of the stricken gazes of the bridge crew.

He rose, wiping Pulver's blood from his hands onto his soaked uniform,
and drew a slow, shuddering breath, clearing his mind of everything
except those thoughts necessary for survival. Whatever it took, he would
keep his promise to the Paladin's first officer.

Fortunately, Recovery had not fired again.  The image of the wounded
Starhawk on Paladin's view-screen was abruptly replaced by Myron
Shulman, who shrieked, with a madman's wide-eyed hysteria, "You'll pay
for this, Kirk!  You've deliberately sabotaged this simulation.  You'll
pay!"

I'LL pay?  Kirk thought bitterly, clenching his bloody hand.  "Why,
Shulman?  Just tell me why?!"

Dr.  Mola and Dr.  Noon tried to pull the agitated scientist away from
the podium, and futilely attempted to calm him, but Shulman pulled free
of them and raced away.  The scene blinked off, leaving the entire
viewscreen filled with Recovery's huge, ominous bulk.

Kirk glanced up at the three enemy ships, hovering in triangular
formation nearby.  What must they be thinking?  If Recovery turned on
them- As if the aberrant vessel had read his mind, she turned ominously
in the direction of the three observers.

"Admiral," Sonak said in a voice absurdly calm, as if the universe
hadn't just tipped on its edge, as if his commander were not lying dead
on the bridge, "Recovery is analyzing the presence, the weaponry, and
the strength of the three non-Federation vessels."

"Diksen, warn those ships!" Kirk ordered instantly, snapping out of his
morbid reverie.  "Tell 'them to power up their shields, to get the hell
out of thereto"

"Admiral," Sonak announced heavily, even as Diksen scrambled to obey
Kirk's command and the viewscreen filled with a blinding flash.  "It is
too late.

Recovery has just fired on the Romulan vessel."

Minutes earlier aboard the Starhawk's bridge, Ambassador Sarek stood to
the left of the captain's chair and watched, outwardly impassive,
inwardly astonished, as Recovery fired broadside on the Paladin.

Fortunately, the blast was reflected by Paladin's shields without
causing much harm.  But the tension among the human crewmon Starhawk's
bridge did not abate.

"Good God!" Captain Romolo, who stood at Akhmatova's right elbow,
exclaimed.  "What in blazes is that thing doing firing on my ship?"

Unruffled, Akhmatova watched the viewscreen with the intensity of a
lioness sizing up her prey she would have made a credible Vulcan, Sarek
thought approvingly then swiveled toward her communications officer.
"Open a channel to the Paladin."

Almost immediately, James Kirk's face appeared on the viewscreen just as
the bridge he was on shuddered from the impact of another blow.

But Paladin managed to weather the blast.

"Admiral Kirk, what's your status?"

"Uncertain," Kirk said swiftly.  "We haven't had time for assessment."

Romolo took a step toward the screen, his voice full of frustration.  "I
need to be there with you, Admiral ...."

"Can't drop our shields right now, Captain."

Akhmatova addressed her navigator.  "Move us between the Recovery and
the Paladin.  "In reply to the sudden dismay on Kirk's face, she said,
"She won't fire on us; we've been neutral through the entire
simulations"

"No, don't!" Kirk ordered over her words.

Sarek witnessed the exchange with a calm sense of fatalism; he had heard
of the human's legendary instinct in critical situations and had heard
from his son that the admiral's judgment in such situations generally
proved correct.

Yet it was too late; the navigator moved quickly in response to the
captain's command, and Sarek sensed the Starhawk moving.

And in a blinding millisecond, there came a tremendous roar, as if
Sarek's cortex had erupted in thunder.

He was lifted from his feet and slammed against something--the deck, a
console; impossible to judge in the blind chaos that followed.

He lay stunned for a disoriented second, then opened his eyes to
brilliant green.  He wiped his eyes, and stared, uncomprehending, at the
blood on his hand until he realized that his forehead was bleeding.

He soaked it up as best he could with a sleeve, then looked again.

The bridge itself was red; smoldering red, from the fires blazing on the
consoles, and hazy with smoke.

"Secondary-hull breach," the computer intoned overhead.  "Temporary
force field is in effect.  Please commence repairs as soon as possible."

Sarek took a deep breath, coughed, then repressed a wince at the stab of
pain in his side.  Inconvenient, but not fatal; a quick internal
assessment suggested broken ribs, one of which had slightly punctured a
lung.

There would be sufficient time to deal with it and the pain--later.  He
pushed himself to his knees, then squinted through the haze at Captain
Akhmatova's chair.

Empty.

"Captain?" he called hoarsely.  It seemed logical to raise the ship's
shields as quickly as possible--but none of the human crew appeared to
be at their stations.

No reply.  The ship lurched again, hard, throwing Sarek once more
against the deck.

"Emergency!" the computer called.  "Primary-hull breach.  Emergency
force fields are in place.  Commence evacuation immediately.  Five
minutes of life-support available."

"Captain!" Sarek called again.  "Captain Akhma-tova!"

A figure appeared out of the haze; not Akhmatova, but her first officer,
Commander Marsten.  Marsten's pale face was bruised and contorted in
frank pain; he clutched his thigh as he staggered over the navigator's
motionless body to the unmanned console, and dragged himself up into the
chair.  Sarek watched as the human worked the console with life-or-death
urgency.

"Shields up," Marsten croaked.

The third blast came no more than a second later.

This time, Sarek was able to ride it through by grabbing the side of the
console.  The shields held.

"We've lost warp power," Marsten said, as though reporting to his
captain."

"Impulse functional." He worked a few more controls, then sagged back in
the chair with a hitching sigh.  "We're out of range."

And then Marsten turned and Sarek turned at the sound of soft coughing
and movement.  The first officer punched a control on the helm comm
grid.

"Sickbay!  Get medics up to the bridge,, stat!  We've got a hull breach
and wounded up here!"

Seconds passed before the response came, and then: "Bridge!  We've got
an emergency down here, too!

Science and medical labs are badly damaged.  We've got wounded trapped.
Everyone who isn't injured is working to dig the injured from the
rubble.  We don't have enough personnel..."

As he listened, Sarek glanced up at the viewscreen, just in time to see
Recovery turn to face the Romulan, Klingon, and Tholian vessels.

If Recovery fired on the unshielded observers, the incident could easily
detonate an interstellar war.

Sarek moved swiftly over to the communications station.  The officer
there lay slumped on the deck beneath the console; Sarek carefully
stepped around him and, after a few false starts, intuited how the board
functioned.  He at once opened a channel to one of the observer ships.

"Romulan vessel!  Raise your shields immediately and move out of
Recovery's firing range!  She is malfunctioning ...."

As he spoke, the glare from the viewscreen captured his gaze.  He peered
through the smoke at the screen, just as a brilliant phaser beam
streaked from Recovery toward the Romulan ship, and seared her bow.

Sarek closed his eyes at the sound of screams coming from the Romulan
bridge; and then all was silence as the comm link dissolved.  He tried
once more to reestablish, without success.  On the screen, the wounded
vessel drifted, defenseless.

Again, he attempted to open a channel, this time to a different observer
ship.

"Tholian vessel!  This is Ambassador Sarek aboard the Starhawk.  .  ."

But there was no reply.  "Tholian vessel--" Sarek began again, but
Marsten swiveled toward him.

"They're not there anymore, Ambassador."

"Destroyed?" Sarek asked, detecting a trace of heaviness in his own
tone.

"Hard to tell." Marsten squinted at his console.

"I'm picking up some debris.  Could just be from the Romulan ship, but
the Tholian vessels are so small, they might have been--"

He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from another blinding flash on the
viewscreen.  Sarek forced himself not to look away from the unsettling
sight of Recovery firing on the Klingon Bird-of-Prey.

Sarek initiated another signal with inhuman speed, taking his gaze from
the screen only long enough to work the controls. "Klingon vessel!
Respond!"

As he and Marsten watched, the Bird-of-Prey's image wavered, then
vanished smoothly into nothingness, replaced by stars and darkness.  The
blast dispersed into a wide field, then dissolved.

"They're all right," Marsten said tersely, glancing up from his console.
"They must have cloaked--"

"Klingon vessel!" Sarek demanded.  "If you can hear, respond.  Recovery
has attacked her own vessels.

Take yourself to safety and allow the Federation the honor of avenging
what has happened here.  Recovery is our ship; we must destroy her
ourselves, and deal with whoever is responsible for this sabotage 	"

	No response.

"I doubt they're listening, Ambassador." Marsten's tone was glum.

"Two minutes of life-support remaining," the computer warned.

Marsten rose, his balance wobbly, and grimaced as he clutched his
wounded thigh, where a dark red stain was spreading.  "Come on,
Ambassador.  Help me get the wounded out of here."

Sarek hesitated for a millisecond, no more.  The diplomatic situation
was critical; if 'he failed in the next moment to convince the Tholians,
Klingons, and Romulans that Recovery's attack was not intentional, that
failure could lead to a war that would cost billions of lives.

Yet there seemed to be nothing at the moment he could do for those
potential billions--only for those few lying wounded on the Starhawk's
bridge.

He looked down to see the communications officer pulling himself up.  He
proffered a hand; the human seemed shaken, bruised, but otherwise
unharmed.  Sarek motioned him toward the lift, then made his way through
the eye-stinging haze to Akhmatova's still form.  She lay facedown
between the command chair and the helm, her arms tangled with Romolo's.

Apparently, she had freed herself from the command chair's passive
restraints and tried to catch the other captain.

The Vulcan gently turned her over.  She was bleeding profusely down the
left side of her face and neck.

Seeking the source, he swept away salt-and-pepper hair, sticky and
stained crimson, at her temple he found the deep gouge there that
,revealed splintered bone and whitish-gray matter.

Impossible for her to be alive; but she was breathing barely--and he
managed to find a weak, thready pulse.  Carefully, he scooped her up,
mentally dismissing the insult to his ribs, and carried her toward the
lift, and Marsten's waiting arms.

And then he hurried back into the thickening smoke, in search of
survivors.

He found the dead navigator, whose neck had been snapped.  Only Romolo
was still alive.  Like Akhma-tova, he was unconscious, but his breath
came in hitching, gurgling gasps.  He lay on his back, the chest of his
uniform soaked with blood; a piece of shrapnel had apparently struck him
in a lung.

"One minute before life-support systems fail," the computer announced. A
klaxon began blasting Sarek's eardrums.  Ignoring the pain in his ribs,
he hoisted Romolo into his arms and staggered to the safety of the lift.

The lift doors closed over the blaring, smoky chaos that had been the
bridge.  Sarek released a slow breath and permitted himself to settle
against the cool metal wall, thinking not of the destruction surrounding
him, but of the destruction that might come ....

Chapter Six

McCoy WAS ALMOST HAPPY to be in the primary sickbay.  It was a beautiful
facility, and only one of the many aboard the massive vessel.  He
observed as the ship diagnosed and recommended treatment for the four
scientists who'd been beamed here for medical treatment, then, after
they'd been released, wandered over to where one of the security
Officers had been brought after being bounced around in the
shuttlecraft.

Hell of a way to earn a living, he thought as he approached the
diagnostic bed.  Well, perhaps he could help.  He was surprised to see
that the reluctant patient was someone he knew.

"Riley...  ?"

The officer looked the same as he had during his youthful Enterprise
days except, of course, for the light brown beard, stained now with a
small trickle of blood from his swollen bottom lip.  At the sight of
McCoy, Riley flashed a grin--then grimaced and gingerly fingered the
offending lip.

"Dr.  McCoy!  I almost didn't recognize you with the beard."

McCoy stroked it proudly.  "Just following your lead."

Riley managed another pained grin.  "Good to see you, sir!  What are you
doing here?"

"Observing!  Something old, retired doctors get to do a lot of, it
seems.  Keeps us from feeling totally useless." McCoy returned Riley's
smile, surprised at how good it felt to see an old fellow crewmate
again.

"I might ask you the same.  Was that you that got hurt aboard that
shuttlecraft?"

"I'm fine." Riley lifted a hand to his bruised forehead and winced.

Recovery, it seemed, did not share his opinion.

"The patient has a mild concussion," the computer insisted, sounding
almost peevish, "and an oral laceration.

However, the patient refuses reasonable treatment ...."

Riley groaned in pure annoyance.

McCoy couldn't help but chuckle.  "Now, this here is a serious facility,
Mr.  Riley.  Half sickbay, half brig.

How 'bout if I just participate a little here--I don't think it'll ruin
my 'observer' status too much." He picked up a cell regenerator and a
Simpkins cranial device.  "Now, just hold still."

Riley sighed and obeyed.  McCoy attached the tiny cranial stimulator to
the area of his head that had received the blow and left it there to
neutralize the damage of the concussion, while he waved the cell
regenerator over the nasty cut on his lip.

After a few moments of attention, McCoy addressed the ship.  "How's
that, computer?  Will the patient live?"

"The patient's life was never in danger," the ship replied humorlessly.

"Well, we'll grant you that," McCoy grumbled.

"Can he leave now?"

"The patient has recovered sufficiently to retire to his assigned
quarters."

"See?" the doctor told him.  "You just gotta know how to deal with these
machines."

"You're a lifesaver, Doc," Riley admitted, getting off the diagnostic
bed.

"Not according to Recovery." McCoy smiled.  "So, Riley...  you never
said what you were doing on the shuttlecraft."

"I came with Admiral Kirk to monitor the simulation.

And I...  volunteered to do a little active testing of Recovery's
capabilities." As though they had mutually agreed on it, they.  both
left sickbay and began wandering down the ship's curving corridors.
McCoy imagined Riley wanted to get reunited with the shuttlecraft crew.

"A little more exciting than you bargained for, especially after a
driving a desk for a few years, eh?"

McCoy asked, and when Riley replied with a wry grin, continued: "So,
tell me...  how is Jim?"

"He's well," Riley said carefully; his tone made McCoy think he was
debating whether or not to say more.

"That's good." McCoy paused for a few strides.

"Look, Riley, I'm sure you heard about that day I went to headquarters
and had a little...  disagreement with Nogura.  I'm sorry for any
embarrassment I caused Jim."

A small smile settled over Riley's boyish features.

"I'm sure he understood, Doctor.  You were only doing what you thought
best."

"Damn straight," McCoy said.  "Jim was my closest friend." He came to an
abrupt halt and faced the younger man.  "Tell me, Riley...  is he happy
with what he's doing?  Nogura being good to him?"

Riley's gaze fastened on a far-distant point in front of them; his
expression grew opaque, unreadable.

"He...  he's done an outstanding job in the admiralty.

Nogura's very pleased with his performance."

"I didn't ask that.  I asked whether he was happy."

Riley shrugged and dropped the mask; the corner of his lip quirked
wryly.  "I can't say, Doctor." He sighed.  "I think he's...  restless.
Looking for alternatives..."

"I knew it!" McCoy said, with a burst of passionate anger.  "The man
belongs on a starship, but Nogura's too damned stubborn to admit it.  I
hope Jim's at least coming to his senses."

Riley inclined his head and parted his lips to answer but his words were
drowned out by the sudden blare of a klaxon.  The deck beneath McCoy's
feet dropped out from under him, causing him to hurtle downward and into
Riley.

"All hands clear the corridors," the computer droned over the klaxon's
wail, "and report to your quarters for safety."

Dazed, McCoy clambered to his feet, leaning against Riley for support,
each man steadying the other shakily.

"You all fight?" they asked each other simultaneously, even as they
tried to stabilize their footing.

Before either could reply, frantic shouts emanated from the far
corridor.

McCoy turned in the direction of the approaching yells.  It was all
happening too fast; one minute the deck was heaving, the next Myron
Shulman was pounding down the corridor toward them, outdistancing a slew
of pursuers.

"Dr.  Shulman, stop] Stop!"

McCoy at once recognized Angelina Mola's voice.

"Grab him, somebody] Don't let him get away]" a male voice admonished.

Confused, McCoy stepped into Shulman's path, prepared to reason with
him.

"Doctor, don't!" Riley shouted over the klaxons and moved to block him.
Then the deck shuddered again, and they all landed on the floor in a
chaotic heap.

Are we being fired upon?  McCoy thought incredulously.

Had the Klingons, Romulans, or Tholians taken advantage of this
situation somehow and begun an attack?

Shulman and Riley made it to their feet at the same time.

"Don't move, Dr.  Shulman," he warned, his tone dangerous, but his eyes
bright with fear.  "I don't want to use force ...."

Shulman swung with a madman's power, but Riley somehow managed to block
the blow, and the next.

But Shulman's third blow landed right on the commander's mouth, on the
freshly healed split lip.  Bright blood burst forth, trickling down into
his beard; Riley reeled, his head bouncing against the nearby bulkhead.

McCoy moaned in sympathy with him.

Before he had a chance to help, Shulman was free, racing away down the
endless corridors.  The other scientists caught up to McCoy and Riley,
then passed them in pursuit of Shulman.  Even as they passed him, the
computer repeatedly insisted that everyone clear the halls and retire to
their quarters.

Like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, McCoy thought crazily.  He
grabbed Angelina's upper arms as she ran by and forced her to stop.

"What the bell's going on here, Angie?"

"Shulman's gone completely paranoid," she explained, gasping for breath,
"and it's as if the ship has gone mad with him."

"What are you talking about?"

She rested a thin, dark hand on her heart.  "Recovery attacked the
Paladin, the ship Kirk was commanding.

He was running an unplanned scenario and Shulman got furious--and the
next thing we knew, Recovery attacked well, it looked as if she attacked
Kirk.  I know it doesn't make any sense.  We think Myron's done
something to the programming.  Recovery's attacking anything that moves
near her--she's hit the Paladin, the Starhawk, and the Romulan vessel,
and almost hit the Klingon ship.  We think the Tholians got away before
it was too late."

McCoy's eyes widened.  "Wait a minute Klingons?  Romulans?  Tholians?
Good Lord..."

She closed her eyes and released a slow breath, clearly realizing what
she had just revealed; and then she opened them again, and steadily held
the doctor's gaze.  "I forgot myself in the excitement, Leonard.  But I
know I can trust you4"

"Of course you can, Angie," McCoy interrupted hastily, "but let's get
one thing straight.  You mean that the Klingons, Romulans, and Tholians
all came to watch this simulation--and Recovery hit them...  in an
unprovoked attack?"

Angelina nodded as McCoy raised a hand to his forehead and groaned.
"We've got to get Myron under control," she said, her normally calm tone
rising with panic, "get him medicated, and find out how to take control
of this ship, before--before there's an inter-stellar war!  Leonard, try
to communicate with the other ships.  Tell them it was an accident. Tell
them we need help!"

She pulled free from McCoy's grip and went tearing down the hall after
the other scientists who were still pursuing Shulman, and soon
disappeared from sight.

McCoy said nothing as he helped Riley to his feet, just tried not to
think of Jim on his injured vessel.

Riley voiced the concern they both shared.  "The Paladin was attacked?
Was anyone hurt?  Admiral Kirk is on that ship ...."

"I don't know," McCoy said heavily.  "But we've got to get you back to
sickbay."

Riley touched the back of his hand to his lip, stared at the blood
there, and made a sound of disgust.

"Someone's got to stop Shulman."

"There's no point chasing him," McCoy assured him.  "He can't go
anywhere.  Let's treat your head and lip--again!--then we'll get you
connected to your crew."

Riley nodded.  "Anab.--that is, Lieutenant Saed" --a look passed over
his face that McCoy could not decipher--"is with me.  She's Security,
and a little better equipped to find and secure Shulman than a bunch of
theoretical scientists."

As soon as he got Riley settled on the same diagnostic couch he'd just
left, McCoy instructed him on how to use the devices to treat himself.
While he was occupied with that, the doctor moved to a nearby computer
screen.  Would the ship answer his requests now?  All he could do was
try.

"Computer," he said, in as calm a voice as he could muster.

The screen came to life.  "How can I assist you?"

"Give me an open channel to any Federation vessel within range."

"Your channel is open and your message will be broadcast, but there are
no Federation ships within range to see or hear your message.  The only
vessels within range are classified as enemy ships."

What is she talking about?  McCoy wondered, confused.

Sure, the Romulans and others are out there, but the Starhawk and
Paladin are both within range.

"Listen, there are two Federation vessels right nearby.

If I send my message out, will they be able to communicate back to me?"

"You are mistaken," the ship corrected him.  "There are no Federation
vessels within range.  The only vessels within range are enemy ships.
Your message will be broadcast in the hopes that some Federation ship
will hear it and respond; however, there are no such vessels currently
in range."

McCoy closed his eyes in frustration.  The ship was acting as crazy as
Shulman; Angelina was right.  Recovery considered the two Federation
ships to be enemies; either that, or it had already destroyed them both.
He tried another tactic.  "May I communicate with the enemy vessels?"

"All communications with enemy vessels are handled automatically.  It
would be inappropriate--and against regulations--for visitors to
communicate with hostile forces.  You may broadcast your message when
you are ready."

"Thanks," McCoy grumbled sarcastically.  "That'll be just fine." He
moistened his mouth, and wondered if there was anyone out there to hear
him.  With his luck, only the Romulans or Klingons were left.  No, he
decided, I can't accept that.  Jim's out there.  He wouldn't let this
oversized tin can get the drop on him.

So, what was he supposed to say to his old friend?

"Run like hell for the hills, we're trapped on an ambulance that's gone
plumb loco"?  He took a deep breath and faced the lit screen, knowing
the sensors beside it would transmit his image.

"This is Leonard McCoy aboard the FDRA vessel Recovery.  I don't know
exactly what's happened here, except that the ship's designer has had
some sort of breakdown--and it appears he's somehow affected the
original programming of his ship.  No one aboard knows what Recovery
might do under these circumstances.

Right now, she'll let me broadcast for help, but she won't let you
respond.  Please, be cautious.

The scientists aboard this vessel will do whatever they can to get to
the root of this problem and correct it.

But we may need help.  If I can update you on the situation here, I
will--if Recovery will let me.  This is Leonard McCoy, signing off."

At his command, the screen cooperatively went dark again.

Jim Kirk stood on his battered bridge and stared incredulously at the
figure on his viewscreen.  He took a step forward, then another, as if
he could only get close enough he'd be able to see that the person
addressing him was no{ really- Leonard McCoy?

"Bones!" he murmured.  The doctor was dressed in casual civilian
clothing, and sported an impressive salt-and-pepper beard that would
have made Jim smile in less treacherous circumstances; otherwise, McCoy
looked and sounded the same as ever, as if it had only been days, not
years, since they'd last stood together on the Enterprise bridge.

"He cannot hear you, sir," Sonak said quietly.

"What's he doing there?" Kirk asked the bridge, not really expecting an
answer.

"He's listed in the roster as an 'official observer,'" Diksen informed
him.

"He's on the Recovery?"

"That is correct, sir," Sonak said.

He hadn't seen Bones in over a year, and the last time they'd been
together, they hadn't exactly behaved as two good friends should have.
And now, he was trapped on that ship gone mad ....  Kirk began to wonder
if this was some kind of bizarre karmic vengeance meted out to him for
accepting a promotion he should've never taken a promotion Bones had
specifically warned him against taking.

"Sir," Sonak interrupted, "apparently Ambassador Sarek has convinced the
Romulans not to retaliate.

However, the Klingon ship, though injured, has veered off and cloaked
herself. i I cannot say where she might be.  And there is no way to
determine, with the amount of debris from the battle, what has happened
to the Tholian vessel.  It might have escaped, or it may have been
completely destroyed.  It is impossible to determine at this time."

Kirk nodded, pulling his eyes forcibly away from McCoy's image on the
viewscreen.  Sonak must're gotten some crew members to remove the body
of Ruth Pulver, since there was nothing now but a stain on the floor to
mark her existence.  He checked his hands for the tenth time, since they
still felt sticky with Pulver's blood, even after he'd taken a moment to
clean them.

"Mr.  Sonak," he said, with more calmness than he felt, "you're getting
a field promotion.  I need a first officer.  You're it.  You may remain
at the science station, and cover your duties there as well."

There was only the briefest of hesitation from the Vulcan as he said,
"Aye, sir, as you wish."

What we both wish is that Pulver were still alive, but she's not, Kirk
thought bitterly.

"Admiral," Sonak said, once more bent over his science viewer, "Recovery
is starting to move."

"Move?" He had to snap out of it.  Bones wasn't the only innocent person
trapped on that ship.  Kevin Riley was there, too, with his ex-wife and
Josiah Ngo.

In addition, there were over two hundred valuable scientists, and the
entire FDRA contingent some of whom were considered to be the finest
minds in the universe.  "Move where?"

"I believe..." Sonak peered intently into his science screen.  "The ship
is aiming...  for Tholian space, sir.  And she's picking up speed."

Kirk spun toward the navigator.  "Follow that ship!

She can't violate that border.  The Tholians will capture her in one of
their webs and then have access to state-of-the-art Federation
technology.  Plus they'll probably use her trespassing as an excuse to
start an intergalactic war--if the Klingons and Romulans don't beat them
to it."

"Sir, we've got damage in Engineering," the navigator told him
regretfully.  "We might be able to get up to warp six, but the Recovery
can make it to warp nine!"

"We've got to catch that ship, mister," Kirk ordered the officer.
"There's over two hundred people aboard herrand millions more depending
on us to stop this conflict.  Diksen!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get me Engineering?" Even as he said it he knew there would be no
Scotty there to work miracles for him this time.  Any miracles produced
today would have to be of his own making.

Hours before Gol's dawn, Spock woke abruptly, pushing against the warm
black rock to a sitting position.  For a fleeting instant, an image from
a dream glimmered in the darkness before him.

It was Dr.  McCoy, standing upon the deck of an unfamiliar ship,
speeding through time and space and stars, his pale blue eyes wide with
fear.

This is Leonard McCoy.  We need help.

Help us, Spock.  .  .  .

So urgent, so convincing was the doctor's tone that Spock was catapuRed
into consciousness; he drew a deep, calming breath and dissolved the
impulse to rise, to rush to McCoy's aid.

Unsettling; but a dream, no more.  Yet the sense that McCoy was in
danger did not ease.

"Impossible," Spock murmured aloud.  He had struggled the previous
evening to rid himself of the sense that Kirk was in danger. Byet the
feeling persister, despite Spock's efforts to break all ties to the
admiral.  And now, this overwhelming sense that McCoy, too, was in
danger...

Impossible, for he felt he had done all that was necessary to sever his
ties to his friends.

He rose quietly, setting aside the cloak that served as his bedclothes,
and moved purposefully through the darkness to sit in front of the cold
oil lamp and meditation mandala, which shone dully in the starlight.

His eyes had adjusted to the dimness; and though his night vision was
not as keen as a full Vulcan's, he saw well enough to focus on the
mandala's intricate design, and use it to trigger a deeply meditative
state.

The dream returned with full clarity; McCoy's face appeared in his
mind's eye, as clearly as if the doctor had been standing before him.

This is Leonard McCoy.  We need help....

His image triggered another, this one from Spock's recent memory: that
of Jim Kirk, trapped in an interstitial rift, floating ghostlike in his
spacesuit on the Enterprise bridge.

Jim had been calling to hir absilently, his voice unable to carry across
the partition of space and time, but Spock had read the words his
transparent lips had formed:

Spock.  Help me, Spock.  .  .  .

The Vulcan rose, a swift, sudden movement, and strode quickly to the
window, breaking his meditation.

The memory had evoked such strong emotion that he had been unwilling to
sit still, to confront it.

He had fled as if to escape, to leave it sitting there, before the lamp
and mandala.

He leaned, arms folded against the warm stone window ledge, and breathed
in a lungful of desert air, as cold and piercing as the brilliant
starlight.

He had thought himself no longer capable of such emotion.  Bbut here it
was, undimmed, all the grief and anger he had experienced during the
Tholian affair.

Grief, because he had thought the captain, his closest friend, dead;
anger, because he had failed to save him.  And there was anger, too, at
McCoy, whose own pain had caused him to strike out at the nearest
target: Spock.

He gazed up at the onyx sky, at the dazzling diamond stars, and saw
instead the captain's quarters aboard the Enterprise, heard instead of
the silent mountains the faint hum of starship engines.  He had gone
with McCoy to view the captain's last orders--a painful enough task,
which had tested the limits of his control.  And then McCoy had lashed
out, his tone ragged with sorrow.

"He was a hero in every sense of the word, yet his life was sacrificed
for nothing.  The one thing that would have given his death meaning is
the safety of the Enterprise.  Now you've made that impossible ...."

"You could have assured yourself of a captaincy by leaving the area...
but you stayed.  Why?"

Because, Spock had explained calmly to the'doctor, he was legally and
morally bound to ascertain the captain's status.  That was true.  And
yet, there had been another reason as well, one he had scarcely admitted
to himself: He had been unable to accept his friend's death.

Indeed, he had felts with the inexplicable, irrational certainty of
intuition--that Jim was still alive.

Perhaps it had been a bond forged by friendship, or by the times they
had mentally linked; perhaps it was something far more human.

In his memory, he heard once more Jim's voice, as he delivered his last
orders to his first officer: "Temper your judgment with intuitive
insight.  I believe you have those qualities ...."

Whatever the sensation's cause, Spock experienced the same certainty now
that his friends both Jim and McCoy--were in mortal danger...  and that
it was in some way connected to one of the most emotional episodes in
his life.

He turned from the window, took a step back toward the lamp and mandala,
and sat cross-legged on the warm stone in front of them.  Perhaps it was
for the best that this dream and the incident with Sarek had occurred,
for they alerted him to the need to eradicate the last vestiges of
emotional attachment for his human friends.

Using the image of the mandala, Spook cleared his mind.  There was but
one way to proceed; he would remain in meditation until he succeeded in
breaking the emotional ties to Jim and McCoy.  For only if such bonds
were broken could he hope to achieve Kolinahr.

And he would not rise until he also determined how to help them, if such
help was indeed required.

Drawing a deep breath, he began ....

Chapter Seven

"WE'RE ALL SCIENTISTS HERE," Angelina Mola insisted to her associates as
she sat staring at the implacable computer screen in front of her.
"Surely, there must be something in this place that can help us."

Beside her, Dr.  Chia Noon and th young doctoral student they were
mentoring, Jason Albrecht, stood in Myron Shulman's quarters, hoping
that either the vanished scientist would eventually show up or they
would discover some clue to his shockingly aberrant behavior.  But
finding that information might take an archaeology expedition, Mola
thought as she gazed disconsolately about the small quarters.

Angelina had worked with Shulman for years, spending hundreds of hours
with him in a dozen offices on as many planets.  The Myron Shulman she
knew was a man who always kept his materials rigidly organized,
impossibly neat.  She'd never known him to work with rimsics; he
abhorred putting anything on paper.  She couldn't remember ever seeing
him accumulate more than a dozen data cassettes on any project he was
working on.  It didn't matter that Myron's work took him to many places
and planets.

He was always prepared to pick up and move  with all his data neatly
organized and concisely contained mat a moment's notice.  He called no
place home, and every place work.

As she gazed about the ramshackle mess that was Myron's workplace, she
would've thought that someone had ransacked it, except for the fact that
every object was covered with his familiar scrawl.  Cluttered with piles
upon piles of small data cassettes mmany spilling over onto the floor
where they mixed randomly with jumbled masses of rimsics and notepaper,
which, in turn, were buried under dozens of noteboards strewn over every
available surface--Shulman's workspace was a disaster area.  What had he
been doing here that had made him abandon the habits of a lifetime?  She
carefully picked up a few sheets of paper and tried to make sense of the
senseless symbols on them.

"Isn't there a way to locate him through the computer?"

Dr.  Noon asked, her black eyes narrowed with anxiety; a deep furrow had
appeared directly above the small red caste mark on her brow.

Chid peered down at the mess scattered across the deck, her slender
golden brown hands clasped behind her back to avoid touching anything,
as though she feared their trespass here would be one more transgression
the paranoid doctor would not tolerate.

"Well," Angelina mused, "we had no luck getting the computer to tell us
his whereabouts when we were in the corridors." Even now, throughout the
ship, other members of the FDRA were still trying to track the elusive
Shulman, using tricorders and other instruments, but it was as if
Recovery herself were conspiring with her creator to cover up his
escape.

"But this station is the one he uses himself," Chid countered.

Angelina looked at the blank screen with a thoughtful nod.  "Very true.
His station might not have the information overrides the public stations
have.  It's worth a try."

"But this computer is still the ship's computer," Jason interjected.  He
looked like Chia's opposite; pale, blond, blue-eyed, as tall as the
dark-skinned Noon was short.  "It's still Shulman's invention.  He has
designed this entire ship.  Protecting him could be one of her prime
objectives."

Mold shook her head..  "Myron didn't program that type of reaction into
Recovery.  He said that was where Daystrom went wrong, putting too much
of himself and his own personality into his computer.  No, to Myron,
Recovery was not an extension of himself."

"Perhaps," Jason said quietly as he rifled through a stack of fiimsies,
"he had a change of heart regarding that philosophy."

The two women glanced at one another, but Chid only shrugged, having
nothing to offer her friend.

We're all in way over our heads, Mold thought, fighting off an inner
surge of panic.  Even if we find him, what will we do with him?  She had
some vague hopes of running a full diagnostic on him and finding some
organic problem--a virus, perhaps, or a brain tumor --something she
could treat...  something she could cure.  That hope was really all that
was keeping her going now, so she refused to examine it, refused to
listen to her analytical self, who would recognize how futile a hope it
was.

Unconsciously, she rolled the filmsics still clutched in her hand into a
tight tube as she sat in front of Shulman's station. "Computer, tell us
where Dr. Myron Shulman is right now."

"That information is classified," the pedantic, ferninized voice told
her.

Angelina closed her eyes.  It was the same thing the stations in the
corridor kept insisting.  Information-any information--about Shulman was
classified.  But Dr.  Mola had hoped that the screen in Shulman's
quarters--the place where he continued to fine-tune his
programming--might have better answers.  She couldn't face the fact that
it, too, would merely parrot the same illogical nonsense.

"This is Dr.  Angelina Mola," she said forcefully.  "I am the head of
the FDRA, and have a priority-one clearance.  There is no information
that I am not entitled to know!  I repeat, where is Dr.  Shulman?"

"That information is classified.  Only Dr.  Shulman is cleared to
receive that information."

Chin ran her fingers through her close-cropped jet hair.  "This is
madness.  The only thing that was supposed to be classified was
information about the defense system, so that no passenger aboard
Recovery could take command of the ship or her weaponry.

Why, just this morning the computer told me where Shulman was when I
asked."

That was this morning, Angelina thought morosely.

Before Recovery had gone mad.  Before she'd attacked two Federation
vessels with their own people aboard, and the Romulan, Klingon, and
Tholian observer ships besides.  Perhaps she could get other answers
from the computer--answers that might lead to Shulman in another way.

She unrolled the flimsies and stared at them.  There were notations in
Myron's round, rolling script, but interspersed with them were figures
and symbols she had never seen before.  "Computer, Dr.  Shulman seems to
have been working on some sort of code as part of his programming.  Can
you tell me anything about that?"

"No," the computer said simply, "I cannot."

She sighed and once more twisted the battered fiimsies.  "Computer, can
you at least tell me where we are headed?"

"We are traveling to coordinates five-seven-point-two-zero," the machine
intoned.

Angelina had no idea where that was, and by the looks on their faces,
neither did her associates.  "And where is that?"

"Seventeen light-years from Zotos Four."

She felt a chill creep over her.  "Is that quadrant within Federation
space?"

This time the computer paused for an uncomfortably long time.  Normal[g,
its answers were instantaneous, pausing only long enough to simulate
normal human conversation.  "That information is classified," it finally
responded.

The three scientists exchanged glances.

"I believe those coordinates are well inside Tholian space," Dr.  Noon
said quietly.

Angelina shot her a look of dismay.  "Why are we going to those
coordinates, computer?"

"We have received an urgent call for help and are responding with all
haste."

"And who has sent that call, computer?"

There was another pause, longer than the last.

"That information is classified."

"Computer, is Dr.  Shulman permitted access to this classified
information?"

"Dr.  Myron Shulman has access to all areas of information."

"Is Dr.  Shulman working with you to improve your efficiency, your
response time, and determine who has access to classified information?"

"That is correct."

	"And where is Dr.  Shulman working on these

	lSSlleS.

	"Dr.  Shulman works on my programming at this

	station," the computer insisted.

	Angelina made a small sound of exasperation as she

	shook her head.  "Isn't he working on your program ming now?
Somewhere on the ship?  Where is he

	working now?" She clenched her teeth in frustration.

	There was only the slightest chance that the computer

	would consider the importance of the question centered around
the issue of work rather than location

	and might accidentally tell her where Myron was at

	this moment.

	"Dr.  Shulman works at this station alone.  His

	current location is classified," the machine insisted.

	"This is useless," Jason said, tossing the unrevealed
cassettes down.  "It'll never tell us where he is.  If

	we can't physically find him--"

	"You'll never be able to defeat me," Shulman's

	choked voice said from the doorway.

	The three scientists spun to face him, and stared at

	the wild-eyed man.  His gaunt, narrow face glistened

	with sweat and his chest heaved, but the hand he used

	to hold the phaser was perfectly steady.

	"Myron!  Thank God we've found you!" Angelina

	said softly, trying to change her stricken expression

	into one of relief and concern--not an easy thing to

	do, given the crazed look in Shulman's eyes.  "We've been
looking everywhere 	"But she found it difficult to take her gaze off the
weapon in Myron's grasp.  Impossible that he should have it; Recovery
was supposed to scan for and remove personal weaponry.

"You mean hunting everywhere, don't you?" Shulman's voice was hard,
accusing.

"Please, Myron." Mola spread her hands placatingly, made her tone as
soothing as possible.  Beside her, Noon and Albrecht stood frozen by
fear.  "You're not a well man. We only want to help you."

"You only want to destroy me." A spasm of pain flickered over Shulman's
face; for an instant, he leaned forward, on the verge of doubling over.

At once, Mola and Albrecht began to move toward him--but before they
could take so much as a step, Shulman recovered and raised the phaser
again.  A twisted, triumphant grin spread over his lips.  "Me and
Recovery.  You're working in collusion with Kirk.  I know it.  And
Recovery knows it, too!"

Angelina shot a glance at Noon and Albrecht.  From their grave
expressions, they clearly understood what she did--that Shulman's
paranoia was fixed, unflappable.  Like all madmen, he knew his reality
was the only reality.  There could be no reasoning with him...  but
someone had to try.

Mola looked again at his phaser, gripped so tightly that his knuckles
had turned ivory pale.  "We're unarmed, Myron," she said, with a calm
that amazed her.  "Would you shoot your own colleagues, the people
you've known and worked beside for years?"

"You would ask that when you are trying to destroy me and all my work?"
He hesitated, swaying slightly after the shrill outburst, then gathered
himself; his wide madman's gaze came to rest upon the flimsies Angelina
clutched.  The sight fueled his rage.  "You enter my quarters, try to
sabotage my computer, steal my notes, then call yourself my colleague?
You are nothing but my enemy.  You and Kirk.  My enemies!"

And then he moved, barely perceptibly, the hand that held the phaser.

A blinding flash; Mola gasped at the blow that struck the center of her
chest, that propelled her off her feet and slammed her back against a
table, scattering cassettes, noteboards, flimsies onto the desk. She
came to rest atop a pile of debris and watched with odd detachment as
Jason lurched across the room and tackled Shulman.

"Angelina?" Chia whispered.  The small Indian woman's creamy brown
countenance appeared above her, blotting out the sight of the two
struggling men; and then Chia's face began to recede, as though Angelina
were being pulled back and away, down a long, dark hallway.

Then the second blow came; this one far more agonizing, radiating from
Mola's chest into her left arm and shoulder.  For an instant she thought
Shulman had fired on her again--but there had been no flash.  She
groaned aloud with the paim

"Angelina?" Chia said, but the sound seemed muted, faraway.

It's my heart, Mola realized, with the same ethereal detachment.  I'm
having a heart attack brought on by the stun blast.  I'll die if someone
doesn't do something.

·..  But there were more important problems at hand, weren't there?  She
turned to her old friend, Dr.  Noon.

"Tell Leonard," she gasped, unable to draw enough breath to make her
voice sound clear.  She waved the twisted fiimsies feebly at Chia. "Tell
Leonard...

about the symbols.  Tell Leonard...  to tell Kirk 	"

	Chia was shaking her head, completely baffled.

Dios mio!  Mola thought disgustedly.  I'm dying here and can't even make
myself understood/ "Tell Leonard what, Angelina?" Chia asked.  Then,
suddenly, the voice of God interrupted.

"My sensors indicate you are in a critical medical condition."

How odd, Angelina thought, her eyes straying up heavenward.

God sounds just like the computer/ "You will be beamed directly to
sickbay," God continued, "where there are qualified people to assist
you."

"Angelina!" Chia cried out, just as Myron broke away from Jason's grip.
The phaser felt to the floor, clattering between them, but Shulman
lurched, snatched it up before Jason could stop him, and ran away down
the corridor, firing a last shot back toward his attacker.  The blast
missed the younger man, but forced him to give up his pursuit just as
Dr.  Mola felt the hand of God gather her up and absorb her, while an
odd whine filled her head.

"Angelina!  Angelina?" Dr.  Noon's panicked voice cried out, but that
sound faded too, as a powerful force pulled Dr.  Mola toward the light.

"The ship is designed to control all outgoing transmissions," McCoy was
telling the recently rehealed Kevin Riley.  Riley had just finished the
last of enforced curatives the ship insisted he endure; now he sat with
a concerned impression, massaging his neck.

"That would prevent evacuees from jamming communications," the doctor
continued, "or hostile political forces from communicating with any
accomplices outside the vessel.  But the ship is supposed to let people
send outgoing transmissions if they're deemed 'reasonable,' such as
broadcasting a call for help.

Unfortunately, the standards for what's reasonable are Shulman's, and in
his state of paranoia--" He shook his head.  "Then again, Shulman was
able to establish bidirectional communications with two ships, so you
would think we could find a way to do the same."

Riley made a low, unenthusiastic noise that was not quite a growl.
"Somehow, I just can't believe we'll be that lucky." He kept rubbing the
back of his neck as though he were still feeling repercussions from the
repetitive head blows he'd endured.  McCoy wondered if the medical
sensors on this wayward bucket could be completely trusted.

"You sure you're okay, Riley?" he asked.

He straightened.  "Fine.  At least, I must be if this hyperactive
nursemaid is willing to release me.  We need to find Anab--Lieutenant
Saed and the cadet.

He's an engineering student.  I've been thinking, Doc --maybe you and he
could work together.  You know your way around science computers, so
maybe with Cadet Ngo's help, the two of you could try to override
Shulman's programming.  In the meantime, the rest of us could search for
our mad scientist."

"Well, maybere" McCoy began, but the familiar sound of the transporter
whine made him break off just as Recovery intoned:

"You have been identified as a doctor.  There is an incoming patient
that requires assistance.  Please return to sickbay station four."

McCoy and Riley both glanced around the facility.

Nearby, a tall, dark-skinned figure began materializing on a bed.  The
diagnostic screen was activated automatically as soon as the form
completed transport.

With Riley beside him, McCoy jogged over to the reclining body--and
recoiled as he recognized the elderly, black-haired woman.

"Angelina!" McCoy gasped.  Her normally warm brown skin had taken on a
grayish cast, her breathing was shallow, and her face was contorted with
pain.  He glanced up automatically to the screen above her.

"She's having a heart attack!"

Even as Riley moved around to the other side of the bed, prepared to
offer whatever assistance he could, McCoy heard the transporter hum
again.  On the table beside the sickbed an array of cardiac equipment
suddenly materialized.  McCoy reached for a cardiac stabilizer and
oxygenator without a second thought.

"Hold this against her throat, here," he directed Riley, indicating the
precise spot.  "It'll compensate automatically for the reduced oxygen
going to her brain and other organs.  Keep it there till I tell you
otherwise." He activated the stabilizer and placed it over her chest.
"What the hell happened to her?"

"The patient has been struck by a phaser stun beam at close range," the
computer responded obligingly.

"Well, who in blazes would fire on Dr.  Mola?"

"Dr.  Shulman fired on her," Recovery stated dispassionately.

"It was self-defense."

That brought McCoy up short.  He and Riley exchanged worried glances. "I
thought no one was allowed to bring weapons aboard this vessel," McCoy
said quietly.

Before Riley could offer a response, the computer answered, "That is
correct.  No one is permitted to bring weapons aboard Recovery."

"Excuse me," McCoy said angrily, without looking up from his desperate
efforts to save his friend's life, "but to paraphrase a former associate
of mine, you're not being very logical!" If no one is permitted to bring
weapons aboard, then how is it Dr.  Shulman is armed?"

"Dr.  Shulman is outside of normal parameters," the computer explained.

Riley narrowed his eyes and glanced faintly upward as he addressed the
invisible computer.  "Not according to regs, he's not.  That was One of
the things Admiral Kirk's report really harped on, that the computer
aboard this ship shouldn't be able to delineate one individual as being
more important than another.  Otherwise, in the evacuation of a planet,
the first political party to get on board could order the ship to
abandon its enemies."

McCoy nodded as he chose the appropriate drugs that would aid Angelina's
condition.  "I remember that was one issue Shulman actually agreed with
Kirk on," he said to Riley.  "He hadn't wanted to risk anything like the
Daystrom incident with Recovery.

So, what's happened?  Why has the computer decided Shulman's 'outside of
normal parameters'?  What made him bring weapons aboard and when did he
decide to use them--against his colleagues?"

Before either of them could pursue their questions further, Angelina
started to stir.  Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned weakly.  McCoy
leaned over her so she would see someone she knew.  "Easy, Angelina.

Easy.  You're in sickbay.  We've got everything under control."

She grimaced and stared at him as if baffled.  Then, to both McCoy and
Riley's surprise, she chuckled weakly.  "I don't think so, Leonard.  Not
this time."

She attempted to rise to a sitting position, but McCoy placed a hand
firmly on her shoulder.

"Whoa, there!  Just where do you think you're going?  You're in a bit of
trouble here, Angie.  You just can't go strolling away."

She shook her head, as if he were the one who couldn't understand.
"Shulman--shot me.  He's armed.  He's..." She pointed a bony brown index
finger at her temple and waved it in a circular motion, then dropped her
arm.  "...  loco en la cabeza.

Something--something is seriously wrong with him ...."

"I know all about it, now, and we're gonna take care of it," McCoy
soothed.  "But you're in no shape to participate."

With a sudden spurt of strength, she grabbed hold of his tunic with one
hand and pulled him closer.

"We're heading for the Tholian border!" she gasped, her face contorting
once more with effort and pain.

"We'll be there in a matter of hours!  If we cross into their space, it
could mean intergalactic war!  We've got to find Myron, find out why--
Why?  Why--?"

"Take it easy, Angie." McCoy gently tried to disengage her hand.  "Just
let me get you stabilized here, then we'll worry about the condition of
the universe."

Flailing in her agitation, she struck him in the chest with her other
hand, which clutched a sheaf of flimsies rolled into a tube.  "Shulman's
notes," she whispered hoarsely.  "Shulman's notes.  Take them, Leonard."

Her breath grew even more labored; McCoy had to lean close to hear her
final words.  "Shulman--never took notes on paper ....  "He took the
fiimsies just as her eyes rolled up and she fell back, unconscious, on
the table.

"Dr.  McCoy," Riley warned.  "Her signs..."

McCoy looked overhead and saw his friend's vital signs plunge.  He
dropped the fiimsies onto the floor and reapplied the cardiac
stabilizer--but Angelina's vital signs continued their rapid downward
descent.

The stabilizer indicated that damage to the heart muscle was so severe
resuscitation was hopeless.

"The heart's destroyed," he barked at the young commander.  "We've got
to do an emergency transplant.

Computer, I need an artificial heart here, now!"

"This patient was critically injured during combat with Dr.  Shulman,"
Recovery replied, in her aggravatingly calm voice.  "Implanting an
artificial heart would allow the patient to regain normal function.  It
would be unwise to allow a criminal to be resuscitated.

An artificial heart will not be provided."

For a scant moment, McCoy was stunned into silence.  The computer was
supposed to preserve life at all costs.  It wasn't designed to make
value judgments about an individual's worth.  "This woman is no
criminal!  She's a scientist who's personally responsible for improving
the lives of hundreds of people and she's dying!" McCoy yelled at the
air.  "You give me that device!  Give it to me now!" He glanced at the
diagnostic screen; Angelina's vitals were nearly past the point of no
return.

"Request denied," the computer intoned.  "What is your interest in
reviving this criminal?"

McCoy let go a sound of pure rage.  With all the problems he'd had with
computers in his long career, he couldn't remember the last time one
openly defied him and caused the death of his patient.  Grimacing, he
looked at the ceiling, wanting to focus his frustration on something,
anything.  Just as he opened his mouth to scream again at the damned
machine, he felt Riley's grip on his arm, and looked up.

The commander held his gaze with such somber intensity that McCoy fell
silent as Riley addressed the computer.  "This man is a doctor.  He is
obliged to save all life, regardless of its guilt or innocence."

"Understood," the computer said.

Riley's afraid that thing might go after me, brand me an "enemy of the
state," McCoy realized.  Looking back at Angelina's still form on the
table, he swallowed back the lump of grief and fury in his throat.

They'd been such good friends, and he was failing her completely.
Maybe--if he could get her in stasis, then get her to a real hospital-
"We've got to get her in stasis," he murmured to Riley, "preserve her
until we can get to a--" He glanced around nervously.  "--a more secure
facility and arrange for a transplant or artificial heart.  Computer, in
order to bring this--criminal--to justice we will need to revive her
later, for, uh--for her trial.

Give me a stasis chamber, now/"

"That assessment is appropriate.  Stasis chamber prepared and ready,"
the computer agreed willingly.

McCoy's eyes filled as the helpless form of his friend dissolved before
him to be transported into a cold, dark place, alone.  There'd been so
many years, so much caring and friendship.  And now this woman--his
mentor, his teacher, sometimes his confidante--was consigned to a
sterile place where life was put on hold.  Considering what was
happening aboard this mad ship with its even madder captain, he knew the
chances were great that Angelina would be in that stasis chamber
forever--or until the ship was destroyed, by either old enemies or their
own people.

He felt Riley's hand tighten on his arm, only now the commander wasn't
restraining, but trying to comfort.

McCoy looked up, his eyes blurry with tears his anger would not let him
shed.

"We need to be careful here, Doctor," Riley said softly, glancing around
them, indicating the omnipresent computer.  McCoy nodded.

"I wouldn't be a doctor if it weren't for that woman," he whispered.

"I'm sorry," Riley said.  He paused, then bent down and scooped up the
rimsics.  Taking the doctor's elbow, he led McCoy silently out of the
sickbay into the corridors.  The doctor stumbled along numbly, trying to
figure out what possible good he could do here when he wasn't even able
to save the woman who had taught him so much.

"We've got to communicate with Admiral Kirk," Riley said after a time,
as they walked--aimlessly, McCoy thought--along the winding corridors.
"If we're heading toward Tholian space--"

"Don't you think he might already know that?"

McCoy said heavily, forcing himself to reply.  "He can track the
trajectory of this ship, estimate its travel time--" He could almost
hear Speck coming up with an accurate estimate of where they were going
and when they would get there, without ever using the computer.  But
then, Speck wouldn't be with Jim, would he?  How did they ever come to
this, scattered to the solar winds?  The thought intensified his sense
of bitter loss.

Riley was scanning the rimsics.  "These things make no sense to me. I've
never seen this kind of writing before.  It's not Romulan.  Not Klingon,
either.  You ever see anything like it?"

He handed the doctor a page where the symbols outnumbered the human
script.

McCoy touched the artificial paper reverently, as if he could still feel
Angie's warmth on it.  Staring at the symbols, he frowned.  There was
something disturbingly familiar about them.  Fabrini?  No.  Vulcan?

No, not that either.  But he had seen them before.

"Guess there's no point in asking the computer what they are?"

Riley shook his head.  "That may just bring more trouble on our heads."

McCoy sighed, and forced himself to take stock of their location; he was
totally lost.  "By the way, do you have any idea where we're going?"

"To the hangar bay," Riley replied.  "That's where the shuttlecraft
should be."

"Oh," he said, realizing Riley'd never lost track of their goals.  Time
to snap out of it, McCoy, he scolded himself.  Angie would chew you out
big time if she found you moping around over her, and not getting down
to business.  He swallowed, and picked up his pace.  He could mourn
later.  Now they had work to do.

Work he would have to accomplish without old friends--Kirk, Spock,
Angie--to help him.

Because of Angelina, he was a doctor.  And a doctor fixed what ailed
you.  And this place needed more fixing than any he'd been in in a real
long time.

Without consciously realizing it, he started rolling up his sleeves.

Chia Noon sat disconsolately at the head of the conference table as
Jason Albrecht briefed the top-ten representatives of the Federation
Disaster Relief Agency on what had transpired between them and Myron
Shulman.  As the titular head-- '

Now that Angelina is dead...  Angelina is dead...

Angelina is... --of the FDRA, it was Chia's job to brief them, but she
couldn't.  She couldn't bring herself to relive that terrible scene in
Myron's quarters, especially the horrible moment when Myron had shot
Angelina at point-blank range.  Now the computer insisted she was dead,
being held in stasis.

Intellectually, Chia tried to tell herself that there was some hope for
her friend if they could get control of the computer, if they could get
the ship to an advanced planet like Vulcan, if they could- She stopped
her mind from its futile optimistic speculation.  The fact was, they
were hurtling toward Tholian space--and Angelina was probably the
luckiest among them.

Jason finished explaining the situation as the ten scientists around
them stared at him, astonished.

Chia knew they could barely accept what he was telling them.  Most of
them had worked with Myron Shulman for years.  There were protests
around the room, but they died out quickly.  It was hard to argue with
the reality of Angelina's death.

Finally, Nassar Omar, who was next in line for the chair after Chia and
had listened while nervously stroking his silver mustache, said softly,
"What in the worlds can we do?"

For once, Jason had no answer and all eyes turned to Chia.  She sighed,
wondering why they thought she had any solutions to this dilemma.  And
then she remembered: She was in charge now that Angelina- Noon swallowed
and found her voice.  "We must warn the others, the rest of the FDRA,
and the evacuees.  Everyone must stay in their quarters, secure their
rooms, and avoid any contact with Shulman."

"How can they secure their quarters," Omar asked pointedly, his cobalt
blue eyes narrowing with skepticism, "when Shulman's in control of the
ship's computer?

He can go anywhere, hear anything--"

Chia shook her head.  "It's all we can do.  None of us worked on the
computer, that was Myron's alone.  The evacuees are all environmental
and evolutionary specialists.

The design and scope of this computer will be completely unfamiliar to
them.  The only people on board who might have any idea how to cope with
it would be Starfleet personnel."

"Well, aren't there several of them on board?"

Jason asked.

"Yes, six altogether, counting Leonard McCoy, who's an honorary member
of this team and a retired Starfleet medical officer.  But two of them
are confined since they were in the attacking shuttlecraft during the
simulation, so they won't be released.  Of the three remaining, one is a
cadet, the other an admiral's aide.

Only one is a Security officer.  So, you see, there will be little help
from that quarter.  We can only hope that the two starships that were
part of the simulations weren't damaged too badly, and can do something
to--"

She swiveled in her chair at the sound of the door sliding open, and
fell silent at the sight of Myron Shulman standing in the doorway.

His dark hair stuck out at crazy angles from his skull, his skin shone
with a slick sheen of sweat even the front of his tunic was soaked, as
though he'd been running a marathon, which Chia suspected he had.  He
quivered like a tuning fork, except for the hand that aimed a phaser
steadily at the group.

With eyes so wide the whites were visible all the way around the
golden-brown iris, he moved his gaze from face to face--a gaze that held
a dark cunning Chia had never seen there in all the years she'd known
the man.

No one in the room stirred.

"You're all in collusion with Kirk," Myron said, with glistening lips
that trembled though his voice sounded remarkably normal, almost as if
he were lecturing a class.  "All of you.  Everyone in this room,
everyone in this ship--and especially our precious honorary member,
McCoy.  Kirk's after us, trying to destroy us, but won't he be surprised
when we destroy him.t Him and all his conspirators.  Starting with you."

He gestured with the phaser at Noon, who sucked in a breath and held it;
and then he waved it at each of the others in turn.  '5411 of you.  Then
the others.  One by one.  First, the FDRA, from the leadership on down,
then the invaders, the parasites that have snuck onto this ship.  Then
finally, Kirk.  Only then will the holy triad be avenged--!"

He winced as if something hurt him suddenly, unexpectedly.  The weapon's
aim wavered; with a boldness that astonished her, Noon took advantage of
his distraction and rose'from her seat.

"The holy triads" Shulman murmured, grimacing again in pain as he buried
his knuckles in his disheveled mop of hair and clutched his skull.

The holy triad?  The man's clearly raving ....  Chia glanced at the
others in confusion, then took a slow step around the table, spreading
her hands in a peacemaking gesture.  "Myron, what is it?  Something's
hurting you.  Let me help."

He blinked in seeming confusion as he raised his face to regard her. For
a moment his face seemed as it always had, and the man she once knew as
a colleague looked back at her.  "Chia, it hurts," he said, with a
childlike plaintiveness that she found oddly touching.

He rubbed his skull, just above his right forehead.

"Even when I do what it wants.  It always hurts."

Angelina was right; there's something organically wrong with him,
something in his brain.  She took advantage of the moment, and took a
step closer.  "I can help you, Myron," she said, letting the honest
concern she felt for him show in her voice.  "Come with me to sickbay.
We'll get something for the pain, and find out what's hurting you.  Come
with me there."

No one moved as Chia took another step forward, and extended her hand,
palm up, as if she were approaching a wild animal that needed taming.

Shulman looked totally exhausted and almost relieved as he turned to
her, and lowered the weapon.

She barely dared to breathe.  Would he let her help him?

A sudden blur of motion to her left.

She swung about, startled, and saw Jason Albrecht lunging toward her and
Shulman--reaching for the weapon.

"NO!" Chia shouted, with horrifying certainty as to the outcome, as the
younger athletic man grabbed Shulman's arm and the two grappled for the
weapon.

The transformation in Recovery's creator was astonishing; the fatigued
scientist became all predator again.  Shulman fought the muscular young
student with a strength and vicious skill that astonished Chia.

The two slammed to the floor fighting wildly for control of the phaser,
Jason clearly struggling for his life.

The other scientists tried to help, grabbing Shulman's limbs, even his
feet, but he shoved them off with shocking ease.

"Run!" Jason screamed at them, as Shulman overwhelmed him.  "Run! Hide!"

His words echoed as the whine of the phaser filled the air.

Chia watched, too stunned to move, to react, as Jason's body glowed with
impossible, blinding brilliance, then dissolved into nothingness.

Never had a group of eminent scientists ever responded so efficiently to
a command.  The group scattered, racing wildly out of the room before
Jason's body had even completely discorporated& All except Chia, who
stood transfixed with horror and amazement at the ease with which an
entire human being could be dispersed into all its billions of separate
atoms.

Shulman got to his feet, staring wide-eyed at the spot where Jason's
body had lain against the carpet.

The ship would clean the spot as soon as they vacated the room, Chia
knew, removing every molecule that remained of Jason; and then no trace
of that brilliant young man, a man with all his life and all its promise
still before him, would exist at all.

She looked up to see Shulman turn his gaze on her.

The quivering was more pronounced now.  It was as though he stood on a
deck panel that trembled from metal fatigue and threatened to blow apart
at any second.  And yet there was something about this physical symptom
that seemed more pleasurable than painful.  That realization frightened
Chia even more.

"Myron," she said softly, even though she knew that the moment she might
have reached him, might have helped him, was irrevocably gone.  She
searched his wild eyes and tried anyway.  "Myron?  Are you still in
there?  Is my friend still alive in there at all?"

His lips pulled back into a rictus of a grin.  "Oh, yes," he assured
her, his voice a parody of its normal self.  "Yes, Myron is still in
here.  Deep.  Deep inside."

The quivering increased, and as Shulman raised the phaser and aimed it
at her with a hand that trembled not a bit, she told herself the
trembling was the visible manifestation of Myron's battle for control
with whatever it was that had possessed him.  Even so, she knew it was a
battle he was doomed to lose.

Noon's fear transformed into an entirely physical phenomenon.  Although
a renewed rush of adrenaline quickened her heartbeat and sent a fresh
chill coursing down her spine, her mind became detached, serene as she
stared at Shulman's index finger, which tightened now on the trigger.
She felt a sudden surge of compassion for him; how tragic, that he
should have gone mad on the verge of what should have been his life's
greatest achievement.  How tragic, too, that the madness should have
caused him to murder his friends and colleagues.  The real Shulman, a
gentle man whose goal was to save lives, not take them, would have been
horrified.

Yes, Angelina was lucky to be floating mindlessly in the dark void of
stasis; lucky to have been spared the protracted terror that was sure to
face the survivors on the doomed vessel.  Chia felt something akin to
relief that her own journey aboard Recovery was about to end.

"He's in here," Shulman told her, almost gleefully, his grin widening to
reveal huge white teeth, glistening with saliva.  "He's watching.
Watching everything.  For the triad.  The holy triad."

A fat tear spilled from the corner of his eye.

He's crying, Noon thought with pity.  The real Myron is crying.

In a small, barely perceptible movement, his index finger tightened on
the trigger.

Chia Noon watched, with compassion and regret, as the resplendent flash
filled her vision painfully, dazzlingly, yet she did not look away, but
let herself be blinded.  And in the instant before dissolution, her last
conscious thought was that Angelina had been lucky --lucky, indeed.

Chapter Eight

"HELLO?  HALO?  Anyone?  Everyone?  This is Nassar Omar!"

Ahab Saed paused as the booming, nearly hysterical voice filled the
corridor.  She and Ngo had climbed out of the shuttlecraft to find
themselves in a large empty hangar.  After spending some time running
diagnostics on the war-weary Grace Hopper, Anab had grown restless and
had consulted the computer for Riley's location.  She and Ngo were
enroute there when the sudden announcement interrupted them.

"Can you hear me?  Can anyone hear me?" Omar wondered breathlessly over
the shipwide system.  "We are all in grave danger.  Myron Shulman is
insane, homicidally insane.  Angelina Mola has been murdered.

Chia Noon has been murdered.  And now every member of the FDRA is in
danger of assassination.

Shulman will not rest until the Recovery is a ghost ship.  He's taking
us into Tholian space!  There's nothing we can do!  Secure yourselves.
Hide.  Be cautious--oh, Allah, no!"

Scuffling sounds.  Omar's voice, already frantic-sounding, grew frankly
hysterical.  "Shulman, don't-pleaset"

A strangled cry, followed by a phaser's whine.

Anab started at the terrible sound, and exchanged looks with Josiah; his
full lips were parted, his eyes wide with the same shock Saed knew her
own expression revealed.

An uncomfortable silence ensued; and then, another male voice--this one
strained and weary, but carrying an edge of rage--filtered over the
ship's speakers.

"This is Myron Shulman.  Monique Thibeau, according to the FDRA's rules
of succession, you are now the new head.  Congratulations.  But don't go
to the trouble of selecting a chief of staff...."

The transmission ended.

Ngo gazed upward at the speakers, then uncertainly back at Saed.  "I
don't suppose this is a...  surprise part of the simulation, sir?"

"No," Anab replied shortly, and began moving again in the direction of
the indicated sickbay.  As much as she had resented Riley's presence on
the simulated shuttlecraft rescue, she was beginning to worry about him.
In the brief time she'd been married to him, he'd shared only negative
memories of his time in space, aboard the Enterprise; and though she'd
heard from Earthside friends at headquarters that Riley was a changed
man now, a competent, confident officer, she had trouble believing it.
The Riley she had known was a fearful, timid soul, one who had begged
her not to go into space because of its dangers; one who had languished
for years in Starfleet without a single promotion.  She had loved him
even then, had tried to holster his confidence, had encouraged him to
find what it was he really wanted to do.

But his unhappiness had come close to destroying her.  She wanted
nothing more than to be in space; Riley wanted nothing more than the
security of Earth.

In the end, she had had to leave, even though it had torn at her heart.

Now here he was, promoted to a full commander, with Kirk's
recommendation.  The sight of him inspired both pain and hope: pain
because she knew how she had hurt him, hope because her love for him had
not entirely dimmed, and she could not help wondering whether there
might be a chance for a real relationship at last.

But on the shuttle, she thought she saw hints of the old Riley; he had,
after 1, made a near-fatal error in judgment in checking Ngo's suit at
the wrong time.

And he had been gone 'too long for such minor injuries; perhaps he'd
been hurt when Recovery had been fired upon, or maybe Shulman...

"Get a move on, Cadet," she said firmly.  "We need to locate Commander
Riley and figure out a plan."

With a nervous backward glance at the corridor behind him, Ngo complied.

When asked, Recovery's computer had calmly told them about "enemy
attacks," which Anab decided were just part of the simulation.  It was
odd Romolo hadn't warned her about them, but she figured it was just one
of his little surprises.  And listening to Nassar Omar's frantic
message, she'd been tempted at first to think it, too, was some sort of
test.

But even Romolo, with his renowned sense of humor, wouldn't have rigged
something so bizarre.

And K.T.m That's Commander Riley now, and don't you forget it.

Riley should've been back by now, or should have communicated with them.

Something was happening aboard this ship, something unplanned.  And if
it was really true--if Myron Shulman had gone crazy and was determined
to murder everyone on board one by one--then she was the only trained
Security officer on board.

A Security force of one aboard the largest vessel Anab had ever seen.

"Keep your eyes open," she told Ngo as they rounded a curve in the
corridor.  "If Shulman's armed and--"

She broke off as they both nearly collided with two men hurrying in the
opposite direction.  For a split second, her training took over; she
recoiled, arms raised, ready for combat--until she recognized one of
them.

"Easy, Anab--it's me!" Riley said, holding up his hands in a placating
gesture.  Beside him stood an older, bearded man.  "I take it you've
been listening in to the shipwide intercom."

She nodded, annoyed with herself that the sight of him--unbruised and
unbloodied now--brought such relief.  "It's true, then?  About Shulman?"

He and the older man nodded grimly.

"Then we need to get back to the shuttlecraft," she said.  "It carries a
standard complement of weapons."

"Guess again," the man beside Riley responded, in a Southern drawl. Anab
eyed him curiously.  He was dressed in casual civilian clothes, clearly
not Starfleet --not with that salt-and-pepper beard.  And he didn't seem
an FDRA type, either, but looked more like he was enroute to a camping
trip than a meeting of bureaucrats.  His warm, relaxed manner reminded
her of Captain Romolo, which made her like him immediately, and his ease
around Riley suggested the two had known each other before.

Riley shot him a startled look.  "You really think--?"

"You can check if you want.  But I'll bet my bottom credit Recovery's
removed them."

"Impossible," Anab said scornfully.

The older civilian shrugged as Riley turned to him and sad,, "Maybe we
ought to be sure.  Just in case...

The four of them returned quickly to the hangar deck.  Glancing at Anab
for approval and getting it, Josiah clambered back on board the small
craft.

"Hey?  he cried out in surprise.  "Who emptied these storage bins?"

"I can't believe this," Riley muttered.

"It's a very sophisticated, specialized tracking program that locks on
to ,weaponry," the bearded man explained to Ahab, "then fine-tunes the
coordinates, and beams it out of there.  It can do that even to weapons
on your body."

"That kind of precision intraship beaming's not possible!" Josiah
declared, emerging from the shuttle.

"Really?" The man cocked a black eyebrow.  "Then where are your
weapons?"

Riley released an annoyed sigh.  "Maybe it's time for introductions.
This is Dr.  Leonard McCoy, formerly chief medical officer of the
Starship Enterprise.

Dr.  McCoy, this is Cadet Josiah Ngo, the engineering student I told you
about, and Lieutenant Anab Saed --who's in Security." His voice carried
a tone of regret--or was it merely her imagination?  She kept her face
carefully neutral.  Riley wasn't the only person ruing his decision to
come along for the simulation.

"What's going on, Commander?" Josiah asked.

"I don't think we know the half of it, but we'll give you the short
form," Riley replied.

McCoy told them about the simulation's disruption and the ship's bizarre
reaction.  Riley told them why he'd been detained, and all about
Shulman's breakdown and the runaway ship they were currently on board: a
ship heading for Tholian space while being pursued by an injured
starship with Admiral Kirk in command.

"Sounds like we've got a problem," Ahab said, when he was finished.  "A
big problem."

What she didn't say was that the only people aboard Recovery with any
training to handle the situation were a retired Starfleet doctor, a
bureaucrat from headquarters, and a weaponless Security chief saddled
with a raw cadet.  But she could see from K.T."s face that he knew she
was thinking it.

She opened her mouth, ready to start issuing orders; but Riley spoke
first, so she closed it again.  When they had parted, they'd shared the
same rank of lieutenant; it was hard for her to remember that he had had
two rapid promotions under Kirk and was now her superior.

"So, here's the course of action," he said, with a confidence she had
never seen in him before.  "Mr. Ngo, you and Dr.  McCoy are going to
develop a working relationship with the Recowery's computer."

Josiah's eyes widened with a mixture of intimidation and delight.  "The
RecoYery's computer?"

"That's right, son," McCoy drawled, looking amused.  "On this vessel,
you'r the closest thing to a senior engineer we've got.  I'll try not to
get in your way."

"And you'll make sure,, Mr.  Ngo," Saed interjected sternly, "that
nothing happens to Dr.  McCoy." She turned toward the older man.  "As
much as I hate to bring this up, Doctor, you are on Shulman's list, and
with your past close association with Kirk, I'm afraid--"

"Yes, well," McCoy interrupted her, "let's not dwell on that."

"I'm afraid we have to," Anab insisted, and began to speak again when a
single, pointed look from Riley stopped her.

"Mr.  Ngo," he said quietly, "we need to communicate with the outside
world and find a way to stop this machine from violating Tholian space.
While you and the doctor try to figure out where the problem is in this
monster's brain, I'm also charging you with the personal safety of Dr.
McCoy."

Ngo's widened, then narrowed with dread; he dropped his gaze, and
muttered, "Yes, sir."

"I'm pretty familiar with this animal's physical layout, Josiah," McCoy
said amiably as the two walked toward the exit.  "I think I can line us
a fairly secure place to work."

Anab watched the two.  men walk away, then finally faced Riley.  "I
didn't mean to overstep," she said softly.  "But you said I was in
charge of the simulation-"

"You were.  But something's gone wrong." He turned away from her and
clambered into the shuttle, talking over his shoulder.  "The
simulation's over.

And now we've got to find some way to arm ourselves that the computer
will not perceive as technologically threatening, and then we've got to
find this Thibeau woman, and whoever it is that's next in line of
succession."

She followed him in, watching as he gazed critically around the
shuttle's interior for a second, then seemed to find inspiration and
headed toward the vessel's rear.  "K.T 	"Her tone softened, grew
personal.

He moved over to a piece of metallic rail trim near the ceiling of the
vessel, then glanced expectantly at her.

"K.T., you're not Security.  And you haven't been on active duty for
years." She paused, tried to find the right words to soften what she was
about to say, and failed.  "The only sensible thing for you to do is
sequester yourself."

"And let you deal with Shulman by yourself?."

Reaching into the tool chest, he took out a device and proceeded to
detach the rail.  "You used to be pretty good with the javelin at the
Academy, didn't you?"

He pulled the sleek rail, tapered to a point at both ends, off the wall
and handed it over to her.

She took it and hefted it, testing its weight, then lifted it over one
shoulder.  "Yes.  But you're not listening to me, K.T."

"I'm listening," he said, rummaging through the tool chest and pulling
out a length of nearly invisible cable.  He paused then to stare up at
her and spoke, his tone hardening with that certain firmness that meant
he had made his decision and would brook no argument.

"Ahab, I'm command track--which means I had security training.  And I'm
not as rusty as you might think."

"You were rusty enough to stop and check Ngo's suit, when you should
have been sending the distress signal and paying attention to your
board," she said, with more heat than she'd intended.

He frosted at once, and for a split second regarded her in silence.  And
then he said, "That's true; and I won't make the same mistake.  Need I
remind you, Lieutenant, that I'm your superior?"

She stiflened involuntarily at that; he saw it, and his face and voice
softened.  "The fact is, you'll need help with Shulman.  And right now,
things are critical.  Our lives and the lives of everyone on this ship
could depend on how well we work together.  Like it or not, you're going
to have to trust me.  What I'm trying to say is...  we need to forget
the past and worry about the present situation."

"Understood," Anab agreed coolly, as she pulled off a matching piece of
trim for another javelin.

Riley unrolled the length of cable, cut it into two-meter-long sections,
and started tying the ends to the weights in pairs.  As he fastened the
last knot in the final piece of flexible cable, Anab asked curiously,
"What's that you're working on?"

Riley rose and stepped where Ahab could see him.

Tying part of the cable around his waist like a belt, he hefted the last
cable at its center, then graced Ahab with a sly little smile.  "You
don't know everything about me, Lieutenant.  It's a little something a
certain Vulcan taught me to make; with it, I can bring down Shulman at
thirty meters at a dead run.  It's an ahn-woon."

And as Anab watched,.  even more surprised, Riley made the weapon sing
over his head.

"I'm already giving you all she's got, Admiral," Chief Engineer Gambeta
explained, exasperation in her soft South African lilt.  Kirk could
scarcely blame her; no doubt his command style was nothing like her
regular captain's--and no doubt she'd never been in a situation quite
like this.  "We've had damage to the engines, sir, especially to the
warp drive.  I've lost three critical staff members.  And you sent my
best assistant, Josiah Ngo, over to the Recovery.  The speed we're
achieving now is due more to prayer than engineering skill.  I can't
even promise you I can maintain this."

Kirk flinched when she mentioned the dead crew.

His first command in two years, and there were deaths on board within
hours of his stepping on the bridge.

Deaths here and on the Starhawk--all his responsibility.

If he hadn't changed the simulation- And now, McCoy and Kevin Riley were
speeding away to an uncertain fate aboard Recovery.  Bones, his best
remaining friend in the galaxy, now that Spook had cut himself off.  And
Riley- He felt a special kinship, a special responsibility toward Riley.
Unbeknownst to Kevin, a fourteen-year-old Jim Kirk had rescued him
decades before from death on Tarsus IV, under Governor Kodos's rule.  He
had always felt that Riley had survived to fulfill a special destiny; it
was one reason he had taken Riley on as his aide at headquarters, and
encouraged him to reach his full potential.

Riley had not disappointed him.  But now, to have brought him this far,
only to see him die aboard a runaway vessel, one Kirk had helped create-
He forced his mind away from the thought.  If Recovery hadn't failed
now, she would've failed later, perhaps with more lives on board.  Yes,
he'd been the catalyst, but all he'd done was find the chink in the
armor.  He didn't have time to waste second-guessing his command
decisions--not while they were pushing warp seven and barely keeping the
Recovery in sight.

Kirk wanted to congratulate the engineer for her resourcefulness and an
expertise that could be favorably compared to the best engineer he'd
ever known; but the medals would have to come later.  Now he needed
more.

"Look, Admiral." Gambeta's tired voice spoke softly into the pause.  "I
know as well as you that we'll never catch up to the target at this
speed.  And I know we have to.  Maybe--maybe if I reroute the power
coupling so that it 'borrows' energy from weapons systems while they're
not in use, I might be able to get more warp power--assuming we don't
shake apart if I do."

Kirk had to smile and remind himself that, while there might be no
Scotty aboard this ship to pull their irons out of the fire, the
Paladin's chief engineer was proving to be something of a miracle worker
herself.

"Whatever you can do, Mr.  Gambeta--I'11 be grateful.

And Engineer--?"

"Yes, sir?" He could hear the dread in her tone at the prospect of being
asked for more of the impossible.

"While you're praying, throw in a few from me as well."

She said, with a hint of relief, "I'll do that, sir."

"Mr.  Sandover." Restless, Kirk leaned forward in his chair toward the
red-haired navigator.  "Is there anything else we could be doing to
catch the Recovery?"

Sandover turned his freckled face toward him, his expression and tone
apologetic.  "So far, the best I can do, sir, is maintain our  pursuit
at this distance."

Jim ground his teeth.-The Paladin was hurt, and already giving him all
she had, and that was plenty.  It wasn't her fault she wasn't the
Enterprise.

But he needed the Enterprise now.

He pushed himself out of the chair, too impatient to sit any longer.  "I
understand, Mr.  Sandover, but stay on it.  If the Recovery slows,
speeds up, or changes direction, you'll have to respond instantly. We've
got to close this gap, mister."

"Aye, sir," the experienced off fleer declared, his eyes moving between
the viewscreen and his instruments, his pale, freckled hands steady on
the controls.

Kirk strode over to the science station, where Sonak spun in his chair,
arms folded across his chest, anticipating the admiral's next question.

"I have analyzed this situation, sir, and cannot find any weaknesses in
either the Recovery's abilities or defenses.  Someone has changed her
programming radically, but the changes follow a narrow, specifics yet, I
believe, illogical--path."

Kirk gave a thoughtful nod, trying to repress the sudden painful wave of
nostalgia that accompanied the act of seeking his Vulcan science
officer's advice.

"Only Shulman could have altered the ship's mission, and he's had some
sort of breakdown.  It stands to reason he'd program in illogical
reactions."

Sonak considered this with a faint lift of a brown-black eyebrow.
"Perhaps, sir, but inaccurate, and illogical programming normally
renders computers useless.  Yet Recovery functions quite efficiently.
Even now, she is marshaling her energy while speeding toward a precise
destination."

Kirk looked into his science officer's eyes.  The dark orbs and slanted
brows were so similar to another Vulcan's on another ship that he
could've sworn it was Spock's voice who said, There is too much logic in
Recovery's illogic to be coincidence, Jim.

He blinked and said, "Excuse me?"

"What I mean, Admiral," Sonak said clearly in his own voice and tone,
"is that a human suffering a nervous breakdown is hardly a likely
candidate to devise a new, complicated neural program for this very
advanced computer."

"You think someone else is programming the computer?"

"I think it is highly likely, sir."

Kirk sighed, and looked back over his shoulder at the viewscreen, which
revealed only darkness and stars.  Who could've sabotaged Recovery, and
how?

"Any signs of pursuers?"

Sonak released a small, soundless sigh.  "The Romulan observers were
disabled, but a cloaked Romulan vessel would be impossible to discover
until she was near enough for her ion trail to give her away.

Whether the Klingon observers who cloaked their vessel are following us,
again, I cannot determine.  But I am scanning for them, sir.  And, of
course, we do not know if the Tholian vessel survived."

"Expect anything and everything, Mr.  Sonak," Kirk warned, and the
Vulcan nodded in agreement.  Staring again at Recovery's fleeing form,
Kirk wondered, "What are the chances of beaming those people off that
ship and just letting Recovery violate Tholian space all by herself?."

"Impossible to calculate, sir, but, assuming she could be convinced to
drop her shields..." Sonak hesitated for a fleeting instant.  "For the
entire complement of people aboard using the few transporter pads we
have, it would take two-point-six hours.  Assuming the transporters are
at maximum efficiency."

"But Recovery could beam them all over here at once," Kirk told him. "If
she would."

"Theoretically true.  However, I would remind the admiral that Recovery
has not, of late, been very cooperative.  We know so little about the
Tholians, it would be safe to assume that even a hollow invader could
precipitate hostilities."

Kirk nodded.  "Sonak, we have five people aboard that ship--two
effectively incarcerated.  That leaves a trained Security officer, my
personal aide, and an inexperienced cadet with some engineering ability
to deal with this problem from within.  What do you think the chances
are that they can stop that ship?"

Sonak seemed faintly nonplussed by the question --a query Spock would
have expected from Kirk.  The younger Vulcan then said quietly, so that
the rest of the crew could not hear, "Admiral, that ship has the most
sophisticated computer and the most advanced technology the Federation
is currently capable of.

Most of the veteran computer science officers in Starfleet could not
successfully reprogram it.  I do not believe that a cadet with an
engineering background or a Security officer, no matter how experienced
in her field, has the knowledge required to interact with Recovery in a
meaningful way."

"No chance at all, huh?" Kirk asked grimly.

Sonak blinked.  "I believe that is what I said, sir."

Kirk nodded grimly.  "If we could only bring the ship to a stop we'd be
ahead of the game." As if that made him think of a new possibility, he
added, "Since we could use a little optimism right now, have cargo bay
three emptied.  Make sure it's got full life-support.

If we can ever convince Recovery to give up her guests, we'll need to
have a place to put them."

The Vulcan's expression remained bland, even though Kirk was sure he
thought that last request pure wish-fulfillment.  Sonak reached for a
piece of equipment at his station.  "We need to communicate with our
people, sir, but Recovery is refusing transmissions.

Paladin's communication station was retrofitted with the rest of the
ship; however, it was the first one done.

More advanced upgrades were available later, and I requisitioned the
parts, but we were given our orders before they could be installed.  I
have taken the liberty of ordering a cadet to bring me the new
meta-inhancer assembly from storage.  Installing it now may enable us to
force a transmission through."

Kirk brightened.  "Good work.  Let's do it."

"I'll get right on it, sir." Sonak rose.

"No, not you," Kirk interjected.  "You've got more important things to
do."

Sonak glanced past Kirk to the communications station where Cadet Diksen
worked, and said, sotto voce, "With all due respect, Admiral, the cadet
does not have the experience to--"

"I understand, Commander.  I'll show her how to install it."

"You, sir?" Both Sonak's eyebrows lifted in unison.

"I think I still know how to soup up a corem board," Kirk said wryly.
"Besides, if I spend another minute sitting in that chair staring at
that screen I'll wind up as demented as Shulman."

Both eyebrows remained lifted, but the Vulcan merely said, "As you wish,
sir," and handed him the equipment.

As Kirk walked the short distance to communications, he examined the
complicated circuitry, trying to recall just where all its connections
went and how the new modules interfaced with the old.  He didn't
remember it being quite this complicated the first time he'd installed
one.

This was not the way things were supposed to go.

Reese moved her hands over the comm board and sequenced in another.
transmission on yet another frequency.  This was supposed to be the most
boring spot on the bridge.  This was supposed to have been a mundane
simulation.  She was not supposed to get her first taste of action by
watching her ship get the hell kicked out of it by friendly fire and
watching Commander Pulver die on the bridge.  They were not supposed to
be racing pell-mell after a runaway vessel piloted by a madman that was
about to plunge them into intergalactic war.  And her very bt friend
wasn't supposed to be helplessly trapped on a ship he couldn't even
communicate from.  No, this was not the way things were supposed to go
at all.

Every time she started thinking about Commander Pulver or Josiah, her
throat tightened and her vision blurred, so she drew in a breath.  There
was no time for that, no time at all.  She blinked her eyes until they
cleared and registered the rejection of her latest transmission.  She
reformulated it, trying another frequency.

Something had to get through.  Something.  Something.

"Mr.  Diksen."

The sound of her own name made her start.

"Sorry, Mr.  Diksen," the admiral apologized.  "I didn't mean to startle
you.  Mr.  Sonak's given me a booster for your comm board.  I thought
I'd give you a hand putting it in."

She blinked up at him stupidly, as if the words "booster,"

"comm board," and "give you a hand," made no sense to her.

"Unless of course you've found a way to get through to Recovery without
it," Kirk said, with a faint smile.

"Uh, no, sir.  Not yet." Diksen glanced at the board, but the only
communications coming in were overlapping reports from all parts of the
ship that were pouring in so rapidly she couldn't even assimilate them
all.  The ship was badly damaged.  Everyone was scrambling to make
repairs and get defenses back up to a hundred percent.  And people had
been killed.

People killed.  Somehow, it had never occurred to her that such a thing
was possible on her first mission.

"Mr.  Diksen," Kirk said softly close to her ear, "are you all right?"

She exhaled.  "I'm fine, sir," she said in a surprisingly clear voice.
"Let me get those tools." It allowed her to get out of the seat and bend
down, away from him, away from those hazel eyes, eyes watching her for
any inefficiency, any weakness.

She gulped and opened the cabinet beneath the console to retrieve the
specialized equipment they would need for the upgrade.  "Is that a
Kuniko twelve-fifteen, or a Miloslav R seventy-four?"

When he didn't answer her she pulled her head out of the cabinet.  He
was turning the device over and over in his hands, as if looking for the
information.

She stood up and took it from him.  She found the identification
information on a tiny inset chip.  "Oh, wow, it's a Moroz ten-eighty!
This thing is so new I've never even seen one."

She glanced at him and realized he looked pained.

"What's wrong, sir?"

He looked around to make sure no one could hear.

"I don't like admitting this, Diksen, but...  well, I've never even
heard of the first two upgrades you mentioned, and this one is
completely foreign to me.  If you're unfamiliar with it as well"

"Most upgrades are similar in design--at least as far as installation is
concerned.  This one might have some special quirks, but I
think--between your experience, and my more recent training--we should
be able to work it out.  In fact," she added, as she went back to the
cabinet to look for more tools, "if this is as good as it's cracked up
to be, we might have a chance at forcing Recovery to accept our
transmissions."

"Then let's get it plugged in and see what she'll do."

"Aye, sir." Diksen opened up the panel beneath the console and looked
underneath, suddenly grateful that she hadn't skipped any classes in
communications circuitry, no matter how boring.

Crouched beside her, Kirk removed an extra panel; with a pang of
nervousness, she realized he intended to crawl under with her.  She
tried not to let it bother her when she slid beneath the console on one
hip only to find him doing the same, facing her so they could work
together side by side, inches apart.

It would take more than two hands to install this new equipment, she
told herself, but damn, she wished it were Josiah.  She wouldn't feel
like such a bloody fool then when she barked her knuckles or shocked
herself plugging into the wrong port.  Why did it have to be Kirk?

Because right now he has the least to do, she realized, with a sense of
wonder.  He was bored waiting to catch up to Recovery, and was desperate
to be of use.

"Let me hold that stuff," he suggested, taking the tools from her.  "You
have smaller hands; it'll be easier for you to move things around and
open up a stage for the enhancer."

"Aye, sir," she said without looking at him, and proceeded to unhook
several ports and rearrange the layered boards.

"Look, Diksen, as long as we're working together, you can relax a
little," he told her, as he handed her tools then took them back when
she no longer needed them.  "I figure you're the senior technician right
now.

I've been away from all this too long.  And it occurs to me that it's
not so easy to be in such close quarters with an admiral you've done a
major study on."

She tried to school her expression to deny the last charge, but he only
remarked, "Your ears are red, Reese."

She nodded, and rearranged boards.  "Thanks, sir.  I mean, Admiral.  I
mean--thanks.  And could you hold this in here?"

As he assisted her, she restacked her boards in a new configuration that
would leave an opening for the extra equipment, then started reattaching
everything in sequence.  Wanting to take her mind off Kirk's nearness in
the tight place, she decided to heed his advice and reassign him a new
role as a fellow cadet.

"Okay, now move that there, no not there, to the left--right!  I mean,
correct!  So, how long has it been since you've done this kind of work?"

He sighed, adjusted his equipment, then gave her the right tool when she
needed it without missing a beat.  "A captain has to know how to do
everything aboard his ship.  The last time I worked on a corem board
was..." His eyes looked past her at some far-distant memory.  "A
lifetime ago, aboard the Enterprise.  I helped Spoek when we were in
orbit around the Omitton Ceti Three colony."

She frowned and held his gaze.  "That wasn't in the records, sir.  At
least, I don't think it was ever reported that--"

An unreadable expression came over his face; he shifted in the tight
spot, then handed her another tool, bringing her attention back to her
task.  "You'll find out, Diksen, that not everything goes into those
reports.  There are some people who would've felt that wasn't the best
use of my time."

"Like now?"

"Like now.  You ready for this?"

She nodded and he handed her the upgraded equipment.

She wondered how many other things never got in those reports.

"You have a friend aboard the Recovery, don't you, Reese?" he asked
suddenly.  "Josiah Ngo--correct?"

His question so startled her that for a moment, she couldn't answer.
There were over three hundred people aboard the Paladin.  When did he
have time to learn they were friends?

"You should know that Josiah wasn't scheduled for that trip, Diksen.  I
sent him.  I was impressed with his performance and wanted to reward
him.  But sometimes a captain's plans don't work out quite the way he
envisions them."

He wanted her to forgive him, she realized.  While she was agonizing
over Josiah and the people who'd died aboard the two ships Recovery had
fired upon, he was taking the blame for it.  The responsibility for
those lives, those deaths, was on him.

But each one had hurt him, she knew now--another fact that would never
be recorded.  It suddenly made him very human to her, something she'd
never expected him to be.

"Ngo knew it was a reward, Admiral," she said finally.  "He was so
proud, he couldn't wait to tell me.

All Josiah ever wanted to do was serve in Starfleet.  I know he hasn't
changed his mind about that, no matter what happens to him now."

He didn't say anything, just continued helping her install the upgrade.
Then finally, he murmured, "Thank you, Diksen."

There was an uncomfortable pause as she struggled with the last
connection, but eventually she blurted, "Sir, if I could be so bold...
You made a wonderful captain.  I was surprised when you accepted the
promotion to the admiralty.  Why did you?"

She didn't dare look at him as she spoke, just kept making the minute
adjustments that would allow the new enhancer to work properly with the
other upgrades in the console.

He released a slow, steady breath.  She was out of line, Diksen
realized, with a surge of panic; the question had been far too personal.

When Kirk finally responded, his tone had noticeably cooled.

"I imagine things look very black-and-white from your point of view,
Diksen, at the beginning of your career, but you'll find--as the years
pass--that there are many shades of gray in every decision.  For
example: I imagine your attitude about engaging in battle may have
changed some since we last spoke."

She halted in her work, then resumed it.  "Yes, sir," she murmured
softly.  "Yes, that's true.  I--I see that whole issue differently now."
She swallowed hard as the image of Commander Pulver's scorched,
unrecognizable face came to mind.

"Well, that's why time is the great equalizer.  It was time for the
members of my crew to go on and do different things.  And it was time
for me to do that as well."

There was no enthusiasm, no joy in his voice; Diksen didn't believe him
for an instant.  She should have dropped the issue then--but she would
never have such an opportunity again in her life to candidly question
Kirk about this topic that perplexed her so much.  With a boldness that
stunned her, she pressed: "Then you're glad you accepted the promotion
to the admiralty?"

This time he remained quiet for so long that she stopped what she was
doing to look at him.  He met her gaze and said, "I was glad about it
once.  Lately--I've reconsidered my choice.  Perhaps--if I'm lucky--the
time will come for me to do something different again."

"I hope so, sir," she said sincerely.

His gaze softened for a moment.  "Keep sight of your dreams, Diksen.  No
matter what happens.  Never forget your true goals."

"Yes, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper.  She cleared her
throat and said, more loudly, "I think we're ready to try this thing
out, sir."

Before he could answer her, Sonak's voice came from the area of her
knees and she looked over to find the Vulcan's head halfway under the
console with them.

"Admiral," the science officer said, "if I might bother you a moment--I
believe you should see this."

"Of course," Kirk said, all business again.  As Sonak left to return to
his station, the admiral began to extract himself from beneath the
console.  But just before he stood, he said quietly, "Don't forget what
I told you, Reese."

"I won't, sir.  Never."

I must be getting old, Kirk reprimanded himself, in can let a green
cadet get me so flustered.  But she'd hit him where it hurt, right in
the Enterprise.  He straightened his uniform--and his emotions--as he
moved back to Sonak's station.

"Engineering reports we are now at warp eight and holding steady," Sonak
reported matter-of-factly, "and closing the gap between us and Recovery.
Also, shields are at ninety percent."

"That's good news, Mr.  Sonak," Kirk replied, "but that's not why you
called me out here.  How far are we from the Tholian border?

"At this speed, approximately thirty to forty minutes, sir."

"That's a rather inaccurate time estimate for a Vulcan, isn't it,
Science Officer?" Kirk asked pointedly.

Sonak didn't look the least offended.  "If the Tholians would remain
constant as to the location of their actual borders, my time estimate
might be more precise, Admiral."

"Point taken.  And the reason we're at your station?"

Sonak hesitated, then gestured at his viewer, where data flowed over the
screen at a pace faster than normal human vision could follow.  "I have
mentioned this to no one else, sir," he said quietly.  The Vulcan made
an adjustment, and the data slowed, as did the graphically enhanced
image on the screen.

Kirk frowned and looked closer, then glanced over his shoulder at the
larger viewscreen, as though it might confirm what Sonak's board was
telling him.

"It's not visible, sir," Sonak remarked as Kirk scanned the larger
screen and found only stars and black void.

"So, what is it?" Kirk asked the Vulcan in a voice only he could hear.
"And how long has it been there?"

"I suspect it's been hovering right on the edge of our sensor range for
some time," Sonak began.  "I can tell you what it is not--it is not a
Federation vessel.  As to its identity, I do not have enough data yet
to--"

Kirk interrupted him.  "Speculate, mister.  What is it?"

"Speculate?" The Vulcan was dearly surprised by the request.

"Guess, Mr.  Sonak," Kirk ordered.  "What do you think it is?"

"But, sir, speculation with so little data will have no scientific
validity--"

Kirk interrupted again.  "Mr.  Sonak, it's been my experience that
Vulcans are the best guessers in the galaxy.  I want to know what you
think."

Sonak grew still, glanced at his board one more time, then drew a
faintly annoyed breath.  "I believe it is a ship, sir.  And since it is
not a Federation vessel, it would have to be a hostile ship.  Therefore,
it would have to be either Romulan, Klingon, or Tholian.  That, sir, is
my best...  guess,"

"Totally logical," Kirk said, with a small smile.

"Captain," Sandover called out, "the Recovery's slowing down.  I think
she's become aware of us.  How do you want me to respond?"

"Hold your speed, Mr.  Sandover, i want to close some of this gap. How's
our communications upgrade, Cadet Diksen?"

"Fully functional, sir," she reported smartly.  The console was closed
up and she was back in her chair, hands moving over her board.  "I don't
want to get your hopes up, sir, but--I think someone on Recovery is
trying to transmit something.  It keeps breaking up.

However, the ship still rejects our transmissions."

"Do what you have to, Diksen, but try to get through to that ship.  If
you can lock on to the ship's outgoing transmission, put it on screen."
He turned back to Sonak.  "Well, Mr.  Sonak, they say that timing is
everything. I'd say things are about to catch up to us on several
fronts.  Are our friends still there?"

"Present and closing, sir.  At their current rate of speed, they will
appear on the viewscreen in three minutes, twelve seconds--unless they
can cloak their vessel.  ' '

"And Recovery has chosen this moment to slow her retreat?  How do you
feel about coincidence, Mr. Sonak?"

"I am a Vulcan, sir.  I believe true coincidences are extremely rare and
can usually be explained mathematically.

This situation does not appear to fall into that category."

"I couldn't have said it better myself." Kirk strode across the bridge,
settled back in the captain's chair, and hit the intercom.  "Red alert!
Battle stations, everyone.  Shields up.  Possible hostile forces dosing
in." As the klaxon sounded, he closed the intercom and swiveled toward
Diksen.

"I want you to expand your sphere of influence, Cadet.  Keep trying to
nail down that transmission from Recovery, and at the same time, hail
the vessel that's just out of range off our starboard bow.  Let's see
how sharp that new equipment is." He swiveled back toward the main
viewscreen, then glanced back at her with a faint grin and added, "Can
you handle all that?"

Diksen barely missed a beat as her hands moved over her board, working
on each task.  Her voice was clear as she replied, "Aye, sir.  Hailing
frequencies open!"

Chapter Nine

WITH ONE HAND fingering the makeshift ahn-woon hung on his utility belt,
Kevin Riley stood beside Anabas the two stared at a visual display in
one of Recovery's vast corridors.  The effect was agoraphobic; Riley
felt exposed, vulnerable--a condition not entirely due to his
recollection of Nassar Omar's frightened voice, followed by the phaser's
whine.  Being so near to his ex-wife, being forced to work with her,
made the situation doubly tense.  The sight of her triggered a cascade
of memories, some happy, some painful.

Yet if Anab found the circumstances difficult, she showed little sign.
Knitting two ebony brows together while squinting at the computer's
display, she seemed almost calm.  Almost...  but Riley noticed that her
grip on her "javelins" never eased, and that she kept ,;lancing from
time to time over her shoulder at the empty, quiet corridor behind them.

"There she is," Anab said, pointing a dark, elegant finger at the
blinking grid that appeared on the screen in front of them.  "Looks like
Monique Thibeau's decided against the advice of her predecessor."

The blinking light slowly moved across the map of the huge,
nautilus-like vessel.

"She's not the only one." Riley watched as the personnel locator tried
to pinpoint the various people who were all in the line of succession of
the FDRA.

"Monique and her colleagues on the FDRA board have obviously decided
that many moving targets are better than stationary ones," Ahab said,
her depthless black eyes tracking the woman's location as it changed
moment to moment.  "But how long can she keep that up?"

"Computer!" Riley ordered.  "Based on mathematical probability, can you
project where Monique Thibeau is likely to be in the next fifteen
minutes?"

As they watched the screen, a grid outline in contrasting colors
appeared that extended beyond the fleeing woman's previous path.  "This
projection is based on statistical hypothesis," the computer in-toned.

"It is only sixty-four-percent reliable."

Anab glanced briefly at Riley.  "We can probably intercept her
here"--she indicated the fourth-level living quarters--"unless she does
something radically unexpected."

Impulsively, Riley asked, "Computer, has anyone else requested this
projection?"

"Dr.  Shulman has requested this information."

He exchanged a pointed glance with Anab.  "Let's He began jogging toward
the nearest lift, with Anab beside him.

When the lift doors opened on deck four, he followed Ahab's lead,
crouching and flattening against the opposite wall while scanning the
empty corridor beyond.  Riley forced himself to stay as far from Ahab as
possible, which would force a weapons-beating enemy to choose one target
over the other...  but for the first time, the meaning of that phrase,
one which had been drilled into him years before during his Academy
training, struck home.

He and Ahab were targets; and one of them might very well be killed so
that the other could live.

He could deal with the notion of his own death.  But even after the hurt
she had caused him--could he bear to see it happen to Ahab?

Not now, Riley.  He focused his mind on his surroundings, crouching low
as he moved behind Anab up the corridor.

The stalk seemed endless as they made their way through the empty
corridors and sealed quarters of deck four.  Riley's nervousness but not
his vigilance Malmost began to ease.

A sudden whoosh as a pair of doors opened down the corridor, Riley
tensed, ready to wield the ahn-woon, but Anab blocked his view.  Riley
caught only a rapid blur of waving arms before the Security officer
hurled herself forward and executed a: perfect body tackle, bringing the
runner down.

Trembling from the sudden adrenaline rush, Riley ran forward, toward the
source of a high-pitched shriek, and saw Ahab struggling to pin the
flailing arms of a handsome woman with long auburn hair.

"Thibeau!" Ahab gasped, as the smaller woman delivered a solid kick to
her midsection.  "Thibeau, stop!  We're Security.  We're here to help
you."

The fighting woman abruptly ceased fighting and stared through an errant
lock of hair with fear-stricken green eyes at her two rescuers.
"Security?

There's no Security aboard this ship."

"We were part of the simulation." Anab slowly, reluctantly let go of
Thibeau's arms, as though anticipating another sudden blow.  "We know
Shulman's coming for you.  We were hoping to intercept him before he
could get to you."

"We have to keep moving." Thibeau glanced anxiously over her shoulder at
the closed doors as Ahab helped her to her feet--keeping one hand on her
arm, as if to hold her forcibly in place.  "The computer tells him
everything," the Frenchwoman hissed.  "He knows where we are every
minute!  If we don't keep moving, he'll catch up to us and--"

"Bring an end to your constant betrayal," a weary voice said from the
far end of the corridor.

Riley glanced up to see a thin, shivering man with sweat-dampened,
curling black hair.  He seemed more like a terrified, trembling rabbit
than a murderer--but Riley had no doubt that this was Myron Shulman, for
in his hand rested a phaser, aimed squarely at Thibeau's chest.

Instantly, Anab fell against the same doors Thibeau had just emerged
from, dragging the woman with her.

The doors opened automatically, and the two dropped back into the
multiperson quarters.

There was no time for Riley to think, to be afraid, to do anything but
react--which he did, to his amazement, precisely as his old Academy
training had taught him.  He hit the deck rolling as the phaser whined
over his head, blasting a hole in the bulkhead.

He stumbled over Anab's dropped javelins and, snatching them up, crawled
into the same room as Anab and Thibeau.

The two had already disappeared; but if Riley guessed right, Anab would
plant Thibeau somewhere, then separate from her to create more targets
for Shulman.  There were at least twenty stacked bunks in this room,
with enough underbed storage to hide as many people.  Riley slid into
one of the bunk's cabinets, kept it cracked only wide enough to see out
of, and made himself as still as possible.

Within seconds, the doors opened again.  "So, Monique, you found
yourself a staff after all," Shulman.  announced, in a voice that
cracked with fatigue.  Riley held his breath as the madman walked into
his line of vision.  Shulman looked terribly in; his skin was pale, his
eyes glittering, feverish.  Rivulets of perspiration trickled down his
glistening forehead.

Physically, he was thin to the point of gauntness; without the phaser,
Riley decided, he could take him down easily.

This shattered hulk of a man was what they were all running in fear of?.

Riley waited until Shulman turned his back, then--trying to ignore the
renewed hammering of his own heart--counted the seconds as the scientist
bent over to check the underbed cabinet directly across from Riley.

The commander drew a deep breath and, with mindless adrenaline-inspired
energy, burst from his hiding place and lunged with the javelin.

Shulman moved with a spurt of speed and agility that such a
sickly-looking person had no right to possess.  The javelin thrust
between his calves, and as he recoiled from the close-quarters attack,
he tripped over it, crumpling the thin trim and getting tangled up in
it.

He fell, and the force of his momentum pulled Riley down nearly on top
of him.  The commander was near enough now to see the madness in the
scientist's stark, wide eyes, to feel the heat of Shulman's labored
breath on his face as he gripped the sickly man's sweat-damp arms.

Shulman was too close to his victim to fire the phaser without
endangering himself--but that situation could change all too quickly.
With a strength born of desperation, Riley wrestled him for the phaser;
but Shulman's power was much greater--too much greater for a man his
size and age.

But there was no time to contemplate the source of his impossible
strength.  With a terrifyingly mad grin, Shulman jerked free from
Riley's grasp.

He saw a swift-moving blur and realized, too late, that it was Shulman's
fast coming toward him.  There came a sharp pain to his temple, followed
all too suddenly and inarguably by blackness.

"Shulman./" Anab screamed.

Seconds earlier, she had rolled off the high bunk she'd been hiding on
in time to see Riley tackle Shulman.  But before Anab could assist, the
scientist had landed a serious blow to K.T."s head.  It was precisely
what she had feared--that K.T.  would try to do something heroic, and
find his skills unequal to the task.  Instinctively, she had screamed
the scientist's name.

The distraction worked.  Shulman glanced up a split second before
delivering a second--and, Ahab feared, deadly--blow; his strength seemed
inhuman.  The scientist almost lost his balance as he struggled to free
himself from the tangle of twisted javelin and unconscious Starfleet
commander, his inability to take aim won Anab a moment of safety.  She
ran toward him, and was about to close in when Thibeau bolted from her
hiding place and ran for the door.

"No!" Ahab yelled at her, even as Shulman dodged around a bank of beds
and took off after the FDRA official.

By the time Ahab got out into the hallway, Shulman had a perfect line of
sight on Thibeau, who had run out of options as she raced mindlessly
down the corridor toward the turbolift.

"Computer!" Shulman shouted.  "Freeze all entrances on this level, and
deactivate turbolift until my command?"

Thibeau ran dead center into the lift doors, which refused to open.

Gasping, Anab sprinted toward Shulman, but there was no time: Thibeau
turned, eyes wide, straight long hair falling across her stricken face,
and faced her stalker.

Shulman's face contorted in a spasm of maniacal glee--or was it
agony?--as he lifted the phaser and took aim.

"NO," Ahab shouted, but her cry.was lost in the whine of phaser fire and
Thibeau's horrified scream; there came a brilliant flash as the
frightened woman vaporized before Anab's shocked gaze.

Shulman released a deeply relieved sigh, and sagged --for a second, no
more--then casually approached the lift, which opened for him instantly.
He entered, turned, and stared at Ahab, who stopped in her tracks as
Shulman, his face a grinning skull, raised the phaser.

There was no cover, nowhere to hide.  She stood, defeated.  '

And then Shulman, still smiling, lifted back his head and shouted,
"Computer, eradicate all human life on this level.  Cease life-support!"

The lift doors slammed shut.

Anab paced, waiting for the gravity to fail, the oxygen to dissipate;
waiting for her death.  Her heart was racing wildly, her adrenaline
pumping, but there was nothing she could do to battle the unseen
dangers.

There was nothing to do but wait--and die.

She walked over to where Riley lay unconscious, feeling a deep sense of
failure; she had been unable to save Thibeau, and now ICT., too, would
die.  She placed a hand gently on the back of his head, stroked his soft
hair as she had done only months before, and waited.

And kept waiting.

Blinking, she looked around.  Gravity was still at full norm, oxygen
levels perfectly adequate.  She lifted her face and asked softly,
"Computer?  Why hasn't life-support failed?" Nothing like asking for
trouble, Saed/

"To suspend life-support would end all life on this level," the computer
replied.  "That is in direct violation of my core programming.  The
central purpose of this ship is to rescue and salvage life.  There is no
command that can override this principle."

"Really?" she murmured, a smile playing over her lips.  She put a hand
to her forehead and released a deep, guttural moan of pure relief.

At the sound, Riley's golden-brown lashes fluttered.

"K.T.?" Ahab knelt over him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

His eyes opened--both pupils normal, Ahab noted with satisfaction,
though a bruise was already darkening on the side of his forehead
beneath an errant lock of light brown hair.

Riley sat up abruptly and put a hand gingerly to the wound as he emitted
a soft moan.  "Anab?  You all right?" He stiflened, then glanced around,
panicked.

"Shulman--"

"Shulman left," Ahab said grimly.  "I'm afraid we lost Thibeau."

"Damn..." Riley leaned his head against his knees.  "That was my
fault--losing Thibeau."

She sighed, shaking her head.  "Always blaming yourself, K.T.  Won't you
ever learn?" It had been the reason he had left the Enterprise--his
willingness to take all the blame for a crew member's death.  "You were
out when Thibeau was shot.  It was my fault.

Shulman got away from me, and Thibeau bolted from the hiding place I'd
put her in.  If I'd stayed with her, she might still be alive."

Riley blinked as though thinking everything through.  "You left her to
save me from Shulman, didn't you?"

Ahab stiffened.  "Let's not analyze this to death, okay?" She helped the
dazed man to his feet, both of them awkward at the notion of touching
each other again.  "We've got to get going and help whoever's next on
Shulman's list." She glanced up at the overhead speakers.  "Computer.  I
need to know who Dr. Shulman is pursuing now, and I need to know where
Dr.  McCoy is located." ·

"Dr.  McCoy's location is displayed on the screen in the hallway," the
computer told them helpfully.  "And Dr.  Shulman's next target is Dr.
McCoy."

"Dr.  McCoy?" Riley tensed in alarm.  "He's not next in line of
succession."

"He is closely allied with the criminal, Kirk, and currently is the only
stable target.  All other targets will require more time to track and
locate."

"Great," Anab growled under her breath.  "Come on, Commander--let's get
moving."

Riley began to move, then paused in midstride.

"Computer--if your core programming is unchanged and your purpose is to
save lives, how is it you permit Myron Shulman to track down individuals
and vaporize them?"

"I have no control over any human's actions.  I assist Myron Shulman as
he requests while he searches out criminals that are aboard this ship. I
cannot anticipate his actions once he finds them."

Despite Anab's warning glance, Riley didn't at tempt to hide the anger
in his tone.  "Computer, Myron Shulman has now killed four people.  He
hasn't arrested them, or incarcerated them, he's destroyed them.  On a
statistical basis alone, you should be able to predict his behavior when
he locates his next target."

"I have no control over the behavior of any individual human."

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Riley scolded the machine, as Anab
led him toward the corridor.

"You sound like a damned politician."

"Scanners indicate that this man has a minor head injury," the ship
suddenly intoned.

"Uh-oh," Anab murmured.  "You're not thinking of sending him to sickbay,
are you?"

"The injury is minor, but could be improved by medical attention," the
computer informed her.

"There is a doctor currently working in sickbay sixty-four."

Riley opened his mouth to protest then hesitated.

"What doctor?"

"Dr.  Leonard McCoy is in sickbay sixty-four.  He could assist in
affecting complete recovery for this individual."

They grinned at each other.  "Great idea," Riley said.  "Send us both
there."

As he felt the familiar pull of dematerialization, he thought, Who'd
have believed that I'd be happy to get transported back to another
damned sickbay on this ship?

McCoy ushered Josiah Ngo into the small suite of medical offices with a
strange sense of nostalgia.  He had not allowed himself to think of the
Enterprise or his former crewmates in months; now everything conspired
to remind him of them.  The feeling of camaraderie he felt toward Riley
and now this bright young cadet as they worked together in a dangerous
crisis evoked fond yet painful memories of Jim and Spock.  How many
times had the three of them battled impossible odds in impossible
situations and won?

Even Josiah reminded him of other Enterprise crew members, The dark,
warm brown of his skin, and something about his large, long-lashed eyes
reminded McCoy of Uhura; and the young man's engineering skill was
reminiscent of another, much older miracle worker.

But the cadet seemed so young.  Josiah's shoulders and chest hadn't even
filled out yet.  A retiree and a kid, McCoy thought.  This isn't the
Enterprise, and Jim and Spock are a long ways away.  Can we really pull
this off.

"You weren't kidding, Doctor," Josiah said, gazing around as they
entered the outer medical office.  "This place is obscure."

"Well, we were looking for privacy," McCoy reminded him, as they moved
to a small console.

"There are at least two fully equipped sickbays on every deck, most of
them minihospitals in themselves.

But down here on the lowermost deck there's only this small one.
According to projections, this would be a backup unit in case the others
were filled.  In actuality, they expected it to be rarely used.  Hardly
anyone even knows it's here."

There were two small rooms attached to this central care unit, but the
other rooms held only diagnostic beds and stored equipment.  This
central room had all the computers, and that was what Josiah and McCoy
were interested in.

"All the medical computers are linked directly into the ship's main
brain," McCoy told Josiah, "just like on any starship.  This way, the
medical computer can take advantage of all the knowledge in the central
computer, and all the memory as well.  So, why can't we use the med
computer as a back door into the workings of the main brain?"

"Sounds good in theory." Josiah opened up the case he'd packed the
shuttle's tools in.  "Let's see what happens in practice." He pulled his
tricorder around and coordinated it with the med computer.  "I want to
go deep into the programming, Doctor.  Suggest a path for me."

McCoy leaned over him and stared at the tricorder screen, then
manipulated the controls.  "Let's go through the diagnostic program.
It's the most pervasive one in the system everything done in sickbay has
to use that program."

Josiah nodded as information began to scroll by on the screen in front
of them.  "Doctor...  is it true you used to be on the Enterprise?"

"Yes," McCoy allowed cautiously, hoping that the fact wouldn't cause the
young engineer to expect too much from him.  "That's true."

"My friend Reese Diksen would love to speak to you!  She's become an
expert on the Enterprise's five-year mission, and the career of Captain
Kirk.

She's serving with him now, aboard the Paladin ...."

Josiah's voice trailed off as he looked away.  "That is if it's still
out there..."

McCoy rested a hand on the cadet's bony shoulder.

"The Paladin's still out there, son, don't you worry.

Your friend is getting the education of her life with Jim Kirk at the
conn.  And our chances of survival are a hell of a lot better with him
out there."

Josiah looked up and managed a wan smile--until something scrolling
across the screen caught his eyes.

He scowled down at it.  "What in all the worlds is that?"

McCoy stared at.  the strange hieroglyphics, mixed with standard code,
and knew immediately that he had seen them somewhere before.  He
rummaged in his pocket and produced a rumpled flimsy; sure enough, mixed
in with Shulman's notes, there was the same strange code.  He held it
out so Josiah could see.

"Here it is again, in Myron Shulman's handwriting.

I can't tell you what it means, but it's not language--computer or
spoken that I'm familiar with.  I've been racking my brains about it."

"Well," Josiah said, "let's see if we can get around it." He went past
the primary programming, deeper into the computer.  McCoy watched as he
followed codes down deep into the program, but everywhere he went, the
same incomprehensible glyphs filled the screen.  "This is crazy," he
told McCoy at last.  "I can't get around this stuff--these strange
symbols are everywhere.  I'm going down into the binary."

McCoy waited as the young man slowed down his progress and wandered
around the binary field of the complicated program.  But soon the
bizarre symbols again filled the screen.

"Not good," the cadet said, "not good at all.  I'm going to try and
erase some of this stuff and see what happens.  It's a risk--I could be
erasing critical information, but I have to try something." He worked
furiously for a moment, then turned to McCoy with a defeated expression.
"Whatever this stuff is, at some level, it's self-generating.  We'd have
to have a special program just to eradicate it.  This stuff has infected
the program right down to the binary level, Doctor!  What now?"

And he turned his hopeful, trusting face up toward McCoy.

The doctor hesitated as he tried to imagine what Jim and Spock might do.
With a cheerful tone that belied his lack of confidence, McCoy said,
"Well, let's just try to stabilize the patient until help can arrive.

Can you work through diagnostics to override the computer's
communications control?  If we could send a message out, we might get
some critical information in."

Josiah nodded, brightening.  "What are our priorities on messages--I
mean, if I get through, what's the most important thing to send?"

"I'd say we need to send copies of this weird programming.  Maybe
someone aboard the Paladin can tell us what it is, and how to
countermand it.  If Spock were there--" He faltered for a moment,
remembering the last time he'd seen the Vulcan.

Spock had looked drawn and severe, dressed entirely in black, as though
he were in mourning, and had announced he would become a postulant in
Kolinahr.

We shall not see each other again, Leonard McCoy.

Live long and prosper.

McCoy cleared his throat and finished.  "--I'd bet he could." He fell
silent again and stared at the strange writing on the flimsy in his
hand.  It was true; Spock would know what it was, and for a moment, the
image of the Vulcan, staring at his viewscreen with the same gibberish
scrolling past, filled McCoy's mind.

You know what it is, don't you, Spock?  If only you could help us now
....

He brushed his fingertips reverently over Shulman's strange scrawl, as
though by touching them, he could reach across time and space to Spock.
And for an instant, no more, it seemed to McCoy that it was not a
painfully young human that sat beside him, but his Vulcan friend.  He
could almost hear Spock's voice: What assistance do you require, Doctor?

And then he looked down to see Josiah gazing curiously at him.  McCoy
shook his head to clear it.

"We'll just have to hope there's someone there with similar abilities.
I'd say after that, we need to find out where we can send over two
hundred people."

Josiah's expression remained blank.

"Our rescuers will have to give us coordinates where we can beam
everyone out of here," the doctor explained.  "This ship is determined
to violate Tholian space.  She'll last about three minutes over there
before the Tholians trap her in a web..." He shuddered at the prospect,
wondering what would become of them all if that happened.  If the
homicidal Shulman remained aboard, at least they wouldn't have to face a
lingering death ....

McCoy pushed the thought away and continued.

"...  then use her invasion as an excuse to start war.

Only Recovery has the power to beam everybody out of here all at once,
but we have to be able to tell her where to send them."

"So you're telling me that after communications, I've got to get control
over teleportation--through the diagnostics program." Josiah's Adam's
apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

McCoy forced a smile and patted the young man's shoulder.  "Let's not
get ahead of ourselves, son.  First things first.  Let's try and send
that distress call."

The cadet sighed and got to work.  McCoy watched, feeling rather
useless, as the young man unsuccessfully attempted to manipulate the
program from every possible angle.  At last, he reached for a device
from his bag and plugged it into the tricorder, then tapped in a new
series of codes.  From what McCoy could see, the data started scrolling
past in Vulcan.

"What in the world are you up to, son?" McCoy wondered aloud, peering
over Josiah's shoulder.

"Something different," the young engineer mumbled.

"It's a T'Pel analyzer.  Now if this violated program doesn't blow up in
our faces--" Suddenly, McCoy heard the sound of a communications channel
opening; the two looked at each other with glee.  And then, just as
quickly, it closed down.

"Hey, that was it!" McCoy crowed, slapping Josiah on his slender back.
"Well, almost it.  You're on the right track!"

Josiah bit his lip and manipulated the tricorder and its new spouse. For
an instant, McCoy heard nothing but static--until, suddenly, the channel
opened again, and stayed open.

Josiah's handsome young face split with a wide grin.  "This is Josiah
Ngo on the U.S.S.  Recovery.  Is anyone receiving me?"

The channel slammed shut before a reply could be received and he
struggled to get it reopened.  At last, he turned to McCoy.  "Doctor,
it's taking all my attention just to keep communications open.  You've
got to handle the actual call."

"Got it," McCoy agreed.  "Okay, this--this is Dr. Leonard McCoy--"

Jim Kirk stared, once more startled by the image of his oldest and best
friend staring at him from Paladin's bridge viewscreen.

"This is Dr.  Leonard McCoy calling from the U.S.S.

Recovery, and if I've forgotten formal protocol it's because I'm
retired."

Still dressed in civilian clothing, McCoy seemed no worse for wear.
Beside him, busily working to keep the channel open, sat the young
engineering cadet, Josiah Ngo.

McCoy seemed to look straight at his old friend with his piercing sky
blue eyes.  Look, Jim, I know you're out there.

Kirk's gaze never left the screen.  "Can he hear me?

See me?"

"No sir," Diksen said behind him, her tone regretful.

"It's a one-way only.  I still can't get the ship to take incoming."

"Jim, I can't explain what's happening over here,"

McCoy said, "but I know that whatever it is, you've got the staff to
figure it out.  All we've got is a crazy researcher and some bizarre
programming." He glanced down at the cadet.  "Josiah, can you send them
some of that stuff?."

"Transmitting now, Doctor," Ngo said.

Kirk barely glanced behind him at communications.  "Mr.  Diksen, are you
getting that?"

"Coming in clear, sir."

"Reroute that information to Mr.  Sonak's board," the captain ordered.
As he watched, McCoy held up an old, battered flimsy before the screen.

"These are Shulman's notes, but I can't tell you what they mean.  This
strange writing here"McCoy pointed to it--"shows up in that programming
you should've received by now.  Maybe you can figure out what it means
and how to counteract it.  Josiah and I haven't had much luck from our
end."

Kirk nodded and almost smiled.

"Now, listen, Jim," the doctor continued, "we've got to figure a way to
get these people off this ship.  I know you, so I know you've been
worrying about this as well.  None of the standard starships could
handle such a big job quick enough, so Josiah and I figure we've got to
convince Recovery to do it.  We're working on that.  But you've got to
get us coordinates.  You haven't been able to get a transmission
through, so I don't know how you'll manage it, but you'd better find a
big empty space for all of us.  Once we get over there..." McCoy's
expression warmed, and his tone grew faintly apologetic.  "I figure you
and I can share a little Saurian brandy and talk over some things.

I'm...  looking forward to that."

A figure suddenly loomed on the viewscreen behind Josiah and McCoy, who
were too intent on their task to notice.

Instinctively, Kirk lurched toward the screen and yelled, "Bones!  Look
out!  It's Shulman!"

Uncannily, McCoy sensed the stranger's presence at the same moment Kirk
warned him, because he spun in time to dodge the phaser fire aimed at
him.  Josiah's head whipped around m And the viewscreen darkened.

Kirk swung his chair around to face Diksen.  "Get them back!"

The cadet frantically worked her board.  "They've stopped transmitting,
sir, and I still can't get through Recovery' s defenses!"

"Keep trying!" He swiveled toward the science station.  "Sonak, what
have you got?"

The Vulcan looked up from his viewer and shook his head.  "Unknown, sir.
Apparently, they've sent me a piece of Recovery's programming at the
binary level.

It's somewhat confusing since some of it seems to be...  in Vulcan."

Kirk lifted his brows in surprise.

Sonak continued.  "Once translated, however, it appears to be standard
programming, except for an excerpt I cannot decipher.  Whatever
symbolism is being used to countermand Recovery's normal programming is
unknown to Paladin's computer.  The computer is using the piece of
programming and the recorded symbols on the flimsy to come up with a
translation."

Kirk sat back in his chair and slammed a fist on the arm in frustration.
"Is that cargo hold ready?"

"Aye, sir," Sonak replied, his coolness in sharp contrast to his
superior's agitation.  "I would suggest, Admiral, that Mr.  Diksen send
any transmissions from Recovery to my board as well.  Since the
transmissions are often fragmented, yet with pieces of critical
information, the science station might make the best and timeliest use
of them."

"Excellent idea, Mr.  Sonak.  Mr.  Diksen, did you hear that?"

"Aye, sir."

"One more thing, Diksen.  If you get a chance to get through to
Recovery, have the coordinates of that cargo hold ready."

"Prepared to transmit, sir," she reported.  "Hailing frequencies still
open, but no word from the approaching vessel."

"Sir," Sandover interjected, "Recovery is coming to a complete halt."

Kirk turned back toward the viewscreen, which now revealed Recovery's
sleek, massive form.  "Well, let's not run into her, Mr.  Sandover.
Screens up, and maintain a distance of a hundred thousand kilometers.

All hands maintain battle stations--and be prepared for anything."

McCoy almost didn't hear the transporter whine over the myriad sounds of
the sickbay computer and Josiah's odd combination of diagnostic tools.
He jerked around just in time to avoid the phaser blast, then bolted
away from the cadet and the computer.

Josiah turned, his expression one of bald shock.

"Keep working!" McCoy shouted, as' he ran into the next room.  "I'm the
one he wants!" He dodged behind a cabinet, knowing Shulman would follow
him.

McCoy stayed tight behind cover, moving from cabinet to desk, to closet,
to cabinet again, barely daring to glance behind him.  He heard another
transporter whine, but didn't dare hope it meant that Shulman had left
the area.

"Shulman!" a familiar, feminine voice called.

McCoy peeked over the top of a desk--and saw, only meters away,
Shulman's back.  The scientist held a phaser at chest levelwand it was
aimed at Ahab Saed, who stood purposely in the line of fire.

Several meters behind her, next to a diagnostic bed, stood Kevin Riley.
Riley held a length of cable in his hand and was slowly swinging it.

"Here I am, Shulman!" Anab shouted recklessly, drawing back what looked
to be a thin, silver lance.

McCoy tried to close his eyes, tried to look away; there could be no
hope of her hitting Shulman first, and he couldn't bear to see her
killed.  But he couldn't pull his gaze away.

Dammir, Lieutenant Saed, do you have to be altruistic at a time like
this?  But he understood what she was doing.  To the Security officer, a
doctor had more value in an emergency than she did.  No doubt, she was
hoping to dodge the blast at the last minute, and maybe that was
possible.  But she couldn't see what her cohort, Riley, was up to.  The
way they were lined up meant Shulman could kill them both with one shot.

McCoy knew he'd have to do something--but if he called out, Shulman
might have time to kill all three of them.  Crouching, he crawled
hurriedly to the nearest cabinet and searched for what he needed.

In his peripheral vision, he saw everything happen all at once, before
he ever had a chance to do anything about it.

Lieutenant Saed hurled the lance.

Almost simultaneously, Shulman ducked out of its way and fired, keeping
his aim true.

At the instant the lance went airborne, Riley flung something--a length
of cable, it looked to McCoy--that whistled through the air toward
Shulman.  But the cable struck Saed in the legs, taking her by surprise
and slamming her to the ground.

The deadly beam passed harmlessly over Saed's prone body and struck
Riley square in the chest.

Both Saed and McCoy screamed "NO!" at the same instant that the young
commander's body was enveloped by the phaser blast.  McCoy clutched one
of Recovery's hyposprays helplessly in his hand and watched in horror as
Riley's form was limned by the deadly glow- And stood firmly as the
powerful ray glimmered over his body.

As McCoy watched, stricken to silence, Riley began to move."

He walked forward, pushing the ray ahead of him as he approached Shulman
slowly.

For an instant McCoy froze, unable to comprehend what was happening.
Saed looked equally as dazed as she rolled out of the way and struggled
to free her ankles from the cable.

With a start, McCoy came to himself and ran up behind Shulman--who stood
transfixed, firing and retiring his useless weapon and touched the hypo
to the scientist's carotid ai'tery, injecting a paralytic anesthetic
into his bloodstream.

With a gasp, Shulman sagged into McCoy's arms.

The phaser clattered harmlessly to the deck.

Looking as stunned as the others, Riley bent over the Security officer
reduced now to a tangle of long dark limbs--and proffered a hand.  Saed
took it in both her hands and simply held it a,long moment while gaping
up at him.  "Are you all right, Anab?  I didn't break anything when I
hit you with the ahn-woon, did I?" There passed a look of such intense
relief between the two of them--and something else much deeper--that
McCoy decided they had once been much, much more than mere
acquaintances.

Ahab Saed was too shocked to speak.  At last, she let go of Riley's hand
and, refusing assistance, struggled to her feet, still staring in
openmouthed amazement at her rescuer.  At last, she found her voice.

"ICT.--" She glanced shyly in McCoy's direction and corrected herself.
"I mean, Commander Riley- what happened?  You took that phaser shot dead
center!"

Riley was grinning, his tone cheerful, easy; but McCoy noticed that his
fingers trembled slightly as he picked up Shulman's phaser and switched
the setting to stun.  "I'm not sure.  I think Recovery threw a force
field--a personal shield around me at the last second.  I was just as
surprised as you were.  It took me a second to realize I was completely
protected." Even as he spoke, the phaser began to glitter, then quickly
disappeared.

Anab looked around the room.  "The ship can do that?  It's unheard o0.
Computer.  Why--and how-did you protect Commander Riley from Shulman's
attack?"

"His previous question caused me to reanalyze my reactions to certain
situations," Recovery replied, in typically dispassionate tones.  "Some
faulty programming existed in my logic circuits.  Some I could not
repair, but I was able to reprogram certain logic patterns to be
consistent with my core programming.

If Dr.  Shulman requests, I will incarcerate criminals that are on this
vessel.  However, I cannot permit anyone to take a life, even a criminal
one, and remain consistent with my core programming.  This was
accomplished by a reorganizing of my defensive capabilities into a much
smaller pattern than has been required in the past."

My God, McCoy thought, completely humbled, it's creating solutions to
new problems.  No Federation computer has ever been able to do that on
such a complex level before.

Still grinning faintly, Riley shook his head.  "Okay, I take it back.
You're not a politician." Then he realized McCoy was still hanging on to
the collapsed Shulman, and moved to help him.  Together, they wrestled
the limp body onto a diagnostic couch.

From the other room, McCoy heard Josiah yell out, "Anyone care to give
me an update out there?"

"I ordered him to remain on the computer," McCoy explained.  He called
into the other room, "We're okay, Josiah.  We've got Shulman secured."

"Why don't I give him a hand?" Ahab volunteered; Riley nodded, and she
went into the next room.

Within moments, McCoy put Shulman in restraints and analyzed his
physical condition.  The paralytic anesthetic was having a much greater
effect on the researcher than it should have, so McCoy carefully
administered an antidote.  The man's bodily resources were depleted past
exhaustion--impossible for him to have kept going at all, much less to
have displayed such prowess and agility.  The doctor worked to stabilize
Shulman's physical condition, giving him needed sugars, proteins,
fluids, and some corticosteroids.

"What's wrong with him?" Riley stepped alongside.

"And what do you want me to do?"

"Just be ready to offer a set of hands if I need it," McCoy told him.
"And beyond the worst case of exhaustion I've ever seen, I haven't the
slightest idea what's wrong with him--yet.  He's got major heart strain,
his kidneys are nearly shot, all of his fat stores are depleted, and I
don't think he's slept in over a week.  What he's been through would've
killed a Vulcan; I can't understand why he's still alive.  He probably
wouldn't be except that he was an Olympic marathoner before all this
happened."

Satisfied that his patient's physical condition was stable, McCoy ran
his diagnostic scanner over Shulman's forehead, then studied the
readout.  "Good Lord..." He glanced up at Riley.  "There's...

something...  embedded in his brain."

Riley recoiled.  "A parasite?"

The doctor shook his head.  "It's mechanical.  Yet chemical.  And alien.
Given the organic damage, I'd say it happened about a week before the'
Recovery started out on this mission."

"Can you get it out?" Riley wondered.

"I don't think so.  Not here anyway.  I'd need a few other doctors to
help me, but even then--this is totally out of my experience.  Part of
his brain has actually changed all the way down to the cell structure.

This thing is fused right into his neurons, with its control mechanism
located directly in his pleasure center."

Riley looked grim.  "What better way to control him?  Perfect
pleasure--perfect pain.  Is it Romulan?"

"Doesn't look to be.  It's mechanical, self-contained.

Apparently, it functions on several levels--there's evidence of it
releasing certain drugs directly into the brain.  Only Myron can tell us
anything about it.  I'm going to ease him up--be ready to deal with him.
I'm ....  im"

not sure just how much strength this tlamg gves n .

Riley tensed and watched Shulman as McCoy adjusted his medications
slowly.

Shulman's eyelashes fluttered; and then he opened his eyes and gazed up
into McCoy's face.  To the doctor's relief, the scientist's soft brown
eyes seemed gentle and sane, though disoriented.

"Leonard?" Shulman whispered, blinking.

"Leonard..  · McCoy?" His head lolled to one side as he took in his
surroundings; he glanced at Riley without recognition.  "We're on
Recovery ....

"Yes, Dr.  Shulman." McCoy smiled warmly.

"You've been in; I'm trying to help you.  Can you tell me what happened
to you?"

Shulman gazed at him for a moment; and then his eyes clouded.  McCoy
shot a warning glance at Riley.

As they watched, the scientist's eyes rolled back; his body started to
tremble violently.

"The three?  he whispered, straining against the restraints.  His mouth
contorted into a riotus, the muscles on his neck standing out like
cords.  "The three.  I swear I serve the holy triad?

Riley leaned forward and pinned Shulman's shoulders to the bed with
great effort.

McCoy hurried to adjust the man's medications.  As his hypospray hissed
again, Shulman's body fell back against the cot and relaxed.  "Myron,"
McCoy asked, "can you still hear me?  Who did this to you?"

"It's all for the three," Shulman said drowsily.  "I didn't want to, but
I had to.  I had to serve the three.

But I fought them.  In the beginning while I still could."

"You fought them?" Riley asked.  "How did you do that, Doctor?"

Shulman chuckled with laughter of a gentle man.

"I preserved the core programming." His muscles began to tense; as he
spoke, his tone rose shrilly.  "If they knew, they would kill me.  But
that was my greatest work.  The core programming!" His eyes widened as
his back arched against the straps and he let out a high-pitched
screech.

McCoy swore and administered more drugs.  "That thing is shocking the
hell out of him!  ,He must be in agony."

Within seconds, the scientist's body relaxed and his eyes shut in sleep.
McCoy shook his head grimly and turned toward Riley.  "I've got to dose
the daylights out of him just to counteract the flow of stimulants from
that implant.  We're never gonna get anywhere this way."

"Maybe not, Doc," Riley said, his expression hopeful.

"That's one of the things Ahab--Lieutenant Saed--and I wanted to tell
you when we got here.  The Recovery's core programming is intact--I saw
it function myself.  That's what prevented Shulman from killing me a few
minutes ago.  It just needed its conscience pricked a little.  Don't you
think Admiral Kirk should know that?"

McCoy brightened.  "Go tell Josiah.  He'd established a comm link a
little while ago.  If he gets through again, he can transmit that.  I'll
work on Shulman.  You go on.  He's not getting off this bed now."

Riley nodded and left to bring Cadet Ngo his message.

"Mr.  Diksen," Commander Sonak said quietly.

"Yes, sir?" Now what?  Diksen wondered as she juggled her board, leaving
channels open for Josiah and the new ship coming up on them, and
managing the critical communications going on within the ship.

She couldn't believe she once thought this post was boring.

"You are still unable to communicate with Recovery?"

"Yes, sir." Out of respect for the Vulcan, she tried to keep the
frustration out of her voice, but knew she wasn't succeeding very well.

"I may have a solution.  I've prepared a prerecorded transmission that
begins and ends with the alien programming signals.  It is possible that
Recovery may accept communications couched in her invader's language."

Kirk must've heard him, because he spun in the chair.  "Excellent idea,
Mr.  Sonak.  Let's do it, Mr. Diksen."

She nodded, tickled to be trying something new.

"The transmission has the coordinates for the empty cargo bay, Captain,"
Sonak explained as he returned to his station.  "It also suggests Mr.
Ngo try this method of transmission as well.  If we succeed, we might
establish two-way communications.  Sending now, Mr.  Diksen."

"Got it, sir.  Transmitting." She blinked as she heard a new sound in
her ear.  "Captain, we're being hailed --by the unknown ship."

Kirk paused, then turned in his chair.  "On screen, Mr.  Diksen."

The meditation proved unsuccessful.

During it, Spock's sense of connection to McCoy and Jim Kirk had only
increased, as had the uneasy sense that they were in danger...

And the irrational conviction that he, Spock, could somehow help.

And so he had risen from his place on the now-cooling stone and, in the
gray, numinous hour just before the desert dawn, had stepped silently
from his small cell and moved down the long, dark passageway carved from
the mountain's heart, past a hundred unlit doorways like his own.

He did not slow at the stone stairway at the passageway's end, but
glided swiftly down the steps, down level after level, until he found
the hidden passageway known only to those joined to Gol's mind-tree--the
passageway that led down into the very belly of the mountain.

At last, before the great glittering black archway, engraved countless
aeons before Surak's peaceful revolution with symbols sacred and
profane, Spock paused, and reflected on the gravity of what he was about
to do.  The technique he was about to use to purge himself of emotional
ties was to be done only when all other efforts failed--and then not
lightly, or with skepticism.

He collected himself, and stepped through the archway, past the two
eternally burning oil lamps flanking the entrance, into deep shadow.

The sight that awaited him was one from Vulcan's far-distant past: an
ancient stone altar on which blood was once spilt, and before it, a
great graven statue calculated to inspire adoration and terror.

This was the shrine of a warrior goddess, her image sculpted from Gol's
black rock to show the body of a comely Vulcan female and the fierce,
grimacing face of ale matya, fangs bared for the kill.  Sekhet: the
goddess of the desert, of heat, fire, destruction.

In ancient times, the mind-lords had enlisted Sekhet's aid in destroying
their enemies.  Then, the mountain retreat had been a fortress, a
stronghold for those determined to control Vulcan; and Gol had been a
shrine devoted to her worship.  A passionate, war-loving deity, she had
been defeated by Surak's cool logic and the transformation of the
mind-lords into the peaceful Kolinahru.  Worship of violence, of
ancestral and pagan gods, had long ago ceased.

But even now, millennia later, her shrine was maintained, guarded from
prying eyes of outworlders.

The ritual of Sekhet was used in extreme circumstances by those Kolinahr
initiates who could dissolve emotional links no other way.  Sekhet still
destroyed--not enemies, but emotions; and though the Kolinahru generally
did not believe in the existence of personal goddesses, they understood
the effect of ritual upon the Vulcan subconscious, and the power
invested in the ancestral group mind by a thousand centuries of worship.

So Spock entered, head bowed, and approached the great stone image, five
meters tall and backlit by flickering oil lamps.  He stood in the deep
shadow cast by the statue and turned his mind inward..

As he stood, eyes half-closed before the ancient image of Sekhet, a
vision came to him with such compelling vividness that he was at once
stricken to silence.

He no longer stood before the millennia-old stone goddess in a sanctuary
carved from the base of a mountain, but instead sat in the captain's
chair aboard the Enterprise. Leonard McCoy stood beside him, and
together they stared at the remarkable sight on the viewscreen: the
creature that called itself Loskene, veiled in a glittering red shroud
against a background of unbearably intense indigo.

At the same time, there was pain: the pain of grief over his inability
to save Jim; the pain of anger at Loskene, at McCoy for his irrational
attacks.

A fresh image overlaid the other: the moment that he turned to McCoy and
said, 'Tin sure the captain wouM have said, 'Forget it, Bones.""

McCoy falling forward, into his arms.

Into his arms...

Sekhet and Gol were forgotten; Spock could see the doctor before him,
feel his cool human flesh in his hands.  It was as though he had reached
across time and space to physically touch his friend.

And the sensation of touching McCoy melded with the brilliant crimson
and indigo vision of the mysterious Loskene ....

Chapter Ten

ABOARD THE Paladin's bridge, Reese Diksen's fingers played a mindless
arpeggio over the controls of the brilliantly blinking comm board.
Managing the critical communications aboard the ship as well as leaving
channels open for Josiah and the anonymous approaching vessel had kept
her blessedly busy almost busy enough to forget her shock over Pulver's
death, her fears for her friend, her bitter disappointment when attempt
after attempt to communicate again with Josiah failed.

Almost.

"Mr.  Diksen."

She started at Commander Sonak's calm voice nearby, and glanced up to
see him standing beside her, hands folded behind his back.

"Yes, sir?" She swiveled to face him, half expecting to be given another
task to add to her mounting list.

To think she had once considered communications boring...

"You are still unable to communicate with Recovery?"

"Yes, sir." Out of respect for the Vulcan, she tried to keep the
frustration out of her voice, and failed utterly.

If her oh'vious dismay disturbed him, he showed no sign--only gave a
curt but gracious nod.  "I may have a solution.  I've prepared a
prerecorded transmission that begins and ends with the alien programming
signals.  It is possible that Recovery may accept communications couched
in her invader's language."

Kirk must've heard him, because he spun in his chair toward them.
"Excellent idea, Sonak.  Let's do it, Mr.  Diksen."

"Aye, sir," she replied vdth a grin of relief, grateful to be trying
something new.

"The transmission has the coordinates for the empty cargo bay, Captain,"
Sonak explained as he returned to his station.  "It also suggests Mr.
Ngo try this method of transmission as well.  If we succeed, we might
establish two-way communications.  Sending now, Mr.  Diksen."

"Got it, sir.  Transmitting." A sudden burst of static came through her
earpiece.  She grimaced and tuned into the newly incoming channel, then
blinked in surprise at the strange sound: the Universal Translator had
chosen to represent the voice not as one, but a multitude of voices.
"Captain, we're being hailed--by the unknown ship."

"Mr.  Ngo," Lieutenant Saed said, as she moved to the cadet's side, "Dr.
McCoy has set a high priority on transmitting certain information to the
admiral.

What's the status on communication?"

Josiah ran a brown hand through his tightly curled hair and sighed;
communications were a mess.  "It looks like my tampering may have caused
new problems, sir.  This code can generate itself, like an old-style
virus.  Since I made that brief communication breakthrough, it's
overwritten every pathway I'd made and created new barriers.  It doesn't
look good."

It wasn't easy, either, trying to do creative counterprogramming in
Standard and Vulcan, with Shulman screaming maniacally in the next room
about "the three!" The chant was like an annoying song Josiah couldn't
get out of his mind.  The three.

The three.  The holy triad...

He had to get a bigger view of things than what was contained in this
tiny room.  For all he knew, the Recovery could have already violated
Tholian space, which would give them all time for nothing more than a
quick prayer, anyway.  He circumvented communications and rerouted over
to sensors.

The screen on the diagnostic computer flickered to life with images of
the space around the ship.  Josiah could see part of what seemed to be a
Federation starship--the Paladin?mand part of the Recovery's hull and
little else.  But the flow of data over the screen told him plenty.

"Sir..." He straightened in his chair as .the lieutenant leaned over
him.  "We've come to a dead halt.

Looks like the Paladin's out there, too."

"Is Recovery preparing to fire?" Saed's dark velvet brow was furrowed
with worry.  "Can you get into her defense system?"

He shook his head.  "That's too heavily secured; I'm not even sure
Shulman could get into it now.  It doesn't look like she's arming,
anyway  but something's going on.  The computer's analyzing and scanning
like crazy."

No sooner did he finish saying that than a telltale lit up by his left
hand.

"An incoming communication!" Josiah crowed, and scrambled to grab the
transmission.  For a split second, he almost groaned as he recognized
the same alien gibberish that had appeared in the code; but then the
clear, calm voice of Commander Sonak filtered through the grid.

"This is the Starship Paladin calling Federation officers aboard the
Recovery.  Cadet Ngo, if you can hear me, I advise you to begin and end
your communications with the same preface and suffix matrix we used.  It
might permit us to establish two-way communications.

Transmissions will have rough spots, but even so--" Abruptly, his voice
broke up into squealing static.

But then it came back, seemingly at the point it had been interrupted.
"tit should suffice.  Prepare to record the following coordinates for
relocating Recovery passengers."

"Is the recorder working?" Saed asked excitedly.

"Yes, sir." Josiah captured all the information the Paladin was sending.
"Now, if we could only lower the shields..."

"Can you fix our communications the way Sonak suggested?" Sued asked, as
Josiah manipulated the tricorder and Vulcan analyzer.

He nodded.  That wouldn't be too hard, and it made sense.  Wrap the
transmission up in dressing the weird programming could accept.  Wrap it
up in-The three.  The three.  Three. Three.

Josiah blinked.

Three.  Three.  The damned programming wasn't binary--it was tertiary/
Tertiary programming, in some alien language.  Looking at the code
again, he could see the repetitive pattern of symbols stand out as if it
had been highlighted.  And if he could get Sonak working on it- He
started manipulating data furiously, finding.  a chunk of alien
programming to wrap his message

"The programming is tertiary," Josiah said, grinning broadly up at
Lieutenant Saed.  "Whoever planted this has got to have a really
different biology or brain or something, because they program in
tertiary, while all the other races we currently know program in binary.
If Sonak turns this over to the Paladin computer with that information,
we should be able to translate this stuff.  That's the key.  We could
drop the shields, turn this baby around, and all go home!"

Josiah worked doggedly over his instruments.  "If I can couch this just
right and establish a two-way interface--it'll be clumsy with this alien
stuff tacked on, but--"

"Admiral," Sonak called from his station, "the vessel hailing us is
Tholian.  And...  they have lowered their shields."

Jim glanced over at the science officer to see the Vulcan gazing back at
him with an expression of frank astonishment--an emotion shared by
everyone on the bridge.  "How polite," he said, swiveling back to
contemplate the viewscreen, where Recovery hovered, vast and forbidding.
"But we'll keep our shields up."

He was not particularly surprised that the ship was Tholian.  After all,
Recovery was nearing the farthest boundary of their border--according to
what they considered their latest "territorial annex"--and the Tholians
were obsessed with trespassers.  However, he was startled--and
wordfed--by the open-handed gesture they presented with their lowered
shields.  Recovery was in range of both ships, and she was totally
unpredictable.  Would the rogue ship also recognize the peace gesture
and respect it--or again take advantage of it?

"On screen, Mr.  Diksen," he ordered, and settled back into his chair.
Captain Romolo's chair, he corrected himself.  If Baldassare is still
alive.  Mine only for the moment.  And this moment might be all there
The image on the screen wavered, then re-formed--distorted, the colors
not quite right, the shapes not quite formed.

He almost ordered Diksen to check the screen for malfunctions when he
realized: This is what Spock and the crew saw while I was trapped in the
spatial rift.

The Tholians, it was said, belonged to a race of creatures whose visible
spectrum was so alien to humans they could be viewed only by having the
computer filter out all unaqceptable spectra.  Likewise, the Tholians
required special visors to be able to view humans.  It also gave them an
excuse to hide their forms; they were nothing if not compulsively
private.

The Federation believed they belonged to a technologically advanced,
tightly controlled society--but in truth, almost nothing was known about
them.  The only thing the Federation had learned during the incident
between the Starship Enterprise and the Tholians almost three years ago
was that the Tholians' technology--as manifested by their unusual force
web--had developed along a different path than the Federation's.

Kirk had had no involvement with the aliens--Spock had been in
command--and had seen them only when reviewing the ship's logs of the
incident.

Spock had always regretted that the incident had been marred by
violence.

He squinted at the image of the Tholian commander--a featureless figure
draped in a shimmering ruby shroud against a backdrop of wavering
brilliant blue.  The being peered out through two opaque triangular
slits that served as its visor.

Kirk hesitated.  There was no identifying legend beneath the image in
either Federation Standard or the Tholian language to tell him who he
was about to address.

"This is Commander Lokara of the Tholian vessel Skotha." The creature
spoke in a voice that was neither male or female, not one but a hundred
different voices, a chorus of octaves ranging from the highest to the
lowest Kirk's ears could register.

"Admiral," Sonak said quietly.  "The $kotha was the Tholian observer
ship at the simulation site."

Kirk nodded in acknowledgment.  So...  they hadn't been destroyed at the
simulation after all ....

,Admiral Kirk in command of the Starship Paladin.  I thought all the
observer vessels had been attacked by the Recovery at the simulation."

The Tholian's shimmering red veil made it impossible to read its
expression; its voice remained more perfectly toneless than a Vulcan's.
"We evaded damage by the closest of margins.  When we realized the
rescue vessel was aiming for our own border, we understood the gravity
of the situation.  Should Recovery trespass into Tholian space, the
Tholian Assembly will view it as a deliberate act of war."

"We are doing everything in our power to stop that from happening," Kirk
assured him.

"We had hoped you would say that, Admiral Kirk," Lokara said, in a
multipitched cascade.  "That is why we have approached you with shields
down.  We were impressed by the Federation's invitation to observe the
Recovery's activities, and the performance of the rescue ship.  We
believe that this is a terrible accident, a mechanical failure that was
completely unintentional.

However, we may not be able to convince the Assembly of this.  Is there
some way that you and I might work together to prevent Recovery from
violating our border?"

"That is--a possibility," Kirk said, careful to keep the wariness from
his tone.  With Romulan or Klingon adversaries, he could at least try to
read an expression, a tone of voice--but it was impossible to try to
judge Lokara's veracity.  Even so, something about the Tholian made him
distinctly uneasy.  "We have been hoping to rescue the innocent people
trapped aboard because of your added presence.  She is probably trying
to determine your intentions.  Your peaceful show is admirable, but I
warn you to be cautious.  You are vulnerable without your shields, and
we have no control over that ship."

"I am comforted that you are concerned for our welfare, Admiral Kirk.
May I respectfully suggest that your defensive posture might be
interpreted as hostility by Recovery, who even now scans us both?"

Sonak moved over to the admiral's side, and said, loud enough so only
Kirk could hear, "Lokara is telling the truth, Admiral.  Recovery has
been analyzing us ever since she halted.  She is fully ,aware of our
capabilities--and our limitations."

"Close audio," Kirk said softly to Diksen, then turned toward the
Vulcan.  "Are you suggesting we drop our shields?"

Sonak paused for a beat.  "It is a logical course of action, Admiral,
considering Recovery's previous aggression toward ships with defensive
capabilities.  And it would be a gesture of good faith to Lokara.  It
might even buy us time with Recovery--time we could use to come up with
a feasible plan of action with the Skotha."

It was precisely what Spock would have said quintessentially logical,
and an opportunity to make up for the unfortunate incident years before
with the Enterprise.

Even so, instinct insisted on keeping the shields up, as strongly as he
could hold them.

As the Vulcan returned to his station, Kirk turned back toward the
viewscreen, where Lokara waited, motionless, unfathomable.

Finally, Sonak's soft baritone broke the silence.

"Recovery's sensors show activity, Captain."

"She's arming herself?." Kirk asked.

"No, but she is assessing her defenses.  She's taking inventory and
comparing her armature against ours."

"Ours," Kirk repeated.  "Not the Tholians'?"

"That is correct, sir."

"Diksen," Kirk said, "any communications from Recovery?"

"Negative, Captain."

The admiral turned back to stare at Lokara.

Reese Diksen watched Admiral Kirk speak to the painfully brilliant image
of the Tholian and forced herself to counteract the adrenaline rush by
breathing slowly and not thinking about the fact that they might very
well decide to fire on the Paladin, or worse, the Recovery ....  She
tried to distract herself from the fear by recalling all the times
during the Enterprise's five-year mission that he had lowered shields in
dangerous situations.  Sometimes he had done it willingly, sometimes
not.  Judging from the tension in his body and voice, this time it was
definitely the latter.

And that made her nervous--because Kirk's experience had sharpened his
uncanny instinct.  And if Kirk didn't trust the Tholians...

She forced herself to drop the unsettling train of thought.

"Admiral," Sonak said quietly, "Recovery continues her defensive
inventory."

Kirk never relaxed a bit, as though he hadn't heard his science officer.
The admiral just kept one arm folded at his waist, the other elbow
resting atop it so that one fist could support his chin as he frowned at
the split image on the viewscreen--on one side, the Skotha, the Paladin,
and the Recovery, all poised in a deadly triangle, and on the other the
faceless Tholian Lokara.

Audio communications were still closed to the Tholians as Kirk said
softly, "All hands--maintain battle stations." Then, with a taut nod, he
signaled Reese to reopen the audio channel.

"Lokara," Kirk began, obviously hedging, "you said there might be some
way that we can work together to prevent Recovery from violating your
border.  We've been unable to affect the actions of the ship at all.
What do you suggest?"

"I have sent communications to the ships that guard our border," Lokara
said, in his--her?  Reese wondered; impossible to judge--peculiar
high-pitched chorus.

She glanced back at her board, and saw another light blinking furiously
there: a communication was coming in from outside the ship.  Glancing
from the viewscreen and the communication with Lokara to this new
signal, she deliberated on what to do.  Now wasn't the time to interrupt
the admiral, but this could be a transmission from Josiah.  Had he
received the last transmission she'd sent, the one Sonak programmed?

Keeping one eye and ear on the viewscreen, she screwed her receiver even
tighter in her other ear and cued in the new transmission, signaling
Sonak and sending it to his science station at the same time.  The
Vulcan, as the senior officer, could decide when to interrupt the
admiral.

"I have told the commanders of our guardian ships," Lokara continued,
"all that has happened with Recovery.  I have explained about the
vessel's mechanical breakdown.  I have tried to make them understand
that if Recovery does violate our territorial annex, it will be because
of the actions of the ship itself.  I am currently awaiting their
response."

Reese only half registered this information as she heard the whistle of
the alien programming followed by a burst of silence, then Josiah's
voice.  She glanced at Sonak and he nodded at her, indicating he was
hearing the same.  His hands moved efficiently over his board and
suddenly she had bidirectional communications.

"This is Josiah Ngo on the Recovery.  Hope you can hear this, Reese.
Tell Commander Sonak that the strange programming in Recovery's system
is a tertiary-based code.  That's tertiary, not binary."

"He's receiving your transmission at the same time I am, Josiah," Reese
told him, knowing the smile on her face could be heard in her voice,
"and he's established dual communications.  What's your status?

Did you halt Recovery?"

"Negative.  Recovery is still operating independently.

Commander Riley, Lieutenant Saed, and myself are all okay.  Dr.  McCoy
has Myron Shulman under medical care, but he hasn't gotten many answers
yet.

Oh, and Lieutenant Saed reminds me that Shulman has confirmed that
Recovery's core programming is still intact.  However, how that will
BReese, I'm losing!"

His voice broke up into static and squeals again, then finally was lost:

Lokara gazed upon the countenance of the human who had caused its triad
such anguish, and was grateful for the fine layer of opaque mesh that
hid the hatred and frustration etched deep into its features.

Its specially designed visor allowed Lokara to view the bizarre shapes
and drab colors of the Federation's worlds.

So far, Lokara had been unsuccessful in convincing Kirk to lower his
shields, in spite of Recovery's scanning and the Skotha's own lowered
shields.  The despised' alien was entirely too paranoid, and Lokara was
running out of convincing arguments.  Seeing its partner, Srillk,
signaling for attention, Lokara wondered if Srillk might have some
information that might resolve this.

"Excuse me, Admiral Kirk," it politely told the dark image wavering in
its viewscreen, "but one of my subordinates needs to address me. Perhaps
there might be news from the Assembly."

"I understand, Lokara," Kirk replied.  "I'll be waiting."

With your shields still raise!!  Lokara thought disgustedly.

The Skotha's commander signaled for the audio to be terminated from its
communications with the Paladin, then moved to a private area where it
could consult with its subordinate.

Srillk, diminutive and graceful, approached, its head bowed low in a
gesture of respectability so that its veil draped forward elegantly.
"Lokara, our agent is failing."

"Dying?" Lokara asked, and even through the protective visor it could
see the concern etched in its subordinate's expression.  They were so
close to their goal, so close

"Perhaps, but damaged beyond repair.  The mental adjunct has pushed the
frail body and brain far beyond its normal abilities.  Yet, the agent
has successfully prevented the Federation staff aboard Recovery from
affecting the outcome of our actions."

Even as its subordinate--who was also its life partner--said this last,
Lokara prayed that Srillk was correct. Srillk's connection to the agent
had been shattered by the alien substances that had been introduced to
the agent's body, and Srillk could only surmise what had happened.  But
Srillk had to be correct.  Lokara could not believe that they would get
this far and fail.  How else could they ever face Lanra?

Glancing back at the grotesque human named Kirk, Lokara remembered all
the work they had done to achieve their end.  Through it all, Srillk had
handled the assignment brilliantly.

It was Srillk who had managed to have the human Shulman captured, and
have the brain device--a mechanism Lokara had had designed--implanted
only weeks before the Recovery's scheduled simulation around Zotos IV.
The device had worked even better than they had hoped, causing Shulman
to be obsessed with the drug-induced suggestion that his program was
imperfect.  It became impossible for the human to rest until he
completed redesigning it for Lokara's ends.

"Srillk," Lokara said affectionately, "I have faith that all will evolve
as we have designed it.  After all your diligence, your work, there
could be no other outcome."

The smaller Srillk waved an appendage as if to negate its work; the nest
of tentacles at the end of Srillk's golden arm writhed nervously.  "None
of it would have happened had you not obtained the necessary classified
information ...."

That was true, Lokara thought.  The Assembly's research into human
physiology and the proposed use of mind-altering drugs delivered by a
computer-driven internal device were critical to the mission.

Fortunately, the humans had many enemies, and those enemies were
shockingly easy to bribe.

Srillk added, "And if your family had not provided the funds--"

Lokara stopped its companion.  Gently, the soldier's own
finger-tentacles captured Srillk's.  "It is not my family, but our
family.  Are you not one of my own mates?  Are you not also Lanra's
partner?" The very sound of that one's name stirred an emotion inside
Lokara's'being more fierce than even its pride, even its ambition.

"Lanra's partner until death," Srillk said sorrowfully.

Srillk peered through its own helmet into Lokara's, looking through the
eye shields to fasten its gaze on its partner's image hidden behind
optical protection.  "I visited Lanra before coming to the bridge.  I
told the loved one what we had done, how we would exact our revenge.  I
told Lanra that Kirk was near, that our vengeance would soon be
complete.  Lanra...

touched me, Lokara.  I think our partner understood ·..  and approved."

"I pray you are right," Lokara murmured.

The Tholian commander had visited Lanra just that morning.  The lovely
breeder who had been their chosen partner, the one who would have borne
their many offspring, was nothing now but a scarred, mindless hulk,
incapable of breeding, incapable of loving, incapable of anything except
experiencing the pain of injuries that would never fully heal.  In spite
of this, Lokara and Srillk both prayed every day for their breeder's
life, even though their partner's tortured existence prevented them from
bringing another breeder into their triad, prevented them from producing
the offspring that, for a Tholian, was the manifestation of a completed,
full life.  Without their breeder, Lokara and Srillk were two-thirds of
nothing, without purpose, without desire.  Yet they prayed for Lanra's
life.

The three partners had been on Loskene's vessel when it encountered the
human starship Enterprise.

There had been an exchange of phaser fire, and Lanra's station had
exploded.  No part of the lovely breeder's body had been spared.  So now
instead of children, Lanra gave Lokara, and its partner Srillk, a
different reason for living.  It was their prime focus, a task they had
applied themselves to all this time.

Vengeance.

When the Federation had made its clumsy gesture of friendship, Lokara
had decided that the human Myron Shulman--who was already in a fierce
disagreement with Kirk--would be the perfect instrument of that
vengeance: a vengeance that would encompass all of humankind, a
vengeance worthy of a Tholian.

There were other considerations as well; Lokara had long possessed
political ambition.  It was his hope to transmute his personal vengeance
into a war, one that would unify the annexes and cause them to rally
around its instigator--and appoint Lokara to a much-coveted position on
the Assembly.

"The agent's action will suffice," Lokara said confidently.

"Even with complete failure of the agent, Recovery's altered program can
now function well enough on its own to fulfill the plan.  Nothing will
stop that ship from violating the border with all her passengers.  She
will be captured in our webs and all her technology and power will be
ours to take.  There will be war--and finally, we will have the edge
over our enemies.  Our triad will be the catalyst, and will grow in
power, even with a damaged breeder.  And Kirk, before he dies, will know
this is the result of his actions, and those of his subordinates."

Srillk relaxed.  "You are right about the programming, my partner."

Lokara touched its companion.  "Yes.  The Recovery itself will be our
agent now." The $kotha's commander turned back to the viewscreen to face
the human--for what would be the last time.

"Myron, can you hear me?" McCoy murmured into the man's ear.  He had hit
upon a combination of anesthetics and a cortical stimulator, which
worked together to produce a calm, hypnotic state in his patient. "We're
heading for Tholian space.  Do you know why?  Can you stop the ship?
Myron?  Can you hear me?"

"I hear you," the researcher mumbled.

"Open your eyes, Myron, and look at this.  Can you see it?  Can you tell
me what it is?,'

Shulman opened his eyes and peered blearily at the wrinkled flimsy the
doctor held before him.

"Notes," he whispered finally, letting his head loll away from it and
his interrogator.  "Notes.  My notes.

Their notes."

"Who are they, Myron?  Tell me who they are."

"You know.  You know.  You.  And Spock.  And Kirk.

You know.  You know the three."

"How do we know the three?" McCoy, asked pointedly.

"You invaded their space on the pretext of saving Kirk.  You violated
the territorial annex." Shulman's voice remained deep and dreamy, but
grew faintly accusing.  "You remained there even after being told to
leave.  You disregarded their laws.  When they engaged you in legal
combat, you returned fire and destroyed the breeder.  The breeder lives,
but deformed, unable to breed.  You destroyed the three.  You.  And
Spock'.

And Kirk."

McCoy felt a rush of d6jh vu so powerful he almost lost his balance.

Territorial annex...

He stared at the alien writing and suddenly knew who it had belonged to.

'7 am Commander Loskene.  You are trespassing in the territorial annex
of the Tholian Assembly ...."

He had been standing beside Spock on the Enterprise bridge.

I remember now,' Spook was in command.  Jim was lost in a spatial rift
and we were trying to save him before he ran out of air.  The effects of
the unstable space were making the crew crazy, and made roe fight with
Spock irrationally.  We almost lost the ship because of our warring.  It
was viewing Jim's ' orders" that snapped me out of it and made us work
like the team we were supposed to be.  I can't speak for the Vulcan, but
I was pretty damned embarrassed by the whole thing.

He swallowed, remembering the incident vividly now.  For a brief second
he felt Spock's presence like a palpable thing, and could hear the
Vulcan say clearly to him "I understand, Doctor.  I'm sure Jim would've
just said, 'Forget it, Bones."" It was one of the warmest, most human
things Spock had ever said to him.

He was suddenly flooded by the memory of empathy and understanding he'd
received from his Vulcan friend.  It had been a terrible, emotional
time, all of it taking place while the Enterprise was slowly being
trapped inside the Tholian web.

This whole thing was Tholian--not accident or bad design, but revenge
against him and Jim, revenge that would involve intergalactic war.

He had to tell Jim.  Suddenly his patient clutched at his sleeve.

"I fought them--other ways" the sickly man gasped.

"How, Myron?"

"I saved Angie!" Shulman's lips twitched in a pale attempt at a smile.
"I set the phaser on stun.  It was the only time I got away with it.
Every time after that, they made me set it to kill. I tried not to
but--" He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.  "But I saved Angie."

McCoy swallowed and lied, "That's right.  You saved her." He took a
second to get his emotions under control, then he asked, "Myron.  How
can we get Recovery to transport everyone on board to another vessel,
another set of coordinates?"

The suffering man gasped and blinked.  "Universal evacuation command.
Didn't want to risk Titanic scenario.  One of the first safety margins.
Even Kirk noted it.  They couldn't make me rewrite that.  But they made
me narrow the scope.  On my override codes only.  My pocket." He
struggled with every word.

McCoy checked every pocket in his suit before finally finding the tiny
card.  "Insert this in any port, and give the evacuation command and
coordinates?"

Myron smiled.  "Plan B."

McCoy returned his smile.  This was another part of the original
programming he'd preserved while the Tholian device in his head tortured
him into doing what it wanted.

"What's Plan B for stopping the ship from crossing the Tholian border?"
McCoy pressed.

Myron started to weep big, huge tears and the trembling began again.
McCoy knew he'd asked the wrong question, but in spite of more drug
manipulation, he couldn't stop the brain chip inside the scientist from
punishing him.

"Can't--stop--her--from going home!" Shub man gasped, each word sounding
as if it had been torn out of him.  "Sheand I--are going home together."

"The hell you are," McCoy grumbled, and administered enough anesthetic
to put Shulman completely out ran into the next room.

under Countless light-years distant, in the wavering shadow-limned
shrine of Sekhet, Spock opened his eyes and let go a silent sigh as the
troubling vision of Loskene, Kirk, and McCoy faded.  The sensation that
he sat in the captain's chair aboard the Enterprise had vanished as
well; now he perceived only the black, glittering interior of Mount
Seleya, the stone altar, the fierce, bestial image that towered above
him.

Yet the conviction that his two friends remained in danger persisted was
did the sense that he had done all that he could to help them.

Irrational, Spock knew; utterly irrational.  It could only mean that
further effort was necessary to sever the emotional bonds.

And so, drawing a breath, he began once more to turn inward ....

"Have you got Paladin?" Josiah heard McCoy ask, as the doctor dashed up,
nearly out of breath, to the diagnostics computer now a substitute for
the communications station.

Josiah ground his teeth while manipulating the tricorder and Vulcan
analyzer's interphase with the diagnostic computer so quickly that
Lieutenant Saed had given up trying to help him.  He had to recapture
that lost channel, but Recovery was fighting him through every line of
code.

"We had them," Saed explained to Dr.  McCoy, "but then we lost them."

"We'll get them back in a minute," Josiah promised --mostly just to
reassure himself.

McCoy leaned over the console, his blue eyes bright with excitement, his
words coming out in a barely comprehensible rush.  "Shulman told
me--this whole thing is Tholian!  It's bound to be their programming.

From what I could ascertain, their mating cycIe involves three.  Kirk
has got to be told!" He thumped the console for emphasis.

"Dr.  McCoy," Riley said tensely, "where's Dr. Shulman?"

"Completely under sedation and restrained, Commander," McCoy snapped
back.  "I know better than to leave a patient in that condition
uncontrolled." He looked down at Josiah.  "Look, we've got to transmit
this information right away.  Did you tell Kirk about the core
programming?"

"We told Commander Sonak," Josiah assured him.

"He'll relay it."

Unable to make any progress on communications, Josiah went back to the
viewscreen and tried to get more information from the sensors.  The
picture on the viewscreen moved, and Josiah realized suddenly there was
a third ship in the picture that had been hidden by Recovery's huge
bulk.  He squinted.  What kind of ship design was that?  He'd never seen
anything that sleek, that triangular--then he heard McCoy nearly
strangle on an expletive.

"That-that ship!" the doctor stammered.  "That's a Tholian ship!  You've
got to open a channel!"

"I'll do what I can," Josiah replied, straightening in his chair and
swiveling it closer to the console as the small group stared in unison
at the diagnostic computer's screen.  He reached determinedly for the
controls- And stiflened at the sudden jolt of hot, electrifying pain
that pierced his back, his ribs, his entire left side.

He looked down in amazed agony to see a thin strip of metal--a piece of
trim, he realized with disbelief, from a Federation shuttle--protruding
from between two ribs.  A bright red stain spread like an expanding
sunburst on the front of his uniform.

"Oh, no," he moaned in frustration more than pain.

I don't have time for this now....

He glanced up to see the startled faces of McCoy, Riley, Saed staring at
something behind him...  at the source of the fiat, mechanical voice
that said, "There is no help.  For Kirk, for you, there is only
this--revenge for the three!"

Myron Shulman's voice, he realized, with dreamlike detachment.  The last
word became an agonized groan ...  and then was followed by the sound of
a body dropping heavily to the floor.

Riley's and Saed's faces disappeared; McCoy's loomed closer, then dimmed
as the room began to spin.  As he lost consciousness, Josiah's mind
repeated the damnable phrase over and over:

The three/The three/The three...  /

Chapter Eleven

ARMS FOLDED TIGHTLY in front of his chest, Kirk stood awaiting Lokara's
return; the nagging sense of unease kept him from settling back into
Romolo's chair.  It made all the sense in the worlds to accept the
Tholians' peaceful overtures; they had, after all, agreed to take part
in the simulation.

Yet there was something about Lokara he simply could not trust.  Perhaps
it was just the veil, which kept him from seeing his opponent
face-to-face; or perhaps it was simple prejudice, based on the
Enterprise's unfortunate encounter.

"Admiral," the communications officer called, interrupting his
uncomfortable reverie.  He turned and gazed at her impossibly young
face, with its trace of childish plumpness at cheek and jawline.

Communications cadet, he reminded himself with a ghost of a mental
smile.  All of these kids have corn ported themselves like a seasoned
crew.  Baldassare shouM be proud.

As he was proud, even though this was not his ship, his crew.  There had
been little time, ever since he had taken command of Paladin, to reflect
on how it felt...  but suddenly, with a sense of infinite gratitude to
Romolo, to his ship, to his battle-weary crew, to the cadet staring at
him, he realized that, for the first time in two and a half years, he
felt alive.

"There's been a call from Recovery," Diksen told him, her large brown
eyes a bit wide as she glanced anxiously beyond his shoulder at the
interior of the Tholian vessel on the screen.  "Would you like to see it
now?"

"Yes, on screen.  Flag me as soon as Lokara hails again."

"Aye, sir."

The split viewscreen image was replaced by a dim, static-ridden picture
that had been transmitted from one of Recovery's medical
computers--Bones had a hand in that, no doubt.  He noted that McCoy
wasn't onscreen, then realized he must be tending to Myron Shulman while
Ngo, Riley, and Lieutenant Saed worked on the transmission.

He nodded as he heard Ngo's report about the tertiary programming, and
the fact that Recovery's core programming was still intact. Interesting,
but...

He glanced over his shoulder toward the science station--it was easy, if
he did not look carefully, to imagine that it was Spock huddled there
over the viewer.  "Commander Sonak, any speculations on who's
responsible for that tertiary programming?"

The shorter, younger Vulcan shook his head.  "I am totally unfamiliar
with it, sir.  However, knowing its basis gives us an opportunity to
break its code.  The computer is working on it now.  If we can translate
the code quickly enough, we might be able to use it to gain control of
the ship before she travels into Tholian space."

"Keep me informed." He forced himself back to the command chair and sat
on its edge.  "Diksen, any luck getting through to the Recovery again?"

"Working on it, sir, but no breakthrough yet.  The ship's computer seems
to be able to build walls faster than we can break them down." She
paused, listening, her furrowed-brow expression of distant concentration
instantly recognizable.  "The $kotha is hailing us, again, Admiral."

"On screen, Mr.  Diksen," he said automatically, swiveling back to face
the viewscreen.

"Forgive the delay, Admiral," Commander Lokara apologized, as the
Tholian's wavering image reappeared.

"I have been able to address the Assembly."

For the first time, Kirk gazed at the alien and felt a glimmer of hope.

"Don't touch that lance!" McCoy barked at Riley and Lieutenant Saed. The
wicked piece of metal trim perforating the back of the padded chairback
Josiah sat in protruded some six inches from beneath the cadet's
next-to-last rib, and, no doubt, through his lung and perhaps a few
internal organs as well.

However, it was low enough to miss the; heart.

McCoy couldn't believe the raw physical force the Tholian implant had
been able to produce to make Shulman overcome the sedation and the
sickbay cot's restraints, then throw the makeshift lance with such
power.  He glanced over at Shulman's still form and wondered whether the
scientist was dead.

Why didn't the computer protect Josiah the way it protected Riley? McCoy
fretted, but only for a minute.

No doubt the computer had been unable to interpret a piece of shuttle
trim as anything dangerous.

"Easy, son," McCoy said gently to the critically wounded young man
pinned in his chair.  Josiah's ashen gray face wore an expression of
complete startlement, but he'd said little when he was hit.

"We're gonna get you out of this." He tried not to listen to his mind
screaming about Tholians and communicating with Kirk and the incredible
urgency they were in.

The doctor glanced over at Riley and Saed, who were crouched over the
motionless scientist.  "I don't want to move Josiah," McCoy said softly.
"But I do want to stabilize him as much as possible.  Riley, go.

into sickbay and wheel the cabinet I was working will in here.  Most of
what I need is on it.  And can you tell me if Shulman--"

"He's alive," Riley said softly as he leaned closer over the unconscious
man.  "Breathing shallow, some eye reflex...  no reaction to mild
stimuli." He rose, keeping his gaze on Shulman as though he still didn't
trust him, then finally exited.

"Can I help?" Anab Saed returned to Josiah's side, her face taut with
emotions that struck McCoy as oddly familiar: concern and guilt.  It
took him an instant to recall where he had seen that precise
expression--on Jim Kirk's face, many times in the' Enterprise sickbay as
he came to visit an injured crew member.  Of course; Ngo had been her
charge.  She felt responsible for him.

"Your hands steady?" McCoy asked.

The lieutenant straightened with a dancer's grace to her full height.
"Of course."

"Good.  We'll need them," the doctor answered, as.

he stepped around to the back of the chair.  Saed foliowed.  McCoy took
hold of the shuttle trim about six inches from the chair and touched it
carefully--any move it made would be keenly felt by Josiah.  "I want you
to hold this steady, just like I am.  Don't let it move a micrometer.
Can you do that?"

She nodded, her expression growing determined, and grasped the lance
behind his hands, letting him release it.

"Steady, now," he told her.  "That's it."

Riley was suddenly beside him.  "This everything you need?"

He glanced over the medical equipment and nodded.

Taking a diagnostic scanner, he evaluated the young man's condition. The
lung was pierced, the spleen nicked, and there was some foreign matter
in the interperitoneal cavity from the chair.  Josiah was going into
shock, his temperature and blood pressure dropping.  Not as bad as it
could be; not as good as McCoy would've liked it.

"Josiah had a bunch of tools from the shuttle," he said to Riley.  "Does
he have anything that'll cut that lance?"

"In the bag," Josiah whispered.  "The laser.  It'll cut anything." He
coughed weakly; a thin trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his
mouth.

"Just stay still, son," McCoy chided.  Riley was already rummaging for
the tool.

"Got it," he said.

"Cut the length of that trim off," McCoy ordered, "but be careful--don't
move the lance."'

"Got it, Doe."

McCoy loaded his hypospray and moved in front of the young man.  "Now,
here's a little something for shock, bleeding, and some general good
soup we give soldiers who get run through.  It'll relieve some pain--but
don't think that means you can move.  Okay?" He pressed the hypo against
Josiah's neck and administered a battery of drugs, pain suppressants,
and electrolytes, and an artificial plasma that would replicate once it
got into Josiah's body, replacing any additional blood he might continue
to lose.

Hearing a clatter of metal, he saw that the bulk of the lance had been
cut and fallen to the deck; only a stump protruded from the back of the
chair.  He nodded at Riley and Saed, who was cleaning her hands of the
cadet's blood.

Picking up a cell regenerator, he was grateful--if this terrible thing
had to happen--that it had happened in sickbay.  He was able to seal off
some of the internal damage, but without taking Josiah into surgery
where they could safely remove the lance, this temporary respite would
be all he could provide.  He took bandaging material from the cabinet.

"I'm going to tape you into this chair, Josiah," he said as he proceeded
to do just that.  "We've got.  to prevent you from doing any more damage
by moving until we can get you into surgery.  Try to be still, okay?"

The cadet's eyes were clearer, some of the raw pain gone from them.  He
licked his lips and said, "There's no time for that.  We've got to call
the Paladin."

McCoy drew a deep breath and looked from Josiah to the two officers. How
in blazes could they do that now?  Hurriedly, he started taping Josiah
into the chair, stabilizing his body.

Josiah tried to lift an arm to point to the console where his equipment
sat, but couldn't do it.  "They're your computers.  You've got to do it
Doctor.  Warn the ship."

The young man was right; there was nothing more to be done.  With a
sinking heart, McCoy handed Riley the hypospray, and gave Saed the
scanner, pointing at the readings.  "If this mark dips past this point,
tell Riley to give him ten more milligrams of the stimulant2"

Saed nodded and watched the diagnostic tool solemnly.

McCoy glanced once more at his young patient, then turned to face the
cobbled-together pile of technojunk they were using to create a comm
link.

He felt a moment's panic as the Vulcan analyzer glittered with symbols
and words he couldn't understand.

But the tricorder was still functional, and he understood that.  It
would help him figure out whatever he had to do.  He swallowed and got
to work.

They'd been trying to get through using the diagnostic computer, but the
alien programming had pretty much wiped out all those pathways.  He had
to find another route.  He thought for a moment.

Reports.  He touched the tricorder, scanning the diagnostic computer's
program banks.  The reports program was designed to send detailed,
complicated medical reports to anyone the doctor wanted them sent
to--the captain, other labs, even Starfleet.  He should've thought of it
sooner.

He plugged into the reports program, and scanned it quickly.  It looked
amazingly clean.  It was an obscure little program, though powerful.
Could he use that to break through to the Paladin?  He felt excited at
the prospect and worked faster on parts of the ma-ohine that were long
familiar to him.  He manipulated the program with the tricorder and had
gotten tantalizingly close to his goal when he received an indication of
another transmission.

"It's closing the channel up when I send it," he told the others.
"Paladin's receiving another transmission, and it's intercepting us--my
program is waiting its turn."

"You've got to override it and break through," Riley said.  "They're
probably talking to the damned Tholians!"

McCoy devised the most dire emergency code he could imagine, demanding
that Recovery place her formidable power at his disposal to override the
current transmission for the sake of saving a life.  It was hardly a
lie.  There was a moment's hesitation ....

"Does your Assembly accept your explanation of the course of events?"
Kirk asked Lokara.

"They are taking it under advisement," Lokara assured him.  "I have
reason to hope that will accept our viewpoint on this issue.  I have
explained how we have discussed working together to solve the problem of
Recovery's aberrant aggression."

Could it be possible?  Kirk wondered.  Could this disaster turn into a
chance at dialogue with this advanced, aggressive species?  Recovery had
been quiet the whole time he and Lokara communicated.  Could she be
observing them?  Could the pause in her flight have caused her to
reconsider her mission, her purpose?

Her core programming was still intact.  Was it finally reasserting
itself and regaining control?

"Admiral," Sonak said quietly, "Recovery has focused all sensors on the
Paladin.  She may be preparing to arm phasers."

Intellectually, Kirk knew what he should do, but instinct rebelled.  Had
the months he'd sat behind a desk so affected him that he feared to take
risks when they most needed to be taken?  He let out a slow breath, and
finally said, "Mr.  Sandover.  Lower the shields."

"Aye, sir.  Shields are down."

"Recovery's scans have ceased, sir," Sonak called.

"She is replotting her course toward the Tholian border."

"Lokara," Kirk began, his voice edged with his new optimism, "have you
any ideas how--?"

Before he could finish, the Tholian commander's image wavered, then
faded; the big viewscreen began to blink madly.  "Diksen?"

"Some weird emergency signal from Recovery is overriding everything,
sir."

McCoy's bearded, anxious face filled the screen, his voice booming
unnaturally.  "Jim--it's the Tholians.t They changed the
programming--planted a device in Shulman's head--they--"

Kirk's heart stopped; he spun toward the navigator while McCoy kept
shouting.  He heard Sonak's voice a split second before his own as both
men shouted, "Shields up/"

Too late.  In the millisecond before the blast hit, Jim realized
distracted!y that Sonak must have seen the discharge of the Tholian
phasers in his science screen as Kirk and Lokara exchanged pleasant
fides and called for shields just as Jim heard McCoy's warning.

The deck beneath Kirk's feet rose like the swell of a tidal wave,
pitching him in Romolo's chair as if he were on some antigrav
amusement-park fide.  The passive restraints kept him in but he was
snapped and swung around wildly.  Sonak, who'd been standing at his
station, was thrown badly; he rolled, but caught himself on the railing
support and clung to it with Vulcan strength.

And then the deck dropped out beneath them as the Paladin struggled to
right herself; the crew lurched around, consoles cracked under the
pressure, smoke rose into the air.  Kirk heard the sound of the ship's
fire extinguishers and in his mind's eye, saw once more the dreadful
image: Pulver, hqr dark form backlit by orange fireglow, falling
backward with morbid grace ....

The Paladin righted herself with a jerk; instantly, the bridge came
alive with the wail of the klaxon, the chatter of damage reports.  He
heard Diksen responding, trying to sort through them quickly to give him
a report.  Sonak struggled back to his chair, then checked his station.
He'd barely settled into it before the second blast caught them; this
time, Kirk and his crew managed to weather it through at their stations,
but he knew the Tholians were tearing them apart--an unshielded ship.

"Report!" Kirk shoutec}

"Damage in Engineering," Diksen called out.  "And decks five and
seven..."

McCoy's image had disappeared, leaving now just the sight of the Tholian
ship battering the hell out of them, with Recovery sitting behind her
like a placid observer...  as though she'd planned the whole thing
herself.

"Shields, Mr.  Sandover!" Kirk demanded

"Shields are gone, sir.  That was the first thing they hit."

"Fire phasers!."

Before Sandover could oblige, they were hit again, twice more in rapid
volley.  The entire crew was bounced around violently as Kirk gripped
the arms of Romolo's chair.

"Phasers are gone, sir," Sandover reported.  "We've lost..." He peered
down at his console.  "...  all but three photon torpedoes as well."

"Arm the remaining three, and fire on my word,"

"Warp engines are off-line," Sonak reported, gazing over at Kirk with a
grim expression. "Three photon torpedoes may damage the Tholians, but
are unlikely to defeat them."

Kirk stared at the screen knowing the Vulcan was right: They had no
shields, no phasers.  And Recovery wasn't doing a damned thing to help
them.  To the Tholians, it must look like the Paladin had run out of
options.

Not all of them, if I have anything to say about it.  I didn't bring the
Paladin this far just to lose her....

With a sudden keen exhilaration, he drew a breath.

"Mr.  Sandover.  On my word', drop the ship ten thousand kilometers at
minus ninety degrees.  Mr. Sonak, aim those photons mark
four-point-five, wide scatter."

Sonak looked up from his board in surprise; Kirk met his gaze with one
of utter determination.  "Aye, sir," the Vulcan said, dropping his gaze.

"Ready, Sandover...  Fire photons!"

He turned back to the screen and saw the torpedoes flare away from the
screen; the view immediately shifted as the Paladin plummeted down in a
straight line from their previous position.

The torpedoes found their mark: the massive, gleaming surface of
Recovery.

Like a slumbering giant roused by a stinging bee, the big ship shifted
position, then swatted back hard, firing her heavy phasers in the
direction the torpedoes came from.  But the Paladin was no longer
there--only the Skotha remained.

The blast caught the Tholian vessel dead on, crumpling her
shields,physically knocking the ship back from her position.

"The Skotha has been seriously damaged, Admiral," Sonak reported as he
leaned over his viewer.  "Her shields are totally destroyed, she has no
weapons, and has major damage on several decks, including Engineering."

"Sounds like she's hurt just as badly as we are," Kirk said wearily,
"but she's in Federation space.

Diksen, hail the Skotha, if you can.  See if she'll surrender.  Maybe we
can get some answers out of them yet."

"The Skotha is answering our hail, sir,"

The viewscreen showed the giant Recovery shifting from side to side as
if trying to determine which of the two ships was her true enemy, as the
tiny Skotha tilted abnormally, hanging in space.  The screen flickered,
then showed the bridge of the damaged Tholian vessel.  The color
variation on the screen quivered so much it was painful to the eyes;
Kirk winced at the too-brilliant colors that strobed there.

"Commander Lokara," Kirk said to the cloaked

231'

image on the screen.  "Surrender, and we'll assist you as well as we
can."

"Surrender?" Lokara chorused tinnily.  "To you, Kirk?  Perhaps you
should consider this.  My true discussion with the Tholian Assembly
explained the chain of events that have led to this moment.  They know
exactly why this has all happened."

Kirk frowned, wishing he did himself.

"You see, Admiral," Lokara explained patiently, "I and my partners have
always served aboard the same vessel, as is the custom of our people.
While we served under Commander Loskene, the Enterprise fired upon
us--crippling my partner, the breeder, Lanra, and destroying our
future."

There was a pause as if Lokara found it difficult to speak.  "But now,
my partner Srillk lies dead.  And the breeder, Lanra, suffers no longer.
Only I am left alone, without them.  But the vengeance we have lived for
will continue without us.  Your Recovery will follow its own plan, and
you will not be able to stop it.  Your rescue ship will enter Tholian
space, be captured in a web we are even now constructing, and plumbed
for every Federation secret aboard.  Learn this about us, Kirk, and it
will be enough: Tholians do not forgive.

And we do not surrender."

Before Kirk could speak, Sonak warned, "Admiral, the Recovery has
determined who was responsible for the photon torpedoes."

He did not say the obvious, but Kirk thought it as he stared at the
behemoth on the screen:

And we have no defense of any kind....

McCoy watched the battle with growing dread and was relieved when Jim's
ploy worked.  Riley had already given Josiah another dose of medication,
and McCoy knew he had to get the young man into surgery immediately.
Shulman needed intensive care, and surgery also, if there was any hope
of saving him.  The doctor fingered the coded cassette Shulman had given
him, and glanced at his screen.

Recovery was engaged in quite a few different activities, not all of
which he could interpret.  But one pattern of data he understood with no
problem.

"She's getting ready to move," he told Riley and Saed.  "She's gearing
up to go."

"Go?" Riley asked.  "Go where?" Then it seemed he remembered.  "You
mean--into Tholian space?"

McCoy nodded.  "Computers never forget their original assignment.  That
was the whole point of this in the first place.  Make the Recovery
violate the border, start intergalactic war."

"We've got to get out of here," Lieutenant Seed said sensibly.

McCoy shot her a wry look.  "I'd say that's an understatement."

"Shields!" Josiah gasped.  "Shields are up!"

"Don't worry, son.  Shulman told me how to evacuate everyone and gave me
his codes.  Recovery will send us all to the coordinates Jim sent us."
Then he paused, wondering if those coordinates hadn't been blasted into
the vacuum of space.

McCoy moved to Josiah's side to check his readings, and suddenly
realized the young than could see the screen again, and the data running
across it.

Josiah blinked a few times, then said softly, "Recovery's going to fire
upon the Paladin.  She'll destroy that ship.  There's no way to stop
her."

All four pairs of eyes stared, mesmerized, at the screen, as McCoy
prayed that just this once, the cadet was wrong.

Kirk's mind raced as Sonak intoned impassively, "Recovery is arming
phasers."

The admiral punched the arm of his chair.  "Engineering?

Engineering!"

"Here, Admiral," a tired voice replied.

He grinned, unable to believe his luck.  Lieutenant Gambeta was still at
her post, alive!

"Gambeta, shut down power on the starboard side immediately.  Everything
but minimal life-support.

Keep everyone off communications."

The engineer never even paused at the strange request.  "Power off,
Admiral."

"Now shut down the port side.  And the bridge.

Essentials only."

Lights shut down until the crew was on emergency lighting only,
augmented by the dim glow of the telltales.  The soft throb of the
engines that experienced spacefarers never noticed became conspicuous by
its absence.  Everyone grew still, stopped moving.

"Let the ship drift, Mr.  Sandover," Kirk said softly.

"Diksen, cut off Lokaram keep everything off that board."

The officers he spoke to nodded agreement, as if fearing that, by
speaking aloud, they might elicit Recovery' s attention.

"Diksen, broadcast an emergency distress Signal.

Engines damaged, warp drive unstable, matter-antimatter
unbalanced--losing life-support.  Keep broadcasting until you get a
reply."

The young woman's hands moved capably over the board as she spoke softly
into her receiver.

Kirk took a deep breath and settled back in his chair, aware that every
eye on the bridge was watching him.

I took my best shot, Baldassare.  If she takes us down, it's not because
we didn't try hard enough.

He could hear the creaking of their seats, the soft sound of his own
breathing.  He imagined that all across the ship, the crew watched
viewscreens anxiously and waited.  So many cadets, he thought ruefully.

So many at the beginning of their careers.  To end here- "Admiral, we're
being hailed," Diksen's steady voice broke through the silent reverie.

"On audio."

After a scant pause, a feminized computer voice announced,.  "This is
the rescue ship Recovery.  We have received your distress signal.  How
may we assist you?"

Kirk felt the beginnings of a grin spread over his lips.  Thank you,
Myron Shulman.  And thank you, Bones.  The core programming really is
still intact.

"Recovery, we need...  personnel," Kirk suggested, swiveling toward
communications, where Reese Diksen smiled broadly, revealing teeth, as
she tended her board.  "Doctors, engineers, scientists--to help us
repair our vessel."'

"Admiral," Sonak said, his tone perceptibly more placid, "Recovery is
scanning us--and she has lowered her shields."

Riley pointed to the tricorder.  "Look!  Recovery's dropped her
shields!"

McCoy looked away from Josiah's readouts to glance at the screen. "Looks
like a good time to evacuate."

"Are we sure about those coordinates?" Riley wondered.

Paladin had taken a hell of a pounding.

Josiah wet his lips and said, "Recovery will check them.  She won't send
two hundred people into a vacuum.  Core programming."

"Right!" said McCoy.  "Riley, help me."

The commander followed him over to the still form of Myron Shulman.
McCoy ran the scanner over the researcher.  He didn't like what he saw,
but if he could get him to Paladin's sickbay, he might be able to keep
him alive, put him in stasismlike Angie--until they could get to a
better facility.  Shulman deserved that much.

"I want him placed near the rest of us, so t.hat he has to be
transported with us," McCoy explained to Riley.

"Is that safe?" Lieutenant Saed interjected.  McCoy could tell that the
Security officer wasn't fond of the idea of bringing Shulman along.  "He
nearly killed Commander Riley, he's mortally wounded

"And he's singlehandedly responsible for saving all our lives with this
programming card"he held it up to show her"and for maintaining the core
programming The man's a hero, and one of the finest minds of this
century.  He deserves to have anything done that can save his life."

She sighed in acquiescence as Riley leaned down and scooped the man up
in his arms like a child.

"Damn!" Riley swore softly.  "He hardly weighs anything!"

McCoy ushered them back over to the computer.

"Everybody stand close.  Don't move." He glanced at Josiah, who looked a
little more ashen.  Plugging in the card, he gave Recovery the
evacuation command and Shulman's personal code.

Leonard McCoy never thought he would ever again so look forward to
having his molecules scrambled as he did at that moment.

"Admiral!" Reese Diksen nearly shouted in her excitement, "people are
materializing in cargo deck four!  Dozens--no, hundreds of people--and
a...

stasis chamber?"

Kirk spun to say something to her, bat Sonak interrupted.

"Admiral, the Recovery has transported all her personnel onto the
Paladin.  She is now completely devoid of life."

"We're getting requests for emergency medical aid, Admiral," Diksen
said.

"Is sickbay operational?" Kirk asked her.  As in any Starfleet vessel,
Paladin's sickbay was in the most protected part of the ship, "Fully
operational, sir," Diksen reported, "though its staff is busy dealing
with our own wounded."

"They'll have to use triage," he commented.  "Make sure the people in
the cargo bay get all the help they need." He frowned as Diksen's
expression grew abruptly dismayed.  "What's wrong, Cadet?"

"The personnel from Recovery have one seriously injured party they need
help with." She faltered, then, composed herself and straightened,
suddenly every inch the officer.  "It's Josiah Ngo, sir."

He paused.  "Do you want to give them a hand, Diksen?"

She wavered for only a second, then sat up straight again.  "No, sir.
I'll remain at my station.  Sickbay reports enough hands available."

He stared at her admiringly and was about to say they'd both go down to
sickbay later, when this was over--when Sonak interrupted again.,
"Excuse me, Admiral, but--I seem to have made an error;"

Kirk turned in genuine surprise at th confessior "You, Mr.  Sonair?"

The corner of his lip quirked almost imperceptibly in admission.  "My
apologies, sir, but I reported that Recovery was devoid of life.
According to my readouts that was true--for a moment.  However, there
now seems to be one lone human--a single male--aboart her,"

Not Rley or Bones, Kirk prayed silently.  "Can we beam him off?"."

Sonak lifted a thoughtful brow.  "I believe it would be safer to request
that specific person's presence."

"Then see if you can pinpoint an identity.  Diksen, open a hailing
frequency to the Recovery."

Myron Shulman was only dimly aware of being lifted from the deck by the
strong arms of Commander Riley.  He remembered feeling sheltered for
that brief moment--almost comforted.  He had been so tired ....

He felt the gentle pull of the transporter, felt his atoms
disassembling--then reassembling back in his own quarters, in his own
bed.  He lay there, helpless, sick, in pain, yet absurdly glad to be
there.  This room, this bed, for the last two years had been his only
home, from the moment the physical construction of Recovery's shell had
been completed.  There had been so much work.  So much work.

All destroyed.

Yet he would not weep.  He'd saved the core programming.

Recovery had used it to send everyone to safety--everyone except him.

In the moments of lucidity that had finally returned, and the vague
memory of his' conversations with McCoy in sickbay, he realized now what
had been done to him: the Tholians had wedded him to this ship with
their incredibly advanced brain device, and their unusual tertiary
programming.  Even as he'd struggled to overwrite the real programming
of his rescue ship, the researcher in him had had to admire the
Tholians' advances.  Now the Federation would learn what they could from
the Tholian programming.

Some of the things the Tholians had made him do had actually improved
the Recovery.  Perhaps in time the Federation would glean the good from
it and improve their technology.

Whatever happened, it would all be done without him.  He wondered--as
many humans do when they face death--if anyone would mourn for him, or
if he would be forever remembered as a traitor to his species.

He had never meant for Recovery to be anything more than a rescue
vessel--but because of what had been done to him, he had come to think
of the ship as something else--as part of himself.  And now he and
Recovery would have to bring this to an end.  He didn't want to, but it
was the one piece of programming he simply could not work around.

At least they would be together.  He would have to trust Kirk to solve
the problem he and Recovery were about to create.  If any man could, it
would be Admiral Kirk.  For the first time in a long while, Myron was
able to think clearly about the admiral, and realized how, even when he
had opposed Myron, he had still been the scientist's ally.  Shulman
trusted Kirk to solve this problem somehow.  It was what the admiral was
best at.

He struggled to lick cracked, dry lips.  "Computer-" he croaked, his
voice barely audible.  "Take us home."

"Admiral," Diksen reported, "the Recovery is ignoring my hail."

"I believe the identity of the man on board," Sonak told Kirk, "is Myron
Shulman."

Kirk gazed at the screen in helpless frustration.

"Recovery has raised her shields, Admiral," Sonak warned.

Jim tensed.  Surely she wouldn't fire on them now, when they were
helpless, and held the entire crews from both ships ....

"She is once again reconfiguring her course into Tholian space," Sonak
continued, then paused, frowning slightly as he noticed something on his
readout.  "However, her scanners are reacting to something
nearby--something our sensors cannot detect-"

Kirk swiveled back toward the viewscreen, his instinct sending out
alarms as loud as any red alert.

He rose from his chair, training his eyes on the empty vastness of space
surrounding the odd trio of the Paladin, the Skotha, the Recovery.  "Not
now..." he murmured.  "Not now...

He spotted it at the same time Sonak reacted to the data on his science
screen.  The space directly above and between the two smaller ships
suddenly wavered, and something vast began materializing out of the
vacuum.

Like a vampire out of the mist, Kirk thought morosely, as a Klingon
Bird-of-Prey solidified on the screen

Chapter Twelve

JIM KIRK STARED with a sense of foreboding into the garish unblinking
eye painted on the hull of the Bird-of-Prey.  The Paladin now held over
three hundred crew members--many of them cadets plus over two hundred
people beamed from the Recovery.

He had felt a deep sense of relief at first knowing that Riley, Bones,
and all the others were rescued but that relief was short-lived.  The
Paladin still had some weaponry, but she had no shields and Jim doubted
that Recovery could be duped twice.  The next time she was fired on, the
behemoth would simply blow them all to kingdom come and let someone else
sort them out.

And if the Klingons played their usual gambit--shoot first, don't bother
asking questions at all--none of them would have a chance.

But how in God's name could he reason with Klingons?

As he turned to tell Diksen to open a hailing frequency, she interrupted
with, "We're being hailed, Admiral.  By the Klingon ship.  They're
hailing the Tholians as welL"

Jim shared a look of candid amazement with Sonak.  "On screen."

The image of the ungainly vessel dissolved, then coalesced once more
into the ominous vision of a Klingon officer bedecked in full warrior's
armor; his long dark hair and beard, streaked with auburn, spilled down
onto a breastplate of black leather and dully gleaming metal.  "This is
Captain Qo'dar of the Klingon warship Fury,"

"And I am Admiral--"

"I know who you are!" the Klingon thundered; beneath his bony skull
ridge, tiny, glistening eyes blazed with rage.  "We have been monitoring
all ships' transmissions.  At first, I was convinced that this was
Federation treachery, but now I know that the Tholians have staged this
event to acquire a piece of advanced Federation technology!" He slammed
a metal-clad fist against his console; it struck with a loud clank.
"Technology they will use to conquer the Klingon Empire!"

"Admiral," Sonak called softly from his station, "the Recovery is
showing keen interest in the shielded Klingon ship."

"Qo'dar, wait!" Kirk demanded.  "If you've been observing, you know that
if you fire on the.  Tholians, Recovery will destroy us all!  Your
shields alone are causing her to focus on you, scan your vessel--"

The Klingon turned to another officer on his bridge and growled
something in his language.  The officer's reply caused Q'odar to recoil
angrily and whirl back toward the viewscreen.  "Are you telling me to
act as you do and feign helplessness, just to satisfy the sensors of an
unoccupied vessel?"

Sonak's perfectly modulated voice intruded.  "Recovery is arming her
phasers."

"You heard that, Qo'dar," Kirk said quickly.  "You have a choice: Keep
your shields up, and be destroyed morfeign helplessness, and survive to
help us outwit The officer nearest Qo'dar snapped something at his
captain.  The Klingon clenched his gauntleted fists, his bronze face
suffused with frustration.  Finally, he shouted out a clipped command.

For an instant, Kirk dared not breathe.

"The Fury is lowering her shields, Captain," Sonak told him at last.
"And Recovery is taking her weapons off line and lowering her own
shields."

Aware that the Klingon must be getting similar information, Kirk turned
to the warrior, searching for the right thing to say, the common ground
they might use to devise a solution to this problem.  For the Klingon
was right about one thing the Tholians gained total control of Recovery,
they would use the knowledge of the advanced Federation technology to
overwhelm their neighbors--and the first to go would be the nearby
Klingons.

"Captain Qo'dar," he began reasonably, "you said yourself that you've
learned we are not the cause--"

"Admiral," Diksen interrupted, "the Tholians are sending out a standard
Federation distress signal.

They're sending it directly to--"Her eyes widened with astonishment as
she swiveled to face him.

Recovery, sir."

"Damn!" Kirk swore softly, even as on the viewscreen, Qo'dar argued with
his own officer.

"Sonak?"

His gaze intent on his viewer, the Vulcan replied, "Recovery is
responding, sir.  The Tholians report that their ship is severely
damaged, but insist they must remain aboard her for their specific
life-support requirements.  Recovery is analyzing the ship's
coordinates."

"Lokara!" Qo'dar roared, shaking a fist at his invisible adversary.  "I
will blast you out of space before you take refuge aboard that ship?

Sonak glanced up from his viewer to gaze pointedly at the admiral.  "I
believe, Captain, that the Klingons are preparing to fire on the
Slotha."

"Qo'dar, don't!" Kirk shouted.  "Recovery will destroy us both and still
save the Tholians.  You'll gain nothing!"

The Klingon hesitated, as if Kirk's words rang too true to deny; but his
face remained contorted with anger, and beneath shaggy red-black brows,
his eyes narrowed mistrustfully.  "You will let those skulking cowards
gain access to that ship, Kirk?  Better we should destroy the Tholians
now, and face death ourselves than--"

"Recovery is beaming the Tholian vessel into one of her large hangar
bays," Sonak intoned, leaning over his viewer, his severe features
bathed in its blue glow.

The Klingon howled his rage as the Skotha alematerialized--so loudly
that Kirk repressed a wince and nodded irritably at Diksen, who lowered
the volume.

He drew a breath and with a calmness he did not feel told the Klingon,
"The Recovery is programmed to go into Tholian space.  Once she's there,
it would just be a matter of time before she was captured in a Tholian
power web where they could study her and reprogram her at their leisure.
Destroying that one ship would have accomplished nothing."

The Klingon listening in grudging silence, then leaned closer to the
viewscreen, his leather armor creaking.  "And what will stop her now,
Kirk?  Your crippled junkheap?  Or my lone warship?"

"Admiral," Sonak warned, "Recovery is still dealing with the injured
Tholian vessel now aboard her, but she is also preparing to restart her
journey--into Tholian space."

Kirk knew Recovery considered Paladin's problems solved by the personnel
she'd transferred over.  Even if the Klingon ship imitated Kirk's
actionwand the admiral knew better than to suggest that the only likely
response Recovery could have to their distress call would be to beam the
Klingons aboard.  He had a sudden image of a dozen battle-raged Klingons
swarming through the Recovery's corridors as they searched for the
Tholians, and shook his head.  That wouldn't stop the ship from crossing
the Tholian border, and a crew of Klingons wouldn't be able to prevent
the Tholians from eventually capturing and controlling the rescue
vessel.  He had to do something to keep Recovery here, something that
would prevent her departure, then disable her ....

He took a step over to the science station and leaned over Sonak's
shoulder.  "Has the computer finished translating the tertiary code?"

The Vulcan straightened and released an inaudible sigh, his expression
composed; but a faint crease remained between his brows.  "Negative,
Admiral.  We need more time."

"Mr.  Sonak," Kirk said softly, "if ve can't find a way to control her,
disable her..." He did not complete the sentence, but turned his gaze
back toward the implacable giant on the viewscreen and finished the
thought silently.

· .  .  we'll have to destroy her.

With her creator still on board.

It was an unacceptable solution; but he could not permit that ship to
cross the border.  First things first--to keep the vessel from leaving.

"Qo'dar, are you carrying any drones?"

The Klingon studied him a moment, then replied warily, "You mean, the
kind we use for target practice?

Yes.  One hundred."

"Can the drones be sent to a target, yet not arm themselves until they
arrive?" Kirk asked.

Qo'dar hesitated.  "If you are asking me if the drones can be used for
surveillance--that is possible."

Kirk nodded, grateful for the admission.  He knew that Klingons viewed
automated surveillance as cowardly, preferring a more direct approach.
He turned to the Vulcan.  "Tell Engineer Gambeta we'll need a special
shuttlecraft--one that can send out life-form readings, readings that
can convince Recovery there are living humans aboard.  And we'll need it
in five minutes."

Sonak replied smoothly, "Aye, sir," and addressed his board'..

"You are planning on recreating the simulation?"

the Klingon asked incredulously.  "Need I remind you, Kirk, that it was
the simulation that nearly caused our destruction?"

Kirk held up his hands in a placating gesture.  "In the simulation,
Recovery herself was under attack.

Think about it, Qo'dar--her central programming is still intact.  Her
responses have been appropriate when someone else is under attack.  Can
your drones fire on a target if they have the coordinates?"

"Of course!"

"Good." Kirk took a breath.  If his next words sounded like a command he
would never gain the cooperation of the honor-bound warrior. "Qo'dar--if
you would please send out a stream of, say, twenty drones, a few at a
time, just to give Recovery some thing to analyze until we can release
our shuttlecraft...  ?"

There was a pause, then Qo'dar grumbled a command to another officer.

Huddled over his viewer, Sonak said quietly, "The Fury is releasing her
drones--two--five-eight-twelve...

Recovery is putting her departure on hold to analyze them and determine
their purpose."

"Thank you, Captain Qo'dar." Still facing his reluctant ally in the
viewscreen, Kirk said deliberately, "Sonak, while there is no central
command post or bridge aboard Recovery, there is a core brain.  The
schematics for its location are in Paladin's computer.

I want the location of that brain sent to Captain Qo'dar."

The Klingon's astonishment was plain on his sculpted bronze face.

There was a moment's pause before Sonak responded coolly, "As first
officer, sir, I must remind you that that is classified information."

"Thank you, Commander," Kirk replied, without taking his gaze from
Qo'dar's.  "Now, send the information.

Captain Qo'dar will need it." He addressed the Klingon.  "If you will
take this information, sir, and program the remainder of your drones
with it, we might smuggle them into the Recovery in an unmanned
shuttle--with her cooperation,"

Qo'dar's expression remained one of suspicion even as the information
was relayed to him." He gave orders to the soldiers around him, who
scurried into activity.

"I am taking your...  suggestion...  and acting on it, Kirk, but what
good will it do to get the drones aboard the vessel?  We have been told
the ship confiscates any weapons brought aboard."

"That's why the drones must not be armed," Kirk insisted.  "Set them to
arm themselves and fire only upon reaching the target.  If they're armed
too early, Recovery will simply beam them into space.  Unarmed, they're
no more dangerous than tricorders, or other sensor-laden equipment."

The Klingon's eyes slitted in amusement.  "Yes.  Yes.

I see your plan.  If the drones destroy .the brain, then the ship will
simply die in space.  She will not cross the border and be captured by
the Tholian army waiting there.  We may yet confront Lokara
face-to-face!" The warrior stroked his beard thoughtfully as he made a
decision.  "Five of my warriors will accompany the drones."

Kirk stepped closer to the viewscreen.  If he didn't phrase this just
right, he'd insult the Klingon's honor and everything would be lost.
"Qo'dar, this plan...

is contingent on our ability to have the drones hit the target before
the Tholians inside Recovery can take control of her.  If you send
warriors over there, their weapons will be confiscated, and they
themselves might be immediately confined.  The chances of their
accomplishing anything are slim.  If anything goes wrong, their lives
will be forfeit for nothing.  Where is the honor in that?"

Qo'dar frowned as he considered this.  "This is always the Federation
way.  You send in robots to do your most dangerous work.  You talk and
talk, saying anything you can to avoid war.  You spend valuable
resources on a vessel whose whole purpose is to save lives." He shook
his shaggy head imperiously.  "I will never understand your people."

Kirk felt Diksen's eyes on his back, and recalled their previous
conversation about how the Federation must be viewed by more warlike
species..  He was about to respond when Sonak interrupted.

"Admiral, Mr.  Gambeta reports that the shuttlecraft is ready."

"Quickly, Sonak.  Release the shuttle; send its coordinates to Captain
Qo'dar." He turned to the Klingon officer.  "If you will transport the
remainder of your drones into the shuttlecraft--?"

Qo'dar barked his orders.

"The shuttlecraft is moving toward Recovery,"

Sonak reported seconds later as he stared into his viewer.  "Cadet
Diksen, please split the viewscreen so the admiral can see what is
happening."

Diksen obliged.  Beside Qo'dar's image, the view of space and Recovery's
massive bulk appeared.  Kirk watched the shuttle's activities even as
Sonak reported them from his sensors.

"The shuttle has halted, and is holding position fifty kilometers from
the rescue vessel.  According to sen-sots, the shuttlecraft holds two
humanoid passengers --and now contains eighty Klingon drones.  Paladin's
sensors report that they.  are surveillance devices, nothing more.
Recovery has noted the shuttle's activity."

"Qo'dar, the twenty drones that are floating in space," Kirk suggested,
"have them surround the shuttlecraft and fire upon it.  Two, three
times, light hits, that's all we'll need.  Be sure they don't fire on
Recovery herself, or either of our ships."

The Klingon nodded and snapped orders to his crew.

Suddenly, the small flock of drones suspended in space turned and
swarmed the tiny shuttlecraft.

Quickly, three of the drones blasted the ship randomly.

, "The shuttle is issuing a standard Federation distress call, Captain,"
Diksen called out.

"Good," Kirk murmured to himself, waiting for the ship to dematerialize
and be brought into Recovery's womb.  No one moved or spoke for seconds,
but nothing happened.

"Kirk?" Qo'dar growled.

Jim turned to Diksen questioningly.

"Distress signal still being sent, sir," she reported.

"What's happening?" the admiral asked the air.

"Why isn't she getting beamed aboard?"

He imagined he heard a faint edge of disappointment in Sonak's voice.
"Sir, it seems that Recovery is not convinced that there are life-forms
aboard.  Her sensors are more sophisticated than ours are"

Suddenly, Qo'dar shouted another command to his crew, and the Klingons
aboard the Fury scrambled to obey.  Kirk didn't like what he supposed
they were being ordered to do.  "No, wait!" he implored, but it was too
late.

"Captain," Sonak reported, "five humanoids have just beamed aboard the
shuttle."

Before 'he could protest Qo'dar's move, Kirk watched the shuttlecraft
dematerialize and disappear from the viewscreen.

"The shuttlecraft is now aboard Recovery, Admiral," Sonak assured him.

"Now you will see how a Kiigon faces death, Terran!" Qo'dar boasted,
waving his clenched fist.

"And the Tholians will see it as well.  But I have taken your advice. My
warriors have gone unarmed; a Klingon warrior is weapon enough."

Kirk swallowed, and forced himself to say, "Good luck to your brave
warriors, Qo'dar.  May they succeed in their mission."

"Captain," Sonak remarked, "Recovery has raised her shields and has
departed for Tholian space on impulse power."

Suddenly, the viewscreen blinked sporadically and Kirk turned to find
Diksen working frantically at her station.  "What is it, Diksen?  What's
happening?"

"It's Recovery, sir," the cadet told him, never taking her attention
from her work.  "She's breaking in- forcing a transmission on us."

"Let it through, Cadet."

The distorted image of Lokara once again faced him across the screen.
Qo'dar was gone.

"Sensors indicate this transmission is being sent simultaneously to the
Klingon ship," Sonak told Kirk.

The screen showed the bridge of the damaged Tholian vessel.  The color
variation on the screen quivered so much it was painful to the eyes, and
Kirk winced at the too-brilliant colors strobing there.

"Kirk!" Lokara exhorted in a multioctave cascade, · "I have control of
Recovery's communications.  Soon I will control the ship's brain.
Meanwhile, Recovery will follow its own plan, and you will not be able
to stop it.

This vessel, and all the weapons and knowledge aboard it, will belong to
the Tholian Assembly."

"Commander Lokara." Kirk forced a reasonable expression and tone,
uncertain whether the alien would even understand the subtleties of
human expression.

"You're condemning your people to a long, protracted warm"

A burst of muffled, mechanically distorted sounds came over the
speakers.  Lokara's veiled image turned as it consulted its console;
meanwhile, the sound intensified.

"Sonak, what's happening?" Kirk demanded.

The Vulcan raised a quizzical eyebrow.  "I believe, Captain, that is the
sound of Klingons who have located their objective2'

As he spoke, the noise became distinguishable as the impassioned shouts
of Klingon ,warriors on the kill.

On the screen, Lokara moved swiftly, jerkily, apparently adjusting
controls to no avail.  Kirk wondered if the Klingons had taken laser
tools to cut their way into the ship.  Would Recovery let them do that?

"Kirk!" the Tholian shouted at the screen, with rage rendered comically
shrill by the mechanical voice distortion, "this is your treachery
again!"

The viewscreen flashed, and Lokara was gone, his image replaced by the
dark, looming figure of Captain Qo'dar.  "You dare to give Kirk the
credit?" he boomed.  "Those are Klingons at your door, Lokara!

You may as well invite them in--since Recovery will protect you no
longer!" Then he shouted an order to a subordinate.

"Captain, the drones have found their target," Sonak said, "and have
armed themselves and fired immediately.  The Recovery's brain is
effectively destroyed.

She was unable to achieve warp, and is traveling on inertia at impulse
velocity.  Shields are down."

Kirk did not allow himself the luxury of relief; the situation was not
yet resolved.  ,Mr.  Sandover, can you get a tractor beam on that ship
before'she's out of range?  We've got to stop her from crossing that
border."

Sandover turned toward him, his normally pale skin flushed beneath his
freckles with excitement and alarm.  "Captain, if we try to put a
tractor beam on something that big in the shape we're in, she'll pull us
apart!"

Kirk realized he was right, and turned to Diksen.

"Hail Qo'dar!  His ship's in good shape.  'Maybe they can stop her
momentum."

Suddenly, the Klingon was on half the viewscreen, even as beside him,
Recovery moved farther and farther away.  "Your communications officer
relayed your request, Kirk.  I'm sorry, but that vessel is too large for
us to affect." Qo'dar paused a beat, then said gruffly.  "We will have
to destroy her."

With Shulman still on board.  "No," Kirk countered.

"Your men, Qo'dar--"

"It is every Klingon warrior's dream to die in battle, Kirk.  My men
will roar their way to death in joy."

"Mr.  Sonak," the admiral called, with a sinking sense of failure.  He
knew even before Sonak responded what the Vulcan's answer would be.

"Still no success in breaking the tertiary code, Admiral." Sonak paused.
"You should know, Admiral, that there are no longer any human life-form
readings aboard Recovery."

So Shulman was gone; but there were still five Klingons and the Tholians
aboard her.  He stared at the sight of the rapidly receding vessel on
the screen, then said heavily, "Mr.  Sandover.  Arm all phasers.

Load torpedoes.  Fire all on the Recovery on my order."

"On your command, Kirk," Qo'dar said, with a respect that made him gaze
back in gratitude feeling he had never thought to feel toward a Klingon.

"Know that my warriors will welcome it."

"Mr.  Sandover," he said softly, bitterly, "fire all weapons."

The Klingon captain uttered a hoarse monosyllable.

On the viewscreen, dazzling photon bursts emerged like hurtling
supernovae--from Paladin, from the Fury--and converged on the retreating
vessel just as the rays of both ships' phasers burned into her hull.

Recovery rocked from the concussion, and began to drift off
course--damaged, but not destroyed.

The Klingon cursed.  "What a ship this is!" he spat, and Kirk realized
his complaints were admiration.

"Had this been a Klingon vessel--!"

The viewscreen flickered once more and Diksen called out, "Transmission
from Recovery, Captain," and he gestured for her to pull it in, get it
on screen.

It was Lokara, its image so grotesque and distorted, it took a second
for Kirk to realize the Tholian had lost its visor and stood revealed
before them.  He got a brief impression of shimmering golden skin shot
through with rainbow sparks, of sinuous, waving tentacles...  but the
picture was so wavering, so bizarre and canted sideways that Kirk could
not clearly describe the alien even though he looked right at it.  The
shouts of the Klingons had not dimmed; if anything, it sounded as if
they were nearly beside the beleaguered Tholian.

"It is over, Kirk!" Lokara babbled, in a cacophony of voices grown
grotesquely shrill.  "Over, forever.  I told you--Tholians never
surrender!"

Then the grainy, broken-up, but unmistakable image of a Klingon warrior
loomed behind Lokara.  As the Klingon grappled the Tholian in a deadly
embrace, Lokara screamed and slapped a writhing golden appendage down on
the console before him.

The viewscreen exploded in searing white incandescent light.  Kirk
raised a hand, momentarily blinded, until Diksen closed the channel and
returned the view to darkness of space and the smaller image of the
drifting Recovery.

"Admiral," Sonak called out, "the Tholians have caused their ship to
self-destruct.  This explosion has caused a warp-core breach aboard
Recovery; a second explosion will follow in seconds.  Without shields,
we do not have the ability to withstand the blast--" He broke off and
peered at his viewer, one brow lifted in puzzlement.

Before Kirk could ask for an explanation, Qo'dar once again shared the
viewscreen with the image of Recovery.

"Hold on, Kirk!  Hold on, with all your might!" the Klingon roared.

He stared at the commander's shaggy image, uncertain whether the Klingon
was gloating or mocking him; the Fury, after all, was well shielded and
would no doubt survive the blast.

On the screen beside him, poised just before the border of Tholian
space, within sight of the fleet that waited to claim her, Recovery
exploded.

It was eerie in its silence, as the massive ship dissolved into a blaze
of light and hurtling debris.

Kirk watched helplessly as the shock wave rolled toward them, unimpeded
in the vacuum of space.

"Hold on," he said uselessly to his crew.  His mind spun with a million
thoughts in the blink of millisecond--Bones was here, aboard this ship,
yet he hadn't had a chance to see him, and now it was too late--Diksen,
with her whole career in front of her, modeling on him, and now she
would die--Sonak, a fine scientist who would make an excellent first
officer --Gambeta, Ngo, Riley and his wife, Sandover--all who'd worked
so hard, pushed so much, followed his every ordermall of it to end like
this?

I'm sorry, Baldassare.  Sorry that I couldn't tell you myself about your
gallant crew...

The shock wave hit hard.  Kirk felt his body torn by the force as he
rocked in his chair.  He heard the alarms, saw Sandover's station burst
into flames, watched the helmsman battle to extinguish it, even as the
bridge was buffeted.  Someone grunted in pain behind him; he heard
fabric tear, synthetic and metal break and splinter.  The Paladin was
coming apart.

And this was how it would end- He shut his eyes, felt the power of the
blast tear through him, through his ship--then ebb and subside, even as
the vessel rocked like a wind-tossed cradle and started to restabilize.
In amazement, he opened his eyes.  His crew was scrambling to put out
fires, responding to emergency calls from all over the ship.

They had survived.  But how--?

He turned to Sonak.

"I had no time to tell you, sir," the Vulcan said, straightening his
uniform, "but the Fury--extended her shields around us at the last
minute.  We're badly damaged--we'll have to be towed to the nearest
starbase for repairs--but we still have life-support, and the ship is
holding together."

Kirk turned toward the viewscreen that was now nothing nothing but
static and white noise.  "Diksen, hail the Fury--" He paused and
swiveled back toward the cadet's comm board.  "Diksen, are you all
right?"

He could see her hands trembling from where he sat, but she squared her
shoulders and said, with only the slightest quaver, "My board is fine,
sir.  Hailing frequencies open.  I mean, I'll raise the Fury, sir."

The viewscreen came back on as she manipulated the board, and soon
Qo'dar filled it with his dark presence.

"I see you did as i suggested, Kirk, and held on.  You survived the
blast.  Too bad.  That means one more Federation ship to deal with."
Qo'dar struggled to maintain an expression of disdain, but couldn't
quite manage to hide a slight smirk of satisfaction.

"You extended your shields, Qo'dar," Kirk accused.

"Don't deny it.  You deliberately tried to save us, a Federation ship!
What will the Klingon High Command say about that?"

"They cannot address that which they never hear of, Kirk.  As far as I
know, you are not in the habit of willingly communicating.  with them.
We both achieved what we wanted even if our goals were different.  No
doubt you would have rather talked the Recovery into surrendering."

"And you would have preferred she fought bach; against your warship,"
Kirk commented wryly.

Qo'dar threw back his head in a mucous, good-natured laugh, "I hope your
warriors died gloriously," Kirk offered sincerely.

The Klingon's merriment faded.  "And I regret we could not have saved
your rescue ship.  It was an honorable experiment."

"Captain," Diksen said softly, "we're being hailed by a Federation
vessel who's responding to the distress signal we broadcast earlier·
They...  are concerned about the Klingons' presence, sir."

Kirk nodded.  "Captain Qo'dar, one of our own ships is coming to our
aid.  But your assistance will not be forgotten.  Perhaps, someday, in
the future--"

Qo'dar only chuckled.  "You think in the future, someday, Klingons will
be like you, and will sit and talk and talk, Kirk?  I hope not!  I, too,
dream to die like a warrior!" With a sharp command in Klingon, Qo'dar
closed communications, and the viewscreen returned to the image of
ever-brilliant stars and space--and countless pieces of debris floating
away in gravityless vacuum, all that remained of the rescue ship
Recovery.

I'm sorry, Myron.  More sorry than you'll ever know.

He sagged back in Romolo's chair, more exhausted and more exhilarated
than he had been in two years.

"We're being hailed by the Cavalry, sir," Diksen reminded him as the
Klingon ship warped away.

Kirk swung around to grin quizzically at her.  "The ·..  cavalry?"

"Aye, sir.  The captain of the U.S.S.  First Air Cavalry is hailing us."

He chuckled, remembering the hubbub surrounding that name when the ship
was christened.  But the First Air Cavalry had been a famous fighting
unit in history and deserved the acclaim, and all the resources that the
huge starship offered were desperately needed by the Paladin right now.

"On screen, Diksen."

When the familiar visage of Captain Marie Childress appeared, with
Ambassador Sarek standing beside her, Jim allowed himself a broad smile.

"Marie!  You're a sight for sore eyes.  As are you, Ambassador." He
enjoyed watching Sarek raise one eyebrow ever so slightly in the
blandest display of surprise.  "How did you get here so fast?"

"Jim, several ships were stationed in the neighborhood of the
simulation," Childress answered, "simply because of the proximity of the
Romulans, Klingons, and Tholians.  We heard about the Recovery's
breakdown and have been chasing you ever since.  There are a few more
ships tailing us, and several stayed to assist the Starhawk."

"Is Captain Romolo with you?" Kirk asked hopefully.

He wanted nothing more than to tell Baldassare --in front of his
crew--just how valiantly they'd served their "stand-in" captain.

Captain Childress shifted in her seat, her brown eyes searching Sarek's
face.  The ambassador lowered his gaze for the briefest of instants;
when he raised it again, his eyes and voice were somber.  "I'm sorry,
Admiral.  But I'm afraid that Captain Romolo--did not survive the attack
on the Starhawk.  To you, and to the entire crew of the Paladin, may I
say--I grieve with thee."

Kirk could say nothing--could only exhale abruptly, as though the wind
had been knocked from him.  A moment of silence passed, and then Sarek
said, his pitch rising ever so slightly with curiosity:'

"Captain Akhmatova was critically wounded and is still in sickbay.  She
wished me to relay a message to you ....  "He paused.  "She says to tell
you that she knows what to do now.  She says--tell Kirk Baldassare made
the right choice.  The fourth choice."

"The fourth choice," Kirk repeated, too stunned by the news to make
sense of the words.  And then his conversation with Akhmatova returned
to him.

"I figure I've got three choices: accept the promotion and be kicked
upstairs; refuse it; or retire and be done with it." Baldassare Romolo
had made the fourth choice, the right one: he had died in action, as a
captain on a starship.

A small sound behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder.  At
communications, Reese Diksen sat stone-faced, staring at her board, her
fists clenched in fury.

With a sigh, he turned back to the screen.

"Marie.  This crew is hurt, hungry, and exhausted.

Many of them will need to beam over directly onto the Cavalry for
medical care.  We need a relief team--especially for the bridge
crew--and lots of hands."

"I'm sending my best, Jim," Marie assured him.

"You should be off that bridge within the hour."

He nodded his thanks and thought, There's got to be some Saurian brandy
somewhere on this vessel.  Once I locate it, all I have to do is find
Bones...

Epilogue Aso^Ro 'rE P,zov, Kevin Riley settled down 'against the
all-too-inviting bunk with a gusting sigh.

The events aboard Recovery had left him feeling exhausted and years
older; after a brief exchange with Admiral Kirk, he had returned to his
guest quarters to clean up and change from a uniform spattered with
Josiah Ngo's blood.  The admiral had looked as weary as his aide, his
uniform likewise blood-smeared.  But unlike Riley, Kirk had seemed
rejuvenated by the experience, and Kevin had no doubt that the admiral
would make good his promise to procure a starship of his own.

But at the moment, Riley could not bring his tired mind to contemplate
it.  He was due now for a long rest.  His body ached for it; yet even as
he lay, unwilling, unable to move, against the bunk's soft firmness, he
contemplated rising.  Anab and he would not be aboard the Paladin for
long.  He wanted to seek her out, to see her alone, removed from the
insane backdrop of the Recovery, before duty and space separated them
again.

He lay there some moments, fatigue warring with desire, and when the
door at last chimed softly, he smiled to himself and rose.

"Come."

The door slid open to reveal Anabmas always, to.

Riley, breathtaking in her dark beauty, her elegance--smiling shyly, her
uniform also now clean of Ngo's blood.  She ran a hand over her
close-cut hair and lingered in the entryway a moment, unsure of her
welcome.

"Come in, please," he said easily, and gestured toward a chair.  "I was
just thinking about going to see you."

She crossed to a chair and sat in front of him, crossing her long legs
as he settled onto the bunk.  "I came to apologize, K.T."

He blinked, sincerely unable to figure out what she referred to, and
gave a short laugh.  "For what?"

"For the way I treated you on Recovery.  I couldn't accept that you'd
changed.  You have, you know.

You're not the man I left."

He felt a faint surge of warmth on his cheeks and realized, to his
amazement, that he was blushing like a cadet.  "Oh...  well I guess I
have changed.  In some ways, at least.  But...  let's face it, Anab. You
had a point.  I make a rotten Security officer."

He said it so ingenuously that she laughed aloud, and he joined in with
her.

"I know," she said, smiling, her teeth a pearly half-moon against
red-brown lips; and then she suddenly grew somber.  "You almost got
yourself killed.

Twice--once because you saved me.  I wanted to thank you."

"You did the same for me.  Remember?"

"!  remember." She lowered her face for an instant, then raised it
shyly, looking up at him from beneath long, dark lashes?  and released a
sigh.  "I really came because I miss you, K.T.  I couldn't leave without
letting you know--even though I had to leave to do what I wanted with my
life--that I still care." Her voice 'grew suddenly soft, so that he had
to lean forward to hear.  "It's not like I can just stop loving you."

Her words pierced him just as that first sight of her in the Pa/adin's
briefing room had; but this time, there was sweetness with the pain.  "I
know." He leaned forward further, and touched the hand that rested in
her lap.  "Being apart...  hasn't really changed the way we feel, has
it?  I've just...  learned to get used to She took his hand, gently, and
again lowered her face; this time, she did not look up.  "I wish..." she
whispered.  "I wish there were some way we could be together.":

A year before, a month before, perhaps even the day before the events
aboard Recovery, he would have prayed to hear those words.  But now he
let a long silence pass between before he answered, lightly:

"We can't.  Because I've learned something: I'm not cut out for active
duty in space.  There's no reason to blame myself not everyone belongs
aboard a starship.

And I've learned that I don't."

She looked up at him and said bitterly, "And I do."

"And you do." He stroked her cheek softly with the back of his hand.  "I
really see that now."

Another silence passed; and then she asked, "So you're going to stay
with Kirk?  In San Francisco?"

He paused, remembering Kirk's determination as he went to demand a
better assignment from Nogura.

Seeing the exhilaration on Kirk's face now, he suspected he knew the
precise assignment the admiral would demand.

Just as surely, he knew that he was not meant to accompany him.

He gazed beyond Anab, at a far distant point somewhere in his future,
and murmured, "I don't know ...."

McCoy sat by Josiah Ngo's bed, waiting patiently for the young man's
lids to flutter.  He should be coming up right about...

The eyes under the dark lids rolled, the lids blinked.

Josiah glanced around warily from beneath a fringe of brown-black
lashes.

"You're okay, son," McCoy said kindly.  "You're coming out of cell
regeneration.  You've been under quite a while.  How do you feel?"

Josiah tentatively raised a hand and touched his chest, then patted it
more firmly.

"It's gone," McCoy reassured him.  "You came through surgery just fine.
You've been in cell regeneration for over two days.  You'll be out of
sickbay in two more, so we can use this bed for someone who really needs
it."

Josiah nodded, still dazed.  McCoy lifted a glass of cool water to his
mouth and let him have some.

"We--we on the Paladin?" the cadet croaked, his voice rusty from disuse
and probably the remnants of blood in his trachea.

McCoy nodded.  "We started your surgery in sickbay and were ready to
close up when you gave us some trouble" He shook his head, remembering
the boy's blood pressure dropping, all the vitals going zero, as though
the kid had just suddenly given up.

"We had three doctors--including myself--working on you.  Once we got
you through the worst of it, we brought you here for cell regeneration
and recovery.

And you've been doing fine.  You haven't been critical for the last
twenty-four hours.  You'll be dancing by tomorrow."

Josiah shot him a skeptical look, but managed a wan smile.  "Lieutenant
Saed and Commander Riley?" Reese?"

"All' safe." The doctor grinned at the thought.

"Your friend Reese'11 be coming to visit you soon."

"Did you--ever get to have that drink with Admiral Kirk?"

McCoy looked solemnly into his patient's dark.

eyes.  "No, 'fraid not.  Jim hasn't been free to talk--and you and I
were in surgery.  But I'll get with him, soon as he gets everything on
Paladin squared away."

In truth, he'd been hesitant about seeing the admiral again.  The events
with Recovery had only served to underscore the fact that Kirk belonged
on the bridge of a starship, and the doctor wasn't so sure he could hold
his tongue and keep from telling Jim so.

At the same time, he yearned to see his old friend once more.  But
what's the point of rehashing old times?  he thought bitterly.  They can
never come again ....

Josiah nodded, then blinked sleepily.  Regen patients never could stay
awake for long.  "Hey, Doc--you did it.  You got that call through.
You're a doctor --and a computer expert!" In spite of his condition,
Josiah managed a brief grin.

"A temporary condition, I'm sure," McCoy reassured him.  "Now, go on
back to sleep." He dimmed the lights and within seconds Josiah had
obeyed him, allowing him to leave the room quietly.

Outside the private quarters, McCoy rubbed a hand over his tired eyes.
He felt about three hundred years old.  His first nap had only been a
few hours ago; he had felt compelled to be there when Josiah had his
first conscious moment after the surgery.  Now he wouldn't have to worry
about the boy waking up terrified on a strange ship, without anything
recognizable around him.

It was time for him to take his own advice now, and get some sleep.  He
moved wearily two doors down and entered the quarters that had been
assigned to him.  As he crossed the threshold, he saw a shadow, and,
still jumpy from all the violence he'd experienced on the Recovery, he
froze, poised for flight.

A figure stepped out of the shadow, then asked the computer to brighten
the lights.

McCoy blinked, then stared at the tall, dark specter.

"Angie?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Leonard, are you all right?" Angelina Mola moved to him with the same
fluid grace he remembered.  It was a hallucination, he knew, probably
part of post-stress syndrome and lack of sleep.  But it was so good to
just see her again.  "Didn't they tell you, Leonard?

Didn't you hear?  Oh, Dios, poor dear, what a shock.

Just what you didn't need."

She took his hands and hers were warm, the same warm, long-fingered,
strong hands that could move so agilely in any surgery, so assuredly in
any emergency.

McCoy could do nothing but gape at them in wonder.

"The Recovery preserved me perfectly," she explained, "and maintained
the stasis chamber exactly the way she was supposed to.  My
chamber--still fully functional--was beamed aboard the Paladin with the
rest of you.  They brought me up while you were still in surgery on the
young cadet.  I have a new, artificial heart"--she thumped her
chest--"complete with a five-year warranty!  If it fails, I get my money
back!

You've been so involved with your case guess, after a while they just
forgot to tell you.  I'm so sorry.  It must've been like seeing the
dead."

As she spoke, his eyes filled; he had to blink rapidly to clear them.
"More like seeing a saint.  Angie, it's so wonderful to see you--!" He
embraced her, hugging her to him, and she returned it, her arms strong.

Swallowing the emotions, he pulled back and said gently, "Have they told
you--?"

"That I was the only one so...  lucky?" She closed her eyes for a
moment; grief slackened her features.

"Chia.  Nassar.  Monique.  It's so hard to believe.  And Myron...  For
him to die as he did, such a gentle soul taking so many with him..."

McCoy shook his head, as though trying to negate the horror of it.
"He--he was so proud, Angie.  So proud that he'd saved you.  I thought
you were gone forever, but I humored him.  He died believing that he'd
saved you on sheer will alone.  He saved us all, in the end."

She opened dark, lustrous, intelligent eyes, so full of pain that he was
forced to look away from them.  He let go a long, tremulous breath and
continued: "When we materialized in the cargo hold, only a few of us
knew where we were.  There was so much panic by then.  Some Starfleet
people were with me, and they had the force of will to get everything
under control pretty quickly.  Then I told anyone who would listen in
the cargo hold how we'd gotten there--that Myron had saved the core
programming.  It took some fast talking but--by the time they brought
Josiah and me to sickbay, they had started a service for Myron right
there in the cargo hold.  There were ten men from Zotos Four who'd
worked with him over the years and they were saying a--a kaddish right
there.  I wish t could've stayed for it."

"You haven't spoken yet with Kirk," she said knowingly.

He shook his head.  "The Paladin's a mess, hanging together with spit
and wire.  Jim's really the captain with Romolo dead, and has been too
busy for some thing so personal.  And I was in surgery for--I don't
know, it feels like days ...."

He looked up, remembering something.  "Angie, did they tell you--all of
it?"

She lowered her gaze and suddenly looked her age--shrunken, old.  "Yes.
Myron's death.  The loss of Recovery.

He knew the two deaths were, in many ways, of equal value to her.

"Leonard, the advances we'd made on that ship--all lost."

"It can't all be lost, Angie!  Myron's data exists other places.  The
things he created can be reproduced."

She shook her head.  "In time, some of it, no doubt, will be.  But
Recovery is a lost dream.  You can't know the effort it took to get the
original built, the money, the politicking, the resources, the staff.
And now there's no Myron Shulman to pull it all together.  He was a
genius, Leonard, and his creativity and inventiveness is gone forever."

The aged, stately woman looked at him squarely.

"The FDRA will not be the only organization to suffer in this.  The
Federation will feel it.  This setback will slow down technological
development.  The loss of Recovery will taint many activities, many
discoveries.

The investigations alone will go on for years."

She was right, he realized gloomily.

"Of course, if another individual,'?  she said cagily, staring at him,
"with popular clout, with the savvy to think on his feet, and the
respect of Federation higher-ups brought the proposal to them--"

His eyes widened.  "Keep talking like that, lady, and I'm gonna have to
check you for brain damage.  Forget it, Angie.  There's no way I'd have
the patience to even try all that wheeling and dealing, and--after what
I've been through, I don't even know if I could believe in the project
myself.  Some things--might be better off left to rest in peace." He
looked away from her guiltily, avoiding her disappointed gaze.

He shook his head again, talking more now for his own benefit.  "That
joyride on Recovery was my last bit for God and country.  The only way
the Federation's ever gonna get me to work for them again will be to
forcibly draft me.  And that's a promise."

The two old friends stood silently in his chambers for a long, long
time, holding a memorial service of their own.

"It's pretty amazing, Admiral," Riley was saying the following morning
as they walked through the Paladin's battle-scarred corridors, "that
with all the chaos going on, the scientists managed to save all the data
they'd brought aboard from Zotos Four."

Kirk had been surprised by that information himself.

"They worked damned hard for it, which made them very cautious.  Not
only did they have it stored in the Recovery's main computer--where it
was destroyed when the ship was--but they kept duplicates of all the
computer work on cassettes right on their bodies!  So when they were
beamed aboard Paladin, the data all came with them.  Good thing they
were wary of the new ship." '

The last two days had been nonstop, minute-to-minute stress as a
thousand decisions had to be made about Paladin's repairs, crew
transfers, data transfers, and Recovery's survivors.  Food was a
catch-as-catch-can situation, and sleep was worse.  Jim couldn't
remember when he'd had the latter, but it had been in a chair somewhere,
a quick catnap, then back to the grind..

He'd never gotten to talk to McCoy.  He'd tried to get to sickbay, but
in spite of Captain Childress's reassurance, he hadn't left the bridge
for hours.  By the time he did get free, Bones was deep in critical
surgery on Josiah Ngo.  The two were transferred onto the medical vessel
while Jim was working with the engineers on the warp-drive realignment.
He never even knew about it till it had long passed.

He was relieved, at least, that Kevin Riley was once more by his side.

"Admiral." Riley's tone grew suddenly formal; his pace slowed.  "If I
could have permission to speak freely, sir..."

Kirk raised an eyebrow.  "I always expect you to speak freely with me,
Riley.  You know that."

He grinned sheepishly, revealing a flash of white teeth in the midst of
golden-brown beard.  "Yes, sir.  I have the feeling that you've made
some decisions--being out here again.  I can see it in your face.  The
whole time I've been here with you--you've been, well--it feels just
like when we were onw"

Kirk held his hand up.  "No.  Not quite like that.  I'm taking Paladin
home.  She may be decommissioned, since she's taken quite a beating, but
if she is, I'll be part of the decision.  Iowe that to Baldassare.  And
I'll take her on her last trip.  She deserves that.  But w you're right
about the decisions.  I've already sent my reports to the old man.  And
my request."

Riley's expression grew sly.  "You mean, your demand."

Kirk smiled and inclined his head, a gesture that allowed the truth of
the last remark.  "Nogura will see it that way--but he can't deny me
now.  Not after this." He glanced at Riley.  "I want the Enterprise
back.  And I'll get her.  No more being distracted by Nogura's promises
to make the admiralty into something it's not."

"I believe you, sir."

Kirk grinned saucily.  "Want to come along?"

Riley shared his conspiratorial smile briefly; then his boyish
countenance grew somber.  "I know I said earlier that I'd follow you,
sir--but...  my time aboard Recovery has made me think twice about
serving aboard a starship again." His shoulders lowered as he released a
small, silent sigh, and Kirk watched a glimmer of uncertainty and guilt
cross his features.  "I don't belong with you there, sir--but I meant
what I said about not pushing someone else's papers: I have no desire to
serve at headquarters without you."

The two men stopped walking; Kirk turned toward him thoughtfully.  He'd
always felt that Riley's destiny lay somewhere beyond a desk at
Starfleet Headquarters; he'd hoped that it would be with him, aboard the
Enterprise.  But if that was not to be...

He spoke swiftly as inspiration struck.  "Kevin...  I spoke with
Ambassador Sarek today.  He lost two of his closest aides in the attack
on Starhawk.  If you're interested, it could open up a whole new career
for you--in diplomacy.  Interested?"

Riley brightened.  "Yes, sir!  The time I assisted you in diplomatic
troubleshooting was the best part of the job.  That is, if you think--"

"I'd be happy to recommend you to him."

"Thank you, Admiral." He let go another sigh and grinned.  "Thank you.
Frankly, I was worried about how you'd react.  I'll be sorry to leave
you.  You've helped me more than you can know."

"As you've helped me," Kirk said softly.  He extended his hand; the two
men clasped palms warmly.

"With your permission, sir." Riley straightened.

"I'd like to contact the ambassador as soon as possible ...."

"Go right ahead, Kevin.  We'll catch up with each other later." He let
go of Riley's hand and watched with a sense of nostalgia as his
aide--his former aide--strode confidently away from him down the
hallway.

By the time he reached the turbolift, Kirk was no longer sure where he
was going.  They'd certified the ship safe for travel--as long as she
didn't exceed warp four--and now they were finally under way.  Maybe
this would be a good time to find some quarters and actually try to
sleep horizontally for a few hours.

The lift opened, and Reese Diksen stared at him in surprise.

"Captain Kirk, I mean Admiral, I mean--" She stopped stammering and
collected her thoughts.  Stepping out of the lift, she started again.
"Admiral.  Nice to see you.  Everything all right?"

"For the last ten minutes," he assured her.  "Where are you heading?"

"My quarters.  They're on this floor."

Without discussing it, the two of them started walking together.  "I
could use a little advice on that subject, Diksen," he remarked.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Any ideas where I can bunk tonight?" It suddenly occurred to him how
she might take that and he almost blushed.  He'd asked her in all
innocence, since, after all they'd been through, he'd come to view her
as a fellow officer---a comrade-in-arms--not an available female.  But,
in truth, she was.

She mulled over the questions, and her expression never showed any
discomfort.  "I take it you'd rather not stay in the captain's
quarters.;'

"Correct," he said too quickly.  Romolo's ghost would haunt him as it
was.  He wouldn't get a wink of sleep in the dead man's bed.

"Well, actually," she suggested helpfully, "the quarters next to Sonak
are empty, sir, up on deck two--unless someone's appropriated them
because of damage on other decks."

But that was unlikely, he knew, since so much of their crew had been
transferred to the Cavalry.  Diksen had stayed.  As had Saed.  Ngo, he
had no doubt, would

	have stayed had he not been wounded 	A glimmer of guilt
assailed him at the memory.

As though she'd heard him thinking about Ngo, she said, "I heard that
you recommended Ngo for the Medal of honor.  I think that's wonderful,
sir.  If he gets it, he'll be the first cadet ever to earn it in
action."

Kirk' smiled slightly.  "Oh, I don't know.  He may actually be just one
of the first cadets."

Diksen's brows furrowed; then, as if she'd finally figured out what he
was suggesting, her ears burned a furious red.

He had to laugh.  "There'll be enough medals to go around after this,
Diksen." Then he grew serious.  "I remember how I gave you the chance to
leave the bridge, to be with Josiah--and you stayed."

"I couldn't have helped him.  I could're helped you."

Kirk nodded.  "You did help me.  Through the whole thing.  You show a
lot of promise, Diksen."

She held a breath, then let it out with control and faced him.  "I'll
remember what you told me.  I'll never forget my ambitions."

He looked at her attractive, youthful face, saw all the hard choices
coming before her--and envied her for it.  "I'll remember, too.  I
promise you."

Her.  eyes widened.  "You--you're going back to space?"

"I'm going to fight for it." He grinned.  "Want to come along?"

"Yes, sir!  Absolutely!"

"That's a deal, Diksen.  It won't be communications, this time--"

"That's okay, sir.  A captain has to know how to run everything on her
ship!"

Laughing, he continued, "And you can bring Ngo along, too.  I'm thinking
of talking to Lieutenant Saed, as well." He was already planning on his
staff, he realized.  Could he pull his old crew off their new
assignments?  Would they come with him again?  He'd talk McCoy into it
somehow, despite all the doctor's grumbling that he'd had enough of the
Fleet.

But Spock...

The presence of his Vulcan friend had been so real at times during this
mission, he had almost heard his voice.  But Spock was on Vulcan,
studying Kolinahr.

That was one relationship he would never enjoy again.

Then he remembered Sonak.

"What deck were those quarters on again, Diksen?"

A few minutes later he approached the rooms the cadet had told him
about.  The doors slid open to reveal a puzzled Vulcan on the other
side.  "Admiral Kirk?  Can I help you?"

"Sonak!  Forgive me.  I must've confused the room assignments.  Diksen
said there was an empty one, but I could've sworn it was this one."

"There has been an error, sir.  These are my quarters.

But I can show you a vacant one." The Vulcan walked down the corridor
with Kirk, just one door from his own.  The doors opened onto a clean
but empty room, with a bunk neatly made--an inviting sight.

"Thank you," Kirk said.  "It's been a while since any of us have had
adequate rest," then, he amended, "that is, any of us humans."

Sonak merely quirked an eyebrow.

"Since I have this chance, Commander, I wanted to thank you for all the
help you've given mere"

To his surprise, Sonak interrupted.  "It is illogical to thank me for my
help, Admiral, when I failed in the two most critical functions I needed
to perform in our confrontation with Recovery."

"Failed?

"I could not decipher the tertiary code quickly enough to gain control
of the vessel," Sonak reiterated calmly, "nor did I determine the
Tholian Lokara's intent to fire upon us until it was too late to raise
the shields.  If you will remember, sir, it was my recommendation to
lower the shields."

Kirk nodded, recognizing the sense of defeat the Vulcan felt, even if he
never expressed it.  "Mr.  Sonak, you will find in your career that
sometimes the most logical decisions don't always work out.  Not even
Spock could've translated that code quickly enough to stop that ship.
And our lowering the shields probably kept Recovery from doing to us
what she did to the Skotha.  I'm satisfied with your decisions and your
actions.  I may be a mere human--"

Sonak nodded all too willingly.

"--but I know a good science officer when I see one.  I'm hoping to get
another vessel, to go back on active duty in space.  If that
happens--would you serve with me?"

Sonak drew himself up into that tall, stately Vulcan stance and met
Kirk's gaze.  "I would be honored to serve under you, Admiral, on any
vessel."

Kirk nodded, knowing Sonak would not extend his hand as Riley had.
"Thank you, Mr.  Sonak.  A good rest to you."

As Sonak left him in the empty room 'Diksen had correctly told him
about, Kirk collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  It didn't
take long for him to realize, as his eyes moved back and forth in the
dim light, that sleep would evade him, as he couched all the arguments
he would have to use on Admiral Nogura to get his way.  But he had made
up his mind how it would end.  The events aboard the Paladin had brought
home too keenly the memory of what he had been--and what he was
determined to be again.

No more double-talk, tteihachiro.  This time, I won't back down.  You'll
either have to give me a starship or drum me out of the Fleet.

And not just any starship.  Sooner or later, he would be back in
spacerback aboard the Enterprise-where he belonged.

In the midst of his reverie, the door chimed softly; he sat up, ordered
the lights on.  "Come."

He steeled himself, half expecting Diksen, or another Paladin officer,
with news of some other forgotten task, some detail that demanded his
attention before he could rest.  Or perhaps it was Riley, with news of
his meeting with Ambassador Sarek ....

The door slid open, revealing a lean figure, its face hidden in shadow.
For a fleeting moment, the visitor remained silent; Kirk frowned,
opening his mouth to speak, but before he could, the figure moved...

Slowly, leisurely, raising an arm to lift something dark and gleaming in
its hand.  A flask, Kirk realized, and as the light glinted off the
amber liquid inside, he said, with a grin:

"That had better be Saurian brandy."

"Damn straight," McCoy said, stepping into the light.

Deep within Mount Seleya's cold heart, Spock opened his eyes.

Outside, Vulcan's sun burned relentlessly in the desert sky, but inside
Sekhet's dark, windowless shrine, shadows leapt, quivering, in the
silent gloom.

For days he had meditated, motionless and undisturbed, without drink,
without food, determined to break the bonds that connected him to Kirk
and McCoy.

And at last in the middle of his vigil's third day, the stubborn
conviction that his friends were in danger eased.

He lifted his gaze to Sekhet's stone visage before him, and observed the
play of light and dark over her fearsome face as he recited the
customary prayer of thanks.

Yet even as he whispered the ancient words in an ancient tongue, a
strand of doubt wove its way into his consciousness.  The sense of
danger to his friends had -vanished; but did that truly mean all bonds
were dissolved?  That his friendship with these two was forever
consigned to the past?

Spock completed his recitation, then turned and made his way back
through the great archway, out into the passageway.  At the spiraling
stone stairs, he paused.

Faintly, as though from a far, far distance, someone, something brushed
his mind.

Jim Kirk?

He hesitated, softening his breathing, quieting his thoughts to better
understand the source of the transmission.

Leonard McCoy?

But the sensation disappeared as abruptly as it had come.

He dismissed it as the aftereffects of the fast and meditation, no more.
He had completed the ritual of Sekhet; he would have to trust that all
ties now were truly severed, and that he was prepared to undergo the
ritual with the High Master.

Spock drew a breath and began slowly to climb the stairs with an odd
sense of destiny, of moving toward the unknown future ....

INTERACTIVE

TECH ICAL MANUAL

U.S.S.  ENTERPRISE' NCC-1701-!

Coming next month...

ALL GOOD THINGS...

by MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN based on ALL GOOD THINGS...

by RONALD D.  MOORE & BRANNON BRAGA

Now in paperback!  The novelization of the astounding final episode of
Star Trek: The Next Generation!

Also next month...

#10: VALHALLA

by NATHAN ARCHER

When a ship carrying valuable Gamma-quadrant technology becomes a sought
after prize, Commander Benjamin Sisko must face off against a shipload
of angry Cardassians--and the alien being controlling Deep Space Nine
itself!

THE OFFICIAL STARFLEET VIDEO Teul At software retailers and booksellers
from coast to coast SIMON & SCHUSTr.