  STAR TREK THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY
  BY
  J. M. DILLARD
  The sale of this book without its cover is
unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a
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author nor the publisher has received payment for the
sale of this "stripped book."
  A NOVEL BY J. M. DILLARD STORY
BY LEONARD NIMOY AND LAWRENCE KONNER
6 MARK ROSENTHAL SCREENPLAY
BY NICHOLAS MEYER and DENNY MARTIN
FLINN
  POCKET BOOKS New York London
Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore
  'This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either products of the
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Any resemblance to actual events or locales
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  An Original Publication of POCKET
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  Copyright (c 1992 by Paramount Pictures.
All Rights Reserved
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  ISBN: 0-671-75883-7
  First Pocket Books printing January

  10 9 8 7 6 5
  POCKET and colophon are registered
trademarks of Simon and Schuster Inc.
  Printed in the U.s.a. To "Star Trek"
fans everywhere, who keep the dream alive
  Very special thanks to:
  Ralph Winter Denny Martin Flinn The
ET'S: Dave and Kevin Mike Okuda
Michael Kochman My BC, George But that the
dread of something after death, The undiscovered country
from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the
will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than
fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does
make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue
of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of
thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this
regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name
of action.
  Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1
  Prologue
  "CAPTAIN KIRK?" The slight, anxious
woman waiting at the door to Carol Marcus's
hospital room did not smile. "I'm
Kwan-mei Suarez, the mathematician on
the Themis project." Kirk stepped forward and
clasped both her hands. Kwan-mei's grip was
firm, her tone calm, but there was faint agony in
her eyes. The sight steadied Kirk, allowed him
to focus on pain other than his own. The past
twenty-four hours-hearing the news about Carol,
enduring the eternity-long shuttle ride to Starbase
Twenty-three-had been a hellish exercise in
control. He had not allowed himself to think, to indulge
his imagination in what life would be like if Carol died
before he arrived. He'd tried not to think that he had
been on 1 J. M. Dillard
  Earth, on shore leave, the first leave in six
years that they had not spent together. Driven as always,
she'd insisted on going to Thernis to oversee setup
of the research facility there. Jim had protested
mildly, but Carol had insisted. It was safe, for
gods" sakeit was light-years from Kudao and the
Klingon Neutral Zone, and besides, it was near a
wellprotected starbase. Lightning wouldn't strike
twice. He had made noises about going, as if his
mere presence might protect her, but it hadn't
made sense; she would have been terrifically busy, and
he would have spent his entire leave shuttling to and
feom. Besides, in a few months he'd be
returning permanently to her. Yet he could not shake
the vague superstition Oat, because he had broken the
pattern, he was somehow responsible. Jim touched
Kwan-mei's arm briefly, wanting to give comfort,
needing it himself. "It's Jim, please. Carol
spoke of you. I know you're good friends." "I don't
mean to intrude," Kwan-mei said. She glanced
uncertainly at the door. Jim got the impression
she was normally reserved, a person who took a
long time to get to know-but circumstances were forcing her
to get to know Jim very quickly. "Y. probably want
to see her alone," she said, "but I was there when it
happened. I'll be outside if you have any questions,
if you want to know-was "Is she awake?"
Kwan-mei shook her head, swinging straight,
chin-length hair, black streaked with auburn.

  "She's still in a coma. Did they tell you about her
condition? Do you know-was "Unless there's been a change
in the past twenty-four hours, I know." Jim
paused and, when she offered nothing further, said,
"I'll be back out in just a moment." He meant
to say it easily, but it came out tightly coiled.
She nodded as if understanding: The tiny room was dimly
lit, but the window overlooked the starbase's
sprawling botanical garden, bright with artificial
sunlight. Carol lay on the bed, lips parted,
chest rising and falling in time with the respirator. As
he approached, in profile she appeared unreally
beautiful and bloodless, a polished ivory carving,
golden hair spread on the pillow; then, as he
bent to kiss her, he saw the scars mottling the
left side of her face-covered with bright pink skin
synthetic, already healing in little more than a day. She was
on the respirator because of damage to the brain stem.
The doctors were trying injections of cloned cells
in conjunction with drugs to stimulate the area
to repair itself, but they had warned Jim that it would be
days before they would know whether Carol would respond to the
treatment. Jim sat in the chair beside the bed and took
her hand; her touch was cool and dry. He had steeled
himself for a far more horrifying sight; during the
sleepless hours aboard the shuttle, he had
pictured Carol mutilated almost beyond recognition.
  It was harder this way. Jim smoothed the hair
  away from the unmarred skin on her forehead, half
believing his touch might wake her, as it always had.
  Over the years he had spent every available moment
of leave with her. It had become clear that when he
returned from his last mission, they would he
together. She had her research, which was expanding
rapidly; he had deep-space experience. When
he retired, Carol said, Marcuslabs could use
hls help, his skills, his diplomacy. He had
begun to take comfort in the notion that, when the
Enterprise was no longer his, Carol would be
waiting. They had quit blaming each other for being so
much alike, so fiercely independent; they had quit
blaming each other for a number of things, includ- ing
the loss of their son.
  David's death should have driven them further apart;
instead, it had brought them together.
  A decade earlier Jim Kirk had stood in the
corridor outside Carol Marcus's town house
in suburban Virginia and allowed himself only an
instant's hesitation before pressing the buzzer.
  Almost a year had passed since David's death.
During that year Jim had tried repeatedly to contact
Carol. He had wanted to be the first to tell her, but
circumstance made that impossible. Now he simply
wanted to speak to her about it, to tell what he knew,
to offer what comfort he could. And to understand the reason for
her silence. He could only interpret it as an
accusation. And he had felt indirectly
responsible for his son's death,
  though the months had brought some small amount of
perspective and a lessening of guilt.
  Carol had not answered the signal those times he
had attempted to contact her when the Enterprise was
within communication range of Earth. Jim was determined
to speak to her, even if it meant waiting until he
was on leave and could track her down in person.
  He had not decided what he would do if she
refused to answer her door. The viewscreen beside the
buzzer lit up, indicating that Kirk was being
scrutinized by the town house's tenant.
  Carol's face flickered on the screen, then
vanished before he could judge her expression. No
word of greeting . . . yet she had shown him her
face. Jim did not know whether this was a bad or good
sign. The door swung open. He drew in a
breath and stepped inside. A vacant foyer led to a
generous living room where Carol stood beside stacks of
boxes with antigrav handles. Most of the
furniture had been pushed to-one side, against
bare walls. She seemed wan, tired, as stripped
and empty as the room. Jim felt frightened for her.
  "Come in," she said. The invitation was not warm but
weary, the surrender of a defeated opponent. "I
suppose we should get this over with. You know,
if you'd come a day later, you would have missed me."
  Jim tried to smile. "I'm in luck."
  "I don't think so. Sit." She waved him
toward the only chair that wasn't cluttered with boxes or
debris. Jim shook his head. "I'll stand. But you
look as if you could use a seat." "Suit yourself."
She sagged, exhausted, into the chair. Jim stood,
awkward. He wanted to touch her, embrace her,
console her-but this was not the Carol he had loved as a
young man, the Carol Marcus he had known later as
friend and mother of his son during the Genesis mission. This
woman was older, thinner, shrouded in anger and
grief. He kept his distance. "I tried to contact
you after David died," Jim said. She looked beyond
him at the stark white walls. ""When I first got
the news, I stayed on Delta for a while. By the
time I returned to Earth, you had galloped off on
another mission."
  "But later I left messages-was
  "I got them. I couldn't deal with them at the time.
I'm not sure I can now, even after all this time."
  Jim just looked at her. He'd spent that time
planning all he wanted to tell her; now his
carefully chosen words deserted him.
"Carol," he began, his voice barely above a
whisper. "When David was killed, I wanted to be
the one to tell you."
  "Why?" Flat, angry. An accusation.
  "Because he was our son. And because I know how he
died-was.."
  "Klingons killed him. That's enough, isn't it?"
Jim didn't answer.
  "You know, you sound so concerned about me. But if you
really are, then why hasn't it occurred to you that I
obviously don't care to see you again? What do you
want from me after all this time, dim? Forgiveness?
Absolution?" "That's not what I came here for."
  "Then tell me what you want."
  "I wanted to tell you how David died," Jim
said, fighting to keep his own anger and grief from showing
in his voice. "I thought it might comfort you. I
wanted to be sure, when I didn't hear from you in
all this time, that you were all right."
  "All right?" Carol jerked to her feet and gave
a short laugh, humorless and bitter. "David's
gone, and you want me to tell you everything's just
swell. You come back into my life, and suddenly
Genesis is destroyed and my four dearest friends are
killed, murderedea"a madman seeking
revenge on you. Maybe Khan wasn't your
fault. But then I lost David, and something in me
broke ....
  "Maybe it's not fair to blame you, but I was
always afraid I'd lose him if he found out you were
his father. And I was right. Except that I thought I'd
lose him to a starship, the way I did you. I never
thought I'd lose him the way I did, that he would
die such a horrible death-was "He died protecting
someone else," Jim said quickly. "Lieutenant
Saavik. She told me he died bravely,
trying to save her life. It happened very quickly."
  Carol's face crumpled; she sank back into the
chair and seemed to shrink, to be swallowed up by it.
Jim went over to her and put a hand on her arm.
She did not respond, but she did not draw away.
  "You'd think," she managed at last in a low
voice, "that with time I'd get over David's
death, that I could accept the way it happened, that
I'd realize you weren't to blame. But I can't
help you resolve whatever guilt or pain you still
feel over David's death. Hell, I can't even
resolve my own." Her voice dropped to a
whisper. "I'm so angry too . . . I want
to hurt someone-the Klingon who killed
David, but he's not here, so I find the nearest
substitute." She began to cry. "They're
animals; they have no respect for life. They
murdered my son for the sheer sport of it, without a
second's thought-was Jim gathered her into his arms;
she held him fiercely and wept. "I'm angry,
too," Jim murmured. He patted her back,
slowly, as one would comfort a child.
  "Why?" Carol moaned against his shoulder. "Why
would they kill David? Why?"
  He stayed with Carol for an hour, then let
Kwan-mei Suarez lead him to a quiet alcove
where they sat down.
  "You were there?" Jim asked. Suarez bore no
visible signs of injury, except for a very slight
irregular line at her neck where the darker skin
synthetic had almost healed.
  "I was there," she said, in a voice dulled
by guilt.
  "Hardly a scratch on me, except for a few
cuts and bruises. I wasn't even knocked
out-luckily for the others, I suppose; I was able
to radio for help in time to save Carol.
Unbelievable, isn't it? The walls collapse
on us, and I'm a little shaken, that's all.
Jackson-Jackson Dahl, our biologist"-the
way she said the name familiarly, then added the gloss
let Kirk know the two were lovers-"broke his
spine, but he'll be all right. Carol was hurt
worst. And Sohlar was killed."
  "Sohlar?" Jim asked, trying to remember
whether Carol had mentioned a Vulcan on the
project.
  Kwan-mei tried to smile and couldn't. Her
eyes, beautiful beneath a shining film of tears, were
brown flecked with forest green. "Maybe you can understand
how we feel about losing him. Carol said your first
officer is a Vulcan. Sohlar was an engineer with
incredible talent. No sense of humor whatsoever--
at least, he pretended not to have one-but we were all very
fond of him." Her expression hardened. "His
leg was crushed. It severed the artery in his thigh. He
bled to death while I was talking to him. He knew
it, of course, and was so matter-of-fact, so calm,
about it . . . He kept trying to comfort me . . . .
was Her voice trailed off.
  After a moment Jim asked, "did you see anything
during the attack? Or was there just the explosion?"
  "When they first fired on us, we thought it was an
earthquake. We knew about Kudao, of
course; but to think that they would dare attempt an
attack so far inside Federation space just seemed so
insane . . ." She shook her head. "I ran to the
window to see what was happening. Before the building went
down, I could see the phaserfire coming right out of the
sky." "Did you get a good look at the ships?"
  "I couldn't see them. As I said, the
phaserfire came out of nowhere." "The vessels were
outside the atmosphere, then."
  "No." Firm shake of the head. "It was so
strange; Sohlar saw it with me and remarked on it.
We could see the phaserfire very clearly. It
seemed to originate below the clouds, as if the
ship were simply invisible, as if the fire came out
of nowhere."
  Jim nodded sympathetically while believing cone
of it. What Kwan-mei was suggesting was entirely
impossible; the Klingons did not possess a
ship capable of firing while cloaked-and for that
matter, neither did the Federation or the
Romulans. After what she had been through, Jim
could hardly fault her for an unreliable memory
of the event. "'Captain Kirk?"
  Ire turned to see a uniformed Starffeet
medic standing over them. "There's an Admiral
Cartwright trying to track you down, sir," she said.
"If you'll follow me. . ."
  She left him in a vacant doctor's office,
where Cartwright's dark-skinned features waited on
the comm screen.
  "Jim," Cartwright said, catching sight of Kirk
on his side of the channel. "I heard about Carol
Marcus. I'm sorry. How is she?"
  "Unchanged," Jim said expressionlessly. "They
won't know for several days."
  "I'm sorry," Cartwright repeated, and from the
change in his tone Jim knew he wasn't speaking
this time of Carol. "We need you back at
headquarters. I wouldn't ask for you at a time like this,
Jim, but Rear Admiral Smillie himself gave
the order. Something's up, something very big."
  "The Klingons," Kirk said. "First Kudao,
now Themis. This has to do with them, doesn't it?"
  "Still classified, Jim. I don't know myself.
But between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised."
  Are they insane? What are they trying to do? Jim
almost asked, echoing Kwan-mei, but that would have been
pointless. The message from the Klingons was
all too clear.
  Three weeks before, the Klingons had orchestrated
a bloody massacre of human settlers on
Kudao, located well inside Federation space.
The outcry had been massive, especially since a
visiting news correspondent had managed
to escape with. pictures of grisly torture
scenes that were soon splashed all over the Federation
media. Kudao's and Earth's governments were quick
to claim that the depredation was directly linked to the
Organians" recent disappearance, that the Klingons
clearly wished to provoke a war.
  The Empire denied the charge, claiming that the
Kudao massacre was carried out by renegades,
  pirates, not sanctioned by the government. Not formally
sanctioned, Kirk believed; but like most in
Stddarfleet, he did not doubt the Empire's
surreptitious involvement. He had seen the
grisly pictures oble" human victims and their
Klingon tormentors and had found himself superimposing
on them the face of Kruge, the Klingon commander who
had given the order to kill David. It had become
difficult not to hate.
  You IC-LINGON bastard, you killed my son
....
  He knew that Carol had seen the same
pictures, experienced the same renewal of
grief, though they pointedly avoided the subject in
their communications. On the screen, Cartwright sighed.
"Look, we've got a shuttle for you, leaving in the
next hour. They'll find you at the hospital.
I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do . . ."
  Jim rose. "No. Nothing."
  The admiral nodded. The screen faded to black.
Koran-mei Suarez was still waiting for him in the little
alcove. Before Kirk could take his seat, she
asked, "You have to leave, don't you?" Jim nodded,
fighting guilt. "I don't want to. It's an
emergency." "At Starfleet Headquarters." A
statement, not a question. Koran-mei folded her
small hands and looked beyond Jim, at the wall.
"I know. There's going to be a war, isn't there?"
  Kirk almost did not reply, and then he answered
truthfully: "I don't know." "Why?"
Koran-mei whispered, her face suddenly twisted with 
anger. "Why do the Klingons want
to kill us all? Why do they want war?" aim
looked away. She recovered herself, smiled
apologetically, touched his hand. "If Carol
wakes up while you're gone, I'll tell
her you were here."
  ABOARD THE USS Excelsior, Captain
Hikaru Sulu lifted his teacup from the console arm
of the command chair and took a leisurely sip as he
surveyed the bridge. Nearby, his science officer,
Lieutenant Commander Valtane, absently
smoothed his dark mustache with thumb and forefinger as he
studied the report that had just come up from the Science
Department. Sulu had not seen the report, but he
suspected it said that Excelsior's three-year
mission in the Reydovan sector was complete.
Sulu allowed himself to feel a measure of pride in
his ship and his crew-both had performed admirably
over the past three years-and to remember that there had
been a time, more than a decade past, when he had
despaired of ever having this ship, this crew to command.
  Yet Sulu did not believe in regrets. He
had none about helping Kirk and the Enterprise
bridge crew rescue Spock from Genesis, although
it meant that .excelsior was given instead
to Styles, while Sulu accepted a temporary
reduction in rank in order to serve under Kirk. More
than a year had passed before Styles received a
sideways promotion to Startleet Headquarters and
Sulu was given the assignment promised him
almost two years before. The captain smiled faintly
as he remembered the ribbing Scott had given him
about Excelsior. "A bucket of bolts," the
engineer had called her. Excelsior had long
since proved herself to be far more than that. He would have
liked to give Scotty a tour of her now.
  Valtane harrumphed softly to himself; the rate
of mustache-stroking increased. Sulu's smile
widened for only an instant, then disappeared before
Valtane saw it. Sulu had originally
requested a Vulcan science officer, but none had
been available at the time. He was glad now to have
Masoud Valtane, a Rigellian native
descended from Earth stock-and most unabashedly
human. Valtane fit the stereotype of the
absentminded research scientist perfectly, though
he was absentminded only in terms of his social
interaction with the crew, never in terms of his duties:
indeed, his concentration on his research was so intense that
he had once reported to sickbay with a broken
nose. When asked how the injury occurred, the
science officer sheepishly reported that he had run
into a bulkhead while reading a report.
  And Valtane had no sense of humor
whatsoever, so far as Sulu could tell. He
took comments as literally as a Vulcan, which reminded
his captain fondly on more than one occasion of
another science officer. The Excelsior and her
crew had spent the last three disyears charting the
Reydovan sector, which was relatively lifeless
and of little interestbbffanyone except xenogeologists
such as Valtane. Other than the unusual
composition of many of the planets" atmospheres, there
was little of note about the Reydovan sector-except
for the fact that some areas of it bordered Klingon
space.
  Under normal conditions that fact would have prompted
nothing more than an increase in alertness. But relations
between the Klingon Empire and the Federation were far from
normal. In light of the Kudao massacre and the
Organians' disappearance, Sulu ordered yellow
alert each time Excelsior skirted the neutral
area separating Klingon and Federation space. Both
events had occurred well after Excelsior's
assignment to the sector. Privately, Sulu
felt that had a ship less well defended than
Excelsior been assigned, the mission would have been
scrubbed.
  For the past several weeks, since the ship had
entered Beta quadrant, nearest the Klingon
border, the tension level on board had escalated.
Federation-Klingon relations had deteriorated to the
level of twenty years before, when Sulu had served
as a lieutenant aboard the Enterprise, called
  to protect a planet called Organic. War
had seemed coninevitable then. It was beginning to-look
inevitable now. One more attack should do it. And without
the ibbggrganians, Sulu wondered, what dens ex
machina would stop it from happening this time?
  Excelsior, at least, had been spared a
confrontation with the Klingons thus far. And it seemed
none would occur. Over the last duty shift, the
crew had begun to relax. The sense of relief on
the bridge was palpable; in many respects it had
been an easy mission, but it had also been one of
sustained tension, without incident or action to break the
unrelenting monotony-in other words,
nervereaackingly dull.
  Three years without incident. Without adventure.
They had been lucky, Sulu argued to himself, but he
could not avoid the comparison to his life on the
Enterprise, could not help but wonder whether this
particular mission aboard Excelsior would make
any difference in the universal scheme. He had
almost begun to hope that something would happen. Just
to break the tension on the bridge, of course.
  Behind him, Valtane sighed willy; Sulu
repressed a small smile. He had come to know the
science officer well, and though they were not friends, they
respected each other. The entire crew, Sulu
included, was glad to see the mission end-all
except Valtane. He had seemed blithely
ignorant of the conKlingon threat, genuinely excited
by the data collected in Reydovan. The ship had been
too far from any starbase or habitable planet for
genuine shore leave; Sulu doubted Valtane
noticed. Sulu had always thought it was because Spock was
Vulcan that he never required shore leave; now
he wondered if it didn't have more to do with the position of
science officer. -- Valtane moved to the side of the
coon and proffered the captain his datapad. Sulu
took it and glanced at the contents. His guess was
confirmed. Readouts indicated they had done a
thorough scan of the sector, had missed no
atmosphere-clad planets. Excelsior's
state-of-the-art scanners had provided an
amazingly detailed analysis while operating from a
far greater distance than did their standard starship
counterparts. Pleased with the performance of his ship
and crew, Sulu glanced up at Valtane. "According
to this, we've completed our exploration of the entire
sector."
  Valtane nodded, the wilness now hidden, his
eyes reflecting only the same pride Sulu
felt. "Fiftyfour planets-and their gaseous
atmospheric anomalies. Our sensing and
analytic equipment worked very well." "Time we were
heading home," Sulu began. "Three years is-was
He stopped, distracted by a faint high-pitched
clatter. Valtane herd it, too, and frowned.
  Sulu looked down to see the teacup trembling in
its saucer a split second before he became aware
  that the entire ship was vibrating. He glanced up
at "Wouldltane, who hurried to his station.
  The vibration increased to teeth-chattering intensity as
the ship tried to shake herself apart. The teacup
shattered; scalding liquid splashed onto the
console, onto Sulu's arm.
  Yaltane shouted from the science console over the
growing rumble: "I have an energy wave from
two-four-zero degrees mark six port-was
"Visual!" Sulu ordered.
  The bridge viewscreen flared brightly as an
enormous shock front approached, carrying
with it roiling superheated gases and flaming chunks of
dobris.
  "My God," Sulu breathed. Then, louder:
"thorngg'a tilde hield's. was The bridge
lights flickered, then pulsed blood-red as ship's
sensors detected the danger. Excelsior reeled
arid lurched to starboard. Sulu braced himself in his
chair and watched the riotous ballet, a tumble of
limbs in crimson shadow, sail by
  aVery,
  s altane and others reached vainly for support
and fell. 'I"...he ship slowly rolled back
to center and righted herself. Sulu straightened and extended
a hand to his science officer while he scanned the
bridge. No serious injuries, although Janice
Rand sat at the camrn board gingerly touching her
nose as if to make- sure it remained in its
proper place. The other, personnel were already
struggling to their feet amid the chatter of damage
reports and the Klaxon's insistent whine. "What the
hell is going on?" 
  Sulu had barely spoken when the ship pitched
again, buffeted by the wave. One arm gripping the
navigation console, the Halkan, Lojur, called,
"Captain, helm is not responding."
  "Starboard thrusters. Turn her into the wave!"
"Captain Sulu!" A faint voice emanated from
the comet grid on the arm of his chair. Sulu could
hear the hiss of cracked coolant seals in the
background. "Engine room. What's going on
up-was
  The channel sputtered and failed as Excelsior
heaved. Clutching the arms of his chair, Sulu
cried, "Quarter impulse power!" The strategy
worked. The ship bucked one final time, then righted
herself. The Klaxon ceased; the scarlet glow faded,
replaced by normal lighting. For one instant the
bridge fell resoundingly still. Not daring to draw
breath, Sulu waited with his crew.
  The ship remained stable. Abruptly, comet
chatter resumed. "Damage report," Sulu
said, finding it odd to speak in a normal tone.
"Seem to be in one piece, Captain," Rand
reported behind him from Communications. "We're
checking all systems."
  Sulu turned to Valtane, who was already back
on his feet and peering down at his console. "Don't
tell me that was any asteroid shower."
  "Negative." Valtane's tone carried a
question. "The subspace shock wave
originated at bearing three-two-three, mark
seven-five, the location of"
  --he turned to face his captain, dark brows
lifted in puzzlement-"Praxis. A Klingon
moon. Barren of indigenous life-forms, but-was
"Essential as a resource," Sulu finished.
"Praxis is their key energy-production
facility." He paused, remembering his desire for
something, anything, to happen to ease the monotony.
What was that Old Earth saying? Be careful what you
wish for . . .
  He turned to Rand. "Send to Klingon High
Command: "This is Excelsior, a Federation starship
traveling through Beta quadrant of the Reydovan
sector. We have monitored a large explosion in
your sector. Do you require assistance?""
  Rand did her best to remain deadpan as she
replied, "Aye, sir." He swiveled to find
Valtane looking at him with an expression of
mild surprise. "Mr. Valtane, any more
data?"
  The science officer leaned over his station and studied
the readout: "I have confirmed the location, sir, but .
. ." His voice trailed off as he blinked, then
frowned at the screen.
  "What is it?" Sulu demanded.
  Valtane straightened and faced his captain. "I
cannot confirm the existence of Praxis."
  Sulu trusted his science officer completely.
Nevertheless, he rose, strode over to Valtane's
station, and looked at the readout. "My scanners are
focused on the Amrita solar system, on the
correct coordinates," Valtane stated behind the
captain's right shoulder. Sulu stared for
  an instant at the display, then checked the
coordinates himself. Valtane was, as always,
correct.
  Sulu stared into empty space.
  "Magnify," he ordered. Valtane. complied.
The image wavered, then was enlarged to reveal a chunk
of dead rock, no longer a sphere. Sulu doubted
a quarter of the moon's original mass remained.
  "Praxis?" he asked in disbelief; though he
knew the answer. "What's left of it."
Valtane's voice was hushed. "Captain," Rand
called, "I'm getting a recorded response from
Klingon High Command."
  Sulu moved to the corm and settled on the edge of
his chair. "On screen." The main viewer brightened
abruptly, but the grainy, slightly
out-of-focus image jerked as if on the verge of
scrolling vertically-or so Sulu thought until he
realized the ground beneath the figure was heaving. A
wild-eyed, disheveled Klingon officer-Sulu could
not make out his rank-stared unseeing at the
Excelsior crew as he fought to keep his balance.
His face contorted suddenly with an emotion Sulu
had never seen on a Klingon face: fear.
  "This is an emergency!" he rasped, though he
could barely be heard over the growing background roar.
"We have suffered-was
  The screen flickered, then went ominously dark.
A different Klingon face, in focus this time,
appeared. "This is Brigadier Kerla, speaking for the
High Command." Kerla's dark hair flowed onto

  bread, powerful shoulders. To Sulu he seemed
young to have achieved such rank, but his tone was confident and
controlled, that of one long accustomed to power. "There
has been an incident on Praxis. However,
everything is under control."
  Night, Sulu wanted to say. So under control it
rattled the stung out of my ship.
  "We have no need for assistance. Obey treaty
stipulations and remain outside the Neutral
Zone." The Klingon paused. "Transmission ends
now." Brigadier Kerla's leonine visage
wavered, then disappeared. Sulu stared at the blank
viewscreen, unable to believe three-quarters of
what he'd just heard. "An incident!"
  Yet he realized this "incident" was exactly the
sort of thing that could serve to bring peace . . . or
war. Here was an opportunity to make this mission
count in the universal scheme after all-and Sulu was
determined to use it.
  Rand interrupted his train of thought. "Do we
report this, sir?" Sulu swiveled his chair
to face her. "Are you kidding? Send the following
message to Starffeet Command . . . ."
  At Starffeet Headquarters in San
Francisco, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, more
than a little disgruntled for a good many reasons, entered
the briefing room. One his shore leave had been
cut a full day short,
  wheri he'd been having a marvelous time spoiling
the bejesus out of his daughter Joanna's kids.
Two he'd had to pass four security checks just to get
to this damnable meeting. And three these emergency
briefings always boded ill. This particular
sum- mons to HQ had an especially ominous ring
to it, and judging from the number of bemedaled brass in the
room-including Admiral Cartwright, who sat near
the empty lectern-McCoy guessed they were in
serious trouble indeed. Three months to retirement,
and Starffeet was still hell-bent on getting them all
killed. He was hardly surprised to see Scott,
Uhura, and Chekov, already seated, with two places
saved.
  "I hope one of those is for me," McCoy
stagewhispered to Uhura. She smiled-rather
anxiously, the doctor thought-and nodded as she patted
the chair beside her. "Anybody have any idea what this
is all about?" Scott, his broad, ruddy face
set in a scowl, leaned over to whisper, "Haven't
ye paid any attention to the news lately, man?
There's only one thing this could mean."
  McCoy shrugged. "I avoid it whenever I can.
All they want to harp about these days is the Kudao
tragedy."
  "I think that's what he's referring to,
Doctor," Chekov offered, his expression as grim
as that of everyone else in the room. Scott motioned
for McCoy to lean closer, then said in his ear:
"War. That's what it means."
  "No." The doctor drew away swiftly,
unwilling to hear; he did not want to think of war, not
on this 25
  day he had spent teaching his three-year-old
granddaughter how to swim. "Scotty, it's not
gonna come to that. We've been close to war with the
Klingons before-was
  "Dinna ye hear about the attack on Themis?"
  "Themis?" McCoy blinked. "I've been a
little too busy with my grandkids to keep up with the
news. You mean the Klingons-was
  "Attacked another planet," Chekov finished,
heating Scott to the punch. dis"...This one sparsely
populated-mostly just scientists, in research
facilities, but farther from the border. The news was
released only a few hours ago, though it happened
two days before."
  "Another attack," the doctor whispered, and
closed his eyes. "Was anyone killed?"
  "Aye," Scott said darkly. "Some of the
researchers. The projects were mostly
agricultural, not even classified-no reason
for the bloody Klingons to damn near blow the entire
planet to bits."
  "My God, that's horrible. Are they
sure the Klingon government-was "No, they're not
sure," Uhura interjected, leaning forward suddenly
with more than a tinge of irritation. "Some of the
survivors say they saw Klingon ships, but there's
no hard evidence-was
  "What more evidence do ye need?" Scott
countered. "The fact is, the Klingons want war.
Kudao made that clear enough. And with the Organians
gone-was
  "Stop it, Scotty," Uhura scolded him.
"If Smillie comes out and announces we're at war, then we'll
be at war. Until then, I'm technically still on
leave--and I've heard enough about Kudao and the
Klingons, thank you."
  Scott sat back with a harrumph.
  "Well, where's Spock?" McCoy asked, with a
feeble attempt at cheerfulness. The Vulcan had
left the Enterprise a full six weeks before, when
everyone else had been given only two weeks'
leave. It was totally out of character for Spock to request
extended shore leave, and McCoy was curious to know
why. Chekov shook his head. "No one has seen
him. I don't believe he is coming." "Really?"
McCoy arched a brow in surprise, then
lowered it as he caught sight of Jim Kirk coming
through the door. "Jim! Over here!" Kirk came
in, looking as though someone had just died. He and
Cartwright exchanged a look McCoy could not
fathom, then Jim took his seat with a curt nod
to everyone. Clearly, he had a lot more on his mind
than this briefing. McCoy knew that the Kudao
incident had stirred up painful memories of
David's death, for both Jim and Carol Marcus.
Aid now this business on Themis. No wonder
Jim looked as though he were at a funeral. Or
maybe, McCoy thought with a sudden thrill of
horror, Scotty was right about war, and Jim already
knows it.
  "What's up?" Jim asked, though he sounded
uninterested in hearing the answer.
  "Maybe they're throwing us a retirement party,"
McCoy said lightly. The others must have sensed the
captain's mood; even Scotty joined the effort
to cheer Jim up. "That suits me," he confided.
"I just bought a boat." Uhura sighed. "Well,
this better be good. I'm supposed to be chairing a
seminar at the Academy."
  Maybe that's your idea of a vacation, McCoy was
about to quip, but Chekov leaned forward to ask
seriously: "Captain, isn't this just for top
brass?" Kirk glanced around the room and nodded.
""And us, apparently." "And if we're all
here," McCoy said, "where's Sulu?" He half
meant it as a joke; Sulu had left the
Enterprise more than ten years before to captain the
Excelsior, but McCoy still found it hard to think
of the Enterprise crew without him.
  As he looked around, Kirk murmured,
"Captain Sulu's on assignment. Anyone seen
Spock?"
  Chekov opened his mouth to answer, but shut it again
when a young Starffeet aide-de-campC'hildren,
McCoy thought disgustedly, children are running the
universe-her demeanor austere and impressive,
gaveled the meeting to order. "This briefing is
classified," she said. "There will be no recording
devices. Gentlepersons, the Cin-C."
  Starfleet's commander in chief, his manner far more
casual than that of his aide, entered. Rear
Admiral William Smillie, the youngest
individual
  ever to achieve the position of C-in-C, did
not require formalities to impress others; he
allowed his stellar record to speak for itself.
McCoy liked Admiral Smillie more than his
predecessor far one good reason: Smillie kept
things brief and to the point.
  True to form, Smillie said, "As you were.
I'll make this as simple as possible. The
Klingon Empire has roughly fifty years of
life left to it." The collective gasp of
surprise was so loud that McCoy would have smiled if
he hadn't been so taken aback himself. He tried
to catch Scotty's eye to give him a "see, I
told you" look, but the engineer was still staring owlishly
at Smillie.
  "For full details," the admiral continued,
"I am turning this briefing over to our special
Federation envoy."
  There was no collective gasp this time when
Spock walked to the lectern, but McCoy heard
Jim Kirk's sharp intake of breath beside him.
"Good morning," Spock said-almost pleasantly,
McCoy thought. The experience of sharing minds when
McCoy served as the vessel for Spock's
katra, his spirit, had done the Vulcan some good.
"Two months ago a Federation starship monitored
an explosion on the Klingon moon Praxis. We
believe it was caused by overmining and
insufficient safety precautions. A reactor
exploded, con- taminating the Klingon homeworld's
atmosphere and causing an instability in their
orbit. Unless the planet's orbit is
corrected, the resultant change in 29
  weather patterns will eventually destroy their
agriculture. "The moon's decimation means an
almost eighty percent loss of available
energy-Praxis was one of their largest and most
convenient sources of dddilithium-and a deadly
pollution of their ozone. They will have depleted their
supply of oxygen in less than fifty Earth
years. Due to their enormous military budget, the
Klingon economy does not have the resources with which
to combat this catastrophe.
  "Last month, at the behest of the . . . Vulcan
ambassador, 1 opened a dialogue with
Gorkon, chancellor of the Klingon High Council.
He proposes to commence negotiations at once."
  "Negotiations for what?" someone asked.
  Spock glanced to his left and met the gaze of
his questioner: Admiral Cartwright.
  "The dismantling of our space stations and
  slccarbases along the Klingon Neutral
Zone," the Vulcan replied. "An end
to seventy years of unre mitting hostility the
Klingons can no longer af ford." -- "So we're
totally discounting the Organians?" someone in the back
asked.
  Spock nodded. "In light of the recent
attacks on hccddudao and Themis as well as those
on relatively unprotected border worlds, it
seems wise. All attempts on the Federation's
behalf to contact the Organians concerning Klingon
violation of treaty have failed. Indications are that they
are unwilling ox unable to further intervene to prevent
a war."
  A murmur traveled through the crowd at this; it
quickly stilled as Spock continued.
  "If the Klingons sue for peace, we could
accumulate savings in defense expenditures,
leaving the Federation economy free to grapple with
urgent social problems . . ."
  "Bill," a captain McCoy didn't
recognize, his tone one of alarm, addressed
Smillie, "are we talking about mothballing the
Fleet?" McCoy studied the young captain and
wondered whether he belonged to the small but vocal
group chafing to turn Starfleet into a military rather
than an exploratory arm of the Federation.
A pacifist to the core, McCoy had been amazed
when he first learned such a movement existed; he still
found it difficult to believe that such a barbaric
concept lingered in a theoretically civilized age.
  To his credit, Admiral Smillie answered
sternly, "I'm sure our exploration and science
programs would not be affected, but the facts speak for
themselves, Captain."
  Admiral Cartwright rose angrily. "I must
protest. To offer the Klingons a safe haven within
Federation space is suicide! Klingons would
become the alien underclass of the galaxy. And if we
dismantled the Fleet, we'd be defenseless before an
aggressive species with a foothold on our
territory, led by an unprincipled tyrant. The
opportunity here is to embargo trading, force them
to run through their own resources faster, and bring them
to their knees. Perhaps even find a way to get the
Romulans to cooperate in this, since the Klingons
rely heavily on
  trade with them. Then we'll be in a far better
position to dictate terms." Sounds of approval
issued from a few in the audience; most listened in
silence, as did McCoy. On one level, he
agreed with Cartwright. He had seen the
results of the Klingons" treachery firsthand enough times not
to trust them-and for God's sake, look at what had
happened to David Marcus. But he did not like
Cartwright's tone, the clear undercurrent of hate
in.the admiral's words.
  At the thought of David Marcus, McCoy
glanced over at Jim. The captain's expression
was impassive, but he was staring at Spock with an
intensity that could have melted transparent aluminum.
  Smillie spoke as Cartwright sat down.
"Starffeet is under civilian control, Admiral
Cartwright. The decision is a political, not a
military, one-and it's been made."
  "Sir," Kirk said urgently.
  Smillie turned. "Captain Kirk?"
  "Sir, I'm no diplomat, but the Klingons have
never been trustworthy. I'm forced to agree with
Admiral Cartwright. This is"-Kirk groped for the
words--"a terrible, a terrifying, idea . . ."
  The aide leaned over to whisper something
into Admiral Smillie's ear. The
C-in-C's expression softened slightly; he
looked back at Kirk. "Your son was killed by a
Klingon, wasn't he, Captain?" he asked in a
sympathetic tone. The question drew an angry
gasp from McCoy. He'd thought Smillie was a
straight shooter, but to bring up such a painful
subject for Jim, especially 32
  now, of all times, and in front of this group, just
to discredit Jim's opinion . . .
  No matter that the doctor agreed with only the first
half of it while part of him agreed wholeheartedly
with Spook. He glared at Smillie, then turned
protectively toward Jim, who was still
poker-faced, but ashen. "Yes; sir," Jim
replied stiffly.
  "I'm sorry," Smillie contiAued, in the
same tone of sympathy. "But Captain Spook
has persuaded the Federation that this situation is too
promising to ignore."
  Spook nodded. "It is imperative that we act
now to support the Gorkon initiative, lest more
conservative elements persuade his Empire that it
would be better to attempt a military solution and
die fighting." The Vulcan didn't say as much,
but McCoy guessed the implication: And before the
same thing happens to us . . . Spook's words were
reasoned, logical, but the doctor fancied he
saw concern for Jim in the Vulcan's dark eyes.
"We must strive to remember that not all
Klingons subscribe to the militaristic ethics of the
warrior class. Granted, the warriors constitute
a strong, vocal minority, which has maintained power
for centuries. But Gorkon represents a
different group, with a different viewpoint. After a
long struggle, this previously silent majority
has come to power, with Gorkon as their spokesperson.
He-and the Federation-cannot afford to pass up the
opportunity for peace Praxis affords. Even the
powerful
  military has been forced to consider a treaty."
  The C-in-C smiled. "Captain Kirk, you
are to be our first olive branch." "conMe?" Kirk
gaped at Smillie in disbelief. Whispers
rustled through the audience.
  ""We have volunteered to rendezvous with the Klingon
ship that is bringing Chancellor Gorkon here,"
Spock said, "and to escort him safely through
Federation space."
  Kirk stared, too thunderstruck to reply.
  Snnillie nodded, pleased. "As it happens,
Kirk, the chancellor specifically requested you and
your officers."
  "Me and my-was Kirk broke off. Scott
muttered an oath under his breath; Chekov and
Uhura merely gaped, and McCoy joined them,
unable to do otherwise. Kirk found his voice.
"Why, in God's name?"
  Smillie was unperturbed by the reactions. "There
are some Klingons who feel the same about a peace
treaty-a real one, not one forced on us by" the
Organians-as yourself and Admiral Cartwright.
They'll think twice about attacking the .enterprise
under your command."
  "1. have personally vouched for you in this matter,
Captain," Spock added. "You have personally-was
Kirk began, and stopped, too furious to finish.
What in the devil's name is Spock trying to do
to Jim? McCoy thought, in a burst of anger. He
could have asked for a different starship. Why not Excel-
sior? The Klingons wouldn't dare attack her.
  And then he wondered: Was this Spock's way of
trying to force them to deal with the hatred that had been growing
in Jim, in them all, nurtured by the media
coverage of the slaughter on Kudao?
  "You will accord Chancellor Gorkon full
diplomatic courtesy, Captain Kirk,"
Admiral Smillie was saying, all traces of
sympathy gone from his voice. "Surely," Jim
countered, straining to be reasonable, to keep the
anger under control, "a full ambassador would be
better equipped to-was Smillie cut him off.
"If there's no further business, I wish you and your
crew godspeed. Thank you all."
  The officers in the room rose as their commander
dismissed them with a quick nod. Smillie left,
followed by his aide. The others filed out
quietly, which surprised McCoy. He had
expected some rather lively arguments, given the
controversial order Smillie had just issued.
Even Scotty, normally outspoken when it came
to the topic of Klingons, said nothing, merely shook
his head and glanced in the captain's direction.
McCoy wanted to say something to him-after all, they
should at least be relieved there wasn't going to be a
war-but the sight of Jim's face stopped him. The
captain still sat, stunned and furious, staring at
Spock, who remained by the lectern. McCoy
understood: they were waiting to speak to each other, and
Jim's expression prompted the doctor to decide
he would just as soon miss out on the
  upcoming discussion. He sighed and turned to fallow
Chekov and Uhura, who were moving silently toward
the door. Admiral Cartwright blocked his path.
His expression one of concern, Cartwright
leaned over to address the seated captain. "I
don't know whether to congratulate you or not, Jim."
Kirk met his eyes but did not reply.
  "I wouldn't," McCoy said softly, and left,
still wondering why he did not feel relieved there would
not be a war.
  Kirk sat in the empty briefing room and stared
at his first officer. Spock could not have known, of
course, when he volunteered the Enterprise, that
Carol Marcus would be among the wounded on Themis.
The incident had not yet occurred when Spock was
making diplomatic overtures to the Klingons. But
Jim did not doubt that Spock had known how his
captain would feel about this particular assignment,
even before Themis; he did not doubt that Spock had
decided to volunteer him despite that knowledge-first, because it
was logical; second, because Spock obviously
thought it would help Jim completely recover from his
grief over David, from his . . . He balked
mentally at the word "hate."
  Why shouldn't he hate? After alt the Klingons
had done to him, why shouldn't he?
  The thought that Spock might be doing this for 36
  Kirk's own good made him all the more furious.
Before Themis, perhaps, Jim could have dealt with it
graciously, but now . . . Spock studied him from
the lectern, waiting patiently for the captain to break
the silence.
  Jim turned his face away and did not speak for
some time. When he did, the depth of his anger startled
them both.
  "We volunteered?" he asked bitterly. He.
was Spock's commanding officer, regardless of whatever
status Spock aright have held as special envoy.
The Vulcan seemed to have forgotten who was supposed
to be giving the orders. "Why does it have to be me?
Why can't it be Sulu? The Klingons have more reason
to be afraid of Excelsior-was
  "There is an old Vulcan proverb," Spock
said, his tone as rational and soothing as Kirk's was
heated. was "Only Nixon could go to China.""
"What the hell is that supposed to mean"..."dis"
  "The Klingons have good reason to fear the
Excelsior, particularly under Captain Sulu's
command. But they are more afraid of you. You have become a
legend among them. You have earned their fear and, more
importantly, their respect. That is vital to the
success of this mission."
  "Had I known what you were up to," Kirk said,
fighting to keep his voice from shaking with rage,
"I would never have granted your request for extended
leave."
  Spock merely looked at him.
  "How could you vouch for me? That's"-Kirk broke
off, too incensed to find the words"'""arrogant
presumption."
  "Jim," Spook said earnestly, "I was asked
by my father to open neg-was Kirk didn't let him
finish. "I know your father's the Vulcan
ambassador, for God's sake, but you know how I
feel about this." His voice dropped as anger and
grief welled within him-over the loss of leis son,
aver the near loss of Carol. "You're talking about
the people who killed David. Who slaugh- tered disall
those innocents on Kudao." He faltered, glanced
away. "Who injured Carol. The doctors don't
know if she'll live."
  Spook stiffened, and after a beat of startled silence
said, "My sincerest condolences, Captain. I
slid not know."
  And would it have made any difference if you
  lead? Jim wondered.
  "T assume she was wounded on Themis?"
  Jim nodded, remembering Kwan-mei and her
grief over Sohlar. "I spoke with one
of the Themis survivors. She said they had no time
to react, never even saw the ship that attacked them;
the phaserfire seemed to come out of nowhere." He
jerked his head in Spook's direction. "Unarmed
scientists, and the Klingons never gave them a chance.
How can you deal with killers-was "All Klingons did
not kill David, Captain. All Klingons did
not murder the Kudao settlers, or those an
Themis. You are blaming an entire race for the acts
of a few individuals."
  "Spock, the entire Klingon race is made
up of cold-blooded murderers like Kruge!
Killing is their way of- life, all they understand."
Carol and Kwan-mei's voices echoed in his mind.
"They're animals. . . was A stranger might have
said the Vulcan did not react, but Kirk knew
him all too well. Spock's eyes narrowed
slightly; his lips parted only a few milli-
meters. Kirk saw the disapproval in that
infinitesimal change of expression. The
disapproval wavered, then vanished and was replaced
by concern. "You are upset, but when you have recovered, you
will agree. Jim, there is an historic
opportunity here-was
  "Don't trust them. Don't believe
them, was Kirk said, thinking of Kruge, remembering
the voice of Saavik: Captain, David is
dead . . . . "They're dying," Spock said
softly.
  "Let them die. his
  Jim repressed a shudder of horror at the
realization that the words were his own. Yet, gripped
by pain that had been buried for the past eleven years,
he could not deny he meant them. Nor did he back
down from Spock's silent, reproachfid gaze.
  He felt infinitely tired. The journey
to Themis had drained him, left him without the strength
to deal with his growing hatred. It was unfair of
Spock to force him to confront it now.
  Spock looked away for a time, then gazed
thoughtfully at Kirk. "I grieve with you over the
death of your son, Captain, and the injuries to Carol
Marcus. I know
  you well enough to know you are not yourself and do not mean all
you have said.
  "We have been given a choice: peace or war.
Ass a Vulcan, I am bound to choose peace."
  "I don't want war, either, Spock," Kirk
answered wearily. "But why does it have to be me?
Let someone younger go."
  "Chancellor Gorkon requested you. And
Admiral Smillie has made his decision."
  "In other words, I have no choice in the matter.
You've forced me into it." The thought rekindled his
anger. "Has it occurred to you that this crew is due
for retirement in three months? We've done our
bit for king and country!" They locked
gazes-Kirk's furious, Spock's patient.
For a moment neither spoke.
  "I may not be myself," Kirk said at last, "but
you shouldn't have forced this. And you're a fool if you think
the Klingons intend to negotiate in good faith. At
some point, you'll realize you should have listened to me."
He left to report to the Enterprise, feeling at
once ashamed at the depth of his own hatred and far
too angry to care.
  REPORTING TO THE Enterprise early the next
morning, McCoy stepped onto the turbolift and
found himself alone with Jim Kirk. The captain
appeared to have slept little-McCoy himself had found a
good night's rest impossible, considering the
political import of the mission-but seemed far
less angry, far more approachable, than he had the
day before. Even so, Jim was trying to mask the fact
that something was troubling him. McCoy could
hardly blame him. During his bout with insomnia
last night, the doctor had decided that both Jim
and Spock were right, each in his own way. Peace with the
Klingons made sense, at least theoretically, and
Gorkon had requested the Enterprise. It would have
been very bad politics to refuse. But at the sane
time, McCoy felt angry at Spock, at
Starlleet, for refusing to consider Jim's feelings
  in all of this. Kudao had painfully reminded them
all of David's death. No matter that it had all
happened a long time ago . . . Funny, he'd
never noticed until that moment how much silver had
crept into Jim's hair over the past few years.
The traumatic events of the past decade had aged
them. With a slow trickle of sadness, McCoy
realized that he would stand beside Jim on this lift, on
the bridge, only a few times more. Kirk nodded
at the doctor and touched the control; the lift began
to ascend. After so many years, words were unneeded: each
knew where the other was headed.
  With a sense of urgency, McCoy decided the
timing and circumstances were goad, and launched right
into it.
  "Lift, stop." He faced Jim as the
turbolift decelerated and came to a
smooth halt. "Jim, this mission's eating at you.
Do you feel up to talking about it?"
  Kirk stared straight ahead at the seam in the
lift doors and released a slow breath, then glanced
at McCoy. "I thought . . . I suppose no
one told you. Carol was on Themis during the
attack."
  "My God," McCoy whispered, stunned. "I
had no idea-was "I suppose Command doesn't
want the information released in view of . . . my
involvement in this mission."
  "Is she all right?"
  Kirk looked away. "The building collapsed
on
  them; Carol had severe head injuries.
Damage to the brain stem. She's on life
support now. They should know in a week whether the
implants will take." The doctor put a hand on
Jim's shoulder. "Jim, I'm so sorry. How can
they-the sons of bitcheshow can they even ask you to be
here? Smillie could have asked someone else. He could
have asked Sulu."
  "Maybe." Jim straightened, met McCoy's
gaze once again. "I can't buck orders, Bones.
Even if I could have stayed with Carol, I
keep telling myself comwhat good could I disd, being with her
now? Looking at it selfishly, at least this way
I can stay busy until I know something. This mission
won't take a week. A few days at most. And
then I'll be with her again."
  If she doesn't die in the meantime, McCoy
  thought. He knew Jim thought it, too, but neither of
them dared voice it. Jim shook his head gently.
"But this particular . . . assignment isn't making
things easier."
  "Of course it isn't," McCoy said. "I
can't believe they have the nerve-was "I couldn't
believe it when I heard myself with Spock
yesterday." He twisted his lips grimly, something
less than a smile. "I really shocked him. I
told him we should let all the Klingons die. That
they were animals." Half jokingly, half
bitterly, McCoy replied, "I've known a
couple in my day that were."
  "None of us do," the doctor soothed.
  "I just don't want Klingons on my ship."
Kirk lowered his voice. "Not now. It's more than just
what they did to Carol. I don't know why, after
all these years, David's death is haunting me
agbath of us, though we didn't talk about
it. Kudao, I suppose . . ."
  "That's probably part of it. But when David was
killed, you didn't have time to grieve for him. You were
too busy trying to save the lives of your crew.
You've always been the captain-always so busy taking
responsibility for everyone else's life that you
don't have time for your own. "Don't you realize,
Jim, you're having to give up the Enterprise again?
Maybe your conscious mind hasn't wanted to face
up to it, but your subcon- scious remembers.
We're all retiring in three months. And when we
do, you won't be James T. Kirk, captain,
always living up to impossibly high ideals.
Instead, you'll be forced to deal with Jim Kirk,
human being." McCoy's tone softened. "Maybe
the human being has never been able to forgive the
Klingons for the death of his son. Kruge stole the
only family you had, stole the chance you had to get
to know David. He won't be waiting for you when you
retire."
  .and now maybe neither will Carol . . . .
  Jim stood quietly, without meeting the
doctor's begaze, for such a long time that McCoy
feared he had overstepped his bounds. And then the
captain touched the controls, and the lift started
smoothly upward again.
  When the doors finally snapped open, he turned
to McCoy. "Maybe you're right, Doctor. But
Spook is wrong to trust the Klingons. I still think
the treaty is a mistake."
  McCoy sighed. "You wanna know something? Deep
down, so do I. So do I. . . ."
  By midday all hands had reported to their stations and the
Enterprise was ready for departure.
  Kirk had had some time to reflect on his conversation
with McCoy. Despite his grief, he had
resolved two things: one, that he would in no way
allow his personal feelings to jeopardize the
success of this last mission; and two, that he would in
no way trust the Klingons. That he would leave
to Spook, as diplomat; Kirk's concern was his
crewand the Federation's best interests. And there
remained the fact that he had no choice. His orders
were to transport Klingons and treat them as honored
guests aboard his vessel. Therefore he would do so.
  By the time he and Spook headed for the bridge in the
turbolift, Jim felt able to broach the subject
calmly.
  "Spook . . . I'm still not happy about your
manipulating me into this. But I know I said
a lot of angry things yesterday. I just want you
to know that I don't want a war any more than you do.
Despite what happened on Themis, I'll afford
the Klingons every courtesy."
  Spook lifted a brow in mild surprise.
"I had no doubt whatsoever of that, Captain. I
regret the
  most unfortunate timing. Is there any further
word an Dr. Marcus's condition?"
  Kirk shook his head. "I don't think either of us
needs to apologize, Spock. You couldn't have known
what was going to happen; you just did what you felt you
had to do. Now we both have a job to do, and we're
going to get it done." Spoc.k nodded. "Perhaps it
is just as well that we do not entirely agree on the
Klingon issue. My acquaintance with Dr.
McCoy has taught me the value of a devil's
advocate."
  Jim actually smiled. "In other words, you're
admitting that McCoy has been right on more than one
occasion."
  The Vulcan frowned. "I do not believe I said
exactly that, Cap-was He broke off as the lift
doors opened onto the bicidge. The last time,
Jim thought, as he stepped out and moved toward
the corm, where McCoy was already standing, while
Spock crossed to his station. Could this really be the
last time they'd be taking her out of spacedock? He
stopped arid did a slight double take as the conn
swung around and a young Vulcan female vacated the
chair.
  "Captain on the bridge," she said, rising.
Her straight black hair, short and severe,
framed fragilely beautiful features. The
bridge crew stood to attention.
  "As you were," Kirk said. He frowned,
puzzled. "Have we met, Lieutenant . . . ?"
  "Valeris, sir. We were told you would need a
helmsman"-as she spoke, she caught sight of
Spook, and her gaze became one of recognition"...s
I volunteered." She regarded Spook with an
expression of such ardent respect and devotion that
Kirk raised his eyebrows and directed a curious
half smile at his first officer.
  Spook gave a slight nod. "Lieutenant,
it is agreeable to see you again." He explained
to Kirk. "The lieutenant recently graduated
at the top of her class from Starfleet Academy.
I was her sponsor." .
  "Ah," Kirk said. Certainly
Valeris's behavior toward Spook was
Vulcanly correct, but some wellsharpened instinct
told him that her feelings for him were more than
platonic. Impossible to tell, however, whether
Spook returned those feelingsor was even aware of
them. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You must be very
proud."
  She lifted a brow in such a credible impersonation
of Spook that Kirk almost grinned. "I don't
believe so, sir."
  "She's a Vulcan all right," McCoy
quipped beside him. Valeris assumed her station at the
helm.
  "All right, let's get this over with," Kirk
said. "Departure stations." He pressed a control
on the console arm. "Scotty?" "Aye, sir."
  "Stand by. Get me Spacedock Control,
Uhura."
  "Control, reading, sir," Uhura said behind him.
"Control," Kirk said, his senses sharpened by the
realization that this was the last time he would
  command this vessel out of spacedock, "this is
lSnteryrise, requesting permission to depart."
  Uhura put the dockmaster through on audio. "This
is Control," a male voice droned.
"Enterprise, you are granted permission to depart.
Thirty seconds for port gates."
  "Clear all moorings," Valeris intoned from the
helm. "Awaiting port gates from this mark."
Kirk glanced surreptitiously at Spock,
realizing that this. was indeed his last chance to get even for a
little joke the Vulcan had played on him years
before, in this very situation, albeit with a different
protege.
  He'd damn near scared Jim to death.
  "Moorings cleared," the dockmaster confirmed.
"Aft thrust-was Valeris began, but the captain
interrupted. "Thank you," he said loudly
to Control, drowning out the young Vulcan's voice.
"Lieutenant Valerggness, one-quarter impulse
power."
  Valeris turned to face him with less than
perfect Vulcan control. Perhaps, Kirk thought,
Spock had made it his mission in life to help
others gain emotional mastery. This one certainly could
use some practice. "Captain," Valeris said,
"may I remind you that regulations specify
thrusters only while in spacedock?"
  "Uh, Jim," McCoy said nervously, from where
he stood to the left of the helm.
  But the rest of the crew seemed to catch on 48
  immediately-including Uhura, who murmured softly,
"Here we go again." And Spock, who remained
absolutely pokerfaced. "You heard the order,
Lieutenant," Kirk told Valeris. Her
expression unreadable, she swiveled back to the
helm and complied. Jim smiled and settled into his
chair as the Enterprise screamed out of dock and
exited through the just-opening bay doors into the freedom
of space. "Lieutenant," he said at length.
  Valeris faced him, her expression
impassive.
  "I don't care if I'm senile. If I
sit in this chair and give the word, you jump."
  "Aye, sir," she said.
  "Plot a course for Kronos, Lieutenant."
  "Kronos, sir?" Her tone conveyed faint
surprise. Only the senior bridge crew had
attended the classified briefing and knew of the
switch in assign- ment.
  "I'm still in the chair," Kirk reminded her
pleasantly. "Aye, sir."
  Captain's personal log, Stardate
9522.6:
  They say you can't teach an old dog new
tricks-and
  maybe they're right. It seems to me our mission
to escort
  the chancellor of the Klingon High Council is
problematic at
  best.
  I have never trusted Klingons and never will. And
I'm
  beginning to think McCoy is right I've never been
able to forgive them for the death of my son. As a
Starfleet officer, l am duty bound to follow
orders, and I will do so. The Klingons will be extended
every diplomatic courtesy. Yet I remain
convinced that any attempts at dialogue with them will
be futile; our cultures are simply too
different, and too much hatred has been stirred up
within the Federation over the massacres on Kudao and
now Themis. The Kiingons have left behind a trail of
embittered survivors within the Federation. Spock
says this could be an historic moment and I'd like
to believe him-but how can history get past people like me?
  Several hours comaf the spaeedock maneuver,
Kirk paused in the dictation of his personal log and
leis unpacking to set a portrait of David on
his desk, a gift from Carol some birthdays
ago. The holo captured David in a rare
smiling moment, allowing Jim to forget, if he
chose, the anger that had driven the young man.
  He had once asked Carol about David's
anger; she had remarked dryly that Jim needed
only to look as far as his own early years.
Ridiculous, of course. He had never been full
of tree-floating hostility--at least, not to the same
degree as David. Carol had remained
skeptical.
  A delicate cough made him start. He wheeled
about to face Lieutenant Valeris, standing in the open
cabin doorway. Behind her, the corridor lighting was
dimmed in deference to the ship's night. He felt a
flare of irritation at the intrusion as well as
embarrassment at the thought that he might have been
overheard dictating his log, and made a
  mental note to remind Spook to have a little
discussion with his prot6gee about courtesy and human
customs.
  "Come on, Valeris, you could knock."
  The greenish due of her complexion deepened, but
she kept her composure as she said, "We are almost
at the rendezvous, Captain. I thought you would want
to know."
  "Right." Kirk found his jacket and slipped into it
as she watched intently. He got the impression she
wanted to say more but had not yet found the words. .
  "Valeris," he said. "That's not a Vulcan
name, is it? It sounds almost . . . Klingon."
Impossible, of course; she showed no trace of
Klingon heritage. To all outward appearances, she
looked ,ffbe a full Vulcan. Her color
deepened; she shook her head once, quickly, and
Kirk found himself thinking of Spook's othei
protegee, Saavik. He wondered whether this
woman had the same background. It would certainly
explain her occasional slip in terms of Vulcan
control.
  "Permission to speak freely, sir?" Valeris
asked. He gazed expectantly at her. She
correctly interpreted his expression and silence as
giving permission, and continued awkwardly. "I gather
you are not enthusiastic about the assignment. I do not
think many on board are. Sir."
  Kirk stared hard at her, unable to fathom what
she was getting at. As a Vulcan, and particularly
as Spook's prot6gee, she no doubt
supported all efforts
  to establish peaceful relations with the Klingon
Empire and was disturbed by the strong antiKlingon
sentiment she perceived in the ship's crew --and now in
its captain.
  He was in no mood to hear a lecture about
humans and Klingons and prejudice-especially from
this wet-behind-the-pointed-ears Academy grad.
"diseaally piloted well out of spacedock,
Lieutenant," Kirk began evenly. She almost
smiled. "I have always wanted to try dishat."
  He stepped past her. "Only don't try
putting words in my mouth."
  Valeris paused at the door to Spock's
quarters. She debated whether she had exercised
poor ,judgment in contacting the captain in person.
She could easily have communicated with him from the
bridge, but she had wanted to explain to him that she
understood how difficult this particular mission was for
him, that "she knew of Carol Marcus's injuries
and of the death of his son, not from third parties, but from the
one who had witnessed it.
  And she had had other errands to perform on this deck,
as well as another personal reason: she wanted
to speak privately with Spock. Even now she had
not found the words to adequately express herself to him.
She feared she would sound emotional,
self-serving-certainly Iier attempt to speak
openly to the captain had
  backfired-and she did not want Spock to think his
investment in her had been in vain.
  She had learned of his availability as a
sponsor quite by chance, at the government office in
ShanaiKahr where she'd applied for Vulcan
citizenship. There had been a Vulcan in a
Starfleet uniform waiting in the queue. Yaleris
had wanted to join Starfleet since she was a child; she
asked the officer questions and learned of Spock's
patronage.
  She and Lieutenant Saavik had since become
friends. She felt a kinship with Saavik, though
Saavik was half Vulcan and half Romulan and
Valeris was a full-blooded Vulcan.
Despite the differences in their background, they shared
an experience: neither had been raised in the Vulcan
tradition; both had chosen it later in life. And
neither had a proper Vulcan name.
  She had meant to make legal application in
ShanaiKahr to change her name to one more
appropriate for a Vulcan, until Saavik had
said, Spock told me that, because of my mixed
heritage, I am unique and must therefore
find my own path. You are a full-blooded
Vulcan, but your past makes you unique. You would
do yourself a disservice to forget it.
  Both had worked hard to make up the gaps in their
education, and Valeris had studied privately with a
Vulcan tutor to acquire the emotional control
most Vulcans learned as children.
  Even now, though, she experienced difficulty.
Some outworlders believed Vulcans lacked feelings
entirely, that their emotional mastery was effort-
less. Valeris knew it was acquired only after
years of study and great difficulty.
  For that reason she admired Spock greatly. She
felt a kinship with him as well; both of them had
worked to overcome what some Vulcans might consider
an unfortunate parentage. She also feared proving
a disappointment to him: he, half human, displayed
a control far superior to hers. She had, at times,
seen him show the merest hint cccgreater-than from
emotion. But she suspected even those displays vwere
the result of a deliberate decision.
  She wanted to prove worthy of him.
  She pressed the door buzzer, and heard his
voice. "Enter."
  The door opened, then closed behind her as
she bestepped into Spock's quarters.
  She was intrigued. He had visited her only
twice fit the Academy, and she had never seen his
personal effects before. The cabin was functional but
not ,old, reflecting the mixed heritage of its
occupant. She noted the flickering statue and the
polished conmeditation stone as well as a number of
Earth antiques, including a Chagall hung on
the wall. Dressed in his meditation robe, Spock
reached out to light a votive candle. "I have come
to tell you," Valeris said, "that we have arrived at the
rendezvous point."
  He nodded, but did not hurry anxiously as the
  captain had. Their presence on the bridge would not
be required until the Klingon vessel arrived.
  He turned to study her, and seemed to sense that there
was more she wished to say. "You have done well,
Valeris. As your sponsor at the Academy I
have followed your career with . . . satisfaction. And,
as a Vulcan, you have surpassed my expectations."
  S. Perhaps he had also sensed her concern. His words
evoked deep gratitude and, most illogically,
embarrassment in her. Valeris struggled to keep from
flushing and did not entirely succeed. She had
learned bioaontrol late in life and still
found it the most challenging of her studies. She
turned away and began inspecting the Chagall. It
belonged to an Old Earth style of painting that she
found incomprehensible.
  "You wished to see me?" Spock asked, as she
continued to scrutinize the painting. He gestured at
the low divan.
  She drew a breath and sat. There were many things she
wished to discuss with him; she began with the least
important one. "I meant no disrespect to the
captain today-was
  "It was in no way disrespectful. You had an
obligation to remind him. It is illogical to blindly
obey authority."
  "If I am not mistaken, Captain Kirk
demanded my blind obedience." "He demanded your trust.
That is quite a different thing."
  She frowned.. "I do not see how:"
  "He correctly judged that the bay doors would
open sufficiently for the Enterprise to pass through
safely. He was attempting to demonstrate that,
although he is scheduled for retirement in the near
future, his skills as a commanding officer are
undiminished." Spock's expression warmed
subtly, as if from an inward smile. "And
he was exacting . . . revenge on another member
of the bridge crew. I believe the expression is
"turning the tables."" Valeris did not understand, but
she did not pursue the matter. "I feel certain
the captain was pleased with your performance," Spock
continued. "You navigated most ably and
demonstrated your knowledge of docking maneuvers." He
paused, clearly thinking that their conversation was now
finished and she would excuse herself.
  Valeris continued examining the Chagall, wondering
how to broach the next subject she wished to discuss.
  "Do you like the painting, Lieutenant?"
  "I do not understand this representation," she
beadmitted. "It is a depiction from ancient Earth
mythology. The expulsion from Paradise."
  She frowned. "Why keep it in your quarters?"
  A moment passed before Spock answered-and when he
spoke, there was an odd quality to his voice.
  "It is a reminder to me that all things must end."
  "Sir," she said, standing. "It is of endings I
wish to speak. I address you as a kindred
intellect. Do you not recognize that a turning
point has been reached in the affairs of the Federation?"
  "History is filled with turning points,"
Spock said, unruffled by her intensity. At
her puzzled reaction, he added: "You must have
faith." "Faith . . . ?"
  "That the universe will unfold as it should."
  "Is that logical?" Valeris asked, confused
by her mentor's advice. She had met with him only
a handful of times, but had thought she had come to know him
well. In her mind, he had come to represent the
epitome of logic, of allthat she strove
to achieve. She had admired his intelligence, his
control, but now she felt she was speaking, not with the
Vulcan, but with the human. "Surely we must-was
  "Klingon battle cruiser off the port bow," a
voice blared, through the bulkhead comm. grid. "All
  hands on deck. Repeat. . : his
  With swift, practiced skill, Spock
slipped his meditation robe off and his uniform jacket
on.
  "Logic is the beginning of wisdom,
Lieutenant, not the end," he said, as the two of them
started for the door. Before it opened, he stopped and
faced her. "This will be my last voyage aboard this
ship as a member of her crew. A Vulcan of your
demonstrated ability should have no difficulty rising
to the occasion. As you are aware, nature abhors a
vacuum. I intend you to replace me."
  Valeris fought back a rush of very un-Vulcan
emotion. "1 could only succeed you, sir. Never
replace you."
  They headed for the bridge in silence. She had
riot communicated all that she wished, but considered that
perhaps such things were best left unsaid.
  Kirk stepped onto the bridge seconds before
Spock and Valeris followed. The sight on the
main viewscreen stopped all three. A Klingon
battle cruiser loomed to port at alarmingly
close range. Crew members were doing their best
to appear nonchalant about the fact, but there was tension
in Chekov's voice as he asked, "Captain, shall
we raise our shields?"
  Valeris crossed the bridge and took her
place beside Chekov at the helm. Kirk glanced
at his first officer and saw the message in Spock's
expression: Trust me.
  Spock he trusted; Klingons were another matter
altogether. He scowled, knowing that raising the conshields would
be the worst possible diplomatic imove-and wanting
to anyway.
  He did not give the order.
  From the corner of his eye he saw Chekov catch
leis expression, realize no order was
forthcoming, and turn back toward the dread-inspiring
sight on the screen.
  "Never been this close," Kirk murmured.
He'd had Kaingons on board the Enterprise,
to be surewnost recently, Captain Klaa and the
crew of the Mingon vessel Okrona. But even then,
Klaa had
  had the grace to maintain a respectable distance between
his ship and the Enterprise.
  And Klaa's ship had been tiny compared to the
monstrous vessel that hovered before them now.
  Certainly the Federation and the Klingon Empire had
never been this close to real peace. There had been the
treaty forced on both parties by the Organians-an
uneasy truce, at best. With the Organians
gone, Kirk wondered, would the Klingons come to us now
if it hadn't been for Praxis? "The chancellor is
undoubtedly awaiting our signal," Spock said
gently beside him.
  Kirk drew in a breath and gave the Vulcan
an "I hope you know what you're doing" look before
taking the coon. "Uhura, hailing frequencies.
Helm, right standard rudder. Bring us alongside."
  "Right standard rudder," Lieutenant Valeris
replied. "Z plus five degrees."
"Channel open, Captain," Uhura reported.
  Kirk collected himself. "This is the Federation
starship Enterprise, Captain James T.
Kirk commanding."
  As he spoke, the image of the battle cruiser
wavered and vanished, replaced by the lordly countenance
of a Klingon dressed in the red and black vestments of
his culture's aristocracy. His neatly trimmed
beard was streaked with silver.
  "This is Kronos One, was he said. "I am
Chancellor Gorkon." His speech seemed more
cultivated, less rasping, than that of other
Klingons. Kirk managed to nod politely, but
found it difficult not to think of Carol and David
and the 59
  pictures of Kudao as he said, "Chancellor.
We have been ordered to escort you through Federation
space to your meeting on Earth."
  Gorkon's tone was disarmingly gracious. "Thank
you, Captain." "Would you and your party care to dine this
evening aboard the Enterprise with my officers, as
guests of the United Federation of Planets?"
Kirk sensed rather than saw the surprised glances
Pram his crew. If the Klingon chancellor caught
them, he gave no sign. "We'd be
delighted to accept your gracious invitation,"
Gorkon said pleasantly. Kirk tried to smile.
"We'll make arrangements to have you beamed aboard
at nineteen-thirty hours."
  Gorkon gave a formal nod. "I shall look
forward t0 it."
  The screen darkened abruptly.
  Kirk turned to Spock and said softly, "I
hope to you're happy." "Captain." Valeris
rose from the helm.
  Kirk turned, half expecting to hear that
Kronos's shields had gone up and she had armed
herself.
  But the lieutenant stepped over to the coon and
"disdowered her voice discreetly so that the others would
not hear. "There is a supply of Romulan ale
aboard. Perhaps it might make the evening pass more .
. . smoothly?" Kirk stared at her in amazement,
then allowed himself a faint grin. Lieutenant
Valeris was clearly far from a typical Vulcan;
there was a boldness about her that Kirk liked, and she
actually had
  something of a sense of humor. He vowed silently
to ask Spock about her later. "Officer thinking,
Lieutenant."
  Yet as he turned and headed with Spock and
McCoy for the lift, he could not shake the conviction that
allowing Klingons aboard the Enterprise would lead
to disaster.
  The CAPTAIN paused at the lift entrance
to survey his officers. "I'll expect the senior
bridge crew to be present at the dinner," he
said, then stepped inside with Mr. Spock and the
doctor.
  "Aye, sir," Uhura answered softly as the
doors closed over them, and released a slow breath:
The atmosphere on the bridge fairly crackled
with an odd, unpleasant tension-in part, she
decided, because for many of the senior crew, this voyage
would be the last. Kirk, McCoy, and Scott were
officially retiring; so was Spock, who, though his
Vulcan blood caused him to age far more slowly,
vas leaving out of loyalty to the captain, Uhura
felt. were:.'hekov planned to transfer off
Enterprise and was toying with the notion of leaving the
Fleet. As for Llhura, she planned to go back
to teaching at the
  Academy, to give back some of what she had
gotten out of Starfleet. But at least some of the
uneasiness on the bridge had to do with the
assignment. Uhura had noted the captain's sharp
downturn in mood and the tension between him and Spock
since yesterday's briefing. She sympathized with
.kirk; his son's death and the loss of the original
Enterprise no doubt made all of this very
difficult for him.
  Still, he had entertainai Klingons once before on
the Enterprise, in honor of Captain Klaa.
He had seemed completely recovered from his grief
then; at least, Uhura had not sensed the same depth
of anger in him. Something had happened to awaken his
pain and hate. Kudao, which had stirred the hatred
sleeping in them all. Klingons had attacked and
killed hundreds of innocent settlers on that world.
In the months since the Organians" disappearance,
there had been many smaller raids sums as the one on
Themis-all of them, according to the official word of the
Klingon High Council, committed by pirates,
unsanctioned by the government. Uhura was enough of a
skeptic to realize that the attacks probably
weren't officially sanctioned and had been committed by a
small faction within the military, but the Klingpn
government would donothing to stop them. The Klingons would
sit back and let the Federation be provoked to the
point of war, while they wooed the
Romulnns and debated among themselves whether they
possessed sufficient weaponry to emerge as
victors.
  Klingon culture glorified war. For a
Klingon, there was no greater honor than to be
permitted to die a warrior's death.
  Was it really possible that there were those within the
Empire who had grown weary of fighting, who saw
a better way?
  Uhura believed it was, and that Praxis had
provided the impetus for change within the Empire.
Chancellor Gorkon had managed to convince tire
High Council, but would he be able to win over those in
the Federation? She admired and respected Mr.
Spock for his diplomatic efforts, and she
fervently believed he was right. A peace treaty was
the only sane course. But the attack on Kudao
would make that difficult, if not impossible. The
Klingons had been portrayed as villains in the
media to the extent that political cartoons
portrayed them with horns sprouting fi tilde orn
their ridged foreheads.
  The Praxis explosion might have come too late
to do the galaxy any good. Uhura glanced up to see
Chekov, relieved of duty, heading for the
lift. He stopped at the communications console and
leaned over to whisper: "Guess who's coming to dinner?"
There was irony in his tone. Uhura felt a flash
of indignation. Diplomatic relations with the Klingons
were delicate, mercurial, at best. Everything
Spock was trying to achieve could be all too
easily destroyed. "Chekov, an attitude like that
isn't going to help."
  Chekov drew back in mild surprise.
"What attitude? How are we supposed to feel
about Klingons coming aboard this ship, after what they've
done to the captain?"
  "I don't want to hear about that," she said
firmly. "I've heard it enough times from Mr.
Scott. He seems to have forgotten the time
Okrona's crew came on board and we all saw
him drinking scotch with General Korrd. Everyone
except Spock seems to have forgotten that General
Korrd helped save the captain's life."
  Chekov's lip twisted skeptically. "General
Korrd was under duress. Spock had to . . .
persuade him."
  "He could have refused." She sighed. "It's
difficult enough, with the captain feeling the way he
does . . . and everyone talking about nothing but
Kudao. David Marcus died more than a decade
ago. There's no excuse for the amount of hatred
I've seen."
  "No excuse?" Chekov's brown eyes narrowed
with disbelief. "They kill the captain's son, almost
tilde ill Carol Marcus, and you say-was "Carol
Marcus?" Uhura caught her breath with a jolt of
sickening surprise, not wanting to understand and yet
understanding instantly. She sank back into her chair.
"Chekov, no . . ."
  "She was on Themis," Chekov said heavily, in
a voice too low to be heard by the others on the
bridge. "No one is supposed to know, but I
heard Dr. McCoy speaking to his nurse in
sickbay this
  n3ddorning when I reported for my physical.
Carol is in a coma; the doctors aren't even sure
she will 11atione."
  Uhura closed her eyes.
  "Do you still think Mr. Scott is wrong to be
angry?" Chekov asked. "Do you still want to have a
pleasant dinner with the Klingons and pretend like everything
is all right?"
  Uhura shook her head. "No. But I will."
She lifted her face toward him. "Don't
you see, Pavel? These Klingons want peace.
They want to stop the killing. his
  His lips thinned to a grim line. "Do they? I
don't tryst them." "I don't want to myself, but
what other choice do we have?" Chekov did not
answer, but the look in his eyes-which said that he might
actually consider that second, unspeakable
option-frightened her. "If that's the way everyone
feels," Uhura said softly, "then gods help
us. We'll be lucky if we're not at war by the time
dessert is served."
  In the Enterprise transporter room, Kirk
forced himself not to finger the collar of his dress uniform
far the thousandth time. Beside him, McCoy and Shock
waited-the doctor fidgeting, Spock motionless-as
Scotty worked the transporter controls.
  Jim's discomfort at the thought of Klingons aboard
the Enterprise again had nearly been over-
  whelmed by the realization that this was an unparalleled
moment in history. For the first time, Klingons and
Federation members were willingly attempting to forge
peace.
  Could this have been what the Organians intended all
along? Kirk wandered. were they remaining silent in
order to prod both parties into seeking peace
voluntarily, a peace that would not be threatened the
instant the galactic referees were out of the picture?
  "Maybe if their particles just got a wee bit
mixed," Scott muttered as he pressed a
control.
  Kirk shot him a reproving- look; Scott
hastily directed his attention to his console.
Despite his personal feelings, the captain had
made it clear to his crew that the Klingon guests were
to be treated with the utmost courtesy. Now if he could
just follow his own order . . . A light flickered
on Scott's board, indicating that the chancellor's
party had assembled and were waiting on Kronor
One's transporter pad. "Energize," Kirk
said, feeling his pulse quicken.
  Scott's fingers played the board with virtuoso
skill, so familiar with their task that the engineer did
not look down at the controls, but watched with the others
as five vague forms shimmered, then began
to coalesce on the pads.
  Amid the transporters shrill whine, three
male figures, dressed in solid military
black-two security guards and a high-ranking young
officer who looked familiar-materialized on the
back pads,
  followed by Gorkon, a female, and an older
officer on the front. The others waited
respectfully while Gorkon ,stepped down first,
even more majestic in person nhan he had seemed
over the comm channel. Heralded by the bos'n's
whistle, he approached Kirk.
  "Chancellor Gorkon," the captain said, with a
beealight bow from the shoulders.
  Solemnly Gorkon returned the gesture.
  Kirk gestured toward his officers. "Chancellor,
may 1 present my first officer, Captain
Spock, whom I believe you know. Dr. Leonard
McCoy, chief medical officer. Commander
Montgomery Scott, chief engineer."
  He directed a faintly warning glance at
Scott, but the engineer returned Gorkon's nod
with somber civility.
  Gorkon turned back toward Spock and said, with
honest warmth, "Captain Spock, face to face
at last. You have my thanks."
  Spock bowed silently.
  Gorkon turned to gaze at the Klingon female
With unabashed pride. His consort, Kirk thought at
first, one worthy of the head of an empire, elegant
and striking even by human standards.
"Gentlennen, this is my daughter, Azetbur."
  Slender, her waist-length black hair smoothed
track by a silver skull ornament, Azetbur
moved toward them with measured grace. Like her father,
she was robed in black save for the dark red
cbbapelets that marked her as a ruling member of the
High Council. She stood beside Gorkon and 68
  nodded graciously at her hosts as the chancellor
continued the introductions.
  "My military adviser, Brigadier Kerla."
  Kirk nodded at the tall, bearded, long-haired
young Klingon who stepped from the platform. He
recognized Kerla from a tape Rear Admiral
Smillie had supplied after the briefing. Kerla
returned the gesture with a faint air of
belligerence.
  So, Kirk thought. Scotty and 1 aren't the
only ones with a bone to pick. "And this," Gorkon was
saying, as Kerla took his place, "is General
Chang, my chief of staff."
  Physically,- Chang appeared unthreateningalm a
head shorter than Kerla and bald save for a gray
mustache and wisp of hair at the base of his ridged
skull. His right eye gleamed coldly as he stared
at Kirk; his left was hidden by a black
patch.
  Yet he emanated a fierce, cruel cunning that
made the captain's blood run cold. He had
heard of Chang the Merciless, who had ordered the
death of thousands, killed countless times with his own hands.
Innocents on Kudao, on Themis. Innocents like
David and Carol. Kirk felt a thrill of
hatred.
  Beside him McCoy fidgeted.
  Chang advanced, wearing a grim little smile.
"I've always wanted to meet you, Captain . . ."
He abruptly stopped mere inches away from
Kirk's face, as if testing his host's capacity
to flinch.
  Kirk felt an impulse to reach for the bronze
neck before him; instead, he forced a faint smile.
"I'm not sure how to take that."
  "Sincere admiration, Kirk," Kerla said behind
Inim. If there was sarcasm in his tone, Jim could not
detect it..
  "As one warrior to another," Chang growled
softly. You're a murderer, not a warrior, Kirk
wanted to protest, but caught himself.
  Kirk had killed, but only in self-defense.
He had even tried to save Kruge's
life, and had nearly been killed for his efforts.
Yet would the Klingons say the same of him? He
pulled himself away from Chang and motioned at the
transporter room door. "Right this way, please.
I thought you might enjoy a brief tour."
  In the corridor, Lieutenant Valeris
watched unobserved as Captain Kirk led the
Klingon delegation past two crewmen who snapped
to attention. They relaxed as soon as the Klingons were
out of sight. Valeris recognized them as Burke
and Samno, two ensigns with undistinguished
records. "They all look alike," Burke said
with a wink at his companion. Valeris frowned,
confused. Except for the fact that the group all shared
two characteristics-the high domed forehead with prominent
bony ridges and the typically light bronze to dark
brown skin coloration-Valeris did not think they
looked at all similar. Indeed, she could think of
several characteristics that distinguished each from the ether,
beginning with General Chang's eye patch.
  "What about that smell?" Samno asked darkly,
  the look in his eyes not altogether different from the one
Valeris had seen earlier in the captain's. "You
know only the top-of-the-line models can even
talk."
  Burke giggled. Yaleris inferred that Samno was
suggesting the Klingons emitted an offensive odor.
She had heard the charge before, but had never had an
opportunity to test the theory empirically. Perhaps
she would be able to now, but it occurred to her that because she was
not human, she might not be able to detect it.
  She understood the comment about top-of-theline models.
She had often heard humans joke about the stupidity
of Klingons, a fact Vulcans had good reason
to find privately amusing equals humans could
hardly be considered the galaxy's scholars themselves-but
were far too polite to mention in public. She also
understood the reasons for Burke and Samno's
hatred. She neither condoned it nor thought it
logical, but she understood it. Her parents had both
served in the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps and had
been stationed on Zorakis, a planet in the
Boswellia sector, bordering Klingon space.
Several months prior to the Organian intervention,
a war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire had
seemed imminent. The Vulcans had vowed to find a
way to prevent it.
  Valeris's parents had volunteered to try
to establish negotiations with the Klingons. Her mother,
T'Paal, a devout pacifist but
scarcely a traditional- ist, had named her
newborn daughter Valeris, after 71
  one of the honored female heroes of the Klingon
race, a warrior. The name could also be construed as
having Vulcan roots, a variant of the word for
""serenity" or "inward peace," as well as being
related to the English word "valor." The Vulcan
child, then, was to be a courageous warrior for peace-or
so she had been told by others who remembered her mother
before she died, and her rather before he changed.
  Acting outside the Federation as representatives
of Vulcan, T'Paal and her mate, Sessl,
contacted the Klingons and attempted a dialogue.
Their beattempt was met with treachery, and T'Paal
was killed. The attempt failed. Sessl did not
return to his native planet, but remained instead
on the border world and rethought his philosophy. He
decided that, in this instance, the great Vulcan
philosopher Surak was wrong, that peace arid the
Klingon race were incompatible. Sessl published
a treatise arguing that the use of force was justified in
certain situationsespecially against Klingons. His
arguments horrified his peers. His family on
Vulcan formally renounced him. As time passed and his
daughter grew, his behavior became
reclusive, brooding, slightly irrational. He
exposed Valeridds to only the rudiments of a
Vulcan upbringing, leaving her mostly in the care of the
human house servant. She was not given a proper
Vulcan education, nor was she initiated into the mind
rules. Sessl seemed unconcerned. At times
he seemed unaware of her existence.
  She was seven, the traditional age for bonding,
when a group of Klingons attacked Zorakis again.
Perhaps they were not even Klingons; she had not seen them
with her own eyes, only remembered that the
housekeeper, Imea, had run into the house,
screaming the word in the local dialect: Klinzhai!
Klinzhai! The world erupted around them in a
fireball. They found Sessl in his study and
dragged him into the skimmer. Imea was severely
burned, but recovered; Sessl was unharmed, but did
not.
  They fled to a safer world, far from the border.
Sessl became entirely irrational and had to be
confined. He died within days. An autopsy revealed
long-term degenerative brain disease.
  Valeris remained with Imea until she was of an
age to return to her parents' native planet,
Vulcan, to request a reinstatement of her
citiienship and formal training: to reclaim her
heritage. Her experiences there led her
to Starfleet.
  She was not proud of what her father had become. She
had grown up deploring his philosophy, even though
she had as much cause as he or anyone else
to despise the Klingons. As a Vulcan, she was
sworn to logic, not to the indulgence of emotion.
  But she had good reason to agree with Captain
Kirk: the Klingons could not be trusted. They had
proved themselves to be a dangerously violent race.
Even so, listening to Burke and Samno's
ignorant, bigoted remarks, she found it
difficult to keep the distaste she felt from registering
in her expression.
  Burke and Samno began moving in Valeris's
direction, both still looking over their shoulders in the
direction the Klingons had gone, with the result that they
very nearly ran into Valeris without seeing tier.
Startled, Burke did a double take; Samno
gasped aloud and drew back. "We were just kidding,
Lieutenant," Samno said sheepishly, realizing
that they had been overheard.
  "You men have work?" Valeris interrupted, wondering
whether the coldness she felt was audible in her
tone. No matter. Her duty required her to work
with these men. She would do so logically and efficiently,
but that did not mean she had to like them.
  "Yes, sir," Burke answered, standing
to attention. Samno struggled to follow suit.
  "Then snap to it," Valeris told them, and
wondered as she watched them go whether adequate
Iccgreater-than recautions had been taken to ensure
the Klingons' safety aboard the Enterprise.
  "Your research laboratory is most
impressive," Isorkon told Kirk as they
stepped from the Enterprise science lab into the
corridor. The captain nodded. "Startleet's
been charting rind cataloging planetary
atmospheres. All vessels are equipped with
analytical sensors." It was scarcely
classified information; Kirk did not doubt the
Klingons were well aware of the sensor-and
iationeapans-capabilities of all Federation
vessels, with the exception, perhaps, of Excelsior.
  Despite his best efforts, Kirk found himself
honestly liking the Klingon leader. It was impossible
to imagine Gorkon allowing, much less ordering, the
killings on Kudao or Themis. The chancellor was
the antithesis of every Klingon Kirk had
met: sincere, gracious, well educated in the
ways of humans, possessed of a charismatic
warmth. Even Chekov, who had joined the group at
Gorkon's insistence after a chance encounter in the
corridor, was smiling, gut at ease by the
chancellor's attempts to tell Federation jokes.
Gorkon seemed devoted to the notion of peace between his
Empire and the Federation, spoke as if he had been
waiting for an incident such as Praxis in order
to avert war ....
  Was it ail a skillful act? After all, this was a
man-a Klingon, Kirk corrected himself-who
listened to General Chang's advice. Gorkon
stopped abruptly; Kirk turned to face him.
"This cannot be easy for you, Captain," he said
softly, as if reading Kirk's thoughts.
  Kirk stared at him, startled, embarrassed, and
angry all at once. Did Gorkon refer
to David's death or to Carol? Or was he implying
that he had sensed the hatred directed at him and his
party? If so, his remark seemed inappropriate
here, in front of others.
  "I would feel awkward," Gorkon explained,
in the face of Kirk's silence, "if I had
to give you a tour of our vessel."
  Kirk relaxed, feeling almost guilty that he had
  mentally accused the chancellor of such an
implication. "Would you care to go topside?"
  It was General Chang who answered swiftly,
with the same grim smile: "Very much."
  Alarmed, Chekov motioned Kirk aside.
"Captain," he whispered, "you're not going to show them
the bridge?"
  "hull diplomatic courtesy," Kirk
replied between clenched teeth, angry at Chekov-and
himself-for questioning his judgment. Kirk turned back
to Gorkon and his entourage. "T dishancellor," he
said, gesturing the way toward the life.
  "The group filed into the turbolift. Just as the
doors were closing, Kirk heard a question, so faint that
at first he thought it must have been his imagination.
  "'allyes, but would you want to drink from the same
  In the redecorated officers" mess, dinner was
proceeding smoothly. Spock felt encouraged.
De spite the tension he had sensed aboard the ship
  earlier in the day, the Klingons and the Enterprise
bridge crew seemed to be getting along quite well.
No one had reacted in the least when the Klingons
spurned the proffered utensils in favor of eating with
their fingers. Indeed, even the captain ap
peared to have relaxed and was enjoying a lively
  debate with Azetbur and Gorkon about the merits
of various types of liquor. The Romulan ale
had served its purpose, though Spock had been
mildly 76
  shocked when Valeris suggested it. At times, her
behavior surprised him. He often had to remind
himself that being born Vulcan and being raised Vulcan
were two very different things.
  He regretted that her duty shift made it
impossible for her to be present at the dinner. She
was an interesting conversationalist-Valeris's
background rendered her more comfortable around humans and
other aliens than most Vulcans-and she was capable
of understanding most attempts at humor, a trait
Spock would have envied, had his emotional mastery been
less complete. It would have been interesting
to introduce her to the Klingons and note their
reactions to her name. And it would have furthered
diplomatic relations. Against the backdrop of
stars, Gorkon raised his crystal goblet, filled
to the rim with smoking blue ale. "I give you a
toast: the undiscovered country . . ."
  Spock glanced sharply at the chancellor. He was
familiar with the reference, which he thought more
appropriate to a wake than to a diplomatic
dinner. Indeed, to whose death did Gorkon refer?
"dis . . the future," Gorkon finished merrily,
aware of the stir he had caused.
  Those at the table echoed him and raised their
glasses. "The undiscovered country."
  Spock lifted his own goblet and took a
perfunctory sip. The chancellor had insisted that
Spock be served Romulan ale in order to make
a proper toast- Aware of Klingon custom,
Spock acquiesed in this instance, for the sake of
intragalactic rela-
  tions. He had never drunk Romulan ale and
was apprehensive. While he was capable of imbibing
a small amount of ethanol without any noticeable
e (fect, he doubted the same could be said for the
smoking brew before him. And, as his physiology was
similar to that of Romulans . . . The taste was
startling, electric on his tongue. Spock
swallowed and noted that even that small amount had an
immediate, faintly perceptible effect on his thought
processes. He replaced the goblet and resolved
to drink no more. Nearby, McCoy and Uhura had
set their glasses down and were attempting
to politely stifle coughs.
  "Hamlet, was Spock stated reflexively.
"Act three, scene one." Gorkon smiled,
delighted. was "But that the dread of something after death,
the undiscovered country fir[*reggg'm whose
bourn. no traveler returns, puzzles the will, and
makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others
that we know not of?"' Ah, Captain Spock, you have
never experienced Shakespeare urbbatil you have read
him in the original Klingon."
  "1 do not understand," Spock said. "The quote
clearly refers to the fear of death."
  Gorkon leaned forward, enthusiastic about his
subject. "But do you not see that it is also a
metaphor concerning fear of the unknown? Our people have been
in what amounts to a state of undcld war with your
Federation for nearly seven decades-and why? Because
war, battle, is all we know. Because peace is
something new, different, frightening to us. But we must be
willing
  to embrace the fear and move forward into what
awaits us. Into the future. We must find a way
to reconcile our warrior concepts of honor and
glory with the concept of peaceful coexistence with other
cultures. Otherwise"-his expression darkened as
he sat back-"we will destroy ourselves."
Spock nodded thoughtfully, then watched as General
Chang turned to Kirk with a maliciously pleasant
expression. The captain had made significant
progress toward draining his glass of ale.
Spock began to seriously doubt the merits of
Valeris's suggestion.
  was "To be or not to be,"" Chang quoted. "That
is the question which preoccupies our people, Captain
Kirk." He glanced quickly in Gorkon's
direc- tion as if acknowledging a source of
contention with the chancellor. "We need breathing room."
  Spock caught the reference, which he hoped was
unintentional. The captain did as well, for he
muttered, "Earth, Germany, 1938."
  The brow over Chang's good eye rose. "I
beg your pardon?" Brigadier Kerla leaned forward
hastily-so hastily that Spock wondered whether he
had been charged with the task of keeping General Chang
in line-and changed the subject. "Captain Kirk,
I thought Romulan ale was illegal."
  Kirk started at the sudden switch in topic, then
regained his composure and smiled faintly. "One of the
advantages of being a thousand light-years from
Federation headquarters."
  McCoy broke the awkward silence that
followed. 79
  ""To you, Chancellor Gorkon." Face
flushed, eyes bebbmining, the doctor lifted his
glass with a surge of enthusiasm. "One of the
architects of our future." Spook lifted his
glass but did not drink, concerned by how quickly the ale
seemed to be affecting the humans. He wondered if
the Klingons had noticed-and saw that Gorkon had
drunk very little. The chancellor had settled back
into his chair to listen carefully to what the humans were
saying. Thus far the humans were conducting themselves
appropriately. Even Commander Scott, who
sighed as he signaled the attendant for more ale,
"Perhaps mpe are looking at something of that future
here." He eyed Kerla beside him. "You know, this isna
my first time drinking with Klingons." Sober and
reserved, Azetbur turned her face toward the
Vulcan. "Captain Spook, mindful of all your
work behind the scenes, and despite the cordiality at
this mess, I do not sense an acceptance oaf our people
throughout your ship."
  Kirk cast a significant glance at
Spook. The Vulcan understood; the Klingons,
then, had heard tlue offhand remark just before the lift
doors closed. It had not been the only
disparaging comment about Klingons Spook had heard that
day-though fortunately the others, with their less than
Vulcan hearing, had been spared them.
  "The crew is naturally wary, ma'am,"
Spook replied. "We have been at war a long
time. Perhaps not technically, in view of the Organian
treaty-was "A peace forced down our throats,"
Chang growled.
  Spook acknowledged the general with a look.
"Precisely. Had the Organians not intervened,
war would have been inevitable. Perhaps we might still have
been at war."
  Glass of sapphire liquid in hand, Uhura
joined the exchange. "Our media have been playing on
our feelings against Klingons with the Kudao . . .
incident."
  "Just as our media constantly vilify the
Federation," Azetbur acknowledged, ignoring
Chang's and Kerla's disapproving stares. Uhura
nodded excitedly. "Both sides must overcome
ingrained prejudice-but how?"
  Chekov held out his goblet for the attendant
to refill. "Perhaps with few small steps at a time.
Like this one."
  "And perhaps with a large step or two,"
Dr. McCoy interjected, beaming at Azetbur.
Spook suspected that the sudden surge of
previously undiscovered warm feelings was in no
small way related to the amount of ale consumed.
"Like a peace treaty."
  The suggestion evoked murmurs of approval from
all at the table with the exception of Gorkon, who still
played the role of disinterested observer, and Chang.
  The general addressed Kirk abruptly.
"Captain Kirk, are you willing to give up
Starffeet?"
  Kirk stared at the Klingon without answering.
Spook intervened. "I 4believe the captain
feels that Starfleet's mission has always been one
of peace."
  Still glaring at Chang, Kirk said, "Far be it from
me to dispute my first officer. Starfleet has al-
it tilde ,
  "Come now, Captain." Chang's tone grew
patronizing. "No need to mince words. This dinner
is off the record. In space all warriors are
cold ixarriors."
  Spook glanced at Gorkon. The chancellor
made no effort to correct his adviser, but waited
intently to hear the response. Perhaps
Gorkon, too, believed that Starfleet's primary
function was a military one. "We have never tried
to-was Scott began angrily. Spoc.k
attempted to inject a note of logic into the
discussion. "General Chang, I joined Starfleet
because I know it to be an exploratory and research
organization, a rare opportunity for one interested
ire the sciences-was "Science?" Chang countered.
"A great deal of science went into the construction of your
photon torpedo banks, I daresay."
  Spook continued in a patient tone, ignoring the
outraged gasps of his crewmates. "That is true,
general. Starfleet vessels are equipped with
weaponry-for defense purposes only."
  "Aye," Scott slurred. "To protect
Federation planets from the likes of-was "That will be
enough, Mr. Scott," Spook warned. Kerla
wheeled on him. "You hypocritically presume that
your democratic system gives you a moral
prerogative to force other cultures to conform to your
politics."
  "That's not true!" McCoy half shouted.
  Chekov leaned angrily across the table. "We do
not impose democracy on others. We believe that
every planet has a sovereign claim
to inalienable human rights."
  Azetbur laughed, more a sound of contempt than
amusement. "Inalien . . . If you could hear
yourselves. Human rights? Even the name is racist. The
Federation is a Homo sapiens-only club."
  5pock raised a brow.
  "Present company excepted, to be sure,"
Chang said cheerfully, as if he found the entire
situation quite entertaining.
  "Well," Uhura admitted, "I suppose
we're not perfect-was Palms on the table, Scott
pushed himself to his feet. "Don't let them put
words in your mouth! I haven't served thirty years
in the engine room of a starship to be accused of
gunboat diplomacy!"
  "In any case, we know where this is, leading,"
Brigadier Kerla said to no one in particular, his
eyes glittering from the effects of the ale. "The
annihilation of our culture. The Klingons will
replace those on the lowest rung of the Federation
employment ladder, taking menial jobs and performing
them for lower pay-was
  "That's economics," Chekov protested, "not
racism."
  Uhura gestured angrily with her
goblet. "But you have to admit it adds up to the same
thing."
  McCoy turned on her. "Don't be naive,
Commander!"
  She frosted instantly. "Kindly do not
patronize me, Doctor." Spook turned. to the
captain, seeking help, but Kirk stared sullenly
down the table, clearly unwilling to interfere.
  "We're explorers, not diplomats!" Chekov
insisted to Chang. McCoy gave his shoulder a
push. "Come on, fcceahekov. Starfleet's
killed an awful lot of natural lahenomena in the
name of exploration."
  "We follow orders!" Scott objected, still
on his fret. Chekov shook his head in disgust.
"Since when lass that been an excuse?
Diplomacy must resolve these
  "Right," Scott half shouted. "Leave it to the
politicians to muck it up and leave us
defenseless!"
  A cough interrupted the argument. Spook turned
to see Gorkon, his expression somber; the other
Ecclingons were not so successful at concealing their
amusement.
  "Well," Gorkon said after several
seconds of silence, "I see we have a long way
to go."
  He rose. As Spook and the others followed
suit, the Vulcan succeeded in mastering the keen
embarrassment evoked by the Enterprise crew's
behavior. "I"...he sense of futility proved far
more difficult to shake. The past few days had
revealed a startling degree of anger and bitterness that
Spook had never expected to find among Federation
members, least of all his friends. He understood the
captain's
  difficulties, in light of Carol. Marcus's
condition and David's murder at the hands of
Kruge, but he had not anticipated such hostility
among the other crew members.
  Had all this emotion been stirred up by the media
coverage of the events on Kudao? were humans so
enormously susceptible to influence? Valeris's
judgment concerning the Romulan ale had been only
partially correct. It had served to relax the diners
initially, but it had also stripped away the-thin veil
of civilization to reveal the hatred lurking beneath.
Spoek wondered if he had totally misjudged the
capacity of human beings for rational behavior, for
peaceful coexistence. If Gorkon felt
the same way, their chances of attaining peace in the
galaxy were remote indeed.
  Jim Kirk stood in the transporter room and
waited for the Klingons to take their leave. He felt
a distant shame that he knew would grow as the effects
of ale passed, but for now it was eclipsed by a
pleasantly freeing vertigo and a tingling numbness in
his nose and extremities. His feet no longer
seemed connected to his legs, and he'd had
to concentrate to keep from stumbling in the corridor.
The others seemed in no better shape; McCoy
kept yawning as he swayed on his feet, on the
verge of nodding off, while Scott's broad face
was flushed an alarming shade of pink. Uhura's
cool demeanor indicated that she was still angry with the
doctor and disgusted with the lot of them. As for Ghekov,

  he wore an expression of contrived politeness
that failed to entirely hide his sullen anger-an
expression Kirk feared matched his own. Thank
God, at least Spock hadn't embarrassed them
tonight-although the reverse certainly wasn't true.
Kirk pitied the Vulcan, trying to establish a
diplomatic dialogue with the Klingons while
surrounded by a bunch of angry drunks.
  Well, tomorrow he'd make it up to Spock. And
to the Klingons, if they still wanted to have anything to do with the
Federation after tonight. But for now the ale had freed
Kirk's anger beyond the point of denial; his thoughts
kept returning to Carol, to her deathly pale waxen
profile, to the sight of her chest rising and falling
gently, prompted only by the respirator ....
The best he could do was be civil.
  Gorkon was speaking; Kirk frowned, tried
to make sense of what the Klingon was saying.
  "Thank you, Captain Kirk. The evening has
been a tilde left-brace ost . . . edifying."
Kirk felt a distant prickle of shame and anger
and replied woodenly, "We must do this again soon."
  Gorkon gazed at him with an intensity that made
Kirk shift uncomfortably. "You don't trust
me."
  The captain looked away.
  "I don't blame you," Gorkon continued
softly. ""You see me as a-what is the word?-a
clichd. If there is to be a brave new world, we
old people will have the hardest time living in it."
  Kirk felt a flush of anger warm his cheeks.
We old
  people . . .
  "Captain Spock." Gorkon nodded at the
Vulcan. "Chancellor." Spock turned
to Azetbur. "A pleasure to meet you, madam."
"Captain Spock." Azetbur bowed as she took
her place beside her father. "General Chang," Kirk
said suddenly, surprising the others as well as himself.
"A pleasure . . ."
  Chang faced him, once again standing too close,
as if daring the captain to step back. Chang's
posture, voice, sly grin, all spoke of
challenge. "Parting is such sweet sorrow, shall we
say goodnight till it be morrow?" Kirk clenched
his fist; wanting nothing more than to drive it
into Chang's midsection-but knowing Spock's and
Gorkon's worried gazes were upon him, he struck
it against his own chest and extended his arm in a Klingon
salute. Infuriatingly, Chang seemed highly
amused as he stepped with his party onto the
transporter platform. He pulled his
communicator from his belt, spoke a few words
into it, and nodded to Kirk.
  "Energize," Kirk said, and did not try to hide
the relief in his tone. The whine of the transporter
filled the room; the forms of the Klingons shimmered and
were gone.
  "Thank God," Scott sighed, leaning heavily
against the controls. "Did you see the way they ate?"
Chekov complained, his Russian accent grown
thicker than
  usual under the ale's influence. "Terrible table
manners-was "I do not believe," Spock
interrupted, in as frosted a tone as Kirk had ever
heard him use, "that our own conduct will distinguish us in
the annals of diplomacy."
  Kirk ran a hand across his forehead, trying to case
the headache that was already starting. He would attempt
any necessary apologies and figure out what, if
anything, could be done to improve the besituation with the
Klingons-tomorrow, when he could think. For now,
recuperation seemed the only choice. "I'm going
to sleep this off," he said in a low voice
to Spock. "Let me know if there's some other way
we can screw up tonight."
  He stumbled to his quarters under the misguided
impression that the evening's troubles had ended.
  UNDER THE watchful eye of her bodyguard,
Azetbur hesitated at the door to her father's
quarters.
  Although it was midday aboard Kronos One, the
Romulan ale had left her dizzy, and.
she had gone immediately to her cabin to lie down until
the effects passed. She had wakened from a light
doze only moments later, heart pounding with the dread
that had been disrupting her sleep ever since she set
foot on the ship. Without thinking, she had come
to Gorkon's cabin, followed silently by the
sentinel who had been standing watch outside her own
door. Her fingers hovered above the buzzer. She
did not know why she had came here, except to verify
with her own eyes that her father still lived. The nights before
they set sail for Earth had been plagued by troubling
dreams of his death. Now,
  influenced by the ale, she was running to her father like a
nightmare-frightened child.
  Such behavior was very unbecoming in a member of the
High Council. Azetbur felt shame.
  At the same time, she pressed the buzzer, and
felt an unspeakable relief when the door opened
to reveal Gorkon, minus his impressive
appointments, dressed in a simple dark tunic.
  Before entering the cabin, Azetbur turned to her
guard and signaled for him to remain outside. When the
door closed behind them, she scolded him: "Father, where
are your guards?"
  X. was a constant source of contention between
them, his cavalier attitude toward his own
safetytlrough he took extravagant, unnecessary
pains to ensure his daughter's. Gorkon surveyed
his surroundings with a mildly vacant expression, as
if surprised to see the guards missing, and combed his
graying beard with his fingers. The light by his chair
burned. Azetbur saw text scrolled on the
viewer. He had been reading, no doubt preparing
for the next hour's meeting with his advisers. She was
accustomed to his distractedness, a side effect of the
intensity with which he approached his work. "Gone," he
said, focusing his dark amber eyes an her and seeing
her at last. He smiled. "The ale rendered them
useless; I suppose they're napping in their
quarters or seeking some other appropriately
warriorlike pursuit. I deemed it more prudent
to trust the security devices. Come, sit." He
mo- tioned. "Have you come as a council member or
as as daughter?"
  "Both," Azetbur said, continuing to stand while
Gorkon settled back into his chair and studied
her. "Father-"She broke o@.", uncertain,
realizing that she had come to him for comfort and had nothing
rational to say. "I am . . . concerned."
  Gorkon nodded, encouraging, focused
now only on her, listening deeply to each word with
disconcerting intentness.
  "For your safety. I did not realize the depth
of hatred that awaits us on Earth until we went
aboard the Enterprise. his
  He sighed. "It . . . startled me as well.
Not that it existed-certainly, the fact that our
peoples have cause to despise each other has been
no secret for the past seventy years-but that it was so
overt. I suspect Kudao has brought it to the
surface."
  "Kirk," Azetbur said, with sudden heat.
"Kirk hates us. I do not trust him. Father,
don't go aboard his ship again."
  He tilted his broad, whiskered face
quizzically. "Kirk is not dangerous, Zeta.
His hatred is an honest one; his son was killed
by Captain Kruge. But I suspect he has the
intelligence-was
  "If his son was killed," she countered, with a
vehemence that surprised them both, "then why should he
not seek revenge?" "He is not a Klingon
warrior. He is not sworn to blood revenge."
"I do not trust him," Azetbur insisted, letting
the anguish she felt creep into her
voice. "Father, I fear for your safety. I cannot
sleep." Gorkon looked away for a time-choosing his
  words carefully, Azetbur knew, so that he would
not unnecessarily alarm his daughter.
  "Perhaps it is just as well that we have this discussion
now," he said finally. "I do not believe Kirk
means me harm. He is angry, resentful. He
feels he has suffered much at our hands. I
suspect conhe is right." He gave a faint,
ironic smile. "And you are right, daughter. We
both know my chances of surviving beyond this peace conference
are remote."
  Azetbur stared at him, stricken, tempted
to lift a hand to her heart, yet restrained by pride.
  "Sit," Gorkon said. It was not a request.
Azetbur obeyed and took the chair opposite her
father.
  His gaze grew sympathetic, then hardened again.
""If I die, you must succeed me."
  "You will not die-was
  "Listen to me""
  "The uncharacteristic anger in his tone startled her
into silence. He began again, quietly, calmly.
"I have been lucky, Zeta, that the warriors have
permitted me to come this far. That I have
managed to avoid assassination long enough to get the
entire High council to agree on the necessity
of a peace treaty is nothing short of a miracle.
Surely you have always realized that. Our security
measures are nothing short of drastic. But now we
must fear not only those within our own Empire. We
must fear factions within the Federation and Romulan
governments as well." He smiled faintly. "My
child, indulge me. Does it not make sense to plan
for the 92
  future? Or would you rather we leave the Empire in
the hands of the military, to do with as they will?"
  She drew in a breath and hardened herself against
grief; "It seems reasonable to plan for such an
emergency, Chancellor. What do you suggest?" "You
must succeed me," he repeated. "Zeta, there is
no one else on the council I can trust.
Korrd, perhaps, but he is too old and ill."
"Brigadier Kerla-"she began.
  "Kerla is too hot-blooded, too easily
swayed. He is a warrior at heart. Even now
I do not know where his loyalties lie. And Chang
is too shrewd to trust." He shook his head.
"No, daughter. You are the only one." She
laughed softly, unhappily. "A
female chancellor, Father?" "I have the right to name my
successor. Klingon law does not prohibit it."
"Klingon custom assumes- his
  "Warrior custom, not Klingan. You must learn
to make the distinction. The position of chancellor is not
controlled by the military. The people will accept it, even
if the military does not."
  "And if you are assassinated, what makes you
think I would not be?" "I have made special
arrangements with other members of the High Council.
They have all sworn to protect you and confirm your
appointment." "All of them?" Azetbur asked,
feeling, for reasons she could not yet fathom, a
dull pang of suspicion. "You have spoken with all
of them about this?"
  "Yes."
  She rose. "Father, you will not die."
  "Of course not." Smiling, he leaned forward
to touch her. "But will you promise me, Zeta?"
  She felt the sudden, irrational anger of a
rejected child. She had come to him for comfort,
reassurance, and all he could do was speak to her of
death. "Promise me." He brushed her arm with his
fingertips. "You will not die," she said curtly, "so
long as you can manage to keep your guards from
getting drunk." She swept from the room, unable
to look at him, knowing the sight of his face would break
her heart.
  Kirk made it to his quarters with only a
small amount of difficulty. The euphoric
numbing effects of the Romulan liquor had faded,
replaced by an unpleasant thrumming in his head and a
fatigue that made his limbs heavy; as if he were
trying to move upstream against a strong current. He
sat on leis bunk and rubbed his eyes as the ship's
bells chimed 0100. He was half tempted
to contact the hospital on Starbase Twenty-three
again, though he had managed to get through earlier that
afternoon. Kwannnei had been friendly but apologetic:
still no change in Carol's condition. She promised
to notify disfun aboard Enterprise the instant
anything happened. In the meantime there was nothing to do but
  wait . . . and find something, anything, to keep his
mind off Carol. "Captain's log," Jim
dictated. "Stardate 9523.8. The Enterprise
hosted Chancellor Gorkon and company for dinner last
night. Our manners were not exactly Emily
Post. Note to the galley: Romulan ale no
longer to be served at diplomatic functions."
  He sighed and leaned back on the bunk,
thinking. In one way, he felt embarrassed that he
and his senior bridge crew had behaved as they did
in front of the Klingons; in another, more
philosophic way, he was glad it had happened.
It would not make negotiations any easier, but a
clearing of the air was necessary to the process. And if
Gorkon was truly the shrewd, wise statesman
Kirk perceived him to be, he would not allow the
evening's unpleasantries to interfere with his goal.
  Kirk yawned, then began dictating again, his
voice low and drowsy. "But it wasn't the ale. That
was just the excuse we needed to say all the things that were
really on our minds . . . ."
  His voice trailed off. For a time, he drifted
on the verge of sleep, then started at the intercom's
shrill signal.
  The uncharacteristic urgency in Spock's voice
made Jim sit up and shake himself awake.
  "Captain Kirk, will you please join me on the
bridge? Captain Kirk. . ."
  A half hour before Kirk received the summons,
Azetbur had scarcely returned to her quarters
when 95
  the buzzer summoned her to the door. It opened to
bereveal Brigadier Kerla. His dark
hair fell onto his shoulders as he bowed, stiffly
formal, mindful of ohe guard.
  ""Councillor Azetbur," he said
politely. "There is an urgent matter I wish
to discuss to you."
  She gave the guard a dismissive glance and nodded
for Kerla to enter. He stepped past her and, once the
doors had snapped shut, turned and reached for her.
  She pulled back. In the dim light, his dark
eyes glittered; his breath reeked of ale. "You're
still drunk," Azetbur said, her tone heavy with
con- tempt.
  For an instant he hesitated, his eyes
reflecting puzzlement and restrained fury. He was
drunk, she knew-at least slightly, though the
ale's effects were fading and he was probably in far
better command of himself than he had been during the
dinner aboard Enterprise.
  "What have I done?" he demanded.
  She had no answer for that. She knew only that the
encounter with her father had left her full of unreasoning
fury. She forced it from her tone and spoke calmly.
"Nothing. But you should be on your way to a meeting,
Councillor. Why-was
  He caught her wrist, lifted her
palm to his face, drew in her scent.
"Azetbur. Zeta . . . I had to see you." The
words came swiftly, urgently, from his lips. "I
can wait no longer. Let us take the oath."
  Her expression hardened. They had spoken of
  this many times; always she had given him the same
answer, more out of duty to her father than from a lack of
love for Kerla. He was dynamic, strong, given
more to passion than to thought, the opposite of everything
Azetbur had been raised to respect, and she found
him and his honesty of emotion undeniably
attractive. When she was not preoccupied with
worry, she realized she desired him equally.
  But now his proposition seemed callous in light
of her distressing conversation with Gorkon. How could she
consider her own future when her father's was in such
grave danger? She pulled her hand away. "How
many times must I repeat myself, Ker-was
  Eyes burning, he leaned over her. "Do not
reject me again. I cannot wait until after the
conference."
  "You must." She forced her tone to be cold,
rejecting further argument. She pushed past him
toward the door, turned, and stood beside it to indicate
he should leave.
  His breathing quickened by emotion, heavy brows knitted
in disbelief, he watched her: Azetbur expected
the usual quick display of rage, but instead, Kerla
calmed himself and studied her face with an intensity
uncannily like her father's. At last he released a
single grudging sigh and moved for the door.
  He paused beside her and spoke with a gentleness she
had not heard in him before. "This anger is not meant for
me. Something troubles you."
  7:aken aback, she raised a hand to her
throat. 'Whey stared at each other a time before she
said, "1 . . . spoke with my father today."
  He listened, waiting.
  "We talked of the future." She lowered her
voice to a whisper. "I fear for his life,
Kerla."
  "Your father is well protected. were he not, he
would not be alive now." "You saw the hatred aboard
Enterprise. There are many who do not want him to reach
the conference, who wish him dead. . ."
  Kerla straightened. "So long as I am able, I
will protect him with my life, as I swear
to protect you, beta."
  He caught her wrist, gently this time, and drew
her to him. She did not resist, but settled
against him and let herself be comforted by the rapid beating of
his heart.
  Spock studied the deceptively peaceful
display tin the bridge viewscreen: the great
battle cruiser Kronos One gliding silently
alongside. The Vulcan vas no longer concerned
by the potentially awkward diplomatic situation that
could result from the encounter between the Enterprise crew
and the Kli ngons.
  At the moment he had far greater things to worry
about. Spock leaned over the viewer at his station and
confirmed the readout's accuracy for the sixth time, then
straightened at the sound of the turbolift doors
opening.
  "Captain."
  Kirk entered, squinted at the main viewscreen,
then rubbed his eyes. "What is it, Spook?"
  Valeris vacated the coon and took her place
beside Chekov at the helm. Kirk remained on his
feet, trying to focus his eyes on his first officer.
"I am . . . uncertain," Spook replied, at
a loss to explain his certainty that some catastrophe
was about to befall them. As a rule he scorned
premoni- tions, and yet some peculiar instinct
insisted he listen to this one. The captain
released a soft sound of exasperation. "Spook,
I'm really tired. . ."
  "We are reading an enormous amount of neutron
radiation, Captain." To Spook's relief,
Kirk caught the implication and seemed to recover
instantly from the effects of the Romulan ale.
"Where?" He glanced quickly at Kronos on the
screen.
  "Curiously it appears to emanate from us," the
Vulcan replied. The fact troubled him far more
than it would have had the power surge come from the Klingon
vessel. An unexpected surge of neutron
radiation aboard the Enterprise signaled one of
two possibilities: the first, that there had been a
breach in the matter-antimatter reactor unit, with
catastrophic results; the second, that the
starship's photon torpedoes had been armed and
brought to bear on a target.
  "From us? From Enterprise?" Kirk's tone was one
of disbelief. Spook nodded. "I have checked with
Engineer-
  iccng. All systems are normal. No loss
of integrity in the reactor core." Kirk strode
over to the helm and placed a hand nn the back of
Valeris's chair. "Lieutenant, do you
know anything about a neutron energy surge?"
"Sir?" Puzzled, she wheeled to face him.
  "Mr. Chekov, anything unusual?"
  "Just the size of my head," Chekov moaned.
  "I know what you mean," Kirk said softly.
  As he spoke, a photon torpedo streaked from the
bottom of the viewscreen and struck Kronos's
hull mrith dazzling white-hot force. "What the-was
Kirk raised a hand to shield his eyes. Spock
blinked to clear the afterimage, then bent over his
readout to verify the impossible. "We have fired on
the chancellor's ship," he stated heavily. Kirk
wheeled, his expression stunned. "Uhura,
monitor! Chekov, find out what's going on down
in Weapons!"
  "Torpedo room?" Chekov said into his
monitor, cover the calm drone of Valeris's
voice, saying: "Direct hit."
  Uhura swiveled to face Kirk. "Confirmed,
Captain!" A second torpedo flared in the
bottom corner of the screen. "Who's doing that?"
Kirk cried as it hurtled at the battle
cruiser. He forced himself not to turn from the blinding
explosion. "The Klingon ship's hull has been
breached," Spack reported. "They have
lost gravity and are
  slowly losing life support. Damage to the
vessel is severe." He straightened and faced his
captain. "Jim, they never even raised their
shields." Kirk closed his eyes.
  Moments earlier, surrounded by advisers and
security guards in his stateroom aboard Kronas
One, Gorkon had found himself in the midst of a
debate that made the humans" argument at dinner
seem like a most civilized exchange of
pleasantries. He did not allow himself to be
overly disturbed by Azetbur's failure
to promise to succeed him. He knew his daughter
well: she would not fail him. At the moment she was
filled with emotion and Romulan ale. If and when the
time came, she would do what was best. Besides, he had
no choice but to trust her.
  The chancellor remained silent, content to listen and
learn what he could; it was a strategy he employed
often, for it taught him much. The three who argued
now-General Korrd and Brigadiers Kerla and
Kamerg-were most useful to him, for they rarely
agreed, which meant Gorkon heard three very different
viewpoints on virtually every issue.
  Chang, though cold-bloodedly
efficient, was of little use as an adviser. Chang was
closemouthed, too shrewd to let his opinion be known
until he had tested the political waters. It was
Chancellor Gorkon's custom to dismiss both
Chang and Azetbur from such discussions. Azetbur
was too outspokenly loyal to her father to allow free

  discussion of the issues to proceed, and Chang, like
Garkon, listened much and said little.
  (orkon had enough of a healthy mistrust of C
hang not to want him to know too much.
  Kerla, who had joined the discussion less than a
minute before, was already on his feet and shouting. He
made an impassioned gesture at Gorkon, Who
listened calmly. "How can we hold our heads up
after the humans have so insulted us? Chancellor, did
you not hear the things the captain allowed his underlings
to say? Did you not hear what the soldier in the hall
said when we entered the lift? ""hey despise us!
I have heard their jokes, but for the sake of decency will
not repeat them here. They refer to us as simians, the
speechless primates they evolved from! They think of
us as unintelligent creatures, without feelings or
thought!"
  "Sit down!" General Korrd
rumbled, in a voice ttkat rattled the bulkhead.
Obese, aged, but uncannily shrewd, and-amazing
in one his age, who had seen so many battles,
spilled so much . bloodccccc3pable of extending his
thoughts beyond the barriers of his own disculture.
  Perhaps, Gorkon thought, it was precisely because
Korrd had seen so many brave warriors, including
his own children, die beside him, that the old general now
argued the case for peace.
  Sullenly, Kerla sat, not out of fear of
Korrd's bellowing, but out of respect for an
elder's wishes.
  "But he's right, General," Kamerg, far younger
than Korrd, not so young or hot-blooded as
Kerla,
  averred. "How can we deal peace with the Federa
tion when the humans hate us so?"
  "Not all humans hate us," Korrd said. "And
  there are others in the Federation besides humans."
  a Kamerg nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But
  they are the driving force within it. If the humans do
not deal fairly with us, we have no hope."
  "You are discounting the Vulcans," Korrd said.
"But more to the point: do we not have a thousand insulting
names for humans? Do we not hate them as
much as they hate us? Despise them for their
weaknesses, even as they despise us for our
  strengths? Such feelings extend both ways.
  "Try to understand: their culture abhors war; they
see no glory in dying in battle, only waste.
They fight only when it is necessary to defend themselves-and
even then the Vulcans will not fight. Therefore, they
see those who have died at our hands as victims, and us
as murderers."
  "They call us liars." Kerla's voice rose
excitedly; he had scarcely been able to contain himself
during the others" exchange. "Their own press
accuses our government of murdering the Kudao
settlers, then refuses to believe us when we
explain they acted without the sanction of the High
Council. Chancel lor, I must speak my mind."
  Korrd shot Gorkon an amused, long-suffering
  look, as if to ask, And just what does he think
he's been doing up to now? Gorkon saw, but for
Kerla's sake, did not react.
  "I implore you," Kerla continued. "Forget the

  notion of a treaty with the humans. We must strengthen
our ties with the Romulans. Together we can force the
Federation to its knees!" Korrd gave a
loud snort. "The Romulans don't possess the
resources the Federation does. Stop thinking with your
glands, Kerla. Even if we allied ourselves with the
Romulans, we could never defeat the Federation. And the
Romulans don't like us any better than the
humans do."
  "At least they understand what a warrior's honor
means," Kerla countered hotly.
  Old Korrd narrowed his eyes, then belched
loudly to show what he thought of the implied insult.
  On his feet once more, Kerla faced Gorkon.
"Chancellor, I believe if we forge an alliance
with the Romulans, we can defeat the Federation, then
claim the resources for ourselves. There is still time."
  "I see," Gorkon replied slowly. "Tell
me, did Chang discuss this with you?" Kerla's eyes
blazed. "I act on no one's behalf but my
own." He stiffened to attention. "With your permission,
Chancellor. . ."
  Gorkon nodded.
  Furious, Kerla strode, long hair flowing, from
the stateroom. Gorkon sighed as the doors
snapped shut behind the young Klingon's retreating form.
He trusted Kerla, as he did all of his
advisers-to an extent. The brigadier
was loyal to the chancellor, but he could be persuaded
to betray Gorkon if he became convinced that the good
of the Empire was at stake.
  Gorkon was well aware of the growing
dissatisfaction among his military leaders over the
new peace treaty. For that reason Gorkon had
increased his and Azetbur's personal security,
though he knew there was no way to be truly safe.
Foolish was the leader who failed to realize that he was
just as likely to be struck down by his own
bodyguard as killed by a declared enemy. He turned
to see General Korrd studying him. The older
Klingon rested his hands atop his impressive girth
and made a low, soft rumble in his throat that said,
Ah, youth . . .
  Kamerg shook his head. "The brigadier is a
fool."
  "The brigadier is still young," old Korrd said
by way of apology for Kerla's rudeness. "He
perceives a warrior's honor as consisting of
black-and-white choices. I once saw the
universe through such a romantic filter."
  "Kerla is not alone," Gorkon said carefully.
"Others agree with-him-others who wield a great
deal of military power." He did not say
more, nor did he mention the names of those he
suspected of plotting against him. While he felt
comfortable speaking of such things in front of Korrd and
Kamerg, he was unsure of the loyalties of the
security guards. More than likely at least one of
them was a spy.
  Korrd's ancient eyes gleamed; he nodded in
understanding and opened his mouth to say something.
  Gorkon never heard the words. With dizzying
  impact, the room's axis swung ninety
degrees; the port bulkhead became the floor.
Gorkon was caught in an insane tumble of arms,
legs, furniture --all outlined against the pulsing
amber light of the
  The momentum dashed him against the bulkhead, forcing the
air from his lungs. For an instant, no more, the ship
hovered on its side, then righted itself with a groan.
Gorkon was flung back against the cold metal
floor and the softer, more forgiving surface of General
Korrd. He knew what had happened even before the
general said it. "We're hit!" Korrd roared beneath
him, a half breath before another blast shook the
ship.
  Gorkon felt himself being catapulted once more
--but this time a curious lightness filled
him. Instead of colliding with the bulkhead, he lingered
weightless in the air. Around him, chairs,
advisers, soldiers, rose and began to float.
With the detachment of one who realizes escape is
impossible, death inevitable, Gorkon watched as his
security guards flailed vainly in pursuit of
weapons that floated just out of reach.
  ""Gravity generator!" someone called behind him.
"Enterprise." Kamerg roared in helpless fury.
"'ationot Enterprise, was Gorkon whispered. He
knew Spock and trusted him utterly, more than he
trusted his own people, and he had instinctively liked and
trusted James Kirk. Kirk had good reason
to hate, but, Kerla's words notwithstanding, he was 106
  a human who understood a warrior's honor,
even if he did not understand killing. Kirk would
perform his duty well, despite personal
feelings. Kirk was not behind this.
  The sounds of weapons fire and screaming issued
beyond the door of the stateroom.
  Azetbur, Gorkon thought with a pang of alarm.
If they kill me, they will also try to kill
Azetbur. I must warn her . . . . He
ignored the vertigo and clawed at the air in a
wasted attempt to find purchase. The
others in the room, clearly realizing what was coming, were
trying desperately to move away from the chancellor.
  Beyond the door, the sizzle of phaserfire searing
flesh. Screams. The sounds drew closer.
  Gorkon tried hopelessly to swim through the air,
push his way past the floating debris to the intercom
on the bulkhead. Even if he could not save
Azetbur, if he could hear her voice again, speak
to her one more time An agonized scream. A body
sailed through the opening door, followed by a floating
slick of blood, violet turned brown in the
pulsing amber light. A severed arm followed-after,
spewing a bloody trail that pooled on the ceiling.
The arm sailed forward end over end, bumping into its
former owner's corpse, and finally ending up in the midst
of the horrified onlookers. Two Starfleet
crewmen stood in the doorway, heavy gravity
boots on their feet, blasters in their hands, raised
and ready to fire. j On either side of Gorkon,
security guards raised
  their weapons and struggled awkwardly to take aim
at the armed intruders. IL-AMERG had managed
to pull himself to the bulkhead intercom and was screaming
to the bridge: "Enterprise officers are
assassinating the chancellor! Enterprise-
Kirk-was
  No, Gorkon wanted to say. Not Enterprise.
Not Kirk. Someone else is responsible.
  The men in Starfleet uniforms fired on the
guards. Not standard Fleet-issue phasers,
Gorkon saw, but burning phasers, illegal in the
Federation, capable of inflicting far more damage, far
more pain. Capable of searing through flesh and bone.
  Blood spattered him. Gorkon closed his
eyes, felt guard's body bump gently against
him.
  Azetbur, he thought desperately, hoping that
sheer intensity of will would carry his message to her, my
child, continue my work. He vbbtilde Lued his eyes
again and calmly met his killers" gazes. He
wanted to tell them their deception would not work; he
knew they had not come from the Enterprise.
  There was not time. One of the men fired. Gorkon
shuddered at the fiery agony that consumed him from chest
to abdomen but did not permit himself to cry out. Instead
he sighed arid thought of Azetbur before surrendering
to darkness.
  Asonxo ExrsEvery, the captain and his horrified
crew watched the main viewscreen as Chang, his
contorted features bathed in amber glow,
screamed at Kirk in his native language.
  The visual went abruptly, ominously dark.
  Finger to her earpiece, Uhura swung toward the
corm. "He says we've fired on them in a
blatant act of war."
  "We haven't fired-was Kirk began.
  From his station, Spook interrupted. "According to the
data bank, we have, Captain. Twice."
  Valeris glanced down at the helm console.
"Captain, they're coming about!" She punched a
control. On the screen, Kronos slowly
rotated, then closed on the Enterprise,
  Spook bent over his viewer. "Confirmed.
They're preparing to fire."
  Chekov swiveled his head to gaze at Kirk.
"Shields up, Captain?" Kirk stared at the
screen. Impossible, of course. Enterprise could
not have fired on Kronos-unless sabotage was
involved.
  Kwan-mei Suarez's words echoed meaninglessly in
his mind: Out of nowhere. The ships fired out of nowhere
. . . .
  At the moment Chang wasn't willing to listen.
Something drastic had to be done to get the Kddlingons'
attention, to convince them that Kirk had not
given the order to fire.
  "Captain." Valeris's voice rose to a
notably un'allyulcan pitch. "Our shields . .
. to was
  Kirk studied her calmly. "Uhura," he
said, holding Valeris's gaze, "signal our
surrender."
  Uhura turned to stare at him. "Captain-was
  He faced her. "We surrender. his
  She returned to her board and complied as Chekov
protested, "Captain, if they fire at us with our
shields down-was
  Kirk struck a toggle on the console arm.
"Torpedo bay! Did we fire those torpedoes?"
  "Negative, Captain," Scott's voice
replied. "According to inventory, we're still fully
loaded."
  Kirk felt only infinitesimal relief.
At least his ship wasn't responsible for the damage
to the Klingon vessel-but it remained for him to convince
Chang o1' that,
  Spock frowned as he checked the information on his
viewer. "Data banks reconfirm, Captain.
Two photon torpedoes fired."
  "Stand down your weapons," Kirk told
Scott.
  He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other
side of the- communication. "Captain, if-was
  "Stand down, Mr. Scott. All stop. Do you
hear me, mister?" "Aye, sir," Scott said
reluctantly.
  Kirk closed the channel and held his breath.
  Came on, Chang, figure it out.
  Nothing happened.
  Spock bent over his viewer. "They appear to be
holding their fire, Captain."
  Kirk almost started as, behind him, the lift doors
snapped open and shut. McCoy appeared at the
captain's side, medikit in hand. "What the
hell's going on?"
  "I wish I knew," Kirk said. "Uhura?"
  "It's pretty chaotic over there, sir. There's
been weapons fire and a lot of shouting."
  "I'm going aboard." He rose and glanced over
his shoulder at his first officer. "Spock, you have the
corm."
  Spock stepped in front of the lift, blocking
him. "I am responsible for involving you in this,
Captain. I will go." Kirk shook his head.
"I'm going. As captain, I have to convince
them I didn't give the order to fire; your
presence wouldn't be half as convincing." Spock
hovered, uncertain; Kirk continued. "Besides, you're
going to be responsible for getting me out of this.
Meantime"-he lowered his voice"...we're not going to be
the instigators of a full-scale war on the eve of
universal peace."
  The Vulcan nodded; Kirk saw the hint of
gratitude in his eyes. Surprisingly, Spock
patted him firmly, once, on the shoulder blade.
"Perhaps you're right, Captain."
  Kirk looked at him, slightly startled, as
McCoy stated, in a tone that allowed for no
argument: "I'm going, too. They may need a
doctor." Kirk didn't protest. "Uhura,
tell them we're coming. And tell them we're
unarmed."
  Aboard Kronos One, General Chang left
the bridge and painstakingly made his way to the
stateroom by grasping the bulkhead handholds. Above
his head, victims of the slaughter floated beneath growing
pools of violet blood. He had been deeply
tempted to fire on Enterprise, but he'd
restrained himself. Even now the sight of the dead-same
of them officers he had served withfor years and
respected-made him clench his teeth and promise
himself revenge on Kirk.
  Soon. Soon enough. But it would not have been
honorable to fire on a surrendered vessel.
  Chang paused at the stateroom door. Here the
sea of airborne blood increased as he saw before
him a scene as chilling as any from Kudao: disem-
bodied heads, limbs, a torso severed at the
waist, drifted in an ocean of death, the silence
marred by the occasional groans of the wounded. Chang
did not shrink from the sight. As a warrior, he had
long ago learned to accept the cost of
  battle. But for this, he promised himself grimly,
Kirk would have to die. In the midst of this obscene
tide, Chancellor Gorkon floated face down like
a drowned victimalive, for bright violet blood
still seeped across his chest and arm to pool just above his
back. Chang cried out to him and swiped at the air
in an effort to reach him, nearly losing his grip on
the handhold. Others arrived to help. Chang shouted
at them as well, but all attempts to grab
Gorkon failed.
  The lighting flickered. Chang lurched suddenly,
jerked downward in the grip of an invisible giant as
Kronos's gravity returned. He
fell to his knees and bowed his head beneath the thunderous
downpour of bodies and blood.
  Seconds before gravity was restored, Azetbur
screamed with frustration as she clawed the air.
  Her efforts did no good. She floated just out of
reach of the smooth metal ceiling, unable to get her
balance, even to control her direction. Outside the
door to her cabin, they were killing her father. She could
hear muffled screams of slaughter. Soon they would
come for her. The thought did not frighten her, did not
inspire her useless scrabbling, her helpless fury.
She wanted to be free only so she could go
to Gorkon and die with him. If he was not yet dead,
she wanted to explain to him that she had always intended
to obey his wishes, to succeed him.
  z
  She had known, even as she had allowed Kerla's
  words to comfort her, that his promises were empty. How
could he protect her father now, when beccill of them were
reduced to such a vulnerable state? This was not the
quiet assassination attempt of a accouncillor
aboard Kronos-against such, Kerla might have proven
effective. This was an outright attack by a hostile
vessel. A Romulan warbird, perhaps, laying
waste to both Kronas and Enterprise, then
stealing away to leave the Empire and the Federation
to accuse each other. Or was Captain Kirk so
insane with hatred and grief that he would fire,
unprovoked, on the Klingons? Impossible. Or
so her father would say. Too trusting. Father, you are
too trusting . . . . She did not trust Kirk,
but she had expected greater cunning from him, not a
blatant attack.
  Gravity returned abruptly, hurling her to the
floor like a stone. Azetbur pushed herself to her
feet, ignoring the personal belongings that rained down
about her, and staggered from the cabin.
  The ever-present guard had deserted his post
outside her door; Azetbur ran down the
corridor and found him some distance away, dead, his
torso crosshatched with phaser wounds, the walls and
ceiling spattered with his blood.
  She did not allow herself to react, to slow her
pace. She stumbled over the bodies of those she had
known, over detached limbs whose former owners she could
no longer identify, and at last arrived at her
father's stateroom. The doors stood open; inside
was a scene of
  unbearable carnage, of mangled bodies and
blood. Only two officers were standing.
At the sight of Azetbur, they stepped back
to reveal Chang and Kerla, crouched over
Gorkon's still form.
  She cried out, more in outrage than sorrow, and
ran to her father's side. She did not see his wounds,
only saw that he was covered with blood and
unconscious, but still breathing.
  Chang and Kerla both waved back to allow her
to take Gorkon, limp but warm, in her arms. She
glanced up at them both. Chang's face
reflected hatred for what had happened here;
Kerla's eyes were as stricken and angry as her own.
"Where is the physician?" she demanded of Chang.
"Dead," he said bitterly, "and sickbay is
destroyed. We are searching for someone who can help,
but can find no survivor with the medical skills-was
Garkon stirred and released a small,. sighing
breath; Azetbur moaned and rocked him.
  "Father," she whispered, "I will succeed you. I
swear it. I will succeed you. Only live. . ."
  The intercom crackled. Chang rose and
responded, then crouched low to speak again
to Azetbur.
  "Kirk is coming. He says Enterprise did not
attack, that they wish to offer help. He
is bringing a doctor."
  "Enterprise is undamaged? Then who attacked
us?" Azetbur asked. "Kirk lies," Chang
said grimly. "We did not
  monitor it-we were not expecting to be fired on
by our escort! But there were no other vessels in this
quadrant, and the trajectory of the photon
torpedoes is clear. Enterprise fired them."
  Kerla pulled himself to his feet swiftly,
angrily. ""Let Kirk come! I will deal with
him!"
  "No," Azetbur said, her voice shrill with
desperation. "They have a doctor. Let my father be
taken care of. Then we will deal with them."
  For a moment Chang and Kerla hesitated; Chang
nodded. Kerla spoke, his voice tight, grudging.
"I will return shortly."
  Gorkon moaned, but his eyes remained closed.
Azetbur rocked him and felt his blood trickle
down her arms.
  "Why?" she whispered, her face bent low to her
father's. "Why didn't they kill me? Why do they
let me live?"
  Chang turned away.
  In the garish light of Kronos's
transporter room, Jim Kirk squinted at the
phasers held so close to his head that he could see
they were set to kill. Cautiiously he held out his
hands to indicate he was unarmed; neither he nor
McCoy stirred as they were roughly searched.
  Brigadier Kerla stormed into the room, able at
last to openly show his contempt.
  "Are you mad?" he demanded, thrusting his face
into Kirk's. "Have you lost your mind? You attack
us, then tell us you're beaming aboard-was
  "I give you my word," Kirk said solemnly,
"I don't understand what has happened. I gave
no order to fire."
  "We're here to help," McCoy added, nodding
at his medikit, which was being skeptically inspected
by one of the guards.
  "How bad was it?" Kirk asked. "Were there
any casualties?" Quaking with fury, Kerla
began to answer, then stopped and glared intently at
them both. At last, his anger unabated, he said,
"Follow me." He led Kirk, McCoy, and
two of the guards into the corridor. They did not go
far before Jim saw it: bulkhead, ceiling,
floors, stained with red-violet blood. He drew
in a breath; Kerla turned his head sharply
to study the humans' reactions as they passed
corpses of slain soldiers, severed limbs,
violet pools.
  "But what- Who . . . ?" Jim asked, unable
to believe, not wanting to understand, what he saw. "How
did this happen?" Kerla did not answer, did not
slow his pace. Sickened, Jim followed him past
the bodies, listening as the doctor scanned them with the
tricorder, searching in vain for signs of life.
  Kerla led them to what hid once been the
chancellor's stateroom; the scene inside was one of
utter carnage. Bodies, pieces of bodies,
arms and legs, tables and chairs, were strewn
crazily across the floor, all of it splattered with
blood.
  In the center of the room Chang crouched beside
  Azetbur as she sat cradling her father in her
arms. Stricken, bloodied, she stared mutely up
at Kerla, at the humans. Kerla hurried to her
side. "Chancellor Gorkon!" McCoy rushed
to him immediately. "Jim, he's still alive!"
  Chang rose.
  "My God," Kirk breathed. "What happened
here?" Chang's eyes were insane with outrage. "You
feign ignorance?" "What happened?"
Kirk demanded.
  "You crippled our gravitational field with a
direct torpedo hit, and two Starfleet crewmen
beamed aboard in magnetic boots and did this!"
Chang roared, with a sweep of his arm at the dead, at
Azetbur and Gorkon. "We have witnesses!"
  Kirk turned away, stunned.
  "Jim!" McCoy struggled to free himself from the
grasp of the security guards, to reach Gorkon.
  "He's a doctor!" Kirk wheeled on
Chang. "Let him help-was "Haw can I
trust-"the general began.
  McCoy outshouted him. "Are you carrying a
surgeon?" "We were!" Chang bellowed.
  "Then let me help!"
  Chang glanced uncertainly at the pieth of
Aeazetbur and Gorkon, then grudgingly signaled
the guards.
  McCoy hastened to Gorkon's side, motioned
at a nearby conference table. "I need some light.
Can we get him onto the table?"
  The Klingons lifted the chancellor gently onto
the table. Huddled between Azetbur and McCoy,
Jim stood at Gorkon's head and forced himself not
to flinch at the sight of the man's wounds. It
seemed impossible that he was still alive; the phaser
beam had ripped a bloody seam from his chest to his
abdomen.
  With General Chang hovering over his shoulder,
McCoy scanned Gorkon once more, then
produced a sonic stimulator and began trying
to heal the injury. The chancellor stirred, groaned.
"Hold him," McCoy said. His voice was steady,
but his hands trembled.
  Kirk leaned forward and gently pinned down the dying
Klingon's arms; Jim's fingers grew slick with
warm blood. As , difficult as confronting the
Klingons had been for him, he had no quarrel with
Gorkon. In fact, he realized now that he liked
and respected the chancellor and believed him sincere
--more than he could say about any other Klingon in the
room. Gorkon had the foresight to see beyond war, beyond
Klingon tradition. And if they lost him now . . .
  "Sweet Jesus," McCoy whispered.
"He's lost a lot of whatever this stuff is."
  Kirk stared down into Gorkon's face; the
chancellor's bronze complexion had gone ashen.
Panicked, Jim glanced up at McCoy. "Can
you-was "Jim," the doctor's voice was stricken,
"I don't even know his anatomy." With
growing desperation, he ran the stimulator over
Gorkon's torso a
  second time, then looked at Kirk and shook his
head. "The wounds aren't closing."
  Gorkon groaned and reached out. His hands closed
on Kirk's wrists. "You're killing him!"
Kerla shouted beside McCoy. Chang lunged at the
doctor.
  Jim held him back. "No!"
  Gorkon moaned again, then grew silent. His
grip loosened; his hands fell away.
  "Chancellor Gorkon," McCoy cried, "can you
hear me? Chancellor!" Gorkon remained still.
  "Father!" Azetbur cried.
  Frantically McCoy tore open Gorkon's
collar.
  "Bones . . . ?" Jim asked, feeling as if
he were watching humanity's last chance for peace die
before his eyes.
  "He's gone into some kind of arrest. Come on,
dammit!" McCoy swore at Gorkon, then
pounded the Klingon's chest.
  The chancellor opened his eyes and looked up
into Jim's face. "Are you all right?" Gorkon
asked feebly.
  Jim heard his own voice telling Spock:
They're animals. Let them die . . . .no,
Jim tried to whisper. Don't let it end this
sway. The chancellor's eyes dulled; his jaw
slackened. Alarmed, Kirk glanced quickly at
McCoy. The 120
  doctor was staring at the bright red indicator on his
scanner in disbelief. "I lost him," McCoy
whispered, shaken.
  Kirk moved to him, tried to pull him away.
Azetbur gathered her father into her arms.
  Chang faced the two humans, his expression one
of grim triumph. "Under Article
One-eight-four of Interstellar Law, I place
you both under arrest. You are charged with assassinating the
chancellor of the High Council." He motioned to the
guards.
  "He just tried to save him!" Kirk shouted,
angry not for himself but for McCoy, who had never
taken losing a patient well, no matter how
hopeless the situation.
  Chang barked an order at the guards.
  Jim was too stunned even to struggle as the
Klingons led them both away.
  Azetbur rocked her dead father Pike
a child.
  During his life, he had been wise enough to reserve
his trust for only a few: his late wife, his
daughter, General Korrd. But he, had made the
mistake of trusting James Kirk, and Kirk had
killed him. Even now, stunned by grief, the fact
made little sense to Azetbur, but she was beyond reason.
She knew only that her father had died without the comfort of
knowing his daughter would succeed him, would carry out his
mission of peace.
  Even in the repose of death, his expression
  showed exhaustion and strain. Azetbur gently
  smoothed the traces of weariness away-then started
as Kerla's hands appeared on either side of
Gorkon's face.
  Chang disknelt beside them, at Gorkon's head,
and carefully raised the chancellor's eyelids with his
thumbs.
  A rumble started low in Kerla's throat.
  "No!" Azetbur pushed their hands away. She
knew what they intended: to send her father into the afterlife
in a manner befitting a warrior, with a cry that warned
the dead of his coming.
  Kerla and Chang regarded her with confusion.
  ""No," she repeated, steadying her
voice. "My father wanted peace; he was no
warrior. y know his wishes. He came to break
tradition, not keep it." Kerla made a quick,
furious movement as if to push past her and continue the
ceremony without her permission, but Chang lifted an
arm to hold him back.
  ""Do as she wishes," he said quietly. He
stood and motioned for Kerla to do likewise.
  'rhe younger Klingon withdrew and stepped back,
eyes ablaze with rage and sorrow. Chang's cold
expression spoke of a hatred that ran very deep.
They left her alone, to hold her father and whisper
to him of promises.
  THE SENIOR oTO ICER'S had gathered on the
bridge and listened solemnly as Uhura faced
them.
  "They've been arrested," Uhura said, her own
expression stunned, "for the assassination of Chancellor
Gorkon."
  Outwardly Spock did not react, but he was
filled with regret, not just for the predicament of his friends
but also for the death of Gorkon, for his own sake and for that
of the Klingon Empire and the Federation. With Gorkon
heading the High Council, peace had seemed an
attainable goal; now it receded once more
into the realm of improbability.
  Why is it a constant, the Vulcan wondered, that
the universe resists favorable change,
particularly in the realm of politics? Why is it
that those who are most likely to instigate such
change-no matter
  how rational, how reasonable, how humane and
necessary-are also most likely to be murdered or
deposed before they see their reforms enacted? "Mr.
Spock," Chekov cried, "we've got to do
something!" The others-Scott, Uhura, Valeris--
turned to Spock expectantly. He straightened.
He was not altogether surprised at the turn of events.
He had known there was a chance the Klingons would react
by arresting the captain, but lie had also known that Kirk
had the best chance of convincing the Klingons that he had
given no order to fire on Kronos. And no
doubt the captain had realized that, if he had
remained aboard Enterprise, the Klingons would have
opened fire.
  No, the captain was the logical one to go. Yet
Spock could not entirely shake the very human twinge
of guilt he now felt. He had been responsible
for involving Kirk and the Enterprise in this mission.
And, as he had promised, he would find a
way to extract Kirk from the current situation.
  "I assume command of this ship as of oh-twothirty
hours," Spock said. "Uhura, notify
Startleet Headquarters. Explain precisely
what has taken place and request instructions."
  "Yes, sir." She moved to comply.
  He turned to find Valeris staring at him, one
brow lifted in disbelief. "But, Captain
Spock," she protested, "we cannot allow them to be
taken back to the Klingon homeworld as prisoners."
  He looked at her calmly, wondering if she
detected the emotional implication of her statement.
  Apparently she did, for she quickly added, "It
is logical to assume that the doctor and the captain
are innocent of any crime, is it not? Based on
what you know of their character. . ."
  "I feel it is a rational assumption, yes.
But the Klingons have not had the years of experience that
I have had in dealing with the doctor and the captain. They
therefore lack the basis to make such an assumption."
"But since we do, should we not intervene?"
  "What do you suggest, Lieutenant? Opening
fire on the Klingon vessel will not retrieve the
captain; and an armed engagement was precisely what
he wished to avoid. Nor can we simply
transport them to the Enterprise, as Kronos has
raised her shields."
  "At least we must keep ,track of where they are
taken, sir," Scott put in. "I-was
  "I have already addressed that question, -- Mr.
Scott. We will be able to follow the captain's
movements."
  The crew regarded him with astonishment.
  "How did you achieve-was Valeris began.
  "Time is precious, Lieutenant," Spock
interrupted. "We must endeavor to ascertain what
happened here tonight. According to our data banks, this ship
fired those torpedoes."
  "No way!" Scott protested.
  "Mr. Scott, you forget yourself. Please
accompany me to the torpedo bay." Spock started
toward the lift.
  "And if we can't piece together what happened?"
Chekov asked. "What then, sir?"
  Spock sighed. He would have preferred to avoid the
question altogether. "Then, Mr. Chekov, it resides in the
purview of the diplomats." He was relieved when
Chekov did not ask what the outcome of that would be.
  Sarek, ambassador from Vulcan, sat in the
office of the Federation president beside the
Romulan ambassador and listened politely as
Kamarag, their Klingon counterpart, stated his
government's case against Leonard McCoy and
James Kirk.
  Unfortunately it was the most logical, well
reasoned argument Sarek had ever heard Kamarag
put forth. Sarek knew James Kirk-had touched
his mind, had sensed his loyalty to and admiration for
Sarek's son, Spock. Sarek had once trusted
Kirk with a dangerous task: that of rescuing
Spock's body that it might be reunited with his spirit.
Kirk had not failed. Sarek knew Leonard
McCoy as well, though he had never joined his mind
with the doctor's. But Spock had trusted McCoy
enough to make him the living receptacle of Spock's
spirit, his katra, moments before Spock's death. The
fact revealed much about the doctor's character. True,
he had touched the captain's mind before Kirk learned
of the death of his son, David, at Klingon hands, and
before his lover, Carol Marcus, had suffered
injuries in a Klingon attack. But even if there
was room in Kirk's heart to harbor hatred
  on his loved ones" account, Sarek knew it could
never harbor an intent to murder.
  If Sarek had been asked to choose the
three humans he most trusted, he would have named his
wife, Amanda, Captain James T. Kirk, and
Dr. Leonard H. McCoy.
  He therefpre doubted Kamarag's assessment of the
matter: that Kirk had ordered the Enterprise
to fire on the Klingon vessel with the specific
intent of damaging the gravitational system, then
ordering Starffeet crew members to board Kronos
and assassinate the chancellor.
  In the first place, Kirk was far too shrewd
to carry out an assassination attempt in such a
blatant manner. In the second, the act was
inconsistent with Kirk's usual behavior.
  "The chancellor of the High Council is dead,"
Kamarag said, "the result of an unprovoked
attack while he traveled to see you under a flag
of truce on a mission of peace." He pointedly
directed the words at the Federation president, who
sighed and rubbed his forehead as if trying to postpone the
onset of a headache. Ra-ghoratrei was Deltan,
pale-skinned, white-haired, and at the moment
possessed of numerous concerns, not the least of which was
preventing a war.
  "Captain Kirk was legally arrested for the
crime," Kamarag continued in an
uncharacteristically reasonable tone. "May I remind you
that he and Dr. McCoy boarded Kronos One of
their own free will. None of these facts are in
dispute, Mr. President."
  "I will demand a full investigation,"
Raghoratrei promised. "You can be assured we
will cooperate with all our power to get to the bottom
of the matter. In the meantime-was
  "In the meantime," Kamarag finished for him, "we
expect the Federation to abide by the articles of
Interstellar Law you claim to cherish. Captain
Kirk and Dr. McCoy will stand trial for the
assassination of Chancellor Gorkon." The
president's lips thinned. "Out of the question." He
turned to Sarek. "Ambassador, there must be some
way to extradite these men-was "They are guilty!"
Kamarag shouted. "They have killed the chancellor!
Under Interstellar Law-was
  "I do not believe that Captain Kirk and Dr.
McCoy are guilty of the crimes with which they are
charged," Sarek began quietly, ignoring the
Klingon's tirade. "Evidence against them seems
circumstantial at best."
  "Circumstantial!" Kamarag sputtered. "The
Enterprise fired on Kronos One!
Starfleet ofcers then beamed aboard and
cold-bloodedly slaughtered dozens of innocents,
including the chancellor! This is clearly nothing more
than revenge on us for Kudao and Themis-and for
David and Carol Marcus! And Kirk masterminded
it all. I should have known peace was impossible while
Kirk still lived!"
  "Enterprise appeared to fire on Kronos, was
Sarek stated calmly. "And two individuals
wearing Starfleet uniforms committed the murders.
Tell
  me, Ambassador, has anyone testified that
they heard Kirk issue these alleged orders
to kill?"
  Kamarag's face darkened. "Mr. President!
Our esteemed colleague is clearly prejudiced
in this situation, despite his claim that he is
influenced only by logic. His son is Kirk's
first officer-was
  "And special Federation envoy, who opened
negotiations with your High Council, in the interests
of peace. Mr. President," Sarek said, "I
share a measure of personal responsibility in this
matter, but I am obliged to agree with my esteemed
colleague's legal interpretation: Kirk
and Dr. McCoy were properly arrested, and the
Klingons are within their rights to try them." The
president stared at him unhappily. Sarek knew
it was not what he had wanted to hear. It was not what
Sarek had wanted to say, but it was the truth.
Legally the Federation was bound by Interstellar Law
to let the trial proceed, as enough circumstantial
evidence existed to charge Kirk and McCoy with the
crime.
  He did not mention that there were other, not entirely
legal, methods of extraditing the two men. Such
methods were beyond the purview of those present-though not
necessarily beyond that of certain Starfleet officers,
one of whom was a very close relative of the Vulcan
ambassador. The president turned with fading
hopes to the Romulan. "And what is the position
of the Romulan government, Ambassador
Nanclus?" Nanclus's face was as stony and
unreadable as a
  Vulcan's. "In the absence of specific
instructions from my government, I must concur with my
colleagues."
  "But surely," Ra-ghoratrei said,
exasperated, "you cannot believe James Kirk
assassinated the chancellor of the High
Council."
  Nanclus feigned reluctance. "Mr.
President, I don't know what to believe." "I
am waiting for your answer, Mr. President,"
Kamarag insisted. Ra-ghoratrei closed his eyes
for a long moment, opened them, and sighed. "This
president is not above the law."
  Mollified, Kamarag rose, bowed, and exited.
  The desk intercom sounded. "Mr. President,
Starfleet Command is here from San Francisco."
  Ra-ghoratrei sighed, overwhelmed. "Send them
in."
  Three officers entered. Sarek recognized two
of them: Rear Admiral William Smillie,
Starfleet commander in chief, and Admiral
Cartwright. The third was a young lieutenant Sarek
had never seen before. The officers bowed to the two seated
diplomats before turning their attention
to Ra-ghoratrei. "Mr. President," Cartwright
said.
  The president nodded. "Admiral Cartwright .
. . Bill . . . Lieutenant . . ."
  Cartwright spoke urgently. "Mr.
President, we cannot allow Federation citizens to be
abducted."
  Ra-ghoratrei absently rubbed his forehead.
"I'm afs-aid we've just been through all that with the
  Klingon ambassador. Pending a full
report, I am constrained to observe Interstellar
Law."
  Smillie and Cartwright stiffened and exchanged
glances. Then Cartwright nodded at the lieutenant.
  - "Mr. President," he said, "we've
prepared Operation Retrieve based on the rising
danger of terrorism between the Klingon Empire and the
Federation. Sir, we can go in and rescue the
hostages and be out within twenty-four hours with an
acceptable rate of loss in manpower and equipment.
We have the technology to-was
  "Suppose," Ra-ghoratrei interrupted
irritably, "you precipitate a full-scale
war?"
  The lieutenant straightened proudly. "Then quite
frankly, Mr. President, we can clean their
chronometers."
  The president stared, aghast at the young human's
enthusiasm. "Mr. President," Nanclus
added, "they are vulnerable. There will never be a better
time."
  Ra-ghoratrei sought Sarek's gaze,
as if to say, And you? You think it's reasonable
to risk war, too?
  Sarek lowered his gaze. He was a Vulcan,
obliged to control his emotions, but at the moment the
temptation was great to show his disgust. He knew the
hostages well, and expected they would prefer to go
to their deaths rather than precipitate a war.
  "The longer we wait, the less accessible those
hostages will be, sir," Cartwright prodded.
  The president paused. "I'll bear that in mind,
Admiral. I think that's all."
  Cartwright turned to go, disb Rear Admiral
Smillie lingered. "Sir." The president looked
at him.
  "Those men have literally saved this planet, and you know
it." Sarek knew he referred to the mysterious
probe that had once disrupted Earth's climate and
would have made the planet a frozen wasteland had
Kirk and his crew not intervened.
  "I do know it," Ra-ghoratrei replied
glumly. "And now I'm afraid they're going to have
to save it again. By standing trial."
  He motioned for them to go. Smillie lingered a
half second, then turned and followed Cartwright
out. Ra-ghoratrei put his head in his hands
and rubbed his temples for a moment before looking up at
Sarek. "I want the crew of Enterprise in my
office tomorrow morning." Sarek blinked. He doubted
the crew of the Enterprise had any intention of heading
back for Earth at the moment, but it would have been most
unwise to mention his suspicion to the president.
Instead, he said, "They are still in space, Mr.
Presidentadjacent to the Klingon Neutral
Zone."
  Ra-ghoratrei narrowed his pale eyes. "Then
tell your son to get the hell back here before the end
of the week. I don't want Enterprise any more
in- volved in this than she already is."
  "Of course, Mr. President," Sarek
answered smoothly, knowing that, as either father or
Vulcan ambassador, he had no jurisdiction
over Spock in
  his capacity as a Starfleet officer. Despite
his headache, the president would realize that soon
enough, and the order for Enterprise to return would be
issued by Starfleet Command.
  Even then, Sarek was quite certain Spock would
refuse to obey it.
  Hours after her father's death Azetbur responded
to the buzzer by instructing the door to her
disdimly lit cabin to open. Gorkon's body had
already been incinerated without ado or ceremony; in the
Empire, life was too short, resources too
precious, to waste on the dead. General Chang
stepped inside, his manner somber and, as always,
exceedingly formal. She did not rise, but sat in the
gloom and studied him. He bowed. "My lady
Azetbur," he said, usingeathe archaic mode of
address to indicate respect rather than title, to show
that he approached her not as the new head of the High
Council but rather as a friend of her father's. She had always
assumed her dislike for Chang was returned in kind,
but in the midst of her grief, his old-fashioned
courtesy seemed oddly touching. Clever Chang. A
warrior you may be, but you are just as canny a
diplomat. He glanced around the room and frowned.
"Have you no guards?" "Mine was killed,"
Azetbur replied wearily. "My father's are dead
or injured. I see little point in resisting the
inevitable, General. If Kirk was going to kill
me, he would already have done so." Her 133
  tone grew faintly challenging. "Why have you come?
Are there problems with the prisoners?"
  Chang stepped toward her, his posture one of
contained urgency. "No, my lady. They
have been . . . secured. I came to inform you it is
time to speak with the Federation." He paused; for the first time
since she had known him, a look of uncertainty
crossed his features. "And to warn you to take
precautions. It is unwise to be without security
measures. Perhaps at present you are unconcerned for
your own safety, but I urge you to think not of your
loss but of the Empire's need. If you are killed,
who will continue your father's work?"
  "Why not you, General?" She could not keep the
irony out of her voice; if he heard it, for
courtesy's sake, he gave no sign. "I am
a soldier. I was your father's adviser . . . and
friend, but we were never in agreement." He smiled
thinly. "I think we are both aware that I would not be
a fit successor. I know more of killing than of
life . . . and at the moment our people must learn how
to survive. You no longer have anything to fear from
Kirk, but there are others, some of them aboard this
vessel-was
  "Who?" Azetbur demanded.
  He met her gaze directly. "Kerla."
  She drew back in mute protest, unable,
unwilling, to believe what she had heard; he began
talking rapidly to convince her otherwise.
"I must speak openly, and quickly, because I fear the
danger to you is great." "I do not believe this,"
Azetbur whispered, 134
  though her thoughts began to race. She had not spoken
with Kerla, had not seen him, since Gorkon's
assassination. She had assumed that he left her
alone now to mourn her father's death in private ....
She had always wondered at the change of heart that had
made Kerla, an avowed warrior, swear fealty
to Gorkon and court his daughter. Had he loved her
only as a means to power? Had he somehow aided the
assassins-perhaps even been the motivating force behind the
attack-intending from the beginning to become the
chancellor's consort?
  Had he somehow been in league with Kirk? Or
had Kirk merely acted before Kerla had the chance?
  The thought added fresh pain to her sorrow. She
narrowed her eyes at Chang. "What proof do you
have?"
  "No proof," Chang admitted. "Merely
suspicion. Instinct born of experience with
treachery. I do not ask you to believe me or to take
any action against Kerla-merely to take the necessary
precautions. And to trust no one. In the meantime
let me assure you that, for your father's
sake, I have done what is necessary to see to your
protection. I promise you, my lady, that you will
arrive at the peace conference safely." His
expression grew grim. "I swear it, on my
life." He bowed once more. "Permit me to serve
as your guard until you are prepared to go to the
stateroom."
  Before she could answer, he stepped outside.
  Azetbur waited for the doors to close behind him
before lowering her face into her hands.
  At her post at Enterprise's helm after the
departure of Spock and Scott, Valeris had not
yet resolved the ambiguity she felt concerning the
situation with the Klingons. Technically the Klingons were
within their rights under Interstellar Law to hold
Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy, but Valeris
knew a means to circumvent such restrictions must
exist.
  She felt abashed by her emotional outburst on the
bridge, when she had told Spock they could not
abandon Kirk and McCoy. She had not meant
to suggest engaging the ship in battle; she had not
meant to suggest any specific action at the moment.
She only knew that one had to be taken. Spock
had been logically correct, as always.
There was no action at that moment, short of
precipitating a war, that could have been taken in order
to rescue the captain and the doctor. And a Vulcan,
of course, would take no action to directly
precipitate a war. .
  He had misinterpreted her meaning, but he had not
misinterpreted the emotion in her voice, and for that she
was ashamed. Despite his earlier praise, she
felt once again that she had proved a disappointment
to him, the one person she wanted to make proud.
  She swiveled to watch as Commander Chekov left
his post beside her to cross over to Communications, where
Commander Uhura listened tensely
  to what Valeris suspected were orders from
Starlleet. Indeed, even from where she sat, she could
detect the faint shouting that issued from Uhura's
earpiece. The human's eyes were narrowed in pain
at the volume; her posture telegraphed anger,
disappointment, and stubborn resolve all at once.
Clearly the orders were not what she wanted to hear.
Valeris did not know the captain, though she had known
of him for some time. But she knew and admired Spock
and knew that this human Kirk must be a worthy
individual indeed if Spock deemed him friend. And
he had inspired an uncommon loyalty
in these exceptionally gifted officers, who had turned
down career-advancing assignments in order to serve
at Kirk's side. She watched as Uhura
turned to Chekov and said, in a calm voice
Valeris found humorously incongruous with the
screaming in her ear, "We're to report back at
once."
  Chekov's forehead creased with concern. He echoed
Valeris's statement of the night before: "We cannot
abandon Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy." He
looked at the rest of the crew, as if seeking help.
  Tentatively Valeris rose from her chair and
approached them. "Of course not-was Uhura began,
then broke off as she caught Valeris's gaze.
Chekov turned toward her expectantly.
  Valeris caught her breath. Once again she
felt her resolve divided between two courses of
action. As a
  Vulcan, she wanted to follow the most logical
path, which presupposed strict adherence
to regulations, but she also wanted to rescue the
captain and doctor at any cost.
  She suspected Spock felt the same way, but
as acting captain of the Enterprise, he would feel
compelled to follow orders-unless the crew
coop- erated in providing a way to circumvent
those orders without necessarily disobeying them.
  "Four hundred years ago, on the planet
Earth," Valeris told Chekov and Uhura,
"workers whose lives were threatened by automation flung
their wooden shoes, called sabots, into the machines
to stop them. Hence the term "sabotage.""
  She did not need to explain further. Uhura's
gaze warmed with understanding, then went blank, as she
said, with computerlike intonation: "We are experiencing
a technical malfunction. All backup systems
inoperative."
  "Excellent," Chekov said with a grinea'then shook
his head slightly to remove the smile. He forced a
grim expression. "I mean, too bad. Who will
tell Captain Spock?"
  "A fellow Vulcan?" Uhura asked,
deadpan.
  They gazed up at Valeris.
  She felt an impulse to smile. She liked
these humans-their loyalty, their ability
to improvise in the face of crisis. Having been
raised by a human, she felt far more comfortable among
them than among her own people. It was one of many reasons
she had requested an assignment aboard
Enterprise instead of an all-Vulcan ship.
Humans"
  standards were far less rigid; compared to their
emotional, irrational behavior, Valeris's was
judged to be perfect, logical. Humans were far
less likely to notice any lapses of control.
  It had occurred to her that perhaps Spock had chosen
to serve aboard Enterprise for the same reason.
  Valeris did not smile at her
co-conspirators. Instead, she kept her
expression carefully impassive and signaled her
complicity by heading for the lift-and Spock, in the
torpedo bay.
  In the instant as she turned and faced the closing
lift doors, she caught a glimpse of their
amazed expressions.
  At Ra-ghoratrei's request, Sarek
remained and listened patiently as the president
consulted his civilian advisers.
  "As the ambassador noted"-Dr. Thlema, a
xenopsychologist from Andor specializing in Klingon
culture, politely tipped her blue-skinned
antennae in, Sarek's direction-"the Klingons
are quite capable of using logic when it suits their
purposes. I agree with Kamarag; their
case against Kirk and McCoy is airtight. And
if we interfere, if we attempt a rescue
mission, it will probably cause a war."
  Ra-ghoratrei nodded, hands clasped tightly
atop his desk, milky eyes narrowed beneath long
white brows. "Then you agree: no intervention."
Thlema drew back in surprise. "Quite the
contrary. I'm simply outlining the most likely
scenario. 139
  I said it would probably, but not definitely,
cause a war. But if we don't react, the
Klingons will perceive that as weakness, which will put us in a
bad bargaining position in terms of a peace treaty.
Frankly, I think the risks of a quick military
strike to retrieve Kirk and McCoy are
acceptable. War with the Klingons is not to be feared-not
at the present time. They're at a disadvantage,
and they know it."
  Ra-ghoratrei's lips tightened into a thin line.
He raised his long, pale fingers to his forehead and
rubbed as if to erase troubling thoughts. Sarek
closed his eyes and heard the Romulan
Nanclus's words: They are vulnerable. There will
never be a better time . . . . There had been growing
hostility between the Romulan and Klingon
empires; mutual trade had slacked off. The
Romulans had nothing to gain and everything to fear from an
alliance between the Klingons and the Federation. Sarek did
not doubt that the Romulan government was doing everything
in its power to influence the Federation to sever relations with the
Klingon Empire. Indeed, war would be to the
Romulans' advantage.
  Sarek had expected to hear such words of war from
Nanclus. He had not been surprised to hear them
from Admirals Smillie and Cartwright. But now,
hearing them issue from the mouths of Federation civilian
advisers, Sarek began to realize how alarmingly the
galaxy teetered on the precipice of war.
  Henry Mulwray, a middle-aged human,
spoke.
  Sarek had not met Mulwray before this meeting,
though he had heard of him often. Mulwray was the
largest contractor of Starfleet's defensive
weaponry comthough rumor had it that at least part of his
wealth had been accumulated by illegal sales of
arms to non-Federation customers. Sarek saw only
one reason for Mulwray's presence at the meeting:
to provide the information he offered Ra-ghoratrei
now.
  "You have our total support, Mister
President," Mulwray said somberly. "My
factories can gear up to full weapons production
in less than a week." Ra-ghoratrei's tone was
wooden; he did not quite meet the human's gaze.
"Thank you, Henry. Right now, we're pursuing
diplomatic channels." "Of course,"
Mulwray reassured him. "No one wants a
war."
  Ra-ghoratrei wavered; Sarek realized it was
time to speak, and quickly. "If I may, Mr.
President. . ."
  Ra-ghoratrei faced him.
  "The important thing," Sarek reminded him,
"is to keep the peace process alive. If the
new chancellor is so disposed, perhaps we can attach a
rider, assurance that these men won't be executed.
Then-was An urgent voice filtered through
Ra-ghoratrei's intercom, cutting him off "Mr.
President, you have the new chancellor of the Klingon
High Council calling."
  The president swung around to look at the
visual on the far wall; the others followed suit.
  Azetbur, regal and splendid in her new
appointments, appeared. Most intriguing, Sarek
thought; beside him, Dr. Thlema released a
small noise of surprise. Klingon leadership
generally excluded females as being intrinsically
unfit, which meant that Azetbur must have been an
exceptionally qualified contender-or she had
exceptionally powerful supporters. The choice made
Sarek hopeful. He had met Azetbur and knew
her to be a most fervent proponent of her father's
policies. The specter of war receded slightly in
Sarek's consciousness. Perhaps there was still chance for a
peace treaty.
  "Mr. President," Azetbur said, ignoring
the surprised reactions her appearance had evoked,
"I have been named chancellor of the High Council in
my father's place."
  Ra-ghoratrei had already recovered and wore an
expression of sympathy. "Madam Chancellor, you
have my sincerest condolences on your recent loss. I
want to assure you that this shameful deed . . ."
  She brushed aside personal matters with a
sweep of her hand and spoke with such force and intensity
that her listeners sat motionless, stunned by the
transformation. She had indeed assumed her father's
role; Sarek fancied he had even heard a
trace of Gorkon's intonation in her speech.
"Mr. President, let us come to the
point: you want the conference to go forward, and so did my
father. I will attend in one week-after I've had the
opportunity to master the details of his position-on
one condition: we will not extradite the prisoners, and
  you will not attempt to rescue them in a military
operation." Azetbur paused to give her next words
weight. "We would consider any such attempt an
act of war."
  Ra-ghoratrei had relaxed with relief at her
first words, then paled to an even more bloodless shade
at her last.. Yet his tone and expression were
cordial. "We look forward to meeting with you next
week, Madam Chancellor. I hope you will be our
guest here on-was
  "After recent events," Azetbur said
brusquely, "you will understand I prefer a neutral
site. And in the interests of security, let us
keep the location secret."
  Ra-ghoratrei smiled weakly. "As you wish,
Madam Chancellor." The screen darkened
abruptly in reply. The president turned toward
his advisers.
  "I will do what I must to avoid a war"-he
swiveled to face Sarek-"even if it costs the
lives of your son's friends."
  AZETBUR TURNED sLowLY from the screen
to face her council. Of her father's advisers,
only two, Chang and Kerla, remained, and at the
moment she did not trust either of them.
  She yearned for old Korrd's advice, but his
condition was still grave; because of his advanced age, the
wounds inflicted on him by Gorkon's assassins were
slow to heal.
  She studied Kerla for signs of betrayal. His
manner toward her in front of the others was as
exceedingly formal as ever. Was his behavior when they were
alone together the act?
  With a flourish, Kerla unfurled battle plans
and laid them before her. Chang stood back without comment
and watched them all carefully-like a
  predator, Azetbur thought, always silent, always
watching. She would take his words to heart: Trust no
one. Not even Chang. "Attack them now, Madam
Chancellor, while we still can!" Kerla cried. She
leaned forward to study the plans dispassionately.
"Attack," General Khmarr, young-too young, younger
even than Kerla--and eager for battle, insisted,
"or be slaves in their worlds!" "We can take whole
by force what they propose to divide!" Grokh said,
gesturing at the star map. General Grokh
was not quite so young, but even he could scarcely be called
middle-aged.
  It disturbed Azetbur that the most experienced
minds of the Empire had been lost in the attack; of
her remaining advisers, Chang was the most cun-
ning, the most experienced. Logically, she should
depend on him now most of all, but she shared her
father's fear of him. Dared she trust him? And if she
could not trust Kerla, not trust Chang, then there was
no one on the council she could trust-save herself and
her dead father. Why had the assassins allowed her
to remain alive thus far? She sighed wearily and
looked up at Grokh. "You don't seem
to grasp our situation, General. War is . . .
obsolete. As we are in danger of becoming."
  Kerla's tone held a rebuke. "Better
to die on our feet than live on our knees."
  "That wasn't what my father wanted-was
  Chang interrupted softly, bitterly. "He was
killed for what he wanted." Azetbur's face
hardened as she remembered the instant when her father's
body went limp in her arms.
  She had heard it said that Kirk had the heart of a
Klingon; upon reflection, she now believed it
true. A Klingon who sought revenge for the
death of a family member-a son, a mate-would not have
entrusted the task to others.
  Kirk had come aboard Kronos to make certain
Gorkon was dead; no matter that he would have to pay with
his own life, and that of his friend, for the satisfaction.
  To complete the cycle, Azetbur would now make
certain of Kirk's fate. But she would do so in a
way that did not jeopardize all that her father had worked
toward.
  She faced Chang. "Kirk must have a fair
trial."
  "Klingon law will take its course," Chang said
grimly. "No. Kirk must-be tried according
to Interstellar Law." . The three younger generals
began to protest; she ignored them. "You will
represent the state, General Chang."
  Chang's good eye narrowed. "The Federation will pay
dearly," he promised. "Not the Federation; the peace
process must go forward." Azetbur's voice
dropped to a whisper. "Kirk. Kirk must pay for
my father's death."
  Chang bowed. "With pleasure, Madam
Chancellor."
  Spock stood in the torpedo bay and stared down
at the impossible. Beside him, Scott
studied the same console readout and shook his head.
"It's as I said, Mr. Spock: inventory still
registers every torpedo." "Yet the data banks
insist we fired," the Vulcan mused.
Impossible, that Enterprise had fired on the
Klingon vessel--and yet Spock had witnessed the
attack with his own eyes.
  Or had he?
  He turned to Scott. "One computer is lying."
  Scott frowned. "A computer canna lie,
sir."
  Inwardly, Spock was amused by the engineer's
remark. The Vulcan had become so accustomed
to hearing the figurative expressions of human
speech that he occasionally indulged in them himself.
Given the engineer's distressed state, Spock
decided in favor of being literal. He nodded.
"Correct, Mr. Scott. Therefore we must check
the torpedoes visually."
  "That could take hours!"
  "Nevertheless. . ." Spock said. It would take
some hours for the Klingons to transport the captain and
doctor to the trial site and to conduct the trial
itself. And Spock knew of no other way to proceed.
"And if they're all in one place?"
Scott asked. Spock Orewin a breath,
released it. "Then some- 147
  one aboard this ship forged a data bank entry."
It was the most likely possibility, one he found
distasteful to contemplate. It did not occur to him
to consider Kirk a suspect. Both men glanced up
as Valeris descended into the bay. "Captain
Spock," she said. "They have named Gorkon's
daughter chancellor. I heard the report."
  Scott made a low sound in his throat, shook his
head. "I'll bet that Klingon bitch killed her
father."
  Spock glanced sharply at him, astonished at the
depth of hatred in Scott's tone-and reminded more
than slightly of his encounter with Jim Kirk after
Admiral Smillie's briefing. "Her own father?"
"It is an old story, sir," Valeris said
calmly. At Spock's look, she added,
"Patricide as a means to power has been
practiced for centuries within the Klingon
Empire."
  "As it once was on Earth," Spock reminded
her, "and in Romulan culture. The fact that it
has been practiced in no way proves that
Azetbur-was "They don't place the
same value on life that we do, Spock,"
Scott interrupted bitterly. "You know that. Take
my word: she didn't shed one bloody tear."
  Spock experienced a sense of frustration that
threatened to verge on futility. How were they
to rescue the captain without provoking a war and then
attempt to establish peaceful relations with the
Klingons if such an attitude persisted among
  Starfleet's top officers? "That is hardly
conclusive, Mr. Scott, as Klingons have no
tear comducts." He turned to Valeris before the
engineer could react. "Any reply from Starfleet
to our dispatch, Lieutenant?" "Yes, sir."
  Spock noted her hesitation and studied her
keenly. "And . . . ?" Under his scrutiny, she
straightened; her expression became utterly
impassive. "Commander Uhura has teen
experiencing technical difficulties, sir."
  "Curious," Spock said softly. He had been
fully prepared to commandeer Enterprise on his own and
release the crew from any obligation to follow his
orders, but he also realized that the crew would insist
on aiding him in the rescue and would thus be deemed as
guilty as he. Uhura, it seemed, had provided
a way that might spare them all
courts-martial.
  "Very well," he told Valeris. "For
twenty-four hours we will agree that this conversation did
not take place."
  "A lie?" She did not shrink from the word, nor
did her tone imply disapproval.
  "An omission," Spock corrected her. "After
that-was Scott had listened to the exchange with growing
anxiety; now he could contain himself no longer.
"Twenty-four hours from now we won't have a clue
where the captain is!"
  "I know precisely where he'll be," Spock
said. Scott gaped at the Vulcan. "Where?"
  As Kronos One warped toward home and
Kirk's trial, Azetbur sifted through her father's
notes, preparing for the conference. She had moved
into Gorkon's quarters, partly at Chang's
insistence: the chancellor's cabin was better equipped
with security devices, more easily defensible
by guards. She had feared it might renew her pain,
but being surrounded by her father's effects had brought a
curious comfort. Now she sat in Gorkon's reading
chair, where she had last seen her father whole, and
massaged the deepening crease between her brows as she
frowned at the glowing viewer.
  Gorkon's notes were incomplete; apparently
he had kept much of his intended negotiating
strategy in his head. Azetbur remembered all that
he had discussed with her, privately and in the
presence of the other councillors, but she knew he
had kept much to himself. He had not trusted his own
High Council. And 1, Azetbur thought
grimly, shall follow his lead. She had trusted
Kerla completely, and still loved him
  but Chang's words had fostered doubt. She could
trust no one, not even Chang, who had taken charge
of arranging her security. These days her mood
swung between two extremes: sometimes she wanted
urgently to live, to carry Gorkon's work
fbrward; at other times she lost all desire to go
on, f'br it seemed useless to try. She
suspected she
  would not live long enough to sign a peace treaty with the
Federation, but perhaps she would survive to see Kirk
tried. That would have to be satisfaction enough.
  But, unlike her father, she had no successor she
could trust. Azetbur closed her burning eyes,
then opened them as the viewer signaled. She pressed
a control; the picture toggled to that of the guard,
Katris, outside her quarters.
  "Madam Chancellor," he said, his speech as
thick and ponderous as his oversized features.
"Brigadier Kerla wishes to speak with you alone in
your quarters."
  She straightened and sighed inaudibly. "Let him
in."
  Katris nodded. The screen blinked, then flashed
the same report the two guards outside saw: that
Kerla bore no concealed weapons other than the
phaser he had turned over to them.
  Even if he had been armed, Azetbur would have
felt no fear. She had been ready to die since the
assassination. Besides, their conversation would be monitored
from three separate locations aboard ship. She did
not rise as Kerla entered. She knew precisely
why he had come after allowing her a brief period of
mourning, knew that it would be easier for both of them if
she was direct and cruel.
  The instant the doors closed behind him, his formal
comportment vanished. He strode over to her, knelt
by her side, and took her wrist.
  She did not resist, but yielded without responding
as he raised her open palm to his face. Her arm
was limp; she forced herself to gaze at him without
emotion, without warmth. It was difficult:
he was strong, full of fire. She yearned to stroke
his long, beautiful hair, to bury her face in it and
take comfort from its scent as she had only days before.
He seemed not to notice her coolness. ""Zeta,
let us take the oath tonight. There is nothing now to stop
us."
  Nothing, Azetbur thought, now that my father is
dead. He tried to pull her closer, but she
resisted, drawing back in the chair. He looked
up at her, bewildered.
  "What, Zeta? Have I not allowed you sufficient
time? If so, I beg forgiveness."
  She forced her expression to remain cold. "Things
have changed between us, Brigadier Kerla."
  Slowly he released her wrist and withdrew his hand.
She saw rage flare in him, saw him struggle
to contain it. "I do not understand."
  "Were you loyal to my father?" she asked
abruptly. The question surprised them both. She had
intended merely to end the relationship without explanation.
Fool, she told herself. If Chang's
suspicions are correct, you have just hastened your own
execution.
  'This time Kerla did not hide his fury at the
insult to his honor. Azetbur watched
him without reac-
  tion; if Kerla was merely playing a role,
he was an accomplished actor indeed.
  "What are you suggesting, Chancellor? That I
betrayed Gorkon? That I was responsible for his
death?" He sprang to his feet. "I did not
always agree with him. I never made a secret of
that. But I took an oath of allegiance to him! I
do not need to repeat it for it to be valid!" "You have
taken no oath of allegiance to me."
  The statement diluted his anger. He crouched
to face her at eye level. "I will gladly take
such an oath, Chancellor. You have my loyalty; I
thought you knew."
  "Do I?" she asked softly.
  She expected the question to infuriate him again;
instead, he gazed intently at her and lowered himself,
one hand on the arm of Gorkon's chair. "You are
angered by the death of your father," Kerla said at last,
with disarming gentleness. "I do not hear your words of
accusation; you do not mean them. You have much on your mind.
After the peace conference, we will speak again, when you have
come to yourself." He reached out to touch her hand.
  She pulled it away. "No. We will not speak of
this later, even if I should survive. We
will not speak of this again. You are not to come to my cabin
again, save on official business."
  "Azetbur . . ."
  She signaled for the guard. Kerla rose
swiftly, angrily.
  "You do not trust me," he said, his voice low,
bitter. "The time will come when you will regret that you have
sent me away."
  She returned to her reading and did not permit herself
to watch as he left.
  McCoy stood beside Kirk in the center of the
courtroom and was frightened.
  Not that the Klingons had treated them badly. On
the contrary, they'd taken care of their prisoners far
better than the doctor had anticipated. He and
Jim had been put in a comfortable cell with padded
bunks and given fairly decent food, if you
allowed for the fact it was Klingon. Not that he'd been
able to eat more than a bite.
  Azetbur was continuing her father's humane
policies, McCoy figured, wincing as he
realized the semantic evolution of the word
"humane." The only degrading part was being denied a
shave and a shower. And McCoy was doing a lot of
sweating.
  'The Klingons were being too kind. Which meant they were
saving up for something.
  Probably for this. The courtroom was a curious
blend of cathedral and circus: a cavernous
stadium arranged in rising circular tiers hewn from
jagged rock.
  ,And at its center, at the very base, was the
prisoners" dock, a circular enclosure that
came to McCoy's waist. The dock was
spotlighted, the rest of the cavern dim, shadowed;
McCoy squinted and
  could just make out the cameras suspended from the high
stone walls. At first the realization made him even
more nervous-so everyone in the galaxy would be watching the
debacle; and then he realized with hope that Spock
and the Enterprise crew would be watching, too. He
scanned the high tiers jutting above them just as
Chancellor Azetbur, majestic and
unapproachably beautiful, entered with her
entourage. He had not seen or spoken to her since
the night her father died, when she had been speechless with
grief. The sight of her gave him hope.
Azetbur, like her father, was reasonable, compassionate,
intelligent. Surely she couldn't believe the
captain had conspired to kill Gorkon .
. . . The audience began to chant, softly at first,
increasing to a thunderous roar until MdCoy felt it
in the soles of his feet: "Kirk! Kirk!
Kirk! KIRK."
  The doctor gripped the edge of the dock lest his
wobbly knees betray him. Jim didn't react.
He had remained morosely silent throughout the
ordeal. McCoy knew that the chancellor's death had
hit him hard. Jim grieved for Gorkon, as a
living being and as the last hope for peace in the
galaxy, and was grieved by the hatred that had
possessed him since David's death and Carol's
injury-the same hatred that had spurred the
assassins. McCoy hadn't felt much like talking
himself. He had admired and respected Gorkon as
much as
  anyone he'd met-but the chancellor had died
  because McCoy, a Starfleet medical officer,
hadn't been required to study Klingon anatomy.
Sure, he could have learned it on his own, but he'd
been too busy-and besides, the theory had always been that
Federation ships stayed in Federation space and never
encountered Klingons. Theoretically.
  Or was the underlying assumption so ugly we couldn't
admit it to ourselves? McCoy wondered. That
a Klingon life wasn't worth saving . . . The
crowd's chanting grew so loud he could no longer
think. The defense attorney-dark-skinned,
broad-shouldered, powerfully built-entered the arena.
McCoy had been too distraught at their first and
only brief meeting to remember his name. He
remembered only his surprise at the fact that the
likable young Klingon seemed sincerely interested in
trying to help his clients, though he offered little hope
of a favorable verdict. The attorney proffered
two unfamiliar-looking devices to McCoy and
Kirk. McCoy took one, frowning at it
uncertainly until the attorney showed them how
to hold it. Jim caught on and leaned over to shout in
McCoy's ear. "Translators!"
  McCoy nodded and held his translator to his
ear as General Chang emerged from the shadows. The
audience stilled expectantly. Prisoners,
prosecution, defense, McCoy thought. But where are
the judge and jury?
  General Chang began to speak, his expression

  one of utter smugness and satisfaction. McCoy
glared, convinced that Chang had been waiting a long
time for this moment. He adjusted the
translator against his ear and listened.
  "The state will show," Chang said, "that Enterprise
fired on Kronos One without provocation, the
chancellor and his advisers having been lulled into a
false sense of security with an invitation to a state
dinner aboard Captain Kirk's vessel at
nineteenthirty hours that same evening." He turned
to Kirk with a slight, insulting smile. "Do you deny
all this?" "Kirk! Kirk!" the spectators
hooted.
  McCoy heard metal strike stone and gazed up
into the darkness directly behind them in time to catch a
fleeting glimpse of the ghostly pale features of the
judge.
  The crowd stilled.
  "The prisoner will respond," the judge commanded.
He wore a studded glove to which was attached a dull
metal sphere that McCoy realized served as
gavel.
  A muscle in Jim's jaw danced. "I don't
deny we invited them to dinner." "Were you drunk at
that dinner?" Chang asked silkily. "What?"
Jim drew back, confused and angered.
  "Isn't it a fact," Chang, continued, "that you
served Romulan ale, a beverage
illegal in the Federation because of its overwhelming
potency?" "The drink was served," Jim admitted.

  McCoy looked down and shook his head.
  Why doesn't our attorney object? This is
a damned show trial.
  "This is a damned show trial," Rear
Admiral Smillie said hotly to President
Ra-ghoratrei. He did not want war, but he
knew both Jim Kirk and Leonard
McCoy-two of Starfleet's best. They had
served the Federation well and were due to retire. They
deserved a better fate than this. If he could just
persuade Ra-ghoratrei to try something in terms of a
rescue mission . . . Once Kirk and McCoy
were safe, the diplomats could go in and clean up the
pieces. Smillie felt certain that the Klingons'
situation was too desperate for them to attempt war.
He glanced sharply at Sarek, who he felt was
responsible for Ra-ghoratrei's reluctance.
Sarek did not react; the president ignored
Smillie as well, his attention riveted on the
trial proceedings.
  Smillie sighed and returned his attention to the
screen.
  McCoy watched as Chang strutted back and forth
in front of the prisoners' dock.
  "And you still maintain that your ship did not fire on
Kronos One? Would you have known if she had? Come
now, Captain. The record clearly shows there were
no other ships in the sector."
  "There were no other ships in the sector," Kirk
confirmed.
  Dammit, Jim, McCoy wanted to shout at
him, are you trying to get us the death penalty?
  "Did you have occasion to refer to your ship's data
banks during that night?"
  "I checked the data banks, yes," Jim
answered stonily. "And what did they tell you?"
  Jim hesitated. "That we fired two photon
torpedoes. But-was The rest of his answer was drowned
out by the mob's howls. Chang gave a faint
hateful smile. "The witness is excused-for the time
being."
  He strode off as the judge gaveled for order.
McCoy's fear turned to honest anger as he
recognized the next witness: one of Chancellor
Gorkon's guards, minus his right arm. The arm could
have been located-and, if too damaged, recloned-and
reattached, or at the very least, replaced
by a prosthesis. But the prosecution had chosen to use
this unfortunate victim to play on the crowd's
sympathies. Or perhaps the guard had chosen, as had
Chang, to shun medical intervention and sport the
disfigurement as a badge of courage. The defense
attorney approached the witness. "Tell us what
you saw the night Chancellor Gorkon was
assassinated."
  The guard nodded. "We were fired on by the
  Enterprise-was
  "Let that remark be stricken from the record." The
attorney turned and raised a hand toward the
  judge. "The witness assumes Kronos One was
fired on by the Enterprise, but has no direct knowledge
of such."
  "Denied," the judge intoned.
  The attorney sighed and directed his attention
back to his witness. "Continue."
  "After the first hit," the guard said, "we lost our
gravitational field. I found myself weightless and
unable to function. Then two Starfleet crewmen
came walking toward us."
  "Perhaps they merely wore Starfleet
uniforms-"the attorney began. Chang called from the
shadows. "I move that remark be stricken
as purely speculative."
  "So ordered," the judge said. "Colonel
Worf, we are interested in facts, not theories."
  Colonel Worf-odd name for a Klingon; no
wondered he hadn't remembered it, McCoy
thought-contained his frustration and continued his questioning. "Did
you see their faces? Could you identify them if you
saw them again?" The guard hesitated. "No. But
they were human, I'm sure of that." Worf tilted
his head skeptically. "If you didn't see their
faces, how do you know they were human?"
  Bless you, McCoy directed the grateful thought
at Worf. You're trying; you're actually trying.
  "I couldn't- I didn't . . . I didn't
get a good look at them; that's what I mean. But
I could tell they were human."
  "Hmm." Worf turned away thoughtfully, then

  swiveled suddenly and fired a question at the startled
witness. "If the gravitational field was not
functioning, how could these men have been walking?"
  "They appeared to be wearing gravity boots," the
guard said. A murmur traveled through the crowd.
Colonel Worf seemed sorry he had asked.
"No further questions."
  Chang stepped forward to take over. "They fired
on you?" he asked the guard.
  The Klingon nodded. "With Starlleet-issue
phasers. They dashed into the chancellor's stateroom.
We could hear more phaserfire. Then they went back
the way they'd come."
  "Toward the transporter room?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Thank you," Chang said solicitously. "That will
be all."
  The guard exited. Chang turned a glittering
eye on McCoy. "Dr. McCoy, what is your
current medical status?" McCoy felt a
thrill of fear at the sound of his own name, but he
faced Chang squarely and purposely misunderstood
the question. Damned if he'd do anything to make
Chang's work any easier for him. "Aside from a
touch of arthritis," he answered jauntily,
"I'd say pretty good."
  Next to him, Jim almost smiled.
  Chang was not amused; he stared silently at the
doctor. McCoy yielded first.
  "For twenty-seven years I have been ship's
surgeon and later chief medical officer aboard the
USS Enterprise. In three months
I'm due to stand down."
  Chang frowned at the idiom. "Stand . . . ?"
  "Retire."
  "Ah," Chang said softly. "I believe. you
also consumed Romulan ale at the officers' mess
on the night in question, Doctor?" "Objection!"
Worf shouted with such force that McCoy started.
"Sustained," the judge replied, to everyone's
surprise. "We all did." McCoy's voice
quavered with anger. "But that doesn't mean-was The
judge interrupted. "General Chang, come to the
point or abandon this line of inquiry."
  Chang acknowledged the request with a gracious
nod, then studied McCoy with that damnably smug
expression. "Was Chancellor Gorkon alive
when you first examined him?"
  "Barely." McCoy lowered his voice as he
remembered. "Have you saved patients as "barely'
alive as he was?" For a moment anger, guilt, and
pain rendered McCoy speechless. "I didn't .
. ." He faltered, shamed by the recollection. "I
didn't have the knowledge of Klingon anatomy I needed."
  The great hall went silent; McCoy's words
echoed.
  "You say you are due for retirement,"
Chang persisted gently. "May I ask: do your
hands shake?"
  "Objection!" Worf cried.
  McCoy jerked his chin up and stared at Chang with
unmasked hatred, scarcely aware that Jim had
laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. A half
dozen obscene racial epithets concerning Klingons
filled his head, all of which he longed to hurl at
Chang and none of which applied, in his own mind,
to Azetbur or her late father.
  "Overruled," the judge thundered.
  "I was nervous," McCoy said heatedly.
  "You were incompetent!" Chang leaned over the
dock and shouted in McCoy's face; Jim moved
toward him threateningly. "Whether deliberately or
as a result of age combined with drink, this court will
determine." "I tried to save him!" McCoy's
voice broke. "I was desperate to save him!
He was the last best hope in the universe for real
peace!" He gazed up into the shadows, in
Azetbur's direction, hoping that she understood.
"The chancellor herself will testify that the defendant's
hands shook." McCoy bowed his head in shame.
  Chang stepped back and gestured grandly at
Kirk. "And now we come to the architect of
this tragic affair, Captain James Tiberius
Kirk. I put it to you, Captain, that you were seeking
revenge for the death of your son." Jim paled in the
harsh light. "That isn't true!"
  Relentlessly Chang continued. "That, either as an
instrument of Federation policy or acting on your own
drunken initiative, you and your fellow
conspirators crippled Kronos One and
coldbloodedly assassinated the chancellor of the
High Council. Then you and Dr. McCoy went
aboard to make certain the job was complete."
  "Objection!" Colonel Worf protested.
"Captain Kirk has not been identified as the
assassin."
  The judge sounded faintly bored, anxious to be
finished with the proceedings. "Sustained."
  "I offer into the record the following excerpt from
Captain Kirk's personal log." Chang
signaled someone at the far end of the room. Kirk's
recorded voice filled the room: "I've never
trusted Klingons and never will . . . . I have never
been able to forgive them for the death of my son . . . .
  An explosive babble filled the room; the
judge pounded his metal glove for silence.
McCoy turned to Jim, who stood stiff
and expressionless except for the utter disbelief in his
eyes. It wasn't true, wasn't true,
McCoy told himself. The tape had to have been
faked. He looked to Kirk for reassurance, but
Jim refused to meet his eyes.
  "Are those your words?" Chang demanded.
  "Yes," Jim whispered.
  McCoy stared at him, mute with horror.
  "Spoken by you?"
  "Yes."
  "Louder, please," Chang insisted. "We cannot
hear you."
  Jim straightened and said firmly, "Those words were
spoken by me." McCoy closed his eyes and
surrendered all hope.
  From the bridge of the USS Excelsior,
Captain Sulu watched. Before the trial began,
Sulu had known nothing whatsoever of the circumstances
surrounding Gorkon's assassination-except that
Kirk was in- nocent. Of that there could be no question-at
least, not in Sulu's mind-even after hearing Kirk's
recorded statement. And he felt certain that the
Federation, Starfleet, and even the Klingons were aware
of the fact as well.
  As the trial proceeded, Sulu's
anger grew. He hadn't seen the Enterprise
crew in several years, and to see the captain and
Dr. McCoy in such circumstances was acutely
painful, though he had been forced to smile at
McCoy's tonguein-cheek response to the question about
his medical status. It soon became clear the
Klingons had no intention of conducting a fair
trial; it was also clear that Starfleet and the Federation
intended to do nothing about it. They were going to let Kirk
and McCoy serve as scapegoats, ostensibly
to prevent a war, while the real assassins went
unpunished.
  Sulu did not want war. But he knew that
Gorkon's murderers did. If sacrificing
Kirk and McCoy brought peace, the killers would do
whatever was necessary to destroy that peace. The sacrifice
would be wasted.
  Sulu made a decision, one that might cost him
a career in Starfleet. It was not the first time he had
been willing to take such a risk for a particular
captain and a particular crew.
  "Communications," he said, swiveling in his chair.
Rand turned, expectant. "Sir?"
  He lowered his voice confidentially. "Send
to commander, Enterprise: "We stand ready
to assist you. Captain Sulu. USS
Excelsior." Attach our coordinates. Use
a secured channel."
  Rand hesitated as she raised her pale gold
brows in surprise. "Is that wise, sir? I
mean, given their situation-was
  Sulu's look silenced her in mid-sentence.
He did not need to explain himself. Years before, Rand
had served aboard the Enterprise under Kirk's
command.
  "Aye, sir," she said.
  Unhappily, Sulu returned his gaze to the
screen.
  Aboard Enterprise, Uhura forced her attention
away from the trial and onto the incoming communication.
The message from, Excelsior's captain brought
an inward smile; she turned to Spock.
"Sulu's giving us his position and telling us he's
standing by."
  The Vulcan's gaze never left the screen.
"He's placing himself in a most awkward position,"
Spock murmured.
  No worse, Uhura thought, as she turned back
to
  watch the trial, than the position
Spock would soon be placing himself in-if she knew
her Vulcans.
  Kirk leaned wearily against the dock as
Colonel Worf spread his arms in appeal to a
judge presiding above them.
  "Objection, your honors! My clients"
political views are not on trial here."
  Jim listened to it all with sudden detachment,
exhausted by the emotions Chang's questioning had evoked in
him.
  Gorkon's death tormented him. At the moment, the
trial and whatever sentence might follow seemed
meaningless. Only two things mattered: that
Gorkon's killers be brought to justice and that the
peace process continue. Jim was helpless to do either
at the moment, but he suspected that Spock would find
a way to accomplish both.
  Hearing his earlier words about David repeated before
the court had stunned him. The Klingons could not have
obtained his personal log without the help of a
conspirator aboard Enterprise-a conspirator who
might very well still be aboard her. He could only
hope that Spock had already come to the same conclusion.
  Nearby, McCoy wearily lowered his face
into his hand, defeated. Jim felt pity for
him, mixed with a sudden curious detachment. Had the
doctor ever really thought they had a chance in hell of
being found innocent? McCoy had seemed
frustrated, 167
  scandalized by the captain's honest, and thoroughly
incriminating, answers.
  It wouldn't have mattered if he'd lied. Nothing
anyone did here mattered; the judges would still find
them both guilty. He had understood that the instant
he heard the excerpt from his personal log. Chang
moved closer to the prisoners' dockcircling like a
hawk, Kirk thought, moving in for the kill. "On the
contrary," the general began, his volume slowly
increasing, "Captain Kirk's views and motives
are at the heart of this matter. This officer's
record shows the accused to be an insubordinate,
unprincipled career opportunist with a history of
violating the chain of command when it suited him.
  "Indeed, the record will show that "Captain'
Kirk was once "Admiral' Kirk and that
Admiral Kirk was broken for taking matters
into his own hands in defiance of regulations and the
law." He wheeled and swooped down on Kirk,
grabbing the edge of the dock. "Do you deny you were
demoted on these charges, Captain?"
  Kirk hesitated and adjusted the translator
against his ear, pretending not to understand.
  Chang thrust his face into Kirk's and screamed,
veins standing out on his neck, "Do not wait for the
translation! Answer me now!" "Don't answer!"
Worf shouted, leaning against the other side of the dock.
He swung around to thrust a beseeching hand up at the
judges. "Objection!"
  Jim knew what the answer would be before it came.
"Objection overruled. The prisoner will answer the
question." "I cannot deny it," Kirk said.
  "Chang's lips curved upward in triumph.
"You were demoted."
  "Yes."
  McCoy groaned softly.
  "For insubordination," Chang continued.
  Jim shrugged cavalierly. "I have on occasion
disobeyed orders." "And were you obeying or disobeying
orders the night you arranged the assassination of
Chancellor Gorkon?"
  "I ob-"the defense attorney began.
  "I was unaware of the assassination until I
boarded his ship!" Jim shouted.
  Chang's eye widened with theatrically exaggerated
amazement. "You deny Enterprise fired
on Kronos One?"
  "Well, I-was
  "You deny," Chang said, louder, "that your men
beamed aboard Kronos One and shot the chancellor?"
  Jim stiffened as he understood where the general's
logic was headed. Chang was nothing if not
brilliant, and there was no point in trying to resist,
to argue. The outcome would be the same. , "I cannot
confirm or deny actions which I did not witness,"
Jim replied.
  "Captain Kirk, are you aware that, under Federation
law, the captain of a starship is considered
responsible for the actions of his crew?" He heard
McCoy's sharp intake of breath as the doctor,
too, realized, and Jim did not look at
McCoy as he answered: "I am."
  Chang nodded grimly. "So if it should prove
members of your crew did in fact carry out such an
assassination . . ."
  McCoy desperately clutched his arm. "Jim!
They're setting us up!" He turned toward the
judge's box. "Your honor, I protest!" "The
defendant will be silent!" the judge thundered.
"Captain Kirk, you will answer the question."
  "As captain," Jim said heavily,
"I am responsible for the conduct of the crew under my
command."
  Chang's posture and expression radiated
victory. He faced the judge. "Your honor, the
state rests."
  McCoy turned to Colonel Worf with a
hopefulness Jim thought pathetic. "Is it our
turn, now?"
  The Klingon's dark, broad face wore a
grim expression. "According to Klingon law, both
sides present their cases at the same time.
We've had our turn."
  McCoy paled and opened his mouth to speak, then
started as the judge's gauntlet crashed against stone
with a flurry of sparks. "It is the judgment of this
court that the defendants are guilty as charged."
  The spectators roared, then began to chant a
  single, booming word; Kirk had no doubt as to its
meaning. Death . . .
  He stared with honest hatred at.chang, whose own
expression was unreadable.
  The judge pounded his mailed glove against stone
once more; the crowd fell silent. "Captain
James T. Kirk, Dr. Leonard McCoy .
. ."
  Kirk and McCoy turned. Jim squinted through
the harsh light at the judge's ghostly white
countenance, partially obscured by the shadow of his
upturned cowl.
  "Have either of you anything to say before this court passes
sentence?" Jim and Bones shared a look.
  "We were framed," McCoy said.
  Their attorney stepped in front of them and
addressed the judge, his tone impassioned. Jim
watched with amazement. The Klingon was actually
angry and disappointed for his clients" sake.
  "I wish to note for the record that the evidence against
my clients is entirely circumstantial. I
beg the court to consider this when pronouncing its
sentence."
  "So noted." The judge paused. Jim steeled
himself. He had no doubt that the sentence would be death.
For him it didn't matter, but for McCoy . . .
He turned and gave the doctor a glance that
reassured and apologized at the same time.
McCoy shrugged, cleared his throat, and looked at
the judge. "In the interests of amity for the upcoming
peace 171
  talks," the judge said, "the sentence of death is
commuted."
  McCoy sagged against the dock. Jim forced himself
to keep his balance. The crowd roared angrily, then
quieted to hear the rest of the sentence. "It is the
judgment of this court that, without possibility of
reprieve or parole, you be taken from this place to the
dilithium mines on the penal asteroid archipelago
of Rura Penthe, there, to spend the rest of your
natural lives."
  FROM mEvery sxFm of the Enterprise bridge,
Spock watched with the others as the prisoners were led
away.
  "Rura Peathe!" Uhura recoiled,
horrified, from the sight. "Known throughout the galaxy
as the aliens' graveyard," Chekov whispered, his
face slack with shock. Beside him at her post,
Valeris kept her expression taut, controlled,
belying the agitation in her eyes. "Better to kill
them now and get it over with," Scott muttered
bitterly behind them.
  Spock stared mutely at the screen.
Impossible to deny that the trial had evoked deep
emotion within him. After many years spent among
humans, he had learned to accept his heritage and the
fact that he possessed emotions. He had even come
to see
  how he had overcompensated for the fact-which Dr.
McCoy had taken great pains to point out, on one
occasion accusing Spock of "trying to outVulcan the
Vulcans."
  to "et he remained devoted to logic. He was
most comfortable in his role as a Vulcan and saw no
advantage in abandoning it now. While certain
positive emotions, experienced judiciously,
might enhance life, none could be permitted to control
it.
  And so Spock contained those he experienced now:
frustration, anger, despair, and, strongest of all,
an entirely irrational guilt. Guilt, because he
had volunteered the Enterprise and James T.
Kirk for the Kronos mission. To some degree, he
had been guilty of manipulation. Yet his reasons
for doing so were logical beyond reproach. The
Enterprise under James T. Kirk was the safest
choice for transporting the Klingon chancellor; it was
merely incidental that Kirk would. have the
opportunity to meet Chancellor Gorkon, to know that
Klingons other than Kruge existed in the
universe. Both Kirk and Gorkon stood
to benefit from the encounter. But circumstance had
conspired against them. And more, Spock
realized now, than circumstance. The real
conspirators were free, while Kirk and McCoy
stood trial, which meant that Azetbur's life and the
chance for peace were still endangered.
  Spock also felt guilt for not boarding Kronos
in Kirk's place. He argued most logically with
himself had Kirk not gone, the Klingons would simply
have destroyed Enterprise. The captain's gamble
  had saved the ship-and now would save the peace
conference. Nevertheless, Spock could not quite free himself
of the nagging conviction that it would have been better for him
to stand in Kirk's place in the prisoners" dock.
  Initially he had experienced relief on learning
that his two friends had escaped the sentence of death. He
had prepared himself to face that outcome with some measure
of acceptance.
  Yet a small internal voice-one he had almost
silenced during the emotion-denying discipline of
Kolinahr, one that had led him back to the
Enterprise and V'Ger, one he had learned in
recent years to carefully attend-refused to accept
the possibility and insisted, even in that grim instant
before sentence was passed, on hope.
  His relief was immediately outweighed by alarm. Rura
Penthe had attained legendary status as the
cruelest penal colony in the Klingon
archipelago. Spock agreed with Commander Scott;
a swift execution would have been more merciful. No
one survived a stay of any length on Rura
Penthe. Death was inevitable.
  Spock had no intention of allowing the inevitable
to occur, nor would he hesitate to disobey a
direct order and violate Starfleet regulations.
He was simply repaying a favor. And, as he had
once told Jim Kirk, some things transcended the
discipline of the service.
  He turned to Valeris. "Let's see the
torpedo hit again, Lieutenant."
  She glanced back at him; only a Vulcan
could have seen the dark emotion that burned in her eyes.
She saw that he noticed, and lowered her gaze.
Spock felt a stirring of compassion as her fingers
flew over the controls. He would have liked
to reassure her, but his words would have been mean-
ingless. The odds were great that the captain and Dr.
McCoy would be dead before rescue arrived.
  As the image of Kronos One reappeared on the
monitor, Spock raised his fingers to his brow,
then consciously forced himself to lower them before anyone
caught the gesture.
  The bridge crew watched in silence as a
photon torpedo streaked across the screen and. pounded
the unwary Klingon vessel. "It is Enterprise,
was Chekov said, hopeless. "We fired."
  Spock was not so certain. He watched as, on the
visual, Kronos reeled from the impact of a
second hit.
  "It's na possible!" Scott directed his
protest at the Vulcan. "All weapons visually
accounted for. Sir."
  Valeris swiveled to face Spock. "Captain
. . .?" Her tone was unusually diffident, soft.
"Is it not logical to consider all
possibilities? This is most difficult to say,
but has it occurred to"-Scott turned sharply
to frown at her, and she recoiled slightly-"to any
of us that Captain Kirk is . . . that is, we know
his feelings about Klingons, what they did to his . .
."
  Uhura and Chekov were both glaring in open
  disapproval at her; Spock's own gaze was
impenetrable. She broke off, then lifted her chin
in pale defiance. "Well, it is a
possibility." Spock held her gaze a few
seconds, then said tonelessly: "Again." The
scene returned to Kronos, hovering placidly in
starry space. A flash appeared in the bottom right
sector of the screen. "Hold," @.pock ordered.
He studied the frozen image. They had all been
making the same assumption based on, sheerly
visual evidence. The torpe- does'
trajectory made it appear that they had been fired
from the Enterprise. However . . .
  An image rose unbidden in his consciousness:
Jim Kirk, his features twisted with anger,
saying, They never even saw the ship that attacked
them; the phaserfzre seemed to come out of nowhere. . .
He gazed back at the expectant crew. "An
ancestor of mine maintained that if you eliminate the
impossible, whatever remains-however improbable-must
be the truth."
  "What exactly does that mean?" Uhura
asked, desperation ,and impatience in her voice.
  "It means," Spock replied slowly, "that if
we cannot have fired those torpedoes, someone else
did."
  Valeris's left eyebrow rose sharply.
  Scott shook his head in confusion. "They dinna
fire on themselves. And there were no other ships
present."
  "No. But there was an enormous neutron energy
  surge."
  "Not from us!" the engineer protested.
  "Precisely," Spock said. Using Occam's
razor and-though it was difficult to admit
to hmfintuition, he had already come to the simplest, most
logical conclusion possible, one so unbelievable the
crew would reject it unless they were led to the same
deduction.
  Chekov frowned thoughtfully and tilted his head.
"I don't understand, Mr. Spock. A neutron
surge that big could only be produced by another ship
. . ."
  "Kronos One?" Uhura suggested.
  Spock shook his head. "Too far off: This ship
had to have been very near us. Perhaps underneath us..."
  "If another ship had been beneath us, the Klingons
would have seen her," Scott said.
  Spock turned to him. "Would they?"
  The others gazed at him in confusion, but Valeris
understood. "A Bird of Prey?" she asked
softly.
  "A Bird of Prey," Spock confirmed.
  "Cloaked?" Chekov's intonation rose in
disbelief. "A Bird of Prey canna
fire when she's cloaked!" Scott protested.
"All things being equal, Mr. Scott, I would
agree. Normally, the power drain caused by a
cloaking device is too great to allow
simultaneous use of weaponry. However, all
things are not equal: this one can."
  Scott's ruddy complexion paled. "Then you're
  talking about a dreadful new engine of destruction,
Mr. Spock." "I believe I am."
  "We must inform Starfleet Comm-was Valeris
began, but Scott interrupted angrily,
  "Inform them of what? A new weapon that isn't
visible? Raving lunatics-that's what they'll call
us! They'll say we're so desperate to exonerate
the captain we'll say anything."
  Spock released a small sigh. "And they would be
correct. We have no evidence, only a theory that
happens to fit the facts."
  "Even assuming you're correct; Mr.
Spock," Uhura asked, "why would they fire on
their own chancellor?"
  Spock evaded the question, not for lack of an
answer, but rather because he hoped his unstated suspicion
was incorrect.
  He made a decision and faced
Valeris. "I want this ship searched from bow to stern.
Lieutenant Valeris, you are in charge. Start with the
transporter room and proceed outward."
  The young Vulcan rose. "Aye, sir."
  Chekov's expression remained puzzled. "I do
not understand. If there was a ship underneath us, surely the
assassins beamed aboard from that vessel, not
Enterprise. his
  "You have forgotten something," Spock told him.
"The data banks claim we fired. If we
did, the killers are here; if we did not, whoever
altered the data banks is here. In any event,
what we are searching for is here."
  Chekov's frown deepened. "What are we
searching for, Mr. Spock?" He turned toward
Yaleris, certain that she understood-in her studies,
she had excelled in logical deduction. "Tell
him, Lieutenant."
  She straightened self-consciously in response
to his scrutiny. "Two pairs of gravity
boots."
  McCoy raised stinging eyes against the bitter
wind. Overhead, Rura Penthe's three suns
floated, ghostly and pale, providing no warmth.
The doctor blinked. The wind and cold
made his eyes tear, but the drops froze before reaching
his cheeks.
  He hadn't thought the human body capable of
withstanding such temperatures-at least, not his human
body. At first he'd been glad for it, in a way.
Freezing to death seemed preferable to death at the hands
of the guards. He'd go numb all over, fall
asleep, and that would be it. A quick, fairly painless
end.
  That was before he'd spent any time irk the cold.
Now his hands and feet ached viciously, and the agony
threatened to spread. The heavy leg irons didn't
help.
  Painless, hell. Freezing to death was definitely
not the way to go. McCoy struggled to keep his balance
on the snow-covered ice, leg irons clanking as
he maintained pace with fourteen other prisoners.
Beside them trudged five Klingon guards attended
by "vicious-looking jackal-mastiffs.
  The scene struck McCoy as surrealistic; this
was barbarianism from a bygone era. Tie knew they
read Shakespeare; something tells me they read
Dumas, too.
  He squinted, snow-blind, into the distance, but saw no
possible destination-only white, extending
into infinite horizon. McCoy clutched his ragged
furs more tightly as he shivered. Any hope he'd
cherished of Spock coming to rescue them had long
vanished. The doctor alternated between sullen
apathy born of despair and irrational anger at
Jim, who trudged ahead of him and hadn't said a
word since they'd arrived. Come to think of it, neither had
McCoy. Too damned cold even to talk ....
He almost stumbled into Jim before he realized that the
head guard had signaled the prisoners to stop. The
Klingon-hard to tell, with everyone wrapped in the
same raggedy furs-pressed an instrument on his
belt that produced a highpitched whine.
  Rumbling. Snow slid aside to reveal a huge
trapdoor. It yawned open; another Klingon
guard emerged and placed a box in the swirling snow.
A third Klingon emerged, attended, like the others,
by a snarling, snaggle-toothed mastiff: The
commandant, McCoy guessed, judging from the way he
stepped onto the box and surveyed the shivering group
with an air of cruel indifference. The Klingon
seemed more hardened than his prisoners, and certainly
no happier to be there.
  d
  "This is the gulag Rura Penthe," he
growled. "Observe." He gestured with a
fur-covered arm at a barren sweep of snow. "There
is no stockade, no guard tower, no
electrified frontier. They are not needed. Only
a magnetic shield prevents beaming. Your new
home is underground."
  He lifted a whistle to his lips. McCoy
started at the shrill blast. Two guards emerged from
the trapdoor, dragging a struggling convict, a
human, stripped of his protective wrappings. The
prisoner screamed, "No! Noooo!"
  The commandant watched impassively, then
addressed his listeners. "Punishment means exile from
prison to the surface. On the surface nothing can
survive."
  The guards hurled the screaming convict onto the
ice. His cries abruptly faded; he lay
immobilized by the cold. McCoy looked away.
The commandant's expression was one of unutterable
boredom, as if he had seen this scene performed
countless times. "Below, no one can escape. Work
well and you will be treated well. Work badly and you will
die." He stepped off the box, which was immediately
retrieved by one of the guards, and descended through the
trapdoor. The prisoners were herded after
him.
  McCoy was grateful to head someplace warmer, but
as he was prodded into the entryway, he turned his head
to take one last look at the wasteland
  outside-and at the frozen corpse of the convict,
already half covered by the swirling snow.
  Below was a huge underground labyrinth with a large
open yard, ringed by crude huts. McCoy found it
a bleak improvement: sheltered from the bitter wind,
but still freezing. Much to his disappointment, the leg
irons were not removed. At least they were allowed
to wander freely in the courtyard comthough, after catching
sight of the other inmates, McCoy wasn't so
sure that was a good thing. Every one of them seemed twice
his size and ready to prove it.
  And the minute word got out that James Kirk had
arrived . . . McCoy glanced surreptitiously
at the guards above them on the scaffolding, then
hissed at Kirk, "Jim, let's find someplace
where we can stay out of trouble."
  Kirk glanced at the less than friendly crowd
milling around the yard and nodded, then jerked his head
toward the outer wall. Legs aching, McCoy
followed.
  "Maybe I shouldn't even tell you to not
try and get yourself killed," the doctor said
glumly, when they were out of earshot of the others.
"Actually, that might be the easiest way to go."
  Kirk's expression brightened; he raised his
brows at McCoy in mock surprise. "We'll
manage until Spock gets here," Jim said
easily. McCoy felt a surge of irritation,
fueled by 183
  exhaustion, cold, and hunger. "Why do you always
have to be such a damn Pollyanna in these situations?
Spock doesn't know where Rura Penthe is. No
one in the Federation does, and even if they did,
they'd never be able to get here. We're somewhere in the
Klingon Empire."
  "Spock will find us," Jim said firmly.
  "Find our corpses, you mean-was McCoy began
bitterly, but stopped as a shadow fell across them.
He glanced up.
  The creature blocking the light was gigantic and
unlike anything the doctor had ever seen:
silverscaled, with horny growths extending from
temple to chin. The left side of his face bore
brilliant red welts that might have been a scar from
a previous battle or a perfectly normal
marking for his species.
  As the doctor had feared, the word was out: the alien
loomed menacingly over Kirk and growled something that
sounded to McCoy like "Quog wok na pushnat!"
  Jim spread his hands in a
"you-have-me-at-adisadvantage" gesture. "I'm
afraid our universal translator was
confiscated."
  The alien leaned closer and rumbled something totally
incomprehensible. Kirk smiled. "Sorry. . ."
  His reaction infuriated the alien, who roared,
"Ragnit ascru, unto pram moreoscue
skoradik!"
  "He's definitely on about something," McCoy
offered timidly, trying not to be too obvious about
sidling out of the way. "Quog wok na pushnat!" the
creature threatened, 184
  and to show he meant business, lifted Kirk into the
air with one arm. "If this is your spot," Jim
began, "we'll move on."
  He choked as the alien lifted him in the air.
McCoy considered coming to Jim's rescue for
precisely one second, then looked about
desperately for help.
  "He wants your obedience to the Brotherhood of
Aliens," a low, feminine voice said.
McCoy turned, startled. The speaker was
humanoid, female, dark- skinned, and
golden-eyed, strikingly beautiful. "He's got
it," Kirk gasped, red-faced. Distracted by the
woman, the alien eased his grip. Kirk gulped in
air.
  "And your coat," the woman said.
  "'Fraid not." Kirk eyed his adversary. "It
wouldn't fit him, anyway." The woman did not quite
smile as she spoke to the alien in his guttural
tongue. Somewhat reluctantly, the creature
lowered Kirk to the ground. Jim adjusted his
wrappings against the cold.
  " Fendo pomsky, was she told the alien, who
made an affirmative gesture and wandered off:
  Kirk faced his savior and studied her
appreciatively. "Thanks." "What's the
Brotherhood of Aliens?" McCoy asked.
"Prisoners from outside the Klingon system. They
tend to band together." The woman raised a dark and
faintly noxious-smelling object to her lips-a
hand-rolled tobacco cigarette, illegal as 185
  hell, McCoy thought at first-and inhaled smoke.
"I'm Martia." She offered them the burning
cigarette. McCoy drew back at
first, but she persisted. "This'll help keep you
warm. You're Kirk and McCoy." Kirk took
the cigarette and inhaled; his surprised reaction
convinced McCoy, who took a healthy drag. A
rush of warmth spread from his throat downward. He
coughed and handed the cigarette back to its owner. "How
did you know?" Kirk asked.
  Martia shrugged. "We don't get many
chancellors" assassins." Jim's expression
hardened. "We didn't kill Gorkon."
  Martia's eyes widened with mock innocence. "Of
course not." She glanced casually over one shoulder
to be sure no one else was within earshot. "There's a
reward for your death."
  Nervously, McCoy followed her gaze.
"Figures."
  Jim showed no surprise. "We've been set
up all along."
  Martia nodded, leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Somebody up there wants you out of the way."
  his:) don't believe we can get more out of the way
than this," McCoy sighed.
  "They'll make it look like an accident," she
whispered. "It's easy enough to do here."
  McCoy shivered, though not from cold..
Martia saw, took another drag off the
cigarette, and passed it back to him.
  The doctor took it gratefully and tried not to
  cough this time as the astringent smoke hit the back of
his throat. "What are you in for, if you don't mind
my asking?"
  She showed a flash of perfect white teeth;
McCoy found himself mesmerized by her eyes-golden,
flecked with black-and noticed Jim was not immune
to their effect, either.
  "I don't mind. Smuggling-guilty. I come from
Arc. Smuggling is an ancient and respected
trade there."
  "How much time's left of your sentence?" Kirk
asked. Her smile twisted grimly. "Don't you
know? Everyone on Rura Penthe is here for life."
  At Dr. Marcus's bedside, Kwan-mei
Suarez smiled as Carol opened her eyes.
Kwan-mei did not particularly feel like smiling.
She was glad to see Carol awake at last, but at
the same time, she dreaded this moment. Two days before,
she had been helping Jackson through the hospital
corridors. He took small, tentative
steps, one brown hand clutching the railing, the other
holding Kwan-mei's arm. She had been
happy again; Jackson was recuperating, cheerful, and
they had heard earlier that morning from the doctors that
Carol's treatment had been successful. And then they
had passed a wall monitor carrying the news about
Chancellor Gorkon's assassination. The fact was
almost a day old, due to the starbase's remote
location. Both had frozen, 187
  compelled to watch; she had not been able to meet
Jackson's eyes. She knew he had reacted just
as she had, with initial horror and pity, followed
by a cold reassessment: so Gorkon was dead. She
could not help seeing a degree of justice in the
fact. The chancellor's fate had been no worse
than that of the victims on Kudao or of those on-
Themis. Certainly no worse than Sohlar's.
  As the news commentator droned on, Gorkon's
official portrait had flashed onto the screen,
followed by bloody scenes from Kudao and the ruins of the
stations on Themis. Kwan-mei had found herself hoping
Gorkon had bled to death slowly, aware to the end.
She had turned away, ashamed. The stunning news
about Jim Kirk's arrest drew tier back. She
had been close enough to Carol to know about her son,
David, and how he died; she also knew Kirk was
his father. She felt that, through knowing Carol,
she also knew Jim, and she thought the charges were
insane. That night they had watched excerpts from the
trial in Jackson's room. Carol groaned and
gently fingered her forehead, touching the gold and white
hair that Kwan-mei had brushed an hour before.
Kwan-mei leaned forward, grateful to know that
doctors were monitoring Carol in the next room;
heir skin still had an unhealthy ivory cast. She
tried to decide if Carol had always been so pale.
Certainly she had always seemed tired, overworked.
"Carol'? How do you feel?" Carol tried to sit
up; Kwan-mei pressed a control
  that silently raised the head of the bed. "Rotten,"
Carol croaked, still rubbing her forehead. "What the
hell happened?" Kwan-mei drew a breath
to reply. Before she could, Carol closed her eyes.
"The building . . . the whole damn building. .
." She opened them again and stared at the walls, then
accusingly at Kwanmei. "This isn't Themis, is
it?"
  Kwan-mei's smile had faded entirely.
"No. It isn't. You had a head injury; you've
been out for a few days. How much do you remember?"
"The walls." Carol let her head loll against the
pillow. "I remember the walls coming
down. The damn building was collapsing on us. You
ran to the window. . ."
  Kwan-mei nodded. "The station was attacked."
  "Klingons," Carol whispered. Kwan-mei
heard the hatred in her tone. "Yes. Their
government denies it, of course, but there were witnesses
who saw the warbirds-was
  "The others," Carol interrupted. "Gods, are
they all right? Jackson, Sohlar-was
  Kwan-mei's throat constricted painfully.
"Jackson's all. right. Broke his spine in a
couple of places, but he's been up and walking for a
few days now. Just about mended. And I walked away
without a scratch. Can you believe it?"
  Carol looked steadily at her, eyes widening with
dread at the omission. Kwan-mei bowed her head.
"Carol, I'm so sorry. We lost Sohlar."
Slowly, stiffly, Carol turned her head away and

  gazed through the window at the garden. When she turned
back toward Kwan-mei, there were tears in her
eyes.
  "How did it happen?"
  "Quickly," she lied. "He never knew. . ."
  She held Carol's hand and let her
cry for a while. She felt no guilt over the lie
about Sohlar; she had been the only one with him when
he died, the only one who knew what had happened.
She hadn't even told Jackson about it, so
Carol would never have to know the truth. But she fully
intended to tell her about Kirk, as difficult as that
might be. X. would be impossible to protect her from
the news.
  Carol turned toward her, still wiping tears from her
cheeks, and asked, "Has anyone contacted
.tim?"
  Kwan-mei's heart skipped a beat. If she
didn't tell Carol now, there was a real danger
someone else might refer to the trial or turn on
a monitor carrying the news.
  Yet, looking at Carol's anguished
expression, she simply couldn't find the words.
"He was here. He was very upset and wanted to stay, but
he was called back to Starfeet Headquarters. Some
kind of emergency. . ." ""Typical Starfleet
timing," Carol said, not quite able to smile. "Poor
Jim . . ." Her expression darkened. "Maybe
because of Themis. Do you think there's going to be a war?"
  "I don't know," Kwan-mei answered
honestly. "I really don't know."
  ESCORTEII.. BY ComMANDER Chekov, Spock
entered the galley to find the servitors dismantled.
Crew members were sifting through the dishes and cut-
lery that covered every surface.
  Spock carefully picked his way through the debris
to where Valeris stood. "Any progress?"
  He could easily have asked the question via intercom from
the bridge, but at the moment the bridge was the place
of least activity aboard the ship. Spock trusted
Valeris to oversee the search efficiently; but perhaps
his presence there would facilitate matters.
  And perhaps his desire to check on the search in
person was motivated by anxiety. In reality he
had nothing to do at the moment except wait while
Enterprise's long-range scanners sought the
captain and McCoy-and think. He had already done
all
  he could do thus far for his friends by ordering the search and
by earlier taking advantage of the supply of
viridium patches on the bridge. The rest was up
to Kirk-and Lieutenant Valeris.
  Valeris caught sight of Spock and Chekov and
stiffened to attention. "None, sir. We have a crew
of three hundred examining their own quarters, but the
killers may be among them."
  Spock nodded, though the notion was a discomfiting
one. Valeris continued. "Surely they have disposed
of the boots by now. Wouldn't it have been more logical
to leave them on Gorkon's ship?" "Such logic
must give way to physics," Spock replied.
"Gravitational systems aboard Kronos had not
been restored by the time the killers escaped. Without
their boots, they would not have remained on the Klingon
transporter pads."
  Chekov extended thumb and forefinger in imitation.
of a phaser. "Why not simply vaporize them?"
  "Like this?" Valeris asked. She removed a
phaser from a wall mount, set it to kill, and
incinerated a nearby dish.
  Chekov winced and covered his ears as the alarm
sounded. Spock endeavored not to be amused by her
none-too-Vulcan brashness. At times she
reminded him strongly of James Kirk, though he
suspected she would be insulted at the thought.
  Valeris calmly returned the weapon to its mount
arid switched off the alarm. "As you know, Commander
Chekov, no one can fire an unauthorized
hphaser set on kill aboard a starship." She
turned to 192
  Speck. "Captain . . . suppose
that when the killers returned, they disposed of the boots
in the refuse?"
  Speck nodded; he had already considered that
possibility. "I am having the refuse searched."
  "But the incinerator-was Chekov began.
  "All Starlleet-issue clothing is
fireproof, Commander," Speck reminded him. "If
my surmise is correct, those boots will cling to the
killers" necks like Tiberian bats. They could not
make their escape without them, nor could they simply
eject them out the airlock for all to see; no . .
. they are here. Somewhere."
  He swiveled his head as Commander Uhura entered
the galley, carefully stepping over the scattered
utensils. She was frowning. "Did someone fire a
phaser?" Distracted, she did not wait for an
answer. "Mr. Speck. . ." The Vulcan met
her gaze.
  "I've pulled out my. . . um, wooden shoe,
and Starfleet is screaming for us to return to port."
  As she spoke, Scott entered.
  "Mr. Scott," Speck said. "Any
progress on repairing our warp drive?"
Scott had been in an exceptionally surly mood
ever since Admiral Smillie's
briefing; he puckered his forehead. "There's nothing
wrong with the bloody-was
  "Mr. Scott," Speck reminded him
smoothly, "if we return to spacedock; the
assassins will manage to dispose of their incriminating
footwear, and we will never see the captain or Dr.
McCoy alive again."
  ""comcd take weeks, sir," Scott finished
without missing a beat, his demeanor suddenly earnest.
  Spock nodded approvingly. "Thank you, Mr.
Scott. Commander Uhura, notify Starfleet that
our warp drive is inoperative."
  Valeris, who had followed the exchange
intently, raised a disapproving brow. "A lie?"
  Spock faced her unwaveringly. "An error."
He experienced no internal dissonance at the thought of
prevaricating, so long as the benefit achieved in so
doing outweighed any harm. In this case, the benefit
was Kirk and McCoy's lives.
  "I'll tell them someone threw a gravity boot
into it," Uhura said unhappily.
  Spock noted Valeris's hesitation. If she
ascribed to the galactic myth, as many did, that
Vulcans did not lie, she might very well be
tempted to notify Starfleet Command on
her own initiative. Spock watched her and
waited.
  "Right," Valeris said at last. A strange
look had come into her eyes, one that Spock
interpreted as repressed amusement and mild
exasperation. "A gravity boot in the warp drive
. . ." She paused. "'With your permission,
Captain Spock, I wish to see how the search is
proceeding in sickbay." Spock dismissed her with a
nod.
  Uhura watched her leave, then said, in a hushed,
worried voice, "You understand that we have lost all
contact with the captain and Dr. McCoy?" "At
present they are surrounded by a magnetic shield,"
Spock replied. He had expected as much.
  While the captain and doctor were being
transported to Rura Penthe, they could be traced; the
inability of Enterprise's scanners to detect them
meant that they had arrived on the penal colony . .
. and that there was not much time left.
  Spock did not like the thought of his two friends spending
any amount of time on Rura Penthe, but such was
unavoidable. Until the captain's precise
location was known, it would be foolhardy to order the
Enterprise blindly into Klingon space.
To do so would be to risk three hundred lives instead
of two.
  "If my calculations are correct," he told
Uhura, "the captain should be deep into his escape
planning by this time."
  He did not say, If he has survived . .
.
  At that moment Jim Kirk was standing in the prison
yard thinking only of survival. He was unclear
about how, exactly, the fight had started. All he
knew was that the alien-who, to Jim's mind, resembled
nothing so much as a brightly painted horned toad-had
approached once more and made a few threatening
sounds. This time, Martia didn't even have a chance
to interpret. She and Bones had watched,
horrified, as the alien had slammed a rough,
scaly paw into Jim's face.
  Within a light-second Kirk and the alien were
squared off, encircled by jeering prisoners, and Jim
was wiping blood from his nose. He could hear
McCoy calling for the guards. No point in that; they
had already joined the raucous crowd.
  Before Jim could gather himself, his opponent struck
again with a horny fist. This time Jim staggered back and
fell, but fought the dizziness and scrambled
to his feet to begin circling. He would not make the
same mistake again: his foe might be huge and
lumbering in appearance, but it could move with deadly
speed.
  The next time the creature swung, Jim ducked
and managed to come back with an uppercut. He
caught the alien square on the chin. The blow seemed
to cause the creature no"....comfort, but Jim
grimaced at the pain-the hornlike growths on the
creature's chin had gored his fist. The alien
lunged at Kirk and pulled him down; the two
wrestled on the frozen ground until Jim managed
to slip free. A kick to the chest, a slam to the
neck, and the giant at last was down. Jim staggered
toward his friends.
  Until a hand around his ankle pulled him back.
The alien lay, grinning, reeling Kirk in with an
inexorable grip. In an instant the creature was on
its feet and crushing Kirk, chest to back, in a
bear hug. The pressure increased until Jim was
lifted off his feet, unable to breathe. In desperation,
Kirk drew his legs up and swung down hard,
smashing the creature in the knee.
  To his grateful surprise, the alien dropped
with an earsplitting scream. Gasping,
Jim stumbled away.
  Bones hurried to his elbow. "You okay?"
  Jim nodded, unable to speak.
  Martia smiled, triumphant and calm, as if
she had never doubted Kirk would emerge the victor.
Jim hadn't been so sure. "They'll respect you
now," she said.
  "That's a comfort," Jim managed, catching his
breath. "I was lucky that . . . thing had knees."
He looked back; the giant toad was still on the
ground, clutching his injured leg.
  Martia followed his gaze. "That's not his knee."
She showed a crescent of white teeth at his confused
reaction. "Not everybody keeps their genitals in the
same place, Captain."
  "Anything else you want to tell me?" Kirk
shot back, then addressed McCoy before she could
respond. "Bones, why don't you see what you can
do? Let him know we're not holding a grudge."
  McCoy studied the injured behemoth dubiously.
"Suppose he's holding a grudge."
Tentatively the doctor approached the alien and
knelt down to examine the knee.
  Jim turned to Martia; she read the question in his
eyes and answered it before he could ask.
  She shook her head. "When whoever it is makes
his move, you won't be here to ask if he's the one."
She hesitated; for the first time, Kirk saw a
trace of fear in her expression. "You want to get
out of here "There's got to be a way," Kirk said.
  She glanced around anxiously, then opened her mouth
to speak-and closed it. again, no longer trying to hide
the fear. She shook her head and moved off.
  Kirk watched her go, then glanced back as the
alien cried out in pain. McCoy was gingerly
attempting to manipulate the leg. He looked up
at Jim, then back down at the knee, in
amazement.
  "Hot damn, Jim, she's right!"
  The buzzer summoned Sulu from an unpleasant
dream in which he was aboard Enterprise and Spock was
dead.
  He sat up instantly, pulse racing, and
ordered a lamp on. "Come in." Janice Rand
entered hesitantly and lingered by the door, lowering her
gaze at the sight of her commanding officer in such a
disheveled state. Her face was shadowed and drawn;
she had volunteered for an extended duty shift.
Sulu had allowed it because he trusted Rand-and because the
fewer among the crew who knew what he
intended in advance, the easier it would be for them later,
when Starfleet started asking questions. He had asked
Rand to relay any communications from Enterprise or
Starfleet Command directly to him in person.
Conversations via intercom aboard ship would
directly become part of ship's record, and
Sulu preferred for now to keep certain things off the
record.
  "Sorry to wake you, sir," Rand said, looking as
though she envied him. "But Starfleet urgently
requests any data we may have on the whereabouts of
Enterprise. his
  "What?" Sulu rubbed his eyes. He had heard
the statement, but registered it a half second later
than normal, by which time the question was already out of his mouth.
  "Apparently they're refusing to acknowledge the
signal to return to spacedock, sir."
  Sulu did not allow himself to smile; Rand would not
have understood that he was thinking of Spock and wondering
fondly what manipulation of logic the Vulcan
intended to use to explain that one to headquarters. He
paused, then said very seriously: "Signal
Starfleet Command that we have no idea of
Enterprise's location."
  Rand's pale eyes widened in
astonishment. "Captain, are you sure--" Sulu
hardened his expression. "That will be all, Mister.
Unless you have a problem. . ."
  "No, sir." Rand straightened to attention, then
left. As the doors snapped shut behind her, Sulu
sighed and sat back, now fully awake. Janice
was a good officer-, but if Sulu yielded to the
temptation to explain what he was doing, she would be as
liable as he. He had no desire to implicate
any of his crew.
  In fact, he had no real desire
to implicate himself --it could very well mean losing
Excelsior, the command he had awaited for so many
years. But if it came to that, Sulu would accept it.
Kirk's and McCoy's lives far outweighed such
a small sacrifice.
  Assuming they were still alive . . .
  9 * tilde C
  Kirk stretched out on the filthy tattered
mattress beside McCoy and stared at the bunk
overhead, which groaned uneasily as its occupant
shifted his weight. The prisoners" quarters, a
shabbily constructed hut, did little to block out the
cold. Kirk tucked his coat more tightly around
himself. He needed to rest, to steel himself for
another day here, but the cold, the throbbing in his nose
and jaw, and his restless thoughts made sleep
impossible.
  At times like these, he envied Spock his Vulcan
training; he would have liked now to be able to shut out the
pain, the cold, the anxious thoughts about Carol ....
  By now she had either died or regained consciousness,
only to learn that he had been sentenced to a life
term on Rura Penthe for murder. Not that he was so
horribly worried for his own sake. He knew that
Spock would come for them as soon as Jim found a
way around Rura Penthe's magnetic shield. In
the meantime, if he could just keep from getting killed
by one of the other prisoners, he could survive the
brutal prison conditions. 1"...rut he doubted
McCoy could take more than a day. Kirk turned
his head. The doctor was staring wide-eyed into the
darkness. "Can't sleep?" Jim asked softly.
  ""Three months till retirement."
McCoy's tone was beaten, hopeless. "What a
way to finish."
  "We're not finished," Jim said.
  McCoy turned on him, bitter. "Speak for
your- 200
  self. One day . . . one night. .
." He made a slashing gesture across his throat
with a forefinger. "Kobayashi Maru. . . How are we
supposed to protect ourselves? We don't even know
who our enemies are!" Kirk tried to sound
reassuring. "We'll find a way out of here,
Bones." "If it's so damned simple,"
McCoy hissed, "how come no one's escaped?"
"That's what they tell the prisoners. I don't
believe them. And I think Martia knows something
she's not telling."
  "You mean, like how to get out of here?"
  Jim nodded.
  "Fine," McCoy said caustically. "Then I
suppose we'll all just take a little hike to the
surface. And then what'll we do? Try to flag
down a passing freighter? We couldn't last an
hour."
  "Spook will be waiting for us. Trust me."
  McCoy squinted at him suspiciously,
clearly wanting to believe, but remaining
unconvinced. "Now I think you know something you're not
telling." "Bones?" Jim asked thoughtfully,
changing the subject. The less McCoy knew about
details, the safer it would be for him if things went
wrong. "Are you afraid of the future?"
  McCoy snorted as he shifted uncomfortably
on the unforgiving mattress. "That was the general
idea I intended to convey."
  "I didn't mean this future." 201
  "Are we playing multiple choice?"
  An alien claw suddenly flopped over the side
of the bunk above them. Jim noticed; McCoy
didn't. Jim pretended not to and kept on talking.
Maybe the alien was a very heavy sleeper.
  Or maybe he was dead.
  "Some people are afraid of the future," Jim
continued, keeping an eye and an ear open. "Of what
might happen." He paused. "I was frightened,
really frightened."
  A second claw dropped suddenly and dangled
over the edge of the bunk. McCoy's tone grew
quietly sympathetic. "I've looked death in the
eye a thousand times and tried to be professional about
it. Of course, it wasn't usually my death I was
looking at." He turned his head to look at
Jim. "What frightened you specifically?"
  A third, different, hand dropped. McCoy
saw, and met Jim's gaze knowingly.
  Someone was methodically knocking out-or
killing-all the prisoners within earshot.
Jim forced himself not to tense, to speak casually. "I
was frightened of . . . myself. What I had become after
David's death, after : . . what happened
to Carol. I was frightened of no more Neutral Zone.
I was used to hating Klingons. That's why I failed
in our assignment."
  ""You didn't fail," McCoy protested.
"It wasn't your fault Gorkon died." ""If
he hadn't, I would have failed. I couldn't play
  diplomat with them, Bones. You saw that. It never
even occurred to me to take Gorkon at his word.
Spock was right. I was behaving like a bigot, blaming
all Klingons for the act of one."
  McCoy's eyes widened as a fourth alien hand
fell and dangled above their heads. He swallowed.
"Well, don't be too hard on yourself. We all
felt exactly the same."
  Jim shook his head. "No. Somebody felt much
worse. And I'm starting to understand why."
  "Well, if you've got any bright ideas, now's
the time to--" "Time's the problem," Kirk said.
"You and I don't count. We're just a couple of
pawns in someone else's chess game. .b you
heard the judge: the peace conference is on again.
Whoever killed Gorkon will sandbag the thing
all over . . . unless we find a way out of here."
  McCoy started at a muffled sound and put a
finger to his lips. Nearby, a stone came loose
and rolled past them. McCoy closed his eyes and
pretended to sleep; Jim did the same, listening
intently as something crawled toward them in the dark.
  Kirk tensed, ready . . .
  "Kirk. It's me, Martia."
  He opened his eyes to see her face, hovering
above his in the darkness. She crouched low beside the bunk.
Jim glanced back at McCoy, who still pretended
to sleep.
  "Listen," Martia whispered. "No one has ever
escaped from Rura Penthe."
  "Except us," Jim said.
  Martia did not quite smile. "It is possible.
I know how to get outside the shield."
  "Where do we come in?" Kirk asked warily.
  "Getting outside the shield is easy. After that,
it's up to you to get us o@." the surface before we
freeze." She paused to search his face intently,
drawing her long body closer to his. "Can you?"
"Possibly."
  "Do you mean that? I won't risk it if-was
  "I can get us off the surface," Jim
answered firmly. Desperate with hope, she leaned
over him and grasped his arm; her large eyes
glittered above him in the darkness. "I can't make it
alone. You're the likeliest candidate to come to this
hellhole in months."
  "Candidate for what?" Jim asked.
  She drew back her fur hood and kissed him.
Jim didn't resist. The memory of Carol
brought guilt, but he could not afford to discourage his
only chance for escape.
  She pulled away, eyes shining. "Go to Lift
Seven in the morning for mining duty. I'll see you
there."
  Kirk watched as she vanished into the shadows. Beside
him, McCoy made a low noise of disgust and
propped himself up on one elbow.
  Jim raised his eyebrows in mock innocence.
"I think I've been alienated." McCoy
rolled his eyes. "What is it with you, anyway?"
  Jim shrugged. "Still think we're finished?"
  The doctor sighed. "More than ever."
  Chekov continued his painstaking examination of the
transporter room and tried not to feel discouraged.
  The situation was hopeless, of course. By now the
assassins had carefully removed all
traces of their activities. Chekov had
volunteered to join the search, not with the hope of finding
anything, but because it was better than sitting by idly,
worrying about the captain and Dr. McCoy. Now
he was busy, worrying about the captain and Dr.
McCoy. And Lieutenant Valeris had needed
extra hands. Chekov liked the lieutenant.
Unlike the other Vulcans he had met,
Valeris had a sense of humor and didn't take
every expression she heard literally. He suspected
that she was half human, like Spock comcertainly
she'd spent a lot of time in human company-but
Chekov did not want to be impolite by asking her
a personal question.
  At the same time, Chekov felt she was
overeager and inexperienced, as demonstrated by the
zealousness with which she conducted the search. She was very
obviously trying to impress Mr. S pock.
Had she not been Vulcan, Chekov would have
suspected that she had a crush on her mentor.
Despite leis doubts about the usefulness of searching
the transporter room, Chekov did his best not
to leave a centimeter unscanned. If Mr.
  Spock was right-and he could not remember a time when
the Vulcan had been wrong-the killers had
passed through here.
  Chekov moved to the transporter platform,
lifted his scanner . . : and froze.
  On one of the pads, large enough to be seen by the
unaided eye, were several small dark violet
spatters.
  With haste born of hope, he dropped to his
knees and scraped a sample into an evidence
tube.
  In the science lab, Spock stared through the
microscope at a cluster of delicate
wine-colored cells. The distinctly bright violet
hue had darkened with time, but Spock did not doubt
what he saw before him. With forced intellectual
detachment, he wondered whether these particular cells
had once flowed in Chancellor Gorkon's veins.
  The Vulcan straightened and turned to Chekov,
who hovered nearby with intent expectancy.
  "Klingon blood," Spock said. He pressed
a control; a display lit up to reveal the flat
disc-shaped cells.
  Chekov stared at the visual, his expression a
mixture of horror and triumph. "They must have
walked through it when it was floating and tracked it back
here."
  Spock gave a single nod. "This is the first
evidence that corroborates our theory."
  "Now we go to Starfleet?" Chekov asked
hopefully. Spock understood his concern; at this
point the crew had committed no serious breach of
regula- 206
  tions, if Command chose to accept their claim that
the warp drive had malfunctioned. But once they
ventured into Klingon space without Startleet's
sanction, they would become criminals. This single
piece of evidence proved only that the killers had
returned to the vessel; it did nothing to clear the
captain and Dr. McCoy. "Now we expand our
search to include uniforms," the Vulcan said.
Chekov's shoulders sagged slightly. "All
uniforms?" Spock simply looked at him.
  "Aye, sir, all uniforms," Chekov
replied, all hope gone from his tone. A daunting,
time-consuming task, Spock knew, when time was the
commodity they could most ill afford to waste, but the
search had to be carried out. Chekov hesitated.
"But, Mr. Spock, certainly by now the killers have
cleaned them-was
  "How, Commander? They could not use ship's
laundry. They would have to input their
personal code to do so, so the uniforms could be traced
to them." In the event of undetected contamination on a
planet surface or aboard ship, the affected
individual would be notified and quarantined or, if
necessary, treated. Inputting another's code, Spock
knew, was impossible; to avoid errors, the computer
was programmed to refuse a code that did not match
a particular uniform. "I suggest you check
laundry records first, especially those immediately after
the assassination. Any unusual contaminants, such
as Klingon blood, can still be found in the
  cleaning fluid. However, I do not expect you will
find anything; the killers are well aware that they can
avoid detection longer by simply hiding the uniforms
aboard the ship."
  "Yes, sir." Chekov sighed and moved wearily
for the door. "Mr. Chekov."
  Chekov turned.
  "The longer we take," Spock told him, "the
greater danger in which we leave the captain and Dr.
McCoy." Even if they failed to find the evidence
Spock sought, he would go to his friends' aid, but to do
so would be to risk even greater danger than Kirk and
McCoy were in now. "If we attempt a rescue
without clear proof of their innocence, all of
Starlleet is bound by Interstellar Law
to recapture them and extradite them to Klingon
space. "And the penalty in the Klingon Empire for
prison escape is torture followed
by execution." He did not mention the penalty that he
and the crew would face for engineering the escape; the
human's darkly determined expression indicated
he was well aware of the consequences. Chekov's tone
was low, bitter. "In other words, if we bring them
aboard the Enterprise and return to Federation
space-was "We would be attacked by Starfleet
vessels," Spock finished. It seemed an
insoluble dilemma; if Kirk and McCoy could not
be cleared before the rescue attempt, then the
Enterprise and her crew would have to fight their way out
of Klingon
  space-and they would then be left with the option of
fleeing to Romulan or Federation territory, where
other attackers would await them. "They would be
ordered to either capture or destroy this ship."
The.vulcan paused. "And I for one do not intend
to allow the Enterprise to be captured." Chekov's
gaze was grim but unflinching. "We will find the
evidence, sir." Spock nodded. Once Chekov
had departed, the Vulcan released a
silent sigh and wished he shared the human's
certainty.
  In a corridor on the level of the crew's
quarters, Valeris stood before a light-plan of the
Enterprise and checked off the locations that had been
thoroughly searched: wardrobe, synthesizers,
recycling area, sickbay, bridge, observation
deck, Jeffries tubes, Engineering .... Few
areas remained; it was simply a matter of time before more
evidence was found. As no one else was present, she
allowed herself to lean against the console and close her
eyes. Since the onset of the search, she had not
rested; Spock had made it clear that time was of the
essence. He had not even hinted that she should remain
on duty until the search was over, but she knew her
doing so would please him.
  She had been without sleep fewer than fortyeight
hours; a properly trained Vulcan was
theoretically capable of eschewing rest for weeks.
Valeris silently castigated herself for not having
perfected
  that skill earlier, but there had been many other
deficiencies in her training to remedy, and very little
time.
  She pressed a hand against her tired
eyes. She did not believe that discovering the missing
boots or uniforms would clear Captain Kirk and
Dr. McCoy. Spock's efforts would prove
futile, but Valeris did not feel it her place
to tell him so.
  A shouted exclamation at the corridor's far
end, where others were conducting a search of crew
quarters, caused her to open her eyes. For
dignity's sake, Valeris moved as quickly as
possible without breaking into a dead run.
  She stopped in front of the open cabin door in
time to see a crewman' remove a heavy boot from
a locker and hold it aloft for all to see. As
Valeris watched from the doorway, he pointed the
toe of the boot ceilingward and pressed the sole against
the side of the locker, then withdrew his hand.
  The boot remained in place, defying gravity.
  SPOCK KNEW, even as he waited
impassively beside Commanders Chekov and Uhura and
Lieutenant Valeris inside Ensign Dax's
quarters, that they had not come to the end of the seatch. It
would have been foolhardy and illogical for the assassin
to hide damning evidence against him in his own locker.
  Ensign Dax was no doubt as blameless as Jim
and McCoy. Yet Valeris seemed
entirely unaware of the fact; her manner, when she
notified Spock of the discovery, had been, and still
was, faintly triumphant. Perhaps she merely
felt, as Spock did, that the discovery and
resultant interrogation of Dax would lead them
to further evidence. But the mystery of Gorkon's
murder remained far from solved.
  An ensign entered, one Spock knew instantly
was incapable of having committed the crime. If the
  others noticed, they said nothing, but studied the
suspect in silence. The Zeosian native's
face reflected curiosity mixed with apprehension.
He straightened and gazed anxiously at Spock,
his commanding officer, with wide, innocent eyes.
  "You are Technician Dax?" Spock asked.
  The Zeosian nodded-from the shoulders, because his
cervical spine was not designed for such movement.
"Yes, sir." He glanced at the unreadable
expressions of his superiors. "What's happened?"
"Perhaps you know the Russian epic of Cinderella,"
Chekov said coldly. "If the shoe fits, wear
it."
  Had Spock been entirely human, he would have
been very hard pressed not to smile at that moment.
  Dax frowned quizzically, then looked
down at his own feet. The others followed his gaze.
Dax's feet, like those of all Zeosians, were
large and webbed, quite incapable of fitting into the
incriminating boots. Chekov emitted a barely
audible groan.
  Spock did not look at Valeris at that
instant, but lie suspected she was struggling to conceal
her chagrin.
  While the others fought to recover, Spock questioned
Dax. "A pair of gravity boots was discovered in
your locker. Do you have any idea how they arrived
there?"
  Dax's eyes widened. "No, sir. were they the
same gravity boots-was "We shall know as soon as
tests are performed," 212
  Spock replied. "If you obtain further
information concerning the boots' appearance, please
notify me at once. That is all. You may
return to duty." "Aye, sir. Thank you,
sir." Blatantly relieved, Dax hurried out
the door. Spock turned to his fellow officers;
Chekov's and Uhura's expressions were glum,
Valeris's carefully impassive, but the sense of
failure was palpable.
  ""There is still time," Spock told them.
"Perhaps the boots will reveal some clue that will help us
unravel the mystery. And soon we will find the
uniforms." He turned toward Valeris. "Continue
the search, Lieutenant." "Aye, sir." As she
headed for the corridor, Spock sensed that she as
well as the others had given up hope for Kirk and
McCoy. As he was on the verge of doing. . .
  Kirk stepped out of the but into the unrelentingly
bitter morning after a hellish night. He had been
too cold, too painfully exhausted, to sleep
much, and he had not been able to stop thinking about Carol
and whether they would ever see each other alive again.
  There had been time, too, to think about Martia's
promise to help them to the surface. Kirk
didn't trust her. She could very well be leading them
both to their death, and yet, if he didn't take her
up on her offer, he and Bones were doomed just as
surely if they both remained inside the
prisoners' compound.
  And if they did make it to the surface in one
  piece, what if Spock didn't make it in
time? Or the Enterprise was destroyed en route
by Klingons?
  Jim flapped his arms against the cold and forced his
thoughts onto the moment at hand. Beside him,
Bones walked stiffly, dragging his leg irons with
some difficulty. Jim glanced over at him. The
doctor's face was almost entirely hidden by scraps
of ragged fur, but what Jim could see of it looked
haggard, pale; his blue eyes were deeply shadowed.
The sight strengthened Jim's resolve to get out
today. He quickened his pace. "Hey, wait up,"
McCoy grumbled, hoarse from the cold. "Maybe
you can run with these things on, I (u.t I can't."
  Kirk strained to see over the heads of the other
prisoners as they stood in several different
queues. "Can' Lift." He gestured at the open
wire cage, then lowered his voice so only the
doctor could hear. ""She said C Lift."
McCoy settled into line behind Jim and waited
blearily as the aged lift door screeched open.
Their group slowly pushed its way inside; the door
a-lunged shut.
  McCoy glanced around the caged lift-looking,
Jim knew, for Martia, who was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, the two humans were surrounded by brutes
twice their size, one of which-a hideous
seven-foot-tall simian with a shock of orange
hair --appeared to be eyeing the pair with dangerous
coninterest.
  equals I think we've been had," the doctor
muttered
  out of the side of his mouth. Jim agreed silently,
expecting an attack at any second.
  The gruesome creature leaned closer, Jim
steeled himself for a fight . . . and started at the sound
of Martia's voice.
  "No, you haven't, Doctor."
  Jim stared. The brute glanced furtively around
them to be sure no one noticed, then said softly, in
a voice that was unmistakably Martia's, "Get
off at the first level and join the gang going into the
mine." A whimsical expression crossed its
simian features. "They don't take
females." Jim stood stunned into silence until
the cage lurched to a stop; the metal doors
squealed open. The creature inclined its head
to indicate that he and McCoy should follow. Jim
did so, tensing as the doctor grabbed his arm with a
fur-wrapped hand.
  "What kind of creature is this?" McCoy
hissed, glancing with trepidation at the simian's
huge back. "Last night you two were spooning-was
"Don't remind me," Jim snapped.
  They shuffled behind the others into the dim
mine; the cold increased to brutal intensity, seeming
to emanate from frozen rock walls that glittered
dully with embedded crystal. Jim waited,
shivering, as he was issued a drill and a light
helmet by one of the Klingon guards, who then shoved
him toward the wall. Jim watched the miner next
to him for a few seconds, then imitated him: drill
the rock, pull the crystal free, set it on the
flatbed shuttle. Nearby, I
  Idartia-or the alien who claimed to be
Martiawas already hard at work. "I'll be,"
McCoy whispered at his elbow, gaping wide-eyed
at the gleaming rock. "Do you have any idea what
all this dilithium must be worth?" The sudden
proximity of a guard encouraged hLim to get
busy. The work was far less brutal than the cold,
and it helped warm him. Jim burned his way into the
rock With the drill, then tugged at the dilithium
until it carne free. The trick was to keep the
jagged crystal from cutting his numbed hands by letting the
drill remove most of the rock beforehand. Beside him,
McCoy cursed as he struggled to extract a
crystal by hand. Jim reached out to help him and was
promptly struck on the back by one of the guards.
Jim swallowed his anger and turned back
to his own work until the Klingon wandered away. Then
he motioned for McCoy to use the drill. The
doctor nodded and this time managed to remove the
crystal without difficulty. Jim continued drilling,
one eye on the creature with Martia's voice. It
didn't look like a setup, but at the moment the
omnipresent guards made any attempt at
escape impossible.
  Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw the prisoner
beside him slip a modest fortune in crystals under his
coat.
  In the next instant a blast of light left him
phaser-blind; when his vision cleared, the prisoner was
gone, and McCoy was staring at the empty space in
mute horror.
  With exaggerated deliberateness and one eye on the
guards, the doctor set his crystal on the
fastgrowing pile in the flatbed shuttle. Jim
continued working grimly. Hours later the two of them
were grimy and exhausted; despite the cold, Jim
had managed to break a sweat. He had fallen into a
meditative state brought on by repetitious action.
His thoughts turned to the assassination. Had the
torpedoes actually been fired from the Enterprise?
  To think that they had was chilling; to think that
they had not was even more so. Worst of all, no matter
where the attack originated, there had to have been
conspirators aboard Enterprise.
  And there still were. The question was, did Spock know?
He started as his peripheral vision caught the
simian motioning behind him. Kirk turned and saw that
the guards sat eating lunch with their backs to the
prisoners.
  He glanced back at the creature-and his jaw
dropped as the simian metamorphosed before his eyes
into a young human girl. As he and McCoy
watched, stunned, the girl stepped easily out of her
leg irons and smiled at them.
  "Follow me," she whispered.
  Silently she set her drill down and walked
into the depths of the mine. Kirk and McCoy glanced
over their shoulders to make sure the guards weren't
watching, then followed suit.
  - The slender girl crawled nimbly into a
small hole in the frozen rock wall. Jim
balked, unsure whether
  an adult, much less one wearing leg irons,
could make it through. The Martia-child motioned
impatiently. Kirk cast a skeptical glance
at McCoy, then got flat on his
stomach and crawled in backwards. It was a
cslaustrophobic fit, slow going with the chains.
Kirk maneuvered himself end-first and pulled McCoy
in alfter him.
  The hole opened into a larger tunnel. Kirk
got on Ids feet, panting as he struggled
to keep up in the (heavy leg irons, knowing that
McCoy was having andtion even harder time.
  He turned toward the girl again, only to find that
she; had changed back into the simian creature. The
fact struck Jim as ominous; he would have felt far
safer if she had remained the young girl or shifted
back into Martia, though the huge creature was
rrrobably better able to withstand the surface cold.
  And better able to win a hand-to-hand struggle against
Jim and McCoy .... In the distance, guards
shouted.
  The clanking of heavy metal grew louder as
Kirk and McCoy increased their pace.
  The tunnel opened at last onto a huge
abandoned mine entrance abutting a high ice ledge.
The creature scrambled down the ledge and jumped
down onto a flat snowfield. Painfully,
Kirk and Bones 1Ollowed. The killing cold
on the surface stole Jim's breath; the
air, burned his face, eyes, lungs. He
staggered to his feet, afraid to think how it affected
McCoy, but t'he doctor had managed to keep
up.
  Jim kept moving: to stand still in the frigid air was
to die. The Martia-creature led them across the snowy
expanse to a broad frozen river. The alien
stepped gingerly onto the thick ice, arms waving
to keep its balance. Jim did the same, slipping
on the slick surface, finally putting his hands against
the ice and half crawling.
  Beneath his feet the ice groaned and began to splinter
under the weight of the leg chains.
  Alarmed, Jim turned toward McCoy, ready
to grab the doctor if the ice gave way.
  McCoy's face had gone bloodless; he
seemed to be scarcely moving. Jim reached out and
pulled him along. They stumbled and slid over the
ice, and at last made it across the river and up
onto the high bank. Jim dragged Bones the whole
way, focusing on the doctor to keep himself going.
Jim's hands and feet had gone numb; his face and
ears ached fiercely from frostbite. If it got much
worse . . .
  At the top of the riverbank, the
Martia-creature paused to stare at the horizon.
Jim stopped gratefully, his limbs weighed down
by an exhaustion more bitter than any he'd ever
known. Yet he dared not rest too long, or it would
be impossible for him to move farther.
  Beside him, McCoy sighed and slipped his arm from
Jim's grasp. "I can't . . ."
  With numbed hands, Jim rubbed McCoy's arms
and torso in an effort to keep the doctor's
circulation going. At the same time he fought a
sense of weary defeat. They would never make it.
Bones was
  on the verge of collapse, and Jim wouldn't last
much longer himself. "We're at the edge of the shield,"
the Martiaceareature announced triumphantly.
  Jim followed her gaze. Beyond lay an endless
ice desert, a sight that evoked both despair and
hope.
  If Spock could manage to find them in time . .
. If they could only survive long enough on the
surface . . .
  Jim turned and glanced in the direction they had
come. He would not go back. Even if he had wanted
to, he knew McCoy could never survive the
return trip. At least there was a chance that
he could survive on the surface until Spock
arrived.
  If Spock arrived . . .
  "Come on." He gave McCoy a push.
"Keep mowing!" They staggered on.
  Enterprise hovered on the edge of Klingon
space. Having completed his evening meditation,
Spock reclined on his berth. Now he gazed
thoughtfully at the flickering votive candle as he
awaited word from the bridge. Once that word came,
there would be little time to effect rescue; if the rumors
Spock had heard were true, the climate on
Rura Penthe's unshielded surface was lethally
cold. Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy would not
survive- exposure longassuming they survived
an escape attempt.
  It was quite likely that they were already dead and that word from
the bridge would never come. Spock had carefully
considered the proper course of action in that instance; his
responsibility lay in protecting the tenuous
peace that currently existed between the Federation and the
Klingon: Empire. In either event, the
conspirators would do what ever was necessary to sabotage the
peace confer ence. Chancellor Azetbur's life
and the lives of all
  those attending the conference--including Spock's father,
Sarek-were in grave danger. The fact that no
attempt had yet been made on Azetbur's
life suggested the conspiracy extended diswell beyond the
Klingon Empire.
  They had more pieces of the puzzle-the boots, the
traces of Klingon blood on the transporter
pad-but not enough to exonerate the captain.
  Disturbing, to think that some of the conspirators might
still be here, aboard the Enterprise.
  were there those within Starfleet-indeed,
  aboard this vessel-who remained loyal to the
  Klingon warrior class?
  Spock sighed soundlessly and relegated the sub
s ject to his subconscious. So far, conscious
contem plation of the- subject had yielded no further
  progress, and his life among humans had
taught him the value of intuition and inspiration. From
Jim Kirk he had learned the concept of trusting
one's instincts. While instincts could never replace
logical deduction, the two were most useful in
balance.
  He regretted the fact that his life aboard
Enterprise was about to end. It was time again comto find his
niche in the universe. Many years before, when
Enterprise's first fiveyear mission ended, Spock
had been afraid. He had despaired of finding a
home as perfectly suited to his talents and
unique background as the Enterprise. Now he
looked forward to the chance to grow, to expand. He no
longer feared the judgment of others: of his father, his
family, other Vulcans. He was confident that he
would find his own path once again.
  Valeris reminded him very much of himself, of the young
Spock-despairing at the reality of her emotions,
struggling to master them. Spock found himself in the
opposite situation now: he no longer feared his
emotions, but valued them, desired to use them-in a
controlled manner-to enhance his life.
  He wished there were a means more effective than
words through which to communicate this insight to Valeris.
He would have liked to share more of his experience with her.
He regretted that he now had to leave the
Enterprise while she remained.
  His gaze fell upon the Chagall and lingered there.
He had taken to collecting human art because the
contemplation of it instructed him in human symbols,
human values. He allowed himself to become
mindlessly absorbed by the picture, to appreciate
its at once meaningful and meaningless beauty.
  A strange conviction seized him-intuition, Jim
  Kirk would have called it-that he knew the solution
to the mystery, but was refusing to see the evidence that lay
before his eyes. The intercom whistled. Before Spock
could sit up and touch the controls to respond,
Uhura's excited voice filtered through on
override. "Mr. Spock, I've got them!"
  to On the bridge, Spock paused briefly
to glance over Uhura's shoulder at the blinking
display on her visual before heading to the science station
to scan the indicated star system.
  What he saw was most gratifying: although Rura
Penthe was well within Klingon space, its distance was
one the Enterprise could reach fairly swiftly.
He straightened.
  "They're outside the beaming shield. Mr.
Scott, start your engines." For the first time since
Admiral Smillie's briefing, the engineer
beamed. "Aye-aye, sir." He headed for the lift.
  "Sir," Uhura said suddenly. Spock turned
at the note of panic in her tone. "The universal
translator-I was just programming it for
Klingonese, but it's not responding. It's coming out
all garbled."
  Spock moved swiftly to the
communications console and swiftly ran a
diagnostics; both he and Uhura read the
results and gave each other a knowing look.
  Even if Enterprise ran cloaked into Klingon
space, she still risked detection by specially
  equipped listening posts inside the Klingon
border. And without the translator to aid them, the
risk of attack escalated enormously. The
conspirators were at work again.
  At the moment there was nothing to be done.
Resolutely Spock returned to the command console.
"Mr. Chekov, set a course for Rura Penthe."
At the helm Chekov swiveled to face the
Vulcan. "Mr. Spock, Rura Penthe is
deep within Klingon territory. If we're
discovered-was "Quite right, Mr. Chekov," Spock
allowed smoothly before the helmsman could finish.
"If, as I suspect, all of our computer data
banks have been stripped of all information on the
Klingon language, then we will have to rely on the
archive library. What is now required is a
feat of linguistic legerdemain-and a degree of
intrepidity-before the captain and Dr. McCoy
freeze to death."
  Mortagh Outpost Three was understaffed,
underfunded, decaying-in short, one of the least
sought-after assignments in the Empire, which suited
former gunner Kesla perfectly. His one taste of
battle-years ago, in a pointless skirmish between his
ship, Beria, and a Romulan vessel whose name he
had never learned-had resulted in the death of his
captain, most of his crewmates, and his closest
friend. Kesla had escaped with severe injuries and a
determination to leave the life of a warrior behind,
Klingon honor be damned.
  13e knew comhis job was looked down upon
by respectable Klingons; he knew that he fit the

  stereo-type of the spineless, drunken, dozing
outpost sentinel. He did not care. He welcomed
the isolation and the lack of responsibility-in all
his years at Mortagh, he had never heard so much as
a rumor of a Federation ship attempting to steal across
the border, though those who worked the outposts near the
Romulan border told a far different story.
There the outposts were properly equipped with the latest
detection devices. Mortagh Three creaked with
age-a metaphor for the decaying Klingon government.
Kesla and his peers were forced to perform their jobs with
scanners that had been outdated a century
ago, without proper visual displays for viewing
passing ships. They were even without weapons; their
only threat lay in informing the Empire of the offending
vessel, then hoping the border patrol managed
to destroy the right ship. Smugglers favored the
route; the sentinels had long ago given up trying
to stem the tide.
  Kesla did not welcome the boredom, but there were
ways of diluting it-for example, with the fiery
Catullan liquor he'd consumed that evening.
Access to black market wares was one of the
occupational benefits of working the border. The
Catullan liquor, qrokhang, had taken the
edge off Kesla's restlessness, if not his boredom,
and eased him into a pleasant numbness. Now he
sagged against his scanner console, skirting the edge of
sleep, images from the long-ago battle
clouding.his euphoria. . The scanner beeped a
warning.
  Kesla straightened and tried to shake himself
  awake. A feeble light on the aging screen
blinked at him, indicating a cloaked vessel.
  Klingon ships were forbidden by law to remain cloaked
while passing the outpost. The smugglers were well
aware of that fact and knew it was safer for
an unregistered vessel to pass by openly-at least
that way, the alarm wouldn't wake those working the outpost.
They did not know that the halfhearted adjustments made
to the ancient scanners to detect the more recent
innovation worked only half the time.
  Kesla frowned, displeased that his nap had been
disturbed. This smuggler was apparently new to the
business. He punched a toggle on his console.
"This is Sentinel Kesla of Mortagh Outpost
Three. What ship is that? Identify yourselves."
  A, pause followed-one so long that the nearby
operator, Genrah, yielded to curiosity and wandered
over to listen next to Kesla. Kesla shifted
to allow him room. Mortagh Three's unspoken
rule insisted that the sentinels share any
opportunities to alleviate boredom.
  Both of them frowned at the console.
  The reply came in a feminine voice laced with
static. "We am thy freighter . . . Ursva,
six weeks out of Kronos. Over."
  Kesla shared a surprised look with Genrah.
Female Klingon smugglers were rare indeed, but if
this one was Klingon, Kesla was grandsire to an
lEarther.
  "Whither are you bound?" Kesla asked
gruffly, 226
  responding in the odd archaic dialect the
female had used. It was no small feat to keep the
amusement from his voice. This smuggler was probably
Rigellian or Catullan, in which case Kesla
owed her a debt of gratitude. But if she knew
so little of smugglers' protocol in the Klingon
Empire, she would probably never reach her
destination.
  Genrah and Kesla waited, drowsy but
mesmerized, through another delay. "We is condemning
food . . . things and . . . supplies to Rura
Penthe. Over."
  At this point, Kesla and Genrah both laughed
aloud at the ridiculousness of the lie. The smuggler
was so inept that Kesla pitied her. He waved at
Genrah to let her pass. If she was hauling
Catullan liquor, Kesla wished her good
fortune in her task. She would need it. To let her
know he knew full well who she was and what she was
doing, Kesla uttered a phrase which, in smugglers'
code, wished her luck in avoiding border
officials.
  Uhura clutched the edges of her console and stared
at the communications board. The last comment
by the Klingon had left the crew entirely
mystified, and if she failed to respond properly
. . . Nearby, Chekov and Spock glanced up from
the antique paper dictionaries that littered the
consoles. The past few minutes had been harrowing;
had it not been for Spock's ability to rapidly
scan the archaic alphabetized glossaries and
to perfectly 227
  recall the few sentences in Klingon ht; had ever
heard, Enterprise would probably have been nothing more
than space flotsam by now. But, according to Spock, the
Klingon had just told her not to catch any bugs-then
dissolved into raucous laughter.
  Uhura glanced for guidance at the Vulcan, whose
expression, though impassive, nonetheless conveyed his
total bewilderment at the idiom. The raucous
laughter faded; Spock gave Uhura a nod.
She turned back to the board and dial her best
imitation of Klingon laughter; the effort made her
throat sore.
  The Klingon closed the channel. Uhura waited
tensely for a few seconds until the realization
settled in: the communication was over. They had, for
reasons she could not fathom, been granted clearance.
She deflated against the board with a shaky
sigh and only then realized she had been holding her
breath.
  Behind her, Spock said gently, "Was that so
bad?" She turned her head just enough to narrow her eyes
at him.
  McCoy watched Rura Penthe's setting suns
throw warmthless coral light across the ice desert and
knew that he was about to die. Impossibly, he
dragged himself behind Jim and Martia, across the ice; the
act of movement provided a momentum
  that he found oddly difficult to overcome, even
at the height of his weariness.
  Frostbite had already claimed his feet, hands,
ears, face. He did not care. He wanted only
to stop moving, to surrender to the cold, to rest, even
if it meant eternally. Spock and the others would feel
bad, but at the moment, the doctor was too deeply
tired to care. But speaking seemed to require as much
energy as motion-and so McCoy stumbled after the
captain, until he could bear no more. "Jim."
He could manage no more than a whisper, and even that
effort brought tears to his eyes. "Leave me.
I'm . . . finished."
  "No way," Jim said, trying to sound stubborn,
but his voice was flat with exhaustion.
  "Spock isn't coming . . . . This is insane;
hoping he'll find us. I don't care anymore.
Just let me die here."
  "You see this?" Jim turned- to display a red
stain on the back of his ragged coat.
  McCoy stared stupidly at it, his thoughts too
slowed by the cold for him to make sense of what he
saw.
  "It's the viridium patch Spock slapped on
my back right before we went aboard Gorkon's
ship."
  "That cunning little Vulcan," McCoy said
faintly, too tired to smile, but not too tired
to feel gratitude for Spock's quick thinking. An
emergency supply of viridium patches was kept
on the bridge for those occasions when haste
prohibited stopping by sickbay for subcutaneous
transponders. The
  patches were messier and less elegant-McCoy
had always preferred the invisible transponders-but had
far greater range. "Once we're beyond the shield,"
Jim said, "they should be able to pick it up two
sectors away."
  "If they're even looking for us . . ."
  Jim's tone hardened slightly.
"Spock's looking for us."
  In front of them, the apelike creature with
Martia's voice interrupted, pointing to an icy
ridge. "We're almost there. Once we're
outside, we'll make camp."
  The trickle of hope pushed McCoy past
fatigue, past all pain. By the time the three reached
the ridge, dusk had given way to blackness
littered with stars. The temperature dipped, but the
doctor was heartened: using the viridium patch,
Spock would be able to find them in time. The very real
danger of freezing to death had receded, for the ridge
sheltered them from the wind, and the creature-impossible
to think of it as Martia-produced a flare from its
coat and broke it in half. The flare blazed
brightly for an instant, then formed a small fire.
McCoy ignored the prickles of pain as his
numbed extremities began to warm. He huddled as
close as possible to the flames without setting himself
afire. Jim crouched beside him.
  The creature sat nearby; shadows thrown by the
flickering light made it look doubly ghoulish.
  McCoy held his hands to the warmth.; the sensation was
pleasurable to the point of pain. He
  glanced at the creature. "Would you mind
explaining that little trick you do?"
  It shrugged. "I'm a chameloid. That's why
we're such good smugglers." Jim's tone was dulled
by weariness. "I've heard of
chameloids-shapeshifters. I thought you were
mythical."
  The creature graced him with a snaggle-toothed
smile. "Give a girl a chance, Captain." As
they watched, it began to metamorphose, McCoy
stared, fascinated, as its features shifted,
darkened, melted down into the smaller, finer ones of the
beautiful Martia. "It takes a lot of effort."
"I don't wonder," McCoy replied. He
hesitated. "Stop me if I'm wrong, but do we
really have any way of knowing if this is the real you?"
She directed her now-enticing smile at Jim,
who looked slightly sickened. "I thought I would
assume a pleasing shape." Her tone became
abruptly busi- nesslike. "We're outside
the shield. Now it's your turn, Kirk." Jim
smiled faintly. "If you say so." He rose
slowly, stretched, then stepped forward andwitha
lightning-swift motion that startled McCoy, slugged
the woman full force on the jaw. She fell back
without a sound. "Are you crazy?" McCoy
jumped up and waved his arms in alarm, only
peripherally aware of the agony caused by the
expenditure of energy. Granted, he didn't
trust her exactly, but she'd risked her life
to get them this far ....
  Martia gazed up at them with a wounded expres-

  sion, a hand to her injured jaw. McCoy could
see she was bleeding-green-from the mouth.
  Jim's expression was pitiless as he looked
down at her. "She didn't need our help getting
anywhere. Where did she get these convenient clothes?
And don't tell me that flare is standard prison
issue."
  McCoy had no answer. As Jim spoke,
Martia began to metamorphose back into the
brute. The blood trickling down her jaw changed
from emerald to sapphire.
  "It's to let them know where we are," Jim
continued, stepping back in preparation for the fight.
"Ask her what she's getting in return." The
brute rose to its full height. "A full
pardon," it said, its tone as stone-hard as Jim's.
"Which doesn't cover this . . . ."
  McCoy made a small noise of
despair and stepped back as Kirk and Martia
began to circle each other. It was hardly a fair
fight; the brute was two full heads taller and
without the heavy leg chains that slowed Jim down.
"An accident wasn't good enough?" Jim said.
  "Good enough for one," Martia replied in a silken
voice incongruous with her true appearance. "Two
would have looked suspicious. But "killed while
attempting escape'-now, that's convincing enough for both."
  They lunged at each other. Kirk grabbed the
brute and held on-and lost his grip as Martia's
huge, shaggy form was transformed into little more than a
pair of wide, sharp-fanged jaws.
  The glistening, slavering jaws spat an obscene

  viscous liquid at Jim before dragging him behind a
snowbank. McCoy ran over to watch helplessly,
then shrank back in disgust. The creature had
become a mass of slime-coated black
tentacles that threatened to strangle the life out of
Kirk. Somehow Jim struggled to his feet, only
to be pulled back down.
  By the time he rose again, the tentacled creature in
his grasp had become a miniature female, who
slipped easily from his hands and scrambled
past McCoy. The doctor leapt with all his energy
and managed to catch hold of a tiny ankle; even as
he fell, rolling in the snow, he felt the ankle
in his grip swell in size.
  He looked up to see an exact replica of
Jim Kirk. "Surprise!" Martia-Kirk
called, and struck McCoy full across the face.
The doctor fell back in the snow and watched,
dazed, as the real Jim faced his double.
  "Your friends are late," Jim gasped.
  "They'll be here," Martia replied.
  They sprang at each other again. McCoy
closed his eyes and fought dizziness. He could hear
Jim speaking, faintly, as if calling out from a very
great distance: "I can't believe I kissed you."
  Even more faintly came Martia's voice, against
an ever-growing buzzing in his ears: "Must have been your
lifelong ambition. . ."
  The buzzing increased to a . painful level until
McCoy slipped gratefully into darkness.
  ALONE AND EXHAUSTED, Scott sat in the
officers' mess and allowed himself a second cup of
coffee. Tike many of the others, he had volunteered
for double duty until enough evidence had. been found
to satisfy Spock. He glanced down at
the Enterprise map on his datapad and blinked
once, twice, to clear his blurred vision.
  He was not so young as he had once been. None of
them were. But if Spock expected the captain and
Dr. McCoy to survive the horrors of Rura
Penthe, then he, Scott, was more than happy to put
up with losing a bit of sleep. He drew a hand
across his tired eyes and sighed. Of course, Spock
was more like James Kirk than the Vulcan liked
to admit-both stubborn, both refusing to give up
hope even in the face of impossi- 234
  ble odds. Scott glanced back at the map and
this time was able to focus well enough to check off the areas
of the ship that had been searched. Few areas were left;
the odds of finding the missing uniforms were getting
worse by the second comalm as bad as the odds that
Enterprise could safely make it into and out of
Klingon space without a dent in her hull, or that the
captain and the doctor could survive the freezing
cold long enough to be rescued.
  Scott ran a finger under his collar and realized that
he was uncomfortably warm. Had he gotten so old
that a wee bit of searching made him break a sweat?
Instinctively he reached out toward the nearby air
circulation vent to cool himself.
  No air. The vent was blocked.
  Scott frowned. This was a matter for maintenance,
but the engineer in him asserted itself it would take him
longer to report it than to, fix it himself. He
quickly removed the cover and peered inside. Something--
wadded fabric-had been stuffed inside the vent,
completely cutting off the airflow. Scott
experienced wonderment for only a milli- second
before he registered the colors: burgundy, mottled
with violet-and a darker emotion set in.
  He pulled the uniforms out and hurried to find
Spock.
  Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw McCoy
weakly raise his head and shake it as he came to.
Jim wanted to react, wanted to go to the doctor's
  aid, but at the moment he dared not look away from
his foe for an instant. He and Martia-Kirk
circled each other, arms locked in a restraining
embrace.
  "Isn't it about time you became something else?"
Jim gasped. Martia's all-too-perfect
pertbrmance as Kirk had disconcerted him only for a
second; now he realized that it was to his
advantage for Mar tia to retain this guise,
especially if the guards arrived before the
Enterprise did .... She seemed reluctant
to change, as if the efforts of shifting so often had
drained her.
  The reverse psychology worked. "I like it here,"
Martia's voice said, though the lips that
articulated the words were an exact replica of
Jim's. She pulled down with her entire weight,
forcing Jim off his feet. They grappled, rolling
through the snow. Against a dizzying spin of white, Jim
saw his own face, contorted ....
  The surprise sensation of moist heat on the back
of his scalp made him turn his head-and stare,
eyeball to eyeball, into the dripping jaws of a
sharp-fanged Klingon mastiff.
  He sprang to his feet immediately and faced the
group of armed Klingon guards, led by the commandant,
who stepped forward. The situation seemed utterly
hopeless-unless Jim could react before Martia had a
chance. "What took you so long?" he snapped.
  He glanced over at her and was relieved to see that
she had not yet changed from her Kirk 236
  disguise. Perhaps she really had exhausted her
shapeshifting capacities. "Kill him! He's the
one!"
  Her voice----her real voice, Jim
suspected-was harsher, more guttural, than Jim
had ever heard it before. The guards hesitated,
confused. The com- mandant raised his weapon and
narrowed his eyes at them. "Not me, idiot--him!"
Jim shouted.
  The commandant fired at- the Martia-Kirk, who
dissolved into oblivion before she could utter a sound.
Jim did his best to separate himself from the horror
he felt at the sight. Martia had meant to kill
them both, but desperation had forced her to use anyone
she could. He and Bones had simply been the most
suitable victims.
  He tensed, prepared to spring at the commandant and
deflect the fire that would be intended next for
McCoy, who had staggered forward to watch the drama.
Jim stepped protectively in front of him. The
commandant turned to favor Kirk and McCoy with an
ironic gap-toothed grin. "No witnesses . .
."
  As Jim had suspected, the commandant had never
meant to keep his bargain with Martia. He lifted his
weapon and aimed it at Jim and Bones. "Damned
clever if you ask me," McCoy said conversationally,
but Jim heard the utter weariness in his voice that said
he'd had enough and didn't particularly care
which way it ended now-as long as it ended swiftly.
  Jim nodded, keeping his own tone casual.
"Killed trying to escape-it's a classic."
  "That's what he wanted," the Klingon agreed in
a low growl; from his intonation, it was clear he
wasn't speaking of Martia. "Who?" Jim took
a step closer, his eyes on the weapon in the
commandant's hand. It was hopeless; even if he
managed to wrest the phaser away, one of the dozen
guards who surrounded him would shoot immediately-first him,
then Bones.
  But if, before he died, he could at least know who
had arranged the assassination . . .
  ""Who wants us killed?" Jim insisted,
watching the commandant intently. The commandant's toothy
grin became a sly half-moon smile. "I have
heard you humans once had the custom of granting the
condemned one wish before execution; we Klingons still have
a similar custom. I will grant you this courtesy
before death. Why not tell you? His name. . ."
  The Klingon's words were drowned out by the growing hum
of the transporter effect.
  "Son of a bitch!" Kirk shouted, half" in
pure anger, half in surprise, as he felt the
familiar brief spell of dizziness that
accompanied de- materialization. The scene faded
as the guards raised their weapons to fire . . .
  . . . and became that of the Enterprise
transporter room. Kirk shuddered at the
ecstatic, overwhelming sensation of warmth, at the
sight of his friends: Spock, Uhura, Chekov.
Spock and. Chekov
  stepped forward with heavy blankets. Jim
accepted one gratefully, but yielded to the irrational
surge of anger.
  He had been one second away from learning the
truth about Gorkon's assassination. No matter that
he had been only two seconds away from death.
"Dammit! Dammit all to hell!" he snapped
at Chekov and the Vulcan, both of whom seemed
appalled by his and Bones's appearance. "If you
had only waited two seconds . . ."
  Spock seemed entirely unmoved by his
captain's anger; if Jim hadn't known better,
he would have thought the Vulcan seemed truly moved
to see his friend again. Chekov fought a grin as he bent
down to burn off Kirk's heavy leg irons with a
laser tool.
  "Captain . . . ?" Spock asked softly, as
if he could not quite believe his friends stood before
him.
  Exasperated, Kirk said: "He was just about
to explain the whole damn-was "Who?" Uhura
interrupted.
  Chekov was smiling openly now. "You want to go
back?" "Absolutely not!" McCoy half
shouted in the captain's ear. "What the hell's the
matter with you, Jim? We were just rescued!" Jim
paused, forced himself to master the anger but not the
intensity. He was grateful to Spock and the others for
saving him, but the two lost seconds had cost them
all.
  Yet perhaps he had already discovered the thread
  that would allow them to unravel the entire mystery.
If they could only act in time . . .
  He turned to Spock. "We have to find out where
they're holding the peace conference. That will be the next
target."
  Spock nodded, serious. "Agreed. But how-was
  "Come on," Jim urged, and headed. for the
bridge.
  Chang sat in the command chair of the newest Klingon
vessel in the fleet: the Dakronh, the only ship
of her class, equipped with the latest in
Klingon-Romulan technology as well
as an innovative: new device that enabled her
to fire while cloaked. Chang was deeply proud of
his new ship's capabilities; it had enabled him,
after all, to successfully eliminate the Empire's
two greatest enemiss.
  First, Gorkon, and now-James Kirk.
  At the moment, however, Chang was experiencing
something other than pride. He was staring at the cringing
image of Rura Penthe's commandant on the main
bridge viewscreen.
  "Escaped?" Chang's pale brows rushed together
in disbelief. "They were beamed aboard a Federation
starship!" the commandant cried desperately, no
doubt aware of the effect his words would have on his-very
short, Chang decided grimly-future. "I could
trace-was Chang struck a control with the outside of
his
  fist-he had the information he needed, and he had no
desire to waste his time listening to the commandant plead for
his life-and swiveled to face General Grokh.
  "Escaped," he said flatly.
  "It does not matter," Grokh reassured him.
"Kirk cannot know the location . . . ."
  Chang's good eye narrowed. "Are you sure?" he
asked Grokh with deadly gentleness. "Are
you willing to take that chance?" He held Grokh's
gaze for several seconds. Chang was very good at
reading others' expressions, at gazing into their souls.
He saw Grokh consider the possibilities,
hesitate, waver, change his mind. Chang
smiled.
  "Helmsman," Grokh called. "New
course! Engage cloaking device." Dakronh
came around in a wide arc, then vanished into the
void.
  Kirk, Spock, and the others strode down the
corridor toward the bridge turbolift. The
warmth had revived Kirk's energy, as had the sense
of urgency: something had to be done, and quickly, before more
blood was shed. Azetbur's life and the lives orf
all of those attending the peace conference were in grave
danger.
  "The Klingons have a new weapon," Spock
reported as he easily matched Jim's stride.
"A Bird of Prey that can fire while cloaked.
She torpedoed Gorkon's ship."
  "So that's it," Kirk mused. The bridge
visual had been tailored to make it seem that the
torpedoes had been fired from Enterprise . . . .
"Not entirely," the Vulcan admitted.,
"I have reason to believe Gorkon's murderers are
aboard this vessel."
  Kirk nodded; he turned and searched Spock's
expression carefully, but could find no sign that the
VuKC-AN had come to the same conclusion as his
captain concerning the guilty party. He looked
away, wondering how to break the news. "They're the
key to the whole conspiracy. Has the peace conference
begun?"
  "Who knows?" Chekov said behind them. "They're
keeping the location secret."
  Kirk sighed. "There's always something."
  Scott ran toward them clutching a wadded uniform
in his hands and kept pace alongside them.
  "Captain!" he exclaimed, too agitated
to smile in welcome. "Mr. Spock, I've
found the missing uniforms with Klingon blood on them!
They belong to--"
  As they rounded the corner, Kirk came to an
abrupt halt. Before them, two crewmen lay
sprawled on the floor. McCoy knelt wearily
and examined them; he glanced up at Kirk and shook
his head.
  Aghast, Scott stared down at them. "But-the
uniforms. . ." He gestured helplessly
with them. "They belong to these men! Burke and
Samno!" "Not anymore," McCoy said dully.
"Phaser on
  stun at close range, so it wouldn't set off
any alarms. At the base of the skull, disrupting the
nervous system and causing arrhythmia, and death."
"That would be the most efficient method," Spock
agreed softly. Kirk nodded. "First rule of
assassination: always kill the assassins." "Now
we're back to square one." Scott's tone was
resigned. Kirk met Spock's gaze and held
it, sure at last that the Vulcan did not know. "Can
I talk to you?" He glanced meaningfully at the
others. "In pri- vate?"
  Spock tilted his head curiously, but he
followed Kirk down the corridor and waited.
  Reluctantly, gently, Jim drew a breath
and explained who Burke and Samno's killer
was.
  Valeris had been on the last leg of the search and
was very close to drowsing when the voice over the intercom
made her jerk her head sharply. "Attention:
Court recorder.to sickbay. Code Blue
Urgent. Deposition required at once for
Yeomen Burke and Samno. Court
recorder to sickbay on the double."
  Her pulse and breathing quickened; she applied herself
immediately to eradicating such immediate emotional reactions
and decided carefully what to do: she would abandon the
search and go immediately to sickbay. There was no other
logical course of action.
  In sickbay Spock lay on the pallet
surrounded by darkness and the soft sounds of breathing. He
did not permit himself the luxury of thought. If he
thought, he would not react quickly, and if he did not
react quickly, he would die.
  Besides, the captain's revelation had left him
stunned, unwilling to indulge in thought.
  The door to sickbay slid open. Spock
remained motionless and listened to the muffled sounds of
bootheels gently meeting the floor. A
silhouette traversed the darkness, approached the bed
where Spock lay. He lay quietly, listening to the
slow, measured footsteps until an overhead
light flashed on, revealing killer and intended
victim to each other. Spock blinked as his eyes
adjusted to the light, then gazed without surprise
into Valeris's face. He sat up.
  He should have known; she had come to speak privately
with him the first night out of spacedock.
  Sir, I speak to you as a kindred intellect.
Do you not recognize that a turning point has been
reached in the affairs of the Federation? It is an old
story, sir . . .
  Her dark eyes were wider than he had ever seen
them. She started, gaped at him, then fought to regain
her composure.
  "You have to kill," Spock told her calmly.
"If you are logical." Internally he experienced
a curiously sharp bitterness that verged on
physical pain. He controlled it, but did not
repress it. So this was betrayal.
  "I don't want to," Valeris whispered.
  "I believe you," Spock said. "But what you
want is irrelevant. What you have chosen is at
hand." He looked pointedly at the phaser. She
took aim. He could see that her hand trembled almost
imperceptibly. On the pallet nearby, the
second body sat up. "I'd just as soon you
didn't," Kirk said easily.
  She recoiled, then started again as the doctor
emerged, arms folded, from the shadows.
  "The operation is over," McCoy said.
  Spock struck out. The phaser arced into the air and
clattered to the floor.
  Valeris followed its trajectory with open
surprise, then returned her gaze to Spock.
He tensed; she might yet resist, might
attempt escape-attempt to kill. He watched
her keenly, saw the mercurial instant of hesitation
on her face.
  And then, slowly, she bowed her head, obscuring
her features in shadow-yielding at last to logic?
Spock wondered. Or emotion?
  As the security escort led her to the bridge,
Valeris experienced both a sense of failure and
relief.
  Failure because she had not accomplished her
mission. She felt no shame for what she had done;
" she had arrived at her philosophy most
logically. That her father had done the same had little
influence on her, except that she had had access
to his most private writings. The universe tended
toward consistency; that fact allowed the scientific
prediction of patterns. It
  was logical to expect certain behavior of stars,
planets, animals, and sentient beings, given
certain parameters. One could reasonably expect
a human to behave in a consistently emotional
fashion, just as one might expect
Klingons to behave in a consistently violent
fashion. She knew this with more than just intellect.
She hail lost her mother-and, to an extent, her father
comto the Klingons; she had seen what they were capable
of on Zorakis. Kudao and Themis were merely
continuations of a pattern.
  Given that, it was illogical to attempt
to negotiate peace. The inherent warriorlike
nature of the Klingon race made it possible
to predict that, once the pacifist contingent fell from
power, all treaties would be violated. Gorkon was
dead; it seemed doubtful that Azetbur would
survive much longer. And there were no apparent
successors who embraced their peaceful
philosophy. War with the Klingon Empire-now or
a decade in the: futurewas inevitable.
  Logic insisted that the Federation could best win such a
war now, while the Klingons were most vulnerable.
  She had wanted to discuss this with Spock. She
wished sincerely to be Vulcan, logical-but she
saw no logic in seeking peace when it meant death.
She had been shamed by her father's descent into madness,
by the family's censure. But the! distance of time and her
training on Vulcan had won her a measure of
objectivity. She was no longer so concerned
with family approval, and she had come to
  see that her father's philosophy, before illness
claimed him, was far from mad.
  She regretted having killed Burke and
Samno, but logic again relieved her of any sense
of having committed a crime. Three deaths, theirs and
Gorkon's, scarcely outweighed the uncounted
millions who had perished at Klingon hands since
the Federation first encountered them. Indeed, the loss of the
entire Enterprise crew seemed an
appropriate sacrifice.
  She had failed in her mission, but in the midst of
failure she had found relief. At last she was
free to discuss this with Spock. When she had
approached him, on her first night aboard
Enterprise, she had not intended to reveal herself,
merely to cautiouslypresent, in the guise of
devil's advocate, a different viewpoint
concerning the Klingons. She had hoped he would be
proud that she had found her own path. Yet, when they
arrived on the Enterprise bridge and Spock
took his place beside his captain and Dr. McCoy,
his demeanor was distant, far from proud. She
imagined-surely it had not actually happened-that she
saw a brief flicker of pain in his dark
eyes.
  The other crew members went to their stations:
Uhura to Communications, Chekov to the helm, next
to a vacant chair, Scott to Engineering.
Valeris, flanked by guards, remained near the
lift. Kirk approached and stopped an arm's
length away.
  "Anyone else aboard this ship?" His gaze was
intense, unyielding, meant to indicate he would
tolerate no refusal to answer. 247
  Valeris hesitated. No harm could come from
responding; aboard this vessel she was alone in her
convictions. At the same time, what logic lay in
cooperating?
  She shifted, aware of Spock's eyes on her.
Even now she wished to behave logically,
unemotionally, so that she might not prove a
disappointment to hire. .
  The captain's expression hardened. "Let's not
waste time, Lieutenant. Name your
co-conspirators and give us the location of the peace
conference. In exchange, I'll retain the murder
charge and drop the rest of the specifications." He
turned toward the communications officer. "Commander
Uhura, make a record of everything said
by the prisoner."
  "Aye, sir." Uhura pressed a control on
the console. That he thought she would be concerned with such
mercenary issues as her own well-being angered
Valeris. She had committed extreme acts for the
sake of logic, for her own beliefs, with no concern
for personal consequences. Did Kirk think she would
stoop to plea bargaining out of fear, because she had been
discovered?
  Killing had repulsed her, had been the most
difficult act of her life. She was not like Burke
and Samno. She did not kill out of hatred or
desire for a thrill. She had taken no joy in it,
had done it mercifully, swiftly, efficiently.
And she had done it because she was convinced that the act was
justified, necessary.
  For Spock's sake she controlled her anger, but
  her voice was cold as she spoke to Kirk. "You
cannot prove anything." He wheeled on her, showing the
rage she could not. "Yes, I can. At my trial,
my personal log was introduced as evidence against
me." She drew back, glanced quickly at
Spock, and saw no reassurance there. "How long
did you stand outside my quarters before you coughed,
Lieutenant?" Kirk asked.
  She turned to Spock. "You knew?"
  He did not answer.
  "I tried to tell you the night Enterprise left
spacedock," she said simply. "You would not listen."
  He drew in a breath, and in that instant the pain of
betrayal flickered in his eyes and was gone. "Neither
of us was hearing very well that night, Lieutenant.
There were things I tried to tell you . . . about
faith." So . . . he felt she had deceived him; the
thought infuriated her. "You speak of logic-yet
Surak would have the last of us bow before our killers before
we take any action to protect ourselves. You contend
you are Vulcan, that you seek peace at any
cost-yet you serve in Starfleet, on a ship
equipped with weapons capable of massive
destruction. You and your erewmates have defended yourselves
in the past, have. destroyed other vessels and those
aboard them. And now you would seek peace with the
Klingons? Would trust them?"
  Spock lowered his eyes and remained silent,
unwilling or unable to reply.
  Valeris turned toward the rest of the crew. "You
have betrayed the Federation-all of you."
  "What do you think you've been doing?" McCoy
countered hotly. ""Saving Starfleet."
She turned toward Kirk. "Can you honestly say that
you disagree with me? Klingons cannot be trusted, sir.
You said so your- self": They killed your son.
They murdered countless settlers on Kudao in a
pattern that has been repeated for centuries. You
would make peace with them? Did you not wish Gorkon
dead? "Let them die," you said. Did I
misinterpret you?"
  Kirk turned away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I said that to Spock, after the briefing with Admiral
Smillie. That room was supposed to be secure."
"You were right," Valeris continued. "They conspired with
us to assassinate their own chancellor. How
trustworthy can they be?" l ie jerked his head around
sharply to look at her. "Who is us?" "Everyone
who stands to lose from peace," Valeris said evenly.
"The universe was a wellordered place. We all
knew our roles. Ours was to protect those within the
Federation from the Klingon threat. Why change them?"
  Kirk advanced threateningly. "Names,
Lieutenant.," Uhura swiveled quickly from her
board to face them. "We can send a message
to Starfleet Command-was
  "Unlikely," Valeris said. "Enterprise
has diso- 250
  beyed orders and harbors two escaped convicts.
All your ship-to-shore transmissions will be
jammed."
  "Spock." His expression a mixture of
sympathy and reluctance, Kirk faced his first
officer.
  Spock nodded, understanding without the need for words, but
hesitated, his gaze seemingly fixed on a
far-distant, painful scene. His eyes focused
suddenly. He stepped toward Valeris, hand
extended to touch her face.
  She drew her head away from him, resisting. His
Vulcan training was superior, there was no question that he
could extract whatever information he desired from her
thoughts. But to force himself on her consciousness was the
mental equivalent of rape-immoral by any
standards, considered by the Vulcans to be as heinous a
crime as murder.
  His cool fingers brushed her cheek, her forehead,
settled against her temples. She tensed,
anticipating the agony of mental intrusion that would
follow.
  It did not. The mind-touch, gentle as a caress,
merely asked permission, then lingered.
  She closed her eyes, stunned almost
to tears by this unexpected courtesy. For a long moment
she wavered. Illogical, for Spock to grant her
this dignity, to allow lives and the course of history
to hinge upon a single act of kindness.
  Rather than tear the information from her, he opened himself.
She saw, through the mosaic of his memory, how he
had once sacrificed himself for the Enterprise,
believing the Vulcan maxim that the 251
  good of the many outweighed the good of the one or the few;
how his friends had banded together and risked their lives
to save him; how Jim Kirk had told him that in this
instance the good of the one outweighed the good of the many.
  Spock had learned that a single life was beyond
value, beyond logic. To kill in the hope of saving
future lives was unforgivable; mathematics did not
apply.
  He shared with her, then waited.
  Hardest of all to bear was the realization that, on the
very deepest level, he still trusted her to make the
correct decision. And she still wished to please him.
Hesitantly she opened her mind to him. The effect
was quite painless, and actually rather pleasurable. She felt
herself drift, as if in a waking dream.
  "Admiral Cartwright," Spock said softly,
both aloud and in Valeris's mind.
  She heard Chekov's voice, muted, as if in
a dream: "From Starfleet?" "Who else?"
Kirk, far away but insistent.
  Spock again, his voice low, hypnotic, as
Valeris felt the name slip easily from her
memory: "General Chang."
  "Who else?"
  "The Romulan ambassador, Nanclus."
  Scott interrupted. "This is incredible!"
  The doctor's voice now, angry: "Is she,
telling us Klingons and Federation members are
conspiring together?"
  "Where is the conference?" Kirk asked.
  Spock searched, but there was nothing left for her
to give him. He withdrew his hand slowly, gently;
Valeris opened her eyes and stared into his.
  Spock shook his head, still holding Valeris's
gaze as he answered his captain: "She does not
know."
  "Then we're dead," Scott said.
  "I have been dead before," Spock told Valen's
knowingly, referring to the knowledge he had just shared with her. He
forced his attention back to his crewmates. "Commander
Uhura, raise the Excelsior. She ought to have the
coordinates of the conference location."
  The captain frowned. "Why would they give them
to us?" It seemed to Valeris that Spock smiled
without smiling. "The commander is an old friend of yours."
  "What was it like," McCoy asked softly, "being
dead?" Lost in thought, Spock faced the screen and
did not answer.
  "This is Captain Hikaru Sulu, USS
Excelsior, was Sulu said smoothly, ignoring the
aghast expressions on the faces of his bridge
crew as they gaped at Jim Kirk's grizzled
visage on the main viewer. All except Rand,
of course, who had probably guessed this was coming.
She half swiveled from Communications to stare
somberly at Kirk.
  "Sulu!" Kirk, a frightening sight in filthy,
ragged
  furs and the untrimmed beginnings of a salt-andpepper
beard, broke into a grin as he recognized his former
helmsman.
  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sulu could
not resist returning the smile. More than three
years had passed since he had last seen Kirk;
except for the silver in his hair and the grime left
by Rura Penthe, the captain had changed little. "Standing
by, Captain Kirk."
  Kirk's grin faded. "You understand that by even
talking to us, you're violating regulations,
Captain."
  Not a single member of the Excelsior bridge
crew stirred or glanced questioningly at their captain.
Sulu felt a surge of pride. He leaned
forward, squinted at the screen, shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Captain .... Your message is
breaking up."
  "Bless you, Sulu," Kirk whispered. Then,
louder: "Where's the peace conference? They're going
to attempt another assassination."
  Sulu did not hesitate for an instant, though his
heart began to beat faster. He had made his
decision some time ago. In the periphery of his vision,
he saw his first officer, Valtane, stiffen. "The
conference is at Khitomer, in Klingon space near
the Romulan border. I'm sending the exact
coordinates on a coded frequency."
  "I'm afraid we may need more than that. There's
a Bird of Prey on the lookout for us. And she can
fire while cloaked."
  Sulu did a double take. "Surely not."
  "I'm telling you," Kirk insisted. "Hang
on." He
  turned to speak to a striking young Vulcan woman
flanked by security guards. "How many of those things
are there? Come on, Lieutenant .... You want
any more of your brain drained?"
  "Just the prototype," the Vulcan answered
stonily. Kirk turned back to the screen. "You
hear that?" "I'm getting under way now," Sulu
promised. "But I'm now in Alpha quadrant.
The chances of my reaching the conference in time are slim."
"When does this conference start?"
  "According to my information, today."
  "Thank you," Kirk said, but his gaze conveyed
all the thanks Sulu needed. He smiled
faintly.
  "Don't mention it, Captain Kirk." Sulu
closed the channel and swiveled to find Valtane
at his elbow.
  "Sir!" Valtane tried to keep his voice
low, but he could not contain his agitation. "You realize
you've just committed treason."
  Slowly, serenely, Sulu stretched out his legs
and rested his bootheels on the conn railing, and
gazed up at his first officer. The years he had
waited patiently for command of Excelsior faded in
importance, as did the likelihood of
having that command taken from him. More than that: by coming
to Kirk's aid, he risked his own life and the
lives of those aboard his ship. Whoever had arranged
Gorkon's assassination would stop at nothing
to disrupt the peace conference at Khitomer. "To be
candid, I always hoped that if the choice ever came
down to betraying my country or betrayCan 255
  ing my friend, I'd have the guts to betray my
country."
  He paused and studied his crew. "I realize
I can't ask any of you to follow my orders. If
you do so, you may face charges along with me. Those
who wish may retire to their quarters."
  Valtane touched his mustache once, nervously,
then crossed back to his station; the helmsman,
Leaojur, fixed his captain with an expectant
gaze. Rand nodded mutely, her eyes. shining.
  No one left the bridge.
  Sulu found he could not smile. In a low voice
he said to Lojur: "Warp nine, mister."
  Excelsior hurtled toward Khitomer, and
confrontation.
  As ENTERPRISE SPED THIS-XOUCX Klingon
space, Kirk sounded the chime at Spock's
cabin door.
  After the luxury of a shower, shave, fresh uniform,
and a stop by sickbay, Kirk had yearned for sleep.
There was still time for a brief rest before they arrived at
Khitomer; there would be no time after. Even now it
took conscious effort not to tremble with exhaustion. But
the look in Spock's eyes when he had learned of
his protdgde's treachery haunted Kirk.
  The door opened onto darkness; Kirk expected
to hear the Vulcan's voice bidding him enter, but he
met only silence. He stepped hesitantly into the
doorway. "Spock?"
  No answer. Jim reached for the light panel.
  "I prefer it dark." Spock's voice
emanated from the shadows. Jim squinted in the dimness
and saw
  the silhouette of Spock's form on the bunk.
He lowered his hand and entered quietly, glad he had
come. The door slid shut behind him. "Are you dining
on ashes?" Jim asked softly, his tone faintly
tinged with disbelief. He had known Spock for
decades now; he had never thought to see him
depressed.
  The Vulcan's eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, were
focused on the ceiling; he did not rise, did not
look at Jim. For a time he did not
speak. ""You were correct," Spock said at
last, his tone one of hard-won detachment. "It was
my arrogant presumption that put us in this situation.
I had no right to volunteer you for the mission."
  " "You did what you thought best," Jim
soothed. Spock shook his head. "Arrogance. I
believed that allowing you to meet Gorkon would help
alleviate some of your anger and pain over your
son's death."
  "It worked," Jim said.
  "I should have anticipated intrigue. You might have
died."
  Jim shrugged. "The night is young. Anyway, you
said it yourself it was logical. Peace is worth a
few personal risks. How could we have prevented
what happened?"
  He paused, waiting for a response; none
came. He tried again, feeling his way, trying
to think of words that would comfort as he paced slowly through the
Vulcan's quarters. "You know, you're a great one
for logic. I'm a great one for . . . rushing
  in where angels fear to tread. We're both
extremists. Reality is probably somewhere in between
us." He stopped to admire a Romulan
sculpture, ran a finger over dust.
  Spock did not answer.
  "I couldn't see past the death of my son,"
Jim said. "I couldn't see beyond the past, beyond what
the Klingons had done. In a way, it was frightening
to actually believe that their policies might change,
that they might stop waging war. Too frightening to trust
them. Who will I be if I have no enemy?" He
shrugged. "I couldn't trust."
  "I trusted too much," Spock said finally. "I
was prejudiced by her achievements as a Vulcan.
I wished her to be my successor. I took great
pride in her." His voice lowered abruptly. "I
trusted her simply because she is a full Vulcan,
though she disrcvd Vulcan training only recently
and her mastery of the disciplines is far from complete.
Yet I was so certain of her loyalties that I
put her in charge of the search. "Perhaps you are right that the
answer lies somewhere in between logic and emotion. I
am frightened to discover that logic, unternpered
by compassion, ran be used so cold-bloodedly
to justify war." He hesitated. "I had never
experienced betrayal. Certainly I never
expected to experience it at the hands of a Vulcan.
I had been disturbed to see what I deemed
prejudice among the crew. Now I see
my own prejudice as well." Kirk nodded as he
moved closer. "Gorkon had to 259
  die before I understood how prejudiced I was.
I didn't really believe the Klingons could
change."
  For the first time Spock met his gaze. "Can we
two have grown so old and inflexible that we have outlived
our usefulness?" He paused, and for the first time, Jim
saw a trace of warmth come into his eyes. "Would that
constitute a joke?"
  Jim smiled faintly. "Someone said the difference
between "comic' and "cosmic' is the letter so. Spock,
don't crucify yourself. It wasn't your fault.
If I'd reused the assignment, the assassination
would still have happened; someone else would have taken the
blame."
  Spock looked away. "I was responsible."
  ""Not for any actions but your own."
  Spock turned his head and arched a skeptical
brow. "That is not what you said at your trial. As
I recall, you took responsibility for the actions
of your entire crew."
  Jim sighed. "As captain. That's different.
Human beings-was ""But I am not human. I am
only-was
  ""Spock," Jim interrupted impatiently,
"you want to know something?" Spock watched as Jim
knelt beside him.
  "'Everyone's human," Jim said.
  "You insult me." Spock turned away.
  "Only human," Jim insisted gently.
  "Racist," Spock murmured, his gaze fixed
on the ceiling, but Jim saw the glimmer in his eye.
  "Vulcan," Jim countered. He held out his
hand. "Come on. I need you."
  Spock hesitated, then, very deliberately,
took Jim's hand.
  Waiting with the Vulcan delegation outside the
huge elaborate dome that housed the council
chamber, Sarek stared up into Khitomer's sky and
felt the wind rule his hair. It was agreeably
warm on this sparsely populated agricultural
world, though not as warm as Vulcan, and the lush green
foliage reminded him more of Earth. He had often
heard it said that many of the Klingon worlds were very
beautiful, but he had never expected to have an
opportunity to test the statement with his own eyes.
Once security was in place, the Vulcans would be
ushered into the chamber, along with the Earth, Klingon, and
Romulan delegations. Elaborate
precautions were now necessary-according to the Romulans and
Klingons, at least-to protect them all from the
escaped prisoner Kirk. Sarek believed
increased caution was necessary, though for quite different
reasons; Kirk had been as much a victim of
intrigue as Gorkon. Because of the escape and the
opportunity presented by the conference, the assassins
were now forced to take action.
  Sarek feared not for his own life but for that of the
Klingon chancellor, Azetbur, and for the peace
process itself He doubted the conspirators had much
to gain from murdering Vulcans.
  Unless, of course, they had political use for
another massacre like Kudao.
  He did, however, feel an entirely logical
concern
  for Spock's sake. He knew that Enterprise
had not yet: obeyed the order to return home.
Knowing Spock and Spock's friends, he surmised that
Enterprise was probably en route to Khitomer
now, but for reasons far different from those the Klingons
suggested. Sarek suspected that "increased
security" was merely a euphemism Ambassador
Kamarag had invented for revenge on Kirk. Of
course, Enterprise had to negotiate its
way safely through Klingon space first.
  In recent years, Sarek thought he had. come
to understand his son quite well. Their past disagreement over
Spock's choice of career had long ago been
resolved-although Sarek still did not quite approve of
Starffeet. At any rate, Spock's
stubbornness-a legacy from his mother, Sarek knew,
despite her claims to the contrarypre tilde
cluded that option. Even as an infant, Spock could
never be forced to do anything, only reasoned with. Now
Spock was preparing to retire from Starfleet.
Sarek did not know if his son had made a firm
decision as to an alternative career. Taut, much
to his surprise, Spock had indicated an
interest in pursuing diplomacy. Certainly
Spock's achievements with Gorkon and the High
Council had been most impressive. Perhaps he
might even return hoarse to Vulcan. That would
please his mother, Amanda, greatly.
  If he survived.
  Sarek sighed inaudibly as he studied the pale,
  cloud-studded sky and wondered whether Enterprise
lay beyond.
  On the Enterprise bridge, all members of the
crew had assumed their stations-all,
Pavel Chekov noted, except one. The chair
beside him at the helm remained noticeably empty.
Security had removed Valeris to the brig.
Chekov simply could not understand it. He had known
Spock for more than two decades, and he could not
imagine anyone more loyal-or more capable of inspiring
loyalty. And now, for Spock's protegde to be
a traitor . . . He sighed and looked away from
the vacant chair, feeling a surge of nostalgia
as he remembered Sulu. Change was an
inescapable law of the uni- verse. Now that the senior
Enterprise crew was retiring, Chekov faced one
of the most difficult decisions of his life, assuming
he survived this mission. He had no desire
to serve aboard Enterprise without his friends; he had
intended to retire early from Starfleet and return
to Earth-and Irina Galiiulin. Since their encounter
aboard Enterprise some thirty years before, they had
rekindled their romance; Chekov had spent every
available moment of leave with her. He had thought
Irina understood that when his last tour of duty aboard
the Enterprise ended, he would return to her. She
had not understood. She had sent him a subspace
message recently toealet him know that she was
currently involved in a serious
relationship
  and was relocating to Rigel. She hoped they could
remain friends. Chekov struggled not to react with
bitterness, but at the moment he found himself split
into two halves, one of which did not give a damn
whether he returned from Khitomer alive. After
all, what was he surviving for? He stared into the main
viewer, into the st"...arstrewn blackness of Klingon
space, where unseen dangers lurked.
  The part of him that still wanted to live broke the
tense silence on the bridge. "Captain . . ."
He glanced over his shoulder. Gripping the arms of the
conn chair, Kirk stared intently at the
viewscreen, as if by looking hard enough he could see the
invisible foe that awaited them. He remained
perfectly motionless, but his gaze refocused on the
helm.
  "When we get to Khitomer, how will we defend
ourselves?" Chekov asked. "If this new Bird of
Prey can fire while she is invisible . . . ?"
"Now, there's a poser," McCoy said lightly, from
his usual place at the captain's elbow, but his
expression remained grim. The captain and Mr.
Spock exchanged hesitant glances. Chekov
shifted nervously in his seat. If the
captain was worried, then the situation was hopeless
indeed ....
  But the Vulcan said, "I do not believe
anxiety is called for." He paused as the others
reacted with hope. "According to my calculations, we have

  another five minutes and twenty-two seconds
to resolve this dilemma." "Hell of a time
to.develop a sense of humor," McCoy
muttered under his breath, though Chekov seriously
doubted that Spock had intended to be funny.
  The captain reacted stoically, but uncertainty
flickered in his eyes. Wincing, Chekov turned
back to the helm and decided that he really did want
to live, after all.
  Azetbur sat in the place of honor beside
UFP President Ra-ghoratrei and watched the
procession of red-sashed Klingon delegates, led
by Ambassador Kamarag, file into the council
chamber. Azetbur personally disliked Kamarag;
he was little more than an actor, presenting the
opinions of the High Council with dramatic
flair, possessing none of his own. Yet he
performed his job adequately, and his willingness
to argue the case for peace as ably as that for
war made him useful.
  The Klingons took their places, followed
closely by the Earth delegation. The profusion of
banners and bright sashes, chosen by mutual agreement
among the participants-yellow for the Vulcans, red
for Klingons, blue for Romulans, green for Earth
humans-reminded Azetbur more of a sporting event
than a diplomatic conference. Perhaps the comparison was
apt; she did not doubt there were those here in the crowd
who had come to engage in the bloodiest of sports.
  She shifted beside Ra-ghoratrei. She had heard
of the legendary effect Deltan pheromones had on
humans and other aliens, and was glad that Klingons were
somewhat immune to their charms. She did not need such
distraction now; she wished to, remain alert in the
event of an assassination attempt, and her mind was
already dulled from two nights without sleep. She had
spent the time preparing for the conference and contemplating her
own mortality. After learning of Kirk's escape
and the Enterprise's disappearance, Kerla had
surreptitiously arranged additional security.
If he proved as untrustworthy as Chang
contended, she had no hope of surviving.
  The previous evening she had cautioned
Raghoratrei. The Deltan seemed
aware that he might also be a target, but feigned
confidence. The security was adequate, he insisted.
If the chancellor was concerned, perhaps she should make
private arrangements ....
  Azetbur did not fear death. But she feared
deeply what would happen to her people should she be killed
and the peace conference fail. The knowl- edge that she
might die at any moment induced an acute
hypersensitivity of sight, hearing, touch. The
music accompanying the parade of delegates
seemed agonizingly loud, the yellow of the
Vulcans" sashes painfully bright. The large
metal circlet her father had worn hung so heavy
against her neck that Azetbur struggled to hold herself
upright beneath its weight.
  The Romulan delegation entered, led by Ambas
sador Nanclus and his aide, Pardek.
Azetbur let her
  gaze travel over the crowd: here was Sarek, father
of Spock, whom she had trusted; here,
Ambassador Kamarag; here, Colonel Worf,
who had performed a distasteful task honorably; beside
them, Kerla, whom she loved but did not trust.
  She did not believe that Spock was capable of
betraying her father. In her darkest moments,
as she had sought sleep and failed to find it, the thought
had come: What if Kirk was not guilty? What if
the assassination was the result of a con spiracy rather
than an act of personal revenge by a
  grief-stricken father?
  If such was true, then Azetbur had more to fear
than she had thought.
  President Ra-ghoratrei had politely
scoffed at the notion that James Kirk's escape
presented any danger. He seemed to believe it,
but if so, why did Azetbur now see a glimmer
of fear in his eye? The music swelled to a close.
Ra-ghoratrei rose and took the lectern.
  "Madam Chancellor, members of the diplomatic
corps, honored guests: the United Federation of
Planets welcomes you to Camp Khitomer. Now
  that we are assembled, I move we conclude these
ceremonies and get down to business. Madam
  Chancellor?" He turned to her, smiling.
  Azetbur rose with grace and a curious sense of
finality. Human myths likened fate to a wheel;
she imagined that she heard a faint groan as it
turned. e 267
  "Agreed," she said, but she did not smile as the
assembly applauded. Let it begin. .
. .
  Admiral Cartwright took his, seat along with the
other Federation dignitaries and feigned an
expression of polite interest as he peered out at the
crowd.
  Ra-ghoratrei began his speech. "We are
gathered here today in high hopes, believing that differing
civilizations of goodwill can work together to overcome
intolerance . . . ."
  Normally Cartwright would not have had the patience
to listen to long-winded diplomatic patter, but today
he was grateful for it; he had not yet seen the face
he sought.
  Concealing his agitation was not altogether easy. They had
been dealt a blow when they learned of Kirk's
escape and of Enterprise's part in his rescue. The
worst of it had come when they lost contact with
Lieutenant Valeris aboard Enterprise,- now
Cartwright could only anticipate the worst-that
Kirk and company had somehow managed to piece the
puzzle together and were on their way.
  He tried to convince himself that there was little reason for
concern; Kirk and the Enterprise crew would be stopped
before they ever made it to Khitomer-like those aboard
Kronos, without knowing what had hit them.
"We believe that, with understanding and patience,"
Ra-ghoratrei continued, "it will', be possible
to resolve what separates us. Let us redefine
progress to mean that just because we can do a
  thing, it does not necessarily follow that we must
do that thing." Admiral Cartwright joined in the
applause, though he could not have disagreed more with the
Federation president. He had been a starship cap-
tain once, long ago, before the time of the Organian
Treaty. He had lost crew to the Klingons; he
knew what they were capable of, then and now. Gorkon
had been a fool to think his people could change. He had
only to look as far as his own chief of staff.
  Ra-ghoratrei paused and stared meaningfully into the
crowd. "We believe that the responsibility for
destiny rests squarely on our own shoulders . . .
."
  Cartwright started slightly as he glimpsed the
face he sought: dark-skinned, heavy-browed,
Klingon. He craned his neck and tried to establish
eye contact, noting with relief that the Klingon had
managed to get a small, unobtrusive valise
past security.
  The room thundered with applause once more as the
president finished his speech. Chancellor
Azetbur roge and approached the lectern;
Cartwright did his best to repress a smile. The
timing could not have been better. The Klingon
surreptitiously scanned the crowd; at last he
stared in the admiral's direction.
  Their gazes locked. Cartwright gave a slow,
discreet nod and felt his pulse quicken as the
Klingon, valise in hand, inched toward the lectern.
  Enterprise slowed to impulse as she neared
Khitomer. For Jim Kirk, time slowed as the
tension, and the silence, on the bridge escalated.
to nearunendurable levels. On the main visual, the
empty starfield revealed nothing of the danger
awaiting them. He rose and paced over to the science
station, where Spock was bent over his scanners, his
solemn features illuminated by reflected blue
light. Kirk peered over the Vulcan's shoulder and
spoke, his voice hushed. "Are we close enough yet
to beam down?"
  The Vulcan shook his head. "Not yet.
Scanning section four-two-three-six . . .
section four-twothree-seven . . ."
  "She's here . . . somewhere," Kirk said,
impatient, glancing back at the screen as
Khitomer came into view. Too bad the
solution wasn't as easy as it had been before the
Romulans improved the design of the cloaking
device by eradicating the minute spatial
displacement that had once marked the unseen vessel's
location-and had led to the loss of more than one warbird.
Chekov turned from the helm, his movements taut with
anticipation. "But if she's cloaked-was
  "Then all we've got is a neutron radiation
surge," Kirk finished. "And by the time we're
close enough to record it, we're ashes." He
looked back at his science officer, hoping
impossibly for a solution. Spock straightened, his
expression thoughtful.
  "Captain, perhaps we're going about this the wrong
way. Our job is to get to the conference. Her job will
be to stop us."
  Kirk hesitated. "You mean . . . make
ourselves a target?" The Vulcan did not answer,
merely gazed steadily at his captain. Jim drew
in a breath. Spock was right, as always: there was nothing
else they could do, except hope for Sulu, and
Excelsior's hypersensitive scanners,
to arrive in time.
  In the meantime Enterprise's chances of surviving
an attack by the cloaked Bird of Prey
were absurdly small; Jim knew Spock had
done them all a favor by not stating the odds. In one
sense, he felt a curious lightness, a relief
he had always feared he would die alone. The thought of
dying here, on the Enterprise bridge, among his
friends, held no terror for him. In fact, it was more
appealing than the thought of retiring and going his
separate way.
  But the death of his friends was another matter. Jim
could not make that decision for them.
  The calm steadiness in Spock's eyes made it
clear the Vulcan harbored no regrets. Jim
turned and met Uhura's gaze, then Chekov's,
and last of all McCoy's . . . and found
loyalty and willingness there. Jim looked away,
moved, and hesitated only for a split second before
finding his voice.
  "Shields," he said firmly. "Battle
stations." He touched a control on the conn arm.
  "Shields up;" Chekov replied. The
Klaxon sounded an automatic red alert; the
crew was bathed in pulsing bloodied light.
"Battle stations." "Mr. Chekov, take us
forward.. Thrusters only. One-half impulse
power." Chekov's fingers played the board
with practiced ease; his eyes remained focused, as
did those of the others, on the unrevealing visual.
"Aye, sir. Thrusters. . ."
  Like walking on eggs, Jim thought. Watching the
board, he called softly: "Uhura?"
  "Nothing, Captain," she answered quietly behind
him. "If they're here, they're rigged for silent
running and have engaged the cloaking device." "If
she fires," Spock stated, "she has a
perfectly valid excuse. We are a renegade
vessel coming dangerously close to two heads of
state; during a vital interstellar conference."
  At Jim's elbow, McCoy grimaced.
"Thanks for sharing that, Spock-was He pitched forward
as the ship heaved. The viewscreen flashed with blinding
light from the explosion.
  Jim clutched the arms of his chair and held on
until, slowly, Enterprise righted herself.
  McCoy pulled himself to his feet and said
bitterly, "This is fun . . ." "Captain."
Chekov was back at his station. "Shall we attempt
to return fire?"
  ""At what, Mr. Chekov?" Tracing the
torpedo back to its launch site would require
time. By then the Bird of Prey would have
changed position,
  especially if her commander was as shrewd as Kirk
suspected. The force of the next hit threw him from his
conn, against McCoy; he reached out blindly in an
effort to catch hold of something, and stopped when he
struck the back of Chekov's chair with his forehead.
He untangled himself from the doctor and, ignoring the
bruise forming on his temple, scrambled back to the
coon. He could do nothing, but he had to find a way
to buy some time, to give Excelsior a chance to show.
Instinctively Kirk glanced at the main
viewscreen: nothing. He struck the intercom
control with the outside of his fist, unsure what he was
going to say until he said it. "Scotty, reverse
engines! All astern one-half impulse power.
Back off. Back off!"
  Bathed in the dim green light of Dakronh's
cramped bridge, Chang stood silently beside his
gunner and watched the battered Enterprise retreat.
Earlier he had despised James Kirk because he
believed the captain had surrendered to cowardice.
He had heard many stories about Kirk; all of them
had spoken of his courage. But the human Chang had
met was no warrior; that Kirk had tried to swallow
his hatred, had never even tried to seek
revenge for his son's death.
  A Klingon would have avenged a kinsman's death at
any price. Failure to do so was the mark of a
coward. Chang had hated Kirk for that failure-

  anal for his dishonesty during the dinner aboard
Enterprise. Better for Kirk to state his hatred
openly than hide behind false diplomacy. Now
Chang felt a grudging admiration. Enterprise
could have lingered, cloaked and cowardly, but she arrived
facing death openly, as a true warrior would.
  .and then this strange tactic.
  Chang frowned and said, very softly, to his
helmsman: "What's she doing?" The helmsman
shrugged. With a nudge and a gesture, Chang
instructed him to follow.
  And then smiled suddenly, understanding. Enterprise
had reversed, drawn back, as if she had
detected her enemy. Kirk was simply trying
to befuddle him, to gain time.
  But why? From whom did he await Help? The
crew of Dakronh had no need to fear anyone
....
  Chang's smile widened. Let Kirk play his
games, bid for time. Chang was in no
hurry to destroy him; in fact, he regretted that
they were not evenly matched. Destroying a helpless
foe seemed somehow dishonorable. At the very least he
felt he should allow Kirk the privilege of knowing
his killer. He signaled his helmsman as
Dakronh closed in.
  "WHAT'S SHE WAITING FOR?" Kirk
murmured, narrowing his eyes at the main visual,
at what appeared to be empty space, straining with
fading hope to see the sleek, familiar outline of
Excelsior. The silence was more nerve-racking than
the attack.
  "No doubt attempting to ascertain why we have
reversed course, wondering if we have detected
her," Spock answered softly. Kirk started as
Chang's harsh voice reverberated over the
intercom. "I see you, Kirk."
  The captain glanced swiftly up at the useless
visual. "Chang. . ." The Klingon's tone
grew mocking, ironic. "Be honest, Captain.
Warrior to warrior: Don't you prefer it this way?
As it was meant to be? No peace
  in our time. "Once more unto the breach, dear
friends . . . ."" Before Gorkon's death, Jim
thought, ashamed, I might actually have
agreed with you. He glanced at Uhura, but she
shook her head: no chance of a trace.
  Kirk hit the intercom control. "Our time is
over, Chang. History won't stand still for the likes
of either of us."
  The Klingon did not respond. Kirk tensed,
ready for the next blast. "Chang . . . ?"
  was "There's a divinity that shapes our ends,"
Kirk, "rough-hew them how we may . . ." his
  A brilliant flare appeared on the
viewscreen, and rocketed toward Enterprise.
  ""Incoming," Chekov reported tightly, a
split second before the impact rocked the ship.
Kirk held on.
  Scott's plaintive voice filtered through the
intercom grid on the console arm. "She canna
take much more of this, Captain."
  "The engineer terminated the channel abruptly,
apparently too busy at the moment to do more than
register a complaint.
  Between clenched teeth, Kirk said, too softly for
Chang to hear: "Sulu, where the hell are you?"
  "'And this above all," Kirk," Chang intoned
silkily. was "To thine own self be true.""
  Enterprise reeled again.
  Well inside Klingon space, Excelsior
shuddered as though trying to shake herself apart. Sulu
relaxed 276
  his jaw as much as possible under the circumstances,
to keep his teeth from chattering as the conn vibrated
beneath him. Excelsior's engineer had just finished
registering a complaint via the intercom, in a tone
thatthough she was half Ukrainian, half
Bengali, with an accent that, to Sulu's ears,
defied categorization and was the farthest possible from
Scottishreminded Sulu strongly of Montgomery
Scott and his poor bairns.
  Sulu thanked her, then terminated the conversation and
turned to his helmsman.
  "In range?"
  "Not yet, Captain," Lojur replied, his
dark eyes focused on the screen. "Come on, come
on!" Sulu cried. Kirk and the others had made it
to Khitomer minutes before; every second of delay
made it more likely that Excelsior would arrive
to find Enterprise a smoking burned-out hull and the
peace conference in shambles. "Increase speed to-was
Lojur swiveled in alarm. "She'll fly apart!"
  "Fly her apart, then!" Sulu ordered.
  Lojur's eyes widened with fear as he
complied.
  Doing his best to appear impassive and calm,
Admiral Cartwright watched as the Klingon
assassin moved skillfully through the crowd. The
audience listened politely as Chancellor
Azetbur spoke.
  "dis . . Many people speculated about my father's
motives." Azetbur laid a strong,
comdelicate hand on the lectern. "There were those who
said he was an 277
  idealist, driven by visionary notions. Others said
he hail no choice, that he was a pragmatic
technocrat, making the best of a devastating
situation." She paused to raise her eyes and look
beyond the crowd at some far distant, invisible sight.
"Great men are seldom good men. The truth is, my
father was both: a pragmatist and an idealist. If
Praxis had not exploded, quite possibly his
idealism would not have found expression. Nor would
mine.
  "'We are a proud race. We are here because we
intend to go on being proud." Her expression grew
grin. "If we cannot make war . . . we will make
peace . . . ."
  Cartwright listened, as enthralled as the
rest of the crowd by Azetbur's charismatic
presence. He had nothing against her personally; in
fact, she was actually quite attractive, in a
vulgar Klingon sort of way. Certainly she
possessed a certain dignity-a regalness-that most
of them lacked. It was almost a pity to have to watch her
die; but then, it was all for the best.
  Cartwright shifted in his chair to watch as the
Klingon moved into position.
  Jim Kirk watched as, on the bridge
viewscreen, another photon torpedo arced toward
them.
  "Ahead full impulse!" he shouted at
Chekov.
  Enterprise sailed out of the torpedo's range with
less than a millisecond to spare.
  Kirk allowed himself a rueful smile, but did not
relax. Still no sign of Excelsior; maybe
Sulu's vessel had been sighted and destroyed
once it arrived 278
  inside Klingon space-but, knowing the ship and her
captain, Jim doubted it.
  Chang's voice seemed to echo off the
bulkheads; Jim could hear the sardonic smile in
it. was "After her . . . poor thing. If
you have tears, prepare to shed them now.""
  His tactic of leading the Klingon ship on a
chase had bought them a little time--but only a little.
Chang's vessel was no doubt in full pursuit,
and they had only seconds. Desperate, Kirk
turned to Uhura as Chang declaimed on the
intercom: "How long will a man lie in space ere
he rot?"
  "Keep him talking," Spock murmured.
  But Uhura shook her head. "They're moving
too much to get a fix on." was "Our revels are
now ended," Kirk."
  Kirk frowned up at his invisible enemy.
  "What about heat?" Uhura asked, still trying.
"Not from any real distance," the captain said. "She
won't show up on any type of scan."
  "Too bad we can't smell her," McCoy
sighed.
  Chekov half swiveled to join the conversation, his
expression one of glum resignation. "In space,
no one can hear you sweat."
  Chang's dramatic delivery continued to filter
through the main intercom. As aggravating as it was,
Kirk decided the Klingon would have made a passable
Shakespearean actor.
  was "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take
up arms against a sea of troubles . . ."" "A
pity starships were never equipped with 279
  bloodhounds," Kirk muttered-then grabbed the
conn arm as another torpedo slammed
into Enterprise.
  Steam hissed from the ceiling as the ventilation and
humidifier sealants gave way. The captain
glanced up at them as he pulled himself back up
into his chair, knowing that the life-support systems
would be next. Spock continued the conversation without
missing a beat. "I do not believe Starfleet could
have envisioned our current predicament." U hura
twisted her lip comskeptically at him. "Maybe
we should write them a letter?"
  "Better postdate it," Scott said from
Engineering, his voice filtering through Uhura's
board.
  The ship reeled again, harder hit.
  Kirk managed to stay in his seat this time. Through it
all, he watched Spock. Bent over his viewer,
the Vulcan frowned, narrowing his eyes in a thoughtful
expression the captain knew very well. Inspiration.
Perhaps Spock had stumbled on an answer
.... was "Hath not a Klingon hands, organs . .
.
  affections, passions?"" Chang intoned. was
"Tickle us, do we not laugh; prick us, do we
not bleed-and wrong us, shall we not revenge?""
  "Captain," Spock said. "Sensors reveal
faint traces of plasma." Kirk turned toward
his first officer; Bones caught the Vulcan's
expression as well, and leaned forward to listen
hopefully. "Under impulse power," Spock told
them 280
  quietly-too quietly for those aboard the
Klingon vessel to hear, "she expends fuel like
any other ship. We call it plasma. I do not
know its Klingon name, but by any designation, it is
merely ionized gas. The tremendous power drain
caused by simultaneous use of the cloaking device
and the weapons systems cannot be without cost. Perhaps they
must reduce cloaking power shortly before firing-was
  "Which would explain the traces of plasma,"
Kirk finished. "Precisely. They may be unable
to completely cloak the exhaust products of their
impulse engines. But accurate targeting will prove
difficult." Kirk did not quite smile. "The
portable equipment in the science lab, for
atmospheric analysis . . ."
  Spock nodded. The doctor's eyes widened as
he looked from the Vulcan to the captain and back.
  "That's it, then," McCoy said cheerfully.
"Pretty delicate work, though, and Scotty's
tied up in Engineering right now." He started for the
lift. "I'm going to perform surgery on a
torpedo. You never know. . ." Spock glanced at
the captain and, after receiving a nod, accompanied
McCoy. "You may need assistance, Doctor."
  As the lift doors snapped open, McCoy
gave the Vulcan a sly glance. "Fascinating. .
."
  They entered the lift just as the ship shuddered, struck
again. Kirk stared at the viewscreen with renewed
hope. If Enterprise could only withstand the pounding,
  there was a chance. . . "Mr. Chekov, slow down.
Take us forward, thrusters only, one-quarter
impulse power."
  "Aye, sir," Chekov replied. "Thrusters .
. ."
  For the first time in his life, as he raced alongside
Spock toward the science lab, McCoy was beginning
to understand the exhilaration Jim Kirk felt in life
equals threatening circumstances.
  Normally the doctor would have been flat-out
terrified-too much so to have been of much use--
despite the number of times he'd faced death. But
now he found himself invigorated, actually looking
forward to the chance to beat the odds, to have a hand in saving the
ship. Maybe, he decided, it was because this was his last
chance. Ridiculous, of course. He'd been
looking forward to retirement, to all that free time
to use as he pleased. On Rura Penthe, where he
had thought himself a goner for sure, the thought of all the
time lost with Joanna and his grandchildren had brought tears
to his eyes. He was tired of warping around the
galaxy, risking his life at Starfleet's whim
.... But now, as he looked at Spock beside him,
McCoy's eyes stung once again. He and the
Vulcan had been through life . . . and death . . .
together. They had shared consciousness, and it occurred to the
doctor that there was no one else in the universe who
knew him so well-not Jim, not even his own
daughter.
  McCoy blinked and cleared his throat as they
entered the science lab. He let the Vulcan
locate the equipment. Spock's memory was
better, his move- ments faster; over the years
he'd known Spock, the Vulcan had
scarcely aged, had not a single silver hair, though
McCoy-and even Jim, now-had a respectable
amount of gray.
  What would it be like for Spock a century from now,
dealing with the loss of all of his friends?
  Well, dammit, McCoy thought as he misted
up again, that's what he gets for hanging around us
humans . . .
  Spock found one of the heavy sensors and hoisted it
as though it were feather-light, but its bulk made it
unwieldy; McCoy took an end and helped
balance it, but Spock supported its entire
weight. The doctor's heart pounded with excitement,
but he felt no fear at all, only an intense,
glad awareness that he was with Spock, aboard the
Enterprise, making a difference in the universe.
He wanted the moment never to end-yet, at the same
time, if it ended abruptly in death, then that would
somehow be all right, too.
  No wonder Jim had once sworn never to give
up his ship . . . . "Spook," McCoy gasped
as they half staggered, half ran down the trembling
corridor with the bulky sensor, "I know you won't
believe this, but . . . in a way, I'm gonna
miss this."
  The Vulcan glanced at him; for an instant
McCoy fancied he perceived something very like
nostalgia in Spock's eyes. Then Spock
lifted a brow. "I suspect you do not refer to this
specific situation."
  McCoy groaned with fond aggravation. "Bet you
wish you'd stood in bed." "The brow arched even
higher. "I see no profit in standing in bed,
Doctor. Vulcans sleep lying down."
  conFor a moment McCoy didn't follow; and then
he realized that the stress had caused him to use an
ungrammatical colloquialism, one he hadn't
heard since he was a boy. All the kids in his
neighborhood had used "stood" to mean "stayed."
  Okay, he almost snapped, so I goofed. Do you
  have to be so damned lit- And then he saw the glint
in the Vulcan's eye. "Spock," he said, with
dawning amazement, "that was actually funny." "We
do sleep lying down," Spock admitted, his
expression perfectly deadpan, but the glimmer of
humor was unmistakable. The corridor pitched
wildly to one side. The sensor's weight suddenly
shifted toward McCoy, nearly knocking him off his
feet. Chang's voice thundered over the central
intercom: was "I am constant as the
northern star . . .""
  ""I'd give real money," McCoy said
bitterly, as Spock adjusted the sensor, allowing
him to regain his balance, "if he'd shut tip."
  Kirk listened grimly as Scott's voice
filtered through the intercom: "Captain, she's packing
quite a wallop. Shields weakening."
  "Damage report," Kirk said, keeping his
eyes on the viewscreen. "Primary hull
scarred," Uhura reported, her voice even.
"Hull breach likely if-was
  She broke off suddenly; Kirk heard the
broad smile in her voice without seeing it. He was
too busy smiling himself at the sight on the screen.
"Captain, message from Captain Sulu: "The
cavalry's here!"" As Excelsior, sleek and
beautiful, loomed on the bridge viewscreen,
Chang's voice filtered through the intercom once more:
"S. . . "The game's afoot.""
  On the visual, a torpedo streaked toward
Excelsior and exploded harmlessly against her
shields.
  was "Cry havoc! and let slip the dogs of
war."" Kirk said a silent prayer of thanks
to Sulu; aloud he ordered: "Hold us
steady, Mr. Scott. Ready to fire..." He
punched another control. "Bones. . . ?" .
  As the torpedo bay trembled with the impact of the
last hit, Spock calibrated the ionic sensor
while McCoy frantically drilled an opening in
a torpedo's nose.
  "Bones . . ." Kirks voice filtered
overhead. "Where's my torpedo?" "Me and my big
mouth," McCoy muttered.
  Spock completed his work and looked up, noting
  that the doctor's initial steadiness had deserted
him; McCoy was on the verge of producing a hole
capable of accommodating the sensor, but anxiety
made him fumble.
  Spock addressed him in what he hoped was a
reassuring tone. "Calm yourself, Doctor. The
operation is almost complete."
  McCoy glanced up, almost smiled, nodded. Within
seconds he had produced an adequate opening.
Spock lifted the sensor and allowed the doctor
to guide it into the opening.
  Curious, that he worked so well with this human,
understood him better than he had another Vulcan.
  In one sense, Valeris's twisted philosophy
had been logical. He, Spock, was
working now to destroy a Klingon, just as Valeris had
done. He was killing in order to bring about peace.
  ('But he was destroying the destroyers. She had
killed in order to perpetuate war; he would kill in
order to perpetuate peace. He did not need to ask
himself which was the more logical. McCoy tightened the
sensor into place with a final twist and looked up,
radiant with accomplishment. "Thank you, nurse.
Jim, she's ready! Lock and load!"
  He and Spock leapt out of the way as the torpedo
started forward down the lift. McCoy sighed.
"Pity we"...re retiring just as I was starting to understand
you, Spock."
  Spock allowed himself a small internal smile.
"We were beginning to hit our. . ."
  The impact of the next explosion hurled them both
to the deck.
  On the bridge, Jim Kirk was flung from his
chair. He scrambled back to his feet, not
feeling the bruises, knowing only that this hit had been
the worst-which meant Enterprise's shields had
collapsed. And if that had happened . . .
  "Uhura-was he gasped, steadying himself against the
conn as he turned toward Communications.
  For a moment her chair remained empty.
And then he saw a slender dark hand reach up and
grip the edge of the seat.
  Kirk stumbled past recovering crew members and
pulled her up into the chair. She took in a deep
breath and nodded her thanks. "Captain. . ."
Chekov said, as Kirk hurried back to the conn.
The helmsman was already back at his station, answering
the question on Kirk's lips. His tone held an air
of doom. "Shields have buckled, sir." Kirk
didn't waste a second. "Fire!"
  Chekov pressed the control before the captain
finished forming the word. On the visual before them, a
torpedo-this one truly from the Enterprise-flared.
Kirk held his breath and watched as it took a
looping, hesitant trajectory. No way to know
until the very last second if the damn thing worked .
. . .
  Aboard Dakronh, Chang smiled at the
Enterprise's feeble attempt to fire blindly. She
was no threat. Indeed, he saw no reason to waste,
the power necessary to raise Dakronh's shields. If
he had any concerns at all, they related to this new
vessel, the Excelsior, which had come to aid
Kirk. Excelsior might be faster, her shields
stronger, but Chang knew she could never
outlast Dakronh. All that was needed was patience,
and a modicum of cunning.
  Chang had both.
  Fle also felt a growing admiration for these
humans who banded together against hopeless odds.
Certainly he could not fault the captain of
Excelsior for coming to a former commander's aid,
especially in such dangerous circumstances. Nor
could he fault Kirk for his tenacity, his little
tricks to buy time-like this misguided torpedo
launch. These acts were worthy of Klingon
warriors.
  And so Chang did not hurry to destroy them;
instead, he allowed them to savor the battle, as he
did. And when the torpedo began its circling pyro-
technic antics, Chang chuckled low under his
breath. Kirk was a most entertaining adversary.
  The torpedo executed a final loop, then
steadied itself and headed in Dakronh's direction.
  Chang raised a brow and gave a short bray of
disbelief. Mere chance, that it came this way;
Dakronh was undetectable. Soon the weapon would
go back to its erratic circling ....
  The gunner turned excitedly to his commander.
"General, it's headed straight for us!"
  ""Then move out of its way," Chang ordered with
  an air of impatience, though his heartbeat quickened.
"Impulse power." The helmsman complied; the
gunner sighed with audible relief as Dakronh
neatly sidestepped the oncoming warhead.
  The torpedo paused. Circled once more. Then
slowly turned and pursued Dakronh.
  Chang stared in disbelief.
  "General, it follows!" the gunner cried.
  was "dis . . or not to be,"" Chang whispered,
fascinated, his monocular gaze focused on the
impossible sight on the viewscreen. Die words
sealed his death warrant. By the time he opened his mouth
to issue the command to raise shields, it was too
late.
  With exultation, Sulu watched as Enterprise
scored a direct hit. On Excelsior's
bridge visual, the Bird of Prey spun,
illuminated by firelight, spewing debris as she
struggled to regain her position. "Aim for the center of
that explosion and fire!" Sulu ordered. In the
back of his mind, he was stunned by the Klingon
commander's hubris; the Bird had never even
attempted to raise shields.
  "Shields up!" Chang screamed, as
Dakronh reeled from a second crippling blow.
The helmsman cried out, raising his hands as his
console rained sparks; acrid, throat-closing
smoke filled the bridge. "Shields critically
damaged!"-the gunner shouted above the chaos. "They
won't hold."
  "Are we still cloaked? Can we move? his
  "Yes. We have some impulse power."
  Chang squinted a tearing eye at the viewer just in
time to see Enterprise and Excelsior move
into position, with Dakronh completing the fatal
trian- gle.
  He saw no point in railing at fate; and there
was no dishonor in being bested by the likes of Kirk.
He closed his eye and smiled as the two ships
opened fire.
  Around him the bridge dissolved into screams and
fiery fragments.
  Admiral Cartwright's Klingon found his way
easily up a back lift to a deserted alcove
overlooking the speakers' dais; here, for all
except the critical second, he could remain
sheltered conf the spectators' view. He sat,
opened his valise, and began assembling the weapon that
had been designed especially for this event.
Security scanners had mistaken its disassembled
components for an innocuous datapad; only a
visual inspection might prove otherwise. He
had passed through the sensors with ease. Assembled, the
phaser was quite lethal, with four times the range and double
the accuracy of its standard Fleet-issue counterpart.
The assassin completed his task and lifted the
weapon, taking aim at the far wall, then lowered it.
  He had never killed before-not one-on-one, where he
saw his victims-but he knew the discipline of the
service and had served as weapons
  officer near the Federation-Klingon border. His
hands did not tremble even slightly. He had seen
friends killed at the enemy's hand, and that was enough.
  Below, the audience applauded the end of
Azetbur's speech. The assassin stood, raised
his weapon, and held the chancellor lingeringly in his
sights, then smiled as President Ra-ghoratrei
moved into the frame. When Rear Admiral
Smillie joined the two, the assassin slid his
finger onto the trigger. Only the slightest
pressure was necessary . . . .
  Jim Kirk materialized into the Khitomer
throng and broke into a dead run toward the central
dais where Azetbur, Ra-ghoratrei, and
Admiral Smillie stood.
  He pushed through the crowd, his back totally
vulnerable, half expecting at any second
to feel a phaser blast, whether a conspirator's
or a security guard's or an outraged
Klingon's . . . but there was no time to feel fear,
no time to do anything but trust those of his crew who
followed. "Mr. President!" Kirk shouted.
  President Ra-ghoratrei started, and-stared at
him in utter shock-a perfect target, Jim thought.
Three powerful people, all at once . . . He
burst past the guards, onto the dais, and knocked
Ra ghoratrei squarely off his feet, aware in the
midst of the confusion of two things: the alarm on
Azetbur's face, and the searing heat of the phaser
blast millimeters above his back.
  The room rumbled with sounds of panic and outrage
as the spectators tried to flee to safety. Jim
looked up at the sound of Admiral Cartwright's
outraged voice.
  "Arrest those men!"
  The crowd thinned to reveal Spock, stepping forward
to confront Cartwright. In a tone as icy as Jim
had ever heard him use, the Vulcan said, "Arrest
yourself, Admiral."
  He stood aside to reveal Valeris, pale but
composed, hands cuffed together.
  McCoy joined the Vulcans to glare angrily
at Cartwright. "We've got a full confession."
  They started at the sound of phaserfire. Kirk
followed the direction of Scott's blast, upward,
to a glass-enclosed alcove where a Klingon
assassin had apparently been hiding. The assassin
cried out, clutching his face, where Scott's fire
had caught him, and fell through the glass into the
scattering crowd below.
  Cartwright, Ambassador Nanclus, and a handful
of officers broke into a run, scattering in different
directions. Sulu materialized, phaser in hand,
in time to head some off. At the other end of the room
Bones did his part to stop some-with, Jim noted
delightedly, the enthusiastic if overly physical
help of Brigadier Kerla.
  hcca-ghoratrei and Azetbur were on their feet
and flanked by guards. The Federation president still
gaped at Kirk with disbelief. Azetbur's stare
was icy. "What is the meaning of this?"
  Kirk held out his hands to show he meant no harm,
and smiled faintly at the less-than-tru/l
guards. "It's about the future, Madam
Chancellor. Some people think the future means the end of
history."
  He paused to make eye contact with the Romulan
ambassador, Nanclus, now flanked by Federation
security personnel. "But we haven't run out of
history just yet."
  He turned back to Azetbur. "Your father
quoted Hamlet. He called the future "the
undiscovered country."" He paused as Spock,
with Valeris in tow, joined him.
  "I always assumed Hamlet was speaking of death,"
Spock offered. Kirk nodded. "Gorkon thought
"the undiscovered country" might mean something
elseanother kind of life. People can be very frightened of
change." He hesitated. "I know I was."
He swiveled his head to meet Valeris's gaze.
"There's an Old Earth expression: it takes one
to know one."
  The Vulcan lowered her eyes unable to look at
him; at first Jim thought-though he felt he must be
mistaken-there were tears in them. He faced the
chancellor again. "It took your father's death to make
me see I was wrong. I came because I wanted
to bring his killers to justice . . . and to be sure that
his death was not wasted, that the peace conference
continue." He lowered his voice. "The Vulcans have
an expression: I grieve with you . . . ."
  For an instant Azetbur's expression was dark,
  unreadable . . . and then it brightened with a slowdawning
radiance. Jim felt he had never seen a face more
beautiful-be it Klingon, Vulcan, Romulan,
human.
  ""You've restored my father's faith,"
Azetbur said softly. Jim struggled to keep his
voice from breaking. "You've restored my son's."
  fie was not sure who reached out first, Klingon or
human. In the end it did not matter. He and
Azetbur embraced each other in shared grief and
joy., and for a time neither heard the resounding applause.
  Epilogue
  AT THE arm of a day's successful negotiations
on Khitomer, Azetbur slipped away from her
guards, relieved to be rid of them, to fear no
longer for her life.
  As she hoped, Kerla was in his guest room. He
stepped back as she entered, his expression polite;
she sensed wariness but no anger in him. He remained
by the door as she turned to speak.
  "General Chang is dead," she said.
"Raghoratrei and I met with Kirk.
As best we can determine, Chang conspired with
Admiral Cartwright and Ambassador Nanclus,
among others, to keep us at war."
  "Chang," Kerla repeated softly, staring beyond her
as he tried to absorb it. "But he was a warrior,
sworn to protect your father. And you." "He was a
liar," Azetbur said. "Not all warriors
  are so honorable, Brigadier." At last she
understood why she had not been killed: Chang and his
conspirators deemed it necessary for her to live long enough
to attend the conference. "He arranged for my
security, so that the negotiations could continue-and
Ra-ghoratrei could be assassinbbated as well. With
both the Federation and the Klingon Empire blaming each
other for their leaders" death, war would be inevitable."
  Kerla shook his head in disbelief. "Then
conspirators aboard Enterprise arranged the
attack on Kronos One?"
  "No. Chang arranged the attack, using a new
vessel designed to fire when cloaked. He was
aboard the vessel, attacking Enterprise, when his
ship was destroyed along with him." Azetbur
paused. "My father's death can be blamed. as much on
the Empire as on the Romulans and the Federation.
We are as much at fault as the others.
  "And I am to blame." She lowered her voice.
"I listened to Chang. I believed him when he said
you were plotting against my father." Kerla stiffened
angrily. "Chang told you-was
  She did not let him finish. "When Gorkon
died, I feared you were using me as a means of
obtaining power-that you wanted me only because you wanted
to be the consort of the chancellor. I was wrong." She
stepped toward him, placed a. hand on his chest, and
felt relief when he did not recoil from her. "I
should have trusted you. You were right: I regret sending you
away."
  She felt his hesitation as his relief warred with

  anger; and then he spoke softly, his deep
voice resonating beneath her fingers.
  "Now you know. I hope there can no longer be .
any question in your heart, Zeta."
  In reply, she clasped his wrist and pulled his
hand to her face. He smiled, teeth white against his
bronze skin, then hesitated. Azetbur frowned.
"What is wrong?"
  Kerla released a wi/l sigh. "Did you say
there was only one of those vessels? What an
incredible weapon it would make for the
Empire." She started, indignant, and dropped his
hand, on the verge of scolding him before his laughter
stopped her.
  "For the sake of negotiating, of course. You can
trust me, Zeta. Hut do not ever make the
mistake of trusting the Federation or the
Romulans." "I suppose," Azetbur told
him, "I need a warrior to advise me." "I can
advise you, my lady, in far more interesting things besides
politics." Smiling, he drew her to him.
  Safe and unchallenged, Enterprise hovered above
Khitomer. On the bridge, Jim Kirk could not
bring himself to give the order to return home-not quite
yet, not when all his friends were here, together. He gazed
in turn at each one-Spock, McCoy,
Uhura, Chekov, Scotty-trying to commit the
scene to memory.
  Only one seat remained inappropriately
vacant
  J. M. Dillard
  --the one at the helm, where Sulu and, later,
Valeris had sat. Uhura sat with her back to her
station, facing the empty chair next to Chekov. Its
most recent occupant was now cooling her heels
down in the brig; when they arrived back on
Earth, Valeris would be tried and court-martialed
along with her coconspirators. In consideration of the
help the Enterprise had provided in exposing the
scheme, the charges against Spock and the crew for
refusing to obey direct orders and for violating
Klingon space had been dropped, as had the charges
against Excelsior's captain and crew. The same
subspace message had relayed news of Carol
Marcus's recovery. The distance between Khitomer and
Starbase Twenty-three was too great to permit
direct communication, but in a matter of hours,
Jim knew he would speak to Carol again. . Behind
him, Uhura sighed gustily. Jim swiveled in his
chair to see her sitting, one arm propped against her
console. "They might as well arrest me, too,"
she said glumly. "I felt like Lieutenant
Valeris." Ire all did, Kirk thought,
except Spock. He looked over at his first
officer, keenly aware of the hurt the Vulcan must have
experienced. But Spock's expression remained
impassive; he arched a slanted brow in
Uhura's direction. "But you did not join a
conspiracy," Spock told her. From his
traditional spot at the captain's left,
  298 THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY
  McCoy joined the exchange. "They don't
arrest people for having feelings." f "If they did,"
Chekov said, swiveling toward them, "we'd all have
to turn ourselves in." He paused to eye Kirk
meaningfully. "How can we rely I on them?" A
difficult question. Who could say, Kirk won dered,
how many more Changs existed within the Klingon Empire
and whether the Gorkons and Azetburs could subdue
them? At the same time, Jim saw what Spock
had known ail along: peace was the only logical
choice. "All I can say, Mr. Chekov,
is"-Kirk hesitated long enough to catch Spock's
gaze-"the only way to find out if a man is
trustworthy--" "dis . . is to trust him," Spock
finished, and sud denly, amazingly, graced Jim
with the faintest " ghost of a smile. "Captain
Kirk?" Sulu's image appeared on the main
visual. Kirk turned toward it, a grin still on his
lips. "Kirk here." He studied Sulu
fondly; at last he was surrounded by all of his
dearest friends. "As much as to the crew of Enterprise,
I owe you my thanks, Captain Sulu."
Sulu's broad, placid features brightened in a
smile. "Nice to see you in action one more time,
Captain Kirk. Take care." On the
viewscreen, his image faded into that of
Excelsior, sleek and stunning as she hurtled
into warp speed and out of sight.
  299 J. M. Dillard
  With affection and more than a little sense of loss,
Jim watched him go. "By God," McCoy
breathed, staring transfixed at the screen, "that's a
big ship." Nearby, at his station, Scott-who in
years past had ribbed Sulu mercilessly about
Excelsior being a collection of useless
gadgetry-wore an expression of frank
admiration. "Not so big as her captain, I
thiink." "Time we got underway ourselves, gentlemen."
Kirk stretched his sore muscles casually, as if
the thought of returning home was not a painful one for
him. As desperately as he wanted to see Carol
again, he suddenly found it impossible to imagine
life without this ship, this, crew. "Once again we've
saggred civilization as we know it." McCoy
released a small, sarcastic sound. "And the; good
news is, they're not going to prosecute."
"Captain . . ." The note of alarm in
Uhura's voice dismade him turn around to face
her. "I'm receiving a message from Starfeet
Command." She frowned; her tone grew
indignant. "We're to return to headquarters at
once-to be decommissioned." Jim stared at her,
unwilling to issue the order, aware of the sudden,
tense silence, of the eyes focused on him. At
last Spock spoke-clearly, precisely.
"Were I fully human . . . I would tell them
to go to hell." McCoy jerked his head sharply in the
Vulcan's direction to favor him with an amazed but
grateful

  grin; like the others, Jim found it impossible not
to smile. In a tone that unmistakably reflected
Spock's sentiment, Chekov turned to comKirk
and asked: "Course heading, Captain?" Jim
gazed at the viewscreen, into starry space. I
"Second star to the right and straight on till mom-
ing." Serene and unchallenged, Enterprise set
sail through Klingon space.
  Captain's log, USS Enterprise,
Stardate 9529.1: This is the final cruise of the
Starship Enterprise under my command. This ship and her
history will shortly become the care of a new
generation. To them and their posterity will we commit our
future. They will continue the voyages we have begun
and journey to all the undiscovered
countries, boldly going where no man . . . where
no one has gone before.
  J. M. Dillard is the author of the Pocket
STAR TREK novels Mindshadow, Demons,
Bloodthirst and The Lost Years, as well as the
novelizations of War of the Worlds: The Resurrection
and Star Trek V. tilde The Final Frontier.
She has also written a psychological thriller,
Specters.